By This We Worship and are Freed.

Keluargaku,

It is one of mortality's greatest injustices, and it is epitomized in a pop song (which is injustice enough itself): don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got ‘til it's gone? How many times in my lifetime have I learned that lesson? New Zealand, Wales, Siena. My lifelong love affair with Home? And yet here I am, feeling like I'm only really learning to love this great big mess of an archipelago at the eleventh hour. Am I savoring this bowl of fried noodles and boiled sawi sufficiently? Did I smile brightly enough at that crooked old becak driver in his wrinkled SBY shirt? Have I taken enough time to take in a landscape of green on green, of palms on mountains and water buffalo on city streets? I'm afraid the answer is no, but that is not from lack of trying. It is from the simple fact that it is never enough, it cannot be enough. Not when every angkot, every rainstorm, every small child, seems to pump the very blood I bleed and need to my heart.

This hurts.

But we will stop talking about it, because I am in denial anyway. I no longer look at calendars, and I pretend I just don't understand enough Indonesian when hearing dates and times over informational loudspeakers. Time waits for no man? I am no man.

My Black Day never came; quite the contrary. We arrived in Surabaya and consequently spent some of the most Spirit-filled and meaningful moments of my mission thus engaged. I had a lot of opportunities to rely on the Lord and thereby grow, opportunities that I will count among the most refining of my mission. One of them was being called on to translate for Sister Pratt in the District Conference sessions and individual leadership training. Now. Translating for an afternoon of entrepreneurial workshops amongst my dearly beloved members of the Malang branch is something I can do. Gladly. Translating for the wife of a General Authority from the pulpit at a District Conference? Entirely other. I felt very inadequate, knowing that Sister Pratt had so thoughtfully and prayerfully prepared what she had to say—-what the Lord had to say—-to our members in Jawa Timur, and felt too heavily the weight of being the one who would then, in turn, be mouthpiece to that message. I was nervous. Which is an understatement. But I remembered how often I had called upon the Lord for his strength and solidity in such times as these, and I remembered the line from Lead Kindly Light (so long thy pow'r hath blessed me, sure it still, will lead me on), and just after the doors closed but before the opening prayer I nudged Nab and we slipped outside for a small prayer. Nothing too spectacular, just a sincere please.

I translated for Sister Pratt. No, that's not right. I opened my mouth to translate for Sister Pratt, and the Spirit gave me the words to do so. For fifteen minutes in that first session and thirty the next day, I spoke Indonesian like I'd been born and raised in Central Java*. It was still very simple—-I never used any words I didn't already know—-but I could feel the difference in my syntax, in the way a relatively grammar-less language suddenly formed itself into formal sentences on my tongue, in the way I was given to know not just what words to use, but exactly the right word to use. Which was never the direct word translation from the English, but always something slightly different in Indonesian that carried the same power. But perhaps the craziest thing of all was that I understood this, all of this, within the very exact moment I was experiencing it—-all the while simultaneously listening to Sister Pratt and speaking into my microphone. My mind is not big enough for that. Not humanly. And so I knelt that night in gratitude for not only a prayer answered, but an experience of eternal proportions.

District Conference, in all other respects, was incredible. Great speakers (President Groberg has the most beautiful way of teaching directly out of scripture), great songs (we sang my all-time Indo favorite, Kita Maju Ke Kemuliaan, right before I had to translate. That extra strength was no coincidence), great Spirit. Ibu P was there along with her son , J_ (Pak J can't travel long distances because of the side-effects of his stroke), who then both attended the special meeting for new members on Sunday afternoon. Their testimonies were strengthened and they told us so—-later Pak J told us that J_ was still talking about all that he had learned and felt in just that one weekend. He is going to be baptized, too, and is already planning on serving a mission.

On an entirely selfish level, I also loved Surabaya because I had one last huzzah with the missionaries there. Elder C was just moved there from Tangerang, so I got to say goodbye to my favorite Australian. Elder C and Elder S are now a companionship in Surabaya Timur, so we got to suss out the last-minute details of our Canadian Road Trip, complete with horse-riding a la Legolas** Elder K was there with his monster of a Canon camera so we swapped SD cards and talked photog for a while, and I said hello and goodbye to greenie Elder M who is half-German, a psychology major, and dual citizen—-all of which information he will volunteer without being asked to. We took countless photos with the young women and played hand-clap games with the primary. We ate fried duck in the parking lot and ordered iced juice through the fence. Then, after the rain and just as the sun set, we all got back onto the bus, our little Malang district and me, and headed home. With Elder Mari-*** in tow. I sat quietly alone along the back row of the bus benches and watched the world while thinking about life. Occasionally J_ would pop his head up over the seat he was sitting in next to Meek just to check if I were still there. Sister L kept me happy with cashew choki-choki while Ibu P fell asleep with her head on Sister Nab's shoulder. It all felt very whole, and also holy. These people, these places, this love.

Monday night J and P had their baptismal interviews, and Nabs and I sat with one or the other at the church while Meek interviewed and Mari picked out hymns on the piano. Pak J's was first, and forty-five minutes long. When he finally returned, Ibu P poked at his arm, laughing. "What took you so long?" she laughed. J smiled faintly, distant. He sat down in the chair next to me, a primary sized chair for a full-size man. "This is my new life," he explained. "I do not want to forget a single moment of it." They are so ready to be baptized, but the miracle is that this wasn't always so. I have been witness to a mighty change of heart. I have seen Christ working among men. This is another thing my mind is too mortal to manage, another thing that sometimes I can only very rarely catch rare glimpses of on the eternal line of things. I doubt I will ever be able to fully explore or explain this life I have lived in Indonesia. I hope you will be able to feel even the smallest sense of that while you are here to see it yourselves.

We are being blessed. I am being changed. The Gospel is true and we are a part of it. Happy, happy thanksgiving.

selalu,

Sister E.


*Really. I had members come up and ask me that afterward. I could only kind of shake my head, slightly dazed, saying thank you but so obviously unable to take any credit for any of it.

**Dudley's from up-north (and yes, I have to consciously restrain myself from calling him Dudley Do-Right. But really? His name is Dudley AND he's from Canada?), has horses, and owns the official LOTR Legolas bow and arrow set.

***He's back, he's back! The Golden Era of the Malang District has been restored!

Good Day Bad Day, Red Day Black Day.

Hello, People.

I'm just going to be honest and tell you right here right now that, with only two more weeks of these one-hour emails to go, I've become lazy to lackadaisical proportions and just typing this is hard. Well, not really. Maybe lackadaisical is too lethargic—really I just wanted an excuse to use a good English word—but essentially the message is the same. Why should I write out a story from a thousand miles away when I could just tell it to you all together in a taxi? I know, this is not a very charitable train of thought. I will try to be a sharefish.

The Good Day was Saturday, when Pak J and Ibu P prayed and decided they'll be baptized the 28th of this month. When we sat in their living room laughing and crying and learning together about the strength of new-fire testimonies and the power in sharing them. When Sister Na and I walked home down the mountain, singing hymns.

Another Good Day was Yesterday, when a storm hit and we went out anyway. To appointments that fell through but who cares? Because we are soaking wet and there are goats on the streets and this is Indonesia. To the mountain again, to Pak J's and Ibu P's, where we laughed and cried and learned together all over again. It's a pattern and I like it.

The Bad Day was Sister L's, on Sunday, because she gave her whole heart and it still didn't work out. So we sat on the kitchen floor at the chapel after choir practice and she cried so I taught her yoga and she learned to laugh again. But apparently I expended all the happiness I'd stored away for a rainy day, because then the Bad Day was Monday. When suddenly everyone and everything absolutely everywhere was doing their utmost to annoy me to no end, and I was struggling. Because no charity is not good. But good friends are really great, and hearing the Bro S/Sis M Love Story for the umpteenth time was a sure-fire-no-fail picker-upper.

The Red Day is today, Idul Adha, when the goats are led to the altar and the streets run red. The muezzins were singing from their minarets all night long. Our angkot had to take twisty-turny detours last night to avoid the torch-led processions to sacrifice, which thrilled me to no end. Considered being Muslim for a minute, as long as they would let me be the one to play the drums.

The Black Day is no day, because it does not exist except to make the Seuss couplet and because, like I mentioned, lazy. But I guess it could be foreshadowing for tomorrow, when we drive to Surabaya, which if you remember is not my favorite. But meeting with all the missionaries plus District Conference will more than make up for the city itself, I'm sure.

Love you so much. See you so soon. Wishing you Good Days.

Sister E.

Going Solo.

Familyku,

I am alive, in every technical sense of the term. Though four hours of sleep within the last 32 are not much good for anyone and maybe especially not for missionaries. Still wouldn't trade an economy train at midnight for any other adventure. Inescapable all-nighters can be some of the best.

The biggest, brightest, bestest news from this last week is that Pak J and Ibu P are going to be baptized. We have yet to pin down a date, as their oldest daughter is having a hard time with "those Mormons" and her parents want her to better understand the situation before they take the plunge, but at the very most they promised me they will be baptized before I leave because I am "their missionary." I am somebody's missionary! It has been a long learning process but they have been moved and changed and their testimonies have become a part of mine that the Church is true.

Sunday afternoon we left for Solo, arrived around midnight, and spent the next two days in Leadership Training from nine to eight, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. It was killer, with a helpful dose of spiritual strength and missionary motivation, with the only truly low point being at about three o'clock on the second day when Sister Lie and I gave in to evaluating and appraising the Elders' ties from keren-keren (super stylee, you win) to paling jelek (no no no please take it away!) instead of listening to Elder Hartanto teach us about Revelation Through Church Attendance. But that was just a second's slip-up, I swear, and by the next rounds of role play we were better. Slightly slap happy, but better. It was long, but good, with the end joy being the satisfaction of having survived and also catching a glimpse of Elder Greenwell through the west window. (He moved to Solo last week but what with our schedule that's all I saw of him.) Plus, we managed to cover everything in 22 hours over 2 days and so our third day morning session was canceled, allowing for some P-Day play. Which we more than took advantage of.

Because Sister Lie is from Solo, and she has connections. People-with-car connections. People-with-car-and-cabin connections. And seeing as the Elders hadn't thought to extend a soccer invitation to the Sisters, ya sudah. We took off Wednesday morning without them and spent the day in Kemuning, a tiny little tea-plantation town up-up-up and away in the Solo hills.

To say it was happy would be an understatement. To describe it as magical might be accurate, but too cliché. Essentially I was not a little bit entirely enthralled by every bit of it; the sudden rushing release as we passed from city borders into wild countryside, the creeping fog as we swung up and around each switchback to the mountain's top, the clever aesthetic of the one-great-room cabin with an open loft and a view out to the world we'd left behind. We ate our tahu kupat from the loft, clouds gathering and dispersing, fog thinning and thickening, air cool and then cold. With the first few rays of hopeful sun we took to the steep slopes walking in search of waterfalls, past family patches of cabbage and carrots and wide-eyed children jabbering in Javanese and toothless grandmothers nodding, smiling as we walked. Once past the last row of houses it was deep into where the wild things are, and at one point I turned a corner before anyone else had caught up with me to find myself facing sheer canyon sides on either side of me, cliff face mottled in verdant mosses reaching up into leggy palms and the tracings of a classic rain forest canopy above me. It was quiet, perfectly quiet but for the nature sounds there needed to be—-sounds like distant water and insect songs and the swift hush of a bird taking flight. Butterflies danced in circled flurry about me, butterflies in lurid blacks and turquoise wing-tails, and if I didn't know any better I'd have thought the scene was simply some orchestration of Disney design. But this was God. All good things, all God. I felt small. Because what am I to all this?

And then, in the same second, everything. Tall strong invincible unreachable because what is this to all me? And not just me, of course, but all us? You and me. Children of God. Our literal Father in Heaven, a Father who knows and loves each and every one of us individually, above and beyond the flowers, the trees, and the butterflies He created for us. It is something I have always known. But yesterday, in that short space between turning that corner and then the others turning to join me, I knew it better than my knowing before. And I realized that I think that's maybe what I've always loved about the world, all creation. That it makes you feel small in so much grandeur only to remind you that the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.

We found the waterfall. We hiked up behind it and through it and over it and an hour later we hiked away from it, back to the cabin, back to the great room, on to the floor and under the covers as the rain fell all around us. Sleep, for a second, because if there is one thing I have learned from Indonesians it is that rain necessitates napping. And then waking up, waking up to maghrib from the mountain mosques, calling us to prayer calling us to happiness calling us to home. We drove down the mountain in the sleepy silence of sunsets and fast friends and fresh air. We drove home to Solo and then five hours later we train-ed home to Malang. Where I am now. So very, very tired. But alive. Still alive. And isn't that some sort of wonderful?

I love you. It's true, all of it.

always,
Sister E.

Kabar Terkini.

Dear People,

One thing of many things about being a missionary is that on any given day you are subject to anywhere between one to two surprises, at least a dozen emotions, countless mood swings, and the occasional death blow. The Gospel is not complicated, but inviting people to live it sure is. Within these last seven days I have been disappointed, elated, upset, humbled, refined, confused, whip-lashed, amazed, and enlightened. See also happy, grateful, tired. Most nights I sit down at my desk and just stare at my journal as the clock ticks away towards curfew. Stare. Stare. Blank. Nothing. No, not nothing. Everything. Anything. Too much. Not now. But when? If not now, when again? And to make matters more pressured, I've committed myself to journaling absolutely every single day for the month of November, my last month of mission, the month I have left.

Halloween was a smashing success. Entire angkot of kids showed up and we had a real laugh bobbing for apples and mummifying the lot of them with tissue paper. Worth the day we spent at the church linking paper chains and folding accordion circles out of newspaper, and the words of affirmation I received for the cider I stewed up was thanks enough. I really enjoy making people happy, plus watching a room full of seven year olds scream to high heaven when Meek hit the lights and Sugiyarto set to banging on the outside windows was just too, too good.

Sunday morning Elder and Sister Thompson arrived in Malang for a Entrepreneurship Workshop which, due to forces unforeseen, Meek and I ended up team-translating. The workshop was all afternoon, Meek and I switching off every 15 minutes up at the front to translate Elder Thompson's talk on self-sufficiency to some degree of understandability and surrender laughing to phrases like "micro enterprising funds" or "mutually exclusive capital." I love translating. Indonesian to English I'm not so good at—-akin to translating poetry into binary code, if you'll allow me the analogy—but turn the tables to English into Indonesian and I am in my zone.

Plus then Monday morning Sister Thompson stole me away to a batik boutique I had yet to hear of/see/enter which proved to be Malang's equivalent of Aladdin's Cave of Wonders. Good thing she's more of a tornado and tore right through the place like one; on my slow boat to China I could have been in that place hours on end.

Investigator news: (and I am not making this up) all five of our appointments last Saturday fell through, every single angkot we got on was empty (meaning not even a chance at contacts), and then just to really rub it all in every single window Nababan sat down next to was stuck shut. It was laughable, and so we laughed, but really? Actually at one appointment the investigator actually was there as planned, but her house is seriously kampung in the middle of about two hundred children under the age of seven, all of whom decided to come running and screaming in and out and around her house in exactly the hour we were there to teach. President says he sometimes wonders how we're ever able to teach with the Spirit when much [around us] is in no way conducive to inviting the Spirit in the first place. (When he said that I think my entire soul sighed in deepest solace because Thank Goodness I was beginning to think something was seriously wrong with me.) Yep . . . case in point. We couldn't even get to a prayer with that kind of distraction, so we made another appointment for next week in the early morning instead—hoping that the Indonesian school system will be good for something and at least keep the kids at bay long enough for us to bear testimony.

Then it was Sunday and there was a miracle. Maybe. Something I am still trying to understand and explain, and something that feels too much to share right now. Not really an email experience, if you'll forgive me. It would've been the spiritual part of my week's missive, but as I still haven't quite come to terms with it, we will go without. Give me a month.

Today is not actually our P-Day (that's another long story, file it under "whip-lashed" above) and so I have even less time than usual and if we're to beat the rumblings of a beginning storm, I really must be on my way. And next week I'll write you from Solo. Because according to the text I just received, that's where I'll be for Leadership Training. Role Plays. Put "panicked" up there with my ADD adjectives, will you?

Final Question and closing remarks: For next week, can I ask each of you to write me about specific blessings you felt you have received as direct result of obedience to a particular gospel principle? i.e., tithing, word of wisdom, law of chastity, follow the prophets etc., etc. Don't worry too much about it; it's not for anyone but me and I'd really just like to hear what you've experienced, what you believe and why you believe it. Thank you. I love you, truly dearly deeply madly—keep the faith. Remember the Shire. Hurrah for Israel.

love,
Sister E.

Green Letter.

Dear Family,

I have fifteen minutes to write you and I am sorry but I got sidetracked by sister emails and my weekly report to President and also finding carvable pumpkins in Malang takes a lot more adventuring than one would think. Also more money. But at this point we were desperate so biarin.

A few things: President sent Sisters Lie and Langi to join us and so I have now learned a valuable lesson in the consecration of companionships . . . Sister Nababan and I are readjusting. Mostly it is just very loud. Before we were very quiet.

Sister Langi is a Salt Laker of Tongan descent and Highland High grad of 2006 (shout out to Jordan Hill), We have a lot of friends in common and she is all aspects of wonderful Polynesian. Yesterday at Bhakti Luhur she taught a slap-dance-rhythm sort of game and the look on their faces was I'm sure identical to mine: she is so cool. Throw in the Disney princess eyes and corkscrew hair and it's pretty legitimate envy.

Elder Marijanto leaves for the MTC this Friday morning, right before the Halloween party. We're crossing our fingers that President will send him right back to Malang after his three-week sojourn in Manila. We like him.

We had a few good lessons, two truly great lessons, and one downright awful lesson this week. No time for details, but the good outweighed the bad and we're still semangat so nggak apa-apa ya? We'll make it, and I'll make it, and then you'll make it all the way over here and that will Make My Day.

I'm throwing in my email to President this week just so you can get some idea of what we've been up to and then I've got to peace out (or, as Sis Langi would say, damai luar . . . which is just as wrong as our di luar biru from MTC days):

One remarkable lesson this week was with the P__ family, who have been investigating for ages now and making progress in only the babiest steps—-but progress nonetheless. Their oldest son, Jordan, was baptized last April, and right now we're focusing on his sister Anjelin who would like to be baptized but is worried about setting a date and having a hard time interacting with the Young Women here in the Malang Branch. We are trying to understand more of her concerns but she is shy and very closed (especially when her dad is around) so as of right now we're not sure of our next step. For now we are just being a friend and a help where we can, and grateful that Jordan's always there to step in when we need him, too. This last Friday we reiterated to them our purpose as missionaries and explained in force and in depth our desire for them to turn their faith into action and be baptized. I broke it down into yes or no questions so we could get to the point (Pak P likes to cerita, so while we are aware of the need to understand feelings this was necessary for clarity) and when he said "no" to "Do you want to be baptized?" I didn't even have a second's time to answer before Jordan stepped in with verses 32-34 of Alma 34. He had his dad read the first verse, Anjelin read the second, and he himself follow up with the last, which he then transitioned into his own explanation of what these scriptures meant and his testimony of baptism and how he wants to see his whole family follow Christ, too.

We were, to say the least, dumbfounded. Jordan's not just a missionary-in-the-making, he was THE missionary that night. It was incredibly soul-filling to witness and a truly humbling moment for me as I have seen him grow these last seven months in Malang. Pak Pur didn't exactly change his mind right then and there, but I know he was moved by this witness from his son and oldest child. [Jordan's been going out a lot with Meek and Marijanto lately so we called them right away with the news of their efforts and example]

Sister Nababan and I are getting better at contacting and have moved our weekly goal up to two people per angkot. Still failing occasionally, but definitely better than the last week, so we're counting our blessings. She is such a humble and dedicated person and I feel blessed to be serving and learning with her. This past month with her has taught me more than I feel I've learned my entire mission. She has great potential and is helping me to reach my own potential, too. I love her.

We continue to do most of our teaching in less-active situations, which is showing some real results in their return. It's so exciting to see these members choose to return and be welcomed back so whole-heartedly. We're working hard to get the Effendi family back and learning to love them all the more in the process. It is the greatest blessing of my mission to be given the privilege to feel God's love for His children through our service here.

I'm sorry but this is over and out I love you I miss you Oh yeah mum the Halloween packages came yesterday thankyouthankyouthankyou hearts and happiness,

Sister E.

La De Da.

Dear You, All of You:

Last Thursday for our English class at the church I taught family vocabulary using family photos taped up to the board in a sort of visual family tree—which was pretty and happy and maybe made me slightly homesick, but also incomplete because our family stops at us four unmarried children. No room for in-laws or grands, right? Right. Not helping with the learning, then. But with a little help from a seventy-cent teen tabloid and my handy-dandy pocket scissors, voila! Naomi was married to Justin Bieber. I had Selena Gomez for a sister-in-law and Joe Jonas as my fiancé! It was the very height of Hollywood magic which the kids loved to no end, and actually believed. Believed! For a split-second of wide-eyed hilarity. They only stopped the jaw-drop when I taped Joe's face next to mine. Only then was it a yeah right, Sister Rhondeau. (Slightly demoralizing. My sister can marry Justin Bieber but no way josé is Joe my beau? Do you think we're sad, Georgia?)

On Sunday we woke up early to walk down into Boldy Bawah with a wee-sized cake for a wee-sized girl; it was Femi's sixth birthday and so we all shared a small slice of chocolate in the celebration before walking back with their whole family to church. Femi is the youngest child of three in the P- family, a name you may remember from an email months back when we had our last baptism in Malang, her older brother Jordan's. Now the whole family is learning with the missionaries; sometimes the sisters teach, next week the elders. Last week when we stopped in to pick them up for English class the girls hadn't taken their afternoon shower yet* so we followed them down through the gangways and alleyways and sidestreets and sidesteps to the riverside well, where we pulled up bucket after bucket of cool, clear water to haul back up to the shower spaces in their little neighborhood baths. It was an Experience. Femi running circles around us in only her smallest shorts and tiny singlet. Towel swung like a frenzied lasso around her cheeky pixie cut. Non-stop energy. Unlimited dance moves. Real happiness. Living enthusiasm. Even as we are pulling water up a crumbling well in plastic paint buckets along a muddy shore on the banks of a Malang river in Indonesia.

Hmm. Life.

A lot of it, actually. Sister Lili's dog had puppies and cat had kittens and then Sister Tina's Corgie had little teeny tiny Corgies and it is just almost too, too much. Last Wednesday after emailing we were out at Sister Lili's for a lesson, which I taught with two small pups curled up on my lap and another snuggled into the crook of my arm, wee head lolling over my elbow in deep dreaming, whimpering . At Sister Tina's Sunday night the little things were just learning to walk, stumbling over each other in desperate stands to prove their self-sufficiency. Have I just never been around truly tiny animals before? Did none of my PetVet childhood prepare me for such arresting adorability? Apparently not. My cute quotient is about to explode.

Because that was just the baby puppies and baby kittens, but what about baby people? Indonesia has those, too, and they are perfection (as I suppose most babies are). One of our investigators just had a little girl last week, and yesterday, once home from the hospital, we stopped in for a visit and ended up staying quite a while. The whole family greeted us at the door saying "are you brave? are you brave?" and I was confused and thinking "brave what?" when suddenly yes, I guess I am brave enough because I am sitting on their floor with a six-day-old life in my arms. Sister Nab was not brave. I don't think I am, either, it just happened so fast and so it happened, you know, but the entire next hour as little Nafranda Adinda Melina Regina Novidewa** slept right there in my arms I was thinking my goodness this is a life, a real little life! Am I brave? Plus a lot of other mind-stretching things like pre-mortal existence and eternal identities and purposes of life, etc. Such a lot a lot of thought from such a very small, small thing.

Sunday Sister N came to church. Read: miracle. That's the second non-active I've taught that's made the return, and absolutely made my day. Just swept into Sacrament Meeting as if she's been doing it for the last four years too, nothing doing. Gobsmacked (me). Grateful (us). If the E family comes this week like they promised, I will build a monument to miracles.

One last thing before I go: I read the Gospel According to Mark this week, and according to me it was most marvelous. I was going to try to describe why in my own words but turns out the Bible Dictionary did it better: "The Gospel contains a living picture of a living Man. Energy and humility are the characteristics of his portrait. It is full of descriptive touches that help us to realize the impression made upon the bystanders." Yes. I loved it for all of that, the real and raw humanity of it all while documenting Divine Life. I loved how crazy-fast it was, how the hurried chronology accentuated Christ's energy and undivided attention to the work and His purpose—and then the small asides that set everything back for just a second to remind you that Jairus' daughter should be brought something to eat, and the disciples worried that He is beside himself, always so busy, and Christ walked to the fig tree if haply he might find anything thereon. It is a living picture of a living Man. And as I read I am learning to be living, too, to exclaim with all the multitudes, He hath done all things well.

I love you. I miss you. Have salt in yourselves [Mark 9:50].
Sister E.


*everyone in Indonesia showers twice a day. without fail. one year in and I still don't much understand it, especially in breezy beautiful Malang. oh well. anyway.

**really. Indonesians like names, except for last ones. It's not the least bit confusing.

Note: The Celebrity Siblings applied to dad, as well—since Mont and Julia were Brad and Angelina, since Maddie could be Maddox and Nathaniel was Zahara. Or the other way around. Whatever.

Biasa Aja.

Heroo there,

I am waiting for BYU to load and inspiration to hit but so far it's a fail on both counts and I'm afraid I can't promise y'all much of anything this week, anyway. The past seven days were remarkably remarkable but not entirely writable, in the sort of sense that a James Joyce stream of consciousness might be best—but the trick to that kind of typing is that the seemingly effortless result is in reality the result of especial effort and so I'm afraid I'm not really up to much of that, either. The whole internet/time restraint/once-a-week thing has been a nice experiment in the instant-essay, but I will be glad to return to a life of more thoughtful prose and editor's prerogative come December.

Which, by the way, is only two months away. Two months. As in I just bought the small tube of toothpaste at the grocery store. Because that's all I'll need. Right now I'm feeling okay about that; Malang has been wickedly hot and humid and I miss real seasons. In maybe a little bit more major news:

Pak J and Ibu P came to Conference this weekend, and left saying they'd be back for more. I like people that keep our commitments and then make their own, too. Also, on Saturday night after we'd taught and talked about living prophets and modern scripture, they bought us the absolute best tahu lontong I have ever ever had, period. End of.

Conference was beautiful and Salt Lake was, too. Goodness how I love those mountains, that temple, this Church! My most favoritest talks were a) President Uchtdorf, b) Elder Christofferson, and strangely enough c) Elder Ballard, plus of course all of them and most especially seeing Clark in the Choir. Did not appreciate our little Malang congregration casually chatting throughout the sessions [which] made my Indonesian listening skills suffer and so I feel I didn't fully internalize what was taught but the English version will be printed soon enough and I am working on Charity.

Really. Because this week Sister Nab and I took the Christlike Attributes Quiz in the back of the samely-named chapter in MiK/PMG and that was where I was decidedly, so obviously, lacking. Despite last week's email all about love, love, love. This was a little startling, but I will work on it, and also rejoice in the realization that Patience, my previous inadequacy, has increased dramatically.

Taught District Meeting on Friday, which is stressful because I am silly and would rather speak publicly to 300 people rather than 3, but I survived. Learned a lot in the studying for it, too. Remembered that one of the (many) fabulous things about scripture and especially the Book of Mormon is that it still applies. Today. Right now. Even though Ammon lived forever and a day ago. He's still a top-notch missionary and can teach us what we need to know.

Am experimenting in organic eating. Or at least that's how we say it to make it sound more exotic and en vogue. Mostly this just means that we do all our food shopping at the main market here in Malang now; fresh fruits and vegetables and chickens killed right then and there just for you. It is quite exciting, and a lot cheaper. Plus you avoid all the junk-food aisles and general supermarket sins because, well, they don't exist. At Pasar Besar it's just food the way God gave it to us, in all its bountiful glory. One day I will brave the crowds there with my camera; it's an assault to all the senses, but the colors are particularly punchy and demand to be photographed.

Okay, there are signs of life from MyMAP at BYU so I'm going to take it while I can and catch you next week. Miss you muchly, love you even more.

Sister E.

The Key for Holding World.

Dear Family Rhondeau,

That subject's the tagline to a local English Club we pass by on our way to the church every day. It makes me smile and I fully support it and wish them the best but this is not an email about English, or Clubs, or even English Clubs. This is an email about Love.

Because I love training. Being responsible for the happiness of another person's mission, being in charge, being made strong. I have been scared and shy-shy-cat* but I find that as I simply (yes) gird up my loins and Do the things I Know everything else follows. I study, I teach, I listen, I learn, I talk to everyone we meet and I even call people on the phone. I feel like maybe I've become more in this last week than I have my entire mission; I feel like I am giving heart might and mind to the work; I feel like I am the missionary I have always wanted to be. Still of course no where near perfect and will remain, I'm afraid (but human), far from it, but just what I suppose I mean to say is that I go to bed every night content. Knowing I did my best. And that feels good.

I love Sister Nab. Not just because she cooks exotic curry dishes or obsessively tidies the house or took over the little kids' English class with expert ease. Not just because she is a classy sister with an eye for accessories or even because she occasionally tells me HK stories. She is all of that, and I love her for it, but she is also hardworking, thoughtful, and teachable. Together we talk about the work, how we want to do it and how we're going to do it that way. We talk about our investigators and how we feel about them and what more we can do to help them. She likes to think and then share her thoughts. She likes to study and then learn together. She is dynamic.

I love the Elders. Elder Meek is deeply thoughtful of everything from batik ties to gospel principles, could be the MTC's poster child for their Quiet Dignity battle cry, and does the dishes when we cook Sunday lunch for them (someone thank his parents for me). Elder Mari talks to me about blogs and tech and photo-shopping, translates everything Meek says in English to Indo, and is currently buried in some secret project involving world maps and temple locations that we're not allowed to know anything about (though he promised me it's not some secret combination so I've lessened my attempts to sneak his notes away when he's not looking). They are good missionaries and they help us to be better.

I love the members. Sister L stood on Sunday to bear one of the single most beautiful testimonies of our Savior I have yet to hear. Sunday School following the testimony meeting was a riot of good-hearted gospel sharing and our fair share of laughs. And Sister M gets the gold star for member missionary work with her A+ referral this week. We taught her friend Nila last night and have a return appointment for Friday afternoon. She is searching for the truth and ready to receive it.

I love our investigators. Ibu N is reading the Book of Mormon line by line and praying to better understand it. Pak J was hospitalized last week for a minor stroke that shook him into prioritizing his life and the realization that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints needed to be a part of it. He's stopped smoking, drinking tea and coffee, and is coming to church. With his whole family. Who now holds regular family prayer and scripture study. Our lesson with them Saturday night came just on the heel of the previous day's break-down (a heartbreaking lesson with Mas D and the overwhelming weight of the world; Sister Nababan cried but I told her Things Work Out because I am 15 mission months old and stronger now) and so rather caused our souls to sing bright praises to the lyrics of Ether 12:6. Dispute not because ye see not. For ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith. Don't you love living scripture? I do.

So while English is good, Love is better and my mission week's key for holding world. In just a few minutes now we're off to the church to meet up with the Elders, who have promised to try fixing the oven if we bring the cookie dough. Which I made last night, sifting the flour together with the baking soda through leftover mosquito netting, because that is how much happiness living in Indonesia is. I just feel like smiling, a lot a lot. And not just because friends have been telling me I look pretty lately, though that helps. Hilariously. . . . the everyday acquaintances we pass regularly in our daily routines have exclaimed aloud "Sister Rhondeau! Kok, tambah cantik ya?" Indonesian shock for something like "you've gained beauty, haven't you?" Not that I think it's true, but I certainly don't mind the compliment.** Then there was Beke, my favorite lost boy in the hodge-podge group I teach at Bhakti Luhur, who yesterday suddenly stood mid-lesson to exclaim Terpujilah engkau di antara semua wanita!*** Which is maybe sacrilegious? but I laughed and laughed and laughed til I cried.

I love being a missionary. I love being a missionary in Indonesia. I love the Gospel. I know it's true and the manner of happiness—this overwhelming, overflowing, overarching happiness I am living right now.

And I love you.

selalu,

Sister E.


*that's an Indonesian phrase they like to say in English. It's actually malu-malu kucing, in reference to how cats approach food so freely offered them. You know, as if it's going to bite them back and they have to take high-tension tip-toe steps to reach the bowl in the first place only to run away? Yeah. That's shy-shy-cat.

**While on the subject of my own vanities, I think it will be a big shock to come home and discover I'm short again. So many people per day tell me I'm tall that I've come to believe it.

***hint: Luke 1:28. Or Luke 1:42.

Recap.

Marno, Nab, me. At the train station to Surabaya last week, where we arrived at the super-swanky hotel with skyscraper views and I fell sick with a sudden, sweeping fever. Spent most of PLD curled up on the floor against my chair, trying to listen to Elder Meek's training but hearing the sentences all backwards. Was sick all through Saturday and half of Sunday, which is why there is really no email to be had today. No news, no news at all. I stayed home with a member while my companions went out. I slept for what might actually be a total of 76 hours. I don't know. I don't remember. I was asleep.

Fashion Show at Sister Kaswat's, which I send you because a) Sister Kaswat makes really awesome clothes and b) then I get to take the cloth scraps and make really awesome scripture covers out of them so that Marno can match her skirt to her Book of Mormon. Brilliant! Also, scratch the leather-bound Indonesian version; I bound my new triple combo in batik and am more than satisfied with the result.

Two via Taxi. A final shot with Marno, who we dropped off at the Base just this afternoon. I am struggling with the absence; I've never been a missionary in Indonesia without her at least in my same house and now suddenly she is . . . not. This might also be a factor in my muse-less writing state today. The truth is I feel small and scared. I will work on feeling big and brave. But mostly I'm just a little butterfly dancer.

Dear Ones,

The carcass count is up to six and I am soooo not feeling any sort of sorry anymore because seriously? SIX? What did they think this is, some sort of veritable smorgasbord, orgasbord, orgasbord? I stopped all the regret after bagging number two and am now just grateful Meek was around to take care of the last and particularly jelly-bellied Templeton. Ick.

All of our appointments have fallen through this week but tonight we're going to try to stop in at Pak Pur's so . . . tally-ho. Sorry for the lack of really much of anything but after last Wednesday I was sick for a few days, went to church, walked a lot, and then pretty much just helped Marno pack for the last 24 hours. So you're not missing anything. Really.

Love you.

E.

She is a Palindrome.

Family Dearest,

Last night I baited rat poison about the kitchen in a final desperate attempt to quell a rising epidemic, and woke up this morning to find every last little pink pellet licked away. I feel terrible. Horrible. Sick-to-my-insides guilty. It wasn't like they ever did anything to hurt us; I was only getting tired of the morning cleanup. And now . . . murderer. I will never forgive myself.

Though it is entirely possible that such nausea has nothing to do with my mouse massacre but is rather the combination of the many side effects of life's most recent stresses, being, in this order:

1. Mbak Mitin, our best—and only—investigator moving to Surabaya.

2. Marno packing up to pulang kampung in all of only 6 days from tomorrow.

and

3. Me becoming finally and officially Senior Companion and also, oh, Trainer.

Even with last month's false alarm I was not ready for this call. I mean it makes all sorts of sense, what with Marno's impending release and the inevitable open space in Malang. But when President called late Friday night to inform us we'd need to be at the Air Force Base by noon the next day to pick up the new sister . . . well, maybe we panicked a little. And not just because we were looking forward to having a hotel room all to ourselves this weekend in Surabaya. That was, selfishly, a major factor, but nothing compared to the paralyzing waves of inadequacy (Please see email of 11 Agustus 2010. All emotions still apply.).

Not that there was much we could do about anything at all. We tidied the house a bit, mopped the floors, spilled all our deepest, darkest secrets in a final companionship curhat (this is a good JakSlang term to know; it means to pour out the contents of your heart). We woke up, called a taxi, and sat out to wait along the tarmac with sick stomachs and overactive imaginations. "This is a good sign," Marno insisted. "If we weren't worried, she'd be horrible. But since we kind of feel like throwing up, she'll be awesome."

Which as irrational as it was turned out to be true. Sister Nababan skipped off the plane with a happy hello and hugged me while bringing tidings of great joy from Elder Kershrikshrik in Hong Kong. She's a tall, strong-boned Batak* with an open, fierce sort of beauty and hard eyes. She grew up in Medan, graduated in French from a Bandung University, worked two years speaking Mandarin in Taiwan and the last six speaking English with a Canadian family in Hong Kong. She was in Noah's International Branch, and after looking at me for a long moment said, "You're Slovenian too, aren't you? Your eyes are the same." She is smart, strong-willed, and more culture shocked upon her return to Indonesia than I ever was arriving here in the first place. Occasionally this has made me want to scream but I am trying to be a good and patient trainer, even if this has mostly meant I'm on constant catastrophe control—my already über-sensitive tact meter on overdrive as I try to regulate lessons and contacting with a Batak at my side. Maybe I shouldn't be so anxious? But sheesh, those Sumatrans don't know a compliment from a criticism. Dangerous stuff amidst the fragile souls of Java (and I won't pretend I don't tend to take things all too personally, too).

Notwithstanding, together our trio has had some really—and unexpectedly—good lessons this week. I am learning yet again the promised blessing that when called you are qualified and I have felt an external and eternal strength these last few days as I face a task I feel so utterly unprepared for. The Spirit has been stronger, my vision clearer, even my Indonesian is better and I have to be careful not to fall into the false thinking that all this comes of my own accord. The Lord has really blessed us in His work and through this transition and while I am sure these last two months will be the most difficult of my mission, I'm equally certain they'll be the best.

Monday night Pak Purwitanto prayed out loud for the first time in twenty-plus years. Yesterday Ibu Novi accepted our testimonies of the Book of Mormon and expressed the desire to seek a testimony of her own. Tomorrow we are off to Surabaya to learn how we can better love and serve the people we've been assigned to shepherd here in Malang. It is a soul-stretching and marvelous life to live, and I am grateful to my God who has given me so great an opportunity to live it.

The Church is true, and I love you. December can't come fast enough and yet will, of course, come all too fast. Strange, that.

selalu,

Sister E.

Ya Weis.

Family,

This email was doomed before the day began; usually I sketch out a few paragraphs or at least draw up a list of all the things I need to tell you the night before I email but last night . . . well, last night I didn't. And I don't even have a good excuse. I just walked home from Sis Lili's, collapsed at the kitchen table for our usual nightly planning, and then didn't get up. Until it was two minutes ‘til ten thirty and I decided that maybe I should at least move to a bed if I was going to sleep.

So. Then I get to the internet cafe, and I have happy emails from my sisters and I want to reply to them, so I do, and then suddenly half my time is up plus also maybe I snuck a small minute in there to help Marno navigate the BYU-Hawaii site (her Real Life is two weeks away and we've been working hard to have her TOEFL ready) so now we're down to seconds—though rather flexible, indefinite seconds*—and I find myself with very little to say in the absence of a first draft.

Plus, Lebaran rolls on so mission news is negligible. A few lessons but nothing news-worthy. Elder Meek has Dengue Fever**. Us Sisters have spent most of the last seven days in Girl Friday mode, at the Elders' beck and call. It has been funny and frustrating and I think in some small way it has opened my eyes to motherhood. I always wondered how mum could be so busy when there seems to be so many hours in a day. Then I had to go from Gadang to Landungsari and back again in one afternoon and I was ready to write odes to the remarkable everything that she is. Terimalah Kasihlah. Today we went out first thing in the morning and went from Blimbing to Alun-Alun to Pasar Besar to Dinoyo all in search of the Elders' orders, ending with us basically dying on their front door step after having their lunches all switched up at the nearest warung***. Following was a somewhat blissful hour of chat in front of their electric fan, and then the long hot walk to the warnet. And here I am. With every thought and energy put into those measly paragraphs above me.

Again. I'm sorry. But some weeks . . . well.

Let's hope next Wednesday's back to normal. Or whatever normal is, when you're serving a mission in Indonesia. Hey! Remember my past? And my future? Weird.

K. Love you.
Always.
E.

*in Indonesia they say "jam karet" or, elastic time. Which is why everyone is always and of course late to everything and no one could care less. Nice when you as the missionaries arrive late for an appointment, not so fun when you as the missionaries arrive on time for said appointment and your investigator isn't. Because they could be back in five minutes, or they could be back in an hour. Actually, maybe they don't come back at all. But hey, jam karet. Toeachisown.

**He's okay, for the record. Still sick but getting better. What's sad is Elder Marijanto—-one week into his mission and totally homebound. We like to call their house at random hours to make sure he's using this abundance of downtime in scholarly and scriptural pursuit.

Thought. Marijanto kind of a little bit reminds me of Richard Fetzer. He has the same smile, maybe. Or the same laugh. Something. Haven't quite captured it.

***We asked them what we are getting in return for all of this. Mari promised the Lord will bless us for feeding the needy and caring for the sick. Which I believe. But would also appreciate, say, like a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Or a can of real tuna fish. Even some Skippy Peanut Butter would be enough.

I love Indonesia. But while Indo has Quantity down, America definitely does the Quality thing better. Am imagining a Saturday afternoon Costco run, which does the best of both. Oh, Be still my soul.

Lebaran.

KelKu,

Here in Indonesia, which today not only feels miles but entire lifetimes away from home and any sort of reality, we are on the eve of Idul Fitri. If it weren't for the true meaning of Christmas, I think I would have to admit to enjoying the Ramadan month far more than our December celebrations; instead of speeding into over-hyped material messages of goodwill the entire world seems to slow down and I love the wayside warung that insto-presto appear at sunset and the everynight fireworks and the extra long and lyrical calls to prayer. Tomorrow, too, will mark the first official day of school holidays for the event, and so just about everyone and their rice cooker is headed for home. Here this is called Lebaran, and it's tradition to finish off the Fast with family in your hometown, so after today's monstrous traffic jams and people-packed train stations Malang's going to be even more quiet than usual. And so thusly and therefore it follows that it becomes all the more quiet for us Mormon missionaries, too. I love Ramadan. But not when it takes away all our investigators, too.

We're making up for the lack of lessons by making our own sort of Lebaran family and visiting every member we can pencil into our planners. This is two-parts proactive and one-part selfish, seeing as we were already planning on following up our efforts to get the members more involved in missionary work on an individual family level but also because my most favorite moments of my mission have always been with the members so win-win! Last night we went out to the Raharja's, a lovely little family of four and some of the stronger members in our branch. We had Family Home Evening together, teaching a lesson on Small and Simple Things (i.e. what minor changes they could make to their friendships and families to make major differences in their lives with the Gospel) and then eating a sour-salsa-sort of-soup thing while sitting cross-legged on their living room floor. I had, if you'll allow me to be a glitter-glowing teen for a minute, a blast. Sister Lorieta brought out her wedding album and we compared deep thoughts on the Twilight Series and Bianca drew my portrait on her whiteboard with the title "Sister Kanaya" because my Javanese-ish name scares her and little Alex gave the prayer all by himself.

TANGENT: I am a rock star when it comes to Indonesian children, something I can say without pushing my pride limit because I know that you know quite the opposite is true back in the Homeland. I mean, ask yourselves, honestly: Have you ever met a Mormon twenty-something more awkward with kids than moi? Rest my case. One great thing about the second-language barrier is that my vocabulary level is pretty much exactly on par with the 4-7 set and so Alex has in these last five months become my absolutely number one fan. Last night I was counting up to ten all wrong and then speaking Chinese a la gibberish and then hauling him around like a sack of potatoes and the way he was carrying on you would have thought I was all of Disneyland in one person. Very gratifying, especially the big sloppy goodnight kiss. Anyway. I digress.

It was a happiest hour indeed and I have become more and more grateful—plus all the more aware—of just how consistently and tangibly the Gospel blesses families. For all the dark stuff going on in this black world you would think a whole lot more people would be reaching for the light that shines so constantly and clearly from so many good, strong families living as Christ would have them live.

Last week at Leadership Training President introduced a new program of "inspired questions" he would like us to start using in our teaching. Basically we're just trying to put all the focus on the investigators, forgetting statistics or lesson plans or time restrictions and doing all we can to get the people we teach to start thinking for themselves. A lot of the time this means that we just turn their questions right back to them, asking them to answer why they think our Church is different, how they understand Christ's Atonement, what they think would help them get to Sacrament meeting, etc. We also try to learn everything we can about them and direct the conversation to Gospel-centered principles with questions that begin in phrases like "Have you ever thought . . . " or "How do you feel . . . " In just one week of our attempts to apply this tactic in our teaching, it's been a clear-cut 180 as far as the Spirit goes. We've had some really great lessons, especially with the less actives in our branch, and our contacting (though still constrained due to the nature of proselyting in a Muslim country) is on an upward curve. All this, however, comes at a far greater risk of failing, no longer relying on our step-by-step lessons or even our scriptural learning but the investigators themselves. Which has had some hilarious results of its own, most noticeably at yesterday's appointment with a new investigator who was unbelievably adept at switching topics and shutting us down. At one point, pretty much near desperation, Sumarno just point-blank asked the woman if she ever thought about God and after a three-second's hmmmmm she simply answered "No." We managed to walk away quite poised and dignified in the end but immediately lost it once we'd reached the jalan raya outside of the kampung. "Fail," Marno said. "Fail." And you know, it was a pretty incredible crash and burn.

Malang is cold and green and Indonesia's Eden after last week's sweat bath in Solo. Sister Sumarno is now in her final month of the mission and I'm rounding up to three, which both terrifies and excites me in equal proportion. Lately, actually, and more particularly since last Sunday, I have come to the realization that I'd rather not go home, thanks. I miss you, of course, and quite often find myself rolling the opening strains of O Home Beloved around my tongue, but ultimately I am past mortal levels of happiness here and am quite content to stay that way. Indonesia, while a favorite from the very first, has suddenly become . . . real? I think is the word that my heart feels but doesn't come out right. As if . . . as if Indonesia is me, and I am Indonesia. Oh dear, I'm afraid I'm reaching one-with-the-cosmos levels of attempted communication, and that is not what I mean at all. But . . .you know? When suddenly a friend becomes family, house becomes a home? Yes. Like that.

Elder Meek is much the same, only now he can speak Indonesian which is quite the trick. The last time we served together I'm pretty sure the most we could communicate was a Primary-level testimony of the Book of Mormon and maybe even occasionally ask to pass the pepper. So sitting in on a visit with Purwitanto's today was a little trippy. Meek's joined by Marijanto (pronounced Maw-reeyAHN-toe, and yes, apparently it is an Elder's prerequisite to be christened with an M name before serving in Malang), an awkwardly tall, gangly greenie from Semarang who did the dishes for me after I made lunch for the departing Elders on Sunday. He's quiet but charismatic and the two of them make a good team.

We are now off to visit Sister Lili, who has whipped up homemade chicken nuggets just for me as I attempt to bring the LilyRho Nugget Sandwich Special to a whole new level of gourmet. I can't wait for you to meet these people, to know this place. It will be a most epic family reunion.

I love you.

Sister E.

All Things.

Dear Family Rhondeau,

A few weeks ago I learned a word that I promptly forgot because I never used it. That's how it works for me; if new vocabulary doesn't make it into reality conversation that very day I will learn the same word weeks later as if I've never ever seen it before in the first place. And so that is how it was with the word sepele. Meaning trivial, insignificant, unimportant. If you check the date on my language study journal, I learned that word more than seven weeks ago. But never used it until the moment presented itself, until it was ready to be made live, applied properly, situationally appropriate.

This is that moment. Because all these stories I've saved up, all these ideas and thoughts and jokes and anecdotes, they are sepele. I am in Solo and have been for four days but will go back to Malang tonight. I was Sister Atmi's companion while Sister Sumarno attended Leadership Training. It is hot like a drowning desert and we ride bikes and I am a little bit tan. At night we meet up with the elders for bamboo bowls of coconut-milk rice and tall sweating glasses of es jeruk. Elder Steele pretends he is one of those automated statues on the Pirates of the Carribean ride and we all laugh. Elder Effi tries to make me eat deep friend eel and I say no. In the mornings the sun rises right into the window frame and over onto the bed. I sleep like a cat and feel seven years old. Mostly, between all the girl -talk, electric fans, and pilly sheets, it's a beach vacation. I have been inexplicably happy in that floating kind of happiness, the happiness that lands on the roof of the next house, singing.

That same happiness that disappears when it wants to, like when you lose your favorite pen or your skirt gets caught in the cycle spokes or you open up your inbox to bad news. And so now it is just all . . . sepele. All of the above, though memorable and marvelous to each its own, pales in the knowledge of losing or lost. I am confused about what to say and how to say it.

Though last night, as I returned home from the warnet and knelt to pray—-for peace, for hope, for strength, for something—-a verse came to mind and has not left it. I guess that's just one of the many reasons to read and study and love the Word of God; it has a way of coming around just as you need it and never the way you thought it would. My experience last night was a combination of both those possibilities, since as I was praying about Grandpa the words of Nephi spoke to answer. It was chapter 11, verse 17, when the Spirit asks the young prophet if he knows the condescension of God and Nephi replies: And I said unto him: I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.

I do not know the meaning of all things. I do not know the meaning of most things. I do not understand why that, if Grandpa has to go, he has to go now. But the solid, living, irrevocable facts are these: that I do know God lives, and I do know that He loves His children. He wants what's best for us and knows what's best for us. Things work out. They always do.

I love you. God loves you.
We are forever.
Kekal.

Sister E.