6. Beware of “righteous anger.”

I had no trouble being patient with Bolivian Indians who struggled to grasp the most elementary principles of the gospel. But I let a couple of my junior companions have it now and then. And each time I felt my outbursts were totally justified as righteous anger.

Heaven protect us from people who show righteous anger.

The term comes from what I call the “Power and Glory” side of religion. The militaristic hymns are on that side (“We Are All Enlisted,” “Onward Christian Soldiers”). It’s also the side where God is described as “omnipotent,” “omnipresent” and “omniscient.” I often wonder why serious dictionaries never include other “omni” words for God: “omni-patient,” for instance, “omni-understanding,” “omni-forgiving.”

Yes, Jesus did show anger. But Jesus could see the total picture. Mormon missionaries see through a glass darkly.

In my case, anger and impatience were usually a form of arrogance. When I got annoyed at others, I was really saying “Why can’t you be a better person, like me?” When I got angry at myself, I was saying “I think I’m a better person than I really am.”

I wish I’d shown more “righteous sadness” instead.

7. Don’t just figure things out, feel things out.

Missionaries, like most people, prefer black-and-white answers. And just as members of the Church debate which soft drinks to use, many elders and sisters spend hours trying to reason out proper behavior.

In Bolivia, we had a member named Brother Espinoza who spent his evenings at his brother’s bar drinking “chicha.” We debated what to do. Jesus wasn’t afraid to go after souls in unsavory environments, we said. On the other hand, we were counseled to “avoid the appearance of evil” and “stand in holy places.”

We debated the issue without reaching a conclusion.

And that was the problem. We were trying to “figure out” answers instead of “listening” for them.

Choices are seldom all black or all white. Most choices, like dalmation dogs and zebras, have both black and white about them. It’s up to each missionary to discover which is best. That doesn’t always mean looking for the “lesser evil” either. Sometimes it means choosing the greater of two goods.

God didn’t write down explicit instructions for every situation. He didn’t need to. He has a “ghost writer” working for Him—the Holy Ghost. The spirit will write answers in your heart. Study the scriptures, but let yourself be taught—like Jesus—by the spirit.

8. Never stop making lemonade.

Not long ago, a slogan was so prominent on T-shirts, postcards and posters it became hackneyed overnight: “When the world gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

It’s good advice. Here’s another way of putting it: Like Judo masters, missionaries should turn the force of an adversary’s blow to their own advantage.

I was never very good at it. Elder Jay Sitterud was.

Elder Sitterud and I were working a street corner in Oruro, Bolivia, one afternoon. We had our “biombo” out—a large wooden bulletin board that had gospel pictures tacked to it.

In the time it takes to say “buenas tardes,” a policeman came by and whisked Elder Sitterud off to jail.

It seems we were violating a public-meeting ordinance we knew nothing about.

Elder Sitterud spent the night in the drunk tank with some of the roughest characters in the city. He didn’t dare sleep, or even close his eyes because of the hard, angry stars. He had no idea when—or even if—he’d get out.

But the firry furnace can also be a refiner’s fire. And Elder Sitterud was an expert at making lemonade from lemons.

The next day, after offering several humiliating apologies, we were able to spring Elder Sitterud. He came out a mess. His clothes smelled like cheap liquor, his face was pale and spattered with soot and his hair was a fright wig.

But he seemed strong, even valiant. He had a quiet confidence about him—a spiritual fierceness that Daniel must have shown to keep the lions at bay.

Elder Sitterud had spent the night talking to several Bolivian criminals about Joseph Smith and Jesus.

And they had listened to him.

9. Don’t forget to write.

About those letters home. Do what your mother told you. Write often.

And give more than a general overview (“We teach a lot of poor people”). Write in specifics (“Let me tell you about my experiences with the James family, one of the many poor families we teach”). Such anecdotes will personalize your work for your parents and for you. Not just while you’re on your mission, but years later when you try to re-create it.

Write about people more than about places and duties. Quote people, include the stories they tell you, the way they tell them. Include the feelings they share.

As I go back through my missionary journal and the letters I sent my parents, I find myself thinking about things I left out more than the things I included. What I often neglected to mention were feelings. What I generally sent were pages of my daily itinerary.

(Note to Bolivian elders: If you decide to sample the llama or guinea pig meat, you don’t need to mention it in letters to your mothers.)

10. Never forget who you are (and who you’re not).

As you look back at these 10 “thou shalt nots,” you’ll see most of them are about humility. But then, I’ve noticed that 80 percent of what Jesus taught is about humility on one level or another.

Humility is the key to missionary work. It is the frequency where the spirit does its broadcasting.

In the LDS culture we call inspiration “the still, small voice.” And God made that voice “still” and “small” for a reason. Noise drowns it out. Not the noise of crowds and cars, but the noise of the ego; the noise of all those “self” words—self-importance, self-indulgence and self-aggrandizement.

When I felt proud and self-important on my mission, I couldn’t have heard the still, small voice in the Sahara Desert. The din of my ego was too loud. Yet, in the proper frame of mind—or frame of spirit—I could hear that voice above the clatter and clamor of train stations.

The things I’ve mentioned in this article—“nationalism” “personal ambition,” “impatience,” “feelings of superiority”—drown out the still, small voice.

And writing all this for Derek has been especially humbling for me.

I realize I’m just beginning to learn—at 41—things I wish I’d known as a 19-year-old elder.

The author is a columnist for the Deseret News.