The MTC

Honestly, it probably took a miracle to actually get me to the MTC, considering the emotional state I was in. The last few days before hand were awful; I woke up every single morning with a feeling of extreme unease, almost to the point of nausea, in the pit of my stomach. During the day, it wouldn't fade away, and in some cases, would get so bad that I would almost stop breathing if I thought too hard about leaving.

My parents came out the two days before I left so that we could do the necessary shopping. I am so grateful for their love and patience because I know I was short-tempered during that time. I also felt guilt on top of everything else. Here was my last chance to visit with my parents for 18 months, and we spent the time running around like crazy to get things done. There were just too many things to do to really appreciate the time I had with them.

If that isn't enough to make one cry, I don't know what would be.

The night before I left for the MTC was when I was to be set apart. For members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, being "set apart" means literally just that. When we are called to a position in the church, whether it is a teaching assignment, a bishopric assignment, or, in my case, a mission assignment, we are "set apart" or set aside for the calling. We are blessed with things we need to fulfill the assignment that we have been asked to do.

For me, this was to be done by a member of our Stake Presidency. He would give me a special blessing that would set me apart, in a sense consecrate me, to be a missionary for the next 18 months.

My parents, my brother and his wife, and my best friend came to this special event.

We went up to a building on BYU's campus where my Stake President had his office.

We waited.

And waited.

No one was there. We wandered around the building a little, knocked on his office and such. Nothing. I called his secretary. He tried getting a hold of the President. Nothing. He called his cell-phone, his home phone, his work phone. There was no response. Finally, the secretary told us to wait in a room on the floor above while he kept trying to contact him.

We went upstairs and waited some more. We talked, I paced; we read magazines, I worried. I don't remember how long we were there, but I think it was at least an hour and a half, maybe two, before the secretary told us to just go home for the night.

So we did. I came home and finished packing. What had happened? Did my Stake President forget about me? Why didn't he answer his phone? Was he ok?

I didn't sleep well that night, that I remember. However, early that Wednesday morning, one of the councilors called me. Apparently, with it barely being the end of the school semester, my Stake President had gone on vacation with his wife and were in an area that they didn't have phone service. His first councilor, therefore, would set me apart that morning before I left.

I remember rushing to get ready. His councilor lived a ways out of Provo, somewhere in the canyon, so we had to hurry if I were to make it back in time. However, in the back of my mind, all I could really think of was that he forgot. My Stake President, who interviewed me and helped me get ready, forgot that he was supposed to set me apart that night. Looking back, I feel a little guilty about thinking this since he was also a college professor and very busy with so many other things, but in my emotionally-broken mind, I couldn't see that. I saw it as another evidence of why I should not go.

Thankfully, the actual getting set apart process went smoothly. Although we may have gotten slightly lost on the way there, we found the right house in time. The blessing was beautiful, too. I may have been spiritually hardened at that time, but I could still feel the power of what was said.

When that moment was done, we drove quickly back to my apartment. As I was moving out that day, there was still necessary cleaning that I had to do, last-minute packing to do, and off to the MTC, literally down the street from where I lived, that very afternoon.

I was officially a missionary! I was dropped off in the driveway of the training center, collected by a fellow sister-missionary, and dragged my suitcases to one of the buildings. I know I must have looked back, know that I must have chocked back tears. Oh, how easily they came at that moment. I couldn't cry then. No, I had to be strong. I was off on another adventure, off to share the gospel. There would be time for crying later.

That first afternoon passed in a blur. So much information was thrust at us when they handed us our name badge. We were shown the dorms where we would sleep, the cafeteria where we would eat, and the classroom we'd spend the next six weeks in.

Yes, crying came later that night. When everyone was asleep and my tired head swirled in a fuzzy confusion, I shed those silent tears.