Bathroom Blunder

Two of our missionaries never showed up. That's how it started.

I had planned the day's service assignments thinking that we'd be getting 12 missionaries total: two companionships for each of the three shifts. But when the second shift was halfway over and I still hadn't received my fourth pair, I realized there'd be trouble. Especially because - as if they knew what was coming - the missing missionaries were the ones I'd planned to have clean our bathrooms. Now I'd have to push the assignment onto one of the pairs coming later.

But I had only four more missionaries coming, and they were all brand new to service. That was the next problem: new missionaries have to go through an orientation meeting that takes about 20 minutes, cutting into their service time. And since bathrooms are the most complicated and the most important thing we have to clean, I'd need to spend at least another 5 minutes training the missionaries on that specific job. It usually takes two Elders the full 75 minutes of service to finish cleaning all six bathrooms in the building; how could I expect a pair of Greenies to finish in 50 minutes?

I made a decision that seemed sensible. I would simply put all four of the new missionaries on the job. That's not how we usually divide it up, but I thought I could make it work. And with twice the number of missionaries on the job, they should be able to finish in plenty of time.

I talked it over with my partner, Jackalope. Together, we figured out the system that we thought would be most efficient - the first companionship would do the basic cleaning, and then the second companionship would follow close behind with a rinse, mop, and dry. No problem.

Yes problem.

The first companionship was very good, quickly understanding their jobs and performing them with admirable speed. The second companionship was more worried about doing things right, and this slowed them down. So when the first companionship moved on to the next bathroom - taking the CLOSED FOR CLEANING sign with them - the second companionship wasn't ready to start yet. And since this was the first time I've tried to have the bathrooms cleaned this way, I didn't foresee the terrible consequences.

You see, when the first companionship moved on, they left the sinks and toilet soaking in industrial strength chemical. Jackalope and I had considered this a plus - with more time to sit, the chemical would have a stronger effect. What we had not considered was that without a custodial sign outside the door, the building's patrons had no way of knowing that the bathroom was in the midst of being cleaned. They didn't know what they were walking into - or rather, what they were sitting into.

And so it came to pass that I walked into the men's bathroom with our second pair of missionaries - planning to instruct them on the proper methods of rinse-mop-drying - and happened upon my friend Jorge, a regular volunteer, occupying one of the stalls. There was the initial moment of rueful embarrassment . . . . then came a dreadful realization.

Jorge just got Sparquat all over his keister!

I froze in the hallway, eyes slamming open. My hand slapped into position on my horrorstruck mouth. I poisoned him! The chemical will just soak into his flesh and dry up his innards. My imagination rattled its cage as I raced to think through the situation. He's probably caught fire by now and we'll be hearing his tortured scream any second. Oh why did I tell them to take the sign with them? I'm a biochemical felon!

I ran to Jackalope and confessed. Her physical reaction was an echo of my own. She looked terrified. "What are we going to do?" I asked. "Should we tell him?"

"No! How would we tell him?!" Jackalope fretted. She went into prevention mode, making CLOSED signs out of paper and taping them to the bathroom doors, belatedly. I watched, needles running through my veins, and waited for some kind of alarm to go off. Jackalope soon joined me, standing tensely by the wall. We waited for consequence to arrive.

Instead, Jorge walked out of the bathroom. He ambled down the hall, smiling and waving at us as he walked past. We smiled back. (Our teeth might have crushed walnuts.) I subtly checked for burn marks on his pants.

Then he was gone.

"Er, Jessica?" The Elders I had abandoned were peaking around the corner, looking for instruction. Immediately I was back at work, rushing to finish the job before the missionaries had to leave. But for the rest of the shift, I couldn't help feeling incomplete and unfinished.

My consequence had walked away. But that didn't make it any less real. It only meant that I couldn't see it, and its horrors slowly faded into the fearsome unknown.

If you think we control our choices, think again.
Choices have feet.
When you aren't looking, they'll run away from you.
Good luck getting them back.

Injured Missionaries

I have heard it said that the fact that the LDS church can send thousands of 19-year-old boys out into the furthermost reaches of the world for two years and have almost all of them return home safely should be proof enough that we've got God on our side. It is simply miraculous that they survive, let alone that they are able to change the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. What I don't think most people consider, however, is how miraculous it is that missionaries survive the MTC experience itself.

No, this is not going to be a post about MTC food.

In my job as a Building Care employee, I have four to sixteen missionaries report to me every morning for their service assignments. And during my six months at the MTC I have been surprised at how many of those missionaries show up with some type of injury. Before I walked through those high-security gates, I had considered the MTC to be a mild place, strictly governed and well-organized. And so it is. But what I failed to realize was that when a young man - barely out of his teenage frolics - is dragged into a world where even fun has to be scheduled in, there mounts inside him an enormous pressure; all of his yearnings for freedom and chaos build up on each other and focus themselves into one thing: physical exertion.

I have never witnessed a gym hour at the MTC. I am a little afraid to do so. I have heard enough stories and seen enough battle scars to get an idea for how intensely these missionaries play. (After all, it is the only "play" they get.) One thing I do admire is that even when they are bruised and battered, the missionaries still come to do their service. Here are some of the wounds I have witnessed.

Broken nose
Abrasions on arms
Bloodied face
Broken arm
Broken leg
Torn ligaments
and, as of today, Concussion.

"How'd you get a concussion?" I asked Elder Taylor (fake name), not sure if I should be laughing or commiserating.

He shrugs and gives the stereotypical answer, "Basketball." When I nod knowingly, he continues, "I bashed my head into another player. He was okay, but I . . . well, I don't really like doctors, so I just went back to my dorm room at first. But then my headache just wouldn't go away, and my vision started to go all funky, and I thought I was going to throw up, so -"

"So you finally went to a doctor?" I asked, his unconcerned behavior reminding me of my little brother, and awakening a motherly alarm in me that I didn't realize I had.

"Well, we couldn't because it was Labor Day, and everything was closed. So they had to take me to the Emergency Room."

"What?!"

"Yeah, but I'm okay now," Elder Taylor said, grinning.

I just looked at him for a minute, scrutinizing his innocent smile. I smiled back. "That's the part you should tell your mother," I said, "that you're getting better. You maybe shouldn't tell her the other stuff."

"Right," he said, as if it were obvious. Hiding the scary details from your mother is the only kind of secret combination allowed at the MTC. In fact, I'm beginning to think that's the reason they don't allow families into the MTC anymore. Perhaps those high-security gates are meant to protect - not so much the safety of the missionaries - but the sanity of their mothers.