Tears of love make a river, carrying my brother off to his mission

By Leslie Mason

November 1, 2007 | This recently departed Halloween day, when most people were enjoying the crisp crackle of leaves under their feet as they march through in their cowboy boots or fairy slippers, I was sitting in a chapel trying not to leak out all my body's moisture through my tear ducts.

David, my younger brother, opened his mission call from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints approximately two months ago. He was called to the Tennessee Nashville Spanish speaking mission, and would be leaving on Halloween. Appropriate day to start his life sharing a religious message with the world.

Our small living room, with warm yellow lighting and large windows letting in the early autumn breeze, could hardly contain our joy. My mind repeatedly cherished one thought: he was going to stay in the states. I knew my parents had hoped and prayed fervently that David wouldn't leave the country; it was safer, there were fewer mysteries about the people he might encounter, and our family would be able to communicate with him on a regular basis. Nothing else seemed to matter at the time.

Then the day came to take this mere boy to the Missionary Training Center in Provo. I was in denial. I knew I was in denial, and I happily accepted the solace denial supplied. Sure, he'd be gone for two years. I had accepted that. But the stronger, more insistent voice in the back of my mind knew that we'd wake up tomorrow and David would pop in, just returning from spending the night away at a friend's. It wasn't as if today was really the last time I'd see him for two years. Happy, blissful denial.

Now, as I'm sitting here on the left side of my brother, my thoughts begin to wander to past memories. Images of his straight, shiny, perfect hazelnut-colored hair bouncing like strands on a Koosh ball as David comes running across the yard to show me the snail he found. I smile slightly as I recall the reaming we received when our mom found out we'd eaten the forbidden donuts. I remembered back to days when we spent more time playing "animals" than humans. And, despite my strong desires to ignore my brother's looming absence, I found myself wondering what life was going to be like without that sunshiny figure around the house quoting the Simpsons and making fruit salsa.

I was called out of my reminiscing mood as the beginning of our parting commenced. The missionaries and their families sang an opening hymn, which boisterously proclaimed the joys of missionary work. After the reverberations of the organ quieted, more emotional sniffs were heard in that room than most funerals can boast. A graying man stood then and spoke encouraging words to both the missionaries and their families, and was followed by an elderly woman who gave a similar oration. Finally, a short movie was shown. As I heard those missionaries boldly give their testimonies of the truthfulness of the church and saw them going about their duty with strength, tears filled my eyes for what seemed like the 11,000th time that day.

Why is it so difficult to say goodbye? We all knew he would be back, and that he'd fill our lives again with that extra slice of joy his personality brings. Yet we could scarcely bring ourselves to hug him once, smile and nod to him since words were absolutely impossible, and break away to exit out our door and watch him as he walked through his. I am proud to state that I held my eye juices in quite well through my goodbyes. I was able to let David know how much I loved him and how proud I was he had chosen to preach this gospel. Then I stepped back and allowed my baby brother, Scott, Scoot, Scottie, to have his chance to say so long.

What a dumb idea. My family, extended and immediate, is notorious for our sucky genes in the emotion department. If we're even watching an advertising commercial that has a sweet familial message my mom weeps buckets, and we her children have found that this delightful condition has been passed on quite liberally. So it was that the minute Scott caught sight of David's face, they each had waterfalls of tears down their cheeks and quivering lips. Scott, I realized, had a better claim on David than any of us. All throughout our lives, they have been referred to as "the boys." They have always shared a room, shared their friends, shared the pitfalls and joys of Warcraft and Everquest, and have been raised as much like a set of twins as any I have known. I realized then that my attitude toward David's departure was completely selfish, that I had only cared about how his absence would affect my own life.

It was then that my moment of epiphany came. We are all in this life together, and it is our relationships with one another that matter. As schmaltzy as that statement sounds, I realized how much life would improve if I stopped thinking about myself and tried to help the people around me enjoy life a little more. Thus, my Halloween resolution is to stop being so terribly self-involved. Unfortunately, this column alone has enough "I"s inside it to fill anyone's ego. I will reduce the size of my head before my next article. Guaranteed.

God bless you, our David, our Elder Mason. We will miss you.

NW
MS