Learning hasn’t been a problem. My Scholastic achievements were uniformly outstanding. The one time I received a lass than perfect grade, my mother grilled me and the teacher as to why.
Languages were equally easy, at least academically. In my single year of German in high school, I was able to take several other students and accelerate our learning insofar, that we covered at least two years of instruction in a year. I took Russian at the university and obtained outstanding marks.
The Russian professors did note that while I seemed to be proficient in the grammar and the rules, and even had an acceptable vocabulary, I had difficulty speaking the language and carrying on any type of conversation.
I wasn’t bothered by the critique. I had other things to spend time and effort on since I usually carried class a load at least 50% above the suggested amount. Besides I would learn German or Russian or Finnish when I was sent on my mission.
I was called toBelgium and France. My pride was hurt a little. Apparently, the Lord’s opinion of my language ability wasn’t as high as my own. The Lord was not sending me to some place where my superior skills would be needed, like Finland or Japan or Taiwan, but to some place where the language was like bad English with a ludicrous accent. Besides, the French were all egotistical, self-centered, proud, long-nosed chin-in-the-air nationalists, and stupidly foolish as any student of history and the French Revolution, empires and Maignet line can clearly see.
I was excited to go, and I wanted to do my best. I wanted to be a great missionary and baptize thousands. I knew the Church was true, and dearly wanted to share it. My father had given me a gift of testimony and I wanted to share.
The Language Training Mission was and is (as the Missionary Training Center) a highly-regimented place and program. Missionaries parade in their groups from dorm to classroom, to study hall, to cafeteria, to classroom, to gym, to cafeteria, back and forth. The day started at 5:30AM and ended at 10:00PM.
The language training was intensive. The first Sunday was popularly known as “Silent Sunday” since the missionaries were to start that day to speak the language full-time, whether they could, or, as most often the case, couldn’t. I remember that day, getting by on the basic vocabulary of cafeteria, restroom, classroom, dormitory. It was amusing and fun, since it was a game that we all could participate in.
Classes were made equally fun. None of us in our group really knew French, though several had studied it. We all tested out as being incompetent. So we all mumbled, shouted, and tried to resonate the peculiar French tones that make the language unique. It seemed a game as well.
I had amibitious goals. I wanted to get out and be able to speak and teach the people. When we got to the halfway mark, I could tell that neigher I nor the calss I was in were going to make it to the necessary level of proficiency.
At that time as well, my companion had to leave the LTM. Between the realization that my goals were in jeopardy and the feeling that somehow I had let my companion down, caused me to spend considerable time in prayer and reflection. I prayed to know whether the goals I had set were vain and foolish. Was I being full of pride? Was I setting these goals to show off? Was it a true desire or not?
I can’t recall a clear answer to my prayers. I do recall coming to the clean and clear knowledge that those were not my goals, but the goals set by those working in the LTM. So that is graduates could contribute as worthy missionaries.
I made a bargain with the Lord. I would do my best to obey the rules, I would do my best to study hard, I would do my best to focus, I would do my best to follow the directions of the teachers and the leaders at the LTM., if He would help my learn the language.
I remember painful days that stretched on and on as I drove my wandering mind and heart to focus on the lessons and the language. Any moment my attention started to wander, I flagged it back to task. The fatigue was real and immense though no physical labor was involved. I prayed constantly in my heart to be able to learn more quickly and effectively. Each day left, stealing another portion of the little time we had left. I would calculate how many lines of discussions I would have to memorize. Daily, the task grew more daunting.
I don’t remember how many days I paid this price of constant attention and focus without receiving any reward, plodding forward at the same pace that would not achieve mastery of the discussions or the language. I will have to refer to my journal, which I kept religiously. I do remember one day, when I had basically given up hope of learning the discussion and language with hardly more than a few days left, and on that day the knowledge started pouring into my head and heart.
It cannot be easily described, and perhaps only understood by those who have had a similar experience. The words of the discussions were immediately understandable, without reference to any other text. Further, I could read a paragraph and be able to repeat the words nearly verbatim. It was no drill, it was clarity, it was comprehension, it was a lightness of heart and mind. The hours that had dragged before now flowed past. The imposed order that previously marched us from place to place now became the framework in which activity and knowledge flowed. I’m sorry I have not better words. Before, I was tired from the struggle of trying. After, I tired from the knowledge, the sheer flood of knowledge that was given to me.
Time was oh so short. The Lord is the master of “just in time” and He had not allowed any moment of delay or lagging. Passing off the discussion had to be scheduled with the trainers as we also prepared to leave as well as the final testing we had to take. I’m not certain I officially passed off all the discussions. Rather, I think that I did not. But it did not matter. My prayer, my plea had been answered. The Lord had given me the knowledge I needed to communicate with the French. Humbled by the incredible gift, I walked out of the LTM confident that I could teach.
There is a rest of the story tht has to do with a mission and testing perhaps too long on the fit rather than trying to expand upon it. A certain sister in Reims certainly upbraided me for thinking I could speak French when my accent was somewhere between atrocious and bad. My accent was understandable, but not very good at all. A lesson repeated by an Elder who demonstrated that French spoken with the heart and a Southern accent was more pleasant and understood than the French I communicated with.
Or perhaps the rest of the story occurred the morning after we had landed in Belgium and had been left as greenie missionaries in a hotel. As we sat for breakfast, we were seated the typical meal of bread and coffee. Except none of us wanted coffee. Faced with our fist need to communicate, I summoned up my newly-gifted knowledge and asked for some milk and “lait”. I wondered if I said ir right when the waitress looked at my so strangely. But she returned with milk, albeit warm and tasting a little like it had been boiled, her surprise probably due to wondering why anyone would drink the stuff. But I had communicated.
All during my mission, poor accent or not, got the end of my mission, the French would declare confidently that I was not American, not German, not British, nor any other of the countries where tall red heads could come from, but the life of them, they couldn’t tell where I was from. My accent had some Belgian nuances to it, maybe some Quebecois, but was definitely not either). All my mission I could communicate. From the first day to the last, I could bear my testimony and teach the lessons.
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