Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Entertaining Angels

Photo courtesy of the morgueFile
It must have been right after Thanksgiving. It must have been, because we still had all those cookies. We decided to make cookies instead of pies and the kids and I went a little insane with it, like it wasn't just the four of us for dinner, like any other day. We had more leftover cookies than we could ever eat. It was afternoon, but dark. Bitterly cold in that freaky freeze we sometimes get the end of November, where it acts like real winter with frost and hard, crunchy ground, visible breath in the air and numb fingers and toes. It was laundry day, too. Whatever day that was. Wool sweaters were drip-drying all over the kitchen tables and chairs. I was getting ready to start dinner and it was that gloaming time. Not full dark, but dark enough; homework time, but not quite dinner, Daddy not yet home from work. It was that itchy time of day where we're all a little sleepy, almost done with being productive, but not quite ready to settle in for the night.

A knock on the door around Thanksgiving isn't all that odd. Usually it's the UPS man, knocking quickly and running back to his truck. Probably cursing the housewives who sit in yoga pants and do their Christmas shopping online. But the knock kept coming and my daughter interrupted her cello practice to tell me that there were two men on the doorstep. The "men" were little more than boys, standing bright and clean with pink, smooth cheeks in their crisp white shirts, dark ties and name tags. Missionaries.

I smiled and listened and praised their efforts. My usual patter when they come to my door. "I appreciate your zeal. No, I'm not Mormon, but I am a Christian. Godspeed." My daughter stood just under my heels, peeking through my armpit. The boys outside smiled politely through chattering teeth, nodded at my own spiel meant to preempt theirs. The taller one, Elder P, finally said, "Well, is there anything we can do for you? Hang your Christmas lights?" My daughter giggled and tugged at the back of my shirt. These young Elders tugged at something less visible than my shirt.

"It's freezing out there, do you want to come in and have some coffee?" Duh. Crazy lady, offering the Mormon missionaries coffee. "Or some decaf tea?" I recovered. The boys prevaricated and the smaller one, Elder G, cocked his head, "Hot cocoa?" Deal. And I let them inside. My daughter skipped and squealed, always thrilled to have visitors. She's a natural-born hostess and would fill the house daily if she had her way. In another era, she would host a salon in our living room, I'm sure of it.

I apologized for the mess and scooped sweaters off the table and went about the business of cocoa. My daughter filled a plate with those cookies - so many cookies! - and the boys started to thaw out and open up. We chatted about their mission, about their lives. Elder P was Utah born and bred. He could trace his ancestry back to the pioneers. This was his birthright, a foregone conclusion long before he was born. Elder G was from Las Vegas, a recent convert. Raised Jewish and discontent, he searched for something to keep himself out of trouble in high school and found it in his new faith. "I think what sealed it for me were the families. I never had a family like the ones I saw among the Mormons." My little girl ran and got her Bible, read her favorite verses to the boys and asked a lot of questions while plying them with cookies. When the cocoa was gone and their fingers and toes had warmed up, the Elders stood to leave. We packed up more cookies for the road and some boxes of mac and cheese. I let them out the back door, the one for friends and family, and sent them on their way into the full dark cold with our phone number and names, in case they found themselves in need.

"That was fun," my daughter said as we closed the door. "That was good."
"Yes, it was. Now go practice your cello." Back to business as usual. I thought we'd done our good deed for the day and helped make their evening a little more interesting and that was that.

A few days later, the kids and I were waiting at a stop light, on our way to an orthodontist appointment, when suddenly, my son squealed: "Look! It's the missionaries!" And there they were, walking down a busy street in the cold. The kids rolled down their windows and hollered to them and were thrilled when they came and poked their heads into the car and gave us an invitation to the Ward Christmas party. What an odd coincidence, we marveled together. How fun.

For the next several weeks, though, it was not at all uncommon to hear a knock in the early evening and find what the kids had come to refer to as "our missionaries" on the doorstep. We celebrated Elder G's 20th birthday, we got updates on their families from their precious Christmas phone calls home; we talked about our respective faiths, about Santa Claus, about music, about flame throwers, and about their adventures in the mission field. My husband entertained them with silly stories from his childhood and commiserated about the filthiness of Paris; my kids showed them their new toys and the lizard, they talked Star Wars and Jesus and the best way to eat Ramen noodles. I mostly listened and bustled in the kitchen, because that is what I do. We always sent them home with food of some sort and my little girl tried to give them her allowance when Elder G bemoaned spending too much of his stipend on Christmas cards.

These boys. They would cringe to hear me call them that. They are technically adults, twenty and twenty-one. But so young, and so clean, and so fresh-faced. My daughter was besotted and flitted like a fairy when ever they came around. My husband called them my adopted sons. If I'd started early, I am old enough to have been their mother, I suppose. It was for their own mothers that I took these boys in. We see them everywhere, we sometimes make jokes about them. But those two shivering boys on my doorstep, just after Thanksgiving, were no laughing matter. At a time in their lives when most of us were out making a royal mess of things (or at least I was), they forgo home and security and most material things and head out to where ever they are sent, knocking on doors. Whether you agree with them or not, they show a kind of courage and a kind of steely backbone that most of us only aspire to. They believe in something, so they sacrifice. They believe in something, so they are out there getting it done. I respect that, and I respect their mothers for letting them go. For hoping their babies are all right while they disappear for two years, only to be heard from on special occasions. The faith involved on all fronts is staggering. Even the faith to step into a stranger's home and accept a cup of cocoa, when there is no reason to trust me.

My phone rang the other night. An unfamiliar, local number.
"This is Elder G. I wanted to let you know," his voice faltered a little, "I wanted to let you know that we are both being transferred. We leave on Tuesday." I knew this would eventually come, but I didn't really know that it would feel like a punch in the gut. They have both been transferred to a notoriously rough suburb south of here. "I'm a little scared," Elder G whispered, sounding every bit the young boy he is, "I wanted you all to know, though. Pray for us."

My life is littered with people to whom I've been attached for a season, never to see again. It is the legacy of my own upbringing, as the child of a different kind of missionary. I have been transient most of my life and have learned, along with how to pack a bag, how to love and leave with minimal fuss. I have rarely allowed myself the luxury of missing people. I know how to say goodbye. I am finding, though, that... is it age? is it that I'm more settled now than I've been in my entire life? I am finding that these ghosts cling to me. It has begun to sting a little to let people go, even as I know full well I must. It is uncomfortable and new and it makes me want to keep people on my doorstep with my preemptive spiel: "I have enough, thank you. Please go away."

I was all bluster and practicality when I told my little girl with her big-hearted crush that the missionaries were moving on. "It is how it works. They chose to do this and they have to go where they're told." She nodded solemnly and her eyes were just a little bit brighter, her voice just a little bit smaller as she said, "I know. But I will miss them. I hope they're OK." As always, she reminds me that my heart is not my own. If I had truly never wanted to be touched, to never feel the sting of loss, I would not have joined my life to her father. I would not have brought her and her brother into this world to pry open the parts of me that no one else is allowed to see. She is small and settled in her life. She has the security to say "I will miss them," and to know that life goes on. To give away small bits of her heart to the people she meets and trust that in so doing, her own heart will expand. I held her hand while she prayed for their safety and said thank you for letting them into our lives. And I thought of their mothers, doubtless on their knees day and night, praying for the safety of these pieces of their hearts that wander strange streets and knock on doors. I said a prayer for their mothers, too. It is not an easy or comfortable thing, letting all these strangers in.

But this is part of the promise I have made. It is a battle in the war I have declared. It is a door that must be thrown open and I thank those two shivering boys, so sweet and earnest in the gathering dark shortly after Thanksgiving, for knocking. Their faith drove them to knock that night, and I find it was my own faith that drove me to invite them all the way in.

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, 
for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
Hebrews 13:2

29 comments:

  1. Oh this is beautiful! I was a mother of a missionary boy not too long ago and it makes my heart happy to know there are people like you out there. God bless you and your family.

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    1. Welcome Michelle, and thank you. It takes a lot of faith to send your babies out like that. Thank you, and God bless.

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  2. So moving. As I was reading I just wanted to distribute hugs all around, from you to your sweet daughter to those two boys. Thank you - I will remember this the next time I'm impatient at an unwelcome doorbell. :)

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  3. My son serves in The Iowa Des Moines mission among the spanish speaking people there. I hope he finds many people like you.

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    1. I hope your son does well and learns so much on his mission. I appreciate your kind words.

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  4. A friend of mine just shared a link to your post. I'm so glad I stopped and read. My son is currently serving a Mission in Germany. I pray every day that good people will love him and watch out for him. He'd been in one town for a little while and was just transferred to another. It tugged at my heart strings to see him write about saying good bye to those who'd befriended him, loved him and cared for him. To read your perspective just melted this mother's heart. Thank you for your goodness and your willingness to put this into words and share it. I do not know you, but you have my gratitude and love.
    Lia

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    1. Welcome, Lia! I hope your son is doing well. I am so glad you enjoyed my little story. I was hesitant to share it because I don't want this story to be about me. It's about how those boys opened me up in a way I needed to be. It's about doing things by faith. I am overwhelmed by the response I've been getting to this post and so grateful.
      It has been so wonderful to hear from all these moms and hear their side of the story. So thank you. And thank your friend for sharing it. Bless you.

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  5. Thank you for sharing this. My twin boys will be missionaries later this year and I hope and pray that they encounter wonderful people like you on their journey away from my comfortable nest. God bless you and your sweet family.

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    1. Thank you for stopping by and reading. I hope your boys do well and I admire the faith it takes for you all to do this. I can't take credit for being wonderful, though. It is God who is wonderful. I am just his tool.

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  6. As the mother of a sister missionary serving now in Arizona and a son who served several years ago as a missionary in Bulgaria, your post made my heart smile. You have always had a beautiful way of saying the things of your heart, and this was no exception :)

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    1. Hi Judy! You know I thought of you while I was writing this and while we were spending time with them. I hope your daughter is doing well in Arizona.

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  7. Thank you!

    I was a missionary in Switzerland and France, and it meant so much to have kind people love and befriend me. It made being far away from everything I knew a little easier. I'm sure those boys will always remember and cherish your loving family.

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    1. Thanks for stopping by and for your kind words. Bless you..

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  8. Thank you for taking care of those boys! As a momma whose boy is off serving his mission, I am so thankful that you gave those boys your heart and I am sure you now have part of their as well. I know their moms are so glad that they found a safe place to be.

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    1. I'm pretty sure they gave us a lot more than we did them. It was a pleasure to have them as a part of our lives for a while. I hope your son is safe and blessed on his mission.

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  9. So lovely, TL.

    We also adopted missionaries this year. Ours were even younger than yours. I honestly don't think I nearly ever have as honest and respectful conversation about faith—ours and theirs—as we have had with these 18 and 19 year-old boys. They must have known we wouldn't convert, but they liked us and they came back to spend time with us and to pray with us. They talked to my teenage son on the bus. They smiled with reserved amusement when that same son came busting into the house one day saying, "What the Hell is that box on our front porch?" only to notice they were in our house. They were good boys, good men. I hope someday my own sons will be as sure of their purpose and as faithful in their love of humanity as the missionaries we met, who are gone now, and hopefully in someone else's living room with another cup of tea and another slice of fresh-baked bread.

    Is there any greater testament to one's own faith than to welcome in those of another and to share food and laughter with them?

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    1. None of this surprises me, of course.
      There are few things finer than sharing food and laughter with others. I forget that sometimes in my little hermit-y existence.

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  10. I've sat here for a few minutes, wanting to thank you for this beautiful post, without the words to do so. I cried through the entire post. Partly because of your beautiful writing, but mostly because of your beautiful heart! My fresh faced man/boy is serving as a missionary in Australia and I pray daily that this boy, who I love so much, will find people like you! There are good people of all faiths in this world and as we feel with our hearts, we feel of God's love for ALL of His children. Thank you for your loving heart! You are an answer to the prayers of missionary mamas all around the world!

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    1. I am so touched by your response to this. I pray your boy is safe and well-served. I really believe in God's providence and sometimes (most times?) that providence comes through the actions of those who choose to do good things. I pray for all the missionary mamas it takes a lot of faith to send your babies out into the world like that. From what I've seen, though, they do you proud.

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  11. My friend referred me to your blog. I was so touched by the story you told of the missionaries. My daughter is serving in Guatemala, and I have a son seerving in Bolivia. Their twin brothers just returned from Brazil and Guatemala. All of them have progressed so much from their experiences, and have developed a love for the people in their mission areas. They've made many new friends, and the memories will last their whole lives through. Thank you for sharing this experience!

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    1. Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment. I am truly humbled by the response this has gotten. These young people can teach us a lot. Thank you for entrusting yours to the world.

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  12. Loved this piece, TangledLou.
    Brought tears to my eyes and hope to my heart.
    Beautiful.

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    1. Aw, Larissa! Hello and I've missed you. I'm glad to share this with you.

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    2. So... two girls, I mean women, my age knocked on the door this evening, and we invited them inside. Part of me is nagging that it isn't coincidence that this happened after I read this post.. So thank you.. I'm not sure exactly what the link is, but I'm thinking it might be just to prepare my outlook for their visit. :) Inspiration to be as welcoming as you were. Thanks again. Just thought you should know your writing has had ripples of effect here in BC.

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    3. That is very sweet of you to say. I would like to think, though, that you would have done that anyway. :)

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  13. This is inspiring! I've thought about it for hours. How can I open my door, my heart, to others? I feel like I will be looking for opportunities. Thank you TangleLou!

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    1. Whoo hoo! and Exactly! This is what it's really about. Opening those doors, discovering where they lead us, even when it is uncomfortable and it hurts a little bit. Thank you for always reading, Michelle!

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  14. I've gotten here so late that there is nothing new left to say about this heartwarming post--except what they said, all of what they said and maybe a little more of the same. Thanks for sharing this.

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Thanks for reading and taking the time to say hello!