Full Circle June 29, 2015

On Friday, I went back to Espaillat for the first time since they kicked me out in February. It was a beautiful experience, and all the pieces were there.

There was Elder Tillmond, who's been my favorite district leader that I've had, Elder Hutchins, who was the first missionary I met in the airport, Elder Barlow, who is the first missionary I ever looked up to as a bastion of spiritual strength, and a whole slew of other missionaries who've served in Santo Domingo and Hainamosa, my two zones. There was Wilson, who made pants for me, Fransisco, who's mah boy, and a whole bunch of member friends who I left behind.

But most of all, there was Walescak. Walescak and her family were the one family I left behind who made me feel like all of the frustration and struggle I went through in Espaillat was worth it. Last week, she and her husband were legally married, and on Friday, she was baptized, tying her entire family together in the gospel. Words can't describe how much I love these people.

I'm not even going to try.

Humbly yours and love always,

Elder Dallin Lyle Johnson

Pianic Panic June 22, 2015

Ah. What a week. There are some weeks where you can't believe how fast it went. Other weeks when you can't believe you survived to P-Day. And some weeks when you can't even think of a salutory paragraph for your email. So. Uh. Spiritual experiences. Piano. Whatever. Let's get on with it.

"Hey, Manny, what should we do with the bathtub?"
"Aw, just throw her up in the tree."
"Arright."

So as none of you are aware, I am once again the ward pianist. This will likely be something I have to deal with for the rest of my mission. Almost every chapel has a piano in one form or another, and almost no chapel has a pianist in one form or the other. See, you know that part of your brain that allows you to count to four and not be tone-deaf? Yeah, Dominican Mormons don't have that. So, it's left to me. I knew it would be. But I won't lie. I tried to hide the fact that I play the piano at first. It wasn't shame over my ability- I'm no Elder Barlow (although I regularly kicked his amorphous posterior at Egyptian Rat Catcher) but I can get through just about any hymn outside of that old passive-aggressively rhythmed Commie fave, "Far, Far Away on Judea's Plains." No, the problem is the kids.

As a general rule, I like kids. I think they're adorable. I admire their courage. If they wanna strip down and start throwing dirt at each other in the streets, they don't worry about silly things like "arrest warrants" and "cavity searches". They just do it. I think their innocent curiosity is as endearing as it is fatal. I look forward to the day when I'm- well. The day when I'm not scared out of my mind to be a pappy. As a person, I really love kids. 

As a pianist, I hate them. I hate them from the deepest depths of my soul. They come up to you in the middle of sacrament meeting and start pressing buttrons (I have no idea what a buttron is. It was actually a typo, but it looked funny, so I left it there. Deal.) on the keyboard console and hitting random keys while you're playing hymns. Everyone's looking at you like you're a total idiot and then you realize they can't see the devil spawn because it's three feet tall. Since apparently parenting here is more of an idea than an actual thing, I asked the bishop what I should do. He told me I can take care of it however I want. Great advice, but unfortunately, punching a 3-year-old in the face is one of the less appropriate things a missionary can do. Alas. This is my life.

Anyhow, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was on the program as the pianist for stake conference. Now, obviously this was no big deal for a salty old veteran such as myself. I mean, there'd only be the stake presidency. Their wives. The temple president. President Corbitt. Their wives. Two seventies.Their wives. The entire zone. Their. Um. Investigators. Well over a thousand other people besides. Okay. I'll admit it. I felt a little bit of pressure. But naturally, I'm Dallin flippin' Johnson. So, I took a deep breath. Found my happy place. And I played that piano. I don't mean to brag, but I must've nailed almost half the notes. Ha. Ha. 

Yeah, I crumbled magnificently. Things I've done comfortably since I was ten years old were an impenetrable enigma to me. I couldn't sight read. I forgot what a second ending was and how to use it. There was a moment in which I was somehow literally reading both hands in tenor clef. The choir sounded better in the parts where I wasn't playing (and considering the abovementioned general skill level of our choir, this sort of boggles the mind). And for the piece de resistánce, one of the overhead fans kicked up a scant hurricane during the instrumental solo part of Come Thou Fount and blew my sheet music off the piano, forcing me to drop out and leaving the violinist- who had eight months playing the violin and absolutely no idea how to improvise- to improvise. It was like watching your sister getting kissed. Awkward. Painful to watch. Slightly disturbing. Definitely could've gone better. I could go on.

Um...yah. I can climb it. Watch me.

Needless to say, when the final amen was said, I was ready to bounce. Unfortunately, just as I was about to make my escape, the stake secretary stopped me and informed me that I had to play a postlude. Now you gotta understand. I was exhausted. My brain was fried. My butt was profoundly sore. My body was literally shaking because I was so frazzled. But. I propped on the toothiest smile I could manage and said, "That sounds dandy." And I started playing the postlude. And then. I had the greatest moment of my life.

There I was. Me. The piano. The postlude. Only slightly more humiliated than the time I walked into the girls bathroom at Rice-Eccles Stadium. Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and found myself face to face with Elder Hugo E. Martinez. Of the Seventy. He smiled at me and said (in English), "Thank you, Elder Johnson. It really makes a difference." Um, so yeah. I've had some pretty decent moments in my time. Finishing my public education. Being born was a pretty epic moment in history (although it probably sucked at the time). Being named Outdoor Skills director. Breaking the Bridger Elementary school record for pages read in a year (by an 8000+ page margin #....boss?). But a Seventy. Heard my piano-playing. And called it difference-making. Posterity's in for a rude shock if they think their births are gonna mean jack squat to me now.

In other music news, Elder Tillmond and I had a singoff with Ventura and Carter. We started with old missionary classics like Eye of the Tiger and Call Me Maybe, moved onto Adele, and put the nail in the coffin with my favorite hymn, the Pokemon theme. Haha when we left, the downstairs neighbor jokingly told us she thought we were torturing cats. That must've been during the falsetto verse of Thrift Shop. Nyaha some might say Tillmond and I carried it too far, but let it never be said we aren't willing to put forth the effort when a completely empty, meaningless victory that doesn't even come with bragging rights is at stake.

In more serious news, we had three baptisms. Pictures are attached, but it's only half the family and I already spent too much time with the upper stuff, so you get the story next week when the rest of the family gits 'er done.

Love,

Dallin

Journaling in the Face of Entropy June 15, 2015

Happy Monday, all ye who somehow still read these nine months later! Yes, yes, it's almost practically official. You could have had a slightly premature baby in the time I've been gone. Or grown 5 inches of beard hair. Or cooked 18144 boxes of Western Family Cheesy Mac Dinner. Or successfully filled out form 153667B at the DMV. It's been a crazy ride up 'til now and it's bordering on just about all downhill from here. Everyone- we're kind of virtually at nine months.

First, in heartwarming news, my journal has been saved! Sure, the pages are a little gluey and ink-smeared, but praise be, it's readable! The only downside is that the receipts and such that I done stuck between the pages got wiped clear. I reckon it could be worse, but now. My posterity. Those curmudgeonly little sweet chucks. How are they gonna be able to take my word for it that I went to Burger King on November 10?

Speaking of which, it struck me this week that there's only one real downside to growing up in a strong Mormon family. If you do something immature or stupid, it will be remembered for time and all eternity. There are eight people in my family, and you already know that SOMEONE wrote it in their journal.

What happens when you nap in
 the day time in an apartment of  guys.

I had to talk in church this week. Considering that I had about five minutes to prepare, it was pretty good. That consideration aside, it was fracking awful. I got up and got out before they started throwing coconuts. Mission problems, I tell you what.

We had a dinner with an investigator family, the Muñozes, this week. They have this thing with always putting music on when we visit. That may sound distracting, but it's actually good. See, there's telling the story of the First Vision, and then there's telling the story of the First Vision with a heavenly choir of angels singing choruses of jubilee and glory in the background. So we showed up for the dinner and they were like, "Hey, let's put some music on," and we were like, Sick! The dad, Moses, went over and searched something on YouTube. I have to interject here- it's usually his wife who does the searching. She is an excellent speller. Moses.... not quite so overburdened with the ability to spell. He writes you a note and you're like, "What IS this? Who would do such a thing to this poor piece of paper?? Ventura! Dang it, Ventura, what did you do with my Urim and Thummim?!?!" The only recognizable word in his search was Mormón. YouTube evidently took that to mean HATE. DESTROY. FORWARD THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO TO YOUR FRIENDS. Whatever he'd searched had brought up a list of anti-Mormon videos discussing topics that are bad for people who've only finished the first two lessons, including, but not limited to, polygamy, the Mountain Meadows Massacre, and lizard people (that's not a Mormon doctrine, by the by. We do not. DO. NOT. Believe in lizard people. Except for Bossk, but only because he's Bossk). After a fortuitous lollapalooza in which his wife ignited the frying chicken on the stove with an explosion that would've put a flashbang to shame, Ventura took advantage of the resulting chaos and covertly took the route of least evil. We ended up with a clip of the Book of Mormon musical. Total apostasy, sure, but apostasy in not-Spanish and Moses liked the dancing anyway. He is also now under the impression that Neil Patrick Harris is a Mormon. Eh. Take what you can get, I reckon.

A thought. Before the mission, I had this notion that I was going to go on a mission, fix some of the fatal habits I'd since developed, and then I was gonna come back, study, and then I would grab life by the horns and through blood, sweat, and hard work, I'd leave a Mark On the World. This (or at least the idea) is a pretty common thought. People talk all the time about how they want to leave something that humanity will remember them by for all of existence. I myself at one point had a personal motto of "The goal is not to live forever. The goal is to create something that will." However, I have since come to a different understanding.

I am never going to leave a mark on the world. Neither are you. Neither is anyone else. One of the defining characteristics of our mortal existence is that everything here is temporary. Our lives flare up and then pass away. Our mortal bodies decay. The things we built in this life crumble and eventually fade. In time, the very memory that we once walked this earth with shrivel up and disappear. Even with the existence of eternal life, I propose that God does not read Shakespeare nor does He particularly care about whether Conan O'Brien or Jay Leno hosted the Not-At-All-Early Show. Our temporal works are all eventually fated to be worth exactly nothing.

That sounds bleak, but understand- this is not restricting or fatalistic, nor is it a Bad Thing. It is liberating. When we realize that our economic status or level of fame or whatever we had in this life means absolutely nothing, we begin to see more clearly what  does matter.

I submit that the only things that we have in this life that matter are our relationships with people. Our families. Our friends. Our Heavenly Father. See, when we die, we'll have nothing of fame and Ferraris. What we'll have is each other. In a world where everything will eventually fall prey to entropy, souls endure.

So don't get caught up in the strangling web of temporal problems. Don't worry so much about whether your dream is stupid or not. Write a letter. Take the time. Don't participate in petty backbiting and gossip. Help a stranger. Be there for your family. Inspire someone to be better. This is the only chance you'll get to be this kind of a brother, son, or father (I swear that's not sex bias, I'm just writing from a male perspective. Stick the female equivalents in if it bugs you) so make the most of it.  And make your Heavenly Father proud.

Have fun. Do hard things. And stay safe.

Rock it like a wagon wheel,

Dallin

The sisters from Paco left their phone at Carlos's baptism last week.
We gave it back, but not before setting this little nugget of joy as the background.

Six Down, Seven to go June 1, 2015

Transfer six is over. Last night, we received our transfer orders for number seven. In a sweeping move almost as exciting as the life of your typical Idaho sugar beet, they're sending me to Los Solares with Elder Ventura as my

companion! Let the peasants rejoice!!!! Wait. Los Solares? You mean to tell me. I'm here for a fourth transfer? Are you barmy? I'm gonna spend a quarter of my mission in Los goshdang Solares?!! AARXGHHBLGTH!!!.... Huh? What was that? We have seven baptisms scheduled for the month of June? Oh right! Yeah! Let the peasants rejoice!!!! :)

We're gonna get depressing news out of the way first. We woke up on Saturday morning to discover that our house had flooded. There was a huge rainstorm during the night and water had come in through the open windows, leaving about an inch and a half of water on the floor. There was no real damage to the house. The floors are tile and carpet is a distant dream that'll have to wait until August 2016. But. I'd left my journal on the floor by my bed. When I picked it up, it was a swollen, smeary brick of sadness. I think that was probably the closest I've come to crying on my mission. Ah. But in the words of Jonah and the Whale, L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.

In happier water news, we had another baptism, a fine gentleman named Carlos! This one was the fastest baptism I've ever had. Two weeks ago, this random dude we'd never seen before showed up in church. We actually thought he was a member all through the first hour. But then, he came up to us and the conversation went about like this:

Carlos: Hey, what do I have to do to serve a mission?

Us: Talk to your bishop. He'll get you started.

Carlos: I don't have a bishop. I'm not a member of your church.

Us: Really? How long have you been talking to the missionaries then?

Carlos: Never have. I don't know anything about your church, really. I was just playing dominos with my neighbor, who's a Mormon, and I just got curious about your church so I went to an activity and now I want to get baptized and serve a mission. 

Us: Uh....

Carlos: Can you guys teach me?

Us: CAN WE EVER!!

He's the bomb. We had to teach him fast because he's twenty-four and turns twenty-five this week. If we hadn't baptized him last Saturday, he wouldn't have been able to serve a mission. It wasn't easy. He asked a ton of questions, but they were good questions, and he didn't fight the promptings of the spirit. With all due respect to Walescak from Espaillat, I think it's fair to say that he was the most spiritually receptive and intelligent person I've ever taught, bar none. It was a testimony-builder if ever I had one and whatever mission the man serves in will be lucky to have him.

So that was a thing. Kinda slow week overall, though. Congrats to Ryan for graduating high school. Have yourselves a lovely week, all.

Still kicking,

Elder Johnson

 Zetina sent me this picture because it was his dream to milk a cow. Hey. Some people've got being an astronaut or slaying Bowser. Some people have got extricating lactosy liquids from bovine udders. Don't hate.

Rainy Days and Change May 25, 2015

Welp. I officially turned eight months old yesterday. So yeah, that happened. In other news, I counted some steps, thought about life, and kneaded some dough. The excitement never ceases out here in Los Solares. Haha that sounds sarcastic, but seriously, it was a good week :)

Some short highlights. We saw a guy eat it hardcore on a motorcycle, and I'm not talking about a tostada. We hurried over, lifted up the guy's motorcycle, and did. Well. Literally nothing else. The guy was fine and really didn't need any help. But like a couple of givers, we picked up his motorcycle anyway. I'm not saying we should be beatified or anything, but I mean, if you can win the Nobel Peace Prize for someone else electing you president.... Haha sorry-we-shouldn't-make-political-jokes. We also had a dumpling dinner with investigators in which I was in charge of kneading the dough. It reminded me that of all the muscles in my body, I'm most proud of my forearms. If that strikes you as odd, it's probably because a) you are not a pianist b) you are not big on being a dumpling kneader or c) you are a normal human being. Thank heaven, I suffer from none of these maladies. 

We also currently have ten baptismal dates. Yes. Ten. Diez. 10.

One of our investigators, Rayni, in the rain. We love Rayni.

Out here, we do it like we do.

Speaking of which, Ventura wasn’t terribly happy about me announcing his 6-3 Five Crowns loss, and this whole week, he’s been a man with a purpose. He challenged me night after night, growing so frustrated he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. He never actually did, though, because, well, the walls are solid cinderblock and he weighs in at a whopping 110 lbs. But it’s true. I can’t deny it. Saturday night, in a contest that wouldn’t have been inappropriate in the Roman Colosseum, I got hosed in the round of queen, where I got dealt almost exclusively doubles and Ventura laid out on the second opportunity. I fell, 101-93, on stakes of an empanada and public shaming. And that’s not a bet, that’s a justified exchange. Yes. I lost. Only took him eleven tries. Nyahaha.

Anyway, as Elder Ventura and I were walking home from the gym this morning, I found myself thinking about how transient we-and the lives we live-are. And what a blessing that is.

Allow me to expound. People do this thing. We have a tendency to think that we're some end product, the result of all of our life experiences added up, and now, we're us. Whether or not we are consciously aware of the fact that hey, EVERYONE changes, we always see ourselves in the moment, like we've walked a long road and here we are at the end, cheerfully (or not-so-cheerfully) being us. 

More specifically, there's this mindset that what we've done up to whatever point we're at right now has set or is currently setting the course of our lives. I remember in high school, everyone was always like, oh, you better get good grades and always be in class because if not, it'll go on your "permanent record", whatever that means (as if the mortician is gonna carve a dunce cap on my headstone when he finds out I sluffed 11th grade English!) and those things are gonna decide the course of your life. And now they're telling you to be very careful of where and what you study because those things are going to decide the course of your life. You already know that when you graduate college, they'll keep telling you to be careful of where you start your career and how you start to build your family, because those things are going to decide the course of your life. They make it out like every choice and its grandma are gonna determine the course of your life.

Well I call baloney. Maybe they'll affect the path you take, but they will not decide your ultimate destination. The course of your life is not a constant, unchanging thing any more than you as a person are some fixed point at the end of a straight line. The person you are right now is not the person you have to be, nor is it the person you WILL be. It's silly when people act like things are always gonna be the way they are now because they aren't. Life is full of beginnings and ends, and as long as you are alive, the course of your life isn't ever fixed.

The application? There is a power inside every one of us, and it doesn't matter how far down the road of life you are, you still have it. This power is the power to change. Whether you're fifteen or fifty, the sum of your past actions will never be something you can't rise above. If you've lived poorly and want to live better, you can. If you think you've lived well enough and can't really get better, you're wrong. We will be able to change the course of our lives as long as we live. However we've lived. Good or bad. We can do better. Always. And that. That is a great hope.

Love,

Dallin

P.S. It rained a smidge.

A Parenthetic Week -- May 18, 2015

I love contemplation. In my experience, it's one of the things that colors in the tiny spaces in life (that and crayons). The best contemplation comes when fueled by actual life happenings, in my opinion. Between comings, goings, conflicts, resolves, the fact that my mission is a third over, and the people in this zone still getting debilitating maladies, color abounds. So it goes (‪#‎vonnegut‪#‎dopeoplestillhashtag?).

First, a reminder that there are few simple pleasures in life as delightful as finding fifty pesos after centrifugating your laundry.

So I ran into a Dominican dude (Go figure. Dominicans in this neck of the world) in the internet cafe named Joe who spoke English. I was paying for my computer when he struck up a conversation. It went something like this:

Joe: Are you from the States?
Me: Yeah.
Joe: What part?
Me: Utah. It's in the west. A long way from New York.
Joe: Seriously? I lived in Utah!
Me: What? No way!! No one's lived in Utah!
Joe: I did a study abroad program at a university in a city called Logan. Have you ever heard of it?
Me: Have I ever!! I'm FROM Logan!!!
Joe: Are you kidding me?! Holy crap! This is so crazy! I studied at USU! I'm a True Aggie!
Me: Oh my gosh! I- Okay, I admittedly hate the Aggies on principle, but I'm a TA too!!!!
Joe: WHAAAA-??
Me: WHAAA-??

By the time we finished, I was a drooling puddle of trunkiness, but what an animated chat we had. Like. We were both literally yelling because we were so excited and all of the other patrons were looking at us like. "Um."

Some of the highlights from the week: We joined forces with a Catholic lady old enough to remember the Sack of Rome in order to lovingly annihilate a Mormon who was contentiously confused about some of the finer points of the Fall. I taught Ventura how to play Five Crowns, which resulted in an hour long bloody rooftop deathmatch (we take otherwise gentle card games very seriously in my family) with an insane 6-3 finish with, of course, yours truly taking home the W. I had an intercambio with Elder Tillmond that reminded me that although I've dearly loved my companions, I haven't lived with an English speaker since February. One of the (decidedly luckless) elders in our zone, having just fully recovered from dengue, is now suffering from a crippling infection in the Holland area (which is to say, The Netherlands) and we got to spend a day in his charming company (HAVASUPAI!) while his comp did some baptismal interviews. We also set 8 baptismal dates (!!!) ourselves.

And then one night, this guy came to the door of our house and in English was like, "Hey, I think my cat escaped into your house. Have you seen a cat in there?" Well, that's an interesting question, considering that our house is so solidly built and sealed that you could drop a nuke on it and it would defintely be obliterated, but cats aren't really an issue. "Uh. No?" The guy then proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes flapping his tongue from both ends (that's about as anatomically improbable as it sounds). His entry move was quite smooth with the cat thing and all and he had us going for a while, but we eventually discerned that contrary to all appearances, he was neither interested in the gospel nor in the welfare of his feline charge. The deceiving rogue just wanted to practice Englsh. Hmph! Some pet owner.

I got a haircut today. I should probably study up a bit on my Spanish haircutting terminology, because the guy did this thing where he cut my hair most of the way around, even paring down the sides with a straight razor (a freaking straight razor), and then did literally nothing to the top. I didn't realize it until I got home, though, and now? I look like a llama. A funky llama. And I paid a man a hundred pesos. To make me look like a funky llama.

Afterward, we headed to the chapel of Almirante to play some soccer. Soccer is a sport I haven't really played since third grade, when I played in a coed league and told my sister Maren, who reffed games, that I had a crush on one of the girls. After a season of living in constant fear that Maren would tell her (and being justifiably horrendous at soccer), I swore soccer off forever. In retrospect, that may have been a bit melodramatic, but it certainly seemed like an appropriate reaction at the time. But just as I haven't really played since I was eight, I play soccer like an eight-year-old. Against a bunch of soccer inebriated Central-South Americans. It was. Hm. To use a phrase of my pappy's, I was about as handy as a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. It was bad.

Anyhow, in eight months, I've seen a lot of faces. The mission life is one that in most respects is a very constant experience. But the faces. The faces change. Whether it be your companion, housemates, district, zone, or what have you, people come and go. You get used to it pretty quick. But this week is a little different. You see, this week, my dad goes home. No, no, I'm not talking about the father of my mother's children, who is the dignified-looking gentleman with the tomahawk. That's my pappy. No, I'm talking about my trainer (in the mission, your trainer is your "dad"). Oh aye. In just two days, Elder Miller goes home.

The character in this photo is 
fictitious and any resemblance to 
actual living persons is 

purely coincidental.

On my first day in the field, we were all gathered in the chapel in Gazcue, trainees seated on the left, trainers on the right. No one knew who their companion would be. I remember looking over, wondering who I'd be put with and praying with a fervency that would've impressed Enos that whoever I got, he'd speak English. And then, President Corbitt said, "Elder Johnson, meet Elder Miller." And so my training started with an awkward hug (only slightly more awkward than the time I hugged Maren's friend Alyssa Hoggan and told her I loved her while on wisdom tooth drugs). We sat down and I asked where he was from. In a rapidfire Sanpete County accent, he said, "I'm-from-Manti-Utah-84642-where-the-cattle-roam." Boy did he speak English!

Miller was an impatient guy. He'd call the other elders when they were late and be like, "Hey, where are you?!" and then hang up in the middle of their answer because he got bored of listening. "They got the idea," he'd say (and to be fair, they did). One time, he and an old companion were looking for something in a department store and asked an employee where they could find it. After ten whole seconds of following him, Miller turned around and walked away. "Hey, where are you going??" his comp called. "That guy is clearly going in the wrong direction!" he cried. And oof! Baby hungry. He was always like, "Johnson, look at that kid. He's so cute! How much d'you reckon I'd hafta pay for him?" And every time we'd pass some half-destroyed pile of slag on wheels, he'd nudge me and be like, "Dude. That would be a dope derby car." He also got me saying words like dope.

I've shared a lot of bigger memories in previous emails, but I think I'll remember even more the little moments. Him lighting the kitchen trash on fire. The day we finally made cookies (we set that as a goal in companionship study eleven consecutive weeks before actually doing it). Talking in abysmal British accents. Writing his BYU essays. Him scrapping them and peacing out to Snow College to play basketball. Osorio interrupting his showers. Having our mob run-in. How on the days when I was visibly unhappy, he'd make me a triple decker PB and J and even though I'm not a huge fan, it'd always make me feel better. And of course when on the final day of my training, he passed on to me, his only son, the family tie.

Yes, we had good times. Jokes, crazy people, laughs, spiritual vittlins and the like. We had bad times. Famine, sickness, death in the family, cockroaches, Tusken Raiders. We saw it all. Kind of. Went through it all together. Whether or not we wanted to. And I dunno if I left much of an impression on him, but he sure left an impression on me. So as with all phases of life, that which begins must inevitably end. For now, I stay here and he goes home. Maybe we'll meet again. Maybe we won't. I don't know. But I can hope we will. So until then, even though the man will probably never read this because, well, he never much liked to read, good luck! Send me an invite in three months when you get engaged! Love you bro!

And I love all you other peoples as well.

Love (for the third time),
Elder Dallin Johnson

P.S. We found the cup hat thingie in the bathroom at Darlin's baptism. See, Lady Gaga? I can do it too.

Of Words and Wookies May 4, 2015

Well I'll be! I woke up one day this week, and hey, whaddya know? It's May. Holy cats. It was a good week! Here in the Outer Rim, we drank us some nonalcoholic wine, took out the trash, and yes- had a baptism. Not bad for seven days.

For the first time since I got here back in late February, amen, hallelujah, saints-be-praised, the house is clean! We'd already gotten it mostly disinfectatated, but there was still a veritable boatload of garbage upon our porch. The garbage truck only comes by once every week or two and you've gotta carry all your trash out to it by hand. Ventura and I were both in the middle of throwing our gladrags on when it finally rolled through on P-Day. It wasn't exactly the GOAT of moments, but there is a law, possibly declared in heaven, that says that when a 300-pound Dominican with a mustache that would make Ron Swanson shed a tear comes by and says you have roughly four seconds to get your trash out, you don't wait until you're in your Sunday best. In retrospect, we must've looked patently ridiculous. Two Mormon missionaries in white shirts, ties, gym shorts, and flip flops sprinting after a rapidly disappearing garbage rig, each carrying his body weight in trash. But goofy getups or no, success was had!

Naturally, the second we got home, the phone rang and Elder Aquino (one of the fellows who do finances and such) about sent me into heart palpitations when he told us we were gonna hafta move to another house with two other elders. You know what's in that house? One tig, one flech, one answer- aw HECK no!!! Luckily, the stable living conditions gods smiled upon us and the moving was indefinitely postponed. I've never been so happy to get two consecutive calls from the office in my life.

Birthday Cake Oreos

Also, this last Wednesday, it was Elder Ventura's birthday. 21 years old. Viejito. Being the totally awesome companion that I am, I decided to throw him a surprise birthday party. Kooky idea, right? WRONG. Try planning a surprise birthday party for someone who you have to be with 24-7 on pain of your eternal soul. It's a rough time. But! Never let it be said that I'm not willing to scratch and cheat. I bought all of the things we'd need in random pieces so that Ventura couldn't connect the dots. I made the Hayashi chicken marinade while he was asleep and paid off a member to bring me a bottle of non-alcoholic wine while he was in the shower. I made sure all the food was prepped and well hidden in the other fridge and I then smuggled our spare key to Elders Tillmond and Carter. They were the key. They cooked the food,

 set up the house, cut the lights, and waited. It was awesome! Ventura had no clue. When we got there, they burst into cheers and sang happy birthday. In English. Eh. Ventura got the idea. We had a big dinner, feasting on chicken, rice, fixins, the NA wine, Doritos, ice cream, and whatever other little knick-knacks we could find. We couldn't find ourselves a cake, but who needs a cake when you've got a package of Oreos that taste like cake? We stuck the candles on that, lost three and a half fingers to melting wax, explained how wishing on a birthday cake works, and sang again. There wasn't much in the way of presents. I gave him a tie because well, that's just sorta what missionaries get for their birthdays. Good times!

We had us a baptism! Twas a young lad by the name of Darling Patricio. It was my third in Los Solares, and even though as missionaries, we don't have favorites, he was my favorite of the three. Darling's only thirteen, and while we don't like baptizing kids, he's an exception. He's been attending church by himself for a year and a half. He taught the gospel lessons to his sisters. The kid had been preparing to serve a mission for eight months. Even though he was thirteen and unbaptized. We'd honestly just been waiting for permission from the parents. He fought for months and we did too, and then, two Tuesdays ago, he got it. We put one Saturday for the interview and one more to be baptized. The pieces all came together. It was perfect. Will of God, man. The kid's gonna be a beast in the gospel.

Anyway, as you all know, today is a P-Day. But today is a very special P-Day. You see. Today is not only P-Day, it's also May 4. And after the Fourth of July and Talk Like A Pirate Day, May 4 marks my favorite holiday. In commemoration, although it's been over 7 months since I broke out this dialect of Nerd and my Mandalorian is decidedly rusty, it is time. Females and gentlebeings, it's Star Wars Day. I'd crack a bottle of Whyren's Reserve, but the rum smugglers don't come out this far and heaven knows it's against my religion.

This morning, I was sitting in personal study, reading in Ephesians when I found my mind beginning to drift. I was contemplating how in his prime, Shaq probably could've washed down a 72-ounce beef steak with a 48-ounce nerf steak and not known the difference. Although why a man with enough iron in his blood to outfit a Separatist battalion would care what kind of meat he was eating is beyond me. It went from there until pretty soon, my mind was completely immersed in a galaxy far, far away. After about twenty minutes of me staring blankly at the wall with my tongue hanging out, Ventura coughed and said, "Uh. Johnson. Are you alright, man?" I snapped out of it and nodded. "Yeah, dude. Sorry. Just something on my mind." He shrugged. "Maybe you should study whatever's on your mind in the scriptures." Ventura. Ventura! You are a good idea MACHINE! I was on that like Luke Skywalker on a tauntaun. I whipped out the Bible and got to work.  

Is it just me, or does this Testigo Pamphlet
religious figure bear a remarkable
resemblance to Obi-Wan Kenobi?

The results? Biblical references to the Sith (Ezekiel 35:6). The prophet Joshua speaking of the land of Endor (Joshua 17:11). We even have prophetic discourse on George Lucas's casting choices when in 2 Timothy 4:11 the apostle Paul writes, "Only Luke is [left]. Take Mark [Hamill], and bring him with thee: for he is profitable to me for the ministry."

This discovery was galaxy-shattering. Life-changing. I'd always felt in my heart that Star Wars was real, but I'd always been afraid to really believe. Now, I had biblical proof. I couldn't just sit on this. I had to be sure. I leapt out of my chair with a vigor that could've disenfranchised a rancor and fairly floated to the phone. We were going straight to the top. I dialed up President Corbitt; he's the closest thing to a Jedi Master I've got. After listening to my explanation, there was a pause. Then, he said, and I quote, "It... is... so." BOOM! That was the chicken, here's a tortilla, and that's a wrap.

It's a trap,

Jedi Johnson

P.S. Many Bothans died to bring you this email

Don't hate on my kooky bifurcated lightsaber