Mission to Shimonoseki

If you had 15 seconds where every camera in the world was on you and you had everyone's attention, what would you say? What message would you deliver? Only a lucky few get a chance.

I know what I would say. I would say, “I know of myself that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Messiah and that the Book of Mormon is the word of God.”

I don't know how many times I have said those words or words like them over the course of my life. They define me and make me who I am. Many of those times came on my mission. I am a Mormon, a nickname for members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Like most young Mormon men at 19, I took my turn preaching my faith for two years. I suppose most have seen these young men out knocking on doors or talking on the street with people and wondered about them.

I dressed in the familiar white shirts and ties wearing a black badge. I rode a bicycle much too small for me and traveled with another missionary. My suits were a drab polyester during winter, and I wore hunting socks beneath tattered blue ones in a vain effort to keep my feet warm.

Most Mormon missionaries stand out. They can no more blend into a crowd than a moose can blend in on Broadway. At 6 feet, 3 inches in Japan, I was even more mooselike: tall, awkward, inexperienced; a stranger in a strange land.

Mormons have been going on missions since before the church was officially organized. The first mission sent young Samuel Smith, the brother of the church's founder, Joseph Smith, into the countryside of rural, upstate New York. He passed out copies of The Book of Mormon. Smith returned home saddened by his power. He thought no one had believed his message. However, one copy ended up in the hands of Brigham Young, the man who led the famous Mormon migration to the Rocky Mountains.

Joseph Smith says he translated, with God's help, the Book of Mormon from gold plates hidden in a hill near his home. The Angel Moroni directed Joseph to the site where the ancient prophet himself hid the plates in 421 A.D., after his people where annihilated for their wickedness. The Book of Mormon account tells of a remnant of the House of Israel who came to the Americas in 600 B.C. It tells of wars, preaching's and a visit of the resurrected Jesus Christ to these people. This is the heart of the Book of Mormon and its role. The Bible has been passed down through generations of translators. Conflicts of meaning and translation arise. It becomes too easy to say Jesus Christ was merely a revolutionary preacher or a deep thinker. If you believe the Book of Mormon, the resurrection story as laid out in the sacred gospels has to be true. Jesus Christ must be the Great King. This book, then, is a new witness of Jesus Christ. This is the truth I wanted to share on my mission and did so at each opportunity.

I entered my mission with a dutiful heritage of faith. Mormon conversions came rapidly in the 1800s, but converts suffered persecutions for their trouble. Joseph Smith was murdered in Illinois and Missouri's governor ordered his militia to either drive Mormons from the state or “exterminate” them. When Mormons went to Utah, they came from many places around the world. During a 20-year migration involving scores of companies, about one in 12 migrants died along the way. In the midst of their hardest trials, however, Mormon fathers still went on missions leaving their families to pry a living from the deserts of the American West. With this heritage, I had a duty. I had to be true to the faith.

My mission took me to Japan. Describing the feelings of a being a missionary is a little like describing what a chocolate éclair tastes like to someone without taste buds. A mission's painful introspection can equally be like describing a rotten fish. Let me try to show you though, by taking you to a bustling port, Shimonoseki at one of the southern tips of Japan. This is where my duty turned to joy; joy turned to despair and despair became a renewed testimony.

My concrete blockhouse apartment in Shimonoseki stood high on a hill overlooking rows of slate-roofed homes. Nothing blocked the frequent winds. When I think of Shimonoseki, I almost always see clouds. Down the hill one way was a new McDonald's. Down another were a small flower shop; putrid, open-air fish markets, vending machines and other pieces of neighborhood commerce. A third road to the hilltop was so steep that those constructing the paved path, stopped paving a street and turned to paved steps instead. The road we used most, barely wide enough for two small cars to pass with care, connected with a main street headed to the town's heart, the train station.

For six months, I shared an apartment with between one and three other elders-this is what we called each other despite our youth. Our kitchen was four-feet by six feet wide with a small refrigerator and a gas stove. i have an old slide showing that two of those four feet were counters and sinks, so there was hardly any room. The main room featured Japanese travel posters and a closet. A large, leaky window ran the entire length of the room. Perpendicular from the window, a door frame for Japanese screen doors, shoji, hung down 18 inches from the ceiling. The shoji doors were long gone.

I came to the city after a 12-hour train ride through historic Southwestern Japan. Here, some of Japan's most important revolutions took place. Twelve hours is a long time to be alone as a missionary, so I took advantage of the serenity. Terraced rice fields were nearing harvest, gentle rains nourished the countryside. I sat, wrote a letter or two. No one to talk to, so I watched the skies clear and an orange-yellow sun drop behind dark rocks dotting the Sea of Japan. I always believe that Japan's sense of beauty comes from its crowded countryside. Japanese aesthetics features small trees, small gardens, small details and small ceremony. Civilization encroaches on large vistas, so Japanese find beauty in the inner, introspective and intimate life.

No encroaching here. The back coast of Japan has room for your senses to grow outward. Time is slow, the days are rewarding, and the vistas open while somehow holding the quiet intimacy Japan is famous for. I had come to love Japan and this peaceful area.

Despite the refreshing serenity, I couldn't help think of my next companion, Eddie Van Halen. At last that's what some of his friends had called him.

My first assignment was near mission headquarters. Each month, a new group of missionaries arrived from training in either Utah or Tokyo. For a month before each arrives, mug shots line the walls. Most come from the same Mormon missionary cookie cutter - short hair, white shirt and a conservative (and at that time, thin) tie. Paul Reich looked more like a rock star. His hair hung past his shoulders. Hence, we called him Eddie Van Halen, though listening to rock music was forbidden to us.

Teaming me with Eddie Van Halen, frankly, concerned me. I wanted to work. Rock stars, frankly, don't seem to be cut out to be good Mormon missionaries. How would I resolve the conflicts of living with this guy who looked like a slacker?

As it turned out, short-hared Elder Reich…this is what I called him…came to the field ready to work. We worked all day every day and, in a short time, began to teach more lessons than I had ever taught before. This was partial success. Through the first year of my mission, Samuel Smith like, almost everyone refused to listen.

The contacting of dendo, as we called it, would go something like this: You'd approach a door with your companion. Over one shoulder you'd have a sporty, but faded book bag with your tracts and materials inside. Maybe you'd be wearing a red rain jacket, two sizes too small. You'd feel clammy. Your tie way gray with yellow shapes not exactly no polka dots or exactly flowers. This tie was beginning to fray along the sides. Your shoes were falling apart in back from taking them off each time you enter a home. Maybe you'd used dental floss to sew the tongue back on, too. You had too much in your shirt pocket. It was ripping off.

Its early evening and you'd knock, slide the door open slightly, poke your head in as is often customary and begin.

“Good evening,” you'd say. “Is the head of the house at home?”

Most of the time the woman would answer, “No.”

“We're missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and we have an important message that we would like to share with you.”

“Is this about a Christian church?”

“Yes. We'd like to talk with you about…”

“Our house is Buddhist,” she'd tell you. “Things are good here.”

“It will only take a few minutes of your time.”

“Things are good.”

Slam.

At the next door, you'd find no one home, so you'd leave a tract telling about Joseph Smith or one advertising the free English classes that you teach as a lead in for your message.

Then, you'd find a locked brass gate with a “Kekko box” by the side of the narrow road. You'd read the characters of the person's name.

“Good evening Mrs. Tanaka,” you'd begin. “Have you ever wondered about the meaning of life? You know things like why are we here? Did we live before we were born? And where will we go after we die?”

“Kekko desu,” Mrs. Tanaka says. “We're fine.”

Click.

Night after night, it would go like this. We'd try street contacting, passing out fliers for our English class. Almost everyone walked by neglecting even eye contact.

Shimoneski was much like this for me, but a few were listening, and this brought joy. I taught many more discussions than ever before. Though it was difficult, I always loved teaching. It seemed that a powerful feeling entered the room each time I said what I know, “I know that God lives. I know that Jesus is the Christ. I testify that Joseph Smith was a prophet.”

Some call the spirit of the Lord a burning in the bosom. To me, it feels like light and peace filling every corner of your soul. You feel eternal youth. You look deep down into the corners of you soul and you fell clean. “I would give away all my sins” an ancient king said. This is what Shimoneski gave me.

As you testify, this feeling can enter the room. Then your companion jumps in. You find tears coming. You know God lives. You feel it. You know it better than anything else. And, what is more, you are sharing it.

On another occasion, Elder Reich and I tested our faith. We asked God to literally show us where to go. We looked at a multi-colored map and went to a section of town highlighted in pink. Once there, we entered a grove of bamboo, walked through spider webs and swatted large mosquitoes to unobtrusively pray again. We rounded corners by faith. The doors didn't open despite this effort, but the rewards of faith often come later. At least, we had found the courage to try.

In fact, I've never really had another time quite like Shimonoseki. I remember feeling more joy than I had ever experienced. We're not talking the adrenaline rush of young adventure nor the power of a pleasant, friendly relationship. No, it was a peace in my heart that surpassed understanding. One day, I remember sitting on the closet shelf of the main room in the apartment after eating a quick lunch and pondering the joy I felt. I remember shaking trying to find both ends of this emotion. I shaked because I couldn't find both ends, and it overwhelmed me.

But, alas, challenges often come at high points. Elder Reich was transferred a month after my arrival, and, with winter coming, I received a new companion. When I picked up my new Doryo - Japanese for companion -- and we headed for home. I proceeded to make a good impression by getting lost. We walked for the better part of an hour finding our apartment. He was understandably annoyed, so I apologized, immaturely, in a way so he wouldn't make fun of me.

My companion was a good elder. He seemed to enjoy the work. Something about our personalities didn't work, however. He ran marathons despite diabetes. He would fly over hills on his bike. I couldn't keep up, and though companions are to stay together, he stopped waiting for me. I decided to slow down when I lost sight of him, no sense sweating in a suit.

Finally, my companion had enough of my pace. I was senior companion and the keys to the apartment were my responsibility. He was forced to wait until I returned. One autumn day, he looked at me after waiting for me, and said, “we're going to make another key.”

He hopped on his bike, saying nothing else, and rode to the key maker. I rode along in a hurry to catch up and find a compromise.

I started into my hastily prepared speech on compromising with him, but before I could finish the first sentence, he took the keys from my hand with noticeable deliberateness and walked in and got a key. He returned the original and hopped on his bike to go home. I was flushed, embarrassed and hadn't the foggiest idea how to communicate any of these emotions to him. Not wanting to be unchristian in my response, I chose to blame myself and said nothing. The pain was inside. As it turned out, we stayed together for five months. We seemed often to hold our relationship in a silent truce that only got more silent with passing weeks that grew deeply cold.

As winter settles in Japan, no one dares leave their gas-operated heaters on through the night. The fumes can build up and kill, so each night brought inside temperatures to about freezing. In the morning, the pull of the pillow and warmth of bed proved too much. I began to sleep too long. Sleeping-in is an express sin as a missionary. Guilt became my companion more than the other elder in the companionship. It crept into my dreams, it followed me to church. It stayed with me in the same way cosmonauts on a space station stay with each other. The guilt grew, and I began to find it easier to come home early or leave a little later for a day's work. The joy was gone. My knees ached from biking over hills on a bicycle a few inches too small. My back ached from the flat floor we slept on. The food made me cringe. On some nights, I woke a little, headed across the room to relieve myself and, BAM!, walked my head into the frame running across the apartment.

Since missionaries carry God's message, they represent him. With only two years to be a successful missionary, I found myself sleeping in and in disharmony with my companion. My diligence wasn't good enough. In an hour of trial, I was found wanting it seemed. At night, I would dream of my American home and then wake up. As the morning brain fog cleared, I would take in the surroundings of Shimoneski, remember my guilt and sigh. What kind of representative was I? Was I really being true to the faith? Guilt gave me the answer and I began to hate myself.

One Sunday night helped change that.

That early spring night, my companion and I had to decide between two possible check-backs. These people had expressed a marginal interest, so time seemed best spent making a quick visit to them, rather than starting proselytizing in a new neighborhood. Trouble was, we didn't have the time to do both checkbacks. I went to the back room and decided to pray about the best choice. Neither choice felt right, so I opted to try what I had tried with Paul Reich. In my mind, I followed the road down the hill, past the flower shop and onto the main road. On my left was a nondescript, white apartment unit. That was the place.

I told Craig of my decision. He followed along as we biked the three blocks. It was raining. We parked our bikes downstairs and went into the elevator. I looked. Level six seemed like the right floor. Four doors opened to a hall that was open to the air itself. We tried the first door.

“Good evening,” we said. “We're representatives of The Church of…”

“Kekko desu.”

The next two were equally rude, worse than usual. By now, I felt foolish. I made some snide remark like “so much for trying to use inspiration.” I figured my companion was certain to tell me I was inadequate, though he was more courteous than that, and I needed to beat him to the punch by insulting myself. People do that when they feel a little self-loathing, you know?

We pushed the button at the next door. A light twinkled in the window.

“Good evening,” one of us said. “We are missionaries.”

Within a few moments, it became clear that Mrs. Shigenaka was deaf.

I took three fingers, ran it down my collar and held them outward with a thumbs up sign...In sign language, I was mimicking the collars of 19th-Century Christian missionaries. We had learned some sign language, and I introduced myself as a missionary.

We went in and told her of the gospel of Jesus Christ with our hands. The signs I had learned came clearly to memory. She began to take lessons. With the help of a local deaf church member, we taught her our message.

I knew God had directed us that night. Intermittent rain fell into standing puddles on our way back up the long hill to our apartment. It seems as though I wore a yellow slicker that night. There was renewal that night because I knew I had been allowed for a brief moment to be an instrument. In God's eyes I was still his son, worthy of guidance and grace. Much of the guilt really wasn't of God. Such mercy forever changed my view of myself and others. Each is open to God's mercy, if each will only allow it in.

Within a few weeks, another transfer came, mine. I am told that Sister Shigenaka's baptism was sacred like them all, but uniquely memorable. Not hearing the quiet reverence most have when coming out of the water a new person, she openly shouted for joy, the way a deaf person might. It was worth two years of my life to hear the story.

One great book of Mormon prophet, Alma, once wished that he were an angel that could have the wish of his heart to cry repentance unto every people.

God allowed me to raise my voice at what for me was a port city at the end of Earth. I heard his still, small voice on a rainy night there and joyfully found him remembering, and somehow honoring, my own story.

What else is there to say? I know he lives.