Dear Grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

My mission president called this morning to tell me that you died.

I was in the middle of personal study, and Alma jumped to mind to remind me that you have been "taken home to the God that gave you life."

I wonder if you will make Him laugh. You certainly make me laugh. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel," you'd say to me when my braids hung long down my back. When I came back from Jerusalem you changed the tune. "Them Arabs are lobbin' rockets over, are they?" you'd say. I'd laugh and explain things in detail, but my voice wasn't laud enough to clarify the whole of the situation. So we'd smile and laugh and love each other even though we couldn't really communicate.

I'll miss the deafness. I hope that's not disrespectful. But the absence of hearing made for some pretty comical conversations, Grandpa! If you have an angelic videographer, I'd recommend watching the back reels sometime.

You know what else I remember? (Forgive my reminiscing, but it feels cathartic today.) I remember massaging your bald head as a kid. I thought it was a bit weird, but I liked to do it because you seemed so satisfied to sit in the kitchen chair and let your grandchildren rub your head.

I took notes on the stories you told at the cabin when I was a teenager. The titles betray your most infamous tales: "The Amorous Bear," "Marriage in a Sheep-camp," "Eleven Miracle Children," "Tithing and Trickery," and "Hymns in the Navy" are among my favorites. You are a master storyteller.

Thank you for raising eleven beautiful children, Grandpa. One of them is my dad, and I think the world of him...His ten siblings and their spouses and children are pretty fabulous, too. You provided me with a child's delight: cousins by the dozens, three big cabins, a farm, fishing, a few lakes, and mountains to rove. I wouldn't be who I am today without cousins and cabins and really wonderful family traditions.

Thanks for taking care of your lovely wife. She's a hero of mine. I accidentally stumbled upon a stack of love letters when I was visiting you last year. I shouldn't have read them, but I did, and may I say that you are a romantic! I hope I meet a guy with as much class as you someday.

I'll miss you, Grandpa. Please watch over me here. I think you'd like Oklahoma. If you notice my spirits getting glum, feel free to poke me with a funny story every now and then. Take care of Grandma as best as you can from that side of the veil, and we'll watch over her here.

It is tradition for all of your children and grandchildren to give you a birthday wish. And, in keeping with tradition, I wish you a very good catch. I hope the fishing is good in heaven! Or hell. Hehe, only joking. I hear that one of your last comments was something about how 90 years is too *$%*! old. Swearing always strikes me as offensive...except when it comes from you, Grandpa. Then it's just funny. A mouth like yours probably fits somewhere less than celestial, but wherever you are I hope I go, too. :)

Happy 90th!!

Your adoring granddaughter,
-Sister Jenny Stewart (ie: Rapunzel)

A Journey Worthwhile: Of Wilderness and Promised Lands

I cried this week. Thanks to a series of faith-filled, humorous companions, I can't remember the last time I cried.

I received a letter from a dear childhood friend. She met a boy...isn't that how it always begins? And they might get married. I laughed and grinned at her giddy words, but then I felt sad. Sad to miss the wedding, sad that I don't know this guy, but mostly sad because my life isn't what I expected it would be.

"Normative timeline." This is the phrase that scholars use to explain my confusing feelings. Human beings create a set of developmental expectations (or "normative timelines"), and we worry when the timing of major life events fails to match the norm. My perception of a normative timeline was to go to college at 18, to get married at 20, and to probably have a small perfect family by 24.

God knows better.

He knew what I did not know about myself. That I have an appetite for scholarship and spirituality, and that I might need some time in school to learn and thrill and grow into myself. That I have a small seed of wanderlust that would find nourishment in places like Jerusalem and Virginia and Oklahoma. That I would desperately want to serve my Savior Jesus Christ, and that some well-timed orchestrations could land me in a wonderful place at a historic time as a full-time missionary.

He knows me better than I know myself.

Call me a radical for graduating from BYU without a ring on my left hand.  Maybe it's tyrannical that I didn't get a degree with any obvious utility. I'm criminal for loving my twisted, unexpected journey as much as I do. But God knows best. My tears have changed from sad tears to tears of gratitude. I am thankful for a Heavenly Father who loves me enough to let me depart from normative timelines. I'm not the first. Abraham and Sarah had babies way past due. Enoch felt like he was just a "young lad" when he was called to do great things. Maybe Moses didn't envision promised lands to be so difficult to obtain.

But God has better plans for our happiness than we do.

My favorite talk of late is Our Wonderful Journey Home, in which President Uchtdorf described the Plan of Salvation in story-tale format.* His description of Bilbo Baggins seems a suitable description of my own life:

And of course there is Bilbo Baggins, the small unassuming hobbit who would very much have preferred to stay home and eat his soup. But after a knock at his door, he follows the call of the great unknown and steps out into the world, together with a wizard and a band of dwarfs, to fulfill a dangerous but vitally important mission.

Switch a few words, and I hear the Spirit telling my story: "And of course there is Jenny, the unassuming girl who would very much prefer to stay at home with an apron around her waist and her family at hand. But after an encounter with the living Son of God, she follows the call of the Spirit and steps out into the world, together with a companion and a ragtaggle group of striving disciples to fulfill a dangerous but vitally important mission."

God knows best.

So here's to adventure! To non-normative timelines. To the circuitous route that always leads home. Before the promised land there is always a wilderness. The trick is learning to find joy in the journey.**

*  http://www.lds.org/broadcasts/article/general-young-women-meeting/2013/03/your-wonderful-journey-home?lang=eng

** http://www.lds.org/general-conference/2008/10/finding-joy-in-the-journey?lang=eng

Independence Day

Since tracting seemed unfruitful on the fourth of July, our Elders hatched a plan to launch a missionary lemonade stand. We set up next to a firework stand in a Wal-Mart parking lot. When people didn't appear in want of free lemonade (and pass-along cards, of course), we changed tactics. Sister Morrell and I approached everyone in line at the firework stand with cups and pass-along cards (this was well-received), and the Elders acted as welcoming crew of the Wal-mart parking lot. Their "free lemonade" sign wasn't nearly as fruitful as the "Honk If You Love Jesus" sign. The parking lot was a noisy, happy, honking, lemonade-drinking place on the fourth of July.

Of Help and Humour

(This week's entry is meant to evoke laughter, not tears. If you read with sympathy, you have read it wrong.)

Elder Douglas Callister promises that if we consecrate ourselves to the Lord, we will overcome our Goliaths. Feeling rather Danielish in a world of frightful giants, I take this promise seriously. This week I saw the fulfillment of this promises in three senses.

First, a confession of my Goliath. Historically speaking, I take myself too seriously. I cry when teased; I miss the punch line of jokes because i am too intent on the moral of the story; I am devastated when things go wrong.

My current companion is teaching me to laugh. I was bewildered by her for the first four days. She was so...strange. But happy. And never stressed. And that stressed me out all the more, because I didn't understand her. After two weeks, I'm beginning to understand. We do headstands before bed. We set ridiculous key-indicators to keep our morale up when things go wrong. We laugh at everything that can be politely ridiculed.

God provided divine Help in the form of humour this week. and it was a prime week to apply the gift, because we experienced a series of unfortunate events.

Unfortunate Event Numero Uno:
Being Pegged in the Noggin by Ball

This normal. There's probably a scientific formula for it. "When Jenny and Moving Spherical Object Occupy the Same Space, the Spherical Object Will Indubitably Hit Jenny in the Face." So when the volleyball smacked me in the face during zone p-day, I wasn't surprised. What surprised me was my reaction to it: It was funny. Usually I look at it from my own victimized perspective, and I feel like an idiot. But I imagined what it must have looked like from anyone else's perspective in the room, and suddenly it was delightful! What a gift.

Unfortunate Event Numero Dos:
In Which Face Eats Carpet

This is also normal. Some people lose their cookies when their stomach gets upset. I don't particularly like vomiting, so my body has worked out an alternative system. To avoid the unpleasant uprising of food, I just pass out. And then I have a seizure. Kind of weird, but that's how I roll.

Imagine this pattern of passing out and seizing in the context of a teaching appointment. It is 9 pm. I am on exchanges with a young Hermana. We are in the home of a gracious Mexican couple, and they are feeding us fabulous food. Course one goes well. They bring out the seconds. I've already had dinner, but I muscle it down. Dessert comes out, and I know I'm out for the count. Next thing I  know, I'm lying on the floor and I can't move my body. There's a funky smell beneath my nose and someone is on the phone with the doctor.

I feel bad that I put my sweet young Herman in a sour position on her first exchange with her Sister Training Leader. And I feel worse that I broke the arm of the chair when I fell. But I couldn't help collapsing into peals of laughter whenever I thought of it (as soon as I could move my fingers and legs again). Delightful.

Unfortunate Event Numero Tres:
Unrequited & Thoroughly Awkward Love

This is NOT normal. Unrequited love is, of course, the only sort of love that occurs on a mission (other than the platonic, charitable sort, of course). We were thrilled when we tracted into a couple of young men who said that they were baptized Mormons. We texted back and forth for a few days trying to set up a time to teach them (in unabashed attempt to help them return to church). Our interactions came to a screeching halt when the following text rolled in:

"To be honest...I like Sister Stewart...your eyes...your innocence...your faith, your witz...but ya'all are missionaries...srry...feel bad."

AAAAAAgh! Sheer horror. But the text is now a beloved legacy and the punch line of all jokes. Comments about "my innocence" and "my witz" (nice spelling, smarty pants), and "my eyes" are the cheering words of our daily walk. What more could a person want?

And so I conclude this blog with a word of gratitude. I am beginning to suspect that our Heavenly Father has a keen sense of humour. And I think He'd like to let us in on the jokes if only we'll loosen up enough to listen to the punch lines with a smile rather than sarcasm.

"Be of good cheer..." D&C 68: 5

*In which the old English spelling is infinitely superior to the bland "humor" of modern verse.

Sweet Baptism

June 2013

This sweet sister "baked for us, and made us pot scrubbers and twisted beautiful hair bows for the little girls in the ward. She cried when she found out I was leaving. I have received permission to drive back to the Village to attend. 

Tornado Siren Protocol

While the largest tornado in Oklahoma history is raging outside...in the bathroom, wearing bike helmets, singing "Master The Tempest is Raging."
May 2013

Of Mistakes and Mercy

I avoid making mistakes. I don't make bad grades; I don't get tickets; I don't break the rules. This makes life a little bit difficult...it's a high standard to hold.

I made a mistake this week. Mistakes that involve grades or cars or petty rules are one thing. But mistakes involving people? That hurts.

Only two weeks into my new area, and I seriously offended a less-active woman. She called me on the phone to tell me about it. She told me that she felt judged, that I had no right, that actions like mine are the sort that keep people like her away from the church.

Whew.

She was right. I was wrong. I've never felt so  miserable in my life! I listened and apologized. I cried; I couldn't help myself. Hurting people doesn't feel good. Trying to be a disciple of Jesus Christ and accidentally finding oneself in the wrong is devastating.

It reminded me of another mistake I made once.

I don't remember the details so much as the moral of the story. I was maybe ten, and my sister was fourteen--a sensitive age. It was bedtime, and I was calling her names and attacking her verbally. I wanted her to put up a fight (what the heck was I dong?), but instead she cried, hung her head, and went downstairs to sleep in the spare bedroom. Two minutes later, there were loud footsteps coming up the stairs.

My blood ran chill. Those were Dad's footsteps, and He was coming to kill me. I knew it! What I had done was wrong. And he was going to kill me.

He didn't. He looked sad. He said my name, and I hid under my covers expecting the worst. It  didn't come. He invited me to come downstairs where my sister was waiting. He knelt on the ground and invited us to pray with him. I don't recall the prayer, but I know that there was peace, and reconciliation. I know that there was mercy.

That is the moral of the story.

For every bad grade, for every ticket, for every broken rule, there is mercy. For every broken heart, for every hurt sister, for every foolish, less-active-offending missionary, there is mercy.

When I went to church on Sunday, God orchestrated a reconciliation. The woman whom I hurt came in late and slipped into the row in front of me. My heart pounded for the entire hour, but I tapped her on the shoulder after the meeting, and we hugged. I listened and apologized again. It will take some time, I think, but there is mercy.

That is what I learn from the scriptures. Whereas I make mistakes and think, "Heavenly Father is going to kill me," He finds ample opportunity to tell me that there is mercy for every mistake. "My arm is stretched out still," He says.

Yea, for thus saith the Lord: have I put thee away, or have I cast thee off forever?...Oh house of Israel is my hand shortened at all that it cannot redeem, or have I no power to deliver?...I will be merciful unto my people. (2 Nephi 7:1-2; 23:22)