10. Mission Escape to Utah

The sweet scent of the sun on the lawn tickled my nose.  Fresh grass stains stuck the pants of my overalls to my knobby knees; the warmer the spring mornings grew, the more my mom struggled to keep me from digging holes in the midst of her tomato plants.  Most mornings I could be found outside, menacing my mom’s plants, a satisfying activity for me.  That morning was different.  I anxiously squeezed a warm mud patty between by callow fingers until the soil oozed out of my grasp.  I hated strangers in my backyard.

As I crouched near my mom’s blossoming garden, I squinted through the rising sun, watching two shaggy workers carry a set of plants into our new yard:  two new trees.  The men pierced the flowerbeds with shovels, digging on the periphery of our yard.  I stood in awe at the speed at which the men dug their holes; excavating the backyard was my territory.  I probably would have told them to go take over someone else’s backyard, but the trees they brought were quite mesmerizing.  Two foreign, bony, trees settled into the Indiana soil; the skinny trunks looked like fire poles covered in white chalk.

            “Mrs. Gibbons, can I get you to sign for these quaking aspens?” the leathery, bearded worker asked.

            He looks like a pirate, I thought.

            “Why certainly,” my mother said.  “Just to let you know,” began the second worker, “The quakie tree does not grow particularly well in this climate.  I would not be surprised if the trees do not live to maturity.  You might want to consider ordering some oak trees or something that will be here for the long-haul.”

            “Yeah.  My husband and I know this is a possibility,” reasoned my mother.  “We’re from Utah and we wanted to choose plants that remind us of home.  An oak’s an interesting idea.”  The two men left their advice at that, leaving my mom and I to gaze up at our new gaunt plants.

The men who took over my backyard before I started kindergarten were right:  not three years had passed before the quakies died.  When my dad cut down the two dead trees, we didn’t realize the simultaneous death of my family’s dream:  trading flat, boring Indiana for our real home in Utah.

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      I cannot remember the day I first started hating Indiana.  I did not hate it when I moved there at age four, but I cannot remember a time when I did not loathe it, either.  Over the next few years, we drove back and forth between our temporary home to our real home in the Rockies seven times.  Each of those trips was a blur for me.  In my young mind, Utah became associated with all good things:  stunning amethyst mountains lightly coated with glittering snow; immaculate temples and enchanting wedding dresses; always shining skies; round-the-clock time with cousins; exciting excursions to new places.  My entire family yearned to relocate to be closer to our extended family. 

However, like the durable oak tree in our backyard that refused to die, my dad’s job rooted us in Noblesville, Indiana.  My dad’s job was a solid one:  Director of International Marketing and Business for Delta Faucet Company.  Half of the time he was home with us, the other half he traveled the world to wild, exotic places, like the United Arab Emirates, Brazil, Russia, China, India, and Saudi Arabia.  Aside from working upwards of eighty hours a week, he searched for a job that would give him more time with us and relocate us out West, but each prospective job was worse: further east.  For at least ten years on New Years Eve, we joyfully toasted sparkling cider to our last year in Indiana.  We were wrong every time. 

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If I was ever going to escape the dreary, mundane cornfields of Indiana, I knew my fate was in my own hands.  The only way, I determined, is to get into BYU.  Because of my motivation, my classmates labeled me the kid who never “half-did” anything.  “I’m pretty sure your worst effort is better than my best effort,” my friend Luke said in all seriousness during class one day. 

My personal motto was Yoda’s:  “Try not.  Do...or do not. There is no try.”  I sat through nearly every A.P. or honors class my school had to offer.  I never took short cuts in rounding out my BYU application, fluttering to and from every one of my extra curricular activities.  Home became a place to change clothes and eat dinner between grueling cross country workouts and strenuous service hours.  When I found myself home for five minutes, I replaced goofing-off on Facebook with drilling through ACT practice tests and rehearsing for piano competitions.

The first seven semesters of high school passed slowly, then all at once; time had finally caught up to my bustling life.  One morning, as I sped to school after seminary in my purple Jeep, I looked out the driver’s window.  A brilliant sunrise of titan, magenta, and lavender peered over a cherry red-barn and a barren cornfield.  Even though the air outside was bitter cold, the sunrise warmed me; a startling thought came into my head:  you’ll miss this.  I was shocked.  I must have driven down this road hundreds of times, yet I never thought about actually missing anything Indiana had to offer. 

From that day forward, a switch turned.  I took time to laugh with Ian about funny pictures on Instagram.  We spent hours playing “Horse” at the park by our house.  This activity will not make me look more attractive to a scholarship committee, I laughed to myself.  Other times taking my little sisters to get ice cream mattered most.  Senioritis, I rationalized. 

            After stuffing senior year into a scrapbook, I let my summer days pass naturally.  Summer should be eternal, I resolved.  Humid summer days grew shorter and cooler, foreshadowing the impending autumn.  My siblings received back-to-school blessings and posed for pictures in the front yard.  My last day working as a head lifeguard came.  Faster than I realized, the day of my departure came.  I still want to go to BYU, I worried.  This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.  Whether I want to admit it or not, Indiana has been home for fourteen years.

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            As soon as I was alert, I knew what day it was.  I can’t believe it’s finally here.  I kept my eyes shut and pulled the covers over my head.  If I pretend I’m asleep, I can stay at home longer.  However, soon the sun penetrated my eyelids, and I resorted to the unavoidable:  waking up for the last time, a child in my parent’s house.  I hesitantly crept down the stairs to the kitchen.

            “I bet if we hustle, we can get all of this stuff packed into the Jeep in two hours,” said my dad, who was seated at the kitchen table.

            “I think so too,” said my mom, almost without emotion.  I hated that she was being so strong for me.  Everyone I talked to at church mentioned how difficult preparing to send me so far away had been for my mom.  I had done tons of crying the week of my departure, more than I probably had my entire senior year of high school.  She had not cried once in front of me. 

My bedroom mocked me like a sterile hospital.  Except for my vivid fuchsia walls, everything from my childhood was either packed into the Jeep or in a box in the garage.  By the end of next week, I thought to myself, this room will be painted bright blue for some Oklahoma City team Ian likes.  It’s almost like I’m dying. 

My dad cajoled us into the living room for family prayer. “Can you pray for us, Hailey?”  my dad asked.

Hailey offered a sweet prayer, remembering to bless me at BYU.  By that point, I let go as I sobbed into my folded arms.  Hailey said amen.

“Abby, will you pray?” my dad asked again. 

“Shawn, no,” my mom said, motioning that it would be too hard for all of us.

All of my siblings prayed.  My dad said the last prayer.  I peeked over my folded arms.  Abby was crying.  Hailey was crying.  My mom was crying.  Even Ian was crying.  I glanced over at my dad.  I watched as tears glided down his face; my dad never cried.

After prayer, my mom had us file into the backyard.  In her mind, although we all had red, blotchy faces, she thought it would be a good “photo-op.”  I took each of my siblings in my arms.  I don’t know what my family would be like if we were missing just one person, I pondered.  I don’t know what I would do with my dad’s good advice, my mom’s loving encouragement, Ian’s goofy banter, Abby’s intelligent humor, or Hailey’s sweet hugs.  I felt as if I was leaving forever.

      “No empty seats,” my dad whispered.  The mention of our family motto went right along with my thoughts.  More than I had ever wanted to move to Utah, I dreamed of the day when all six of us would sit down together in the Celestial Kingdom.  No empty seats, I resolved.

Even after we had walked out front to my Jeep, I gave another round of hugs; everyone felt so far away.  I hugged my mom for the last time.  “Be brave,” she said, kissing the top of my head.  There’s nothing left to do or say. I hopped into the passenger-side of the Jeep.  My dad stuck the keys in the ignition, bringing the Jeep to life:  we were really going.  Driving away felt too typical; everyone stood in the driveway and waved until they disappeared out of sight. 

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“I miss North Carolina,” said my roommate, Katie, peering up from a silver laptop screen.  “It’s gorgeous here, but there’s something about all of the trees on the mountains during the fall.  It’s home.”

“I can’t really say the same about Indiana,” I confided. 

“That makes sense.  You hated it there,” she said.

“It’s not just that.  Indiana’s actually pretty with all of the bright leaves in the fall.  I finally figured it out.  For me, home is not where my house is.  When I glance up at the ‘Y’ on the way to campus everyday, yes, it’s an amazing view.  I love Utah.  But for me, home is no longer a place; do you know what I mean?” I asked, trying to make sense of my tangent.  I probably sound crazy.  “I can’t pinpoint home on a map, like you can.  Home is watching chick-flicks with my mom and sisters.  Home is having a deep conversation late at night with my dad.  Home is going for a run with Ian.  Home is laughing together at family gatherings over apple pie.  Home isn’t Utah or Indiana.  Home is family.”