Day 83: A Very British Thanksgiving

Late Dinner

So a few days ago, Julie Shuler invited me to Thanksgiving Dinner. Flattered, I asked whether there was anything I could do or bring, but she and her sister (and subsequently Jay-man) insisted on taking care of everything. Without any idea as to what this would entail, I went my merry way to town and promised to be back by seven.

The evening rolled around and I showed up to hear many voices coming from downstairs and in the servery. The sitting room yielded Penny chatting with another American woman, a Norwegian guy named Anders, and a Fijian named Marcus. Andrea showed up later to play chess with a very enthused Anders while I tried to make conversation with the others.

Dinner was not downstairs in the Shulers’ flat because the entire singles ward seemed to make an appearance that night—in Great Hall fashion, some fifty people crowded around the two dining room tables (Javery creeping around underneath), and food starting spilling out of the servery—dishes and dishes of maple ham, butter whipped potatoes, green bean casserole, creamed fruit salad, cranberry chutney, and the most delicious turkey I’ve ever had, not to mention pitchers of home-made root beer. Brother Shuler offered the prayer and all of us tucked in (it was after 8pm at this point). I sat next to Andrea, Anders, and another American who worked on graphics for Harry Potter and Avatar (no idea of his name or his company); we had some great conversation and both guys were heartily abused by the Shuler sisters for being tactless or something, I forget. After an hour, the eating had stopped but it was obvious no one wanted to move…a madhouse of dishwashing would ensue later.

The best part of the night was laid out in the servery—a smorgasbord of desserts, pies, cookies, fudge, strudel, and homemade whipped cream. I was impressed with how quickly everything was cleared away, and I was so excited about the pumpkin pie (something almost nonexistent in the UK that I immediately scooped a piece and considered the London Underground Edition of Monopoly (free parking actually made sense! Hooray!) A fun night for all, and so full of food. I retreated upstairs for some nothing-doing and watched all of Gone with the Wind. Bless Andrew for teaching me how to operate the VCR.

Day 82: Holiday and Dreams

Thanksgiving Luck

So everyone has left on holiday--off to Prague, Dublin, Endinburgh, Amsterdam, Brussels, Venice, and Madrid. Everyone except me and Andrea; Kim's still super sick in the hospital after her surgery, so I'm going over there tomorrow morning.

Around ten, I took the train to Leicester with my last forty pounds in my wallet. I went up to the ticket booth and said, "I have twenty-five pounds. What's the best seat I can get for tonight?"

The man was ruddy-faced and jollier than typical English men. He pulled up the chart and said, "Well, it's a little obstructed..." he pointed at the very first row, cornered with the pit and the stage. "It's twenty pounds." I asked how obstructed the view was, and he said that you couldn't see people lying down in the back because you were so close. I stuffed money into the window and laughed out loud at my good luck. So cheap! Les Mis in London! I still can't believe my good luck.

Queen's Theater

That evening, I got my act together and headed to the show. I sat next to a pair of girls who had seen the show fourteen times (no joke), and almost blew out my ears leaning too close to the orchestra pit (timpany just below). It was so close, I could see the beads of sweat on everyone's foreheads.

The show was unbelievable. The set was like a wooden transformer, changing from a front gate to a bar to a broken down fort so effortlessly. Traveling through the exposition meant a rotating stage, crazy costumes, and some really delightful shining stars. I'd seen Les Mis in Provo, and I think their Jean and Fantine were so fantastic, but the London Javert, Epponine, and the small boy were totally boss. The show's messages of suffering, slow redemption, loss, trying so hard and still not making it, really draw crowds more than the happy-go-lucky messages of other musicals. I think it's because we all don't know what it's like to be happy, but we all know what it's like to be miserable. The show brings that out in those moments when we hope that everything will be okay for those fictional characters, and it's not. If only we could protect that boy and tell him not to go over the fort. But we can't. And we keep coming to the show, to feel once again that we can't control much, that other people matter more than we, that we need to care about them or our lives are just a waste.

I guess a show like this helps us remember that we all can fall, and we all can rise again. Those relationships we have make us who we are and maybe ideals aren't the only things we should fight for. That's what I came away with. If anyone gets the chance to got to London, go experience Les Mis.

Day 81: Another Year

Film Review

Plans for Christmas lights got hosed--so I marched down Bayswater to the Coronet, toward the mobs of people trying to get in and see Harry Potter. I approved of the healthy push and shove so missing in this country. But I wasn't there to see Harry (not again, anyhow); I wanted to see Jim Broadbent.

Very British indie film--everything felt so real-life; there are sequences of people sitting, looking at each other during an awkward silence. It features a cute couple out in a place like Hampstead, complete with tomato garden and warm kitchen; their friends are struggling with the fact that they're growing old and their lives haven't turned out the way they wanted. It's hard to load those kind of struggles on two peoples' shoulders, even if they are happily married and have had a rich life together. I left the theatre convinced that 70% of your happiness depends on marrying the right person for you, and that it is possible to be happy together ages after the amour has faded.

The film is a lot like King Lear in the way that I know I'll appreciate it a lot better when I'm older. When you're young, your life changes pretty regularly in really major ways: marriages, babies, university, moving. But as you get older, those don't happen much at all. Your chance to "start all over" rarely presents itself anymore, and for many, death isn't much to look forward to when it's the only change left. But the movie was optimistic; things change, and sometimes they stay the same. Sometimes life isn't what you expected or wanted. But you can be happy anyway, really. Happiness is a choice--hard work. But that helps you mature and see the world better.

All the actors were top-notch, the screenplay felt so real, and it's so packed with awkward--you feel like you're eavesdropping on real peoples' lives. There aren't car chases or dramatic concepts developed here, no convoluted ending--just people living another year. Really marvelous.

Day 80: The Daddy of Mosques in the UK

Spiritual and Secular Knowledge

Ben and Andrew came downstairs this morning after humanities to see all the girls stuffing bits of toast into their mouths and trying out different styles of head-scarves--these ranged from Virgin Mary to Pirate to Taliban meets Professor Quirrel (Liz). I didn't even try until we made it to the front patio; I left my coat at home and remained pretty comfortable on our little walk across Regents Park. Sister Seely was nice enough to wrap most of our scarves so that they covered our hair (if you're a woman, get your head covered or you won't get in).

Our tour guide's name was Omar. Nice guy, mid-twenties, landowner in Pakistan. He led us into the main prayer atrium, where we shed our shoes and quickly realized the air conditioning was on. It was a large blue carpeted room, with a gold dome on top, a monstrous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and gorgeous passages of scripture around the rooms. I loved the huge windows--everything felt very open and sacred to these people.

We all sat around him and he answered our questions. I asked what the biggest challenge being a Muslim today was--he told me, after a moment of contemplation, "Knowledge is power. And ignorance is not bliss." A lot of people found this very cryptic, but I didn't at all; we're Mormons, for crying out loud. Everyone thinks things from us marrying multiple wives, having horns, not believing in Jesus, and even stealing maidens in the night through secret tunnels under the temple and then throwing them into the lake. All of these are absurd. But a Muslim like Omar, who's a British bio-chemist and student, has to be lumped into the same category as oppressive (and oppressed) regimes in the Muslim community, lumped in with ignorant cultures, and lumped in with terrorists. He encouraged us to look at Islam socially and politically, as well as spiritually and religiously. This combination of secular and spiritual knowledge is what makes up all religions, he explained.

Although our fundamentalists haven't killed anyone yet, that's not to say they won't in future. Omar gave us a lot of passages from the Koran illustrating the inherent equality of men and women (Muhammed's wife, for example), living harmoniously with other religions (no compulsion, a struggle in the Middle East and elsewhere), and that one unforgiveable sin is to harm another person. He said that it's hard to hear about pockets of the community who oppress their women because that is not doctrinal. Before now, every Muslim speaker we've had have tried to acknowledge that such acts are upheld by Muslim belief, but Omar shut that theory down. He even called it disgusting.

Brother Seely told us that he believes Muhammed was inspired to create Islam in order to prepare lots of people to accept the Gospel. For people whose religion it is to submit to the will of God, it would not be much of a switch at all. Our tour was punctuated by call to afternoon prayers; a hundred or more men (including Omar) packed into the first ten or so feet of the room to stand, kneel, and prostrate themselves on the floor, recognizing the almighty God and approach Him in the best way they knew how. It was very humbling, actually; bit awkward to lie prostrate, but I guess sometimes we forget who we are and who exactly we're praying to. It was a great reminder being in the Mosque.

Day 79: Primary and the Blitz

Now and Then

Primary Program is the same wherever you go, it turns out. There's always the kid who is pulling the hair of the girl in front of him; there's always the girl who sits so everyone can see her underwear; there are always kids clearly too old to be there, but who read their lines robustly, as if demonstrating how it's done; those who are so excited their parents are there that they can't stop waving and those who cry to be in front of so many people. I suspect that these cute antics are the reasons why the Programs continue to this day. Our program did just fine. I had a good time singing next to Alicia (she kept wanting to sit on my lap, but I had to say no :(. )

Kim here has a kidney infection (we think), and she's been sicker than a dog for nearly a week--no sleep, no food. Poor thing. She had to cancel her Norway trip and might have to cancel going to Spain for Thanksgiving, and that's a lot of money down the drain. Having someone so ill in the house is a great way to get everyone involved in service and issues bigger than themselves. I sure hope she gets better soon and that it's nothing serious.

The fireside featured a bishop who was four years old during the London Blitz, and he was excited to tell us about it. He showed us pictures of piddly bomb-shelters, blackouts, craters in the streets with Fords in them, the famous smoking St. Paul's Cathedral, pictures of his family and himself as a little boy. I learned so much about the Blitz and what happened, how long it lasted, why the Chronicles of Narnia children were sent away, etc. Winston Churchill must have been a little peeved, but there was nothing that could be done. Happily a lot of the major sites were not bombed; because it was so dark, the Germans needed landmarks to navigate.

Day 78: The Magical World of Harry Potter

Not Quite a Review

You know what's sad? The entire theater was EMPTY when we went to see Harry Potter. Opening Day. What the--? We went to the Odeon at Whiteley's, super early too, so as to procure Ben and Jerrys and other goodies. There were 12 of us and like 8 other people. I guess the cinema isn't a big thing in the UK. Embarassing. The show was really fun to see (mostly because we got to see London a lot and squeal about how we'd been somewhere or other). I had to pee, not once, but THREE times during the movie. The only concern I had was coming back and seeing Harry and Hermione slowdancing...? Confusion. But it was so fun to see everyone from Leicester on the big screen, giving their all to the last Harry installment probably EVER. Hooray for smart lines and awesome camera and for not sprinting through the plot like crazy people! Bellatrix Lestrange is really, really scary--Emma Watson said acting like she was scared and tortured was not difficult. Helena really looks unhinged in that scene. Also Dobby is boss. Snape was only there for two seconds. Sadness. Secretly not excited to see the next movie because it's all over after that...I sure hope the next big thing is lying in wait.

After some pad thai, it's off to do more homework. I feel so awesome getting everything in on time! I guess the best part of today was realizing that we've been to Tottenham Court Road and Diagon Alley for REALSIES. And saw Rupert and everything. It's so enchanting to look at the pavement in the scenes and know exactly what those stones feel like under your feet, or imagine the smell of the streets, or wonder what road they just stood on and what bus that was that just raced by. So marvelous! In Paris, I was sad a lot of girls hadn't seen Ratatouille and did not indulge my reasonable search for Gusteau's. I think the things that aren't real are as exciting to us as people who really lived; going to Fleet Street and wondering which of the barbershops Sweeney Todd worked in is a chilling experience, or seeing a dark alley on Baker Street and wondering if Holmes is on the trail, or visiting Bloomsbury and checking all the windows to see if Peter is listening in at Wendy's stories, or going to Portsmouth and wondering whether Captain Wentworth is out at sea, or seeing a large estate out on the moors and wondering whether there isn't a secret garden locked behind those monstrous walls--it's the fairyland I hoped it would be. It might have taken a while to get here, but London is some sort of fairyland and living here feels like I'm living someone else's life.

I'm pleased to announce that the Shulers have invited me to Thanksgiving dinner with them, so I'll be well looked after. Bit different food, I can only imagine, but still--there might be real football on the television. That would be marvelous. Gotta write some essays tomorrow, blech. Hopefully I'll go hit up Regents Street and see the lights. That would be a fun outing for sure :)

Day 75: This is the War Room

Snarky Winston Churchill

Back across town we go! Some of the girls weren't super impressed with this site (it's not a pretty cathedral after all), but I loved it. In a basement, across from parliament, is a museum featuring the actual war rooms used by Winston Churchill at the start of the Blitz. We equipped with audio guides that led us through solid concrete hallways, adorned with fire alarms and yellow arrows painted to show the soldiers the exit; some of the rooms had doors with little peepholes, and some were just behind glass. We saw Churchill's bedroom (complete with desk and telephone and bottle of bourbon), his wife's bedroom (pink), his lieutenants' quarters (tiny), a little bathroom permanently occupied (the other side was a telephone to the United States government, no toilet at all), the stenographers' maproom complete with clicking and flashing and urgent reports, kitchen, mess hall, music from the forties, Churchill's voice from the news reports, and room-sized maps featuring the infiltration of those dirty Jerries across Europe.

I loved learning about Churchill, how he was the opposite of diplomatic, that he used these war rooms to be in the "middle of the action" (Parliament would get bombed first, for sure), and that his go-get-em attitude gave his men a lot of optimism where optimism was due. I certainly wish our goverment were like that; President Obama's diplomacy and inability to speak without a teleprompter makes him look utterly weak. At least guys like Churchill and Reagan said what they thought, and I don't remember them ever losing to some foreign power.

My favorite part was the gift shop. Everything was themed forties, and some were handbooks on how to get along with girls/boys, advice on bomb shelters, emergency preparedness, dresses, aprons, and even pro-British propaganda against the Nazis! So delightful. Will they ever have museums featuring the War on Terror? Hopefully it won't be on home soil, that's all I have to say.

Day 73: War Horse

A Packed Week

Between Evensong and an opera, this week'll take the mickey out of us all.

This play marks one of few seen in England (I do hope it's not the best). I read on the Tube about how some guy in the backstage crew of War Horse had been bullied so much that he couldn't stand it anymore and quit. Sissy? Maybe. I tried not to think of that during the show.

Minimalist?

Being a theatre minor, I did my best to suspend disbelief and snootiness. The plot goes a little something like this:

A poor boy gets a horse. He loves it to adulthood. The poor family sells the horse to a captain in WWI. The boy enlists to find the horse. WWI kills most everybody.

With the exception of the bogus plot, lame lanes and excessive overacting (this is NOT me being snooty--this opinion is shared by most students on the program), the director did spectacularly on production design. Obviously the horses were puppets, made of wicker and operated by four to five people. As soon as you suspend your disbelief, a bamboo pole becomes a horse corral, the horses are moving of their own accord, and the goose is your favorite character ever.

After studying all those WWI artists like Levinson and Dix, it was clear that scenes in the play were trying to relive those paintings, and succeeded really well. I was just bothered by the plot, honestly. It's like that part in Independence Day when New York is blowing up, and Vivica what's-her-face is yelling for her dog, and Boomer leaps through the firey air to safety. Even though everyone else dies. I sure hope they don't make a movie.

Day 72: Remembrance Sunday and Evensong

Kings and Queens

During our services, the Queen of England made an appearance at the Cenotaph Monument outside Westminster Abbey, a tradition that has lasted nearly one hundred years, to lay a wreath of poppies in remembrance of all the soldiers from WWI. Ben and Andrew managed a few blurry pictures of the Royal family; our little group, again in the middle of a Tube strike, took a bus clear to Walthamstow, and toddled into the chapel some two hours later. I was paranoid about getting there on time; I definitely had a talk to give.

Charity

President Monson has in recent news released an addition to the three-fold mission of the Church. In addition to Proclaiming the Gospel, Perfecting the Saints, and Redeeming the Dead, the Prophet calls all us members to Care for the Poor and Needy. This latest development is entrenched in scripture, and stems from the teachings of Charity. If we are to Care for the Poor and Needy, we must develop Charity. But what is Charity? How do we get it? And how does it change us?

As members, we often struggle with the definition of Charity. Paul is confusing; he writes to Corinthians that “though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.” When we think of Charity, usually some sort of work or good deed is immediately attached, but Paul says that giving all one’s possessions away is not Charity. Moroni tells us that “Charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever”. But what does that mean? He doesn’t mention collecting tins, service projects, or even fast offerings. Just pure love, like that of the most perfect Man who ever lived. How can we struggling, mortal humans develop that kind of love?

In Preach My Gospel, it reads in Developing Christlike Attributes: “A man once asked Jesus, ‘Which is the great commandment in the law?’ Jesus replied: ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ Charity is the pure love of Christ. It includes God’s eternal love for all His children. We are to seek to develop that kind of love [by praying] unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that [we] may be filled with this love.”

Charity is a gift from God, given through the Holy Ghost, given to those who earnestly pray for it.

Gene R. Cook said, “As difficult as charity is to describe, it is rather easily recognized in the lives of those who possess it.

• An aged, crippled grandmother who subscribes to an afternoon newspaper, knowing it will bring her delivery-boy grandson to her home every day where, at her knee, she teaches him to pray.

• A mother who, in hard economic times and scarcity of meat, seems to savor only chicken wings, to the puzzlement of all.

• A man who suffers an undeserved public chastisement, but humbly receives it anyway.

Is not the common thread in these examples charity, a selflessness, a not seeking for anything in return? All of our divine attributes seem to flow from and be encompassed by this one. All men may have the gift of love, but charity is bestowed only upon those who are true followers of Christ.”

He goes on, “Yet there stands the devil, the destroyer of this love, replacing it with anger and hostility. My friend William felt that way: hostile. It seemed that whatever happened, it was the Lord’s fault—an illness, a death, a wayward child, a personal weakness, an “unanswered” prayer—all of which hardened his heart. His inner anger, which could flare up in but a moment, was directed toward God, his fellowman, and himself. From his heart emanated unbelief, stubbornness, pride, contention, and a loss of hope, love, and direction. He was miserable! These destroyers of peace blinded William to God’s feelings for him. He could neither discover nor feel God’s love. He did not see, especially in those dark moments, that God was richly blessing him even still. Instead, he returned anger for love. Have we not all felt that at times? Even when we have merited love the least, He has loved us the most. Truly, He loves us first.

Now, my Christlike friend Betty was just the opposite. She encountered many of the same difficulties as did William, but because she felt God’s love, she suffered tribulation in the Savior’s name, partook of His divine nature, and thus gained a deeper faith in and a love for God, along with the strength to handle whatever might come. Her love for others increased. She seemed to even forgive others in advance. She learned how to cause them to feel her love. She learned that love shared is love multiplied. Finally, she learned to love herself more, being more kind, gentle, and long-suffering. She stopped her struggle for self-esteem and started loving herself the way God loved her. Her image of herself became His image of her.”

Elder Cook writes that a lack of charity blinded his friend, while it clarified the view of the other. A famous story in the Book of Mormon involves two missionaries teaching an unlikely group about charity; Alma and Amulek had received news that the Zoramites were worshipping idols and hurried east to fix things. What they found were Rameumptoms, built in every synagogue for the rich to pray from once a week. In Alma 32, they discover that the poor had all been cast out of the synagogues because of the “coarseness of their apparel—therefore they were not permitted to enter into their synagogues to worship God, being esteemed as filthiness...yea, they were esteemed as dross.”

Because these poor Zoramites were no longer allowed in the synagogues, they had created idols for themselves to worship from. They had forgotten the nature of God. They had forgotten they could pray and worship Him anywhere. And because the rich treated them like dirt, they began to see themselves that way, forgetting that they were children of God with eternal potential. Alma addresses both of these immediately; he teaches the poor in chapter 32 about developing faith in God. He explains the nature of God and reaffirms Man’s divine place as His children.

In 34:28 and in harsher fashion, Amulek says, “If ye turn away the needy, and the naked, and visit not the sick and afflicted and impart of your substance, if ye have, to those who stand in need—I say unto you, if ye do not any of these things, behold, your prayer is in vain, and availeth you nothing, and ye are as hypocrites who do deny the faith. Therefore, if ye do not remember to be charitable, ye ARE as dross, which the refiners do cast out (it being of no worth) and is trodden under foot of men.”

The interesting thing about this story is that the missionaries did not tell the RICH to take care of the poor and needy, but the poor, who had no money or means to do so. Charity for these Zoramites had nothing to do with material wealth, but with the truth. They needed to remember the TRUE nature of God and the TRUE nature of man, which became a struggle after being treated so badly. The rich were blinded by their own silks, gold adornments, and the poor’s coarse apparel. The rich thought themselves superior to the poor. But the poor began to see clearly the love an Omnipotent God had for them, and began to see themselves as He does. They no doubt began to realize that rich or poor, we are all children of God and He loves us equally.

But in our busy, stressful lives, we often forget to see each other as Christ sees them. Bonnie D. Parkin asks, “Do we judge one another? Do we criticize each other for individual choices, thinking we know better, when in fact we rarely understand another’s unique circumstance or individual inspiration? Have we ever said, “She works outside the home.” Or, “Her son didn’t serve a mission.” Or, “She’s too old for a calling.” Or, “She can’t—she’s single.” Such judgments, and so many others like them, rob us of the good part, that pure love of Christ.” I suppose then we are as useful to the Lord as those Zoramites on the Rameumptom.

Elder Marvin J. Ashton beautifully observed: “Perhaps the greatest charity comes when we are kind to each other, when we don’t judge or categorize someone else, when we simply give each other the benefit of the doubt or remain quiet. Charity is accepting someone’s differences, weaknesses, and shortcomings; having patience with someone who has let us down; or resisting the impulse to become offended when someone doesn’t handle something the way we might have hoped. Charity is refusing to take advantage of another’s weakness and being willing to forgive someone who has hurt us. Charity is expecting the best of each other.”

Preach My Gospel continues, “As you follow this counsel and strive to do righteous works, your love for all people will increase...You will come to feel a sincere concern for the eternal welfare and happiness of other people. You will see them as children of God with the potential of becoming like our Heavenly Father...You will avoid negative feelings such as anger, envy, lust or covetousness. You will avoid judging others, criticizing them, or saying negative things about them. You will try to understand them and their points of view. You will be patient with them and try to help them when they are struggling or discouraged. Charity, like faith, leads to action. You will develop charity as you look for opportunities to serve others and give of yourself.

This story teaches us that Charity is a kind of wisdom or discernment—it is the ability to see things as they truly are. These things are simple and yet often hard to see. The TRUTH is that we are all children of our Heavenly Father with limitless potential to become gods and goddesses ourselves, endowed with all power, glory, and honor, reigning effortlessly over kingdoms as righteous rulers, blessed for all eternity. Such a sight would render us speechless and on our knees in moments. Kings and Queens. In such a sight, what else can you do but serve them?

Moroni closes chapter 7 by saying: "If so, his ^afaith and hope is vain, for none is ^bacceptable before God, save the ^cmeek and lowly in heart; and if a man be meek and lowly in heart, and ^dconfesses by the power of the Holy Ghost that Jesus is the Christ, he must needs have charity; for if he have not charity he is nothing; wherefore he must needs have charity." (Moroni 7:44)

I have had some beautiful moments in my life where I’ve seen someone the way the Savior does. It’s not all the time—I’m still working on that particular Christlike attribute. But I bear you my solemn witness that the poor and needy are not what they appear to be. I encourage you to pray to be able to see everyone the way Christ sees them, and he promises that there will be no end to your blessings. I testify that this Church is true, that President Monson is a living prophet today, that Joseph Smith did see God the Father and Jesus Christ, and that through Christ's Atonement, I too can see and dwell with them. I leave these things with you in His name, amen,

The Abbey

Confession: We were given twelve pounds to go to Westminster Abbey, but those were my last twelve pounds for the rest of the trip; I still had Oyster cards to refill and places like the Imperial War Museum to get to. This was why I was excited for Evensong. We went directly from church through the dark, frigid air and stood in line outside for our little concert. I was warned by Liz and Carolyn that I wouldn't be able to see anything; walking in, the nave had little chairs set up in neat rows underneath the organ (I was sad not be able to see him play at all), but I stared up at the copper stone pillars, at the epitaphs engraved in the flagstones underfoot, that unknown soldier's tomb covered in poppies, and the gorgeous statues carved into the walls. I definitely saw the final resting place of Newton and Darwin just sitting in my little chair.

Liz looked up from the program and sprinted across the roomto hug someone she saw; apparently some great friends from America found her in the Abbey. She asked to go sit by them and I thought how incredible it was that she cared about us enough to even ask. Kaitlyn and I (both former organ students) told her to go, and sat to enjoy the music. It was about forty-five minutes; in Remembrance Day fashion, the songs included one written about the Blitz over York (we were totally there!), an elegy for the soldiers, and a final march about the perserverance and bravery of the British people. It was so cool to hear the stops echoing across the abbey and wondered if you couldn't just hear it outside.

Afterwards, we wandered the grounds in search of the Cenotaph and found little patches of those poppy crosses we planted at Serre Road Cemetery; each was laid if you knew someone killed in WWI--it was like being back at the real cemeteries. Flowers just went on for yards and yards, packed closer than dominoes in the hard earth, lit by the nearby streets and darkened by the shadow of the church. We couldn't help but hush at the reverence shown by England for their kindred dead. The Cenotaph was the same way; after the Queen appeared, the poppy wreaths were packed onto the base like soil and the monument would grow into a tree.

In many ways, I'm glad that we don't have the reasons the UK does for having Remembrance Day; however, it was really humbling to see all these different Britons, gathered in the square, in the church, on the sidewalks, all with poppies pinned to their coats, united, silently considering the impact WWI still has on their country. We Americans don't have anything to compare. Sometimes I wish we did.

Day 70: Freedom and Religion

Since I've come to England, I've met Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Anglicans, Catholics, atheists, Easternists, and countless other religious faiths who have learned we are Mormons. Excited to meet them and to talk about what we believe, we ask what they know about the Church.

Their initial reaction is that our church is a cult, rather like Amish or Kool-Aid drinkers, who slap so many restrictions on its members that we cannot assimilate into the twenty-first century, nor live our own lives.

To all of these delightful people (and many more who are confused about our rules in general) let me explain.

Agency

This word means the freedom to act, or literally, "that a man is agent unto himself, to choose right from wrong". We believe strongly that every single person on this planet has this freedom. However, where most people would say they are victims of society or something else that keeps them from choosing what they like, we say that agency is coupled with consequence.

Take our Word of Wisdom, or health code (Doctrine and Covenants, section 89). The Word of Wisdom tells us (back in 1830s) that tobacco, alcohol, coffee and tea are unhealthy and addictive. Every member chooses to keep or reject this code. By rejecting it, they cannot worship in the temple, take the sacrament, or hold a calling. In the world outside the Church, they may become addicted to alcohol or cigarettes, be constantly sick from drug use, spend all their money to drink or use, or even hurt others because they are not in control of their wits.

But by keeping it, as I and all these girls on program with me have, we are freed from the influence of alcohol or drugs. We are free to use our minds to their fullest extent, and thus keep our agency and our health intact. We are free to spend money on other things. We are free to remember every night of our lives and never wonder where we were or what we did. We never have to be responsible for doing something stupid simply because we were drunk. We are free from jail time and rehabilitation clinics. Since we will never drink and drive, we will never be haunted by an accident in which we killed someone. We are free to live our lives.

Is the only argument for alcohol to have a good time? If that's the case, I will keep my frisbees and you can keep your cases.

Intimacy

Perhaps the biggest indictment against the Church is that we choose to obey the law of chastity. This means that we have no sexual relations before legal and lawful marriage between man and woman, nor any extramarital relations therafter.

This is considerably harder to keep. All of us are driven to reproduce; those instincts are surpassed only by the will to survive. It's not a question of never touching a cigarette or a beer. So to make things a bit more personal, I will only speak for myself.

I discipline myself that in my personal relationships I will not be intimate. I've dated a few people, and those relationships have been based on friendship and admiration. After they ended, I do not look back and regret anything I've done or haven't done. Because of this, every time I start a new relationship, I start new, carrying only the things I've learned. It's hard enough to break up when all you did was hold hands--I struggle to imagine the incredible emotions that come from intimacy, especially with your "first".

For all you out there who think this is impossible, I turn twenty-one this week and I'm pleased to announce that I've kept the law of chastity my whole life. It's not because my church is twisting my arm or threatening me to; it's because I want my wedding night to be just between me and my husband. If he is worthy and kept the law of chastity as well, I won't have to worry about getting an STD because it would be physically impossible. I won't worry about whether I am being compared to some girlfriend he had in high school. I won't wonder if he has a kid he's secretly paying child support to. We will give each other everything, never thinking about some other person or comparing that night to some other night. We will be each other's "first"s, based on friendship and admiration, ready to start a family together out of love, rather than mistakes.

Because I've made this choice and am disciplining myself to keep it, I will never have a shotgun wedding, feel the crush in my self-esteem, have ultra-jealous boyfriends, see the horrible results of my own affair--I will be free to choose how I want to live my life, responsibly and unhampered by what might have been.

On Rules

Rules, when kept by willing proponents, keep us free. Really. If alcohol and affairs is the way of the twentieth century, I'm not really interested in living that sordid life of guilt and suicide. By disciplining myself, I am free to be honest and responsible and a good example to my friends and children someday.

For all you folks out there who think the way I do, you are not alone! There are 35,000 students plus staff at BYU who are trying to keep to these standards of living and are happy to do so because it makes us happy. The Church is 13 million strong worldwide. We are trying to keep ourselves free and untainted from the world's standards, which get shorter and shorter as the years fly by--and as they do, our "rules" of "can't" make more and more sense.

Day 69: Armistice Day

Silence in the Square 2010


An early night after not sleeping on the coach, I slept through breakfast and barely caught a group headed toward Trafalgar Square.


Today is Armistice Day. Every single town in Britain, Ireland, France (and most likely Germany, though I haven't been there) have a monument to remember the devastating death toll mounted on a pointless war that staged nearly 100 years ago. Today, the eleventh of the eleventh, at eleven o'clock, they hold a two-minute moment of silence across London. Before the silence, however, we got to hear from London's Community Gospel Choir ("Now That We've Found Love"), Prince Caspian read some poetry from the Somme, and the Saturdays (no idea). A bugle started the silence. I stood bracketed between umbrellas and saw myself on the giant screen more times than I could count, trying to see the darn stage (bit short) through rain-spattered glasses.


After the daft announcer had finished trying to talk to some guy in another country, the blessed moment of silence began. It was really moving, actually; all our moments in class about the injured, the poetry, the loss of innocence, the modern art and questions why this all happened came out as the city around us fell silent. The taxis, ambulances, and tourists didn't let out a sound. Even the pigeons stayed quiet. All we could hear were the resonant gongs from Big Ben, telling us it was eleven o'clock. I thought about how that clock impacted this whole city--not many could actually see the tower, but Big Ben can be heard across the Thames. It's absence is still acknowledged in its time keep; for all those who fell, we have each anniversary of this Armistice Day, gonging across the nation like Big Ben, reminding us of the absence that really isn't.


The silence ended and we were all encouraged to take poppies from the nearby soldiers and toss them into the fountains, in remembrance of the dead and those who still fight for British freedom. The Poppy Appeal began several weeks ago and sells little plastic poppies to the public for a donation to the British Legion. (Naturally I'm all out of change whenever these Appealers manifest themselves.) Their target this year is 36 million pounds (31.2 million last year). I love the visual of the poppy; it reminds us of the poem In Flanders' Fields, they grow where blood has been shed and the earth turned up, turning from white to red, the fruit of opium to make us all forget what happened. But in London, every single jacket lapel has a poppy stuck to it, and probably will for the next week or so.

A Homeworking Afternoon

Field Studies are the bane of my existence. After the lovely morning in the square, I had to barricade myself in the Science Museum, which should have been fun, except that once again I was forced to look at implements used in Jane Austen's day, this time for medical purposes. I saw hack saws, bowls for bleeding, disturbing strait jackets, bottles of ointment, contraceptives, and inoculation kits. I'm so glad we live now, can I just say? I wonder what people in developing countries do. Mum has a friend who works in Africa and teaches quilting there, and she talks about the villages; a baby will get diarrhea, and the women thinks the baby has gotten too much to drink--they stop the baby drinking, and the baby dies. The fabrics teacher told them to give the baby more water, and the infant mortality has dropped. Amazing how we can change the world! Darwin would have survived, except the doctors got to him first. After seeing the crazy tools and lack of anaesthesia, I'm pretty sure I would have died on the table.

I left the girls back in the family history centre (they were off to the British Museum, and I really have a quota for visiting museums) and headed back to Circle Line. Unbeknownst to me, I wouldn't actually be able to make it back on Circle OR District lines. But until then, I loved being in Earl's Court and watching the rain hit the greenhousey roof, taking a turn for the torrential and pounding it in sheets of watery bullets. The train pulled in and looked like a tub overflowing, water spilling over the sides like a white washboard. How I love London! (How safe I was underground.)

After so much considering Emma, of course I came home and watched Clueless. After some well-earned pad thai, of course (no breakfast, I was so excited to eat by 3pm.) Then off to my Stake Interview after a measly bit of homework, mission papers in hand. I'm pleased to announce that I passed with flying colors and in a moment of enthusiasm, and since I was already on Picadilly Line, I decided to pop on over to Leicester Square to see how the premier was going.

Dan Rad and Co.

It was about 7pm when I left the Tube. Leicester was full of Potter fans and shenanigans handing out flyers. There was a monster screen like in Trafalgar (three, actually), except this time the daft announcer was interviewing Neville Longbottom. He is one good-looking guy now, given his awkward beginnings. The park where my BYU comrades were currently fenced in had two stages, sweeping search and can lights, banners of Voldemort blowing in the cold

I ran to the fence in front of the Casino (where the film would actually show), and tried to bustle my way to the front. Unable to keep my excitement to myself, I started talking to some sophomores next to me, each decked out in Hogwarts crests and scarves--they'd run from school and arrived about 5 o'clock and were torn between flailing to get a glimpse of the stars and wanting to pound their teachers for not letting them skip altogether. I saw the red hair of Rupert Grint descending the red carpet ramp to sign autographs and cheered so loud I felt my throat seize up. After him came Neville, Harry, Draco, Lucius, Luna, Ginny, Hermione, Dumbledore, Dobby (pretty sure I missed Ralph Fiennes), and Fred and George. This was all from about twenty feet away, but we still go ballistic when the little character from the TV box is actually a human being.

According to the other students (they'd camped out at 3am, dressed like dementors in their garbage sacks, holding signs that say "WE CAME FROM AMERICA TO KISS HARRY POTTER". They had a great time getting interviewed and getting awesome seats and so forth--Amanda's life was fulfilled when Daniel came out and was within arm's reach. (He nodded at their posters, and was flattered they came all the way from Vegas). After a fan interview, I had to say goodbye to my cute high school friends and go back to the Centre where these crazed girls would soon descend, telling their adrenalined stories. What a night had by all! Me and Brianna hid upstairs to avoid the rush.

Day 66: Last Day of Kitchen Crew

Regent's Street

Nothing but studying and kitchen crew and family history today. At least everyone was here today; last time, all the girls left to go to Regent's Street to watch the cast of Narnia light the street. I filled in for someone who wanted to go, but everyone else just dropped everything to go. I wonder that it didn't occur to anyone that I wanted to go to?

But today was nice. Everyone was all nostalgic about doing dishes and busing tables. Good food tonight too--I really have learned to appreciate Greek salad and sitting next to Beno and Andrew reminds me of my brothers at home. I never realized how frustrated I've been with no job in England. I have all the time in the world! So when I don't feel like venturing out into the cold, I stay in and do homework instead. Explains how I get everything turned in on time. Even things like sweeping and vacuuming and doing the dishes; I wish I could do those things myself, but I suppose Theresa needs to make a living. Sigh. Don't we all?

Andrea was nice enough to buy us all Magnum bars. They're tasty, but man can I eat one per month at most. Some of these girls go to the Food and Wine every night to get theirs (the man behind the counter noticed and upped the prices, idiot). I guess P90X gives you one heckuvan appetite?

Day 62: A Synagogue in the West End

The most beautiful synagogue probably ever to grace the UK was a mere two blocks away, across from a Greek laundromat and Eastern Orthodox church. We huddled down a cobbled row while Brother Shuler knocked on a rundown door, wondering what he was doing. But apparently they don't use the front door at all--bit two dangerous in these modern times. Our experience was spent sitting and being lectured to by a beedle, staring and trying to read the sacred space. Here's my interpretation.



Judaism's Good, Better, Best

We slid into the pews (men newly adorned with skullcaps), and looked quickly around the room,

eager to use our newfound powers of reading sacred space. I was no different; I noticed at once that there are no people portrayed in the stained glass, the bookshelves of the Talmud, the Hebrew inscriptions above the pulpit. Everything looked so different from a parish church—and yet, I learned that here too is a sacred journey, and a way to discover what the Jews hold in high respect. These were made manifest through the separate levels in the room: the pulpit, the lectern, and the city Jerusalem.

The lowest level is the pulpit from which the rabbi and others speak from. The Jewish-equivalent of sermons centralizes here. Those lessons take the majority of a worship service, focusing on just sections of that day’s reading, perhaps ranging from a word or phrase to an entire chapter. The interpretation of the Torah is considered only one opinion of many branching from the same word or phrase or chapter. Part of Jewish culture involves arguing over points of scripture in order to arrive at a feasible, spiritual conclusion. It is at this pulpit that a girl fulfils her role in bat mitzvah, teaching the congregation about a scripture she found particularly meaningful before joining the women in the upper level seating (as she is now able to interpret the Torah for herself). Because sermons are merely man’s commentary on the word of God, this pulpit remains the lowest level.

The next level is a stage or platform across the way, facing east toward Jerusalem. This is where the sacred scrolls of Torah are read aloud during worship. This lectern stood in the relative center of the room, clearly in view of everyone attending. I would not be surprised if it were a sweet spot for acoustics. Reading the Torah is much more important than reading commentary, for it is the root of all comments, and Orthodox Jews regard it as the word of God, recorded by Moses. This lectern is where a boy fulfils his role in bar mitzvah, reading the Torah in the original Hebrew before joining the ranks of men on each side (as he is now able to read the Torah for himself). If we consider the Torah to be the Word then it appropriately is superior to any interpretation.

The highest level is a gorgeous facade of Jerusalem, haloed by creeds of Judaism and drawing every eye eastward to the temple. Above the dome is an inscription which reads, Hear O Israel, the One and Only God. Jews are monotheists, more so than Christians—this is the first belief that set them apart, before the temple and the Law. The temple to God was centered in the Holy City and was where His Law was obeyed and carried out. The Jews are promised that this temple will be restored to them, along with all the land in the covenant with Israel. It was this Law, temple, and priests that guaranteed the Hebrew culture surviving the Babylonian and Roman conquests, the only people to do so, living on to build a synagogue in the West End of London.

It is rather fascinating to see the ascension from interpretation to the Word to the Law. Whether it is a sacred journey or not, we can certainly see what the Jews hold sacred. All of these elements made an identity quite unique, as the beadle proudly stated. Whatever the opinions of the pulpit speakers below, or however a rabbi pronounces his vowels reading the Torah, every Jew has the promised land and the promise of God to keep him holding to his religion. What a beautiful and unifying principle, illustrated so simply in the space.

Day 60: The Bloomsbury Walk

Field Study Dr. Tate issued an assignment that screamed "nerdy research went into the founding"--it was called the Bloomsbury Walk, not to be confused with the Mrs. Dalloway Walk, nor the Wasteland Walk. I glommed onto a group of five or so girls and, armed with a sporadic map of Tottenham Court Road and the Bloomsbury District, we went off in search of Modernism. As is usually the case for exploring a different part of town, one becomes the leader and the others merely sheep. My sense of direction being nonexistent, I was wooly and contented pointing out that somewhere in Bloomsbury once lived the Darling children, who from time to time ventured out to Neverland. Unfortunately, several girls were trying to take the reins--at one point, I remember standing around outside a parish church, arguing about whether it was old enough to be facing east, as all churches once were. Bless the locals for pointing us in the right direction. This Bloomsbury Group included prolific writers and artists who ushered in, however snootily, the Modern movement. Our first stop was Virginia and Leonard Woolf's London flat (marked by a round blue plaque). I think it was a business now; a bunch of secretaries or something looked over at us cheering and laughed--another horde of perky BYU students, enthused about literature. A few yards away lived Lytton Strachey, and a few yards after that, Virginia's sister and husband, the Omega art movement. It was even better when we found one of Charles Dickens' homes (bombed in the Blitz) next door to the Starbucks where we stopped for a spot of hot chocolate. Autumn still thick in the air, we trolled through some gorgeous parks, including one with Mahatma Ghandi in bronze. Beth made sure to get some great pictures of him under all those poppy wreaths. Then T.S. Eliot's house, my favorite poet of all time, and back home again. I think I prefer visiting the places more than reading the works, honestly.

Day 59: E.M. Forster's Happy Ending

Film Review: A Room With a View (2007) So it was only supposed to be another made-for-tv movie, and modern to boot. Forster and Eliot and Woolf all knew each other; their group was infamous for snobbery and so-called sophisticated world views--with that in mind, I looked for it in this adaptation. The plot features a girl on holiday to Italy with her very nervous aunt; she meets a "deep-thinking" melancholy boy who comes to life at her companionship. Lucy wanders the streets alone one day and stares up at the marbled Renaissance nudes in the square, all her Victorian England prudery giving way to curiosity and organic wonder. A smiling Italian man approaches her, clearly complimenting her innocent charms, when a man stabs him in the back--everything slows, he coughs, and blood spatters on her perfect white Victorian dress. Lucy faints. When she comes to, her world is different. A man lies dead in the square, his murderer sobbing over his body. The boy George rescues her from this awful scene, and yet tells her that they are not so different from the Italians. Forster's modernism in the film is a rejection of this snobbish prudery and gravitates toward arousing faculties, passion, and incredible emotion. Lucy's devotion to Beethoven deepens as she tries to get away from George, engaged to another man completely unlike him--until she realizes the people in her world have quashed out their own passions and desires for an empty life of politeness and social-climbing. The odd thing about this story is that despite her new perspective, despite the chick ending, despite the hopes that becoming more human will make everyone more happy, George is killed in World War I. Is Forster trying to squelch the happy ending he has unwittingly made? Or is that merely the beginning of modernism? The film was really fantastic. I suppose the dampered ending is part of life; it is impossible to be completely happy for long stretches of time, after all--but Forster does give us the hope that we can find ourselves through loving another person wholly and completely. Lucy is still alive at the end, and we see that she is still grateful for the life she chose. It is a film about emotional honesty, identity, and humanity that really resonated with me--a high recommendation to anyone remotely interested in good literature.