[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.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
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.
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