A personal essay by Lauryn Jacobs
An exploration of contrasting experiences I had with two of my missionary companions--and how I saw God's hand in both relationships.
“Through the grace of God we ministered with the kind of charity that grows between strangers, and more often than not, we were the ones ministered to.” --Ashley Mae Hoiland
I felt hopeless. Abandoned. Burdened beyond my capabilities. My missionary companion was going through struggles of her own, struggles that seemed much more pressing. Her mental health battle had wounded us both, I just hadn’t spoken up -- and didn’t plan to.
I feared opening up would be the fatal blow to her already wounded mind, so I kept it hidden, buried down. I tried to be strong, to some days single-handedly accomplish the endless tasks we had scheduled, and at the same time maneuver the endless mental obstacle course that was stretched out in front of me, fearing any move I made would trigger yet another wall I would have to scale. I was so tired. The only prescription my unseen ailment ever seemed to solicit was to stretch myself in whatever way I could to cushion the fall of my companion.
We sat in an unfamiliar car and carried on a polite conversation with the stranger in the driver's seat. A member of one of the local English wards had offered to drive us to my companion's first appointment with the mission therapist. I looked outside the window and studied the changing scenery during the 30 minute drive. As I sat on the couch outside of the room they occupied, I searched for respite of my own. My wounds were as blisters that seemed to pester me to no end. Every day, I did what I was supposed to -- I prayed, studied my scriptures, delved into my missionary activities -- and yet I found no answers. My studies became more desperate and frustrated, my prayers a constant plea for hope, for healing, for anything.
Our search for people to whom we could teach the gospel was like a rescue ship searching for survivors in the open sea. But I felt like a man overboard, seeming incapable to even find the answers to my own questions.
We unlatch the familiar gate and start the ascent up the surprisingly steep incline that led to the front door of two of our investigators: Manny and Marisela. I thought I knew what we would find. Each lesson with them seemed parallel to a therapy session for Marisela. Her life had consisted of endless complicated circumstances and she had become comfortable enough with us to share a lot of what held her back from fully embracing faith in God. The ordinary table we sat around became synonymous with a psychiatrist's couch, and our meetings usually induced tears.
We began what I thought would be an ordinary lesson that per usual segued into Marisela sharing heartbreaking personal experiences very quickly. As I listened to her describe the lack of appreciation she felt and the endless sacrifices she felt she had to make as a mother, then only to receive criticism for how she chose to parent her kids, I strangely felt an incredibly strong connection bind us together. As I watched the tears roll down her cheeks, I realized though I had never actually experienced what she had described, those tears and those words contained the same pain with which I had written in my journal for the last 9 weeks.
This link which my hidden pain had created became a fountain for the now immeasurable amount of love I had for Marisela. With this comfort of feeling understood came the motivation to keep moving forward. She deserved to know that there was hope and healing ahead, and I would be the one to pave the way.
“Maybe even in our differences we can look each other in the eyes and say sincerely, ‘I could not do this without you.’” --Ashley Mae Hoiland
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Our laughter is lost in the noise of the thousands of water droplets pouring down on us. It was southern California, an area in which rain was thought to be extinct. Yet here we are, walking back to our apartment, in some of the heaviest rain I had ever experienced, our umbrellas shielding us from the California downpour.
The face laughing next to me is new, unfamiliar. Olive skin, and yet a natural redhead. Kind eyes. Freckles. The slightest hint of dimples on her cheeks. A contagious smile.
Her name is Hermana Giles. At this point, we had only been companions for about 3 weeks. 21 days. Though it's hard to get to know someone in so little time, as we spent 24 hours a day together, I found answers to the questions that had bounced around my brain upon first meeting her.
Will she do anything weird?
One morning, I opened the egg carton we shared to find the broken shells of eggs she had eaten. "Do you put your egg shells back in the carton?" I asked. She apologized and told me she would stop if I didn't like it, but I found it humorous and began to do the same.
Will she follow the rules?
Yes. We were mostly on the same page, reigning each other in if we had any crazy ideas--and we had plenty in the 6 week period we spent together.
Will she like me?
One night, as we were getting ready for our mandatory bedtime of 10:30pm, we found ourselves both in the bathroom, brushing our teeth. Someone turns on music. One of us starts to dance, followed by the other. A teeth-brushing dance party had commenced. 10:30pm came and went, and still the smiles and laughter continued. The details are lost to history, but I knew that night we had a connection stronger than either of us had expected.
9 days after walking through the front door with soaked umbrellas, we entered our apartment, frozen yogurt in hand, unsure what the next 24 hours would bring. It was an impromptu decision, but one of the many that would highlight our friendship. It was early March 2020, and talk of a virus known as COVID-19 had steadily increased as the days went by. A member had texted us earlier that night and told us that our county was going into a lockdown the next day--we were uncertain of what that entirely meant. Our frozen treats were symbolic of our freedom, and as we ate spoonful after spoonful, so too disappeared the certainty of missionary life as we had come to know it.
We were navigating unknown territory--what missionaries had served in the midst of an imminent worldwide pandemic? Each morning brought new information and new restrictions: first door-knocking--a common method used by missionaries--was prohibited. Then we were no longer allowed to talk to people outside at all. We began teaching people over phone calls and video calls, a method previously unconceived. I found that I was no longer just the net underneath a wobbling tightrope artist. This new, unpredictable situation gave me a personal tightrope I didn't know how to traverse.
We were encouraged to utilize Facebook, the one form of social media we were permitted to have on our phones. That was the extent of the direction we were given, so we got creative. A large framed picture covered with church magazine pages with images of Christ acts as a background. We sit in front, I have a borrowed ukulele in hand. Filming duets of hymns to post on our personal accounts became an almost daily activity. Our voices blended almost perfectly, the harmonies we sang seeming to supplement the lack of vitamin D we now received.
I had struggled to connect with my previous companions. I didn’t understand--stories from missionaries past, including my father, told me I would find some of my best friends on my mission. Each transfer I felt like my mission president had taken two puzzle pieces from two separate puzzles and attempted to stick them together. Sometimes, it almost seemed like it worked--until it became clear that the differing patterns contrasted so sharply it became obvious they didn’t belong. For the first time in almost halfway through my 18 month service, this felt different. This felt right. This felt like friendship. The winds of a tornado of chaos swirled all around us, and yet we had found it’s eye within each other.
A tightrope didn't seem so hard to navigate when I had a net. No, a balancing pole. No, a partner, there on the tightrope with me. Someone to look back and encourage me to take one more step forward despite the new anxiety--and sometimes dread--I woke up with every morning. Someone who could show me how to position my feet in order to keep my balance.
Somedays, the roles were reversed, and she depended on my soothing reassurance to keep moving forward. We had found a balance with each other. Within each other.
This was hope. This was healing.
Is awesome how you describe every detail. You must be a writer; think about it. I hope you are doing very well. God bless you.
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