On a more serious note, Ray’s story reminded me of a companion I once had.

In my mission it was common to do “blue splits” (or “greenie splits,” for you non-French mission alumni) where new missionaries would be assigned to a different companion in a different district for one week after they’d been in the field about one month. I think the idea was to let them know their trainer wasn’t the most abhorrent in the mission. =)

Anyway, I had about a month to go and my ZL called me up and said he was having problems with a companionship in another city, and wanted to separate them for a few days by doing a blue split with my (month-old) companion. My comp wasn’t happy about it but I agreed.

My new, temporary companion was a very young 19 from Kaysville, UT. He had, by his own admission, had a sheltered upbringing and told me of his culture shock at being in France, confiding “Elder, where I come from, the ‘bad people’ were the inactive people!”

I was finishing my mission in the same city where I had begun. We had enjoyed great success with the local university students attending our weekly English classes, and the parents of one student, who was now in another city completing her education, had invited us to teach them a discussion and have dinner at their home, as they had not met me on my original tour through their city the year before. I told my new comp that he was in for the dinner of his life, and off we went.

The discussion went well — they had actually read quite a bit in the Book of Mormon — and that was probably the last chance my new companion had to get a word in edgewise. Which made his closing prayer all the more remarkable.

I’m an anglophone Canadian, but my mother had sent me to a French immersion elementary school; although when I arrived in France it had been 12 years since I’d spoken the language daily, the fact of having learned it beginning at age five soon bore its fruit. Within six months my French was among the best in the mission, and by the year mark I was getting asked what region of the country I was from. I had now been out nearly two years. Our hosts were retired French professors. Over dinner, we spoke freely and fluently about many things. Although we mostly kept to family and Church topics, my poor companion quickly lost the thread of the conversation and was never really able to pick it up again. French dinners last at least two hours; that’s a long time for an insecure young man to feel like the odd one out.

But he did hear, at the very beginning, these two good people express concern for their outgoing, vivacious daughter who had so enjoyed her first two years in the local community college and now felt lost in a sea of strangers as she finished her last two years in a large university in the big city. She was homesick, and verging on depression, and it was so unlike her that her parents were unsure how to proceed.

Two hours later, this superb young missionary gave the closing prayer, and though the rest of us had forgotten how our dinner-table conversation had started, my companion prayed, in his halting, broken MTC French, for their daughter. For her schoolwork. For her sense of self-worth. For her feelings of depression and homesickness. It was all he had been able to capture of our conversation, and all of a sudden the rest of us realized how profound it was that he would remember and pray for this.

The whole time he prayed, the Spirit prodded me to remember all the advantages I’d had, serving a mission in France. I was 23 when I’d left, and was 25 when this happened; I had lived on my own for several years before serving a mission. I was a convert from Catholicism. I’d gone to a French immersion school. So I understood the local religion, the language, and how to survive on my own. And here was this young boy, without any of my advantages, doing the work anyway. At that moment it was overwhelming.

When he finished, the rest of us were teary-eyed and I said: “If the gospel motivates this young man to come halfway around the world and pray for your daughter, it’s because it is true.” The father, wiping his eyes, said simply: “If we have learned anything about Mormons from your visits, it is that you are ‘une religion saine.’” Anyone familiar with French attitudes towards “les sectes” will understand how significant that statement was.

I’ve never forgotten that visit, though I have forgotten the Elder’s name.

Good times.

m&m, isn’t it funny how authentic food can make you cry great tears of happiness? I came home from my mission the same day as my college roommate who had gone to Korea, and she was on one serious diehard kimchi quest, as I recall.

My parents brought me back a gift after being close to where I served (So. America). I cried when I opened it….a handmade leather scripture cover for my quad, with pictures of Christ on front and back and my mission name on the spine, my own name recorded in full in the front. (Does this ring a bell for anyone?) I had purchased one for my Spanish triple but really wanted one for my English quad.

I don’t remember mission rituals on the mission, but there are some things that bring a lot of nostalgia for the mission. The food is one of them. Someone in my ward is from my mission area and brought me over some homemade, authentic food. I found a restaurant that serves it here and it was like I had been beamed back. It’s a bit like Christmas joy to eat the real thing.

One of my favorite memories related to the food in my mission is when I had the fortune of being sent there for a work project way back when. The first night in the hotel, I went to the restaurant to see if they had one of my favorite dishes. They didn’t. The disappointment must have been evident on my face (I think I was ready to go elsewhere) because the server told me to hold on, and went back to talk to the chef. The chef told me he could make what I wanted, a special just for me. He did and it was delicious.

And I had to eat with about three people watching me because they loved the fact that I was loving each bite so much. Fun stuff….

I’ll be in Boston. The next Sunday I’ll be at the MTC will be the last Sunday for another district. This one includes the young man who chose to leave his band rather than tour, and sold his very expensive guitars to finance his mission.

Take that, Howard Hunter!

I could have done the D&C countdown but by the time I had 140 days left I wasn’t in a position to count days. That is, it was hard enough focusing on getting up and out each day that I couldn’t think about how many I had left. (And two months before I was to go home, that date was changed and so I would have had to read sixteen sections one night to catch up.)

Someone serving from my home ward a few years later put an interesting twist on the countdown, that I might have considered doing: Every day that he read a section, his parents at home read the same section.

Like Walkinginthewoods, I have a son who is not going to serve a mission. But I’m no gourmet cook, so I do admire anyone who can make fancy meals.

I’m writing this on the day our district left. They left for various destinations this morning at 4:30 a.m. My husband embraced each; I gave them a handshake.

My youngest son said to us yesterday, “I’m going to go on a mission because I know you two (meaning Bruce and me) are so disappointed that [my brother] didn’t go.” I told him that I hoped by the time he’s of age, we have very little to do with his decision.

Next week is Conference; the week following, I’ll be in Boston. The next Sunday I’ll be at the MTC will be the last Sunday for another district. This one includes the young man who chose to leave his band rather than tour, and sold his very expensive guitars to finance his mission.