Category: Church

The Two Best Years?

The question is coming.

I don’t know exactly when. I just know eventually I’ll have to answer it, and that’s the problem. I don’t know how to answer questions about the two years I served as a missionary in Germany.

When people ask me about my mission they expect a cliché for an answer – “it was the best two years of my life”, “my mission president became like a father to me”, or “it made me who I am today”. Take your pick. Any rehearsed answer will do because that’s how most former missionaries will respond.

And I don’t blame them. It’s the quickest way to satisfy the question without saying much of anything. Only those young men and women who served under the same president know what happened. It’s been over 20 years since I returned and I’ve only spoken about what I witnessed with a handful of people. It’s futile trying to explain it to most.

Yet I can’t imagine giving my son, who recently turned 8 years old, a non-answer.

Every mission is unique. I have friends who respect their president who typically resides a few hundred missionaries at a time. My brother attributes his initial interest and eventual career in software to the president he served under in Dusseldorf, Germany. I tend to believe his experience was the norm while mine was the exception.

When I listen to my brother describe his president, I wish I could say the same about the man I served under.

My father did not serve a mission, so I didn’t grow up listening to stories of the people he met who helped mold him into the person I admired. Although I left Germany with many of those experiences (from the German friends I made) they had nothing to do with my mission president who was an awful human being. I will not go into details here because his tenure is long over. Unfortunately, he caused a staggering amount of damage to hundreds of young men and women. Some never recovered and left the faith.

That brings me back to how I will answer questions my son asks about my experiences as a missionary.

I don’t know what I will say, but I will not sugar-coat how I felt as a 19-year old young man walking (and biking) the streets of a foreign country. I don’t want to scare him, and I’ll certainly encourage to serve a mission if he choses to do so. My father did not coerce me to serve, and I will follow his example with my children.

Knowing my son he’ll be full of questions. I’ll take peace in knowing I made it through OK. I have no doubt he’ll do the same.

Raising Children in a Mormon Family

I’ve been hesitant to write about the topic of religion for a number of reasons, although it’s important to me. Maybe I haven’t found the right tone yet. Or maybe I’m still working through a number of questions myself and don’t want to draw conclusions here on my blog only to change my mind later.

I was raised a Mormon in Ogden, Utah. My mother grew up in a strict Mormon home. My father did not. But once they married, they were loyal members of this dominant religion in Utah.

The only time I did not attend church for three hours each Sunday morning was when I was sick. I may have faked an illness when church overlapped with a Steelers game, but most weeks I was there in a light blue suit and clip on tie passing the bread and water as young priesthood holder.

I assumed everyone was a Mormon until I was well into my teens. Utah is one of the few places that could happen. It was a big deal to my friends and family when I asked a Catholic girl to a school dance. I don’t believe we ever talked about religion, and it’s probably for the better.

It wasn’t until I served as a missionary in Germany that I become acquainted with other religions. There certainly wasn’t a shortage of people ready to tell me how foolish I was to belong to such a strange and strict religion. I learned one way to diffuse their attacks was to ask them about their own beliefs. The more I listened, the more they opened up to me. Over time, I learned about the Catholics, Protestants, Jehovah Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventists and many others. Most were Christian, but some were not. I remember one man called himself a naturalist. He believed God was “in the trees and the leaves”. They didn’t teach us how to respond to such a person at the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah.

The reason I refer back to my upbringing is because I now realize my eyes and mind were closed until I went to Germany. Until that time, I only discussed religious topics that confirmed what I already believed. None of my friends challenged me because they all possessed the same beliefs I did.

And I wonder if that’s what best for my kids.

Isn’t it a bit arrogant to assume that what’s best for me is also what’s best for my children?

We live in Seattle where my kids are exposed to a diverse group of children at school. Hopefully lead to more discussions among their friends, and they will see that many good people have beliefs that differ from their own. In Utah, I was able to select friends who attended the same church I did. If my children were to do that, they’d have one or two friends total.

I can’t help but see myself in my son each week at church. He attends church because we expect him to attend with our family. He’s respectful and reverent. He even occasionally sings. But much of the time, he props his chin up, crosses his legs and stares off into space. I can certainly relate because I did that every week as a kid.

I hope my children find the same peace and joy I’ve found by belonging to my faith. Most parents would feel the same way. I want them to experience my religion without having it shoved down their throats. I’m trying to share my experiences with them, but give them the leeway to find their own way. I believe parents who are militant about their beliefs find that level of control only works up to a certain age. Eventually, the child will rebel and take off in the opposite direction. I don’t want that.

My views on religion continue to be a work in progress. When I returned from my mission where I had to wear a suit and tie seven days a week, I needed a break from it all. Living something so intensely for two years extracted a toll on my system. I’m constantly searching for balance. I was religious for two years but was I spiritual? I’m still asking myself that question after twenty years.

And like Lincoln, I occasionally stare off into space during church meetings. That’s when I do some of my most productive thinking.

Trying to make sense of this mixed up world.

Walking My Bike In The Rain

When I was 20 years old, I was serving as a missionary for my church and living in Siegen, Germany. Siegen is not a tourist Mecca like Munich or Heidelberg. But it has its share of castles and is home to a university.

One gets to know a city when traveling by foot or by bicycle, and my companion and I spent 10-12 hours a day traveling through town looking for people to teach. Honestly, we were ecstatic if anyone wanted to speak with us. About anything.  

One morning I woke up to the sound of thunder. It wasn’t long before the rain came pouring down. We had an appointment on the other side of town. I sat at the kitchen table and watched the wind blow the rain into our window wondering if I should ask my parents to send me a few boxes of Cap’N Crunch cereal.

I grabbed my raincoat and hat as we raced out the door leaving my gloves and map back at our apartment. The rain didn’t let up. I peddled as fast as I could, but it didn’t matter. Within minutes I was soaked. I didn’t have a fender over my back tire so cold water flipped up against my back and dripped down my back. My hands were numb. I was miserable.

Given the start to my day, I shouldn’t have been surprised when our appointment never showed up.

As I walked back to my bike I felt like cursing. Had I not been wearing a tag with “Elder Nordquist” alongside the name of my church on the outside of my jacket, I probably would have let loose with a few choice words. Instead, I began walking my bike. I was too upset to ride and still shivering. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was done riding in the rain.

I’m not sure how far we made it before realizing we were lost. The rain decided to move on and the clouds were moving out as we made our way up a hill to see if we could gather our bearings. Not a word was said as the two of us pushed our bikes up the hill to the sounds of shoes squeaking with each step. My shoulders hurt from my water-logged jacket. My light brown leather messenger bag was now dark brown from the rain.

Both of us were winded as we neared the top of the hill. Finally, I placed my bike down on the side of the road and sat on the curb. My skin was wet, but my body was warm from the hike. I looked out over the city searching for a landmark to help guide us home.

And that’s when something clicked. I don’t know why. But at that moment I stopped caring about my predicament and took in my surroundings. I’d just walked up a street made of cobblestone. I could look down on a several castles surrounded by lush gardens dating back hundreds of years. I was living in a foreign country serving others and learning to be an adult. I’d learned enough German to get around town and order my favorite pastry: the pudding pretzel.

I’m often reminded of this experience when I become frustrated at home or at work. Sometimes it helps to slow down and get off the bike.

We never did recognize a landmark from the hill that morning. Sensing we were lost, a kind, German man pulled his motor scooter up next to us and drew a map on the inside cover of a wet Book of Mormon.

As we reached the bottom of the hill the rain returned. Although every patch of clothing I wore was soaked, I just smiled.

The Ride Home From Church

I can’t wait for the ride home from church.

And neither can our kids.

Three hours is a long time for the youngsters to sit on a wooden bench listening to adults talk about religious topics and sing strange hymns where the women sing one verse while the men wait around to join in at the end. Who made these rules?

When the doors swing open to the parking lot my kids bolt out of the church like it’s on fire. No use in screaming their names across the parking lot when we’ve reminded them over and over to use their chapel voices.

But the ride home is the best part because I have no idea what will come out of their mouths. They are chatty and can’t wait to tell us what they learned. They get stories and prophets mixed up. Anna usually sings us a song she learned, and we hope the lyrics don’t include butt, poop or fart.

But it usually does.

Sometimes I wonder what we gain by dragging our kids to church each week. I’m not sure our kids are any more reverent than before. But they’ve made some good friends and it’s time we can spend together. And where else will they learn about the Jason the Baptist?

Now, can someone please hand me the Tupperware full of Cheerios and the Benadryl?

Taking Kids To Church

We sat on the very back row. Kim on one side and me on the other. Like bookends. No, more like prison guards.

Between us squirmed four children. Luca was begging for my iPhone. Lincoln was coloring. Anna was scattering flannel board pieces around the floor while Kai tossed Cheerios into the hair of a woman sitting a row in front of us.

And when Kim grabbed Kai to hold him, he threw up down her cleavage.

This is how our family sits reverently through church each week.

By sitting on the back row nobody can sneak in behind us and second guess our decision to have four children. Or see when Lincoln gives me a wet willy.

I’m told that children need to get in the habit of attending church. It teaches character. It teaches reverence and respect. It also teaches parents that the patience of Job won’t be enough to last through the speaker from the high council.

I’d have better luck getting live NFL updates piped through the church’s intercom system than I would asking my four children to sit tight during the sacrament service without one of them ripping off a loud belch or worse.

I wondered if attending church was benefiting the kids when I asked Lincoln what his primary class talked about and he replied, “All we do is talk about Jesus. Every week, that’s all we talk about”.

Yet part of me can relate. I remember sitting through long prayers and thinking, “I can’t believe I’m missing the Steelers game for this”.

But we keep going each week hoping the kids will make friends which they have. We aren’t the first family to take young children to church, and people tend to be very tolerant.

And just maybe the kids are learning something based on the last time I asked Lincoln what he learned in primary.

“We talked about Jason the Baptist”, he replied with a smile.

Close enough.

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Spit Polish

I never knew how shiny my black Rockports they were supposed to be. All I knew is that if they weren’t shiny enough for my mission president I’d get yelled at in front of the other elders.

So I’d sit on the floor with my back against my bed with a can of Kiwi polish in one hand and a cotton rag in the other. I’d only been in Germany six months but was learning quickly how to spit polish my dress shoes. I was with my fourth companion, and each of them taught me their secret to getting the best shine. Some swore by a certain brand of polish. Others used a special rag with just the right percentage of cotton or nylon. One elder would only apply polish with pantyhose. polish

But I had my own process that was working well. In the same manner I’d extract just the chocolate from a carton of Neapolitan ice cream, I’d carefully cut a section of polish and place it in the lid. Then I’d take a lighter and heat the bottom of the lid until the polish melted down about half way. With a very thin cotton rag, I’d swirl the polish around until it was thin enough to seep into the crevices on my shoes. Occasionally, I’d wet the tip of the rag with my tongue which made the polish shine when brushed.

The key to getting a shine that would last more than a few hours was to apply at least three layers of polish. It wasn’t uncommon to spend a hour or two per shoe before important meetings we knew the mission president would attend.

As strange as it may sound, I enjoyed this time immensely. It gave me time to chat with my companion about sports and girls or whatever was on our minds at the time. One evening we ate several pounds of cashews and were sick the next day. My companion at the time was a guy I met at the training center in Provo, Utah. We became good friends, and the month we spent together in Unna, Germany was one of the best of my two year mission.

I’m reminded of this time of my life whenever I hear Pink Floyd’s “Momentary Lapse of Reason” which was released about the same time I arrived in Germany. My companion had it on cassette, and it became the backdrop to our weekly shoe shining sessions.

One slip, and down the hole we fall
It seems to take no time at all
A momentary lapse of reason
The binds a life for life

Songs like One Slip and On the Turning Away captured how lonely and isolated I felt at times. It brought a small portion of Utah to our tiny apartment. The music helped keep me going from one slammed door in the face to the next. The instrumental songs like Terminal Frost were soothing to the soul, and each song gave us a topic to discuss. Pink Floyd takes some time to appreciate. Most songs take a few listens. Maybe they are an acquired taste. But their music reaches me like few other bands have.

Eventually we’d come to the conclusion that our shoes were as shiny as we could make them. Once I could see my reflection in the shoe I knew I had it. We had an early train to catch the next morning and it was getting late.

We awoke early the next morning and put on our suits, ties and freshly polished shoes before jumping on our bikes and peddling as fast as we could to the train station.

We finally made our way to the church. I knew my shoes looked good. I’d checked them about 50 times on ride in. No way was I getting yelled at today! It wasn’t long before I noticed the mission president and his wife greeting elders just outside the chapel. Why not walk over and shake hands now and get this little game out of the way?

So I started walking towards the mission president. But before I could reach him, his wife put her hand on my shoulder and yelled, “Stop!”

She glanced down at my shoes without saying a word. She then checked the creases on my pants. They were neatly pressed as was my jacket which she asked me to remove to check my white long sleeve shirt. It was pressed as well. Even my silk tie had stayed in place.

Yes, I had passed the test! Was it ok to smile?

As I reached my arm out to shake her hand she barked, “Your hair is too long. Get it cut”.

Picture by Darwin Bell

German Street Music

I was tired of the rejection. I was tired of the heat. Most of all, I was tired of wearing a cheap grey suit made of 99% polyester accompanied by a silk Paisley tie that had seen better days.

Such is life as a Mormon missionary.

On this day my companion and I walked down a narrow street made of cobblestone. I took my tri-folded daily planner out of my suit pocket and gazed down the schedule for the day. Not a single appointment in sight. This wasn’t uncommon. Most Germans didn’t want discuss religion let along listen to two young Americans tell them why they should join another church which outlaws beer.

The street was nearly empty and I could hear the cobblestones creak under my Rockports. My feet were tired and my companion was hungry, but we had another hour to burn before heading back to our apartment.

And then I heard it. Faint at first but unmistakable nonetheless. Those first few guitar chords that took me back to my family and friends. Then came the following lyric:

“Mother, do you think they’ll like this song?”

“Do you hear that?” I asked my companion as I tried to determine where the music was coming from. We found ourselves standing under a two story home that must have been at least 150 years old. As best we could tell someone was playing “The Wall” with their windows open as we passed by at just the right time.

He finally heard it, and we turned to each other and smiled as we listened to “Mother” from Pink Floyd.

It was a small slice of home that came at just the right moment. Not exactly the type of music missionaries normally listen to, but maybe that’s why it worked in this instance.

When the song came to an end, I backed off the sidewalk into the street and yelled “Danke schon!” before continuing down the street.

We still had 55 minutes to burn.

[audio:mother.mp3]

The Longest Three Hours

Church used to be the most relaxing, enjoyable three hours of the week. This was back when Sunday service was about reflection and singing and fellowship. We came home invigorated for the week ahead.

But since we’ve added young children to the mix, church is about as relaxing as a birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese. Now church is about:

  1. 45 trips to the bathroom and drinking fountain
  2. Putting Cheerios in the hair of the lady sitting in front of us
  3. Making faces at the people sitting behind us
  4. Giving dad a ‘wet willie’
  5. Searching for the largest piece of bread from the sacrament tray and yelling “OH YEAH!” when found
  6. Using dad’s silk tie to wipe boogers

And this doesn’t even get us half way through the meetings. I’m totally worn out before we’ve heard from the youth speaker.

Today we sat on the far left side of the chapel on a short rows second from the front. Sitting on the front row with kids is pure punishment because there’s nothing to cage them in. So we sit one row back which is great for keeping them from escaping to the drinking fountain, but it puts us in direct view of the bishop and other leaders. I can only imagine what he’s thinking as Anna yells “BUTT!” during the passing of the sacrament.

I suppose it’s good for our kids to learn to behave during meetings and get along in close quarters for a few hours. Church gives them a chance to learn about the gospel and interact with friends and teachers. They have the opportunity to speak and say prayers and attend activities and contribute to service projects.

Maybe next week I’ll bring my own bag of cereal. And it will be some of the good stuff.

Like Cap’N Crunch, because I’m going to need the sugar high to keep up with my kids.

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Sunday Evening

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. It’s the only day of the week where I don’t feel pressured to do activities away from my family which allows me to reflect on the stuff that matters most in my life.

A good friend invited me to stand in the circle for his daughter’s baby blessing this morning. His daughter, Eve, is only a couple months old and what a cutie she is. I commented how much I enjoyed her tiny white dress and was told it was the same dress her mother was blessed in. I felt honored to be invited to be part of this experience.

After the blessing was over I returned to my seat to listen to the rest of the meeting. I noticed a family sitting in front of me with 4 young, energetic children. I know the father through our church basketball league and have spoken with him a number of times when I took the train into Seattle.

But what I want to say about this family is how impressed I was at the love they show each other. Their oldest daughter is dealing with some medical challenges although that doesn’t quite describe the seriousness of the matter so I’ll link to their family website where you can read more.

We all face challenges in life and how we deal with them is a good indicator of our character. I have a lot to learn in this area. But I found strength and hope reading through their blog. I am amazed at how they are able to maintain such a positive spirit. I find them inspiring.

Why Kai

While I was serving as a Mormon missionary in Germany, I was called to serve in a small town called Unna that lies a few miles east of the much larger city of Dortmund. I’d served about 6 months and was starting to feel comfortable with the German language although topics outside of church doctrine were still a challenge. But I loved tiny Unna and its friendly residents, great Bratwurst and cobblestone streets which wove through the town.

One afternoon, my companion and I walked into a tiny bookstore where we struck up a conversation with the bookkeeper. She invited us over to her home to meet her boyfriend; a guy named Kai. I remember the first visit well. Instead of presenting our prepared lessons about our church, Kai asked me to explain the rules of baseball. The four of us sat around a table while I took out a piece of paper and pen and began by drawing a baseball diamond and attempting, as best I could, to explain each position and its responsibilities. It wasn’t long before I asked to swap out my pen for a pencil because I was making a mess. I did the best I could explaining the basics of of the game and thought I was doing well until Kai asked me to explain the infield fly rule and what a balk is. I had about as much luck explaining the nuances of baseball as I did teaching them about my church.

We became good friends with Kai and Barbara over the few months I was assigned to Unna. We’d regularly stop by the bookstore to visit Barbara, and she would invite us over for dinner often. The only thing they asked of us was that we spend half the visit talking about our church and  and the other half discussing sports and music, Kai’s two favorite topics.

I didn’t exactly hit a home run with my baseball rules on a napkin diagram so we spent much of the visit listening to and discussing music, specifically Simon and Garfunkel which is Kai’s favorite. I’d heard a number of their songs by this time and began to like them a lot.

A mission is a strange thing. Although I was happy to be serving my church and making my family proud, I was often very lonely. Few people wanted to speak with me about the church which means most days were filled with rejection, slammed doors and a good dose of humility. Most Germans were very kind although the college age kids could be brutal and many harassed us every chance they had. As much as I wanted to jump off my bike and defend myself, doing so would earn me with a one-way ticket home. A mission is a two year exercise in restraint.

Meeting people as kind as Kai and Barbara was a treat for sure so I was bummed when I found out I’d be transferred to another city in less than a week. We spent a lot of time together during those few remaining days. During our last visit, I heard the song, “I Am A Rock” off Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits album. When I told Kai how much I enjoyed the song, he made a cassette tape I could take to my next town.

The day came to say goodbye and continue my service in a new area. Kai and Barbara took the day off to see me off at the train station. I had some rough days on my two year mission but this easily ranks near the top of crappy days. I said goodbye to my friends and boarded a train for Fulda. I sat down on the the squishy train seats with my headphones on listening to “I Am a Rock” watching my friends wave goodbye as tears streamed down my face. 

A winters day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island

Simon & Garfunkel – I Am A Rock

When Kim and I were discussing names for our soon to arrive baby boy  last fall, I told her how much I liked the name Kai, and was surprised when she didn’t veto it because she had done just that with another German named liked: Hans. We named our son Kai which is a tribute to my friend who came into my life at exactly the right time. I loved his positive attitude and joy for life, and I hope we can raise our son to have those same attributes.