Speak from the Heart

This week of my mission was probably the most documented in my journal. I have a host of experiences, but unfortunately I only have time to detail a little bit of one or two. Rather than doing a slew of brief updates on a thousand investigators, I would rather go into detail on just a few special moments that best capture the essence of the weeks. At the end of my mission I’ll probably publish my journal lol, so you can get the full version then.

Ok. Listo.

This week we had a special experience. We were able to go to the temple in Buenos Aires. It was cold, chilled. Absolutely frigid with the wind and rain. We had to leave the bus about a mile from the temple and make our way through the countryside to the temple. In the dark rain and sleet swirling around us, the temple stood in such stark contrast in the distance. As we pressed forward, I couldn´t help but contemplate the profound symbolic significance of the situation.

Unfortunately the BA temple is closing for renovation. So it was my first and last.

Doing a session in Spanish was an adventure to say the least. It was a good thing I went so many times before the mission. I essentially had it memorized.

This week has been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. I´ve essentially resigned myself to the fact that nothing emotional is constant here. Where one investigator drops off, another progresses. Where one contact slams the door, the other lets you in with open arms. It´s very unsettling.

I´ve finally realized it´s been about four weeks since I’ve had a conversation in English. Like a real lengthy conversation. Today we ate lunch as a zone, and people were talking to me in English but I didn´t say much. I´m becoming a very quiet person. It´s not that I´m shy, I’ve just forgotten that I have the ability to contribute to conversation.

Now hold on. Before you start thinking "well that means his brain is going into Spanish mode and he can speak Spanish" I can´t speak Spanish. I´ve just become... quiet.

Like the MTC, this place can break you down. In a different way. A more serious way. A real way. It all started with splits Wednesday morning.

Actually it started earlier in the day. My day, that is to say, began at around 6:40 when I rolled out of bed like a salt soaked slug. That´s usually the first mistake made on a bad day. The whole getting up part.

En verdad, it was actually decent day. We taught the first lesson to a new investigator we found off a contact. Then headed back for hamburgers at the pension. Hamburgers are always my favorite. Fresh made daily buns with argentine beef patties. Everything tastes better here.

Marta is at a brick wall of "dejar de fumar" and is making 0 progress. She knows it´s true, in her head. But lacks the knowledge in her heart. Which begs the question why we have hour long visits 3-4 times a week. I just trust elder Ponce´s vision. Perhaps he sees something I don´t. I´ve learned to have faith in him. Anyways, our appointment with her was frustrating as usual. We finally had divisiones (splits) and that´s when it happened.

Mario, my member comp, and I left the church and started heading to the house of Olga, a recent convert, our baptism about two weeks ago. I knew there was a problem, because I was going to teach temples in Spanish. Something I knew no vocabulary for. So the lesson started as usual, with a prayer, and I began to struggle. Downward spiral.

There are two aspects of Olga´s personality that didn´t exactly favor me in the situation. 1. She hates it when she can´t understand people. 2. She herself isn´t very understanding. 3. She lacks patience.

Which sets the table for a veritable Chernobyl of linguistic disasters.

Yeah. It was that bad.

Olga was plugging her ears and spit firing castellano like a super soaker. I sat there trying to explain, only aggravating her more. She tried explaining her doubt. And she, like most people, did the first two words really slow, and then the rest fast. And for the record. As far as helping me understand, slower helps, but louder doesn´t. I can´t speak Spanish. I´m not deaf.

Anyways.

Upon me not understanding the third time she threw her hands high in the air, dramatic as any argentine, and said something like "what is it with North Americans! Can they not understand anything?!" Which, decently ironic, I understood.

For me, the situation was so frustrating because the temple was something I feel very strongly about. Something I can bear powerful witness of. I was feeling the spirit, but my language barrier forbade me from expressing anything. All she was feeling, was frustration.

And the worst part was, I felt she was right.

She deserved to hear the gospel taught in a beautiful slew of castellano. She deserved to understand. They all do. The people of Ensenada, that is. What could I do? This struggling North Americano. I wanted to see Olga suffer through the MTC. I wanted to see all of them try to learn English, and then jump into a foreign culture. No friends, no family, no one to talk to. Struggling to understand virtually every second of every day. I wanted validation in a grossly impossible way. The bottom line is, nobody understands this situation until they´ve suffered through it. It´s not like lonely in the typical sense, where you call a friend or talk to someone and it´s over. It´s lonely in an advanced sense. Omnipresent. Constant, relentless. In every question I can´t understand. In every feeling I can´t express. In every joke I don´t get. As everyone laughs I just sit there and try to think of something funny to smile about.

Lonely

Like being at a feast and not being allowed to eat any food. Like being at an amusement park and not being able to ride the rides. Like being at... no time for another comparison ha-ha.

Anyways, this train to thought took me to a dark place. Needless to say I was a bit distraught. Here I was, trying to do my best, and she couldn´t understand a word.

Mario sensed that and took over the lesson. We finally left, and walking down the cold Argentine street I could only think of one thing, "Why does it have to be so hard?" A question I could give myself all the answers to, but right then, I didn´t need answers. I had heard all the answers in the MTC. I made many of them myself. "Well if Nephi could build a boat and sail across to the promise land...” well nephi didn´t have to learn castallano! At least HE had people to talk to.

Mario finally pulled me alongside a big grassy Argentine ditch to find out what was going on. He told me he knew it was hard, he knew he couldn´t understand. He wanted to share a scripture with me. So I pulled out my English ones and turned to Joshua 1:9.

"Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of good courage, be not afraid neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest."

Mario continued

"My mom sent me this scripture when I was having... a lot of problems in the mission. I wanted to go home; I was trying to go home. But when I read that, something about me changed. The Lord commanded you Elder Jensen. He is with you. Always. And just because you can´t speak Spanish doesn´t mean they can´t understand you. You feel depressed because you were speaking from your mind."

Then with tears in his eyes he raised his voice and stuck a finger right on my forehead.

"Don´t use this! Don´t speak from your mind. You can´t, you can´t do it that way."

Then he jabbed his finger in my chest.

"You´ve got to speak from your heart. You´ve got to tell them all the ways you know it´s true. They´ll understand. I promise they´ll understand. If you can´t share a scripture or teach or anything, the spirit can. Speak from your heart elder Jensen and they will understand."

And there was the lesson. Spelled out before my eyes over and over. All the sudden the memories of the TRC back in the MTC came rushing back.

It became clear to me that the Lord was going to teach me this over and over and over until I understood.

"Hable de su corazon, Elder Jensen, ello entenderan."

If I could choose one lesson, one moment that meant the most to me in Argentina, it would be alongside that chilly frigid ditch in the dark in Ensenada.

Salvation isn't Cheap

Primavera

or spring in Spanish

Today is officially the first day of spring in Buenos Aires. And it feels like it too. Balmy sun shining down on the palm trees, blossoms peeking out of tree filled streets. This place seemingly became beautiful overnight.

Sorry if my email last week was grim. The first week was crazy. So crazy I didn´t even have time to unpack until p-day.... a week later. So that first week I didn´t have any time to write in my journal. Many of the most precious details and insights were in that original email. When I found out it didn´t send, I felt worse than Martin Harris when he lost the original pages of the BoM manuscript.

Anyways.

My first area is Ensenada, in La Plata. Google images might give you a bit, but I´m not sure. You´ll probably only see the classical Art nouveau buildings on La Plata, downtown. That´s where I´m emailing from right now, and wow. It´s beautiful. Trees line the streets with the fresh blossoms, sun glistening off of the breathtaking Corinthian columns. Natural organic steelwork. Yeah, that´s not where I´m working though.

I´m working in Ensenada. Mountains? That´s a resounding no. It´s flat here. Flatter than Kansas. I´m not joking. Completely level. The buildings are largely comprised of concrete and tin. Each looking the same as the last. When the sun is out, the blossoms on the trees reemerge, and it can be breathtaking. Along the edges of the city, are green fields that stretch on for miles. Little marshes are sprinkled here and there. Wild horses like to graze along the rusty dirt roads. It´s startling, and beautiful.

The clouds move fast here, so fast you feel the earth moving below your feet. Especially without any obstructions on the skyline. It makes you dizzy if you stare for too long.

When the clouds come out, and rain bleeds down from the sky, the city dies. Misery. The two descriptions cannot go hand and hand. The weather changes, and the cityscape changes with it.

When the rain trickles off, and the clouds part. The sun streams down through the moving clouds. Breathtaking.

Ensenada isn´t easy on the eyes. Concrete. Grey, and cold. But inside those houses are very content people. The Argentines. They live simple lives. Their houses are modest, but always well kept. They drink mate by the gallon. Talk with their hands as they slur castashawno. Talk it real high and fast the way Italians do.

Their prideful, but very loving. They believe in God. Almost Every one of them. I´ve met two atheists here.

But on that same note, they are totally relaxed. Very content. They´re willing to listen to our message, but not willing to do what it´ll take to change. As soon as it comes to commitment, that´s when they throw you back out on the street.

Might I use the next four minutes describing the food.

I have been raised in a family where a certain man has told me my entire life horror stories about the exotic things that I would surely be forced to consume on my mission.

To this man, my father, I would like to submit the following.

I have never eaten, nor ever will eat, as well as I am eating right now in Argentina.

You´re probably thinking to yourself right now, that the food can´t be THAT good. No, you’re right. It´s better. I´m yet to learn words in Spanish, and yet to possess the words in English necessary to adequately describe how good this food is.

Meat and potatoes. That´s what they like to eat here.

Pizza pasta and ravioli, with a delicious steak on the side occasionally.

The thought process of an Argentine at dinner is ¨ “What would go good with this indescribably delicious pizza? How about a perfectly cooked 12 oz sirloin?"

Forget about packaged foods. Everything here is cooked at your corner market fresh daily. That includes an assortment of about 20 breads. And cheeses. And fresh meets. Everything we cook here is first, cheaper, and second, better.

They have this creamy caramel stuff called dulce de leche. Heavenly. And they put it on everything.

No time to describe food.

Ok so Thursday I had interviews with the pres. I told him my concerns and the things on my mind. He gave me some of the best advice I´ve had on the mission yet. "It´s hard enough without all that other stuff you´re putting on it. Just relax, and just enjoy it."

So I did.

That day it was raining really really hard. We can´t take the bikes (we use bikes in my area) during storms so we went on foot. We started making contacts with little success, as had been the norm for about a week when finally two women let us into their home.

It was cluttered, clothes thrown all around, kids running everywhere. They brought us into the kitchen, a thick standard aroma of cigarettes in the air.

We taught them about the Book of Mormon in the restoration. I told them that they had to help me, because I only had two weeks in Argentina and didn´t know much of the language. They laughed and agreed.

Their names were Blanca, and Anabel. Very receptive to the message, very willing to listen. As I finished, struggling, bearing my testimony, one of them, Anabel said something like this.

"You have such great faith to come so far and share this with us. What you say must be important. I´m going to read in this book."

Wow.

Most rewarding moment of my mission.

Jeffrey R. Holland said that the reason we suffer in missionary work is that salvation isn´t cheap. That we need something to validate ourselves. The Savior has the holes in his hands and feet. As missionaries we have the sacrifices we´ve made for the people. We knock on their doors and in effect say, "Here is the sacrifice of my family and friends. Here are my tears of discouragement. Here are the countless hours of work and study. These are my tokens; listen to what I have to say. Because I know. I KNOW it´s true."

I love the people here. I absolutely love it. Love every minute of it. No more time. Gotta run.

Argentina: Week one

I´m heartbroken

Last week I spent the full hour and wrote an incredibly detailed account of everything.

And somehow it didn´t send.

I feel sick.

I don´t even know where to start...

Honestly...

I can´t think.

That seriously sucks.

It was like beautiful. The best email yet. Hands down. And huge. Straight hour of typing uninterrupted. And it didn´t send. I don´t even know what to do.

Ok....

wow.

Ok...

Now I only have thirty minutes. To detail a bunch of stuff I don´t remember.

So we flew out to Argentina...two weeks ago lol. UGH! I can´t believe that other one didn´t send. I´m so frustrated I can´t even type.

Ok, bulleted list of things that happened.

-flew out to Argentina. 14 hours, not fun. Very surreal, didn´t know which way was up by the time I got off the flight.

-it is cold here. Very cold. First impression of Argentina. Cold.

-As soon as we got here, mission president told us we have a huge day ahead of us. Not exactly the words you want to hear after traveling for 24 hours without sleep.

-First thing we did was go to the capital for visa work. Cue about a three paragraph beautiful lyrical description of the landscape of Buenos Aires, which courtesy of this crappy email service you´ll never be able to read.

-Buenos Aires is not beautiful. It is run down, tin roofs, concrete jungle, and shacks built on top of each other. Don´t trust Google images. Those pristine European buildings are at the front of Buenos Aires only.

-We went to the mission home for lunch and to meet our companions. Food here=delicious. I eat better here than I’ve ever eaten in my life. Here´s another three paragraph description which courtesy of a crappy email service you will never read.

-my companion is Elder Ponce. Native. Doesn´t speak any English. We rushed off to our first area. I was able to communicate very few ideas to him, and it got frustrating fast. (Insert a big description here)

-We had a night full of appointments which I couldn´t contribute that much except my testimony (another description)

-Finally, when nightfall came, I huddled in my bed in the shack of a pension, our apartment (described in great detail in the other email) with the dogs roaming the streets howling, the sirens blaring, in my sleeping bag, shocked and terrified, unable to communicate anything, and lost it.

It was a long cold night in Buenos Aires.

Ok I think I finally can write some stuff.

The next morning was better, but I couldn´t communicate anything except a little testimony. So incredibly frustrating. Ok, so I could actually get a little lesson to, but with a native companion, for the first week I wasn´t able to understand the lesson plan, so I didn´t understand what we were talking about, and there was no way to verify if what was said in our meetings was correct because my companion is native. And every time I ask him to explain, I don´t understand.

I kept having those "that isn´t the language they taught me in the MTC moments." That´s because in my defense, it wasn´t the language. They don´t even call it Spanish here, it´s Castellano, pronounced (castashawno). All "y´s" and "ll's" now become a complete sh sound. Random words like aqui, for example now become akaw. They fluctuate their voices like Italians, speak it really fast and with their hands. They use an irregular conjugative slang called "vos". I still am not quite sure how it works. You put vos at the beginning of a verb and then conjugate them all the same or something. I would ask my companion, but, you guessed it, native.

Actually he´s from Chile. Elder Ponce is really nice, and I´m getting the hang of communicating things with him. Good sense of humor at the very least.

The work here is on fire. This mission is on the verge of making history, doubling monthly baptisms. They had 140 for the month of august.

The people here are warm and kind. Very very loving. Very willing to listen to the message. No matter what, they´ll talk to you. For the first week they always accepted pamphlets. I came in at the perfect time. We had our first baptism last week.

As for the whereabouts of my cougars, I was left quite hanging last week when I got mom´s email and it only had a small sentence about a win. Wow. Number three. That´s the big time right there. See if they can´t get it done against Florida state this weekend.

My football bio-clock struck midnight last week, and I have to fight to not go into mental football mode. Which is especially hard, because it´s easy to zone out in huge discussions when I have no idea what´s going on. If I let my mind wonder, suddenly I´m at college football.

Finally amid my desperation to find something out about the win, I managed to talk to one of the AP´s at zone conference during lunch, who got to watch the end of the game with the mission secretary. He filled me in. Said that Sam Bradford was injured. Can someone verify?

I know I’m not supposed to seek after callings, but if being an AP means watching BYU ball, well....

Anyways today is P-day. The real p-day. So today was the zone activity. And we watched lord of the rings in Spanish. I know right? Lord of the rings? I thought they were just saying that to pull a prank on the new elder. Nope, seriously, we watched it. Apparently sister Asay let´s things slide pretty easy when it come to films. It was pretty distracting dubbed in Spanish.

As I said, last week we were having a lot of success with appointments, this week I saw the other side. Like 65% of the appointments made fell through. And then during contacting I became acquainted with something new in Argentina, rejection.

A guy slammed a door on us. It was the first door I had had slammed on me, and I just started laughing. My companion couldn´t figure it out. I tried to explain the significance of the moment with him, but it was totally lost. I had waited my whole life hearing the tracting stories from other missionaries to get a door slammed in my face, and there it was.

Actually that night turned seriously sour, fast. We had one of our best investigator families tell us not to come back out of the blue. Heartbreaking. Which left us to more contacting. Which we did, for an hour. With abnormally bad luck. I mean, Argentina, people always want to talk. But when things turn south here, they go real south. So my companion decided to let me do one of the contacts by myself while he made a call. Ok, we actually had a member with us, Mario. A good friend of mine now. Very relatable. Anyways I´m making this contact on my own and it´s a bunch of people smoking while I’m trying to explain to them in my broken Spanish about the restoration.

Side note, everyone here smokes. I think I´m vicariously up to three packs a day. Seriously. What I want for Christmas? A gas mask.

So anyways we went to our next appointment, the follow up of a really good lesson detailed in the other email. Long story short it was my first time doing splits and I had a really good lesson with a fourteen year old kid. Really related to him. Thought he was going to read for sure. Bore strong testimony etc. Anyways when we went to the follow up, found out he didn´t read. I really wanted this kid, enzo, to read. I had prayed night and day, fasted and everything. He´s the only non-member in a big family. When I heard he hadn´t read, it broke my heart. I heard a voice distinctly in my head "now you know how God must feel." It was a striking lesson. You can fast, pray, everything in your power. But at the end of the day people still have their agency.

By the end of this week, now, I´m starting to be able to follow all the lessons. Contributing more as well. Yesterday we had splits again, and I taught Alma 34 to an old lady, Marta who´s trying to give up smoking. The spirit was very strong.

Then there´s Rodolfo, who a few weeks ago we contacted and taught the first lesson out of the blue. We just found out his son died a few months ago. Do you have any idea how strong the spirit testifies of the plan of salvation to someone who really needs it? Powerful. It´s hard to get hold of him, and we´re working to get a return appointment.

Then there´s Karen, who´s a lot like me. About 22, living at home, going to school. Isn´t sure if she believes in God. She keeps her reading commitments, is very impressed with the "logical" nature of the gospel. With her it´s the most frustrating, the language barrier I mean. I complemented her choice of art on the wall, Guernica by Picasso, and she was impressed I knew it. Bottom line, it´s hard to communicate the smallest ideas.

Ok, times up. This was kind of a crazy fill you in email.

If I had to describe these past two weeks in one word it would be lonely. It´s hard. When so much is welling up inside me, and I just want to vent for hours. And then not having anyone to talk to. It gets real frustrating, real fast. I know God lives and loves His servants though. This is about enduring to the end. Every day gets a little easier with the language.

I love you all very much. I feel so far away. Like an entirely new world. Not even on the same planet. The gospel is the same here. There are wonderful members. I love them very much. I love the people here. I love this work. We´re beacons to a dark world that desperately needs help.

Smoke and Mirrors

This week has been up and down. Truly representative of the MTC life. Emotional highs, and soul crushing lows. Time does not allow me to share even a tenth of the experiences I'd like to.

Yesterday, Hermano Gato came into the classroom and informed us it was officially teaching week. Which meant instead of language study and MDT (see james for MDT) we would be teaching lessons instead. Doing all the stuff real missionaries do. Notice how I said real missionaries. We forget sometimes in here..... Anyways, that meant that our plans for the week were nullified. Which to the casual observer seems like no big deal. But, here planning takes on a whole new meaning. When every fifteen minutes of your day is planned out, you get a little frustrated when the teachers strut in and throw a curve ball like that.

It couldn't have come at a better time. Here we are starved, starved for something ANYTHING spontaneous. You have to realize we live in four places. The classroom, the gym, the cafeteria, or the residence. Thus this place gets in your head. That kind of redundance gets in your head, starts to work on you. You stop remembering who you were before this. Elder Nielson left this week for Russia, which means only Elder Westover remains. He's the only person I knew before this, the only person that reminds me that I lived before walking through those gates. Once he leaves on Tuesday, who knows what will happen. Forget my identity? Quite possible.

I guess what's most frustrating about the MTC is how fake everything is. Now believe you me our teachers hammer against this mindset. "if we teach only fake investigators we are only becoming fake missionaries." I know I know I know I know. But at the end of the day it's just a volunteer, it's just another missionary. Don't get me wrong, the spirit is strong and powerful. The experiences are real. But at the end of the day you still feel lost in a mess of smoke and mirrors, craving something solid to hold onto. Fake food. Fake games. Fake rooms. Nothing feels real except the Spirit.

So you can imagine the prospect of leaving being a welcome opportunity right? Wrong. Roughly ten thousand mistakes stand between me and fluency. Which means I'm in limbo right now between my insatiable desire to leave this place and my fear to step out the door. Quite the kunundrum.

Anyways, teaching week has been crazy. We teach about four lessons daily on top of our usual classes and study. Tons of contacts and commitments. All the goals and numbers are constantly swimming in my head. It's a bit too authentic. But discouraging. Especially when we don't meet the goals. This thing demands planning on a new level. We are literally running place to place. Every second of every day is a valuable commodity not to be wasted.

Once again, too authentic.

Last night I was breaking down at about 8:30. It was post TRC, when I took the spanish lesson in a different direction because I thought I felt the Spirit. Elder Coats was frustrated with me because he didn't know what was going on and said the investigator didn't know what i was talking about. That really got to me. I started questioning wether it was the spirit or not which led to obvious discouragement. Then realizing there was no way we could complete our daily slew of context sat down with my scriptures because I didn't know what else to do. It's times like those you just want a silent room all to yourself to just sit and organize your thoughts. You want a shoulder to cry on. You want to vent for hours to a brother a mom a dad a friend or something. But the MTC is cold. You can't start thinking like that. It's selfish. Cruel, but true. And the only remedy, is to work through it and work hard. Just like an injury on the court.

Suck it up, and walk it off.

The bottom line, this place gets in your head. Missionaries just start to break down like that, happens all the time. It's never quite logical, it's never quite justified, but it's real. We try to support each other, hold onto something amid the firehose of responsibility constantly weighing on us. You have to respect the work, rely on the Lord and the Spirit, or it will destroy you.

Don't believe me?

We see it all the time.

Anyways, we were assigned to be host missionaries, which was admittedly a welcome responsiblity. It hurts though. Seeing those new missionaries leaving their mothers behind. It hit all of us in different ways. In a way it ripped off some callouces. Everyone's been there on that curb at one point or another.

I don't mean for this to be a negative email, I'm just telling it like it is. The MTC is hard. It's rewarding but it's hard. For every triumph, there's a let down to folow. For every success, failure can't be far around the corner. Ecctasy one minute, depression the next. It's life in the fast lane. Life in the paradox. Trapped in a maze of smoke and mirrors. It's the MTC.

The church is true. I know it now more than ever. The Lord breaks us down to build us up.

What's for Dinner?

Thank you for your letters and for your generosity. This week I have received a lot. My heart is full. You have no idea how much it means to me. Nevertheless, keep them coming. Just two more weeks of letters and then you don't have to write me for the rest of my mission. Just here, in this horrible maze of horrendous orange brick coffins jutting out of the ground, in the midst of ghastly redundancy, encompassed by mind numbing routine for 24 hours, letters are my only saving grace.

On that note, ha-ha, I feel like my letters home have been pretty heavy with MTC mellow drama. This week I'm going to try and focus on more of the humor of our situation here.

We're getting real MTC cynical at this point. We've started developing theories that we're never going to leave here. Like it's some sort of quasi-Truman show. Every week you can see the departing Elders with their packed bags and toothy grins, especially when we do service Monday mornings at the Wilford Woodruff building. As we sweep the sidewalks they get on the buses and wave this prison goodbye. I think no one actually leaves. It's the same people leaving every time. They're just actors. They look real happy, smile, wave, drive around the block, get off at the back of the MTC and leave all over again making a big appearance of it all to give missionaries hope. The new kids are the only ones naive enough to actually think they’re leaving. I’m not sure what they do with the missionaries when their time is up. Maybe you could ask James for some insights...although I’m partially convinced he was merely brainwashed at the end of his two years...... it's a conspiracy worthy of an R.L. Stine novel.

Ok, enough with my chistes (jokes) let's talk about something important, like the food here. I believe Douglas Adams said it best in his novel hitchhikers guide to the galaxy. The cafeteria produces a substance that is "almost but not quite entirely unlike" food. Every now and then it's real delicious, but after consumption, it never feels good. It never sits quite the way you want it to. So when the new missionaries ask us what's for dinner, we always reply, "steak and lobster." Every time. Steak and lobster. Or catering, from the olive garden. Or Chilie's. I would kill for less. You cannot comprehend the insatiable craving I have for something, anything not MTC food. Andrew if there was ever a time to ship me a smokehouse bacon burger, it's now.

In other news, we're officially the oldest district now. It feels surreal. Now we don't have the constant inferiority complex. We’re the big fish in a little pond. Don’t worry; we're also the most humble.

I feel obligated to at least share a spiritual thought. As much as I would enjoy continuing my MTC rant. it really isn't that bad here. As a matter of fact, I love it here. I have never felt the spirit so strongly.

Yesterday, Hermano Gato had us go street contacting around the MTC, but not just to approach anyone, seek them by the spirit. Elder Coats and I were pretty lost as to where to go. We said a brief prayer, and felt prompted to walk down by the gym. There was a series of picnic tables where other missionaries were studying. Two of them looked at odds with each other, not especially distraught, but something was amiss. I wasn't sure if I was feeling the spirit directing me toward them or if it was just me. As I kept walking past I felt the distinct impression to go back and talk to them and let Elder Coats share the message he prepared rather than the one I had planned. I stopped Elder Coats and told him the impression. He said he had felt the exact same thing. We re-approached the elders and told them we felt prompted to share a message with them. Up close, we could definitely tell something was amiss. Elder Coats shared a message about charity and I backed him up. I started saying things I had never said before. That charity is the most important ideal for missionaries to aspire to, and that through charity all the other rules will simply fall into place. I committed them to pray for more charity in their companionship and told them that all the little things that were getting under their skin would disappear as they sought the love of Christ. I couldn't say for sure, but I could tell from the looks on their faces that I think they needed that.

That was one of the first times here I felt the direction of the spirit, also the first time I had sought for it so fervently. Might I testify to you all the importance of following those spiritual impressions? But before following them, ask for them. Pray for ways you can invite others around you to come unto Christ and act on those impressions.

Superman meets kryptonite

I'm going to summarize my week. I learned a lot of Spanish and did the exact same thing as last week.

The end.

Love you!

-Elder Jensen

Hahaha.

But seriously, the weeks here are essentially exactly the same. Same schedule, same people, same teachers, etc. You start to become just like one of the looming drab orange brick buildings here. The same. Everywhere. Just another brick in the missionary wall. Yeah yeah yeah, I have perspective and everything. But even still, this place is getting to me with every passing week.

In a few days, we'll be the oldest district in our zone. Crazy right? At this point we feel like the bunker of Americans in Empire of the Sun. I'll leave it to dad to explain the allusion. Needless to say we have this place figured out.

Rather than rambling on about the monotonous drudgery of the MTC, and believe me, I could ramble on, I'd like to share a special experience that happened in the TRC last night.

I have prided myself for my fantastic verbose methods of vocal persuasion. Considered it my God-given strength to have eloquence in speech. My whole life, every classroom, every church talk, and every question I've had to answer, I've been able to vocalize my purpose to others so as to merit no reasonable doubt in return. At the TRC last night, however, I was powerless.

Rewind a bit. Today we had an English fast. No English, all day. As I struggled to flounder through my daily activities, I was fairly confident in my broken missionary espanol. The TRC task promised to be difficult, but I was fairly sure it would be like the others. Besides, we had practiced Spanish lessons all week. Last night was to be the payoff point.

The hour finally arrived. Elder Coats and I knocked on the door only to receive a warm reception from a small six year old girl with brown hair and a pink shirt littered with fairies. She introduced herself as Lexie. We were invited to come in and introduced ourselves to her father, Miguel. He was middle aged, brown hair with an earnest face and tender eyes. The scenario was taking place in a "cafe" where we were getting in touch with some old investigators in our area book who invited us to lunch. We sat down and ordered some food from Lexie, and made some awkward Spanish conversation. Spanish conversation is always awkward. I can ask about three things. Where do you work, do you go to school, and tell me about your family.

We shared a brief scriptural thought about prayer from the Book of Mormon. It flowed... Ok... but I started coming to a horrible realization. This man could barely understand me. We committed Miguel to read a pamphlet about the restoration and pray with his daughter, then set a return appointment. We headed back to prepare a lesson for five minutes. I began to realize my only safety net here was the spirit. So I prayed with special fervency to continue to have the Lord's help. When we went back in, we had another introduction, a prayer, and I began to teach.

We began, as usual, with God. How he's our loving Heavenly father etc, to which Miguel had a quizzical expression. Lexie sat on the couch next to her father squinting her eyes anticipating the correct words and making painful faces while shaking her head whenever I missed a conjugation, which was frequent. And then, it hit me. They couldn't understand what I was saying.

Superman meets kryptonite, right there in the TRC.

And I fell silent.

Elder Coats picked up the slack of the linguistic battle. I just sat there naked. No eloquence, no persuasion, just a stream of rehearsed phrases strung together by conjugations. I struggled to explain the most basic of basic things. What a prophet is, Jesus dying for us. I had newfound sympathy for the investigators, forcibly subjected to my incompetence.

Lexie began doodling in her notebook to pass the painful time. So there I was. Powerless. Questioning my ability to understand, comprehend. Wondering how I would ever fulfill my purpose. And there, I was humbled. Humbled in a way that I had never been before. My greatest strength suddenly became a horrid weakness.

I needed help. And only now am I starting to realize that God wanted me to need help. Not partially, but completely. It was about this time, in that drab brick room on that dusty sofa, amidst the flickering florescence, a miracle happened.

I'd like to say I stood up, speaking in fluent Spanish, eyes ablaze with the power of God, suddenly enlivened by the gift of tongues. No. I started talking about Joseph Smith.

We read in Santiago 1:5, and what that scripture meant to Joseph. How he knelt down in fervent simple prayer and asked in perfect innocent faith. I started saying the words, the words I will say so many times over these two years. The purpose, the reason I'm here.

"Vi una columna de luz, mas brillante que el sol, directamente arriba de me cabeza."

I was completely enveloped and overcome with the spirit. I couldn't get the words out to speak. My whole body seemed encompassed in the power of the vision. Lexie stopped doodling, sensing the sacred nature of the moment. She innocently slid the box of tissues to me with tears in her eyes. Miguel was crying too. Just a little bit. Sort of ashamed. Salty drips sliding down his calloused cheeks. And me, barely able to speak, still, but fluently and eloquently bearing witness by the Spirit.

So what is the gift of tongues anyway? I always thought it meant literal fluency. That one day the spirit would come to me so strongly I would be able to suddenly spew the language like a native.

No. As missionaries all that we can do, is do the best we can. Prepare with all our heart might mind and strength. And then say what we know. Last night I floundered. I couldn't even get the words out. But the spirit, the spirit carried me the rest of the way. During that wonderful first vision, I've said it before and I'll say it again, nothing else matters. The spirit is always strong. And last night, last night I was blessed with the gift of tongues.

How to hold on

So here I am. 1/3rd done with the MTC. Es maravilloso y increible. Time here moves real funny. This week flew by. It seems like yesterday that I was sending off my email for P-day last week. Days are long, weeks are short. Nights are cold and brief, but virtually disappear into the mess of classes. Essentially it all merges into one incredibly long and drab day. I feel like I sit in my desk for 24 hours. Of course that's ridiculous. It's more like eleven or twelve.

This week was all about learning the plan of salvation. Me and Elder Coats hit it real hard and had some very effective comp and personal studies. I learned a lot about Adam and Eve especially. Regardless, it's a hard lesson to teach. There are questions that the investigator can ask about premortality that frankly we just don't know the answer too. It's essentially like inviting the investigator to open Pandora’s Box. We taught this one in English, and we'll teach it again next week. But after that, it's all in Spanish. I am not prepared.

We're almost done learning the Grammar. That's right. I've been here three weeks and we've gone over nearly every single grammar principle. This is indeed, a crash course, the biggest crash course. It's hard to choose anything to study because it's all frankly overwhelming. Nevertheless, I know through the Lord I can do all things.

This week’s task in the TRC was to meet an investigator, take them to church on a bus, and then set up an appointment. We had to take about fifteen minutes in Spanish. Check up on commitments, and testify of the importance of commitments. Then return later that night to teach the plan of salvation. Elder Coats freezes up in high pressure situations in the TRC, so for the majority I was talking to the investigators in my broken Spanish. Good experience? I survived at least. I did freeze up once however, and then there was no one to pick up the slack. As far as the language goes I'm making progress. Even still, keep praying. It is an incredibly insurmountable task.

After the Spanish portion, we prayed incredibly hard for the spirit to accompany us as we taught the plan of salvation. I wasn't sure what I was going to say. We hadn't taught it all the way through. So I was looking at complete dependence on the Lord. We had studied, and we knew we qualified for the Spirit. So with that faith, we began to teach. This lesson felt a lot more real than the others. We asked the investigators meaningful questions and they asked us meaningful questions. It was more like a doctrinal discussion guided by the spirit rather than us checking off the bullet points from PMG. We taught them about premortality, the fall, and the atonement. We emphasized God's love for all His children, and how because of that love he has given us a plan and a purpose. The spirit really came when we talked about the atonement. I felt prompted to go to Alma 7, and I taught them how Christ took upon himself all of our infirmities and afflictions, not just our sins. And he did it because He loves us. Very powerful. I honestly could feel the spirit testify through me. We then taught them about baptism, which they were very receptive too. We taught them that Jesus was baptized and he was perfect. Went to 2Ne31:5 and then taught them about Priesthood authority because they had questions. It was cool to be able to show them that our authority can be traced all the way back to Christ Himself. After that, they agreed to be baptized. We set a date for the service and told them it was a goal we could work for, that we'd be coming back. Set a return apt. etc. All in all it was a very successful lesson, the best in the TRC yet.

I'm starting to see the appeal of this pace. I don't know why or how, but in a strange way, it's becoming home. We're said goodbye to four of the Elders in our district Elder Snow, Hicken, Nielson, and Walker. They're off to the DR MTC to finish up. As for us, six more weeks of Provo to digest. Literally. Regardless it's hard to see them leave. It feels like you say goodbye as soon as you say hello. The new Elders come in every Wednesday, tears of their mothers still glistening on their rigid suit coats, eyes ablaze with life and a new adventure. As for the rest of us, we sit and watch as this world spins around us. A district comes, a district leaves. Time stops and moves backwards and forwards and stands still every now and then. We say goodbye as soon as we know how to love someone. And we cry, late at night, when no one can see. Because missionaries don't cry. They sacrifice everything. And we start to realize, that nothing we learn to care about in this place will ever last. So we kneel down with tender eyes turned to the only thing we know will never change. The North Star in our stormy sea. And then we wake up at the crack of dawn bathed in the morning light and learn to love again.

So here it is. The big "three" mark. 1/3rd done. Six weeks left. The new elders let us know how far we've come. It's self-affirming actually. I realized all the things I've learned. How to choose the right shower. How to endure four solid hours of MDT. How to wedge myself in the corner desk and not freeze to death when the vent blows right on me. How to love someone like a brother at first glance. How to say goodbye and convince myself it’s not forever. But after three weeks it never gets easier. The hours are still long. And when someone leaves this place, part of me leaves with them. It's a big cruel cycle, one that makes your knees sore. I guess all we can do too stay human here is hold onto the little things. The back left shower, the ritualistic nightly tucking in by Elder Tattersall, a letter from a loved one all the way across the world. The way the spirit comes when you bear a testimony that means something. And yes, the way God embraces us when we don't think we can take another step. What have I learned? How to hold on.

Missionary Training Center: Week 1

I would start this email off with some cliche hacking of my language to demonstrate how much I've learned this week, say something like "hola! El Mtc es muy dificil," But I'm not that missionary. And aside from praying and bearing my testimony I'm essentially illiterate in spanish. So there it is. My innovative intro. Much more representative of the missionary I really am.

I used to imagine the romanticized notions of the MTC being destroyed over time. As it turns out, it only takes about five minutes. When mom and dad dropped me off monday morning, I felt like the scene in Empire of the Sun when the little boy gets lost in the crowd (mom hates that scene) and is torn from his moms arms. One minute I was staring at mom and then, as abruptly and unceremoniously as advertised, was thrust to the central building, given keys and my tag, assigned a missionary, dragged to my residence hall, thrown out the door, poked and prodded, checked for my immunizations, handed thousands of miscellaneous slips, each with a distinct and "very important" function, handed 30 pounds of MTC literature, and suddenly shoved out the door squinting in the sunlight, completely lost with an incredible clutter on my hands. Moon-faced, sweating heavily, and with no sense of direction, I was forced to heckle some passing missionaries for instructions. I stumbled into my residence with an armfull of books dropping them instantly, breathing heavily, and scrutinizing over my luggage. I stared blankly at the wall for what seemed like hours exhausted and terrified. I was torn between the desire to take a nap, or to just sit down and cry. It was quite traumatizing. Unfortunately, time forbids me from further detailing the first day. About 30 meetings later, I managed to get some sleep, though the frigid room and the sheet rock bedding proved to be definate obstacles.

The next morning I awoke to a frigid shower. Frigid. 0 hot water. None. Zip. Nada. Jenny lake in a shower head. I've learned since that the back left shower is the only warm one. This being after three days of winter cleansing sessions. For those of you who know me, I don't do cold showers. I don't.

My companion Elder coats is a quiet reclusive fellow, but has a big heart. His humility teaches me a lot. A whole lot. We make a good team. Me being verbose, expressive, and philosophical. Elder Coats simply uses a few words and brings me right down to Earth.

Last night we street contacted in spanish in the TRC (Training Resource Center) Then we had to teach the entire first lesson in english. You never really appreciate how hard that is until you actually sit down and do it. Elder Coats saved me a few times, and we got through it relatively unscathed. I wish I could detail all of the spiritual experiences of the prior days, but it would be simply impossible. Needless to say, it's been an emotional roller coaster.

The first lesson is incredibly difficult to get down. There's just so much. But whenever I tell the Joseph Smith story, the spirit comes and it is incredible. I can't cite it without crying. If there's one thing I've gained a huge testimony of it's the first vision.

Our teacher is Brother Catt, but we call him Hermano Gato. The guy is an LDS Obi Wan Kanobi. All about letting go of our natural perceptions and solely relying on the spirit. The standard process to become a teacher at the Mtc usually takes weeks. But in his case they contacted him in an hour, the fastest in Mtc history according to our branch president. He's a spiritual anomaly, truly powerful in his lessons. I take notes all through his classes.

They really have raised the bar. No more memorized discussions. Just you and the spirit. I've gained a huge testimony of that as well. Relying on God to "mete the words in the hour of need." That's what it's all about. Hours and hours of docrinal and linguistic study, and then giving a lesson totally different than what you thought because the spirit tells you to. It's a little frustrating in a way. But empowering to know the spirit is always with you.

This place is a sanctuary from the storms of evil. The spirit is always here. I can feel it stronger than I ever have.