A Mission Call

Last Wednesday, a large white envelope from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints arrived in my brother John's mailbox. It was addressed to his son, Thatcher, who was vacationing in California. The envelope sat unopened until tonight. Tons of family and friends gathered at John and Missy's home to watch their oldest son open his mission call.

Many of you who read my blog are of my same faith and know all about these things. Those of you who are not familiar may find this a little strange. At the age of 19 (or 21 for a female) a single person may desire to serve as a full-time missionary to represent our church. The individual fills out paperwork, has interviews with religious leaders to determine if it is the right choice for him/her, discusses finances (missionaries pay their own way), has physicals and dental checks performed, and turns all of this in to the church as a request to be called to serve. The missionary committee then issues a call, which is signed by our prophet (Thomas S. Monson). Physical limitations and special talents may be taken into consideration but for the most part, when a prospective missionary "turns in" his papers, s/he is awaiting a call to spend the next 2 years (18 months for females) of his life virtually anywhere in the world. There are currently 350 missions in 162 nations. You could be called to anywhere and be asked to learn any language. As you can imagine, receiving the envelope which contains this information is a very exciting (and often nerve-racking) event.

Here is a clip of Thatcher reading his mission call in front of all of us for the first time tonight.


The guy he gives 5 to in the video is my brother, Chris. He was called and served in the same mission, Phoenix, AZ, about 20 years ago. The guy Thatcher is hugging afterwards is his dad, my awesome brother John.

This clip is a little of his reaction after just reading the call:



Of course this brought back many memories for me. My life was forever changed the night I innocently sat on my bed on December 30, 1994. Out of the blue a thought, not an audible voice, but nearly as loud and clear said, "You will be 21 in 8 months. If you want to know about a mission, now is your time to ask." My response was, "Um...that's weird. I in fact do not want to know about a mission. I have never desired to go on a mission. I have never left home for more than a week at a time. I already have my plans for the next decade of my life all set out. So, thanks for that curious thought."

But, it was too late. The seed was planted. Little by little I began to nurture it. Quietly. To myself. And lo and behold, to my shock and almost dismay, it began to grow. I didn't really know many girls who had served missions. All 6 of my older brothers went on missions (2 called to Japan, 3 called to Germany, and 1 called to Phoenix, AZ), but my older sisters did not. I have an older cousin and a sister-in-law who did. None of my girlfriends planned to go. I truly never had any desire to go. It's not that I didn't believe it was a great thing to do nor was it that I didn't have a testimony of the truthfulness of the message I would carry, I just never had any inkling of desire to leave my family and friends for 18 months to go who knows where and live 24 hours/day with somebody by my side that I may or may not like at all and spend every ounce of time and energy serving the Lord (through other people)--whether sharing the gospel, doing community service, or whatever else the case may be.

Anyway, by March I finally did ask (aka pray) about serving a mission and received one of the strongest answers of my life. Now instead of fear when I thought of a mission, I was filled with joy. Truly, every time I thought about it, my heart would burn. And for some reason, I did not feel like sharing this with anybody. Out of necessity I told my father and eventually my mother. First of all, my Dad was my bishop (church leader of my congregation) at the time and it was required that I have an interview with him as part of the "application" process. Also, I did not have much money saved and knew that I could only serve with monetary support from my parents. I knew that they would be happy to do that for me because of how much they love and value the opportunities surrounding a mission but I did not want to just spring that on them. But, other than my parents, none of my family had any clue. And although my parents knew that I was going, I kept any conversation to a minimum. I honestly can't say why that is. I am not a secretive type person. But this was my happy secret that I held in my heart.

Little did my sister, Amy, know when she took this photo of me over 14 years ago that I was using it to send with my papers to our church headquarters.
May 17, 1995 I arrived home from my university classes and ran to the mailbox. It was a Wednesday and my papers had been turned in for a week. Calls usually arrived on Wednesdays, I had been told. I knew it might be another week or two until I received my call, but of course I was excited to check. I tried not to get my hopes up when I opened the creaky, little, black metal door. The mail was there. And there was a big white envelope. And it was addressed to me! And the return address was in Salt Lake City, UT. I started to shake but took a deep breath and walked inside. I was the only one home--mom and dad at work, younger sisters at school. Oh, no, wait, Chris was home. My older brother must have just come home from work for some lunch.

I walked into my bedroom, shut and locked the door. I knelt down by the side of my bed with the intention of saying a long, heartfelt prayer before opening the call. Instead, in the fastest words I could muster I scrambled out, "Heavenly Father, help me to know this call is right, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." And then I was tearing the envelope open and searching the first paragraph for the words...and there they were:
TEXAS SAN ANTONIO MISSION
Then my mind shouted, "I thought I was going to be learning Spanish, where is the Spanish?" And then I read the next paragraph which said, "You shall prepare to teach the gospel in the Spanish language."

I was still shaking like a leaf but felt a wonderful peace come over me as if I already knew 100s of years before that I would one day receive this call. I read the whole thing again, making sure I got it right. Okay. Texas. San Antonio. Leave on August 9, 1995. Learn Spanish. I got up from my knees and headed out to the kitchen. Chris was fumbling around with something. Hardly able to control my voice, I said, "Hey, look what I got today."

He took the paper. Crinkled up his eyebrows. Looked at me. Looked at the paper.
"What is this?" he asked.
I smiled, still very shaken.
"What is this?" he repeated.
"It's my mission call," I said.
Pausing and still unable to process, he asked again, "What is this? Is this a joke?"
I shook my head and laughed nervously. "No, I'm going on a mission. I just barely opened my call."
Still not quite processing that his little sister had somehow decided to go on a mission and then not told anybody until now he looked at me puzzled. "For real?"
"Yeah." I was grinning ear to ear.
Then a huge smile came across his face, "That is awesome!" He went over to my parents old World Book Encyclopedias and pulled out the T. We looked at the map and read about the place I would be spending the next 18 months.

I don't remember who I told next. Did I call my parents or wait for them to come home and read it? I remember that my little sisters read the call and shouted and cried and hugged me. I remember them coming with me over to have Kathy read it. She got really angry at first because she doesn't like her loved ones to leave her side and she especially didn't like it being sprung on her like that. But then she was supportive and happy. I remember my friends being shocked. I remember Kelly just saying my name over and over with emphasis. Patti cried but told me I was going to be a great missionary. Lance, one of my very closest friends at the time, was quite subdued and almost seemed hurt. He is not my same religion and I think he almost took it personally that I had chosen to leave. Culley was laughing and joyful and we talked and talked about his mission, missions in general, and we laughed at the outline of motherly clothes they suggested I wear in the packet of info I received.

I am glad to have recorded that memorable day. The next months were very dark and I felt constantly as if there was a heavy force trying to hold me down and keep me from what I was supposed to do. I honestly don't know how to explain it other than that. I now know that I was going through some major physical problems that caused severe depression. That was part of it. The day I arrived at the MTC was a very joyful day. We pulled into the parking spot we were led to in Provo, UT and I immediately jumped out of the Toyota van and, with my arms raised shouted, "Yes! I made it!" I felt a huge weight lifted from me--as if the tentacles of enemies that had been trying to hold me back had at last been defeated.

Of course, that was all just the very beginning. I won't go into my actual mission experience right now. Maybe some day. But I will say that serving my mission was the best choice I ever made up to that point in my life. It was the most difficult and also the most amazing time of my life. It forever altered the course of my life and, I believe, formed the base of the person I am today and the woman I am trying to become. I am so eternally grateful to a loving Heavenly Father who not only answered my prayers but told me for what to pray.

P.S. If any of you actually made it to the end of this post, be nice to the missionaries you see. Maybe you aren't interested in what they have to say. But these guys that you see in the white shirts and ties with the black nametages, always 2 by 2, usually walking or riding their bikes--they are somebody's son, brother, nephew...just 19 year old kids, volunteering their time, paying their own way, and working hard to do something that they believe in. So, please be kind.