MTC

My first nephew checked into the Missionary Training Center today and I have been thinking about my experience entering the MTC nearly 18 years ago. Leaving on my mission was a thrilling and difficult thing.

As mentioned in a previous post, I was in love with Jay before I left on my mission. Saying goodbye to him was torturous and not just in the way you might expect. I'll explain. Jay bought a tiny little Volkswagen beetle when he returned from his mission and we dated in that car. I have sentimental feelings about those early rides but the car proved disloyal. On the weekend before I left for my mission Jay along with his brother, Cash, drove down (if you can call it that, but I'm not bitter) to Utah to attend the welcome home of his twin cousins. His car broke down over and over again on the way there but luckily he'd left two days before the Sunday meeting so he did manage to arrive in the nick of time. Then he, Cash, and his cousins worked feverishly to get the car up and running so he could drive back to see me before I was set apart as a missionary on Monday night. I was to report to the Stake President at 7:00 and Jay came roaring back into town at about 6:00. This was the last time we would see each other for 18 months and time was precious. I raced over to his house and we sat down in the living room together looking forward to tender conversation (right, Jay?). We no sooner sat down than an old acquaintance knocked on the door. He brought with him an even older acquaintance (I can't in good conscience call either one of them friends and you'll soon see why) whom I had not seen in some time. Little did they know that every second they stayed was one less second for "tender conversation". I was in agony. Would they never go? Get out your hankies. You'll need them when I tell you that they stayed the entire time! Jay and I had enjoyed precisely two and a half minutes of privacy and now I was leaving for a very long time. I felt on the verge of tears. Jay offered to drive me to my appointment with the Stake President and I accepted with unabashed relief. We talked quietly in the car about nothing as we drove the 3 miles. We kissed just once over the gear shift. Then I went in and Jay drove away. (This will really lessen the pathos but I did see him again the next morning. My dad, knowing the situation, invited him over to visit for 15 minutes before the family left for Salt Lake City. We sat on the front lawn and his face, his conversation, his company was like chocolate - sweet, smooth, and soothing.)

Then it was off to Salt Lake. The night before I entered the MTC we stayed with my aunt and uncle. At this point my thoughts turned to my family and as evening fell my heart grew heavier and heavier. Don't be misled, I wanted to go on a mission. I felt absolutely certain that a mission was the path Heavenly Father wanted me to take and I was enthusiastic about it, but looking at my siblings and parents that night before I was to say goodbye left me physically ill. I tried to put on a brave face until I went to bed but then the tears began to flow. At some point my mother came in and laid beside me on the bed with her arms around me. I cried off and on until the wee hours of the morning with my mother beside me holding me.

The next day as we went through the formalities of checking in and sitting in a large meeting with other missionaries and their families, I had mixed emotions. I felt both elation to finally be a missionary and dread over the impending goodbyes. When the time came I hugged and kissed each member of my family. About 250 other missionaries did exactly the same thing. I had heard the legends about the missionary going through one door and the family going out the other and I knew what to expect but still it was deeply personal and painful. I walked through the assigned door without looking back. Sitting right outside the door was a person handing out missionary name tags, the black badges with white lettering that would identify us for many months. She found mine quickly and as I pinned it on and saw my name, Hermana Burton, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I felt a rush of pure joy. This feeling escalated quickly and dramatically. I don't know how to even record the feelings I had except to say that I recognized that I was experiencing my own personal miracle. I "felt" the Savior keeping his promise, gladly yoking himself to me, recognizing that by walking through that door I'd given my very best, feeble though it was. I felt Him step in quickly to do the rest. He swept away all the sorrow I had felt only moments before and a feeling of utter rightness and joyfulness filled the void grief had carved. While the love and appreciation I felt for my family increased throughout my mission, I never again felt homesick. Not once.

Missions are full of miraculous events and each missionary is given those personal experiences that will bring maximum growth and happiness. For me, one of those miracles took place the very instant I demonstrated my commitment to Jesus Christ. I've never forgotten it.