First Performance

Our second day in Guatemala, Rachel and I spent the morning shopping and visiting. We were able to spend a few more hours with members of the ward in Ermita before we finally had to meet up with the rest of the choir at our hotel, El Barcelo. 

We were so touched by the kindness of the ward members. We had planned to call a taxi to come and pick us up in Ermita and take us to the hotel, some thirty or so minutes away. Like here, gas is very expensive in Guatemala, especially when you take into account the much lower average income in Guatemala, so we wouldn't have dreamed of asking someone to give us a lift, though if we had asked I'm sure we would have had a line of people willing to do us the favor. Plus, most people in Guatemala don't even have cars. As far as I know, only five or six members of the ward in Ermita have family cars, and most of these definitely would not pass inspection in the US. But when Byron Colindrez, the father of the family who was recently sealed, found out that we were headed into the city he insisted that we let him drive us. It was a wonderful gesture and a great sacrifice on his part. 

When we arrived at El Barcelo, Rachel and I both had to laugh a little bit. Our group was gathered in the lobby, spread out all over the chairs, couches, and even the floor. Their red eye flight had been much longer than ours and they had only recently arrived at the hotel. Everyone was looking a little bleary-eyed and not talking much, but they were still enthusiastic and excited to have finally arrived after all these months of preparation.

We gathered our things and left for the stake center at which we would be performing. This was the first time I realized how jaded I had become to everything that had been so shocking to me when I had first arrived in Guatemala, two years ago. Many of the members of our tour group had visited foreign countries, though few had seen such impoverished third world countries as this, and a couple had never left the country at all. The lethargy I had noticed when we first met up with our group evaporated; suddenly everyone was jabbering, pointing things out to other people, noticing things that I took for commonplace, like the police in full body armor, the game of street soccer we interrupted when we parked our tour buses outside the stake center, the barbed wire and heavy chain-link fence surrounding the chapel, and the outdoor courtyards rather than indoor hallways of the meetinghouse.

The choir at our first performance in Guatemala City.

This first performance was at the behest of the area presidency, who requested we perform at least once in the capital city for those Q’eqchi’ who had relocated from the areas we would visit later on.  The turn out was not large, but it was quality: a few Q’eqchi’ families were there, as well as a number of Guatemalans who did not speak Q’eqchi’ but had heard a choir was coming and were interested to hear us sing. In addition, the mission president, President Watts, had given permission to attend to any Q’eqchi’ speaking missionaries who had been transferred to the Capital. Especially exciting was the presence of President Watts and his wonderful wife, as well as the president of one of the other missions (the south or central mission, I believe, though I no longer remember which), and Elder Amado of the area presidency and his wife.

We rehearsed for about an hour, and then stopped about fifteen minutes before the fireside was to begin, though the start time was pushed back another half hour or so to allow for latecomers. In that time, with nothing else to do, I went around with a few other members of the choir and greeted those people who had arrived and were waiting patiently for the fireside to begin. They were mostly members interested to know more about the choir, how we had gotten involved, and what all we would be singing. They were warm, polite, and very happy to see us. 

All of the returned missionaries in the choir, along with the current mission president and his wife.

Of special excitement for me was the opportunity to greet President and Sister Watts, who had served during the last six months of my mission. They were both happy to see me and asked lots of questions about how I was doing. Weirdly, seeing them and giving Sister Watts a big hug was not dissimilar to the feeling I got the day I got off the airplane and hugged my own mom, at the end of my mission.

Finally, the fireside got started, and people continued to trickle in as we sang. I think we sounded pretty good, though I must admit I was terribly nervous! I don’t like being on stage, and I especially didn’t like being front and center in the choir, where I knew everyone could see me. But we did our best and sang well. Most importantly, I think the Spirit was definitely present.

Day 1!

Finally, it was time to head out! Though most of the choir was planning to leave July 24th, my former companion, Rachel, and I had made plans to arrive the day before so that we could spend the day in the capital city, where we had served together. The choir had plans to spend only one day in the Capital, and we knew that if we went with them we wouldn't have time to visit the members and converts we had grown to love, so it was well worth it to arrive a day early.

The flight to Guatemala seemed super fast. We had a layover of an hour or so in the Los Angeles airport, and wound up sitting next to a man who looked distinctly Latino. When he nearly tripped over my bag in the aisle, I instinctively said, "Perdon, hermano!" rather than "Sorry!" He sort of cocked his head and asked me in broken English if I spoke Spanish. Rachel and I said that we did, and explained where we had learned it and why we were going back. We had a really nice chat in Spanish, and it was the first time since I had been home that I had spoken with a native Guatemalan in Spanish. It felt like coming home.

We arrived at the airport and took a crazy taxi ride to Ermita, the neighborhood where I had spent eight months of my mission. A member, Zusi, had graciously offered us a place to spend the night, so we brought all our stuff and dropped it there, and she prepared us a traditional Guatemalan breakfast (our flight was a red eye, so we were arriving about 8 AM). Then, we spent the rest of the day making house calls. 

As a missionary, I spent most of my time either walking to teaching appointments or knocking on doors hoping to get a teaching appointment. Ermita is a tiny little neighborhood, and by the time I was transferred to another area, I knew just about everyone there at least by face if not by name, members and non-members alike. I could have drawn a map of the area and explained who lived in which apartment. But despite my familiarity with the place, I found myself feeling faintly nervous. Guatemala City is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. While serving in Ermita, I witnessed some of that danger, but as a missionary I never once felt nervous for my safety. Now, a few moments after arriving there, I was watching my back and checking my pockets. 

"Things are different now, huh?" I asked Rachel, looking around and noticing the stares we were getting from people.

"Yeah," she said. "No more gafete."

She was referring to the nametags we wore on the mission, proclaiming our names and that we were representatives of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She was partially right in a literal sense: our nametags were an easy way for people to quickly identify us. They didn't have to ask themselves why two blonde girls were wandering around inner city Guatemala City, so they saw us, noticed us, and then forgot about us. Now, we were just two tourists with no apparent purpose for being there. We stuck out really, really bad. 

But the other fact was, we weren't missionaries any more. We were no longer set apart to do that particular work, and we no longer had the protection afforded the Lord's called servants. 

We took some extra precautions, avoiding some streets we knew to be more dangerous, keeping cameras and cell phones out of sight, and making sure we always had a member with us to off set our obvious strangeness. Despite the constant nerves I felt, nothing happened to us while we were there, and we thoroughly enjoyed our time visiting with the members. 

Our most memorable visit had to be with a family we had found and taught as missionaries, the Colindrez family. A series of miracles led us to them, and over a few months we witnessed another miracle: their conversion. Now, more than a year after their baptisms, we had come to see them just a few months after they were sealed together in the Guatemala City Temple. This visit was one of my personal miracles of the whole trip, because most missionaries get to be a part of just a small part of an investigator's progress. I had been privileged to see all of it. I was there when we knocked on their door. Together with Rachel, we had visited them, prayed for them, fasted for them, and watched them grow to love the gospel. We saw them make changes in their lives, sacrifice to come to church, and come closer as a family. We saw them, one after another, enter the waters of baptism. After Rachel went home, my new companion and I were blessed to watch them learn more about the church, assume responsibilities and callings, and become an integral part of the ward. And now, months later, I was able to come back and see how they had progressed, how they had kept their covenants and made additional ones, how their lives had changed. I truly have felt no greater joy in my entire life, than to spend an hour with that family and witness their joy. 

To top off a wonderful day, we got word that night that one of the families in the ward wanted us to come visit them. We arrived at their home and found not just them, but half of the ward there! We had told the Bishop we were coming, and he had thrown together a "Family Home Evening" style activity. We sat in a circle. The ward had fun trying to guess our first names; they never did figure out mine, and I had to tell them. Then the Bishop, who was apparently unsatisfied with an activity that didn’t include some kind of gospel teaching, asked Rachel and I to share a few words and bear our testimonies. I felt sort of strange, standing there in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, using words I had used as a missionary. All I could think of to say to them was, “Thank you.” I thanked them for their examples, for teaching me, for working so hard, for taking care of those people we taught. And I told them that I knew that what I had preached as a missionary was true, that it wasn’t just words I had said: the Book of Mormon is true. There is a living prophet on the earth. This, and no other, is Christ’s true church.

I thought I would get teary-eyed, being back in my mission and sharing my testimony in Spanish, but I found that quite the opposite was true. I found my heartbeat speeding and my chest filling with that indescribable joy I had experienced as a missionary—that I had only ever experienced as a missionary! It was exhilarating and wonderful.

I sat down, and Rachel shared her thoughts, and then I was surprised to see each of the members stand, one by one, to bear a testimony, or to share a memory of when they had gone to teach with us, or to tell us of a recent missionary experience, or to thank us for our service. And that was when I got teary-eyed. J

We finished off the evening by eating Chapin Hot Dogs—miniature hot dogs roasted over a fire and wrapped in a tortilla, and the Bishopric teasingly brought out a 2-liter bottle of Coke, the drink we were not allowed in the mission.

Yeah, it was a great night.