Que Buena Onda, Po.

While on my mission: I had rocks thrown at me, I was kicked, I was swung at with fists and a 40 ounce glass bottle, I was mugged (of all 150 pesos we had between the two of us), I was yelled and sworn at every single day, I was called a liar, a devil, and an idiot. I would say a good 70% of the people I met on a daily basis hated me. Sometimes it didn’t bug me. I was being ridiculed for doing something that I believed in. It didn’t get to me because it was the message they hated, not me. The more resistance that was put up around me the more it seemed to validate what I was doing there. Other times it really got to me. I hated them back for doing what they did without knowing or ever talking to me.

This isn’t a knock on the Chilean people, though. I am pretty sure that is how it is for all missionaries around the world, but in Chile, unlike the majority of the world, you could knock on a random door and ask to use the bathroom and be let in and given a drink and bread, no matter how poor they were, or how much they hated America or Los Mormones—that is as long as we promised not to talk about God. Other than our message, the average Chilean would be willing to talk to us about almost anything. They are such a caring and friendly people, where strangers are innocent until proven guilty, and I love so many of them so much. I still cry some nights because I worry about them, and because I feel I have betrayed them by losing contact (I lost the notebook where I had addresses), and because of who I currently am. If I had one wish, it would be to go back, and talk to Paula and let her know I haven’t forgotten her and her daughter, and tell her I love her and that rarely a day goes by where I don’t think and wonder about her. I would talk to Felipe. He would smile his big smile and scream, “Elder Estenrood!” and would go to do the handshake we made up, and see that I have forgotten it (what is wrong with me!). I would go to the Loyola’s. They would make dinner and we would have a mate around the table and laugh for hours. I would find Ximena and tell her that if she was the only person I ever met while in Chile who wanted to talk to me, and if every other day before and after our time with her was absolute and total hell, my time spent there would have been more than worth it. I would walk La Isla, La Cisterna, San Joaquin, and Lo Espejo.

I can’t do any of these things, and at this point in my little exercise I am finding that it is having the opposite effect I was going for.