The Missionary with Pink Socks Bennett |1

The Missionary with Pink Socks

By Carson W.B.

Carson W. Bennett
801-864-1742
carsonwbennett@gmail.com
Creative Non-fiction, 2790 words

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Ready son? I asked. My missionary companion nodded, put his scriptures in his
backpack, and unlocked the door as I bent down to keep the landlords three-legged white poodle
from niggling into our fourplex. While on my knees I saw the flash of hot pink in-between his
black suit slacks and his black shoes. Even after my half-hearted threats to burn them my son
stubbornly wore his pink socks. He wasnt my son in the strict blood-of-my-blood sense, but he
was the verdinho, a greeny, I was to train for the next three months. Normally we were not out of
the house this early but it was Preparation Dayessentially our one day off during the week, and
I was preparing for my death.
Maybe it was my pending departure from Brazil or the smell of cheese, sausage, and
oregano seeping from the pizza place in front of our fourplex that lead my son and I to think
rather than talk. Silently we walked past the various bus stops and the Brazilian crowds waiting
in line to board and start their Monday morning. Perhaps we didnt talk because we both knew
the schedule that we planned out the night before:
10:00

Leave Apt; allow for a 45 min walk to the catholic university PUC.

11-12

Internet, email family; dont get trunky.

12:00-12:30

Design and print off contact cards for members and investigators.

12:30-13:00

Lunch (a sacred meal for Brazilians): rice &beans, and soccer highlights.

13:30

Grocery shopping at Carrefour/print off photos.

14:00

Use spare time to find souvenirs at a Gacho store/ Walk across town.

15:00

Visit/ say goodbye to Irma Natalia. If not homevisit Joel

16:00

Visit/ say goodbye to Irmo Maur. If not homevisit Cassiano.

17:00

Pick up my repaired shoes from Irma Rosngela Suffert.

18:00

Drop off things at the apt.

19:00

Family home evening with ward friends and investigators.

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21:30-22:00

Casa/plan for tomorrow.

22:30

Sleep.

As we walked into the catholic university I saw the usual 20-year-old students that
reminded me of my freshman year: smiling brightly with books in hand, but here almost all of
the students were dressed in white. The identical white shirts, pants, and shoes made them look
like a flock of swans or repentant souls ready to be baptized. I learned they studied at the
Catholic medical school students there even though a primal part of me wanted think they were
pre-packaged converts ready to be baptized in the canal across the street. I smiled to myself but
quickly hopped off my imaginary soap-box when I saw the medical students whispering and
pointing as my sons ankles: Olha . . . Rosa. Look . . . pink! they giggled, I looked at my
companion but he hadnt noticed their laughs so we ducked into the library to use the free
computers.
11:15. We were already behind schedule.
When I opened my inbox I scanned the subject from my mother, and sister:
Homecoming plans, Congrats, and my step-fathers Weekly Missive. My moms email
reminded me not to forget printing off photos for my mission album. Already planned for I
thought to myself, and then read about the other last-minute shopping for Brazilian cowboy hats,
boots, knives, and flags and all that other souvenir swag I was to bring home. It was an ordeal I
had been avoiding because it felt like buying my own coffinthe idea that I would never return.
In the reply, I forwarded my flight itinerary home and wanted to squeeze all my anxiety,
anticipation and perspiration into that last email; but there simply wasnt enough time. A
heartfelt, See you soon was all I could say at the end. I looked over at my son but his hands
were in his pockets and he was slouching in his chair.

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Any new emails this week?

No, he said. Same as usual
I guess your mom hasnt found a Lanhouse nearby yet.
There is one just on the corner, he said dejectedly, swaying back and forth in his chair.
Maybe she is working then . . . Right after I said it I realized what I said. The
missionary looked me right in the eye. He was both disappointed and doubtful. His mother
worked the streets of Fortaleza as a prostitute, a past that he was hoping to forget and I regretted
having brought it up at all. I had long learned there was more to this skinny missionary than just
rosy socks.

P-days were busier than normal days, but this being my penultimate p-day made it even
more hectic. I felt like I was planning my own funeral. Sending out contact cards with my
address back in the states, squeezing in final goodbyes began to outweigh my zeal to find new
families for the missionary with pink socks to teach with his new companion. My stomach
grumbled, Lunchtime. I looked at my watch 13:00. Printing those contact cards took longer
than I thought. We found a standard all-you-can-eat buffet for eight R$ (about four US dollars)
strategically picked because it was on our way to print the last of the pictures at Carrefour. I
loaded up my plate with black beans, steaming rice, beef and onions, and a tomato salad.
Hurry up we need to get moving. I told the Missionary with pink socks, but he just
poked his rice with his spoon with a frown. Arent you hungry?
Next time I use the internet you wont be here . . . Ill be with some stranger.

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I could feel the disappointment and fear in between his sighs. Oh dont be so grim
buddy, I said to lighten the mood. But it didnt work; the missionary with pink socks just
scrunched his mouth to one side and put his fork down.

At Carrefour I pulled up the photos of the missionary with pink socks first daythe day
he was born in Porto Alegre. I scanned though the smiles and suits and even if I hadnt known
these men for two years I think I still could have picked out the old missionaries from the
verdinhos (the manila colored white shirts and the mid-neck tan lines were dead give-aways).
Look, I pointed at the kiosk, you look so different.
The missionary with pink socks smiled. In the three months that I
had known him, he had transformed from a skinny, bashful, 18-year old
boy with bushy curly black hair sporting purple braces into a slightly less
skinny, brave, clean cut missionary showing off his pearly whites. I would
be lying if I said I wasnt proud of him. From the beginning I was
determined to mold him after my own image, and leave my missionary posterity in the south of
Brazil. He made such remarkable progress from the first study session we had together:
Alright, do you have any questions to start out with? I asked, closing up my scriptures
and placing pamphlets into my bag.
Yeah I do, said the missionary with pink socks.

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Go on I said expecting him to ask something about transfers, the lunch schedule with
the local members of the congregation, how to approach someone on the street etc., but he
completely took me off guard.
Who is this President Monson that I hear so much about?
I stopped and with a smile on my face I asked, Are you serious?
What? Do you mean he is not important then?
He was serious.
No, no, he is very important I said. Pres. Thomas S. Monson . . . hes the was he just
trying to pull my leg? Well he is president of the church
I was trying to gauge his reaction, but nothing. You know, I continued, the living
prophet on the earth today.
The missionary with pink socks raised his eyebrows a little and nodded, Oh.

The rest of that morning began filling my mind along with other memories as I scrolled
over the 200 photos to printmemories of reminding him to brush his teeth, reminders to go to
bed on time, and teaching this eighteen-year old boy how to shave for the first time. Coaching
him how to eat was a battle since he was a vegetarian in the meat capitol of South America and
once I even carried his sleep-limp body from his desk, where he had fallen asleep planning for
tomorrow, and tucked him into bed after taking off his shoes. I began to smile and glanced down
at my watch.

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14:35
Droga! I growled to myself. My dilly dallying had cost us another half an hour that we
were going to half to make up somehow. The missionary with pink socks was rounding the
corner to enter the supermarket, but I tapped him on the shoulder and said, Ok friend we dont
know if you will stay here or be transferred so lets skip buying the flour until next week when
we know for sure.

It was a sunny day. The only thing that contrasted the partly cloudy sky and autumn
weather was my scowl. The crunched eyebrows and leaning my whole body forward into a quick
pace spoke what was one my mind. The missionary with pink socks, however, took his time
picking at a few rocks on the ground. Why couldnt he keep up? I thought. Come on We were
already losing time so I decided to cut through the apartment block and across one of the dozen,
deserted, run down parks in our part of the city. The soccer field had more dirt than grass. The
white paint chipped off the monkey bars, and tall grass seemed to fence off the swing set and
seesaw tucked away in the corner.
I didnt feel a hand on my shoulder like usual. In the past I had become the missionary
with pink socks human husky: I would pull him like a sledge dog up the hill of Cfer, when his
frail body wanted to wait in the shade. I turned around. He wasnt there. It took me a frantic five
seconds to spot his white shirt and pink socks on the other end of the pracinha. There he was so
complacent on the park bench with his hands in his pockets gazing at the clouds slowly roll by.
We cant stop and take a break now, I thought, but shouted instead, We had an appointment,
while continuing to justify my urgent attitude, Would Jesus be late? There I was fretting around

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and all he wants to do is stop to stare at the clouds. I was already rubbing my face again before I
could stop myself . . . if I was a poker player the pros would catch this as my tell; maybe it had
something to do with my mechanism to erase those early crows feet I could already feel setting
in. We had made a promise to Irm Natalina and Mauri, and Catia, and Jos . . . these people
were expecting us.
Our problem was that we had no more credit on our cell phone so we couldnt call and
we were still 40 min away. The campus, my photos, and lunch had already delayed us enough
that it was past time for our appointmentMauris family would be expecting us and we still
had to find a time to see Irm Natalina (who must be waiting for us by now too). All these falling
promises were tugging at my ear. Here at the end of it all this is how I would be remembered?
Being a flake? Does he even realize what his laziness is costing us and those people? My son
never looked at me until I walked over. The mounting pressure of our P-day schedule was
boiling me inside, How could he be so disobedient? Youre weighing me down. I walked over to
the yellow bench, not sure what I would do next. That rage that was tensing my shoulders and
clenching my fists quickly dissipated when he looked up at me with a face so calm, serene
even wisea face and expression so contrary to every emotion I was feeling in that moment. My
shoulders slumped. Why even try? My exhausted frame collapsed beside the missionary with
pink socks and both of us watched the empty park.
Pai, tu ests morrendo, he said looking at me with that same calm and concerned look.
Im not dead yet son, I replied. I still have a few more days . . .
You are dying of stress.

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I sighed and nodded slightly. The whole idea of leaving you and the people here is
killing me inside, I confessed.
You are leaving me pai, he said, and who will be my next companion?
I dont know. I said. The missionary with pink socks exhaled deep and crossed his
arms disappointedly. Ill still write you, I promised.
Every week? he asked raising his eyebrows.
Yes, I nodded. Every week.
The missionary with pink socks nodded, satisfied, and then returned his gaze
heavenward, Where will we be in three months from now? or a year? he asked me.
I dont know, I said following his gaze and watching the enormous clouds float by
without a sound.
Neither do I.
What about . . . us? he asked. He was referring to a ranch that we had always joked
around owning one day. It came from an experience on his grandfathers ranch before he died
and it was the only place he had ever known true peace and security in his young life. Far away
from the slums, favelas, of Fortaleza where he grew up. Far away from the gang violence that
left copses on his doorstep, starvation that forced his toddler brother to eat the dirt floor, and
walking the streets in the middle of the night to find his mother drunk and passed out in the redlight district yet again. For one summer he was alone with his grandfather, alone with nature, and
alone with God. I could tell he loved that summer from the moment he first mentioned the ranch
and the most striking feature which was a bright pink front door.

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We will have a fazendaa ranch one day . . . you and me. I told him. Out of the city:
away from bullys, prostitutes, smog, people who whip carriage horses. You can be in charge of
the animals.
Really?
Yes. With tears in my eyes, We can even paint the door pink if you really want to. Ill
be there with my wife and my little kids and youll be there with your wife and your little kids
running around, falling off things and screaming. We will be sitting on the open porch like this
when we are old and ugly. All day we will see the sun and the sky with clouds like this.
I would love that he laughed. Out in America
Friend, wouldnt you miss your family, I asked. Your mother or father?
His next words came out so spontaneously and sincerely that they shook me out of my
cloud gazing trance. But you are my papai.
After joking around with that phrase, Pai, Father for those three months I realized that
for the missionary with the pink sock I had become the emotional and spiritual father he never
had. I looked at my shoes. Maybe hes right I thought, I already feel like I have adopted him.
Letting those emotions become words in my head hurt me as I realized that leaving here would
be more painful than I thought. I would be
leaving my son, I would be abandoning my
family.

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Son? I finally asked to break the silence.

Yes?
I forgot to buy something, I said.
A souvenir? he asked.
More like a memento. I said. Will you promise to send me it?
What is it?
A pair of pink socks, I smiled.
In those two years in southern Brazil I met many people who changed my life but none
made me invest as much energy, emotion, as the missionary with pink socks. I never smiled,
laughed or cried like I did on that yellow wooden bench in a deserted park. I never felt more
comfortable or at home than cloud gazing with my beloved son in whom I was well pleased, and
I have often wondered why. I believe what made our conversation on that park bench while
cloud gazing so captivating was because I was finally seeing with Gods eyes: I was seeing past
the outward appearance of the missionary with pink socks and finally seeing as a father sees
who looketh upon the heart of a son and smiles.