Skirt + Nametag = World Domination

By Sarah Bjork

Alien abduction, war, reaching your ninetieth birthday, or a terrible haircut have nothing to do with what changed Hermana Bjorks life forever. After walking away from her pleasant home in Taylorsville, Utah, Bjork stumbled into the most arduous and wonderful years of her life. With nothing but a small suitcase, a pair of shoes, and a nametag, she is left to face the unfamiliar streets of heat-stricken California to tell the life-saving story of the One who changed the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524688455

Sarah Bjork

Sarah Bjork is diverse, dedicated, and downright hilarious. As an author, pilot, black belt, shoemaker, and cartoonist, Sarah brings laughter wherever she goes. After nearly twenty years of religious study, she dove into the climax of her history when she gave up her life to the people of Southern California for eighteen months. That extraordinary experience changed her life forever and inspired her to continue serving people on a daily basis. Currently attending Utah Valley University, Sarah intends to become a physical therapist to continue helping as many people as possible.

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2017 Sarah Bjork. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/19/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8846-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8845-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PREFACE…

DEPARTURE…

AND SO IT BEGINS…

AWKWARD FIRST IMPRESSIONS…

DAY TWO…

FOOD…

DAILY OCCURRENCE…

MI FALDA!…

WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE…

GENERAL CONFERENCE…

RUN, RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN…

ITCHY…

WE’RE OFF TO CALIFORNIA…

SCHEDULE…

TYPICAL LESSON…

DON’T LOOK, JUST SWALLOW

SUCCESS!…

A CHANGE OF HEART…

PERIODIC HEADACHE…

ANTONIO…

THEY’RE NOT HOME…

FIRST BAPTISM…

HOSPITALITY…

THE SPIRIT WORKS…

RUNNING OUT OF GAS…

HEAD BOB…

ALICIA…

THAT WASN’T ME…

CHRISTMAS AND A HALF…

PRESENTS/SKYPE…

TOO… MUCH… FOOD…

PEN-DER MERCY…

ROSCA DE REYES…

BAD SPANISH… A BLESSING?…

LETTERS…

RAINBOWS? REALLY?…

BIGGER BELT…

HE KNOWS OUR HEARTS…

DON’T JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER…

TRANSFERS…

FROM SCRATCH…

JUST GETTING STARTED….

MONICA…

DIRECTIONS…

GOD GUIDES…

RUN …

QUESTIONS ‘TILL NINE…

INDESCRIBABLE JOY…

WORST CAR… GRASS SOUP…

THE TURNING POINT…

NOT JUST WORK…

FALL THROUGH…

SMALL THINGS…

STYMIED…

THE CHASE…

GET ‘ER DONE…

SURPRISE, SURPRISE…

ENGLISH-LAND…

SISTER GATRELL…

AMUSED…

JUDGE…

’A’ SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE TO THE ‘Z’!…

GOSPEL IN A POT PARTY…

OH NO! A CHILDREN!…

FEAR GOD, AND ALSO FEAR TALL ANGRY PEOPLE…

THE CALL…

DETOUR…

HERMANA PRINCE…

THE EVIL CAR WOMAN…

WHAT’S IN CUPBOARD #1?…

FIRE…

KARLENY’S BAPTISM…

BUMPED INTO THE GOSPEL…

HELL-FIRE…

BATS…

BAPTISMS…

HIGOS…

LUIS’S BAPTISM…

TEMPLE…

EMPTY NESTER…

HNA BIRRUS…

I’M GONNA DO IT…

ROSA’S BAPTISM…

CALIENTE…

PROGRESSION…

BUMPED…

BUBBLES AND ICE CREAM…

HNA LARSEN…

TUNAS…

DOORSTEP BAPTISMAL CHALLENGE…

ELSA’S BAPTISM…

DURESS…

TIWI’s…

$15 TORTURE…

DROP TALK…

DEVIL TACOS…

MISSIONARY SNIPPETS…

HAMBURGER CHALLENGE…

YES…

AVERAGE LIFE…

AVERAGE LIFE CONTINUED…

CONTACTING STORY…

FOOSBALL…

THE CURSE OF LOVE…

SARA’S BAPTISM…

I GOT THIS…

YOU CAN BRING A HORSE TO WATER…

HERMANA CADBURY…

IT’S MA’AM…

PEDRO’S BAPTISM…

THANKSGIVING…

SKETCH…

SUCCULENT…

GOOD OL’ DAYS…

FELIPE’S BAPTISM…

REJECTION…

MURDER, SHE WROTE…

CPR…

WALK’N DODGE…

HEART THROB…

COME ‘ERE…

TENDER MERCY…

SEVEN DAYS…

BUTT ACUPUNCTURE…

ODD EXCUSE…

CLEARED THE WAY…

THE LAST STRAW…

LIVES CHANGE…

CLOSED EARS…

MANGO HIKE…

TENDER BLESSINGS…

MAILBOX TO MESA…

FOLLOWED…

INITIATION…

BYE!…

GOLDEN MIRACLES…

LAST TESTIMONY…

HOMECOMING…

Dedications

This book is dedicated to my sweet mother.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

I love you forever and for always.

Names have been changed to preserve privacy.

All artwork is original, drawn by the author. Cover design by Melanie Jensen.

PREFACE…

June 17, 2014

I could feel it.

My fingers brushed the edges of an envelope far too thick to be a bill. That must be it. I couldn’t be wrong. If only I could pull it out…

It taunted me. Lounging just out of reach, but close enough that I knew it was there. I could picture it, white and official, its face stamped with my name in permanent black ink. I swear I could hear it talking to me.

I’m right here. Just reach down a little further and pull me out. I’m sitting here in your mailbox, waiting for you to read me. Just open the box, it can’t be that hard…

Pressing my arm further into the gap meant to slide mail in, I felt the nerves in my arm squeal in protest, forcing me to quickly withdraw and rub at the tender spot. We have one of those nasty mailboxes that you slip letters into, but can’t get them out unless you have a key. Terrible invention. Why would anyone come up with such a disastrous idea when they know unsuspecting victims might want to retrieve their mail without a key? Much to my chagrin, the only persons in possession of these vital keys were my parents, and neither of them were home. The only options were to wait for one of them to come home, or find some other way to break into the mailbox.

I hate waiting.

Ignoring the odd looks from passersby, I plunged my arm into the small slot again, and stretched to the bottom in search of the most life changing letter I would ever receive. Again the tips of my fingers kissed the letter’s tantalizing corners, only to retreat when the pain in my arm twinged me away.

Glaring at the metal incarcerator, I raged war, determined to free my paper friend from its dark cell.

Racing back down the driveway, I scrambled through my dad’s tools until I found a flathead screwdriver.

This will work as a substitute key, I thought, returning to my post on the side of the road.

I stabbed the point of the screwdriver into the mouth of the lock, hoping it would jerk open at the moment of impact. My weapon merely grazed the surface, showing nothing but a thin scratch for my efforts. I tried wiggling it back and forth, then pushing as hard as my thin arms would allow, and then as a last resort, digging into it in the hopes of carving a hole wide enough for me to reach through.

Next plan.

Scotch tape in hand, I wrapped several sticky strips around my fingers to glue the letter to my fingers when I touched it. I’m sure it would have worked, had I not jolted the mailbox so much with my screwdriver. Unfortunately, the rattling shifted all the letters downwards, so despite my brilliant Sticky Finger Plan, I couldn’t even reach the precious letter anymore.

I need longer arms…

So I taped a branch to my forearm. Undoubtedly that would be sufficient to grant me my grand prize. I forgot, however, that twigs can’t grab things. All I managed with that idea was land a bunch of sticks in the family mailbox.

I grew more desperate. More fiendish, more inventive.

Like a savage alley cat craving a caged bird, I leaped on top of the mailbox and clawed my hand deep into the belly of my prey, thinking that maybe a different vantage point would help.

A car horn pierced into my ears, jerking my head up in time to see a panicked woman zoom by, her mouth hung open in undisguised horror.

I must have looked a spectacle: a crazed blonde girl in her PJ’s, crouched on top of a mailbox with her arm stuck in the slot.

They just don’t understand how important this is, I scoffed, returning my attention to the task at hand.

Several more honks convinced me that mayhaps this wasn’t the best course of action. Resigning myself to defeat, I slumped back to the house. My legs carried me to the nearest couch, and deposited my numb body on a pile of books I left there earlier that morning. I could think of nothing but the momentous news dozing nonchalantly in that heinous mailbox.

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That letter would change my life forever. Every part of who I was, and who I would be rested on this moment.

Today I would get my mission call. Today begins the preparation for an 18-month journey to… somewhere. That’s what information the letter held. It would tell me where I would be serving, what language I would speak, and when I would finally depart on the service mission I’d dreamed of my whole life.

I found myself rocking back and forth on the couch, my head reeling back and forth with each convulsion of my spine.

Where will I go? Where will I go? Where will I go?

The minutes mocked my pain, slowly dragging themselves through the excruciating hours until my mom shuffled through the door.

As calmly as I could muster, I calmly asked for her keys.

What for? She asked, holding them out to me.

Oh, I just want to check the mailbox for my call, I replied, caging the glittering treasures in my grasp.

I waited until I was out the front door before bolting pell-mell for the mailbox, racing against my impatience. Facing the enemy once again, I shoved the key through the warped keyhole and wrenched it open.

I could have sworn sparkles burst from the door the moment the barricade fell. Angels sang in the background as I peered inside the gloom to see a paper sized white envelope shining atop a throne of advertisements and coupons.

Time slowed. Everything seemed magnified in the suddenly silent atmosphere. I heard the ragged gasping of my breath, felt my heart pounding against my ribcage, and watched in trepidation as my hand reached shakily into the dark chasm.

All timidities vanished the moment my fingers brushed the edge of the envelope.

Tilting my head back, a triumphant battle cry ripped from my throat, screaming my victory over the still streets of our neighborhood. Holding the prize overhead, I charged back down the driveway, leaving the mailbox wide open with the keys still dangling from the keyhole. Feverishly retracing my steps, I slammed the door closed, extracted the keys, and ran towards the house, eager to share the excitement with my mother.

MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! MOM! I hollered, racing through the house. My little sister soon joined me in my frantic search when she saw the item in my hands.

My mom emerged from the basement, completely caught off guard when I flashed the envelope towards her. She gasped, and cupped both hands over her mouth. Is that it? She whispered, staring at it with a mixture of excitement and worry.

Can I open it? I begged, knowing what her answer would be.

Well, you could, but I think the rest of the family would want to be here.

Mothers are so wise. Were it not for her calming words of wisdom I undoubtedly would have torn into it right then and there.

When will everyone get here? I asked, glancing at my watch. I had work at 6 p.m., and hoped everyone would be back before then to end my suffering curiosity.

Dad will be home by 8 p.m., and your sister should be home an hour or so after that. Her voice seemed strained, as though she forcing herself to be calm.

Boy did I understand that feeling. Trying my hardest not to implode with eagerness, I retreated to my room where I carefully laid the blessed call in the midst of a barricade of pillows. For protection.

I manned the register at a local ice cream parlor where I typically greeted each customer with a polite but painted grin. That was because usually there wasn’t life changing news sitting nonchalantly amongst a well of pillows.

That night I felt my fingers twitch against the register’s buttons in a feverish fluster, tapping a mess of instructions into the machine until it beeped angrily for me to stop. I could barely concentrate on what I was doing, and couldn’t help but blurt my exciting news to every customer who came up to pay for their meal. During the slow moments when I wasn’t helping someone, I thumbed a pile of unused waiter’s notepads out from under the countertop and breathlessly scribbled down every country and language I could think of. Within a few hours I had filled two entire notepads with possible mission call locations.

The store manager noticed my activities, or lack thereof, and strolled over to talk to me.

Mr. Manager Sir!! I beamed once he’d tapped me on the shoulder, Guess what?! Guess what?!

You got your mission call. He answered drily.

I told everyone the news the moment I walked in the doors, but I felt sure he wanted to hear it again.

I GOT MY MISSION CALL! I don’t know where I’m going yet, but it’s sitting right on my bed! My eyes flicked around the room, searching for any other ideas where I might be going. Do you want to see my ideas?? Here! I slipped my hand under the register where I’d stashed all the filled notecards, and showed them to my manager. What language do you think I left out?

He glanced from the notecards to my red face and sighed. Sarah, I think you should go home early tonight. I’ll find someone to cover for you for the rest of the shift. You need to open that letter.

Jubilation burst my arms wide, and I wrapped them around his bulging belly. THANK YOU!

Before he could say another word, I’d clocked out, tore off my hat, and raced out the door.

I had run halfway home before I remembered that I drove the car to work that day, and grudgingly turned around to go get it.

Finally, at 10:30 p.m., after waking everyone up, and Skyping my brother in Idaho so he could hear too, I stood with the envelope in hand.

Fear, apprehension, nervousness, excitement, intimidation, jubilation, and so many other mixed emotions clouded my vision as I tore the paper open. I considered jumping my eyes straight to the climax of the letter to find out where I would be serving, but decided to read it word for word from the beginning instead.

"Dear Sister Bjork:

You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the California Riverside Mission-"

Cheers echoed around the room. A feeling of such intense happiness shot a grin to my face.

California… it’s perfect.

Once the screams died down, I continued reading.

"It is anticipated that you will serve for a period of 18 months.

You should report to the Mexico Missionary Training Center to prepare to preach the gospel in the Spanish language-

More ear splitting cries cracked the night.

Spanish?! Oh man.

The first inklings of trepidation tickled the back of my neck. I’ve never been very good at languages, but if learning Spanish is what God wanted me to do, then so be it.

In a few short months I would be an official missionary, beginning a journey that would change my life forever.

DEPARTURE…

9/24/2014

4:00 a.m. Salt Lake City Airport.

Tears pressed the back of my eyes as I slowly waded through airport security. My hands gripped two navy blue suitcases, each containing a few pairs of carefully purchased skirts and blouses, an extra pair of sturdy dress shoes, notebooks, a fresh copy of the Bible and Book of Mormon in Spanish, and a jacket. I would don these few items countless times over the next year and half until they were stained and threadbare. The flight itinerary crinkled between my trembling fingers, its telling numbers worn from nervous study. I would depart from the Salt Lake City airport to Dallas, Texas, and from there make a connection to the missionary training center (MTC) in Mexico City. After six weeks of rigorous training I would travel to California, engaged for the next seventeen months, three weeks and two days, preaching the restored gospel in Spanish to anyone who’d listen.

A newly called missionary of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, today begins my full-time service to God.

Over my shoulder, I saw my family huddled in a sleepy group, encouraging smiles painted on their faces. I smiled back and waved, hoping they wouldn’t see the apprehension boiling in my stomach.

I’m actually going… this is it. Starting today, I am officially a missionary…

I felt numb and dazed. I had seen countless missionaries embark over the years. I recalled the tear-streaked faces of the mothers, their hands anxiously pressed together, and their eyes red with worry. I could picture the clenched jaws of the new missionaries as they held back the torrent of heavy emotions. Now my turn felt surreal.

It presented a clear picture of honest sacrifice in the holy atmosphere of a TSA security line. At one end, the parents, giving up their son or daughter for a period of 18-24 months, and receding alone at the other end, a missionary, voluntarily giving everything up to indulge in the priceless service of sharing the Gospel; foregoing family, friends, jobs, education, home, internet, TV, movies, personal space, normal attire, vacation time, choice of food, hobbies, passions, music, lifestyle, sports, all entertainment, and most belongings. The majority of these selfless heroes would return stronger and better, not to mention a little older. Nearly all declare missionary service the best time of their lives.

Why?

Let me tell you.

A flutter of giddy anticipation replaced the feeling of fear, and a sudden eagerness filled my heart.

After years of dreaming, thinking, praying, reading, and waiting for this moment to come, its arrival brought overwhelming joy. I turned to wave to my family again, only this time different tears leaked from the corners of my eyes— Tears of joy, excitement and readiness. Dad’s face mirrored my excitement as he cheerily waved back. Mom’s beautiful features revealed mixed emotions: happiness, sadness and hope. She smiled at me, her hand resting gently on the shoulders of Anna, my sweet little sister, who wept.

It’s okay Anna, I thought. God has me now, I’ll be fine.

I nearly laughed, seeing my younger brother Sam. He looked bored with the whole thing. I imagined he was thinking, ‘Why do planes always leave at 4 in the morning?’ I wondered that too, but decided an early start would numb the pain.

Melanie, my older sister, twitched between sobs as she clutched at her bag. Her smile looked forced as she grinned at me. Always thick as thieves, the thought of being separated for so long pierced us both.

I wanted to yell back that I felt okay, but I hardly thought screaming across the sea of exhausted faces would go over very well with airport security. I contented myself with giving them the occasional thumbs up as I progressed further down the line. Once they were out of sight I would be on my own.

Am I ready for this?

I hadn’t really considered the details. I always just imagined myself grinning down the streets of southern California with a gleaming tag on my chest and my scripture bag dangling at my side. I pictured the swell of pride I would feel when people listened to the message of hope and comfort. I thought of the joy I would undoubtedly feel when I watched someone accept the invitation to baptism and faithfully progress towards that sacred covenant. The idea gave me a spring to my step as I at last reached the head of the line and hoisted my large suitcases onto the conveyer belt. I removed my brand new shoes and placed them in a gray bin, imagining what they might look like a year from now: riddled with holes, and worn with persistent use. I brought no jewelry for fear of it being stolen, and so merely unlatched a plain leather-bound watch that would prove priceless. With nothing else to scan, I stepped through the metal detector, and waited for my bags to come out. Wearing shoes again, I faced the escalator that would carry me out of sight of my family. I turned once more to see them for the last time.

My stomach clenched. I felt as though a large chunk of my heart tore from my chest. I put a hand over the spot as if to stop it from leaving, and felt it beat nervously against my ribcage. I could no longer hold back the tears as they slid silently down my cheeks. This is the last time I would see my parents and siblings for eighteen months. The ache began to hurt as I raised a shaking hand to wave at them one last time. I’d see them again of course, after eighteen long months, but at that moment, it seemed an eternity.

Then I turned, mounted the moving stairs, and left the comfort of home to enter a dream world. A world full of disappointments, trials, tears, broken promises, and exhaustion. A world draped with love, filled with laughter and soaked in inexpressible joy. This would be a place that I would never want to leave, and one that would change my heart forever.

That’s why I left.

AND SO IT BEGINS…

4:56 a.m. - Terminal 74 E

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Half drowned in a flood of crushing emotions, my fractured heart dripped silent tears, and my spirit bowed in submission, I felt utterly and terribly alone. Brave and determined, but alone. I didn’t expect it to be that hard. With little clue how to handle it all, I offered a fervent, wordless prayer for comfort while rolling my bags down the lonely concourse. Before long I found the assigned gate, located an empty seat, and sat down with my bags tucked safely nearby.

I felt heavy, as though I were the only missionary in the world. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone, and merely sat staring at my bitten fingernails. Plagued by that nasty habit for as long as I can remember, I chewed all the more when I felt nervous. Mindlessly placing a finger on the edge of my teeth, I groped for something to bite. I’d wanted to be free of the grim habit for years, but nothing seemed to work. Resigned as a hopeless case, I carried on biting and chewing like a dog worrying a bone, but it offered not the slightest gleam of comfort. I made a melancholy figure, hunched in a seat, biting my nails, and staring wide-eyed at the prospect of a long time away from home—seeing nothing.

A gentle tap on the shoulder shattered my gloomy thoughts.

I twisted in my seat to see a jolly young man dressed in a gray suit with a red tie. He smiled with one hand on his hip.

You’re a missionary aren’t cha? He asked.

Yes, I replied, assuming he was an Elder, the term used for male missionaries.

He jerked his head to one side and gestured for me to follow him. Come on.

I followed more out of numb obedience than trust, and bent down to gather my things. When I turned around my jaw dropped. There, directly behind me, a group of new missionaries chattered excitedly, each with clean missionary attire, bulging suitcases, and buoyant grins. No one sat alone, they walked about in small groups, chatting enthusiastically of what the MTC might be like, who their companion would be, and how much Spanish they knew.

My eyes flickered over the group and eventually settled on three colorfully clad Sisters, the title given to female missionaries.

The Elder who found me pointed at the sister missionaries, They just got here too, so you can go hang out with them.

I thanked him, pushed my bags into a corner, and walked timidly over to the young teenage girls, who graciously welcomed me into their conversation.

A wave of peace swept the melancholy from my heart. I felt at ease, comforted, and part of the group. I joined in the thrill of our upcoming adventure and felt the energy seep back into my muscles; no longer afraid, but exhilarated for the future and ready to tackle any challenges that presented themselves.

A woman’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers to announce our flight, and we each scrambled to grab our suitcases and line up next to the gate agent, who scanned our tickets one-by-one. She eyed us curiously as we handed her our thin slips of paper.

Missionaries? She asked.

The Elder who had so kindly rescued me piped up, Yes we are! Are you a member?

No.

He laughed at her curt response. Well if you ever want to learn more just ask any missionary!

The woman nodded slightly, Thank you.

The Elder’s fearless invitation and cheerful attitude forever imprinted on my memory. I decided right then and there that I could be fearless too, sharing the Gospel with everyone I saw, and do it with a happy, peppy attitude. I intended to become the best missionary I could, and love it. Although I cannot remember that Elder’s name, I am ever grateful for his enthusiastic example.

ARRIVAL…

My new found determination to speak up and proclaim the Gospel was thwarted when I sat next to a fellow sister missionary on the first flight, and then a Latino man for the second one. I tried my hardest to start up a conversation with him, but having no background in Spanish, I knew nothing except hola, gracias, and no. So once we both greeted each other I couldn’t go on any further and pretended to be asleep because it was awkward.

The group of missionaries diminished considerably as they split off to meet their next flights. Some went to the MTC in Peru, others to England, some to the Dominican Republic. Only six of the original group from Salt Lake carried on towards Mexico, two sisters and four elders. The long flights and imminent adventure stifled the tittering chatter into occasional grunts. We filed one by one down narrow hallways, guided by the list of instructions included in our itineraries. Reaching the final step at last, we discovered equally confused looking missionaries grouped together in front of the exit. They glanced up at our approach and made room. Like a group of frightened antelope, we bunched together despite the huge space of the Mexico City terminal.

At long last, three well-dressed Latino adults bustled in through the doors, their hands laden with clipboards and photos. They chattered in remarkably rapid Spanish. Hopeless to keep up with their conversation, we stood there gaping like dumb animals. Thankfully, they switched to broken English to compensate.

Come dis way! One called, waving for us to follow him.

We paraded behind him, mindlessly shuffling along with our suitcases in tow. Now looking like a herd of stunned sheep, we silently followed behind them until we made it to a row of colorful buses.

I stumbled onto one of them and sat down in a seat next to a short blonde sister from Utah.

Do you speak Spanish? she asked, peering at me through thick rimmed glasses.

No, I responded.

Oh good, I thought I was the only one!

It felt good to talk with someone who also didn’t know a lick of Spanish, and soon we were lost in conversation. We stopped however, as soon as the bus began driving away.

And thus began the most terrifying vehicle ride of my life.

Having come straight from the pleasant drivers of Utah (by comparison), I felt shocked at the ferocity of Mexico traffic. There were no traffic lights, no stop signs, no speed limit signs, no marks on the roads, no traffic guards, and nothing to guide the interminable flow of cars except harsh speed bumps that stubbornly protruded their lumpy backs every ten feet. Cars zoomed past each other with no sense of personal space. One of the buses got so close to another vehicle that the rushing car snapped off one of its side mirrors. Each driver had to win their spot on the road and thus fought furiously for any gap in traffic. Ludicrously small, the roads barely allowed two average cars to drive side-by-side. To add to the confusion, it seemed as though there wasn’t a single straight road in the entire city. Each street coiled around various buildings like venomous snakes encircling their prey.

The other missionaries and I clung to our seats for dear life, our nails sinking deep into the thin cushions. Were it not for our exhaustion we would have screamed our terror, but the tiring day kept our tongues firmly encaged behind our teeth.

Aside from the ride itself, the view gave plenty of food for thought. The buildings scrunched together, with the wall of one building touching the wall of the adjacent building. Some of the structures looked new and brightly colored, while others caved in on themselves with large decrepit holes gaping widely for everyone to see inside. The walls appeared thickly painted with graffiti, some of it vulgar, and some of it surprisingly beautiful. Logs jutted from flat rooftops, and windows featured heavy iron bars like a turn of the century prison. Lines jumped from each window, densely burdened with clothes drying in the polluted air. Thick vines pressed roots into the crevices of the sidewalk and splayed their vibrant flowers across the faces of nearly every edifice. Telephone poles lined each side of the road, giving support to the web of intricate wires that blanketed the streets. On each of the wires sat a row of brightly feathered birds that tittered amongst themselves at the scuffle of traffic below. People both young and old hobbled across the streets, carrying backpacks and other personal items. They looked perfectly normal, which is perhaps what surprised me most. In my adolescent