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."
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Crazy Talk
After three days of fruitless tests in the hospital, the doctors sent me home. President Koyle responded by transferring me to Panorama Heights, an area in western Albuquerque where I would be closer to a hospital if I needed it. There I met my newest companion, my second Elder Davis.
Davis II, as I called him in my head, bore an uncanny resemblance to Davis I as far as facial features and build went, but his motivation was a good deal higher. Elder Masi, my former companion from Crownpoint, also came to Albuqerque to serve in my district. It turned out that our jaunt to the hospital came during the semiannual mission temple trip, but now that we were in Albuquerque, we weren't going to let this chance pass us by to make our twice-a-year visit to the temple.
Elder Masi and I called President to let us go, and he agreed. Normally, he said, a missionary's work is for the living, not the dead — and once we get our own work done in the temple, every subsequent visit is for the benefit of those who have passed on. This time, however, since we had missed the temple trip, we were allowed to go.
Five hours later, we sat in the car outside a Subway, finishing our post-temple snacks as we prepared to return to our areas. Our discussion of some of the insights we'd learned in the temple had morphed into some pre-mission adventure stories; Elder Masi had just finished telling me about some girls he met in a hot tub in New Jersey.
"You guys thought I was crazy, right?" I asked.
Elder Masi gulped down another bite. "What?"
"Back in Crownpoint when I was sick. Did you and Hoskins think I was crazy? Or just making it up?"
Masi frowned and put his sandwich down. "Dude," he said, "we knew it was real. Well, I did, anyway. But they never found anything? What does that mean?"
"It means either I'm crazy, overreacting, or sick with something they couldn't figure out," I said.
"I think it's real," said Masi. "Stress, maybe? Just because it's all in your head doesn't mean it's not real."
"Oh, good," I murmured. "So I'm mentally ill now."
Masi shrugged. "I dunno. Stress gets to all of us differently." He picked up the sandwich again. "At least it's not ... what was it, cerebellitis again?"
"Yeah," I said, starting the car.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered exactly how crazy I was.
Davis II, as I called him in my head, bore an uncanny resemblance to Davis I as far as facial features and build went, but his motivation was a good deal higher. Elder Masi, my former companion from Crownpoint, also came to Albuqerque to serve in my district. It turned out that our jaunt to the hospital came during the semiannual mission temple trip, but now that we were in Albuquerque, we weren't going to let this chance pass us by to make our twice-a-year visit to the temple.
Elder Masi and I called President to let us go, and he agreed. Normally, he said, a missionary's work is for the living, not the dead — and once we get our own work done in the temple, every subsequent visit is for the benefit of those who have passed on. This time, however, since we had missed the temple trip, we were allowed to go.
Five hours later, we sat in the car outside a Subway, finishing our post-temple snacks as we prepared to return to our areas. Our discussion of some of the insights we'd learned in the temple had morphed into some pre-mission adventure stories; Elder Masi had just finished telling me about some girls he met in a hot tub in New Jersey.
"You guys thought I was crazy, right?" I asked.
Elder Masi gulped down another bite. "What?"
"Back in Crownpoint when I was sick. Did you and Hoskins think I was crazy? Or just making it up?"
Masi frowned and put his sandwich down. "Dude," he said, "we knew it was real. Well, I did, anyway. But they never found anything? What does that mean?"
"It means either I'm crazy, overreacting, or sick with something they couldn't figure out," I said.
"I think it's real," said Masi. "Stress, maybe? Just because it's all in your head doesn't mean it's not real."
"Oh, good," I murmured. "So I'm mentally ill now."
Masi shrugged. "I dunno. Stress gets to all of us differently." He picked up the sandwich again. "At least it's not ... what was it, cerebellitis again?"
"Yeah," I said, starting the car.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered exactly how crazy I was.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Hospitallers
Dundun-dundun-dundun-dundun-dundun-dundun-dundun-dundun.
Jason Bourne's theme was the only sound in the hospital room. Elder Masi had unfolded the room's convertible chair into some sort of cot that was too long to be a chair and too short to be a couch, but he nevertheless managed to fall asleep. Elder Hoskins was on the other side of my hospital bed, taking in all the TV he could during this rare opportunity for questionably legal entertainment. I, of course, reclined on the bed, unencumbered by tubes except for the monitor clasped around my pointer finger. Other than the sterile walls and my hospital gown — which I would have probably never gotten away with had I decided to use it, say, tracting — it was a Friday night back home.
TV was a brief luxury while we were in the hospital, but were were determined to enjoy it while we could. We had determined that such entertainment was allowed if we were imprisoned for three days in a hospital room, but we weren't quite ready to run that theory past President Koyle. I just couldn't imagine what Jonah had done to keep himself occupied for three days while inside that whale.
"So ..." asked Elder Hoskins after Jason Bourne finally strangled the CIA assassin after a fifteen-minute chase across the rooftops of Tangiers. "They find what's wrong with you yet?"
"Nope," I said.
"Didn't you get the spinal tap results back?"
"Yup."
"And ...?"
I shook my head. "Dude, I don't know. They didn't tell me anything."
"And what do you think it is?"
This was the first I'd had this conversation aloud. "I don't know," I admitted, taking my gaze from Jason Bourne's latest victory to the ceiling. "Maybe ... stress. When I was sixteen, I had meningitis, followed by something called cerebellitis, which is where your cerebellum gets inflamed. I couldn't talk or walk right for a month. Some of the other symptoms were the same as they now."
"You think it's this ... cerebellitis?"
"I hope not," I said. "I told the doctors about it, and that's why they did the spinal tap. But they didn't find anything."
And they never will, Elder Hoskins' eyes said.
Jason Bourne's theme was the only sound in the hospital room. Elder Masi had unfolded the room's convertible chair into some sort of cot that was too long to be a chair and too short to be a couch, but he nevertheless managed to fall asleep. Elder Hoskins was on the other side of my hospital bed, taking in all the TV he could during this rare opportunity for questionably legal entertainment. I, of course, reclined on the bed, unencumbered by tubes except for the monitor clasped around my pointer finger. Other than the sterile walls and my hospital gown — which I would have probably never gotten away with had I decided to use it, say, tracting — it was a Friday night back home.
TV was a brief luxury while we were in the hospital, but were were determined to enjoy it while we could. We had determined that such entertainment was allowed if we were imprisoned for three days in a hospital room, but we weren't quite ready to run that theory past President Koyle. I just couldn't imagine what Jonah had done to keep himself occupied for three days while inside that whale.
"So ..." asked Elder Hoskins after Jason Bourne finally strangled the CIA assassin after a fifteen-minute chase across the rooftops of Tangiers. "They find what's wrong with you yet?"
"Nope," I said.
"Didn't you get the spinal tap results back?"
"Yup."
"And ...?"
I shook my head. "Dude, I don't know. They didn't tell me anything."
"And what do you think it is?"
This was the first I'd had this conversation aloud. "I don't know," I admitted, taking my gaze from Jason Bourne's latest victory to the ceiling. "Maybe ... stress. When I was sixteen, I had meningitis, followed by something called cerebellitis, which is where your cerebellum gets inflamed. I couldn't talk or walk right for a month. Some of the other symptoms were the same as they now."
"You think it's this ... cerebellitis?"
"I hope not," I said. "I told the doctors about it, and that's why they did the spinal tap. But they didn't find anything."
And they never will, Elder Hoskins' eyes said.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Sick Days
The day started out normal. Then I passed out.
My companions by this time were Elders Hoskins and Masi. Hoskins had replaced Findlay for my third transfer in Crownpoint, and Masi had joined our companionship after his companion (Serial Killer Allen) had rolled their truck, resulting in the temporary expulsion of elders from Pueblo Pintado. (You can't have a set of elders two hours from anywhere else, without paved roads, without a truck.)
The day's activities included service for a Navajo family with a large pile of trash in their backyard. This was the rez, so you could burn gigantic piles of trash with impunity. The police might even stop by and help you set the desert on fire. We had a fire about five feet high when a profound tiredness settled over me. Tiredness is a regular part of a missionary's life, but this was different.
Time ran like a broken clock after that.
The column of smoke expanded and contracted. Glass bottled popped. The sky got bigger.
Elder Masi: "Hey, dude, what's wrong?"
Elder Hoskins: "Elder Kunz! You okay?"
The ground rushed at me.
I clawed the dirt, trying to stand.
I remember the trip back to our trailer, but only in hazy strings of disconnected memories: Elder Hoskins calling President Koyle, me trying to eat a potato chip but forgetting about it with my hand halfway to my mouth, the decision (without me) to drive to the Farmington hospital.
In the hospital, I regained some cogency. The doctors plumbed my spinal cord in search of some telltale sign. They took my blood. They looked me over with glittering instruments. They found nothing.
"It's all in his head," I overheard Elder Hoskins telling Elder Masi.
There was no doubt about that. And that was what made it even scarier.
My companions by this time were Elders Hoskins and Masi. Hoskins had replaced Findlay for my third transfer in Crownpoint, and Masi had joined our companionship after his companion (Serial Killer Allen) had rolled their truck, resulting in the temporary expulsion of elders from Pueblo Pintado. (You can't have a set of elders two hours from anywhere else, without paved roads, without a truck.)
The day's activities included service for a Navajo family with a large pile of trash in their backyard. This was the rez, so you could burn gigantic piles of trash with impunity. The police might even stop by and help you set the desert on fire. We had a fire about five feet high when a profound tiredness settled over me. Tiredness is a regular part of a missionary's life, but this was different.
Time ran like a broken clock after that.
The column of smoke expanded and contracted. Glass bottled popped. The sky got bigger.
Elder Masi: "Hey, dude, what's wrong?"
Elder Hoskins: "Elder Kunz! You okay?"
The ground rushed at me.
I clawed the dirt, trying to stand.
I remember the trip back to our trailer, but only in hazy strings of disconnected memories: Elder Hoskins calling President Koyle, me trying to eat a potato chip but forgetting about it with my hand halfway to my mouth, the decision (without me) to drive to the Farmington hospital.
In the hospital, I regained some cogency. The doctors plumbed my spinal cord in search of some telltale sign. They took my blood. They looked me over with glittering instruments. They found nothing.
"It's all in his head," I overheard Elder Hoskins telling Elder Masi.
There was no doubt about that. And that was what made it even scarier.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Enos, Part 3
"Father," I prayed, "I know that I could be the missionary Thou wouldst have me be if you took away my stutter."
I knelt in the chapel. I listened. I could hear the rumble of the heater somewhere in the background, accompanied by the hum of the lights. I heard my own breathing. But I heard no evidence of the Divine breaking the barrier between heaven and earth.
I shut off the lights and locked up the church again. Inside our trailer, Elder Findlay was still asleep. My note lay untouched on the counter; I scooped it up and threw it away.
After shedding my clothes and sliding back into bed, I glared at the ceiling. I couldn't have afforded to pray all night as Enos had; hadn't my half hour of fervent prayer been enough? Surely God valued quality over quantity.
In the morning, we gave a lesson to a pair of Navajo men walking by the side of the road. Both had been previously baptized but neither knew what baptism meant and neither had been to church in years. We discussed the commitments associated with baptism. In the process, I still stuttered as I taught them. Apparently, the Lord had not heard me.
I would labor the rest of my mission under the impression that the Lord had heard my desperate prayer, but that He had mysterious purposes for me that He didn't bother to share. I continued on — teaching, working, stuttering — until the end, blindly deferring to the Lord's judgment. But not without grumbling.
It would be much later that I discovered exactly how the Lord had answered my prayers.
I knelt in the chapel. I listened. I could hear the rumble of the heater somewhere in the background, accompanied by the hum of the lights. I heard my own breathing. But I heard no evidence of the Divine breaking the barrier between heaven and earth.
I shut off the lights and locked up the church again. Inside our trailer, Elder Findlay was still asleep. My note lay untouched on the counter; I scooped it up and threw it away.
After shedding my clothes and sliding back into bed, I glared at the ceiling. I couldn't have afforded to pray all night as Enos had; hadn't my half hour of fervent prayer been enough? Surely God valued quality over quantity.
In the morning, we gave a lesson to a pair of Navajo men walking by the side of the road. Both had been previously baptized but neither knew what baptism meant and neither had been to church in years. We discussed the commitments associated with baptism. In the process, I still stuttered as I taught them. Apparently, the Lord had not heard me.
I would labor the rest of my mission under the impression that the Lord had heard my desperate prayer, but that He had mysterious purposes for me that He didn't bother to share. I continued on — teaching, working, stuttering — until the end, blindly deferring to the Lord's judgment. But not without grumbling.
It would be much later that I discovered exactly how the Lord had answered my prayers.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Enos, Part 2
The solitude comforted me. The chapel wasn't as big as the chapels elsewhere on my mission or those I had been accustomed to back home, but when I walked in alone it was large enough for my purposes. I strode up the aisle toward the pulpit.
A thought struck me. Where exactly was I going to do this? I wanted somewhere comfortable, but unless I tore a cushion off one of the chairs in the foyer I was going to have to deal with hard floor or at best thin carpet. On the stand, the platform where the speakers, the organist, the choir, and the presiding authorities sit during a meeting, I paused. This looked good enough. Resting my arms on one of the fold-out seats near the front of the the stand, I began.
"Father in Heaven ..."
Deep down, maybe I was hoping for something miraculous. Even if my experience didn't parallel that of Joseph Smith, Moses, or Enos, I was hoping at least for some rush of beatific energy or caloric burning in my chest.
"I've tried to be a good missionary ..."
I listed some of my successes — baptisms I'd helped to move forward in Bloomfield, Haines, River's Edge, Indian School, and Bandelier; companions I'd helped; people I'd tried to influence for the better. I also listed some of my failures — disobedience like the camel incident; Elder Davis and his movie collection, which went unchecked for half a transfer; various evidences of my lack of faith. I prayed for forgiveness for the things I'd done wrong and rewards for those I'd done right.
"For my whole life, I've had a cross to bear ..."
I recounted the struggles I'd had with my stutter and my expectations for the success of the Lord's work if He would take those challenges away from me.
After a while, I paused to gauge my feelings and listen for the presence of the Spirit.
A thought struck me. Where exactly was I going to do this? I wanted somewhere comfortable, but unless I tore a cushion off one of the chairs in the foyer I was going to have to deal with hard floor or at best thin carpet. On the stand, the platform where the speakers, the organist, the choir, and the presiding authorities sit during a meeting, I paused. This looked good enough. Resting my arms on one of the fold-out seats near the front of the the stand, I began.
"Father in Heaven ..."
Deep down, maybe I was hoping for something miraculous. Even if my experience didn't parallel that of Joseph Smith, Moses, or Enos, I was hoping at least for some rush of beatific energy or caloric burning in my chest.
"I've tried to be a good missionary ..."
I listed some of my successes — baptisms I'd helped to move forward in Bloomfield, Haines, River's Edge, Indian School, and Bandelier; companions I'd helped; people I'd tried to influence for the better. I also listed some of my failures — disobedience like the camel incident; Elder Davis and his movie collection, which went unchecked for half a transfer; various evidences of my lack of faith. I prayed for forgiveness for the things I'd done wrong and rewards for those I'd done right.
"For my whole life, I've had a cross to bear ..."
I recounted the struggles I'd had with my stutter and my expectations for the success of the Lord's work if He would take those challenges away from me.
After a while, I paused to gauge my feelings and listen for the presence of the Spirit.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Enos, Part I
In the Book of Mormon, there is a story of a man named Enos who is hunting in the forest when he becomes overcome with the desire to be forgiven of his sins. He kneels there in the woods and supplicates before his Master, praying for forgiveness all night long. In the morning he hears the voice of the Lord, promising him forgiveness and other blessings.
I wasn't particularly troubled by my sins, though I had other difficulties that weighed on me like Enos' sins did on him. My stutter ebbed and rose according to various stimuli, but it was always there. It wasn't something I could bury in the back of my mind, either. It was always there when I testified or taught, a demon that reveled in mockery. I was convinced that I could never be the missionary I was meant to be if I were held back by this thorn in the flesh.
Missionaries are to remain with their assigned companion, but this was one of those instances where I decided to screw the rules. This was in the name of self-improvement, anyway. It was time for me to have an Enos moment.
The church house was literally twenty feet from our trailer, separated by only a fenced basketball court. After Elder Findlay was asleep, I pulled on my clothes, grabbed the church keys, left a note (in case Elder Findlay discovered my absence), and slipped out the side door of the trailer.
New Mexico hadn't yet embraced the full cold of winter, but I still hurried to get out of the chill. I opened the door of the church and entered.
Alone, I stepped into the chapel. Alone, that is, but for the Lord.
I wasn't particularly troubled by my sins, though I had other difficulties that weighed on me like Enos' sins did on him. My stutter ebbed and rose according to various stimuli, but it was always there. It wasn't something I could bury in the back of my mind, either. It was always there when I testified or taught, a demon that reveled in mockery. I was convinced that I could never be the missionary I was meant to be if I were held back by this thorn in the flesh.
Missionaries are to remain with their assigned companion, but this was one of those instances where I decided to screw the rules. This was in the name of self-improvement, anyway. It was time for me to have an Enos moment.
The church house was literally twenty feet from our trailer, separated by only a fenced basketball court. After Elder Findlay was asleep, I pulled on my clothes, grabbed the church keys, left a note (in case Elder Findlay discovered my absence), and slipped out the side door of the trailer.
New Mexico hadn't yet embraced the full cold of winter, but I still hurried to get out of the chill. I opened the door of the church and entered.
Alone, I stepped into the chapel. Alone, that is, but for the Lord.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Three's Company
My first week as district leader, I got a phone call.
It was from Elder Allen, one of the missionaries out in Pueblo Pintado.
"Um ..." he began. "I'm not sure who to tell about this, but my companion keeps calling phone sex hotlines."
A few days later, his companion was on an airplane headed home and Elder Allen was temporarily with Elder Findlay and me.
Remember my explanation of how nicknames worked in the mission? There were multiple Elder Allens, so they each got assigned a nickname. There was Texas Allen, Spanish Allen, and my new companion ... Serial Killer Allen.
Elder Serial Killer Allen had long hair — for a missionary — parted in thick black curtains reminiscent of Severus Snape. His eyes, a pair of beady little orbs, peered out with a constant bemused expression. He spoke slowly, and it was easy to imagine that he was planning to cut you up and store you in his freezer when you got home.
One morning Elder Findlay was making pancakes. I sat at the table with my scriptures and my planner open, trying to get a hang of this new district leader role, when some morsel fell off Elder Findlay's skillet onto the stove and began to burn. Our hyper-sensitive smoke alarm began to wail.
And wail.
And wail.
"Shut that thing off!" I bellowed when no one seemed to be making an effort to waft away the smoke. "Open the window!"
Cold air rushed in as Elder Findlay cracked the trailer's kitchen window, but the siren continued to screech.
"Urgh," murmured Elder Allen. I ran to the door and pushed it open, but still the alarm blared.
"Got it," said Elder Allen. I looked to see what he had been doing this whole time, and found that he had retrieved a BB pistol from his luggage. Weapons, I think, are specifically prohibited in the missionary handbook. If they're not, it's because our leaders assume we have good sense.
Sometimes our leaders give us too much credit.
Elder Allen squeezed off three rounds into the smoke detector, and it wailed its last.
"Got it," he said again, as Elder Findlay and I gaped.
It was from Elder Allen, one of the missionaries out in Pueblo Pintado.
"Um ..." he began. "I'm not sure who to tell about this, but my companion keeps calling phone sex hotlines."
A few days later, his companion was on an airplane headed home and Elder Allen was temporarily with Elder Findlay and me.
Remember my explanation of how nicknames worked in the mission? There were multiple Elder Allens, so they each got assigned a nickname. There was Texas Allen, Spanish Allen, and my new companion ... Serial Killer Allen.
Elder Serial Killer Allen had long hair — for a missionary — parted in thick black curtains reminiscent of Severus Snape. His eyes, a pair of beady little orbs, peered out with a constant bemused expression. He spoke slowly, and it was easy to imagine that he was planning to cut you up and store you in his freezer when you got home.
One morning Elder Findlay was making pancakes. I sat at the table with my scriptures and my planner open, trying to get a hang of this new district leader role, when some morsel fell off Elder Findlay's skillet onto the stove and began to burn. Our hyper-sensitive smoke alarm began to wail.
And wail.
And wail.
"Shut that thing off!" I bellowed when no one seemed to be making an effort to waft away the smoke. "Open the window!"
Cold air rushed in as Elder Findlay cracked the trailer's kitchen window, but the siren continued to screech.
"Urgh," murmured Elder Allen. I ran to the door and pushed it open, but still the alarm blared.
"Got it," said Elder Allen. I looked to see what he had been doing this whole time, and found that he had retrieved a BB pistol from his luggage. Weapons, I think, are specifically prohibited in the missionary handbook. If they're not, it's because our leaders assume we have good sense.
Sometimes our leaders give us too much credit.
Elder Allen squeezed off three rounds into the smoke detector, and it wailed its last.
"Got it," he said again, as Elder Findlay and I gaped.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Drunk Indians
Elder Findlay and I settled on the West Mesa community in Crownpoint to tract.
The third or fourth house had no lawn. A few dogs were chained to stakes dug into the dirt, dodging abandoned farming implements and trash in their attempts to bite the heads off the intruders. Elder Findlay and I skirted the driveway, hiding behind a battered station wagon to make it to the porch while remaining outside of the reach of the two dogs, both of which looked to have been infected with a zombie virus that would fully take in a few hours. Long strings of spittle dangled from fang-lined jaws underneath maniacal eyes.
We banged on the door. I checked my supply of copies of the Book of Mormon in my backpack and pass-along cards, the cards offering free Church books or movies, in my pockets behind my nametag. Fully stocked, I awaited the arrival at the threshold of the owner of the house.
The screen door screeched and thudded along its track as it opened. A bearded Navajo man with bloodshot eyes appeared.
"Yes?"
"Hello," I said. "We're missionaries and we're going around sharing a message about Jesus Christ. We'd love to come in and share it with you."
The man slurred something. I didn't catch it, but when he retreated into the house, he left the door opened. Elder Findlay and I exchanged glances and followed him.
A woman lay on the couch, a bottle of whiskey tottering precariously in her hand. A second man lay on the floor, staring straight up. Another look at Elder Findlay confirmed we both felt the same way: we weren't going to get anywhere with these people right now.
I opened my Book of Mormon and turned to the man who had come to the door, who seemed to have forgotten he had let us in ... if, of course, that had been his intention. I wrote our phone number in the front of a Book of Mormon and handed it to him.
The woman with the whiskey let the bottle topple from her hand. She murmured something as though sleeptalking, but her eyes were wide open.
"I know that the message we have to share will help you," I said, handing the Book of Mormon to the man. "Give us a call sometime soon."
On our way out, I tossed a pass-along card onto the chest of the man on the ground.
The third or fourth house had no lawn. A few dogs were chained to stakes dug into the dirt, dodging abandoned farming implements and trash in their attempts to bite the heads off the intruders. Elder Findlay and I skirted the driveway, hiding behind a battered station wagon to make it to the porch while remaining outside of the reach of the two dogs, both of which looked to have been infected with a zombie virus that would fully take in a few hours. Long strings of spittle dangled from fang-lined jaws underneath maniacal eyes.
We banged on the door. I checked my supply of copies of the Book of Mormon in my backpack and pass-along cards, the cards offering free Church books or movies, in my pockets behind my nametag. Fully stocked, I awaited the arrival at the threshold of the owner of the house.
The screen door screeched and thudded along its track as it opened. A bearded Navajo man with bloodshot eyes appeared.
"Yes?"
"Hello," I said. "We're missionaries and we're going around sharing a message about Jesus Christ. We'd love to come in and share it with you."
The man slurred something. I didn't catch it, but when he retreated into the house, he left the door opened. Elder Findlay and I exchanged glances and followed him.
A woman lay on the couch, a bottle of whiskey tottering precariously in her hand. A second man lay on the floor, staring straight up. Another look at Elder Findlay confirmed we both felt the same way: we weren't going to get anywhere with these people right now.
I opened my Book of Mormon and turned to the man who had come to the door, who seemed to have forgotten he had let us in ... if, of course, that had been his intention. I wrote our phone number in the front of a Book of Mormon and handed it to him.
The woman with the whiskey let the bottle topple from her hand. She murmured something as though sleeptalking, but her eyes were wide open.
"I know that the message we have to share will help you," I said, handing the Book of Mormon to the man. "Give us a call sometime soon."
On our way out, I tossed a pass-along card onto the chest of the man on the ground.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
(Not) Home for Christmas
A missionary's Christmas is always an unusual thing. For regular people, Christmas often means spending time with family, opening presents, and enjoying arrays of home-cooked meals. For missionaries, family contact is limited to a short phone call; presents sometimes fail to reach their destination in time; and food, though often plentiful, is spent far from families.
The elders in Pueblo Pintado, a chapter settlement an hour or so from Crownpoint, invited Elder Findlay and I to spend the night Christmas Eve. We agreed; the alternative was to stay in our trailer and act out the nativity story with two actors. The Pueblo Pintado elders' trailer was even more remote than ours; the only buildings in sight were the church — two connected double-wide trailers — and a few houses in the distance.
Before we left Crownpoint, I checked the mailbox one last time and returned grumbling. My package with the Christmas presents had been delayed on its way to the reservation and it looked like I wasn't going to open my presents on Christmas.
Christmas morning came. The other three elders were fast asleep until about 9:30; it was one of those rare days when leaders looked the other way when it came to sleeping in. I couldn't sleep past 8, however, so I called my parents. We talked for an hour or so then signed off. They were doing well, and so was I, and there wasn't much to talk about.
Still present-less, I gathered my coat around me and sat on the porch. This was the first Christmas ever where I didn't have a single gift to open under the tree, but it didn't bother me as much as it should have. The day was rather warm despite the snow that sat in a tranquil sheet as far as I could see — and, owing to the barrenness of the landscape, I could see quite far.
I grabbed one of the fifty copies of the Book of Mormon and took it with me. I re-read the Book of Mormon's unique Christmas story, the tale of a group of New World inhabitants who eagerly await the coming of the Messiah on the other side of the globe.
Merry Christmas, I said to myself. I sat on the porch for a while more, the happiest I'd ever been without presents.
The elders in Pueblo Pintado, a chapter settlement an hour or so from Crownpoint, invited Elder Findlay and I to spend the night Christmas Eve. We agreed; the alternative was to stay in our trailer and act out the nativity story with two actors. The Pueblo Pintado elders' trailer was even more remote than ours; the only buildings in sight were the church — two connected double-wide trailers — and a few houses in the distance.
Before we left Crownpoint, I checked the mailbox one last time and returned grumbling. My package with the Christmas presents had been delayed on its way to the reservation and it looked like I wasn't going to open my presents on Christmas.
Christmas morning came. The other three elders were fast asleep until about 9:30; it was one of those rare days when leaders looked the other way when it came to sleeping in. I couldn't sleep past 8, however, so I called my parents. We talked for an hour or so then signed off. They were doing well, and so was I, and there wasn't much to talk about.
Still present-less, I gathered my coat around me and sat on the porch. This was the first Christmas ever where I didn't have a single gift to open under the tree, but it didn't bother me as much as it should have. The day was rather warm despite the snow that sat in a tranquil sheet as far as I could see — and, owing to the barrenness of the landscape, I could see quite far.
I grabbed one of the fifty copies of the Book of Mormon and took it with me. I re-read the Book of Mormon's unique Christmas story, the tale of a group of New World inhabitants who eagerly await the coming of the Messiah on the other side of the globe.
Merry Christmas, I said to myself. I sat on the porch for a while more, the happiest I'd ever been without presents.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Off the Edge of the Map
Tracting in Crownpoint was a new experience. It often involved picking one of the six or seven settlements ("chapters" of the Navajo Nation) strewn around Crownpoint and taking a half-hour drive out off the edge of the map. We would find twenty to thirty houses, but the arrangement of the houses varied. In an odd recollection, these settlements reminded me of an atom: there were clusters of houses on the inside with scattered, isolated dwellings outside. When we finished knocking the doors of the inner clusters, we would hop back in the truck and drive door to door, sometimes going a mile or more between houses.
The houses varied as well. Some of the more well-to-do neighborhoods looked like something you'd find back at home, if indeed you transplanted my subdivision's houses onto bleak gravel lawns dug out of the New Mexican scruff. Others were mere wooden huts, called hogans, which often had dirt floors and 72-inch plasma TVs. The Navajo people were generally kind and would let us in, but it took some gnashing of teeth to get them to follow through with the commitments they so gleefully made.
Other days we'd stay in Crownpoint. We could hike over the mesa to the east of our trailer for the most direct route to the bulk of the houses, or we could slink around the road to hit the Bureau of Indian Affairs housing to the southeast.
At nights, after we planned and did all the day's appointed tasks, I would sit on the porch sometimes and just look up at the sky. It was the same sky that beamed down at me months ago to remind me who was backing me up on this crazy adventure of mine, but this time it was unmarred by the lights of the city. I'd often smile up again and count myself lucky that the Lord had given me so many chances to be who He wanted me to be.
The houses varied as well. Some of the more well-to-do neighborhoods looked like something you'd find back at home, if indeed you transplanted my subdivision's houses onto bleak gravel lawns dug out of the New Mexican scruff. Others were mere wooden huts, called hogans, which often had dirt floors and 72-inch plasma TVs. The Navajo people were generally kind and would let us in, but it took some gnashing of teeth to get them to follow through with the commitments they so gleefully made.
Other days we'd stay in Crownpoint. We could hike over the mesa to the east of our trailer for the most direct route to the bulk of the houses, or we could slink around the road to hit the Bureau of Indian Affairs housing to the southeast.
At nights, after we planned and did all the day's appointed tasks, I would sit on the porch sometimes and just look up at the sky. It was the same sky that beamed down at me months ago to remind me who was backing me up on this crazy adventure of mine, but this time it was unmarred by the lights of the city. I'd often smile up again and count myself lucky that the Lord had given me so many chances to be who He wanted me to be.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Crownpoint
On Google Maps, as I later discovered, Crownpoint, New Mexico, looks almost like my hometown. It has a school, a four-way stop, clusters of small houses, and symmetrical roads within the city limits. There is a large grocery store, Basha's, and from Google Maps' overhead view you can make out tiny pickup trucks and SUVs winding through the streets.
Coming from the south, you're first greeted by both a billboard warning against diabetes and the Welcome to Crownpoint sign in English and Navajo (Tʼiistsʼóóz Ńdeeshgizh). At this time, the pavement of the highway transforms into gravel, then dirt. A water tower stands guard atop a mesa, its crest topped by both the American and Diné flags. A further foray into town takes you past the communes of houses for government employees who teach the Indian kids, neat little rows of trailers and stucco. Mangy dogs rove the streets in packs, not quite dispelling any previous rumors that "rez dogs" are all rabid, wild-eyed mongrels with a taste for human flesh.
Deeper into town, you reach the four-way stop. Two corners are deserted; one is host to a gathering a rugmakers selling their wares; the fourth corner is the site of Mr. Cluck's Chicken, a establishment that once sold fried chicken but is now the dwelling place for at least one pack of rez dogs. Passing the four-way stop, you head up a winding path toward the LDS church, easily the most well-maintained building in town. To the east of the church is the pair of trailers in which reside the two pairs of missionaries working in Crownpoint — a young pair of elders and a senior couple.
"Here we are," I said as our Chevy Colorado pulled up to our trailer.
"Here we are," said Elder Findlay.
Coming from the south, you're first greeted by both a billboard warning against diabetes and the Welcome to Crownpoint sign in English and Navajo (Tʼiistsʼóóz Ńdeeshgizh). At this time, the pavement of the highway transforms into gravel, then dirt. A water tower stands guard atop a mesa, its crest topped by both the American and Diné flags. A further foray into town takes you past the communes of houses for government employees who teach the Indian kids, neat little rows of trailers and stucco. Mangy dogs rove the streets in packs, not quite dispelling any previous rumors that "rez dogs" are all rabid, wild-eyed mongrels with a taste for human flesh.
Deeper into town, you reach the four-way stop. Two corners are deserted; one is host to a gathering a rugmakers selling their wares; the fourth corner is the site of Mr. Cluck's Chicken, a establishment that once sold fried chicken but is now the dwelling place for at least one pack of rez dogs. Passing the four-way stop, you head up a winding path toward the LDS church, easily the most well-maintained building in town. To the east of the church is the pair of trailers in which reside the two pairs of missionaries working in Crownpoint — a young pair of elders and a senior couple.
"Here we are," I said as our Chevy Colorado pulled up to our trailer.
"Here we are," said Elder Findlay.
To the Rez
The Lord, it seemed, wanted to give me one more chance.
As Albuquerque — and my failures with Elder Davis — disappeared behind me, I couldn't keep the smile off my face.
The Rez. To train.
I'd heard the stories since I was first dropped off at the mission home. They said the Rez, the Navajo reservation, was a magical place where anything could happen. Skinwalkers — Indian witches with the ability to shapeshift into animals — appeared in the rearview mirror, only to vanish seconds later. Dogs with red eyes prowled streets between wooden homes. You drove a four-wheel-drive pickup.
Going with me to explore this wild land of mystery was a brand new greenie.
His name was Elder Findlay. When I picked him up on the way from Albuquerque to the rez, he greeted me with a stilted wave and immediately launched into a full verbal biography. On the two-hour ride to Gallup, the transfer point closest to our area, I heard his family secrets, stories from his high school job, tales of his brief time at college, descriptions the girl ostensibly waiting at home for him, and the detailed plot synopsis of the new Pixar movie Cars.
Gallup was a little blotch of civilization the middle of the desert, but I'll save the full description of that singular place for later. At the moment, Elder Findlay and I were stopping in Gallup only momentarily, taking advantage of cheap food at the Wal-Mart before embarking to great beyond.
As Albuquerque — and my failures with Elder Davis — disappeared behind me, I couldn't keep the smile off my face.
The Rez. To train.
I'd heard the stories since I was first dropped off at the mission home. They said the Rez, the Navajo reservation, was a magical place where anything could happen. Skinwalkers — Indian witches with the ability to shapeshift into animals — appeared in the rearview mirror, only to vanish seconds later. Dogs with red eyes prowled streets between wooden homes. You drove a four-wheel-drive pickup.
Going with me to explore this wild land of mystery was a brand new greenie.
His name was Elder Findlay. When I picked him up on the way from Albuquerque to the rez, he greeted me with a stilted wave and immediately launched into a full verbal biography. On the two-hour ride to Gallup, the transfer point closest to our area, I heard his family secrets, stories from his high school job, tales of his brief time at college, descriptions the girl ostensibly waiting at home for him, and the detailed plot synopsis of the new Pixar movie Cars.
Gallup was a little blotch of civilization the middle of the desert, but I'll save the full description of that singular place for later. At the moment, Elder Findlay and I were stopping in Gallup only momentarily, taking advantage of cheap food at the Wal-Mart before embarking to great beyond.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Buck Passing
Three days, I told myself, until exchanges with the district leader, when the district leader and I would work together for a day, leaving our companions together. Three more days of having to face myself for the gutless wonder I was.
My gentle efforts to get Elder Davis to rise earlier and get to work had been met with mixed success. Once he was ready, I could get him out the door, though his lack of preparation usually left our lessons in jeopardy. Getting him with both shoes and his tie on by 10:00, however, was the hard part. It was easy to tell him not to watch movies, but telling him to get up and be ready to go by ten was harder because it required me to follow up on every step of the process. Often, following up grew so tedious that he swept me into his pattern of laziness.
"Elder," I would say, "we're getting out on time today."
"Sure," he would say, and fall asleep on the couch again.
That's when I'd sit on him or sing loudly. I hated the look that sometimes came over him, though — that expression of irritation that made him retreat more deeply into his shell. If I overdid the correction, Elder Davis would withdraw to a place where only his DVDs (which he always seemed to find despite my attempts to hide them) could keep him company.
When the exchanges arrived, I quickly explained to the district leader my situation. He told me what to do: just keep doing what I was doing while he passed the problem up the chain of command.
I slept better than night. From now on, I didn't have to be the bad guy. I had passed that buck on.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Morning Person, Part 2
The morning went as seemed to often go. The alarm's declaration that 6:30 had arrived was met with some amount of apathy on my part, though after five minutes I rolled off the bed and said a prayer with my head to the floor. The prayer lasted about twenty minutes, fifteen of which were spent in various stages of unconsciousness. When I arose once more, I spent more time than was needed on the toilet, nearly fell asleep in my cereal, and threw on a tie just in time for personal study.
Darth Vader seemed a little more persuasive this time. It was a quarter after the hour before I opened my scriptures; the time before that was spent mostly in looking through my letters to re-read the ones from Delilah. My scriptures seemed a little less engaging than they previously had; I had broken through the Isaiah block but my interest level had dropped like a cannonball off the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Companionship study came. Elder Davis was up this time; instead of his snores, I could hear the theme song from Pirates of the Caribbean.
Darth Vader dared me to go watch the movie with Elder Davis.
But not today.
Elder Davis' routine wore at me over the next week. Jesus peeked out behind a growing pile of potato chip bags on my desk. We left to tract at 10:00 the first day; we left at 10:15 the next day; we left at 10:35 te day after that. Then we did better, leaving at 10:15 again.
Soon the morning routine went like it shouldn't have: 6:30 came. I dropped out of bed and showered. Then I sagged onto the couch and slept till 10.
Darth Vader seemed a little more persuasive this time. It was a quarter after the hour before I opened my scriptures; the time before that was spent mostly in looking through my letters to re-read the ones from Delilah. My scriptures seemed a little less engaging than they previously had; I had broken through the Isaiah block but my interest level had dropped like a cannonball off the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Companionship study came. Elder Davis was up this time; instead of his snores, I could hear the theme song from Pirates of the Caribbean.
Darth Vader dared me to go watch the movie with Elder Davis.
But not today.
Elder Davis' routine wore at me over the next week. Jesus peeked out behind a growing pile of potato chip bags on my desk. We left to tract at 10:00 the first day; we left at 10:15 the next day; we left at 10:35 te day after that. Then we did better, leaving at 10:15 again.
Soon the morning routine went like it shouldn't have: 6:30 came. I dropped out of bed and showered. Then I sagged onto the couch and slept till 10.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Morning Person
I've never considered myself a morning person.
The morning went as it always did. The alarm declared the arrival of 6:30, and I oozed out of bed like an amorphous blob of gelatin, finally settling on my knees. After a bleary prayer, I fell on my face and lifted my body up and down a few times in a motion approximating a pushup. I dragged my back half toward the bathroom, returning a minute later with a burning urge to fall back into bed. Ninety-five percent of the time, the little devil on my should who gave such advice left disappointed.
8:00 a.m. By this time, I shaved, showered, and dressed. I poured a bowl of cereal and nearly fell asleep again at the table. By 8:01, I sat at my desk, staring at the occupants of the desktop as though challenging them to distract me from my morning study. My picture of Jesus sternly admonished me without words to get studying, but my Darth Vader action figure was the shoulder devil this time. I could almost hear him telling me to go back to bed or I would feel his icy telekinetic fingers around my throat. I grabbed my scriptures and found the place where I had left off the day before. I was in 2 Nephi, the part where the author starts quoting long passages from the biblical book of Isaiah. I typically required moving passages of doctrine or at least gruesome scriptural decapitations to stay awake while reading, and Isaiah failed that test. Nevertheless, I pressed on like my pioneer ancestors through Isaiah's unyielding snowdrifts of text.
9:00. I shut my scriptures and made final notes in my study journal. I had attained some degree of consciousness and had actually received some profitable insights. The missionary handbook dictated what was to come next: companionship study.
The desk next to mine was empty. I could hear Elder Davis' snores through the wall.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Senior Companion, Part 2
Transfer news came.
"Elder Kunz is going with Elder Davis in Bandelier," the district leader told me. "President wanted me to tell you, Elder Davis has been out for four months longer than you ... and you're senior companion."
Something about the news that I was senior companion at last didn't sound as good as it should have.
Three days later, I settled into my apartment on the west side of Albuquerque, the Bandelier area. As I unpacked, Elder Davis looked at me through half-inch-thick glasses. He didn't speak. After a few minutes, he disappeared into the bedroom.
I sure wasn't getting Elder Green vibes from him.
I finished unpacking and went to retrieve Elder Davis from the bedroom. A dozen questions flitted through my mind — What did we do about dinner in this area? Where were the area records? Was he ready to go tracting?
I walked in. Elder Davis sat with a laptop on his legs, half buried in blankets, headphones in his ears. A DVD case sat beside him: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
"Good movie?" I asked.
"Pretty good," he said.
I left the room and dropped to my knees beside the couch. I was going to need some help.
"Father," I prayed, "I don't know what to do. My new junior companion doesn't strike me as terribly obedient or hard-working. And I still suck at this."
I waited. No reply came, and so I got up and walked back into the bedroom.
"Elder Kunz is going with Elder Davis in Bandelier," the district leader told me. "President wanted me to tell you, Elder Davis has been out for four months longer than you ... and you're senior companion."
Something about the news that I was senior companion at last didn't sound as good as it should have.
Three days later, I settled into my apartment on the west side of Albuquerque, the Bandelier area. As I unpacked, Elder Davis looked at me through half-inch-thick glasses. He didn't speak. After a few minutes, he disappeared into the bedroom.
I sure wasn't getting Elder Green vibes from him.
I finished unpacking and went to retrieve Elder Davis from the bedroom. A dozen questions flitted through my mind — What did we do about dinner in this area? Where were the area records? Was he ready to go tracting?
I walked in. Elder Davis sat with a laptop on his legs, half buried in blankets, headphones in his ears. A DVD case sat beside him: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
"Good movie?" I asked.
"Pretty good," he said.
I left the room and dropped to my knees beside the couch. I was going to need some help.
"Father," I prayed, "I don't know what to do. My new junior companion doesn't strike me as terribly obedient or hard-working. And I still suck at this."
I waited. No reply came, and so I got up and walked back into the bedroom.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Hey There, Delilah
When I was in fifth grade, a girl caught my eye.
She's still out there, reaching into guys' chests, pulling out their hearts, and sacrificing the hearts to Kali in the Temple of Doom, so I'll use a pseudonym. Let's call her Delilah.
Delilah was a girl I’d had a crush on since fifth grade, since I was barely old enough to understand the fundamental differences between girls and boys. I pursued her with limited success through middle school and junior high and finally into high school. We went on a slew of dates during high school, but I never could tame the beast within; at least, that’s what I told myself to bandage the fact that she was never really into me.
When high school ended and we tossed our graduation caps in the air, she suddenly seemed interested. Or perhaps my hormones completely distorted my perception of the situation. I guess it doesn’t matter now. She was the one of the last of my friends that I said goodbye to, with a chaste little kiss on the cheek. I had high hopes for our relationship after my mission.
Thinking now about my naivete then makes me want to invent a time machine, go back to the early 2000s, and tell my past self to give it up. (Then, taking advantage of circumstances, I would probably also tell my past self to invent Facebook.)
Using that time machine, let's speed up to a month after I got home from my mission. I brushed my teeth twice. I sprayed on two kinds of deodorant, then worried that their smells would conflict so I sprayed another scent on to cover the first two. I read over her letters from the past two years in an attempt to predict what she would say and prepare appropriate responses. The last few dates had left me confused as to her perception of our relationship, so I was prepared to spring the trap and ask her if she wanted to, I dunno, go steady. Fulfill her destiny. Find the answers to two years' worth of guessing. Realize all my adolescent and mission-age dreams. My fantasies ran rampant; I even had our kids' names picked out.
Three hours later, we were in the car.
"I like you, Deliliah," I said. This may not have been the most logical point in the conversation to inject that particular confession; a few moments earlier we had been talking about our favorite breeds of dogs. I hate dogs.
"Yeah?" she said.
"Yeah," I said.
The night passed in silence for a few moments. Static electricity seemed to build up in the car. Outside, perhaps small animals darted for cover.
"Good," she said, staring straight ahead.
"Do you want to, you know, keep dating?" I asked.
Delilah sighed. "Ryan, I sort of think of you as a friend."
I looked down at my right hand, which was holding her left, and processed this new information. My heart may have stopped beating.
"Yeah?" I managed. "Huh."
"Yup," she said. Instead of the calm voice she used to convey the message, her tone would have been more appropriate if it had been the cackling laugh of an evil genius announcing that he had just destroyed New York with a giant freeze ray.
I must have taken her home after that, and I must have gotten home safely, but the post-traumatic stress syndrome erased most of it from my mind. To this day, whenever I hear a voice that sounds like hers, I duck and cover.
It turned out all right in the end, though. She gained a bunch of weight. I really dodged a bullet there.
Delilah was a girl I’d had a crush on since fifth grade, since I was barely old enough to understand the fundamental differences between girls and boys. I pursued her with limited success through middle school and junior high and finally into high school. We went on a slew of dates during high school, but I never could tame the beast within; at least, that’s what I told myself to bandage the fact that she was never really into me.
When high school ended and we tossed our graduation caps in the air, she suddenly seemed interested. Or perhaps my hormones completely distorted my perception of the situation. I guess it doesn’t matter now. She was the one of the last of my friends that I said goodbye to, with a chaste little kiss on the cheek. I had high hopes for our relationship after my mission.
Thinking now about my naivete then makes me want to invent a time machine, go back to the early 2000s, and tell my past self to give it up. (Then, taking advantage of circumstances, I would probably also tell my past self to invent Facebook.)
Using that time machine, let's speed up to a month after I got home from my mission. I brushed my teeth twice. I sprayed on two kinds of deodorant, then worried that their smells would conflict so I sprayed another scent on to cover the first two. I read over her letters from the past two years in an attempt to predict what she would say and prepare appropriate responses. The last few dates had left me confused as to her perception of our relationship, so I was prepared to spring the trap and ask her if she wanted to, I dunno, go steady. Fulfill her destiny. Find the answers to two years' worth of guessing. Realize all my adolescent and mission-age dreams. My fantasies ran rampant; I even had our kids' names picked out.
Three hours later, we were in the car.
"I like you, Deliliah," I said. This may not have been the most logical point in the conversation to inject that particular confession; a few moments earlier we had been talking about our favorite breeds of dogs. I hate dogs.
"Yeah?" she said.
"Yeah," I said.
The night passed in silence for a few moments. Static electricity seemed to build up in the car. Outside, perhaps small animals darted for cover.
"Good," she said, staring straight ahead.
"Do you want to, you know, keep dating?" I asked.
Delilah sighed. "Ryan, I sort of think of you as a friend."
I looked down at my right hand, which was holding her left, and processed this new information. My heart may have stopped beating.
"Yeah?" I managed. "Huh."
"Yup," she said. Instead of the calm voice she used to convey the message, her tone would have been more appropriate if it had been the cackling laugh of an evil genius announcing that he had just destroyed New York with a giant freeze ray.
I must have taken her home after that, and I must have gotten home safely, but the post-traumatic stress syndrome erased most of it from my mind. To this day, whenever I hear a voice that sounds like hers, I duck and cover.
It turned out all right in the end, though. She gained a bunch of weight. I really dodged a bullet there.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
We All Suck At Stuff
"Okay, favorite band."
I glanced up from the pavement. My thoughts had gone from my morning study, which had focused on the role of prayer in our lives; to a girl at home named Amy, who had been rather unclear about the predicted nature of our relationship once I got home; and from there to the superhero Nightcrawler, who had the ability to teleport and would therefore be spared having to walk long distances like the one we were currently traversing while my new tire was in the mail.
"Huh?"
"Favorite band," Elder Green repeated.
"Mmm," I said. "Gotta say ... Dashboard? Er, Dashboard Confessional? Yellowcard?"
"Nice choices," said Elder Green. "I'm a big fan of all of those. How about movies? You like Lord of the Rings? Star Wars?"
"Oh, you have no idea," I said.
After a while, the conversation turned to other matters.
"I was really impressed by the way you started talking to that guy back there," he said; a half hour ago I had struck up a halting but earnest conversation with a Jehovah's Witness who had been polite enough to listen to my entire pitch before shooting me down.
"Hmm," I grunted.
"If I stuttered, I don't think I'd have come out," he said. Seeing my face, he held up his hands. "No, no — it's not that I think you've got a disability or anything. You're just braver than I am."
"Thanks," I murmured.
"I mean it, dude, elder," he said. "You've got a lot going for you. You know scriptures better than anyone I know who's been out nine months, you're a great teacher, and you like Lord of the Rings. Great combination."
"Too bad nobody knows that who doesn't live with me," I said. "Two minutes of talking to someone is just enough to give someone the impression that I have either Tourette's or a mental disorder."
"Hey, did the Lord call you?" he asked. Of course I nodded. "Then the Lord knows what's best." Elder Green stopped on the sidewalk and faced me. "Dude, elder, we all suck at stuff. Just gotta keep going."
I glanced up from the pavement. My thoughts had gone from my morning study, which had focused on the role of prayer in our lives; to a girl at home named Amy, who had been rather unclear about the predicted nature of our relationship once I got home; and from there to the superhero Nightcrawler, who had the ability to teleport and would therefore be spared having to walk long distances like the one we were currently traversing while my new tire was in the mail.
"Huh?"
"Favorite band," Elder Green repeated.
"Mmm," I said. "Gotta say ... Dashboard? Er, Dashboard Confessional? Yellowcard?"
"Nice choices," said Elder Green. "I'm a big fan of all of those. How about movies? You like Lord of the Rings? Star Wars?"
"Oh, you have no idea," I said.
After a while, the conversation turned to other matters.
"I was really impressed by the way you started talking to that guy back there," he said; a half hour ago I had struck up a halting but earnest conversation with a Jehovah's Witness who had been polite enough to listen to my entire pitch before shooting me down.
"Hmm," I grunted.
"If I stuttered, I don't think I'd have come out," he said. Seeing my face, he held up his hands. "No, no — it's not that I think you've got a disability or anything. You're just braver than I am."
"Thanks," I murmured.
"I mean it, dude, elder," he said. "You've got a lot going for you. You know scriptures better than anyone I know who's been out nine months, you're a great teacher, and you like Lord of the Rings. Great combination."
"Too bad nobody knows that who doesn't live with me," I said. "Two minutes of talking to someone is just enough to give someone the impression that I have either Tourette's or a mental disorder."
"Hey, did the Lord call you?" he asked. Of course I nodded. "Then the Lord knows what's best." Elder Green stopped on the sidewalk and faced me. "Dude, elder, we all suck at stuff. Just gotta keep going."
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
A Problem Like Brother Gurule
We stumbled through the door, united in our desire to get off our feet. I loosened my tie and sank onto the couch.
"Otter Pop," I said.
Elder Green had already reached the freezer, where he retrieved a handful of the frozen treats and tossed me five or six of them.
"Dude, what are we going to do about the Gurules?" he asked. "You can tell they all want to get baptized."
"Except the dad," I almost said, but that went without saying. Brother Gurule's coolness toward anything Latter-day Saint continued to foil our efforts to help his family.
"I don't want to tell him how to take care of his family," I lamented, chewing off the top of my third Otter Pop and spitting it into the garbage. "Hey, do we have any more of those dinosaur chicken tender things left?"
"We should," said Elder Green, digging through today's mail.
As I laid several rows of processed stegosaurs and tyrannosaurs on a cookie sheet, Elder Green mused aloud.
"If we could get someone from the ward over there to make friends with him ..."
"Didn't he meet Brother Howard?" I asked.
"Brother Howard helped him with his roof, yeah, but I don't know if there's anything there.... You got some mail. Who's Heidi?"
He tossed me the letter.
"One the maybe three of he original ten girls writing me," I said. "Oh look, she's dating someone now. But back to Brother Gurule --- we need to get him to church."
"Otter Pop," I said.
Elder Green had already reached the freezer, where he retrieved a handful of the frozen treats and tossed me five or six of them.
"Dude, what are we going to do about the Gurules?" he asked. "You can tell they all want to get baptized."
"Except the dad," I almost said, but that went without saying. Brother Gurule's coolness toward anything Latter-day Saint continued to foil our efforts to help his family.
"I don't want to tell him how to take care of his family," I lamented, chewing off the top of my third Otter Pop and spitting it into the garbage. "Hey, do we have any more of those dinosaur chicken tender things left?"
"We should," said Elder Green, digging through today's mail.
As I laid several rows of processed stegosaurs and tyrannosaurs on a cookie sheet, Elder Green mused aloud.
"If we could get someone from the ward over there to make friends with him ..."
"Didn't he meet Brother Howard?" I asked.
"Brother Howard helped him with his roof, yeah, but I don't know if there's anything there.... You got some mail. Who's Heidi?"
He tossed me the letter.
"One the maybe three of he original ten girls writing me," I said. "Oh look, she's dating someone now. But back to Brother Gurule --- we need to get him to church."
"We should pray about it," said Elder Green.
A Problem Like Brother Gurule
We stumbled through the door, united in our desire to get off our feet. I loosened my tie and sank onto the couch.
"Otter Pop," I said.
Elder Green had already reached the freezer, where he retrieved a handful of the frozen treats and tossed me five or six of them.
"Dude, what are we going to do about the Gurules?" he asked. "You can tell they all want to get baptized."
"Except the dad," I almost said, but that went without saying. Brother Gurule's coolness toward anything Latter-day Saint continued to foil our efforts to help his family.
"I don't want to tell him how to take care of his family," I lamented, chewing off the top of my third Otter Pop and spitting it into the garbage. "Hey, do we have any more of those dinosaur chicken tender things left?"
"We should," said Elder Green, digging through today's mail.
As I laid several rows of processed stegosaurs and tyrannosaurs on a cookie sheet, Elder Green mused aloud.
"If we could get someone from the ward over there to make friends with him ..."
"Didn't he meet Brother Howard?" I asked.
"Brother Howard helped him with his roof, yeah, but I don't know if there's anything there.... You got some mail. Who's Heidi?"
He tossed me the letter.
"One the maybe three of he original ten girls writing me," I said. "Oh look, she's dating someone now. But back to Brother Gurule --- we need to get him to church."
"Otter Pop," I said.
Elder Green had already reached the freezer, where he retrieved a handful of the frozen treats and tossed me five or six of them.
"Dude, what are we going to do about the Gurules?" he asked. "You can tell they all want to get baptized."
"Except the dad," I almost said, but that went without saying. Brother Gurule's coolness toward anything Latter-day Saint continued to foil our efforts to help his family.
"I don't want to tell him how to take care of his family," I lamented, chewing off the top of my third Otter Pop and spitting it into the garbage. "Hey, do we have any more of those dinosaur chicken tender things left?"
"We should," said Elder Green, digging through today's mail.
As I laid several rows of processed stegosaurs and tyrannosaurs on a cookie sheet, Elder Green mused aloud.
"If we could get someone from the ward over there to make friends with him ..."
"Didn't he meet Brother Howard?" I asked.
"Brother Howard helped him with his roof, yeah, but I don't know if there's anything there.... You got some mail. Who's Heidi?"
He tossed me the letter.
"One the maybe three of he original ten girls writing me," I said. "Oh look, she's dating someone now. But back to Brother Gurule --- we need to get him to church."
"We should pray about it," said Elder Green.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Hill
Indian School was a biking area.
In some of the previous areas, like River's Edge and Bloomfield, my companion and I shared a car with another companionship. In Haines, we had no car, though we often took the bus. Indian School was another all-bike area, but this was included a nasty detail: The Hill.
The Hill (which I often intentionally misspelled with an "e" instead of an "i") was about a half mile long, with enough elevation gain between the bottom and top to make you require a depressurization tank if you ascended too quickly. On the way down, you could rest your feet on the chassis of your bike and coast. If there were no cars in the five intersections that interrupted the sidewalk of The Hill (an unlikely event given that this was downtown Albuquerque), you could probably reach at least Mach 2 with a good tailwind. Going up, however, required you to draw upon reserves of energy you never quite knew existed, which would come only after you repeated all the Mormon swear words you knew at least forty times. ("Aaaaarrghhh ... goshnabbit ... fetching ... Simon and Gaaaarfuuunkelllll!") When you finally reached the top, somehow defying momentum and gravity, your white shirt would adhere to your flesh and sweat would obscure your vision.
We usually saved the uphill journey for a time when we were assured an adequate resting time afterward, like the end of the day. Our apartment was almost at the top of our area, with about seventy percent of the area spread across the length of The Hill. Most of our promising investigators, of course, were near the bottom of The Hill.
Indian School got me into shape fast.
In some of the previous areas, like River's Edge and Bloomfield, my companion and I shared a car with another companionship. In Haines, we had no car, though we often took the bus. Indian School was another all-bike area, but this was included a nasty detail: The Hill.
The Hill (which I often intentionally misspelled with an "e" instead of an "i") was about a half mile long, with enough elevation gain between the bottom and top to make you require a depressurization tank if you ascended too quickly. On the way down, you could rest your feet on the chassis of your bike and coast. If there were no cars in the five intersections that interrupted the sidewalk of The Hill (an unlikely event given that this was downtown Albuquerque), you could probably reach at least Mach 2 with a good tailwind. Going up, however, required you to draw upon reserves of energy you never quite knew existed, which would come only after you repeated all the Mormon swear words you knew at least forty times. ("Aaaaarrghhh ... goshnabbit ... fetching ... Simon and Gaaaarfuuunkelllll!") When you finally reached the top, somehow defying momentum and gravity, your white shirt would adhere to your flesh and sweat would obscure your vision.
We usually saved the uphill journey for a time when we were assured an adequate resting time afterward, like the end of the day. Our apartment was almost at the top of our area, with about seventy percent of the area spread across the length of The Hill. Most of our promising investigators, of course, were near the bottom of The Hill.
Indian School got me into shape fast.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Senior Companion
With the departure of Elder Vankampen, I fantasized that I would be senior companion. In a companionship, one elder — usually the one who has been out the longest — is officially in charge. In some companionships, this is merely a formality, but even in such pairs the designated senior companion often pulls rank to influence decisions. When the call came that I was to remain the junior companion, I consoled myself by recalling that none of the other elders who had come with me from the MTC were senior companions either. President Koyle explained once in the regular once-a-transfer interview that the number of departing missionaries and the number of missionaries coming in were such that the mission didn't need many new senior companions at the moment.
A transfer later, however, I knew that surely the mission needed a few more elders to step up as senior companions. When transfer news came, I awaited the assignment.
Elder Patten held the phone to his ear as the district leader let him know our new assignments.
"Yes ..."
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Yes ..." he said again, nodding to the unseen speaker.
"Elder! Tell me!"
Elder Patten dragged out the suspense for a few more minutes before he hung up. "We're both getting transferred out," he said. "They're merging our area with the other elders' area."
"Where am I going?"
"Indian School with Elder Green," he said.
Something dark churned in my chest. Elder Green had come out a transfer before me and was already a district leader. District leaders, of course, were never junior companions.
"Oh, good," I said, retreating to my bedroom.
A transfer later, however, I knew that surely the mission needed a few more elders to step up as senior companions. When transfer news came, I awaited the assignment.
Elder Patten held the phone to his ear as the district leader let him know our new assignments.
"Yes ..."
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Yes ..." he said again, nodding to the unseen speaker.
"Elder! Tell me!"
Elder Patten dragged out the suspense for a few more minutes before he hung up. "We're both getting transferred out," he said. "They're merging our area with the other elders' area."
"Where am I going?"
"Indian School with Elder Green," he said.
Something dark churned in my chest. Elder Green had come out a transfer before me and was already a district leader. District leaders, of course, were never junior companions.
"Oh, good," I said, retreating to my bedroom.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
The Return of Elder Jones
Missionaries are to be in their respective apartments at 9 or 9 p.m., engaged in productive activities like journal writing, daily planning, and nothing that involves shooting small animals with pellet guns. Elders Buckley and Plott had left long ago, leaving my companion and me free of the temptation to engage in the latter activity. However, in their wake came Elders Su'a and Taylor.
Su'a, a burly Polynesian with the belief that rules were mostly for white boys from Utah, clashed with his companion, a white boy from Utah. Somehow, the four of us became great friends, possibly because our apartments were an stone's throw by Elder Su'a away from each other.
One night, Elders Su'a and Taylor came over before nightly planning to chat. They often did this, as though they lived in constant fascination of how life must be in a converted horse stable. Our conversation went from good lessons we'd all taught today to crazy people we'd met (they had an investigator who'd enlisted them to dig out his yard to unearth all the secret government listening devices), girlfriends at home, urban legends about our mission president, and whether there were really lizard colonies underneath our apartment. At about 10 we realized we hadn't yet called the district leader, whose job it was to phone the zone leaders and tell them everyone was safe and accounted for. This system is designed in part to keep us all accountable and obeying the rules, but it also helps foster unity.
The realization that we'd forgotten to phone in, however, came only as a result of the zone leaders' calling us.
"You elders having a good night?" asked the first zone leader, Elder Blevins. Elder Patten had switched the phone onto speaker so we could all feel the zone leaders' wrath equally.
"Yeah," Elder Patten said, his voice saturated with false amiability.
"Are the other elders there?" asked the other zone leader ... my trainer, Elder Jones.
"Yeah," I admitted.
"Can I talk to Elder Kunz alone?" Elder Jones asked.
I switched off the speaker and took the phone into the other room.
"Elder Blevins has really been helping me understand obedience," Elder Jones confided when I was alone. "He's helping me see what perfect obedience and why I should follow it."
"Yeah?"
"Kunzie," he said, "I want the best for you on your mission, and having the other elders past curfew is a little thing, but the little things matter, too."
I didn't say anything.
The fact that Elder Jones — the same elder who had once watched The Man From Snowy River while on exchanges while I was with him — was lecturing me about obedience didn't seem hypocritical. His contrition could be heard even through the phone, and I wanted to make him proud.
He was, after all, my mission "father."
"I'll send them home," I said.
"Thanks," said Elder Jones.
When the other elders left the apartment, I sat on my chair for a long time.
Su'a, a burly Polynesian with the belief that rules were mostly for white boys from Utah, clashed with his companion, a white boy from Utah. Somehow, the four of us became great friends, possibly because our apartments were an stone's throw by Elder Su'a away from each other.
One night, Elders Su'a and Taylor came over before nightly planning to chat. They often did this, as though they lived in constant fascination of how life must be in a converted horse stable. Our conversation went from good lessons we'd all taught today to crazy people we'd met (they had an investigator who'd enlisted them to dig out his yard to unearth all the secret government listening devices), girlfriends at home, urban legends about our mission president, and whether there were really lizard colonies underneath our apartment. At about 10 we realized we hadn't yet called the district leader, whose job it was to phone the zone leaders and tell them everyone was safe and accounted for. This system is designed in part to keep us all accountable and obeying the rules, but it also helps foster unity.
The realization that we'd forgotten to phone in, however, came only as a result of the zone leaders' calling us.
"You elders having a good night?" asked the first zone leader, Elder Blevins. Elder Patten had switched the phone onto speaker so we could all feel the zone leaders' wrath equally.
"Yeah," Elder Patten said, his voice saturated with false amiability.
"Are the other elders there?" asked the other zone leader ... my trainer, Elder Jones.
"Yeah," I admitted.
"Can I talk to Elder Kunz alone?" Elder Jones asked.
I switched off the speaker and took the phone into the other room.
"Elder Blevins has really been helping me understand obedience," Elder Jones confided when I was alone. "He's helping me see what perfect obedience and why I should follow it."
"Yeah?"
"Kunzie," he said, "I want the best for you on your mission, and having the other elders past curfew is a little thing, but the little things matter, too."
I didn't say anything.
The fact that Elder Jones — the same elder who had once watched The Man From Snowy River while on exchanges while I was with him — was lecturing me about obedience didn't seem hypocritical. His contrition could be heard even through the phone, and I wanted to make him proud.
He was, after all, my mission "father."
"I'll send them home," I said.
"Thanks," said Elder Jones.
When the other elders left the apartment, I sat on my chair for a long time.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Music
There comes a time in every young missionary's life when he wants meet each member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, shake their hands, and then chop them up with a machete.
Two years separated from one's favorite genres and artists is one thing. Two years with few options beside MoTab (as the hip missionaries say) can do a number on one's brain. Some mission presidents are a little more lenient and allow classical music or other spiritual things. Some mission presidents allow EFY music — the soundtracks to the Church's Especially For Youth camps that sound like Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers found God and lost their sense of tone at the same time. My mission president, to his credit, despised EFY music.
Elder Patten and I rode in our car one day toward the outskirts of our area, a subdivision that would continue booming throughout the next few years until the economic downturn left many houses unfinished or unsold. It was a twenty-minute drive, which could be passed by listening to whatever was in the CD player.
"Which MoTab CD do you want?" Elder Patten said, passing me his CD case as he started the car.
The last few weeks, those spent in confinement during Elder Patten's sickness, had been filled almost nonstop with the sounds of the Choir, which are great for Sabbath days and times when you want to fall asleep or feel like you've suddenly aged to past fifty. I just couldn't stand it anymore.
"No," I said, and removed from under the seat a case of Disney CDs Elder Vamkampen had left me.
"Whoa," he said, as though I had just removed a bag of cocaine.
"Yeah." I pressed Disney's Greatest Hits, Volume II into the CD player.
"There you see her ..." sang the speaker. "Sitting there across the way..."
It was a change, at least.
Two years separated from one's favorite genres and artists is one thing. Two years with few options beside MoTab (as the hip missionaries say) can do a number on one's brain. Some mission presidents are a little more lenient and allow classical music or other spiritual things. Some mission presidents allow EFY music — the soundtracks to the Church's Especially For Youth camps that sound like Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers found God and lost their sense of tone at the same time. My mission president, to his credit, despised EFY music.
Elder Patten and I rode in our car one day toward the outskirts of our area, a subdivision that would continue booming throughout the next few years until the economic downturn left many houses unfinished or unsold. It was a twenty-minute drive, which could be passed by listening to whatever was in the CD player.
"Which MoTab CD do you want?" Elder Patten said, passing me his CD case as he started the car.
The last few weeks, those spent in confinement during Elder Patten's sickness, had been filled almost nonstop with the sounds of the Choir, which are great for Sabbath days and times when you want to fall asleep or feel like you've suddenly aged to past fifty. I just couldn't stand it anymore.
"No," I said, and removed from under the seat a case of Disney CDs Elder Vamkampen had left me.
"Whoa," he said, as though I had just removed a bag of cocaine.
"Yeah." I pressed Disney's Greatest Hits, Volume II into the CD player.
"There you see her ..." sang the speaker. "Sitting there across the way..."
It was a change, at least.
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Curious Incident of the Camel in the Daytime
One thing led to another, and then the camel threw me off.
The comedian Brian Regan has a piece in which he bemoans the laziness of people who use "one thing led to another" as a suitable replacement for chronological description. It's not laziness that drives me to start this way, but rather a befuddlement as to exactly how I was sitting in my apartment one minute and was lying in a field cradling my injured loins after being bucked off a camel ten minutes later.
By this time Elder Vankampen had been been transferred the Indian reservation somewhere and a new companion had come to replace him. Elder Patten had just returned from a four-month medical leave and I was his first companion since his doctor at home had declared him fit again for missionary service. His mysterious illness continued, however, leaving us stranded indoors for several hours a day. (Missionaries are never to leave their assigned companions, except for emergencies, bathroom breaks, and companionship exchanges with other missionaries.) In a normal apartment, this would have been only a minor issue, but our apartment was a converted horse stable. Though we had carpet, running water and electricity, the swamp cooler only served to waft in the scent of manure, the mice found easy passages between the adjoining stables and our quarters, and both of our immediate neighbors were horses who sometimes succumbed to midnight urges to copulate with their doors.
Our landlord Senator Komadina kept several exotic pets, and one day Elder Patten's illness and the resulting house arrest got to me. I found myself climbing bereft of will over the camels' enclosure, a towel wrapped around my head like a turban in a most culturally insensitive fashion. I clambered up a fallen tree and used a branch to lure the larger of the two camels, James, to my position. Once his proximity was suitable to allow for maximum accessibility, I jumped between his humps.
The ride was exhilarating, if a little brief. About four seconds after my mounting of the beast, he finally succeeded in dislodging me. I slid over the back hump. I found that parts of me that are not configured to come into repeated and forceful contact with camel humps, but those parts seemed to be placed so that such contact is inevitable if one chooses to ride a camel. As I struck the ground, my mind was less on my bruised backside and more on those fragile parts that the camel had so callously banged between its humps. Elder Patten, well enough to leave the apartment and spectate, showed his concern for my possible injuries by taking photos of me at every angle.
I never rode another camel my entire mission.
The comedian Brian Regan has a piece in which he bemoans the laziness of people who use "one thing led to another" as a suitable replacement for chronological description. It's not laziness that drives me to start this way, but rather a befuddlement as to exactly how I was sitting in my apartment one minute and was lying in a field cradling my injured loins after being bucked off a camel ten minutes later.
By this time Elder Vankampen had been been transferred the Indian reservation somewhere and a new companion had come to replace him. Elder Patten had just returned from a four-month medical leave and I was his first companion since his doctor at home had declared him fit again for missionary service. His mysterious illness continued, however, leaving us stranded indoors for several hours a day. (Missionaries are never to leave their assigned companions, except for emergencies, bathroom breaks, and companionship exchanges with other missionaries.) In a normal apartment, this would have been only a minor issue, but our apartment was a converted horse stable. Though we had carpet, running water and electricity, the swamp cooler only served to waft in the scent of manure, the mice found easy passages between the adjoining stables and our quarters, and both of our immediate neighbors were horses who sometimes succumbed to midnight urges to copulate with their doors.
Our landlord Senator Komadina kept several exotic pets, and one day Elder Patten's illness and the resulting house arrest got to me. I found myself climbing bereft of will over the camels' enclosure, a towel wrapped around my head like a turban in a most culturally insensitive fashion. I clambered up a fallen tree and used a branch to lure the larger of the two camels, James, to my position. Once his proximity was suitable to allow for maximum accessibility, I jumped between his humps.
The ride was exhilarating, if a little brief. About four seconds after my mounting of the beast, he finally succeeded in dislodging me. I slid over the back hump. I found that parts of me that are not configured to come into repeated and forceful contact with camel humps, but those parts seemed to be placed so that such contact is inevitable if one chooses to ride a camel. As I struck the ground, my mind was less on my bruised backside and more on those fragile parts that the camel had so callously banged between its humps. Elder Patten, well enough to leave the apartment and spectate, showed his concern for my possible injuries by taking photos of me at every angle.
I never rode another camel my entire mission.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Buckley and Plott
If sharing an apartment with one possibly disturbed conglomeration of assorted hormones was a situation fraught with uncertainty, sharing an apartment with three such entities was always an adventure.
Elders Buckley and Plott, the second companionship in our apartment, were eating lunch one day when Elder Vankampen and I returned from our morning proselyting with two fewer copies of the Book of Mormon than we had brought and tired smiles on our faces. Buckley and Plott looked to have gone out as well, but they tended to get sidetracked and I wondered how long they had been out. I hoped there were some indications of what they had been up to this morning. I glanced up at the light, which was still shattered from Elder Buckley’s errant golf ball a few mornings ago, and the Frankenstein Barbie mounted on the wall, a collection of all the doll parts found while tracting.
Elder Vankampen and I dug into our overflowing freezer to select from the piles of identical Totino's microwave pizzas and settled down on the table beside Buckley and Plott.
However, there wasn't enough space on the table for four meals and the two projects that already occupied the table between Buckley and Plott. The other elders had been erecting contraptions consisting of slingshots attached to what appeared to be gun stocks.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Crossbow," said Elder Buckley without looking up.
"Ah," I said.
"There are rabbits downstairs," Elder Plott volunteered. I didn't have to strain to find a logical connection between his and Elder Buckley's statements.
"Kill anything yet?" asked Elder Vankampen, noticing that Elder Buckley's crossbow looked more more less complete.
"Tried," said Buckley. "Mine's not very accurate. We're still working on that."
I decided to eat my pizza on the couch instead.
Elders Buckley and Plott, the second companionship in our apartment, were eating lunch one day when Elder Vankampen and I returned from our morning proselyting with two fewer copies of the Book of Mormon than we had brought and tired smiles on our faces. Buckley and Plott looked to have gone out as well, but they tended to get sidetracked and I wondered how long they had been out. I hoped there were some indications of what they had been up to this morning. I glanced up at the light, which was still shattered from Elder Buckley’s errant golf ball a few mornings ago, and the Frankenstein Barbie mounted on the wall, a collection of all the doll parts found while tracting.
Elder Vankampen and I dug into our overflowing freezer to select from the piles of identical Totino's microwave pizzas and settled down on the table beside Buckley and Plott.
However, there wasn't enough space on the table for four meals and the two projects that already occupied the table between Buckley and Plott. The other elders had been erecting contraptions consisting of slingshots attached to what appeared to be gun stocks.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Crossbow," said Elder Buckley without looking up.
"Ah," I said.
"There are rabbits downstairs," Elder Plott volunteered. I didn't have to strain to find a logical connection between his and Elder Buckley's statements.
"Kill anything yet?" asked Elder Vankampen, noticing that Elder Buckley's crossbow looked more more less complete.
"Tried," said Buckley. "Mine's not very accurate. We're still working on that."
I decided to eat my pizza on the couch instead.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
How Great Thou Art
There's a scene The Lion King where Simba, Pumbaa, and Timon lay out underneath the stars and discuss the nature of those "fireflies trapped up in that big, bluish-black thing."It's a defining moment for Simba. He realizes his life is not what it should be when his father's explanation is mocked by his friends.
Simba isn't the only one to have a transforming moment underneath the heavens, although he is the only anthropomorphic lion I know of to do so.
Elder Vankampen and I finished tracting a street earlier than we had planned. The ratio of doors in our faces to genuine interest was staggeringly one-sided. We planned to fill the remaining time by visiting the bishop of the ward and getting to know him so we could better work with him to strengthen the community's faith. Of course, the same cluster of fates that determined the bishop's schedule had also been responsible for our tracting record for the day, our car breaking down earlier that week, and possibly the Kennedy assassination. We waited outside the bishop's home for a half hour then headed to a nearby park.
I sat on the grass beside Elder Vankampen, who lay on his back staring at the night sky. I decided the answers to my frustrations did not lay in the park, so I too turned my face heavenward.
It struck me again how small I was. I had my trials and inconveniences, my dislikes and my challenges, but no matter how big those problems seemed to be, I was still on one small planet in a normal solar system in an unremarkable spiral galaxy in a universe teeming with uncountable trillions of other galaxies. I marveled at what it would take to create such a universe, to design the cosmos to such precision and perfection.
On cue, Elder Vankampen started humming the tune of "How Great Thou Art." It's not an exclusively Mormon hymn, but it is a favorite among Latter-day Saints. It tells of the grandeur of God and the impressiveness of His creations.
Then it occurred to me that the being who was responsible for all that I could see — and for the billions of things I couldn't up there — had His name stamped on the black badge over my heart. That same being who had created the cosmos in all its complexity had put His support behind me.
I told Elder Vamkampen so, and he smiled.
"We're so small," he said, "but He does want us to succeed. Really."
That, I reflected, was no lie.
Simba isn't the only one to have a transforming moment underneath the heavens, although he is the only anthropomorphic lion I know of to do so.
Elder Vankampen and I finished tracting a street earlier than we had planned. The ratio of doors in our faces to genuine interest was staggeringly one-sided. We planned to fill the remaining time by visiting the bishop of the ward and getting to know him so we could better work with him to strengthen the community's faith. Of course, the same cluster of fates that determined the bishop's schedule had also been responsible for our tracting record for the day, our car breaking down earlier that week, and possibly the Kennedy assassination. We waited outside the bishop's home for a half hour then headed to a nearby park.
I sat on the grass beside Elder Vankampen, who lay on his back staring at the night sky. I decided the answers to my frustrations did not lay in the park, so I too turned my face heavenward.
It struck me again how small I was. I had my trials and inconveniences, my dislikes and my challenges, but no matter how big those problems seemed to be, I was still on one small planet in a normal solar system in an unremarkable spiral galaxy in a universe teeming with uncountable trillions of other galaxies. I marveled at what it would take to create such a universe, to design the cosmos to such precision and perfection.
On cue, Elder Vankampen started humming the tune of "How Great Thou Art." It's not an exclusively Mormon hymn, but it is a favorite among Latter-day Saints. It tells of the grandeur of God and the impressiveness of His creations.
Then it occurred to me that the being who was responsible for all that I could see — and for the billions of things I couldn't up there — had His name stamped on the black badge over my heart. That same being who had created the cosmos in all its complexity had put His support behind me.
I told Elder Vamkampen so, and he smiled.
"We're so small," he said, "but He does want us to succeed. Really."
That, I reflected, was no lie.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Katanas of Righteousness
The time eventually came to leave Haines and my second companion behind. My new companion, Elder Vankampen, waited with Elder W's new companion at the mission office; the four of us were the only elders there because Elder W had failed to arrange suitable transportation and we arrived a half hour late. Elder W and his new companion departed at once, leaving Elder Vankampen and I alone to wait for our ride. During that time, Elder Vamkampen asked if I minded that he brought his set of katana swords along. I was still new at this whole missionary thing and agreed. Sword were normal, right?
Trying to fill the time, I asked if he knew how to use them. I'm not sure what answer I was expecting, but he informed me without a trace of guile on his face that a group of monks in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains had trained him in the lost arts of swordplay.
"Huh," I said.
Over the next few months, Elder Vankampen would inform me that he had not fewer that three girls try (without success, of course) to have sex with him before he left on his mission; that one day while we were tracting he saw a group of topless cheerleaders that conveniently fled before I could look; that he had been a member of a Wiccan coven (who spelled their name "Wicken," by the way) and had briefly possessed the arcane ability to manipulate elemental energy; and that he had been a state champion swimmer and a finalist nationally. One of his other companions shared with me later that Vamkampen had claimed to have had a vision of Jesus while sitting on the toilet.
There were less flagrant things as well; one day during our morning study time we came to a disagreement on the pronunciation of a certain Book of Mormon name.
"It's Amlici," I insisted, pronouncing it "AM-lih-sigh."
"Nope," he said with that tone that suggested he were correcting some delightful four-year-old who wanted to tell him the color blue was actually orange. "It's 'AM-lih-ki.' "
I pointed to the prononciation guide in the back of the Book of Mormon, which had been compiled by an early Apostle and renowned scholar, Elder James E. Talmage. "This thing says 'Am-li-sigh.' "
Elder Vamkampen shrugged. "There's a guy in my ward who's studied this, and he's pretty sure it's a k sound."
Silly me.
Monday, October 3, 2011
The Book of Mormon
Note: Here's another expositional one like the previous blog, geared heavily toward non-members for the sake of educating them on some of the primary themes of the memoir. Too much, do you think?
The Book of Mormon — Not the Book of the Mormons, as I heard a few times from people over the course of the mission — is a record of scripture similar in structure to the Bible. We revere it because it is once of the things that makes our faith unique. We love the Bible and study it alongside the Book of Mormon, but the former book is already well known and embraced by much of the world, so much of our missionary work is focused on introducing the latter.
The Bible is organized into books (such as Genesis, Matthew, Mark, and Revelation), often named after their authors, which describe God and His interactions with a relatively small group of people in the Holy Land. Many of these authors were prophets, holy men chosen by God and given authority to relay divine will to the people and warn of sin.
The Book of Mormon is arranged similarly. Instead of the familiar Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, authors with names like Nephi, Ether, and Moroni composed the books in the Book of Mormon, which is so called because a prophet named Mormon collected all the records of his forebears and arranged them into a single record. He also edited the record for brevity and included his own commentary. These men lived were descended from Hebrew stock, having fled the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BC by crossing the ocean to an unspecified point in the Americas. These people, who soon formed into opposing groups called the Nephites and Lamanites, quickly grew in number. The prophet Nephi writes the first book, followed by his brother Jacob and others over the course of about a thousand years. (There is also a short record of an earlier people called the Jaredites whose tribal wars completely wiped themselves out.) Archaeological evidence of these peoples exists, though it is not definite and can easily be discounted by those who don’t want to accept the verity of the Book of Mormon. We’re not sure how far across the American continent these people spread or what percentage of the overall Mesoamerican population they represented, we don’t know how many native peoples were already in the land when the Book of Mormon peoples arrived, and we have no idea as to the extent of interbreeding that may have occurred between the newcomers and any natives, but we do believe that some amount of Native Americans today are descended from these peoples.
The Book of Mormon was never written as a history; its writers didn’t care to educate us on geography or history more than was absolutely necessary to convey its message — that Jesus Christ is the anticipated Messiah with the power to cleanse the human race of its collective and individual sins. The climax of the Book of Mormon comes after the crucifixion of Christ in the Holy Land. After Christ’s death is heralded by supernatural destruction in the New World, Christ Himself appears as a resurrected personage to these people, introducing himself as their savior, healing their sick, bestowing priesthood authority, and teaching them.
Christ departs, leaving the people to unite and live for generations in peace. However, as often happens in the book, the people’s prosperity turns to pride, which results in a general disposition to disregard the laws of God. In the end, the Lamanite armies decimate the people of the Nephites. The last Nephite, Mormon’s son Moroni, hides the records before meeting an unknown fate some time in the fifth century AD.
I’ll get to the story of Joseph Smith in a later chapter and give you some room to breathe between my fervent religious instruction, but we believe that Moroni returned after death as a resurrected being to a boy named Joseph Smith, who had already received significant heavenly visitations. In 1827, Smith was led by Moroni to the records, which had been engraved on metal plates to assure that they would endure the centuries after Moroni buried them, and translated them from into English through miraculous means. Smith then published the records as the Book of Mormon.
I understand the hesitancy of many people to accept this admittedly outlandish story. Though the story is no more ludicrous-sounding than many of the stories in the Bible (which sounds more plausible, receiving an ancient record from an angel or riding a flaming chariot to heaven?), some people still contend that miracles and visions were reserved for days long past, as though God became bored some time long ago with talking to His children and found more interesting things to do, leaving us to our own devices. Modern skepticism, while often allowing that there is a God, still refuses that such an all-powerful being actually does anything.
The Book of Mormon — Not the Book of the Mormons, as I heard a few times from people over the course of the mission — is a record of scripture similar in structure to the Bible. We revere it because it is once of the things that makes our faith unique. We love the Bible and study it alongside the Book of Mormon, but the former book is already well known and embraced by much of the world, so much of our missionary work is focused on introducing the latter.
The Bible is organized into books (such as Genesis, Matthew, Mark, and Revelation), often named after their authors, which describe God and His interactions with a relatively small group of people in the Holy Land. Many of these authors were prophets, holy men chosen by God and given authority to relay divine will to the people and warn of sin.
The Book of Mormon is arranged similarly. Instead of the familiar Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, authors with names like Nephi, Ether, and Moroni composed the books in the Book of Mormon, which is so called because a prophet named Mormon collected all the records of his forebears and arranged them into a single record. He also edited the record for brevity and included his own commentary. These men lived were descended from Hebrew stock, having fled the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BC by crossing the ocean to an unspecified point in the Americas. These people, who soon formed into opposing groups called the Nephites and Lamanites, quickly grew in number. The prophet Nephi writes the first book, followed by his brother Jacob and others over the course of about a thousand years. (There is also a short record of an earlier people called the Jaredites whose tribal wars completely wiped themselves out.) Archaeological evidence of these peoples exists, though it is not definite and can easily be discounted by those who don’t want to accept the verity of the Book of Mormon. We’re not sure how far across the American continent these people spread or what percentage of the overall Mesoamerican population they represented, we don’t know how many native peoples were already in the land when the Book of Mormon peoples arrived, and we have no idea as to the extent of interbreeding that may have occurred between the newcomers and any natives, but we do believe that some amount of Native Americans today are descended from these peoples.
The Book of Mormon was never written as a history; its writers didn’t care to educate us on geography or history more than was absolutely necessary to convey its message — that Jesus Christ is the anticipated Messiah with the power to cleanse the human race of its collective and individual sins. The climax of the Book of Mormon comes after the crucifixion of Christ in the Holy Land. After Christ’s death is heralded by supernatural destruction in the New World, Christ Himself appears as a resurrected personage to these people, introducing himself as their savior, healing their sick, bestowing priesthood authority, and teaching them.
Christ departs, leaving the people to unite and live for generations in peace. However, as often happens in the book, the people’s prosperity turns to pride, which results in a general disposition to disregard the laws of God. In the end, the Lamanite armies decimate the people of the Nephites. The last Nephite, Mormon’s son Moroni, hides the records before meeting an unknown fate some time in the fifth century AD.
I’ll get to the story of Joseph Smith in a later chapter and give you some room to breathe between my fervent religious instruction, but we believe that Moroni returned after death as a resurrected being to a boy named Joseph Smith, who had already received significant heavenly visitations. In 1827, Smith was led by Moroni to the records, which had been engraved on metal plates to assure that they would endure the centuries after Moroni buried them, and translated them from into English through miraculous means. Smith then published the records as the Book of Mormon.
I understand the hesitancy of many people to accept this admittedly outlandish story. Though the story is no more ludicrous-sounding than many of the stories in the Bible (which sounds more plausible, receiving an ancient record from an angel or riding a flaming chariot to heaven?), some people still contend that miracles and visions were reserved for days long past, as though God became bored some time long ago with talking to His children and found more interesting things to do, leaving us to our own devices. Modern skepticism, while often allowing that there is a God, still refuses that such an all-powerful being actually does anything.
The Temple
Note to Carol: This entry isn't really a story. But I feel like a narrative about Mormon missionaries should have the occasional passage filled with exposition for non-members. What do you think?
Mission temple day came. Albuquerque is a home to a temple, but missionaries are encouraged to focus their efforts on the living, whereas much of the work done in the temple is for the benefit of those who await on the other side of death. Still, twice a year the entire mission came together at the same time to attend the temple. It was always an experience worth looking forward to.
Inside the temple is an ordinance called the endowment, in which we make certain promises to God — nothing weird or unusual, just simple things to follow His commandments and stay morally clean — and in return we are promised divine aid now and rewards for faithfulness once we get to heaven. We also learn about where we came from, why we’re here, and where we’re going.
These teachings aren’t always completely explicit. Remember how Jesus in the Bible often taught in parables, or short allegorical stories? The same principle is at work here. The Lord doesn’t spell everything out for us; instead, he teaches us in the temple through signs and symbols to force us to stretch our spiritual senses and grasp the hidden meanings on several levels. Thus, you can go to the temple every month until you’re eighty and never fully grasp everything taught in the temple.
There are many people in the world who view us as some sort of crazy cult with secret rituals. While I can assure you that there are no chickens sacrificed in the temple, no dancing around idols, and certainly no hearts ripped from chests by crazed priests, there are simple, sacred rituals that we don’t talk about outside the temple. The belief in our supposed cult-like nature stems from ignorance of the meaning of symbols.
Speaking of symbols, the endowment is about the time when we first don the temple garment. You may have heard of this; some people derisively refer to temple garments as “magic underwear.” This moniker comes from our unwillingness to reveal this sacred clothing to those who don’t understand its significance and a misinterpretation of the garment’s ability protect us from all kinds of harm.
As Latter-day Saints, we believe in a lay ministry. Our bishops take care of their church duties one moment, then go back out and cut open sick people or weed gardens the next. Our priests and teachers don’t go to any special school to learn the mysteries of God. Instead, every member of the Church is taught the gospel at more or less the same level with the expectation that anyone can hold some sort of leadership calling. Therefore, while clergy of other faiths wear special clothing to signify their ecclesiastical positions — think of collars, cassocks, mitres, and the like — we Latter-day Saints, most of whom are ministers of some kind at some point, wear our own clothing to represent our sacred callings. We just happen to wear that clothing on the inside, so that we can continue with our daily pursuits while always wearing simple reminders of our covenants and responsibilities. That clothing is the temple garment.
As for the “magic”? I’ve heard stories of people being burned everywhere except for where their garments cover them, but I doubt physical protection is the garment’s primary purpose — otherwise, we’d wear full-body garments like some sort of spiritual ninja. Stories like that are probably true, but the protection offered by the garment is mostly spiritual — they remind us that we pledged to avoid temptation in the temple.
Mission temple day came. Albuquerque is a home to a temple, but missionaries are encouraged to focus their efforts on the living, whereas much of the work done in the temple is for the benefit of those who await on the other side of death. Still, twice a year the entire mission came together at the same time to attend the temple. It was always an experience worth looking forward to.
Inside the temple is an ordinance called the endowment, in which we make certain promises to God — nothing weird or unusual, just simple things to follow His commandments and stay morally clean — and in return we are promised divine aid now and rewards for faithfulness once we get to heaven. We also learn about where we came from, why we’re here, and where we’re going.
These teachings aren’t always completely explicit. Remember how Jesus in the Bible often taught in parables, or short allegorical stories? The same principle is at work here. The Lord doesn’t spell everything out for us; instead, he teaches us in the temple through signs and symbols to force us to stretch our spiritual senses and grasp the hidden meanings on several levels. Thus, you can go to the temple every month until you’re eighty and never fully grasp everything taught in the temple.
There are many people in the world who view us as some sort of crazy cult with secret rituals. While I can assure you that there are no chickens sacrificed in the temple, no dancing around idols, and certainly no hearts ripped from chests by crazed priests, there are simple, sacred rituals that we don’t talk about outside the temple. The belief in our supposed cult-like nature stems from ignorance of the meaning of symbols.
Speaking of symbols, the endowment is about the time when we first don the temple garment. You may have heard of this; some people derisively refer to temple garments as “magic underwear.” This moniker comes from our unwillingness to reveal this sacred clothing to those who don’t understand its significance and a misinterpretation of the garment’s ability protect us from all kinds of harm.
As Latter-day Saints, we believe in a lay ministry. Our bishops take care of their church duties one moment, then go back out and cut open sick people or weed gardens the next. Our priests and teachers don’t go to any special school to learn the mysteries of God. Instead, every member of the Church is taught the gospel at more or less the same level with the expectation that anyone can hold some sort of leadership calling. Therefore, while clergy of other faiths wear special clothing to signify their ecclesiastical positions — think of collars, cassocks, mitres, and the like — we Latter-day Saints, most of whom are ministers of some kind at some point, wear our own clothing to represent our sacred callings. We just happen to wear that clothing on the inside, so that we can continue with our daily pursuits while always wearing simple reminders of our covenants and responsibilities. That clothing is the temple garment.
As for the “magic”? I’ve heard stories of people being burned everywhere except for where their garments cover them, but I doubt physical protection is the garment’s primary purpose — otherwise, we’d wear full-body garments like some sort of spiritual ninja. Stories like that are probably true, but the protection offered by the garment is mostly spiritual — they remind us that we pledged to avoid temptation in the temple.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Border Dispute
I can honestly say that the list of people whom I've wanted to strangle with a Canadian flag is short.
Elder W, however, quickly made the cut. He kept a giant maple leaf flag over his bed, which I eyed with murderous intent every time he made some sort of claim about Canadian superiority. It wasn't that I hated Canada. Elder W was fond of telling people he met that it was Canadians who burned down the White House during the War of 1812 (which, I suppose, is technically correct, though the arsonists were in fact British lackeys who happened to live in Canada, a land collectively lacking the balls to follow the example of its southern neighbor and declare independence).
When Elder W got wind that anyone had a problem with him, he would lament that people disliked him because he was from Canada. I contend that people hated Canada solely because of him. In fact, I believe that if Canada is ever embroiled in a major war, it will be because someone came away from a disagreement with him.
I suspect now that I really never had a problem with Canada before this and I have no legitimate beef with them today. I think the land of maple and beavers became a scapegoat for me after repeated disagreements with one of its citizens.
I suspect now that I really never had a problem with Canada before this and I have no legitimate beef with them today. I think the land of maple and beavers became a scapegoat for me after repeated disagreements with one of its citizens.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The Next Crazy Guy
Haines will forever remain enshrined in my memory as the repository for the majority of the crazy people I met on my mission. Yes, I met a lot of people of varying sanity over the course of the mission, but many of those simply held differing viewpoints from my own and therefore do not automatically earn a high place on the crazy scale, no matter how far out their views may be. However, I'm certain that in Haines I met a significant number of certifiable nutjobs.
Elder W and I were referred by the local ward to a less-active member, a Mormon who rarely or never came to church. In some other faiths, infrequent attendance is tolerated without too much of a problem, but we like to think our message's importance is such that lost sheep need to be tended to with the utmost care and sensitivity.
I hope you won't find me too hypocritical, then, when I describe this particular less-active member with something less than sensitivity. Our encounter with him was just too funny.
No sooner had we entered his home and talked with him for a few minutes than this good man, whom I remember as Brother Smith, informed us that he is of the tribe of Elijah. This may seem crazy to those not of our faith, but to us it is especially inexplicable. We believe that everyone in the Church is descended (through blood or by adoption) from one of the twelve tribes of Israel, each of which has a specific role to play in the restoration of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. As you may recall from your reading of the Bible (or at least your last viewing of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat), Elijah is not among the twelve tribes. Perhaps sensing our skepticism, he offered to produce his patriarchal blessing (a customized blessing every member of the Church can receive that declares, among many other things, your personal Israelite lineage) to prove it.
Unfortunately, Brother Smith remembered, the Devil had stolen his patriarchal blessing a week earlier, along with jacking up his phone bill and killing his dog. While I do not doubt that the Devil has the power to do these things, I think the Prince of Darkness has better things occupying his evil time. Elder W and I were about to wrap up our conversation and report back to the bishop when Brother Smith changed his story; actually, he said, he was a descendant of Jesus Christ.
The claims made in The Da Vinci Code aside, we doubted his story. We gave him a polite farewell and departed. The life of a missionary is rarely dull.
Elder W and I were referred by the local ward to a less-active member, a Mormon who rarely or never came to church. In some other faiths, infrequent attendance is tolerated without too much of a problem, but we like to think our message's importance is such that lost sheep need to be tended to with the utmost care and sensitivity.
I hope you won't find me too hypocritical, then, when I describe this particular less-active member with something less than sensitivity. Our encounter with him was just too funny.
No sooner had we entered his home and talked with him for a few minutes than this good man, whom I remember as Brother Smith, informed us that he is of the tribe of Elijah. This may seem crazy to those not of our faith, but to us it is especially inexplicable. We believe that everyone in the Church is descended (through blood or by adoption) from one of the twelve tribes of Israel, each of which has a specific role to play in the restoration of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. As you may recall from your reading of the Bible (or at least your last viewing of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat), Elijah is not among the twelve tribes. Perhaps sensing our skepticism, he offered to produce his patriarchal blessing (a customized blessing every member of the Church can receive that declares, among many other things, your personal Israelite lineage) to prove it.
Unfortunately, Brother Smith remembered, the Devil had stolen his patriarchal blessing a week earlier, along with jacking up his phone bill and killing his dog. While I do not doubt that the Devil has the power to do these things, I think the Prince of Darkness has better things occupying his evil time. Elder W and I were about to wrap up our conversation and report back to the bishop when Brother Smith changed his story; actually, he said, he was a descendant of Jesus Christ.
The claims made in The Da Vinci Code aside, we doubted his story. We gave him a polite farewell and departed. The life of a missionary is rarely dull.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Meeting Mother Eve
Note to Carol: I realize that many of my blog posts are more of general recollections than stories. This is going to change soon. My family is coming down this weekend for general conference, and my mom is going to bring my mission journals, which should help me to recreate specific scenes better and show instead of telling.
Bloomfield had its share of drunken Indians, but it wasn't until I came south that I met anyone who claimed to be in the earthly reincarnation of Mother Eve.
Elder W and I rode along Central, the primary thoroughfare that still boasted gaudy remnants of the days when it was a thriving segment of the storied Route 66. Bowling allies with chipped signs, diners with enough grease on the menus to lubricate the all the cars that passed in a day, and strip clubs that catered to all sorts of erotic preferences passed as Elder W and I biked along Central in search of lost souls.
We didn't have to search long. Elder W's strategy was to squeal to a halt on his bike, accosting pedestrians with sudden declarations of our message. Though I lacked his experience, I still though this approach had the tendency to alarm people, especially when we pulled up one either side of our target, blocking the escape routes. I liked to wait until people noticed the two white guys biking in suits with their right pant legs pulled up to avoid getting caught in the gear shifts, then answer their questions and steer the conversation into gospel waters.
Today, the first person who took evident notice of us was a woman wearing black and white robes, carrying a staff in the shape of a serpent. Even if she hadn't called out to us, her appearance was more that enough to merit our attentions, so we stopped our bikes to talk.
"Hey, how are you?" Elder W said.
"Just walkin' along," she told us.
"Good! Have you ever seen us around? Missionaries, biking up and down the street?"
"Oh, I seen y'all," she said, thumping her staff. "Y'all are missionaries."
"Yeah," I started to say.
"Do you want to hear our message about Jesus Christ?" Elder W asked.
"Oh, I know all 'bout Jesus," said the woman. "I'm Mother Eve. I walk the earth to call people to repentance. I am the Mother of God."
It occurred to me that ecclesiastical help might not be the kind of help she needed in her life, but we remained polite. "That's a nice staff," I said.
"Oh, I been walkin' with it for years," she said. "You boys ready for repentance? I gonna help usher in the Lord."
That was about the time that Elder W decided there might be other souls out there who were a little more prepared to hear our message. We bade her farewell and mounted our bikes in search of the next willing listener.
Bloomfield had its share of drunken Indians, but it wasn't until I came south that I met anyone who claimed to be in the earthly reincarnation of Mother Eve.
Elder W and I rode along Central, the primary thoroughfare that still boasted gaudy remnants of the days when it was a thriving segment of the storied Route 66. Bowling allies with chipped signs, diners with enough grease on the menus to lubricate the all the cars that passed in a day, and strip clubs that catered to all sorts of erotic preferences passed as Elder W and I biked along Central in search of lost souls.
We didn't have to search long. Elder W's strategy was to squeal to a halt on his bike, accosting pedestrians with sudden declarations of our message. Though I lacked his experience, I still though this approach had the tendency to alarm people, especially when we pulled up one either side of our target, blocking the escape routes. I liked to wait until people noticed the two white guys biking in suits with their right pant legs pulled up to avoid getting caught in the gear shifts, then answer their questions and steer the conversation into gospel waters.
Today, the first person who took evident notice of us was a woman wearing black and white robes, carrying a staff in the shape of a serpent. Even if she hadn't called out to us, her appearance was more that enough to merit our attentions, so we stopped our bikes to talk.
"Hey, how are you?" Elder W said.
"Just walkin' along," she told us.
"Good! Have you ever seen us around? Missionaries, biking up and down the street?"
"Oh, I seen y'all," she said, thumping her staff. "Y'all are missionaries."
"Yeah," I started to say.
"Do you want to hear our message about Jesus Christ?" Elder W asked.
"Oh, I know all 'bout Jesus," said the woman. "I'm Mother Eve. I walk the earth to call people to repentance. I am the Mother of God."
It occurred to me that ecclesiastical help might not be the kind of help she needed in her life, but we remained polite. "That's a nice staff," I said.
"Oh, I been walkin' with it for years," she said. "You boys ready for repentance? I gonna help usher in the Lord."
That was about the time that Elder W decided there might be other souls out there who were a little more prepared to hear our message. We bade her farewell and mounted our bikes in search of the next willing listener.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Elder W
With Elder Jones, the homesickness and inadequacy had never really disappeared. It had merely been fossilized. It was still there, abandoned like a deformed puppy, whimpering in the corner. When I was yanked — figuratively, for the most part — from my trainer, I was once again in a new world. The deformed puppy crept from his hiding place and started wailing.
Elder Jonas Wodjcidek met me at the mission office. His more irritating quirks had yet to manifest themselves, so I moved into our new apartment without incident. Elder W kept to himself, which also allowed me to stare at the wall, trying to delay the full realization of my utter loneliness, for another few hours in peace.
I soon got to know Elder W. He was from Alberta, Canada, a fact that seemed to crop up every time he introduced himself. Spending time with him, one would quickly be indoctrinated to the fact that everything in Canada, from the Slurpees to the couches, was several degrees superior to its American counterpart.
"Up in Canada, the Taco Bells are much better. They put magic beans in the tacos, grown from the excrement of the Great Moose Spirit, guarded by sacred beavers and plucked by beautiful maidens in Mountie uniforms," he would say. Actually, the details of his ethnocentric boasts have been lost to time, but I hope I've conveyed the general flavor.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Adieu, Bloomfield!
Transfer news came one Saturday night as Elder Jones was teaching me how to solve a Rubik's cube. Among the skills he was imparting — which, in addition to door approaches and basic missionary talents, also included a few more worldly things — was the ability to solve the puzzle in under three minutes. Elder Jones often honed this skill on the toilet with the door open, sometimes carrying on conversations with me as he engaged in the other tasks at hand. Today, thankfully, I occupied his full attention, and I had finished the top when the zone leaders — the missionaries who occupied the leadership tier above district leader — called with our new assignments.
Elder Jones was to go to Gallup, on the borders of the reservation, with one of the new elders who had come from the MTC with me. I, on the other hand, was to depart for Haines, a ward in central Albuquerque known as the "War Zone." My companion was Elder Wodjcidek, whom I'd met briefly during our exciting jaunt a few weeks earlier to Albuquerque to get my personal regions violated.
When the time came to depart, all the fortitude I'd built up over the last three months leaked out my eyes, despite my best efforts to keep a stoic face. Elder Jones gave me a manly hug as his nearly newborn child prepared to once again venture into the unknown world alone and friendless.
Elder Jones was to go to Gallup, on the borders of the reservation, with one of the new elders who had come from the MTC with me. I, on the other hand, was to depart for Haines, a ward in central Albuquerque known as the "War Zone." My companion was Elder Wodjcidek, whom I'd met briefly during our exciting jaunt a few weeks earlier to Albuquerque to get my personal regions violated.
When the time came to depart, all the fortitude I'd built up over the last three months leaked out my eyes, despite my best efforts to keep a stoic face. Elder Jones gave me a manly hug as his nearly newborn child prepared to once again venture into the unknown world alone and friendless.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Oh, THAT Elder
Sometimes missionaries received certain labels. When there were two or more elders with the same last name, those elders had to be careful because a nickname was surely on the way. For example, there were four Elder Joneses in my mission: Driggs Jones (my trainer), Fat Jones, Pretty-Boy Jones, and NASCAR Jones. Other elders didn't get nicknames but were followed around by stigmas the rest of their missions. One elder would always be known as the guy who burned his apartment down. Another was renowned for his desire of missionary leadership positions. One elder would go down in mission lore as the only one in recent memory to willfully spend his entire mission as a junior companion.
What was I? I suppose I was fortunate enough to avoid any specific notoriety, but for a while I was known as the elder who got bucked off a camel. (You're going to have to wait a little longer for that story. Sorry.) I think my stutter also merited a mention whenever someone was trying to figure out who Elder Kunz was. But, oddly enough, somehow it got out that I was a rabid Star Wars fan.
I still don't know how people knew, but somehow people caught on and decided I would be the perfect recipient for the random Star Wars memorabilia they found around the apartment. Before my first two transfers were over, I had a Star Wars cereal box, a "Darth Tater" Mr. Potato Head, and an impressive assortment of Pez dispensers. (By the end of my mission, my growing Star Wars collection would include a high-end lightsaber replica and would rival my tie collection for the biggest contributor to my exceeding the airline luggage weight limit.)
Still, by the end of my mission, I was pleased when Sister Koyle told me I was known in the mission for having a great combination of work ethic and a sense of fun. I breathed a sigh of relief. I think that appellation had narrowly edged out my Star Wars collection as my lasting legacy.
What was I? I suppose I was fortunate enough to avoid any specific notoriety, but for a while I was known as the elder who got bucked off a camel. (You're going to have to wait a little longer for that story. Sorry.) I think my stutter also merited a mention whenever someone was trying to figure out who Elder Kunz was. But, oddly enough, somehow it got out that I was a rabid Star Wars fan.
I still don't know how people knew, but somehow people caught on and decided I would be the perfect recipient for the random Star Wars memorabilia they found around the apartment. Before my first two transfers were over, I had a Star Wars cereal box, a "Darth Tater" Mr. Potato Head, and an impressive assortment of Pez dispensers. (By the end of my mission, my growing Star Wars collection would include a high-end lightsaber replica and would rival my tie collection for the biggest contributor to my exceeding the airline luggage weight limit.)
Still, by the end of my mission, I was pleased when Sister Koyle told me I was known in the mission for having a great combination of work ethic and a sense of fun. I breathed a sigh of relief. I think that appellation had narrowly edged out my Star Wars collection as my lasting legacy.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Asymmetry
Every mission is fraught with weird medical challenges. Some missionaries avoid the inherent threats with impunity, while a few have difficulty flushing tropical tapeworms out of their systems long after they come home from Brazil.
I was fortunate to serve in the United States, where tapeworms are mostly restricted to sewers and the federal government. This did not mean, however, that my mission was bereft of any odd medical excitement.
One morning while getting out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and noticed that a portion of my anatomy that is meant to be more or less symmetrical was now leaning toward the less symmetrical. Alarmed, I called my companion and told him in general terms what the problem was. Elder Jones insisted that he see the afflicted area, and with some reluctance I showed him. Elder Jones chose that moment to mention a missionary he’d known in the MTC who had been sent home with cancer to this very same anatomical region, so I grew unnerved.
We called the mission president’s wife, Sister Koyle, who handled medical matters.
"Hey, uh, Sister Koyle?"
"Yes, Elder Kunz," she said in that sweet grandmotherly voice that suggested I had caught her in the middle of baking cookies.
"Hey," I said, trying not to sound as awkward and alarmed as I felt. "Um, I was looking in the mirror this morning and I saw that ..."
To her credit, Sister Koyle acted as though she always received desperate calls from distressed missionaries informing her of mysterious ailments to their most sacred parts. (Maybe she did get those calls all the time.) She directed us to a hospital in Albuquerque, stressing that we didn’t know anything yet and it could be totally innocent. (That was easy for her to say, I reflected as Elder Jones and I took the impromptu two-hour trip to Albuquerque that morning.)
At the hospital, a rather attractive nurse called me in to check me for the suspected malady, which only compounded the awkwardness already inherent from the nature of my medical complaints and the intimacy required to fully scrutinize the area in question. More than once I had to think intently about pterodactyls in order to avoid blushing too hard.
As we waited for the results, I told Elder Jones of my intimate encounter with the nurse. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing. The levity was good to alleviate the stress that came from wondering whether I would soon be subjected to chemotherapy.
We soon discovered that the asymmetry I had discovered that morning had no malignant cause. Instead, I had harmless varicose veins down there, which felt strange but had no negative effects. I was told to get the problem corrected when I returned home, but that it wouldn’t affect my missionary service in the slightest.
I was fortunate to serve in the United States, where tapeworms are mostly restricted to sewers and the federal government. This did not mean, however, that my mission was bereft of any odd medical excitement.
One morning while getting out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and noticed that a portion of my anatomy that is meant to be more or less symmetrical was now leaning toward the less symmetrical. Alarmed, I called my companion and told him in general terms what the problem was. Elder Jones insisted that he see the afflicted area, and with some reluctance I showed him. Elder Jones chose that moment to mention a missionary he’d known in the MTC who had been sent home with cancer to this very same anatomical region, so I grew unnerved.
We called the mission president’s wife, Sister Koyle, who handled medical matters.
"Hey, uh, Sister Koyle?"
"Yes, Elder Kunz," she said in that sweet grandmotherly voice that suggested I had caught her in the middle of baking cookies.
"Hey," I said, trying not to sound as awkward and alarmed as I felt. "Um, I was looking in the mirror this morning and I saw that ..."
To her credit, Sister Koyle acted as though she always received desperate calls from distressed missionaries informing her of mysterious ailments to their most sacred parts. (Maybe she did get those calls all the time.) She directed us to a hospital in Albuquerque, stressing that we didn’t know anything yet and it could be totally innocent. (That was easy for her to say, I reflected as Elder Jones and I took the impromptu two-hour trip to Albuquerque that morning.)
At the hospital, a rather attractive nurse called me in to check me for the suspected malady, which only compounded the awkwardness already inherent from the nature of my medical complaints and the intimacy required to fully scrutinize the area in question. More than once I had to think intently about pterodactyls in order to avoid blushing too hard.
As we waited for the results, I told Elder Jones of my intimate encounter with the nurse. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing. The levity was good to alleviate the stress that came from wondering whether I would soon be subjected to chemotherapy.
We soon discovered that the asymmetry I had discovered that morning had no malignant cause. Instead, I had harmless varicose veins down there, which felt strange but had no negative effects. I was told to get the problem corrected when I returned home, but that it wouldn’t affect my missionary service in the slightest.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Post
As a new missionary, I relied on letters from home almost as much as I relied on microwave pizzas. My family wrote every week, which I appreciated, but the letters that made me keep a vigilant eye on the mailbox were the ones from girls.
At this point on my mission, my letter-writing female fan club at home had an membership of about ten. I got letters from Amy, Danielle, M'Lisa, Heidi, Alex, Jessi, Jessica, Kristen, Anna, and a few others whose names escape me. Some of these would lose interest in me after a few months or even weeks; a few would stay strong in their letter-writing resolve until the very end. One in particular, whom I'll call Delilah, wrote me faithfully and I awaited her semi-weekly letters with a significant degree of eagerness.
Elder Jones was halfway through his mission. According to the scientifically validated Principle of Enduring Female Correspondence, the number of girls writing a missionary is inversely proportional to the number of months he's been out. Therefore, he had only one girl, though she wrote often.
On this particular day, both of us were yearning for the comfort of feminine appreciation when we heard the telltale clanking of the mail truck leaving our parking lot. Without a word, both of us dropped our scriptures and planners and sprinted for the mail key on the wall. Elder Jones reached it first and continued to the mail box without acknowledging his victory thus far. I caught up to him as he was opening our mailbox, only to see that the only people who had felt the need to write us that day were a few companies offering us exclusive vacations if we filled out their surveys and qualified for a free credit card loans.
At this point on my mission, my letter-writing female fan club at home had an membership of about ten. I got letters from Amy, Danielle, M'Lisa, Heidi, Alex, Jessi, Jessica, Kristen, Anna, and a few others whose names escape me. Some of these would lose interest in me after a few months or even weeks; a few would stay strong in their letter-writing resolve until the very end. One in particular, whom I'll call Delilah, wrote me faithfully and I awaited her semi-weekly letters with a significant degree of eagerness.
Elder Jones was halfway through his mission. According to the scientifically validated Principle of Enduring Female Correspondence, the number of girls writing a missionary is inversely proportional to the number of months he's been out. Therefore, he had only one girl, though she wrote often.
On this particular day, both of us were yearning for the comfort of feminine appreciation when we heard the telltale clanking of the mail truck leaving our parking lot. Without a word, both of us dropped our scriptures and planners and sprinted for the mail key on the wall. Elder Jones reached it first and continued to the mail box without acknowledging his victory thus far. I caught up to him as he was opening our mailbox, only to see that the only people who had felt the need to write us that day were a few companies offering us exclusive vacations if we filled out their surveys and qualified for a free credit card loans.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Introduction
Note: I realized it's about time I wrote the introduction.
If you’re from a country with a certain degree of religious freedom, chances are you’ve been relaxing on a summer afternoon, sipping something cold and refreshing and reading the news, when suddenly your tranquility is disrupted by a knock on the door. On the doorstep, you find a pair of clean-cut young men in matching white shirts and black nametags, grinning like escapees from a rerun of The Brady Bunch. They probably invited you to hear a message about families, the Book of Mormon, or Jesus Christ. They may have given you a small card with an offer for a free DVD and pictures of inexplicably smiling, ethnically diverse people. They may have offered service or invited you to attend church services. However their approach, these young men — or possibly young women — were Mormon missionaries.
Who are they? Where did they come from? Is there a factory somewhere that churns out neatly shaved young men, stamping the black nametags and affixing conservative ties on an efficient assembly line? Are these young missionaries dismantled upon their return, their mechanical parts reused for the next generation of door-knockers? Or are they hatched en masse in vast subterranean colonies, fed on a steady diet of milk and honey until they’re mature enough to send in pairs around the world?
The truth, I regret to say, is far less interesting. A year or two ago, those young people at your door were ordinary youths, graduating from high school or braving college while exploring the realms of dating or taking endless aptitude tests to defog obscured career paths. At some point, whether because of family pressure or personal conviction, they elected to fill out their paperwork and prepare to serve a mission.
I served a mission. At this point in my life, it remains one of the best things I ever did. I have a few regrets, but for the most part I’m happy with my service and pleased with the growth I accomplished during those two years.
Today, with Mormons running for president and Mormon values tested, embraced, or challenged across the issues, with Mormon culture represented with varying degrees of accuracy in the media, I still feel some missionary spirit. That’s where this book comes from: I want to share my experiences as a missionary and thereby cast some light upon the Mormon lifestyle and belief system. My intent is to be as candid as possible, portraying Mormon missionaries as real human beings with functioning respiratory, cardiopulmonary, and neural systems, who possess an often underestimated ability to think for themselves and to preach what they truly believe.
Let me emphasize that this is not an official Church publication. As a missionary, I was an official representative of the Church and, I believe, Jesus Christ, but now I’m just a normal guy with his beliefs and values. That said, the general idea of this work to strengthen the faith of fellow members and illuminate members of other faiths and creeds.
I’ve changed a few names. This is done to protect privacy, to respect sensitive situations, and to keep embarrassment from those missionary companions whom I wanted to brutally murder. Some people kept their names, however, those who I feel would only benefit from having their names in print.
And so, a long time ago in a place not far away, I got my mission call ...
If you’re from a country with a certain degree of religious freedom, chances are you’ve been relaxing on a summer afternoon, sipping something cold and refreshing and reading the news, when suddenly your tranquility is disrupted by a knock on the door. On the doorstep, you find a pair of clean-cut young men in matching white shirts and black nametags, grinning like escapees from a rerun of The Brady Bunch. They probably invited you to hear a message about families, the Book of Mormon, or Jesus Christ. They may have given you a small card with an offer for a free DVD and pictures of inexplicably smiling, ethnically diverse people. They may have offered service or invited you to attend church services. However their approach, these young men — or possibly young women — were Mormon missionaries.
Who are they? Where did they come from? Is there a factory somewhere that churns out neatly shaved young men, stamping the black nametags and affixing conservative ties on an efficient assembly line? Are these young missionaries dismantled upon their return, their mechanical parts reused for the next generation of door-knockers? Or are they hatched en masse in vast subterranean colonies, fed on a steady diet of milk and honey until they’re mature enough to send in pairs around the world?
The truth, I regret to say, is far less interesting. A year or two ago, those young people at your door were ordinary youths, graduating from high school or braving college while exploring the realms of dating or taking endless aptitude tests to defog obscured career paths. At some point, whether because of family pressure or personal conviction, they elected to fill out their paperwork and prepare to serve a mission.
I served a mission. At this point in my life, it remains one of the best things I ever did. I have a few regrets, but for the most part I’m happy with my service and pleased with the growth I accomplished during those two years.
Today, with Mormons running for president and Mormon values tested, embraced, or challenged across the issues, with Mormon culture represented with varying degrees of accuracy in the media, I still feel some missionary spirit. That’s where this book comes from: I want to share my experiences as a missionary and thereby cast some light upon the Mormon lifestyle and belief system. My intent is to be as candid as possible, portraying Mormon missionaries as real human beings with functioning respiratory, cardiopulmonary, and neural systems, who possess an often underestimated ability to think for themselves and to preach what they truly believe.
Let me emphasize that this is not an official Church publication. As a missionary, I was an official representative of the Church and, I believe, Jesus Christ, but now I’m just a normal guy with his beliefs and values. That said, the general idea of this work to strengthen the faith of fellow members and illuminate members of other faiths and creeds.
I’ve changed a few names. This is done to protect privacy, to respect sensitive situations, and to keep embarrassment from those missionary companions whom I wanted to brutally murder. Some people kept their names, however, those who I feel would only benefit from having their names in print.
And so, a long time ago in a place not far away, I got my mission call ...
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