“Close the door
behind you, Son.” As I gently shut the door my mind began to race. Was this
really happening? Was this a dream? A nightmare? “Elder Backus, the Lord is
pleased with the service you have rendered the past two years of your life.” My
mission president continued, “But this is not the finale. This is simply the
end of act 1. Now let’s talk about what you learned from it and discuss how you
will apply it.” We then attempted to pack a lifetime of teachings and lessons
in a thirty-minute conversation. I couldn’t believe it. The final exit-interview
with the mission president was a milestone in every missionary’s life, one that
was supposed to signify growth, accomplishment, and bring some degree of
closure. But as I walked out of that office after the interview I felt weaker
than I ever had before. My whole world was about to be crushed. I was about to
leave the setting that I had grown to adore. It had become my whole universe,
my own Garden of Eden. I was required to leave my most beloved friends behind
and head home to a world that I had learned was anything but paradisiacal. As I
walked out of my mission president’s house and onto the warm and dusty street I
began to cry. My life was about to change again, and I was under the impression
that it would be nothing more than constant struggle and temptation.
My
companion and I drove in silence back to our apartment. As I was contemplating
how I would spend the last two days of my mission we passed the Lubbock Texas
Temple. The sun was beginning to set, and the red and yellow skies accented the
gold trim of the temple beautifully. It was just another thing that I had grown
to love that I wasn’t going to be able to see again. As I again began to bury
myself in self-pity, I saw a young family taking a picture on the temple
grounds. The mood they conveyed was much different than what I was feeling;
they were happy. The kids were fooling around as mom tried to wrangle them up.
Dad just stood there, apparently enjoying the circus. But even amidst the
chaos, they were all smiling. How could that be? They didn’t get to have a
routine schedule. They didn’t get to study the gospel for three hours straight
each morning. They didn’t get to be set apart from all worldly distractions
around them. So why were they so happy?
I
pondered again and again on that question. Was my miserable outlook on the
future unwarranted? Or was that family just faking it? As I began to think
deeper, I was forced to remember. I remembered everything. I remembered how low
people were when we met them and how high they became as we taught them. I
remembered the smile on one man’s face as he progressively overcame his 50-year
alcohol addiction. I remembered the smile on another man’s face as he blessed
the Sacrament for the first time. I remembered the tears of joy one woman shed
as she was married to her husband and then baptized and confirmed a member of
the Church. I remembered how hard the beginning of my mission was. I remembered
all the times I couldn’t think of the right Spanish word, or when I would get
tripped up on my words when speaking with Baptist ministers. And then I
remembered the joy I felt as I studied hard and got a grasp on the language and
on the scriptures. I remembered the peace that came to my soul as I reasoned
and worked with the Savior and overcame personal weaknesses. And finally it hit
me. Happiness wasn’t found in a neck tie nor a pair of slacks. It wasn’t found
on a bicycle seat or even a black plastic nametag. It wasn’t about being the
gospel. It was all about living it. That happiness that I saw in that young
family was apparent because they did have struggles. They did have temptations.
But they had the gospel. They had values and virtues that they clung to and
they had each other as footholds. The joy came in the journey, not the current
destination. I then truly learned, as Father Lehi taught, that not only Adam,
but all of us, must fall that we might have joy.
As
I built upon my new perspective, the tone of my final days of missionary
service changed. They were no longer a dismal parade on the way to my own
funeral, they were rather a celebration of gratitude and a gateway to the
future. I visited with many of the people I taught and reminisced on the hard
times of the past, the good times of the present, and the great days of the
future. We laughed and cried and then cried and laughed. I talked to every stranger
I could about the hope that the message of the restoration brings and how it
could guide them in this confused world. I promised them that the teachings of
the Savior would strengthen the relationship between husband and wife and
parents and children. I had done all that before, but now I really knew it to
be true, not because I had experienced it in the first-person, but because I
had seen it. I had seen it over and over again but hadn’t realized it until I
saw it outside the temple that day. Faith and happiness is always pointed
towards the future.
Quickly
the fateful day had arrived. After the best 48 hours of my mission, it was time
to go home. I wish I could say that I was all smiles and that it was the most
exciting, thrilling day of my life. It wasn’t. I still cried bitterly. I still
was sad that I had to leave a place and a people that I loved so much. I was
still sad that I wouldn’t be referred to as “Elder” anymore. But as I boarded
the plane and began to ascend in the air, I didn’t look down. Not once. I
looked forward. And as I landed at SLC International Airport, I grabbed my bag
and didn’t look behind me. Not once. As I began to make my way through the
airport I said the most fervent prayer I could muster, thanking Heavenly Father
for his bounteous blessings. He hurt me. He healed me. He cleansed me. He
changed me. He hurt me again. And he healed me again, time after time, and
after two full years it had been declared sufficient.
I continued
walking, getting closer to the designated point where I was to see my family.
Almost to my surprise, tears began to trickle down my face. But these weren’t bitter
tears. These weren’t the same ones I cried as I walked out of my mission
president’s home that day. These were warm tears, tears of gratitude. They were
tears of joy. As I became more emotional I realized that I had finally made it
to the threshold of the airport security. My family was just on the other side
of the wall of glass before me. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and put
one foot in front of the other.
The first one I
saw was my mother. I ran up to hear, kissed her on the cheek, and told her that
I loved her. I then repeated the same process with my other family members as
we all embraced, laughed, and cried together for the first time in a long time.
It was an unforgettable moment, one that paradoxically symbolized an ending but
also a beginning. It was a moment I wouldn’t trade for the whole world, even
the west-Texas area.
Back
home there is a black and white photograph of my family and me that day at the
airport. It is my favorite picture. Not because we look good, in fact we all
look like a mess with teary faces and messy hair from too many hugs. It is a
bit off-centered, and the lighting isn’t very flattering on any of us. I suppose
if a stranger was to walk in my home they might wonder why such a
frazzled-looking family photo is on center display. That is the problem with
still photographs. The story of its significance can sometimes be a bit
difficult to understand. But to me, it’s pretty obvious—we’re all smiling.
