Land of Enchantment

Alas, my frustration with my speech wasn't something that could be resolved with immediacy. So it was that I joined the other elders in my district for a 5 a.m. flight from Provo to Albuquerque with trepidation stewing in my brain.

New Mexico’s official nickname is the “Land of Enchantment.” As the clouds dispersed and my first view of the nation’s forty-seventh state became clear from the window seat of the airplane, I seriously wondered whether that nickname had been drawn from a hat or merely dreamed up by a particularly imaginative public relations committee. I saw brown everywhere. If New Mexico’s landscape appeared in coloring book, I theorized, only the crayon labeled “Puke brown” would have sufficed to give an accurate representation.

My frustration was still broiling as we stepped off the plane and were greeted at the bottom of the escalator by President and Sister Koyle and the assistants to the president. They all were smiling at us, which was good because any less cordial greeting may have incited uncontrolled sobbing on my part.

President Brent H. Koyle had previously served as an area authority, a Church position overseeing a large number of local congregations. His salt-and-pepper hair was parted with more severity than the Red Sea and while he was at heart a loving and caring shepherd with a deep commitment to the success of the hundred and fifty or so missionaries in his fold, it wouldn’t take long for me to discover how fearsome he could be when angry. It wasn’t that he had a temper; it was just that he had mastered the ability to channel his righteous anger through the air. When you had broken the rules or otherwise given him cause for indignation, you could almost feel the electricity crackling from his form, lifting your hair on end and sending small animals darting for cover. When you were working your hardest and trying your best to be obedient, he was a black-haired, beardless Dumbledore; when you screwed up, you could almost hear Darth Vader’s Imperial March heralding the arrival of the mission president and his holy judgment.

Sister Pam Koyle was always smiling. She was the mom for the missionaries and took care of all the medical emergencies that cropped up. She greeted you cheerfully on the phone as you reported that some weird black pus was coming out of your blisters at the end of the day and lovingly referred you to the proper medical authorities.