Mostly We Walked

I guess I've never written about my mission because I don't know where to start; not on an emotional level necessarily, but more from the overwhelming vastness of the experience.  In this case the best way may be through the details.  A few basic facts before we eat the meat: 1. I served in Cordoba, Argentina, 2. It was mostly Italian food, 3. I sort of specialized in ghetto areas, where most of the people had up to a 6th grade education.  Here...we...go...

If you've ever read the book (read it) The Things They Carried then you are familiar with this technique because the author uses it to build up his stories about his tour of duty in Vietnam.   Like the soldiers in this book, missionaries walk all day, most of the time in a direction away from their apartment, so you can tell a lot about the missionary by what (s)he carries.  For example, I had a companion named Elder Larson (not his real name) who always carried a "war" Bible, meaning he'd marked scripture paths through his copy of the Bible detailing the doctrine on certain key topics.  When we found someone who would (a) listen to us and (b) pay enough attention to actually understand what we said he would whip this Bible out and start building the big picture of the given doctrine we were discussing.  When this discussion turned into more of a verbal brawl he would use his "war" Bible to argue both the logic and the foundation of any controversial subject.  He invested hours in this book, and it was well used and colored.  He had separate color patterns to mark each path and could cruise through the books of the New Testament faster than anyone I've ever met.  The longer the argument went on the more he built up a sort of rhythm that varied from topic to topic.  If we were discussing baptism he would sort of follow a short - long beat like when you take your last dry breathe before you plunge under the baptismal waters.  Prayer was long - long because it belongs to the patient.  Repentance was urgent, and the Priesthood would go from soft to loud.  So it went with Elder Larson.  He was all patterns and rhythms.  The great organizer.

Elder Fuentes (not his real name either) was from Buenos Aires.  He always had sunflower seeds.  Wherever we were, whenever we were there he was spitting out the shells.  His glasses would also change shades depending on the light, so he had a blind-man look to him at certain times of the day, but that never helped us get into any doors.  Elder Fuentes was all about movies.  He carried church-sponsored DVDs with him at all time.  When he wasn't talking during lessons it usually meant there was a DVD playing.  The sunflower seeds never slowed him down, he would always be talking about his girlfriend (either one), his truck (a Ford Ranger, which is very expensive down there), or his ability to speak English.  He never actually spoke English, just spoke about English.  In lessons he would just talk like he had to get it all out in one breathe or it would kill him.  He couldn't hold it in.  One time we had to stop in the middle of the street so he could urinate on a tree, in front of school children, and the lady who just sold him sunflower seeds.  Zero ability to contain, or retain.  He was all smiles, even when he was criticizing, which was often, he couldn't help but smile.  The great spew-artist.

I carried a few small things.  We weren't allowed to carry a backpack of any sort, for fear of it getting stolen.  Mission policy dictated that we carry a dummy wallet, with a few pesos inside so that we could fool whoever was robbing us.  I never carried a wallet of any kind.  I had a white handkerchief with a maroon border that had belonged to my grandfather.  My mother tells me that I remind her of my grandpa, and I often thought of him, and still do.  I carried a small plastic watch, not on my wrist but in my pockets to avoid attention.  I carried one Book of Mormon that had three pamphlets inside its pages.  My Bible was a miniature version that fit into my back pocket.  It's gold-edged pages are faded, and it has similar markings to Elder Larson's, but far fewer and less aggressive.  My clothes never fit properly, with my pants riding a little low, and my shirts fitting a little large.  I liked ties that were generally dark, and a solid color usually blue or brown.  Like most missionaries I tied them short of my belt, and with a large knot at the top.   Dirt roads made my shoes dusty and my pants dirty.

In lessons I liked to teach with pictures, and usually made the investigator draw something to record it in their mind.  Most of the time we listened to people who everybody ignored, and tried to commit them to doing things they weren't interested in doing, like praying and reading and learning.  The houses had flat roofs, and there was usually a dog on them and things that didn't have a place to belong.  The houses were mostly made of cinder-block and plastered white.  We stood outside the wrought-iron gates and clapped our hands as a way of knocking on the doors we couldn't reach.  Most people were nice enough, and most weren't interested.  Some wanted to know more, but were afraid of a spouse, or in-law or cousin who didn't.  Most wanted us to listen without speaking.  Some liked it when we sang hymns.  We spent most of the day walking.  Walking away from doors we'd already knocked, and investigators who wouldn't come to church.  Waling through fields of burning trash, and neighborhoods with more dogs than people.  Its the walking I miss the most.