Anyone who believes missionary work is one continuous joyful and exciting experience filled with happiness and bliss is very likely to be disappointed. The fact is most days in the mission were uneventful and filled with hard work and disappointment. The Latins said the same thing a little differently. They simply said, "Nos toca sufrir." I preferred, "Nos toca reir."

It was a strange feeling to know I would not get another move before going home. I looked at things a little differently knowing there would be no more chances after Santa Ana. The time I had sometimes thought would never end had somehow slipped through the hourglass one granule at a time until there were only 4 months left.

To make things worse, I had been assigned to be district leader, something I had hopped to avoid. I never realized the freedom I had as a senior until I experienced the confinement and restriction of mission leadership. I learned to admire those who could do it, especially those who did it well, for the work they did in mission leadership was not only necessary, but important as well. Someone had to do it. I was much more happy beating the streets. Nos toca sufrir, indeed.

It seemed there were missionaries who got transferred in similar patterns. Some of us seemed to follow each other all around the mission. Mundy and I had been that way all along. Before our missions were over we would spend nearly 16 months either as companions, in the same district, or in the same zone. I was not complaining at all, because Mundy and I worked when it was time to work, and we certainly played when it was time for that. For the most part "nos tocaba jugar."

I met Mundy in Guatemala City after bouncing down from San Pedro, then got on the bus to Santa Ana. A wondering redneck from Alabama happened to be hitch hiking through Central America. I had the "good fortune" to sit next to the "hick from the sticks" all the way to the border. I had no idea the King's English could be twisted and contorted in so many different ways. He flapped his gums continuously, pausing only now and then for a few brief moments of coherency, then return to speaking a language only a urim and thumim could decipher.

I had always heard great things about Santa Ana. It was one of the best spots in the mission. I had been assigned to El Centro, a small branch. There were still no stakes in all of El Salvador at that time, but we were just a few months away from having one formed in the capital.

Church was held in a rented chapel, which was typical. The only place I had worked where we owned our own building was when I was in Guatemala City, Zona 6. The population of Santa Ana was around 100,000. The membership of El Centro was considerably less.

My new companion was Gary Wilmore. He was thin, wore dark rimmed glasses, and had a voice that sounded like one belonging to a professional radio announcer. His voice had obviously been mis-assigned to the wrong body.

He did not care much for athletics. Whenever we went to play basketball he would sit on the sidelines and read "Time" magazine. He kept telling me something about President Richard Nixon and something called Watergate. I didn't pay much attention. Nixon was too smart to get caught up in something so ridiculous.

We lived in a four-Elder apartment with Mundy and Bake. As usual, the lady of the house had a maid who did all the cooking and washing. Our rooms were upstairs. Outside our rooms was an area where we could have meetings, shoot the breeze, and play cards.

Our beds consisted of a mattress with one sheet. We did not use any blankets because of the heat, but we slept under another sheet to make us think we did. Usually I kicked it off by the time it was morning. Santa Ana was blessed with a night-time breeze that managed to cool us off now and then. We slept with the window wide open in hopes the breeze would come our way.

Sunday: Priesthood Meeting followed by Sunday School. Home for lunch, regular missionary stuff, then evening Sacrament Meeting. Home for supper, then down to the park for street displays. Back home to start a late-night game of rook with Elder Mundy.

Monday: An assortment of movies, shooting pool, hitching into San Salvador to hit McDonald's, riding in the bumper cars, hiking up to Volcan' Izalco, stretching out on the roof tiles to catch some sun, and of course listening to baggy music from home.

Tuesday: Looking up Sunday's references from the street display, giving lessons, mailbox, etc. Evening mutual at the branch.

Wednesday: Mail box check, looking up references, talking to members, tracting, giving lessons, writing letters, writing in my journal, district paperwork and other assorted minutia.

Thursday: Working at the chapel construction site. Relief Society, mail box check, tracting, giving lessons, assorted district leader errands.

Friday: Mail box check (is there a pattern here somewhere?) tracting, giving lessons, looking up references, etc.

Saturday: Working at the chapel construction site (digging, shoveling, carrying, etc.), mail box check (how unusual), checking with members, looking up references, tracting, giving lessons, preparing for church on Sunday.

Elder Cameron came over to visit with Mundy and myself. He was working in Santa Ana, living in the same house with the zone leaders, and had arranged for us to do some numbers for a show. Teel was working as an assistant to the president, and Eddo was in Guatemala, so the three of us had to make do without them. It was great to be performing again.

In a mission that averaged one baptism per missionary per month, I had been performing at much less than par. I had spent considerable time working out in the boonies where investigators were as scarce as hen's teeth. Either the president trusted me, or was getting even with me for some misdeed. I preferred to believe the former over the latter. In any event, it was great to discover what it was like to have so many investigators.

I had been told that the harder I worked the more baptisms I would get. In reality I discovered that people got ready for baptism on their own schedule, not mine. I worked just as hard in the poor areas as in the more prosperous, but when the seeds fall on rocky soil it doesn't matter how hard you water them. Those who believed missionary work was a "numbers game" were often disappointed. Rule of thumb: There are no quick fixes.

Homo-phobia was alive and well in Santa Ana. There seemed to be a prevailing misconception that unless young boys were properly trained in sexual activity by "professionals," they would turn into "maricones." Consequently, there were many who would take their young 12-year-old boys down to the red light section of town on their birthday for a night of "higher education."

One of our investigators was of similar mindset. When Wilmore and I gave him the third discussion on chastity, he was not pleased. He became very irritable, especially when we taught him that he and the woman he was living with should get married.

He launched into a tirade about how women have a special power over men and always have, ever since Adam and Eve. He said men cannot resist women and should not be made to do so. It was "impossible." He further stated that if men go too long without sex, they would either go crazy or become homosexuals.

Wilmore and I told him that it was not impossible, that temptation could be resisted and chastity maintained, because we had done so ourselves, and were neither crazy nor homosexuals.

He sat back in his chair and eyed us with intense anger, saying, "Ok, I will believe Joseph Smith was a prophet, that he found and translated the plates, that he saw God, but I will not sit here and believe that neither one of you have ever had a woman!"

We reaffirmed our testimonies, managed to struggle through a closing prayer, and left. Chastity was his problem, not ours.

Our district consisted of Mundy and Bake, Schlosser with Hathcock, and Wilmore and myself. Surprising that the Lord would leave such important in the hands of people like us. What a bunch.

10 No sweaters.

9 No gloves.

8 Fewer clothes altogether.

7 More street beggars.

6 More dross.

5 More investigators.

4 Better food.

3 Better highways.

2 Bigger cockroaches.

1 More baptisms.

It looked like I was back in the business of playing the piano for church again. The members treated with reverence anyone who could play. What they didn't know was that I never was very good at reading music. I could only play a handful of songs that I had memorized. Sight-reading music has always been a mystery to me though I can play several different instruments. As far as I am concerned, just play the instrument and leave out all the notes that don't sound good. Why is that so hard?

One of our investigators was an elderly gentleman who considered himself fairly educated. Consequently he didn't have much confidence in our ability to speak Spanish. He would always speak to us in infinitives, leaving the verbs unconjugated. It was annoying to say the least, but we humored him anyway. Me gustar hablar, verdad?

We hitched into town for a special conference. We received instructions on tracting, then divided up into groups to actually go out and do it for a couple of hours. I was assigned to be the leader of the group consisting of Teel, Call, and three greenies. It was quite the "dream team" to say the least. We went to Parque' Libertad and set up a display. We made sure the greenies were properly initiated. I pushed them out in front of the people just like Thompson did with me the first time. Cold water is easier to get used to if you simply jump in and get wet all over.

Everyone else either went door-to-door, street contacting, or bus tracting. Over 1,000 people were contacted and several hundred references collected in two hours by 80 or so missionaries.

We spent the entire morning working at the chapel construction site in Bario Nuevo. I never imagined that working with my father in construction before my mission would come in handy.

After work, Mundy and I went over to have a little going home party for Elder Gomm. He had been one of my mentors from the very beginning of my mission. It was hard seeing so many of my heroes leave the mission. Who would be left to set the pace the way they did?

Cameron, Mundy and I had one last musical performance together. We played for intermission at a district party. We performed about seven different numbers. It ended up being the last time more than two of us were able to perform together, much to the relief of our audiences.

Branches from Sonsonate to Ahuachapan came for a big district conference. John Craig Nelson came down from Guatemala to be our new zone leader. He was the kind of zone leader that worked when it was time to work, and played when it was playtime. His best quality was that he never once told me I should "be humble." He, Mundy and I had a great time jamming to tunes from our old rock and roll days. We were all left-over hippies from the sixties. We referred to Nelson as "Razz" unless, of course, we were in formal company, at which times we addressed him as "Elder Razz." I wrote in my journal, "This will be "a lot of fun." Fun was what we did best.

I first met Nelson the previous year in Zacapa when I was performing in La Familia Unida. It never rained in Zacapa, but it did the night we were there to perform in an open air pavilion. It rained so hard every frog from miles around came came out from hiding. It was hard to walk anywhere without stepping on some Zacapa Zapo. It was like one of the plagues of Egypt. From the vary beginning life with Nelson was, to say the least, unusual.

It's one thing when your parents start writing about how soon you will be going home. It's quite another when your girlfriend starts doing the same thing. Suddenly you realize the girl you thought would never wait actually did. What did she expect when I got home? What did I expect when I got home? What did my parents expect when I got home? All that "expecting" made me tired.

Because no formal rating system existed in Latin America during the time I served, the following movies were seriously studied and reviewed by myself and whoever was unfortunate enough to be my junior companion at the time. The list does not contain all the movies I saw, only those worthy of mention. For your convenience, a short one-line review is supplied for each one. Now, pass the popcorn, sit back and relax. Enjoy the movie of your choice:

Man of La Mancha (The Impossible Scream)

From Russia With Love (Bolshevik gets the cold shoulder)

Skyjacked (Burger King method of "fly it your way)

Hard Guy (Chinese karate, Spanish subtitles, no plot in any language.)

Duel (Diesel semi terrorizes motorist on the highway of life)

Salt and Pepper (Bill Cosby and Robert Culp mystery misery)

Ten Commandments (Doctrine without covenants)

The Greatest Story Ever Told (Philosophy mingled with scripture)

Ben Hur (Charioteers cruising for chicks)

Planet of the Apes (Description of Santa Ana Zone conference)

Thunderball (James Bond's illegal use of hands)

Showdown (Rock Hudson & Dean Martin comedy of errors)

Poseidon Adventure (Drowning by immersion, or up-side-down ache)

Jr. Bonners (Rodeo guy gets a pain in the butt)

Getaway (Keeping girls at arm's length)

Two Mules for Sister Sarah (How a sister missionary travels)

The Assassination of Trotsky (Pure Bolshevik)

Buck And The Preacher (All that's left at the end of a month)

Love Without Promises (Love life of the average missionary)

Shaft's Big Score (Sorry, nothing to do with sports)

Anthony And Cleopatra (Daddy and mummy forever)

Goldfinger (24K gesturing)

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (Description of missionary life, or Nos Toca Sufrir)

We spent the morning working at the construction site in Barrio Nuevo. A wooden ramp was built up the side walls much like the one we had used up in San Pedro. We would get a wheel barrow full of cement, then get a run at the ramp. Just as we would hit the ramp, someone would hook the front of the wheel barrow with a hook and start pulling. We would then go up the ramp until we got to the top, then dump the cement out onto the wired steel and reinforced re-bar. I piloted a wheelbarrow until one of our investigators, Brother Leiva, came and took my place. I ended up shoveling gravel into the mixer. The machine soon broke down so we had to mix the cement by hand up on the roof. Oh, for a good cement truck.

Later that day, Nelson came over with some paperwork I had to do and we ended up shooting the bull for quite a while. We discussed matters of the utmost importance. You know, important executive stuff, like.... well,.... you know, matters of very official type things. It must have been very important because we talked about it for some time.

We tracted out some Seventh Day Adventists that were very interesting. It was the first time I had taught a lesson where everyone giggled all the way through. We must have been rather amusing. We stopped back the following day and they were still very light-hearted to say the least. They asked us not to come back, which surprised me. If we were so entertaining, why not schedule a return visit. It wasn't like we were charging any type of ticket price. As for them, "se tocaron reir."

I don't remember how, when or why Nelson earned the nickname of "Razz" but I do remember Mundy and I would often go over to his house to eat raspberry slushes. If he didn't get the name from eating raspberry slushes, he should have. They were delicious, you know, the kind that make your brain freeze up when you eat them too fast. Perhaps the three of us had too many of those because most of the time we acted as though we had just eaten several. Razz was one of the few zone leaders that was as absolutely crazy as Mundy and myself. We made a great team. Nos tocaba enfriar.

I went to an optometrist to get a new pair of glasses. As he was doing the exam I brought up the subject of religion. He said he was a confirmed Jehovah Witness and was not interested. He then asked me if I wanted tinted lenses. I told him they should be clear, because I always want to see things as they really are. No pun intended, of course.

10 Flu bug invaded our apartment, junior companions got sick.

9 Mundy and I trying to cover both areas.

8 One of our best members got extremely drunk.

7 Mundy playing rook until 1:30 Monday morning.

6 Realizing I have only 100 days left before going home.

5 Scratching flea bites in my sleep.

4 Spraying my bed with DDT before leaving in the morning.

3 Spraying my bed with DDT before going to bed.

2 Spraying my bed with DDT in the middle of the night.

1 Mundy, Nelson and Shirley, Rock n'roll jamming.

We went down to the gym for a little head-bashing, hard fouling, and hand-to-hand combat. Nothing serious, just typical church basketball.

One of my former comps Phil Miller was there. To him basketball was not a matter of life and death, it was much more serious than that.

After the basketball game I was feeling a little nauseous. I wonder if it had anything to do with the fact I had already consumed four gaseosas, six sandwiches, one chocolate covered banana, and a liter of icecream. If it was true that "you are what you eat," then I was certainly in trouble.

My girlfriend back home sent me a letter telling me she was taking a class at Ricks College called "Missionary Approach." What do you suppose that was all about? I thought I was the one that was supposed to be doing the approaching.

What do you do when the girl you have been writing to for two years starts taking seriously all the things you have been telling her just to keep her writing letters? What a tangled web we weave.

In our boarding house lived a young Englishman who was engaged to the daughter of the lady of the house. It was customary for the bride-elect to be serenaded the night before she was to wed. Mundy and I got our guitars and went outside her window. It was Mundy's idea to sing "The Impossible Dream," which we found out later was her favorite song. To her, the romance was so thick you could spread tabasco sauce on it and eat it. To us, well, it was difficult to keep from laughing. Did I mention Mundy and I were crazy?

Someone had to attend the wedding mentioned above, someone else had to attend the district baptismal service scheduled at the same time. Someone had to watch as people dressed in white tied the knot, someone else had to dress in white and get into the water. Mundy and I were the seniors, Wilmore and Bake juniors. Can you guess who went where? A little unrighteous dominion can't be all that bad.

We were sitting in McDonald’s in the capital when we saw Elder Symmes chasing a guy down the street who had flipped him off. Obviously, all Symmes wanted to do was talk. Obviously, the young man was not interested in "talking." Fortunately the young man was a little bit faster. Symmes would probably have taught the lesson on life after death with visual aids.

Most of the missionaries got by for somewhere around $100 a month. Our room and board was somewhere around $60. The rate of exchange was one Colon @ $0.40. Every time we cashed a check at the bank we had to make sure we got small bills, because hardly anyone could make change for anything more than a five-Colon bill. I usually cashed a check for $100.00 which meant I would leave the bank with 250 Colon wadded up in small bills in my wallet. I learned early in the mission to keep my wallet in my front pocket.

During the Cascarones Days celebration, people would fill egg shells with confetti and flour, then sneak up behind you and break them over your head. I suppose it was all in fun, but one of our investigators came to mutual and got "cascaroned" and was not too happy about the whole thing. We had to go over to his house and smooth things over. It seemed all of us had a little "egg on our faces."

Brother Pineda, one of our investigators, told us that before we came to teach him, he had been working as a farm laborer nearby. One day he was having lunch when a drunk soldier came in and began giving everyone a bad time. He approached Pineda and handed him a drink of liquor. Pineda declined. The soldier insisted. Pineda held firm, refusing to take a drink. The soldier then pulled out his pistol, pointed it at the reluctant drinker, and ordered him to drink. Brother Pineda looked at him and calmly said he would not drink. After a very awkward pause the soldier put away his weapon and went on about his business. Is there any question about the Pineda family's reaction when we told them about the Word of Wisdom?

Wilmore and I had to go to Chalchuapa on a partida hunt, so naturally we stopped by to visit the ruins of Tazumal.

Relics found at Tazumal date back to 1500 years B.C. In June, 1524, Spanish captain Pedro de Alvarado began the conquest against the native tribes of the country which, at that time, was called Cuzcatlan, which means "Land of Precious Things." The Indian tribes were conquered and the hamlet of San Salvador was established near Suchitoto, then moved to its present site in 1540. Jose Matias Delgado rang the bells of La Merced church calling for insurrection on November 5, 1811. The Act of Independence of Central America was signed in Guatemala on September 15, 1821, which is also the Independence Day of El Salvador.

It was said that Tazumal was the nation's most significant Mayan ceremonial center. The main pyramid had several ball courts featuring games in which the losing team or its captain was sacrificed (ancient fore-runner to LDS church basketball). I wonder if those games started with a prayer?

One of our investigators asked us what he should do with the family crucifix now that he no longer needed it. Another investigator asked what he should do with his "Green Dragon." I loved questions like that. Now, if I could only convince some of the members they don't have to dress in black every time someone dies, I would feel much better.

Throughout my mission I had been told in a variety of ways not to come back any more. The one I got from Sr. Enganada (name changed) was the topper. He was the guy who believed the church was true, but refused to believe Wilmore and I were virgins (one look at either of us should have been evidence enough). So what does he do? He wrote us the following formal letter. Judge for yourself:

Estemed brothers (or maricones, homosexuals, whatever you are).

It is painful for me to manifest to you that for reasons beyond my control I cannot attend to you any more (I read some anti-Mormon literature on you guys and now I have all the dirt I need to kiss you off). Therefore I have determined to abandon the present religious studies undertaken with you (There's no way I'm going to marry the woman I have been living with all these years, so don't bug me about it). Hoping God will illuminate your minds in a way that you might comprehend me (You guys have been away from girls too long), I take leave of you (Don't even think about coming back), but not without first giving you my most expressive thanks for the attention and interest you have shown me (I'm worried about the "interest" you guys may have in me already).

Very respectfully yours (and that's the only way I'll ever be "yours"). Your obedient servant (a straight guy who still wants to stay that way), Carlos Enganada

We went down to the park and set up for an evening street display. There was a public television set under the shelter in the center of the park so that people could watch the high-quality soap operas broadcast by the two available stations.. We knew it would be a major source of competition so I told Wilmore to wait until the program everyone was watching was over and then turn it off. I wondered if we would have a major uprising and be tarred and feathered. But I had a secret for survival. I knew I didn't have to outrun the mob at all, I only had to outrun Wilmore.

He shut it off and I prepared to run. To my surprise everyone came over to see what we were doing. Evans asked me to conduct, so we threw a sheet over the street display and showed the flick "Cristo en America," using the covered board as a screen. We had great success and when we handed out the reference cards we were almost mobbed by people trying to get one. That's the kind of "mobbing" I could really go for.

A great psychologist once said that each of us are basically three people: (1) The person other people think we are; (2) the person we think we are; and (3) the person we actually are. Some of the other elders told me that I had changed since I had become a district leader. Now then, which "me" were they referring to? Actually, it was much more convenient working as a personal three-some. I automatically had two other personalities to blame when things didn't go well.

I was definitely due for a greenie. I got word that my family doctor's son was coming down from Rexburg, Idaho. In my interview with the President I asked if I could be his senior. The president said that would not be a problem. I looked forward to being Mark Peterson's first senior.

President Glade wanted to see me again. He sat back in his chair, smiled and said he had a special assignment for me. I just looked at him and said, "I'm not going to get Elder Peterson, am I?" He just laughed and then began softening me up with compliments about what a good worker I was, etc. I had a strange feeling someone had just lifted my wallet.

He told me that due to some unusual circumstances, I would be working as a co-senior. Was that any way to end a mission? Was it because I had previous experience working as co-senior? I had already worked co-senior with Marquez, Cameron, Eddo, and twice with Mundy. Now I would be co-senior with Baria, which wasn't so bad. We had already been companions in the LTM and had a great time.

Question: What do you call four missionaries stuck in the mud?

Answer: Cuatro sinko.

The homeland to the north claimed a few more of my heroes during the month of March. Benion went back to Wyoming and Kellett, the only guy I ever knew from Moroni, Utah, left for home. Shelley, Matheson and Andelin were guys I had looked up to for a long time. Other notables were Jones, Mahoney, Wright, Lamoreaux, Abrams and Andrew. And who could forget the last senior companion I had before going senior, Paul Nielson. We also lost Gomm, whom I had known practically all my mission. How could the mission run without Gomm? And of course, Lippencott, who got me through customs when I first arrived in San Salvador. These were the guys I admired and now they were gone. Heroes were getting harder find.

One of my favorite flicks that we gave to investigators was Cristo en America. I just about had the entire dialogue memorized by the time my mission was over. Somehow I did not get tired of it, and often found myself riveted when we got to the part where the Savior made His appearance to the Nephites. It was always like watching it again for the first time.

I suddenly found myself the oldest missionary in the entire Santa Ana zone. I had always imagined I would be more knowledgeable, more spiritual, more of a translatable caliber when I was finally one of the elder Elders. But there I was, more of a senile senior than a sabio sage. Time in the mission had suddenly become somewhat of an embarrassment. Oh well, in the words of the immortal Alfred E. Newman, "What, me worry?"

It finally rained for the second time this year. The dry season had turned the vegetation a drab brown and yellow. Things were equally dreary for Elder Bake, his girlfriend got married today. Perhaps the rain was appropriate.

We went to the alcaldia municipal a few days earlier and got official permission to show flicks in Parque Libertad. There was not a great variety of places to go at night other than the park, so we had a couple hundred people on hand for the show. We pulled a sheet over the street display and used it for a screen, then after the flick we pulled off the sheet and used the light from the projector as a means of seeing the street display. It seemed to work very well. It was a great way for Wilmore and I to end our time together before his transfer.

Mundy, Nelson and I went to Cerro Verde near Volcan' Santa Ana for a little paseo. The first major eruption of Santa Ana was in 1520. Since then it has erupted 12 times, the last in 1920. It was one of more than 25 extinct volcanos inside the country. Elevation at the summit was 7,757 feet (2,365 meters), only about 500 feet higher than where I had worked in San Pedro, Guatemala.

Wilmore did not want to hike all the way to the top, so we left him about 300 yards short of the top and went on up to the rim of the crater of Santa Ana. Far below we could see the small lake of green acidic sulphur smoldering and bubbling. The smell was not the best in the west. Naturally we had to throw a few rocks down the side of the crater walls and see how close we could walk to the edge (boys will be boys). It was only a drop of several hundred feet straight down to a pool of fire and brimstone, nothing to be concerned about.

Nelson, Mundy and I found an electric band in town that was foolish enough to lend us their equipment. We had a great time jamming and imagining we were much more talented than we actually were. What fun.

Moves came out. Wilmore was headed for Santa Tecla and Bake to Soyapango. Cameron came over to visit because he was going to be district leader in Mejicanos. While the others packed, Mundy, Cameron and I read through my journal covering the part when we were in La Familia Unida. They thought the things I had written were hilarious. I didn't tell them I was trying to be serious at the time. I guess people are the most humorous when they take themselves too seriously.

We were working at the construction site of a chapel in Santa Ana when two teenagers showed up and began causing a slight disturbance by swearing, bullying, etc. I had a little heart-to-heart with them and managed somehow to get them to settle down. We got to know them a little better and made some new friends. Perhaps I had made a little progress in dealing with people, because back in my junior days the same situation would not have turned out so positively. Maybe I had learned something about getting along with negative people after all.

We spent the entire morning shooting the bull with Nelson while waiting for our new companions to arrive. We noticed a large group gathering at the fence around the soccer field adjacent to the military compound. Several of us went up on top of Nelson's apartment where we had a commanding view of the scene taking place across the street in the soccer field next to the military compound.

Surrounding the soccer field was a large fence, about 15 feet high, with barbed wire at the top. The street outside the fence was packed with people. The following announcement had been placed in the morning paper:

I had never seen so many people at one place at one time. People started gathering two hours early. I don't think anyone had a better view of what happened than Nelson, Mundy and myself, perched as we were on top of the house.

I saw a jeep drive out from the compound carrying the condemned and his evangelist preacher. He wore trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. He and the preacher talked for some time under the watchful eye of the guard.

A panel truck drove out bringing the firing squad and its commander. They assembled, standing at attention, waiting for further orders.

A blindfold was put into place after hands were securely tied behind the back. The minister withdrew, leaving the condemned alone, and in tears.

At exactly four o'clock, the order was given. I saw his body fly backward several feet and lie motionless on the ground. The silence that prevailed from the astonished crowd was deafening. I saw the commanding officer walk up to the body, pull out his revolver from its holster, and make one final mercy shot through the victim's head. I saw much more than I wanted to see.

As they were loading the deceased into a wooden box, a large dust-devil or whirlwind about 60 feet high came to life at the far corner of the soccer field. The strange thing about it was that it had not been windy up to that time. It whirled around, blowing leaves and small debris high into the air. The whirlwind danced around the field, then dissipated about in the center. Many people in the crowd said it was the devil who had come to take his soul to Hell. It was indeed one of the strangest things I had ever seen.

The deceased was quickly driven to the cemetery and buried within 15 minutes of having been shot. It had all happened so quickly. Mundy, Nelson and I just sort of sat there on top of the apartment shaking our heads in disbelief at what we had just witnessed.

Baria got into town and we started our time as co-seniors. I never did get tired of his Texan accent. Every now and then it would creep over into his Spanish, which I found very amusing. He held the rank of brown-belt in some style of karate I had never heard of, but his best-kept secret was his ability to sing. Every time Mundy and I would "rock-out" on "Proud Mary," Baria would wail like no one I had ever heard.

Note for future reference: If you happen to up-chuck before you can make it successfully to the toilet, don't worry. The ants will have it cleaned up by morning.

You would think getting a couple married who have been living together for 20 years would be a piece of cake, especially when they already have a brood of little chicks. What could be so difficult? Si, va. Government red tape was invented and perfected in C.A. In the states the opposite is true. Marriage is too easily entered into and divorce an exercise in eternal punishment.

Another month without any baptisms. That makes ten consecutive months without getting wet. It seemed I got transferred every time someone was scheduled for dunking. I doubt anyone had the dubious honors of having fewer baptisms than I.

We had scheduled a special fireside for April 1 and had spent time delivering all the invitations. I had a nagging feeling I should check the invitations, but resisted the urge to do so. I did not find out until the day of the fireside that we had printed the date of March 1 instead of April 1. April Fools!

Baria had to make a border change, so both Baria and I took off for the last one we would ever have to do. We managed a ride in the back of a truck some members were using to drive up to San Marcos to get some gravel for the construction site in Santa Ana. Any ride was more comfortable than standing by the side of the road.

We made the border change and then grabbed a bus back to Ahuachapan where we got a hitch with two of the strangest dudes I had met in a long time. One looked like Jackie Gleason, which was convenient because the other one looked like Art Carney. They argued politics while we laughed all the way back to Santa Ana. What a riot.

Nelson, our illustrious zone leader, organized a watermelon bust which was a lot of fun. We stayed long enough to gorge ourselves, then off to the usual Monday movies. Nos tocaba divertir.

As mentioned above, Baria held a brown belt (and not just to keep his pants up). One night I got up to go into the bathroom and stubbed my toe on the foot of Baria's bed. Up to that point he had been sleeping on his back like a dead man. When I bumped his bed he instantly popped up into a fighting stance like bread flying from a toaster.

Another time we were walking down the street at night on the way home. I was walking on the inside next to a house when suddenly a dog that was sitting in an open window decided to yelp in my ear as we passed by. Baria reacted instantly by turning into a fighting stance and hitting me in the stomach. Between Baria and the dog I had experienced quite enough for one day.

In spite of the above misfortunes, Mundy and I decided to have Baria teach us some karate which we thought would be good exercise. It turned out to be quite enjoyable.

Baria and I found ourselves in a very interesting position in our missions. We had been nicknamed Father Time and The Godfather because we were the resident ancianos in the district. We noticed that we were being treated with a kind of reverential respect we did not in any way, shape, or form deserve. Younger missionaries seemed to hang on every word we said and treated us somewhat like celebrities. It was as if they actually thought we knew something (which we didn't) or could contribute ideas (most of which we had stolen from other missionaries) or perhaps could provide some insight from our lengthy tenure (most of which was spent watching flicks, climbing volcanos and eating Big Macs). It reminded me of the time a man was asked on his 100th birthday what his secret to longevity was. His answer: "The fact that I haven't died yet." In our case, our only claim to fame was that we hadn't yet gone home. As mentioned above, the real heroes had already gone.

Partida hunts were an opportunity to do some real detective work. We got up at 5 a.m. and boarded a train at the depot. The sun was just rising as the steamer chugged to life jerking the reluctant coaches to a semblance of organized motion.

The coach had wooden benches all the way around by the windows, and a single row down the center where people could sit back-to-back. The smoke from the engine boiler filtered back through the open windows of the cars leaving a film of soot everywhere.

In the corner of the coach was what looked like a small closet. Investigating closer, I discovered it was the equivalent of a rest room. Peering down through the single-holer I could see the railroad ties blurring by. I never walked down the tracks after that.

The view of the countryside looked so much different from the railroad tracks. I had hitch-hiked the open roads and highways all my mission, but I had never experienced the unseen world of extreme poverty visible from the vantage point of a passing train. It was hard to believe people could live in such primitive conditions.

We soon arrived at our destination. When we walked up to the steam engine I stood on the cattle guard while Baria took a picture. The entire engine shook, pulsed and hissed as if it were about to explode. I couldn't wait for him to hurry and take the picture.

It was not an uncommon practice for missionaries to tell hostile investigators that their testimonies would stand against them at the last day, as if that would suddenly turn them into humble, teachable followers of the Savior. Looking back from the vantage point of 25 years, I would never do that again. I prefer to leave doors open rather than possibly offending anyone into never coming near another missionary as long as they live. My testimony would indeed stand against them, but telling them so did nothing but antagonize and offend them and further entrench them in their position. Where was it I read something about faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, brotherly kindness and love unfeigned? As for me, I'll leave the dusting off of my feet to someone more inspired than I.

Why was I not as excited about getting close to going home as I thought I would be with only two months left? Perhaps it was because I had arrived with such high expectations and had come face to face with the realization that I was just another average missionary struggling to figure myself out as well as how to get people into the water. Perhaps it was the realization that my window of opportunity was rapidly closing. Maybe it was the fact that I found security in being told what to do and would soon be deluged with massive quantities of "my own time." As much as I hated being told what to do, I was secretly afraid of too much free agency. How could I ever figure things out for myself.

I received a letter from Elder Rigby telling me that my departure date would be June 10. He had addressed it to Elder Shelley, then crossed it out and typed "Shirley." He included a note: "Hey, Listen!!! I've seen your handwriting. Be sure and fill these papers out with a typewriter." Obviously his handwriting was better than his typing.

One of our investigators, Hermano Portillo, came to church. I'm not used to investigators coming to church, nor staying for a home teaching coordination meeting afterwards. Investigators got excited about everything. In time we would teach him how to become an average member and develop the art of not coming to church, turning down church jobs, and minimizing his calling.

Baria and I were enough to make a duet. No one else showed up for choir practice but us, so since it wasn't duet practice, we went home early.

How could anyone spend two-and-one-half hours in a barber shop? What did Baria need to have done in a barber shop that could possibly take that long? Me tocaba sufrir, indeed.

I saw my former comp Elder Dodge and Amesquita in McDonalds where we had a great visit. Dodge and I discovered we had something more in common than the fact we had worked together for months up in San Pedro, Guatemala. It seemed we both had broken up with former girlfriends who had tried to get things going with us again. We had both been too proud to patch things up. Then both of us found out that both girls had been killed in separate car accidents. Somehow we were able to talk to one another about what had happened in a way no one else could understand. I don't believe the assignments of missionary companions is accidental.

Old Time Missionary Proverb: Flight plans made too early make missionary planning flighty.

I absolutely detested being a district leader. I was not comfortable with paperwork, meetings, or being in the business of motivating people to perform. It was hard enough to solve my own problems, let alone deal with those of anyone else. This was without doubt the most difficult time of my entire mission. I was most comfortable working the most remote parts of the mission, far from the large cities, where I could be left alone with a good, hardworking companion, not expected by others to succeed, but having fun trying to prove them wrong. I was meant to work the trenches.

We hitched into San Salvador for a zone conference. I had wondered how a conference held on Friday the 13th would go. Suffice it to say Elder Nelson did not let me down.

Nelson played the piano as the meeting began. The words to the hymn were printed on the programs, but did not correspond to the song Nelson was playing. We were a full verse into a rather awkward rendition before the joyful noise we were making unto the Lord ground to an unceremonious halt. He handled it well and we started again. Hymns sound so much better when both the music and the lyrics match.

Then one of the new greenies, Sister Johnson, was asked to speak. She said she "loved" Elder Nelson. Naturally everyone started laughing. Nelson's face started turning the strangest hue of red I had ever seen. She tried to smooth over her unfortunate faux pax by saying she had "the same kind of love for all the Elders." Everyone laughed even louder. We found that idea rather intriguing.

We were allowed to go to Antigua for Semana Santa once during the two years of our missions. The previous year I had attended, but had worked street displays for the entire afternoon. When President Glade spoke about how well we had done the previous year in Antigua, I thought I might ask to go and do it again. When I had my interview I asked the president if I could go. He said he had been trying to figure out how to talk me into going before I volunteered. What fun.

Rodolfo Dominguez had been one of my mentors ever since I first began my mission at the LTM. I had many opportunities to see and work with him over the course of my travels. It was sad indeed to see him finally leave for home. His smile and enthusiasm was greatly missed.

I accidentally bumped into him fifteen years later at BYU. He still had the same infectious enthusiasm and energy with which he approached everything he did.

We decided to go see the Pineda family who were close to being baptized. We arrived at their house in time to get wet from the second rainstorm of the new season. To our surprise they thanked us for bringing them the message of the gospel. They said we had brought them so much joy and happiness and that we were like the Angel Moroni who brought the gospel to Joseph Smith. Angels? Us?

Suddenly our difficulties, differences and struggles seemed so small and insignificant. What had we really sacrificed, if anything at all? It was indeed one of those spiritual "pay days" which yielded high dividends. It made us realize we were not just salesmen, that what we were doing was not a business with deadlines and quotas. We were not dealing with products or widgets, but living, breathing children of God. I never was impressed with the numbers game.

For some reason, the Ten Commandments was "The Only Show In Town" around Easter. Most people believed every scene of the movie and took it as doctrine, perhaps because so few of them had the ability to read the scriptures for themselves. Many times we would be talking about some of the Old Testament stories in church and people would quote movies rather than actual verse.

Regardless of factual content, we took two of our investigator families to see the movie anyway. If Moses didn't look like Charlton Heston in real life, he should have.

I couldn't believe how much fun it was to visit with so many of my former companions when we arrived in Antigua. David Williams, my former greenie, had traveled with us on the bus from El Salvador. Eddo, who had worked with me in La Familia Unida was already there. Dodge, Cheney, Steed, Heggerhorst and I had a great time embellishing our glory days in San Pedro. Counting Baria and Mundy, I was able to visit with six of my former companions all at the same time, not to mention former district leaders and other missionaries with whom I had been able to work over the last 21 months. Many of those friendships are still intact after 25 years.

That night, Cheney, Dodge, Eddo, Mundy and I went sight-seeing, pushing our way through the mob of worshippers and tourists crowding the old cobblestone streets. We soon found ourselves in La Merced cathedral. The huge images had been mounted on platforms ready to be carried around the city the following day. If one paid enough money for the privilege of participating in the carrying of the images, the reward was forgiveness of sins for a year, sort of a "celestial kings-x" in terms of personal perversion.

One of the guys talked to a worker at the cathedral and after a small bribe he led us through a door in the back of the main hall. Without any light whatsoever we started climbing up several flights of stairs. The darkness was so thick we had to keep a hand on the guy ahead to keep any sense of reference.

We soon emerged through the service access on the very top of the cathedral. We could see out over the entire city. Thousands of people had come for the religious celebration, filling the cobblestone streets to capacity. The bright street lights lit up the specially designed alfombras laid out in the streets, waiting for the time when the holy procession would walk through the elaborate designs. The view was certainly worth the bribe we had to pay.

I had forgotten how cold and hard the floor was up in the Guatemalan highlands. You'd think the sacred ground of the chapel floor would have had more of a burning spirit to it. I don't think I slept at all during the entire night. The best part of the night was when it was over.

After breakfast we took the display to the park and went to work. Working street displays was easy for me and I enjoyed every minute. It was even fun when hecklers would try and give us dross.

A hippie from the states happened to be hitching through Central America. He was dressed in typical tie-dyed t-shirt, with a headband keeping his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. He looked at us in our white shirts and ties and said he didn't know people like us even existed. I looked at him and thought the same thing.

The time went by all to quickly and soon it was time to pack up and head for Guat City and cash in our collection of references gathered from working the street display. Working street displays was one of the most exciting parts of my entire mission. I enjoyed the thrill of not knowing what would happen. I guess that was part of my many personality disorders.

After Semana Santa you could count on regular, daily rain showers. You could almost set your clock by them. Everyone would wait inside as the giant, pounding drops beat upon the tin and tile roofs, making conversation a little difficult. Then, just as quickly as it had begun the rain would shut off, almost instantaneously. We would walk outside and things would begin to dry out as if nothing had happened at all. Getting caught in a tropical rain constitutes a baptism by both sprinkling and immersion.

Mundy and Baria had this thing about playing Scrabble. They had purchased a Spanish version which was kept on a little table in the center of the area just outside our rooms (you could earn special bonus points for the double "rr"). Every time we came in for lunch we would spend a few minutes adding to the never-ending game. Needless to say the game was a source of many heated discussions concerning the legitimacy of some of the words (was the "vos" conjugation of verbs legitimate?). The Spanish language took some rather serious hits during those days but seems to have survived unscathed over the years.

Our rooms were on the second floor of the house which made it easy to climb through the window and do some tanning on the roof while listening to some music from home. After all, how could we go home from Central America without a really good tan? We certainly didn't want people to think we stayed inside all the time. We would appear to be much greater heroes if we appeared to have suffered. Image is everything.

Nelson and Roundy, our ZL's came over and told me that if I agreed to stay an extra three weeks I would get a greenie. I thought about it for about five minutes then told them I would do it. I wanted to end my mission with a bang.

Baria and I were going down the street when a car came by. A guy leaned out the window in an attempt to grab Elder Baria. Did I mention he held a brown belt? Did I mention he had a hard time holding his temper? He managed to block the guys arm as he went by and punch him in the shoulder. It was a whole new way of "laying on of hands."

The word on the street was that one of the sister missionaries had been told in her patriarchal blessing that she would meet her husband on her mission. I found it odd that something so personal had become common knowledge. I found it doubly odd that one of the Elders actually thought he was the one. But, the unusual was often the common place in the mission field.

Religious faith was often perverted in an attempt to gain the riches of the world. Our maid had a little shrine set up in the house with the sole objective of helping her win the lottery. It consisted of a painting of Jesus with a broken heart shining from inside his chest, wrapped up in a lottery ticket beside a burning candle. Don't ask me if she won, I never met anyone who actually did. Whenever I asked someone how they did on the lottery, they would just smile and utter the usual, "Nos toca sufrir."

But losing the lottery did not deter the habitual players from buying more tickets. There seemed to be a deluded assumption that losing only increased their chances the next time around. Strange.

Every Sunday night Elder Bond would come over with his junior and have a game of Rook with Mundy until the wee hours of the morning. I couldn't understand how a card game could be so fascinating and more desirable than sleeping. Sleeping was one of the things I did best. In any event the card game would go on for hours. As for me, me tocaba dormir.

Nelson and Roundy talked us into playing a little football with the rest of the zone. As usual there were a few former football jocks who had the mistaken illusion that if they were given just the right break, they could get an offer from the 49ers.

These deluded dimwits naturally proceeded to play full-contact flag football as if their lives depended upon the outcome. All their inner frustrations and hostilities surfaced, blossoming into bruises, blisters, battered bones and bloody bodies. Football was not a matter of life and death to these guys, it was much more serious than that.

Nelson, Mundy and I went over to jam with a local rock band but they were not home. While we were waiting for them we amused ourselves with their large green parrot. It soon dawned on us that the dirty bird must have been owned by a rather crusty old pirate, because the words coming out of his beak would make a sailor blush. It was absolutely amazing that someone would take such pains to teach a parrot to curse, swear, and profane with such impunity. The funniest part was how the bird would laugh hysterically after each foul emission. It was really bizarre.

Bird-brains do not only appear in feathered form. The human version was equally prevalent. An Englishman boarding at our house had a mouth that wouldn't stop. At first it caught us off guard as to whether or not to object to his persistent profanity. After all, we did not wish to offend.

Finally Baria looked at him, smiled and said "Would you mind not saying those kinds of things while we are present?" The Englishman erupted in a vulgar volcano of cursing, swearing and claiming he had the right to say whatever he wanted to and that we could not stop him. Baria smiled and calmly said, "But you wouldn't mind not saying them while we are around, now would you?"

There was an awkward moment while we all just eyed him, smiling all the time. He just glared at each of us, then threw his napkin onto his plate and stomped up to his room. We greatly enjoyed his absence from that time forward.

The branch planned a beach party at San Diego to celebrate the local holiday. May 1 is Labor Day. We decided not to get up at 4 in the morning to go with the branch, but hitched there at a more reasonable hour. We got a great ride that took us all the way to the beach.

I spread out a towel on the hot sand and immediately fell asleep (did I mention Mundy liked to play late-night card games?). Body-burning on a blistering beach was a big-time blunder.

I finally got to find out what it was like to "work zone" with the zone leaders. District leaders would split with the ZL's for a few days every now and then. I didn't know Roundy very well and was glad when Nelson arranged it so I could work with him. Here's what I found out about working with zone leaders:

1 Their food was much worse than ours.

2 They have errands to run all day long.

3 They don't get to teach much because of all the errands.

4 Many times they have to eat while running errands.

5 Running errands makes you hungry.

6 If the food makes you sick enough, you get to stay home and not run any more errands (sounds worth it to me).

Nelson and I did some heavy-duty tracting in his area (after we got done doing errands, of course). We found some inactive members and spent quite a bit of time talking to them. It is amazing how quickly people can forget everything they know about the church when they go inactive.

We finally managed to get the Portillo family married and ready for their baptismal interviews with Nelson and Roundy. We were always a little nervous when our investigators got interviewed for baptism, but I don't know why. I never saw anyone get turned down.

Roundy had discovered that the food we had over at our house was much better than what he and Nelson were subjected to. He wanted to make the switch back from working zone after supper. I had enjoyed working with Nelson but there was no way I was going to go back there for another "meal," as they called it.

I flat out told Roundy that our "working zone" was over and that I would be eating at my house. He was not happy, but what was he going to do? Send me home? Oh please do me a favor and send me home with three weeks left in the mission, but don't send me back to eat another meal at the "house of horrors!"

It all "came out in the wash" when we invited Nelson and Roundy to our house for supper. There was enough spaghetti for everyone. It looked like I would be staying another three weeks after all.

All we did was run errands today. You see, I did learn something from working zone with the ZL's.

It had been a full fifty weeks since I last baptized anyone. It was back in Escuintla with David Williams that I last got into the water. Over the course of the following year I had spent three months working in La Familia Unida, spreading the word but baptizing no one. Then Mundy and I worked two months in San Vicente where we found one golden investigator in Martinson's area, who got baptized after we left. Then, after working four months in San Pedro, a family was baptized just after I was transferred. The "dry season" had lasted for nearly a year.

Miguel Angel Velasco Portillo, age 57, and his wife Maria Victoria Polanco Cruz, age 53, got baptized on Saturday, May 5, 1973. It was definitely a "journal entry day."

Elder Mundy was a work-aholic. With only three months left in his mission he taught 100 lessons in four weeks, matching what Williams and I had done back in Escuintla. We celebrated with ice cream. Ice cream gives you such a warm feeling inside.

Back in those days we did not confirm people until the following Sunday in Sacrament Meeting. It was a special day for Brother Portillo because not only did he get the gift of the Holy Ghost, but it was his birthday as well. It was one of the few pay-offs we all received which served to balance out all the struggles and trials. "Nos toca sufrir" was not always true.

I had written in one of my previous letters to the president that if he had anyone else in mind that needed the "opportunity" and "blessing" of being a district leader, that it would not break my heart if I were released. I had certainly had all the "opportunities" and "blessings" from being a DL I could possibly stand. I desperately wanted to end my mission on the streets working with a greenie, someone like David Williams, but that would be a hard act to follow.

I was elated when the moves came out and I had been released as DL and I would be getting a greenie. Mundy was made district leader and his area was being split. Baria would take part of Mundy's area and work with Joe Cheney who was coming down from San Marcos.

Cheney's Back In Town

Joe Cheney had come down from San Marcos to work in our district with us. It sure was good to see him again. He, Mundy and I had a great time singing his favorite Hillbilly Tune, Old Four-holer On The Hill. For your amusement I have included the words below:

Listen friends and I will tell

About the little white house on the hill.

It's not the best

But it's the place to rest

In the old four-holer on the hill.

On a lazy afternoon

Flies will hum a lazy tune.

The seat is so kind

To Your behind

In the old four-holer on the hill.

When she has the time to spare

Grandma takes her knittin' there.

She's got her a box of

Knitted sox

In the old four-holer on the hill.

Fancy paper is a luxury.

You can take a tip from me.

A corn cob is rough

So, one's enough

In the old four-holer on the hill.

Grandpa went up there on the run.

When he got there he was done.

He could have walked

Because the door was locked

To the old four-holer on the hill.

Elder Razz (Nelson) got a move up north where he would be zone leader with Reintjes. Razz was well-respected as one of the few "normal" zonies we had (no offense intended to those who were not). Mundy and I were hoping we could end our missions there with Nelson and have a few more opportunities to jam with him and the local neighborhood rock band, but that is how things go. Perhaps we were having too much fun. Once again, nos toca sufrir.

Elder Gardea and I had to make a trip to San Salvador to get our greenies at the airport. We hitched into town, hit McDonald's, shot pool, rode bumper cars, then made our way to the airport. My new comp's name was Matthew Fenn Hilton, from Walnut Creek, California. He was a big tall dude, 6'3" and 179 lbs., who reminded me of Clark Kent. I wondered about him being from California. Most of the people I had know from California were like bowls of granola: The ones who were not fruits and nuts were all flakes. Maybe he would be different.

I'm not sure what Hilton thought about his first day in the mission field. We started off the day by going over to the chapel to do some construction work. I don't think that was had he had in mind when it came to "putting a shoulder to the wheel."

We talked to the Recino family which was baptized by Elder Andelin. They got all excited about becoming an "I Care Family." It's not easy following in Andelin's footsteps.

We got home just as it began to hail. The huge stones were about an inch in diameter and broke in half when they hit the pavement. The sound was deafening. It was the only hailstorm I had witnessed my entire mission.

10 Always reminding you of what time it is.

9 Always thinking of ways we can "improve."

8 Shakes hands too hard with members.

7 Says hello to drunks on the street.

6 Says hello to prostitutes on the street.

5 Quotes the handbook to the mission president.

4 Has two feet in El Salvador and his head in Provo.

3 Gets upset about buying icecream on Sunday for district meeting.

2 Want to tract in the rain so people will let us in.

1 Walks out of movies when the rest of the zone stays seated.

Hilton went with Cheney to play some football. Mundy and I did our usual routine of sleeping in, then hitched into San Salvador for a day of movies and McDonalds. We also went to Layco chapel where we met up with Cameron and practiced some songs. It was great to make music with them again.

We put on some of the most lame skits at our zone fireside. We sang the song "Teen Angel" and then did a rendition of Joe Cheney's favorite hymn, "Old Four-holer On The Hill." We finished up with a spoof on the Chinese martial arts movies. Light-mindedness at its very best.

We stayed overnight at Dodge's house in a hammock. Cheney, Dodge and I had a great time reliving our glory days up in the Guatemalan highlands. Our stories seemed to get better over time.

I got a letter from home telling me that if I wanted to stay an extra two weeks that would be fine, but that there was a job waiting for me and Dad needed me in the construction business, but to use my judgement because they understood I was needed "at both ends."

The ZL's called President Glade every Tuesday, so I went over to see if I could talk to him. I explained everything to Elder Rigby and he said he would talk to the president and get back with me.

The families in Santa Ana were beginning to get the vision about the "I Care Family" program. The Montes family, the Olmeda family, and the Vanegas all showed up. Elder Hathcock said it was the best meeting of that kind he had seen in Santa Ana.

We spent the day doing baptism interviews, then went over to the chapel. I wanted to make sure my greenie got wet as soon as possible, so he and Baria baptized Sister Pineda and their two children. I baptized Brother Jose Antonio Mejia Pineda. There is just something about people dressed in white, especially when everyone is wet.

Just before the meeting started, one of the members asked me if I would baptize his daughter. I declined, telling him that it would be much better if he did. After talking for awhile, we found there were reasons he could not do it, and because they did not want to wait until he was worthy, I consented.

Missionaries tend to be a little territorial. It was a little difficult for me to watch one of the other Elders confirm a baptism poached from our area. We tried not to make a big deal out of it because there was much more at stake than our personal egos.

While I was playing the piano in Sacrament Meeting, a little boy of about three years of age came up and started pushing on the keys. I guess he thought I needed some help. His father came over and tried to get him to quit. The little boy got mad and started slugging me in the back. I hope he didn't express the combined sentiment of the entire branch.

After church we went out for our usual evening of street displays. I could do that all day and not get tired. But all things must come to an end, so we decided to go see the Pineda family. Sister Pineda told us she had injured her hand and was in rather severe pain. We explained that the priesthood could be used to give blessings according to the faith of those involved. Sister Pineda then asked us to give her a blessing.

I taught Hilton how to anoint, and he did a great job. It was one of those times when everyone was certain how things would turn out. We just knew she would be healed. There was no hesitation in commanding the illness to depart. We also told her in the blessing that the reason she had received that particular trial was so that she could learn about the power of the priesthood and sustain that power when her husband would later receive it.

After the blessing Sister Pineda told us the pain had gone. Then to our surprise she started moving the finger she had broken a year earlier. She did not have the money to go to a doctor so the broken finger had swollen up and hardened. She had not been able to move it for an entire year. Now, with little effort, the finger was again moving. It was the first time I had seen a blessing spill over onto a pre-existing condition. Never underestimate the power of the priesthood coupled with faith.

Being with the Pinedas that night was so special that we did not want to leave. We were soon interrupted by the sound of rain drops outside. They advised us to hurry back home. I told them not to worry because we would not get wet.

We continued to visit for awhile then walked to the door. It quit raining as we started down the street. It seemed to be raining all around us. Just as we got home it began to pour. Mundy asked if we had taken our umbrellas. I answered that we had forgotten them. He asked if we had walked home. I said we had. He wanted to know why we weren't wet. I told him it was a long story and he probably wouldn't believe it anyway. It was probably all a very large coincidence.

That same night the lightning continued to flash and the rain pounded on the tile roof, but the thunder was not what kept me awake for most of that sleepless night. I was content to just marvel at the power released from each flash, feeling the vibrations from the ensuing thunder, and wondering why the creator of such manifestations would pause to do something so simple as heal a poor woman's injured hand and allow us the privilege of playing some small part. Who were we to be worthy of such a personal touch? The storm was beautiful.

Rigby handed me my new flight plans. June 8th would be my last day in the mission field. I didn't feel anything like I though I would. When I first arrived in the mission field I thought I would never go home. Now that it was within sight I felt a little empty. It was difficult sharing my testimony one last time with all the missionaries.

After two years in Latin America, all my clothes were not only out of style, they are totally shot. My two suit coats I was required to bring were practically worn out from hanging in the closet for 22 months. I think I wore them once or twice the entire time I was there. It was definitely time to start shedding a little unnecessary baggage.

The guy we had just baptized, Hermano Pineda, was about my size, so we took one of my suits over to his house. He was a little shorter than I, but his daily job was loading 200 lb. burlap bags of coffee beans onto train cars. His biceps were like iron, even when they weren't flexed. I presented him with the suit and asked him to try it on. You could almost see his muscles through the suit. It seemed odd that I had used the same suit coat to hide the fact my arms were so puny.

I thought he was doing me a favor by taking it off my hands until I noticed the look of gratitude in his eyes and they way his wife looked at him in his new Sunday suit. They told me they had never owned anything so beautiful and that it would be a privilege to wear it to church every Sunday. With tears in their eyes they thanked us for what they considered to be the most extravagant material gift they had ever received. Why did I suddenly feel so shallow?

Hilton, Peterson and I worked in a threesome while Mundy and Cheney took Baria to the airport. We spent the morning working at the chapel construction site. The afternoon was spent tracting. Who's baggy? Not me! We saw a plane fly over on its way north and thought it might by Baria's plane. We paused for a moment of silence.

We received word that Elder Carlisle had been hit by a motorcycle while crossing the street. The young man driving the cycle was trying to intimidate the missionaries by swerving at them. Carlisle did not see him coming and was struck. The cyclist was doing about 50 kilometers an hour on impact. Both were thrown to the pavement. Carlisle had a fractured skull from his forehead back around to the back of his head.

The doctors checked him out and said he would be fine, but later strange things began to happen. A specialist was called who examined him and then operated immediately. All 192 Elders and all the sisters started a special fast.

We all had the most comforting feeling about Elder Carlisle. We just knew everything was going to be fine. It was one of the most pleasant fasts I could remember. There was a calming feeling of peace we could not deny.

Hermano Pineda showed up at the district conference sporting his new suit. We had tried to show him how to tie a tie, but he had never owned one. He did rather well for a first time effort. In fact, my suit looked better on him than it ever did on me.

We had a good visit with Elder Bond. He was very concerned about Elder Carlisle. He had nearly died that morning from the swelling of his brain. We still believed everything would be fine because we had received such a feeling of peace from our mission fast. We just knew there would be a miracle in his behalf.

Hilton and I came home for supper and Elder Mundy handed me a newspaper. I began to read aloud thinking it was anti-Mormon literature. Then I came to the part saying "Mormon hit by motorcycle died this morning." We all just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say to one another. We then went over to the zone leader's to see if it was really true. They confirmed our fears. Elder Carlisle had passed away.

We suddenly realized why we had received such a feeling of peace about him during our fast. Our prayers had been answered, but not in the way we wanted.

The members at mutual were very concerned. Elder Carlisle's passing had created the avenue for all of us to think much more deeply about the solemnities of eternity, the brevity of life, the fragile state of mortality. We were able to discuss such matters with members in a way that we may never have been able otherwise.

All things seem to eventually work together for our good, even something as tragic as a death. It took the death of my wife's brother on his mission in Mexico in 1964 to encourage her parents to be sealed in the temple. His determination to serve a mission served as a living example to all his nephews who want to be like their Uncle Wayne. His legacy continues today. Nothing teaches so much about life than an unexpected death.

Peterson got his very first move to Ahuchapan. He and Mundy had done very well together. Every time Mundy and I got a chance we would jam on our guitars and were constantly writing and developing new songs. Peterson wanted a tape of our music so we stayed up late making him one. It helped us take our minds off what happened to Elder Carlisle. My guitar had been my most faithful companion.

It was not uncommon for some locals to use missionary connections to get to the United States. They would begin by writing the parents of missionaries so that they could build an emotional bond. They would send them letters, then typical clothes, whatever it took to set the emotional hook. Then they would begin to tell how bad the situation was in El Salvador. Finally they would ask for sponsorship and other assistance. It created a great distress for everyone involved. When I was a greenie I had the same thing happen to me. Some of the Elders I knew were going through that ordeal, only this time the members showed up in Provo as an illegal alien. What a nightmare.

Elder Koplin was very interested in my journal. I had two loose-leaf binders filled with every day of my entire mission, along with pictures, postcards, letters, etc. He seemed to be rather impressed and said he was going to do the same thing. I had been inspired by Elder Ardmore who kept everyday of his mission. I must say it was a good exercise returning to my diary each day to report the activities to myself, because, let's face it, the vast majority of all our days are average, boring, and for the most part, uneventful. Many times I had to stretch to find anything interesting enough to write down.

Anyway, I hope anyone reading this will use it as a way of remembering many of the things they may have forgotten about. I hope to meet up with Elder Koplin and see if he really did keep his journal. I would like to read it.

We spent the entire morning cutting re-bar at the construction site for the new chapel. Everything had to be ready for pouring concrete. I spent the last eight months of my mission working on various construction sites at least once each week. It felt good to do something involving some physical effort.

Mundy and I had an appointment to talk to one of the radio announcers about playing one of our tapes on the air. Just as we were walking down the sidewalk near the station, a car came careening in the lot, just missed me, and struck Mundy as he was walking near a garbage can and had no room to get out of the way.

I thought for sure his leg was broken because his pants were torn. Somehow he had escaped any further injury. Needless to say we had a few words with the guy who volunteered to pay for the damages. In the course of the conversation we found out he was the radio announcer we had the appointment with. What a coincidence that he suddenly took great interest in playing our music. Now, isn't that strange!

Why would it be that I suddenly found it difficult to sleep at night? Why did it feel like cockroaches were running a marathon in my gut? Could it be I was a week away from going home? Hmmm, I wonder.

I often found myself wondering what I would say when I reported my mission back home. I remember watching missionaries leave our ward as young boys and come back looking like men. When I looked in the mirror the young boy was still looking back at me. Somehow I thought I would be more mature, have more amazing stories to tell. I had expected to convert thousands, or at least a few hundred, but the truth was I was, for the most part, another average missionary who served just another very average mission. I was not excited about the idea of reporting my mission.

I don't know where the idea first came from for missionaries reporting their missions to bear their testimonies in their foreign tongue. What is the purpose of all that, anyway? So they learned to bear their testimonies in another language, what else were they supposed to do for 24 months. It was always amazing to me that people who nothing about any foreign language whatsoever would comment on how well the missionary had learned to speak. "He sure do talk that fancy Mandarin Chinese, now don't he Ma? Yessiree Bob, he sure do."

The only thing one can do while the missionary is pontificating in the unknown tongue, is listen for any familiar words, my favorite one being "Amen." As for me, I sure do feel uplifted and edified after listening to three minutes of an unknown language. So why was it I did the very same thing as countless missionaries before me? Tengo testimonio, si, va.

As much as I wanted my last Sunday to be special, the truth was that it was wonderfully typical:

1 None of our investigators came to church.

2 None of the people we had baptized came to church.

3 The Sunday School teacher for the teenagers did not show up.

4 I had to fill in and teach the teenagers' Sunday School class.

Koplin was Mundy's new companion. He was center line-backer for the BYU Freshman team, so naturally he had a supply of necessary equipment. After our district meeting we went out into the street in front of the house and threw passes back and forth up and down the street. The kids looked at us with the same wonder that I had when I used to see them playing soccer in the streets. A street can be a great place for a good game of football. It was sad to think it would all too soon be over.

We had great latitude given to us on Mondays. As long as we got 65 hours each week, we could climb volcanos, ride horses, go sight seeing to different cities, play pool, ping-pong, basketball and of course football. My philosophy was to work hard when it was time to work, and play hard when it was time to do that.

Movies were one colon (40 cents) each. I ended my last Monday by seeing three consecutive movies, something I have never been able to duplicate since (nor would I want to).

We spent the day going around the area saying goodby to people and leaving pictures with them. It was much more difficult than I had ever imagined.

We went to mutual and for the last time I was able to play the piano. I never did learn to sight read. I played piano "by ear" which tended to limit what I could play, but no one complained other than some of the missionaries who were trained musicians. My philosophy was to simply play the song and leave out all the notes that didn't sound right. What could be so difficult about that?

After I gave my farewell speech to the branch, a little girl came up to me and told me not to go because, according to her, I was supposed to be there to play the piano. It sure was tempting.

I was asked to give the closing prayer at mutual. It was so very difficult to get through it. It was the last time I would pray at a church meeting in Latin America as a missionary. I was getting tired of so many "last time" this and "last time" that. It was like trying to take each and every sight, sound, and experience and burn it deep into my memory. It was all passing much too quickly.

After everyone else had gone to bed, Mundy and I sat on the curb outside the apartment and talked well into the night. It was my last night in El Salvador.

Mundy and I had spent practically our entire time in the mission field together. My missionary journal was as much about him as it was of myself. We were in the same district for two months in San Salvador when he was a greenie and we went tracting together hoping no one would let us in. We were in La Familia Unida together for another four months, then worked as companions in San Vicente for another two months. We were in the same zone in Xela for five months where we often got together for paseos. We then finished out my last three months in Santa Ana living in a four-Elder house. We had known each other and worked together for 16 months.

We talked about all the old times and amused each other with countless lines and cliches' from the endless list of movies we had seen. Life was all too amusing to get so serious about things. After all, people go home from missions all the time. There was too much yet to be done, more songs to sing, and many more movies to watch.

I couldn't leave Santa Ana without visiting with saying goodby to our recent convert baptism, Hermano Portillo. We just sat and talked for a long time about his conversion and how much the church meant to him.

He happened to mention how badly he wanted to get a hymn book for church. He had been waiting for the mission to get some more shipped in. I just happened to have my hymn book with me. It had traveled with me ever since the LTM and I had used it my entire mission. I had looked forward to placing it on my bookshelf at home as one of my most treasured recuerdos. So why did I present it to him as a parting gift? Was it because it was not meant to rust unused on my bookshelf? Or was it because I hoped it would remind him of the special time we spent together during the process of his conversion to the gospel? I think it was because it seemed like the only natural thing to do. After all, I can't read music anyway, so why would I need a book?

As we visited with Hermano Portillo and his wife, we naturally found ourselves talking about the church and our mutual love for the Savior. Without planning it, we all bore our testimonies to each other in the privacy of his small apartment. Then we all knelt for a closing prayer which Hermano Portillo offered himself. His sincerity and humble faith produced one of the most touching and eloquent prayers I had ever heard. I don't remember what he said, but I do remember how I felt. It was one of those few spiritual highlights of my entire mission.

We then dried our eyes and he insisted on sharing with us a bowl of rice. All too soon it was time to leave. I had never been too fond of "abrazos," but that time I had no problem.

We walked down the narrow corridor from his small apartment and out into the world. I was surprised when Hilton said he had learned more about real missionary work during that lesson than he had since he had arrived in Central America. The Spirit had taught us all.

We went over to say goody to Sister Canizales, but she wasn't there. We asked some neighbors where she was and they did not know. Just then it started raining, so the neighbors invited us to wait until it stopped. Naturally we got into a discussion on religion. The guy was a scientologist who informed me that "theology was the highest form of study." I told him that theology was the study of God devised by man, but Mormonism was the study of God revealed to prophets. We testified to him, but I don't think his itching ears were scratching for anything new.

We got back to the house and found out that Mundy and Koplin had bought us some cake, icecream, and of all things, root beer. Wouldn't you know they would start selling root beer in Santa Ana the day I leave. Me toca sufrir, indeed.

Elders Hathcock and Culp came over to say their final goodbys. We had our own little fiesta. We talked well into the night. It didn't seem to matter what time it was.

Mundy and I made one last recording of some of our favorite songs, then he, Cheney and I started hitching for San Salvador. We got a great ride with a guy who took us right to McDonald's. I managed to collect my last reference as a missionary.

When I first arrived as a missionary, President Monson came down to see if we were ready to have a stake in El Salvador. He told us we were not yet ready. Now, just as I was leaving, we had received approval and President Schell was the new stake president. Perhaps we did make a little progress over the previous two years.

We got up early and Cheney and Mundy went with me in a taxi to the Illopango airport. Dodge, Hillery and Bond came to see me off. All too soon it was time to leave. It was so sad saying goodby to so many of the closest friends I had ever had.

We all stood around laughing and talking in the main lobby of the airport. The ceiling had a curious dome shape and if you stood in just the right place it was like talking into your own ears.

We all agreed to look each other up when we got back home, but somehow we knew it probably would not happen, at least for some time. Natural dispersion seems to be how things actually work out.

With a final abrazo, I walked out of the airport and boarded the plane. I could see the row of white-shirted Elders watching from the second floor observatory. Change was proving more difficult than I had imagined. The 707 taxied down the runway and all too soon I was in Guatemala.

Eddo came to get me at the airport. We spent the rest of the day together doing some last minute errands (I had learned how to them well by working zone with Nelson). But most of all, Eddo and I just talked about all the time we had spent working together. We went through my journal and laughed about all the fun times.

It was customary for missionaries to eat their last meal with President Glade and his family. It reminded me of what it was like to have my feet under my mother's own table, something I would soon be able to experience again. Me toca comer!

President Glade had one final interview with me before leaving. We talked about some of the things that had been accomplished and also discussed future plans. I don't remember the counsel he gave, but I do remember feeling that he cared. I thanked him for being such a great mission president. I had been assigned some of the hardest areas in some of the more remote parts of the mission, but in the process had experienced things and met people I would never forget. After all, I was happiest working out in the boonies where I was not expected to succeed. I thrived on challenge.

Rigby and Eddo took me to the airport. The 747 was waiting out on the runway. The long day was coming to an end and it was beginning to cloud up a bit.

I said my last goodbys to Rigby. We had spent so many good times up in the highlands that it was hard to know what to say. I didn't know it would be another 23 years before I would talk to him again on the phone. I'm sure he's improved with age, but he's basically still the same. We spoke to one another as if it had only been yesterday.

I also had a difficult time saying farewell to Elder Eddo. We had been in the same district for about three months in Escuintla, then were companions in La Familia Unida for four more. My last abrazo was for him.

I climbed the stairs of the huge 747 and entered the nearly empty plane. The stewardess took my guitar and put it in first class. My place was way back in the cheap seats. I thought it was appropriate that my guitar would fly first class. It had served me well.

It was approaching dusk when the huge plane began in motion. The rain dripped down the outside of the window blurring my last view of a place I had grown to love so much. The faster the plane rolled, the tighter the lump grew in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes as the buildings raced past the window and the ground disappeared into the darkness below. The plane sped me homeward, up into the black night, but left much more of me behind in a place and time I would never forget.

No, I didn't accomplish everything I set out to do. In fact, for years I felt my mission was a failure. I found great comfort in the words of President Hinkley:

The two-year ride through the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission was a privilege indeed. I thank the Lord for the ride. Nos toca vivir.

This completes the last in the series of "The Shirley Chronicles, The Lighter Side of Missionary Work." Special thanks to J. Craig Nelson for providing the electronic forum. Any additions, corrections, embellishments, etc. are welcomed. Muchas Gracias.