We are staying in the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah, just blocks from where Elder Cropper grew up (yes, I now refer to my husband/companion/side-kick as Elder—he at least looks elder-like, as compared to the young missionaries for whom that title seems a stretch. I am called, even by him, Sister Cropper). We were set apart last Tuesday by President Morris, and we were surrounded by many of our dear ones.
We left Oregon in the wee hours. Tanner and Taylor dropped us off and Nate Williams and Brian Green braved the cold and early hour to wish us well.
We had a bike ride into the glorious fall display in Provo Canyon, drove higher into the alpine loop for another dose of fall color and family, spent time with more dear ones, said our goodbyes, hugged our hugs, shed our tears, and now we are focused on learning all we can that will be useful and helpful on our mission.
This place is so far beyond amazing! There are 2700 missionaries here this week. (This was on the lawn of the Temple across from the MTC during a fire drill.)
Each one has a story, a reason, a miracle that has occurred to allow or cause him or her to be here. Each has left behind things they treasure, each has found his or her own personal motivation, each has at least some trepidation over being here, leaving home, learning a language, at yet, they are here, in droves, all dressed in missionary attire, all willing to conform in ways that are very foreign to them in order to go out and invite people to come to Christ.
Everything here is lovely and/or excellent, from the food to the accommodations, to the instruction, to the facilities, but it is the magnitude of it all that gives me pause and that I marvel at—the amassed power of this mighty army.
Of course we had to take our picture in front of the huge world map.
And then this picture has a story.
Brigham Young and Heber C Kimball were called to serve a mission in England. They and their families were all deathly sick, but the men were heading out anyway. When they got a short distance away, they decided they had to at least try to leave on a note of encouragement, so they dragged themselves to standing in the wagon bed and shouted back to the house, “Hoorah Hoorah for Isarael which brought their wives, also nearly too sick to stand, out onto the porch to wave farewell. The story is depicted in a painting that hangs in the MTC. In our family it is a tradition to shout hoorah for Israel when someone leaves, especially if their leaving is particularly hard or for long. And so, a picture in front of that painting,And we too stand, wave goodbye and say, “hoorah for Israel!”
