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.

La Isla de Maipo

I was born in a little town out in the country called La Isla de Maipo. You see, your first area is where you are born. Your first companion is your dad or ‘Papito’. If there are other missionaries living in the apartment you start in, they are your uncles. If your trainer trains other missionaries, they are your brothers. If you are someones last companion, you kill them, and so on. My papito was Elder Wolfley. He was just over five feet tall. I am 6’2” so we looked kind of funny walking through the sector. Whenever someone brought up how funny we looked Elder Wolfley’s joke was, “Hay Gringito y Gringon.” Funny at first, but after 3 months it wears on you.

We got along pretty well and had some good times. One of my favorite mission stories has to do with Elder Wolfley.

It rains a lot during a Santiago winter, and this winter brought the most rain the country had seen in a long time and there was flooding everywhere. The only thing to do all day was to walk around town and look for people who needed help. I didn’t really have any clothing suited for a flood, so I walked around in jeans and a Foursquare hoodie. Elder Wolfley on the other hand was decked out in water proof gear from his head to his boots, and he made sure to remind me that he was perfectly dry all day long.

Almost every where we went we were up to our knees in water. We tried to stick to the sidewalks where we could because they were raised up a bit and the water wasn’t as deep. While walking on the outskirts of the town we crossed a pretty wide intersection, and I found the curb on the right side of the road and we started up the street with Elder Wolfley at my right. After a few steps there was break in the curb and I dropped down four inches. I tried to warn Elder Wolfley by shouting, “Hole!” but I was one step too late. Elder Wolfley literally disappeared into the hole. Being as short as he was the hole was deeper than he was tall. The concrete hole was there to help drain water off the road, but obviously wasn’t much help at this point. He popped up from the water screaming. Laughing, I asked him if he was okay. He didn’t answer and I kept on laughing. There were three people walking behind us when he fell into the hole, and I will never forget their faces. Three of the most classic faces I have ever seen. They stood there wide eyed, while the grumbling gringito pulled himself out of an invisible hole, and while the gringon made fun of him. I don’t think I stopped laughing the rest of the day. He didn’t find much humor in it at the time, which made it funnier for me, and I reminded him that despite all his fancy clothing he was now just as wet as I was. Not to mention that he just fell into a huge hole.