"Droddy" Looks Good on a Nametag!

No one in my family has ever been a missionary. 

No one.

Okay, I'm fibbing. Well, actually, I'm not.

To the best of my knowledge, no one named Droddy has ever been a missionary. 

 Someone named Fredette was, though: my cousin Dan served in Spain and in  Kingman, Arizona during 1989-1990.  The story of his mission is inspiring: he reactivated himself, paid his own way, was sent home midway through to have surgery and returned to finish his mission.  That's pretty awesome, and I do not mean to discount his service just because he's named "Fredette".   In fact, my heart bursts with love for him and for his dad, who taught him the gospel but died when Dan was just eleven.  I really grew to love Dan when I was able to write to him on his mission and again at BYU, where we enjoyed Sunday nights in Sandy together with our family.  And he holds a special place in history for being the first (and so far the only) Fredette missionary. That is awesome!

But I'm not a Fredette. I'm a Droddy.

(I guess if I lived in Mexico this post could be about Fredettes. Just sayin'.)

Anyway, when my padres came to visit at Christmas time, I had an emotional moment.

I looked at them.

Specifically, I looked at my dad. 

He was wearing his missionary name tag.

It read:

ELDER   DRODDY

THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST

OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS

Those darn eye allergies started bothering me.  I choked out, "No Droddy has ever been a missionary before." 

Then his allergies started bothering him. We understood one another.

And ya know what? I don't care that no Droddy has ever been a missionary. (Even my brother.  I mean, he probably should've been.  He definitely shoulda been. But he wasn't. And I can't change that. And I love him so much I could burst, anyway. The missionary failure thing doesn't change that.)

Know why I don't care?

'Cause now I can say we're pioneers. 

My dad was the first.

And Caleb will be next.

 (Yah, he's a Droddy. There's a big parta me in that boy.)

But wait, you say....Caleb could change his mind.

Yes, he could.  And it'd be tough.  Really, really tough.  We would cry, and people would judge us, and people would judge Caleb.  And we would worry about him. A lot.

But I'm not worried.  Not today.

Why?

'Cuz when your 12 year-old calculates the cost of a mission and saves a New Era article about that very thing, that's good evidence that it'll happen.

And when that same kid tells you he'd rather go to the temple to do baptisms than hike the Y on his next trip to BYU, your heart about bursts.

And when you see him live the gospel at home, when no one's watching, that's cool, too.

And you hold out hope that all is well, and you know that  you will some day send your own Elder into the world. (Even if you're glad you don't hafta part with that boy yet.)

Dad, Caleb, and Jared-fall 2010

Dan and his son, Zach

My parents and the kids at Christmas.  (Taylor is 15 1/2; Kenna, 11 1/2; Caleb, 13; Isaac, 8; Corbin, 4.