Mission Info

Hoo boy, I have a LOT to do this month! I can't believe I only have one month until I report to the MTC. I'm already starting to have those nightmares where I show up only to be turned out for forgetting something important. Yet I'm filled with that same thrill I got just before going to BYU for the first time. I'm making lists and planning my days and basically just getting psyched to go!

I got a letter from my mission president this last week, complete with a DVD with pictures from the Asuncion North Mission. It made me extra excited and also more at ease once I was able to get a glimpse of the mission itself and not just info about Paraguay from Wikipedia.

So now I have a complete mission packing list as well as all my mailing addresses. You can all keep tabs on me through this, my blog, which my family will be updating as I mail them, but if you want to send me something in the mail or e-mail me or whatever, here is all the info that I know at the moment:

Carly's Mission Info

Mission: Paraguay Asunción North Mission

Farewell/Open House: 19 December, 2010 from 7-9pm

MTC Entry Date: 29 December, 2010 @ around 1:30pm

MTC Mailing Address:

Sister Carly Michelle Springer

PAR-ASUN 0301

2005 N 900 E

Provo, UT 84604-1793

My Personal Missionary E-Mail: carly.springer@myldsmail.net

Pouch Mail Address:

Sister Carly Michelle Springer

Paraguay Asunción North Mission

POB 30150

Salt Lake City, UT 84130-0150

My Mailing Address in Paraguay:

Sister Carly Michelle Springer

Paraguay Asunción North Mission

Avenida Santisima Trinidad N° 1280 C/Julio Correa

Casilla de Correo 1871

Asunción, Paraguay

I don't know much about pouch mail except that you can only send one-sheet letters and that it's faster than regular mail. If you send mail to me in Paraguay, it's recommended that you use the US postal service rather than a private service. Also, any packages that are over 4 pounds or have over $90 declared value will cost more to send. Packages take about 3 to 4 weeks to get there.

You can e-mail me whenever you want, but I will only be replying to family through e-mail. Everyone else will either get a written letter or will just have to follow this blog to hear from me. I'll get very limited time each week on the computer.

Well, that's all for now. As my MTC date draws nearer, you can expect to see a blog post from me at least once a week. Thanks everyone for your support throughout the years! It's thanks to you that my mission is possible.

The Grand Canyon

In October, my family planned one last family trip before my mission and Amanda's...uh..."cake decorating class" took us in separate directions.

(EDIT: "Cake decorating class"=wedding plans. It's official now, so I don't have to use the code words anymore.)

It was an amazing trip. The aspens were shimmering gold and the drives through the forest were almost more fun than what we did at each destination. There were also awesome black squirrels with huge, ostrich-feather tails, which of course made me happy.

For someone like me with a crippling fear of falling, it was kind of an intimidating trip. I've seen the Grand Canyon in pictures and movies before, but until you're standing along the rim with only a tiny guardrail between you and a five-million-foot drop, you really can't appreciate just how enormous that place is. Even in our campsite, on a relatively flat surface surrounded by trees and other campers, my knees would shake with fear of falling. If I looked up through the trees, all I could see was blue sky stretching forever, reminding me that there was a sheer drop only a few yards away. I had this horrible feeling that if I so much as tripped in my tent the canyon's gravitational pull would drag me screaming out of my tent and along the forest floor until I tumbled down, down, down into its gaping, rocky maw.

Really, it was intimidating.

Sadly Amanda wasn't there, but I really feel like I bonded with Sarah, Ashley and my parents that weekend. If nothing else, I got to practice my mothering skills as I freaked out whenever Sarah or Ashley got too close to the edge.

But what I really wanted to share when I started writing this post was something that happened our last night there between me and my dad. It really is a small occurrence, and he probably doesn't even remember, but it's something that made me grow spiritually, funnily enough.

We stayed at the canyon for two nights. The first night, my sisters and I were beyond freezing. After living in Gilbert for seven years, you tend to assume that when people say "it'll be cold there," what they really mean is, "you might need a light jacket." During the day, that was true, but at night it felt like the dead of winter out there. And I don't mean Arizona dead of winter. I mean Utah dead of winter. It was horrible. Thankfully, my dad is very outdoors-savvy, and he forced us all to pack winter coats and gloves. If it wasn't for that, I probably would have frozen to death.

But even with Dad's advice, my sisters and I were incapable of falling asleep that first night. I worked so hard to wrap my sleeping bag sufficiently around me and keep my head warm and not turn over despite a cramped leg for fear I'd let the cold in, but I couldn't fall asleep. There was this constant chill like an icy finger going up and down my spine no matter what I did to try and keep it at bay. Finally I found myself just praying that the sun would rise soon so I could thaw out like the cold-blooded reptile I apparently am.

Then Sarah, who was also still awake and probably thinking along the same lines as me, asked Ashley, who was also still awake, what time it was. When she said, "11:00" and I realized I had eight hours to go, I almost burst into tears.

So the second night when the sun was down and we were too tired to stay around the amazingly warm fire anymore, I reluctantly slipped into my sleeping bag to start the whole process over again. My Dad had fixed my faulty sleeping bag for me, so I was more confident this time that I would get more sleep, but I still took every preemptive measure I could think of to stay warm--tying my jacket around my head like an oversized bonnet, wearing only light pajamas so my body heat would warm my mummy bag faster, draping my winter coat over my sleeping bag for extra warmth.

It worked for a while. I was able to doze as my dad and Ashley watched "The Scarlet Pimpernel" on the laptop in the tent. But not twenty minutes later I felt that icy finger again.

It was completely frustrating. I really felt like crying, but I was too tired. I was so ornery and mad at myself for not being smart enough to figure out how to be warm. I was almost 21! I'd been smart enough to get through two years of university with a fairly solid GPA! How could I not figure out how to just get warm?! I was defeated and miserable, and what made it worse was seeing Ashley and Dad just hanging out by the laptop, not even huddled together or wrapped up in blankets. They were smarter than me. They were having a wonderful time. They would get a good night's sleep while I would go through another night of torment.

I managed to keep quiet and not let Ashley and Dad know about my issues, but by the time their movie was over I decided to eat some humble pie, reveal my stupidity, and ask Dad for help in getting warm.

I was afraid that he would be too tired to stick around. I was afraid that he would just laugh at me and tell me to deal with it because there was nothing he could do. I was afraid that he would think I was just sleep-talking and ignore me. Heck, if I was in his shoes, I might have done all those things.

But I'm not as great as my dad.

With gentle understanding, he immediately crossed the tent to help me. I just huddled there pitifully as he wrapped my jacket more securely around my head and readjusted my coat/blanket. Then he felt my back where I said I kept getting a chill, and he pointed out that I'd been keeping my back against the frigid tent wall. For some reason, I'd thought being snuggled against the tent would keep me warmer, but sure enough, when he pulled my sleeping mat away from the wall, that icy finger finally disappeared.

With that, Dad said goodnight and left. I was so happy I almost did cry, but with nothing to keep me from doing so I fell straight to sleep.

Like I said, it was a small thing that happened on that trip, and it seems silly that it would have that big of an impact on me, but I was just so happy to be warm and to get a good night's sleep and especially to receive that reassurance that Dad loves me.

There are times when something my dad does helps me to get a better idea of how our Heavenly Father must be. This was one of those times. I'd been too stubborn and I'd felt too stupid to ask him for help. I'd thought that there was nothing more he could do to keep the cold away. I'd suspected that he might not care enough. But as soon as I decided to be humble and ask him for help, he didn't hesitate to rush to my aid--his beloved child's aid. He'd seen what I couldn't see and he'd been more than willing to show me as soon as I asked him for help.

I can completely understand why family is so important to our Heavenly Father. Our mortal families are symbolic of the eternal family dynamics we have in immortality. I hope that everyone at some point in their lives looks at their father and sees the light and love of our Heavenly Father shining through his thoughtless actions as I saw in my Dad at the Grand Canyon.

Skipping Thanksgiving

I assembled my Christmas playlist on youtube today, and have been repeatedly listening to it. I get chills whenever I listen to "Coventry Carol" and "Veni, Veni, Emmanuel" (among many others), and it's getting me extremely excited for the wonderful Christmas season.

But before I get caught up in describing my favorite things about Christmas and make this post all about chocolate oranges and caroling parties, I want to express my hope that my family and friends don't forget that very important holiday between the costume parties of Halloween and the Advent Calendars of Christmas.

I'm talking about Thanksgiving.

Of course, nobody really forgets Thanksgiving, but how many of us remember what we're supposed to be celebrating? The holiday is nicknamed "Turkey Day," and from what I've noticed this month, that's literally all it is to most people--a day to eat turkey. Oh, and there were some pilgrims involved. And some Native Americans attended, I think? And it was in November? Yeah, that sounds right. Pass the mashed potatoes!

Is that really what Thanksgiving is all about?

I may be wrong, but I don't think God wants us to give thanks for our abundance by seeing our huge tables of food and just eating it in obscene amounts until it's gone. Okay, sure, you often share it with family members, but even they go home with doggie bags that last for weeks. And I think that's where the "giving" part of Thanksgiving is warped and virtually lost. We think that because we shared our food with other wealthy, prosperous people that we've done enough giving to last us until Christmas. As for the "thanks" bit, maybe you'll go around the table and one-by-one say something you're thankful for.

Christmas is supposed to be all about gift-giving, and yet everyone seems too occupied about the gift-getting (I may have to get into that later in December). Similarly, Thanksgiving Day has turned into Socially Acceptable Gluttony Day with maybe an off-handed comment about gratitude to get us by (and that's a big maybe).

I don't really know what the solution is, I'm just noticing the problem. I'm by no means a servant to the poor--heck, I rarely leave the house, and I'll be right alongside my family members digging into the green bean casserole. But I sincerely hope that I will be able to find some way to share the wealth, and I hope that my family will help me in this endeavor. At BYU, sharing with the poor was easy because we were all poor. We once made a 9x13 pan of casserole and invited over and fed over 20 people, because we could. Because we could make it go around . We didn't have much, but nobody left hungry. I want THAT kind of Thanksgiving, a holiday where I look at my plate of food and go, "Thank you, God, for the fact that I won't be going hungry tonight," and then split my portion with the person sitting next to me. That could either happen by making smaller portions and hoarding the rest, or it could be done by making as much excess food as we have (not including food storage) and giving it all away.

That seems like such a foreign concept in America. People want the biggest slice of pie, the last roll for themselves, even if (and when) their stomachs are physically too full to eat anymore. Couldn't we all just step back for a minute, turn the attention away from the yams and look to heaven with hearts full of the gratitude that our pilgrim forefathers expressed? It became a national holiday (and, I'm sure, a holiday meant for God's Children to celebrate) not because it gives us yet another excuse to over-eat, but because the pilgrims and the Native Americans demonstrated humility and thanks, shared what they had after a blessed season, and inspired others to do the same year after year.

Let's not warp and tarnish that idea. Let's not forget all about being thankful until the day comes and then just celebrate "Turkey Day." Please, in this short time between Halloween and Christmas, let's not skip Thanksgiving.

Mission: Mission Call

So this is my blog. It's more of a journal that I'm letting people read, really. There are so many little things I observe and never write down, and so many major events in my life that I THINK people might want to read about... I just like to write, and hey, if you're reading this you must be remotely interested in what I have to say so YAY!

I've titled my blog "The Time Speedily Cometh" because I am freaking out about how quickly my mission is approaching. Part of my motivation for blogging is to recognize how I'm improving and also to get started on my mission journal.

Yes, I am going on a mission. Whoo-boy am I nervous about it, too. I don't leave for another two months and so I'm not doing much to get ready (because I'm a terrible procrastinator), and yet it's the only thing anyone EVER talks to me about.

Today I'd like to tell you the story about getting my mission call. Because that's where my life really began this year. Before that, I was at BYU getting bored of my classes and sitting on my butt all day, essentially. I was planning on going on a mission, but until I got my call I didn't want to go out shopping or study Spanish because for all I knew I would get sent to the mountains of New Zealand and nothing I did would be relevant.

My summer was three months of blissful irresponsibility--no job, no school, my mom doing everything for me--just the kind of break I could only dream about these past two years at BYU. But August came at train-wreck speed, and suddenly all the interviews were done, all my papers were filled out, and I found myself not even being remotely productive anymore. Instead of chilling out every day and reading, I was anxiously pacing the floor, double-checking my mission call status, and snapping like a rabid dog whenever someone else tried to check the mailbox.

Thanks to BYU traditions, I had always been planning on being one of those people who, when they were about to open their call, invited every single acquaintance in the state to the house to watch the event in person and had all long-distance friends and family on dozens of phones held close to their face. Then, in my last interview to qualify for a mission, my wonderful stake president encouraged me to make my call a sacred event.

No offense, but giant phone trees and large gatherings in my living room don't strike me as sacred...

So right then and there, I decided to do something unheard of. In those two seconds between "Make it a sacred event" and "Can I help you with anything else, Sister Springer?" I formulated a devious plan.

I was going to open my call...alone.

I felt like a hypocrite. Last year my friend Nate opened his call by himself before telling even his parents, and my friends and I could have killed him we were so offended. How could he not let US in on that? Had the last four months meant nothing to him?

I also felt like a traitor. Here was my family, completely supportive and super hyped to send me, the official family guinea pig, out into the wide world. First I threw a curve ball at them last year when I decided to go on a mission in the first place after saying my whole life "CHECK no!" every time someone suggested the idea. Then after rousing their support and getting them all hyped about the eldest daughter/niece/grandchild going on a mission, here I was opening my call without them.

Nobody suspected that I would do such a thing during those two weeks of anxious waiting. Surely, they probably thought, surely Carly won't be able to contain her excitement. Surely she won't be able to wait to open it. Surely we'll know when she gets it.

Oh how wrong they were.

Sadly, I'm actually quite good at lying. I was a devious little child, and behind everyone's backs I learned how to sneak around and sell fibs like a pro (so much for keeping that dark side of me a secret... I got better, I promise!).

Every day of that week that I KNEW I would be getting my call, I did some impressive sneaking out to the mailbox. But it wasn't until Friday, August 13th, 2010 that my efforts actually paid off. When the call didn't come on Wednesday or Thursday, I KNEW it would be there on Friday, so I was in super ninja stealth mode all morning. I had it all planned out. Every move. It was going to be EPIC.

Then Dad came home from work early.

It was a staggering blow to my carefully crafted plans, but I still managed to make it work. At 2:15 my window of opportunity opened wide with the Hallelujah Chorus streaming through. The girls were at school and Mom was off to pick them up. It wouldn't get any better than this.

I had been in my room almost all day, sitting on my bean bag chair and staring up at the underside of the loft bed, counting down the minutes. Once I heard Mom leave, I sprang into action. Well, more accurately I sauntered casually into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Then I made small talk with Dad for about thirty seconds (that was all I could handle). Thankfully he was on his computer so the conversation died quickly, and I was able to stroll innocently into the laundry room.

See, I couldn't go out the front door. Dad may have been zoned out on his laptop, but if I went out the front door he was sure to switch to high alert mode in the blink of an eye. He HAD come home early to watch me open my call, after all, and where else would I be going through the front door? So I stayed clear of there and instead entered the garage. All of my college stuff was in there, as was the toilet paper and the printer paper. There were several reasons why I would go into the garage, and in Dad's zoned-out state, the sound of the garage door wouldn't even enter his subconscious.

Sometimes I like to think that if on the slim chance I don't become the greatest author since Stephen King I could make a darn good behavioralist.

The only thing that could have given me away was the bag I was carrying to hide the evidence. Why would I carry a bag into the garage? But Dad was oblivious. A long jaunt into the garage would have raised suspicions, though, so as soon as I got in there I threw my bag by the door and ran as quickly and quietly as I could into the second garage, then through the door that led into the backyard. I snuck out silently through the back gate, praying that the dogs wouldn't come to investigate with frenzied barking. Once I was in the front yard, I sprinted across our neighbor's yard and rounded the corner to the mailbox, dashing down that final stretch with flip-flops clacking against the pavement.

Once I reached the mailbox I was out of breath (my exercise regime doesn't extend to sprinting) and I probably looked like a crazy to anyone in the neighborhood who happened to look out their window at that time, but I didn't care. I cursed every millisecond that the mail key took to unlock the mailbox, and then when I saw what was inside I cursed our mailman for shoving my mission call in there so unceremoniously.

It was slightly bent and surrounded by lesser company (bills, report cards, other completely useless stuff), so I quickly extracted it and felt its loving, comforting weight in my hands. I hadn't dreamed it would be so beautiful, with its church address in the corner and Sister Carly Michelle Springer blazing so proudly across its face. It was the most miraculous thing I'd ever seen, and I wished I could have just sat there for a few hours and admired it.

But I had a time restraint. Dad could come looking for me at any moment.

So, cradling the thick white envelope in my arms, I made the mad dash back to home, returning exactly the way I came. After storing the call safely in my bag, I steadied my breathing and entered the house just as casually as I'd left it, trying my darnedest to convince Dad with my brainwaves "I wasn't doing anything at all related to my mission call. Nothing at all. I was just looking for something in my college boxes. Keep reading on your laptop."

Fifteen minutes later, Mom and the girls came home, and they found me exactly where I'd been when they'd left--sprawled out on my bean bag chair, staring up at the underside of the loft bed. No one suspected a thing.

But an hour or so later, Sarah found out. She's just as devious as I am--possibly more so--and she saw right past my lie when she asked if I'd looked in the mailbox yet. She tore through my room in a frenzy once she realized I had it somewhere around, looking in every possible hiding place, including underneath the bean bag chair.

Sadly for her, I also learned as a child how to hide things in plain sight. My bag was right next to my bean bag chair the whole time, but she never once thought to look there because who in their right mind would keep something so important so accessible?

I would.

I eventually gave in and let her see it, though, but only for a few seconds because by then I'd figured out how I was going to open it by myself, and I had to move quickly.

Mom and Dad had set 5:00 as the official time for me to open my call, so I told them that I was going to drive to the library and pick up some books, then check the mailbox on the way home. They bought it hook, line, and sinker, and they wouldn't have had a clue had Ashley not said as I left, "You should pick up your call BEFORE you go to the library and open it there!"

I sometimes suspect that Ashley is psychic.

When Mom and Dad both said dramatically "SHE WOULD NEVER DO THAT!" to that suggestion, I rushed out the door as quickly as I could, feeling like an even bigger traitor than before. Before setting off, I texted Sarah and told her to tell them the truth before I got home so they wouldn't be too shocked. It wouldn't do to be disowned when I came back--then nobody would care about my call! And while I wanted to open it alone, I wanted even more for people to fawn over me about it later.

Had I been in Utah, there would have been HUNDREDS of places for me to go to open my call in seclusion. But if you've ever been to Gilbert, you know that there just aren't many refuges around. Luckily, though, there is ONE place that is quiet and peaceful and beautiful--the library. What better place than one where everyone is forced by some ancient library taboo to be completely silent and where there are tables right alongside a wall that is basically a giant picture window overlooking the Riparian Reserve? There really is no better place around.

I almost ran from my car into the library, but there were way more people in there than there are on my street at any given time, and my tendency to conform conquered my craziness. I almost lost it, though, when I saw that my favorite table along the giant picture window was taken, as were the eight or so surrounding it. I had to go all the way to the back corner. It still had a great view of the water and the duckies, and actually it was probably the best place to be because I ended up bawling like a baby, and there nobody could see me blubbering.

In all seriousness, opening that call was one of the most spiritual moments of my entire life. That one page call to the Paraguay Asuncion North Mission did me more good and confirmed to me that God loves me more strongly than any 500-page book on self-worth ever could. Part of my wanting to open my call alone was so that if I was disappointed by a call to a Wyoming mission, I could get over it alone and then face everyone with real enthusiasm on my face. I had literally thought up every "lesser" mission in my mind and told myself that I would be happy with any of them (and no, there is no such thing as a "lesser" mission, but you know what I mean--we Latter-Day Saints tend to put more worth in the exotic, foreign ones). I was ready to accept the worst.

But God didn't give me the worst. I would have deserved it if He had, but He didn't. He's sending me to Paraguay. He trusts me enough--He thinks I'm strong enough--to go teach Lamanite descendants in a third-world country, speaking a foreign language. AND He's letting me stay home long enough to celebrate Christmas with my family before I go. Foreign, Spanish-speaking, and Christmas. It was all the things I'd secretly wished for but felt too unworthy to ask for in my prayers. A call to Wyoming would have tested me, and I might have come out stronger because of it, but this call to Paraguay was purely a gift, and I KNOW that this decision to go on a mission is the right one.

It took me a good 20 minutes to stop crying and erase all sign of tears from my face. Then I calmly made my way back home to "open" my call with the family. From that point on was kind of a blur because by then I didn't really care what happened. I'd already had my perfect moment in the library. It was all "que sera sera" from there.

I was grinning like a maniac, so my family knew I was pleased and they couldn't wait to hear where I was going. They had Amanda and the Springer Grandparents on Skype, Dad had the video camera, Sarah had the globe, and I had re-taped the call so we could act the whole thing out properly.

When I read it out loud, I couldn't hold back the tears. My Dad was hugging me and I was sobbing and grinning and snorting and everyone was congratulating me and it was the happiest day of my life thus far.

It was only marred a little bit, by Amanda. I happened to notice her texting into her phone within the MINUTE that I read out loud where I was going, and then a few minutes later she said innocently, "Shelli says 'Congratulations'" I realized then, to my uttermost horror, that Amanda had texted everyone and told them where I was going! Without even asking me how I wanted to tell people! So not only had I opened my call without anyone knowing, now they were being told over a TEXT?! It was appalling. I could have killed her. I would have strangled her had she not been a state away. I gave her a sound tongue-lashing instead, but the damage was done. So much for making this a personal family event. She'd even texted my old high school friends and her boyfriend. What an idiot.

I hurried to repair the damage. Commence mass phone calls! Yeah, a giant cell phone tree would have been lots faster, but I think it was more personal this way. Of course, Amanda blew it for everyone, but my making an effort to call everyone individually despite that huge mess-up had to count for something. And I think many of my relatives were flattered that I did so.

I cried a lot more but I couldn't stop grinning, and every time I got a quiet second I silently thanked God again and again for making my life so wonderful. My family was super supportive, I had all the resources I needed to go, and now I knew for certain that I was being sent to the best mission possible, at least for what I personally need to learn.

I am the Springer guinea pig. I hope that my sisters and cousins can read this and get just a glimpse of how AMAZING getting a mission call is. And hopefully, as this blog progresses and I recount my adventures in Paraguay, many more will decide that a mission is what they, too, want to do.