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.