Learning to Laugh

I love to laugh. I am constantly laughing, especially at myself. I never thought that I would ever need a series of lessons to teach me to laugh. Well, I was wrong.

Towards the tail-end of my mission I was transferred to a ward called Solnichney in Saratov. I was beyond ecstatic. I was going to be serving with a dear friend from my MTC district and we were both proficient in the language, although looking back through some videos, I saw that my accent needed help! Yikes! When I got there, we hit the ground running with enthusiasm.

For a series of days (possibly weeks), our luck was just so bad. We lost the phone and my glasses all in one bus ride. Then when we were helping build a home for blind people, the supervisor over the project was extremely discourteous to us and the help we were trying to provide. Then our skirts consecutively ripped after falling on the ice. We got a hanger stuck in the shower (don't ask) and my companion injured herself trying to get it out. We also ran out of sugar, but strangely had tons of sugar cubes, so we decided to crush them up. Those were a series of bad luck experiences that makes me nostalgic for my mission.

The week of Thanksgiving we were trying to throw an activity for the two wards that we served in as a district. We couldn't find a turkey, so we went with rotisserie chicken and told the people it was turkey, or told them it was close to turkey, but we let them interpret it as "turkey." The day of the activity, my companion and I made four pies and a huge pot of mashed potatoes. We had to carry those to the ward building, plus all the games we created.

Well, unfortunately that day the elevator broke. We had to climb down 8 flights of stairs carrying FOUR pies, a MASSIVE pot of mashed potatoes, and a LARGE sack of games. We went down slowly, and thankfully smoothly. At this point I was already frustrated with the situation, but my sweet companion was just laughing her head off as we descended slower than a babushka. I quickly joined in with her, because it was hilarious!

When we arrived at the ward building, we realized that no one had bought the chicken! My companion and I booked it back to the coat rack and tried to put on our warm clothing as fast as lightning. As I was trying to figure out my zipper contraption on my BRAND NEW coat my zipper went up and then flew off straight across the room and out of sight. Before I could even acknowledge what had happened my companion grabbed me and forced me out the door, while laughing her head off again. I quickly joined in; it was absolutely absurd what had just happened. 

We found the vendor quickly after running straight up the steepest hill in all of Solnichney. We barely made it back in time before the designated start time of the activity. We hurried to set up all the games, while a creeper followed me and my companion around trying to impress my companion or something. He was oddly enthralled with her. When we got a quiet moment she started laughing again! Before she even complained or got frustrated, she laughed. It was amazing! I was so impressed with the way she faced adversity. Yes, it was minute and inconsequential, but don't the littlest things bug us? Don't the small daily frustrations make us want to scream and throw something? Instead, her approach was to laugh. I soon found out that it wasn't just the little things, but even the bigger things like when people let us down, or when things didn't go our way or as planned. She blew it off with a laugh and kept going. I admired this attribute that she had so much that I applied it to myself. We faced a lot of hard challenges as a companionship, but it was so enjoyable as we learned to laugh. I remember one morning after I had finally recovered from bronchitis, we went to the gym. We thought we were going to take a beginners class, but it was an advanced fitness class. Maybe it was beginners and Russians go a lot harder than we thought. The fitness instructor was constantly yelling in Russian "HOLD IT!!!" and "DON'T YOU QUIT!!" and she was always directing that at me and my companion. At one point we were shaking from holding a plank for what felt like the fiftieth time and we both collapsed at just started laughing our heads off. We couldn't even move so we just stayed face down in the mats laughing. It was quite embarrassing, but hilarious.

Another enjoyable moment we had was after the ABSOLUTE WORST PDAY EVER! So much went wrong. We ended the night having FHE with some members at this apartment with a small family and some of their friends. On their wall they had this ginormous picture of a tiger. I had my ukulele with me and they asked me to sing, but they wanted me to sing in Russian. I looked at my companion and said, "I only know hymns." A member shouted, "Make something up!" So I started playing the tune to Riptide by Vance Joy and I sung about a tiger and how I wanted to be a tiger too. At the chorus my companion knew exactly where I was going with this (talk about companionship unity!) and she joined in when I started singing "Rawr" over and over again. She thankfully has a video of that, but it is too big to post unfortunately. We were crying from laughing so hard. The members also took a video and it ended up on Russian Facebook and the entire Saratov Stake knew me as the ukulele tiger girl. When my companion and I needed a laugh, one of us would sing "Rawr rawr rawr rawr!"

Laughing is better than crying. Instead of being frustrated with the trials we are given, let us be thankful and find joy in the journey. I learned that lesson within a brief four weeks with this sister and it has changed my life. You never know what you are going to learn from someone. So keep an open mind and an open heart. Be thankful. Laugh often. Find joy in the journey.

There and Back Again, a Return Missionary's Tale

I don't know how, but I sure got lucky. I have only been home for a year and a couple of months. I somehow convinced my parents to let me go back. It's funny that I did go back. I remember telling members and myself that I would be back in a year. I said, "Just you wait. I'll be back next summer for the FIFA world cup." And I was.

Somehow when I say that I'm going to do something it ends up happening. I remember the summer before my sophomore year of high school I told myself that I was going to be lucky enough to have the same seminary class with the cutest, and most popular senior in school. And you know what? I did. And I sat next to him, although I could barely get out a word because I was so starstruck. He was kind to me and it made my entire year. Then last summer I was looking at opportunities to study abroad and I saw a London option for my EXACT major. Of course I told everyone that I was going to go, before I even knew that I could or that I would. But it worked out. I got to study abroad in London and I got to visit my mission AND see a world cup game. 

I still am baffled by how lucky I am. I guess I should change one word in that sentence. I should say, I can't believe how blessed I am. Even if I didn't get to go and travel and cross off about 50 things on my bucket list, I should be saying every day: "I can't believe how blessed I am!" 

God is good. He is too good to me. I sometimes forget that. I think by visiting my mission it was a gentle slap to the face saying, "Hey, God loves you, and is proud of the work you've accomplished." I didn't know I needed that until I went back. During my study abroad trip I struggled to read the Book of Mormon. I was surrounded by a lot of worldly sleeze and it took its toll on me. I was lucky, no blessed enough, to make friends with some incredible people who were examples to me in being consistent in reading the scriptures and praying. My brother was one of those examples. He joined me in the London Heathrow Airport and together we flew to Russia to visit my mission, and then to Sweden to spend two days in his mission. He read the Book of Mormon vigorously and that image of him reading this tiny version of the Book of Mormon everywhere we went is ingrained in my memory. 

I didn't realize how much of a failure I was feeling until I returned. When we landed, we were greeted by some amazing people in the airport. It was one in the morning and a sweet member and an old investigator where waiting there for us. I didn't realize how much I was loved until I returned. I mentioned a feeling of failure. What I meant is that after being home a year I've heard stories from my friends and their mission experiences, or I've heard it from random people during testimony meeting and thought to myself that what they accomplished was more than me; I thought that they were a better missionary than me. I compared myself, and that was a poison to me. It wasn't until I came back to my holy ground in Mother Russia that I realized that I had been successful. I didn't realize how heavy those thoughts had been, nor did I realize I was having those comparative and destructive thoughts. Those thoughts had been eating away at my soul, but returning was the spiritual uplift my soul was craving.

My goal never was to baptize. I mean it was, but it wasn't how I wanted to measure success. It just wasn't realistic. I say that because it is unrealistic to have a goal based off of someone who can exercise their own agency. I can't control their decisions; I can only control mine and the effort I put into the Lord's work. So my goal to measure my success was based off of something totally different. I got the idea from a friend of mine who was also on a mission. She left three weeks before me. In her first week in the field she was in a trio. One of the sisters in her trio was going home at the end of the week. She said that this sister was special. Whenever she walked into a room love immediately filled it, and everyone knew that they were loved by her. They saw it in her eyes. From that moment on, that became my goal. I wanted to be able to have that ability for people to know I loved and cared about them because they could see it pouring out of my eyes. 

I didn't know that had been accomplished. Maybe I did. Maybe when I left my mission I knew, but a year away deteriorated my memory of that feeling of accomplishment. Instead it was replaced with  destructive, doubtful thoughts. The moment I walked back into the church building, both in Samara, Saratov, and Kazan, I felt this overwhelming feeling of love. I was flocked to. And I flocked to others and there were happy tears and hugs and kisses. This overwhelming feeling of love washed over me, and I knew that I had accomplished my goal, and in return I received so much love from the members there. 

I got to Samara on my birthday and they treated me like royalty. There was a picnic that we went to and somehow they got balloons and learned how to sing happy birthday in English. There were a lot of people there that I had never met but hugged me and welcomed me back anyways. There was a young woman who spent the entire day making sure I had a good time. I also got to see an old investigator, and I mean she is old, like 87, and that was one of the best birthday presents; to see her healthy and happy. 

In Saratov there was a little party for me, so that everyone could come to see me. They asked me what my favorite hymn was so that we could sing it. They asked me to take a few minutes to update them on my life. They made me and my brother play musical chairs with the ward. They asked to take pictures with me and gave me lots and lots of hugs. It was so memorable. I was so sad to leave them. Later that night I cried on the train, like I had cried almost a year and a half before when I was put on a train by myself headed back to the center of the mission to go home. Memories flooded my brain and I couldn't help but smile and cry. 

In Kazan I bartered with a taxi-man and flashed back to when I was in Kazan for the first time and could barely order a taxi. This time I didn't have to worry about him ripping me off. One of the nights there was an english club that I went to see the members of that branch. A missionary I had previously served with, who was just barely out of training when I met him in Saratov, was there. He had changed. The change was so visible that I could hardly believe it was the same elder.  I also got to see the most Christ like lady, and she pulled out her phone and asked me who did I want to say hello to. I also got to see my companion's sister! When I walked into the branch building and saw her I had a major flashback to when I was serving with her sister. Now she has taken her sister's place as a volunteer. She was so sweet to me and treated me as if I were her companion. And to some that might seem like she treated me poorly, but in fact it was quite the opposite. She treated me as if we were old friends and kept calling me Sister Johnson. It was so refreshing to be called that again. Then one of the best things ever, a sweet member who I had worked with and pleaded with her to go to the temple told me the most heart wrenching story, but one filled with hope. She told me despite all of her troubles she made it to the temple and has seen the blessings of temple worship. We laughed and cried together as she opened up to me. And when I was walking back to my hotel we stopped and hugged for a solid minute just soaking in the precious little time we had together. 

Waving goodbye has become my least favorite hobby. I hold on to people. I am even more loyal than a dog. I have a hard time departing from people I love the friends I make. I try to cling on to them because I need them in my life. I've had friends come and go, but I still remember them. I still try to stay updated on their lives. 

Goodbyes were never meant to be said. I always preferred to say, "see you later" because it means that I will see them later, though the time of when was never spoken. One of my favorite hymns is "God Be with You Till We Meet Again." Its not a statement of farewell, but one of assurance that we will meet again, whether in this life or the next. 

With all the incredible people I met on my mission and all those I had to forcibly and regretfully say goodbye to I always thought, "If I don't see you again in this life than I will be waiting for you in the next." And then for those older than me I silently prayed to God to have them there to welcome me to Heaven. 

Waving goodbye a second time isn't easier. In fact I think it is harder. My last night in Samara the very last person I said goodbye to was a member from the Avrora area. I didn't realize how much she cared about me until I returned. I was pleasantly shocked and happy because I loved her very much. And I still do. We were bouncing along on a creaky old tram and she gave me one of her bracelets to always remember her. I told her, "I don't need this to remember you. I will always remember you. I could never forget someone like you." I meant that. And when I said that I realized that it applied to all the people I knew and loved. I could never forget them. They are engraved in my heart because of their love they showed me they helped me to realize how good God truly is. He places people in our lives at the right moment we need them. And since we are eternal creatures goodbyes are hard to understand and hard to say because we were never meant to say goodbye. This reminds me of Pocahontas when she is showing John Smith how to say hello and goodbye and he stops her hand halfway through saying goodbye and says, "I like hello better." Me too, John. Me too.  Hello is better. Hello is eternity.

Should We Run?

Oftentimes people assume that Russia is a harsh land full of harsh people. It's not true. Russia covers a vast amount of land. In my mission alone, the smallest mission in Russia had three time zones. With a vast amount of land, there are a variety of different climates. The winter can be harsh, but it is beautiful. I remember waking up one dreadful January day and when I went outside the entire city was blanketed in white. The trees and the light poles were dusted in frost. It was a gorgeous sight.

Beautiful, not harsh. That's how the people are too. They can come off cold, but once you befriend a Russian, they are loyal to the core and will stay your friend for life. They are a bunch of softies with tender hearts. They too are beloved children of our Heavenly Father. Unfortunately every where you go in the world there are those who make bad decisions, but that doesn't make them bad people.

In my fourth cycle I was with another Sister T and we were both pretty young at least in mission slang. I learned a lot from Sister T the Younger, that's what we called her to not get confused with the other Sister T. She taught me to just love the people and show love by service and by expressing it. She also taught me to work hard towards goals and to never give up. We had the goal to give out 60 Books of Mormon in one cycle (six weeks). That doesn't seem like much compared to some missions, but to us that seemed almost impossible. We could barely give out three on a good week. But we prayed with faith and worked our tails off and we accomplished that. One particular woman we gave a Book of Mormon to actually wanted to meet with us. That was also rare. We met with her at a cafe and had a great discussion about the Plan of Salvation and she wanted to learn more. Our second visit was on a Sunday night, in the same cafe we had met before. She didn't want to travel all the way to our church or let us in to her home, so this was the middle ground.

We had another meeting before hers and we were late coming back from it. We took the Metro to our station next to our apartment building which was only a few blocks away for the designated cafe. We fast-walked as fast as we could to pass the lollygaggers and through the heavy swinging doors, ran up the stairs and past some more heavy swinging doors and as soon as we made it out in the open Sister T the Younger took off in a sprint, not wanting to be late. I raced after her and we made it to the bus stop when we heard the sound of shattering glass. Sister T and I skidded into a stop and into each other as we turned to the left to see to masked figures jumping through the glass door of a jewelry shop they had just shattered. It was like a cartoon as I watched the masked figures carrying brown bags full of the goodies they just stole, with weapons in their other hand as they ran passed me and Sister T the Younger. They ran so close to us that I could feel the whoosh of the stir of air they caused, flinging my hair backwards. 

Sister T and I were in shock. We looked at each other and at the same time said, "Did we just witness a robbery?" We needed to go to our meeting, and we needed to run there, but we were afraid if we ran that we would look guilty of the crime. So we approached a babushka who had seen what we had seen and asked her, "Did you see that?" She nodded and started off on a rant and we were stuck listening to her rant, not wanting to be rude. We eventually made our way out and walked a couple of paces. I turned back to Sister T and asked, "So, should we run?" And we took off down the street with out a second glance behind us as we heard sirens wail. I was hoping that no one suspected us, the Americans volunteers, for the robbery, but we had no problems. Only a story to tell. People often asked me, "What was the scariest thing?" or "What was the craziest thing you saw?"

This wasn't the scariest thing because I was too distracted to be scared at that moment, and I had scarier moments later on. This is though probably one of the craziest things I witnessed. I usually nonchalantly answer their questions with, "Yeah, I witnessed a robbery, no big deal or anything." To them it seemed like a big deal, but like I said, I was too distracted at the moment to be even that remotely concerned that we witnessed a robbery, and that the robbers ran right past us with weapons in their hands. I say I was too distracted because my concerns at the moment were getting to the meeting on time and to try to not look guilty for a crime we didn't commit. It's silly really, but makes for a good story right?

That was one of a few instances were it made my heart sad that people make bad choices. Well I guess the instance would be when I pondered back on that moment. I think people think that those who make bad decisions are inherently bad, but they aren't. They are children of our Heavenly Father and are loved by him. If the world was full of love instead of hate, would stuff like that even happen? That's what the Gospel of Jesus Christ does for the world, including many other saving ordinances. But love is what can change people, and I do have to say that Russians have a lot of love to give, though it doesn't always seem visible. The lady we ended up meeting with didn't accept God's message, but she did accept us for who we were, which we were definitely a peculiar people to her. I wished and prayed for her to accept God's message, but even though she didn't, she still had a lot of good in her and that was visible in the way she treated us with love and respect. 

A Bloody Mess

A caution to this tale: It does involve blood,  but nothing too gruesome.

I was that trainee. The one who could barely contain their excitement and ran to people like a puppy fresh off a leash. I'd get ahead of my trainer and say hi to anyone I could. That was all I basically knew how to say. I always did the opener, which was: "Hi! How are you? Do you know about Jesus?" And my trainer had to do the rest while I nodded along pretending I knew what was going on.

Then the excitement started to fade as I realized that all we did was walk the streets eight hours each day just to get rejected. Of course, the people were usually nice, although I didn't always understand what they said to us. The dread of contacting was slowly kicking in.

Also at this time I was having issues with my nose. It's like in the bible with the woman with the issue of blood. Mine was an issue of blood in my nose. It was awful. I'd have about two to three bloody noses a day.

I had spent most of my life with that problem. All of my siblings had. We have thin blood vessels in our nostrils that get easily agitated. I've had my fair share of the awful timing bloody noses can ever so gracefully bestow upon a person.

One cold December night my trainer and I were walking down a street that headed to our favorite stretch of the Volga. We took the back way. This one wrapped around a shopping center and a  recreational center. As we passed the center, I stopped dead in my tracks and muttered, "uh, oh."

I turned to look at my trainer with innocent eyes as two waterfalls came spurting out both nostrils. It was a doozy. It was coming out hard and fast. I'm talking about blood, in case you didn't catch that. It would've been weird if it was snot, although probably more manageable. I covered my nose with my bare hands and sent my helpless gaze to Sister T. "Help," I whispered.

She looked utterly frantic. She scrounged around in her bag for anything that could pass as a tissue. No such luck. I had none in mine. I really should've bought some on Monday, but I didn't. Money was tight and I thought I'd rather eat, but at that moment I thought I would rather not pass out from loss of blood.

We ran to a snow bank and I let myself bleed it out. It usually doesn't last too long, but this one was a gusher. I looked around and realized I only had one option. Snow. I ostrich dived my head into the fluffy pile of fresh snow and knelt bent over for a good 30 seconds just letting the snow freeze my face to hopefully slow the bleeding.

I heard a stifled gasp of laughter coming from Sister T. I twisted my head enough for one eye to poke out through the burrow I made for my face and said, "I look ridiculous don't I?" We both cackled about my predicament. I stood up sharply once I realized the cold was hurting more than helping. We looked down at the burrow that was now a pool of my nose blood.

"Wow, it looks like I committed murder! We should put up some crime tape." I was in shock from how much it truly looked like a homicide was committed in that once ostrich head burrow.
"Especially since you have blood all over your face and down your coat." Sister T was giving me an up-down, though from afar, refusing to get too close.

I grabbed a fist full of snow and thought, let's try again. The cold that seeped in to my face prickled my face like tiny darts of frozen shards. It hurt immensely. I'd let the snow melt and then I'd grab another holding it gently to my face just praying and hoping the bleeding would stop. We tried to stop strangers passing by to see if they had tissues, but if you remember from before, I looked like a murderer so they just scurried along leaving me helpless with my bloodied snow.

Finally. Finally, it stopped! We had been sitting there freezing, me even more so since my face was dosed with snow, for an entire hour! We walked slowly to the metro station. I was feeling faint and disoriented. Sister T had tried a little to get the blood of my coat with some snow, though it didn't help much. We hobbled through the heavy metro doors giggling since we could now see myself in better lighting. I looked terrible. Hilariously so.

I tried not to study the faces of passersby. I was worried they'd call for the police. I got a few stares from the security guards, though they let me through. I guess its not that strange to walk around with blood stains in Russia.  Crazy Russians.

The train made its way through the tunnel and slid to a halting stop. Its sliding doors guided us in.  I then heard over the intercom, "Остарожно! Дверь закрывается." I thought to myself instead of  saying: "careful, the doors are closing," it should announce, "Careful, a bloody girl, who looks like a murderer just entered."

I laughed at the thought and Sister T's eyes met mind. We did a glance over at the blood still on my hands and lost it. Oh what a night. I try to recall what my logic was for shoving my head in a hill of snow, but I have no idea why I thought it was a great idea, because it wasn't. It is hilarious to think of the memory now.

A few weeks later my mission president's wife made me go to a Russian hospital because the problem with my nose was getting worse. I understood nothing of what the doctor said to me. Instead she wrote down everything she said in crazy Russian cursive, which was so much better. Not it wasn't. Actually in the end it turned out being better because we had this awesome friend who spoke English fluently and who is a native Russian and he had the super power to read crazy doctor Russian cursive.

Anywho, the doctor ended up shoving a small sponge up my nose. She said it was supposed to be in there for six weeks, and to not touch it, and that it will help moisturize my nose so that the blood vessels wouldn't crack as much, or so she something like that. Like I said, I couldn't understand her.

Yeah, it only lasted a day. That thing was so irritating. Every time I breathed in I felt like I was going to sneeze. I have to say though that I was stubborn enough to leave it. The shower wasn't as kind as I was. Nor was fate. During the middle of my morning shower I felt it slide out of my nose, its head poking out a bit, as if a curious earthworm wanted to know what sunlight actually felt like. Then it was so excited to be out it just jumped to freedom and took a grand exit down the drain.

I was incredibly shocked. The first thing I thought to do was to yell: "SISTER!! It went down the drain!" And it was to be seen no more, as well as that doctor. I was glad to be free of it. I was okay with dealing with more almost murder scenes and make shift ostrich burrows made of snow if it meant I didn't have to have that awful sponge shoved up my nostril again.

Smelly Sister

I always found it interesting how Russian words could sound so similar to English words, but have a completely different meaning. In the MTC there was a district who called themselves "Smelly Whore" but in Russian that means Brave Choir.

This is when I first encountered the word smelly. Smelly means brave or courageous. As all immature 18 and 19 year olds would, we had an obsession with it. It was hilarious to us. In the MTC we were always looking for an excuse to laugh. I mean, nine weeks in an almost prison was pretty tiresome. It wasn't really a prison to us, though i've heard many return missionaries call it the Spirit Prison.

We definitely felt claustrophobic in there and our way of combating that was with humor. My district grew incredibly close because of this. Our poor teachers got frustrated with us because we were always laughing, though I remember getting a few laughs out of them from my energetic outbursts.

Once I got to the field, it was like the world was open up to me. Going from tiny living space to a vast country, and a mission that you would have to travel more than 24 hours to get from top to bottom was intimidating and freeing. But with that freeing feeling, all the Russian I learned just hopped away in my excitement.

By my fourth cycle I was finally feeling more proficient and my understanding was improving immensely. I was getting a little cocky, which we all know is danger. Also at this time I was trying to improve my piano skills. Our branch pianist, and my trainer,  had just been transferred away and they needed a new one. There was a sweet member who knew a couple of hymns, but she was the chorister and she didn't want to play. The APs were in this branch with me and my companion and one of them could play well, but refused to most of the time.

I had been teaching myself how to play the piano for almost two years with slow progression. I had memorized three hymns so that I could play if the need arose. By no means was I as proficient as I wanted to be. Not to mention that if I played in front of a single soul my hands would shake so badly that I couldn't read the sheet music and I would play everything wrong.

Well the day arrived when I was asked to play during sacrament meeting. My companion and I were greeting the members as they came in, this was my favorite part of Sunday. Those members in Avrora Branch were incredible. They were insanely sweet. Most of them were elderly, and most slurred so much that even if I understood Russian better I still wouldn't have been able to understand. There was this one dedushka (grandpa) who came in with a frayed brown blazer with a gaping smile revealing almost no teeth. The ones he had were brown little stubbles. He would take my hand in a handshake and consistently shake it as he slurred a story to me. I would smile and nod and laughed when he laughed. He was one of my favorites and I miss him dearly.

The sisters that would come in would greet us with a tight embrace and kiss on the cheek. If you know me, I hate being touched. I am not a touchy person, so this was hard for me at first. But I realized it's their culture and they are showing me love, so I ended up gladly accepting it. Maybe a little stiffly though.

Right before the meeting started one of the APs, the one that could play the piano well, approached me with a frazzled expression and asked me to play. I laughed. I thought it was a joke. He was serious. So I said no. He pleaded, then I refused. He ended up writing my name down on the program and stalking away. I ran after him and said, "Elder! I can't play! I can't play in front of these many people. I will cry." He chuckled, thinking I was over exaggerating. I wasn't. 

I was stuck. I had no choice. I just sat on a bench next to the chorister wringing my hands over and over again, praying for relief. The meeting started and my heart was beating so frantically that I was hopeful that I would have a heart attack and get out of playing. I could hear it thump thumping away. I am pretty sure that there were multiple people looking around the sacrament hall for the source of the annoying thumps. When they announced my name I felt the tears come. I walked up anyway and planted myself in front of the keyboard. I looked at the chorister and said, "no intro." I didn't even say it in Russian. She understood though. We went right into the hymn.

It was a disaster. It was like Hurricane Katrina blew in and was pressing the keys to a discordant tune that no one knew. I stumbled through trying to get my hands to stop shaking. Tears waterfalled down as I tried my best to play the right keys. Its not that I didn't know how to play. I did. It's not that I didn't know how to read music. I did. Though, I didn't know the hymns well enough and my nerves overtook my brain. I played until I fumbled with playing the ending note of the third verse.

I remember there was a point that I paused and I was sobbing. President Blinkov came to me and knelt in front of the piano and said, "You are doing great. I can't play, but you can. Keep going." His sweet smile was a bright beam into my gathering darkness of despair. I finished because of his encouragement. Luckily all the members knew the tune so they just sang loudly enough for me to able to figure out the right notes.

After that disaster I ran to my seat and I couldn't help but wrack with sobs as I tried to calm myself. All at once three babuskas (grandmas) rushed to me offering their handkerchiefs. They sat around me and placed arms around me and whispered loving words of encouragement. One even offered me chocolate. If this doesn't show you how charitable Russians are I don't know what will. This image of these lovely ladies surrounding me and offering comfort will always be imprinted on my mind, reminding me to always be kind, to be a comfort to someone.

Later when it was time for the sacrament hymn I started to tremble again. I had to go back up. I had to. I slowly walked forward and sat glaring at the keyboard, as if willing it to play for me. I nodded at the chorister and went right into it. I messed up the first chord. I felt the tears coming again. But I kept going. I changed to one hand, hoping to make it easier on myself. It went a lot better than the first attempt, though I still couldn't stop the tears. I went back to my circle of babuskas and let them envelope me when I got there.

I think the AP finally took pity on me and offered to play the closing hymn, which I was so grateful for. I was so relieved that I didn't have to relive that one more time. After the closing prayer swarms of members came to me and just said, "Smelly sister!" They patted my back and kept saying that. I just thought wow I'm having a breakdown and all you can say is that I smell?! Their faces reflected love and not judgement so I was confused and I just nodded and thanked them. All throughout that day members would give me a hug and repeat that.  I got so frustrated that they kept calling smelly. It didn't dawn on me what they were actually saying until the snowy haired first counselor came to me and said, "I can't believe you went back up. That was smelly of you sister." Of course all of this was in Russian, and when I had heard it in that context I laughed. I understood. They weren't saying I smelled. They were calling me brave. The first counselor and I just laughed and laughed when I explained why I was so confused.

I didn't know how much I was loved until this day. It is interesting that when your worst nightmares come true you find out how much people really do care. Russians are so incredibly charitable. They were so kind to me that day and telling me over and over again how loved I was. My tears turned from tears of despair to those of gratitude. They never mentioned that day again to me, which I was grateful, nor did they judge me. They just loved. This was just a glimpse into how much they can love.

Spectacular Spectacular

Come one, come all to this Spectacular Spectacular!!

This beautiful art work was done by the wonderful J P. An incredible person I may add. This was our flyer for our branch in beautiful Kazan for a fairytale night. Kazan has around 2.5 million people in it. At the time when we were there, there were only four volunteers and one branch in this huge city. The third capital of Russia. The capital of Tartarstan. Yes, this is where tartar sauce comes from as my brother jokingly pointed out in a Patrick Star voice, "Is that where tartar sauce comes from?"  Turns out he did his research and it indeed comes from the state of Tartarstan. 

Anyways, this isn't about tartar sauce, its about a memory of a spectacular night of coming together in different cultures to share fairytales. Now you might think, "What was this for?" Well a couple weeks prior there was a law put into effect that made it illegal for us to preach the gospel. A devastating blow. 

We were now volunteers, there to help the members of our church in anyway possible. We noticed as a district that we were lacking a bit in unity with the branch. We decided to do family home evenings once a week for the branch to bring us closer together. 

For those who know nothing of Tartarstan, it is a state, or a kind of republic in Russia that still answers to the Russian Government, but they have their own president. I've actually briefly met the president of Tartarstan, but that's a different story. Like I said earlier, Kazan is a beautiful city that celebrates two cultures: Russian Orthodox and Islam. The Tataran people have their own language. It's extremely different from Russian, though it has a lot of similar letters in their alphabet. 

In the city, and on any kind of transportation we would hear three different languages: English, Russian, and Tatarskii. I learned a little bit of Tartarskii, but not enough to have a conversation. The only thing I remember is "Careful, the doors are closing" because of it constantly being repeated on the metro. 

Anyways, this city is a big cultural celebration. Downtown Kazan there is a kremlin standing proudly on the only hill for hundreds of kilometers.  Kremlin means fortress. It is said to be over a thousand years old. The Tatarans built it to protect themselves from the Rus. In the heart of the Kremlin there is the Qolsharif Mosque. 

This Mosque is one of the most beautiful structures I have ever beheld. They let you go inside, but they require the women to cover their hair in a scarf, cover legs in a skirt, and they ask for reverence and respect upon entering. I was able to go inside and was blown away by it. Also across from this mosque there is a Russian Orthodox temple. Both of these are representations of friendship and community between these two cultures. Walking down the streets its hard to tell who is Russian and who is a Tataran because they have inter mingled so much. This city was truly special. 

We felt that with our branch we could use a celebration of cultures and of backgrounds. We needed more interaction and friendship between the volunteers and the members. As a district we decided that a great way to do that was to have a fairytale night. Everyone could participate. They could pick a folklore from their culture to tell, sing, act, or read. It was a huge success. 

As a district, our American Fairytale we shared was Little Red Riding Hood. To be honest what helped spur this was a memory I had of my childhood. My siblings reenacted this fairytale. I was Red, my brother the wolf, my sister the granny, my other brother the huntsman, and the oldest was the filmmaker. We wanted to do this same thing. This time I didn't want to be Red, so I offered to be the granny, my companion was to be Red. The elders were the huntsman and the wolf. 

We called everyone and talked to everyone and told them to prepare something and to bring friends. We were hoping and praying that people would come and have a good time. And did people come. I was astounded by how many came to support us. It was phenomenal. In the begining we acted out a spiritual thought, and then opened it up to everyone to participate. They had a ball!

Russians have very many fairytales, and all kinds of songs and ways to tell their stories. There was not one soul who didn't look like they weren't having a great time. There was laughter, singing, and crying (the good kind). It was more than what we could of asked for. Then, we surprised everyone by putting on a little spectacular for them. We had costumes and make-up and sets we had designed. We had a lot of time since the new law. 

I only had two lines. My favorite was when the huntsman killed the wolf with a music stand and I popped up from behind a piano screaming, "Я жива!" Meaning: "I'm alive!" Kind of like Mushu in Mulan. 

This little celebration of cultures was the start of life long friendship with this branch. We did something each week for family home evening. I'll probably share with you what else we did in later weeks. It became a huge success and each week more and more people came. Less actives came, new "friends of the church" came,  and even the oldest members came. It brought the old and the young, the new to the church and old to the church, and different backgrounds and cultures together as we celebrated just that. Differences in culture.  And as well as our desire to follow our Savior. I honestly wish I can go back and still be a part of their family home evenings that have continued on even a year and a half later. 

Lessons of Love

So it's Valentine's Day and it made me reflect back to my mission. I spent two years not worrying about this holiday because I was otherwise "occupied" so to say. But I realized going through my journal that around the holiday of love I learned the greatest lesson of love around this time.

I remember on Valentine's Day I was on splits with a sister, one who I had gone on nine consecutive splits with, well practically. So this sweet sister and I had become confidants and great friends and I love her heart. She surprised us. She made me and my trainee a valentine! I was so touched. It was this little heart card that opened up to a cat saying, "Ты суперь!" meaning "You're great!" She wrote on the inside, "You are doing so great this last cycle- in fact, you are making it the best yet. I think you rock. I love you! Happy Valentine's Day!"

She of course didn't know the impact of her words. Our splits were at the very beginning of the cycle, right after the news was delivered that we, my trainee and I, wouldn't be serving in the same branch that we loved and felt so loved. We would still be in the same building, the same apartment seeing the same people except we would be in another ward. All of our progressing "friends" had to be passed to the Elders. The ones we had put sweat and tears into. No blood, unless you count random bloody noses by this girl here. I'm pointing to myself in case you didn't get it. 

To make matters worse the bishop was intimidating. Very intimidating. Snake charmer going up against a snake intimidating. Not to compare him to a snake because he is nothing of the sort. He's a stellar human being.

After one meeting with him it took me an hour to stop shaking. Oh, he also told us he didn't need us. Oh and he told us he never wanted to hear us use the word "try". This is where you gulp in fear. It was off to a crazy rough start, and it was also the beginning of the end for me. I was so sad to leave the ward that was amazing at helping us in every aspect and loving us as if their own. I had only been with them for two cycles. It was worse than pulling of duct tape from hairy legs. 

Well, this new ward needed help. They hadn't had sisters in three years or so. But boy was the relief society excited to have us. Not to mention an incredible member who was a ward missionary who came to our rescue in more ways than we knew. They helped us through the rough patches, and I learned a powerful lesson on the impact of love. From their examples, and from our challenge with the bishop. 

For the next four weeks we did EVERYTHING that sweetly intimidating bishop asked, and more just to give him a smile. We prayed for him in every prayer. We also prayed to make him see that we loved him. We made him food often, even gave him an expensive volleyball, and did other acts of service.

We came to the realization that he definitely had a hard life and he was only trying to lose his life in the work, as Christ asked of us. He was only doing his best. So we did our best to love him and the people he told us to visit and the members of that ward.

Goodbyes are never easy. On that last day with that ward many tears were shed. I don't think that bishop knew, but the goodbye to him was a difficult one. It was short and sweet, but I could barely keep myself together. I think of that man often and pray for him just as often. He was a porquepine when I met him, like a lot of Russians, but really he is as mushy as a browning banana on the inside. 

Love we showed to him melted his heart, and ours. He has a good heart. It's a little rough looking and seemingly hard, but it contains loads of charity and compassion. He, like many others I have met and came to love will always be stamped on my heart, never to be erased. 

Also who could forget his killer spikes in volleyball. He's a madman when it comes volleyball. You have to make sure your on his team to not get hit. 

This goes back to that sweet sister who I love immensely. Her kind words is what helped encourage me to give my all my last cycle, and to show this man love and compassion. It paid off. Kind words will do it, and actions of christ-like love will do it too. Love is the key to all secrets of this life, both eternal and temporal. 

The Volga

One of my absolute favorite things about Russia and the Samara/ Kazan/ Saratov oblasts (Russian equivalents to counties, well sort of) is the Volga. It was the first thing I walked to, not flown to or driven to, but my own two feet took me there.

The two days of travel prior to the river walk were killer. We spent almost a full day in the Moscow Airport after a long morning at the embassy. I remember everyone passing out, forgetting about the luggage and everything going around us. It was if someone had tainted our drinks. Lucky for us it was just jet lag, and nothing was stolen.

That brings me to a fact about Russians. They are incredibly honest. Almost to the point that they are blunt. Honesty is a great lesson I learned from them. Not that I wasn't before, but it's just a commonality among them. Like a silent pact to be honest and kind. Of course there are exceptions as there are everywhere.

Anywho, once we got to Samara we were taken straight to the Aurora Sisters' apartment, well just the sisters, and there were five of us, and twelve sisters were already at that apartment for transfers. This apartment had one bedroom and a medium sized living room. Most of the sisters were sprawled all throughout the living room and kitchen. The five of us newcomers had to cram three more mats into the bedroom with the already present two beds. One of the beds was as if it was made for a family of three two.

The next day we went to the mission home for orientation. It was grand, well at least comparing it to the over crowded apartment we had all just been shoved in. When we took a break I was introduced to my favorite river in the entire world.

The Volga is famous for being the largest river in the world. Wow! This picture above doesn't do it justice. I have plenty more photos where you can't see the other bank, or when it's completely frozen over and people are casually strolling on it. But this photo is special. It captures my first moment there. Behind where we are all standing was this gorgeous monument, rich with history.

This is reason number one why I love this river. The monument shows men on the shores, dressed poorly, with gloomy expressions as they trudge along the river yoked to a boat. A boat that these workers are tasked with to carry up river.

This isn't my own picture. I selected this one to see the monument clearly. These men had this awful job to do each day. Physically straining as well as mentally. You can see that their shoes are torn, if they have any. Their faces are weary, most looking down as if giving up. But there is one looking up. It doesn't show it well here, but he has a cross. It's been rubbed so much that it has a golden shine to it.

The message of hope is engraved in his face. And the message caught on. People noticed it. They rubbed the cross he wore as if cheering him on. People think that Russians are mostly Atheist. While a lot are, there are even more who are stout believers of God. His hand is visible in Russia, even to the Russians themselves.

This river was a place of hope for me. We called the street leading to the Volga our "miracle street" we always met the kindest or most open people here. It was my favorite spot, not only because of its beauty but of the hope it brought. This place is monumental in history and in it's message.  It has claimed a wide portion of my heart to reside in.

Stalker Guy and Brother Grape

I guess that it is common for each American girl that goes to Russia to have at least one stalker. Mine was Stalker Guy. He had a better name, but it is better if he isn't named. The members all called him crazy and it caught on like peanut butter and chocolate. Which now I feel bad that it did.

My very first Sunday in Russia we didn't have church. Well not really. There was a first presidency message or something like that. It lasted about two hours. We didn't even have the sacrament. And there were only ten people there.

Samara is a huge city. People swarm the streets and the buses from 8-10am and from 5-6pm in the day. To see that only ten people were there for church was quite a shock for me, you know as a Utahan. A major disappointment. I was used to the masses. 150+ per Sunday was typical. A low standard even!

So here I was on my very first Sunday not knowing where to sit. So I sat down on the row where this kind faced teenager was sitting. In my poorest Russian I tried to get out, Hi my name is Sister Johnson. It probably sounded more like: "me name Johnson sister you." She responded, "Hi, I'm Liza" in decent English that put me to shame.

A minute later a funky smell fluttered through the air carrying a middle aged man in a grungy forrest green sweater. He climbed over Liza, and then me and plopped down in the seat next to mine and started going off in a mad pace of incomprehensible Russian. Of course, I could barely understand normal Russian.

A waft of smoke and body odor overwhelmed me. I tried to mask my doubling over as a fit of coughing. He then proceeded to wack my back as if to help.  It didn't. The stench wafted farther up my nose. But as luck would have it I had backup. An elder nonchalantly coughed out in rapid English, "Sister sit here!"

I tried to apologize to stalker guy, but I gave up the attempt and ran to sit in-between a kind looking grandpa and the elder. Blocking off all contact from stalker guy. His saddened puppy dog eyes twinged at my heart for a moment, but it was interrupted by the grandpa sitting next to me. I already liked him. He didn't smell of smoke and he was smiling. He had more teeth than others too!

He pulled out a book of mormon and showed me all the names written in the back and asked me to sign it. He introduced himself as Brother Grape, which is the literal translation of his name.  I looked into his soft caramel eyes and thought, "we are going to be great friends." That thought was rudely interrupted when stalker guy jumped over Liza and sat directly in front of me. Repeatedly turning around to smile toothlessly at me. In a puppy kind of way, it was cute. But Brother Grape kept shushing him, and whoosing his hands at him, as if trying to fan him away. What a pal!

The next Sunday came and stalker guy brought me poems he had copied from the internet. The next, some candies he had found on the ground. Then he had to pull out all the stops. He needed to win me over. He asked for my hand as he gave me a raw turkey leg.

Nothing is more romantic than a raw turkey leg gentleman. Take notes. He also included copied poems, the ones I had rejected two weeks earlier. The elders had taken them as something to tape in their journals. I would've done the same if I didn't think that would encourage Mr. Stalker Guy. Instead he ended up recopying the same ones and offered them to me, again. When I declined the poems he shoved the turkey leg under my nose, as if the smell would entice me and bring me to tears of joy. I politely declined. His last trick up his sleeves were flowers.

You might say a step in the right direction. I was flattered, until he admitted he had taken them from a grave. I tried to decline again. He then tried to convince me again that I should marry him. The poor guy. He tried so hard. What is a girl supposed to do? Well, I sicked the elders on him, and they lead him away to Sunday School, and my companion and I headed to primary, trying to stay clear of him.

His intentions were, well I guess pure, but the execution not so much. I always had Brother Grape and the elders to keep him at bay. They made sure they walked with him out the building and out of sight before we got the okay signal to leave the church. First adventure was making its way, head on.

Disclaimer: These stories will be creative non-fiction. It's true, just over dramatized for creative effect. I feel I need to say this to all the other RSM RMs. You've been warned. Or I guess acknowledged.

My trainer, the best one out there. She was also being stalked by the same guy. I couldn't have understood a single thing he said without her. 

I don't know why it won't turn, but this was my very first contact. The snowmen of Russia are incredibly open. 

Memories of the Motherland: Getting to Know and Love the Russian People

In 2015 I was called to Russia to be a volunteer for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Never had I ever thought Russia would be on my radar. Never.

I hate cold weather. Absolutely loathe it. I want nothing to do with it. I though Russia was this frozen wasteland filled with harsh people. What had I done to deserve this punishment?

Boy, was I wrong.

Sure, Russia gets cold, but only in the winter. Their summers tend to suck. Its hot, muggy, and humid (especially by the Volga). It's a rare commodity for air conditioners. My apartment had one. It leaked water every night.

The people there? A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!!! I grew to love the people of Russia so incredibly much. It wasn't hard really. They are kind, hospitable, generous, strong, loving, and I will run out of adjectives if I keep going. But the point is clear. These people are easy to love. Hard to understand. But it's a fun process. The point of this blog is to take you on my journey of Russia. All the fun, hard, best, and worst of times to show everyone how I came to love these people. They are family. I had to leave three quarters of my heart in Russia when the plane took me back to my first home.

My goal is for you to get to know these people and love them as I do, and get to know first hand the kinds of adventures Russia has to offer.