34 years ago today. Friday, July 22, 1992. Provo, Utah. I was 19 years old. I had thick hair, weighed 175 pounds, and was ready for a challenge. MaryAnn, Gaylon, and I had driven down to Utah for a specific purpose. They were to drop me off at the Provo MTC, the Missionary Training Center, and submit me to the care of the church for a two year mission to be carried out in San Antonio, Texas.

I was packed. I had gotten everything on the list required for a new missionary. Two suits, twelve white shirts, five ties, handkerchiefs, a new set of scriptures, and two pairs of shoes. But I wasn’t ready at all, emotionally, for what was ahead.

At that time in MTC history everyone sat in a large room where a pianist played the hymns slowly at the front. I remember “Nearer My God to Thee.” On either side of the piano stood two identical doors, one on each corner. Sniffling, sobs, and whispers passed through the room as about fifty of us waited for what would happen next. My luggage had already been given over to a team who’d checked me in as a missionary. They’d handed me two missionary badges too. I slid one into my shirt pocket and the other into my suit coat pocket. I sat between my parents. My mother was smiling and holding my hand. My father frowned and looked down at the ground.

A man entered the room and stood next to the piano and bade the pianist to stop playing. He was bald on top, wearing a new green double breasted suit. He identified himself as the MTC president.

He spoke of following the Lord’s invitation and obeying a prophet. He spoke of the faith required to send a son or daughter on a mission. He offered a prayer of protection over us and for our families.

I knew the moment was coming.

“Behind me are two doors.” He pointed to each. “Through the door to the left go the missionaries. The door to the right is for the families and friends of the missionaries.” MaryAnn squeezed my hand hard. “I’ll give you one more opportunity to say goodbye. God bless you.”

The tears came for nearly everyone there. Gaylon hugged me tight and patted my back. Thump, thump, thump. I fought back open weeping, picked up my backpack, which I had kept, and strode to the line going through the door on the left. I looked back one last time and saw my mother wiping her eyes.

I don’t remember stepping through the door. But once I did, I turned to another missionary and stretched out my hand. “Elder Ball,” I said, for the first time. It sounded weird, but I liked the formality. I hoped to grow into it.

“Elder Everett. I think we’re MTC companions.” He pulled out the paper he’d received in the check in process. His name was listed as my companion.

Once I returned from my mission, years had passed before I found a journal from my dad. On that day, he had written that he and my mother had gone back to the hotel and wept for a few hours.