Proud to be American. European.

While turning towards whatever has the most red white and blue in the room, we chanted the pledge of allegiance, to the flag of the United States of America for 7 years when we lived in Europe.  I was definitely American, from America, with parents from America, in the American section of the school, and speaking American at home.

It wasn't until we moved to America that I no longer felt American.  Leaving Europe / coming to America was hard on all of us.  I remember walking around town one last time, lingering at church for the last time, riding my bike around the streets one last time, walking through every room in the house one last time, and staring up at such a deep blue clear sky the day I left my heart there and flew away.  I have returned to Europe about once a year since then, and each time that I leave, I feel that familiar pang in my heart.

The difference is that the world here (in Europe) is generally built around centuries of history-- a history without modern conveniences. Their whole lives don't circulate completely around technology.  Streets were built for walking and riding -- not always planned for cars (this is why their cars are normal sized-- tiny to Americans!).  Theaters and opera houses were their primary form of entertainment.  Their lives centered around their church services and their outdoor market.  Because of this, large squares/plaza/platz/places, parks, churches, and opera houses are at the heart of towns.  The field workers in the feudal systems lived on the outskirts of each town, allowing beautiful fields to frame each town even nowadays.  Every community was self-sufficient enough to have their own baker for bread everyday, fisherman, butcher... Most often, with stores taking only the bottom floor of the living quarters.  The stores fit in around their lives. Oh, I could probably go on for some time-- do you get the point?  Somehow, this life seems more simple.

Most of the US was really shaped after the industrial revolution, with efficiency in mind.  Land zoned for housing is completely apart from commercial land which is completely apart from farming land.  Full blocks of commercial buildings are points of interests and destinations instead of a part of life.  So much of the layout of the land is for the sake of efficiency.  It costs so much to erect a performance center in specific zoning from scratch, that making ends meet seems more difficult.  Everyone is trying to get something bigger and better, faster and more immediate, more convenient, and prove themselves-- as if they have something to make up for! The cars, the roads, the buildings, the houses, the portion sizes (!), the TVs, the cities, and metropolises... Sometimes these things are so overwhelming and overstimulating.  Of course I am speaking generally.

But generally, you do shop once at a super market for food to last several weeks.  Because of this, you need a larger fridge.  We drive everywhere (Palo Alto excluded), so destination shopping is no problem, we only have to carry bags to our cars.  Once you hit farming fields, they seem to go on and on, assembly-line-like, and crops even start looking all the same. Bigger, better, better tasting, so we don't need much more variety.  We have big fridges, washers and dryers, stores, AC units... and it's quite comfortable.

So many in our culture would opt for the efficiency, the grand scale, the driving everywhere.  But so much of me longs for the former, the l'Etang la Ville, the public transportation, simple, smaller life.  Sigh.  Of course I'm very proud to be an American.  But I'm always struggling with this duality.  And I'll probably go back and forth my whole life.

... so incase you happen to be a suitor... you may or may not need to reconsider ;)

THOMAS & I

The Frederiksborg Castle was no boring art museum to a young Mormon girl. The paintings covering the chapel walls strangely resembled prints I recognized from our sacrament meeting picture binder. “Children, look! I’ve never seen this one—I wonder why the Church hasn’t used this work—look at the detail in that face. Can you see how beautifully the light touches the folds of His robe? Look at the colored feathers in the angels’ wings!”

My mother’s passionate teaching and excitement for art and life still echo in my mind fourteen years later. I am transported by Carl Bloch’s paintings. Both to Denmark and now straight to my Savior’s side.

It is my sixth time seeing the Museum of Art’s exhibit and I still can’t keep my eyes off of the very first work in the exhibit, The Doubting Thomas. The detail in the Savior’s face captures my attention. Ten minutes have passed and I am still standing here.

I cannot leave because I am in the presence of the resurrected Lord. He stands before me in the midst of His apostles. His confident and humble presence radiates throughout the room. I feel his love.

The cello soars with my thoughts. The orchestra inside the speakers echoes in the open space, and I recall that I am standing in the Museum of Art. But it feels like heaven: the Lord is there and there are rays of light streaming from above. My eyes find the corner of the gray wall and I follow it upwards just to check—the rays are coming through a slanted glass roof. The heavens must have opened above the glass.

My surroundings entrance me as much as they did as a little girl in Denmark. I am encompassed with beauty. Once again, I have the opportunity to be facing the Lord.

His gaze looks down towards me, his eyes full of compassion. He reprimands, loves and forgives me as I stand there. I look up towards him again and am surprised that his gaze is not directed to me, but to Thomas. Robed in the red of guilt, pain and passion, he stoops downstage with his face almost in his hands, disbelieving his disbelief.

Pity fills my heart at his crestfallen state. His humble, repentant heart now recognizes the wrong in his stubbornness. I want to weep with him. After all, I stood in his place a moment ago.

Puccini’s “Oh Mio Babbino Caro” now wafts in from the heavens. The soaring melody encompasses my thoughts—I hum along, stifling the urge to sing operatic Italian. I never remained silent as a girl. Denmark’s chapels were only invitations for songs and my mother would sing aloud with me. This weeping song seems a propos for Thomas.

I can’t help but think—would I believe? Had I really been Thomas and heard of my beloved Lord being resurrected, perfected and glorified, would I have believed? He would have been my companion, the very same Jesus Christ….

I look up to Him again and Christ’s wounds are suddenly glaring at me. The scar on his chest is blood red like Thomas’s robe. It sings of the atonement and crucifixion so recently accomplished.

We are all promised a perfected, resurrected body. But He chose to keep his scars.
They remind me—and Thomas too. How dare I not believe? I can undergo a change of heart. My stubbornness can also melt into humility. I can fall at his feet and adore. He is there.
As a girl, my mother would have stayed with me there for hours and ponder over the beauty in this art. But my stay must close; I leave for a while. I’ll come back to be transported again. And Thomas and I can have another long talk.

An Optomisitc Vision

Dear Blog readers,

President Staheli said that the membership changes in Europe were progressively less and less. it got 'up' to -6% in 2007 finally, and in 2008 it finally broke even. + 6% membership! everybody was celebrating. and then in 2009 it became +20%!! can you imagine?
The first presidency asked the area authorites why this change had happened. and if they could say one thing that spurred this change. The Europe area authorities concluded it was because of "an optimistic vision shared between members and missionaries." or something like that. and it is true!
I finally got to call Eleonor yesterday. She was disappointed in her church and meets with about 10 other people who are all dissappointed in their various churches who meet together to pray and read the Bible. She started talking to the Elder's Quorom president in our ward on the train one day, and now she is excited to meet us.
A member from Geneva called saying that she had a friend who lived in our area who would like a book of Mormon. We talked to him on the phone and will set up a rendezvous for this next week. After another call from missionaries, we find out that he walked into the Exposition downtown Paris and had a first lesson with the Elders there.
A member from Troyes (about an hour from here) called and said that her boyfriend lived in Melun but came to church with her last Sunday. He might be interested in taking the lessons.
Elisabeth (still progressing baptismal date :)) told us that she was talking to a dear friend who prays with her often. She told her (Henriette) about the missionaries. How 2 sisters come to her place and get her on the 'road to Salvation.' Henriette said that she was looking for more spirituality in her life right now, and could really use a boost from us.
Alphonsine Gazawanza is a lady that was standing at a bus stop where we had to wait for 20 minutes last week (my companion HATES waiting for busses, hehe. i don't mind so much--maybe it's just that it was -2° C yesterday) I just talked and talked to her. I gave her about the first discussion, and she was wanting to come see our church if she wouldn't have had knee surgery this weekend. We'll go visit her tonight.
well there's more to say. That's what I think at every single rendez vous. More answers to your questions. Everysingle practice session, there's always more work to do. Every single prayer. There is more I'd like to say. Every single time I talk or don't talk to someone I wanted to--if only I'd said something about prophets! But life is about progression, and although opportunites leave, God creates new ones. always.
Love you all! Thanks for your prayers.
Soeur Wilson