It's been a slower week this week. No where does Murphy's Law more true than when missionaries are planning. "If anything can go wrong, it will," he penned and it almost is uncanny how something that seems so solid and sure can fall through, only to have us rushing through back-ups that should have been planned the night before. I'm sure I'm going to come home and be that weird RM who asks a girl out for the following week and calls her every day until it is supposed to transpire to make sure that it is still OK; and just to be sure, I'll have a back-up planned for that evening, just in case.
I don't remember everybody reminding Elder Zaleski of how little time he had left when he was training me, but perhaps they might have and I just can't recall. It seems everybody feels the need to ask when I'm going home and if I'm excited. My District Leader (who happens to be Elder Gerratt - I was his District Leader when I was serving back in Hershey and he was in Lebanon) keeps asking Elder West if I'm getting trunky just to push my buttons. He said to me at our recent Zone Training, "I haven't ever seen a missionary less trunky than you are, so I have to bug you about it." In our PEC yesterday, my Ward Mission Leader and the Bishop, both knowing of what I was to accomplish whilst serving her, felt the need to announce to everyone that I needed to "get in the water" sometime in the next two months, as if physically baptizing someone were an ordinance I must go through myself. Whatever.
It's in this crunch time when I do only have two months left, that I need to make time count rather than just counting time. Ministering has become so much more important to me than administration. Talking to someone to help with their needs seems more worth my time than checking off principles on a teaching record. For the first time I contacted a media referral from Church Headquarters and the result was so intangible that I had no idea how to report it. "Not interested" didn't seem to properly describe it, but nor did the alternative of "New investigator," the result was less systematic than that. The referral was for one Karla Wolfe, the mother of a missionary who is currently serving from our ward in Salt Lake City. The text included this information and asserted a command right at the end - "baptize." Needless to say I was really excited about contacting her and we did so on Thursday afternoon. It had started to snow in York County that day and it was starting to accumulate on the roads and sidewalks. We parked outside of a nice neighborhood and walked over to the designated house. Coincidentally, Karla was shoveling her driveway and we quickly seized the opportunity to help her clear it. We didn't leave her much choice but she caved when she recognized who we were. She said she hadn't had much exposure to the Church since her divorce with her first husband (this missionary's father), but that she wasn't too interested in learning the doctrine for herself. However we continued to talk with her, discussing her son and the few people she recognized from the ward. From our conversation, it was apparent that she didn't understand why her son had chosen to go on a mission nor what he did everyday as an elder. I think when she looked at us she could see her boy, shoveling someone else's driveway somewhere in Utah. In her I think I could see my Mom, worried for her son so far away that she had little contact with and little knowledge of where he was every moment. However, the main difference is that my Mom knows why I'm here while Karla seemed almost lost and deserted, destitute of any hope. I felt sorry for her, how she just didn't understand but yet, didn't want to understand. It was a heartbreaking scene and we assured her of all her worries about us as missionaries. We talked with her as we would a friend rather than a faceless referral. She lingered even after we completed her driveway asking questions about our life and routine. I left her with our number assuring her that she could call us if she needed anything whether that was service for shoveling her walk again or just a question and answer session about missionary work. She graciously accepted and felt compelled to give us something. We assured her that such wasn't necessary but she insisted, rushing into her house with a look of concern at us in the cold, reminding me of a plea my mother once used to say, "I take care of the missionaries because I hope that when they're on their missions, someone will be taking care of my sons."
A mother's maternal instinct for a distant son is perpetuated around the world, no matter what their faith is. I'm sure in this longing, we get a glimpse of the divine; a Father ever longing for the triumphant return of His children.
Elder Low
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