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.
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.
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