Dayna Patterson

Jean and Jean

February, and the snow frosted thick and white on rooftops, cars, streets, sidewalks. Huge snowplows and road salt cleared the streets and made them passable. From snowy Northern Utah, ski country, I was used to all the fluffy white. It was the cold, a humid cold, I was not quite prepared for. If I removed a glove outdoors, I could feel cold zip into my hand bones, not only freezing blood, but marrow. My hand transformed to sudden statue. I was far from home.

Nestled at the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Saint-Maurice, Cap-de-la-Madeleine is a French-Canadian town named after its Marian basilica. It’s also the area where I was assigned to begin my 18 months of Mormon mission service.

In Cap, my first mission companion was also assigned to me, my trainer, Sister Iwasa. Her job was to teach me how to be a missionary, mold me, break me in. We were told to stick together like Velcro, 24 hours a day, except for in the bathroom. I found myself taking extra long showers, partly to thaw, partly for the rare gem of privacy. Sister Iwasa was little but fierce. Japanese-Canadian, ultra-disciplined, she followed all the mission rules, including the one I quickly grow to hate: 20 hours of tracting each week.

Mostly, tracting consists of have many, many doors slammed in our faces, each slam like a flagellation.

Tracting: See also Proselyting or Prossing. Making contact with potential converts by going door-to-door in the subzero weather and trying to convince them to 1) let us in; 2) listen to us for 20-30 minutes; 3) commit to having us over for five more lessons, eventually leading to conversion and baptism. Mostly, tracting consists of have many, many doors slammed in our faces, each slam like a flagellation.

Sister Iwasa and I, like all LDS missionaries, followed a rigorous daily schedule.

6:30 Arise

7:00 Study time with companion

8:00 Breakfast

8:30 Personal study

9:30 Proselyting

12:00 Lunch

1:00 Proselyting

5:00 Dinner

6:00 Proselyting

9:30 End proselyting; plan next day’s activities

10:30 Retire

Six weeks of this schedule, slavishly following after Sister Iwasa through piled snow, facing one rejection after another, and I felt like a clock missing parts, a boot with flapping sole, a salted snowdrift. From the cozy comfort of Mormon-drenched Utah, I’d never imagined how difficult it would be to try to convince someone from another culture in a new language that we were bringing the gift of Truth.

After my first week, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake in coming. After six weeks, I was sure. If I hadn’t been ashamed to turn in my name tag and go home, if there’d been some way to move back in with my parents and not be utterly humiliated, dishonorably discharged, I would’ve sewn those wings to my bared, bleeding back.

After my first week, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake in coming. After six weeks, I was sure. If I hadn’t been ashamed to turn in my name tag and go home, if there’d been some way to move back in with my parents and not be utterly humiliated, dishonorably discharged, I would’ve sewn those wings to my bared, bleeding back.

But I couldn’t do it. Even though only male Mormons are obligated to serve missions, there is still a stigma attached to coming home early no matter your gender. If you couldn’t stick it for 18 months (for women) or 2 years (for men), people would assume a) something was wrong with you mentally/emotionally; or b) something was wrong with you spiritually (e.g., you’d sinned big). Of the approximately 200 missionaries in my mission area, the Canada Montreal Mission, I knew of many missionaries who went home early under the generous umbrella term “depression.” Looking back now, I realize that I was pretty seriously depressed during many stretches of my mission. But my albatross pride. I stayed to preserve that bubble, reputation.

One more door and we’ll head to the restaurant. Chinese. Hot noodles or spicy Kung Pao over rice. Thinking of the steamy food warmed me a little as we marched resolutely up the stairs. With a golf ball in her gloved hand, Sister Iwasa rapped on the door. It had grown dark and frigid. I could feel my humid exhalations turning to ice in my scarf. A moment later, a handsome brunette in his thirties answered. Another, shorter brunette with a mustache stood a little behind him.

So here I was with Sister Iwasa and I’d just hit my 6-week mark, a milestone for a missionary. It meant I’d completed my initial training, which involved a lot of reading, scripture study, and memorization of the six lessons in French. Sister Iwasa and I decided we’d celebrate by treating ourselves to a restaurant dinner, an infrequent indulgence since our monthly budget was limited. We would do some door-to-door in the restaurant’s vicinity, then we’d treat ourselves, do some more prossing, and go home. With the restaurant meal dangling in front of my imagination’s eye, I stepped out of the car a little less reluctantly into the freezing slap. After an hour, one man invited us in, drunk and pantless, we quickly realized, as we escaped into the cold again, his thick Quebecois trailing us down the street.

One more door and we’ll head to the restaurant. Chinese. Hot noodles or spicy Kung Pao over rice. Thinking of the steamy food warmed me a little as we marched resolutely up the stairs. With a golf ball in her gloved hand, Sister Iwasa rapped on the door. It had grown dark and frigid. I could feel my humid exhalations turning to ice in my scarf. A moment later, a handsome brunette in his thirties answered. Another, shorter brunette with a mustache stood a little behind him.

Sister Iwasa spoke: Bonsoir. Nous sommes missionnaires de l’Église de Jésus-Christ des Saints des Derniers Jours. Est-ce que vous avez quelque minutes . . .

Surprisingly, amazingly, they invited us in, took our coats, led us into the dining room where a cozy fire warmed our frost-bitten digits. An elegant oval table was set for two, including candles and wine glasses. They introduced themselves as Jean et Jean. John and John. We all laughed awkwardly. And then . . . they invited us to stay for dinner.

I looked at Sister Iwasa with what must have been a piteously hangdog expression. Restaurant, I messaged her telepathically.

Message received?

Message denied.

Sister Iwasa only glanced at me before responding Oui, s’il vous plaît.

So, no restaurant, no egg rolls dipped in tangy sweet and sour. No fortune cookie to crack open at meal’s end. No mini-celebration for me. Some sad little violins played at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t vocalize my complaint. It would be grossly selfish. We were here on the Lord’s errand, and I was being a pig. Besides, my disappointment was slowly being eclipsed by an increasing awareness. There was something different about these two. I couldn’t quite point to the difference, though. What was it?

They set places for us at the dining table and served us each a warm bowl of noodles in some kind of beefy broth. Little green herbs and crushed peanuts clung to the noodles, and I as I ate, I grudgingly admitted that the food was delicious. We asked for water instead of wine, and the Jeans sipped their red. Well, they’ll have to give that up if they want to join, I thought.

Sister Iwasa did most of the talking during the meal. My French was still shy. But eventually, after Sister Iwasa had explained about the Mormon view of God and Jesus, about Joseph Smith and the beginnings of Mormonism, Jean cut in to ask, So, does your church welcome. . . people like us?

Jean’s question ran laps around the room, making me feel woozy. What to say? We didn’t want to scare them off, but we also knew they’d both have to stop choosing gay if they wanted to join up. We sidestepped honesty in favor of delicate denial.

It was at this point that I finally understood: Jean et Jean were a couple. I had never met anyone who was gay before, or at least not openly gay. This may seem like an incredible statement, but remember I was raised in a small Utah town, where 99% of the people who surrounded me—friends, family, classmates—were Mormon. My concept of gayness was fuzzy at best, blindingly ignorant at worst. I believed what my church taught about it, which at that point was: Being gay is a choice. You can choose to be straight. Choosing other was sin.

Jean’s question ran laps around the room, making me feel woozy. What to say? We didn’t want to scare them off, but we also knew they’d both have to stop choosing gay if they wanted to join up. We sidestepped honesty in favor of delicate denial.

Of course you’d be welcome. Everyone is welcome! said Sister Iwasa.

The other Jean pressed, But are people like us—he gestured to himself and his partner—allowed?

My companion nodded fervently, and I followed her example. I knew they couldn’t be baptized if they were together. What made me lie?

During the long 18 months of my mission, theirs was the only spontaneous dinner offer I received. They were so kind, so generous to share their food, warmth, time. Why didn’t we answer them honestly?

I was afraid of returning Jean and Jean’s kindness with unkindness, a gift of bread repaid with stone. I was afraid of making my church look bad, discriminatory. I loved my church like a flawless parent. Of course, there’s no such thing as a flawless parent, or a flawless church, but that thought wouldn’t crack me open for another decade.

I can’t speak for Sister Iwasa. For my part, I could easily blame my dependence on my more experienced companion, or my toddler French, but that wouldn’t be fully honest, either. I think I was afraid of returning Jean and Jean’s kindness with unkindness, a gift of bread repaid with stone. I was afraid of making my church look bad, discriminatory. I loved my church like a flawless parent. Of course, there’s no such thing as a flawless parent, or a flawless church, but that thought wouldn’t crack me open for another decade.

There was also an element of equivocation on my part. I thought, well yes, anyone is welcome, anyone is allowed. Jesus didn’t come to tell the perfect to repent. He wanted sinners to come to him. So yes, they were allowed. They would just have to choose to stop being gay.

Ah, the syllogistic strokes, the juvenile paddling to keep one’s head just so, above the brine.

I couldn’t have known then, that just a few months after Jean and Jean fed me, my mother would meet Kim, and they would fall in love, and she would hide it from me for the next ten years.  

I felt comfortably full, uncomfortably guilty, as Jean and Jean waved us goodbye from their porch, hugging each other in the cold, saying they might stop by for Sunday service. I secretly hoped they wouldn’t. I didn’t want them to be disappointed, see their faces fall when they realized our deceit. We trudged through the snow piles toward our car, down the snow-lit street. Sister Iwasa turned to me, interpreting my silence as grudge: That was even better than a restaurant, don’t you think? God provided the meal.