In 1972 at the Summer Olympics in Munich, Germany, Black September, a terrorist group tied to Yasser Arafat's Fatah broke into the Olympic Village and took members of the Israeli Olympic team hostage and eventually killed eleven athletes and coaches.
Although, unfortunately, terrorism on a grand scale has become endemic in today’s world, this was not the case in 1972. The brutality and viciousness of the crime and it’s setting—a peaceful celebration and joyful gathering of young athletes from around the globe—stunned the world. It certainly stunned me.
A sophomore in college I had finagled a job for myself and my sister, Stacie, working for UPI, a news wire service, at the Munich Olympics. The morning after the abduction my sister and I blithely sauntered over to the athletes’ village to go to the Adidas store to buy shoes. We were shocked by what we saw. Men with guns were everywhere looking grim and edgy. We quickly found out the cause of their consternation and with others attending and participating in the Olympics we experienced the horrific events as they unfolded.
For the duration of the Olympics we worked—every day for two weeks straight. We had time off here and there to attend various competitions, and evenings to enjoy the city, meet people, dance, and attend cultural celebrations, although after the killings the mood was somber and almost surreal. But there was no occasion to attend church and by the time the Games ended we were emotionally unsettled and felt a spiritual void and longing having missed church for two, going on three weeks.
We set off to backpack through Europe and to see how long we, or our money, would last. We caught a ride as far as Innsbruck, Austria, and a couple of days later caught a train to Venice, Italy. By the time we hit Venice we felt a real, almost palpable, need to connect with the church. However, we didn’t speak Italian and the owners and workers at our anything but five star hotel could barely manage English. We asked help in finding The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the phone book. They immediately mapped out where to find Catholic churches—in abundance.
The next morning we knelt together in prayer to express our longing and to ask for help. We tossed our backpacks over our shoulders and headed out to explore the city. It was the early 1970s and long hair, psychedelic designs and tie dye were everywhere. As we hit the sidewalk, in the distance, we spied two young men with short hair (whitewalls), sporting white shirts and ties. We chased down the missionaries and with all the willpower we could muster managed NOT to throw our arms around them and embrace them. They told us about an MIA meeting that evening and carefully wrote down the address. We were overjoyed.
That evening, well in advance, we boarded a gondola and were quickly approached by two Italian navy seamen who, in broken English, invited us to dinner and a night out. We explained that we were going to church and invited them to join us and showed them the address we were seeking. They indicated they knew the way and would love to go with us and take us out afterward. We needed a guide to MIA and we knew the missionaries would be there to take them off our hands. We agreed.
When we disembarked the gondola they led us directly to the Catholic church on the main street. We vigorously shook our heads from side to side and they peered more closely at our address. Nodding knowingly they led us down a side street. Halfway down we were met by the wafting melody of a few bold voices energetically singing a primary song. I can no longer recall the specific tune but at the time it seemed the most angelic and beautiful music. I will never forget approaching and entering a small, worn hall graced with little more than a few folding chairs, off a side street in Venice. We were home.
Just as travelers in the desert must travel from wadi to wadi to find life-sustaining water, we had found the spiritual oasis that we so badly needed. We were thirsting and we drank our fill that night as we sang, visited, shared refreshments, and found community with fellow members of the LDS Church. There were one or two Americans, a few Italians eager to practice their English, and lots of other smiling, welcoming faces. The sailors were immediately greeted by the missionaries and I’m not sure when they did or didn’t leave. From the minute we heard the simple notes of that primary song until we left we felt the Spirit and were renewed.
This is the beauty of the worldwide church of Jesus Christ. Clothes may differ, buildings may not look like the building back home, language differences may make verbal communication difficult but always, always, you will feel the Spirit and know, as we knew that night long ago, that you are home.