The way things were.

Two years ago, I went to more missionary farewells than I'd ever imagined could happen and said more goodbyes than I thought my heart could handle. 

I spent a lot of time asking myself what on earth I was going to do when everyone was gone,  daydreaming about homecomings and reunions, and somewhere in the "see ya laters" and Dear Elders I forgot to wonder what was going to happen in that happy time in between--the time some people call "the best two years." 

I never saw myself serving a mission--and I still don't. But that doesn't mean I haven't grown and changed and learned exactly what I needed to when my old friends were out serving. 

When everybody first left, I was a mess. I'd gone to jr. high and high school with the same crowd, and my first semester of college had been a whole lot like what my life was in Kaysville, just moved an hour north. We all lived in the same building, attended the same ward, and went home the same weekends. 

Then everybody left. And I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what on earth I was going to do with myself [read, throwing tantrums about having no friends and crying. A LOT.] 

It took a lot for me to realize that all the letters and tears in the world weren't going to make time go any faster, and it was up to me to figure things out now. 

There was one night in particular that changed things for me--it was the summer after my freshman year, and I had just moved into a house with 12 people I didn't know. Lauren and Marley, the two I did know, were at home in Layton, and my mom had just left after helping me move in. I had to work that night at 9, but it was 6 o'clock and I was lonely, getting anxious, and feeling more alone than I ever had in my life. 

So I took a little drive up to my favorite lookout in Logan and put a whole lot of time into wondering what in the heck I was going to do. 

And as I sat there feeling really sorry about myself, lonely, and longing for a hand to hold that could only be found 1,500 miles away, the saying that "life begins at the end of your comfort zone" would not leave my head. 

I've never been a huge fan of change, because change usually means goodbyes and if there is one thing on this planet I hate more than spiders, that would be saying "goodbye." 

The thought of stepping out of my comfort zone enough to change my attitude at that moment made my heart stop, my stomach tie in knots, and my eyes fill up with tears. 

My insides were spinning, but all I could hear were the words to a primary song playing in my head. 

"Pray, he is there. Speak, he is listening." 

I said a quick [humble and whispered] prayer asking for help, and as I sat there thinking some more I became more and more excited for what was in store. 

Here I was, in a city I loved, without the people that had made it home. So now it was up to me to make it my own, and I'd been given the most perfect opportunities to do so. 

If you ever want to see where you stand with your Heavenly Father, do something completely out of your comfort zone and watch the ways that He influences your life. 

The summer went on and I began to appreciate everything that was going on. I was working two jobs, on my feet from early in the morning until way too late at night; but I was meeting dozens of new people. And as I fell into a routine, I made friends that filled where everyone had left. The girls on the A-Team with me became some of my best friends, and Marley introduced me to a house full of boys, and well, the rest is history. 

Those old friends are coming home now, and I like to say "my world's are colliding," which in a way is exactly what's happening. I've found my own footing, and I'm about to let a couple dozen new feet explore for a little while and that makes me all sorts of stressed and excited. 

A lot has changed since I started saying my goodbyes, and as I'm telling those same people "welcome home," I'm noticing changes in myself too. As many times as people tell you, "people change" or "things change," remember that you change too--and change isn't always a bad thing. 

In ten years, if we were the people we are today, not a single one of us would be happy--so why would we want to be the same person we were two years ago or even a few months ago? That doesn't make sense, does it? 

So no, I didn't serve a mission. But I know that I've learned exactly what I needed to these last two years. 

I learned to stand on my own two feet; and when I couldn't do that, I turned to my Heavenly Father before anybody else, and I think that's the most important lesson I've ever learned. 

And to be completely honest, I've had the best two years of my life.