by Laura Stone
“Your piso is right up here,” the President said, using the local terminology for apartments. “You’re going to do fine, kid. Your comp will make sure of it.”
They pulled up to a low-slung, nondescript building in what appeared to be the business district. The Mormon Church usually bought apartment buildings in lower-rent areas for their missionaries to live in, so it was about what Adam had expected. It was nicer than some of the run-down apartment buildings in the older part of Provo, for sure. He climbed out with his backpack and duffel bag and blinked up at the bright blue sky; the spring sun was warm on his face. The driver grabbed Adam’s rolling suitcase from the trunk, handed it off and gave him a nod and a “buena suerte” before climbing back in the vehicle.
He’d always envisioned traveling his mission city on a bike—the stereotypical Mormon Missionary image—but they didn’t ride bikes in the Barcelona mission. A bicycle was too dangerous and cumbersome. He and his companion would walk almost everywhere, and he’d been told to be prepared to walk up to twelve miles a day, all in their suits and dress shoes.
The Mission President shook his hand curbside. “Well, welcome to Barcelona. Christensen will fill you in. We’ll touch base tonight, Elder. Do your best.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adam watched as the car pulled away, then jostled his gear in his arms just as the front door swung open, revealing a large, well-formed young man. He was about the same muscular build as Adam’s six-foot-two inches, except instead of Adam’s baby-fine blond hair and skin so fair his cheeks were perpetually ruddy, the new guy had inky black hair and deeply tanned skin. He almost looked Spanish himself. He was visually arresting and had an aura of confidence; his resting face radiated joy and optimism instead of the sanctimonious authoritarianism Adam had anticipated.
“¡Hola!” the young man said with a bright grin on his face that made Adam’s stomach twist in a completely new way. It was all so unexpected to find… this waiting for him. Adam had imagined a younger version of his father, a ham-fisted tyrant with the aura of perfect obedience pouring off him in waves—a far cry from this young man’s happy, relaxed charm.
“So, I’m Elder Christensen. Eh, but you can call me Brandon when it’s just us.” Christensen took Adam’s duffel, hoisting it with ease, and they shook hands. “You’re Young, right?”
Adam found himself tongue-tied, then managed to blurt, “Um, yeah. Yes.” When their hands met, an electric shock ran up his arm and straight to his fast-beating heart. He dropped Christensen’s hand and fumbled for his other bag. Christensen jerked his head toward the building and led the way through the interior courtyard to their apartment.
Blinking away the after-image of his new companion’s smile, Adam snapped his eyes to just over Christensen’s shoulder. This had happened once before, this intense reaction to another person. Adam, after careful and fearful prayer, had attributed it to a prompting from the Spirit, to the strength of the other man’s faith making itself manifest. His prayer and scripture study led him to understand that it was how God helped His followers find each other. Church history was full of stories like that. In fact, it was how people described their first meeting with Joseph Smith, the Church’s founder and prophet.
Adam had reacted to an older boy at church: one who was fairly tall, who had a commanding presence and a voice that was soft but strong. The older boy had been one of those guys who you couldn’t help but want to hang out with, talk to, be like. He’d been a natural leader Young had been willing to follow anywhere. Adam had come to understand that this was how God made sure you fell in with the right people: giving you that feeling, that sucker punch of rightness that made your entire body shake and be filled with want… want as in wanting to be surrounded by the right kind of people, of course.
And now it seemed that Adam’s new companion was that same kind of guy—the kind of person who could draw both men and women—the kind of man Joseph Smith had been.
Elder Christensen was tall and broad shouldered, obviously very fit, with a handsome face framed by glossy black hair. He, too, was in his dress pants, white shirt and tie with his shiny black name tag affixed to his front shirt pocket. He was every inch a dutiful young man serving a mission for the Lord, and, given the praise Adam had heard on the drive, was well-respected by everyone. Christensen was the perfect Mormon man, the perfect Mormon missionary, and someone to whom he’d no doubt never measure up. He shook himself, overwhelmed by the chattering Spanish as they passed open doors. He noticed how some of the older people came out to wave and smile at Elder Christensen, and his stomach sank when he thought about all that lay before him, all that he had to accomplish or face his father’s continued disappointment.
A surge of frustration raced through him. No. He hadn’t even set foot in his first apartment on his mission and already he was assuming his parents would be disappointed. If this Christensen was the perfect Mormon missionary, a natural leader, then Adam would follow his lead. That’s what this was: someone to stand as a role model for Adam to ensure he had the best mission.
Well, good. That was… that was good. This would be good for Adam, great even. This could be just what he needed to wake up, to get that fire, that burning in his bosom about mission work.
Christensen held the door just long enough for Adam to get a foot at the base, then dropped the duffel near another door off the open, tiled entryway and walked through the efficiently furnished apartment.
“Here comes the big tour, so pay attention because I’m going to test you later,” Christensen said with a grin as his hand swept to take in the small space.
Something fluttered in Adam’s chest at the sight of that grin. He exhaled sharply, and quickly shut the front door behind himself.
“Here on the left, the micro-kitchen and dining area. And to the right we have the living room and study, or, as I like to call it, la biblioteca, which are thoughtfully provided by the gently-used table, two rickety chairs that will most likely collapse under one of us as some point and the busted, grandma’s-rec-room-looking sofa in a very fashionable avocado green tweed. Warning,” Christensen said, his eyebrows shooting high. “That left cushion will trap you. It’s claimed the lives of three guys already.”
The furniture did look well-used, but it seemed to be clean.
“Uh, okay?”
Christensen crossed in front of him. The room was so small Adam would have stepped back, but he’d stumble into one of the rickety chairs. His guide opened one of two doors on the opposite wall to the entrance. Inside was a small bedroom with two narrow singles on opposite walls. A large dresser wedged between them left barely enough space between the two beds for two adults to stand in conversation.
“And here’s the bedroom,” Christensen said. “Quarters are cramped, but I guess the Spaniards don’t grow ‘em as big as we do out west. You don’t see a whole bunch of guys over six feet here, for some reason. Must be all the hormones in American milk, huh?”
They’d be right on top of each other. Young forced a laugh past the lump in his throat. It was just nerves, most likely. He remembered the stories from his older brothers about being stuck with horrible mission companions: lazy, messy, guys who constantly broke the rules. And it wasn’t as though you could get any space from them. The rule in their handbook and at the MTC about proximity to your missionary companion was very clear: “Stay together. Never be alone. It is extremely important that you stay with your companion at all times. Staying together means staying within sight and hearing of each other. The only times you should be separated from your assigned companion are when you are in an interview with the Mission President, on a companion exchange, or in the bathroom.”
Maybe Christensen seemed too jovial, as if he wasn’t taking this seriously? Adam shook his head; that didn’t go with anything their Mission President had said. Adam couldn’t determine what sort of companion Christensen would be.
Christensen nodded at the ceiling. “Hope you grew up with brothers, because the guys upstairs are super frickin’ loud, like, all the time.” He reached up and held the bedroom door’s frame using a move that showed off his muscled arms and slim waist. Adam shook his hands out at his side to get his brain back into focus.
“Well,” Adam said, “it’s not like we’re going to be here a lot of the time, right? Just to sleep and eat?”
“You hear about Watson? My former comp?” Christensen asked, tilting his head. It made him look approachable. Looking kind and handsome as Christensen did was probably good for tracting, what Mormon missionaries called proselytizing. “That guy took things a bit too far. He got sick because he was a little too into it. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Christensen said, laughing softly as Adam blinked and tried to make the pieces all fit. “I think we should be into our missions. But Watson fasted at least once a week. It was insane.”
Mormons fasted the first Sunday of every month and on some special days. That was hard enough, so, every week?
Christensen continued. “People around here, they take long lunches, too. There’s no reason to go tracting for investigators during lunch, but he insisted. We had a lot of doors slammed in our face and cafes that won’t let us in during lunchtime because it’s disrespectful of the culture. He didn’t care. He was, you know, fanatical.”
Young thought it was disloyal to talk about someone who wasn’t there to defend himself, someone who had to go home sick, someone who seemed to have tried anything they could to have a successful mission. Adam’s dad would expect him to knock on doors at lunch, cultural disrespect or not. “Aw, maybe he was all right. A little over-zealous, but isn’t that what we’re here for?”
Christensen looked him dead in the eye. “No. We’re here to learn more, ourselves. But mostly we’re here to try and spread some joy to the local people. We’re not here to freak them out and make them hate Mormons more than the rest of the world already does. If we bring some of them to the Gospel, that’s gravy.”
That shocking statement that seemed to go against everything he’d been taught sent another thrill through Adam. His father and brothers spoke about their responsibility, their duty as priesthood holders to make nonbelievers Mormon.
He was nineteen for Pete’s sake. He didn’t know enough about the Gospel to be teaching it, so how was he supposed to baptize scores of people? But this… This was what he wanted to do on his mission, not just get numbers added to the rolls. The idea struck him, stunning him momentarily like an offensive-line block. He wanted to first find happiness, then share it. That was what he wanted.
“Find yourself in the service of others,” Adam murmured, repeating the oft-quoted mantra of church leaders as it finally clicked. He’d never shared with anyone his hope of gaining a stronger belief in the Church while on his mission; he hadn’t even looked straight at his own thoughts about it. This just might be the companion to light a fire in him, might be the leader who could get his mind where it needed to be. He could find his faith and maybe figure himself out, too.
“That’s it exactly,” Christensen said, rabbit-punching Adam’s shoulder.
Adam let out a sigh of relief as he backed out of the claustrophobic bedroom. “I’d always figured guys were already set with their beliefs before they left, you know? And… I’ve been a little freaked by not being a zealot like Watson, I guess, or like some of the guys back at the MTC. I thought… I thought it meant I’m not really worthy to be here.” He blushed. That also wasn’t anything he had ever admitted to anyone, not even himself.
Christensen sprawled on the modest couch that came with the apartment; his bulk didn’t leave much space for Adam to avoid the “man-eating” cushion. “Hey, you and me both. One of my comps when I first got here only came because his dad threatened to stop paying for his college if he didn’t go.”
Adam forced a laugh. That hit a little too close to his own situation.
“Dude. That guy was the laziest thing I’ve ever seen, too. He didn’t know half of what he was supposed to teach, wouldn’t bother following the Preach My Gospel manual or anything. That guy never frickin’ washed his clothes, didn’t believe in deodorant and stank to all get out.” He stretched out with a groan. “I got sick of his cooking fast.” He sniffed. “Probably what he wanted, me to take over all the food. He cooked nothing but ramen noodles because all you had to do was heat water. Complete bum.”
Young carefully lowered himself into one of the rickety arm chairs. It creaked, but held his weight. “I’m not like that. I’m not lazy, I mean.” He laughed. “And I’m not a fan of ramen, so no worries there. I, uh, I make a pretty decent grilled cheese, though.” Janet Young didn’t like her sons to be in “her” kitchen. One of Adam’s teammates in high school had taught him how to make grilled cheese with an iron. They were ridiculously good, if unconventional.
“Nice.” Christensen held out a fist for Adam to bump; Adam barely grazed it.
“It’s just… well, there are some things, some doctrines that I haven’t gotten that… that fire for yet, I guess. I’m a little nervous.”
Christensen laughed. “Well, that’s okay. We all feel like that. I mean, you can’t know everything! How boring would that be, being a know-it-all by twenty? Not to mention how many times you’d get your butt kicked by people sick of you preaching to them.” Smiling, Christensen threw a pillow at Young’s head. “I figure there’s loads out there left to learn. I’m all about being open to new ideas and people. There’s a whole world of ideas out there we don’t know anything about, Elder.”
Chapter Two
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.” Jeremiah 1:5
“I find that when I get casual with my relationship with divinity and when it seems no divine ear is listening and no divine voice is speaking, that I am far, far away. If I immerse myself in the scriptures, the distance narrows and the spirituality returns. I find myself loving more intimately those I should love with all my heart, mind, and strength.” LDS President Spencer W. Kimball
Transfers happened on Preparation Day, or P-Day as the Church called it. This was the one day of the week when the missionaries were excused from a full day of tracting. They were allowed to log into their email accounts, which were owned and routinely monitored by the Church, to touch base with their families; they could do their laundry, stock up on groceries and spend leisure time with other missionaries as long as that leisure time fit in with the strict rules of the mission field, and even better, they could dress in casual clothes as long as they weren’t connecting with investigators or active members of the Church outside the mission field. Adam and Christensen decided to finish Christensen’s laundry, then meet with the rest of the elders in the district for some half-court basketball; missionaries weren’t allowed to play full-court basketball.
“Gotta keep you awake for a few more hours and used to the time zone so you’re not totally dragging tomorrow,” Christensen said, tossing Adam’s duffle onto one of the beds.
They dressed in their “civies,” normal every-day attire without their name tags pinned to their chest as when they wore their dress clothes. Adam was careful to avoid seeming to watch Christensen change into his loose, nylon basketball shorts. Playing sports all his life had trained him well for how to behave around other guys. Locker room rules were easy to follow, and Adam was excellent at following rules.
They headed off to the basketball court in a city park. Christensen seemed to realize that Adam needed to adjust to how different the city looked. He quietly walked alongside him while Adam gaped as they passed buildings with stacked glass striping their fronts, giant grey pods with rounded domes that appeared to be what the city used for dumpsters and delicate-limbed trees that were so far removed from the heavy, snow-sturdy cedars and junipers of Provo.
Christensen nudged him to cross the street from wh
ere he’d come to a standstill. Adam had been confused by the different cars, some brands Adam had never heard of. Even the vans and trucks looked different, smaller, more rounded. It was as though Barcelona couldn’t make its mind up on whether to have straight lines or wavy; where one expected one kind, the other turned up. Adam thought he’d been dropped into a Dr. Seuss book.
Instead of poured cement, large sections of the sidewalk were paved in tiles, decorative and beautiful. They made Adam think of the pressed-tin ceiling in his grandma’s old Victorian farmhouse in Santaquin, a small farm town located up the mountain from Provo. Everything in Barcelona was designed to be beautiful, it seemed, and was meant to be admired and appreciated. It was as if the idea behind the Mormon temples—no dollar spared to make the House of the Lord as beautiful as possible—had been applied to the entire city. He wondered if he’d get a chance to visit other major cities, like Madrid, and see if they, too, were as oddly beautiful.
By the time they got to the park, which, with its sandy floor and surrounded by the delicate-looking trees in orderly lines, was unlike the familiar chain-link-fenced blacktop Adam was used to, six other missionaries were already there. Christensen shook hands with several of them and pulled two into bear-like hugs.
“Dudes, let me introduce you to my new companion, Elder Young.”
As expected, several of the guys made cracks about the title, and the two guys Christensen had hugged stepped forward and shook his hand with firm grips. Their expressions were friendly and open.
One of those guys, who was built like a linebacker and sported a crooked grin, called out, “You better watch out, Young. Your comp’s a legend. He’s the only one of us who’s baptized anyone in the city this whole mission.”
