Groundbreaking

There are no appropriate words I can say. Just know that ground has been broken for the Temple in Rome. The video shows what the new temple and other buildings will look like. The hymn being played, Faith in Every Footstep, was significant to me as I prepared for my mission. I'm so glad they chose to use it. My heart is full.

The Sweet With the Bitter

I missed most of General Conference this time around because of trips to the hospital to be with my dad. The only talk I was able to really watch and get anything out of was Elder Cook's. He talked about the necessity of experiencing the bitter with the sweet. It was the talk written just for me. That is how my life has been consumed since I found out about my dad on Thursday afternoon. I am sick with worry about him, but I'm so happy that he was able to get to the hospital quickly before worse things happened. They were able to stop a heart attack while they were evaluating him. It's bitter to me that he is in the ICU, but sweet to me that he is in probably the best hospital to take care of him after what he has gone through. It was bitter that my mom could not be there with him yesterday, but sweet that I was able to leave the baby with family close to the hospital so that I could take her place in his room. For everything that I am sad about, there is something to rejoice in.

As I said before, I missed most of Conference. On Saturday morning (after the surprise that my mom was ill and could not be at the hospital) I was running late to get to my dad and arrived at my in-laws in a bit of a fluster. The first session of Conference was playing as I hurried around the room assuring myself I was leaving them with everything they needed for the baby. In a single quiet moment I heard President Monson say they were announcing five new temples. I shuffled through the diaper bag, producing necessary items when I heard him say, "...and Rome, Italy." As the congregation gasped I turned to the television and burst into tears of joy as I watched the prophet smile. I cannot adequately express the emotions I feel knowing the blessings of the temple will be coming to the people I served on my mission. The goal that all of us, members and missionaries alike, had been striving, working, fasting, and praying for has become a reality. For a few moments I stood there weeping, so grateful to hear the prophet telling the Italian Saints that a temple would be theirs.

Five years ago I was in Rome, living my last few days as a missionary. My last Sunday there was Conference. In my mind's eye I was transported back to the chapel on Via Bra and could imagine the cheering and joyful crying of the people I knew there. October 4th will be a day of joy for me. I was able to hold my two month (exactly) old daughter, be with my dad as he made two big steps forward in recovery, and hear with my own ears that the goal of my work as a missionary had finally been realized. I am overwhelmed with the blessings in my life.

That's What I Think

This video, in connection with an e-mail I got today, reminds me of a scene from my mission. I was in district meeting and we were playing our district leader's favorite discussion memorization game. I don't know what he called it, but I call it torture. The game consisted of him giving the player three numbers and the player responding with the answer. The first number was for the discussion, the second number for the principle in that discussion, and the third number was the paragraph in that principle. We had to give it perfectly from memory. There was no reward for getting it right, but there was punishment for getting it wrong. We were forced to drink a glass of chinotto, which is both an assault and an abomination to the tongue. The only time in my life that I've had difficulty memorizing anything was on my mission. Because of that, I ended up drinking more than my fair share of chinotto, while not making any progress on my memorization. Double the pressure with none of the reward for doing well. To put it quite mildly, I hated that game with a passion fiery enough to scorch the earth straight through its crust.

One particular week during district meeting I flatly refused to play the game. I told everyone it wasn't helping me (the only one who hadn't already passed off the memorization) and it only served to make me angry. When my district leader did not accept that answer, I merely kept silent when it was my turn. To avoid argument, I began simply drinking my glass of chinotto and staring down my district leader. Usually I'm much more kind than that, but I was provoked beyond my limits that day. At one point I was so upset by the continuation of the pointless "game" that I was concentrating more on not yelling at my district leader than I was on other social niceties. The gas in my stomach from the carbonation finally built up enough that a burp had to come out. I didn't realize it was there until it escaped, but I knew it had been loud enough that there was no covering it up. Rather than excuse myself or apologize I said, "And that's what I think of your stupid game." Not my finest moment, but it got the point across.

As for how the email I got today plays into reminding me of the video, I'll just say that someone who made part of my life a misery (no, not my old district leader) made a request to come back in, though in a very small way. This person is one of three people there have ever been in my life that I have been unable to get along with. I tried, I really did, but I was unsuccessful. I guess this person was unaware of my dislike, which was the way I tried to keep it. I have not yet responded at all, but spent the day wondering if it would be mean to just ignore the person. After advice from my husband and a friend (they both know this person and my feelings), ignoring seems the best thing to do. The video is to say what I think of the email. I'm sorry to be so mean and blog about it, but I'm much more restrained than I could have been.

Immacolata

One of the more memorable experiences on my mission was the celebration of the Immacolata. It made enough of an impression that I wrote a special letter/essay about it five years ago, as I was experiencing it. Thanks to the Italian Wikipedia I found out more about what they are really celebrating, rather than what the elders told me was happening. In honor of this anniversary, I will include an abridged version of the essay.

The Immacolata is is celebration of the immaculate conception of Christ, celebrated on December 8th. Preparation for the Immacolata begins the night of November 26th with nightly processions. The faithful heed the call of a priest with a microphone and a cow bell, beckoning all to come and worship the queen of heaven.. Through the night and into the wee hours of the morning they trek tirelessly through the city, continually repeating the priest's song. It strikes the ear as preparation for a sacrificial rite. As there is a large statue of the Madonna at the end of our street, we were awakened every morning at 4:30 to the sweet strains of pagan chanting. This ritual continues for 12 nights. The night of December 7 is when the real fun begins.

Several days beforehand the local children and teenagers gather scrap wood in their spare time to make bonfires. For a more specific discussion of this topic, please see Jer. 7:18(17-20). There are two or three particularly large fires in various locations near the beach. At the stroke of midnight they torch the wood. As the smoke from incense supposedly carries prayers to heaven, certainly the smoke from moldy zucchini crates reach the Madonna without delay.
As another preparation for the festivities a portable Madonna, cross, and stage (complete with altar) were set up 50 feet away from the permanent statue of Mary. This ensures that one of the two idols will hear and answer your prayers.

Sadly, we were not able to witness the bonfires. We thought it would be in our best interest to be in bed on time. Our zone leader called us lazy, but we prefer the term "obedient." We had also heard hat people tend to get a little rowdy. What better way could there be to celebrate a deeply religious activity than by endangering the safety of others?

Sleep on the night of December 7 is dependent upon the quality of your earplugs and the thickness of your curtains. The festivities begin with the lighting of the bonfires and fireworks. The people then make their pilgrimage to the portable Madonna. Once there they sing hymns to her and and take the sacrament in the street. Because I have high quality earplugs and thick curtains I was able to sleep through the rest of the night's activities, until 6:30, anyway. At that point the fireworks finale charged into gear, waking every man, woman and child from here to London. By now sleep was no longer possible and we arose to see what we could, which wasn't much. However, we were able to hear a stirring performance that sounded like Peter, Paul, and Mary (probably two priests and a nun who chose to take on those names after their vows). Following their performance we were favored with a lovely rendition of Ave Maria, played on traditional Italian Catholic bagpipes. After that the brass band came on the scene. "...and next in line in this annual Immacolata parade is the Castellammare High School marching band. They will favor us with Silent Night." I thought it ironic that a brass band would play Silent Night, complete with all the appropriate drums. Si-ilent night (oom-pah-pah), ho-oly night (oom-pah-pah). After the Festival of Immaculate Pregnancy Parade a few more fireworks went off and everyone went home.

A happy Immacolata to all...in another 12 days.

Formaggio con i Vermi

I love to learn and am generally anxious to find out more about nearly any topic. Two subjects that fascinate me more than others are early Christian history and the beliefs and culture of people different from me. There is something captivating about coming to understand others and why they do the things they do. For this very reason I like a show called Taboo that plays on the National Geographic channel. Every episode highlights some aspect of culture or behavior that is considered strange by others (usually Westerners). The last episode I watched was about cuisine. As the narrator was educating us on the use of insects, he briefly mentioned that Italians on the island of Sardinia had been using certain insects to soften cheese for the past several hundred years.

As soon as that was said I flicked Eric's arm to make sure he was paying attention. Having spent 6 months of my mission on that island, I knew something of that cheese. The narrator never named it, but it is called formaggio con i vermi--worm cheese. To learn how it is made, click here.

Worm is a misnomer as the worms are actually tiny maggots. I learned this when I came face to face with the cheese on my mission. I was with Sorella Rogai and Sorella Price in Cagliari waiting for my new companion to come to the island. I also had a mishap with their toilet that week, but that's a story for another time. The three of us thought it would be a great joke to make meat and worm cheese sandwiches for the elders and tell them afterward about the cheese. Sorella Rogai was from Florence, but had family in Cagliari. Thanks to these family members we were able to find a store that would sell the cheese to us. The shopkeeper was very happy and offered us a sample before we purchased the cheese. After hearing so many people rave about it, I was very interested to have a taste.

The shopkeeper eagerly cut us slices of Italian bread and slathered some of the worm cheese on it. Until that moment I had never seen cheese...quiver. My companions and I dubiously looked at each other. Sorella Rogai took a big bite and I followed suit. What followed was an assault on the senses that I'll not soon forget. My nose tasted the abominable spread almost as soon as my tongue did. There was not sufficient time to recover from the shock before the taste invaded my sinuses. I was not previously aware that taste was possible in the sinuses. I choked it down and steeled myself for the next bite. As I opened my mouth one of the hundreds of gyrating maggots stopped and looked at me, obviously aware of its impending fate. I couldn't do it. For all the reasons you can possibly imagine.

We got out of there as quickly as possible and decided it wasn't a good joke for the elders. Sorella Rogai had to empty her stomach, while Sorella Price had deftly pocketed the stuff before anyone noticed she hadn't eaten. Now, five years later, I still can't understand the motivation for that particular bit of Italian cuisine.

Antus Houdinium

Today is an anniversary of sorts. It marks four years from the day I was supposed to return home from my mission. I, and the rest of the people I was traveling with, got stuck in Germany over night.

Tangent: I don't think Germany, or at least Frankfurt, likes me very much. I've been through it only twice: on my way to and from Italy. On the way in I was robbed and on the way out the plane left without us. I'm afraid of what calamity would befall me if I were to actually go there on vacation. The only good thing I've personally experienced in Germany is the hotel's excellent continental breakfast.

As I was considering how to commemorate this anniversary I thought of brownies. And then I thought of the magician/escape artists that were the ants in the apartment from the second city of my mission: Castellammare di Stabia. Ants and brownies really do have a connection. I promise.

We knew our ants were special when we saw that they chose to infest our apartment on the third floor rather than staying at ground level. Their hole in the wall was in our bathroom, but they found their food in our kitchen. They would come out of their home, go out the bathroom, down the hall and around the corner to get there. We tried to rid ourselves of their presence by drowning them with water from a sponge. That worked for a while. I was amazed one morning when I tried to drown one offensive insect and it began to swim! It waited until it floated the surface, then simply lifted its head and began paddling its legs. I didn't know evolution worked that quickly. We started putting soap in the water to break the surface tension. The ants didn't float so well after that.

Now for the brownie part. My companion at the time made fantastic from scratch brownies. We loved them, the Italians loved them, and...the ants loved them. After leaving part of a batch on the counter the night before, we woke up to a brownie pan thick with ants. The next night we put a cover on the pan and woke up to the same results. Obviously we needed a tighter seal. We found our solution in the front-load washing machine. What followed would astound Houdini, himself.

A full pan of brownies was placed inside the washing machine for use the next day. Confident that we had out-smarted the ants, we went to bed. We had an early appointment, so we dressed quickly. When we got to the kitchen we couldn't believe our eyes. The inside of the washing machine was black with ants. They had gotten past our safeguards. As we were in a hurry, the most clean up we did was to dump soapy water on the line of ants from the kitchen to the bathroom. We came back home for lunch and we each did our own thing. While my companion was in the bathroom I noticed that she had cleaned up the ants and I thought that was very nice. I went into the bathroom directly after my companion left it. When I came out she thanked me for cleaning up the ants. WHAT? The hundreds of ants we killed had vanished completely. The mystery was solved a few days later when I watched one ant carry away the carcass of its deceased comrade. I never knew ants disposed of their dead.

You wouldn't think this would be a bragging point, but I can honestly say, "My ants are smarter than your ants."

Why I Didn't Go

I was going to write about the wonderful evening that was the get-together with the sisters from my mission untl I realized that almost 50% of the four people that actually read my blog are people I served with. Okay, that's not exactly true. Abbie wrote about it and posted the picture, so it's on her blog if you want to see it. I thought I would, however, address the reasons why I decided to cut my evening short and go home instead of to the actual reunion.

I really, really wanted to see three of my companions who would be there (Alma, Jen, and Lena), but I had other compelling reasons to stay home.

1. I haven't actually enjoyed the reunions for about two years now. They hurt my feel bads. There are always people there I was good friends with and was excited to see who seem to brush me off on their way to talk to someone else. Why would I put up with that? The one notable exception is one of the more awkward elders I served with. He is very sweet and silently follows me around the room until he feels comfortable enough to greet me. He then says hello, asks how I am, and then goes away. If I didn't know he's just shy it would kind of creep me out.

2. I wasn't feeling very well. On the day after my body informed me in no uncertain terms that I am NOT (remember the NOT) pregnant, it decided to make me morning sick all day. How annoying is that? Answer: very.

3. I didn't want to fight traffic and parking at BYU. In the rain.

4. I was halfway through making cinnamon rolls for conference.

5. While I was in line at Pudding on the Rice with the other sisters a guy behind us asked if he knew me. We were in choir together in high school. We chatted for a while and I realized that I was having a more meaningful conversation with a guy who couldn't remember my name than I would have with any of the elders I served with.

6. It was a combined reunion with the most recently returned president and I wasn't interested in wading through room crowded with missionaries I'd never met.

So, to Alma, Jen, and Lena: I really did want to see you all, and I'm sorry I didn't.

To Lily, Mary, Abbie, Amber, and Allyson: I had a lot of fun. Thanks.