He thought I didn't understand the price, but I insisted, "You've worked hard today—keep the change and buy yourself a fruitcake. They bake good ones down on the corner."

When he finally understood, the most innocent, genuine smile I've ever seen broke out on his face, and tears came to his eyes. Calling us angels, he kissed our cheeks before we slipped away.

"Did you see his face?" I whispered several minutes later. "Did you see that look in his eyes? It was so..." I struggled for an adjective. Warm, beautiful genuine—all ran through my mind, but they didn't fit. "It was so...," and then the word came. It was perfect. It was so Italian.

Elder Lewis and I began to find deepening satisfaction in working with Italians, and we became near "workaholics" as a result. Our desire to be with the people became almost overwhelming. I would see an old man, probably a shoemaker, walking home with a big loaf of fresh Italian bread, and I couldn't hold myself from running up to him and talking. The smell of fish in the open market, once repulsive to me, began to stir my sentiments. I was slowly falling in love with the people, the country, and the Italian way of life.

Instead of returning to our apartment for lunch, we'd duck into an alimentari and buy a hunk of cheese, a loaf of hard, chewy bread, and a clump of grapes, and sit in Piazza della Signoria or on the banks of the Arno or on Ponte Vecchio or just on some "Italian-looking street," and talk with Italians as we consumed our "gourmet" lunch. In testimony meeting one Sunday, I found myself saying to the branch of Italian Saints, "Something is happening to me, and... well... I'm not quite sure what it is. I'm starting to feel like I belong here; like my name should be Eduardo instead of Edwards. I guess... well... I love you all."

I began to notice that Italians did things differently than we Americans do them, and it fascinated me. Italians buy bread and vegetables daily, and always in the morning. It used to anger me that no one would ever be home in the mornings. But understanding them, we'd go to the bakeries and the open-air fruit markets and plunge right in to talk with the people as they did their shopping. They'd listen to us, and they'd invite us into their homes. We began to teach more. Our greatest joy was going to the markets and the docks, presenting our message to the Italians in their language, "on their turf."

We were welcomed into more homes, talked with more people, taught more lessons, and were happier than ever. It was a miracle, and the counsel of my loved ones at home became my creed: love the country, love the people. Only then will miracles happen.

Like the miracle that happened with one of our investigators, Pasquale. Pasquale wept as we spoke of the reunion with our loved ones after this life. God speaking through prophets again to man seemed perfectly logical to him. He even bought two large pots and planted tomatoes on his apartment balcony after reading a speech by President Kimball in a conference report. We prayed with him, fasted with him, laughed with him, shed tears with him. We studied with him, testified to him, thought about him. We loved him.

Halfway through a lesson on temples and temple marriage, he stopped us and asked us to be quiet a moment. He wanted to think. I thought how Italian that was, to ask for a minute to think, and I smiled. He took a deep breath and finally said, "Elders, I want to be baptized Sunday."

It was a beautiful ceremony—the music by the sisters was perfect, and the testimonies borne were touching. Pasquale came up out of the water and smiled a warm, innocent smile. I thought of our old fruit vendor. Perhaps someday I'd learn to smile as they did. Elder Lewis, Pasquale, and I embraced each other. His life had changed. And so had ours.

When I was transferred a week later, I was sad yet elated. I had been with Elder Lewis only a month, and it had passed all too quickly; we would have liked to work together five. Our initial conflict had been painful, yet it was the catalyst that had changed our missions. I had learned to love a country and a people; he had learned to be more effective in sharing his love. Together, we had found a great joy in sharing what we loved so much—the gospel—with a people that we loved with all our hearts.

As we ambled through the foggy cobblestone streets of Florence that night on the way home from Pasquale's apartment, I felt a lump in my throat. "Can you believe the progress Pasquale's made? He'll be a bishop some day," I said.

"Stake president," Elder Lewis replied matter-of-factly.

"First we have to baptize a stake, though."

We spontaneously quickened our pace, and finally broke into a jog as we made our way home through the fog-filled streets to Via Boito.

Mitchell Lee Edwards, an English major at Brigham Young University, is elders quorum instructor in his BYU ward.

(Ensign, March 1981, 39) © 2004 by Intellectual Reserve, Inc. All rights reserved.