For the longest time, I couldn't accept that my mission was over. I was certain that my call to serve a full-time mission would mean that I would serve an entire 18 months. Having to leave my beloved Spain due to sickness was something I didn't think would ever happen to me. Coming home from a mission early for medical reasons was one of those things I always heard about, but that couldn't possibly affect me. Oh, but it did.
It was about a month after I got home that I learned I wouldn't be returning to missionary service. The being home part was hard enough, but the staying home? The staying home was devastating. I remember waking up in the middle of night gasping to catch my breath from crying so hard. I emailed my old companions and mission friends weekly to try to stay in the loop and have some sort of connection to Spain. I tortured myself every day by looking at pictures I'd taken during my 12 months and two days of service. I longed for my companions, investigators, converts, ward members, and mission president. I ached to put my nametag back on and to pick up where I left off. I was struggling, but God knew that, and comforted me.
One of those comforts came in the form of a sweet family from Madrid. One night, about two weeks after arriving home, I was at the mall with my mom when I overheard a family speaking Spanish and felt impressed to go talk to them. (Side note: at this point I had taken four years of high school Spanish, two years of college Spanish, lived in Ecuador for three months, and lived in Spain for eight months. I could recognize almost any Spanish-speakers accent.) I didn't want to ignore the feeling, and I knew they were speaking Spain Spanish, but at the same time I didn't know what to say. As we approached the checkout line I finally got up the nerve to ask the dad where they were from. GET THIS. They had moved there a month ago from not just Spain, but from Madrid. The husband had been transferred to Louisville for work, they didn't know a soul, and didn't speak any English. I told them I had just moved back from Madrid and offered to babysit their two beautiful boys. They were thrilled (as was I), we exchanged information, and he said he'd give me a call.
For the next several months I helped the older boy with his homework every Monday and Wednesday while I babysat both of them nearly every Saturday night. Getting to spend time every week with a family who spoke the same kind of Spanish I did, who lived the culture I missed, and who reminded me of the people I loved was the biggest blessing at such a difficult time. They had no idea what I was going through, but God did, and He sent me what I needed.
Other things happened during those first few months of being home that reassured me that God had not abandoned me. Little did I know, the trial of being home from my mission was going to prepare me for harder things ahead. As I look back now, I'm grateful for the things I learned during that time and can see how, while it was challenging, it was also very necessary.
