*

Progreso 5:05 AM, September 25th

Currently awake and unable to sleep because I have—yep, it’s finally hit me—diarrhea. I’ve heard that like every American missionary gets it because our bodies aren’t used to some of the foods down here, but I’ve already been in Uruguay for three months. I’ve been totally fine up until now and I think my body has adjusted, which means it must be something I ate yesterday. We had correlation with Raúl yesterday and he gave us bread—one with cream and the other with bacon bits. I ate quite a bit of it and I think that’s what’s making me feel horrible. He’s trying to poison us so he can get out of doing his job. So, yeah. I woke up with the worst stomach pains and went to the bathroom, went back to bed, woke up 30 minutes later, went back, woke up 30 minutes later, and now I’m just staying up because there’s no point in going back to bed.

In other news, Talia called us last night to let us know that she got in a fight with her family, because she doesn’t have a job, and moved in with her boyfriend. And her boyfriend lives in the area of the Elders. So we can’t teach her anymore and it’s really sad. She was so excited to learn more and more and to be baptized and I hope the Elders can still teach her, but it’s sad that we can’t. Like, I knew the mission was going to be hard, but I didn’t think it would be this difficult to help someone reach their baptismal date. I suppose that it’s because Satan is really trying his hardest in these moments to prevent it.

*

*

Three months was almost too long for a missionary in a foreign country to go without being hit with debilitating diarrhea. My time had come.

The other American Hermana in the house was also hit, and we suffered together throughout the night and into the morning. Our chipper companions had made it out unscathed and they forced us out of bed and up for church that morning. We hoped that perhaps we’d be allowed to take it easy the rest of the day, but going to church in the morning was a nonnegotiable. We had to attend sacrament meeting and renew our baptismal covenants. But perhaps even more importantly, I had to attend sacrament meeting to play the piano—the show couldn’t go on without me.

We got to church and immediately cornered Raúl, our ward mission leader. He was the one to blame for our very unhappy digestive tracts. The other American Hermana and I were the only ones to have partaken in the rather questionable-looking bacon bit bread the night before. We were also the only ones who had spent the entire night running to and from the toilet. The culprit had to have been Raúl’s bread.

He took our playful accusations well and even barked back a few taunts of his own. Our relationship with him had always been that way. We had spent the entire meeting the night before in similar repartee.

Raúl was handsome, charming, single, and somewhere in his late 20s. He was the only person I had met in the entire area who spoke English. He made a point to make very unserious comments during very serious moments—comments in English that only I could understand.

Needless to say, I had a fat crush on him.

I thought back to my MTC President’s condemnatory speech in which he stated it was the work of the devil if a missionary began to have feelings for someone. It had been said to be one of the devil’s most devious tasks, planting crushes and leaving missionaries distracted from the work.

And if we were left distracted from the work, if we weren’t being obedient with exactitude, we wouldn’t be able to bring souls unto Christ.

Perhaps I was being punished for this crush. Perhaps that’s why I had been cursed with diarrhea. Perhaps that’s why our most promising investigator, Talia, had been taken from us and given to the Elders.

“Satan is really trying his hardest in these moments to prevent it.”

I had been so conditioned to think that if someone was having trouble reaching their baptismal date, it was because the devil was at work. He was either causing us missionaries to be disobedient, which indirectly affected the progress of an investigator, or he was doing everything he could to remove an investigator from the path.

But at the same token, if someone was having trouble reaching their baptismal date, couldn’t it just as easily have been blamed on God for not being at work?

If God wants His children to be baptized into the “one true church”, as Mormons claim their church to be, then it would seem He would do a lot more to help them get there. He always got the credit when someone did eventually reach the waters of baptism, so then why wasn’t He blamed when they didn’t? He could have been doing a whole lot more to help investigators get there.

But I hadn’t quite allowed myself to think this way or ask these questions. I continued to blame the devil, myself, my companion, or all three when we didn’t reach our missionary goals.

I felt guilty for my crush and was determined to keep it down. I wouldn’t allow it to consume me. It already felt like the indirect cause for why Talia’s progress had dropped off. The devil was at work. The devil had planted that crush. I wasn’t being obedient with exactitude. I was going against the teachings of my leaders.

But really I was just a 19-year-old who had gone months without regular social interaction. Developing a crush after that length of time was just as inevitable as the diarrhea.

(to be continued…)

*

Progreso 10:00 PM, September 17th

Another day, another day. But I have decided that I need to write more in this thing. And I need to rant. Our mission president has been making so many changes, and I know I should be accepting them, but it’s hard when they don’t make sense. We don’t have weekly planning anymore. It used to be Thursday mornings for three hours but now it’s Sunday nights for one hour. But Sunday nights used to be the best time. Not anymore. It’s like, we’re human beings. We need a little time to care for ourselves. Sunday nights were one of the only times that we could do that, but not anymore.

It just frustrates me. Like, I understand that the mission is work, but we also should be allowed to enjoy it a little, no? So what I have to do is just enjoy it regardless. I’m going to try to have something in mind every day that I can do to have a good time and enjoy myself. I want to remember my mission for having tons of spiritual experiences but also for just being a blast. So far I have been able to have both and I hope that it can continue to be that way. We will see. I try to have a positive attitude and seriously I have come a long way, but sometimes it’s hard when things like this happen.

*

*

It had already been a couple months with our new mission president, but we hadn’t seen any major changes until that point. And it was a pretty major change.

Prior to our mission president receiving ‘divine revelation’ about how we should go about our weekly planning sessions, we had spent the entirety of every Thursday morning safely cooped up inside away from the storms, drinking tea (herbal, of course), and resting our overworked bodies as we planned for the week ahead. We were given three hours to thoroughly map out lessons, set goals, and discuss any conflict that might be bubbling up in the companionship. We were able to be productive and restful at the same time.

But then one warm and fuzzy feeling later—because revelation usually trickles in alongside the presence of the Holy Spirit—and our mission president decided to rob us of an entire morning of indoor cozy time. We would no longer spend three hours every Thursday morning planning for the week ahead. Thursday mornings would be a regular morning just like any other, out on the streets spreading the word.

We would still have our weekly planning sessions, but they would be for one measly hour, not three. And they would be on Sunday evenings during the one hour of the week we had been given specifically for the purposes of rest and enjoyment.

Sundays had previously been the one and only day we were allowed to turn in at 8 PM instead of 9. We’d use that extra hour to rest, recharge, go to bed early if needed. It was sometimes the only night of the week that we made dinner—there simply wasn’t time for dinner most other days. Sunday evenings were a gift, the eye of the storm.

But in swooped the new mission president and POOF. The gift was gone. It would be replaced with more work—with one hour of planning that had formerly been done in three. Not only would our hour of rest and enjoyment be taken away, but the newly assigned hour of work would feel chaotic and stressed, being crammed into one third the amount of time as before.

Obviously, our wellbeing wasn’t a concern for the new guy. He just wanted us out on the streets for three more hours each Thursday to boost the mission’s numbers. It would look so good to church leadership if the brand new mission president had significantly higher numbers than the last guy. Maybe they’d even keep him in mind to be an apostle or something.

*

*

Progreso 7:35 AM, September 19th

I have time to write so why not. Yesterday was Sunday and it was absolutely lovely. Talia came to church but was sleeping when we arrived at her house. We had to wait for a bit and she ended up walking out of her house at 10:02 (church starts at 10:00). I said a silent prayer that we’d be able to catch the bus and we did! It was seriously a miracle. We walked out of her street and saw the bus picking up people a little ways away and we ran and waved our arms and it picked us up. God was looking out for us. We made it to church at about 10:10, but luckily they hadn’t started (probably because they didn’t have a pianist…). But anyway, everyone was so friendly with Talia and her lovely baby boy, Tadeo. I hope that she had a good time—even though we had to abandon her 3rd hour to teach the kids’ class.

But actually, teaching the kids’ class was so fun. Honestly, I 100% loved it and I want to do it more. They were all so eager to participate and upon saying that we were going to say a prayer, all hands shot up. What happens between that age and the teenage years that makes everyone so hesitant to say a prayer and read scriptures aloud? I don’t know, but these children were angels.

Also, lots have been complimenting my Spanish lately :) So that’s always nice to hear. I know it’s not perfect, but it improves every day.

*

*

Even Sundays, the “Lord’s day”, the day that’s supposed to be a day of rest, the day so holy there’s a commandment about it, were filled with work.

It had been a particularly lovely Sunday, but that was likely because our most promising investigator had come to church. She was moving toward our shared goal of baptism. We were doing what we were supposed to be doing as missionaries, and that granted us permission to feel good about ourselves.

But we had trekked across town just to get her to church. There was no way she would have gone without us. Once we got to church, the meeting hadn’t started because everyone was waiting on me to play the piano. And then, at the last minute, we were asked to teach the kids’ class, probably because their teacher hadn’t shown up.

We spent the entirety of church working, only to then spend six hours out in the streets proselytizing, only to then come home and spend the final hour of our day planning for the week instead of resting and eating and enjoying like we had been allowed to do in the past.

But missions aren’t meant to be enjoyable. I don’t know why I was still under the impression that that was ever the intention.

(to be continued…)

As expected, my trainer was to be sent away. We knew it was coming, but I was relieved nonetheless. I needed a little space to spread my wings. Hermana Holland was also to be sent away. A different American hermana was coming to take her place and assume the role of sister training leader.

As for my new assigned companion, no one in the apartment knew much about her other than she was from Peru. I would have to wait and see what she was like.

*

*

Progreso 10:01 PM, September 16th

It’s been a couple days directing the area and so far things are going well. I’ve been able to speak and understand Spanish better than ever before. But sometimes I can’t understand my companion…speaking of which, she’s really sweet. She has tons of experience because she’s had like 15 months in the mission. She talks a lot, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The good news is that she has two more cambios in the mission which means she’s going to finish here in Progreso. Which means that I’m heading out after this cambio. Bye bye, Progreso, it’s been real. No, for real, Progreso is a good area, but I’m ready for some change. I’m excited to see what other areas are like.

Anyway, the first day with my new compi we visited Talia—investigator who is 18 and has a baby—and she accepted her baptismal date! The Spirit was really strong during this lesson, and when I asked her to be baptized, her eyes lit up and she was so happy to accept. It seemed like she was kind of relieved that I finally asked her. Fue una experiencia tan linda. And now we just have to get her to church. But seriously she is so sweet and really has the desire to learn and to do what’s right. I know she’s going to be baptized and it’s going to be lovely.

*

*

My new companion was incredible, and I felt so lucky to be paired with her. She was 29 years old, which was rather rare for a missionary. Most of us hermanas fell in the age range of about 19 to 23. But her age meant that she was more emotionally mature than nearly every other companion that I had. Her communication skills were advanced. She respected boundaries. And she was an excellent cook.

Even though I was ready to get out of Progreso and explore new horizons, I was excited to have time with someone who would inevitably teach me so much.

Meanwhile, our shining star investigator at the time was a young girl named Talia. She was curious, almost always available for lessons, and she fell right in the prime age range of people to which we had been instructed to give extra special attention and focus. Week after week and month after month, we had listened to district leaders, zone leaders, and the mission president himself talk about just how important it was to really hone in on and teach those from ages 16 to about 22 or 23.

This demographic is young, impressionable, and tends to be on a quest to discover ‘who they are’. When a religion swoops in promising community, peace, countless blessings, and everlasting happiness, the 16 to 23 year olds are more than likely to be susceptible to it. Those promises appeal to them. It’s what they’ve been searching for. They might be drawn in more than someone who’s a bit older, more established, or who has perhaps already found those very promises in other places.

Because of this more likely susceptibility, we were heavily encouraged to seek out these younger folks.

I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but most of us missionaries (besides someone like my 29-year-old companion) perfectly fell into that demographic, and the Mormon church was targeting us, too.

In fact, it almost felt like we were the ones the church most hoped to convert.

We were all already baptized, of course—it was one of the many prerequisites to becoming a missionary—but true conversion went deeper. It signaled a committed, lifelong dedication to the church and its survival and growth.

Sending us all out on missions at a ripe, impressionable age was the perfect strategy to more fully convert us. As missionaries, we were isolated. We were away from family, friends, and almost everything familiar. We were speaking a different language, eating different foods, locked into a routine that left us guilty and ashamed if we were to deviate from it in even the smallest of ways.

As a missionary, after nearly everything had been stripped away, the one thing that still felt familiar—the one thing that still felt like a part of our identity—was the Mormon church itself.

When conditions are right, missionaries cling even tighter to the church, determined to never let go. They associate this familiarity with truth and commit their lives to furthering it.

And that seemed to be the church’s real goal: to convert its young, pliable missionaries. It was the best chance the church had at ensuring that a new wave of young adults would go on to dedicate their time, energy, and money to its longevity.

(to be continued…)

*

Progreso 9:35 PM, September 11th

I have officially completed four months of my mission. Practically a quarter of the way there. It’s gone really fast, but at the same time slow and, man, am I ready for cambios. My companion has been driving me nuts, and I know I should only be thinking and writing positive things, but this is literally the only place I can vent and sincerely express my feelings so here we go.

Since day one, her feet have smelled absolutely rancid. She takes her shoes off right when we get home at night and right after she does this, we say a prayer to begin planning. But she kneels so that her feet are in my face so I have to breathe in those fumes directly into my nose for a good solid minute or two. Oh, and actually it isn’t only at night because we pray to begin personal study, to end it, to begin companionship study, to end it, to begin 12 semanas, to end it, and to begin and end language study. So at least 7 or 8 times a day I have to directly inhale the odors of her feet. And, yes, most of the prayer times listed above happen after we’ve showered, in the morning, but still her feet reek. I don’t really know how it’s possible. All I have to say is ‘suerte’ to her future spouse.

Also, she’s never comforted me or allowed me to be upset. When I get upset about Spanish, she doesn’t tell me that my Spanish is good or tell me things to make me feel better, but tells me to have patience with myself. That just makes everything worse. When I’m down about the weather and say I don’t like rain, she tells me I have to learn to love it because I’m going to have to deal with it for the rest of my mission. That is not comforting. When I found out about Mom, yes she did write Mom an email which was very nice, but she didn’t really give me time to just cry. Instead she tells me that it’s nothing and looks at me like an alien when I start to cry. I heard her talking to Hermana Aguilar the other day when I was trying to sleep and she said she’s only cried three times her whole mission. And one of those times was the other week when she had a headache. Does she not have feelings?

She never listens to my ideas or lets me plan. She tells me the same thing every week during companionship inventory—when we have to tell each other the other person’s strong points—and that is that I “can understand better” now. Wow. You know, after 12 weeks of me giving her nice compliments and me only ever hearing that, wow I’m so done. It’s like nothing I do satisfies her. I tell a member that I’m full and don’t want more to eat, and she gives me the death glare. I break a rule that I didn’t know was a rule, and she absolutely flips out. Oh, but she also makes up rules. She told me we can’t do our laundry on Sunday. I got mad. I told her that we work all day on Sunday and we can’t do our laundry? That makes zero sense and isn’t in the missionary manual…so I did it anyway. Also, I didn’t have garments so what’s worse, break my temple covenant by not wearing garments or wash clothes on Sunday and break a rule that doesn’t exist?

Wow, obviously I’m really done. But I only have to survive two more days with her and her ordering me around. Oh man, the way she says my name and waves her hand so I come and do whatever it is she wants me to do…I am not going to miss that. She just kind of thinks I suck, and I don’t need to be around a person like that 24 hours of the day. Every day. It’s been 12 frickin’ weeks.

Other than that, I had a pretty great day. We went to the Costa’s house, ate asado, milked cows, rode a tractor, chilled in the sunshine, and truly rested from our labors. That’s how Sundays should be—no? It was really nice to have this break and really fun to do things like milk a cow, which I had never done before. The next time I write I will know who my new companion is and if I’m staying or leaving Progreso. I cannot wait to find out.

*
*

Clearly, the fear that someone might have been reading my diary didn’t keep me from expressing how I was feeling toward my trainer.

The truth is that my trainer was a genuinely wonderful person with a great sense of humor. We got along considerably well and had countless inside jokes by the end of our time as mission companions. But we had spent 12 weeks straight together without breaks other than a quick daily shower and use of the restroom. We were absolutely sick of each other.

Having a mission companion wasn’t like having a close roommate or a romantic partner with whom you might spend long periods of time, because in those situations you still have your alone time. You still have your separate friends, hobbies, work. But one of the most important rules as a missionary is to never leave your mission companion. You must remain within “sight and sound” of one another at all times. You don’t have separate friends, hobbies, or work. Everything must be done together.

The one actual break from one another that we were granted was for a single day each cambio—or every six weeks—where we would participate in “exchanges” with the sister training leaders. This involved going to the area of the sister training leaders and doing a companionship swap with them for the day with the intention of learning something and improving as missionaries. The sister training leaders were a companionship of sister missionaries who were chosen by God (really just chosen by the mission president) to lead and inspire the other sisters in their zone. Their main duty was to organize and lead these exchanges with the other hermanas.

Unfortunately for my companion and I, our sister training leaders were the hermanas living with us, so the one chance we had at a break didn’t really feel like much of a break at all.

But cambios were coming, and it was basically guaranteed that we would be separated. After 2,016 hours together, it felt absolutely essential.

(to be continued…)

From the time I was a young Mormon girl, I had been heavily encouraged to keep a journal.

“Keep records of your life for posterity,” my church leaders would say. I imagined pulling out journals from my youth and sharing them with eager grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

“But be sure to only write things you will feel proud to share,” they’d continue. “Perhaps it’s best to leave any negativity out.”

We were urged to turn it off even when it came to the private pages of our diaries. It would be quite the disgrace if future generations were to feel ashamed of their granny for writing in her mission diary about her sad feelings after receiving bad news! Just turn it off, Granny.

As if it weren’t enough to feel restricted by nearly 20 years of conditioning surrounding what I should and shouldn’t journal about, there was also the persistent fear of someone invading my privacy and reading what I had written. Reading someone else’s diary had been a big no-no in my house growing up, and I knew my parents and siblings had always respected that boundary, but it seemed not everyone had the same sense of decency and consideration.

*

*

Progreso 7:48 AM, September 5th

I feel like someone’s been reading this. Every now and then I come home and my desk has been all jumbled and messed up. Well, there’s only one person, apart from me, who knows English. So either it’s Hermana Holland or I’m just making stuff up. But for real, this is a personal journal and I don’t want people reading it.

It’s P-day again, which means I get to hear from my family and become very depressed again. I just hope she’s okay. I’ve been doing better—I received a blessing from an Elder in my district, and that helped me. His hands were shaking when he was giving me the blessing, and I have the feeling that it was the first blessing of its kind that he’s ever given someone. But it was really good and much needed.

We had lessons with two really good nuevos the other day. One was with Pablo, a young man who has a sincere interest in religion and learning. After we sang a hymn, we asked him what he thought of it and he just goes, “intenso…”. So it’s going to be interesting teaching him. But I seriously have a very strong feeling that he’s going to be baptized. He asks really good questions and when asked if he’s going to pray to know if these things are true he says, “sin duda”. Should be a good time.

*

*

It wasn’t the first time I had come home to a noticeably disheveled desk. There was nothing that could be found there that every other missionary didn’t already have: a Bible, a Book of Mormon, the missionary manual, some highlighters. The one thing of any interest would have been my diary.

I was having an emotionally hard time, and my companion—as well as the two other hermanas in the apartment—knew it. But instead of talking to me about what I was experiencing, because that would have encouraged too much feeling of feelings (!), someone in the house decided to ransack my personal belongings and breach the pages of what should have been a safe place to feel.

I couldn’t be sure, of course, but there appeared to be no other explanation for why every item on my desk had been sifted through and opened up like an inviting pile of gifts on Christmas morning. It made sense to blame the only other English speaker in the house. I didn’t think Hermana Lopez nor Hermana Aguilar would have gained much by reading my diary.

That left just Hermana Holland as the most likely culprit. She refused to speak a word of English to me, even on the occasions when I bawled my eyes out at the kitchen table, but she sure seemed to want to learn about me by invading my privacy and reading my inner thoughts.

So maybe my diary was no longer the place to safely store my feelings. Maybe I really did have to hold it all in. At least there was some comfort to be found in an 18-year-old missionary using his priesthood power to bestow a blessing (for possibly the first time ever). He placed his shaking hands upon my head and reiterated all the things I had already told myself a million times—things we had all been conditioned to regurgitate anytime anyone was going through something hard.

“The Lord is with you.”

“You are exactly where He needs you to be at this time.”

“Your mom is blessed.”

“Have faith that all will be well.”

“His plan is perfect.”

I did come away from the blessing feeling better, more at peace. But I can’t help but believe that I would have felt even better and even more at peace if I had simply been allowed to call home. Every day I hoped and prayed for the chance to call and speak with my mom. To have permission to hear her voice and learn about how she was doing in real time instead of anxiously anticipating each P-day and reading about it in an email.

But the next time I would be allowed to call her was Christmas. That was over three months away. It looked like I would just have to wait until then to get real reassurance.

(to be continued…)

After completing all such tasks, we were lucky if we had an hour left of our P-day for a little siesta before we had to go out and spend the evening proselytizing. If there was time, I snatched up that hour and prioritized sleep above all other sanctioned leisure activities. But on that particular P-day, I couldn’t sleep. My email session had left me emotionally shattered, and I needed some time to process before being expected to put on a happy face and head out to spread the word of Christ.

*

*

Progreso 4:55 PM, August 29th (later in the day)

My head hurts from crying.

*the rest of this post is paywalled for extreme vulnerability reasons!!*

Read more

Nevertheless, I was determined to make eating as enjoyable as possible. I still made an effort to visit my favorite panadería each time we went to Las Piedras for a zone meeting, but there were more traditional foods left to try. Next on the list: el chivito.

*

*

Progreso, August 18th

I have finally eaten the signature food of Uruguay—the chivito—and it’s seriously one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. It’s like a hamburger but with ham, egg, bacon, yummier bread, and ooo it was perfect. We bought them from a little food truck in Villa Alegría. Wow, I love food trucks.

Also, yesterday we visited Angela—a grandma that lives in our apartment complex. She always tries to sell us really ugly clothes, actually I bought a pretty ugly skirt from her about two weeks back, but she also gives us tea and cookies while we enjoy her warm and cozy house. So it’s not all bad when we visit her. But yesterday we went, and while I was sipping tea from her delicate little teacup, the handle broke off and the rest of the cup fell into my lap. The water was practically boiling and I was in so much pain that I couldn’t speak. But Angela and her sister came to my rescue and shoved a rag up my skirt. I was in pain for a solid hour afterward, but miraculously my skin didn’t burn and I’m totally fine right now. Truly un milagro. But today Angela brought us guiso—a little creepy that she knows where we live—and I think it’s kind of an ‘I’m sorry’ gift. How nice, I do love me some guiso.

*

*

Just two days after my water bottle incident, another drink slipped through my fingers.

Two separate drink receptacles, clearly with minds of their own, had jumped from my grip: one falling to its death in lethal waters below, the other breaking itself in two to escape my clutches. Was this a sign?

I swear to God Himself that I was drinking herbal tea! Not any of that horribly sinful caffeinated stuff that Joseph Smith had strictly prohibited.

Perhaps I was being called to center myself and my energy. I was scattered, stressed, burnt out…and I had only been a missionary for a mere three months.

*

*

Progreso 7:15 AM, August 29th

Two days ago, the 27th of August, something called Santa Rosa occurred. It happens every year at the exact same time and it always follows a couple days of really nice, sunny weather. Basically, it’s 24 hours of non-stop rain. And it’s not like nice, drizzle Oregon rain. It’s a straight up downpour. With thunder and lightning and everything. I remember one day when we were in Missouri doing the church history tour and we were doing stuff right by the Mississippi River—actually we were taking a walk up to the lighthouse. And it began to absolutely pour. It was just dumping buckets and buckets. And of course none of us had umbrellas because it was literally the middle of summer. Anyway, that was probably the worst storm I had ever been in up until now. This one takes the cake and we were out in it all day. We had a brief break in the middle when we went to Familia Morales’ house for lunch. We arrived sopping wet and Hermana Morales gave us her clothes to change into so we wouldn’t ruin her house. She’s so hilarious she was taking pictures of me with her clothes because her clothes are large and I’m, well, small…

BUT I survived. And even though we don’t have gas in the house to keep us warm or dry our clothes, we drank hot chocolate and ate “the best pizza of Uruguay” to lift our spirits. At least we have a house that protects us and food to nourish us.

*

*

La Santa Rosa: a bizarrely recurring Uruguayan storm accurately landing within about five days of August 30th every year without fail. Many people had warned us of what was to come, but we paid no attention.

“O, sí, Hermanas,” they told us, “la tormenta de Santa Rosa es bastante peligrosa. Tengan cuidado y no salgan de la casa.”

I wanted to heed their cautionary advice, but we weren’t at liberty to stay home for anything other than severe illness or injury.

Out we trudged, leaving the house at 10 AM sharp like always. We had one hour of guaranteed time indoors between then and 9 PM—just enough time for a quick lunch—but there was no guarantee anyone else would let us inside. Especially when our soaked state threatened their furniture.

We were nearly denied even that one hour of dry refuge. Hermana Morales took one look at us and all but said there was no room at the inn. But being the generous woman that she was, she let us inside on the condition that we change from our drenched clothes into something a bit more suitable and dry. She excitedly led us to her closet, after demanding we leave our coats at the door, and threw a couple of rather large dresses our way. The hallway quickly became a runway, Hermana Morales howling with laughter and snapping photos of us in the ridiculous-looking clothing.

Not a single other soul let us in that day. We spent about ten hours outdoors in Uruguay’s most well-known and well-feared storm. Not an inch of dry skin nor clothing could be found when we returned to our cold, heaterless apartment. At that point, the only thing with which to cope was food.

Again, food was the one thing we could depend on to be enjoyable. At least we had that.

(to be continued…)

*

Progreso 10:05 PM, August 15th

A couple things have happened. For one, my worst nightmare was brought to pass—my water bottle fell into one of the streams of Uruguay. I’m hoping that when I read this journal 50 years from now I’ll still be able to remember every detail about Uruguay, but in case I can’t, I’m going to write about it. So the streams of Uruguay come close to being the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. The water is green with foam around the edges. It remains still while occasionally a barbie head or alfajor wrapper sluggishly comes into sight, drifting around the corner. You can’t see the bottom even though it’s only about half a foot deep. I wonder where this water comes from but then I see pipes from other places and follow the pipes as they lead back to houses. So basically who knows what’s being dumped into these streams along with trash, mud, and dead animals.

And into one of these fell my beloved water bottle.

Hermana Lopez remained calm as I shrieked and nearly cried. She tried to break a little branch from a nearby insignificant tree so that she could use it to get the bottle out, but out came running the son of Yareli screaming, “NO! NO! NO! NO! NOOOO!” probably 30 times. I guess that insignificant tree meant something to him. He jumped over the stream so that one leg was on each side and with one swift motion, collected the bottle up from the grime. He washed it…with a dirty rag…but to avoid infection and death, I am currently awaiting the arrival of a new bottle. My worst nightmare—to come in physical contact with un arroyo de Uruguay—was brought to pass. But I survived, and it makes for a great story.

We went to a river in Santa Lucia with our zone today. It was a really fun P-day because we got to be outside and enjoy nature (and the sun!!) and I also got to take a nap. Usually when we have activities I don’t have time to take a nap but today we had time! Our zone is really great and fun and I feel like I can finally just enjoy myself without having to worry about the language barrier.

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O sí, los arroyos de Uruguay!

I typically went out of my way to avoid these streams but wasn’t always successful. They appeared to be an essential part of Uruguayan infrastructure and drainage, especially in more urban areas, and ran through several neighborhoods. Unfortunately, they often fell prey to untreated sewage, industrial runoff, and littering from the general public. Sometimes they fell prey to more unexpected events.

Once, after a thunderstorm, my companion and I were walking along one of these streams only to be completely shocked by the storm’s ruthless aftermath. There in the stream before our very eyes lay a dead dog. This poor creature seemed to have been struck by lightning—its fur singed and standing up every which way. What must have started as a leisurely stroll beneath the pouring rain, dodging lightning bolts here and there, had resulted in a brutal end. Clearly, one lightning bolt had been impossible to avoid, and the animal had tumbled into the lethal waters below.

I did my best to stay far from the streams after that. If dead animals could be found in there, who knew what else might come floating down.

But visiting Yareli, an elderly woman we had spent the last few weeks teaching, meant crossing a little bridge over one of these streams. There was no other way around.

And somehow, on that ill-fated day as we crossed that little bridge, my beloved water bottle slipped through my fingers, plunging right into a stream of particularly green, foamy, sedentary water.

I dropped to my knees and started to scream. My water bottle was my life source. It had a filter and provided me with clean, drinkable water. Being without it felt like death. Yes, I would be able to buy bottled water, but with the little allowance I was ‘given’ as a missionary (read more about that here), how long would I be able to sustain myself?

My companion immediately took action as I remained incapacitated by the shock of losing my most valuable possession. She ran to a nearby tree, attempting to break off a branch with the hopes of using it to retrieve my life source.

“¡NO! ¡NO!¡NO!¡NOOOO!” out ran Yareli’s son, screaming even more than I was. He aggressively wedged himself between my companion and the tree. Evidently, it was very important to him. To stop my companion from further defiling the tree, he hurriedly decided to take matters into his own hands. Literally.

I would not have dared touch something soaked in such water, but he was braver than I. In a moment quicker than an eight-year-old getting dunked in a baptismal font, he retrieved the bottle, legs somehow straddling either side of the stream without falling in.

I thanked him profusely, but there was no way I was going to drink from that thing ever again. We put in an order for a new bottle, and I eagerly awaited its arrival.

At the zone activity, I had the opportunity to share my story. Our zone had new missionaries this time around after the most recent mission transfers, and all of a sudden our zone had gone from being rather serious and austere to lively and filled with good humor. I spent the zone activity with some of the new missionaries in outrageous laughter as we swapped stories and I detailed my lived experience with un arroyo de Uruguay.

It felt so good to laugh, but what felt even better was the recognition that my Spanish had greatly improved. I was to the point where I could get my humor across and even make others laugh—a characteristic of truly starting to master the language.

My life source had clumsily fallen through my fingers, but other things were surely starting to pick up.

(to be continued…)

‘Fast Sunday’, it was called. The first Sunday of every month. A monthly opportunity for members to abstain from food and drink for 24 hours and donate the equivalent cost to the church.

Mormons often accompany their fast with a specific prayer or spiritual focus. Praying while fasting is said to strengthen faith and even provide answers to prayer. Through fasting, you’re meant to feel closer to God and experience a greater sense of peace and comfort.

But maybe that’s just because your body goes into a state of physical stress and releases endorphins to cope.

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Progreso 9:30 ish PM, August 7th

It was fast Sunday today and I actually didn’t have hunger by the end of it, but I was extremely thirsty. It’s way easier to fast this way, where you don’t eat dinner or breakfast instead of not eating breakfast/lunch. It’s much easier this way because you go to bed and wake up without hunger and it’s only like you’re skipping breakfast.

But this morning was medio awful. We walked all the way to Vista Linda to pick up Veronica, and she wasn’t home. So we walked back in the sun without water. Oh, the things we do to get people to come to church. Seriously, we work really hard to get people to come to church. And then usually they don’t show, so that’s really cool. But I always like Sundays because we chill at church and it’s a nice break from our usual routine.

We have this investigator with a very strange name that I don’t know, so I call him C3PO. Because his name sounds like that. But anyway, he’s very interesting and we taught him the plan of salvation today and he was asking very interesting/confusing questions. But he was enchanted with the way Christ was baptized—by water—so we’re going to extend the invitation soon. He seems promising.

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Growing up, fast Sunday was by far the most dreaded day of the month. We’d skip breakfast, go to church hungry, skip lunch, and have to wait until dinner before we could eat or drink. It was brutal, especially as a child, but at least in those days we were able to avoid exerting any extra energy while fasting. After church we were able to come home and lounge around until dinner to avoid anything that might cause further hunger or dehydration.

But as a missionary, fasting didn’t warrant rest or lounging. We performed all of our usual activities, and sometimes that included being outside under the boiling sun for hours at a time.

I had learned a trick, though—skipping dinner the night before and then breakfast the morning of fast Sunday made hunger sensations far more manageable than skipping both breakfast and lunch the day of. With lunch being Uruguay’s biggest meal of the day, we would just load up on lunch the day before and rely on that to carry us through. But there wasn’t a way to manage thirst.

I mean, we could have thought to avoid anything that might have caused us to be out in the sun and heat longer than necessary, but Gordon B. Hinckley’s words rang in our ears like a ticking clock: forget yourself and go to work.

Thirst and dehydration, be damned! It was more important to trek across town in the merciless heat in the hopes that a woman who had already dodged us on multiple occasions would perhaps be around this time to accompany us to church.

Alas, she wasn’t home. The sun exposure and intensified thirst had been for nothing. At least there were a guaranteed three hours in which we would be at church protected from those cursed rays.

We made our way back to where we had started—our apartment was quite literally a few short blocks from the church building. We walked through the church doors only to be unpleasantly reminded of what awaited: fast and testimony meeting. I mentally prepared myself for an hour of listening to the inevitably robotic script that had come to be viewed as a proper Mormon “testimony”.

“I’d like to bear my testimony that I know this church is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet of God, that the Book of Mormon is true, that Jesus Christ is the savior of the world, and that God loves us very much.”

We were repeatedly blasted with some iteration of this script every fast and testimony meeting: a fast Sunday ritual in which the microphone was surrendered to the congregation, allowing members to publicly rehearse their convictions regarding the truthfulness of the Mormon gospel.

The phrase “I know this church is true” was the most important phrase to include in a testimony—I had leaders tell me it wasn’t a legitimate testimony without it. It became the most frequently used phrase in the whole church, far surpassing “forget yourself and go to work” and any other toxic Mormon mantra.

I also had leaders tell me that the best way to strengthen your testimony was to share it.

Of course it was.

It was self-indoctrination to the max. The more we heard ourselves say that we knew the church was true, the easier our brains processed the statement. The frequency and ease with which the phrase was processed eventually became associated with objective truth.

Combine this illusory truth effect with the endorphins released from dehydration and fasting and members just might find themselves deep in the well of believing that the church really is true. But it’s not their fault. The endorphins are probably creating that “warm and fuzzy” feeling that they’ve come to associate with the Holy Spirit.

And when the Holy Spirit is present, it’s for no reason other than to testify of the goodness and truthfulness of what you are experiencing.

(to be continued…)

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Progreso 9:57 PM, August 6th

Okay, I’m feeling a lot better now than I was the last time I wrote. Things have been picking up and I feel better about my Spanish, about being here, and about myself as a person. I’m trying to think if anything worthwhile happened this week…well, the entire apartment is breaking. Basically none of the rooms have lights. Actually, the lightbulb in the bathroom exploded so we put another one in. I don’t know if the wattage was too strong or what happened, but it began to melt and we didn’t notice until it was too late. It melted like all down the side of the cabinet thing above the sink (which doesn’t have a mirror because that broke too).

So we live in darkness and ruin and filth, but I am still enjoying myself. I’m basically exhausted all the time, and I never really feel clean, but all in all I enjoy this lifestyle. And I decided that a mission without learning a language would be boring, so I’m going to try and enjoy this process of struggling a little more. Also, Spanish is 10,000,000 x easier to learn than Japanese or something like that.

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Despite everything, I was determined to see the silver linings. It was what I was heavily conditioned to do.

But having that low moment just a week earlier (for more context, read this post) had left me feeling like a bad missionary. It had left me feeling like I wasn’t doing enough. I wasn’t praying enough, wasn’t studying enough, wasn’t obedient enough, wasn’t worthy enough. I had somehow managed to talk myself out of the very dark hole into which I had spiraled, but there remained a lingering feeling that I wasn’t good enough. That I simply wasn’t enough.

Even with those lingering feelings, I questioned spending any more time flailing around in my river of self-pity; that would only further the feelings of worthlessness. Going forward, instead of allowing myself to really sit with those feelings and validate them, I decided that I would throw myself into more work.

This decision came at the hands of years and years of toxic conditioning to ignore feelings, but perhaps more than anything, it came at the hands of one particularly toxic quote.

“Forget yourself and go to work,” Gordon B. Hinckley, Mormon prophet from 1995 until 2008, always used to say.

The famous line originally came from Gordon’s father. When Gordon had been a young missionary himself, he had written to his father to express the discouragement and hardships he was facing. His father responded in about two sentences, neither one of them validating how Gordon was feeling. The brief response was a simple reply stating that he had received Gordon’s letter and that his main suggestion was for Gordon to forget himself and go to work.

And yes, it was the 1930s and there probably wasn’t even a concept of healthy feeling validation at that time, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that Gordon was encouraged to disregard his own feelings and experiences and to instead simply throw himself into more of the things that were causing those difficult feelings and experiences. But that seems to be exactly what he did. Given his rise to Mormon leadership and power, it seems Gordon did nothing but work from that point on, spreading his father’s advice as he did so.

The quote became a Mormon mantra, especially in the mission field. By the time I was a missionary, it was common knowledge that that was the mark of a good missionary: forgetting yourself and going to work.

It had weaseled its way into my consciousness, causing me to believe that taking the time to be with myself and my feelings would only take time away from being able to work on the areas in which I was falling short—areas that were only deemed “falling short” because of the church’s impossible standards and expectations.

So, I began to do even more language study than I was already doing. Without access to books or the internet, unless the Bible and Book of Mormon count as books, I got creative with my learning methods. There were abundant church magazines lying around the apartment. I decided to read them throughout the day, underline every unfamiliar word, look up its definition, and then try to use it at least once in the remainder of the day. It did wonders for expanding and improving my Spanish vocabulary.

Instead of walking with my companion through the streets of Uruguay in silence, because at that point we had been together all day every day for 7 weeks and had run out of things to talk about, I asked her to drill me on different Spanish verbs and every possible conjugation in every tense. This also did wonders for my Spanish vocabulary and my ability to string sentences together.

I tried to “forget myself” by complaining less. Even to my own diary. Even to myself. We lived in “darkness and ruin and filth” and I was “exhausted all the time”, and yet, I still felt the need to include in that very same sentence of my diary entry that I was enjoying myself.

There were indeed moments of enjoyment, and a lot of aspects of Uruguayan culture and lifestyle that I adored, but that shouldn’t have meant that I didn’t feel at liberty to sit with the difficult as the difficult was happening.

But the Mormon mantra had sunk its way into my being. I couldn’t sit with the difficult or negative. I had to forget myself and go to work.

(to be continued…)

But the very next day came with a new set of challenges, more internal than anything, and I was left with nothing to turn to but my diary and a few memories to cheer me up.

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Progreso 8:08 PM, July 31st

Today was both horrible and great. Great because Veronica, an investigator with a baptismal date, came to church, and also because we went to the awesome home of Familia Costa. But it was un poco horrible because they kept asking me questions and I couldn’t really understand. I just feel so stupid all the time and I really don’t know why I can’t fully understand this language yet. But I try to remember that the Lord knows I can do this so eventually I will be able to. I just want that eventually to be now.

But anyway, their house was awesome and the food was yummy. Hermana Costa made canelones and I ate so many. They kept asking me if I wanted more, and every time I would say no, but then they’d all (there were like 12 people) start shouting, “Glausi! Glausi! Dále! Dále!” And they’d load up my plate and I’d eat it. They all thought I was too skinny. But the best part of all was that we went riding through the mud in a jeep while the 16-year-old son drove like a maniac. It was seriously like a real live Indiana Jones ride. I was shouting “Indiana Jones! Indiana Jones!” It was amazing. I got super muddy because we’d be going fast and mud would splatter up, but honestly when you’re having that much fun who cares about a little mud.

While I was feeling a little depressed today and was kinda hating on myself and my abilities, I thought of something that made me feel a little better. I remembered going home for this last winter break and running into an acquaintance from high school. We caught up for a bit, and he told me something that I never want to forget, so I’m going to write it. He told me that sophomore year he was going through a rough time. One day he was out running with his dad, and they were talking about how he was on the brink of deciding to drop out of school. His dad was trying to get him to think of things, positive things, about school that could possibly change his mind and keep him in school. And he told me that I was one of those things. I don’t think it was in a romantic way, but he said that I was a big reason why he decided to stay in school. He told me how much he appreciated me—that I always made his day better, that I was someone he could always count on, that I was smart and important. Honestly it meant so much to me that he would tell me that, it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever told me.

The reason why I was thinking about this was because I wanted to remember that I’ve helped at least one person’s life. That I am capable of being a good person. It’s really hard out here in the mission field, without my mom to tell me I’m doing a good job. Without really anyone that’s telling me they appreciate me. Without the comforts and coping methods that I would usually have back home. It’s really a crazy thing—being thrown out here without knowing the language, without anything that’s comfortable or familiar—and it’s like no one really has compassion. They look at me like I’m stupid when I can’t understand their question. They look at me like an alien when I haven’t tried one of their foods before. Like, HELLO I’M NOT FROM HERE.

But because of my negative thoughts, I was thinking of my friend from high school. He thinks I’m smart and important and is grateful for my influence in his life. I need to think more of the people like him, that appreciate me, instead of others. I know I can do this, just sometimes it’s very hard.

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Being a missionary was the first time in my life that I didn’t have a support system nor the ability to call anyone who was a part of that support system. I was truly alone.

What’s more, I was consumed by negative self-talk. I spiraled because I wasn’t fluent in Spanish after six weeks in the field. It led me to feel like I wasn’t really contributing to the work we were doing as missionaries, which led me to feel like I was a disappointment to everyone around me. Perhaps more than anything else, it caused me to feel like a disappointment to God.

Negative narratives consumed me as I stewed in my own self-perceived failure.

But the reality was that not a single missionary was fluent after a mere six weeks (a lot of missionaries were barely intelligible after six months). And I absolutely was helping in the work we had been sent off to do as missionaries; two people had already been baptized and another was actively attending church.

Hearing those types of numbers didn’t regulate my activated state, though. Praying was no use either, even though I had always been told that these were the moments in which God and the Holy Spirit would most be there for me. The best way my 19-year-old self found to soothe was to turn to memories.

It was a beautiful lesson in learning to exercise some self-compassion. What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was that so much of the perfectionism and negative self-talk, and by extension the need for self-compassion, stemmed from the very thing I was actively perpetuating: the Mormon church itself.

(to be continued…)

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Progreso 10:15 PM, July 30th

Pablo se bautizó! Woohoooo. His journey has been really cool to watch. He smoked a ton before he committed to be baptized and was still smoking just a couple weeks ago, but then he received a Priesthood blessing and it was like that—he stopped. It just confirms to me how powerful God is and how He is always watching over us and helping us. And He will never command us to do anything that He doesn’t know with a surety that we can do. He knew that Pablo could stop smoking and gave him the strength to do so so that he could get baptized and receive blessings from now and into the eternities. The baptism was really sweet and so cool that Pablo is finally a member!

I think one of my favorite things in the world is that we’ll be walking through a neighborhood and a group of girls about age 8 or 9 will run up to us, greet us with besitos, and begin conversing with us. Seriously, it’s like the sweetest thing in the whole world.

Another thing I love is when people get on the bus and start playing their guitars and singing. A man did that the other day, and I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him do what he loves while bringing joy to others. What a unique and special culture it is here.

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It was truly a high point in my mission. Within one week I had helped bring two people to baptism and was ready to get the ball rolling for more (read my last post here). Pablo’s baptism was a confirmation to me that the church was true and that what I was doing for the church, and more specifically for God, was of the utmost importance.

I allowed all the positive things that were happening to bind me tighter to the iron rod of Mormon belief. But if they hadn’t happened, would my conviction of the church’s truths have swayed? Or would I have made up some reason for why they weren’t happening at that moment in time?

When an investigator made the decision to be baptized and actually made it to the baptismal font (because so many scheduled baptisms fell through), we told ourselves it was the work of God. That the Mormon church was true and this was just another attestation of that.

But when an investigator decided to stop seeing us, or stood us up at the baptismal font, it was never God who received the blame. Such occurrences were met with convenient excuses: “they weren’t ready to fully accept the truthfulness of the gospel”, “Satan has hardened their heart”, or even, “we must’ve been disobedient in some way.”

God got the credit for all the good, everything that went according to plan. But as soon as plans went wayward, He wasn’t responsible whatsoever. As soon as that happened, we believed there must’ve been evil forces at play, compelling someone to reject our redeeming gospel message. Or, even worse, we believed that we must’ve fallen prey to evil forces, acting in a way that kept the people around us from being able to receive the redeeming message at all (read more about that here).

It was a classic case of theological confirmation bias—attributing every positive occurrence to God and His goodness without considering His role in anything less than positive. To think that He even had a role in the less-than-positive, or, even more damning, to think that He didn’t have anything to do with the positive whatsoever, would have created too much cognitive dissonance. It would have threatened my preexisting beliefs, the beliefs I had had since birth. And besides, my mind was so conditioned to view everything positive (or at least everything I deemed positive at the time) as a confirmation of God’s power that any contradictory evidence was dismissed without a second thought.

Pablo had been baptized. What’s more, he had been baptized after giving up cigarettes—a feat that only seemed to have been made possible by receiving a powerful priesthood blessing just three weeks before (read more here). I told myself that he was able to give up his most challenging vice, the only thing standing in the way of the saving ordinance of baptism, because God knew he could. God gave him the strength and the belief that he could.

But what would I have told myself if the priesthood blessing had done nothing, if Pablo had never gotten baptized at all? Would I have allowed that to convince me that the power of God wasn’t real just as it had convinced me that it was real when Pablo was able to give up smoking and get baptized?

I did already more or less believe that priesthood blessings only worked when the receiver was previously inclined to act in the same way the blessing indicated. Pablo wouldn’t have been able to give up smoking without his own desire to do so and without already being on the path to do so. Priesthood blessing or not, he was probably going to get there one way or another. But the fact that he got there after the blessing allowed everyone who had witnessed it the chance to further confirm their beliefs, including myself.

Nevertheless, it was crucial to my 19-year-old self’s wellbeing to have these seeming successes and confirmations of belief. Without them, I don’t know if I would have been able to enjoy much else of what was going on around me. “Success” here and there, meaning someone was buying what we were selling, momentarily took the pressure off because it produced tangible fruits of our labors. It granted me the time and space to appreciate other things.

Uruguay’s culture and kind people had really grown on me. I looked forward to moments in which strangers approached us for conversation, especially kids. The bus became one of my favorite places for witnessing genuine human interactions, sometimes even musical displays.

The people in Uruguay were loving, generous, welcoming, and ended up being the very best part of my entire mission experience.

(to be continued…)

Barbara received the strength and encouragement she needed by having the baptismal interview and passing it with flying colors. The interview was such a breeze—probably by design so as to not scare off any potential investigators—that she came out of it with the confidence to keep moving forward with baptismal plans. She was ready.

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Progreso 9:20 PM, July 24th

My first baptism was yesterday! Barbara was finally baptized and it was so special. She was super nervous and was all shaky and scared before it happened but afterwards she was so happy. She bore her sweet testimony and I knew that this work, missionary work, is the work of the Lord and that you feel and experience things that you’d never be able to feel or experience anywhere else.

Hector, the investigator of the other Hermanas, was also baptized. His was a little funny because he had a bag over his hand, because he like sawed it open the other day, and he couldn’t plug his nose when he went under. Looked like he was going to drown. But he didn’t and all was well. Of course, I had to play piano like always, and of course, no one told me I was playing or what I was going to play until about 2 seconds before, but I did it. Oh my gosh it was so hilarious because the last hymn was sung and an Elder went up to give the closing prayer. When he was about to start, someone’s phone went off and it was playing a replay of what we had just sung. I look back and just see Raúl laughing and I couldn’t keep it in. I was laughing the whole prayer.

And then today we arrived at church and Barbara was already there! She was like the second person to arrive. How cool, to be able to change someone’s life like that. One day they’re just walking down the street doing their thing and then boom. They meet the missionaries and their lives are changed. They get baptized and are one of the first ones in the chapel. How sweet.

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Barbara’s life was indeed changed. Well, at least for the couple weeks after her baptism that she took a little time out of her Sunday to go to church. But then, she stopped going. It’s rather common for newly baptized members to lose momentum relatively soon after their baptism. It’s even more common for them to stop going to church altogether once the missionaries who taught them move on to a different area.

But we weren’t thinking about any of that. We were too busy enjoying her sweet energy and her excitement over being baptized into what she had been taught was the one true church—the only church that could save her and grant eternal happiness.

Elders from our zone had to travel to our area to perform the baptism, since, as women, we weren’t allowed to do it ourselves. Women don’t have the proper priesthood authority to baptize. We had done all the work, all the teaching, all the connecting, all the trouble-shooting, but when it came time to realize the culmination of everything we had done, we were denied the opportunity to do so.

It didn’t feel like too big a constraint at the time, though. When you truly believe that what you’re doing is the “work of the Lord”, you also believe that there must be divine reasons for why men have certain privileges that women do not. From the time I first had conscious thought, it was intrinsic knowledge that only men could do certain things like perform a baptism, bless the sacrament, lead a congregation, lead a mission, lead the entire Mormon church. That’s simply the way it was.

It wasn’t until I was introduced to new principles that displayed deeply unequal distributions of power, ones that weren’t known to me from the time of birth, that I really began to question. Being told in the temple that I would be a queen and a priestess to my husband, for example, when all the men in the room were told they would be kings and priests to the most high God, really caused me to spiral (for more context, read this post).

But for a baptism, I simply smiled and accepted that I would never be the one to stand in the baptismal font with my investigator. I would never be the one at their side as they made a choice that they believed—because they had been informed by very young, very naive missionaries—would bring them closer to Christ.

What I was allowed to do was play the piano. And that I did.

Playing the piano was my assignment in nearly every ward or branch on my mission. At first I was a little annoyed. It was one more thing added to my already mountainous plate. But I quickly realized that a lot of people weren’t accustomed to hearing that type of live music, and when they did hear it, they were deeply moved. They even sometimes felt the need to take out their phones and record. I felt honored to be a part of something so simple, yet something that brought tears to people’s eyes.

And sometimes the music brought tears to people’s eyes in other ways, by going off during a prayer and making the ward missionary leader, Raúl, laugh so hard that I couldn’t help but do the same.

Weeks into the field and I was still finding every reason that I could to laugh.

(to be continued…)

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Progreso 10:07 PM, July 8th

It’s been a great day. I really don’t know what makes the difference between these better days and the worse days. Part of the reason was probably that we had a zone meeting and whenever we have zone meetings we go to Las Piedras. And in Las Piedras there’s this amazing panadería. The apple bizcochos are absolutely to die for. I realized that one of the only things in my life that hasn’t changed is that I still have to eat and I still love doing that. So, I figured, might as well make that part of my unchanged life as enjoyable as possible.

On another note, we have two investigators with baptismal dates, which is awesome. But both are kind of struggling right now. One, Pablo, is so interested in the church, always keeps his commitments, always attends meetings and activities, but he’s having a real struggle with giving up smoking. He says it’s impossible to smoke less than 6 cigarettes a day. So, we have been calling him every day to show our support and he’s going to receive a blessing this Sunday to strengthen him. I just wish there were more we could do to help him…because he really, truly wants to be baptized but can’t until he stops smoking.

And then our other investigator, Barbara, is having struggles of her own. For one, her husband is a Jehovah’s Witness and doesn’t even know that she’s getting baptized into our church in one week. This is a problem—what’s going to happen when he finds out? Also, she has been having doubts because she feels like she doesn’t know everything she should know about the church in order to be baptized. But she needs to understand that no one knows everything. We all learn new things every day. Each time I read the Book of Mormon I learn and discover something I have never seen before.

Anyway, we will see what happens with these two. We are going to pray and support them in every way possible. I just really hope that nothing I say will mess anything up. It’s like, I don’t really know what I’m saying and so I just hope I don’t ever say anything offensive or doctrinally incorrect. But I think for the most part I’m doing a pretty good job. I’m becoming more and more active as I become better at discerning what it is that people are saying.

Other than that let’s see what’s been happening…I have a blister half the size of my pinky toe on my pinky toe. So that’s fun. Also, Hermana Aguilar has lice and I’m basically bound to get it. So that’s fun too.

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*

Eating really did feel like one of the few things in my life that hadn’t changed. That and the church. I desperately clung to both as primary sources of comfort and familiarity.

Going to Las Piedras for a zone meeting quickly became one of my favorite activities because of its proximity to my very favorite bakery. It was reliably delicious and one of the only things I ate that I actually got to choose—most of my food as a missionary wasn’t chosen by me.

Missionaries rely on church members for the majority of their meals. Even though missionaries are “given” an allowance every two weeks, it isn’t nearly enough to cover food expenses. “Given” is a generous word, because in reality it’s a small portion of what you as a missionary are already paying to be there. So, is it really “given” in the end?

In my day, missionaries paid $400 a month to go on a mission. No matter where they were sent to serve, it was the same amount each month. This ensured that missionaries sent to New York City or Paris weren’t paying an excessive amount more than others. Rather, the $400 from every missionary around the globe got distributed in a way that supported each mission and its respective costs.

We were “given” back an allowance every two weeks that was enough for some simple breakfast items, but that was about it. We relied on local members to provide the main meal of the day. If for whatever reason there weren’t willing members or simply not enough members in a particular area, which happened in more rural parts, we were on our own. We had to scrounge up what we could to pull together a cheap meal. In rural areas, our allowance wasn’t increased as a way to ensure we were fed. We just had to figure it out.

As missionaries, we were paying to be there, and yet food wasn’t always a guarantee.

The church, on the other hand, was guaranteed our services as marketers and advertisers. We were quite literally paying to be salespeople for the church, and my companion and I were about to close a couple deals.

My companion and I had two people desirous of making the lifelong commitment to Mormonism by entering the waters of baptism. They both were struggling with various things, but they had the desire, which was the first domino.

Barbara was valid in wanting to know more about the church before fully committing—what if there was something she didn’t agree with or something questionable about the church’s history? But based on the simplicity of the baptismal interview, one might presume that the church isn’t too concerned with whether or not investigators know much about anything. The intention seems to be more about locking people in before they discover something that might shake their faith.

Relatively speaking, there’s very little you have to know about Mormonism in order to get baptized. The main requirement is that you are committed to living in accordance with the “gospel standards”. For Pablo, that meant committing to give up smoking.

He had been trying and trying for weeks, but nothing seemed to help him get below six cigarettes a day. It was time to take matters to a higher power: the Priesthood Power. This is a power given to worthy Mormon men (yes, only men) authorizing them to act in God’s name and perform various ordinances and blessings that will help further the salvation of His children.

Special priesthood blessings can be requested when it feels like simple ol’ prayers aren’t quite doing the trick, when you feel like you need a bit more of God’s help with something. We felt like it was time for Pablo to receive such a blessing to give him the extra strength to quit smoking for good and be baptized.

So, he sat there in the middle of a circle of men as they placed their hands upon his head and prayerfully uttered words of encouragement, strength, and promised blessings. When it finished, he appeared more determined to get below that cursed number of six cigarettes a day.

Eventually, he would get below six. Eventually, he would give up smoking altogether. Believing members would say it was because of the priesthood blessing. Pablo might even say the same.

But the only thing the blessing gave him was the new belief that he could do it, the vision that it was indeed possible. The rest was achieved entirely on his own.

(to be continued…)

At times I felt like a doll, silent and lifeless. A thing my trainer begrudgingly dragged around with her. At other times I felt more alive than ever, the novelty of what I was experiencing seeping into my bones and awakening every cell.

The best way to bring out that aliveness was to focus on all the new things that I loved: the beautifully rich Uruguayan culture, the people, the language. These were all the things that had driven me to serve a mission in the first place. But living from that mindset, in more of a ‘travel mode’, and focusing more on the adventure of it all, almost always left me feeling like a bad missionary.

I was constantly reminded that we weren’t there for our own amusement. We were there to bring souls unto Christ.

And sometimes I worried that my adventurous and rather pleasure-seeking nature would distract me and my thoughts so much to the point of denying souls the opportunity to even hear the message that would bring them unto Christ. The belief that deviating from our work as missionaries, even if for a fleeting moment, would cause less people to open up and receive our message had been reinforced so many times to the point that I regularly found myself prey to it. It caused a constant internal battle in which I fought between authenticity and deeply conditioned beliefs.

The tricky part was that those deeply conditioned beliefs were piercing more and more layers of myself with each passing day, and I couldn’t always separate them from true authenticity. It was all starting to blend, something that I suspect was an intentional aspect of being a Mormon missionary.

*

*

Progreso 9:27 PM, June 30th

It’s been a crazy couple of days. Tuesday we started out with a spider the size of my ear in the house. Hermana Aguilar, who is from Argentina and who is absolutely hilarious, smashed it with the frying pan. The pan is now bent and broken, but at least no one was killed by the spider. We got it on video—her screaming, me hiding, and then out of nowhere—BAM—there goes the pan.

What else has happened…hmmm yesterday we had like 4 lessons which was really awesome and by the 4th one, I felt like I could understand like everything they were saying! It was this less-active family who were kind of crazy. They actually reminded me of Dad’s family. I’m definitely going to have to visit them more.

And then today we had a conference with half of the mission and the new mission president because he and his family just arrived. It was really great to go to the conference and see all my MTC friends! I needed that. And I needed a good conversation or two in English. I spoke with the President’s wife a bit and she is so sweet. Wow, how hard that must be to come here and give up your life. I guess I did that, but mine was voluntary and I don’t have a job, kids, etc. But they seem pretty happy and ready to be here and I’m excited to get to know them and their kids.

It’s been a little warmer lately. Actually, it was a miracle, I had to take my coat off at one point yesterday. I was like leaping for joy. Also, Hermana Lopez and I already have lots of inside jokes. In general, we have a really fun, hilarious time together and I feel like my Spanish is finally good enough to where I can get my personality through it.

All in all I’m just so happy to be here. I was thinking the other day while we were in Ward Council just how cool it is that I’m here right now. When else in my life would I ever get the chance to do something like this? Never. So, so, so glad I took this opportunity while I could.

*

*

When I was at the peak of the roller coaster, things were good. More than good. It felt as if God were confirming to me that I was in the right place at the right time. That there was a divine purpose and reason for being there. That I, with my unique gifts and talents, was the only one who would be able to reach certain people and bring them the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

Mission conferences really helped with bringing me to an emotional high. They were a reunion of part (if not all) of the mission and a time to reconnect with past companions, zone friends, and other acquaintances. In my case, it was a time to see a few of the missionaries with whom I had shared the rather unusual MTC experience. We had bonded in the MTC, and being without them afterwards had been like taking a pacifier from a toddler. Seeing them, and exchanging a few forbidden English sentences, was the biggest relief I had felt since entering the field.

We sat in a chapel and welcomed our new mission president. He seemed excited and honored to be there—a calling like that was a gift from God. His wife and kids, on the other hand, had been dragged along without such a holy vocation. They would be there for the next three years to show support but without the esteem that came with having the calling itself.

But they were a sweet, sweet family and recognized the importance of what they were doing. Despite leaving their comfy life in Utah and changing countries, languages, homes, schools, and friends, they felt sure of their place in God’s plan.

And so did I. When else in my life would I have had the opportunity to live in a foreign country, smash gigantic spiders with new friends from around the globe, meet the Uruguayan version of my dad’s family, and create inside jokes in a foreign language? I attributed it all to God.

(to be continued…)

Walking through the tranquil streets of Progreso, I often found myself closing my eyes for a brief moment as a way to enhance the smells around me. Wintertime meant that most people had their wood stove or fireplace going throughout the day, releasing the coziest wood scent into the humid air. When it rained, other scents of fresh water and fried dough scurried up our noses—the fried dough confirming there were tortas fritas nearby.

On dry, wintry days, Uruguayos were out and about, bundled all the way up to their ears. Their hands were always covered with particular care so they could hold and sip their yerba—the mate in one hand and the hot water flask in the other. On rainy days they stayed inside to sip their yerba mate, watching as the streets became rivers. Something that happened from time to time, the Uruguayan skies feeling no remorse for the poor missionaries forced outside.

There were some rainy days that felt completely hopeless, without a single person willing to welcome us into their home. Under the rain, drenched through, sometimes the only delight to be found were the occasional heavenly wafts of tortas fritas. It was tradition in Uruguay to make tortas fritas each time it rained. With those first few pitter patters, they’d run to the kitchen, mixing up a little flour, water, oil (lard if they were feeling fancy), and a pinch of salt. There was usually already a pot of oil or lard waiting patiently on the stove for the next rainy day, the next chance to be made useful. With the strike of a match, the pot would start to heat, getting ready for the beautifully rounded shapes of dough to plop themselves in, frying to perfection. As the rainfall got heavier, the tortas were there. A lighthouse in the storm. A comforting reminder that all was well.

And on many occasions, we were enthusiastically welcomed in and invited to share in these deliciously fried fluffy clouds of dough. Uruguayans were overly generous with such goodies, especially when it rained and there were a couple of soaking wet Hermanas aimlessly wandering the streets.

*

*

Progreso 9:48 PM, June 27th

P-day is like Christmas. We went to a factory of alfajores today with our zone. Alfajores are kind of like Ho Hos except 50 times better. I want to send some home so they can experience the joy. But yes, the factory was yummy and afterwards we played volleyball and soccer with the zone and it was so hilarious. Even though there were like 12 people on each volleyball team, no one could hit the ball. My team kept serving and it would make it over and no one would hit it back so we kept getting points. And every time everyone would yell, “ohhh”. Haha 30 times later and it was still funny.

I got to write to the fam today which was good, but I only had one hour… just like in the fricken MTC. OMG El Presidente emailed me saying he missed me… how weird does it get.

We taught one lesson today—to Roberto, a less-active member, and his wife Carmen. He kept asking me all these questions about culture and the differences between here and the U.S. and I’m just like I don’t even know how to answer this in English let alone Spanish. Oh man, Él habló a ful. But he gave us really yummy pizza and some good laughs with his lovely singing voice…

*

*

It was my first P-day (preparation day) out in the field, and by some stroke of luck we had been able to spend it doing something enjoyable. Unlike the MTC where week after week we were herded like cattle into the temple with the sole purpose of renewing our sacred covenants with God. Covenants we, or at least I, didn’t know the meaning of upon making them.

This P-day had instead been spent blissfully wandering the sacred halls of an alfajor factory. And I can’t say that it was any less of a spiritual experience than the temple. It’s pretty hard to go wrong with all kinds of cookies stuffed with any number of things: chocolate, peanut butter, dulce de leche. And unlike what we would have witnessed in the temple, a video showing Eve as she’s cast out of the garden of Eden for partaking in something so desirable, we were allowed to remain in the factory after sampling the deliciously tempting cookies. In fact, once sampled, we were offered even more.

I was able to enjoy this activity with my companion, my housemates, and our entire mission zone. For those unfamiliar (Mormon missions have a lot of jargon), a ‘zone’ in a mission is a specific geographic region of the mission, comprising about two to five ‘districts’. These districts are each made up of about one to six missionary companionships. So, in total, a zone has anywhere from about four to thirty missionaries.

We had weekly zone meetings and often used part of the time to split off and have smaller meetings with our district. Zones and districts were a way to organize us, further our training, and oversee our efforts. And sometimes, we had activities. They were a welcome relief, the one time we could set aside missionary endeavors and simply be.

For the first time in days, I felt somewhat normal. Well, normal until I got a very abnormal email from El Presidente. Why couldn’t this guy just leave me alone?

But I shrugged it off just as I was accustomed to do with most uncomfortable things. Good Mormons don’t dwell on the uncomfortable. Especially good Mormon missionaries who might inadvertently punish potential investigators by dwelling on anything that isn’t found between the tight binding of the Missionary Handbook.

(to be continued…)

At least this time, unlike the temple, I wasn’t doomed to fall victim to Satan’s suffocating power if I spoke about what I was experiencing. It was more so the sizable language barrier making it near impossible to express my struggles.

I wouldn’t be breaking a temple covenant by speaking of my experience as a new missionary, no, but there were still times that expressing my struggles felt sinful. An act prompted by Satan, even. Especially if I dared to express myself in English, something I was wont to do in my first area given I didn’t yet know Spanish very well and was experiencing uncomfortable unfamiliarity on what seemed like an hourly basis.

My first area was not too far outside of Montevideo. It was a cute, very walkable town of about 15,000 people. Hermana Lopez and I shared an apartment in the central part of town with another sister missionary companionship. One of these sisters was from Argentina, and even though I couldn’t fully understand her at first, she made me laugh almost as hard as I had laughed in the MTC. Her companion on the other hand, although American and the only person who would have been able to offer solace in a way for me to fully understand and feel, was cold and stiff. She read the Missionary Handbook religiously and made sure to remind the rest of us when we weren’t obeying the rules with exactness.

One of these rules that we were expected to obey with the utmost exactness was that of speaking the mission language at all times, even with those who might share our native tongue. If your native tongue was not the mission language, well, sorry. You’re out of luck.

Even if you’re sobbing at the kitchen table, and a speaker of your native tongue is sitting across from you, and you could really really benefit from them sharing a few simple words in your native tongue, you’re out of luck. It wouldn’t be exact obedience if they were to succumb to the sliver of human compassion they might (hopefully) feel in that moment and deviate from the mission language.

So I sat there one particularly lonely and homesick morning, with tears running down my face, as the cold American Hermana, colder than our heaterless apartment in mid Uruguayan winter, refused to speak to me in English.

And sure, I saw the benefit of only speaking Spanish—it would improve my ability to speak at a much more rapid rate. But bettering my skills wasn’t what I needed in those first few very cold and very isolating days. I needed to feel seen, heard, accepted. And the one person who could have offered that to me refused. Refused for the sake of exact obedience and the fear of what would happen otherwise (read more about this here).

After all, missionaries aren’t blessed for partial obedience. Who knows who might be denied the opportunity to hear the restored gospel of Jesus Christ if you spend five minutes comforting a rather despondent missionary in her native tongue.

Luckily, my trainer Hermana Lopez was from Colombia, and I could understand her quite well from the get-go. Having just spent six weeks in the Bogotá MTC with mostly Colombian teachers meant that I was pretty accustomed to the Colombian way of speaking Spanish. And maybe I’m biased, but to this day I still find Colombian Spanish to be one of the most deliciously beautiful and clear varieties. It felt like a direct gift from God to be paired with a trainer whose Spanish I could understand so well and who would best be able to help me continue to learn.

Meanwhile, the Uruguayan way of speaking Spanish was wildly different. Why had no one told me that there was an entirely different subject pronoun for the informal tú and that it came with an entirely different set of conjugations?

“¿De dónde sos vos?” asked the very first Uruguayan I ever met.

“Uhhh…” my mind drew a complete blank. My companion turned to me, aware that I had most likely never heard those last two words in my entire life.

“Es otra forma de decir, ‘de dónde eres’,” she said as she very calmly and expertly guided me toward an answer of my own. I appreciated that she didn’t just jump in to answer for me.

“Oh. Soy de los Estados Unidos,” I responded, knowing I probably wouldn’t understand whatever he was going to say in return.

“¡O, sos yanqui!” another word I had never heard in my life. And he pronounced the word shankee, with the ‘y’ taking on an unmistakable ‘sh’ sound. I made a mental note to ask my companion about all of this later.

I soon learned that in Uruguay, alongside Argentina, Paraguay, and various parts of Central America, it was more common to use the subject pronoun vos instead of tú as a way to informally address someone. Vos was conjugated differently, generally by dropping the ‘r’ of the verb and adding an ‘s’ with an accent on the final syllable. The verb ‘ser’ was a bit different, with the vos form conjugating to sos, hence, “de dónde sos vos”.

Another distinction in the Uruguayan way of speaking Spanish was that ‘y’ and ‘ll’ were pronounced with a sh sound, leading to the pronunciation shankee for the word yanqui (meaning yankee, a very common way for Uruguayans to refer to people from the U.S.).

None of these unique differences were too hard to get used to. What was strange, however, was that as missionaries, we weren’t permitted to use vos or tú with anyone. These subject pronouns were said to be too informal. Even with our very own companion, the person we were spending 24 hours a day with for weeks on end, the rule was still that we use the formal you subject pronoun, which in Spanish is usted.

I suppose I understood the outward reason for always using usted—it was the best way to show respect, especially for someone you didn’t know very well—but it created a barrier with the people I was getting to know well. It’s hard to draw a parallel with the English language, because there is basically only one way to say you (apart from thou, which at this point is pretty obsolete). But in a language with multiple levels of formality in addressing someone, and only the most formal of ways is permitted even after you know the person well, it leaves you feeling rather alone. Like there’s no familiarity, no true ‘getting to know’ someone. You’re keeping yourself at a distance, even if just with words, but it creates a tangible space.

The only being with which we were allowed to converse using the informal tú was God. In our prayers, tú was the subject pronoun we were expected to use. He was the only being with which we could cultivate that familiarity. That closeness.

It felt like yet another way in which our mission leaders were stripping us of personality, identity, and the ability to bond, leaving nothing but the Mormon church to act as the sole source of familiarity. As we grew more and more isolated, something perpetuated by only using usted and never creating any real closeness with anyone, the desire to seek out some form of intimacy also grew. But the only way to reach that intimacy was with God Himself.

Separation with the outside world rapidly progressed. Meanwhile, the church acted as an inescapable magnet: a familiar lifeline, the only thing I still recognized.

There’s a chance it was all coincidence, that never speaking English really was to give us the best shot at developing the “gift of tongues”, that always using usted really was to always show respect. But I’m inclined to think that it was also meant to further the isolation as a means to wrap us tighter and tighter around the church itself—the only anchor in the turmoil of it all.

(to be continued…)

*

*

Progreso 8:30 AM, June 23rd

I am officially out in the field and am currently feeling probably 100 different emotions. So, we left the MTC on Monday at 6 PM (read my previous post here) and flew all through the night finally arriving in Uruguay at noon. We were greeted by the Mission President and his wife and lots of other missionaries from the mission. We ate McDonald’s and then hopped on a bus to go to the mission home, which is right by the temple. The whole rest of that day we were “trained” and we got paired up with a companion to then go teach/proselytize. My companion was Hermana Brown and we ended up teaching two lessons, one to an investigator and one to a recent convert. I could follow the basic gist of the conversations and lessons which was good and I even participated sometimes. Hermana Brown said that my Spanish was really good and that I shouldn’t worry too much about it, so that is what I’m currently trying to do.

The next day, yesterday, we were paired up with our first companion—our trainer. It was extremely nerve-racking, but I ended up with a sweetie named Hermana Lopez. She doesn’t speak any English, so that should be interesting, but she’s from Colombia so I can actually understand her accent pretty well. We rode on a shuttle for an hour to arrive at our little town—Progreso. We share the apartment with two others, one of which speaks English, and it’s extremely freezing. There is no heater and it’s currently winter in Uruguay, so I’m going to suffer a little bit. Last night my comforter fell off the bed and I’m on the top bunk so I couldn’t go get it and I practically froze to death.

But anyway. We went straight to work yesterday and headed out walking to an investigator’s home. His name is Miguel and I think he’s a car mechanic of some sort. I didn’t really do anything in the lesson, but I could tell what was going on so that’s good. We then went around knocking on the doors of references, none of whom answered, and we finally made it to the house of a member named Beatriz. She’s this old lady who really loves missionaries, talks forever and ever about who knows what, but she does have a cat. Okay, and she gave me pantyhose and shoes so I wouldn’t freeze while walking home. It was very interesting and now I have another pair of shoes to add to my already 10 pairs…

Anyway, it was hard to leave the comfort of the MTC, it really was. And it was hard to say goodbye to Hermana Green and all my other MTC buddies. It says in this book called ‘Adjusting to the life of a Missionary’ that it takes 6 weeks to adjust to a new environment. So why do they have us leave after 6 weeks and why is every transfer only 6 weeks? Right when you get adjusted to a place you have to leave it. Ah well. At least the one thing I’ll get used to is the fact that we change everything constantly.

My feelings right now are complicated. I wonder how all my MTC friends are doing right now in their respective missions. I was able to email Mom last night for like 5 minutes just to tell her I’m alive. But I want to know how she’s doing and how the whole fam is doing and I want to be able to tell her more. I want to tell her how cold I am all the time, that my dresser for my clothes is broken, that I actually didn’t bring sheets only a pillow case, that my missionary money card isn’t working because no one gave me the pin number, that I miss speaking and hearing my native tongue, that I had a dream that I went home, and so, so much more.

I know that it’s going to take time to get over these feelings of homesickness. And these feelings are happening now more than ever before because now everything is so different. At least in the MTC I had friends and people that I could talk to in English and who would help me take my mind off of home. Something that I want to remember, so I’ll write it down, is what Hermano B told us during our last class. He said, “The mission is the best 2 years (18 months) for your life.” I thought that was interesting because most people say it’s the best 2 years of your life, which it probably is sometimes, but I think every time it is the best 2 years for your life. You learn so much about yourself and what types of people you get along with and which ones you don’t. It’s interesting, really. And all the struggles with learning a language and just feeling so stupid all the time…you really discover what kind of person you are.

I’ve been writing this journal entry at different times of the day and right now it’s 9:40 PM. We taught (more or less) three people. Well at three different places. The first was this lady and her husband who live in a very impoverished way. We were teaching them, but all they really wanted was money from us. So we’ll see. Then we taught an investigator who has a baptismal date whose name is Pablo. He’s really sweet, but talks a lot and I couldn’t really understand him because he basically never closed his lips while talking. He’d ask me questions and I’d be like, “huh…” every time. Oh well, there’s no point in getting frustrated with myself. Last place that we visited was the house of members. And I could actually understand them pretty well. Aaand they told me my Spanish was good. Soooo I need to believe in myself. But seriously their family and house were so cute and had a nice toasty fire going and I just felt so good. Content. And I wore really nice, wool socks today and didn’t feel cold at all. I think that’s the key—if my feet are warm, my whole being is warm.

Hermana Lopez and I get along. Well, as far as I know, we can’t exactly communicate exactly as much as we want to, but it’s progressing. I think I’ll get the hang of this missionary thing with time. And I’ll get the hang of this Spanish thing. People just need to speak slower. I know they probably feel like they’re being condescending if they talk slow, but seriously, it would help.

*

*

(to be continued…)

We had been released for this activity just once before. It had been the only time that we had been permitted to leave the MTC’s mighty walls outside of our weekly, and very closely monitored, trips to the temple. After so many weeks in the strict confines of missionary bootcamp, leaving for a fleeting moment felt wildly liberating, but also incredibly overwhelming. We were given a small glimpse into life as a real missionary, and all of a sudden, the rigidity and structure of the MTC went from feeling imprisoning to feeling comfortable. Safe. My attitude was beginning to shift. Without fully knowing it, the countless rules and regulations of missionary life had started to intertwine with my identity. They had started to become a grounded baseline. Something to cling to when all else felt uncertain.

The mission field would surely come with more physical freedom, but the strict code of conduct would remain. It seemed too dysregulating to leave it behind.

*

*

Bogotá MTC 2:29 PM, June 18th

We went proselytizing again today and had the same amount of time–two hours–but we got nearly twice as many references! We got 15 and so far I haven’t heard of any companionship in the entire MTC who got more than us. And we don’t have the advantage of being native Spanish speakers! So we were pretty proud of ourselves and definitely feel ready for the field.

Right after we got back to the MTC after proselytizing, a girl peed on Hermana Green’s leg. I’m still in disbelief that a grown woman peed herself…and that it got on Hermana Green…and that everyone saw. We were waiting for someone to open the gate to the MTC and she was at the front of the mob and just let it loose, afterwards screaming how badly she needed to use the bathroom. I’m debating whether or not to include this story in my weekly group email. I think I should.

*

*

And just like that we were uncaged, set loose to infiltrate the streets of Bogotá with word of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ: His one true gospel, restored by Joseph Smith, to save the people of this wicked modern day. How my companion and I managed to convince 15 people to give us their name, number, and address so that they could hear more about this supposedly saving gospel, I can’t be too sure. But the majority of them were young men captivated by a couple of young American girls as we tried our darndest to speak Spanish.

Too bad for them that we were flying away in a couple days, and it would be an entirely different set of missionaries showing up at their door.

Arriving back at the MTC, my companion and I boasted of our success. No one seemed to have done as good a job persuading complete strangers to hand over their private information. We waited outside the MTC gates, comparing numbers with everyone in the crowd.

But our excessive pride turned karmic as an hermana in front of us flipped around and began to desperately hop from side to side, her hands clutching her skirt as she did so.

“¡Tengo que hacer PIPÍ!” she screamed, after her bladder had already given up, a water balloon at its bursting point. Her legs were completely soaked by the time she declared to the world that she needed to pee, but now everyone was looking.

I turned to my companion in amused disbelief only to find her own legs sprayed with urine.

“What just happened?” she asked, eyes closed with shock.

“Hermana, I think you just got peed on!” I replied, unable to contain my laughter.

It only took a few seconds before she, too, was laughing. Good thing El Presidente was nowhere to be seen, or we both would have been in trouble for the sinful act. We knew all too well that loud laughter was condemned, especially over something as crass as a grown woman peeing her skirts.

At last the gates swung open, and the piss-soaked Hermana fled the scene. Poor thing made herself scarce during the last two days in the MTC. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still haunted by the incident.

The last couple days were filled with anxious goodbyes and well wishes. Our teachers did their best to prepare us for the transition into real missionary life, but there was no way to cover every base of what was to come.

My companion and I parted ways at the airport. She was headed to Chile and I to Uruguay. We promised to keep in touch with emails and pictures and looked forward to reuniting once we were back at BYU—an entire year and a half into the future.

Several of the other MTC missionaries were on my same flight to Uruguay, and I took great comfort in knowing that we would have the next day or two all together. I watched a movie on the plane, a very naughty and disobedient thing to do, but I didn’t care. My emotions were all over the place, and breaking a media rule seemed to be the least harmful thing I could have done.

A layover in São Paulo, a quick flight to Montevideo, and then who knew what was in store.

(to be continued…)

*

Bogotá MTC 5:15 PM, June 14th

Today was a really rough emailing session for me. It’s Father’s Day this Sunday, so I wrote my Father’s Day note to Dad and just started bawling. My tears were flowing so hard they were literally falling onto the keyboard. And then what made it even worse was that he replied to me in the hour of emailing and told me that he was crying at his desk at work. That just set me off again. It’s really awful when I think about how long it’s going to be until I see them again. That’s why I don’t really enjoy emailing too much because it just makes me think about it all when I’d really rather not.

Only 6 days left in the MTC and boy am I ready to bust out of here. Even though my Spanish isn’t totally up to par, I have confidence that once I get out there it’ll progress really fast. I’ve been craving homemade chocolate chip cookies and I hope that once I get out there I can make some. I’m probably going to get fat out in the field, but I think it’s probably better to just embrace it than run from it.

*

*

Holidays were always emotionally challenging when it came to emailing home. I wanted nothing more than to be with my family on those days but was instead reduced to sitting in front of a computer to crank out as many emails as possible in a mere one-hour timeframe. It sometimes ended up being stressful more than anything as I frantically attempted to type up everything that was on my mind and heart. Every week I found myself wishing that I could simply give my family a call.

But we were only granted two times in the year to organize a video call home: Mother’s Day and Christmas. Mother’s Day had been just a couple days before I left for my mission, which meant I would be waiting until Christmas, six more months, to see their beautiful faces and hear their familiar voices. An email would have to cut it for Father’s Day even if my abundantly overflowing tears broke the MTC computer in the process.

Every week I wished for more contact with my family. Every week I left my emailing session more melancholic than the last. Every week I was convinced that my ability to perform my duties as a missionary, not to mention my ability to feel like a normal, well-regulated and grounded person, would be greatly improved by simply being able to hear my parents’ voices.

God didn’t listen to my wishes and prayers, though. God didn’t deem weekly calls home necessary until after I had already completed my mission.

It wasn’t too long after I had come home, and the emotions surrounding the lack of communication in my mission were still somewhat fresh, that there was a complete change. God “divinely inspired” church leadership to update the policies surrounding missionary communication with their families. The new policies would allow Missionaries to call, videocall, and text home every week in addition to sending emails and letters.

I, alongside every missionary who had come before me, had been given breadcrumbs. These new missionaries were being presented with five loaves and two fishes—the five loaves and two fishes after they had been blessed and used to feed a multitude of people.

Every time I had gone a minute or two over the emailing time limit, I was reprimanded by my superiors. Then God snapped His hallowed fingers, and just like that missionaries were granted every possible form of communication. Missionaries from my time and before had been told week after week that having too much communication with our families would distract us from the holy work and from our duties as missionaries. What had so suddenly changed, causing a weekly call home to go from distracting to now encouraged?

Wasn’t God supposed to be unchanging?

But the change in communication policies would come after my mission came to an end. I didn’t yet know there would come a time when I would feel even more frustrated by the communication rules, all I knew was that they were already challenging for me. Just six more months and I would be allowed to call.

Just six more days and my time at the MTC would come to a close.

I dreamed of finally escaping the MTC’s suffocating grip. I had been restricted, choked. Stripped of singing, laughing, whistling, taking pictures, talking to boys, exiting the gates, drawing (well, drawing on my body). I dreamed of being able to cook for myself. Chocolate chip cookies were on the immediate to-do list.

But with the thought of chocolate chip cookies came the ever-present thought of gaining weight. There was a scale in the MTC gym—how could gaining weight not be top of mind?

My relationship with food wasn’t the healthiest before my mission, but it definitely didn’t improve once I became a missionary. If anything, it got worse. For the first time in a while, I didn’t have any choice over what I was eating. In the MTC, while the food was rather good, we were given what we were given. We were told in class that once we left the MTC and got to the field, we would become reliant on local church members for food. They would serve us what they served us. It was rude to refuse and it was rude to say no to second, even third, helpings.

Fears about the future food situation began to creep in, and being surrounded by lots of other food-scared Hermanas didn’t help to subside them. The widespread rumor amongst missionaries worldwide was that Hermanas typically gained weight, and Elders typically lost it. That was our fate.

The scale in the MTC gym lingered in the corner like a tenacious ex, unwilling to leave our thoughts until it was given the time of day. On one occasion toward the end of our six weeks in the MTC, all the Hermanas lined up to see what the damage was. Going up three kilos in weight was enough to trigger one Hermana into a complete meltdown. It also most likely triggered some very disordered eating while out in the field.

That was the sad reality for a lot of Hermanas, and I knew of many who required professional help once they returned home. I’m sure a lot of Elders experienced similar things, but as it was completely out of the question to talk about anything non-church-related with an Elder, I wasn’t as aware of it with them.

Food appeared to be yet another thing out of our control as missionaries. I was beginning to wonder what, if anything, we did have control over.

(to be continued…)