Effective immediately.
Approximately 7 years ago, I received my Patriarchial Blessing.
You can imagine what was going through my mind as a 14-year old when the idea of a mission was planted. If you can't, it was something along the lines of, "Oh hey, cool. A mission. At 21. That's a long time away!"
Okay, that's probably not what went through my mind. What I probably thought about missions at the time was, "21 is old."
Either way, since then I'd thought regularly about serving a mission.
No lie. Regularly.
Living in northern Utah, I've probably been to Temple Square a good... fifty or so times. The sister missionaries at temple square make it a point to ask if you are going to serve a mission. Even at the ripe old age of 14. Kudos to them, recruiting young ;) They then proceed to tell you how AH-MAZING it is and will talk to you about it until the end of time.
Even if I didn't visit temple square at least 4 times a year, there were plenty of young men in my church that were leaving for a mission. Naturally, I was interested. When a 19 year old boy you think is attractive decides he is leaving for two years to share a message about Christ to obscure parts of the world, you think a little deeper about "why". There weren't as many girls I knew going on missions, but I knew it was perfectly possible.
I also knew that my amazing mother had served a mission (Portland, Oregon). She has shared experiences about her mission with me since I was little, and reminds me every day of how important serving the Lord is. (Mosiah 2:17)
So, from the time I was 14, I was pretty sure that I would serve a mission.
Approximately 20 days ago, I (along with 4,000 other young men and women) started mission papers.
On Friday, I called my bishop here in Provo so I could start meeting with him about a mission. He didn't answer, so I resolved to call him on Monday to make an appointment to see him later in the week.
Following President Monson's historic announcement that Saturday, I called my bishop to start papers ASAP.
Why wait? The announcement was effective immediately.
After talking with my YSA bishop in Provo, I decided it would be better to go through my home ward. I could imagine that the bishops in YSA wards getting slammed with young women especially wanting to start their papers.
I did (and still do, although it's decreased some) have a fear about those jumping in and starting their papers just because the age was changed. I worry that we haven't been completely educated about a mission, and how hard it really is. I've talked with a lot of return missionaries in my ward and they all bring up the same point:
The stories you hear about someone's mission are always good. In homecoming talks, you hear the same 5 stories and automatically think a mission is rainbows and ponies. But if you think about it, in two years, two years, you have 5 outstanding experiences? What happened the other 725 days? Most likely rejection. Doors slamming in your face. Dropped appointments. Investigators that fall through.
BUT,
I stumbled across this blog post. It resonated with me. I knew why I wanted to serve, and it gave me a little more comfort about why others have chosen to dive into this.
This is a wonderful thing, don't get me wrong. I just know that a lot of my dear friends have served with companions that don't really want to be out there and have gone just because they felt pressured.
That said, I know of quite a few missionaries that went out just because it was expected and have become fantastic missionaries and servants of the Lord.
Approximately 14 days ago, I submitted my mission papers.
Yes, yes. It took me one week to start and submit my papers.
Everything lined up perfectly, and it definitely helps that I don't have to have my wisdom teeth out. In fact, I don't have any wisdom teeth.
Does that mean that I am less wise than all the 16 year olds that are having their surgeries?
Or... am I more evolved? What's the point of wisdom teeth anyway?
Approximately 34 hours ago, I received a phone call that I've only dreamed of. My mission call had arrived and was at the post office waiting to be delivered to my Mountain Green home.
Torture. Pure torture.
Mom called at 7 am to let me know that it had arrived.
I had to give a presentation in a class at 4.
I also had to be in two other classes to receive my participation points (normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but they are worth a 3rd of my grade...)
After zoning out and having a terrible time paying attention for 9 hours, I finally made my way north.
More torture.
About a month ago, our family planned to go to the Warren Miller movie. Obviously we didn't know what big announcement was going to come that day...
30 minutes into the movie seemed like hours, but we stayed for an hour and a half.
It was killing me.
We left at intermission because, obviously, I couldn't wait any longer. (My family took pity on me. After being in the fetal position for more than a half hour straight, they figured it would be better for my health if we left)
Approximately 20 hours ago, I opened my mission call
I've been asked several times if there was a place I'd like to go on my mission. Every time, I said "I have no idea. I just want to go!"
I'd always hoped I'd go foreign, but there is such a need for missionaries within the states, that I knew that wherever I go is where I'll be needed (reading Elder Rasband's talk definitely opened my eyes to the calling process, and how inspired it truly is. I'm a believer!)
Sitting in the Miller movie, I said a quick prayer. "Heavenly Father, please let me know that wherever I go will be right for me."
Right after, I had the strongest feeling that I would be going foreign. Specifically Germany.
To avoid disappointment, I pushed the feeling away. I really did not want to get my hopes up. (I went on a study abroad to Austria (which you can read about and see pictures here... It's only... Half written. Forgive?) and traveled up into Germany where I fell in love with everything about it! It's only been a year since I left for Austria, and I have been just itching to go back!)
There was no fanfare when the letter was opened.
There weren't even words.
Literally.
I could not speak.
All I could do was cry and try not to look like a blubbering fool... (Which, might I add, I failed miserably at)
I was finally able to choke out the first line of the letter.
Two words:
Berlin, Germany
I still can't believe it.
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