Conference, coffee cake, stake centers, upchucking and our living room TV

This post was originally published at StandardNET in 2010. With the Covid 19 pandemic and mandatory watching of LDS General Conference next week in all our homes, with an empty conference center and fewer than 10 general authorities in the massive conference center, I thought it appropriate to share this column on the blog.

Growing up in the late 60s and 70s in Southern California, conference was a big deal. It was a chance to see and hear those general authorities, the elderly men on the ward poster. Some of these holy men were born in the 1880s! 

In Long Beach, Calif., “general conference” meant a trip to the stake center or some other venue to watch it on what was called “closed-circuit television.” Does closed-circuit TV even exist anymore?

In our house, conference Sunday, the main day for conference, always meant my mother’s coffee cake, baked early and ready for the AM session. Always delicious, the smell of a treat meant to go with a hot drink will always remind me of conference.

I was young the first time I was able to actually go to Temple Square. It was a bit surreal for a youngster. Here, on the street, one could catch a glimpse of the men I read about in Leon Hartshorn books. I got to shake Richard L. Evans’ hand. And the crowd outside the Tabernacle actually sang “We Thank We O God for a Prophet” when David O McKay walked by.

It wasn’t all fun. I was squeezed to the point of tears by crowds eager to get a good seat. My mom, with a few sharp words, managed to move the mass. 

My most humiliating conference experience was early one morning, when we accidentally walked into a welfare meeting. Halfway through, my stomach started to flip due to an earlier pancakes and berry syrup feast. I started down the carpeted stairs but my stomach surrendered most of my breakfast.

I’ll never forget the horrified pitch of the voice of the usher. “He barfed on the Tabernacle carpet,” he said, more or less to himself. I was mortified, and alone. My parents were in their seats, unaware of their son’s transgression.

I’ll give that usher credit, though. He was a class act. Regaining his composure, he helped me to a restroom where I cleaned up quickly. He then returned me to my seat.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes from the time I upchucked to when I returned to the stairs, but those stairs were washed and cleaned until they shined. Now that’s priesthood efficiency!

Now I watch general conference in my living room. Even in California, we were able to do that by the early '80s. For several years my wife Kati translated talks into Hungarian. She’s been in the new Conference Center.

I haven’t been there yet. (I eventually attended a conference there in 2016). I’m satisfied with my living room conference seat. It’s closer to the bathroom ... and the coffee cake. (I also don't eat coffee cake since I went gluten-, dairy- and soy-free in 2017, but I cherish the memories of that wonderful food).

-- Doug Gibson

Racism in the Mormon war in Missouri

Originally published in 2014 at StandardBlogs

The Mormons’ deadly conflicts with Missouri residents during the 1830s have been covered well by historians. It led to the expulsion of Latter-day Saints from the state. There were faults on both sides, although via sheer numbers and influence, it was a battle the young Mormon church would lose.

The violence is posited — in part truthfully — as the result of native Missourians worried about the mostly emigrant Mormons achieving political power as “abolitionists.” Mormons say it was due to “religious intolerance,” others cite growing political power, arrogance and secretiveness from the Mormon emigrants that worried longtime residents. (This perception was not helped by some incautious meanderings on the state of free blacks by Mormon W.W. Phelps in a church publication.) I think more insight on “the Mormon War in Missouri” has been offered in a fascinating article in the Winter 2014 issue of The Journal of Mormon History. It’s titled “Some Savage Tribe”: Race, Legal Violence and the Mormon War of 1838.”

The author, Brooklyn, N.Y., lawyer T. Ward Frampton, argues convincingly that racism has been overlooked as a major reason for the violence, particularly such savage incidents as the Haun’s Mill Massacre, in which a Mormon boy and elderly Mormon were murdered after the initial shootings. In all, 18 were murdered by the mob of 250.

But getting back to Frampton’s article: He writes that there were three elements of racism exercised by the Missouri opponents of the Mormons. The first is one that other historians have agreed; that the Mormons, being Eastern immigrants, would be favorable toward abolition. These fears, Frampton argues, easily escalated into racist fears that the presence of Mormons would lead to a slave revolt as well as conflict with American Indians, with Mormons as confederates! As Frampton notes, in 1839, prior to the infamous extermination order that was issued, Missouri Gov. Lilburn W. Boggs received letters claiming ‘”there is a deeply laid scheme existing among these fanatics’ to unite with ‘immense numbers of Indians of various tribes … & work the general destruction of all that are not Mormons.” Boggs also received reports that Mormons were actively working with Indians to attack white non-Mormons.

With the Mormons established by Missouri opponents as allies of races the settlers despised, there was a second pernicious type of racism inflicted on the Mormons. As Frampton explains, the Mormons themselves, despite their white, eastern U.S. background, became regarded as “non-white” by their hostile neighbors. (It merits noting, as Frampton does, that the Mormons’ boasting that they were a chosen people, placed by God in Missouri, did not help assuage racist passions during the conflict.)

But, as Frampton shows, there are too many incidents in which Missourians used a racial context in trying to deny Mormons the vote. As the author writes, describing a violent incident in 1838, he quotes early Mormon leader Sidney Rigdon, who stated that Missourian Richard “(Weldon) swore that the Mormons were no more fit to vote than the d–d niggers” (sic). As Frampton adds, “as early as 1833, … the old settlers of Jackson County made clear their intentions to drive the new immigrants from the county, they took pains to cast the Mormons as akin to blacks.” (Frampton notes that the doctrine of Mormons being members of the tribe of Ephraim, and of “Israelite lineage,” as opposed to their depictions of non-Mormons as “gentiles” contributed to the strife that led to racial attacks on the new church’s members.”)

The third element of racism against the Mormons in Missouri is the most violent. As Frampton explains, it involved anti-Mormon Missouri militiamen painting their faces red or black before attacking Mormon settlements. Frampton writes, “these accounts consistently depict the painted Missourians as acting with a special depravity, suggesting that one function of such racial performativity was to open up a broader range of ‘acceptable’ conduct during the brutal conflict.” As Frampton adds, in that era of conflict, “whiteness (in contradistinction to the savagery of blacks and Indians) implied some minimal degree of restraint.” As a result, as one mob violence witness attested, ‘”With their faces painted in horrid Indian Style,’ the mobs suddenly became capable of committing unspeakable acts of violence,’” writes Frampton.

The Haun’s Mill Massacre (spelled Hawn’s in Frampton’s article) provides evidence for this specific racism, in which Missourians dehumanized themselves to kill Mormons who they considered worthy of the same contempt for living as they held for  as Indians and blacks. The murder of Sardius Smith, 10, demonstrates the racism involved. As Frampton notes, witnesses to the murder testified that the boy “Smith was hiding among the bodies of recently slain Mormons when he was discovered by a Missourian. The militiaman placed the muzzle of his gun to the boy’s head, declared ‘Nits will make lice,” and proceeded to blow off the upper part of Smith’s skull.”

The term “Nits will make lice” is extremely significant. As Frampton explains, it was a “phrase generally reserved for the killing of Indian children.” The militia/mob that attacked the Haun’s Mill settlement, with painted faces, were attacking individuals who they had dehumanized into the same racial prejudice that they assigned Indians. Frampton adds: “A late-nineteenth century Church history based largely on personal accounts, for example, commented that ‘it was openly avowed by the men of Missouri that it was no worse to shoot a Mormon than to shoot an Indian. …‘”

The murder of the Mormon child Sardius Smith, and other militia/mob depravities, support that claim.

Elements of racism cast the Mormon settlers as equal to blacks and Indians in the eyes of their Missouri neighbors. That sentiment eventually extended as far as the governor’s mansion, and to the many militias that overwhelmed the Missouri Mormons, forcing their expulsion from the state. (Photo above of Hauns Mill Massacre is credited to BYU).

-- Doug Gibson

Joseph Smith biography does not shy away from historical scrutiny

This review was originally published in 2005 at StandardNET.

Today is the bicentennial of Joseph Smith’s birth. Two hundred years later, his claims of divine guidance are debated with as much ferocity — if not violence — as when he was alive. Unquestioned is the success of the church he established. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints claims more than 12 million members. Its influence stretches beyond the ecclesiastical, reaching into political, judicial and financial chambers.

What made Joseph Smith’s church so far-reaching? Columbia Professor emeritus Richard Lyman Bushman’s “Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling,” offers clues. Bushman’s Joseph (he prefers the first name throughout the biography) is a prophet who slowly realized his calling. Sophistication as a religious leader and understanding of his religious calling took years. Smith was prone to anger and forgiveness, fear and courage, capable of finding talented people and seriously misjudging others.

Bushman’s catholic interpretation of Smith’s gradually adjusting to being a prophet is refreshing. As a believing Mormon, I am tired of watching films or reading books where, if you squint your eyes and look hard enough, you can either see or imagine the halo just above Joseph Smith’s head. Latter-day prophets and other church leaders are too often regarded as perfect individuals, rather than sinners, who like anyone else, make mistakes in their lives, seek forgiveness and continue to learn.

This fanciful view can extend to LDS Church history. Bushman, a Mormon, does not dismiss uncomfortable topics: Smith’s dabblings in money-digging; differing accounts of revelations; vigilante operations that exacerbated problems with frontier neighbors; a failed bank that seriously harmed the early church; political grandstanding that threatened longtime settlers; the secrecy of early plural marriage. All are discussed and, at least, placed in a context more even-handed than, say, an anti-Mormon website or ministry.

Bushman writes, “Joseph Smith did not offer himself as an examplar of virtue. He told his followers not to expect perfection. Smith called himself a rough stone, thinking of his own impetuosity and lack of polish.”

Readers may be surprised to discover that Smith visited President Martin Van Buren in an unsuccessful attempt to seek reparations from Missouri. Also, the prophet was involved in early preparations to move the church to the Rocky Mountains.

Prophets claiming revelations were common in Smith’s time. So why do his claims endure today? One reason from Bushman: The prophet did not make himself the center of early prostlyting efforts. Missionaries promised latter-day revelation, priesthood authority and a gathering of Israel. These three themes are prominent in an early newspaper article by Oliver Cowdery, reprinted in “Rough Stone Rolling.” It was these doctrines that gathered converts by the thousands.

To Bushman, the temple-endowment session is another reason Mormonism did not disappear. To many converts, it provided a path to deity. “This transition gave Mormonism’s search for direct access to God an enduring form. … The Mormon temple’s sacred story stabilized and perpetuated the original enthusiastic endowment,” writes Bushman.

Bushman describes the isolation of early frontier America. The reader understands the perils Mormons faced from larger mobs. Law and order was controlled by the largest bloc. Groups howling for murder, rape and pillaging were not necessarily stopped.

Early Mormons were responsible at times for inciting anger, but “Rough Stone Rolling” relates the fear of being surrounded by hostile forces with no protection.

Politicians in a position to help were either opportunists, such as Missouri Gov. Lilburn W. Boggs, or appeasers like Gov. Thomas Ford of Illinois, who talked blandly of a nonexistent rule of law.

Comprehending the obsessive hatred that drove the murder of Smith still remains a mystery, though Bushman tries to explain it. What caused ordinary men, such as newspaper editor Thomas Sharp — perhaps most responsible for Smith’s murder — to call for killing?

Bushman writes, “It was fear of the familiar gone awry. … Joseph was hated for twisting the common faith in biblical prophets into the visage of the arrogant fanatic, just as the abolitionists twisted the principle of equal rights into an attack on property in slaves. Both turned something powerful and valued into something dangerous. Frustrated and infuriated, ordinary people trampled down law and democratic order to destroy their imagined enemies.”

After the Mormons left Nauvoo, Sharp lived a nonviolent small-town life, serving as mayor, justice of the peace and judge.

“Rough Stone Rolling” will not satisfy those who hate Mormonism or those who wish to shield the faith from historical scrutiny. But Bushman’s superior biography of an interesting life will leave most wanting to learn more.

-- Doug Gibson

Acid Test: LSD vs. LDS is an '80s Mormon punk conversion memoir

Review by Doug Gibson

"Acid Test LSD vs. LDS," 2020, Zarahemla Books, is a long-awaited memoir from Mormon writer, editor and publisher, Christopher Bigelow. At its foundation, it's a re-conversion tale. The author chucks away his Mormon faith -- proclaiming it bland and conformist -- after graduating high school, and re-converts after a short spell of trying to acclimate himself to what he describes as a "chaotic neutral" existence, to use a Dungeons and Dragons term.

The seeking-to-be-"chaotic-neutral" period involves sampling or observing modes of life his religion prohibits, or frowns on: including semi-communal living, a brief sojourn back to his childhood area, Southern California, drug use (particularly LSD), shunning higher education, scattered low-paying work life, attempts at a punk lifestyle, launching a punk 'zine that focuses more on critical thought than reviews and interviews,  fornication, mooching from parents, satanism, petty theft, and homosexuality.

At its heart though, "Acid Test," I suspect, is an homage to an era of Salt Lake City counterculture of the mid-1980s, when the city boasted an often unique punk and New Wave culture, with local bands, and musical venues and clubs filled with younger adults embracing a movement at odds with Mormon culture, and for that matter, Reaganism. Even readers, such as myself, with musical tastes that never approach punk, will smile with nostalgia as Bigelow recalls journeys to Cosmic Aeroplane shop or the Blue Mouse theater. This was also the era of Mormon conman/murderer Mark Hofmann, scamming gullible LDS Church leaders with fake memorabilia, and bombing people to death.

It really was a crazy time.

The very young Bigelow packed a lot of life into the short time this memoir covers. In Salt Lake area lodgings that eventually became packed with friends and squatters, he stayed in several locations. At times the reader forgets he's a youngster, 17 when the tale starts. He has an endearing immaturity mixed with an unfeigned quest to challenge conventions. At the beginning, nothing frightens him. Even the occult is a subject worth exploring.

The author's family history is etched in Mormon history, Heber C. Kimball, Brigham Young, and many more, all related to the author. The teenage Bigelow is perceptive enough to understand that the corporate-life LDS Church he shunned in 1984 was once a progressive, way-out-of-the mainstream religion when Joseph Smith and Brigham Young were its prophets. Many early church policies and doctrines we don't talk much about today fascinate Bigelow and his adventures in Acid Test seem an effort to connect with the spiritual bohemianism of his early-LDS ancestors

For someone who has never taken LSD, Bigelow's vivid descriptions of what the world appears like to an LSD user tripping is fascinating and almost, but not quite, tempts this reviewer to sample it. However, later in the memoir, Bigelow's enthusiasm for drugs is tempered, replaced by a fear that it's a tool of dark entities to lead souls away from spirituality.

Bigelow was already an accomplished 'zine publisher as a high school student. In Acid Test, he recounts efforts to start a 'zine, called Flourishing Wasteland. After a spotty start, he works very hard on issue 2. However, his interest wanes and then concludes as he begins a re-conversion to the LDS Church.

The author's effort to cast aside concepts of good, and evil start to shake a bit after he takes LSD a lot. He senses deception in his LSD experiences, questions how real they are. He is also fascinated with the Stephen King novel, "The Stand," which involves a near total loss of human life and survivors who gravitate toward locations with leaders who represent good and bad.

There is a central reason Bigelow returns to Mormonism, and this memoir (a trilogy is planned) ends with the author's mission approaching. I don't want to give away the distinct event that motivates Bigelow to give up an alternative lifestyle and return to staid Mormonism. Getting around that, reading Acid Test made me think about all those Bible-like quotes in the Book of Mormon that talk about a sinner being past the point of redemption and consigned to hell. I don't like any idea of a literal hell but Acid Test posits to me the possibility that those types of scriptures, in the Book of Mormon or The Bible, are talking not about a hypothetical lake of fire but instead a consistent state of wickedness that goes on too long, leaving the sinner devoid of grace, incapable of repentance, and redemption.

Another reason for the author's disillusionment for "chaotic neutral" is more simple. He loves a teenage girl. Her promiscuity causes him normal pain. He includes her in his re-conversion efforts. She joins in the effort but the relationship seems shaky as the memoir ends.

Bigelow is a very talented writer. I read a review that compared Tom Wolfe's "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" to the memoir. It's probably apt but I thought more of George Orwell's memoir/fiction when I was reading. Bigelow's conflicted thoughts, yearning for a meaning, and despair of a shaky love reminded me Orwell's "Burmese Days." His at-times narrative, matter-of-fact, without-self-pity accounts of unpleasant circumstances (including a date with middle-aged male "chicken-hawk" ) remind me of the style of Orwell's 'Down and Out in Paris and London."

Late in the book, Bigelow laments that, for the most part, he's not getting the spiritual charge he's led himself to believe that conversion to the faith promises. The Scriptures are a tough slog, church meetings are still regimented, even the Temple lacks the spiritual manifestations that others have talked of. It's a reminder that spiritual experiences are rare commodities for most of us, and that endurance is a more valuable tool toward church activity.

Bigelow grew up in a family with parents that represent an earlier generation follower of Mormonism, one that talked more of the Three Nephites, of Cain roaming the earth, of White Horse Prophecies, and demons struggling to lead us into darkness. Each life is a battle between good and evil. Spiritual manifestations seemed to be more common in "those days." Bigelow mentions his mother having several spirit observances. On a side note, my parents were that way. My late mother once told me she saw the Savior's profile in the temple.

Ultimately, these traditionalist Mormons serve as a catalyst for the author's return to his family's faith. They never abandoned their son, and were often ready to provide assistance. This underscores another strength of the memoir; that love is still a commandment, even if the recipient is not living as parents, or others, might wish they lived. Some of the characters in Acid Test had depressing futures and ends. Others had better futures. Some of them did not receive unconditional love.

You can buy Acid Test LSD vs. LDS via Amazon here.

Utah's first serious presidential candidate — Christensen, not Romney

Utah’s first serious presidential candidate was not Mitt Romney, of course, or even Sen. Orrin Hatch, who ran a weak race in 2000 that ended after he received 1 percent in the Iowa caucus. 

I’ll bet most have no idea that 90 years ago, Utah fielded a presidential candidate that many newspapers — incorrectly — thought might have a shot at winning a few states. His name was Parley Packer Christensen. The Salt Lake City resident was a bachelor, a Unitarian, a former Salt Lake County attorney, and former candidate for U.S. Congress. He was also the Farmer-Labor Party’s 1920 nominee for U.S. president.

A fascinating article by Gaylon L. Caldwell from the October 1960 Utah Historical Quarterly provides loads of great historical information on Christensen’s candidacy. The Salt Lake Tribune mostly criticized and ridiculed Christensen as a defender of labor unions. The Deseret News afforded him more respect. However, according to the article, the Tribune predicted Christensen would carry six states.

Of course, history records that Christensen carried no states. In a days when polls were nonexistent, third parties still under-performed. On election day, Christensen tallied 265,411 votes, finishing fourth behind Republican Party winner Warren Harding, 16,152,200 votes, Democratic Party nominee James M. Cox, 9,147,353 votes, and Socialist Eugene V. Debs, who was in prison, with 919,799 votes. Finishing fifth was Prohibition Party candidate Aaron S. Watkins with 189,408 votes.

As Caldwell points out, “the final tally ... reinforced the old axiom of American politics that new parties begin with a burst of enthusiasm only to fade away.” There is a parallel between the Farmer-Labor Party of 1920 and the post-H. Ross Perot Reform Party. Once a dynamic personality or symbol leaves a third party, the bloom is gone.

How Christensen grabbed the Farmer-Labor nod is really interesting. As Caldwell recounts, it was big news in the summer of 1920 in Chicago at the Farmer-Labor convention, which was populated by a smorgasbord of political movements — left and right — looking for an alternative to the two main parties.

Christensen was a convention leader. There was a “committee of 48” that tried unsuccessfully to recruit a consensus candidate. That’s not surprising since two major contenders were ultra-right-wing automobile maker Henry Ford and the Socialist Debs.

Christensen, a persuasive leader, saw his opportunity and arranged alliances with lesser candidates. He finished second on the first ballot, which eliminated all but the two top finishers. On the second ballot, Christensen easily garnered the nomination. 

Christensen ran an energetic campaign and attracted nationwide press. In the Aug. 1, 1920 New York Times, reporter Charles Welles Thompson wrote, “The Republicans are getting a little uneasy over the unlimited activity of Parley Packer Christensen, the candidate of the Farmer-Labor Party. He seems a most virile and extensive person. ...”

Christensen also criticized the imprisonment of Debs, saying, “Mr. Debs may be utterly wrong in his ideas as how best to conduct the affairs of society, and so may I be and so may you, but my conception of liberty includes the right to think wrong.”

After reading Caldwell’s excellent account, I think another reason Christensen under-performed is that he was too moderate for a third party. Although clearly a liberal, he was not socialist enough to take many votes from Debs, but he was too liberal for Ford supporters, who returned to the Republican Party in the general election.

Nevertheless, Parley Parker Christensen is an individual worthy of our respect. I doubt, however, that his name is mentioned in any school rooms below the college level.

-- Doug Gibson

This column was previously published at StandardNet.

The Lost 116 Pages book explores Mormonism's great mystery

Review by Doug Gibson

Mormonism is a young religious movement. Perhaps our most prominent mystery is what's in the missing 116 pages of The Book of Mormon. The story, told so often: Transcriber Martin Harris pesters Joseph Smith to let him take a stack of translated pages to assuage his skeptical wife, Lucy. Once he has the pages, Harris loses them. The Lord rebukes Smith and Harris, and because of that, we have a shorter Book of Mormon.

The lost 116 pages is a sort of Holy Grail-mystery for many of the LDS faithful. What's in it, we wonder. Don Bradley, a prominent Latter-day Saint historian, has tackled the task of interpreting the timeline and what may indeed be in those lost pages. "The Lost 116 Pages: Reconstructing the Book of Mormon's Missing Stories," Greg Kofford Books, Salt Lake City, 2019, is not an easy read. It's a scholarly work, and moves at a slow, deliberate, very detailed pace. It can be a slog at times, but it is ultimately rewarding.

I don't want this to be too much of a spoiler review, revealing to readers what is undoubtedly the most important part for many: what's in those lost pages, according to Bradley. A few tidbits of what is offered: The author's research leads him to opine that the Lost Pages are a narrative-heavy version of the time of Lehi and family in Jerusalem through the early chapters of Mosiah.

Bradley believes that the annual Passover observance coincides with the exodus from Jerusalem and the eventual possession by Nephi of the Brass Plates. Also, he believes that Lehi's followers constructed a movable temple during their journey. Readers may guess correctly that short accounts in the Book of Mormon, after the Book of Jacob, are opined to possess more detail in the Lost Pages. Topics include internal apostasy and more detail on a character named Aminadi, described as a forefather of Amulek, a missionary. In the Book of Mormon, Aminadi, an ancestor of Ishmael, is noted for interpreting writing on the wall of the temple, penned by the finger of God.

A LARGER 116 PAGES?

According to Bradley, the portion of the first 116 pages lost by Harris was much larger than what we would conceive as 116 pages today. The type of paper that was used to transcribe was roughly 13 by 17 inches. Also, through research of the various transcribers used by Smith and estimates of time spent and what could be accomplished, Bradley posits the possibility that the "116 pages" are at least 200 pages, and possibly as many as 300. The author devotes a section on potential thieves of the manuscript. He assigns a low possibility of guilt to Harris' wife, Lucy, who has often been blamed for the theft in Mormon lore.

Bradley's research is impressive. The book is heavy with footnotes, some dominating pages. Sources include Lucy Mack Smith's recollections, as well as a critical edition of same edited by historian Lavina Fielding Anderson. There arevarious 19th century published accounts of the translation from persons close to those involved. Also, the author draws parallels to events depicted or hinted at in the Book of Mormon to similar events or religious rituals depicted in The Bible.

A final note: I have noticed in conversations with friends about this book a distinction in reception. Some members seem interested, and even excited. Other members seem more reserved, even skeptical of the attempt. Granted I have only a few to several subjects, but I wonder if some members feel that the lost 116 pages should remain a great mystery, and not the subject of scholarly speculation. Is it a cultural issue?

As for me, I think it's a great, fascinating read. You can buy it from the publisher here, or via Amazon here.

Iquitos in 1983, a story of my LDS mission

Above and below are three photos of Iquitos, Peru, in  1983. I was a greenie missionary there for about 60 days. That's me above by the baptismal font. This past week, trying to find escape times while enduring a loved parent's death, I browsed through old computers, stored for 15 to 20 plus years, unopened. I encountered a 5950-word short story that until it jogged my memory a bit, I had completely forgotten. "Iquitos in 1983" was written in 1999 over the course of several months, so say my notes. It's a narrative story, heavy on description, based on my mission experiences. The narrator is me, although some of the characters and situations occurred in other Peruvian locations I tracked in. But every location is in Iquitos, situated by the Amazon River.

Either I wrote it for a contest in which I neither won, placed or showed, or, maybe more likely, I had an idea to write very descriptive stories of locations I served in Peru. You see, my mission journal was stolen at a Chimbote, Peru, bus stop late in my mission. I hated losing my journal. Maybe rediscovering this story will spur me to write "Chiclayo in 1983," "Lima in 1984" and Chimbote in 1984." That seems a fun goal for 2020.

I want to share this story on the blog as an example of a missionary's experiences in Iquitos 37 years ago. Through social media and communicating with friends in Peru I know that many areas I once trod have experienced economic upticks two generations later. I love Peru and appreciate my many close friends who live there. I hope readers enjoy the short story:

                                                             Iquitos in 1983

---

In a small room at the back of the storefront Latter-day Saint Church on Avenue Tupac Amaru in Iquitos, Peru, Elder Tom Harris supported his upper body by the elbows and laid on the bed watching the blades on the portable fan twirl around. Sweat poured down the sleepy elder's forehead, rolled around the eyelids and continued down his cheeks. It was June and the humidity hovered near the 110 mark.

Tom rose from his bed, two church pews with a mattress on top, saw it was 3:15 p.m. and went in search of his companion Elder Eric Robertson. He found the 19-year-old Twin Falls, Idaho, native inspecting the baptismal font scheduled to be used tomorrow afternoon.

"It looks just fine, Elder," Robertson said, waving his hand over the small, squarish, outdoor concrete font located within the church property. On top of the green-colored water, several unlucky insects lay floating.

"Boy, you're getting skinny Elder, you've got to eat more paneton," Robertson remarked, referring to the well-preserved sweet bread Peruvians enjoyed almost daily.

Elder Robertson had been in the Peru, Lima, North mission for about four months.  Tom, five weeks in the field, was his "greenie." He was fortunate to have Robertson as a companion. The small, blonde haired Idaho farm boy was a hard worker with a very strong commitment to the gospel.  It was a testimony that Elder Harris had leaned on a lot the past few weeks.

A 19-year-old product of Southern California "suburbia," Tom, a "born in a the baptismal font" Mormon had lived his entire life in Long Beach, Calif. He'd been a swimmer and a lifeguard before promptly entering the mission field six months after his last birthday. When the call to Peru came, he'd uttered a quick prayer of thanks that he was going foreign and checked the globe to pinpoint his ultimate destination. After eight quick weeks in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Tom and five others boarded the Peru-bound plane at Salt Lake City, stopped at Denver, Atlanta and Miami for short layovers, and finally had flown through a rainstorm to arrive in Lima.

After a couple of days of wide-eyed staring, he'd been assigned to Iquitos, a medium-sized city in the heart of the Amazon Jungle about 100 miles west of the Brazilian border and several hundred miles north of Lima. He'd cheered when he heard the news since all the elders in his group had wanted "The Amazon" as an early assignment.  On the airplane Tom practiced his Spanish with a Peruvian sister missionary.

Nothing, especially the MTC culture classes, which he now realized were silly sideshows featuring displayed Peruvian money and teachers dressed in cute Inca garb, had prepared him for what Iquitos really was.

It was a place unfamiliar to a Southern California native as the surface of the moon would have been. Dust, homelessness, poverty and garbage could have passed as a descriptive thesis. Uncollected trash blew softly down streets as thick-waisted men and women, some balancing heavy packages on their heads, hawked everything from baked goods to match sticks in booths and tables spaced a few feet apart. Small, dusty, grayish family stores, bakeries, bookstores, barber shops, little diners, etc., lined the avenues. Schoolchildren dressed in grey Catholic uniforms rushed with scabbed knees to one-storied buildings with cracked windows and graffiti-ridden walls.  Pickpockets and sneak thieves roamed the streets searching easy, unprotected prey. Tom had 15,000 soles stolen by a thief who had boldly snuck up behind the young missionary and grabbed the cash from a front pocket. Burglaries in their room were commonplace. Every pair of Levis Tom had brought from home had already been stolen despite the elders changing locks every few weeks.

On the street corners herds of adults waited patiently for battered, 1950-type buses that arrived every minute already full of passengers. To get on the bus and ride, travelers hung over the exit with a hand clasped to a pole or window edge and one foot stretched just far enough to just reach the open exit. The high humidity, mixed with the very hot temperatures, made the air heavy. Tom's armpits, collar and waist were usually drenched in sweat before noon. Although rainstorms frequently erupted, fierce, quick bursts of storms that caused havoc for a half hour and echoed loudly off the tin roofs, the sun's rays quickly destroyed evidence of those "monsoons." City-wide blackouts were common. Smells that had never assaulted Tom's nasal passage now introduced themselves daily. They were in part, mixtures of sweat, garbage, rotten fish, sugar, boiling soup, boiling rice, ice cream, dust, gasoline, beer, dirty feet, unwashed bodies, flea-ridden animals, exhaust from cars, and feces, both animal and human.

Down the street a little boy lived in a cardboard box behind a donut stand. The child, who never awakened before ten, always slept with his tiny feet protruding from the outside of his makeshift home. Every morning the missionaries walked by the youngster and stepped over carefully wrapped paper that contained the child's feces.

With Peru's lack of middle-class population and high unemployment and disemployment rates, political fervor and unrest was high. On the sides of buildings and fences were scrawled the terms "Izquierda Unida," (United Left) "Sendero Luminoso," (Shining Path, a Maoist terrorist group) "PCP" (Communist Party of Peru) and voices constantly yelled "!Escucha Belaunde, el Pueblo no Se Vende!," a chant that told Peru's current president that the people would not allow themselves to be "sold." Youths about the same age of Tom would jeer at the two missionaries, shout insults and slogans that Tom never understood and occasionally toss a poorly aimed rock at the two missionaries. Soldiers also had their fun. One day, the two missionaries traveled past a company of Peruvian soldiers. Tom heard their leader bark a command and suddenly every gun was pointed at the two elders. He was in pure terror until Elder Robertson nudged him and pointed at the laughing sergeant.

What impressed Tom the most about Iquitos, however, had been his inability to escape dysentery. It clung to him from the first 48 hours he'd arrived in the jungle and refused to let go. Every morning he'd have to make at least five trips to the toilet before they left about 9:15 for the mile walk to their pension, a place they ate. Every afternoon and night included three, sometimes four, bathroom visits and tracting was always interrupted every couple of hours for a pit stop.

Losing weight had been the natural result of the illness. His belt needed to be fastened at the third loop to keep his pants up and Tom, who stood two inches taller than six feet, guessed his pre-Peru weight of 175 had dropped about 15 or 20 pounds.

The two had just spent the "siesta hours" from 12:30 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. studying (Tom also sleeping) and were ready to tract for another five and a half hours before calling it a night. There was only one appointment for that evening so a lot of doors needed to be knocked.

As he grabbed a piece of Peruvian brown chocolate before leaving, Tom thought for the 500th time of how stupid he had been to throw away the last half of his pack of Oreo Double Stuff cookies as he left the airplane at Jorge Chavez Airport in Lima. The sweets hadn't seemed a necessity at the time. Now he dreamed about Oreo cookies and how wonderful the thick, white cream would taste between the chocolate outsides. The best Peruvian cookies for sale, "called Galletas del Norte," (Northern cookies) were thin, artificial chocolate-tasting strips with only the barest amount of cream filling put in the middle. They tasted a bit like he imagined burnt wood with very old shaving cream would.

"Elder, why don't we go visit Hermana Vasquez," Elder Robertson suggested as the pair turned toward the downtown plaza. Traveling around the statue-filled park were the curious looking "mototaxis," motorcycles with three wheels and a canopy-covered seat in the back where paying customers traveled to various destinations. Tom had ridden one once (there was room for two) and found the bumpy ride more exciting than conventional taxis.

"Whatever you say is fine with me, Elder," Tom replied wondering who Hermana Vasquez was. He looked at the "Centro" movie theatre. "Rambo," Con Stallone," it read. Tom wondered if the film was "First Blood." They continued down Avenue Ejercito and walked past a bookstore with magazines on display. One read "The Ring, In Espanol," and Tom, a long-time boxing fan, wondered who was fighting who. An imbecile wearing nothing but trousers cut off at the knees walked past the elders. The dust was caked to his body. In the skies Peruvian Air Force jets practiced maneuvers. Afternoon papers, already out, were displayed at the newstands. The headline of the "Republica" read "Senderos Matan 47 Campesinos en Huanaco." (Shining Path Kills 47 Peasants in Huanaco). An elderly Peruvian lady with a bundle of fried bread carefully balanced on her head walked toward the two missionaries.

"Let's buy some bread Elder. It's my treat," Elder Robertson suggested. Stopping the lady, he asked "?Cuanto cuesta por dos piezas?," (How much for two portions?).

"Cinqueeentraaaa Liibreeees," (500 soles) the woman replied in the long, drawling manner of speaking so familiar among jungle-dwelling Peruvians. After paying they both bit into the delicious, fried food with sugar sprinkled on the bread. Tom finished his portion in less than a minute. It was a snack he was later to regret having eaten.

After turning left from Ejercito and continuing down a main street the pair turned right into a small avenue that led to a block of poorly constructed homes called "pueblo jovenes." The dirt street was bookended by long streams of "shanties," homes makeshiftedly constructed of wood, plywood, mud brick, etc. Few of the structures boasted windows, most substituting paper over the holes. In other dwellings a blanket or piece of plywood acted as a door. Through the middle of the road twisted a small, dirt canal where ducks, hens, roosters and pigs relieved themselves and bathed in the cold water with children. Young Peruvian teenagers and boys traveled over wooden bridges across the road and down the block. Most, because of the hot weather, wore only bathing trunks. Girls wore straight, light dresses that came down to the knees. At the corner a group of teenagers played an energetic volleyball game with only a suspended line of string as a net. One girl, diving for the ball, came to a sliding stop at Tom's feet.

"Lo siento, gringo," she giggled before scooping up the ball and returning to the game.

Most of the toddlers scurried around in yellow diapers or ran naked. Several children, playing, ran as they pushed old tires down the street. Because running water wasn't available in the pueblo joven, every few moments a mother would open the front door of her home and toss a bucketful of used water into the street. There were few men in the area at that hour. Most were either working or, if out of steady employment, selling wares on the more busy streets. Glancing at the ground Tom saw many discarded centavo coin pieces. Now that Peru was using the "sol" monetary system. The one, five, and 10 centavo pieces were worthless and obsolete. Scattered among the old coins were a few Brazilian cruzieros. He picked up several as souvenirs and stuffed them in his pocket.

As the elders approached the Vasquez home, they saw the sister sitting in front of her adobe home selling flat, hard rolls of yesterday's bread for 50 soles a piece. Tom, who now recognized her, couldn't remember ever seeing her away from the bread stand. She was about 70 years old and talked in a soft slow, drawling speech. Her hands were gnarled from too much hard work. A member of the church for about six months, the white-haired, bare-footed, thin woman clad in a white garment that resembled a longyi showed her four remaining teeth when she smiled at the elders.

"Hola Elderes. Que Taaal," Hermana Vasquez asked. She offered the pair a piece of bread, and not waiting for a response, gave one to each.

Both replied they were fine and after a few moments of small talk Elder Robertson asked her if her husband Antonio had shown a desire to receive the "charlas," LDS lessons.

"He's in the house. But I don't know. How that man drinks! He suffers horribly without beer. I would like it so much if he knew Jesus Christ since his drinking costs so much money," Hermana Vasquez related in Spanish with much arm waving. She told the two to go into the house and waved the elders through. The Vasquez home was a short dwelling, about 5 feet, 5 inches in height. It was necessary for the elders to hunch down as they entered. The floor was hard dry adobe. They found Antonio Vasquez lying on the living room floor next to a wooden chair and table with old crates around it. He was just lying there, fully clad without a pillow, mattress or blanket. Several calendar pictures that included a Catholic Procession where a purple-clad multitude marched, a black priest in a brown robe with a cat, dog and mouse eating from the same bowl, a picture of Christ with a glowing heart over his chest and several of naked calendar girls, adorned the room in an untidy order.

"Hola, Hermano Vasquez," Elder Robertson said in a jolly tone. The old man, short with a twisting, almost hunchbacked body, opened his eyes and focused on the two elders.

"?Hermanos?"

The ancient raised himself up and shifted his legs into a squatting position.

"Como esta, Hermano Vasquez?," Elder Robertson asked. Antonio Vasquez responded by describing to the two elders in detail a litany of ailments that were afflicting his body. He had boils, a sore back, a sore throat, fever, flat feet which hurt to walk on, a severe cold and several other illnesses Tom couldn't translate quickly enough from Spanish to English. However, the elderly gentleman displayed little enthusiasm for listening to a "charla." He hemmed and hawed, said he had to do this and that, but finally the elders were able to get him to agree to an appointment for Monday morning at 10 a.m. They wished Antonio well and said goodbye to Hermana Vasquez before leaving.

"You know he's not going to show for the charla Monday," Tom told Elder Robertson.

"Oh, you're probably right elder, but you never know. We give them the chance at least."

After continuing a couple of blocks, the pair decided to begin "tocando puertas" (knocking doors). The first home was a small dwelling of bricks that were piled on top of each other to compose about three rooms. There was no mortar or filling to connect the material. It was simply hundreds of bricks piled upon each other.

"You take this one, Elder Harris."

Tom knocked three times on the wooden door. They heard light footsteps and a small Peruvian girl of about five years answered the door.

"Hi little girl. Is your mommy or daddy at home? Tom asked in Spanish. The child smiled shyly and said nothing. Behind her a toddler boy of about two years sat naked on the floor playing with a duck.

"We're missionaries. We'd like to speak with your parents," Tom continued.

"Mami!," the child yelled as she took off in pursuit of her mother. The missionaries heard hushed voices behind a curtain separating the living room from the kitchen.

"My mommy is not at home," the girl told the elders in Spanish when she returned.

The elders looked at each other and exchanged smiles.

 "Could you ask her when she's going to return home? Elder Robertson suggested to the youngster.

The girl dutifully returned to her kitchen to ask her mother when she would return home. There were a few moments of hushed conversation. The elders heard a female, adult voice say crankily in Spanish. "I told you to say I wasn't home!" A moment later the youngster came back with a perplexed look on her young face.

"My mommy is not here," she said.

"Gracias, nina," both elders replied and left the house.

The elders gradually followed a series of blocks that followed a semi circle path east before leading out again to Avenida Ejercito. They knocked at about 20 doors the next two and a half hours and delivered six first charlas, which dealt with the life of Jesus Christ and also required the pair to challenge the investigator to set a baptismal date. Six persons accepted the challenge and second charlas that dealt with the plan of salvation were scheduled.

"In the MTC they told me that knocking doors only converts one for every 1,000 investigators you contact. But it seems here about every tenth person ends being baptized," Tom mused to Elder Robertson.

"Yeah, you know, Elder, in Europe they must have to knock about 10,000 doors just to get one convert," Elder Robertson replied.

"We need to get more adults, I feel like the Pied Piper teaching so many kids."

"Well, maybe the parents will start coming along, Elder."

As they turned right into a heavily populated, very green and dense pueblo joven, Tom thought about the Herrera family. Brother and Sister Herrera and their five children had been baptized by the elders almost two weeks ago at the chapel. Although the sister and her five children had arrived bright and early for church the following week, the father had been absent. That hadn't been too surprising, since that dad had missed the family's regularly scheduled baptism time and had to be dunked under the water later that night.

After searching for Brother Herrera after the baptism, Tom and Elder Robertson had located him asleep at his home. He had smelled slightly of alcohol but announced that he was ready "to enter the waters of baptism." Elder Robertson had been concerned enough to take Brother Herrera to the zone leaders for an interview. It was determined that despite getting drunk on his day chosen to enter the church, he was fit for baptism that night.

Tom didn't question the logic openly. Greenies don't do that. And “the zonies” had helped him adjust to Iquitos by staying close to his program and frequently dropping by to inquire on his state of health and mind. Besides, every zone had a baptismal goal for each month. And baptizing a father and potential priesthood holder was no easy feat. Tom hoped the elders at the ward would fellowship Brother Herrera so he'd eventually feel welcome. The man's baptism, hours after church services finished, had only been witnessed by the four elders and the rest of the Herrera family.

The elders arrived at a long, lean looking tenement-type building on the outskirts of their program. The paint was peeling from the interior. A dog lay in front of a door scratching its fleas and oblivious to the presence of a sleeping cat two doors down. It reminded Tom of a Norman Rockwell painting, except things were in more disrepair. Here resided Juan Torres, a 21-year-old student of engineering who despite his best efforts, was too poor to get into the university at Iquitos. Currently he was studying at one of the many post-high school academies that poor Peruvians attended until they were able to get in college or just decide to give up trying. Juan spoke broken English. He was also the son of the ward mission leader. They walked up three flights of stairs to his small, two-room apartment.

Tom remembered Juan's father warning the elders of how rude and obnoxious his son would be during the charlas. "He's a good son, but doesn't trust North Americans,” he said in Spanish. The crazy boy thinks that the United States is against the Peruvian people."

True enough, he'd been a pain during the first charla. Every sentence of the lesson had produced a quick question from a smiling Juan. Some were as deep as where was Christ during the three days he was dead and others were as ridiculous as whether or not Mary was a Hebrew. A lesson that usually lasted about 20 minutes had continued for more than two hours before finally finishing.

Elder Robertson had patiently sifted through all of Juan's questions that first day. Finally, when challenged for baptism Juan took off his glasses, wiped his forehead, and with a smile, replied that was fine so long as they answered all his questions.

"No problem," Elder Robertson had replied with his own smile. The funny thing was after that first charla, Juan had apparently decided he liked the "gringos" because he never brought up another question, ridiculous or serious. Today was the fifth charla. It dealt with repentance.

After some kidding around and small talk, the elders settled down and began the lesson. Juan sat quietly nodding and only responding when being asked a question. After the charla was finished and the baptismal goal reinforced, Juan asked the elders if they thought Peru's women's volleyball team had a chance next week against the U.S. squad.

"They going to destroy the Norte Americaan girls," was Juan's assessment of the match.  The elders good naturedly defended their country's team.

"See you both tomorrow," Juan said as they left his apartment.

"It's about time to head out and see Elder Post and Elder Stone," Robertson told Tom.  As a "district leader," Tom's companion was really in charge of two programs. Post and Stone were two missionaries who worked on the east side of Iquitos. Their area was like most of the other areas, a mix of urban and slum areas. The elders, on Tom's insistence, took a mototaxi across town.

While walking up a dirt road toward the gate of the elder's home, Robertson and Tom were treated by the neighborhood children to a ceaseless chorus of "Chicla Libre!." It made no sense but the kids chanted it anyway. Some, engrossed in other matters, nevertheless took the time to stare at the elders and ritualistically chant "chicla libre." Elder Robertson explained to Tom that some past elder and probably taught them to say something like that in English and the sound stuck.

"Hey, look. There's some cross people," Tom pointed out to Elder Robertson.

 The cross people were an odd looking cult of persons who always wore long, flowing white robes with a green sash and a large cross hanging over their neck on a string. Some hung the cross with a chain. No one seemed to know exactly what doctrine they believed in but the cross people always walked slowly around with benign, contented expressions on their countenances so Tom figured they were happy. The cross lady Tom had pointed out turned toward the elders, bowed slightly with a beatific smile, and continued walking.

"It's evil to place that much emphasis on the tool that killed Jesus Christ," Elder Robertson said as he shook his head. "Elder, this city is just full of sin."

Tom pushed open the gate and both walked toward the small room where Elders Post and Stone lived. Both elders were outside washing by a small pump. Elder Post was the senior companion. Stone was a greenie who had arrived in the same group as Tom. They'd been roommates in the MTC. By an almost unspoken agreement the greenies and the senior companions separated into different groups.

"You live next door to a whore house, don't you," Tom remarked as he watched a few scantily clad women walk in and out of a house next to Elder Stone's dwelling.

Elder Stone, a blonde-haired 19-year-old from Vernal, Utah, nodded his head in amazement.

"Can you believe it? Five months ago I get my call and I never dreamed I'd live next door to a bunch of prostitutes. It's bizarre the sounds that go on around here at night."

Elder Stone pointed toward his house.

"See the nets on the beds. Do you guys use them?"

"No, it's not too bad in the downtown area," Tom replied glancing at the pair of twin beds encircled with mosquito netting.

"There are holes in the nets," Stone said pointing at several red bumps on his forearms.

"Did you ever think it'd be like this," Tom asked.

"No way, Harris. I mean, I knew that there weren't going to be lot of cute little Incas running around but I never thought everything would be so," Elder Stone thought for a moment, "so, so poor. This is ridiculous. A person can't, shouldn't have to deal with this. And it goes on forever with these people. It will never change," Stone shook his head.

"I guess it isn't so bad. We can take it 18 months," Stone said.

"Fifteen months and counting amigo," Harris replied.

---

After Elder Robertson had finished his district meeting with Elder Post, the pair returned to the storefront church. They took a conventional taxi. Tom watched from the window and felt a sickness in his stomach and fever in his forehead develop. Outside on the streets he could see children running with old, balding tires that they rolled at the sides. Gaunt buses with the paint peeling at the sides rushed around corners and through what appeared to be clairvoyance the bus drivers missed the shouting and laughing kids who took no notice of the vehicles or how closely they had missed death. Dust was everywhere. It swirled around and settled on the top of an ancient's head or the smooth, bulging belly of a malnourished toddler. A few dead dogs and cats, victims of a government-poisoned meat giveaway designed to stem the high birth rate of cats and dogs, lay in the alley and street, crusted foam on their lips and half eaten raw hamburger drying nearby. Just recently three children, ages five, three and two, had finished some meat meant for the animals and two of the kids had died on the street before help arrived. The sole survivor of the unlucky trio, the three-year-old, lay in the hospital in critical condition.

"Elder you don't mind if we buy some pop tarts or something from across the street rather than return to the pension," Elder Robertson asked. It was already about 9:15 p.m. and the senior companion looked a little too beat to walk the mile distance to dinner.

Tom, who by now felt more than a little sick, (his head was burning, his stomach constricted, he desperately needed to go number two), shook his head okay. He wasn't up to talking.

But for the next hour or so, after a 25 minute bathroom visit and a Pepto Bismol, he felt better. They went across the street to "El Torre," a large bodega that sold Pop Tarts, Brazilian Nestle chocolate and some North American cereals. Tom nibbled on a piece of chocolate while Elder Robertson munched on a strawberry Pop Tart with white frosting spread on top.

Later they walked down the street and entered a tiny, dimly lit bodega that was run by an old Peruvian named Edilio. He was a small, portly man with tufts of white hair who played poker with his buddies most every night. Tom didn't speak the language well enough to converse in detail with Edilio but Robertson and they old guy usually chewed the fat for about 15 minutes every night. As Tom, resting at a table, sipped an Inca Cola, he absentmindedly followed the trail of a green lizard, about four inches in length, scurrying up the west wall of Edilio's establishment. The little creature scrabbled up to the ceiling, bumped his reptilian head at the top, and then continued downward until Tom's sight of its path was blocked by the counter. Elder Robertson munched on a handful of rectangular, thick, homemade peanut brittle, made by Edilio, while the two jawed. It was tasty stuff but Tom didn't feel up to having any.

Later the companions returned to their room and wrote in their journals. After prayers it was about 10:30 p.m. and time to sleep. Tom loved his makeshift bed. Putting the mattress between two pews was actually more comfortable than resting it on the rigid, peeling, splintering frames provided for the missionaries. Despite the 90 degree-plus temperature, the fan blew a pleasant breeze on his body. Two blankets lay at the foot of the bed unused. The elder sank into a restful sleep minutes after the lights were turned off.

He woke up and noticed that his entire body was covered with sweat. At first that didn't alarm him but as he raised himself to see the clock (it was 3 a.m.), a wave of sickness caused him to fall back on his bed. His head ached, his throat felt like there was a pile of split pea soup blocking it and his stomach was bloated out about an inch. Tom forced himself out of bed and without bothering to put on a robe hurried past one room, through a door and into the tiny bathroom. His head was swimming and his bowels grumbling in discomfort.

He threw up a splotchy white mess with what appeared to be little crystals mixed inside it. "The fried bread..." he started to say before another loud gag preceded more sloppy mixture exiting his throat. Three, four times the vomit poured from his mouth. There was then no more to spit out but that didn't stop the heaves. They came, five or six bursts, and Tom dry heaved spit, mucus and air. It physically hurt and tears filled his eyes as his lungs constricted every time. The vomiting finally stopped and he stood bent over the enamel bowl gasping. Slop was splotched on the outside and around the bowl on the floor.

Tom turned to turn the light on and his bowels reminded him they were about to burst. He quickly sat on the seatless toilet and felt the vomit mixture drying on the toilet sear wet his upper legs and backside.

He relieved himself painfully. Every few seconds his face and forehead would chill up and sweat as he tried to ease the pain of his sick bowels. Finally it was over. During his sickness Tom hadn't noticed that there was a Saturday night party going on full steam in the street outside. Sitting on the toilet he heard the drunken shouts and sounds of feet dancing and running.

"Mire Lo Que Encontre!" The vibrant, high-toned sounds of salsa music also filled the air. Tom heard a bottle break and violent oaths sworn. "Mire Lo Que Encontre!" His eyes filled with tears and he began sobbing.

"I'm all alone," he whispered to himself. "I might as well be on the moon." He lifted himself slowly off the toilet and cleaned himself as best as possible. Fortunately the shower, usually only dripping after 6 a.m., let out a stream of water about the size of a pencil during this early hour. The shower cooled Tom off and enabled the missionary to get back to sleep.

---

"Boy Elder, you sure must have been pretty sick last night. Are you better," Elder Robertson remarked the next morning while he adjusted his necktie. Both were getting ready for church services.

"Yeah, it was a little rough but I'm a bit better," Tom replied. In reality he was pretty weak and his headache still caused a thumping sensation in his temples.

"Well, ready for the baptism after the meeting?" Elder Robertson continued as he rubbed a faded white handkerchief over his black dress shoes.

"Sure."

---

The meeting was over and Tom, standing knee deep in the font, put a hand on the shoulder of Raul Acosta to steady him as the 25-year-old newly baptized member exited the water. Seated in front of the font in folding chairs were about 20 spectators left over from sacrament meeting. Brother Acosta was one of Stone's baptisms and Tom didn't know him. He seemed nice enough and had borne his testimony enthusiastically before the service.

Brother Acosta walked up to Tom after the service. "Thanks a lot Elder. I don't want to forget your name. What is it?" he asked in Spanish.

"Elder Harris."

"Ah, Elder Harris, Could you pose with me for the photo?"

They finished the photo and then Acosta changed his clothes and Elder Stone, in halting Spanish, confirmed the new convert with the gift of the Holy Ghost.

---

"Elder, I need food of some sort," Tom whispered to Elder Robertson after the services. His headache had returned in full force, he didn't feel like retching but he was so weak his knees were shaking and he felt faint.

"Well, I told the pension not to cook since today's Fast Sunday. Let's go to that bodega by the movie theater. Sometimes they have bread," Elder Robertson said. After walking the couple of blocks to the small store both entered the establishment. Behind the counter an ancient Peruvian grandmother sat in a rocking chair holding what was probably her youngest granddaughter. The baby played with an old Barbie doll that was missing a leg. In the corner four Peruvian men were drinking the hard Peruvian beer. About eight empty bottles were mixed in with ones all were guzzling from.

The stench of the sour beer caused Tom's stomach to do a lazy roll. His eyes started to feel heavy and it was getting difficult to breathe without sucking that beerish smell into his system. His legs trembled and he groped the wall for support.

"Elder, I've got to get out of here," Tom mumbled before opening the wooden door that led outside. He dropped to one knee and closed his eyes. He could see speckles of light even with his eyes clamped shut.

The next thing Tom realized was that he was laying on his side in front of the bodega with a worried Elder Robertson looking down at him. A few Peruvians walking down the street cast amused glances his way. One sweating fat man with huge jowls and dressed in baggy pants, sandals and a tent-like white shirt clenched his right hand together, extended his thumb upwards and brought it to his lips to simulate drinking.

"How long have I been out, man?"

"Just for a moment, here take this Pepto Bismol," Robertson dropped the two wafer-like squares into a glass of 7-Up where both fizzed for a few moments. Tom drank the solution in short gulps. After a few moments he began to feel better.

"Listen, here's some GNs," Robertson produced three cookies. "We'll get you to the pension and they can make something, Fast Sunday or not. Tonight we have a charla at 6 p.m. Do you think you can make it?"

"Yeah. I think I can," Tom replied.

The pair began walking back to the storefront church. Elder Robertson filled Harris in with the good news: Four of the six "charla I" investigators had shown up for Sunday services. It was a record! Tomorrow was P-Day (Preparation Day) and the zone was planning a trip to a zoo located out in the Amazon Jungle about an hour from Iquitos. A truck had already been produced with a driver to take the missionaries. There were the four charlas set for Tuesday and the other two for the investigators who hadn't shown up today at church. Plus Juan and another investigator, a dental student, were set for appointments. Things were looking pretty good.

---about 5950 words---