Spiritual Match

Making it through the first week of classes at the Center for Training Missionaries, we found ourselves preparing for our first Sunday in Brazil.  Informed by the experiences of missionaries who were our seniors at the CTM, we knew what this day meant for our newly-formed missionary family: one of us would be selected as District Leader. 

Needless to say, a great deal of speculation preceded the decision.  In the few days that we’d known each other, we’d developed a good understanding not only of each other’s personalities, but also the group dynamic. 

“I know Carter is really gunning for DL, but I don’t think I could handle that,” Sister Willis said privately on the way to class. 

Lancey, Ballenger, and I all agreed without a word.  In the few days we’d been together, we noticed a few quirks—his ultra-conservative sense of humor, his devotion to the stringent study schedule, an almost-competitive sense of spirituality.  Perhaps that was the road we were all going down, but he was unbearable to everyone but the most good natured in the district—his patient companion, Elder Laramie, and  Elder Rockefeller who you simply could not be offended even if you were to make fun of his mother.

“We all know Sister Ballenger would make the best District Leader,” I joked.

“Yeah,” Lancey said, “Too bad sisters can’t be District Leaders.” 

We all chuckled and made our way to the sacrament meeting that morning just in time to take the last four seats at the back.  The Branch President and his counselors made their way over to greet us briefly before the meeting began. 

“Elders, Sisters, I’m President Williams.  These are Brothers de Paula and Cruz, the counselors for the branch.  I hope you’re ready for interviews after church today.  We’re all looking forward to meeting you.”

With that, we sat in our seats prepared for the three hours ahead of us.  A sacrament meeting of testimonies and introductions was quickly followed by a Sunday school lesson and another hour separating the priesthood holders from the sisters.  It was one of the more familiar aspects of the whole experience in Brazil—one of the few things that would go unchanged from our time as missionaries and as regular members of the church—the same set of lessons happened to be given around the world any given Sunday. 

“Welcome, District 37-A,” President Williams said, “We’re glad to have you here and would like to spend the next hour or so getting to know you as a presidency.  If you’ll all remain here, we’ll meet with you one-on-one.  We’ll have similar interviews at the middle and end of your stay.  Also, I’ll be making our decision on who will be District Leader in your time here at the CTM.  Can I have some volunteers to start off the interview process?”

Elder Carter’s hand shot up like a drowning man reaching for air  Sister Willis and Sister Bangerter also volunteered, sharing a look with each other and with me over Carter’s predictability in this situation.  The three of them left made their way out of the room as the rest of us sat around discussing our meetings and the decision to be made.  There was an interesting dynamic—a rolling wave of flattery as we suggested why each of the guys in the room would make a great leader.  When my turn came—“Elder GMB is just so level-headed and likeable”—I blushed a little before Elder Frazier moved on to Elder Laramie, “You know, you’re probably the most patient.  Who else could handle being Carter’s comp?”

We all laughed for a moment and our conversation devolved into jokes at each other’s expense—my glasses, Sis. Ballenger’s height, Lancey’s acne.  No one was offended because no one was safe, but we soon quieted down out of guilt.

“Next,” President Williams called from the doorway, returning with Sister Ballenger.  “You, Elder GMB.”

I made my way to the next room lit only by the frosted glass.  Two folding chairs stood in front of a whiteboard angled towards each other in a 135 degree angle.  It was the same setup I’d experienced since I was eight years old.  Now I realize that each detail of this ritual of interviews, though not necessarily holding a specific meaning, spoke to the rigidity of the culture in which I lived.  Predictably, he asked me to pray, I selected my words purposefully so as to prove myself spiritual and sincere, he gave me a speech on how important my calling as a missionary:

“Heavenly Father has been preparing you for this moment long before you were born.  There are souls out there waiting to receive his Gospel through you and it’s in your time here that you must steel yourself for the long journey ahead.”  What followed was a short explanation of how I’d gotten to where I was at that point in my life.

“Well, I’ve always planned on doing this.  Doing what I was supposed to do.  I always expected myself to end up on a mission and then when it got close, it just felt right.  I just felt prepared.  When I opened up that envelope and got through the initial surprise, I knew it was what I was supposed to do.”

“That’s a beautiful story.  It’s through the small and simple things like those feelings that great things come to pass and great boys grow into great men.”

We concluded with a little discussion of life back in the states.  He was a lawyer for the Church and asked to use his Portuguese skills (acquired on a mission some fifteen years ago).  His wife and daughters accompanied him, seeing as an opportunity to enrich their lives culturally while serving the Lord.

I shared my story and was surprised by how much was school related.  “I’m the middle of three boys.  I want to be a college professor and teach literature, but l think journalism seems more practical.”

“You look into journalism.  The world needs more independent journalists.”

And with that, we closed with a prayer so he could interview the next missionary.  I wasn’t sure what to make of that last comment.  I’d spent a good deal of my life navigating the hostile roads set out for a liberal Mormon and it was clear he wasn’t particularly friendly to those views.

As we returned to the other room where the missionaries waited, I noted the volume had increased considerably.

“Quiet down! This is a sacred space,” President Williams interjected as a few of the Elders scuttled back into their chairs.  “You are missionaries not middle schoolers.”  He left the room for a moment to tell his counselors he would be supervising us. 

In an awkward silence, we contemplated the bootcamp-like conditions.  We couldn’t handle being 100% spiritual, 100% reverent all of the time.  If this is what being a missionary meant, I don’t think any of us were prepared for the next two years.

Finally, once all the interviews were finished, President Williams convened his counselors to discuss their leadership decision.  In the meantime, Elder Frazier apologized for telling stories about the police catching him making out with his prom date on the roof of a church and Elder Laramie for the Chapelle Show impressions. 

“I must say we’re more than disappointed in your behavior.  I know that this is a time for growth as many of you have left your families for the first time less than a week ago.  You have some powerful lessons awaiting you and I hope this is the first:  you are now adults.  You will be expected to act as such.  As Paul instructed the Corintians, ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.’

“One Elder here has shown a great deal of maturity and devotion in choosing to serve a mission.  He’s proved himself diligent according to your teachers and in his interview with the branch leaders.  We ask that each of you support and sustain Elder Laramie in his new calling as District Leader.”

Mundane Redemption

CTM life could definitely be compared to high school in a lot of senses. I imagine it was a lot like boarding school, although 95% of us never had that experience. All of us were miles from our families and stuck with hundreds of others in similar circumstances. The entire facility was barred up with iron fences painted tree bark brown so as to not let people in or out and everyone was tied to someone.

The idea of solitude would soon become a foreign concept (with the exception of say a bathroom stall). For those eight weeks, you were stuck first, with your companion; and second, with your district. It took some adjusting, but Elder Lindley was seldom out of sight and District 37-A seldom didn’t account for the whereabouts of each of its members. Following the meeting in which we were all assembled for the first time, we were guided to the cafeteria by an instructor who reminded us in excellent English with only a slight Brazilian accent, “Wash your hands before every meal. You are welcome to eat as much as you like here, but don’t forget to swipe your card as you come in. Do not forget that Friday is pizza day. It will be a taste from home.”

The Sisters cut in line as they were instructed as the Elders waited. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that being fair,” Elder Laramie whispered to the other Elders. “I’m 6th of 6 kids, and we all had to fight for our food. It didn’t matter if we were guys or girls.” I gave a reserved chuckle. Considering myself a feminist, I was cautious about the implications of the statement.
We all made our way into the lunchroom eventually. It was a somewhat sterile environment akin to a hospital cafeteria with tile floors in neutral grays and blues and Plexiglas windows. Three times a day you’d grab a plastic tray and make your way through walls of stainless steel shelves pulling out the entrees of your choice, rolls that reminded you of sea shells in shape and often in stiffness, fruits, yogurts, juices, and desserts. Later I’d spot many missionaries examining the food as I did that first week as they were arriving and I became one of the more seasoned missionaries.

Everyone I’d asked about Brazil had said to me, “Prepare for beans and rice every day for two years,” and suddenly there were the beans and rice staring me in the face. The combination seemed a bit odd. In a silent pact, all of us took a scoop of steamed white rice and a scoop of brown beans in our bowls to give it a try. We passed each other smirks, amused by the experience we were suddenly sharing with each other—the tie of being a Americans in Brazil that would be lost on many of us in the weeks and years to come, unfortunately.

The ten of us congregated around a string of tables each sitting next to our assigned companions. We’d gathered in our limited discussion the basics on each other—that Koontz had left a girlfriend at BYU, that Laramie had a twin brother in Portugal on a mission there, that Sister Willis had been planning on a mission since she was a little girl. Although we had our missions and our common culture of being born and raised in the church, it was clear (for better or worse) that we would not end up together as a group had we not been assigned—or called—to become friends.

Reserved, I sat back most of the day and made observations. I didn’t really have anything to share that I found noteworthy. The farthest I’d been from Utah was Montana. I’d spent all of my time in school or with friends. I grew up in a suburb straddling city and country, past and present. Normal, boring, and un-noteworthy. Lindley was his class president and an avid wakeboarder. Carter had siblings adopted from three different continents. Ballenger sounded like she’d miss football games at the U as much or more than her family. Rockefeller played soccer for ten straight years.

The feeling crept up, as I got to know these people, that I was somehow undefined. The reserved one in the corner from high school. Smart and able to write, but undefined because I did not share out of fear or shame for the mistakes that were visible to me. Angry with my quiet nature, with my excess weight, with my lack of confidence entering social situations, I didn’t want to be me at that point in my life.

Collectively, though, the district didn’t have those problems. We balanced each other out in our eccentricities and our backgrounds (similar as they initially seemed). Being “un-noteworthy” became less and less of a reality as time pressed onward. To that point, I never would have thought my life interesting (let alone believe I’d blog about it regularly), but with my fellow missionaries in the CTM, I was to gain (in the smallest degree) an understanding that the difference between the mundane and the exotic—reality and story—was not as rigid or boring as I’d once thought.

“Welcome to the Jungle!”

The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Missionary

I’d put my life on hold. I’d taken a leave of absence from school, put my scholarships on hold, left my job, and—moments earlier—said goodbye to my family. Two years later, I’d return to that same airport and see them almost as I’d left them: some slightly taller and wider but mostly just the same.

I, on the other hand, wouldn’t be the same person, arriving barely recognizable—physically fit, able to handle stress constructively, goal-driven, etc. Now that you know the ending of this series, the emphasis is conveniently placed on the how (the process and story) rather than the what (the outcome).

All of the preparation I’d made—attending missionary preparation classes and such—seemed slightly off. Working in the hypothetical and role-playing fundamentally discounted individual nature. No amount of practice could prepare me for the human interactions ahead. The first of these interactions, with Elder Rockefeller, a fellow missionary, was a clear indicator.

Neither of us were accustomed to our hours-old missionary existence. No longer being called by our first names, not being allowed to hug people of the opposite sex, not being allowed to watch television or movies, and now always having another missionary at your side felt a lot like walking in shoes of two different sizes. The rhythm of conversation was thrown off.

“So, you’re headed to Brazil, too?” I asked after our awkward introductions.

“Yup,” he said distinctly. Rockefeller, from that moment, came off as a combination of Goofy and that stoner from the back row of your geometry class. He wasn’t all there, but in an innocent kind of way.

As we talked (finding out we were going to the same area in Brazil), he seemed to have the same cool tone about everything from his memories of high school soccer to the breakup with his girlfriend just a month earlier. He wasn’t worried at all about the next two years of his life. In fact, to him, this adventure to another continent seemed to be just another day of life—an impression I couldn’t really fathom at the moment, especially since I hadn’t considered any aspect of my life particularly special at that point in my life.

The trip became a blur of new faces and stories. A few other missionaries trickled in, but we stuck mostly to the groups we were assigned because we knew we’d be together for a couple of years. We were joined in those moments by Sister Ballenger and Elder Carter who I’d seen with his huge family taking pictures and crying as I entered the airport and as I said goodbye to my own family. He was the oldest in his family to serve a mission, so it was a highly emotional experience. I remember his mother sobbing as he held her with that deer-in-the-headlights open-eyed stare.

At 5’3” Sister Ballenger managed to put some energy into the demanding and slightly terrifying journey to another continent. She was the youngest of four kids, all of whom served missions. In conversation, it seemed that the things she’s miss the most while in Brazil would be U of U football and running marathons. She was refreshingly different and appealing in that she wasn’t just another 19 year-old boy mandated to go and serve. She was here by choice and a few years our senior.

Our conversations continue on our flight in which I sat sandwiched between Ballenger and Carter, the layover in Dallas, and then our flight to Brazil.

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” Sister Ballenger gasped, leaning towards me then pulling away realizing her forbidden impulse to hug me. It was a cautionary rule, a barrier to keep missionaries from being tempted by the opposite sex, and we heeded. Ironically, temptation from the opposite sex, I came to realize later, would remain a null factor in my experience.

The journey entering its tenth hour, Rockefeller, Carter, and Ballenger all drifted off to sleep as the cloak of night was pulled over our path. Unable to sleep, I pulled out a stenopad and started writing as everyone around me, a hodgepodge of races, nationalities, and languages. Regardless of these differences, they all drifted off to sleep—except for me and one other missionary across the aisle and down a row.

We were both writing and I was intrigued. A fresh new journal lay open on his folding tray with a few pages turned like my stenopad with some scrawlings and a pair of letters to Nate and Cole, already on their missions, analyzing the experience I was currently passing through.

Noticing I was also awake, he passed me a note:

“Hey, I’m Elder Alan. Where are you from?”

“Nice to meet you. Elder GMB. I’m from Utah. Boring, I know.”

“I’m from Mesa Arizona.”

“Used to the heat then, I guess?”

“Yeah. I’m not too worried about that. You worried at all?”

“For sure. What if I don’t learn the language? What if I get sick? If there’s one thing I’m good at, It’s worrying.”

Our conversation turned to home and what we’d miss. Of course our families and school, but our nerds got the best of us as NPR programs were added to the list and we spent the rest of the flight recalling memories of Car Talk, Diane Rehm, and Prairie Home Companion across the pages ripped from his journal. Looking back, Elder Alan fits a pattern for me: intelligent, tall, dark, handsome. Were I to run into him today, I’d realize that my fascination with him writing and having a nice smile were more than I understood at the time.

Light began to penetrate the plane’s tiny windows as the announcements regarding altitude and safely deplaning were read in Portuguese, English, and Spanish. That was the first sign that changes lay ahead for us. Lethargically but deliberately, everyone elbowed their way to their carry-ons and overhead luggage. As the missionaries gathered at the gate, we all seemed to realize the reality: we were here and there was no turning back. In a haze of foreign language and unfamiliar instructions we fumbled through customs, not quite sure what waited for us outside of the airport.

Once through customs of Sao Paulo’s immense metropolitan airport, we heard a loud, accented voice shout “Welcome to the Jungle!” emanating from a dark-haired man no taller than Sister Ballenger.