It is not difficult to teach the Gospel every day, it is difficult to not teach the Gospel every day. This was one of the biggest changes I wasn't fully ready for when I was released. Now I know I can (and do) share the Gospel with others at every opportunity, but there is something missing when you aren't in a home, teaching God's plan for our happiness and success. It leaves a hole, one which I was slightly unprepared for.
Thankfully, the branch (a small local congregation) I attend has a wonderful set of missionaries. They invited me to accompany them on a couple of visits this morning.
A note to recently returned missionaries: this is one of the best ways to ease back into day-to-day life while continuing to spread the word of God and feel His spirit.
I was a little surprised by the differences I felt as an accompanying member compared to when I was a full-time missionary. But the similarities were comforting.
First, the differences. I quickly discovered that the feeling (from my perspective) was quite different. Let me explain - as a missionary lessons could be related to like flying: the Holy Spirit is the Navigator, and you and your companion are equal copilots. Now that you are home and released, I would describe you as a "participating passenger."
When it comes down to it, your part - while being essential, irreplaceable and absolutely necessary for someone to grow in the Gospel (perhaps more on this facet of missionary work in another post) - is no longer a leadership role, at least not when it comes down to teaching.
Now for the similarities. All the same teaching skills that you learned on your mission still apply. You will still be able to (and need to) relate to those you are visiting. You will still be able to use things you learned that morning in your personal study of the scriptures. Most importantly, you will still be able to feel the spirit as you testify of how the Gospel of Jesus Christ has impacted your own life.
Is it worth it, differences and all? Without question.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
How to talk to a returned missionary.
Note: this post is primarily directed to the family and friends of returned missionaries. All RM's are invited to review it for accuracy.
You have waited for this day for a long time. You stand in the airport, scanning the crowds. Your loved one has been gone for so long it seems. If you don't recognize them from before or the pictures they sent periodically, at least you should be able to spot them from the name tag.
There they are! The two of you run, meeting each other half-way in an embrace. The next few moments are a blur of happiness, with the crowds seeming to disappear.
So, now that they are home, how do you talk to them? You love them, miss hearing their voice, and want to be able to relate to their experiences and become reacquainted with them, but are unsure of what to say. They aren't much help at times, seemingly lost in a faraway land and unknown (to you) times and faces. To help you in this endeavor, I will my personal, insider's opinion.
First of all, talk about their mission; they want to talk to you, but are as lost as you are. All they know for now is the mission field, and they often miss it very much. Talking about it reawakens the joyful experiences they had, and rekindles the joy they felt before. It also makes the transition back to everyday life less drastic.
So, how do you talk to them about it? Ask specific questions. They have 11,680 hours (or 8,640 hours for Sisters) of waking experiences as a missionary from which to draw upon. It will be very hard for them to just relay stories without some kind of prompt. Saying, "tell me about your mission" is an invitation, but not a prompt. So below I will include a few possible questions you may consider:
Ask about their ties (for Elders). Elders often collect ties (as it is one of the few variables to their daily attire), and almost every one has a story of how he got it. This can also open up avenues to hear more about their companions.
Watch a movie with them that is centered on a mission or missionary work (The Best Two Years, Errand of Angels, etc.). This will provide lots of opportunities to ask something like, "did that ever happen to you?"
Ask them what area they grew the most in, who was their favorite companion, who was one of the families they grew close to, and why on all of these.
Don't use yes or no questions. Asking open-ended questions will allow them draw on their memories and share them.
Ask to see some of their pictures from the mission. Warning Note: only do this if you have a lot of time on your hands. Many missionaries will have accumulated thousands of photos, and it will take some time for them to even show the highlights. If you choose this route, feel free to stop them and ask questions about the pictures that seem to have a background story.
In all things, just show interest. These returned missionaries have loved their chance to serve their Savior full-time, and doing so has brought many joys. Sharing those memories with you will make them happy, as well as deepen your relationship.
You have waited for this day for a long time. You stand in the airport, scanning the crowds. Your loved one has been gone for so long it seems. If you don't recognize them from before or the pictures they sent periodically, at least you should be able to spot them from the name tag.
There they are! The two of you run, meeting each other half-way in an embrace. The next few moments are a blur of happiness, with the crowds seeming to disappear.
So, now that they are home, how do you talk to them? You love them, miss hearing their voice, and want to be able to relate to their experiences and become reacquainted with them, but are unsure of what to say. They aren't much help at times, seemingly lost in a faraway land and unknown (to you) times and faces. To help you in this endeavor, I will my personal, insider's opinion.
First of all, talk about their mission; they want to talk to you, but are as lost as you are. All they know for now is the mission field, and they often miss it very much. Talking about it reawakens the joyful experiences they had, and rekindles the joy they felt before. It also makes the transition back to everyday life less drastic.
So, how do you talk to them about it? Ask specific questions. They have 11,680 hours (or 8,640 hours for Sisters) of waking experiences as a missionary from which to draw upon. It will be very hard for them to just relay stories without some kind of prompt. Saying, "tell me about your mission" is an invitation, but not a prompt. So below I will include a few possible questions you may consider:
Ask about their ties (for Elders). Elders often collect ties (as it is one of the few variables to their daily attire), and almost every one has a story of how he got it. This can also open up avenues to hear more about their companions.
Watch a movie with them that is centered on a mission or missionary work (The Best Two Years, Errand of Angels, etc.). This will provide lots of opportunities to ask something like, "did that ever happen to you?"
Ask them what area they grew the most in, who was their favorite companion, who was one of the families they grew close to, and why on all of these.
Don't use yes or no questions. Asking open-ended questions will allow them draw on their memories and share them.
Ask to see some of their pictures from the mission. Warning Note: only do this if you have a lot of time on your hands. Many missionaries will have accumulated thousands of photos, and it will take some time for them to even show the highlights. If you choose this route, feel free to stop them and ask questions about the pictures that seem to have a background story.
In all things, just show interest. These returned missionaries have loved their chance to serve their Savior full-time, and doing so has brought many joys. Sharing those memories with you will make them happy, as well as deepen your relationship.
Homecoming talks and other inescapable things.
As a returned missionary, there are certain inescapable events that must take place. Though they may be called inescapable, that does not mean that you wish to avoid them, only that they are near certainties. For instance, you have to talk to a person of the opposite gender about (gasp!) a topic other than the gospel, and this without a companion as backup; your emptying wallet clearly tells you that you must return to work; and certainly you will be asked to give a "homecoming" talk in church.
Being a church with no paid ministry, it is common to be asked to speak in the Sunday worship service; and after all, you have spoken about the good news of Christ for the past two years to anyone who would stand still long enough. So when you were asked it came neither with surprise or distress.
The day arrives. You are standing in front of the microphone, and you have the attention of the entire congregation, excepting a few babies and small toddlers. They are waiting to hear what you will say. So are you!
Two years. Two years of experiences are yours to share, and you have been given fifteen minutes in which to share the highlights. There is no way that you can. It is like when someone comes up to you and asks, "how was your mission?" with the same allotted time for an answer as, "how was your day?" You have met, touched and been touched by hundreds, even thousands of people. And so, realizing that you could never hope to condense the miracles, wonders, prayers and people you grew to love in such a short time, you fall back on what you know how to do - you testify.
You testify about the powerful change that comes through sharing the gospel. This was all you did for the past 730 days, and it has changed you. You hope that others can feel that change. From the bottom of your heart you want them to see that what changed you was not so much going on a mission, but sharing the message of your Savior.
This naturally leads into your sharing your love of Jesus Christ, and how He has changed your life, and those of others. You want to share more, but you have run out of words. Nothing can ever really describe all that you feel. It has been to wonderful of an experience sharing the Gospel of Christ; good thing you weren't released from that.
Being a church with no paid ministry, it is common to be asked to speak in the Sunday worship service; and after all, you have spoken about the good news of Christ for the past two years to anyone who would stand still long enough. So when you were asked it came neither with surprise or distress.
The day arrives. You are standing in front of the microphone, and you have the attention of the entire congregation, excepting a few babies and small toddlers. They are waiting to hear what you will say. So are you!
Two years. Two years of experiences are yours to share, and you have been given fifteen minutes in which to share the highlights. There is no way that you can. It is like when someone comes up to you and asks, "how was your mission?" with the same allotted time for an answer as, "how was your day?" You have met, touched and been touched by hundreds, even thousands of people. And so, realizing that you could never hope to condense the miracles, wonders, prayers and people you grew to love in such a short time, you fall back on what you know how to do - you testify.
You testify about the powerful change that comes through sharing the gospel. This was all you did for the past 730 days, and it has changed you. You hope that others can feel that change. From the bottom of your heart you want them to see that what changed you was not so much going on a mission, but sharing the message of your Savior.
This naturally leads into your sharing your love of Jesus Christ, and how He has changed your life, and those of others. You want to share more, but you have run out of words. Nothing can ever really describe all that you feel. It has been to wonderful of an experience sharing the Gospel of Christ; good thing you weren't released from that.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
On media: the adjustments continue.
So, for those who aren't familiar with what missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints do, a brief introduction is necessary. For the full duration of our misson, our purpose is to "Invite others to come unto Christ by helping them receive the restored gospel through faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement, repentance, baptism, receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost, and enduring to the end." In other words, we teach everyone about what they can do to draw nearer to the Savior. This is our endeavor 24/7.
To help us accomplish that, we are given "mission rules" which keep us safe and help us remain focused. These are given to us before we leave, and we voluntarily agree to follow them.
On of the rules involves media; we don't watch movies, DVD's, etc. for the two years. So last night the adjustment came - I watched Disney's "Wall-e" with my family. I felt like that would be a good way to ease back into the media world.
So for the returned missionaries out there, what have you done to ease back into the world (media-wise) while maintaining good standards?
To help us accomplish that, we are given "mission rules" which keep us safe and help us remain focused. These are given to us before we leave, and we voluntarily agree to follow them.
On of the rules involves media; we don't watch movies, DVD's, etc. for the two years. So last night the adjustment came - I watched Disney's "Wall-e" with my family. I felt like that would be a good way to ease back into the media world.
So for the returned missionaries out there, what have you done to ease back into the world (media-wise) while maintaining good standards?
Sunday, January 5, 2014
What's my name?
You get dressed for early church meetings (you still get up at 6:30 a.m, after all, you've done it every day for the past two years). You've put on the same white shirt, slacks and suit coat (with a varying color of tie) for the last 730 days; it feels more natural than jeans and a t-shirt.
You are all ready. Nothing could be missing; than why do you feel a certain discomfort at the idea of leaving the house so attired? Why do you have that sneaking feeling that a vital part of your outfit is missing?
You cast your eyes around, hoping to find a visual trigger for your delinquent memory. Ah, there it is, and that's why you feel incomplete. Your name tag.
For two years (or eighteen months for young women) you have worn this tag everywhere, any time you left the apartment. "Elder (or Sister for women) So-and-so" it says, followed by "the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints". This is who you are: your name is inseparable from the name of your Master. You are an official representative of His Restored Church. Your name tag helped give you purpose and focus every day.
But now it lies on your desk, akin in the eyes of some to a metal for bravery in some long-ago war. But not to you; to you it is much more meaningful than that. Yet there it sits. You have been given strict instructions to not wear it any longer, for you have been released, and the time for full-time service is done. Now you are in part time mode, a civilian, and so the tag sits - a reminder of things that you can't begin to describe to yourself, let alone to others.
What is your name? You catch yourself answering the phone "hello, this is Elder..." But it isn't. Yet your first name has grown rusty on your tongue through long disuse. But it's coming back. You only have a brief delay in responding when people call out your given name. You blame it on jet lag, or translation into another language, but really you just aren't used to hearing that name applied to you anymore. Be assured though, it gets better by the day.
You are all ready. Nothing could be missing; than why do you feel a certain discomfort at the idea of leaving the house so attired? Why do you have that sneaking feeling that a vital part of your outfit is missing?
You cast your eyes around, hoping to find a visual trigger for your delinquent memory. Ah, there it is, and that's why you feel incomplete. Your name tag.
For two years (or eighteen months for young women) you have worn this tag everywhere, any time you left the apartment. "Elder (or Sister for women) So-and-so" it says, followed by "the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints". This is who you are: your name is inseparable from the name of your Master. You are an official representative of His Restored Church. Your name tag helped give you purpose and focus every day.
But now it lies on your desk, akin in the eyes of some to a metal for bravery in some long-ago war. But not to you; to you it is much more meaningful than that. Yet there it sits. You have been given strict instructions to not wear it any longer, for you have been released, and the time for full-time service is done. Now you are in part time mode, a civilian, and so the tag sits - a reminder of things that you can't begin to describe to yourself, let alone to others.
What is your name? You catch yourself answering the phone "hello, this is Elder..." But it isn't. Yet your first name has grown rusty on your tongue through long disuse. But it's coming back. You only have a brief delay in responding when people call out your given name. You blame it on jet lag, or translation into another language, but really you just aren't used to hearing that name applied to you anymore. Be assured though, it gets better by the day.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
I hereby reclaim this life! Or maybe not...
When you leave home for two years, you pack up everything that you aren't taking with you and store it away to await your return. There it sits - in a shelf, on a desk, in totes or boxes - in limbo, along with most of your relationships with family or friends (you may write or talk to them on rare occasion, but contact is of a limited nature). When you come home you review your past and sift through that which you have literaly "put on a shelf".
This has been the pursuit I have been engaged in over the last few days since I returned home. After organizing the furniture in my room, I went through my totes and boxes that I had left behind. Many of the clothes will be donated, some of the books no longer interest me, and much of the general clutter and odds and ends simply will get thrown away. I find it amazing that after looking at something which had meant a lot to you before, you can feel no emotional attachment, and wonder why it was important in the first place!
I have learned through this that things are truly of little value or significance in the grand scheme. If I can (after two years) look at an erstwhile prized possession, and have no other feelings towards it than to wonder where the most convenient waste basket is, then there will likely be no physically item or article which we would yearn to lay claim to in the hereafter.
What does matter? Family; a given, I know, but nevertheless true. I called most of my immediate relatives this afternoon, and visited some of the others the day I got home. Even of my friends, I am sure that there will be some who, like clothes, no longer fit. This is a harsh truth it may seem, but as Robert Frost said: "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood". Our paths parted when I left, and while the paths of some (I sincerely hope) will reconnect with mine, some will certainly not.
But when all is said and done, do I intend to reclaim from death my past life? No, not in full. Look back in fondness upon the embers of fires of the past, and let their warmth carry you onward, but do not claim the ashes. Such is my intent.
But there are things I will never leave to the halls of the past! Those are not things, but family. Let all the articles I have or will gather over my lifetime stay and rot upon the earth, but let me live such a life that I can claim my family in the eternities! That is all that truly matters anyway.
In summary, my current endeavors are to not be "caught up in the thick of thin things".
This has been the pursuit I have been engaged in over the last few days since I returned home. After organizing the furniture in my room, I went through my totes and boxes that I had left behind. Many of the clothes will be donated, some of the books no longer interest me, and much of the general clutter and odds and ends simply will get thrown away. I find it amazing that after looking at something which had meant a lot to you before, you can feel no emotional attachment, and wonder why it was important in the first place!
I have learned through this that things are truly of little value or significance in the grand scheme. If I can (after two years) look at an erstwhile prized possession, and have no other feelings towards it than to wonder where the most convenient waste basket is, then there will likely be no physically item or article which we would yearn to lay claim to in the hereafter.
What does matter? Family; a given, I know, but nevertheless true. I called most of my immediate relatives this afternoon, and visited some of the others the day I got home. Even of my friends, I am sure that there will be some who, like clothes, no longer fit. This is a harsh truth it may seem, but as Robert Frost said: "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood". Our paths parted when I left, and while the paths of some (I sincerely hope) will reconnect with mine, some will certainly not.
But when all is said and done, do I intend to reclaim from death my past life? No, not in full. Look back in fondness upon the embers of fires of the past, and let their warmth carry you onward, but do not claim the ashes. Such is my intent.
But there are things I will never leave to the halls of the past! Those are not things, but family. Let all the articles I have or will gather over my lifetime stay and rot upon the earth, but let me live such a life that I can claim my family in the eternities! That is all that truly matters anyway.
In summary, my current endeavors are to not be "caught up in the thick of thin things".
Home, and yet not home: an introduction.
You step off the plane. You walk through security. Your eyes scan the crowds on the other side as you tote your carry-on, adjusting its shoulder strap for comfort. Now you see the banner, saying "Welcome Home (your name)!" You see your parents. They might be crying, but you aren't sure, as your vision is suddenly quite blurry, and the wipers aren't working. Added to the obstruction of emotional waterworks, your focus is bumping up and down as you break into a run, finally reaching the arms that you haven't been in for two years. This is happiness.
I recently returned from my two-year service as a full-time emissary for my Savior, Jesus Christ. I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This is my story of what it is like to be back.
Anyone who leaves home for a long period of time (be it military, college, work abroad, or a mission) knows what it is like to have part of you long for home, and yet returning can take getting used to. Such has been my experience.
My purpose in this blog will be to share with you (whether you are a returned missionary, their family, friends, or are just curious) what being home from a mission is like from my eyes, what trials have come, and how I have overcome them. As I am a work in progress, you may also catch me pleading for your help as the adventures present themselves.
I am David Jamison, and this is my story.
I recently returned from my two-year service as a full-time emissary for my Savior, Jesus Christ. I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This is my story of what it is like to be back.
Anyone who leaves home for a long period of time (be it military, college, work abroad, or a mission) knows what it is like to have part of you long for home, and yet returning can take getting used to. Such has been my experience.
My purpose in this blog will be to share with you (whether you are a returned missionary, their family, friends, or are just curious) what being home from a mission is like from my eyes, what trials have come, and how I have overcome them. As I am a work in progress, you may also catch me pleading for your help as the adventures present themselves.
I am David Jamison, and this is my story.
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