Mission Stories

[_Dr Exiled]

Having served only five weeks of a mission in the MTC, I will share my abbreviated story.

Due to having “carnal relations” nightly with a beautiful nymphomaniac BYU coed my entire freshman year, I was required to meet with a G.A. (Henry D. Taylor) prior to submitting my mission papers. The stake center I drove to (Pasadena) had a line of perspective missionaries waiting to speak with Elder Taylor. He was such a nice, gentle, caring old man that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I hooked up with my BYU gal about a month prior. I only told him what I had done while away at school.

Fast forward to the MTC. Everyday I was hammered with “If there is anything you haven’t confessed to…you won’t be able to learn the language, won’t be able to have the spirit, blah, blah, blah.” After a while I started believing that poop and went to my Branch Prez. He immediately kicked me up the ladder to the MTC Prez (Max Pinegar).

Pinegar told me to write three letters explaining what I had done - one to my Stake Prez, one to my Bishop, and one to my father. I told him that two out of three wasn’t bad because there was NO WAY I would be discussing, or even mentioning, my sexual escapades to my father. He told me to write the other two.

A week later I met with him again after a G.A. (Carlos Asay) fireside at the MTC. Asay was sitting there with him in the office and my Stake Prez was on the phone. My Stake Prez told me he loved me, all was forgiven, and to have a great mission. Pinnegar said that my Bishop was in agreement with me staying. Then Asay said, “And we told your father…he too agrees with you staying.”

Pinegar and Asay sat back in their chairs and looked like they were expecting me to thank them enthusiastically for allowing me to stay. Instead, in a state of shock, I heard myself say, “You sons of bitches…I told you my father was not to be told.” They made some sort of comment about how supportive my father was. I said “perhaps morally supportive, but he hasn’t spent one dime on my mission to this point.” There was a pause, and then I said, “I’m outta here. Do you make arrangements for a plane ticket home or do I?” They did all they could to convince me to stay, but I was PISSED and DONE. Perhaps their tactics had worked on other missionaries, but they picked on the wrong missionary this time.

Three hours later I walked out of the front door of the MTC, hugged the crying Elders and Hermanas of my district, then jumped into a van heading to Salt Lake City airport for a flight home and a whole new chapter of HELL in my life.

I love this. I wish I could have had the balls to do what you did. Instead, I had Hartman Rector in my head the whole time making me feel guilty if I didn't run in between contacts. What was the Hell afterward? You need to tell us what happened next.

[_I have a question]

A week later I met with him again after a G.A. (Carlos Asay) fireside at the MTC. Asay was sitting there with him in the office and my Stake Prez was on the phone. My Stake Prez told me he loved me, all was forgiven, and to have a great mission. Pinnegar said that my Bishop was in agreement with me staying. Then Asay said, “And we told your father…he too agrees with you staying.”

Pinegar and Asay sat back in their chairs and looked like they were expecting me to thank them enthusiastically for allowing me to stay. Instead, in a state of shock, I heard myself say, “You sons of bitches…I told you my father was not to be told.” They made some sort of comment about how supportive my father was. I said “perhaps morally supportive, but he hasn’t spent one dime on my mission to this point.” There was a pause, and then I said, “I’m outta here. Do you make arrangements for a plane ticket home or do I?” They did all they could to convince me to stay, but I was PISSED and DONE. Perhaps their tactics had worked on other missionaries, but they picked on the wrong missionary this time.

This cannot be true, because we know Carlos Asay doesn't meet with missionaries...

[_Jonah]

I love this. I wish I could have had the balls to do what you did. Instead, I had Hartman Rector in my head the whole time making me feel guilty if I didn't run in between contacts. What was the Hell afterward? You need to tell us what happened next.

When my flight from SLC to LAX landed (around 10:00 pm), I had no idea who, or if, anybody would be there to pick me up. As i walked off the plane and followed everyone towards the gate, I could see my father standing at the door. When I walked up to him there was no hug, no pat on the back, no arm around my shoulder. Instead I received an angry look of disgust and his extended hand to shake mine. “You look good…I can’t say I am glad to see you” was all he said. As we walked through the airport to pick up my luggage he mumbled, “You can live in the house for now but don’t expect much of anything else. If your mother cooks a meal you are welcome to eat. Don’t even think about asking to use a car, the phone, or help with your education.” Once inside the car, he screamed at the top of his lungs at me for the solid 30-minute drive home. “How could you do that to a daughter of our Heavenly Father??!!” was an oft repeated line. I so wanted to respond but I had to sit there and take it. I had little money and nowhere else to go. I was dependent on my “loving” family who would have preferred that I came home early in a box than to come home dishonorably. When we reached home, the house was dark and quiet. I hustled up the stairs to my room, closed the door, stripped off my suit, climbed into my bed, covered myself up…and shook uncontrollably until I fell asleep.

The next day I woke up early while it was still dark outside. I dressed and jogged to the beach in an effort to clear my head. I returned home before anyone was up and moving around. I hid in my room. There was a knock at my door. When I answered my older sister was standing there with tears in her eyes. “How could you do this to our family?”, was all she said before I slowly closed the door on her. My room became my refuge and my prison. For the first few days I only ventured out early in the morning or late at night as to avoid contact with anyone. My mother couldn’t face me for three days. Can you imagine that? Being the mother of a child in such emotional pain, under the same roof, and having nothing to do with him for three days?

Word got out that I was home. My best friend (who I had baptized a year or two before) heard and tried calling my house. Whoever answered the phone shut him down saying I couldn’t come to the phone. So he drove to my house, pulled into the driveway, and screamed my name until I heard him and appeared at my window. He opened the door to his car and motioned me to come. I dashed down the stairs, bolted out of the door, and dove into his car as he sped off. He immediately asked if I was O.K., and then he pulled over a few blocks away and told me to get out. He got out as well, came around the car to me, hugged me, and told me everything would be O.K. He didn’t let go, my legs turned to jello, and I collapsed in his arms. He took me out to a restaurant and fed me the first real meal I had eaten in 3-4 days. He saved me.

All of the money I had earned prior to my mission was spent in preparation for, and while on my mission. I returned home with around $600. $500 of that money was a gift from the ward that my Bishop told me should be used for a plane ticket to the MTC and other incidentals. When I went to church the next Sunday, the Bishop cornered me and asked for the $500 back. I told him I would get it to him when I had a chance. However, the next week I started looking for a job. The only mode of transportation I could use was a ten-speed bike. That wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t afford a car, so I looked into buying a used motorcycle. Sorry Bishop…that's where the $500 went. Fortunately, he never asked for the money from me again.

I got a full-time job at a grocery store at the top of Bel Air, CA. A cool little place where lots of movie stars stopped by. The work also got me away from the house, but didn’t pay enough to move out. I basically was only home to sleep, and I saved every penny I earned. I had a few run-ins with my father, mainly they were opportunities for him to “kick me while I was down” and tell me what a loser I was. After a while he could see that I wasn’t hurting as much and was prospering. That bothered him, so one night about six months after I had been home, he approached me and said, “I think it would be best for the family if you were to leave.” I asked him to give me two weeks and he agreed. He must have told my mother what he had done while she was vacationing in Utah. She cut things short and returned home the next night. She grabbed me and told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I think she sensed that if I were to leave she/they would never hear from me again (she was right). She told my father that I wasn’t going anywhere. This caused a rift between them for months.

I saved, slept, and stayed in the house under tense conditions for about another year. By then I had saved enough to buy a car, get married, and pay for my own schooling at BYU.

Whenever I hear of prospective missionaries questioning whether to go on a mission or not, I always counsel them that it is way easier not to go than to go and come home early. I have known many who STAYED on their missions BECAUSE of the fear of what they would face from family, friends, and church members upon their early return. I can vouch that those fears are valid. Anyone advising a doubting missionary that they are an adult and should just quit and walk off the mission…well…that is a LOT easier said than done. Particularly if there is no supportive family to come home to.

It has been a little over 40 years since I walked out of the MTC. I remember it like it was yesterday. One final note…my buddy who came to my house and screamed my name in the driveway until I came running out, who I had baptized earlier…well, years ago he saved me again by helping lead me out of the cult. Today we catch up with each other once a week over dinner.

[_Jonah]

A week later I met with him again after a G.A. (Carlos Asay) fireside at the MTC. Asay was sitting there with him in the office and my Stake Prez was on the phone. My Stake Prez told me he loved me, all was forgiven, and to have a great mission. Pinnegar said that my Bishop was in agreement with me staying. Then Asay said, “And we told your father…he too agrees with you staying.”

Pinegar and Asay sat back in their chairs and looked like they were expecting me to thank them enthusiastically for allowing me to stay. Instead, in a state of shock, I heard myself say, “You sons of bitches…I told you my father was not to be told.” They made some sort of comment about how supportive my father was. I said “perhaps morally supportive, but he hasn’t spent one dime on my mission to this point.” There was a pause, and then I said, “I’m outta here. Do you make arrangements for a plane ticket home or do I?” They did all they could to convince me to stay, but I was PISSED and DONE. Perhaps their tactics had worked on other missionaries, but they picked on the wrong missionary this time.

This cannot be true, because we know Carlos Asay doesn't meet with missionaries...

LOL!! I feel so special

I'm just lucky that Pinegar didn't drag me down to some sex room in the MTC basement.

[_Meadowchik]

When my flight from Salt Lake City to LAX landed (around 10:00 pm), I had no idea who, or if, anybody would be there to pick me up. As i walked off the plane and followed everyone towards the gate, I could see my father standing at the door. When I walked up to him there was no hug, no pat on the back, no arm around my shoulder. Instead I received an angry look of disgust and his extended hand to shake mine. “You look good…I can’t say I am glad to see you” was all he said. As we walked through the airport to pick up my luggage he mumbled, “You can live in the house for now but don’t expect much of anything else. If your mother cooks a meal you are welcome to eat. Don’t even think about asking to use a car, the phone, or help with your education.” Once inside the car, he screamed at the top of his lungs at me for the solid 30-minute drive home. “How could you do that to a daughter of our Heavenly Father??!!” was an oft repeated line. I so wanted to respond but I had to sit there and take it. I had little money and nowhere else to go. I was dependent on my “loving” family who would have preferred that I came home early in a box than to come home dishonorably. When we reached home, the house was dark and quiet. I hustled up the stairs to my room, closed the door, stripped off my suit, climbed into my bed, covered myself up…and shook uncontrollably until I fell asleep.

The next day I woke up early while it was still dark outside. I dressed and jogged to the beach in an effort to clear my head. I returned home before anyone was up and moving around. I hid in my room. There was a knock at my door. When I answered my older sister was standing there with tears in her eyes. “How could you do this to our family?”, was all she said before I slowly closed the door on her. My room became my refuge and my prison. For the first few days I only ventured out early in the morning or late at night as to avoid contact with anyone. My mother couldn’t face me for three days. Can you imagine that? Being the mother of a child in such emotional pain, under the same roof, and having nothing to do with him for three days?

Word got out that I was home. My best friend (who I had baptized a year or two before) heard and tried calling my house. Whoever answered the phone shut him down saying I couldn’t come to the phone. So he drove to my house, pulled into the driveway, and screamed my name until I heard him and appeared at my window. He opened the door to his car and motioned me to come. I dashed down the stairs, bolted out of the door, and dove into his car as he sped off. He immediately asked if I was O.K., and then he pulled over a few blocks away and told me to get out. He got out as well, came around the car to me, hugged me, and told me everything would be O.K. He didn’t let go, my legs turned to jello, and I collapsed in his arms. He took me out to a restaurant and fed me the first real meal I had eaten in 3-4 days. He saved me.

All of the money I had earned prior to my mission was spent in preparation for, and while on my mission. I returned home with around $600. $500 of that money was a gift from the ward that my Bishop told me should be used for a plane ticket to the MTC and other incidentals. When I went to church the next Sunday, the Bishop cornered me and asked for the $500 back. I told him I would get it to him when I had a chance. However, the next week I started looking for a job. The only mode of transportation I could use was a ten-speed bike. That wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t afford a car, so I looked into buying a used motorcycle. Sorry Bishop…that's where the $500 went. Fortunately, he never asked for the money from me again.

I got a full-time job at a grocery store at the top of Bel Air, CA. A cool little place where lots of movie stars stopped by. The work also got me away from the house, but didn’t pay enough to move out. I basically was only home to sleep, and I saved every penny I earned. I had a few run-ins with my father, mainly they were opportunities for him to “kick me while I was down” and tell me what a loser I was. After a while he could see that I wasn’t hurting as much and was prospering. That bothered him, so one night about six months after I had been home, he approached me and said, “I think it would be best for the family if you were to leave.” I asked him to give me two weeks and he agreed. He must have told my mother what he had done while she was vacationing in Utah. She cut things short and returned home the next night. She grabbed me and told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I think she sensed that if I were to leave she/they would never hear from me again (she was right). She told my father that I wasn’t going anywhere. This caused a rift between them for months.

I saved, slept, and stayed in the house under tense conditions for about another year. By then I had saved enough to buy a car, get married, and pay for my own schooling at BYU.

Whenever I hear of prospective missionaries questioning whether to go on a mission or not, I always counsel them that it is way easier not to go than to go and come home early. I have known many who STAYED on their missions BECAUSE of the fear of what they would face from family, friends, and church members upon their early return. I can vouch that those fears are valid. Anyone advising a doubting missionary that they are an adult and should just quit and walk off the mission…well…that is a LOT easier said than done. Particularly if there is no supportive family to come home to.

It has been a little over 40 years since I walked out of the MTC. I remember it like it was yesterday. One final note…my buddy who came to my house and screamed my name in the driveway until I came running out, who I had baptized earlier…well, years ago he saved me again by helping lead me out of the cult. Today we catch up with each other once a week over dinner.

Thank you for telling more of the story. I could read a book about this, hint hint.

Also, I am glad you could at least benefit from the reduced BYU tuition.

[_Meadowchik]

There's always this:

https://www.amazon.com/Heaven-Up-Here-J ... 1105296946

I still need to get this one!

[_Dr Exiled]

When my flight from Salt Lake City to LAX landed (around 10:00 pm), I had no idea who, or if, anybody would be there to pick me up. As i walked off the plane and followed everyone towards the gate, I could see my father standing at the door. When I walked up to him there was no hug, no pat on the back, no arm around my shoulder. Instead I received an angry look of disgust and his extended hand to shake mine. “You look good…I can’t say I am glad to see you” was all he said. As we walked through the airport to pick up my luggage he mumbled, “You can live in the house for now but don’t expect much of anything else. If your mother cooks a meal you are welcome to eat. Don’t even think about asking to use a car, the phone, or help with your education.” Once inside the car, he screamed at the top of his lungs at me for the solid 30-minute drive home. “How could you do that to a daughter of our Heavenly Father??!!” was an oft repeated line. I so wanted to respond but I had to sit there and take it. I had little money and nowhere else to go. I was dependent on my “loving” family who would have preferred that I came home early in a box than to come home dishonorably. When we reached home, the house was dark and quiet. I hustled up the stairs to my room, closed the door, stripped off my suit, climbed into my bed, covered myself up…and shook uncontrollably until I fell asleep.

The next day I woke up early while it was still dark outside. I dressed and jogged to the beach in an effort to clear my head. I returned home before anyone was up and moving around. I hid in my room. There was a knock at my door. When I answered my older sister was standing there with tears in her eyes. “How could you do this to our family?”, was all she said before I slowly closed the door on her. My room became my refuge and my prison. For the first few days I only ventured out early in the morning or late at night as to avoid contact with anyone. My mother couldn’t face me for three days. Can you imagine that? Being the mother of a child in such emotional pain, under the same roof, and having nothing to do with him for three days?

Word got out that I was home. My best friend (who I had baptized a year or two before) heard and tried calling my house. Whoever answered the phone shut him down saying I couldn’t come to the phone. So he drove to my house, pulled into the driveway, and screamed my name until I heard him and appeared at my window. He opened the door to his car and motioned me to come. I dashed down the stairs, bolted out of the door, and dove into his car as he sped off. He immediately asked if I was O.K., and then he pulled over a few blocks away and told me to get out. He got out as well, came around the car to me, hugged me, and told me everything would be O.K. He didn’t let go, my legs turned to jello, and I collapsed in his arms. He took me out to a restaurant and fed me the first real meal I had eaten in 3-4 days. He saved me.

All of the money I had earned prior to my mission was spent in preparation for, and while on my mission. I returned home with around $600. $500 of that money was a gift from the ward that my Bishop told me should be used for a plane ticket to the MTC and other incidentals. When I went to church the next Sunday, the Bishop cornered me and asked for the $500 back. I told him I would get it to him when I had a chance. However, the next week I started looking for a job. The only mode of transportation I could use was a ten-speed bike. That wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t afford a car, so I looked into buying a used motorcycle. Sorry Bishop…that's where the $500 went. Fortunately, he never asked for the money from me again.

I got a full-time job at a grocery store at the top of Bel Air, CA. A cool little place where lots of movie stars stopped by. The work also got me away from the house, but didn’t pay enough to move out. I basically was only home to sleep, and I saved every penny I earned. I had a few run-ins with my father, mainly they were opportunities for him to “kick me while I was down” and tell me what a loser I was. After a while he could see that I wasn’t hurting as much and was prospering. That bothered him, so one night about six months after I had been home, he approached me and said, “I think it would be best for the family if you were to leave.” I asked him to give me two weeks and he agreed. He must have told my mother what he had done while she was vacationing in Utah. She cut things short and returned home the next night. She grabbed me and told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I think she sensed that if I were to leave she/they would never hear from me again (she was right). She told my father that I wasn’t going anywhere. This caused a rift between them for months.

I saved, slept, and stayed in the house under tense conditions for about another year. By then I had saved enough to buy a car, get married, and pay for my own schooling at BYU.

Whenever I hear of prospective missionaries questioning whether to go on a mission or not, I always counsel them that it is way easier not to go than to go and come home early. I have known many who STAYED on their missions BECAUSE of the fear of what they would face from family, friends, and church members upon their early return. I can vouch that those fears are valid. Anyone advising a doubting missionary that they are an adult and should just quit and walk off the mission…well…that is a LOT easier said than done. Particularly if there is no supportive family to come home to.

It has been a little over 40 years since I walked out of the MTC. I remember it like it was yesterday. One final note…my buddy who came to my house and screamed my name in the driveway until I came running out, who I had baptized earlier…well, years ago he saved me again by helping lead me out of the cult. Today we catch up with each other once a week over dinner.

Thanks for that. Like Meadowchik says, your story would make a wonderful book. BYU must have been tough too. Any discrimination or shunning like behavior directed toward you at BYU because you came home early?

[_I have a question]

Whenever I hear of prospective missionaries questioning whether to go on a mission or not, I always counsel them that it is way easier not to go than to go and come home early.

I think 'easier' might be too soft a word. It's way more beneficial to your own personal mental health and self esteem, as well as your familial relationships not to go, than to go and come home early. And that speaks volumes about the culture in the Church and in Mormon families than it does about those young men and women who make the effort to try a mission but for various reasons it would damage them more to stick it out. It is much safer to your eternal relationships to not try, than to try and be labelled by those around you, a failure. That's Mormons and Mormonism, for you...

[_Jonah]

Thank you for telling more of the story. I could read a book about this, hint hint.

For some time now, I have been kicking around the idea of making a documentary about early returned missionaries. I know there are others who faced tougher times than I did...perhaps even committing suicide. I would like to tell my story and theirs. We'll see.

[_Jonah]

Thanks for that. Like Meadowchik says, your story would make a wonderful book. BYU must have been tough too. Any discrimination or shunning like behavior directed toward you at BYU because you came home early?

No, not really any discrimination or shunning. However there were plenty of uncomfortable times. The ward I was in was full of young, married, poor, student couples who were all in the same boat. Of course we all gravitated together which led to the inevitable "Where are you from? What are you studying? How long have you been married? Where did you go on your mission?" questions. When it came to me, if I couldn't change the subject or avoid the question, it was definitely a conversation stopper. Nothing lethal (like discrimination or shunning), but awkward. Still, we had a good circle of couple friends in our ward that we hung out with. One of those couples turned out to be current BYU Prez Kevin Worthen and his wife.

It took more of a toll on my bride when her and the other wives would get together and chatter (usually about their husbands). One night (eight months into our marriage) after being out with her friends (perhaps at Relief Society) she came home and there was something strange about her. She proceeded to tell me that she had made a mistake getting married (we were married in the temple), she had married too young, she should have gotten her degree before getting married, I had robbed her of her "college experience", she should have married someone more spiritual, AND...she should have married a RETURNED MISSIONARY!! All that from the gal who asked ME to marry HER.

I was devastated. We spoke with our Bishop who told us, "All young married couples go through difficult times." Things were never the same between us as from that point on we grew in different directions in a miserably resentful marriage. I should have left her then but I was young, dumb, and scared. Nineteen years and four kids later I was a bitter shell of myself and could take no more. I left her and dumped the church at the same time. Life soon got a whole lot better and I returned to the fun, loving, caring, compassionate human being that I once was so many years before.