I gotta rush away, she said
I've been to Boston before
And anyway, this change I've been feelin'
Doesn't make the rain fall
No big differences these days
Just the same old walkaways
Someday, I'm gonna stay
But not today
["Walkaways" — Counting Crows]
I've been to Boston before
And anyway, this change I've been feelin'
Doesn't make the rain fall
No big differences these days
Just the same old walkaways
Someday, I'm gonna stay
But not today
["Walkaways" — Counting Crows]
For some, the transition from high school to college is rough. It certainly felt that way for me. While most of my peers moved on to new places (including my then girlfriend), I stuck around that first year and commuted to school. I did play basketball, but I was still so shy and introverted that I spent most of the year feeling pretty lonely. Also, there were two years of missionary service looming the following summer, so I spent most of my freshmen year already looking past it. That made it difficult to ever really find my footing or feel comfortable.
From here, it’s hard now not to feel somewhat dismissive of my difficulties then — in the way you might be tempted to put quotes around the word “difficulties” as an effort to sheepishly acknowledge that my hardships still reflected an awfully sheltered and privileged circumstance.
But even so, those hardships were very real to me then. And I feel inclined to be as gentle with the boy who went through them as I’d hope to be with my own teenagers. Furthermore, that year of forlorn teenage difficulty proved important on my path to genuine faith and belief.
Utica College
I spent most of my adolescence hoping and planning to attend Brigham Young University, just as my parents did. But as basketball became more of a thing in high school, I drew interest from several colleges (sadly, none of them BYU or similar caliber) — enough interest that I started toying with the possibility of going elsewhere.
Of all the phone calls and meetings I took, one coach's pitch eventually caught my attention: Coach Ed Jones, from nearby Utica College.
Utica College is relatively small private college nestled in Utica, NY. Its enrollment was only a few thousand then (and apparently still is), but the school was linked to Syracuse University, such that a degree from the school was a degree from Syracuse.
Coach Jones knew I was a devout Mormon and that that meant I planned to serve a mission when I turned 19 (he was the only coach to pick up on and address that fact). His pitch included the understanding that I would likely only be in school for a year before leaving for two. He also openly acknowledged that I might not even come back afterward.
He wanted me anyway, and I eventually bought in.
Out of the gates, I declared as a political science major, destined for law school. Along those lines, I took a few political science classes, though most of my classes involved general ed stuff. I made it to classes on time and sat attentively (enough) through the lectures. I even knew the names of several classmates, though I don’t remember ever spending time with any of them outside of class.
I moved through both semesters well enough academically, though frankly, I felt a bit aimless. Four years later when I applied to law schools, I included an addendum to my applications asking schools to effectively overlook my freshmen year grades, pleading that they didn’t properly reflect the drive and determination I’d found after my mission.
Branch Mission Leader
Back home, I'd been "called" to be my congregation's branch mission leader. That meant I was responsible for overseeing the missionary efforts in the branch, and for working closely with the pair of full-time missionaries assigned to our area. The calling felt like an oddity, given how young I was (this was years before it became en vogue to give younger people in the church significant responsibilities). But it gave me ready access to the habits, methods, and personalities of the handful of missionaries assigned to the branch during that year. Some were newly minted from the Missionary Training Center, anxious to be useful and full of fire and enthusiasm; others presented a bit more world weary with slightly different agendas. Some prized obedience to the mission rules as the key to success and happiness; others not as much.
I regularly accompanied the missionaries to teaching appointments in the area, watching carefully to see how they shared their faith and interacted with people — people all across the belief spectrum. Some were better suited to the task than others, but they all became my friends. And just having their regular company generated some excitement that I’d soon get my turn.
Ginning up excitement was probably part of the thinking behind the calling all along —that and the branch probably didn’t have many other options.
Online Message Boards
It’s hard to fathom now, but I don’t think we had internet access at home that year. In fact, it was only that Christmas between semesters that we even got a computer (Dad’s surprise big gift for the family). So I had to go to school — 30 minutes away — to get online. I ended up spending a lot of time in the computer labs that year.
At some point early in the first semester, I stumbled across some online message boards on the Sci-Fi channel website (I was fan). Before long, I devoted chunks of free time between classes to what then seemed like a novelty: trading messages online with relative strangers. Topics of interest included religion, evolution (I was a strict creationist back then — as a believer, I felt like I had to be), and the existence of God. I often spent my commute time, and plenty of other free thoughts, dissecting the latest arguments and preparing a response. Then I’d wait anxiously to see if my counterpoints had won any ground with my adversaries (they never seemed to).
That whole effort may have had something to do with the mandate to share the gospel. But mostly, given the right forum, I just liked arguing and defending my worldview.
It’s surprising to me now (though it shouldn’t be) to recognize that I didn’t undertake any of those efforts to actually learn anything — only to persuade and defend. The more others poked or attacked, especially with my Mormon faith, the more entrenched I emerged.
Homework on Sundays
By mid-November, I had a paper coming due in my political science class — a paper based on a book we were supposed to have read (I hadn’t). Up against a deadline a few days out, and having seriously procrastinated, I complained to the missionaries one Sunday after church that it looked like I had no choice: to have any hope of completing the assignment on time, I would have to break my rule (really my parents’ rule, passed down to me) of not doing homework on Sundays.
I expected a bit of “ox is in the mire” compassion and validation. Instead, the energetic younger missionary deftly told me about his own strict “No Sunday Homework” stance during his freshmen year (at BYU). He noted that sometimes it meant getting up extra early on Mondays, but he'd always found a way to make it work.
I felt doubtful, since the deadline loomed as ominous as ever, but also inspired by my friend’s faith. So I determined to do the same. I don't remember what I did instead that Sunday afternoon, but I was up and working all the earlier Monday morning. Three days later, I’d managed to read the book and write the paper (which I did fine on). In the aftermath, it felt like I had proven God on how he blessed those — even the procrastinators — who tried to keep his day holy.
I never again seriously contemplated homework on Sundays, though procrastination would dog me for all of college.
Starting The Season
Basketball began in mid-October, but I have surprisingly few memories of that first month of conditioning and practices (aside from forgetting one early morning conditioning and getting a dreaded call from Coach Jones that morning, wondering where I was).
I assimilated basketball into my schedule well enough, but I don’t remember feeling anything close to the same passion or drive for excellence I’d felt in high school. That’s a bit disappointing to me now, but I think it was a product of not having any idea what to expect from Division III college basketball: I had no idea what to strive for, who (or what) to compare myself to, or even who I'd be playing against. I wanted to do well, of course, but what did that even mean?
From here, it’s hard now not to feel somewhat dismissive of my difficulties then — in the way you might be tempted to put quotes around the word “difficulties” as an effort to sheepishly acknowledge that my hardships still reflected an awfully sheltered and privileged circumstance.
But even so, those hardships were very real to me then. And I feel inclined to be as gentle with the boy who went through them as I’d hope to be with my own teenagers. Furthermore, that year of forlorn teenage difficulty proved important on my path to genuine faith and belief.
Utica College
I spent most of my adolescence hoping and planning to attend Brigham Young University, just as my parents did. But as basketball became more of a thing in high school, I drew interest from several colleges (sadly, none of them BYU or similar caliber) — enough interest that I started toying with the possibility of going elsewhere.
Of all the phone calls and meetings I took, one coach's pitch eventually caught my attention: Coach Ed Jones, from nearby Utica College.
Utica College is relatively small private college nestled in Utica, NY. Its enrollment was only a few thousand then (and apparently still is), but the school was linked to Syracuse University, such that a degree from the school was a degree from Syracuse.
Coach Jones knew I was a devout Mormon and that that meant I planned to serve a mission when I turned 19 (he was the only coach to pick up on and address that fact). His pitch included the understanding that I would likely only be in school for a year before leaving for two. He also openly acknowledged that I might not even come back afterward.
He wanted me anyway, and I eventually bought in.
Out of the gates, I declared as a political science major, destined for law school. Along those lines, I took a few political science classes, though most of my classes involved general ed stuff. I made it to classes on time and sat attentively (enough) through the lectures. I even knew the names of several classmates, though I don’t remember ever spending time with any of them outside of class.
I moved through both semesters well enough academically, though frankly, I felt a bit aimless. Four years later when I applied to law schools, I included an addendum to my applications asking schools to effectively overlook my freshmen year grades, pleading that they didn’t properly reflect the drive and determination I’d found after my mission.
Branch Mission Leader
Back home, I'd been "called" to be my congregation's branch mission leader. That meant I was responsible for overseeing the missionary efforts in the branch, and for working closely with the pair of full-time missionaries assigned to our area. The calling felt like an oddity, given how young I was (this was years before it became en vogue to give younger people in the church significant responsibilities). But it gave me ready access to the habits, methods, and personalities of the handful of missionaries assigned to the branch during that year. Some were newly minted from the Missionary Training Center, anxious to be useful and full of fire and enthusiasm; others presented a bit more world weary with slightly different agendas. Some prized obedience to the mission rules as the key to success and happiness; others not as much.
I regularly accompanied the missionaries to teaching appointments in the area, watching carefully to see how they shared their faith and interacted with people — people all across the belief spectrum. Some were better suited to the task than others, but they all became my friends. And just having their regular company generated some excitement that I’d soon get my turn.
Ginning up excitement was probably part of the thinking behind the calling all along —that and the branch probably didn’t have many other options.
Online Message Boards
It’s hard to fathom now, but I don’t think we had internet access at home that year. In fact, it was only that Christmas between semesters that we even got a computer (Dad’s surprise big gift for the family). So I had to go to school — 30 minutes away — to get online. I ended up spending a lot of time in the computer labs that year.
At some point early in the first semester, I stumbled across some online message boards on the Sci-Fi channel website (I was fan). Before long, I devoted chunks of free time between classes to what then seemed like a novelty: trading messages online with relative strangers. Topics of interest included religion, evolution (I was a strict creationist back then — as a believer, I felt like I had to be), and the existence of God. I often spent my commute time, and plenty of other free thoughts, dissecting the latest arguments and preparing a response. Then I’d wait anxiously to see if my counterpoints had won any ground with my adversaries (they never seemed to).
That whole effort may have had something to do with the mandate to share the gospel. But mostly, given the right forum, I just liked arguing and defending my worldview.
It’s surprising to me now (though it shouldn’t be) to recognize that I didn’t undertake any of those efforts to actually learn anything — only to persuade and defend. The more others poked or attacked, especially with my Mormon faith, the more entrenched I emerged.
Homework on Sundays
By mid-November, I had a paper coming due in my political science class — a paper based on a book we were supposed to have read (I hadn’t). Up against a deadline a few days out, and having seriously procrastinated, I complained to the missionaries one Sunday after church that it looked like I had no choice: to have any hope of completing the assignment on time, I would have to break my rule (really my parents’ rule, passed down to me) of not doing homework on Sundays.
I expected a bit of “ox is in the mire” compassion and validation. Instead, the energetic younger missionary deftly told me about his own strict “No Sunday Homework” stance during his freshmen year (at BYU). He noted that sometimes it meant getting up extra early on Mondays, but he'd always found a way to make it work.
I felt doubtful, since the deadline loomed as ominous as ever, but also inspired by my friend’s faith. So I determined to do the same. I don't remember what I did instead that Sunday afternoon, but I was up and working all the earlier Monday morning. Three days later, I’d managed to read the book and write the paper (which I did fine on). In the aftermath, it felt like I had proven God on how he blessed those — even the procrastinators — who tried to keep his day holy.
I never again seriously contemplated homework on Sundays, though procrastination would dog me for all of college.
Starting The Season
Basketball began in mid-October, but I have surprisingly few memories of that first month of conditioning and practices (aside from forgetting one early morning conditioning and getting a dreaded call from Coach Jones that morning, wondering where I was).
I assimilated basketball into my schedule well enough, but I don’t remember feeling anything close to the same passion or drive for excellence I’d felt in high school. That’s a bit disappointing to me now, but I think it was a product of not having any idea what to expect from Division III college basketball: I had no idea what to strive for, who (or what) to compare myself to, or even who I'd be playing against. I wanted to do well, of course, but what did that even mean?
Also, there was that pesky fact that I would only be around for the year.
As games began in mid-November, we learned quickly how steep a learning curve our young team faced. We lost many more games than we won, especially early on. And I hadn't anticipated that crowds for our games would often be smaller than they were in high school (in fact, during winter break, one game had only a few dozen spectators, including my parents and several siblings).
Despite our team not doing so well, I got some recognition. In fact, only a few weeks into the season, the local paper ran a feature about my impending departure for a mission. The timing was odd, since we were only a few weeks into the season, but I still enjoyed the attention.
As games began in mid-November, we learned quickly how steep a learning curve our young team faced. We lost many more games than we won, especially early on. And I hadn't anticipated that crowds for our games would often be smaller than they were in high school (in fact, during winter break, one game had only a few dozen spectators, including my parents and several siblings).
Despite our team not doing so well, I got some recognition. In fact, only a few weeks into the season, the local paper ran a feature about my impending departure for a mission. The timing was odd, since we were only a few weeks into the season, but I still enjoyed the attention.
A Low Point
Meanwhile, the stretch of months from late December to early March felt personally like one of the lowest points of my life. My girlfriend from high school (who’d left for Boston that fall) had decided to move on, and I did not handle the loss well. And while I grew closer to a friend from the branch, I didn’t have any close friends on the basketball team (or at school, period). All the practice and travel only seemed to isolate me further.
I felt terribly lonely.
All that came to a head at the beginning of February when our team played a Saturday afternoon away game at Ithaca College. Ithaca had two upper class big men, and Coach Jones said they'd be a significant test for me. The game was never close, though, and I felt unexpectedly outmatched. As I remember it, it was the first time since I was a sophomore in high school (then playing against a future NBA lottery pick) that it felt like my strength and size gave me no advantage. So right when I could’ve used something to remind me I was wanted and special, I felt more of the opposite.
We were so far behind that the coach pulled me mid-way through the 2nd half. As I sat there on the bench, I felt defeated, alone, and overwhelmed. I happened, then, to look across the court into the crowd and saw a couple, likely in their 30’s. The man sat on the bench just below hers, his head nestled comfortably in her lap as they watched the game. They looked serene, and the image brought into relief my feelings of loss and loneliness. I started to cry uncontrollably there on the bench, burying my face in a towel to hide the tears. I can only imagine how awkward that made things for my teammates, who maybe thought I was just taking the loss really hard.
After that point, I felt even more inclined to look past the basketball season and toward my mission — where I felt certain I’d find the happiness I lacked in the moment. Not coincidentally, it was also about that time that I was nearing the end of the paperwork and interviews necessary to submit my mission application.
The Book of Mormon
That low point feels a bit of unflattering now, but it was so difficult at the time. And that difficulty all but forced me to seek further solace in my faith. At about that same time, I began to read some of C.S. Lewis’ more prominent works and felt almost worshipful of his logical defense of Christianity. I also took renewed interest in the Book of Mormon, seeking that elusive witness promised by Moroni in the final chapter — that the truth of the book would be made manifest to me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
The Book of Mormon is scripture unique to Mormonism (and its several offshoots). In the 1820s, Joseph Smith claimed an angel led him to a set of gold plates, buried in a hillside near his family farm in Upstate New York. The plates purportedly contained an ancient record (spanning over a thousand years) of former inhabitants of the Americas — inhabitants who, for long stretches, had also been Christians and had actually been visited by Christ after his resurrection. But they eventually fell away through wickedness and are now (supposedly) among the chief ancestors of native Americans.
Joseph claimed that God gave him power to translate the plates, and the result of his translation efforts was The Book of Mormon.
My renewed interest in The Book of Mormon kept me reading for longer and longer stretches on some of those lonely evenings — far more reading than needed just to check the daily box. At one point, I remember emailing a friend to tell her I would try to read the entire book of Alma (the longest book in the Book of Mormon, totaling 63 chapters) in a week. Not quite a Parley P. Pratt "reading all night" level feat, but it was a lot for me.
I believe it was that same week, on a Saturday afternoon, that I was walking into our kitchen, wondering when or how I would get that promised, confirming witness from the Holy Ghost that the book was "true." The thought then came that the wondering was unnecessary: I already knew. In fact, I'd always known it was true.
That matter-of-fact kind of answer wasn’t quite the witness I was looking for, but it was enough to hold on to at the time.
In the roughly 23 years that followed, I've easily read the Book of Mormon over 50 times, including a few dozen times while a missionary (when I actively kept track). The introduction to the Book of Mormon notes Joseph Smith once described it as the “keystone” of Mormonism, and that a person would draw closer to God reading that book than any other. I felt that. Often. In fact, using the more typical parlance, I knew the book was “true” — that it was what it says it is and came about the way Joseph Smith said it did — seemingly as well as I knew anything.
For most of the last quarter century of my life, I have spent some part of the day (usually the early mornings) with The Book of Mormon. I have taken my weaknesses, my frustrations, my difficulties, my heartaches to God, and then felt like I heard him through those pages — again and again and again. I have spent more time and thought with that book than any other text (probably by orders of magnitude).
With Nephi, I’ve diligently tried to “liken” the stories in The Book of Mormon to my own life; I have wept with him as he wrestled with his brothers’ hostility and his own weaknesses; I've repeatedly found courage in Abinadi’s steadfast testimony of Christ facing certain death, solace in King Limhi’s humiliated lament for his people and turning to God, and hope in Moroni’s later reflections on faith, weakness, humility, and grace; I have spent my own difficult years waiting with the army of Helaman in the wilderness — starved, weak, anxious for reinforcements against a threatening enemy that outnumbered and wanted to destroy them — their only reassurance coming from God that they should trust him (and that somehow being enough).
I believed that these people and their stories were real. I knew they were real, because of how they made me feel.
It is no exaggeration for me to say that I came to love the Book of Mormon, and to rely on it. It was the evidence for me of Joseph Smith’s divine calling and prophethood, and it held things together for me (as a keystone is supposed to) whenever I confronted information or circumstances that threatened my faith-filled worldview. More times than I can count I revisited Nephi’s specific promise that if I hearkened and held to its teachings (along with the rest of the “word of God”), I would “never perish; neither could the temptations and the fiery darts of the adversary overpower [me] unto blindness, to lead [me] away to destruction.” (1 Nephi 15:24).
So as my world turned upside down and things fell apart last year, the Book of Mormon was one of the last lines of defense for my faith. It eventually fell, too, though, and I now no longer have any confidence that The Book of Mormon is what it claims to be (I’ll say more on that in a future post).
For now, what’s relevant to me in looking back to those first moments of testimony (the moment of “I knew it all along”) is that I see now classic symptoms of the “illusory truth effect” — the tendency for humans to more readily accept ideas and purported facts with repeated exposure (regardless of whether they’re “true”).
Wrapping Up My Basketball Career
The basketball season ended in late February — just as it seemed we were starting to click as a team. In our last game, I apparently tied the then school record for points in a game (33) and set the record for field goal percentage.
It was the last time I ever played competitive basketball.
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| School Newspaper Article |
Some accolades followed, including apparently being named a freshman All-American for Division III (though I learned this only because I happened to see my name on a wall in Coach Jones’ office — when I asked about it, he expressed surprise that I didn’t know. I never got further word or confirmation, and for the life of me I can’t find records on the internet that go back that far. Such is the relative anonymity of Division III athletics). That next fall, while I was on my mission, I was apparently named a Division III Pre-Season All-American, 2nd team (which I likewise never got further confirmation of).
I offer those tidbits mostly to give context for the internal conflict I’ve felt lately, as I’ve newly confronted the idea that I ended my basketball career for a cause I no longer believe in.
I have no illusions that I would have amounted to much more than a high level Division III player — possibly lower level Division I (I really wasn’t scaring anyone with my vertical leap or lateral quickness). Maybe I could’ve even stretched it into a few years over seas, like some of the other top Division III players I knew of.
I get that none of those possibilities are necessarily life changing, but they’re also not nothing.
Up until recently, leaving for a mission was an easy call. God expected it of me, and I wanted to fulfill that obligation. I wanted to follow my father’s footsteps. I also not so secretly held out hope that I’d walk on to BYU’s basketball team after I got back (I had reapplied to BYU that spring and decided to transfer, basketball or no basketball). But during my mission, I injured my knees further (one morning while visiting an early morning seminary class, where we replicated "stick pulling" — a feat of strength Joseph Smith was apparently fond of). After that injury, I could no longer play basketball on successive days without my knees swelling terribly.
I’ve tried playing out the counter factual of what would have happened — what could have happened — if I’d stayed and played out the rest of my college eligibility (at Utica or elsewhere). But given the home I grew up in, I almost can’t conceive of what that would have looked like. I also can’t figure how I possibly could have seen things for what they were back then (I trusted my parents and my upbringing so completely). It’s also certainly conceivable that I would have found some other way to injure my knees and prematurely end my career — but maybe not.
Confusing matters further, there’s also the fact that, even knowing what I know now, I don’t think I would trade my mission experiences for anything. Whatever I now believe about the cause itself, those two years taught me how to work, focus, sacrifice, and refine my efforts and motivations like few other things could. It also pushed me outside myself and toward the well-being others.
And probably most important, I made lifelong friends as a missionary, and so many of the people dearest to me in life are people I met during those years. I don’t want to try to imagine a life not knowing them and not spending the time with them that I did.
But those reassurances hardly assuage the difficult feelings. I loved playing basketball. I was pretty good at it, and I would love to have known how far I could've taken it. Instead, I gave it up for a cause I now feel I took on under false pretenses.
Mission Call and Departure
My mission call came by mail on March 7, 1997. I had been assigned to Roseville, California. While I’d hoped for something in South America (like Dad), I immediately embraced Northern California. Dad was the one to read the letter more closely and find that I’d be speaking Spanish.
I offer those tidbits mostly to give context for the internal conflict I’ve felt lately, as I’ve newly confronted the idea that I ended my basketball career for a cause I no longer believe in.
I have no illusions that I would have amounted to much more than a high level Division III player — possibly lower level Division I (I really wasn’t scaring anyone with my vertical leap or lateral quickness). Maybe I could’ve even stretched it into a few years over seas, like some of the other top Division III players I knew of.
I get that none of those possibilities are necessarily life changing, but they’re also not nothing.
Up until recently, leaving for a mission was an easy call. God expected it of me, and I wanted to fulfill that obligation. I wanted to follow my father’s footsteps. I also not so secretly held out hope that I’d walk on to BYU’s basketball team after I got back (I had reapplied to BYU that spring and decided to transfer, basketball or no basketball). But during my mission, I injured my knees further (one morning while visiting an early morning seminary class, where we replicated "stick pulling" — a feat of strength Joseph Smith was apparently fond of). After that injury, I could no longer play basketball on successive days without my knees swelling terribly.
I’ve tried playing out the counter factual of what would have happened — what could have happened — if I’d stayed and played out the rest of my college eligibility (at Utica or elsewhere). But given the home I grew up in, I almost can’t conceive of what that would have looked like. I also can’t figure how I possibly could have seen things for what they were back then (I trusted my parents and my upbringing so completely). It’s also certainly conceivable that I would have found some other way to injure my knees and prematurely end my career — but maybe not.
Confusing matters further, there’s also the fact that, even knowing what I know now, I don’t think I would trade my mission experiences for anything. Whatever I now believe about the cause itself, those two years taught me how to work, focus, sacrifice, and refine my efforts and motivations like few other things could. It also pushed me outside myself and toward the well-being others.
And probably most important, I made lifelong friends as a missionary, and so many of the people dearest to me in life are people I met during those years. I don’t want to try to imagine a life not knowing them and not spending the time with them that I did.
But those reassurances hardly assuage the difficult feelings. I loved playing basketball. I was pretty good at it, and I would love to have known how far I could've taken it. Instead, I gave it up for a cause I now feel I took on under false pretenses.
Mission Call and Departure
My mission call came by mail on March 7, 1997. I had been assigned to Roseville, California. While I’d hoped for something in South America (like Dad), I immediately embraced Northern California. Dad was the one to read the letter more closely and find that I’d be speaking Spanish.
At the time, that was everything for me.
After that point, whatever tedium I felt about school multiplied exponentially, but the months still flew by. My journal entries for that time period reflect an almost frenzied excitement — as though I were preaching to myself how much I’d enjoy the challenges ahead.
As spring turned to summer, friends I’d only been able to email or call now returned home, and my social life picked up significantly. The sadness of those earlier months melted away, and I felt the closest to happy that I had all year.
A little over a week before I left, my parents and grandparents took me through the Washington, D.C. Temple. The experience was jarring, but I guess became normalized with repeated exposure.
The morning I left New York, it rained off and on. I remember the house feeling unusually quiet, but then my siblings were probably still in school. There were so many tears. At the airport, my parents and a few close friends saw me off. Dad hugged me and told me he was proud of me — I’d never heard him say it to me that way before (and I can’t remember him hugging me before that).
As I left for the tarmac, Dad knocked on the window to signal me and wave one last time. I could hardly bear to look back as I got on the plane. I cried for awhile after takeoff.
Two years later, the guy that returned could hardly identify with or recognize the version of me that got on the plane that afternoon.
After that point, whatever tedium I felt about school multiplied exponentially, but the months still flew by. My journal entries for that time period reflect an almost frenzied excitement — as though I were preaching to myself how much I’d enjoy the challenges ahead.
As spring turned to summer, friends I’d only been able to email or call now returned home, and my social life picked up significantly. The sadness of those earlier months melted away, and I felt the closest to happy that I had all year.
A little over a week before I left, my parents and grandparents took me through the Washington, D.C. Temple. The experience was jarring, but I guess became normalized with repeated exposure.
The morning I left New York, it rained off and on. I remember the house feeling unusually quiet, but then my siblings were probably still in school. There were so many tears. At the airport, my parents and a few close friends saw me off. Dad hugged me and told me he was proud of me — I’d never heard him say it to me that way before (and I can’t remember him hugging me before that).
As I left for the tarmac, Dad knocked on the window to signal me and wave one last time. I could hardly bear to look back as I got on the plane. I cried for awhile after takeoff.
Two years later, the guy that returned could hardly identify with or recognize the version of me that got on the plane that afternoon.
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| Pre-Mission Photo |
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