Hace un año desde que volví de mi misión.

It’s odd to think that one year – exactly one year ago – I walked into the foyer at the Peachwood building, saw my parents at the door, and literally ran into their arms. One year ago I ended the hardest 18 months of my life. One year ago I felt the conflicting emotions of relief and happiness of being able to hug my family and call them whenever I wanted, and the wrenching pain and heartbreak of leaving behind Utah, speaking Spanish every day, and being surrounded by my beloved Hispanic culture.

One year ago, I crossed off the number one goal I’ve had in life since I was twelve: serve a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I don’t want people to think this goal was simply something I wanted to check off. My mission has had meaning to me from the very first day I decided I wanted to serve.

It was Sunday morning in my ward back in Tucson. A recently returned sister missionary from my stake was speaking in sacrament. I don’t remember her name or what she looked like, just that she served a Spanish speaking mission in California. Her talk riveted me. The entire time she spoke I sat on our pew, in awe at the experiences and stories she shared. I realized that I wanted to help people like she had. I wanted to bring them comfort. The rest of church I kept reflecting on her talk and how I had felt during it. By the time we got home I decided that at 21, I would serve a mission. I walked to my bedroom, put a few spare dollars in a white envelope to start my mission fund, and waited for 9.5 years to get my call.

Missions aren’t easy. Mine was no exception. To be honest, I cannot say my mission was the best 18 months of my life. But every single lesson I learned along the way was worth it: humility, acceptance, and coming to know my Savior more intimately than before.

It started with my mission call. On June 28, 2012 – after three weeks of waiting – that blessed white envelope I’d dreamed of getting arrived in the mail. I had to wait a painstaking six hours before I could open it. My parents and sister were on Skype and with trembling fingers and a pounding heart I opened my call.

While reading it, I had to hold back tears of violent disappointment. My heart sunk when I read the words “Utah Salt Lake City West Mission.” I never wanted to serve in Utah. My disappointment turned into shock when I read, “You will prepare to preach the gospel in the Spanish language.” I still remember the gasps from my family and two friends who were there and the disbelief that kept mounting inside of me. For the briefest moment I considered sending my call back to Church headquarters and asking for a new one. This couldn’t be right. God gave me everything I never wanted for my mission call!

As I grappled with coming to terms with my call, I had to deal with a lack of support from the ward where my records resided in Ohio. Then the age change was announced.

October 6, 2012 was a big day in the Church. That was the day President Monson announced the lowering of the missionary ages. Boys could now go at 18 and girls at 19.

I sat on the couch at home, stunned. October 6th was four days before I entered the MTC. I’d waited nine years to serve, and now the Lord decided that 19 year old girls could go on missions? I was furious and, to be quite honest, jealous. During certain moments of my mission I felt that my service was looked down on because I hadn’t been a 19 year old who dropped everything to serve. That night I walked around the pond in our backyard and very honestly talked to God about my frustrations. I felt peace. I knew I was going at the right time to the right mission speaking the right language. I felt then that my mission was tailored for me and no one else.

October 10, 2012 I entered the MTC. My journey officially began, and I had no idea what in the world I’d gotten myself into.

The MTC really is like a boot camp. I think, more than anything, I saw my inadequacies for the first time while in the MTC. I was broken down and humbled to the extreme. It was like Heavenly Father was telling me, “I cannot work with you while you’re like this, Hermana. You need to be the missionary I need you to be. That means leaving behind a lot of your past attitudes and ways of thinking. I need you to change for me. You gave this time to me. Please let me guide you and mold you.”

Luckily I had a great MTC district and teachers who had massive amounts of patience with me. Looking back, I wish I had been kinder to them all and not gotten so frustrated and upset with them. I think that was my first lesson in accepting myself – accepting that I’m not perfect and have a lot of flaws when it comes to dealing with people. I will always be thankful for that very first district and everything we went through together – especially struggling through the language. Those elders, sisters, and teachers will always have a very fond, special place in my memory.

So why can’t I say my mission was the best 18 months of my life?

There were a lot of very personal, hurtful trials I went through, especially the last six months of my mission. A lot of those trials were things leaders said to me. Their words and actions scarred me on an emotional level. I felt alone and betrayed. When I came home, I harbored nasty, ill feelings towards these people. I hated my mission for the first few months after coming home. It left a horrible taste in my mouth and I questioned if it had been worth it to serve.

Before I got transferred [or my companion], I had my companion write a note in my journal – whatever they wanted. When my favorite district leader got called to be a zone leader on the opposite side of the mission, I had him write in my journal. A specific line he wrote began the healing process about nine months or so after I returned home:

“Always remember those cherished memories you have had on your mission.”

My anger and hatred began taking its toll on me. I was tired of having these feelings toward an event that I had looked forward to for nearly a decade. About a month ago I finally asked my mom to send me my mission journals. Last night, as I was flipping through one, I remembered all over again how much I truly loved my mission.

Yes, I did go through some very hard things. Those memories still cause me pain. Yes, I made plenty of mistakes as a missionary and probably burned quite a few bridges with some people. But I also had a fantastic time in Utah for 18 months.

One of my biggest blessings was getting to train four times. Four! I never thought the Lord would trust me to train any of His new missionaries. Two trainees I got straight from the MTC and two I finished up their last six weeks. I know I was a tough companion and trainer. But oh how I love these girls! All of them – every single one – has made me so proud. Whenever I would hear about their successes and accomplishments my heart would nearly burst with joy. All four are amazing women of God and they’re going to do marvelous things in the future. I learned something different with each hermana: how to laugh and have confidence in my abilities; how to be organized; how to trust; how to see the potential in everyone.

As I flipped through my journal entries last night, I was reminded of the love I developed toward my amazing Spanish speakers. To this day there are times I still feel more comfortable in a Spanish-speaking ward than an English ward. I miss their openness, their kindness, their willingness to take you into their home. I miss their simplicity, I miss how they would sometimes frustrate me, I miss their language. I was teased a lot until the day I went home because I didn’t get to go German speaking. But I learned to love Spanish with all my heart. I love singing it, randomly shouting out Spanish phrases, reading it, learning it even more. I love the gospel in Spanish. I love how the Lord loves all His children equally, so much that He makes it possible for the gospel to be taught in their language. I feel so blessed and privileged that He trusted me enough to learn this language. Was it frustrating? Yes. I struggle with Spanish to this day. But oh how I love, love, love it!

I did not have a lot of numerical success on my mission. A lot of the success and lessons came from inside of me. I learned how to accept the Lord’s will. I learned, firsthand and very painfully, what it meant to truly sacrifice for the Lord. I learned how to have confidence in my abilities. Training pushed me to take the lead and speak the language. It forced me to plan more effectively, value my companions’ opinions, and think of others. Over and over again I learned my faults. My weaknesses stared me down time and time again, and I realized how much I need to rely on my Savior.

The personal relationship I developed with Jesus Christ was the strongest bond I had on the mission. There were times I had no one else. The only person I could call on was Christ. I would sob into my bed, feeling lower than dirt, and begged and pleaded with him. I pleaded for help, I pleaded for forgiveness, I pleaded for strength. And He never failed me. Christ and Heavenly Father are more real to me now that they’ve ever been before. Now, to me, they’re real people, not just characters in the scriptures or a church lesson. They are deities who know me personally: my wants, fears, desires, heartaches, hopes.

I never expected to make friends on the mission. But I did. I met so many wonderful people who have blessed my life. I can’t imagine where I’d be without those companions, those friends from various districts, that wonderful family from Granger who became my adopted aunt and uncle. My last area in general became my home away from home. I struggled in Granger stake the first five transfers I was there. But I ended up loving it so much. Rama El Camino [which is now a ward] will forever be in my heart. Granger District – as destructive as it could be at times – helped me grow more than any other district. All of my best memories come from the eight months I was blessed with in Granger. I’m so thankful for these friends I made and the patience they had with me. I’m thankful for their examples and the lessons they taught me.

In the twelve months since I’ve returned, I’ve learned how to accept my service. You can’t compare one missionary to another. One person’s experience is going to be vastly different from another’s. And that’s the way it should be. I don’t expect anyone to understand the emotions I hold toward my mission. I don’t expect anyone to understand the adventure and journey I went on those eighteen months. My mission was very real, very personal. In one sense I did share it with others, namely my companions and the people we taught. But on another sacred level, it was something shared between me and the Lord. At times I feel distraught that missionaries after I left had so much success in my previous areas. I would wonder why that couldn’t be me. And then I remember that I’ve already felt the Lord’s approval over my service. I know I did everything I could have done with what I was given. I have felt the reassurance and peace that I did not let the Lord down. There were people in the mission who thought I was going to give up. But I didn’t. I didn’t back down. I fought until the very end.

As I’ve said before, missions aren’t supposed to be the best 24 or 18 months of your life. Rather, I feel my mission was a springboard into the life the Lord wants me to live. It began the shaping and molding for me to be the person the Lord needs me to be. I feel that the mission was a beginning – a beginning of something bigger and even better.

Was my mission worth it? Yes. A thousand times yes. I would serve another mission in a heartbeat.

My mission was the hardest, most rewarding experience of my life. Though it wasn’t a perfect mission and I wasn’t a perfect missionary, I wouldn’t change much of it.

After one year, I can finally say I’m starting to love my mission again.