Paradox and mission calls...

Last night, one of my dearest friends opened his mission call. It was very exciting to be present for such an important day in his life--to hear the pages turning as he entered a new chapter.

He has been called to the Cambodia, Phnom Penh mission. When he was busy calling family and making his rounds in the dorm lobby, I perused his letter for several moments, trying to take everything in.

Cambodia... half a world away... signed by President Thomas S. Monson... wow, that's a real signature...

It all seemed so surreal. He wasn't going to be here next year. I wouldn't see him anymore.

He'll be off getting malaria somewhere, I thought to myself. It didn't help that when I Google searched "Cambodia," I saw some recent headlines about there being malaria outbreaks. I felt my heart sink.

But he is in the Lord's hands--the most capable hands in the universe. I can't think of a better place for him to be, nor for a better young man for such a demanding mission.

A mutual friend and I were talking for some time last night about Cambodia, and she searched for the religious breakdown of the country--mostly Buddhist. One of the more interesting religions in the world, in my opinion.

I remember when I was in junior high, I read a few books about Zen Buddhism, and how artistic and peaceful it sounded appealed to me. I liked how individualized the "journey" to Enlightenment seemed. We talked about this for a time, and we thought about our friend. The idea of him teaching among Buddhists became extremely comical because he's so dangerously literal.

Part of some branches of Buddhism include the study of koans, which I love. They're parables that often use natural imagery to present a really nebulous lesson that the monks ponder in order to achieve Enlightenment. I enjoy reading them because they make sense to me. They're the kind of puzzle I can figure out because figuring them out is more about feeling their meaning instead of recognizing or applying fact--which is more of his forte, I should think.

One that I really love in particular is about Chiyono (Mugai Nyodai) the first woman to become head of a Zen order in Japan. It tells about how Chiyono tried for years to understand meditation, but just couldn't do it. Finally one night, she was starting at the moon's reflection in a pail full of water she was taking back to the monastery, when it broke. She wrote this about then achieving enlightenment:

This way and that way

I've tried to keep the pale together

hoping the weak bamboo

would never break.

Suddenly the bottom fell out

No more water,

no more moon in the water--

Emptiness in my hand.

The situation with my missionary friend seems a lot like this to me. I cannot worry about him, as easy as I might find that to be right now. Cambodia needs him more than Provo, and he will do a fine job of taking the truth to them. And according to what the CIA has published about Cambodia, my friend has a lot to face.

The country not only deals with a lot of malaria, but also AIDS. Their median age is in the early twenties, with a third of the country being under the age of 14, and half the country being under the age of 21--creating quite a strain on their limited economy--especially in light of the global economic crisis. I'll be interested to hear about the situation of the Church in that country, and because the Phnom Penh mission is on the Pouch system through DearElder.com, writing to him won't be as great a hassle as I thought.

All in all, I guess the only thing I can do is to try and support him in any way I can--especially praying for the people that he will serve, that they'll be ready when he comes. Somehow, I think he's really going to need that.

Paradox wrote another narrative

“The Custodian”

Scrawled into grime covered walls of where I used to work, a revelation written in purple ink greeted me every time I had to empty the bowels of the floor machine down the drain of the trash compactor room in the Wilkinson Center.

Taught by suffering:
drop by drop
wisdom is distilled from pain.

Clearly, I was not the first person to consider such things while trying to ignore the smell of wet cardboard, rotten bananas, and stagnant water.

As I’ve contemplated the concept of Dante’s stratified Hell, I imagine that my early morning cleaning jobs would be somewhere closer to the deepest pits—reserved primarily for the people who have thrown full cups of water into a trash can, pushed staples onto the floor to be ground into the carpet, or stuck gum ANYWHERE it doesn’t belong. I could wish for no greater disgust on the guilty that would still be appropriately reciprocal to the sin.

It’s hard not to think about Hell when you’re a custodian—especially when the batteries in your iPod die before you do and you’re stuck talking to yourself for the rest of your shift. The bars between reality and insanity have never been so thin as those in the corner of an iPod screen at 5 in the morning.

Also nearby is the idea of repentance—as gentle as teasing hidden dirt down the stairs with a broom, as seemingly fruitless as spraying one’s own reflection with glass cleaner and scouring the dark circles under the eyes with a white rag. No visible difference sometimes. Sometimes all you have to show for your effort is a half smile before you round the corner and trip over your own vacuum cord. If perfection, or even grace, were a given—well, I’d certainly be out of a job.

But instead, there is much to be thankful for. Take, for example, insatiable fatigue. I know enough about REM cycles and sleep debt that I couldn’t repay mine in blood. The 5 A.M. shift isn’t a shift, it’s a way of life. To be willing to sleep anywhere at any time is constant, but to be able to is not. To stay awake out of necessity is a lesson I have no problem believing comes straight from Christ.

As painful as this experience has been, as abject as I feel when I throw myself onto the floor each morning in order to rouse myself from sleep, I see a greater good in learning, as my mother taught me, to “live tired.” If nothing else, I might actually stand a chance to miss out on hearing these words, which so often pierce my heart when I fall asleep in yet another class:

“Sleep on now, and take your rest: it is enough, the hour is come; behold, the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.”

I mean, the Savior didn’t ask me to do anything hard—just to stay awake in American Heritage. And Comparative Literature 201… and 202… English 251… Anthropology 101… Intro to Archaeology. In the immortal words of President Monson, “I’m embarrassed to add any more to that list.”

And despite the fact that I fail as surely as those noble and great men before me have failed, I cannot help but be critical of myself; the kind of critical that comes from being a custodian and having time to myself every day to work out my salvation as I watch the sun rise over a still sleeping world—wishing so desperately that I could find that peace. Fortunately, what better thing can I do with that time but learn what Paul taught to the Thessalonians when he said, “God hath not appointed us to wrath, but to obtain salvation by our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us, that, whether we wake or sleep, we should live together with him.”

So I press forward, my alarm clock set to 4:30 AM, a prayer in my heart, and the expectation that I’ll someday be able to rest—if not from mine afflictions, then perhaps from knowing what O Dark Thirty looks like.

Paradox worries about sheep

Resolution: Find more ways to serve people by identifying their needs and doing something to fulfill them.

Last night, I was hanging out with friends of mine. We were coming back from the Wilk when we saw another friend walking by himself in the rain. We called him over and were chatting for a bit. We invited him to come with us over to Stover lobby, and he declined because he wanted to take a walk in the rain.

"It's very therapeutic," he said. I offered to come with him, and he declined.

We parted ways, had to stop here, there, and everywhere in between where we started and where we were actually trying to go (we're freshmen; apparently this is how we do things), and we finally made it over to Stover.

We were almost inside when we saw this friend again, and he was absolutely soaked. He had been outside anywhere between 45 minutes to an hour since the first time we saw him, and who knows how long he had been outside before that. And to be honest, I've always had a concern for this friend that I cannot quite articulate, and he has given me no observable reason to feel that I can think of, but this kind of feeling is so instinctive to me that I don't really question it because I've realized that I just can't.

So I did what any girl in my position probably would have done. I went up to some mutual girl friends of ours, told them what I had seen, and they sprung into action to go and find him. As they were pulling on boots and coats, leaving the merriment of Stover Hall to hunt down someone I wasn't even sure was actually in trouble, I wondered if maybe I had overreacted, and had sent a cavalry of girls to intrude upon the peace he was seeking in a way that would have driven me NUTS had it been sent after me in that situation.

I anticipated that he would tell them the same thing he had told me, so I went up to some of our mutual guy friends and asked them to talk to him later when they saw him. I expressed my concern, and they took it in stride.

"I like walks in the rain," said one friend, "it's very therapeutic."

"That's exactly what he said," I commented. It was only then that I connected that in order for an activity to be therapeutic, something probably has to be wrong with you first.

I asked a guy friend of mine that I trust entirely, one more removed from the situation that has taken such walks with me, whether or not what I had done was a mistake--whether there was a cause for concern for this friend. Eventually he said he didn't think so, and that put my mind at ease--and right at that second, in came the cavalry with a very wet target.

He came in and mingled, and I watched him. At one point, he was standing by himself by a piano, touched a few keys without sitting down, looked like he was thinking very inwardly and sternly about something, then looked up to see me watching him. I smiled, didn't break my stare, and he got the biggest grin on his face and bounded over to me; not an uncommon thing for him to do.

He asked me how the activity at the Wilk went, and I showed him and told him about the rose I had waited for over an hour in line to dip in wax for 30 seconds. We talked very animatedly about not much in particular, just like we do every morning at breakfast after our early morning custodial jobs. I gave him my rose and told him to keep it. He didn't insist that I take it back like I had anticipated. We invited him to come watch a movie with us on campus, and he declined. We eventually gathered our group and left the building.

How do you know when to step into someone else's life and redirect their sojourn out of the rain? How can you be sure that you aren't imagining your concern when you look at a situation and realize that your evidence for a crisis is entirely subjective and circumstantial? Why is it so hard to distinguish between someone searching for truth and someone getting themselves entirely too lost?

I decided in that moment that I would rather be too careful, too concerned, than to watch one of my Father's sheep wander off into the orange glow of a rainy evening. Maybe I'm just projecting, but I've never seen a sheep wander into the darkness that wasn't in more darkness than I realized.

What Paradox Knows

All Times, All Things, All Places

IT'S not in the letter I can't wait to open.
It's not in the badge that will carry his name.
It's not going to grow in just three weeks of study
Or magically come when I get on a plane.

So today I'm becoming who I'm meant to be
The worthy, unshakable, witness he needs.

I will sing and shout his praises!
I will tell the whole world that I know what his grace is
At all times in all things in all places.

It comes as I study the words of the prophets
And think about all of those words meant for me.
As Abraham's son, I am part of the promise
That all of the earth will be blessed by his seed.
I know what my Savior expects me to be
The faithful, unchangeable witness he needs

At all times, all things, all places.
I will sing and shout his praises!
I will tell the whole world that I know what his grace is
At all times in all things in all places.

All eyes. All ears. All hearts. All faces.
All rich. All poor. All life. All ages.
All roads. All doors. All lands. All nations.
All earth. All kin. All tongues. All races.

At all times, all things, all places
I will sing and shout his praises!
I will tell the whole world that I know what his grace is
At all times in all things in all places!

I LOVE THIS SONG! It's from the EFY CD from 2006, and it's simply incredible. It gives me goosebumps every time I hear it. It's exactly how I feel every day, where I know I'm supposed to be in my life right now. I actually had a conversation on the phone with my mom yesterday. In light of a very eventful Saturday (which I'm getting to telling you about, I promise), she actually accepted that I want to serve a mission, it's something I fully intend to do, and acknowledges that there is financial obligation on my part, and most likely by extension her part. I thought about that for a moment when I realized what she was saying to me, that she accepts this responsibility as another expense for us to bear together, and I almost cried. I thought of the faith that must have taken, and I know that Heavenly Father is pleased with her, and she will be blessed for helping me do this. It was something I never thought I would ever see, and yet it's happening! It's really, truly happening!

I know better than to relax just yet, however, and the rest of my weekend stands as a reminder to me about how easy it is to slip up. I mean, what a Saturday! I got up and took a Book of Mormon exam, which--in the true form of my teacher--was more of a teaching experience than a test. Afterwards, I headed to the mail room at the BYU Bookstore to mail a Korean Book of Mormon and green Korean hymnal to a friend of mine back east. I had been waiting for a long time for the right moment to do that for him, so when he called me recently out of the blue, and I felt prompted to finally approach him, I didn't waste any time. As one of my dearest friends, and in light of Elder Eyring's statement in the January 2009 Ensign, I refuse to have this friend be someone who has to ask me, "Why didn't you tell me?" He is simply too near and dear to my heart for me to keep my mouth shut.

And I won't lie, I was really pleased with myself for having been able to participate in the start of something wonderful in the name of my Savior and the building of our Father's kingdom. It's the fourth copy of the Book of Mormon I've given out, my first in another language, and I was simply thrilled to feel like a missionary, even though my call won't be coming any time soon. This is exactly the kind of practice I need.

Later that night, my friends and I went to the athletics building to play with our new nerf guns, and we had a grand old time shooting each other in the room we reserved. When it was time to leave, we stopped at the vending machines, got some snacks, and were headed back to our dorms. One of the guys, on our way back, snatched my signature card out of my hands and ran with it--so I chased him. Something snapped in me once I caught him, and tackled him, wrestled him to the ground, pinned him with my arm and demanded he give it back to me. There was something all too bloodthirsty in how I felt in the moment, so it shouldn't have surprised me where we ended up.

His ear was bleeding, and we had our hall advisor/ nurse look at it. She said he needed stitches, so we called a friend of mine with a car, piled 6 additional people into a five person vehicle, and took him to the emergency room at 11:30 or so at night. We got him checked in, and it was about when we got him through the front door that the gravity of what I had done really started to weigh on me.

I hurt someone badly enough that he needed stitches. In all my years of training, this has never happened before. No matter how badly I had ever hurt someone, they never had to go to the hospital because of me. Because I slipped up and fell back on barbaric tendencies, I became no different than a carnally-minded, stupid Lamanite that takes pleasure in other people's pain. That was something I had never wanted to think about myself ever again... you can imagine how rapidly my spirits sank. Satan was right there to make sure I felt as much guilt and bitterness as he could force on me.

Something that Heavenly Father has been trying to get me to understand is that good people can make mistakes, and just because I have an accident or mess up sometimes doesn't mean I've negated every blessing in my life and lost my place in heaven. Every time I screw up, that's exactly what I start to tell myself to beat myself back into submission because that's sometimes what it takes. So as I was sitting in the waiting room, I was trying to gain my bearings to everything I had been taught in the past week, my guilt, and everything else about the situation, and it just wasn't working. I was simply drowning in the situation, and I had no idea what to do.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guy came out and we took him home. It was some time after 1 in the morning, and we were all pretty much exhausted. My emotional and spiritual state hadn't changed at all, and I just couldn't understand how I could have screwed up so badly after such an awesome morning. When I opened to the Doctrine and Covenants randomly and started reading in section 10, it suddenly made enough sense that I was able to sleep.

The Prophet Joseph Smith certainly knew enough about God and his mission to know the importance of listening to the council of the Lord, and yet he still pressed and pressed to be permitted to give part of the manuscript to Martin Harris so it could be taken and shown to a professor and proven to be authentic. The Lord told Joseph Smith not to do it several times, but the prophet continued to ask for the permission he sought, and it was eventually granted to him.

I read that section and it hit me pretty hard the Lord was right by my side, that He knew my pain, and that He understood the gravity of my mistake. Like the Prophet Joseph Smith, I have a lot to learn about the gifts I've been given. I'm still young, probably not much younger than he was at the time--I just looked, he was 23. And while this doesn't excuse giving into carnal desires and making stupid mistakes, that's how Joseph Smith had to learn sometimes, and that's how I'm learning now. For a time, the ability to translate was taken away from Joseph, but he was forgiven despite the gravity of his mistake, and since I repented and recommitted to keeping a more careful watch over myself, I can expect the same.

That's the beauty of the Atonement, and I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am to have it in my life for that very reason.

It wasn't until I got to church on Sunday and bore my testimony of all those things (in less words, grace, and with more shaking) that I really began to piece together all of that into one cohesive gratitude for the atonement. And while I definitely gave the most sobering testimony (you could have heard a pin drop, and I'm sure it made people feel kind of awkward), I knew I needed to do it because bearing it was the LAST thing I wanted to do, and I have never felt that way before. I needed to get rid of that, and bearing your testimony isn't just about the congregation anyway. It's about bearing what's in your heart and soul to our Father in Heaven about the testimony He has given you. So that's what I did, and it really did make me feel better.

[WARNING! Rant ahead: This probably isn't doctrine, but it makes sense to me that the congregation in the testimony meeting is the lesser portion of an even greater audience. That's why I have never felt comfortable about putting my testimony into simple "I know ____ is true" statements. It takes more than that to really express gratitude most of the time, and I find that standing at the pulpit is where I finally receive some of most important revelation. So it's from that experience that I have developed the opinion that if people have to get up there and babble themselves halfway to Tuesday to get what they need, go ahead and let them do it. (Within reason of course. I've heard horror stories about fast and testimony meetings--one of which involved a golden hand that unclogged a toilet. I'm all for keeping that to a minimum, and reminding people to watch how long they're speaking, but I'm not in favor of forcing people to format and reduce their testimonies to the same exact set of statements that all begin with "I know." It makes for a boring meeting that accomplishes nothing.)]

And since then, my spirits have definitely been uplifted. I've moved on to more important things than my own grief, and tried to fall back into the rhythm of my life with a renewed vigor for all the things I'm trying to accomplish. I sat down and read the Missionary Handbook today (well, most of it), and it's like a new wallet pamphlet. It's an amazing little book, and what amazes me most about it is how it mentions rules that seem rather silly or obvious, but then mentions how crucial they are in a foreign context. It made me think of how aware I would have to be of my conduct at all times should I be called to an international mission.

There's simply so much to think about, and to be excited for in regards to the future. Every day, I get to wake up and continue my story--the one where I strive to fulfill the prophecy of the beautiful potential that I know Heavenly Father has prepared for my life.

And I guess that's an "I Know" statement worth sticking to.