I stared at the clock, and if tradition held true the mail women would drop off the mail around 1 in the afternoon, and so I paced. My two German shepherds followed behind with each twist and turn, excited and unaware of the hurricane storming in my belly. I remember staring at the clock and seeing 12:31, and thinking "no harm in checking," and so I did. I reached for the mail key and walked barefoot the exact 15 steps to my mailbox. There was no sign of the mail lady around to see if she had stopped by our mailbox or not, and so calmly I chanted to myself "it's going to be here, and if not then it's ok. Breathe, please just breathe." My hands shook as I turned the key, and instantly my eyes landed on a thick, wide, white envelope. I screamed, or at least I tried to, my lungs were in shock.
I've never been a runner, but boy did I sprint back to my house. I slammed the door behind me as I yelled, "Dad, DAD! It's HERE!" My father was the only one home, and he came half-jogging out of his bedroom, laughing. "No way." He kept laughing as he hugged me tight. We hugged for a long time, both just in a state of bliss. Once I pulled away from him, he said "Well, open it." The reality of that moment became toooo real for me. So far the dream of serving a mission for my Lord and Savior, had just been that, a dream. But within my small hands held my very real future. A part of me wanted to just rip it to shreds, while a very dominate part wanted to tuck it away and keep the reality at bay. I shook my head, knowing my mother would murder me if I opened it without her. So I hid it. I knew myself and my father well enough that if we sat it in plain view long enough, the temptation would be to much and I'd cave.
We had the drill down, we would wait until 8 to open it, due to my grandparents being in Fiji on their mission and that was the most convenient time for them to skype. In theory that sounded like a good idea, but in practice, not so much. Waiting eight hours to open my call seemed like an eternity. So I tried to keep myself busy; I cleaned the house, blasted my social media sites with the news, texted sporadically, watched a few episodes of Supernatural, etc. But, no matter what I did, I could not get the envelope out of my mind.
At around 7:45 people began to trickle through the doors. I was grateful for the out pour of love I felt as people who had help shape me came to support me in my next adventure. I was even surprised that a second family of mine, from Mexico, called to be a part of the big moment. Once the clock stuck 8, and all the phones were faced on me, I began to tear open the seal. First rip, maybe I'll go to Australia? Second rip, maybe I'll be sent to New York? Third rip, maybe Chile? The paper was in my hands, and the packed room, full of Shurtz's who were for the first time in forever absolutely silent. I began to read out loud.
"Dear Sister Shurtz,
You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."
"STOP!" My mom yells at me. I freeze. Come on really? Now? Apparently my uncle had been disconnected, or something, but it had ruined my big moment. I tried to resist from reading further, but my eye had caught an "M" and instantly I thought "Madagascar!" I was so filled with emotions that I was prancing around like a two year old who needed to use a restroom. (If I learn how to upload video's I'll totally put it on here, it's hilarious). After "patiently" waiting 10 seconds I started up again.
"You are assigned to labor in the Spain Madrid Mission."
Cheers. Screams. Tears. My knee's buckle and I fall forward, my best friend of five years tackles me. I can't breathe. I'm trying to decipher the emotions, but I can't pinpoint them, they're new to me. It's a mixture of excitement, fear, nerves, love, joy, but mostly it's reality rushing all through my body. The closest thing I can describe it to is probably how the football coaches feel when their players pour cold Gatorade all over them after a big win. Not the most religious metaphor, but the most accurate.
Ironically, I didn't want to go to Spain. Not because I loathed the place, or the people, or anything like that. This is going to sound ridiculous but it's the honest truth, I didn't want to learn the "vosotros," form of spanish. I just didn't. I had spent the last four years of my life, NOT learning vosotros, and now I'd be back in the beginning. But I'd always say while I was waiting for my call, "I want to go to Europe, and I want to learn Spanish. But I do NOT want to go to Spain. So however God can swing that, that'd be great." So here I am. 38 days left, and I could not be more excited to go.
We had the drill down, we would wait until 8 to open it, due to my grandparents being in Fiji on their mission and that was the most convenient time for them to skype. In theory that sounded like a good idea, but in practice, not so much. Waiting eight hours to open my call seemed like an eternity. So I tried to keep myself busy; I cleaned the house, blasted my social media sites with the news, texted sporadically, watched a few episodes of Supernatural, etc. But, no matter what I did, I could not get the envelope out of my mind.
At around 7:45 people began to trickle through the doors. I was grateful for the out pour of love I felt as people who had help shape me came to support me in my next adventure. I was even surprised that a second family of mine, from Mexico, called to be a part of the big moment. Once the clock stuck 8, and all the phones were faced on me, I began to tear open the seal. First rip, maybe I'll go to Australia? Second rip, maybe I'll be sent to New York? Third rip, maybe Chile? The paper was in my hands, and the packed room, full of Shurtz's who were for the first time in forever absolutely silent. I began to read out loud.
"Dear Sister Shurtz,
You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."
"STOP!" My mom yells at me. I freeze. Come on really? Now? Apparently my uncle had been disconnected, or something, but it had ruined my big moment. I tried to resist from reading further, but my eye had caught an "M" and instantly I thought "Madagascar!" I was so filled with emotions that I was prancing around like a two year old who needed to use a restroom. (If I learn how to upload video's I'll totally put it on here, it's hilarious). After "patiently" waiting 10 seconds I started up again.
"You are assigned to labor in the Spain Madrid Mission."
Cheers. Screams. Tears. My knee's buckle and I fall forward, my best friend of five years tackles me. I can't breathe. I'm trying to decipher the emotions, but I can't pinpoint them, they're new to me. It's a mixture of excitement, fear, nerves, love, joy, but mostly it's reality rushing all through my body. The closest thing I can describe it to is probably how the football coaches feel when their players pour cold Gatorade all over them after a big win. Not the most religious metaphor, but the most accurate.
Ironically, I didn't want to go to Spain. Not because I loathed the place, or the people, or anything like that. This is going to sound ridiculous but it's the honest truth, I didn't want to learn the "vosotros," form of spanish. I just didn't. I had spent the last four years of my life, NOT learning vosotros, and now I'd be back in the beginning. But I'd always say while I was waiting for my call, "I want to go to Europe, and I want to learn Spanish. But I do NOT want to go to Spain. So however God can swing that, that'd be great." So here I am. 38 days left, and I could not be more excited to go.
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