On My Own

The day my family dropped me off at the MTC, I had an image of what the final farewell was going to be like. After checking in at the front desk, my family would watch in stoic silence as I strode alone down a corridor toward a tall door, my shadow lengthening behind me. Perhaps I would look back, then turn with my jaw set and disappear through the door. To add the proper mood, the “Force theme” from Star Wars would play, the music when Luke Skywalker gazes into the twin suns of Tatooine.

That’s not exactly how it turned out. First, where I got the idea that I would be alone baffles me. There were somewhere upwards of 30 billion missionaries clamoring to unload luggage. 30 billion may be an approximate figure, but you get the point. In the midst of the tumult, a kindly lady handed each of us a black nametag. The tag had a temporary orange dot on it, apparently to let others know that we were new, as if the vacant stares and trembling lower lips weren’t already clear indications.

After the check-in, the missionaries and their families were herded into a large room where we all were treated to a cheery film telling us how great we were for choosing to go on missions. My little sister cried and my mom was semi-functioning, damp human wreckage. My dad and brothers remained stolid, probably because my brothers got to fight over my bedroom once they got home. Once the movie was over, missionaries went through one door and their families vanished through the door from whence they had come.

I’ve heard that they’ve changed the procedure since I was there. Families no longer get last-minute bonding while watching the inspirational propaganda video.  The families unceremoniously drop their missionaries off in the parking lot, give brief hugs, and let their young stumble off into the world on unsteady legs.