Starting at the End

I stare out of the plane window, watching Florida slowly fade away below me. This was NOT how I pictured my return. I’d heard stories of missionaries ending their missions, reminiscing on the good and bad times, feeling fulfilled, complete, even. I had imagined I’d have this sense of accomplishment, like “I did it. Despite all odds, I DID it.”Instead, I had a pit in my stomach and the unwavering feeling that something inside me had irreparably shattered.

I had never even wanted to go on a mission. Not really. I felt like I SHOULD. My friend, from as early as 8th grade, had always wanted to be a missionary. I was new at the time to being active in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and I told her I was NOT waking up at 6 am during our sleepover to pretend to be missionaries and study.

The thought wormed its way into my mind as my peers began to prepare for missions during high school, and when the age for men and women was changed to 18 and 19, respectively, I felt like it was confirmation I should go.

Men stay out 2 years, women 18 months, in general. I was DETERMINED from the second I was set apart as a missionary to stay the whole time and return with honor.

While I was technically returning honorably, as being sent home on medical leave is still honorable to the Church, it didn’t feel that way.

I put my face in my hand and watched the ground outside me. I felt agitated. Like everything inside my brain had been shaken up and now instead of my thoughts being in organized compartments, it was all a mess on the floor and I was buried underneath it all.

I turned to the guy next to me, maybe late fourties, looked nice. I thought, well, if I’m going home I may as well preach the Gospel one last time.

“Hey, have you ever read the Book of Mormon?”

I was 19 years old. I walked into the Stake Building, heart pounding. I was going to be set apart as a missionary. This was real. This was happening.

My thoughts raced as I walked. Would it FEEL different? People always said missionaries have the Power of God with them. Would I feel stronger?? Less afraid? CHANGED somehow?

I sat down and the Stake President talked to me for a little bit, and then multiple men laid their hands on my head to turn me into a missionary.

They told me things that would fuck me up for years.

They told me that God was pleased with my decision to serve. That there were people in the mission field that I had promised to find in the pre-existence. That they were waiting for me. I began to worry. What if I panicked and didn’t talk to someone and they were eternally damned because of me? What if I FAILED them?

They told me to be obedient and that the way I served my mission would affect my future family.

I remember the impact. I became convinced that the safe, healthy family I had been drawing and dreaming of for years was contingent upon the way I served. How obediently. How well I shared the gospel. If I stayed out the whole time.

Having experienced abuse in my home, I felt the gravity of the situation. In my mind, I might not be able to have a safe future husband if I didn’t serve well.

If I wasn't obedient, wasn't bold, wasn't as perfect as possible, I might mess up my life and the lives of people I'd never even met.

So, I would serve the best I possibly could. I would survive and thrive.

I didn’t know survival would be the hardest part of my mission.