When I was 22, I lived for six weeks in Guatemala, at the Missionary Training Center (MTC). Each meal, we went down to eat in the small cafeteria and were served steaming bowls of native Guatemalan dishes by smiling señoras who spoke only Spanish, and who I couldn’t converse with much until the very end of my time there. I roomed with the other hermanas (sister missionaries) on the third floor of the compound, and each morning we were awakened by smells—fragrant cinnamon-and-vanilla avena (hot cereal), the slight cornmeal smell of atol, but most often, the pungent onion and humidity…