Laie, 96762

A personal essay by Katey Workman

My deepening relationship with my happy-place hometown.

Love is an ocean.

It begins playful. Fun. Frolicking crystal that flows on resting sand—light, beautiful— shallow.

But it soon gets deep. It becomes meaningful as the shore’s playful blues turn into mysterious indigo depths that swallow the light. Color is made when particles of light reflect off of what it encounters, but all that bounces back is abyss, because there’s no bottom. Not for miles. Only the bravest venture past waist-deep. The bravest and the most foolish.

We do not love the ocean for its shallows. We are bewitched by its leagues and intrigued by its depth. Intrigued by what we still don’t know of it, longing to know what else it holds, and in humbled awe of the majesty it commands.

A General In A Cornfield

A personal essay by Joseph Fisher

When I looked at my grandfather, I didn't see a farmer. I saw a commander, a strategist--a general in a cornfield.

Some of my earliest memories are of picking tomatoes in my grandfather’s garden. Ten-year-old me didn’t even like tomatoes, but the memories are vivid nonetheless: steaming humidity from wet earth under the hot July sun, pungent and ripening red fruit, and thick, moist air that was hard to breathe and made you sweat and itch intolerably as you worked.

This is only the first stage of what my grandfather dubbed “the tomato project.” By the end of the day we will have produced 400 quarts of juice after picking, washing, stemming, pulverizing, straining, bottling, and boiling hundreds upon hundreds of tomatoes. It isn’t my grandfather’s only “project,” either. A month later will be the “corn project.” In October is the “apple project”—three pickup truckloads of apples turned into 400 gallons of fresh apple juice in the dizzying span of a few hours. Everything is done on a titanic scale, and my grandfather is at the center of all of it.

Vessel

A personal essay by Emery Warr

We build vessels to protect ourselves. But time turns ships into shells and shields into masks that only serve to distort our own reflections.

Last week, in the early evening, I invited several friends to join me as I made my way to the fluttering banks of the Provo River. We built a ship out of aluminum foil, folded silver sheets and crumpled them together to create sails, masts, bow, stern, deck, and hull. Some pieces tore in the process, but we crinkled them so no one could tell, and really, no one could. Then we sent our ship down the river.

When I was young, before I wrapped myself in a shiny coat that reflected expectations, Mother and I would sing by the ocean. We sang about barges and pirates, harmonizing with the churning of the waves as they thundered beneath, between, within us. I let my melodies go without fear, all power and peace.

This Alternate Universe Called "Japan"

A personal essay by Caroline Raines

On the evening of the seventeenth of December, 2014, I receive a life-changing assignment. “Japan, Fukuoka,” my lips mutter and I am stunned. I am going to Japan.

For eighteen months I will be a volunteer for my church in that foreign land where I've heard the sun rises. I stare blankly, trying to take it all in, and instantly, gongs ring in my ears. The only thing I know about the country is what I’ve learned through pop culture and media. Japan is where they wear red dresses and pull their hair back in buns and let their tiny facial hairs grow on the sides of their lips until they are long enough to drip into their sushi sauce. It’s the place where they say, “konnichiwa” for hello, or maybe it’s “nihao,” I’m not quite sure. Over and over those gongs sound in my head reminding me of how much I do not know about Japan. The sun is setting now, leaving traces of pink and orange in the sky. 

Miracles, Mysteries, and the Minnesota Vikings

When life hit me hard, I flew out of bounds. But at least Stefon Diggs didn't.

“This is the sickest I could ever be,” I thought to myself (naively) as my Dad pushed me in a wheelchair through the airport. I was now too sick to live by myself, so he had come to bring me back home to Minnesota. Everything we passed—people walking in every direction, vending machines filled with headphones, the line for Panda Express—all felt like a blur. Telling myself that things couldn’t get worse was a coping mechanism I used at the time. I told myself the same thing in a different wheelchair at the hospital, and again lying on the floor of my parent’s basement.

Being a Voice for the Voiceless

A personal essay by Talley Timms

“The human voice is the most perfect instrument of all” –Arvo Pärt

Last year, in preparation for an internship, I read a victim’s statement given by a ten-year-old girl who witnessed an argument between her father and stepmom escalate to the point of violence, ending in her father headbutting her stepmom and breaking her nose. What surprised me first about this victim’s statement was how careful the child was to protect her father, making excuses and minimizing the trauma, even though he clearly put her in a high-risk situation. What surprised me more was the obvious shame this child felt for events over which she had no control. But what surprised me most was how little I remembered of this witness statement considering that I was that ten-year-old girl.

Who's the Yarner

A personal essay by Bekah Luthi

Slide-hook-pull, slide-hook-pull, slide-hook-pull

One Friday night, my dad calls me to ask, “What are you up to?”

As I tidy up the living room, I tell him that I finished my homework only a half hour ago and decided to relax.

He disagrees. “It’s Friday night! Why aren’t you out? The night’s still young.”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” I remind him. He tends to forget about the time difference. “I’m tired. I just want to watch some TV and crochet for a bit before bed.”

“Crochet? Why would you do that?”