I turned 25 this week. There's nothing like a quarter century mark to prompt one to look back on the past few years and in consequence look forward too. I've been thinking a lot about my last five years--and all the images that come with that.
My junior year of college. That summer I worked as a youth camp facilitator. The MTC and how I couldn't wait to get to Texas. Those first several months in Texas and I waded through homesickness, illness, loneliness, and the sincere joys of sharing the gospel. That devastating phone call that said I was going home earlier than expected. Not knowing if I would go back and finish. Falling in love. Not wanting to go back and finish. An innocent, although inappropriate, kiss and a few days later getting on the plane anyway. Eleven bittersweet months--my adorable companions, the people I taught, the land I never wanted to leave, and the man I couldn't wait to come home to. Taking off my nametag, exhausted, nervous, and relieved. A hello hug. Two brief trips back to Texas with loved ones. A summer romance that was a long time coming. A ring--bigger and sparklier than I could have ever imagined--on my finger. Whirlwind nine-week engagement. A perfect, beautiful, sunny, warm day dressed in white with my love at my side. Back to school. Back to work. A new job. A belated California honeymoon. Burying two of my favorite people during the same week. A jump into the unknown, followed by a positive test, a long embrace, a deep breath and whispers about how we were terrified and unbelievably excited. Muddling through those last twelve credits with hourly trips to almost every bathroom on campus. Turning in my last final, knowing I had accomplished my goal twice over. Working, waiting, preparing. Fatigue. A check-up that turned into my first ambulance ride and 50 hours of labor later, the most precious and beautiful little baby girl in my arms. Three weeks in the NICU. Weeks that defined her life, my life, and his life. A passed weight test. A carseat with an actual baby in it. Tears all the way home. Learning to be a family of three. A graduation ceremony. Days filled with diapers, smiles, stories, and love.
I am living my dream.
The thing I miss most about being a missionary is those Thursday afternoons in some library in some town in Texas, spending an hour recording how my life went for the last week: what I'd learned, where I'd been, who I'd been with. And I realized this week that I really miss writing that record.
So I am going back to my roots and I am reintroducing myself to preparation day. I never knew exactly who saw my letters--I know the email reached my mom, who sent it out to a list of people I loved, who may or may not have passed it on in turn. And since our family blog is so private it's basically under cyber lock and key, I've decided it is time I started another blog and got back to my weekly writing hour.
Welcome back to Thursday morning.
