Off The Deep End
Saturday, March 25, 2017 |
| My new companion, Sister Woolsey! |
My new area, Singen, Germany, is a small industrial town where even it's own citizens make musical puns.
From just about every point in the city, one can view the castle ruins perched on the towering slope... and as a backyard workout we took a jog through the woods.
Many of the villages in our area thrive off the Bodensee, a beautiful glassy lake lapping at the feet of the hills. We thought we'd make the best of it when we missed our return train and did personal study on the beach!
Some evidence that transfer week just kind of wrecks us missionaries:
1. A couple days of soreness
2. Having to literally take my contacts out of my eyeballs slyly in the middle of ward council because they were so dry from tiredness that I couldn't see anyway.... I put them in my purse pocket LOL 3. One day when we were just on the bus I had the strong feeling that we should turn around back home and check the stove.... yeah turns out I had left it on high heat and we would have literally not gotten home for another 8 hours
Some more fantastic things:
1. We traveled to Zurich for a multi-stake Relief Society conference AND I SAW MEINE TOCHTER SISTER SLACK AGAIN OH MY GOODNESS I LOVE HER. she is literally as old on the mission as I was when I started training her.
3. Sister Woolsey has the mutual dream of moving to San Clemente, CA
4. I feel so welcome in this branch!
One summer morning when I was 8 years old, my mom received a phone call. As she conversed in hushed, panicked tones with the person on the other line, I eavesdropped from the staircase and tried to piece together what was happening.
One thing was clear: something had happened to Daddy.
He had left before the break of dawn to hike with the scouts in the desert mountains. Somewhere along the path, the rocks gave way and he fell off the cliff.
It felt like a very long time before I got to see him again. When I finally got to visit him at the hospital, his face was swollen and cheekbone horrifyingly purple. His left foot was casted. To state it simply, he did not look well.
I remember my mom tucking me into bed one night and telling me that my father might never be able to walk properly again. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought about all the fun times we had raced up the stairs and how we could no longer do that together. (I of course had no realization that, initially, the scouts who had witnessed his fall didn't even know if he was going to survive.)
It would be a long road to recovery, but as his shattered foot slowly healed, my little 8-year-old faith grew. My sister and I would join him on the couch helping stamp business cards for his dental office, and he would talk to us. What a role model he was. For me, his faith was so simply stated that there was no doubt in my mind that he knew God and angels were watching over him. He told of priesthood blessings, spiritual promptings and reflected stories of miracles - and there were many, might I add - which along the way had saved his life, reduced his pain, and aided in recovery. I could only giggle as he recounted how shocked the doctors had been when they realized the miracle of his healing process. "But it's impossible," they had said, and shook there heads when my faithful daddy replied, "Nothing's impossible for God." He knew it, and I knew it too. There was absolutely no denying it. The wonders were simply too real, and for the next many years of my life that was something that absolutely impacted me.
Over a decade later, I can say that I am so glad I was "born of goodly parents." Many people discredit us young missionaries when they find out we are preaching the religion of our parents... as if we only believe it because they told us to believe it. But I can say with honest vigor that I am grateful for my parents' example and for the way with which they displayed their faith.... they didn't just teach the gospel, they LIVED IT. They helped us learn how to see the works of God around us and how to develop testimonies of our own. My greatest hope is to be able to help others -- whether it be those I meet on the mission or my own future children -- the way that my own parents truly helped me.
Love Always,
Sister Lundgreen
1 comments
I am reading this post as i sit in San Clemente right now. I smiled as i read you want to move here. It is beautiful. The Forster ward is one of a kind. So friendly and caring. Thank you for sharing the story of your dad. I knew about the fall and know it was a tremendous recovery but this description brings new light and wonderous love our Heavenly Father has for us.
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