The Apocalypse That Wasn’t

First of all, the title I have given this could have a number of meanings in the context of a blog about life as a missionary. I don’t have any statistics about this, but I’m confident the most common connotation of the word “apocalypse” in today’s world has to do with the cataclysmic end of the world. That is the meaning the word has taken, but the origin of the word, in particular having to do with this specific definition, comes from the title of a book in the New Testament. That book? Revelation, the book that is commonly referred to when discussing prophecies of the cataclysmic end of the world (most often erroneously referred to, by the way). Where did the book of Revelation get its name? It is the English translation of the Greek title, loosely transliterated as Apocalypse. So, yeah, an apocalypse is a revelation, and in a story about missionary work, the concept of revelation might just play a crucial role.

But not necessarily in this story. No, this time the word does indeed refer to that most common usage in our contemporary world. For this is the story of the last day of the last millennium: December 31st, 1999, a day many thought might be an apocalyptic day.

But it wasn’t. Not that I was aware of, anyway. Nothing cataclysmic happened, but I do have one very vivid memory of the day.

Perhaps not surprisingly, this vivid memory of which I write has to do with lunch. Elder Staker and I traded off with our zone leader, Elder Adcox, and his companion, Elder Hartung. I was working with Elder Hartung during lunchtime, and we decided to go eat at a little diner down the street from Elder Staker’s and my apartment. The place was called The Great Lakes Diner, and it was a 50’s style place with a juke box that played a collection of oldies (but not all from the 50’s, as we shall see).

I don’t remember what I ate, what Elder Hartung and I talked about, or really anything other than one brief period of about two and a half minutes. As we sat and talked, suddenly a familiar sound entered my ears. At first I couldn’t believe it, but I focused on the sound and sure enough, it was the unmistakable rhythms, melodies, and voice of the one and only Desmond Dekker singing his song from 1968 about being a poor Israelite.

This was significant to me for a number of reasons. First of all, I had never heard Desmond Dekker’s music from any source other than my own CD player. I’d never heard any of his songs on the radio (in spite of what Rancid sings in “Roots Radicals,” though, the radio stations I grew up listening to in Utah were likely not as cool as those that Tim Armstrong grew up listening to in East Bay). I’d never heard his music on television or in a restaurant or in any other setting. For that matter, I still have not heard Desmond Dekker from any other source beside my own choosing. So this experience of hearing Israelite at The Great Lakes Diner in Lansing, Michigan stands apart in my life as being very unique.

Second, this experience was significant because I was able to hear the music of my former life while serving as a missionary. Missionaries typically have strict rules about what kinds of music are appropriate for their listening pleasure, and most of the music I favored was firmly on the list of UNAPPROVED. I had expected this, and so I did not struggle with the rule in the sense that I never sought to listen to anything other than what was allowed by the rules of the mission. However, if as a part of our daily activities, we happened to be in a place where music was playing, that was perfectly allowable. 99% of the time in situations like this I didn’t recognize the music being played, but every once in a while (in fact, so rarely I could probably count the number of times on one hand), I would hear “my” kind of music, and those were good times.

Finally, hearing this song on the last day of 1999 was, in a lot of ways, an ideal summation of the year. All of the experiences, all of the friendships, all of the music, all of the fun, all of it, was wrapped up in hearing this one song. One year earlier, when I contemplated the possibilities of what life would have in store for me that year, and wondered where I would be at the end of the year, I could not have anticipated everything that happened. At that moment, I had my answer. I knew where I was and what I was doing. I was in Lansing, Michigan, serving with the greatest training companion the world had ever known, learning new things every day, and, at that moment, listening to a song that captured EVERYTHING about that year of my life.

That night, when we went to bed, we didn’t know whether or not the world would change that night. Would the beginning of Y2K really cause major problems with everything? Would stuff explode? Would computers crash (not that we  would have known if they did)? Would extra terrestrials riding unicorns invade the earth? Would the kitchen faucet turn on and off inexplicably?

Nope. No apocalypse. Well, except for the one received while sitting in The Great Lakes Diner the day before.