Andrus

RELIGION COLUMN Can I keep the head? Life after the mission

by Ashley Andrus AND01049@BYUI.EDU The Sista

If I thought that going on a mission to southeast Texas was a shock to my system, coming home was an even bigger one. Instead of flying home to my familiar bright, sunny California residence as I had always imagined, I was greeted by icy winds and snow as I landed in Salt Lake City.

My family had really outdone themselves this time: they had moved to Utah while I was gone.

Of course I realized that this wasn’t the first time a missionary’s parents had pulled this nasty trick, but it seemed cruel and unusual when they announced to me in a letter that they were moving a few months before I came home .

Okay, I could forgive them for that. After all, here was a loving family who had supported me through the joys and trials of missionary work for 18 months.

After being released by a stake president I had never met, I proceeded to try to figure out who I was. I decided I wasn’t ready to get rid of all of my tattered missionary clothes, nor was I ready to put away the alligator head or “Don’t Mess With Texas” cooking mitt.

My parents informed me that I would now be living in the basement of our new house with an air mattress to sleep on since we had no furniture yet. I told them that would be fine as long as I could put my cooking mitt and alligator head on the wall.

The next day I reveled in the fact that I could now wear pants in public and call anyone I wanted. The thought of no more nylons almost made me want to throw a party.

Sometime around late afternoon my mom suggested that she, my sister and I have a girls’ night out and go to dinner. It seemed like a harmless idea. As I mulled over the menu, however, I realized that there were more surprises afoot. Here came the waiter with a bouquet of daisies.

Four bouquets later, I realized what this was all about. This was anything but an innocent girls’ night out — this was a set-up for a surprise date. I tried to pretend like this was all normal as my mom and sister left me sitting in front of a guy I dated three years ago.

Was this a legal thing to do without a companion? Where was my mission president when I needed him?

Okay, I could forgive all three of them for that, too. But they were running out of chances.

I decided that moving to Provo with my younger sister was better than sleeping in a cold basement on an air mattress, so I started spring and summer classes at BYU.

I soon found myself living with five 19-year-old roommates and continuing the weird dating trend. I also started to get strange items in the mail known as wedding and baby announcements. Marriage? Babies? I was scared to hold a boy’s hand much longer than a friendly handshake — my alternative to a hug.

I started going non-stop to volunteer at the MTC, where I found myself wanting to attack every sister missionary I saw and steal their name tags. I admit, I had jealousy issues. But it seemed to preserve my sanity for the time being, along with weekly temple trips, daily scripture study, religion classes and countless outings to various ice cream retailers, although nothing compared to the Blue Bell ice cream, only available in Texas and Louisiana.

Nearly five months since my release as a full-time missionary, I can honestly say that life has been good (for the most part). Of course, there are days when I would give almost anything to be eating Texas barbeque, suffering through 90 percent humidity, tracting trailers or fighting monster mosquitoes, but I know that the opportunities to serve have not ended and that it is time to put into practice all of the lessons I learned.

I’ve decided that a mission is only the beginning of dedication and service to the Savior and those He has placed around me.

That is, if I can wear my cooking mitt while doing it.