Family

Yesterday I watched my little brother's life change.

A white envelope containing and off-white letter and a blue-bound booklet of what to do and when to get it done by.

Excitement in his eyes, acceptance in his smile, calm in his countenance, and almost unseen shake in his hands.

The reading of the letter took less than two minutes, but fulfilling the call to serve will take two years.

His life will never be the same.

As we drove home last night, as we often do, my husband and I started talking about our missions. About how our calls were the exact right places for us to serve. About how we were given exactly what we needed just when we needed it. About what we learned. And even after we stopped talking, I thought about different people and what they taught me. About all the things I want to teach my little brother, knowing that when it comes down to it, I can write a letter and give advice, but the lessons he learns will be up to him. I can't teach them. The people he meets can, and they will.

I thought of Jen. How she taught us to live the gospel while we preached it.

I thought of La'El, who was so prepared, about how we wanted to give up after her neighbor had spent twenty minutes trying to argue with us and condemn us to hell. We didn't give up, and we were blessed immediately. She gave us hope. And falafel.

I thought of Morgan, who taught me how to unwind my tightly-wound self and have some fun.

I thought of Lowell, who needed me to be his missionary. He will forever be the one soul I was sent to Texas for.

I thought of the Vega's, who gave it all up and broke my heart.

I thought of Jennifer Ann, and how she radiated goodness and a willingness to work from day one. She still does.

I thought of Melodee and Mindy, how we started together, giggled together, and worked together, and how I watched them go home together as I stayed behind, and how I missed both of them when they were gone.

I thought of Matthew and how we spent the last halves of both of our missions following each other around, and how much he taught me about serving with strength.

I thought of Isaac, who never minded being Relief Society President, and the shock and concern in his voice when he found out I was being sent home.

I thought of Kimmee, how she and I were kindred spirits and how we walked down those lonely Texas streets together, smiling, and how I hated it when she would ask me if I was happy because I wasn't sure the answer was yes.

I thought of Luke, and how his whole being slowly filled with light to the point where we almost didn't recognize him.

I thought of Sister Carr and how Heavenly Father sent us to an area where He gave us very little success but gave us the important charge of loving and serving her.

I thought of Valerie, my singing angel, who was exactly obedient, and how we would win the zone challenges without even knowing there was a challenge.

I thought of each of my companions, my district leaders and members, the Elders in the zones I served in. They each taught me something. They still do, every day. Every one. They were my family when family was far away. I thought of the blessings given, of talents shared, of concern shown when we weren't up to par, of joy shared when we finally saw success.

I thought of my family and friends at home, awaiting every email, and how I saw them in my mind on their knees, praying for me, and how they gave me courage and strength. I thought of my mother, who sent me off with a hug and told me it was my turn to fly. I thought of my father, who spent $17 to make sure the last letter reached me before I got on a plane to go home, and how I needed that letter more than anything that day.

I thought of all the nameless and now faceless people I met on the streets of Texas. College students, sometimes stoned, sometimes confused, sometimes just being polite. Country rednecks with loveable accents and half a dozen dogs. Young children who begged us to sing to them just one more song. Individuals and families who invited us into their homes, who got into our hearts.

And now I think of the nameless and faceless people of Korea, the ones that we will get to know through letters and emails and pictures. The ones we love enough to give a little brother up for, so he can teach them about another Brother, an older Brother who has given everything, and only asks for a broken heart in return. There is a heritage, a family they didn't know they were missing, and soon they will be part of our homes and our hearts.

Godspeed, Elder. Bring them home.