I jam my bag into the undersized overhead compartment and quickly take my seat next to the window. I’m flying home to Utah for Thanksgiving, and it’s my first time back in a long while. A couple minutes pass before a man, probably around 21 years old, sits down beside me. He’s in a black and white tux with a name tag that says "Elder."
You think this plane is going to Utah?
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A couple more minutes trickle by until I see a kid board the plane. And then another. And then another and another until there are five. All blue eyes, all blond hair. Finally mom and dad walk in … with twins.
Yes, this plane is definitely going to Utah.
As the plane races down the runway, a strange sense overcomes me. It feels almost as if a hollow space inside me that I didn’t know was there is being filled. I’m not Mormon, but I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve seen, let alone talked to one. And I realize I miss them.
Mormons fall into a lot of stereotypes. The truth is, they are often well-deserved. They really do have their own religion class at public schools. They really do practice their Sabbath stringently. They really do have 10-person families. Living with them, however, I have developed a different perspective. Mormons are often misinterpreted and misunderstood. They carry an us-against-the-world mentality, but they really believe they can save and change that world they are against. And in spite of myself, I find myself rooting for them.
I miss the practical things. I miss the basketball gyms in the churches that are on every other street corner. I miss being unique and easily labeled because I have a cup of coffee in my hand. I miss suburbans. Mormons bring so much practicality to my life — a church gym whenever I need one (expect, of course, on Sunday), a ride because someone is always taking one of their eight siblings somewhere and slow Sundays. From ski slopes to swimming pools, I can always count on half-paced Sundays, clear of traffic, free from stress. Mormons are immensely practical, and I miss that.
I miss the people. In Utah, I am not the same as the people surrounding me, but it never matters. The Mormons are different than I am but never antagonistic. I miss going to lunchtime meetings at their seminary to hear about what God is doing in their lives. I miss the joy of the family and friends of the next young, aspiring missionary as he finds out where he will be serving. I miss the anticipation of that missionary’s return. I miss their lack of fear to have honest, real conversations. Mormons don’t shy away from asking you how you are really doing today or why you believe what you believe. And I miss that.
I miss the culture. I miss the prevailing belief that the world is inundated with good people. In Salt Lake City, if you lose your wallet in the supermarket, you can expect to get it back with nothing stolen. But it’s more than the actions of good people — it’s the mentality. Mormons believe, with frightful conviction, that everyone they meet is a good human being. I miss that. I miss the Mormons because they genuinely are trying to make the world a better place. They don’t always get it right, but they are willing to take a stand and try. They are passionate about improving and saving lives through their music, through their education, through their families. They care about the mark they leave on the world. I miss that. I miss their ignorance. I miss their profoundness.
The plane has landed. I grab my bag and walk through the jet bridge. As I enter the terminal, a flood of some of the driest air in America slaps my air passages. I head toward the exit and see a billboard of the Mormon Temple.
Yes, I am back in Utah.
But I smile. Because I confess that I’m not a Mormon, but I sure have missed them.
