Editor's note: This article was written by David Sowby. If you have any inspirational missionary stories you would like to contribute to Meridian Magazine, please write to Laurie Williams Sowby by clicking here.  

It was Christmas Eve 1991, my second as a missionary in the Peru Lima East Mission. And for the second time, Elder Jilmar Chacon and I were teamed as companions. We had made plans to visit several member families and investigators during the holidays, but those plans — along with a missionary talent show we'd been looking forward to between Christmas and New Year's — suddenly changed.

All LDS missionaries from North America were asked by the area presidency to remain inside our rooms for 10 days, beginning Christmas Eve. Apparently, terrorists from the Shining Path were stepping up their activities again. For our own safety, North American missionaries would stay inside while our Latin companions continued with our teaching and baptism appointments during the daytime, returning to their rooms by the 6 p.m. curfew.

This was far different from our first Christmas together, when Elder Chacon and I were working in the mission office in Lima. That year, I had received a small artificial tree and ornaments from my family. We had decorated the desk and strung a paper garland across the office wall. My family had also sent some small toys, which we had given to parents in the ward, to give to their children.

Also that first Christmas, my mom had sent me the Spanish words to "Star Bright" ("Estrella de luz"), and one of the young sisters in the ward had performed it with me in sacrament meeting as a surprise for the members. I love to sing, and it made me happy to be able to contribute something to the Lima congregation besides my usual piano accompaniment for the hymns. That duet was a warm memory.

But this Christmas of 1991, we gringos (North Americans) would not even be attending church services, let alone participating in the music. Still, I felt some small satisfaction, because before I had been transferred in November, I had tape-recorded several carols on the piano. Now the small congregation I had left in Chosica would at least have my taped accompaniment for their singing, even though I could not be with them in person.

I surveyed our small rented room, devoid of any Christmas decorations. The box with last year's tree and ornaments had mysteriously disappeared from the mission office, so it was just the bare walls and us. Both Elder Chacon and I had received packages from home, though, and we were saving the gifts to open on Christmas Day. But I'd already been playing the cassette tape that came in my package, and had even played it when some missionaries gathered the night before.

It was a hit. On one side were Christmas songs by the Cambridge Singers — including John Rutter's beautiful "Candlelight Carol," a favorite from my high school choir and Mormon Youth Chorus days. I put the tape in the player and pushed the button. The warm strains filled our little room:

As the music played, I started writing a Christmas Eve letter home, inscribing the words of the song at the top and decorating the paper's edges in red and green ink. I envisioned my family at home — grandparents, cousins and all — singing carols, reading the Christmas story from Luke, and performing musical numbers on the violin, piano and flute, as we'd done on Christmas Eve for as long as I could remember.

Elder Chacon and I interrupted our letter-writing to share a tasty meal of turkey, rice and punch with the family we were living with on the outskirts of Lima. It was a welcome change from the usual chicken and rice. The next morning, we slowly opened our presents; it took about 20 minutes.

The best part of the day was the continuous music, thanks to my five Christmas tapes, some from my first year in Peru. That's all we'd been listening to for about 10 days now, but we didn't mind. It is wonderful music any time of the year, because it carries with it the message of Christ — the message we had come here to share.

Our Christmas confinement turned into long days of studying the scriptures, writing letters and journal entries, and singing hymns, aided by our Spanish hymn books and translations of the newer LDS hymns. We found special comfort in "Where Can I Turn for Peace?" (“¿Donde encontrar soláz?"), as we had many times during the terrorist bombings of power stations, when we had spend long hours in the darkness of our room, listening to bombs explode in the distant hills. Singing always brought us solace, and its gift was especially rich this Christmas Day.

Not many days into the new year, North American missionaries were removed from Peru. We left without having a chance to say goodbye to the dear, humble Peruvian people we loved, or to express our gratitude to those who had so lovingly kept us, fed us, and washed our clothes.

Every Christmas Eve now, as I sing carols with my wife and children, I think about a small town in the barren desert east of Lima, at the base of the Andes Mountains. I picture Church members singing the same carols as my taped accompaniment plays (although the tape is probably long gone by now). And I remember Christmas 1991. Music made those days not only bearable, but beautiful.

I will always treasure the memories of my Christmases in Peru, when music became a gift of peace second only to the Gift God sent that first Christmas Day.