A Testimony, For My Mother

And for all the mothers who may never know how much they influence their kids for good. 

When we decided to marry in December, we knew we'd be making our final preparations during the Christmas season. What we didn't realize was that, before all the good cheer and charity decked society's halls, we'd have to get through the presidential elections.

"We’re going to build a wall.”

"Such a nasty woman."

"To just be grossly generalistic, you can put half of Trump supporters into what I call the basket of deplorables.”

Those kinds of words screeched from air and radio waves for weeks. We got used to flinching when we turned on the radio or walked by a TV. With the same gruesome attraction that turns heads toward an accident on the highway, we flinched as we glanced and listened to the constant messages of contention and distrust.

Then we came home and we planned: how we would raise our children, where we would live, what kind of Spirit we would invite into our family. But we were not free from the influence of the media and I, at least, began to see some of my worries about current events bleed into and poison the hope I had for my future family.

My heart hung heavy, heavier than it should for someone a month away from getting married.

Then one Sunday morning, lying on my roommate's white faux leather couch, listening through headphones to Gage reading every other verse of the 11th chapter of Nephi in the Book of Mormon, I got some solace from the words on my phone screen and the Holy Spirit that filled them with meaning for me.

At this point in the story, Nephi (an ancient prophet who'd just followed his family out of Jerusalem prior to its 587 BC destruction) gets to see his father's vision of the tree of life. He's also shown visions of the future. He sees wickedness, illness, and destruction. He sees his own descendants grow mean-spirited, selfish, and cruel. He watches them fight each other to the point of extinction. Reading about that kind of felt like watching the news.

But Nephi also sees a preview of Christ's visit to the earth:

"And I looked and beheld the Redeemer of the world, of whom my father had spoken; ... And I beheld that he went forth ministering unto the people, in power and great glory; and the multitudes were gathered together to hear him; and I beheld that they cast him out from among them" (1 Nephi 11:27-28).

The words pierced through the soft shell of numbness I had been building around my heart. They carried the worry and fear and skepticism to the core of me, let me feel it strongly, and then washed it all away, leaving peace where before there had been the beginnings of despair.

I was reminded, with the emotional and mental strength that comes only from the Holy Spirit, that Christ lives. He has overcome the world. "The world" includes the people who were cruel to him then and the people who are cruel to each other now. It includes every scary politician and un-loving neighbor that was making me wonder whether I was prepared to raise my children to choose that right in an ever-darkening world. 

Those verses helped me remember - and more importantly, helped me feel - that "all that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Christ" (Preach My Gospel, Lesson 2).  

Later that day, anyone who wanted had the chance to stand and share a testimony at the end of Relief Society, a Sunday school-type meeting for sisters at church. The words I shared surprised me.

"You know how sometimes general authorities (church leaders) tell us we shouldn't be like the young adults they talk to who are afraid to get married because they don't want to bring children into this world? Well, I've always scoffed at that. Not because they're wrong, but because I never thought that was a good enough reason not to get married. Like, the world is a good place; what's the big deal?

"Well, now that I'm actually about to get married, and having kids is becoming a reality, I get how people can be scared about that. I wonder how I'm going to raise children to choose the right when there are a million voices that would seem so much more persuasive. 

"People are going to tell my kids that Jesus Christ never lived, or if he did that he was just a good man. They're going to say he's dead, that he lives on only in paintings like the ones on these church walls. They're going to say that his power is just a figment of our imaginations.

"And why should they turn to Christ for comfort when they could turn on music, or eat food, or watch TV, or, heaven forbid, turn to drugs and alcohol for relief?"

I thought back on that morning, reading the scriptures with Gage, and the rush of relief and peace it gave me. I told them about that experience.

"And so I know it doesn't matter how scary this world may seem, or how cruel people are, or who gets elected, or what happens in this country or others. Christ has overcome the world."

I glanced at the painting of the Savior on the wall above the piano. Then I thought about the similar depictions in my home growing up: the paintings behind my dad's living room chair, on the kitchen wall calendar, on the fridge, in my room. I remember staring into the imagined eyes of Jesus Christ and wondering whether he was looking at me from above, whether he really understood the saltiness of my tears and the trials of my childhood life.

Then I had a sudden, vivid vision of my mother. I glimpsed her head bent over the Book of Mormon she read with me when I was 7, waking up early before work to explain the hard words and tell about her favorite spiritual stories. I remembered her preparing with reverence for church lessons, reading scripture stories to my brothers before bed, and answering our questions with patience and love. 

I realized that my testimony of the Savior comes, in large part, because of hers. Before the skepticism of the world could corrupt me, she taught me the truth. And so I finished my testimony having learned something

"I am so grateful for my mother, who taught me to have faith. It's true what the general authorities say, that the world needs mothers who will teach their kids their truth. 

"How can I not have kids, then, if I know something that so few people in the world today remember? I know that Christ lives. He gave his life and was resurrected. He really is the Son of God we believe in. He gives us peace nothing else can offer. He is real. And his love is real."

I pray for God's help in showing my children his love, as my mother showed - and continues to show - it to me. 

The Man Who Sewed My Skirt

This morning, while I indexed family history records and we both listened to sweet Sunday music, Gage trimmed and hemmed my skirt.

That's right.

My sci-fi loving, mechanical-engineering, tool-wielding man sat down behind his grandma's 20-year old Bernina, changed the foot, inserted a new spool of thread, removed the pins he'd placed, used his steady hands to guide a straight stitch - and didn't think twice about it.

I did.

For a minute I felt insecure. There I was watching uselessly while my partner, who can also run math and science circles around me, carried out a basic domestic duty. I'm not ashamed to have just quit a good job so I can move with my groom to wherever his job takes us. I don't feel relegated to, but rather honestly yearn, to fill the role of wife and mother and loving homemaker. But up to this point in our relationship, Gage has cooked more than me and, if we had kids right now, he'd be the one they'd run to for hand-sewn Halloween costumes.

Gage and I have talked about variations of this thought before. He points out that I have other talents, and he's right. I serve in the temple and write and speak Spanish and exercise and am largely content with how I spend my time. Sometimes Gage is even the one who says he feels insecure, and I try to assure him there's no reason to be.

Ultimately, both of us know that in each other we have found a healthy balance. Our individual talents combine to cover almost all the bases. Together, we feel that we will make a very happy home. We know that it doesn't matter if he's the one sewing and I'm planning the honeymoon, or whose savings pay for our dates out. What matters is that we "help one another as equal partners." 

So I brushed aside this morning's brief insecurities and instead gave thanks to be marrying a man who doesn't think himself above any type of work.

If only it were happily ever after.

A couple hours later, at church, standing at Gage's side in my freshly sewn skirt, I watched a well-meaning married man of 25 years put his hand on my almost-husband's shoulder.

"So you're getting married soon, are you?" he asked.

"12 days," Gage smiled.

"Well, just remember," the man chuckled, "She's always right." 

Gage and I exchanged a glance. 

"That's one of the first things I learned in marriage," the man went on. "You gotta get used to being wrong. I only made one right decision in all this time, and that was marrying her."

We didn't know how to respond. But the gentleman didn't seem to notice our shifting feet and forced smiles. 

It's wasn't the first time we'd heard something like that. A couple of weeks into our engagement, a group of strangers in their 70s joked that we must be newly married if we were still holding hands. Once before Sunday School, some women at church told Gage he better get used to saying "Yes, dear." When I protested that I wanted a husband to counsel with, they insisted I didn't know what I was getting into. They made marriage sound like I'd be training a dog.

Together, Gage and I marvel at this kind of language. We resolve to fuel the flames of our romance and retain the respect and admiration we feel for each other. And we wonder why. Why does this kind of "advice" get tossed around as if its funny? It's especially exasperating to hear it within the walls of our church, whose members are taught that both husband and wife are prized by God and essential in the family. 

Just this spring, the apostle D. Todd Christofferson gave an inspiring message about fathers in which he said "We call on media and entertainment outlets to portray devoted and capable fathers who truly love their wives and intelligently guide their children, instead of the bumblers and buffoons or 'the guys who cause problems,' as fathers are all too frequently depicted."

As a woman whose fiance sewed her skirt this morning, it is especially discouraging to hear baffoon-type stereotypes directed at the love of my life. Don't the people who say these things know that all too often Gage is the one gently (and ever so tactfully) correcting me? Don't they see the countless ways he serves me: filling up my water bottle before I know it's empty, giving me the bigger bite of the shared cupcake, even massaging my scalp as I write this? He hates it when I say it, but in so many ways, he's perfect. 

And that, maybe, is one of the reasons the kinds of man-minimization we heard expressed today is proliferated throughout society. This morning when Gage was sewing something I didn't know how to, it made me feel insignificant. That wasn't a pleasant feeling. If I hadn't had his encouragement and/or the critical thinking and self-esteem to understand and invalidate those doubts about my worth, I might have been taken in by the temptation to tease him about his ability to sew. Sitcoms even today might still label that something like "women's work." They'd poke fun at a man for sewing like they would if he wore pink.

In his talk about fathers, Elder Christofferson said, "For men, fatherhood exposes us to our own weaknesses and our need to improve." I can say the same about dating, engagement, and marriage from a woman's perspective. From any perspective. There are things I'm not going to know how to do that Gage is going to teach me (and vice versa). One of the tests of matrimony will be seeing whether we act with humility while both teaching and learning. Doing that means admitting our weaknesses instead of belittling the other. Doing that will "require sacrifice, but it [will be] a source of incomparable satisfaction, even joy." 

It's how we'll grow together. And I'm betting it's the only way to happily ever after. 

A Moderate's Resignation

She quoted scripture. Galatians 6:9. "Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart."

Never have I loved her more than then while listening to her concession speech play live over NPR in my car as I drove to an event for Latino High School students where I'd hand them fliers about a program the new president could very well eliminate. It made me wish I had done more to fight for her when there was still a chance.

I guess I just always thought it was a given she was going to win. Trump said too many offensive and ignorant things. How could people take him seriously?

I read his platform points for the first time today. Went to his empire's website and looked at a picture of him sitting in a claw-footed chair surrounded by candlesticks and marble everything. And wondered how it is that he connects with the working class people who came to all his rallies.

Because Hillary said we owe him an open mind and a peaceful transition of power, I tried to find something I could agree with. He wants to put term limits on congressmen and women. That's wise. He wants to let local school districts have more control over their education. That's good. He won't draw a presidential salary. That's only fitting.

I'm still wary of the man who has verbally abused women and belittled minorities. And no money of mine is paying for any idiotic wall.

But I'm also not blacking out my Twitter pic, or protesting in the streets, or filling social media with sensational and rare (if very, very unfortunate) racist reactions. We don't need to foment any more fear.

When Donald Trump sat down to tell the press about his meeting with President Obama today, he looked humbled and subdued. There's a reason all the presidents go gray-haired within their first few years in office. Let's hope the president-elect is starting to get a real good feeling for the solemnity of what he's signed up for.

Besides, "the assumption of good faith in our fellow citizens is essential to a vibrant and functioning economy." President Obama said that in his remarks about the outcome of the election. It reminded me of what the current Latter-day prophet has said: "We must develop the capacity to see men not as they are at present but as they may become..."

Of course, President Monson ended that statement with "...when they receive testimonies of the gospel of Christ." I'm not sure that will happen for Mr. Trump within the next four years, but if I truly believe "the gospel will save the world from the calamity of its own self-destruction," I better start living it. And that means supporting what I can about the president-elect's upcoming administration, respectfully and appropriately protesting as necessary, and, more than anything else, living a kind, moderate, and good life in my own sphere of influence.

Who's with me?

In Honor of the Honors College Dean

When he called me into his office to defend my beliefs, I had the nervous knees of a freshman going against the wishes of the dean of the Honors College.

Besides being the dean, Dr. James Ruebel was one of the people who'd given me the scholarship I so badly needed in order to come to Ball State. And he was the distinguished co-professor of my six-credit classics course, the professor who was truly a teacher, who explained the Odyssey in such a way that somehow Homer's words made sense. He was the professor who asked the kinds of questions that made you think deep thoughts that made you want to keep thinking. He was the kind of professor you automatically respected, the kind of person you wanted to please.

But he wanted our class to watch a film whose ratings for violence and language conflicted with my conservative standards for media. I didn't want to watch it, and I told him so, and why. Of course, I did this in an email, the least confrontational medium of all. I hoped for an easy answer. 

The reply that came was an invitation to meet him in his office in the second floor of the Honors College. He said he would respect my feelings, but he wanted to hear them explained.

And so I went: a nervous 19-year-old prepared to be peppered with questions about my faith and lifestyle. What I remember of our conversation is that it was far from accusatory. Dr. Ruebel asked questions to hear their answers. He listened, and though he didn't agree, he respected my beliefs. I left his office eager to do the make-up work we agreed on.

It has only been recently, as I've pondered this experience from 5 years ago, that I realize how precious Dr. Ruebel's behavior in that situation was, how characteristic it is of him, and how badly needed it is in the world today. 

Though we viewed movies and morals very differently, and though he was far my superior in every way, Dr. Ruebel did not wield his authority like a weapon. Instead, he listened. He respectfully questioned. He explained his perspective. He showed his frustration at times, but he did not impose his will on mine. 

Dr. Ruebel knew that thinking amounts to something, and lasts longer than the words that communicate it does. When conversations are kept civil, grounded in an appropriate balance of verified facts and analyzed feelings, they allow their participants to learn in ways that no other kind of discourse ever will. 

Because of Dr. Ruebel, I thought about what I might have been missing by not watching that film. I honestly re-evaluated my standards and ultimately learned how to better articulate them. I also pondered his perspective and what it might be like to live life in his shoes. I learned. I grew.

And, so, Dr. Ruebel accomplished his calling. Even without the content of whatever the rest of the class saw in that film, he gave a classical training. He taught me - and so many other students and people over the course of his tenure as teacher, professor, and leader - to consider, and to be considerate. 

I share this story in honor of my Honors College dean, along with a plea for a more peaceful planet: As we go about interacting with people and ideas that are different from us, may we remember Dr. Ruebel and strive to emulate his critical thinking, tolerance, and love.

No Offense to Russia, But I Shouldn't Have Come Here

The campus-wide email advertised two weeks in a total of three foreign cities, all for $1500 and a plane ticket. The call-out meeting featured delicious Russian desserts and a handful of eccentric people whose witty teasing and embrace of differences suggested a good group dynamic. A consultation with my bank account and a phone call with my mother both suggested the same thing: you can do this.

It would be my last summer before starting "real life" as a college graduate with a challenging and meaningful job, and I was sucked into believing I had to go to Russia. So I signed up for this trip - and now I'm here, wishing I'd stayed home.

Let me clarify that my discontent isn't because of the country, the food, the people here or in my group, the expense, or the things I'm missing at home. More accurately, my discontent comes from a combination of those factors, and the addition of this major one: by being here, I'm not practicing what I preach.

Since returning from my 18-month Mormon mission in rural Guatemala, I've talked about poverty, wealth, and priorities from the mounted top of a metaphorical moral high horse. Cold showers, dirt floors, dengue fever, and the happiness I rejoiced in despite it all, taught me some pretty important things. Namely:

• You don't have to have lots of things to be happy.
• Happiness comes from having a righteous purpose and working hard to fulfill it. 

Trite as those life lessons sound, I knew they were true and was pretty proud of myself for learning them the hard way and at such a young age, or so I thought. But my resolution of living a simple life turned out to be weaker than I thought.

Almost two years after returning from Guatemala, I'd become sufficiently emotionally distant from the things the Lord and the chapinas taught me that I started being swayed by some of the lies of the world. Namely:

• Graduate with a bang!
• Put your saved money to good use. Treat yourself.
• Spending money on travel isn't so bad; it's not like you're indulging in things. You're paying for experience. Travel will make you a better person.
• After this summer, you'll never have more than two weeks of vacation time, and eventually you'll have family responsibilities. This is your last chance to be free.  

So I came. And now I'm here, in Russia, cringing. Repenting, actually. Wishing I had had the resolve to choose the "best" option instead of the flashier, marginally okay one.

It hit me hardest when several members of our study abroad group were returning to the hotel on the fourth day in a week of historical tours of the city and surrounding areas. Our group's director, a middle-aged woman with a tendency to wear tights and flimsy tops while abroad, started mimicking the tour guide. "And to your left," she sung out, walking backwards and adopting a false voice with a hint of a bad Russian accent, "is another church. It was built in the 11th century and features peculiar architecture..."

Something about that impersonation made me cringe, as it did many people in our group. Sure, we had seen a lot of churches on this trip, but they were all actually built centuries or a millennium ago, at great cost and sacrifice for the people who constructed them in faith. The director's flippance immediately dismissed all that.

Worse yet, the tour guide she was mocking is a woman whose careful smile disguises the years of effort she's put in to learn English and work odd job after off job to support her family. When she stayed late one evening to answer a question I had about the city, her hesitant fingers hovering over my cell phone map betrayed the fact that she had never once owned a smartphone. Not to be diswayed, she set the phone aside and gave me directions from memory. This woman is my hero from this trip, and our director's mockery of her made me question whose side I was standing on. Why was I walking in this group of rich Americans, heading from a markets to malls in a land whose language I had not even attempted to learn, when I could have been working to support my (albeit future) family like our tour guide?

That moment multiplied. Time and again on this trip, I have had the opportunity to realize that my actions now do not align with my previously (and so self-righteously) announced priorities. I'm here, burning through Russian rubles on room service and matryoshka dolls, missing church and moments that could be spent with family, just eating, drinking, and trying to be merry. I was wooed by the glamor of the planes and trains and passport stamps, the travelust of the Instagram generation. But I forgot that the things of eternal value don't require a visa, and that happiness comes from having a righteous purpose and fulfilling it.

I'm not saying I'll never vacation again. Traveling really does open a person's eyes, teach us things about the world, and offer needed rest and rejuvenation. I look forward to seeing my kids' eyes light up when they see natural wonders, hear foreign languages, and climb into the sky in a carefully-piloted airplane. But there came a point in my life when God had taught me important lessons. Instead of staying home and putting them into practice, I was greedy for one more trip.

I was wrong.

On politics AND religion

Well, it's time, isn't it? All the Americans who've for so many years worshiped their television screens (and with them, their sensationalist TV talk shows, their documentary-dramas on the Hatfields and McCoys, their whose-life-is-worse-than-mine reality MTV drama) are now having their way. Because it's easy to scream, to shout, to blame, to watch some funny guy on TV, Trump has become an actual candidate.

I can't believe it.

But isn't that just what happens? In a society where personal problems are resolved by the instant gratification of distraction, how can we not expect that there would be raised a whole crop of people who just want easy answers?

We've got too many people who have gotten the short end of the stick and - instead of going out in the honest search of a longer one - are just sitting around and beating everyone in their reach with it.

And what do the rest of us do? We make memes on the internet. We post on Facebook in astonishment. We swear we'll go out and vote for someone who's not him. 

Which is fine, but tell me if that fixes anything. 

When stereotypes are so hard to change, and no one who actually supports Trump is looking at my Facebook posts anyway, is there anything I can actually do to make our political scene respectable again?

Go out and vote, that's sure, And pay attention to Congress, because we're actually part of a three-branch representative government, not a theatrical monarchy. I will write to my legislators, and elevate my online discourse. I will make mine a level-headed, tolerant, and disciplined voice - and make it heard.  

The change starts like Michael Jackson sang, with the man in the mirror. We should not demand of others what we are unwilling to do. It is not enough to be busy decrying Trump. We must make friends with people outside our comfort zones, contemplate the good in ideas that are different than our own, and replace any unrighteous rhetoric in our personal or public lives with respectful and loving language. We may not be able to change the minds of Trump supporters in one quick argument, but we can set the example of life lived right. 

Which is why I'm not all about any of the other candidates, either. Even those who rightly speak of love trumping hate cater to ideologies that encourage destructive personal behavior. We are not building a wall. And we are not all getting a free college education.

Life is not well-lived when it is made easy. And I am so frustrated with Americans who only want the easy path. Don't we know anything of the history of this country? It was not all smart phones and shopping sprees. There were dirt floors and lean years and 12-hour factory days. There was work ethic before there was wealth. And there will not be wealth for long if there is no work ethic. 

When will someone stand up and say that we must stop spending beyond our means, that too many people are not using firearms responsibly, and that environmental concerns are more pressing than military ones? When will a politician have the courage to address these and so many other real issues with something more than oversimplified answers?

When will we, as a people, be willing to?

I am a Christian because I am opposed to self-deception. Perhaps more so than any other religion or creed, the gospel of Christ blesses brings light to life - and that light helps us see where we fall short. It gives us the tools to correct our mistakes and the hope that all the work of doing so will be worth it. 

While I by no means advocate for a theocracy, I do bemoan the fact that so many of those who speak so adamantly against Trump are the same brilliantly educated folk who say religion is old-fashioned and unnecessary. I learned to think critically from my religion, which challenges me to improve my behavior and seek answers to difficult questions. I value the measuring stick of moral behavior that organized religion offers - in part because it so clearly marks rhetoric like Trump's as dangerous. And as valuable as various perspectives are, and as much as I can learn from philosophers and scholars, no amount of "you-do-you"-ing can make me abandon the fundamental truths of who we all are and where we came from, truths I learned from Church.

If you're not interested in religion, I can certainly appreciate that. But I do hope that each of us is able to find and cling to something that gives us courage, strength, hope, and an eye for absolute truth. 

With this political scene, we're going to need it. 

Perspectives & Poverty, Continued

I recently shared an essay about how my 18-month Mormon mission in Guatemala changed my perspective on poverty and writing.

The first draft of that essay included more musings on poverty and humanitarian aid than the published version does. After conversing with several friends about the issues, I want to dig up those sections and share them here.

These passages contain few conclusions; they will probably raise more questions than they give answers. But, as a friend said to me tonight, "Thinking at the edge of your experience is glorious, isn't it?" I'm grateful for the chance to run up against the "I simply don't know" wall. I'm grateful for the luxury of thinking about lofty things. And I hope these thoughts can continue a conversation that will help us all better know how to give.

---

Sometimes, we look at poverty and ask questions.

“Why is this allowed to happen?” “What can we do to fix it?” “How long will these people go on living like this?”

One of the attorneys at the law firm where I worked this summer is a mission-trip goer who described some of his experiences with the impoverished in Honduras on his blog. He frames the classic question, “Why does God permit extreme poverty?” effectively in part because he recognizes that his work, and all the humanitarian work done by Christians and governments, make up only a few straws in the haystack that would be needed to feed, clothe, shelter, and educate the world.

In October, the World Bank raised the global poverty line standard from $1.25/day to $1.90/day. Along with the announcement came the estimate that there are 900 million people living below this line.

In Guatemala, about a quarter of the 15 million fit that description, making do with less than $2/day.

In Guatemala, I had an electric fan and an indoor toilet. I lived on about $7/day.

In the U.S., if you have access to $16/day or less, you’re living below the poverty line.

Now, if the pictures didn’t make it clear, the numbers certainly did: On an economic Bell curve of the world’s population, we as Americans are not in the middle. We are the extreme, the minority, the weird ones. We are all the one percent.

Which is why, when I got back, I had a bit of a hard time adjusting.

I let my mom see how excited, and almost apprehensive, I was to drink water out of the kitchen sink the night I came home. You can’t do that in Guatemala. Not just because the water is contaminated, but because very few houses have kitchen sinks.

My aunt noticed that I no longer have a problem wearing clothes from Goodwill. My roommates appreciate that I’ll volunteer to kill spiders or crickets. My friends occasionally hear me cringe if I spend $10 on a meal, because that would buy lunch for a small family in Guatemala.

But, for the most part, I keep my observations about weird American luxuries to myself. (Nobody really wants to hear complaints about the stretch limo that shuttles students back and forth between campus and their apartment complex, or how much unnecessary free stuff Ball State gives out so people will go to its football games. And nobody really understands; I googled “poverty and survivor’s guilt” and all the articles that came up were by people adjusting to American wealth after living in American poverty, which is not the same thing.)

Besides, I know that if I talk about the poverty, my friends will stare with wide eyes and open mouths. They’ll experience a vague feeling of guilt and/or be inspired to donate to a worthy humanitarian organization. Which is fine; that’s what I felt and still sometimes feel when I think about poverty.

But I don’t want to be like one of those commercials for sponsorship of African children. My mission was so much more than that. And the people I met are so much more than sad faces on a TV screen. They’re people, living life, having families and jobs and successes and failures, being poor but for the most part making it just fine. They manage even without us bundling up a bunch of American greenbacks and shooting them down to Guatemala.

Of course, we do that, and it helps some. But I lived in poverty in Guatemala long enough to know that the Band-Aid, give-a-man-a-fish solutions are not going to cut it. I saw American-built schools sitting empty, missing all the evangelical teachers who’d started them and long since gone home. I watched boxes of secondhand toys get distributed among rural children, wiry barefoot beings used to climbing coconut trees and never taught to covet a plastic Transformer.

I’m not bitter about American attempts to spread the wealth; every bit helps and every effort is, I believe, blessed by God. But one of my mission’s lasting effects on me has been a desire to study macroeconomics. How Guatemala stayed so poor while America got so rich, for example, is still a mystery to me. And how corrupt governments manage to squander humanitarian aid while their own people are illiterate and starving is also a mystery.

---

In writing this, I hesitated to ask any of my friends from Guatemala about the poverty gap that exists between the U.S. and the rest of the Western Hemisphere. There’s not a convenient way to bring it up: “How do you feel about the fact that you’re way poorer than me?” They’re not lab animals meant to study, and I didn’t want to make anyone feel that way.

Finally, I contacted Felisa Ixcoy, who is not a member of my church but is the mom of one of my dear friends from an area called San Martín. Felisa was born in Guatemala but has lived in New York City for 11 years, where she works a variety of jobs illegally so she can send money back home to her family, which consists of a husband, two mentally disabled children, three other children, and two grandchildren she has never met.

“You’ve lived in both places,” I asked her. “How do you find peace despite knowing that life is so much harder in Guatemala?”

She was silent for a long time. Finally, her answer came.

“I’m sorry, sister,” she said. “I don’t know. I guess God works it all out in the end.”

I tried a follow-up question and got the same answer. God works it all out in the end.

---

I rarely asked the people in Guatemala questions like that while I was there, but when I did, they always gave me that same answer: God knows; God works it out.

I used to think they didn’t really consider the question, or maybe that they didn’t sufficiently understand the greatness of the wealth discrepancy between their home and the U.S. But Felisa understood both those things.

I was grateful for her answer because, for one of the first times, I trusted it.

You know, we can come to that conclusion as wealthy Americans, but I’m not sure if we ever believe ourselves when we do. It made me feel better as a missionary to blindly trust in faith that in the afterlife God would build these beautiful people mansions far more luxurious than the ones Bill Gates knows, if that stuff matters in heaven. But it always seemed too convenient to be true. When someone you know and trust who has lived both lifestyles comes to that same conclusion, believing it seems a little more permissible.

One thing I did figure out while in Guatemala is that God gives everybody trials. People in Guatemala may be poor, but they love their families and stick with them. We may have iPads and fast cars in the U.S., but we’re a lot more prone to be lonely or addicted to drugs.

I admit that when you’re looking at pictures of poverty, it’s hard to believe that it’s fair to compare loneliness with living in a tin house. But when you live there, and you sit with a family all gathered around the concrete boards that count as their table, laughing and joking and singing hymns, it’s easy to forget that the setting isn’t picturesque. You get used to being physically uncomfortable, and you don’t notice anymore.

Years before I served my mission, I read a quote from one of our church leaders, Ezra Taft Benson. He said:

“The Lord works from the inside out. The world works from the outside in. The world would take people out of the slums. Christ takes the slums out of people, and then they take themselves out of the slums. The world would mold men by changing their environment. Christ changes men, who then change their environment. The world would shape human behavior, but Christ can change human nature. ...

“Yes, Christ changes men, and changed men can change the world.”

I think this is why my church sends out long-term proselyting missionaries instead of just short-term humanitarian ones. God wants us to know that we are all equal in his sight and worthy of His love. He also wants us to share the gospel of Christ with everyone; He wants them to know how to live righteously and make better lives for themselves, their families, and eventually their nations. I don’t think God likes poverty, but he has allowed the vast majority of the population of the world throughout history live that way. Why he lets us Americans ride in limos and use air conditioning, I don’t know.

I do know that it takes all kinds of missionaries to better the world. We will need humanitarian and spiritual and political efforts to accomplish any significant change in international poverty levels. But we need not discount the very people who live in poverty. They are not faces on a TV commercial; they are capable of making change. They are my friends, and I love them.

Breaking Up is Good for You

Good morning, world!

A week ago this morning, I was pulling on a pair of jeans, listening to "Lead, Kindly Light," and wondering why, on this of all mornings, my roommate had to be home to hear my sobs.

It felt like someone had died.

I could think of several things I'd rather do than live this day, the first in a series of days that would become a future that now looked so different than the one I'd started to plan.

My serious boyfriend had ended our the relationship the night before. It'd been a complete surprise, coming just hours after we'd road-tripped to meet some friends, he'd said he loved me, and we'd made Valentine's Day plans. We'd spent the holidays with each others' families and he'd given no sign, to anyone, that anything was wrong.

Regardless, one long drive home, one forcibly optimistic Facebook post, and a few fitful hours of sleep later, I was awake, back from a run, and wondering how I'd make it through the day's classes without crying. You can take pictures off your walls in an instant, but that doesn't erase the memories from your mind, the love from your heart, or your name from his family's weekly email list.

But, GUESS WHAT?

I didn't die. Or gain 10 pounds. By Tuesday, re-contracting parasites no longer seemed preferable to being broken-up-with.

By Wednesday, I was laughing when I told people how he started the break-up conversation holding my hand.

And by Friday, I was jammin' to this song, which I recommend to all broken-up-with women everywhere. (Can we just take a moment and talk about how cool Mikey Guyton is for being a classy, black, female country singer?)

In short, I was immensely blessed this week. I also learned that breaking up can be good for you. Some of the physical benefits:

• You can leave abs out of your gym routine for the first few days, since crying works the same muscles. 
• If you like running to reduce frustration, you'll cover more miles with more ease than in previous weeks.
• You will absolutely not feel guilty for eating cake/donuts/comfort food of choice (and your caloric intake will be low enough from all the meals you're not hungry for that it really won't matter).

If a better body isn't enough to convince you that a break-up can be worth the heartbreak, there are some emotional benefits too:

• You find out who your friends are. 
• You will probably find out that you have amazing friends. I can't begin to thank everyone who reached out to me this week. On the evening of the first day, I made a list in my journal of all the people who had messaged/texted/offered donuts/hugged/teased/Facebook-posted/gotten mad at boys for me/otherwise reached out. I just kept writing and writing,
  
  name after name! That was so humbling. I may have wanted one particular person to be there for me, but when he w/couldn't be, everyone else in the world was. It was beautiful.
• You will feel much closer to God. The Savior asks that we offer up a broken heart and a contrite spirit. I'll be honest, during the last couple of weeks in my relationship, I had gotten a little too comfortable, a little too content. My prayers were less sincere and earnest. The break-up that changed real fast. Heavenly Father suddenly became my best friend, the one who knew exactly what I was going through, who felt the weight of every one of my tears, who elevated my thoughts beyond rom-coms and ice cream, forward and upward, into an understanding that there is something better out there. When I was compelled to be humble, I realized how merciful God is with me, how patient, and how much he truly loves and has a plan for me. 
• Being broken-up-with also made me more compassionate for others. Now, rather than floating dreamily through my own privileged life, I was forced to feel pain, which caused me to more acutely feel and experience others' pain. Case in point: there's an older man who volunteers at the temple; week after week, he stops and begins a refrain in tired conversation about how he knows my grandparents. This usually makes me annoyed and impatient, since (confession) I'm often running late and absorbed in my own world. But, this week, when I saw him arrive at the temple and pull his clothes bag out of the backseat of his car, where no one ever fills the passenger seat (since his wife died several years ago), tears started welling up in my eyes. I remembered how it feels to be lonely, and recognized how much harder it must be to be an aging widower than a young, freshly single lady. I like to think I've been kinder this week, more in tune with the Savior's suffering and grace, more apt to apply the Atonement. 
• Another benefit of breaking up, if you feel the kind of gratitude toward others and God that I was blessed to feel, you'll want to serve. This desire to turn outward to others will bandage up your own pain and heal it better than can be imagined. A determined optimism won't hurt, either. For example, I had planned this 14-day Valentine's love-fest thing for my boyfriend. Every day in February leading up to the 14th, I was going to send him an email with something I loved about him or a good memory we shared together.
  
  When the relationship ended, I looked at the outline for that project and huffed and puffed. Then I realized that God had blessed me with a lot of love for one person; even if I couldn't show that love to the intended recipient, I could show it to someone! I didn't have to let the love wither away. So, I planned to do 14 days of #ShareGoodness, serving or bettering the world in some small way each day. A week in, my calendar shines with the proof of my service, reminding me that an ended relationship isn't the end of the world, or my worth. 

Whew.

Someone told me that going through the five stages of grief is a thing people do after break-ups. I definitely passed through denial, anger, and bargaining, all in one week. I'm going to try to skip right through the depression stage and make it all the way to acceptance.

Maybe this blog will help. :)