Somewhere between the whirl of the teenage activity and the confinement of rocking chair, we find a strange creature called a missionary.
Missionaries come in two varieties- Elders and Sisters- who come in different sizes, weights, and colors- green being the most common.
converts love them , young girls worship them (the Elder variety), dogs hate them, the law tolerates them, most people ignore them, and heaven protects them.
A missionary is truth with a pocket full of tracts, wisdom with a scant knowledge of the Bible, faith with 69 cents in his pocket and two weeks until dad's next check.
A missionary is a composite. He has an appetite of a horse, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, the patience of Job, the persistence of the fuller brush man, and the courage of a lion tamer.
He likes letters from home, invitations to Sunday dinner, conferences, checks, testimony meetings, companions, baptisms, and visits from the Mission President.
He isn't much on tracting in the rain, people who slam doors, helmets, apartment houses, transfers, shaking hands at arm's length, alarm clocks, and, last but not least, letters that start with "Dear John."
Nobody rises so early or is so tired by 10:30 p.m. Nobody else can knock so boldly with such a shaky hand. Nobody else can get a thrill at the end of a disappointing day, when someone says, "Won't you come in, we've been waiting for you!"
Yes, a missionary is a queer character. He can get homesick, and temporarily lose faith in the human race, but a strange lump rises in his throat the day he recieves his letter of release and, upon arrival home, his homecoming talk will probably contain the phrase once considered trite, "It was the best two years of my life."