Fresh Faces and Worrisome Worries April 27, 2015

P-Day! It's a time to indulge! A day where you can go to MegaCentro and eat enough Taco Bell to feed a small country in Africa. At first, you feel good because hey, Taco Bell. Then, about 20 minutes later, you feel like you've been run over by a train because hey, Taco Bell. Not to mention you spent all your apoyo on cheap, mass-produced Mexican food and now have to walk home. Such is the pleasure- and the pain- of P-Day. One down, five to go. Transfer six be flyin'.

Me and Zetina -- The Last Good Day

My new companion is a microscopic Guatemalan named Elder Ventura. He's a nice kid! He's certainly got his own unique characteristics. Firstly, he's utterly unflappable. Like. One night we were up on the roof enjoying ourselves a 9:30 campfire. We were chatting amiably in the glow of the flames when I accidentally kicked over his bottle of hand sanitizer and lit his socks on fire. He didn't yelp. Didn't even flinch. He just calmly took his socks off, tossed them to the side, and watched them smolder. He never said a word, either to me or to the generic nobody that I swear at when one of my articles of clothing is, you know, on fire. So there's that. Also, he

Ventura and me hunting
for a fine Cabernet...
Nyyehehehe

literally showers three times a day. And when I say literally, I don't mean it in the sense that a baby panda is so cute that you literally died or that an emotional connection on The Bachelor was so deep and profound that some understandably single woman's head literally exploded. I mean he seriously showers every day before personal study, during lunch, and after daily planning. On the plus side, he loves to clean, which is a problem I haven't had to handle with any of my other companions. Although he also does this thing where he sustains all of his s's when he talks. It's not supes weird! It's just sometimes a little disconcerting when I'm not sure if my companion is speaking Spanish or Parseltongue. Naw, he's way cool, and I'm excited for this transfer! Also, with the other elders gone, we moved to the big room and best believe we put their old fridge in here. You already know that this is a thing.

We're getting to know the B Area a lot quicker than I thought! Okay, to be fair, our knowledge is wholly and completely flawed, but hey- we teach!

So I went to district meeting and what did I see? The old MTC district is back together again! Or at least. The elders. In our mission. Yeah. Right. Anyhow, I was already here in Hainamosa (Hainamosa is the zone- Los Solares is my area), Blount got transferred in from Sabana Grande and who should his companion be but Elder freakin' Zanahoria. Zamora. Sorry. Yes. Zamora. Blount's still his same old Southern Baptist Mormon self ("...Y'all need Jesus.") and Zamora's here six months later. Still loving him some Texas. Still talking about his girl who's a friend. As the ever-wise Elder Barlow once so sagely noted, "Johnson, do you know what the difference between a deacon with a girlfriend and a missionary with a girlfriend is? NOTHING." Poor Zamora. They are the two great chagrins of this young Texan's life- That his girlfriend is probably only sort of kinda waiting and the fact that Alaska exists. Gyaha district meetings are gonna be a blast.

Which one doesn't match? 

We have a curse here in Los Solares. We have like five or six different investigators who are begging to be baptized. Now, that's awesome. Fantastic! It really is. But. Every. Single. One. Is below the age of fourteen. And y'all gotta understand. Normally, we don't like to baptize children if the parents aren't members. They rarely stay active and no one wants to be a "bautiniños" anyway. But right there's the problem. With every one of said investigators. Their parents aren't members. Even if they're progressing. Even if they believe the message. But they can't be baptized. Because they're not married. My great lozzy, it is the bane of my existence. You are about as likely to find a married couple outside the church here as you are to find Harry Truman at a Communist rave. And that would be quite the twist, because although my history knowledge is admittedly flawed, I'm fairly certain that Harry Truman is dead. But seriously. No one. NO ONE. Is married. It kills me! Ah! But life goes on.

Speaking of which, this last week, I've been seriously considering worrying. No, no, I haven't been contemplating actually doing it, silly people, rather that I was reflecting on the act itself. Worrying is something that we all do from time to time. Now, obviously things come up in life. We have to face problems and sometimes, we even have to- heaven forbid- make decisions. These things can be stressful. They feel like a big deal. I know. I've been there. You folks know that historically speaking, I'm kinda a worrier. But the solution to overcoming whatever worry is actually pretty easy. Let's take a few examples:

-What am I gonna do as a career for the rest of my life?

-Who cares? Pick something you love that'll give you purpose in life and do it.

-What happens if I try to kiss the girl but she doesn't want it and rejects me?

-Shut up. Kiss her.

-In college, can the human body really keep functioning on ramen noodles alone?

-Yes, but it's not recommended.

-With said diet, will I still get scurvy as long as I drink 7-Up?

-Contrary to popular belief, the lemon and lime flavoring in 7-Up is not actually lemon or lime. You should probably rethink your dietary habits.

We could go on. Those are just a couple, and they are admittedly targeted to my current demographic. Nonetheless, regardless of your age, gender, blood type, or favorite color, the principle stays the same.

Quit worrying about it. If you have a problem and can't do anything about it, don't worry about things you can't control. If you can do something about it, why on earth are you worrying? DO IT. Do what's gotta be done in life. But whatever you do, don't worry. Worry will drag you down. It will depress you. It will deprive you of the finer things in life.

So take a deep breath. Everything is gonna be alright. It will all work out. Stay calm. Read D&C 121:7-8. Possibly Joshua 1:9. Don't worry. And have a great week :)

Peace,

Oh, for heaven's sake, you know who it's from

  

This method of handling jugs has been passed down the Johnson line for geeeeenerations!

Bumble Bees and Tumble Weeds April 20, 2015

Happy P-Day, people! My goodness. There I was, busily being a senseless green buffoon when I came to a horrifying realization; as of today, I've been out of my training for more time than I was in it. Holy guacamole, I feel so old! And then I remember I still have seventeen months and come crashing back down to Earth, but hey- life's good :) Y'all, it's transfer six.

First things first. This email is forever long. Also. Second things second. I gotta use the mission slang. Therefore, to aid in the translation, a short lesson in Dominican Spanish:

Repelengue- Mosquito Repellent 

Tigre- Disobedient Elder 

Lambón- Brown-noser

Hermana- Sister   

Apoyo- Mission funds    

Intercambio- Companion exchange

Flechón- Super obedient missionary     

Campo-  Countryside

Boche- Tongue-lashing

Freca- A flirt

Studmuffin- Me

Also, in the mish,  if someone is young or old, they're referring to their time in a mission. So, if a 24-year-old missionary has three months in the mission, he's much younger than a 19-year-old with twenty months.

On to the week!

We've had a bee problem in the house. Every time we leave fruit on the kitchen counter, a metric boatload of bees fly in and just sort of buzz around. As far as we can tell, they actually aren't particularly bloodthirsty or vicious. They strike us more as lost souls trying to find their place in the world. Unfortunately for them, this neck of the world has Elder Willie, who's allergic to bees. While I personally think it would be funny to see Willie with a raging case of watermelon face, he wasn't quite so enthusiastic about the whole idea. So, we decided that decisive counter measures were in order.

First, we had to find the source. We hunted, followed tracks, and stalked them home at night until there, beneath the rain gutter, we found it. The Nest. We knew we had to destroy it. But how? I myself am always a fan of casting things into the fires of Mt. Doom or using the American Solution for Everything Ever- drone strikes- but my house companions shot it down on the basis that those were far too obvious. It also became quickly apparent that our usual method of pest control (repelengue and matches) wouldn't work, on account of that we've been a bit liberal with the cockroaches these past couple of weeks and we aren't overly burdened with said repelengue. We determined that a manual job was in order. Now, this obviously needed to be a precision operation. Clean. No traces. But an operation like this would clearly involve a considerable quantity of risk, and we were not prepared to sacrifice an entire quartet of missionaries for such an endeavor. We realized that for the good of the many, it would have to be a solo mission.

Now, we knew the risks. If whoever took upon himself this task succeeded, he'd be a hero. A legend. But if he were killed, his companions would deny any and all knowledge connecting the incident to them. Now, the only question was who would this dastardly handsome paragon of masculinity be? Well. The other three said it should be the youngest missionary. Them whippersnappers gotta learn sometime. But. Um. Zetina is the second youngest missionary. And he has almost seventeen months. Well. Awkward. I, being the brilliant protester that I am, protested that it was only fair to do it democratically. They agreed. Two seconds and three votes later, my fate was sealed. I call racism but it's all good. Everything turned out alright. I done took care of it. Or at least I thought I did. Elder Garcia is telling me right now that I only got about half of it. Well shoot. I guess a few choice strikes with a loaned machete wasn't enough. But no worries. We'll try again later with the neighbor's 9-iron.

-DON'T TOUCH MY MUFFIN!!!!

Anyway, it's transfer time! Lots of changes. Leaders and areas changing left and right. Me? I'm gonna make like a fence post and stay right where I'm at. Although I know that sounds about as exciting as a cow standing in a carrot field, don't you worry- President Corbitt knows how to make things interesting. It's true that I'm staying in Los Solares, but they made some changes. Firstly, they combined Los Solares A and B and pulled out the B elders. This means that I now get to cover twice as much ground while getting to know an entire new area. Also, they're taking Elder Zetina and sending me Elder Ventura. I've never met the lad and I don't know much about him, but. I have less than seven months. He has well over a year. And I'm the senior companion. I don't know what that means completely. But. To sum up this last paragraph in three words, PRAY FOR ME.

Naw, I'm pumped! But I will miss Zetina! I'll be honest. He sometimes drove me up the wall, and I still dream of doing a missionary episode of "Will It Blend?" with his recorder flute, but we done had us some good old times this transfer. There was one day when we made a contact in the street. It was actually a good contact until the end. We asked for his name and he was like, "Jesus Christ."   .......Um. Come again? "Jesus Christ." Your name is Jesus Christ? "Well no. It's Luis. But my nickname is Jesus Christ." Well alright. That's. Er. Different. Ahem. We have to go now! Haha so yeah. That was a thing.

And then there was another time when Zetina accepted an invitation for us to go to an Evangelical service. Electricity was down and they were on generator power. The preacher lady was up front eating the mike. I reckon she was bearing her testimony. The lights were literally dimming and brightening in time with her screams because the speakers were sucking so much power. Elder Zetina and I just sorta sat there bemusedly, like. Hey. Is it appropriate to pull out D&C right now?

Then, just last week, a recent convert, Hector, couldn't get his car to start, and was like, "Hey, can you guys help push my car?" I was down to the ground, but Zetina was like, "Listen. Hector. Move ya booty and let daddy show you how it's done." He jumped under the hood and started messing with something. Two minutes flat and the car coughed to life. Hector was aghast, "That car hasn't started like that in almost three years! How did you do that?" Zetina just cracked a grin and said, "Papá, I just owned your car. Never doubt a Mexican."

Yep. I'll miss the fool. But I'm excited for the new adventures to come!

-Hey, 9 out of 10 ain't bad... Wait, you missed 9? Haha loco.

Anyway, in the wake of General Conference, I was doing some thinking. Now, you've all gotta know that here in the DR, there is a solid base of pretty much every Christian religion and practically nothing else. In almost seven months, I have met exactly one Muslim and one Atheist. This is the Bible Belt of the Caribbean. Now, in such a heavily Christian country (and in my line of work), the subject of religious differences has come up once or twice.  On such occasions, people inevitably find out that I am a Mormon, and before long, I have learned something which thing I had never before supposed- We are different. We are  very  different. We do not fit into the mainstream Christian world. Stuffy, starchy old Mormons? My beloved sistren please. Mormons are stinkin' hipsters. We kicked conventional religion in the shins before it was cool.

But it's interesting for me to note that of all of the un-ordinary beliefs of the Church, the one that is perhaps the most offensive to mainstream Christianity (other than not drinking coffee) is our concept of a living prophet. People don't like to hear it. It actually makes them uncomfortable to think that scripture isn't confined to the Bible and that unlike Billy Ray Cyrus, God still wants to talk to His children. They say that revelation ceased when John the Revelator closed his epistle and there is not and  should not be any more.

Well, they can stick that idea in a bun and fry it for all I care. They marvel at the audacity we have for claiming a prophetic connection between humanity and God, but I marvel at the audacity that mainstream Christianity had when they decided as a body of men to tell  God that they'd heard enough and He could be quiet now. God loves us and because of that love, He will continue to give us the word as long as there are people worthy and willing to receive it. This is an eternal principle that did not cease when the ancient churches declared the heavens closed and will not cease by any mandate of man.

I stand as a witness that a prophet of the same order as Isaiah and John the Baptist walks the Earth today. He is a special witness of Jesus Christ and together with his counselors and the Quorum of the Twelve, he directs and guides the Church under inspiration and revelation received from God himself. That prophet is Thomas S. Monson, and his words are in reality  His words.

Now, there will come moments in which those words conflict with modern science or, as perhaps more often is the case, the popular social and moral viewpoints of the day. In such moments, there are really only two choices, and we are all compelled in one way or another to choose. Agency is given to all men, and I can't speak for anyone else. But for this snot-nosed 19-year-old kid, I choose to follow the prophet. Even if it isn't politically correct. Even if it defies conventional logic. The world may call it and its followers things like bigoted, foolish, deluded, outdated, or blindly obedient. But to tell you the truth, I don't give a flying fiddlestick what the world calls it. I call it faith. I choose faith.

What will  you choose?

Your friend,

Dallin

-Familia Anziani! My peeps!!!!!! 

Oat Juice and Muffin Faces - April 6, 2015

Happy General Conference Easter weekend everbody! I hope you all indulged a little too much on chocolate and enjoyed some of the buena palabra. (the good word) I'm still kicking it strong out here in Amalia #longestintercambioever, where the house ran out of water and we've been bucket showering in our drinking water. Sometimes I feel bad for myself and Elder Froude, but then I remind myself that it's just an opportunity to strengthen my testimony that charity exists in mankind- people still let two stinky gringos into their houses to talk about God, to whom we should pray, and Joseph Smith, to whom we shouldn't. Ladies and gentlemen, it's April. Holy cow someone stop time!

First order of business is a shoutout to a certain hermano de otra madre (brother by another mother) in Peru who's about to hit the field. Remember—the first two weeks are the longest and the relief society arms you got in the MTC'll burn off soon enough. Buena suerte, mi sartén de hogar!!  (good luck, home skillet!!)

Jacob Hogan in Peru MTC

So, I finally had my first zone activity of the mission. Mission rules are pretty strict on the subject in my mission, but we finally got the go ahead. We did a three-event district competition which started with a handless muffin eating contest.

Aside from the general hilarity of watching Elder Garcia smashing his face into the table, he actually got the muffin in his mouth long before the others, but overestimated his ability to swallow the moisture equivalent of the Mojave Desert, and Elder Mecham came out on top. Curse that roguish devil.

 

The long-promised pig ear picture

Afterward, we did a picture scavenger hunt in which I played Ammon guarding a muffin, a sleeping seminary student (I knew all my days of practice being asleep during seminary would be useful someday... haha just kidding, just kidding), a Jaredite getting a yard of broom handle shoved through his midsection, and the Virgin Mary. Then, we played gospel Guesstures, at which my district actually dominated. In the end, they copped out of declaring us the winners, which would have made us very angry had we actually won.

Elders Johnson and Froude on the way to Sambil!

The mission really does change you. Before the activity started, I was playing the piano and one of the sisters came up and sat down by the piano to listen. There was a time and a season in which a woman coming to listen to my piano playing would've been a bright spot in my day. When I'd have affably smiled and thought to myself, "Oh Johnson, why must you always be so dashing?" But now, when a girl sits down and listens to me, I just wanna stop and be like. "Um. Can I help you?" Haha great lozzy, I'm gonna be a smoldering wreck in seventeen months.

The lowest point of it all was probably after we finished. Elders Froude, Green, and I went with two of the sister missionaries to a tostada shack for lunch. The numbers were offset and obviously we weren't even thinking about anything uncouth,

Any questions?

but it's well-known that Froude and I are quite the suave companionship in even the most appropriate of circumstances. Hem. Cough. Right. So yeah, Froude offered one of them a sip of his oat juice, but not to be outdone, I started laughing and spewed half a liter of guava nectar all over creation. And the sisters. Ýeah. Someone please remind me why two such gifted gentlemen are so stinkin' single.

We discovered that my camera can do light graffiti. 

This is just a sample of all the hot glamor pics we took.

That's all for now. It was a pretty slow week. Hopefully, I'll be back in Los Solares by next P-Day.

Love,

Dallin

You can't see it very well in this picture, 

but Elder Froude is literally saving a puppy in this picture.

Lost in Amalia March 30, 2015

Dallin's cheery disposition is back! Here is his newest email. Thank you everyone for your prayers and everything else.
------------------------------------------------
Happy Monday, everybody! So I'm actually gonna start this one with an apology. As anyone who's personally written me recently knows, the last couple of months, I've been justifiably horrendous at writing back. I apologize! Sincerely and deeply. I promise I appreciate the time taken to write and I do love all of yo' faces! My Mom says she still loves me just the way that I am! Must be because she's really into seismology..... you know, she loves faults...... cough. Haha okay, okay, I hafta admit I stole thatun from President Corbitt. But hey! I'm working on getting better with writing, just forgive me if I take some time.

On to the week! You know, I now have over six months in the mission. My great lozzy. Time sometimes scares the daylights out of me.

I've decided that pigs are magic. You put in trash and weeds in a garbage juice marinade and out comes bacon and ham. It's incredible.

In Espaillat, we had a lot of cockroaches. Here in the campo (countryside), the cockroaches are both indoor and outdoor. Interestingly enough, in Los Solares, we also have a ton of little gecko thingamajobbers infesting the house. Mayhap it isn't fair to call them pests- they don't eat our food and they don't scare me- but they're everywhere! Pretty enfermo!

So this last week, I actually haven't been in Los Solares. One of my zone leaders, Elder McCombs, has dengue, a sickness that's sort of like a mild cold except that it hospitalizes and can potentially kill you. He's alright now! But they called me up and told me that I'd have to head out of Amalia, McCombs's area, and work with my old chum Elder Froude.

So it was that I found myself lost in Amalia. See, Froude only has two weeks out there and still doesn't know his area. What happened is basically that our first appointment dropped and Froude said, "Well, I have this list of investigators, but I don't know how to get to any of their houses, soooo.... let's contact around until something looks familiar." An hour later, we were deep in the jungle part of the area. I was wandering after Froude, happy as an Aborigine in the bush, when he turned around and said, "Johnson, I'm lost. I don't even know how to get back to the house." 

Well, he came to the right place. I'm a Scoutcraft man. I was born to get hopelessly lost in a strange forest in distant, unfamiliar lands. Thoughts of shelters built of palm fronds fortified with pure manliness ran through my mind. We would feast on wild plantains and coconut juice. No- not manly enough- we would hunt alligator and Dominican wild boar, killing with our bare hands if we needed to. This was a survival situation. Desperate measures were called for. I thought of my Viking ancestors. Gorm the Old. Harald Bluetooth. Svend Forkbeard. All mighty men of great Danish stock. I felt their spirits standing shoulder to shoulder with my own. In that moment, I felt my heart change. I was no longer a mere descendent of Vikings. Courage filled my soul, and I WAS a Viking. I could practically feel the raw oxhide armor and battle-axe thrown over my shoulder. I turned to face the puny Dominican jungle. And then a cockroach ran up my leg. I turned into a lost 19-year-old white city boy so fast. I cleared the jungle for three and a half miles. In the end, we lucked out when a random guaguita passed by twenty minutes later, although it cost thirty five pesos and my last shred of dignity when I tripped over a flat, even surface while getting in.

But we had some decent lessons despite and really, the week was swell. I can't complain.

So I've barely written this last transfer. Let me illuminate the situation a little bit. I've been a little stressed, in the same way that the ocean is moist and professional baseball players somehow scrape a living. Now, let's make something very clear- this stress is completely and entirely MY fault. I have to take credit for it. But it's been debilitating. I haven't been able to sleep or bring myself to eat. On P-Day, my emails probably took years off my parents' lives, bless their seismological hearts.

I also have to ask a little bit of forgiveness. I'm not completely sure how to say what I'm trying to say. But there's been something holding me up these last six months that's made it a slow, uncomfortable experience at best. It came to the point where I got a call from my mission president, and he told me that I could either go home or come into Gazcue for an interview. I opted for the interview. There. Hmmm. I'm not gonna share everything that was said there. But we did some pretty stinking deep soul-searching. And I learned something. You know, I think it was my mom that said it best. A couple of weeks ago, she said "Dallin, you need to wake up. You are (insert a bunch of compliments that you already know are preceding a kick in the teeth) but you are arrogant." Whew. Welp. Well said. Pride has always been one of my great vices, and not even in the stereotypical sense. I believe in joking about it, but I don't honestly think of myself as someone who is out-of-this-worldly talented or smart or attractive or anything like that. I'm the first one to admit that I'm a very imperfect person. But. And that's an all-caps very important BUT. I have almost always trusted in my own opinion over any other. My own thoughts, my own impressions, one might say my own will. That has always superseded the will of my family, my parents, my friends, and I'm sorry to say, of God. But something happened on that balmy afternoon in Gazcue. I'm not gonna lie. I walked into the office a fairly well beaten down missionary and person who was about ready to call it quits. But two hours later, and I can only put it down to the influence of the Holy Ghost and probably God himself, I walked out of that same office spiritually exhausted but on my feet, ready to press forward. This is what I learned.

Peace and happiness- true peace and happiness- are born only of humility. When I say humility, I mean sacrificing your own will for the will of God. It's hard. I can testify of that. But if you think about it, God has given us everything. He has every single thing we can possibly comprehend, save one- our agency. God cannot directly compel us to do anything. Our obedience is the only thing we have that we can possibly give to God. The only gift we are capable of giving. That's why the commandments are so heavily emphasized. Following them is hard. A lot of times, we're tempted to think we'll be happy if we do what we want, and while what God says is important, we can always do it later. But I can tell you that at least with one week in this humbling process, everything has changed. Going out isn't so hard, smiling is much easier, and when I arrived at Los Solares again, I was amazed at how beautiful it had become.

So don't put this off. There is only one time when you should be living the gospel. NOW. I'm still imperfect, and change is a process that takes a lot of time. I still struggle with it. But I'm gonna put forth my best effort, and I know that it'll take me places I never imagined. One last thought.

Where could God take YOU?

Much love,
Dallin

Anatomy of a Week in Los Solares March 16, 2015

Maybe he's not fully recovered yet??

---------------------------

Dear everyone,

This week was a good week. We taught the gospel and 
ate some rice.

Love,

Johnson

Still Kickin' around March 9, 2015

SO... He seems to have recovered somewhat, though only Heavenly Father knows what ailed him. Please feel free to write him a letter or quick note. I know he'd love to hear from ya'll. His address is found on the right-hand side of this blog.

---------------------------------------
Hey, all! 

Sorry it's been a while. I'm alive! I'm happy. 

I said goodbye to Espaillat and said hello to Los Solares. We have the best empanada shack this side of the Rio Ozama and life's good.

Los Solares is different. There's less concrete and more cows. It's so much calmer. We no longer have to avoid dark streets, so that's nice. We have church in a garage, so that's a bit of a downgrade, but the house makes up for it. It's very open, and we can do things like play baseball with bottle caps and brooms. And soccer. And. Cough. icehockeyWAITWHAT? Also, we still have a cockroach problem, but we're a little bit better at managing it here. In Espaillat, we used shoes. Here, every missionary is issued a pump bottle of mosquito repellent. Of FLAMMABLE mosquito repellent. It's the moment. Ten PM. Pretty quiet. All of a sudden, we hear a yell, "CUCARACHA!!!" In two seconds flat, you have a stampede of missionaries rampaging about in their underwear, striking matches and whooping like a band of eighteenth century Comanche riders. Haha we go to TOWN.

My new companion is Elder Zetina. He's Mexican. We both crack each other up and the work is a blast. His English isn't amazing, but I'm working on it with him. I'm teaching him how to speak with a Utah accent (a positively essential skill) and it gets me every time. We were walking one time, not really talking, when all of a sudden, his face lit up and he said with a heavy Mexican accent, "Hey, I'm La'in. Oh! Excoose me. Eet's jost my ahccent from Jutah." He's a good cook, but apparently he missed the day in school when they taught us that while we eat many parts of a pig, we don't eat their ears. (pics below) Naw, but I love the kid. Although I found out the other day that he's a Pepsi man. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The other day, I had one of those Oh moments. We were walking. It was hot. I had a popsicle. However, we must've done something to upset the missionary dryness Gods or something because one second it was sunny and the next, I tell you what, the heavens opened up and dumped half the Carribean on our heads. We were fairly soaked. My companion stopped below a little overhang to call an investigator to ask if he was home. There wasn't much room outside, so I just stood there, enjoying my popsicle. Then, behind me, I heard giggling. I looked back and saw two little Dominican girls covering their mouths. I looked around, searching for what was so funny. And then it hit me. It's not every day you see a short, squat Mexican and a big old babyfaced gringo in a tie and nametag standing in the middle of a busy intersection in the freezing rain, so wet there are literally little streams of water flowing down their faces. Eating a popsicle. Oh.

We were walking through the street a few days ago when Elder Zetina suddenly stopped next to a plant I'd never seen before. He picked off a tiny little red seed looking thing and said, "Hey, Johnson, try this." I looked at it skeptically. "Go on," he encouraged, "It's muy bien!" So I popped it. I chewed thoughtfully. And then Satan himself punched me right in the mouth. I said something. I don't rightly recollect exactly what it was. I think it was something to the effect of "AAAAUGGHRUGHGUXXUIEJAOE!!!!!" He'd given me a Carribean pepper. It's the size of a fingernail shaving. And for the next hour and a half, the very flames of Hell scoured my tongue. Zetina, that heartless scumbag, laughed until he cried. After I finally got it out, he kept laughing. "Ai mi madre! Creo que no hay mas placer in ésta vida que ver un gringo con picante!" 

TRANSLATION: "Ai my mother! I think there is little more pleasure in this life than to see a gringo with a spicy pepper in his mouth!"

He laughed about it the next day. And the next. In fact, he's reading this over my shoulder and laughing about it right now.

So that's me! Thanks to everyone for everything you all do! Life's good here and I hope it's all good back in Utah too.

Nos vemos,
Elder Johnson

Jury is still out. March 2, 2015

Dallin wrote today that he has felt the prayers on his behalf and has been grateful for the strength he has received from them. However, he is still not feeling well. They will do another evaluation tomorrow. Thank you everyone for your prayers. God bless you all.