There have been Mormon missionaries boarding at a house just up the street since I was maybe ten years old. Their neat dress and backpacks quickly became a fixture in the neighborhood.
My mother started hounding them about their cooking abilities and if they could manage eating well since they were away from home. Then we started having them over for dinner, and as new missionaries came they would bring them along. We usually had them over in twos.
They would explain things about their communities and talk about college life. They liked quoting their Elders. They never proselytized, however. It usually just boiled down to every day things and issues. My parents were always big on dinner time discussions, so we just incorporated them in on the occasional days they would eat with us. Interestingly, I think they often ended up listening more to my parents on their respective religious backgrounds (Islam and Christianity) and would ask them many questions. For the longest time new ones would find us via old missionaries and become friends of the family too. Time changes things with less people being home, though there is something quirky and endearing about those memories.
That’s something I always found great about my family growing up. There was no weirdness that way. Food and conversation was the requisite. That was enough.
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greeniskindofwhorish reblogged this from roxygen and added:
That sounds like an amazing environment to grow up in. I love it.
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