Packing

She finished her packing 4 days before she actually went anywhere. You can do that when the things you pack aren't things you would normally use. When you're packing to go somewhere totally new – to become someone totally different. When the new clothes and belongings that will define you for the next year and a half are just as foreign as the new language you will be speaking – the new rules you will be following.

Even though the packing was finished, she would still sometimes unzip the suitcases and peek. As if looking at the untouched skirts and blouses, the expensive winter boots would give her some idea of where she was going – what she had really gotten herself into.

You see, it happened faster for her than for anyone else. People would talk about the 3-6 months they had to prepare, to gather their thoughts and their belongings, to pack their lives into air-tight containers; remnants of who you are at this moment, stored away and forgotten from between 18 and 24 months. Over a million had already done it. It was supposed to be one of the happiest times of your life – giving up those precious months. It was supposed to be something you worked for, prayed for, were excited for; unless you were Victoria Hart. Like I said, it happened fast for her. Too fast. Fast enough to make the weeks leading up to her departure blurry – as if it wasn't real.

But the truth is, it is all too real.

It all starts with hope. The naïve hope of a girl, a woman, who wishes so dearly to become more than herself. To be that woman when she returns home, head held high and eyes bright with knowledge. The happiness and brightness she brought with her that day was almost blinding.

As they parked the car in the already full lot across the street, Victoria looked straight forward – past her parent's car, past the line of evergreens. Past the fence. This was her new home. At least for the next 3 months. She smiled as hundreds of families crossed the busy streets, funneling into this compound – families bringing overdressed 20 -something daughters, looking uncomfortable in their practical sturdy shoes and long skirts. Smiling for pictures in their last moments with their families. More families bringing 19 year old sons, wearing brand new, ill-fitting suits and conservative ties. Each family was feeling a myriad of emotions – it turns out emotion is the great equalizer.

In those last photos with her family, you can still see the fire, the life, the fight in Victoria's eyes. As she, wearing a long blue skirt and thick knit blouse, and her sister, wearing V's favorite pink satin skirt, struck pose after pose, their parents laughed. Neither of them had served; they only knew what people had told them about the experience. Next they entered the main building of the compound, and watched a short video glorifying those young volunteers. Mothers cried, fathers stood stony – faced, as their children walked, alone, out one side of the room.

When she last saw her parents, her sister, V didn't cry. She wasn't actually sad. She was excited. These were going to be the best years of her life! She was going to grow, and change, and learn, and serve, and come home with tattered clothes and holey shoes as her family sounded the trumpet of a victorious return. She followed the printed signs, just like all of the hundreds of other volunteers entering the training center that day, and wandered, lost, around a smallish campus.

“Hola!” some said as she passed. “Bonjour”, said others. As she walked, she must have heard at least 15 different languages being spoken. Older couples would smile as she passed. “Welcome sister. Just follow the signs.” She was lead through some double doors, up a flight of stairs, and into a large room, where long banquet style tables formed a U-shape. An older, nice looking woman beckoned to her from a chair behind one of the tables.

As she approached, it looked as if people were receiving information packets. V had always been the observant type, noticing and catalouging away details as most just passed by. They give their name, she told herself, then they get a paper and a packet, and they're on their way. Feeling prepared, she rolled her shoulders back and stepped forward.

“Name please?”

“Sister Hart.”

The woman searched through a stack of papers, until she reached the desired last name. “Ah. Armenia, huh? That's very interesting.”

“I thought so, when I got my call,” V answered.

The woman stared hard and long at the paper. Longer than the other women were looking. She looked up. “I'm sorry, can you wait here for just a moment?” She left her station and started whispering to one of the supervisors. The supervisor looked annoyed, confused, and then nodded quickly and started approaching. “You're going to be what we call a solo sister, she told V, looking at her with pity. “That means you don't have any other sisters in your classroom with you. So in order for you to be alone with elders, you need to wear this white sticker on your nametag.”

The white sticker. The only permission for a woman to be alone with a group of men. Otherwise, people thought you were a flirt. Flirt, in the MTC, was one of the dirtiest names you could call someone.

V was called that constantly.

You see, when you're born to be noticed - to cause a stir, its hard to blend into a crowd. V was never one to blend in. She is the antithesis of a wallflower. When she grows silent, people don't overlook her; they wonder why she isn't speaking. When she deflects attetion, it comes right back to her. She is a boomerang of audible uniqueness.

So she ws reprimanded. For all kinds of offenses – being alone with the elders, flirting, dressing too brightly, being too loud – quiet dignity – they liked to say. They still like to say.

Point is, after a few weeks of watching yourself be painted red, you start to go a little insane.

“Sister Hart, you can't do that.” Why not? “Sister Hart, where is your companion?” You didn't give me one. “Sister Hart, you are the most prideful person I had ever met.” If only they knew what she really felt. If only they understood.