Lessons Learned from Kilimanjaro

 Last Sunday, I got back from one of the most thrilling adventures of my life--climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. It had been a while since I have been able to completely detach myself from work and other commitment and just soak in the beauty and splendor of my current surroundings. Our running joke in the group was "we only have two jobs--stay hydrated and walk."

Lesson 1. Enjoying the Beauty in the Present Moment.

On day 2, our group came across a tree with gnarled, thick branches across the trail. I asked the guide to take a picture of me, which he did. To my surprise, he asked if I could take a picture of him in that same spot." I realized that even though my guide had summited Kilimanjaro over 100 times, he was still just in awe of the beauty as I was. I want to be that kind of person who takes joy in the things that I see every day.

Lesson 2: Continue at Your Own Pace

The mantra of the mountain is "pole pole." It is Swahili for "slowly, slowly." They want you to go slow, so that you can acclimatize successfully and have enough energy for summit day. In other circumstances, if I was behind a group, I would quickly hustle to catch up. But in this case, I could not. So, there were plenty of times when I was behind with another guide, with the rest of the group ahead. However, on Kilimanjaro, generally speaking there is no rush to the destination. There is no hurry to get to a camp first. The point is that you make it there. They want you to enjoy the unique flora and fauna, and take pleasure in the present.

I am very guilty of comparing my present day situation to others, career-wise, relationship-wise, etc. But in the end, we are all on our extremely tailored journey that has been created for us. We will reach certain milestones, but it may be at a different time than someone else. 

Lesson 3: Your Achievements are Not in Isolation

We had an incredible 16-person staff that included someone who maintained our toilet, as well as a cook, waiter, and many porters. Every day, we were woken up by our waiter, Dale, who gave us hot water each morning to drink with our liquid IVs. Dale then acted as a human clock--he told us when our hot water was ready for washing time, when the food was ready, and with a smile, he would put seconds on our plate and say, "one for the road!"

We had Vedda and Emmanuel who were superb guides and complimented each other so well. Vedda loved pointing out the flowers to me, and Emmanuel had this infectious enthusiasm about the mountain. Summiting was one of the most sublime experiences that I've ever experienced, but one of the most emotional experiences on the mountain was coming back to camp and having our staff sing for us. They immediately congratulated us on a job well done. I immediately thought--but it was because of you that I did this!"

Kilimanjaro reminded me that there is no achievement made in isolation. No matter what you accomplish, more than likely one or more people helped you along the way. Most important, being part of a community goes a long way in helping you with your accomplishments. You need community--the staff, the other  hikers in your group, the other hikers at camp. Being part of a community diminishes the burden you have. 

Lesson 4. Being Aware of My Limitations.

One of the hardest parts of the trip was being okay with the fact that sometimes I was going to be last. On summit day, I was not feeling well, and 

Reflections on COVID-19

During my 33 years, I have witnessed two cataclysmic events that have brought our economy to its knees, unleashed grave uncertainty about the future, as well as heightened the sense of unity that comes from such an experience. The first one was 9-11. I was 14 years old and had just been in high school for a matter of weeks. I remember hearing of a pilot crashing into the WTCs and just assumed it was an accident, then seeing the news that flashed "America Under Attack" for the next 24 hours, and the ill-planned attack against the Middle East that still haunts our foreign relations today.

Now 19 years later, I find myself in an analogous situation: COVID-19. Yet in this case, we are fighting a silent killer, and rather than inciting an "us versus them" mentality, our whole globe is united in battling this virus while maintaining our emotional, spiritual, and physical health. We are all washing our hands like never before, ordering grocery delivery, and fumbling through Zoom to maintain a sense of normalcy for work and socialization. And yet we are all in this sense of collective mourning as we have all suffered a grave loss: the inability to gather as family and friends, enjoy the ritual of  festivals, March Madness and concerts as part of heralding spring; and witnessed the bizarre acts of human nature that come with such an event (read toilet paper hoarding, the rise of fake news, etc). I have had to come to terms with my own sense of grief--the loss of connecting with friends, dating, and forcing to treat others as if they are inundated with germs that will make me ill. And of course, a palpable sadness cascades over me as I read of the rising deaths, domestic violence and unemployment figures and knowing that a person lies behind these statistics: those who can no longer pay their bills, those who have died without a familiar face beside them, and those whose home is not the safe haven that I know.

Other thoughts have crossed my mind. Amidst this strange period, I have also felt like I am experiencing a sliver of the past. I think of the pioneers and my frontier ancestors who had no choice but to social distance; a visit from a neighbor a few miles away was a rare treat. I think of those long ago who had to content themselves with solitary activities and looked forward to the dances and gatherings that occurred only occasionally. I have realized that I need to learn how to content myself with doing activities on my own, as I cannot always lean on a life full of heightened social activity. Being still single, I have realized that this trait is something that I need to refine.

This virus has also made me think more profoundly about my cushy upper-class existence. It was certainly a humbling moment receiving toilet paper as a belated birthday present--and to realize that others across the globe have a perennial inability to access clean water and toiletries. I struggled coming to terms with my paycut and layoff that increased my workload--then immediately remember those 6.5 million workers who would happily be in my position.

I also wonder about the sense of renewal that will come from this pandemic. To some extent, our society was already well-versed in social distancing before COVID ever hit us: the texting instead of a phone call, looking to Googlemaps rather than asking someone for directions. I like to think that people will be more prone to speak with each other and have a conversation. I like to think of the beautiful art and creativity that is being produced right now as people try to find ways to stay occupied in their homes. I like to think that we will feel a sense of renewal and a heightened sense of gratitude for the sense of normalcy that we are so often afforded. I like to think that the bonds of friends and family will be cherished even more than before. I like to think that those who may have not leaned toward religion may consider the presence of a higher Being who can direct and provide comfort at this time. And most of all, my prayer is that all of us will see ourselves not just as a citizen of our state or county, but as a member of the globe, where we all breathe the same air, swim in the same oceans, and shelter ourselves from the natural elements. It's a shame that a virus had to be the great equalizer for us all, but I hope that it continues.

Christ as the Master Healer

This was a talk given to my congregation on March 17, 2019 in Salt Lake City.

Good morning, brothers and sisters. To start, my talk, I would first like to share a story about my grandfather. My grandfather was a D-Day veteran who landed on Normandy beach 75 years ago this year. Several weeks after D-Day, he was hit by a landmine, forcing him into rehabilitation for two years. Most of his wounds were fixed through surgery, but there was one wound that he had to bear for the rest of his life: he was left blind, and he wore glass eyes for the next 60 plus years.

I’ll return to his story later, but like my grandfather, we are in a mortal experience that will inevitably wound us at times. Like a landmine that seems to come out of nowhere, we can be also be wounded from events outside of our control. I’ve thought and prayed a lot about what to speak about today, and today, I would like to talk about Christ as the master healer, and how He can alleviate, restore, and mend our mortal wounds.

What does it mean when we talk of Christ as the master healer? Fiona and Terryl Givens, eminent Mormon scholars, explain that when the Bible was translated into English, the Greek word Sodzo, was translated as “to save.” However, sodzo is used in the original Greek text when Christ made the blind man see, and when he cured the woman from her blood condition of 12 years. Thus, the Givenses point out that “to save” and “to heal” are the virtually the same word in the Bible. So, as you do the New Testament reading from Come Follow Me this year, and you come across a passage that talks about Christ saving us or others in the story, I would encourage you to replace “Save” with “Heal” and see how that adds another layer of richness to your study. What I appreciate about this insight is that as we talk about Christ being the savior of the world, linguistically speaking, we can also call him the Healer of the World.

As we come to learn about Christ in the scriptures, I think that elements of Middle Eastern culture can also aid us in understanding how Christ is the master Healer. In his essay on the Atonement, Hugh Nibley talks about the cultural tradition of the Arab kafata. In this context, a person who was seeking refuge or was in grave danger would enter into the tent of a great Arab chief, and cry out, “I am thy suppliant.” In the spirit of true hospitability, the chief would then put the hem of his robe around the person in danger, embrace him, and then declare that the person was under his protection.

Not surprisingly, like the Arab chief embracing a person in need of help and protection, our scriptures are replete with images of the Savior’s arms being open, extended, and stretched out. His arms are described as mighty and holy, arms of mercy, arms of safety, arms of love, and arms “lengthened out all the day long.” Probably my most favorite scriptures of the Savior’s arms is when Nephi states, “I am encircled about eternally in the arms of his love.” To me, this scripture provides the best imagery of how Christ heals us—his arms wrapped around us in a warm, loving embrace.

My grandfather talked about feeling the love of God frequently, as he worked to strengthen his faith in Christ, while assimilating into a world of complete darkness. Towards the end of his life, he stated that being blind was one of his greatest blessings, as he had the opportunity to see people as Christ did—he wasn’t able to see or judge others’ physical appearance or socio-economic status. In that sense, my grandfather’s condition, though never cured, was alleviated through the Savior’s love.

So, how can we feel and be healed by this divine love? Two years ago, there was a General Conference talk called, “Repentance is Always Positive.” I love the title of that talk. If we think about Christ’s healing as a warm, loving embrace, repentance moves us towards Christ’s arms of mercy that are forever extended, wanting to receive us. Elder Anderson talks about repentance being less of a chastisement, but rather, a beckoning, loving invitation to reach a higher quality of life. In that sense, we all can repent daily to feel Christ’s embracing love more acutely in our lives.

We just took the Sacrament, which is also a time for us to heal and feel Christ’s love. I love this quote by Elder Melvin J. Ballard, stated, “I am a witness that there is a spirit attending the administration of the sacrament that warms the soul from head to foot; You feel the wounds of the spirit being healed, and the load being lifted.” Indeed, the Sacrament can provide the healing balm for our spiritual wounds.

How else can we be healed by Christ’s love? This week, I have also thought a lot about the centurion who approaches Christ to heal his servant. Interestingly, he asks Christ merely to “speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.” The centurion knew that the word of Christ alone was powerful enough to heal his servant. In a similar vein, the words of Christ in the scriptures can be a source of healing for us as well. Another scripture I have been thinking about is from Psalms, where the author says, “O Lord my God, I cried unto thee, and thou hast healed me.” I love this idea of prayer being a source of healing for us.

This week, our Come Follow Me reading included Matthew 11:28-30, where Christ invites us to take his yoke upon him, which I interpret as taking on the covenant of Christ. This led me to further think about what type of covenants we actually make, which led me to Mosiah chapter 18. Here Alma introduces the baptismal covenants as to “bear another’s burdens,” “mourn with those that mourn,” and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.” Christ, as the master healer, is making it clear that we need to heal those around us. As we try to collaborate with Christ in the healing process, we can also find the healing that we desperately need.  

One of my favorite examples of this concept occurs in the English novel, Adam Bede, by George Eliot. In this story, a female preacher named Dinah seeks to feel what she calls the Divine Presence in her life. Despite her best efforts at writing sermons, and interacting with her congregation, the nature of the Divine Presence seems to elude her. One day, she descends into a dark, dank prison to visit a female prisoner who has just committed a heinous crime. When the female prisoner asks why Dinah is there, Dinah responds, “Don’t you think that I wouldn’t come to you in trouble?...I’m come to be with you—to stay with you—to be your sister to the last.” As Dinah mourns with and comforts this prisoner, she finally discovers what she has been searching for her entire life. The narrator says that Dinah “felt the Divine Presence more and more, nay, as if she herself were a part of it.” It was not until Dinah chose to descend to another’s level and even put herself in unfamiliar terrain, that she was able to truly experience holiness, and even find the healing that she had yearned for.

Similarly, I think that to truly mourn, comfort, and bear the burden of another, will involve coming to their level and venturing, or even descending, into unfamiliar territory. If we do have to descend to a terrain that may feel uncomfortable, we can be reminded of the Savior’s words to Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail, when he reminded Joseph that “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?” I do know that mourning, comforting, and taking on other’s burdens can be a beautiful experience, as we literally collaborate with our Savior to heal our fellow men and women. Our embrace can be the Savior’s embrace for them. 

I want to share one final story. A few years ago, I had an experience that I never thought I could recover from. I remember receiving a blessing shortly after that stated that God, Christ, and angels were weeping for me. I know that as we think of Christ’s healing as a loving, eternal embrace, there are often tears from, not one, but both parties. We talk of taking on covenants to develop a relationship with our Savior. I also want to add that Christ truly descended below all things to develop a true, empathetic relationship with us. That is why he is the master Healer.

IJCA.

Heaven knows how to put a proper price for its goods

Recently, a family friend of ours just lost her husband suddenly in a car accident, leaving her with two small children, one of them being only a year old or so. My family and I were deeply grieved to hear the news, and in times like this, I cannot help but reconsider the timeless question: why on earth do terrible things happen to upstanding and faithful people? However, the more I ponder this question, the more I also recognize the extent of my reliance on false assumptions: my inquiry insinuates that faithful people will be shielded from life's difficulties. Perhaps a better question to ask, then, is this: what is the relationship between salvation and affliction? Or this: are trials a necessary component of gaining salvation?

Recently, a quote from Thomas Paine's "Common Sense" has been especially illuminating to me, as I have pondered this question. Paine wrote these words when the morale of the Revolutionary War soldiers were at a record low and their outcome appeared especially bleak. In seeking to reignite their fervor for freedom's cause, Paine wrote:

 What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.” 

Paine makes it clear that freedom will not be easily won. That's what made freedom so undeniably precious: it came at a distinct cost. Paine, however, recognized that the greater the sacrifice the soldiers were able to make, the greater value that they would place on their freedom. Joseph Smith understood this principle, as he  On a similar note, our mortality is also a war zone: we are vulnerable to challenges, sickness, disappointment, and deep anguish. However, we continue to pull through these trials because we are also seeking to eventually be liberated from these mortal ills. Heaven will be a much dearer and rewarding place and if our toil, blood, and tears is one of the conditions of our entry. 

Oracles, worship, and the ease of idolatry: reflections at the Oracle of Delphi

To trust your most important, soul-wrenching, urgent questions to a woman who is chewing on laurel leaves and breathing vapors from a fissure in the earth sounds unquestionably bizarre, if not risky. Yet, several thousand years ago, the ancients were willing to trust their fates to this unusual cultural rite. Military generals needing to know which areas to strike, lovers wondering whether to marry each other, farmers uncertain certain which crops to grow, and anyone else who had an ostensibly difficult question would make a pilgrimage  to a town three hours north of Athens to visit the Temple of Apollo, where the Oracle of Delphi was housed.

The process was simple enough. Those coming to Delphi would bring an offering to the temple that was as expensive as their socio-economic status would allow. After presenting their offering, the seeker would give their question to the priest at the entrance. The priest would then give the question to the oracle on duty, a "blameless" middle-aged woman usually from the peasant class, for the answer. Due to the vapors coming from the fissure and the chewing of laurel leaves, the woman would fall into a trance, and begin muttering inexplicable sentences, which were left for the priest to translate for the seeker. The ambiguity of most answers was attributed to the difficulty of understanding Apollo's message through this oracle, and the oracle was nonetheless given solemn respect throughout the ancient world.

Although the oracle would seem anachronistic in today's world, I was struck by how many, including myself, often treat God like this ancient device. Until we have an urgent, burning question, God can be largely dormant in our lives. And while we have power to communicate with God directly, it  can be easier to rely on whom we consider to be a wise intermediary to help us understand what God is attempting to communicate to us. Moreover, the oracle was a staggering reminder of the fatalistic mentality that entrenched the ancients: they were simply pawns in the hands of the gods who were largely indifferent to their situation, unless coerced by prayers and offerings.

In light of visiting the oracle, Mars Hill in Athens took on a new significance for me. It was on this hill that Paul seeks to disabuse these ideas in his Acts 17 speech, namely, that we are the "offspring of God," and God is not "gold or silver...graven by art and man's device." While this is a cherished and sacred doctrine in Mormon theology, I find it interesting that this idea was not received well in Athens. Why would the Greeks mock and even shun this idea? What would be the implications of knowing that one is the "offspring" of a God?

Perhaps we should consider the difference between worshipping a God like Apollo who is largely indifferent to mortals to the Judeo-Christian God who, in Paul's language, "giveth to all life and all breath, and all things." Certainly, worshipping the latter kind of God seems more attractive. However, in introducing this new "unknown" God to the Greeks, Paul was introducing a new kind of worship that, though more meaningful for them, would probably require more action on their part.

Consider the implications of knowing that they were God's offspring. No longer could they completely attribute their significant life decisions, misfortunes, and even fortuitous events to the whims of the gods. Rather, as God's children, they could have the potential to be agents for themselves. More could possibly be expected of them. And if there was a God who actually cared about them, it would be much harder to understand why misfortune and calamity occurred, rather than easily attributing these mishaps to the Greek gods who simply didn't care either way.

Far easier to worship an idol that one has created and has set the parameters for, rather than a living God with expectations for us as His children.

Laughs and lessons learned from visa denial

How to wait for a visa in Japan: find a fan dance class
and pose in a kimono.

Unsurprisingly, being denied a visa twice in two weeks provided plenty of fertile ground for me to contemplate the privilege of belonging to and being a temporary visitor in a foreign nation--and how others would love to enjoy this privilege that I have previously taken for granted.

The first visa issue was a relatively painless experience. When my sister and I were denied a boarding pass due to not having a required letter from the Vietnamese embassy, we realized that we could enjoy two full days in Tokyo. And we did. We ate fantastic sushi and ramen, learned a fan dance in a kimono, received our fortunes in a temple, and even attempted to visit a penguin bar (epic fail). The climactic part of our trip? Probably viewing our Vietnamese approval letters on my sister's Iphone, while watching the world's busiest pedestrian intersection on the third floor of a palatial Starbucks. If we needed wifi to check our email for this highly anticipated document, we thought that we may as well do it in the most memorable way possible.

On the way to Cambodia, Vietnamese women selling things from a boat are fairly common.

 Obtaining a Cambodian visa, however, was far more hair-raising. At that point, all of us had largely exhausted our Vietnamese currency and were relying on the Cambodian ATMs to refurnish our funds upon arrival to Pnom Penh. While on the six-hour boat ride, my father, unfortunately, realized that he had left his chunk of money intended for our visas. We immediately began to pool all of our Vietnamese and American money together for this worthy cause, but soon realized we were 100 dollars short. While the Cambodian visa was only thirty American dollars per person, It may as well have been three hundred dollars--there did not seem to be any possible way for us to pay for the outstanding amount. One of my brothers offered to pawn off his watch for the cause, and I began to wonder just how much my earring studs would go for.

Suddenly, my brother realized he had a fifty-dollar Australian bill that he had kept from his time in Australia over one month ago. Another one of my brothers happened to have some yen currency from his trip to China two years prior. My mother also realized that she had some Qatari bills, as well as some Egyptian and Icelandic currency from her recent adventures. After exhausting our Vietnamese and American currency, we pulled together approximately eight different currencies from all of our respective wallets--and anxiously hoped that the Cambodian officials would look at our situation kindly (and perhaps a slightly blind eye).

We were relieved to find that while the officials only accepted American dollars, there were about fifteen currencies that they could exchange. Despite the horrible exchange rate, we soon found that we had enough to pay for all eight of our family member's visas--with several dollars to spare.

While we had no money to pay for snacks or a lunch, we laughed and congratulated ourselves at our uncanny ability to cough up these funds--only to find that we had only completed the first obstacle. After giving the officials our money, we returned on the speedboat for a twenty-minute ride to a makeshift immigration center on a remote waterbank. The officials then explained that they would need our 4x6 visa pictures, which my brothers and parents did not have. However, as we had met our first challenge, my family members were confident that this second task at hand could be accomplished. A quest soon began to find an extant ATM and photobooth on this remote, rural bank on the Cambodian border.

My sister and I meanwhile, breathed a sigh of relief have we had obtained these 4x6 pictures in Japan, and we confidently waited for our passport return. One can only imagine my dejected face, when the Cambodian official told me that my sister's visa was accepted, but my passport was "no good": I only had two pages left on my passport, and the Cambodian government required to have three blank pages remaining.

For the first time, I regretted my unusually well-used passport, and I asked what on earth I was supposed to do. He smiled, nonchalantly blew cigarette smoke in my face, and said that if I gave the officials another thirty American dollars, they would put a visa on top of one of my stamped pages. Never before had thirty dollars felt like so much money. As I looked at my empty wallet and wondered where the rest of our family members had traveled to as a result of what may be an elusive quest,  I believe I caught a brief, yet rare glimpse of what purgatory must feel like. My sister and I then discussed the very real possibility for her to go on to Pnom Penh alone, retrieve some ATM money, and return back by boat to rescue us from this dismal place that was overwhelmed with pedantic regulations.

Fortunately, after what seemed to be an eternity, my brothers and parents returned from a successful mission: photos in hand and enough cash to last us for several days. My father rolled his eyes when learning that an extra fee would have to be paid, since six of the eight passports were "no good." But seeing my visa in my passport was a far sweeter sight as we left the land of purgatory and on to the promised land of Pnom Penh.

We made it to Pnom Penh!!

Certainly, obtaining a visa for Cambodia and Vietnam will be family stories that will last for years to come. However, after leaving that miserable makeshift immigration center, I though of how others attempting to travel to another area for much more compelling reasons other than tourism can be stuck in worse places than this one for months--even years. While my father could have easily paid for eight visas in any other situation, our family temporarily had several dollars between all of us--with no apparent certainty as to how we would obtain more funds. For an extraordinarily brief time, I caught a minute glimpse of what refugees around the world must endure as they may immediately transition from having everything they need--to having almost nothing but the clothing on their backs. And despite our being American, it was deeply uncomfortable to realize just how much our family was at the mercy of these officials to complete our trip.

If Pnom Penh felt like the Promised Land to me after almost eight hours of travel and visa anxiety, I don't know if I could even contemplate what a refugee or an immigrant must feel when they have obtained a sponsor or been granted asylum. I'm not sure if I will ever completely understand that feeling, but I am grateful for a temporary exhaustion of funds, questionable government officials, and some uncertainty of our visa outcome that provided a tiny window of insight.    

What relationship does the Relief Society have with building Zion?

Back in June, I was called to be the first counselor in our Relief Society Organization with my local congregation. The Relief Society is the largest women's organization in the world and seeks to provide spiritual and physical relief to its members and the greater community, strengthen families, and help others understand Christ.

Since receiving this calling, I have given a lot of thought as to how Relief Society is more than merely a church class we attend once a week. A central part of Mormon theology is building Zion: a state of mind or place, where we can be unified and of one heart, mind, and there are no poor among us. The following thoughts are an excerpt from my brief thoughts to the local women in my congregation as to how our organization is inextricably linked with building Zion.

I think that our theology regarding Zion is a fascinating one (see my previous post). Recently, I came across an interesting quote: 
"If we would establish Zion in our homes, branches, wards, and stakes, we must rise to this standard. It will be necessary:
(1) to become unified in one heart and one mind
(2) to become, individually and collectively, a holy people
(3) to care for the poor and needy with such effectiveness that we eliminate poverty among us. We cannot wait until Zion comes for these things to happen—Zion will come only as they happen."-President Howard W. Hunter (14th president of our church)

In reading these three prerequisites to building Zion, I was struck just how Relief Society's mission is largely intended for us to achieve this goal:

1. How can we be of one heart and mind? Perhaps visiting teaching can be one way to accomplish this as we unite to show love and care for our fellow women. (visiting teaching is a program where each woman is assigned to look over two women in the ward and be attuned to their needs by paying monthly visits, inviting them to activities, and simply being a friend that they can rely on).

2. How do we become, collectively a "holy people"? It is interesting to me how the motto of Relief Society is "Charity Never Faileth." If we develop a spirit of charity, we are developing the pure, guileless love that Christ has for all of us, which will help us obtain holiness.

3. Eliminating poverty within us. I think it is no accident that we are called "Relief Society." We have a history of selling thousands of bushels of grain to the President during WWI. We sent women to midwifery and medical school to give them the training needed to help women. We have a long history of providing relief to our families and communities. We have been called to mourn with those who mourn and provide necessary assistance.

Overall, I see Relief Society as having an intrinsic relationship with building Zion, which heightens our responsibility as members of this organization. The story of how Enoch builds Zion in Moses 7 despite wars, wickedness, and contentions surrounding them gives me great comfort, as our situation is quite analogous. Indeed, achieve the goals of Relief Society is a necessary springboard to achieving Zion and creating the kind of society that God wants. 
 

Exploring history from the opponent's view: the CuChi tunnels

The CuChi tunnels

As one can see from my previous post, I am very interested in examining how nations confront and retell their past. In light of this topic, one of our most interesting experiences occurred when visiting the CuChi tunnels. The CuChi tunnels are located about 60 miles from Ho Chi Minh City, where the Vietcong dug an extensive tunnel system when engaged in guerilla warfare during the Vietnam War. This tourist attraction was supposed to be the highlight of our day, and I was certainly excited to see the tunnels for myself.

Upon our arrival, we were immediately escorted to sit down and watch a movie to introduce us to the tunnels and their history. The movie spent the first few minutes to show CuChi as an idyllic place with expansive fruit orchards and where children loved to go on picnics, while happily untouched from the outside world. Suddenly, the "American white devils" appeared on screen, described as seeking to disturb the peaceful area of CuChi. The Vietnamese children who were formerly going on picnics then were portrayed as being forced to defend their country and learn how to sharpen sticks and dig holes to create gruesome death traps for the American soldiers. For these efforts, these children were lauded as heroes for their efforts in defeating the "devil" Americans and protecting CuChi.

Obviously, the movie was unnerving and uncomfortable for us, especially for my parents who had lived through the Vietnam War era. If that weren't enough, Vietnamese workers dressed up like the Vietcong army and demonstrated how effectively these bamboo death traps worked, just as casually as one would show an audience how well a food processor blended vegetables. To further add to the uncomfortable ambiance, continual gunshots rang out from a shooting range that offered tourists to use the same guns as those in the Vietnam War.

While walking through the site, I felt pangs of anger as to how the CuChi tunnels treated history in such a way that I interpreted as insulting and wildly reductive. I have been to Normandy Beach with my grandfather who landed on D-Day, and I remember seeing how the French took great care to maintain the German graves. I have been to Pearl Harbor, where the tour guide not only explained the attack, but also went into great length to explain the suffering the Japanese went through in the internment camps. While visiting Turkey, I recall seeing the respect the locals gave to the Australian tourists who wanted to visit Gallipolli, the site where thousands of Australian soldiers died at the hands of the Turkish during WWI. While these sites may not be perfect, a feeling of peace can be felt there, as the area decides to move forward and recognize soldiers in war are merely pawns of their leaders' politics and ideals.

But at the same time, I also considered how my American upbringing and education has influenced my own knowledge of how I choose to interpret history. I, for one, was unaware of the American's use of Agent Orange, a powerful set of chemical defoliants sprayed over 4.5 million acres of land to deforest the area and find the Vietcong's whereabouts. While effective, these toxins also destroyed crops and water sources for civilians, and were the main cause of birth defects, psychological symptoms, and other sicknesses for the Vietnamese people. As our tour guide pointed out just how young the surrounding trees were as a result of Agent Orange, I felt ashamed to be unaware of this truth that was obviously deeply embedded into the Northern Vietnamese consciousness. I began to wonder how a British tourist might feel while visiting the Freedom Trail here in Boston. Or how a Southerner may respond to Gettysburg and Antietam.

It is certainly a moving experience to visit a war site where your "side" emerged as victor. But these CuChi tunnels certainly served as a stark reminder of the need to consider the losers' perspective as well.
 

In Memoriam to Lives Lost: Visiting S-21

Mugshots of Cambodian child prisoners in S-21.

  Last week, I returned from an incredible trip to Vietnam and Cambodia with my family. The trip was special for many reasons: my brother spoke Vietnamese from his LDS mission to Australia, my mother worked with Cambodian refugees during her LDS mission, and it was my first time returning to Asia after returning from my LDS mission to Hong Kong six years ago. Despite visa issues, food poisoning, a stolen and returned passport, squatting toilets, crossing frenetic streets without stoplights, and striving to understand tour guides with limited English, it was a truly memorable and wonderful experience to be together.

Whenever I travel, I am always fascinated with how an area confronts and retells its history. In my opinion, Berlin has set a high standard for doing this in a remarkably transparent manner. The city includes memorials to the Jews, homosexuals, the burned books, the politicians who opposed the Nazi Party, and even to the man who attempted to assassinate Hitler. If that were not enough, the Nazi Museum next to the Berlin Wall gives visitors all of the information they would need to understand the rise and fall of that nefarious party and its leaders.

Berlin's attempt to confront its past was on my mind when my family and I visited S-21 in Pnom Penh, the capitol of Cambodia. S-21 was a former high school that was converted into one of the Khmer Rouge's* most terrifying secret prisons from 1975-8. As religion and education was decried by the new government, doctors, monks, government officials, teachers, students, engineers, and their subsequent families were rounded up here and tortured into producing false confessions of how they were an "enemy" to the state. Classrooms were converted into crude cells, playground bars became terrible torture devices, and children who should have been in school were cruelly beaten and starved. Out of the 20,000 prisoners who entered S-21's doors, only twelve survived to tell the tale. The prisoner's haunting mugshots, rows of skulls behind glass, and the blood residue on the walls bear witness to the terror and horror that should have never occurred.

 Cambodian folklore says that those who die without a proper burial are forced to wander the earth aimlessly, which, understandably, only adds upon the grief of those who have no way of tracking their loved one's bodies who were killed. In light of this belief, the presentation of S-21 was particularly striking, as the prison is virtually the same as it was back in 1979. With the explanations, pictures, and some lone survivors of S-21 who wandered around to answer tourists' questions, the area does seem to serve as a make-shift burial ground to ensure that the world and even the locals do not forget what happened.

                                                                  The prison cells in S-21. The size was probably equal to a third of my bedroom.
In walking the somber hallways of S-21, I was quietly reminded just how many of the world's most brutal leaders think and act in a surprisingly similar fashion. Indeed, Pol Pot carried out an incredibly similar "Great Leap Backward Forward" with massive irrigation and rice production projects, leading to massive starvation and the death of thousands (millions, perhaps?). But our tour guide then pointed out that while Mao and Pol Pot's tactics were similar, they still had remarkably separate views. Mao intended to propel his country toward the future to similar economic grounds as his Western counterparts. Pol Pot, on the other hand, was looking towards the past, desiring to restore Cambodia to the former splendor of its Angkor Empire days. In visiting the magnificent Angkor Wat several days later, it was easy to see how a revolutionary who saw his country ransacked by civil war, desired to restore his country to attain the same kind of respect and glory it once enjoyed a thousand years ago. Hitler too, seemed nostalgic for the old Germanic Empire and desired to restore the "Aryan" nation, as his nation was thrust into poverty post WWI.  

Forty years later, Cambodia still seems to be grappling with Pol Pot's legacy, making it even more obvious as to why the S-21 edifice was desperately needed. I recall how one of our Cambodian tour guides explained how Pol Pot was not actually such a bad guy; he was only trying to take back their territory from Vietnam. The animosity he had toward Vietnam was palpable, but our family exchanged glances at one another, unable to process what he had said.

"Have you been to S-21?" one of my brothers asked him.

He answered that he knew about it. My hope is that he can enter its walls one day and really get it. Fortunately, with S-21 still standing, he is able to do so, in a similar way that the Germans who enter Berlin can understand their painful past. Maybe someday, Mao's mausoleum in Tianneman Square will be torn down to create a space for a museum that explains just how this leader is viewed as responsible for at least 45 million deaths--in the name of progress.

*Khmer Rouge was the name of the political party that came to power after a long Cambodian civil war. The leader of the Khmer Rouge was Pol Pot. The Khmer Rouge is estimated to have killed over 3 million people in their quest to produce the most pure socialist regime the world had yet seen.
 

The World Is Wide Enough: the message of "Hamilton" is more relevant than ever

The past few weeks, I have been living in the 18th-century with my non-stop listening to "Hamilton": a new musical by Lin Manuel-Miranda that retells the life of Alexander Hamilton (the first Secretary of the Treasury) with a delightful assortment of rap, hip hop and jazz. Probably one of the most poignant lines comes from Aaron Burr, Hamilton's bitterest enemy due to decades of ranking jealousy, misunderstandings, and vehement political differences. Yet after shooting Hamilton in America's most notorious duel, he mournfully sings:

I was too young and blind to see
I should’ve known
I should’ve known  
The world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me.


The phrase "the world was wide enough" speaks to me on multiple levels. On the obvious note, it rings back to the show's juxtaposition of Hamilton as an impoverished immigrant from the Caribbean who "got a lot farther/By being a self-starter," with Burr's privileged American roots (his father was president of Princeton). When Hamilton and Lafayette proudly rap, "Immigrants! We get the job done," the play is a not-so-subtle reminder of America's indebtedness to foreigners like them. So, as our nation's leaders debate whether to accept Syrians and Muslims into our country, the play's tribute to an indigent, parentless refugee who founded our nation's economic systems is nothing short of powerful. America should be wide enough for the firmly established American Burrs and the Hamiltons desperately seeking a better life in this nation.

But as Aaron Burr laments his former feelings of acrimony towards Hamilton, this phrase also speaks of making room for people--not removing them. It calls us all to recognize that our world's beauty and complexity is rooted in differing--even opposing--opinions. And while we may no longer formally duel our opponents, I do worry that we are taking an increasingly Burr-like approach to ousting or shunning those with whom we disagree. Our love of man seems to be waxing cold.

My concern is largely rooted in the burgeoning student protest culture that focuses on dismissing those who may present challenges to their worldview of diversity. I certainly believe in inclusivity; I loathe racism and prejudice as anyone else. But something is wrong about a mildly-written email about Halloween costumes that warrants a student to scream and curse at their administrator. Something is awry with student activists (and a professor!) imtimidating a student journalist from entering a protest on public space.Whatever happened holding discussions with leaders? Writing op-eds? What lesson does it teach these students when they can simply oust others for having a differing perspective, rather than learning to calmly discuss and work with others toward a solution? While I hope that our nation becomes safer for traditionally marginalized groups, I simultaneously worry just how far my generation will go to maintain their views of "political correctness," which seems to justify sanctimonious bullying.

Indeed, recent student protests only seem to reinforce the Atlantic's landmark article, "The Coddling of the American Mind," arguing how teachers are reluctant to present the less popular point of view--for fear of causing offense. On a similar note, Arthur Brooks cogently argues that academia is increasingly biased against conservatives in his piece, "Academia's Rejection of Diversity," and calls for more ideological diversity. It is a painful irony that our educational system, rather than widening our world, may actually be narrowing it.  

We can all work to make our world a little wider. One can only hope that we don't end up like Burr and realize this lesson too late.

Making sense of political extremism: my view of "Suffragette" as a 21st century woman

Until last night, I had always envisioned the suffragette movement as organized marches, conventions, and disseminating numerous pamphlets. However, after watching "Suffragette" Friday night, I was introduced to a more violent stream of events than I had ever dreamed possible. After decades of peaceful campaigning for the woman's vote,  these British suffragettes resort to property damage on a grand scale: cutting telephone lines, shattering business windows, destroying mailboxes, and even blowing up a residence--nearly killing a housekeeper. Apparently, even Winston Churchill's face was slashed by a fuming suffragette. Indeed, these women had declared war on the government and the men who ruled them.

Were these women justified in their actions? As a woman who has all of the rights that they fought for, am I supposed to show some respect for the crimes that they committed? And if so, were the Ferguson and Baltimore riots justified? What about the Palestinian suicide bombers? In short, is there ever a political cause that authorizes the perceived disenfranchised to conduct property damage and even injure others in the process of making their cause go forward? Where, if at all, do we draw the boundaries?

As one averse to political extremism, I had a hard time watching this film. That being said, perhaps it is unwise for me to judge these women from my position of privilege and 20-20 hindsight. These women lived in a very different world with little to lose: they earned one-third less than their male counterparts, had less access to education, and enjoyed no rights to their property or even their children.

But perhaps the most disconcerting experience of watching the film was a realization that in some ways, our society is not that different from a century ago. The main character, Maud Watts, explains to a policeman that violence is "the only language men could understand." And today, commentators on the Ferguson and Baltimore riots explained that these riots and looting are "a language of the unheard." Indeed, extremist acts are still perceived as the only way to express frustration with the status quo. But rather than immediately placing blame on the disenfranchised, what does it say about our nation and media that will only turn its head when violence and rioting occurs? Would MLK or Gandhi's tactics be as effectual in influencing policymakers today? While I would like to say yes, I can't be sure. 

Though I am glad this film portrayed a more holistic view of woman's suffrage, I'm not entirely sure how to interpret these women's legacy. But, in a world like ours with groups that have been--and remain disenfranchised--I think this film reminds all of us to show a little more compassion to those who are overlooked. And if there is any semblance of injustice, people in positions of power have the responsibility to ensure that grievances are met and restitution is made.

Photo by Leonard Bentley.

Examining the relationship between the temple and Garden of Eden

Last Sunday, I was fortunate to be a part of an eye-opening discussion, where we examined the Garden of Eden and its relationship to our modern-day temple. I had been looking forward to this discussion for a while, particularly because a friend had asked me earlier about Mormonism's view towards Adam's fall, prompting me to explain our unique take on it (in short, it was a good thing). Below are some of the insights I gained and still pondering about from the discussion:

1. The Garden of Eden was a place where Adam and Eve were able to walk and talk with God, as well as gain instruction. The temple, then, is an opportunity for us to temporarily return to a Garden of Eden-like state, where we can gain spiritual instruction and be in God's presence. The temple is also a poignant reminder that as Adam and Eve's descendants, we are not punished for their transgression in the Garden, as the Lord has provided a means for us to be in his presence at least temporarily. 

2. Juxtaposed with Genesis 2-3, 2 Nephi chapter 2 in the Book of Mormon provides an enlightening (and necessary) perspective of the Fall.

First, the parallels between Adam and Eve's family and Lehi's family are quite striking. Both of these families had been forced to leave their comfortable state (Jerusalem, Garden of Eden), into the unknown wilderness. Their family culture was also divisive with attempted fratricide on both sides (one with a terrible outcome). But what's important to note here is that the Fall is just as relevant to Jacob as it is to us. We live the repercussions of the Fall every day; our afflictions are a direct result of being a part of this mortal experience.

Finally, 2 Nephi 2 provides necessary clarification to Genesis 3. Consider the implications of verses 22-24:

 22 And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:

 23 Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.

 24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.

 Here, God seems to exhibit a similar reaction as Zeus when he discovers that mankind possesses fire, something reserved only for the gods, and he unearths terrible vengeance. Similarly, God views Adam and Eve as a distinct threat, as they have become like him--and they are expelled from his presence.

But reading 2 Nephi 2, a much different explanation takes place. Here we learn that  "the way is prepared from the fall of man, and salvation is free." We also learn that "all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things." Through Christ's atonement, God has prepared a way for his children to return to him. We are not a threat to God, rather, He wants us to return to His presence, and He has planned a way for us to return.

The temple then, stands as a reminder of God's desire for us all to come back to him and to be redeemed through making promises to Him.

Photo by Ted.

No Man is an Island: Lessons Learned in the Land of Fire and Ice

                                                        My mother and I hiking in Iceland. 

As many of you may know, our family went to Iceland for two full weeks this summer. It was an amazing trip for multiple reasons: we were all together after two years enjoying 22 hours of daylight, hiking, fishing, and losing count of all the waterfalls we saw each day.

But perhaps the most meaningful part of the trip was getting to better understand my roots. My grandfather is actually Icelandic, and his grandfather, Elias Eggertson, was one of the thousands of Icelanders who left their homeland for a better life in Nova Scotia and North Dakota. I have felt some connection to the country after helping my grandfather assemble our Icelandic family history almost seven years ago. Growing up in the American Midwest, Iceland held sort of an exoticism to me, as I tried to imagine an island nation clustered with glaciers, volcanic formations, and bizarre hours of sunlight. At the same time, Iceland also seemed like an enigma with its cumbersome language and a relatively insular past that had rarely come up in my history and politics classes in school. In short, it was a country that rarely intersected with my consciousness.

So, when I traveled to Iceland, I expected to have a similar experience as when I had traveled to destinations in Europe and Asia. I was excited to soak in a foreigner's experience, and visit the spas, eat fresh seafood, hike, and swim in the naturally heated pools. I wasn't disappointed. What shocked me the most, however, were its small moments of familiarity.

I had never realized, for example, how Icelandic my mother actually looks, until I saw the other Icelandic women. We couldn't help but chuckle as tourists would tap my mother for directions, assuming that with her high cheekbones and Icelandic sweater, she was a native. They were half-right. One of my younger brothers  suddenly seemed to blend in with the rest of the blonde-haired and blue-eyed Icelandic boys. The nagging question he had always wondered about which side of the family he looked like, had finally been answered.

As most people agree that I look like my mother, I started to wonder how Icelandic I looked. But after a while, I then started to wonder what else I may have actually inherited from my Icelandic heritage:

Do I love seafood because my ancestors fished for hundreds of years in the Arctic Sea?
Can my literary interests be partially attributed to my ancestors who told stories, read, and wrote poetry during the long stretches of winter darkness?
Did I inherit my occasional lack of patience from my Viking forefathers who were reputed for their hot tempers?
Do I prefer cold weather over hot because my ancestors learned to survive and acclimate to arctic temperatures?

Maybe some of these answers are yes, and some are no. Maybe it doesn't really matter. But whatever I did inherit, I did leave Iceland hoping that I possessed--or could hope to claim--some aspects of my heritage. When visiting the northwestern region where our ancestors lived, a sense of wonder and astonishment came to me as I surveyed the treeless land in front of me with the foreboding fjords, glaciers, and rocky cliffs. How could communities have lived in a land like this that seemed so inhabitable? I wondered. Millions of questions came to me: How did they stay warm without trees for firewood? Where are all the large animals that they could have hunted? How did they farm with abundant rocks and snow on the ground? And the ultimate: how did they survive in 18-22 hours of darkness for six months of the year?

                                                        Elias Eggertson's birthplace. Foss, located in the Westfjotds, Iceland

As I visited the birthplace of Elias Eggertson, my ancestor who was responsible for transferring my Icelandic roots to the United States, John Donne's words immediately came to mind:

No man is an island  
Entire of itself
Every man is a piece of the continent 
A part of the main.

The spirit of the Puritan work ethic, while making its mark on our American perspective, nonetheless remains myopic and inadequate on many levels. Of course, I have worked hard to gain the opportunities that I have been given. And yet, I owe something to the men who bravely climbed down 500 ft cliffs to snatch eggs from puffin nests. Or the women whose weary fingers and dimming eyes knit sweaters from sheep wool during the long, dark winter nights. And of course, I am partially here due to my ancestors' intense uptra (a longing for a distant scene) that made them leave their homeland for the unknown. As I stared at my ancestors' birthplace, it suddenly occurred to me that he, a ship captain by trade who had grown up by the sea and waterfalls his whole life, never saw the ocean again when he emigrated. How much he must have missed the water landscape, as he re-branded himself as a farmer in North Dakota.

No matter how many years ago these events occurred, a piece of this nation has made an etching on my soul. And I am glad that it does. I don't know if I have the same kind of hardy, rugged spirit that they did, but I hope I do. I'm sure there is an inner spark of their grit and determination somewhere that I can claim for myself as I navigate my own world and the unknown paths I currently face.

Charleston: A Violation of Sacred Space

I was not alive during the Civil Rights movement. But if I talked to someone who grew up then, it would be unnerving to realize how disturbingly similar our living experiences are. We could talk about conflicts that arise simply because that blacks can occupy the same swimming pool as whites. We could talk about the inexcusable police cruelty on unarmed black men. We could talk about the arrival of the National Guard to quell violence in areas rife with racial conflict.

And now, as of this week, we can now talk about our reaction to a white man, armed with a handgun and unspeakable hatred, who opened fire in a place of black worship.

I have no words to express how I feel about this terrorist event in Charleston (yes, it is a terrorist act) for myriad reasons. There are many directions one can take in response to this event, but for now, I am contemplating on having a sacred space ruthlessly and perversely violated like the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church just experienced this week.

I feel a deep connection to Clementa Pickney, Tywanza Sanders, Cynthia Hurd, Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Rev. Depayne Middleton Doctor, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. Daniel Simmons, and Myra Thompson. Why? Because while they were sitting in their Bible study class on Wednesday evening, I was also in a scripture study class at my place of worship here in Boston. Like these victims, I understand how uplifting and edifying it can be to worship in a sacred space.

But what is it, one may ask, that creates this sacred space? Part of the answer is that churches imbue a spirit of trust that is quietly disappearing from American culture. Even in the most historically important and visually arresting edifices, there are often no cumbersome security lines. There are no background checks. There is seldom a suspicious glance at a visitor. And, in many cases, there is no entrance fee. Rather, a church building generally seeks to be a visual representation of God's presence and love, as it offers its inhabitants a spirit of respect and impartiality. And in return, the unspoken but expected rule is to treat fellow congregants in a similar manner as you pray and worship to this same God. As a group, we are responsible to ensuring that this space remains holy.

I have relied on this spirit of trust each time I go to my scripture study class and my Sunday worship services. I place deep confidence in the strangers whom I worship with that we will choose to see each other as God sees us and respect one another's humanity.

So, in the wake of Charleston:

I am deeply angered that someone chose to occupy--and violently destroy--churchgoers' sacred space.

I am infuriated that I was able to leave my church building safely on Wednesday evening, and others in this country cannot enjoy this same privilege.

May we all pray and work harder toward brotherhood, peace, and justice in this country.

Photo by Stephen Melkisethian.

The Presence of the Fatted Calf in the Prodigal Son

Last week, I had the chance to teach the Prodigal Son in Sunday School. The parable is always fascinating to teach and discuss, as it usually evokes a personal reaction from many. At different stages of our lives, we can relate to the the elder son's frustration, the father's overwhelming compassion, and the younger brother's rebelliousness and and eventual contrition.

But I think that there is an important symbol in the story that can be overlooked: the fatted calf during the time of the feasting. Of course, it can symbolize the celebration, as well as the genuine pride that the father has for its son's journey to repentance. Studying Leviticus 16 alongside the Prodigal Son can add another layer of richness in understanding the role of the fatted calf in this parable.

Leviticus 16 is an explanation of the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), the holiest of days for the Jewish people. Yom Kippur was said to be instituted on the day that Moses received the 10 Commandments. Forty days after the Lord gave his second set of instructions to the Israelites, they were granted atonement from the sin of the Golden Calf, through Moses' pleading on behalf of them.

In Leviticus 16, the Lord makes clear of the need for sacrificing animals as part of Day of Atonement. A bull was sacrificed on behalf of the high priest and his household, a goat for the priests, and another goat was released in the wilderness on behalf of the Israelite people (the scapegoat). From these scriptures, sacrificing animals as an offering for sins became established.

Considering the story of the Golden Calf and the Day of Atonement, I think that the fatted calf also offers some important aspects to the story:

1. The fatted calf, like the Golden Calf of the Old Testament, produced joy and merriment for the people in both stories. However, the Golden Calf represented the people's rebellious nature in turning from God. The fatted calf symbolized the celebratory nature the people had for a son turning toward God. Or perhaps, the fatted calf's death alludes to the "death" of the younger son's former life of riotous (and probably idolatrous) living.

2. The Golden Calf and the fatted calf in both stories also present dual aspects of God's character. God's reaction to the Golden Calf is angry and vengeful. But in killing the fatted calf, Christ shows God's character as one of compassion and mercy. The Prodigal Son's story, as seen from the calf in the story, is integral to gaining a more complete picture of God's character.

3. The son's "sins against heaven," as the Jewish audience understood, required expiation of some kind. So, it makes sense that there is a type of animal sacrifice illustrated in the story. But unlike the use of a bull or a goat as explained in Leviticus, the fatted calf is a new animal not yet mentioned as a form for sacrifice. Perhaps Christ was trying to teach that in the new law he was seeking to establish, there would be a new kind of atonement made as a result of our sins. Christ, in a very literal sense for us, is the fatted calf in the story. Just as the son's homecoming inevitably involved the slaughter of the fatted calf, our joyous homecoming to God does involve the sacrifice of a perfect being.


Image by Lawrence OP.

Taking off my rose-colored glasses: my childhood in Baltimore and nearby Ferguson

My siblings and I at Shaw Park in St. Louis, donning our St. Louis Cardinals Christmas hats.

 
I may seem, in the words of some, "unmappable." That may be true: I have lived in Boston, Washington DC, Provo UT, Hong Kong, Glasgow, St. Louis, Baltimore, Los Angeles, Beijing, and New York City. And now that my family lives in the Middle East, I seem to have even less of a homebase.

While living in numerous areas has given me an affinity for different parts of the world, two cities on that list have deeply shaped me: Baltimore and St. Louis, the places of my childhood. When people asked how I could possibly love these cities, I staunchly defend them both. Were they not aware of Baltimore's beautiful Inner Harbor, Forest Park, Baltimore's memorable seafood, Ted Drewes, and everything else that had been integral parts of my idyllic childhood?

But I was not completely shielded from both cities' social problems. When I was growing up in Baltimore,  my sister and I once gleefully pranced down the stairs in our new Easter dresses, ready to go to church. My mother gently, but firmly, told us to go back upstairs and wear something else. We were disappointed, until we saw poverty's ugly face in our congregation: black children my age not wearing shoes. Women wearing faded pants and a t-shirt because they could not afford to wear a Sunday dress. A child with an eye-patch because his parents could not afford an eye operation. And then I understood why I never saw my dad wear a suit on Sunday, and why, in this case, it was not appropriate to wear my new Easter dress. We were far from rich, but even our tiny house in a modest neighborhood looked like a Taj Mahal in the eyes of many.

Then I went to church in St. Louis County for the first time and was shocked at what my nine-year-old eyes saw. "Mom," I said, "Where are the black people?" As a child used to worshipping and interacting with blacks, I could not understand why everyone in our congregation was white and largely affluent. It didn't seem right. But, unfortunately, it was a sad reflection of St. Louis's harsh truth: it is one of the most (if not the most) segregated cities in the nation. We learned early on which parts of St. Louis were safe, and which ones to avoid. Indeed, St. Louis has a checkered sort of character: areas are known as either largely "white" or largely "black."

My high school experience would have largely reflected my church-going experience, had it not been for the inter-city busing program that brought in kids from St. Louis City. When the program suddenly was deemed as "too expensive" by our superintendent, the majority of our high school body marched out to protest. "Homogenize milk, not students," said one sign. Indeed, the sign's witty statement described a sad reality. Without this program, our high school body would have indeed been quite homogenous: 95% white. In my high schooler's eyes, our protest seemed to represent progress and open-mindedness. Not to mention that our actions made a difference: our superintendent agreed to delay the decision for another eight years. 

Yet, the vestiges of segregation still shows its ugly past. I recall remarking to my dad while driving one day of how strange the interstate highways of St. Louis were mapped out. My dad then pointed out that the interstate highways were specifically planned to avoid St. Louis's poorer areas. And history tends to repeat itself: when the Metrolink public transportation system was going to create a stop close to my community of Clayton, dubbed as "the bubble," controversy brewed. In one of the richest areas of St. Louis County, residents protested that creating a stop would increase crime in our area, as now "anyone" could come to Clayton. Our comfortable, yet insular "bubble" now had the potential to be popped.

When the riots exploded in St. Louis and in Baltimore, I was heartbroken. Mike Brown does not look that different from the high school boys that I went to school with. Freddie Gray could have easily been someone I had gone to church with. But was I surprised? Hardly. While we may claim to be in a post-racist society, many of America's cities are designed from urban planning, government policies, and housing projects that stemmed from prejudicial views. And in areas that do not seem to bear any hope for the current generation, what else can they do? While I do not condone looting and violence, I cannot help but see how, in MLK's view, riots are often the voices of the unheard. And I am glad that many Americans are tuning in and listening to those who are stuck in a perpetual cycle of poverty.

I still love St. Louis and Baltimore. I still cheer for the Cardinals, crave Ted Drewes ice cream, and reminisce on my walks on Baltimore's Inner Harbor. But I also understand that I have to take off my rose-colored glasses when I think of these two cities and view them as they really are. I hope and pray that things will change--that we will actually become a "post-racist" society.

Praying with my fellow jurors: My jury duty experience

Last Thursday, I walked into the Suffolk Superior Courthouse in Boston, MA to answer (begrudgingly) my call for civic responsibility: jury duty. Knowing that this courthouse had far more cases than a lower county court and that I had no legitimate reason to be excused, I knew that I would get assigned to a case.

My hunch was correct. The judge, probably harried from the myriad excuses heard throughout the day, gave a sigh of relief when I admitted that other than missing work, it would not be an unreasonable burden for me to be put on the case. She had already placed three men on the case, and, needing a female, I suppose she thought I would be as good as any.

And so for three days, I became known to everyone as Juror #4.

Fortunately, the case seemed simple enough. Two policemen had witnessed two men perform what appeared to be a drug transaction 20 feet away from them in broad daylight. One of the men was arrested shortly after with possession of cocaine and heroin. They eventually found whom they believed to be the dealer--the one whose fate partially rested in my hands.

Two policemen gave their testimony of what they had seen, claiming that they recognized him immediately, and showed us pictures of the crime scene. I was fairly convinced, but was anxious to hear of any additional witnesses that could contest what the policemen had seen. The defendant's girlfriend offered her story that the defendant was actually with her during the time he was reputed to be selling drugs in the park. It was painfully obvious, however, just how fabricated her story was, which made the policeman's story more credible in my view.

As a jury group of twelve who had never met each other and had little common background, our discussion was unusually lively. But what had started as a roundtable discussion soon splintered into multiple conversations, with some jury members remaining silent and remaining apathetic. Other jury members would attempt to speak out, only to be drowned out by the more vocal members.  How in the world are we going to reach a unanimous decision, I thought?

After one jury member interrupted another who was speaking, I spoke up.

"If our decision is going to be unanimous, this needs to be a roundtable discussion," I said. "We cannot be interrupting each other. Raise your hand if you want to speak."

Being one of the youngest on the jury, I was shocked that people listened to me. But miraculously, they did. I then went into Sunday School teacher mode (yes, I teach Sunday School), and ended up calling on people to who rose their hands speak. And I had no compunction telling people to be quiet if they so much dared as interrupt a fellow juror.

After five hours of deliberation, we had almost reached a consensus: 11-1. One of our jurors could not commit either way, and burst into tears.

"I just don't know if we have enough evidence," she said. "This is two white policeman's testimonies against a black man. And in light of Ferguson and other instances of police corruption, are we okay with that? Sending a guy to prison is a big deal, and what if we are wrong? What if we are wrong? This is a decision that we will have to live with for the rest of our lives, and I want to walk out of here with a clear conscience."

Silence filled the room, and others gently affirmed that it was indeed a large decision that we were making. But I did not know on earth we were going to do. We had gone in circles talking about the same pieces of evidence we had. How were we going to reach a consensus? What else was there could we discuss that we had not already discussed? And what if he was indeed innocent? Was my conviction incorrect?

I then heard myself saying, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I am a religious person. Would any of you be offended if I offered a prayer out loud?" Everyone looked at me, but shook their heads and said I could go ahead.

I then bowed my head and offered a short prayer out loud, asking God to help us make the right decision and that we would have a good feeling leaving the courtroom. I don't know if everyone had bowed their heads with me, but a peaceful feeling filled the room. After some silence, some jurors reiterated why they went from having an undecided view to being confident of the defendant's guilt.

After 20 minutes, the undecided lady then announced that she was ready to call the defendant guilty. After six hours of deliberation, we had finally reached a consensus: 12-0. From the juror's countenances, I could tell that everyone in the room was confident in their decision.

I tried not to look at the family crying in the courtroom and the defendant's stoic gaze, as we told the judge our decision. But when we had left, the officer who had escorted us said that he believed that we had made the right choice. He told us that the defendant was actually a subsequent offender, but we were not allowed to know that information. The judge, perhaps in unprecedented fashion, came up to talk to us in the deliberation room, thanking us for our service  and validating our decision as well.

It was certainly an incredible experience to have twelve people from different age ranges, political views, and socio-economic backgrounds to come to a unanimous decision. But I am also grateful for a God who helped me leave that courthouse with a clear conscience and a feeling of peace.

Photo by cmh2315fl

How does God define "blessed"?

Of all the phrases in the Book of Mormon, I think that this phrase has to be the most reiterated: "If you keep the commandments, you will be blessed." As the Book of Mormon chronicles the need for repentance and obedience to God's law, using the examples of multiple individual lives, I would argue that one of the book's key messages is establishing the clear link between righteous living and enjoying a blessed life.

But what does being "blessed" mean? As a teenager reading the Book of Mormon, I assumed that if I lived the way I was supposed to, I would be "blessed." In my mind, that included multiple things: enjoying college success, physical health, academic opportunities abroad, a mission in Asia, a career of some kind, and a life on the East Coast. The most important blessing to me, however, was an eternal marriage and family.

A decade later, many of the blessings I wanted came true. I did three semester abroads, a mission in Hong Kong, and created a life for myself in DC and Boston. I have a promising career at Harvard Business School, enjoyed multiple trips abroad, no health complications to speak of, and myriad blessings that are too numerous to name here. Yet, marriage and family have yet to be fulfilled. It never crossed my mind as a teenager that I would celebrate my 28th birthday as an unmarried woman.

With this gap between my expectations and reality, I have contemplated what God means when he says "blessed." While I have been extremely fortunate to receive much of what I expected from God for some reason, I am beginning to realize that life has few guarantees. Marriage, whether it happens sooner to me than later, is not a guarantee of righteous living. The only blessing that I can really expect from God as a result of my obedience is the companionship of the Spirit. That is the only defined blessing that is mentioned in our baptismal covenants and the Sacrament prayer each week. It is a momentous blessing, but too often. we subconsciously attach multiple other blessings that we expect to receive as a result of our righteous behavior.  

That's when the problem arises. We live our lives in such a way to receive those required "blessings", only to become frustrated and confused when our expectations remain unmet. I am increasingly convinced that "blessed" means that God will give us things that we stand in need of, though we do not know what exactly those blessings may turn out to be.

It is also interesting to me how the Savior uses the word "blessed" when introducing the Beatitudes to his disciples. When teaching Gospel Doctrine several weeks ago, I was struck by how many of the blessings that Christ pronounces as a result of righteous behavior can only be enjoyed in the next life, namely, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Indeed, God's definition of "blessed" seems to span the eternities, not this mortal life only.

Nowadays, when I read the Book of Mormon and see the oft-reiterated phrase, "if ye keep the commandments, ye shall be blessed," I simply replace "blessed" with "seeing God again one day." That's all I really know, after all.

Photo by Kevin Dooley