By Margaret Blair Young
And awake, and arise from the dust…
The last time I was in Central America, I taught literacy using the Book of Mormon as the text. I recall an aged, barefoot Indian woman in a little village just outside Mexico City making her way to the chapel where my colleagues and I taught. Her silver braids nearly touched her apron, and she walked with the straightness of one accustomed to carrying a basket on her head. She always brought us a pot of tamales. She is the image I have when I read Moroni 10:31:
And awake, and arise from the dust, O Jerusalem; yea, and put on thy beautiful garments, O daughter of Zion; and strengthen thy stakes and enlarge thy borders forever, that thou mayest no more be confounded, that the covenants of the Eternal Father which he hath made unto thee, O house of Israel, may be fulfilled.
She looked like she was actually rising from the dust as she made her way up the dark, unpaved road towards the light of the chapel. Later, in class, it was she who answered the question, “What do you think the ‘beautiful garments’ of this scripture refer to?” with the quiet words, “Pues, hermana, pienso que es la ropa del templo.” (“Sister, I think it’s talking about temple clothes.”)
Here was a woman whose eyes would soon be fully clouded by cataracts. I’m not sure she saw the words at all, or if she could make sense of the letters even if she did see them. Perhaps she only listened to the scripture. Yet she understood the symbolic language in a way I hadn’t even thought of. How was it possible?
…and strengthen thy stakes…
I met the “Tamale Woman” in 1978. Earlier that year, before coming to Mexico, I made my final visit to Guatemala. During that summer, Dad and I and about twenty returned missionaries had taken an ancient bus-a tank-like monster-from Provo, Utah to the “Land of Eternal Spring.” The returned missionaries had all learned Mayan dialects, and Dad was assigned to build dictionaries with them.
I, not being a linguist, chose to be in another part of Guatemala to work on other projects. I had no communication with Dad after I got to my own destination. (Telephone service doesn’t generally cover cornfields.) But there came a day of personal crisis when I needed to talk to him. A letter wouldn’t do, nor would a telegraph. I needed to be with my dad.
I was in Momostenango; he was at a finca (plantation) near Coban-about seven hours away by bus. To be truthful, I didn’t know exactly where he was, and to be more truthful, I was young (twenty-three) and stupid. I had no idea that the place Dad was staying was, in fact, a forty-five minute drive from Coban. I had no money to pay for a hotel. All I had was naive faith and Yankee spunk. I figured I’d simply get on a bus, go to Guatemala City, transfer to another bus headed for Coban, and all would be well.
I am a living testimony to the fact that God loves even stupid people. I probably deserved to be kidnapped and killed the day I made that trip. But since I’m here writing this, I stand as a witness of God’s mercy.
It was nearing dusk by the time I reached the bus depot in Guatemala City. Dozens of buses sat next to a chaotic marketplace. I was hungry. The constant, swirling noise and the smells of grilled beef, dried fish, sugar, and roasted or boiled corn made me dizzy. I wound my way between buses, looking for the name “Coban.” I shook my head at the dozens of vendors who approached me with their plates of chiles rellenos, fried platanos, packets of gum, and depictions of the Virgin Mary. Though I hadn’t eaten all day, I couldn’t have bought their wares. I had no money to spare. Besides, I was in a hurry. I didn’t even know if the bus for Coban had already left. Someone lifted his chin to direct me to it; someone else asked me to give him “jes one leetel keese.” (I shook my head again.) There were so many buses and so many vendors.
Finally, I saw it: the bus labeled “Coban.”
Some refer to Guatemalan buses as “chicken buses” because they’re so crowded and because chickens are indeed frequent passengers-carried in boxes or baskets towards their slaughter. At that moment, I didn’t care what species my fellow-riders were. I paid, boarded, and sat down. A few moments later, a middle-aged Latina woman got on and set her bags on the rack opposite me. Our eyes met briefly. She left the bus for a minute, returned, and then moved her bags to the rack on my side. Then she sat on the seat just in front of me.
We didn’t begin any conversation until the bus was well on its way to Coban, when she turned, politely asked my name (“Margarita”) and where I was from.
“Los Estados Unidos, Norteamerica,” I said, though I suspected that was obvious.
“Que parte?”
“Utah.”
Her eyes widened. “Eres Mormona?”
Was I a Mormon? In this 98% Catholic country, how many people knew that the state of Utah in Norteamerica was mostly Mormon?
“Si.”
“Yo tambien.”
She was a Latter-day Saint too. God had sent me an angel!
My angel asked where I was going in Coban, and I named the finca. She shook her head and said the finca was much further away than I had supposed, and it was hard to get to. I would be spending the night at her home, she announced, and in the morning her son would drive me to my dad. Her son happened to work on that particular finca.
That’s how it happened, how God in his mercy guided me to a woman who fed me, provided me a bed, and then a way to my dad. As she and I ate sweetbread and chatted, she told me she hadn’t planned to sit next to me on that bus, but that she suddenly knew she was supposed to. She was in the habit of listening, and so obeyed the impression.
Of course, Dad hadn’t expected me. He hugged me when I walked up the hill to his “office” (the monster bus), and then we talked. I needed comfort, and he provided it. That was one thing about Dad-he would drop anything if he saw that one of his children needed him.
After our talk, he led me to where the returned missionaries were doing their work. I had known several while they were serving their missions. Among the group was Randy Ellsworth, who had become famous in 1976 after he was critically injured in the big earthquake. From his hospital bed in New Orleans, he had announced to the U.S. presses that he would return to Guatemala and complete his mission. He lived up to his word, finished his mission, and now was back in Guate again. Others with Dad would eventually work for the Church’s translation department. And John Bringhurst was there. He would become a doctor and return time and again to bring his gifts to the Guatemalan people, and to learn from Guatemalan “healers.”
…enlarge thy borders forever…
The year before, Dad and I had met Elder Bringhurst in a remote village called Chulac.
Let me describe what I mean by “remote”:
We drove to Chulac by jeep, though it felt like we were riding a temperamental horse. The jeep bucked its way up overgrown hills, sometimes spinning its wheels in rich mud. We stopped every few yards to remove fallen trees or unyielding branches and then lurched forward again. The trip seemed to last several hours. And at last, there it was-a sprawling Shangrila in the jungle.
Chulac had never really submitted to the conquistadores-though it did have a Catholic church. Its inhabitants spoke no Spanish, only a dialect called K’ekchi. The whole village was untamed splendor-every shade of green in the foliage, and all hues of blue and red in flower petals, whether real or embroidered on the women’s huipiles. Throughout Chulac were hundreds of coffee plants-large, woody bushes with rust-colored berries and waxy leaves. I remember the scent of grapefruit, for there were whole groves of grapefruit trees with many fallen fruits on the ground. When Dad asked a native why there was so much grapefruit on the ground, the answer was, “Maybe the bad ones fall.”
I remember gazing at a flock of parakeets flying freely overhead. I had never seen uncaged parakeets. This was a vision of the possible.
You mean parakeets aren’t intended to be caged? You mean they actually fly in flocks, common as sparrows?
I remember the people-their gold-brown skin, bronze cheeks, constant smiles.
We were invited to a K’ekchi home for breakfast the morning after our arrival. It was standard fare: thick corn tortillas and black beans flavored with garlic and onion. While we were eating, a young K’ekchi woman entered. She spoke to Elder Bringhurst, who was fluent in that dialect. He translated for us.
“She wants a blessing.”
“A blessing?” said Dad. “How did she know we can give her a blessing?”
Elder Bringhurst spoke to her, and then to us.
“She says when she saw us, she knew we could bless her.”
“Is she sick?” Dad asked.
Again, a K’ekchi conversation, and then an English explanation.
“She says she’s not sick in her body but in her spirit.”
I don’t remember who anointed, though I’m sure Elder Bringhurst sealed the blessing. I only remember wondering how she had sensed that these foreign men had the power to bless her “sick spirit.”
Later, we walked to the Catholic church and waited respectfully for Mass to be performed. Afterwards, the catechist blew out the candles and made an announcement which Elder Bringhurst translated for us:
“The Catholic Church has brought us many good things. The Catholic Church has taught us many good lessons. But there is more. God has sent us messengers to tell us more.”
Thus introduced, Elder Bringhurst stood and began speaking K’ekchi. He was tall, slim, blonde, and had a mild voice. He held his scriptures in one hand and made small gestures with the other. There was nothing dramatic in his speech, no crescendos or theatrical pauses, simply reverent words about God. Dad whispered to me, “He’s doing exactly what Ammon did. He’s preaching the gospel from beginning to end.”
We all sang “I Am a Child of God” in K’ekchi, which Elder Bringhurst had translated for us, and then we left Chulac.
I understand there is a thriving LDS congregation there now, and I suspect John Bringhurst visits it whenever he can-both to bless and to be blessed.
…that thou mayest no more be confounded…
When I lived in Venezuela years later, I shared that story with my visiting teaching companion, who asked only one thing: “Do you really believe that the Catholic Church has brought good things?”
I told her I did indeed believe that, and that I had great respect for the pope.
Her eyes teared as she explained that she had worked for the Catholic Church since her youth. She had devoted herself to it, had even considered becoming a nun. Choosing to become a Latter-day Saint was the most difficult decision she ever made. She was glad I appreciated the Catholic Church, for it was yet a precious relic of her faith. Too often she had heard it condemned, which hurt her, for she had done much good as a Catholic. She had simply been open to more messages from God, and so had listened to the missionaries.
...that the covenants of the Eternal Father which he hath made unto thee…may be fulfilled...
How is it that these people were so open? Their ears, their hearts, and their doors were open.
I sometimes think of these beautiful people when I feel stressed by the day’s demands, or when I tell my children to hurry up (a phrase too often heard in my home). I have mused that third-world nations are blessed with a lack of televisions, computers, and MTV, and so there is stillness. You can hear yourself breathe in Chulac. You can hear your footsteps on ancient paths. You can hear God, if you’re listening. And many are.
My Spanish continued to improve as I moved from Guatemala to Mexico City (where I taught and was taught by the aged “Tamale Woman.”) It was in Mexico that I heard the joyful news of 1978. The priesthood was being extended “to all worthy males.” The border was being enlarged and eternal covenants fulfilled. As so many did, I wept at the news.
Today, Spanish continues to be an important part of my life. Several years ago, I was called to teach Spanish Institute in my Provo stake, and began attending Spanish temple sessions to better prepare myself. In the temple, I met a Mexican woman who would soon become my Institute assistant. She was (and remains) one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen-though she is now seventy years old. And she is one of the most spiritually sensitive. But that gift has a down side. It senses not only love, but prejudice as well.
I will refer to her as Maria, though that’s not her real name.
Maria was a temple worker in the Provo temple, doing initiatory as one of her assignments. When she began serving a white sister, Maria immediately sensed her disdain. It was more than disdain-it was contempt.
Maria began praying, “Please, Father, let me feel thy love so I may do your work in the right spirit. Don’t let me pay attention to her prejudice.”
She completed her service, and then turned to see the white woman standing before her, weeping.
“Please,” said the woman, “you must forgive me. I have wrong feelings. God has told me that you are his daughter and I must ask your forgiveness.”
The forgiveness was freely given. Both of these sisters-one Mexican, one North-American-were open enough to hear the messages, even a message of rebuke. The temple is a good place to hear such things. Any quiet place-including one’s own inner sanctum-is a good place to hear such things.
As I write this, I am picturing myself staring up at the flock of parakeets, listening for their songs and even for their wings.
You mean it’s possible? You mean we can soar that high, that free, that together?
I have seen it. Not just the exotic birds, but the human soul, arising from the dust, shaking off chains, breaking out of cages, listening for direction.
2004 Meridian Magazine. All Rights Reserved.