LDS Missionary: France Paris Mission

The Call

'I'm finally going to Paris to start my actual mission,' I thought as I sat on the mostly quiet airplane before takeoff. It had already been nine weeks since I had last seen my family. As hard as it was leaving them behind, I knew this was the right choice for me.

Most people have ideas of what their plans are for after graduating high school. People would say their plan is to go to college to get an education, have fun, and eventually start a career.

For members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, there is another option: Serving a mission in various locations around the world.

I was part of this group. My name is Jordan Abel and I am what most people call a Mormon. Since I was very young, I knew that I was going to graduate high school and then when I turned nineteen years old, I would serve a mission.

"Jordan, go get the mail," my mom told me on the third of June.

"I am sick of walking down the street to get the mail everyday. When it comes it will come, whether I get the mail or not," I told her. I had been getting the mail for the past two weeks and I hated it. Our mailbox was at the end of a downhill slope of a cul-de-sac. We were at the very top of it.

"Please, Jordan, just go get it," my mom responded as kindly as she could.

There was no way I was going to win this battle, so after a minute, I got up and started putting on shoes to walk down the street. I took the little walk down to the end of our cul-de-sac and opened the mailbox. There were a few letters in the box including a good-sized envelope. I looked through the mail and found that the bigger letter was from the Church headquarters in Salt Lake City and it was addressed to me. The call was finally here! 

'What if I opened it now?' I thought to myself as I walked up the street back to my home. 'My family would kill me. They would not be happy. It would be a fun story to tell others though.'

 "So...?" my mom asked as I got close and found that she was standing outside on the front porch. I couldn't hold back the huge grin that had been on my face since I pulled saw my name on the letter. "It's here?!"

I simply nodded and showed her the envelope addressed to me. I couldn't believe that I was holding in my hands where I would be going for the next two years. Over the past few weeks, my family had been guessing where I would go. We allowed two guesses each, one stateside and on out of the States. I had guessed Washington DC and Argentina. My mom, cheatingly, chose three places. She had picked Maine, France, and Brazil. My dad had served in Brazil when he was nineteen, so it was always a dream to have someone go there.

"Well, can you wait until tonight to open it?" my mom asked. "Grandma and Grandpa Abel are coming to town. You can invite your friends. I'm sure Grandma and Grandpa Taylor would want to come also."

"Well, that depends," I asked, still with a huge smile on my face. "Do I have a choice?"

"Well, not really," my mom said with a short snicker of a laugh. "Of course you have a choice, but I thought we were waiting."

"Yeah, no, I know. We did plan on waiting," I replied. "Of course I'll wait."

I went inside and placed the bigger envelope on my dresser and couldn't believe that it was already here. I sent a text to some close friends saying that I had received my call and I would be opening it at seven that night if they wanted to come by.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was nearing seven-o-clock. My family was all on their way home or home from all their random locations, be it school or work. My grandparents on both sides were there already. It just so happened that my dad's parents were going down to visit my uncle and his triplet daughters in Pahrump, Nevada, so they were luckily in town when I got my call.

My buddy, Zack, was the only one of my friends that showed up, but he came with his girlfriend Sarah and his entire family. This was the first time that I had seen Zack's dad, Kreg, since he was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease in May.

"Yeah, I get diagnosed with this and the Relief Society President of my ward is at my house before I even get home," Kreg said as we were talking about how he was doing and waiting for my oldest sister, Aimee, to get back. He was just as happy as ever. The Relief Society is the female program of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One of my mom's good friends, Julie Hullinger, is the Relief Society President in Kreg's ward, so I knew exactly what he was talking about there.

"Yeah," I started. "Sorry about that. That was my bad. I texted my mom and the word got out quickly. I didn't think it would move that quickly."

"Not a problem. Yi! Yi!" Kreg replied with a laugh in his usual cheerful voice. "People were going to find out."

Finally, Aimee had arrived. She had been going to hair school for the last little while and the schedule around there was pretty strict. She had a dinner break, but she stayed there until ten, so she needed to take it at the right times. She goes straight from work at a dental office to the hair school, so everything is on a tight schedule for her.

"Ok, ready?" I asked, I was finally able to start to open it. Everyone got pretty quiet and I opened up the bigger envelope and pulled out a piece of paper, leaving a packet inside the envelope. My heart was beating so fast, I was pretty nervous about this, I had been waiting for so long for this day. I glanced over the paper, looking for the name of the place so I could mess with my family, but my eyes were moving as fast as my heart was beating. I couldn't see it.

"Jord! Read it!" My other older sister, Cherise, and my mom yelled at the same time. My eyes jumped back to the top of the page.

"Dear Elder Jordan Abel, you are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the France Paris Mission--" I read aloud, but my voice was drowned out by a loud yell or cheer or just a noise coming from my mom.

"YEAH!" my mom had yelled. "Wait. What? France! I guessed that!"

"When do you leave?" my dad asked, semi-ignoring my mom. My eyes jumped back to the top of the page.

"You are hereby asked to report to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah on the twentieth of October, two thousand and ten," I read from the call letter.

"October twentieth?" a few people repeated. Then Aimee said, "That's a long time. You've already been waiting for so long."

"That is a long time," I repeated. "That kinda sucks. I'm going to France and going to be speaking French though!"

I looked through the packet that the Church also sent about the mission. I found out my mission president was President Don H. Staheli. Apparently he was the personal assistant of the last prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley before his passing in 2008. His wife was also part of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir prior to serving in France. They seemed like great people and I hadn't even met them.

After going through the packet and texting a few people to tell them where I was going, I went to the Internet and searched for random information about the France Paris Mission. I found the mission website and found out that it is a bike riding mission. Zack laughed when I said that. I wasn't the best bike rider ever. In fact, I hated bikes. I kind of learned how to ride one, at least well enough. People that know I don't like bikes think that I can't ride one, which I reply that I can and to prove it, I have done an expert mountain biking course, Gooseberry Mesa, twice.

I couldn't believe that I had finally received my mission call. I had been waiting for this day for so long. Who knew that I would be going to France though? That is so crazy.

On my mission papers I mentioned that I would like to learn a language and that I had taken two years of high school Spanish, but apparently, the Church leaders thought that I should learn a new language. French. I don't know anything in French, nor do I know much about the country. Obviously, I know that Paris is huge and everyone loves Paris. I know that the World Wars were fought around there. I knew of one area outside of Paris though, Normandy. I only knew of that area because of Omaha Beach from World War II.