Emotional Smorgasbord

This post is going to be different.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ. Missionary work has always been a part of the doctrine I know and believe. My parents, brothers, husband, many in-laws, and nieces and nephews have served missions. I anticipated that several of my own children would decide to go on missions as well. No problem. I know the drill.

Well, two years ago, my oldest son, Landon, left for Buenos Aires, Argentina. He went to teach and preach about Jesus Christ and to serve and help the people there. The only way I can describe what it has been like on this side—as the mother of a missionary—I’ve been enrolled in a master class, an emotional smorgasbord of learning.

In the beginning, I cried at times because I missed him. I missed his presence at holidays and other family events. I missed his humor and fun-loving nature that helped calm the heavily female dynamic at home. 😜 I worried about his safety, especially when he shared some of the things that happened to him. He sent letters every week, which I eagerly anticipated. I poured over each one, looking for signs that he was okay. We also got to talk each Monday, and that became the highlight of my week. I would listen to the hard things that were happening, give advice (probably more than he required), and encourage him to keep going.

Over time, the tears stopped and I became engrossed in his missionary work. I loved reading about the people he taught, and how their lives changed as they came to know Jesus Christ. I also noticed the growth in my son. He had changed. He became more loving, more forgiving, and more patient. He loved what he was doing. Nothing was more important. I had less advice to give and started listening more. He shared scriptures that made my week go smoothly. He loved the Savior.

I still missed Landon, but I was so proud of the man he was becoming.

February 18, 2025. That was the day he was coming home! I had counted the EXACT number of weeks—104. Two years. That date may as well have been tatooed on my chest. I breathed that date in and out. I even made a ridiculously long paper chain to help us (really, me) count down the time.

Shortly after Christmas, Landon told us that he felt like he should stay an extra six weeks. He would come home on April 2, not February 18.

Um, no.

NO.

Back and forth we went. I listed all the reasons it was a dumb idea. Landon sat quietly and listened to me, and then said,

“Mom, I know it’s the right thing to do. I’ve prayed about this and I have peace. I am staying.”

The call ended, and my heart shattered. I cried tears hot with anger. I tore down that stupid paper chain and threw it in the trash, and then I fumed about his selfishness and stupidity in my bedroom for a while. Eventually—and this took days, not hours—I got a little clarity.

Who was being selfish? Who was the stupid one?

Me. Sadly, it was me.

The clarity that came both enlightened my mind and humbled me. Landon was not the same person who left our home in 2023. He had grown and matured before my eyes, but it had been so gradual that I almost missed it. He had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, and he received inspiration for his own life. It took me a minute to remember that that had been the goal from the beginning.

So here we are. He comes home in two days.

Honestly, I’ve never cried as much as I have the last two weeks. Everything brings tears. It’s getting a bit ridiculous. I cry now with excitement at seeing him in person and hugging him. I cry with pride at the man he has become. I cry at the thought of him having to leave the country and people he has loved so much. I cry a bit because my role in his life is changing, and that’s a bit sad for me, but good. I cry with gratitude because his mission has changed his life, my life, and my family’s life. I just cry.

This master class is no joke. It has been a ride.

See you soon, Landon.