Forever… One Day at a Time: A Missionary’s Tale

By Gail Winegar

Laugh, cry and muse over Winegar’s unique perspective as you travel along through culture shock, jungle vines and language barriers. Her vivid imagery and quirky outlook from the vantage point of a missionary makes this a book you will not soon forget.

It’s a kaleidoscope of lush green foliage dotted with brilliant flowers of every imaginable hue. Toucans chatter in the trees. Giant red-orange hummingbirds with long scissor beaks flick their transparent tongues—darting, guarding, teasing, chasing—their wings whirring like propellers. Palm trees flutter like long eyelashes, batting and flirting with the birds. Enormous banana leaves are fringed and tattered, reminding one that age and experience bring resilience to the wind and elements. The newer leaves will be like that soon enough but for now they sway in the humid, salty breeze, the idealistic perfection of youth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669843986

Book preview

Empty Sea

By the power of the Spirit our eyes were opened

and our understandings were enlightened so as

to see and understand the things of God.

DC 76:12

Are we really in here at the MTC (Missionary Training Center)? I’ve wanted to be a missionary all my life. Now that I actually am one, I hope I’m ready. Ready or not, Panama, here we come!

It’s humbling to have a missionary name badge bearing the name of Jesus Christ. We will be serving in His name. En el nombre de Jesucristo. That’s Spanish. I’m pretty nervous about that. When I was set apart as a missionary last night, one of the blessings I was promised was that I would receive the gift of tongues. Hopefully, that will kick in before long. I got a distinct impression that I may struggle a bit, but a blessing is a blessing, right?

I’ve had little word strips around my kitchen for a couple of months now. Hopefully our missionary service will include words like galena (cookie) and tenedor (fork.) If so, I’m good to go. Like I’ve always told my children, You can’t do any better than your best.

The Wilsons are a missionary couple who are in our district. Elder Wilson is feeling pretty inadequate. He has been ‘less active’ for most of his life and doesn’t feel he has much to offer. I might be the first person to ever flunk out of the MTC, he quips. I tell him that if I have something to offer in Spanish, then for certain he has something of value to give. I assure him that the Lord will qualify us both for service, no matter how empty we feel our offering might be.

We sit down with the Wilsons at a table in the cafeteria. A young missionary passes by carrying a tray with six glasses filled with a blue liquid.

What have you got there, Elder? I ask.

Smiling, he looks at me inquisitively and then sets down the tray. I repeat the question and he pulls a small notebook from his pocket. He writes down Powerade.

Because there are so many different languages spoken here in the MTC, I assume he doesn’t speak English. Trying to be helpful, I exaggerate each syllable.

Say POW-ERR-AAYDE.

He looks at me blankly.

Where are you from? I ask.

He writes in his notebook, Nevada. Nevada? Then it dawns on me that he is deaf.

Where are you serving your mission?

He writes down Taiwan.

Taiwan? Seriously? Elder Wilson and I look at each other. Ohmygosh! And we thought we had challenges.

The missionary shakes our hands enthusiastically, waves and picks up his tray of Powerade. We stare after him in awe.

On our way out of the cafeteria, Dee and I see the deaf elder on a long table with about twenty other elders. We stop to say good-bye and he stands. With wide arm gestures and great confidence he turns to the others, making silent introductions. The missionaries respond enthusiastically. It’s apparent that this elder is a leader among the throng of hearing missionaries. He is a servant of God with great promise.

I think maybe the secret to being a good missionary will be to simply do my best and then rely on the power of the name on my badge. En el nombre de Jesucristo. I determine that with His aid, no matter how inadequate I may be or how empty my vessel may seem, I will serve Him with all my might.

Ready or not, here I am!

Paradise

A state of happiness, which is called paradise, a

state of rest, a state of peace.

Alma 40:12

Our casa is a duplex in a beautiful jungle village near the Panama Canal.

It’s a kaleidoscope of lush green foliage doted with brilliant flowers of every imaginable hue. Toucans chatter in the trees. Giant reddish-orange hummingbirds with long scissor beaks, flick their transparent tongues—darting, guarding, teasing, chasing—their wings whirring like propellers.

Palm trees flutter like long eyelashes, batting and flirting with the birds. Enormous banana leaves are fringed and tattered, reminding one that age and experience bring resilience to the wind and the elements. The newer leaves will be like that soon enough, but for now they sway in the humid, salty breeze, the idealistic perfection of youth.

Grass and herb seeds cling to everything they touch, hitchhiking on your skirt, pants and socks, imposing themselves like overzealous salesmen, clinging to anything that will help them spread their wares. Vines creep along, climbing up everything in their path. If left unchecked, they would soon cover every house and building, completely swallowing up whole civilizations.

Our backyard rivals any fruit stand. Pineapples, papaya, bananas and coconut. And OH!—the passion fruit—picked at just the right moment of ripeness before the birds and varmints snatch it away for their own dining pleasure. We cut through the tough, thick skin to reveal sweet orange jelly-like slime with black seeds that burst in your mouth with a fragrant, tangy flavor.

The whole scent is breathtaking! A perfect tropical paradise. Wait a minute. Did I say paradise? Let me rephrase.

Every home in Panama has one thing in common. Bars. Thick iron bars are on every window and door. If someone is lucky enough to have an air conditioner, it is cosseted in iron to protect it from theft, even if it’s on the roof.

People can be quite creative with barbed wire and broken bottles set into cement to secure their property and peace of mind. It reminds me of prisons, designed to keep bad people confined. Only in this case, good people are the ones inside, protected from the criminals who run freely.

Homes, no matter how modest, are a luxury. Many have to settle for the unstable high-rise projects with their multicolored layers of peeling paint and streaks of mildew and rust. Sadly, there’s not much partition between grime and crime.

Just outside the barricade of our casa I see a huge snake—a viper about six feet long. Hopefully it will be around if anyone unseemly happens by.

An unexpected bonus we get with our casa is a live-in housekeeper. Charlyn is a beautiful young woman with big brown eyes that quickly look down when she catches you looking at her. She sleeps in a small storage room off the hallway, but shares the rest of the house.

As lovely a person she is, I’m uncomfortable having her there—always right there. I feel like I’m on my guard. It seems there is nowhere to be alone, to breath or have some peace or normalcy. And having OCD, I prefer to keep my own house.

So much for Mi casa es su casa!

Since Charlyn doesn’t speak English, Dee gets the job of telling her we don’t require her services. We all sit down in the living room for the fateful meeting. He asks her if she has somewhere else to go and she says she has friend she can live with. But tears begin to flow down her cheeks as she explains to him how much she needs this employment.

We negotiate and finally settle on her living with friends but working for us three days a week. She figures on a small paper how much it will cost for her to take the bus and then a taxi to our place, plus the price of her services. It will cost us significantly more than if she lives in and works full-time. But it’s an arrangement we can all live with.

Charlyn’s belongings fit into one small bag and Dee carries it to the car. She clutches a grimy stuffed animal under her arm and off we go to her new place. On the way she babbles happily to Dee in Spanish, giving directions and on occasion shyly trying out a few English phrases to me.

How… are… dyou?

Actually, I’m feeling pretty good. I’m sure this arrangement will be better for all of us.

After awhile the paved road turn to dirt and we make our way through a bumpy, pot-holed neighborhood featuring decrepit cement shacks. Skinny dogs sniff and paw through garbage that is strewn everywhere. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so good anymore.

We pull up to a tiny-box concrete house. A huge potbellied man in a filthy sleeveless undershirt sits outside talking on a cell phone and an ancient woman with no teeth rushes out, grinning and chattering in rapid Spanish to greet us. Chickens fly in all directions at our feet as we head inside, Dee carrying Charlyn’s bag.

My stomach is beginning to roll and churn. There are a couple of nasty couches that take up most of the house, but we’re not invited to sit, for which I’m grateful. Dee sets Charlyn’s bag on the floor and we awkwardly say Càio.

By the time we drive away I am physically ill, sickened not only by the conditions around me but by the spoiled brat I am. Tears stream down my face and neck. I’m certain I’m going straight to the Bad Place!

But for now, we head back to our house in a beautiful jungle village near the canal, in paradise.

First Sunday

I am thy servant; give me understanding, that I

may know thy testimonies.

Psalms 119:125

Our first Sunday as missionaries!

It is a dream come true as we drive through the lush, exotic country passing over the Bridge of the Americas that spans the Panama Canal. This strip of land averaging only 50 miles across is considered to be the umbilical cord that connects two continents. Beneath us great barges transport cargo like lifeblood from every vein of life to the extremities of the world.

Excitement courses through us in anticipation of our assignment, the coastline village of Veracruz with its people are mostly Kuna Indians. We know the power of the gospel and can’t wait to help it reach even these remote jungle corners.

As we arrive at the church, Elders Scott and Walker greet us enthusiastically. The 25 or so branch members stare, keeping their distance. But Dee approaches them and placing a hand on their shoulder looks deeply into their eyes and greets them warmly in Spanish. He has them at hóla! They surround him with wide, white-tooth grins.

The branch president comes forward. He shakes Dee’s hand vigorously and then glances sideways at me. I am another story altogether. He ushers the missionaries into his office and I stand in the doorway not daring to enter. His voice begins to rise and he gestures wildly, shaking his fist and pointing at me, taking care not to look directly at me. I feel the blood drained from his face and then I blush with shame and confusion. I don’t know the language but there are some things that need no translation. Like, What is that hermana doing here? She is not welcome! Do you believe in hate it at first sight?

I blink back the stinging in my eyes and smile nervously at the gathering crowd. There has never been a missionary sister here before, only elders, and I am looked out with curiosity and concern. I shake it off, square my shoulders and approach my best shot—the children. They turn out to be an easy sell. They stare openly at my blue eyes and silver-white hair and cautiously moving in closer for the touch. I wrack my racing brain for the few Spanish words that I know and they giggle at my attempts to communicate. I rummage through my purse for some candy and soon I am mobbed by a crowd a beautiful little brown-skinned urchins. Their parents cast fleeting glances in my direction, feigning interest.

A girl about 16 eventually takes pity on me and grabs my arm. Loribeth stays right by my side for the next few hours, her arm linked tightly through mine. She smiles at me with perfect teeth, her beautiful black eyes staring blatantly, never leaving my face. Do I have something in my teeth? I wait uncomfortably for her to look away but she doesn’t flinch. Ever. I see my image being etched in her mind and realize that hers is imprinting itself deeply, permanently in my heart.

Loribeth steers me into the Young Women’s class, where I find six more pairs of curious eyes. I’m treated like an exciting guest and my heart gushes with love for them in return. Maybe this mission thing is gonna work out after all.

I feel a sweetness swell in my breast as Sideili, the Young Women’s leader, proceeds with the lesson. She stops sporadically, directing a question at me. I don’t know what she is asking. Heck I don’t even know what the subject is. I realize I’m in way over my head.

But then I begin to hear words that I can recognize… lás flóres (flowers), lás Montañas (mountains). The teacher turns to me and everyone waits nervously for my answer. Lós Arbóles? I venture with my best accent (Trees). The girls cheer! Good guess—piece of cake.

A few minutes later the room hushes and after a moment everyone turns in my direction. The teacher not at me and I look around questioningly. Several girls prompt me in Spanish but I’m clueless. What do they want from me? Their suggestions are not coming in an uproar. Oh yeah, louder works, I’m getting it now. Not even! Finally someone thinks to play act. Charades—now I get it. The teacher wants everyone to close their eyes. Embarrassed, I close them with the rest of the class. She speaks slowly, her voice soft