Rabid Arctic Monkey Writers’ blog

 

To all Rabid Monkey Writers

Your mission this month is to write a how-to guide, if you will, on how you do what you do during most of the days of your life.  This can be a work that spans one page or 500 pages concerning whatever occupies your time.  Good luck.  Also, there is no limit on time, number of drafts, or curse words. -- Allison

Hey All!! Where has everyone been?? Why is no one posting?? Jill

Dancing, leaping, twirling, three feet
above the ground.
On a wooden beam, four inches wide,
covered in leather.
Her young eyes no longer search for me
in the crowd.
Eyes, set in concentration, only see
the gold plastic trophy

Prelude to

The Mystery of the Mormon Mission

By: Ryan Parsell

 

            When I ended my service as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I never thought that I would talk about [PPCC1] this chapter of my life with anyone other than a few close family members and some friends.  I had met many returned missionaries who [PPCC2] upon their return from service, never talk[PPCC3]  about anything else.  For those missionaries, life for them [PPCC4] is never as good as it was on their mission.  In their view, they could [PPCC5] never accomplish anything as great or important.  I vowed never to be one of those [PPCC6] returned missionaries.

            I might have taken my vow [PPCC7] to the extreme [PPCC8] at first, barely talking about my experiences with anyone.  But over time, my view on the matter [PPCC9] changed.  I met my now [PPCC10] wife, Christiana, and felt more comfortable opening up about the subject.  As I did, I discovered something that surprised me: people actually seemed to enjoy my stories.  People couldn’t get enough of Sister Goings’ personality, or Elder Davis’ “Davisisms”. 

            Then I was given the assignment to write an autobiography.  At first I felt what I’m sure most people would feel in such a situation, mainly that there isn’t much about my life that people would want to read about.  [PPCC11] But then the thought occurred to me that the adventures I had experienced on my mission were unique enough to garner at least some [PPCC12] interest. 

Then [PPCC13] as I began to write, I remembered how often I would have conversations with those of other faiths who were more interested in what we do as opposed to what we were sharing.  And so the concept of revealing the mystery of the Mormon Mission came to fruition.

The original draft was but [PPCC14] a few pages.  It covered my anticipation over receiving my call and my good friend Sister Goings.  I had a good start, but the story lacked adequate description of the areas around me, and what it was that played into my fears and anxiety.

One area that best shows this expansion is my description of Sister Goings’ neighborhood.  The original description was about one standard paragraph in length, and it did not do the neighborhood justice.  The second version that is closer to a full page in length gives a better description and helps to illustrate the barrenness and emptiness that was that neighborhood.

Another area that needed work had to do with my anxiety over receiving my call[PPCC15] .  In the original version, I had referenced some hearsay that helped cause some reservations, but [PPCC16] did not go into detail.  I think by adding the part about eating maggot infested meat or jell-o with salmon and miracle whip helped out a lot[PPCC17] .

This piece of work is far from finished.  If I could condense two years worth of experiences into twenty pages, I would not be doing myself justice.  I will continue to refine and rework this piece until it is something that accurately reflection the memories that I will [PPCC18] hold so dear. 

The Mystery of the Mormon Mission

By Ryan Parsell

 

To an extent[PPCC1] , I am sorry.  I’m sorry if we’ve ever interrupted a meal.  I’m sorry if we’ve ever interrupted your football game.  I’m sorry if we interrupted homework time.  I’m sorry if I’ve ever taken up too much of the rode[PPCC2] .  I’m sorry for all of that.  But in all fairness, it comes with the territory.  If you live in my area and you’re not on my list[PPCC3] , I’m technically responsible for you.  I’m not a salesman, cop, or Jehovah’s Witness.  But I am a Mormon. 

            Yes, it was [PPCC4] me.  For two years, I was one of a fifty-thousand man army.  An army that dressed in white shirts, dark pants, and a tie; that rode around on bikes and knocked on doors, thus committing the above stated offenses.

            Yes, I’ve heard it all. 

            “I’m not interested.”

            “I’m not in your church.”

            “I like my God.”

            Of course, if you were interested, you would probably be knocking on my door.  Oh, and just FYI[PPCC5] , I’m not knocking on doors to randomly look for members of “my” church.  And though I do not doubt that there have been people who have tried, no one has ownership of God, and therefore He cannot be “yours”.[PPCC6] 

            But [PPCC7] after the excuses comes the look.  The look of curiosity.  The look that says “I’m not interested in what you’re sellin’ but I an interested in you.”  Not interested in a sleazy way, but interested in what on earth would bring two young people to their [PPCC8] doorstep.

            If you’ve found yourself thinking similar thoughts[PPCC9] , then [PPCC10] this biography [PPCC11] is for you.  This biography[PPCC12]  is designed to do more than tell you [PPCC13] about my life and experiences as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints[PPCC14]  it is designed to crack the mystery of the Mormon mission wide open.[PPCC15] 

 

******

The Call

December 28, 2002

Ø      Three days after Christmas

Ø      473 days after the September 11^th attacks

Ø      60% of Americans support launching a pre-emptive strike against Iraq

 

St. Petersburg, Russia.  Taipei, Taiwan.  Hong Kong, China.  Rio De Janeiro, Brazil. 

Buenos Aires, Argentina.  Manila, Philippines.  Freetown, Sierra Leone.  Yerevan, Armenia.  Provo, Utah.  These are just some of the three hundred or so possible places a missionary can be assigned.  Which one would I be sent to?

            That was all I could think about on the morning of December 28^th[PPCC16] . 

            “Is today the day?” I thought to [PPCC17] myself as soon as [PPCC18] I woke up[PPCC19] .  It had been almost four months since I submitted my paperwork to request a call[PPCC20] .  “I hope today is the day.  I want my freaking call!” 

I was tired of waiting.  Sure, it was almost four months since I had submitted my paperwork[PPCC21]  but I had really been waiting for years.  I had really [PPCC22] known that I wanted to serve a mission since I was fifteen years old. 

At first it was the hype.  Ask any returned missionary and they’ll tell any combination of a few things.  The most popular is that “My mission was the best two years of my life.”  That one [PPCC23] is so popular,[PPCC24]  it’s almost a cliché.  But the one that really got me [PPCC25] was the “Everything important that ever happened to me[PPCC26]  happened because of my mission.”  That was the phrase that I heard repeated by everyone who meant anything to me in the church[PPCC27] .   It was stated by people like Gordon B. Hinckley, Jeffery R. Holland, and Boyd K. Packard.  It was repeated by people like George Marriot, Mitt Romney, and Steve Young.

Then there were the women.  Ask any women who has grown up in the church and they’ll tell you.  At least once a month, they’re taught “You marry who you date.  And you shouldn’t settle for anything less than a returned missionary.”  This is so ingrained into the minds of the young women in the church that[PPCC28]  should one of them marry a man who is not a returned missionary[PPCC29]  the woman is [PPCC30] almost [PPCC31] constantly defending her decision[PPCC32] . 

“Sure, he didn’t go on a mission, but he’s as good as a husband as anyone else.”

Or there was the “He’s just as spiritual as a returned missionary.[PPCC33] ” defense.

But [PPCC34] despite these defenses, there was an enormous feeling by members of both sexes that not serving a mission would mean not getting the kind of life partner you really wanted.[PPCC35] 

By the time I was fifteen I didn’t feel pressured by the expectations, promises of a fulfilling life, or women.  I wanted to serve because I felt it[PPCC36]  was the right thing to do.  I knew in my heart that the things I would be sharing with people were true[PPCC37] .

So why was it taking so long?  Some kid in the Sand Creek Ward got his call two weeks after he sent his papers in[PPCC38] .  I was tired of waiting.  I was tired of the questions.

“Did it come yet?” Mom asked.

“No.  The mail hasn’t come yet.”

“Did you check?”

“Mom, it’s 8:30 in the morning.  I doubt the mailman has even come yet.”

“Check on your way to work.”

Such was the routine. 

That day, I lazily got ready for work.  Maybe if I took my time, the mailman would make his rounds and I could tell before I got to work if I had gotten it or not.  After I couldn’t stall any longer, I made my way to the mail box.  “This is stupid.” I thought to my self.  “There’s no way it the mailman has been by yet.”  My hand trembled as I reached for the mail box.  “But what if the mailman has come today?  What if it’s in there?” my mind countered.  “Of course it could have come already!  Why was I being so negative?”  My hand started to tremble even more.  Yes, this was it, I could feel it!  Excitement over took me as I threw open the mail box!  I looked inside knowing that I would find my envelope from Salt Lake there, waiting to bestow upon me my call to serve God.

I slammed the mailbox shut.

“I told her the mailman hadn’t been here yet.” I thought dejectedly.  But somewhere inside of me, I felt some relief.  While I was anxious to serve and end the suspense of receiving my call I was nervous about where I would be assigned.  Non-members would always ask me “Where do you want to go?”

To this question I would casually reply: “Oh, where ever they send me.”

To this they would shockingly reply: “What, you don’t get to choose?”

A casual “Nope[PPCC39] .” would come next. 

Still shocked, they would then ask “So who does[PPCC40] ?”

“Well, when you turn in your papers, they’re reviewed by some of the leaders of the church called apostles.  They look at your papers, look at where they need people, pray, and give you an assignment.”

“So you’re saying that some guy in Salt Lake just up and decides where to send you for the next to years, and he can send you anywhere he wants.”

“Pretty much, yeah,”

“(Enter cliché encouragement here)”[PPCC41] 

I had had this conversation a hundred times, and each time it made me more nervous.  It made me realize I didn’t have any control over where I would go. 

This was no small matter.  You see, I had heard stories from other returned missionaries.

“I had nine weeks in the Missionary Training Center to learn Spanish.” one returned missionary recounted.  “When I got to Mexico, I didn’t know anything.  I just sat there while everyone else talked.” 

“I served in Argentina.  My first apartment had a dirt floor, the water was brown, and there were bats[PPCC42] .” another recalled.

“I went to Mexico, and the area was so rugged we couldn’t even ride our bikes.  We either had to ride a bus with a hundred other people and their animals on it, or we had to walk.  We mostly walked.  I swear I had to have walked a thousand miles[PPCC43] .” complained another.                          

Then there were stories about the food.  You see[PPCC44] , there is one rule in particular that every missionary is expected to abide by[PPCC45] : eat everything served to you.  To do anything less in [PPCC46] considered extremely offensive.  So these stories were particularly disturbing.

“Once there was an old lady that fed us in Moscow.  She was poor, so she had to save up for a while to feed us.  At dinner she fed us some meat with white stuff in it.  It tasted gross, so we waited until she went into the kitchen to figure out what was in it.  You know what the white stuff was?  It was maggots!”

“I was serving with a Tongan missionary, and a lady in the [congregation] decided to try and make something “Tongan”.  She didn’t know how to make any Tongan food, so she made something up that seemed Tongan-ish to her.  So she made a pan of cherry jell-o with salmon mixed in with it, and covered it with miracle whip.”

“In Peru, when someone poured me a glass of water, I would let it sit for four or five minutes before I would drink it.  That way all the crud in it settled towards the bottom.  Then I’d drink everything except the last inch or so.  It was gross.  You could see all the bugs and stuff in it[PPCC47] .”

What if I got assigned to a place like that?  Could I learn some foreign language in just nine weeks?  Would I be able to each maggot infested meat, or salmon jell-o topped with miracle whip?  Could I handle those kinds of things for two whole years?  The thought made me shudder.

So there I was.  I wanted nothing more than to know where I would be sent.  But [PPCC48] at the same time, nothing scared me more.

I don’t know how other “soon to be missionaries” handled this excruciating anxiety, but I prayed.  I prayed a lot.

“Dear-Heavenly-Father, please-bless-me-that-I’ll-go-to-a-mission-that-I’ll-like.”[PPCC49] 

That was a pretty common prayer, but after uttering it, I would start to feel guilty and my prayers would change somewhat.

“Dear God, I’m sorry.  I should want to go where ever you want me to go.  So that’s what I want, for your will to be done.  Send me any where.  But please, just so you know, I really don’t want to go to South America…..”

            That was what was going through my mind for the first hour of work.  Then, for once, the intercom interrupted my thoughts.

“Lowe’s associate Ryan Parsell, you have a call holding on line six.  Lowe’s associate Ryan Parsell, you have a call holding on line six.”

“Who would want to call me?”  I thought to myself as I made my way to the nearest phone.  “This is Ryan.”

“Honey, it’s me.  It came.” 

Finally!  I had it!  The wait was over! I couldn’t believe it!

“Can I read it?”

“No!  You have to wait till I get home.  You can’t read it before me!”

For the next four hours, I was the prisoner who was pardoned!  I was the winner of the lottery!  I was accepted to Yale!  I was Napoleon the conqueror! 

For the next four hours, I was also the prisoner who was on death row with no hope of pardon.  I was robbed of my lotto ticket.  I was rejected by the community college.  I was Napoleon on Elbe.

The whole way home on my lunch break, I prayed. 

“Heavenly Father, thank you for finally giving me my call.  Please bless me that it’ll be some place that I like.”

Then the little voice in the back of my head interjected.

It’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?

I sheepishly stopped praying.

But I could hardly contain my excitement.  This was it!  This was the time in the church videos when a young man read his call with the hymn “Called to Serve” playing in the background!  This was my moment!

I barged into the house.  There on the table!  There it is!  I grabbed it without saying a word.  As if by cue, the family gathered around.

“‘Elder Ryan Parsell, you have been found worthy to represent the Lord Jesus Christ as a full-time missionary.  You are hereby called to serve in the Mississippi Jackson Mission.’”

Of course!  Where else? 

******

The Mississippi Jackson Mission

 

The Mississippi Jackson Mission was comprised of:

Ø      2/3 of Mississippi-from the gulf coast up through Greenwood

Ø      the top 1/3 of Louisiana

Ø      the bottom 1/5 of Arkansas

Ø      two counties in east Texas

Ø      three million people

Ø      11,218 Mormons

******

Companions

 

            “So, wait.  Ya’ll can’t ever be alone?” 

            “No, not really.  Now what do you think about what you[PPCC50]  read?”

            “Oh, I didn’t read.  So when yous says yous can’t be alone, what’s dat mean?”

            “It means we always have to be together.  We don’t do things with out each other.  Now, can we go over that chapter with you?” my companion pleaded.  How did we always manage to end up on this subject?

            “Does ya eat together?”

            “Yes.”

            “Does ya sleep together?”

            “We sleep in the same room, but we have separate beds.”

            “What about when ya doing your business.  Ya know, like number one and two?”

            “Oh, we can be alone for that.  Now, back to that chapter…”

            “So why can’t y’alls be apart?”

            “It’s for our protection.”

            “Protection from what?”

            “The adversary.”

            “The who?”

            “Look.  We’re just like roommates.” I interjected “We live together just like roommates.  We also work together, like partners in a business.  It’s just easier that way.” I said looking at my companion as if I could telepathically transmit the fact that yet again, he had taken us off track and made us look even more peculiar.

            “Partners?  Y’alls ain’t like gay or anything are ya?  Because I don’t believe in that.”

EXCELLENT!

******

Sister Goings

 

            Deep in the heart of the ghetto in Monroe, LA [PPCC51] lived the legend of Sister Goings.  I had heard a lot about her, but I didn’t know what to make of the legend.  Not because I had anything against Sister Goings, rather it had more to do with the truthfulness of what I had heard.  [PPCC52] 

            “Sister Goings just got busted for shooting rabbits and feeding them to us.” a missionary would say.

            “Yeah, she cooks all sorts of crazy stuff.  I heard she’s fed the missionaries a possum[PPCC53] .”

            “She tells all sorts of stories.  She’ll tell you she’s met Thomas S. Monson, and stuff like that.”  For those of you who[PPCC54]  aren’t Mormon, Thomas S. Monson is the equivalent of Dick Cheney.  He’s the number two man in the church.

            I had heard all these things[PPCC55] , but I didn’t believe them.  I was new, and the older missionaries loved to see how gullible the new missionaries were.  Well, I wasn’t going to be had, so I kept quiet on the way there[PPCC56] .

Being mostly from the West, I had never really seen a neighborhood like the one Sister Goings lived in.  [PPCC57] Chances are, you really haven’t either.  Why?  Because it’s the kind of neighborhood you only get to by accident when you’re lost, and upon realizing your mistake, you leave as quickly as possible.  It’s the kind of neighborhood that when you enter, you immediately check to see if your car door is locked.  It’s the kind of neighborhood that simultaneously makes the argument for and against gun control.  Awesome!

From the air[PPCC58] , this neighborhood probably looked harmless.  All the houses were evenly spaced, enclosed by fences, and had neat little driveways.   From the air, it probably [PPCC59] conjured memories of one of [PPCC60] the black and white photographs of the new [PPCC61] 1950’[PPCC62] s neighborhoods[PPCC63]  that they used to take[PPCC64] .[PPCC65] 

But [PPCC66] the view from the ground told a different story.

The decrepit streets looked as if they had been bombed in some forgotten war.  The roofs on the houses drooped.  Many of the walls had shifted and were displaying huge cracks.  Every house had a broken or cracked window.  Every house was dark and lifeless.

I was confused and a little scared.  This didn’t make sense!  Where were the strong concrete foundations I was used to seeing?  Who in their right mind would think that a cinderblock in each corner was a foundation?  This was the South, grass grew on cars if left long enough, why[PPCC67]  are these lawns barren?  There was no way people actually lived here![PPCC68] 

Then I started noticing little signs of life.  A half full bottle of beer left on a porch there.  A toy left in the yard here.  Clothes on a clothes line drying in the gentle breeze.  Then I saw a person.  A black man with yellow eyes sat on his porch, watching us closely.

I nervously looked away, and starred intently at the seat in front of me.  One of the missionaries in the front seats must have noticed my anxiety.  “Don’t worry Elder Parsell, these people either know we’re missionaries or think we’re cops.  Either way, they won’t mess with us.”

            Despite this encouragement, I couldn’t wait to get to this lady’s house!

I was looking at the seat in front of me so hard; I didn’t even realize it when we stopped.  We had parked in a grassy field next to some railroad tracks.

“Ooooooowwwweeeee!  We’ve got some more!”

“What was that?” I asked, looking around.  No one else was in sight, and the nearest house was behind us and across the street.

            “Welcome to Sister Goings’ house[PPCC69] .” my companion said coyly. 

            “Where’s her house?” 

            “Right there.[PPCC70] ” he said, pointing at the house behind us and across the street.

            I looked at him disbelievingly.  “Is that where that noise came from?”

            “Yup.[PPCC71] ” he said with a chuckle[PPCC72]  “She’s loud today.”

I was so happy when I saw Sister Goings’ house.  It was an oasis in a desert.  Her [PPCC73] house was small but warm.  It’s brown wood siding and brick[PPCC74]  was supported by a strong cement foundation.  There were no cracks in the walls, no drooping roof, no holes in the windows.  Her lawn had thick green grass with patches of three leaf clovers,[PPCC75]  concealing three or four kittens waiting to pounce on the bugs buzzing lazily through the air.

            I was so happy when I saw Sister Goings’ house.  It was an oasis in a desert.  Her house was small but warm.  It’s brown wood siding and brick was supported by a strong cement foundation.  There were no cracks in the walls, no drooping roof, no holes in the windows.  Her lawn had thick green grass with patches of three leaf clovers, concealing three or four kittens waiting to pounce on the bugs buzzing lazily through the air.[PPCC76] 

“Hurry up boys, we’s been waiting for you!”  I hadn’t even noticed that she had come out to the carport to meet us.  I will never forget the first time I saw Sister Goings.  She wore a denim dress and a red apron covered in food.  Her hair was pulled back and covered with a blue bandana.  But her face was what stuck out the most.  It was old, but not just from age.  When you looked at it, you could almost see the stories she[PPCC77]  could tell.  Her eyes and her smile were warm and welcoming. 

“Oh, we’ve got some new ones, don’t we?” she said, shifting her weight to her right leg and resting her hands on her round hips.  “Well, you boys get on in here before the food gets cold.”

            Inside her tiny house were at least fourteen missionaries.  They were sitting any place they could fit, and their attention was fixated towards Sister Goings.  “Welcome boys, have a seat.  Is that everybody?  Ok, let’s pray.  Elder, will you pray?  Thank you sugah that was a beautiful prayer.  Well boys, get you some food!”

            Never before had I beheld such a spread.  In crock pot [PPCC78] alone had a least thirty drumsticks, which would have been more than enough!  Alone [PPCC79] with that was a ham, turkey neck, black beans, salted lima beans, greens, carrots, biscuits, potatoes, rice, gravy, and a thick pan of corn bread.  As we loaded our plates, Sister Goings sat happily in the corner. 

            “Ooowweee, we got some new missionaries today.  Tell me boys, where are you from?”

            “Utah.”

            “Utah.”

            “Idaho.”

            “Colorado.”

            “All from out West?  Oh, that’s wonderful.  Tell me boys, how do you like the South so far?  Is it what you thought it would be?  Theys tell me that everybody thinks we’s is just a bunch of racists down here.  I just want you boys to know that’s not true.  In fact, us blacks and the whites get along just great.  For instance, I bet you didn’t know that I used to do all the ironing for thems Night Riders.”

            Night Riders?  I looked at my companion curiously.  In response, he mouthed “K.K.K”.  Before I could think, I blurted “You ironed for the K.K.K?!”

            “Yes, why wouldn’t I?  They was nice to most of us.  They liked me a whole lot.  And if I had problems with any of the mens in this here area, all I had to do was tell them, and they fixed it good.  But that was a long time ago.  The Night Riders don’t come around too much any more.  Which is good, I’m too old to be doing all that ironing.  How’s your food boys?  You know I has been cooking for you missionaries ever since I joined the church.  Yes, that’s right.  Every Wednesday since I joined the church.”

            “When did you join Sister Goings?”

            “Back in 1986.  Oh the church has been so good to me.  Theys taught me how to read.  But it’s been almost twenty years”

             “So how old where you when you joined?” I asked.

            “Oh, I don’t know.  They didn’t bother to keep no records for black people when I was born.  No sir, they didn’t bother at all.”

            Curious,[PPCC80]  I asked “So who is the first president of the United States that you remember?”

            “Oh, I guess it would have to be Mr. Roosevelt.  Yes, Mr. Roosevelt.”

            “Was that before or during World War II?” I asked.

            “No, we wasn’t in no war then.  No sir.  The war didn’t start until I was older.”

            I did the math in my head.  Since I am a political junkie, I knew that Roosevelt was first elected in 1932.  The U.S. didn’t get involved in World War II until 1941.  Now, I was about seven or eight during the first Gulf War, and that was the first time I can remember anything happening outside of my world of GI Joes and Saturday morning cartoons.  So it’s possible that World War II had the same impact on her.  So if she was eight when the war started, that means she would have been born in 1933, making her seventy years old.  But it wasn’t until I was nine or ten that I became aware that there was such a person as the President, and she was aware of Roosevelt before she was aware of the war.  So it’s possible that she was as old as eleven or twelve when World War II started, which means she could have been born as early as 1929, making her seventy-four.

            When I was done with my tangent[PPCC81] , Sister Goings was[PPCC82]  in the middle of another story.

            “Yes, so I stood there trying to figure out hows to get to the gate.  Brother Monson woulds be leaving soon, and they wouldn’t let me in to see him without no ticket.  Theys had a guard by the exit, so I couldn’t go there.  So I prayed and said ‘Dear God, I ain’ts never seen one of your apostles before and I sure would like to see Brother Monson.  Help me please God, and I sure would appreciate it.’  When I was done with my prayer, I went on over by the exit and waited.  And you wouldn’t believe what happened.  Can you guess?  No?  Well I’ll tells ya.  That guard left.  Yes sir, just up and left.  I couldn’t believe it!  I looked and looked, but he wan’t anywhere to be seen.  So I figured that was the answer to my prayer, and I snucked on in and gots to see Brother Monson.”

            Yeah right, I remember thinking to myself.

            Once the meal was finished, I stepped outside to get away from the cramped space inside.  It was then that I noticed two men pushing-not riding-a four [PPCC83] wheeler up a hill and over the railroad tracks.  Who pushes a four-wheeler in the middle of the ghetto?  I was studying them when another missionary pointed out [PPCC84] “Sister Goings,[PPCC85]  one of your cats died.”  I looked over and saw the small white cat lying on its side, flies and other bugs already taking advantage of the situation.[PPCC86] 

            “Oh, that po’ old cat.” Sister Goings replied, the smile on her face still strong.  She slowly waddled over and poured bleach on the carcass[PPCC87] .  “That cat needs buried.”  She declared, looking around.

            “I’ll do it.” I offered.

            “In those pants?” she yelled?[PPCC88]   “No sir!  Uh-uh!  No!  Hey, you two boys!”  I looked behind me and noticed she was yelling at the two men with the four-wheeler.  They heard her, looked at each other, and started pushing the four-wheeler again.  “Hey boys!” she yelled again, this time much louder.

            “Maybe you should leave them alone.[PPCC89] ”  I offered nervously.

            “Non-sense.[PPCC90] ” she said sweetly.  “You two boys GET YOU BLACK BUTTS OVER HERE NOW!”

            This time the two men looked at each other, let the four-wheeler go, and walked over[PPCC91] .  The instant that they made it on to [PPCC92] her property, I realized that these weren’t the type of men you would ask for directions if you were lost in a dark alley with hundred-dollar bills hanging out of your pocket.

            “Bury my cat.”

            “Yes ma’am.” They responded as they obediently grabbed two shovels and started picking at the ground.  Sister Goings looked on satisfied.

            “Elder Parsells, thems drug dealers!”

            The two of them and I looked nervously at Sister Goings.

            “Ah, Mama Goings, don’t you be telling that man no lies.[PPCC93] ” one protested nervously.

            “You the only one telling lies, pretendin’ you ain’t what you is.  Don’t let them fool you Elder Parsells, they is drug dealers.”

            “Mama Goings, don’t…..don’t you be telling that man no lies!  You…..you don’t need to be telling that cop no lies!” he protested more forcefully.  Introduce the headline as a something that you are thinking about.

 

Monroe Times

Mormon Missionary Slain in Ghetto

“I thought he was a cop.” Shooter Proclaims

[PPCC94] 

            “I’m not a cop!”

            “You isn’t?”

            “No, oh no, not at all.  I’m a missionary.”

            “A missionary?”

            “Yes, a missionary.  For the church.”

            “Oh, so yous is like a Jesus person or something?”

            “Yup.” I said, relieved.

            “Ok.” he said, and resumed digging.

            “So,” I asked curiously “are you drugs dealers?”

            “Yeah!” they answered, grinning.

 

******

The Book of Mormon[PPCC95] 

 

            I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some [PPCC96] out there who think that this piece of work, The Mystery of the Mormon Mission, is some sort of sneaky missionary trick initiated by Salt Lake to dupe all of you into learning about the Church with the hopes of you joining (if you haven’t already).  If you thought this, you may have looked at the title of this chapter and said to yourself “Ah-ha!  I knew it!  Here it comes!  Let the indoctrination begin!”[PPCC97] [PPCC98] 

            If you thought that, you are wrong.

            I bring up the Book of Mormon because it has everything to do with what missionaries do.  [PPCC99] To understand the Book of Mormon is to understand the mystery that is the Mormon Mission.

            Having said that, I do not feel [PPCC100] I should have to disguise my feelings about the Book of Mormon out of the fear that by not doing so would in some way make this into a tool of conversion. 

[PPCC101]            In short, if [PPCC102] a conversion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints were to result from reading The Mystery of the Mormon Mission I would not mind.  But make no mistake; conversion is not the aim of this piece. 

            With that in mind, let’s talk about[PPCC103]  the Book of Mormon.

            Much has been said about the Book of Mormon.  Some of what has been said has been said by people who have read it and believe in it.  Some of what has been said has been said by people who have never read it and believe it to be misleading and possibly the work of Satan himself.  [PPCC104] 

            The concept behind the Book of Mormon is rather simple.  If you believe in [PPCC105] God, you know that he[PPCC106] [PPCC107]  called prophets to teach people and lead God’s church.  Those prophet’s teachings and experiences make up [PPCC108] the Old Testament.  When Christ was among us [PPCC109] [PPCC110] a new type of prophet emerged; they were [PPCC111] called apostles.  Their experiences with Christ and their teachings make up [PPCC112] the New Testament.[PPCC113] [PPCC114] 

            But what of the rest of the world?  The events and teachings found in the Bible took place in one relatively small area of the world[PPCC115] .  The idea that God spoke to no one else [PPCC116] for thousands of years bothers me because I believe the Bible is true.  And the Bible teaches that God is the same “yesterday, today, and forever.”[PPCC117] 

            I do not believe that God would effectively [PPCC118] condemn the rest of the world to damnation simply because they were not born near Moses, Noah, or Christ.  I do believe that God loves all his children, and that he [PPCC119] taught as many of them [PPCC120] that would listen to him[PPCC121]  the same truths taught in the Bible. 

And[PPCC122]  that is what the Book of Mormon is.  It’s a record of prophets that God called in another part [PPCC123] of the world.   It is not a substitution or another version of the Bible.  It’s a companion.

“Why is it so important to us?” you may ask.

First, if it’s scripture, you need it.  We need all the help we can get from God these days.

Second, the Book of Mormon proves something.  In a world of gray[PPCC124] , this is a “black and white” situation[PPCC125] .  Either the Book of Mormon is a work of God and therefore true [PPCC126] or it is the work of man and therefore false.  If it is a work of God, then chances are pretty good that what the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints teaches is also from God.  If it isn’t the work of God, then those teachings are mostly coming from some place else.  Knowing which side the Book of Mormon comes from can make all the difference.[PPCC127] 

And that is why it is so important.[PPCC128] 

 

******

The Food

 

“Welcome to Laurel” my new companion said[PPCC129]  “I think you’re gonna like it here.”

I just starred silently as he grabbed my bags.  Elder Hobley was taller than me by at least three inches, and I’m six-three.  His dark rimmed glasses would have made anybody else look like a total geek.  Instead he looked like the guy from Weezer[PPCC130] .[PPCC131] 

If you don’t like change, you will not like being a missionary.  Less than forty-eight hours before that moment, I was still in West Monroe, LA.  Now I was in Laurel, Mississippi-located[PPCC132]  in the only county in Mississippi to succeed from both the Union and the Confederacy.

“Hurry up Elder Parsell; we’ve got a dinner appointment.”

Ah, the dinner appointment.  Dinner appointments are one of the best perks of being a missionary.  I miss them still [PPCC133] to this day.  Dinner appointments are often set by members of the congregation you’re assigned to[PPCC134] .  The number that[PPCC135]  you get varies from congregation to congregation, but the invitations and those inviting you can be broken down into different types.

 

Type One: AKA [PPCC136] the Constant Debtor

This invitation usually comes from a convert.  They are so appreciative of the fact that missionaries taught and baptized them that they repay every missionary that they run across.  Type one usually considers every missionary as an instant friend, and missionaries often[PPCC137]  consider type one as an instant friend.  Type one is also [PPCC138] the one [PPCC139] most likely to stop random missionaries and tries to give them money.

What their invitation usually sounds like: “Hi Elders, how are ya?  You know, we just got to have you over to the house for dinner.  Every time y’all come over, it feels like when the missionaries were teaching me for the first time.  I sure do appreciate all that you’re doing, why don’t you boys come over and get yourself a good meal.  It may not be much, but it’s better than whatever y’all can cook for yourselves.”

 

Type Two:  AKA the Mom Away from Mom

This invitation usually comes from the woman in the congregation who thinks it’s her calling to be your mom away from home[PPCC140] .  She is constantly worried about the level [PPCC141] of healthy food you are eating, and worries that you cannot cook for yourself.  This type is usually the one that will get your home phone number and call your mom to assure her [PPCC142] you are safe.

What their invitation usually sounds like:  “Boys, when was the last time you ate something healthy?  What kind of food are you buying?  That’s all junk.  Come to my house Monday night and we’ll get you eating something healthy.  By the way, your mom says hi, and she says stop buying all that junk.”

Special Note:  Type Two usually gets upset and occasionally rebukes the other types if they don’t[PPCC143]  feed us enough.

 

Type Three:  AKA the Worried Mom

This invitation usually comes from the mother of a missionary who is serving somewhere else.  They are worried that their son or daughter isn’t getting enough healthy food and that they can’t cook for themselves, and so by feeding you, their son or daughter will be blessed with someone feeding them.

What the invitation usually sounds like:  “Hi Elders, how long have you been out?  Oh really?  My (son or daughter) has been out (whatever amount of time), and we sure do miss them.  You two should come over for dinner sometime.  Maybe if we feed you, someone out their will feed my (son or daughter).”  AWSOME!

Special note:  Type Three always invites with a smile and laugh as if they’re joking when they say the last line.  Don’t be fooled, they mean it.  Trust me; my mom was a confessed type three.

 

Type Four: AKA the Quiet Servers

Type four doesn’t invite the missionaries over for any particular reason.  They just do it to be helpful.

What their invitations usually sound like:  N/A  They usually just sign up on the calendar.

 

“A dinner appointment?  That’s nice.  Who with?”

“The black sisters[PPCC144] .”

“The who?”

“The black sisters.  They’re a group of black ladies who joined the church a few years back.  They cook for us every week.”

“How’s the food?”

Hobley smiled.  “It’s real good, if you like southern food.”

Southern food?  Now I was excited.  I hadn’t had too much in the way of true southern food.  Sure, Sister Goings had cooked some southern stuff, but nothing too out of the ordinary.  I had eaten a deep fried piece of cheese cake once.  But that was the extent of my experience.  I hadn’t eaten any of the southern dishes I had heard of.  Maybe tonight would be the night.

The black sisters lived in the middle of the projects.  It was worse than the neighborhood that Sister Goings lived in, but by then, I wasn’t fazed.  Being used to it [PPCC145] turned out to be a good thing in Laurel, considering that ninety percent of the area that I covered was projects and ghetto[PPCC146] .

Much like Sister Goings, the black sisters were a relief from the areas around them.  There were four of them: Sister May, Sister Keys, Sister Robinson, and Sister Williams.   They were older, but their eyes and their smiles were still young.  Their presence was warm and inviting.  They felt like family.

“You’s boys is late.  We’s been waiting for you.  The other two missionaries are already here.  We’s better pray and eat before the food gets cold.  Elder, will you pray?  Thank you.  You boys get on up there and get you some food.”

“Aren’t you going to get any, ladies first-”

“No Elder Parsells, you go on.  We’s been eating all day.”

“Yes, that’s right Sister May.  You boys go on.  We’s fat enough already.  But you need some meat on your bones.”

“Mmmuhm, you sure is right Sister Williams, he sure does need some meat on his bones.  Thems too.  Look at how skinny all these boys are.”

“I remember when we were skinny like that.  Ooooh, that was a long time ago.”
”It sure was Sister Keys, it sure was.”

They were still going at it when I had made my way into the kitchen to grab my plate.  Then came the moment that would forever change the meaning of food.  Here was southern food.

On the small table in front of my lay a strange collection of foods.  Pork chops, breaded and deep fried.  There was a large bowl of black beans accompanied by a large hock of ham.  A crock pot of red beans and rice boiled and bubbled.  Green beans mixed with thick strips of bacon.  Carrots cooked in some strange syrup.  There was gravy, but no mashed potatoes.  There was rice, but no sauce.  And then there was a pie unlike any other pie I had ever seen before[PPCC147] .  It looked a little like pumpkin, but it was just a little too light[PPCC148] .

I took some of everything, not knowing what would be good.  Now was my chance to actually try some real southern food.

I started with the pork chops.  It didn’t take much effort to cut through them, my plastic knife cut smoothly through the meat.  It tasted unlike any other pork chops I had ever had.  It was crispy and crunchy on the outside, juicy and tender on the inside.  You didn’t even have to chew it; it would just fall apart on its own.

I went for the black beans next.  It was a little on the salty side, but still good.

Next I tried the carrots.  At least they used to be carrots.  They were orange like carrots.  They were shaped like carrots.  But they didn’t taste like carrots.  They tasted like brown sugar and butter.  They were the best carrots I had ever had.[PPCC149] 

I could feel the sugar rush from the carrots setting in when I tried the red beans and rice.  It was delicious.  The beans didn’t taste like beans.  It had the same flavor as the sauce; bacon, garlic, and an exotic blend of unknown spices.  In almost every bite was a large fried slice of sausage.  Who could have known that two things as simple as red beans and rice could taste so good together?

Of course I saved the desert for last.  I was already pretty full, but who can turn down pie?  I certainly can’t.  I broke off a piece of the pie with my fork and popped it into my mouth.  It was then that some foreign goodness attacked every taste bud in my mouth.  It was the most intense siege my mouth had ever experienced.  In one way it was strong and sweet and spicy like pumpkin pie.  In another way it was light and fluffy and creamy like whipped cream.  But in some mysterious way, it was better.

“What is this?”

“Oh, look at him, he likes that!”

“You got that right Sister Robinson, look at his face!”

“You know what that is boy?”

“No ma’am.  What is it?”

“Boy, that there is sweet potato pie.”

It was at that moment that I knew my appetite and my waist size would never be the same again.

 

******

What’s in a Name?

 

            “Hi.  How are you doing today?  I’m Elder Parsell and this is Elder Todd, and we’re missionaries with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  We’re in you’re neighborhood today sharing a message about Jesus Christ.  Do you have a couple of minutes available for us to share this message with you?”

            “Who’d you say you were?”

            “We’re missionaries, from the church.”

            “What’d you say your names were?”

            “Oh, I’m Elder Parsell and this is Elder Todd.”

            “Both y’all names is ‘Elder’?  That don’t make no sense.”

            “No, it’s just a title.”

            “That’s crazy that both y’alls names is Elder.  What are you two like brothers or something?”

            “Brothers?  No, why?”

            “Cause you have the same first name.”  Of course.  This makes perfect sense.  Because I run across siblings with the same first name all the time.

            “No, Elder isn’t our first name.  ‘Elder’ is a title like how ‘doctor’ is a title.”

            “So ya’ll aints brothers?”

            “No.”

            “Cousins?”

            “No.”

            “Then how do y’all know each other?”

            “We work together sharing a message about Jesus Christ.  If you have a couple of minutes, we’d-”

            “But you’re last names are different.”

            “You know, we’ll just come back another time.  Have a good day.”

            This was a conversation I had had on a daily basis.

 

******

Baptisms

 

            The doctrine of baptism is one of the most beautiful teachings in religion.  The concept is that when someone believes in Christ, they enter into a covenant to follow Him.  In return, (and if done with the proper intent) upon being baptized that person receives full forgiveness of all past sins, transgressions, and misdeeds.

            The doctrine of baptism is also one of the most controversial doctrines in that many religions view it differently.  Some churches feel that baptism is done by sprinkling, some by full emersion, and then others feel baptism has nothing to do with water and it happens automatically when you believe in Christ.  Some churches baptize children; others feel you need to be a certain age.

            In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, baptism is performed by immersion for anyone who wants it and is of the age of accountability (usually around the age of eight).

            I love baptisms.  I love watching them.  To see somebody who has made the commitment to follow Christ go into the water, be baptized, and come back out just fills me with so much happiness.  When a person comes out of the water, they’re always smiling.  And if you ask them, they’ll always tell you: “I’ve never felt so clean.”

            The essence of being a missionary is to experience that situation as much as possible.  We go out to find the humble, teach them truth, and baptize them into Christ’s church.

            If only it were that easy. 

            “So, how many have you had Elder Todd.”

            “I haven’t had any yet.”

            “How long have you been out?”

            “ Nine months.”

            Nine months, and had nothing in the way of baptisms to show for it.  Elder Todd was my trainer and at the time I was a new missionary, and I was worried.  Worried that I would go two whole years without a baptism. 

            “What’s the average for this mission?”

            “Last I heard it was four.”

            Four in two years.  That was better than nothing.  Granted, it wasn’t anywhere close to the averages in South America.  The missionaries in those places had the tendency to brag.

            “I had twenty-five on my mission.”

            “I baptized fifty on my mission.”

            This bragging always bothered me.  And it wasn’t because in my mission there weren’t too many people who baptized that much.  It was more the attitude.  It was the attitude of “look what I did”.  It was the kind of attitude that I feel ruins the sacredness of the ordinance and turns people away from the church.

            I didn’t want to be one of those missionaries, but I still wanted to be successful.  There have been many missionaries who have done great things and who have not let their success go to their head.  For crying out loud, the movie The Other Side of Heaven is all about one of them!  But how do you [PPCC150] do that?

            I was so lost in my thoughts on the subject that I almost missed some great advice.

            “Huh?”

            “I said don’t worry about the number.  Just worry about what you’re doing.  If you’re doing what the Lord wants you to do, you’ll be successful.  If you only do what you think will get you baptisms, you’re going to fail even if you get a lot of baptisms.  Christ never measured His success by the amount of people who followed Him.  He measured it by how much He was willing to follow the will of God.  Everything else just fell into place.”

            “Good point.”

            Dear Heavenly Father, please help me.  I want to help build thy kingdom and I know that I can’t do it without you.  Help me and I promise I will not take the glory for myself.  In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

 

******

White Boys

 

            “We’re going to be home early.  Let’s slow down a bit Elder Fixsen.”  Yes, the guy’s last name was “Fixsen.”  If you’ve ever lived in the South, you know it’s ironic.  And for the record, yes, we’d heard it all.

            “Do we have time to go past the stadium[PPCC151] ?”

            “Sure.”

            There we were in Hattiesburg, MS[PPCC152] , within eye sight of the college stadium where the famed quarter-back Bret Farve played.  All along the stadium were big “Bret Farve” signs with his number and the years he played.  Since Fixsen was a fan, he had wanted to go by and get pictures for weeks[PPCC153] .

            “I don’t know how good of pictures you’re going to get.  It’s too dark.”

            “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

            “Well, hurry.  It’s 9:25.”  Almost curfew. 

            “Don’t rush me!”

            “Have you ever seen the street this empty before?  There’s no one around.”

            “Works for me, at least no one is starring at us.”

            I was standing facing the road, back towards Fixsen, when I first noticed the car speeding down the road.  It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.  Southerners typically either sped or went way too slow.  It didn’t even seem odd when the car switched into the lane closest to where we were. 

            I had moseyed over and was standing behind Elder Fixsen when we heard it.

            Sssskkkreeeeeeetch! 

            “What’s going on?” Fixsen asked nervously.

            “Don’t look, but that car just stopped behind us.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know.”

            Ding. Ding. Ding.

            Now the car doors were opening.  People were getting out.  The keys were still in the ignition.  I footsteps, and they were getting closer.

            “Hey!  White Boys!”

 

Hattiesburg Herald

Mormon Missionaries Slain at Stadium

“We were bored” Shooter Proclaims

 

            Elder Fixsen and I slowly turned around.  There were three.

            “White boys, where you from?”

            I cleared my throat.  “I’m from, uh Colorado and he’s from Canada.”

            “Colorado and Canada?” he said angrily. They all started shaking their heads and looking at each other.  This was it…..goodbye world.

            Then one of them smiled.  “Colorado and Canada?  Y’all aint seen no real niggahs before.  We’s real niggahs.  Take our picture!”

            Confused, Fixsen and I looked at each other.  Then we looked at them.  They were posing in the road.  “Come on whitey[PPCC154] , we don’t got all night!”

            We took two pictures.  They came over and gave us high fives and shook our hands.  “Now don’t you give those pictures to the FBI or nothing, cause they’s looking for me!”  They laughed as they piled back into their car and sped off.

            “What just happened?”

            “I do not know.”

            We just stood there for a moment, looking off at nothing.

            “Need to change your pants?”

            “Yup.”

            “Yeah, me too.” HYSTERICAL!

 

******

Davisisms

 

            “Did you hear anything?”

            “No, did you?”

            “No.”

            “Knock again.”

            “I think I saw a curtain move.”

            “I didn’t see anything.”

            “No, I really think I saw a curtain move.”

            “I don’t think he’s here.”

            “He said he’d be here, I think he’s here.”

            Unfortunately this situation was all too familiar.  People stood us up all the time.  Even more unfortunate is the fact that we got used to it.

            “Come on, we’ll try again later.”

            Elder Davis didn’t move. 

            “Come on, let’s go.”

            Elder Davis still didn’t move.  He stood there perfectly still, starring at the white door of the small trailer.  “Elder Parsell,” he said slowly “I think Tim is dead.”

            “What?  Why?”

            Davis stopped looking at the door and turned towards me.  He looked as scared as I felt in Hattiesburg.  “He’s not answering his door.  He said he’d be here.  I think he wouldn’t miss this appointment if he were alright.”

            “Yeah sure, you’re right he’s probably dead.  We should probably break in and call the cops.” I joked as I turned to get on my bike.  “Come on, let’s-”

            Thud!

            “What was that?”

            “You said we should-”

            “I was kidding!  Holy crap!  Get away from his window before you break something.  What the crap?  Are you insane?  You can’t just break into someone’s house!   Tim is probably fine.  For crying out loud, we’re the missionaries!  People forget about appointments all the time!  Just because they miss one doesn’t mean they’re dead.”

            “Maybe we should call the cops.”

            “No, we’re not calling anybody.  If we called the cops every time someone-  No, forget it, we’re going.”

            “But, I don’t know.  I just really feel like he’s dead.”

            “Elder, Tim is fine.  The man doesn’t even own a clock.  He probably just forgot it.  We’ll come back later.”

            “But-”

            “We’ll come back later!”

            “Fine!” 

             Unfortunately this was a common occurrence as well.  I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the next available page and wrote “Thought Tim was dead, tried to break into his house.”  And that was how I dealt with [PPCC155] what I affectionately refer to as Davisisms.  By that time I had amassed quite a collection, which came in handy anytime I needed a lift[PPCC156] .

 

Excerpts from the Book of Davisisms:

 

“Did you have to learn English to come to the states?”

Question posed to Elder Manoa, an Elder from Hawaii

“Are you still on your mission?”

Question posed to another missionary serving in an adjacent area

 

“It was a real eye awakener.”

In response to some shocking news

 

“Did you live in a tent?”

Question posed to Elder Manoa, an Elder from Hawaii

 

“Which dog is the black one?”

Question posed to a man with three dogs; two of which were brown, the third black

 

“Is Christmas going to be on the 25^th this year?”

Question posed to a member of the congregation

 

Waves at a blind man to get his attention

 

“I have a high mentalblism, or whatever you call it.”

Elder Davis’ explanation as to why he was in such good shape

 

“Was it still spinning?”

In response to hearing a story about a man who was run over by a car

 

“Elk, deer, rabbit, and fish.”

In response to the question “What do you like to shoot?”

 

“He looks like Aladdin, or whatever the monkey’s name was.”

 

“I can’t speak good hardly anymore.”

ROLLING OVER IN MY CHAIR LAUGHING!  A very good place to put a great deal of humor.

 

******

Going Home

 

            “So, how does it feel?  Are you nervous?” 

            “I don’t know.  I’m not nervous, I guess I’m excited.”

            “Dude, don’t be so picky.  You don’t have to be worried about wrinkles.  Next time you open that bag, you’re going to be home.”

            “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

            Finally after two long, grueling, difficult, and fulfilling years I was the one packing for the last time.  I had imagined this day since I first started my stint as a missionary.  I had imagined what it might feel like, the nervousness and excitement about seeing my family again, being able to start school, or for that matter, be able to be out past ten p.m. 

            “Do you want this?” I asked, offering my companion some article.

            “You don’t want it?”

            “No, I guess I won’t need it anymore.”

            “Sure dude, thanks.  You better hurry, they’re going to be here soon.”

            I rushed my packing to be ready by the time the other Elders got there to pick me up.  After a quick prayer and a hug for my companion, I was on the road from Shreveport, LA to Jackson, MS; the headquarters of the mission.  I did a lot of reflection on that drive.

            Once in Jackson, the other departing missionaries and I waited in a church building while some of the other missionaries had a meeting.  It was the first time in two years that we had nothing we were supposed to do.  There were no doors for us to knock, no Books of Mormon to pass out, no non-members to share testimonies with[PPCC157] .

            After the meeting, we were herded to the mission home.  The mission home is a lovely southern style home in the upscale suburbs of Jackson.  It’s a home that is rotated to the Mission President and his wife, a couple assigned by Salt Lake City to run the affairs of a [PPCC158] mission.  It also served as temporary housing for all missionaries entering the field as well as all the missionaries leaving.  I had only been there once when I first entered the mission.

            I didn’t remember it looking as good as it did.  A thick green lawn surrounded the brick house and its white columns.  Inside was meticulous and comfortable.  The formal dinning room with its crown molding and china cabinets made it perfect for entertaining guests.  The living room was filled with plump couches and chairs, just waiting to be sat in[PPCC159] .  Up stairs was a large recreational room with a full-sized pool and ping-pong table.  Just off of the recreation room were five or six other rooms with enough beds to accommodate at least thirty missionaries.

            After dinner, all the departing missionaries and the Mission President and his wife had one last meeting.  It was the only time President Blake spoke about something other than missionary work.

            “Elders, I’m proud of you.  The Lord is proud of you.  He called you, and you’ve answered His call.  Now it’s time for you to go home and answer new calls.  Now you’re responsible for being a student and getting an education.  Now you’re responsible for finding your eternal companion.  In short, you’re responsible to do all the things we tried to keep you from thinking about these two years.  Good luck Elders, and God bless you.”

            No one told us when to go to bed that night.  No one was upset when we didn’t wake up at six-thirty.  I played pool all morning with the President Blake[PPCC160] .  It was the first time I had ever seen him without a suit coat on[PPCC161] .

            That whole morning before my parents picked me up was surreal.  You see[PPCC162] , it’s been said [PPCC163] being on a mission is the only place [PPCC164] you can feel every feeling to the extreme in the same day.  I think it’s true.  During my mission, I had felt the most overwhelming joy, love, charity, sympathy, faith, humility, forgiveness, and dedication.  At the same time, I had felt the strongest and deepest sorrow, pain, depression, anxiety, and loneliness.  Now in the upper level of the mission home shooting a horrible game of pool, I felt nothing.  Even if it was only like that for just a moment, it was a relief.   I was done. EXCELLENT RESOLUTION  Feel free to call me, email me (but I can’t access email at home), or to post questions on the writer’s site.

By Allison

This was one exercise that turned out well, but it could use some work.  I would love to tape this paragraph onto a random computer screen or graffiti it onto a table somewhere.

 Fingers tap the keyboards slowly at first.  Then the students find a rhythm and the tapping turns into pounding.  As I sip my latte, it gurgles and sputters, and the air hole on the lid whistles.  The computers hum and vibrate reflecting the annoyance at being awake that the students have.  The lights flicker and distort the room in the way sunlight never would.  The coffee tastes as bitter in my mouth as my desire to write.  The white board at the front of the class squeaks as the teacher makes notes for the next assignment.  I hurmph at my own frustration with the current assignment.  I take another sip of coffee as if the coffee had the power of inspiration.  The poor kid next too me is as still as a deer in the headlights of a tricycle, to stubborn to move and too confused to think.  The caffeine hits my bloodstream, and I begin to write.  

By Allison