There Was a Missionary Went Forth

Here's another I've had in reserve so y'all will have something to read while I'm busy with life. See some of you at EG Conference!



There Was a Missionary Went Forth

After Walt Whitman's “There Was a Child Went Forth”


There was a missionary went forth every day,

And every object he looked upon, that object he became

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,

Or for the whole two years or for all the rest of his years.

The mangy perros became part of this missionary,

And the frosted white fig trees and hail, and warm bags of roasted chestnuts tucked under his coat,

And the Antarctic wind roaring across the icy waves,

And the neighbor’s gigantic roan ox, and the fat turkeys, and the gregarious pengüinos,

And the muddy roads that try to swallow travelers’ feet, and the snow falling in the streetlights onto the black rolling ocean,

And the vaulted sky feeling so far away, and the sun setting like mixing paint behind the jagged cerro,

And the clouds parting on the horizon to let through picturesque shards of dawn, all became part of him.

The blackberry bushes and the frambuesa became part of him,

Flaky empenadas and frozen brown bananas, and the guinea fowl chattering in the back yard,

And the angry river threatening to rise right up to the house, and the weeks with no sunlight, and the mist swirling upon the perfectly reflective mountain lake right in the middle of town,

And the old drunk man begging by the bus stop,

And the teenage snakes, whistling, and vying for attention,

And the government employed women gossiping in an empty field with shovels, and the

shopkeepers in their tiendas, mindlessly watching their novelas,

And the viejitos crossing themselves for protection as they walked by, and the sad

Prostitutas on the corner by the bar,

And the crazy Mamita, laughing at her own jokes, kwa kwa kwa,

And the investigator who never quit smoking, and his hijitas with the most beautiful brown eyes,

And the old man in the hut, tending his pollitos and never missing church,

And the escrituras, the only friends from back home allowed to come along,

And all the wonders of ocean and mountain wherever he went.

His parents sent letters, which came to a p.o. box in Panguipulli, and then were forwarded on the bus that was the only inlet and outlet of the town,

The letters that sustained him and tied him to the realities of home.

Mother at home, offering advice and quoting scripture,

Mother asking for prayers, and encouraging and worrying, sending food and ties and most importantly a “Love, Mom” every week like clockwork,

Father, seldom, jocular, narrow-minded, faithless, supportive,

His letters, emphasis steered away from matters of God and faith and accountability,

The postcards, the packages, the biannual phone calls, the newspaper clippings, the admonitions,

The temptations of el diablo, the whisperings of the spirit, the shadow of doubt creeping in,

Hunger for knowledge, trust in companions, whom to teach and where to go,

Whether a day’s labor has made any difference, Whether the standards taught are the standards lived,

Men and women and families walking by in the streets, and which ones would be receptive?

The high, overly paved roads and the silly Toyland-colored houses, and the panaderías with their sticky berlíneres,

Taxicabs, carts pulled by bueyes, ice-slicked hills, frozen dirt paths converging in el centro,

Fallen fences, tundra, grapevines, wood smoke filling the valley,

The view from up on the hill where the whole village, the whole flock, looked like one sunken bustling jewel box,

The workers lining up outside the mousetrap factory and the lechería in the dark hours of morning,

The sheets of ice careening in the Straight of Magellan,

The stars striving to outshine each other,

The fleas and the bedbugs dead from the cold the next day,

The spot on the ground that leads through the earth’s mantle and comes up back home,

The stiff frozen line of laundry, the smells of running water and shivering sweat, the boots tragically still wet when it’s time to put them on again,

The desperate love, the long-sought testimony, the sincere prayers, and the sturdy faith,

These became a part of that missionary who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth and thrust in his sickle every day.

Lucila: The True Story

When I was in the MTC, I started dreaming about an old Mexican woman. She was standing on a green porch in front of a brick house, shaking out a rug. She had bright red lipstick on, and her hair was dyed black. I would wake up from these dreams with this feeling of love for this woman, though I had no idea who she was. One of our teachers told us that if we desired it, the Lord would bless us with love for the people we would come to teach before we ever even met them. So I figured this must be the case.

I left for Chile, and the dreams ceased for a while. At one point, a letter arrived from Mom that announced that my younger brother, Ouija, had dropped out of high school and moved back to our home state of California (they had all moved to Colorado right before my mission). She said in the letter that he had stopped going to church. I decided to have a fast for Ouija, that he would one day come back to the church and serve an honorable full-time mission. Being hypoglycemic, I knew that I wasn't really supposed to fast, but I figured the cause was great enough that it would be worth a few medical complications.

The next morning, as I was ending my fast, I began to have brown urine. This came and went for the next few months. The mission president's wife told me it was probably dehydration, and to drink more water.

I was transferred to Punta Arenas, a beautiful city at the end of the world where it snows on the beach and all the houses are painted bright gay colors like salmon and chartreuse and turquoise. And the dreams came back. By now I'd seen enough of southern Chile to know that the lady in my dreams wasn't down there at all. She was back in the United States. The dreams came with more and more intensity, until finally I decided to pray about what to do. I decided to talk to my companion about the issue. He agreed with my own idea that maybe I was supposed to go back and finish my mission in the United States. We decided to talk to Elder Moffit, my district leader.

Elder Moffit seemed to agree, upon hearing my story, that I needed to talk to the mission president about the possibility of an inter-mission transfer. First, though, I'd have to talk to the zone leaders and then the assistants to the president, and finally the president himself. So I sat down with the zone leaders, who supported me just as my companion and my district leader had. The next step was to call the assistants. Just my luck, I got Elder Camilla, on whose bad side I'd been ever since I met him at zone conference and, well....

Zone conference: Elder Camilla was up in front of the chapel presenting his new teaching program to all the missionaries. The idea was simple. We would teach the principle of baptism in every section of the first discussion. Part one was about God the father, and during that part, we would mention that through baptism God has prepared a way for us to come back to him. Part two was about Jesus Christ, and we could mention that we are following his example when we get baptized. And so forth. During the presentation, I was squirming a bit in my chair. It all seemed a lot like the Saturday Night Live character Subliminal Man to me. Finally, I had to say something. I raised my hand, and when called upon, I presented a different approach.

"This new system seems like it would work if our end goal were just baptism," I said. "But to me baptism isn't the most important part of the gospel. The atonement is. It isn't doing us any good to keep baptizing people if they aren't learning to utilize the atonement to help them to stay in the church. Why don't we mention the atonement in every part of the discussions? Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to return to him, so he provided the atonement for us.... Jesus Christ atoned for our sins so that we can be clean again.... Joseph Smith's vision taught us much about the nature of God and his love for us, and it's because of Joseph Smith that we now know so much about the atonement.... The Book of Mormon teaches us more about the atonement than we'd ever known before. Then by the time we get around to talking about baptism, we can say, will you accept the atonement of Jesus Christ in your life by repenting of your sins and being baptized in his name?"

Elder Camilla waited patiently for me to say all of that, and then started back in where he'd left off. "Well, Elder Smurf, that's a nice thought, but this is the new system we're going to be using for the next while. In the fourth principle--"

"Hold on a second." It was the mission president, cutting off Elder Camilla mid-sentence. He was standing up now, on the stand behind Elder Camilla. "I think Elder Smurf has a good idea here. Go ahead and have a seat, Elder Camilla." The mission president took the chalk from an aggravated Elder Camilla, erased what he'd had on the board so far, and replaced it with the details of the new system I'd thought up.

Anyway, the point of that aside is that that's the only other interaction I'd had with Elder Camilla before having to call him to tell him I needed to talk to the mission president about my crazy dreams.

So now I was on the phone with Elder Camilla, who informed me that the president was in a meeting. "What is this about?" he asked. So I told him the whole story, maybe a little more succinctly than previous versions of the story, because the call was long distance. He tried to "resolve my concerns," a trick they'd taught us in the MTC to help others to see the flaws in their own thinking. "So what you're saying is that you feel that the prophet called you to the wrong mission." It didn't even feel like a question.

"No, I know I was supposed to come here, but I feel that maybe it's time for me to go somewhere else. I've been praying about this, and I feel I need to at least explore the possibility."

Elder Camilla promised to talk to the mission president about my "concerns." He used the word a bit pointedly, so I'd know he felt this was just something I needed to resolve. Plus, the Spanish word for "concern" is the same as their word for "doubt," calling my story into further question. He said he would talk to the president and I could expect to hear back from him in the next few minutes.

I waited by the phone. It rang after only about three minutes. I picked it up and said "hello."

"Elder Smurf, junior companions are not supposed top answer the phone." It was Elder Camilla, and that was not a real rule. I hung up.

The phone rang again. "Can someone please come answer this phone?" I shouted to the five senior companions who were living with us at the time

"Why don't you?" someone hollered back.

"Because I'm not a senior companion."

My own companion came and answered the phone.

"Hello? Uh-huh. It's for you."

He handed me the phone. "Hi, Elder Smurf, it's Elder Camilla. The President does agree with me that the prophet did call you to this mission and he didn't make a mistake." This time he hung up on me, and I couldn't get in a word edgewise.

I was a little mad at this point. The zone and district leaders and my companion all came in and sat down with me. We all lived in the same house, after all. It was decided that they would all fast for me and my cause. I knew I wasn't supposed to fast, especially after the whole brown urine thing that still hadn't completely gone away, but I couldn't let all these young men fast for me without my doing my part. SO I agreed to fast along with them, starting right then.

The next morning, I woke up with something very, very wrong. I was starving, for one thing, so I got up, grabbed a huge salad bowl, poured in an entire bag of Chilean Cocoa Krispies and a whole box of milk, and ate it all with a gravy spoon. Then I was VERY tired, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I lay back down on my bed and succumbed to sleep. I awoke just in time for lunch. My companion seemed very worried about me. he was sitting on his own bed, reading his scriptures when I came to. I felt better than before, though a bit weak. There were really no major problems, though. At last not until I stood up. And then everything went haywire. My heart was beating extremely hard and fast, as though I'd just been running. I took my pulse. 120. I knew that a normal heart rate was between 60 and 80 beats per minute at rest. We had a lunch appointment, and I thought we should try to walk the few blocks to the members' house and eat as we normally would. It was a Sunday, and we had church right after lunch, so this would be a good way to get the day started. By the time we got there, however, my pulse was up to 180. It didn't go back down all through lunch. I started to get a pain through the left side of my chest and my left arm and shoulder. "He's having a heart attack!" the mother of the household kept calling. She made me to lie down on the couch as she ran to the neighbors' to use their phone so she could call the family from our ward who had the car. They came and picked me up and took me to the hospital.

The Doctor gave me a pill to calm my nerves and everything went back to normal. He said I'd be fine, but that he wanted me to return the next day so that he could double check everything.

By my appointment the next day, my pulse had sky-rocketed again, and I was feeling dizzy and weak. He admitted me to the hospital to un some tests. I saw all kinds of specialists over the course of the next five days. I had blood taken from veins and arteries, I had sonograms taken of my heart, I was tested in a room where they did something nuclear to me as I lay on a table with some sort of spinning apparatus passing all around me in different directions like I was the nucleus of a cell. In the end, a neurologist came to see me.

I should mention that some time around my third day, I received a call in my hospital room from the mission president. "Elder Smurf, tell me about this dream," was the first thing he'd said. So I did. I told him all about it, and how I'd prayed and felt like I was supposed to go back to the United States. He said that maybe what was happening to me now was the Lord's way of taking care of things. I completely agreed.

The neurologist came to see me on the fourth day, and he had an idea about what was wrong with me. He'd just been to a seminar that weekend, he told me, up in Santiago, and he was the only doctor from Punta Arenas in attendance. There'd been a doctor there from the United States who had taught them all about a new disease that Chileans had never heard of before. They called it "sindrome de falla autonomica aguda," or "acute autonomic failure syndrome." he had some simple tests he wanted to run, makeshift versions of tests they'd have run on me if he's had all the equipment available in the United States. In one test, he monitored several aspects of my health while having me stand up and lie down alternately. All the tests confirmed his theory. He broke the "bad" news to me: he was sending me back to the United States.

It was a holiday that day, some Catholic saint's birthday, and there was a mad rush to gather together all of the missionaries who were in the city and collect enough money to pay for my plane ticket back to the United States, since the banks were all closed. We made it just in time, and I ended up leaving without really getting to say goodbye to the members or the other missionaries. I never got to see the mission president during all of that. Everything was a blur.

Meanwhile, my neurologist, who spoke only Spanish, explained to the mission doctor, a gynecologist who spoke only English, that I had experienced shortness of breath and that I'd need to stay reclined as much as possible. The mission doctor explained that to my mission president, who spoke only Spanish. He, in turn, called some people in Salt Lake City, who called my stake president in California, who called my mom's stake president in Colorado, who called my mom and told her that I was paralyzed and on a respirator.

Mom met me at the airport with a wheel chair.

She was relieved to see me walk off the plain, but cried when she saw that my weight had dropped fifty pounds in the five months I'd been in Chile. I weighed 125 lbs. when I stepped off the plane, and stood 6'2 as always.

I stayed in Colorado at my mom's house for a month. I still arose at regular missionary time, studied my Spanish every day, and did all the things a missionary is supposed to do. And I went to the doctor. I needed a clean bill of health before they'd allow me to continue my mission stateside. Miraculously, the day of the tests, I woke up and everything was fine. There was absolutely nothing wrong with me. The doctor had never heard of something called "acute autonomic failure syndrome," and he explained to me that I had probably caught what doctors call a "funny virus," a foreign virus that hasn't been documented yet. He signed the bill of health, and my mom's stake president faxed it off to Salt Lake. A week later I received a phone call and was informed that I'd be finishing my mission in Tennessee, Knoxville, and that I'd be going with three other missionaries who had just returned home from Spanish-speaking missions, and that the three of us would be the first Spanish missionaries in that mission.

When I got to Tennessee, I explained about the dreams to the mission president. He sent me down to Dalton, Georgia, where my first companion was a Mexican Elder who'd been called to serve in English. Our first day of proselyting, Elder Valdovinos took me to the government housing in a poor area of town. I was dumbfounded when we arrived. Every house in the neighborhood was made of brick and had a green porch. Just like my dream! I started to get excited. We hadn't gone two blocks before I saw her, not shaking out a rug, but rather shaking the dust out of a window fan. She looked exactly as she did in my dreams. Her name was Lucila.

We talked to her. We taught her the first discussion. She was very receptive. I was overcome with those same feelings of love I'd had in my dreams, and she seemed to connect with me very well. I came back with a brand new missionary on exchanges a few days later. She had loved the Book of Mormon, and wanted us to teach her whole family. We taught them all the first discussion. I came back again with yet a different missionary shortly after that, and taught the second discussion, the one that has the baptismal invitation. They accepted. Elder Valdovinos came with me again when it was time for the third discussion. This time a new lady answered the door.

She told us that Lucila and her family had been caught by the INS and that they'd been sent back to Mexico.

And that was it. I never saw her again. I have no idea what became of that family.

And the sad ending doesn't stop there. It was indeed a miracle that I'd been better on the day when I was given my doctor's clearance to return to the mission field, but as soon as we'd gotten out to the car, I'd once again become weak and dizzy and short of breath. I was throwing up a lot. I'd thrown up on the plane on my way out to the new mission. I'd thrown up all the tie between discussions.. I'd gotten so dizzy I had crashed my bike at a high speed and procured scars that I still bear to this day. Now Lucila was gone, and I knew it would be only a matter of time before I could no longer keep my illness hidden from those in authority.

And one day I got bronchitis. I had to go to the doctor to get pills, and he took my pulse and checked my file and confronted me with the truth: "You still have what you got down in Chile, don't you?"

I confessed, and he called our mission president (the doctor was also a member of the church). This was a Saturday. The mission president told me I'd be going home that Monday. I was sad. I spent Sunday night praying/arguing with God. He usually wins those. "I refuse to learn any lessons from this," I remember yelling at him at one point, "because every time I do you just throw something worse and more horrible at me. So that's it. I'm staying right here." Soon, though, my heart was softened and I was overcome with the knowledge that Christ had been with me through all of the trials I'd experienced, and that he was undoubtedly with me even still. I could feel his presence in the room with me.

And I came home. To California this time, since I was going home to stay. I'd lasted two months in the Tennessee Knoxville Mission. After being home for another month or two, I was released as a missionary. It was during that time that I wrote the poem, "Lucila." After my release, I was given the opportunity to speak in the ward from which I'd left. My brother, Ouija, came to hear me speak. I told the congregation the story of Lucila, and her sudden disappearance. I told them that I didn't know why I had to come home when I did, but that I knew the Lord was behind it.

Ouija met up with Don, his old best friend from high school. Don invited him to institute. He came to institute, and came back to church the next week. In fact, he didn't miss church again during that whole year. Don left on a mission. And a year after my homecoming, we were back in my old ward, only this time for Ouija's homecoming. He bore his testimony, shared some stories, and then he looked right at me where I was seated in the congregation. "My brother doesn't know why he had to come home early from his mission," he said. "But I do. If he hadn't come home right when he did, I wouldn't be standing here today." Of course I cried.

Ouija went on to be the top baptizing missionary in his mission in Mississippi.

I still don't know what all of that means. But I know I'm a better person for it.

Closer to God, My pride on a shelf.
I was looking for her, but instead found myself.

Lucila

Well, friends and neighbors, I've been about thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis busy with work since my big promotion and I've been training and all. Now, training will be over soon, but for now I just don't really have a ton of time to blog. But in happier news, I found an envelope with tons of things I'd written in the past, so I decided to share some of them here. Some are spiritual, some political, some sad, and some really really dark. This first one is actually based on a true story, which I'll tell you if you ask. It's not my strongest poem, (in fact it's the third I ever wrote, and it can feel a bit sing-songy), but it has special meaning to me. So here you go. It's called

Lucila

Deep brown eyes and long black hair:
I've seen her before, but I don't know where.
Ruby lips and golden skin.
A smile that seems to draw me in.

Kind of shy, but so am I.
Then everything's blurry and I don't know why.
She fades away. The world turns grey.
The dream is now over and it's time for day.

Lucila, Lucila, the girl of my dreams.
You're with me at night, but it's not what it seems.
I love you, I need you, don't know where you are.
I sense that you're near, but I know that you're far.

My stomach churns, my spirit burns.
I slip into bed as the night returns.
I count the sheep; I fall asleep.
I have an appointment I'm dying to keep.

Then there she is; she's crystal clear.
She smiles at me, assuages me fear.
We talk all might, it feels so right,
But then she is gone, the sun's dawning bright.

Another day just fades away.
The world is so bleak, the sun's shining grey.
Then fading light, O blessed night,
My soul comes alive with peaceful delight.

My spirits rise; I close my eyes.
But this time Lucila just sits and she cries.
"Come look for me. Come set me free.
I'm more than a dream; I'm reality."


I'm out of bed; I clear my head.
I'll keep looking for her until I am dead.
I search the world; I search my soul.
It's breaking my heart; it's taking its toll.

It's all for her, no thought for cost:
The mountains and oceans and deserts I've crossed.
I'm often lost and tempest-tossed.
I've been scorched by the sun, and bitten by frost.

Lucila, Lucila, the girl of my dreams,
You're with me at night, but it's not what it seems.
I love you, I need you, I've traveled so far.
I sense that you're near, but don't know where you are.

A burst of light, my soul takes flight.
Lucila is sitting right there in my sight.
She's here at last; it comes so fast.
I've forgotten the problems and pains of the past.

We both sit down, don't watch the clock.
We're happy together. We laugh and we talk.
But she turns her head, her cheeks turn red,
And her lips say words that bring icy dread.

"I hate to say, I cannot stay.
But our time is up and I must go away.
I'm glad we met. I'm in your debt.
But my heart's with another and my ways are set."

She shakes my hand and there I stand
As she walks away. This is not what I planned.
My heart won't tick. I'm feeling sick.
Oh, how could the fates have played such a trick?

Why did I come? What was it worth?
Why did I travel the ends of the earth?
The miles I walked? The pounds that I lost?
The heart that was broken, the continents crossed?

The road was long, but I grew strong.
I learned how to say, "I'm sorry, I'm wrong."
Closer to God, my pride on a shelf,
I was looking for her, but instead found myself.

Lucila, Lucila, she helped me to see
Who I truly am, and who I can be.
Lucila, Lucila, she's not what she seems.
She's gone from my life, but se's still in my dreams.

Double Feature

Part One: Homemaking Night

So Pinetree has this roommate. He's a nice guy, but he has some questionable taste. Like, for instance this poster that he puts up in their living room. It's all, "Marines: liberators, protectors, warriors." And it shows this marine all gussied up in his killing gear and it looks kinda like this, only nighttime:















And so naturally, Pinetree hates the poster, right? I mean, besides being flagrant propaganda, it's not like it's even a cool picture. Seriously it's lots lamer than the above picture. So anyway, Pinetree comes up with this ingenious plan. We're gonna steal the poster. Only we can't just take it down, because then it will be totally obvious that he did it, because who else cares what posters are up in somebody's house? So Pinetree decides to make up some girls and then we can frame them.

So I borrow some pink and yellow construction papers from Wiggle and write in my stupid-girl handwriting a message that's all, "If you ever want to see your poster again come to apartment 9 tomorrow at 7" or something. And then I cut it up in little puzzle pieces.

Then we decide to make some cookies to sweeten the deal, with a little note that's like, "There's more where this came from." But we also decide to make the cookies really nasty just because that's funny, right?

Well, a few days pass, and before we can get in there to do it we end up at Denny's at midnight with a buncha friends, including Vero Awesome. And she's all, "Time for frivolity, yo." So we're all, yeah, let's go make cookies. And somebody has the sweet idea to just buy some cookies at the store and then frost them with something nasty. So we choose toothpaste. The only problem with toothpaste is it might not be nasty enough, and there's a little note on the box that goes, "If more than the normal amount used for brushing is swallowed, contact a physician or a poison control center immediately." So we're worried they'll be all, "Mmmm, minty cookies" and eat 'em all and totally croak, as opposed to them being all, "Blech! Aquafresh cookies! Angry!" and then we all laugh. So we go to the store, and we open one container to see if it's nasty enough, but it's blue stripes, so before we even try it, we decide to close it back up and put it back on the shelf. But it's not staying closed, see, so we go to the tape aisle and get some tape and tape it shut and put it back. And the tape. We put them both back.

And then we decide on the Pepsodent and it's white, and it's me and Vero and Wiggle and Pinetree, and Wiggle says we need sprinkles to heighten the effect, and she's right of course. S owe get those too, and Vero wants to also give cookies to these two dudes we work with named Ryan and Greg who are roommates, so we get more cookies and we get cards for them. And we sit around in the parking lot, frosting the cookies with ghetto plastic knives I horked from the deli part of the store, even though it was closed and all these break-taking employees were sitting over there looking at me like, "What the? Did that Arabian dude just walk in here and steal plastic knives?" And yes, yes I did.

So we frost the cookies, and the womenfolk sign the cards (which are perfect to begin with because they talk about "more love where these come from" or some crap), and Vero gives us two wonderfully horrible long dyed-red hairs to frost into the cookies (one for each plate). Then we are still a bit worried about, like, what if the guy eats the cookies and is all, "mmm, like thin mints, delish!" and eats them all and dies. After all, the box the paste came in has that little warning on the bottom for a reason, I point out. So Wiggle suggests we just cut that thing out and tape it on the bottom of the plate of cookies. Good thinking, Wiggle! So we do, thus assuaging our guilt in a very legally permissible way.

And we go to Greg and Ryan's first, and Racherella tells us where they keep their key, and I go, but I can't find the key, so I doorbell ditch it and go running out of there like a rabbit from a dog show. But on the way out Vero notices that we got the wrong apartment, so I go back, and fortunately the plate and the card are still sitting there, and we take it to the right apartment and I go in and leave it on their counter and this time sneak out like a mouse at a, um, nother dog show.

And then we go to Pinetree's, and Vero Awesome takes the cookies and the feminine puzzle and comes back out with the poster (remember that's why we did all this in the first place?) and we give it to Dice and we go home and go to bed. It was frickin' awesome, and it reminded me that I can have mischievous fun without getting the police involved.

Part Two: Connections

I have been to see Dr. Robinson four times now. He's incredible. He talks to me for forty-five minutes, asking questions and taking these big long pauses as he considers what to say next. When I speak, he writes everything down, scribble scribble scribble, on his clipboard. He goes through several sheets of paper each time, because I can be quite loquacious. I told him next time I'm bringing a clipboard and writing down everything he says, and then pausing for a few minutes and sighing before responding every time, and see how HE likes it. I don't know if he even understood what I was talking about on that one. After the forty-five minutes he starts telling ME things, and the pieces click together, and I feel like I have been tricked into learning so much.

Anyway, the first time we were together, he taught me something cool that I had thought I already knew about myself and the way brains work.

He gave me an example. He said we take the word "cat." And we take the spelling of the word. He drew this all out for me on paper. He said we can take a baby and teach it that the word means the spelling, and it will learn it. You say the word, the baby will pick out the spelling. He said that we can then take the cat itself and teach the baby that the word means the cat. Then he said that we can also teach these things to animals. A dolphin or a dog or a bird can learn to pick the right one from among misleading choices. You say "cat" and the monkey will point to the cat.

The difference, he said, is that the baby will also automatically learn that the spelling means the word, as well. He will learn it both ways. He will also learn that the cat means the word. And then he will learn that the spelling means the actual cat and vice versa. Humans make six automatic connections where the animals will learn only two. It's what sets us apart as humans, he said. Our ability to make connections. Our minds become a web of connections and it's how we learn and deal with the world.

The cool thing is that I am well aware that my mind forms these connections. I assign everything a color, I spell it out in my head. I alphabetize all items in groups. Like you say "colors," and I start to think "amethyst, apricot, azure, black, blue, brown, burgundy, burnt orange, etc...." And that's just now off the top of my head. The Human mind is amazing. Given a minute or two, we can eventually find a specific link, no matter how feeble between any two given things. For instance, if you had to say how turnips are the opposite of marbles, you could. Or you could find a way in which carpets are the parent of Puff Daddy.

Anyway, the good Dr. R. next drew the word "Rob." That's my dad's name, as well as a variant of my own, since we technically have the same name. So then he wrote "Dad" and draws an arrow between the two. Then he wrote "me" and drew an arrow from "Rob" to "me." Are you picturing this? then he draws all the other arrows, back from "me" to "Rob" and from "Dad to "Rob" and between "me and "Dad" both ways. No wonder I balk at anyone's calling me "Rob," he says. I immediately connect myself to my dad, and his failures. He next wrote "disaster" and drew the arrow from "Dad" to that. And then all kinds of other scary things my dad has done. And all of it connected to me and my dad through arrows.

I'd always known my brain does that, you see. I just had only been paying attention to the aspect of the connection building that helps me to win board games. I wasn't aware that it was also leading to problems in my life.

So the goal is not to break down those connections, but rather to loosen them, and to build up stronger connections that will supersede those other ones.

This last time we talked about prayer, among other things. Dr. Robinson said he has some patients whom he can't cajole into praying, and that he thinks that's a major factor for success. And on the way home (I always walk home so I can process what I've learned), a thought struck me. On my mission I worked very hard to actually "pray always," as Second Nephi suggests. I spent a lot of time studying and pondering how to actually do that. And I learned some helpful methods. One has simply to direct his thoughts, whatever they be about, to God, keeping Him in the forefront of the mind at all times. One can in this way be sure that his actions are in step, as well. It's the idea behind the CTR ring. Every time you see it there on your finger, you remember the good that you need to be doing. On my mission I met a man named Elías, who was trying to quit smoking. This is not a happy mission story where we helped him to quit smoking and he got baptized and is now first counselor in the branch presidency. It's just a time that I learned an important lesson. One day Elías had a piece of string tied around his finger. He said it was to help him remember to not smoke. When asked about the efficacy of the string, he replied that it didn't work because it kept coming off, and he'd forget. So I gave him my CTR ring. I told him that every time he saw it or felt it or noticed it, he was to pray for the strength he'd need to quit smoking. And I promised him that every time I noticed that the ring was gone or my finger felt naked, I'd pray for him as well. And it worked, as far as reminding me went. I didn't need the ring to remember to choose the right. The absence of the ring could serve the exact same function.

So on this walk home from my weekly session with the therapist, I came to realize that praying always was simply a matter of making everything remind me to choose the right. I had to make ALL the connections connect back to God. I looked around me at the mountains and the sun and the long straight stretch of University Avenue and saw gospel symbolism and turned my thoughts to God. But it's easy with roads and mountains. I needed to connect EVERYTHING. Turnips and carpet and cats and Puff Daddy and my own daddy all need to make me think of God and the things with which he has blessed me and the things he requires of me.

And when I do spiritual things, like going to church or the temple or reading my scriptures, I need to relate them back to the rest of my life, so that those connections already exist when I go out into the world. I realized that's why Nephi also tells us to liken the scriptures to ourselves. It's why Christ taught his parables using images from the people's daily lives. Not just because those are the things they could understand, but also because those are the images the people would be seeing every day after Christ was no longer in their presence.

At one point this last week, Dr. Robinson just leaned back, sighed contemplatively, and said, "You're very weird." That has to make you feel great, right? When a guy whose job it is to deal with crazy people tells you you're very weird? Anyway, the week before he'd been telling me I needed to cut out everything gay in my life, because it could become a trigger. But this last time he said he wasn't so sure any more. I could tell he was struggling to reconcile this with his hard fast rules he'd (until then) entertained. At any rate, we both left there wondering what to do, but by the time I got home I knew. I need to consecrate myself a little more. I need to keep saying my prayers throughout the day, every time I need something or am thankful for something or thinking of someone. I need to connect my life and my surroundings to my God, so that all things point more directly toward him, because I owe him, and I love him.

A Toast

Well, thanks everyone for that little discussion. And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

I'd like to propose a toast. Lots of things make me happy, so here's to them.

To n, on her decision to move back to Utah for the sole purpose of being closer to me.

To Wiggle, and to 3:00 a.m. spur-of-the-moment trips to Park City.

To Mario and Silvia, the couple we brought into the church in Chile, upon the recent news that they got sealed in the temple.

To Jonathan and Topsie, whose wedding in fourteen days should prove to be the first happy one I've been affiliated with since my brother's.

To Jessica, for bringing me grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and chocolate money when I was in the depths of my illness.

To Pandora.com, for being the best music website I have ever seen.

To Hero, on his brand new engagement.

To a certain string-puller who got me eleven straight weeks of efy this summer so I won't have to pay rent. Yeah, that's supposed to remain a secret.

To the Lad, whose visit to Utah grows closer with each passing day.

To an anonymous goat on Myspace who informed me that Guster is coming and that tickets go on sale today.

To my cold, which is a great excuse for having not been out on a date this weekend.

To all the rest of my friends, for good times, lively discussions, and interesting stories.

Love you all.

I leave you with a little game I like to play called Gaydar. See if you can guess which of these two guys is a homosexual. I'll post the answer tomorrow. Enjoy.

Further Reason for the Computers on Campus to Block my Blog

More California summer adventures:

Mom asked me if I had seen or heard from any of my mission companions lately. I told her I knew about the middle four, but the first and last I had no idea. Then I went on to tell her the story of Elder E., my last companion. His name is being protected because, despite the awful story I'm about to tell, I love this kid like a brother.

Elder E. began his mission in Brazil, speaking Portuguese. Four months into his mission, he decided that he needed to confess to his mission president that after he'd been through the temple, he and his girlfriend had begun having freaky sex (I had to hear WAY too many details). He was sent home immediately, and spent about a year going through the repentance process. He was reassigned to the Tennessee Knoxville Mission, Spanish speaking. It was there that he became my first junior companion.

Elder E. was a difficult companion, and he knows I say that. He was very self-assured. One day he told me he had already done the whole repentance thing and was now on his mission just to put in his time. He confided in me about his pre-mission problems, and told me that his only obstacle he still had to overcome was lust. He just loved butts so much and could not stop thinking about them. I told him that he had plenty of other obstacles to overcome, like his pride. That bowled him over, but he believed me, which was cool.

He didn't speak Spanish. I guess they just expected him to be able to switch from Portuguese. We spent a lot of time going over the language, and he just kept speaking Portuguese to our investigators and I'd have to translate because I knew what he was supposed to be saying.

I found out the kid had been masturbating the whole time we were companions. I was completely agog. I couldn't believe someone could be doing that and trying to have the spirit and teach the gospel at the same time. I told him that either he would call the mission president and tell him, or I would. He did it. A few days later a pamphlet came in the mail that was called something like, "How to Apply the Atonement and Stop Masturbating." Ha! I couldn't believe that was the end of it. We set some goals and I think he did much better after that. Elder E. and I grew to be very close. We could talk about anything, and we usually did. When I got sick (bronchitis), he offered a prayer in the other room while I was languishing in bed.

"Please, don't take Elder Smurf from me. I still need him." He reports that he immediately heard a voice say, "No, you don't." When he told me about it, I was mildly annoyed. "And where am I going?"

We found out the answer to that one a few days later when my doctor had decided it would be necessary to send me home again. That's a story for another time.

When next I saw Elder E., I was at a mission reunion. He was with his new wife of four months. Since we were the only two Spanish speakers there, he said to me, "Todavía no hemos consumado el matrimonio," or, for those of you who don't hablar español, "We still haven't consumated the marriage." Like I really need to hear these things. Apparently his wife had some sort of psychological problem that caused her to feel extreme pain instead of pleasure whenever they tried to have sex.

I must admit that that night I lay on the trampoline looking up at the stars and laughing my head off. Poor Elder E. You couldn't stop with the sex your whole mission, and now here you are married and can't actually get any. The ironies of life were just too much. It seemed just, in a way, or at least appropriate. Anyway, that's the story I told my mother that day in California when she asked about my comps. I ended it thus: "And if I never hear from him again, that's ok, because this story is complete in my mind. I don't ever expect to see him again."

Of course, stories are NEVER complete in my life.

So two days later, we were to have dinner at my mom's best friend's house. Due to the fact that my dad accidentally dropped his telephone in the sink, I was suddenly left without any way to contact anybody to get a ride to the dinner. Dad came home with his cell phone after the dinner had begun, and I called my brother. He said he'd come get me after he scarfed down some food. He also said that Mom wanted me to know that the missionaries had come over to eat with us because of some sort of miscommunication in their dinner schedule. And she wanted me to know that one of them was an Elder E. Yes, folks, it turns out Elder E. has a little brother who is serving a misison in my homeward right now. The missionaries waited around for me to show up, and I regaled them all with mission stories of the two of us. The spiritual and funny ones, that is. When they left, mom freaked out.

"Smurf! Why does this always happen to you? All I could think the whole time we were having dinner was 'Did he wash his hands before he shook mine?'" Ha, sorry, Mom. Never really expected any of that to happen. Especially not two days after the story.

I thought the whole matter was entirely funny, and shared the story with several friends. The a few days ago I got an e-mail from my Elder E. I'll quote the essentials here:

"I believe that I would have a better chance at making a decent living for my family by playing the craps in Las Vegas than in Utah's job market. I have been on an active job hunt for about a year now and it is the most frustrating and humiliating processes one could possibly endure.

"I have been doing a lot of thinking today. I have decided that I am upset because I am unable to enjoy the now because of my worries about the then. I understand intuitively that I should be able to have peace and contentment now and be prepared for the future. But I am having great difficulty letting go of my fear of failure. I can probably trace that back to pride or to expectations (real or perceived) from others or some combination of the two. But I'm still having a really hard time.

"I'm struggling with the emotional and physical roller coaster of a wife during pregnancy. I've lived the majority of the last two years like that and I think I'm done. Right now, I do not want any more kids. It has nothing to do with the kids. It has to do with wanting to stay married.

"Other than that, I have about 6 minutes of free time per week and I don't get any sleep or eat healthy. So my brain will be sharp and the rest of me will give up when I'm 35. What a way to go...

"Sorry to unload on you after four years of almost no contact. But, as I believe I have told you previously, I feel like you understand me better than anyone with whom I have ever spoken. Maybe you just listen better, but it works."

We're meeting on Monday to "do lunch." Can I just say how awful I felt when I got this and realized that I'd made Elder E. almost into a punchline in my head? Here's a kid with real emotional scars, and he really looks up to me. I should have been there for him during those four years. Not that I feel I can magically solve his problems, but he seems to feel I have this great perspective that can help him. And maybe it can. Who knows? Anyway, I don't know why I shared that story just now. I just need to get these things out sometimes. And I hope you caught the moral, which is that other people's trials are never a joke, no matter how hilarious or awkward or ironic they may be.

Enough Already

Well, I am pretty much annoyed with what happened on my previous post. So that is not allowed to happen any more, and I will start deleting comments if it starts up. Take it outside people. If someone offends you on my blog, and you really need to say something to them, let me know and I will put you in touch.

And I don't care which side anyone is on; I will defend anyone who is attacked, whether I agree with them or not. I'm not necessarily defending a person's opinion by merely defending the person's right to have it.

That said, here are two poems I wrote long ago that I felt like sharing with y'all right now. The first is an uplifting one about the savior. It's actually the first poem I ever wrote. The second is very different and I hope you can understand why it has the title I've given it. I think they're both apropros right now.

After All We Can Do
(2 Nephi 25:23)

by Elder Smurf

I had been in that hole for a very long time—
In the dark and the damp, in the cold and the slime.
The shaft was above me; I saw it quite clear,
But there’s no way I ever could reach it from here.
I could not remember the world way up there,
So I lost every hope and gave in to despair.

I knew nothing but darkness, the floor, and the wall.
Then from off in the distance I heard someone call:
“Get up! Get ready! There’s nothing the matter!
Take rocks and take sticks and build up a fine ladder!”
This was a thought that had not crossed my mind,
But I started to stack all the stones I could find.

When I ran out of stones, then old sticks were my goal,
For some way or another I’d climb from that hole.
I soon had a ladder that stood very tall,
And I thought, “I’ll soon leave this place once and for all!”
I climbed up my ladder, a difficult chore,
For from lifting those boulders, my shoulders were sore.

I climbed up the ladder, but soon had to stop,
For my ladder stopped short, some ten feet from the top.
I went back down my ladder and felt all around,
But there were no more boulders nor sticks to be found.
I sat down in the darkness and started to cry.
I’d done all I could do and I gave my best try.

But in spite of my work, in this hole I must die.
And all I could do was to sit and think, “Why?”
Was my ladder to short? Was my hole much too deep?
Then from way up on high came a voice: “Do not weep.”
And then faith, hope, and love entered into my chest
As the voice calmly told me that I'd done my best.

He said, “You have worked hard, and your labor’s been rough,
But the ladder you’ve built is at last tall enough.
So do not despair; there is reason to hope,
Just climb up your ladder; I’ll throw down my rope.”
I climbed up my ladder, then climbed up the cord.
When I got to the top of it, there stood the Lord.

I’ve never been happier; my struggle was done.
I blinked in the brightness that came from the Son.
I fell to the ground as His feet I did kiss.
I cried, “Lord, can I ever repay Thee for this?”
He looked all about. There were holes in the ground.
They had people inside, and were seen all around.

There were thousands of holes that were damp, dark and deep.
Then the Lord looked at me, and He said, “feed my sheep,”
And he went on his way to save other lost souls,
So I got right to work, calling down to the holes,
“Get up! Get ready! There is nothing the matter!
Take rocks, and take sticks, and build up a fine ladder!”

It now was my calling to spread the good word,
The most glorious message that man ever heard:
That there’s one who is coming to save one and all,
And we need to be ready when he gives the call.
He’ll pull us all out of the holes that we’re in
And save all our souls from cold death and from sin.

So do not lose faith; there is reason to hope:
Just climb up your ladder; he’ll throw down his rope.

HUMANITY
WE are the ones who storm your frabjous castles
WE are the ones who eat the last piece of your birthday cake while you float in clumsy slumber
WE are the ones who raze your village, rape your women, and sell your children
WE are the ones who grow uglier at the threat of your beauty
WE are the ones who smash your saints and relics just in case they work
WE are the ones who have no qualms about dumping you headlong into the moat you dug for us
The ones who lacerate your tongue and then kiss you with salted lips
The ones who tell everyone about your sacred dreams and the demons that haunt you by night
The ones who poison the tip of the meat thermometer before truculently thrusting it up behind your scapula
The ones who drop logs and boulders on your anointed head, and revel in it
The ones who laugh for you to hear when your perfect pink baby dies
The ones who wade through your excrement finding the filthiest jewels to send back to you in the mail
Who rap your strong knuckles with the nail-protruding end of a dusty board
Who tell you not to think that brightly yet won't let you change
Who leave bloated rat carcasses on your charming marble porch
Who sing songs that crawl into your ears and gnaw blisters onto your exquisite brain
Who pee on the floor when it's your turn for bathroom duty
Who visit you in your old age and strike you down with a misty rusty scythe
That is who we are
Do not hate us