email excerpts:::21 July

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:::

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:::

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

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

:::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:::

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:::

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.