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| Gridley, California -- Los Campos |
I left off the narrative a few months ago with a young missionary at the MTC who had repented of serious mistakes and, at the same time, realized that the gospel of Jesus Christ (at least as preached through Mormonism) was the “pearl of great price,” worth giving all I had to possess.
As Dad might have said, “That was a good start.”
I’ve alluded to this before, but it bears repeating here to understand this next part of my story: growing up, I rarely knew what it felt like to please my father.
I say that cautiously, with the hope that my writings up to now make it clear how much I love and miss my Dad — how highly I think of him. I know Dad loved me, and I know he did the best he could with what he knew at the time. His expectations of me in those early years, though, always seemed to stretch beyond my performance. Sometimes far beyond: at school, at home, and even sometimes in sports.
As a result, from about age 8-16, my most prevalent memories with Dad usually center around his disappointment with me.
I suspect the reasons for this are varied, layered. At some level, though, I believe his approach was intentional: high expectations (manifest by routinely pointing out my deficiencies) were meant to help spur me to excellence, and praise might have risked complacency.
The irony is that it was typically in matters of faith that Dad most often seemed pleased with me. As a youth, I hit all of the faith’s worthiness milestones, seemingly without incident. But as I noted in my last entry, I had lied (repeatedly) to meet those milestones, and I knew I wasn't worthy of them.
Had Dad known the truth, I felt certain he would have been just as disappointed with me as I knew God was.
Looking back now, I saw little daylight between Dad’s parenting style and my relationship with God. At least in part, this seems to be the result of a faith focused so heavily on worthiness — on having to earn the approval and reward of a God that supposedly loves us perfectly. Because, while this God is merciful and kind, he still “cannot look upon sin with the least degree of allowance” (D&C 1:31). And he will not permit any “unclean thing” to “dwell in his presence” (Moses 6:57). So despite (because of?) God's perfect love, he won't have us back unless we do all the things (and there are lots of things to do in Mormonism).
Mormons do make occasional reference to “grace.” The Book of Mormon even includes the phrase that we are “saved by grace.” We are quick to point out, too, that it's only through Jesus that we have hope of "salvation" and "exaltation" (two distinct concepts in the faith). But in Mormonism, the concept of "grace" seems to come with a heavy qualification. As that verse in the Book of Mormon states, “for we know that it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do.” (2 Nephi 25:23, emphasis added).
The difficulties laden in that short phrase are evident in an LDS apostle's pointed query: “Have any of us done all that we can do?” (emphasis in original)
All of that background is necessary predicate to understanding why, at this point in the narrative, I thought God's approach was no different than Dad's: why it seemed to me that only complete faithfulness and perfect obedience had value, while everything else fell short; why God would also (necessarily) be quick to criticize and point out flaws; and why he, too, would be sparing with praise for anything that fell short of the ideal.
It’s obvious to me now that this mindset was unhealthy. And in the already demanding environment of full-time missionary work, probably outright dangerous. I just didn’t know any better. Nor would I, frankly, for a long time.
Fortunately, my mission president took early notice and often saved me from myself during those mission years.
This next part of my story revisits those years at various points, exploring the effects of that service on my faith and giving context for the decades that followed.
"Vision Times"
I mentioned previously that at the MTC, one of our teachers, Hermano Arnold, had tried to raise our little district’s sights to the power and purpose of our missionary calling. Blonde, thinly framed, and nowhere near six feet tall, Hermano Arnold still had the presence of a spiritual giant to me, cut from the same mold as my father. Like Dad, he had even served in Paraguay.
Hermano Arnold dedicated a portion of each evening lesson to what he called "vision time," where, for 10-15 minutes, he’d venture outside the regular curriculum to expand our vision of the work. Among these lessons, he pointed us to Jacob 1:19 and the idea that we might “magnify” our calling by taking upon us the “sins of the people” (absolving ourselves of those sins only if we “did [] teach them the word of God with all diligence”). In another instance, reading us Alma 26:22, he highlighted the verse's promise of baptizing thousands, apparently available to anyone who simply met the spiritual requirements.
Back then, I found his “vision times” mesmerizing as they played perfectly into that part of me conditioned to look for, and be obedient to, the “higher law.” They made me feel special, even among those in my own faith. And they had same ring to them that I’d often sensed in Dad’s sermons — that of a studied, insider knowledge of the way things really were.
The reality, though, was that these ideas really just served to raise the bar — to practically impossible levels — for how I should define "success" as a missionary. For how I expected God would define it.
[In a twist, I learned toward the end of my mission that Hermano Arnold’s superiors had eventually instructed him to stop sharing his “vision times.” I took that news very hard at the time. It makes perfect sense now.]
On our last night with him at the MTC, Hermano Arnold struck a particularly solemn tone. He told us that if we ever saw him again, he wouldn’t bother with typical pleasantries. Instead, he’d simply look us square in the eyes and ask if we “did it.”
It wasn’t clear what “it” was, but the vagueness of the challenge only added to its allure. [Now as I look back, I can’t help but think of the Nietzsche quote “They muddy the water to make it seem deep.”] He offered clues, though, that it would require obedience, and that if we "came to know Christ," we would have “done it.”
That night I burned Hermano Arnold’s final charge into my memory. I wanted so much to "do it," and I felt anxious to throw myself into the most desperate battles to prove myself worthy to God.
Orientation
I left the MTC in the early morning hours of August 20, 1997. By afternoon, I was in Sacramento, California.
There are something like 300 missions worldwide for the LDS church. Each is run by a mission president (always a male and always married) and his wife. They are "called" to their positions and sent off from their homes to different parts of the world. They are also unpaid, and their usual term of service is three years. A mission president and his wife usually preside over 100+ missionaries at any given time, making sure the missionaries' needs are met, rules and spirits are kept up, etc. They also liaison with local leadership to help facilitate and coordinate the missionary efforts in the area.
As I noted before, I’d been assigned to the Roseville, California mission (Spanish speaking). Roseville is just north of Sacramento, and the mission stretches northward from Roseville up through the central part of the state to Redding, California.
Most of the 100+ missionaries assigned to Roseville only spoke English. A handful of us (usually 10-12) received the specific assignment and training to speak Spanish, and we were almost always paired together. Collectively we made up the mission's Spanish zone.
President Checketts was the Roseville mission president during my time there. He hailed from Northern Utah and had been a guidance counselor professionally. He had also served in the church as a bishop and stake president.
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| 2012 Photo of President and Sister Checketts -- Courtesy of The Church News |
President and Sister Checketts met the handful of us new missionaries at the airport, along with the assistants to the president (“AP’s” — the pair of male missionaries selected to work closely with the mission president and oversee the other missionaries). The AP's drove us to the mission office for a brief orientation, of sorts, and later to the mission home in Granite Bay (where President and Sister Checketts lived), for dinner and a testimony meeting. I don't remember speaking very much, though I felt anxious to make a good impression. The day and new environment were all rather bewildering.
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| Mission Board Photo (from that first day) |
Marysville
The next morning we drove north to Yuba City, where they paired me with my new companion and trainer, Elder Walker. He was in the home stretch of his mission, with only 3-4 months to go. We were to work in neighboring Marysville, where Elder Walker had already been for a number of months (missionaries typically change areas about every 4 months or so, and companionships about every two months — these changes are made by the mission president and AP's, ostensibly with God's guidance and direction).
I think I’d barely put my bags down in the apartment before Elder Walker took me to knock doors ("tracting") for several hours in the hot afternoon sun. It seemed he was trying to set a hard-working tone for our companionship.
Tracting was awful. It was (and remained) one of the most difficult aspects of missionary work, and, at least according to all my training at the MTC, one of the least effective.
It made for quite the discouraging introduction to the work. Most of the people we met weren’t even Spanish speakers, and I could hardly understand the few who were.
The first days and weeks that followed didn’t seem to get any cooler, nor the work much more encouraging. The fire and vision that had burned so brightly at the MTC dimmed rather quickly, offering precious little encouragement or motivation in the heat of those afternoons.
I felt plenty of condemnation, though.
The Daily Routine
The missionary daily regimen is both rigid and rigorous. Mission rules required we be up by 6:30 am. Mornings were to include 1/2 hour of personal scripture study, 1/2 hour of companionship study, and 1/2 hour of language study. At some point along the way, we also got to include 1/2 hour of exercise three days a week.
By 10 or 10:30 am, we were to be out the door and working — teaching the gospel to people or finding people to teach. Ultimate “success” was most readily measured in baptizing new converts into the faith. Short of that, though, we also set goals for, and reported weekly on, the number of lessons taught, the number of copies of the Book of Mormon given away (with a commitment to read), and even the number of people we talked to (“OYMs” or “Open Your Mouth”). If we met each of the weekly goals we set in these categories, we achieved the “full plate.”
The rules allowed an hour for lunch around mid-day, and an hour for dinner (often in the homes of local church members). We weren’t supposed to head in for the night until 9:30 pm, after which time we were to call in to our respective leaders, plan for the following day, write in our journals, and do whatever else we needed to do before the lights went out at 10:30 pm.
Wednesdays were preparation days (“P-days”), which meant we didn’t need to be out working on those days until 6 pm. On P-days, we had to get all of our shopping, laundry, cleaning, and other chores done. We could also write letters home (the only authorized means to communicate with friends and family back then, aside from a 1-hour phone call home on Christmas and Mother’s Day).
Our access to media was also restricted. No television. No movies (except church-produced), and nothing besides church music. Our available reading material was also limited to the scriptures and other church publications.
Most of these rules were kept on the honor system, though you did have a companion with you at all times to help keep you on track. Also daily reporting to mission leadership. Obedience, it was understood, was a requirement for God to bless you and your efforts — to be able to have the Holy Ghost and find success in the work.
Early Difficulties
In my early days in Marysville, I started to wake each morning with increasing reluctance for the day ahead. Sometimes even the night before, a pit formed in my stomach about the coming day: about having to eventually leave the apartment, and then talk to people all day long — strangers who mostly didn’t want to talk to me and who had zero interest in the message we had to share. That and most of these people were English speaking, too. So even if they expressed interest, we had to hand off their teaching to others (there were strictly English-speaking missionaries for that).
Years before I had a name for it, and decades before I saw it as anything other than a personal failing, I was confronting the fact that I was almost painfully shy and introverted. For me, talking to new people (especially if I sensed they may not want to talk to me) felt so hard. In fact, it was even draining and terrifying just to think about.
At some level, I had been aware of these tendencies for a few years. I'd convinced myself, though, that the truth and importance of the message — believing people’s happiness on earth, and their eternal salvation hereafter, required hearing and accepting it — would swallow up those tendencies.
Turns out not so much.
Further compounding those early difficulties were the notions of the challenging and testifying (and obviously extroverted) missionary I’d idealized. Perfectly obedient and without fear. That was the ideal, if not the standard, preached in the MTC, in the scriptures, and in all of Dad’s mission stories. That was the kind of guy who would baptize thousands. And that was the guy I knew that God expected me to be.
Anything short of that didn’t even feel like a good start — it just felt unacceptable.
The problem was that I didn’t feel anywhere close to the ideal. Instead, every morning I was just trying to manage my terror at the thought of leaving the apartment and talking to strangers.
In the evenings those first few months, as we came in each night, I took fleeting pleasure in any successes from the day. I had a hard time, though, letting go of instances where I’d personally fallen short. I couldn’t see past my weaknesses (mostly a reticence to open my mouth in uncomfortable situations), and it felt like I shouldn’t see past them: that my only hope for absolution was in being merciless with myself when I’d done less than I should have.
Often in my journal entries from that time period, I vowed to myself (and to God) that I would be that idealized missionary the next day — I wouldn’t be so afraid to open my mouth! And then I’d wake up (reluctantly) the next morning with that familiar pit in my stomach all over again.
In an interview with President Checketts in late September 1997 (he prioritized monthly interviews with each of his missionaries), I sought out corrective counsel. I told him about my perceived problems with diligence. Apparently already getting a sense for things, he advised me to take it “one day at a time” and to be “hungry, not paranoid.”
That wasn’t exactly the correction I was used to (or that I was looking for).
***
By mid-October, I had a new companion, Elder Dayton. A former Spanish zone leader, Elder Dayton helped push me to work hard, and we met our weekly proselyting goals with a steadiness I could hardly explain (and would never again match). He just wouldn’t accept anything short of that. He was my hero.
Even so, my nightly journal entries still bemoaned each day’s personal failures, which, again, usually revolved around a reticence to go out of my way to talk to someone.
An Intervention
Things came to a head in November 1997.
Each week of our mission, we wrote reports to President Checketts (“President’s Letters”) on the work and how we were doing. I used these letters as forum, of sorts, to offer candid (usually scathing) assessments of my efforts the prior week.
Up until November, all of my prior interviews with President Checketts had been perfunctory — hardly taking up the 15 minutes they were scheduled for.
This time was different. As I walked in for the interview, I saw at least one of my letters on the table. President noted the trend he'd seen in my letters and expressed concern. In so many words, he probed regarding the negativity in my reports and how hard I was on myself.
I didn't know what to say. No one had ever accused me of being too hard on myself before. I was just being honest; I wasn't measuring up. And the criticism, for me, felt like a necessary first step toward fixing my personal failings.
I seem to remember President shaking his head. He then told me that, in his time in church leadership, he'd known people who were so self-critical that they eventually left the church — because they felt they could simply never measure up.
Ok, but…
Then he pressed further. He told me that, somehow, God didn't expect me to be a perfect missionary just yet (even if I did). He tried to explain that, each morning, I was trying to bridge the wide gap between where I was (introverted kid, often afraid to open his mouth) and the "perfect" missionary (unafraid of anyone or anything). Of course I felt like a failure!
He told me that God knew where I was at, and He was patient. And wouldn't it be so much better if, instead of trying to fix everything all at once, everyday, and then lamenting the inevitable failure — couldn't I just focus on one thing a week to try to improve on?
President’s bottom line was that my self-criticism was unhelpful, unhealthy, and unnecessary. I had trouble getting my head around it, but God apparently wasn't expecting perfection of me, nor holding it against me (too much) when I fell short.
What?
The interview took nearly an hour. I emerged disoriented, trying to make sense of what felt like a new reality. I felt lighter, I guess, but confused. I really didn't understand how it worked — how President Checketts could justify that approach doctrinally. But I accepted it is as true, and for days afterward, I hardly thought about anything else.
That interview was my first hint — really ever — that I might be ok just as I was. At the very least, I started to consider, sometimes, whether God wanted me to be kinder to myself. And I started reporting on those efforts in my weekly President’s Letters.
The interview also signaled that President Checketts genuinely cared about me, and that shifted my relationship with him dramatically.
Corning
The year mark of my mission found me in the relatively small city of Corning, CA. My fourth area of service, the city is home to Lindsey Olives and surrounded by agriculture.
At that point, I was the new, solo zone leader for the Spanish zone. I was also training a new missionary.
It was the beginning of a lonely and isolating stretch for me.
The new missionary only lasted a few weeks before he was sent home on a medical emergency. To keep the area open, President Checketts paired me with an English speaking companion at the tail end of his mission. This pairing effectively meant I had to do all the talking and teaching in every encounter with Spanish speakers. This particular missionary also challenged me on everything and seemed to take unusual delight in openly criticizing me — to such a degree that I might have sworn his primary purpose in our six weeks together was to try to destroy my self-esteem. I rarely responded and almost never argued (a stark turn from the years prior to my mission) to avoid contention. Instead, I usually shifted those arguments to my journal.
[This companion, a self-described homeopath who wouldn’t eat pork, did at least introduce me to natural peanut butter. That discovery almost makes up for the hell he put me through.]
After I survived my time with him, I figured I could survive just about anything.
Beyond companionship issues, I learned sooner or later that not all in the Spanish zone were thrilled to have me in leadership. Some of the remaining, more seasoned missionaries were even openly hostile. In one of many missteps, I tended to ignore and wait out those hostilities, rather than address (and try to heal) them head on [that would have taken a level of maturity that was beyond me at 20 years old].
One of my companions during this time would also later confide that I had a reputation in the zone as being "serious and never smiling." Others would later confess that they weren't initially thrilled at the thought of being paired with me — I came across as stern and unyielding, and I insisted on speaking Spanish all the time.
My journal entries from this time period are still rife with self-criticism, wrestling with weaknesses, and analysis of what I needed to do better.
If that sounds contrary to President Checketts' counsel in Marysville, it probably was. But a lack of “success” in the work always begs an explanation. And, my neuroses aside, we were trained over and over and over again to point the finger first (if not solely) at ourselves to account for it. [This has been a persistent theme in almost all my experience with church leadership]
Along those lines, I remember several nights of extended, tearful prayer in those months. During those prayers I pled for help with the work, for help to overcome my own weaknesses.
***
During those lonely months in Corning, my interviews with President Checketts became a rare source of comfort.
In one interview in late August 1998, I confided in President that I’d never really felt adequate; I’d never felt that my efforts were satisfactory — especially for someone in leadership.
President was so careful and reassuring. He told me that I had special gifts to share and that I should focus on those and not worry about trying to do everything. As tears came to his eyes, President told me that he sensed I would one day fully understand the problem that seemed to weigh me down, and I would need to learn balance. And, in comments that still move me to tears, he said he thought I was an outstanding missionary with a gentle heart, but with the necessary elements to stick to my guns and be forthright when called upon. He told me that it was better to be respected than to be loved, and that he respected me. He also said that from what he knew, my peers respected me.
[This last comment helped reinforce what I’d felt most of my life: love — at least in the sense that Dad, President Checketts, and even God had seemed to use the term — didn’t mean very much. And that even expressions of genuine love, without accompanying respect or trust, only meant so much (and could even feel condescending). This may be what I've wrestled with recently as people, having learned I’ve left the faith, offer that they “still love [me].” The thought is surely well intended, but I’m often left wondering if these people still respect me.]
This interview, that was again supposed to take only 15 minutes, lasted nearly an hour. For hours afterward, I replayed President’s praise in my mind — holding onto it all the tighter because it wasn’t something I could feel myself.
In my heart, I was still pretty sure God was displeased.
"Charity Never Faileth"
In September 1998, I was again training a new missionary. One hot afternoon toward the end of the month, I felt a familiar reluctance to leave the apartment after lunch. I wasn’t anxious to get back to work, and I wondered what could possibly motivate me enough — how would the afternoon be anything but a drudgery?
As I considered the universe of possible motivations, I remembered the scripture “charity never faileth” (Moroni 7:46 and 1 Cor 13:8). I realized in that moment that when all other motivations failed (because they had), only love was going get me out the door that particular afternoon.
I left the room and knelt to pray for charity. When I got up from that prayer, I felt an energy I hadn't known before. Afterward we not only got out the door on time, but for most of that afternoon, I practically ran to approach people and offer our message (unconcerned with how awkward or threatening my approach might seem).
Making that connection changed me, and it changed my service. Exactly one week later, I noted in my journal — for the first time — that I felt happy. That was not a small thing.
In early November, I left Corning reluctantly (God had called me down to Roseville). I felt confused that I’d be asked to serve amongst people and grow to love them, only to be asked to leave so soon.
Baptizing Thousands?
Eighteen months into my mission, I was in Roseville. I was not baptizing thousands. In fact, we weren't really baptizing anyone. The lack of success weighed on me, and felt like a persistent, personal failure. I was trying so hard to keep all the rules — to do all the things. But the idea of baptizing thousands seemed to be so far beyond my reality that, more and more, that notion began to seem almost . . . nonsensical.
[The hesitation then to acknowledge what I felt is the same I sense from Linus, afraid the Great Pumpkin wasn't coming, “Good grief…I said if!”]
At about that time, I wrote Hermano Arnold and described my frustrations, born of my apparent failure. What was I missing? And how, in these circumstances, was I supposed to inspire others in the Spanish zone to baptize thousands?
He responded. The letter was short on pleasantries, though I *think* there were some. He told me that he received lots of letters from missionaries, but that he rarely replied. Hermano Arnold then chided me somewhat, noting that I "could not expect to share a vision with others that I had not attained and applied myself."
Huh?
He also offered this observation: “The Lord wants Ammons [fearless Book of Mormon missionary who had apparently baptized thousands] who would be just as willing to live or die as an Abinadi [fearless Book of Mormon missionary/prophet burned at the stake who managed only one convert — albeit an important one]."
Ok…
I treasured the letter and his counsel, even if I couldn't exactly square it with what he’d said at the MTC. Eventually, though, I found enough wiggle room in it to make peace with my “failure” to baptize thousands.
Gridley
With just over two months left to go, God sent me back to Gridley, California (it had also been my second area, after Marysville). Gridley, at least then, was known as the “Kiwi (as in the fruit) Capital of the United States,” and boasted having the mission’s only Spanish branch. This meant it was the only area in the mission one could attend services in Spanish (we typically had to translate meetings everywhere else).
In Gridley, I joined Elder Beard and we served together as Spanish zone leaders.
Elder Beard was slightly older than me, though four or five months younger in the mission. He’d been trained by Elder Dayton (from my Marysville days) and embodied Elder Dayton’s legacy of goal-oriented drive better than anyone I knew.
[I noted in my journal that his methods were more “insistent” than mine, while avoiding any conclusion about whose were “better”]
He spoke with a folksy Missouri accent and had a playfulness that disarmed you. His natural humility also belied an inner confidence that made him rather strong-willed. He could be formidable (though still mostly pleasant) when we disagreed.
In our first “companionship inventory,” Elder Beard said he felt strongly about setting a goal of 14 baptisms for the 9 weeks or so we’d be together. Not wanting to diminish his enthusiasm, I acquiesced. By then, though, I felt world wearied and had mostly run out of the energy to chase lofty numbers — I just wanted to find a family that would accept our message.
[This would be where we’d sometimes clash, when those numbers didn’t materialize and he reasoned we simply weren't working hard enough]
In those 9 weeks, we tracted our way through Gridley and the surrounding towns, and I felt more confident and comfortable with the work than I ever hard. That confidence, buoyed by Elder Beard’s reassuring presence, often made me bolder than I’d ever been in teaching and engaging people.
Together it seemed like the two of us witnessed miracles, and we found a measure of success. For instance, there were at least a few times where I felt like God have given me exactly what to say to someone we were teaching [which was almost always a memorized part of one of our lessons]. And one afternoon, the two of us independently selected the same street to tract. On that street we met a woman who stopped us mid-approach to tell us that she wanted to be baptized (she said her husband was Mormon).
Working alongside Elder Beard allowed me to be the best version of myself, which felt like the perfect way to finish my service. He also became a good friend — someone I enjoyed talking with during the moments in-between the work.
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| Elders Clark and Beard (2017) |
Exploring a Miracle
In those last months, I still prized the few minutes I got with President Checketts each month in our interviews. He talked to me about “smelling the roses” and “savoring” the little time I had left — it hadn’t ever occurred to me to “savor” my time (any more than it would occur to me to savor a particularly grueling workout). Even at its best, my mission was something to be endured.
In an increasingly frequent theme, President spoke candidly about what he sensed for my future leadership responsibilities in the church. More than once, he mentioned his belief that there was something about that in my patriarchal blessing.
[A “patriarchal blessing” is a once in a lifetime blessing church members can receive, frequently as teenagers, from their stake patriarch. These blessings are recorded and transcribed, and also kept somewhere in the records of the church. According to the church website, a person can only access their own blessing, or the blessing of a deceased, direct-line family member. Those who receive a patriarchal blessing are counseled to study it, keep it close, and be cautious about who they share the details with.]
In our April 1999 interview, President spoke more directly on the subject than he ever had. As our conversation again broached the theme of future church leadership, President carefully told me that I shouldn’t be afraid of those future responsibilities, because I wouldn’t be called unless I was prepared.
He paused for a moment, and during that pause I considered that he had essentially just quoted my patriarchal blessing.
He then followed, “I know that is in your patriarchal blessing.”
A bit astonished, I admitted this was exactly what I had been thinking.
While it’s generally taboo to discuss publicly the contents of one’s patriarchal blessing (at least while the person is alive), I’ll risk it here to provide some context. Here’s the relevant passage:
You are promised that you will have the opportunity to serve in many wonderful ways in the Kingdom. As these responsibilities are made known unto you through the servants of your Father in Heaven, accept them willingly, and fear not these responsibilities, for if you are diligent you will be prepared, for as Nephi testified, you will not be called unless you are prepared. (Emphasis added)
By just about any measure, President Checketts was spot on.
[and no, I have no reason to think he had undisclosed access to my blessing]
As I've tried to unpack this experience recently, it seems important to note that I don’t remember President ever being self-aggrandizing or calling attention to himself — about anything (he told plenty of personal stories, but I never had the sense they were for self-promotion). I also never saw him assert or rely on claims of the miraculous to establish authority, or even just to garner respect or admiration. Also, at least for me, the fact that President made it his focus to visit with and listen to each of us missionaries every month was perhaps the clearest indication that his service really wasn't about him.
I'll also note, too, that after our interview, President never spoke of the experience again with me. At least not directly.
All told, as I’ve spent the last few months working through this post, I’ve tried to re-examine this experience from every angle I can think of. Maybe I’m missing something, but I still can’t readily explain it. Though I'm heavily skeptical now (of all miraculous or metaphysical claims), I still find this experience remarkable. Possibly miraculous.
What does this mean?
Honestly, I don’t know.
Frankly, I would much prefer a cogent explanation. As things stand, the memory makes me pause and wonder, but it is not enough to heal my disillusioned faith. Maybe it is evidence of a loving God, offering a gentle reminder that he knew and remembered me. But that thought just makes his abandonment in the last 18 months feel more pronounced.
Whatever the incident might say of God, though, it was certainly evidence that my mission president loved and cared for me. And back then, that seemed to be exactly what I needed.
Departing Testimony
Our mission held monthly zone conferences (day-long trainings for 30 or so missionaries at a time). At the end of these conferences, President allotted time for missionaries to stand at the podium and share impromptu testimonies of the gospel and the work. The missionaries that were headed home that month always went first.
For me at least, the departing missionaries were always the envy of the room — they had finished their work and were about to go home. From my earliest days in Marysville, I’d always listened to their testimonies with rapt attention. And as the departing missionaries spoke, I tended to put myself in their shoes and imagine what I’d be able to say when my time came. It always felt so far off.
In May 1999, though, I stood at the podium as a departing missionary. I noted that, as I stood there, the heat of the July and August afternoons didn’t seem to matter — all those difficulties were just a memory now. I relayed my MTC experience with Hermano Arnold and what he'd said he would ask me if we ever met again. Then I told the group that I felt like I “did it.” I did it because I had sought God every single day of my mission. And sometimes, I felt like he had used me.
I testified of God’s mercy, because I had certainly needed it. I knew I hadn’t served perfectly. In fact, I couldn’t recall a single day of my mission that didn’t include some regret for a thing I should have done or not done, or at least done better.
I'd never really done "all [I could] do."
And yet, somehow, I still sensed his approval of my efforts. Given where I’d started out, that seemed like a small miracle.
A few missionaries then got up and told how I’d affected their missions. One former companion mentioned that I’d always made his bed in the month we were together [part of those efforts to develop charity]. President then offered remarks, talking about the “shadow” I’d cast over the mission and the Spanish zone. He mentioned his sense that my family was closely knit together, and he talked about the impact I’d had on other missionaries. He mentioned that he always knew to come prepared for our interviews because he knew I came in serious. He said he could always tell what was in my heart — that I had a big and tender heart.
I loved every second of that experience.
The Final Interview
In the weeks that followed, I tried to stay diligent. I tried to “savor” the days I had left, and I tried not to think of home and of the life that awaited me there.
Increasingly, though, I felt torn between two worlds, not at home in either. At lunch in a Pizza Hut one afternoon, I saw “Blues Clues” on one of the TV screens. My youngest brother, Peter, was 2 when I left — we’d watched that show together. I hadn’t thought of that in a long time, and I grew anxious to be home, to be a better brother.
I had long wondered what it would feel like to finish my mission. I envisioned jumping for joy, or at least feeling a sense of relief. But after my last day of work, I felt none of those things. Mostly, I felt sad and out of place.
On June 3, 1999, I packed my bags and traveled down to the mission office with the AP’s and a group of missionaries. That afternoon I had my final interview with President Checketts.
I think I imagined the interview would feel momentous, climactic. The reality, though, was that I mostly felt overwhelmed with talk of post-mission life. Also scared and confused — “in limbo” as President put it. He exhorted me to continued spiritual diligence in the years that would follow. And then, in a voice that grew quiet, he summed up his evaluation of my efforts: “You have served so well.”
Fighting back tears of confusion and gratitude, I told President that I would "serve the Lord all my days.”
Still quiet, President told me never to forget what I had just said.
***
It's an interesting exercise now, from outside the faith, to look back on those years of service. I tried — I really, really tried — to do the best I knew how to please God. Nothing since has required even close to the same level of sustained sacrifice and diligence. Nothing has felt so relentlessly taxing. As I look back, it might be that difficulty that evokes a tenderness for those people and places, and that accounts for the special kinship I still feel for the missionaries who labored alongside me. They are my friends, and the fact that I no longer ascribe to the message we preached (or the authority by which we claimed to preach it) does not really affect those feelings at all.
Things grow more complicated, though, as I to try to piece together what made me so susceptible to such a complete indoctrination. I no longer believe the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is what it claims to be, and I’m mostly doubtful now that God even exists. How, then, did I never notice some of the troubling things that seem so obvious now? How did I spend so much energy and effort on the cause — often dealing with people antagonistic to the faith — and yet remain so insulated and naïve? How could I have believed so fervently it was all true (so much that I said over and over that I “knew”) if it actually wasn’t?
The answers to these questions seem to be varied, layered. But perhaps they can be summarized in Ed Harris’ observation from The Truman Show: “We accept the reality of the world with which we’re presented. It’s as simple as that.”
***
When I went public with my loss of faith earlier this year, I reached out to President Checketts by email. I hadn’t seen him for a few years, but I wanted him to hear it from me first hand. Telling him was almost as hard as telling Mom, or telling my kids.
His response was far kinder than I could sense in the moment. He assured me, repeatedly, of his unwavering love. But at the time, all I felt was his heartbreak and disappointment.
I’d never felt his disappointment before.
Once the threat of Covid eases, I hope to sit and visit with him further. The written word (at least my written word) can only provide so much context for these kinds of difficult conversations.
Home
I hardly slept that night. A muddle of anxiousness and new surroundings, it was probably the worst night's sleep of my mission. Eventually I found rest for a few hours on the couch before I had to rouse at 3 am. The AP‘s shuttled me to the airport, where President and Sister Checketts waited with me until I was to board.
When the time came to leave, President gave me a hug and said, "I sure love you, my friend."
I fought back tears as I made my way to the plane, and more than once on the plane ride home.
By evening, I was back in upstate New York. My family was there to greet me (all except Nathan, who left for his mission to South Korea the month before). Everyone was so much bigger than I remembered. They treated me cautiously — like a long lost, if beloved, relative.
Once more, I felt terribly out of place.
Two months later, I met a girl. When I got up the courage to ask her out, she told me she'd have to “check [her] planner.” Six months after that, we were married.
