Shattered Soul (A Poem by Amanda Best)

At the time I wrote this poem, I was in a very dark place in my life. I wasn't happy and I felt alone. I hated myself and there were times when the darkness around me felt as if it was on the verge of consuming what little flickers of light I still had within me. I prayed for relief and for someone who could understand, but it would be several more years before I would receive an answer to my prayers. During the last two years I have changed from a person full of self-loathing, cynicism, self-hatred, and on the verge of self-destruction to a person who is learning to accept myself the way I am, while still trying to become something better and at the same time understanding I'm not always going to succeed the first time around. Anyways, I know there is hope simply because if I didn't have hope, I wouldn't have been able to be in a place where I would be ready to receive an answer to my prayers.

As Always,
Enjoy!

Amanda

A Shattered, Tortured Soul

I am the one who is lost and waiting to be found,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who has been ripped apart and torn to shreds,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who is hanging onto life by a thread,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who is desperately wanting to let go,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who has been despised by others,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who is haunted by the memories of the past,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who clings to the promise of a better future,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who sings about the sorrows no one should ever know,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who longs to hear the songs of joy,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who longs to forget the nightmares of my sleep,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who is consumed by the screams of hatred,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who is gasping for air in a world falling apart,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who sees no end to my pain,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who longs to feel of love,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

I am the one who lives in my own personal hell,

I am a shattered, tortured soul.

The LDS Missionary (CASanB Mission Edition)

This is another version of my poem "The LDS Missionary" which can be found in the second and third posts here on my blog. As with the other two versions of this poem, it is a ballad. For more detail on what a ballad actually is, the preface found in the “Extended Edition” of this poem will provide you with the explanation you need. What makes this version different from the other two is it was personalized for a very good friend of mine who served in my ward during the summer of 2012. For easier explaining from here, my friend's name is Richard. Anyways, I digress. Richard and I met in May 2012 during the last three months of his mission. In a previous post, I stated I had come across my poem "The LDS Missionary" during summer 2012, which led to me starting the process of tweaking it into what became the "Extended Edition" of this poem. While in the process of tweaking the original version of this poem, I found I had become stuck because several of the stanzas were not flowing together the right way. After I had spent several days tweaking my poem, but feeling I wasn’t getting anywhere, I decided to bring several copies of this poem in both its original form and the unfinished "Extended Edition" with me to church. I printed the copies on scratch paper with about three or four stanzas per page due heavy spacing between each of the lines in the poem. While I was waiting for church to start, I sat down and continued the process of tweaking the poem into its "Extended Edition" form. There was one stanza in particular gave me nothing but grief and frustration. I knew what part of the story I wanted this stanza to tell to the reader, but I could not think of a synonym for “ahead” which also rhymed with "numb" and would give the stanza the fluidity it needed so it might be able to flow freely into the next stanza. Looking up from my papers where I had written in several new lines and crossed out many others, I saw Richard standing in the doorway of the chapel. I immediately knew he could help me with my poem, and especially with the stanza, which I was having so much difficulty with reworking. I asked Richard if he could give me a synonym for “ahead” that rhymed with the word “numb”. Thinking I was looking for a synonym for “a head”, he replied with “cranium”. Laughing at his response, I told him I wasn’t looking for a synonym for “a head” but rather for "ahead" meaning something was “to come”. It was at this moment when a light bulb went off in my head. I knew I had just found the synonym I needed to make the stanzas flow together. Thanking him, I immediately crossed out “ahead” and wrote in “to come”. As small and insignificant as this might seem to some people, it was a big deal for me. I have a habit of writing things for my assignments in my various English courses, but I rarely find I am satisfied with the assignment I turn in. For Richard to have given me the help to find what I needed so my poem would flow freely from one stanza to the next, I knew I needed to thank him. Knowing this is what led to this personalized version of “The LDS Missionary” in its extended form where I added in a few details of Richard’s mission from the things he had told me. I didn’t post this version earlier because I knew I needed Richard’s permission to post it. About a week ago, I finally asked if he wouldn’t mind me posting it. Due to the personalized nature of this poem, I have also chosen to edit the dedication since it is not relevant to what led to my decision to personalize this poem for him. As with all of my written work, I would love any feedback my readers might have about this poem, but I do ask for positive and constructive feedback.

ENJOY!

As Always,

Amanda

"The LDS Missionary" (CASanBMission Edition)

--Amanda Best

To my friend, Richard, a missionary whose love for our Savior radiates from the way he treats everyone around him. Gardez la foi, mon ami, et bonne chance. Keep the Faith, my friend, and good luck.

You're called to be a missionary;

You're called to serve the Lord.

You're called to a place unknown;

You're called to preach his word.

Last Friday you finished your papers;

Then submitted them on Saturday.

Hoping your call would be waiting;

At home after church on Sunday.

Speeding home to check the mail;

You parked your car in the flower bed

But when the mailbox came up empty;

You just stood there scratching you head.

Twelve tortuous days of waiting later;

Your sister called to say that it came.

And when you opened your call;

You butchered your mission's name.

Reaching for your US atlas;

While turning fifty shades of red.

Embarrassed as you held your breath;

Hoping it wasn't a place you'd dread.

Finding your mission on the map;

You suddenly felt relieved.

Southern California;

How could you be so naïve?

Over the next few weeks;

You packed, stuffed, and crammed,

Your suitcases with so many items,

That the zippers kept getting jammed.

The night before you entered the MTC;

Your thoughts began to race.

Could you really do this;

Or would you fall flat on your face?

Pushing your doubt from your mind;

You said a humble, earnest prayer.

Asking that you receive the strength;

And the compassion to truly care.

Three weeks later you boarded a plane;

Not knowing what was to come.

Five hours and two planes later;

Your legs were completely numb.

In the terminal stood five men;

In white shirts, ties, and black tags.

Greeting you with warmth and love;

They helped you carry all your bags.

You arrived with brand new scriptures;

Shirts, ties, shoes, two suits, and a bike.

Tucked in the garage;

You left your dad's trike.

And just like when you were in Seminary;

You arose early every day.

Then before you went to bed each night;

You knelt beside your bed to pray.

As the days turned into weeks;

You brought hope to those in need.

And showed care and concern;

By helping others to succeed.

On P-days you’d write home;

Asking for pictures and perhaps a letter;

But packages with peanut butter

Were a hundred million times better.

As the weeks turned into months;

You continued to press on.

A valiant soldier in “God’s Army;”

Brave, faithful, true, bold, forever strong.

Tending to the Savior's Vineyard;

Pruning, watering, and removing weeds.

As the watchman on the tower;

Protecting, nurturing faith's tiny seeds

Soon without you realizing it;

One full year had come to pass.

And you heard what all the others had said;

That year number two goes by way too fast.

As time continued to go by;

You cherished each memory you would gain.

Filling all your days with joy and service;

Even in the pouring rain.

Before you even knew it;

Your final days drew near.

Not wanting to leave this place;

For a place that’s a world away from here.

Your last night you got no sleep;

All you did was toss and turn.

Giving up and staring at the ceiling;

Wondering how you'll cope when you return.

You left with everything you brought;

Shoes, ties, shirts, and the like.

All threadbare and worn out;

Unfortunately, someone stole your bike.

Once a naïve, selfish boy of nineteen;

Now a wise, unselfish man of twenty-one.

You’re sad that it’s all over;

You’re sad this day has come.

You’ve come to love the people;

And the local culture too.

You never thought that leaving;

Would be the hardest thing to do.

Your old friends and former life;

The things of this world seem obsolete.

To your testimony of the truth;

Now cemented in concrete.

Once called to be a missionary;

Once called to serve the Lord.

Once called to a place unknown;

Once called to preach his word.

Sensory Overload (A Poem by Amanda Best)

Sensory Overload is when a person experiences the over-stimulation of one or more of the body's five different senses because of their environment. For me personally, my sense of smell and taste are interconnected at times, which can lead to problems when I am eating food. To give you an example of this, there is a Jelly Belly Jelly Bean called "Buttered Popcorn" which for most people would taste like popcorn with butter on it. However, when I eat one of these jelly beans, I don't experience the flavor of buttered popcorn. Instead I taste what buttered popcorn smells like. I'm fairly positive that most people know what Cranberry Juice tastes like. It tastes like Cranberries. I'm also fairly positive that most people know what wet dirt smells like. For me though, there is a type of Cranberry Juice that I came in contact with during my senior year of high school that didn't taste in the least bit like Cranberries. It tasted like the smell of wet dirt. I have never come in contact with that type of Cranberry Juice since my senior year of high school, but there have been other things that have tasted like the smell of wet dirt in my life. During Christmas time when my mom boils a pot of water with cinnamon sticks in it, I taste the smell of the cinnamon in the air. When I open a bottle of mint extract, I will taste the smell of the mint before the bottle is fully open. This happens with vanilla extract too, which is not the most appealing thing. I can taste the smell water running from a garden hose and feel it's coolness on my tongue long before I see or hear the water running. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been able to tell when it going to rain, even when the sky it completely clear. This is because when there is a great deal of moisture in the air, I can both taste and smell the moisture in the air. I can also feel the coolness of it on my tongue. After I broke my ankle in October 2010, which required surgery to fix it, I would experience all of the same things right before it would rain, but I have the added bonus of getting to experience many different levels of pain before it rains depending on how bad it is going to rain (which is not really an added bonus at all unless you consider that I know when to dress warmly without having to watch the weather part of the news). These are just a few examples of how I can experience an overloading of my senses. When I finally realized that I was experiencing an overloading of my senses, I decided to write this poem as a way of expressing that realization. Although this poem was written long before I broke my ankle, when I found out that it was going to require surgery, I knew that my senses were going to overloaded at least once every winter for the rest of my life.

ENJOY!

As Always,
Amanda

Sensory Overload
--by Amanda Best
I am constantly in a state of sensory overload.
Smelling the crisp, cold taste of water,
Tasting the bright, joyous sights of Christmas,
Seeing the sweet, musical sound of vocal expression,
Hearing the slow, deliberate touch of envy,
Touching the light, delicate scent of roses.
Yes, I am constantly in a state of sensory overload.

Loneliness (A Poem by Amanda Best)

This last fall I experienced betrayal of the trust I placed in another person, when I was manipulated and lied to by this person. This betrayal of trust caused me to experience many of the emotions and "events" that are spoken of in this poem. The fear spoken of was a result of the betrayal of trust that I placed in this person. The inability to accept the love offered to me by another person refers to my need to protect myself from being hurt again, despite knowing that this second person would never do something like what the first person did. The silence resulted from not knowing who I could trust, from not receiving the support that I needed from the people that I needed it most from, as well as being told that a great deal of what this first person did to me was my fault because I trusted him in the first place. The image and movie spoken of are that of seeing and speaking to the first person only days before he would betray me. The memory spoken of is actually more than one memory. It is of the memories that were accumulated over a four month period of time when despite all my efforts to build a wall between the first person and myself when I first met him. He was charming and he used that charm against me. He was able to deceive me with his lies to the point that I let my guard down so greatly that when I found out the truth, it nearly destroyed me. The scars are a reference to his flippant disregard for certain aspects of life that are serious, regardless of the person who experiences them. The scars were from his deceit and his disregard for the pain he knew he caused me. The dying heart refers to the part of me that died when I realized how misplaced my trust in the first person was. The child spoken of is a flashback to who I was before I met the person who nearly destroyed me. Naïve, blind, and stupid. The child is also part of the memories that were accumulated over last summer before this person betrayed me. I have since realized that although his motives were borderline sadistic in nature, I could use his motives as a way to become a better writer.

As Always,
Amanda

ENJOY!

Loneliness
--Amanda Best
There is a loneliness deep in my soul,
And it robs me of the ability,
To trust to those that love me.
There is a hatred rooted in my loneliness,
And it robs me of the ability,
To forgive you of the hurt caused me.
There is a sadness dwelling in my hatred,
And it robs me of the ability,
To believe you once cared about me.
There is a rage lurking in my sadness,
And it robs me of the ability,
To help the lives of those who need me.
There is a fear swimming in my rage,
And it robs me of the ability,
To accept the love another offers me.
There is a silence thriving in my fear,
And it robs me of the ability,
To hear you apologize to me.
There is a blindness living in my silence,
And it robs me of the ability,
To see the peace that will heal me.
There is an image burning in my blindness,
And it robs me of the ability,
To look past the pain you caused me.
There is a memory surfacing from that burning image,
And it robs me of the ability,
To forget the lies you told me.
There is a movie playing in my memory,
And it robs me of the ability,
To prevent your betrayal from scarring me.
There is a dying heart beating in that movie,
And it robs me of the ability,
To live the life meant for me.
There is a child fading in my dying heart,
And she is longing to break free,
To be understood and accepted.

Good Enough? (A Poem by Amanda Best)

This poem was written at a time when I was going through a very rough patch in my life. I thought I had found someone who I could trust, who would understand, but I found out I was completely wrong about this person. I was left to wonder if I would ever be able to trust anyone ever again, especially after what this person had done to my faith in the human race. Because those are my feelings at the time, I decided to let my anger at this person out, and I came up with this poem. I felt it truly expresses what I am feeling at the time and I'm sure we have all felt this way at some point in our lives. For those who have never felt this way, you are extremely lucky, and I pray that you will never feel this way. Many of the lines from this poem came from different parts of many different emails that I had exchanged with this person. They are words that this person wrote to me. I took their hatred and the pain they caused me and channeled into something beautiful and intense. Anyways, this is the poem that I came up with.

Good Enough?
--Amanda Best
I trusted you with my life,
I trusted you with my past,
I trusted you with my heart,
I trusted you with my secrets,
I trusted you to be honest,
I trusted you to be trustworthy,
I trusted you to be truthful,
I trusted you to be understanding,
You've told me many things,
You've told me many truths,
You've told me many lies,
You told me you wouldn't hurt me,
You told me you wouldn't lie,
You told me you were honest,
You told me you were trustworthy,
You told me you were truthful,
You told me you were understanding,
You said so many things to me,
You promised me you wouldn't lie,
But unfortunately you did,
You're inability to trust me,
Speaks volumes of who you are,
But most of all it says to me,
“I can't trust you with my past,”
“I can't love you the way you are,”
“I can't help you be who you need to be,”
“I can't help you be who you want to be,”
“I can't be what you need me to be,”
“I can't be what you want me to be,”
“I won't trust you with my past,”
“I won't love you the way you are,”
“I won't help you be who you need to be,”
“I won't help you be who you want to be,”
“I won't be what you need me to be,”
“I won't be what you want me to be,”
“I don't trust you with my past,”
“I don't love you the way you are,”
“I don't need to help you be who you need to be,”
“I don't need to help you be who you want to be,”
“I don't need to be what you need me to be,”
“I don't need to be what you want me to be,”
“I don't want to help you be who you need to be,”
“I don't want to help you be who you want to be,”
“I don't want to be what you need me to be,”
“I don't want to be what you want me to be,”
“You don't deserve to live,”
“You don't deserve to die,”
“You don't deserve to be happy,”
“You don't deserve to be sad,”
“You don't deserve to be loved,”
“You don't deserve to be hated,”
“You don't deserve me,”
“You don't deserve anyone,”
“You're too skinny,”
“You're too fat,”
“You're too tall,”
“You're too short,”
“You're too smart,”
“You're too stupid,”
“You're too lazy,”
“You're too active,”
“You're too outgoing,”
“You're too shy,”
“You're too aggressive,”
“You're too passive,”
“You're too angry,”
“You're too depressed,”
“You're too happy,”
“You're too sad,”
“You're too cautious,”
“You're too reckless,”
“You're too wild,”
“You're too calm,”
“You’re not what I want,”
“You’re not what I crave,”
“You’re not what I deserve,”
“You’re not what I need,”
“You're not worthy of my time,”
“You're not worthy of my love,”
“You're not worth the ground you stand on,”
“You're not worth the air you breathe,”
“You're not worth the effort,”
“You're not worth a single thing,”
“You're not worth anything at all,”
“You're nothing,”
“You're nothing to me,”
“You're nothing to anyone,”
“You're no one,”
“You're no one important,”
“You're no one insignificant,”
“You will never be good enough for me,”
“You will never be good enough for anyone,”
“YOU WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH!”

Backstabber (A Poem by Amanda Best)

So this poem was written in response to the pain someone caused by getting me to trust them and then when I was least expecting it, when I had completely let my guard down, they stabbed me in the back, metaphorically speaking. It was then that I realized that I probably wasn't the first person that this person had done this to, and I definitely wasn't going to be the last. I realized that we've all met them, and sadly we've all trusted them. They are charming and charismatic. They get you to trust them by telling you lies about themselves. So you tell them all your secrets, all about your past, you tell them everything. They promise to never hurt you and you believe them. So when they end up stabbing you in the back, then act surprised when you refuse their help getting the knife out of you. You want it left there as a testament to the world about just who they really are! For all you backstabbers out there, this is for you...Enjoy!!!

Backstabber
--Amanda Best
You told me you loved me
I told you my secrets
And you told everyone
Now you're nothing to me
I'd have prefer for you
To stab me in the heart
Instead of in the back
People tried to tell me
That all you ever were
Was a good for nothing
Two timing backstabber
I refused to accept
That it could be the truth
Now I see I was wrong
They never lied to me
Now you can find your knife
Right here where you left it
Sticking out of my back!

Special Place In Hell (A Poem by Amanda Best)

In a previous post I mentioned that I had written my poem, Means To An End, at a time on my life when I had been hurt and so the poem came across as having a dark theme to it. As you can tell from the title of this poem, it also has a dark theme to it, but in my opinion, it has a much darker theme to it than Means To An End. The reason for this is that as new information came to light about the situation, my anger grew as I was hurt over and over again. Since I had seen that writing about how I felt, how I was hurt, why it hurt so much, and why I was so angry had helped me cope with this betrayal of trust that I had placed in this person, I turned to writing again. These next few posts will contain poems that I wrote during that time as I used them as a way of coping with the pain and hurt that I felt from this betrayal. These poems will be dark in nature, but in no way do the mean anything other than how painful it was to deal with being completely blindsided by this person's betrayal of my trust.

Special Place In Hell
--Amanda Best
There's a special place in hell
For a backstabber like you
A place where liars scream
From the pain they caused
Where salvation cannot reach
And love cannot heal
Where betrayal thrives
And reaps its reward
Feeding off your soul
Devouring your mind
Ignited by your hatred
Fueled by your laughter
Fanned by your sarcasm
Fed by your voice
The flames engulf you
Melt your plastic flesh
Finding your dead heart
They bring it to life
Restore its beat
Only so you feel
The flames consume
The hopes you stole
The lives you ruined
As you slowly die
You see their faces
And watch them laugh
Knowing they spoke truth
Once a devil worshiper
Then the devil's child
Now the devil himself
You see their peace
You see their hope
You see their lives
Healed and restored
As you scream in pain
From the flames
That consume you
You know salvation
No longer exists
For your twisted
Sadistic
Demented
Evil self
Your soul is dead
You live in hell
Trapped in hell
In that special place
Prepared just for you
For a backstabber like you
Your own special place in hell

Means To An End (A Poem by Amanda Best)

This was a poem that I wrote when I realized that I had made a mistake when I had trusted someone who ended up being a completely different person than I had originally thought they were, and a completely different person than who they had led me to believe they were. This poem speaks of finding out the truth, of realizing that you were just the Mean To An End for someone, and with that realization, finding a way to make that person the Means To An End in a way far more damaging than you were to them. I will state right now that I never did anything like what this poem speaks of to any person, but I took the pain and anger this person caused me from what they did and channeled it into becoming a better writer by using that pain and anger to express my disappointment in how they treated not just me, and not just how they treated themselves, but how they treated all of the people that we love and all the people who love us by causing that anger and pain in a single person, by making every single one of those people a Means To An End.

Means To An End
--Amanda Best


I finally
See you
For who
You really truly are
I have
Put up
With you
For far too long
I no
Longer care
For you
Or your company
To me
You are
Just the
Means to an end
But now
Your end
Does not
Justify the means
I know
This must
Hurt you
To the core
But you
Left me
In pieces
And brokenhearted
I warned
You from
The start
What would happen
Should you
Decide to
Treat and
Use me like you did
Now you
Know what
It’s like
To be used like that
To love
Then tossed
Aside like
You never even mattered
I have
Just one
Question now,
“How does it feel to be on the other end?”

I'M NOT CRAZY! (A Poem by Amanda Best)

This is another poem that I wrote a long time ago (and by a long time ago I mean it was written January 25th, 2006) in response to someone who thought it would be funny to call me crazy. This has nothing to to with the events of last month as this poem was written almost six years ago. I have a passion for speaking my mind, and sometimes that can get me into a lot of trouble. Thankfully, this was not one of those times, and I used poetry as an outlet for how angry I was at this person. Anyways here it is...

ENJOY!

Amanda

I'm Not Crazy
--Amanda Best
One second of one day,
You called me crazy.
It was felt like,
A slap in the face.
You turned and stalked away,
I stormed after you,
Hell bent with rage in my eyes.
Time and again I've let you
Walk all over me.
Never again will
I let that happen.
With rage building
I can't control myself.
I shout,
I yell,
I scream,
I rant,
I rave,
I say,
I'M NOT CRAZY.

The LDS Missionary (Original Version)

As I stated in my last post, this post will contain the original version of my poem "The LDS Missionary" and I would love any feedback that my readers might have about this poem, I just ask that you also read the "Extended Edition" of this poem as well before making any comments.

ENJOY!

Amanda




The LDS Missionary (Original Version)
--Amanda Best

Once called to be a missionary;
      Once called to serve the Lord.
Once called to a place unknown;
      Once called to preach his word.

You went out with a brand new suit;
      Scriptures, shirts, ties, and shoes.
Everything carefully labeled;
      So no one forgot whose was whose.

And just like when you were in Seminary;
      You arose early every day.
Then before you went to bed each night;
      You knelt beside your bed to pray.

As the days turned into weeks;
      You brought hope to those in need.
And showed care and concern;
      With each and every single good deed.

On P-days you’d write home;
      Asking for pictures and perhaps a letter;
But if someone possibly could;
      A care package was even better.

As the weeks turned into months;
      You continued to press on.
A valiant soldier in “God’s Army;”
      Brave, faithful, true, and strong.

Soon without you realizing it;
      One full year had come to pass.
And you heard what other had said;
      That year number two goes by way too fast.

As time continued to go by;
      You’d cherished each moment you had.
Filling each day with joy and service;
      You’d shun all things evil and bad.

Before you even knew it;
      Your final days drew near.
Not wanting to leave this place;
      For a place that’s a world away from here.

Your last night you got no sleep;
      All you did was toss and turn.
Giving up and staring at the ceiling;
      Thinking about life when you return.

Once a boy of nineteen;
      Now a man of twenty-one.
You’re sad that it’s all over;
      You’re sad this day has come.

You’ve come to love the people;
      And the local culture too.
You never thought that leaving;
      Would be the hardest thing to do.

The LDS Missionary (Extended Edition)

This is a poem that I wrote in the Spring of 2007 for an assignment in my Creative Writing Poetry class that I was taking. At the time, my older brother was serving his mission and was coming home that summer. For those of you who don't already know, my family is LDS or Mormon. When I first wrote this poem, I didn't really understand the whole concept of serving a mission, but I tried my best to capture the whole experience. It wasn't until this last summer when I was going through some of my old college English assignments that I had saved that I came across it again. The original version of this poem in my opinion lacked the ability to flow and to truly communicate what I wanted to say, but since it was an assignment, I didn't have as much time to work on it as I would have liked. When I came across it last summer, I read it, and decided that I needed to work on it. The reason that I worked on it and tweaked it as much as I did was because since the beginning of 2012, I have been attending that missionary preparation class and I have come to a better understanding of just how important missionary service truly is. I have posted what I have started to refer as the "Extended Edition" of the poem. In my next post, I will post the original version so that you can see where the poem began and where it is now. This poem is truly a work in progress since I am preparing to serve a mission myself which is the reason for my attending the missionary preparation class. At the time that I wrote this, I had been given the assignment in my Creative Writing Poetry class to write a ballad. A ballad for those of you who are unfamiliar with the term is basically a poem containing several stanzas of four lines each that is written with either the rhyme scheme of "a, b, a, b" or "a, b, c, b." Ballads often tell a story and can be written in iambic pentameter. Feel free to leave any thoughts or comments that you might have.

ENJOY!

Amanda




The LDS Missionary (Extended Edition)
--Amanda Best
For my brother, returned missionary, Robert M. Best, and for all the missionaries, who have in one way or another made me look at life and serving a mission with a whole new perspective.

You're called to be a missionary;
You're called to serve the Lord.
You're called to a place unknown;
You're called to preach His word.

Last Friday you finished your papers;
Then submitted them on Saturday.
Hoping your call would be waiting;
At home after church on Sunday.

Speeding home to check the mail;
You parked your car in the flower bed
But when the mailbox came up empty;
You just stood there scratching you head.

Twelve tortuous days of waiting later;
Your sister called to tell you that it came.
And when you opened your call;
You butchered your mission’s name.

Grabbing your family’s world atlas;
While turning fifty shades of red.
Embarrassed as you held your breath;
Hoping it wasn’t a place you’d dread.

Finding you mission on the map;
You suddenly felt relieved.
Southern Mexico;
How could you be so naïve?

Over the next few weeks;
You packed, stuffed, and crammed,
Your suitcases with so many items,
That the zippers kept getting jammed.

The night before you entered the MTC;
Your thoughts began to race.
Could you really do this;
Or would you fall flat on your face?

Pushing your doubt from your mind;
You said a humble, earnest prayer.
Asking that you receive the strength;
And the compassion to truly care.

Two months later you boarded a plane;
Not knowing what was to come.
Ten hours and three planes later;
Your legs were completely numb.

In the terminal stood five men;
In white shirts, ties, and black tags.
Greeting you with warmth and love;
They helped you carry all your bags.

You arrived with brand new scriptures;
Shirts, ties, shoes, and two tailored suits.
But tucked in the back of your closet;
You left your well-worn combat boots.

And just like when you were in Seminary;
You arose early every day.
Then before you went to bed each night;
You knelt beside your bed to pray.

As the days turned into weeks;
You brought hope to those in need.
And showed care and concern;
By helping others to succeed.

On P-days you’d write home;
Asking for pictures and perhaps a letter.
But packages with peanut butter;
Were a hundred million times better.

As the weeks turned into months;
You continued to press on.
A valiant soldier in “God’s Army;”
Brave, faithful, true, bold, forever strong.

Tending to the Savior's Vineyard;
Pruning, watering, and removing weeds.
As the watchman on the tower;
Protecting, nurturing faith's tiny seeds

Soon without you realizing it;
One full year had come to pass.
And you heard what all the others had said;
That year number two goes by way too fast.

As time continued to go by;
You cherished each memory you would gain.
Filling all your days with joy and service;
Even in the pouring rain.

Before you even knew it;
Your final days drew near.
Not wanting to leave this place;
For a place that’s a world away from here.

Your last night you got no sleep;
All you did was toss and turn.
Giving up and staring at the ceiling;
Wondering how you'll cope when you return.

You gave away everything you brought;
Except your scriptures, shirts, and suits.
And your dress shoes became;
A different kind of combat boots.

Once a naïve, selfish boy of nineteen;
Now a wise, unselfish man of twenty-one.
You’re sad that it’s all over;
You’re sad this day has come.

You’ve come to love the people;
And the local culture too.
You never thought that leaving;
Would be the hardest thing to do.

Your old friends and former life;
The things of this world seem obsolete.
To your testimony of the truth;
Now cemented in concrete.

Once called to be a missionary;
Once called to serve the Lord.
Once called to a place unknown;
Once called to preach His word.