Have I told you lately that I love the misión? That I’m really tired—all of the time—and that sometimes teaching people and loving people is difficult, and they ever so kindly call us demonios o que adoramos a José smith, but I have this little fuzzy, warm part deep inside of me that glows at night when all the dust has settled. Actually, that could be the climate, but I’m almost sure it’s love.
In other news, not one of my investigators attended church yesterday. That was a bit of a blow. Sundays can be a bit painful. The song the congregation sings before the Sacrament is the most painfully long two minutes ever. The hope flickers out and dies on the last strophe when they close the doors. Here in Iquitos, they don’t serve the Sacrament to those waiting outside the doors.
128 people attended yesterday. It’s a ward. We recently changed bishops, which was a weird change, though if someone asked me why, I wouldn’t quite know how to explain why it was strange, only that it was. I’ve never stayed in a ward long enough to change bishops, so I guess I’ve never—or don’t remember—going through that. And for assignments, the Elders teach a Family History class, and I teach the Gospel Principle class. I almost died the first time I gave it, but now it’s pretty chill. Sometimes there are five people, sometimes fifteen, depending on the day, depending if it rained or not.
I feel like everything’s changed back home. Levi is so big and so blond. I don’t even know him. You’ve just sent me pictures of an adorable little white baby that I don’t even know, right? And you’re canning again? What? It’s getting colder over there, right? Fall. And Sam will have a new set of teeth by the time I get back, plastic or bone, no one knows. Tell that boy to brush his teeth on a regular basis, dang it.
In other news, there isn’t more news.
Only that there’s only six months left of this mission thing,
And I fear the day I vuelvo.
What will I do when I’m not The Spanish Speaking Melody?
Who am I?
Life long questions, of which I have yet to receive a respuesta.
Whell. I’ve talked myself into an identity crisis. I think that’s enough damage for one day.