In the dream, I was in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it, driving through South Hill. I was talking to one companion or another about cars or Tolkien or the Clementsons or just how happy we might be someday.
And I woke up with a gnawing sorrow, like there's some cruel psychological vitamin deficiency only my subconscious knows about.
It's been 3 months since I got back from Tacoma, and not a day goes by that I don't think about it.
I've done my utmost to get reacquainted with normal life. I've gone on dates, I've gone to movies, I've gone to sporting events and gone on road trips. I have a job. I have a calling. I go to school. I walk my dog.
But there's still this part of me living in the shadow of that lonely mountain, some wayward fraction of my soul that still suits up at five o'clock. It's the part of me that still wants to clip on a tag, the part that unconsciously rubs that one calloused knuckle.
I am home now. My family is here. My friends are here. I know these mountains, this climate, these roads and restaurants and little shops.
But those two years were something more, and now I feel as though I've lost that dear more-ness when I think about it, the world I left behind.
Today those black tags got up and got in their stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it. They hurried about, frantically calling strangers and recent acquaintances. They got yelled at as they walked down a street. They were maligned, discredited, or otherwise patently ignored by the world. And tonight, after they planned, they made grilled cheese sandwiches and laughed at themselves. With devil-may-care bravado, they shrugged off the day's travails and prayed to their invisible God and gave thanks that they are on this adventure.
Gosh I miss it. I miss it with half-Stockholm-Syndrome, half separation anxiety.
I may never understand how such an exhausting, comprehensive, all-encompassing endeavor could so completely endear me to a clump of trees and liberals on the Olympic Peninsula.
But while I don't understand it, I can still love it. And miss it.
I miss the companion. The co-pilot, confidante, co-conspirator, tag-team wrestling partner, mandatory best friend, and everything else besides. The kind who would spot you for Taco Bell, if the occasion called for it and with the guarantee all debts would someday be paid. The kind who was more than willing to stay up talking with you because they were worried about you. That inexorable optimism who shared an apartment with you, the one with the unyielding determination to carry the world alone if need be. The small fights, the large fights, the banter. The fallout. Reading each other's mail. Sharing leftovers.
I miss the camaraderie. The brotherhood. Those nights around the missionary bar, swapping stories. Buying Dairy Queen for the bike Elders because it was out of their area. The miracle phone calls, the pranks, the love. The desperate sense of artifical belonging we frantically wrapped ourselves in, shielding us from fatal loneliness. Giving ourselves funny callings and jobs, crafting an elaborate culture and labyrinth of inside jokes and double entendre.
The way we all practiced our President Weaver impressions when we were alone. The way we all assumed that everything was fine at home. The way we all pretended we were strong and knew what we were doing. The way we would all cry when someone went home. The way we all secretly wanted to impress the Sisters. The panacea blessings, the omnipresent hope for the new transfer, the vindication at news from an old area.
The mission was the most deeply human thing I have ever experienced, from the bold joy that gushed out of those little victories to the devastating crush of long days driving into long weeks. It was majestic. It was immortal.
There is nothing that has brought me greater joy or fulfillment or satisfaction than that jagged little crop of souls in Northwestern Washington. It is beyond me to express what it has meant to me and continues to mean to me.
For a few months, the greatest challenge of my life was to live within the WATAC. Now, each day, I've found that my greatest challenge may be to live without it.
The most emotion I feel comes from memories or connections to the mission. I can't listen to Amazing Grace anymore. Every item in every grocery store seems to have some connotation attached to it. Every hymn, talk in church, or bit of church gossip was better in Tacoma.
I would go back, if they'd have me. I'd pack up and swear off the soccer and superheroes and video games again, just to get back in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack and drive to some godforsaken apartment complex to meet disgruntled naval electricians.
Home is not where the heart is. Because while this is most certainly home, my heart is somewhere else.
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