What I learned from being a monkey.

Life always feels so much better when you try to do something hard that is right. My chosen feat for the week was to include the kid down the hall. He's in that impossibly difficult situation of attending BYU without being a member of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and so he has not made as many friends as his daringly cool personality deserves. He doesn't DO sacrament meeting, FHE, or home teaching, and so, many of us (including me) don't DO anything with him. It was time to change that.
We invited him over to play games, and he eagerly accepted. After playing one round of our "boring" game (his painfully truthful word), we sportingly agreed to play his. His was one of those games that have made sleep overs more interesting for pre-teenage girls for the last several decades where the loser has to perform some embarrassing task decided on by the rest of his conquerors. I was the "lucky loser" who got the opportunity to see just how creative his mind could be in contemplating torturous situations. After some trial balloons were shot down ("Make him go ask out a girl" --too embarrassing, for the girl. etc.) they decided on having me act like a gorilla down the halls of my apartment complex until I attracted a sufficient crowd.
So, I'm going to have to confess at this point that this sort of thing really doesn't embarrass me. My life has been one cascading parade of tripping over myself and dragging around toilet paper, so my humiliation receptors have become sufficiently desensitized. I went at my chosen punishment with all the vigor of a cat closing in on its tail, and was attracting a nice crowd of bewildered and amused ward members (Oh, it's just one of those monkey people again, let's get back to CSI). Then it went bad. An angry looking male storms out from a room, catches me mid-howl, and stuns me with "Could you be normal for a few minutes, we're trying to give our home teachees a blessing." OUCH! He pulled out the blessing card and I was trumped. My monkey arms lowered sheepishly, but before I could apologize he was back in the room. I felt bad, REALLY bad. It was the tragic frustration of feeling misunderstood and stupid all at the same time. I hoped those in the apartment would be merciful to their fellow ward member, who really had left all evil motives behind at the game table.
Luckily, I had a chance to glance at the home teaching message he would have given those girls before their blessing. President Eyring says, "We must forgive and bear no malice toward those who offend us. The Savior set the example from the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). We do not know the hearts of those who offend us. Nor do we know all the sources of our own anger and hurt." In the spirit of that message, I let the frustration go and felt confident that I had been forgiven.

"...if ye have desires to serve God, ye are called to the work"

Arriving back at BYU straight from my mission brought all the expected challenges plus more. I expected to be frustrated at not remembering math...or chemistry...or how to use 'correct: punctuation!?> Check! But what I failed to take into account was my awkward adjustment through the 3 phases of returned missionary de-evolution:

1) Thinking everyone else is going to Hell (This phase was thankfully cut short by my irresistible desire to have people like me).

2) Thinking I am going to Hell (my current phase. Is it getting hot in here?)

3) Returning to normalcy or working at the MTC (in which case you will NEVER be normal again ;)

Phase 2 is exasperated by the fact that I have gone from feeling incredibly useful and important to the Lord in daily service as a missionary to feeling like an injured regular of the celestial bench. You see, BYU doesn't have enough callings to go around and so, I find myself hoping to become part of the spiritual wellness and Sabbath day worship committee or the staff of assistant ward clerks that rivals Arthur Anderson's tax time employment level. Didn't the Lord promise "if ye have desires to serve God, ye are called to the work?" Well, "Speak; for thy servant heareth!"
That's when the voice came. It was one of those awkward post closing prayer announcements when someone rushes the microphone to seize a moment at the pulpit. "Meet at the common room at 2:45 pm if you would like to go sing to the convalescent home." While I tend to be conservative in labeling life events as due to the hand of God, even I was able to take comfort that in the least the Lord had answered my prayer through the workings of His perfect church. I was so there.
Once we arrived I remembered the secret that I had learned and then forgotten through the course of my mission: the secret of the church is service. Many of the home's residents suffered from varying levels of mental degeneration, but a majority had been raised within the unique culture of the LDS church. To them, the simple songs we sung--"I am a child of God", "Popcorn Popping", and "Choose the Right" wrapped around them with the familiarity of a baby blanket. As often happens in the all too human world of service, I did something embarrassing. While singing "Called to Serve" we were reminded by one of the patrons that the song was a march and that our bodies needed to act like it. While adopting an awkward marching movement while anchored against the wall, I had the uncomfortable realization that my back was becoming increasingly wet. As I turned to find out why, I saw that my position against the wall just happened to press me up against the hand sanitizer dispenser which my marching motion was vigorously stimulating to action...all over my back.
In more ways than one, I was able to realize the Lord's promise that through service, I would be made clean.