Every day on my mission between 8:30-8:47am, I had one eye on my missionary-approved books and the other on a long window that overlooked the car park. I wasn’t looking out for investigators or members. I was waiting for the quick flash of yellow, a familiar smudge on my peripheral vision. When that happened, it was mail time!
Books would close as quickly as my chair legs screeched on the hard tile floor. I would run to press my ear against the front door, hands in place on lock and door handle, waiting for the echoey slams of apartment mailboxes. This signaled the departure of our “postie” and the “green light” for checking the mailbox.
Mail from back home was worth its weight in gold. My mission wasn’t easy; no one’s is. Whatever I received in the mail became a little slice of “escapism,” which gave me a much-needed break from the demanding lifestyle of missionary work.