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.
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