called to serve (or the story of why I chose to serve a mission)

About a month and a half ago, I experienced what I would call my mid-college crisis. I'd say midlife crisis, but I'm hoping that my 20s aren't the middle of my life, so the term doesn't really apply. I started to feel like I didn't know what I was doing with my life. I felt like I had no direction, no purpose. It seemed like suddenly everything I was doing didn't feel right.

In a desperate plea, I turned to my Heavenly Father. Earlier in my life, when I was trying to decide which college to attend, I made a promise to God that I would go wherever He wanted me to go and do whatever He wanted me to do. In this low moment, I reaffirmed this commitment. I wanted so badly to get out of the funk that I was stuck in and I knew that He would have the answers for me.

It was time for me to visit my bishop to renew my temple recommend. In the interview, he asked me how things were going. I mentioned that I'd been struggling with this feeling of being stuck. He wisely advised me to listen during conference in the upcoming weekend. 

I kept praying, asking my Father in Heaven to tell me anything at all about what He wanted me to be doing. I just wanted to feel like I was going down the right path, like I was doing the right things.

My friends and I got together to watch conference at my apartment. We were all sitting on the couch, reminiscing about things that had happened the last time that we watched conference. We were eating pancakes with whipped cream, talking and laughing so much that we almost missed the announcement. But the second that I heard President Monson announce that sisters would be able to serve missions at age 19, it was like a glimmering beam straight from Heaven to my heart. I knew, without any doubt, that this was my answer. 

I started jumping and screaming and crying at the same time. I couldn't even sit still, I was so excited. I think I missed everything else that happened during the first session. My phone wouldn't stop buzzing as everyone I knew started texting me, telling me that I was the first person they thought of when they heard the announcement. 

I skyped my parents between sessions and we discussed the idea. With their support,  I began work on my mission papers. I felt strongly that I needed to leave as soon as possible, so I listed my availability date as January 1st. Things fell together nicely from there. 

 Alma 26:36 says "for this is my life, my joy and my salvation," and that's how I feel about the gospel. This is my whole entire life. My testimony of the Church influences every decision I make. It brings me true joy and happiness and I cannot wait to share that joy and happiness with others while I serve as a missionary. 1 Timothy 1:7-8 says "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and love, and of a sound mind. Be thou therefore not ashamed of the testimony of the Lord." I believe this with all my heart. I know that I have no need to be afraid. God will support me as I strive to do the things that He wants me to do. 

I know that this is what God wants me to do. I am beyond thrilled that I have been called to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Virginia Richmond Mission. I report to the Provo Missionary Training Center on January 16th, a mere 37 days away!

That's all.

when it rains

Oh, how I love the rain! As I was walking between the library and the office today on campus, the wind started blowing and rain started pouring, and I began to reflect on how much I love rainstorms.

My Utah friends won't understand, really, because they've never experienced Texas rainstorms. But my Southern friends know what I mean. Rainstorms are beautiful and kind of miraculous. The idea that water can magically convert to clouds and then again become water as it falls from the sky is so fascinating. Here I was, walking across campus, looking up at the sky in wonder and awe, recalling my true thoughts about rain.

About two months ago, I was having the absolute worst of days. I had never felt so homesick and I just wanted to catch the next plane to Texas and get away from my life. Deep down I realized that running away from my problems was not the way to make things better, but I wanted to pretend that everything was better in Texas and that leaving would make me happier. 

As I walked to campus that day, I thought about all the things I loved about Texas, and after making a rather lengthy list I realized I missed real rainstorms. In a desperate prayer, I remember looking up at the sky, wishing it would rain. 

And then it began to rain. I started to cry a little bit, so grateful that my Father in Heaven had heard my plea and recognized how much a rainstorm would mean to me. I got to class late, soaking wet, and grinning from ear to ear. My peers around me complained about how inconvenient the storm had been, ruining their hair, making them late, destroying their projects. But it didn't matter, because all I could think about was that the rain meant that God loved me.

Since that afternoon, I've come to love the rain even more. Provo is in the desert, so it doesn't rain that often, but the few times it has sprinkled even a little bit, I just smile and keep it as my own personal reminder that God hasn't forgotten me.

And oh, how I love the rain! 

That's all.

all grown up

When I turned 18, I thought I was so grown up. Becoming a legal adult seemed like the answer to everything. I don't know why I thought this way, but I did. It felt like I was on top of the world. All my big decisions were pretty much made - I knew where I was going to school, I had enough money to get me through the first semester.

Turns out I was wrong. There was so much more to growing up then leaving the home of my parents. I had far more decisions to make then merely to step on that plane. I had to figure out how to make myself get up in the morning. I had to learn how to plan meals and eat the right number of vegetables. I had to learn how to get to class on time and how to go to bed at a reasonable hour. 

So I did it; I learned how to do all those things. I went through an entire semester of life on my own, and successfully discovered how to live independently. I thought this made me an adult.

But I was still wrong. And so here I am, learning how to do even more grown-up things. I paid for my first apartment after spending many hours and days searching, and researching and looking for the right one. I applied for my major after much pondering and worrying over whether I was making the right choice. I started looking for my first real job, not out of convenience or obligation, but out of necessity - if I don't make money, then I won't be able to pay for my rent.

And so, now, once again, I feel like I'm all grown up. But it's different this time. Because I don't feel so independent and adult-like that I think I'm ready to face the world and take on everything that comes my way. Rather, I understand that I'm taking steps toward the rest of my life. And it never stops changing and I never stop learning. Growing up isn't an event, it's a process. 

So here goes nothing.

That's all.

the little things

It's the little things that make me smile:

Walking down the street, listening to my brother on the phone as he demonstrates his ability to accurately count from one to one hundred.

Singing silly songs with my baby sister when she's supposed to be asleep.

Laughing at the fact that my professor failed to show up to Friday class. Again.

Watching the sky, waiting for it to snow, torn between excitement and dread. Will it be as cold as I think it will?

Washing the kitchen sink and catching my reflection in it's gleaming cleanliness.

Sweeping the floor and sighing in relief at the fact that my feet no longer crunch through layers of crumbs and chuckling at the fact that my roommate still doesn't realize that I have yet again given up on waiting for her to do her chores and have resigned to doing them myself.

Listening to my best friend's unbelievable happiness and relishing in the deep understanding between us that allows me to share this moment with her.

Making the sticky notes on my computer desktop line up in proportionate order, the exact amount of space between each one.

Seeing my favorite font on a campus poster advertising the Take Back Beauty movement.

Typing all my hours into my time management project spreadsheet and analyzing how I really spend all my time.

Singing along at the top of my lungs to my favorite Britney Spears song and looking back at the days I drove down the highway, blasting 90s pop music from my car's crappy speakers.

Vacuuming under the bed, then celebrating that the entire house is finally clean! Or at least vacuumed.

Looking at the beauty of the colors of the leaves for one last time before the freeze off during the snow tonight.

Go out and appreciate something small, but wonderful.

That's all.

ode to the oven

My dear sweet oven,

I care for you, honest I do. I am, however, frustrated.

You seem to be rather temperamental. Perhaps if we discuss this for a bit, you can share your feelings and we can work through our differences, and you could work more efficiently. Not that I find your work inefficient, I don't mean to offend.

Let me start by saying that it really is your fault. I am a good cook; ask anyone in the state of Texas. But upon my arrival in this cold place my baked goods have fallen flat. Literally.

At first I blamed the mountains. I declared war, fought some good fights, then realized I would never win in an attack against the earth. Dejected, I had decided I would just give up. Then I visited a friend and baked bread in her oven. It was an instant success.

I had a realization. It was not the mountains, or my cooking, that was causing the failure. It was you, dear oven.

Then you decided to stop opening when you're hot. This is a problem, as half of the times I open your door, you are at a high temperature. The crazy door-opening dance I have resorted to performing only works on occasion, and I would like to request that you stop that crazy nonsense.

Then today, when I went to clean you, you decided that you didn't want to be clean. The self-cleaning function has no intention of coming back to life and after scrubbing your interior for twenty minutes, I called maintenance.

And so, my dear, sweet, oven, I have only one request. Be nice to those kind maintenance men. Hopefully they will return you to your originally fully functional state.

Otherwise, this is war.

That's all.

losing an old friend

Over the past while, my beloved car has slowly begun to fall apart.

It started when the air conditioner quit working. For a long while, air only came out of the defrost vents next to the windshield. On really hot days, you could lean over the steering wheel and occasionally a small amount of semi-cool air would hit your face. Likewise, during the cold of the Texas winter, you could hold your freezing hands near the glass and warm them slightly. It proved to be an easy problem to fix; a small pin size hole had developed in the tube that switched between A/C and defrost. We paid someone some money and corrected the problem.

The next adventure was the seatbelts in the back seat. Heat and years of use broke the buckle part, and eventually one of them quit working entirely.

Then the mileage counter quit counting miles. It is forever frozen at 128079. Not to say we haven't traveled much further since then.

Problems continued with the cranky speakers. The bass had long since completely gone out, so there was always a little background fuzziness, but the lovely speakers have now decided that only one of them will work at a time. The truly fun part is guessing which one has chose to work at a particular moment. Any time you close a door or drive over a bump or even brake quickly, the sound rotates to a new speaker.

And then it was the driver's side window. The handle that you turn to crank the window down broke off, leaving the window permanently rolled up. Which doesn't seem like a problem until you realize that every time you go to the bank, or go to happy hour at Sonic, or turn in books at the library, or return your movie at blockbuster, or enter a parking garage, or get directions from the construction workers on the side of the road, or even just pull up next to your friend in the parking lot to make plans, you will not be able to roll down your window. Rather, you will have to open the door and get out of the car while the person behind you at the ATM stares at you like you've literally lost your mind and the construction worker looks like you're going to attack him since people don't usually get out of the vehicle in those types of situations.

But all these were manageable. It was the time that the clutch started acting up a month ago that we took the car in to the shop to be fixed. Which all seems rather harmless. We decided to have the clutch and brakes fixed, and the door replaced.

Well the car was returned in the most awful condition. The air conditioner had completely gone out, you had to slam in the clutch as far as it went and then jerk the gear shift as hard as possible, and they had managed to cut the muffler so the engine was insanely loud. The door was fixed though. That was a plus. In the interim before we returned it to the shop, I left work one afternoon to find that I could turn the key in a complete circle in the ignition while the car made no response. We had to have the ignition replaced and I then had two keys to the car: one to open the door, and another to start the engine.

Eventually we got the whole thing fixed, though the muffler never did return to perfect condition. And then last Wednesday, at approximately 5:28 pm, I was driving to work and the car died while I was stopped at a stop light. It was rather frightening actually.

My lovely vehicle has a habit of revving the engine on it's own while you're in a stationary position, so I though nothing of it while the engine revved as I sat at the light. But then the engine started making some loud noises, and it began to smell like something was on fire, and then the car turned off, much as if I had stalled out. I turned the key in an effort to restart the car, but to no avail. The most horrible noise, much like the sound you get when the chain falls off your bike and the gears grind together, came from the engine. I finally got it to jump forward, but I couldn't get it out of first. I rolled onto the street where I was working, and the car died right there. Leaving it on the side of the road, I ran to work.

Dad got the car, push-started it, and began to drive it to the shop, only to have it die on the side of the road. We towed it to Goodyear later that night.

The conclusion of my story came late yesterday evening when we heard the sad news: our car will never return. It breaks my heart just a little; it was my first car. I have many memories of driving in that good old friend. He was reliable, for the most part, and he got me where I needed to go.

So here's to my car, may he rest in peace.

Goodbye, my friend. You served me well.

That's all.