Mission in Hell

Dear Diary,

I am beginning to suspect there may have been an administrative error.

I realize that sounds dramatic, and thirty-seven days ago I would have agreed. Thirty-seven days ago I was standing in a fluorescent hallway at the Missionary Training Center holding a packet that said HELL in large red letters, and I assumed this was either an unfortunate abbreviation or one of those modern church initiatives where someone in Salt Lake decides the youth will respond better if the program has an edgy name. I did ask Elder Jensen about it. He looked at the packet, looked at me, and said, “Wow.” This was not reassuring, but he then added, “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” which is an extremely versatile sentence because it can mean anything from “Have faith” to “I have absolutely no idea what is happening and would like to leave now.”

So I came willingly. I would like that entered into the record.

The first clue that something was wrong was the airport, by which I mean there was no airport. There was a long tunnel, a sulfur smell and a man with horns holding a clipboard who asked whether I was “missionary, condemned, contractor or entertainment.” I said missionary. He checked missionary. Apparently this happens often enough to have a box.

I have now been assigned to Sector 8, which is less fiery than people generally imagine. The flames are mostly decorative. The real problem is the humidity. Nobody tells you about the humidity. Hell is extremely humid, which has made missionary attire challenging. I have two white shirts left that still qualify as white, and one of those has developed a grayish cast around the collar that Sister Petersen would describe as “a testimony issue.” My tie has absorbed so much atmospheric moisture that it has become structurally independent. Yesterday it stood up by itself. The demons find this hilarious.

I am also having difficulty with proselytizing. My usual opening has not tested well. “Hello! We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and we’d love to share a message with you about Heavenly Father’s plan” worked very effectively in Provo because people either invited us in or pretended not to be home. Here, they know exactly where Heavenly Father is. One demon named Steve listened politely for almost ten minutes before saying, “Buddy, I think the organizational chart may already be settled.” I told him salvation is available to everyone. He said, “Not according to Intake.”

I have been trying not to let this discourage me. The missionary handbook says persistence is important. The missionary handbook does not contain a section called WHAT TO DO IF THE PERSON YOU ARE TEACHING HAS PERSONALLY MET LUCIFER. This seems like an oversight.

I wrote home about it, but I am not sure the letters are getting through. The outgoing mail slot says EARTHLY CORRESPONDENCE, but underneath, in smaller print, it says DELIVERY TIMES MAY VARY ACCORDING TO SIN LOAD, REGIONAL DAMNATION INDEX AND HOLIDAY VOLUME. I have no idea what the holiday volume is in Hell, although I assume tax season is difficult.

The food continues to be a challenge. Breakfast today was oatmeal, which sounds normal until I explain that the oatmeal was hot enough to remove varnish from furniture while the bowl was somehow colder than the room. When I asked how this was possible, the cafeteria worker said, “Thermodynamics is more of a guideline down here.” I did not finish breakfast. Lunch was something called Eternal Sloppy Joe. I asked what was in it, and the cafeteria worker stared at me for several seconds before saying, “Regret.” I had an apple. I have become very attached to apples.

My companion situation has also deteriorated. Technically, I do not have a companion. I have repeatedly explained that missionaries are supposed to travel in pairs, but the assignment office keeps sending me the same form, which says COMPANION REQUEST DENIED: LOCAL STAFFING SHORTAGE. Yesterday I finally asked what happened to the other missionaries. The clerk said, “Most of them get rerouted.” I asked where they got rerouted to, and he said, “Not here,” then stamped something. This did not improve my mood.

For now I have been assigned a demon named Gary as a “temporary field liaison.” Gary is not interested in the gospel. Gary is interested in Costco. He learned about Costco from someone who died in 2018 and has spent the last four days asking me increasingly specific questions about rotisserie chickens. He wants to know whether they are still $4.99, whether that price survived inflation, whether membership increases affected the chicken, and whether you are allowed to buy two. Every time I tell him I believe the answer is yes, he becomes very quiet and says, “Incredible.” I am beginning to think I have accidentally converted him to wholesale retail, which would still make him my most successful contact.

The door-knocking situation is also not ideal because many residents do not have doors. Some have gates. Some have caves. One gentleman appears to live inside a screaming pillar. I did not knock. At some point missionary work has to respect architecture.

The strangest part is how normal things are becoming. On Day 1, I was horrified by the lava. By Day 12, I was walking around it. By Day 24, I had opinions about which lava routes were faster. This morning I actually caught myself saying, “We should take Brimstone Avenue because Infernal Parkway gets backed up after seven.” That frightened me more than the lava ever did. I am adapting, and I do not want to adapt to Hell.

There are also domestic problems nobody prepares you for. Everything smells faintly of smoke, so you can never tell whether your laundry is clean. The apartment has a thermostat, but it only goes from HOT to PERSONAL GROWTH. I turned it toward PERSONAL GROWTH once and immediately regretted several things I did in eighth grade, so I put it back. The shower has three settings: boiling, accusatory and off. I use off more than I would like to admit. There are also ants, which seems unnecessary. Of all the punishments available to Hell, ants feels lazy.

Yesterday I finally worked up the courage to visit the administrative office and ask whether my assignment could be reviewed. The woman at the desk was very kind, which was almost worse. She wore reading glasses and had a little ceramic mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DAMNATION COORDINATOR, and she listened to the entire story while nodding sympathetically. I showed her my call letter, and she looked at it, then at me, then turned it sideways and called someone named Kevin.

Kevin came over, and the two of them whispered for a while. I heard the words “routing error.” I also heard “Mormon.” Then Kevin asked, “How long has he been here?” and the woman said, “Thirty-seven days.” Kevin responded with a word I have not heard at church.

They took my paperwork into the back, and I sat there for forty-five minutes next to a man who had apparently invented reply-all. Eventually the woman returned and told me that there had, in fact, been an error. My actual assignment was Hull, England.

Hull.

England.

Not Hell.

This is the most bureaucratically devastating vowel in the history of the restored gospel.

I asked when I could leave, and she explained that they would need authorization from Upper Processing. I asked how long that usually takes. She made the face people make when they are about to tell you a contractor cannot come until Tuesday and said, “Usually six to eight weeks.”

So I am still here.

Gary was thrilled because this gives us more time to discuss Costco.

I have decided to remain positive. There are worse things than being accidentally assigned to Hell. I cannot presently think of any, but I assume the Lord expects me to maintain perspective. Tomorrow I am teaching Steve the second discussion. He says he will attend if I stop calling it a discussion. I said I could work with that.

For now I am going to bed. The screaming pillar has finally quieted down, the ants appear to have formed a union, and someone downstairs is playing “Come, Come, Ye Saints” on what I sincerely hope is an accordion.

I miss Utah.

I cannot believe I wrote that.