So, it’s official.
In one week, I’ll be a full-time sister missionary.
Well, more like six days now.
Just a few more odds and ends to purchase. And a couple of beefy big suitcases to pack and I’ll be on a plane . . . to Provo (where the Pope isn’t, and will likely never be).
For six glorious weeks.
In which time I will probably outgrow all of my clothes if rumors about the Provo Missionary Training Center prove to be true.
Six weeks of nothing but Portuguese.
Which is a good thing.
Because at present all I can say is “a mulher come uma maçã,” in very broken, ugly sounding engla-guese.
And I really don’t think that I’ll have much use for that. But then again, maybe lots of ladies eat apples in Brazil. And they do it covertly, so I’ll have to point it out. To my companions. Very loudly. With a very american accent.
And then onto Brazil. The great beyond.