Stories: Recollections
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| On January 10, 1970, I had the privilege of entering the Mission Home at 119 North Main Street in Salt Lake City. The Mission Home was located just a block north of the temple and all missionaries were introduced to the routine and the rigors of missionary life in that historic old building. There weren't so many missionaries back then as there are now, so one of the things we had to look forward to was being set apart by one of the general authorities. S. Dilworth Young, a member of the Quorum of the Seventy set me apart soon after I arrived. I can remember today very little of what he said to me as he laid his hands upon my head, but I do remember that he had asked me where I had been assigned to labor. I told him the Chilean Mission and he responded by blessing me with the gift of tongues to help me speak Spanish so that I could teach the gospel of Jesus Christ to the people in their own native language. I think that for some reason he failed to bless me with the companion gift, which is the interpretation of tongues, which also would have come in helpful on many occasions!
The week in the Mission Home passed very quickly as we literally sat at the feet of first one general authority and then another, and were taught and counseled by some of the finest teachers in all the world in all the many aspects of missionary work and much of the important doctrine of the church. We had the opportunity to go to the temple, and to gather as a great body of missionaries and to be allowed the unique opportunity to assemble in the solemn assembly room in the upper stories of that grand temple, and there to be taught, in a most solemn manner, regarding much of that which is sacred in the temple, and even to ask questions as we were so moved. It was a glorious experience, and one which I think missionaries really miss out on today. But back then there were less than 16,000 missionaries; today there are 60,000! Back then there were less than 2 million members of the church. Today there are over 10 million!
After a week in the Mission Home, missionaries who would be speaking English were sent directly to their fields of labor, otherwise the next step was seven weeks at the LTM, or Language Training Mission, otherwise known as the Rock. The Mission Home and the LTM together were the predecessors to the MTC, or Missionary Training Center today. The Rock was located in the Knight-Magnum Building located on the southern perimeter of the Brigham Young University campus. They didn't like us calling it the Rock much. We called it that because it was so hard. But when they got after us, we quickly explained that we called it the Rock because it would become the foundation of our missions. They couldn't argue with us much, so we got away with it.
The Rock lived up to its reputation. We were up every morning at 6:00 A.M. We were showered and shaved and dressed for morning prayers shortly thereafter. Breakfast was at 7:00, and classes began promptly at 8:00. Morning instruction lasted till noon, then we took an hour for lunch. We were back to class for another four hours in the afternoon and two hours at night. Before supper we were expected to go to the gym and get some physical training. We were promised that if we kept all the rules and did everything we were asked to do then we would be successful. So I made sure that I made the daily trip to the gym, and did everything else that was asked. Even when we were standing in line in the chow hall we had our lessons with us and were trying to memorize a few more lines of dialogue.
From day one we were expected to "live our language". That meant that you couldn't talk except in your new language. I admit that the first few days were pretty quiet around the LTM. I kept waiting for the gift of tongues to kick in. It was really tough trying to carry on a conversation when the only words I knew I had learned from a menu at Taco Bell!
There were some really great missionaries in our district though, and I really came to love them, and they helped me a lot. Every one of the missionaries in my district had studied Spanish in high school. Some had even had it in junior high. Unfortunately, I had studied Latin, which helped a little of course, but left me at great disadvantage. It was hard not becoming discouraged at times. We had 100 pages of dialogue to memorize in seven weeks. Everyone was passing off discussions like clock-work, except for me. I still hadn't passed off the first discussion and it was becoming clear that I had little hope of passing off all six of them in the short time remaining. It was at that point that I began to understand more fully the power of the adversary. I remember beginning to feel a little discouraged, and then clearly, as if to shake my fist in Satan's face, declaring boldly that he could never discourage me in the work that I had undertaken. It was almost immediately that I was plunged into the deepest despair and discouragement that I had ever known, and it took several days and much prayer to overcome it. Somehow I was made to believe that I wasn't capable of learning the language. At other times I was made to feel that I wasn't worthy to be there and should just give up and go home. And again I felt that perhaps I just didn't love the Savior enough to get the job done. If I did I would have worked harder and would have been able to pass off more discussions. Well, such were the lies of Satan. I learned that he really doesn't care what lies he tells you, he will just do anything in his power to cause you to give up, and turn from your righteous labors, whether they be missionary work, or whatever else you undertake that is good.
Just when my discouragement was greatest, and when I even began believing some of Satan's lies, one of my instructors took note of the struggles that I was having and counseled with me privately. He assured me that the Savior loved me and that he knew that I loved the Savior, and that my heart was right. He told me that it was his experience and belief that every missionary would experience times of trial, even sore trial at times, and that the Language Training Mission was to be mine. He then told me that he was sure that even as I had struggled at the LTM, I would yet learn the language and be able to speak it fluently, and that my mission would be one of great joy and success, and that I would encounter very few difficulties along the way thereafter. Well, I am grateful to report that that instructor was inspired of the Holy Ghost and what he said to me turned out to be absolutely true.
Once I arrived in South America, I began to learn the language much more easily and felt no more discouragement over it. I even enjoyed keeping a small notebook in my pocket and every time I heard a new word I wrote it down and learned its meaning. By the end of two years I had a rich Spanish vocabulary and had acquired great facility in the language. The blessing of the gift of tongues given to me by S. Dilworth Young was realized fully in my life so that I could teach the gospel to the people in their native language.
It was at the airport customs counter in Santiago that I had my first real encounter with anyone with whom I was forced to deal who absolutely did not speak any English. It was there that all the fears and all the frustrations of two grueling months of struggle with the language at the Rock suddenly erupted into a totally disabling paralysis of brain and tongue as the customs agent asked to see my documents. For whatever reason, the word "documentos" did not conjure up the image of anything that I had in my possession, so I stood there without a hint of response. It wasn't until the agent again demanded even more abruptly to see "mi pasaporte" that the stupor I was in was mercifully broken and I handed over my passport. Within a few minutes I was allowed to enter the country.
Once I passed through customs I was met by President Earl and his assistants. What a welcome sight they were! After a day of orientation in the Mission Home, I was taken to the train station in Santiago by the assistants to the president and was given a small slip of paper with the address of 1333 3rd South, Talca. (I'll never forget it!). They asked if I could say the address. "I could", I said, so they put me on a train and told me to get off in Talca, which lay "about four hours" to the south of Santiago. There, I was to get off the train and hail a taxi which would take me to my new home and my first companion. My mission was about to begin!
The train began slowly to pull from the station, and I watched as the two missionaries standing on the platform quickly passed from view. Soon the scenes outside the window of the train began to change from the junkyards and shantytowns of the sprawling capital city to the beautiful green landscape of Chile's central plains. Farms large and small dotted the countryside and everywhere were wind rows of tall and majestic poplars. It was a beautiful land and I thought how little it must have changed in the one hundred and twenty years since Parley P. Pratt had first visited that land and dedicated it for the preaching of the gospel.
As I searched the coach in which I was riding I saw a sea of faces, but every one was the face of a stranger. For the first time in all my life I felt truly alone. Like the ancient mariner who lamented, there was water, water everywhere, but nowhere was there a drop to drink, so were there people everywhere, but nowhere, so far as I could see, was even one with whom I might carry on a simple conversation. Indeed, like Moses of old, I felt like a stranger in a strange land! And all the while I sat there wondering how I was ever going to know when to get off the train. It didn't help much for the conductor to come through announcing the stops. Whenever he did I couldn't understand what he said. Somehow they failed to teach us in the LTM any dialogues that included talking to the conductor.
Well, fortunately there was a sign at the depot in Talca, and I at least could read it. So when the train came to a stop in front of the depot I quickly gathered up the oversize suitcase that had belonged to my grandmother and disembarked the train.
It was 9:30 at night when the train pulled into the station. I don't know where they all went, but within a matter of minutes everyone who had disembarked with me had scattered like wharf rats and disappeared into the night. I found myself standing on the curb in front of the depot. This time I really was totally alone. There was not another person in sight. I don't think the assistants to the presidents ever visited the depot in Talca at that time of night; otherwise they would have known that taxis in that town, for the most part, quit running long before it gets dark.
I remember clearly the feelings that I had. It's one of those moments that somehow become indelibly inscribed in your memory. It becomes a part of you, never to be lost. I'll never forget the loneliness of that moment, or the darkness of the night, or the earnestness of my prayers as I stood there, praying in the shadows of the dimly lit station that somehow I would not have to stay there huddled in some dirty corner through the night and that a taxi would soon come along and carry me safely from that horrible abandoned place.
I don't recollect how long I stood there; it seemed like forever, but finally from out of the darkness appeared in the distance two yellow headlights. My hopes soared and courage rebounded as the lights continued to grow brighter and brighter until finally I could see clearly the outline of a taxicab as it pulled up to the curb directly in front of me as if summoned by prayer itself. I knew the taxi had come only for me because there wasn't anyone else, so I climbed in, dragging my suitcase after me, and in a voice now renewed with confidence, said in my very best Spanish accent "tres sur mil tres cientos treinta y tres, por favor". I was grateful the cabby appeared to understand the address that I had given. Without a word he put the cab in gear and off we rode into the night.
When the cab finally came to rest it was in front of a long row of flat-top houses. Each one was connected to the other along a narrow curbless sidewalk. Each house was distinct, yet not distinctive. Only the slightest nuances of architectural style differentiated one from another. Each house had an entryway that opened directly onto the street. No light emerged from any windows as they were all covered from the inside with wooden shutters that were locked securely tight. By streetlight I could see that most of the houses were in need of paint or repairs to cracks in the adobe cement that covered the exterior walls.
Since I could see no address, I wasn't exactly sure that this was the right house, but the cab driver had come to a stop and appeared to be anticipating payment for the fare. I had no idea how much to give him so I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bill and waited to see his reaction. Since he started to make change I knew that I had paid him enough.
A moment latter a little old lady emerged from the entryway of the house and, as if she had been expecting me, motioned for me to follow her inside, which I did. I soon learned that this little old lady was Chela and it was her home where the Talca missionaries had taken up residence for a number of years. For the next five months it was to her cooking that I was to arise each morning and to retire each night. It was her bitter herbs and teas that would nurse me to health when I was ill, whether it be from chills and fever or from some gastronomic upset caused by problems adjusting to the food.
As Chela showed me to my room, she inquired whether or not I had any bed linens (sabanas). When I told her I did she asked for them and immediately set about making the bed. Such was the hospitality of this woman, and the Chilean people in general. She did not try to talk to me much though, which I appreciated. Within a few minutes my new companion arrived home from his evening labor. What a relief it was to see that he had blue eyes and blond hair, just like mine. His English was spoken with a Minnesota accent, but it was English just the same, so that was O.K. with me.
Elder Ken Youngquist was an accounting major at BYU and a high school wrestler from Minneapolis. He was just a few weeks from going home when I arrived, but he knew the importance of a young missionary getting off on the right foot, so he worked hard right up to the very end.
I soon discovered that Chela's house was built around a central courtyard. Within the courtyard was an avocado tree (palta) which was full of ripened avocados, many of which found their way to our plates at our mid-day and evening meals. In fact, I ate so many avocados that I was sure I was turning green!
In the back of the house was the kitchen, but I found it was better never to go in there. It was so dark in the kitchen that I don't know how Chela ever saw to prepare a meal. I was amazed every time she brought out a dish. It was a wonder that she could cook in there at all! In spite of her kitchen, I came to appreciate Chela for the marvelous cook that she was. It was she who first introduced me to the wonderful world of Chilean cuisine, which included such delights as empanadas de queso, and empanadas de horno; pastel de choclo and cazuela, and carbonada, and of course noquis.
The night I arrived in Talca, Chela prepared the evening meal which was served at 10:15. When it was set before me I had a vision that this mission might just become the longest two years of my life. For there before me was a small piece of beef steak, a plate of tomatoes and onions drenched in heavy olive oil, and the obligatory wedge of dark green avocado! Try as I might, I could not bring myself to eat any of it and offered the meal in its entirety to my companion. He inquired if I was feeling all right. I assured him that I was but was just too tired to eat. So he heartily accepted of my offering. Later that night in my room I finished off a package of vanilla cream cookies that I had bought before getting on the train in Santiago. I think that for the rest of my mission I was never "too tired" to eat another meal. I was a fast learner and as I said, I came to really enjoy the South American cuisine.
The bathroom facility was fairly modern, with hot and cold running water. The main thing I noticed that was different than I was accustomed to was that the shower sprayed directly into the middle of the bathroom floor and emptied into a floor drain. There was no enclosure of any kind. Hot water for the shower was supplied by a gas-fired califont, which gave instantaneous and abundant hot water, though it had to be lit with a wooden match with each use. The first morning I tried to use it I made the mistake of turning on the gas before striking the match. After fumbling around for a moment I finally got the match lit and then went to light the califont. By then a lot of gas had escaped and there was a terrific explosion which blew me across the room and also blew the bathroom door wide open. Fortunately I was uninjured, except for my pride and a couple of singed eyebrows. I was able to get a towel wrapped around me though before everyone came running to see what on earth had happened.
That first morning we arose at 6:00 A.M. and after prayers and scripture study, Elder Youngquist checked me out on the first discussion. I passed with only a little struggle, so he told me that we had an appointment that afternoon and that he would have me give the first section of the discussion, right down to the story of the first vision. Well, I worried all day about that discussion, and by the time the appointment had come I no longer had confidence that I could do it, so I smuggled my discussion book along and held it on my lap under the table and read my lines right from the book. Well, I didn't fool anyone, especially Elder Youngquist, and after the visit was over and we were back out on the street, he gave me quite a chastening. After that I made sure that I never had to use the book again.
At our next appointment we were served a light meal, which in Chile is called "once". "Once" means eleven, but it is actually served at two or three in the afternoon. Go figure! This visit was with a family who had been on the investigator list for quite some time and who had become quite fond of the missionaries. As we sat down to eat, Brother Enrique suggested that I try one of the chili peppers that was on the table. Though suspicious, I asked if the pepper was hot, using the word "caliente". Everyone, including my companion, assured me that the pepper was not "caliente". When I bit into it, of course it turned out to be one of the more potent varieties. When I could finally speak again I asked why they had deceived me. They assured me there had been no deception. It was then that I learned the difference between "caliente" and "picante", the one meaning hot from temperature, and the other from capsaisin, which is the chemical in peppers that give them their bite.
The following Sunday, which was my first in Chile, I got to introduce myself and tell how I had been introduced to their famous chili peppers. With the telling of the story in my first sacrament meeting talk, I had succeeded in winning over the hearts of the people in the branch and they accepted me readily. At last I felt that I was no more a stranger and was beginning to feel very good about being so far from my home and my family.
It wasn't long before I was totally immersed in the work that I had been sent there to do. Within the first couple of weeks I had several opportunities to exercise my Priesthood in various ways, and soon found myself dressed in baptismal clothes and uttering the baptismal prayer for the first time in Spanish. Brother Hormizabal was my first baptism, He was close to seventy years old and had been a devout Pentecostal. Even after Brother Hormizabal was baptized he continued to cling to some of his old ways and kept at least one foot in the Pentecostal Church. Some years later, however, Brother Hormizabal's son-in-law was ordained a Bishop when the Talca Branch had become a ward and he and his wife came to Provo after having been sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. I was there attending BYU when they came and visited Colleen and me in our home. Our son Brian was two then. I need not tell you what a thrill it was to see those people once again and to see that they had advanced so far in the church in so little time. Well such are the rewards of missionary work!
I spent five months in Talca and one afternoon I received a telegram telling me that I was to be transferred the next day to Arica, which was an important seaport in northern Chile on the Peruvian border. That evening my companion and I were making the rounds as I bid farewell to all the investigators that we were teaching and to as many of the church members as I could. We came to the home of Manuel Ortega. Brother Ortega was the district president over the church in that area. He was retired, but still worked as a street vendor to pay off some debts that he had accumulated when one of his daughters (Monica) had attended BYU a few years earlier. Brother Ortega was a humble man, but none-the-less a man of great faith and devotion.
As I said good-bye and started to leave, Brother Ortega restrained me and said that he had a message for me and that I needed to write it down so I would remember it. I complied by taking out my little notebook that I told you earlier that I always carried with me and prepared to write.
Brother Ortega began by telling me that he had seen a lot of "greenies" over the years and had studied them carefully. He told me that he had been impressed with the efforts that I had made and the way that I was conducting myself on my mission. The message that I was to write down was in two parts. First, he told me that after I had served in Arica that I would then be called to serve in the Mission Home. When I heard those words I started to put my notebook away without making an entry. I began to explain to Brother Ortega how unlikely that event would be. I explained that after completing my assignment in Arica I would still not have completed a year in Chile, and staff positions in the Mission Home were always reserved for more seasoned missionaries. Never-the-less, Brother Ortega would hear none of it and insisted that it would be so and that I was to go ahead and make note of it.
Then he said something that to me was even more astonishing. He said that after completing my assignment in the Mission Home that I would subsequently be sent to serve in Punta Arenas, which was located in the southern-most region of the mission on the Straits of Magellan.
What was so fantastic about that statement was that the two most coveted assignments in all of Chile was the one in Arica where I was headed, and the other in Punta Arenas. One was an oasis in the middle of the driest desert in the entire world, the other was close to Antarctica and the south pole. Both places were as different from one another as any two places could possibly be, and both were far away from the mission president. Few missionaries ever had a chance to go to either place, and now Brother Ortega was telling me that I would have the opportunity to go to both of them. Impossible, I said. It had never been done. Never-the-less, I wrote it down.
Five months later I was transferred to Santiago to work in the Mission Home. I was there seven months on staff to the Mission President. Finally, I was called into the office one morning and told that I was to be sent that week to Punta Arenas! The prophecy was about to be fulfilled, just as Brother Ortega had spoken it. |
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