Our Missionary Homecoming!

Ever wondered what it is like to welcome a missionary home from his mission? Everyone's experience is different. This was my experience yesterday. I wrote about it that evening, while it was still very fresh in my mind. It was only later that I added the photos. This is very personal and close to my heart. I hope you can appreciate that.

love,




Tender Moments

I check the kitchen chalkboard again. One of my teenage daughters has erased the number, "1" on the countdown, and replaced it with "today".

Today.

Today my missionary son will come home.

This isn’t my first rodeo. This is my second son, returning from his mission. The practical side of me says there’s no reason for tears. The emotional mother in me cannot hold them back. My mind runs through things on an invisible "to-do" list. The lawn that needs mowing, the plants that need watering. The food for this evening’s meal. Sheets on his bed. Tonight I will have all of my children together under one roof. It feels amazing. I’m almost floating.

I think for a moment about missionary homecomings. I went to the airport just yesterday for one. It made me cry then. When I watch the video of it replaying on Facebook – it makes me cry again. Despite my joy, tears are close to the surface today.

My phone rings. Although it shows the phone number, I don’t recognize it. When I answer, it is my missionary son. My hearts skips a beat. His layover is several hours, so he calls from a pay phone at the airport. I spend nearly two hours on the phone with him, talking about a wide range of things. I hand the phone to my husband without divulging the identity of the caller, and watch as a smile spreads on my sweet husband’s face at the sound of his son’s voice. I talk to my son again –he seems excited. I know I’m excited. We hang up, both looking forward to our reunion.

My other kids have had a disagreement regarding the lawn. Another time, I might have lost patience at their arguments. But today, I talk them out of it. I am determined to keep my happy feelings.

I sing.

My kids roll their eyes when I’m not looking.

Four boxes arrive with the mailman. I expected them, after my conversation with my son this morning: he has shipped some items home, to ensure his luggage will not be overweight at the airport. The boxes are heavy for their size.

I check for the things to bring to the airport. Posters. Camera. Video camera. Box of Kleenex. I know myself well. I talk with my four-year-old about her brother returning. For months now, her sweet mealtime prayers have asked for blessings for her brother on his mission. She tells me that she wants to hug him first. I tease her that I want to get the first hug. We don’t resolve it, but I know in my heart that I will claim my mother’s right to the first hug.

We are sure to leave early for the airport, although a few minutes later than I’d wanted. In my anxiousness to get there, I refuse to allow the teen with a learner’s permit to make the short drive to the airport, and I drive instead. My husband is joining us from work, but he must close our store to be able to leave it. I expect him to arrive at the same time as the plane.

A few friends and family join us at the airport. The grandparents have balloons. There are other groups there meeting the arriving plane, so we are not in front. My son’s friend has traveled two hours to be there, and offers to take photos for me. My elder son has the video camera. My husband is late, and I surmise that he must have been delayed by a customer.

I watch the plane taxi in towards the building. I show my four-year-old, who takes a picture with her toy digital camera.

My son is one of the later passengers to disembark. He is unmistakable in his white shirt, suit, tie, and missionary namebadge. He sees me before he can get to me. When he reaches me, he envelopes me in a long, long hug. I feel him sob into my shoulder, and I match it with a sob of my own. For a split second, he is a little boy again, but then that is gone. No, he is a man now. I whisper to him, and stroke his hair, and hope he can feel my love for him and my joy in that moment when time is suspended. My other kids want their turns for hugs, but I don’t hear them.

True to her plans, the four-year-old is the very next one to hug him. He marvels at how much she has grown and changed. No doubt, since she was only two when he left. I marvel at how all her shyness with strangers has melted away, and she hugs him as though she sees him all the time.

He hugs each of his family members and friends in turn. My heart gives a little tug as he hugs his older brother. His father finally arrives, and my heart gives another tug as I watch their embrace.

We pause for pictures together. There are wet spots on my shoulder, but I am unaware of them. My daughters retrieve his luggage from baggage claim, and we drive the short distance back home, with the driver’s permit child behind the wheel. My son is seated next to the four-year-old.

At home, we show him around the house, like he somehow might have forgotten it. He acknowledges changes that we have made in the last two years. He steps into his old bedroom. I’ve rearranged the furniture, and the new mattress was just delivered the day before. I haven’t even put his sheets on yet. We invite him to try out the mattress and see what he thinks. As he lays face down on it, I see the shine on his suit pants. They have obviously been well-worn, and I am not surprised.

As we comment on the wear on his pants, he informs us that most of his clothes are worn out. Now I can see that his white shirt actually looks rather gray. There are no other whiter ones.

And then he tells me that his pajama pants also have holes. The holes are in the knees. I reach for another Kleenex, because I am touched by his simple honesty and more so by what it means. His pajama pants have worn holes in the knees because of the time he has spent on his knees in prayer. I acknowledge to myself the growth that has happened over the last two years for this wonderful son of mine.

He steps into the bathroom, a room that he worked in for many hours at his father’s side. The remodel of the room was a remarkable change. He turns around, and in a choked voice, he recalls that it is the last thing the he did together with his father. I think to myself that he has a new appreciation for his dad, and for their relationship.

We go upstairs, and he plays the piano like I have never heard from him. He slips his hands over a Rubik's cube like it has been oiled, and solves it repeatedly in moments. My husband comes home early from work. We hurry to get preliminary dinner preparations done, and my missionary son takes a moment to shave before meeting with the stake president for his official mission release.

As we drive to the church, my son notes some changes in our town. My husband and I wait a few minutes as my son meets with the stake president on his own. Then he escorts us into the office too.

I tear up again as I listen to the counsel given to my son. I watch in surprise as I see my son look directly into the eye of our stake president, with no sign of awkwardness, and I recognize again his personal growth while he has been gone. The stake president reads a letter from the mission president, which contains warm words of praise.

The stake president gives a date for my son’s mission report to the high council. My son goes to reach for his inside jacket pocket, and freezes as he realizes that his missionary planning book is not there. For the last two years, everything in his life has been planned out in that book. The look on his face seems like he is lost without it.

A smile. A handshake. A certificate. And it is over. He is honorably released from two years of serving the Lord. I see the emotion churning behind his eyes, and I am again close to tears myself.

 

Like the mom that I am, I ask for a photograph with the stake president.

My son slowly brings his hands to his lapel. I see him pause for a moment, as he thinks about what is actually happening. I detect a slight tremble in his hand, and then it is gone again. Very, very slowly, he removes his missionary nametag from his suit coat. He reaches inside his coat, and removes his other missionary nametag from the pocket of his white shirt. It is done. The three of us walk out of the office together.

My son pauses at the corner of the hallway.

He is overcome with his emotions. He has closed a chapter of his life. I take a moment to hug my precious son yet again. I want to reassure him that life is opening up for him now, but I am also mourning the end of his mission with him. It is done, and over, and we cannot go back, but only move forward. I wipe my eyes as my husband draws him close for a hug, too. The male bonding moment makes me smile through the tears.

The family and grandparents are waiting at home. We have killed the fatted t-bone steaks. There is the family’s favorite salad, which I’m pretty sure my son hasn’t eaten for two years. A cholesterol-filled potato dish, cooked in the Dutch oven. Comfort foods. Some friends brought over a red velvet cake last night. The four-year-old wants him seated next to her. We are stuffed.

Other family members stop by that evening. My son watches his first movie in two years with his siblings. The four-year-old falls asleep in his arms. She has been at his side almost constantly. He is exhausted from an extra-early rising time, a day of travel, and the emotional upheaval he has experienced. Before going to bed, he asks what might be needed tomorrow.

I have a headache from the tears this day.

But I would not trade it for anything in the world. I know he feels the same.