The Real Housewife of Kenmore

This is me (don't ya love the humidity bangs?!). I served a mission in New York. I think about my mission at least once a day. Let me tell you why.

I got my patriarchal blessing when I was 16. As I sat quietly while hands were put on my head, there were parts of the blessing that I just knew before they were said outloud. I distinctly remember thinking "please don't say I'll go on a mission, please don't say I'll go on a mission." And the next few sentences said exactly that...with a little more detail. Argh. The kiss of death, a mission.

Time went on. I fell in love, I graduated from BYU, I grew up. Or so I thought. The MTC became a constant source of frustration for me, as I maneuvered my car in every possible way in order to avoid passing the source of the Holy Ghost screaming in my ear. Luckily, my wise sister told me one day on the phone "one day the Holy Ghost will stop prompting you to go on a mission." That was it for me. I prepared to go. I was 25.

To cut this blog post short and to spare you some personal details to the story...I went. I went to the New York New York South Mission. It was the time of my life...denim jumpers and all.

I have one very distinct memory of a Family Home Evening in Queens. As we sat teaching a small family about Christ in the projects of New York...I thought "I never want to leave, this is my home." It still is.

And while I can't speak Spanish very well anymore, I haven't forgotten a face from those crowded streets and mouse ridden apartments. I haven't forgotten crying from laughing so hard, and crying from feeling the spirit so much. I haven't forgotten the feeling of the spirit being so strong as it testifies to someone that the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I haven't forgotten the feeling of seeing someone dressed in white ready for baptism, or knowing that the Lord gave me the privilege of finding this person.

I miss my mission. I miss the people and their snarky attitudes and loving hearts. I miss the glimmer of remembrance in someones eyes as they nod their head in agreement that the Father and Son appeared to Joseph Smith.

I loved who I was there. The REAL me. Define that how you will.

The REAL me now is a housewife, a Mom, a spouse, a visiting teacher, a friend and still a missionary. But I still miss that girl in the jumper and tights walking the streets of NYC. She's still here.