When my son received his call I created a new file in my computer called "The Mission". Because I have OCD tendencies, I created sub-files in this folder which included: my to-do lists, packing lists, a video file of the opening of the call, a file of all the pictures from the farewell, a file for the pictures taken at the MTC, a file for the pictures he sent us of him in the MTC, and finally a file that would document each month and area that he was going to serve in for 22 months. I was going to scan in his mission call and letters he received before he left. I wasn’t going to miss a thing. Shutterfly and I were about to become fast friends over the next two years. I would be so organized that I would have this beautiful book of his mission fully documented and ready to hand him as he stepped off the plane. Isn’t that what good LDS moms are supposed to do?
But as reality would have it, nothing got scanned into my files and the emails seemed to come much faster than I had time to fix his grammar and punctuation and organize them on my computer. They kept piling up in my email box as one of those projects I would get to “one of these days.”
And then suddenly there was no need to worry about a beautiful Shutterfly book – those dreams were dashed with the phone call. The missionary papers that were stacked neatly on my craft table suddenly caused me great anguish to even look at. When our son came home and showed us the pictures he had stored on his camera and talked of his few days in the field all I could think of is “what I am supposed to do with these now?” I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a missionary journal that consists of ten weeks. How would he handle this with his own children one day? How will that conversation go someday? What is proper protocol at this point? I asked friends what they would do and none of them knew. Google didn’t have any answers either.
I gathered all the papers, memory cards, and anything else that had to do with his mission and put it in a file that I left in his room. I told him this was a chapter of his life that he would have to figure out what to do with and until then, all these things could sit in his closet where I didn’t have to see them on a daily basis.
And then moving day for my son came five months later. I have always told my kids that when they leave home my gift to them is a big plastic storage bin that they can fill with whatever keepsakes they want to show their future spouses and children. What they fill that storage bin with is their decision. Everything else in their room goes with them or goes in the yard sale pile. My house is not a storage unit – my OCD would never survive that. J Their pictures are documented in scrapbooks and important papers and certificates are filed away in our safe. He had everything he owned packed up nice and neatly ready to move to his new apartment. His storage bin was filled with karate metals, yearbooks, scouting awards, a couple of favorite t-shirts, and lots of Pokemon collections. Next to his storage bin on his bed laid the file of missionary stuff, his name tag, and Portuguese Book of Mormon. We both just stared at it for a few minutes as I tried to steady myself for the flood of pain and memories it brought back.
He asked me what I wanted to do with it. He knew he wasn’t going back out – he didn’t have a desire to serve. It was time for a new chapter and a new start with this move. I told him the decision was his, that I didn’t have a need for it so he could decide for himself. I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to choose. To hang onto it didn’t seem to make any sense. Yes, this was 10 weeks of his life but it was 10 weeks we all were trying to forget so we could move on. On the other hand, you can’t just erase that part of his life and throwing it away seemed so final and perhaps a little drastic. I could have come up with a million reasons for both sides so I simply told him whatever he felt he wanted to do was fine with me and left the room. Deep down I think I secretly hoped he’d throw it away so that I never had to stumble on that stuff again.
He loaded up his car and drove to his new apartment and his new life. I went downstairs to his room to see what he had decided. I found his Portuguese Book of Mormon with his name tag clipped to the book sitting on his desk. Everything else had been thrown away. I put his Book of Mormon inside his storage bin, placed it in the top of the closet and shut the doors. With four sisters, his closet would now store the prom dresses that were piling up in their closets. The trash wouldn’t be emptied for a few more days and during that time I wondered if I should rescue that file from its eventual fate at the dump. Garbage day came and I still debated on whether or not to grab that file. Had we let enough time go by to not be making this decision based on emotion? Would it even matter because on the 1% chance he did change his mind and go back, it wouldn’t be to the same place and we wouldn’t need any of that information anyway right? That mission call and that life no longer applied to him.
I was thankful to hear the sound of the garbage man a short time later picking up our trash and carrying away painful physical reminders of something that was no longer what I had expected. As the garbage man carried away the paper trail of his mission I gave myself permission to delete the electronic trail of his mission. The emails, photos, and videos were also deleted without another reading or viewing of them. I hadn’t been able to do that since the day of the phone call. This chapter was over meaning we had only the future to look forward too. And maybe the one silver lining I had one less scrapbook to do now which would save me some money. I could buy new shoes with that money. :)
But as reality would have it, nothing got scanned into my files and the emails seemed to come much faster than I had time to fix his grammar and punctuation and organize them on my computer. They kept piling up in my email box as one of those projects I would get to “one of these days.”
And then suddenly there was no need to worry about a beautiful Shutterfly book – those dreams were dashed with the phone call. The missionary papers that were stacked neatly on my craft table suddenly caused me great anguish to even look at. When our son came home and showed us the pictures he had stored on his camera and talked of his few days in the field all I could think of is “what I am supposed to do with these now?” I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a missionary journal that consists of ten weeks. How would he handle this with his own children one day? How will that conversation go someday? What is proper protocol at this point? I asked friends what they would do and none of them knew. Google didn’t have any answers either.
I gathered all the papers, memory cards, and anything else that had to do with his mission and put it in a file that I left in his room. I told him this was a chapter of his life that he would have to figure out what to do with and until then, all these things could sit in his closet where I didn’t have to see them on a daily basis.
And then moving day for my son came five months later. I have always told my kids that when they leave home my gift to them is a big plastic storage bin that they can fill with whatever keepsakes they want to show their future spouses and children. What they fill that storage bin with is their decision. Everything else in their room goes with them or goes in the yard sale pile. My house is not a storage unit – my OCD would never survive that. J Their pictures are documented in scrapbooks and important papers and certificates are filed away in our safe. He had everything he owned packed up nice and neatly ready to move to his new apartment. His storage bin was filled with karate metals, yearbooks, scouting awards, a couple of favorite t-shirts, and lots of Pokemon collections. Next to his storage bin on his bed laid the file of missionary stuff, his name tag, and Portuguese Book of Mormon. We both just stared at it for a few minutes as I tried to steady myself for the flood of pain and memories it brought back.
He asked me what I wanted to do with it. He knew he wasn’t going back out – he didn’t have a desire to serve. It was time for a new chapter and a new start with this move. I told him the decision was his, that I didn’t have a need for it so he could decide for himself. I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to choose. To hang onto it didn’t seem to make any sense. Yes, this was 10 weeks of his life but it was 10 weeks we all were trying to forget so we could move on. On the other hand, you can’t just erase that part of his life and throwing it away seemed so final and perhaps a little drastic. I could have come up with a million reasons for both sides so I simply told him whatever he felt he wanted to do was fine with me and left the room. Deep down I think I secretly hoped he’d throw it away so that I never had to stumble on that stuff again.
He loaded up his car and drove to his new apartment and his new life. I went downstairs to his room to see what he had decided. I found his Portuguese Book of Mormon with his name tag clipped to the book sitting on his desk. Everything else had been thrown away. I put his Book of Mormon inside his storage bin, placed it in the top of the closet and shut the doors. With four sisters, his closet would now store the prom dresses that were piling up in their closets. The trash wouldn’t be emptied for a few more days and during that time I wondered if I should rescue that file from its eventual fate at the dump. Garbage day came and I still debated on whether or not to grab that file. Had we let enough time go by to not be making this decision based on emotion? Would it even matter because on the 1% chance he did change his mind and go back, it wouldn’t be to the same place and we wouldn’t need any of that information anyway right? That mission call and that life no longer applied to him.
I was thankful to hear the sound of the garbage man a short time later picking up our trash and carrying away painful physical reminders of something that was no longer what I had expected. As the garbage man carried away the paper trail of his mission I gave myself permission to delete the electronic trail of his mission. The emails, photos, and videos were also deleted without another reading or viewing of them. I hadn’t been able to do that since the day of the phone call. This chapter was over meaning we had only the future to look forward too. And maybe the one silver lining I had one less scrapbook to do now which would save me some money. I could buy new shoes with that money. :)
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