And It Came to Pass

by Laura Stone

  He laughed, but Adam’s insides twisted unpleasantly. The only reason he’d been allowed to go to the U in Salt Lake City instead of Provo’s BYU was his athletic scholarship. His mother, Janet, hadn’t liked that, but Adam’s overbearing father, Gerald, had decided Adam would take it. And when Gerald Young decided something, Janet never argued. Gerald was very clear that the scholarship would help offset the cost of Adam’s mission and wondered just how long was Adam going to dillydally before he put in his call?

  Adam had kept putting off the inevitable. His father had had Adam’s visa papers filled out on the breakfast table a month before his nineteenth birthday. “You don’t know where you’ll be called, so it’s best to prepare for any and all.”

  Gerald’s tone had made it clear that there would be no more putting off the inevitable.

  The car turned off the main road that ran parallel to the beach and looped back through the city. There were more “Hanging Gardens” buildings with what looked like overgrown forests growing down the side of them; a veritable jungle crept around the odd-shaped windows. Nestled next to a standard-looking high-rise was a building that might have been built by hobbits, its thatched roof was so rounded and oddly wonderful. Everywhere Adam looked bright colors and strangeness confronted him. He knew traveling to another country would require an adjustment, but this was like being dropped into a fanciful Renaissance painting of a circus that had come to life.

  The President turned in the front seat and pointed out the left-side windows. “Different, huh?”

  Adam nodded with his hand on the glass as they passed what looked like a construction site, though people were swarming all over it.

  “That building right there,” the President continued, “the one you’d think was half-built, is actually finished. It’s part of a university. Great place for you boys to proselytize. They have a lot of crazy-looking buildings here. It’s where the team ‘gaudy’ comes from, the guy who started building the church that still isn’t finished, Gaudi. Picasso has some stuff here, too. You’ll either love it or hate it,” he chuckled, turning to face forward.

  Adam wondered if that was true as he ducked to see the top of the round building the President had pointed out through the car’s window. It did look half-finished, open as if a piece of pie had been cut out of it, exposing the interior stairs and rooms. It, well, it was indecent, as if someone failed to zip up their pants. What happened when it rained? That was a college? Adam shook his head, and the car rolled on. This place was foreign in every sense of the word.

  “Many beautiful girls here,” the driver Rodrigo said, nodding as a group of college-aged women crossed the street in front of them. “You remember your covenants, eh?”

  “Football player, uh oh,” the President said. “You must have the cheerleaders lined up for you back home.”

  Adam forced a smile on his face. “No, uh, didn’t want to have any distractions.”

  “Smart. You’re here to work. I like that. You and your trainer will get along just fine, you know. He’s like you: here to work.”

  Adam would be delivered to his new companion, who would also act as his missionary trainer, showing him the ropes of the city and how the mission operated. Missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were required to follow a long and specific set of rules, one of which was to always be in the company of their companion. Missionaries didn’t date, drink coffee, listen to music not approved by the Church or watch television or movies. They couldn’t join local intramural teams or swim. They were allowed to call home on Mother’s Day and write letters—chaste and devoid of anything salacious, negative or unbecoming of a representative of the Church—once a week. They were not to use the Internet, be alone with female peers or be out of their dress pants, white shirt and ties unless they were in bed or on Monday, when they were allowed to do laundry.

  They were on their missions to bring souls to the Gospel, period. A girlfriend back home “waiting” for the missionary was common, but Adam didn’t have a girlfriend. He had female friends who tagged along with the group of guys he ran with, mostly his teammates, but Adam didn’t date. He went to school, he played football, and he studied his scriptures.

  “We had some boys get themselves in a little trouble last year,” the President said.

  “Oh?”

  The man shifted in his seat and fixed Adam with an intense gaze. “I know it’s hard being your age and having to put, well, the whole world aside for two years. I remember being young myself.”

  “Fifty years ago?” Rodrigo joked.

  “Hey, now… It was only twenty. But, Elder, to my point. If it was easy, anyone would do it. And the Lord has called you to do something extraordinary, hasn’t he?”

  Adam stammered, “Y-yes?”

  “Yes,” the President agreed. “He has. I know it’s difficult out here with all these young folks everywhere you turn partying and what not. Well, it’s not quite this busy out west and north in the smaller villages, but it’s hard here. Temptation seems to be everywhere you turn. But don’t you forget that Heavenly Father has a plan for you. He meant for you to be here right now at this very point in your life.”

  He seemed to expect it, so Adam nodded.

  “Last year a couple of missionaries started ‘proselytizing’ at college parties.” His tone made it clear there was nothing spiritual about the situation. “Now, I didn’t see anything in your file about any trouble you may have repented for before getting your mission call, so I hope that means I won’t have to worry about any… football player antics out here with any ladies.”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Good.” he turned forward and began fiddling with the air conditioner.

  Adam didn’t care for parties. They were too noisy, and, since he didn’t go to BYU, there tended to be alcohol at most of the ones his teammates attended. On a weekend night right before he got his mission call, he’d been talked out of going to a scheduled youth activity at the Institute, a Church group for college-aged youth.

  “Don’t you get enough religion?” Thompson, the team’s center, had asked. He was a guy from Oregon, not Mormon, and he thought all the Church stuff was weird. He was usually cool about Adam and a few others being devout, but as he’d said that night, “You have to live in the world, too, man.”

  Adam had agreed to ride along with the caveat that he would bail if “things got crazy.” He’d had a good time at first listening to some guys from cross-country talk about a crazy fifty-mile marathon in Bryce Canyon National Park that they wanted to do when he’d noticed a guy standing with a girl in the corner. The guy had really broad shoulders and looked as if he played a team sport. Lacrosse, maybe? He was fit. Healthy. Bit of a tan still, which, this deep into winter, meant he must ski or maybe snowboard. He looked to be around six feet, just shy of Adam’s six-foot-two. The girl with him was tiny, tucked in at his side with her cheek pressed into the round swell of the guy’s shoulder.

  Adam had imagined that would feel nice, having someone bigger with their arm around you, especially in a big, noisy crowd like this. It would be a buffer; you could block out any commotion with the ease of pressing your face into the warm cotton of a T-shirt. The hard muscle underneath would be a steadying presence. Or, well, that would be comforting for a girl, he supposed. The girl in question certainly seemed happy right where she was. But Adam’s gaze kept dropping to the guy’s big arm around the girl’s shoulder, how his hand dangled loosely, how thick and long his fingers were. It was one of those hands with ropey tendons visible, indicating a real strong grip, and his hand was right at the girl’s ample breast, close enough that the slightest twitch of his fingers would stroke her silky shirt. He’d feel her breast, no question.

  Adam had grown hot all over, agitated, as though he wanted to do something, help the girl. But that was stupid. He was being prudish. He’d been teased enough for not joining in
the typical locker room talk to know most non-LDS guys weren’t so closed-off about sex stuff. It had been hammered into him from childhood that women’s bodies were sacred. He never even thought about girls in a sexual way. He wasn’t supposed to, so he didn’t.

  He’d looked again and saw the guy’s index finger lightly tracing the top curve of her breast. The girl had shivered, but didn’t move. In fact, she’d clutched his T-shirt over his abs. Then the guy had his fingers sort of curled up and was brushing the backs of his knuckles over her shirt, down the side, then back up to rub his middle finger right over where Adam assumed her nipple was.

  It had been indecent, obscene. It was disrespectful, that’s what it was. He was disrespecting this poor girl and he needed to cut it the heck out. Adam looked up from the almost hypnotic motions the guy’s fingers made over the rising bud of her nipple, shaking himself as he did. The guy stared right at Adam, smirking. Adam’s mouth dropped open. It was so… so blatant. Cocky. The guy licked his bottom lip and winked, and all the blood in Adam’s body rushed to his groin.

  He’d gone hot all over before his stomach flipped. Had he been implicit in this… indecent act? He should’ve said something. He should’ve gone over and pulled that poor girl out from that guy’s grip. He could have done it. Adam was strong. Coach had praised him for how well he always worked the weighted sled in strength-conditioning sessions. He’d get his hands around that guy’s shoulders and push him back, shove him up against the wall, get in the guy’s face about it.

  Guys like that… They just shouldn’t treat girls as if they were objects. It really got his blood boiling. He’d excused himself and went outside where the crisp February mountain air cooled his face. That had been his one and only college party. He’d seen enough.

  It was about respect, that was what’d had Adam so hot under the collar. It absolutely wasn’t anything else, because what on earth could there be? Adam… well, he didn’t know what it could be. He didn’t like to think about that, any of that stuff.

  No. College parties weren’t going to be a problem for Elder Adam Young, that he knew for certain.

  The car turned again and continued down the ocean-side highway, where it passed buildings that were more typical to what Adam was used to seeing back in the States, a few storeys-high and dotted with cafes and modern-looking store fronts. He shifted, stretching in an attempt to catch sight of the massive and bizarre uppermost spires of La Sagrada Família, out of the back window. The church, with its echoes of the Salt Lake City temple, eased some of the unfamiliarity of this new world.

  “You doing okay back there?” Rodrigo asked, catching Adam’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “Sí, Señor. Uh, gracias,” Adam replied, remembering belatedly to speak in nothing but Spanish now that he was active.

  “Bien,” the President said. “Ya casi estamos. We’re almost there.”

  “So, Elder,” the Mission President said, now speaking completely in Spanish, “we only have one companion exchange today. We’re shipping Elder Watson back stateside for his last few weeks. Picked up a bacterial infection the doctors here couldn’t help. Antibiotic resistant, apparently.”

  “Really?” Adam startled. He’d heard of missionaries contracting diseases. That was common in the South American missions—Adam’s oldest brother Seth’s companion had contracted a flesh-eating bacteria in Guatemala, in fact—but it wasn’t as common in Europe. “Gosh! Is he going to be okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” the President said with a dismissive hand wave. “We haven’t lost anyone out here yet! And really, he only had two weeks left, so letting him recuperate near his family seemed best.”

  Adam sank back against the seat, wondering how that would have gone down in his house: two weeks left in his mission only to be prematurely discharged for bodily weakness. He had no doubt his father, Gerald, would see it as a weakness and not as an indulgent Mission President letting a good kid be with his family sooner rather than later. Gerald Young was the sort of man who tested another man’s mettle by their handshake and their list of honorably completed Church callings.

  Adam tried to picture his mom and dad visiting him in the hospital if he got sick. They probably wouldn’t be able to visit if he was in the big one in Salt Lake or up in Ogden instead of the closer one in Provo. Driving over the Point of the Mountain in all of that traffic always made his dad cranky. Crankier. He was a busy man, and his time was important. He’d told Adam that often enough over the years.

  Adam seemed to be expected to say something about this Watson guy, so continuing in Spanish, Adam responded with, “I bet that’ll be nice for him to be close to his family, then.”

  “Well, you know how mothers can be,” the President said with a knowing smile. “She would have flown out here if we hadn’t let him come home! I’m sure your mom is outdoing herself with all the letters and care packages already.”

  Adam pasted on another smile and made a noncommittal sound. It had only been six weeks since he’d left home, and he’d gotten one letter for every Monday he’d been gone: an impersonal replay of all the activities in his family’s life. He did like the “Love, your Mother” at the end of each one, though. And now he had ninety-eight weeks left. Ninety-eight weeks before he could stand up in his congregation back home and tell them how this had been the best two years of his life, just as all missionaries were expected to do, just as his brothers and sister had done, just as his parents expected him to do.

  Maybe he’d be lucky and get an antibiotic-resistant bacteria, too.

  He chastised himself for entertaining the idea of going home, even in a fantasy about being sick. He’d just need to stop focusing on being selfish, only thinking about what he wanted, or rather, what he didn’t want, and stick to obeying the rules. That would make it easier. After all, when you don’t have to think for yourself, you don’t have to think at all.

  “I remember being a greenie just like you,” the President said, smiling up into the rearview mirror for Adam’s benefit. “Best time of my life. Some of the best friends I’ve ever had are guys from my mission. We get together with a sort of reunion every year, too.”

  Adam’s smile was a flat, forced line. Of course it was the best time of this man’s life. Adam didn’t know what was wrong with him, why he just couldn’t let himself be consumed with joy about serving the way everyone else seemed to be. Well, he didn’t know what it could be other than the constant worry about disappointing his parents, about not baptizing anyone and going home with a zero for the entire congregation to see, about failing to serve the Lord and his spiritual brothers and sisters fully.

  “But, hey,” the President continued. “We’re putting you with a great group of missionaries, good guys. Strong spirits, each and every one of them. So don’t worry. They won’t razz you too hard for being green.”

  Adam wasn’t worried about that. He never had problems getting along with other guys; he had preferred the comfortable camaraderie of his football and baseball teammates and of the guys he’d grown up with in his home ward. He’d spent his high school free-time on Boy Scout camping trips, weekends with friends in the mountains to hike, eat beef jerky and generally horse around, or in weekend-long video game battles with the guys on his block. He’d always been more comfortable with them, happier, even if he was never really close to any one of them. He’d been friendly, helpful, but he tended to keep himself at an emotional distance, especially from the girls he’d grown up with.

  Most girls made him nervous. Well, perhaps it wasn’t the girls themselves but rather the expectation that soon after his mission he would have to pick one to marry in the temple, whether he was finished with school or not. Just thinking of all that was required of him had his hands sweating and his stomach in knots.

  Again, he seemed to be expected to say something, so Adam cleared his throat and replied, “I guess my mission’ll keep me too busy to worry about anything
but doing my best.”

  The President nodded, seeming satisfied by the canned, pat response. But it was true. Adam wasn’t worried about being accepted socially; a mission wasn’t about being social, after all. It was about being dedicated to the Lord. They were to be up at six-thirty every morning, have their scheduled prayer and appointments and wrap up every day with required lights-out by ten-thirty. The well-ingrained routine made it easy to follow along, to do what was expected and to get through the next two years. And maybe, somewhere along the way, he’d figure out how to actually love being on a mission, love spreading the Gospel instead of just enduring it.

  He felt sick just thinking that. He wasn’t enduring the Gospel. He just… he just didn’t have all the pieces yet, hadn’t felt that spiritual fire burning in his heart as proof it was all worth it.

  “Your new companion is quite the missionary. Heck of a guy.” The President riffled through a leather-bound organizer, talking over his shoulder. “So I hope you take note of how he works. This is a tough mission, son. We talk about Spain being a ‘Second Harvest’ but there aren’t a lot of baptisms in the city. You’ll get a lot of takers from the refugees and immigrants out in the sticks, though. It’s not like those guys who have it easy down in South America. The European missions are what make the real leaders of the Church, Young, and Christensen is a born leader. A real go-getter. If Elder Christensen says jump, you ask how high, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” If there was one thing Elder Young was good at, it was following orders without question.

  Before leaving for Spain, he’d had his first companion at the MTC during his foreign language immersion. His comp, a narrow, short guy from Boston named Hagel, had a perpetual sniff and a sarcastic sense of humor that bordered on cruel. Adam didn’t think the kid made much of a missionary, let alone a good guy, but that wasn’t up to him. He hoped this Christensen wouldn’t be as abrasive as Hagel. Come to think of it, he hoped Christensen wasn’t a task-master like Adam’s father, a Peter Priesthood for whom Adam could never measure up. Knowing Adam’s luck, that’s just what he’d end up being.