Saturday, March 29, 2008

I suppose the pen and paper are too slow to keep up with the fast-paced modernity of my thoughts. Only the heartless keyboard seems efficient enough to sufficiently express the depth of my feelings.

There are these periods of time in my journals, when I just don't write. For weeks. Or months. And those are the times when I really should be writing. When half my time is spent on my knees, praying for all the wrong things, trying to get my heart in the right place. When I have the final blonde epiphanies of knowledges others gained so easily. It seems I really just need to learn everything the hard way. That I have to struggle and talk and freak out and give in before I can just say; "oh. I get it." But that's fine. Heavenly Father works with the way that we learn.

So I was sent home from Armenia in the 6^th month of my mission there. And really, the medical reasons are just the excuse so that someday I can go back. So I'm having all these savage medical tests done. But really, I guess the issue is me.

Jake says that I am not my problems. The Armenians are not their problems. But we are the same: in Passage to Ararat, the author hypothesizes at some point that to be Armenian is to be crazy. And not crazy in an endearing way, but actually crazy – that the innermost parts of you are twisted. And I suppose that's how I feel.

And I'm finding comfort in the most random places. Armenian history. Sister missionary clothes. Let me tell you, future family – I was fashionable. Datable. Attractive. I carried myself well. Accessorized well. I had lots of boys that tried very hard to date me. Some succeeded. But usually, after a few nights of "good, clean fun" (aka making out and a few movies), I was over it. Because I guess I was never under it, if you know what I mean. But now all I want to do is go to bed early and read books about Armenia. People keep calling me, undoubtedly to invite me to mind-numbing social activities in the name of fun. But I think that so many people have tried for SO LONG to numb themselves, that they have no feeling anymore. I like the pain. Of knowing that I'm stupid. That I left the most amazing place in the world to come back to a selfish and petty people. Not that I hate Americans – they are my people, but what is America if not an extinguishing of race? A release of tradition? An opportunity to forget that people suffered so that you could forget them? I like that pain. Because I really did leave my heart in Armenia. And to some that seems trite – that I'm trying to claim that I was a good missionary, and so my heart breaks for the people. But I wasn't – a good missionary, that is. I talked about Babylon. I laughed. I wore clothes that were probably too cute. I had sparkly earrings. Sometimes, I sat through lessons passively. Because I didn't get it. That this is what life is about.

That Armenians have suffered – ¾ of their race extinguished by a people that lived, worked, played alongside them. Their brothers! Their brothers beat them. Tortured them. And there are so many messages from the dust, testimonies of long ago, people who cried to God, with no proof he could hear. But he did. He always does.

And he sent his answer in us. Only the gospel can save this people – these crazed Armenians, with the poison of genocide pulsing through their veins. Their inner twistedness from too much pain, torture, war. The pain of knowing that there is a whole world that doesn't care. And one of the greatest lessons we can teach Armenians is this: that God heard. That he answered in his own due time. And now they know, that their dead, forgotten by many, unacknowledged by even more, are remembered. That they will be given the chance to stand, in their own, beautiful flesh, and testify of the atrocities that happened to them, their women, and their children. And that after they testify, they will be held by a loving, caring God, and that they will heal.

So I have spent so much time examining my already blaring, apparent faults, trying to find something that I'm supposed to learn so that my time here in California will make sense. And I have found substance enough. But I guess what is more sufficient is that I have discovered the history and sufferings of a people so long forgotten and disregarded. The Armenian Genocide, to most, is a statistic. A tragic figure. But if we heard the individual stories from the thousands of people brutalized, then we would stop eating the mashed potatoes on our plate. Not only would we stop, but we wouldn't be able to start again. It wouldn't be "just another segment of news" to shake our heads at and tsk the world for becoming what it is. It would be the reason for pressing forward. To bring this message forward.

"Now, what do we hear in the gospel which we have received? A voice of gladness! A voice of mercy from heaven; and a voice of truth out of the earth; glad tidings for the dead; a voice of gladness for the living and the dead; glad tidings of great joy."

Now here's the part about us as missionaries:

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things, and that saw unto Zion: Behold, thy God reigneth! As the dews of Carmel, so shall the knowledge of God descend upon them!"

D&C 128:19

So here I am, in my house in California, wearing jeans, walking on carpet, with ample peanut and maple syrup glinting at me from their sick, shiny plastic bottles in well-stocked cupboards. With a bed that does not hurt my back. With streets free of trash. With all the amenities of an American house. But even while I'm sitting here, I can literally feel my heart beating for Armenia. My soul aches to go back. I'm pretty sure, that God and men let me, I would serve the remainder of my days there with no backward glances.

So I guess I'm grateful for this opportunity, to have my heart break. Because we have a good, obedient, hard working mission. But there are probably still that go home and think "well, that's over. Next step. College, marriage…" But I guess I'm just stuck on this step. The whole "mission" part. And maybe I never will go back. Maybe it's over. But I can honestly say that "I have a rash, and the only prescription is MORE ARMENIA!"

In all seriousness, my soul will never rest until my feet rest once again upon the bloodstained soils of Hayastan, until I hear the voices of Armenian women wailing the few hymns they have (don't worry, I'm on that one), until I can see groups of pointy-shoed Armenian men squatting on streetcorners or slouching on buildings.

The rest of the world thinks they are pathetic. But I don't. We don't. We see them as they are: beloved children of a Father in Heaven, who must trust and love them so much to give them that their share of adversity and affliction, and know that they would still worship him with all their hearts.

Now let us help them in worshipping with all His ways, to add to their hearts, shall we?

"Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life."

2 Nephi 31:20

P.S. Isn't it hilarious that we try to teach the Armenians about enduring to the end? I've decided that's something to chuckle over.