by Laura Stone
“Hola,” Christensen said. “Sir, a word? Have you ever wondered where you came from? Where you’re going?”
The man’s grin was crooked as he said with a Basque accent, “I came from my mother and I’m going to the market.”
Adam laughed, then clamped that down. Christensen didn’t have a problem laughing, though.
“Fair point. I’m Elder Christensen, by the way, and this is Elder Young.”
The man raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “My name is Iñigo Duarte,” he added, shaking their hands.
“I wonder if we could walk with you and maybe talk to you about Jesus Christ?”
“You let me ask questions first,” Iñigo said to them with a finger raised, “and if you answer well, I will listen to you, too.”
“Absolutely,” Christensen said. “And if I can’t answer it, then my companion here surely will.”
Adam’s stomach fell. Christensen knew way more than he did, so certainly it wouldn’t come to that.
“I want to know this thing,” Iñigo said. “Why do you Mormons turn your back on the Virgin Mother?”
Christensen shoved his hands deep into his pockets and rocked on his heels. He sucked his teeth and said, “I don’t believe we do.”
“Yes! You do! You ignore her and her sacrifices, her importance. She, the Blessed Mother, is the Mediatrix of All Graces.”
Adam didn’t know what that meant and glanced sideways at Christensen, who looked into Iñigo’s eyes and nodded along.
“She is Immaculate,” Iñigo said. “She is free of sin.”
Christensen continued to nod.
“So I ask.” Inigo tapped Christensen’s shin with his cane. “If she is free of sin, of course, then in your church must she be baptized?”
“Well,” Christensen replied and smiled. “Even Jesus had to be baptized.”
Iñigo laughed and tapped Christensen’s shins once again. “That is true, that is true. So! Did you take holy orders of silence?” he asked, turning to Adam with a speed Adam wouldn’t have thought the old man capable of.
“N-no?”
“I don’t trust a man who won’t speak for himself,” he said, clucking his tongue. “And what do you think about our Holy Mother?”
“That… she… is the mother of the Son of God?” Adam said, casting nervous glances at Christensen. “That she had to have been a valiant spirit to have been chosen to be the mother of the Son of God?”
He wanted to steer the conversation back to the Preach My Gospel manual where the Church had already outlined discussion topics and how to handle questions about that material. Veering so widely off topic made him incredibly nervous. And, though Adam wouldn’t admit this to a potential investigator, Mormons didn’t pay much attention to Mary other than the knowledge that she was Jesus’s literal mother after being visited by a physical, flesh-and-blood Heavenly Father, who impregnated her. These were topics he didn’t like to think on because the answers were so at odd with Biblical scripture and general Christian belief.
Christensen, however, had no problem with these topics.
“Tell you what. We’ll help you get your groceries back to your piso, and you can tell us what Dia de la Santa Eulalia is about.”
Adam had no idea what that was, but Señor Duarte was happy to educate them, tsk-tsking them for their woeful lack of religious and cultural education as they loaded his cloth bag with fresh produce at the open market before he begged off to his dinner.
Christensen’s method of engaging with people involved trading details of his faith for others. Adam had to admit that it at least kept them talking to people longer.
“It gives us insight into them,” Christensen said as they headed back to their own apartment. “Gives us time to maybe even be impressed by the Spirit, to know just what they need to hear.”
Christensen stopped in his tracks. Adam walked on a few paces before he realized his companion was no longer at his side.
“That sounds… wrong. Doesn’t it?” Christensen asked, looking up.
“How do you mean?”
“That sounds like… manipulation.”
A cold trickle ran down Adam’s spine. “It’s not manipulation; it’s the Holy Ghost. Isn’t it?”
Oblivious to the buses and cars as they passed, Christensen stared out at the street before he spoke. “Knowing what they need to hear,” he repeated. “Shouldn’t all of it, any of it, be what they need to hear?”
The thing was, that made sense. Any part of the gospel should be something a person was willing to hear, what they needed to hear. Adam could hear his father’s voice saying, “Heavenly Father gives people what they need to know when they need to know it.”
But… what if a person didn’t know the question to ask in order to learn?
“Elder… Adam. I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable. I don’t mean to.”
“No, I—”
“It’s just that I trust you. There’s no way I could have asked Watson any of this. I feel like you’ll actually take me seriously.”
“I… I do.” It was heady, knowing someone like Christensen trusted him. His own parents hadn’t trusted him to do the simplest of things.
“Thanks. Really. Tell you what,” he said, grabbing the cloth bag Iñigo Duarte had sent them home with, stuffed with cheeses and olives and a small bottle of olive oil about which the old man had sworn that, if they took a spoonful of it every night, they would be as healthy as he was. “I’ll make dinner tonight and wash dishes.”
“You don’t have to,” Adam said, feeling both proud to have put a smile on his companion’s face and uncomfortable to be rewarded for not doing much other than listening.
“I kind of feel like I do.” Christensen grinned and shoulder checked him.
* * *
P-Day came around again, and Guymon and Gardener brought the sister missionaries with them. Or rather, the sister missionaries, who were allowed a car, brought them. They’d apparently seen the guys walking toward the park and, as they were heading there themselves, picked them up to spare their feet a few blocks.
“¡Hola!,” one of the sisters said, waving at the group as they approached. She had a long, thick blonde braid down her back, a homely yet friendly face—and an incredibly strong grip, Adam realized, shaking out his hand.
“Sister Peterson. Gunlock. This is—”
“Uh, Sister Cook,” the other girl said, pointing to her name tag and smiling at the group. She had a prettier face, wore a little makeup, and dressed fashionably yet modestly in casual pants and a nice top, instead of a below-the-knee skirt like all sisters had to wear except on P-Day. “I’m from Arizona.”
“Oh, yeah?” Guymon asked, smoothing down his hair. “Where about? I have family in—”
“Queen Creek,” she said, blushing.
Christensen caught Adam’s eye, bit his lip and looked away to hide his smirk.
“Hey,” Adam said, nodding his chin at Guymon. “What about playing on the big chessboard since the girls can’t play basketball?”
“Oh, we can,” Sister Peterson said with a forced smile on her face. “We’re just not allowed.”
“You play?” Adam asked.
“Not on my mission, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Adam bristled at her snippy tone. He was trying to be friendly.
“Uh, Sister Peterson,” Christensen said, redirecting the conversation, “please tell me you know how to play chess. Like strategy stuff. I’m terrible at it.”
Sorensen’s mouth hung open. He mouthed to Adam, “What’s her deal?”
Adam shrugged. The cute one was making eyes at Ketchup, the mean one looked ready to get them all in a headlock. Gardener walked past Adam with his hands in his pockets. “Hey. Dude. They have a car. I’ll put up with a lot to spare my feet walking a few miles
in shoes that pinch.”
“So, I totally call Sister Peterson for my team,” Christensen said as the rest of the group gathered alongside the chessboard etched into the park’s pavement, which was dotted with three-foot-high chess pieces. “She’s totally a female Bobby Fischer.”
“Who?” Guymon asked.
Sister Cook laughed at that but no one paid any attention, which was good, as Adam didn’t know who the heck Bobby Fischer was, either. Ketchup nodded along to whatever Sister Cook was saying—clearly forgetting about his beloved Randilyn back home. Sorensen and LaSalle were having a fake sword fight around the large plastic rook. Gardener, his hands folded at his chest, was stretched out on the grass several yards away near a row of fragrant orange trees. The others divided into teams with Romney and Larsen. Christensen whistled at Adam and nodded at the space next to him.
Adam tried to ignore the warm pleasure that suffused him when Christensen slung his arm around Adam’s shoulder as soon as he was by Christensen’s side.
“Okay, Peterson,” Christensen said, “We move the king first, right?” He elbowed Adam in the side as Sister Peterson tore into him for not knowing the basics of chess.
* * *
“You know, I remember asking my father once, how will I know something is true?” Adam said to Christensen one morning at breakfast.
“Finally! He speaks of his elusive family!” Christensen laughed, nudging Adam’s dress shoe under the table. “No, I’m just teasing,” he said when Adam shook his head and pushed his food around his plate. “Go on, please. What did he say?”
After a deep breath, Adam put his fork on the table and said in a measured tone, “He kept reading his paper and said that I’ll know, and that I’ll know it’s from the Spirit of God because I’ll have learned something.”
“Oh.” Christensen nodded while shoveling some scrambled eggs into his mouth. “So a useless non-answer, then.”
Adam made a noncommittal noise.
After a sip of juice, Christensen asked coolly, “What about your mom? What does she say about all of this when you bring it up?”
Adam shrugged. “First off, I didn’t really bring this stuff up back home. But when I did, she always told me to ask my father. They, uh, didn’t like all the questions. Mom especially. It was always, ‘Go ask your father.’”
“Well,” Christensen said, frowning down at his plate, “you can ask me any question you want. I may not have the answer, but we can just try and find it together, okay?”
Adam’s mouth hung open. He closed it and nodded his head. “Yeah. Okay. That would be nice for a change.”
Christensen winked at him and pushed off from the table. “We’re in this together, right? All the way, bro. Except it’s your turn to wash up while I get the plans settled for the day.”
Adam laughed and chucked his napkin at Christensen. He realized this sensation, this easy friendship and lack of judgment, heck, this level of support and real companionship must be what his brothers and other guys he’d known had imagined for their missions. Finally, things were starting to make sense.
* * *
The more time he spent with Christensen, though, the more it was confirmed that his companion was simply a good man. A sort of light seemed to follow Christensen around, and because of this Adam began to understand that he’d pushed down his own darkness: a constant thread of panic for not being perfect, for not knowing all there was to know about his own religion, for daring to teach it when he was such a neophyte himself.
“Hey, Elder,” Adam asked, swallowing down his anxiety, “what do you think about the early days of the Church when they all lived in each other’s pockets? Everybody shared everything like… like communism.”
“Dude.”
Adam’s stomach lurched, but then Christensen nodded his head.
“Totally. Or, hmm. Maybe that’s more like socialism? I don’t know enough about that stuff. Let’s ask my mom.” He grabbed the notepad they kept on the kitchen table to scribble something down. “Um, the old fashioned way. I don’t think that’s a question for Church email.”
That was another way they were different: Christensen never hesitated to put questions to his parents. Clearly they didn’t have the same idea of how “perfect obedience will lead you to perfect knowledge” as Adam’s parents did.
“Sandra Christensen was a sociology major before she was a mom,” Christensen said. “She will tell you that straight up. Still substitutes at the high school. She’ll eat this up.”
They did this sometimes, posed questions to Christensen’s parents when they didn’t feel comfortable asking the Mission President or other members, or when they couldn’t find it on their own in their growing library of Church-sanctioned books.
Just yesterday a new care package had come for Christensen and, in addition to some coloring books and crayon packs to pass out to kids, it was loaded with homemade cookies protected by colorful bubblewrap, funky dress socks with the Golden Plates embroidered on them and a Skor chocolate and toffee bar for Adam. Adam’s face had gone hot as he’d stammered out a thanks, suddenly bashful at the thought of his companion telling his parents back home what sort of treats he missed.
It also contained a long letter, most of which Christensen read out loud.
“Okay, here’s where she gets to our question,” Christensen said, tucking the first page into his pocket. “‘Buddy, I get what you’re trying to say about manipulation, but it’s only manipulative if you don’t believe it or if you’re just making things up to get people to believe what you want for your own gain.
“‘That’s something to think about, though. I’ll be honest when I tell you I hadn’t considered that, either,’” the letter continued. “‘I guess it makes sense to move forward with that in mind, that you and Elder Young—and your father and I, too—are always cautious from this point forward to listen to the promptings of the Spirit so you know who needs help, but that you listen to them, too. Listen to what people tell you with their lives, not just their words. Are they tired? Help them carry their load. Are they struggling with personal demons? Offer to take them to the clinic, give them a hug, walk with them and let them know you’re listening, something like that. Being good and kind and helpful is every bit as much a part of the Gospel of Jesus Christ as knowing which scripture to quote. Maybe even more so.’”
Well, it was clear where Adam’s companion got his good nature and loving spirit from. Adam had never considered that being kind and helpful was as important to living the Gospel as was knowing the scriptures.
“Dude,” Christensen said, grinning over the letter. “My mom is so awesome.”
Adam nodded. In addition to the idea that the Gospel was more than words on a page, that it was how you treated others, he’d also never heard a parent talk so candidly to their child before. Christensen read on.
“‘I love the fact that you care so profoundly about being your best for our Heavenly Father. Always remember how proud of you your dad and I are. Let Elder Young know we’re keeping him in our prayers, too. We want you both to be successful—and a big part of that means knowing you’re loved by us and Heavenly Father!’”
Adam blinked when he heard about his companion’s parents adding him to their prayers.
“Then she goes on with stuff about Bill’s baseball championship game and stuff like that, but…” Christensen trailed off, taking great care with folding the letter. “Well, what do you think?”
Adam didn’t know how to answer. People didn’t usually ask him for his thoughts. He was usually just asked to participate or lift heavy stuff. “Me?”
“Well, yeah, ya dink,” Christensen said, laughing and slapping at Adam’s shoulder with the envelope. “The whole ‘it’s not manipulative if you’re not trying to gain something’ thing?”
Put that bluntly, he could see why Christensen had originally thought pr
oselytizing was manipulative. But weren’t they trying to get something from these people?
“Uh oh,” Christensen said, face sober and concerned. “What is it?”
“It’s just… maybe there’s something to that. I don’t really know, though,” he added in a rush. “I hadn’t considered us trying to get people into the Church as anything but helping them with their salvation.”
“Maybe it is that simple?”
Adam didn’t know. Two months ago he would have been sure of his answer. But the longer he was away from his father and his father’s persistent preaching, the less sure he was about anything. Now it seemed that the answers of which he’d been so certain were nothing more than catch phrases to toss out at the slightest sign of weakness, phrases meant to quell any real thought into the deep theological questions nagging him. Now a sparking interest grew, encouraging him to learn as much as he could about this gospel he was attempting to preach.
It was all thanks to his companion, Christensen, and his seeming lack of judgment, a completely new experience for Adam. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to realize that someone else—someone for whom Adam was coming to have a great deal of respect—also shared these nagging doubts, especially when it was someone like Christensen, someone good and kind, someone everyone liked and respected and would be willing to follow anywhere.
Adam was now wondering about those same issues. Before they’d only been seeds of doubt that he tried to pray away, or simply ignore. But now, now he and Christensen used their scant bit of free time to engage each other in thoughtful discourse. And, as was becoming more common, Christensen had more questions.
“You know,” Christensen said one night at dinner, “at the start of it, the Church was so totally different than it is now. I mean, everyone lived together and had communal livestock and food. They were totally communists,” he grinned, “well, socialists we decided, right? Law of Consecration and all that. But also, there was so much more debate and study, I think, than there is now. It’s all been done for us,” he said, carrying his empty dishes to the sink. “The work of understanding has all been done. Now we just have to memorize things.”
