The Mission that Tried to Kill Me (by Bethany)

Our family has a great legacy of missionary service. Both sets of grandparents were missionaries, as well as my father, all four brothers, three of my sisters, almost all of my uncles, and most of my cousins. On top of that, my dad was called as a mission president when I was in high school, so we had missionaries in our house all the time. Missionary work has been a constant presence in my family’s life. It’s in our blood.

When I turned 21, I was called to serve as a missionary in the Philippines Olongapo mission. For a year and a half, I would preach the gospel in the Tagalog language to the Filipino people. I was super excited, even though I didn't know any Filipinos, and I couldn't even pronounce “Olongapo” or “Tagalog”!

After a couple of months to prepare (and shop!), I spent a few months in the Missionary Training Center learning how to be a missionary, a little about the culture in the Philippines, and a lot about how to speak Tagalog. It was tiring work. We were in class most of the day. I studied a lot, and prayed even more. The Lord helped me, and I felt pretty ready when the day finally came for my class to make the long flight to Manila.

Being a missionary in the Philippines was awesome! Fluency in the language came slowly but surely. I was so happy to be sharing the gospel and living among this new group of people I was coming to love. They were so kind and open and willing to learn. 

Plus, I was a celebrity! It was a rare occurrence to run into an American in the areas I lived, so it was always so funny to have a bunch of kids following me around asking me if I knew Slim Shady or telling me I looked like Britney Spears! (I didn't, by the way.)

The living conditions and lack of sanitary practices took some getting used to. It took a lot of effort to keep from getting sick. We had a filter to give us clean water at home, and carried tiny bottles of bleach with us to drop into any questionable water we drank while we were out. I got a toe infection in my first few weeks from accidentally stepping in standing water with an open blister. Soon after, I got an eye infection, complete with green oozing pus. I fought with boils and rashes my entire time there.

But it was all part of the badge of honor. You don’t go on a mission to take it easy. You want to have some stories to tell when you get home, of how tough you were, and the sacrifices you made for the Lord’s work. You suffer through the trials, celebrate the successes, and rely on the Lord.

After less than a year in the Philippines, I started having lots of stomach pain and weakness, sometimes with nausea and vomiting. It could’ve been from anything, but I think I've traced it back to some ice candy someone gave me that must have been made with bad water. (I didn't think to add bleach to a popsicle!) I started missing lots of work. I layed around in pain a lot, holding my stomach. I would try to go out and work, then have to come home an hour later. This “badge of honor” was taking longer to get through than the others.

The local doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I took the long, hot, bumpy bus ride to the hospital in Manila. I threw up at some pretty gross rest stops. The hospital doctors did some tests on me, sent me back to my area, brought me back to Manila, did more tests, and still couldn't find anything. I wasn't getting any better, and may have been getting worse.

My mission president decided to move me to an area closer to the mission headquarters. I felt terrible for my sweet Filipina companion who basically accompanied me to my doctor’s appointments, acted as my nurse, and tried to get me to eat. She wanted to get out and do missionary work as much as I did, but she bore her trial without complaint. Even with her constant care, my condition remained unchanged. But I still hoped. I was a missionary, and God takes care of missionaries.

Pretty soon, the mission president had an interview with me about my illness. Afterwards, he said he would like me to call my parents on his cell phone and tell them there was a possibility I’d be coming home to the States to get better medical care. I was crushed. I cried to President and to my parents.

I was moved into the mission home with the mission president and his wife. He told me this was the last chance I had to get better. Maybe with good clean food, sanitary living conditions, lots of rest, warm showers, and air conditioning (none of which I’d had the past year), I would start to improve. The plan was to stay there for two weeks until the next set of missionaries went home to the States, and decide then if I needed to go home with them.  I prayed to the Lord that He would heal me in time.

I was a walking zombie, with no strength and in constant pain. I couldn't do much of anything, though I did go to church with the mission president and his wife my first Sunday at their house. I threw up as soon as we got home. Things weren't getting any better.

I had only been at the mission home a few days when President came into my room, sat at the foot of my bed, and told me he thought we were delaying the inevitable, and that I needed to go home and get this taken care of. He didn't think I should even wait the two weeks to have travel companions to help me.

I couldn't believe it. After all the faith and prayers, I felt so defeated.

Traveling alone from the Philippines to my parents’ home in Idaho was a struggle in itself. I was so weak. I slept a lot on the planes, but had lots of difficulty with customs, baggage, and a 4-hour delay in Tokyo. Kind people helped me along the way, and my sister Heather even surprised me by showing up at the Portland airport and flying the last leg with me!

Once home, I was released as a missionary, after 14 months of service. I was soon tested by some doctors in the US, who found lots of scarring in my intestines from whatever had been in there. But it was gone now, so I just needed to wait for it to heal. I was still weak and in pain for months at my parents’ house, just laying around watching every movie my dad brought home from the library, but I was slowly improving.

After three months or so, I was mostly better. Now it was time for me to figure out if I was well enough to go back to school, or if I should stay at home for a while and get a job. People were giving me advice and encouragement, but it was up to me to make the final decision. I was uneasy, and didn’t feel good about either choice.

Could I ever finish my mission? Most people hadn’t considered that option, since I had already been honorably released and only came home four months early. But I wanted to try.

My dad called the stake president, who I’d never met, and he agreed to call the Missionary Department. There was no word for quite a while. I tried to prepare myself for any possibility. Maybe they won’t let me go back with such a short time left to go – it’s almost not worth it. Surely they wouldn't let me go back to the Philippines. I probably wouldn't be speaking Tagalog. Maybe they’ll want me to finish my mission in Idaho while living at home. We called the stake president again, who called Salt Lake again.

Finally, the stake president called. I feared the worst, but prayed.

“Can you be ready in 3 days?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said. “Where am I going?”

“Carlsbad, California.”

I was so grateful to be going back on a mission. I didn't care that it wasn't the country or language I’d been originally called to. I just wanted to be a missionary and share the gospel. Most of all, I wanted to put in the time I’d promised the Lord I would dedicate to Him.

When I got to the airport in California, the mission president met me. I hadn't had time to get a lot of details, and I had so many questions. He had one for me first.

“How’s your Tagalog? We've been praying for a sister who can speak Tagalog – we really need you in our Filipino branch.”

I started to tear up. I was going to be able to speak Tagalog and work with Filipinos! I had lost nothing. Not only that, but they had been praying for a sister who could speak Tagalog – they were praying for ME without even knowing me. The Lord had a plan, and everything worked out as it needed to.

“So, how long can I stay?” I asked.

“How much time did you have left?”

“Four months, but I’d love six.”

“I’ll give you six,” he said.

I went on to serve the remainder of my mission in California among both Americans and Filipinos. My 18-month mission ended up spanning 2 years. They may not have been the best two years of my life (being a wife and mother has far surpassed it), but they certainly strengthened my faith and testimony that Heavenly Father loves us and will bless us with the righteous desires of our hearts – especially if we’re willing to sacrifice and put our trust in Him.