We were in the car outside the library, just about to pull away from the curb, when I noticed some movement in the rearview mirror. Walking towards the car were two clean-cut young men, black backpacks, white button-front shirts, little black name tags.
“Missionaries!” I yelled. “Look kids! LDS missionaries!” The children looked at me confused.
Flustered, I briefly considered turning off the car, unfastening my seat belt and hailing the unsuspecting young men, but they were already walking past my car and as excited as I am to see missionaries, I’m not prepared to chase them down the street. Instead, I smiled widely, waved like a maniac, and shouted “Hi!” at them through the open car window.
They very politely smiled and waved back without pausing in their travel down the sidewalk, probably wondering if everyone in this town is so friendly or if they’d just encountered a crazy woman.
Seriously, though, I have been just aching to talk with some missionaries.
I’ve always enjoyed talking with LDS missionaries. They’re so friendly and so enthusiastic about talking about theology and so sane relative to a lot of the other people who come to my door peddling religion or telecommunications services.
The fact that I’ve been feeling homesick for Utah only heightens my desire to talk with missionaries. I was hoping I’d see some in Washington, DC. I don’t know why I thought they’d be there, I just had an image in my mind of missionaries on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I imagined going up and saying something like, “Hi! How’s it going? Where are you from? How long have you been here? I lived in Utah for three years!” I fully expected the conversation to peter out from there, but I was ready, nonetheless. Of course, I didn’t see any missionaries when I was expecting them. They had to sneak up on me when I was in no position to accost them with my inane questions and rather desperate desire for connection.
While I missed my chance today, knowing that there are at least two missionaries right here in my town gives me hope that, if the kids and I continue walking around our little city like we usually do, I’ll have an opportunity to talk with them again.
Or maybe they’ll come to my door. I can only hope. Just in case, I’ll make sure I’m wearing something besides the ratty tank top and “lounge pants” I wear to bed and around the house on days we’re not planning to go out.
Hey! If I do see them, maybe they’ll let me interview them for my blog!