Tate was about to open a letter that would dictate where he would spend the next two years of his life as a Mormon missionary.
With 30 to 40 family members and friends looking on, he took hold of the envelope, his hands vibrantly shaking with anxiety. As he took out the contents, his curious eyes betrayed the formality of the event, reading the first few lines. With a deep breath, he announced the contents to those gathered:
“You have been called to serve in the Jacksonville, Fla., Missio—“ he got out before a storm of applause and cheers broke the solemnity. As tears of joy sprinkled from his family, he read on.
“You are to report to the Missionary Training Center in three we—“
“What?” his mother, choking back gasps of exasperation, yelled.
“Oh, I meant months, three months,” an embarrassed Tate clarified. All the wind in the room was pushed out by sighing releases of air.
“Oh, thank goodness,” said his mom, clutching her chest in relief. “Don’t scare me like that.”