From Jakarta Starting I Fly Like a Bird.

Dear You (pl.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resume.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright then.

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

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

selalu,

E

From Jakarta starting I fly like a bird,

Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all,

to the south betaking myself to sing there mountain songs,

to Bandung atill I absorb Bandung in myself, to Malang then . . .