Without the Nametag

And it came to pass that Elder and Sister Draper, having found favor with the Lord, and with their mission president and stake president, were released as full-time missionaries this day. From this hour their names shall be known on the records of their people as "Larre" and "Kristi".

~ The Book of Draper 4:13

Time is like an accordion. It stretches out for long periods, such as at the beginning of a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (“Mormons”), and then suddenly contracts and collapses on itself when a deadline looms; a deadline such as the end of that mission.

I know we’ve been gone two years, but now it seems only the blink of an eye. How can this be so?  April 13, 2014 was always a long way off. The end of the mission was ever “out there” – a distant event, remote in its reality. Then one day I turn a corner and it appears and suddenly yanks me out of the mission, like Harry Potter apparating to the World Quidditch Match.

As time drags me away from our military “kids” the realization hits me that someone else will soon take over our role as military relations missionaries. I fret and agonize for days about this new couple. Will they love these kids as much as we do? Will they worry about them, look after them, and be as sensitive to their needs? Will this new couple reach out and win their trust and confidence? Will the new couple help change the trajectory of their lives as I believe we have?

I hope, and have no choice but to trust, they will do exactly what the Lord has sent them to do. And I hope our Navy kids also will love them and trust them as much as they do us.

 It feels like I’m abandoning my children and it is breaking my heart. Will they remember the love I have for them? Will they continue on the journey we began together during this mission? Will I ever see them become who they are growing into?

Will we ever meet again?

And then time snaps us forward and we are standing in front of the pulpit in our home congregation trying to convey two years’ worth of work, love, sacrifice, and experience to church members who are eager to hear about, but hardly comprehend, what it is like to be a military relations service missionary. Few in the congregation have a clue about the transformation that comes from wearing the nametag. Certainly the returned missionaries in the meeting can appreciate the proselyting experience of their missions. But ours was a service mission focused exclusively on the unique needs of the military families and young singles. I’m certain not one person who hears us that Sunday can do more than sip the barest teaspoonful of the sweet nectar of service that completely immersed us for two years. It will take weeks to tell them of the miracles both great and small, the changed lives, the struggles and hearts of these amazing kids we love so completely.

I have 20 minutes.

How strange that Greenville, South Carolina, where I lived and worked for 12 years and the ward family among whom I worshipped feels less like “home” to me than the Jacksonville, Florida area where I have just spent the last two years. Even our cramped apartment in Atlantic Beach with the sagging kitchen shelves and pokey old oven feels more “home” than the spacious house with the water garden and big backyard we left behind to answer the mission call. Greenville hasn’t changed. I have.

After our release the nametag comes off and we immediately return to Jacksonville to welcome home the USS Gettysburg from her 9-month deployment. Nothing in heaven or on Earth will prevent me from being part of this joyful reunion. For the last time we witness sailors standing proud in their dress whites at the rails as the guided missile cruiser steams into port. For the last time we rejoice with families reunited, with dads holding their infants for the first time. For the last time we stand on the dock with our giant pirate flag and Title of Liberty flag and search for familiar faces on a towering grey ship. I am thrilled for them all and desperately sad at the same time, because this is the last time.

I worry about losing the mission aura, the mantle, the special divine connection that has been a part of me and sustained me for the last two years, a natural high in the purest form. And now I feel it slipping away as if through my fingers even as I clench my hands to hang on to it.

The small black piece of plastic with white lettering I hold in my hand changed my life. How can I go on without it? Without the nametag we are merely Larre and Kristi, no longer Elder and Sister. And we are diminished somehow, shrunken in spiritual size, but curiously not quite back the way we were before the mission. Because of this little nametag my default setting for life has changed, yet I’m still me. As I unconsciously reach up to touch the nametag I shake my head and remind myself I’m no longer wearing it on my shirt. Deep within my heart is where I wear it now.

The nametag brought me here, enabled me to meet these wonderful people. It taught me how to love as Christ loved, to serve as Christ served. It also taught me that I can go forward now and still love and serve without it.

My heart is so full of gratitude at this opportunity to change my life through service. My love and concern for these Navy and Marine Corps “kids” goes beyond the nametag. I love them forever. For two years I have been neck deep in the divine paradox: when you lose yourself in the service of others, you find yourself[i].

I found myself in the Florida Jacksonville Mission.

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[i] Matthew 16:25 “For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.”

Mosiah 2:17 “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”

God's Three-year Olds

I spend a lot of time on this mission with Navy wives and their young children. Not since my daughters were small have I been around children this much. I’m having a blast being grandma to lots of precious grandkids, from infants to teenagers. The short ones run up to me with arms outstretched for a hug. One young imp, when she sees me in the grocery store from her shopping cart perch, and much to the embarrassment of her mom, hollers “DRAPER!” loud enough for all the customers to hear. The teenagers think I’m cool because I scuba dive and don’t look like a typical grandma. The babies mold into me when I hold them. When children come with their parents to dinner at our apartment they line up to get whipped cream squirted directly into their mouth or turn the handle of the pasta maker. Elder Draper is having just as much fun as I am, playing games with the pre-schoolers and joking around with the older kids.

Making pasta for Family Nightwith the Ellis family

But mostly I am in awe of how these parents manage the tough job of Mom and Dad in today’s challenging military environment, an environment which includes long deployments and frequent household relocations. Wives of deployed sailors are especially inspiring as they have to be both mother and father for up to nine months at a time.

I get to observe a variety of parenting styles under a variety of conditions. And I’ve observed a few constants: a love for their children and a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of patience.

When their children misbehave, as is the nature of all children from time to time, their parents lovingly, firmly, and patiently discipline them. The child eventually gets back on track, enjoys a warm embrace from mom or dad and all is well – for a while, at least.

Young children cannot understand the complicated workings of the parental mind. They can’t understand the reasons behind all the rules they must obey. They don’t comprehend their mangled body after getting hit by a car (“Hold my hand when we cross the street”) or the intense pain and blistering of a burn (“Don’t touch the stove”) or the long-term consequences of malnutrition (“Eat your food”). But their parents understand. They love their children and want to see them grow up healthy, mature, responsible, caring adults.  All children know is that they must obey their parents or incur a bit of discipline. What a child does understand is a parent’s love. He learns from tender discipline and wants to please.

They aren’t aware of it but these Navy parents have taught me a lot about the character of God, our Heavenly Parent.

Maria and Kassy

One day, while visiting Maria, a Navy wife, three-year old Kassy disobeyed her mom. Maria had to interrupt our visit while she patiently dealt with the offense. While watching Maria handle this small domestic drama with her daughter a realization crept into my head: to God we all must be three-year olds. He even refers to us as little children:

Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you (Doctrine and Covenants 78:17).

Neither Maria, nor any of the moms and dads we’ve met on this mission, would ever say to their child “I’m SO DONE WITH YOU. I’ve had it! You’ve thrown one too many temper tantrums, spilled one too many glasses of milk, hit your brother one too many times. That’s it! We’re through. I’m not dealing with you anymore!” Instead, they discipline, love, teach, and forgive countless times a day, everyday. They do this because of the massive love they have for their children, and they recognize the inherent limited comprehension of a child that age. They know their child cannot understand all that a parent knows. The child is just a little child who still has many years and experiences to go until they acquire an adult’s understanding.

In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (“the Mormons”) we believe we are all children of a benevolent God, a Heavenly Father, a glorified and perfected Man, the Creator of the universe and all that is in it. Despite all our intellectual acumen, our maturity compared with God’s is as a three-year old’s to her mortal parents. He no more would say to us, “I’m SO DONE WITH YOU!” than Maria would to her daughter.

What is remarkable to me is that God’s patience never seems to run out. In just a relatively few short years our kids are grown and gone from our homes, and then we no longer have to deal with the daily love-discipline-forgiveness cycle. But not so with God. Throughout all the years of human history He never seems to tire of His role as Eternal Parent disciplining, forgiving, and then blessing His children. Sometimes they get it. Sometimes they don’t. I imagine God must sometimes get exasperated with us, but he never ever tells us He’s through with us. He may weep at our disobedience (Moses 7:32-33, Pearl of Great Price), but as the perfect parent He continues to patiently teach, discipline, love, and forgive when His children get back on track.

O ye house of Israel whom I have spared, how oft will I gather you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, if ye will repent and return unto me with full purpose of heart. (3 Nephi 10:6, Book of Mormon)

 No wonder Christ taught that we should be as little children: meek, humble, willing to submit to and depend on their parents, eager to please, quick to love. These are the attributes that bring joy to the parent of any child, including our Heavenly one.

Because we are “little children and…cannot bear all things now; [we] must grow in grace and in the knowledge of the truth” (Doctrine and Covenants 50:40). He gives us basic rules to follow, sees the big picture, knows our potential, and has a massive love for each of us that I can only begin to appreciate as I watch these young Navy parents with their children. At some point, perhaps far into our future and after this mortal existence, we will continue beyond the lessons of mortality and grow up enough to have the maturity and knowledge of our Heavenly Father. If we learn well what He so painstakingly teaches us then we can expect to grow into the sons and daughters we were meant to be.

We are His greatest creation and His number one priority: “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39, PG). And like Kassy, and all the other young Navy children I play grandmother to, who will grow up to be  responsible adults and parents like their moms and dads, as God’s three-year olds we also have the potential to one day become like our Heavenly Parent.

Untangled

On our third floor apartment balcony hang a set of melodious wind chimes and a mobile of carved wood fish, painted in brilliant patterns of blues, yellows, greens and reds. Tethered to clear monofilament line, the fish “swim” contentedly in the light breezes that sweep in from the ocean and over the lake next to our home, reminding me of our many scuba diving trips to islands in the Caribbean. 

Sometimes the breezes are not so gentle and the fish spin and flail wildly, their tethers tangling horrifically until they are tightly locked in tangled knots and can manage to only swivel weakly in place. It does no good to wait and see if they untangle by themselves. The longer I wait to intervene, the worse it gets. I notice the mess every time I open my door to go outside or when I’m coming back to the apartment. Nothing else catches my attention: not the sun glimmering our lake, not the green jungle, not the osprey hunting over the water, not the brilliant Florida sun. I see only the tangled mess of wooden, brightly colored fish hopelessly entwined around each other. What a mess.

Finally, I can put it off no longer. I set down my keys, and whatever else is in my arms, and turn to untangle the fish mobile. Sometimes it takes almost a half an hour of patiently moving a fish and its tether to the right or the left, through a knot, over or under, one tangled clump of snared monofilament line at a time. Holding my arms up as I perform this duty is tiring and I have to put them down and shake out the stiffness once in a while. I’m tempted to just pull the whole thing down and toss it in the trash. But I never do because I know my efforts will be ultimately successful in untangling the mobile. I would not want to lose them; the fish are pretty, and they add a sense of fun and barefoot hominess to our place.

Finished at last, I step back to observe my handiwork. The fish are once again “swimming” freely in the light breeze and all seems right with their little world and mine too, for a day or two. Then the wind kicks up that night and the fish are once again thoroughly tangled by morning. It happens all the time. Wind tangles, I untangle. Repeat.

How similar we are to my bright fish mobile. The buffeting winds of adversity and our own weakness seem to combine on a regular basis to tangle up and complicate our lives. We make bad choices, we suffer from other’s bad choices, or we are plagued by the vagaries of mortality that visit us as physical and mental illness, financial challenges, disillusionment, despair, disappointment, death of a loved one, betrayal of a friend. The list is endless. All of these things tangle up our lives and stymie us. Entangled, we cannot swim freely, we cannot be the kind of person God wants us to be.

The longer we live being tangled up the worse our lives seem to get. Wrong choices become habits; habits become addictions. Discouragement becomes despair; despair becomes depression. We wind up even more tangled than before.

Untangling ourselves is impossible, just as impossible as my bright wooden fish untangling themselves. We need help from someone outside ourselves who understands how we got so tangled up in the first place. We need someone who knows exactly how to help us out of this mess, someone who is patient enough to work with us no matter how long it takes and no matter how many times we get tangled up, someone who loves us too much to ever just get fed up with untangling us and toss us in the trash.

I have learned from experience that this Someone is our Savior, Jesus Christ.

…and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people…” Alma 7:12

If we turn to Him for help in untangling our lives He will indeed always be there for us. As we pray earnestly for comfort, for aid, for peace, He will sooth our souls. As we study, not just read, but study His word in the scriptures and from a living prophet His Spirit will guide us to paths of wiser choices. As we make the small (or sometimes big) adjustments in our lives to keep His commandments He will bless us far more abundantly than we expect. We will see the living miracle of our own untangling play out right before our eyes. Elder Draper and I have seen it many times in our own lives and in the lives of the precious military men and women we serve. We’ve seen addictions conquered, families put back together after crisis, depression overcome, faith restored, hope renewed – knotty tangles untangled by the Savior’s loving hand.

The solution to our untangling is found in the scripture we’ve selected as the theme for our mission:

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. (Proverbs 3:5)

He is here for us not just when we get tangled up one time, but time after time. Every time we get tangled, no matter what a mess we make of our lives, He’s here to untangle us if we put aside our pride and petulant “I can do it myself!” attitude, trust Him, and have the tiniest bit of faith to ask for His help. 

Sea Change

We have but six months to go on our mission here in Jacksonville, Florida. After that our lives will abruptly change once again as we make our way first to South Carolina to say farewell to our dear friends, and then to California to spend some time with my amazing sister who has sacrificed so much so Larre and I can serve this mission. Then it is on to our new life in Mexico. I am already starting to feel the tide shifting in my soul, pulling me toward a Mayan shore.

We have come to love those we’ve been serving here so profoundly that even as I write these words I feel the tears well up at the thought of leaving these good people, our sons and daughters in every way save natural birth. We’ve enjoyed a ring-side seat at many miracles, witnessed a mighty sea change in many lives, and benefited everyday from the Lord’s tender mercies. We truly are our brother’s keeper in these last days.

I’ve heard it said that “a mission is more for the missionary”. And that is absolutely true. My testimony has grown stronger, drilling down into the solid bedrock of the Lord’s love, cementing the doctrines of Christ into my bones. I’ve witnessed the divine paradox in action many times here: When you lose yourself in the service of others, you find yourself. A new normal has changed my default setting to “service”, service among the people with whom I live and work. This mission has changed my life and I would never have known this transformation had I not come here. Larre feels the same way.

Over the course of this mission the threads of our lives have become tightly woven into the tapestries of these military “sons and daughters”. Our marching orders from military relations handlers at church headquarters were to “use your skills and talents to bless the lives of the military servicemen and women.” Even when we are doing things not related to serving “our kids” we are preoccupied with and vividly mindful of their welfare. Does so-and-so need a friend right now? Would that brother like a blessing? How can we help this sister while her husband is deployed?

These kids seldom hesitate to call us for assistance when they need a hand, a ride somewhere, help with grocery shopping, or for us to bring in dinner, a gallon of milk, or Gatorade when the family is ill and can’t get out of the house. Navy wives are so self-reliant that it is sometimes difficult for them to ask for help. But they’ve grown to trust us enough to know we will drop everything and come cheerfully and gratefully when they call, as any devoted parent would.

"You got this, Sister Draper!"
Brother Zayas and I finishing strong.

We also simply have a lot of just plain fun fulfilling this mission. We take these kids shooting, diving, snorkeling with manatees, rock climbing, kayaking, biking, swimming, shopping, and even run half-marathons with them. Brother Zayas, an active duty Marine (hooyah!) and one of my scuba students, is a Cross Fit trainer and a human machine. He was also my running partner throughout the Marine Corps Half-Marathon race last week. It was my third half-marathon and his first, and he made it look so easy. I doubt he even broke a sweat. As my running partner, Brother Zayas pushed me to excel the entire 13.1 miles to finish strong in under two and a half hours. That bright, warm Saturday morning saw the gospel in action; bearing one another's burdens by helping each other along life's journey, and doing it with gusto through beautiful downtown Jacksonville.

Like women after childbirth, runners who finish a long race, or mariners who come through a storm, the pain and anxiety of the moment soon fade after the ordeal. All that remains bright in memory is the success of the accomplishment, the triumph of survival. The intense pain of childbirth, the runner’s aching muscles, and the battered boat are soon forgotten in the thrill of having come out on the other side victorious.

Something else happens to those who have been through such crucibles. Fundamental, indelible change also occurs deep within the soul. The new mother finds a reservoir of love she did not know existed before that soft, angelic life was placed in her arms. The runner wears an invisible mantle of pride and confidence. The mariner gains new respect for the sea and his skill as a seaman. None of them will ever be the same. Each has undergone a sea change, a transformation which has left them forever altered, forever lifted above where they were before. An ordeal that once appeared daunting, a course that seemed hopelessly long, waves that towered impossibly high have each been faced and conquered, resulting in a miraculous metamorphosis.

The sea of our souls is changing because of this mission experience. We are undergoing that strange metamorphosis we hope will alter and shape us forever to be more the daughter and son a wise and tender Heavenly Father wants us to be.

The Parable of the Crippled Kayak

The unmistakable POP! was instantly followed by a noisy hissing and bubbling as the inflatable kayak beneath me suddenly went flaccid. The two main air cells were breached and taking on water. Within seconds the kayak was barely afloat.

It was a perfect storm of misfortune. I was more than a mile from the take out at the southern end of Dutton Island, an inland island surrounded by marshes near our home in Florida’s Atlantic Beach. I was deep within a remote maze of estuary channels, my cell phone battery dead, the tide rapidly going out, and I was hung up on a cluster of razor-sharp oysters that grew in scattered beds throughout the maze. There was no possibility of walking out of the marsh either. In the attempt to free the impaled kayak I lost one of my flip-flops in the thick, oozing muck. Colonies of sharp-edged oysters hid here and there just beneath the surface of the black water and, if I abandoned the kayak, I wouldn’t get five yards before they would shred my bare feet to ribbons. A neon sign of warning flashed urgently in my head signaling that the decision I made in the next moments would be critical. Now was the time for calm, rational thought. A desperate or a poor choice could leave me stranded for hours, or worse.

A quick assessment of the kayak’s condition, the water level, and direction of the tide left only one option: paddle the quickest and deepest route back to civilization. I didn’t know how much longer the kayak would stay afloat. Although the remaining air cells seemed to be intact my little vessel was riding low in the water and responded sluggishly to my paddle strokes. It didn’t seem to be foundering but I couldn’t afford another breach as the water level continued to ebb with the outgoing tide. Staying in the center of the largest and deepest channels was the best chance of keeping the bottom of the crippled kayak above and beyond the reach of the treacherous oysters.

The take out was the only location where I could both get safely to dry land and back to my car, and there were only two routes to the take out. I had to make an immediate decision which one to choose. The first route was shorter but through the marsh channels, and without the GPS on my smartphone I wasn’t absolutely certain of the route. I would be paddling along increasingly shallower water trails and likely become impaled again. A wrong turn into a dead end could make my dicey situation even worse by leaving me completely stranded deep in the marsh with only a trickle of water in the channels until the next high tide. By then the kayak might be totally useless and I would be cut off from an escape and trapped.

The second route I knew with certainty, but it was a longer route and took me back out to the river known as the “intercoastal waterway”. Out in the river the dropping water level would force me further toward the middle and closer to motor boat traffic. I was confident I could stay close enough to the river’s shore to avoid unobservant boaters, but I would still have to slog through rough motor boat wake waves. The tidal current would also work against me and was much stronger in the river than in the marsh. The river option meant a long, hard paddle in my poor crippled little kayak. I chose the river route, reclined back in the kayak to counter its deflating taco effect, and pulled hard on the paddle through a wide marsh channel until I emerged out into the river.

For the next hour and a half I struggled against the river’s outgoing tidal current, keeping a wary eye on the boats. With every outboard that sped by came the wake waves: a succession of five or six each time, making it more difficult to get any forward progress toward the take out.

Hot, tired, thirsty, and with my arms and shoulders aching, I finally left the river and entered the cut that led back into the estuary and the take out. The river tide was particularly strong at the mouth of the cut and required doubling my strokes to barely make slow, grudging headway. If I stopped paddling, even for a moment, the current would carry me back out to the intercoastal waterway. Miraculously the crippled kayak remained afloat, so I leaned forward to get more power into each stroke and kept going. The take out wasn’t far now. Dip right, pull, dip left, pull. Dip right, pull, dip left, pull. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Farther into the channel the current relaxed a bit and the going became somewhat easier. A woman fishing from the dock at the take out waved to me as she saw me emerging from around the tall salt marsh grasses at the last turn. I waved back and breathed a sigh of relief that the little crippled kayak and I were finally at the end of our adventure.

On the way home, as I considered how to patch the kayak and get back out on the water, I realized my misadventure is a fitting allegory of our life on Earth.

Our take out is the heavenly portal through which we come to live and journey by faith and through which we leave this place and return to our heavenly home. We paddle through this earthly estuary, along its winding paths where we encounter sublime beauty and wonder, such as the dolphins who kept me company on the first part of my trek when the kayak was still healthy and whole, the sun glinting on the water, and the peaceful solitude of miles of quiet marshland tributaries all around me. There is much joy to be found in this mortal and strangely foreign existence: the tender love of a parent toward a child, the rich bonhomie among dear friends, the love born of serving a neighbor, the satisfaction of planting a seed and watching it grow, creating something beautiful, making order out of chaos, the harmony of a marriage nourished by devotion and sacrifice.

More reliable than the navigation app on my power-hungry smartphone is our spiritual global position system (GPS) of the scriptures, the words of prophets, inspiration of the Holy Spirit, and the counsel of others who are wise. All these help us navigate along the safest routes through life and eventually guide us back to our home.

Often adversity impales us on shards of poor decisions, such as taking an inflatable kayak into a marsh when the tide is going out, or ruining our health with substance abuse, neglect, and addiction, or ignoring the wisdom of the divine GPS and thinking we can make this journey on our wits alone. Adversity also slices into us for no apparent reason at all; we are simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. The accident caused by a drunk driver, victims of abuse, casualties of war, a job loss, mental illness, physical disability, the betrayal of a friend. The list is endless. Sometimes we even volunteer for adversity when we break out of our comfort zone to blaze a new trail by taking a risk, going back to school, or learning a new skill. These challenges are our ebbing tides, our razor-sharp oyster beds, our oozing muck, our motor boat waves, our aching muscles.

Regardless of the cause, adversity is as much a part of our journey as joy. It is uncomfortable, often painful, frequently difficult, and certainly unpleasant. But we learn important lessons during these periods of trial and challenge, lessons we would never learn otherwise, character we would never discover if the winds were always fair, the tide always high, and the river always calm. Hopefully, we turn for help to the One who knows us best, we recognize the opportunity to gain wisdom from the experience, we deepen understanding and compassion. From the aching muscles of paddling against the current we grow stronger, more capable of handling the next challenge. Blisters turn to calluses, and our once tender skin is not so susceptible to being bruised and torn next time.

Time and again we must paddle against the tides of life. We have to keep pulling through the water no matter how tiring or discouraging the effort or the current will sweep us out to places we don’t want to go. The worst decision is the decision to give up. Prayers of faith, seeking strength, guidance, and comfort pull down a divine reservoir of aid to keep us moving forward. Whatever it takes we must keep our faith strong and our hope bright. We can’t afford to let the light of Truth dim in our souls or we will find ourselves stumbling in a darkness that attracts despair and even more adversity.

After all our experiences in the marshes and rivers of mortality we eventually paddle around the last bend to the take out. All the challenges, all the struggle will finally be over. Rest and peaceful shores are before us. Sore, tired, and relieved we step out of this earthly estuary and are welcomed home.