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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
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.
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