Two Minutes Away from Being a Gypsy's Daughter

I was two minutes away from being a gypsy's daughter.

Let me explain.

One cold Toronto winter, my mom sat huddled on the bus, her mind stumbling over the accounting concepts she had just barely learned, and noticed two shiny black tags. The tags were worn by two girls, young and bright eyed, as they animated Jesus Christ and salvation with their excited hands, deep in a conversation with an indulgent Indian woman.

My mom, who could never mask her facial expressions particularly well, simply stared. The girls must have noticed and smiled. They eagerly pulled out their notebooks and asked for her phone number. My mom, who had recently awakened to her blossoming yearning for higher meaning, started reciting her familiar digits. All of a sudden, the bus pulled to a violent screech and the girls got up to go. It was their stop. They hurried off the bus, while twisting behind to catch the last of my mom's number.

The door closed with a stubborn finality. My mom shrugged. She never did finish telling them the last two digits of her number.

--

Another frustrating accounting class. Another bus ride.

This time my mom plopped down tiredly beside a large woman. The woman looked at my mom intensely and asked her if her birthday was May XX. Spot on. My mom whipped her head around, frowned, and consciously checked to see if her ID was exposed.

The large woman with the fleshy hands and the exaggerated rings ('a really gypsy type' as my mom later explained) patted her and told her to stop checking. She nonchalantly explained that she had looked into the crystal ball that morning and foresaw that she would sit next to a person that day who was born on May XX.

For the next few stops, my mom sat, spellbound, by tales of stars and tea leaves. She promised that she would make it to their large convention on divination later that week.

And she tried. Through trains, buses, crowds, she made her way uptown after class one day, racing to catch the shuttle that took everybody to the convention. She arrived, panting, just to see the bus pull out of the parking lot. Through the blue-tinted window, the gypsy woman pursed her lips and gestured resigned acceptance with her large palms face up, shaking her head at my mother who was standing pathetically on the lawn.

Two minutes. She was two minutes late.

A little down, she retraced her steps back to the temporary house she was staying in. She had barely sat down when the tired old phone rang.

Hello? Hi, we're missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Saints! Did you happen to meet some sister missionaries on a bus around a month ago and start giving them your number? Well they relocated to a different zone, but er, if you're this woman, we would love to teach you more about Jesus Christ.

There were 100 combinations of the phone numbers. There were endless number of scenarios where my mom could have missed that fateful call. There were two minutes that could have launched my mother, and our family, down a completely different path.

But God chose this particularly curious sequence of events. And that was how my mom became a Mormon.

Christmas Palooza Chinese Style

In some ways, celebrating Christmas in a largely atheist country means that you have to get creative and be prepared for the heart melting moments when somebody receives an unexpected gift and the awkward times when the first-timers take it way overboard.

One of our American interns, Kenton, suggested that we should all go caroling at a nursing home. The staff were excited and started organizing practice choirs during lunch time. And then somehow, the day before our nursing home trip, we realized that they had switched "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to a Communist song instead. "From the East rose a red sun, and his name was Mao Ze Dong. He will save our people . . . " At least they got the Christmas theme of color red right on that count.

The old people were not too impressed with our multi-part rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," but they really enjoyed it when we started handing out biscuits, bananas, and soap. They were so excited about the soap that some started eating it. The nursing home managers freaked out and confiscated the soaps. Luckily, we were not responsible for anybody's early demise. Some old people enthusiastically shared with us the stories from their glory or sad days, depending on whether they were the persecuted landlords or the uprising peasants. Others just wanted their picture taken with us and asked us to send it to their grandkids.

We also had our own Christmas party back at the office. The format was show-off-your-cooking potluck. In the ambitious spirit of Christmas, I made three apple pies the morning of, zipped up my mobile toaster oven in Lesley's gigantic suitcase and enlisted two friends to help me wheel it all the way to the office. Worst/ best idea ever.

People kept running over to turn off my oven because the pie was "getting brown." I explained that that is the point of baking but they would still sneak over to turn the dial. At the end, I just had to park myself as a guardian of the oven and conduct all my meetings there. Went home that night smelling like a pie. When it came time to eating it, people were confused. Then they figured it out. They each conjured up a pair of chopsticks (Asians, I know) and started fishing for the apple pieces through the lattice work. At the end, I had all pie, no apples.

We also did a White Elephant gift exchange at our office. A few days before the Christmas party, when I first explained to them the concept of a gag gift, the table fell silent. But this will be my first Christmas present . . . I don't want somebody's 2012 calendar. Other heads nodded in agreement. So HR came out with an official email decreeing that each present must be sparkly new, professionally wrapped, and worth at least 100 RMB. And they added more rules. Each person must be blindfolded and spun around before they reached the tree to pick their gifts. And they must pick their gifts within 5 seconds otherwise they miss out. Oh and if you wanted to steal somebody's gift, you had to complete a special mission.

It wasn't long before I figured out that all the missions had a similar theme: do something sexy. Yeah. Workplace sexual harassment is a non-existant concept here. I won't even mention my mission. Just something to do with a pole. But that nerf gun was worth it. Later in the day, an IT guy told me that he had never seen me so "womanly" before. Ha. Awkward.

Of course, the best part of Christmas was the constant reminders of what it was really about. It's not only about the wonderful nativity scenes you dressed up for or the retelling of one of the most important stories in our history. It's about being with your family and sharing what you were most grateful for this year - all made possible because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.

Nativity set for a youth activity.

One Schilling and Noe More

I picked him because his last name was Bragg. He sounded kind of gangster even though he'd been dead for more than 250 years and he was a white plantation owner from Virginia.

More specifically, he's Joseph Bragg*, alive for a full century from 1647-1747. Bragg finally got rich/desirable enough to leave behind bachelorhood when he was 42 by marrying Mary Tapp, who was just a blushing 19 year old. Despite actuarial odds, he outlived his wife by 16 years. 

This is how I imagined their wedding day.

I was doing family history research for a Church Youth activity and pulled up the family tree that my grandma from my dad's side had lovingly created. We Mormons are obsessed with tracing our ancestry and have a forest worth of family trees because we believe that families are connected forever. So I sat cross-legged on the floor, zoomed in and out throughout the centuries of our family tree and clicked at random census files of my ancestors just to look like I was doing serious genealogical research.

One kid yelled out that according to her genealogy chart she was actually some distant descendent of the King of Franks (a fairytale kingdom as far as I'm concerned but a real person according to Wiki). Huh. I figured that I would google my guy as well just to see if any living Braggs out there work in the rap music industry and sport oversized bling.

And Holy King of Franks, he's online. As in my Joseph Bragg is online.

I looked through quite a few sources, which all differed slightly on dates, to start piecing together his spunky/controlling personality and contentious family life. He owned at least 500 acres of land, five "negroes," and a tobacco plantation. He did not go to Church and was called to court for it. 

"On July 7, 1715 at Richmond County, Virginia, it was noted in the court records; "Joseph Bragg of North Farmingham Parish being summoned to answer the presentment of the Grand Jury against him for not going to Church for two months, but not appearing when called. It is ordered that he be fined one hundred pounds of tobacco and that he pay the same to the church wardens of the said parish with costs."

Yeah. Back then, they fined you tobacco for not going to Church. The Catholics should try that sometime.

I also found his will. What a gem. He probably scrunched up his wrinkly old face and gleefully penned his last words to spite some of his kids. 

"Joseph Bragg Sr [9648] left a will on January 26, 1746 at Lunenberg Parish, Richmond County, Virginia. "In the name of God Amen I Joseph Bragg Sr of Lunenberg Parish in the County of Richmond being very sick and weak but of perfect sence and memory thanks be to God for the same do make and ordain this to be my Will and Testament in the manner and from the following: that is to say first and principally I bequeath my soul to God and that gave it my body to the earth to be decently buried in a christianlike manner at the descretion of my Executor hereafter named.'

A. I give and bequeath to my son Joseph Bragg my negro girl named Mariah to him and his heirs forever with her increase only the first child of the of the said nego girl shall have that lives to be two years old it is my will and desire my young son Joseph shall have delivered to him at the age of twenty years or without lawful heirs to my son Newman Bragg and his heirs.

B. I give and it is my desire that my son Monroe Bragg shall have the plantationtha he now lives on. Together with my negroe girl Hannah to him and the lawful heirs of his body begotten and if in case this my son dye before he should without such heirs of his body to fall to my son John Bragg and his heirs.

C. I give to my daughter Elizabeth A Bragg on cow and calf.

D. I give and bequeath to my daughter Catherine Bragg one Schilling and noe more.

E. It is my will and desire that my two sons Moore and Newman Bragg should have three years schooling out of my personal estate.

F. If please to God my negro wench Whinney should have anouther child after __________

This will was probated May 4, 1747 (Ref: John Emmett Suttle, 13462 Photo Drive, Woodbridge, Virginia 22193) (Family Search)"

One schilling and noe more. John even left his daughter a pathetic momento to remind her of him. Classic.

----

Want to learn more about your own mean-spirited ancestors and figure out where that crazy streak in you comes from?

Just head over to www.familysearch.org for a free and super cool way to search for and create your own family tree now!

Two Truths and a Lie

Beneath the red plastic streamers hung from the yellow lamps in a cheerful effort to look festively Asian, we sat in silence, trying to figure out what we were going to say.

This was our church group ladies' Chinese New Year party and we were playing two truths and a lie.

We had just finished a round of ice breaker bingo, with pregnant women bumping against moms worried about their teenagers, asking each other about the characteristics on our bingo sheet. Somehow I felt a little pegged. Sisi, was your favorite class Math? Did you hide underneath the blanket with a flashlight to read a book? Have you eaten bear before?

But then again, I was a disappointing serial "no" when I got asked the Did you paint/ water ski/ sew/ sing solo in a performance? I didn't realize that I was such a game sinker in bingo. Of course, that meant that it was that much easier for me to win.

So, two truths and a lie.

I scrunched up my nose trying to figure out ones that were crazy enough but not so scandalous that the ladies got worried about me leading the church groups for teenage girls.

The first few who volunteered were uber spiritual and sweet. The lies: I got baptized when I was 22, not 21! I was a modern dance major, not ballroom dance major! I never got my scuba diving license because I wasn't heavy enough to sink into the water!

Then there was the moment everybody loudly laughed when one of the American moms said that she was once married to a Chinese man. But the kicker was that that wasn't the lie. Major faux pas. Blame it on the game.

Two people left. The other lady was still furiously scribbling and scratching out hers on a piece of paper, looking more nauseous by the minute.

So I smiled and weaved my stories:

1. I was bitten by a copperhead snake and did not realize it.

2. Adam Levine, from Maroon 5, opened the door for me at the 

Sundance film festival and I didn't recognize him.

3. I kissed a boy and did not remember it. 

They guessed wrong twice. 

Then we were onto the last one. 

She swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact. 

Her lie? 

Back in 9th grade, she had skipped the first day of school.

God bless little church ladies who couldn't lie just for the bragging rights in a game. 

A Pillar of Salt and a Floating Cat

At the start of every new year growing up, we would prop our short legs up on the engraved chest in the living room and scratch out our New Years resolutions in our diaries. To minimize the angst we felt, our parents advised us to divide out into five main categories: Academic, Spiritual, Physical, Social, and Personal.

I switched from a Chinese Catholic girls school to a British international school in seventh grade. So for my goals that year, I had something like this:

Academic - Keep getting those grades

Spiritual - Pray every morning and night. Don't fall asleep during them.

Physical - Walk more. (Which meant that I walked a ton around my dining room table while I was talking on the phone)

Social - Stop being a nerd ball.

Personal - Fall in love.

I had to make up for those lost co-ed years. We learned a lot about taking baby steps and tracking progress in goal-setting so I was prepared. I picked five boys to maximize my chances. A hello here. A smile there. All documented. I practiced winking and clicking my tongue simultaneously in the mirror (yeah. I actually did that. A lot.). But mainly, I just observed Chelsea and noted down how she flicked her hair, shifted her weight, while rolling one shoulder in as she cracked up at the boys' jokes.

Fortunately for my parents, I failed miserably at flirting.

Fortunately for me, I got a lot better in college.

---

While Alice got lost in her Wonderland, she asked the psychedelic Cheshire cat which path she should take. He replied lazily, "That depends where you want to go. If you don't know where you want to go, it doesn't matter which path you take."

My previous resolutions were very check list-esque. Ask more questions in early morning seminary. Make more eye contact. Learn Spanish.

My boss at work goes crazy if we ever submit performance targets that are activity-oriented and don't actually contribute to an important business outcome. Create three power points this month. Have a great attitude towards customer complaints. Similarly, I have let easily measurable quantitative goals satisfy me enough that I'm not demanding progress in what really matters.

Who do I want to become in 2013? In five years? Ten? Who do I want to be ultimately? Purpose in life determines what one does with her time, energy, resources, and ways of asking directions from the floating cat.

So now I am accountable in a whole different way. The ancient Jews not only sacrificed livestock to praise God, but they offered up their choicest lamb. Have I similarly given Him my best 20 minutes of the day, when I am alert and thoughtful in my alone time with Him? Or did I just check God off my to do list?

----

New Years is seen as a cut off point for change. People are filled with hope for the better in January and guilt for the lapses in February. But in some way, every day constitutes an opportunity to do better. Even Jesus improved, between 12 and 30, and "increased in wisdom (academic) and stature (physical), and in favor with God (spiritual) and with man (social)" {Luke 2:52}.

The whole Christian religion is about change; not about where we have been, but where we can go with the help of Christ.

My uncle had always considered himself unlucky. He was born during the Great Famine when China starved in idealistic communes. He joined the military right before China reopened its universities after ten years of Cultural Revolution. He didn't drink, but he often exploded. During those lazy summer afternoons, my cousin would come scurrying down and hide underneath our beds while my uncle pounded out his string of failed marriages and businesses on the wooden door. A good man underneath, he searched desperately for change. Behind his locked door and papered window on the second floor were stairs that led to a small shrine dedicated to and smelling like whichever religion he was exploring at the time.

We invited him to church when he stayed with us for an extended period of time to help out with incoming baby Cody. But he would always prefer to hammer more nails into the elaborate storage system that he built for us while we were getting ready for church. One day while waiting at a stoplight in Central, the busiest district of Hong Kong, he pointed to a pair of young missionaries across the street and asked my mom who they were. She pulled him over to meet them and he was baptized shortly afterwards.

Young as I was, I couldn't miss the new light in his face and the genuine happiness in his eyes. He walked as a younger man, no longer bent over with regret and bitterness. He had found the change he needed.

We cannot stay the way we are and hope to become who we need to be.

If we have the hope that we can change, are we allowing the same hope for others to change? To say sorry? To grow?

-----

In the Bible, Lot's wife was warned not to look back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and was turned into a pillar of salt because she didn't listen. When I was younger, I used to think that God must have needed a whole lot's wife of salt (bad pun), but I suppose it's really because she looked back longingly.

President Holland gave a fantastic talk about how faith is always forward looking. Lot's wife was not ready to put down those things she needed out of her life and she was stuck facing the past.

And finally, some words from the apostle Paul, a man who epitomized change. He switched from being one of the most adversarial persecutor of the early Christians to their most fervent teacher and advocate. In Phillipians 3: 8, he says,

"Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ."

He must have lost everything important to him. His prestigious position in the orthodox Jewish community. His friends. His family. His conviction of what he thought was right. They were all things, but yet counted as dung, when compared to his newfound faith.

"Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.

I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus" (Phillipians 3:13-14).

And that is what a man who understands clearly his individual purpose in the grand plan, armed with his faith to move forward and courage to not look behind, can win.

{Excerpt from church talk on goals and resolutions}

The Mother in the Manger

The stories have the bright star shining overhead, Baby Jesus gargling happily, and Mary royally beaming at the reverent wise men, angels, shepherds, and coalition of animals.

I wonder what Mary really felt.

Was she simply overwhelmed with emotion for her son, her first?

Did she watch closely, for the miraculous rise and fall of life in each inhalation, and unconsciously check under His nose with her finger when the next breath came a little late?

Did she know how to bathe Him? How to swaddle Him with her blanket by tucking one ear over His right arm and then gently closing the other over His left?

Was she exhausted because she had to entertain wise men and shepherds while waking up every three hours to feed her baby?

Did she feel the wonderful weight of Him in her arms and smell the earthy milk scent that bound Him to her? Was she nervous at His newborn fragility, especially in the large hands of the adoring masses?

Did she laugh when His eyes rolled around, with difficulty focusing on the light, and His lids twitched rapidly in his dreams?

Did she cry just a little bit because He was hers, but also because He was God's - and the world's - and for that there would be wondrous and painful responsibilities for them?

Did she marvel that somehow she had done something so right to be called the chosen vessel? Did she doubt herself at all because she was also aware of her own weaknesses?

Did she feel the full power of her femininity because of her essential role in the Plan, not only as a mother, but also as a role model, a nurturer, a protector, a teacher, and a supporter of the Christ child?

Whenever I watch Chelsea tenderly stroke the mop of black hair on newborn Liana's head, I am sure that Mary must have felt the similar emotional tug of motherhood.

And because of that, Christ was one lucky baby.

Repentant Dater

When the bishop gives me an assignment to read church talks about the joys of marriage every single night,

I'm like:

And then, after the 85th talk about how "those who are single should desire a temple marriage and exert priority efforts to obtain it," I'm like

Fine, fine! Being single isn't that much fun.

Please forgive me, for I know not I have sinned.

I will repent . . . and smile at the next Young Single Adult church activity.

Coke Folks

Several summers, and several cities, ago, I was sitting at a rowdy farewell lunch with some colleagues, who were toasting everything from the least expected work hook ups to the completion of the most mundane projects. Beer, tears, conversation were flowing. As somebody reached to pour some coke into my empty glass, another hand reached over to stop him. "No, Sisi is Mormon. No coke for her."

I didn't bother explaining the complicated situation of how coke was actually not officially outlawed, but instead it straddled a hazy line in the church between being explicitly forbidden and unambiguously accepted.

And I admit. I was looking forward to the icy cold coke alternative instead of the usual boiling hot water they served you in China. But rather than confuse them on the Mormon image, I just smiled, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and asked for the water instead.

I grew up in a household where drinking coke was a minor sin. It was somewhere up there with doing homework on Sundays, wearing skirts that were too high above your knees, and dating non-church boys in high school. Ginger Ale was on the black list too, since my mom concluded that it must contain alcohol somehow.

So as a teenager, I satisfied myself with coke-flavored gummies and flirtatious looks in the school hall ways.

It was a college boyfriend who first introduced me to the sensational experience of combining barbecue chicken pizza and a coke. While I limited my coke intake to the occasional California Pizza Kitchen, it felt deliciously rebellious, and yet satisfyingly safe in this good Mormon girl's fight against the imagined system kind of way.

At the recent family reunion, when my mom casually asked me what I was drinking, J cheerfully replied "Cherry Cola Slurpee." I squeezed his hand so hard. He thought I was being romantic. Jody's eyes and mouth widened, "Sisi, you drink coke now?!"

Silence. I slurped some more.

----

So today, when I saw that most of the Mormons on facebook were buzzing with the news that the Church had finally made a statement saying that it "[did] not prohibit the use of caffeine," I felt an irrational sense of disappointment. Bummed that the statement did not also pardon my favorite Tiramisu dessert as well (one I'd long given up long ago out of overwhelming guilt). And also a little miffed that my status as the only kid in the Messick household who dared to secretly sip coke once every quarter in a quiet personal rebellion had now been rendered . . . boringly mainstream.

A Different Christmas

Christmas was definitely different this year. There were no songs, no lights, no snow, no (good) hot chocolate, no finals to cram and die for, no cuddling, no flying back home, and no freezing nights in our Arlington home (we were too cheap to turn on the heat for the 3 floors).

But I made do. I sorted through share allotment legal docs while listening to as many cheesy Christmas songs from China Google music player as possible. I made a repentant attempt to buy the whole fam as many presents as possible the day before Christmas. And I stepped up the Santa Surprise Initiatives (code name SSI), leaving pranks and genuine goodies under the tree.

But the human urge to confess was very strong. Even though I threatened my little brother Cody with tickle torture if he told, I couldn't keep it in so I blogged about my Santa gifts, thinking that everybody was already in bed.

When I walked up the stairs to bed after wrapping all the presents, Casey looked at me and said, "So, coal huh?" He smirked. He had read my blog post in the five minutes that it took me to turn off my computer and the lights.

Also, on Christmas morning, my dad had apparently figured out how to get on my blog so he and my mom caught up on several months of my posts. Of course, that way, they also knew that Santa was really me . . .  so they didn't even bother to open the Krispy Kreme box when they unwrapped it, thinking it was going to be filled with really light rocks. (Ha! They were really doughnuts).

But Christmas also had meaning this year because I had opportunities to share what I believed. Last week, I arranged a mini Christmas party for my China Construction Bank English students, complete with (bitter) hot chocolate, white elephant gift exchange, cakes, and a mini presentation on the American Christmas traditions. When I asked if they knew about the origins of Christmas, somebody yelled out "Jesus Christ's birthday." I talked briefly about Christ's divinity, his humble origins, and the reason why he had to come down to earth -- all within the context of general Christian beliefs. Even though I repeatedly said "They believe . . ., " it was really what I believed and what I knew to be true. And it felt so good to be able to finally share my testimony in an acceptable environment and adhere to the "no proselyting to Chinese Nationals" directives from the government and our Church leaders. Who knew that cultural classes can be a pretext for bite size missionary discussions?

 They wanted me to wear the reindeer headband during my Christmas lesson.

A Chinese Girl Learning Chinese

When I first got here, I couldn't make a joke without a resultant awkward silence reverberating around the office cubicle walls. At first, I just thought that my colleagues couldn't hear me. So I told my jokes louder. Still nothing. Then I realized that I was no longer witty. I had lost my gift to talk and connect to people, because I couldn't find the right words and inject them with the proper nuances to express myself.

After I finished my first week at work, I called my dad and cried for two hours. I should leave. I couldn't do this. I couldn't speak Chinese. I should had taken my so-called dream job and stayed on the predictable and secure path where I knew I could succeed.

Things did get better. I jotted down every new word. I tested out unfamiliar words, which my colleagues found endlessly amusing. I was soon considered one of the funnier people at the office. Four people even patted my shoulder and told me that my Chinese had improved drastically.

Two weeks ago, our board chairman visited us as part of his latest round-the-world business trips. He decided to give an impromptu speech, as a rousing gesture, to the entire company. Of course I translated. Of course I squirmed. At that moment, I fancied that #20, #23, and my perfectionist self were best buds, pointing fingers and hating on me when I couldn't think of the Chinese words for "Bolivia" and "Chief Information Officer." It didn't matter that the CEO told me that I got rave reviews for my translation - I hid miserably in the bathroom, once again questioning, berating, and despairing.

Why do I put myself in situations day after day, where embarrassment is merely one South American country away? I have worked hard my entire life to salvage the remnant shreds of Chinese learned from grade school and nurse and strengthen it through Chinese trade law internships and language TA jobs despite growing up in an English dominant environment. Why am I not satisfied with the hard-earned fluency? Why do I keep beating myself against such a soul crushing language, dreaming of crossing over the celestial threshold of native mastery?

----

I was sitting at Church yesterday when I got a glimpse of the answer. A large man with gold rimmed glasses bore his testimony about his belief that someday, China would be open to missionary work. And I cried. Because I sensed, no I knew, that I will be a part of that work. By then, I will know how to be a friend to the Chinese people. I will know how to use their language - my language - to share something that is so important in my life.

At that time, there will be no more awkward silences.

In the mean time, all I can do is to print out the world map in Chinese and learn the countries one by one.

Respect Girl's Camp

I've learned my lesson: If you don't want to get sick and miss girl's church camp, do not make fun of it.

But you have to admit, having to be in charge of a group of teenage girls that is called the "Hard Core Testimony Givers" is quite something. Even though I had a really hard time coming up with a cool chant, I think we did come up with a bomb first aid skit that would give the "Charity Chargers" and "Wonder Witnesses" a run for their tithing money. Think Elizabeth Swan/ werewolves/ little red riding hood theme with a classic Asian tragic twist.

Either way, I was struck down with the flu so I, the only girl, never mind camp counselor, who hadn't been to girl's camp before, didn't get to go. So I resorted to the only sensible alternative - felt sorry for myself and gorged on West Wing episodes. Oh Sam Seaborn.

(Not) Scarred

"Are you this way because your face looks like (beep) !?"

I was confused. What was wrong with his face?

I was watching Pay It Forward and apparently one of the characters had burn scars all over his face. Somehow, that totally escaped me. I just assumed that he had some sort of rash or unnatural pre-aging.

Maybe it's because I've always been scarred.

When I was one, I apparently crawled into the kitchen and hot boiling water was accidentally poured all over my arm. I must have burned and screamed because my cotton jacket soaked up all the boiling liquid and when that was torn off of me, so was the skin on my arms. The old lady who took care of me calmed me down and put toothpaste on my burn. Thank God she wasn't a big fan of the mint kinds. Two weeks later, my skin grew back at an amazing rate, but started to connect my upper and lower arm together in an unholy angle. I could no longer straighten my arms. I spent two years doing physical therapy, always photographed looking slightly clueless and with my arm wound in a tight white gauze.

But when the bandages came off for the last time, I never thought twice about that browned tear drop that sits on the uneven patch of skin on my arm. It was a part of me; it was me. Better yet, it was a constant reminder, a souvenir of sorts, of the kind old lady who took care of me and loved me. My recent addition to the collection on my arm seems oddly appropriate. It has, after all, been twenty years.

Perhaps because I've always lived with and not really noticing a burn that made my fifth grade best friend gasp the first time she noticed it, I don't really see the scars on people.

Maybe that's why when I watched this mormon message video yesterday and saw a photo of Stephanie Nielson -- mother-of-four, blogger, and a victim of a burn on 80% of her body -- all I saw was a beautiful, kind woman. And I cried. Because I actually noticed her burns, and yet when she speaks, I didn't notice them at all.

A Temple Marriage

In the temple today, an old lady with rich burgundy lipstick and flowy white robes pushed a cart full of wet temple clothing. An old man with silver hair and a kind smile stood down the hall greeting all the young people who passed by.

All of a sudden, she lost control of her cart and swerved into him. His eyes opened wide and his arms propped up in a defensive position. With perfect timing, she pulled her cart around again. And then smirked.

She had faked him out.

An old couple. Temple. And . . . flirting?

Adam and Eve

In temple prep class, our teacher, an elderly lady who likes to wear ribbons in her hair, asks us a serious question:

"What happened after Adam and Eve were ousted from the Garden of Eden that allowed them to fulfill the other commandment that Heavenly Father had given them?"

Silence. 

Hwanhi: Menstruation.

--

Luckily for her, nobody else apart from me heard her answer.

Unluckily for me, I burst out laughing and our teacher probably thinks that I'm just thinking of something else that is entirely inappropriate.

From the Mouths of RMs

Casey texted me today and asked if I wanted to go clubbing at Club T tomorrow.

He meant the temple.

---

A few more sentences from my RM Chinese class:

He is a good person; after all, he is an American.

She is very beautiful, plus she has a car -- I want to date her.

Husbands should be considerate of their wives. At the same time, the wives should not repeatedly ask husbands to be more considerate.

The reason why I am taking Chinese is because I want to be able to talk to my Chinese girlfriend.

What matters the most

Recently, I've been too wrapped up in my thesis/ PAS/ Golden Key/ Sigma Journal/ classes/ work/ Women in Politics panel/ missionary stuff/ future plans. Even though I was trying to hold everything together, I think I was falling apart at the seams.

Last week in Relief Society, somebody shared with us President Uchtdorf's talk "Of Things that Matter the Most." Here are some lines that struck me:

"It is said that any virtue when taken to an extreme can become a vice. Overscheduling our days would certainly qualify for this. There comes a point where milestones can become millstones and ambitions, albatrosses around our necks."

"love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time."

"If life and its rushed pace and many stresses have made it difficult for you to feel like rejoicing, then perhaps now is a good time to refocus on what matters most. Strength comes not from frantic activity but from being settled on a firm foundation of truth and light."

His solution for simplifying our lives? Focus on the four key relationships with God, our families, our fellowmen, and ourselves.

1. Relationship with God
I went to the temple yesterday. It's been too long. And sitting there, without looking at the clock, was absolutely wonderful. I learned some important lessons about myself. And on a less serious/ spiritual note, I also found out that I am now officially too tall for the size small and short baptism jumpsuit. It must be the vitamins.


2. Relationship with Family
My family periodically loses a child. And a sister. And a cousin. And a niece. They patiently wait for me to resurface from my piles of work. But while they've always been there for me, I haven't always done the same in return. Sometimes I call Chelsea when I'm rushing to school and she always sounds so surprised. So, this week I made a goal to call a family member every day. Soon, they'll be screening my phone calls.


3. Relationship with Fellowmen
I've made some really good friends this semester. I haven't done so well in hanging onto my old friends though. Last week, I cried when one of my closest friends shared about the depths of her loneliness. I cried because I've seen glimpses of it all along. And yet, I never really spent the time to just sit and talk to her. So then, I grabbed her and we talked. And talked. And cried some more. And then laughed at ourselves and danced in the bathroom.


4. Relationship with Myself
This one is the easiest and the hardest. I'll spare you.

Spoofs on New Era Ads

I'm sure you've all seen the original New Era ads. I saw these spoofs on a friend's facebook and thought that they were hilarious so I'm posting some of my favorite ones here. Do you remember the original slogans?

 Something about R-rated movies.

 Genealogy obviously. But this one is pretty creepy.

 Something about protecting yourself with virtues.

 Exactly what I was asking myself when I listened to 

President Packer's (?) conference talk

 In ninth grade, my English teacher assigned us
an argumentative paper on euthanasia. 

I wrote my paper on why youth in Asia are controversial -
victory signs, hello kitty, and all.

Good point!

(Photo cred: Maggie)

LDS Feminism

I am Mormon. And I'm also a feminist.

My two identities do not contradict each other; instead, I am able to rejoice fully in the divine nature of my womanhood because I understand it within the framework of the Gospel.  Ultimately, the Church celebrates the beautiful synergy of man and woman. That is why you cannot attain the highest degree of glory without being in a healthy, loving marriage where both members are equal sovereigns.


But sometimes, when I talk about my feelings as a female in the Church, people hush me and say quietly that I better be careful because I'm started to sound like a feminist. Well I don't want to be silent anymore.

Feminism, the belief that men and women are equal, is a faith-affirming truth. Church leaders have repeatedly stated that men and women are equal but different. However, sometimes it is the lack of adequate discussion regarding this very difference that creates erroneous perceptions of discrimination against females in the Church or generates misplaced feelings of resentment among women. Faithful, righteous LDS women struggle because nobody has pulled them aside and told them that it is ok to ask questions about the priesthood or that it is normal to wonder if they can have a family and a career. They fall away angry and hurt not because they don't want to believe, but because they don't know how to believe and still be comfortable with their feminine identities.

Feminism is not, and should not be, a taboo topic within the Church. Instead, women should be encouraged to have open, honest conversations about what their femininity means to them and how to understand their roles within the greater Plan as mothers, daughters of God, and divine individuals.