07 October 2009

You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)*


*I introduced the Indo sisters to Josh Groban this week. They can't get enough of it, and I certainly love waking up to Sister Sumarno singing in the lilt of her English “when your heart's heavy, I, I will lift it for you . . .”

Dear Family,

Would you believe me if I only said that there's not much to say? Because I've been sitting here in front of this blinking screen for a good five minutes now, at a loss for words. The week's flown fast, today's been a blur . . . I don't know where to start or what to hold onto for any sort of stepping stone into what this email should be. A list, maybe? I'm in no place for transitions at this point, especially as there weren't any landmark experiences to pass on as far as these last few days have gone.

+  First SisLily, then Greenwell too. Secretly the Sisters think it's because we (Greenwell + I) get along so well and can't help but talk up entire hours when we're together, but logistically it all made sense, too. So yesterday it was off to Yogya.

+  Which meant it was me and Nixon this morning at the basketball court, the last of our original Fellowship. Glad to have him around still—it’s funny how the smallest touch of the familiar adds much to your comfort. This morning (we met up with the JakRaya Elders for kasti (I couldn't explain it even if I tried; a sort of baseball-ish game?) at the church, and then stayed for a round of half-court basketball, too) Elder Nixon grabbed Elder Hartanto at the waist and threw him over his shoulder as his way of tagging him at second base. The Indonesians just eat it up—I may be Sister Barbie, but he's The Hulk. Far more cool, I assure you.

+  Plus Meek's still close by, and we'll meet up this weekend and next, first for General Conference (I'm looking forward to Elder Holland—as always—from all the rave reviews I found in my inbox today) and then for an October 17th gathering of Indonesian saints in a renewed effort to translate the Book of Mormon into Indonesian. The current translation isn't so much spectacular as somewhat haphazard, and from what I understand we're going to spend a full 24 hours next weekend in our JakSel cultural hall, running editing checks while the natives switch out vocabulary and grammar. Still, I don't really know entirely what's going on or what exactly to expect, so I'll wait that one out and fill you in when it's all actually happened.

+  In other news, every appointment but one in the last six days has fallen through. Oh, Indonesia. Much of missionary work, so far at least, has been just a lot of waiting.

+  Which is really not helping as far as the whole homesickness thing goes. More time to wait = more time to think. And a good 90% of those times, my thoughts are always directed to you. Last Thursday was a low point for me (as (ahem) was evidenced quite clearly in my emails), and though it has gotten better since then, I've experienced enough of these swings in the last few months to know that wasn't the last of them. Still, I feel like maybe I should explain myself more fully, as apparently my letter to Naomi still hasn't arrived:

It's not Indonesia. It's not the people, it's not the places, it's not the language or the food or the heat. I adapted quite quickly to this country; it is very easy to find things to love, to appreciate the sights and sounds, the smells and tastes, to immerse yourself in this culture that's nearly exactly upside-down and opposite from the one I lived at home. It took me all of one day to take to the native cuisine, a weekend after that to adjust to the smells that switch up on you from sewage to simmering curries in a matter of steps and seconds. One week more and I got all the directions down, how to cross the streets and flag down a Metro Mini or navigate busway. I can bargain for a bajai, pick out a papaya, sing along to the summer's pop hit whenever Vierra's voice hits the station speakers. I get along like best buddies at a Beehive Camp with the other Indo sisters, inside jokes and secrets included. And there's nothing I love more than a muezzin's call in the setting of an orange sun.

I could live in Indonesia for another fourteen months, no worries.

Whether I can handle another fourteen months of missionary work in Indonesia is what gets my mood spiraling downwards, my heart heavy and spirit flagging. There is very little progress by way of Restored Gospel here, which actually wouldn't bother me so much if only we could do so much more. In a mission that “proselytes” like we do, we desperately need more to fill up our day—we need appointments to go to and projects to work on to keep us constantly busy, or else it's just a lot of wandering in one of the world's craziest, sprawling cities. I wish daily for more opportunities to serve, ways to reach out and do. Other missionaries assure me this is just Jakarta, that the capital's the toughest assignment here, but I don't want to work that way. Maybe I agree with them, but I also feel like we should be able to overcome that. I've just . . . got to think of something, and quick, or it's all cabin-fever from here on out. 

I have, at least, been able to fulfill a part of my assignment here in JakSel. Presiden made it clear in my first interview here that a major part of mission in Indonesia is within our companionships, the strength and testimony we can give our native companions in the short time we share together. Many of them are converts of only a few years now (Sister Katam included), come from backgrounds we can only faintly imagine, and helping them pick up some English alone gives them a major head start for life after these 18 months here. This is something I can—and love—to do. I love spending time with the Sisters I'm currently serving with, and try to come up with new ways to grow closer and help out as often as I can, a crusade that transfers over to our member visits, too. I've said before that these are the hours I look forward to the most here, those lessons we share from the floor of a family's home, in the dim light of a single bulb overhead and the feeble relief of a corner fan. These are the days I feel like I'm doing real work, making real progress. There's hope in those homes. 


Lha, maaf—I’ve deviated into ramblings now, not quite sure where this is going or how it's going to end. Just please know that my emails of more desperate diction I write only because I know I can write to you in honesty, with the assurance that the reply will come only along the lines of that Church News snippet you sent me a while back: “Dear Elder, We don't miss you. Love, Mom.” Because there's no real thought here of turning back, of giving up, of stepping down. I love the people too much. I don't want to miss the places. I can't leave these Sisters. And I have yet to muster up the courage to take even the smallest bite of durian. So I'm here for the long run—which, actually (as every other return missionary, my dear companion, M in Brazil and Presiden himself has said) isn't so long after all. 


I love you. 

Sister E.

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