I sit here on this couch in Greeley as my companion sits in a hotel room, leaving all the group phone chats as he says goodbye. Elder Conrad is good at goodbyes. A man well-spoken and confidently presented, there is a deep and abiding love and sorrow he holds for the world. I drove to transfer point early in the morning. Clear skies at 5:10 and smiles all around as missionaries reunited and said hello. We picked up my new companion, Elder Prescott, then back to the apartment where Elder Conrad packed. One suitcase has a broken zipper, so we bought zip ties and got a kitchen knife and stabbed holes into the flap and the bag and zip-tied them shut. I love that kid. We went to transfer point yet again for the bus return. I hugged Elder Morgan and said hi to Elder Mestre. I walked over and half of the Nebraska Zone was there! Elder Stubblefield, Sister Malyon, and Sister D'Aquisto. We conversed and then took a photo. I felt I was surfing across the wave of people I'd grown to love over my mission. Elder Conrad hopped in the van and the rest of the departing missionaries followed. I gave Elder Conrad one last hug. This one felt different. I said, "keep doing the little things." He replied that he’d try. The words spoken were not the takeaway, but the sincerity in which we both said them, wanting to help and be remembered by the other. I've really enjoyed my time with him. As Jacob wrote, "it passed by as it were a dream." You will survive, no matter the goodbye. We wake up in the morning and the days roll on. Elder Conrad knows how much I love Into the Woods. As he left the district chat, he wrote these words: "You know how at some point in every journey, you have to go out into the woods? And you don’t really know what's out there. It's kinda scary, kinda excited. There may be beasts of many kinds. But in the end you know that you will head back home. Because that's where you belong...I'm finally headed home guys." I replied: That means a lot, friend. Thanks for everything. See you at lunch tomorrow. He then sent a gif of Michael Scott and Jim's last meeting on The Office. Jim tells Michael he'll tell him later how much he meant to him-- knowing they wouldn’t see each other again. The mission is an odd experience. These people matter so much to you; they're your everything. They're in your work, personal, and recreational life. Then, we move on—we walk away. I remember feeling such strong feelings leaving Casper, Longmont, and Nebraska. I loved all three deeply. The mission, like a story, is incrementally played out in every area, transfer, companionship, and day. We come to the mission and fall in love with it; then one day, we leave. You fall in love with an area, then you move. Throughout the companionship, you learn how to love them and they become your favorite, then you watch that relationship cease. You spend every second and almost every thought revolving around a small portion of land, and then one day, you don’t. There's no easing out. No transition. The nametag is on, then it's on the floor. As we go to say goodbye, it is inevitable that we look back on our first hello and contemplate the change and growth made between that hello and this goodbye. We entered the woods of a relationship, and now leave it, changed. Examining this change allows us to appreciate the type of influence the person has had on you. A missionary here recently had a severe head injury and was hospitalized. She was supposed to depart with Elder Conrad next week. You may remember her from my adventures at the Salt Lake City airport in which she chastised me for rolling down the terminal ramp on my suitcase. You may also remember her from my adventurous district council in which I said that her name sounded like lasagna and a mosquito had a baby. She had not been on my mind since that time. Then, we received a notice asking us to pray for her. This got me thinking about the brief interactions I had had with her. Marvin J. Ashton, says "a friend is a person who is willing to take me the way I am but who is willing and able to leave me better than he found me." With her, I wasn't even willing to take her the way she was. This prompts the question, why? Digging into the story in SLC, she had criticized me for my actions; I didn't feel addressed as a person. I thought she had a very hard-nosed character, people talked about her, and I didn't want to disappoint those I looked to for affirmation. I didn't have anything good to say, so I just didn't get involved. Now I have come to realize the stark weakness this speaks to my character. I didn't understand her because she held qualities and preferences I struggled to hold. She was diligent, hard-working, and passionate about aspects of the work I didn't care about. She was confident about aspects of the work that I wasn't, and this produced a subconscious self- consciousness that prevented me from being a friend. Now, being more obedient and more appropriate and having more confidence in my direction, I can be more of a friend to those who may hold different ideals than me. More often than not, we change through failure and repetition. I was reading through my journal entry one year ago today. I read of an argument Elder Laudie and I got into about planning. I was more willing to communicate than he was, but I said with some irony, "you know what, it's my fault" and then just stopped talking. I remember feeling so confident that I was in the right and that Elder Laudie was just the enemy. Of course, with any trained eye and sane mind, you'd see that was not the case. Though both of us were well-intentioned, neither of us, especially me, had the ability to express that clearly. How I wish to go spend another transfer with Laudie in Casper knowing what I know now. Excerpt from Henry's letter to the injured missionary: From the short interactions we've had, I must admit, you probably don't have the best memories of me. Some wild kid in the MTC and an even weirder kid in Longmont. The first time I met you was in the airport of SLC. I rehearsed this story to you in Longmont, but you gave me some correction in the airport after I slid on my stomach on a suitcase down a ramp. Then, in Longmont, I told this story to you almost from the perspective of, "remember how silly that was?" Oh man, that correction was way out of line. I'd like to apologize for both of these interactions. I've grown up just enough since then to realize this: you were far more mature and well-meaning than I was able to comprehend at that time. I've come to realize the maturity and the urgent dignity with which you held your calling. I've had the pleasure of serving around a lot of people who have served around you; one of which is my current companion, Elder Conrad. I've admired the complimentary and loving way in which they refer to the time they spent serving with you; they all speak so incredibly high of you (Elder Conrad always breaks out into a smile when he talks about you and that district)! From the small interactions I've had with you (and me learning to grow up) and hearing how much people care for you, I'm left with nothing but admiration. I hope to finish my mission with honor like you. I hope this note does not come too much as a surprise. I recently had a long conversation with another missionary. He asked me, "deep down, do you want to be here?" He said, "sometimes, I wish I would have gone home at 18 months. I was at the peak of my conviction for the work and I had a strong testimony. I've grown and changed the last six months of my mission more than any other. These last six were the hardest for me. Take your motivation, and run with it." "I hope there’s a God," he told me. "I just don't know." I was deeply struggling last week, I felt a hopelessness; I was trying to do it all myself. As I read a verse in Acts, my heart softened. I really prayed. It wasn't a rote prayer, nor one given in my often-hectic mind. I spoke outloud and with intention; I wasn't checking off boxes. Acts 9:5 reads, "Who art thou, Lord?" I like running, but I'm never fast; I am drawn to art, but there is always something more I could do better; and I love God, but I'm never doing enough. Much like how one's artistic abilities must be worked up to one's taste, one's feelings and emotional outlook on the world must become one with objective truth. As Jesus said, "come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." I'd rather live boldly, fail, and change than be too scared to try.
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Last week my companion told me we were doing an interview. As I loaded the lighting and camera equipment into the car he was pretty confused. I said, "I thought we were doing an interview." He began to laugh..."a baptismal interview!" (That's just a checkup you do with someone to make sure they're ready for their upcoming baptism). We all started laughing. He said, "you're probably the only missionary I've met that would grab filming equipment when someone said interview." I thought that was pretty funny. We spent two hours digging out Tom's basement; a project I started in my week-long pit stop in Greeley months ago. We're digging out all the dirt from underneath his home. All accomplished by missionary efforts. It was so fun. I videoed Tom and asked him where we were. He started talking about how much he loved the missionaries. "I never had friends," he said, "until I met the missionaries and joined the church." This sixty year-old man standing underneath his home with his eyes welling up said, "these guys are angels." We then went and conducted a baptismal interview for an eleven year-old kid. At the house, an old man with no teeth and one leg sat in a wheelchair, emptily staring. Two other older folk were home; one was a woman who moved swiftly around the house, just fast enough to keep in tempo with the small children running all around. The other was a heftier man who didn't really have to tell you, but did, that he was a truck driver. The boy I was interviewing was quiet but actively attentive. Clothes were strewn about and drawers were open. Without prompting, he went about picking everything up and tidying up. I sat down against the wall, criss-cross-applesauce. As he cleaned, he noted my silence like a basketball player does an empty lane: you take it and run. He told me about his mother, the abuse she inflicted, the hours of video games she would play, and the consequential responsibilities heaped upon his young shoulders. He described the stress of keeping his grades up, cleaning the house, and taking care of his younger siblings. His mom would leave her newborn strapped to a carseat set in front of the TV for hours. He continued to tell me about how his mother would beat him if he didn't do the dishes but didn't want anyone in the kitchen while she cooked. She would also yell at him if he was awake after dinner. He was so grateful to finally come to live with his grandparents in this small town in northeastern Colorado. He showed me his two new pairs of shoes and all the clothes they'd bought him. He was thrilled to have a bunkbed and a room. This kid was so self-aware and conscious. He sat in the midst of a chaotic home and simply picked up after his siblings' mess. Every time he'd leave the room, he'd shut the lights off. I have never seen someone so young not just fake responsibility, but quietly be that responsible. No show, no pomp, just honest, hardworking love. He wanted to come closer to God. This was not for some superficial show (his family didn't care one way or another), but for his own happiness. On his free time, he'd watch church content on Tik Tok. He inspired me. Elder Smith was shocked when I told him about some of what he'd told me. After months of meeting, he had never heard a word of it. In exchanges recently, Elder Mestre gave me lots of useful advice. He also told me, "the way you see the world and everything you do is so nostalgic." (Elder Mestre is a native Spanish-speaker. He has an amazing vocabulary for having not spoken English for long, but sometimes the words he's looking for aren't there in English.) He has an incredible ability to speak with the spirit. He discerns and acts with the spirit like seaweed flows with the swell. Later, Elder Mestre told me he meant yearn when he said I was nostalgic. He also sent me the definitions of the word yearn. They include: 1. Desire strongly or persistently; 2. Have a desire for something that is not there; 3. Have affection for or feel tenderness for. However, the most meaningful definition was the fourth. He said he felt I put this definition into action... The fourth definition is to "have an intense feeling or longing for something, typically something that one has been separated from." He said, "Yeah, it's like every picture portrays something that is not there but wants to be."
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