by Jack Weyland
That was bad enough, but when zone conference came, Russell bragged about each success and turned it into an example for the other missionaries to follow. He made himself look good, while I sat there quietly with my head lowered, counting the days until I would be released.
It seemed so unfair to me because, even when I was growing up, I’d never given my folks or my church leaders any reason to worry about me. I’d always tried to live the way I’d been taught. And now here I was, through no fault of my own, being treated like a complete slacker.
What had I done wrong? Nothing. Oh, well, okay, I called her dear once, but anybody listening would have known I was being sarcastic. Was that reason enough to send me to mission boot camp, with Russell as my drill sergeant?
Because Russell didn’t need me for anything except to tag along with him, I soon found myself becoming detached from the work. Every morning, while Russell took a shower, I studied the photo of my dad and my real mom taken on their wedding day, standing in front of the Salt Lake City Temple.
They were not much older than me when the picture was taken. Each time I looked at it, I was struck by how beautiful my mom was and how happy my dad looked.
I’d heard enough stories already about how spontaneous and fun she was to be with. She was not at all like my stepmother. Lara was always serious and focused. I couldn’t imagine her ever doing anything crazy or irresponsible.
I wrote each week to my New Jersey grandparents, encouraging them to continue studying with the sisters. In their letters to me, they kept me up-to-date on what they had learned about the Church. They also, at my request, told me more about my real mom—details about when she was growing up and more about my parents’ courtship and things they did in the few years they were married.
I also got a letter once a week from my Utah mom. My dad didn’t write much. He told my mom whatever he wanted to say to me, and she passed it on.
As the days dragged on, I became more miserable and even more resentful toward Sister Doneau for ruining my mission.
On Saturday, March 16, my grandparents called me at nine at night. “Well, we did it, Adam, we got baptized!” my grandfather said.
“That is so great! Congratulations!”
“Who are you talking to?” Russell asked.
“My grandparents. They just got baptized.”
“You’re only authorized to talk to family on Mother’s Day and Christmas.”
I ignored him while first my grandfather and then my grandmother told me every detail of their baptism.
“We have someone else who wants to talk to you,” my grandfather announced.
After a brief pause, Doneau said, “Hello, Elder Roberts. It was a wonderful baptism. Everyone felt the Spirit.”
I tried to be gracious. “I’m sure they did. Thank you for doing such a great job teaching.”
“It’s been the highlight of my mission.”
“I can see why it would be.”
“Wait a minute,” Russell said. “You just thanked somebody for teaching. Are you talking to Sister Doneau? She’s the one you fell for, isn’t she?”
“I didn’t fall for her.”
“You are talking to her, though, aren’t you?” he demanded.
“Yeah, just for a minute, though.”
“You got no business talking to her.”
“Five minutes, Elder, five minutes. That’s all I need,” I said.
“I’m letting the president know about this.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will. I’ll be on the phone another five minutes.”
He went to get his watch to time me.
When Doneau and I first started talking, I could hear my grandparents in the background, but now those background sounds were gone. “Where are you now?” I asked.
“I’m in the backyard,” Sister Doneau said. “There’s something you should know. I told you I phoned President McNamara before you were transferred, but I didn’t tell you what I said to him about us. In all honesty, I think I need to tell you.”
“Us? There is no us, Sister Doneau. There never was. There never will be.”
“I had a dream. In my dream you and I were at the courthouse to get a marriage license. We got into an argument about whether I was going to take your name or you were going to take my name. It seemed so real. Anyway, the next day, I got scared and called President McNamara.”
I was so mad I could barely talk. “Let me get this straight. Because you had some stupid dream, you blabbed to the president and got me transferred? I can’t believe it! I should be where you are right now. I should be celebrating my grandparents’ baptism. Instead of that, I’m here with Elder Drill Sergeant for a companion! Thanks a lot, Doneau! Good-bye and good luck! I really hope I never see you again!”
I slammed the phone down.
Of course Russell reported me to the president, who told him to keep his eye on me.
I didn’t think it was possible, but after that, Russell became even more of a pain than before, but, even so, some good came from it. I had to give up the hope I’d had of stringing together a series of successes I could brag about when I reported my mission to my home ward.
All my life I had been encouraged to achieve, to get good grades, to improve my talents, and to make something of myself. My mom made me take piano lessons from third grade until when I rebelled at age sixteen. She was the reason I got my Eagle rank in Scouting.
But there’s a price you pay for focusing your attention on achievements. That price was, for me, losing sight of why I did the things I did.
On a mission, when most of the missionaries think you’re a problem elder, you’re not going to get much praise for any success you have. So you either quit, develop a bad attitude, or else you start to think about the real reason why you’re serving a mission.
I began to think about Who it was I was representing as a missionary. A missionary represents the Savior. Once I recognized that, I didn’t worry anymore about the petty annoyance of being with Russell.
It’s not easy to do that. It takes a lot of concentration. And it takes not caring who gets the credit.
My prayers became more Christ-centered. I looked at people differently than before. Instead of thinking of them as potential baptisms, I began to think of them as my brothers and sisters, each of us a child of our Father in Heaven.
Good came from my change in attitude because during April, my last month in the mission field, Russell and I had two baptisms. Of course Russell bragged about it in our next zone conference, and he didn’t mention any part I might have played. I didn’t mind though. He had his reward, and I had mine.
My time with Elder Russell had given me a chance to think about my life. This is what I came up with:
1. I don’t want to spend my life going after goals that don’t matter and aren’t even mine, no matter how impressive they are.
2. I now knew that Heavenly Father can bless us even when we’re not in a race to impress others. He is pleased when we try to love and serve others, especially if we’re not doing it to gratify our own pride.
3. And, finally, I now could imagine that I would have probably turned out much different if my real mom hadn’t died. I think I would have been a much more upbeat person, and definitely more fun to be with.
• • •
Doneau left the mission in early April. I was to be released the last week in April.
I asked permission to visit my grandparents before I left the mission field, but that request was denied. “Just follow the mission rules, Elder,” President McNamara said.
A few days before my mission was over, I called my grandparents and told them I wouldn’t be able to visit them.
They were disappointed but said they understood.
On my last day, I met with President McNamara. He gave me a great deal of counsel. I could see he still thought of me as a problem missionary, but instead of letting that upset me, I felt a kind of peace. I knew I had tried and felt as though the Savior knew my
heart.
And then the mission assistants drove me to the Newark Airport. Just before entering the security check, I spotted Eddie and Claire.
“Oh, my gosh!” I shouted, running to greet them. I hugged my grandmother first and then my grandfather. “This is such a surprise! I didn’t expect to see you here!”
“You think we’d let you sneak out of here without saying good-bye?” my grandfather called out. “We brought you some going away gifts!”
“What are they?”
My grandmother handed me a plastic container. “This is cannoli. You can eat it on the plane or now. Whatever you like.”
“If I tried to eat it on the plane, there’d be a mutiny because the other passengers weren’t getting any. So in the interests of safety, I’ll eat it now. That way, even if the plane crashes, I’ll be happy.”
They didn’t laugh much about the plane crashing. “Your plane isn’t going to crash,” my grandfather said. “We’ve prayed about it too much for that to happen.” He handed me a box.
“What’s this?”
“The caboose for your train set. I’ll send the rest of the set later.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll make good use of it at home.”
He looked puzzled. “How?”
“I’ll run a branch line into the kitchen and instruct my mom anytime the train shows up she’s to fill it with food and send it back.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” my grandmother scolded, “but if anyone were to cater to your every whim, it would be Lara. She’s been such a good mom to you.”
We sat down while I finished off the dessert. “This is even better than I remembered it.”
“I’m glad you like it,” my grandmother said.
I looked at my watch. “I’d better get going.”
“When will we see you again?” my grandfather asked.
“I’ll come visit you before school starts in the fall,” I said, standing up and giving them each a hug before I started on my way.
“You’d better.”
“I will. I promise.”
“We love you,” my grandmother called out.
“I love you too.”
I waved at them and got in line to go through security.
An hour later, from the window seat of my plane, I caught one last look as a missionary at the New Jersey coastline.
All the way home, I couldn’t decide if I was going home—or leaving home.
4
Ten minutes before the sacrament meeting started in which I was to report my mission, I shook hands with the bishopric and sat down on the stand, saving the seat next to the first counselor for the youth speaker.
My mom and dad and their parents, and some uncles and aunts and a couple of my cousins filled up the first few rows at the front of the chapel. My dad, his dark hair splattered with gray, wearing a dark brown suit with brown tie, looked like your typical member of the stake high council, which he was.
My mom looked very impressive too. She’d always been trim, and still was, but after I got home from my mission she reluctantly admitted that she now had to go to aerobics three times a week to maintain her weight.
My mom, whose maiden name had been Whyte, grew up on a farm near Idaho Falls, and so I spent part of each summer on the farm, working for my Grandfather Whyte. He was tall and strong, a simple man with a rural twang in his deep voice. He didn’t say much, but what he said was worthwhile. My Grandmother Whyte was still a powerhouse of energy and good health, and she attributed it all to homeopathic remedies. As a child, I learned quickly never to admit being sick in her presence because she had an herb for every complaint. Her other main characteristic was a love of learning. It was from her that my mom had learned to value education.
My grandparents on the Roberts side were also there. I remembered when I was a boy, how happy they were to cater to my every wish. It was always fun staying at their house. They gave me almost anything I asked for. If I wanted cake, my grandmother would bake it. If I wanted a toy, my grandfather would buy it. My mom once asked them if they ever said no to me. They paused, smiled, and said, “Why of course not. Why would we do that?”
After two years of being away, I could see more clearly that all four of my grandparents were getting older. They walked a little slower, spent a little more time getting things done, but they kept going.
In addition to my family, there were also a few friends from high school at the meeting; some of them had also just returned from their missions.
I looked at what few notes I had written on a three-by-five card. For three days I had tried to prepare a talk but had never decided for sure what to say. I couldn’t bring myself to brag about any success I might have had because I hated the way Elder Russell had boasted at zone conferences, taking all the glory for himself, sometimes even forgetting to acknowledge Heavenly Father’s help.
Since I didn’t want to talk about either my successes or my failures, there wasn’t much left.
A twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl came and sat next to me. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes and was energetically chewing gum.
“You giving a talk, too?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Duh.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kierra. We moved next door to you just before you left on your mission.”
“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Well, that’s nice, Kara.”
She shook her head. “It’s not Kara. It’s not Karen. It’s not Tara. It’s not Carolyn. It’s Key, like a key you open a door with, and then, air, like the air you breathe, and then, ah, like when a doctor looks in your mouth. Put them together and what have you got?”
I figured that Sister Doneau, as a girl, must have once been exactly like her. “I have no idea,” I said.
She gave a pained sigh and rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll do it one more time. Listen up, okay? It’s Key, like a key you open a door with, air, like the air you breathe, and ah, like when a doctor looks in your mouth. Put them together and what have you got?”
I was in no mood for this girl. “A pain in the butt?”
Kierra’s mouth dropped open. She turned to the first counselor in the bishopric. “Brother Robinson, he just called me a pain in the butt.”
The first counselor, a stern, no-nonsense, bald junior high school principal, glared at me.
“I was just kidding,” I said, forcing a chuckle.
“Someone who’s just come back from a mission shouldn’t be going around talking like that,” Kierra said.
To get myself off the hook, I tried to apologize. “You’re absolutely right, Kierra. What I said was totally wrong, and I’m very sorry.”
It wasn’t enough. She leaned over to get the bishop’s attention. “Bishop, he called me a pain in the butt, and he’s a returned missionary.”
The bishop looked at me and shook his head. “Why don’t we all try to get in the right spirit for our sacrament meeting,” he said.
“But he called me a—”
“The bishop wants us to be quiet now,” I scolded her. “So take the gum out of your mouth and quit talking.”
She scowled at me. “You’re not my boss.” She did take the gum out of her mouth though, wrapped it in a tissue, and put it in her scripture case. She then looked over her talk. It was two pages long and typed. I glanced over it. It wasn’t that bad. Actually, I wished I had her talk.
“You seem really well-prepared for your talk,” I said.
She nodded. “My sister helped me. Her name is Sierra.”
“Let me guess. Think of a sea, think of air, and then, ah, like when a doctor looks in your mouth, right?”
She shushed me. “We’re supposed to be quiet now, so we can get ready for sacrament meeting.”
“How long is your talk?” I asked.
“Five minutes. I timed it.”
“Can you make it longer?”
“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.
“My talk isn’t very long.�
�� I showed her my three-by-five card.
She read out loud what was on the card. “‘My talk . . . Mission . . . New Jersey.’”
She stared at me. “That’s it? That’s your whole talk? You should’ve had my sister help you. She’s a junior, and she’s very smart. She’s over there.”
She pointed to a spectacular-looking girl, who, like Kierra, had long blonde hair and blue eyes. I was happy to know that Sierra was a junior. That would make her the same age as me. I wondered if she was going to BYU, where I’d be in the fall.
Trying to communicate to her older sister, Kierra pointed at me and mouthed the words about what I’d called her. Apparently Sierra didn’t read lips because she just smiled.
It was a huge relief when sacrament meeting began.
After the sacrament was over, while the choir sang, I worried about what Kierra might say about me in her talk. “You don’t need to tell everyone in your talk about what I said to you, okay?”
“I’ll say whatever I want to say.”
“Please don’t ruin this for my family,” I pleaded. “Everyone’s here, my mom, my dad, my grandparents . . .”
“You should’ve thought about that before you swore at me.”
“I didn’t swear at you, Kierra.”
A short time later Kierra got up to speak. “This morning when I sat down, Adam Roberts, who just got off his mission, called me a pain in the butt.”
Everyone laughed, which was not the reaction she wanted. And so to drive her point home, she turned and glared at me. “You’re not setting a very good example, you know, especially for a returned missionary. If this is how you act in church, then what are you like the rest of the time? You know what? I don’t think you were a very good missionary.” She then turned to face the congregation. “I will now give my talk.”
I avoided eye contact with my parents, especially my mom. She liked things to be done a certain way, and this wasn’t the way. I didn’t think my dad would mind as much. He never did. My mother was always the one who was upset about the small things that I would do that she thought were either wrong or inappropriate.
Exactly five minutes and forty seconds later, Kierra sat down. It was my turn. I had thirty minutes.