Dear Boy,

This is where my mind has been drifting in drift-able moments this week. Imagine, as you read, a handful of paragraph breaks instead of the one large one presented. You'll probably imagine them in places similar to where I originally put them. Unfortunately, Blogger's new interface seems to have one the battle over readability. Ahem: President Monson announced upon opening General Conference that the age minimum for missionary service has been lowered from 21 to 19 for women.  The news has had a powerful effect on me.  In fact, in the moment, I couldn't hold back the small dam from overflowing my eyes.  I felt the same loss that I've felt many times over the past number of years.  It stung.  It still stings whenever I venture these thoughts afresh.    When I laid my eyes for the first time on two girl missionaries, my heart rejoiced with the realization that I could amount to something of the same sort.  In fact, our branch had sister missionaries for the last years of my Primary membership, who sometimes taught my Sunday School class and I almost worshipped those sisters.  I wanted to be just like them.  And so I planned for and desired to serve a mission as a young woman.  It was the most definite plan I had for my future; its accomplishment was stated as a fact in my patriarchal blessing, and it was a fact in my heart as well.  In high school, I spent plenty of spare hours on "splits" with the sisters.  I relished their company.  I corresponded with them after they left and in return they would send little encouragements my way via post.  I purposely bought missionary styles of long skirts in sizes a bit larger than my then-current frame. Simultaneously, church leaders always preached my missionary service as a second option. I was ingrained with this doctrine, "If a viable option is presented for marriage, it is your responsibility to take it." Mostly, I ignored the second-option declaration, taking little affirmations along the way that it simply would not pertain to me.  For instance, my first experience at EFY gave me the impression that Mormon boys were not interested in girls like me and even if the idea was deflating, it also fueled my mission preparations.  I knew that young ladies were encouraged to get married and have babies, but I knew much deeper in my heart that I needed to serve a mission, that serving one would mold something important out of what I already was, that the world needed something that I had to offer.  Along with knowing those things, I assumed that the opportunity to marry would simply not be a viable option until later.  I even made a deal with my best friend, a boy, that if I waited for him during his missionary service, then he would wait for me while I served; thereby  ensuring a "viable option" upon my return and relieving any guilt I may have otherwise carried for avoiding RMs. We all know how my plans panned out.  After a year and a half of avoiding guys and even months of wearing my roommate's fake engagement ring, I met you, and completely by surprise, my heart knew love in a way it never had before.  I worried it might not ever again.  Suddenly, I had a viable option!  It was my duty to run with it.  So we got married and I knew it was good- you were good- we were good, but I was barely 20 and struggled sometimes against the dreams I had to let go, most particularly the dream I had of being a missionary out in the world on my own, just me and God.  I missed the opportunity.   I gave it up for something divine and wonderful, but I did still give it up and with it the person I was when I had that goal and believed I could do and become something great.   Sometimes that sense of loss still bites down hard; it especially has in the minutes and hours since Saturday's announcement.   My first thought was bitter.  "Ten years too late!" I cried.  But it feeds my inner cynic to be bitter, so I'm choosing to be happy for my sisters and especially for my daughter that the second-option tune seems to be fading into history.  Dear girls, follow your truest dreams!  We will no longer tell you what they should be. Love,  A Lady