Eternal Dadship

Rachid and I had a really nice home teaching visit tonight—it was one of those nights where the lesson really feels spiritual, not just being an obligatory part of the visit. Plus, I just love Joaquim and Ana Maria and their kids—they’re wonderful people. And their little baby Jeshua is seriously adorable, and the most playful little guy you ever saw. He’s particularly fond of noses, ears, and glasses. And climbing.

Today, while headed downtown to buy a new cell phone battery, I was listening to a really interesting archive mp3 of a BYU Devotional by Bruce Hafen called “Women, Feminism, and the Blessings of the Gospel” (for those that are curious, you can get all kinds of amazing old devotionals and talks here, as mp3s, PDFs, whatever). One thing I like about Elder Hafen is that, even when there are details in his talks and speeches that come up that one might not agree with, he’s such a thoughtful man that you’re able to see that you agree on the big picture and thus are able to let some things slide, just in the same way as you would hope he would let it slide should you be the one talking and him the one disagreeing ever so slightly with a particular word choice or phrasing.

Anyhow, one of the things that I started thinking about as he was talking was a man’s role in the home. I started thinking about the doctrine that our role here is to strive to become more like our Heavenly Parents—and that got me thinking about what I know of my Heavenly Father and His priorities. He’s created worlds without number through His endless power—and yet, His preferred title for Himself is not “Heavenly Creator”, but “Heavenly Father.” The Man that it is my purpose in life to try to become, more than anything, lives for His family, and does everything within His grasp that He can for the eternal well-being of His family. When you think about how so many LDS men simplify their roles, and focus on the provider aspect, that seems like such an amazing robbery that these men are pushing on themselves. God is not our Heavenly Provider—He’s our Heavenly Father. He has power to do amazing and good things, much more illustrious than the ones that tempt us (being able to whip up a new solar system makes getting a promotion to mid-management seem rather crass), but, that’s not His focus. His focus is us. The work that is most important to Him is our immortality and eternal life. It really brings to mind a quote my dad often cites from an old Michigan friend, that “Mormon men should have jobs, not careers.” This is something I’ve already thought a lot about and have really felt passionate about for a few years now, but today I feel like I was taught to understand a bit more deeply the “why” behind it all. And (though little Jeshua might’ve also had something to do with this) I’ve never felt more excited to become a dad. Y’know, whenever that happens.

Bikes = Awesome. Cheney = LAME.

Today's been a day of much biking, thanks to a whole bunch of different church responsibilities that all had stuff happening today. I dig bikes. And the buffness and satisfied sweatiness they bring.

P.S. If anyone is on the hunt for evidence of Cheney lameness (not that this is a fact that it takes much to prove), check out here.

Jealous. JEALOUS, I say!

Man—especially after looking at all the photos I could find online, as well as reading Gabe Dominguez’s entry about the commencement on his tour blog and all his comments about meeting Nader and Jack Healey, and even more so hearing a first-hand account of it from one of my favorite folks, I’m officially very, very jealous that I wasn’t at BYU’s Alternative Commencement on Thursday. Officially. Very jealous. Man, it makes me so happy to see all this happening and bubbling up in Utah County, a community I love so much exactly because it’s a place where you can meet more internationally aware and politically engaged Mormons who are internationally aware and politically engaged because of their faith, than anywhere else in the world. To see that community really coming together and speaking with a voice, as it did Thursday—that’s beautiful to me.

Today’s been a busy day—preparing a talk for church tomorrow this morning, traipsing around my rural neighborhood home teaching this afternoon (and man, it’s still pretty hot considering we’re in the “cold” season around here) and then going to at Institute at my local branch, then a phone interview with a really cool-looking charter school in the Bronx (which was interrupted twice by power outages—man, that principal is a patient fella), then talking to Mom and Dad and some favorite folk on the phone. It’s been a pretty long day—but an awesome one. I dig awesome.

I think the phone interview went really well—he said I should hear back in about two weeks after he’s talked to all the other candidates. I won’t be too worried if I don’t get it, but I’m feeling pretty good about the interview, so who knows?

My buddy Amude got robbed today, about half of his monthly salary. Especially considering how little he gets, and how many people he supports (his mother and most of his siblings), that’s huge. I really hope he’ll be okay this month. For those of you that pray, keep him in your prayers.

You Just Keep Getting Smaller, Mr. Global Village

Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how different life must have been, even 25 years ago, around the time I was born. It’s amazing to think how gloriously interconnected the world is now. How else could I, in one day, talk over an interview prospect over the phone with Teach For America, take my boss to the airport, listen to Dick Cheney’s BYU commencement speech and read Pete Ashdown’s alternative one, translate part of a curriculum, take a training on New York state child abuse laws, trade favorite songs with a dear friend, watch this Wednesday’s episode of Lost, start downloading the complete audio to BYU’s alternative commencement and still also take a nice long bike ride around town and enjoy this country on the other side of the world that I’ve grown to love so much? All I can say is, the internet’s awesome, and the world’s a much smaller place.

The Power of Change

It’s been a thoughtful day and evening. There wasn’t anything too groundbreaking about today—I spent it translating more of the curriculum into English. But as I was going, and especially this afternoon and evening, I’ve been thinking a lot about a few things that have been on my mind over the past few weeks. A few weeks ago, I thought about a few people I hadn’t treated with the respect they deserved back in high school and right after it, before my mission. These were things that I felt that I had dealt with already and remembered trying to make compensation for and leave behind years ago, but for some reason they just weren’t leaving my mind. Today after work, I was studying some church articles and conference talks, and I felt a prompting that I’ve felt several times over the past several weeks—that I needed to contact these people again and sincerely apologize to them for the way I had treated them.

I hadn’t followed through on the prompting yet because I truly remembered having dealt with all of that already, and a part of me felt like I had already put all that behind me, and so I was wondering what it was that was left unresolved. This has been bothering me for several weeks, and it’s reopened more so than I think I ever felt at the time the remorse I feel for treating these people I love in the wrongful way that I did. As I’ve thought about it, I think therein lies my answer—if there’s anything that was still unresolved about all this, it was that I hadn’t really let the full weight of my bad treatment settle in on me at the time. I hadn’t really fully considered the feelings I had hurt and the sorrow I had caused—in my more immature spiritual state back then, I was more worried with getting the whole repentance thing over with than actually paying full penance for what I had done. And I think these last few weeks have given me a new vision in that sense—they’ve helped me to much more fully realize the respect that I should give to all people, because I’ve felt more deeply the sorrow of not having done so. They’ve given me a new vision of the eternal worth and preciousness of the people I’d hurt, as I realized more fully the impact of my actions on them. In general, they’ve helped me change into what I hope is a better, more loving, more respectful, more Christlike man.

Because really, at its heart, that is what repentance is for—a means to make us better people. A means for us to learn from our mistakes and grow as eternal individuals, a teeny step closer to our full potential. Tonight I wrote emails to these people I had hurt, and while doing so, more names started coming to mind of others that I had treated badly, and the list of emails to write kept growing longer. But at the end of the evening, I felt peace—I felt peace having sincerely told so many of my old friends (and in some cases almost lost friends) how much I loved them and how sorry I was that I had treated them with less than the respect they deserve. I felt peace knowing that I had sincerely treated a few more of God’s children according to their eternal worth. This, to me, is the glory of repentance—so many people talk about repentance and sin in the Church as something which pins you down with guilt, which feels like a chain around your neck. And I can understand how some people might interpret things that way. But to me, repentance is the one thing that has given me the most hope and joy and love in my life—it is the facilitator that has helped me overcome my mistakes and become bit by bit more of the man that I hope to be. It is what makes it so that my life isn’t a dreary, hopeless existence. It, and the sacrifice of Christ that has made it possible, is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. I know that the power of change available through repentance is real—I know because I’ve felt it. I know because I’m feeling it right now. I know that Jesus Christ is real, and that He is my Savior, and that through Him I can become clean and more like Him. I feel the truth of that in my heart.

A Brazilian pastor—my alter ego

I like being mistaken for people or things that I’m not. Like a week and a half ago at Rachid’s wedding—all of his wife’s visiting relatives referred to me as “Pastor” and asked me to say a prayer at the beginning and another before we ate. Later on when they had some dancing, I was outside talking to some of the relatives when Rachid’s mom sidled up to me and said, “What, pastors can’t dance?”, pulling me in for a slow song. Moms can’t resist my clerical hottness.

It reminded me of a time when I was walking down the street by the beach in Salvador, Brazil a few summers ago, wearing my Palmeiras soccer jersey (they’re a soccer team from São Paulo). A guy who was parking cars waved at me all friendly-like, and came over as if he wanted to talk to me. After all the normal warm baiano (person from Bahia, the state Salvador’s in) greetings that even strangers get, he complimented me on my shirt and asked me if I wanted to trade. He said he had a Bahia jersey (one of the two main local teams in Salvador) at home, and he wanted to know if I was willing to swap with him. I was a bit reluctant, as I was kinda attached to my Palmeiras jersey, but he insisted, adding, “C’mon, please—a favor from a paulista (person from São Paulo) to a baiano! You can get one when you go back home!”

Now, mistaking me for a priest or a pastor is funny and makes for a good story, but mistaking me for a Brazilian? This fella knew his way to Rolf’s heart.

I still didn’t give up my jersey, though.

“I’m asking you to please give me that one!”

So Ryan flew off today around two, and now we’re down to two here at our apartment (Solomon and I—João’s currently in the States to present some info on our program to the American Board of Directors and go to his son’s graduation at BYU). As much as it’s a bit quiet without our other boys, I love Solomon (the new national director of Care For Life, who moved here a few months ago and who's living with us until he can find a house and send word for his family to move here)—he’s such a genuinely good, honest and caring guy, and hilariously quirky. One example: yesterday Ryan, Solomon and I were all lounging about at night and chatting, enjoying Ryan’s last night here, and I was snacking on some discounted Easter chocolate I’d bought at the supermarket downtown. To be polite, I offered each of them an egg each time I’d grab one, and each time Solomon very politely said no thank you. After that happened about five times, I figured he didn’t like chocolate in general, and set about eating the rest myself—when I got down to the last one and was about to put it in my mouth, though, his eyes got huge and he stuck out his hand at me, anxiously almost yelling, “I’m asking you to please give me that one! Please give me that one!” It caught me so off guard I just started laughing, especially because my first thought was, “That is so Solomon.” Oh man, I love that guy. Whenever we’re talking someone starts laughing.

Gulabojabo

I discovered the name the other day for a little dessert donut-hole type thing that I really like—Gulabojabo. That makes me like it even more—I mean really, they're just donut holes, but the name just brings it to a whole other level. Anything with a name like that is instant awesome.

Gulabojabo!

I love Sundays

Today was the second and last day of District Conference, and it was amazing, too. Early this morning there was a special session for new members in the Church and for people just getting to know the Church, and as I sat listening to the good messages being shared, a thought I’ve had a number of times before came back to mind: when discussing the LDS doctrine of the pre-existence, that we all existed as spirits before being born into this life and that we lived with God, the Father of our spirits, and that our actions there were a strong factor in determining where we would be born here, one of the things that has most aggravated me is to hear people twist or contort that doctrine to mean that those born into poor or humble circumstances, or those born outside of the Church, are born into those circumstances as some kind of punishment for their actions in the pre-existence. As I’ve thought about it, what makes most sense and feels right to me is to assume exactly the opposite—those that were strongest and best and brightest in the pre-existence are those that have been born into the humblest circumstances, and are those who have been born outside of the Church, with the responsibility to find it for themselves, because God knew that they had the strength within them to triumph in those circumstances. Whereas when looking at myself, it’s easy to think that God was being nice to me in letting me be born into the Church and into such a comfortable financial position, because he knew I would need that cushion. Well, I don’t think I would feel comfortable trying to apply this idea to all the people who have been born into the Church or into comfortable financial positions—but I know I would definitely apply it to myself.

Another moment in the conference had me thinking similar thoughts: Elder Barreto, a Brazilian missionary who’s about to go home in two weeks, spoke for a short time in the general session of conference today, telling the story of his maternal grandfather and his father, both of whom were people who found the Church for themselves as young men, served missions, and brought their families up in the Church. After telling a bit of both their stories, he talked about how proud he felt to be able to stand up today and represent this legacy that he has been given by the strong men that have gone before him in his family. As he spoke, I thought of several families I taught as a missionary, Marcelo and Edite’s family, Manoel and Maria’s family, and how beautiful the day will be when I’ll see their children and grandchildren serving missions and giving thanks for those that went before them. I thought of my own children, too, but more so than anything in that moment, I felt a swell of gratitude for the chance I’ve had to see and be inspired by the strength of so many good people who have converted to this Church on their own. The fire in their eyes feeds mine.

It should be a crime to feel this happy

Today has been a spiritual feast. It was the first day of District Conference today, and ever since meetings started this morning, it’s been a flood. President Packard, the mission president, is the visiting authority who’s been presiding and been the primary speaker in pretty much all the meetings we’ve had today. As much as a part of my pride might’ve wondered why, I’m really glad they didn’t ask me to translate this time (President Packard doesn’t speak Portuguese), because I was able to get sooooooo much more out of what was said, especially by President Packard.

The thing that most stuck with me was what he taught about false traditions, and the need to leave them behind. He taught very directly and very powerfully against some false traditions that are common here in Mozambique, especially the tradition of lobolo, or the traditional ceremony in which you basically pay for your wife. As he was speaking, though, I felt a very strong personal push to sit down and think about and make a list of all of my own false traditions, my American ones. I thought a lot about President Kimball’s talk, “The False Gods We Worship.” I realized so strongly how all people, no matter where they live, have false cultural traditions that interfere with and separate them from the purity of the gospel, and how urgent my need is to map out, recognize, and confront those same false traditions and barriers in my own life, just as the members of the Church here or anywhere need to do.

There were more insights than just that, a flood really. But above all, in general, especially in the meetings tonight, what made today so sacred was how it brought to mind so many amazing spiritual feasts that I’ve had in the past, in the Church, in the tropics, at night—the broadcast of the Nauvoo Temple dedication when I was in the Rio Negro stake center in Manaus, the missionary fireside we had one Sunday night when I was serving in the small river town of Itacoatiara, the temple fireside I went to with mom and dad when we were all in Salvador at a stake center right on the ocean, the mission conferences all over Manaus that would sometimes extend into the night, the sacrament meetings I’ve been to at night both in Manaus and in Salvador—there’s something about hearing divine truths in such a tropical paradise, with the moist air wrapping around you like a Father’s embrace and all His creations filling the sky above you, that makes it all even more vivid and even more sacred. When I think about it, I’m not quite sure why that is—but I do know it’s yet another part of what’s pushing me to want to spend my life in places like this.

I put nickels in the oven, and it makes mooooosic

A good friend sent me a few songs today, and it sent me on a music-listening stint—I love those. I love going through all my music and rediscovering all the people I love but haven’t listened to in a while. I love listening to a band or singer or group I love for the first time in a year or a couple years and feeling like I’m listening to them for the first time. I love finding excuses to listen to music for hours on end—especially when it’s making a mix CD for someone I care about. Or mix tape, even better. Ah, mix tapes—so many frozen-moment memories of junior high and high school are crystallized by my old mix tapes. To this day, when I put in one of those, after one or two songs I’m already back in whatever semester I made it in, remembering drives around Provo in winter with Camilla and Jessie, or record-shop-hunting with big sis Hoolia, or rocking out with Chris on the drive between seminary and Johnston High in Austin, or freaking out Harrison my old buddy and bass player by too-energetically getting my groove on while driving. Seriously, mix tapes capture those moments like nothing I know. And when a high school crush came along, there was no better way to break the awkward pubescent ice than by making a mix tape.

Okay, fine, that’s it—I’m making one now. Who needs sleep anyway?

Children of Royalty

In my Book of Mormon daily study I’m in Alma right now—today I was in chapter 22. Ammon’s relationship with Lamoni and his people never ceases to touch me as I read these chapters (from 17 to around 27)—despite the fact that Lamoni and his people had lived all their lives hating and seeking the destruction of Ammon’s people, Ammon’s first reaction when he met King Lamoni was to offer himself as a servant. He did everything Lamoni asked of him (Alma 18:8-10), and continually abased himself before Lamoni (Alma 18:17), even after showing that he had access to strength from the Lord that far surpassed any power Lamoni had (Alma 18:21).

Even before Lamoni and his family and household converted to the gospel, Ammon already showed them the greatest love and respect. As I was reading this time, Ammon struck me as an amazing example of fealty at its noblest, of pledging one’s life to the service and desires of a royal (and hopefully just) man. As I thought about that, it seems like that’s a really cool way to look at how we should treat everyone—we should give them fealty as sons and daughters of God, as people with a divine and royal birthright. Not fealty in the sense of swearing an oath to do whatever the people around us might order us to do, but fealty in the sense of respect and recognition of worth—respecting and recognizing each person around us as the king or queen their divine inheritance gives them potential to be. Whether an emaciated street cripple or a prime minister, all of us are children of royalty. Thinking that way makes it easier to understand why the worth of each soul is great in the sight of God (D&C 18:10).

In Human Potential We Trust

I’ve been thinking lately about some of the ideas that struck me most strongly when reading Paulo Freire’s The Pedagogy of the Oppressed back at BYU—most of all the principle that those who would help to liberate the oppressed must work with and trust in the ability of those they are trying to help.

"Certain members of the oppressor class join the oppressed in their struggle for liberation….Our converts, on the other hand, truly desire to transform the unjust order; but because of their background they believe that they must be the executors of the transformation….A real humanist can be identified more by his trust in the people, which engages him in their struggle."

"Attempting to liberate the oppressed without their reflective participation in the act of liberation is to treat them as objects that must be saved from a burning building."

"It is necessary to trust in the oppressed and in their ability to reason."

"At all stages of their liberation, the oppressed must themselves as people engaged in the vocation of becoming more fully human. Reflection and action become essential. True reflection leads to action but that action will only be a genuine praxis if there is critical reflection on its consequences. To achieve this praxis it is necessary to trust in the oppressed and their ability to reason. Whoever lacks this trust will fail to bring about, or will abandon, dialogue, reflection and communication, and will fall into using slogans, communiques, monologues and instructions."

In the time I’ve been here in Mozambique working with Care For Life, it’s been easy to note tons of examples of outsiders both trusting and not trusting locals—and it’s struck me how it’s often the same people who are trusting in one moment and not trusting in the next. When working through an NGO or other development organization, or even in the work that needs to be done in the Church, it’s easy to be schizophrenic with how much you’re willing to trust and put power in locals’ hands. I’ve always kind of prided myself on being a big believer in the capacity and ability of all, but then I’ve found myself in a lot of moments where it’s a lot easier to make an executive decision, or where, for whatever reason, despite all I’ve said about letting locals make the decisions, I don’t, often in situations where in retrospect it would’ve made all the sense in the world to have done so. And I see the same thing all the time in others, too (it tends to be easier to notice in others :) ).

As I’ve thought about that, I think that’s why this theme is one that Freire returns to again and again in Pedagogy of the Oppressed—because it is a principle that, to be effective, must be implemented completely. In helping people to liberate themselves, there is no halfway point of trust—there is either trust (in their ideas, in their reasoning, in their ability to raise themselves) or there is lack of trust. The more I think about it, the more and more I realize that I have a lot of trusting to do.

Let Me Stand Next to Your Fire

This evening before FHE I went to visit Ana Maria, a new member in the church (she was baptized about six months ago) who’s the Relief Society president here in my branch and one of my home teachees. She’s been called to give a talk in District Conference this Sunday, and she had asked me to give her some ideas about where to start with her talk, as she’s never spoken to a group that big and is feeling kind of intimidated. It was an awesome visit—first of all, I straight up love Ana Maria and her fam (her kids and her husband), they’re so good to each other, which is so much rarer than it should be, and such great people. As I was thinking about her and her family tonight, I thought of the part in Alma that I’m reading now in my Book of Mormon study, about the house of King Lamoni among the lamanites and their conversion to the gospel. I love both that scripture story and the parallel stories you see throughout the Church today, especially in all the developing world countries where the Church is growing so much. These peoples’ lives are proof that the Church is no old boys’ club, but the Church of Christ available to all that believe—and I think especially generational or older members of the Church need that proof. It’s easy to think of oneself as a little overly special when raised in the Church, and seeing the fire of excitement and faith in new converts eyes, and their fidelity to the gospel (which often outweighs the more jaded attempts of some old-schoolers) puts us in our place, I think, and helps relight that fire in us. At least, I know it does for me. I think that’s a big reason of why I love Church perhaps even more when I’m someplace where the Church is new(er), like here or on my mission—because when you’re in a place like this, it’s so much easier to constantly see the gospel with the new and fresh and excited eyes that we should have for it always. I love that—and just like when I was nearing the end of my mission, I already know I’m going to miss it.

Marriage Mozambican style

My best buddy here, Rachid, performed the traditional side of his wedding this afternoon. That is, he performed the traditional ceremonies required by his wife's family to formalize his marriage. For a while he’s been pushing to get his life in order so that he can be civilly married, as the church teaches, but one thing that’s gotten in his way is his wife’s (Olivia’s) father’s family. Olivia’s mother and father are separated, with her mother living her in Beira and her father living in Maputo. Rachid and Olivia have been together for more than five years, and when they first got together he had fulfilled the traditional obligations required by his wife’s mother—but they hadn’t done anything with the father’s family, as he hasn’t really made any effort to stay in contact with her or do anything for her since she was around 18. But then, a few months ago, her father’s family had contacted her, visited, disapproved of the low living standard Rachid was providing for her, and almost forced her to move out and come back to live with them in Maputo. Rachid traveled to Maputo and was able to convince them to not do that, and with time, was able to convince them to let him fulfill all of their familial traditions and stay married to her. So today was the day that they had all come up from Maputo (and some of them from South Africa—Olivia’s family is originally from South Africa) to fulfill these traditional ceremonies. And Rachid invited me to come along, an invite my inner anthropologist was all too happy to accept, as I’ve been very curious to understand traditional marriage more profoundly here.

The ceremony itself was really fascinating—the main people present who played a part in the ceremony were representatives from the two families, Rachid’s uncle and some male relative of Olivia’s. Rachid’s uncle started the ceremony by asking for a plate, on which he first put the money for the lobolo (traditionally here, the groom’s family must pay a certain bridewealth, or lobolo, however much is asked by the bride’s family). He then pulled out a piece of paper on which the bride’s family had written all of the other aspects of the lobolo—that is, specific presents they had asked to be given in exchange for the bride. In this sense, from what a few people present were telling me, Rachid had gotten off a bit easy, as the bride’s family sometimes asks for really expensive things, like several full suits for male relatives and expensive dresses for female relatives, cows, and things like that. In Rachid’s case today, he was asked to buy presents for four relatives (his wife, both her parents, and her stepdad), and they were all relatively small things: blouses, skirts, pants, shirts, shoes, and some wine and beer. After Rachid’s uncle finished going over the list, unwrapping and showing each present as it was listed, Olivia’s family sat and debated whether they would accept it or not. They did accept it, but the ceremony wasn’t over. Rachid’s uncle came and placed a small bill on the plate, asking for the bride (Olivia wasn’t in the room yet). The family brought a girl from another room, but it wasn’t Olivia, and Rachid’s uncle said that this wasn’t the bride, and, placing another bill on the plate, asked for the real bride to be brought in (a friend told me that, if you’re smart, you’ll change all your money into small bills, because during this part of the ceremony the groom’s family has to put down another bill at each step, and if you’ve only got big bills, that gets pricey really quickly). This time they did bring Olivia (though, I guess in theory, they could continue to bring in fake brides just to get more money, though that seems pretty sneaky), and Rachid’s uncle placed another bill on the plate, asking for the right to dress Olivia in the clothes she had been given as a present. Her family agreed, and a female member of Rachid’s family went with Olivia into another room to dress her in the clothes which they had bought. The same process was followed for Olivia’s mom, dad, and stepdad—Rachid’s uncle would come forward and put a bill on the plate asking for the person to be brought forth, and then place another bill asking for the right to dress them in their new present clothes.

After finishing all of that, Rachid’s uncle put another bill on the plate, asking for the right to put the ring on the bride. As they did, the representative from Olivia’s family told her to always remember that this ring is a sign to her that she belongs to someone, and that she must act accordingly. Having finished, Rachid’s uncle asked if the bride was theirs now, or if there was anything else missing. The representative from Olivia’s family said everything was in order, and that the bride was now theirs.

During the whole ceremony, I was really struck with how it seemed to be a commodification of the woman involved—but then, as I thought about it more, I realized more and more how much the tie between engagement diamonds and self-worth is a subtler version of the same thing in traditional American society. So yeah—we all commodify our women. Isn’t humanity wonderful.

On a less fatalistic note, my buddy Mounga, who’s also really close to Rachid and was at the wedding today, said something pretty funny, in a cross-culturally surreal kind of way—he’s a return missionary, and a bit more exposed to odd American LDS church culture, and leaned over to me at one point and said, “This really reminds me of Johnny Lingo.” It was at a rather quiet part of the ceremony, so I tried not to guffaw.

At the end, several of the people from Olivia’s family danced to celebrate—there was one lady with glasses who could really shake it. I love this dance you see people do a lot here (and apparently also in South Africa, from what I’ve seen in a few films) that’s mainly a shaking of the shoulders as you extend your arms out. It looks mad cool.

Kurt Vonnegut has become unstuck in time

I know it happened a few days ago, but I couldn't let the passing of possibly my favorite author, as well as one of the funniest, most insightful and most compassionate men that America has ever produced, slip by without some form of in memoriam. So here are some of the Vonnegut insights that have been dearest to me over the years:


“Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before ... He is full of muderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way.” (Cat’s Cradle)

“What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.”

“People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order, so they'll have good voice boxes in case there's ever anything really meaningful to say.” (Cat's Cradle)

“Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.” (Slaughterhouse-Five)

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”

“Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.” (Cat's Cradle)

“Human beings will be happier - not when they cure cancer or get to Mars or eliminate racial prejudice or flush Lake Erie but when they find ways to inhabit primitive communities again. That's my utopia.”

“There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Mafia.” (Sirens of Titan)

“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”

“Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.” (Cat's Cradle)

“There is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre.” (Slaughterhouse-Five)

“I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.
Nice going, God!
Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have.
I feel very unimportant compared to You.
The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.” (Cat's Cradle)

I'm asking everyone I can think of, but does anyone have a copy of Cat's Cradle handy where they could look up the bit describing the soulmate couple that John meets on the plane to San Lorenzo? That's seriously my favorite description of love, anyplace, ever.

Rolf loving life

Long story short—the last two days have been amazing.

Long story long—yesterday Ryan and I left Beira early, around 7:30, to head out to Manica (the closest city to the Penha Longas). We didn’t really know where we would go when we got to Manica, because we couldn’t find any trail maps or travel details online. We had seen photos, like I mentioned, and they looked beautiful, but we really knew squat. We wanted to hike ‘em, though, so we just decided to head out, planning on asking for directions when we got there.

The drive there was beautiful, especially for the last few hours. Really, really green, rolling hills, trees—I t reminded me a lot of the greener mountain-y parts of the U.S., like the Pacific Northwest, or parts of Utah and Colorado after a good rain or snow melt. Some bits really reminded me of the Texas Hill Country, too. Really, really pretty—even just on the drive there, I could feel my batteries recharging just from all the beauty around me.

And when we got to Manica, after asking around in a few places, we discovered there were a number of good mountains, only one of which is called Penha Longa, and that it apparently had a little privately owned area for tourists. So, we headed out towards that, climbing altitude as we went, getting excited as we felt the freshness of the mountain air, made even more delicious from a touch of humidity that you never get in Utah’s mountains. And the view just kept getting more and more gorgeous.

Then, when we got there, I was totally blown away at how beautiful this privately owned land was. Seriously, it felt like something unreal, out of an epic poem or Tolkien novel—it was too beautiful for words. There were a number of groves of a huge, hundreds-of-meters-tall aspen-looking tree that grew in bunches—I kept trying to take a photo to do them justice, and it kept not working. Seriously breathtaking—I wanted to live there. It felt too beautiful to be real, but exactly because of that, I couldn’t think of a happier place to live than one which celebrates so fully the beauty of God’s creations.

On the way up the mountain, I was surprised to see half a dozen houses with families living in them, most of the way up the slope. Definitely a beautiful place to live, but I wondered how often they needed to make the trek down to the city for supplies. It’s a very pretty trek, at least. Also, at least in one of the houses, it didn’t seem like they saw too many white folks too often, as we became a huge hit and attraction with all the kids just by walking through.

One humbling thing was the two groups of Zimbabweans we ran into, hiking the mountain to cross over into Zimbabwe. All of them were carrying heavy loads—some 50 pound bags of rice (and I thought it was already a tough hike with just my backpack on). We talked to one of the men in one group for a bit, and he said they made this trip every two weeks or so to buy things, because there’s no affordable way to buy food in Zimbabwe. That whole trek, every two weeks, a good chunk of the ways on foot, just to buy food—a humbling reminder of the conditions in Zimbabwe right now.

The whole way up, the hike was gorgeous—when we got to the ridge we found a place to sit and sat down to eat, take photos and just take in how beautiful it was. I can’t imagine a more beautiful hike.

We spent the night in a town about an hour closer to Beira called Chimoio, and this morning we got up way early (5 AM) in order to try to hike Cabeça do Velho (a small mountain outside Chimoio—the name means “Old man’s head”) at sunrise. We got some pretty conflicting directions, but after hunting around for a while we found the road there—and soon discovered that this must not be a big tourist spot, as the road was about five-feet wide and so full of brush and tall grass that I was surprised our car wasn’t a lot more beat up by the time we got to the foothills. There wasn’t really a walking trail to the mountain itself, either—we walked through a whole bunch of very dew-y grass and underbrush to get there, effectively taking our morning shower as we walked along. When we got to the foot of the mountain, there wasn’t really a trail, and it was pretty steep, so in many ways it was more like free-base rock climbing than hiking. Way pretty, though. Definitely worth the effort.

After that we hurried and started the drive back to Beira, as I had to be at the chapel at noon to help prepare for a young single adults activity that went on tonight, which was that activity I mentioned going to the rehearsal for earlier, where they asked all the kids who knew how to play anything to come and put together some songs. It ended up okay, considering—some of the songs were even kinda catchy. This afternoon we had the last rehearsals and set everything up—and despite some stressful worrying about how bad it might turn out, it turned out fine, and way fun. Other people danced and things, too—I ended up playing Bon Jovi’s “Living On a Prayer”, just to be funny, though I don’t think they really got the joke (Holla to my Hoolia!).

All in all, it’s been a crazy busy couple of days, and it looks like it won’t slow down too much (tomorrow I’m speaking in church, and then in the afternoon I’m going to Rachid’s traditional wedding)—but I couldn’t have asked for a more fulfilling one, at least up to this point. Especially the trip—I’m so glad we went. It was exactly what I needed. The only downside is now I want to live in Manica. :)

Photos forthcoming! Probably on facebook, since I haven't figured out how to effectively post photos on this thing (I've tried using the little pop-up window, but it doesn't work. So it goes.).

You know what has me excited beyond belief?

Ryan and I are going on a two-day trip to the Penha Longa Mountains, which are right next to the Zimbabwe-Mozambique border, about four hours from here. We’ve both been itching to get out of Beira for a while, especially me, as I haven’t really spent much of any time outside of this city (as much as I love it). I’ve seen photos of these mountains (you can see a few here), and they look beautiful. And more than anything, I’m looking forward to just being there in the mountains. I’ll admit, I really miss the mountains in Utah—I miss the spiritual closeness I feel when I’m in the mountains by myself, hiking or reading or just being (as ridiculously dangerous as I know it is to do those things by oneself). I can’t wait to feel that again.

Amandla!

Tonight, I watched Amandla! again, this time with Ryan, as he hadn’t seen it before. Though I’m the type who usually doesn’t like watching a movie so much as twice, this must’ve been at least the fifth time I’ve seen this movie—I really can’t get enough of it. Every time it touches me, and every time it leaves me with that sense of urgency to act.

One of the parts of the film that most got me thinking tonight was when they talked about the MK, the militant arm of the ANC and the anti-apartheid movement in the 70s and 80s. It reminded me of my only personal memory of apartheid: when I was about 8 or 9, I remember seeing a photo in the newspaper at home of a Zulu rebel on the ground in an urban street, in the midst of an attack. I remember asking my parents what was going on in the photo, and they said that there was fighting in South Africa, and that it was sad because there were people dying on both sides. I didn’t really understand the context—all I understood was that people were fighting each other in South Africa and that people were dying. As I remembered that and watched the film, I wondered if I would have fought for the MK, in those circumstances and at that time. To be honest, I don’t know—I know I would have done something, but I don’t know if I would have become militant. I hope that I wouldn’t—that I would be able to focus myself and my energies in non-violent protest and not fall into eye-for-an-eye logic. But that’s a lot easier said than done when your friends and loved ones are dying.

Mad birthday skillz

Tonight was Elder Cox’s birthday, and a bunch of folks from church threw a surprise party for him. It’s really kinda cool, there are a couple church folks who have gotten in the habit of throwing surprise parties for everyone that has a birthday—it started with mine back in August, and there’ve been at least five or six since. Tonight’s was a bit different, though, as Elder Cox is a pretty old fella (he turned 70 today), and when he turned on the lights and we first started clapping and singing, he jumped so bad I was afraid he was gonna have a heart attack. Our ninja hiding skills are a bit too honed, I suppose.

I've got the powa

So our power went out last night around 10, and didn’t come back until this morning around 10—and then burned out again, and came back for (what seems like) good about an hour ago. As much as I had been looking forward to the daily blog and chance to write a certain someone, I dig power outages here. It takes away all your opportunities for distancing yourself from the moment by not giving you the opportunity to do anything besides be here now, where you are, with who you are.

And thus, I groped around in the dark for the guitar and a Bob Marley sing-along ensued. Life’s awesome.

Risen in truth

A good friend of mine and amazing fella from BYU named Nate Rasmussen served his mission in the Ukraine, and on several Easters I’ve heard him talk about a tradition practiced among Christians in the Ukraine on Easter morning. Instead of greeting someone normally, asking how they are and how their family is and all that, upon greeting another Christian, you say, “Christ is arisen.” To which the other responds, “Risen in truth.”

I think that only over the past few years have I really come to appreciate Easter, in a more-than-chocolate-and-backyard-hunt-in-jammies sense. Today was an especially amazing day—the speakers at church gave amazing talks, we had a delicious Easter dinner with our official adopted grandparents, the Hobsons (a missionary couple here), a church leadership meeting that I had to go to this evening went wonderfully, a lovely chance to talk in the evening with a dear friend—even though as I think about it I can’t think of any specific event today that made it more sacred and Christ-centered than usual, it was. And I loved every minute of it. It was a normal Sunday in most senses of the word, except for where my mind was centered and what my heart was celebrating. “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” At least for today, in a way I hope to be able to say of many days to come, the Savior was my treasure. This day was for Him.

Christ is arisen—risen in truth.

Yes, another thought from conference—what can I say, 'tis the season

I was studying Elder Uchtdorf’s talk this afternoon from conference, and loving it even more than when he gave it. One of the things that struck me most strongly was how he talked about the love of God, and how strong it is for all of us as His children. I remember an Ensign article by Elder Nelson a few years ago that sparked some controversy, because people said it put forth the argument that the righteous were more loved by God than the unrighteous—as I’ve thought about that, though, it seems more like the question is one of access to God’s love. God loves all of us equally, but as we become more and more righteous, we open ourselves up more and more to be able to feel God’s love for us. The love He has for us is there, waiting for us, and He wants to give it to us, but we through our choices sometimes limit our own ability to feel that love. On the eve of Easter, that thought becomes a lot more poignant, that the love of Christ which He showed so fully in the atoning acts we study on this day is something I often choose to deny myself, to whatever degree and for whatever foolish reason.

Good Friday

It’s Good Friday today—a holiday we Mormons tend to avoid because of some folks’ apparent allergy to Catholicism, but one which I think would really do us good to honor. I assume the lack of recognition or focus is based on the same reason why Mormons don’t use the cross, because we want to think of and focus on the living and resurrected Christ as opposed to the dying One. And that’s something I can totally understand—but I feel that sometimes, by not taking more time to appreciate His death and His sacrifice, we cheat the miracle of His Resurrection of some of its power and make it somewhat less sacred. That Sunday was only so glorious because that Friday was so dark, and I think if we focused on the latter a bit more, we’d appreciate the former more strongly for the miracle that it is. Granted, I didn’t live up too well to what I’m preaching today—I went out to dinner with my roommates, watched Spider-Man 2 with my boss’ family, and played airplane with his five-year-old daughter. Nothing too pensive or deep there. Which is why I think I’m speaking to myself as much as anyone—you can count my vote for bringing Good Friday back into LDS religious discourse.

Conference Part Deux

The text of the conference talks was posted online today, and I was just studying some of the talks from priesthood session, as I wasn’t able to watch that one here since it’s not transmitted over the internet. I’ve been loving President Hinckley’s and President Faust’s talks as I’ve studied them, especially President Faust’s. I love this bit where President Faust was talking about professions:

“How you provide for your family is your decision. Acquiring a skill is a good way to pay the bills, but there really ought to be something more in terms of personal involvement. Do not become so preoccupied with the material things of life that you lose the essence of your humanity. You may recall Dickens's character Jacob Marley, who lamented his obsession with work when he exclaimed: ‘Business? . . . Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business.’ Each of us ought to play some role in strengthening society, especially in doing the work of God.”

Amen, brother. I hope to be able to live up to that. I hope to be able to grow up, as President Faust says, to be “a man of God.” My mission president used that phrase a fair amount, to refer to men like Nephi and the Prophet Joseph. As I would listen to him speak during mission conferences, I couldn’t think of anyone that I considered more a Christlike, humble, loving man of God than my mission president. I can’t think of a compliment that I would treasure more dearly than to be able to be considered like he is—to be a man of God.

The Mozambican Mark Twain, Still Waiting For the Conditions To Cue His Entrance

Tonight after District Presidency meeting, I was talking in the car with President Domingos and Armando and João about books and asking them if there were any great Mozambican novels or authors that I should look into, and as much as in retrospect I feel like it maybe shouldn’t have struck me so strongly, it really did surprise me how few names came up. The conversation turned to literature and books in general, and how ridiculously hard it is to even afford to BUY a book here, much less one by a Mozambican author. As we talked, a number of people started coming to mind, friends of mine that I’ve met through work and church who have proudly talked about having many books at home, and their having said that took on a new level of meaning—even the act of owning multiple books here is a status symbol, almost irregardless of what books they are. I thought of how many great minds there must be here in Mozambique for whom the only reason they aren’t scholars or writers or educated statesmen is a lack of means for them to get there, both financially and intellectually speaking. There isn’t a public library in Beira, either—as I thought and thought, I realized that I probably have more books in my room that I brought with me in my luggage than 98% of this city has in their homes. Again flooded over me the abundance-of-riches shame that comes when you realize how ridiculously over-privileged you are in relation to so many of your just-as-worthy brothers and sisters. Again flooded over me the motivation that made me want to go into education in the first place, to do whatever is possible to reduce that gap.

Mmmmmmmmmbatwe!

Today I went with all the Care For Life field staff on our regular visiting day to Mbatwe (one of the villages we work in), something I haven’t had the time to do in a while because of all the organizational work that I’ve needed to do with the curriculum these days. Man, I missed it—I missed the people. A really sweet and funny thing happened while I was playing with some kids that I sometimes play with while waiting for community classes to start—Celestino came over and was playing with them, too, asking them questions to see who could answer quickest. He asked them their mother’s names, the names of their favorite aunts, and then the names of their favorite uncles. When he asked one of them the name of his favorite uncle, the little guy said, “Rufo!” You have no idea how big that made me smile.

Churchhouse Rock

Tonight was fun—Gimo, the young singles’ leader in the Church here, has been planning an activity for Church members to get together over a few weeks of practices with borrowed/rented instruments and put together some original songs to perform on the 14^th. It’s the kind of thing that could either turn out way fun or ridiculously horrible, and so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I’d told Gimo I’d participate ever since he found out I play drums, and so I wasn’t about to back out. Tonight was our first practice, at an evangelical church down near the chapel (we’re renting the instruments from the church). It was the first time I’d ever played drums in an evangelical church before—there was a disappointing lack of Hallelujahs. It was me on drums, a funny punker kid name Zé on guitar (who’s a great guitarist, so long as you want to play Nirvana or Blink-182) and a friend of his on bass, and an interesting collection of young folks singing lyrics they’d written. Easily my favorite and nominee for most surreal was a love-song-style tune by one guy with lyrics all about the Law of Chastity, and a few references to manslaughter thrown in for good measure—“The Law of Chastity isn’t respected/ and shedding innocent blood is a big sin in the eyes of God”. I should copy the real lyrics down next time, I really don’t think I’m doing them justice—I mean, I agreed with them 100%, but you just don’t usually have too many tunes that have lyrics like that accompanying James Blunt-y cheesy love chords. Surreal, yo.

For FHE, Ryan and I listened to the last session of General Conference from yesterday, which we hadn’t been able to finish watching thanks to our sketchy internet connection—and it was, as expected, amazing. I loved the focus on repentance, and the hope for redemption and second chances that repentance brings. There have been a couple times in my life when I can remember feeling really, really strongly the confirmation that I’m not a lost cause—that despite all the stupid things I’ve done, there is hope for me through the Atonement of Christ. Tonight was one of those warm, comforting times when you feel those truths confirmed, when you feel the reassurance settle on you like a blanket that His grace is sufficient for you. I love General Conference.

Official Church Statement on Cheney's Commencement Speech

I’m really, really glad that the Church released the official statement that they did regarding Cheney’s speaking engagement at BYU’s commencement—I think, above all, that such a statement was what I wanted personally. I was willing to give the Brethren the benefit of the doubt in terms of their motives for extending the invitation, but I also really wanted personally to understand why. And I think their statement perfectly expressed that.

As they say in the first paragraph, “[this] invitation is seen by the university’s board of trustees as one extended to someone holding the high office of vice president of the United States rather than to a partisan political figure.”

That’s not how I see Dick Cheney—and that’s not how I think most people see Dick Cheney, especially given the current political climate—but looking historically at how the Church as a governing body has approached and dealt with other standing political officials from the around the world, I can understand how that is the way that the Board of Trustees sees this visit.

As far as I know, the Church has never allowed any Church building or Church official to officially endorse a political candidate in the name of the Church—but very often the Church as a body has recognized and Church leaders have visited with and respected standing political officers, out of respect for their office, even when the individuals themselves have been completely morally despicable. Pinochet comes to mind.

I don’t think that I could (or should) take such a stance towards political figures personally, but I think that’s exactly the point—in recognizing standing political leaders, the Church is acting as the organization of the Church, and acting in a way that is necessary to further the greater mission of the Church, which is the preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ (or as it’s called in the statement, the “central mission” of the Church). In the case of Pinochet and Chile, and East German leaders when East Germany was still Communist, and many other similar cases, the Church has had to recognize (solely on the basis on political office) many morally corrupt leaders in order to gain permission for the gospel to be preached in those countries, furthering the mission of the Church. Though some might consider it more appropriate and morally correct to not recognize such leaders, looking from a spiritual perspective, such a stance would have prevented all of the people in these countries from hearing and having the chance to accept the gospel. I can understand that as a not-ideal-but-necessary stance for the Church as an institution to take in order to complete its greater, eternal mission.

Thus, as the statement says, “To engage in partisan politics or to take up every social cause would be to divert the Church from that mission.” However, as the statement continues, “There is also another side to the neutrality policy, apart from prohibitions. The Church ‘encourages its members to play a role as responsible citizens in their communities, including becoming informed about issues and voting in elections.’ … Further, the Church ‘expects its members to engage in the political process in an informed and civil manner.’”

In that sense, I feel perfectly willing and able to accept the Church’s neutral stance towards not only Dick Cheney, but all international leaders, because I understand that any other position is a role the Church as an institution is not really in a position to take—however, as an individual, as both a concerned citizen and someone striving to live the life of a disciple of Jesus Christ, I can and should make my voice heard. If I disagree with the actions of Vice President Cheney on moral and spiritual grounds (which I do), then it is not only my right, but the expectation of my Church that I respectfully stand up for those things.

In that sense I think it’s easier to understand why BYU has officially sanctioned protests against Cheney (note: not against BYU or against the Board of Trustees) to take place on BYU campus—because it recognizes the right and duty of students who don’t agree with Cheney to be able to respectfully express themselves. In that sense, I hope that all of us who disagree with Cheney find ways to respectfully make our voices heard, through protest, through letters to the editor, or through whatever means we are able to find—not only is that our right, but as individuals who have covenanted to “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that [we] may be in” (Mosiah 18:9), I think it’s our duty.