“Elder and Sister Bates, would you sign my ‘bye-bye’ book?” The next thing I know, we are writing a few words of affirmation in a sister missionary’s journal because she was most likely being transferred while we would be out of town. And, to be honest, because Sister Suter is such an absolute rock star, the few words I wrote were completely inadequate to express how much Sister Bates and I had come to love and respect her in such a short time. Actually, this was not the first time we had been asked by a departing sister missionary to do that. Frankly, my “I am flattered” and my “am I back in high school?” emotions war every time we get the request.
It made me realize that I really had no idea what to expect when we left on our mission. What exactly would we be doing? How difficult would communicating with people be? How much would we interact with the young missionaries? How much would we teach, if at all? How would we adjust to apartment living? One thing, however, that never really entered my mind is what the young missionaries would think about us. That is, until one day after our first month in the mission field, Elder Huffman randomly commented that we were “exceeding expectations.” Wait–the missionaries had expectations? How low were said expectations? And how far were we exceeding them? Like, from a D- expectation to a solid C performance? So many unanswered questions, so little time. Let’s blog.
First off, let me say that the missionaries that we have had the pleasure to meet and work with have exceeded my expectations. Terrific young men and women who are focused on the work and having a lot of success. We have enjoyed those relationships to the point where I get low-key irritated with President Harkness when he has the audacity to transfer them. (Sister Smith and Sister Ferry and Elder Watterson and Elder Madsen in the same transfer? Madness. If he hadn’t left the hermanas and Sister Suter and Sister Wixom intact last transfer, we may have had words.)
But I will admit that I never thought about what the young missionaries would think about us. Didn’t really imagine that we would interact with them that much. They would be focused on street contacting and DFT (digital finding and teaching), and we would “support” the local members and leaders (whatever that looked like). They would not be teaching anyone, because the French Canadian population generally is rejecting organized religion. And we would be visiting the dwindling church membership, most of whom would obviously be senior citizens, because there would not really be any youth. Turns out, however, that Québec has a burgeoning immigrant population, including a growing Hispanic, West African and Filipino population. Also turns out that the younger missionaries are so busy that they, at times, have too many teaching appointments to manage. And not only have we been spending a large part of our time teaching friends and attending district councils with the younger missionaries, but the first thing the Québec District asked us to do was work with the large young single adult membership. Mind blown.
But back to expectations. During the first six weeks we were in Québec we made an effort to have each of the six missionary companionships over to eat with us at least once. We also got to know them by attending district council each week, doing apartment checks, teaching with them and giving blessings when they were sick. Even so, during all of this I didn’t really think about what they thought about us. I figured like most people in their late teens or early twenties they would only consider us as an occasional provider of free food and a source of amusement (“why, back in my day we had to do missionary work without cell phones.” “haha, sure Grandpa Bates, whatever you say.”). Kind of like the priests I taught in the Chatfield Ward . . . But I digress.
Turns out, they actually seem to like us. Huh. And sometimes even bring us offerings of delicious French pastries! (Of course, as my son Sean always says, “Pix or it didn’t happen.” So I direct your attention to the photographic evidence at the top of this blog.) Of course, that doesn’t stop Hermana Carvajal from making fun of my Spanish. (“Uh, Hermana, I don’t actually speak Spanish.” “Whatever, Elder Bates, your accent is terrible, haha.”). But I don’t think they anticipated that not only would we be willing to teach with them every chance we got, but that we would actually contribute to the discussion in a meaningful, complimentary way. I think there must have been a few conversations like the following that occurred before they worked up the nerve to call or message us:
"Hey, Elder Watterson, we have an appointment to teach Sylvia and her daughters tomorrow, but we will have to do it over Zoom because the rules prohibit us from teaching them in person."
"On my heck, Elder Livingstone, what if we call the Bates and see if they will come with us? Then we can do it in person."
"I don't know, Elder Watterson, what if Elder Bates falls asleep during the lesson and starts snoring? And what do we do when Sister Bates pulls out her yarn and starts crocheting a pair of baby booties? And then starts talking about her rheumatoid arthritis?"
"Hmm, you make valid points, Elder Livingstone. They are, like, incredibly old. But . . . Zoom."
"Okay, you're right. Let's call them up and give them a chance. Anything is better than Zoom. Even if Elder Bates starts to drool."
I probably also did not appreciate how much they would enjoy a home-cooked meal. On my mission, I survived on Lucky Charms, grilled cheese sandwiches, yogurt and squeaky cheese, and actually preferred that to most of my dinner appointments. But the missionaries here seem to enjoy coming over for dinner, particularly when it involves dessert. Maybe part of it is because the rules are so strict, and they work so hard, it is nice to have someplace to come to detox for an hour. And we have let many of them use our spare bedroom after dinner to have a Zoom lesson with a friend, rather than having to do it in the front seat of their car out in the cold. Which may have earned us a few brownie points. But they genuinely seem to enjoy spending time with us, and I consider it a good sign when our discussions involve mission gossip, secret mission crushes, post-mission plans, and (my personal favorite) invitations to come see them in their native country after our mission. The next time one of my kids approaches me on the down-low and asks me who my favorite child is–“seriously Dad, you can tell me”–they may be in for a rude awakening. (“Honestly, Ben, it’s probably Sister Suter–and yes, we have officially adopted her. But you’re a close second, errrr, third maybe; well, definitely single digits. Probably. Possibly.”)
So I don’t know what the mission president, the district president or any of the branch presidents really think about us, but I do know that we have at least exceeded expectations with the young missionaries, even if those initial expectations were admittedly low. And even if we have only exceeded them sufficiently to earn a “C”, C’s get degrees, as they say. And hopefully our degree will be a little more celestial now.