Typical [tip-i-kuh l]: adjective, not me.

A note from the editor: 
Is there a typical? Maybe, maybe not. Is there a "too late" to do something? Sometimes, sometimes not. We all run across unexpected delays and obstacles in our life plans, but that doesn't have to ruin the greater whole. We are all on different timelines, fighting different spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical foes, but we can be united as we celebrate individual victories, which could span from changing a lightbulb to graduating college to learning how to love our whole selves. 

In the words of Loretta Randall Sharp, the community of God [a.k.a. the human race] is not one of "clones": for "if we allow ourselves instruction from heavenly beings in different ways, and if we celebrate rather than fear differences in one another, we will do as our Heavenly Father commands: we will become one." 


So sit with this friend for a few minutes and become one. 

Story 2 of many.

Typical [tip-i-kuh l]: adjective, not me.

            My life after high school graduation seemed anything but typical.  When I walked at graduation, I was not actually done with high school yet. During my senior year, my OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) had gotten so bad that I had to be pulled out of school for several months because I could hardly function doing simple tasks such as washing my hands and eating, let alone attending school and completing homework.  No matter how hard it got though, I was determined to make it back to school in order to be able to walk at graduation, which I was able to do with time to spare.  It still seems quite miraculous that I managed to make such a quick turn-around, but with a combination of medication and a crush on a girl (never underestimate the power of either of those), it proved to be surmountable.  Since I had missed so much school, there were some final assignments and tests I had to make up in order to get my diploma, which I worked very hard on in the months following graduation.

            I attended school in California for my first three years of high school and then my family moved to Oklahoma for a few years. My older brother went on a mission in Nagoya Japan soon after I graduated.  He is the oldest in our family and I am the second oldest, so it goes without saying that he and I had been pretty close growing up, since we were only one grade apart all through school.  He had started learning some Japanese in high school and persuaded me to do so as well, which wasn’t hard because I love languages, though I only knew French and Spanish at the time. These experiences helped me continue my lifelong passion for language.

            My family moved to Washington after my brother returned from his mission. At this time, going to college or on a mission were the last things on my mind.  To explain it succinctly, I just simply needed a break from school after grueling high school days with Sundays as a brief respite from the unbearable demands of school. This “little break” turned into a “very extended break,” which continued for the next ten years until I started school as a 27-year-old freshman at BYU.  (insert dramatic pause). There was always one other thing that kept getting put off during these years too: going on a mission.  The reason I kept putting off filling out my mission papers was because my parents and I wanted to make sure I was in the best possible health mentally for a mission. In case you didn’t realize this, missions are kind of hard on every level, so I wanted to be ready.  My younger brothers also got into the mission delay “flow,” but seven years after I’d graduated from high school, my parents encouraged all three of us to go on missions at the same time. Somehow that worked: all three mission calls came in the mail on the same day.  Each of us opened our respective calls one by one: one of my brothers was called to Atlanta, Georgia; the other was called to Jacksonville, Florida; and I was called to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.  All three of us English-speaking. 

Because I’d spent a lot of timing learning and loving languages, I was very disappointed that I hadn’t been called to a foreign country, or at least foreign-language speaking (like Spanish) somewhere in the US.  I managed to swallow my pride and prepared to head out to the MTC.  Our sister got married that year too and so all four of us siblings went to the temple and received our endowments at the same time. Going through the temple for the first time was in no way what I had expected. Some might call it bewildering. That’s not an understatement, although I can’t quite say what I actually was expecting it to be like. Nonetheless, I enjoyed attending my sister’s sealing before leaving for the MTC.  

            Our whole family drove the three of us missionaries down to Provo, UT to drop us off at the Missionary Training Center.  Unfortunately, our family missionary fairy tale story got complicated and both of my brothers went home during their MTC time. When I found out, I was so devastated and felt all alone in the world (i.e. in the MTC).  A little miracle happened for me though during this time too. Somehow word got around that I could speak a few other languages (my teachers were always getting on me for always talking to other missionaries in any language other than English), so I was called in to have a brief conversation to test my Spanish abilities.  They must have been impressed because the next thing I knew,  they asked, “What would you think about changing your call to Spanish-speaking?”  I responded, “That would be amazing!”  I exchanged all of my mission materials from English to Spanish, got new Spanish-speaking companions, and turned 25. The missionaries from my English-speaking district drew me a birthday cake on the chalkboard with “Happy birthday!” written in various languages to commemorate my love for languages, which meant a lot to me.

My mission time in Pennsylvania turned out to be much shorter than I had expected.  After about a month, I experienced what’s called a “manic episode” (which was related to me having been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder a certain amount of time prior to heading out on my mission). This resulted in scaring my companion half-to-death in the middle of the night, which led to him calling the zone leaders, who came over immediately. This was followed by my mission president paying a visit the following morning, which was when I was taken to a hospital near the mission office. I stayed there for a week or two, after which I was sent home for medical reasons. I was so disappointed and ashamed after coming home early (which is apparently fairly common) that it eventually led to an extended period of deep depression.  I so much wanted to go back out and complete my mission, but alas, it was not meant to be.  That shame of coming home early from my mission has haunted me ever since, and I still feel out of place whenever I’m with a group of people swapping mission stories.  Yet out of the ashes of all that sadness and disappointment emerged my determination to go to school at Brigham Young University and earn a college degree, however “behind” I may have felt. 

That journey started about two years after coming home early from my mission and recently concluded after an 8-year sojourn at BYU (ending at age 35). Now I have a double BA in Spanish and German Studies and an MA in Spanish (Hispanic Literatures) to prove it.  I have always wondered what my life would have been like if I had actually been “normal” and started college or a mission right after high school, yet I am grateful to have been at BYU when I was because I would have never met the same amazing people otherwise and had the same perspective and experiences.  Life after college is still uncertain at the moment, but I’m determined to keep giving life all I’ve got for as long as I am privileged to live in this fleeting mortal existence and beyond into the never-ending eternities forever and ever.  Until then, farewell/adiós/adieu/さようなら/tschüss/adeus/addio/hej då/tot ziens/再见/до свидания/γεια, et al ad infinitum.
Story 2 of many.