Oh, Mexico
Oh, Mexico
Oh, Mexico. The James Taylor song my dad has been playing ever since I received my call played in my head as we flew over Mexico for the first time and me and the other American missionaries frantically tried to understand and fill out our Spanish Immigration forms.
I am currently in the suburbs of Hermosillo with my companion Elder Santamand from Veracruz. As you have probably guessed, I can’t really understand too much of the people I get to talk to. Sometimes I can get in a few words or understand a phrase here and there. But these interactions usually end with blank stares of confusion from both parties.
The heat of Hermosillo is a cruel joke for the people here to laugh at or to give a tired nod of understanding. I feel a bit like I’m in the movie Rango. I am an outsider with a cowboy hat trying to act like I know what I’m doing. As in that movie, everything seems to be about the heat and water. People often cross the street or walk in certain parts of the road to stand in the shade even if is for a second. Most people, including us missionaries, wear hats like Indiana Jones to protect us from the sun. A lot of missionaries in my district have gotten sick from dehydration, so we are usually quite careful about how much we drink and what water we drink. The people I have met also seem very careful with their water. For cleaning dishes, for example, they only turn on water for what is necessary and don’t leave water running over the dishes like we do in America.
After many awkward and sweaty interactions, I met one family that I felt a lot of love for. The first time I went into their house I was surprised to find a small card table in the corner that held their tiny electric stove and a toy or two for their kids--one being 6-months-old and the other about 18. As the father explained to my companion his situation and feelings, I felt immense love for him and his family. I managed to scrape out a few words expressing this love and it seemed to touch him even if it was just a poke.
Later, we came back to teach them only this time it was just the mother. We began to teach and listen to her thoughts when her 18-month-old child started crying. The mother said he was crying because he needed water. My companion and I went across the street to buy them water, which gave us some time to change our lesson plan. When we came back and the dehydrated child had some water, we taught about our purpose on the Earth and God's plan for us. We talked primarily about how God loves us.
My companion and I decided to sing He Sent His Son to them in Spanish, one of my favorite children’s hymns. As we sang, I felt the familiar love in my heart from when I used to walk to the Provo Temple as I listened to this lovely song as I walked, desiring to come closer to God. When we finished, behind tears, a cracked voice, and a gringo accent, I shared how much this song and the idea behind it means to me. I talked about how I have felt His love for me through His Son and His sacrifice. She replied with teary eyes of her own, commenting "Que Bonita."
After teaching her family one other time, we invited them to come to Church with us. We contacted other members to give them the 20-minute ride it would take to get there. When I saw them there with us at Church, my beaming face seemed to catch theirs.
There are a lot of hard things with missionary work, especially when you don’t understand much of it. But there can be wells in deserts or hope in a broken soul. This family and teaching them gives me hope to keep going and focus more on His Son and why He was Sent for us.
I love y'all!
Elder d'Evegnee
Comments
Post a Comment