When It's Hard to Be A Missionary Mom

See that brilliant young woman on the left?
Her sweet pink argyle sweater and awesome black name tag?
That's our girl.
Our Nana.
Posing with her lovely Texan companion, Sister Clark
in the Palmyra Visitor's Center.
From my house to hers it is 1651.71 miles
according to mapquest.
Yes, I google-earthed her place.
Totally.
Thank you inventor of Google Earth.

Anyway,
our girl loves
her companion,
the people, the place, the mission.
But right now,
she is super sick.
Her mission president's wife called last Sunday to let us know
just how sick our girl is,
and what's being done for her.
She has a bronchial parasite,
plus another virus,
had a PCOS episode where a cyst burst,
and in general is feeling awful.
"But, her spirits are up!"--reports the MP's wife.

Now, I know my girl.
And she is a good hairy-faker.
She wouldn't want anyone to make a big fuss over her.
Not even a little.

This is one of those times
when being a Missionary Mom tests my will.
I want to be brave, faithful, true and courageous.
I also want to
hop on a plane and be at her side in 3 hours
to check her out with my own eyes.
I want to wrap my arms around her soft shoulders
and squeeze her up in a fleece blanket,
kiss her cheeks and make my not-really-famous chicken noodle soup
for her and her companion whose been taking care of her.
I want to do her laundry,
and wash their dishes,
dust the house and mop the floors.
Stock their fridge and feed them their favorite treats!
I want to sit and listen to her tell me how awful she's feeling,
but also hear all of the things I have missed out on since she
became a Sister Missionary on August 8th...
I want to hear it all,
the good, the bad, the ugly, the awesome.
I want to hold her always-soft-as-silk hands,
and just tell her how proud of her we all are,
in person..
all that boob-ish, non-brave stuff.

But
I am here.
1651.17 miles away.
One thousand six hundred fifty-one long miles away.

I'd settle for a phone call,
because as my friend DeNae says,
it's not like our missionary kids are hostages, right?
(Thanks for that, DeNae, btw)
I could just dial my girl right up
and check on her;
but I'd have to pretend to be a bright and shiny Momza
just calling to be sure she's doing okay
and there'd be absolutely no allowance for boobish tears.
No crackling I-miss-you-so-much-noises in my voice.

She gets her hairy-faker act from me.

So there will be no three hour flight
or even a phone call--
not today anyway.

Instead, we've followed the MP's wife's advice--
we've written long letters full of encouraging words,
hand-drawn doodles all over the envelopes
and a goodie package with vitamin drops and lip balm,
her favorite Orbit gum (sweet mint) and a Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar,
and a little get well card tucked inside.
We've fasted and prayed with the whole family for her health to return quickly,
and sent our love out into the Universe for our girl
so she can get back to doing what it is she loves doing so much:
being a Servant.

I should check Guinness's World Records to see the record
for how long a Missionary Mom can hold her breath.

I bet I've beat it already.