THE OTHER SIDE

How many times have you heard the phrase “The grass is always greener on the other side?” The intended meaning is that although some thing or some situation seems better from the outside than what you have now, it actually isn’t. This is literally true in the case of grass. Often the grass on the other side of the fence looks greener because you are looking at it from an angle, and see only the green blades of grass. When you look directly down at grass, you see the brown dirt between the blades. In some cases of homeowner vanity this can lead to expensive and costly “lawn-care-wars.” (You want to know the real reason Hitler invaded Poland? It wasn’t polish dogs…)

But is this always true? That things look better than they actually are? Of course not! All generalizations are false! (including this one >:)  )  Another question: is it bad to want to be on The Other Side? Well… yes and no, it depends on the side really, and your motivation. Where is the line between coveting and lust, and righteous motivation and drive?

The teenager in the stands at a high school football game who wishes he was on The Other Side of the game, playing not watching. The moviegoer who wishes she was on The Other Side of Hollywood’s silver screen. The drug addict who wishes he was on The Other Side of controlling his life. The loyal soldier, who despite fulfilling his duty in the battlefield, still wishes he was on The Other Side of the ocean.

Is it bad to want to be on The Other Side of an executive’s desk and paycheck? Well… yes and no, it depends on why you want to be there. Do you want money and power? Or do you want the opportunity to make a difference and provide for your family and others? Or are you in the bothersome mental quandary where your choice would be “C all of the above?”

In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not actually going to give any resolution to these dilemmas. You honestly expect a quick-fix solution to your decision making problems in such a short essay? No,  I’d need another 50 pages, several weeks, and a generous supply of sugar to give you that. Plus, it really depends on the situation, the people involved, what they want, and why they want it. Most importantly, it depends on Heavenly Father’s will.

So sit back for a few minutes. What do you want to be on The Other Side of? What Other Sides have become your goals, intentionally or otherwise?

I’ll share a few of my own. I recently went in for a job interview. One day, I’ll be on The Other Side of one of those. Often when I watch a play, I wish I was on The Other Side of the production, knowing how fun it is to be cast rather than audience; to entertain than be entertained. I often wish to be on The Other Side of the uniform, a citizen-soldier. I can’t wait to be on The Other Side of a college degree, but then I’ll be on this side of those interviews again, dang it.

What are your Other Sides? How are you going to get there? And should you even go?

Beginnings and Endings

            I still remember when I first arrived in Jakarta, at 1:30 in the afternoon on Wednesday October 22, 2008. It was a definite culture shock. I felt like I was swimming in a mixture of the liquid air and my own sweat. I was definitely a little homesick as my MTC companion, Elder Myers, and I walked out of the airport, only to be greeted not by the Mission President, but by the office Elders: Elder Erikson, Elder Simmons, and Elder Woodland. President Marchant was away on a mission tour with a member of the Area Presidency.

            Things were so different and strange from what I was accustomed too; even the cars drove on the wrong side of the road! I distinctly remember riding down the crowded road from the Soekarno-Hatta airport into Jakarta proper, looking out the window at the workmen, their clothes matching the mud and dirt they worked in, building a causeway several feet higher than the road we were on. One of the missionaries explained it was because of flooding.

            After brother Bono, the driver, navigated us through the motorcycle-filled roads of Jakarta we arrived at the Mission Home. A momentary rest and then we rode a Bajai (motorcycle rickshaw) to Blok M to look for proselyting bags. Blok M is also one of the largest bus terminals in southern Jakarta. Hundreds of buses (Not a single one of which could pass an emissions inspection) picking up thousands of people and roaring off into the urban jungle of Jakarta for dozens of different destinations. It was sheer ordered chaos.

            There are several malls at Blok M. A high class mall, Plaza Indonesia, reserved for the wealthier classes of Jakarta, another mall, Blok M Square, filled with stalls that could be rented as shops by vendors and anchored by a Carrefour, one of Indonesia’s major superstore chains, and another flea-market style mall, Mal Blok M, built underneath and into the bus terminal. It was this third mall we went too. As we descended the steps, the low-tech PA system of the mall was playing a song by Secondhand Serenade. This didn’t help the homesickness at all because my sister and I went to a Secondhand Serenade concert right before I left. I remember my own confusion at the mass of people, all speaking a language I thought I understood. We wandered through not finding anything and then moved on to Plaza Indonesia. Eventually we were able to find bags for Elder Myers and I. I handed over one of the bills that I didn’t understand and walked out with what would become my constant companion for the coming months, a small side bag for carrying books.

            We rode one of those crazy busses, filled with people well beyond any and all safety limits, from the terminal back to the mission home, stopping on the way to purchase some food from a small shack on the side of the road, a “warung,” called “Bumi Ayu.” The office Elders called it “BYU” as an inside joke. Our food looked like something that had already been eaten, rather than for eating, and was packaged in a sheet of thick brown paper. We took it back to the mission home and dug in. I didn’t eat much, I wasn’t all that hungry, and even if I was, I probably wouldn’t have eaten the  pile of … so-called food in front of me. I went to sleep exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally that night. Could I be any farther from home?

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            I still remember a month before I returned to the U.S. when President Groberg walked into the mission office, where I was serving, and said “Meet the new Elders.” Elder Taggart and Elder Quinn then walked into the office, looking as green and shell shocked as I must have. After they had a little time to take a shower and change from long sleeve to short sleeve shirts, My companion, Elder Silalahi, and I took them out to exchange their American currency for Indonesian cash. I remember watching the exchanger count the bills for us, each pink, purple, blue, or tan bill more familiar to me than their American counterpart.

            We walked for a bit, and bought some “Gorengan,” Indonesian snacks consisting of bananas, tofu, soybeans, and other things deep fried. I loved the stuff, ate it daily. Then we boarded a Kopaja, one of the short busses that fill and flow through the streets of Jakarta like water in the crevices of a massive, cracked boulder, and roared through the lighter early evening traffic to Blok M. The busses in Jakarta rarely stopped, they just slowed down and then you jumped.  

            I remember guiding them artfully through the stalls and chaos of the underground Blok M mall, straight to the bag store where I’d gone on my first day in Jakarta so long before. Though I’d purchased my bag at a store in Plaza Indonesia, we were still able to find some good bags for the Elders. We took them to a floor in Plaza Indonesia where they had thousands of Indonesian traditional crafts, and traditional clothing and fabric, just to give them a taste of what to look out of during their next two years in the country.

            I remember haggling with the Bajai driver, in fluent Indonesian, to give us a ride back to the Mission Home. You could only fit two or three passengers in one of those, so my companion and I split up in two of them, each of us taking one of the new Elders. It was kind of a race. I smile when I remember that I got back first.

            We had dinner with the mission president that night, but the next day my companion and I introduced Elder Taggart to Indonesian cuisine, thought I don’t remember if we got him a “warung” lunch at BYU or Nasi Goreng (Fried Rice). I usually had BYU for lunch, and then Nasi Goreng for dinner. After that the three of us boarded the Busway, Jakarta’s mass transport system, to take Elder Taggart to North Jakarta, his first area. I’d spent eight months of my mission in Jakarta; I’d come to see it as MY city, and I knew how to navigate Busway better than any other American in the mission. North Jakarta had been my first area, and taking Elder Taggart there was a nostalgic trip to a part of my past filled with both good and bad memories.

            I remember a few weeks later, when I waved good bye to the Mission Home, a place that had become Home to me. Elder Myers and I waved good bye to President and Sister Groberg, to the Senior Couple, and to our companions as we climbed into the SUV, driven by Ari, the Mission President’s driver. I still remember looking out the windows as we drove through the streets of Jakarta. I saw the malls and streets where I’d proselyted. We drove past Busway. I can still remember the recorded bilingual announcement before each stop, and how funny the English translation was. It was early morning, so the streets were mostly empty. We sped along the causeway, now completed, to the airport.

            I still remember watching the towering skyscrapers of MY city, what had become my home, disappear; and after two years of looking forward to returning to the US, I found myself homesick for Jakarta.