Germ Warfare at the MTC

"There are 150 missionaries under quarantine right now," my boss said, gravely.

It was 6:00am. Our little crew of freedom fighters custodians was gathered in the office, being debriefed on the situation. Apparently, the sickness many missionaries had been complaining to us about recently was more vicious than we had originally anticipated. And steps needed to be taken.

"It's our responsibility," she continued, "to do everything we can to keep these missionaries safe and healthy. If they're sick in bed, they aren't learning what they need to learn. With the 18- and 19-year-old missionaries coming in, everyone's MTC time is being cut shorter and shorter. Some of them are in here for only 12 days. They don't have time to be sick! We can't control everything, but we can control what goes on in these four buildings. So let's get to work!"

We got to work.

While the missionaries were all being instructed not to shake hands with anyone, not to hug their companions, not to touch their faces, etc. - we were being instructed on Virex, "our new best friend." Virex is an all-purpose disinfectant spray that we've used on occasion before, but now we'd be needing bottles and bottles of it. We were to disinfect everything - desks, doorknobs, handrails, light switches, keyboards, even the hand sanitizer units themselves. Every day until this epidemic passed, we would be on the front lines of this fight.

But it couldn't stop with us. The missionaries had to be personally responsible for their own health. So we set up Disinfectant Stations on each floor, next to the custodial closets. Each station had a bottle of Virex, a box of disposable gloves, a pile of rags, and a container of wipes. After we'd set everything up, we were supposed to go around to all the missionary classrooms and tell them about the situation.

But they already knew.

"We're the only ones left in our district," one elder said, pointing to his companion. "There used to be nine of us."

"Both my companions are already sick," another elder said.

Despite the worry on many faces, some missionaries refused to fret. They remained determinedly lighthearted.  "Are the custodians all freaking out because everyone's dying?" one elder asked us, laughing.

"It's like Doomsday and the apocalypse had a baby in here," a sister joked.

We were told it was only a flu. "They're not calling it a flu," our boss reported, rolling her eyes. "But it's vomiting and diarrhea, and I'm pretty sure it's the same bug I had two weeks ago." So we didn't worry overmuch. The missionaries might be miserably sick, but they'd be better soon enough. And anyway, 150 missionaries isn't that great a percentage of the MTC (which is designed to hold 4,000).

But still . . .

"Is that an ambulance?" I asked my partner, Macall, as a not-distant-enough siren's wail echoed into the stairwell where we were mopping.

Macall walked down to the second floor landing, where two large windows showed the entrance to the MTC. "Yup."

"Is it coming here?" I joked.

"Yup."

"What?!" I hurried down to the landing and stood beside her. We watched as an ambulance and a fire truck turned into the MTC and were directed by the security guards toward the parking lot. We looked at each other, unsure.

Near the end of our shift, the boss called us all into her office again. This time, all of us had new information, mostly gathered from the missionaries gossiping in our hallways. "They've all been told to leave class immediately if they feel sick," one girl said. "We already had a missionary throw up in his classroom," I reported. "One of the elders told me that 70 missionaries were taken to the emergency room over New Year's," someone else added. "Are we sure this is a flu?" someone asked, nervously.

Our boss admitted that she wasn't sure if it was a flu at all. The number of missionaries under quarantine now was over 300 - it had doubled during the four hours we'd been there. Whatever the disease was, it was spreading fast.

She told us that there had been a lot of meetings held about it already. Hundreds of people now were working on the issue, from lowly custodians like us to the suit-and-tie executives running the place. The germs might have a head start, but we were ready for them now.

We are fighting. And since the Lord's on our side, there's no question who will win the war.

It just might get a little ugly in the meantime.

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.

The Desk Disaster of 2012

"Did we do something wrong?"

The missionaries had gathered around us, looking crestfallen and betrayed. My coworkers and I cringed guiltily, caught in the middle of removing the desks from their classroom. We'd spent a large portion of the morning gutting the desks, piling all of the scriptures, highlighters, manuals, and notebooks as neatly as we could on the floor. We had hoped to be finished taking the desks out before the missionaries got back from their service assignments, but it hadn't worked out that way. We were trapped.

And despite the fact that we'd spent the morning complaining about how messy these elders were, how they never listened when we asked them to stop racing chairs down the hall, and how these giant metal desks had been a nuisance ever since they'd arrived - we just felt bad when we saw how upset they were to lose their desks. Wrenched from nearly all their mortal possessions, these desks must have been the closest thing any of these missionaries had to private property. Many of them had personalized their desks with stickers and notes. And they had shown up to class to find us heartlessly dragging them away.

"What are you doing with our desks?" one Elder asked. I could have sworn his puppy dog eyes were about to start swimming with tears. "Why are you taking them away?"

I didn't know what to say. "Our boss is having all these new desks cleared out."

"But why?"

"They were never supposed to be here." It was true; the new desks had shown up randomly, and we'd been trying to figure out what to do with them for weeks. "Apparently they're supposed to go to 4M."

"But that's the building where the English-speaking missionaries study!" An Elder pushed forward through the crowd, looking furious. "They're only here for three weeks, and we're here for nine! Why should they get the nice desks?"

The wall was lined with old, tiny desks we were using to replace the new ones we'd taken out. In truth, it was quite a step down from what they were used to. "I'm sorry, Elder. It doesn't make sense to me either -"

"Now I'm going to have to stand for three hours!" another angry Elder burst out, glaring at me accusingly. "I can't sit in those old desks for more than two minutes without having to change how I'm sitting; they're so uncomfortable. It'll be too distracting, and I won't be able to learn anything. I'll have to just stand for the whole three hours of class!"

That seemed a bit extreme. "Now, listen, I'm not in charge of this. I'm just -"

"Did you peel everything off of the tops?" a Sister interrupted, looking anxious.

"What? You mean the stickers and stuff?" I asked, bemused. "No, we didn't peel any of that off. We didn't want to take the time; the custodians in 4M can take care of it." I was the one who had insisted upon this to my coworkers. After all, where were the 4M custodians now? Why weren't they helping us move all these things?

"So they're still on the desks?" the Sister asked. When I nodded, she started lifting the desks off of each other, clearly looking for her own. "I just put a lot of stuff on mine, and I'd really like to get it back. Do you see -?"

"I had a bunch of stuff on mine, too," an Elder insisted, coming toward me. There were four or five other missionaries on his heels.

"Okay, okay!" I shouted over the clamor. In my best announcer-voice, I called across the crowd, "If there was stuff taped to the top of your desk, it's still there. Help each other flip over the desks and you should be able to find yours. We've got a couple of putty knives you can use." I motioned for one of my coworkers to run and grab the putty knives from downstairs, then I started flipping over desks to help the frantic missionaries.

I was there for a long time. Missionary after missionary came to me with questions, but my answers never got any better. All of the Elders and Sisters were sad; some of them were even resignedly grateful to us for letting them take their stickers off the desks. But there were a few missionaries who were really mad at us for pulling such a dirty trick on them while they weren't even in the building to defend themselves. I wanted to fight back - to argue that it wasn't our fault, and what made them think they owned these desks anyway?! - but I knew it wouldn't do any good. They didn't really mean any harm; we were all just caught up in the great machine that is the MTC, being banged around by a few miscommunications. It's not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

When I was telling my boss about it - I'd had to go to her office for a bandage, after cutting open my arm on one of those oh-so-precious desks - she had quite a lot to say about these missionaries and their "generation of Entitlement." She rolled her eyes and fumed, "I mean, when they get to the Philippines they're going to be sitting on dirt floors. They won't have desks at all! Where is their gratitude?"

I just let her talk. I saw both sides too well to fight for one. It was really irritating, of course, to deal with this kind of attitude problem in the midst of a huge organizational problem. But all the same, I had a feeling that the fact that they're going to be sitting on dirt floors for the next two years only made it seem more important to the Elders that they get to sit in nice desks now.

It's just change. At the MTC, where these kids are being thrown into an entirely alien environment and are expected to teach there, any loss of the little stability they have is a tragedy. Even if it's only a bunch of desks.

MTC Rivalry

I am at war with one of my coworkers at the MTC.

(*insert dramatic sound effect*)

It started out quite innocently. I don't think either of us ever thought it would escalate this far. After all, Jane and I rarely even see each other; we work in separate buildings. But perhaps that separation is part of what has allowed the tension to build to this point where . . . well, let me start from the beginning.

First, you must understand that the area I work in covers four small buildings (for the sake of this story, let's call them Buildings 1-4). There are eight of us student workers; we all report to Building 1 first thing in the morning to get our keys and radios - as well as to receive any special instructions our boss might have for us - then we disperse, two students to each of the four buildings. I work in Building 3; Jane works in Building 2. So, like I said, we interact surprisingly little. Or at least we did. Until one day when I unintentionally changed the nature of our relationship forever.

It was like any other day. I was leaving my building, heading back to Building 1 to return my keys and clock out. I noticed Jane walking about twenty feet ahead of me, also on her way to Building 1. And for reasons I'll never be able to explain, I decided to see if I could run and catch up to her before she made it to the door - without her hearing me. With catlike tread, I sprinted towards the unsuspecting brunette and - upon reaching her - put my finger to her head and made a gunshot noise in her ear.

"Pskorwh!" (That is the closest approximation the English language can produce to replicate the noise that came out of my mouth that day. Take it for what it's worth.)

It was the shot heard 'round the MTC. Jane nearly leapt out of her tennis shoes, a shiver running down her entire body as she turned to see who had attacked her. Pleased with the reaction, I was bent over with laughter, unable to answer her outraged expression. She glared and smiled with the same look as she promised, "I will get you back, Jessica." I shook my head, eyes streaming at this point, and just smiled. I thought it was nothing; a harmless prank.

Well, that harmless prank turned into a bitter rivalry. We've been going at it for weeks, startling any bystanders who have been unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfires. The aim is constant: sneak up on your opponent and terrify her when she's least expecting it. But our strategies have been diverse - and sometimes have involved other coworkers, to add to the humiliation of the moment.

I don't think my boss - sweet, old lady that she is - has any idea what is going on. Jane and I have been shooting sly smiles and smirks at each other during meetings for weeks, but apparently she hasn't noticed. Last time we got a new employee, Jane introduced me to him as "a horrible person," to which my boss laughed openly, thinking Jane was being ironic. Everyone else knows - I'll bet even some of the missionaries who come to do service for us know about it - but there seems to be an unspoken consensus among us to keep our boss out of it. (Because, violent and unsettling though it may be, neither of us wants to give up the game.)

Today, things got a bit extreme. I've been ahead in points ever since this thing started (the score currently stands at 7 - 2), but I just can't stand up the perfect opportunity. Which is what happened today, when I left my boss's office and saw Jane heading up the stairs. She was holding a broken-down cardboard box, probably headed out to the recycling bins. I see that box as being very important now, but in the moment what I noticed was that her position - halfway up the stairs - put her legs at my shoulder-level.

I dove forward, reaching out with a claw-like hand, and snatched Jane by the ankle.

It was the scream from every horror movie you've ever seen. And it echoed all up and down the staircase, probably alarming countless studious missionaries. (In retrospect, I do regret interrupting their classes like this. But as MTC missionaries are starving for distraction, I'll bet they don't complain.)

Jane flipped around, and through the rosy haze of my triumph I noticed that she looked more freaked out than I'd ever seen her. "YOU!" she accused, shaking with adrenalin. Again, I was laughing too hard to respond, but I smiled in an affirmative way. Oh man, I thought, that was the best one yet! I wasn't really paying attention, still congratulating myself as she raised her cardboard box . . .

. . . and started beating me with it.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"You! Are! So! Awful!" she was yelling between blows. Meanwhile, she was whacking me with a rather sizable box of cardboard; hitting me on the back, the arms, and the head. Each swing connected sharply, and soon my thoughts turned from self-congratulation to self-preservation. I put up my hands to deflect the weapon - which was shockingly effective.

"Ow! Jane, geez!"

We were standing by the entrance doors, and there was one poor missionary standing there. He had been holding the door open for Jane, but now he was frozen to the spot watching us - one huddled half in laughter, half in panic; the other yelling maniacally as she bashed into me with her cardboard mace. After a few moments of horror, he let go of the door and walked - slowly, cautiously - away.

I did escape eventually, but not before Jane had proved to me exactly how much damage a cardboard box can do to the human body. When I made it back to the safety of my own building, I collapsed in the custodial closet, gasping for breath (and, oddly, still laughing). My partner - who has given herself the codename Jackalope - was in there putting chemicals away, and when she saw me she looked bewildered. I explained what had just happened, and concluded with the lesson of the day:

It is safer to surprise people who are unarmed.

My MTC Morning

"What's wrong with it now?"

I looked at the missionary sympathetically, but rules are rules. "Elder, there's paper all over the floor, your top shelf hasn't been dusted, and the window's all smudged. If more than two items on the sheet are 'Needs Work,' we have to rate the room 'Unacceptable.' I'm just trying to do my job."

There were eight missionaries in the room, and by this point half of them were out of their chairs, ganging up on me. You wouldn't think that a bunch of 19 year-olds in suits and ties could be quite so intimidating. The leader took another step towards me. "But this is our first inspection. We didn't know! We've only been here a week."

"It's a good thing you'll be here for another few weeks," I said, smiling and trying not to cower in the circle of very tall penguins elders. "This inspection awakened you to a sense of your awful guilt, and now you have the chance to repent."

"But Sister -"

"Jessica, are you okay?"

The elders backed off, turning to see my partner Matt standing in the hall, eyebrow raised. I took advantage of the distraction and hurried out of the room. "Sorry, Elders," I called. "Better luck next week." The sounds of their frustration followed me out down the hall. Matt looked back at the room for a moment, then shrugged. He went back to the custodial closet, and I continued critiquing the classrooms.

Walking down the hallways, I let the typical missionary chatter bounce around in my ears. Blah blah Prayer blah blah the Spirit blah blah Laundry . . . . My attention was caught by a group of elders who had cornered their District Leader, who looked extremely embarrassed. "No, really," one of them was saying, "You're incredible. Sometimes I feel the Spirit just by walking past you!"

"The Prophet just needs to clone you," another added. "Then you can preach the gospel everywhere!"

"Guys, please stop," the District Leader said, looking at me nervously. "This is so weird . . . ."

When I got downstairs, I looked for Matt to tell him the story. He was refilling chemicals, so I leaned against the wall across from him. But before I could open my mouth, an elder came sprinting around the corner and pushed past me, yelling "Get him away from me!"

Companionship issues, I thought. I looked back to where the elder had come from, and sure enough his companion was looking for him. "Where'd he go?" his voice called. I started forward, thinking to help, just as the companion came around the corner. He was holding a nearly invisible thread, from the end of which was hanging . . .

My spidey-senses exploded in my brain. I immediately leaped behind the first Samoan elder I could find, peeking out from behind his shoulder (well, elbow) to look at the evil, spider-wielding companion. "Get that out of here!" I demanded, laughing nervously.

The elder saw my terror and grinned, taking another step forward. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a soul-scorching glare, and he soon realized that I didn't think his little prank was funny. He took the spider back to the other elders in his district and they stomped it to death together. Rolling my eyes, I let go of the Samoan missionary and escaped to the third floor.

On the third floor I found three elders sitting outside the bathroom. Amused, I asked, "You all waiting for your companions?"

They nodded, looking exasperated. Most of the time the elders do a good job of obeying the "Sight or Sound" rule of keeping close to their companions. But for some reason, the elders seem to really hate having to wait for them when they go to the bathroom. (The sisters don't mind at all. They're used to going to the bathroom in groups.) I needed to get into the bathroom to restock the toilet paper anyway, so I parked myself beside these elders. "Where are you headed on the mission?" I asked.

"Arizona," one of them answered. "We get to leave in six days." His fellows nodded, looking as if they couldn't wait to get out of this place.

I grinned, but before I could ask anything more another of the elders in their district came running over to talk to me. (Elders love talking to me. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm a female who wears pants.) The missionary spoke in hushed tones, but his eyes were excited. "Did you know," he asked, "that Elder Archuleta is here?!"

I stared at him blankly. "Who?"

"Elder Archuleta!" He rolled his eyes. "You know, David Archuleta?"

"Oh yeah!" It was weird at first to hear him called 'Elder.' "He's here? Here where? In the building?"

The missionary shook his head, "He's here in the MTC. We saw him!" His companions nodded, looking excited too. The missionary continued with wide eyes, still speaking confidentially, "I saw him in the cafeteria this morning. He was drinking orange juice."

"Really?" I asked. He'd given me a significant look and I didn't really understand it.

"Yes!" The elder shook his head as if he couldn't believe it. "He's going to feel awful later. That MTC orange juice does bad things to your insides."

"Ah." I blinked, and involuntarily we all glanced toward the bathroom door across from us. On the wings of that awkward silence I left the elders to their contemplations.

And I thought, for about the seventy-five millionth time since coming to the MTC, "Oh, Elders . . . "

Working at the MTC

Having grown up in Mormonville, the Missionary Training Center has always been in the background of my life's setting. For years it stood there, half-hidden in the shadows of mystery. It was, in my mind, a sort of secret-agent training school for the LDS church. I mean, really: stupid, badly dressed, self-obsessed teenager Jimmy goes in; awe-inspiring, ridiculously attractive, skilled-in-all-things Elder Richardson comes out. How does this transformation occur?

You know that feeling you have when you look at side-by-side pictures of a caterpillar and a butterfly? That feeling that says, "HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?!"

Well, once I got this job working at the MTC, I had the chance to rip that chrysalis open and stare metamorphosis in the face!

And you know what I learned?

The metamorphosis doesn't happen in the MTC. It happens in the field. The MTC is more like the stage during which the caterpillar just eats and eats and eats - getting really fat so that it doesn't starve during the real metamorphosis.

...actually, the MTC is almost exactly like that!

Anyway, here are some snippets of my experience in the MTC. First things first: brand-new missionaries like to wax philosophical . . . with varying degrees of success.  I often find the product of their mental-labors scribbled on their classroom chalkboards:

. . . yeah, I don't know what it means either.

I have also found some even more disheartening phrases (some graffitied on bathroom stalls, others on discarded tissues) such as  "None of my wishes are ever granted," and "When all else fails, kick the dog." This was when I figured out that even though they've only been away from home a little while, brand-new missionaries are sometimes very sad to be here.

However, a lot of them really like being missionaries - or, at least, they really love goofing around with each other in a missionary-appropriate sort of way.

 One of the most common things missionaries like to do when they need to let go of some excess energy is sing. Really loudly. In fact, sometimes two districts in the same hallway will get up a little singing contest between them to see which class can sing "Praise to the Man" the loudest.

By the way, being a missionary doesn't mean you are automatically blessed with perfect pitch. Unfortunately.

There are a billion other things I could tell you about working at the MTC, but the weather is too good for me to stay at the computer much longer. So I'll just close with this last picture, as a symbolic way of saying that even though the missionaries at the MTC are a little crazy, they are working on something beautiful: spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ. And their individual transformations are only just getting started.

 

P.S. Landscaping is fantastic! It's like they dropped Spring off at my front door!