Dear Hermana Beckert,

Hi. It’s been awhile since we’ve spoken. I mean, since we’ve really spoken. We’ve crossed paths, but it’s been almost two years since we’ve had much of a conversation. Isn’t it crazy how fast the time has gone?

I would ask how you’re doing, but I already know.

That’s why I’m writing to you. A roommate of mine suggested that I have a sit-down and talk with you. But we both know that we do better with the written word.

Do you know how wonderful you are, Hermana Beckert? Truly, do you know how needed you were in my life? You were the bridge between who I am now and who I was. You were my springboard. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have this much confidence. I wouldn’t be so open. I wouldn’t be so determined. I wouldn’t have a better sense of self and identity than I’ve had in my entire life.

I know how you feel, Hermana. You feel small. Unloved. Unwanted. Unnoticed. I see you crying a lot. I feel you feeling worthless.

I know you think you were a failure of a missionary.

You had a hard time with Spanish. You had a hard time opening up to others. You had a hard time expressing your deep and abiding love to the people you taught. You got frustrated a lot because you didn’t know how to express your feelings. At times you struggled with balancing out the demands of missionary work and the weight of what you eventually realized was depression. And the tricky thing about your depression was that it ebbed and flowed – sometimes it was there, sometimes it wasn’t. It snuck up on you a lot.

You were hurting during your mission. All 18 months of it you were hurting, and the majority of that time you didn’t even know it.

But I’m going to tell you something.

You were never a failure.

You weren’t perfect. But what missionary is? There’s no such thing as a perfect missionary.

You were not and are not a failure.

Hermana, do you remember how excited Young Kim was to go on a mission? Do you remember how she dreamed and planned and worked for it for almost a full decade? Do you remember when she got that white envelope in the mail?

Yeah, she was disappointed about going to Utah and speaking Spanish. She almost sent her call back. She didn’t want to go. But Young Kim made the decision to serve. She squared her shoulders and put a smile on her face and told herself that it was going to be great. Somehow, some way, her mission was going to be life changing.

And then you were born. October 6, 2012 – you were born the day Young Kim got set apart. It took a little while for you to fully emerge. But when you did – oh, if only you could have seen yourself the way I do.

Remember how you took over on the first day at the MTC? Remember how Young Kim wanted to run out of the MTC and chase her parents down and beg them to take her home because she couldn’t do it? You didn’t let her. You pushed her.

And she succeeded.

You succeeded.

We succeeded.

You had it rough, Hermana Beckert. You went into a mission that wasn’t wanted. You learned a new language that wasn’t wanted. You had to deal with ice and snow and for the first time you really saw the cruelties of human nature.

Don’t you see? Don’t you see how strong you were those entire 18 months? Don’t you understand how you never gave up? Don’t you remember how you pushed through all of those hard times?

Maybe you did break. But it wasn’t because you weren’t strong enough or good enough. It was because you’d been too strong for too long.

Oh Hermana, if I could go back in time, I would hold you and tell you everything will work out in the end. I would tell you that you’re doing everything just fine. I would tell you to never doubt yourself. I would tell you that your leaders really do mean well, but they don’t know how to address your situation. I would just hold you and let you cry and wipe away your tears and tell you how wonderful you are for being you.

You weren’t like all the other missionaries. And that’s okay. You were more reserved and quiet. And that’s okay, because you weren’t in a place to be one of those missionaries who bounces out of their comfort zone. You were already so far out of it by speaking Spanish and embracing a completely different culture.

You were figuring things out. You were discovering the very beginnings of me. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I wish you would stop comparing yourself to the other missionaries. You were you. There was no other Hermana Beckert in the mission. You are one of a kind.

Don’t you remember Hermana Silva? Don’t you remember how devastated you were when you left Granger East? Remember when you cried as you walked away from her trailer because she was one of the very first people you ever loved on your mission? Don’t you remember hoping and praying that she would be able to start coming to church again? Don’t you remember being touched by her testimony every time you read the Book of Mormon with her?

Don’t you remember Lucy, your miracle contact? Don’t you remember la familia Contreras? Remember how Hno Contreras read the children’s Book of Mormon while you taught his daughters and wife? Don’t you remember seeing him coming to church after months of hoping he’d be there and feeling the tears well up in your eyes?

And Granger. Oh Granger. Don’t you remember how much you ended up loving that area? Don’t you remember how Granger was your refiner’s fire and saving grace all rolled into one?

I know that when you think back to your mission, you don’t think back to Hunter Central or Granger East. No, when you think about your mission you think of 2200 West and 3800 South. You think of all the apartments. You think of winter days with snow on the ground and gray skies and walking down 2200. You think of a tiny area that you ended up knowing better than the back of your hand. You remember El Camino.

Granger is a security blanket to you. When I visit the mission now, my anxiety scratches at me until I cross the border into Granger. That’s the only time I can breathe a sigh of relief and let go. That’s when I feel like I’m home.

Don’t you remember Antonio and Veronica and their little boy Diego? Remember how in the beginning they frustrated you, but you ended up loving them so much? Remember the first time they came to church was your last Sunday in the mission field? Don’t you remember Daisy and her sweetness and kindness? Don’t you remember the Alvarados? Remember how you loved their little kids and you just adored their family and you looked for them every single Sunday?

Don’t you remember how thankful you were to put your name tag on every single day? I love those name tags. They’re still two of my most prized possessions. Remember how hard it was to take it off? You cried and cried and cried in the foyer of that church building. And the moment you took that name tag off … I came in.

But you haven’t left, Hermana. You’re still inside of me. You are such an integral part of me. I hardly remember Younger Kim anymore. Sometimes I feel like she doesn’t even exist.

And I’m afraid that for the past two years I’ve been ignoring you, Hermana. I’ve been disappointed in you. I’ve been embarrassed by you because you weren’t everything I envisioned and hoped for. You weren’t the missionary I wanted you to be.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel ashamed of yourself. I’m sorry for making you question your worth and abilities. Hermana, if I could, I would take back all the things I’ve said about you and the doubts I’ve had.

Hermana, please. Please understand that you are not someone to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. Hermana, look at yourself! Stand up and look at yourself in the mirror! I see a fighter, an imperfect human who wanted to be out in the mission field so bad that, for a period of time, she dragged her broken spirit through the snow in order to magnify her calling. I see a woman who conquered, who grew, who learned what it means to truly endure to the end.

When I went and talked to President around Thanksgiving, I feel like I didn’t include you in the conversation. But what he said pertained to you, too.

Hermana, let go. Let go of all the hurt.

You’re a Daughter of God. Remember how you figured that out and how that knowledge penetrated your heart so deeply that the very ground you stood on almost shook? Remember how that knowledge opened your eyes and, for the first time in 22 years, you saw your divine potential?

It’s still true now. I know it is. Why?

Because you were the best missionary you knew how to be.

And God knows it. And He’s told it to you.

Lift up your heart and rejoice, Hermana. Our life is great and wonderful. All because of you.

I’ll keep in touch.

Love always,

Kim

P.S. Thank you. For everything.