When Hard is Just Hard
Clothes bought, scriptures marked, bags packed—I couldn’t believe it was finally my turn to go into the Missionary Training Center. A mission was one of those things I always “knew” I was supposed to do. My life plan to that point had been simple: I’d go to college; I’d serve a mission. Meeting the love of my life at age nineteen didn’t exactly fit into my schedule, but no matter. Against conventional wisdom and lots of advice, I left to teach the gospel to the people of Austria.
The MTC was everything I’d known it would be—glorious. I loved my district and my two companions. My best friend was in my same building, two floors down, so if I needed a little extra help I could always seek her out. I already spoke German, which made class easy. I loved the talks, the lessons, the visits from General Authorities—the spirit was everywhere. My favorite part was standing together, in one big swell, singing “Called to Serve.” It brought me to tears.
Once in a while though, thoughts of actually going to Austria would surface and unsettle the comfort of my MTC life. I tried to shrug off these feelings, but couldn’t quite do it. I’d lived in Austria twice. Most of my Austrian friends found my religious convictions odd, but could dismiss them—I was American, so there were lots of quirky things about me anyway. The few times I’d engaged in discussions about religion with my teenage peers had been awkward. In Austria, where almost everyone is Catholic, religion is much more a social tradition than a deep belief. What would happen when my role in Austria wasn’t just to assimilate, but to share the gospel?
Still, I reassured myself that everything would be fine. I spoke the language, and I had never been shy. I was used to speaking my mind, usually speaking it a little too often. My Dad is a philosophy professor; I’d grown up arguing with him (how Heidegger figured into discussions of my curfew is still a mystery), and my parents were perhaps the only two Democrats living in Orem, Utah, so I was no stranger to being in the social minority.
My idealistic vision of my mission didn’t disappear in one big flash once I left the MTC. It dissolved slowly, over time, beginning with the train ride to my first area with my first companion. We sat quietly, with my trainer offering me bits of chocolate, and information about our area. At that moment, I realized that it was just the two of us for the next few months. We were hours away from the mission home, and a continent away from the MTC, with its steady stream of inspiring talks and crowds of believing missionaries.
What surprised me the most, as I settled into our daily routine, was how heavily I felt the burden of my calling. I woke up every morning with what I call the “mission bricks” blanketing me—the unrelenting pressure I felt to do everything right. The equation for success we’d learned in the MTC was simple: faith + obedience = stronger testimonies and success in the work. I constantly questioned how I measured up to this standard. Was I working hard enough? Had I contacted everyone I saw? Did I have enough faith?
I also experienced the everyday realities of missionary life. The mission president who was an inspired leader and a good man, but nothing like the warm and twinkly-eyed grandfather figure I’d expected. The contacts who gave us phone numbers but were never home and the investigators who felt the spirit but never came back. And then there was the companion who prayed for what seemed like hours whenever she was upset and always emerged from those prayers with a chastening message for me from the Lord.
Finally, at a zone conference halfway through my mission, the Assistants rolled out a new program to bring investigators from first contact to baptism within three weeks. At the time, my companion and I were having success in our area. We’d revived a stalled teaching program and forged strong relationships with many members in the ward, who in turn fellowshipped our investigators
My companion and I prayed and fasted that the “Three Week Program” would work for us. The next week we met Peter, a young car mechanic who had an immediate interest in our message. The progression from first discussion to baptism could not have been smoother. Peter felt the spirit, read the Book of Mormon, and to our shock, agreed to be baptized during the second discussion. The members welcomed Peter warmly and invited him to dinner and to ward activities. At the end of three weeks, Peter was baptized. I was overjoyed.
Two weeks later, a member asked Peter where he lived. He casually answered, “Oh, with my girlfriend.” My stomach seized and I watched in horror as the members’ mouths gaped and the Bishop quickly whisked Peter away to his office.
For a week I couldn’t sleep or eat or even talk about it. In my mind and heart I literally believed I was going to be damned for teaching this man incorrectly, for letting him get baptized without fully understanding the commitment he had made. I called my mission president and he simply said, “I can’t see how it is your fault.” Still, I couldn’t let go of the guilt that I felt about Peter. Maybe if I’d only been more obedient, more prayerful, had had more faith . . .
In the ensuing months, I had to keep up the pretense of being a confident missionary. If I went home early, I knew the guilt from giving up would haunt me. I thought it unlikely that a Mack truck would run over me and cut my mission short, so I piled all the guilt and responsibility into a little a corner of my mind and ignored the current of stress running constantly through my body.
When I got home, the thin shell of confidence I had created to survive my mission began to unravel. I cried beyond reason and began to have panic attacks. My mom couldn’t fathom this wreck of a girl who’d come home to her. I couldn’t tell people what the problem was. I didn’t know myself.
I spent a long time searching for the lesson I was supposed to learn from the hardships on my mission. I wish I could say that I came up with a simple answer. I see that my own immaturity and unrealistic expectations had lot to do with my emotions. Because I was a missionary, I expected Heavenly Father to sweep in and remove my turbulent feelings. I wanted a quick fix, a visitation by heavenly hosts of angels, perhaps, or at the very least, a spiritual sensation so powerful that I’d instantly be made whole.
The lesson I did learn is that sometimes, hard is just hard. There won’t be a simple solution to all my problems; there are things that I’m just going to have to endure. And that’s especially tough when your own Gethsemane happens to be everyone else’s Eden. Looking back at my mission, the pain is gone, and I remember all the wonderful experiences I had. I also see how making it through something so difficult made me stronger. I’m grateful that I went.
I still stress too much. I take things too seriously and my challenges loom larger than necessary. But I’ve come a long way, too. I know that the Lord is true to his word when he invites, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden . . . Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls” (Matt. 11:28-29). This promise, and the stillness it brings, makes hard just a little bit less hard.
Christine was born in Switzerland, raised in Orem, Utah and is now settled in Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She has a BA and MA in English from Brigham Young University. Someday she’d love to get a PhD and take a professional pastry course.
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