Even after I stepped off the plane, I was still, technically, a missionary. Two years ago, my stake president laid his hands on me and used his priesthood power to officially make me a missionary. With that distinction, I was bound by missionary rules and entitled to specialized missionary blessings. With the laying on of hands by a person who carried the authority of God, I was set apart in the sense that I now occupied a distinctive class of human beings —no better or worse than my fellows, but different. I was, for lack of a better word, apart.
As my parents drove me to the stake president's office, I was quiet. I had awakened from the long dream of my mission, but I was still groggy. This place, my home, looked just like it had when I had left it. I wasn't sure if I should cry or start celebrating. It was just too surreal to accept just yet.
President Miller looked the same as he had before my mission, a tall, balding man with a firm handshake. In his office, he steepled his fingers and asked, "Do you think the Lord is pleased with your mission, Elder Kunz?"
I could feel my parents' gaze on my back. I knew the answer was probably a yes, but I had to think on this one. My perfectionist nature refused to allow me to forget a few incidents, including the one involving the camel, that marred my obedience record.
But it occurred to me then that President Miller wasn't just talking about following the rules. A missionary can follow all the rules to the letter and come home unfulfilled. Did I make the most of my time? Did I make New Mexico a better place?
"I think so," I said.
"Really?" President Miller asked.
I thought over all the people I had taught, over the few I had baptized, and over the companions I'd spent time with. All at once, I felt peace. It wasn't the same kind of peace I had felt at the end of my mission, which was a tenuous, hard-won peace like an armistice between opposing armies. This was a final peace, like the kind you're supposed to feel just before you slip into the great beyond.
In a way, I was definitely slipping into that great beyond.
"Yeah," I said.
President Miller laid his hands on me and declared that my full-time missionary service was over. I rose and looked up at my parents.
"I really want to watch Transformers now," I said.
President Miller and my parents laughed. As we left the room, we passed the stake president's next appointment — a kid two years younger than me, squirming between his own parents and wincing at his freshly cut missionary haircut.
I gave him a thumbs up.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Dream Within a Dream, Part 2
I thought back to Elder Hillam’s question. I’d made plenty of lists in the past few months — movies to see, books to read, girls to look up. Spider-Man 3 was out, as well as the third Pirates of the Caribbean. Some new vampire books had apparently earned the rapt attention every bored housewife. Girls who had been too young for me before my mission were now ripe for the dating.
But none of it mattered. Even those lists were part of the dream. Now that the end was finally upon me, it struck me with such a jarring reality that nothing I had done before my mission ended could prepare me. The end was finally real in a way that it had never been. I felt a kinship to my old self, who had been so overwhelmed at the start of the mission, thrust into a new world.
The plane taxied into the Idaho Falls Regional Airport and stopped at the gate. Other missionaries and fellow travelers stood and reached for their belongings. I sat there, unable to turn back but afraid to go forward. After all this time, after all my struggles, after all the trials and travails and hardships and successes and rewards of missionary life, I had finally earned peace. Once I stepped through that gate, that hard-earned peace would be gone, replaced by …
By what?
Anxiety at readjusting to regular life? Contentment at rejoining family? Fear of an expanding unknown?
I walked through that gate.
At the bottom of the escalator, signs and banners welcomed the missionaries home: “WE LOVE YOU ELDER HILLAM,” or “WELCOME BACK ELDER SMITH.”
My family didn’t have balloons or signs; they only had smiles. That was good; signs would have been too much for me. My mother and sister were crying; my brothers and father were standing there, trying to look tough. They were unreal and yet so very real at the same time. They were photographs given life. They looked the same, and yet they looked different. Someone else was crying; it might have been me.
The dream was over.
But none of it mattered. Even those lists were part of the dream. Now that the end was finally upon me, it struck me with such a jarring reality that nothing I had done before my mission ended could prepare me. The end was finally real in a way that it had never been. I felt a kinship to my old self, who had been so overwhelmed at the start of the mission, thrust into a new world.
The plane taxied into the Idaho Falls Regional Airport and stopped at the gate. Other missionaries and fellow travelers stood and reached for their belongings. I sat there, unable to turn back but afraid to go forward. After all this time, after all my struggles, after all the trials and travails and hardships and successes and rewards of missionary life, I had finally earned peace. Once I stepped through that gate, that hard-earned peace would be gone, replaced by …
By what?
Anxiety at readjusting to regular life? Contentment at rejoining family? Fear of an expanding unknown?
I walked through that gate.
At the bottom of the escalator, signs and banners welcomed the missionaries home: “WE LOVE YOU ELDER HILLAM,” or “WELCOME BACK ELDER SMITH.”
My family didn’t have balloons or signs; they only had smiles. That was good; signs would have been too much for me. My mother and sister were crying; my brothers and father were standing there, trying to look tough. They were unreal and yet so very real at the same time. They were photographs given life. They looked the same, and yet they looked different. Someone else was crying; it might have been me.
The dream was over.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Dream Within a Dream, Part 1
[This is the first part of another two-part piece. It's written out of sequence because I wanted to write it to be critiqued with the class.]
Almost three years after I came home, the movie Inception arrived in theaters. If you’re a tasteless cinematic curmudgeon and have yet to see it, I’ll describe the ending for you. Don’t worry; if you still haven’t seen Inception, you probably never will.
Leonardo DiCaprio’s character, after years of hiding from the authorities, can finally come home. He’s just pulled off a subconscious heist aboard an airplane. Only ten hours have passed in the real world since the heist began, but much longer has passed for those who just fought their way through a dream world. Because of the success of the heist, powerful people have allowed him to step off the plane with a clean slate and start a new life. The entire final scene passes with a minimum of dialogue as DiCaprio’s Cobb awakens from the long dream aboard a plane and returns to both reality and his personal world.
I sat between two other returning missionaries aboard a Delta flight, unaware of how my return to my former life would mirror the final scene from one of my future favorite movies. Everything — teaching, tracting, black nametags, letters from home, camels, mud, Navajos, the rez — was behind me now, and I would never be returning. Oh, I might go back to New Mexico, but I would never return as a missionary.
The world I'd dreamed of for so long was before me, but the real dream was behind me.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back?” asked Elder Hillam, staring out the window.
“I honestly have no idea,” I said.
“Come on,” he said, prodding me with the pen he had been twirling. “You’ve spend the last two years telling us about Amy. Isn’t she going to be there?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Almost three years after I came home, the movie Inception arrived in theaters. If you’re a tasteless cinematic curmudgeon and have yet to see it, I’ll describe the ending for you. Don’t worry; if you still haven’t seen Inception, you probably never will.
Leonardo DiCaprio’s character, after years of hiding from the authorities, can finally come home. He’s just pulled off a subconscious heist aboard an airplane. Only ten hours have passed in the real world since the heist began, but much longer has passed for those who just fought their way through a dream world. Because of the success of the heist, powerful people have allowed him to step off the plane with a clean slate and start a new life. The entire final scene passes with a minimum of dialogue as DiCaprio’s Cobb awakens from the long dream aboard a plane and returns to both reality and his personal world.
I sat between two other returning missionaries aboard a Delta flight, unaware of how my return to my former life would mirror the final scene from one of my future favorite movies. Everything — teaching, tracting, black nametags, letters from home, camels, mud, Navajos, the rez — was behind me now, and I would never be returning. Oh, I might go back to New Mexico, but I would never return as a missionary.
The world I'd dreamed of for so long was before me, but the real dream was behind me.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back?” asked Elder Hillam, staring out the window.
“I honestly have no idea,” I said.
“Come on,” he said, prodding me with the pen he had been twirling. “You’ve spend the last two years telling us about Amy. Isn’t she going to be there?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Brother D, Part 2
[This is the second part of the two-part piece.]
“We’re good,” I said, turning back to Elder Whitley. “Water’s warm.”
“I don’t care,” said Brother D, who’d now changed into his white jumpsuit. Nearby, Brother Peck fumbled with the buttons in his own jumpsuit.
“Now, when I baptize you, you have to go all the way under or we have to do it again,” Brother Peck said.
“Got it,” said Brother D with a smile.
_________________
“Thank you for letting us in,” I said, seated on the couch across the from the Desiderio family. Sister Desiderio was grinning, but Brother Desiderio looked less eager. “What we wanted to share tonight was about families …”
_________________
“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” Brother Peck recited, holding one hand above Brother D as they both stood in the water.
__________________
“And I know — I know! — that we really, really do have the potential to be forever with our families,” I said. “Brother Desiderio, do you love your family?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Right now, the bond that holds you all together will end when you die,” I said. “But this gospel, this church your wife belongs to, it’s got the way to seal you all together forever. Is that something you want?”
Brother Desiderio didn’t say anything.
__________________
“... Amen.”
The man who rose out of the water was different. It wasn’t just the short-cropped hair, the absence of an eyebrow stud, or the white jumpsuit. There was something else there, something indefinable escaping his smile.
__________________
“Do you?” I repeated. “Do you love your family?”
“Yes,” said Brother Desiderio.
“Then we’d like to ask that you let us keep coming. We’ll teach you more about the things you have to do in your life to qualify for the blessings I’m talking about. We’re not done yet for tonight, but can we set a time for our next visit?”
Monday, November 28, 2011
Brother D, Part I
[Note to Carol: This is a two-part blog that really makes the most sense when you don't pause between the two blogs. Please keep this in mind. Also, do you think it works, with the flashbacks and all?]
Brother Desiderio’s baptism fell on spring day in Gallup. Elder Whitley and I drove to the chapel so happy we didn’t even mind that all of our CDs were scratched except for the lamest of all the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas albums. We arrived early, but the Desiderios were already there at the chapel.
“His name is Troy Desiderio,” the ward mission leader, Brother Peck, told us. We sat in Brother Peck’s battered pickup, looking at the list of people he’d picked out for us. “His wife’s a member, and she’s started coming again. You’ll like him.”
Elder Whitley and I greeted Brother Desiderio with firm, eager handshakes and gave his son Chee high-fives. Sister Desiderio looked like she wanted to hug us but remembered missionary rules at the last moment and settled for handshakes.
“You ready for this?” I asked Brother D.
“You bet,” he said.
The three of us — two missionaries and a ward member — strode up the walkway to the Desiderios’ home.
“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Elder Hillam.
“I mentioned it to Sister Desiderio at church,” Brother Peck said. “I don’t know if she told her husband.”
“Oh, good,” I murmured.
We knocked.
The man that greeted us wore a Ramones T-shirt. Long black hair fell past his shoulders and a ring gleamed in his eyebrow.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Hey,” I said. I introduced us. “Did your wife tell you we were coming?”
“I think so,” he said, giving me a wary eye. “Come in.”
Brother Desiderio’s baptism fell on spring day in Gallup. Elder Whitley and I drove to the chapel so happy we didn’t even mind that all of our CDs were scratched except for the lamest of all the Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas albums. We arrived early, but the Desiderios were already there at the chapel.
“His name is Troy Desiderio,” the ward mission leader, Brother Peck, told us. We sat in Brother Peck’s battered pickup, looking at the list of people he’d picked out for us. “His wife’s a member, and she’s started coming again. You’ll like him.”
Elder Whitley and I greeted Brother Desiderio with firm, eager handshakes and gave his son Chee high-fives. Sister Desiderio looked like she wanted to hug us but remembered missionary rules at the last moment and settled for handshakes.
“You ready for this?” I asked Brother D.
“You bet,” he said.
The three of us — two missionaries and a ward member — strode up the walkway to the Desiderios’ home.
“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Elder Hillam.
“I mentioned it to Sister Desiderio at church,” Brother Peck said. “I don’t know if she told her husband.”
“Oh, good,” I murmured.
We knocked.
The man that greeted us wore a Ramones T-shirt. Long black hair fell past his shoulders and a ring gleamed in his eyebrow.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Hey,” I said. I introduced us. “Did your wife tell you we were coming?”
“I think so,” he said, giving me a wary eye. “Come in.”
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Thanksgiving
[This is a special Thanksgiving blog from the present.]
I’ve always felt my family was unique. Every family has their range of cherished holiday traditions, and some of those individual traditions are weirder than my family’s. But if our uniqueness factor increases exponentially with every peculiar holiday activity, my family should get some sort of recognition.
For example, my dad took me and two of my brothers shooting out at our ranch in Swan Valley, Idaho. Not unique enough for you? Several of the guns we brought were machine guns, including an AK-47, a commando pistol, and an AR-15.
After a half hour of shooting, the snow crunched under our feet as the four of us started to zip up our guns into their cases.
“Check this out,” my dad told us. He thumped a 5-lb whey powder bottle onto the tailgate. You typically take whey powder after a workout to increase your muscle gain or something, but we all knew the container’s true contents and doubted its nutritional value. My dad bought the substance legally, but the only reason exploding target powder is still legal is because the Democrats haven’t found them. Honestly, I can’t think of a legitimate use of for it except amusement.
We ran into the old barn on the property and dragged out a rusted old washing machine, one of several serving as motels for rats, and propped it against a snowy hillside.
For those unaccustomed to the world of exploding recreational ordnance, you mix the solution and pour it into some sort of container. Then it becomes susceptible to extreme impact — like the force of a bullet.
Dad motioned for the three boys to hide behind the truck as he took aim with his rifle. I held up a cell phone to film the impending explosion.
“Dad,” I called. “Are you ready? I’ve got the —”
Three sons and a dad watched the explosion disintegrate the washing machine. A spinning shred of metal embedded itself in the snow five feet in front of us. Our mother would have been horrified. The four boys, however, cheered.
I’ve always felt my family was unique. Every family has their range of cherished holiday traditions, and some of those individual traditions are weirder than my family’s. But if our uniqueness factor increases exponentially with every peculiar holiday activity, my family should get some sort of recognition.
For example, my dad took me and two of my brothers shooting out at our ranch in Swan Valley, Idaho. Not unique enough for you? Several of the guns we brought were machine guns, including an AK-47, a commando pistol, and an AR-15.
After a half hour of shooting, the snow crunched under our feet as the four of us started to zip up our guns into their cases.
“Check this out,” my dad told us. He thumped a 5-lb whey powder bottle onto the tailgate. You typically take whey powder after a workout to increase your muscle gain or something, but we all knew the container’s true contents and doubted its nutritional value. My dad bought the substance legally, but the only reason exploding target powder is still legal is because the Democrats haven’t found them. Honestly, I can’t think of a legitimate use of for it except amusement.
We ran into the old barn on the property and dragged out a rusted old washing machine, one of several serving as motels for rats, and propped it against a snowy hillside.
For those unaccustomed to the world of exploding recreational ordnance, you mix the solution and pour it into some sort of container. Then it becomes susceptible to extreme impact — like the force of a bullet.
Dad motioned for the three boys to hide behind the truck as he took aim with his rifle. I held up a cell phone to film the impending explosion.
“Dad,” I called. “Are you ready? I’ve got the —”
Three sons and a dad watched the explosion disintegrate the washing machine. A spinning shred of metal embedded itself in the snow five feet in front of us. Our mother would have been horrified. The four boys, however, cheered.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The Ditch
My stay in Panorama Heights lasted only two weeks. My mysterious symptoms vanished just in time for me to receive the call from President Koyle to become a zone leader in Gallup.
Elder Hillam and I had been in the MTC together, so we already knew each other well. We greeted each other with manly hugs and he set about introducing me to the area. Gallup, New Mexico, is situated at the lower limit of the Navajo reservation, bisected by a railroad and straddling several enormous hills that do their best to leave you panting and sweating like a Frodo crawling up Mount Doom when you attempt to ascend them on a bike. Some call it the Indian capital of the southwest, despite the fact that the official Navajo Nation capital lies a few miles to the east at Window Rock. This is because of the sheer amount of Native American culture that converges in Gallup — not just Navajo, but also Hopi and Apache.
There are also, unfortunately, plenty of drunk Indians. I'd seen drunks as early as Bloomfield. In that area, a slathered Indian once staggered up to me and told me he didn't want to listen to me because I had a "coatical state of mind," a phrase he used at least five times during our conversation. I still have no idea what it meant.
Later, a professor from a heavily Native American university in South Dakota explained to me that Native Americans have propensity for getting drunk because they lived for millennia with very little sugar in their diet, so they haven't yet developed any kind of tolerance for alcohol. I saw this firsthand.
One of the first things we passed on our way out tracting the first day was The Ditch. Elder Hillam explained that some elders low in street contacts for the day would come here because there was always people here to talk to, many of whom were too drunk to bother trying to escape.
"How do they get drunk?" I asked. On the deep rez, alcohol was against the law. Here, just off the rez proper, alcohol was allowed but was still far too expensive for homeless people to consume in large quantities.
"Mouthwash," Elder Hillam said with a frown.
"Huh?"
He led me down into The Ditch, an abandoned arroyo, or open storm drain, where stunted trees and scraggly bushes had been allowed to grow, like a science fair biosphere created without enthusiasm. Several bums — all natives — had settled out for the day, fresh grocery bags in their hands.
"Hey," I said, approaching one with a friendly wave.
He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and grabbed a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, raising it in salute.
"Heeyyy," he murmured.
"We're out talking to people about Christ and how knowing about him can help our lives," I told him. "I see you've got a few minutes. Mind if I sit down?"
He just looked at me, the cogs in his mind working like the spinning hourglass cursor on a frozen computer. "Mouthwash," he grumbled.
"There's nothing we can do for these people," I told Elder Hillam, my heart sinking. "Let's go."
Elder Hillam and I had been in the MTC together, so we already knew each other well. We greeted each other with manly hugs and he set about introducing me to the area. Gallup, New Mexico, is situated at the lower limit of the Navajo reservation, bisected by a railroad and straddling several enormous hills that do their best to leave you panting and sweating like a Frodo crawling up Mount Doom when you attempt to ascend them on a bike. Some call it the Indian capital of the southwest, despite the fact that the official Navajo Nation capital lies a few miles to the east at Window Rock. This is because of the sheer amount of Native American culture that converges in Gallup — not just Navajo, but also Hopi and Apache.
There are also, unfortunately, plenty of drunk Indians. I'd seen drunks as early as Bloomfield. In that area, a slathered Indian once staggered up to me and told me he didn't want to listen to me because I had a "coatical state of mind," a phrase he used at least five times during our conversation. I still have no idea what it meant.
Later, a professor from a heavily Native American university in South Dakota explained to me that Native Americans have propensity for getting drunk because they lived for millennia with very little sugar in their diet, so they haven't yet developed any kind of tolerance for alcohol. I saw this firsthand.
One of the first things we passed on our way out tracting the first day was The Ditch. Elder Hillam explained that some elders low in street contacts for the day would come here because there was always people here to talk to, many of whom were too drunk to bother trying to escape.
"How do they get drunk?" I asked. On the deep rez, alcohol was against the law. Here, just off the rez proper, alcohol was allowed but was still far too expensive for homeless people to consume in large quantities.
"Mouthwash," Elder Hillam said with a frown.
"Huh?"
He led me down into The Ditch, an abandoned arroyo, or open storm drain, where stunted trees and scraggly bushes had been allowed to grow, like a science fair biosphere created without enthusiasm. Several bums — all natives — had settled out for the day, fresh grocery bags in their hands.
"Hey," I said, approaching one with a friendly wave.
He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and grabbed a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, raising it in salute.
"Heeyyy," he murmured.
"We're out talking to people about Christ and how knowing about him can help our lives," I told him. "I see you've got a few minutes. Mind if I sit down?"
He just looked at me, the cogs in his mind working like the spinning hourglass cursor on a frozen computer. "Mouthwash," he grumbled.
"There's nothing we can do for these people," I told Elder Hillam, my heart sinking. "Let's go."
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