Welcome to the Life of a Missionary Mom
I don't really know what I thought it would be like when my own child left on a mission. As I watched other young men and young women leave, I guess I only thought about the missionary experience. Perhaps the adventure associated with leaving and living in a new culture for two years. Because I so desperately wanted to serve a mission, and I wouldn't have missed ME if I were to leave, I suppose that I projected those emotions onto the situation.
HAHAHAHA!! What a fool I was!! I got a tiny dose of the anxiety of a missionary mom when my nephew, Alec, went to Germany a few years ago. He wasn't even my kid and I was terrified of all the badness in the world. Happily, once he got home I promptly forgot my anxiety.
Until about November when Mitchell was ready to open his mission call. He was called to Oklahoma. And I have never been so relieved.
Until about January and I realized that to serve a mission, he would actually have to ...you know, LEAVE.
Around about the second week in February, I began to panic. I mean, really, who thought that teaching little boys that they should grow up and serve a mission was a good idea? This was nonsense! Crazy talk! I truly began to feel myself, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. It was like someone dipped me into liquid nitrogen and then placed me, none too gently, on a hard surface. It wasn't a good feeling, is what I am trying to convey. I had a knot in my chest. Shortness of breath. Pretty much your basic nightmare. I started leaking tears at random. Liesel questioned incredulously, more than once, "Are you crying?? AGAIN??"
Why did I think this would be a breeze? Because I am stupid. That's why.
Anyway, we bought, collected, and procured all of the necessary items for missionary service. Several kind family members and friends gave money and gifts to help us along the way. Such blessings. As bad as the liquid nitrogen anxiety felt, this was like warm wax, melting in a yummy, vanilla aroma. I don't know if blessings can be compared to the smell of cookies, but they should be.
To get through the nitrogen-anxiety, I needed prayer. I had to just metaphorically, hand my son over to the Lord. Which, once I thought of it, was not difficult. I certainly couldn't foresee what Mitchell would need. (Although, truthfully, that didn't stop me from trying.)
Praying worked. I knew it would. The anxiety calmed.
But it did not remove the real ache that mothers feel when their baby birds leave the nest. Once Mitchell's farewell was complete and we had our family over for dinner, it was time to pack and send him on his way.
I loved watching him organize his belongings. Pack them all up. His books. Scriptures. A copy of his patriarchal blessing. A magic, wiggly worm. His suits. His jacket. Watch him assemble his toiletries. Include his Snuggie. And his favorite fuzzy blanket.
But then I realized that he was leaving. What a terrible trick.
We took him to the MTC (Missionary Training Center) yesterday. We had a favorite family breakfast. We visited Grandpa Evans, who is 90 years old, and who was unable to attend Mitchell's farewell, as he was in a rehab center. We went to the store, as we had forgot deodorant, of all things. And then we went to Provo.
Mitchell wanted to eat at Wendy's. Which we did. And then we took him and dropped him off.
Heart-rending.
So now we pray that he will do well. Pray that he is learning. Pray that he is obedient. Pray that he is making friends. Pray that he will learn the language.
And pray that we can count down the Monday emails until we see him again!!
HAHAHAHA!! What a fool I was!! I got a tiny dose of the anxiety of a missionary mom when my nephew, Alec, went to Germany a few years ago. He wasn't even my kid and I was terrified of all the badness in the world. Happily, once he got home I promptly forgot my anxiety.
Until about November when Mitchell was ready to open his mission call. He was called to Oklahoma. And I have never been so relieved.
Until about January and I realized that to serve a mission, he would actually have to ...you know, LEAVE.
Around about the second week in February, I began to panic. I mean, really, who thought that teaching little boys that they should grow up and serve a mission was a good idea? This was nonsense! Crazy talk! I truly began to feel myself, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. It was like someone dipped me into liquid nitrogen and then placed me, none too gently, on a hard surface. It wasn't a good feeling, is what I am trying to convey. I had a knot in my chest. Shortness of breath. Pretty much your basic nightmare. I started leaking tears at random. Liesel questioned incredulously, more than once, "Are you crying?? AGAIN??"
Why did I think this would be a breeze? Because I am stupid. That's why.
Anyway, we bought, collected, and procured all of the necessary items for missionary service. Several kind family members and friends gave money and gifts to help us along the way. Such blessings. As bad as the liquid nitrogen anxiety felt, this was like warm wax, melting in a yummy, vanilla aroma. I don't know if blessings can be compared to the smell of cookies, but they should be.
To get through the nitrogen-anxiety, I needed prayer. I had to just metaphorically, hand my son over to the Lord. Which, once I thought of it, was not difficult. I certainly couldn't foresee what Mitchell would need. (Although, truthfully, that didn't stop me from trying.)
Praying worked. I knew it would. The anxiety calmed.
But it did not remove the real ache that mothers feel when their baby birds leave the nest. Once Mitchell's farewell was complete and we had our family over for dinner, it was time to pack and send him on his way.
I loved watching him organize his belongings. Pack them all up. His books. Scriptures. A copy of his patriarchal blessing. A magic, wiggly worm. His suits. His jacket. Watch him assemble his toiletries. Include his Snuggie. And his favorite fuzzy blanket.
But then I realized that he was leaving. What a terrible trick.
We took him to the MTC (Missionary Training Center) yesterday. We had a favorite family breakfast. We visited Grandpa Evans, who is 90 years old, and who was unable to attend Mitchell's farewell, as he was in a rehab center. We went to the store, as we had forgot deodorant, of all things. And then we went to Provo.
Mitchell wanted to eat at Wendy's. Which we did. And then we took him and dropped him off.
Heart-rending.
So now we pray that he will do well. Pray that he is learning. Pray that he is obedient. Pray that he is making friends. Pray that he will learn the language.
And pray that we can count down the Monday emails until we see him again!!
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