THE COLOR OF A SOUL

THE COLOR OF A SOUL
When first asked to write down a missionary experience, the thought was overwhelming. When thinking back on my mission there are so many moments that come to mind. They were all important in my development as a missionary. My Missionary Moment that I chose to write about is not one that led to a conversion. This experience wraps up in a nutshell what my mission taught me about Christ like love that we all so urgently long for. I am blessed to read emails and letters from my son and young nephew’s in the mission field with many more adolescents yet to soon join the charge! Among their comments are struggles with companions, not teaching as well as they think they should be, missing there mom’s (not so much their dads, what’s up with that?) cooking and eating woes and not having enough letters in the mail box. Every email and letter ends with a common thread. A sweet and tender testimony that we as parents get all teary eyed over. My mission was a dream. My dream came true for the entire two years I lived it. There are so many things that I remember with fondness but this little moment burns bright and the face of a child of God will never be forgotten by me or by my FATHER IN HEAVEN.
I served in the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission. It took in the southern tips of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. I was blessed to serve in all three states but the city of New Orleans seemed to claim the majority of my time. My first call to New Orleans was to the west bank called Algiers. My second call was to Gretna. When I had but three months left on my mission, I was called to Kenner.
I ended serving a total of one year in New Orleans and was happy to have called it my home. I loved New Orleans and would finish out my Mission there.
At the end of a mission you have learned the ropes. Fear is replaced with confidence. A once daunting task becomes trivial in your every day adventure. The light tap on the door that hurt your knuckles is now a resounding knock protected by calluses. The companionship quirks that once bothered you now become insignificant. Letters you write to home are far and few between. Like a bug, the Dear John letters have already been read and dealt with. Your spiritual squeegee has wiped them away as you calmly sit and peer out your crystal clear windshield. You have become a well oiled machine and are ready to leap buildings in a single bound. There is nothing to stop you… but time….and my time was ending.
The culture in the South is rich. The City of New Orleans is not separated by counties but by parishes. Most of the city folk were Catholics and were fun to teach. They were more open and less argumentative than the rest of the Southerners. There were parts of New Orleans where we were not allowed to knock on doors. The Project apartments were one such place and Bourbon Street was another. We were allowed in the French Quarter, just not during Marti Gras. That sets us up for my Missionary Moment that I will now share with you. It takes place in the French Quarter (not during Marti Gras).


Elder Consoliver and I had never knocked door to door in the French Quarter before. We found ourselves in a very ethnic place. Two white missionaries on bicycles on a beautiful southern day. It was perplexing to me that I had taught so many discussions on my mission to both black and white people and had no black baptisms. Having been brought up in a small town and not really having many black friends, I wondered if there was any evidence of prejudice within me? My immediate answer was no, but why was I so unsuccessful in my effort to find and convert a black individual.


We were riding our bikes on Canal Street. The sound of an old fashion electric trolley and its bell could be heard dinging in the distance. I thought it was cool at the time to be in a place where they still used such a primitive type of transportation. I thought it was cool for only a moment; as I found that my front bicycle tire was now stuck and caught between the asphalt and the rail that the trolley maneuvered on. Crash, bang and laughter, or maybe bang then crash and laughter. I can’t remember between the first two but the laughter definitely came last. I sat on the ground with my bike lying next to me staring up at my companion now wiping tears of amusement from his eyes.
This seemed as good a place as any so we placed our bikes together against a light pole. I only had two weeks left until I returned home to Arizona. I grabbed the bike lock and threaded the steel cable in and out of the two bike frames. I closed the lock and grabbed my scriptures as I purposely ignored my companion as he gave the play by play commentary of my recent cycling skills.

The buildings were two stories tall and lined both sides of the street. The second story verandas had fancy steel railings. Drying laundry could be seen wafting from the veranda rails. A jazz band could be heard but not seen. Its sound was undoubtedly coming from the never sleeping section of the French Quarter.

The southern culture was alive and wreathing. If you have ever seen a movie depicting New Orleans and the French Quarter, this was as close as the mind could imagine. As we moved to a less traveled part of the street, the sound of children playing could be heard. We entered a few empty yards and knocked on the doors with little success. We were drawn to the yard with all the children. They had been watching us intensely and kept yelling for us to come and knock on their door. They were of all ages ranging from one to fifteen years old. We opened their gate and watched as some got quiet and others got louder with excitement. We turned to the oldest and asked if their parents were home. At first they were a bit hesitant but then their posture softened. With a friendly smile I said, “We have a story to share about your Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ”. This they responded to. Two children scurried in the house to find their mother. A few moments later a large black women appeared at the door. We told her we were there to share a religious message. Like a true Southern women, she threw her hands in the air and exclaimed “Praise God, come on in and share the good word with my chillens”.

We entered the house. The front room was very large and spacious with old wooden floors. It was very messy with trash and toys strewn about the room. Several women could be seen in the kitchen and peered out with curiosity. In addition to the ten to fifteen children that were in the front yard there were about two dozen inside. Holy cow there were a gazillion kids in this one room. I would have guessed it to be a day care but then the woman that invited us in, introduced the two women from the kitchen as her sisters. They laughed and cackled and said that we must be angels of God. The kids were driving them crazy and our timely arrival would allow them a deserved break. The woman then bellowed for all the children to sit and listen to the preacher boys. I looked at my companion and he nodded at me to start. I started the first discussion and after about two minutes, the three women went back into the kitchen and left us alone with their children. A few minutes later the children lost interest and soon started playing and yelling and fighting with each other. I finished my portion and turned the discussion book over to my companion. He could sense my frustration as a toy bounced off my forehead and knocked the book from his hands. As my companion continued the lesson I had time to look around the room. An aching sensation formed in the pit my stomach as I surmised the lifestyle of this home. I thought of the three women in the other room and quickly judged them. My observation told me that the children were looked upon as welfare dependents. Their worth was equated with dollar signs and not the worth of their souls. Several kids had bruises, others were not wearing any clothes and some looked as though they had not bathed in a week. I had not witnessed a single act of love from they who had brought life to the children that lived within the walls of this home. All of a sudden I became angry! I don’t know if you can call it prejudice but whatever it was could be felt boiling in my veins.

I was a seasoned missionary…I could leap buildings, sooth and tame any dog that growled, rattle off hundreds of memorized scriptures, settle any dispute between companionships, teach, expound and exhort as well as explain the mysteries of God to any and all that crossed my path. I had been trained by the best and had become the trainer. I had stood my ground with ministers, pastures and those who had been schooled as Theologians. I had cried from the rooftops and had prayed thousands of hours upon my knees.

Despite all of this I was helpless in this room. I found myself surrounded by selfish and unfeeling parents who will one day have to answer to the silent crime that I was witnessing that day. At this point I found myself fuming.

Suddenly I felt a tug on my pant leg. It shook me from my rage and caused me to focus on her.

She was about two years old. She was unclothed except for a filthy soiled diaper. Her face was so dirty and crusty; I could barely make out her mouth. Three flies were buzzing around her head looking for a place to land. Her eyes were bright and beckoned my attention. I remember thinking they were a light into her soul. She looked up at me. As I looked into her beautiful little eyes; I smiled at her. She reciprocated with a smile that spread from ear to ear. It was a moment of pure joy. She then reached her dirty little hands up towards me in delight.

I was no longer helpless in that room. I have been known to show emotion from time to time. It must have been time as I scooped her up and held her in my arms as though she was my one and only connection in this world. I whispered in her ear that Heavenly Father loved her so much and that one day he would take her in his arms as I was then. She hugged me even tighter. I sat and rocked her in my lap as tears of pain, joy and pure love of Christ ran down my cheeks to wash some of the dust and soot from her little body. With my eyes shut, I listened to the voice of my companion as he taught his lesson. I listened until his voice started to quiver and quake and then choked to a silent hush. I cleared the tears from my blurred vision and witnessed that he too was holding one of the little children in his arms. We looked at each other and began weeping in harmony. We then dropped our scriptures and lesson book to the floor and played the remainder of the time with all the children. The three women in the home never came back into the room. We left with a heartfelt prayer and a hope that somehow the children of that home would have another opportunity to hear the message of the restored gospel in a more fitting setting.


The south was a wonderful place to serve a mission. I saw magnolia trees blossom in spring time. I watched the sun rise and set, turning colors of orange that I did not know existed. I watched wind blow and lift the Spanish moss as it clung to the branches of the Sypris trees with their roots jetting up from the still waters of the bayous. I made friends with members and non members alike. Some friendships will last into the eternities. I had many conversions and experiences to share with my posterity. I baptized many people and watched them come out of the waters of baptism. They smiled and their faces glowed with renewed happiness. These memories and these faces I shall cherish forever but none shall replace or burn brighter than one face. None shall be as bright or soul shaking as the face that smiled at me and communed with my soul in a house on Canal Street in the French Quarter on a beautiful New Orleans day.

There was no conversion. There was no return visit to her home. I do not even know her name. What I do know, is that one day we shall meet again and I shall know her from her eyes. We shall hug once more but this time not in a house of repute but in the house and heavens of god.

Missionaries…
Be thankful for your blessings! You were born in a house of love. You have been taught in your youth. You are now living and doing exactly what God in Heaven has planned for you to do. Keep the faith and an eye single to his glory and you shall come home knowing what your Dads and Uncle Todd found out on our missions. He lives…..and he loves! Learn to live and love the same as he whose name you bare on your tag above your heart.
I write these things in the name of Jesus Christ Amen.

Elder Todd Connolly