"This isn't what you wanted, is it? How are you handling the unexpected change?"

When we found out just over a week ago that the Church was releasing all missionaries in South America and Seth would be coming home four months early, every emotion flooded over me. So much pathos all at once. When I announced it on social media, all sorts of people commented on how happy they were for me, assuming I would be overjoyed. This made perfect sense. More than once, I'd expressed my angst over Seth's mission. That first year felt like the longest in the history of ever. I missed him so much; I can't even put words to it. So wouldn't it make sense that I'd be thrilled for this slightly early homecoming?

A few of my closest friends, those who know me best, knew better. "This isn't what you wanted, is it?" "How are you handling the unexpected change?"

"No, it isn't, and not that well, actually."

I'm a planner. I like to know what to expect, and I don't like surprises. This is absolutely not what I expected. May I just have a moment here to contrast my expectations with reality? Thanks.

Had things gone as planned, I would have had four months still to prepare for Seth's homecoming. I would have given careful thought to choosing all the right items for his "Welcome Home" basket. On August 6th, our family would have loaded into my car and driven to the airport with banners and balloons. No doubt many of Seth's friends would have joined us there, all waiting expectantly at the bottom of the escalator. He would arrive to shouts of joy: "Welcome home, Elder Erichsen." I would get the first hug. I would run to him, arms wide open and hold him just as long as I wanted, before giving others a turn.

Next, we would drive to the stake center and meet with the stake president, who would formally release Seth from his mission. From there we would head to Seth's favorite takeout, Panda Express for lunch. In the afternoon, he would reconnect with friends, and that night we would go out for a family dinner wherever he chose.

The following Sunday, Seth would report to the High Council. I think you either have to serve a mission yourself or send a missionary kid to understand the spirit present at that meeting. When your son stands in that room, with the stake presidency and all 12 High Councilmen, and bears testimony of the savior and the restoration of his gospel, well, I don't know. You really have to be there. It might be my favorite part of whole process.

Then Seth would give his mission report in Sacrament Meeting, to a room full of strangers. Haha, one sad event was the shift in ward boundaries a month after Seth left, placing us in a new and completely unfamiliar ward. However, the following Sunday or sometime soon after, he would also get to speak in the 4th Ward, where we have many friends, including lots of Seth's former Young Men's leaders. Gavin even said I might get to speak with him, so that would have been awesome. Following Seth's report in our current ward, I would host a celebration lunch at our house for everyone who wanted to come welcome him home.

Pretty much none of that is reality.

Instead, we had about a week's notice of his return and only 24 hours when we knew the exact day and time. Shulamith and I went into uber drive and did all we could to prepare. We cleaned out Seth's room, shampooed the carpets, painted the walls, and bought new bedding. We did a pickup order from Walmart with his favorite treats and soda, along with some toiletries. We ordered him an iPhone X. I drove to Provo to pick up a "Welcome Home" banner.

Gerald is social distancing as much as possible from everyone in the family because he is the only one of us who still has to physically go to work, so he chose to stay home, when Shulamith and I drove to the airport late last night. I had tracked the charter flight all day, along with three of my missionary mom friends, and the four of us kept each other sane (mostly) as we waited. All missionary parents were directed to park in Garage #2, which was labeled row by row, according to the missionaries' last names. We found the E - G row, and parked.

Their flight landed at 10:53, and about 15 minutes later, we saw him, this tall, cool elder in a dark gray suit, pulling his bags and walking toward us. It took every ounce of discipline I possess to follow the rules. President Hansen had been crystal clear in his email to all his missionary parents, in uppercase letters, even: "DO NOT GET OUT OF YOUR CAR AT THE AIRPORT. DO NOT HUG YOUR MISSIONARY. DO NOT TOUCH YOUR MISSIONARY." Ahhhh! But I decided the day before, and I recommitted last night, to follow the rules. The way I figure, Seth has done his absolute best to be obedient for the past 20 months; I can be obedient for one evening. Even if it's so hard.

So we watched him quickly load his luggage and jump in the car, and we were out of there. He was starving, so we drove through the only thing open, Beto's, and got him a giant burrito. The family was here to greet him when we got home, from a 6 ft. distance, so no hugging. Possibly the sweetest reunion of all was with his dog (whom he could actually touch). Waffles was so shocked to see him and so happy. We visited until the wee hours of the morning (When was the last time I was up at 2:00 a.m.?). Finally, Seth went upstairs and sprawled across his bed: "Oh my goodness, this bed is so comfortable!" Then he took off his shoes and sunk his feet into the carpet, a luxury nonexistent in Paraguay.

This morning at 11:00, President McIllece called to release Seth from his mission by phone. They spoke for 30 minutes, and Seth put it on speaker, so I could eavesdrop. President McIllece offered Seth sound advice on a variety of topics, along with asking Seth to share some mission experiences and giving him ample opportunity to ask questions. I would have loved to sit in the stake president's office and have this discussion face to face, but truly, President McIllece made it as good as it could be under the circumstances. At the end of the phone call, Seth removed his mission plaque (name tag), and handed it to me: "I never get to wear this again, until my future wife and I serve a senior mission together."

Later in the day, Eli and Amanda came upstairs, and Seth blessed the Sacrament in Spanish, so all of us could partake. It was a quiet, but lovely experience. To hear him use that language so fluidly and effortlessly is remarkable.  As a newly-released missionary, Seth spent the remainder of the day FaceTiming his friends, listening to music, and playing video games with Isaiah. Oh how I've missed the sound of their laughter!

One day, if the world ever turns right side up again, we will have that traditional homecoming. We will take him out for dinner. He will speak in church, hopefully in both wards, and we will host a big celebration luncheon. One day.

For now, he is home. And despite all my anxiety over things not going as planned, I delight in the joy he brings to our house. Waffles may be happy to have him here, but I am even happier.

His first taste of Terere, a traditional drink in Paraguayan culture. Seth really wanted to like it, but unfortunately, he thought it was terrible.

I put my 2-year-old and my 1-day-old in their carseats, got into my car, and headed north.

Several months ago when Emily and I were out for our morning walk, the conversation drifted to pregnancy. Was this because Emily was pregnant with her sweet little Jeffrey, who is now a month old? Maybe. Or was it just because moms love to talk about pregnancy and share birth stories? Either way, at one point, she asked me if I ever had to move to a new house during pregnancy.

"Oh, I not only moved to a new house during pregnancy. I moved to a new town during delivery!" And I proceeded to tell her Eli's birth story. About halfway though, I realized that this story should really be in my blog; Emily agreed. Later, I decided that throughout 2020, in the month of each of my five children's birthdays, I would write their birth stories.

Now I know we all feel like we're living in The Twilight Zone, and that March may never actually end, but in case we're wrong about that and we really do see April, I figured I'd better tell Eli's story while it's still the month of his birth.

We were living in northern California, in a town called Rohnert Park, near Santa Rosa. We'd been there a year, and though we very much enjoyed the area, wages were no higher than anywhere else, while the cost of living was in the stratosphere! We would never be able to afford a house of our own there, so when the lease on our townhome expired, we didn't renew it. We decided I would move up to Snohomish, Washington with my three kids and stay with Gerald's mom, and Gerald would continue to work in California and seek employment somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

So in November, I packed up our kids, ages 7, 6, and 2, and moved up to Washington. I was due to give birth to Child #4 in mid-March. Gerald's mom graciously took us in, our presence creating a decided change of pace in her formerly quiet home, where she lived by herself. She never complained. As my baby's due date grew nearer, and Gerald was still working in California with no job prospects in Washington or Oregon, I grew more and more panicked. Too bad I suck at having faith in situations like this. However, about two weeks before my baby's due date, Gerald was offered a job at the Skagit Valley Herald in Mt. Vernon, Washington, a lovely little town about 60 miles north of Seattle. We were overjoyed.

But then there was the small issue of getting my baby born. You see, our insurance in California, Kaiser, only provided coverage as far north as Longview, Washington, 190 miles south of Mt. Vernon. If we didn't want to pay for this birth ourselves, I would need to deliver in Longview. Despite my woeful lack of faith, grace remained present in our circumstances. My only living grandparent at the time happened to live in a little retirement community called Ryderwood, just 28 miles from Longview. So a week before my baby's due date, Gerald's mom kept our two big kids, Gerald went up to Mt. Vernon to begin his new job, and 2-year-old Isaiah and I took up temporarily residence with my grandma in Ryderwood. We were a family divided, and I didn't love it, but desperate times and all.

All my babies come a week late. They really like Heaven, and they never want to leave. And so it was with Baby #4. For two weeks, Isaiah and I stayed in Ryderwood. We took walks with my grandma. She cooked us good food. We watched TV with her and played with her dog. And on March 13th, we went to the hospital in Longview to induce delivery. I'm not usually a fan of induction. I really prefer to wait and let labor begin naturally, but I was a week overdue, and my family was scattered everywhere, and once again, desperate times.

My mom drove up from Portland to be with Isaiah, and Gerald drove down from Mt. Vernon to attend the birth. After 10 hours of labor, Eli Erichsen Webster entered the world. His perfect face looked exactly as it does today, with round cheeks and squinty eyes. And once again, for the fourth time, we fell hopelessly in love. It's funny how that works. No matter how many kids you have, the love is always the same.

But then there was the issue of getting my newborn baby, my toddler, and me all the way back up to Mt. Vernon the following day. Gerald had left the night before; he had no time off in his new job. My mom left that morning to return to Portland, and my grandma went back home to Ryderwood. So I put my 2-year-old and my 1-day old in their carseats, got into my car, and headed north on I-5.

I thought I'd be fine. I was so strong, I thought. I could totally do this, no problem. But at some point on the freeway, I glanced back at those two precious little people, for whom I was solely responsible, and I felt woefully vulnerable and inadequate. I was suddenly so scared. Of course raging postpartum hormones played a big part in this, but it was also the practical circumstances I faced. I realized both babies had messy diapers, and I also needed to use the bathroom myself, and the combination of all that while traveling 80 mph on the freeway was just too much. The tears flowed. This was before the cell phone era, so I couldn't even call anyone.

By this point, I was near Tacoma, and I knew there was a mall right off the freeway, so I took the exit and headed there. I took Isaiah by the hand and carried Baby Eli in his carseat, and we walked into the mall to find a bathroom. I was still crying, but actually those tears were exactly the release I needed in order to "woman up" and take the next steps. I found a bathroom in the mall, changed diapers, and got right back on the freeway.

We arrived at our new home in Mt. Vernon that evening. Imagine a U-Haul containing all your possessions, dumped into the living room of a condo, with no organization. That's how it was. My couch was sitting up on end, surrounded by other furniture turned upside down amid boxes everywhere. Gerald asked what I wanted him to do.

"I want my rocking chair set up and my TV connected, so I can sit and nurse my baby. And a path from my chair to the kitchen, so I can get to the sink, with some sort of packaged food available, so I can feed Isaiah."

Gerald did all that for me before he left for work the next morning. I somehow got my two big kids off to school, and that's how we lived for three days, until my angel friend Corrie, my best friend from California, flew in to help. She set up my house, took care of my three older kids, cooked us food, and allowed me to bond with my little Eli, unburdened by much of anything else. This was an act of pure, unselfish love, and I will never forget it.

I don't recommend moving to a new town and having a baby all at the same time. It's awful. I also don't recommend being forced to come home from your mission four months early because of a viral pandemic, but both create marvelous stories to tell later.

...and that will be my next story!

I saw the word "Paraguay" on my caller ID; I might have panicked a little.

Okay, a lot. I panicked a lot.

It wasn't P-day (Monday). And Seth doesn't have a phone that can call the U.S. He has to use a computer and Google Hangouts. This was a phone call. From Paraguay.

I was sure it was President Hansen calling with some sort of catastrophic news.

Is he hurt? Sick? Dead? Does he have the coronavirus?

All these thoughts circled through my mind in the seven seconds it took me to pick up my phone, swipe right, and in a crackled, anxious voice, whisper, "Hello?"

"Sup, Mom! It's me, Seth!" (As if I wouldn't instantly recognize that perfect voice.)

And there it was. That glorious relief that floods over my body each time the focus of my anxiety turns out not to be real.

Seth is happy, healthy, and safe. The mission gave each companionship international calling cards with 20 minutes of time, so missionaries could call their families and check in. I'm so grateful. I talked to Seth for 10 minutes and then said goodbye, so Elder Rodriguez could use the remaining 10 minutes to call his own family.

Quarantined to their apartment pretty much 24/7, Seth said they are doing just fine. They are allowed to walk to the church and watch church videos, and they have watched A LOT of church videos in the past two days. The quarantine began Thursday morning. Seth and Elder Rodriguez had put on their brand new COLORED shirts, ready to head out for the day. A week earlier, President Hansen had received permission to pilot colored dress shirts in the mission. Elders were given money to buy one colored dress shirt, which they were directed to wear tucked in with their missionary plaque (name tag) and no tie, one day a week on Thursdays. President would then seek feedback on whether the elders felt like they were better received in this slightly more casual dress style than in their traditional white shirts and ties.

So Seth and Elder Rodriguez bought their shirts, Seth's a dark blue with black buttons, and were so excited to wear them on Thursday. But just as they were walking out the door, they got the text directing them to self-quarantine, effective immediately. Dang.

Fortunately, Seth is a kid who has always been able to roll with whatever comes his way. Is it boring in their very small apartment? Of course. But Seth says the apartment is now cleaner than it's ever been, and he's getting really good at chess. He's also learning Portuguese (Elder Rodriguez is from Brazil), getting in lots of good scripture study, and hoping for a time soon when he can put on that dark blue shirt with black buttons and get back out there.

Will that time come? No one knows. Will the Paraguay missionaries be sent home early? I'm sure it's a possibility though Seth hasn't heard anything about that. He really wants to finish his 2-year mission. He told me that. I hope he can, but I also know those in charge are acting under constant guidance and inspiration to keep our kids safe, and the right decisions will prevail.

There is no need to panic. Even if I get a phone call from Paraguay.

"Are you okay, Teacher Terri? Are you safe and well?"

This morning my alarm sounded at 5:50 a.m. I groaned. I hid my head under the pillow and maybe even vocalized my disdain. "Nooooo!" Slowly, I sat up, turned on the light, opened my MacBook and logged into VIPKID, where a couple minutes later, Cindy arrived. Wiping the sleep from my eyes (I know, I'm not supposed to do that, but...habit), I smiled, waved my hand, and said, "Hi Cindy!"

Cindy is one of several Chinese students, with whom I spend 25-minute class periods, teaching all aspects of the English language and culture. She is one of my favorites, an older student, 15, who speaks English nearly as well as I do. She's amazing, both in her command of the language and in her sweet character. She is kind and funny and so eager to learn. Her optimism is contagious, and I draw upon her spirit to wake me up in the wee hours of the morning.

Today, as is often the case with Cindy, we finished all her slides (curriculum) after only 20 minutes. That left us five minutes to fill. All VIP classes are 25-28 minutes long. I asked Cindy if she wanted to play a game or just chat. She said she wanted to talk.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.

"I'd like to talk about this virus," she replied. "I feel so very sorry that now your country has it. Are you okay, Teacher Terri? Are you safe and well?"

I reassured Cindy that I am just fine, that my family and I are being safe and staying home. I thanked her for her concern.

Then she expressed her sadness and fear: "I love the United States," she explained. "I've never been there, but I hope to visit one day. I love the culture, the music, the movie stars, the fashion. It's so cool! I'm worried everyone in the U.S. now hates my country, that they think the virus is our fault. I worry that you will hate me."

This brought me to tears, right there in our online lesson. This sweet teenage girl is worried that my opinion of her could change because of a virus. Oh Cindy, nothing could be further from the truth.

I wish I could have told her that no one feels this way, that no one is blaming China for a virus. I wish I could have told her that everyone understands we are all one race, the human race, and that with international travel the norm today, viruses spread. They just do. It's no one's fault. Certainly not China's.

I couldn't tell Cindy that. Sadly, there are those whose racist remarks inform her fears. I've heard it. I've felt it. Our president, himself, promotes this stigmatization, this racism. Reports show his briefing notes, where the word "corona" before "virus" is crossed out and replaced with the word "Chinese." How terribly, terribly sad.

But no, he won't define my opinion of humanity. He is just one man. Sadly, he's in a position of tremendous power, a thought that can feel terrifying...because it is terrifying.

Still, he won't crush my faith in the inherent goodness of most people. He won't.

What's the best evidence I have? A teenage girl in China is worried about me. She's worried about me, an adult old enough to be her mother, who lives 10,000 miles away and whom she's never met in person and probably never will.

Thank you, Cindy. You rock, girl.

"Go ask your parents where they were and what they were doing. They'll be able to tell you."

All through elementary school, my teachers instructed us to "Go home and ask your parents where they were and what they were doing when JFK was assassinated. They'll be able to tell you."

I did.

And they could.

My mom was in Seattle visiting her aunt and uncle when news of the shooting came in. And the nation stood still. Glued to their TVs with nonstop coverage on every network, they waited impatiently for more information. Was the president alive or dead? Who shot him? Was anyone else hurt? They waited. Day by day, piece by piece, the story unfolded.

It seems in every generation, a defining moment like this pierces our lives and our souls, and no, we never forget. I thought mine was September 11, 2001, as I sat in my bedroom in Mt. Vernon, Washington, propped up with pillows, nursing my one-year-old son, my other four children already at school. Gerald came in and told me, "A plane just hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City." He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV in the bedroom just in time for us to watch the second tower attack. This was no accident. Once again, the nation stood still. Day by day, piece by piece, the story unfolded.

Today, we live through another life-defining situation. This time it didn't happen in one instant; it was more gradual, and yet, it seemed to escalate so quickly. A week ago, I was still teaching my regular, face-to-face classes at SLCC. Rumors of school closures were just that. In one week, life as we knew it has shut down. Hour by hour, we receive reports of closers and cancellations, warnings and admonitions to remain inside as much as possible, to wash our hands thoroughly and often, to refrain from gathering in groups of more than 10. This list goes on.

Once again, the nation stands still, this time not just one nation. As perhaps never before, we are reminded that we are first and foremost, world citizens, a global community. We are called to sacrifice our own convenience to protect others' lives. We are called to act in charity.

As I stood in line for over an hour to enter Costco hoping to find some much-needed bath tissue, I wondered why people took to hoarding the stuff in the first place. Come on. Everyone needs bath tissue, but we only need so much of it.

Even so, with what looks like greedy hoarding, I see far more evidence of a united response to the call to charity. I see parents, who never imagined they would be, suddenly homeschooling restless children, who just want to go to school and play with their friends, rather than struggle through Common Core math at home with parents who don't understand it. I see at-home moms offering to help with homeschooling for kids whose parents still need to go to work. I see teachers, given no notice, sacrificing hours to create online lessons in attempt to meet students' needs and provide some sort of academic consistency.

I see many who are blessed with abundant resources donating money to compensate for salaries of those who can't go to work. I see communities, churches, and social organizations reaching out to offer help, wherever and however it is needed. I see grace in action. I see the Savior.

Most revealing, I see kindness. In the grocery store. At the gas station. On my daily walks. People smile. Though practicing safe, social distancing as much as they can, they still smile. They say hello. They ask how I am. Plagued with uncertainty, I find hope in this outpouring of human kindness. It helps me remember that we are all in this together and that one who is wiser and greater than all of us in ultimately in control.

We will come through this. Possibly my favorite line, repeated hundreds of times in The Book of Mormon:

"And it came to pass..."

This came, and it will pass. And we will be better for having experienced it. We will have learned things about ourselves and our fellow humans that we did not know before. We will be stronger.

And when the next generation of children come home from school and ask their parents, "Where were you and what were you doing during the COVID-19 pandemic," their parents will know.

They will know.

"Mom, who is Lorrie? She writes me every week!"

                                                                                                                                      Unlikely pen pals?

Perhaps.

But their story is truly adorable, a relationship that spans 15 years and two continents.

When Seth was five, he began an almost daily email correspondence with my longtime friend, Lorrie. I met Lorrie when I was 13 and joined The International Order of Rainbow for Girls. Later, we both attended Willamette University, though never at the same time; in fact, about the time I graduated from high school and headed off to college, she finished at Willamette, got married, and moved to Austria. Still, the friendship endured into our adulthood and eventual motherhood.

I can't remember exactly how Lorrie began her pen pal relationship with five-year-old Seth. It was 2005, and we had just a year earlier moved from our home in Washington to Billings, Montana. I had little to do with their correspondence, other than as transcriber. Seth would dictate what he wanted to say to Lorrie, and I would type it for him. Then he'd wait for her reply, and I'd read it to him.

I also don't remember much of the content of their conversations, but Lorrie does! Here is what she remembers:

"Oddly enough, the topics are at least somewhat similar to what we talk about now: Television/music, candy, and our faith. Back in the day, Seth would tell me he loved Sponge Bob... Sour Patch Kids, and Skittles. The conversation I most remember about his faith back then would make you and the bishop smile. He said something about God loving Mormons. I told Seth that He loves Methodists too [Lorrie is a Methodist], and that there is only one God. To that, Seth said, 'Yeah, but He is a Mormon!' Seth also told me back then that his wife would, yes, need to be a Mormon and obey him!"

Seth, of course, has no memory of any of these conversations. Lorrie and I remember as if it all happened yesterday, but Seth? Nothing. Sadly, he doesn't ever remember Lorrie! She lives in the Portland/Vancouver area, and we live in Utah. I go home to Portland fairly regularly, but no, I never have Seth with me. Seth and Lorrie have met in person only a couple times, both well over 10 years ago.

And now Seth is 19 and a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, serving the people of Paraguay. Ever since he left in August of 2018, Lorrie has received his weekly group email and faithfully responded:

"Mom, who is Lorrie? She writes to me every single week?!"

"Seth, you don't remember my good friend, Lorrie? Really, you don't? You used to email her every day when you were five."

He doesn't remember. And yet. He so appreciates her letters now. He feels her support and love. She is not a member of our church, yet she supports Seth on his mission because she cares about him. And me. Though she's never sent off a missionary herself, she empathizes with my situation and how much I miss him.

What do the two of them talk about now, I wonder? Hopefully NOT how Seth's future wife will need to obey him!!!!  Gracious.

 Here's what Lorrie says:

"Now, we don't talk about television since he is on a mission, and I don't want to distract him. He occasionally mentions something in the news that he heard somewhere, but I don't engage in that or initiate anything new about TV since he can't see it. He mentioned he's looking forward to hearing Taylor Swift's new CD. He also said he's so thankful for anything you [mom] send him because of the sub-standard candy quality in Paraguay. As you and everyone else on his email list are aware, Seth writes predominantly about his faith. He is a powerful witness for Christ. I think his early convictions as a kindergartner have only gained momentum along the way and have exploded in the mission field. Just last Monday, he thanked me for writing to him. He said he was sorry he couldn't write more. I think it is very important to consistently support a missionary through letters. I think it matters to him, now even more than it did when he was five."

I agree.

I am grateful to Lorrie, more than I can say, for her devotion to my son, way back when he was five, and right now as he walks the streets of Paraguay.

Rhetoric Review (because backsliding, ya know)

For the love of all things holy, please stop saying "on a daily basis."

Wait...no. This is not supposed to be another rhetoric rant. I tried that already with limited success. Changing the world is no small talk. 

Can we take a few minutes today to review just a few of the more irksome rhetorical errors? Everyone needs an occasional refresher course, right? It's so easy to backslide into old patterns.

First, here's the link to the rant about the repetitive, wordy prepositional phrase "on a daily basis." At the risk of sounding like those annoying parents, who in the most arrogant, sickly sweet voices, tell their young children "Use your words," may I exhort you to "Use your adverbs."

Second, please use the words "literally" and "unique" only when you mean them, and learn the difference between the adjective "bad" and the adverb "badly," so you can make the correct choice. Here's the link to the full discussion of these three issues.

Issues #3 and #4 arise from a book I just read for my monthly book group. It was a good book. I loved it. Mostly. The plot was captivating, the characters real, and the voice as genuine as I've ever experienced. But dang, this author hasn't the first clue how to use semicolons. It's like she was happily (or sadly--it's sad story) writing along and then suddenly thought, "I haven't used a semicolon in a while, and they look kinda cool, so maybe I'll stick one here." IT'S THAT RANDOM!

Allow me to reintroduce a 4-step program I developed for those who struggle with an addiction to misuse of semicolons. Kristin Hannah, are you taking note here?

Step 1: Acknowledgement.
Acknowledge that you have a problem: My name is [insert first name], and I do not know how or when to use semicolons.

Step 2: Abstinence.
Stop using semicolons until you learn how to use them correctly. Semicolons are almost always a choice, not a requirement, so just stop using them!

Step 3: Education
Learn how to use semicolons correctly. You can look online at sites such as "Grammar Girl" or "OWL Purdue," or simply ask someone who knows (me!) to explain it to you. It's fairly simple. It won't take long. (P.S. I always wanted to be "Grammar Girl." Clearly missed my true calling.)

Step 3: Freedom

Exercise deliberate, judicious use of this amazing mark of punctuation. Free from the bondage of poor sentence structure, you are now able to make excellent rhetorical choices that include semicolons. Yay! 

This author's other issue is her gross overuse of the wordy construction "made ____way." Instead of simply saying that someone went somewhere, way too many times she uses the clause "He made his way...," "She made her way...," or "They made their way..." Ugh! I might have wanted to die after a dozen of these. The book is called The Nightingale, and you should definitely read it, but beware!

Okay, everyone, there's our brief rhetoric review for today. Keep on keepin' on.