‘There is nothing more courageous’ these young people could do, writes Rebbie Brassfield

Two lifetimes ago I sent a missionary. He was older than me. We wrote as friends. He came back when I was too young and it didn’t work.

I hadn’t thought about this person in years, until this summer. But now it all came back: going to his parents’ house for his twice-yearly phone calls and noticing, with some concern, the thick accent he had developed. Driving alone to the mall on a Friday night to douse myself in his cologne (Curve for men) and crying on the way home. I had long forgotten all this teenage nonsense until this summer.

I blame my nephews.

Imagine: 75 teenagers are crammed into my sister’s living room, spilling into the kitchen and up the stairs. My nervous 18-year-old nephew in a white shirt and tie. His older brother is displayed on a television screen above him, zooming in on his respective mission. The older brother says an opening prayer (in Spanish!) before the younger brother begins to read: “Dear elder, you have been called to serve as a missionary in…”

A gasp as he reads the location, followed by cheers and a flood of hugs from friends, neighbors, teachers, coaches. I watch wide-eyed as the hordes of teenagers talk and eat cookies, inferring from their clothes that they are cool while having the very “old” thought: “do they know these clothes are stupid?” I’m confused when the house suddenly empties, until my brother informs me that it’s because they have another mission call to attend. They crawl – from mission call to mission call on a Tuesday evening.

I had forgotten this was a thing or maybe I didn’t realize it still happened. Because for so many years I forgot that missionaries were human.

They are so young

Until recently, my missionary exposure was limited to the occasional handshake at church, or feeding missionaries a meal and wondering, “Are we sure we should send them out this young?” I attended Sunday School and groaned inwardly every time someone started a comment with “once on a mission…” (We’re glad you went, and we don’t want to hear any talk. We’re the worst.) I passed them at the grocery store and said hello politely before quickly walking away so they couldn’t ask me if I had any friends to meet.

Although I deplored the musical caricature that the musical “The Book of Mormon” made of Latter-day Saint missionaries, I had essentially come to see them the same way. Until this summer.

When my youngest nephew left the family dinner early on a Sunday to go “take a picture in front of the temple with all my friends.” Or when he told me that he and his way-too-cool-for-his-age girlfriend broke up because they wanted to be able to focus on what was important. This summer I was struck again by how extremely old-fashioned, painful, and somehow romantic this tradition is, even though they can apparently just FaceTime anyone whenever they want now? They will never know the suffering we endured in my time, writing letters with our real fingers on real paper.

I saw my nephews get together when the eldest returned from a mission. Then, they spoke together during their joint farewell/homecoming. Then I sweatily helped prepare 200 plates from my sister’s pantry, stumbling among the eight Instant Pots we’d emptied and tossed on the floor. I went on a family vacation where my returning nephew sported a shocking farmer’s tan and a permanent smile, and I didn’t ask any questions about his mission (I’m the worst).

I got a glimpse of the month my nephews spent at home together – working, hiking, shopping for different clothes – then the last goodbye photos my sister sent of a group of teenagers in sobs. I felt the bittersweetness of being so sad that he was leaving precisely because he was so good.

After so many years of forgetting about missionaries, of moving on, of embracing the idea that it’s clearly more enlightened to wait until you know yourself to get married, after whining with other millennials that the missions are “problematic”, I suddenly do an about-face. I think that because I reconnected with this unique era of life, full of potential and future dreams; the magic of being young and having your whole life ahead of you, and the specialness of choosing to dedicate it to this.

Or maybe it’s because I have two sons, who aren’t even in elementary school yet, but I’m now looking toward their future. Will they one day wear black badges? Will I be a cool parent who fully confides in them about going or not going, and how will I feel if they don’t? I cannot answer these questions. What I do know is that I want them to be good. I want a village to help me raise them to be brave. I hope to have one built by then.

This black badge

I worry about the kids with black labels, because I’m not the only one who sees them as caricatures. I receive many videos on social media with “man on the street” missionary interactions. There was one where a girl asked two elders about her periods, and they shocked the entire internet by answering every question correctly. I saw another one where a guy walks up behind a missionary and compliments him on how “those pants are really nice.” I laughed then asked myself: is this attention or harassment? Does wearing the badge feel like a badge of honor or a target on your back?

I know that missions and missionaries are far from perfect. I know the environment can breed mental health issues, strange spiritual stigmas, and apparently horror movies. I know all this, but I also know my nephews. And I can’t help but think there’s nothing more courageous they could do.

It’s no coincidence that at the beginning of the summer my mom brought in a bunch of old stuff that I didn’t know she was saving. Among them was a tape – I repeat, A CASSETTE – of The Missionary I wrote two lifetimes ago. I took a moment to process this. First, knowing that I am ancient. Then I wondered if I should listen to it for a laugh, and then I realized I literally had no way to do that. Finally, seeing his writing, which triggered another memory:

I met him at the General Conference in Salt Lake City, a decade after we left. I remember the shock of seeing him in this crowd of thousands, even though none of us lived locally. The joy of realizing that the last time I saw him (on Facebook with his fiancée) I was so, so sad, and this time I just felt a rush of joy. We took over a few minutes before the meeting started. It was like mutual admiration: how time can change and how life can happen to two people. Whatever relationship they had, it still didn’t matter when they had it.

Fortunately, I don’t owe my nephews advice and I have some time to figure out what to say to my own children. In the past, I would have argued that no one should marry the person they dated in high school, and that you really don’t all have to serve a mission, okay? But that was before this summer. And now – if you can keep a secret – I would really like my nephew to end up with the girl he writes to during his mission.

Rebbie Brassfield is a writer and creative director in the advertising industry. She lives in Saratoga Springs with her two young children, where she spends most of her time collecting things. You can find her overanalyzing at @MormonsInMedia on Instagram, or see more of her work and writing at www.RebbieBrassfield.com.