Fortune

                I think, by now, I have earned the right to be corny. I’ve done cynical, I’ve done jaded, burnt out, hilarious, cheeky, and everything in between.  Now, it’s my turn to be straight up, over the top mawkish. Bust out the Kleenex, people. It’s about to get touching.

                It all started with a gut-clenching surprise visit from the mission president. No matter how good a missionary might be, that’s just how a surprise visit feels. Transfers were upon us, and President Rahlf came over to my house to tell me in advance that I was to expect a special assignment. I immediately ran off a list of names in my head that fit his description, knowing that whatever happened, I wanted to enjoy my last 42 days. I spent the days after that analyzing the information I gathered piece by piece, mentally scratching off areas I had been to and companions I had been with, and then wadded up my lists and threw them in the metaphorical garbage, knowing literally anything could happen.  

                Then it was my birthday, and I started my day with what I will call a combination prayer and birthday wish. I had actually forgotten to have a proper, kneeling prayer, and instead opted to pray in the shower, rationalizing that it was better than nothing. Based on what happened next, I feel like I was right. I suddenly remembered Elder Zhang, a Chinese national that came to our mission three months ago. I remember how badly I wanted to train him, but was doing other things at the time and didn’t get the chance. But now his training was up, and his companion was transferred. So I prayed that if it was the will of God, I would be his companion. To be perfectly honest, I all but forgot about the prayer, and was just along for the ride- knowing that whatever I ended up doing, I would not be doing for very long. Transfer meeting finally arrived, and we went to the back like always, me for the very last time. I waited through the zones, holding my breath to see if my random, not so fervent prayer would be answered. It was. I suddenly found myself at a loss for words as my good ol fat picture popped up next to Elder Zhang’s on the slideshow. A reverent uproar rippled through the room as a lot of good things happened all at once. Marshall fell to the ground, because I would now be spending my last cycle in his district. My eyes bulged because I would be spending my remaining days in Santiago City, and my mouth fell open because God had answered my prayers. I remember making some sort of shocked sound, and then finding Elder Zhang and lifting him up off the ground. I was ecstatic for the rest of the day, and chalked it all up to a blessing from God. President had obviously gotten wind of the fact that I had lived in China. Most people do. It’s just something I tell basically everyone. He saw the opportunity, used a combination of logic and prayer, and put the two of us together. Everyone else was excited too, because they knew how much my experience in China meant to me. But most people don’t even know the half of it.

                A little over two years ago, I spent five months as a volunteer English teacher in Changzhou, China. Like I said before, most people are perfectly aware of this. But the surrounding circumstances are a little different. I processed my paperwork at the same time that I was spiritually preparing to serve a mission. My testimony was new and strong and exciting, basically months old. I met with my Stake President, and he expressed some concern at me moving to a country that would hinder or all but prohibit my ability to attend church, and might therefore adversely affect my mission preparation. I remember seriously considering what he said, and taking it to the Lord in prayer. I had a feeling that everything would be fine, and that I might even have some faith promoting experiences. All of my co-teachers were members of the church, and so I had opportunities to attend church occasionally in the Shanghai Branch. It was a great experience that solidified my testimony of the fact that the church is the same everywhere. But the best experiences I had were while I was teaching. As a natural consequence of my newfound testimony, I found myself wanting to share my experiences with others. Because all us teachers were LDS, we would sometimes use Primary songs for group activities. Nothing religious, just “Popcorn Popping” and “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” But it was definitely enough to bring back my own memories of Primary. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this so publicly, but there were times that I would get choked up as we would interact with these kids. I knew that they would likely never get the chance to hear about the gospel, at least not in this life. So when I was put with Zhang, I felt a weight of responsibility on my shoulders, knowing that I have the privilege to help him have a positive mission experience, and possibly become a future leader of a people that came to mean so much to me. There could not possibly be a better way for me to end my mission.

                And now for the shocking, Bollywood level twist. I thought all along that I had everything figured out. President did me a solid; God heard and answered my prayers. It was really that simple. So imagine my surprise when Zhang and I ran into President at the grocery store. We were in the checkout line when he dropped this little bomb on me: “Elder Dixon, I just heard yesterday that you lived in China for a little while.” He had absolutely no idea, and had decided that Elder Zhang and I were to become companions, a decision he had surely prayed about. He didn’t know the facts, so he had nothing to go on but revelation from God. I was floored. It hit even a guy like me- about a month from going home, someone who thought they had the whole mission thing figured out, and could predict the results of a transfer with a list of names, places, and a few carefully drawn lines. Instead, I got what has been one of the most faith promoting experiences of my life, and definitely of my entire mission. 

After the Storm

      The call came at 5 a.m. on Monday. An ungodly hour. On my off day. It would have been inexcusable had it not been for who was on the other end of the line. And what he had to say. "Dude! It's here!" I didn't have to ask what he was talking about. I could hear the howl of the wind through the phone, deep and otherworldly, just as I had imagined it would sound, and my anticipation mounted. I propped myself up in bed and pulled back my curtains. For me and the other Americans in my mission, this was like some sort of twisted, macabre Christmas morning we had been waiting for since the series of increasingly urgent texts from our mission president about the Category IV typhoon headed straight for us. Visions of violent storms, power loss, and a respite from work danced in our heads. And after the storm subsided, we would heroically rebuild our towns and thereby get enough photo-ops and tearjerking stories to last us for years to come. So you can imagine my disappointment when I heard the call of the neighborhood's roosters. The sky was grey, but promising. And the wind wasn't exactly the kind that uprooted coconut trees. "Nothing here man. I am literally hearing roosters," I told Elder Marshall, who had already told an awesome story about a tree falling on his house. "Hahaha that sucks! I hear them too!" So I pulled on my Angry Birds pajama pants, made a cup of salabat and went up to what we affectionately call the "terrace" to finish my phone conversation. There were some fast moving clouds, a cold, stiff breeze, and then to ruin it all, a gorgeous sunrise. Christmas had come. Marshall had gotten the metaphorical PS3, and I had gotten a lump of coal, a pat on the back. Maybe next year, right? Oh wait......hehehe.
        A few months have passed since my last post, but my tendency to find the strange needle in the haystack of monotony that is my life has not changed. Hence the typhoon. Transfer Day. Wooden's trip to the hospital. Most of the time, I feel much like the rat that was flattened to death by a motorcycle in my neighborhood and was, for reasons of laziness, disgust, or complete lack of awareness, ignored entirely until the flies had sufficiently gorged themselves and the rat had literally faded into the cement. In other, less revolting words, I am a part of the scenery now. Don't get me wrong, I still get the daily ego feast of high fives from street children, townspeople with their mouths agape, and giggling girls and women of all ages, but I am a fixture now. Everyone knows the Mormons. Which here means "that one Filipino and that one American who walk everywhere and might come to my house at any given time, so I need to act like I am not home." Everyone knows where we live. They know that we walk around and give out little books that we hope they will read, and that they have to be just nice enough to show human decency, but not so nice that we think they want us back. There are those blissful instances when what we have to say strikes a chord with the people we are talking to, and those brave souls are added into our daily schedule of visits. That's just how it goes, and how it has gone, and how it will go for nine more weeks. Along the way, I have found myself enamored with the Philippines and with Philippine culture. I "top load" jeeps and tricycles, for the uninterrupted, panoramic views of places I see every day, and the more pragmatic benefit of the brisk, sweat obliterating winds. I eat ANYTHING, even if they tell me it's blood, or intestines, or some other disagreeable part of an animal that Westerners would turn into dog food. I love the people. I speak their language, and somehow manage to pass as a cultural Pinoy, even though I am obviously not a physical one. I have had kids tell me that they don't believe I can speak English, and faces don't flinch when I jokingly tell people I am from some other part of the Philippines. It's a great feeling, something I have worked for in my two years here. And when crunch time comes and it's time for me to do my job as a missionary, people trust me better.
         I even see myself in the more negative aspects of life in the Philippines. Nothing has motivated me to work quite like seeing scores of people, chilling in whatever patch of shade is available and drinking at all hours, surrounded by filthy children without pants. I can even see it in the architecture. Beautiful homes are started with grand intentions. Smooth cement walls, wrought-iron out the yang, and intricately carved, solid wood doors, all culminating in unfinished balconies, bare cinderblock walls, and ubiquitous iron pipes. These homes are metaphors for procrastination. Brilliant ideas choked in laziness and lack of discipline. Especially those pipes. They are on almost every house,`pointing crookedly skyward, and seeming to say "well, I tried, right?" It's a great motivating force for me to come home and not fall asleep with a halo of snack wrappers around my head at 2 in the morning, having spent the entire day watching television. Spending so much time away from my family and friends makes me want to treat them better. Spending time away from America makes me want to cavort through supermarket aisles of potato chips and ice cream and cheese, and bask in the luxury of hot water and air conditioning.
         But I can't help but wonder when I do get back just how much I will miss all of this. When I walk down a street and no one cares at all to shout at me, when a coconut shoots in price from 15 Pesos to $3, when no one gives me crackers and Coke, or cares if I've eaten lunch. I wonder how much I will miss rice, or being able to say things like bagag nawong and having people roar with laughter. It's not much, but these are the things that keep me going when no one wants to hear who Joseph Smith is or when I wake up covered in a fresh new hell of insect bites, or when I suffer through yet another surprise blackout. And I can count on it all to keep me going, right up to the very end.

A Day in the Life of Job

For weeks I have been scratching my head, completely out of ideas. What am I supposed to say that would possibly interest anyone, when it often bores me to tears, and I am the one living it? Fortunately, Wednesday proved to be one of those days that was, in retrospect only, comically unlucky. 

The day began innocently and boringly enough. Same early wake up time, same exhausted, Muslim-postured prayer on my bed. Off to the shower and then straight in front of my stand fan, before the steam had time to turn to sweat. Then off to study Scripture. Just like always. At about 9:30, we got a text from the Linao Elders. Let's do lunch. Awesome. So we keep on studying till the appointed time, and then it's the tiny "out the door" song and dance of those last minute hygienic preparations- Talines emerges from the bedroom in a cloud of his girlfriend's perfume, rubs on whitening lotion and powders his face in the kitchen mirror (I will run to my comp's defense by saying these are all very acceptable things for Filipino men to do). For once, I am the low maintenance one in the house. A spritz of imitation cologne and some more fan time, and I am ready to go. We meet in Tuguegarao's unofficial center- the spot at which McDonald's, Greenwich Pizza, Jollibee, and Chowking converge, and then spent the next few minutes in a very predictable routine "where we gonna eat?" I pushed hard for Jollibee, much to the shock of my friends, who knew that I usually lobbied pretty hard for McDo. So in we went. Now I know what you're thinking- this is all pretty boring, right? 

Let's start in on the bad luck. 

Jollibee was packed, as always. Since it is the Pinoy version of McDo, it is also the largest fast food restaurant in town. I went to the counter in a flurry of stares and whispers that I have very much adjusted to by now, and ordered a king's portion of food. I was starving, and irritable. I was told the burger would take 12 minutes and didn't really care. Everything takes forever here. I was just about to carry my tray upstairs when Elder Coronel asked me to wait. Yeah man, no problem. So we stood there and chatted, until, without warning, my tray full of food slid off the counter and onto the floor. Down went the sundae, the fries, the three little sauce bowls of ketchup, my two lidless drinks. I have never heard 500 people get so quiet so fast. Imagine dropping your tray full of food on yourself in the high school cafeteria. Jollibee is very much like a cafeteria. And the food is about as good. Everyone was staring and waiting for my reaction. Everyone stopped working behind the counter. It had to have been a hilarious sight, but no one laughed. I had nothing to say either, and just looked down to assess the damage. Fortunately, I had been spared the wrath of the ice cream and the drinks. These only landed on my rubber shoes. And the ketchup landed on my thigh, blending discreetly into the fabric of my pants. But I was still mortified. I did a sort of shaky about face, walking out of the front of the restaurant in record time through the crowd- who had cleared a huge path. I went next door to the pizza place and made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping to cool off and squeegee the better part of the ketchup off my pants. I was pissed. I had just spent the equivalent of $6 on food that I probably wouldn't get back. Restaurant complaining is unheard of here. See a roach at a place in the States and they shut it down. Here, a roach crawls across my shoe and I just keep eating, hoping that the cooks are decent enough to pick them out. And the legendary Filipino hospitality is vaporized if there is money involved. So I was shocked, when on my far less than triumphant return, there was a tray of food waiting for me, even the burger that was supposed to have taken so long to cook. I mumbled a thanks and made my way up the stairs, a clear path the whole way. I was able to laugh about it by the time the other Elders got up the stairs with their food, but we left the place through another exit. 

With that blunder behind me, I figured I had suffered through the worst of the day, and it wasn't even that bad. Elder Coronel had a quick pit stop on the way home and we found ourselves in a store, where I realized the back of my tie pin (that I won yesterday) had fallen off. We halfheartedly scoured the floor of the store and the small stretch of sidewalk out front before giving up. It looked like gold. It was gone. 

So then Talines and I went home and put some finishing touches on our planning so we could start our work. And then the skies opened in a literal thunderstorm of mockery. Usually we keep working, but this was just ridiculous. I looked at Talines, who was wide eyed and waiting for my sage counsel. I could see it all in his expression: "Please let me take a nap!" I suggested we take an hour and see if the rain would let up enough so that we could work. And then I prayed. The rain stopped after some time, and I woke Talines up with a cauldron and its lid, because I needed to laugh. It's a good thing he's really nice too so that he could laugh as well. 

So then we went out to work and got in absolutely nowhere. We just trudged from place to place, sometimes through mud, sometimes through standing water, always in a slight rain. Talines cowered under his umbrella; I'm too big of a man and too stingy to buy one, so I just got soaked. The only thing I had to look forward to was a dinner appointment later that night with a family that I really liked. Then we got another, much less welcome text from the gossipy, almost unbearable girl that sometimes works with us, along with a few of her friends that are also getting ready to serve missions. Apparently, we had a dinner appointment with her parents that night too. She was in Baguio City, still bossing us around from a few hundred kilometers away. Now, two dinner appointments is definitely not a problem, but is at the same time. We couldn't cancel either one- the first because it was at the house of a family we very much liked. Cancelling at short notice would be incredibly offensive. And we apparently couldn't cancel with this girl's parents either, because they had already cooked. So Talines and I discussed the age old impossibility of being two places at the same time, and then we texted the girl and told her we would go to her parents house as well. She had left us no choice. We got to the first place and my excitement quickly faded when I saw the ulam (what goes on top of rice). It was tiny fish, served in a thin clear sauce, or the same tiny fish, fried. In my past experience, these tiny fish are flavorless and mostly bone. Why people recreationally eat them is beyond me, but they are a local favorite. Talines was elated. I opted for the one with sauce, reasoning to myself that I could at least add some flavor to my rice, even if that flavor was ginger water. It didn't take our hosts long to realize that I was having a hard time eating the fish, and then came the mockery. "Silly Americans don't know how to sift through fish meat with their mouths to find the bones and delicately spit them out." And I just offered some fake laughter while thinking "so this is what mercury poisoning tastes like." The food was terrible, and the companionship, which I was expecting to lighten the mood, felt even worse. We finished up and rushed over to the next house, where I was unsure about the food, but knew the companionship would not be great. "Where is everyone?" was the first thing the mom said when we walked in the house. "Why isn't there anyone working with you? Did you even work?" With my perfected plastic smile, I explained that we had, and we all walked into the kitchen, where two heaping serving plates of spaghetti awaited us. The first real smile of the day broke across my face, and the storm of nagging raging all around us rolled right off my back. I didn't care about the tirade of questions about what we did on P Day, and the "are you even allowed to do that?" we received in response. (The answer, of course, is yes.) I just piled on the spaghetti. Somehow, the game of Twenty Questions ended, and in a strange but merciful bout of cosmic bipolarity, the conversation turned pleasant and we had a nice meal. It was still raining when we walked home, but I was happy to call it a day. 

I sat down at my desk, peeling myself out of my damp smelly dress clothes, put on my lavalava, and decided that scrolling through my mission pictures would help me feel better. I immediately noticed that the number on the card was much smaller than normal. There were supposed to be 1,500, but there were only about 900. I diligently searched the pictures to see what was missing. I started from the beginning to find that my entire MTC experience was gone, as was my first month or so in the field, as well as a couple hundred pictures from my second area. I had no backups. There are no copies. Gone. It only took me a second to realize what had happened. When we had gone to have our t-shirts printed, the printer had found a virus on my camera and politely offered to take it off. I was happy about it, and told him to go right ahead. Apparently, and unbeknownst to him, I'm sure, the virus took my 600 pictures with it. 

I was beyond ready for bed, realizing that sleeping was the best way to solve the problems of a bad day. I prayed and crawled into bed, texting a friend for a few minutes. The topic of how our days went, how the work was, etc, eventually came up, and I couldn't help but laugh. I fired off a response, and my day in print was hilarious. We laughed about it, cause that's what friends are for, and then I finally realized I had a story for you fine folks. I also couldn't help but remember the good stuff that had happened that day too. The kind (read: frightened) women behind the counter at Jollibee had replaced my food, I ended up having a spaghetti meal that shoved the stray fishbones down my esophagus, and I have friends. So then I prayed again, grateful for the small good things that happened that had somehow outweighed what was bad. I realized that, as always, I had Someone looking out for me. It definitely wasn't the kind of day that makes you shake your fist and ask "why me?" But it sure was annoying. But I was able to count my blessings and notice that I definitely come out a winner.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted?

      The question is usually posed just as I have stuffed an entire sleeve of crackers into my mouth at the same time, right smack in the middle of my favorite Filipino tradition, meriyenda. It usually comes towards the end of the typical "get to know you" conversation, and in English, would go a little something like this: "So, what's your guys' vacation like? You get to go home for a couple of months at the end of a year or what?" Anyone who has served or is currently serving a 2 year or 18 month mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints knows why, at this point, I am trying not to spew my 'Rebisco' crumbs all over the living room in a fit of spontaneous laughter. "Vacation?! What the freak is that?!" It's a very reasonable question for Filipinos, since a great number of them have worked abroad, and almost everyone knows someone who is working in another country. They go mop floors for an oil tycoon in Saudi Arabia (careful to do their rosaries in secret, mind you), or dote upon the children of anal retentive factory owners in Hong Kong, get a couple of months vacation, and then come home, double the size of their house, and buy smartphones for all of their children. The idea that I would leave a place like the United States of America, be separated from my family and friends for two years, and work 16 hours a day for no pay seems ridiculous to them. And can I be honest with you, my dear friends and faithful readers, and say that I have had my weaker moments when the very same prospect seems just as preposterous to me? Well this week, in a very strange and twisted way, I got exactly what I secretly and guiltily wished for.
        On Wednesday afternoon, we got a text from the Elder Lasay (one of my Zone Leaders) asking if Elder Talines and I would mind to come and work in their area that evening, because Elder Wooden (Lasay's companion) was sick. I am slightly ashamed to publicly admit that I refused, because we have a KILLER dinner appointment every Wednesday. Every week, Sister Banzali cooks sizzling heaps of my favorite Filipino dish, sisig, and I gobble it down like nobody's business. So I was reluctant, and not knowing the gravity of Elder Wooden's illness, MIND YOU, graciously (if tactlessly) refused. She made dinakdakan as well, so I have to say I made the right choice.... I figured Elder Wooden probably had the runs or a slight fever or something, and would be just fine. And I stuffed my face like a champ. When I awoke on Thursday morning, however, I had a rare pang of conscience.. So I grabbed the phone and texted Lasay to inquire about Wooden's condition. I was informed that he was "dito sa hospital, St. Paul, at pakidala n'yo ang Mcdo breakfast kabsat, gutom na kami dito talaga!!!" So, just like that, I had a friend who was in the hospital, and three more who were very hungry. And nothing is worse to a Pinoy than being hungry. So I got Elder Talines up to speed, and we rushed to McDonald's, and then to St. Paul's Hospital, the fanciest hospital in all of Tuguegarao. And to my more faithful readers, yes, it was much nicer than Peoples' Hosptial #2 in China. An obnoxious guard at the reception informed us that St. Paul's was an "environmentally friendly" hospital, and would we kindly take our fast food out of the convenient plastic bags and precariously balance it on various parts of our body up three flights of stairs, like complete idiots. I wanted to say something about the probably dozens of garbage fires burning in the immediate vicinity, but my name tag automatically identifies me as a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and does wonders for me when it comes to biting my tongue. We arrived at Room 3004 to see Elder Wooden, an incredibly healthy, physically fit, indefatigable missionary debilitated on a hospital bed with an IV in his hand. It was real weird. So I dislodged the rice packs from my elbow crevice and immediately started asking questions. He may have been laid up, but Wooden's relaxed attitude and optimistic spirit were both still fully intact. No one had any idea what was wrong with him, but he was having excruciating migraines, rashes and whatnot, and I won't go into medical symptoms in a blog, cause that's all kindsa gross. Suffice it to say, he was feeling terribly, and no one quite knew why. Elder Cruz and Elder Dulaca had stayed the night in the hospital with him, but were too busy devouring their Mcdo breakfast to contribute any information. So it was determined that Elder Talines and I would relieve Dulaca and Cruz, and take their places at the hospital. All Elders, with the exception of Wooden, of course, had very clearly slept in awkward positions on the floor for incredibly short amounts of time.
        Nurses of various attractiveness came and went, drawing blood, and bringing terrible food, but no news, good or bad. This went on for the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon. I was the official English to Tagalog translator, holding a cell phone in each hand, one to keep in touch with Sister Carlos and the doctors at St. Luke's in Manila, and the other was pretty much to inform Elder Berends of all the crazy exciting hospital stuff that was happening. The four of us eventually realized how bored we were, and also that it was the peak of NBA season, and with a simple request to President Carlos that was immediately approved (complete with a "thanks for asking," might I add) we were moved to Room 3015, which was equipped with a glow-in-the-dark crucifix, and....A TELEVISION. My non-Mormon chums may at this point be wondering what the blast is so cool about a TV, or why on Earth we had to ask some strange man called "President" whether we could watch television. Well, along with a litany of other rules, all designed to help us focus on our work at hand, television is forbidden for missionaries. For those that think this is strict or strange, you're preaching to the choir. But to tell you the truth, there is great wisdom in it. When I was teaching English in China, I discovered the wonders of pirated DVDs that could be had for a whim, and I bought them like they were going out of style. I'd take my stash to my apartment, shove it in a laptop, lie on my bed, and veg. After seven hours of Seinfeld, I would look up at the ceiling and wonder why the blast there was a filthy Cold War era table fan bolted right next to an exposed fluorescent lightbulb. And then I would rub my eyes and remember that I was in China, literally living out my dream of living abroad. Pangs of guilt swept me every time. On a mission, the work is not only important, but in our view, it is crucial. So complete focus is required. That's why I can't watch TV. Or Skype you, or get on Facebook, or email on a day besides Monday, etc. But today, the proverbial forbidden fruit was plucked from the tree and handed to us, in the form of a remote, 93 channels, and literally nothing else to do. And the four of us, tentatively at first, but itching with curiosity nonetheless,  gobbled it up. We spent hours on the Basketball Channel, game after game after game, which was awesome at first. But after awhile, even the most die hard sports fans had grown bored (which meant that I was over it about 2 hours before that). Reluctantly, Elder Lasay and I peeled ourselves from the room and went to get Mcdo takeout for the second time that day. We had the foresight to stop at the nurse's desk (with melting McFlurries precariously perched on our index fingers) and ask just where the blast Elder Wooden's test results were that we should have had, like, nine hours ago. A male nurse nonchalantly handed us a piece of paper that indicated Elder Wooden, the extremely kind, perfectly obedient, unconquerably optimistic missionary, (who was, may I add, going home in three weeks) tested positive for typhoid fever. We were shocked. We walked into the room, and were greeted by an excited Elder Wooden, clueless to the exotic disease currently destroying his insides. "Hey! Guys! Just this once..... Look! AMERICAN IDOL!" We managed a weak chuckle, set the food down, and left the room, talking in Tagalog in hushed whispers in the hallway. We also intensified our conversation with Sister Carlos, who told us to do whatever we had to do to get him the best possible care as quickly as possible. We had a lot of phone calls with Sister Carlos, who gave us info from the Manila doctor, and that information was translated into Tagalog and relayed to a nurse, who then relayed it to Wooden's attending physician, who quickly grew weary of taking advice from a snooty White doctor in Manila, and stopped taking our calls. Sister Carlos told us not to tell Wooden about the typhoid, but just to take everything in stride for the time. Elder Lasay and I walked down the stairs, past the environment police, and out into the hospital parking lot, sitting down to catch our breath on the edge of a fountain bearing a statue of St. Paul, complete with a sword. We talked about Elder Wooden, and had the age old conversation of just why on Earth bad things happen to good people. Even us Mormon missionaries were unable to come up with an answer. All we could do was scratch our heads, wait, and do the best we could to make sure Wooden got better. And in three weeks. We also determined to tell him the bad news, but were both afraid to do it.
         We gathered our courage and went upstairs again, to find Wooden fast asleep. This spared us the trouble of telling him the bad news, but obviously did nothing to put our minds at rest. We watched a bit more TV, knowing that it would be 4 months for Lasay, 7 for me, and like 22 for my comp. We talked and joked a little bit, and then gave up on being awake. After that, we knelt, individually, in prayer. Wooden's health was our primary concern. It was comforting to know that President and Sister Carlos were doing the same thing, as well as a few other missionaries that had been kept in the loop on Wooden's condition. Then I folded my shirt into a crude pillow, wrapped myself in a sheet, and spent the night rolling from one uncomfortable position to the other on a cold tile floor.

            When we "woke up" the next morning, it seemed as though Wooden's condition had improved, and he informed us that his head was feeling a lot better. Due mostly to the fact that he wasn't in the fetal position in obvious pain, we believed him, and a second typhoid test was run. The nurses, likely having overheard our   conversations in the fully tiled, extremely echoey hallway the night before, were unusually attentive. And then the doctor, to her eternal credit, licked her wounds of offense and came around to offer the first good news of the past couple of days: Wooden's second round of tests had come back negative, for typhoid, dengue fever, everything. She wrote off the whole ordeal as a virus and authorized Wooden's same day release. For the first time since the night before, we were all able to breathe. I'm going to try to not be cheesy as I explain what I consider to be a small miracle. Most may say that medicine deserves the credit. Others would chalk it up to the religious icon on our wall. And I have to say that faith did help. Our prayers for Wooden's recovery were wholehearted, but Wooden's prayers for his own recovery had the incredible power of being backed up with two years of wholly devoted service to God. His prayer was one offered from a faithful servant, who could speak confidently with his Father in Heaven, knowing that he had not once, in two years, taken a vacation. His devotion is a great example to me and to the rest of us, and helps to silently remind me that two years is not such a long time, and that I will never regret devoting myself to Someone who has given everything to me. "For every thing there is a season"- and this is the time to work. Yes there was a brief, blissful window of time where I got to sleep on the ground with a bunch of my friends in a strange place, and feel the power of holding a television remote, and it was fun, but that's not why I came to the Philippines. Day after day, I have the far greater privilege of seeing the hand of God change my life and the lives of others. And that beats the crap out of Seinfeld.

Transfers

       I'm sure the story of my triumphant return to Tuguegarao City has in one way or another, made its way to all of you by now. I am happier right now than I have been on my whole mission, and that is saying something.. And here's a taste of why I am feeling so unexplainably happy (cue transition...)

       It was Thursday, January 24th at the butt crack of dawn when I loaded my impossibly heavy suitcases into the back of a van, for the third time on my mission. After explaining that, yes, "all those bags are mine, the luggage of one person" and receiving looks that the load would be much more fit for seven prissy women, the trunk was shut, and we rode down roads that I used to walk on every day- for what was presumably the last time. For me, that is one of the weirder parts of being a missionary- you literally throw everything you have- your whole soul- or as we Mormons would say "your whole heart, might, mind and strength" into a town. You get to know its streets and alleys, the people, where the most vicious dogs are, and what tindahans sell the energy drinks I like (read: "addicted to") for 10 Pesos instead of 12, only to leave it all behind with 48 hours notice.You cross your fingers that your next Zone Leaders will be as nice as the ones you left behind, that the people in your next ward will feed you, that your companion won't be a freak. I also had the additional, albeit small worry of just how close I would be to white people things (McDonald's, supermarkets, etc) for my weaker moments when eating rice 3 times a day sounds a little more depressing than usual. All this normal transfer day stress was amplified by the fact that I would be training a new missionary. And not knowing what country he would be from. A foreigner meant that I would have to deal with that whole "adjustment period" read: constant complaining about how difficult it is to live in another country, in front of people that are from that country. And then the whole inferiority complex "WHY CAN'T I SPEAK PERFECT TAGALOG MY FIRST STEP OFF THE PLANE?!?!?" Yeah, not a huge fan of angst. But it also meant that if I wanted to eat mashed potatoes, I wouldn't have to do so alone. A Filipino was less tricky, had much less of a chance of being a straight-laced, self-righteous windbag, and came pre-wired with the language. But there was still the chance that he would be brimming with bitter, jealousy induced racism toward people from First World countries. All options carefully weighed (you would NOT want to see inside my head) I crossed my fingers for a Pinoy. Needless to say, I was rockin' a few stress zits.... 

         After a 3 hour van ride through beautiful mountains and shockingly lame plains that I desperately hoped I wouldn't be assigned to, I found myself sitting in a pew at the Cauayan City chapel, dressed in my slimmest, whitest, "meeting shirt" that I was trying not to sweat through the pits of. The newbies filed in, looking as pale and clammy and nervous as ever, and us vets headed to the back of the room.One by one, our pictures popped up on the Power Point with our new places and new companions, some met with thunderous applause, and others with palpable silence at the portending doom. The pews were beginning to fill up again, and the number of missionaries in the back was growing more scant with each passing slide.. And I was still there. And zone by zone, my options were thinning, and my chances looked pretty bad. And then, to put it bluntly, God did me a solid: "and there was a pull out (removal of both missionaries from an area) in Tuguegarao Ward 4, so the new missionaries there will be Elder Dixon, opening an area for the second time and his new companion, fresh from the MTC..." Yeah, not gonna lie, they had me at Tuguegarao. Didn't even care who my kid (missionary term for "trainee") was, even if he was terrible I would still be in my favorite place. I was way too busy firing my "finger pistols" in the air like a champ.

          But as it turns out, my kid is pretty awesome. His name is Elder Talines and he is suuuuuuper nice. As I do with all people, I instantly judged his appearance and behavior with reckless abandon. He's a handsome little nugget, so I figured I can convince him to wear skinny ties. Personality wise, he was completely exhausted and looked not unlike an addict, so I spared him my wrath until he was refreshed enough to speak properly. Then we both started the 3 hour van ride to my old stomping grounds, in which Elder Talines floated between sleep and wakefulness, occasionally asking me "if we were there yet," (just like a REAL kid!!!) to which I would laugh at his face and say "noooooooooo not even close." But we eventually did arrive, and the Zone Leaders escorted us to our house, at which point my jaw needed to be scraped off the ground. It's definitely smaller than my mansion in my last area, but it is also much less decrepit, and I can describe it as "really nice" without having to add the tasteless modifier "for a Third World country." And then the absolute icing on this whole giant cake was the area book, (the record of the work of past missionaries) which was complete with instructive sticky notes and names of people ready to be baptized. So yeah. Couldn't get much better. The best part of all of this is that, because I am training, I am guaranteed to be here until May. (Fires finger pistols into the air.)

         So yeah, I've been smiling a lot lately. And it's not even at the stupid things other people do. I have definitely recognized God's love for all of us. If I were to put it in slang, again, you could say that He really "has my back." I can't really think of a better way to put it. My English is rapidly deteriorating. I am looking forward to using all of these blessings to further the Lord's work, which will be fueled by the sweet, sugary energy of the Dunkin Donuts that is located seven minutes from my home.

A Christmas Portrait

        I've left you good people in the dark for two weeks about just what Christmas is like on a series of tropical islands 10,000 miles away from Madison Avenue, and further still from the North Pole. It was the first Christmas in which Santa Claus was conspicuously absent, and one on which I bloated myself not with honey glazed hams and hearty stews, but with rice and things that go on top of rice. Me and all the other ex-pats had been choking down the idea of a Christmas away from home since Thanksgiving, which, to our alarm, slid right under the radar of Philippine holidays. We've all heard the songs, and we all know what's up: "for the holidays, you can't beat 'home sweet home'." But surely someone as adventurous as I could embrace the idea of an exotic Christmas is the seas of the Orient, something Columbus would have crapped himself over. And I learned a lot, let me tell you, through my observance of Christmas in the Philis. These observations are of varying degrees of importance, but all the experiences added up to a season I will never forget- in a way that is not the least bit harrowing, and only slightly melancholy. 

          Christmas is a highly anticipated day in the Philippines. The festivities begin on September 1st, which, while wildly premature, is excusable in a country absent of seasons. It makes sense that Filipinos would love Christmas, since much of Christmas tradition revolves around time spent with family. Family is everything here. While all us missionaries (not to mention soldiers and overseas workers) knew that this holiday of all holidays would be spent in the absence of loved ones, those of us who are in the Philippines knew that we were in for the legendary hospitality that now seems natural. Appointments were set with promises of food. And we could count on a lot of love and understanding too, especially from the many people here who have relatives that are working abroad from Saudi Arabia to Canada. A Christmas made possible by calling cards and Western Union and Skype is a reality for a lot of people here. I learned that duck blows turkey out of the water in terms of taste, and will strongly advocate its presence at my family's 2013 Christmas dinner... (Yes, that is a hint.) I learned that even parties in churches should include impossibly gigantic sound systems, and that it is still funny to watch people dance Gangam Style four and even five times in a row, and that by the sixth time, it is only slightly annoying. I knew I could count on President and Sister Carlos to take care of us too, and they did just that- with a giant Christmas party they threw in Cauayan City- a party at which I volunteered to have an assortment of items taped to my body until I looked like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. The white elephant gift exchange at the said party left me a bit puzzled, when I received a cookbook containing Filipino dishes, many of which I will never, ever be able to make in my nitpicky homeland, unless I become very, very good friends with a butcher. It's recipes are also written in frustratingly deep, 1970's Tagalog that confused even the natives. 

         And before we knew it, it was Christmas Eve. 

Thanks to a generous grant I had recently received from the Tom & Melissa Dixon Foundation for Spendthrifty Sons Abroad, my companion and I were able to go buy pizza in a neighboring town. Thanks to my discount card, we enjoyed the unparalleled privilege of Buy One Get One Free Pizza* (*with a horrifying litany of terms and conditions). This meant that, yes, we each had a pizza to ourselves. I had devoured (classily) Greenwich's 7 Cheese OVERLOAD Pizza!!! when Elder Badol sheepishly bequeathed to me his last slice. I was feeling like quite the culinary conqueror, but slightly daunted by the prospect of a ninth slice of pizza, I commenced some pre-gluttony stretches. As I was thusly engaged, a wake up call slid into my periphery. It came in the form of a skinny, dirt covered boy leaning up against the big glass door near our table. He was, interestingly enough, not looking into the restaurant, as is customary, but out into the street. I know how corny it sounds to say that time froze, but that's sort of what happened. I looked around the restaurant, and there we were- Asia's uppercrust and a handful of white people, gorging ourselves on heavily processed "Italian food." Christmas music was playing, something about the gifts we could all expect Santa to be bringing us later that night, and there, right outside the door was dirty, barefooted reality- begging for food on Christmas Eve. Needless to say, I pushed open the door and gave him the last slice. The kid looked up at me, said nothing, and sort of melted into the crowd. That is something I can't ever forget, and is surely a solid motivator for a future full of Christmases more devoted to service. I woke up right at 6:30 a.m. on Christmas morning, knowing that none of Apple's latest offerings awaited me, that I would descend no staircase to a family gathered around a tree. And that allowed other, more important things to take precedence in my mind, like watching my family read Luke Ch. 2 over Skype, and remembering the cause of all the Christmas hooplah. 

           And then it was December 26th.

My undisputed least favorite day of the year. Yeah, it usually means using a few gift cards, wearing my new clothes and breaking in the iWhatever I'd wanted since September, but all that covers up the fact that it is 364 days until Christmas! And even though my Christmas here was remarkably different, I still found myself reflecting on how quickly the holidays had slipped through my fingers, and resolved to really soak them in next year (yeah, we'll see.) But I found myself taking down the tacky, incredibly hazardous Chinese Christmas lights I had duct taped to my wall a month before, and started the process of moving on. Then Elder Badol and I donned our ties and went to work on the eerily empty streets until we noticed a pattern. Turns out, much of the town was occupied with their rented videoke machines and a week's salary in booze. Thus began the slowest week of my mission so far. The only thing that broke up the monotony was when, on December 29th, three small birds entered our home through the open balcony door. This especially garnered the excitement and interest of Elder Badol, who began frenetically chasing the birds around our house. Two evaded him, but he managed to capture one. I had been in the corner, fruitlessly trying to capture the birds photographically. I helped him out with what I thought was the next step, clearing a path to the balcony door. Badol seemed to have something else in mind, and instantly slid it shut, explaining that he fully intended to keep this bird. Intrigued, and feeling unusually diplomatic, I presented him with the age old parental question- "and what exactly do you intend to feed this bird, young man?" (or it's Tagalog equivalent..) Almost instantly came the irksome reply "bigas" (uncooked rice) offered in such a tone that indicated such birds wouldn't contemplate eating anything else. Although I refuse to accept the factuality that sparrows subsist on rice, I played along and fetched the dang bird a handful of rice that I gingerly distributed in manageable, strategically placed portions at various perchable locations throughout the bedroom. The bird blatantly denied my offerings, and proceeded instead to fly repeatedly into a wall until he had thoroughly traumatized himself. Then he hid behind our armoire, likely consigning himself to a lonesome death. So with Badol's consent, I let him out. And we continued soaking up life's little quirks until December 31st came around and gave us something new to celebrate.