"Udine" by Loren Higbee

The night that Margaret got sick, we made
the hasty decision to go and help (she was
afraid of hospitals and wouldn't call
an ambulance). The buses had long since

stopped running, so we put on jeans and t-shirts
and ran ourselves, even though their apartment
was on the other side of town. We reached
Piazza Primo Maggio near midnight

and in the park-like square I jogged right by
a hooker underneath a street-light. Dressed
in purple-mini-skirt, blouse, and stockings - he
towered over me, at least 6'5" in his

five-inch heels. In that brief moment, I
heard him cough brokenly and sigh and shift
his weight from foot to foot. My feeling of
terror and revulsion passed. My eyes

met his. We shared a passing glance, and I
felt a sudden flare of empathy
for my transvestite prostitute -- both whores
and missionaries learn early on to keep

a clinical distance, not to be discouraged
by scorn, and above all not to take
rejection personally. We both nodded
as I ran past -- professional courtesy.

--Loren Higbee


One more for today. I do love the back of my planner. This one was from an aquaintance I knew a long time ago. He served a mission in Rome, Italy, and this was some of his beautiful, beautiful poetry. I don't know if he's written or published more. If so, I wish I could find it.

I absolutely loved being a missionary. I loved the schedule, I loved the constant prayer and scripture study, and I love the personal interactions. There's no doubt in me but that if there were such things as Latter-day Saint nuns, I would have become one just to try and keep the feeling of being a missionary. It was a weight and a privilege, and yet there was utter freedom, because I had only one job to do, and that job mattered, and if I gave it my best, then that was sufficient. How freeing! If I failed as a missionary, it would be because of my own disobedience, not because I wasn't pretty enough, or too loud, or too smart, or not talented enough. It was the Lord's work. I miss that.