Storm

Happy Mothers' Day, everyone. Here's a poem I wrote about my own mother a few years back. It's based on the account of Peter as found in the Bible.

Storm

The clouds finally burst one December night with a phone call,

Lightning travelling along the wires,

Thunder awakening her where she slept,

Tossing and turning

On her flimsy wooden fishing boat,

Alone.

A woman

On the other end of the line

Said he's not coming home

And in a moment the sun was gone from the sky.

Soon the storm was raging,

The depths of hell dumping down from the heights of heaven,

Her delicate head getting heavier with the weight of the cold rain,

The swells trying to toss her off kilter,

Children clinging to her thinning wet housedress,

Apostles huddling in terror,

Ghosts on the waves,

Bills in the mailbox,

No one to steer the ship.

The whole universe waiting for her to face her storm,

Grab the wheel,

Save them.

But the wheel had come loose,

The rudders were broken,

The ship could not be steered.

"I cannot even save myself!"

She yelled in her prayers at night.

"I cannot weather the storm."

She rocked herself to sleep,

Hugging the cold places on her back where his arms belonged.

The long night dragged on,

Creaking timber,

Cracks in the boards where the water was forcing itself through,

Where she couldn't keep everything together.

And in the fourth watch of the night,

Sometime in mid-January,

In the center of the pitching waves and the pitch black,

She looked out over the tumultuous sea

And faced her God.

She could barely discern his face

Through the rain and mist and darkness and distance,

But she called out to him.

"Lord, if you are there, please bid me to come to you."

And he said, "Come."

She looked around at her small house,

Two kids to a bed,

And she looked at her empty résumé,

And she looked at her empty cupboards,

And then she peered over the edge of the small boat,

And looked at the murky, stormy water,

And imagined all the eels,

And sharks,

And tentacles down in the sludge.

Finally she looked up at her Lord, who was still beckoning,

And she stepped off her porch

With her briefcase and a sack lunch,

And went to work.

She did it!

She was doing it!

She didn't need to swim.

She could walk all the way.

And she sat behind her desk,

Filing papers and earning money.

But then she knocked a stack of papers off the desktop,

And she bent to pick it up,

And she looked down,

And she saw the swirling sea,

She saw that the wind was boisterous,

That no one would ever love her,

That her children would starve

And she'd never make it on her own.

She was afraid.

She started to sink,

Up to her neck in bills,

Over her head with raising a family,

Drowning in cold turbulent loneliness.

With her last breath she gasped,

"Lord, save me!"

Immediately,

Jesus dived into the water,

Sank into the sadness with her,

Stretched forth his hand,

And caught her.

Wet, and shivering,

Tangled in seaweed,

He pulled her onto the boat,

Wrapped her in a towel,

And hugged her to let her know she was safe,

His arms warming her back.

He closed his eyes,

The clouds parted,

The wind ceased,

The boat stood still,

The bills were paid,

The children were fed,

And the spots of longing on her back had vanished.

When the sun came out,

Pouring golden light on the gray sea,

And she was made perfectly whole,

Jesus left her side.

She stood again,

Went to the edge of the boat,

Looked out across the gentle waves,

And whispered over her placid sea,

"Thank you, Lord, for rescuing me.

Please help me learn how to walk back to you on my own."

She got out of bed, got ready,

And went to work again

With a prayer in her heart.

Dick

Let's forget for a moment that he shot a man in the head (it WAS a lawyer, after all). And forget that he's the less-popular VP to one of the most unpopular Presidents in this country's history. I can even let go of the fact that several members of his staff are currently under criminal investigation and have been removed from their positions. All that aside, he's just kinda old and creepy.

But, for some reason, the First Presidency of our church decided to invite him to speak at the recent commencement ceremony at BYU.

This, naturally, caused quite the uproar. Students have been pretty upset that the church would invite someone who's so obviously connected to one party to come to such an important event. This girl I know (I can't remember her name right now but she was in my ward and would come to church with this amazing Something-About-Mary gelled hair every week) actually organized a sort of counter-commencement at UVSC for all the students who would rather hear speeches from the Green Party's Ralph Nader and other, less-important Democrats. Ashley Sanders! That's her name. Anyway, everyone's been asking me, "So, what's your opinion on this whole Dick Cheney thing?"

So here it is:


Probably not the best PR move by the church. Then again, who really cares who's speaking at some university's commencement? Does anyone at BYU know who's speaking at anyone else's commencement? Does anyone outside of BYU know about Dick Cheney's coming? I doubt it.

Also, protests? Really? When did those ever work? I mean like since the Boston Tea Party. And I'm only making that an exception because it's famous, not because I know whether it worked or not. For all I know it just pissed off the Brits and then the Indian-clad colonists had to pay for all that tea they ruined. Not to mention the townspeople then had to throw a LOT of lemon and sugar into their harbor the next morning. But see, this is what I don't get. To me it seems that the intent of the protest is simply to annoy The Man to the point where he acquiesces. Good plan, except that it only ends up making The Man upset, which prompts him to stand his ground even more obdurately than before (Mrs. Stevens would be so proud of the way I'm using all of my 11th grade vocab words in this paragraph). And today's protesters (at least the protest organizers) are aware of this. So the real object of the protest is not change or dialogue. It's just attention. It's the toddler who's learned that crying sometimes gets him what he wants not because it's what Mom thinks he needs, or even because Mom is tired of hearing his cries, but rather because Mom doesn't like the way all the other Moms are looking at her. It seems a very unethical way of going about social change. Coming at the problem from the rear.

Also, Dick Cheney is not Vice President of the Republicans. He's Vice President of the United States. It's not like you get to just not recognize a President you didn't vote for. This isn't Mexico. Yes, he's a Republican, but he didn't come here in the name of the GOP. He came here in the name of the Presidency of this fine nation. I doubt his speech had anything to do with keeping the illegal immigrants out or how Utah is the best state because it's the only one that has a law that explicitly allows students to carry concealed weapons on public college campuses (I'm not making this up). Just as I'm pretty sure the speech by Darth Vader or whatever his name is was not about legalizing gay marijuana (I decided partway through typing those two ideas just now that I would make them just one idea for simplicity's sake). I imagine both speeches were just the same recycled boilerplate: "You are the future...blah blah blah...worked hard to get here...make a difference in the world...smartest and best generation...crap crap crap." Just like my high school graduation, except without everyone quoting Semisonic's "Closing Time."

My point is this: a graduation ceremony is one time that should definitely not be divided by bipartisan politics. If it had been Rush Limbaugh or Michael Moore, I would probably have been right there supporting the protesters. But it wasn't. It was the Vice President, and I think we can show some respect, even if we don't agree with his politics or his age or his hunting practices. Ashley Sanders and the others who helped her in her "celebration of alternatives" really missed the boat, in my opinion. This day should have been about the students, and the future and making a difference in the world, and all that crap--not about whether we agree with everything that the speaker might have said or done or voted for in any other situation. I hope that next time something like this occurs, people can just swallow their pride and stop trying to cause headaches for the administration. That's all I have to say about that.

Poet and Vanity, at Least, Return

You're probably expecting me to say something about how I haven't posted in forever, so I'm not going to. Or maybe you think I'm going to say something about how we got the BYU Honor Code changed earlier this week, but enough people have already been talking about that, and it would just lead to a bunch of fags leaving comments on my blog, and this blog isn't for those people. So instead I'll make my first entry on the new computer I recently bought about what happened to me this morning. Which is that Dulcinea (she doesn't want me calling her Carrot any more) woke me up with a phone call saying that her roommate was having a wedding luncheon in an hour and she needed a love poem. And since I really don't like anyone else's poetry but my own, and also since my only happy love poem to date is from the perspective of an unattractive black woman, I decided to just write a new one. After sleeping for another forty minutes, that is.

I think my mind is actually sharper when I'm tired. But maybe it's actually that the part of my mind that detects sharpness is duller when I'm tired. Either way, I sent a poem to the wedding luncheon. I think it's pretty good, though unpolished, and apparently the bride and groom agreed. One thing you must keep in mind is that the couple, though loveable, is pretty nerdy. The groom is a physics T.A., and the wife is a relief society president, so this one was for them.

Gravity

There is a Force
That permeates the Universe
And keeps order.
We call it Gravity, though it is known by another name,
This force that keeps two heavenly bodies hurling together through the blackness of space.
And so I revolve around you, and you around me,
And both of us around the Sun,
Year after year.
They (the scientists) say
That just maybe the moon was formed from matter taken from inside the earth,
Pulled like a rib to form earth's own companion.
I do not claim that anything inside of me could have created you;
If so, that rib was my best quality before it was lifted out.
You run my tides, and guide my seasons,
And in the darkest night of winter,
After the evenings and the fall,
When the Sun has hidden his warm face,
You are the lesser light to rule my night
And keep me in your glowing embrace 'til break of day.
If we could eavesdrop on atoms,
Observe the smallest molecule of matter,
We would see that this Force runs every bit,
For deep within the sun,
Hydrogen atoms run on the same principle,
One proton and one electron, forever locked in holy orbit,
Until one bright and glorious day
When the two finally come to rest together,
Matter is transformed into pure light,
The light of the Sun, a million nuclear blasts,
Which extend out into the Universe,
Or right here to our backyard,
Falling gently on our apple tree, entering its leaves, and making it grow.
And as we watch the years go by, the moon traveling around the earth, the earth around the sun,
The snow and blossoms and fruit returning and falling away,
We remember that in such a garden, with such a fruit,
Was love first made possible on this otherwise barren rock of a planet,
Where there had been no fall, no falling at all,
And beneath such a tree, with such an apple, a man first discovered this invisible force that keeps the Universe moving around,
And keeps us together, falling into each other.
Down this gravity well, forever falling in love.

Ok, aside from that I just noticed that I don't like anyone else's summary of the changes to the Honor Code, so here is the old, problematic section:

Homosexual behavior or advocacy
Brigham Young University will respond to student behavior rather than to feelings or orientation. Students can be enrolled at the University and remain in good Honor Code standing if they maintain a current ecclesiastical endorsement and conduct their lives in a manner consistent with gospel principles and the Honor Code. Advocacy of a homosexual lifestyle (whether implied or explicit) or any behaviors that indicate homosexual conduct, including those not sexual in nature, are inappropriate and violate the Honor Code.
Violations of the Honor Code may result in actions up to and including separation from the University.

And here is the new one that replaced it:

Homosexual behavior or advocacy
Brigham Young University will respond to homosexual behavior rather than to feelings or orientation and welcomes as full members of the university community all whose behavior meets university standards. Members of the university community can remain in good Honor Code standing if they conduct their lives in a manner consistent with gospel principles and the Honor Code.

One's stated sexual orientation is not an Honor Code issue. However, the Honor Code requires all members of the university community to manifest a strict commitment to the law of chastity. Homosexual behavior or advocacy of homosexual behavior are inappropriate and violate the Honor Code. Homosexual behavior includes not only sexual relations between members of the same sex, but all forms of physical intimacy that give expression to homosexual feelings. Advocacy includes seeking to influence others to engage in homosexual behavior or promoting homosexual relations as being morally acceptable.

Violations of the Honor Code may result in actions up to and including separation from the University.

I think that's pretty great. We were part of the change. Which probably means my time here in Provo has come to an end.

How's that for starting blogging again, huh?

Christmas Rose

I bet you were all thinking I wasn't going to blog anymore, huh? Well, that's not the case. It's just that I'm so busy with my new job as general manager of Los Hermanos (yeah, I know--ridiculous) that I haven't really had much time to write in here. But today is a holiday, and I'm waiting for Rascal to wake up so we can go play games in Salt Lake City, and also I've been thinking that today would be a good day to get things started and get back into the swing of writing in here again. I also have had several requests for the end of the Rose story, so what better day than, well, her birthday? Because yes, that's what today is!!!

So Wiggle and I couldn't remember what day Rose's wedding was to be. But we were pretty sure we had it right, so a week beforehand we decided to call her and find out. For some reason it didn't dawn on us that we were calling at one thirty in the morning. Wiggle did the dirty deed. She called and woke up Rose, and asked when the wedding was scheduled for. Obviously I couldn't hear what Rose was saying, but Wiggle waited a second and then gasped, "It was today!?" Then her countenance fell and she uttered a softer, "Oh." She talked for a while longer and then hung up and explained to us that Rose claimed to have gotten cold feet and canceled the wedding, but that she was still living with her boyfriend. And we haven't heard from her since, but it looks like our plan to stop the wedding worked, and we didn't even have to resort to Plan Bee, which was to release bees at the wedding, or Plan See, which was to rip off the wedding dress and let everyone, well, you get the picture. The end. Except yeah right, because that's what I thought before, and then I got her wedding invitation.

Other important events in my life: Drove to Phoenix and back in 26 hours (that's about 23 hours of driving). Bought a three-door '93 Ford Tempo. Spoke at a Stake Leadership Fireside in Laramie, Wyoming on the issue of same-sex attraction. Went to Seattle and played with Jessica and saw Wicked again. Got this crazy good new job. Have been doing the dinner group regularly. Got awesome Christmas presents from all of my friends. Went to a Barenaked Ladies concert with Wiggle, Rascal, and Pinetree ON my birthday (thanks for the extra tickets, Dice!), Also went to an Imogen Heap concert with some friends, have hung out with Rascal at least for a little while every day since the fireside in October, got an electric keyboard from the owners of Los Hermanos for Christmas, etc. Man, there are so many good stories in all of that, and I wish I had time to tell them all, but it looks like we'll have to make the abbreviated version suffice. Well, Rascal just emerged from his room, so I guess it's time to go up to Salt Lake. We'll see if I can keep up with this blog for the next loittle while. Maybe that'll be my New Year's resolution. Soon I should be able to report on the big road trip that Rascal and I are going to take back to California, hopefully with Blueshorts. Farewell, gentle reader, Until next time.

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.

California Love

Here are the highlights from the trip Pinetree, Carrot, and I took to California:

Monday

6:30 p.m.: We finally get on the road, after encountering traffic, having to stop to pay a phone bill, waiting for a friend who didn’t end up coming with us, and getting me some delicious succulent Chik-fil-A.

7:00 p.m.: We’re notice we forgot to get gas, so we head back, but only after making a wrong turn somewhere and driving out along some road that seems to go out into the center of the “Great” Salt Lake, surrounded on both sides by stinky water. “This is the place, dammit,” insists Pinetree. We eventually find a gas station in a God-forsaken little pueblo called “Grantsville,” ten miles off the freeway. We consider getting a hotel there, but decide against when we realize we’re still within sight of where we started.

Tuesday

1:00 a.m.: About an hour into my driving shift, Carrot notices that we’re almost out of gas. That’s okay, because there’s a town up ahead. Unfortunately, there’s not actually anything IN that town. We run out of gas about 6 miles east of Winnemucca, Nevada. I manage to get us off the freeway and almost all the way to a rest stop, but not quite. We discover that there is another car broken down nearby, covered in inches of dust. Our prospects look grim. Pinetree reveals that he has roadside assistance, and thankfully an hour and a half later a nice fat man we dubbed “Cesar” and his scary white assistant we named “Large Marge” bring us gas. A cop shows up, and Cesar tricks me into thinking that it’s illegal to run out of gas in Nevada. I totally fall for it. As we get back on our way, Pinetree dedicates Salt & Pepa’s “What a Man” to Cesar. Also we decide to never stop for gas again, since roadside assistance people can always just bring it to you.

5:30 a.m.: We are in Reno. I really need a taco, but every taco place we find is closed. I start to slowly lose my mind, and Carrot begins to look more and more like a taco in my sight. I let her take the wheel, before I eat it.

7:30 a.m.: We arrive in Sacramento at my brother Nanny’s house. We make him get in the car and take us to where there are tacos. It’s a place called Adalbertaco’s, but for some reason by now I’m craving a burrito instead. Nanny and his wife are very gracious hosts.

2:30 p.m.: We wake up and go. Pinetree drives us to Carrot’s Gammy’s house in Napa. Then he goes to hang out with his high school friends in San Jose.

6:00 p.m.: Carrot and I eat with dinner with Tox and two old school chums, PFB and Mack. It’s good conversation, but the service is TERRIBLE. Plus I somehow get tricked into once again eating Italian, which I already know I hate. Ice cream after makes everything better. I spend the night at Tox’s, and Carrot goes to San Francisco to go clubbing with her mission friend. Pinetree and his friend Tootsie Roll come to Tox’s as well.

Wednesday

3:00 p.m.: Our day is just getting started and we’re at the Jelly Belly factory. By the miracle of miracles, we get Jennifer O as our tour guide.

Background on Jennifer O: She’s been in love with me since the day we met, Sunday school when we were both eleven. Also, she’s, well, special. She’s a genius, and I believe she has a wild case of Asperger’s Syndrome. She wrote me every week of my mission, more even than my mother did, special letters on unicorn stationery that covered topics from ESP to the time I said hello to her after 2^nd period Choir when we were in 7^th grade. She was there at the airport when I got home from my mission, sighing wistfully about how she wished I’d been released already so she could hug me. In more recent times, my obnoxious brother, Ouija encountered her at the supermarket and told her I’d always been in love with her. Thanks Ouija. Bastard.

So here she comes “cascading down the golden staircase” as Carrot puts it, pigtails in a hair net, fanny pack in place, and she’s OUR tour guide. Carrot almost dies in paroxysms of anticipation and delight. After the tour, Jennifer seeks me out and we have a “chat.” Jennifer tells me how crazy it’s been lately. “How long do you expect to be crazy?” I ask with a grin. At least through the summer. Okay, I didn't realize that's one of the symptoms, not being able to figure out when people are making clever jokes about you. I feel bad. Satisfied? Carrot asks about Jennifer’s fanny pack, since she herself used to collect them when she was “little.” Jennifer shows us all the contents of her bag, including a pad which she intends to use to write down my e-mail address. “Why don’t you just give her your cell number?” Carrot pushes. “Murmur murmur cricket phone,” I respond, and give her the address. Both Carrot and Jennifer think smurfinusa@gmail.com is cute, and it freaks me out to see them agreeing. Fortunately at this point, another visitor arrives.

5:00 p.m.: It’s my dad, and he’s driven over to Fairfield to see us, but doesn’t have time to eat with us. He’s acting extra shady, and who even knows what to suspect with him anymore? Carrot runs us through the usual (but funny) jokes about my dad’s being “Hot Rob” and how she’s going to be my mom someday. She tells Tootsie Roll to let her know about the dreams he’s bound to have about my dad the next morning.

6:00 p.m.: Dinner at Chevy’s which I like a million times more than the Mexican restaurant where I am currently a manager. Lad and Carrot’s cousin Dorothy meet us there, along with Dorothy’s new baby, Toby, which during the course of the meal ended up eating limes and french fries, getting stabbed (playfully?) by Carrot with a knife, and kidnapped by yours truly while the mom was in the bathroom.

10:00 p.m.: Back to Nanny’s. His wife has made dinner for us, but we decide to eat it for breakfast. We play Catchphrase, and the wife ends up being the big victor. She’s really great, and I’m glad cousin Dorothy hooked them up on their blind date a few years back.

Thursday:

1:00 a.m.: Captain Moroni helps me trick Carrot into setting up her own Myspace account. We stay up late and laugh a lot.

9:00 a.m.: I wake up and take a shower. Carrot reveals that she is NOT a morning person. Tootsie Roll wakes her up with news of his dreams about my dad, thus endearing himself to all of us. Nanny MAKES doughnuts (I know, I know: who knew you could MAKE them, right?) and we eat the leftover casserole that his wife made.

10:30 a.m.: we meet up with Don Music, who takes us rafting all day. Highlights from rafting include when Tootsie Roll tried to climb up to the jumping rock, but it was too far and he just climbed down again, and also when we tricked Tootsie roll into jumping into the rapids but then we lost track of him and he ended up clinging to a rock for quite a while as we gathered up the tow rope again and again to try to get it thrown to him.

6:00 p.m.: We stop at a gas station to check the fluids. Carrot gets on her gloves and starts doing stuff under the hood until two self-proclaimed “camel jockeys” come and rescue us. We talk religion and politics with them, and it’s great. Instead of “bye,” they wave us off with a “Stop bombing Lebanon!” Also, at one point, I am able to trick the camel jockey man into thinking I am Saudi Arabian, after he’s been railing on them for a while.

7:00 p.m. Carrot and I fake-offer to help make dinner, but are taken up on the offer. Carrot freaks out when onion-cutting gets in her eyes. Don Music’s family decides they love us in spite of our utter uselessness, and feeds us salmon, chicken, squash, fruit salad, cobb salad, and rolls on nice plates with a table cloth and real napkins and everything. Then banana splits for dessert, and we fall asleep on the trampoline watching the meteor shower.

Friday: We drive home. I knock out most of Nevada. We don’t run out of gas. All is well.

The end.

p.s. If you happen to see me, remember to ask me about Becki at the movie theatre.

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.

You and I

You are the radiant yellow flower, sprouting suddenly in my hitherto well manicured lawn.

I am the child, exhausted and crying, holding your hand at the close of Disneyland day, whelmed by novelty and joy.

You are the centrifugal force, whirling me around so fast I think I might throw up, smearing happiness across the front of my clean white shirt.

I am Actæon, hushing my hounds and peering through the clearing at the goddess bathing in the woods, afraid you might see me.

You are the second source of light and gravity, burgeoning into the closed solar system I’ve created for myself, and exerting a new pull on all my planets.

I am the devourer, sitting at the edge of your world and drinking in the sunset until it sloshes around in my overfilled belly, groaning into the night.

You are the seasons, hitting me all at once and losing me in wonder and confusion and color and sunshine and cold, bitter, snow.

I am Argus, guarding my golden apples in my mighty tree with my hundred eyes, waiting for you to arrive with a happy story to lull me to sleep so you can pluck them all.

You are the neighbor child, coming over to draw me a pretty picture of a horsey, then putting all the crayons back in the box in the wrong order.

I am the baby, shrinking from your grasping, garish new world, trying to escape back into the comfort of the womb.

You are the moon, shining on a lake so serenely it tickles, and I want to shake your silvery beams off lest I laugh and ruin it all.

Please do not be surprised if you are left speeding alone through your flashy universe, while I walk away by myself down my solid familiar path through the dark parts of the forest.

For the Night

Here's another:

for the night

The jungle grows dark, and I

just lie there, pretending to sleep in
the foxhole with
your skin,
flesh,
pressed against mine, struggling
to hold my breath as it gets
heavier and
heavier like a rucksack after a
full day's march. You
stir, and
I whirl
inside like I'm avoiding bullets and
dropping to the motherly ground,
exhilarated. I
sense your sleepy softness and
the hard muscle underneath, trying to
breathe you in
through the thin
patch of skin
on my elbow that
connects with your back. The crickets
grow quieter,
if there are crickets at all, afraid
like I am of waking
you and ruining my moment. I
shake, cold and rocks
and fear
are penetrating my
ribcage, but a blanket between
us would grant warmth while
rapaciously robbing me of your touch like
the naked little pickpockets in
the village. Hours
pass, and nothing moves but
my heart, and yours just
behind and the part in
my gut that must have to
hold perfectly still for me to fall asleep. Soon
the enemy is out, spying
on us with his garish
golden rays of
light pouring through the fronds and
tearing at my tired eyelids. It's
time to get up and march and
fight,
defend our country before
we are seen.

I do not fight for a nation or a people who
would not let me protect them
if
they knew
who I am, nor for a dream that
does not count my life
as worthy to sacrifice for it.

I fight for you, and
for the night.

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.