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. :)