Week 43: When Things Don't Go Wrong
Dear Loved Ones,
We're teaching this nine year old who wants to get baptized. She needs parental permission for that, which is fantastically easy when both parents 1. Live together 2. Are not in prison. But her daddy is at the OTHER Liberty Jail. Not the fun one where we take tours. So I had to call the prison and talk to Prison Phone-Answerer Dude, who sounds like he loves his job and spends all day every day in a great mood. Prison Dude said I can mail a permission slip there (which meant I had to invent my own permission slip, since these don't exist) but her dad is in charge of coming up with his own envelope and stamp. I can't send him them, or money to buy them. So here's hoping that Prison Dad has money on hand and is nice enough to help out his kid. There's always some kind of baptismal drama, either an interview complication, getting permission from someone, or people wanting to get baptized in a ward where they don't technically live. All my pending or potential baptisms are exactly like this.
One of our missionary rules is that we can never, under any circumstance, hold a child. If you don't touch a child, you can't be accused of abusing one. But when we were at our nine year old's house, her toddler sister kept crying and crying and crying and her mom wasn't in a situation where she could meet her needs. So this little girl wandered up to me and put her hands around my neck. I knew I wasn't supposed to hold her, so I just knelt beside her singing lullabies. But when she climbed into my lap of her own volition, I kept her there. My companion rounded the corner from kitchen and I stiffened, so sure she was going to be mad at me. But she smiled. Smiled, and later she said I made the right call.
I will never be the perfect Pharisee missionaries are supposed to be, but nothing will stop me from meeting these people's needs.
There is a lady in our ward who survived Pearl Harbor as a child. She wrote a book called (naturally) Pearl Harbor Child and the cover features a picture of her as a six-year-old with a gas mask over her shoulder. She never actually had to use that gas mask, but she carried it to school every day for four years. Fear of things that don't happen is a greater part of our lives than the things that actually do happen. I live in constant fear and paranoia of being sent home from a mission, a product of both how I've been treated by companions and my mission president and of my three years living in waiting. I learned a lot of resilience from that time, but I'm also left with a lot of paranoia.
Here's a story I didn't plan on sharing ever, but my ex-companion blurted it out in district council the other day, so I guess it's okay now.
Two months ago, when Fia got baptized, I had some security concerns revolving around the circumstances that placed her in the Witness Protection Program. Everything turned out okay, but an event earlier in the week made me worry that people might show up to her baptism uninvited. So I borrowed a combat knife off this vet I was teaching, set up a target on my kitchen table, and stabbed it over and over again. I know I am small, useless, and have no actual knife training beyond my practice in those few hours. The people I was worried about know how to kill. But I was prepared to put myself in front of Fia if the need arose.
I knew I was fearing something that probably wouldn't happen. As I was stabbing my target, this feeling of peace came to me and I sensed that she would be okay. And she was.
Independence and Kansas City are known for being sketchy. I hear gunshots and sirens a lot. One time Sister Moritz and I were tracting this apartment complex before an appointment there and parked in a certain spot. When it got closer to our appointment time, we moved our car to a new spot. Less than two minutes after I parked, we heard gunshots from the other side of the complex. When we left our appointment, the place we'd first parked was cordoned off with yellow tape, surrounded by four cop cars and a CSI van.
The elders live in that complex and parked in the yellow tape as well. They'd just ducked inside when the gunshots went off. Their car was trapped and they couldn't get go anywhere for a while, but because we'd moved ours, we were able to get out and go to our super important appointment with our child friend.
The elders begged for new housing, but our mission president sent his assistants over to inspect it and they were all, "These buildings look nice and the lake next to your apartment is pretty, so clearly you are safe here." So they're stuck where they are and carry combat knives now.
On Saturday, our car got burglarized and they made off with the gas card (sucks to suck, you can only buy gas with that and you need a PIN number), but we were able to cancel the card fast and a witness got the thief's plate number.
I've been so safe here. I evade disaster and for the most part, so do the people I teach and love. The only way I could be safer here is for crime to not exist at all. But I'll stop short of saying I get SPECIAL protection because I'm a missionary because I believe God protects all who stand up for him. Me, and you.
Sincerely,
Sister Smith
P.S.: My friend Madison is still struggling. If you could send her words of encouragement believing she'll get on a mission, I would much appreciate it.
We're teaching this nine year old who wants to get baptized. She needs parental permission for that, which is fantastically easy when both parents 1. Live together 2. Are not in prison. But her daddy is at the OTHER Liberty Jail. Not the fun one where we take tours. So I had to call the prison and talk to Prison Phone-Answerer Dude, who sounds like he loves his job and spends all day every day in a great mood. Prison Dude said I can mail a permission slip there (which meant I had to invent my own permission slip, since these don't exist) but her dad is in charge of coming up with his own envelope and stamp. I can't send him them, or money to buy them. So here's hoping that Prison Dad has money on hand and is nice enough to help out his kid. There's always some kind of baptismal drama, either an interview complication, getting permission from someone, or people wanting to get baptized in a ward where they don't technically live. All my pending or potential baptisms are exactly like this.
One of our missionary rules is that we can never, under any circumstance, hold a child. If you don't touch a child, you can't be accused of abusing one. But when we were at our nine year old's house, her toddler sister kept crying and crying and crying and her mom wasn't in a situation where she could meet her needs. So this little girl wandered up to me and put her hands around my neck. I knew I wasn't supposed to hold her, so I just knelt beside her singing lullabies. But when she climbed into my lap of her own volition, I kept her there. My companion rounded the corner from kitchen and I stiffened, so sure she was going to be mad at me. But she smiled. Smiled, and later she said I made the right call.
I will never be the perfect Pharisee missionaries are supposed to be, but nothing will stop me from meeting these people's needs.
There is a lady in our ward who survived Pearl Harbor as a child. She wrote a book called (naturally) Pearl Harbor Child and the cover features a picture of her as a six-year-old with a gas mask over her shoulder. She never actually had to use that gas mask, but she carried it to school every day for four years. Fear of things that don't happen is a greater part of our lives than the things that actually do happen. I live in constant fear and paranoia of being sent home from a mission, a product of both how I've been treated by companions and my mission president and of my three years living in waiting. I learned a lot of resilience from that time, but I'm also left with a lot of paranoia.
Here's a story I didn't plan on sharing ever, but my ex-companion blurted it out in district council the other day, so I guess it's okay now.
Two months ago, when Fia got baptized, I had some security concerns revolving around the circumstances that placed her in the Witness Protection Program. Everything turned out okay, but an event earlier in the week made me worry that people might show up to her baptism uninvited. So I borrowed a combat knife off this vet I was teaching, set up a target on my kitchen table, and stabbed it over and over again. I know I am small, useless, and have no actual knife training beyond my practice in those few hours. The people I was worried about know how to kill. But I was prepared to put myself in front of Fia if the need arose.
I knew I was fearing something that probably wouldn't happen. As I was stabbing my target, this feeling of peace came to me and I sensed that she would be okay. And she was.
Independence and Kansas City are known for being sketchy. I hear gunshots and sirens a lot. One time Sister Moritz and I were tracting this apartment complex before an appointment there and parked in a certain spot. When it got closer to our appointment time, we moved our car to a new spot. Less than two minutes after I parked, we heard gunshots from the other side of the complex. When we left our appointment, the place we'd first parked was cordoned off with yellow tape, surrounded by four cop cars and a CSI van.
The elders live in that complex and parked in the yellow tape as well. They'd just ducked inside when the gunshots went off. Their car was trapped and they couldn't get go anywhere for a while, but because we'd moved ours, we were able to get out and go to our super important appointment with our child friend.
The elders begged for new housing, but our mission president sent his assistants over to inspect it and they were all, "These buildings look nice and the lake next to your apartment is pretty, so clearly you are safe here." So they're stuck where they are and carry combat knives now.
On Saturday, our car got burglarized and they made off with the gas card (sucks to suck, you can only buy gas with that and you need a PIN number), but we were able to cancel the card fast and a witness got the thief's plate number.
I've been so safe here. I evade disaster and for the most part, so do the people I teach and love. The only way I could be safer here is for crime to not exist at all. But I'll stop short of saying I get SPECIAL protection because I'm a missionary because I believe God protects all who stand up for him. Me, and you.
Sincerely,
Sister Smith
P.S.: My friend Madison is still struggling. If you could send her words of encouragement believing she'll get on a mission, I would much appreciate it.
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