Mission Memories - Here goes folks - My mission reflections

[_SoHo]

Hopefully this becomes a thread about mission memories, but will lead off with the reflections that I wrote shortly after coming home. Hopefully, some here will enjoy. Those with a France background will understand these better, but clearly happy to explain odd references.

The Troux (Châteauroux)

We met Jesus down in the hole
And made him promises we couldn’t keep
On nights we found it hard to sleep at all
After long-day journeys through mazes
Of HLMs jaded in the yellow haze of cigarette smoke
From the chimneys atop the Seita plant
Reflected in the faces of the passers-by
And the dark eyes that peaked through Judas holes
But were never home
Of children asking for our mother’s time
(“What time is your mudder?”)
The mocking flirtations of adolescent girls
And lonely old women

We promised to build an empire
Inside our poorly-heated, tiny two-story “cathedral”
That rivaled St. André, or so we believed
Promises made we couldn’t keep

Of course there was the sister from Issoudun
The toothless witch and her ugly daughters
The lonely and downtrodden of St. Denis,
Simple Raphael and the drug-addicted mother of nine
Who used our time to craft their fantasies
And to offer their confessions

Weekly strolls through Belle Isle
Where the city seemed almost human
Light conversation with the man at the American store
Where the city seemed almost home

And sometimes we imagined we were home, sort of,
Or at least where we belonged at the time
Believing we somehow made a difference
In some abstract way we couldn’t know
Promises kept

But we were glad to say goodbye
The day we departed

****

Visit to an Old Woman

She told me I was crying inside
But she was just a batty old fool
I spoke the truth and she was only guessing

Or did she really see something there?
Me, seated in my mission suit
Good books in hand and memorized lesson plan

She heard me, but didn’t listen
I didn’t want to hear her, I only wanted her to agree
And yet she penetrated my pious exterior
Exposing my fraud

****

Honey Manna

Matthew 25:34-40

Hungry and cold, wet and tired by 9 PM
A thousand doors of wasted skin on bruised knuckles
One more before we rest for the night

An elfish man answers and invites us in
Before we can finish our introduction
“I’ve met you guys - I mean your colleagues - before”, he says
As his wife serves fresh orange juice

We sit on a soft sofa of heavenly comfort
And offer to show a video - “Together Forever”
To husband, wife and son, now seated opposite us

They oblige, and watch with well-feigned interest
We are doing our job
They are doing us a favor

“Where are you from?” they ask in unison as the tape ends
The conversation turns to America and the western travels
Of the once younger man

The son dreams of tracing his father’s footsteps
“Not to live”, mind you, after all, he is “proud to be French!”
But he would like to visit

We turn to each other and, with a glance, we understand
Close our books, surrender to their questions
And become, for a moment, old friends from abroad

They give us a bag of honey candies and thank us for coming
Extend a hand of parting friendship and send us on our way
“Come back if you get hungry or just want to chat.”

We had come to share a message in words
Their message shared in deeds
“Merci beaucoup!”, we exclaim, and leave refreshed

****

Lourdes

We laughed at Lourdes
With her holy tap water and myriad souvenir shops
Some of us bought plastic-bottle Marys
As gag gifts for our friends back home

Did they really believe she was here
As they came, wheel chairs and crutches, seeking miracles?

Oh, sure, our stories seemed fanciful too
But our’s were true and their’s mere propaganda
Of our great and abominable foe
Our’s were of God and men in the promised lands of America
Their’s of women in a land of apathy and misguided idolatry

How could they believe the little illiterate Bernadette?

We laughed at Lourdes
Rude guests in the home of an invalid
We laughed at Lourdes
And she despised us

****

An Unmarried Couple

Baptismal Preparations

The man smokes cigarettes
He’ll have to quit
And I hope they don’t plan to finish
That bottle of wine on the counter
He reads a book by Loisy
We’ll introduce him to Talmage
The Renoir Bather on the wall
Will have to come down
(Pornography is the work of Satan, after all)
We’ll put a picture of the Salt Lake temple in its place
They’ll have to get married
Before the baptism
They can do it at the Mairie
No time for elaborate wedding plans
(It’s only a week away, after all!)
The woman stands to be disowned, she says
But we’ll be her family now
(For the month or so before we’re transferred anyway)

I can’t wait to write home
And share the good news

****

Hugette

“Chez Hugette, tout le monde fait la fête”

Hugette had an abortion once
When she was young and promiscuous
This was the great secret
She confided in us
But hid from God

"He still loves you!", we protested
But she was certain we were wrong
"Repent and be baptized!", we commanded
But she held to her conviction

Still she loved us and fed us
Listened to our sermons
And prayed for our successes
To the God she feared
(So we called her "la grandmère")

Some of us hoped she would come around
To see the error in her thinking
Others wondered if she was even wrong
To commit herself to eternal torment
(“After all, she had taken a life -
Is that forgivable?”)

Hugette is probably dead now
Already old and frail when we knew her
And knows, better than we did then,
Which God exists

****

Dreams of a Girl Back Home

I already love you

Though we’ve hardly met
And speak only through letters

You are the place that I go
When I want to remember
That I am young and alive
Bridging my past and my future

Your picture, painted on my soul
Finds its reflection in the colors
Of Le Berry’s countryside
Illuminating my smile
And shortening the passing time

Will you remember
Our many conversations
That take place in my mind
As I wander aimlessly an ocean away?

I once saw a tree in Les Herbiers
Two trunks emerged from one
Branches intertwined, leaves kissing
You and I, two and yet one

So I dream

****

Harry Pits

While Madame Levine
Kept her house and self clean
The same could not be said
Of her live-in guest's pits

Though the girl, quite divine
Despite her waistline
Her unkempt hairy bushes
Were havens for nits

Insect infected
They daily collected
An abundance of dirt
And of dirt-scented sweat

Her raising her arms
Threatened terrible harm
A shock and awe smell
One would never forget

But to one missionary
Soon back home to tarry
The odor a soft, sweet
Aphrodisiac

Two years celibate
Yearning to get
Just a whiff
Of such aphrodisiacal crack

[_Analytics]

Incredible poetry SoHo! I especially liked "An Unmarried Couple."

I don't know your story--how long before (or after) leaving the church did you write these? They come across as being fresh memories, yet jaded. I wonder how many recently-returned missionaries are this honest with themselves...

It reminds me of when I got home from my mission. My little sister said that when I was on my mission, she always thought of me the way I looked in the photo on the wall of the church's foyer--young and fresh with a brand-new crisp haircut and Mr. Mac suit to match. When I got off the plane she was shocked at how different I looked--my hair was a little longer and slightly unkept after the long plane ride, and my suits, shoes, socks, shirts, garments, and testimony were all pretty-much worn out.

[_SoHo]

Thanks very much, Analytics. All but one were written in a single sitting not too long after my mission, as I was reflecting on my experiences in France. They were very interesting to read for me as they much more accurately portray my emotional experience of the mission than the accounts in my mission journal. I was still in the church at the time, and remained until I couldn't stand taking my 4-yr old to primary to sing "Follow the Prophet" anymore. It's been about a decade, and I was fortunate enough to have my wife stop attending first. We were educated disaffecteds, having each gone fully through the program up until that point, but routinely coming home from church with significant issues with what was being taught - then research, then bam.

[_Dr. Shades]

Very good stuff, SoHo. Congratulations on coming up with such a unique way to express mission-related things.

At the end of the final poem, you write:

But to one missionary
Soon back home to tarry
The odor a soft, sweet
Aphrodisiac

Two years celibate
Yearning to get
Just a whiff
Of such aphrodisiacal crack

Are YOU that "one missionary?"

They were very interesting to read for me as they much more accurately portray my emotional experience of the mission than the accounts in my mission journal.

I'm fortunate in that I didn't sanitize my feelings in my own missionary journal (linked at "View Blog (683)" underneath my avatar). I figured that A) I didn't have anyone to impress, and B) the whole point of a journal is to get as accurate a picture of the past as possible anyway.

[_SoHo]

Very good stuff, SoHo. Congratulations on coming up with such a unique way to express mission-related things.

At the end of the final poem, you write:

But to one missionary
Soon back home to tarry
The odor a soft, sweet
Aphrodisiac

Two years celibate
Yearning to get
Just a whiff
Of such aphrodisiacal crack

Are YOU that "one missionary?"

I totally was. It was about my last month in a small city in France, had a really good friend and songwriting buddy as a comp. We would regularly visit with an older woman who was a long-time friend of the missionaries and provided us with service opportunities. She had no interest in the church, but would feed us. She had an 18-year old student living with her who didn't shave her armpits. One day at lunch, we were all sitting around and the woman suggested that I go get the guitar and sing. So the 18-year old offers to lead me up the stairs to where the guitar was (rather than just getting it herself). I follow behind as we walked up the stairs and got of whiff of what would have otherwise been terrible B.O., but having longed for a female touch for so long, actually found incredibly enticing. Within seconds, my companion was right behind me making sure I didn't "fall" at the very end of my time.

[_Dr. Shades]

Within seconds, my companion was right behind me making sure I didn't "fall" at the very end of my time.

It couldn't've happened automatically; she would've had to be willing in order for anything to happen (of course).

If your companion hadn't followed you upstairs, do you think she would've made a move?

[_beastie]

Thanks for sharing, SoHo, they’re beautiful.

We laughed at Lourdes
And she despised us

This is my favorite line. I served many years ago in Toulouse (during one of its incarnations, before being closed, then reopened, and heaven knows what state it is in right now) and also visited Lourdes. I felt so sad for those people – desperate and yet unaware that they need the True Priesthood for healings to work.

I loved France – I loved the countryside, the history, the food, and even French people, when I wasn’t trying to convert them to my religion. I would love to go back for an extended, relaxed visit one day. Even as a Mormon, I half-believed I had lived a previous life in France.

If I were to write a poem about France, I believe I’d write it about the young atheist mother who was kind to us and let us talk to her about religion now and then. I remember leaving her apartment feeling unsettled, knowing that she had the better argument. But all it proved, I told myself, was that she was a better debater and perhaps smarter than I was – it didn’t mean her argument, ie, atheism, was actually sounder than mine. It couldn’t be, because I “knew” the church was true.

Or maybe I’d write about the dark depression I experienced on my mission, incongruently in the most beautiful place I’d ever seen – Perpignan, on the Mediterranean. It was the only time in my life when thoughts of suicide entered my mind, although I immediately dismissed them because I knew it wouldn’t solve my problems, because God would be so mad at me on the “other side” my emotional and psychological torment would continue forever. At least I could look forward to my mission actually ending.

[_Blixa]

These poems are very good, Soho. I was really interesting and moving to read them. Do you think you will work on them some more or write others? A collection of missionary memories as poems would make a nice chapbook.

[_William Schryver]

SoHo,

I am breaking a vow to post here now, but I do so with sincere intent: to acknowledge the stark beauty in the honest but bitter rhythm of your poems.

I have, for a moment, seen through your eyes--or at least seen through them after a fashion, vague and clouded though it be; trembled at the thought of the pained futility of the journey they chronicle, even as they paint a picture of humanity's stoic resilience.

I always appreciate such experiences, even when they pain my heart, for, at least, they are real. And though I may have seen the same things differently than did you, I can understand your view, both in its light and its shadows.

My mission took me to southern Italy. Poor Italy. Desperate Italy. Italy under the heel of the ages. Where now a masterpiece is artichokes the size of grapefruits and grapefruits the size of melons.

Italy where belief is strong but faith often goes wanting.

Not much different in many ways, I suppose, from the France seen through your eyes.

And yet, despite it all, they had their joys.

And I had joys with them.
.
.
.
Again, thanks for sharing.

[_SoHo]

Shades - answer was probably not, issue was whether I would have tried - don't think so, but pretty desperate at 23 months.

Beastie - glad we share similar experiences. I'm sure you served in a "Troux" or two!

Blixa (sic - can't see on my screen) - the companion I mentioned in my earlier reply to Shades and I are developing a set of 10 vignettes that will presented as short plays of the overall mission experience in a hopefully unbiased way.

Will - thanks very much for your reply, means a lot. Some places are harder to serve than others, and some of us react differently to the experience than others. Now Elder Andersen (my first MP) used to tell the story of one of his companions who seemed destined to be a GA, but apostatized, while he stayed in the church - lesson being that France (probably like Italy and other European countries) can make or break you as far as the church is concerned. I had some amazing experiences on my mission as well, and appreciate the whole thing as unique life experience.


EDIT: By the way, I married the "Dreams of a girl back home" girl, and we're still going strong 16 years later, with girl 3 on the way.