Page 3 of His Elder

I glanced at Elder Price. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but his expression stayed neutral, pleasant. Obedient.

The meeting dragged on another twenty minutes—announcements about zone conference, reminders about weekly planning, a testimony from Elder somebody about how reading the Book of Mormon every day had helped him overcome homesickness. Finally, President Dalton dismissed us with a prayer, and we filed out into the bright Barcelona morning.

"So," I said as we walked toward the metro. "The Moreno family. What's the actual situation?"

Elder Price adjusted his shoulder bag. "I told you. Sister Moreno is progressing well, Sofia wants to be baptized—"

"And Brother Moreno isn't interested."

"He's attending church."

"Because his wife is making him." I dodged a woman with a stroller, kept pace with Elder Price's brisk walk. "And now Dalton wants you to push for a baptism date anyway."

"It's not pushing. It's inviting them to act in faith."

"It's pressuring a fourteen-year-old girl to join a church her father doesn't believe in."

Elder Price stopped walking. Right there on the sidewalk, people flowing around us, he stopped and turned to face me. His eyes were blue. Bright, clear blue, and utterly furious.

"Do you believe any of this?" he asked quietly. "At all?"

Dangerous question. Dangerous answer.

"I believe," I said carefully, "that people should make their own choices. Not be manipulated into them."

"Teaching isn't manipulation."

"Setting arbitrary deadlines is."

His hands curled into fists at his sides, uncurled. "You've been here one day.One day. And you think you understand how missionary work functions?"

"I've been out eight months. Different city, same program."

"Then you should understand that we're called to teachwith urgency. To help people recognize truth when they feel it, not let them drift in indecision until—"

"Until what? Until they stop feeling pressured and stop taking the discussions?"

A woman squeezed between us, muttering something in Catalan. Elder Price stepped back, his expression shuttering closed.

"We're going to be late for our finding time," he said.

"Right. Wouldn't want to be late."

We didn't speak on the metro. Didn't speak as we emerged near Sagrada Família, the cathedral's spires punching holes in the sky, tourists swarming the plaza with cameras and guidebooks. Elder Price led us to a quieter corner, away from the main crowds, and pulled out a stack ofpass-along cards—those little pamphlets with pictures of Jesus and the church's website.

"We'll work this section for an hour," he said, his voice back to that neutral, pleasant tone. "Then move toward Carrer de Mallorca. Try to engage people in their language first—Spanish or Catalan, whichever they respond to. If they seem interested, offer a card and ask if we can share a brief message about—"

"I know how to street contact, Elder Price."

"Of course." He handed me half the cards. "I just want to make sure we're unified in our approach."

Unified. Right.

I watched him approach the first person—a middle-aged man in a business suit, walking fast. Elder Price matched his pace, smiled, said something in rapid Spanish. The man waved him off without breaking stride. Elder Price didn't even flinch, just turned to find the next person.

Obedient. Persistent. Perfectly programmed.

I'd been like that once. In the MTC, in my firstarea in Madrid, I'd believed that if I just worked hard enough, followed the rules exactly, the Spirit would guide me to people who needed the gospel. That I'd feel... something. Some burning confirmation that I was doing the right thing.