Decisions

When it comes to most things, I have never been a decisive person. Deciding to serve a mission was no exception. I was certainly never the girl that "knew my entire life that it was my calling." It had been a decision that I began seriously considering the summer of my 20th birthday when I realized that I could be very well be serving as a missionary exactly one year from that point. Serving a mission was not exactly on my to-do list. But neither was attending BYU, majoring in piano performance, or living in Utah (not to be a hater or anything ... ). Life is funny sometimes. Prior, it had simply been a matter of "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it" situation.  Only, that bridge came much sooner than I had anticipated.

One Saturday afternoon, I was making my way out of the BYU testing center, my hand recovering from a winding essay on polyphonic 16th-century music. As I do following every exam, I glanced at the wipe board near the exit that generally screams some sort of witty remark or countdown to brighten a student's dampened spirits. President Monson announces that girls can serve missions at age 19, it declared in glaring red Expo marker.  I didn't believe it. However, the countless texts of Are you going on a mission?!  I've already called the bishop! confirmed that no human crying "April fools'" would be jumping out of the bushes anytime soon.

What ensued was a fascinating frenzy of seemingly every BYU girl reassessing her life plans to see if a mission should be a part of it. For me, it was a matter of prayer, scripture-reading, countless late-night phone calls with my parents, and far too many bowls of Life cereal at 2 am for months.  I guess I was just waiting ... waiting for some single, momentous confirmation. I didn't want to go "just because it was cool" [insert hipster joke]. But the more that I thought and prayed about it, the more right it felt. Interestingly enough, the strongest confirmations came as I would be perched on my little piano bench in the solitary confinement of a practice room. One day, as I was drilling a measure of a Debussy prelude for the umpteenth time, it hit me like a ton of bricks. And that was enough for me. The gospel makes me happy; I want others to be happy. The world could use a little lovin'. I'd also be a liar if I didn't admit that the prospect of living in a foreign country for 18 months was appealing. I decided that I would just begin my papers, and if it truly wasn't something that I was supposed to do, I would know it. I finished my papers. I submitted them. I received a call. 

Some days it feels so entirely perfect. Tokyo remains the former stomping grounds of my father, brother, and sister-in-law during their days as missionaries. I'll finally progress beyond the second grade in my Japanese skills. Most Some days it feels so entirely intimidating. I realize I have little comprehension of truly how difficult missionary work can be. Regardless, I'm confident it's a leap of faith that I won't ever regret. This doesn't mean I won't miss my family, stilettos (so sorry to sound shallow), my "sleep-inducing hipster music" as my brother likes to say, the piano, or my friends in Provo any less. But I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to serve and can't wait for all the experiences that will be undoubtedly difficult but rewarding.

On a side note, I stumbled on the following video one day. If I needed this, maybe someone else does too. It's a good one.