Two lifetimes ago, I sent off a missionary. He was older than me. We wrote as friends. He came back when I was too young and it did not work out.
I had not thought about this person for years, until this summer. But now it has all come back: going over to his parents’ house for his twice-yearly phone calls and noting, with some alarm, the thick accent he had developed. Driving to the mall alone on a Friday night to douse myself in his cologne (Curve for men) and crying on the way home. I had long forgotten all this teenage silliness until this summer.
I blame my nephews.
Picture it: 75 teenagers are crammed into my sister’s living room, spilling into the kitchen and up the stairs. My nervous 18-year-old nephew in a white shirt and tie. His older brother is displayed on a TV screen above him, Zooming in from his respective mission. The older brother gives an opening prayer (in Spanish!) before the younger starts to read: “Dear elder, you have been called to serve as a missionary in …”
A gasp when he reads the location, followed by cheers and an outpouring of hugs from friends, neighbors, teachers, coaches. I watch wide-eyed as the hordes of teens talk and eat cookies, gathering from their clothing that they are cool while also having the very “old” thought, “do they know this clothing is silly?” I get confused when the house suddenly clears out, until my brother informs me it is because they have another mission call opening to attend. They are crawling — from mission call to mission call on a Tuesday night.
I had forgotten this was a thing or maybe didn’t realize it was still happening. Because for so many years, I forgot missionaries were human.
They’re so young
Until recently, my missionary exposure has been limited to the occasional church handshake, or feeding missionaries a meal and wondering: “Are we sure we should send them out this young?” I’ve sat in Sunday school and inwardly groaned any time someone began a comment with “one time on my mission …” (We’re glad you went, and we don’t want to hear about it. We are the worst.) I have passed them in the grocery store and said hello politely before rapidly walking away so they can’t ask if I have any friends they can meet.
Despite bemoaning the caricature “The Book of Mormon” musical has made of Latter-day Saint missionaries, I had essentially come to see them the same way. Until this summer.
When my younger nephew left family dinner early one Sunday to go “take a pic in front of the temple with all my friends.” Or when he told me he and his way-too-cool-for-her-age girlfriend broke up because they wanted to be able to focus on what was important. This summer, it struck me anew how wildly old-fashioned this tradition is, how achy and somehow romantic, even though they can apparently just FaceTime anyone whenever they want now? They’ll never know the suffering we endured in my day, writing letters with our actual fingers on real paper.
I watched my nephews reunite when the older one returned from his mission. Then they spoke together at their joint farewell/homecoming. Afterward, I sweatily helped dish out 200 plates from my sister’s pantry, stumbling among the eight Instant Pots we emptied and discarded on the floor. I went on the family vacation where my returning nephew sported a shocking farmer tan and perma-grin, and I asked not a single question about his mission (I’m the worst).
I caught glimpses of the month my nephews had at home together — working, hiking, shopping for the opposite kinds of clothes — and then the final goodbye pics my sister sent of a huddle of sobbing teenagers. I felt the bittersweetness of being so, so sad for him to leave precisely because he’s so good.
After so many years of forgetting missionaries, moving on, adopting the idea that it’s clearly more enlightened to wait until you know yourself to get married, after whining with fellow millennials that missions are “problematic,” I am suddenly doing an about-face. I think because I’ve been reacquainted with this singular time of life, bursting with potential and future dreams; the magic of being young and having your whole life ahead of you, and the peculiarity of choosing to spend it on this.
Or maybe it’s because I have two sons, who aren’t even in grade school yet, but I am now flashing forward to their futures. Will they someday don black nametags? Will I be a cool parent who fully entrusts them to go or not go, and how will I feel if they don’t? I can’t answer those questions. What I know is that I want them to be good. I want a village to help me raise them to be brave. I hope to have built one by then.
That black nametag
I worry about the kids in the black tags, because I’m not the only one who sees them as caricatures. I get sent lots of videos on social media with “man on the street” missionary interactions. There was one in which a girl asks a pair of elders about menstruation, and they shocked the whole internet by getting every question right. I saw another where a guy walks up behind a missionary and compliments him on how “those pants have that a– sittin’ real nice.” I laughed and then wondered: Is this attention or harassment? Does wearing the nametag feel like a badge of honor or a target on your back?
I know missions, and missionaries, are far from perfect. I know the environment can breed mental health challenges, weird spiritual stigmas, and apparently horror films. I know all this, but I also know my nephews. And I can’t help but feel like there is nothing braver they could be doing.
It feels not coincidental that early this summer my mom brought over a bunch of old stuff I didn’t know she was holding onto. Among it was a cassette tape — I repeat, A CASSETTE TAPE — from the missionary I’d written two lifetimes ago. I took a moment to process this. First, the knowledge that I am ancient. Next, wondering whether I should listen to it for laughs and then realizing I had literally no way to do that. Lastly, seeing his handwriting, which triggered another memory:
Running into him at General Conference in Salt Lake City, a decade after we had both moved on. Remembering the shock of seeing him in this crowd of thousands, when neither of us lived locally. The joy at realizing the last time I saw him (on Facebook with his fiancee) I was so, so sad, and this time I just felt a zap of joy. We caught up rapid-fire in the few minutes before the meeting started. It felt like mutual awe — over what time can change and how much life can happen to two people. That whatever relationship they no longer have still mattered when they had it.
Luckily, I don’t owe my nephews advice, and I have a while to figure out what to tell my own kids. In years past, I would have maintained that no one should marry the person they date in high school, and really not all of you have to serve missions, OK? But that was before this summer. And now — if you can keep a secret — I’m really pulling for my nephew to end up with the girl he’ll write on his mission.
(Rebbie Brassfield) Tribune guest columnist Rebbie Brassfield.
Rebbie Brassfield is a writer and creative director in the advertising industry. She lives in Saratoga Springs with her two young kids, where she spends most of her time picking things up. You can find her overanalyzing at @MormonsInMedia on Instagram, or see more of her work and writing at www.RebbieBrassfield.com.
