In mid-June of 1990, I stepped onto sacred ground for the first time as a full-time missionary. The Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah, was to be my home for the next two months. There I was drilled in the language, the scriptures, and the rhythm of missionary life. When our group finally boarded a plane for Ecuador, I felt both the weight of responsibility and the lightness of youthful faith.
We landed in Guayaquil and met our mission president, Walter F. González, who carried a quiet but firm authority. Not long after, I was assigned to my first area — Machala, a coastal city where cane shacks leaned against one another, barely standing. The poverty was raw and unavoidable. My trainer, Elder Crane, led the way with confidence, and within my first month I was humbled to the core. I had once complained about my house, my clothes, or the small things I lacked. But here, where families smiled inside homes made of cane and tin, I felt ashamed of my ingratitude.
It was also in Machala that my Spanish journey took off. I discovered the technique of parallel reading between English and Spanish scriptures, and it unlocked the language in a way I hadn’t imagined. Yet I also learned humility through mistakes. One afternoon, when asked about my astrological sign, I determined to answer without help. “Soy Virgo,” I meant to say. Instead, I blurted, “Soy verga.” The room erupted in laughter. Elder Crane leaned over and whispered what I had just said, and I laughed with them, burning the lesson into memory: every phoneme counts.
I also began to understand the subtleties of Ecuadorian culture. One evening, we went to a higher-end restaurant that specialized in grilled meats. When my order arrived, it was completely wrong. I politely told the waiter, expecting a correction, but he simply gestured with his head and said, in effect, “Well, it’s here, so just eat it.” I was taken aback. Elder Crane quietly advised me to just eat it — explaining that if the mistake were returned, the restaurant might deduct the cost from the waiter’s pay, and sometimes a replacement could come with retaliation, like spit in the food. I laughed nervously and swallowed my pride — and the plate — realizing that understanding culture wasn’t just about language, but about navigating unspoken rules and respecting local practices. That moment, small as it seemed, taught me humility, patience, and the importance of seeing life from another perspective — lessons I would carry throughout my mission.
After my first month, Elder Crane was transferred, and I received a new companion: Elder Acabá from Puerto Rico. With him, my Spanish blossomed further. Though my conversations were still simple, I could finally speak without constantly translating in my head.
From there, I was transferred to Cuenca, a cooler, cleaner city nestled in the Andes. The people spoke more slowly, which helped me improve quickly. I served first with Elder Brown and then with Elder Talmage, each companionship sharpening my skills and stretching my patience. Cuenca gave me confidence; it was the place where the language shifted from strange to familiar.
One afternoon, while Elder Brown and I were sharing our beliefs with a family, a young child suddenly opened the front door — and let a herd of sheep wander right through the living room. The animals calmly made their way to the back door and out to the pasture, grazing as they went, so close that we could have reached out and petted them. Elder Brown and I looked at each other in disbelief and laughter, agreeing that this would be a story to tell one day — a reminder that sometimes, life and faith lessons arrive with humor and unpredictability.
Next came Mapasingue, in the bustling sprawl of Guayaquil. For five months I worked first with Elder Mathews — our lunch breaks often turning into spirited chess matches, evenly matched — and then Elder Boyack, who corrected countless little errors in my Spanish and spent three months as my companion. He also shared a few simple recipes that were surprisingly good, teaching me that cooking could be both practical and comforting in the midst of missionary life.
During that time, I made a few friends in the area, including Angel, with whom I still keep in touch. We often spent time at his house, especially when he had friends over who were curious to hear what we had to share. These moments of friendship and fellowship reminded me that even in a demanding environment, connections with people could bring joy and energy to the work.
I also hit my own little milestone — the “hump day” of my mission, my one-year mark, while serving with Elder Slade. To celebrate, a few of us took a hump day trip to Cuenca, revisiting the city where I had grown so much in language and confidence. It was a small but meaningful way to acknowledge the journey, the progress, and the friendships formed along the way.
Briefly I served with Elder Slade before my transfer to Ventanas, paired with Elder Gomez.
While I was still serving in Guayaquil, the mission itself split. Around June or July of 1991, the original Guayaquil Mission was divided into Guayaquil North and Guayaquil South. I became part of the new Guayaquil North Mission under President Daniel L. Johnson. He and his wife did their best to step into the role of father and mother for all of us missionaries. Their care and encouragement helped steady us during the transition, reminding us that even far from home, we still had a family watching over us.
My time in Ventanas was short-lived, and soon I found myself in Manta, serving alongside Elder Erickson, one of my original MTC companions. That too was brief, and then came Salinas — the very place I would one day call home after my mission. At the time it was only a district with two branches. I opened a new area there with Elder Albaugh, fresh from the MTC, the two of us learning together how to build something from nothing.
My time in Salinas was lively and full of camaraderie. The zone leader, Elder Laurie, had acquired a pet monkey, whom we affectionately called Edge. For some reason, Edge didn’t have great balance and would often teeter perilously off the edge of Elder Laurie’s desk, providing endless entertainment for the zone. Our zone often met in Elder Laurie’s apartment during the week, and we spent time together on the malecón in La Libertad, attending cultural events, sharing meals, and enjoying the small joys of life amidst our mission responsibilities. One of our favorite spots was a grilled meat restaurant that also served artisan pizza — a little culinary adventure that brought laughter and fellowship. Even now, living an hour north of La Libertad, I often go there for supplies and am struck by how much the area has grown and changed. These experiences, small and lighthearted as they seem, connected me deeply to the people and the land, and reminded me that joy and community are as vital as service and faith.
My time in Daule, where I now have family, is especially meaningful because I still maintain friendships and connections there. This is also where I met Ana, who a couple years later I would marry and become a member of her family. Serving with Elder Brewer, I learned not only about teaching but also about Ecuadorian hospitality, humor, and generosity.
One afternoon, we stopped at a small local restaurant to get a typical plate: arroz con menestra con carne asada. Not more than thirty minutes later, we had an appointment with a family we were teaching — and when we arrived, they offered us the same dish we had just purchased. We gladly accepted the food, ate together, shared the discussion, and went home afterward, completely stuffed and laughing at the coincidence.
Another memorable moment came when a different family offered us a homemade soup. Elder Brewer, having grown up on a ranch, recognized one of the ingredients: cow nose in the broth. We accepted and ate slowly, mostly enjoying the potatoes, carrots, and broth. Suddenly, a neighbor walked in and loudly informed the family that they couldn’t feed us that — it could kill us! Obviously an exaggeration, but the plates were quickly removed, and apologies were offered. Once we walked far enough away, Elder Brewer and I wiped our brows in relief, laughing quietly at the intensity of the situation.
My final assignment was to Paján, a small town where I served with Elder Haws. We had known each other before, back in Guayaquil. Some missionaries avoided him because he was strict about following every rule, but I admired his consistency. We had been friends even then, and when I arrived in Paján, he was glad to see I would be his companion. Together, we worked in that little town with determination and joy.:
In Paján, I served with Elder Haws, a companion who was impossible to miss—he stood 6’8” and weighed around 230 pounds. Despite his size, he carried himself with a gentle, friendly nature that made him popular everywhere we went. That year happened to be an election year, and the people of Paján liked him so much that some of them even wrote his name onto the ballot for mayor. Of course, he couldn’t accept such an “honor,” but it was a lighthearted reminder of the bonds we’d formed with the people we served.
Elder Haws also had a gift for connecting with others through play. He loved joining in indoor soccer—known locally as “indoor”—a fast-paced game played on a small court with a heavy leather ball. The town came alive with these matches, and he was right there in the middle of it, laughing, competing, and building friendships.
Paján became a meaningful place for me, not just because it was where I finished out my mission, but also because it was where I made a lasting friendship that, though I didn’t realize it at the time, would circle back into my life years later.
By the end of my mission, I had witnessed 83 baptisms across Ecuador. Numbers never told the full story, though. The real mission was in the service projects — cleaning up neighborhoods, helping members with whatever small needs arose, being present in their joys and sorrows. It was in the laughter after my Spanish blunder, the quiet prayers in cane shacks, the chess games at midday, the lessons learned in a restaurant, the sheep wandering through a living room, the friendships and small celebrations along the way, the little monkey named Edge, and the humor and hospitality in Daule — all of it teaching me that faith, humility, and joy often appear in unexpected ways.
Those two years changed me forever. I had entered as a boy carrying pride and impatience; I left with a deeper sense of humility, a sharper grasp of language, and an unshakable conviction that every soul mattered.
