A Bevy of New Missionaries Bound for the Bluegrass State...
Posted: Tue May 27, 2008 3:20 am
Flying home to Kentucky this evening, I was surrounded on all sides by perhaps a dozen bright-eyed, cheerful, and (my gosh!) young LDS missionaries--bound, as myself, for Louisville. I'd caught up with them in Atlanta. I struck up generic, how-do-you-do conversations with a couple of them.
ME: "Are any of you heading to Frankfort?"
Missionary: "We don't know yet."
I'd seen a couple of them earlier at the Atlanta airport's D-concourse Burger King filling their medium-sized cups with (!) Coca-Cola. First thought: Hmm. Not sure if that's allowed. Second thought: Man, I spend too much time thinking about Mormonism if I'm unconsciously taking on the role of WoW police for a bunch of fresh-faced missionaries. Third thought: Good for them! I know not all LDS hold as strictly to WoW prescriptions as others.
As the plane filled up, pre-flight, I'd commented to my seat-mate: "Now, this is a bevy of Mormons!" Turns out he hailed from Utah. The boss at his last job (in Kentucky) had been Mormon. Seat guy had a wicked cold. Nice guy. Which is neither here nor there.
As the flight finished taxiing to the gate, and the fasten seat belt lights darkened, the missionaries in front of us began to move about and collect their luggage from the overhead compartments. One particularly-young looking male (there were two sister missionaries among the males) glanced in turn at his companions and said softly, "Two years." Another echoed, "Two years." Another, more quietly, "Two years." Each, in turn, responded.
I can't imagine what they must have been feeling, thinking. I'm barely, but adequately, old enough to have been father to the youngest among them.
I turned to my seat-mate and said, "Two years. That's a long time." He just chuckled.
There were lots of things I wanted to say to the group of missionaries. Things like: It's not your fault if the baptisms don't roll in. You'll probably never really please your mission president. Oh, and, Joseph Smith was not a true prophet.
I said none of those things, of course.
I managed: "If you guys get to Frankfort, I'm downtown on [...] Street. I'm on the list. Look me up; we'll have dinner."
Then we were all off on our various quests--them to meet their mission president (waiting outside the security area with, I'd guess, his wife, and a couple other young missionaries); me, directly to baggage claims.
I think I've sufficiently mapped out the Coke drinkers. I'm going to stock up on Coca-Cola just in case they come knocking.
ME: "Are any of you heading to Frankfort?"
Missionary: "We don't know yet."
I'd seen a couple of them earlier at the Atlanta airport's D-concourse Burger King filling their medium-sized cups with (!) Coca-Cola. First thought: Hmm. Not sure if that's allowed. Second thought: Man, I spend too much time thinking about Mormonism if I'm unconsciously taking on the role of WoW police for a bunch of fresh-faced missionaries. Third thought: Good for them! I know not all LDS hold as strictly to WoW prescriptions as others.
As the plane filled up, pre-flight, I'd commented to my seat-mate: "Now, this is a bevy of Mormons!" Turns out he hailed from Utah. The boss at his last job (in Kentucky) had been Mormon. Seat guy had a wicked cold. Nice guy. Which is neither here nor there.
As the flight finished taxiing to the gate, and the fasten seat belt lights darkened, the missionaries in front of us began to move about and collect their luggage from the overhead compartments. One particularly-young looking male (there were two sister missionaries among the males) glanced in turn at his companions and said softly, "Two years." Another echoed, "Two years." Another, more quietly, "Two years." Each, in turn, responded.
I can't imagine what they must have been feeling, thinking. I'm barely, but adequately, old enough to have been father to the youngest among them.
I turned to my seat-mate and said, "Two years. That's a long time." He just chuckled.
There were lots of things I wanted to say to the group of missionaries. Things like: It's not your fault if the baptisms don't roll in. You'll probably never really please your mission president. Oh, and, Joseph Smith was not a true prophet.
I said none of those things, of course.
I managed: "If you guys get to Frankfort, I'm downtown on [...] Street. I'm on the list. Look me up; we'll have dinner."
Then we were all off on our various quests--them to meet their mission president (waiting outside the security area with, I'd guess, his wife, and a couple other young missionaries); me, directly to baggage claims.
I think I've sufficiently mapped out the Coke drinkers. I'm going to stock up on Coca-Cola just in case they come knocking.