The Abusive Gardner Dad

 Well hello there, dear friends.

Sorry there's no funny doodle today. I am writing this email on my nifty android on the plane ride to Boise, so it's a lil tricky to type this all out and I haven't figured out a good way to draw stuff on this new android... yet.

Here are some thoughts I wrote down after parting ways with my family this morning.

Dang, 2 years is a long time. I'm going to miss my family like crazy. It's all gradually starting to settle in my brain, that this is it.
I'm actually doing this.

When I was going through security I kept sneaking glances at my parents and my little bro Kade on the other side of those elastic ropey barrier thingies. They just stood by the entrance to that tiny Columbia Airport and watched me. I was trembling and distracted as I placed my stuff on the belt, part of me wanted to jump over the barriers and give them one more one last hug and another part just wanted to book it through security so I wouldn't be tempted to cancel everything, turn around and go back home with my family.

While I sat in the terminal I kept my eyes down so nobody could see the way my eyes were clouding up.

It's strange. I knew leaving my family would be hard, but I still felt nowhere near prepared for this kind of a yearning - for just another hug from Kade or my mom dad or any of those guys. What is this intense ache for home, for my family doing around here after being separated from them for not even ten minutes? Heck they were probably still in the parking lot. Not a huge deal, right?
I had left home for college before, and that was tough but I was okay and they were fine and we all had a grand time in the end. I thought this would just feel the same, but it didn't. Not even close.

I felt a distinct thought enter my mind in that terminal. Gosh, this must be what it's like to die.This is probably a little bit how people feel when their spirit leaves their body. Sad that they have to leave all those friends and family behind, but anxious to see what the next life looks like. I have the feeling that I'm just now beginning to learn what it means to lose one's life for Christ's sake.

When I got on the plane I sat next to a high-schooler named Owen. He was super friendly and smart. He was Jewish, and worked as a teacher in his monestary. I had a blast talking with him about the Israel/Palestinian conflict and discussing how to most ethically program self-driving cars. (If the car had to choose between hitting an old lady crossing the street or swerving off the road what should it be?)
I remember praying to God last night that he would give me a real Latino who spoke zero English to sit next to so I could try out my Spanish for realzies. Today I'm so glad he didn't. Owen the Jewish kid from Chicago was exactly the friend I needed today.

The little miracles I've already witnessed this morning are indisputable evidence to me that Heavenly Father's got my back. He is here to help me, but gosh dang he sure isn't going to make it easy. He's too smart for that. Big Papa Cielo loves his chaquitos too much to let them piddle along this life, carefully avoiding anything that is remotely uncomfortable or sad or difficult. Sometimes He walks up to us, takes us by our soft hands and unceremoniously flings us out of the house to land on our butts among the gardening tools in the backyard.

"But DAAAD!" Many of us protest.

"The sun's too hot out here! These tools hurt my hands! You're way bigger and stronger than me, this is your garden, why don't you come out here and take care of it? You'd get all this work done a lot faster than me anyway. I was cool and perfectly fine inside the house what the heck did you kick me out for?"

To which our tender Heavenly Father lovingly replies, "Shut up and work kid. I'm trying to watch TV."

Then we start pruning stuff and digging stuff, sometimes mumbling and muttering along the way. God keeps us working all day and then all the next day and the next next day. We dig stuff and plant stuff, and we don't totally know what we're doing so sometimes it feels like we're just moving dirt around.

When the season is over we will turn ourselves in and say "Aye Dad, I did everything I could. Sorry our yard looks more like an excavation site than a garden, but honestly what were you thinking letting a kid like me do work like that?" To which our tender and loving Heavenly Father smiles and says,

"Look at your hands, kid."

Then we do. They are not the baby smooth hands we had on our first day outside of the house. They are rough and strong. There is a new kind of humble power written in their cuts and callouses. They look, we realize, a lot like our own Father's hands now.

I am beyond grateful for my parents, who have supported me in answering The Gardener's call. I'm grateful for my siblings. I'm so stinking thankful for all the friends and family in my life who I love and admire and look up to which, if you're reading this, that means you're one of them.

So thanks homie. :)

Your friend,
Elder Johnson