Ode to the Deep Freeze

Oh Deep Freeze
My friend
With delectable delights
To satisfy cravings
And homesickness fight

You help us stop bugs
From spoiling our meals
And chocolate from melting
In heat that's unreal

Ice cream, chocolate chips
Bacon, bananas
Tortilla mix, cake mix
Pecans from Grandma's

Otter Pops, Easter candy
Emergency Indian food
To feed local guests
Who find our food not so good

Craisins and raisins
Strawberry jam
Yeast and roast beast
From the meat man

And now that it's hot
You make ice for our water
Since it comes from the tap
Steaming hotter and hotter

But the generator is broken
And there's no electricity
So goodbye freezer contents
We barely ate thee.

Of Chocolate, Drivers, Ambassador Taxis and Growing Pains

Isn't life really mostly about chocolate? But we'll get to the chocolate later. First the drivers.

Most of our problems these days can be traced back to our no good, very bad driver Pardeep. He's not a bad guy. He just won't ever look us in the eye or speak to us. You can ask Mom. We're not making this up. And with a few of the experiences we've had in the last few days, I'm not sure if he has a brain in his head at all.

Last night we asked him to take us to the Russian Culture Center and gave him pretty clear instructions on what roads to take. The Culture Center is somewhere between India Gate and Connaught Place. But for whatever reason he drove around in circles between the two places for about an hour. Literally circles. There's the roundabouts that get you all turned around, but when we passed India gate for the third time, we knew there was something we were missing or this guy was missing. We kept asking if he knew where he was going, but kept getting a mumble that we think might have meant he did. Anyway, after passing the Russian Culture Center the first time, we had a nice drive seeing this lovely part of Delhi in circular fashion for about 45 minutes before we found our way back. Thank you, driver.

Apparently our driver friend doesn't think he's such a good driver either, because he's been telling other drivers we are looking for a driver. Today at least three (I've lost track) drivers showed up at our doorstep uninvited because they had heard we need a new one. One driver we interviewed a few days ago spoke English okay, but when I asked him to show me where we were on a map he was at a total loss. Another guy who showed up today works for an Irish family down the street but he wants more money. We're totally baffled on this one. But we do know this . . . the current driver MUST GO!

Another fun driver moment of the day: Today while we were at swimming lessons Rich had the driver take him to the Vasant Vihar branch for a church meeting. Then he sent the driver back to get us. He was about 45 minutes later than I expected and I was quite annoyed waiting for him in the 107 degree heat, but at least he came.

We left Rich at the church to find his own ride home because today we had a Young Women's activity at our house at 4:00 and I had promised to pick up four people. So when we got home, I pulled out my newest Hindi sentence: "sari do bajeh chalna hai" which I meant to mean, we'll be leaving again at 2:30.

Unfortunately, he didn't get the message right. When I looked outside at 2:35 to see if the driver was ready he was gone! The guard informed me with a smile that he had gone to get "sahib." He had gone to Vasant Vihar 40 minutes away to pick up Rich who was already home! And the silly man doesn't carry a cell phone like everyone else in India (though we just learned from his boss that he has one, he just doesn't have a charger) so I couldn't call to tell him to come back. All we could think to do was call a taxi. So off I went in one of those black and yellow ambassador taxis. The thing had A/C, it just wasn't cold at all. The windows turned out to be a better option, but at least I could communicate with this driver and he was willing to get out and ask if he didn't know where a place was.

One hour and several cell phone calls later for directions to everyone's house we had driven all over and had crammed 11 people--Alveena and her friend, Sister Beesa and her two children, Sister John and her two children, Carolina, the driver, and me--into the taxi and were hot, hot, hot. I taught the kids to play "I Spy" and blew on their necks to keep them from complaining about the heat. When we got there Sarah Jordan and her brother arrived and then Sister Amy Paul, the district young women president. Woo-hoo! Three young women and a whole gaggle of others!

The activity went well. I succeeded in getting out of teaching the kids to cook American food by asking Sister Beesa to come teach. She is a very good cook (she does it by profession in the American Embassy) and I learned a lot by watching her. I kind of had to stop watching her though once I realized I needed to play police. . .

Here's the chocolate part. One of the girls who came lives in a one bedroom house with her brother and parents with the kitchen outside. She was visibly impressed with our refrigerator, but after she checked out everything inside the refrigerator side and giggled at its contents (I'm not sure why), she looked at the freezer door with confusion on her face. I opened it and showed her that it's the place where we keep things really cold, like ice cream. Big smile on the ice cream. Then she pointed to the chocolate Easter eggs Mom brought when she came. At this point I made my mistake. I should have offered one to her, but I didn't. All I could think of was how Mom had paid $1 for each of those eggs (another story in and of itself that Mom will have to tell you) and that I didn't have enough to share with everyone who had come. So I didn't offer.

About ten minutes later I noticed two of the girls near the fridge chewing something and opening the freezer to get more. Chocolate! I told them if they wanted some of them, I'd be happy to give them, but don't just take them. One girl's face visibly heated up and her eyes watered as she swallowed whatever it was whole. For the rest of the activity every time I turned my back they were heading back into the pantry, or up in the boys room and shutting the door, or in the toy room looking guilty.

Argh! I guess being a young women's leader in any country is often about being a police. But avoiding theft in my own home really makes me a little edgy. I thought about confronting the girls before they left about what I suspected might be in their pockets but decided not to. It was one of the girls' birthdays, after all, and frankly, they tell me stealing is defined differently here. It is wrong, definitely, but I think in India it's perceived more as borrowing, not stealing. Especially when taking from people like us who have thousands more square footage in our house and a bank account with thousands more rupees (actually, though, we don't have a bank account with rupees yet--that's yet another work in progress that has already spanned months!).

This is a photo of Sister Trija John, the 1st counselor in YW and the former branch president's wife with her son Saranj and Graham.

When we finally said goodbye to the whole lot of them (sent them home with the driver who finally came back after 4 hours when we got someone at the church to find him and tell him to go home!), Rich realized he had missed an appointment with someone at the church and we both wondered aloud why we can't ever get it all together much as we try. Russell and Isaac had some answers later on, unbeknownst to them.

Russell's Answer:
It's bedtime. I call out, "Russell, can you please come upstairs and get ready for bed?"

He replies something in very high whiny tones I cannot comprehend. I am feeding Graham, so I ask Isaac to go to Russell and see what's wrong.

Isaac comes back and says, "Russell says he can't come upstairs. He's run out of gas."

Isaac's Answer:
"Mom, my leg really hurts!"
"Does it hurt from when you fell off your bike earlier today?"
"No, it hurts all over."
"Does it hurt like growing pains?"
"Yeah, I think so. Ouch, it hurts."

Maybe this week we can fill up our gas tank on Sunday, get a new driver to get us around without crazy mix-ups and keep on growing.

Of Chocolate, Dry Erase Markers, and Sacrament Trays

Okay, so when I lived in Mexico I loved going to church every Sunday because it was at least familiar when everything else wasn't. The music was the same though the words were in a different language. The sacrament was the same.

But church doesn't have that same healing effect here. Maybe it's because I'm older and grumpier, maybe because we have children now. Maybe it's because we now have callings, maybe it's because during the week I live the superficial expat life and on Sunday we really live in India. But honey, we're not in Utah or Texas or even Mexico anymore! Everything is essentially the same, but it feels worlds away from what I expect.

Let's take last Sunday for example. Nobody in the Relief Society presidency bothered to show up to church. So I had prepared a lesson for our one young woman and I volunteered to teach it to the Relief Society. But before that they had invited another sister to improvise a lesson, so we split the time. Sort of. Actually, Russell was my "helper" during the lesson (he won't leave my side during church--even with Daddy) and when he started screaming for the dry erase marker so he could write on the wall I had to turn the time over to the other sister quickly. I didn't even say "in the name of Jesus Christ, amen" or bear my testimony. I just ran out of there, hoping nobody could see my tears. "I'm not ever going back to Church!" I said under my breath.

So when he got home, poor President Cutler (yes, Rich is the branch president now . . . they forgot to look hard at his wife before that call) got an earful about that little incident. At a recent training the mission president's wife counseled that when people don't show up to do their calling (a big problem here) you need to speak to them as soon as possible and lovingly convey to them that they were missed. So Rich called the RS president and asked what had happened. She had a hurt back. He told her (lovingly) that when she is not well she needs to arrange for someone to be there to be in charge.

The amazing thing is that this Sunday (yes, I did go back...the church may be weird in India, but it's still true) this sister got up in Relief Society and chewed everyone out for not taking over for her when she was sick. "I would hope that everyone in this Relief Society would be willing to take charge and teach a lesson in such a situation." The sister missionary from the USA raised her hand and tried to tell her we had actually had a lesson, but she said people had called her and told her terrible things happened.

So as I'm listening to this lecture in awe, I turn around to check on Graham who is in another sister's lap, and his face and hands are covered in chocolate! Graham is 7 months old now and we have very carefully given him plain homemade baby food of fruits and veggies one at a time over the past several weeks, avoiding such potential allergens such as chocolate, wheat, egg, etc. So I rush out of there with Graham in my arms, Russell at my heels. It just sounds funny now, but I was sobbing by the time I found my way to a sink. Totally sobbing.

I recovered mostly after a few blessed minutes by myself (and the kids) to pry the Kit Kat pieces out of Graham's tight little fists and clean him off. Then had a little talk with the giver of the chocolate. "Sister, he wanted it," she said, "But he definitely wasn't swallowing it, only licking it." It will be amazing if these children survive India. Even more amazing if I make it through without becoming horribly bitter or insane.

After that I went to teach the Young Women lesson to Carolina, our only consistently active young woman. The lesson was on Seeking the Companionship of the Holy Ghost and I felt that Spirit as I taught. "Oh yeah, this is why I'm here," I thought to myself. As we worked on one of her personal progress goals we talked about Elder Eyring's talk in the November general conference: "Spiritual Preparedness: Start Early and Be Steady" He says,
So, the great test of life is to see whether we will hearken to and obey God’s commands in the midst of the storms of life. It is not to endure storms, but to choose the right while they rage. And the tragedy of life is to fail in that test and so fail to qualify to return in glory to our heavenly home."

As I testified to Carolina that we need to be spiritually and temporally prepared for whatever unexpected storms may come our way, I wondered, "Did I start early enough to be spiritually prepared for this whole India shebang?" "Am I steady enough to not go inactive or lose my testimony in India?" Got some work to do, I think.

Earlier in the meeting block today Isaac and Russell got in a quite loud fight about who was going to pass the sacrament tray--the bread of life. In the midst of all of it half of the sacrament bread flew off the tray onto the floor. I closed my eyes and thought, "I'm never coming back again." Then I hurled Rich a meaningful glance as he sat quietly on the stand likely trying not to fall asleep. I extracted the tray from the boys and passed it to the deacon, then picked up the bread from the floor and held it in my hand. "What am I supposed to do with this?" I thought. Russell was upset that I had not put it back. I explained that I couldn't put it back because it was dirty from the floor and stuffed it in our bag.

Since that heated moment I'm thinking there's something there in that discarded bread about how I'm going to make good of this church experience in India. It's all about what I choose to do with my portion of the bread of life that is passed to me. It's the bread of life regardless of who passes it, how sanitary it is, or what language it's in. I can either stuff it in my bag and forget about it because it didn't come to me quite the way I'd expected it. Or I can accept the offering with gratitude or even laughter and let it cleanse my soul.

Reminds me of that great C.S. Lewis quote about the Lord's plan for us:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of — throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.

I guess we're going for the palace here. Onward, ho!

Trail Mix and Growing Up

I think I may actually be a real live adult now.

Why, you ask? Because when I eat trail mix now (and this is only in the last month or so), I eat it by the handful instead of picking out the best parts (the M&Ms, of course) and leaving the rest for later. The rest are usually just raisins and nuts, which I don't necessarily dislike. But why waste your time with nuts and raisins when you can eat M&Ms? Now when I take a handful and eat the M&Ms and nuts and raisins all at once, the mixture of the three is a whole new wonderful taste that I never got before because I was so busy picking out the "good" parts.

So, I guess that means I'm growing up a bit. I'm learning that I don't always have to be the best or have the best, and sometimes what I think is the absolute best thing or choice isn't really. I realize now that taking life by the handful with all of its ugliness, beauty, mediocrity, and wonders makes for a pretty tasty existence, especially when I don't get too hung up on classifying every bite. Actually living beats thinking too much about it.

And what do ya'll do differently now that you're growing up? I know we all are growing up (or getting old, however you want to see it!), whether we'd like to admit it or not!