The Dad

Due to the overwhelming number of requests I've had to tell this story (one), as well as the overwhelming desire I have to procrastinate and leave my responsibilities alone, as well as the fact that I have nothing else interesting to say right now, I have decided to introduce you all to . . . "The Dad."

This was my first mission companion. My trainer. The person who was called upon to set the tone for my entire mission. A mentor, if you will. Here's how it went:

She seemed so nice at the Mission Home. Later I found out she was just sucking up to the President and his wife. She told me on the train on the way home that she was really happy I already spoke fluent Japanese, because that wouldn't slow down her work. I was happy I got her too, and not my MTC companion, because they would have been sending one of the sisters home in a body bag within two weeks. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first week out, I learned the following: There is no time to go shopping for food, or for a bike. That has to wait until Preparation Day, which is six days away. In the meantime, I get to borrow one of the member's bikes. Sure, it's a relic of WWII, and won't go over three miles an hour, and was built for someone a foot shorter than me, but I can just catch up and come in on whatever lesson The Dad is teaching as soon as I can make it. As for food, we'll be eating separately. She eats chopped cabbage with mayonnaise so that she can save more money and spend it on her investigators. And when I say "her" investigators, that's exactly what I mean. Anyway, about the food, we'll just stop off at this convenience store where I get three minutes to purchase food I have no idea how to prepare at exorbitant prices. And it's made clear that I better make it last, 'cause I'm not spending any money again for six days.

Week 2
I'm starving to death, but on Monday we go to the store so she can stock up on cabbage, so I end up with a few more things that I can fool around with, burn, and gag down in the twenty minute break we're allowed at noon and dinnertime.

I buy a bike. It's cool. Real cool. Like PeeWee Herman's bike. And now I can usually at least see her as a pinpoint in the distance as we're riding along.

She sits me down for a little heart to heart during "companion inventory."

The Dad: Daltongirl Shimai, what is a father's job?

Keep in mind this was 1985, and the Family Proclamation had not yet been issued. If it had, it may have cleared a few things up.

Me: Uh . . . I'm not sure what you're talking about.

TD (patiently): What is a father's responsibility toward his family?

Me: Oh. Uh . . . I'm still not sure what you're getting at . . . um . . . to work to provide for his wife and children?

TD: Good! Yes! And what is the mother's job?

Me (warming up): Well, I guess it's to take care of the children and the home.

TD: Very good. This is like our relationship. I am like the father. My responsibility is the investigators. Your responsibility is the apartment. It's true, you have to be with me when I do missionary work, but that's all you have to do is come along. You exist so I can do missionary work. Your job is to take care of the apartment. You are the mother. Is that clear?

Not really, since I was taught nothing like that in the MTC. But maybe they do things differently here in The Land of the Rising Sun. I was taught to listen to my senior companion and learn from her. Maybe this is what they meant.

Me: Um, okay.

TD: Good.

From this moment, I referred to her in my mind as "The Dad."

Week 3
After District Study, I am chastized for laughing too much and speaking English with one of the elders from my MTC group. He is about to go home he's so miserable, and tells me that the only thing that keeps him there is knowing we can get together for a laugh once a week. I admit that I look forward to these times as well. Apparently, however, it is a sin to have fun on a mission. I am told to stop talking to him.

Back at the apartment:
TD: Daltongirl Shimai, what is that over there in the corner?

Me: Um, it's a blanket.

TD (condescendingly): Right. A blanket. What is it doing there?

Me: Well, I'm not sure. You put it there.

TD: Yes. Yes, I did put it there. I put it there to see if you would do your job. And what is your job?

The light goes on.

Me (meekly): I'm the mother.

TD: That's right. Now put the blanket away, please.

I put the blanket away. Inside I feel . . . conflicted.

The Dad is very strict about all the rules. Except, it appears, the rule about bedtime. For her. I have to go to bed exactly at 10:30. She stays up all night making cards and gifts for her investigators.

I'm faster on the bike now. When I can keep up, she teaches me that my front tire is never to pass her front tire. She is the senior companion. She goes first. It's better if I just stay behind her completely.

There's a Zone Conference. You can read about this gem of an experience in the comments section of Cicada's most recent post.

I get a migraine. Knowing my limits when this happens, I tell her I need to stay in for the remainder of the day. She insists that we go out anyway. I go out for a while, but at dinnertime I absolutely refuse to leave the apartment again. She fumes. After all, she has much work to do. I feel guilty. She tells me I need more faith. I feel more guilty.

This is turning out to be the longest month of my life. My MTC buddy's companion is going home at the end of the month. Dare I hope that one of us will be transferred as well? No. I do not.

Week four
We are teaching lots of lessons. It's freezing cold outside (and inside, since no one has central heating). We ride at breakneck speeds to each investigator's home, where we sit cuddled up under quilts and a heated table, and our sweat dries to our bodies. I am not allowed to speak at these meetings, so I generally just fall asleep. Then I'm nudged awake and given a sign when it's time for me to say the line she taught me to say.

We get a basket of treats from the ward. In the basket is a little tiny coffee cake. It looks really good. The Dad throws it in the trash. I ask her why. It's against the Word of Wisdom, she tells me. It says "coffee" on the package. I explain that coffee cake is just a type of cake that people eat with coffee--it doesn't actually contain coffee. She refuses to budge, and claims that it's evil. Later, when she goes to the bathroom, I retrieve the package from the trash and stuff the whole thing in my mouth. Then I feel guilty for being disobedient. Also I don't get to enjoy it properly, because I have to have it swallowed down completely before she gets back.

The Transfer Call
The call comes, and Hallelujah! The Dad is transferred to another area. The night before she leaves, she sits down at the table and is looking very, very sad. Finally she says, "Daltongirl Shimai, I have been a bad companion."

This is it! I think. She is going to apologize. She is going to admit she's tortured me. I begin planning my response. I will be cool, but understanding. I will be gracious. I will forgive.

TD: Daltongirl Shimai, I'm afraid I haven't trained you well.

Dang straight you haven't trained me well, you facist cow. Oh! Wait. I'm supposed to be forgiving. Christlike.

Me: Oh, no, you've done your best, I'm sure.

TD: It's just that I'm afraid I haven't been strict enough.

WHAT!?!?!?

Silence.

TD: I think your next companion is going to be much more strict than I have been, and it's going to be really hard on you.

Me (in a very small voice): Oh. I think you've been strict enough. You really think it's going to be harder?

TD: I know it's going to be harder. My first companion was ten times harder on me. I have been so lax, so slow to discipline, so loose with the rules. I'm so, so sorry.

Me (beginning to panic): Um, it's okay.

The next day at the transfer I cry and cling to her and beg her not to leave me. My terror knows no limits.

Then I go home with my new companion, the lovely, the kind, the beautiful, the wise, the fun, the talented, the most marvelous blessing from God, even Suzuki Shimai. I am surprisingly quick to adjust to this new life.

Later in my mission, the president stands up and gives an entire Zone Conference on the Best Missionary in the Mission: The Dad. She has taught and baptized more people than any other missionary in the history of the mission, and now we have to learn how she does it and work like her. Just last year I finally got up the guts to tell my mission president how angry I was with him that day, and for about ten years afterward. We laughed about it. He, of course, had no idea what was going on. Her next few companions did show signs of mental instability, calling him up and screaming at him to get them out of there immediately, and things like that, but he thought it was just them. After all, Daltongirl Shimai had been fine with her, right?

Even later, I got a Christmas card from The Dad, containing two gift certificates for about 250 yen each for McDonalds. A rare treat. I got myself a shake and an order of fries and enjoyed them very much. I also enjoyed a little melting of the heart toward The Dad. I think she really was doing the best she knew how. She didn't mean to be a cruel person and make me hate my mission. And now that she has that Family Proclamation, I bet she's figured everything out. With the distance of twenty years separating me from the whole experience, I know I have. I harbor no bitterness at all toward The Dad. Still, it's a darn fun story to tell. Now I'd better go get those dishes done before my husband gets home and freaks out.