I received a packet with my dorm room number, the name of my companion (Elder Sansom), a room key, information about the cafeteria and class schedules, my district (the dozen or so missionaries I would attend classes with), and a list of study materials to buy at the missionary store. The first priority was to buy the six missionary discussions that were the core of the structured teaching material. After finishing my shopping, I walked to the male dorms. En route I passed some laughing sister missionaries who were impossibly attractive now that they were completely off-limits in any way I cared about. There would be six sister missionaries in my district that I’d see daily for the next eight weeks, but it’s not like we could sit around and flirt and kiss and do anything fun. We weren’t there for fun. It wasn’t our time.
My room was the size of two large elevators. Two sets of bunk beds bookended the narrow space. I set down my luggage, sat on the bottom bunk, and said a prayer. Thank you for getting me here. I hope I can accomplish what I’m supposed to. Did anyone hear me? Was I was just a nineteen-year-old boy sitting in an empty room, trying to feel something that wasn’t there? Either way, it was still and peaceful—besides the tics, of course.
As the building filled, the most common question was “So where are you going?” The Philippines, Japan, rural Nevada, Vietnam, Canada, Washington, DC. The breadth of missions was staggering. This was a big production. This was serious business. And how incredible that we were all there of our own free will, and unpaid. Elder Sansom, my companion, was a stocky blond man headed to Costa Rica
By nighttime every room was full. Some elders had a contest to see who could climb all the way to the ceiling by supporting their feet on one side of the hall and their hands on the other. Footraces down the corridors. Constant pranks. Everyone swapping pictures of girlfriends and bragging about where they were from and how they had played in a band and who wanted to arm wrestle?
There were those who remained wholly incapable of levity. They sat in their rooms and scowled at the noise, reading their scriptures and shaking their heads at the tragic loss of solemnity.
Everyone I talked to cared about being there. But come on, a nineteen-year-old boy is a nineteen-year-old boy. Put them all together and don’t be surprised if there are some shenanigans, a stench that was referred to as “the wall of flame,” and lots of noise.
Classes started the next day. Because I was learning another language, I’d be at the MTC for eight weeks, versus the three weeks for English-speaking missionaries. I had to learn how to teach the six discussions, but I also had to learn Spanish, which added new frustrations and satisfactions.
The routine: wake up at six A.M. and shower. Get to breakfast by seven. Classes started at eight. There were three classes each day, in two- to three-hour blocks. Teachers were former missionaries. Each class opened with a prayer; then we’d drill the language. Everyone in my district was going to a Spanish-speaking mission, but I was one of only four who would go to Washington, DC. The language training was predictable.
Teacher: “La cama!”
Us: “La cama!”
Teacher: “The bed!”
Us: “La cama!”
Teacher: “El evangelio!”
Us: “El evangelio!”
Teacher: “The gospel!”
Us: “El evangelio!”
We had a message to share, but didn’t know the words yet. So we drilled basic conversation. The plate, bed, wall, Bible, table, Savior, how to say your name, an introductory “Hi, we’re missionaries” script, and gospel principles. When we learned to say words like “beautiful” or “I love you,” I found myself staring at the sisters. I missed girls.
When we weren’t learning languages, we practiced teaching the six discussions. The discussions began with an introduction to church fundamentals—Joseph Smith’s vision, the Book of Mormon, and the centrality of Christ to the religion—and the sixth lesson ended with the newly baptized member’s integration into a ward.
Sometimes our teachers taught us and we’d play the investigator, which was the word for a prospective convert who showed interest. Sometimes we’d reverse roles. Sometimes we’d commit horrific vocabulary errors, like accidentally requesting a whore instead of a napkin. Swearing in Spanish didn’t feel vulgar at all. We used the word chingar constantly and thought nothing of it until a Mexican elder heard us, walked in, and said, “All of you shut the fuck up.” We were outraged!
“Elder!” I said. “You can’t— We’re in the MTC!”
“That’s what it sounds like to me when you use the word chingar.”
We stopped.
We were always with our companions, but I was lucky; Elder Sansom and I got along well. I hated never being alone, but I knew myself well enough to accept the reasoning behind it. It was very easy to catch an elder staring out the window at the sisters’ dorms and know that he was imagining all those young women. And probably not imagining them studying their scriptures and practicing their languages. I could’ve talked myself into many adventures, had I been alone, courageous, and suave. But because we were always with the district—or at least with our companions—we kept one another in check. No girls, no swearing, very little English, and no mercy for the losers who refused to have fun.
I worked hard, but there were always distractions. The worst thing Jennie ever did was send me a calendar with her picture on every page. One night I flipped on my reading light in the dark and opened to the page detailing her family’s trip to Lake Powell. There she was in a nightshirt and a sombrero, long tan legs bent at a saucy angle and lips blowing me a kiss. Damnation, that made it hard to sleep.
I think I missed my pleasure reading as much as I missed her. I read constantly, although all I could read was the King James Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants (a book of revelations recorded by Joseph Smith), the Pearl of Great Price (more canonical writing translated by Smith), the missionary discussions, and various teaching guides.
I needed it. Despite my years in seminary and Sunday school and family home evenings, I’d never read the Book of Mormon all the way through, and it was the cornerstone of our teaching. Everything in the church hinges on the Book of Mormon being the word of God. It’s what we have that no other church does. It was translated by a prophet that no other church had. It clarified the confusion caused by the various interpretations of the Bible. It was the missing piece. And it was boring.
So I missed my books. I missed my authors. I almost asked Jennie to flout the rules and send me a copy of Catch-22. I didn’t ask, but I walked right up to the edge and got on my knees, ready to beg.
But, no, I was here because I knew the truth and I would help others know it as well. Unless I spent too many nights looking at spicy pictures of the Lake Powell trip.
There was the occasional scandalous departure from the MTC. There were always rumors about “the sister missionary that the dorm leader got pregnant” and similar tales. We’d all heard stories about missionaries who entered the MTC unworthily and then got slapped silly with guilt as the weeks passed. While applying for a mission, you went through interviews with your bishop and stake president (a stake comprises several wards. The bishop in each ward reports to a stake president). At each of these you were asked if you had any unresolved transgressions. You could lie to these men and say no, but you couldn’t lie to God. One elder confessed to us with a hilariously inappropriate tale of the lurid acts he’d committed with his girlfriend days before coming to the MTC.
“And the thing was,” he said, “she was just so…virginal…that…”
“Okay, enough,” said Sister C.
“I just need you to understand that what we did was—”
“We understand.”
He left that night.
My only day of real doubt arrived in the form of a letter from my mom. Amid the normal reports and pleasantries was the sentence: I thought you would want to know that Alan D. died unexpectedly. Complications with surgery. I set the letter down and
stared at the wall. “Are you all right?” asked Elder Sansom.
“No.”
Alan was a twelve-year-old boy who was born with spina bifida. He was a fixture at church. He couldn’t walk, stand, or speak clearly, but those of us who’d spent enough time with him understood him. If he liked you, he’d take your hand and press it to his face. I thought of the last time my hand was on his face and I broke. This was someone I loved. A happy kid, even though he’d been dealt a terrible hand. A child born to a wheelchair and a life of surgeries and pain, and now he was dead. He’d never done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve his fate. He deserved to be rewarded for being so brave. He was tougher than anyone should have to be. Now he had come and gone and I wondered how his poor family was feeling. If I was upset, their grief and anger must have been profound and bottomless. Were they asking the same questions I was?
Why? How could You?
Or did they picture their son in a better place? In a better body?
What was I doing here? Each question—all the same question, really—was a door with a different answer behind it.
Is there a God? (Yes, and he killed Alan.)
Is there a God? (No, obviously. Alan is dead and you’re wasting your time. Go home and bang your girlfriend.)
Is there a God? (Yes, and He has a plan. Alan’s death is part of that plan. You might not understand it, but what do you expect? You’re not some divine, omniscient being. Quit being an arrogant dick and thinking you should understand.)
Is there a God? (Maybe. You know how to find out.)
The prayer was short. I don’t know what to do. If You are there, please help me understand what I’m supposed to do. Or I don’t know if I can stay here. Please give me an answer.
That night I had a cinematic dream. It began with two white feet walking along a path. Gradually I saw more and more of the person attached to those feet; it was Alan. When I saw his face—his clear, relaxed face—he began to sing. A clear and lovely melody, the hymn “I Stand All Amazed.” He turned and I saw that there was someone on the other side of him. Someone holding his hand. Each time I moved to see who it was, Alan moved and blocked my view. In the dream I knew that Alan was walking with Jesus Christ. Walking, and singing, and smiling, and not holding the slightest grudge about the challenges he’d endured on earth.
I’d woken up from dreams screaming. I’d woken up from dreams with tears in my eyes. But I’d never woke feeling like this. It felt like clarity. Warmth. Certainty. Confidence. Above all, it felt like an answer. That night I believed that I wasn’t alone. I rolled out of bed, knelt, and said, “I will stay.”
March arrived. It was time.
On our last night, I knelt with my district, a bunch of kids in ill-fitting suits and modest dresses, about to be scattered over the earth, charged with a great responsibility. One of the sisters led us in prayer.
“Please help us to find the people who are ready to listen. And thank you for bringing us together here.” Her voice broke and then we were all bawling like infants. I don’t think I’ve ever packed more hugs into a five-minute period than I did that night. I was scared, I was happy, I felt like I was doing the right thing, and best of all, I’d get to see Jennie the next day at the airport for a few precious minutes. It’s ridiculous, but for those of us who had girlfriends coming to see us off, “Are you going to kiss her good-bye?” was a topic of intense debate. For the people with sticks up their butts, the subject was closed:
“You accepted the calling to be a missionary. You promised to sacrifice these two years without distractions or temptations. If you weren’t allowed to kiss your girlfriend the night after you entered the MTC, why would that be different now?”
I got off the bus, saw Jennie beaming from the curb at the airport, and smashed my lips against hers so desperately that it took my Clydesdale of a father to drag me off. I’d planned on kissing her good-bye no matter what, but I got to kiss her hello as well.
“You look different,” said my mom.
“You’re uglier than ever,” said my dad.
“We’re so proud of you,” said Jennie’s mom.
Jennie’s dad nodded. “Your dad’s right, but so is Jennie’s mom.”
I hugged my siblings. My teary, sobbing siblings. That’s when I knew what it means to be a big brother. Three sets of arms wrapped around me, attached to people I hadn’t always been kind to, but whom I would die or kill for without hesitation. I pried them off so I could kiss Jennie again as the missionaries from my district—those going to DC—either smiled or shook their heads in lame disapproval.
In the MTC we were groomed to feel as if asking someone to change their entire life—and their faith—would be simple. That if we could just find the courage to open our mouths, over and over, the words would be there. “The people who are prepared to listen will hear what you have to say, even if you don’t say it well,” our teachers reassured us. It would be so easy. I had visions of clambering up the Washington Monument, whipping out a bullhorn and shouting, “All right, people, listen up. Shit just got real!” The mall would fill with people begging me to baptize them in the reflecting pool.
As the plane descended into DC, however, some of my self-assurance vanished. This city was full of people I’d never met. Somehow I’d have to go meet them all and share something with them.
I’d split most of my life between the small towns of Moab, Utah, and Spring Creek, Nevada. I hadn’t ever seen a city larger than Salt Lake. I don’t even remember ever going to school with a black student. But my early impressions of DC had nothing to do with the size of the buildings, the color of people’s skin, or the bustling streets. It felt mean. It was crowded. Nobody seemed to like each other. All of the faces were mixtures of anger and weariness. I was almost terrified. Had there ever been people less interested in me? How was I going to do this?
Enter my trainer, a missionary I’ll call Elder Santiago. If he had doubts about my abilities, he didn’t show it. On our first day on the street, he walked right over to a black man waiting for a bus and said, “Sir, have you received your free copy of the Book of Mormon yet? It’s another testament of Jesus Christ.” I watched this display of confidence and verve from a distance before remembering that I should’ve been standing beside him. I got there just in time to hear the guy say, “I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.” The next man said, “I won’t waste your time, but don’t waste mine. We got nothing to talk about.”
At the MTC we’d been assured that if we just told people what we knew, the Spirit would help them feel the truth of it. “I know this is true,” I said to an amiable man on the subway. He laughed and said, “What do you mean, you know? How do you define the word ‘know’?” I tried to explain what it felt like to receive an answer. “Young man, I can tell you mean well, but listen—feeling is not knowing. We can’t have a productive conversation about this if I think but you feel.”
Others weren’t so kind. I’d never had someone tell me to “fuck off” before. Now I’d heard it three times in two hours. And my verbal, choking, and yipping tics would flare up with each rejection. This terrified me; it was obvious that rejection would be the most reliable part of our routine.
People looked down at their purses or briefcases when we approached them on the sidewalk. They started conversations on phantom phones. Some smiled and nodded patiently while sneaking glances at their watches. The people most willing to talk with us were priests and preachers, and they just wanted to argue. The success I’d dreamed of didn’t arrive that first day, but it wasn’t a bad day. I was doing what I’d come to do. I hadn’t crumpled into a cowering ball of uncertainty. Nobody mugged me. I wasn’t a brilliant orator but I was opening my mouth and trying.
If we had any success that first week, I couldn’t see it. We hadn’t taught one lesson, let alone committed anyone to baptism. But I told myself that we were planting seeds. Maybe later someone would remember those two boys who’d knocked on their door, remember that they had s
lammed the door in our faces, and wonder if they’d been wrong. Or something.
One day we were almost home for the night when a voice behind me uttered the sweetest words: “Excuse me, Elders, could you please come and talk to my mom about Jesus?” I turned to see a man gesturing to me. His hand was missing several fingers; the remaining ones ended above the largest knuckle. The stumps oozed what looked like syrup. He was maybe thirty years old, wearing a gray sweat suit. He pointed behind him to a woman a block back. She appeared to be crying.
“Of course,” I said.
“Elder Hanagarne,” said Elder Santiago.
“We’ll be right back down,” I told the man. “I’m going to go set up a couple of things.” Because I’d been called to teach in Spanish, all interested English-speaking investigators were turned over to the English-speaking elders as soon as possible. Four of them lived on the floor below ours. They didn’t answer my knocking. I dragged Elder Santiago to our room and he watched me silently as I took a Book of Mormon out of my drawer, forty dollars of my own money, and a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. The man was waiting downstairs. His mother was nowhere in sight. “Oh, you brought me a Bible!”
“Sort of.” I put it in his hand, along with the money and the bread. This was more like it! Someone needed help and I could provide it.
The man said that he could meet with the English elders the next day at eleven. He gave me an address and a phone number, which I wrote in my planner. Then he grabbed the money and the bread and jumped into a car that was suddenly at the curb. I watched the car drive away and smiled at Elder Santiago.
We didn’t get in touch with the English-speaking elders until later that night. I was so proud. “He says you can call anytime tomorrow between—”
The World’s Strongest Librarian: A Memoir of Tourette’s, Faith, Strength, and the Power of Family Page 10
