Last Friday was Mike's and my day for the family fast. Maybe because I was thinking of Megan’s leaving the MTC soon for “The Mission Field,” but an experience I had early in my mission kept playing itself over and over in my head. Before I left for Brazil, a former sister missionary who had gone to a foreign country told me to prepare, because on my 2nd or 3rd day in the mission field, I'd have an emotional breakdown.

Understatement.

There I was: a brand new greenie missionary in Brazil. I'd lived on my own and been outside the country several times, so I didn't think I'd have any sort of "culture shock" or "homesickness." Everything completely caught me off guard. There were orphans living on the street and dogs with leprosy running around wild. My companion had only been out four or five months and barely spoke the language more than I. As I went to bed the first night, my companion oh-by-the-way’d me with the news that the previous occupant of the bed had a scourging case of head lice.

Fast forward to day number three on the mission...cue the breakdown. I remember walking down a street in Esteio, Rio Grande du Sul, Brazil. My companion was about 5 steps ahead of me. As I started crossing the street, I looked at my feet, which had a combined total of 28 blisters, and all of a sudden my eyes filled with tears. As I looked at my feet through my tears, I kid you not, they appeared to be the size of footballs, or maybe small torpedos. And then the weeping started and I couldn't stop. My poor companion had to half-walk, half-carry me back to what passed as our "house" but was really less livable than a van down by the river.

I could not stop crying. I cried for what I left behind. I cried because I was in pain. I cried because I felt overwhelmed with the task ahead of me. I cried because I couldn't understand anything anyone said to me. I cried because I didn't feel clean and knew I wouldn't get the dirt and grime off me until I went back to America. Most of all, I cried because I had never felt so alone in my entire life.

I can see in retrospect that all my tears were for myself. As President Hinckley counseled in a talk about his missionary experience, “Forget yourself and go to work.” I had to learn to do that with a fairly steep learning curve, given my environment. Those may have been the first mission tears I shed, but they certainly weren’t the last. As I grew as a missionary, my tears were less for myself and more for those around me. Or I cried because I felt so inadequate for the task set before me.

The story of the widow’s mite in Mark 12 has become particularly poignant to me as I look back on those days that were so difficult but filled with so much growth. The widow gave to the treasury two mites, which the scriptures say is worth a farthing. A farthing is 1/4th of a cent. It was so small, it was often overlooked and lost. The rich and the powerful never even used them because, in their eyes, it was so tiny and insignificant, both in terms of the amount it was worth and in its physical size. And yet, it was the widow’s mite that caught the Savior’s eye because of sacrifice it represented.

Oftentimes, I felt (and still feel) that the service I offer is inconsequential. I feel like my meager offering is filled with imperfection and inadequacies. It’s “just bearing my testimony” or “just smiling at someone in the street” or “just fasting for my family.” And yet, if it’s done with love in my heart, it’s in those moments that that I feel that my offering, however small and imperfect it may be, is still worth something to the Lord.

The day of my meltdown in Esteio is vividly imprinted on my mind. If I could go back to Brazil today, I could find the precise street where I stood and wept. I’m still working on the lessons from the mission: to learn how to love others, how to forget myself and serve, how to feel and recognize the Spirit. Those “widow’s mite” qualities may not be what the world values and talks about, but they will be recognized by the Savior. I was so blessed to be able to fast for my family and remember important lessons that still have an impact on me today.

Mike and I went to a church BBQ/potluck last night. Neither of us are hamburger/hotdog fans, so we were really relying on the side dishes to get us through the meal. I have to say, we were a little disappointed by the selection. (I should admit that I'm as guilty as everyone there, because Mike and I forgot about it until the last minute and only had a package of Oreos to take.)

No one passed around a sign up sheet beforehand and now I have a testimony as to their importance, because there were over 15 different variations on the theme of Potato Salad. Aside from some desserts, a tray of picked-over vegetables, and a lonely bowl of lettuce salad, that was it. I could hardly believe that this was the fare at a Mormon church potluck!!!

I drove home thinking about church potlucks back home and how sadly lacking this one was by comparison. I know I grew up complaining because they always served the same foods no matter the occasion, time of year, or what ward you went to. I realize now that without those foods, it just didn't seem right.

--Where was the frog eye salad? Can it truly be a Mormon potluck without frog eye salad?
--What about sloppy joes? Even if the main dish is provided, someone always brings sloppy joe meat. I don't even like sloppy joes, but I missed them.
--No one brought Jello?!? Are you for-realing me?? I know we joke about the green Jello salad, but be honest...if there's no Jello salad there, don't you feel just a little bit cheated?
--There was not one casserole there. I was beyond shocked! I figured at least one pan of funeral potatoes would be found, but no. Apparently, all the potatoes in the ward were used to make salads.
--Ahhhhh, crockpot spaghetti, you good Mormon standby, you. At worst, you're bland and sticky, but if your maker is generous with the sauce and even melts in some mozzarella, you are potluck goodness.
--Speaking of pasta, did no one bring a pasta salad? I can't believe it! I can almost taste it now...tricolored corkscrew pasta, oil, vinegar, green peppers, olives, and onions. Yeah, it's dull and unimaginative, but it's Potluck Pasta Salad!

It's true that there are generally few surprises when it comes to the typical ward potluck, but that's what makes it so wonderful and comfortable. Among the predictability of the food is the fellowship of the people who bring it. For example, you always knew that Sis. Hortin would bring her homemade rolls. Mom would take one of her varieties of pasta salad. The Claytons always took an amazing dessert. You looked forward to the dishes and the people you associated with them.

So now you can number me among the Potluck Believers. Pass around the sign up sheet and grab me a casserole dish! It's time for the funeral potatoes!

Today was relaxing. Marvelous, catching-up-with-your-inner-peace, relaxing. While Mike worked on a paper for one of his classes, I relished the fact that I have no lectures to write (I gave two this week), no notes to finish up, and no research project busy work to do. How I love days like this!

I don't want to sound like I'm complaining, but this week had its share of stress. On Wednesday I gave a lecture on autism to a group of school nurses from one of the school districts here. I was given the address of the junior high but not directions on how to get there. It was 45 minutes away, but I gave myself an hour and a half for traffic and for the purposes of setting up.

Turned out it was a good thing I did, because Google Map and MapQuest decided to mess with my mind and sent me to the middle of a corn field. Literally. I called Mike, who got online and couldn't get directions, either. He finally found a satellite picture of where the school was. The next part was trying to decipher where I was so that he could tell me how to get there.

Mike: What buildings are close to you?

Me: Nothing except some houses in the distance.

[After driving for a couple minutes.]

Mike: OK, now are any landmarks around you?

Me: I'm in the middle of a farm. The only landmarks here are corn and animals.

Mike: Sounds like junior high to me.

He didn't really say that last part.

My wonderful husband stayed on the line with me for about 20 minutes until he successfully navigated me to the junior high, which was 4 or 5 miles away around windy roads. I made it with about 10 minutes to spare. It would have been impossible to find without his help. Talk about stress. It doesn't matter who you are or how old you get, it's never fun being lost.

I Heart Mike!

The most beautiful place you could never want to live...

Last week, I traveled to Alaska on TDY (Temporary Duty). I saw the same type of patients as I do at home.

Four times a year they send people from our department, because technically Alaska is under Madigan's medical jurisdiction. As you can see from the pictures I took from the plane, Alaska is one of the prettiest places you could ever hope to visit.

Living there, though...
One women who works at the hospital where I was said that in winter you have to drive in snowpants and gloves and make sure you always have food and heating supplies in the car because if your car stalls you'll get frostbite within 10-15 minutes and it might be twice that long before another car comes along.

Now, I know I'm more intolerant to cold than 99% of the population, but Anchorage, temperature wise, was in the low 50's during the day in the middle of August. It dropped down to the low 40's/high 30's at night. I got to the inn on base and my room was seriously freezing. I turned up the thermostat and crawled under the two cardboard-thin covers. After a couple hours of not warming up, I went to the front desk to tell them something was wrong with my thermostat. They told me, "Oh, we turn off the heat in the summer."

What?!???!!?

I asked for blankets and they looked at me like I was a candidate for a double lobotomy and a room with padded wallpaper. I finally got some and at least I was warm as long as I stayed in bed. They didn't even have a portable heater in the room! (Though they kindly provided a fan in case I got too warm.)

I guess when you have to let your mail thaw after you get it or it'll break when you try to open it in the middle of winter, 40 degrees on the positive side of zero looks like the tropics.