The Obedient Missionary

Obedience. To the minute and the letter. That was my goal in the first weeks of my missionary service. So I eagerly dressed––practical church shoes for walking, breathable cotton clothing for the heat––and stood waiting by the door at exactly 10:00am to start proselytizing. At 10:01am, my nerves would start to shake, I’d pray we would not be punished for our tardiness.

I think my companion dawdled simply because I was at the door, waiting. Thank goodness that was all she did: she was a prize-winning boxer from El Salvador, and though I was about half a foot taller than her, she certainly could have flattened me with her forceful, five-foot stock. Instead, she maintained her Latina time schedule and only occasionally spoke speed-Spanish to complain about me over the phone to another sister in the district. My fledgling language skills obscured the words, but I understood the edge of frustration in her voice.

One afternoon, we entered the barrancos. A tight, winding road led down into a village and was lined with “lotes”—houses made of corrugated metal and dirt floors. Chickens squawked about; skinny dogs with bed-head and fleas roamed.

An old woman let us into her single-room spare home with nothing more than a few basic necessities: a stool, a table, a bowl, a cup. We quickly realize that this stop will not lead to a productive teaching experience: our perpetual goal as missionaries. Throughout Guatemala there are indigenous groups that speak a variety of languages. Sometimes they are fluent in Spanish as well as a dialect like Keckchi or Quiche, but this woman, with her matted silvery hair and leathery skin only spoke a dialect, and we were only trained in Spanish. I expected my companion to leave, march onward to the next door like a good Christian soldier—for all her tardiness in the morning, she was an energetic disciple, an excellent teacher with a significant conversion story from staunch Catholic to LDS missionary. In the absence of a meaningful way to communicate, I assumed our work was done there. Instead, she did something completely unexpected.

Using universal gestures, my companion points to the woman’s shoeless feet, cracked and caked with dirt. Signaling for her to sit, she helps the woman position herself on the squat, three-legged stool; she stretches her tired legs out toward us. My companion then tells me we are going to wash her feet.

Our fingers weave in and out and around her weather-beaten toes, up and over her ankles, smoothing out the creases only for them to crease right back again. I follow the tender movements of my companion in awe that her short thick hands, historically used to jab their way through life, could be so subdued and sympathetic, not out to conquer. First we soap and scrub with water. And in my memory we have lotion, but I’m not sure how it appeared; it couldn’t have been from this humble home but we rub lotion over, under, around and into her dry skin. And we stay, we stay there massaging as if we are paid masseuses.

It took time, but I finally stopped standing by the door at 10:00am. The spirit, I decided, cared more about the position of my heart, than the position of the hands on the clock. I started to understand that the real goal of my work was not always teaching-turned-baptism=success. And as my attunement and skills increased, my companion could no longer complain about me in a rapid Spanish I would not understand, but I’d like to think that was no longer needed.

Upon exiting that slightly warped doorway, with its hinges akimbo, I learned that disciples of Christ can and should communicate with much more than cómo te llamas or soy misionera. Latina time made space for love and grace, it went down the barranco in search of the one.