From Jakarta starting I fly like a bird.

Dear You (pl.)

This week I read Walt Whitman. I found him early one morning (just after prayer call and long before my alarm) while perusing a volume of American History we keep on our shelves for teaching English, a happy meeting of both joyful exclamation and the slip of a tear (old friends, especially after long absence, have a way of stretching to all spectrums my emotions) and I leapt whole-soul into every word. There were only a few squares of his free verse, but it was enough (the opening lines of Mannahatta alone would have been enough) and I was open to all senses again, awake to understanding and more intent to observe---the electrifying effect of all good poetry at the beginning of a new day. I had lately been feeling confused about my role as a missionary in Indonesia----how can I lose myself in the work when we're barely teaching 3 lessons a week? How am I supposed to forget myself when if often feels like I'm the only thing I could possibly keep track of? I've felt guilty, feeling my mission was just one long rousing chorus of "It's a song about me, It's a song about me, It's a song about me and my in-di-vi-du-aaaaal-i-ty!" and then there was my dear Mr Whitman, reminding me that, actually, it's called a "Song of Myself," by which he means, of course, a "Song of Everybody," which also ultimately means a "Song of You." We are what makes me. And it is in accepting that relationship and giving all your glory to it that makes one sing. Or, in terms of Indonesia: if I only step outside each day intent on absorbing it all---the chickens strut-sprinting through traffic, the schoolboys riding rooftop on the train home, the underwear hung out to dry just above the counter top you're buying lunch from---we, every one of us, become quite a chorus. And this chorus, in fact, writes my life melody.

This has, I think, doctrinal foundation in our Gospel (my poets and prose-smiths are only minor prophets, after all) because we believe the more we give of ourselves to others (and esp. God), we become more ourselves than ever. It doesn't make a lot of sense, not to our mortality, but it's true. I will bear your burden, I will sing your song, I will do Thy will---what we give up returns to us a hundred-fold more. As for always, Christ is the greatest example of this. Who could be more Christ than Christ himself? You can not imagine anyone more fully himself, right? And yet He is who He is because He gave up everything He was, to do the Will of the Father. This is something I know but have a hard time doing, plus it's also a lot more than what I've pathetically attempted to put in a sentence from what I feel in my soul, so there's much left to ponder, as well.

Anyways. That is what I have been thinking (though that was the first time I translated it into writing so I'm not sure if if quite captured a mind's meandering), but I suppose you'd also like to know what I've been doing. Well.

I have been working on Charity. I had a really good 27.5 hours of it, until this afternoon when all was broken in an instant. Oh well. Build anyway. Try again tomorrow. Am also working on Patience.

Next. On Sunday I spoke in Sacrament, taught Gospel Doctrine, and presided over Primary Sharing Time, which consisted of piano-playing, white board drawing, and the requisite sugar break to get us through. All of the above assignments were last minute additions to my day's schedule except for the talk----but even then I was only minutes from the pulpit when Pres. Santoso announced I was the only speaker that showed up so my original assignment of 10 minutes could now be stretched to 15, or 30, or maybe even the whole hour if I'd like. My Indonesian wasn't quite up for the latter, but I did add a few minutes to what I'd already prepared and then Brother HanKing (architect, self-taught painter and currently writing a graphic novel for young adults. Love the man) took on the rest. Bless him. Still. Missions teach you to be flexible.

Last Friday I met a boy on a bus. He was wearing rocker-black in studded silver, with long hair across his eyes and a cigarette lingering into ashes at his fingertips. He stared a long time at my name tag from several rows ahead of me until I called out a hello---at which point he switched seats to move closer, and asked "You know Christ?" I said yes, as this is a common way here to ask if one is Christian, but before I could go on he continued: "Will you introduce me to Him?"

Pause: Thank you for any and all prayers that there be people prepared for the Everlasting Gospel in Indonesia. It works.

Resume.

It was a long drive out to Padalarang so we got to talk to him for quite some time before he got off at Cimahi, sharing a bit of the Gospel but mostly listening to his side of the story. The facts were these: His name is Gilang, 25 yrs old and completely independent. His father died a few months ago, and he moved to Bandung in order to find work and be closer to his girlfriend, who is Christian. He is not. He is Muslim. Not a single one between the three of us had brought a Plan of Salvation pamphlet, our usual go-to if an interested contact is of the Islamic faith. We gave him the one on the Restoration instead, along with our card and the church's address, plus plans to meet again. Except that he doesn't have a cell phone. He gave us his girlfriend's instead, saying that she would forward any messages so that we could keep in touch. He was sweet and sincere and astonishingly, intensively, interested.

His girlfriend, however, was not. When we rang that night she was already on a roll, incensed that her boyfriend would need anybody else's help to understand Christianity. "Just who are you, anyway?" she kept on saying. "Why am I not adequate enough to teach him about Christ?" We didn't mention what he had mentioned: that he'd asked her several times for answers with no result, that she never invited him to church, and consistently told him she was embarrassed to be dating a Muslim and was worried about her family's reaction. No. We just said we were missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and representatives of our Savior, and would she please mention to Gilang that we'd called? She didn't answer, saying instead that she was calling her Pastor about this, and hung up. Sister Atmi and I were a little more than devastated. You can tell when a contact's different. And this one was.

I prayed a lot that night. I prayed a lot that next morning, too. And then, just as I got up off my knees, the phone rang. At 6:15 in the morning. And yeah, Indonesians are early risers (outside of Indonesian missionaries, ahem), but that was weird. I picked it up not bothering to switch my brain into Indonesian quite yet, expecting it to be a trick of electricity or an overly efficient office Elder.

It was Gilang. And he was on his way. "I'm sorry," I said, "on your way to where?" "To the church!" he said. "You are going to teach me about Christ."

And so, an hour and fifteen minutes later (he was coming in from Cimahi, so we had at least time to shower and come up with more of a plan---Alhamdulillah), that is exactly what we did, though of course we didn't do much of anything at all---when testifying of Christ, it is no mortal doing the teaching or the learning. We are just mouths, given words. We are but flesh and bones, to pump the blood that makes more tangible what we feel. And there we were, in the still-early morning light of our empty chapel, alight in the Spirit.

We started from the beginning, because as far as Jesus Christ goes for Gilang, it is only a name. I really had no idea how to approach such an awesome task but luckily (ha. is there luck in the Lord's work? I think not) my two companions also happen to be the only two sisters in the mission who were converted from a Muslim background, only a few years ago now. They know what it feels like to want to know. They remembered what they wanted to learn when they met with the missionaries. They taught with a power and conviction I had not before seen in their service. It was, on the missionary side of things, an incredible thing to be a part of.

But then there was Gilang, who honestly? Just made it easy. We had a bit of a tricky moment when it came to the Book of Mormon---it is the book, that will tell you more and bring you closer to Christ than any other literature on earth, and yet we hadn't taught the Restoration. I began an attempt at an overview, but Gilang nodded me into silence. "Yes, I remember. It is the Book from the pamphlet you gave me to read on the bus. I did not understand all of it, but I know you can explain it to me, and I know this Book is important, even if I don't know yet that it is true."

We watched Finding Faith in Christ together, and afterward asked how he felt or what he wanted to ask. He launched into a sermon, quoting lines right out of the script and linking them to the emotions he was feeling. He was particularly struck by the words of Christ himself, scripture that promised an end to hunger in the Bread of Life and the end of thirst out of the Living Water. "It was just a movie," he said, shaking his head. "But my heart. . ."

When, after an hour and a bit more, it was time to leave and await our next appointment, I asked him where he was headed for the day. He held up the BoM. "Actually, I have a lot of studying to do."

All right then.

I know I cannot jump to conclusions, I cannot set my heart on silver-lined success across a golden sunset to the end of this happy beginning. I have been here five months. I know better than that. But it sure has a way of lighting up my life these days. Here is someone wanting, here is someone willing. I guess there's some truth to Ultimate Happiness in missionary work, after all.

Will keep you posted. For now, my hour's up and my leg is dead asleep from sitting here on the floor so long. That's the other thing about Indonesia: they don't really believe in chairs, esp. not at internet cafes. Oh well. Church is still true, and I love you.

selalu,
E

From Jakarta starting I fly like a bird,
Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all,
to the south betaking myself to sing there mountain songs,
to Bandung still I absorb Bandung in myself, to Malang then . . .

:::A Tale of Two Cities:::

Dickens theme of two weeks' running unintentional; I just did a
quick reread and realized he worked for this subject, too.

You All:::

I find our resident rat impressively acrobatic and quite agreeable;
just yesterday he made a stunning dash across our kitchen and up the
window shade to freedom, from whence he took the stairs at a tip-toe
tilt up the spiral railing and away out the terrace. I actually
applauded, I was so pleased. The other sisters, however, did not. They
do not like the rat. "He steals our potatoes!" they say, and I tell
them to lock them in the pantry cupboard where they should be, anyway.
"He trashes our trash!" they cry, and I mention that perhaps maybe we
only need tieup the trash bag for the night. They won't have it. The
rat is still a rat. They want him dead. They bought a trap and set the
bait. I started a liberation front, but have yet to come up with a
name any better than S.P.E.W., so the buttons are pending. And in the
meanwhile, my little rat's much smarter than any wire trap or cheap
cheese lure, thank you very much, and together we will fight the good
fight.

Oh, the daily battles of Indonesia. I only wish it were always so easy
as cat-and-mouse.

President came to Bandung today for another round of Cafe Bali,
bearing with him the latest pulang pergi [E and SisL's "there and back again"
weekly missive] from SisLily (packaged in Tim Tam wrappers woven into an
envelope---clever girl) and therefore, all the news from Java Timor. It was not good.
[Tale from that City not posted here.]
-----
But . . . It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. There
is some good in this world, and there are people willing to fight for
it. Like Elder Greenwell, who is proving against all odds that
Obedience and Hard Work do prevail out in Yogya. Three baptisms in
three months and another one next week. He and his companion plan
every night, make goals, and accomplish them. He's single-handedly
created the opportunity to teach English five times a week there,
which is where they've found all of their current investigators (for a
total of twenty).

Here in Bandung there is the A___ family; their oldest son on a
mission, the dad and other two boys always at church, but their RM
mother most usually a no show. Last week I proposed we stop by this
past Monday for FHE. My companions (I'm in a trio now, with grudgingly
agreed to "try it." They grumbled even more when I
made them actually plan for it. But the point is that we did it, and
it worked. Really well. One of my more favorite experiences of the
mission so far that also made me realize how much more favorite all of
this could become if we could pull of "Real Missionary Work" all the
time. Will work on that, too.

But anyway, the A___s. Really love them, especially after finally
meeting their mother. She has raised remarkably sweet and outstanding
boys, so of course she was sweet and outstanding herself, but the
mystery as to why she still never makes it to church (esp. since the
rest of the family is always, always there, so transportation's
obviously not the problem) remains unsolved. We taught out of the
January Liahona* from the parting editorial on the back page about
searching for (and finding) God. We read from Jeremiah and testified
from verses in the Book of Mormon. It was a super feel-good lesson,
though I mostly chalk that up to the stark contrast in Spirit you find
from only stepping over the simple concrete thresholds into these
Member homes. Though their houses are just as small, cramped, spare or
broken as the next, the protective magic of expanded blessing and
light is undeniable. Monday night, when their seven year old led us
in his favorite hymn---shoot, don't remember the English . . the one
about the 99 and the 1? Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd, maybe? And
yes, it is his favorite, sung aloud with gusto and truest Indonesian
tone deafness---and his dad said the opening prayer, and their fifteen-year-
old son stood to bring their stack of Kitab-kitab Mormon from a
set-aside, sacred shelf in their living room without being asked as
the study began, I felt there couldn't be more beautiful gestures the
world over as the simplest ones I'd just been witness to. Afterwards,
when their little boy was dead asleep on the couch and Sister A finished
regaling us with her own mission stories (way back then she got to
live at Senopati, too, with a maid to cook and clean!), Brother A
suddenly cleared his throat as we were preparing to leave. "Hold on,"
he said, waving us toward the couch again. "I need to thank you." We
sat back down, aware of the hour but this seemed serious. He was a
long time before continuing, the clock at a slow tick as the older boy
watched his father patiently. "Maybe . . ." he began. "Maybe. . .I
have learned something new tonight. Or, actually, I have remembered."
He looked up at us again. "We do not usually have Family Home
Evening," he confessed. "Or, if we do, it is a short prayer and a
verse of scripture before I decide there are more important things to
do, like stock the store or replace the water filter." He kind of
laughed, then, embarrassed. "But this, this is important. Family Home
Evening is not just song and scripture, it is more sacred than that.
It is where we learn and teach and testify to each other of Christ,
and I want to thank you for doing that tonight. For helping me to
remember what I'd forgotten and what I need to seek again. Maybe . . .
maybe I can follow your example and from here on out we will do as you
have shown us and really have Family Home Evening."

So. That was worth it.

Plus I got to ride a becak home, because we were late and still an
hour's walk from home, and even though we were late and exhausted I
still made my companions plan and discuss---TRULY discuss---what we
needed to plan for and care about, and then we had prayers and then at
least I went to bed on time and so I think, for this week at least, we
are doing the best we can do.

And this is starting to be a novel in it's own right . . . also there's the
prayer call, which means I've been here half an hour over my time
limit and must be going. I love you.

E


*Was the Ensign redesigned like the Liahona was? All moderned-up and
super white-spaced? I, of course, have an opinion, but in the matter
of time I will only say that I like it well enough and End of.

Great Expectations

keluarga:::

I just rode an angkot from the metal footstep up into the cab, my feet skimming the asphalt below me. It's the best way to ride, just outside the claustrophobic confines of the inner pleather benches, the wind whipping at your ponytail with one hand hooked securely through the door latch. I love it. I will miss it. Secretly I sometimes pray for overcrowding and endless traffic, just so the option is available.

Luckily, Jakarta has both requisites in abundance, and as I'm back in the Ibu Kota for tomorrow's zone conference, the prayers of several weeks were answered in my twenty minute ride from Ambassador Mall (It is Sister Christensen's birthday and she is celebrating by replacing all her old white shirts with new white shirts at her half-way mark) to the Tebet internet (where everything is familiar again and the sunset fell rosy-red against the golden mosque dome across the street and a circus' worth of children followed me to the door---Hello, Mister! Hey, hey mister! Was you naim?). We came in early today, P-Day a good excuse for a morning train across misty-blue rice fields and a few hours with the JakSel sisters, so we've had a lovely afternoon of taxis and buses and angkots and the general to and fro that is the city. Sometimes I think I miss it. Then we get stuck in traffic and I retract all sentimental musings. Then I get off in Kampung Melayu and there is the gorengan I love and the crumbling concrete corners along blackened and broken storefronts and the bus named Naomi and it all comes back again. It is interesting, every time I return. I get the smallest sense of what it will be like, one day, to miss all of Indonesia---and I don't like it, not one bit. It's a lot of emotions all wrapped up into something quite impossible to clarify or catalog, except that I know it will hurt. A lot.

Remember how I grew up always pretending? Pretending that I lived one hundred years in the past? Because actually I have always really wanted to experience another day, another age. So for a long while---well, all of life, actually---I figured my future was in Europe, in the cobblestoned byways and quaint remnants of those imaginings, countries that still offered up my childhood intrigues though centuries had now passed. That's what I thought. And then there it was, Indonesia Jakarta. And who ever put me in Indonesia Jakarta? Or in Asia at all? But something about reading that call, about knowing that future, made a lot of sense. Like something I'd worked towards long ago but since forgotten, now restored to me in new glory. It felt (and how cliche is this?) right. A feeling which in itself didn't make sense, because, again: Jakarta? Indonesia?

And then I came here, and I loved it. From the very beginning, I loved it. And as I continue to learn to love it even more, I'm beginning to find pieces of myself I never even imagined to be buried here---in the language, in the landscape, and then, this week, in the past. Because in Indonesia, I don't get to simply observe the cobblestones or consider the villages of days gone by. I am living them. Right now. The past in the present. We live in labyrinthine neighbourhoods I imagine would be akin to the London Dickens knew. Occasionally we have to take a horse-drawn carriage to reach an investigator. For fruit and vegetables and fresh cuts of meat we wander through open markets amidst the urban sprawl, stench and sweet scent existing side by side as sewer runs along crates fresh from the countryside. Yesterday I was lugging our enormous kitchen kettle from stove top to shower in my daily attempt to make the mountain water somewhat less survivable in the early morning and I just laughed out loud. Isn't this everything I always wanted to do? I am my own version of 1900 House.

Which then leads me to another thing that we all know but I usually forget: God knows us so much more fully and entirely than we ever fully appreciate. A thought I will leave up to you to connect to all of the above as President wants us back at Senopati and this is it for now and until next week. Bandung is the best, I am sleeping slightly better (five hours last night!) and on Saturday nights I sing Beatles songs with the busker trio across the street from the Church. Oh, Indonesia. I can't wait to share this all with you. I love you.

Sister E.

p-day. hiking. boiled eggs. pink-maned pony.

Hiking to Tangkuban Parahu, an 8 km mountain trek from our
friends' house in Lembang to the crater, hot springs,
and other general loveliness.




Just. . .Indonesia

Indonesia, again. She was taking this bundle of firewood back down to
the . . . apa namanya? Pasar.What is that word in English?
Anyway, to the pasar -- 5k away. We each tried carrying it. No way.

Having completed another forty minutes of really ridiculously steep steps
through the jungle. Honestly, it was hilarious, and if we hadn't been laughing
so hard,we would have been crying.
It was like two hours of non-stop, full-on lunges.

We boiled eggs for lunch. I don't even like boiled eggs. But from a hot spring? Okay.
There's a popular ad here that always end"Kalau bukan sekarang, kapan lagi?" ---
If not now, when again? That kind of sums up what Indonesia is like.
Also, re: boiling eggs in sulfuous craters? I met an American couple there and we had a nice, long talk about liability issues outside of the United States -- the place was a mother's worst nightmare. But such the best.

Pony in a poncho and pink mane. Told you it was magical.

:::beyond flying monkeys:::

From a hand-written letter dated 27 December:

Walking home after church today -- walking from the angkot to our street, I mean; we're not that close to the chapel -- the little lane outside our house was full-up with little barefoot children, all shrieking and clapping to the music of two youngish boys playing pots+pans drums and a broken tambourine. With a monkey. This is all pretty normal except wait a minute, stop the presses -- have I told you about organ-grinder monkeys here? How they tumble and cartwheel with a chain linked tight to one leg and how maybe I should feel sad and/or bad or at least feel that inner Jane Goodall rise up inside me but oh yeah: did I mention they also have a baby doll's face strapped to their heads, with the eyes pulled out so they can see through the painted lids, the synthetic blonde curls tumbling over their little grey monkey ears that stick out over the chubby white doll cheeks held up against their nose with elastic cords? Because that's all true, too. And it's ever so much more terrifying than Flying Monkeys. These poor creatures are the new stuff of my nightmares, the scenes that flash in horrible night-neons across my dreamscape. Animal rights aside, I cannot stand it. I can't even look at it. But one of these days I'm going to have to be brave enough to at least get a picture, if only to cure others of their Wizard of Oz phobias -- there are far more scary things out there, my friends.

New Year's Eve foto-foto

Atmi fans the flames Bali-style for our Tahun Baru Barbecue

Me + Mi: Marno made the halo, which was actually our Christmas wreath.
This was taken a few seconds after Sodjo was playing our (very broken) guitar
like a lyre to accompany Atmi in some traditional Javanese dancing.
It was a pretty great way to ring in the new year.

:::Dua Cerita:::

::P-day. Mountain Air::
The view from Lembang down into Bandung

Two stories in the interest of time:

Saturday afternoon I was waiting for an angkot to Antapani when a small hand tugged at my skirt folds. My hand went automatically to my coin pocket--- my heart's far too weak for this, no matter the effect on my monthly stipend---and gave the boy whatever I could fit in my fist, our hands touching for the fleeting exchange of a please and thank you, and then he was off running again. I watched him turn the corner, dashing barefoot across the eroding cobblestone before taking a long leap into the neighboring bakery. He offered my coins to the woman at the oven, along with a broken bottle he must have picked up mid-flight. She filled it for him from the tap, water still brown and murky, and then he was off again---passing my way with a shy smile before arriving at his final destination, the concrete island divider between traffic lanes at the height of rush hour. In between the bumpers and motorbikes I watched him share his spoils, the small troop of street kids passing the bottle around their circle in measured sips. It was gone within a few rounds, and then it was back to work. They strapped on their ukuleles, picked up their tambourines, and began to play from window to window.

I don't really understand why I got the life I did.

Sunday a shuttle-load of tourists wandered into Sacrament Meeting, visiting Bandung for the weekend from Malaysia. Members? Nope. Christians, looking for a Sunday service. And how did they find our little building, hidden away in the greenery of Taman Cibuening in a relatively undeveloped part of town? Their bus driver, the same one that drives us out of Jakarta every PLD [zone conference]. Muslim, but knows us and our name tags---and looked up where we meet and worship. All ten of the visitors stayed all three hours, each leaving with a Book of Mormon.

God works in mysterious ways. But it looks like He's working in Bandung, too.

Am late and will have to call President because of it, but I love you! Am feeling somewhat better, especially after all that mountain air. Sorry for yet another short email without a lot of connecting thoughts, but I know you know that I know the Church is True! Even in Indonesia.

love love love
E