Missions (Part I)

Prologue / Disclaimer 

I've never felt comfortable writing history, personal or otherwise. Even my personal journals are filled more with my thoughts than my experiences. Part of this is due to my discomfort drawing attention to myself.  I feel egocentric stating how anything came to be or happened when, undoubtedly, those who experienced these events along with me had their own perspective. I also feel somehow dishonest because I know it's impossible to capture events accurately. No matter how detailed and thorough I am, words are unable to convey the context and full depth, breadth, and texture of what I actually experience. Lastly, I'm biased by my personal preference to read people's thoughts rather than their experiences (since they're limited in the same ways I've mentioned above!)

All this said, I have a overwhelming desire for my kids to know themselves, to feel connected to the lives and experiences that went into theirs, and to be liberated and empowered in the process. Part of this is knowing the stories that have shaped me. I write these type of posts for them. Here goes!

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Missions (Post I) 

Last August our son, Sam, began his service as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was assigned to central Mexico, and, after six weeks of training in Spanish and how to teach the gospel, served there for nearly seven months before the Church brought all non-native missionaries home from Mexico (and, most other countries) due to the Covid19 pandemic. He's been home for three months, has been reassigned to serve in Orlando Florida, and departs in six days. I'm thrilled for him to return to missionary service and also for him to have this variety of experiences. Sam's impending departure has me thinking a lot about religion and mission experiences.

I'm a life-long member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was born into it. So was my dad. In fact, some of my people on my dad's side joined the Church a far back as the 1830's. These folks experienced social and governmental persecution in Illinois and Missouri, including the murder of Joseph Smith, before walking West to the Rocky Mountains pushing handcarts. More of my people on my dad's side met early Church missionaries in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, joined the Church in the 1850's, and either became missionaries themselves or emigrated to Utah. My people on my mom's side are mainly Swedish, Irish, and German who immigrated to the US for reasons other than religion, and settled in the Midwest.

My family tree. 

My mom was raised devoutly Catholic, but began a search for spiritual answers during her early 20's. After befriending Church members, she sought out Church missionaries to learn more, felt she'd found her answers, and joined the Church. She met my dad a few years later, they married, and, within ten years, added six kids to their family including me, the third lucky one.

Being raised as an "active" (practicing) member meant my upbringing was inseparable from the Church's belief in missionary service. For me and my siblings 'practicing' included daily scripture reading at the family breakfast table (my mom read to us no matter how responsive we were), at least one weekly activity with the Church's youth groups, frequent activities including camping and summer camp with my congregation's Boy Scout Troop (I'm an Eagle Scout), an hour of released time during my high school classes to attend youth seminary, and three hours of worship services each Sunday.

My dad served a mission a few years before he met my mom. He'd been assigned to serve the Spanish speaking people of Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Growing up, his service came up every I heard him speak Spanish. We'd be out running errands, be on vacation, or at his dental office. We'd meet a person who spoke English with a Spanish accent, or who didn't speak English at all. My dad was usually fairly quick to ask them a question in Spanish. The people's reaction always made me proud... They'd turn with surprise, and respond in rapid-fire Spanish. I knew from the interchange, warmth, and speed of the conversations that followed that my dad speaks excellent Spanish. These experiences always made us curious about his mission.  We'd ask, and he'd share stories from his mission years with us, including stories about breaking a horse and doing an engine swap in a Ford Model T. These stories became lore in our family and stoked my and my brothers desires to serve missions. When it came time, my brothers and I overlapped our missionary service in Ireland, Brazil, Arkansas, upstate New York, and Jamaica.

I remember first making my decision to serve a mission in a Sunday School class when I was 9 or 10 years old. The teacher explained that " you only have to make the decision to serve a mission one time", and asked who planned to serve a mission. That statement struck a chord with me, and I raised my hand. Although I'd pray for confirmation of my decision after that, I never had  to make the decision again. As I approached my 19th birthday, my congregation's leadership helped me complete the extensive application process which included interviews with my Bishop to make clear and confirm I believed the tenets of the Church and was committed to and living Church standards of conduct. It also included doctors and dental checkups to confirm physical health. Once my application was submitted, it took about two weeks to receive my assignment, or "mission call". Because the Church sends its missionaries all over the world, the anticipation of waiting for my call was real. The first sincere prayer I recall offering in association with of my missionary experience was one I offered that I'd be at peace with wherever in the world I was assigned. I can easily go back in my mind and re-experience the minutes when, standing in my parents' kitchen, I opened the call letter in front of family, friends, and neighbors . I can easily recall the emotion and a profound sense of peace and confirmation as I read aloud my assignment to serve in the Church's Arkansas, Little Rock Mission.

About two months after I opened my call, I entered the Missionary Training Center, or MTC, in Provo Utah.  My drove me to Provo that day. We made two stops: one to get my favorite meal--gas station corn dogs, and another at the park across the street from the MTC for my dad to give me a priesthood blessing. Before placing his hands on my head, I remember my dad asking me if there was anything I wanted him to include in that blessing. I don't recall entirely why, but likely because of my personal awareness (and temptation to pride myself) that people perceived me as a spiritual person, I remember that I asked my dad to bless me with humility. He gave me a beautiful blessing. We then went to the MTC, parked, checked in, and were ushered into a large meeting hall. After a brief speech from the MTC's President, none of which I remember, we said tearful goodbyes. Missionaries walked out one set of doors. Families walked out where they'd entered.

To Be Continued