Thanksgiving Remembered

Happy Thanksgiving!

Every year, I find myself in a period of self-evaluation and retrospection during the holiday season. This year as we gear up for a holiday season without my man, I've been thinking about tough holidays from the past.

Some of my most defining moments in life happened as a church missionary. We were largely unpopular in Spain, and the weight of daily persecution had worn my spirits low.

One day, my sister missionary companion and I decided to donate to the Catholic group's charity cause for people in Somalia. We gathered together as much clothing as we could and brought it over.

"Americans!" We heard a shout from the inside of the Parrish.
Out walked Deacon Rodolfo, and a sulking Father Oscar.

"What are you doing here?" Asked a few volunteers.

"We wanted to help... We have clothing to give to your cause."

"See? Wasn't that nice?" Chirped the ever-cheery Deacon.
"Sure. Sure thing..." mumbled Father Oscar.

"Please come inside! We will sit down and you can tell us everything!" Boomed the boisterous Rodolfo. I looked at my companion, also dazed by the warm welcome, and we walked inside the Parrish to the Deacon's office.

From that moment started a very unique friendship between Catholic men of God and two Mormon missionaries. We talked for hours at a time, about the differences and similarities between our religions, and the unifying factor that we were all missionaries for God. Rodolfo was a native of Mexico City, Mexico, and Oscar was from northern Spain. We met together regularly, trying to understand each other and our motives in what we did.

One meeting in particular turned into a tour of the places in their tiny cathedral that no lay person would ever see. We walked into the baptismal font area of their church, and they joked that they could baptize us into the true church right then. We all had a laugh, as we had given a similar invitation just a week ago at our church. They guided us up to the altar, showed us the different aspects of their rites and ceremonies, and then Rodolfo said, "I want to see something, and you can see it too!"
My companion and I looked at each other hesitantly... we knew them, we trusted them. so we followed them behind the altar to the back part of the cathedral.

There we got the explanation of the different walls of the church. The inner walls being from the 14th century, and the outer portion was more modern (think 300 years old) to protect the ailing building. Rodolfo went over to a panel, about the size of a small door, and ripped it off the wall. We all gasped (including Oscar) at what Rodolfo did, and he climbed into the hole, singing "Spider Man!" Oscar followed him in, a small smile growing larger on his face. Rodolfo looked at me and said, "You coming, sister missionaries?"

Heck ya!

We ended up climbing to the top most rafters of the cathedral, over the cupola and through a series of rafters that had been there for hundreds of years. We found old artifacts, old treasures, including a very old pair of construction gloves.

That was the day that two Mormon missionaries, a Priest and a Deacon climbed on top of a cathedral. That memory will live forever in my mind and heart.

Our friendship, in spite of our differences, was based on tolerance and acceptance. We had forged an impossible friendship, and laughed about it. Their church members knew us, and the members from our church knew them. Our friendship created a bridge of trust between two religions in an ancient Spanish town.

My Thanksgivings were never about comfort or ease while living abroad. The years that I have been away from my parent's house, my home growing up, have been the most memorable and largely significant for what they taught me about myself. I don't need physical comfort to feel comfortable. I didn't need a luxurious meal to be fed. I learned that most of my life should be based on choosing my state of mind, and my ability to choose a higher path despite circumstances.

I can still smell the ancient dust of those cathedral beams and rafters. I can feel the weight of those rafters on my hands... I am forever grateful to those Catholic Fathers, my friends no matter what. They showed me the true meaning of acceptance and tolerance, and for that I am thankful.