Perfect

Elder and Sister Cropper at Fiesta in the "bukid" or mountains with members and non-members.  All eating and having fun.

We had a flurry of birthday posts, then Tanner and Taylor came to visit—oh how great was that—then I left for Utah, then  Grandma Tilly failing, with lots of Skyping home, so we have not taken time to blog.  We promise pictures and details about our boys’ visit here, and such, but for now I want to address a concern I’ve had.

Many times people say to us, as a comment on our blog, by email, or in person when I was in Utah recently to help Shane and Sara welcome Isabelle into their family, something like the following: “you guys are so awesome,” “what you’re doing is so amazing,” “I could never do that,” or even, “I will certainly never serve a mission after reading your blog—it is way too intense.”

I thought we had been including—in amongst our reporting on the astonishing and often harsh differences between our lives at home and the reality here—enough of the stunning, breathtaking awe we feel in the work that we do, the overwhelming gratitude we feel for the privilege of working with the saints here, and the magnitude of honor we consider it is to be here, in this place, at this time.  But perhaps we have failed in that regard, and so, let me explain.

I heard a talk in Oakhills 2^nd ward when I was there about sacrifice. The speaker reminded me of a truth that had been lurking about in the periphery of my thoughts, trying to find light. The notion is that not only does sacrifice require giving up something good for something better, but that exquisite joy is almost always accompanied by severe trial or difficulty.  Think of childbirth, or raising a teenager, or, in our case, serving a mission. It wasn’t enough that we leave our loved ones behind and mourn the loss of a year and a half in the progression of our eternal family, we have also had to face fear and danger and disease and dis-ease.  We’ve had to face fears we didn’t know we had, and some we did.  So what is fun about that?

But the beauty we’ve received is all that’s been promised to us all--- the “how great shall be your joy part,” the “God qualifies whom he calls” part—it’s all true. God didn’t qualify us for this work by a life time of experience, He threw us in over our heads and then taught us how to remember to hold on to Him while we gasped and sputtered and swam, and then He showed us depths and sensations that we had yet to discover, and the fear and the panic gave way to a greater level of trust, and, yes, joy. It’s almost embarrassing that at 54, I still had so much to learn.

The other truth I know from all this is that this is OUR mission, not anyone else’s. The lessons we learn are perfectly custom tailored to us, the skill set we adapt to our circumstances is ours, the challenges are of God’s choosing just for us.  So, for example, we are living in this stifling heat that would enervate most, and would actually thwart some, but it’s become okay for us. We sweat buckets (Dean) and wear little sweaters in the air conditioning at District Conference (me), and we have become fine with it.  We are grateful every, day that we are not faced with the challenge of Siberia, like a couple we met in the MTC who travel all over 7 or something time zones in Russia wearing 7 or something layers of wool and gortex—horrors!!!

Or, example two: We live in a progressive, fairly rural small city named Amlan, a place where some would be bored, or get stir crazy driving up and down the same highway for months, but we are so grateful that this place is the Filipino version of Ashland, with its rural setting and its eccentric ways, where people pick fresh fruit off their trees and hand it to us, where pavement is minimal, and open spaces are abundant.  We are grateful every day that we are not in New York City, like another couple met in the MTC, facing miles of rush hour travel and social nuances I’d be completely clueless of, and the only trees are corralled in Central Park and where makeup is mandatory and where my thinning hair would be a constant source of concern, unlike here where no one cares.

In both cases, we feel about their mission, like many of you feel about ours—no way, too intense, not for me.  But, whether it is a tender mercy—God rescued us with a dose of oblivion then settled us in after the initial shock, or a pre-arranged plan—He knew all along we’d adjust and find this to be exactly right for us, I don’t know.  What I do know is that we have had some rough times, and yet this is just right for us and we are no big thang to be finding the joy in it. 

We are no different than any of you who get up every day and face hard things and don’t give up, no different from my Mom who lives with pain every day, and heart ache and history, but who finds joy in moments of laughter and service and reunion; no different from Dean’s Mom who is on the brink of returning home, fighting to the end to leave behind the organized photos she knows will help her family make sense of things and remember what counts; no different from Joan and Sherri and our kids and their spouses who love and serve our mothers when we are not there to step in; no different from each of you who anguishes over a class or career or calling.  We are each on a mission, are we not?  We are called of God and are responding by caring for each other, nurturing our children, serving in our callings, struggling in our attempts to provide or prepare to provide, doing the hard things.

Our mission includes spiders and mud and ants by the trillions and wrenching poverty, and that would be enough to put some over the edge, but it does NOT include the things that would put US over the edge, at least not so far. Yes, I have come very close to that edge, but no closer than in my “real” life, just different.

Our mission is perfect—in every messy detail, in every peak of joy.  We have been placed in the perfect circumstances by a loving Father who knows all. We are grateful to be here and not so many other places.  We trust that if you serve a mission, whoever and whenever, you will feel the same—after the initial shock.

P.S. On the bad days, I just try not to buckle, like you do. On many days I ache to come home, but the ache is familiar. I ache at home too—for different reasons, like you do.  All this is only completely true on the good days, just like for you.  Tomorrow we attend a baptism—a person has found the courage to make a promise to God that will start her on a path to return to her Father in Heaven. Mmmm, now that is worth a lot.

P.P.S. Please do not stop telling us how cool this is that we get to be doing—it feels good to have others acknowledge the magnitude of our work here—just as long as we all know it is not our work, but God’s, and it’s not just a romantic, epic journey, but is truly glorious.