I always know when I’m on a flight to Salt Lake City. An unruly child will be kicking the back of my seat, while from across the aisle comes the caterwauling of a newborn infant. The cabin air smells of soiled diapers commingled with doTERRA essential oil. Once on the ground and out the jetway, I’ll be greeted by a cheering crowd waving signs that read: WELCOME HOME, ELDER SPENSER!
Almost every incoming flight includes at least one returning missionary, just as every departing flight includes at least two departing missionaries, because church regulations dictate that a missionary never go anywhere unless accompanied by an assigned companion.
I was raised Mormon, so it was generally expected that I would embark upon a two-year mission shortly after turning nineteen and being confirmed an “elder.” I was sorely tempted by the prospect of living abroad and learning a foreign language; however, I had no interest whatsoever in proselytizing, nor did I wish to be yoked to some bespectacled dweeb wearing an off-the-rack suit from Mister Mac’s. So, after giving the matter some thought, I told Bishop Parry thanks, but no thanks, and from that day forward I’ve been something of a pariah.
That Menzies kid was such a promising young man,” Bishop Parry is reported to have said. “But then he turned out to be nothing!”
While missionary service is often touted as a sacrifice, in fact it comes with all sorts of personal benefits. For example, you will be given a glowing sendoff during which church leaders, neighbors, friends and family will take turns singing your praises. Think of it as getting to attend your own funeral. A certain young lady in the front pew will shed tears and promise to faithfully await your return. Sadly, she’ll be married with child by the time you get back, but so what? Approximately 72 technical virgins will be on hand to greet you at the airport upon your return, jumping up and down and screaming as if you were a rock star on tour. And get this: No matter how dweeby you’ve become, they’ll still find you attractive. Which is exactly why most young Mormon males decide to go on missions.
I did not, which in retrospect is the smartest decision I ever made. But then I turned around and made the stupid mistake of attending Brigham Young University. There I discovered that a young man who hasn’t served a mission will never snag a girlfriend, no matter how dweebish he may be. Which stung at the time; however, I now view it as a blessing in disguise because I didn’t fall into the honey trap that had been set for me. Instead, I broke free of the cocoon and spread my wings, while my erstwhile Mormon chums dutifully followed the righteous path, becoming leaders of their wards and caterpillars of their respective communities.