Diary of a Missionary Mom - T-minus 20

An interesting thing happened today. After weeks and weeks of counting up on his mission, today is the day we switched into COUNTDOWN mode.  

T-minus 20 weeks. 

And, with the change in counting, came an emotional surge I wasn't expecting. After those first few weeks and months of adjustment when he left, things settled into a state of normalcy around our house. Not that we didn't miss our missionary, but we settled into the realization that he is doing what he should be doing and it's okay for us to move forward while he's gone.

For us, there has been plenty of moving forward. 

We sold our swingset/playfort, tore up our garden boxes, then built new ones. We got a few new pieces of furniture and even temporarily converted our missionary's bedroom into a work office for my husband. We constructed built-ins around our fireplace. And we purchased not one but three new vehicles. (Okay, in fairness, only one of them is an "official" vehicle. We've gotten a new truck, a new fifth-wheel trailer, and a new side-by-side off-road vehicle, known as a RZR.)

And that doesn't include all the movies we've seen, the trips we've taken, or the family game nights we've shared. It also doesn't account for the weight we've gained or the weight we've lost. 

The fact is - life moves forward. It's a beautiful reality. The hands of time don't stop moving forward and neither should we. 

But, then it happens. You open the mailbox (or in my case, my email folder) and find a lovely letter from the Mission President. It is apparent that this man - who has served as a surrogate father to our son for the last several months - loves my boy. He knows him well. And, he will be sad to part ways with him on the scheduled date. And there it is. In black and white. The official date when I will get to see my boy again. 

And, honestly, that's where it gets real. All the missing and anticipating and looking forward, suddenly have a date attached. And all the motherly emotions that have been on reserve start to surface. 

In twenty weeks, I'm going to be reunited with my boy. 

I'm going to get to see him, and talk to him, and - oh my goodness! - embrace him. 

How great is my joy. And how tender is my heart. I am not a crier, but the anticipation has me near tears. 

T-minus 20 weeks. 

Let the countdown begin. 

Diary of a Missionary Mom: Give me some meat!

Dear Elder,

I appreciate your weekly emails. I'm glad you are doing well. From the breakdown in your emails, I gather that you are keeping busy. Monday pdays, football (aka soccer), photos and emails. Tuesday finding. Wednesday meetings. Thursday dinners with ward members. Friday more finding. Saturday games with the youth. Sunday meetings ....

Yep, I've got your weekly routines down.  What I don't have, however, is MEAT! You give me lots of gravy, but frankly, I'd like more than sentences that end with, "it was good" or "it was awesome." I'll bet it - whatever it is - was awesome! But, do you know what? It'd be nice to know a little more about it than the fact that it was good.

Here's a revolutionary idea: How about when those cool things happen, you actually tell me about the event. You know, from start to finish. I suppose a cursory note about how awesome it was can be part of the text, but for heaven sake, dear son, it doesn't need to be the beginning and the end to your story.

"... Elder B caught his handlebars on a railing as he rode by. I had to fix his bike.... It was awesome."
 - Hmm? And what about Elder B? How did he fare his little debacle? Did he flip or fly? Did he meet pavement or lawn or shrubbery? Is he okay?

"... We met with a man from the ward today. He told us his story from the War. It was awesome."
- Great. And it was awesome because? *shrugs*

"... We helped Sister So-and-so tame her yard today. She literally had trees growing out of her walls. We tackled it as boys do and it was awesome."
- Tackle? As in a full-body take down? Or with an arsenal of tools? How big, exactly, are these trees you speak of? Fingerlings? Staunch logs? Did you need a chainsaw? ... And, how do trees manage to grow out of walls? Is this normal?

I'm not asking for novels or even essays. A couple brief sentences would suffice. I mean, come on, all I'm asking for is a little meat to go with all the gravy!

Love, your ever patient and easily satiated, just wanting a little more, Mom.

Diary of a Missionary Mom: Turning Point

I've reached a turning point. Actually, I must have reached it a while back and it came so subtly I just didn't realize it. I'd guess it was somewhere after his 6 month mark. Maybe closer to his 7th. Really, I can't put a finger on it though, because it was quiet. Uneventful. Natural. 

I don't miss him as much any more. 

I know there are mothers that may think that I lack compassion or that I am heartless for saying I don't spend every day missing my son who is halfway around the world, but I'd like to think that it means that (1) I've done my job in raising an independent, responsible child and (2) that I've learned to TRUST in God's plan for that child. 

After many grueling, sleepless nights, I feel at peace about where my Elder is and, more importantly, where he is not. The natural progression of life is such that a child should leave his parents and experience what this beautiful life has to offer. If we keep them chained to home, how can we expect them to grow and reach their potential? If we boo-hoo incessantly about how empty we feel without their daily communication, how can we expect them not to reciprocate? And, if we doubt, and worry, and fret constantly about them, where is our trust being placed? 

Now I'm not saying that I don't miss him. Absolutely I do. But not hourly or even daily. There are moments that he crosses my mind. There are events that make me miss him. There are activities that I wish he could join us in, but he is having his own moments, experiencing his own events, and participating in his own activities. He is making his own priceless memories... without me. And it's okay. No, it's more than okay, its fabulous! 

I've put my son in the hands of the Lord and if I can't trust Him to know what my child needs, who can I trust? 

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart: and lean not unto thine own understanding.

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.  

- Proverbs 3: 5-6

Who Get's the 12th Doughnut? - A New Dynamic at Home

In a moment that probably won't earn me any "Mother of the Year" awards, I slid my slippered feet gracefully to the checkout. The accompanying fleece pajamas and oversized hoody seemed all too appropriate for my trip. What could be more fitting for an early morning doughnut run? I mean, come on, people, work with me here.

A dozen round gems in arms, I paid the cashier and made haste back to my car. This is the part of the story where I wish I could say I had enough self control to wait til I was back home to break open that box. Let's get real, they were fresh-baked. Warm! Need I say more? I did manage to keep the sticky glaze off my steering wheel. Small victories, right? *wink*

It didn't take long after getting those babies into the house to realize our problem. As it turns out, donuts come in dozens... and twelve doesn't divide very easily between five people. Quite the quandary we've been faced with. The absence of our 6th member seems to have caused a problem. What to do with the extra 2 donuts?

If I said this was the first time we've run into this problem, I would be a liar. Honestly, it's just part of the new dynamic at our home. From six down to five has been a tough adjustment at times. I can't count the number of times I've pulled six plates from the cupboard or thrown six burgers on the grill. I've even made an extra sandwich or two once or twice.

My thirteen year old and I decided to take one for the team this time around. Hopefully our bellies don't look too round from the extra intake of sugar. We will have to find a better way to address this problem in the future, but for now, know that the 11th and 12th donuts were well loved and enjoyed. :)

Scatter Sunshine

I was sitting on the porch the other day, enjoying a little touch of early-spring sunshine, when I heard a voice that made my heart dance a little. Obviously I knew it wasn't his, but the voice of another young man. It was nothing more than a hearty chuckle carried on the breeze, but to this mom it was sunshine. The neighbor boys continued to banter. They were laughing and joking around as teenage boys do. And, though I couldn't even make out the words, the simple sound of their carefree laughter touched a little something in my heart and put a smile on my face.

I don't know where the last six months have gone. It seems like just yesterday we put our boy on a plane and sent him 5,000 miles across the pond. It's actually been more than six months... 194 days to be exact (but who's counting?)! There's not a day that passes that he doesn't cross my mind. Some days he takes up a lot of real estate there, but they're not the painful, missing and worrying about him kind of thoughts anymore. Most days my thoughts of him are filled with joy. Peace even. And sunshine!

His emails come through every Monday. They are a beautiful way to start my week. Lately in particular. Almost every third sentence contains some variation of the phrase: "It is great!"

And I'll agree: It is great!  

There are so many things that could be occupying his time right now. The world is an open canvas to a nineteen year old. He could be going to school. He could be working. He could be touring and playing and building memories.... He could be seriously courting my future daughter-in-law. But he's not. Instead he is doing something completely selfless. His heart isn't set on the things of the world but rather on the service of the Lord. And it is great!

To say its all been easy would be a lie. He's had his challenges and his tough moments. As a mother, so have I. They are probably worth being shared, but not today. Today is a sunshine day. Today is a day to admit that though there have been moments of darkness, there is a light! We've both learned. We've both grown. And the journey has been beautiful.

Today is a day of sunshine. Today is a day of peace. Today is a great day.

To quote the hymn, "there is sunshine in my soul today, more glorious and bright, than burns in any earthly sky, because Jesus is my light." I'm full of warmth and peace and joy because I know that my Savior loves me! I've felt it. I've seen it. And I continue to witness it daily.

The icing on the cake is knowing that my son is happy. He is doing well and he is spreading the joy of our Savior's plan. He is scattering sunshine - not just where he is at, but here at home too. I am so very proud of him and I'm not alone. I am sure the Lord is pleased with him too. I know that the Lord loves him and cares for him and has opened many hearts to him. I am humbled by the strangers that cross his path and soon become his friends.

I, too, can scatter sunshine. I can smile at a stranger. I can make friends. I can lift others. I can be a bright point in somebody's day.... Really, can't we all? Let's do it together! Let's scatter sunshine. Let's make this world a kinder happier place. Isn't that, after all, what the Savior would have us do?

Happy Birthday, Elder

It's his first birthday away from home. I can't but help feel a little out of sorts. Not so much sad, just somber.

As the days wear closer, his special day seems to scream from the calendar. Should we be making plans? Is it weird to celebrate without him? Or, should it just be business as usual around here?

There doesn't seem to be a correct answer.

We've sent cards. One from his siblings and another from us as parents. I know he's got a few others on the way too. We also scheduled a special grocery delivery for the morning of his birthday - all the makings for his favorite dinner. And a cheesecake, because that's his absolute favorite! (Hope its good. I ordered the NY Style, but half-way around the globe, NY cheesecake may not be the same as it is here in the US.) Also some extras, like chocolate milk, popcorn, chips and salsa, and, oh yah, candles!

He will not feel forgotten.

But, my heart is still heavy. I can't seem to reconcile the time that's past since I held that tiny 5lb 8oz baby boy in my arms. He was so tiny. So perfect. And, he needed me....

But not for long. Wow, my boy grew fast. By the time he was one he was a whopping 25 lbs. He was also walking and talking. Full sentences. I never thought we'd experience quiet again!

Then he went to preschool and for a few hours a couple times a week, I missed the sound of his sweet little voice.

I remember the day he got on the Kindergarten bus. We were both trying to be so brave. Only one of us cried (and only after the bus was out of my sight!) I was tempted to follow in my car. You know, just to make sure he got to the school okay.

Then, I blinked my eyes and he was in Middle School. And, before I knew it, he knew everything! He was dating, driving, and holding a job. I shook my head in amazement as I watched him grow. Each day was passing too quickly. That little boy who couldn't shut up turned into a teenage boy who didn't want to talk to me.

...Except when he needed me. Broken hearts, homework questions, and empty gas tanks held us together while he tiptoed through those years of self discovery. But, at the end of the day, he always needed me.

I suppose that's the hardest part about this birthday: knowing that he doesn't really need me anymore. Okay, I know children always need their moms, but its different now. He clearly doesn't need me like he use to. He is so independent. So mature. And so very far away.

Maybe I'll make a cheesecake in his honor. Maybe I can even talk my hubby into singing a little off-key rendition of Happy Birthday with me. Our off pitch serenade, I'm sure, will be something my son will not miss.

Monday, Monday

"Good morning Monday. We meet again."

In the greater context of my life, I've grumbled those words with reluctance, angst, and often even bitterness, never once considering the unfair implications I might be putting on this poor, defenseless day. Funny how that all changes when you send a missionary out into the field. 

A typical weekend at the Worlton house consists of family recreation, date nights, chores, church meetings, and many other forms of generalized "busyness." It's with a sigh of relief that I fall into the comfort of my bed each Sunday night. But, sleep is often hard to find. Before my head even hits the pillow, my mind starts racing with anticipation. How was his week? Is he doing okay? What does he need? What has he learned?  My heart can hardly wait til morning.   

I often wonder how they did it, you know, "back in the day?" It had to have been torture to snail mail a letter and have to wait a week, or two, or even more for a response. I can't help but love this modern age of rapid technology and easy communication. I simply hit the "send" button to post my email and within seconds it travels across the world to my missionary. He, of course, won't open it quite then. We are on different time zones. He is still in bed. 

Slowly I drift to sleep, 

Somewhere in the deep, unsolicited chambers of my mind, an alarm goes off at almost precisely 4:00 am each morning. While I have absolutely no reason to be up so early, this little routine can be quite frustrating and even bothersome on most days. Monday, however, I welcome the little disturbance.

I retrieve my smart phone from the corner of my nightstand, then, careful not to wake my husband, I build a little blanket fort over my head and tuck myself and my phone inside. It's light is bright at first, burning my eyes with its illumination. I blink a few times then, like magic, everything comes into focus. Moments seem like eternities as I wait for my emails to load. Fourteen new messages, it says. And, right at the top of the list, my very favorite one.

I look at the time stamp. Could it be? Did I actually catch him today? 3:58 it says. My clock reads 4:02. My heart jumps and I take a little chance:

"Hey, son! Are you there?"

The message flies through space (and maybe even time!) with miraculous speed. I hold my breath with each anticipatory second that slips by.

"Yes, silly mother. Why are you up?"

Being awake at this ridiculously early hour suddenly has its benefits. For the first time in months, I am able to have a somewhat "normal" conversation with my son. In the quiet of my blanket fort, we "chat" back and forth until his time runs out. I can almost hear his voice and see his quirky little smile as he tells me to "have a good week and GO TO SLEEP!" Oh, how I miss my boy!

"I love you, mom," his last message ends. I hold the phone in my hand for a moment hoping maybe another little message will follow. I don't give up hope until the screen goes to sleep. I take my cue, disassemble my fort, set my phone back on the nightstand, and fall back onto my pillow.

What a blessing technology is. Mondays have become my favorite day.

Slowly I drift back to sleep. And this time, I actually get some rest. Monday mornings just might be as fabulous to a missionary mom as Christmas morning is to an eager child! 

I think The Mamas and the Papas best sum up my feelings today:  

"Monday, Monday, 

so good to me. 

Monday mornin'

 it was all

I hoped it would be." 

Turning Tables - When the Teacher Becomes the Student

I knew it would happen eventually - or, at least, I hoped it would. That Monday morning email when you realize this child of yours - the sweat, tears, and joy of your last umpteen or twenty years, actually paid attention to something or someone along the way.''

 "Dear dad,"  - I note the intended receiver with much delight. Yeah, it's nice to know that maybe he thinks mom already has stuff figured out... or, perhaps he's just too polite to tread on my pride just yet. Whatever the case, I smile at the sentiment and take a moment to lavish in the irony of it all.

"I wonder if..." - Gently working his way in, my young elder begins his thought. Well played, my son, I silently applaud, hoping he learned that technique from me. My applause ends quickly, though, as I realize that, although I'd like it to be, gentle tact is typically not my style. I'm a bull-by-the-horns kind of girl. Maybe I should work on that. Perhaps it'll be the subject of his next letter.

"Things happen for a reason... There is always something to be learned."  Wait a minute. Stop the presses. Is that...? Could it be...? Why yes, I think those are... MY WORDS! Or at least a derivative of them. "Look for the lesson," that's what I've told my kids since they were in diapers. Okay, maybe not diapers, but at least on training wheels. Pretty much the same thing, though... right?

They're good words. I give him a nod of approval before realizing what he really just said. Translation: "Dad (and mom), you are now the student and I am the teacher."

Yeah, I know he didn't out right say it, but that's what's happening here. Sheesh, the boys barely been out six weeks and he's already turning the tables?

It's a testimony of experience. Lessons quickly learned. Maturity ever building. He's on the right path, and for that I am proud.

Humbled by his growth, I take a personal inventory. Perhaps I better start preparing myself now. I have a hunch that sooner or later more of my words will come back to bite me. Or teach me, as will more likely be the case.

"Dear mom," the letter will probably say, "take a step back and tell me what's wrong with this picture."
(Oh, heaven help me when that day comes! Hopefully I can come up with something better than some juvenile snarky reply... but then again... *shrug*)

LDS Missionaries Kidnapped in Russia : this isn't just a movie, it's REAL life! The SARATOV APPROACH

Last night my family had the opportunity to go to a free screening for the soon to be released movie The Saratov Approach. Though it won't "officially" hit theaters until October 9th, we were honored to get a sneak peak. I typically don't review movies. In fact, this is the first time I've ever reviewed one on my blog. Books, yes. Movies, no. So, what made me decide to break my mold? Simple stated, this movie touched me and I think it may have the same effect on you.

The best place to start is by watching the trailer: (If you are one of my "missionary mom" readers, you may want to grab a tissue.)

After watching the trailer, I was hooked. I wanted to see it BAD! But this little voice in my gut told me that might not be a good decision - you know, with my son currently serving a mission in a foreign land and all. It is, after all, about two missionaries who get kidnapped and held ransom. Maybe it'd be too emotional. Maybe it'd tear me up and make me break down. Maybe it'd leave me terrified for my own son...

Yeah, I went to the preview anyway.

And, I'm glad I did!

I hunkered down in the packed theater with my ice cold movie mug, a large extra buttery popcorn, and a handful of tissues (just in case.) Right from the beginning I was riveted. Watching through the eyes of a missionary mom, I was on the edge of my seat, praying for those Elders and thinking of my own. There were a couple of moments I was glad I had that tissue handy. And, even though I knew the premise of the film was the kidnapping of these two Elders, the story was not predictable in any way. I'd anticipated being filled with fear and heartache, but instead, I left the theater having had my faith strengthened and my hope lifted.

Elders Tuttle and Propst are indicative of the kind of young men that represent the LDS Church worldwide. Their experience could've broken their faith, but instead it solidified it.

I know what you're saying: "It's one of those indie films, how good can it be?"  Well, my friends, it was GREAT! The cinematography was professional, the writing was genius, and the acting was beyond believable. My only quip was that the missionaries seemed to be a little old. Maybe, at least for me, that made their situation a little easier to watch. If they had looked like green 18 year olds, it may have been too much for this mama to handle.

I thoroughly enjoyed it as did my husband and children. It was two hours of my time well spent, and I would highly recommend you go see it.

The SARATOV APPROACH will officially hit Utah theaters on October 9th. It's opening weekend sales will determine how long it runs and how far across the country it spreads. Please support this film in the theater (for the record, this is an unsolicited endorsement). Not only is it inspirational, but it is well made and deserves to go far. It is far more worth the price of admission than most of the Hollywood productions I've spent my money on. I'm hoping it comes out on DVD so I can purchase it.

There are a few more FREE SCREENINGS available.

They are also hosting a special "Girls Night Out" (Oct 5, 6:00pm) and a "Guys Movie Event" (Oct 5, 8:45pm) at the Jordan Commons Megaplex in Sandy. This special feature night includes unlimited popcorn and drinks plus a chance to MEET THE REAL ELDERS (Travis Tuttle and Andrew Propst) and the WRITER/DIRECTOR (Garrett Batty). The cost of this event is $15.75.

Head First - A missionary reality check (aka: First Assignment)

I promised myself that I wasn't going to cry.

"Dear mom," he starts energetically. "It's different," he says about his first assignment. Two weeks at the MTC, I realize, did little to prepare him for the culture change. "I have so much to get used to." I feel my eye sockets warming already. Though he's trying so hard to be positive, I sense the knot in his chest as he writes.

"I miss everything from home..." It's a simple declaration that at first leaves me with a smile. Haha, I celebrate a tiny victory: he does miss us! It's almost like sweet justice for all those teenaged eye-rolls and chest thumpings. Maybe we weren't such terrible parents after all.

"I have found a new appreciation for EVERYTHING at home... It kind of hurts to see and realize how much we take for granted." With a grin, I read the passage out loud to my sixteen year old as she shovels Apple Jacks into her mouth. She raises an eyebrow. "So?"

Ignoring her indifference, I continue reading. "I have leaned to adapt.. well, I am trying anyway!" As he relates the condition of his apartment it occurs to me that he doesn't remember our lean years. He was too young, I suppose, to recall those early years of hand-me-down furniture, bare-minimum dinners, empty closets, and cars held together with duct tape and binding wire.

Grateful to be past those days, I grab the keys to our late model SUV and head out the door for morning car pool. We've certainly come a long way since those starving student years and although we've tried not to give our children too much, it occurs to me that perhaps we did. For a moment I rebuild his childhood. Did we give him too much? Did we expect too little? Did we make it too easy? ... I don't believe we did. We've taught him to work hard. We've taught him to sacrifice. We've taught him to be independent. But, we never taught him that life was supposed to be easy.

The sun crests the mountains and shines into my car, my chest burns. I remind myself again that it's not supposed to be easy. We didn't send him on a vacation, after all. That's not what any of this is about.

As I make the turn into the high school parking lot, I realize that it's not his physical comfort - or lack thereof - that draws my tears to the surface. He's a tough kid - heck, he survived his own "war-zone" of a bedroom just fine. Let's face it, I'm surprised we didn't find parasites in there when we cleaned it out! Physical comforts are just that: comforts. He'll survive an old dirty apartment just fine. It is what's on the inside, however, that I worry about.

As I pull back into the garage, I also pull myself together. One more kiddo to get off to school before I can have a full breakdown... But, it doesn't come. Instead, I open my laptop and start typing. "Dear son," I start, but where do I go from there? What can I tell him that will make the growing pains feel better? 


We've spent his whole life hoping he'd choose to serve the Lord. This is what we've prepared him for. Why then, is it so hard to see him go through exactly what we knew he'd go through?

If I were there, I'd wrap my arms around him and together we'd shed a tear or two. Yeah, I know that its not cool for guys to cry - for heaven's sake, this mama doesn't usually cry either - but sometimes it's necessary to just let it out. It wouldn't take long, I am sure, before we both had things back in perspective. I'd swat him on the shoulder and say, "Get to it son. You've got important work to do."

But I can't do that. Whether its 500 or 5,000 miles standing between us, my arms would not reach him. I plunk a few words into a letter. Its not my arms, I admit, that he needs anyway. I can give him my love, my support, my advice, and my heart, but the comfort he needs can only come through learning to rely on the Savior. "Heavenly Father," I pray aloud, "please wrap my son in your love."

Before I can finish my prayer, I feel the comforting embrace of the Holy Ghost. Maybe my elder isn't the only one who needed a hug today.

50 Day Book of Mormon Experience

"How are you doing on your reading?" I asked. It'd become a frequent question, perhaps even daily as the time to leave quickly approached.

"Working on it," came his standard reply, knowing exactly what generated my question. When my son started preparing to serve a mission, our Stake President issued him the challenge to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover before he left. Not too big of a challenge, since he had five months from the time he got his call til the time he actually was set apart and boarded the plane.

Some months into his preparation and after much of my near-nagging, it occurred to me that the invitation to read the Book of Mormon was not just for my missionary alone. In fact, it's an open invitation to everyone - members, non-members, Christians, and non-Christians alike. Including me.

And, because its what planner's do, I made a plan.

First, I calculated my time frame. Because I'd procrastinated, and my plan was to read it before he entered the MTC, I had about 50 days to read just over 500 pages. Well, that sure made the math easy: ten pages a day! Whew! Difficult? Perhaps. Doable? Absolutely.

I purchased a brand new, unmarked, miniature copy of the Book of Mormon. Brand new, so I wouldn't get distracted by the highlighted verses and abundant margin notes of my well-used, standby copy. Mini so that it could fit in my purse and I could take it wherever I went.

As easy as opening the page to 1 Nephi, my personal challenge had begun. Diligently, I worked my way through first and second Nephi, proud with myself for staying on task. 

Then, something happened. A few days after slogging through the Isaiah chapters in 2 Nephi, my heart changed. My challenge became an experience. My task became a pleasure. The familiar verses and stories started to come together. What had always read like a textbook to me had suddenly become more like a novel. Though an abridgment of different ancient stories, the Book of Mormon, in fact was one continuous story. I began to relate to the characters, cheering at their successes, crying at their defeats. Our ancient ancestors came alive. I saw their personalities, felt their trials, and celebrated their triumphs... I found myself looking forward to reading as I anxiously awaited the time when Christ would come visit them.

Never before have the words of the scriptures touched me so deeply. I've often heard people say that they hunger for the scriptures and I always thought I knew what they meant. Well, as it turns out, I didn't. But, I do now. They touched my heart, my soul, and my mind. They truly filled me.

There were days I would read and re-read the same chapters over and over again. Stories of our Savior, testimony of Him, the faith of our ancestors that sought Him for generations and generations before He was born, and the steadfastness of those who followed him for generations after his heavenly return. Men and women of faith. Children of virtue and promise.

In 50 days I learned more about the Book of Mormon than I have in all my years of study. I learned more of my Savior's love for me and of His promises to those who follow Him. I gained deeper testimony of the prophets, both ancient and present day - of their relationship with God, of their service, their love, and their ultimate devotion to leading us in the direction the Lord would have us go. This book of scripture that I've treasured for years, now has even deeper meaning to me. My testimony is firm. I know of it's divinity, of it's truth, and of its purpose in our lives.

I'm so full of excitement about my experience I feel like yelling from the roof-tops, "READ THE BOOK OF MORMON!" Whether you've never opened its pages or are a seasoned reader, read the Book of Mormon. Whether you do it in 50 days or 50 weeks, read it. Whether you like to read or not, READ IT!

"How are you doing with your reading?" The question is for me, this time. "Done," I answer, but not definitively, for one can never be done absorbing the word of God. Til the day I die, I will continue to study the scriptures, the Book of Mormon and the Bible alike. I make a new challenge, do the math, and set a goal: I will read the New Testiment, cover to cover, ten pages at a time. If I start today I should finish by the end of February.

Editorial note: You can get a free copy of the Book of Mormon by clicking HERE.

Making the "Drop"

I don't think he ever went to bed last night, though we'd run through our check-off list a half a dozen times by midnight and his bags were packed, weighed, and ready to go. Too much on his mind, I suppose.

With the rising sun came the promise of a new day, a new chapter, and for our newly set-apart Elder, a new country, climate, routine, opportunity... Within hours, the rest of us will fall back into the normal(ish) swing of life. Familiar. Comfortable. But for him, aside from some treats and a few photos that this "over-doer" mom of his tucked into his carry-on luggage, everything will be new.

It's not business as usually this morning. There is nothing, in fact, usual about the mood in our home. Somber. Quiet. Reflective. Even the dogs seem to pick up on it. As he reaches out to give them each one last pat, his eyes cloud over. This is the last time he will probably see our sweet, old, Rocky-dog. Lilah tucks her ears back in disappointment when we tell he she can't go. Cooper, the wonder-pup, zooms from one end of the house to the other, across the coffee table, onto the couch, and ultimately into the arms of an optimistic, suit and tie clad boy.

I record the scene through the lens of my camera. Strong. Positive. Hopeful. Proud.

My better, more tender, half starts down the stairs to help carry up the luggage. "No, dad," eleven year old Boo insists, "I want to do it." We watch in humility as his slender frame maneuvers the bulging bag up the stairs. The suitcase really is bigger than him, but his desire to serve his brother gives him the strength to perform the task. It's going to be a tough day for our little guy. He's taking this harder than any of the other kids. He's going to miss his big brother - his defender, his helper, his partner in crime!

We get off a good 30 minutes behind schedule. OCD mom wants to panic, but world-traveler dad insists we are doing just fine. The car stereo is muted as are the typical cat-fights that seem to fill our car rides. Amazingly, not a single finger finds its way into someone else's personal space. Atypically somber.

Airport check in goes smoothly. Everything is in order, right down to the weight of his luggage. The first bag weighs in at 49 lbs and the second right at 50! Whew! I release my first sigh of relief for the day, grateful that our home scale was at least somewhat accurate... a little on the light side, but close. Then it hits me: if it's on the light side, then I've gained more than I thought I had. I reabsorb that sigh of relief with a single, ugly word: Diet... Followed by two, slightly more comforting words: Next Week!

The ticket agent finishes things up on her end and before I know it we are headed towards the security gate. We are not alone. There are other clean cut, well-dressed, eager missionaries, some with their families, others from the Provo MTC, and one, at the end of his two year journey, headed back home some 5000 miles across the pond. My second sigh of relief is one I don't have to take back: he will not travel alone. Not now or at anytime for the next two years. I can do this! He can do this!

Selfishly I take the first goodbye hug! I hold on as long as I can without things getting awkward. He may be taller than me, he may be stronger than me, he may even be smarter than me, but he'll always be my little boy!

Hugs are dealt out all around. "Boo," though struggling for the past couple of weeks, takes his like a champ... "Awesome One" not so much. She buckles into her big brother's arms, no longer trying to be tough. "Lu" holds out for a quick embrace, but her emotions betray her as he walks away. Dad, in the typical fashion of his teddy-bear heart, lost it before he even got his hug.

The security line is almost non-existent and before we know it he gives one last wave and disappears out of sight. He's off on his adventure but for some reason our feet are hesitant to leave. Ryan and I share a deep, tear filled glance. Words don't need to pass between us. We are both feeling the same sudden emptiness. Eighteen years of our lives has just left our hold for two years. We've officially handed our son over to the Lord.

 

Why is goodbye so hard?

"Why is goodbye so hard?" he steals the words from my mind. Vocalizing them triggers my heightened emotions once again.

My boy, on the brink of manhood, crumbles into my arms. "It's hard," I manage through the tender tears of motherhood, "because you are going to miss the ones you love."

By nature I am not a super emotional person, I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I don't shed tears on a regular basis. But when it comes to my children - their health, their success, and their happiness - there is not a strand of my being that isn't emotionally bound. Seeing my boy hurt, hurts me.

We share a moment of tenderness - something that doesn't happen much between red personalities. "It's going to hurt," I don't even try to sugar coat it, "because you care." I look for another tidbit of wisdom to offer, but all I can muster are sympathetic tears.


There are parts of this journey I didn't plan for. Parts that if I'd taken off my OCD, planning, organizing, checking-off-the-to-do-list hat for just a moment, I'd have seen coming: Saying goodbye to your family is hard... saying goodbye to your best friend may be even harder.  

Though I sent many good friends off on their missions, I never had to bid the two year farewell to my best friend. My heart breaks. I can only imagine the pain. He has many good friends... Great ones, even. His best friend is someone we all love. Saying good bye is hard.

"It's okay to cry," I comfort through my own damp eyes. "You're doing what's right." We both know it. We also both know that things will work out, if not the way we plan, then as something even better.

Saying goodbye is hard, but with each day that passes we will know that he is busily engaged in the Lord's work. We will all grow. We will all benefit. His service will touch many - both at home and abroad.

Good bye, my son! May God bless you. We love you. Return with honor!

Two Years

Nine white shirts, perfectly folded, nestle easily along side an equally pristine set of ties. What looked like a large suitcase just hours before, now bursts with the reality of just how long two years is. Several pairs of slacks, a suit coat, a winter coat, socks, shoes, and even bedding fill every spare nook and cranny. I glance over his packing list for the gazillionth time. It's not like he's leaving the planet, I remind myself. But, it's two years... Two. Long. Years. Blinking back the moisture that hasn't been far from my eyes the last several days, I wonder at the experiences that await this young man I happily call my son. My chest bursts with more pride than his packed luggage. Two suitcases, a backpack, and a soul filled with love.  

In the grand scheme of life, two years is merely a blink of the eye. But in the measurement of a mother it is a long time. In the stretch of two years, a lot could happen.... and, it will. 

In two years, we will have another high school graduate, a high school freshman, and our caboose will be in junior high. In two years, the number of legal adults in our household will out number the number of children. In two years, I will have added another book (or two) to my resume and our caboose will have added another inch or six to his stature. Life will resume here, moving forward at the speed of the teenagers that fill our walls. Driver's licences will be procured. Hearts may get broken. Memories will be created... and all the while, our missionary will be making his own memories. He may not be here to comfort his sisters' broken hearts, or wrestle around with his ever growing brother, and, although we will miss him, we understand. There are others whose hearts he is meant to touch. Others who need his compassion, his laughter, and ultimately his service. 

Two years may seem like a long time if you count it in days (730!), but I know not one moment will be for naught. As hard as it is to imagine him gone, I can't imagine him doing anything better. 

I think I will count in terms of Fast Sundays. Twenty-four. Much easier for this Mama to swallow. Twenty Four is doable. Easy... almost! 

A Not-a-farewell Farewell

I was already awake when the sun peaked it's happy glow over the Wasatch Mountains. Though I've never been a great sleeper, as of late, I find myself wide awake well before the dawn. Even if it hadn't been summer, and even if I'd had some early morning appointment to be to, I have no need for an alarm clock. My mind, though not specifically being weighed down by any one thought, is a flutter with what feels like a million things to do.

He still needs an umbrella... will his shoes really be waterproof? And bedding. We still haven't decided what to do about bedding? Should he buy a pillow there? Or take a comfortable one from home? I wonder if his suitcase is too big. Is it possible to be too big? Lot's of people coming today... is he ready? Am I ready? Got to frost the cupcakes. Did the bathroom get cleaned? Do we have enough chairs? Enough food? Should I make more cookies? 

I glance at the clock: nearly 7:30. My mind has been going in circles for three long hours. Time to get moving. So much to do.

I roll over and snuggle into my husband. Sleep doesn't seem to allude him. I have a moment of jealousy, wishing I too could sleep a little longer. How is he so calm?

A set of soft eyes open and smile at me. I know I've woken him. I also know that I should let him sleep in. It is the Sabbath, afterall, and our church meetings don't start until 1:00 pm. He could easily growl at me and I'd understand. Just because I'm up at the crack of dawn, doesn't mean he needs to be too. Instead, he greets me with a warm embrace and a cockeyed grin. "Today's the big day," he sighs.

We've spent the last two weeks making physical preparations: baking cupcakes and cookies, making salads, cleaning the house, making sure his friends and our family members have received an invite. We use to refer to this day as a "Mission Farewell" but in recent years it has been changed to an "opportunity to speak prior to leaving on a mission." What formerly was an occasion for the departing missionary as well as his/her family to speak in sacrament meeting is now an opportunity for the missionary and another member of the ward to speak. I'm not sure how I feel about the seeming downgrade. I have a lot to say about my testimony of the Savior and the wonderful opportunity my son has to serve the Lord. Of course, I typically have a lot to say about everything! My husband, on the other hand, expresses his gratitude for what he considers an "upgrade."

As we discuss the reality of the day - the magnitude of what it represents - both of our eyes cloud with tears. Our son will be leaving in just over two weeks. We will send him off a boy and the next time we see him, HE WILL BE A MAN! Things will never be the same again. We take a minute to mull it over, holding each other tightly. Physical preparation is one thing, but emotional preparation seems merely a fantasy.

"Thanks for making my cry," I softly slug his shoulder.

"You started it," he smirks.

"Did he let you read his talk?" I ask. I'd made the offer to look over it but, in typical eighteen-year-old fashion, he declined, claiming he had it under control.

"Nope," my husband blinks. My nerves do the Fandango. Oh, dear, I think. This could be bad... or, good. I play it over in my head. Maybe I should offer again. - I don't.

I stand in my closet in a daze. Nothing seems to fit quite right anymore. Last fall I was in the best shape of my adult life, and now I'm probably at my worst. The last few weeks alone have left me with an extra ten pounds of stress around my middle.

I choose my polka-dot dress. My husband says it's his favorite. That's good enough for me.

The mirror bears another harsh side effect of my stress: a pimple... okay, who are we kidding? When there is one, there is at least two! Aren't I too old for this?

The morning goes by with beautiful smoothness. There is a feeling of peace that, honestly, has been missing in recent weeks. I embrace it.

I help the girls do their hair. My eleven year old, admitting that he's going to miss his older brother, decides to where a suit coat to church even though it's going to be near 100 degrees outside. It's a special day.

We take bets on who will drop the first tear. I'm typically not a crier, so my money is on my husband. The kids pool their bets on grandma...

We arrive at church early to save seats for our visiting family members. Some are already in the pews and by the time the meeting starts the chapel is full. Afraid of impending tears, I hesitate to look back to see just how far into the overflow we've gone. Without even looking I can feel the overflowing love. My husband takes a peak over his shoulder. The overflow is full all the way back to the stage. There is standing room only. - It's a good thing he doesn't tell me this til after the meeting. I do, after all, have a no-crying bet to win!

As I watch my son on the stand, something happens. The boy who'd rolled his eyes at me not 18 hours earlier, seems to instantly morph into a man. There's a squareness in his chin I've never recognized before. A confidence in his eyes. A surety in his posture. I hope it's not for show. I hope all these people didn't come to hear him make a fool of himself... maybe I should've read through his talk.

But, the feeling doesn't last long. Instead, I'm overcome with peace. Look at him up there. So grown up. So handsome. So ready...

Following the two previous speakers, he takes his spot at the pulpit. As soon as he opens his mouth, the spirit touches me. He is ready. Though many try to give my husband and I credit for the spectacular young man our son has become, I can't but help to recognize that his preparation is not because of our efforts alone. It truly has been a village that has raised our son: dedicated Primary Teachers, committed Youth Leaders, outstanding Seminary teachers, Sunday School  grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, employers.. And, many of them fill the room. He has been blessed with an abundance of great influences and examples. He is ready.

Following his talk - a great sermon on obedience - I'm happy to report that my eyes were still dry. There was a close moment or two, but all my mascara remained in tact. My husband too kept it together. The kids should've gone double down on grandma.

Our house filled quickly and very snuggly with well-wishing friends and family. The cupcakes, cookies, and salads were happily consumed. Many hugs were dealt, many laughs shared. And, as I fell into bed at the end of the day, I realized just how blessed we are to be a part of this work. The next two years may hold a few more stress induced pimples, but in the end, they will be worn with pride. I am grateful to be a part of this work. I am grateful to be sending my son off on the errand of the Lord. I am grateful for friends, neighbors, and family members that love and support my son. The man he is becoming is a good one.

Called to Serve... Getting the fateful mission call

Last night, in a much anticipated event in the Mormon culture to which I happily belong, our family gathered to open my son's mission call. Over the next few years, I'm sure I will find occasion to share some experiences from his mission on this blog. Realizing that not all of my awesome readers share my faith, I feel that perhaps a little explanation may be necessary:

What is an LDS missionary? 

LDS Missionaries are young men (18-19 year olds) and women (19-21 year olds) that leave their homes and devote two years (18 months for females) as representatives of Jesus Christ. These young people leave their families, their friends, their internet, and even their cell phones. They postpone their work/schooling, pay their own way, and most often live in very humble circumstances. They do not choose where they will serve, and it is anything but a two-year vacation. So why, you may ask, would they volunteer their service? It's really quite simple: As members of the LDS (Mormon) church, we strive to keep the Savior, Jesus Christ, as the center of our lives. We have faith in Him, love Him, and find joy in His service. Because we have felt His love and know the peace He can bring to our lives, we invite others to learn of Him and accept Him in their lives.  For more information about missionaries and their work, you can visit Mormon.org.

Talk of my son's mission has filled the walls of our home for years. Since he was little, his desire to serve the Lord has been humbling. As his mother, I am so pleased with the young man that he has grown into. I am excited to see him prepare himself to be worthy and willing to dedicate his time, talents, and the fullness of himself in the hopes of bringing others to Christ. I am just beginning to realize the scope of this commitment and the sacrifice it will be for both him as well as for our family and I am honored to be the mother of such an amazing young man.

What does it take to be a missionary?

There is much preparation that must take part before a missionary can serve. One must first learn of the Savior, develop faith in Him, and strive to live His commandments. Missionaries are not perfect; however, just like other faithful Christians, they are striving to live as Heavenly Father would have them live. This is not an overnight process but a life-long journey. There is much learning a missionary must do to prepare to serve. He/she should know and understand the commandments, faithfully read and be familiar with the scriptures (both the Bible and the Book of Mormon), and attend their church meetings to further their learning of the gospel. A missionary also must be clean...clean from drugs, alcohol, sexual relations, unhealthy habits, and unlawful acts. 

Prospective missionaries essentially apply for their mission by submitting their "papers" to LDS Church Headquarters in Salt Lake City, Utah. These "papers" include documentation from their doctor and dentist stating their physical eligibility, recommendations from their bishop and stake president (local church leaders) about their worthiness, and a series of personal questions. Upon receipt, members of the First Presidency prayerfully make each mission assignment. 

My son completed his papers and his interview with our bishop and stake president a week and a half ago. Typically it takes two weeks to receive your call (aka: assignment). However, because of the recent age change for prospective missionaries, the influx of submitted papers has spiked, thus slowing the process in some cases to 6 weeks. Imagine our surprise when, after only a week and a half, we got his fate-filled envelope in the mail!!!

We gathered our family together - some via phone - to share in the experience as he opened the envelope... and, essentially the unveiling of where his next two years would be spent. Having no control over where your 18 year old is going to be for two years is a bit nerve wracking for any mother. Honestly, for me, it was a HUGE test of faith. 

As we waited on pins and needles, I could only imagine where he might go. Would he be going foreign or domestic? Familiar or completely new? Tropical or perhaps even arctic? Would he have to learn a new language? What kind of cultural changes were in store?

I know I'm not the only one that was shaking with anticipation as he gently tore into the envelope! 

Though I'm not a crier, I was prepared for tears. What I got instead was an overwhelming confirmation that Heavenly Father does, indeed, know my son! His call wasn't one that I'd even considered, but as I looked at my beaming son, I KNEW it was exactly where he was supposed to go. 

Because of the public nature of this blog, I've chosen not to share the location to which he has been called. He might be legally an adult, but my mama instinct tells me I still need to protect him. To those who know my family personally, I will be glad to share. For the rest of my amazing readers, I will tell you this: he has been called to serve in one of the beautiful countries of his ancestors  He is both excited and qualified for the experience that lies before him. I have no doubt that he will touch the lives of those whose paths he crosses. I also have no doubt that the Lord will always be mindful of him.