Last Thursday I was at our writing group when I saw two missionaries walking in front of my friend's house. It's strange but I had been wondering if I would ever see them in the neighborhood. Each week I looked for them because one of the missionaries serving in that area was my friend's son, a friend who lives in Denmark.
More than a quarter century ago I wore a white shirt, tie and a black name tag. I did all this in the most amazing country of Denmark. Even though there are many differences in the mission my friend's son is serving and the one I served years ago, much is the same. We both lived by the mission rules. We both lived with a fellow missionary--a mission companion--twenty-four hours a day. We both taught people who were interested in the message we had to give.
There's another reason I was rude and excused myself from the writing group so I could hail the two young men. It was because for the last fifteen months my own son has donned a white shirt, tie and black name tag and is doing all those things my friend's son is doing now and that I did thirty years ago.
I correspond with my friend from Denmark via Facebook now and again. I told her if I ever saw her son I would stop him, tell him "Hi" and take a picture. I was so glad to be able to do that. And if I knew his companion's family in Switzerland, I'd send them the picture, too. Because if someone I knew ran into my son, I'd love it if they did the same thing for me.
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