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Hardly a day goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for having the courage to second guess the call to serve. Let me explain.

When I turned 19 in the spring of aught-ninety-eight (a show of hands if you’ve never heard the expression), I joined the throngs of other nineteen-year-olds (there may have been three of us at my venerable undergraduate institution) and went to the university clinic for a physical, filled out the paperwork, and submitted my application to serve a mission. A few weeks later I received a call with a reporting date the next fall.

In light of the distance to the Missionary Training Center, missionaries in my stake were traditionally set apart on Sunday to allow them and their families plenty of time to travel to Provo by Wednesday. When the appointed hour came, my twin brother and I were set apart and on Monday we left for the MTC. We arrived in Provo that night, and on Tuesday morning we went shopping for a few last items. While walking through the parking lot to the store, I felt like it was going to be now or never and told my parents: “I’m not going.”

Me and Dad turned around and went back to the car while Mom went ahead with my brother to complete his packing list. Back in the car, Dad calmly asked what the matter was and I simply replied that I just wasn’t ready to go. We talked about my plans. I didn’t really have any, I just knew I wasn’t ready or willing to serve a mission at the moment.

This wasn’t the first time I’d expressed reservations. The summer after my freshman year I had met with my bishop and stake presidency on several occasions after my application had been submitted to let them know I just wasn’t sure about serving a mission after all. Each time we would counsel and pray together, and I would leave feeling like I could do it. But then, just as the rubber was about to hit the road, the realization that it would be me—and not my bishop, stake president, parents or anybody else who cared about me—who would have to serve my mission, caused me to reach for the emergency brake.

If my parents were upset or disappointed, they didn’t show it. The next day we all went to the MTC together, and I stopped at the front desk and let a secretary know I wouldn’t be reporting that day. She thanked me for the heads up and we went in to the farewell ceremony they still did in those days. And then my brother left through the one side and I went with my parents out the other side. And that was pretty much that.

The next Sunday I was back in my old ward, which was a little awkward, especially as I made the rounds of family friends to return the gifts they had given me the week before at my farewell. But I survived and so did they. There was no wailing, gnashing of teeth or rending of garments. I don’t know if it would have mattered much either way at the time—I wasn’t going back!—but in retrospect I am grateful that everyone kept their cool.

I ended up joining a friend in an industrial band and moving to Utah of all places. For the next 18 months a mission was far from my thoughts as I played in bands and worked the graveyard shift to make ends meet. But one winter morning after getting home from work, I reckoned that for being a Mormon, I wasn’t acting much like one. So, in one of those improbable faith-promoting experiences where you flip open the scriptures and find an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking, I flipped open the scriptures and found an answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking:

But seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.

I hadn’t been wondering at all if I should consider going on a mission. But in that instant I received what felt like pure inspiration—follow in the footsteps of the apostles by putting the kingdom of God first and the rest of my life would work itself out. It made a lot of sense at the time, so that night I gave my two weeks’ notice to my boss and let my bishop know of my intentions. Three weeks after cracking the Book of Mormon for the first time in months, I was saying goodbye to my family at the MTC. (I don’t know what the usual practice is in such circumstances, but rather than receiving a new calling I received a deferred entry date for my original call).

It wasn’t easy serving in Europe, but I was endlessly grateful that I could fall back on my very own testimony of missionary service that had come to me in my own time. So when a friend shared this story on a popular social media website, I was relieved that the young man who had been left by his parents to fend for himself in a National Park after telling them that he wasn’t going to serve does not appear to be any worse for wear for the experience. After being abandoned, the young man’s grandparents came, picked him up and gave him the encouragement he needed to give missionary service a try. A few days behind schedule, the young man was at the MTC and Elder Alabbas now appears to be serving happily.

So that’s good, and I should probably leave it at that. But the reasoning shared by the young man’s mother gave me pause:

“Our hearts were broken because his future suddenly became so unclear. We knew we weren’t failures, but it was hard in the heat of the moment not to feel that way. The truth was we were less concerned about him not serving, and more concerned with suddenly having no plan and no direction.” Hyatt believes their only choice was to put their son in the hands of the Lord in their creative way. “We felt inspired to step away and reset. Our approach might not work for everyone, but we could see productive communication had broken down.”

I hope the lesson people learn from this story is not to increase reliance on “creative ways” of shaping outcomes that rely on others’ decisions. Rather, I hope parents and guardians will be encouraged to examine the assumptions about life, the universe and everything that they may have tied up with their children’s decisions to serve missions or achieve other milestones in life and resist the urge to act in haste. It’s not easy to revisit expectations and take the long view when it appears that a loved one is veering off course. In fact, it requires faith in no small measure to grant moral agents the space that allows God to work wonders in their lives on His and their timetables. But I think it’s the gospel way.

At any rate, it’s a lesson Elder Alabbas appears to have learned. I’d just like to add my endorsement to some really excellent advice:

His advice for parents of prospective missionaries is simple. “Be patient. Talk to your kids as they’re preparing to serve. Listen. Tell them it’s all right to be afraid. Invite them to try and to trust the Lord and just take one more step, to make one more commitment. And if they serve, love them! And if they don’t serve, love them even more. But if you leave them somewhere,” he finished with a laugh, “make sure they get picked up.”

How have you fared, either as parents or as prospective missionaries?