The Falling Part Ch40: Hermana Elkins

My new scene at the Mission Training Center began with crowds of eager and anxious strangers.  Family members and new missionaries shared a few parting tears, smiles, concerns for well-being, but mostly, lots of hugs all the way around.  After our orientation meeting, Clark and I headed towards the back door with the other missionaries to get our nametags and meet our first companions.  I miraculously managed not to cry as I waved goodbye to Mom, Dad, and brother Bryan, who were there to see us off.  I was way too excited to weep.

My stay at the MTC was two months long--the exact period of training required by the Spanish government before granting any foreign missionary entrance into their country.  In the absence of home and family, stamped envelopes from far-away loved ones are to missionaries like red roses are to a hopeless romantic (thankfully a little more frequent, though).  While I was in the MTC, one blessed letter came to me from Romania.  It was from one of my former BYU roommates who had been serving her own full-time mission for six months already.

"It is so great that you are making this sacrifice for the Lord and for our brothers and sisters that you will soon teach in Spain," she said to me, after updating me on her recent missionary work "in the field."

"I don't see how anyone could consider this a sacrifice," I wrote on my hand-made stationery in reply to her letter.  "My experience here in the MTC has been so amazing.  I have never been happier in my life."

She would understand what I meant.  She had completed her training as well at the Provo, Utah campus (a next-door neighbor to the BYU campus).  Its brick buildings overflowed with thousands of disciples whose principal goal was to learn how to become the most effective instruments in the Lord’s hands as possible. 

Training consisted of role playing, attending cultural and spiritual lectures, engaging in intense language study, daily exercise, weekly temple worship, and being mentored by caring returned-missionary instructors.  There, my testimony of the basics of the gospel reached peaks that I never realized were possible.  All of this practice and guidance sent me well on my way to a confident beginning.

The obvious difference between my Romanian counterpart and me was that I was still safe in the preparatory shelter, and she was putting her training into practice out in the secular world.  My innocent words of disbelief probably made her smirk as she contemplated my inevitable awakening once I arrived on Spanish soil.

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Cupid dragged his feet when it came to leaving his favorite customer alone, mission or no mission.  He waited closely in the wings, teasing me occasionally with his gentle prods...but I like to think I always came out the victor.  Fortunately, his arrow never completely breached the fragile force field around my heart. 

Before I got to the field, I learned how to use the "straight arm" approach on any well-meaning male Spaniard.  We would offer a sincere handshake as a greeting in place of their innocent besitos--kisses for each cheek, so as to maintain an appropriate distance from the beginning.  (That worked well in Spain, except for that one time I met a middle-aged male stranger on the street whose lightning lips caught my cheeks off-guard...oops!)

I also faced a challenge in associating closely with the fantastic young men serving alongside me.  I gained practice early during my MTC days in fending off any tempting romantic hindrance.  I can't say I was the quickest at shutting down imposing twinges of attraction, but I tried, and always managed it eventually.

16 June 1995:

     Here's something that bothered me today.  There is a certain elder here at the MTC who has caught my eye.  I don't even remember his name, but he talked with my companion and me one day in the cafeteria line.  Now, every time I see him lately I watch him and think, "He's very attractive," or "I'd like to talk to him and find out more about him," or "I think he seems like my type," or something like that.  Ugh!  And there’s one more thing.  Maybe it's my imagination, but I'm pretty sure he has noticed me just as much.  It seems like we've made an awful lot of eye contact lately, like maybe he watches me too [*cough* Sneaking Peeks *cough*].  Grrr!  I don't want to be like this!  It's not possible for me to mix dating feelings or I mean attraction feelings or whatever-you-want-to-call-them-feelings with mission feelings--they DON'T MIX!  So it bothers me that this is happening here.

Thankfully, after a few pleasant and borderline flirty conversations with this exhilarating young man, he departed for Guatemala less than two weeks after I met him.  He left me with his mission address, I sent him one letter in the mail, he never replied, and that was the end of that. Whew!  Distraction canceled.

Throughout the mission, I drew strength knowing that other missionaries had their barriers set up too.  One sister with whom I lived in Spain shared with me her own experience with escaping the falling part, and it stuck with me.

"I served with one elder that I fell for completely,” she said.  “I eventually decided that the battle between my longing for him and my wanting to focus on the mission was too hard.  So I asked the mission president for a transfer.  Can I tell you what happened when I finally managed to get away and stop letting him consume my thoughts?"

"What?" I listened, all ears.

"I felt like a missionary again."

That was what I wanted, too.  I did my best to keep attractions in check.  I never needed to ask for a transfer, and enjoyed instead all of the honorable friendships I made.  For me, sacrificing the indulgence of allowing a crush to develop was often a conscious and difficult decision, but it was always, always worth it.

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The challenges of my mission ranged from small to great.  I struggled to overcome exhaustion from working and walking long days.  I tolerated months of anxiety-born stomachaches.  Approaching strangers in the park to share messages from the scriptures only got easier over time.  I spoke Spanish better than many new missionaries did, but I was by no means fluent in the beginning, so I relied on my companions for conversation help for several months.

Once I got over my jet lag, I gradually adjusted to the unfamiliar Spanish schedule.  Spaniards indulge in a later nightlife than most North Americans do, so we worked (didn’t come home) until 10:30 p.m.  Bedtime was at 11:15, and then our alarms were ordered to go off each day at 6:45 a.m.  Another adjustment with the schedule included long rests in the middle of the day.  The two-hour-long mediodía gave us time for lunch, extra study, and occasionally a nap, but eliminated the dinner break I was used to.  I asked my first companion, “When do we eat dinner?”  Her response stopped me dead in my tracks, “We don’t.”  We just made sure to leave the house at 4:00 p.m. with enough in our bellies to tide us over until the end of the day.

I figured out how to live without certain comforts that I hadn’t realized were luxuries.  I instantly gained a new appreciation for missing amenities such as a shower, a clothes dryer, carpet, air conditioning, and central heating.  Sometimes during our morning scripture study, I boiled a couple of big pans of water on the stove to add to my bath so the warm water could be almost hot.  I modified my daily diet to fit the different staples they had in their grocery stores.  Meals with the natives were infrequent, but always a treat.  My palate learned to adapt to the funny-tasting milk that can be stored on a shelf without refrigeration, and grew fond of several new types of seafood.  I never came around to liking squid in its ink over rice though.  Once was enough for me.

None of these challenges, however, outweighed the blessings.  My mission refined my own character as I learned to adopt a new culture as my own.  I saw lives improve as people embraced the joys of living the gospel.  My views of the people changed from "Spaniards are just so different from me," to "I have so much to learn from these people; I love them more than life itself."  I will also forever treasure the special bond I formed with my Savior.  I learned to rely on His guidance as we worked as partners to show love to Heavenly Father's children in countless ways.

I dedicated my imperfect efforts as best as I possibly could to building the Lord's kingdom in Spain until my full-time calling was through.  I came home a bit worn out, but felt fulfilled in my service.  My long journey home finally brought me to the Las Vegas airport the week before Christmas (which timing in itself was the best Christmas blessing ever).  I loved my mission, even though it was hard.  Very hard.  Someday I hope to revisit the cherished part of my self that I left behind with the people I love on the other side of the world.