Posted by:
flash
(
)
Date: April 12, 2012 05:04PM
Tomorrow, April 13th, will be the 33 year anniversary of the day I came home from my mission.
Every year I celebrate April 13 as a personal holiday. A day that brought me so much happiness and joy, I still cannot find the perfect words to describe the feelings of joy and happiness I felt knowing my mission prison sentence was done. I invite all of you to celebrate with me the day of my release from the hellhole known as the Virginia Roanoke Mission.
What say you my fellow RMs? How do you remember the last day of your mission? Can you still remember the intensity of relief of knowing that your days of having to get up and go tracting again for the umpteenth time were done? Do you remember the relief of knowing that you could start being a real person again, have time alone again, be with your girlfriend again, listen to music of your choice again, eat good food again, and to be called by your first name again? Help me celebrate this day by sharing your stories of your last day and how happy you felt knowing it was over. Many here would love to read about the joy you felt.
Below is the account of my last day. It’s a little long and some of you have seen this before. For those who have not, enjoy.
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The happiest day I have ever known was the last day I had to spend in the Virginia Roanoke Mission. That day was Friday, April 13, 1979. For me, it is a date that lives in infamy. My time in the Virginia Roanoke mission was finally over! That Friday the 13th was a lucky day and I have celebrated every April 13th since then as a personal holiday.
On that wonderful Friday, I woke up 6:30AM, showered, dressed, and sat down to a bowl of Captain Crunch while my companion showered. Sitting there alone, and seeing my bags packed lying on my bed, I realized that I would never have to sleep on that saggy bed and wake up to another morning of going tracting from this or any other cockroach infested dump again. With each spoonful of Captain Crunch, my mind began a mental list of things I would never have to do again. The list included the following.
1. I would never have to go out and knock on another door and try to convince an already happy person that they could become happier if they gave up 10% of their money, sacrificed their weekends to perform smothering religious duties from endless callings, alienated themselves from family and friends, and eventually act out disemboweling themselves while dressed up as the Pillsbury dough boy inside a building shaped like a bowling trophy. (Talk about a tough sell)
2. I would never again have to ride a bicycle in a suite sweating like a pig in the Virginia summer heat and humidity or suffer frostbite in the bone chilling Virginia winters. (I now hate bicycles and never can bring myself to get on one anymore.)
3. I would never have to eat starchy crap for food because of no money. (Pasta dishes of any kind are no longer a block in my food pyramid.)
4. I would never again have to endure undeserved ridicule from any DL, ZL, AP, or from a pinhead GA-wannabe insurance salesman mission president named Frank A. Moscon. (He is dead now and I could not be less sad. I hope his death was slow & painful.)
5. I would never again set myself up in a situation that produces suicidal depression and loneliness.
6. I would never again spend another Christmas away from loved ones. (I only worship Santa now. Old Joe has been thrown into the dumpster.)
7. I would never again be shackled to some dude that I did not want to be with 24/7.
8. I would never again be deprived of the enjoyment of music of my choice.
9. I would never again live to a set of idiotic and double-bind rules while performing a smothering life-sucking religious duty.
10. I would never again be deprived of the love, the touch, and kiss from a woman.
11. I would never again respond to anyone calling me "Elder Flash".
12. I would never again……….
My fellow RM’s, you know this list is almost endless.
Oh, what joy and happiness I felt as I thought about the things I would not have to do anymore. I sat there relishing the thoughts of being home again, restarting my life again, being with my girlfriend Kathy again, and being called by my first name again. I was so happy that as I poured myself another heaping bowl of “Captain Crunch” with half of the cereal ending up on the table. Oh well, I might as well let the kitchen’s cockroaches celebrate with me. When I finished eating, I just threw the empty bowl in the sink thinking “let the next sucker Elder clean it. I am outta here.”
MY LAST BUS RIDE IN VIRGINIA
This particular morning seemed so fresh and alive. Since I had not had such a wonderful morning for 2 years, and I almost forgot what it was like to live again. My escape from the Virginia Roanoke Mission was beginning. As I carried my 2 bags down to the car, I started singing to myself the song by “The Who”, “….No time left you… on my way to better things…I got myself some wings….”
I had to go to the mission home to get my plane tickets so I booked a seat on the local Greyhound mini-van bus to Roanoke. I said my goodbyes to my companion and the other two Elders in my district. When I got into the van, I looked out the window at my fellow Elders for the last time. The looks on their faces were of envy and jealousy. I knew they were wishing so hard to be in my place. Their Friday would be another lonely day of mind numbing tracting but not mine. I never had to knock on another door again. I waved at them, turned away, and never looked back. When the van started to leave the bus terminal, I let out a huge audible sigh.
The early morning ride to Roanoke took about an hour. Passing through and out of the Martinsville/Collinsville area and north on to the main highway toward Roanoke, I mumbled to myself a quiet ‘good riddance’ and also mumbled ‘good riddance’ to some particular members of the branch there who had caused me so much unnecessary pain. Never again would I have to put up with their nonsense.
I spent the journey relaxing and watching the countryside go by. Being the only passenger made the journey even more relaxing. For the first time in 2 years, I was enjoying all of the green foliage of the area without a growing feeling of dread of having to start tracting in another new area once the journey was through. Every transfer, I always dreaded starting over again with knocking on doors that previous Elders had knocked on and were told to get lost.
Knowing that this was my last bus ride in Virginia and the start of a journey that would end with me at home and free from this mission hellhole made me feel giddy inside. I felt like a little boy going to Disneyland for the first time.
I tried starting a conversation with the bus driver to end the silence and this was proving difficult. The bus driver knew I was a Mormon missionary by the way I was dressed and the tell-tale nametag. He was reluctant to talk with me because he thought I would start talking Mormonism to him. Sensing this, I told him that I was going home today and had no intention of discussing any aspect of religion or Mormonism. I said this as I took off my name tag and put it in my pocket as he watched. He then began to open up and talk with me.
We had a fun conversation all the way to Roanoke. We talked about his job and the unusual cargo he has carried and about his poor experiences with other missionaries he had bussed around. He also commented that I was not like any of the other Elders he met before. He said I was genuine in my demeanor and well mannered and was glad I did not try to convert him.
When we rolled into the Roanoke bus station around 8:30am, there waiting for me were a couple of office Elders to drive me to the mission home.
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST FOR THE LAST TIME
My plane was to leave Roanoke for Washington DC at 11:30am. The next day I would hop on another plane at Dullus International and fly to California. I also had made previous arrangements for someone to pick me up and give me a condensed tour of the Washington DC area. In order to do this, I made up the story to the mission home a month before saying that I wanted to go through the Washington DC temple before departing home and for them to create an itinerary for me to do this.
Little did they know that my real goal was to only see the nation’s capitol on the church’s dime while at this end of the U.S. It felt good to know that I was able to scam them successfully and it proved to me once again that the mission leadership had the inspiration of a fence post.
At the mission home, it was so nice to just sit knowing that I did not have to do any sort of missionary work or answer to anyone, not to a DL, or a ZL, or the AP office elders, and best of all not to that pinhead mission president. Now I only answered to me.
I found a nice La-Z-boy chair in the mission home’s common area to sit and pass the time until I had to leave for the Roanoke airport. I began reading several magazines such as NewsWeek, Time, and National Geographic. I was 2 years behind on news and it was so refreshing to read something other than some shallow church publication.
After a half hour of reading, I noticed six new elders had arrived from an earlier flight fresh from the MTC. They looked so depressed, sleep deprived, and downcast. They reminded me of how depressed I felt when I first showed up at this mission home 2 years earlier. I felt a wave wash over me of sickly sorrow and pity seeing them. However, those feelings were washed away by a delightful tsunami rush of knowing that my hell hole was over. Their hell holes were just beginning but I was leaving in just 30 MINUTES!!
The new elders saw me reading “unapproved” material and asked why I was there by myself with no companion, I told them that my mission ended today and I was on my way home. Hearing this, a few of them looked like they were going to breakdown judging from the glassy look of their eyes. Two of them looked at me with such jealousy it was palpable.
If somehow they could know the depths of depression, loneliness, and hellish living that awaited them for the next two years, they would probably go into the restroom and slice each other’s wrists. To think that they would have to put up with that pinhead President Moscon and his idiocy made me smile knowingly at them but I did not taunt them about going home. I had at least that much civility left in me after my two years of hell.
I refused to go and have the customary last interview with the mission president. Because of the falling out that I had with him 4 months earlier, would change my mind about talking one last time with that bastard. Any communication with him had been terminated.
His clueless wife, Loya, tried to order me to talk with her MP husband but looking up from my NewsWeek magazine, I gave her a look that would shrivel a rock, said nothing, and went back to my reading. She huffed off and was probably thinking “how dare this lowly elder brush me off.” I didn’t care anymore because they were now persons non-grata.
ONE LAST ROUND OF AP ELDER ARROGANCE
Time was getting close for me to be at the Roanoke airport so I asked one of the AP elders for my plane tickets. A family from my last area had come to drive me to the airport and see me off and I no longer wanted to spend any more time in that mission home. Being there was serving no purpose and I would rather be elsewhere.
This AP elder spouted off to me that only the mission president could give me the tickets (that he held in his hand) and that I did not have his or the MP's permission to leave the mission home yet. Oh, so arrogant to the end, I thought. But I, being of much larger stature, pulled him aside into an empty hallway, and in a still small voice, told him that if he did not give me my plane tickets, this would be his last day as a fully functional human being. I told him this as I was “helping” him tighten the knot of his tie. Needless to say, he loosened his grip on my tickets and I pulled them from his hand.
With plane tickets in hand, I walked out of that mission home with my two bags, got into the backseat of the car of the family that came to see me off, and we drove away toward the airport. Breathing a huge sigh of relief as we reached the airport, I reached over to my nametag and quietly slipped it into my coat pocket.
I was finally done being a missionary.
THE FLIGHT OUT OF THE VIRGINIA ROANOKE HELLHOLE
At the drop-off curb, I said my goodbyes and gave final hugs to the family that brought me there, and after they left, I checked in my bags and walked up to the gate boarding area. Once there, reality really hit me that I was finally alone to do as I please. It was such a thrill to be alone and not be watched over, and after being tied to someone 24/7 for two years, it felt sooooooooo good to just be alone. I always cherished my alone-time and to have it stripped from me for 2 years proved to be very hard on me.
It may seem hard to imagine why being alone was such a wonderful experience. But when you have someone around you 24/7 for 2 years watching where you are, what you say, who you talk to, what you are reading, what you are wearing, and what you eat, being alone and accountable to no one is so refreshing its beyond words. Only Mormon missionaries or people in prison would understand.
While I waited for the call to board, I decided to purge my Mormon missionary looks and accoutrements so I collected together my nametag, the missionary white handbook, and a big envelope of mission completion papers I was given at the mission home. Looking around and finding the nearest trash bin, I walked over to it and tossed it all in creating a big thud noise as it hit the bottom of the bin.
Watching that crap disappear into that bin brought on another wave of relief. I stood there by the bin for a few moments letting it sink in that I was finally done being a missionary. I realized I now had a first name again. I was no longer ‘Elder Flash’. I had no more tell-tale nametag, no more “white” handbook of smothering rules, and no more of anything to remind me of being a missionary. The only papers I had were my tickets. I jokingly imagined how these tickets were the “papers” I needed to enable my escape from this iron curtain country called a mission.
To finish the purging my missionary look, I went into the restroom with my carry-on bag and found an empty large stall. Once inside, I removed my suite coat, vest, and tie and stuffed them into my bag. I then took out of my bag a nice blue colored dress shirt that I had been saving for a year for going home and changed shirts.
I literally ripped off that old white shirt popping off most of the buttons in the process. It felt so good to get out of that white shirt. I just threw the white shirt into the garbage. I did think about flushing it down the toilet but refrained myself from such amusement. From that moment, I have never worn a white shirt again to this day.
Now wearing my non-missionary attire, I was able to sit next to anyone without making them feel uncomfortable. I found myself a seat and happily noticed that the people who I sat next to did not even care who I was or look at me funny. I was just another fellow flyer. It was so liberating and refreshing to be a normal person again after 730 days. I quietly celebrated my new transformation by imbibing in an evil can of Dr. Pepper I got from the vending machine.
About 45 minutes later, the call to board was announced. I walked out onto the tarmac, up the stairs to the airplane’s hatch, and I found my window seat. With everyone boarded and the hatch shut, the plane began pulling away from the gate. It seemed like it took forever for that plane to taxi to the end of the runway to get ready to take off. As it did so, I mumbled to myself, "Oh please let there be no mechanical problems." I could not bear the prospect of returning to the gate. I wanted so badly to be out of Virginia and as far away from Roanoke as I could get.
When the plane roared down the runway, lifted off, and its wheels no longer touched Virginia soil, I felt inside this feeling like poison was draining out of my body. Two years of missionary poison that cankered my soul was beginning to drain away. The higher and faster the plane went, the faster the poison seemed to drain. What joy I felt being whisked away from that god-awful mission. For two miserable years I longed for this day to come. I felt like I was dreaming but I realized I was really on my way home! “Is it really true?” I thought.
From my window seat, I looked down at the Virginia countryside and contemplated about how two precious years of my young life were forfeited and wasted there; Two whole years, where instead I could have been in college finishing my electrical degree, while enjoying time with Kathy, and just living happily. I thought about the missed Christmases, the missed birthdays, my brother’s wedding I missed, and the long separation from Kathy. Sitting in that airplane trying to comprehend all my feelings of relief, joy, and happiness of knowing that I did not have to care about missionary work ever again was beyond words.
I was given a complimentary can of Coca Cola on the plane, and as I sipped the blessedly caffeinated drink, I amused myself with thoughts of some poor Elder below looking up at my plane as he endlessly tracted and wishing with all his heart to be in my seat. I imagined how I was mocking him by staring out the window at him and knowing I was the one here and not him. I was the one rising higher and higher and escaping. I was the one flying away leaving only a contrail behind for him to see. Today was my day. I was free. Sipping my Coke, I thought about the last time a flight attendant offered me a Coke two years ago when I was depressed and sobbing as I left for that Salt Lake Mission home. Such a contrast, I thought.
THE MINI-TOUR
In less than an hour the plane landed at National Airport in Washington DC and I found the person who I previously arranged to meet. My plane to California would leave Dullus International the next day so, according to our previous arrangements, he provided me a mini-tour by driving around the Washington mall area in his TR7 showing me the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, and the other mall monuments.
He was very nice and treated me to McDonalds. We got along great and he said that he knew how I felt being released from the ‘mission prison system’ as he called it. He also was an RM and he said he could see the relief all over my face. He told me he understood how I was feeling inside. What he did not know is that I was also reveling in my joy that I was successful in pulling the wool over the AP elders’ & MP’s eyes to set up my itinerary to allow for this mini-tour while they thought I wanted to go through the Washington DC temple. I got the last laugh on them.
After the Washington Mall mini-tour, we got on the DC beltway to go to his place for the night. We approached where the Washington DC temple is located and when I saw it, I felt nothing inside. It had no significance to me as it was just another symbol of an ungrateful church. I was asked if I wanted to see it up close but I politely said no. Puzzled by my reaction he passed by the temple exit and I did not give the place a second glance.
Soon we arrived at his place. He gave me the use of one of the spare bedrooms of his luxury apartment. That night I had a nice long hot shower where I scrubbed off two years of missionary dirt and disgust. I soaped myself up several times just to watch the water rinse the disgust away over and over again. I must have stayed in there for over an hour.
In bed, I laid there pondering over the day’s experiences. What a day, I thought. I woke up in a hot & humid, cockroach infested dump for the last time, brushed off the MP and his clueless wife, bodily threatened an AP for my plane tickets, transformed from Elder Flash to Flash, flew away from the hellhole known as the Virginia Roanoke mission, toured the Washington DC mall, and ended up in this nice place for the night.
It was so wonderful to have this day and night for myself after slaving for two years with no time off and no diversion. I no longer said nightly prayers anymore. They were never answered anyway so done were the useless nightly prayers and done was the rigid schedule of sleep & wake up times with tracting to dread in the morning. I felt so refreshingly free.
That night was the first night in two years that I got to watch the “Tonight Show” and have a radio sing me to sleep. An air conditioner droned in the background keeping me cool all night as I slept. Gone forever was the nightly ritual of trying to find sleep while in the silent & relentlessly hot and humid air of Virginia. Life was really looking up.
THE FLIGHT TO CALIFORNIA AND HOME
Early the next morning, I arose with great anticipation of being home at the end of the day. I dressed myself in “normal” clothes as I was not about to sit for 6+ hours dressed in a suite. I was driven to Dullus International to catch my flight to California. I thanked my friend/tour guide graciously at the curb, checked in my bags, found my gate, and sat down to wait for the boarding call. Again, it felt wonderful not wearing the telltale nametag or the clothes that screams Mormon Missionary; No suite, no vest, no tie, no white shirt, just comfortable clothes. Nobody called me "Elder" or avoided sitting next to me. I was just another traveler.
An hour later, the boarding call was made. My plane to California was a large TWA with relatively spacious economy class. Way better than the cramped Piedmont Airlines I showed up in two years ago. I found my window seat and settled myself in for a nice long journey. The plane was only two thirds full so I had two empty seats next to me where I could stretch out my legs and sleep if I wanted to. I glanced over at the cabin door as they closed it and thought that when it opens again, dry California air would rush in signaling that I was home.
The plane pulled away from the gate, taxied to the end of the runway, straightened out, and then its four engines came to life. Faster & faster did we roll down the runway and near the very end did the plane slowly lift off and began the 6+ hours journey west toward California. A wonderful rush of happiness fell over me.
I gazed at the countryside passing underneath the plane for hours while music flooded my brain from the in-flight music selections from "The Bee Gees" to "Bread". The music seemed to act like Scrubbing Bubbles detoxifying my brain of mission gooey. Oh, how happy I was and how relieved I was to know I would be home by the end of the day. I made a point to assure myself again that I was really here and not in some lucid dream that would end with an alarm clock waking me up in Martinsville to go out tracting again. I shuddered and almost puked at the thought.
For the 6+ hours it took to fly home, I simply decompressed by listening to music and watching two movies that 48 hours ago were considered “evil”. I just relaxed thinking that life was good. The food on the flight tasted quite good probably because it was so much better than the crap I had been eating for so long as a missionary. I finished both meals completely plus 4 cans of Dr. Pepper plus whatever cookies I could persuade the flight attendant to steal for me.
As the plane flew over Utah, I looked down and thought about that “Bad Boy’s Reform School nightmare” week I spent in the Salt Lake Mission Home two years previous. During my mission is when the church started up the MTC with the domestic Elders spending one month there. How lucky I was to avoid that. I could not imagine spending a month in that nightmare. I imagined mocking those new elders in the MTC below as they looked up at the contrail my plane was leaving behind. I am going home while they were stuck in that prison camp.
I also thought again of those poor Elders back in Virginia just starting out. How was their 2nd day in the Virginia Hell hole? What dark thoughts do they now have about their pinhead MP? A wave of pity for all of them occupied my mind for about five seconds but those thoughts were washed away for good with a tsunami of happy thoughts of being home where I would be loved and wanted and free. Those poor new Elders and the Virginia Roanoke Mission felt so far away now and of no importance and the relentless roar of the jet engines seemed to magnify that feeling.
Later I looked out the window again and saw Lake Tahoe where the California/Nevada state line is. The plane began to slow & descend. Oh God, is it really true? Am I really almost home?
HOME AGAIN
When I walked out of the jet way, all my family was there to meet me. I cried seeing them and hugged them more than I ever had done before. It was the first time I ever cried because I was happy. I could not believe I was with them again.
Kathy was also there to meet me. To see her standing there after two long years brought another rush of tears to my eyes. Is it really her? How much more beautiful she had become. At twenty one now, she was a very pretty woman. I rushed over to her and we gave each other a very-very long hug and a deep kiss. I did not want to let go of her. I missed her so much. I kissed off (pun intended) the bullshit that I was still a missionary until being released by the Stake President. I was threw being a missionary the moment I left that goddamn mission home and nothing was going to keep me from Kathy any longer.
The hugs and kiss I received from Kathy, after missing her for two miserable lonely years, poured peace into my soul in such a way that I have never found adequate words to do justice in describing how I felt. Only those who have gone through this can understand what I am talking about. The English language is just too inadequate to paint a proper frame of reference for someone who has not gone through the trauma of a Mormon mission and returned.
No event in my life has ever produced such an intensity of relief and happiness as the day I came home from my mission. For those who had the courage to overcome the pressures to serve a mission and not go; coming home was not like coming back from college or summer camp. It was like coming back from the dead.
NO MORE GHOSTS IN VIRGINIA
To you exmos who live in Virginia, please don’t think that I am trashing your home. Virginia is a very pretty place and after my mission, my wife & I have visited there a few times. Each time it was in the fall when all the colors are changing and my wife and I are always overwhelmed with the beauty.
I also visited a few of the places where I served as a missionary. In those places, the old familiar feelings of dread tried to come alive again. But with my adorable Malaysian wife at my side, those ugly memories & feelings of dread were crushed forever with her help. The missionary ghosts from the past have been slain and the ugly mission memories of pain are now in graves never to be given new life. I am free now of any mission ghosts and I look forward to visiting Virginia again when the opportunities arrive.