Dear Family,
Sophie is back in the former Soviet Union.
Two and a half years after having her time in Eastern Ukraine cut short by the Russian invasion, she got herself into a BYU study abroad program to Latvia for the summer.
For reasons you might have to be a former missionary to fully understand, Sophie maintains a vibrant affinity for Russian (and Russian-adjacent) people and things. With most of the Russian-speaking world not safely accessible to Sophie for the foreseeable future, her most prudent option was Latvia, one of three former Soviet republics on the Baltic Sea that are now independent states, safely ensconced in the European Union (and in NATO — at least until America’s once and future president blows up that alliance and starts World War III, but Sophie will be home by then).
If you are reading this, you are probably an American. Which means you are more likely to be able to find Baltic Avenue on a Monopoly board (sixty dollars, please) than to find the Baltic Sea on an unlabeled world map (or possibly even on a labeled map).
But that’s okay. Geography is hard! Asking an American to differentiate between Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania is likely to elicit the same puzzled stare (“Are those actual countries?”) as asking a non-New Englander which one’s Vermont and which is New Hampshire (come on, you know you’re guessing) or someone from the East to fill in all the big, randomly drawn rectangles between the Mississippi River and California. (It’s impossible to remember whether Kansas sits on top of Nebraska or if it’s the other way around, and, seriously, no one cares.)
But I care about Eastern European geography because my daughter cares about it.
As has become typical for Sophie and overseas travel, her journey to Latvia got off to an inauspicious start when her flight from Washington to Berlin on Friday afternoon sat on the tarmac at Dulles for an extended period with a mechanical issue. (I don’t know why a mechanical issue on Lufthansa seems so antithetical to me — I wouldn’t think the Germans would permit such a thing, but I guess it happens.) Fortunately, her built-in four-hour layover meant she had no trouble making her connection from Berlin to Riga yesterday morning, and thankfully it sounds like the trip in no way resembled her nightmare voyage to Ukraine in 2021. (If you don’t know the story of Sophie the missionary getting lost and abandoned in Kyiv on her way to Dnipro, you should click on the link and read it. I’ll wait for you back here.)
Sophie has now taken up residence with her host family (a married couple in their 50s and their dog) in their apartment in Riga. I’m guessing classes start tomorrow, though I guess I don’t really know anything for sure. She’s only been gone long enough to send two pictures from the plane and this one, presumably from her apartment.
I’m sure Sophie will teach me more about Latvia in the coming weeks. All I know for sure about it (based on my favorite map juxtaposition of all time, which I realize I have shared before) is that apparently you can drink the water there:
Sophie’s departure on Friday ended a blissful (for us, at least) two-month stretch of having her at home.
Those two months included a three weeks of substitute teaching around Montgomery County (see her letter for those details). But most of her waking, non-working hours were spent with Luke.
Oh yeah, Luke.
I guess I should have led with June’s big news (insofar as it is possible for the big news of the month not to directly involve me) which is Sophie’s engagement to fellow Montgomery County Public Schools alum, and fellow Brigham Young University undergrad, Luke Wonnacott.
I think I’m spelling it right. Words with more than one pair of double consonants are hard — though admittedly not as hard as words like Cincinnati that sound like they ought to have multiple pairs of double consonants but only have one.
Despite having grown up less than 20 miles from here (Luke attended the middle school where Crystal now teaches) I don’t believe Sophie and Luke met before BYU. It’s also possible I have that entirely wrong, and so I should probably just let them tell you how it happened.
I like Luke — a kindhearted, industrious finance student with a loud, easily provoked laugh and not a hint of arrogance. Upon learning that Sophie would be returning to Maryland for the spring (after Winter semester ended in April) he abruptly changed his own summer internship plans — abandoning the interview process at several financial advisory firms in Utah to begin the process anew here. Knowing he was coming into the game late, he cold-called 198 companies before landing an internship with a local wealth management shop.
It’s hard not to like this kid. He’s scrappy. As a fundamentally lazy person myself, I have a keen appreciation for people who are not.
I learned of their engagement last Saturday at a little after 5:00 p.m. as I was walking out of the temple after my shift (which is a little like turning your phone back on after a six-hour flight). There is usually a small flurry of activity and excitement as my phone frenetically works through its sequence of various vibrations alerting me to all the messages and happenings I missed while in the temple. But this usually subsides fairly quickly since I’m not that popular. The alerts were more numerous last Saturday for two reasons:
The first was the engagement announcement, which exhibited the usual annoying group text pattern of one person announcing something consequential followed by 37 different people all individually tapping back and/or replying with platitudes devoid of any substance. Fortunately, all this nonsense transpired while my phone was switched off in my temple locker, and so I was spared the aggravation of being alerted to each new incoming banality.1
The formal proposal transpired somewhere on the temple grounds, perhaps an hour or so after Sophie and Luke (and Crystal, and perhaps 40 other people) attended the noon endowment session at which I officiated. I’d like to think it was the deeply moving and inspired prayer I offered near the end of the session that prompted the whole thing. But it was probably going to happen anyway. (And besides, my prayer wasn’t all that great.)
They’ll get married over Christmas break with a reception on December 28th, probably in Seneca, Maryland. If you’re reading this, you’re invited. Stay tuned for details.
The second reason my phone was unusually busy last Saturday had to do with my ill-fated Saturday morning run.
Most Saturday mornings between May and November, I do my weekly long run with a large group of people who belong to the Montgomery County Road Runners Club and participate in the club’s Experienced Marathon Program (or “XMP”).
The conditions for last Saturday’s 15-mile run on the Rock Creek Trail starting at Lake Needwood were brutally hot with dew points in the 70s. Not uncommon around here, but more July-like than June-like. Due to a combination of the hot humidity and some poor pacing, hydration, and nutrition choices by me, I was already struggling on mile 8, and by mile 12 I was done.
Unfortunately, I was done 3.7 miles from Lake Needwood, where my car was parked.
I managed to bum a ride back from one Larry Feidelseit, who directs the club’s summer half-marathon program (SHM). By a happy coincidence, SHM staged its long run that morning out of a parking lot in Aspen Hill right next to where I was in the process of melting down. Needwood was not even close to being on the way to where he was going. But he saw the condition I was in, took pity on me, and drove me back to my car. Larry won’t ever see this, but he was my hero that day. Larry and people like Larry are what makes Montgomery County Road Runners such a great club. They look after each other. They volunteer and sacrifice for each other. They’re a great group of folks.
I should not have been surprised that the second group of messages to hit my phone last Saturday afternoon were from concerned fellow XMP members, checking in to make sure I was, you know, alive, and offer support.
The weather for yesterday’s 16.5-mile run was about as bad as last week’s, the main difference being an occasional welcome breeze, which helped offset some of the effects of the oppressive humidity (the dew point hovering around 70 degrees). But this time, I moved back to a slower pace group, got my nutrition, hydration, and electrolyte intake right, and made it through the workout without much trouble at all. It would have been a much harder run solo, though, so I’m grateful to be part of such a supportive team.
Yesterday’s run route included what some in the club refer to as “MTH.” I wasn’t familiar with the abbreviation, and so I asked Lee (pictured above) what ”MTH” was short for.
“Mormon Temple Hill,” he replied.
I was not familiar with the abbreviation, but I am quite familiar with the hill — as both a runner and a cyclist … and as a frequent temple-goer.
It occurred to me as we were running up Jones Mill Road and the temple came into view that my Saturdays are largely split between two activities that do wonders for my soul. I run with XMP in the morning, then I hurry home to clean myself up, hopefully eat something, and get to the temple in time for my Saturday afternoon shift (which begins at 11:15).
What’s strange is that there is precisely zero overlap between these two worlds. My XMP friends have no idea how I spend my Saturday afternoons, and my temple worker friends have no idea how I spend my Saturday mornings.
The two worlds came as close to colliding as they likely ever will yesterday morning as we reached the bottom of “MTH” and I announced to no one in particular, “Six months from today, my daughter is getting married in that temple.”
The announcement elicited minimal response — possibly in part because few people are in much of a mood to talk while running up that infernal hill. Polite congratulations ensued, followed by a few questions and someone mentioned being impressed by the Brides’ Room during his open house tour two years ago.2
The conversation wandered to other random things that come up on long runs. I don’t know why I mention it here other than to acknowledge my gratitude for the flexibility that enables me to spend my Saturdays on the asphalt and in the temple. Both things have made me a better person.
ASA Update
I am reluctant to write more about running, as this makes several months in a row. But I had two more opportunities to push for Athletes Serving Athletes this month. Oddly, I keep getting assigned to push the same athlete — the sweetest teenage girl you’ll ever meet named Kimar. I think I’ve pushed Kimar three or four times, which is unusual, since I don’t think I have pushed any other athlete more than once.
I love Kimar. She smiles constantly and always looks around at the Wingmen pushing her and asks us how we’re holding up. Which is only funny because one of our jobs is to make sure she’s doing okay. It isn’t her job to worry about us. But she does. She’s a delight.
Here’s us approaching the finish line at the Suds ‘n’ Soles 5K in Rockville earlier this month. Look at her face! It’s just so much fun.
More Gratitude for Even More Beautiful Music
I had a heading similar to this last month, so sorry again for the repetition, but June was another great music month!
The month began with two fun performances by the Washington DC Temple Choir. Here’s a picture of the barbershop group I sang with.
There’s audio and video on YouTube, which you can feel free to search for. But I’m not linking to it here, because I don’t love how it turned out. You can’t really hear my part much. (And when you can hear it, I’m not exactly nailing the pitch. As I mentioned last month, I’m new at this.) But it was still a lot of fun.
A week or two later, Crystal, Ari, Grace and I returned to the Kennedy Center, courtesy once again of my running friend (and NSO bass player) Ira, for a concert performance of Verdi’s Otello. I had never seen an opera performed this way before. It was in the Kennedy Center Concert Hall, where the NSO typically performs (as opposed to in the Kennedy Center Opera House, where operas are typically performed). The orchestra sat where they customarily do, and the singers walked around the front of the stage in concert attire (rather than costumes). They did some minimal acting, but mostly they just sang.
It was fabulous, but I’ll just say this about Otello:
Whenever anything (anywhere) is taking longer than it should, our dad’s go-to line is always something like, “This is like watching the woman die at the end of La bohème.“
It’s usually a fairly apt comparison for something that seems to take forever. It takes pretty much all of Act IV for Mimi to finally stop breathing (and singing) in La bohème.3
I only mention this because Mimi’s death in La bohème ain’t got nothing on Desdemona’s at the end of Otello. As I recall, Othello strangles her and then goes off and sings something. We then come back to Desdemona, who manages to crank out an entire aria between when Othello strangles her and when she actually kicks it. Very impressive.
I don’t know why I included all that — probably just to record Dad’s favorite line for posterity — but it was a great performance and I’m grateful for the opportunity of having gone.
And finally, permit me to close out the music appreciation section of this letter by expressing my sincere gratitude for this month’s new additions to the hymnbook. I love them! I’ve been working a new one into the sacrament meeting rotation every week. It’s not technically my prerogative as the organist to select the sacrament meeting hymns, but I do anyway and will continue to until somebody in authority chooses to overrule me. That almost never happens because (as I have learned from past experience) most of the people in authority have somewhat more pressing matters to attend to than what gets sung at church.
Hopefully your ward is incorporating the new music, too. (If you’re not, then find your music leaders and rattle their cage. It’s too beautiful to go unsung!
The only downside is that a lot of it makes me cry — which complicates playing the organ. One of my Sunday School students (I teach the oldest youth class — high school kids) noticed the tears streaming down my face during the third verse of “It is Well With My Soul” two weeks ago and asked me why.
I read the third verse to him:
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, o my soul!
Which only made me cry again. I explained to him that the words likely would not have made me cry when I was his age. But having accumulated 52 years of living and sinning, the idea of my shortcomings “not in part but the whole” being “nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more” hits me in ways it didn’t used to.
I honestly can’t think of a single thing in my life right now that I’m not grateful for.
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
- I’m as guilty as anyone of spewing meaningless blather back into large group texts, but it still irritates me when others do it.
- Fittingly, the Brides’ Room in the Washington D.C. Temple is done in a cherry blossom motif. I obviously haven’t seen it since the open house, either, but I also remember thinking it very nice.
- I remember the first time we went and saw Rent (a modern rip-off of La bohème) and settling in for Mimi’s death scene, expecting it to take forever. And it did take forever. Literally forever. Because Mimi doesn’t actually die at the end of Rent. (Sorry to spoil it for you, but it’s a 30-year-old musical, and you’ve had your chance.) She kind of dies. You think she’s dead, but then she wakes up and, as I recall, lives right on through the end of the show. Very unfulfilling.