The Call

In Mormonism, a mission call is the formal notification of your geographical placement for the length of your two year mission. And it could be anywhere from Manila Philippines to Boise Idaho.

July 22nd, 2006, marked a pivotal moment for me, a faithful Mormon boy, poised to discover my future as a missionary for two entire years in a foreign land.

In Mormonism, a mission call is the formal notification of your geographical placement for the length of your two-year mission. It could be anywhere from Manila, Philippines, to Boise, Idaho, and is seen not just as an assignment but as a divine directive, albeit one that arrives in a legal envelope after a months-long process filled with interviews, medical exams, and paperwork. As instructed by church leaders, every young Mormon boy was strongly encouraged to go on one of these missions.

These missions were not simple; they were ripe with challenges. Two entire years away from friends and family, with communication only through letters. Living in a strange new place, within the confines of a dingy apartment with another 19-year-old away for the first time while being entrusted to bring a belief of salvation to everyone that came across your path.

At 19, teetering on the brink of adulthood, this letter was the culmination of my upbringing and cultural expectations.

Throughout my adolescence, I was told stories of those sent to Madagascar, Germany, Brazil, and beyond, which long fueled my imagination. My nights were often spent lying in bed, visualizing cycling along the Seine in Paris, tie flapping in the breeze, or navigating South America's dense jungles. This anticipation of learning where I would be sent had been building my entire life.

The summer of 2006 brought a significant transition. Fresh from high school, I traded my Appalachian roots for Portland, Oregon, setting a clear mission for the summer: to save the $11,000 expected by the Church for my journey. The shift from rural to urban life was challenging, heightened by leaving behind a familiar world and a high school girlfriend who faced my departure with a mix of acceptance and resistance. Yet, understanding the call's importance, she supported me.

That summer, while living in my sister's spare bedroom in her apartment, I was employed at an electronics factory, which proved monotonous. However, each dollar I saved marked a step closer to my goal, a testament to the Church's teachings on self-reliance.

As summer progressed, the anticipation for my mission call intensified. With all my paperwork submitted, I found myself in a waiting game, my mission call to be sent to my home in Georgia, leaving me to rely on daily updates from my parents—a string of "Not today" texts keeping me on edge.

One afternoon, as I was walking the aisles of this electronics factory, my phone buzzed. I haphazardly looked at my phone, thinking it may be another “not today” text. But today, the momentous text finally arrived: "It's here!"

I dropped everything. Abandoning my post, I raced to the break room, calling home. It’s been 19 years I’ve been waiting for this moment.

The large break room at the factory was completely empty. I stood alone by the windows, looking out into the world, my future unfurling amongst the hum of soda machines and empty cafeteria seats.

My parents answered quickly, anticipation in their voices.

"Are you ready?" they asked.

"Of course," I replied, my heart racing.

"Dear Elder Shinnick, You are hereby called to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“You have been assigned to labor in the Colorado Denver North Mission, speaking English..."

Denver? My mind raced. What awaited me in Denver? Cowboys? Mountains?

How I longed and imagined spending my two years in a strange foreign land, learning a new language, and discovering a new culture.

A flurry of emotions and questions engulfed me, especially about not being called to a Spanish-speaking mission despite years of study.

My mother's comforting words hinted at unforeseen opportunities, but the church's teaching echoed in my mind—"it's not where but how you serve that counts." With a quickly reframed mindset, I reentered my new reality that I would be spending my two years in the familiar suburban crawl of Denver, Colorado.

I quickly got off the phone and called my girlfriend. With excitement, I told her where I would be going. She met my newfound excitement with a subdued, “OK,” like a machine whose only objective was to comprehend, not understand. Her mirroring of my initial feelings that I had since suppressed caused me doubt. Was Denver really the place I was supposed to be?

Determined not to let my own instant response get me down, I quickly returned to work.

Within the factory worked a Mormon friend I made over the summer. I quickly ran to his station in the middle of the factory and with enthusiasm and zeal I stated, “I got my call and I’m going to Denver.” He looked at me, paused, and with a fabricated sense of excitement he said, “Mile High City baby,” as if there was also an air of disappointment in his voice I wasn’t going somewhere more exciting.

With feelings of excitement and confusion, I returned to my shipping station at work.

Not knowing who else to talk to about it, I looked over to one of my co-workers who was aware I would be leaving on a Mormon mission soon. I looked at them and said, “I just got my mission call and I’m going to Denver.”

He looked at me and said, “That sucks, I’ve been to Denver.”