The first 48-72 hours after we got the news our son would be home in four days, I felt like my world was spinning out of control.  There were so many decisions to be made, so many appointments to arrange, so many phone calls from people, ward members stopping by bringing chocolate, and life with my four kids at home two weeks before Christmas was still moving forward.  Part of me just wanted to scream for everyone and everything to just stop so I could wrap my head around what was happening.  In some very, very small way I wondered if that was what it felt like when someone died and the constant chaos that comes in those few days between the death and the funeral.  I felt like something had just died in our home and in my heart.

I’ll be honest.  The next morning after we knew he was coming home I was in the shower just sobbing (it was easier to sob in the shower because I was all alone and there wasn't any makeup that would smear) over how wrong everything had suddenly become.  I remember having a discussion with the Lord and saying “Please not this.  I’ll take anything but this.  I’ll be okay getting cancer and dying in the next four days if he doesn't have to come home and we don’t have to face something so public. Just let everything go back to where it was 24 hours ago.”  And then I thought of two elders that had recently been killed while riding their bikes in Texas on their missions.  And I thought, “At least those parents get to bring their boys home in dignity and honor.  Why couldn't that have happened to us?”  And then I wondered if the Lord would allow the plane to go down so that we wouldn't have to do this.  Not my most proud moments for sure but for me I had gone to a dark place very, very quickly and that scared me.  But I didn't have time to deal with that yet.  That would come later.  Maybe I could get to that after Christmas.

When your son comes home from his mission like this, the church makes all the travel arrangements without checking your calendar. I shuddered to think how much a last minute plane ticket like this was going to cost. Our son was on a remote island in the Atlantic Ocean and flights only left on Tuesdays.    I wondered if our tithing would be upped to cover the cost of the ticket. Another question for another day I guess. He was to leave the island Tuesday morning, fly all day and arrive in Boston late Tuesday night.  He was then supposed to claim his luggage, hail a cab, check himself into a hotel, spend the night alone, check out of the hotel at 5 AM the next morning, get back to the airport, catch his flight that laid over in Texas for two hours, and fly into our airport around 5 PM Wednesday night.

 When our stake president came over late Saturday night with those flight plans and itinerary my husband and I were deeply worried.  No one knew what state of mind our son was in.  Our stake president hadn't talked to him and neither had we. I guess that’s against the rules – who knows.  I didn't even know if he’d be allowed to email us on Monday. No one could tell us if he was doing okay or if he was in a state of mind that he would flee while in Boston and we’d never hear from him again. All I could picture in my mind was the episode of “LOST” when Sawyer jumps out of the plane over the ocean.  My husband looked up the hotel he was supposed to stay in and it was in a shady part of town where a murder had just occurred a few months before.  I felt like a whole new injury had been heaped upon us.  Why would anyone think that a 19 year old boy who is being sent home to be publicly flogged should be alone in a pretty big city?  It was hard to believe that someone thought this was okay. He was still my son and I wanted him to be treated like I would treat him.  Maybe there should be mom’s working in the travel department.  Another question and another conversation to have with someone another day.

My husband and I spent many hours talking about different scenarios and trying to find peace with his journey home and neither one of us could get there. But I think the Lord was already showing us tender mercies at this point. When we woke up Sunday morning, we knew we had our answer.  My husband travels a lot for his work and has frequent flier miles. We both knew that my husband needed to be in Boston when our son’s plane landed so that when he stepped off that plane his dad would be there and bring him the rest of the way home.  We wanted him to know that we would walk this road together and he would have the support of his family. We could not bear the thought of him spending a very long and lonely night alone in a strange city.  It wasn't right.  After much time on the phone my husband was able to get into Boston before our son’s plane landed and was able to be on his flights the next day all the way back home.  Truly a miracle given it was two days before and he had just enough frequent flier miles to cover the ticket.  The Lord does not leave us without hope or answers. We called our stake president that night and told him to please get a hold of the mission president and relay our plans to our son so he would know that he wasn't going to be alone the whole way.

The next decision we had to make was how to handle the airport scene when my son and husband landed back home.  Like all missionary mom’s I dreamed of the whole balloons and welcome home banner with all of us standing there excited to see our son after two years.  I didn't have a vision for a son who was coming home early…only 10 weeks after we said goodbye for what we thought was two years.   Balloons and welcome home posters didn't seem appropriate.  Wearing all black didn't seem appropriate either.  What is the right answer? Again, it would be nice if we could have picked up that brochure from outside the Bishop’s office at church on Sunday.

We discussed our options late Sunday night as a family.  Our oldest daughter wanted to be at the airport and was the only one who happened to have that night free.  Our second daughter was on the high school basketball team and she would have to miss practice to be at the airport which meant she would miss a game.  She was a starter on the team and didn't want to miss one game or practice.  As she said, “It’s not fair I’m being punished when I didn't do anything wrong.”  Good point. Our third daughter was on a competition dance team and Wednesday was their big practice days for the show routines.  They were getting ready for a big Christmas performance and if she missed practice she would be pulled from the dance although I was pretty sure if I talked to the teacher an exception would be made.  Our fourth daughter was on student council at the elementary school and that Wednesday was the day they were taking the money they had earned from their school fundraiser to buy gifts for sub for Santa families and wrap them.  It was an activity she had watched her older sister participate in and she had been looking forward to this day for months.  I was scheduled to go as a driver and chaperon.  She broke down crying when she realized she may have to miss that activity.  As we looked at our four girls we were so torn.  Yes they loved their brother and wanted to do the right thing and so did we but on the other hand, they all had very valid reasons for feeling like they were being punished by missing their activities.  How do we make this choice?  Again, could the church have just called me and say, “What day works for you this week to pick up your son?”  Murphy ’s Law states it had to be the worst day for him to come home.

In the end we prayed about it and talked a lot about it. We came to the decision that our son had made choices that had led him to this point and he would have to bear a lot of the consequences for those choices.  He needed to understand and recognize that. It was not fair to push those consequences onto others.  Maybe we were taking a tough love approach but we felt right about not going up to the airport to meet them.  My husband would leave his car at the airport overnight and they would drive home together.  I’m not sure I could have done the happy welcome home thing at the airport – I wasn't strong enough emotionally and I knew the night was only going to be much, much harder once we met with the Stake President at 9.  This wasn't a happy occasion and we were going to treat the situation as it was. I will say it was a very strange experience to be shopping at Wal-Mart with a bunch of excited student council kids from elementary school who were happy to be helping other kids at Christmas. I tried so very hard to focus on loving and serving others but I just couldn't get there all the way.  When my husband texted me that they had landed, I had to find a bathroom and cry for just a few minutes while the kids continued to shop. But no one knew what we were facing - my daughter and I stayed pretty stoic through the long afternoon.

Our girls made a big sign to hang in the family room for him to see as he walked in that said, “We love you.”  They were all standing there to give him a hug when he walked in and then they broke down crying again.  A scene more appropriate for the intimacy of our home and not to be witnessed in a public place. No one was really hungry that night which made me feel bad because the Relief Society president had brought over a big dinner. Maybe we’d eat tomorrow.  Our son was tired, my husband was tired, and the dinner conversation was pretty awkward.  That was only the beginning of many awkward moments as we began to fumble our way through the dark into the new life that we had been catapulted into.

There are many Saturday nights that I go to bed and really wish I could just wake up the next morning and it would be Monday.  There are too many Sunday’s right now that I’d rather just skip, sleep through, or be out of town for rather than showing up and wondering if I’ll make it through 3 hours without breaking down in the bathroom.

I think it all began with that dreadful “first Sunday” knowing we would be walking in the chapel with all of our kids instead of missing one because he was on a mission.  Our son came home on a Wednesday so I was unsure how many ward members had heard he was back.  I knew I would be walking in those doors and everyone would be staring at us.  I couldn't even decide if it would be worse to show up late and sneak into the back or show up on time and sit in our usual spot because that’s what we always do each week. I eventually decided that we would walk in at our usual time and sit in our usual spot because I couldn't run from this crappy situation forever.  I might as well face it head on with as much normalcy and dignity as I could create.

My very cute, young, and hip sister-in-law, who was in Ohio visiting family for the holidays, sent me a text message on Friday (two days after our son got home) and said, “You know that everyone will be looking at you and talking about you on Sunday.  If I were you I’d wear a dress that makes me look hot and feel confident along with some fish net nylons so everyone will have something else to talk about besides your parenting skills.”  Her text made me laugh. I took her advice and wore a great looking, form fitting dress with my black fish net nylons and my knee high black boots with 6 inch heels – my husband calls them my cat woman boots.  Now everyone could comment on my clothes as well as my parenting skills at their dinner tables that night and I didn’t even care.  I think every mom of an early release missionary is entitled to a new dress and new shoes for that dreaded first day. J  I went to bed that night knowing that I at least looked and felt good on the outside that day even though I was a total mess on the inside. But maybe more important – I had survived that first Sunday.

But that was only the beginning of what has become some very difficult Sunday’s.  The first farewell that we were faced with came three months after our son had been home.  My husband’s niece was going to London on her mission and I had honestly planned to go to her farewell.  I knew I had to face family sooner or later (we hadn't seen anyone on his side of the family yet) and I had been preparing myself for this day for many weeks now.  But that Sunday morning came and I spent the whole morning crying.  I couldn't do it.  It just didn't seem fair to me that this niece and this family was happy, that she was going on a mission, and everyone would be there to celebrate a happy day when all this did was create pain inside of me.  I know that is a very selfish way to feel but it’s how I felt and feeling was all I was capable of right now. Being rational wasn't something I was good at yet.  The one thing I had on my side was that I had had my gallbladder removed and a hernia fixed three days earlier so I used that as my excuse as to why I wasn't going to the farewell and sent my family on to the farewell while I stayed home and sobbed. I’m not sure as I took my Lortab that day if it was to mask my physical pain or the emotional pain I was feeling. As I fell asleep, I think it had numbed both.  I had dodged a bullet that Sunday but knew I would have to face many farewells and homecomings. Too bad I couldn't have a gallbladder removed every time one of those came up. J

That dreaded Sunday came when there was a homecoming in our ward. Our ward had been added onto and this elder was new to our ward.  I figured that would make it easier for me – I didn't know him or his family.  But it didn't.  His mom was able to talk before the elder did and I was so jealous.  I’m not sure what she talked on because all I could think of is, “does she know how lucky she is that she is enjoying this moment. Does she know how lucky she is that her son served his whole mission?  I will never get to be that mom that literally glows in joy because her son is home.” I seriously kept looking at the exit and wondered if it would be too obvious if I just left.  I never did get up the courage to move from my seat but I did gain strength in looking back at my friend whose son had come home 5 weeks after mine.  All we had to do was look at each other to know that we were both feeling that same feeling and that strength gave me the ability to stay.

 A few weeks later there was another homecoming of another elder that had been added into our ward.  As he talked about his mission he talked about how he was sitting on the plane to come home and how he just wanted to get off that plane and stay because he loved his mission so much.  He then said that as the plane took off for home he just cried to be leaving a life and people that he had grown to love and was very emotional about that.  Then the stake presidency member talked of how he too had felt those feelings when his mission was over. My 14 year old daughter leaned over to me and said, “I’m sad that missions will never make us feel happy but only sad.”  What do you say to that?  It broke my heart in a whole new way to realize that my girls were still hurting deeply and probably struggled with some Sunday’s as much as I did. 

With each farewell and each homecoming that I have survived the past 18 months, I wrestle with even wanting to come to church – not that I’m not happy for these families because I am. But Sunday’s like those just rip those scabs off all over again and it hurts every time.  There are some Sunday’s where I feel like the two steps forward progress I've made quickly turn into three steps backwards.  And it’s not just sacraments meetings that derail me.

I am a counselor in the Relief Society presidency and have to sit up front each week.  To make matter worse every lesson last year seemed to focus on missionary work – for months!  One teacher even said as she began her lesson, “Is it just me or have all the lessons been on missionary work?”  I so desperately wanted to raise my hand and say, “Yes that is all we have been talking about.  Can we PLEASE change the subject?” I would read the lessons Saturday night and wonder how I could sit up front and supposedly be this example to the sisters when I couldn't even keep my own kid on a mission. It was embarrassing to me.  Sitting up front and trying to act normal and casual has been draining.  I feel like I plaster this fake smile on my face, avoid looking at all the moms who have son’s out serving, never answer any questions or make any comments because clearly I have no credibility in this area, and just stare at the clock while willing it with my mind to finally be 4 PM. As we sit around the dinner table and discuss what we talked about in church each week I sense that my husband has struggled to get through the elder’s quorum lessons as well.  Even my girls will say they are liking their YW lessons on missionary work less and less because the other girls get to talk about their brothers that are serving missions and, as they say, “we just sit there like losers and don’t say anything.”

I could go on forever about how painful Sunday’s can be and I don’t know that the pain will ever fully disappear.  I’ve come to the conclusion that this will be something that I will carry for the rest of my life.  But I have learned that as I turn this burden over to the Lord it becomes easier to bear. I have learned that as I pray each Sunday for the ability to find the good in that day that He will give me those tender mercies.  In her book, “If Life Were Easy, It Wouldn’t Be Hard,” Sherri Dew dedicates a chapter to talking about burdens verse baggage.  I can choose whether this trail of having an early release missionary will be a burden or become baggage. She says, “…on this jaunt through mortality we’ve simply got to leave our baggage behind.…When I speak of baggage, I’m not talking about burdens.  Burdens are part of the mortal experience-the burdens that come with unfulfilled expectations, with disappointment and heartache, with affliction and wavering faith. Loneliness can be a burden.  Emotional wounds can be burdens.  Heavy assignments from the Lord can feel like burdens.  And certainly, sin creates burdens.  But the Savior atoned precisely so we wouldn’t have to carry our burdens alone.  He knew they’d be too heavy for us.”

I am so blessed to know that when this burden seems too much to bear that I can turn it over to the Lord and He will make my load lighter and manageable.  I chose to allow this to be a burden and not baggage that will weigh me down forever. As I have put this into practice, Sunday’s have once again become days that I look forward too.  I am making progress. There is hope.  I will survive.  There is light.