I Will One Day Have a Lot of Stories to Tell.

 keluargaku,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sister E.