This is a real account of my coming home experience. It demonstrates raw emotion and storytelling skills.
They had only just taken presidency over my mission. It had been a week. They had traveled from Budapest to Szolnok to see me, and I could not make out the reason why. There in my living room, they spoke to me as if someone had died…or was going to. The nature of the news they bore dressed the air with a detectable heaviness. “You are too expensive for the mission,” they said, “You leave on Monday.” A sinking feeling of helplessness violently affected my breathing. I spoke but no response could be deciphered through stiff palms, closed fingers, and open sobs. Disregarding my pleas and attempts at negotiation, they said, “You leave on Monday. It is not up to you.” Their parting words scarred my heart and left my head rolling across the floor as if by the sword of Laban, soaking in a pool of red, red questions.
The next day was Sunday. I got dressed in my normal missionary attire and clipped my name tag to the top of my blouse for what I knew would be the last time. “I fought so hard to beat my depression…God, I fought so hard,” I thought. I entered the church doors. The walls were a crisp cream color, textured with splattered plaster. The church building seemed to be an old, renovated home complete with a fireplace. Upon entering, my one lucid goal was to talk with the branch president, Balogh Elnök. I clung to the edges of the hallway walls like an injured fly and waited for him to pass by. He rounded the corner from the Chapel in his Sunday suit, and I intercepted him. In strained Hungarian, I asked if I could bear my testimony in church. He said, “Of course,” unaware of the reasoning for my request. This would be my goodbye.
Heartbreak and bitterness held my heart for countless months after returning. I hardly touched the things associated with my time there with few exceptions. Sometimes, I would peek at the crisp Hungarian forint in my wallet and hold them up to the light. Each bill was a different color, red, yellow, blue, about $75 worth. I valued them as choice souvenirs, unable to exchange them despite their uselessness outside of Magyarország. My other unplanned treasure was a small mirror given to me by Balogh Elnök and his wife. I knew them best as Gábor and Anita. I carried the mirror as a small purposeful memory of them, my Hungarian parents. I spoke with them often through Facebook, grateful to be remembered. They gave me hope and a chance to practice Hungarian. I missed them.
It was nighttime in Hungary when Gábor called. My phone sounded in the familiar Messenger ringtone, and Gábor’s picture floated onto the center of my screen. Upon answering the video call, I was met with the faint silhouette of Gábor’s face. I could tell by the yellow glow of the Lidl store sign and the squeaky sound of shopping cart wheels on wet asphalt that he and his wife Anita had just finished shopping. In their prideful Hungarian way, they spoke often to distract me from the sight of their cart which only held seven things, bread, cat food, paper towels, milk, litter, corn, and soap. The sight of their cart startled me because I knew they had purchased all they could afford. Only one of them maintained a job, and they were stuck in financial troubles, hopelessly trapped in post-communistic employment. They were desperate.
The meager contents of their cart consumed my thoughts for many days. I confided in my mom, explaining my deep desire to help them, but understanding full well the constraints of distance. As I thought about their empty stomachs and 1-bedroom apartment, the small body of my pink wallet fabricated in mind. I pulled my purple bag into my lap, unzipped the pouch, and grasped the wallet firmly. Just inside the third pouch I saw the crisp colored lines of my tokens. I held the forint and sobbed, a final release before doing what I knew I must.
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