It was another grueling afternoon in Port Isabel, Texas. A little town on the Mexico Border, Port Isabel was a good place to find real Mexican food, rabid dogs, and a monkey man. For me, it was also a good place to serve a full-time mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It was my last transfer—my last six weeks. Six weeks was all the time I had before I went home and my lifelong dream of serving a full-time mission would come to an end. To say I was determined to make the most of the next few weeks would be an understatement. Not only did I want to finish strong, I still had a point to prove. The past sixteen and a half months didn’t matter; there was still time. I could still change.
My new companion and I were riding our bikes down the dirt road to the shipyards. I glanced over my shoulder every now and then to make sure Sister Ellison wasn’t falling too far behind me.
As we were about to turn back onto Highway I heard her call out, “Hermana! Mira aqui!”
I skidded to a halt and turned around. Sister Ellison stood in front of a concrete wall I hadn’t noticed. The wall was about eight feet tall, six inches thick, and topped with barbed wire. Through an iron gate, I could see a community of trailer parks, about the size of four football fields. The concrete walls surrounded it like a massive fence. I whistled, I had been in Port Isabel for three months and had never seen it before.
Sister Ellison prodded at the gate; it swung open on rusty metal hinges.
“Este abierto,” she said, sounding surprised. “¿Qué crees? ¿Querer entrar?”
I smiled at Sister Ellison’s broken Spanish. I was pretty sure she was trying to say, “Esta abierta, ¿crees que debemos entrar?” which means, “It’s open, do you think we should go in?”
But I didn’t correct her. Instead I shrugged and said, “¿Por que no?” Why not?
We locked our bikes to a stop sign, then stepped through the gate.
I felt lucky to have Sister Ellison as my final companion. Sister Ellison was short and very thin, with a heart shaped face and jade-green eyes. She reminded me a lot of a Disney Princess—kind, hard working, and a little naïve. She was so eager to learn and seemed to think I was goodness personified. She was also a greenie—a brand new missionary—and didn’t know anything about my reputation. And if I could help it, things would stay that way.
It’s not that I was a disobedient missionary; if anything sometimes I was a little too strict with the rules. It’s just…I wasn’t exactly what people would call a successful missionary.
In the LDS missionary world, to be successful means that people do what the missionaries ask them to do and end up joining the church. Parts of missionary success include finding people to teach, helping people to pray, come to church, and read the scriptures. The best thing an elder or sister could do, as far as missionary success went, was to help somebody get baptized and remain faithful in the church after. But even though I had been in the field for sixteen and a half months, I didn’t have much of this so-called success.
Everyone in the mission, church members and missionaries alike, gossiped about how Sister Stevenson just didn’t have what it takes. And if I did stumble across this “missionary success,” someone was always quick to point out how I couldn’t be consistent, or blame me if the people I taught stopped coming to church. Six weeks wasn’t a long time, but I was determined to believe it was enough for me to salvage what little I could of my life’s dream to be a good missionary.
The time we spent in the trailer park was short-lived. Every door was slammed in our faces—apparently people there had already found Jesus and didn’t want to listen to devil preachers talk of “Joe Smith” and the gold bible. We were heading back to the gate when our phone rang in Sister Ellison’s pocket.
“Whola, soy Hermana Ellison. ¿Quien es?”
I stifled a laugh. Whola? Really?
When she hung up, I asked her who had called.
She frowned, “That was the zone leaders. They said we have to get rid of the couch today.”
I groaned. Our apartment had a grungy little couch, the only piece of furniture other than our beds and study tables. It was so filthy our mission president’s wife told us to get rid of it when she visited our apartment.
“Does it have to be today?” I moaned.
Sister Ellison nodded. “Elder Paulsen said he wanted that taken care of ASAP.”
I sighed. So what if we had to drop everything to go dump a couch? We were just missionaries trying to help people find eternal happiness. It’s not like we had anything better to do.
I checked my watch. “Whatever, let’s just get it over with. If we hurry, we can catch the bus in five minutes.”
We headed back to the iron gate, only to find that it had been padlocked shut. We tugged at it and tried squeezing through the bars. I even flagged down a man watering his yard and asked if he would open it for us.
“This is a private neighborhood,” he said, with his nose in the air. “Only residents are allowed to open the gates.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said impatiently, “That’s kind of why I’m asking you. My companion and I need to get out of here like, ahorita.”
The man didn’t answer, instead he just turned his back and kept watering his grass.
Fine, be a jerk! I thought savagely, I hope your lawn gets crabgrass!
We tried asking a couple other residents, but all of them gave the same response, I guess everyone felt like they’d had enough of the “Mormon Girls.”
“You think they’d realize they can’t get rid of the ‘Mormon Girls’ unless they let us out of here.” I grumbled. “You know, part of me is tempted to hang out here for the rest of the night just to get on their nerves.”
“What do we do?” Sister Ellison asked, looking panicked.
“Don’t lose your head,” I said, looking for another way out. I spotted a small patch of the concrete wall that didn’t have barb-wire on top. Without another word I sprinted towards it, Sister Ellison right behind me. I laced my fingers together and held them out.
“Quick, give me your foot,” I said.
“Why? What are we doing?” she asked blankly.
I rolled my eyes, “Oh, you know. I just felt like saying a prayer. While holding your foot in my hands.”
“Really?”
I slapped my forehead. “No! Come on! Keep up, Sister Elli. I’m gonna boost you over this thing.”
Sheesh, if I didn’t do something quick, Sister Ellison would end up just as clueless as I was, as if I didn’t have enough guilt on my shoulders already.
“Are you sure about this?” Sister Ellison asked nervously, staring up the ten feet of solid concrete.
“Yep,” I lied; I wasn’t sure about anything, I never was. “Now hurry up. If we miss the bus it’s another fifteen minute bike ride back home.”
Just being with Sister Ellison made me even more unsure of myself than I normally was. One of my biggest mission regrets was when my first greenie said I ruined her mission and she hated me. I knew they were completely different people, but just the idea of having another new missionary set me on edge. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice, would I?
Sister Ellison placed her left foot in my hands and her dainty hands on my shoulders. When she said she was ready, I lifted with all my might and practically threw her over the wall. With a squeal of surprise, I watched her hurdle the concrete fence and heard her land with a small thump! on the other side.
“Are you okay?” I called.
“Never better!” Sister Ellison sounded like she was laughing (Why the heck was she laughing?), “But how are you going to get over?”
My eyes darted around the trailer park and landed on a small doghouse perched on top of a stack of wooden crates. The wall behind it wasn’t barbwire free, but it was all I had. Without thinking, I dashed over to it, jumped up the crates, climbed the doghouse, and, careful to avoid the sharp points of the barb wire, pulled myself up. I discovered that there were actually two layers of wire on the fence. One was a layer of straight wires that were tied into sharp knots. The other layer wrapped around it like a slinky, with metallic thorns jutting out of it all over the place. Sister Ellison was pulling on the fence, trying to pry it open.
“Que onda, Hermana?” I called, placing my feet in between the wires.
Sister Ellison looked like she was going to have a heart attack. “What do you think you’re doing?!?!”
“Relax, Mom,” I said, with an air of confidence I didn’t have.
I felt my stomach twist in knots as I looked down at her, painfully aware of how far away she was. I shrugged off my backpack and let it drop. It hit the ground hard, the zipper popped open and its contents spilled everywhere. I tried not to imagine the same thing happening to my head. I crouched to jump, but my feet wouldn’t budge. I squatted again, it seemed as though every part of my body was willing to jump except for my feet.
“On the count of three,” I said to myself, “One…two…three…”
“…four…five…six…”
It was clear that I wasn’t moving anywhere. The bus came and went, and there I was still frozen in between the wires. After what seemed like an eternity, a black truck pulled up to the gate and a man stepped out to unlock it. With a sigh of relief, I scrambled back down the wall, hopped over the doghouse, and ran out the gate to a laughing Sister Ellison.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Never better,” I replied in Sister Ellison’s singsong voice. I unlocked our bikes and tossed Sister Ellison her helmet, “Let’s go dump a couch!”
Getting rid of the couch was a lot harder than we expected. It turned out there was a hide-a-bed inside of it, making it ten times heavier than it looked. The metal legs holding it up made it impossible to push, pull, or drag it.
“What do we do?” Sister Ellison asked, wiping sweat from her forehead.
“Easy,” I said, not sure where the answer was coming from, “We’re gonna tip it.”
I heaved the couch so that it was standing on its side, the legs faced me, the cushions faced Sister Ellison.
“Geronimo!” I called, throwing my shoulder against it. Sister Ellison leaped out of the way as it came down with a crash.
“How is that helpful?” she asked incredulously.
I raised the couch and tipped it again, gesturing at the gap between it and the front door, “Look, I’ve already moved it ten feet. You gonna help me or not?”
We tipped the couch all the way to the dumpster in front of our apartment complex, and didn’t even bother trying to throw it inside.
“That’s close enough for me,” I said; Sister Ellison silently agreed.
We pedaled out to a neighborhood called Laguna Heights, where we had appointments scheduled from six to eight. All of the appointments fell through—several people didn’t answer the door, others said they were too busy or not interested. After an hour of knocking doors and talking in the streets, we decided to bike back to Port Isabel central and proselyte for the rest of the night. As we were riding back, my bike jerked underneath me. I felt my handlebars flop over and I tumbled from my seat.
“Everything okay?” Sister Ellison asked.
“Just peachy,” I said through gritted teeth.
I honestly thought I was going to lose it. I glared accusingly at my broken bike, as if it had decided to pop a tire, loosen the brakes, and snap its chain on purpose. Today was just not my day.
I felt a sob building up inside of me and my heart skipped a beat. Sister Ellison was not going to see me cry. She could see me jump fences and play Tip-the-Couch, but she would not see me cry. I turned the sobs into a hollow laugh.
Sister Ellison looked at me sheepishly. “What do you think we should do now?”
What are you asking me for? You think I know what I’m doing? I thought, but I knew better than to say that out loud. Instead, choosing each word carefully, I said, “We don’t have a lot of options. Hermano Alvarado is still out of town, none of the other members have a car big enough to fit a bike—“
“Hermano Perez has a motorcycle.”
“Brilliant!” I said, spreading my arms dramatically, “Why didn’t I think of that? Who needs a truck? Here’s what we’ll do, you and me will sit on the handlebars. I’ll hold the front half of my bike, you can hold the back, and Hermano Perez can wear my broken tire around his head like a tiara.”
Sister Ellison laughed, and I allowed myself a small smile.
Seriously, though, what are we gonna do? I thought. I looked down the highway, which seemed to stretch on forever into the night. We had no bikes, no car, and no members to pick us up. We were thirty miles away from the next set of missionaries. I glanced at my watch, it was already eight forty-five. The city bus stopped circulating in ten minutes, and we were at least a mile away from the next stop; there was no way we would make it there in time.
“It looks like we’re walking,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful.
Sister Ellison didn’t moan or complain; she didn’t even look upset, but I hadn’t been expecting her to. She might be a princess at heart, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t tough.
Instead she asked, “What about your bike?”
The back tire of my ten-speed had exploded; the brakes were jammed on the front tire, making it impossible to roll it. I could only think of one way to get it home. It would be the craziest thing I’d done all day, but what choice did I have? I stuffed the back tire back into the frame and locked it in, then I unslung my backpack and held it out to Sister Ellison.
“Would you mind holding this for me?”
Sister Ellison obediently hung my bag on her handlebars and frowned. “What are you doing?”
I picked up the old bike, turned it upside down, and rested it against my shoulders like an oxen yoke. My muscles tensed; it was heavier than I had expected it to be, but I stood up straight and smiled.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, shrugging so that the bike frame bounced.
Sister Ellison gaped at me, her mouth slightly open as if she were about to ask, “Are you crazy?”
“You ready?” I asked casually, as if I this was the sort of thing I did every day. Sister Ellison nodded mutely, and we started the four mile walk home.
For a while, it was easy for us to laugh at ourselves. We must’ve looked pretty ridiculous: two college-aged girls—one blonde and petite, the other dark and brawny—walking down the highway in the middle of the night. Sister Ellison rolling her bike with our bags saddled to it, and me with my broken bike on my shoulders.
As the night wore on, however, my body started to groan. At first it was just a few aches in my shoulders, then my neck muscles clenched. Soon, I started to feel as though I were being pressed in a waffle iron. Everything hurt—my back, arms, legs, neck. The road seemed to have no end. With each step I took, my bike became heavier, the highway stretched longer. I trudged forward, almost grateful for the sweat streaming down my face—at least now I could blame the tears on the perspiration. As we trudged forward, everyone’s doubts about me started to swim in between my ears.
“She’s not a successful missionary,” said a member from my second area.
“Why haven’t you had any baptisms yet?” asked the bishop.
“Don’t you get tired of being unsuccessful?” demanded the Sister Training Leaders.
“Well, sister, if you really want to waste the Lord’s time…” teased the district leader.
I stifled another rack of sobs. What was I doing? Look at me, staggering down the highway with a bike on my shoulders, pathetic! I couldn’t even be like Sister Ellison, walking peacefully without the burden of unreached potential weighing her down.
“Sister Ellison, I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice shaking. Whether I was apologizing to her, to all of the people I had let down, or God Himself, I didn’t know. All of my attempts to hide who I really was had failed. Now, Sister Ellison saw me as the clumsy, klutzy, hapless Sister Stevenson that I really was—the tragic missionary who could never get anything right.
I was expecting Sister Ellison to say something like, “It’s okay,” or “Don’t worry about it.” Heck, by this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if she ignored me for the rest of the transfer. She wouldn’t have been the first. What I was not expecting was for Sister Ellison to start singing one of my favorite Spanish hymns:
O elderes de Israel, conmigo venid (elders of Israel, come join with me)
Juntad a los justos de este rendil (bring together the righteous of this fold)
Dejad a los cizanos y el trigo juntad (Leave the wheat and the tares to unite)
Dejadlos venir a Sion a morar (Leave them to come to Zion to dwell)
She looked at me, smiling in a kind of insistent way, and I decided to join her for the chorus,
Adios, o Babelonia! Vamos ya a marchar (Goodbye Babylon! We are already marching)
Iremos al monte de paz a morar! (We are going to the Mountain of Peace to dwell).
We went on singing hymns like that for what felt like a very short time. If we looked strange before we must’ve looked like lunatics now, but that didn’t bother either of us. Maybe my muscles were completely numb, but it was almost as if I couldn’t feel thirty pounds of steel and rubber pressing into me. Before I knew it we were standing at the door to the apartment.
As soon as I was standing in the living room, I let my arms drop to my sides. My bike came crashing down, the pedal hit the back of my head and made me rock forward, but I didn’t care. I was so numb I could hardly feel it. I tried to walk forward, but ended up collapsing on the ground.
“We made it.” I breathed, and instantly fell asleep.
***
Maybe it was the feel of the cold tile, or the wicked kinks in my neck, but I woke up several hours later. I could feel a warm blanket draped over me and a pillow had been tucked under my arm. I opened my eyes. The bathroom light had been left on. In front of me was Sister Ellison, wrapped in her comforter, sleeping facedown with her cheek resting against her pillow. Just inches from my face was a small saucer with freshly baked cookies. I smiled, took a bite out of a cookie, and went back to sleep.
Sister Ellison was a Disney princess. There was no doubt about it.
***
The next five weeks flew by in a blur. It was probably the most Sister Stevenson-ish transfer I had ever had, and I totally loved it. I had gotten us chased by rabid dogs. I got us lost in downtown Brownsville. I locked the keys in our car. Heck, I even landed us in prison (no worries, we came out clean!). The whole time I was so sure Sister Ellison would blame me and hate me, the way that everyone else had, but she was a true Disney Princess to the core. She always looked on the bright side; stayed positive, and even learned to laugh at her own quirks. It was easily one of the best companionships I had ever been in.
Before I knew it, my bags were packed, my final interviews were scheduled, and we were standing outside of the mission home, trying to say goodbye. Without saying a word, we both fell into each other’s arms, Sister Ellison was sobbing.
“Why are you crying?” I said jokingly as I pulled away from her, “You’re not the one going home.”
Sister Ellison gave me a watery smile, “I’m gonna miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” I could feel tears welling in my eyes.
Sister Ellison’s eyes widened, “Sister Stevenson, are you crying?”
I smiled and shrugged, “What can I say? You’re contagious!” She laughed, and without warning tackled me in another hug.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too.” I said, my voice breaking, then I pulled away and put my hands up straight.
“But sister,” I said, doing my best to sound like a stereotypical missionary, “I am sad that we did not hit our goals this week.”
Sister Ellison rolled her eyes, “Oh, whatever Steve. That is so not you.”
I kept going in my fake-missionary voice, “No, truly, sister. It saddens me that we did not hit the mission goal this week. And if you do not feel the same, I am afraid you do not understand your missionary purpose. No, you do not understand the A—“
“Oh, don’t even,” Sister Ellison cut me off, “One more word and Imma friggin’ dose you, cuz!”
“Andale!” I said, laughing and doing the famous missionary finger-flick, “I’m afraid I’ve rubbed off on you.”
Sister Ellison smiled, “I take after my Mission Mom.”
I watched Sister Ellison leave with her new companion before entering the mission home. Other returning missionaries were weighing their luggage and signing each other’s journals. I bypassed them all, lost in thought. My mind went back to the first few days of the transfer, when I was so afraid that Sister Ellison would find out what kind of missionary I really was.
I couldn’t say that I was a perfect missionary. Nor could I say that I was one of the best missionaries, either. But I knew in my heart that, even though I wasn’t the best, I could at least say I did my best. I regretted wasting so much of my mission worrying about what everyone else thought of me, but I was grateful that I had figured out whose opinion mattered the most before I finished. If there was anything I had learned in the past six weeks, it was that missions are for the Lord. If I could say in my heart that I did my best to bring people closer to Christ, I knew it would be enough. It was enough for the Lord, it was enough for Sister Ellison.
It would be enough for me, too.
Author Notes
I wrote this back in 2015. It was one of the first survival stress-writing stories I came up with that actually made sense. Although, I guess I can’t say I came up with it, since it’s basically a summary of my last transfer as a full-time missionary.
I can say, though, that my mission was challenging in ways I didn’t expect. In the church, they say that your mission is either “the best eighteen months – two years of your life,” or “the best eighteen months – two years for your life.” But for me, it was neither. If anything, it was my first time to experience manipulative language. I wish I had recognized that then, because it really would’ve prepared me for the abuse years.
Sometimes I wonder why I served a mission, or why it was so important to me as a child. It didn’t go the way I had wanted–in fact, it was almost the exact opposite. I went home a failure. But, I did get to learn another language, experience a new culture, and I met some of the most incredible people of my life. And for that, I’ll forever be grateful.