A Transfer Story

It was two days before Christmas. Sister C and I had been rushing around Braga’s city center so she could get last-minute pictures of the festive Christmas lights, the hilly cobblestone streets, and the friends that had become dear to us. Braga was my first area; I had been there for three whirlwind months. We just knew that when the transfer call came later that night, she would be leaving the beautiful northern city. After all, she had been there the longest--it was time for her to move on and for me to prove that I knew my way around. I was nervous about her leaving but glad that I didn’t have to pack up all of my things. I wondered what I would do with my companion-free time the next day.

When the phone rang, she took a blanket and rushed to our study room on the other side of our apartment. I stayed in our warm bedroom (we had both space heaters plugged in), and continued to pluck my eyebrows. I could not hear what she was saying but I thought it was odd that she was laughing. I thought of all the Sister areas in our mission and wondered where she would be headed, and I was impressed at how many of her things she had already packed. I did hear her say “cool!” and thought “…maybe she’s staying!”

In her fuzzy slippers, Sister C shuffled back into our room. I looked up from the mirror I was holding and looked at her--my eyebrows raised in nervous curiosity. She paused, and with a smile she said “guess what, Sister? You’re going to Valadares!!” My eyebrows fell, I dropped the mirror and time stopped. Tears started to flow fast and warm down my shocked face and I felt physically sick. Valadares? Me? Transferred? (I had already heard terrible things about Valadares, it was Sister C’s very challenging first area) I’m sure I said something like “WHAT?” and “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” --it is a blur in my memory. I will never forget what I felt, though: fear. Complete and total unexpected I-am-not-prepared-for-this kind of fear.

After several minutes (an hour?) of crying and insisting that it must have been a mistake, I had to calm down enough to think clearly. I had neither organized nor packed ANYTHING in preparation for the transfer call. We were both so sure that she was the one to leave. In shock, I made my way back to the room where the big closet was with all of my things. I pulled out my big green suitcase and my even bigger blue suitcase. I packed and cried until early in the morning.

I did not know how I would survive this transfer. I kept hoping it was just a dream. I slept for about three hours and prayed that I would wake up to a new reality. Unfortunately, it was not a dream and I had to leave that morning. To get to Valadares from Braga, I would have to get a taxi, then a bus, then catch two trains, and finally another taxi to the apartment. The travel would take all day. I almost threw up three times while I was getting ready.

I was so new in the country, I didn’t speak Portuguese with any ease, and I definitely did not feel comfortable traveling alone--much less traveling alone with all of my luggage! Sister C helped me as much as she could, she even called the taxi for me. I appreciated her love, support, and guidance. I felt so much like a pitiful baby bird, prematurely pushed out of its comfortable nest.

She gave me a quick hug & I was gone. I watched as Rua Dom Pedro V faded behind me.
Riding in the banana-yellow taxi, I still couldn’t believe I was doing this. I told the driver I needed to go to the bus station. I prayed he would take me to the right one while his American pop radio station hummed in the background of my emotions. At the bus station, I had to figure out which bus was the one going to the train station. I have no idea how I did that. Once I put my things under the autocarro (bus) and found a seat, I relaxed a little bit. At least I knew I was on the right bus. I kept thinking about my luggage underneath the bus, hoping I didn’t forget anything or lose something during the journey.


The bus took me to the train station at Familicao. It did NOT take us all the way to the train stop, I had to walk there. So I had two bags on my shoulder and two huge suitcases rolling along the rocky cobblestone behind me. I kept hitting the back of my ankle but it did not even hurt--I was too tense to feel it. I was worried I would miss my train. When I got there I asked but didn’t really understand the answer. I prayed that I had not missed the train I needed to catch to Sao Bento station in Porto.

It was Christmas Eve, most people had already made it to their holiday destinations but there were a few traveling. I felt insecure standing at the station with all of my worldly possessions and an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I prayed for relief, for hope, and for strength. At that moment, I saw a familiar sight. I young man in a dark suit was getting of a train & walking with all of his luggage across the tracks toward me. I was so glad to see him! I didn’t really talk to him or even catch the name on his nametag but we did chat for a second & I verified with him that I was in the right place. It felt good to hear English and confirm that I wasn’t lost yet.


After that I decided to pretend to be happy and confident; perhaps if I acted like I knew what I was doing then I really would. Unfortunately it didn’t work. I was about two minutes away from missing the train that I needed to take. Thankfully some kind woman sent her teenage boy to help me with my two hugely awkward suitcases as I dragged them over the train tracks to the comboio (train). I thanked them and asked Heavenly Father to send extra blessings their way.
The train ride was long, which was nice. I was not relaxed but it was nice to sit down and not have to think about how to say anything in Portuguese for awhile.



I thought about Braga and lamented the things I didn’t get to do there. The city is known for it’s many cathedrals and I did not enter a single one. It is also known for a special religious place called Bom Jesus (“Good Jesus”) high atop the hill that overlooks the city. We had planned to visit there on our very next P-day. I was sad to leave the streets I was familiar with and even more disappointed that I had not taken more pictures!


After many stops, I arrived at the Sao Bento station. It was the largest train station I’d ever seen; there were many lines that came through it. I decided to forgo another train ride and just call a taxi to Valadares from Porto. It was easy to get a taxi, they were all lined up along the road right outside the station. I was relieved, and was willing to pay whatever they asked.


After some serious confusion, a postal worker (I know I prayed him to be there in that exact moment) finally explained to the taxi driver where Praceta Padre Manuel Azevedo was. I didn’t know if it was located in Valadares or Canelas. Both were on the written address. I didn’t care which it was, as long as it was the right place. When the taxi finally stopped, I breathed a long sigh of relief.


It was over. I had done it. I had traveled from the most northern sister area to one of the most southern sister areas in the Porto Portugal Mission. I survived the transfer and I thanked Heavenly Father for a safe arrival. I also requested that I remain there for the rest of my mission, so I would not have to go through anything like that again.

**That weary request was, thankfully, not granted. I went on to live in Gaia, Porto, and back to Gaia before I finished my missionary service.**