Emma's Little Sister Asked About the Horse, Not the Baptisms
I think Emma has taught Caleb and Lily more about missions in the ten months she's been home than I have in all the family home evenings of my life, and I don't think she has taught them anything on purpose. If I'm right, the most useful thing I can do is stay out of the way, which is harder than it sounds.
Last night we drove down to Provo for her birthday dinner (she turned twenty-two on Friday), and somewhere between the pizza and the birthday book Lily put her chin on both fists and asked whether there were horses in Brazil. Emma said there was one in Caruaru, tied up outside a man's house all day, and that she learned to say good morning to the horse before she said it to the man because the man liked that better. Lily wanted to know the horse's name. It was Trovão, which means thunder, though he moved like a couch. Caleb had been working on a breadstick and he put it down to ask whether a dog ever chased her, and one had, once, and she walked backward until it got bored. Then he asked what she did when she didn't know what the food was, and Emma said you ate it.
Nobody asked about baptisms, and I sat there with my fork. I was a missionary too, but I'm their mother, which is a different job from being their sister, and nobody asks the mother about the horse.
Why do younger kids ask the returned missionary and not their parents?
A question to a parent comes with a grade attached. They know I'd like the answer to be a good one, so if one of them asks me whether it was hard I'll give a big answer and probably reach for a scripture, and they've learned to ask about the weather instead. A sister has no stake. She can say the horse was slow and leave it there.
She's also the nearest proof they have. Somebody who sat at their table in a sweatshirt not very long ago and then went. It makes the whole thing look like something a person does, where the version from the pulpit makes it look like something done by a different kind of person.
What they pick up when nobody is teaching
Missionary work, the way it comes out over a table, is mostly people and logistics. A man and his horse, a companion you didn't pick, a dog, food with no name. I'd say that's accurate, and I think it's a better introduction than anything I've put on a handout. A kid can hear that someone was homesick and stayed anyway without anybody attaching a sermon to it, and I suspect the sermon would get in the way.
One verse keeps coming back to me while I think about all this, and I want to be careful with it because it wasn't written about siblings at a table.
Behold, I sent you out to testify and warn the people, and it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.
(D&C 88:81)
That was said to the first elders of the Church about their own sending, and I wouldn't build a whole idea of siblings on it. What I like is the second half, where telling someone what you know is a neighbor's job and doesn't wait for a calling. I wouldn't call a horse story a warning, but it's the same direction, one person at a table telling another what she saw.
What I'm keeping myself from doing
I have a short list, and I've already broken two of them in my head.
- Asking Emma to "share her mission" at family home evening.
- Saying "someday that'll be you" to Caleb, who turns twelve in February and will hear it from plenty of other people.
- Holding Emma up as the ruler when somebody is slow to do something. She doesn't belong in that sentence.
Every one of those turns the horse into a lesson, and kids can tell inside a sentence. Some children in good families serve and some don't, and a brother or sister who senses a prediction in the room stops asking.
She's also giving them the edited version, and I know it. They get the horse and the dog. She has other stories, and they're hers to tell or not, probably when one of them is old enough to ask the right question. When one of them asks me something I can't answer, I have my own rule, which is that "I don't know" is a fine answer for about a week. The same goes for answering what was asked and not what I was braced for, which is what I was trying to do in what I'd say to an eight-year-old about her body and modesty.
Frequently Asked Questions
Should I ask my returned missionary to talk to the younger kids?
I'd ask her to dinner and leave out the word "talk." If there's one story you want told, ask her privately and make it easy to say no. She's twenty-two with a full schedule, and she isn't a Primary program.
At what age do kids start asking about missions?
I wouldn't put a number on it. An eight-year-old asks about animals and food, and an eleven-year-old asks about dogs and being scared, and neither one is asking about doctrine. I answer what they asked.
What if there's no returned missionary in our house?
Have one from the ward over for dinner, preferably somebody in their twenties who isn't the one who gives the best talks. Sit them near the kids and then go do dishes.
Does this mean the younger ones will serve?
I don't know, and I'd be careful about saying so out loud. A mission is a choice a person makes, and a child who hears a prediction starts giving the answers that go with it.
Today I'm going to text Emma a thank-you for last night and ask her one thing, which is whether there's a story from Brazil she'd rather the kids not hear yet, so I know which ones not to ask her for. This week, when her name comes up at the table, I'm going to pass the potatoes and let somebody else ask.
with love, Melissa