The First Time (What It was REALLY like to be a missionary that first time)

I stepped off the plane into a storm. The humidity swallowed me. Heavy, unfamiliar smells hung in clouds and I took deep breaths, my brain scrambling to place them. Garlic. Sesame. Wetness. Wetness in every form. Wet pavement. Wet hair. Wet skin.

Everything smelled wet.

I was coming from Utah. Most climates are wetter than Utah.

I was also eager. Eagerness and excitement snaked through my bones along with an overwhelming sense of tiredness. I would be tired for the next year. Bone tired.

I just didn't know it yet.

And tiredness isn't the worst thing.

The worst is being tired and trying to understand an Asian language you only had two months to learn.

From my first step off the plane nothing was as I expected it. To be honest, I didn't have a lot of expectations. I had no IDEA what life would be like, walking the streets in southern Korea, trying to talk to people about Jesus. All I knew was that I was supposed to be there. I felt it in my gut.

I was never a perfect missionary. I was always a hundred percent imperfect in fact. It had not always been my desire to serve and it certainly wasn't in my plan to pack up my bags and leave four months after getting engaged to my best friend and man of my dreams. As it was I had waited three years for his proposal. Three long years of dating that included watching every friend of ours get married and set off down the 'normal' path. All the while I KNEW in the back of my head, nothing about us would ever be 'normal.' Now, I love that about us. Then? I just wanted the 'normal' everyone else seemed to have, picket fence and all.

The proposal had been perfect. Secluded beach, sunset melting over the crashing waves, him taking me completely by surprise.

I just didn't plan on the next part of our journey. Us taking off to serve missions worlds away from where we were raised.

But when the call comes (and we all know what that internal tug feels like) you can't ignore it. At least I couldn't.

So I imperfectly surrendered my will (a bit of begrudging, foot stomping, and asking WHY now) and decided it was better to trust Him. Better to trust my heart in His hands, with His plan. And my heart was feeling something from Heavenly Father I couldn't ignore.

And now I was in Korea.

I couldn't believe I was an entire day and half ahead of my family. Living in the future, in Asia. ASIA.

After a whirlwind of introductions to the mission and missionary work I was set loose. Just like that I was with a companion (actually two) and we were trusted to wander the streets and find our way.

The first time I talked to someone about the gospel I loved  NOTHING went right. We were smashed into a train and my companion pointed out a lone, old man to me. I was nervous, but I approached.

"Hi" I muttered in Korean.

 He couldn't really understand any of my small talk in Korean, so I went right for the gold. Gospel talk.

I expected trumpets and angels to herald my message. Instead the man's face scrunched in confusion. He muttered something under his breath that I don't think was complimentary. I kept trying to talk in what I THOUGHT was Korean, but his face continued to look at me like I was an idiot.



My cheeks were red. My heart was heavy. And I wanted to bolt. I was messingthisup. I was messingthisup.

What. Had. I gotten myself into.

Eventually he turned his head and just ignored me. My body was hot with shame and my knees shook.

I bowed my head in defeat, ignoring the encouraging smile from my companion. I'm NEVER doing that again, I vowed.

Just as we stood to get off the train, the raisiny man reached out a hand. He gestured to the pamphlets I clutched. I decided to NOT try to talk in Korean and instead extended the pamphlet, with the painting of Jesus Christ on it, to his shaking hands. He grasped it, barely looking at me, his eyes riveted to the picture. His eyes drank in that picture of the savior and it was like the world around us stopped existing.

Time was up. The train stopped and we were pushed through the doors out into the streaming traffic of bodies.

I never saw the man again.

But I will never forget his face when he saw that pamphlet. And I knew then, no matter how imperfect I was...Heavenly Father was with me and would make up ALL The difference. No matter what.

All I had to do was be there and try.

Seeing Him the First Time (Being Engaged to an Elder)

Sunlight melted over my purple sheets. It was the only familiar thing to me as I opened my eyes and felt like the ceiling (which was just a foot above my head from my position on the top bunk) would eat me.

I was at the MTC. I'd survived my first day. I was still a missionary and still alive and all those goodbyes had been real.

My heart was swollen. It was so thick I could feel it lodged in my throat. This was real.

I felt a new apprehension assault me.

When would I see Him?

Him being my fiance, who was serving a neighboring Asian mission in Taiwan. Yes, we were engaged. Yes, we are in the 'over 25 group'. Yes, somehow we had been selected to be in the MTC together.

It had been two weeks since we'd said our goodbye. I could still taste my tears.

We had gotten engaged a few months earlier, only to realize that we were definitely meant to serve missions. So we hung the ring on a shelf (safely in my mom's closet) and threw ourselves into the process of doctor visits and paper work.

It was all a roller coaster blur. Everything was in warp speed until that moment when we had our last kiss under a tree. That moment was something I would never forget. His tears flowed with mine as I tried to push all my fears and doubts away.

"We'll take it on faith," we said. "One step at a time."

Three thousand and ten steps later I was at the MTC, wondering what it would be like to see him.

I had missed him like crazy for the two weeks he was gone, and I had decided that since I wouldn't be able to spoil him once I was a missionary, I took it as my personal mission to spoil him for those two weeks with treats, packages, cards, letters...everything and anything.

Once I was a missionary, I was determined that all of our exchanges would be on the 'gospel' side of things. We had decided to leave our personal relationship out of it. Out of our letters. Out of our minds. If we were going to do this crazy thing, we decided it may as well be done as right as we knew how.

And that was putting our missions first. There would be time for 'us' later.

My poor companion basically held my hand as we made our way down to breakfast. One of the sisters who lodged down the hall from us stopped us, "Hey, are you Sister Mardesich? Some elder has been looking for you everywhere."

I swallowed. Some elder.

As we entered the cafeteria I was engulfed by the excited frenzy of all the missionaries as they bustled their breakfasts to and from the tables. My companion had a wheat allergy, so she left me to go to her special area where they have all the wheat free food.

I said a quick prayer.

Heavenly Father, help me to be strong. Help me not to cry, or fall over, or jump up and down...help me help me helpmehelpme...

I worked my way through the crowd, not sure if I would see Him here, or somewhere else. A huge part of me was scared of seeing him. Another part of me wanted to get it over with. Another part of me just wanted...

"Hey." I heard a familiar voice, warm and happy, tap my shoulder.

My heart tripped. I turned.

He was grinning ear to ear. Full of light. Full of happiness. He had his camera out and quickly snapped a shot of my dumbfounded face. "I want to remember this," he joked.

Suddenly it was alright. I knew we were exactly where we were supposed to be. He was SO full of happiness and light, I knew he was where HE was supposed to be.

It was all gonna be okay.

Thank you, God. :)

From engaged to Missionary

The Shortest Goodbye for the Longest Time

I remember the drop-off like it was yesterday. Mint suit jacket. Gray pencil skirt. Practical flats. Very practical flats.

I was hanging up my heels for a year and a half and getting ready for the longest walk of my life.

I bit my cheek to keep from crying. I bit so hard I remember tasting the brassy flavor of blood. This was it, The shortest goodbye for the longest time.

I said goodbye to my parents and sister who were in the car. Camera flashes bounced across my back as I was whisked into what is called the "MTC" (Missionary Training Center).

After I lifted my shaking arm in a final wave, I didn't look back. Looking back would mean tears. And tears were something I had to save for later, when I could curl up on the bathroom floor alone and let the realness of what I was doing sink through me.

Excitement racked my bones along with a heavy dose of what-have-I-done.

I was 27 years old. I would be older than most of the girls I would be partnered with. And I had agreed to leave behind my entire support system for 1.5 years to serve the people of Korea. I was leaving behind my mom, dad, brothers and sisters. Friends.

Fiancee. (More on this later)

I swallowed and continued through the factory of checking in to my new life.

Name tag. Check.

Room assignment. Check.

Materials to learn Korean in 2 months. Uh. Check.

I was led to my room by a bouncy young woman. She had enough chatter in her for the two of us and I found myself grateful for the soft hum of her voice. I was able to tune out and try to catch my breath. Try to catch my thoughts.

The truth was, I had never. EVER. EVER planned on serving a mission. The truth was, I had resisted something I had felt tugging at me for at least four years on the pretense of having My Own Plan. And Knowing What Is Best For Me.

I don't know if you believe in God. I do. And I have felt His presence since I was about ten years old.

One thing I knew, God could see everything I couldn't. And that was enough for me.

It was enough for me to have one more step of Faith. And to turn my world upside-down, totally breaking up every puzzle piece of my life in hopes that when they landed, they would fall into something more beautiful, dynamic and strong than when they were created under my hand alone.

I followed that bouncy young woman through a circus of white shirts, black name tags and dark slacks into a small, basement classroom.

There she left me. I watched a few other people shuffle in. All dressed the same. All quiet, fidgety and nervous. We nodded our sympathetic greetings and waited.

Seventeen minutes later after the tension had thickened to a coastal fog, a small Korean girl walked into the room. She was warm and full of reassuring light. When she smiled at me I felt the whisperings of peace tickle at my skin.

And then she opened her mouth.

A language I had NEVER heard poured from her lips, easy as water. And it sounded like water too, a rush of cold, swirling water.

Was I supposed to understand this? Was I supposed to learn Korean IN Korean?

Panic clutched me and I took a deep breath.

Not knowing what to do, I opened my scriptures and glanced at the words.

FEAR not. I am with Thee.

FEAR not.

Fear. NOT.

I started to feel a calm energy. It wasn't very strong, but it was soothing.

And it was enough to take a breath and take the next step.



And now I am home. I have been home about six months, and my mind, body and spirit are still processing the experience I was able to have. I will be sharing some of this process as it filters through my mind.

Thanks for reading,

Jenn