A Father’s Daughter

 A personal essay by Aubrey Jensen

How a father can influence his daughter as a teenager and as a missionary in Finland.

It was 10:30 pm, central daylight time. My eyelids were heavy, and my muscles were sore from sitting in three planes, traveling across half the world,  in the last 48 hours. I did not have a mirror with me, but I was sure my long, blonde hair was flat against my scalp. The last time I showered was in the mission home located in Espoo, Finland almost two days before, so I knew I did not look the cleanest. I felt nervous with butterflies in my stomach, or was I feeling hungry? No, nervous. Maybe both. I had only been eating the food the flight attendants gave me which surprisingly tasted good knowing that it was just airplane food. I looked down at the vibrant orange that coated my dress broken up by an occasional white flower. Although I was not serving in Finland anymore, I still had to wear dresses until my church leader released me from being a missionary. 

The thought of that scared me. “I have been a missionary for the last 18 months of my life. Do I even remember what life is like before I moved to Finland?” As a missionary, there are many rules one must follow. For example, wake up every day at 6:30 am, work out for 30 minutes, study the scriptures for an hour, leave the door by 10:00 am, work until 9:30 pm, do not watch any movies or news, always wear your missionary name tag on your shoulder, and act as a disciple of Jesus Christ. Honestly, it was hard for me to remember what life was like before living with all of these rules, and I was really going to miss wearing my name tag on my left shoulder every day. It made me feel as if I had a purpose, a reason, and a responsibility to invite all the come unto Jesus Christ which was the purpose for all missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What was I going to do when I was not a missionary anymore? But of course, I knew the answer to that; I will go back and study at Brigham Young University (BYU), get a job, start dating young men, and continue to do missionary work as a member, not as a full-time missionary. Exciting!

As my last plane FINALLY landed in Texas, I instantly felt the moist, humid air which felt different than the thin, clean air in Finland. My hands started to sweat, and the butterflies came back to my stomach. In about 15 minutes, I would be able to see my family for the first time in 18 months. Oh, how I missed them! I video called them once a week, every Tuesday, for 18 months unless it was a holiday, then I would video call them on a different day of the week. However, now I could hug and talk to them any time and any day of the week! That seemed like the greatest blessing one could ask for!

As I grabbed my carry-on luggage, I felt very anxious to walk off the plane. However, I was seated in the third to last row which meant I had to wait for almost every person in front of me to grab their luggage and walk off the plane first. But after no time, it was finally my turn! I walked, no, I speedily walked off the plane through the airport. I did not know where I would see my family, but all I knew is that we were in the same building. I assumed they were located at baggage claim where my other two suitcases would be dropped off. My assumption was correct. As I walked closer to the two doors under a label titled “baggage pick-up,” I saw them, my father, mother, and two sisters, through the glass windows. An energy rush inside of me almost made me squeal! Right after I walked through the doors, I dropped my carry-on in the middle of the floor and ran to my dad. My first hug back from my mission! He felt so warm and loving as I wrapped my arms around him, lifting my body onto the tip of my toes because of our height difference. I held onto him so tight, and I did not want to let go as a tear of pure joy fell down my face. My dad is someone I consider one of my greatest heroes. He was always supportive and present in the most important chapters and transitions of my life. 

“You did it!” he said, “You served your whole mission, and you served well. We are so proud of you! We love you, and we missed you. Welcome home, Aubrey!”

A Happy and Pleasant Patient

Nobody likes to be sick. It is uncomfortable, painful, and unpleasant. I was 16 years old at this time and very grateful to be in healthy condition. Thankfully, the most sickness I’ve dealt with lasted no longer than seven days from the flu that was spreading through my high school like wildfire. However, it was a different story for my dad. The worst sickness he ever felt was longer with more pain, hurt, and discomfort. 

My little sisters and I were gathering together in our family room when my parents invited us in to sit down on the couch. Family counsel was a normal occurrence in my house in order to plan out our busy weeks due to volleyball, basketball, track, piano practices, work, and school. When the three of us sat down next to each other, I could tell this was not a normal family counsel. My parents’ faces were stern and serious. Their eyes looked sad, and the corners of their mouths were not pointed up in the form of a smile. I mentally prepared myself for any news we were about to hear.

“Thank you for stopping your activities to come downstairs when your mother asked,” my father started, “we have something very important to talk about. I have been visiting multiple doctors and taking many blood and urine tests. I have not been feeling very well, and I wanted to make sure there was nothing seriously wrong with me. Well, after a couple months of tests, my doctor found multiple tumors throughout my whole body, and he diagnosed me with stage three testicular cancer.”

Cancer. My dad has cancer. What does that mean? Stage three. That is really serious. Will he be okay? Will he lose his hair? Will he be in the hospital all summer long? Will he survive? Why does he have cancer? Why does my dad have cancer? I cannot lose him.

“Thankfully the tumors have not reached his brain,” my mom said, “but he will start chemotherapy next week to keep the cancer cells from spreading throughout his body and making it worse. He will lose his hair, and he will be very weak and ill. This may be difficult to understand, but we have great faith that Dad will be alright, and our family will learn and grow a lot from this.”

After discussing the details about my dad’s newly diagnosed cancer, I excused myself to my room. I did not like crying in front of people, especially my little sisters when I was supposed to be the brave, older sister. The same questions came rushing to my brain. Why does my dad have cancer? How long will he have it? Will this cancer take him away from me? The thought of losing my dad frightened me. I felt alone. I felt angry. Then I felt nothing, almost empty inside. I did not know what to do other than to turn to my Heavenly Father for help.

I sat in my bed and cried my heart out. It started off as an angry prayer. I told him why I was frustrated and how my dad didn’t deserve to suffer like this. I asked God why my family needed to experience such an awful thing. I told him how tired I was of all the trials I’ve had to deal with, but this was the hardest of them all. Then, like a flip of a light switch, my heart changed. I no longer felt angry, but I felt a sense of hope and peace. My heart no longer ached, but it felt as if it was being hugged. I no longer felt confused, but I understood that blessings were in store for my dad and my family. 

Suddenly the thought came to my head, but it was not my own thought. It seemed to come from someone else, “You are not alone. Trust in Jesus Christ and His atonement.”

“Ok,” I said, almost looking up to the heavens, “I trust Thee. I will not go through this alone. My dad will not overcome this alone.” I said amen, and I left my room with hope and faith, knowing that my dad was going to be alright, just like my mom said.

However, the next three months were not easy for my dad. He lost all of his hair, but that was the least of his worries. Because of the chemotherapy, he was very weak, lost a lot of weight, could barely eat without feeling nauseous, and was in bed every day. One morning, it was my responsibility to take him to the hospital for his chemotherapy treatment. I hated the idea of having to take him to that awful place. However, I knew that this treatment would bless him even though it looked like it was poisoning him from an outside perspective. 

The drive was quiet at first, but my dad was the first to break the silence.

“This is really difficult for me, Aubrey. I do not enjoy coming to the hospital so much, and it really hurts my body.” I could tell he started to tear up which was strange for me. I could not think of a time when I saw him cry before.

“However,” my dad continued, “I am so grateful it was me to have this cancer instead of your mother. I do not know what I would do if it was your mother going through this. I am so grateful that it was not you or your sisters or brothers because I do not know what I would have done if any one of you had it. I am grateful it is me. I love your mother so much, and I love my children so much.” Again, I wanted to cry.

“Aubrey, I do not want to be an unhappy patient. I do not want to be stubborn, unpleasant, or impatient, but this is really hard.”

“You don’t have to be an unhappy patient,” I replied, “you can choose to be happy and pleasant. You already are.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We can choose to be positive and happy, even when it’s hard.”

The Light at the End of My Tunnel

One of the most difficult things I did in my entire life was serving a mission in Finland. One might say this to be ironic because serving a mission was something I wanted to do so badly. I was 16 when I found out for myself that the Lord needed me to preach the gospel as a full-time missionary. For the next three years, I wanted to prepare myself so well for my mission. I studied the scriptures every day, I read the missionary handbook which contained all the rules, I studied Preach My Gospel which contained all the lessons and ways that make up a successful missionary, and I attended church services and activities every Sunday and Wednesday. I felt ready. I felt prepared. I felt nervous, but I knew in my heart that it was what I needed to do.

As a missionary, there are so many amazing experiences and life lessons. There was not any other time in my life when I felt an abundant feeling of pure joy and love than I did on my mission. One of my favorite parts when teaching people about the gospel is bearing my testimony that God is a loving Heavenly Father, and we can talk to Him through prayer. Hearing someone pray out loud for the first time is the most incredible feeling in the world. When the word “amen” comes out of his or her mouth, I would sit and listen for a sigh. It was not a sigh of irritation, tiredness, or stress. It was a sigh of relief, hope, and a new beginning. The moment they realize that their Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers is the greatest moment in one’s conversion process. It does not only convert the one learning about the gospel, but it changes the life of the missionary teaching them. Why? Because the missionary just brought one of God’s most precious children closer to Him.

As a missionary, there are so many difficult experiences and life lessons. There was not any other time in my life when I felt so inadequate or alone than I did on my mission. It is not easy leaving one’s whole life- family, school, home, and culture- behind and living in a foreign land trying to teach about Jesus Christ to people who do not want to listen. So many shut doors. So many rejections. If this is the Lord’s true church, you would think that more people would want to listen, right?

I asked myself this question when times got really hard. When we felt like we were doing everything we could to spread the light of the gospel, yet we could not find a single person who was interested. It left us feeling like we were walking blind through the dark. It felt like we were walking through a never-ending tunnel, hoping to see light at the end but never reaching it. In moments like this, a missionary must make a choice. Do I keep walking through the dark and hope that there is light at the end, or do I stop taking steps of faith and stay in this empty tunnel. 

In moments like this, it is very tempting to choose the latter, but my father raised me otherwise. He never stopped in the middle of a tunnel no matter how dark,  no matter how long, no matter how alone he might have felt. He did not give up when he was diagnosed with cancer even when it got difficult. 

“What is the difference between prayer and mighty prayer?” my dad wrote in a letter. I read this letter often. “Mighty prayer includes faith. Faith that Heavenly Father really is listening, and He really does watch over us. You are a woman of mighty prayer, Aubrey.”

While I was walking through the dark tunnel, I remembered these words he wrote me. They danced in my head as I took one step of faith at a time. One foot in front of the other until I saw a small light in the distance. As I walked closer, the light grew bigger and bigger, and I knew I was not alone. I was reminded that I was chosen and called to be there in the Helsinki, Finland mission. And I walked until I reached the end of the tunnel.

A Welcome Home

“You did it!” he said, “You served your whole mission, and you served well. We are so proud of you! We love you, and we missed you. Welcome home, Aubrey!”

I was there in my father’s arms, hugging tightly in the middle of the Dallas Texas airport. I felt comfort, protection, and safety. I was finally home from the most amazing and difficult mission of my life, knowing that the reason why I could stay in Finland for the whole 18 months was because of my father’s counsel, love, and support. His example is what kept me going when times were hard. His encouragement is what gave me hope and happiness when times were easy. He was always there when I needed him most, and at this moment of time, back from Finland, in the airport in my orange, white-floral dress, with my arms wrapped around him, I was grateful for my father’s love.