The next thing that I want to address is the relationship between men women.
Within in the context of Heavenly Mother the question was raised at the conference if her silent roll is a platform in which male dominance takes root in the construct of Church hierarchy and within marital rolls. The issue of women being the purported more capable and spiritual sex yet being kept from positions and callings in the church that they could affect the most good was raised as well.
In Kate Holbrook’s paper she brought up the concept of “bishopric” and proposed the idea of taking the term from a noun to an adjective thereby making it accessible to everyone. Like by finding a way to truly do good you are finding your personal bishopric and not limiting yourself to what you think is your conventional roll. She sited a few opportunities that she has had to be a female voice of council to formal Bishoprics (as in governing bodies in a ward) as well as of women that have carved out their own.
Both of these concepts exist in very similar spaces in my brain and there was something I wanted to say when we were discussing Kate Holbrook’s paper that I didn’t get a chance to. The discussion at the time was surrounding the plausibility of reconstructing Bishoprics to include a female voice and Mary clarified that that wasn’t her assertion at all and that she didn’t want to get excommunicated. I gathered that she was just trying to clarify her meaning. I got when she was presenting and got lost in my head about similar experiences I’ve had a female voice of council to leaders which I’ll get to later.
This exchange saddened me because 1) the person that was feeling strongly about reconstruction must have cause. Meaning they must have had one or a number of Priesthood holders or Bishoprics that didn’t understand their calling and abused their position. I was talking to my dad about the conference and this topic this morning. Watching my dad assimilate information is fascinating. He will listen to a room full of people discussing ideas and be totally silent. Then he’ll sit and you can practically see him classifying, sorting and considering information through all his lawyer filters in his brain and then he’ll come back to you with one sentence or thought that makes it all make sense. His thought on all this was “Well they (meaning Bishoprics/husbands) don’t understand the scriptures then. They need to read DC 121” I agree with him. 2) because of this angst they (meaning people arguing about reconstruction), and probably a lot of other people, are missing the mark.
This is the comment that I wanted to make – power dynamics is a sexy fun topic. Insomuch that it painfully seduces and distracts from the real issues at hand. Women and men arguing over bishopric assignments and titles are wasting precious time and energy. The point is (and this is the welfare missionary in me talking) there is a lot of work to do! like, A LOT. There are a lot of people that need real help and they need it right now. Testimonies are failing, children are hungry and people are scared. Sitting in an office or classroom sparing about who is in charge doesn’t help ANY of that. Also, this is The Lord's work, not our own. We get the opportunity to have a part but those people in need are His first and last thought and I would assert they should be ours as well.
We all have a called Bishop and if he is a good Bishop (if he understands the scriptures as my dad says) then his first and last concern is everyone outside the office, not inside and I would optimistically assert that a Bishopric true to their calling would love and welcome any earnest voice and pair of hands that is looking for their own personal bishopric to use Kate’s term. Kate’s voice was probably welcomed on the Bishoprics she served on because she earnestly wanted to do some good. The job of a Bishopric is almost overwhelming. I think it would be silly to assume that they would refuse an honest intent to help. If someone was approaching them (male and female) alike with a “desire to help” but they really just want to is a chair in a meeting and to feel in power then it’s no wonder that they, the Bishopric, would delicately decline. The Spirit has a way of giving those mal-intended types a certain odor and, speaking as a former leader, you can smell them a mile a way.
When I was a missionary I reveled in the fact that I didn’t have to worry about getting called to leadership. I LOVED the fact that I free to do the work that I came to do without distraction or stress. With my leaders that I was close to I was impolitic to gloat over the fact. I would assert that a real leader is one who is committed to the grass roots effort and nothing else. There was an elder in my mission who I was very close with and learned a lot from. His name was Elder Hughes. He was an English missionary and me a Spanish one but he was a leader of mine from practically my first transfer. He was either my roommates District leader, my Zone leader or my Assistant my entire mission. He was a stand out missionary and that’s why he was trusted with what he was. When my first president was going home he was pulled into the office as an assistant after being in the field for a little more than year. This was unheard of in my mission. He stayed there for 9 months and when he was looking at the end of his mission he begged to be go back into the Field and he did. He came to my zone as a ZL and it was some of the most productive time everyone in my zone had on their mission. He never stopped being committed to his call or was seduced by the allurements of office. I consider him to be a real gem and a great example of true leadership. Someone who understands the scriptures.
We’re building a kingdom here people. Stop arguing over who get a shovel and who gets a wheelbarrow. Just get to work and cut the Adversaries puppet strings yeah?
I think it's this attitude that got me pulled into my mission president's office. I was being the best missionary I could be at the time and being blessed with success. I had mastered my assigned language despite being called to my own country and was looking at finishing strong and free of distractions.
It was then that President asked me to "help him out". The DC South is a fascinating mission. We had a lot of sisters. We weren't the visitor center mission, that was the North mission but we had more sisters in ours. At one point there were 200 missionaries 75 of which were sisters 14 of which were Spanish sisters like myself and 6 of which were Vietnamese sisters like my roommates for my whole mission had been.
President was dealing with a few problem sisters. Ones that he just didn't know what to do with and he had exhausted all his ideas. He called me in to "do what he couldn't do and help him where he couldn't help" so I became what they call a Traveling Sister. I had two principle assignments - one being my comp and the other being my roommate. I flitted about my last transfer helping and juicing up other sisters that needed a booster shot as well. I felt super inadequate to the task. I had been in the best area of the mission for 6 months with the same comp for 6 months who I adored. We had gotten to the point that we didn't really know how to function without each other. All I wanted to do was keep working where I was till they shoved me kicking and screaming on the plane. But there were sisters that President felt that I needed to help so that's what I did. There were some that I dragged kicking and screaming out of the apartment and made them talk to strangers and get to work. There were others I sat down with and said in no uncertain terms that they weren't being missionaries, they were just waiting for their boyfriends in the wrong place and they needed to pray about going home. There were some that we got to the Dr and got them the anti-depressants they needed (that was fun) and they finished well. It was a roller coaster of a transfer, I'm not going to lie.
The strangest part wasn't getting ready to go home, it was being an extension of the office for the first time as a missionary. To talk to my mission President like an equal and not missionary to President. I spent a lot more time with him and his wife and staff than I ever thought I would because all I ever thought or wanted to be was a missionary. The sisters I worked with changed me and I hope that I changed them. Some shaped up and some didn't, some finished, some went home early. It was all a cluster but a didactic one. I think President had a more functional mission because he had to good sense to see and address the needs of his sisters and I for a brief moment felt a part of council. Sitting in on meetings with the Assistants and President was something else. I felt at home though. I spoke their language strangely. I credit this to my upbringing as well
Which leads me to the second half of this set of ideas - the supposed Silent(ced) Heavenly Mother and the Priesthood Preside/domination platform. More on that tomorrow...
Showing posts with label Mission. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mission. Show all posts
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Just Like Him
I know that I get a bit carried away sometimes. Superlatives seem to pepper my thoughts more than accuracy might allot. I realize that this may diminish the veracity or viscosity of those thoughts but there are a few things I feel and love so deeply that there aren't superlatives enough.A few being 1) how strongly I feel about The Gospel of Jesus Christ 2) how amazing I think my family is 3) how well my mother cooks (when she's not running after marbles) 4) the virtues of a good nights sleep and 5) How much I admire the Founding Fathers, namely The General and John Adams.
I'm currently in the middle of Netflixing the HBO John Adams series and have found myself hand-over-heart weeping or throat-clutching involved at this account of Independence (Like tonight. Like 20 min ago) namely the parts with The General. John Adams and The General had a fascinating relationship. Adams, who was made of some of the staunchest moral fiber, constantly found himself chagrined and amazed by The General. It was Adams who nominated The General to be The General as a matter of fact. File that little factoid away for the next cocktail party...
Every time I see any likeness of The General all I want to do is go give him a huge hug. That may be ridiculously irreverent but its the truth. The loving daughter to a trusted father cling around the rib cage hug. I feel a special connection to him. I know my mission ridiculously contributed to it. I spent half of it in Alexandria and the entire town is essentially a shrine to George Washington. I started my mission there in the Mt. Vernon Stake. My church building was on George Washington parkway right on the Potomac, a quarter mile down the road from the doorway of Mt. Vernon. The amazing picture of The General kneeling in prayer at Valley Forge was in the entrance and I saw it nearly every day and was moved by it, him, the story and the parallel to my own call every time. It was the first building I went in as a missionary and the last one I went out of. I swore I would have that exact same picture in my home and I would teach my children all about him. He was my unofficial mission president because he was just as much of a North Star and example as I had in my mission president of excellence, perseverance, duty, love, humility and godly strength.
The General was an extraordinary man because he was a simple man and I love him most for that. He maintained it despite the maelstrom of times that he lived in. He loved his wife. He loved Nature, he loved God and loved his Country and fellow man. He loved all of them so much he did everything he could to serve them. Now The General wasn't perfect. He was a solider and slave owner and a number of other things that led the way wide open for folly and foibles but I think his angles shouted his demons down more often that most men can boast.
He knowingly set down power not once, but twice and both times returned to his fields and pastures at Mt. Vernon. He was a quiet man, a still man, a soft spoken man, a great man. I love him very much and owe more than I can say.
I know I'm not alone with these feelings. In fact I probably run the risk of cliche saying so but its the truth and it's how I feel.
God bless The General and God bless America.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Putting Away Childish Things
A retrospective on Presidential Inaugurations
I don't talk about my mission too much on here. Maybe I'll get on a rope or two if we're actually chatting but my heart is so full of memory and hope and perspective today that I just can't help it.
I served 18 months in Washington DC. I saw those memorials and that river every day for 18 months and those images are inseparably connected to the deepest convictions of Faith and Love I have in my soul. I can't tell you what it was like standing shoulder to shoulder with people leading and protecting the Free World with my little black name tag on serving with everything I had too, but just a little differently. The seat of world power was blocks away but the power to change lives was in my hands. Everyday I mused on that delicate juxtaposition, on the difference between the senator's Lincoln next to my Missionary Escort in traffic and what it meant. What the concept of home is and how hard you work for it to protect it and share it.
In turn, my patriotism is a blue flame along side the white one of my faith. I cannot see one without the other. So today, seeing those people and hearing those words again touched deep places in me.
I was there at the last one.
I was there during the initial chaos after the aftermath of the election. A group of the Sister Missionaries had inadvertently gotten a group together to go visit the Pentagon the day after the election and got an acted out play-by-play of the previous night's antics from obliging Marine waiting to give the next tour since we didn't have a clue as to what was going on.
For the next few weeks we glanced at headlines to see if they had figured it out yet but the unsettled and annoyed feeling that a fumbled election can create permeated the entire capital. It was a potent, slow crescendo of angst and fear all the way to Inauguration Day. When they day finally came it was psycho bitter cold. Like 10 degrees and 90% humidity with a threat of freezing rain. They almost canceled the ceremonies twice. My mission president gave us leave to attend if we wanted to. My companion didn't want to go and neither did my roommate so I grabbed my other roommate and we found the nearest metro and set out.
We don't get out too much as missionaries but enough to know what things are usually like and enough to know that today was different. I didn't carry any heavy opinions about Bush or the fiasco that had followed election day. I was just really glad to be a part of something this big but the people on the packed metro didn't feel the same. They were quiet. And not the content quiet, oh no. It was the angry and deep thinking quiet.
Things continued to get more and more eerie as we made our way to the Mall area. There were more protesters there than participants and not kind of silly loud jovial protesters, these were people with who had painted their faces black and held angry angry signs.
Now imagine, milling through all these charged people were these Texas fat cats. Middle aged rounded men in leather trench coats with gold tipped vanity canes, eel skin boots, and fine leather 10 gallon hats strutting through the crowd like peacocks. It was almost as if they were surveying some conquered new acquisition. It was so mind numbingly cold that all I really can draw from memory are images. They, and the overwhelming feelings permeating everything was all that stuck. Most of my energy that days was focused on keeping warm and not complaining about it. There wasn't much left to really soak in what all these people and things meant. Only the eeriness and stark contrast of the kinds of people around that day remain and it still feels like yesterday.
We layered up as best we could be we still were in our missionary skirts and nylons. I had my pea coat and a hat and scarf and 2 pairs of long johns on as well but wet cold knows no boundaries.
We stood there for the whole hour and a half service and clapped and sang and prayed with our new President and when it was over we started to walk away but my legs gave because they had become numb from the knees on down. We staggered over to the National Gallery to warm up and digest what had just happened and got on the metro and were home by 11. We took pictures by the CNN jumbo screen and all that but that day has haunted me more than I think I realize.
So flash forward to Jan 20th, 2009:
Today was huge in my house. I know that I'm not bashful with my political leanings but I know some people are so I don't touch on it too often to be respectful but I would like to take a moment and reflect and explain why today was a Today.
My mother was a dedicated Civil Rights mover and shaker in her time. She held her signs and sang her folk music and sat in with all that her huge heart could muster. Its a dedication that she's handed off to us. She called me up crying on election night when I was at Institute and could only say "we did it" through her tears.
Just last week she came into my room weeping because it had hit her for the 3rd or 4th time that a good man, a strong man, a hopeful and bright man who was also a black man was taking office. This was a win that my mother has been aching for for 40 years. A real hard copy of the social evolution she devoted most of her early life to. Civil Rights was part of how my mother has observed her faith testimony so today was holy day seeing that wrong made right and I cried with her. I kept reminding her we're only half way there and she smiled and laughed but the sentiment remains the same I think.
Experiencing 1.20.09 with my mom was rare. Her life experience and mine combined in the same room and sharing the same box of kleenex but for different reasons was singular.
On the TV I saw miles and miles of people, packed to the gills in the freezing weather happy and hopeful. When I was there there was extra room in the Mall. I saw a sunny beautiful day with hopeful blue skies, not threatening freezing rain. I saw people bowed in prayer not being knocked over by people walking away as my head was bowed too. I saw a whole different America with a whole different attitude.
I would like to thank Mr. Bush in my really little way for his work. I don't know the man at all but he was my President and that is not an easy thing to be. But its something he did for 8 years after an insane life and I thank him for fulfilling his oath the best way he knew how. I truly wish him well and hope he has the peace hes been chasing after all these years.
1.20.09 has reminded me of a few things too.
Like every American, I've always craved a large life.
I wanted see huge significant things and think profound lasting thoughts and feel all encompassing feelings and do significant, lasting things. I want my life and the lines on my hands to mean something, not just be something.
I want to speak to 1000s of people at a time and feel the earth moving beneath my feet and see hearts stirring in the eyes of the people I meet. I want to stand for ideas and things that are bigger than me. Like Love and Work and God and Hope. I want to have stories and battle scars. My dream was to be a modern day Spartan. To be that good. To be that tough. To be that committed to what I love.
And on Inauguration Day, for a brief second, maybe even a few, seeing that empowered fleet people I felt apart of something bigger - I felt like I was. Like I did. Like I am.
I don't talk about my mission too much on here. Maybe I'll get on a rope or two if we're actually chatting but my heart is so full of memory and hope and perspective today that I just can't help it.
I served 18 months in Washington DC. I saw those memorials and that river every day for 18 months and those images are inseparably connected to the deepest convictions of Faith and Love I have in my soul. I can't tell you what it was like standing shoulder to shoulder with people leading and protecting the Free World with my little black name tag on serving with everything I had too, but just a little differently. The seat of world power was blocks away but the power to change lives was in my hands. Everyday I mused on that delicate juxtaposition, on the difference between the senator's Lincoln next to my Missionary Escort in traffic and what it meant. What the concept of home is and how hard you work for it to protect it and share it.
In turn, my patriotism is a blue flame along side the white one of my faith. I cannot see one without the other. So today, seeing those people and hearing those words again touched deep places in me.
I was there at the last one.
I was there during the initial chaos after the aftermath of the election. A group of the Sister Missionaries had inadvertently gotten a group together to go visit the Pentagon the day after the election and got an acted out play-by-play of the previous night's antics from obliging Marine waiting to give the next tour since we didn't have a clue as to what was going on.
For the next few weeks we glanced at headlines to see if they had figured it out yet but the unsettled and annoyed feeling that a fumbled election can create permeated the entire capital. It was a potent, slow crescendo of angst and fear all the way to Inauguration Day. When they day finally came it was psycho bitter cold. Like 10 degrees and 90% humidity with a threat of freezing rain. They almost canceled the ceremonies twice. My mission president gave us leave to attend if we wanted to. My companion didn't want to go and neither did my roommate so I grabbed my other roommate and we found the nearest metro and set out.
We don't get out too much as missionaries but enough to know what things are usually like and enough to know that today was different. I didn't carry any heavy opinions about Bush or the fiasco that had followed election day. I was just really glad to be a part of something this big but the people on the packed metro didn't feel the same. They were quiet. And not the content quiet, oh no. It was the angry and deep thinking quiet.
Things continued to get more and more eerie as we made our way to the Mall area. There were more protesters there than participants and not kind of silly loud jovial protesters, these were people with who had painted their faces black and held angry angry signs.
Now imagine, milling through all these charged people were these Texas fat cats. Middle aged rounded men in leather trench coats with gold tipped vanity canes, eel skin boots, and fine leather 10 gallon hats strutting through the crowd like peacocks. It was almost as if they were surveying some conquered new acquisition. It was so mind numbingly cold that all I really can draw from memory are images. They, and the overwhelming feelings permeating everything was all that stuck. Most of my energy that days was focused on keeping warm and not complaining about it. There wasn't much left to really soak in what all these people and things meant. Only the eeriness and stark contrast of the kinds of people around that day remain and it still feels like yesterday.
We layered up as best we could be we still were in our missionary skirts and nylons. I had my pea coat and a hat and scarf and 2 pairs of long johns on as well but wet cold knows no boundaries.
We stood there for the whole hour and a half service and clapped and sang and prayed with our new President and when it was over we started to walk away but my legs gave because they had become numb from the knees on down. We staggered over to the National Gallery to warm up and digest what had just happened and got on the metro and were home by 11. We took pictures by the CNN jumbo screen and all that but that day has haunted me more than I think I realize.
So flash forward to Jan 20th, 2009:
Today was huge in my house. I know that I'm not bashful with my political leanings but I know some people are so I don't touch on it too often to be respectful but I would like to take a moment and reflect and explain why today was a Today.
My mother was a dedicated Civil Rights mover and shaker in her time. She held her signs and sang her folk music and sat in with all that her huge heart could muster. Its a dedication that she's handed off to us. She called me up crying on election night when I was at Institute and could only say "we did it" through her tears.
Just last week she came into my room weeping because it had hit her for the 3rd or 4th time that a good man, a strong man, a hopeful and bright man who was also a black man was taking office. This was a win that my mother has been aching for for 40 years. A real hard copy of the social evolution she devoted most of her early life to. Civil Rights was part of how my mother has observed her faith testimony so today was holy day seeing that wrong made right and I cried with her. I kept reminding her we're only half way there and she smiled and laughed but the sentiment remains the same I think.
Experiencing 1.20.09 with my mom was rare. Her life experience and mine combined in the same room and sharing the same box of kleenex but for different reasons was singular.
On the TV I saw miles and miles of people, packed to the gills in the freezing weather happy and hopeful. When I was there there was extra room in the Mall. I saw a sunny beautiful day with hopeful blue skies, not threatening freezing rain. I saw people bowed in prayer not being knocked over by people walking away as my head was bowed too. I saw a whole different America with a whole different attitude.
I would like to thank Mr. Bush in my really little way for his work. I don't know the man at all but he was my President and that is not an easy thing to be. But its something he did for 8 years after an insane life and I thank him for fulfilling his oath the best way he knew how. I truly wish him well and hope he has the peace hes been chasing after all these years.
1.20.09 has reminded me of a few things too.
Like every American, I've always craved a large life.
I wanted see huge significant things and think profound lasting thoughts and feel all encompassing feelings and do significant, lasting things. I want my life and the lines on my hands to mean something, not just be something.
I want to speak to 1000s of people at a time and feel the earth moving beneath my feet and see hearts stirring in the eyes of the people I meet. I want to stand for ideas and things that are bigger than me. Like Love and Work and God and Hope. I want to have stories and battle scars. My dream was to be a modern day Spartan. To be that good. To be that tough. To be that committed to what I love.
And on Inauguration Day, for a brief second, maybe even a few, seeing that empowered fleet people I felt apart of something bigger - I felt like I was. Like I did. Like I am.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Faces and Places
Episode II
So I know I’m drastically behind. So much aside of DC has happened that is more than blog worthy but I have to finish my DC romp memoirs.
Saturday got started a bit late. The girl’s house that I was staying at was nestled in this lovely neighborhood with perfectly trimmed hedges and lawns and was peppered with breathtaking cherry trees in full bloom. Driving around their's and my cousin’s neighborhoods literally took my breath away. I had forgotten how beautiful that part of the world is. It’s just green green green with trees and trees and trees that are hundreds of years old. The earth is just different there. Everything just feels older and more dignified. Like California would be the cool 16 year old teenage sibling of a family and Virginia is the recent Yale graduate Prada wearing older sister. It was beautiful to the point of distraction. When we were in the car I would trail off mid sentence.
“So I was thinking that it would be fun to … is that a…. wow……………………”
What was more amazing to me than the trees was the fact that I didn’t remember them. I didn't have any shining memories of the trees or them being that beautiful. I was simultaneously amazed at the sight of them but chagrined because I’d forgotten such beauty. I harped about it for a stint and I started thinking “If I can’t even remember these trees what else did I forget?” I thought about it for quite a spell and then I realized something. Chris lives in a very suburby, Anglo, upper middle class part of Arlington. I spent 99% of my time in the densely populated downtown areas of Arlington and our drives to get to them were just as urban. There simply weren’t many trees to remember so it was like getting to know a place you’ve always known all over again.
But back to the Lady-hut… the ladies that I was staying with had an over abundance of foliage in their front yard and had organized home teacher types to come over early and do the yard work thing so all hopes of sleeping in were pretty much non-existent and in the long run I think that was a good thing. Who wants to waste time sleeping when there is so much fun to be had and trees to see and fall in love with?
So I went to this fantastic pancake house place with Christian for breakfast. It’s called the Original Pancake House and for good reason. They were scrumptious pancakes that tasted like they were made by genius Puritan women. My whole time there I was continually amazed that I lived in Arlington for 6 months and it was my business to know the city and where people were and why but little things like trees and breakfast places had totally escaped me. Chris and I talked about lenses and how differently they let us see a place. Here we were, two people, in the same car, going to the same place, from the same DNA pool even, that were simultaneously in two totally different places because of the lens that we were looking through.
After a nap and some lunch, in preparation for the "Olney Decade Dance Party" the boys had slated for that night, all the roommates, Chris, the HLP and I invaded the local Goodwill looking for costume ideas. And let me tell ya, shopping with one guy is fun, thrift store shopping with him is even more fun. Now, multiply that x5 and life is downright hilarious.
All the guys got their stuff and Chris and I ventured into this one Vietnamese strip mall called the Eden Center. It was an old haunt of mine and Chris came with me through the curry scented, jade studded narrow halls of the place with the chatter of karaoke coming from the next hall over. I wanted to see if my pen store was still around but alas it wasn’t. I was very sad, but kind of relieved to see that things had changed, even a little. That progress had taken place. I dunno - its hard to explain.
It was really interesting to watch Christian take in the place. He said that he didn't know that it was there even though its 3 square blocks big and announced with 12' high Chinese dogs and a big red gate almost straight out of Mulan. It goes back to that lens thing. I’m not sure he’d seen anything like it before. Asian shopping centers can be strange to western types. You expect a shop next to a shop and what you see on the outside is what you have on the inside. Discovering the catacombs that the Eden Center is with all their cells of shops dotting the tendrilesque hallways can be another world. Worlds inside worlds as a matter of fact.
We left without encountering anyone from the Korean mafia (that we know of) and landed back at home not soon before we were due at a Gratitude Dinner the Bella Vista Ward was putting on for the Langley Singles. Bella Vista is the Spanish Ward in the McLean Stake and I served there for 6 months. They’re still bit lean on leadership so a lot of the singles help out in the primary etc and they were putting on this dinner as a Thank You. It was a perfect time to go see my old members. I was afraid that there wouldn’t be a soul there that was there when I was. DC has a tendency to be a fairly transient area but there were a few families still there from when I was there. Enough that it took me a good 45 minutes to finish my plate for constantly jumping up and saying “do you remember me?” It’s been 7 years since they would have seen me. One sister spotted me immediately and she was one of my favorites in that branch and it was all hugs and squeals for about 5 minutes. I was pretty much in heaven. The current bishop was in the Stake Presidency when I was there and he was amazing. I’ve never worked with more involved and fantastic leadership. They were constantly around but didn’t stifle or hover. I just felt completely and totally supported and cheered on. Every member of the Stake Presidency knew my name, the name of my investigators, the names of my retention and where each one was. I think that’s one of my favorite parts of serving in DC. The area has a tendency to attract superlatives of whatever given field they happen to be in and that excellence is totally translated into callings. It was wonderful to see him again, he remembered me and went around introducing me as his daughter. Oh how I love that sweet man! It really was like coming home in so many ways.
That night after the dinner was The Party. Christian and his roommates throw a Spring event every year and they decided to correlate my visit and the shindig and I will be eternally grateful. I’ve never been to a Mormon house party like this one. Like ever. They turned their entire basement into a dance hall complete with black lights, disco balls and glow sticks. The glowy things were everywhere actually. You know those glowing spaghetti things you buy at Disneyland at night that are cold and you can loop them around your wrists or put them together for necklaces or what not? Yeah – literally everywhere and it was awesome. The Mountain Dew flowed, the base boomed, the volleyball ensued and all was pure awesome in Arlington that night. The boys were hilarious. One dressed up like J.J. from Good Times, one
was an 80’s Michael Jackson, Chris was a homage to Kurt Cobain complete with flannel and ripped jeans, the HLP was Rick Astley, and the last one was someone from Balls of Fury or something like that. I couldn’t place him how much I tried.
I downed a few Dews and took a shot or two of the Redline Chris was good enough to get me in hopes I could get my energy up to party level but I was just tapped. That and I was almost completely lost in my head with all the mission revisits and people.
I can’t even begin to tell you how much I desperately love the people I served in DC. I did everything I could to be the best version of myself for them and for the Lord and coming back to it all and seeing them and still being the amazingly flawed person I am was difficult for me. The thought of facing them back at LAX almost landed me in tears more than once. I think that’s why I’ve put off a mission trip for so long. I wanted to be perfectly educated and perfectly married and perfectly healthy so I could come back all shiney and they could be proud of me. I feel the same way about my family, I know they love me and don’t expect perfection from me (or anyone for that matter) and if anyone is aware of how imperfect I am, it would be them. But because I think so highly of them and they all seem to be a lot closer to the mark than I am I find myself seeing those imperfections with much more clarity when I'm around them. So the more aware of how off I am the less inclined I tend to be about coming out. But I refuse to be held hostage by my fears and insecurities and often idealism is just a fancy name tag for insecurities so I decided to just go and be the best version of myself that I could muster, despite how fearful I am of being judged and in spite of the internal din of my own self-judgment. It was a lot to balance in the midst of this extravagant party with all the amazing and fun people that Christian knows. I hope I didn’t look like a distracted dope. That and jet laggy exhaustion didn’t help. Word to the wise: Do not ever take red eyes cross country and not give yourself a day to recuperate because it practically killed me.
I crashed, once again, far too late than I should have and was up earlier than I should have been, packed my bags, headed to church, dodged what part of the deluge that was the weather that day, and found myself back on a plane coming home to a place that felt a little bit less like home. I sat next to a very nice girl from PA who was going out to Hollywood to make a go of an acting career and a guy who was an engineer for MySpace. It was a fantastic ride home. All five and a half hours of it. They even played a Gerard Butler movie. I invited my new friend to church with me. Time was so tight that I went directly from church to a dinner to the airport still in my church clothes and there wasn’t time to change so I boarded the flight heals, skirt, pearls and all so she asked me where I was coming from and I said “church” and that spawned a whole conversation. It was awesome and very fitting coming home from my mission, again. It was all very sobering. I'm glad I had Gerry along for the ride.
I couldn’t help but imagine the floor of the plane being a running picture of all of the land and space that I was putting between me and the Potomac. I saw the Ozarks and the Mississippi, fields and fields of grain, The Rockies, the Grand Canyon all pass underneath me, putting me farther and farther from things I love but also getting me close to other things I love. I have a feeling that that flight is always going to be rough. Going from some place that feels like home to the place you call home will always be strange. It’s like you’re never going to stop saying goodbye to something you desperately love. Ever.
But thats what you sign up for when you do decide love something right? The reality that it can and probably will go away or you will have to go away but the hope that you or it can always come back .
And if there is one thing that cherry blossoms in the spring can whisper it's hope.
So I know I’m drastically behind. So much aside of DC has happened that is more than blog worthy but I have to finish my DC romp memoirs.
Saturday got started a bit late. The girl’s house that I was staying at was nestled in this lovely neighborhood with perfectly trimmed hedges and lawns and was peppered with breathtaking cherry trees in full bloom. Driving around their's and my cousin’s neighborhoods literally took my breath away. I had forgotten how beautiful that part of the world is. It’s just green green green with trees and trees and trees that are hundreds of years old. The earth is just different there. Everything just feels older and more dignified. Like California would be the cool 16 year old teenage sibling of a family and Virginia is the recent Yale graduate Prada wearing older sister. It was beautiful to the point of distraction. When we were in the car I would trail off mid sentence.
“So I was thinking that it would be fun to … is that a…. wow……………………”
What was more amazing to me than the trees was the fact that I didn’t remember them. I didn't have any shining memories of the trees or them being that beautiful. I was simultaneously amazed at the sight of them but chagrined because I’d forgotten such beauty. I harped about it for a stint and I started thinking “If I can’t even remember these trees what else did I forget?” I thought about it for quite a spell and then I realized something. Chris lives in a very suburby, Anglo, upper middle class part of Arlington. I spent 99% of my time in the densely populated downtown areas of Arlington and our drives to get to them were just as urban. There simply weren’t many trees to remember so it was like getting to know a place you’ve always known all over again.
But back to the Lady-hut… the ladies that I was staying with had an over abundance of foliage in their front yard and had organized home teacher types to come over early and do the yard work thing so all hopes of sleeping in were pretty much non-existent and in the long run I think that was a good thing. Who wants to waste time sleeping when there is so much fun to be had and trees to see and fall in love with?
So I went to this fantastic pancake house place with Christian for breakfast. It’s called the Original Pancake House and for good reason. They were scrumptious pancakes that tasted like they were made by genius Puritan women. My whole time there I was continually amazed that I lived in Arlington for 6 months and it was my business to know the city and where people were and why but little things like trees and breakfast places had totally escaped me. Chris and I talked about lenses and how differently they let us see a place. Here we were, two people, in the same car, going to the same place, from the same DNA pool even, that were simultaneously in two totally different places because of the lens that we were looking through.
After a nap and some lunch, in preparation for the "Olney Decade Dance Party" the boys had slated for that night, all the roommates, Chris, the HLP and I invaded the local Goodwill looking for costume ideas. And let me tell ya, shopping with one guy is fun, thrift store shopping with him is even more fun. Now, multiply that x5 and life is downright hilarious.
All the guys got their stuff and Chris and I ventured into this one Vietnamese strip mall called the Eden Center. It was an old haunt of mine and Chris came with me through the curry scented, jade studded narrow halls of the place with the chatter of karaoke coming from the next hall over. I wanted to see if my pen store was still around but alas it wasn’t. I was very sad, but kind of relieved to see that things had changed, even a little. That progress had taken place. I dunno - its hard to explain.
It was really interesting to watch Christian take in the place. He said that he didn't know that it was there even though its 3 square blocks big and announced with 12' high Chinese dogs and a big red gate almost straight out of Mulan. It goes back to that lens thing. I’m not sure he’d seen anything like it before. Asian shopping centers can be strange to western types. You expect a shop next to a shop and what you see on the outside is what you have on the inside. Discovering the catacombs that the Eden Center is with all their cells of shops dotting the tendrilesque hallways can be another world. Worlds inside worlds as a matter of fact.
We left without encountering anyone from the Korean mafia (that we know of) and landed back at home not soon before we were due at a Gratitude Dinner the Bella Vista Ward was putting on for the Langley Singles. Bella Vista is the Spanish Ward in the McLean Stake and I served there for 6 months. They’re still bit lean on leadership so a lot of the singles help out in the primary etc and they were putting on this dinner as a Thank You. It was a perfect time to go see my old members. I was afraid that there wouldn’t be a soul there that was there when I was. DC has a tendency to be a fairly transient area but there were a few families still there from when I was there. Enough that it took me a good 45 minutes to finish my plate for constantly jumping up and saying “do you remember me?” It’s been 7 years since they would have seen me. One sister spotted me immediately and she was one of my favorites in that branch and it was all hugs and squeals for about 5 minutes. I was pretty much in heaven. The current bishop was in the Stake Presidency when I was there and he was amazing. I’ve never worked with more involved and fantastic leadership. They were constantly around but didn’t stifle or hover. I just felt completely and totally supported and cheered on. Every member of the Stake Presidency knew my name, the name of my investigators, the names of my retention and where each one was. I think that’s one of my favorite parts of serving in DC. The area has a tendency to attract superlatives of whatever given field they happen to be in and that excellence is totally translated into callings. It was wonderful to see him again, he remembered me and went around introducing me as his daughter. Oh how I love that sweet man! It really was like coming home in so many ways.
That night after the dinner was The Party. Christian and his roommates throw a Spring event every year and they decided to correlate my visit and the shindig and I will be eternally grateful. I’ve never been to a Mormon house party like this one. Like ever. They turned their entire basement into a dance hall complete with black lights, disco balls and glow sticks. The glowy things were everywhere actually. You know those glowing spaghetti things you buy at Disneyland at night that are cold and you can loop them around your wrists or put them together for necklaces or what not? Yeah – literally everywhere and it was awesome. The Mountain Dew flowed, the base boomed, the volleyball ensued and all was pure awesome in Arlington that night. The boys were hilarious. One dressed up like J.J. from Good Times, one
was an 80’s Michael Jackson, Chris was a homage to Kurt Cobain complete with flannel and ripped jeans, the HLP was Rick Astley, and the last one was someone from Balls of Fury or something like that. I couldn’t place him how much I tried.I downed a few Dews and took a shot or two of the Redline Chris was good enough to get me in hopes I could get my energy up to party level but I was just tapped. That and I was almost completely lost in my head with all the mission revisits and people.
I can’t even begin to tell you how much I desperately love the people I served in DC. I did everything I could to be the best version of myself for them and for the Lord and coming back to it all and seeing them and still being the amazingly flawed person I am was difficult for me. The thought of facing them back at LAX almost landed me in tears more than once. I think that’s why I’ve put off a mission trip for so long. I wanted to be perfectly educated and perfectly married and perfectly healthy so I could come back all shiney and they could be proud of me. I feel the same way about my family, I know they love me and don’t expect perfection from me (or anyone for that matter) and if anyone is aware of how imperfect I am, it would be them. But because I think so highly of them and they all seem to be a lot closer to the mark than I am I find myself seeing those imperfections with much more clarity when I'm around them. So the more aware of how off I am the less inclined I tend to be about coming out. But I refuse to be held hostage by my fears and insecurities and often idealism is just a fancy name tag for insecurities so I decided to just go and be the best version of myself that I could muster, despite how fearful I am of being judged and in spite of the internal din of my own self-judgment. It was a lot to balance in the midst of this extravagant party with all the amazing and fun people that Christian knows. I hope I didn’t look like a distracted dope. That and jet laggy exhaustion didn’t help. Word to the wise: Do not ever take red eyes cross country and not give yourself a day to recuperate because it practically killed me.
I crashed, once again, far too late than I should have and was up earlier than I should have been, packed my bags, headed to church, dodged what part of the deluge that was the weather that day, and found myself back on a plane coming home to a place that felt a little bit less like home. I sat next to a very nice girl from PA who was going out to Hollywood to make a go of an acting career and a guy who was an engineer for MySpace. It was a fantastic ride home. All five and a half hours of it. They even played a Gerard Butler movie. I invited my new friend to church with me. Time was so tight that I went directly from church to a dinner to the airport still in my church clothes and there wasn’t time to change so I boarded the flight heals, skirt, pearls and all so she asked me where I was coming from and I said “church” and that spawned a whole conversation. It was awesome and very fitting coming home from my mission, again. It was all very sobering. I'm glad I had Gerry along for the ride.
I couldn’t help but imagine the floor of the plane being a running picture of all of the land and space that I was putting between me and the Potomac. I saw the Ozarks and the Mississippi, fields and fields of grain, The Rockies, the Grand Canyon all pass underneath me, putting me farther and farther from things I love but also getting me close to other things I love. I have a feeling that that flight is always going to be rough. Going from some place that feels like home to the place you call home will always be strange. It’s like you’re never going to stop saying goodbye to something you desperately love. Ever.
But thats what you sign up for when you do decide love something right? The reality that it can and probably will go away or you will have to go away but the hope that you or it can always come back .
And if there is one thing that cherry blossoms in the spring can whisper it's hope.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Faces and Places
Episode I
"If you can wake up in a different time and in a different place can you also wake up a different person?"
Thats how Tyler Durden came to be but I'm afraid I don't have the gumption to pull off that wardrobe. Or the cheekbones for that matter.
I got back from Washington DC on Sunday night. It was the first time I've been back to my mission since I went home and the first time I've seen my cousin's set up out there. All I've been doing since is processing the strange and marvelous experience it is and was. I've tried to figure out a way to put all of into some kind of charming travelogue but all I find is myself recuperating from traveling 6000 miles within 72 hours and the consequential mental fog.
So I'll just dump down what I've got and probably go back and edit about 4 times, like I do with all of my blogs but be forewarned - this might be lengthy....
The week leading up to the trip was, to put it mildly, insane. I was asked to teach at this Stake Inservice meeting and to teach teachers how to teach. I was a bit deer-in-the-headlightsish about the matter because I'm essentially a kid still and have limited experience in many many matters, principally that I'm not a mother (the most basic kind of teacher). So I felt ill-qualified. Taking an instructive position with one older, more experienced person is a bit off-setting so the thought of instructing a room full of leaders left me all but petrified. So I did what any self respecting girl would do in the situation.
I put on my pearls and Oscar de la Renta shoes, slaved over a graphic filled powerpoint and prayed really hard. Wednesday night was when it went down and I was flying out Thursday night.
I didn't have a single chance to get away and buy the boots I've been needing, or the dress I've had my eye on, or to get my toes and/or nails done. Not a bloody thing. I was lucky to get laundry done and make the plane.
I was taking the red eye Thursday night, touching down in Charlotte, NC and then catching a connector to DC. The LAX to NC flight was oversold and I didn't have a definite seat assignment so I was a bit irked and afraid even if I DID make it on the plane that I would get some crappy center seat and not be able to sleep a wink and be a miserable bunch of yuck the whole next day. I didn't want to start my trip off in a twit so I said a few silent fervent prayers in those crusty black leather trademarked LAX seats and when they called my name and gave me my ticket it was window seat at the front of the plane. Miracle #1 (there are a good many on this trip so stay tuned) I got to sleep most of the flight but I kept having disturbing dreams of being trapped at airports, needing to pee and dealing with planes full of the creepy goblins from the Spiderwick Chronicles (NOT a children's move btw) that were trying to take over the airport. Just weird crap. But the funniest part of the flight was before we were even on our way to the runway the woman behind me started snoring like it was an Olympic sport. I mean, everyone on the plane was ready for bed and planning to sleep. Half of us were asleep just sitting around waiting to board but this lady was GOING FOR IT. After about 3 huge ZZZZZZRRRRKKkkskkskssrrssss I couldn't hold it in anymore, broke the stunned silence, and just giggled till I got it out. What was refreshing that the rest of the forward cabin that was subject to the arresting din of that woman's nasal cavity followed suit had a good chortle too. It was like explosive chortle therapy.
AHhhh - plane rides... where would we be without the stories you provide?
So - I landed in NC. It was clean and gorgeous and I was sad and charmed. Sad that I was in the same state as my little bro and couldn't say hi but charmed by the huge atrium that is their central plaza complete with full grown trees and white rocking chairs beneath them. Var var nice. Very very Southern. They were giving out chicken biscuits too. That was lovely. I'll be back NC, just you wait.
So I finally land in DC at Dulles and am totally amazed that the gate I was at was the same gate I got off as a missionary 9 years ago (miracle #2). There wasn't the welcoming committee of my mission president, his wife and the three assistants like there was before, but it was the same gate with the same shops with the same strange and exciting smells. Then I got hugs, they all carried my luggage, and met me at the gate but this time around I had to find my own way and carry my own luggage. Miraculously (#3) my luggage was the first one off of the carousel. That never happens to me.
This trip was funny in a number of ways. One was that I was staying with a group of girls that, honestly, I had never met. Christian (my cousin I was visiting) has this marvelous ability to introduce me to awesome and amazing people. I've noticed that the cousin types and I sometimes share friends like we would clothes. We're all pretty similar personalities with similar senses of humor so we often find ourselves one big group of happy most of the time.
There were two particular girls that had been on the same email list as myself or something sometime a year and a half back and we somehow started chatting. I honestly can't remember how the introduction process went exactly, just that we got wind of each other, started IMing and all was well. Now they're both regulars and people I consider real friends. What was funny that we had never actually shook hands. It's pretty weird how IMing and Facebook photo albums have the ability to make you feel totally familiar with someone but it does.
One of them Jennie (hi Jennie!) picked me up (because everyone else was working) and we went home and gallivanted the DC landscape. We drove in to Alexandria from Arlington and she was patient with all of my missionary ramblings
"we used to tract in there all the time! And we contacted people in that CVS all the time! We weren't allowed to be here after night fall by ourselves, the elders yelled at us once about it........ And that's where I met Roberto. I met him at the metro and 3 weeks later he was passing the sacrament. And we broke down there once and that's where we accidentally went outside the mission"
Would. not. shut. up. And she, in her sleep deprived, medical student with a looming 15 page paper due super sweet way, heard me and we had a lovely proper time.
We grabbed lunch at this Italian place in Old Town Alexandria complete with a quiet back room (that I'm sure was where secret documents were exchanged at some given point) and stogie smoking man in front.
We attempted to hang out at Mt. Vernon but it was this plantation and the actual house was like a mile hike in and it cost $15 and we only had about an hour to do it all, so we just gave ole Georgie a salute. He knows we care, and we headed off to GLADYS KNIGHT
Now - I should tell you...
Two weeks ago Patrick and I went to one of the coolest concerts on the planet. It was called the Hotel Cafe Tour. The Hotel Cafe is this music joint on Cahuenga that is a singer/songwriter zone only. Some of the best acts in town are regulars. Like, imagine the Garden State soundtrack artists having a get together every night - Yeah. Hotel Cafe.
So... anyways. A few of these guys decided to get a single band together and a bus and shack up for 6 weeks and go on tour - hence Hotel Cafe Tour. I was looking for tickets for William Fitzsimmons sometime in January and I came across this gig and started looking at the bill and my jaw kept dropping lower and lower and lower with the names. Cary Brothers, Sara Barilles, Priscilla Ahn, Joshua Raiden, Greg Laswell, Meiko, Ingrid Michaelson, Dan Wilson all of these people along with William Fitzsimmons I had been joyfully listening to were all going to be in one place at one time. Needless to say I WAS EXCITED and the show was one of the single best shows I've ever been to. It's a post all its own, but one of the people who just shone through all of these acts was Ingrid (and that's saying something). Dude - she did a version of "Creep" on a ukulele and it was hauntingly beautiful.
I found out Ingrid was playing George Washington University the weekend I was going to be in DC so I hit up Christian and essentially said
"WehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogo. Its only $15 and WehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogo "
and he said
"Well..... I already have these Gladys Knight tickets.... and they're free."
So I said OK, a bit disappointed that I was going to be giving up Ingrid for the Motown Choir and stuff but still super excited to spend time with Christian and to visit the Alexandria Stake Center (one of my old areas).
But I properly repented after this show. It. Was. AWESOME. That little Gladys is one powerhouse of a woman. I can't remember feeling the spirit more strongly when someone was singing "I am a Child of God" and listening to hers and her husband's conversion stories and testimonies was amazing and uplifting, not to mention funny and refreshing. If you ever have a chance to catch her and her choir - DO. I really owe Christian for taking me.
Jennie didn't stay for the show, she went home to cuddle up to her paper so I was trusted to Christian's care and we went back to his place and I met his crew including his HLP. This is the Heterosexual Life Partner. They're rather affectionate best friends that ... happen to have... public... tickle fights...... and tell each other.... how hot they are.... and stuff. I dunno. It gets a bit creepy if I think about it too much so I'm not going to. I'll just say - I've heard about him from more than one person and how he had the nickname "Greek god" on his mission (given to him by the members) and his 6' 8" Ivy League basketball playing self. He is an individual that is hard to miss and did fall going up Christian's basement steps because his size 22 feet didn't fit on the stairs. I wasn't used to someone being so quiet that was a good friend of my cousins though. That was a bit out of character. We're all pretty vocal in our circles so I'm still not sure what to make of him but - yes I've met the HLP.
A few weeks before, with the help of the HLP, Christian's church basketball team won the Stake championship and someone recorded it and Chris wanted to watch it that night. So yes - I sat in my cousin's basement and watched a recording of a church basketball game. That's how much I love my cousin. And honestly, it wouldn't be a family type trip without some kind of sporting event. At one point (in the game) Christian got heated and did the guerrilla arm thing at the ref and I said "There he is! There's my Chris!" because that's how I remember most of his high school games. At least that's the point where things got interesting at those games. We watched Hot Rod after that. This has become canon in family circles and I had yet to see it and for the parts that I was awake enough and energetic enough for I laughed and laughed. It's a strange feeling to find something totally hilarious, not have the energy to laugh, but desperately want to. It's a funny funny funny flick.
That night I crashed in the love sack at the ladies house, very grateful for a soft place and good people to lean on but mostly totally amazed and comforted at how everything still felt like home.
....tbc
"If you can wake up in a different time and in a different place can you also wake up a different person?"
Thats how Tyler Durden came to be but I'm afraid I don't have the gumption to pull off that wardrobe. Or the cheekbones for that matter.
I got back from Washington DC on Sunday night. It was the first time I've been back to my mission since I went home and the first time I've seen my cousin's set up out there. All I've been doing since is processing the strange and marvelous experience it is and was. I've tried to figure out a way to put all of into some kind of charming travelogue but all I find is myself recuperating from traveling 6000 miles within 72 hours and the consequential mental fog.
So I'll just dump down what I've got and probably go back and edit about 4 times, like I do with all of my blogs but be forewarned - this might be lengthy....
The week leading up to the trip was, to put it mildly, insane. I was asked to teach at this Stake Inservice meeting and to teach teachers how to teach. I was a bit deer-in-the-headlightsish about the matter because I'm essentially a kid still and have limited experience in many many matters, principally that I'm not a mother (the most basic kind of teacher). So I felt ill-qualified. Taking an instructive position with one older, more experienced person is a bit off-setting so the thought of instructing a room full of leaders left me all but petrified. So I did what any self respecting girl would do in the situation.
I put on my pearls and Oscar de la Renta shoes, slaved over a graphic filled powerpoint and prayed really hard. Wednesday night was when it went down and I was flying out Thursday night.
I didn't have a single chance to get away and buy the boots I've been needing, or the dress I've had my eye on, or to get my toes and/or nails done. Not a bloody thing. I was lucky to get laundry done and make the plane.
I was taking the red eye Thursday night, touching down in Charlotte, NC and then catching a connector to DC. The LAX to NC flight was oversold and I didn't have a definite seat assignment so I was a bit irked and afraid even if I DID make it on the plane that I would get some crappy center seat and not be able to sleep a wink and be a miserable bunch of yuck the whole next day. I didn't want to start my trip off in a twit so I said a few silent fervent prayers in those crusty black leather trademarked LAX seats and when they called my name and gave me my ticket it was window seat at the front of the plane. Miracle #1 (there are a good many on this trip so stay tuned) I got to sleep most of the flight but I kept having disturbing dreams of being trapped at airports, needing to pee and dealing with planes full of the creepy goblins from the Spiderwick Chronicles (NOT a children's move btw) that were trying to take over the airport. Just weird crap. But the funniest part of the flight was before we were even on our way to the runway the woman behind me started snoring like it was an Olympic sport. I mean, everyone on the plane was ready for bed and planning to sleep. Half of us were asleep just sitting around waiting to board but this lady was GOING FOR IT. After about 3 huge ZZZZZZRRRRKKkkskkskssrrssss I couldn't hold it in anymore, broke the stunned silence, and just giggled till I got it out. What was refreshing that the rest of the forward cabin that was subject to the arresting din of that woman's nasal cavity followed suit had a good chortle too. It was like explosive chortle therapy.
AHhhh - plane rides... where would we be without the stories you provide?
So - I landed in NC. It was clean and gorgeous and I was sad and charmed. Sad that I was in the same state as my little bro and couldn't say hi but charmed by the huge atrium that is their central plaza complete with full grown trees and white rocking chairs beneath them. Var var nice. Very very Southern. They were giving out chicken biscuits too. That was lovely. I'll be back NC, just you wait.
So I finally land in DC at Dulles and am totally amazed that the gate I was at was the same gate I got off as a missionary 9 years ago (miracle #2). There wasn't the welcoming committee of my mission president, his wife and the three assistants like there was before, but it was the same gate with the same shops with the same strange and exciting smells. Then I got hugs, they all carried my luggage, and met me at the gate but this time around I had to find my own way and carry my own luggage. Miraculously (#3) my luggage was the first one off of the carousel. That never happens to me.
This trip was funny in a number of ways. One was that I was staying with a group of girls that, honestly, I had never met. Christian (my cousin I was visiting) has this marvelous ability to introduce me to awesome and amazing people. I've noticed that the cousin types and I sometimes share friends like we would clothes. We're all pretty similar personalities with similar senses of humor so we often find ourselves one big group of happy most of the time.
There were two particular girls that had been on the same email list as myself or something sometime a year and a half back and we somehow started chatting. I honestly can't remember how the introduction process went exactly, just that we got wind of each other, started IMing and all was well. Now they're both regulars and people I consider real friends. What was funny that we had never actually shook hands. It's pretty weird how IMing and Facebook photo albums have the ability to make you feel totally familiar with someone but it does.
One of them Jennie (hi Jennie!) picked me up (because everyone else was working) and we went home and gallivanted the DC landscape. We drove in to Alexandria from Arlington and she was patient with all of my missionary ramblings
"we used to tract in there all the time! And we contacted people in that CVS all the time! We weren't allowed to be here after night fall by ourselves, the elders yelled at us once about it........ And that's where I met Roberto. I met him at the metro and 3 weeks later he was passing the sacrament. And we broke down there once and that's where we accidentally went outside the mission"
Would. not. shut. up. And she, in her sleep deprived, medical student with a looming 15 page paper due super sweet way, heard me and we had a lovely proper time.
We grabbed lunch at this Italian place in Old Town Alexandria complete with a quiet back room (that I'm sure was where secret documents were exchanged at some given point) and stogie smoking man in front.
We attempted to hang out at Mt. Vernon but it was this plantation and the actual house was like a mile hike in and it cost $15 and we only had about an hour to do it all, so we just gave ole Georgie a salute. He knows we care, and we headed off to GLADYS KNIGHT
Now - I should tell you...
Two weeks ago Patrick and I went to one of the coolest concerts on the planet. It was called the Hotel Cafe Tour. The Hotel Cafe is this music joint on Cahuenga that is a singer/songwriter zone only. Some of the best acts in town are regulars. Like, imagine the Garden State soundtrack artists having a get together every night - Yeah. Hotel Cafe.
So... anyways. A few of these guys decided to get a single band together and a bus and shack up for 6 weeks and go on tour - hence Hotel Cafe Tour. I was looking for tickets for William Fitzsimmons sometime in January and I came across this gig and started looking at the bill and my jaw kept dropping lower and lower and lower with the names. Cary Brothers, Sara Barilles, Priscilla Ahn, Joshua Raiden, Greg Laswell, Meiko, Ingrid Michaelson, Dan Wilson all of these people along with William Fitzsimmons I had been joyfully listening to were all going to be in one place at one time. Needless to say I WAS EXCITED and the show was one of the single best shows I've ever been to. It's a post all its own, but one of the people who just shone through all of these acts was Ingrid (and that's saying something). Dude - she did a version of "Creep" on a ukulele and it was hauntingly beautiful.
I found out Ingrid was playing George Washington University the weekend I was going to be in DC so I hit up Christian and essentially said
"WehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogo. Its only $15 and WehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogoWehavetogo "
and he said
"Well..... I already have these Gladys Knight tickets.... and they're free."
So I said OK, a bit disappointed that I was going to be giving up Ingrid for the Motown Choir and stuff but still super excited to spend time with Christian and to visit the Alexandria Stake Center (one of my old areas).
But I properly repented after this show. It. Was. AWESOME. That little Gladys is one powerhouse of a woman. I can't remember feeling the spirit more strongly when someone was singing "I am a Child of God" and listening to hers and her husband's conversion stories and testimonies was amazing and uplifting, not to mention funny and refreshing. If you ever have a chance to catch her and her choir - DO. I really owe Christian for taking me.
Jennie didn't stay for the show, she went home to cuddle up to her paper so I was trusted to Christian's care and we went back to his place and I met his crew including his HLP. This is the Heterosexual Life Partner. They're rather affectionate best friends that ... happen to have... public... tickle fights...... and tell each other.... how hot they are.... and stuff. I dunno. It gets a bit creepy if I think about it too much so I'm not going to. I'll just say - I've heard about him from more than one person and how he had the nickname "Greek god" on his mission (given to him by the members) and his 6' 8" Ivy League basketball playing self. He is an individual that is hard to miss and did fall going up Christian's basement steps because his size 22 feet didn't fit on the stairs. I wasn't used to someone being so quiet that was a good friend of my cousins though. That was a bit out of character. We're all pretty vocal in our circles so I'm still not sure what to make of him but - yes I've met the HLP.
A few weeks before, with the help of the HLP, Christian's church basketball team won the Stake championship and someone recorded it and Chris wanted to watch it that night. So yes - I sat in my cousin's basement and watched a recording of a church basketball game. That's how much I love my cousin. And honestly, it wouldn't be a family type trip without some kind of sporting event. At one point (in the game) Christian got heated and did the guerrilla arm thing at the ref and I said "There he is! There's my Chris!" because that's how I remember most of his high school games. At least that's the point where things got interesting at those games. We watched Hot Rod after that. This has become canon in family circles and I had yet to see it and for the parts that I was awake enough and energetic enough for I laughed and laughed. It's a strange feeling to find something totally hilarious, not have the energy to laugh, but desperately want to. It's a funny funny funny flick.
That night I crashed in the love sack at the ladies house, very grateful for a soft place and good people to lean on but mostly totally amazed and comforted at how everything still felt like home.
....tbc
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Spinning Parallel Lines
So in two weeks I'm heading back to DC for the weekend to visit Christian and I can't tell you how excited I am. It's the first time I've been back since I served my mission out there so naturally my mission has been on my mind more than not lately.
Chris goes to church in the same building that the Spanish ward meets in that I served in for 6 of my 16 months in the field. He knows all the leadership and goes to their firesides. He attends meetings in the same chapel that people I taught were baptized and confirmed in. It's a strange comfort to know part of me, even by blood extension, is still tending to that flock.*
So naturally I've been more than a little reminiscent and pensive about my 16 months in DC and what I learned there and who I was and who I became.
DC is a demographic wonderland and being a missionary there was a trip on Planet Unicorn almost everyday. One of the dimensions of the social landscape that was really really different from home was the amazing number of Muslims there were. In every apartment complex we lived in, the majority of the other people were these beautiful meek Muslim families. We'd come out of whatever Quick-E mart with a snack and turn the corner and find a few individuals at noon time prayer with their little carpets in the parking space next to ours. It was pretty common thing. Some women wore scarves, some didn't, some wore the burkha, some didn't. I'm not going to lie, the burkhas took me a while to get used to. We called them ninjas because looking over in traffic and only seeing a black hood driving in the car next to me startled me more than once. Or when we went down to do laundry they were there too, with their munchkins in tow, doing their thing.
I figured we were equally as weird with our name tags on so I struck up conversations and they were responsive, educated, and very well mannered**, we borrowed each other's soap and fabric softener, I played with their kids while they folded and they almost always let me in in traffic***. Out of everyone, and they types of everyone, I met in DC the Muslim women were the kindest and the most comforting. On the hot hot hot days they were the ones that let us in, even if they didn't speak a lick of the language. They just nodded, smiled, gestured for us to sit down, gave us something cool to drink and politely just sat with us****. They also were the only ones that let us in on the snowy days with something warm to drink. Most times they couldn't communicate with us, they just knew we were in need and they helped us. Plain as that.
This was all before 9/11 and I cannot tell you how grateful I was for that social education during that disaster. There were a few times that I was walking to my car from class and saw a group of guys teasing a Muslim girl about her scarf and poking and prodding her asking to see her hair. Both times I shooed them away, put my arm around the girl and walked her to her car or waited with her to get picked up, and both times the poor girl was trembling. I could tell that the guys weren't being malicious, just troublesome. They didn't understand how terrifying and invasive that would've been to her, but thankfully I did. And after all the kindness I've received how I could I do anything else? Especially for them? That kind of ignorance angers me. A LOT. I talked to the security guard a couple of times too. Totally inexcusable. But I digress...
So - with all this stirring in my mind this article was in my LA Times feed on my iGoogle this morning and it gave me pause.
I know that critics are chomping at the bit to exploit these kind of friendships and scream patriotic blasphemy, but if you look at the world's population 2.1 billion are Christian and 1.5 billion are Muslim and the majority of the Muslim population live in countries that stand in need, so naturally if we're sending aid to people who need it there is a good chance that they'll be Muslim. And honestly, I can't think of a people I'd rather associate myself with than them. They are some of the most kind, genuine, principled and disciplined people around. I was so happy when I read this article.
Understanding is such an empowering thing, I just really wish more people were open to it. I desperately don't want people to judge my faith by the toothless and badly dressed Polygamist redneck wonders that claim to be LDS so I won't judge every girl around me wearing a scarf as an anarchist extremist with bomb recipes in their glove compartments.
I don't know why honest belief in something scares so many people. Belief is a beautiful thing, if not the most beautiful thing, and the only thing that leads to honest human connection. I hope you'll give a smile and a nod to our scarfed sisters and hard-working brothers because they are amazing people. Truly amazing.
* When the ward heard I was coming back not only did they remember me but they're throwing me a "Welcome Home Party". I was so touched when I heard I cried.
**something I VASTLY appreciate. Manners are a lost art and something that strangely really matters to me.
*** signs of serious virtue in DC traffic (read: Insanity)
**** and can I just sing the praises for keeping alive the lost art of being someones company. It goes back to the manners thing I think.
Chris goes to church in the same building that the Spanish ward meets in that I served in for 6 of my 16 months in the field. He knows all the leadership and goes to their firesides. He attends meetings in the same chapel that people I taught were baptized and confirmed in. It's a strange comfort to know part of me, even by blood extension, is still tending to that flock.*
So naturally I've been more than a little reminiscent and pensive about my 16 months in DC and what I learned there and who I was and who I became.
DC is a demographic wonderland and being a missionary there was a trip on Planet Unicorn almost everyday. One of the dimensions of the social landscape that was really really different from home was the amazing number of Muslims there were. In every apartment complex we lived in, the majority of the other people were these beautiful meek Muslim families. We'd come out of whatever Quick-E mart with a snack and turn the corner and find a few individuals at noon time prayer with their little carpets in the parking space next to ours. It was pretty common thing. Some women wore scarves, some didn't, some wore the burkha, some didn't. I'm not going to lie, the burkhas took me a while to get used to. We called them ninjas because looking over in traffic and only seeing a black hood driving in the car next to me startled me more than once. Or when we went down to do laundry they were there too, with their munchkins in tow, doing their thing.
I figured we were equally as weird with our name tags on so I struck up conversations and they were responsive, educated, and very well mannered**, we borrowed each other's soap and fabric softener, I played with their kids while they folded and they almost always let me in in traffic***. Out of everyone, and they types of everyone, I met in DC the Muslim women were the kindest and the most comforting. On the hot hot hot days they were the ones that let us in, even if they didn't speak a lick of the language. They just nodded, smiled, gestured for us to sit down, gave us something cool to drink and politely just sat with us****. They also were the only ones that let us in on the snowy days with something warm to drink. Most times they couldn't communicate with us, they just knew we were in need and they helped us. Plain as that.
This was all before 9/11 and I cannot tell you how grateful I was for that social education during that disaster. There were a few times that I was walking to my car from class and saw a group of guys teasing a Muslim girl about her scarf and poking and prodding her asking to see her hair. Both times I shooed them away, put my arm around the girl and walked her to her car or waited with her to get picked up, and both times the poor girl was trembling. I could tell that the guys weren't being malicious, just troublesome. They didn't understand how terrifying and invasive that would've been to her, but thankfully I did. And after all the kindness I've received how I could I do anything else? Especially for them? That kind of ignorance angers me. A LOT. I talked to the security guard a couple of times too. Totally inexcusable. But I digress...
So - with all this stirring in my mind this article was in my LA Times feed on my iGoogle this morning and it gave me pause.
I know that critics are chomping at the bit to exploit these kind of friendships and scream patriotic blasphemy, but if you look at the world's population 2.1 billion are Christian and 1.5 billion are Muslim and the majority of the Muslim population live in countries that stand in need, so naturally if we're sending aid to people who need it there is a good chance that they'll be Muslim. And honestly, I can't think of a people I'd rather associate myself with than them. They are some of the most kind, genuine, principled and disciplined people around. I was so happy when I read this article.
Understanding is such an empowering thing, I just really wish more people were open to it. I desperately don't want people to judge my faith by the toothless and badly dressed Polygamist redneck wonders that claim to be LDS so I won't judge every girl around me wearing a scarf as an anarchist extremist with bomb recipes in their glove compartments.
I don't know why honest belief in something scares so many people. Belief is a beautiful thing, if not the most beautiful thing, and the only thing that leads to honest human connection. I hope you'll give a smile and a nod to our scarfed sisters and hard-working brothers because they are amazing people. Truly amazing.
* When the ward heard I was coming back not only did they remember me but they're throwing me a "Welcome Home Party". I was so touched when I heard I cried.
**something I VASTLY appreciate. Manners are a lost art and something that strangely really matters to me.
*** signs of serious virtue in DC traffic (read: Insanity)
**** and can I just sing the praises for keeping alive the lost art of being someones company. It goes back to the manners thing I think.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Roots
I'm totally not pioneer stock at all.I love their songs. I love their stories. I admire their resolve. I marvel at their tenacity and I thoroughly enjoy any graceful use of a bonnet.
But I'm not one of them. My ancestors were Irish, Welsh and Scottish singers who heard a missionary district meeting's opening hymn, were taught, accepted the truth and came over on the railroad. It was fans and tea service for us thank you. Especially coming to Zion.
The docks that they came through and the places that they gathered as a family before making the Utah jump were in Virgina, North Carolina, and Louisiana.
I find it beautifully symmetrical that the places our family has been called to serve our full time missions have been to (me to Virginia and Washington DC and Jonathan to Charolette North Carolina) were the places my family first came to America. It gives me goosebumps when I think about it. The docks that I went and taught tourists at were the same ones my converted family first tasted Zion. I love it. So with this in mind I was sure as sure a sure person that when Nick opened his call it would be for New Orleans, LA but he got it today -
And hes going to - NORTH CAROLINA. Raleigh, North Carolina.
There is still work to do in the big NC so its going to take a few Elder Long's go make it happen. I'm totally sure my kids are going to Louisiana now though. Almost positive.
I can't even begin to tell you what I feel and how much of it I'm feeling. Nick receiving his call has been a fantastic journey for everybody. I think we're all way more invested in it than in the previous two calls in the family. Everyone rallied around him. We all changed our diets to help him make weight. We would work out 3-5 times a week. It's every one's call really. He's the best gym buddy that a girl could hope for. Its a bit terrifying to know how real the call is and that as of Dec 19 he will be a plaque wearing member of The Work. I'm so happy for him!!! And I stand continually amazed at the beauty and cyclical nature of The Plan.So yeah - he's leaving. My baby brother is off to the world. Well - to North Carolina anyway. May the Confederate flag fly and the red velvet abound! We're going home.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Wonder of Wonders!
Today is a VERY good day!
Lemme tell you why -
Background:
When I was a missionary in Washington DC my roommates (for the majority of my mission) were the Vietnamese speaking sisters. Consequently, we got to share a lot of the cultural perks that they had because of their call. Namely spring rolls, purple sticky rice, a lovely array of stuffed animals, many beautiful moon cakes they always brought home from tracting, and many fantastic stories. See - when they went knocking on doors they would rarely get in and/or effectively communicate with who they found but their call was to serve all the Asian people in the DC area but they only spoke English and efforted Viet. It's a tough language and very few people they taught were actually Vietnamese. So it was mostly a game of charades and a lot of nodding. However, all the Asian people they came across were a lovely, gracious and respectful for the most part. So even when they didn't let them in they gave the Chis a little gift. It happened a lot to us too. Hence why I still call tracting "trick or treating". There were so many different kinds of Asian people around it was a bit hard to keep track but I got a fabulous education. There were Cambodian, Laotian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, Thai, Mongolian you name it - they all lived in DC and they all fell under the responsibilities of the Chis (pronounced like "cheese" - its Viet for "sister"). It was good times -
Anyways -
When we all got to go shopping on P-days we would go where the Chis could meet people too (cause it was kind of hard). So we landed in a lot of Asian commerce centers and found these adorable Korean doo-hicky shops that were like music/stationary/candy/insurance stores. I LOVED them. LOVE really - that is still a present tense condition. I loved everything in those little closet stores. The stationary, the pens, the gimicky candy and character erasers. I have been a HelloKittyphile since conception really. Those little spring loaded pencil boxes still bring me unbeknownst joy and there was enough cuteness combined with functionality to wipe me of my monthly stipend if I let myself go. The one luxury that I did allow myself was a few of the .99 cent pens. Your pen, as a missionary, is like your second companion. I grew to not just love these pens, but they became a part of me. They were adorable, original, had ink that instantly dried and smelled like fruit and were macro tips (0.38mm) and wrote so smoothly. For my handwriting they were my perfect pen. They made my day easier and always made me smile. I loved them. I really did.
When the time approached for me to come home I wasn't sure I'd find an adequate supply back home so I bought two cases of them in hopes that they would last me till I could find a store that had them again. I staged a valiant campaign when I got home to find a Korean stationary/children's clothing/BBQ /jewelery store but alas - to my dismay, nothing. After my first year home I ran out of pens and didn't know where to find them again and began another search for a pen that did it's job as well for me as my Korean ones. As an English major and someone who lives in their planner pens are very important - I use them all the time and they're one of those things that I am always very aware of. I don't know. I'm weird I suppose.
I settled on the RSVP (0.05mm) pens awhile back and they do an entirely adequate job - don't get me wrong. They keep my hair up nicely when I need them to too, but I still missed my super-awesome-nothing-like-it-ever-ever Korean pens.
Until today -
Right down the block from my work is this lovely Korean supermarket Vons thing. I decided to duck in on my lunch because my friend is having a bad week and has a weakness for these Japanese starburst candy things so I ventured in for the first time ever today looking for some to cheer her up. I didn't find any but all along the inside perimeter of this store were a number of these random tiny little kiosk stores just like in DC!!!
My heart stared racing and I frantically started looking around for a storefront with way too much pink and possibly overstuffed pillows. And there it was -
Happy Young Art America II
There - written in soft pink neon and adorned with puffy backpacks and water bottles in every adorable animal shape possible was my new favorite place. A taste of my DC home. I had found my new fount of functional adorableness and, most importantly, that my pens were just footsteps away.
The sweet girl at the counter, Lily, didn't speak a lick of English but I started talking her ear off anyway telling her how glad I was to see her and thank you owning this store and never to close and I will be a weekly visitor and if I could buy her lunch and pronounced blessings on her and her family and her family back home and any family she might have in the future - and where were the pens? The last part was achieved with mostly pantomime and some objects -
Picked up a random pen
pointed at tip
made the very small gesture with my fingers and pointed to black pen and she got it!
I love the universal language.
She showed me and it was all I could do to not give her a pick-you-up-off-the-floor-hug.
I promptly bought 5, dumped all my extra change in the "leave a penny take a penny" thing, and pretty much skipped out of the store and into a whole new world. One where I had my pens back.
*
Thats why today is a VERY good day.
*please forgive my not-a-scrap-of-make-up-on picture. Just focus on the pen
Lemme tell you why -
Background:
When I was a missionary in Washington DC my roommates (for the majority of my mission) were the Vietnamese speaking sisters. Consequently, we got to share a lot of the cultural perks that they had because of their call. Namely spring rolls, purple sticky rice, a lovely array of stuffed animals, many beautiful moon cakes they always brought home from tracting, and many fantastic stories. See - when they went knocking on doors they would rarely get in and/or effectively communicate with who they found but their call was to serve all the Asian people in the DC area but they only spoke English and efforted Viet. It's a tough language and very few people they taught were actually Vietnamese. So it was mostly a game of charades and a lot of nodding. However, all the Asian people they came across were a lovely, gracious and respectful for the most part. So even when they didn't let them in they gave the Chis a little gift. It happened a lot to us too. Hence why I still call tracting "trick or treating". There were so many different kinds of Asian people around it was a bit hard to keep track but I got a fabulous education. There were Cambodian, Laotian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, Thai, Mongolian you name it - they all lived in DC and they all fell under the responsibilities of the Chis (pronounced like "cheese" - its Viet for "sister"). It was good times -
Anyways -
When we all got to go shopping on P-days we would go where the Chis could meet people too (cause it was kind of hard). So we landed in a lot of Asian commerce centers and found these adorable Korean doo-hicky shops that were like music/stationary/candy/insurance stores. I LOVED them. LOVE really - that is still a present tense condition. I loved everything in those little closet stores. The stationary, the pens, the gimicky candy and character erasers. I have been a HelloKittyphile since conception really. Those little spring loaded pencil boxes still bring me unbeknownst joy and there was enough cuteness combined with functionality to wipe me of my monthly stipend if I let myself go. The one luxury that I did allow myself was a few of the .99 cent pens. Your pen, as a missionary, is like your second companion. I grew to not just love these pens, but they became a part of me. They were adorable, original, had ink that instantly dried and smelled like fruit and were macro tips (0.38mm) and wrote so smoothly. For my handwriting they were my perfect pen. They made my day easier and always made me smile. I loved them. I really did.
When the time approached for me to come home I wasn't sure I'd find an adequate supply back home so I bought two cases of them in hopes that they would last me till I could find a store that had them again. I staged a valiant campaign when I got home to find a Korean stationary/children's clothing/BBQ /jewelery store but alas - to my dismay, nothing. After my first year home I ran out of pens and didn't know where to find them again and began another search for a pen that did it's job as well for me as my Korean ones. As an English major and someone who lives in their planner pens are very important - I use them all the time and they're one of those things that I am always very aware of. I don't know. I'm weird I suppose.
I settled on the RSVP (0.05mm) pens awhile back and they do an entirely adequate job - don't get me wrong. They keep my hair up nicely when I need them to too, but I still missed my super-awesome-nothing-like-it-ever-ever Korean pens.
Until today -
Right down the block from my work is this lovely Korean supermarket Vons thing. I decided to duck in on my lunch because my friend is having a bad week and has a weakness for these Japanese starburst candy things so I ventured in for the first time ever today looking for some to cheer her up. I didn't find any but all along the inside perimeter of this store were a number of these random tiny little kiosk stores just like in DC!!!
My heart stared racing and I frantically started looking around for a storefront with way too much pink and possibly overstuffed pillows. And there it was -
Happy Young Art America II
There - written in soft pink neon and adorned with puffy backpacks and water bottles in every adorable animal shape possible was my new favorite place. A taste of my DC home. I had found my new fount of functional adorableness and, most importantly, that my pens were just footsteps away.
The sweet girl at the counter, Lily, didn't speak a lick of English but I started talking her ear off anyway telling her how glad I was to see her and thank you owning this store and never to close and I will be a weekly visitor and if I could buy her lunch and pronounced blessings on her and her family and her family back home and any family she might have in the future - and where were the pens? The last part was achieved with mostly pantomime and some objects -
Picked up a random pen
pointed at tip
made the very small gesture with my fingers and pointed to black pen and she got it!
I love the universal language.
She showed me and it was all I could do to not give her a pick-you-up-off-the-floor-hug.
I promptly bought 5, dumped all my extra change in the "leave a penny take a penny" thing, and pretty much skipped out of the store and into a whole new world. One where I had my pens back.
*Thats why today is a VERY good day.
*please forgive my not-a-scrap-of-make-up-on picture. Just focus on the pen
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