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.
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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??

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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.

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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.

Thank you for your prayers February 26, 2015

Dear Friends and Family,

There have been no new updates for us, which kind of is driving us crazy, but no news is probably good news at this point. I want you all to know how very much we appreciate your love and prayers on his behalf. 

There is no way that so many people could be praying for him and not have an effect. I have felt a comfort that is unique and I know it is because of your prayers.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Janell

Please Pray for Dallin February 23, 2015

Dear Friends and Family,

We would like to ask a special request of you all. 

Dallin is struggling, we don't know why. We are very worried about him, but there are no answers at this time.

We want to ask you all to please pray for him, and if you can, fast for him. He needs divine support and we know that our faith and prayers can help him to heal.

We will keep you posted.

Thank you. Your prayers and faith are deeply appreciated.

Janell "Mama J" and Lyle Johnson

Why the heck do we say the H in Hainamosa? February 16, 2015

DISCLAIMER: Not for the faint of heart... :D
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Happy late Valentine's Day! While all of you were out on the town with your spouses and girlfriends, I was locked in a smelly Dominican apartment with two other dudes upon whose immediate singleness rests the fate of their eternal soul. We ate. We drank. We laughed. We had a good time. In fact, we barely missed Valentine's Day. There's a word for that. Hang on..... What is it? Oh yes..... BROOOOMMANCE!!!!!!!!! And companionship.

This email is forever and a day long. Extra points to whoever reads it all.

Cesar's on a Tuesday

Being a couple of white guys walking around the Dominican ghetto, you get catcalled a lot. Whether it be thugs or Jezebels, it's the life of a glorious American specimen such as myself. The other day, though, it was different. I was walking down the street when this guy points at me and starts hissing, "Silla! Silla!!!!" I was fairly taken aback. Silla means chair. I don't let just ANYONE call me a chair. I was rolling up my sleeves and getting ready for it to go down when my comp bumped me and said, "He's not saying silla, he's saying CIA. He thinks you work for the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA's trying to take over the Republic, don'tcha know." Oh. Well. Okay. I cocked my head. I smiled. And on we went. So hey. If my career as a professional peacracker ends up going down the toilet, I can be a CIA stunt double in cheap Dominican soap operas.

I've finally decided I don't mind singing in Dominican congregations. Okay, maybe we aren't motab, but hey, it's easy- you can pick your favorite key and fit in just the same. :)

So I'm gonna tell a story. It's a throwback story from my time with Elder Miller.

It was a Monday. I had nothing going on on a Monday. Miller and I were finishing up a lesson with a lady named Alexandria. It was a little after nine o'clock- time to go home. We said the prayer, said our goodbyes, and stepped out onto the street. No sooner had my foot touched the pavement when I was suddenly and entirely overwhelmed by an uncomfortably familiar feeling. Pressure, one might say. I had to go. This wasn't some passive old, "Oh, find me a bush and give me two seconds" kind of have to go either. I'm talking defcon-four-close-the-blast-doors-the-kraken-is-about-to-be-released kind of have to go. Alexandria lives on the corner of the area. We were twenty minutes from the house.

My face knotted into a frown. "Oh," I said. I suppose I might have thought of something a little better. But I wasn't really sure how to adequately express the bacterial water polo taking place in my intestines. Miller looked at me. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Miller," I said, "I'm not sure how to tastefully say this. But. Um. We should. Oh. We should get to the house. Like. Bathroom. Now."

So off we went. It was up and down, but I was feeling strong. We were gonna make it. I could feel it. And then, we heard a call. "Elderes!" I look up, and there was the wife of the Elder's Quorum president. We stopped. I looked at her. I smiled painfully. And she started talking. And talking. And talking. It took us five minutes to shake her off. Five minutes is a span of time that is very short when you're snowboarding or playing laser tag or possibly making out. I was not doing any of those things. I felt the first year of my mission go rolling off my face in a cold sweat. But at last we shook her and moved on.

We made good progress, and soon, I could see the corner where we would turn to go to the house. I was holding up alright. We were golden. And then I heard a call. "Elderes!" I looked over my shoulder, and there was one of our progressing less active members. My eyes widened. I felt my heart sink through my shoes. I loved the guy, but couldn't he see that I was in DIRE STRAITS?! Dang it, Carlos!!! GOSHDANGIT!!!!!! I was not okay. But I took a deep breath. In fact, I took two. And I smiled. We only took two minutes to put an appointment with him, but I could practically see the timer to the end of my dignity thundering down to all-naughts. Those were two minutes I did not have to spend.

We turned the corner, and there was the house. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the keys. With shaking hands, I opened the first lock when we heard a shout. "Elderes!!" I looked over. It was the bishop. Now. I love the bishop. I strongly suspect he had something important to say. But there comes a time in every man's life when he needs to give up immediate concerns and follow his heart. Which heart, incidentally, was in the process of flaming into a burning conflagration of animalistic terror. I left the bishop behind and hauled up the stairs. I pulled out the door key, stuck it into the lock, and twisted it viciously.

And then. Something happened. Right there.

Before my eyes. The key. That half ounce of brass. It twisted off. And broke in the lock. Cold fear swelled within me. I slowly turned around, and my eyes met Miller's. I looked at him. I looked at the sky. I looked down. I figured I was probably about to die. I carefully considered my options for last words. I threw my head back. "NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I howled. I proceeded howling, using very polite invectives. It was over. My fate was sealed. I knew my limits. I could feel the pressure reaching critical mass. It was time. I had no more rational thoughts within me. My eyes wildly swept the porch, looking for anything. ANYTHING. And there, I saw the washing machine. I looked at it. I looked real hard. I steeled myself for ultimate indignity.

And then Barlow and Areas showed up with a back-up key, and this story became the story of how I ALMOST had to think of an appropriate euphemism for leaving a dark load in a washing machine.

Anyway, as the subject line suggests, I'm being special transferred. Elder Lora finished his mission, and there aren't enough missionaries to send me a new companion. So they're sending me from Espaillat to Los Solares, an area in the zone Hainamosa.

To be completely honest, I'm not happy about this transfer. Not one bit. They put me in a trio with Barlow and Froude, and we were having a fantastic time. They even told us we'd be together indefinitely. Indefinitely ended up meaning four days. Now they're shipping me off in the middle of a transfer to go be with my fourth zone leader companion. Taking me out of an area just when we're started to see the fruits of two transfers' labors. No. I'm not at all happy. But there it is. There are a lot of things I'll miss.

On the bright side, since I'm leaving tomorrow, I can finally send the sketchy stats I've been keeping track of. Mom, you may still want to cover your eyes. So, as it turns out, Espaillat B is one of the most dangerous areas in the mission. We live in the armpit of the capital. In my two and a half transfers here, I've been in two traffic collisions. I've seen two people get hit by cars. We have been followed by thugs seven times. I've watched three stabbings, two shootings, and had one run-in with the Dominican Mafia. We've received several dozen death threats and people have attempted to rob us twice, albeit unsuccessfully. Oh, and I suppose I did once get sideswiped by a four year old on a bike.

Oddly enough, I'll miss that too.

But of course, the thing I'll miss the most is the people. It's bizarre how much I love people who I've only been working with for four months, but I do. I really do.

First, the missionaries. Elder Froude is a crazy kid and has cracked me up a few times. 



Elder Barlow came and saved my life. I would probably be lying in a Dominican psychiatric hospital if he hadn't come along and helped me get through my training. A couple of Barlow quotes. One- "The pain of discipline is less than the pain of regret." And two, he told me that the word "bloody" was a swear word. I said no, bloody is only a swear word for the British, and dang it, we're AMERICAN. And Barlow threw his agenda down on the table and shouted, "NO! That's like saying that porn made in England isn't porn in America!!!!" Haha yeah. That's Elder Barlow. 

And of course, the Dominicans themselves. We have Francisco. He's our ward mission leader. He's a convert of four years. The missionaries then actually contacted his brother, but when they went to his house, his brother wasn't there, so the missionaries asked if they could teach Francisco. Francisco agreed, and in a matter of months, left smoking, drinking, and his girlfriend in order to be baptized. Today, he's one of the most devoted members you'll ever meet.

Then, we have Wilson. He's an investigator who actually contacted us. We were walking past a colmado one night when a roaring drunk came up to us and said in slurred English, "Hey, you all are man of God?" We told him we were and he said, "Hey, come by my house. I want to change my life." The first two times we did, he was still absolutely smashed, breaking out in random tirades and swearing in English. We actually wanted to drop him. But something told us to go back that third time. We did. We went back to visit a man being crushed under the pressure of a bad relationship, a horrid boss, and a crippling alcohol addiction. That was December. Here we are in February. Wilson is now a man with a stable romantic life who is his own boss, working out of his house, and making a pretty penny doing it. He hasn't touched alcohol since December 23, and he's got a baptismal date for the 28th of this month. I leave his house after every lesson with a smile the size of Pakistan.

We then have Walescak. She's the most spiritually in tune person I've ever met. Her husband is actually an inactive member, but they've never gone to church, read the Book of Mormon, or even discussed the doctrine of the church. She'd never even heard of the word of wisdom, but after the first lesson we had with her in which we talked exclusively about prophets and the restoration, she just decided to give up coffee and alcohol. She didn't know why. She said that it just felt right. She and her family have seen incredible growth in love in the household and success in their respective jobs. When I said goodbye to their family last night, she started crying and that made me want to cry but I couldn't because crying's not really one of my strong suits and I felt like a total jerk for it.


Beyond that, I'll miss fighting with the owner of the Colmado across the street. I'll miss our crotchety old landlady, America, and our second floor apartment. I'll miss our neighbors, who smoke so much hookah that you just walk in front of their house and come out smelling like an Alabama blueberry plantation.

Dang it all, I'm just gonna miss Espaillat.

But such is life. The road goes ever on. And on for me right now means Hainamosa. So. Hobey ho.
Love,
Johnson