Day 1 and 2 in the Dominican Republic

My sister-in-law asked our family to write down a missionary experience to be sent to Dalin, my nephew and the first missionary in the Joan and Larry Hill family. This is not an inspirational experience. I have some of those, too, and intend to record those as well, but as Dalin is a new missionary I thought it might be nice for him to laugh over my first few days in the Dominican Republic. Maybe the hard things he's experiencing will be lightened just a touch after a good belly laugh.

My mission – The beginning

My first day in the Dominican Republic was a shock to the system, to say the least. What I most remember, besides initial shock over the ramshackle huts thrown together and made from whatever was at hand, is my own naivete’. At the home of some members I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was in complete upheaval and I was afraid it would do just that, up-heave-all I had consumed to date in this new place. Either that or what the Hill Family refers to as “bad news”. (Use your imagination, there are some words referring to distasteful bodily functions that I choose to allude to rather than spell out.) My hostess looked surprised by my request and quietly took me to a bedroom separated from the main room by a curtain. She handed me a large bowl and shutting the curtain behind her she discretely left the room. I stood frozen. Surely she didn’t mean for me to …. ?In the pretty painted bowl..? Mercifully, at that point my bowels (another distasteful word, sorry) seized up. Stage fright? I’m not sure but that is what I most remember about my first day in the D.R.. (Speaking earnestly for a moment, I think the offering of that pretty bowl is indicative of many of the Dominican people I met. Incredibly generous and gracious, offering the best they had for the comfort of their guests. Thank you, Dominicans. I learned so much from you.)

What I remember most about my second day in the mission field is that when I got up in the morning, my shoes had shrunk. I felt like an ugly stepsister trying to squeeze my foot into Cinderella’s little slipper - except that I was Cinderella. It was, after all, my slipper. My petite Dominican companion and my other petite American companion (but I’m not bitter) suggested that we go to the store to purchase a new pair of shoes. I was dumbfounded. What had happened to my shoes overnight? Before I go on let me just say that when heaven was passing out the common sense I was in the ladies room. I sorely lament that. I also missed out on a sense of direction and several other useful endowments. I was there with bells on when they passed out impetuosity, upturned noses, and strange-looking toenails. But I digress. I limped along with my companions to the shoestore and a helpful salesman approached. “Zapatos nuevos, por favor?” I inquired in my best Spanish. The saleman retrieved his foot measuring thingee from the front counter and I sat down. I held out my foot. The man drew back in shocked admiration. He stared at my foot. For the first time all day I looked carefully at my feet. Suddenly, I was mortified. My shoes hadn’t shrunk overnight. Rather, my feet, ankles and calves had swollen to monumental proportions. They were huge! How had I not noticed this? “Un momento, por favor,” stammered the salesman and without measuring my feet he hurried to the back of the store. I heard hushed whispering and then the clerk came rushing out followed closely by another male employee. I shrank back into my seat in shame. The other man looked at my swollen limbs and said with reverential appreciation, “Que gordotas son!” Even a brand new missionary could easily pick out the reference to gorda (fat). And the particular word, “gordota” doesn’t just mean fat, it means fatter-than-fat; it means the fattest ever! I wanted to reply in voice of withering scorn but I didn’t know any insults in Spanish and frankly, I’m just not a scornful person. Instead, I meekly selected and paid for new shoes and walked out of the store completely demoralized, conscious of two men with feet half the size of mine staring after me in open-mouthed appreciation. (An aside, I was a size 10 shoe my entire mission. One week after returning home, I had lost 15 pounds and my feet, ankles and calves returned to their pre-mission size. Water weight – but then again, maybe that’s where everything goes when you're holding it.