Alhamdulillah.

Semuanya,

Selamat Malam and Happy Thanksgiving—an opportune opening for an email all about gratitude. There are just about a million new things to be grateful for, and you might want to hold onto your hearts here, because we're talking miracles. Lots of them:

One. (cue celebratory trumpet call) We have a baptism. Yes, we. As in, me and my companions. The first missionaries to have a baptism in all of West Java since July! We're pretty over the moon about it, but can't do so much rejoicing now as there's still a ways to go. Florentina's preparing to be baptized December 13th here in Jaksel, so we've got a few weeks yet of teaching and reviewing and growing to do. 

And now, who is Florentina, you may be asking? I've actually been teaching her from the beginning, starting with Sister Katam and even one lesson with Sister Sumarno, but she was out of town for almost three weeks in-between all that, and though we called, texted, etc., we never heard anything back and gave it up as a mystery. Then, di luar biru (that still doesn't work but I like to imagine Bro. Ross's squirmy face in the MTC), she woke us up last Thursday morning with a text that said she was back in the city and she wanted to meet us right there, right then. So we did (albeit a few hours later; we still had to finish up that service project), meeting her for an evening appointment at the Church, where I met her at the door and asked her if she'd been reading the Book of Mormon still, to which she replied, why yes, yes I have—and flipped open her copy of the Kitab Mormon to 2 Nefi 31. The entire chapter was underlined, noted, circled, cross-referenced . . . she pulled out the Restoration Pamphlet we'd given her months ago: same thing. “Can we continue to learn about the Gospel of Jesus Christ?” she asked me. “The one where you said there were five principles I had to follow?” I waved her into the chapel, catching the look on Sis Mongan's face as she passed. Waduh, it said. Alhamdulillah.

We taught her Pelajaran Tiga that night, sharing scripture about Faith, Repentance, Baptism, the Gift of the Holy Ghost and (huzzah, my favorite) Enduring to the End as she scribbled away in her notebook, asking questions and exploring our answers and just basically approaching the Gospel like any A+ student in a top-notch University forum. We've never taught someone like this, someone so eager to know and understand, and I can really only express how much fun it was. It felt so good, seeing someone excited about it, wanting it, searching it out—plus it boosted our confidence to a level strong enough to extend the baptismal commitment, a question (Maukah anda mulai mempersiapkan diri anda sendiri untuk dibaptis?) that Florentina took only a second's silence to ponder before nodding to agree. “Mau,” she said. “Mau sekali.” I really love that the maukah questions aren't answered by a typical English yes-or-no but the Indonesian mau, which means “want.” 

And then there it was. A baptism. 

A baptism I won't actually get to see because (Two.) Tomorrow I leave for Bandung. 

Presiden called Saturday morning, and in that soaring innocence borne of So Much Happiness I didn't even dream that a call for me from Presiden himself could only mean a transfer. I was so set in my naïveté, actually, that I was honest-to-goodness rendered speechless. Me? Bandung? Impossible. There's still so much to do here in Jakarta, so many people to meet and serve and love and . . . maybe I cried a little bit—but not until I'd faked a cheery “Yes, sir” and said goodbye to Presiden first. 

I mean, here's the thing: I am in equal parts both sad and excited about the change. For one, I'm finally getting out of Jakarta and seeing the Real Indonesia, taking a three hour train up into the mountains and to Java's fourth largest city set against tea plantations and Art Deco downtown. Travel books will tell you that Bandung was once called the Paris of Java (though today their claim to fame is factory outlet shopping and a twenty-meter plaster cast of King Kong on the main shopping sprawl), that the city is still deeply immersed in the native Sunda culture, that there and there alone you find the most stunning mountainous vistas in all of Indonesia. So, excited? Pasti. But to transfer to Bandung means to leave Jakarta, and maybe leave Jakarta for good. I've served three months here, and in the usual pattern of things that means I've spent enough time in the capital to never have to come back. And despite the traffic (it took me two hours to get to the warnet tonight), despite the urban grunge, despite the lack of any really green, living thing . . . well, I'm going to miss it. I learned here, I grew here, I became here. And while there's certainly a lot more of that yet to come, wherever I may be, Jakarta will still be the first. 

But Bandung will be second, and I'm up for the challenge—because “challenge” is indeed the word to use here. I have two theories about this transfer: one, that Presiden has decided I'm just as much a problem as Sisters Atmi, Christenson, and Sodjo, and so he might as well contain all the crazy sisters in one city as to not cause trouble elsewhere or, two, Presiden thinks I've worked out strength enough here in Jakarta to jump into some serious Rehabilitation Work come tomorrow, giving me the three most trying Sisters in the mission to work with in the most trying branch in all of Java. Oh yes, huzzah, Bandung has some seriously not-so-good connotations around here—but whatever above theory turns out to be true, I'm determined to live up to the latter, because I'm ready and wanting to help. 

So tomorrow to Bandung, just after three. All of Java Barat meets up at Senopati for Thanksgiving Lunch. Presiden's still in Bali and left the Millecams in charge, so we've planned quite the party. I'll tell you all about it next week.

Okay, two minutes more and I'm out: Baptism, Bandung, . . . I feel like there was more (I mean, of course there is, but when is there not?). I guess this will have to do for now; I'm so glad all the letters got there safe and (somewhat) sound—-I just sent two more today, so here's to hoping for another quick flight across the sea. I love you, dearly, dearly. I miss you so very muchly. And yet time's simply flying and sebentar lagi we'll all be together again, a true Thanksgiving. 

selalu,

Sister E.

p.s. Today I got interviewed by the Church for a documentary they're making about the history of the Church in Indonesia. Only to be distributed here, but still, I answered 5/6 questions all in Indonesian, so that was happy.

p.p.s. Talked to SisLily yesterday. She says hello and love to all.

Lagi Lagu Senang.

So remember last week, when my email was a little rushed and a tiny bit ruined by some strange ADD adrenaline running through me coupled with a real inability to express myself at all? Yes. Add that to list of Migraine Symptoms, 'cause that all prefaced a major one. Three days out, my head raging against all medicinal help and my body confined to long stretches of sleep. On the plus side, one of those days was spent in a bed at Senopati—a real bed!—so despite the throbbing pain and semi-consciousness, I really couldn't complain. 

Also on the plus sign: Revelation. 

See, I've had about a million headaches since arriving here, a ridiculous more amount than usual and migraines on the upswing. For the first few weeks, I attributed it to stress, but when the day-to-day dullish sort of pain (the kind you get used to and just decide to live through) really never left, I had to wonder. Sister Mongan was convinced it was the sambal, because I'm always ordering my nasi goreng pedas sekali, but I wasn't so sure. The pollution, maybe? The sun? At any rate, I had plenty of time to think about it this time around, and in my more lucid moments this weekend I was led to the light: MSG. It's in everything here. They use it like salt. That had to be it—and so far, I'm pretty sure it was. From that day on (so, like, okay, the last three days) I've been careful to order every dish tak mejin and it's worked! For the first time in nearly three months, no headache. Huzzah. I am cured.

Sorry. That really wasn't the most important thing to launch into and then spend ten minutes discussing when there's plenty more relevant sorts of news to relate. Like: The night before I was assigned to give a talk in Sacrament Meeting, my migraine cleared and I was able to actually prepare the ten minutes of thought on Ephesians 2:19-20 that Mas Gandhi had asked me to deliver. Blessings of the Gos-pel. Even so, by the time I stood up to speak on Sunday, my heart was running like a rabbit. But I admitted it right then and there at the pulpit, and Elder Supriyanto was sitting below me front and center to laugh out loud and then smile wildly like he always does, so I made it through and that was that. Plus, as I took my seat again on the stand, Elder Subandriyo turned full around in his chair from where he presided over the meeting and put up two thumbs while whispering with all the tact of a toddler “BAGUS SEKALI!” And since he is the single most shining reason I have faith in Indonesia, that felt really good. 

To add to the happiness? Indri showed up. Indri, who was all set to leave that very day.  I didn't see her smiling face until I was bearing my testimony, but that made it all the brighter. She was sandwiched between Elder Effi and Elder Allen on the back row, and afterwards pulled all three of us sisters into a big hug and told us she just wasn't ready to leave yet. She postponed her departure until next week, which means we have time enough to meet every single day until she leaves and cover every lesson point we possibly could in Indonesian before she gets in all again in English once she's made it to America. She truly is pure gold, this girl—and her progress has lit a fire in all of us this last week that's leading us onto greater heights.

Sunday night during planning we just decided that this was it; that there was no more time to pussyfoot around the truth, so careful for cultural sensitivity and religious affiliation—if ever there came the chance to bear our testimony, doggoneit, we were going to bear our testimony. Because we're not here just to bring people religion. We're here to bring them to Christ, to Christ through The Only True Church in This Entire World. And even though the prayer call's sounding just outside this little internet corner even as I type, that's not going to change our conviction, nor our dedication. 

And, because dad is right about everything, attitude is everything. This week, all three days of it, has been some sort of fantastic. Family. We've taught six lessons. That's six, as in SIX. In half a week, not one month entirely. We're visiting less actives, we're inviting former investigators to learn again, we're calling contacts from years' past until we get at least one to accept what we have to say. This mission's a seed-planting one for sure; but the glory of it is that even while we're planting seeds in this moment, we can turn back to check up on the small saplings that have begun to grow, nourish them again to grow up in righteousness, plantings of the Lord. It's working wonders. It's mighty miracles. 

Really, I've never ever had any week like it in all my life. We've been walking on sunshine amidst torrents of rain. Every night we drop onto our mattresses exhausted, the Spirit's power so full to overwhelming that it then lulls us to sleep. It's been luar biasa, this, and we're praying to keep it that way. 

Must run, as usual. Today's not actually our P-Day this week (we had another day of service today and we'll be back again tomorrow—the JakSel sisters are working with the Office Elders at a International Welfare convention thingy held at Hotel Gran Melia; we hand out headsets while the Elders translate the keynote speeches for each session. Wah, crazy. I'm determined to be able to do that a year from now) and we're emailing really late and have got to get home because we have an early sleep time tonight since we have to be up super early tomorrow and wow, I'm just rambling on all in one sentence so I'll stop here but I love you! I miss you! More than any silly little mark of exclamation could convey.

assalamu alaikum,
Sister E.

p.s. So rainy season's in full force, which I love, but combined with the too-chilled AC hotel lobby today and the palm trees ripped by wind just outside the wall of window, it literally felt like winter was on its way. Strange, strange shock, to walk back outside for the first time since early morning and find it still humid, hot, and nowhere near snow. I was very tricked by it. And quite miss the Seasons.

p.p.s. Here is an Indonesian word I like: nyong. It's like a term of affection, a title you can use to get a good friend's attention or explain thanks/love—like, “Makasih, nyong” It's got such beautiful sound to it. One of those things I know I won't be able to shake for the rest of my life.

p.p.p.s. The Elders tried to get me to help translate today. Ha, very funny. Except that Elder Supriyanto was totally serious. “Sister! You already know Indonesian! You can do it, I saw you speak on Sunday!” Because those were gospel words, Elder. Not international economics/development/governmental policy. Plus, when I'm put under any kind of pressure I break a little, suddenly stupid. Oh, it's such a long ways to go! Some days I think, Hey! This is such a trick! I'm speaking a foreign language like it's my own! And then other days it's more like Hmm, yes. Indonesian. Doesn't that go something like “Selamat Pagi,” or something? Followed by frustration because I kind of want more than anything to be able to really speak this language I love so I can really communicate with the people I love.

p.p.p.p.s. Shoot. Didn't follow up on Sister Lilis and her family from the photo last week. Next time. If you remind me again. Maaf. (See?! Another fabulous word! I mean, when has maaf never been a part of my life?)

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.

Keluargaku,

So I'm kind of in love with Indonesia. Like skipping up the street, singing in the rain, I-don't-care-who-knows-it in love with Indonesia. Last night I was walking home with Sister Mongan, the streets glittering with what little light penetrates the dark here to catch a reflection in the residue of recent rain, families gathered on front porches and curbsides to share food or newspapers or stories, the air crisp and clean after a storm . . . we were singing Primary Songs in Indo and I never wanted it to end. And maybe it was because I saw a particularly dashing vintage Peter Pan illustration at the Mal yesterday, but I was feeling a little bit NeverNeverland. A little Lost Boys, a little full of flight, a little made of magic. Lately, it's all I can do to stop smiling.

And this is all still in Jakarta, mind you. I had four days with Sister Sumarno before she was transferred to Bandung with Sister Atmi and then it was just me, Mongan, Christensen and the new sisters to stay in JakSel. More Americans by a long run, and it's making me dizzy. When Presiden gave us the verdict last Saturday, I was a little up in arms about the imbalance. How dare he take my Indonesians away from me! But then it was all okay because I just decided I'll become Indonesian in Sister Sumarno's place and we'll be halfway back to well. And I already like sambal and Bahasa Jawa, so it was a logical step anyway.

So now it's me, Mongan, and Hewlett in a trio, which has been some real fun and some real (relative) success these past few days. I'm going to have to cut a lot of corners here as I only have five legitimate minutes left of emailing (stretch it to fifteen . . .), but here's the gist:

We have a progressive investigator. And not just progressive, but maybe golden. Sister Sumarno and I met her at the mall with Sister Lily ages ago, and just in the last two weeks she started calling again, and has wanted to meet with us everyday since. Her name's Indri, she's 25, intelligent and educated and curious and thoughtful and yesterday testified to us that the Book of Mormon was true. We'd taught her about the Plan of Salvation, a lesson that went down in my journal as the best one yet since that first one with Pak Luther, and afterwards we're asking how she's feeling, if there are any questions, etc., and she sat still for a moment, gathering her thoughts together, one hand on the Bible open on her left knee, and the other on the Book of Mormon to her right. “It's true,” she said. “It just. Makes. Sense.”

Cue the Hallelujah chorus. You have no idea how amazing it felt to finally teach someone who could put the pieces together and see not only how they made a picture as a whole, but how they fit right into their personal picture, too. With that initial opener, she then went on to say how incredible she felt to hear that families can be together forever, that there was a life before this one and that there's a life after it, too. She said how she called us because she knew something was missing in her life, but she felt whole whenever she was with us. She told us how she'd gone home after her first lesson with us and called up her sister, telling her about this new scripture she just had to read. 

The catch? She's moving. And yeah, we've already sent in the referral, but it's going all the way to America. Because she's off to law school in South Carolina on Sunday.

Still. Investigator. Glory, glory hallelujah.

And now it's a storm to beat anything I've yet to see here, and we've got to go back out into it. I'm sorry there's not more story and substance here, but I've felt a real disconnect in my thoughts since I sat down to the computer an hour ago and it's just not working like I want it to and (as usual) there's just far too much to say. The basics: happy and hopeful. Love Sister Mongan. Sister Hewlett a welcome, witty addition to the companionship. Rainy Season = win. As always, heart the members most. 

Kind of never want to leave right now.

love you.

Sister E.

p.s. I can speak Indonesian! Crazy talk. I love it. And love you. Always.

ladeda.

Keluargaku yang terkasih,

I'm just going to let you know from the get-go that I have yet to read a single email of yours this week—nor will I until I return home later tonight, and revel in the printed version for the quiet hour before bed. It's not because I don't love you, it's not because I don't need you; it's because the last seven days were Splendid + Extraordinary, and I plan to do them justice even with only an hour to write.

And yet even that needs another disclaimer: please do not expect anything especially spiritual in the following paragraphs. My adventures of late have not been so heavenly and I'm about to rattle on about baby tigers and cowboy shows.

Yep. You heard that right. I have officially fulfilled any dream I could have ever dreamt and today, this very day, spent the morning in company of wee leopards and lions, plus an orangutan and a particularly saliva-blessed zebra. Taman Safari Indonesia, family! Put it in your planners, because this is one thing I can't exaggerate: this little gem just outside Bogor is the Best Zoo in All the World. 

Plus, it was all a secret. Sisters Trip. Elders in the dark. We meet up with Millecams and Reebers (the other mission couple assigned to Jak) in the church parking lot at eight and got out of there as quick as we could, escaping to the mountains in the black mission vans with the angel Moroni trumpeting from the back window. The drive alone was worth it—Indonesia! It is green! It is beautiful! There is life outside the capital!—but the Safari itself? Magical. First you pay all of seven bucks for your entire car to get through, passing about a hundred signs that warn you not to feed the animals, keep your windows closed, etc—and then promptly roll down all windows and pull out the box of carrots and bananas you've just bought in bulk at the pasar down the road. For the first hour it was just winding up through this wild jungle, feeding anything that came close enough. Which was just about everything—zebras, camels, antelope, strange-striped deer only found in Sumatra, hippos, rhinos, giraffes, the works. Oh, llamas. Those are so weird-looking. Anyway, we're just feeding these crazy animals, no big deal. Also hilarious because I'm the only one who would stick my arm out the window and offer a bunch of carrots or a banana, half-peeled. Indonesians are unbelievably frightable (word?), and my companions spent most of the ride squealing in the back seat. 

So there I am, living my PetVet Dream at new heights, when we arrive to the main concourse and the BABY PETTING ZOO. Which is where I commenced a bit of squealing, too because HAVE YOU EVER SEEN LITTLE BABY WILDCATS UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL?!? Sorry about the shouting. I'm still a little intensified; the five-year-old in me hasn't quite worn off yet. It deserves the capitalization, though, and I've got the pictures to prove it. Maybe we'll just leave it at that?

Except, real quick: favorite part of the whole wild ride: the elephants. I could've spent hours at the Plaza Gajah, feeling a friendly trunk wrap about my wrist or snuff against my back in search of more bananas. They're so beautiful, these giant works of nature, and so gentle—though that didn't stop all the Indos from their constant worry. “Jangan!” they kept shouting, shying from the beasts as I reached up to wrap my arm around a neck. “Sister! Awas! Awas!” Bonus: Being called brave all day was a beautiful irony I more or less reveled in. When I sat with the mum panther, for example, a whole crowd of Indians had gathered to watch the spectacle (Team India!) and just kept saying over and over again, “So brave, so brave!” And I really loved to imagine them gathered about me on any other typical Indonesian day, as I hesitated to talk to the person next to me on a bus or angkot. Big cats? No problem. Actual missionary work? Still got a ways to go.

But I'll let the photos cover the rest of that experience, because now I've got to speed-type into the other highlights of recent living, the major moment being PLD (Zone Conference) this weekend.

It was bound to be good, seeing as we've been looking forward to it for weeks now. That first week we arrived was our last one, so on parting the five MTC originals were all handshakes and promises that we'd see each other at least by next PLD. Which turned out to be a little untrue—Greenwell and Lily have left us for the Solo PLD these days—but the reunion was no less joyous. Plus, it was only the beginning of a full weekend of gathering; our PLD coincided with District Conference for all of Jawa Barat, which meant we got a General Authority in the mix, too. 

Elder Kent D. Watson presided. Presided, uplifted, enlightened—the gist of his lessons and presence will have to wait for a letter (things on the more emotional side are never any good to explain in the rush of a time constraint). His wife was especially encouraging, and just the general atmosphere of the meeting was something I've missed for awhile; it was all the electricity of an MTC Sunday, with the added vivacity of being together as missionaries, as feeling some sort of unity in a country that constantly makes us feel the smallest drop of water in a tumbling storm. Within fifteen minutes of the opening prayer, I was feeling pretty good about life.

Until it came to talks—every PLD the message goes out from Presiden what the topic will be (usually you can choose from 3-5 principles of MiK) and we're expected to prepare a three minute ceramah just in case it's our name called from the pulpit. That's the way it's presented on the program, too: Ceramah . . . . Mungkin Anda (Talk . . . Maybe You). And wouldn't you know it, by an inspired process of revelation known only to a GA, Elder Watson pulled my name out of his pocket. Mine, Elder Sutarno's, and Elder Meek's. 

Which was okay, because I was prepared! Two pages written out in neat Indonesian script so I wouldn't miss a syllable of pronunciation, with clear references to the scriptures I would include if asked to speak on Hope. Except that Elder Watson, as the power and authority at the meeting, put a new spin on things: If you had been serving longer than a year, you had to use your second language. So Indos in English and Americans in Indo. But, if you had been here less than a year, you would share your thoughts in your mother tongue. 

And there went my talk. 

Because, given that I'd prepared it in Indonesian, it was a lot more simple than I would have kept it to had I been given the chance to speak in English. And there I was, given the chance. Luckily Elder Sutarno took the stand before me (delivering an address on Charity in fluid English, I might add), and by the time Meek got up to go next, I'd arranged enough of my thought into a somewhat workable outline that allowed me to listen to my former DL in relative peace.

It was classic Meek, very simple and balanced but powerful to every point. And I couldn't help but smile; he'd chosen Hope, too. When I got up to follow him, I mentioned that we were definitely on the same wavelength still, as these last two months have been something of a crash-course in the principle. And then I just talked. For exactly three minutes, managing to say all I needed to say and, in a true manifestation of the Spirit, saying it the way I wanted it said. It was a really good experience for me, realizing that I have changed these past four months, that an assignment that would usually mean excruciating hours working every last word to perfection and then read from the pulpit had become an easier thing for me, a rush, even. I didn't do it all on my own, of course, but it was still the push I needed to feel a little more the strength I've slowly cultivated since arriving in the MTC only four months ago. And afterwards Presiden pulled me aside and thanked me and shook my hand with more feeling than any interview I've ever had with him, and that felt good, too.

Right. So if that's not enough, the rest of the PLD was super stellar, and then the very next day we all got to meet again with the Jakarta saints and then as missionaries at Senopati for a Halloween dinner, that ended in us singing Called to Serve in the loudest chorus we could muster, all thirty crammed about the piano where Elder Lewis pounded the keys with little attention to any musical marks other than Forte all around. Sunday we taxied to Senayin, where the saints of West Java filled an entire conference room full with hymn and prayer and the little Primary choir that started it all was enough to break your heart and bind it up all over again. Joy, so much joy. It was the soaring high we all needed—numbers are lower than I would even want to tell you and it's only a sight like Saints that could overcome it. 

Which leaves me to my last magical moment, which I should have mentioned first: Noah said hi! Third-hand, but one of those bright little miracles all the same. I walked into PLD on Friday and Elder Beus practically ran to meet me. “Do you have a friend in Taiwan?” he asked, and I looked confused. “An Elder Kerchi—Kerzow—” “Kershisnik?” I offered, not imagining it could be right. “Yes!” he said, snapping his fingers in connection. “He says hi.”

Turns out Elder Beus' businessman dad ran into Knoah at the airport, just a few hours from his arrival in Hong Kong. Can this be included under the tender mercies folder? Because it certainly had that bright-eye, light-step effect on me.

I've got to sign off on this epistle if I'm ever going to get to pictures and a few more quick answers, too. Apologize for all the ADD. Love you. More than wee lions and a sea lion show, plus a hungry hippo.

Sister E.

Cue Sister Lily.

And every day was a lifetime.

Really, it feels eons since I last sat down at a computer to write—or at least seven years, rather than seven days. A lot of change in these parts; a few trials, a few joys, and (as always) a whole lot of growing.

First, Sister Katam and I spent our final day together (Saturday) at the church again, from eight in the morning just about till five at night, where we proofread the final typesetter's copy of the newly re-translated Kitab Mormon. It was a blissfully relaxing exercise to me, reading aloud with a red pen in hand, glad for our packet portion that included Ether 2 right through Moroni 10, some of my most absolutely favorite passages (and so even easier to understand with my limited Indonesian). We had almost 100 people there that day, all grouped in twos to catch punctuation errors or grammar abuse, stopping only for water breaks and one lunch-hour rest. I really enjoyed the work, and even with my four months of Indonesian could really see the difference in this translation, how the language more closely matches the beauty of the English translation and even more fully conveys the glory of this Gospel. It was incredible to be a part of something that will obviously mean so much more to the Indonesian saints.

But the end of that service project meant the end of our companionship, and with weary eyes and full hearts we watched Sister Katam climb into the car and off and away. She cried! I've never seen her cry. It was an oddly stunning moment for me, realizing that we'd managed to become friends sweet enough to feel pain at parting—in the course of only six weeks, with the language barrier to boot. I'm very glad she's going home to Malang, one of the few cities where Sisters can serve here, and so that absolutely wasn't any sort of final goodbye. 

Still sad. And nothing could have prepared me for what came next, either. Presiden, thus far, had only waved us away when we pestered him about new companionships. “Belum,”he'd say. “Tunggu wahyu saya.” Not yet. Await my revelation. Which, I will add, was always said with a cheeky smile that makes me quite sure there was no such divine direction—an assumption cemented in fact once I heard the verdict. Just as we were about to turn home, he called me over to reassign me to . . . Sister Lie?

Sister Lie. As in just arrived from Solo, a brand-new missionary of barely 24 hours. And brand-new here is a little different from our brand new there—the newbies in Indo haven't been to the MTC yet, either. There are only a certain number of slots available all year round, so Sister Lie won't head to the Phillipines until November, which means that for the next three weeks, I'm officially a Trainer.

Meaning: maybe Presiden is a little insane. Or a lot insane. Maybe both. I've been here six weeks, not six months—and besides not knowing the language well enough for the task, Sister Lie hasn't learned the lessons to teach, either, so we're something of a sorry pair. Not that she's anything terrible—heavens no. We get along really well, and she's a talker with a capital T so there's never want for conversation and in these last few days my Indonesian has taken a definite upswing (she also knows absolutely no English). But I'll admit, I totally panicked. To be honest, I've had a pretty hard time with Presiden Marchant since the beginning, and this just kind of compounded a lot of anxiety/annoyance/uncharitability (word?) in me and it took a real crash-course in prayer and faith to get me through it. In the end, we JakSel Sisters banded together in a glorious display of our combined intelligence and sympathy and pulled off a plan that has this week worked really well: whenever I have an appointment, I split with Mongan or Sumarno (so we have someone who can actually teach the lesson), and whenever one of them has an appointment, Sister Lie goes with them to learn the ropes. Anything else and it's up to me—which means those notes I've been scribbling this last little while have really come in handy. 

So it's an adventure (as if it's ever not) and things are picking up speed, if only slightly; days literally feel like years but looking back at the last seven weeks I feel tricked as to the passage of time. Especially when things start to go really well, it's all I can do to keep up with the month and date. October? Almost over? Soon enough the next round of American Sisters (and last, for awhile, actually) will be here and we'll no longer be the newbies. 

Blast. I'm on a computer with a timer this week and it's quite the race. What else? Oh. Monday. The Best Day of My Mission Ever So Far.

So the very first week we were in Jakarta, Sister Lily and I met Sister Orton in the English Branch, an expat who's been here for eight years now and was ecstatic to finally have Sisters in the Branch. She had friends, she said, and she wanted us to teach them. We called Presiden right away and he okayed the split and there was much rejoicing as SisLily and I reveled in the chance to teach together again (we're quite the power team, if we do say so ourselves. *ahem*). But Sister Orton's friends were out of town, and then Presiden had one of his wahyu-wahyu, and SisLily was swept away to Malang and so when it all finally worked out, it was me and Sister Mongan at the dinner table, sharing the message of the Restoration with a lovely little family of three.

They're Indonesian, but speak excellent English; Sister Orton met the mother (Patricia) at a Bazaar a few years ago and now helps her sell her jewelry in the USA through a daughter in Texas. The father (Ek) is a Vice-Principal at what they call a Dual-Language private school here in Jakarta, and their wee daughter Alene (barely three years old) greeted us both with the dip of a curtsy and the politest English hello. It was an incredibly casual affair—they’d mentioned to SisOrton that they wanted to know more about the Mormons and so we simply discussed Doctrine over chicken enchiladas (an added blessing of the evening—oh, Mexican food!) while also talking about life and family in general. And family, this is how real missionary work is done. 

The Ortons really led the way, talking like the old friends they are but standing firm in Gospel principles (as Lutherans, the family had a hard time accepting that Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost are separate beings). Sister Mongan was on fire, giving all the right answers in all the right ways in beautiful Indonesian that I followed wonderfully, nearly every word. By the end of our two hours together, we'd become friends, had a fulfilling conversation with a side of actual ice cream for dessert, and a return appointment plus the promise of Church on Sunday and that they'd for sure read the Kitab Mormon and pray, too. I can't quite contain what this all means in the space of an email and especially in the sad writing I manage to spit out under a time constraint, but suffice it to say: this is a miracle in the history of missionary work as far as Indonesia's concerned. But here's the thing: we were just doing exactly what all the prophets and apostles and MiK and MTC teachers have taught us over and over again: members. Members are the key to missionary work. 

Oh, you should have seen us in the taxi home. I was talking a mile a minute—me! talking! Like crazy! In Indonesian, too! Laughing for no other reason than that we were happy. It was a real feeling of strength and testimony, the boost and blessing I needed after having a rather rough time of it only the day before. In that hour's drive home, I watched the Jakarta streets rise and fall outside my window with the strangest feeling at the sight: I didn't want to leave. 

And of course there will be more trials. There will be more days where I cry, where the smallest touch of color or the most obvious cultural gap will hit me right where it hurts most and I'll long for home all over again. But for right now, today, this week, this month: it's okay. And it will always (happy, happy Hope!) get better.

I am sorry that I have reached no answers to your many questions in this somewhat lengthy email, but I have only a few seconds left and I've got to use them to print out your emails so that I eventually can get to the answers. I'm getting better at managing my letter time, so hopefully I'll be sending another envelope your way soon. Until then,

kasihlah.

Sister E.

There are four little children in this internet cubicle with me, watching the crazy bule type. It's more than a little distracting. But also terribly cute.

Family,

I am in way over my head.

I was feeling somewhat more confident last night, as I lay on my little mattress awaiting sleep, running through the happenings of a Tuesday in Jakarta and imagining what a Wednesday might bring. I'd just said my prayers, and in that sweet half hour of silence undimmed by the purr of our little fan (broken in two places and still struggles valiantly on), I just waited, and listened. And the thought that came was this: start taking notes. Know places and people and bus stops and phone numbers, because life's about to get a little harder. 

Funny how that works.

Presiden called this morning, with the “revelation” that Sister Katam is going to spend her last three weeks of mission in Bandung. As in, she's moving. Saturday. My senior companion and trainer, off and away just like that. Which means a few things: one, I'll have a new companion. Two, I’ll be the one that “knows” Jakarta and therefore holds the authority in where we're going and what we're doing and who we're seeing. Three, I’m going to be here for a while.

Part of me might be a little upset about that, but most of me knows it's a major blessing that I'll praise later—everyone says Jakarta's the hardest place to serve in Indonesia, and if I spend my first 4-6 months here, I'll never have to come back. And I can spend Christmas at Senopati. And keep teaching the children's English Class. And have FHE with Ibu Astuti. And know exactly where to find the most top-notch bebek goreng in Tebet.

Still. I was really set on finishing out these last three weeks with Sister Katam. Change is never what you think it will be, is it?

So that's the news from today, and here's the quick list from the week:

Spent all Saturday (9 am to 11 pm) at the Church, along with every other missionary from Java Barat and members from all over the Jakarta region. School supplies for children in Padang finally arrived late the night before, so we were set to work first thing pulling together backpacks and pencil cases and erasers and rulers and 14 hours later we had filled 12,000 backpacks and 5 trucks for the cause. It was a beautifully long day, full of good, hard, work and the end result of feeling like we'd finally done something quantifiable here. Plus, I made some good friends from Bekasi, and we sang while we worked. Lovely.

Monday morning got to talk with Sister Lily! Her companion called our house to get a number from Sister Mongan, so we had a few minutes to catch up beyond our weekly letters (I know, we're very nearly pathetic). That was quite lovely, too.

Yesterday taught a lesson, huzzah! Would write more but this computer has now died a total of four times and my patience is wearing thin along with the remaining time allotted. Am going to try to send photos again, too, so this is it for now.

Love you. Always.

E.

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.

One-Sixth.

This email, of course, was meant to be written yesterday. But that was before all power decided to die in our little corner of Tebet Jakarta Selatan, and so here we are on Thursday. I'm sorry for any panic that might have caused but no, I'm not buried under the rubble of earthquake or lost among the slums of the city. Hopefully a few photos will make up for it all.

My dear family:::

Our Golden Compass moment has arrived di luar biru, and SisLily is already moved to Malang. It happened so quickly, all in the space of 48 hours—the phone call, the general panic, the hurried packing and planning. There is a very real chance we won't ever see each other until the very last days of our mission, and while we've long known this day would come, the surprise that accompanied it was a little unexpected. We'd prepared for this, right? Apparently not enough—waving her taxi off yesterday morning was just as traumatic as leaving you all at the MTC. Luckily we had a good hour to practice Apparating after our morning run Tuesday, and when that didn't quite work out (perhaps Less Developed Magic accompanies a Less Developed Country?) we hurriedly made up a Portkey set to send us wherever the other one was within Indonesia. 

So here we are, the Breaking of the Fellowship—though there's some good to report, too, as one of our original members has returned. Elder Greenwell's been transferred to Jakarta Raya, which means a District Meeting every Friday with both him and Nixon in attendance. And though even two of them couldn't quite make up for SisLily's absence, I am glad to have Greenwell back. He's just a stellar missionary, a really top-notch thinker and good friend; having him around keeps me working hard, too.

In other news, the stress of separation manifested itself in me finally giving into temptation and cuddling a small kitten on my way home last night—though really it couldn't be helped. This particular cat has been following me around for days now, along the streets close to our home, very clearly without a mother or any siblings to speak of. And there he was, crying from a corner of the deserted play park, and there I was, secretly crying from the corners of my weak heart, and so there you go. Sister Katam was horrified, Sister Sumarno laughed and shook her head, and the wee little black thing shushed his mewlings and curled up in my cupped hands (yes, they are that small). And we took a few quiet minutes to mourn together before going our own separate ways, the kitten to his corner and I straight home and to the nearest hand sanitizer.

It was so worth it.

Also took all the Sisters to dinner in honor of my lovely Mother on the occasion of her birthday, which then actually turned into a farewell of sorts for Sister Lily as we'd just gotten the transfer call. Pictures to follow, though I haven't got those on CD yet. Just know that you are very loved and very appreciated, as we did this all in your name. Beautiful FHE, as well.

But Family! One month! Three months total! That's one-sixth of my mission (I've become very aware of fractions since becoming a missionary; I assume this mathematical inclination is temporary) and while part of me is rejoicing at the milestone, most of me knows it's only the beginning. I have moments, of course, where I can stop and honestly tell myself there's nothing I'd rather be doing, that I love the country, the people, the work and the language. But those are still only moments and I need to work harder for more of them. I'm sorry my emails haven't been the uplifting praises of most missionaries, that I haven't yet reached any solid way to write details about my investigators or contacts or more missionary experiences in general, but I  . . . I will have to work up to that. Bear with me while I grow.

Though this morning, I opened to Alma 39 to begin my Book of Mormon Study, where I found a note from SisLily, directing me to the New Testament. It's something of a tradition with the both of us, leaving post-its in hidden places to find at random—some funny, some serious, some downright ridiculous—and she must have snuck this one in before I woke up early yesterday to see her off. Romans 8:18, it said. And I'm holding to that.

love you, miss you. so. so. much.

E.

Lagi Ramadan.

Keluarga,

The streets of Jakarta are speaking to me still—yesterday, in the crush of busway transport, I reached up to grab hold of the passenger handle to find a note tucked into the plastic case. There, written on the back of a used ticket for 3500 Rp— in black, blocky ink, the reminder to Haraplah! (Hope!). Which is an admirable admonition for any day, but this week especially as Sunday welcomed Idul Fitri, the Muslim equivalent of Christmas with all the festivity of a New York New Year's. The party began Saturday as the sun set, the final day of Ramadan's fasting going up in a blaze of fireworks and drumbeats echoing along the corridors of Jakarta's slums. It was an incredible eruption of life and color and light—a party I got to watch all night long as well, seeing as I'd eaten dinner at a member's home that afternoon . . .

But anway. Idul Fitri. For the Muslims, a party all night long and the promise of presents in the morning and a week's holiday. For the LDS missionaries, seven days of Not A Lot to Do. Jakarta is empty (or as empty as it could ever be) with families off visiting their childhood villages or far-off family, and those that are left are very decidedly Muslim and so very much off-limits. It's been a lot of walking and wandering mostly, desperate attempts to find people to talk to about the Gospel of Jesus Christ instead of the logistics of Hari Raya (which is also fun, just not quite as productive). Luckily, Keluarga Subandriyo understands all too fully our predicament. They have been watching over us since day one, but this week they've stayed especially close and caring and it's been a life-saver.

You remember Elder Subandriyo, right? His whole family's just as incredible and inspiring, a true and pure light among so much grime here in the city. Monday they had us over for FHE—all six of us, plus the Elders—which included a fantastic feast of all sorts of spicy entrees and cool desserts along with one of the most uplifting lessons I've heard in a long while. There's something so singular about this man, this Area Authority who eats with us barefoot and cross-legged on the floor and then proceeds to teach the lesson of the Restoration as if we'd never ever heard it before. I not only learned about a hundred new Indonesian words (his Bahasa is incredibly halus, pure) but went home to look up another twenty-five more, just to be able to describe the experience later. First on that list? Bermartabat. Dignified. Elder Subandriyo is that word personified.

So we had a most lovely evening there, and then today found Sister Stefi (his wife) waiting for us outside our house first thing. “Forget P-Day!” she said. “We're going shepherding!” And so out we went, searching out lost sheep and sharing Gospel messages. Sister Stefi knows absolutely everyone, and she doesn't bother with calling beforehand, either. We just show up at these less-actives doors and talk until we get up and move on to the next house, which may or may not be hours away. It was an adventure of the best sorts, the kind where you occasionally just turn to SisLily and bust up laughing. Where are we, who are we, what in the world are we doing, you know? Along the way she'd stop to buy us sweets or entertain us on longer drives with the story of falling in love with Elder Subandriyo or how she found the church in the first place, always laughing, smiling, so happy. Oh, the whole family is just so full of joy. Sister Stefi dropped us off only a half an hour ago, after which we all set off at a run to get to the internet before the day was officially over. And now here I am, sitting here talking to the Papuan man next to me, who just agreed to come to Sacrament Meeting on Sunday. (!!!!) Life's a miracle, a beautiful thing.

So once again this is short, but I hope it's full enough to carry over until next week. I'll try to get another letter off as well, but those missives tend to take a lot of energy out of me and now I've forgotten exactly what I wrote before and don't want to repeat myself. . . oh well. More later, as always.

I love you. Miss you like crazy, but love you even more.

always,

Sister E.

Mission Possible in Steppings with Jesus!!

*True Story bumper sticker I saw yesterday when riding the bus back home after one long, miserable day on busses across the city. God has a funny way of stepping in like that, doesn't He?

Halo semuanya!

So yesterday was my half birthday, which means that I have therefore promised myself I give this whole mission thing a good six months at least. By the Ides of March, I plan on loving every minute of this insanity. I plan on being able to understand what they're saying to me, and I plan on being able to talk right back. I plan on finally getting a handle of Jakarta street maps and Blok M bus schedules, and I for sure plan on feeling that kind of fire that makes me never ever want to leave. Six months. Because things take time. And I am learning patience.

One thing I already love about Indonesia, however, is the overly-bright and courageously cheerful stationary products that I occasionally pass by on my way to market or home from Jakarta Raya. You probably know what I'm talking about—the characteristically mangled English that comes out of these Asian countries in surprisingly insightful phrases. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm so desperate for constant reminders of happiness that I find hope in these small moments, moments like “Maybe happiness is simplest” or “Today is the best day of living because I own four cats.” I also found quiet inspiration in this pithy phrase printed across a fellow passenger's bag on busway: “You are flowerful in the storm that rages.” But maybe most of all I liked this (somewhat legit!) statement, printed on a t-shirt in the pasar: “Find your passion and make it happen.”

I think I've actually been trying to live this particular motto most of my life, but had forgotten to apply it to mission as of yet—find my passion? Sometimes that seems near impossible, amidst the endless traffic, the constant noise and rubbish, the hopeless poverty. But this week I feel like maybe I came a bit closer to that passion, a passion I've found to be teaching.

Which we don't have a lot of opportunity for, to be honest with you. Though a 90% Muslim population in the fourth most populous nation means there's a good 29 million Christians still to reach, that same statistic applies to every day here and it's rare you find someone wanting to be taught even if you manage to find a Christian in the first place. Then, if you luck out with a phone number, chances are they're going to evade your call, or if you get all the way to a call and appointment, they're most likely not going to show up. That appointment I had to run to last week? No show. Same with two the next day. But that kind of despair only makes those rare teaching opportunities entirely more beautiful, all the more valuable. At this point, fourteen days into Indonesia, I've taught exactly two. But the power and truth I felt in those two hours was enough to make up for every busway rejection, every night stood up at the church. 

I actually wrote you a letter last week, a full six pages or so in teeny-tiny type that should make its way to you in the near future, if you keep your fingers crossed and also your prayers constant—dropping that fat envelope off at the Kantor Pos in no way really aided in strengthening my faith in Indonesia. But anyway, there's a letter on the way with all sorts of new information and exciting examples and details and I don't want to repeat myself here, so perhaps that will all have to wait. I'll also end off here because I want to respond to the other questions in your emails—I’m on another hour's time constraint because there's still shopping to do and then guess what? I'm going on the radio. I know. Of all the things to tell your kids, right? Once upon a time, I did a weekly radio show in Jakarta, Indonesia . . . Apparently a local English-teaching station asks us to come on and just talk for an hour so their listeners can get a feel for the language and also call in with questions. We are ridiculously excited, as you might imagine.

sampai menulis lagi,

Sister E.

JakSel.

Keluarga yang kukasihi,

Cockroaches can fly. Did you know that? I didn't, not until my first night in Jakarta Selatan and one the size of my thumb winged it right into my face. You're imagining that I panicked a little, aren't you? And yeah, so maybe I did. But that was then. And now it’s six days later. You can learn a lot in six days.

Like how to kill a cockroach without a second thought, or how to buy gado-gado from the man around the corner, or how you turn on the AC very first thing when you're home for the night if you want to bring the heat down from a constant 30 degrees to a cool 29. And that's only the very tip of the iceberg when it comes to Jakarta.

Because heavens, is it something. There aren't words to describe it, and I might not even try. It's too big, too dirty, too busy, too absolutely crazy-insane. So for this email we'll stick to things a little closer to home. We've got a janji (teaching appointment) in one hour, so it looks like another race against the clock this week, too.

Firstly, SisLily and I are seriously so spoiled. Transfers came in along with Zone Conference this Monday, and it looks like we're going to be together for another two months, if not three, here in Jakarta. Presiden likes to keep us close and our immigration papers might take a bit longer so here we are, living the high life in Tebet along with four other sisters—one American (Sister Christensen) and two Indonesians (Sister Sumarno + Sister Katam). I've maybe mentioned SisLily was heaven-sent before. Well, that was nothing compared to the saving grace she's been to me here—most people mention that mission is hard, but that little word doesn't really convey the entire sense of the word when you're actually living it. Family, mission is Hard. To the point this past week I began living from minute to minute, and then hour to hour, and then morning to afternoon, until maybe today is the first time since arriving on the island that I feel a firmer sense of who I am or what I'm doing and how I'm going to do it. Today I'm living day by day, and it's a beautiful feeling compared to the heartsick panic I survived last week—which is not to say that anyone needs to hop on any planes or ring up Senopati to get me out of here. This was to be expected, this whole trial-and-tribulation bit. But it's one of those things you couldn't possible prepare for once you're thrown into the actual experience. 

Thing is, everyone also says its the best possible thing they've ever done in their lives, and I've seen enough glimpses of that vision these past few days that I'm willing to hold on and figure that out for myself. I love Indonesia, for example. Really and truly one hundred percent, despite the heat, the humidity, the general disrepair and unfathomable poverty. Because above and beyond everything else, they are an incredibly optimistic people. I've touched on this before, I think, as far as language goes—remember belum vs. tidak? And they're always going on about semoga (hopefully), with a heavy dose of insha'Allah (God willing). But maybe one of my favorite examples of Indonesian optimism is in the humble busker. Indonesians, unlike the blessed Polynesian missionaries we so loved at the MTC, are not blessed with beautiful voices.

We naik bis (ride buses) to and from absolutely everywhere, these rotting little metal tins with their numbers painted in acrylic over the front window and sad sashes of decades-dirtied fabric along the top. They hardly make a full stop for their passengers in the first place, but buskers have an even harder time, jumping in and out of any passing bis with a running leap. Once onboard, however, they stand erect at the front, guitar/tambourine/harmonica/keyboard/take your pick held close like a child as they address us as their audience. Occasionally this means a short speech about the hard life of a mortal or the changing views of the modern world, but my favorite are the mini sermons that last a good full minute or so and call everyone to God before he launches into some song or other as varied as folk to rap. Lyrics? Maybe. If you can tell one word from another, or even so much as one note from the next. But they hack at it, oh they do. Wonderfully dedicated to their art and so serious, too. After their musical spiel (which honestly only lasts about two minutes and usually not an entire song) however, comes my most favorite part: the thank yous. Like notes prepared for the Academy Awards, they thank everyone for listening, their families for loving them, the bus driver for supporting them . . . the list goes on as if the great artist was invited to sing in the most grand of concert halls or most popular music venue in all of Jakarta. A quick shake of the money bag and then they're off at the next intersection, minutes before another busker arrives and the entire cycle begins again.

This is a very nearly constant part of my life, and one that saved me last Saturday. I was having a particularly rough time of it when some such busker hopped on the 62 out to Blok M and stood there so significantly, as if centering his soul before the performance. I couldn't help but smile, and by the end of his sincere attempt at song I was nearly laughing for the joy of it. How grand, how full, to take on a job so small with such intensity. In that moment, I could keep going. I could do this. I could do this for a long time yet.

I think that will have to be Part One for Jakarta from here on out, and I'll just fill you in on the quick notes now, because I know you'll need to know:

My companion is Sister Katam, a wee wisp of a girl from Malang. I am entirely convinced she is the reason Disney puts wide-almond eyes on every Princess—she has a stunning small face with the most startling eyes I've ever seen. She's very shy and crazy-quiet; she moves about on cat-paws, I swear, always there and ready to help. A little mother (Amy Dorrit, yes?) and big sister all in one. Whenever I'm sick (which happens a little bit more often than I'd like, but I was warned. Oh well. Nothing serious ever, don't worry) she stays close and takes care of me; she's very aware of life around her and takes care of most everyone, actually. She's the most senior sister here, too—going home in only two months! I like her rather quite a lot, though she refuses to speak the English I know she understands perfectly so sometimes it is frustrating when I desperately need something explained and she only hesitantly describes it in Bahasa Indonesia. 

Luckily, Sister Sumarno (SisLily's companion) was studying to be an English Teach before her mission and takes every opportunity to practice the language. She's incredibly bubbly and lovable, really energetic and pretty much open to anything. The four of us all together have become pretty good friends together; we balance each other out nicely. 

Let's see . . . the Elders. We're all still near Jakarta—Nixon to Jakarta Raya (Central), Greenwell to Bekasi (about 40 minutes from us) and Meek to Bogor (2 hours away). Our parting was actually pretty pathetic—sometimes I feel like we only imagined the strength of our bond in the MTC, but this last week simply proved it was stronger. With Zone Conference this last Monday we all met up in Jakarta for the day and it felt like a reunion of long-lost siblings, the way we went on about it. Then Tuesday, at the beach, we hung out together all day like old times (ha) and everything felt a little more right with the world. We've all had quite a bit of trouble adjusting and our fair share of doubts and desperate moments of homesickness, so it was good to touch base and know we're not alone. Goodness, I love them. Last night we said our official goodbyes for at least six more weeks (until next zone conference). I'm going to miss them.

Still, there are a million more things to be grateful for, something I try to remember every day. Count your many blessings, right? That always gets me back on track when my sanity starts to slip. And you guys are always at the top of my list, first and foremost. Oh, how I love you. How I so overwhelmingly miss you. How infinitely grateful I am to be so sure that my afflictions are only ever a small moment, that in patience and faith all is made gloriful and I not only return to you so soon but get to keep you for always. I love you. Madly.

selalu,

Sister E.