Kevin's favorite cologne is Polo Black, mine is Bonfire Black. Today (1/20/11) I got to use my portable Red-neck paper shredder, Dad's Document Destruction Device, Copihue matches. I love the smell of a good bonfire. All over me. There is a fire pit in the parking lot of the church/office where they do barbeques. I got to burn old financial records all day long in my jeans, tee shirt, and work boots. I was in redneck heaven, and I'll get to do it again next week. I have a little repair shop and some tools. Yippppeeeee! I think our mission is unlike any other in the world, but then I'm unlike any other missionary in the world.
I've always felt like I was different from other people. I was right. So are you. Isn't it amazing? How does He do it? He has billions of children created in His own image and every one is unique. I marvel and wonder. I guess He could have used a few patterns and molds and saved Himself some trouble, but for some reason He understands He didn't make any two alike. On purpose. What purpose?
He wants us all to become like Him, but as I understand it we will be our unique selves in the spirit world, and in the resurrection and the millennium and in the Celestial Kingdom and throughout eternity. Then we will be able to have “increase” or spirit children the same as Him. Will they all be uniquely different, too? How is it so? A mystery. A marvel. I love it. I just don't comprehend it.
I suppose every teenager feels like they don't exactly fit in. I felt that way for 40+ years. When am I going to grow up and be like all the others? NEVER. For a long time I thought I must have a rebellious streak that made me feel different. Even as a bishop and stake president I felt that I didn't do things the way others did or were “supposed” to. I was right. And I finally owned that it was OK. It's not an aberration. It is not a mistake. It is not rebellion. THIS IS ME. HELLO WORLD.
Of course there are some things Father expects us to conform to. His laws. The laws. He obeys them too. That's why He is God. What if He wasn't always honest? Could you trust anything He said? What if He were unchaste? Would that give you an excuse? Aren't we trying to be like Him? What if He tricked Joseph Smith into writing “revelations?” What if He takes a break and doesn't hear all the prayers tonight? What if He doesn't really know everything? What if He doesn't know ME well enough to have paid for all my sins, suffering, grief, pain, sorrow, stupidity? What if I do something He didn't anticipate and therefore did not atone for? If He is not perfect He cannot be God. I wouldn't worship Him, would you? Who would want to be like Him?
So, He is perfect. And Father says we must become perfect even as He is and that we can through the Savior. And the Savior says we must be one as He and The Father are one. One and Perfect and Unique. It boggles my mind. I don't doubt it—I don't understand it.
This is not my only question. Next week is my 69th birthday. I spent half those years in front of Seminary and Institute classes as a professional gospel doctrine teacher, the one with all the answers, right? Wrong? I'm the one with some really solid answers, some probably so's, some could be's, some I wonder about that too, some Nope's, and a ton of I don't know's. I should feel like such a failure. But no. I still have faith.
My faith has grown stronger the longer I ponder. Questions don't have to produce doubts. They can just as well help us develop faith. If we knew all the answers imagine what church meetings and classes would be like. BOORRRING! Oh you thought they were boring now? What if no one had to think or wonder or suppose or imagine or question?
For me one of the most exhilarating spiritual experiences is thinking, wondering, pondering, exploring, stretching my understanding, expanding my vision, imagining, visualizing, enlarging the possibilities. I can no longer read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover without stopping. I've done that and it was a good thing. I'm glad I did it a few times. Then I slowed down and had a different experience. I like it better.
Some people seem to think they know everything. You know one, too? Well, this is what I say. People who think they know everything really irritate those of us who do. Here's another from my favorite bumper sticker. Eschew obfuscation. Look that one up. In the meantime, keep it simple. I don't like a lot of commentary. The Institute manuals have enough for me and they are trustworthy sources. An earlier General Authority said he would rather drink from the fountain than downstream where the water is muddied by a lot of opinions. Everyone has an opinion.
Someday I hope to know all things and understand all things, but for now it is enough for me to know some things. One of them is what Nephi said: I know God loves His children, but I do not know the meaning of all things. The other is that in a coming day all things shall be revealed, things above the earth, things under the earth, things past and things present, etc.
Don't allow the things you don't know to overshadow the things you do know. Have faith.
Today's sermon was brought to you by the makers of Copihue Fosforos. Try one; you might lite it.
Tues Enero 25
Now for the news. Saturday we had a sweet baptism in the branch. The grandmother of one of my Aaronic Priesthood boys has been receiving missionaries for over five years, but hadn't received their message or a testimony of her own. We have some really good people as missionaries in the branch, some of our favorites. They reached her heart.
We have known her as a member of the Gospel Essentials class, but we can't carry on a conversation, so all we knew was that she was not a member and came every Sunday. When we heard that Fresia was going to be baptized we weren't sure who Fresia was. When we put two and two together it was exciting, and when we learned she was John's (not Juan) grandmother that made it all the more.
Half the branch came, but not at the announced time. Hermana BJ got there at 6:30 to play prelude. Two elders were there. About 7:00 two more came, and at 7:10 President and Sister King arrived. They knew Fresia already. They attend all the baptisms they can. Then two more elders with two teenish boys in jeans and teeshirts. That made 10 of us but no Fresia.
Slowly the crowd grew and refreshments began to arrive with the Relief Society sisters. Elder Madsen asked if I could take him and the Relief Society pres to go get someone. I thought it would be Fresia. We returned with a key they needed. No one but me seemed too concerned that Fresia wasn't among the thirty or so attending her baptism. Elder Granda called her and calmed me with assurances that she was still getting ready and would be along shortly.
I'm not sure how she arrived, but she did, along with some more teenagers, investigators, and missionaries. She obviously has friends in the branch and beyond and has been well fellowshipped. I got to be a testigo again—that's a witness. It wasn't until after the baptism as we waited, not so long this time, for her to dress, that I began to learn of her relationships and connections.
It was a sweet time and I hardly noticed when 9:00 pm came and passed. The refreshment table was groaning under a good $50 worth of cakes, “pies”, sodas, cookies. I was on a sugar high and had to leave early at 9:30 to get some real supper. The party was going strong.
Fresia was baptized by immersion in water about 8:30, then immersed in love for another hour or more, then by the Holy Ghost on Sunday, and by fire as far as I could tell. Her testimony sounded that way. I like hearing the new convert bear her/his testimony as the final speaker at their own baptism, even if I don't understand their words. The feelings are fresh and powerful.
Before the baptism I put out 35 new hymnbooks without saying anything to anyone. A kind soul from back home asked me to use some of her money to do something the branch needed. They really needed. Thank you for your generosity. Sunday, I watched the chorister pick up her new book, turn it over and over, smell it, open it and gently smooth out the right pages and grin from ear to ear before she got up to lead. I couldn't see the others behind me, but her response was enough for me. There were about 40 people at church. They each had a perfect new book. After the meeting, someone brought all the old, ratty, coverless himnarios up and stacked them on the riser. The gift was perfect and well received.
It's 10:30. The playground is still abuzz. This afternoon as I took out the trash two pre-teen girls peeked around the corner and softly said hello hello hello. I repeated and said how are you? Smiles all around. When people warm up they love to show off their three word English vocabulary. Today as I bought completos (think hot dogs buried under guacamole and mayo) an old woman laughingly said words in English after I said them in Spanish.
Yesterday and today were very tiring and tomorrow will be another 12 hour shift. I'm going to bed.
I'm almost finished with a story about how Betty Jane Forsyth morphed into Hermana Pack of Maipu, Chile. She is working on another poem, but I think I'll just send this as is and the stories next time.
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Wednesday (1/26/11) at the church while BJ teaches piano. This week and last we have had trouble getting into the building. Pablo said he would open for us at 5 last week. He didn't. We waited almost an hour and left. This week we asked for a key and got put off. Selinda said one of her boys would get a key and open at 5, but we got a call this morning from her husband saying something about no key until 8pm. The assistants assisted us in getting keys from a friend in the ward. We are in. We have the feeling the branch president doesn't understand or value this service as one of our called assignments from the First Presidency. The assistants are going to talk to him. We could teach somewhere else on Wednesday nite.
Tomorrow we take the piano class to a little branch in the little town of Bollanar about an hour and a half away. The president described it as remote. The previous couple taught piano out there and there is a group of people who have keyboards and want more lessons. It sounds good. They all work all day and can't meet until 8pm so we won't be home early. Elder Jensen will be there to translate and help. We hope it goes well.
Produce market report: tomatoes less than 20 cents/lb; beautiful ripe peaches 25 cent/lb; ripe pineapples three for $2; watermelons $1, $2, $3; huge too-ripe corn ten for a buck. Only one stand had cherries this week and no one had apricots or strawberries. We've been there enough that vendors recognize us and hawk us. I don't understand all they say, but I think they're glad to see us because we spend about ten bucks a week. We spread it out among different vendors. Only one had decent, not overripe bananas, and one has delicious black olives. He lets us taste one before we buy; sometimes they taste different and we don't buy. His shelled walnuts are pricy; we paid $4 for a half pound, but he's the only nut man. Maybe they're off season. When you visit we will take you shopping; you will love it. When Kevin and Jenny come it will be grape season and you can eat all you want for little money.
We got our official CARNET identification cards! So what? Well, now we can sign contracts. We can finally own our own car and get a toll pass for the freeway and a bank account and an internet plan. This prepaid one is too slow and weak. We'll pay the price for good service. I like the way WE (USofA) do business. There is no culture of efficiency here. Hire lots of people to do as little as possible in as much time as they can possibly take without really being helpful, then tell people to go somewhere else, you can't stamp their hand at this window. Just venting. There are worse places.
Summer arrived. It is hot and muggy and the promise is for 6-8 more weeks of the same. But, once in a while there is a cool cloudy day to give relief and most nights are pretty cool by morning. In our very nice 5 story apartment building I see nary an AC unit. The other day almost every apartment had their cooling systems turned up to the max—five windows, curtain billowing.
Today we got FIVE letters. Never happened. The Christmas mail is arriving. Thank you all. We love you beyond words. Life is good. Live it well.
LUV LUV LUV Grammy and Gramps, aka Elder Blair and Hermana Betty Jane Pack
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
January 18, 2011
The doctor at Indice Clinic/Hospital looked and sounded like a younger version of President Uchtdorf, but Mom handled it pretty well and didn't swoon. He spoke good English, learned at a French school, and said to her, you may speak English. He hardly spoke to me. She has Achilles tendonitis inflammation, painful but not debilitating. Slow to heal; of unknown origin. The first course of treatment, while he is on a three week vacation, is an anti-inflammatory patch, daily pain meds, and physical therapy. He also recommended she wear a higher heel to take the stretch out of her tendon, so today we went shoe shopping and she found a cute pair she liked. Hope it helps.
At the hospital, hardly any waiting at all, we only had to go to four different places, they were very nice, but they changed Mom's name to Jane Tack Betty. Cute, don't you think? We're having to have new name tags made: HERMANA BETTY, just like Mississippi. Here the women introduce themselves by first name only, because to say all four names confuses us poor North Americans. I still can't explain it. They have an extra last name, and women don't take/ or may add their husband's last name—Betty Jane Forsyth O'Neal del Pack. Sometimes the last last name is abbreviated by its initial-P. or A. or J. Ask Kevin Blair Pack, F.
It's Saturday night after laundry, (with no dryer our apartment looks like a weekend ghost convention), preparing our Sunday lessons, vacuuming, going to the produce market, (cherries are waning, but grapes are coming in at 90 cents a pound, but will drop in coming weeks), and the mall. Not nearly as crowded as before Christmas. Yesterday we ate at a stand-alone McDonald's which was empty. The food had been cooked in anticipation of customers, so when we showed up we got it, hard and stale. I took mine back and got another one just like the first.
One girl on the playground calls to another: “nina, nina”, which means girl child or daughter, but is used instead of hey you, whatever your name is. Parents also call their children to them by calling “nina” or “nino”, unless they are mad. I don't know what they say then, but we hear almost no anger, impatience, scolding or arguing. Parents call: kids come. We haven't heard even a hint of a domestic dispute, no slamming doors, shouting, squealing tires, broken glass. Good neighborhood.
Mom may become an internet junkie. Last night and this morning she spent two hours each surfing news and department store sites. The other day she was home alone and Skyped all by herself. She is learning to use a mouse and cursor, where we all had to start, and navigates pretty well. She's found her news source. We really miss the news.
This week paying bills I hit it just right at one bank and went straight to the window without waiting for anyone, and yesterday we had to wait only an hour to pay our rent. One hour to serve 22 people. We and the office elders and the good citizens waste a lot of time waiting in line. The economy could benefit from some cultural and administrative adjustments. Are we the only ones complaining?
The Christmas mail is still coming by the truck load. Well not exactly. I think they have a box or bag they fill with our mail each day at the sorting facility. That much and no more. The rest will eventually get to you. The maximum volume seems to be the same every day. The truck it comes in is about the size of a minivan. Then next day there will be nothing. Somebody got tired of all this foreign mail. Let 'em wait. We know how to get their cabritos (another word for kids, or kids).
We are well, in a better state of mind than last week. That's all I'm going to report. Instead of a long email, included is a long story, and a short one, the same story in fact, and Mom's weekly poem.
Poem of the week:
GETTING OLDER?
I think I'm getting older.
I forgot to check today;
Couldn't recall where my purse was,
That I had put away.
Why did I come into this room?
I know there was a reason.
Is this part of the saying,
To everything there is a season?
I forgot to turn the water off,
Because my phone began to ring.
Was there somewhere I should be,
And something I should bring?
Oh! Someone's knocking at the door;
My neighbor's come to call.
I can't remember her name;
It'll come to me in a while.
My granddaughter tells me,
Grandma, it's me, Emma;
Not Sophie, not Ella, not Ava.
Who else could it be?
I know who she is;
I can still see.
It's that there are so many;
The count is seventeen.
My cup runneth over,
With eighteen on the way.
I'm the luckiest, most blessed person alive;
What else can I say?
But I AM getting older;
It is plain to see,
My walk is not as steady,
As it used to be.
Never mind the wrinkles,
The wobbles and the aches;
I' m still as happy as can be;
What difference does it make?
Hermana Jane Tack Betty, age 69, January 10, 2011, Santiago, Chile
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------(The long and the short of it. Same story twice)
I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT
I'm not a very good driver's ed teacher. That should be no surprise because I'm the kid who wrecked the prophet's car. No, I'm not proud of it, but I'll never forget it. When my kids became teenagers and wanted to get their licenses to drive I thought I'd save 75 bucks, times five, and teach them myself. I'm a pretty good driver; I've never had a serious accident—except that one.
I required them to log 100 hours practice at the wheel with one of their parents on board giving helpful tips, like LOOK OUT!! DIDN'T YOU SEE THAT GUY? They had to parallel park, drive a stick shift, and learn to properly merge onto the freeway. My dad took me to the fairgrounds parking lot and taught me how to do and undo a skid on the ice. Cool. But there is no ice where we live. While we did their practice driving we never had a scrape of any kind. White knuckles, sudden stops, close calls and coronaries, but no actual bodily damage to car, driver, or parent.
So each in turn finished the course, passed the required Mississippi driving tests and got his or her official certificate to cruise--anytime, anywhere, with anyone in the car. Not exactly. We still put some limits on who, when and where, trying to be wise guardians and save innocent lives.
But they reminded Dad now and then that his own driving record was not unblemished. Come on kids, it was only a little scrape on the driver's side door. OK, it was the whole door. Alright, both doors. Details. They never let you forget.
We put an insurance card, phone numbers, a comforting note about the relative value of people and things, in the glove box, in an envelope “In Case You Have an Accident.” They did. Each, within a few weeks of finishing The Most Comprehensive Driver's Education Course in the Entire Civilized World, had a wreck with the family car. No blood, some bruises to body, ego (mine), and the old Ford/Dodge/Chevy station wagon/van. Since our policy was not to buy them a car of their own, this meant we were all without transportation for a while—a daily reminder of their folly.
Speaking of reminders: Dad, tell us again about the time You Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You were about our age, right? Close, I was eighteen, getting ready to go on a mission. Banking some cash the summer before I left. So it was a long time ago and those youthful misjudgments need to be forgiven and forgotten.
I've never met anyone else who Wrecked the Prophet's Car. Surely, I'm the only one stupid enough to do that. I thought I was doomed to the depths of a bottomless pit. But instead, He forgave me. He forgave me. I was forgiven, on the spot, by President McKay himself, face to face, person to person, prophet to trembling-with-fear teenager.
Right Dad, so don't you think you could, you should, you must forgive us? The Lord and His Prophets may forgive whom they will forgive, but of you, Dad, it is required to forgive all men—and teenagers, especially your own flesh and blood, right?.
Was there blood? No, but there was a lot of sweat and tears and my veins were full of ice. Yours would be too, if you had Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You'd feel like running as fast as you could, as far as you could.
Well, why didn't you? I considered it. The world record mile run had just been shattered beyond belief, under 4:00 minutes. Not humanly possible, for me anyway, the chubby, non-athletic, pitiful boy who Wrecked the Prophet's Car--just ten minutes before he was due to drive it (he was near ninety then) away from the Hotel Utah where he lived the last few years of his life. Ten minutes at 4:00 minutes per mile. . .mmmmm. . .I could be two and a half miles from here before my hero appears from his 9th floor suite and the jig is up for you, kid. You are not going to get the penny-a-car safe driving bonus this month, pal. For sure, he's not going to give you his usual 25 cent tip. Hey, that was real coin in those days. I only made four times that in an hour.
He really was my hero. When I turned 11 and became a Boy Scout, one of the first events of my illustrious stage career was to be in an all-church dance festival. No, it wasn't at the Nauvoo Parade Grounds; and no, Joseph and Brigham did not attend. It was at BYU, two hours bus ride from Logan, and President McKay was there just to see me dance. Well, me and ten thousand other kids from the whole church (read: Utah and Idaho).
We got there early, practiced in the hot summer sun, waited for others to practice in the hotter afternoon sun. It was a long day for a tired kid with no water or sunscreen, and by the time we did our dance (read: callisthenics; you know-- jumping Jacks, side-straddle hops, push-ups) I was ready to hit the road in the back seat of the bus, if I could beat the bigger kids to it. Not likely.
Anyway, after all the dances, they announced that the new Prophet, President David O. McKay was there and wanted to shake hands with each one of us. What? It's after nine o'clock and we've got a ten hour bus ride ahead of us. How long is this going to take? Well, it took a long time, standing in a long line with nothing to eat or drink. This sunburned Boy Scout wished he had been better prepared. I couldn't wait for this torture to be over.
Finally, when the line turned, I could see, at the other end of the football field, our destination. Is this what they mean by a five mile hike? Then, as I crossed the fifty yard line I could see the kids step up onto a stage and shake hands with a white-haired old man. An OLD MAN? I endured all this to shake hands with an old man? It took a couple more first downs, but my attitude began to change. He's been out in the sun all day, too; he probably doesn't have anything to eat or drink either. I'll bet he's tireder than I am. Why is he doing this?
Gradually, it started to dawn on me. He was enjoying it. He said something to every kid. He had the kindest smile, the most interesting face and the most amazing head of shiny white hair. And he was Big. My dad was over 6'3”; this guy—excuse me—this prophet of God outweighed my dad by 50 pounds and was not fat; he looked fit at 80-something. Why would he do this? Oh, I get it. He has to shake all these other hands so he can get to me. Yeah, that's it. Not. Maybe I've been waiting all this time so I can shake His hand and touch a prophet of God and hear his voice speak to me in person. Yeah, that's it. That's pretty cool. Wow! I'm almost next.
I did. And I never forgot it. That's why it was so gut wrenching 6 years later to realize: you just smashed the driver's side of President McKay's brand new shiny black Cadillac. When he called for it an hour ago someone had washed and waxed it down in the four-level underground parking garage where I was a valet parking guy, driving hundreds of cars of every make and sticker price every day. What an amazing job for a teenager in 1960. I was Kookie Burns in person. (Ask someone as old as me who Kookie Burns was. Hint: 77 Sunset Strip.) What a stomach dropping, gut wrenching, spine melting moment. From stardust to dirtbag in a flash, or a CRASH.
Do you know what an awful noise one big Cadillac rippppppping a four foot gash in another big Cadillac makes? Everybody for a block heard it and came rubber necking. That kid just Wrecked the Prophet's Car! What an idiot. Man, is he in trouble. Here comes the boss; he heard it too. Mr. Newman didn't say much: just, get back to work it's rush hour. I'll call for you when President McKay comes in about 10 minutes.
Do you know how long ten minutes can be? Not long enough. Eternity couldn't be much longer. On the other hand, in an instant—it seemed—as I was bringing up a car in the elevator, I pulled out and there they were. Mr. Newman, President McKay, and THE PROPHET'S CAR. It looked worse than I remembered it and Mr. Newman was not smiling as he saw me and motioned me to come take my licking.
I tucked my whipped-puppy tail between my legs, laid back my ears, lowered my head and started on that long lonesome one-way path to outer darkness. Then I looked up. President McKay was stepping toward me with his arms widespread. He was coming at me. . . to HUG me. As he wrapped his ample arms around my sorry self I felt as if I were in the arms of Jesus. And when he said, don't worry son; I'll take care of it; I always buy an extra set of fenders and doors, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, in a good way. In an amazing way. Unforgettable. Forgiven.
Do you know what it feels like to be forgiven? I do. And I'll never forget it because I wrecked the prophet's car and he said don't worry, I'll take care of it. Glory be. He paid for my mistake and forgave me. He and the Savior.
Will you please forgive me? I forgive you. He does, too. He took care of it all. I know it.
10 Enero 2011, Elder Blair Pack (Gramps), Santiago (Maipu), Chile
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Same story, Short version:
In 1960, a year before my mission, I was working at the Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City as a valet parking attendant. I took cars down the elevator to the underground parking garage and returned them to the surface when the owners came for them and gratefully put a coin in my palm, after checking the fenders and doors. It was a great job. I was in teen heaven.
One day at mid-day rush hour President David O. McKay, who was then living on the ninth floor of the hotel, called for his car to be ready at 1:00. About ten to one I was turning another car around in the driveway and smashed both driver side doors of his shiny black Cadillac with another big Cadillac.
I wanted to run away as fast as I could, but the boss, Mr. Newman, heard the crash and he came running instead. He told me to get back to work until President McKay came for his car, which he soon did.
As I came out of the elevator with a customer's car I saw Mr. Newman showing President McKay the damage. He motioned me over, and I went to them expecting to be reprimanded severely. Instead, President McKay opened his arms and hugged me saying, “Don't worry son. I'll take care of it. I always buy extra fenders and doors.”
I felt like I was in the arms of the Savior. I felt the unbelievable joy of being forgiven. I was relieved beyond expectation, and I have never forgotten the feeling. It didn't matter that I lost my penny-a-car safety bonus or that I didn't get the usual 25 cent tip from President McKay. His forgiveness meant everything to me.
A few years earlier, as a new Boy Scout, I had met President McKay and had the honor of shaking his hand following an all-church dance festival at BYU. It had been a long hot day and I wasn't very excited about waiting in a long line to shake an old man's hand. But as I got closer the excitement grew and it turned out to be an unforgettable experience.
President McKay was my boyhood hero, and the fact that I wrecked his car has been a bittersweet memory all these years. I hate what I did to his car, but I cherish how he frankly forgave me. It has helped me look forward without fear to meeting Jesus Christ and being embraced and lovingly forgiven by Him. This has been an important part of my lifelong testimony of the Savior and His prophets. I love them both.
12 Enero 2011, Santiago, Chile, Blair Philip Pack, M., age 68
WHICH ONE DID YOU LIKE BETTER?
Jan. 18th
A couple more things. We both taught our lessons this week, with uncertain results, but we keep preparing and trying. We would love to speak passable Spanish before Kevin and them come in March. We note slow progress; maybe there is hope. A little.
Today going to and coming from the coast with the mail, we saw where sunflower oil comes from. Endless acres of brilliant yellow heads all turned toward the sun. Stunning. They also grow canola and corn oil, but I haven't seen any soybeans. They use a lot of oil in their diet. The days are crystal clear and hot. But in the shade it is tolerable and at night there is a lovely breeze to cool everything down. On the highest mountains we can still see snow or glaciers, on a smog free day. The fruit trees and vegetables love it. They just keep growing and growing and growing.
Good news! I get to work with my dear friend, (expresident) Hector Cerda in Young Men; we're first and second or second and first counselors in the branch YM. We've also heard that he is the new Stake YM Pres. His family just returned from a beach vacation. Most of the branch seems to have gone to the beach. We wondered how they did it without a car. Today we saw how.
The little yellow school buses (minivans) in one of my fotos have a second life in the summer. We saw dozens of them stacked and packed with all the people they could cram inside and all the stuff they could pile on top, (stretch your imagination) headed west. Then back to the east, empty. Many employers give paid vacations and the self employed just close up shop and leave for a while. A national tradition. We're glad they get to take a nice vacation with their families, maybe the neighbors, too, from the looks of some of the vans.
The beat goes on. We're pretty well settled in. More stories in future editions. I'm working on about a dozen. This is the only life history I'm going to write. Tell us one of your favorite stories. OK?
We love and cherish you all.
LUV LUV LUV ALL IT TAKES IS LOVE. From: Grandma and Gramps (and the Beatles)
At the hospital, hardly any waiting at all, we only had to go to four different places, they were very nice, but they changed Mom's name to Jane Tack Betty. Cute, don't you think? We're having to have new name tags made: HERMANA BETTY, just like Mississippi. Here the women introduce themselves by first name only, because to say all four names confuses us poor North Americans. I still can't explain it. They have an extra last name, and women don't take/ or may add their husband's last name—Betty Jane Forsyth O'Neal del Pack. Sometimes the last last name is abbreviated by its initial-P. or A. or J. Ask Kevin Blair Pack, F.
It's Saturday night after laundry, (with no dryer our apartment looks like a weekend ghost convention), preparing our Sunday lessons, vacuuming, going to the produce market, (cherries are waning, but grapes are coming in at 90 cents a pound, but will drop in coming weeks), and the mall. Not nearly as crowded as before Christmas. Yesterday we ate at a stand-alone McDonald's which was empty. The food had been cooked in anticipation of customers, so when we showed up we got it, hard and stale. I took mine back and got another one just like the first.
One girl on the playground calls to another: “nina, nina”, which means girl child or daughter, but is used instead of hey you, whatever your name is. Parents also call their children to them by calling “nina” or “nino”, unless they are mad. I don't know what they say then, but we hear almost no anger, impatience, scolding or arguing. Parents call: kids come. We haven't heard even a hint of a domestic dispute, no slamming doors, shouting, squealing tires, broken glass. Good neighborhood.
Mom may become an internet junkie. Last night and this morning she spent two hours each surfing news and department store sites. The other day she was home alone and Skyped all by herself. She is learning to use a mouse and cursor, where we all had to start, and navigates pretty well. She's found her news source. We really miss the news.
This week paying bills I hit it just right at one bank and went straight to the window without waiting for anyone, and yesterday we had to wait only an hour to pay our rent. One hour to serve 22 people. We and the office elders and the good citizens waste a lot of time waiting in line. The economy could benefit from some cultural and administrative adjustments. Are we the only ones complaining?
The Christmas mail is still coming by the truck load. Well not exactly. I think they have a box or bag they fill with our mail each day at the sorting facility. That much and no more. The rest will eventually get to you. The maximum volume seems to be the same every day. The truck it comes in is about the size of a minivan. Then next day there will be nothing. Somebody got tired of all this foreign mail. Let 'em wait. We know how to get their cabritos (another word for kids, or kids).
We are well, in a better state of mind than last week. That's all I'm going to report. Instead of a long email, included is a long story, and a short one, the same story in fact, and Mom's weekly poem.
Poem of the week:
GETTING OLDER?
I think I'm getting older.
I forgot to check today;
Couldn't recall where my purse was,
That I had put away.
Why did I come into this room?
I know there was a reason.
Is this part of the saying,
To everything there is a season?
I forgot to turn the water off,
Because my phone began to ring.
Was there somewhere I should be,
And something I should bring?
Oh! Someone's knocking at the door;
My neighbor's come to call.
I can't remember her name;
It'll come to me in a while.
My granddaughter tells me,
Grandma, it's me, Emma;
Not Sophie, not Ella, not Ava.
Who else could it be?
I know who she is;
I can still see.
It's that there are so many;
The count is seventeen.
My cup runneth over,
With eighteen on the way.
I'm the luckiest, most blessed person alive;
What else can I say?
But I AM getting older;
It is plain to see,
My walk is not as steady,
As it used to be.
Never mind the wrinkles,
The wobbles and the aches;
I' m still as happy as can be;
What difference does it make?
Hermana Jane Tack Betty, age 69, January 10, 2011, Santiago, Chile
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------(The long and the short of it. Same story twice)
I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT
I'm not a very good driver's ed teacher. That should be no surprise because I'm the kid who wrecked the prophet's car. No, I'm not proud of it, but I'll never forget it. When my kids became teenagers and wanted to get their licenses to drive I thought I'd save 75 bucks, times five, and teach them myself. I'm a pretty good driver; I've never had a serious accident—except that one.
I required them to log 100 hours practice at the wheel with one of their parents on board giving helpful tips, like LOOK OUT!! DIDN'T YOU SEE THAT GUY? They had to parallel park, drive a stick shift, and learn to properly merge onto the freeway. My dad took me to the fairgrounds parking lot and taught me how to do and undo a skid on the ice. Cool. But there is no ice where we live. While we did their practice driving we never had a scrape of any kind. White knuckles, sudden stops, close calls and coronaries, but no actual bodily damage to car, driver, or parent.
So each in turn finished the course, passed the required Mississippi driving tests and got his or her official certificate to cruise--anytime, anywhere, with anyone in the car. Not exactly. We still put some limits on who, when and where, trying to be wise guardians and save innocent lives.
But they reminded Dad now and then that his own driving record was not unblemished. Come on kids, it was only a little scrape on the driver's side door. OK, it was the whole door. Alright, both doors. Details. They never let you forget.
We put an insurance card, phone numbers, a comforting note about the relative value of people and things, in the glove box, in an envelope “In Case You Have an Accident.” They did. Each, within a few weeks of finishing The Most Comprehensive Driver's Education Course in the Entire Civilized World, had a wreck with the family car. No blood, some bruises to body, ego (mine), and the old Ford/Dodge/Chevy station wagon/van. Since our policy was not to buy them a car of their own, this meant we were all without transportation for a while—a daily reminder of their folly.
Speaking of reminders: Dad, tell us again about the time You Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You were about our age, right? Close, I was eighteen, getting ready to go on a mission. Banking some cash the summer before I left. So it was a long time ago and those youthful misjudgments need to be forgiven and forgotten.
I've never met anyone else who Wrecked the Prophet's Car. Surely, I'm the only one stupid enough to do that. I thought I was doomed to the depths of a bottomless pit. But instead, He forgave me. He forgave me. I was forgiven, on the spot, by President McKay himself, face to face, person to person, prophet to trembling-with-fear teenager.
Right Dad, so don't you think you could, you should, you must forgive us? The Lord and His Prophets may forgive whom they will forgive, but of you, Dad, it is required to forgive all men—and teenagers, especially your own flesh and blood, right?.
Was there blood? No, but there was a lot of sweat and tears and my veins were full of ice. Yours would be too, if you had Wrecked the Prophet's Car. You'd feel like running as fast as you could, as far as you could.
Well, why didn't you? I considered it. The world record mile run had just been shattered beyond belief, under 4:00 minutes. Not humanly possible, for me anyway, the chubby, non-athletic, pitiful boy who Wrecked the Prophet's Car--just ten minutes before he was due to drive it (he was near ninety then) away from the Hotel Utah where he lived the last few years of his life. Ten minutes at 4:00 minutes per mile. . .mmmmm. . .I could be two and a half miles from here before my hero appears from his 9th floor suite and the jig is up for you, kid. You are not going to get the penny-a-car safe driving bonus this month, pal. For sure, he's not going to give you his usual 25 cent tip. Hey, that was real coin in those days. I only made four times that in an hour.
He really was my hero. When I turned 11 and became a Boy Scout, one of the first events of my illustrious stage career was to be in an all-church dance festival. No, it wasn't at the Nauvoo Parade Grounds; and no, Joseph and Brigham did not attend. It was at BYU, two hours bus ride from Logan, and President McKay was there just to see me dance. Well, me and ten thousand other kids from the whole church (read: Utah and Idaho).
We got there early, practiced in the hot summer sun, waited for others to practice in the hotter afternoon sun. It was a long day for a tired kid with no water or sunscreen, and by the time we did our dance (read: callisthenics; you know-- jumping Jacks, side-straddle hops, push-ups) I was ready to hit the road in the back seat of the bus, if I could beat the bigger kids to it. Not likely.
Anyway, after all the dances, they announced that the new Prophet, President David O. McKay was there and wanted to shake hands with each one of us. What? It's after nine o'clock and we've got a ten hour bus ride ahead of us. How long is this going to take? Well, it took a long time, standing in a long line with nothing to eat or drink. This sunburned Boy Scout wished he had been better prepared. I couldn't wait for this torture to be over.
Finally, when the line turned, I could see, at the other end of the football field, our destination. Is this what they mean by a five mile hike? Then, as I crossed the fifty yard line I could see the kids step up onto a stage and shake hands with a white-haired old man. An OLD MAN? I endured all this to shake hands with an old man? It took a couple more first downs, but my attitude began to change. He's been out in the sun all day, too; he probably doesn't have anything to eat or drink either. I'll bet he's tireder than I am. Why is he doing this?
Gradually, it started to dawn on me. He was enjoying it. He said something to every kid. He had the kindest smile, the most interesting face and the most amazing head of shiny white hair. And he was Big. My dad was over 6'3”; this guy—excuse me—this prophet of God outweighed my dad by 50 pounds and was not fat; he looked fit at 80-something. Why would he do this? Oh, I get it. He has to shake all these other hands so he can get to me. Yeah, that's it. Not. Maybe I've been waiting all this time so I can shake His hand and touch a prophet of God and hear his voice speak to me in person. Yeah, that's it. That's pretty cool. Wow! I'm almost next.
I did. And I never forgot it. That's why it was so gut wrenching 6 years later to realize: you just smashed the driver's side of President McKay's brand new shiny black Cadillac. When he called for it an hour ago someone had washed and waxed it down in the four-level underground parking garage where I was a valet parking guy, driving hundreds of cars of every make and sticker price every day. What an amazing job for a teenager in 1960. I was Kookie Burns in person. (Ask someone as old as me who Kookie Burns was. Hint: 77 Sunset Strip.) What a stomach dropping, gut wrenching, spine melting moment. From stardust to dirtbag in a flash, or a CRASH.
Do you know what an awful noise one big Cadillac rippppppping a four foot gash in another big Cadillac makes? Everybody for a block heard it and came rubber necking. That kid just Wrecked the Prophet's Car! What an idiot. Man, is he in trouble. Here comes the boss; he heard it too. Mr. Newman didn't say much: just, get back to work it's rush hour. I'll call for you when President McKay comes in about 10 minutes.
Do you know how long ten minutes can be? Not long enough. Eternity couldn't be much longer. On the other hand, in an instant—it seemed—as I was bringing up a car in the elevator, I pulled out and there they were. Mr. Newman, President McKay, and THE PROPHET'S CAR. It looked worse than I remembered it and Mr. Newman was not smiling as he saw me and motioned me to come take my licking.
I tucked my whipped-puppy tail between my legs, laid back my ears, lowered my head and started on that long lonesome one-way path to outer darkness. Then I looked up. President McKay was stepping toward me with his arms widespread. He was coming at me. . . to HUG me. As he wrapped his ample arms around my sorry self I felt as if I were in the arms of Jesus. And when he said, don't worry son; I'll take care of it; I always buy an extra set of fenders and doors, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, in a good way. In an amazing way. Unforgettable. Forgiven.
Do you know what it feels like to be forgiven? I do. And I'll never forget it because I wrecked the prophet's car and he said don't worry, I'll take care of it. Glory be. He paid for my mistake and forgave me. He and the Savior.
Will you please forgive me? I forgive you. He does, too. He took care of it all. I know it.
10 Enero 2011, Elder Blair Pack (Gramps), Santiago (Maipu), Chile
----------------------------------------------------------------
Same story, Short version:
In 1960, a year before my mission, I was working at the Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City as a valet parking attendant. I took cars down the elevator to the underground parking garage and returned them to the surface when the owners came for them and gratefully put a coin in my palm, after checking the fenders and doors. It was a great job. I was in teen heaven.
One day at mid-day rush hour President David O. McKay, who was then living on the ninth floor of the hotel, called for his car to be ready at 1:00. About ten to one I was turning another car around in the driveway and smashed both driver side doors of his shiny black Cadillac with another big Cadillac.
I wanted to run away as fast as I could, but the boss, Mr. Newman, heard the crash and he came running instead. He told me to get back to work until President McKay came for his car, which he soon did.
As I came out of the elevator with a customer's car I saw Mr. Newman showing President McKay the damage. He motioned me over, and I went to them expecting to be reprimanded severely. Instead, President McKay opened his arms and hugged me saying, “Don't worry son. I'll take care of it. I always buy extra fenders and doors.”
I felt like I was in the arms of the Savior. I felt the unbelievable joy of being forgiven. I was relieved beyond expectation, and I have never forgotten the feeling. It didn't matter that I lost my penny-a-car safety bonus or that I didn't get the usual 25 cent tip from President McKay. His forgiveness meant everything to me.
A few years earlier, as a new Boy Scout, I had met President McKay and had the honor of shaking his hand following an all-church dance festival at BYU. It had been a long hot day and I wasn't very excited about waiting in a long line to shake an old man's hand. But as I got closer the excitement grew and it turned out to be an unforgettable experience.
President McKay was my boyhood hero, and the fact that I wrecked his car has been a bittersweet memory all these years. I hate what I did to his car, but I cherish how he frankly forgave me. It has helped me look forward without fear to meeting Jesus Christ and being embraced and lovingly forgiven by Him. This has been an important part of my lifelong testimony of the Savior and His prophets. I love them both.
12 Enero 2011, Santiago, Chile, Blair Philip Pack, M., age 68
WHICH ONE DID YOU LIKE BETTER?
Jan. 18th
A couple more things. We both taught our lessons this week, with uncertain results, but we keep preparing and trying. We would love to speak passable Spanish before Kevin and them come in March. We note slow progress; maybe there is hope. A little.
Today going to and coming from the coast with the mail, we saw where sunflower oil comes from. Endless acres of brilliant yellow heads all turned toward the sun. Stunning. They also grow canola and corn oil, but I haven't seen any soybeans. They use a lot of oil in their diet. The days are crystal clear and hot. But in the shade it is tolerable and at night there is a lovely breeze to cool everything down. On the highest mountains we can still see snow or glaciers, on a smog free day. The fruit trees and vegetables love it. They just keep growing and growing and growing.
Good news! I get to work with my dear friend, (expresident) Hector Cerda in Young Men; we're first and second or second and first counselors in the branch YM. We've also heard that he is the new Stake YM Pres. His family just returned from a beach vacation. Most of the branch seems to have gone to the beach. We wondered how they did it without a car. Today we saw how.
The little yellow school buses (minivans) in one of my fotos have a second life in the summer. We saw dozens of them stacked and packed with all the people they could cram inside and all the stuff they could pile on top, (stretch your imagination) headed west. Then back to the east, empty. Many employers give paid vacations and the self employed just close up shop and leave for a while. A national tradition. We're glad they get to take a nice vacation with their families, maybe the neighbors, too, from the looks of some of the vans.
The beat goes on. We're pretty well settled in. More stories in future editions. I'm working on about a dozen. This is the only life history I'm going to write. Tell us one of your favorite stories. OK?
We love and cherish you all.
LUV LUV LUV ALL IT TAKES IS LOVE. From: Grandma and Gramps (and the Beatles)
Friday, January 7, 2011
January 7, 2011
I've spent some time reading this long series of emails and want to bring you up to date on a few things.
From email 9: the struggling elder who was about to cash it in two months ago is in a new area with a new companion, had a baptism, put on some weight, is healthier and gave me a big loving hug today. He is here to stay, two more months. Hurray.
From email 10: still no mosquitoes, and it's the 4th of July in January; whole turkeys by the truck load the weeks before Christmas, now they are gone. Now truckloads of watermelons. Yummy.
From email 13: The two families we visited three months ago have been to church faithfully and all hold callings now in the branch or stake. I can't imagine that our pitiful visit made much difference, but we have become friends and are glad they are more active. We have not visited in any other homes.
From 13: haven't weighed lately, but the belt has shortened three notches. Mom's foot and my hips hurt.
From 18: I found the perfect South American Gentleman Hat and I love it. So do the elders and Sister King. The president hasn't commented. Just call me Don Blair. No fotos.
Sadly, the elders lost the paper on which we had written the names and numbers of the two families who asked us for missionaries after seeing my Christmas tie. Our only hope is that they are still looking and will find the church some other way—maybe they'll see us again and ask when the missionaries are coming.
The December goal of 70 baptisms fell short at 44, but is one of the best months ever. President King says we are not very good at setting realistic goals. The cumulative goal announced by the missionaries for January is about 220—not realistic when you have less than that many who have had at least the first discussion.
From today, Cinco Enero (5 January) We discovered today that we have had an internet port at our office desk since day one. It was hidden and until today no one got under the desk and discovered it. We could have skyped and emailed any time we wanted from our own office. That and a few other things have dragged me down the last few days.
I just reread all my long emails from 9 to 20 to try and defunk myself. It helped, but I'm still kind of bummed, so. . . I have nothing more to say until I feel better.
Thurs., Jan. 6, 2011 at the mission office, in our “office” on line and semi private.
Strange thing-I needed to go back to the apartment and get BJ's name tag. I could have taken the car, but something from outer space took over my body and I chose to walk, about 2 miles, by myself. I miss being by myself, but IT'S NOT ABOUT ME! It's not a vacation. It's not a vacation. It's not a vacation. It's not your time. It's not your life. It's not a vacation. It isn't always fun. You are here to serve others, not your own needs. It's not a vacation.
The other day I got confused and thought I was a tourist. I wanted to sightsee, stop, walk on the black sand beach, take photos; but reality grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and whispered (shouted) in my ear. IT'S NOT A VACATION. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. IT'S NOT YOUR TIME. YOU ARE ON THE LORD'S ERRAND. GET OVER YOURSELF. GET BACK TO WORK. IT'S NOT A VACATION. DON'T YOU GET IT YET? IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. Ok, I hear you. Duty and honor and integrity and perseverance and endure to the end. It's not the end. It's barely the beginning.
It's hard to remember that all the time. Especially driving through a new town, the most beautiful we've seen in Chile. Santo Domingo is a hillside, seaside town built on Southern California standards. No high fence/wall with broken glass or spikes on top and big padlocks. Nice low hedges, picket fences, or no fence at all. Long large sloping green mowed front lawns, wide yards, big houses of many styles, obviously made with lots of money and tended by professional landscapers. All overlooking a couple of miles of black beach and unique rock formations apparently smoothed and left by a receding glacier. Nothing that says tourist. This is a real residential town, but unlike any we've seen in Chile. The beach is not free. They have lifeguards and money collectors who rush you as soon as you slow down, but there were a lot of people enjoying the summer sun. Maybe they don't charge residents and discourage tourists looking for a free place. I got a couple of fotos before we had to go. Another beautiful place to take you when you visit. That day I will actually be a tourist.
Poem of the week:
Is there someone who gets on your nerves?
Do you want them to just disappear?
How can that happen?
Maybe it can't;
So you will just have to endure.
Maybe you can learn to tolerate, but that is hard.
Maybe you can remember that God made us all and we are each a unique child of God.
Maybe you'll see there is something you do that might grind on someone else.
Try to be kind, patient, long-suffering, and loving with that person.
Realize you are trying to get through this situation teaching yourself tolerance.
Practice kindness in all things.
Maybe this person is in your path because you need to learn tolerance.
By BJ
No one you know. Just life. God commanded us to love everyone, but did He say we had to like them all? I never have. Some people. Get . Under. my. Skin. Where the nerves are. Where the turn me off button is. It has been a trying week.
Just read all the emails back to the beginning, before we left Utah. A few more updates and more observations.
The farmers here are outstanding in their fields, every day. The strawberry season has lasted three months so far; there seem to be microclimates in each little sub valley. They are still pulling onions and potatoes; the corn appears to be planted every two weeks; great second cutting of alfalfa. Some flowers and bushes we have in the US grow into trees here. We saw lantana and crepe myrtle with 6 inch trunks and 40 feet tall bougainvillea trees, rose trees and hibiscus trees above the roof.
Our Spanish seems to be stalled; we aren't much improved for over two months. This is very discouraging for me. Every time I need to do business or make a phone call or email I have to have a young helper. I feel pretty helpless, although I can do the shopping, pay the bills and get the car washed. First thing I say is Can you speak English? No? Well, I don't speak much Spanish either. We go from there. I hope I can learn it before going home. That would be humiliating. You were there 18 month and didn't learn the language? I get the feeling from many people that we should have learned it by now. It's harder than it looks and we don't get much help. Even when they try to help we don't know what they are saying. I did have two conversations this week without a translator. I used to think it was funny to speak Spanglish; now it's just frustrating. Next time you meet a Mexican who doesn't speak English, give 'em a break.
The home teaching report for December-00; the goal for January-12. No permanent assignments, just monthly assignments to whoever is willing, and in priesthood meeting on the first Sunday. The YM Pres used the term scouting on me. Our stake has none. Some do, even stake campouts. I may get to be the pioneer scoutmaster. There is an old man my age or more who walks around Maipu in spiffy full Boy Scouts of Chile uniform. Whatever the story, he's proud of it.
The mail tally is over. I'm through counting. The gap widened between receivers and non. But today Elder Teran of Peru, out fourteen months, got his first package. It was from the United States, so I suspect some kind Elder(his companion?) got his family involved. Elder Teran came back from a meeting, thought he had lost it, but BJ had just moved it. When he found it he hugged it to his chest. Our Chirstmas package number 2 is still tied up in customs. WHY? People tell us they have sent letters, but we haven't gotten them yet. Is it got or gotten?
A couple with a child and a woman with a son tell us their divorces are becoming final soon and they will be able to marry and finally be baptized. I'll tell more as it happens.
The car may be ours tomorrow. Gas is 690 a liter. That's almost $1.50, so a 2 liter pop bottle of gas costs about $3.00. It costs 50-70 dollars to fill up, but it lasts about two weeks if we don't go on “vacation”. Our AC doesn't work and the sun is HOT. In the shade it's not so bad and if we go fast with the windows down it's tolerable but hard on the hairdo.
It's surprising how much noise a few kids on the playground can make. Beth could hear them loud and clear when we skyped the other night. It's ten pm and they are still at it. The adults take over about 11 until we don't know what time.
Our clothes dryer went dead and kept blowing the whole apartment's electricity, so this week we are hanging our laundry all over the house. I found an old folding drying rack and brought it home, so now our clothes will have rust stripes across them. New fashion craze. A new dryer (choice of two brands, two models) is about $320, but getting it home and up the stairs and into the tight space where it goes will be something else. The adventure never ends.
I know this email is kind of disjointed, not my usual style. Who knows what future editions will be like. I am evolving. Some of you tell me you enjoy them so I will keep it up the best I can. The young missionaries don't get to travel, take fotos, or write as much as we do, so you can get more detail from us. However, we are not involved in the investigator to convert process, have never been in a missionary discussion here, so we can't observe and report that happy process. I've been thinking of some stories I need to tell my grandkids, so the next several issues may be little blasts from my past. OK?
LUV YA DEARLY DEAR ONES.
GRAMMY AND GRAMPS
From email 9: the struggling elder who was about to cash it in two months ago is in a new area with a new companion, had a baptism, put on some weight, is healthier and gave me a big loving hug today. He is here to stay, two more months. Hurray.
From email 10: still no mosquitoes, and it's the 4th of July in January; whole turkeys by the truck load the weeks before Christmas, now they are gone. Now truckloads of watermelons. Yummy.
From email 13: The two families we visited three months ago have been to church faithfully and all hold callings now in the branch or stake. I can't imagine that our pitiful visit made much difference, but we have become friends and are glad they are more active. We have not visited in any other homes.
From 13: haven't weighed lately, but the belt has shortened three notches. Mom's foot and my hips hurt.
From 18: I found the perfect South American Gentleman Hat and I love it. So do the elders and Sister King. The president hasn't commented. Just call me Don Blair. No fotos.
Sadly, the elders lost the paper on which we had written the names and numbers of the two families who asked us for missionaries after seeing my Christmas tie. Our only hope is that they are still looking and will find the church some other way—maybe they'll see us again and ask when the missionaries are coming.
The December goal of 70 baptisms fell short at 44, but is one of the best months ever. President King says we are not very good at setting realistic goals. The cumulative goal announced by the missionaries for January is about 220—not realistic when you have less than that many who have had at least the first discussion.
From today, Cinco Enero (5 January) We discovered today that we have had an internet port at our office desk since day one. It was hidden and until today no one got under the desk and discovered it. We could have skyped and emailed any time we wanted from our own office. That and a few other things have dragged me down the last few days.
I just reread all my long emails from 9 to 20 to try and defunk myself. It helped, but I'm still kind of bummed, so. . . I have nothing more to say until I feel better.
Thurs., Jan. 6, 2011 at the mission office, in our “office” on line and semi private.
Strange thing-I needed to go back to the apartment and get BJ's name tag. I could have taken the car, but something from outer space took over my body and I chose to walk, about 2 miles, by myself. I miss being by myself, but IT'S NOT ABOUT ME! It's not a vacation. It's not a vacation. It's not a vacation. It's not your time. It's not your life. It's not a vacation. It isn't always fun. You are here to serve others, not your own needs. It's not a vacation.
The other day I got confused and thought I was a tourist. I wanted to sightsee, stop, walk on the black sand beach, take photos; but reality grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and whispered (shouted) in my ear. IT'S NOT A VACATION. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. IT'S NOT YOUR TIME. YOU ARE ON THE LORD'S ERRAND. GET OVER YOURSELF. GET BACK TO WORK. IT'S NOT A VACATION. DON'T YOU GET IT YET? IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. Ok, I hear you. Duty and honor and integrity and perseverance and endure to the end. It's not the end. It's barely the beginning.
It's hard to remember that all the time. Especially driving through a new town, the most beautiful we've seen in Chile. Santo Domingo is a hillside, seaside town built on Southern California standards. No high fence/wall with broken glass or spikes on top and big padlocks. Nice low hedges, picket fences, or no fence at all. Long large sloping green mowed front lawns, wide yards, big houses of many styles, obviously made with lots of money and tended by professional landscapers. All overlooking a couple of miles of black beach and unique rock formations apparently smoothed and left by a receding glacier. Nothing that says tourist. This is a real residential town, but unlike any we've seen in Chile. The beach is not free. They have lifeguards and money collectors who rush you as soon as you slow down, but there were a lot of people enjoying the summer sun. Maybe they don't charge residents and discourage tourists looking for a free place. I got a couple of fotos before we had to go. Another beautiful place to take you when you visit. That day I will actually be a tourist.
Poem of the week:
Is there someone who gets on your nerves?
Do you want them to just disappear?
How can that happen?
Maybe it can't;
So you will just have to endure.
Maybe you can learn to tolerate, but that is hard.
Maybe you can remember that God made us all and we are each a unique child of God.
Maybe you'll see there is something you do that might grind on someone else.
Try to be kind, patient, long-suffering, and loving with that person.
Realize you are trying to get through this situation teaching yourself tolerance.
Practice kindness in all things.
Maybe this person is in your path because you need to learn tolerance.
By BJ
No one you know. Just life. God commanded us to love everyone, but did He say we had to like them all? I never have. Some people. Get . Under. my. Skin. Where the nerves are. Where the turn me off button is. It has been a trying week.
Just read all the emails back to the beginning, before we left Utah. A few more updates and more observations.
The farmers here are outstanding in their fields, every day. The strawberry season has lasted three months so far; there seem to be microclimates in each little sub valley. They are still pulling onions and potatoes; the corn appears to be planted every two weeks; great second cutting of alfalfa. Some flowers and bushes we have in the US grow into trees here. We saw lantana and crepe myrtle with 6 inch trunks and 40 feet tall bougainvillea trees, rose trees and hibiscus trees above the roof.
Our Spanish seems to be stalled; we aren't much improved for over two months. This is very discouraging for me. Every time I need to do business or make a phone call or email I have to have a young helper. I feel pretty helpless, although I can do the shopping, pay the bills and get the car washed. First thing I say is Can you speak English? No? Well, I don't speak much Spanish either. We go from there. I hope I can learn it before going home. That would be humiliating. You were there 18 month and didn't learn the language? I get the feeling from many people that we should have learned it by now. It's harder than it looks and we don't get much help. Even when they try to help we don't know what they are saying. I did have two conversations this week without a translator. I used to think it was funny to speak Spanglish; now it's just frustrating. Next time you meet a Mexican who doesn't speak English, give 'em a break.
The home teaching report for December-00; the goal for January-12. No permanent assignments, just monthly assignments to whoever is willing, and in priesthood meeting on the first Sunday. The YM Pres used the term scouting on me. Our stake has none. Some do, even stake campouts. I may get to be the pioneer scoutmaster. There is an old man my age or more who walks around Maipu in spiffy full Boy Scouts of Chile uniform. Whatever the story, he's proud of it.
The mail tally is over. I'm through counting. The gap widened between receivers and non. But today Elder Teran of Peru, out fourteen months, got his first package. It was from the United States, so I suspect some kind Elder(his companion?) got his family involved. Elder Teran came back from a meeting, thought he had lost it, but BJ had just moved it. When he found it he hugged it to his chest. Our Chirstmas package number 2 is still tied up in customs. WHY? People tell us they have sent letters, but we haven't gotten them yet. Is it got or gotten?
A couple with a child and a woman with a son tell us their divorces are becoming final soon and they will be able to marry and finally be baptized. I'll tell more as it happens.
The car may be ours tomorrow. Gas is 690 a liter. That's almost $1.50, so a 2 liter pop bottle of gas costs about $3.00. It costs 50-70 dollars to fill up, but it lasts about two weeks if we don't go on “vacation”. Our AC doesn't work and the sun is HOT. In the shade it's not so bad and if we go fast with the windows down it's tolerable but hard on the hairdo.
It's surprising how much noise a few kids on the playground can make. Beth could hear them loud and clear when we skyped the other night. It's ten pm and they are still at it. The adults take over about 11 until we don't know what time.
Our clothes dryer went dead and kept blowing the whole apartment's electricity, so this week we are hanging our laundry all over the house. I found an old folding drying rack and brought it home, so now our clothes will have rust stripes across them. New fashion craze. A new dryer (choice of two brands, two models) is about $320, but getting it home and up the stairs and into the tight space where it goes will be something else. The adventure never ends.
I know this email is kind of disjointed, not my usual style. Who knows what future editions will be like. I am evolving. Some of you tell me you enjoy them so I will keep it up the best I can. The young missionaries don't get to travel, take fotos, or write as much as we do, so you can get more detail from us. However, we are not involved in the investigator to convert process, have never been in a missionary discussion here, so we can't observe and report that happy process. I've been thinking of some stories I need to tell my grandkids, so the next several issues may be little blasts from my past. OK?
LUV YA DEARLY DEAR ONES.
GRAMMY AND GRAMPS
Sunday, January 2, 2011
January 2, 2011
Dec. 25, 2010
It's Christmas day and I'm starting a new email; just finished one last night. A couple of things have changed. I just talked to my brother, Steve, for over 20 minutes from his hospital chair. He was eating a bowl of Cheerios just as he was when I left him to go on my mission to Florida in 1961—no feeding tube, no respirator, only one IV and a catheter to keep him tethered. He was up twice yesterday and they are threatening to have him walking today. He said it was a great feeling to sit on a toilet again. Small pleasures. A week ago we all thought he might never walk, talk or go home. Kevin went to pick up Lindsay from BYU Idaho and took a suit in case he had to stay for a funeral. NOT. Steve got to talk to his missionary son Ryan last night to set up a time for a longer call this afternoon. What Joy! It's the best Christmas gift I've ever received. I imagine Ryan, Kathy, Jessica and Steve all agree. Let the heavens rejoice and the mountains shout for joy. (a new Christmas carol in the making?)
Betty Jane is not having such a pleasant Christmas. She started feeling sick at her stomach Thursday nite after the big mission Christmas party. She was off and on (literally) yesterday, but made it to the President's Mexican Christmas dinner yesterday, her insides in turmoil the whole time. She was sick all last night and today, so we haven't attempted to do Christmas. She got up and opened a birthday gift, ate a piece of toast and rushed to the bathroom and back to bed. I left her there while I walked over to the office to call Steve, therefore: good bye until tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Dec. 26, 2010
The stockings were hung by the TV on a chair, in hopes that Saint Nick would find them there. He did. We had a very nice Christmas in spite of sickness. Later in the day BJ got up and dressed; we opened our gifts and went to the office about 8:30 pm to skype the family. We got to talk to everyone. Emily had four families at her house and Kevin's was in Orlando at Cindy's sister. We even got to talk to BJ's brother Thom in Arcata as a bonus. This sweet day was iced by a knock at our door right after we got home about 12:30 midnight. There stood our five missionaries with a sorry (beautiful) little (half-eaten), green homemade (delicious) cake with sprinkles and one huge white candle, singing Happy Birthday (Would you like a piece? No, Thanks. We . . .[laughter]). What a precious gift on top of all the other goodness. Our first mission Christmas. Memories in the bank. Gift wrapped.
The doorbell did ring,
And they did sing,
Happy Birthday to me.
A yummy cake,
Elder Maldanado had baked;
Five missionaries singing with glee.
What can I say?
They made my day.
They are THE BEST;
And I can attest--
The Lord's missionaries,
Have HEARTS of GOLD.
They serve and GIVE ALL;
They answered the call,
To serve in the Army of God.
WITH LOVE AND THANKS TO
Elder Acosta
Elder Stoddard
Elder Barlow
Elder Cummings
Elder Maldanado
From Hermana Pack
Strange sensation. A silent Christmas on the playground and in the streets. Where do they all go on Christmas? Not a creature was stirring. It was so eerie that I took a photo of a usually bustling street and not a soul in sight for blocks each direction. But. . . Day after Christmas, all those bikes we saw in the stores were in the streets, daddies teaching littles to ride, and the cutest electric kid car remotely controlled by Mom from a few steps behind. Now the playground is abustle again. Papa! Papa! Papa! (Kevin tells us that families stay up very late on Christmas eve, enjoying a big dinner, a walk with the kids about midnight while Santa comes, opening the gifts, playing and enjoying until maybe 4 am. Bianca says her family is wimps because they fold about 2 am. No wonder nobody was about on Christmas Day.)
BJ wasn't up to doing church today, very limp and washed out. I went, late, and there was Kevin's old missionary comp, Manny from 14 hours south. Surprize!! Can I visit your esposa? I called and warned her and while I was fielding all the get well wishes and collecting Christmas cards, notes, nuts, etc. from her friends, she was home putting on the best china and crystal and getting a roast and rice and gravy ready. We even had canned green beans. Again, our Latin friend did not know what gravy was, but seemed to enjoy every drop. To us it was strange to see him sop his bread in his ice cream. Different cultures. Different tastes. Same world. Same family. We had a wonderful afternoon with our friend and not a peep of complaint from BJ afterward. She's puny but better. What a woman.
Thanks to all who helped make this a very Merry Christmas for us. Yes, we missed being with all of you, but the Lord compensates and eases the hurt. Will we ask to go home two months early for BJ's 70th b-day next year? Can't say at this point. Stay tuned……….Probably not.
Thursday, Dec. 30th, pm
We have now skyped or phoned with many of you and have enjoyed the mini-movie our kids put together. When we get it downloaded we will show it to everybody. We loved it! I think it will be posted online for anyone who has 22 minutes to spare. Thanks again. Academy Awards are coming soon. What is the name of that golden man-statue? Out of sight, out of mind. So soon forgotten.
BJ got better and we celebrated our anniversary by going all the way across Santiago to the La Florida Center, a humungeous mall, for dinner at Ruby Tuesday's. Nice, but not quite up to snuff. I enjoyed my steak, but there is nothing like American beef. Ribeye just doesn't translate. It's like trying to explain a joke that is hilarious in your language and draws a blank stare when explained in another. Actually, that happens anytime you have to explain a joke, eh? We had a nice evening remembering 47 years. It's easy to look back from here. The memories flood. Sweetness.
Tuesday after our abbreviated pouch run we took another micro vacation to a little town at the end of the road, literally, called Pomaire, where the folks have been making pottery since the Jaredites landed. They now attract tourists in buses, taxis and cars and use their money to beautify the town and build nice infrastructure. We spent a leisurely afternoon strolling the streets, stepping over dogs and their leavings, buying a few things including a nice Ecuadorian Panama hat to shade my solar panel, eating an authentic Chilean meal on the balcony of the San Francisco restaurant overlooking the tin roofs with holes cut for the smoke from the kilns to escape.
We got kind of lost getting there. We went to the end of the road, then a couple of miles further, then another smaller dirtier track which turned into a path. After backtracking and taking the other fork we found our town. Turns out there is a nice paved highway the other tourists took, but they missed the beautiful little valley with farms, orchards, canals, corn as high as an elephant's eye, Lantana hedges ten feet tall, animals and people staring and sniggering at the lost gringos. Just as we were negotiating a turn-around on a rickety canal bridge here comes a taxi roaring up the trail in a cloud of dust delivering a local couple back from somewhere more exciting, but I dare say not as beautiful and peaceful. They don't know what they've got in this little paradise at the end of the road. When you come to visit we will take you there and to the pottery town.
Last night we hosted our third of four holiday dinner parties in our miniature mansion. Another of Kevin's missionary companions, Andres Toledo and his family, five in all, spent three very pleasant hours with us. They are dear friends, the parents of Bianca our adopted granddaughter, now two years into her BYU education. They have a two year old who is just a smidge shy of being spoiled. She took over and made herself at home with the Lays and ice cream. The others were introduced to roast and rice and gravy. Again, none had any notion of making or eating gravy, but they licked the pot clean and probably would have called for more, had BJ not offered them a choice of peach cobbler or strawberry topped cheesecake, two more exciting new culinary treats. They left a few crumbs of cheesecake and a little cobbler for my midnight snack.
Tomorrow night we have the missionaries for New Year's Eve sloppy Joes, potato chips and watermelon—just like the 4th of July! Wish we could find some dill pickle slices. BJ is reminding me that we have to go to the big government place early tomorrow to wait in line all day to pick up our visas and ID cards and numbers and become legal aliens, so I'm signing off for now. I'll let you know how it goes and tell you about dealing with the customs office trying to retrieve the other Christmas package our family sent. . . . . . . .
Friday, Dec. 31st
Well, it's tomorrow night, and WE ARE LEGAL ALIENS!! We are now classed as temporary residents, with an ID number and a temporary card. Now they say we can do business, and it only took half a day waiting in pretty short lines at four government buildings, the longest being only 23 with less than an hour's wait. We walked a lot, then had to take a cab because of BJ's sore foot, but we got 'er done. We were photographed twice, fingerprinted twice (we are already in the FBI's AFIS file if they want to look), and faced a number of government functionaries, most of whom were remarkably friendly, considering our alien status. We had Spanish speaking Elders at our side all through the process, but many of the clerks addressed us directly and when we understood them we answered for ourselves. I went right out and bought a mobile internet router. We have internet at home, or anywhere else we want it. We have our rights. Now we can own a car and get it insured and buy a toll pass and quit saying “we don't have a RUT number yet”.
The experience at the airport customs office was not so nice. Our family sent two Christmas packages, one of which was delivered, no problema. The other we got a notice that it was being held for unexplained (still) reasons. We have spent three half-days, countless miles, and the time of a dear Elder, who proclaimed, “I will get your package.” At one point we paid $16 dollars for a stamped and initialed receipt authorizing us to go to the airport and get our package. We did and got the royal runaround by a guy (the 5th or 6th we were sent to that day-typical) who probably hates his job and didn't want to bother looking for the goods. He would not/could not tell us why the package was held and said he could not release it because it was addressed to “Elder and Hermana Pack” and my passport says Blair Philip Pack. No amount of reasoning that Elder is a title and not a name would sway him. He wanted some proof beyond my badge and missionary ID that I am indeed Elder Pack. This was a very thinly veiled cover for his unwillingness to GO GET THE PACKAGE! Finally he agreed to resend it to the post office to which it was addressed and let them collect the $61 dollar fine—FOR WHAT? That was two days ago. I frankly don't expect we will ever see the package. We picked up 18 today, a new daily record. We have handled hundreds of packages and letters addressed to Elder or Hermana someone or other and none of them have encountered this problem. By the way, USPS Priority Mail, is still the best way to send stuff. UPS and DHL and FEDEX have to be picked up at the airport and have all been even more problematic then Uncle Sam and they all have to pass Chilean customs inspections.
Sunday, Jan. 2nd
You might not know it,
But we have two poets.
Two folks;
Different strokes.
Sing praises for the Sunday Afternoon Nap!
Praise Him who created it.
Thank Him for his mercy.
Be grateful when the kids are big enough or small enough to allow it.
Enjoy it at every opportunity.
Neglect it at your own peril.
[now note the reversal and repeating]
Great are the benefits thereof.
Do it every week if you can.
It will bring peace and calmness to your family.
It is a wonderful gift.
The God of Heaven is it's giver.
Ahhhhhhhh, the Sunday Snooze. Hallelujah!
It is called an Haiku, an ancient X shaped, repeating, poetic form common in the Bible, and Surprize! in the Book of Mormon, too. The X shape is not usually shown, but would be helpful. The whole book of Mosiah is an haiku along with many other poetic passages. How did young Joseph know about haiku? It wasn't even discovered until about the time he published THE BOOK and he probably never heard of it. What a genius OR what an inspired prophet who translated an ancient Hebrew-based record just as he claimed. Which takes more faith to believe?- that he made it all up or that he did what he said he did?
Sunday at the Rama Las Lomas, lots of hugs, greetings for the New Year voiced in various ways we are beginning to understand, an opening hymn we have never heard before about Another Year is Passed, sung hesitantly at first, gaining confidence and volume until by the third we are all into it with gusto. Me gusta! I am now officially second counselor in the young men presidency, although it can't be an official calling because we aren't members of the branch, but I got to teach the lesson I prepared four weeks ago, got a new manual, and am already friends with Pablo the president's counselor and the AP boys. I offered them my “old” ties, replaced by the beauties I got for Christmas. They weren't so sure, but each took one after some urging. We'll see if they actually wear them. I love my new ones. Thanks. Good choices. I got lots of compliments this week. I like the attention. And the leftover Appleby's ribs from yesterday's Cena Ano Nuevo or New Year's Supper.
The skyping last nite was a little disappointing in picture quality, but we loved doing it from home. I looked like the “Scream” man in the ?Edvard Munch? painting. Poor Ella ran from the room. We'll check into an upgrade and try different locations. Our telephone does not work in our bedroom. Maybe skype will work better in another room. We may have to skype from the playground. Our phone works better out there. Internet seems to work just fine.
Just talked with Kevin who says Steve is going HOME tomorrow and back to work in 2 to 6 weeks!! Un ano nuevo milagro! Thanks again for all your prayers.
Is this long email thing becoming just another Facebook or reality show? Feedback from both my followers is welcomed.
We love you more and more. Is it even possible? We pray for all of you every night and morning and in between and we feel your prayers. That keeps us going. We love our mission more and more.
ALL OUR LOVE, HUGS, KISSES, SNUGGLES, BACK SCRATCHES AND SMILES TO Y'ALL.
GRAMMY AND GRAMPS
It's Christmas day and I'm starting a new email; just finished one last night. A couple of things have changed. I just talked to my brother, Steve, for over 20 minutes from his hospital chair. He was eating a bowl of Cheerios just as he was when I left him to go on my mission to Florida in 1961—no feeding tube, no respirator, only one IV and a catheter to keep him tethered. He was up twice yesterday and they are threatening to have him walking today. He said it was a great feeling to sit on a toilet again. Small pleasures. A week ago we all thought he might never walk, talk or go home. Kevin went to pick up Lindsay from BYU Idaho and took a suit in case he had to stay for a funeral. NOT. Steve got to talk to his missionary son Ryan last night to set up a time for a longer call this afternoon. What Joy! It's the best Christmas gift I've ever received. I imagine Ryan, Kathy, Jessica and Steve all agree. Let the heavens rejoice and the mountains shout for joy. (a new Christmas carol in the making?)
Betty Jane is not having such a pleasant Christmas. She started feeling sick at her stomach Thursday nite after the big mission Christmas party. She was off and on (literally) yesterday, but made it to the President's Mexican Christmas dinner yesterday, her insides in turmoil the whole time. She was sick all last night and today, so we haven't attempted to do Christmas. She got up and opened a birthday gift, ate a piece of toast and rushed to the bathroom and back to bed. I left her there while I walked over to the office to call Steve, therefore: good bye until tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Dec. 26, 2010
The stockings were hung by the TV on a chair, in hopes that Saint Nick would find them there. He did. We had a very nice Christmas in spite of sickness. Later in the day BJ got up and dressed; we opened our gifts and went to the office about 8:30 pm to skype the family. We got to talk to everyone. Emily had four families at her house and Kevin's was in Orlando at Cindy's sister. We even got to talk to BJ's brother Thom in Arcata as a bonus. This sweet day was iced by a knock at our door right after we got home about 12:30 midnight. There stood our five missionaries with a sorry (beautiful) little (half-eaten), green homemade (delicious) cake with sprinkles and one huge white candle, singing Happy Birthday (Would you like a piece? No, Thanks. We . . .[laughter]). What a precious gift on top of all the other goodness. Our first mission Christmas. Memories in the bank. Gift wrapped.
The doorbell did ring,
And they did sing,
Happy Birthday to me.
A yummy cake,
Elder Maldanado had baked;
Five missionaries singing with glee.
What can I say?
They made my day.
They are THE BEST;
And I can attest--
The Lord's missionaries,
Have HEARTS of GOLD.
They serve and GIVE ALL;
They answered the call,
To serve in the Army of God.
WITH LOVE AND THANKS TO
Elder Acosta
Elder Stoddard
Elder Barlow
Elder Cummings
Elder Maldanado
From Hermana Pack
Strange sensation. A silent Christmas on the playground and in the streets. Where do they all go on Christmas? Not a creature was stirring. It was so eerie that I took a photo of a usually bustling street and not a soul in sight for blocks each direction. But. . . Day after Christmas, all those bikes we saw in the stores were in the streets, daddies teaching littles to ride, and the cutest electric kid car remotely controlled by Mom from a few steps behind. Now the playground is abustle again. Papa! Papa! Papa! (Kevin tells us that families stay up very late on Christmas eve, enjoying a big dinner, a walk with the kids about midnight while Santa comes, opening the gifts, playing and enjoying until maybe 4 am. Bianca says her family is wimps because they fold about 2 am. No wonder nobody was about on Christmas Day.)
BJ wasn't up to doing church today, very limp and washed out. I went, late, and there was Kevin's old missionary comp, Manny from 14 hours south. Surprize!! Can I visit your esposa? I called and warned her and while I was fielding all the get well wishes and collecting Christmas cards, notes, nuts, etc. from her friends, she was home putting on the best china and crystal and getting a roast and rice and gravy ready. We even had canned green beans. Again, our Latin friend did not know what gravy was, but seemed to enjoy every drop. To us it was strange to see him sop his bread in his ice cream. Different cultures. Different tastes. Same world. Same family. We had a wonderful afternoon with our friend and not a peep of complaint from BJ afterward. She's puny but better. What a woman.
Thanks to all who helped make this a very Merry Christmas for us. Yes, we missed being with all of you, but the Lord compensates and eases the hurt. Will we ask to go home two months early for BJ's 70th b-day next year? Can't say at this point. Stay tuned……….Probably not.
Thursday, Dec. 30th, pm
We have now skyped or phoned with many of you and have enjoyed the mini-movie our kids put together. When we get it downloaded we will show it to everybody. We loved it! I think it will be posted online for anyone who has 22 minutes to spare. Thanks again. Academy Awards are coming soon. What is the name of that golden man-statue? Out of sight, out of mind. So soon forgotten.
BJ got better and we celebrated our anniversary by going all the way across Santiago to the La Florida Center, a humungeous mall, for dinner at Ruby Tuesday's. Nice, but not quite up to snuff. I enjoyed my steak, but there is nothing like American beef. Ribeye just doesn't translate. It's like trying to explain a joke that is hilarious in your language and draws a blank stare when explained in another. Actually, that happens anytime you have to explain a joke, eh? We had a nice evening remembering 47 years. It's easy to look back from here. The memories flood. Sweetness.
Tuesday after our abbreviated pouch run we took another micro vacation to a little town at the end of the road, literally, called Pomaire, where the folks have been making pottery since the Jaredites landed. They now attract tourists in buses, taxis and cars and use their money to beautify the town and build nice infrastructure. We spent a leisurely afternoon strolling the streets, stepping over dogs and their leavings, buying a few things including a nice Ecuadorian Panama hat to shade my solar panel, eating an authentic Chilean meal on the balcony of the San Francisco restaurant overlooking the tin roofs with holes cut for the smoke from the kilns to escape.
We got kind of lost getting there. We went to the end of the road, then a couple of miles further, then another smaller dirtier track which turned into a path. After backtracking and taking the other fork we found our town. Turns out there is a nice paved highway the other tourists took, but they missed the beautiful little valley with farms, orchards, canals, corn as high as an elephant's eye, Lantana hedges ten feet tall, animals and people staring and sniggering at the lost gringos. Just as we were negotiating a turn-around on a rickety canal bridge here comes a taxi roaring up the trail in a cloud of dust delivering a local couple back from somewhere more exciting, but I dare say not as beautiful and peaceful. They don't know what they've got in this little paradise at the end of the road. When you come to visit we will take you there and to the pottery town.
Last night we hosted our third of four holiday dinner parties in our miniature mansion. Another of Kevin's missionary companions, Andres Toledo and his family, five in all, spent three very pleasant hours with us. They are dear friends, the parents of Bianca our adopted granddaughter, now two years into her BYU education. They have a two year old who is just a smidge shy of being spoiled. She took over and made herself at home with the Lays and ice cream. The others were introduced to roast and rice and gravy. Again, none had any notion of making or eating gravy, but they licked the pot clean and probably would have called for more, had BJ not offered them a choice of peach cobbler or strawberry topped cheesecake, two more exciting new culinary treats. They left a few crumbs of cheesecake and a little cobbler for my midnight snack.
Tomorrow night we have the missionaries for New Year's Eve sloppy Joes, potato chips and watermelon—just like the 4th of July! Wish we could find some dill pickle slices. BJ is reminding me that we have to go to the big government place early tomorrow to wait in line all day to pick up our visas and ID cards and numbers and become legal aliens, so I'm signing off for now. I'll let you know how it goes and tell you about dealing with the customs office trying to retrieve the other Christmas package our family sent. . . . . . . .
Friday, Dec. 31st
Well, it's tomorrow night, and WE ARE LEGAL ALIENS!! We are now classed as temporary residents, with an ID number and a temporary card. Now they say we can do business, and it only took half a day waiting in pretty short lines at four government buildings, the longest being only 23 with less than an hour's wait. We walked a lot, then had to take a cab because of BJ's sore foot, but we got 'er done. We were photographed twice, fingerprinted twice (we are already in the FBI's AFIS file if they want to look), and faced a number of government functionaries, most of whom were remarkably friendly, considering our alien status. We had Spanish speaking Elders at our side all through the process, but many of the clerks addressed us directly and when we understood them we answered for ourselves. I went right out and bought a mobile internet router. We have internet at home, or anywhere else we want it. We have our rights. Now we can own a car and get it insured and buy a toll pass and quit saying “we don't have a RUT number yet”.
The experience at the airport customs office was not so nice. Our family sent two Christmas packages, one of which was delivered, no problema. The other we got a notice that it was being held for unexplained (still) reasons. We have spent three half-days, countless miles, and the time of a dear Elder, who proclaimed, “I will get your package.” At one point we paid $16 dollars for a stamped and initialed receipt authorizing us to go to the airport and get our package. We did and got the royal runaround by a guy (the 5th or 6th we were sent to that day-typical) who probably hates his job and didn't want to bother looking for the goods. He would not/could not tell us why the package was held and said he could not release it because it was addressed to “Elder and Hermana Pack” and my passport says Blair Philip Pack. No amount of reasoning that Elder is a title and not a name would sway him. He wanted some proof beyond my badge and missionary ID that I am indeed Elder Pack. This was a very thinly veiled cover for his unwillingness to GO GET THE PACKAGE! Finally he agreed to resend it to the post office to which it was addressed and let them collect the $61 dollar fine—FOR WHAT? That was two days ago. I frankly don't expect we will ever see the package. We picked up 18 today, a new daily record. We have handled hundreds of packages and letters addressed to Elder or Hermana someone or other and none of them have encountered this problem. By the way, USPS Priority Mail, is still the best way to send stuff. UPS and DHL and FEDEX have to be picked up at the airport and have all been even more problematic then Uncle Sam and they all have to pass Chilean customs inspections.
Sunday, Jan. 2nd
You might not know it,
But we have two poets.
Two folks;
Different strokes.
Sing praises for the Sunday Afternoon Nap!
Praise Him who created it.
Thank Him for his mercy.
Be grateful when the kids are big enough or small enough to allow it.
Enjoy it at every opportunity.
Neglect it at your own peril.
[now note the reversal and repeating]
Great are the benefits thereof.
Do it every week if you can.
It will bring peace and calmness to your family.
It is a wonderful gift.
The God of Heaven is it's giver.
Ahhhhhhhh, the Sunday Snooze. Hallelujah!
It is called an Haiku, an ancient X shaped, repeating, poetic form common in the Bible, and Surprize! in the Book of Mormon, too. The X shape is not usually shown, but would be helpful. The whole book of Mosiah is an haiku along with many other poetic passages. How did young Joseph know about haiku? It wasn't even discovered until about the time he published THE BOOK and he probably never heard of it. What a genius OR what an inspired prophet who translated an ancient Hebrew-based record just as he claimed. Which takes more faith to believe?- that he made it all up or that he did what he said he did?
Sunday at the Rama Las Lomas, lots of hugs, greetings for the New Year voiced in various ways we are beginning to understand, an opening hymn we have never heard before about Another Year is Passed, sung hesitantly at first, gaining confidence and volume until by the third we are all into it with gusto. Me gusta! I am now officially second counselor in the young men presidency, although it can't be an official calling because we aren't members of the branch, but I got to teach the lesson I prepared four weeks ago, got a new manual, and am already friends with Pablo the president's counselor and the AP boys. I offered them my “old” ties, replaced by the beauties I got for Christmas. They weren't so sure, but each took one after some urging. We'll see if they actually wear them. I love my new ones. Thanks. Good choices. I got lots of compliments this week. I like the attention. And the leftover Appleby's ribs from yesterday's Cena Ano Nuevo or New Year's Supper.
The skyping last nite was a little disappointing in picture quality, but we loved doing it from home. I looked like the “Scream” man in the ?Edvard Munch? painting. Poor Ella ran from the room. We'll check into an upgrade and try different locations. Our telephone does not work in our bedroom. Maybe skype will work better in another room. We may have to skype from the playground. Our phone works better out there. Internet seems to work just fine.
Just talked with Kevin who says Steve is going HOME tomorrow and back to work in 2 to 6 weeks!! Un ano nuevo milagro! Thanks again for all your prayers.
Is this long email thing becoming just another Facebook or reality show? Feedback from both my followers is welcomed.
We love you more and more. Is it even possible? We pray for all of you every night and morning and in between and we feel your prayers. That keeps us going. We love our mission more and more.
ALL OUR LOVE, HUGS, KISSES, SNUGGLES, BACK SCRATCHES AND SMILES TO Y'ALL.
GRAMMY AND GRAMPS
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