.::bagpipes::on::bridge::street::.

onwards and upwards.

2011-03-22T01:49:00.001-06:00

Hello, dear people.

You can now find me here.

xoxo

:::Selamat Hari Natal:::

2010-12-25T19:57:00.005-07:00

Sing we Joyful, All together

FaLaLaLaLaaaaLaLaLaLa

: : : : : : : : : : :

E. will be speaking about her mission
TOMORROW
Sunday, December 26th
at 12:50 p.m.
in the
Monument Park First Chapel
on
the corner of Michigan Ave+2000 E.

{ we and she would love to see you there. }

there and back again.

2010-12-14T23:49:00.003-07:00

Well, my midnight escape plan didn't quite work out

so I guess I'm coming home.

In the Hong Kong airport right now, actually. It is clean.

I think there might be more words to describe

what and why and how this all is, but for the moment I am mostly mute.

The pulang has been harder than the pergi.

But hey, I'll tell you all about that in just a few hours. In person.

And that's a real huzzah.

xoxo,

Sister E.

:::by this we worship, and are freed:::

2010-11-29T00:05:00.002-07:00

Keluargaku:::

It is one of mortality's greatest injustices, and it is epitomized in a pop song (which is injustice enough itself): don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got til it's gone? How many times in my lifetime have I learned that lesson? New Zealand, Wales, Siena. My lifelong love affair with Home? And yet here I am, feeling like I'm only really learning to love this great big mess of an archipelago at the eleventh hour. Am I savouring this bowl of fried noodles and boiled sawi sufficiently? Did I smile brightly enough at that crooked old becak driver in his wrinkled SBY shirt? Have I taken enough time to take in a landscape of green on green, of palms on mountains and water buffalo on city streets? I'm afraid the answer is no, but that is not from lack of trying. It is from the simple fact that it is never enough, it cannot be enough. Not when every angkot, every rainstorm, every small child, seems to pump the very blood I bleed and need to my heart.

This hurts.

But we will stop talking about it, because I am in denial anyway. I no longer look at calendars, and I pretend I just don't understand enough Indonesian when hearing dates and times over informational loudspeakers. Time waits for no man? I am no man.

My Black Day never came; quite the contrary. We arrived in Surabaya and consequently spent some of the most Spirit-filled and meaningful moments of my mission thus engaged. I had a lot of opportunities to rely on the Lord and thereby grow, opportunities that I will count among the most refining of my mission. One of them was being called on to translate for Sister Pratt in the District Conference sessions and individual leadership training. Now. Translating for an afternoon of entrepreneurial workshops amongst my dearly beloved members of the Malang branch is something I can do. Gladly. Translating for the wife of a General Authority from the pulpit at a District Conference? Entirely other. I felt very inadequate, knowing that Sister Pratt had so thoughtfully and prayerfully prepared what she had to say---what the Lord had to say---to our members in Jawa Timur, and felt too heavily the weight of being the one who would then, in turn, be mouthpiece to that message. I was nervous. Which is an understatement. But I remembered how often I had called upon the Lord for his strength and solidity in such times as these, and I remembered the line from Lead Kindly Light (so long thy pow'r hath blessed me, sure it still, will lead me on), and just after the doors closed but before the opening prayer I nudged Nab and we slipped outside for a small prayer. Nothing too spectacular, just a sincere please.

I translated for Sister Pratt. No, that's not right. I opened my mouth to translate for Sister Pratt, and the Spirit gave me the words to do so. For fifteen minutes in that first session and thirty the next day, I spoke Indonesian like I'd been born and raised in Central Java*. It was still very simple---I never used any words I didn't already know---but I could feel the difference in my syntax, in the way a relatively grammar-less language suddenly formed itself into formal sentences on my tongue, in the way I was given to know not just what words to use, but exactly the right word to use. Which was never the direct word translation from the English, but always something slightly different in Indonesian that carried the same power. But perhaps the craziest thing of all was that I understood this, all of this, within the very exact moment I was experiencing it---all the while simultaneously listening to Sister Pratt and speaking into my microphone. My mind is not big enough for that. Not humanly. And so I knelt that night in gratitude for not only a prayer answered, but an experience of eternal proportions.

District Conference, in all other respects, was incredible. Great speakers (President Groberg has the most beautiful way of teaching directly out of scripture), great songs (we sang my all-time Indo favorite, Kita Maju Ke Kemuliaan, right before I had to translate. That extra strength was no coincidence), great Spirit. Ibu P was there along with her son , J_ (Pak J can't travel long distances because of the side-effects of his stroke), who then both attended the special meeting for new members on Sunday afternoon. Their testimonies were strengthened and they told us so---later Pak J told us that J_ was still talking about all that he had learned and felt in just that one weekend. He is going to be baptized, too, and is already planning on serving a mission.

On an entirely selfish level, I also loved Surabaya because I had one last huzzah with the missionaries there. Elder C was just moved there from Tangerang, so I got to say goodbye to my favorite Australian. Elder C and Elder S are now a companionship in Surabaya Timur, so we got to suss out the last-minute details of our Canadian Road Trip, complete with horse-riding ala Legolas** Elder K was there with his monster of a Canon camera so we swapped SD cards and talked photog for a while, and I said hello and goodbye to greenie Elder M who is half-German, a psychology major, and dual citizen---all of which information he will volunteer without being asked to. We took countless photos with the young women and played hand-clap games with the primary. We ate fried duck in the parking lot and ordered iced juice through the fence. Then, after the rain and just as the sun set, we all got back onto the bus, our little Malang district and me, and headed home. With Elder Mari-*** in tow. I sat quietly alone along the back row of the bus benches and watched the world while thinking about life. Occasionally J_ would pop his head up over the seat he was sitting in next to Meek just to check if I were still there. Sister L kept me happy with cashew choki-choki while Ibu P fell asleep with her head on Sister Nab's shoulder. It all felt very whole, and also holy. These people, these places, this love.

Monday night J and P had their baptismal interviews, and Nabs and I sat with one or the other at the church while Meek interviewed and Mari picked out hymns on the piano. Pak J's was first, and forty-five minutes long. When he finally returned, Ibu P poked at his arm, laughing. "What took you so long?" she laughed. J smiled faintly, distant. He sat down in the chair next to me, a primary sized chair for a full-size man. "This is my new life," he explained. "I do not want to forget a single moment of it." They are so ready to be baptized, but the miracle is that this wasn't always so. I have been witness to a mighty change of heart. I have seen Christ working among men. This is another thing my mind is too mortal to manage, another thing that sometimes I can only very rarely catch rare glimpses of on the eternal line of things. I doubt I will ever be able to fully explore or explain this life I have lived in Indonesia. I hope you will be able to feel even the smallest sense of that while you are here to see it yourselves.

We are being blessed. I am being changed. The Gospel is true and we are a part of it. Happy, happy thanksgiving.

selalu,

Sister E.

*Really. I had members come up and ask me that afterward. I could only kind of shake my head, slightly dazed, saying thank you but so obviously unable to take any credit for any of it.

**Dudley's from up-north (and yes, I have to consciously restrain myself from calling him Dudley Do-Right. But really? His name is Dudley AND he's from Canada?), has horses, and owns the official LOTR Legolas bow and arrow set.

***He's back, he's back! The Golden Era of the Malang District has been restored!

Good Day Bad Day, Red Day Black Day

2010-11-22T20:08:00.002-07:00

Hello, People.

I'm just going to be honest and tell you right here right now that, with only two more weeks of these one-hour emails to go, I've become lazy to lackadaisical proportions and just typing this is hard. Well, not really. Maybe lackadaisical is too lethargic---really I just wanted an excuse to use a good English word---but essentially the message is the same. Why should I write out a story from a thousand miles away when I could just tell it to you all together in a taxi? I know, this is not a very charitable train of thought. I will try to be a sharefish.

The Good Day was Saturday, when Pak J and Ibu P prayed and decided they'll be baptized the 28th of this month. When we sat in their living room laughing and crying and learning together about the strength of new-fire testimonies and the power in sharing them. When Sister Na and I walked home down the mountain, singing hymns.

Another Good Day was Yesterday, when a storm hit and we went out anyway. To appointments that fell through but who cares? Because we are soaking wet and there are goats on the streets and this is Indonesia. To the mountain again, to Pak J's and Ibu P's, where we laughed and cried and learned together all over again. It's a pattern and I like it.

The Bad Day was Sister L's, on Sunday, because she gave her whole heart and it still didn't work out. So we sat on the kitchen floor at the chapel after choir practice and she cried so I taught her yoga and she learned to laugh again. But apparently I expended all the happiness I'd stored away for a rainy day, because then the Bad Day was Monday. When suddenly everyone and everything absolutely everywhere was doing their utmost to annoy me to no end, and I was struggling. Because no charity is not good. But good friends are really great, and hearing the Bro S/Sis M Love Story for the umpteenth time was a sure-fire-no-fail picker-upper.

The Red Day is today, Idul Adha, when the goats are led to the altar and the streets run red. The muezzins were singing from their minarets all night long. Our angkot had to take twisty-turny detours last night to avoid the torch-led processions to sacrifice, which thrilled me to no end. Considered being Muslim for a minute, as long as they would let me be the one to play the drums.

The Black Day is no day, because it does not exist except to make the Seuss couplet and because, like I mentioned, lazy. But I guess it could be foreshadowing for tomorrow, when we drive to Surabaya, which if you remember is not my favorite. But meeting with all the missionaries plus District Conference will more than make up for the city itself, I'm sure.

Love you so much. See you so soon. Wishing you Good Days.

Sister E.

:::solo:::

2010-11-15T09:33:00.002-07:00

Familyku:::

I am alive, in every technical sense of the term. Though four hours of sleep within the last 32 are not much good for anyone and maybe especially not for missionaries. Still wouldn't trade an economy train at midnight for any other adventure. Inescapable all-nighters can be some of the best.

The biggest, brightest, bestest news from this last week is that Pak J and Ibu P are going to be baptized. We have yet to pin down a date, as their oldest daughter is having a hard time with "those Mormons" and her parents want her to better understand the situation before they take the plunge, but at the very most they promised me they will be baptized before I leave because I am "their missionary." I am somebody's missionary! It has been a long learning process but they have been moved and changed and their testimonies have become a part of mine that the Church is true.

Sunday afternoon we left for Solo, arrived around midnight, and spent the next two days in Leadership Training from nine to eight, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. It was killer, with a helpful dose of spiritual strength and missionary motivation, with the only truly low point being at about three o'clock on the second day when Sister Lie and I gave in to evaluating and appraising the Elders' ties from keren-keren (super stylee, you win) to paling jelek (no no no please take it away!) instead of listening to Elder Hartanto teach us about Revelation Through Church Attendance. But that was just a second's slip-up, I swear, and by the next rounds of role play we were better. Slightly slap happy, but better. It was long, but good, with the end joy being the satisfaction of having survived and also catching a glimpse of Elder Greenwell through the west window. (He moved to Solo last week but what with our schedule that's all I saw of him.) Plus, we managed to cover everything in 22 hours over 2 days and so our third day morning session was canceled, allowing for some P-Day play. Which we more than took advantage of.

Because Sister Lie is from Solo, and she has connections. People-with-car connections. People-with-car-and-cabin connections. And seeing as the Elders hadn't thought to extend a soccer invitation to the Sisters, ya sudah. We took off Wednesday morning without them and spent the day in Kemuning, a tiny little tea-plantation town up-up-up and away in the Solo hills.

To say it was happy would be an understatement. To describe it as magical might be accurate, but too cliche. Essentially I was not a little bit entirely enthralled by every bit of it; the sudden rushing release as we passed from city borders into wild countryside, the creeping fog as we swung up and around each switchback to the mountain's top, the clever aesthetic of the one-great-room cabin with an open loft and a view out to the world we'd left behind. We ate our tahu kupat from the loft, clouds gathering and dispersing, fog thinning and thickening, air cool and then cold. With the first few rays of hopeful sun we took to the steep slopes walking in search of waterfalls, past family patches of cabbage and carrots and wide-eyed children jabbering in Javanese and toothless grandmothers nodding, smiling as we walked. Once past the last row of houses it was deep into where the wild things are, and at one point I turned a corner before anyone else had caught up with me to find myself facing sheer canyon sides on either side of me, cliff face mottled in verdant mosses reaching up into leggy palms and the tracings of a classic rain forest canopy above me. It was quiet, perfectly quiet but for the nature sounds there needed to be---sounds like distant water and insect songs and the swift hush of a bird taking flight. Butterflies danced in circled flurry about me, butterflies in lurid blacks and turquoise wing-tails, and if I didn't know any better I'd have thought the scene was simply some orchestration of Disney design. But this was God. All good things, all God. I felt small. Because what am I to all this?

And then, in the same second, everything. Tall strong invincible unreachable because what is this to all me? And not just me, of course, but all us? You and me. Children of God. Our literal Father in Heaven, a Father who knows and loves each and every one of us individually, above and beyond the flowers, the trees, and the butterflies He created for us. It is something I have always known. But yesterday, in that short space between turning that corner and then the others turning to join me, I knew it better than my knowing before. And I realized that I think that's maybe what I've always loved about the world, all creation. That it makes you feel small in so much grandeur only to remind you that the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.

We found the waterfall. We hiked up behind it and through it and over it and an hour later we hiked away from it, back to the cabin, back to the great room, on to the floor and under the covers as the rain fell all around us. Sleep, for a second, because if there is one thing I have learned from Indonesians it is that rain necessitates napping. And then waking up, waking up to maghrib from the mountain mosques, calling us to prayer calling us to happiness calling us to home. We drove down the mountain in the sleepy silence of sunsets and fast friends and fresh air. We drove home to Solo and then five hours later we train-ed home to Malang. Where I am now. So very, very tired. But alive. Still alive. And isn't that some sort of wonderful?

I love you. It's true, all of it.

always,
Sister E.

In which I write. And more likely ramble.

2010-11-08T20:39:00.002-07:00

Dear People,

One thing of many things about being a missionary is that on any given day you are subject to anywhere between one to two surprises, at least a dozen emotions, countless mood swings, and the occasional death blow. The Gospel is not complicated, but inviting people to live it sure is. Within these last seven days I have been disappointed, elated, upset, humbled, refined, confused, whip-lashed, amazed, and enlightened. See also happy, grateful, tired. Most nights I sit down at my desk and just stare at my journal as the clock ticks away towards curfew. Stare. Stare. Blank. Nothing. No, not nothing. Everything. Anything. Too much. Not now. But when? If not now, when again? And to make matters more pressured, I've committed myself to journaling absolutely every single day for the month of November, my last month of mission, the month I have left.

Halloween was a smashing success. Entire angkots of kids showed up and we had a real laugh bobbing for apples and mummifying the lot of them with tissue paper. Worth the day we spent at the church linking paper chains and folding accordion circles out of newspaper, and the words of affirmation I received for the cider I stewed up was thanks enough. I really enjoy making people happy, plus watching a room full of seven year olds scream to high heaven when Meek hit the lights and Sugiyarto set to banging on the outside windows was just too, too good.

Sunday morning Elder and Sister Thompson arrived in Malang for a Entrepreneurship Workshop which, due to forces unforeseen, Meek and I ended up team-translating. The workshop was all afternoon, Meek and I switching off every 15 minutes up at the front to translate Elder Thompson's talk on self-sufficiency to some degree of understandability and surrender laughing to phrases like "micro enterprising funds" or "mutually exclusive capital." I love translating. Indonesian to English I'm not so good at---akin to translating poetry into binary code, if you'll allow me the analogy---but turn the tables to English into Indonesian and I am in my zone.

Plus then Monday morning Sister Thompson stole me away to a batik boutique I had yet to hear of/see/enter which proved to be Malang's equivalent of Aladdin's Cave of Wonders. Good thing she's more of a tornado and tore right through the place like one; on my slow boat to China I could have been in that place hours on end.

Investigator news: (and I am not making this up) all five of our appointments last Saturday fell through, every single angkot we got on was empty (meaning not even a chance at contacts), and then just to really rub it all in every single window Nababan sat down next to was stuck shut. It was laughable, and so we laughed, but really? Actually at one appointment the investigator actually was there as planned, but her house is seriously kampung in the middle of about two hundred children under the age of seven, all of whom decided to come running and screaming in and out and around her house in exactly the hour we were there to teach. President says he sometimes wonders how we're ever able to teach with the Spirit when much [around us] is in no way conducive to inviting the Spirit in the first place. (When he said that I think my entire soul sighed in deepest solace because Thank Goodness I was beginning to think something was seriously wrong with me.) Yep . . . case in point. We couldn't even get to a prayer with that kind of distraction, so we made another appointment for next week in the early morning instead---hoping that the Indonesian school system will be good for something and at least keep the kids at bay long enough for us to bear testimony.

Then it was Sunday and there was a miracle. Maybe. Something I am still trying to understand and explain, and something that feels too much to share right now. Not really an email experience, if you'll forgive me. It would've been the spiritual part of my week's missive, but as I still haven't quite come to terms with it, we will go without. Give me a month.

Today is not actually our P-Day (that's another long story, file it under "whip-lashed" above) and so I have even less time than usual and if we're to beat the rumblings of a beginning storm, I really must be on my way. And next week I'll write you from Solo. Because according to the text I just received, that's where I'll be for Leadership Training. Role Plays. Put "panicked" up there with my ADD adjectives, will you?

Final Question and closing remarks: For next week, can I ask each of you to write me about specific blessings you felt you have received as direct result of obedience to a particular gospel principle? ie, tithing, word of wisdom, law of chastity, follow the prophets etc etc. Don't worry too much about it; it's not for anyone but me and I'd really just like to hear what you've experienced, what you believe and why you believe it. Thank you. I love you, truly dearly deeply madly---keep the faith. Remember the Shire. Hurrah for Israel.

love,
Sister E.

email: 27 Oct 2010

2010-11-03T08:51:00.003-06:00

Dear Family:::

I have fifteen minutes to write you and I am sorry but I got sidetracked by sister emails and my weekly report to President and also finding carvable pumpkins in Malang takes a lot more adventuring than one would think. Also more money. But at this point we were desperate so biarin.

A few things: President sent Sisters Lie and Langi to join us and so I have now learned a valuable lesson in the consecration of companionships . . . Sister Nababan and I are readjusting. Mostly it is just very loud. Before we were very quiet.

Sister Langi is a Salt Laker of Tongan descent and Highland High grad of 2006 (shout out to Jordan Hill, ayo!). We have a lot of friends in common and she is all aspects of wonderful Polynesian. Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur she taught a slap-dance-rhythm sort of game and the look on their faces was I'm sure identical to mine: she is so cool. Throw in the Disney princess eyes and corkscrew hair and it's pretty legitimate envy.

Elder Marijanto leaves for the MTC this Friday morning, right before the Halloween party. We're crossing our fingers that President will send him right back to Malang after his three week sojourn in Manila. We like him.

We had a few good lessons, two truly great lessons, and one downright awful lesson this week. No time for details, but the good outweighed the bad and we're still semangat so nggak apa-apa ya? We'll make it, and I'll make it, and then you'll make it all the way over here and that will Make My Day.

I'm throwing in my email to President this week just so you can get some idea of what we've been up to and then I've got to peace out (or, as Sis Langi would say, damai luar . . . which is just as wrong as our di luar biru from MTC days):

One remarkable lesson this week was with the P__ family, who have been investigating for ages now and making progress in only the babiest steps---but progress nonetheless. Their oldest son, Jordan, was baptized last April, and right now we're focusing on his sister Anjelin who would like to be baptized but is worried about setting a date and having a hard time interacting with the Young Women here in the Malang Branch. We are trying to understand more of her concerns but she is shy and very closed (especially when her dad is around) so as of right now we're not sure of our next step. For now we are just being a friend and a help where we can, and grateful that Jordan's always there to step in when we need him, too. This last Friday we reiterated to them our purpose as missionaries and explained in force and in depth our desire for them to turn their faith into action and be baptized. I broke it down into yes or no questions so we could get to the point (Pak P likes to cerita, so while we are aware of the need to understand feelings this was necessary for clarity) and when he said "no" to "Do you want to be baptized?" I didn't even have a second's time to answer before Jordan stepped in with verses 32-34 of Alma 34. He had his dad read the first verse, Anjelin read the second, and he himself follow up with the last, which he then transitioned into his own explanation of what these scriptures meant and his testimony of baptism and how he wants to see his whole family follow Christ, too.

We were, to say the least, dumbfounded. Jordan's not just a missionary-in-the-making, he was THE missionary that night. It was incredibly soul-filling to witness and a truly humbling moment for me as I have seen him grow these last seven months in Malang. Pak P didn't exactly change his mind right then and there, but I know he was moved by this witness from his son and oldest child. [Jordan's been going out a lot with Meek and Marijanto lately so we called them right away with the news of their efforts and example]

Sister Nababan and I are getting better at contacting and have moved our weekly goal up to two people per angkot. Still failing occasionally, but definitely better than the last week, so we're counting our blessings. She is such a humble and dedicated person and I feel blessed to be serving and learning with her. This past month with her has taught me more than I feel I've learned my entire mission. She has great potential and is helping me to reach my own potential, too. I love her.

We continue to do most of our teaching in less-active situations, which is showing some real results in their return. It's so exciting to see these members choose to return and be welcomed back so whole-heartedly. We're working hard to get the E__ family back and learning to love them all the more in the process. It is the greatest blessing of my mission to be given the privilege to feel God's love for His children through our service here.

I'm sorry but this is over and out I love you I miss you Oh yeah mum the Halloween packages came yesterday thankyouthankyouthankyou hearts and happiness,

Sister E.

:::la de da:::

2010-10-26T08:38:00.003-06:00

Dear You, All of You:

Last Thursday for our English class at the church I taught family vocabulary using family photos taped up to the board in a sort of visual family tree---which was pretty and happy and maybe made me slightly homesick, but also incomplete because our family stops at us four unmarried children. No room for in-laws or grands, right? Right. Not helping with the learning, then. But with a little help from a seventy-cent teen tabloid and my handy-dandy pocket scissors, voila! Naomi was married to Justin Bieber. I had Selena Gomez for a sister-in-law and Joe Jonas as my fiance! It was the very height of Hollywood magic which the kids loved to no end, and actually believed. Believed! For a split-second of wide-eyed hilarity. They only stopped the jaw-drop when I taped Joe's face next to mine. Only then was it a yeah right, Sister Rhondeau. (Slightly demoralizing. My sister can marry Justin Bieber but no way jose is Joe my beau? Do you think we're sad, Georgia?)

On Sunday we woke up early to walk down into Boldy Bawah with a wee-sized cake for a wee-sized girl; it was Femi's sixth birthday and so we all shared a small slice of chocolate in the celebration before walking back with their whole family to church. Femi is the youngest child of three in the P- family, a name you may remember from an email months back when we had our last baptism in Malang, her older brother Jordan's. Now the whole family is learning with the missionaries; sometimes the sisters teach, next week the elders. Last week when we stopped in to pick them up for English class the girls hadn't taken their afternoon shower yet* so we followed them down through the gangways and alleyways and sidestreets and sidesteps to the riverside well, where we pulled up bucket after bucket of cool, clear water to haul back up to the shower spaces in their little neighborhood baths. It was an Experience. Femi running circles around us in only her smallest shorts and tiny singlet. Towel swung like a frenzied lasso around her cheeky pixie cut. Non-stop energy. Unlimited dance moves. Real happiness. Living enthusiasm. Even as we are pulling water up a crumbling well in plastic paint buckets along a muddy shore on the banks of a Malang river in Indonesia.

Hmm. Life.

A lot of it, actually. Sister Lili's dog had puppies and cat had kittens and then Sister Tina's Corgie had little teeny tiny Corgies and it is just almost too, too much. Last Wednesday after emailing we were out at Sister Lili's for a lesson, which I taught with two small pups curled up on my lap and another snuggled into the crook of my arm, wee head lolling over my elbow in deep dreaming, whimpering . At Sister Tina's Sunday night the little things were just learning to walk, stumbling over each other in desperate stands to prove their self-sufficiency. Have I just never been around truly tiny animals before? Did none of my PetVet childhood prepare me for such arresting adorability? Apparently not. My cute quotient is about to explode.

Because that was just the baby puppies and baby kittens, but what about baby people? Indonesia has those, too, and they are perfection (as I suppose most babies are). One of our investigators just had a little girl last week, and yesterday, once home from the hospital, we stopped in for a visit and ended up staying quite a while. The whole family greeted us at the door saying "are you brave? are you brave?" and I was confused and thinking "brave what?" when suddenly yes, I guess I am brave enough because I am sitting on their floor with a six-day-old life in my arms. Sister Nab was not brave. I don't think I am, either, it just happened so fast and so it happened, you know, but the entire next hour as little Nafranda Adinda Melina Regina Novidewa** slept right there in my arms I was thinking my goodness this is a life, a real little life! Am I brave? Plus a lot of other mind-stretching things like pre-mortal existence and eternal identities and purposes of life, etc. Such a lot a lot of thought from such a very small, small thing.

Sunday Sister N came to church. Read: miracle. That's the second non-active I've taught that's made the return, and absolutely made my day. Just swept into Sacrament Meeting as if she's been doing it for the last four years too, nothing doing. Gobsmacked (me). Grateful (us). If the E family comes this week like they promised, I will build a monument to miracles.

One last thing before I go: I read the Gospel According to Mark this week, and according to me it was most marvelous. I was going to try to describe why in my own words but turns out the Bible Dictionary did it better: "The Gospel contains a living picture of a living Man. Energy and humility are the characteristics of his portrait. It is full of descriptive touches that help us to realize the impression made upon the bystanders." Yes. I loved it for all of that, the real and raw humanity of it all while documenting Divine Life. I loved how crazy-fast it was, how the hurried chronology accentuated Christ's energy and undivided attention to the work and His purpose---and then the small asides that set everything back for just a second to remind you that Jairus' daughter should be brought something to eat, and the disciples worried that He is beside himself, always so busy, and Christ walked to the fig tree if haply he might find anything thereon. It is a living picture of a living Man. And as I read I am learning to be living, too, to exclaim with all the multitudes, He hath done all things well.

I love you. I miss you. Have salt in yourselves [Mark 9:50].
Sister E.

*everyone in Indonesia showers twice a day. without fail. one year in and I still don't much understand it, especially in breezy beautiful Malang. oh well. anyway.

**really. Indonesians like names, except for last ones. It's not the least bit confusing.

Note: The Celebrity Siblings applied to dad, as well---since Mont and Julia were Brad and Angelina, since Maddie could be Maddox and Nathaniel was Zahara. Or the other way around. Whatever.

:::biasa aja:::

2010-10-18T21:17:00.004-06:00

Heroo there.

I am waiting for BYU to load and inspiration to hit but so far it's a fail on both counts and I'm afraid I can't promise y'all much of anything this week, anyway. The past seven days were remarkably remarkable but not entirely writable, in the sort of sense that a James Joyce stream of consciousness might be best---but the trick to that kind of typing is that the seemingly effortless result is in reality the result of especial effort and so I'm afraid I'm not really up to much of that, either. The whole internet/time restraint/once-a-week thing has been a nice experiment in the instant-essay, but I will be glad to return to a life of more thoughtful prose and editor's prerogative come December.

Which, by the way, is only two months away. Two months. As in I just bought the small tube of toothpaste at the grocery store. Because that's all I'll need. Right now I'm feeling okay about that; Malang has been wickedly hot and humid and I miss real seasons. In maybe a little bit more major news:

::Pak J and Ibu P came to Conference this weekend, and left saying they'd be back for more. I like people that keep our commitments and then make their own, too. Also, on Saturday night after we'd taught and talked about living prophets and modern scripture, they bought us the absolute best tahu lontong I have ever ever had, period. End of.

::Conference was beautiful and Salt Lake was, too. Goodness how I love those mountains, that temple, this Church! My most favoritest talks were a) President Uchtdorf, b) Elder Christofferson, and strangely enough c) Elder Ballard, plus of course all of them and most especially seeing Clark in the Choir. Did not appreciate our little Malang congregration casually chatting throughout the sessions [which] made my Indonesian listening skills suffer and so I feel I didn't fully internalize what was taught but the English version will be printed soon enough and I am working on Charity.

::Really. Because this week Sister Nab and I took the Christlike Attributes Quiz in the back of the samely-named chapter in MiK/PMG and that was where I was decidedly, so obviously, lacking. Despite last week's email all about love, love, love. This was a little startling, but I will work on it, and also rejoice in the realization that Patience, my previous inadequacy, has increased dramatically.

::Taught District Meeting on Friday, which is stressful because I am silly and would rather speak publicly to 300 people rather than 3, but I survived. Learned a lot in the studying for it, too. Remembered that one of the (many) fabulous things about scripture and especially the Book of Mormon is that it still applies. Today. Right now. Even though Ammon lived forever and a day ago. He's still a top-notch missionary and can teach us what we need to know.

::Am experimenting in organic eating. Or at least that's how we say it to make it sound more exotic and en vogue. Mostly this just means that we do all our food shopping at the main market here in Malang now; fresh fruits and vegetables and chickens killed right then and there just for you. It is quite exciting, and a lot cheaper. Plus you avoid all the junk-food aisles and general supermarket sins because, well, they don't exist. At Pasar Besar it's just food the way God gave it to us, in all its bountiful glory. One day I will brave the crowds there with my camera; it's an assault to all the senses, but the colors are particularly punchy and demand to be photographed.

Okay, there are signs of life from MyMAP at BYU so I'm going to take it while I can and catch you next week. Miss you muchly, love you even more.

Sister E.

post-script: met ultah to jake and jacq. huzzah for one year older and wiser, too.
post-post-script: yesterday Sister Nab and I did some serious morning yoga and so today I woke up and . . . couldn't walk. Seriously. Truly. Unable to stand. It was funny for a minute and then funnier still. Because really, yoga? My usual cardio routine has never left me so crippled.

:::the key for holding world:::

2010-10-12T09:19:00.003-06:00

Dear Family Rhondeau:::

That subject's the tagline to a local English Club we pass by on our way to the church every day. It makes me smile and I fully support it and wish them the best but this is not an email about English, or Clubs, or even English Clubs. This is an email about Love.

Because I love training. Being responsible for the happiness of another person's mission, being in charge, being made strong. I have been scared and shy-shy-cat* but I find that as I simply (yes) gird up my loins and Do the things I Know everything else follows. I study, I teach, I listen, I learn, I talk to everyone we meet and I even call people on the phone. I feel like maybe I've become more in this last week than I have my entire mission; I feel like I am giving heart might and mind to the work; I feel like I am the missionary I have always wanted to be. Still of course no where near perfect and will remain, I'm afraid (but human), far from it, but just what I suppose I mean to say is that I go to bed every night content. Knowing I did my best. And that feels good.

I love Sister Nab. Not just because she cooks exotic curry dishes or obsessively tidies the house or took over the little kids' English class with expert ease. Not just because she is a classy sister with an eye for accessories or even because she occasionally tells me HK stories. She is all of that, and I love her for it, but she is also hardworking, thoughtful, and teachable. Together we talk about the work, how we want to do it and how we're going to do it that way. We talk about our investigators and how we feel about them and what more we can do to help them. She likes to think and then share her thoughts. She likes to study and then learn together. She is dynamic.

I love the Elders. Elder Meek is deeply thoughtful of everything from batik ties to gospel principles, could be the MTC's poster child for their Quiet Dignity battle cry, and does the dishes when we cook Sunday lunch for them (someone thank his parents for me). Elder Mari talks to me about blogs and tech and photo-shopping, translates everything Meek says in English to Indo, and is currently buried in some secret project involving world maps and temple locations that we're not allowed to know anything about (though he promised me it's not some secret combination so I've lessened my attempts to sneak his notes away when he's not looking). They are good missionaries and they help us to be better.

I love the members. Sister L stood on Sunday to bear one of the single most beautiful testimonies of our Saviour I have yet to hear. Sunday School following the testimony meeting was a riot of good-hearted gospel sharing and our fair share of laughs. And Sister M gets the gold star for member missionary work with her A+ referral this week. We taught her friend Nila last night and have a return appointment for Friday afternoon. She is searching for the truth and ready to receive it.

I love our investigators. Ibu N is reading the Book of Mormon line by line and praying to better understand it. Pak J was hospitalized last week for a minor stroke that shook him into prioritizing his life and the realization that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints needed to be a part of it. He's stopped smoking, drinking tea and coffee, and is coming to church. With his whole family. Who now holds regular family prayer and scripture study. Our lesson with them Saturday night came just on the heel of the previous day's break-down (a heartbreaking lesson with Mas D and the overwhelming weight of the world; Sister Nababan cried but I told her Things Work Out because I am 15 mission months old and stronger now) and so rather caused our souls to sing bright praises to the lyrics of Ether 12:6. Dispute not because ye see not. For ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith. Don't you love living scripture? I do.

So while English is good, Love is better and my mission week's key for holding world. In just a few minutes now we're off to the church to meet up with the Elders, who have promised to try fixing the oven if we bring the cookie dough. Which I made last night, sifting the flour together with the baking soda through leftover mosquito netting, because that is how much happiness living in Indonesia is. I just feel like smiling, a lot a lot. And not just because friends have been telling me I look pretty lately, though that helps. Hilariously. . . . the everyday acquaintances we pass regularly in our daily routines have exclaimed aloud "Sister Rhondeau! Kok, tambah cantik ya?" Indonesian shock for something like "you've gained beauty, haven't you?" Not that I think it's true, but I certainly don't mind the compliment.** Then there was Beke, my favorite lost boy in the hodge-podge group I teach at Bhakti Luhur, who yesterday suddenly stood mid-lesson to exclaim Terpujilah engkau di antara semua wanita!*** Which is maybe sacrilegious? but I laughed and laughed and laughed til I cried.

I love being a missionary. I love being a missionary in Indonesia. I love the Gospel. I know it's true and the manner of happiness---this overwhelming, overflowing, overarching happiness I am living right now.

And I love you.

selalu,

Sister E.

*that's an Indonesian phrase they like to say in English. It's actually malu-malu kucing, in reference to how cats approach food so freely offered them. You know, as if it's going to bite them back and they have to take high-tension tip-toe steps to reach the bowl in the first place only to run away? Yeah. That's shy-shy-cat.

**While on the subject of my own vanities, I think it will be a big shock to come home and discover I'm short again. So many people per day tell me I'm tall that I've come to believe it.

***hint: Luke 1:28. Or Luke 1:42.

2010-10-04T20:33:00.004-06:00

:::Marno, Nab, aku. At the train station to Surabaya last week, where we arrived at the super-swanky hotel with skyscraper views and I fell sick with a sudden, sweeping fever. Spent most of PLD curled up on the floor against my chair, trying to listen to Elder Meek's training but hearing the sentences all backwards. Was sick all through Saturday and half of Sunday, which is why there is really no email to be had today. No news, no news at all. I stayed home with a member while my companions went out. I slept for what might actually be a total of 76 hours. I don't know. I don't remember. I was asleep.

:::Fashion Show at Sister Kaswat's, which I send you because a) Sister Kaswat makes really awesome clothes and b) then I get to take the cloth scraps and make really awesome scripture covers out of them so that Marno can match her skirt to her Book of Mormon. Brilliant! Also, scratch the leather-bound Indonesian version; I bound my new triple combo in batik and am more than satisfied with the result.

Dear Ones:::

The carcass count is up to six and I am soooo not feeling any sort of sorry anymore because seriously? SIX? What did they think this is, some sort of veritable smorgasbord, orgasbord, orgasbord? I stopped all the regret after bagging number two and am now just grateful Meek was around to take care of the last and particularly jelly-bellied Templeton. Ick.

All of our appointments have fallen through this week but tonight we're going to try to stop in at Pak Pur's so . . . tally-ho. Sorry for the lack of really much of anything but after last Wednesday I was sick for a few days, went to church, walked a lot, and then pretty much just helped Marno pack for the last 24 hours. So you're not missing anything. Really.

Love you.

E.

:::Two via Taxi. A final shot with Marno, who we dropped off at the Base just this afternoon. I am struggling with the absence; I've never been a missionary in Indonesia without her at least in my same house and now suddenly she is . . . not. This might also be a factor in my muse-less writing state today. The truth is I feel small and scared. I will work on feeling big and brave. But mostly I'm just a little butterfly dancer.

:::she is a palindrome:::

2010-09-26T08:26:00.002-06:00

Family Dearest:::

Last night I baited rat poison about the kitchen in a final desperate attempt to quell a rising epidemic, and woke up this morning to find every last little pink pellet licked away. I feel terrible. Horrible. Sick-to-my-insides guilty. It wasn't like they ever did anything to hurt us; I was only getting tired of the morning clean-up. And now . . . murderer. I will never forgive myself.

Though it is entirely possible that such nausea has nothing to do with my mouse massacre but is rather the combination of the many side effects of life's most recent stresses, being, in this order:

1. Mbak Mitin, our best --- and only --- investigator moving to Surabaya.

2. Marno packing up to pulang kampung in all of only 6 days from tomorrow.

and

3. Me becoming finally and officially Senior Companion and also, oh, Trainer.

Even with last month's false alarm I was not ready for this call. I mean it makes all sorts of sense, what with Marno's impending release and the inevitable open space in Malang. But when President called late Friday night to inform us we'd need to be at the Air Force Base by noon the next day to pick up the new sister . . . well, maybe we panicked a little. And not just because we were looking forward to having a hotel room all to ourselves this weekend in Surabaya. That was, selfishly, a major factor, but nothing compared to the paralyzing waves of inadequacy (Please see email of 11 Agustus 2010. All emotions still apply.).

Not that there was much we could do about anything at all. We tidied the house a bit, mopped the floors, spilled all our deepest, darkest secrets in a final companionship curhat (this is a good JakSlang term to know; it means to pour out the contents of your heart). We woke up, called a taxi, and sat out to wait along the tarmac with sick stomachs and overactive imaginations. "This is a good sign," Marno insisted. "If we weren't worried, she'd be horrible. But since we kind of feel like throwing up, she'll be awesome."

Which as irrational as it was turned out to be true. Sister Nababan skipped off the plane with a happy hello and hugged me while bringing tidings of great joy from Elder Kershrikshrik in Hong Kong. She's a tall, strong-boned Batak* with an open, fierce sort of beauty and hard eyes. She grew up in Medan, graduated in French from a Bandung University, worked two years speaking Mandarin in Taiwan and the last six speaking English with a Canadian family in Hong Kong. She was in Noah's International Branch, and after looking at me for a long moment said, "You're Slovenian too, aren't you? Your eyes are the same." She is smart, strong-willed, and more culture shocked upon her return to Indonesia than I ever was arriving here in the first place. Occasionally this has made me want to scream but I am trying to be a good and patient trainer, even if this has mostly meant I'm on constant catastrophe control---my already uber-sensitive tact meter on overdrive as I try to regulate lessons and contacting with a Batak at my side. Maybe I shouldn't be so anxious? But sheesh, those Sumatrans don't know a compliment from a criticism. Dangerous stuff amidst the fragile souls of Java (and I won't pretend I don't tend to take things all too personally, too).

Notwithstanding, together our trio has had some really---and unexpectedly---good lessons this week. I am learning yet again the promised blessing that when called you are qualified and I have felt an external and eternal strength these last few days as I face a task I feel so utterly unprepared for. The Spirit has been stronger, my vision clearer, even my Indonesian is better and I have to be careful not to fall into the false thinking that all this comes of my own accord. The Lord has really blessed us in His work and through this transition and while I am sure these last two months will be the most difficult of my mission, I'm equally certain they'll be the best.

Monday night Pak Purwitanto prayed out loud for the first time in twenty-plus years. Yesterday Ibu Novi accepted our testimonies of the Book of Mormon and expressed the desire to seek a testimony of her own. Tomorrow we are off to Surabaya to learn how we can better love and serve the people we've been assigned to shepherd here in Malang. It is a soul-stretching and marvelous life to live, and I am grateful to my God who has given me so great an opportunity to live it.

The Church is true, and I love you. December can't come fast enough and yet will, of course, come all too fast. Strange, that.

selalu,

Sister E.

.::ya weis::.

2010-09-21T08:41:00.002-06:00

family:::

This email was doomed before the day began; usually I sketch out a few paragraphs or at least draw up a list of all the things I need to tell you the night before I email but last night . . . well, last night I didn't. And I don't even have a good excuse. I just walked home from Sis Lili's, collapsed at the kitchen table for our usual nightly planning, and then didn't get up. Until it was two minutes til ten thirty and I decided that maybe I should at least move to a bed if I was going to sleep.

So. Then I get to the internet cafe, and I have happy emails from my sisters and I want to reply to them, so I do, and then suddenly half my time is up plus also maybe I snuck a small minute in there to help Marno navigate the BYU-Hawaii site (her Real Life is two weeks away and we've been working hard to have her TOEFL ready) so now we're down to seconds---though rather flexible, indefinite seconds*---and I find myself with very little to say in the absence of a first draft.

Plus, Lebaran rolls on so mission news is negligible. A few lessons but nothing news-worthy. Elder Meek has Dengue Fever**. Us Sisters have spent most of the last seven days in Girl Friday mode, at the Elders' beck and call. It has been funny and frustrating and I think in some small way it has opened my eyes to motherhood. I always wondered how mum could be so busy when there seems to be so many hours in a day. Then I had to go from Gadang to Landungsari and back again in one afternoon and I was ready to write odes to the remarkable everything that she is. Terimalah Kasihlah. Today we went out first thing in the morning and went from Blimbing to Alun-Alun to Pasar Besar to Dinoyo all in search of the Elders' orders, ending with us basically dying on their front door step after having their lunches all switched up at the nearest warung***. Following was a somewhat blissful hour of chat in front of their electric fan, and then the long hot walk to the warnet. And here I am. With every thought and energy put into those measly paragraphs above me.

Again. I'm sorry. But some weeks . . . well.

Let's hope next Wednesday's back to normal. Or whatever normal is, when you're serving a mission in Indonesia. Hey! Remember my past? And my future? Weird.

K. Love you.
Always.
E.

*in Indonesia they say "jam karet" or, elastic time. Which is why everyone is always and of course late to everything and no one could care less. Nice when you as the missionaries arrive late for an appointment, not so fun when you as the missionaries arrive on time for said appointment and your investigator isn't. Because they could be back in five minutes, or they could be back in an hour. Actually, maybe they don't come back at all. But hey, jam karet. Toeachisown.

**He's okay, for the record. Still sick but getting better. What's sad is Elder Marijanto---one week into his mission and totally homebound. We like to call their house at random hours to make sure he's using this abundance of downtime in scholarly and scriptural pursuit.

Thought. Marijanto kind of a little bit reminds me of Richard Fetzer. He has the same smile, maybe. Or the same laugh. Something. Haven't quite captured it.

***We asked them what we are getting in return for all of this. Mari promised the Lord will bless us for feeding the needy and caring for the sick. Which I believe. But would also appreciate, say, like a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Or a can of real tuna fish. Even some Skippy Peanut Butter would be enough.

I love Indonesia. But while Indo has Quantity down, America definitely does the Quality thing better. Am imagining a Saturday afternoon Costco run, which does the best of both. Oh, Be still my soul.

:::Lebaran:::

2010-09-13T21:19:00.005-06:00

KelKu:::

Here in Indonesia, which today not only feels miles but entire lifetimes away from home and any sort of reality, we are on the eve of Idul Fitri. If it weren't for the true meaning of Christmas, I think I would have to admit to enjoying the Ramadhan month far more than our December celebrations; instead of speeding into over-hyped material messages of goodwill the entire world seems to slow down and I love the wayside warungs that insto-presto appear at sunset and the everynight fireworks and the extra long and lyrical calls to prayer. Tomorrow, too, will mark the first official day of school holidays for the event, and so just about everyone and their rice cooker is headed for home. Here this is called Lebaran, and it's tradition to finish off the Fast with family in your hometown, so after today's monstrous traffic jams and people-packed train stations Malang's going to be even more quiet than usual. And so thusly and therefore it follows that it becomes all the more quiet for us Mormon missionaries, too. I love Ramadhan. But not when it takes away all our investigators, too.

We're making up for the lack of lessons by making our own sort of Lebaran family and visiting every member we can pencil into our planners. This is two-parts proactive and one-part selfish, seeing as we were already planning on following up our efforts to get the members more involved in missionary work on an individual family level but also because my most favorite moments of my mission have always been with the members so win-win! Last night we went out to the Raharja's, a lovely little family of four and some of the stronger members in our branch. We had Family Home Evening together, teaching a lesson on Small and Simple Things (ie what minor changes they could make to their friendships and families to make major differences in their lives with the Gospel) and then eating a sour-salsa-sort of-soup thing while sitting cross-legged on their living room floor. I had, if you'll allow me to be a glitter-glowing teen for a minute, a blast. Sister Lorieta brought out her wedding album and we compared deep thoughts on the Twilight Series and Bianca drew my portrait on her whiteboard with the title "Sister Kanaya" because my Javanese-ish name scares her and little Alex gave the prayer all by himself.

TANGENT: I am a rock star when it comes to Indonesian children, something I can say without pushing my pride limit because I know that you know quite the opposite is true back in the Homeland. I mean, ask yourselves, honestly: Have you ever met a Mormon twenty-something more awkward with kids than moi? Rest my case. One great thing about the second-language barrier is that my vocabulary level is pretty much exactly on par with the 4-7 set and so Alex has in these last five months become my absolutely number one fan. Last night I was counting up to ten all wrong and then speaking Chinese a la gibberish and then hauling him around like a sack of potatoes and the way he was carrying on you would have thought I was all of Disneyland in one person. Very gratifying, especially the big sloppy goodnight kiss. Anyway. I digress.

It was a happiest hour indeed and I have become more and more grateful---plus all the more aware---of just how consistently and tangibly the Gospel blesses families. For all the dark stuff going on in this black world you would think a whole lot more people would be reaching for the light that shines so constantly and clearly from so many good, strong families living as Christ would have them live.

Last week at Leadership Training President introduced a new program of "inspired questions" he would like us to start using in our teaching. Basically we're just trying to put all the focus on the investigators, forgetting statistics or lesson plans or time restrictions and doing all we can to get the people we teach to start thinking for themselves. A lot of the time this means that we just turn their questions right back to them, asking them to answer why they think our Church is different, how they understand Christ's Atonement, what they think would help them get to Sacrament meeting, etc. We also try to learn everything we can about them and direct the conversation to Gospel-centered principles with questions that begin in phrases like "Have you ever thought . . . " or "How do you feel . . . " In just one week of our attempts to apply this tactic in our teaching, it's been a clear-cut 180 as far as the Spirit goes. We've had some really great lessons, especially with the less actives in our branch, and our contacting (though still constrained due to the nature of proselyting in a Muslim country) is on an upward curve. All this, however, comes at a far greater risk of failing, no longer relying on our step-by-step lessons or even our scriptural learning but the investigators themselves. Which has had some hilarious results of its own, most noticeably at yesterday's appointment with a new investigator who was unbelievably adept at switching topics and shutting us down. At one point, pretty much near desperation, Sumarno just point-blank asked the woman if she ever thought about God and after a three-second's hmmmmm she simply answered "No." We managed to walk away quite poised and dignified in the end but immediately lost it once we'd reached the jalan raya outside of the kampung. "Fail," Marno said. "Fail." And you know, it was a pretty incredible crash and burn.

Malang is cold and green and Indonesia's Eden after last week's sweat bath in Solo. Sister Sumarno is now in her final month of the mission and I'm rounding up to three, which both terrifies and excites me in equal proportion. Lately, actually, and more particularly since last Sunday, I have come to the realization that I'd rather not go home, thanks. I miss you, of course, and quite often find myself rolling the opening strains of O Home Beloved around my tongue, but ultimately I am past mortal levels of happiness here and am quite content to stay that way. Indonesia, while a favorite from the very first, has suddenly become . . . real? I think is the word that my heart feels but doesn't come out right. As if . . . as if Indonesia is me, and I am Indonesia. Oh dear, I'm afraid I'm reaching one-with-the-cosmos levels of attempted communication, and that is not what I mean at all. But . . .you know? When suddenly a friend becomes family, house becomes a home? Yes. Like that.

Elder Meek is much the same, only now he can speak Indonesian which is quite the trick. The last time we served together I'm pretty sure the most we could communicate was a Primary-level testimony of the Book of Mormon and maybe even occasionally ask to pass the pepper. So sitting in on a visit with Purwitanto's today was a little trippy. Meek's joined by Marijanto (pronounced Maw-reeyahn-toe, and yes, apparently it is an Elder's prerequisite to be christened with an M name before serving in Malang), an awkwardly tall, gangly greenie from Semarang who did the dishes for me after I made lunch for the departing Elders on Sunday. He's quiet but charismatic and the two of them make a good team.

We are now off to visit Sister Lili, who has whipped up homemade chicken nuggets just for me as I attempt to bring the LilyRho Nugget Sandwich Special to a whole new level of gourmet. I can't wait for you to meet these people, to know this place. It will be a most epic family reunion.

I love you.

Sister E.

all things.

2010-09-07T22:55:00.001-06:00

Dear Family Rhondeau:::

A few weeks ago I learned a word that I promptly forgot because I never used it. That's how it works for me; if new vocabulary doesn't make it into reality conversation that very day I will learn the same word weeks later as if I've never ever seen it before in the first place. And so that is how it was with the word sepele. Meaning trivial, insignificant, unimportant. If you check the date on my language study journal, I learned that word more than seven weeks ago. But never used it until the moment presented itself, until it was ready to be made live, applied properly, situationally appropriate.

This is that moment. Because all these stories I've saved up, all these ideas and thoughts and jokes and anecdotes, they are sepele. I am in Solo and have been for four days but will go back to Malang tonight. I was Sister Atmi's companion while Sister Sumarno attended Leadership Training. It is hot like a drowning desert and we ride bikes and I am a little bit tan. At night we meet up with the elders for bamboo bowls of coconut-milk rice and tall sweating glasses of es jeruk. Elder Steele pretends he is one of those automated statues on the Pirates of the Carribean ride and we all laugh. Elder Effi tries to make me eat deep friend eel and I say no. In the mornings the sun rises right into the window frame and over onto the bed. I sleep like a cat and feel seven years old. Mostly, between all the girl -talk, electric fans, and pilly sheets, it's a beach vacation. I have been inexplicably happy in that floating kind of happiness, the happiness that lands on the roof of the next house, singing.

That same happiness that disappears when it wants to, like when you lose your favorite pen or your skirt gets caught in the cycle spokes or you open up your inbox to bad news. And so now it is just all . . . sepele. All of the above, though memorable and marvelous to each its own, pales in the knowledge of losing or lost. I am confused about what to say and how to say it.

Though last night, as I returned home from the warnet and knelt to pray---for peace, for hope, for strength, for something---a verse came to mind and has not left it. I guess that's just one of the many reasons to read and study and love the Word of God; it has a way of coming around just as you need it and never the way you thought it would. My experience last night was a combination of both those possibilities, since as I was praying about Grandpa the words of Nephi spoke to answer. It was chapter 11, verse 17, when the Spirit asks the young prophet if he knows the condescesion of God and Nephi replies: And I said unto him: I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.

I do not know the meaning of all things. I do not know the meaning of most things. I do not understand why that, if Grandpa has to go, he has to go now. But the solid, living, irrevocable facts are these: that I do know God lives, and I do know that He loves His children. He wants what's best for us and knows what's best for us. Things work out. They always do.

I love you. God loves you.
We are forever.
Kekal.

Sister E.

:::then sings my soul:::

2010-08-30T11:51:00.003-06:00

Helloooo, my dearest Fan-damily.

You know what you shouldn't name a warnet? Virus. Also, Snail. Not doing much for the PR there, Indonesia.

Anyway. It's been yet another week in Indonesia, and I have stories for you---but strangely little focus. So sorry if this comes out in ADD and if you don't mind, I'll just jump right in:

Last week we taught a referral named Mitin (not pronounced "Mitten." That's just how Elder Miller says it.), a referral we received from a former investigator almost a month ago but haven't ever been able to reach via the phone number that Mbak Mega gave us. She had introduced the referral by saying that she had an old high school friend who was interested in understanding Christianity after years of faith-hopping and maybe we could talk to her? Yes, please. But then no go. For weeks and weeks and weeks until Elder Miller started to hint that he didn't quite believe this so-called potential investigator existed.

But then we were desperate. Because our statistics are zero for zero for zero for zero and after having to hand Mas Kuncoro over to the Elders last week, things were really looking sad. Our proselyting efforts were flagging, our appointments were falling through, general levels of semangat [TranStar says: spirit, as in gusto, zeal] were at an all time low. So we just kept calling and calling and calling Mitin until, one day, she picked up. And that very afternoon we met her at her house, where we introduced ourselves and eased into the first two principles of lesson two---the effects of Christ's Atonement and the necessity of having faith in Him. Mitin grew up Hindu, tried a few years of Buddhism, and her most recent driver's license declares her Muslim, so we took it slow. At the end of our little hour we went over the steps of prayer and invited her to church. It was a good lesson. We got a return appointment.

Which was yesterday, late evening, right smack dab in the middle of a major rainstorm. After our fair share of unfortunate events we arrived at her doorstep and hour late and soaked through---only to discover that the entire neighborhood was in total blackout and her house was running on a generator, which meant that our previous plan of watching "Finding Faith in Christ" had just taken a somewhat fatal blow. We floundered for a second. Talked about the weather . . . um . . .I was just about to signal to Sumarno that we might as well forge on ahead with principle three when Mbak Mitin somewhat timidly asked if she might pose a question. Yes! Please! Anything, and we will answer it! She left the room for a minute and we were confused. Moreso when she returned with a Book of Mormon. "Could you tell me about this book?"

Sumarno only looked to me to indicate she'd take the first principle. I re-checked my resources to switch over to Lesson One: The Restoration. And so we taught. Really well. Far beyond any mortal ability, and with a clarity we very rarely accomplish even when teaching with the Spirit. Without any set plan beforehand our lesson somehow came together to focus specifically on the Priesthood, and every principle we taught we made sure to relate it back to God's Authority---to the point where, when asked, Mbak Mitin rehearsed the definition perfectly. She was incredible to teach; honestly seeking truth and humbly joining in our conversation. I felt like it was one of the better lessons of my whole mission and that we'd finally reached something like the Real Deal (Although, tangent: as Marno explained the Great Apostasy, I had this sudden memory of Elders Bunker and Cowdery teaching the same story with an egg carton, candles, and uninvited moths on the floor of 80 Hill Street NZ and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing.). I testified about the Book of Mormon and re-emphasized Christ's divinity and when we'd finished and asked if Mback Mitin would like to say the closing prayer, she said yes. She prayed. The simplest, sweetest, purest little prayer. That was something she couldn't do last week. If nothing else, I felt the swelling joy of knowing that I had had such a blessed opportunity to teach a daughter of God communicate with her Father. And that would have been enough.

But then we're sitting about snacking on strange Javanese sweets, waiting for the rain to calm down, and I ask a question I should've asked right from the beginning. "Have you had a chance to read a bit from the Book of Mormon yet?" Her entire being lit up, her soul was illuminated. She picked up the blue book off the table and quite handily flipped open to Alma 49, a chapter she'd marked with a blue ribbon. "I finished this chapter just as you arrived," she explained---as Sumarno and I tried to connect just exactly what she was saying with the physical evidence she was currently displaying. "Um, s-s-sorry?" I stammered. "Do you mean you've just read that chapter, or . . . " Sumarno tried to finish my sentence. "As in, you began from the beginning and . . . " Mitin nodded, which still didn't answer either of our incomplete questions. Our perplexity must have showed. Mitin turned back to First Nephi and stuck her thumb up against verse one. "Yes. I've read from here . . . " now she was flipping back to the bookmark " . . . to here." I double-checked the page header. Alma 49. I tried to nod, but seemed incapable of even such a small movement. Mitin talked to fill our stunned silence. "But since I only borrowed the book, I couldn't ever underline all my favorite passages or mark the places I have questions, like I saw how Sister Rhondeau did in her Book. But now I have my own copy, so I'll just start all over from the beginning again! After I read 3 Nephi 11, of course."

I couldn't help it, the words were beyond my control. "Mbak Mitin!" I practically shouted. "You! You are a miracle!" She shook her head, shyly looking back down at the book she was now holding in clasped reverence. "No. I'm sorry, I don't understand very much but I'm trying to learn. I have to read the same things repeatedly before I start to get it," she said. Ohmyword Sister Sumarno looked ready to cry. We jumped all over that apology, telling her that was the very joy in scriptures: being able to read the same thing over and over and over again only to learn something new every time and you know what? Even the prophets still read the scriptures! Because there are prophets! Christ's Church has been restored and you can be a part of it! Really, we were maybe too excited.

And maybe you're thinking "But Sister Rhondeau, that happens all the time in the Ensign." Yes. Those are also the same stories after reading which SisLily and I have to console ourselves by deciding that they're only fantastical fairy tales reserved for such imaginary realms as "Brazil" or "The Philippines." Just reading a book in Indonesia would be out of the ordinary---and here was Mbak Mitin, reading the Book of Mormon. And after some further storytelling, turns out she's been reading it every chance she can get----at work, at home, during lunch, on the angkot. I . . . I . . . I . . . what?! This is the single most extraordinary event I have yet to encounter in my 14 months as a missionary. Period. End of.

So of course we have yet another return appointment, and she's coming to church on Sunday, and we just love her. I mean, we loved her before and always, but you know. We LOVE her. Also, we love God. Because this was all His. He just let us in on the miracle.

Riding the angkot home last night we contacted a bapak who was ninety years old. And he was on his way home from work! WORK. Still as spry and sharp as any college kid, except for a bum knee that was only the effect of a becak accident two years ago. My word.

Also, the thing I have meant to tell you for weeks now: the new triple combination translation is out and it is wonderful, fabulous, inspiring, blessed, and also . . . confusing. Because what with the new translation we missionaries have to switch some gears. The First Vision? Totally different. Had to re-memorize. D+C 4? Same deal, although Marno and I pride ourselves on managing to memorize it before the Elders. And, um, Atonement? No longer Kurban Tebusan. The new term's Pendamaian.

I am still wrapping my head around it, and also trying to figure out what we're supposed to do with all the has been given us since the new version is significantly superior and all the more powerful and yet we've been given the mandate to hand out all our old copies before we start with the new. Given the rate Indo-Jak hands out copies of the Book of Mormon? That could be a few more years. Kidding. But probably at least long past the point I've already come home.*

Oh well. There are much more pressing problems to weigh in, given that it is the end of the month, our electricity blew last Sunday, our house flooded last night, and we are officially broke. And don't even remind me that Lala has YET to send the video we need for tomorrow night's fireside with the branch. Eeh, walawala. Harus cari ilham apa lagi makanan [Must look for inspiration, let alone food!]! Aduuuuuhaduhaduh. Hey. Maybe we'll just for reals ikut the Ramadan fast. That solves the food finances, at least.

Okay. I'm over and out and off to Klayatan for some less-active lessons. I love you, I miss you, the Church is True.

Pray, He is there. Speak, He is listening.
Sister E.

*not-so-subtle pretty-please: all I want for Christmas is the leather-bound triple in Indonesian. Really. That's all. Okay. Love you.

dirgahayu republik indonesiaku!

2010-08-22T09:34:00.005-06:00

KelKu:::

I am going to tell you something you may already know: I am in Indonesia. Mostly I am well aware of this, but occasionally quite suddenly I will remember with all the energy of first opening my mission call ohmywordholycatsforrealz! I am in Indonesia and today was one such occasion. We may not teach much and our statistics look like warungs during Ramadan, but boy I love Indonesia. I love that they barbecue corn here and then roll it through sweetened condensed milk. I love that they think the English for doormat is welcome. I love that there are two little boys unashamedly watching me type this email in the warnet and that dinner is only 40 cents or that sometimes you walk so far that the only way back is a horse-drawn buggy. Yesterday was this Tanah Air's independence day, and while we got a bit shortchanged on the festivities due to the Muslim Month, here's a huzzah for this Repulic: Dirgahayu, indeed.

Anyway. On to maybe more substantial somethings. President Groberg dropped in this weekend and, in a nod to Stephen L. Richards and his Pioneers, I'll tell you What He Brought---though maybe I should start with what he didn't bring, and that would be my new companion. President called late Friday night to tell me that the earlier plan was no more; I guess some MTC dates got switched around, there were some--ahem--unexpected transfers in Jakarta, and financially it just didn't make sense to ship out Sister Soewiono all the way to Malang when pretty shortly here she needs to be off to Manila. This was . . . a relief? A disappointment? A bit of both, and ultimately Sister Sumarno and I were both just glad we hadn't quite gotten around to moving our mattresses around. Those things are wicked heavy and (being by nature floor-bound) kind of gross so turns out, my friends, procrastination pays! Not really. But significantly enough so that I tend to fall into that trap all-too comfortably.

So we're still tea for two here in Malang, Sister Sumarno stealing my hairbrush when I'm not looking and me taking her chocolate milk without asking. Life is normal and nuanced and other such nook-and-cranny things that would be too long to even attempt in the writing. So we'll focus to one day only, the day that President came, and what he brought with him.

He brought mail. Letters from both my sisters, each so entirely their own and then both completely us; I was inspired and moved and laughing til it hurt. Three months' worth of notes from Noah; enough that I could piece together his sketches from Act I, Scene I all the way to Act III, Scene II. The wonderful weekly words from Grandma. He brought my duffel bag. Because I did something smart and last September, after arriving in Jakarta and realizing I actually only needed about 1/3 of the amount of clothes I had brought with me, saved all my most favorite pieces in a special suitcase at Senopati. So now I can slip on my Sundance skirt and feel pretty again. Wear my ruffle-collared tees and pretend like I'm going someplace fancy. Finally throw out my faded, pilly, stretched-to-no-sense-of-form pajama shirt and replace it with the new. Yes. I was so, so smart. Glad I at least have that success to look back on.

So President brought his fair share of material happiness, but what I really want to talk about here is how he also managed to bring me a completely new horizon with a happy sunrise, too. Because for starters, he brought Sister Groberg. And then sent us off on splits.

By the time they arrived in Malang we actually only had one last appointment to go to, but it was the right one to show off in such a short time. We were headed out to Pak Jon's when the Grobergs arrived and it only took about five seconds for Sister Groberg to wave off President and jump in the angkot behind us. Inside, we found a Catholic family from Surabaya who wanted to know more plus an exchange student from Quebec who just wanted to speak English, so our 40 minute ride out to the village was an unexpected and extraordinary display of missionary work (it never goes that easy. never.) Once at the end of the line we had to walk another half hour, uphill, to get to Pak Jon's, which Sister Groberg took in good humor and long strides that had even me skipping a bit to catch up. Pak Jon met us at the door and with questions so we immediately got right down to the lesson (another mini-miracle, given Indonesian meet-and-greet traditions) which ended up being one of those Lessons, the Lesson that you remember not just enough to write it all down detailed-like in your journal, but the Lesson you remember long after that night, that week, that transfer, or those 18 months. We taught about the Spirit, with the Spirit. Afterwards Sister Sumarno whispered to me somewhat conspiratorially "I feel like we just lied to Sister Groberg----we're never that smart!" Yes. We'll take Gifts of the Spirit for 500, please. Pak Jon was his usual studious, thoughtful self and, though he didn't end up coming to church the next morning, seems to be grasping more and more the things we are trying to share with him. His wife was particularly eager to listen that afternoon, and Sister Groberg bore a simple but powerful testimony (oh yeah, she speaks Indonesian. Much like any one-month-old American in Jakarta would speak Indonesian, but Indonesian nonetheless.) about how the Gospel blesses families and for one of the very rare moments my entire mission I was very much overwhelmed to Mosiah 28:3 proportions. Walking back down the mountain that night I felt a promise fulfilled: that I would find a happiness beyond anything I've ever known in this work of the Lord. I felt Isaiah 52:7 personified.

How beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings,
that publisheth peace;
that bringeth good tidings of good,
that publisheth salvation;
that saith unto Zion, Thy God Reigneth!

Tangent: I think what I am working on learning is that such a promise means I won't feel such joy all the time. Mostly, if I'm deadbeatdownright honest, mission is just hard. If not occasionally miserable. But that happiness is there and makes up for all the rest of it and Saturday wrote off all of the previous week's doldrums fast.

So we are walking/flying down the mountain, and to top off the joy of all Joy Sister Groberg is not only a gifted talker and a fast walker but the Queen of Compliments, too---and you know how I love words. I will say that her acclamations were exceedingly generous and altogether far too good, but it helps to hear Hope out loud sometimes. Plus once down the hill we met up with the Elders + President at Pres. Iwan's for dinner, where Sister Groberg gave the good report. And President actually asked us how the appointment went, who the investigator was, what we'd like to do next in order to better prepare him to accept the Gospel. They just . . . care so much. They bring with them a sense of security in this service, that mission is, in fact, possible, and that they are here not only to hear and help and hope but to work alongside us, too. President brought with him this weekend his usual careful wisdom and thoughtful counsel and it gave me a much-needed boost in the Keep Calm and Carry On category. I like President because he gets it. He understands what we're experiencing because he gets out there and experiences it, too. . . . [He said,] "I used to think that the Church here is a drop in the bucket. Then I got here and realized that we are 1/100th of that one drop in the bucket. We've done good work here these past 40 years, but we're still in the beginning stages. The best possible thing you could do right now is do all you can to leave a good impression of who you are and who you represent. That is how we'll move forward. If you feel the Spirit and love the people, you have had a successful mission." Hallelujah, amen.

The Elders just came searching for us in the warnet because we need to get going on a special District Meeting to address our upcoming fireside activities. I am at this moment very grateful Dad mentioned to me the necessity for patience and understanding when called to act under orders from nineteen-year-old boys. He is a wise, wise man. So okay over and out I love you all, miss you all, pray for you all and goodness gracious Daniel is safe (I will tell you a story about that from my side of things some other time)-----pray always! The church is true.

maju terus,

E.

:::lahir bathin:::

2010-08-16T21:36:00.003-06:00

keluarga:::

Mohon Maaf dan Lahir Bathin! This year's Fast is now officially 9 hours underway and while I myself am currently contentedly full after a leftovers lunch of nasi kuning and the requisite cup of coconut gel, most of Malang's Muslim world has closed up shop. The roads are still plenty full of the usual traffic-sans-regulation havoc, but the streetsides are uncharacteristically empty; warungs folded down to bare bamboo trappings and full-on restaurants boarded up against the noonday sun. It is strange, but also familiar; I arrived in Indonesia almost a year ago smack dab in the middle of Ramadan and so to me it has the feel of returning to something and that is something my sentimental soul can appreciate. I have also decided to take the second half of that opening salutation to heart and join with my Muslim brethren in making a concerted effort for lahir bathin this month---a spiritual rebirth. These last few weeks haven't been anything too fatal, but I can't deny a distinct flagging of the spirit this last little while that was only compounded by Mas Kuncoro not showing up at church on Sunday. I think of home too much and rely on the future far too often. I dwell on the past, fingering each failure and filing alphabetically mistakes and missed opportunities. I feel like I could have been better, could be better, should be better---I need a jump start, and fast. So let's see what a little extra scripture study can do, plus some Ramadan re-dedication.

Enough about that. I'm sorry. Indonesia itself is still seru! and four months more of this kind of scenery can't kill me. In the Department of Travel way of things, I have found a new favorite form of transportation, and that would be: military convoy. Because when your whole branch wants to trip it out to Balekambang, that's the only way to go and after yesterday's there and back again I am a full-fledged fan. Sure, it's a bit bumpy and you can't count on any amenities beyond Martoyo's makeshift snack services (eeeewww vienna sausage no thank you) but you just cannot beat those views. I got a prime spot on the last inches of the back bench and enjoyed three full hours of sightseeing all to myself (esp. since sometimes branch activities just really mean everyone speaks to each other in Javanese so I am exempt from being social anyway).

Upon arriving, Oma Irawadi threw her hands to the air and announced “I am a child of the sea!” Which she then promptly proved by leaping (I use this word appropriately, even if she is 78 years old) out across the sand and headfirst into the waves. Later, as the two of us climbed out to the Amertha Jati temple together, she recited and recalled her various and venerable adventures as a scalawag seventeen year old living along the coasts of southern Sulawesi. I am almost entirely sure Oma Irawadi is the happiest person I have ever met.

All afternoon we missionaries led a discussion/lesson/activity on member missionary work, hoping to get somebody somewhere in here excited about inviting their friends to church because if we don't get some inside help real quick here we're just treading water---something we've been doing so long now that drowning's only a matter of time. I've been talking a lot with Pres Iwan lately and we're really going to try to get this branch up and going again; we have a few firesides in the works and tomorrow night we're

And . . . this email* just went out the window with my HP ringing and President's name on the screen. He's coming this weekend---something we already knew since Sister Groberg spilled that secret in a text yesterday afternoon (tangent: one of the many things I love about Sister Groberg is that the very first week she was here she went out and bought herself a cell phone, “khusus sisters.” It's our very own little land line to sanity whenever we need her.)---but this call today was to tell me that he'd be bringing presents, too. Khusus untuk saya. Namely, a new name. A new face. A new companion. My trainee.

Actually with Lala in the office this is something I've been steeling myself for a while now; there's only one new sister coming in the rest of the year and word on the street was I'd be her trainer. So really, I should be ready for this, right? No. This is the exactly absolutely last moment I feel capable of teaching anybody else how to be a missionary . . . which I guess is why I've been called to do it. I've juggled enough curve balls this past year to know that's usually the way the Lord works and so I'm ready and willing to accept the assignment---but just because I'm used to change doesn't mean I like it. There's also that minor detail of my greenie never having been to the MTC so . . . square one, anybody?

Though President's call came with a disclaimer: this could, potentially, not happen. It was just his initial feeling and decision so he called me to see how I'd feel about it too and after some back and forth it looks like a go but we won't know for sure until Friday night. Thank goodness for a few deep breaths. I will also still have Sumarno here with me for a while longer, so I am grateful for that. Am also grateful for SisLily being online at the exact same moment I logged in, and for an email from Ren to make me feel loved. I like my friends. And I really like my family. Hope all's well at home; I missed hearing the Yale Daily News this week, but hope President will bring glad tidings of good joy with my post on Saturday. Be blessed and be a blessing.

Selalu,
Sister E.

*we'll just have to pretend I already told you about speaking in Sacrament on Sunday and teaching Sis Lili on Saturday and riding an empty military truck back into Malang as the sun set. And wasn't it just such a good story?

.::tour de desa::.

2010-08-10T06:49:00.011-06:00

Wednesday, the 4th of August 2010 and my turn to choose the P-Day play. So yesterday it was to the bike shop to get our cycles serviced and then early this morning we took to the hills, in search of sawah (rice fields) perfection. Which isn't all that too hard to find, Indonesia-speaking, but what we came home with today goes above and beyond the mark.

First, there was the ride out. Out past the city streets and into two hours of mountain climbing, passing houses and homes and markets and mosques until pretty soon there wasn't anything to pass anymore but wide, open spaces. I kept most of the Phil Liggett commentary to myself, but just couldn't quite keep it in once we hit L'Alpe d'Tumpang and Miller was playing the perfect draft to Martoyo's climb. Something maybe they didn't appreciate? It was rough and it was ruthless, but right past the summit we knew it had been worth it---this was it. This was sawah at its most spectacular.

So we took a sharp left and down into the dirt, balancing our two-wheels along the foot paths between the padi until we hit a sound patch of good ground and then left our bikes locked up against a bamboo bay for further exploring. The boys had already pulled out the kites (the favorite of any village kid, twenty cents at your local warung) and Marno and I set to trekking, picking our way out past the palms and chatting with the farmers along the way. And then, suddenly, what ho? Who's this? Mas Sumariono?

A former investigator I hadn't seen in the last three months, way back when Clancy and Miller had to stop visiting him since he wasn't progressing much and his house was far too far away to justify the weekly ride. But then here he was now, knee-deep in a newly-sown sawah and more than happy to see us. He remembered my name and asked after the Elders and when we told him they were just around the corner and a little bit to the East, he jumped right up to join us---and within the hour had become our de facto tour guide extraordinaire. Because isn't God funny like that sometimes?

With Sumariono at our side we saw a whole new side of sawah we could have never managed on our lonesome; we hiked ravines and crossed rivers and drank coconut milk fresh off the palm tree and chewed on sugar cane right out of the field. We discovered a natural mountain-water swimming pool resort long overgrown from years of disuse and abuse, hitch-hiked in the back of a cow truck, and sat pretty atop an age-old Hindu temple with panoramic views out to the mountains beyond. Spectacular much? We were on top of the world.

{martoyo:::miller:::marno}

And also two hours from home with only one hour to get back there. But here's the happy thing about going up a mountain: heading home is all downhill. And so head home we did, our flying shadows long across the open fields, Elder Martoyo in time-trial mode as he crouched low along the long runs and off into the sunset. E voila! One hour and fifteen minutes later we were back within city limits and with a quick shower out on the streets again. In the kind of rush that leaves you wondering wait---did that just happen?

Though I'm sure we'll have no doubt of the reality come tomorrow morning---all said we did a good fifty miles today, and I can already feel my upper thighs protesting. Ya, sudahlah. Would do it all over again.

love you lots---

E.

*We took this photo with the intent of showing off our rehydration techniques a la coconut milk, but missed the actual coconuts. Oh well. My hat's still cool. I stole it from Mas Sumariono after he asked me to hold it while he climbed the palm tree to retrieve said coconuts with his handy-dandy hand machete.

Malang:::28 July

2010-08-02T22:05:00.003-06:00

family:::

The quicklist: I talked to American-boy-physiotherapy-kid yesterday and came off the conqueror. Sister B's back, but in Bandung; President Groberg's Miracle No. 39139 in only one month's time at the head of this mission. Man, that guy's good. This Sunday I heard one of the better (maybe best) sermons of the year---at a Lutheran church. And turns out Pak Ferdi has a legit badminton court in his house. Where we (Marno, Me, Elders, Pak Ferdi) played match after match all this morning. Afraid I took far too much pleasure in making them sing the Star Spangled Banner after my every victory*.

So, from the top down:

Joseph was back in our Bhakti Luhur classroom but this time I had the high ground. Knowing I would be speaking in English before the fact made all the difference, and not only did we hit it off and teach an A+ of a lesson together but I took the chance to share the gospel, too. Ha, take that, last Tuesday! We actually ended up having a really good conversation in between the two-hour teaching block, and while I didn't have an English BoM to send him off with, I do keep English pass-alongs in my pack so here's to hoping www.mormon.org can get him going in the right direction. And maybe most bestly of all? He asked questions. Logical, direct questions. At first it really threw me off but once I got back into the rhythm of my country's conversational style it was exhilarating. Bless the boy. Only 17 and carrying on a conversation. Remarkable.

Sister B's return happened just this week, when President reminded her that she at least needed to meet with him once more since he's the only one who can officially release her, anyway---and I guess somewhere in between that morning's flight to Jakarta and the afternoon interview, he convinced her to return. We out here in East Java were all rejoicing---but then laughing to tears seeing only the night before we'd acted on strict orders from B. herself to relegate all her left-behind belongings to Bhakti Luhur. As in her entire missionary wardrobe, including shoes. Um . . . whoops. On the bright side, she did get reassigned to Bandung---Indonesia's Shopping Capital!---and what a better way to get back underway than a little retail rehab?

As for the sermon, that would be Sunday, 5:00 p.m. at GKI Bromo---the Lutheran congregation that Pak Ferdi attends. We're still not seeing eye-to-eye on the whole Plan of Salvation thing, so when he asked us to come and see where he's coming from after Sunday's Sacrament Meeting we called to clear it with Pres and then met Pak Ferdi later that night. The preacher/pastor/pendeta/I don't know what anyone's called anymore was a woman in her late forties, a slim, classy, intelligent-looking lady who also had a very grounded sense of reverence about her. We were greeted at the door by her colleagues, serenaded by a youth chorale group until the chapel had filled to capacity, and then were edified by an hour's worth of scripture and study straight out of Christ's Sermon on the Mount. Aside from just being really grateful I could understand everything, I was also very impressed with the content, delivery, and spirit I felt there.

Lately I've been thinking about redemption or, rather, the verb to redeem. I know dad does this a lot, too, so it's not anything particularly new but it does take on a different depth when one starts to make it their own. Mostly I've just been musing on definitions, the power of a prefix, the idea behind the etymology . . . honestly I don't think I could, at this point, communicate any clear sort of conclusion at all but I will say that I am grateful for a gospel so simply complex and deeply definite. I am grateful that there is a difference between being forgiven, and being redeemed, and grateful for the Book of Mormon which leads me line upon line to better understand and internalize that difference.

Also along this line of pondering I have come to realize that my thinking is very language-driven which I think is one of the reasons I still find it hard to express my innermost feelings in Indonesian. A lot of the connections I make are linked by the English definitions, synonyms, and idioms behind them---conditions that have little or entirely zero value when making the crossover to Indonesian. Like, above? What does the idea of redemption mean when you contrast it with such daily phrases like to redeem oneself (ie Sister E actually talking to Joseph this week), or to have at least one redeeming quality (as in thank goodness Relief Society at least taught out of the Ensign this week), or newspaper-praise of a redemptive story (B. being one). There's a lot to be said for a native tongue, and while Indonesia's got its plus-points, too (here, for redeem, we use the verb for "to pay ransom for the release of a captive") I'm afraid my heart's already taken.

Oh dear. At this point I'm just rambling, aren't I? Ya, sudahlah. To sum it all up: I can speak English! And I also really rather adore the language, too. Badminton's top-notch, props to B. for an honorable return, and hurrah for Israel! The church is true. I love you.

Next week from August,

Sister E.

*lest you think my pride past propriety, this actually only happened maybe at most three times, and certainly not after Pak Ferdi called his Manado friends over to play and, oh yeah, MALANG'S CITY BADMINTON CHAMPION. She was fierce. She was intense. She was ah-may-zing. When I grow up I want to be her.

:::a parting portrait:::

2010-08-02T11:54:00.003-06:00

At the airport for SisLily's transfer

email excerpts:::21 July

2010-07-25T23:05:00.002-06:00

dear family:::

Well, Sister Lily's gone---President had promised her a ticket out of here within the week, and on Saturday morning Silalahi called with her transfer to Jakarta. She left this morning, Happy Birthday to Her. For the record, I tried to make it a bit more exciting than a trip to the Big Durian, but she herself admitted her odd-year birthdays are never the best so it was all a little half-hearted anyway. Plus my poster could never accomplish the wit of dad's work. Even if I did manage to snag a pic of Justin Bieber (I love you Lily, Lily, Lily--oh! My Lily, Lily, Lily, oh!).

We went out to the airport together. An airport the size of 1912 Yale, painted bright blue amongst the rice fields. It was peaceful there, like England. We all talked for a long while, the noontime flight notoriously late as usual, and listened to the birds and the silence. You don't hear silence very often, not in a city on Java. It was pleasant. It was poignant. It somehow felt much more significant than it actually was. Then SisLily got on a plane and we got into a taxi.

Just the two of us.

I've never been anywhere just two sisters; up until this point in this mission this situation has not existed. That big white house all to ourselves. This big wide city our assignment.

We didn't have much time to ponder that; our taxi driver was chatty and knew where Salt Lake City was, which led to an amusing hour's conversation on everything from German study to rice harvests. He took us the long way home (since from the airport every taxi's fixed price so it doesn't matter anyway) and out through the more rural outskirts of Indonesia, my favorite Indonesia. I was rapid-fire questions the entire drive through---what is this area called? what is that school? why are they wearing that kind of uniform? what is that man carrying? what is that woman selling? are those water buffalo supposed to be in the middle of the road?---and then took careful note of four-way stops and dead-end turns so that when/if we all ever end up in Malang, I can take you there.

I think I had deep thoughts, but I'm running on empty here. A few scattered thoughts left over from the remains of my week:

In Sacrament on Sunday Oma Irawadi discovered I can sing alto and has therefore petitioned Pres Dwi to add us as a duet musical number next month. This is as scary as it sounds, and also hilarious. I'm going right along with it because why not? And also, anything for Oma.

Met with Mas Kun this afternoon and set an absolutely, positively sure date for his baptism, confirmed by Pres Dwi. August 8th. Just as soon as his sister goes back to Belgium---she's making earthquakes of epic proportions in her family, but props to Mas Kun. He's staying strong and standing up to them in testimony, keeping his commitments and moving forward no matter what. Today's appt was particularly joyful; nothing spectacularly extraordinary but the plain, solid gospel truths which are the Extraordinary within themselves, and that felt strong and right and good. I am very glad to be a part of all this; of Mas Kuncoro, of this mission, of this Church.

Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur they had a visiting high school senior working on their physiotherapy staff who wanted to come help out with English class, too. SisLily and I were rendered incapable. Not because he was even remotely handsome, or even just a boy of the American species, but that he was American and English speaking. I felt (and we later compared notes, which turned out to be exactly the same) like a mute, unable to communicate any sort of rational small talk because, apparently, that space of my brain has been completely commandeered by the Indonesia version of conversation. Everything I said (which I think is normal, I think) sounded hideously formal, pathetically pretend, like I was play-acting a melodrama in preschool. Or an alien parading as mankind in pre-programmed English. It's just so much easier to say things in Indonesian. Forget "What are you doing here in Malang?"---ask "Di Malang ngapain?" Don't bother with "Where do you go to school?"---try "Sekolah mana?" Oh, it was a terrifying foray into my future; if I am that awkward now, what's going to stop me from being that awkward then? I am never getting married. Much less making any friends. Am apologizing now for the day I move back into your basement and only come out in the midnight hours to avoid any sort of humiliation on the social scene.

Kidding. But really. It was pathetic.

Monday morning we helped an inactive member clear a garden space in her backyard. That sounded like a fun little morning project when SisLily first suggested it, but upon arrival and actually seeing said plot we were quickly reduced to despairing laughter in between fitful gasps of the Arabic "mustahil!" Which means impossible, out of the question---because that is what it was. My back is still sore from the manual labor, but on the plus side my arms are now a healthy tan and there's even some color on my legs. Also we got to spend the entire day with Sister Lili and her twins, which was wonderful.

I can't wait to see you in December. To see you here, and to see you there.

I miss you, but I love you more.

always. selalu.
E

:::a Suribaya synopsis:::

2010-07-25T22:50:00.003-06:00

Dear Family:::

The thing I love about time and travel is that all you do is board a bus or catch a train or flag down an angkot and then, in the space of only a few hours, you are There. Somewhere, anywhere, no longer Here but suddenly and entirely Elsewhere with a whole handful of new streets and scenes and stories to handle. What a wonderful world, you know? The adventure of simply moving a few miles and into something new, the never-ending hope of knowing that This does not always have to be the Only Thing You Know.

The thing I don't like about time and travel is that sometimes you end up in Surabaya.

Which is East Java's answer to Jakarta, and it's not pretty. The concrete alone could kill me; just miles and miles of crumbling office buildings and rusted apartment complexes, riverbank walls and city sidewalks. People, everywhere and poor. Barefoot and broken like the streets they sleep on. Closer to the equator, closer to the sun. The way you swear you can hear your shoes sizzling, melting in the pavement. Arriving at your usual Novotel only to find out that Mas A forgot to make the reservation from the office---and this place is full-up for the night. Realizing that not only do you have to go back out into the fray, but that you have to go back out searching for a place to sleep in a city you don't know beyond one LDS meetinghouse and the French patisserie just down the street. Remembering that you don't really like traffic at all. And that coarse and crude curbside men don't help much, either.

Things I like about Surabaya: Meeting Sister Bajodo's aunt, who fed us first-class tempe and kripik from her tree-lined home in the "Singapore of Surabaya" before treating us to an afternoon at the Indo-famous Surabaya Zoo which certainly won't be earning any PETA awards any time soon but was nothing short of magical. Buying peanuts by the kilo in the parking lot; being welcomed by monkeys swinging and screaming from the trees above us; stepping into an unregulated and untamed Tarzan's jungle just inside the chained entrance. Feeding peanuts to free-flight parrots, a strangely-billed bird that hopped hazardously like a throwback from the dinosaur age. Watching giant sea turtles slip silently across an open pond, learning how they breathe and what they eat and how they move by long minutes of personal observation. Tossing peanuts into black bears' open mouths. Seeing monkey babies copy-cat their monkey mothers, wee deer learning to frolic and leap, the occasional street cat sitting just as nobly beside the cage of her jungle cousins. It was an afternoon of drop-jaw delight and endless exclamation---I've never seen animals so active and alive in captivity. Even the guinea pigs were up and doing, trotting about their jungle enclosure to tease the iguanas in the next cage over. SisLily and I were very impressed. Finding a new hotel just a few streets over and even slightly cheaper. An eighth floor view from a mod-white room in the Santika. AC and hot water. Down pillows and a comforter. Taking a power nap as the sun set over the city. Arriving at the chapel to find all 8 Surabaya Elders in a semi-circle talk session around Sister Groberg, who is testing out the Indonesian she's learned in the six months since she got her call and then the last two weeks she's been official Mission Mum to us Indo-Jak kids. Talking to Sister Groberg myself, about families and friends and the mission and the country and the food and the people and the places and the history and the everything else ever in between because my word she's a talker, and I was grateful for it. Watching as the elders went in one-by-one to be interviewed by our new president. Seeing them come back smiling. Being called in to meet the man himself. Even though my stomach was turning like a tall ship under deep-sea storms.

President Groberg. I should probably write an ode here, if not the entirety of an Homeric epic. He's humble and soft-spoken, the very picture of pediatrician in his rimless glasses and concerned eyes. He's on top of not only this entire mission, but my own personal story. He came to our interview with a list of questions prepared for me. He opened that interview with a prayer. He prayed for me. He listened to me. He spoke to me. He makes you want to be a better missionary---and then provides the training to get you there. He teaches. He shares. He challenges you and then corrects you and then challenges you again.

PLD, too, was stellar. It was solid. It was real. Even though I was called to speak again (four times and counting) and then asked to represent the missionary part to our training role play (teaching the Atonement, no less). Even that was okay. But best of all was President's training itself: a full hour of direct advice and teaching and application, followed by a group activity and personal examples to strengthen the specifics he'd just added to our Mission's mission.

The quick notes from the rest of my week:

We taught Ferdi again last Thursday, he called me Sunday morning to ask if he should wear blue or black slacks, and then showed up at church looking like any other member all over the world. "No," Sister Lily corrected me, "He looked like a leader of the members." And it was true. He'd even gone out to buy a tie for the occasion. In other miracles, Sacrament Meeting was stellar, even after a panicked moment of wide-eyed terror shared across the pews from Rhondeau to Liljenquist when Oma Irawadi was announced as the next speaker. Even the Asas-Asas Injil lesson on Eternal Marriage went like gangbusters, and as Pak Ferdi stood with Pres Tatik in the branch library perusing pictures of temples from all the world he just kept saying how he was "very, very interested. I will be back next week and all the weeks after."

Mas K, however, won't be getting baptized this week. Which is sad but a little bit expected since his family's been hard so I guess we'll just keep hacking at it and hope we'll get there eventually. The Rifais are doing well and tonight we're off to Oma Irawadi's to teach her non-member son. I'm happy, too, though SisLily's time is limited and she'll be off to Bandung by next week at the earliest. It's about time, I guess (she's been here nine months---all the Elders kept on teasing her, asking when the baby's due, what she's going to name it, etc. Yeah. They're just hilaaarious) but it still feels sad so we're concentrating on just enjoying our last few rounds of badminton and reveling in the joy that has now been (almost exactly) half of our 18 months of mission together. Yes. It's a wonderful world, and a lucky one too.

The Church is true. I love you all and for always.

Sister E.

:::beginilah indonesiaku:::

2010-07-20T19:27:00.004-06:00

SisLily and I were never meant to be together on our year mark but who's complaining? Selamat!
Balloon-animal-crowns courtesy of Sister Bajodo who, when the snarky waiter said that sort of prize went only to (emphasis stressed) children, asked if she could speak with the manager, please, because her friends here are
One Years Old!! Selamat written out in sambal. Clever girl.

KelKu:::

I think the rainy season might be over. There have been some thunder warnings that come up on us all sneaky-like, but so far that's just a grumbly-rumbling from the mountaintops with no follow-through, so I'm going to call it here and now: we are officially into our Indonesian summer. And I like it.

The mornings, anyway. It starts out all lazy-slow and slightly chill, like overcast mornings on T-Street /San Clemente except that we don't wake up to USA Today and a box of donuts but that's okay because with all the doors wide open and the sun starting to rise it's quite pleasant on its own. By evening we've cooled down, too; the palm trees along the railroad lit in a turquoise sunset with the slightest hint of a coastal breeze. Last night, while waiting for an appointment at the Church, SisLily and I sat along the parking lot curb and it almost felt like home. But then there's the afternoon. When the sun is out and you are, too: walking, walking, walking terus and that at-least-okay hair you managed to pull up into a ponytail is suddenly not so fashionable and your bangs are curling around your cheekbones and your shirt is more soaked-through than haute-chic and goodness gracious can we get an es jeruk? For a long time now I've been thinking what's all this fuss about equator living? August in Utah's got more sun-muscle than I've ever felt! And then, this. Oh, this.

I guess that's what P-Days are for. Because on P-Days, you can go out into the foggy morning for your fun, walking pleasantly through the leafy Alun-Alun, pushing through Pasar Besar, fingering batik, sharing es coklat when noon's coming around the corner. And then, then you go home. You go home to your cool, quiet house and switch out your skirt for some shorts, flicking the fan onto top speed as you toss off your shoes and collapse next to SisLily on her mattress, and you laugh and laugh and laugh because you are wearing matching pajama shorts, and they are made of Indonesian school uniform fabric, and wouldn't Olivia just be mortified? Because maybe no one else in the whole wide world would really ever recognize the cleverness of us, and maybe, actually, they are ugly. Except they can't be, no. They are far too cool to be ugly. Keren banget. Also, why has it taken us an entire year of friendship to realize we should take a badminton class at BYU next semester? And we lie there and laugh there and let the hottest and highest part of the day pass us by because we can! And it is wonderful! And we are happy.

Or at least that's what we did today. Between all the funerals. Because when you're following the Javanese calendar, as I've mentioned, there's not just one celebration of a passing life. So today, early morning, we began at Sister Hamid's for an actual funeral. This afternoon, we were out at Sister Yuni's for a 100 day. Then just now, we came from Sister Hamid's yet again, since coincidentally she passed away while visiting friends in Solo so her first funeral also coincided with the three-day commemoration. On Sunday we'll go back for her seven-day. It is all very exhausting, but also fascinating, while at the same time being a lovely way to spend a few hours with my favorite of the Indonesian people---the members. Thank goodness for their goodness. Because sometimes just sitting cross-legged in the corner of a lime-green room on a bamboo mat with 8-year-old Bianca curled up into my lap, drawing pictures across my email notes is actually the definition of happiness.

Though my personal dictionary is being logged full of that word these days---it's been a good week. I'll send a few pictures in a minute to fill you in on it all (Happy One Year! Sparklers! Fourth of July! Oma Irawadi!), but to close up this email here's a quick scan of the week's lessons and investigators so that we all remember that also, actually and oh, yes: I am a missionary.

Kel. Rifai: Mum, dad, four girls from 21 to 10 years old. Live out in Sukon, where we help them string badminton rackets and then learn about the gospel. They are a happy, humble family and it has been a really good experience to learn with them; this week it was the Plan of Salvation.

Mas Kuncoro: Has a baptismal date! July 18th, if all goes to plan and his mum doesn't shut it all down last minute. Monday we taught eternal marriage with him and Sister Maria (aaaww!) plus had a long, lovely chat with his older sister who was in town visiting from Antwerp. Goodness, she was a laugh. And hey, if we're ever in Belgium next year, her door is open.

Pak Bobby: a former investigator returned! A hysterical blend of Belanda\Manado who likes to throw in some English for good measure, too. Plus, he really likes introducing us to all of his friends, like

Pak Ferdi: a middle-aged Lutheran from Manado currently earning his PhD at Brawijaya University here in Malang. We only just barely met him\taught him for the very first time yesterday (completely unplanned, too---Bobby was walking us out to the angkot and randomly ushered us into a neighbor-house with a "Ayo you mengajar prayer di house sini" and then suddenly there we were, eating salak at a courtyard table and telling the Joseph Smith story. Mission is such a ride. But anyway, Pak Ferdi wasnt (for some reason my apostrophe key has stopped working, so bear with me here on out) entirely receptive but nowhere near rejecting us, either, and we have a return appointment for tomorrow afternoon, the interim of which I will spend madly studying to be ready for whatever he throws at us next. I think I was able to hold my ground through the entire Trinity talk yesterday but wahduh this guy knows his Bible and Ive got to keep up. Hes by far the most educated of persons Ive ever taught here in Indonesia, and the difference is remarkable---and a real stretch for me as a missionary, since I havent been used to this sort of speed for almost a whole year now. But it will be good, and weve at least got one guarantee: this guy will read the Book of Mormon. Which is a far leap from any other investigator weve ever worked with.

So thats the line-up and this is the end; I have a few minutes more here but am going to write some individual emails in lieu of this weeks questions and epics from home, so family-wise this is over and out! I love you.

sayang,

Sister E.

one year older and wiser, too ::: 30 June email

2010-07-06T21:38:00.004-06:00

Keluargaku:::

SisLily adopted some Edisonian optimism this last week and yesterday declared "I haven't failed. I've found 10,000 people that weren't ready to accept the gospel."

To which I would like to add, here on the eve of our One Year Mark As A Missionary: hear, hear. Because lately everything seems to be falling through or apart or to pieces but do you know what? I'm in Indonesia. As the Swan Princess' Derrick would say (and Lily and I love to quote): What else is there?

Meanwhile, seriously, everything is on the fritz, if not officially kaput. I don't know if my wardrobe only came with a year's warranty or if it's part of the missionary magic, but I'm losing things left and right these days. Last week it was my red shoes; yesterday my silver shoes tore (beaten, bloody, but unbowed---I think I can get them to last til December), and my rain shoes have a hole worn right through the sole. Then my brown skirt decided to catch on an angkot door and rip across the knee, so that went in the pile along with my white shirt, blue shirt, and pink tee that couldn't quite make it to July. At this point I'm thinking nothing else could possibly die on me but oh, wait, why not my alarm clock? Because that little guy's had its fair share of work this last year, too, and decided to rebel like a wounded cow in a mountain ravine at three in the morning. And I couldn't stop it. Until I restarted the entire thing from the button on the back and then the screen went blank.

But that was easy enough to fix (I don't know why there are carts along the road that switch watch batteries, but there are and, like I said: Indonesia) and this morning I woke to its normal heart rate and jumped up for some badminton and a whole happy P-day ahead of me. Huzzah, indeed.

Things you can't fix:

Inactives not coming back to church because they married Muslims who are now radical and won't allow for any sort of Christianity.

Appointments falling through right at the doorstep because you arrive at the pre-appointed time to a house dark and door locked. "To Blitar," the neighbors say. "Back next week."

Investigators that accept the BoM as scripture, divinely inspired, Word of God, but then refuse to make the jump from the book is true to the Church is true.

Calendar days. Is it just me, or is June NEVER going to end?

Anyway.

That's the thing about ten new investigators. They come and go pretty quickly; but you can't deny that adrenaline when you first call the APs to report those kind of numbers. So there has been the good and the bad and then just mostly the mediocre, but I think also that's just like Life anyway so upward and onward, I say. Tally-ho.

I wish I had deeper things to say, here at the beginnings of July. But mostly, lately, I've just been thinking of the Things I Did This Time Last Year and marveling at all the Things That Have Happened Since Then. And that's a whole lot of thinking to sort through and make into something solid (much less, sane). What I will say is that this last year, while not being the Best, has certainly been the Most Important, and I feel a great gratitude for the things I have seen, heard, loved and known. I have always known this Church is true, that God lives, that His Gospel is happiness, that families are forever, that Christ is the Light, the Truth, the Way---but this last year has solidified these testimonies for me, built upon their foundation, fortified their futures. So while on a day-to-day basis it's still hard for me to say that Mission is any sort of miracle, I feel safe in the surety that I'll look back on it my whole life long as such.

We're headed out to Sukon for some soccer with the branch; love you all extremely much and incredibly more,

E

email(s):::excerpts

2010-06-29T18:33:00.005-06:00

:::usus:::
So I'm not allowed to eat sambal anymore. Or at least for a while. And actually not anything close to pedas or remotely spicy or just even anything with real taste at all. Because that chili sauce is messing with my internal organs, apparently, and that is decidedly Not Good. Not serious; but not good, either. The doctor put me on a strictly soft-things-bland-things diet for the rest of this week just to see how it goes, which is kind of killing me in itself. But it's better than the crazy-twisty-knife-stabbing stomach pains so hey. Lose-Win and the balance is biasa aja.

Though I did have a rather disturbing thought while sitting in the hospital yesterday afternoon: I know all the Indonesian words for bodily insides because of our everyday restaurant orders. Up to this point, I never really thought twice about the crunchy-fried chicken usus we like to snack on off the skewer, but when being referred to as my very own intestines I felt a little bit like throwing up all over again.

:::shoes:::
Against all most popular odds from our house on Ogan, my red flats were the first to go. They died quite unexpectedly and irreparably along Jalan Mahakam, suddenly too big and clunky to keep up with the pace. Maybe with a bit more stretching they'll be able to fit SisLily's feet, but as for me they're officially kaput. Yet every end is a new beginning and today SisLily helped me decide on a decidedly awesome pair of sandals at Pasar Besar to keep me walking these last six (!) months of mission. They're deep chocolate-slate colored, with a sling back but covered toe, with an overall Arabian feel to them while staying modern and mission-appropriate. I am so very much my mother when it comes to shopping shoes. That makes me happy.

eat::pray::love
In other news: I know I am the last person on earth qualified to call out someone else as being overly quixotic, but I have a bone to pick with Ms. Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame. Remember that bit about the three most common questions in Indonesia? Mau ke mana?Dari mana? (where did you come from), and Sudah menikah belum?

Except that it's false. Not the questions, not the frequency---that's all true. But if we're taking this culturally, you've got to see the other side of things. Like, the answers, maybe? Because if those are the three questions most often posed to people here, these are the answers:

Mau ke mana?---Ke situ.
Where are you going?--To there. (usually accompanied by vaguely waving your hand in some direction)

Dari mana?---Dari tadi.
Where did you come from?---From just then/a minute ago/before (tadi doesn't have a very clear definition in English)

And, as for the married question, that's not centered on familial values or particular sacredness of husband and wife; that's just Indonesians. Asking personal questions directly and without real need to know. In fact, if I were to make a list, the next question to follow the three above would be "Sudah mandi belum?"

Have you showered yet?

So, no, Elizabeth Gilbert. Just . . . no. Though SisLily and I are now thinking about making a career of destroying romantic cultural notions.

know:::know
Why do all other languages distinguish between the two knows---except for English? In Indo, it's tahu versus kenal. The first is fact. The second is a person. And doesn't that make sense to differentiate?

:::liahona:::
The Conference issue of the Liahona finally arrived so I had the chance to match up actual Apostolic counsel with what I think I heard in the Indonesian version live. SisLily and I like to read the articles out loud to each other and then discuss at length whatever sort of thoughts we had in the reading, and it is a beautiful little system that has led to some realizations, revelations, and resolutions I hope to be able to move from knowing to doing.

wait, what?!
Preview: we have ten new investigators.

Love you. Millions.
E

:::house guests:::

2010-06-27T08:52:00.001-06:00

I don't think I've managed to mention this the entire time I've lived here, but in every house every where there are lizards. Just . . . always. On the walls, in the cupboards, up the stairs, under the table, over the countertops. Lizards. And I was pondering this last week as I walked in the door to watch all our little gecko friends scurry away from our arrival, and realized I should probably have said something about this by now. So here I am, saying something.

Plus, Saturday afternoon I found a little guy stuck to some particularly sticky tape over our kitchen window and spent the next hour in Pet Vet mode carefully peeling his tissue-paper-thin skin away from the glue and setting him free. I even took a picture to celebrate. One soul saved. Mission: Success.

(Does D+C 18:15 count for this case?)

love you,
E

:::these things are not without a shadow:::

2010-06-14T13:03:00.003-06:00

Keluargalah:

You know when dad wakes us up? For school or Saturday or some early adventure and usually that is okay because you were going to have to get up anyway and also he likes to set it to music and his own brand of lyrics and who can say no to Al Green, even if it is six in the morning? At that point you are willing to accept the alarm, stretching out of slumber to the sultry sounds of Sade, giving yourself a few seconds' more rest with your eyes closed (because really, you will get up, you will), rearranging recent dreams in your head, trying to make sense of them in those few blurry-eyed minutes you have left before real realities. Except dad doesn't give you that. Because even though you're awake, you're not technically UP yet. So he takes it to the next level. He takes your comforter.

And suddenly it is terrible. You are laughing but also serious, and cold, and pathetically weak, and there is nothing you can do about it but grab flailingly at that last corner of the blanket, a desperately doomed last attempt. I have often thought it is one of the worst things in the world.

But then today I discovered something even worse.

I am on a train, a train I had to catch at two in the morning from a silent station in Solo, sitting drugged-like on the platform after a restless few hours of awaiting departure from the mission home down the street. I am on a train that rattles through the deep dark jungles of central Java, and I have been on that train for hours now with no real hope of sleeping at all because, oh yeah, I can't sleep sitting upright in Antarctic levels of air conditioning and full-on lighting. And coming off of 48 hours of straight travel, non-stop schedule and even less sleep, it was kind of miserable.

And then they took my blanket away.

At six am! With three hours still to go 'til Malang, the countryside outside my window still deep the dark greys of dawn. And I saw it coming, since I was still tortuously awake and watched with growing dread the approach of the steward and his laundry cart, but poor SisLily got POKED awake to pull away all warmth and comfort. Which brought us both to tears borne of that early-morning laughter that is a result of being both irrationally upset and slightly slap-happy. Because really? I mean, I realize quite obviously that I am not in America anymore, but (cue Phoebe) at my old school, customer service meant customer service. And sure, you can slap me upside the face right now because YES I get it, I am in Indonesia and most everyone else on this entire island wouldn't be riding an overnight train on executive class anyway but at that moment, at six am in an ice box on hour four of seven, it seemed quite the most poignant injustice of all.

Anyway. Now that I have told you one negative thing about that train ride, I'll counter it with three positives: First, being forced awake at that hour also allowed us to more fully appreciate the passing scenery, which was a wash of all tropical tableaux and misty daydreams and rather quite pleasant to observe. Second, there's something extremely satisfying about getting off said train in your "home"town and being able to dodge all the taxi/becak/ojek drivers at the station doors because you are tired and beat but at least you know exactly where you're going and how to get there, too. It's kind of a point of pride, waving down an angkot like a local. And finally, that train was a train from Solo to Malang, which means I'm just home from two days in the heart of Jawa and a particularly happy zone conference.

The missionary meetings this time consisted of two sessions and a wedding. Sister Sugiono, a missionary who was released just a month after I arrived here, planned her entire wedding around our Zone Conference just so all the missionaries could be there---and with East and Central Java combined, it was quite the turn-out. She's from HK and married a British man she met there, and her wedding was all-out Javanese and a lot of fun. There are four branches in Solo (they're our strongest members in Indo), so the place was packed, plus Marno's from Solo, so there was a bit of family reunion. We danced and sang and laughed all night and it was lovely. The RMs there are particularly close and I enjoyed all the brotherly camaraderie---even though it was usually at my own expense (the Rhondeau/rondo joke will never die).

It was also President's 70th and last Zone Conference, so we missionaries put in some extra party time and planned a surprise for him after the last training session. We made martabak manis and took pictures and just generally hung about the church having fun. I couldn't come up with anything too specific about the actual meetings ---which were good but not remarkable---but it was just such a boost to be back with all the Elders and Sisters again. They're a good bunch of people.

Other highlights:

Even though we were one short with Greenwell off the island, our little 52B reunion was especially happy. I loved being the four of us back together, and though Nixon has his own way showing his emotions I'm sure the feeling was mutual. It's funny the things you forget about a group's dynamic until you're all back together again, when suddenly it's all as familiar as the bus routes in Jakarta. I'd forgotten Nixon's knack for pulling off the most hideously beautiful ties or the way he shakes his head at Lily and me like a proud parent. Or how Meek has nothing of a Tennessee accent but seems instead to be himself the epitome of a southern drawl, all lazy-slow and almost effortlessly casual while still so thoughtful and direct. We had a good time of it all, sitting with our martabak manis to catch up on all this craziness and reminisce about who we were and how we were and why we were and now, who we are and how we are, and why we are . . . I've said it a million times, but the MTC really was some sort of miracle. We were (are) really lucky.

Then there was catching up with Atmi, which was a whole other brand of happiness and surprisingly sweet. I didn't realize how much I'd missed her and was grateful to have her a constant at my side these last few days.

Plus, there are few things happier than riding bikes. Except maybe riding bikes gonceng. Side-saddle in a skirt on the back of a bike through the streets of Suryakarta.

So that was Solo and Zone Conference, though I also had a really good week before all that, too. Thursday seemed particularly perfect; I don't think I did anything too out of the ordinary, I just managed to do the ordinary so right. Running that morning was a long, lovely release and then I followed it up with a good three hours of solid study and preparation that set the tone for the rest of our day. By the time I walked out the door I was feeling the usual fear set in but somewhere in between Jalan Ogan and the train tracks I just decided I didn't want to do that today. I kick-flicked that little Satan off my shoulder and said, no thank you, I'm going to be a missionary today. Because my God is a God of miracles.

And so began a rather miraculous day. Our lessons were compact and strong and brave, meeting with new investigators and former investigators and less-actives and non-actives and everyone else in between. Teaching English that night at the church I felt especially chatty to the point of being downright cheeky, which my junior high kids* thought was hilarious and so my otherwise rather dry lesson (I make them study grammar occasionally) went off rather well, to the point that they didn't want it to end and the Elders actually had to pull them out of the classroom to lock up the church. At the Purwitanto's afterwards I played dominoes on the floor with Bayu and Retno and Dimas and Pak Pur and I lost absolutely every time but couldn't have been happier. I felt so good coming home that night. So happy and strong and able. And I know that's because I chose to seek and have the Spirit with me that day. I decided to have faith in Yesus Kristus and walk forward in that faith like nothing else mattered---and so, in turn, everything took on new significance. I love the Lord. He truly is new life, and I felt invincible.

Until Friday. When I woke up feeling so biasa aja. Why? How? Am I really that weak? It hadn't been anything more hard than to decide my direction just the day before, but then suddenly it felt like the weight of all the world just to do it all over again.

But then I thought about Alma 37, the last few verses of which have recently become my rather most favorite scripture of all. I remembered my fathers in the wilderness, their Liahona that worked according to their faith that would point unto them a straight course to the promised land. And I remembered how sometimes they forgot to exercise that faith and so marvelous works ceased and they could not progress but tarried in the wilderness, afflicted and ahungered---when how easily that spindle could have been set spinning again if they would only look and live.

I love how Alma teaches this principle. It is something I have so often pondered here on the mission, thanks to letters from friends** and family and so many early mornings of personal revelation (both in relation to myriad Biblical accounts of wilderness and wandering but also originally out of a love for the Jaredite's voyage across the deep).Because as those things were temporal, of course they are spiritual, too. This world, by very fact of being The World, is a wilderness, and in that very definition it makes sense that we would wander. But the fact is that there is also a Promised Land, and we have our Liahona, and in our faith and feasting on the Words of Christ, we have a way prepared for us. And really, shouldn't that be easy? What on earth should ever be able to stop us?

For behold, it is as easy to give heed to the word of Christ, which will point to you a straight course to eternal bliss, as it was for our fathers to give heed to this compass, which would point unto them a straight course to the promised land.

And now I say, is there not a type in this thing? For just as surely as this director did bring our fathers, by following its course, to the promised land, shall the words of Christ, if we follow their course, carry us beyond this vale of sorrow into a far better land of promise.

O my son, do not let us be slothful because of the easiness of the way, for so was it with our fathers; for so was it prepared for them, that if they would look they might live, even so it is with us. The way is prepared, and if we will look we may live forever.

On Sunday, during Fast and Testimony, I stood at the pulpit to testify of these things and though I feel I myself am far from full faith I do feel the truth of that testimony pushing me forward and allowing me to experience new understanding that, in turn, pulls my faith out one more step across this lone and dreary world. I am weak, and I am mortal, but that's rather the point after all, isn't it? All this wandering is how we're made strong, how, eventually, we are made immortal---and what's more, eternal. I know that this is all possible in Christ, that we are made holy through his Atonement and our own willingness to apply it in our own lives. The scriptures above alone have proved this to me in this last week; just yesterday I felt particularly comforted in the context of Grandpa Ron and our family when reading that the words of Christ . . . carry us beyond this vale of sorrow into a far better land of promise. I am hoping to be able to hold true to this scriptural strength, to prove faithful in all of knowing and doing and being, and am also so very grateful to have a family like ours to be here along the way.

So, maybe in my sign-off for this week's salutations I will again lean on Alma's words to express my own emotions for now, my family, see that ye take care of these sacred things, yea, see that ye look to God and live. I know it's the Way. I know it's the Life. I know it's the light that's made us the family we are and forever will be.

Love you across this wilderness and all that great deep,

E.

*total tangent: there are these two little muslim sisters in my class that always wear matching jilbobs and it just kills me in such the happiest way. Heart them.

**Terima kasih khusus untuk [special thank you] Kara Carlston, Bentley Snow, and Scott Jackson. They've been good people to have along on this journey through the wilderness.

:::aremania and other such miscellany:::

2010-06-07T16:53:00.005-06:00

Family:::

Monday night Mas Kuncoro greeted us at the door with his copy of the Kitab Mormon in hand. And handed it back to us. "Here," he said, no trace of his usual smile, " I don't want this anymore. I don't believe it." My heart skipped a beat and back again and also maybe my soul stopped but thank heavens Mas Kun couldn't keep a straight face for long and before I could finish whatever sputtered sentence I had attempted to begin, he had bust up laughing.

And, okay, I admit it. It was a pretty good joke. Turns out he'd just finished Ether 6 and found that there wasn't an Ether 7, so he was looking for a swap, not full surrender. Printing errors like that happen a lot here (everything Church-related is required by law to be printed IN Indonesia, which takes the usually unparralled LDS level of quality down a notch. Or maybe more like a leap. Wait, make that a mayday-worthy nosedive. Oh, Indonesiaku.) so that was something we could easily solve with the extra KMs we keep in our proselyting bags, so Wahlah. Emergency avoided and our lesson on Baptism and Ordination continued on without a hitch, even ending on time and exactly at 45 minutes. Which could be a continuation of last week's Miracle theme.

And was a much better record than all the hours previous to that appointment, seeing as it took us TWO HOURS to get out to Mas Kun's, opposed to the usual 20 minutes. Why, you ask? Thank you. I've been dying to tell you.

Because while you're all wrapped up in South Africa's world cup, Malang's got a trophy of her own: the all-Indonesia league's official champion. Maybe you've heard of it? Okay, I know. Indonesia's pretty hopeless when it comes to any international contest---but they make up for that in national spirit, especially when it gets down to the city level. I mean, I thought the Arema craze was bad enough within the first week I arrived, but that was nothing to the uproar we've got these past few days. They are the Champions and goodnessgracious, they're making the most of it. Arema's been the sure champion since last Wednesday (they already had top points in the league so the tournament's final game on Sunday afternoon was just a formality) and so for exactly a week now the entire city's been bumper-to-bumper motorbikes, angkots, cars, and convoys basically just driving about in circles for celebration. Everyone is in blue and white, carrying flags or scarves or banners or life-sized stuffed animal tigers and everywhere you go they are singing Singo Edan or pumping their fists to Aremania or honking their horns til they're hoarse to the beat of all soccer stadiums' triumph: baa-ba-da-baa-da-da!

The revelry has no time restraints, no age restrictions, no liability limits. Newborns ride squish-saddle on their parents' motorcycles, little ears kept warm in Arema hats over their Arema scarves over their Arema t-shirts. Teenagers takeover angkots and ride from the roofs, trailing Indonesia's red-and-white behind them and Arema's blue in front. Little old Javanese men still in their sarungs and pece join the parades, hanging out of car windows, standing to wave from truck beds, marching along the curb to answer the traffic's rallying cry. I would send you a picture, but I only just took them along our walk to the warnet and haven't had time to resize them---and that really wouldn't do it justice, anyway. This is something you have to experience, and annoying as it is (we can't go anywhere today, because the team just came back to Malang with the trophy and all angkots have shut down their usual service to join in the welcoming party), I am glad I am here to experience it. As crazy as this last transfer was, I sure did get to Malang at the right time. Dolphin show, Malang Tempo Doeloe, Arema's rise to the top. Yeah. It's been a good two months.

Tangent: Malang's brand of slang is to rearrange everything or say it all backwards. I don't like it. I can't really do it. And I also don't think it's all that creative and slightly pointless, but for example: Malang becomes Ngalam and Singo Edan, the lion mascot for the Arema soccer team, is Ongis Nade. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.

Besides Mas Kuncoro, the work is slow but that's nothing new. Our contacts seem all enthusiastic until we call back and then suddenly they don't remember who we are or why they ever talked to us in the first place, which is mostly frustrating but also sometimes funny. Last week we dropped by a contact's house and were so obviously lied to that Marno and I have been trying to recreate the moment for days and still haven't been able to do it justice. Basically we could see the girl in the front room but she sent her friend out to fake stupid and in the course of that one conversation she said that she a) didn't know anyone by the name of Ibu Zamarsin, b) Ibu Zamarsin was her mother-in-law, and c) she was just a guest at the house and didn't know anything. We're thinking of telling SisLily to go back with Sister Bajodo and let them have a go at it.

On Friday we had our fortunes told by a Chinese lady in our branch. She told me I'd be married by this time next year so I'm not setting much store by it (and you shouldn't either! My word. Yeah right.), but in Elder Martoyo's life she confirmed that he had already met his future wife, that she was from his home branch in Tanggerang, and that her name began with "S." Since then Martoyo has been all sorts of breakdowns. One day it's Siska. But then what if it's Sofia? Or there's always Sari!! Such a dilemma.

Speaking of Martoyo, he made nasi goreng for us this morning and brought it over to Jalan Ogan for lunch. Great guy.

Okay, last thought before I go: Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur I taught the nuns "I Am A Child of God" and we basically sang it maybe a hundred times or more for the space of an entire hour. They loved it.

Oh, the Church is happiness. It is joy, it is true. Keep the faith! I love you.

Sister E.

:::miracles:::

2010-05-31T21:37:00.007-06:00

Dear Family.

To begin, miracles.

Number one, all three hours of church this past Sunday were doctrinally sound. No odd magic-meets-spirit moments in Sacrament Meeting, no awkward comments in Asas-Asas Injil, no heated argument over deeply false doctrine in Relief Society. Either stars aligned among the celestial cosmos with Jupiter rising along Mercury's orbit, or God just gave us a good day for the sake of our two investigators who came to Church. In any case, this is the kind of thing that really makes a journal entry these days.

Miracle the Second: The entire P__ family was ready and waiting for us Monday night at exactly 6:00. On time. All of them. This isn't all too incredible to the outside eye, but for us two missionaries it was manna in our wilderness. The Ps have been inactive for absolutely aaaaagggeeessss and while we continue to visit them once a week I have seen no single slightest baby-step of progress the entire two months I've been here---to the point where, I'm sorry to admit, I downright dreaded the occasion that took us anywhere near Jalan D. The mum is really unresponsive, almost hostile, and the dad takes very lightly the things of God and likes especially to smoke clove-scented cigarettes right in our faces while asking us about the Word of Wisdom (he's been a member since he was a kid, so he's just playing with us). When we teach, maybe one or two of the five children sit into listen, but the number varies weekly and mostly we're left only with Dimas, their 15 yr old and oldest son---the only one who somewhat regularly still comes to church (which says a lot about the boy; we are grateful for him). Then last week in Weekly Planning Marno and I decided that this was obviously what we needed to do most since it was the hardest thing for the both of us, and planned out a Family Home Evening from opening prayer to dessert and stopped by their place Saturday night to make the appointment for Monday. They didn't seem any too thrilled about the prospect.

But then, Monday. We'd just come from Mas Kuncoro's and were already practicing deep breaths for what came next---and yet needn't have worried. From the open doorway we could see them waiting; Pak Pur was playing the bongo drums to put a beat on "I Am A Child of God" while 2 yr old Bayu provided the dance moves (akin to Nell+Daniel's running-in-circles choreography of Yale lore). Retno was leading the choreography, adding steps she'd learned in her kindergarten's Javanese dance class, and Dimas was in the corner clapping along while Arya leaned into his mum's side, smiling. Their house is painted yellow and green and blue and in that one little light bulb above the concrete floor everything was illuminated, all warmth and goodness and home.

Which put quite a really good spin on our whole lesson, a lesson that suddenly had willing listeners and learners, which in turn infused the teachers with the greater joy to Carry On. It really is a lovely little relationship, when it all works out. It was a good lesson and a good night and a good mission memory and, as we walked away with even the slightest skip to our step, Marno put words to my thoughts. "Sister. It was a miracle," she breathed.

-------------

Saturday afternoon we had a RS activity at the church where we made Japanese Ekado, which I love. It was really fun to be with all the sisters, especially when they found out that they could only eat the results of their labors if they used chopsticks. Those with Chinese ancestors took far too much pleasure in their superiority that last hour . . .

Sunday night President Iwan invited all missionaries over for dinner, which meant an Emergency Fast during the hours we had left between invite and actual dinner appointment. The few savvy second-timers among us took to the challenge with ease, faking third and fourth helpings with some award-worthy acting skills and remembering that no matter how divine that banana juice is, you drink it slow and steady to save you from two or six or twenty-four other glasses of it. So yeah, SisLily, Elder Miller and I were still far too full than normal but good to go---and Sister Bayodo could easily win any hotdog-eating competition East of the Mississippi, so food's never a problem for her. Marno and Martoyo, however? Not so lucky. At one point Martoyo was lying spread-eagle on the patio steps outside their front door, moaning that he was ready to die. And yeah, that sounds pathetic, but you haven't eaten dinner there either. It really is a rite of passage. Quality is above-and-beyond delicious (even and especially the sawa snails), but the quantity could kill you.

Twelve more days til Zone Conference!

That's not exciting for anyone else, is it? Oh. Well.

SisLily and I played badminton this morning and kind of rocked at it. I have a new headband from a chicken nugget package; it's black and says SCOTLAND and I think I owe all new talent to that.

On Monday night President Iwan came by on his motorbike with two bags of bananas, a box of orange jelly pudding, and banana cake still hot from the oven. We were still trying to recover from the night before.

And. . . The End. Of the rain and this email. Out into the night air for a (cross-your-fingers) new investigator appointment. I love you. Always.

E

::addendum to previous post::

2010-05-26T10:22:00.003-06:00

Susan/mum: Terima kasih for the photos and email last week. Love every bit you send our way.

E: Oh, good. SisLily and I had a kind of nervous what-if breakdown after we left the warnet last week having written the word "hitch-hike" in our respective emails to family. I mean, we would never ever ever do that in America. (hitch-hike, not just write the word hitch-hike) But this is Indonesia! And that's just normal! And the most safest thing ever! But we worried that we hadn't quite communicated that feeling in our write-up and so spent the rest of that night wondering what worry we'd caused.

:::theories of relativity:::

2010-05-24T22:23:00.006-06:00

dear family:::

We've just come back into Malang after a morning at East Java's Taman Safari (sister to the one I visited in Bogor last . . . November? Really? My word.), which I would go on and on and on and on about because there were white Siberian tigers and racing cheetahs and blonde zebras and TRAINED DOMESTIC CATS in the Baby Zoo show but . . . well. Maybe I've already reached my limit on the whole Animal Kingdom thing. To the point where I was singing Adam-Ondi-Ahman; the earth was once a garden place, with all her glories common . . . Suffice it to say, we are excited for the Millennial days of Lamb and Lion.

What I will tell you about is the Getting There, which was not just half the fun but most of it.

It began normally enough; the usual angkot with a switch to the bus about twenty minutes in. The bus then dropped us off along the main road just outside the side lane to Taman Safari, which was lined with ojek. The motorcycle drivers that take on pillion passengers for sepuluh ribu. The motorcycles that, as missionaries, we are not allowed to ride. And there was no other way up the mountain.

So, like any good missionaries, we decided to walk? What's two kilo, anyway? Because that's what the bus driver told us as we got off: two kilometers. Which we believed until we got to the sign that said 5 kilometers, and even that was okay. Until residents along the way (who were racing out to their front porches to watch those crazy bule, btw) insisted it was more like 7. Or 8. Or 10. And that was also uphill.

We were maybe one kilo in when the pick-up stopped, and it didn't take us half a second to take them up on the offer. Long story short: we hitch-hiked our way to the Safari entrance, spent a happy few hours among the animals, and then hitched our way home, too. Pick-up, '76 Mercedes, bus, angkot, angkot. The only thing better than riding in such style was to watch other people's reaction to us riding in such style. The ticket-takers at the gate? Priceless. So I'd like to say here and now, Thank you Indonesia. For your beautiful people. Your beautiful country. This beautiful day. SisLily: "I am exhausted from happiness."

Photos to follow [make that above]. In the meantime, More News:

A sister in our branch passed away this week; she was not sick but old and so her death was not unexpected, but still sad. We all attended the funeral last Thursday, which was an interesting cultural experience for me that I haven't quite been able to process onto paper. It was very dust-to-dust . . . almost . . . primitive, and I'm afraid I didn't like it----which then led to some serious E Evaluation and thinking on the effects of ethnocentrism (word?) and what it means to be right or wrong in the cultural sense of things and am I just crazy? But maybe that is a (personal) essay for another time.

One really interesting thing about funerals in the Javanese tradition is that they last for years----the actual ceremony and burial is performed within 24 hours of their death, and then seven days later a sort of commemorative gathering is held, and then 40 days later is yet another remembrance event, followed by the hundred day mark, then the year's passing, and finally a thousand days' benediction. On our way to the Seven Day gathering Marno explained to me that they believe within the first 40 days the deceased's spirit is still near (if not in) the house, close to family and friends to observe the comings and goings and commit to memory their earthly sphere. As every celebratory milemark passes, however, that spirit is traveling further and further from this Life and into the Next----to a place that Marno couldn't quite clarify, but I suppose must be the Javanese version of Heaven. So it was all quite fascinating. And the food, prepared by member-chef-extraordinaire Sister Eni, was fantastic. Oh, nasi goreng. Yes, please.

Elder Greenwell was transferred to Medan, the first of our 52B to leave this island. And yeah, we knew it would happen---and, if anyone, that it would be him---but we were strangely upset by the development. (Selfishly; this means we won't see him next Zone Conference, and I'm beginning to think I won't see him the rest of my mission. It's funny. We're family.) In another round of somewhat sad news, I was struck with a really stupendously-sniffly case of some sort of sinus infection. I was okay for a minute, but then it put me in bed for a few days with the whole heavy/puffy/throbbing head thing. I learned two things during this time of confinement:

The first: being sick is not fun. I think we all know this, but you'd have to agree that sometimes, just sometimes maybe being sick is kind of fun. You get to rest. Stop a minute. Breathe (at least through one nostril, or your mouth). And yes, that is nice. But not for three days. And not in Indonesia. On your mission. When you are sick on your mission in Indonesia for three days there are no books to read or movies to watch or family members to pester into pointless conversations. There are scriptures (which are good, but a bit much 24/7), and there are chicken nugget sandwiches, and there is SisLily. But it is not the same. Walking outside yesterday was quite literally new life and I fell in love all over again with this place. The women driving motorcycles in stilettos! The banana market set up on cardboard boxes before you reach the station! The babies snug all rag-doll-style from their mothers' batik wraps, asleep amidst the chaos.

The next thing I learned, or rather thought about, was a line from an article sent to me in the happiest of red envelopes from Martha. This article about the latest trends in Doggie Mansions was mostly just gobsmacked sort of hilarity (" . . . a vineyard owner on the East Coast hired an artisan to hand-paint each brick of her doggy's digs to match those on her own mansion . . . ") and would have stayed that way if it weren't for the very last sentence, attributed to another mutt's mom commenting on how she felt about outside criticism for such flagrant excess (we'll just skip over the glaring juxtaposition given current economic situations, shall we?). I don't have the exact article with me, but the sentence went something like this:

"Of course there will be criticism. But everyone has their own standards. There is no right and wrong."

Pause. Rewind. Excuse me?

"There is no right and wrong." Since when did the World adopt this motto and why did I only ever seem to see it so starkly since becoming a missionary? I have come to thinking that I was actually quite naive all of only eleven months ago. I mean, I didn't think so (but is that part of the innocence?); I read, I watch, I listen. The Times, BBC, NPR. So yeah, maybe I could keep up with current events and throw in a few cents when it came to people and places and things. But psychologically? I was not prepared for what the World really is.

Because that quote kind of encapsulates just about everything I've had to learn this last little while on my mission. To a lot of people, there is no clear-cut right-and-wrong. There is no strictly good or explicitly bad. There is no black, there is no white, and who is God, anyway? seems to be a lot of what I've been hearing---or more correctly, seeing. Because you can, you can see it. In the consequences. In the blessings. And, actually, is it not completely obvious? The World is so flagrantly deceptive, so blatantly . . . base.

Moral Relativism scares me.

A thought that will have to be completed next week, as time is up. Sorry to jump off at such a critical moment---but maybe you already have all this figured out, anyway, in which case you can easily fill in the blanks. I love you immensely and miss you especially---there are no shades of grey here: you are Good. Great. The most best and brightest thing in my life. Sampai nanti, kan?

xoxo,

E.

email excerpt ::: 5 May

2010-05-18T20:08:00.005-06:00

Due to circumstances beyond our control and outside of any sort of reason, Sister Liljenquist and I got to be companions for a full THREE DAYS last week. Was it the best three days of our mission so far? Were we happy to all ends of joy?

We walked through a bird market. We met a whole mosque full of Muslim girls and took photos together along the wall. We talked to people on angkots and in alleyways and at malls and in parks. We found a public library. We read a chapter of Lemony Snicket in said library. In Indonesian. And gave out English class cards. We taught said English class and then went home to make sandwiches. Sandwiches. I hadn't had a sandwich in eight months. We made ours with chicken nuggets, which I fried in a wok. So it wasn't the same, but it was. Because we made sandwiches. And sometimes life doesn't get much better than a really good sandwich.

We were cat whisperers. We were entrepreneurs. We were best friends and awesome companions. We were happy and strong and also, really great missionaries. We taught with rhythm and reason and With The Spirit. We taught lessons we'll remember for the rest of our lives. The lessons that when people ask, "So how was your mission?" we can say "S'wonderful, s'marvelous." You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. It (we) really was (were) that good. I extended a baptismal commitment and Mas Kuncoro said "Mau." And maybe this is going to sound silly, but I learned a great lesson in the process---the importance of marrying someone you don't just love, you don't just get along with, but a person with the same vision, the same goals, the same desire to work to get to that dream. Because that's all sorts of Transformation when applied to mission, and that's why SisLily and I felt the flight of angels this weekend.

So it was a good week. Better than the last, which did not begin well nor end well but at least is over. And maybe this is not the place to admit this right now, but EFY songs are kind of okay. Because sometimes He lets it rain, He lets the fierce winds blow/sometimes it takes a storm to lead a heart where it can grow . . .

I will now attempt to answer the emails I received this week. Attempt being the key word here, as I am not certain the Grandpa Ron news has fully been made real to me in this moment. [Steve's dad was just diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.] Not Grandpa Ron, right? Not my Grandpa Ron. He's invincible, right? He's a magician, for goodness' sake. Can't he just stuff this black handkerchief back down into his clenched fist and make it all go away?

And yet, at the same time . . . a quiet calm. A steadfast faith. A perfect brightness of hope. I felt, as I read the news from home, that fervent testimony I shared only yesterday at Mas Kuncoro's, when I bore witness of the Gift of the Holy Ghost. I talked about the peace that passeth human understanding, the indescribable light that membership in this Church affords us with such a Companion. I tried to communicate the strength I'd received just that morning while reading the scriptures, the revelation I receive in prayer. Though I did not share from Moses, I remembered verse 61 of chapter 6:

Therefore it is given to abide in you; the record of heaven; the Comforter, the peaceable things of immortal glory; the truth of all things; that which quickeneth all things, which maketh alive all things; that which knoweth all things, and hath all power according to wisdom, mercy, truth, justice, and judgment.

I will not pretend to be able to say it any better than the actual Word, but I will add this: I believe in God, I believe that He is. And in His great goodness He has given us this, the plan of salvation unto all men. In it and through the Holy Ghost we are comforted, we are made calm by the peaceable things of immortal glory, assured in this mortality by the truth of all things.

Everything will be okay. Things work out. They always do.

I love you. Til Monday. Well, I love you for forever, but will talk to you again on Monday [Mother's Day phone call. 'Twas lovely.] Which you probably already understood to be my meaning, but I thought I'd clarify. Okay. Love you. Always. Selalu dan selamalamanya.

kia kaha.

Sister E.

.::nak-nik::.

2010-05-07T14:43:00.001-06:00

For a long time I've been really annoyed by the accessories section in every grocery store here that's headed with the sign "Nak-Nik." Me, being all ethnocentric: "Hello! It's knick-knack! How hard would that be to switch that around?!" Until I walked into a store that had the entire word written out: "Pernak-Pernik." Oh. Okay. I guess they have their own word for accessories. Which I then looked up in my handy-dandy little pink electronic dictionary with the punk bunny on the front and guess what the actual definition was? "Needless complications." Amin-lah! Indonesian makes me happy.

sing the song of redeeming love.

2010-04-26T22:02:00.003-06:00

KelKu:::

Every week I keep a list of things to write you---sights seen, lessons learned, moments remembered, etc---and sometimes they all fall nicely into a rhythm and a rhyme, an email I can write out like a waterfall, one paragraph running over and into the next.

This is not one of those emails. As SisLily just said, "What do you write when you've met a man who's met God in a sawa (rice field)?*" And that was kind of just only the beginning of our week. Things get crazier. So here's what I have, in no particular order or point or conclusion:

If I could catalog my sense of humor against all of Indonesia's on a Venn Diagram, the circles would overlap at Mr. Bean. He is universal and I am grateful for something to legitimately laugh at together.

The other night we were walking home and passed a long fence with the sign "Dilarang Dibuang Kucing Di Sekitar Sini." Which is, I guess: Forbidden to throw away cats within this area. The throw away verb is the same one they use for throwing out trash. I don't know. I just laughed for a really long time.

Indonesians very rarely call each other by any legitimate name, ie the one that would be written out across their birth certificates. It's all nicknames, but not even nicknames . . . like, just "hey, you!" but more specific according to each person and your relationship with them. And I really like it; it feels more intimate, more I know you and like you and feel a connection with you. There's no Mr. or Mrs.---you call all your elders Bu (short for Ibu, or mother) and Pak (short for Bapak, or father), your peers Mbak (for a girl) and Mas (for a boy). With your siblings you say Kak for the older ones (short for Kakak) and Dik for the younger (short for Adik). With close friends you say Nyong, or Neng. If you are a Sister, the Elders call you Ter. If you are an Elder, I will call you Der.

"Gi mana kabarnya, Der?"

"Eh, nyong! Pinjam kamera, kan?"

"Pagi, Bu."

And I think I love it most when a wife calls her husband Mas, or a husband calls his wife Say. The Mas just seems so Young Love, and the Say, short for "Sayang", or "Love" itself (Indonesians have three words for love---sayang is the you're-my-everything sort). I like being called Ter and I enjoy yelling for Simanjuntak with a Nyong or a Neng and I love when siblings talk about each other as Kak and Dik.

Another language thing I love is the verb menitip: to entrust something to someone for a short period of time. Everyone here just cuts it down to the root and uses it for just about everything. This morning Simanjuntak set her scissors down on my desk while she went to look for a gluestick. "Titip, ya?" When I have a letter to get to Sister Atmi through the office, I hand it over to the Elders. "Titip, ya?" But my thoroughly most favorite best use of the word is when I'm about to pray and someone cheekily says "Titip, ya?" as in, send my prayer in along with yours, okay? It's an old and tired bit, but it gets me every time.

Sometimes I have really remarkable days, days simply saturated with all good things both soul and body. I wish these days happened more often, but I am mortal and I am weak and I fall down----stories for another time. Today I just want to say that sometimes I have really remarkable days, and this last Monday was one of them. Not for any particular reason but all reasons; for staying true to my Language Fast and not speaking a single sentence of English until 6 pm, for loving Ibu Wiwi and her pin-up curls and her house with the stuffed sea turtle on the wall. For teaching the Plan of Happiness to Mas Kuncoro as the sun set and the call to prayer rang out over my testimony of the Resurrection. For walking the city streets in the evening and getting lost in a maze of mosques and alley ways until we reached the Kaswat's house. For ginger water and learning to pray with their family. Every moment just felt so full, so alive---it seemed as if even the rice padi were greener, the palms were taller, the sky was wider, the sun more golden; it seemed as if everything were more real than reality had ever been before. And as we were walking, past families that seemed so much more in love, past streets that seemed so much more open and promising, I was remembering C.S. Lewis and how in the Great Divorce Heaven is reality itself, that all that is fully real is Heavenly, that
" . . .at the end of all things, when the sun rises here and twilight turns to blackness down there, the Blessed will say 'We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven,' and the Lost, 'We were always in Hell.' And both will speak truly."

That's what that night felt like, and a thousand other nights beside. The world felt like Heaven, and I felt impressed that it was because that day I had loved "according to the love of God which was in me, with all my heart." And then I pondered those words of Mormon, and remembered the words of Alma and how our "souls [are] illuminated by the light of the everlasting word" and I thought how great the grace of God.

It was still in this sphere of speculation that I arrived at Bhakti Lehur the next day at noon; we had come early to take a tour of the campus, as had been decided the week before at our lunch with Cecilia. It was a tour too long to recount here, with feelings and understandings that might never be translated into word, but what connected all to my Monday musings was this:

With fifteen minutes left before our English class started, we stopped in at the Bhakti Lehur School for the Blind, where we met six girls at their kitchen table and sat with them a minute while they ate. While talking, one of the Sisters mentioned that two of the girls sing, and we asked them to sing for us. Sister Valentin came back around the corner with a guitar, and these two girls straightened up in their chairs and leaned into each other and began to sing and . . . suddenly the world changed. Physically, significantly; lifted to a higher plane. It was one of the most Spirit-filled moments of my mission, the kind that leave you open and raw and sensitive For the Beauty of the Earth and Standing All Amazed. They had beautiful voices. They played the guitar with expert fingers attuned to not just the notes but the feeling of a song. But what was most extraordinary of all were the lyrics to the first song they sang, a song they had written together. There was no title, only the Pacific lilt of the melody and lyrics that told their story. They had written about being blind, about knowing nothing beyond the darkness---knowing nothing until they knew Jesus, for through Jesus they can see. Through God's love they are given vision, a True Reality. A well-lit way. And again, I turned to Alma. Have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love? Because I felt like I'd just heard it.

In short, I have felt a lot of things that I'm afraid I don't ever communicate very well. Life is happy and I am happy. I love you. The Church is True. So is the Plan of Happiness. So is Heaven. It is reality itself.

xoxo,
E

*Maybe one day she will tell you this story. But maybe not. She's still kind of traumatized by the experience.

Sisters of St. Alma

2010-04-20T15:11:00.006-06:00

Some students, a sister of St. Alma's, and the requisite Asian peace sign.

In Malang there is one permanent mission couple, an Elder and Sister Halverson that have been serving here for the last eighteen months. While technically proselyting missionaries, they don't know the language, so a lot of their service has been in befriending neighbours or organizing branch projects, camps, and activites---plus teaching five English classes a week at Bhakti Luhur, a school/orphanage/rehabilitation center of sorts run by the Catholic Sisters of St. Alma's here in Malang. At Bhakti Luhur they take in all the discarded, the unwanted, the unclaimed; a haven for disabled children from birth to adulthood. The Halversons have worked miracles within the foundation and yesterday let us in on a little bit of the magic---as the Halversons head home next week, they held one final farewell bash at their club house pool for all their students, plus the nuns. End result? An all-out afternoon of the unexpected, exhilarating, and eternal.

photo above right: President Iwan (District Pres, Jawa Timor [East Java])
with Anita, who has no hands and only one functioning leg.
He taught her to swim that day.

:::Email Excerpt:::
Have I told you yet that, once a week on Tuesday afternoons, we teach English to the nuns of St. Alma at Bhakti Lehur? I love it, from simply being able to teach English right down to the very idea of it---we Sisters in our name tags sitting across from the Sisters in their wimples. And they themselves are a sight to behold, the lives they live and the how they live it. Yesterday Sisters Cecilia and Valentine invited us over for lunch after the lesson, a little plate of nasi kuning and ayam goreng on a simple table in a sparse room of their dormitory. I am glad for them; for their company, their goodness, their sacrifice. Plus, they pray! They read---and study---the scriptures! They center their lives on Christ. It is humbling and uplifting and hopeful to see.

:::p.day dolphin show:::

2010-04-13T13:08:00.010-06:00

Most might think it coincidence that SisLily and I are serving together at nine months in. And they'd say it's only happenstance that on that very mile-mark a traveling dolphin show set up camp (Quite literally, I might add. Made my gypsy-heart proud.) amid overgrown weeds in the empty field not five minutes' walk from our front door. But karma? Cosmic coalition? I just think God really is this great.

Dolphins. And a little look at what the venue was really like. I've mentioned I love Indonesia, right?

The many benefits of being a bule. Instant access.

Malang . 7 April . email excerpts

2010-04-13T09:15:00.013-06:00

Subject: the red plague rid you, for learning me your language. *

*why is that the only line from The Tempest that I remember?

Dear Family:::

I wrote you letters and so suddenly I have nothing to say. So I am writing what comes to mind at the moment, which is a short language lesson.

I like a lot of Indonesian response-phrases, the quick one-liners you can throw out in response to any situation and cover all ground. Like masak si? Or Ahduhahduhahduuuuuuh! And Ya, sudah. But maybe my favorite one of all is the million-uses, say-it-like-you-mean-it Kurang ajar.

It doesn't have any direct kind of translation into English (and really, I'm starting to wonder, what Indonesian does?) but is built on the word kurang, meaning "less, deficient, lacking" and the root word from the verb diajar, which is "to be taught." Put together, you get something along the feeling of "you (or we, or they, etc) weren't taught enough"----which can be applied to anything from table manners to a practical joke. Sumarno used it when she opened her BR to find Meek had switched her head to a giraffe's body. Simanjuntak, flinging herself across her bed in dramatic despair last week, used the phrase like a curse when we explained to her that Sister Halverson's invitation to the Balekambang beach on April 1st was, in fact, an April Fool's joke. SisLily and I use it in reference to Indonesians who have whole-heartedly embraced the technological revolution with no care for textiquette. But that could probably be a whole email in itself, so I digress. The point is, we use this phrase a lot.

Especially when it comes to Indonesian men. In general, they are harmless. I am immune to their "Hey mister! What's your name?" catcalling, though I would be happy if I never had to hear it ever again in my life, too. I am used to being an oddity, a white girl in the first place and then one who speaks Indonesian, besides. That is all okay. I understand I am different here and for the most part it is not a problem and sometimes it is a plus, as illustrated in last week's photo journal of our foray into the dolphin ring [See post above, which, of course, should be below. Sorry. --the editor, aka mum.]. But at least once a week, some new Indo Man merits our kurang ajar!, said with not a little spite and a heavy dose of incredulity. Because since when was it ever okay for anyone anywhere to pull the stunts they do? They follow us down streets. They ask about boyfriends, family situations, potential marriage proposals. They sit too close or grab for your hand to hold or ask for photos or don't ask for photos and take them anyway, throwing an arm around you when you're not looking and oh! sometimes it makes me want to scream. I think it was Jordan who once wrote to me about the unwanted attention from members of the opposite sex on missions. It's the only trial of our work with no redeemable qualities, he said. Aminlah.

-------

So. Malang continues to be something of a tropical Paradise and also unnaturally clean, kind of like film sets from the 1950s----you know, where the sunsets silhouette palm trees in never-ending color and street scenes are lit a little too strategically? SisLily and I discuss Gospel Principles while quoting Galaxy Quest and translate Conference Talks for language study, much to the detriment of our pride. Tonight the daughter of one of our investigators is getting married and we've been invited to the traditional Javanese ceremony. Sunday I translated the Halverson's farewell talks for the congregation, which went really well right until Elder Halverson decided to tell a story about educational statistics and state legislature in Wyoming about halfway through his testimony. Good thing this Branch and I have already learned how to laugh together.

We have quite a few investigators, but none willing to change or grow or become if it means rearranging their lives to allow for Christ's Redemption. It is discouraging but also eye-opening and, though no one else seems to be wanting the light we bring, I find myself receiving new knowledge, understanding, and fortitude in abundance. It doesn't seem fair, being allowed to become like this when so many seem unable to take even the smallest falter of a first baby step towards All Good Things (can everyone please read Moroni 7 right now? And know that this Church is True?) but I am grateful for and aware of the Lord's plan for me, a plan that included this Indonesia and therefore this opportunity to prepare for the so much more that is in store for me, and for all of us. The best is yet to come.

I love you.

E.

ps:::why is avocado used like a vegetable in America? Why has no one caught onto the idea that it should be a fruit, and therefore good for juice, too?

:::The Sky is Blue:::

2010-04-05T14:51:00.008-06:00

(and other eternal truths in all their extraordinary simplicity)

FamilyMine:::

I live in a house. A real, live, with-a-floor-plan and even-barest-semblance-of-a-front-garden house. And it's a House Beautiful house. A house I would honest-to-goodness like to pack up and slow ship all the way back to America. It is white, and light; there are long open windows on every wall to illuminate soaring ceilings and the feminine step-shadows of crown moulding in every room. There's a coffee table in the front room (there's a front room!) with Liahonas and letters to read before heading out the door; there's a chandelier (a chandelier!) above the foyer and a framed batik map of Indonesia above the loveseat. In the courtyard (there's a courtyard!) there's a water pump and geraniums and just enough square space for some six a.m. shuttlecock (did I tell you SisLily bought me a badminton racket for my birthday? Is life the best? Do I love her?) and in the bathroom there is limestone tiling and a shower head ( a shower head!) and a western-style toilet. In my bedroom I still sleep on a sunken mattress on the floor---but it is a sunken mattress on the floor next to a dark-wood armoire and full-length window with decorative metal screening and a sand-and-shell-framed Jesus on the wall. I sleep like the sea here; fathoms deep in shades of blue.

In the kitchen there is a table. It is square and lacquer-black and modern but classic and just big enough for the four of us. At night, after planning and journaling and the requisite second shower of the day, we gather for nasi goreng or girl talk or the occasional speaker-phone conversation back to Senopati. In the mornings we meet there for companionship study, and last night SisLily sat across from me to read out loud from this month's Liahona while waiting for 10:30 to send us to sleep. Oh! It is a home, and how I have missed a home! That SisLily is here to live it with me obviously makes the place instant greatness, but there is something to say about the Architecture of Happiness, and our little abode on Jalan Ogan has it in spades.

My new companion is Sister Rianti Simanjuntak, who has a Mandy Moore smile and all the dramatic flair of Katharine Stevens at a YTS casting call. She's from Sumatera's Medan, which means she's Batak---and fulfills every stereotype of the tribe. Strong-willed and straightforward. Entirely independent and honest to a fault. It's been a whiplash sort of start for me, coming out of four months with Sister Atmi and a mission that, up to this point, has been all Javanese (read: the opposite of everything I just wrote to describe the Batak people), but we get along really well and teach particularly well together. I'm glad for the shock and jump start; I think I'd become far too comfortable culturally here, so this is taking me outside that safe circle again and pushing me further up and further in. Five days isn't much for a full review, but so far, so good.

Our other Indonesian counterpart is Sister Kezzia Bayodo, who is Raani Hippolite to a T. Sometimes I have to stop myself from frog hunter jokes, it's that crazy. She's bright and brave and incorrigibly cheeky; together, the four of us seem to have balanced out into the perfect formula for a freshman year in University dorms. It's been an interesting sphere-switch, at least for me; up until this point my companionships/housemates have been more of a mother/daughter or teacher/student situation, whereas this is all level and decidedly more adult. It feels great, but also strange---where do I fit in the equation now? If my companion doesn't need me, who does? Good thing mission has taught me to like question marks. This place is full of them, plus a few interrobangs.

So, what else? Oh, the branch. Is beautiful. What isn't, here in Malang? This city is shockingly clean, regulated, shaped and formed. The streets are swept up into tidy gardens and neighboring rice padi; the houses are kept and orderly, newly painted and ornamented with bamboo bird cages in bright reds and vivid blues. The sky is blue, a startling familiarity after seven months in grey-cloud, air-polluted West Java. Even the markets seem to be sanitary, a more organized mess of daily wares and wants that keeps each stall from sprawl and takes every new street corner back in time a few decades, an Indonesia before corporate candy wrappers or sponsored storefronts. In fact, I have a new thought of theory: I am a time traveler. As this move to Malang means I'll finish up my mission in Solo, my sixteen months here will have moved me in measured increments back through Indonesia's ages----the up-to-the-minute 2010 rush of Jakarta, the emerging metropolis of a 1990's Bandung, the careful country life edging into city-hood of 1970's Malang, and (from my eight hours there last week) the bikes and becaks in 1950's Solo, the Spirit of Java. I have so far decreased in population size with every new transfer, which will hold through into Solo, too. This backward sprint has given me so much more appreciation for the underlying cultural ties of Indonesia's city life, for the country soil that holds each citizen to their Tanah Air despite the modern era's concrete obsession and technological juxtapositions. The way I'm moving through my mission, I fall more deeply and fully in love with this country every new life I live in this service. This past week in Malang has been . . . regenerative. In an old-is-new and I've-always-known-you sort of strength.

A lot of that comes from the branch here, the members and the missionaries. For one, this is Sister Katam's hometown---so my mission trainer was here to meet me at the chapel doors first thing Sunday morning. Her whole family is lovely and good and strong, something that holds true for most every other member here, too. It is a very open, friendly, and functioning branch of the Church here in Indonesia (which is so rare a beauty that just sitting to hear them sing in Sacrament kind of makes me cry). I think, too, I've finally found my footing here as far as language and cultural compatibility go, so I came into Malang without any of the excess anxiety and personal insecurities that had followed me to my former areas. I even made a hundred people laugh-out-loud in my Sacrament introduction----an occasion that, even throughout my entire lifetime, I could probably count up on one hand. I'm not a very funny person. But luckily Indonesian humor never gets old, so the Javanese rondo meaning "widow" was still just as funny this Sunday as it was seven months ago in JakSel. Yeah. We got off on a good foot. Maybe too good---we have dinner invitations every night this week, and that's more food than we really ever need in a year. The Javanese can't say no and they don't want you to, either---even when you clearly look like you're about to be sick after your third glass of banana juice.

Monday night we were invited to President Iwan's for Family Home Evening, on the condition that we teach his children the First Vision as if they'd never heard it before. It was an interesting challenge---the Iwan's are rock-solid members and their children particularly exemplary---and now one of my most favorite moments of the mission. It is fun to teach with Sister Lily again (we just have a natural rhythm and synchronized thought process that lends itself well to spur-of-the-moment spiritual direction) and, like I said, Simanjuntak and I teach well together, too, so our part of the lesson I think went really well, but it was President Iwan's follow-up that made it all the more real. When we were finished, he added his testimony to ours and then turned to his three girls, who were sitting in order of age about his feet and looking intensely up at their father for further light and knowledge (Liahona photographer, anyone?). They were so trusting and so radiant; their parents were so tangibly steadfast and sacrificing. Pres Iwan talked about how they, as parents, have always taught them, their children, the truth. How they have tried to bring them up in righteousness, in strength. It was a beautiful discourse on the family, on love. But then he said, "This will not be enough. Nila, Kenisa, Jessica? That story the sisters just shared with you is either true, or it is not. If it is true, of course, then it is the single most important message you've ever heard in this life. I have brought you up in the hope that you will be able to recognize the light. But that decision is ultimately up to you." And then he taught something I have been learning lesson after lesson, day after day, these last months: you choose. That's the glory of it after all; God did not give us a flippant wave and a ziploc of trail mix for the road as we left the Garden of Eden for this lone and dreary world but a blueprint for happiness, a road map to return, and the ability to choose. There is only so much influence we are open to, only so many road signs we can study or theater scripts to read before, ultimately, we have to step into the opportunity to live itself. To walk into the wind, take that road less traveled, step out into the spotlight on opening night. Everything we know, everything we do, and (did you see this one coming?) everything we become is up to us. This is incredibly obvious with our investigators, who mostly seem to want us to wave a magic wand and make it all better before they'll even consider stepping into the solution themselves, but it has also rung true on a personal level this last little while, too. And the days I choose God, to love Him and to know Him, have inevitably been the days I have glimpsed heaven here on earth, the days I've felt the strength of angels behind the pathetic movement of my mere mortal struggle. So when Pres Iwan finished again with his testimony of the ability to choose and the importance of taking responsibility for the knowledge we have been given, I could absolutely add my amen. And Sister Bayodo threw in a hallelujah, too.

Now we are out to Sister Maria's for dinner with a referral tonight; she is a particularly pixie-sized sister with an indefatigable excitement and bright countenance that defies all 46 years of her life. When SisLily told me to look for Tinkerbell on Sunday, I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Love it. Love you.

Sister E.

24 March ::: from the Mission Home

2010-03-30T08:49:00.003-06:00

kelku:::

I write this from the desk of Elder Silalahi, or "Lala" as I like to say. I should probably ask him if that's okay. Anyway. The Office Elders are long gone down to bed but Sister Lily still sits beside me, reading things over my shoulder and sometimes out loud while also reliving our Jakarta day from Immigration Office to Mesjid Istiqlal with all the added commentary that our private review allows. This is something I would go into but soon enough that will just be old news and nothing special because tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm moving to Malang.

We'll be one hour on the airplane to Solo and then an overnight train to Malang, where we're calculating (given present positions and average transfer duration in the mission) that we'll have at least a month together, if not a full six weeks. In the meantime, we've lived these last two days in the capital as if they're all we've got, which has made for more than enough happiness when you throw Nixon into the mix, too. Meek and Greenwell came through immigration last week, but there's no need to fret because my move puts us all in one zone again, and next PLD's going to be a party. Plus the added benefit of a classic Meek Shock Face, when he sees SisLily and me back together. Oh, life. Malang, in Indonesian, means bad luck---but this feels quite the opposite.

There's much to say but even littler time to say it this week, so here I sign off. There's a letter in the air with more on my last days in Bandung, and I hope the pictures helped a bit, too, but this really is the end because SisLily still has to send off a note to family and there are now exactly twenty minutes left to do that so kthnxbi I love you Next week from Malang, huzzah.

E

. . . and a baby tiger

2010-03-29T17:32:00.003-06:00

...ducks...

2010-03-22T18:18:00.004-06:00

This is minutes after stepping off last week's train [in Jak] and yes,
all those ducks are still alive. Sorry I didn't get the ojek [motorcycle]
packing goat kids across the back seat. . . next time.

:::birthday girl:::

2010-03-22T18:03:00.003-06:00

:::outside the little restaurant we ate at for my birthday:::

Dear Family:::

I feel drained and dead-tired and when I just asked Sister Atmi what in the world I could possibly write to my family this week she dictated to me (in her bird's-twitter English lilt that I want to wrap in ribbons and keep safe in a silk-lined music box forever and always): Sister Atmi was so, so sick. I helped her get better. But then I got sick, too. I am okay now. I love you. Goodbye.

Yep. That pretty much sums it up, and I doubt you want to hear about the fever and the headache and my (our) aching, aching bones. It was a bad one, but Atmi did get the worst of it, so I can't complain. Plus, it all cleared in a miraculous rainbows-and-birdsong way at about three o'clock the afternoon of my birthday, so I was well enough to go out to our appointment at the Swieliens, an eternal investigator family that I love. They still don't want to be baptized, but we did have a memorable evening of gospel study together and I (again) felt that rush of strength in simply feeling like I belong.

So. Apart from that, I really did spend most of my week in the hospital (Sis Atmi was that bad; I was just sick at home), got away for three hours of church (where little Lavona stared at me all through Sacrament, wide chocolate eyes never wavering though her little puckered lips moved from pout to ponder to full-out fish face every few minutes. We have kind of a love-hate relationship. She loves me, but only from afar. The minute I try to steal her out of her mum's arms, she's all tears. Sigh. Working on it. Especially if I still plan to smuggle her home in my suitcase.), then succumbed to the exhaustion I had originally thought was just me being tired like a normal person----not feverish, sore, and aching like the sick I turned out to be. But I am okay and it's not Dengue Fever and next weekend I will be in Jakarta for TWO WHOLE DAYS WITH SISLILY.

Life is okay. I love you. Thank you for all the birthday greetings/emails/photos/etc. You are quite truly terrifically the best.

love again,
E

Krakatoa, West of Java

2010-03-14T21:46:00.008-06:00

Keluargalah*:::

Monday morning I stretched out of the back of a black van in the parking lot of a beach at Anyer. The same parking lot at the same beach at the same Anyer that I stepped out into my very first weekend in Indonesia. The same coconut palms, the same pebbled patio giving way to white-sand beach. The same bayside-bungalows in woven bamboo and cheap abalone trinkets for sale at the gate, the same smiling caretaker at the cafe desk. And really, who's to say that black van this March wasn't the exact same black van of September? I walked right out of my flip flops and barefoot over to where Presiden was standing, hand raised above his brow to take in the horizon. Same turquoise sea. Same sleepy waves. The shattered peak of Krakatoa a smudge of blue shadow at the ends of the world. Presiden turned to me. "Anything changed since last time?" he said. I remembered how, last time, it was Sister Lily to my left, or how, last time, it was Elder Greenwell who pointed out the volcano's tip. But I shook my head. "Just me, Presiden."

And while my trip to Jakarta last week was a tricked-out time warp of its own, this weekend's afternoon at Anyer was a little too T.S. Eliot to handle. To end is to begin, only to end again in order to begin something else. And I know I'm dramatic, but there were some real goodbyes there, some real definitive endings. Elder Meek moved to Semarang today, clear across the country (though not completely off the island quite yet). Elders Supriyanto, Supriyanto, Effi, and Bayodo headed home for good that very night. It was Sister Mongan's last Zone Trip. It was a whole lot of implied sentimental if I thought too hard about it. So I tried not to. And it turned into one of those This Is The Best Day That I Love sort of journal entries.

Because, just after lunch (as the thunder rocked the ocean swells but before the rain began to fall), we took a walk. The original crew, plus Hewlett, down the beach to the furthest edge of the bay. It was a beach walk, just like any other beach walk---same sand, same shells, same errant child's toy washed up among the seaweed---but I think that's what made The Beach Walk. Because there I was walking and talking and laughing like I would any old day with any old friend; except, wait. I am walking in Indonesia and talking in Indonesian and laughing at inside jokes only six months old because (my word!) I actually haven't been here my whole life. I actually haven't had these friends for always. I actually haven't always been able to eavesdrop on foreign conversations, or follow a Jakslang joke. And the sky was steely grey across an ocean pale and rolling, the sand licking up at our ankles as the sprinkle turned to downpour and Krakatoa stood still. It was a moment. The moment where you realize you belong, and it is infinite and irrevocable as you stand at the start of the storm in perfect peace.

And then Supri yells at you to run, so you do, to where the rest of them sit along a wall under a tree, a surprisingly quiet cove along the rocks. And we sit there and think, and watch, and think again, and the grey world is not sad and symbolic but wild revelation. It is intimately public, like all the world is rejoicing in what we so quietly share. I started to think about friends. I started to think about happiness. I remembered the parting words of verse five in Alma 44---"yea, and also by the maintenance of the sacred word of God, to which we owe all our happiness. . ." And I started to think: that is why this exists.

Because that's how it works, then and there and here and now. Obey the commandments and prosper in the land. Sunday I was reflecting on the idea of rules making you free and what that really means, and I guess in that moment at Anyer, in the rain under the tree with my friends, my people, it kind of all came together for me. Because of this Gospel, because of the commandments we receive and how we choose to obey them, I am free. Not in the sense of wild irresponsibility, but in that steady stability that comes of knowing. That when I maintain the sacred word of God, I obtain all my happiness. Not some, not a little, not a day's worth or even a week---but all. Because of choices I've made and the choices these Elders and those Sisters have made-----we are free. We are alive in a perfect brightness of hope, the ability to step out into a world of uncertainty with the knowledge that our future is assured.

Keep the commandments and prosper in the land. Life is hard. The Gospel is not.

Okay. Getting over my romantic ruminatings for a lightning-fast bulletin of an update:

Sister Christensen has Dengue Fever. We had to leave her at Senopati yesterday and got word that she's in the hospital this morning.

So we're in a trio here in Bandung---Marno, me, and Atmi. Both our appointments fell through today. Same old, same old.

Still waiting for word on the Jakarta trip at the end of the month; am terrified they're going to break up the Sisters rotation and I'll miss SisLily by mere hours. Does this count as righteous desire and therefore something I can sincerely pray about?

Our kitchen/laundry/hallway/staircase/room-whatever-it-is has a leak in the ceiling and is basically falling apart. Our shower water comes out chocolate brown during rainstorms (ie, always). Our street must have flooded while we were gone and took all our garbage cans with it. I was writing in my journal last night and a cat walked in. I cried the other night because I thought too much about a becak driver. I am secretly coming up with a million different ways to meet up with Effi, Bayodo, and Supri x 2 before I have to go home. They're all from the same branch in Bekasi so who's to stop us from taking a boat out to Krakatoa together?

I am afraid there won't be a word for the way I'm going to miss this place.

Okay, time's long over and up and I'm out of here. Sorry there are no investigators to talk about or miraculous missionary moments to share---we're still working on that. But for now, as Elder Nixon likes to say, here's to another day in Paradise! I love you.

E.

Mahon Maaf = Sorry

2010-03-08T08:49:00.004-07:00

Well, the good news is our mission is finally important enough to be included in the great Gmail migration of 2010. The bad news is that this internet cafe/MyLDSMail is so katro (. . . um, old school?) that it has taken me the better part of forty-five minutes to create such an account, after which the entire thing went up in flames and then wouldn't let me sign into my shiny new inbox for ANOTHER fifteen minutes anyway. I am grateful the powers that be at Church HQ have seen the light and made the switch, but shouldn't that direction have come along with the blessing of an extra hour allotted to our actual email time this week?

I was also faced with a conundrum this past Sunday, when I sat down to write my weekly family letter. Wait, I thought, wouldn't it really be more lasting and life-affirming to get all this weekend down in your journal before you sent off the cliffnotes version to home? I pondered this. And yes, yes it was more important. Because ten months from now, you can read my journal entry, and ten years from now, and twenty, and fifty-five, etc etc so . . . there's no letter for you this week, either.

Here are a few miscellaneous notes I'll throw out there before I have to run:

Only 4% of Asia has a missionary in their city.

All 4 countries with largest Muslim population in the world are within the boundaries of the (our) South East Asia Mission.

Indonesia is the only one out of that four that allows Foreign missionaries to proselyte.

Elder Nelson is undeniably an Apostle of the Lord, but it was his wife who changed my life this weekend.

Being in Jakarta for a full four days was kind of a warped time-travel-trip for me. I felt small, like these last six months hadn't happened and I was starting all over again.

Elder Subandriyo is a living sermon. He simply stands to walk to the pulpit and Truth floods even the most wide-open spaces.

If you read the Church News account of Sister Wendy Nelson's address at BYU-I (re: Holy Woman), that will at least cover the Saturday afternoon session of our District Conf. here.

I bought rain shoes, which were all of two dollars and so totally practical, except that now I take every possible opportunity to step in puddles, which embarrasses Sister Atmi to no end. She is so fun to embarrass. Just like my sisters.

There's a new elder in the office, Elder Schmidtlein, who was in the MTC with Sister Jess Richey [daughter of Steve's best college roommate ever; she's serving in Singapore/Malaysia]. They still write letters occasionally so he filled me in on all that news, plus brought out the map of Malaysia, too. In our circles.

And, since I've got a new friend in the office (praises be for shared sense of humor and a common interest in dictionary definitions), word is that there's a move from Malang in the near future----plus an all bule missionaries reunion in Jakarta at the end of March for requisite Visa renewals. Are we all wild hope of a SisLily/Rhondeau weekend in mere DAYS? Yes, yes we are.

I can't race the clock any longer. This has got to be over and out. Mohon maaf maaf maaf I love you The End.

selamalamalamalamanya,
E

.::well of lost plots::.

2010-02-28T23:17:00.002-07:00

In which I start a lot of stories, finish a few of them, and never really arrive at any specific point anyway.

Dear People I Love:::

There is a stack of letters on my desk addressed to all types of you, but I remain too poor to afford the postage. Next week.

I am no longer impressed with photojournalists and their seemingly miraculous talent of capturing intense ironies, wrenching emotion, or catalystic commentaries with the click of a shutter. At least not the ones photographing Indonesia---because all it takes to find all of the above is to wake up and walk out your front door. Sometimes I watch the world go by from the back of an angkot and feel like I'm living a National Geographic photo spread, except actually those thigh-high floods and toppled-domino slums are just reality. Not acceptable, of course, but just reality.

Monday night I was faking Javanese, because I can usually understand what Marno and Atmi are on about but have no clue whatsoever when it comes to responding. So I just pretended there was a marble in my mouth and said a lot of omolomoolo because that's what it sounds like and we had quite the conversation, which was funny. But not as funny as Atmi rapping General Conference talks. Usually I have her read them aloud to practice English pronunciation, which is what she was doing when the phone rang and I had to pick it up and by the time my conversation was over she was on a flow about temples and moral compasses. I have not legitimately laughed like that for a while.

Sister Lily might actually be the perfect friend, because she is now the only American I know who can follow my Englonesian (Indonenglish?). She called last night to ask me to pick up a few things for her from Senopati while I'm there this weekend, and apart from the general huzzah of such an opportunity to talk---really talk---it was nice not to have to correct myself whenever my sentences slipped into Indo for a few words before getting back on track with real English.

Gilang is still M.I.A., with the latest news from the landlord that he hasn't returned home for four days now. I'm panicking, but Atmi is all Job. "Patience," she keeps telling me. "You have no idea the opinions and attacks and arguments he's dealing with." And, as the one who herself converted to Christianity from Islam, I suppose I should nod and be comforted and carry on with hope. But it's hard, because Gilang is not just good, he is great. Plus, all our other (2) investigators just lie to us. McD's been avoiding us for two weeks now, with no real excuse at all, and last time I called he even pretended to be someone else. Really? Are people really this adamant about making their own misery? And, ps, McD: I know you weren't your secretary, because your secretary's a girl.

On Sunday we went out to visit Bro H, a less-active who really needs to stop reading extra-curricular religious literature and just get back to the Book of Mormon. This time his major headline was the news that the world is going to end in 2016, and also that America is populated by aliens. I don't ever really know how to respond to stuff like that, but I do learn a lot of great new vocabulary.

Monday night we had FHE with the Atmos again, but this time with a few more ward members---President Eddy came along, plus Wahyu and Unang and Chris too and it was another member highlight sort of night that just all around makes me feel better. We moved all the living room furniture into their warung (couches stacked like jenga blocks with coffee tables in between) and sat all ten of us on bamboo mats spread across the floor and taught from Mosiah 4 before sharing dinner all together, too.

A few weeks back Jamie wrote me about the thrill of creating cultural analogies to better help people outside of a Christian-rooted society understand the Gospel. I think my first reaction was something along the lines of "Shouldn't the Gospel just be relevant to everybody's life?" (Oh, silly E), but also took it as kind of a challenge I want to win. I've noticed that we lose a lot of people within the very first lesson because they don't understand the priesthood, so currently am trying to come up with a new way to teach the necessity of authority in a country where police officers merely observe illegal wildlife trafficking transactions, and speed limits are regulated by fashion outlets. Also, while recognizing I have been born of goodly parents and also blessed with a certain degree of common sense, how are people confused about this in the first place? How does it not make sense that there needs be One Faith, One Church, restored through priesthood power endowed by God? In a world where nothing ever stays the same, aren't we all looking for a constant? God is the same Yesterday, Today, and Selamalamanya. That is what makes him God. So why does everyone insist all religions are the same? A million different ways to climb a mountain sort of thing. Yeah, but don't you want the BEST way to climb the mountain?

Sorry. I have no eloquence today, or any sort of subtlety. Kind of like the shop over in Alun-Alun that's called PUNK: Clothes for Teenage Rebellion. Indonesians like to say it like it is, which is kind of what I'm channeling in this email. Because this, my family, is how it is.

Headed to Jakarta in the morning for a weekend of District Conference and some one-on-one with Elder Russel M. Nelson. Yipes. Will return next week with (hopefully) a more elegant report on Life and Love.

I love you. All.

foto-foto:::pancakes/kuyup-kuyup*

2010-02-26T09:02:00.015-07:00

Sis. E and Sis. C
Evidence of our epic pancake brunch.
Maple Snuggles 4 evah!

Downpour. Same shirts as above -- totally satched.
Taken mere moments before Sis. C's fall and
subsequent ER visit.
*see almanac--page 3--new words.

NB: Martha received these photos with a letter.
Thanks for sharing, Marfa!

:::sister e's almanac:::

2010-02-23T11:32:00.003-07:00

.:a dream is a wish your heart makes:.

2010-02-21T09:43:00.005-07:00

Family Dear:::

Another bullet point to add to the list of Indo is the 1800s/1900s (albeit this is like the one Kenneth Grahame imagined and Walt Disney exaggerated): angkots are like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. For the most part they are to be completely trusted (and really, Indonesia wins the Defensive Driving award) but you never really ever know what's coming next---today the Ledeng-Kelapa took a sharp turn into an empty parking lot and up through an off-road neighborhood before screaming back into streamline traffic and a series of whiplash stops and starts. Occasionally your journey is interrupted for a gas station detour, where all 2--17 passengers will idle in the back while the driver hops out to top up the tank and chat a minute with a cigarette before getting back on route. If you ride at night, after the sun's set and the roads are clear of too much traffic, they speed. I don't know exactly how fast, because I'm not really motor-smart or possessed of any inner speedometer, but sometimes I feel like we're flying. I push the windows open and stretch out my legs (because no one else is in the angkot, not this late at night) and Sister Atmi does the same, while silently praying "belum menikah, Tuhan. Belum menikah" (I'm not married yet, Lord!). The angkot that just got me here covered 10 minutes in 5, plus threw me a good foot along the bench when it lurched to a second's standstill to dump me out at the curb. Yes. It is a daily wild ride (though I still think the Disneyland version is even scarier).

Anyway. That is not how I intended this email to start but there wasn't going to be any dignified way to segue into it anyway because

I HELD A BABY TIGER
( !!!!!!! )

I know. I'll give you a minute to squeal/dance/sing/applaud, because I needed some recovery time, too. It was all just very unexpected, you know? Because usually there aren't baby tigers sitting at the side of a city road, and even if there were I don't think anyone would be well advised to pick it up and cuddle with it. But this is Indonesia, and sometimes that means we have entered an entirely different dimension.

It was all completely illegal, if you haven't already guessed that. They sell pets along the street outside of Bandung Indah Plaza, normal pets like Persian cats or golden retrievers and the requisite handful of hamsters and mice. Except that this week . . . could it be? The man was dressed in all black, selling his one treasure from the darkest corner along the shadowy curb. I asked him to confirm my suspicion. He growled a yes to my "harimau?" and picked up the little thing with one hand like so many childhood cat shows and then I was holding him, I was cradling him, I was cuddling up close to his slanted cat eyes that blinked sad and bright green right back up at me.

Granted, he was no Bengal. His captor explained that he's a forest tiger, almost more of a panther, and that he'll "only" grow to about half the weight and size of India's version. I didn't care. He is orange and black stripes and big, padded, clumsy paws and I have never in my life been more tempted to spend 50 bucks than when I was right then and there.

But that's extravagant on a missionary budget, and also Verboten (White Handbook, page 46, though I doubt they had large wild cats in mind). So instead I just held him for a very long time and cursed the day I'd left my camera home to charge and then finally, heart-wrenchingly, had to say goodbye. The next vendor tried to sell me a three-week-old kus-kus (sp?) (a strange, owl-eyed creature that fit snugly in my open palm with long primate toes wrapped around my fingers) and the guy after that wanted me to take a Kalimantan squirrel for keeps (one fell asleep in my skirt pocket while the other curled up in the crook of my arm) but it just wasn't the same. A tiger! I held a baby tiger.

I feel like maybe he was my own little omen, a physical manifestation of the Chinese New Year. What could begin a more prosperous Year of the Tiger than an actual tiger itself? Nothing, that's what.

Unfortunately that's the only real substantial story of my week, aside from what I've already written in a letter home that I posted yesterday. The rest is just a quick list, so in other news of note:

::We are poor. I don't really know how this happened, seeing as we are only half way through the month and usually we finish out with money left over, but while grocery shopping today we had to debate whether or not we could afford milk, or if it was really necessary to buy 5 packages of Mie instead of just 3, and it was really pathetic while also being really hilarious. We are literally saving spare pennies in jars.

::Also, 2 of the 3 umbrellas in our trio broke irreparably on the same day within the same hour during the same torrential rainstorm. Mine was such a pathetic skeleton of cloth and wire that a grown man passing by actually pointed a finger and laughed out loud. And we're poor, so we can't buy a new one (you would think, in a country that drowns for six months out of every year, they'd find a way to mass-produce umbrellas to allow for cheaper price tags), so last night we were three people to one umbrella, which was also hilarious. Sometimes struggle is really fun.

::When the squirrel guy kept insisting I buy one of his little friends, I posed the customs question and he said "Just put them in your coat pocket and walk through security. That's what I did with these guys in Jakarta." Again. Illegal. So illegal.

::Gilang is M.I.A., which I fear has something to do with his (albeit) ex-girlfriend. We haven't been able to reach him all week, and finally took an angkot out to Cimahi in search of his address, which he'd written down that first day we met him on the bus. It was raining (of course) and wet, and cold, and confusing, but we finally found the apartment and then he wasn't home. But I met his landlady, who is 89 years old with bright white hair that curls to her shoulders and a tall, thin frame she dresses in floral blouses and thin solid sweaters. She was born to a Javanese mother with a French Officer father back in the (not too long ago) colonial reign and speaks Indo, Sunda, French, and Dutch. Her house is made of whitewashed, woven bamboo and I loved her.

::I think my taste buds are changing, which is weird and is that possible? I mean, I know that's a kid to adult thing, seeing as I've learned to like asparagus, rosemary, and (sorry, dad) tomatoes, but since when did I crave rice or ginger?

::I'm also pretty sure my internal thermometer's broken, because I've been wearing a sweater all week in weather that wouldn't even qualify more than a t-shirt back in Utah.

::Roshen (Branch Mission Leader, Dev Patel boy) is the Colonel Brandon of Indonesia. He was contributing to our Gospel Principles class last Sunday and I literally have NO idea what he was mumbling about except that it was good and helped answer Buldan's (Marno's investigator) question.

We taught The Fall of Adam and Eve for Sunday's lesson, and then again yesterday when we went to visit Brother Bambang (since he can't come to Church, we bring church to him). And I was again and again struck by our unique understanding of the story and how I really can't understand it any other way. Adam fell that men might be, and men are that they might have joy. How would that not ring true to every soul? So many people think this life is punishment, a direct result of Eve's "folly" and our price to pay. From things I've seen here, I can almost understand how people have come to that conclusion even without the philosophies of men mingled with scripture. The punishment theory fits in very well with the kind of burdens they're called to bear---and yet it completely discounts my understanding of God, too. Basically, Dad, you are so right. People don't understand God. I remember Anne Lamott's notes in Traveling Mercies, how growing up she couldn't reconcile the Catholic God in His stained-glass glory and fickle tempers, or the Jewish God that allowed a Holocaust to happen, or her own atheistic belief accompanied by the constant pull of there being something more. I remember born-again rallies with my Girl's College friends in NZ, where God meant pulling a semi-truck from a rope between your teeth or being at one with a drum beat to a rock-and-roll hymn. I see the world around me here, an Islamic nation in constant supplication to a God they don't believe has provided a Christ. The religious confusion goes so beyond crosses atop steeples or Darwin fish slapped across Subarus. The world's swaying from sky-high, air-thin branches because they've lost the root of it all. They do not know who God is.

Now, I am not saying that I do. I am nowhere near such revelation, but I am closer to it because of what I know through the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. And I have been flipping between Words of Mormon 1:8 and 2 Nephi 27:25-26 almost every morning this past week, because the connection makes so much sense in that full soul, pierced heart sort of way and also because Dad's thoughts in last week's email collected together a lot of my own (lest you have any remaining doubt to your calling as Bishop or the recipient of revelation as my father, Dad, your weekly emails have been almost word for word the very answers I've been looking for). He said (hope you don't mind the quoting): "The gospel was restored because God wants to be known. He desires above all things, as our Father, that we love Him as He is and understand Him as He so much wants to be understood. Moses 1:38--He wants us to return to Him, and we have to know Him to live with Him eternally. And how do we do that? By the second half of Words of Mormon 1:8: "...that they may once again come to the knowledge of God, yea, the redemption of Christ." The key to the knowledge of the Father is found in the redemption of Christ."

And that is what we, as missionaries, are trying to tell the world. To publish peace, to speak the words of Christ, to read upon the housetops the glorious news of a Full and Everlasting Gospel. Sometimes the most we can do is tell someone that they are children of God, a Heavenly Father who loves them. Occasionally we are given the incredible opportunity to tell them even more, that God loves them so much that He sent His Son, who came to do His Will---and what that Atonement really means. An Atonement we better understand because of the Book of Mormon, which we have because of the Restoration, which is a marvelous work and a wonder intended for us to know God.

I love the Book of Mormon. It testifies of my Redeemer and tells me what I must do to gain peace in this life and eternal salvation in the life to come. I love God, and am learning to know Him, which in turn allows me to love even more. This is His Church, and it is true.

I love you.

Sister E.

:::rainy season:::

2010-02-19T19:21:00.004-07:00

Pretty colors.

Coca-Cola on high ground.
Child's drawing tacked to wall.

I will one day have a lot of stories to tell

2010-02-15T22:37:00.004-07:00

KeluargaKu:::

I have just discovered the textile/ribbon/pretty possibilities district of Bandung, a direct result of my promise to create headbands for the Indo girls to glam up our style in preparation for the upcoming District Conference. Marno found the basement bazaar a few weeks ago and we immediately put it into our Future P-Day Plan list, anticipating the need for a creative outlet with so many rainy days ahead of us (who told me Rainy Season was really just Nov/Dec?) I thought yeah, hey, a few ribbons, the elastic---fifteen minutes tops and we'll be good to go. Two hours later . . .

All sorts of happiness and (they say this all the time here and it kills me in the accent of it all) sweet, sweet memory, though nothing to top the adventure of last week's day off. Last week all was quiet and well right up and past the time I emailed you, after which we went about our grocery shopping as always, with little excitement other than a few contacts and the appearance of ginormous paper dragons heralding the New Year at Bandung SuperMal (the Chinese version is bigger here than January 1st was). We were in the first of two angkots home when it began. Rain. Pretty normal. Can handle. Except when . . . it's coming down by the bucketful like it was then. Except when we realize no one bothered to bring an umbrella. Except when the above said first angkot dropped us off at the Laswi curb and the expected 2nd angkot never came. By this time the roads are flooding and Sister Sodjo got a good dose of sewer slime right across her mouth as a motorbike jetskiied around the corner and across our path. I start walking. "Are you insane?!" Sister Christensen calls out from under the cover of a leaky tin roof. I raise an eyebrow. It's nearing nine and she's basically as wet as I am anyway. Sister Sodjo dashes out after me and Sister Christensen, left with no choice, does the same.

It is fifteen minutes more until our neighborhood boundaries even begin, and we are satched through. The apples in my grocery bag have broken loose of their individual wrappings and now bob haphazardly between the zucchini and carrots, the bag more water than groceries at this point. We turn into Kacapiring and into some sort of Disneyland nightmare ride, slum-style, our depth perception off with the lightning shadows and runoff spilling from each roof like rollercoaster waterfalls. We are laughing, and also screaming, just because we can, and also because thunder on these ocean isles is terrifying. It is enough to break bones, to melt hearts. Our screaming brings Marno and Mi out to the front porch to meet us, and they start laughing, too. It is all quite funny for a few minutes more---until Sister Christensen makes a dash for the dry indoors and ends up SMACK down on her back and head right across the corner's edge.

Then, it is not fun. It is blood and tears and not a little bit of panic. Atmi and Marno run for a taxi, Sodjo and I get Christensen standing and stable. President is in Hong Kong; the APs are at a total loss. Twenty minutes later we are back out the door, and our street is rushing river. We consider the predicament. And what else is there to do? I take off my shoes and step into the current; I land one foot on level ground and the other in knee-deep pothole; something wraps around my ankle and I decide not to imagine it any further. We are ten minutes more to the main road and by now our neighbours are gathering to watch, wishing us Selamat! and also maybe mocking us just a little tiny bit (could we have looked any more ridiculous? I'm guessing not)

Anyway, long story short (this was never meant to be the focus of my email): we made it to the hospital (our taxi creating wake worthy of a motorboat in the flood waters), where we waited two hours more until nearly midnight, when Sister Christensen was discharged with three stitches across a 4 centimeter cut across her skull and no further harm done. All's well that ends well. But boy, was it an adventure (and I'm not going to lie; that kind of late-night adrenaline in a storm to beat all was my own kind of About A Boy ambulance dream).

So, P-Day. Preparation for what, we might ask? Here, you just never know.

And now, half an hour later: the real kernel of my week's kabar, introduced in song:

Scripture Power! Keeps me safe from sin! Scripture Power! It's the power to win!

Also, is that a real song? Somehow I connect it with September Primary Programs and little arms pumping Triple Combinations over their heads on the way to the pulpit, but it's not in the Children's Hymnbook. Hm. Insanity is a possibility, given my last few days.

Back to scriptures, and especially Ether 12:6. And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things: I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.

Because that's how it goes, folks. Even when you don't really understand that your faith is being tried in the first place. I certainly didn't. But now, looking back on my two months here in Bandung, that fact's as clear as Moroni's scripture. Even though showing that faith sometimes simply meant getting out of bed in the morning, or choosing to walk out the door. Even though occasionally I wonder if I ever really have showed any real faith at all.

But something must have proved true, because now we're experiencing a whole 'nother kind of scripture. After two months of minimal teaching opportunity, fruitless finding, one or two investigators (and none of them progressing, mind you), this last week has been one of explosive work and wonder. Mosiah 2:24, anyone? Gilang came to church, followed (um, that' s the Indo way to say it. I don't know how to verb this sentence in English anymore) all three hours and then some, staying to chat with the Branch President about what he'd learned in Priesthood that morning. He was attentive all throughout Sacrament Meeting (despite my heart at chair's edge since it was Testimony Meeting---ooh, so chancy), asked a zillion gazillion (good, intelligent!) questions during Gospel Principles, and then (oh, ps, he said) announced he'd broken up with his girlfriend. She didn't want him reading the Book of Mormon or learning from us. Ya, sudah. He said. I choose the Truth.

And pretty much since then every day has felt like a new miracle entirely. Monday I can mark minute-by-minute being led by the Spirit. We've met people and taught lessons and made a difference and the Indonesia I've loved so long is all the brighter for it. There are still the million daily Hard Things to wade through, but it's a lot easier when there's Joy to balance it out, so onward we go, rain or shine, flood or high water.

I love you. Am really excited to introduce you to Alun-Alun one day. We'll have such the adventures.

Sister E.

From Jakarta starting I fly like a bird.

2010-02-07T08:32:00.004-07:00

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:::

2010-02-02T09:52:00.003-07:00

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

2010-01-26T17:07:00.003-07:00

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.

2010-01-26T16:26:00.008-07:00

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:::

2010-01-19T09:39:00.009-07:00

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

2010-01-18T18:22:00.005-07:00

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:::

2010-01-14T09:06:00.004-07:00

::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

Gitulah. (like this:)

2010-01-11T07:53:00.001-07:00

kelku:::

Yesterday I doodled out the last page of my Moleskine study journal, the same one that carried me through my last month in the MTC and my first months in Indonesia. It's not very organized (or really organized at all), just a sort of spur-of-the-moment catchall to keep my thoughts in one place as I'm reading or listening or feeling. One thing that put my pen to paper all those months ago was something Elder Garret said in a District Meeting. I remember the moment very clearly, him at the front of the room with his hands in his pockets and his shoe scuffing the carpet floor. "Sorry," he said, apologizing for the story he was about to launch into. "All my stories are from last year. Because that's when I grew up."

I think I get it now, why Returned Missionaries get that rap. You know, how they talk about their missions and only their missions and always their missions and before all this, before I had had a lick at this lollipop (as it were; I am practicing positive thinking and isn't this sweet? And colorful! And lovely and special but oh-so-fleeting), I thought "Oh, really. You've been home two months/one year/a decade now and haven't you lived anything else?" But that's not the point. Of course they've lived more and longer, but the Mission is where that Living began.

So I guess what I mean to say is that I'm sending this apology a long ways in advance, just so you can practice patience before I come home a year from now and never ever shut up about it. Sorry, she said, apologizing for the story she was about to launch into. All my stories are from last year. Because that's when I grew up.

Terima kasih for the phone call. I would've never made it out of the nursery without you.
I love you.
Sister E.

ps: something in my brain is trying to connect Peter Pan ("How am I deficient?"--"You're just a boy.") with A Knight's Tale ("You're just a silly girl, aren't you?") but it's not quite making the jump. But maybe you get what I mean, anyway.

pps: really. I love you.

pos udara:::airmail

2010-01-10T20:09:00.002-07:00

email 30 December 09:::

2010-01-04T22:11:00.003-07:00

Do you ever feel, when you're reading scripture, that you just want more? Especially in Ether, when you spin through centuries of Jaredite history in just a few verses of Moroni's abridgment, or Nephi pulls one of his "And it came to pass I saw the single most amazing, incredible, beyond your wildest dreams of a vision ever yet revealed and---oh, sorry. Can't tell you that quite yet." And you kind of sigh, and imagine for a moment, and then write across your heart the promise to read every word of God ever revealed front to back and forwards again the minute it's all revealed---while tossing the month's unread Liahona/Ensign among the broken power cord and last year's White Pages and postponing your next scripture study for the next day.

Or I don't know. Maybe that's just me. At any rate, I'll give you the moral of the story before I even begin: there is always more. Because as members of the living Church of the living God, His word is given to us in very nearly daily doses through a living prophet---and then it's up to us to apply it in our own lives so that we become living ourselves.

That's what I've learned these past few days, after Saturday morning's phone call (Alhamdullilah! I love you.) spurred me onto some sort of premature spring cleaning spree here in Bandung. I started in the bedroom, scrubbed out the kitchen, and had just started in on the study room when I found in the corner a cardboard box just wide enough to fit a magazine and deep enough to hold a good hundred of them---which it did. A hundred, if not slightly more, Ensigns, New Eras, Liahonas . . . all in English. Christmas, indeed.

So for the next little while I sat cross-legged on the cold tile, sorting through the stack of them all, organizing them into piles of usefulness (as far as outside appearance goes, of course; they'd been there for a while and most were battered beyond repair) until I had a sizable group of them just tall enough to fit at my bedside, which has gotten shorter and shorter with the week as I read each one cover to cover and then dive right into the next.

At times, this has been a stupidly painful process to put me through---turn a page and there's the Sharp family! Lindsey Brinton sitting pretty in pink on a front cover. A Kershisnik in full color. Susan Tanner eats cheese toast. You know, the little parts of my heart that leap up at me in odd places. But for the most part, it's been akin to . . . oh, I don't know . . . Malachi 3:10? Windows of heaven opening, and all that. Wisdom, counsel, comfort, Truth, words of prophets directed by God; I realize this shouldn't be so much of a revelation but up until this moment in my life I've never been so in awe of the resources available to us. Here we are, and Life is Hard. But then God goes and gives us a million ways to make it all the easier. I read stories from members all over the world, their faith strengthening mine. I read an article from a former sister missionary and didn't feel so alone. I read talks from Apostles that answered the very questions I'd just been asking. I read words from Prophets that spoke directly to my soul.

I read about Ruth May Fox. A British girl who crossed the plains as a teenager, a mother of twelve and champion of Woman's Suffrage. A woman called to serve as YWs president at age 75 and then lived to be 104. The poetess who penned the marching hymn "Carry On!"

I wanted to be more like her.

Then I read an article from Elder Holland on the progression of Eternal Self and the eons that shape our personality and realized I could.

In Indonesia, the Saints are fond of a hymn called "Kita Maju Ke Kemuliaan"---our "We Are Marching on to Glory." What is this little gem of a verse I don't ever remember hearing at home? Here they sing it like we sing I Am A Child of God; from Primary to Priesthood, they all know it by heart. And I've come to love it, too; though it's meant to be sung at a marching clip, they play it slightly slower here and the words are given this grateful gravity to them that fills me fuller with each new note. It's such a sure song, a bright song, a knowing song----that makes me want to do. Kita maju 'tuk kembali, the chorus reads, ke tanah yang suci. Tujuan kita t'lah pasti: Hidup yang abadi. We're marching to return to holy land, our purpose already sure: eternal and everlasting life. It's easy to put life back into perspective, when you see it like that. We are the lucky ones; we know where we came from, we know what we're doing here, and we know where we're headed. Our purpose is already sure. So why am I so easily beset by distraction, by weakness, by the ways of the world? With a message like the one we wave from our banner, there should be no need to deviate from our marching course. I've been thinking over this for these last few days, the memorized verses tumbling about in my head, and I've decided it's the chorus that I'll sing to greet 2010. I really want to change. I really want to grow. I really, really want to become. And these are new year resolutions I don't want to break. So, as the Indonesians would say, "Ayo!" It's time to march straight on into the light---even if that does mean walking, stumbling, on these shadowfeet. The secret is: we can (and should) lean on Him all the way.

maju, terus maju.
I love you.
E

ps:::If Kemuliaan's my anthem, Ruth May's my conductor---she even inspired me to doodle a bit, too [see below]. Read up on her if you can!

:::Ruth May Fox:::

2010-01-04T22:04:00.004-07:00

:::post scripts:::

2010-01-03T22:29:00.003-07:00

Sister Atmi's been teaching me Cantonese. And now calls me "Ma" like they do in HK, which comes out like a short bark more akin to a distressed goose than a small child needing her mum. It makes us both laugh every time.

Pres took us to Cafe Bali, which is this terribly expensive-looking little restaurant just a ways above our house that super swanky people are always walking towards and I always thought, "wow, that's so beyond anything we could ever experience," and then we go today and their prime steak dishes are maybe the equivalent of US $4. The incredible jump between have and have-not continues to astound---astound---me.

:::a new desk:::

2010-01-03T22:21:00.002-07:00

email excerpt 30 December 2009:

Today two little boys helped me carry my new desk into our house (new desk! President does read our green letters, turns out), and as we're toting it down the street (the street's too narrow for any cars to get through), me walking backwards and the two of them pretending to be stronger than their little arms could really manage, all three of us laughing at the situation: barefoot bule, rain, etc . . . I just thought "What happens when this doesn't happen any more?" And then I gave them American licorice for their loyal service, which resulted in another ten neighbour friends crowding around me, hanging on my arms and tugging on my skirts and I feel something like "This is one of those moments you're going to miss." And then we're driving around Bandung with President (everything's different from the rear row in a car) and I'm realizing "They don't have that in America . . . they don't have that in America . . . they don't have that in America . . ."

:::MERRY CHRISTMAS:::

2009-12-25T11:26:00.002-07:00

keluargaku yang terkasih:::

In just two days plus a few odd hours [today at 3:00!] we will be talking voice-to-voice across oceans! Though I am sure even the few hours we have to talk won't possibly be enough time to cover the smallest news we have to share, I'm going to bet it will be enough to at least cover this last week and so focus this email on only one recent experience that I think might be all the more better for the writing of it than merely retelling (I've always been a sad sort of out-loud story-smith, anyway).

I have yet to tell you much about Bandung other than that it is lovely and of good-report and praiseworthy; I am still a bit in love with the tree-lined avenues and daily rain, so my original review remains the same. What I've failed to tell you is that Bandung deserves the same praises Church-wise---the chapel is a beautiful little building nestled among tidy greenery in a peaceful corner of the city, the members (though few) are close-knit and welcoming, and our Sunday meetings are Spirit-filled and sanctifying, a true gathering of Saints. And yet even after all that, the Cabang Bandung has got an even greater claim to fame: Bandung was the first ever branch of the Gereja Yesus Kristus Dari Orang-Orang Suci Zaman Akhir in Indonesia; the first branch, the first chapel, the first congregation. This little branch is the mustard seed, the miracle, and last Friday I had the opportunity to spend a few hours with the man who had the faith to begin it all: Brother Bambang, the first member in all of Indonesia.

Sister Atmi and I visited him in his home that afternoon to share a Christmas message; age has now slowed his health and altogether diminished his physical ability to make the weekly trip to Church and so we were his Sacrament Meeting substitute. It was the first time I'd met the man, and I liked him from the very beginning---though it took him quite some time to reach the door after our knocking, he swung it open wide to usher us into his little living space where he'd already prepared a plate of biscuits and two glasses of honeyed-water for the occasion. He was in pajamas (a classic British cut) and barefooted, his white hair carefully combed behind his ears and his eyes magnified three times too big behind bifocals in thick, black rims. The image of it all alone could have sold me, but it's what he said that made it real.

For the first half hour it was simply the lesson we came prepared with and the usual conversation. He told us about his early life, meeting the missionaries, his miraculous conversion (which I will relate more fully when time allows) and, pulling a photo album off an obviously sacred shelf in his small library, the time he was invited to Salt Lake City for the 1976 April General Conference---and to meet President Spencer W. Kimball. He passed the album to us as he spoke, recalling every detail from what he was wearing to the time on the clock to the pattern on Sister Kimball's blouse, each sentence told ever-so slowly but at the strongest register his voice could muster. He remembered arriving at the airport, greeted by an Apostle. He remembered his first moment in the office of a prophet, when President Kimball stood up as he entered the room and announced "Brother Bambang. You are a wonderful person, and I love you."

He did not have to testify then of a living prophet, of a priesthood restored or latter-day scripture; we felt it all throughout the room. He said those words twice more, obviously feeling again the magnitude of that moment so long ago. "You are a wonderful person, and I love you."

He then resumed the retelling, commenting on the talks given that conference and the time he had to spend with the Elders (now husbands and fathers) that had baptized him, and then closed with his final meeting with the Prophet, just as he was about to return home. "Here is what President Kimball told me, all those years ago," he said, voice wavering. "'The Church is True, all over the world,' he said." There was a long pause as the Spirit confirmed the testimony he repeated, and then he began again, this time looking us both in the eyes with a new solidarity to his voice. "And to that I add: The Church is True, all over the world---even in Indonesia. It is true from Banda Aceh to Jayapura, and it cannot, cannot be destroyed."

I have to say, up until that moment I was having my doubts. Not about the Church, nor about the Restored Gospel, or any of the principles or doctrine that have been given us through divine revelation----never anywhere close. But about this work in Indonesia, I have wavered. I imagine there are those who, when hearing there's even a mission here in the world's most Muslim nation, react in much the same way that Ammon's countrymen did in Alma 26:23. I myself at times have smiled to hear the call to prayer sung from the minarets even as I walk the streets with Book of Mormon in hand, intent on convincing these people that there is a Christ; that He lives; that we, too, may live----in full joy and glory---if only we will turn to Him. There is something of a backwards feeling to it all, at times.

But no. There is no doubt, there is no fear----family, the Church is True, even in Indonesia. From Banda Aceh to Jayapura we will continue to preach and sing praises because even though we have no contacts, even though we have no investigators, even though we have no single person here yet interested in what we have to say, we are never alone. If there is one thing I have learned more entirely in these last six months of my mission it is this: Jesus Christ is the Savior and Redeemer of the World, and what's more, He loves us. He knows us. He wants us happy. He wants us whole. And because this is not always immediately possible, He will be with us every smallest second of the way to that glory. I have felt Him here in this work, and what's more, I have felt Him here in my life---and I know He is constantly with, and watching over, yours. He is the reason this Church is true; because it is His Church, and it will march on ever onward from Palmyra to Pakistan, from Salt Lake City to Senegal and everywhere in between. Even in Indonesia.

I am grateful everyday and this Christmas especially that a Truth so incredible is mine; mine to keep---and mine to share. Inilah kesaksianku: bahwa Dia hidup, dan selama Dia hidup saya akan menyanyi, memuji, berseru sukacitalah terus. Gereja adalah benar, dan saya tahu bahwa Yesus Kristus sendiri adalah kepalanya. Bahwa kita hari ini dipimpin oleh nabi yang hidup, di bawah petunjuk Tuhan serta para-malaikatNya. Saya tahu bahwa karena Dia telah turun dibawah segala hal, kita semua dapat mengatasi segala hal. Dengan sepenuh hati saya merasa kebenaran ini, dan saya bersaksi mengenaninya.

Dia hidup! Dan Gereja ini, itu benar. Bahkan di Indonesia.

love and Christmas wishes,

Sister E.

:::the shoes speak:::

2009-12-23T01:04:00.004-07:00

Mongan's shoes* . . . um, there's a lot of writing. What writing do you want translated? The "Maju, terus maju" is the "Onward, ever onward" from Called to Serve. OSZA is the abbrev name of the church in Indo (like LDS). Along one front is the last line to a verse from Lead Kindly Light, the "one step enough for me" line. Along the other is a line from Isaiah . . . 50:11? The walk in the light of the fire you kindle bit. "Maniso" is the word for "flirt" or "sweet" in Bahasa Manado. "Asyik!" is like "Cool!" or "Awesome!" or "Fun!" in Jak slang.
*see photostory1 below

:::photostory2:::

2009-12-14T12:52:00.008-07:00

Sister A. and I enjoying one of the happier things found so far in Bandung:
five miniature ice creams on a picasso palette for all of 1000 Rp.

The skyline view from my upstairs oasis. That mosque is just two doors
down from our house and it's that prayer call that wakes me up
every morning at four---I think it's a combination of proximity
and the echo of our stairwell right next to my bedroom window.

:::photostory1:::

2009-12-14T12:27:00.006-07:00

::Sneakers I sharpied for Sister Mongan::

A little colour theory on a Sunday morning in Bandung:

notes from a not-so-small island

2009-12-14T11:04:00.005-07:00

I'm sick. Or Sister Atmi is. Or then it's Sumarno. [I'm giving up on the 19th-century-esque anonymity thing (which, I know, I know, was my idea in the first place), at least while E. is in Bandung, where 3 out of the 4 sister-sister have names that start Su_. -the editor] Or then it's all of us together. Whatever the day, at least one of us is down and out, all with this weird sick stomach but not a flu thing that's made this week not really one enough to report. I very vaguely remember yesterday . . . something about cinnamon toast and I think we listened to Josh Groban's Noel. Monday I got a hair cut! But only a trim, so that's it for that news. Sunday I sat on the first row in Sacrament Meeting and sobbed through most of the testimonies but most especially the one where the first (and only, actually) counselor and his family stood all together at the pulpit to sing "Families Can Be Together Forever" on the two year anniversary of their only son's death to leukemia. And then went to Sunday School where there were flowers on the table and we read The Family: A Proclamation to the World (is that what it's called in English? I can't remember) and the light through the windows was like New Zealand winter and the Brother sitting behind me was teasing me like a Maori and up on the board someone had drawn a little flock of frolicking sheep and I don't know . . . it's just one thing after another these days.

I'm still a little sick (as in, I thought I was healthy enough to follow Sumarno around malls all day, but that kind of energy expended has quickly caught up with me and I'm ready to sleep like the dead right here, right now) so sentences aren't fully making sense right now, so I'll try a quick list and hope the photos make up for the rest of it.

1. Last week I left you in the hope that my English class at En-Hai would save my sorry state----that was an understatement. My two hours on a campus in a classroom setting with an eager cast of intelligent, willing students restored more than a sense of happiness to my soul; it was my month's manna. I felt more myself than I have for quite some time, refreshed and recharged by their questions and curiosity and tangible enthusiasm for education. I stayed long after I was supposed to, chatting in the courtyard with Ernest and Sandy in a workable mix of Indo and English while the (no joke, praises be) juggling club practiced under the jackfruit tree behind us. Knowing I get to go back tomorrow has kept me going through the more trying moments of this week, for sure. I just feel like I'm really doing something worthwhile there, making a difference, seeing actual progress---and also, it's just something I can do. I rode the angkot home last week in this overwhelmingly foreign sense of confidence. I'm relatively good at something again! I'm not entirely useless! I have a skill I can share!

2. Saturday I called Presiden to ask permission to come to Jakarta this weekend for Florentina's baptism. He still hasn't replied. At first, it was an absolute no---missionaries are asking to stay for baptisms all the time, and the whole island would go crazy if he allowed it---but when I reasoned that I'd be coming to Jak Sunday night for the following morning Zone Conference and therefore miss the baptism by mere hours, he seemed to give a little. And told me he'd get back to me. . .

3. Today I sent letters from the post office and watched them ACTUALLY CERTIFY AND SORT THE LETTERS INTO OUTBOUND BOXES. I love Bandung.

4. Don't ever buy clothes in America ever again. There is absolutely no reason you should be paying even $25 for an Old Navy blouse when the outlets here have the exact same one for a mere three. Oh, and Marc Jacobs? Or maybe a little Dolce and Gabbana? Yes and yes, all at about 80% off the price you're paying over there. (Olivia, are you so sure you want to be in Paris next December?)

5. Today I passed a billboard sponsored by the Department for Bandungese that said something to the effect of "Let's be honest: who's looking out for Indonesian anyway?" Which basically captures the entire country's attitude to their adopted national language---they've been speaking their own way for centuries, so why make the switch? Um, so I can understand, please. Today I got in the angkot here and the guy next to be said "Mau ke mana" except it was in Sundanese so I didn't know what to say until Sumarno explained and then I was like "Oh, try Indonesian, I can understand that" but he shook his head and said "I only know a little" at which point I decided that I'd speak in English and he could reply in Sunda and we'd make just about as much sense as ever.

6. I bought a sweater (it's legitimately cold here sometimes, esp at night).

7. Time is almost up and I still haven't replied individually. So I guess this is over and out, with the prayer that there will be more to say next week. kukasihmu. selalu serta selamalamnya.

E

FYI

2009-12-08T14:51:00.004-07:00

SisE's mailing address remains the same,
as posted at the top of the blog and
right here:

Indonesia Jakarta Mission
Jalan Senopati 115
Kebayoran Baru
Jakarta 12190
Indonesia

begin. end. begin again.

2009-12-08T14:18:00.004-07:00

keluargaku:::

I write from Bandung, but not of Bandung; in a moment of inspiration I've decided to Follow the Prophet and make my every Monday night here as close to Family Home Evening as I can manage and forgo my journaling hour to instead write a real letter to you. Ya kan? I'm already a good few pages into this week's missive, then, and will write up right until Sunday so that you get a steady week's worth of thoughts, notes, and observations to be sent off the afternoon before I begin a new one (we have a set appointment at the post office every Monday afternoon to send our green letters to the Presiden). And unlike the dodgy post desk in Jakarta, Bandung boasts a real live Kantor Pos, complete with legit signage and corporate counters and everything! So there is room to hope that this might actually work out into a stable sort of system.

In that light, then, I fill you in on my last two days in Jakarta . . .

Thanksgiving morning we woke up pagi-pagi [early-early] to a stunner of a storm, the deluge relentless and our morning soccer plans surely kaput. Still, I went forward putting on the last touches to Sis M's sneakers (she had the white canvas keds, I had the Sharpies. It was a wonderful sort of wedding) since she was determined to show them off anyway and we packed into a taxi for Senopati, me with my suitcases in tow. On arrival at the Office we found all the Elders had already left to brave the rain in a city walk---I think more to escape from having to change into their batik than anything else---and so all the American sisters went over to Elder & Sister M's to help decorate their Christmas tree while I and most the Indo sisters went out in the storm to search out our Elder counterparts, who we found just about halfway down the road from 115, completely satched and smiling. Therein commenced a somewhat epic round of photo-taking (Indonesians are so Asian. Oh, my word. The amount of pictures they deem necessary . . .), noteworthy in that I was the only white face among them. We took them in the middle of the road, along the river/sewer, in front of the mission home fence, on the porch bench . . . basically every step we took required another picture so that, with this exercise and the somewhat late hour I'd spent up the night before in order to have everything packed, by the time we took the last picture in front of the M's fish pond I walked one last step into their living room and fell right away and straight asleep there on the couch. It was, quite frankly, one of the better moments of the whole day. Pumpkin pies all set out on the table, Mariah Carey belting out the Christmas carols from a corner by the tree as Sister H hacked at a Martha Stewart magazine for paper ornament instructions and Sister S tied pink ribbon to whatever pine branch she could get a hold on. I think it was then that the homesick began, curled up on a real couch in a real home with a real Christmas tradition . . . I made it through that without crying, at least.

Then it was the actual Thanksgiving Dinner (Lunch), so I kept busy with honeyed ham and sweet yams and a so-happy homemade strawberry jam while Sister H filled me in on her friend's mission to the Dominican Republic, which definitely gave us a few things to be thankful about, and I taught Elder R a few more words in Italian and met Elder B who (sad day) took Elder S's place in the office since he transferred to Medan. I even kept up the composure through the next exercise, a round-the-table testimony meeting of what we were thankful for in our mission and why---though Sister M's tears did tempt mine a bit, to be sure. Really, it was a lovely way to spend a holiday right up until the moment an afternoon movie was announced: October Sky.

Remember how American that movie is? How beautifully home of the free and the brave and rockets red glare that movie is? How it's also one of my heart's favorites and how the music speaks soaring eternities to my soul? Yes, that October Sky. I almost stopped myself right there in the beginning with the first blink of Sputnik, knowing this could do no good to the still-so-small strength I'd managed to build up for myself in the past three months, but once Jake Gyllenhall graced the silver screen I couldn't help it. I sat down. . . Would that I had run away.

That movie transported me. No one could have convinced me I was still in Indonesia, nobody. It was America! It was Fall! It was family and home . . . [and] I was floored. As the credits rolled I woke still dreaming, determined that I would turn to my left to find Daniel instead of Elder St., to look up and meet Olivia's eye instead of M's. No such luck. I guess we should have known the Holidays would be tough. But we should really also know rather well just how weak we really are (that much is made clear at least five times a day in the mission)

The next morning it took us five minutes to get from Orton's to Senopati---the only traffic confined to the sidewalks as hundreds of Muslim pilgrims made their way to their respective Mosques for Idul Adha*, a hari raya or holiday. It was a holiday we'd been expecting all week, as soon as little farm plots were started popping up outside each neighborhood prayer house, a little like the way Christmas tree yards start appearing in the days before Thanksgiving except that these little stables were full of goats, a sign overhead declaring "Mosque ____ is ready to accept your sacrifices." Sister O refused to believe that the poor little darlings were all destined for death, but so goes the tradition and come that Friday morning, the sewers ran red. In your emails yesterday you mentioned sacrifice and while I really don't understand it as well as I should, or apply the principle of it to full advantage, I imagine that now I have a pretty good look into a more physical reality of that word and a few good experiences to share the next time I'm called to teach an Abraham+Isaac lesson----we arrived so early to Senopati that I got in on the trip to their mosque just around the corner, following the Elders to watch it all (no other Sisters wanted to see).

I was going to send photos along with this email, but the computer's not cooperating and maybe that's a sign to just let it go---I don't find the blood too disturbing, but maybe I'm strangely desensitized? I don't know. At any rate, it was quite the send-off out of Jakarta. Just after the last of fourteen goats was dispatched (hm, euphemism) I had to race back to the office to catch our ride to Bandung, saying only a fleeting street-talk goodbye to Elder S (he's taught me most of what I know and still laughs at me every time I slip it a "gituloh, ya kan?") and a see-you-soon-enough to Elder T and Elder L. Two hours later, Bandung. Been here ever since. . . . Dad, you were dead-on as always---mission is a revolving door of stress, and change has never been kind to the more sensitive souls like mine . . . but mostly it comes down to what it's always been: I love you. And I really, really don't like being without you.

Q & A
How are my companions?: Luar biasa. I'm paired up with Sister A and we already got along quite well in JakSel, so we're a good team here, too. Then there's Su__, Suh__, who will go home two weeks from now, So__ and C (different from JakSel C.

Living conditions?: Some things are better than Jak, some things are worse---though for natural lighting, I can't complain; this Bandung house is all-a-glitter in the mornings and it helps to make me happy. I'm also sleeping on an actual mattress on an actual bed frame. Perk. Plus there's a wee rooftop terrace where I like to go to be alone and quiet. And it's in a really clean, family-full sort of neighborhood, with a mosque two steps away so that the call to prayer's especially loud and lovely all day long.

Contacting?: Ha. I'm not even going to go there. Await my letter.

Is it less Muslim? More. Unbelievably more. A mosque every other house, it seems---the combination of so many calls to prayer is out of this world.

Is it more beautiful? A loud and huzzah Yes! Green and mountains and clean (well, relatively) and white ponies with pink manes in the park. It's kind of magical.

Was it harder than you thought leaving Jakarta? Yes. But you know what a sentimental sop I am, so what else is new?

I am now about to be late to University, where I get to teach English class, HUZZAH. Here's to hoping that will cure my sad, selfish state---but I would also appreciate your prayers.

It's a good thing, knowing I can at least make it to our Christmas phone call. And in between that there's a Zone Conference, which means Jakarta and Sister M and Elder M. . . and I'm also trying to swing things my way to make it back to Jak for F's baptism. Mah, here I am again, living landmark to landmark. How weak the mettle of mortal!

I love you.

Sister E.

*The Muslim calendar moves up eleven days every year . . . so there's the slightest chance, given the way my release date stands as of now, that your arrival in Indonesia could coincide with the next Idul Adha and you could see all the . . . um, guts and glory for yourself! Now, ain't you excited?

Selamat Malam & Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-30T09:22:00.004-07:00

--- an opportune opening for an email all about gratitude. There are just about a million new things to be grateful for, and you might want to hold onto your hearts here, because we're talking miracles. Lots of them:

One. We have a baptism. Yes, we. As in, me and my companions. The first missionaries to have a baptism in all of West Java since July! We're pretty over the moon about it, but can't do so much rejoicing now as there's still a ways to go. Florentina's preparing to be baptized December 13th here in Jaksel, so we've got a few weeks yet of teaching and reviewing and growing to do.

And now, who is Florentina, you may be asking? I've actually been teaching her from the beginning, starting with Sister K and even one lesson with Sister S, but she was out of town for almost three weeks in between all that, and though we called, texted, etc., we never heard anything back and gave it up as a mystery. Then, di luar biru (that still doesn't work, but I like to imagine Bro. R's face in the MTC), she woke us up last Thursday morning with a text that said she was back in the city and she wanted to meet us right there, right then. So we did (albeit a few hours later; we still had to finish up that service project), meeting her for an evening appointment at the Church, where I met her at the door and asked her if she'd been reading the Book of Mormon still, to which she replied, why yes, yes I have---and flipped open her copy of the Kitab Mormon to 2nd Nefi 31. The entire chapter was underlined, noted, circled, cross-referenced . . . she pulled out the Restoration Pamphlet we'd given her months ago: same thing. "Can we continue to learn about the Gospel of Jesus Christ?" she asked me. "The one where you said there were five principles I had to follow?" I waved her into the chapel, catching the look on Sis M's face as she passed. Alhamdulilah.

We taught her Pelajaran Tiga that night, sharing scriptures about Faith, Repentance, Baptism, the Gift of the Holy Ghost and (huzzah, my favorite) Enduring to the End as she scribbled away in her notebook, asking questions and exploring our answers and just basically approaching the Gospel like any A+ student in a top-notch University forum. We've never taught someone like this, someone so eager to know and understand, and I can really only express how much fun it was. It felt so good, seeing someone excited about it, wanting it, searching it out---plus it boosted our confidence to a level strong enough to extend the baptismal commitment, a question ("Maukah anda mulai mempersiapkan diri anda sendiri untuk dibaptis?") that Florentina took only a second's silence to ponder before nodding to agree. "Mau," she said. "Mau sekali." I really love that the "maukah" questions aren't answered by a typical English yes-or-no but the Indonesian "mau," which means "want."

And then there it was. A baptism.

A baptism I won't actually get to see because 2. Tomorrow I leave for Bandung.

President called Saturday morning, and in that soaring innocence borne of So Much Happiness I didn't even dream that a call for me from Presiden himself could only mean a transfer. I was so set in my naivete, actually, that I was honest-to-goodness rendered speechless. Me? Bandung? Impossible. There's still so much to do here in Jakarta, so many people to meet and serve and love and . . .maybe I cried a little bit---but not until I'd faked a cheery "Yes, sir" and said goodbye to Presiden first.

I mean, here's the thing: I am in equal parts both sad and excited about the change. For one thing, I'm finally getting out of Jakarta and seeing the Real Indonesia, taking a three hour train up into the mountains and to Java's fourth largest city set against tea plantations and an Art Deco downtown. Travel books will tell you that Bandung was once called the Paris of Java (though today their claim to fame is factory outlet shopping and a twenty-meter plaster cast of King Kong on the main shopping sprawl), that the city is still deeply immersed in the native Sunda culture, that there and there alone you find the most stunning mountainous vistas in all of Indonesia. So excited? Pasti. But to transfer to Bandung means to leave Jakarta, and maybe leave Jakarta for good. I've served three months here, and in the usual pattern of things that means I've spent enough time in the capital to never have to come back. And despite the traffic (it took me two hours to get to the warnet tonight), despite the urban grunge, despite the lack of any really green, living thing . . . well, I'm going to miss it. I learned here, I grew here, I became here. And while there's certainly a lot more of that yet to come, wherever I may be, Jakarta will still be the first.

But Bandung will be second, and I'm up for the challenge---because "challenge" is indeed the word to use here. . . [but] I'm ready and wanting to help.

So Tomorrow to Bandung, just after 3. All of Java Barat meets up at Senopati for Thanksgiving Lunch. Presiden's still in Bali and left Elder and Sister M in charge, so we've planned quite the party. I'll tell you all about it next week.

Okay, two minutes more and I'm out: Baptism, Bandung, . . . I feel like there was more (I mean, of course there is, but when is there not?). I guess this will have to do for now; I'm so glad all the letters got there safe and (somewhat) sound---I just sent two more today, so here's to hoping for another quick flight across the sea. I love you, dearly, dearly. I miss you so very muchly. And yet time's simply flying and sebentar lagi we'll all be together again, a true Thanksgiving.

selalu,

Sister E.

ps::: Today I got interviewed by the Church for a documentary they're making about the history of the Church in Indonesia. Only to be distributed here, but still, I answered 5/6 questions all in Indonesian, so that was happy.

lagi lagu sanang*

2009-11-24T20:10:00.003-07:00

*again the song was happy = the happy song again (maybe?)

So remember last week, when my email was a little rushed and a tiny bit ruined by some strange ADD adrenaline running through me coupled with a real inability to express myself at all? Yes. Add that to list of Migraine Symptoms, 'cause that all prefaced a major one. Three days out, my head raging against all medicinal help and my body confined to long stretches of sleep. On the plus side, one of those days was spent in a bed at Senopati---a real bed!---so despite the throbbing pain and semi-consciousness, I really couldn't complain.

Also on the plus sign: Revelation.

See, I've had about a million headaches since arriving here, a ridiculous more amount than usual and migraines on the upswing. For the first few weeks, I attributed it to stress, but when the day to day dullish sort of pain (the kind you get used to and just decide to live through) really never left, I had to wonder. Sis M was convinced it was the sambil, because I'm always ordering my nasi goreng pedas sekali, but I wasn't so sure. The pollution, maybe? The sun? At any rate, I had plenty of time to think about it this time around, and in my more lucid moments this weekend I was led to the light: MSG. It's in everything here. They use it like salt. That had to be it---and so far, I'm pretty sure it was. From that day on (so, like, okay, the last three days) I've been careful to order every dish "tidak mejin" and it's worked! For the first time in nearly three months, no headache. Huzzah. I am cured.

Sorry. That really wasn't the most important thing to launch into and then spend ten minutes discussing when there's plenty more relevant sorts of news to relate. Like: The night before I was assigned to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting, my migraine cleared and I was able to actually prepare the ten minutes of thought on Ephesians 2:19-20 that Mas G had asked me to deliver. Blessings of the Gos-pel. Even so, by the time I stood up to speak on Sunday, my heart was running like a rabbit. But I admitted it right then and there at the pulpit, and Elder Supri___ was sitting below me front and center to laugh out loud and then smile wildly like he always does, so I made it through and that was that. Plus, as I took my seat again on the stand, Elder S turned full around in his chair from where he presided over the meeting and put up two thumbs while "whispering" BAGUS SEKALI! And since he is the single most shining reason I have faith in Indonesia, that felt really good.

To add to the happiness? Ind___ showed up. Ind___, who was all set to leave that very day. I didn't see her smiling face until I was bearing my testimony, but that made it all the brighter. She was sandwiched in between Elder E and Elder A on the back row, and afterwards pulled all three of us sisters into a big hug and told us she just wasn't ready to leave yet. She postponed her departure until next week, which means we have time enough to meet every single day until she leaves and cover every lesson point we possibly could in Indonesian before she gets in all again in English once she's made it to America. She truly is pure gold, this girl---and her progress has lit a fire in all of us this last week that's leading us onto greater heights.

Sunday night during planning we just decided that this was it; that there was no more time to pussyfoot around the truth, so careful for cultural sensitivity and religious affiliation---if ever there came the chance to bear our testimony, doggone it, we were going to bear our testimony. Because we're not here just to bring people religion. We're here to bring them to Christ. And even though the prayer call's sounding just outside this little internet corner even as I type, that's not going to change our conviction, nor our dedication.

And, because dad was right about everything, attitude is everything. This week, all three days of it, has been some sort of fantastic. Family. We've taught six lessons. That's six, as in SIX. In half a week, not one month entirely. We're visiting less actives, we're inviting former investigators to learn again, we're calling contacts from years' past until we get at least one to accept what we have to say. This mission's a seed-planting one for sure; but the glory of it is that even while we're planting seeds in this moment, we can turn back to check up on the small saplings that have begun to grow, nourish them again to grow up in righteousness, plantings of the Lord. It's working wonders. It's mighty miracles.

Really, I've never ever had any week like it in all my life. We've been walking on sunshine, amidst torrents of rain. Every night we drop onto our mattresses exhausted, the Spirit's power so full to overwhelming that it then lulls us to sleep. It's been luar biasa, this, and we're praying to keep it that way.

Must run, as usual. Today's not actually our P-Day this week (we had another day of service today and we'll be back again tomorrow---the JakSel sisters are working with the Office Elders at an International Welfare convention thingy. We hand out headsets while the Elders translate the keynote speeches for each session. Wah, crazy. I'm determined to be able to do that a year from now) and we're emailing really late and have got to get home because we have an early sleep time tonight since we have to be up super early tomorrow and wow, I'm just rambling on all in one sentence so I'll stop here but I love you! I miss you! More than any silly little mark of exclamation could convey.

salam alaikum,
Sister E.

ps:::So rainy season's in full force, which I love, but combined with the too-chilled AC hotel lobby today and the palm trees ripped by wind just outside the wall of window, it literally felt like winter was on its way. Strange, strange shock, to walk back outside for the first time since early morning and find it still humid, hot, and nowhere near snow. I was very tricked by it. And quite miss the Seasons.

pps:::Here is an Indonesian word I like: nyong. It's like a term of affection, a title you can use to get a good friend's attention or explain thanks/love----like, "Makasih, nyong" It's got such beautiful sound to it. One of those things I know I won't be able to shake for the rest of my life.

ppps:::The Elders tried to get me to help translate today. Ha, very funny. Except that Elder Supri___ was totally serious. "Sister! You already know Indonesian! You can do it, I saw you speak on Sunday!" Because those were gospel words, Elder. Not international economics/development/governmental policy. Plus, when I'm put under any kind of pressure I break a little, suddenly stupid. Oh, it's such a long ways to go! Some days I think, Hey! This is such a trick! I'm speaking a foreign language like it's my own! And then other days it's more like Hmm, yes. Indonesian. Doesn't that go something like "Selamat Pagi," or something? Followed by frustration because I kind of want more than anything to be able to really speak this language I love so I can really communicate with the people I love.

:::Rosetta Stone:::

2009-11-24T19:27:00.005-07:00

2009-11-16T21:20:00.011-07:00

Email ::: 11 November 09
So I'm kind of in love with Indonesia. Like skipping up the street, singing in the rain, I-don't-care-who-knows-it in love with Indonesia. Last night I was walking home with Sister M, the streets glittering with what little light penetrates the dark here to catch a reflection in the residue of recent rain, families gathered on front porches and curb-sides to share food or newspapers or stories, the air crisp and clean after a storm . . . we were singing Primary Songs in Indo and I never wanted it to end. And maybe it was because I saw a particularly dashing vintage Peter Pan illustration at the Mal yesterday, but I was feeling a little bit NeverNeverland. A little Lost Boys, a little full of flight, a little made of magic. Lately, it's all I can do to stop smiling.

And this is all still in Jakarta, mind you. I had four days with Sister S before she was transferred to Bandung with Sister A, and then it was just me, M, C and the new sisters to stay in JakSel. More Americans by a long run, and it's making me dizzy. When Presiden gave us the verdict last Saturday, I was a little up in arms about the imbalance. How dare he take my Indonesians away from me! But then it was all okay because I just decided I'll become Indonesian in Sister S's place and we'll be halfway back to well. And I already like sambil ["Sambil is the Indonesian version of Japanese wasabi. It is made from grinding up all sorts of “chili” peppers and it seems to be a contest to see how hot people can make it!" thanks Eric C.!] and Bahasa Jawa [the Javanese language], so it was a logical step anyway.

So now it's me, M, and H in a trio, which has been some real fun and some real (relative) success these past few days. I'm going to have to cut a lot of corners here as I only have five legitimate minutes left of emailing (stretch it to fifteen . . .), but here's the gist:

We have a progressive investigator. And not just progressive, maybe golden. Sister S and I met her at the mall with Sister Lily ages ago, and just in the last two weeks she started calling again, and has wanted to meet with us everyday since. She's 25, intelligent and educated and curious and thoughtful and yesterday testified to us that the BoM was true. We'd taught her about the Plan of Salvation. . ., and afterwards we're asking how she's feeling, if there are any questions, etc, and she sat still for a moment, gathering her thoughts together, one hand on the Bible open on her left knee, and the other on the BoM to her right. "It's true," she said. "It just. Makes. Sense."

Cue the Hallelujah chorus. You have no idea how amazing it felt to finally teach someone who could put the pieces together and see not only how they made a picture as a whole, but how they fit right into their personal picture, too. With that initial opener, she then went on to say how incredible she felt to hear that families can be together forever, that there was a life before this one and that there's a life after it, too. She said how she called us because she knew something was missing in her life, but she felt whole whenever she was with us. She told us how she'd gone home after her first lesson with us and called up her sister, telling her about this new scripture she just had to read.

The catch? She's moving. And yeah, we've already sent in the referral, but it's going all the way to America. Because she's off to law school in South Carolina on Sunday.

Still. Investigator. Glory, glory hallelujah.

And now it's a storm to beat anything I've yet to see here, and we've got to go back out into it. I'm sorry there's not more story and substance here, but I've felt a real disconnect in my thoughts since I sat down to the computer an hour ago and it's just not working like I want it to and (as usual) there's just far too much to say. The basics: happy and hopeful. Love Sister M. Sister H a welcome, witty addition to the companionship. Rainy Season=win. As always, heart the members most.

Kind of never want to leave right now.

love you.

Sister E.

ps: I can speak Indonesian! Crazy talk. I love it. And love you. Always.

Last Week ::: Part Two

2009-11-08T21:56:00.003-07:00

. . . the major moment being PLD (Zone Conference).

It was bound to be good, seeing as we've been looking forward to it for weeks now. That first week we arrived was our last one, so on parting the five MTC originals were all handshakes and promises that we'd see each other at least by next PLD. Which turned out to be a little untrue---Elder G and SisLily have left us for the Solo PLD these days---but the reunion was no less joyous. Plus, it was only the beginning of a full weekend of gathering; our PLD coincided with District Conference for all of Java Barat, which meant we got a General Authority in the mix, too.

Elder Kent D. Watson presided. Presided, uplifted, enlightened----the gist of his lessons and presence will have to wait for a letter (things on the more emotional side are never any good to explain in the rush of a time constraint). His wife was especially engouraging, and just the general atmosphere of the meeting was something I've missed for a while; it was all the electricity of an MTC Sunday, with the added vivacity of being together as missionaries, as feeling some sort of unity in a country that constantly makes us feel the smallest drop of water in a tumbling storm. Within fifteen minutes of the opening prayer, I was feeling pretty good about life.

Until it came to talks----every PLD the message goes out from President what the topic will be (usually you can choose from 3-5 principles of PMG) and we're expected to prepare a three minute ceramah just in case it's our name called from the pulpit. That's the way it's presented on the program, too: Ceramah . . . . Mungkin Anda (Talk . . . Maybe You). And wouldn't you know it, by an inspired process of revelation known only to a GA, Elder Watson pulled my name out of his pocket. Mine, Elder S, and Elder M.

Which was okay, because I was prepared! Two pages written out in neat Indonesian script so I wouldn't miss a syllable of pronunciation, with clear references to the scriptures I would include if asked to speak on Hope. Except that Elder Watson, as the power and authority at the meeting, put a new spin on things: If you had been serving longer than a year, you had to use your second language. So Indos in English and Americans in Indo. But, if you had been here less than a year, you would share your thoughts in your mother tongue.

And there went my talk.

Because, given that I'd prepared it in Indonesian, it was a lot more simple than I would have kept it to had I been given the chance to speak in English. And there I was, given the chance. Luckily Elder S took the stand before me (delivering an address on Charity in fluid English, I might add), and by the time M got up to go next, I'd arranged enough of my thought into a somewhat workable outline that allowed me to listen to my former DL in relative peace.

It was classic Elder M, very simple and balanced but powerful to every point. And I couldn't help but smile; he'd chosen Hope, too. When I got up to follow him, I mentioned that we were definitely on the same wavelength still, as these last two months have been something of a crash-course in the principle. And then . . . I just talked. For exactly three minutes, managing to say all I needed to say and, in a true manifestation of the Spirit, saying it the way I wanted it said. It was a really good experience for me, realizing that I have changed these past four months, that an assignment that would usually mean excruciating hours working every last word to perfection and then read from the pulpit had become an easier thing for me, a rush, even. I didn't do it all on my own, of course, but it was still the push I needed to feel a little more the strength I've slowly cultivated since arriving in the MTC only four months ago.

Right. So if that's not enough, the rest of the PLD was super stellar, and then the very next day we all got to meet again with the Jakarta saints and then as missionaries at Senopati for a Halloween dinner, that ended in us singing Called to Serve in the loudest chorus we could muster, all 30 crammed about the piano where Elder L pounded the keys with little attention to any musical marks other than Forte all around. Sunday we taxied to Senayin, where the saints of West Java filled an entire conference room full with hymn and prayer and the little Primary choir that started it all was enough to break your heart and bind it up all over again. Joy, so much joy. It was the soaring high we all needed---numbers are lower than I would even want to tell you and it's only a sight like Saints that could overcome it.

I've got to sign off on this epistle if I'm ever going to get to pictures and a few more quick answers, too. Apologize for all the ADD. Love you.

Sister E.

And now for something completely different:::

2009-11-08T21:28:00.002-07:00

Keluargaku yang terkasih:::

I'm just going to let you know from the get-go that I have yet to read a single email of yours this week---nor will I until I return home later tonight, and revel in the printed version for the quiet hour before bed. It's not because I don't love you, it's not because I don't need you; it's because the last seven days were Splendid + Extraordinary, and I plan to do them justice even with only an hour to write.

And yet even that needs another disclaimer: please do not expect anything especially spiritual in the following paragraphs. My adventures of late have not been so heavenly and I'm about to rattle on about baby tigers and cowboy shows.

Yep. You heard that right. I have officially fulfilled any dream I could've ever dreamt and today, this very day, spent the morning in company of wee leopards and lions, plus an orangutan and a particularly saliva-blessed zebra. Taman Safari Indonesia, family! Put it in your planners, because this is one thing I can't exaggerate: this little gem just outside Bogor is the Best Zoo in All the World.

Plus, it was all a secret. Sisters Trip. Elders in the dark. We meet up with Millecams and Reebers (the other mission couple assigned to Jak) in the church parking lot at 8, and got out of there as quick as we could, escaping to the mountains in the black mission vans with the angel Moroni trumpeting from the back window. The drive alone was worth it---Indonesia! It is green! It is beautiful! There is life outside the capital!---but the Safari itself? Magical. First you pay all of 7 bucks for your entire car to get through, passing about a hundred signs that warn you not to feed the animals, keep your windows closed, etc---and then promptly roll down all windows and pull out the box of carrots and bananas you've just bought in bulk at the pasar down the road. For the first hour it was just winding up through this wild jungle, feeding anything that came close enough. Which was just about everything---zebras, camels, antelope, strange-striped deer only found in Sumatra, hippos, rhinos, giraffes, the works. Oh, llamas. Those are so weird-looking. Anyway, we're just feeding these crazy animals, no big deal. Also hilarious because I'm the only one who would stick my arm out the window and offer a bunch of carrots or a banana, half-peeled. Indonesians are unbelievably frightable (word?), and my companions spent most of the ride squealing in the back seat.

So there I am, living my PetVet Dream at new heights, when we arrive to the main concouse and the BABY PETTING ZOO. Which is where I commenced a bit of squealing, too because HAVE YOU EVER SEEN LITTLE BABY WILDCATS UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL?!? Sorry about the shouting; the five-year-old in me hasn't quite worn off yet. It deserves the capitalization, though, and I've got the pictures to prove it. Maybe we'll just leave it at that?

Except, real quick: favorite part of the whole wild ride: the elephants. I could've spent hours at the Gajah Plaza, feeling a friendly trunk wrap about my wrist or snuff against my back in search of more bananas. They're so beautiful, these giant works of nature, and so gentle---though that didn't stop all the Indos from their constant worry. "Jangan!" they kept shouting, shying from the beasts as I reached up to wrap my arm around a neck. "Sister! Awas! Awas!" Bonus: Being called brave all day was a beautiful irony I more or less reveled in. When I sat with the mum panther, for example, a whole crowd of Indians had gathered to watch the spectacle (Team India!) and just kept saying over and over again, "So brave, so brave!" And I really loved to imagine them gathered about me on any other typical Indonesian day, as I hesitated to talk to the person next to me on a bus or angkot. Big cats? No problem. Actual missionary work? Hmm . . . still got a ways to go.

This just in. . . a photo courtesy of Sis. M, senior missionary extraordinaire and resident photographer:

2009-10-30T22:51:00.006-06:00

Sister E looks up from her school kit packing duties. At current count,
17,000 backpacks filled with school supplies have been sent to the
earthquake-devastated area. Sis. M reports that the Church also
sent 200 huge army tents to be used as temporary schools.