It was July in northwestern Pennsylvania. Young mothers order custom-made bathing suits and forty dollar suntan oil online to sit on the shore of a trashy man-made lake watching their children play in the dirty water. Suddenly, there’s much more after-dark traffic on the road leading to the overlook. Every girl’s most romantic daydreams center on the county fair coming up in the first week of August. Given these things, I really shouldn’t have been surprised. As far as I can tell, the entire state becomes unhinged during midsummer. Sanity’s shaky until September, at least.
The first time I saw them, I was struck by how young they looked. They were a year older than me…maybe two at the most, but here they stood so far from home, in my living room, with my dogs on their laps.
They looked a little nervous and incredibly formal: black pants, shiny black dress shoes, white shirts, crisp ties, and polished brass nametags that read, respectively “Elder Smith*” and “Elder Jenkins*”.
Maybe I’m a victim of stereotypes, but they were not what I expected at all. I’d heard stories of people hiding under their furniture, turning off their lights, threatening to let their dogs loose. I’d laughed at those stories, but now they just seem absurd.
Elder Smith was sturdy, with dark hair, engaging eyes, and a wide smile. As he laughed and talked about his little sister, he quickly became my favorite. Nothing ever upset him, not even when my Maltese emptied her nervous bladder all over his dress pants.
Elder Jenkins was tall, shy, and very fair. He looked innocent, friendly, and anxious. Everything about him was long and gangly. Our couch is large, but I remember him sitting all scrunched up with his long legs, skinny arms, and almost delicate fingers. Something about him- maybe it was the look in his eyes- made me want to protect him.
Despite all this, I still felt invaded. It was my last summer before college and the impending change made me touchy about everything. My stuff was in boxes next to the pellet stove in the living room, and on top of that, here were two boys taking up my Friday nights, making my couch smell like cologne. I was somewhat less than ecstatic.
I avoided them for the first several weeks without too much trouble. I was usually at work and if they were still there when I got home, taking intently to my dad over copies of the Bible and the Book of Mormon, I would just walk upstairs. One night, though, I wasn’t scheduled to work and I stood in the dining room watching my mom fold laundry. I was in a bad mood and she was eavesdropping on the boys’ conversation with my dad. Maybe it’s because my dad’s a pastor or maybe it’s just because I’ve lived with him long enough to know, but I can always tell when he starts talking about something spiritual. His voice changes ever so slightly, becoming both quiet and firm. It’s the kind of voice you’d use to talk someone off of a ledge.
Since my mom kept shushing me and it was much too hot to sulk in my bedroom, I wandered into the kitchen where there were buckets and buckets of blueberries mimicking the color of our countertops. Due to some fuzzy mathematics on my part (there are four pints to a gallon, rather than two) we had inadvertently picked twelve pints of blueberries. I’d spent all day washing and freezing the darned things, but there were still blueberries everywhere- on the counter, in the sink, under foot. There’s really only one thing I can do when confronted with so many blueberries: make muffins.
As I was mixing the batter- quadrupling the recipe- I started feeling more relaxed. As I started feeling more relaxed, I began to feel guilty. I poured in blueberries- more than the recipe recommended- and thought about the two young men sitting on my couch, so very far from home. I thought about Elder Smith from Arizona, with his sisters and his stories about high school. I’d found out, in the few weeks I’d been avoiding them, that all the boys are required to go on a two year missionary journey of sorts, bouncing around the states every couple months. I knew how much I was going to miss my home, my family, my life in the fall. How must these boys feel, being passed from church to church and having people slam doors in their faces as though they’re encyclopedia salesmen? Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about them holding my dogs, laughing with my dad, and making my couch smell like boy. I singled out half a dozen muffins and put extra crumb topping on them.
My muffins were just cooling as the boys began their slow progress to the door. Quickly, I tossed the six muffins in a Ziploc bag and, feeling absurdly shy, offered it to Elder Smith. In that one action, I felt a strange kinship with those two boys.
The next week, Elder Jenkins brought chocolate truffles and I introduced him to the marvels of a double boiler for melting chocolate.
All that summer they came and went, and when one boy was transferred, the other brought his replacement. In this way, we had a constant stream of circulating boys, all dressed impeccably and leaving looking quizzical. We may not have been entertaining angels, but those stolen moments of blueberry muffins, truffles, and shared laughter were no less holy.
In time, the visits ended.
This too shall pass.
But when I bake blueberry muffins, I remember and I know that even if I’ve done nothing else honorable, I have half a dozen blueberry muffins to speak for my good intentions.
*names have been changed
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