Yesterday was tough.  The familiar gripping pain of any minute now someone I love will be taken from me for two years had hit me.  I've been told by well-meaning friends that it could be worse.  Yes.  I know that.  But this is MY son.  And MY two years.  I'm fairly certain that those two years will take much longer to pass than anyone else's.  Just ask any mother that was at the curb that day.  They'll say the same thing.

We stopped initially, as instructed, across the street for the final few family photos, and as you can see, that gripping pain I was referring to had moved from my gut up to my heart.  Kevin, however, was not too keen on letting it linger.  He wanted to get back in the car and drive across the street where his idea of a quick goodbye could occur!

 It used to be that new missionaries received a "dork dot" on their name tags when they arrived, signifying their newness to the MTC so others could offer help if they looked confused or lost.  Since families no longer get to go inside, we missed seeing Kevin get his.  Instead, we got a sticky note on our windshield as we pulled in to show that we had an Elder in the car, versus a Sister missionary.  I guess it will do.  

As we pulled up to the curb, at signpost #24, a missionary was already there to greet us, help get the luggage out of the car, and whisk Elder Bodily away from us.  It all happened quickly, and then we were back in the car and on our way out of the parking lot.  I glanced towards the back seat, and there was Trevor, tears streaming down his face.  In a soft voice he uttered the words I knew I would hear eventually, "I miss him already."  

So do I, Trevor.  So do I.