And . . . I'm back!
I have certainly experience the most exhilarating, challenging, rewarding, redeeming, and speediest eighteen months of my life. (Seriously, time is such a bandit.) I LOVED MY MISSION! It was all that my heart hoped for and more. The most regrettable part about my mission in England is my lack of ability to share with others just what it meant to me. I find myself talking people to death about it, but all my gab still does the mission no justice. Mayhaps it is something you've got to experience firsthand to truly "get". What I will proclaim (and will do so now and forever) is that the mission has opened my heart to the reality of Christ and His Atonement. He is truly our Savior. He saves us from all things imaginable; the world, temptation, sorrow and pain, and even ourselves. It has been a deep honor and privilege to be his servant, and to walk in His footsteps and by so doing come to know Him in a very real way. Elder David A. Bednar said that we can meet Christ spiritually long before we meet him physically. And I say amen to that.
The transition home has been bittersweet. I miss every single thing about the mission. Everthing. Even the smell of sewers, dog poop, and mold overheating in the hot English summer sun. However, I adore, Adore, ADORE being surrounded by my nieces and nephews. They are huge! Corey and Travis are like, all growed-up, with deep voices and muscles and everything. And nothing has been better than having my mother as my companion. I follow her around the house nearly all day. Most of the time, I don't think she has caught on to what I am doing (or maybe she is just too nice to say anything about it). Last week, however, she did say that I needed to spend some time downstairs in my room . . . alone! I am still getting used to this idea. Life's just no fun when you don't have someone attached to your hip to share it with. Mom has also insisted that I sleep in. It felt so wrong, but my body responded well. I was conked out for hours. It was ridiculoso! Holy Hannah, I had not realized just how tired I was.
It's been loverly to catch up with friends and family and realize that not a whole lot of "catching up" has been required. A friend is a friend is a friend. And nothing changes that. Except for a few things, I suppose...like matrimony, or really bad eggs, or unpaid debts, or a loathing for ABBA *snort*. But since all these things are irrelevant, a friend is still a friend is a friend. Right.
Apologies go out for the rusty blog, or should I say rusty writing. It is strange to write outside of the prescribed email format of, "report on your companionship, week's work, and things learned in your personal study." Durrr...Must. Have. Structure.
New things/long lost old things that are quite nice for me:
1) A long awaited return to Patty Griffin. Oh, how she makes my heart sing. And the good news: she has a new album. Halleluiah!
2) Mountains. Wow, I tell you what, they are HUGE! Does anyone realize just how HUGE these things are?!? And hooray! My sense of direction has been so graciously gifted back to me. "The big mountains equal east . . . the big yellow one is the sun! The yellow one is the sun!"
3) Smaller food portions. British meals were legit. I did not miss a moment. The gravy, the yorkshire puddings, the sausages, the parsnips and turnips. I did all within my eating power to live it up. We won't even mention the amount of chocolate consumption. Oh dear. It was glorious. But even with all the glory of the gravies and cocoa, I find it pleasing to be now in control of my diet. Wahoo.
4) Ok, this is the confession to end all confessions. I made a mistake. I started a novel. And not your typical classic. It's a novel that is a bit escapist. (Yikes, I know. This is bad.) And not only did I just start this novel, but I fell in love with this novel. It sufficiently swept me off my feet. I may or may not have finished all but two chapters of this novel all in one night. (Ok, as long as I'm confessing here, I might as well be honest; I stayed up til 5am reading this novel.) Oops! I opened it up innocently thinking, I'll just read a chapter or two before I retire to bed. The plot thickened. "One more chapter, and then I'm done." I began ignoring the voice inside that said, "you need to get up and be productive tomorrow. It's just a novel, it's fiction. Put it down. You don't have to do this to yourself! Sister Mather get a grip! (Yes, I still call myself that, just as I still call trousers by their proper name. How embarrassing to call them pants!) As each chapter lead to the next I eventually found myself 3/4ths through the book and threw th
e voice of reason out the window. I was past the point of no return. The novel was mine to finish that night! Do you know how long it has been since I have done that?! Rewind to 6th grade when I would "sacrifice" my weekends ("Sure mom and dad, you go on a date. I'll tend Sara . . . if I have to. ") hanging out with friends, snuggle up on my bottom bunk to one of the many great books in my greasy Redwall collection. I was a fanatic. I don't know what it was about little rodents fighting with birds to defend their abbeys and castles, but every time I'd go to Barnes and Noble I'd step out with yet another addition to the series. Maybe it was my hope that the punk princess mouse who wanted to be a warrior would keep creeping up into the storyline. Gotta love a fighter. My step-dad, Neil, was concerned. "Evelyn, why don't you try something different, like Dickens?" It wasn't for me...at the time.
Late night reading is a genetic trait in my family. When we were young, my mom would come into our room at bedtime, help us with our evening prayers, kiss us goodnight, and switch off the lights. This is when the flashlights and books would come out from underneath the pillows. Mom was no fool, however. She'd make a point to pop her head in and tell us to put the books and flashlights away. Old habits die hard, apparently. Geh. And it doesn't help when you find a novel all about England, and Darcy, and the internal torment of dealing with reality verses escapism, and the author's voice sounds spookily like your own, and her vignettes are your own and you slightly fear and wonder if she has not secretly picked your brain open and feasted on the madness that is "Evelyn".
Confession complete then: The book is Austenland. The author, Shannon Hale. A wickedly brilliant woman. It's silly. It's fun. It's serves no sensible purpose but to merely entertain and to persuade girls to never give up on that Darcy dream. Heathcliffs are not worth the time/heartache (and neither are silly vampires or werewolves, as long as we are on the subject). I echo to wise words of John Bennion, "Go for a Darcy!" I totally dig this book. It's Helen Fielding gone clean and Dave Barry gone female. It's the novel I should have written myself but Shannon Hale beat me to it. Bravo, my dear. Bravo.
Oy! These numbered lists are intended to help me keep my writing brief, readable, and varied. And then I met Mr. Tangent. Doh. I sure do love that man.
Good to be home. I live in the States by day, and dream of England by night. It's a decent equilibrium, for now.
