Ten years ago today I returned home from my mission. While I had some great experiences on my mission, and I don’t really regret doing it all that much, it wasn’t the “best year and a half of my life” that it was billed as. They say that missions are hard, but words can’t quite convey exactly how hard, and 19 to 21 year olds aren’t likely to listen anyway.
I joined the church shortly before my 13th birthday, and through my teenage years, I decided that when I was old enough, I was going to serve a mission. I didn’t really know what missionaries did all day, and I was painfully shy, but I figured that if the guys were expected to do it, I shouldn’t be exempted based on something as irrelevant as my chromosomal makeup.
People tried to talk me out of it, saying that I should get married instead. I thought that was kind of silly, since by the time I was a legal adult, I wasn’t in a serious relationship. It’s not like I could dial 1-800-Find-a-husband and be wed by the next month. There was a guy I sort of had kind of an on-again-off-again thing going on with, but he was totally supportive of me serving a mission.
