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There are a lot of rules on Mormon missions: Stay with your companion at all times, don’t call home except for Christmas and Mother’s Day, exercise for 30 minutes every morning, etc. He had become more confident, assertive and emotionally transparent, and I was calmer, not so judgmental and considerably less manic about rules. He had, almost without my realizing it, become my best friend, and I couldn’t fathom or remember why or how I had been so wrong about him at the beginning. But our last two assignments were in the same cities (Venice and Genoa), where we got to see or call each other almost every day.
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The louder I sang my ridiculous song, the bigger he smiled, until eventually we were sitting up and laughing like kids on a backyard campout.Īfter that, the things we didn’t have in common became the stories we could share with each other, and we gradually learned to like and need each other without contracting sudden, violent illnesses.Īt the end of our time at the training center, we shipped off to Milan and were assigned to different cities, where the challenges of learning Italian, converting Roman Catholics to Mormonism and getting along with our new companions took over our full attention.įor the first year we barely saw each other, except for occasional, brief and excited conversations at train stations when our paths crossed. Secular music was against the rules, but it was the middle of the night and my obedience was crumbling in the face of the hesitant smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
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My version was about a missionary companionship with the runs, and I sang each successive draft and edit in the semiregular intervals between his mad dashes back into the bathroom. I was too awake to sleep, so I started rewriting the words to the song “Two Is Better Than One” by Boys Like Girls (featuring Taylor Swift). The missionary rule book says that companions “must always sleep in the same room (but not in the same bed).” I dragged our mattresses to the bathroom entrance and settled in for a long night.Įlder Ellsworth emerged from the restroom several minutes later, alive and unwell, and collapsed onto his makeshift bed. I found a mop and bucket of soapy water in the custodial closet down the hall and set them by his stall, then headed back to our room. I got the hint that I needed to get lost so he could die alone. I climbed down from the top bunk, made my way to the bathroom and called out a tentative, “How you doing?” Under the stall door I could see his feet curling and twitching in what looked like agonizing pain. Late one night, I woke up to three realizations: The hall light was shining directly on my face (annoying) Elder Ellsworth was not in the room (against the rules) and something awful was happening in the bathroom. Our breakthrough was the worst (and loudest) case of food poisoning I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing. I resented him for how little we had in common, and he resented me, rightly, for resenting him. I rigidly followed every rule he struggled to remember what the rules were. I was loud, emotive and social he was quiet, reserved and home schooled. Usually the more experienced missionary is the senior companion and the other is the junior, but your first companion, the one you meet on Day 1 at the Missionary Training Center, the school where you learn your language, is just as new and afraid as you are.Įlder Ellsworth and I spent every minute of every day and night within obligatory arms’ reach of each other for the first 10 weeks of our missions while we slowly learned Italian and quickly learned to hate each other. Mormon missionaries are assigned to companions they have to stay with all day, every day. First I needed to figure out what was bothering him. But I had never seen him so down he looked call-a-hotline sad, broken. My plan was to tell him that I was gay, because I thought he would want to know and because I needed him to know. We got a table for two in the student center food court. It would have been easier to just call each other “Elder,” but I was now Ellis and he was Justin. We hugged, stuttering over the first names we hadn’t been allowed to use and laughing at having to “introduce” ourselves after knowing each other for two years. We had just finished two years of missionary service in northern Italy for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints - the Mormons - and were about to start our first semester at Brigham Young University. It was weird to see him not wearing his white shirt, tie and black name tag, but it was just as weird for me not to be wearing mine. Except for the pain in his eyes, he looked good: tan and wiry with wild blue eyes and an all-in smile.