I wrote a letter to Samuel the next day, opening as usual with some inspirational copied-and-pasted pieces from the “Mormons Building Bridges” Facebook group, which was a safe place for LGBTQ Mormons and their allies to talk online. I also found a new essay up on the Huffington Post by Mitch Mayne, who was a personal hero of Samuel’s. Mitch was an openly gay man who had served in his ward’s bishopric in California. I’d never met him, but all his writings I’d read seemed not just progressive, but spiritually inspired.
After that, I gave a quick report about baby Carla and Joseph and Willow, about Adam and Marie, and about Zachary. I was pretty sure my other sons wrote to Samuel, but not as regularly as I did, so it was my job to fill in the gaps and make sure that Samuel’s relationship with his brothers didn’t fall apart while he was on his mission.
I took a break to shower and get dressed for the day, then came back to attempt a fair and honest account of our dinner with Naomi and Kenneth, omitting the part about her worrying that her sister was being abused. I also refrained from talking about how strained things still were between his parents because of the new policy. When he was at home, Samuel had been intuitive enough to sense things like that anyway, but I didn’t want him to feel like I was asking him to take on responsibility for any of this.
I always sent real paper letters to our missionary sons, though many parents, including Kurt, used email. Samuel wrote back to both of us on “P-day,” his preparation day, which was every Tuesday. He went to the public library in Boston and used the computer there, since he wasn’t allowed to have access to one in his own apartment, according to his mission president’s rules. Some missions had more computer access than Samuel’s, but for him it was P-days only. Missionaries were also restricted from calling home except on Christmas and Mother’s Day, or if there was a death in the family and they got special permission.
Samuel had spent Christmas and New Year’s last year at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. He had been open about his sexuality with the mission president when he’d introduced himself on arrival in Boston, and with his trainer and his companion when they met and started serving together. So far, he claimed there hadn’t been any problems, but I wasn’t sure if I was hearing the whole story. Missionaries were instructed to write positive letters home, so if he was being harassed, I might never know of it. I couldn’t help but think of Kenneth’s companion Elder Ellison as I wrote, and prayed silently that if Samuel began to feel depressed, he’d get help.
I’d sent four of my five sons on missions now (my second oldest, Joseph, hadn’t gone), and as a mother I always worried about my sons dying in a car crash or bike accident, getting held up at a grocery store or kidnapped (though that happens less in the United States), or having a sudden allergic reaction to something they’d never tasted before. You felt so disconnected, far worse than when you were just sending them off to college, where you got to talk to them or even visit whenever you wanted.
The church quoted statistics that proved that missionaries were safer than any other population of young men and women the same age, but somehow that didn’t help me. The newspapers in Utah were always reporting on missionaries who died serving the Lord. It wasn’t something that a mother’s fervent prayer could stop.
Writing helped me feel just a little more connected, but I wanted to do more. I imagined that if I could just bake something delicious for Samuel, it would help him somehow—all my prayers for his safety packaged up in flour and sugar form. I wasn’t sure how well my baked goods would travel to Boston, but we would find out. I put on my apron and got to work.
I didn’t bake lemon Danishes often because they took a lot of time. But the work made me feel better—or maybe it was just a distraction from the pain of an empty house and a suddenly difficult marriage.
I kneaded until I felt the rich, sweet dough start to form a soft ball in my hands, then let it be. For Danishes, you don’t want to work the dough to death. Next, I grated lemons for zest, then squeezed them. Juicing the lemons, I discovered the hard way that I had a tiny cut on my left hand that I hadn’t noticed before. I rinsed my hands and patted them with a towel. The cut wasn’t even big enough to bother putting a Band-Aid on, so I left it and moved on to boiling water for the lemon sauce. When the lemon sauce was finished, I put plastic wrap over the top to prevent a skin from forming, then let it sit in the refrigerator to cool.
The dough wasn’t quite ready yet, so I put in a load of laundry and did some light cleaning in the upstairs bathroom. After that, I came back down and got started on rolling the Danishes out. After I put the trays in the oven, I went downstairs to our storage room and found a box that would survive the US Postal Service. I brought it back up, along with some pieces of foam for padding.
When the timer beeped and the Danishes came out of the oven, they were perfect, just the tips golden brown. I stood over them, breathing in the scent of butter and lemon. I couldn’t resist plucking a couple from the batch and eating them right then, when they were still hot and gooey. They fell apart in my fingers before I even got them to my mouth. I groaned with pleasure as the deliciousness burned my tongue.
I resisted eating a third until they had cooled down a little more, and this time I poured myself a glass of milk. This wasn’t what I’d planned for lunch today, but it had fruit, grains, and milk—three food groups, right? All I needed was some spinach on the side and it would be a well-balanced meal.
When they had cooled completely, I packed them in Tupperware, then in paper towels. Finally, I headed to the post office with my care package, the letter inside. I knew it cost me more to send my Danishes than it would have for Samuel to buy some from a bakery in Boston. But these were from home and filled with more than calories. They were made with a mother’s love, and as much as possible, I hoped that was a bulwark against life’s storms.