Eight years ago today, I left on my mission. Those months of my life are counted as one of the greatest blessings I've been given. My experiences there changed me to the core, and every aspect of my life is better because of them. As I made the decision to serve, I naively thought that this would be a way for me to thank Heavenly Father for all that He had given me. It took very little time as a missionary to discover that this was yet another gift from Him to me. There is no way to measure the breadth or depth of its worth and no way to adequately repay Him. But I am eternally grateful.
The following is a brief sketch I wrote for an assignment years ago. By design, it only skims the surface of my feelings, but really, no words could suffice.
There is a reason they call this place Big Sky Country. I shared the obvious
observation with my companion as we wandered down a dusty lane. The clouds, like
billowing sails, moved dramatically across the sky. Contrasting shades exaggerated the
dimensions, and the grand scale of the spectacle enveloped us. I remembered a quaint
exhibit of oil-on-canvas landscapes I’d seen a year-and-a-half before in a small-town
cafe 240 miles from here. The most beautiful vistas were depicted in a collection the
local artist called “Home.” Now, on this old country road, I became an element in
another work of art, a scene masterly crafted around me. And it felt like home.
October air kissed my face and made me think of change. Most years I love the
transformation of the world around me as tired leaves are swept away by the wind that
delivers snow. This year I found myself daydreaming of ways I might slow time. Mine
was almost gone. Change was coming, and I was unsettled.
Today Sister Granja agreed to move our efforts back to the countryside, at my
request. The avenues in town were a busy and efficient place for us to work. Many
streets lined with many homes. People coming and going. Easy opportunities for
introductions and conversation. But as my days were few, I ached for the dirt roads,
farmhouses, and old-fashioned folk.
We chose an area just a quarter mile north of Rufenach Lane where I had lived
with a couple who were members of our local congregation. Gently rolling hills and
scattered ponderosa pine covered this part of the valley. Kind of like in storybooks and
fairytales. Rich and well-worked soil was divided into several-acre plots by weathered
fences, hand-hewn generations ago. Some of the fields were still golden with the last of
the season’s harvest. Most others a deep brown, the earth turned and ready to rest
under the blanket of winter.
The first drive we wandered down took us to a tiny one-room home tucked
behind a hill. An antique rocker held an empty stack of terra cotta pots and the front
door open. There was no one around. No sign of the shanty’s occupant, except the
wide-open door. They must have gone to town. As we turned around and made our way
to our next stop, I told Sister Granja of my first impression of Montana twenty months
before.
. . .
The last few days had been a whirlwind. I said goodbye to the group I’d spent the
previous three weeks with in the Missionary Training Center as we each boarded planes
carrying us to various parts of the United States. Arriving in Billings, I spent a hectic
day-and-a-half at the mission office and home where dozens of missionaries were
passing through during this transfer time. I received brief instruction and my first area
assignment. Trailways would take me, first thing in the morning, to Helena. The bus
ride was one filled with anticipation. The missionaries already in the area greeted me at
the station. I was promptly shuffled into a minivan with the missionary who would train
me and an old farming couple. We began the last leg of my day-long trip to my
destination.
Night had fallen. With the world around me black, I couldn’t discern the nature of
the landscape. For the half-hour trip I wondered what we were passing. All I could see
were stars. Finally, we pulled into Townsend- my home for the coming eight months. To
the left we passed the Horseshoe Cafe, Cowboy Coffee & Steak House, and Lucky Lil’s
Casino connected to the Town Pump gas station. On my right, a row of old silos and the
train tracks. We turned onto Broadway. Commercial Bar, Fish Tale Tavern, Mountie
Moose Bakery, The Mint (another bar/casino), and Hanks Hardware. Brother Deihl, from
the driver’s seat, proudly explained that the town roads had received their first coat of
pavement two summers ago. “Makes it real good in th’ winter months,” he said.
My companion and I would be responsible for the missionary effort in all of
Broadwater and Meagher counties- 3,634 square miles, six communities with a
combined population of 6,317. “This is it?” I wondered. The president of the mission told
me Townsend was a small town. I didn’t realize what “small” meant until seeing one
end of town to the other as it was lit every other second by the lone blinking stoplight.
Farmers and ranchers. That’s who lived around these parts. Set in their ways and
uncomfortable with city folk. I questioned whether I’d be able to find any common
ground with those I’d meet. Insanity seemed a likely outcome if I stayed in a community
this size for too long. “I’m definitely not a farm girl. And I don’t think I’ll convert,” I wrote
in my second letter home.
Time and experience change people and perspectives.
. . .
Sister Granja and I turned up the next drive and made our way to the eclectically
decorated home at the end. A shower of wind chimes dangled and sang. Worn out tires
were painted and turned into flowerbeds. A dreamcatcher adorned the screen door.
Before we reached the porch, a man as weathered as his picket fence came out to
greet us. His countenance was warm and inviting. We sat outside together and visited
about the time he went to Africa, his dog Charles, and God.
He had some interesting ideas about God. I’d been discussing God all day every day for almost twenty months. There was still much to learn about people and their perceptions of Deity. I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay for a long time. I was in love. My heart was so wrapped around the people, this place, and the work I was about. Leaving it all behind was literally incomprehensible.
We thanked our new friend for his time and kindness and invited him to attend
church the coming Sunday. “Three miles south on Whitefish Stage, 11:00.” He wasn’t
interested in our lessons, but he liked learning about people and cultures. I’d say our
religion counted as a culture. Maybe he would come.
Kalispell was different than Townsend. With over 14,000 people, it is the largest
city in Northwestern Montana. Over 85,000 residents enjoy the county. Town felt much
like other places I had lived. I liked it a lot but felt most comfortable, now, away from the
liveliness of the city. I preferred the kind of liveliness (mostly my feeling alive!) that was
found here in the rural and rustic parts of the gorgeous Flathead Valley. Thankfully, it
was plentiful.
This dirt lane climbed a hill, and as my companion and I reached the top, I
paused. I tilted my head until only sky filled my view. I wanted to get lost in it. Maybe
then time would stop, and I could stay just as I was for as long as I like. An airplane
interrupted the wish.
“How far away is that plane?” Sister Granja enquired.
“Two weeks.” My shoulders slumped noticeably.
I breathed in deep and didn’t want to exhale. The air was sweet like apples and
bailed hay. My gaze moved from the sky to the surrounding mountains. They were
covered in a carpet of pine- most evergreen, some golden yellow. Brother and Sister
Wraught, who I had lived with, told me that some pine change colors and drop their
needles. This time of year it made for spectacular scenery. To the north was Big
Mountain with a skiff of powder on top. From the East, the peaks of glacier country
peered down. This is where I belonged.
My thoughts pulled again to my initial impressions of this state, it’s people, and
their lifestyle. I had been willing and excited but hesitant about the adventure that lay
before me. Now it was behind. And it had become the very definition of me. Life was
ready to take me elsewhere. But Montana would always go with me.
