Hellos to a Home I’d Forgotten

In my last week of working, I wrote a post about how a transition involves leaving parts of yourself behind. I mourned the fact that there are endings, and that every relationship on earth fades too quickly.

But I guess I forgot, as I wrote, that an ending in one place means a beginning in another. Sophomore year has been a beginning. Moving in the new freshmen has been a beginning. Creating a space with my amazing roommate–a space filled with the things we love, with tea and books and comfy furniture–has been a beginning, a time of comfort, a time of joy. Our God is a God of love and beauty, a God who made relationships that last even through and despite the summers that separate us, a God who made a permanent and unending body for Himself: His Church.

It’s good, good, good to be back in Wheaton. It’s a little strange to be a sophomore, but at the same time perfectly natural; seeing the difference between me and the freshmen I realize I am exactly where God meant me to be and have had exactly the right experiences (beginnings and endings, classes and customers, lemons and lemonade) to get me here.

I love being able to help the girls across the hall, to meet those who are living in the room I made so many memories in last year, to speak without stuttering of things I used to barely know. Moving the freshmen into the dorms was a crazy experience because it was so different being on the other side of it. am the one in the orange (salmon?) Thunder Moving Company shirt. am the one who knows where the kitchen, the Beamer Center, Buswell Library, Goldstar Chapel and the Switz are. I’m a sophomore, and in some crazy way, I belong here.

I’m home.

I guess we have to have the right perspective on the endings in life. They remind us of the consequences of sin and the fact that ultimately everything we touch will die. But endings are not the ending. Even on earth we see new life. We see our old, stripped rooms getting their colors again. We see our old, uncomfortable selves suddenly at home. I’ll miss the people I met and even, in a way, the things I did this summer, but I guess whatever God has for me this semester is better.

To end on a cliche but still incredible note, here’s a verse from Jeremiah:

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

–Jeremiah 29:11

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Reading: An Exercise in Unsettledness

Over the last few days, two books have pulled me back into asking my perennial question: why am I here and what can I do about it? The books were Olio by Tyehimba Jess and The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The question was, as always, unanswerable.

In many ways the two books are very different. Olio is poetry about the pain and bondage of black American artists in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; The Book Thief is a novel about the near-ordinary life of a girl in Nazi Germany, written from the perspective of Death. However, the themes of sorrow and injustice and pain run heavy through both, and they both feel like epics, tracing a larger history than the life of just one girl or a few artists into the tragedy of human nature that continues today.

Olio represents a conglomeration of what you might call “acts,” mostly ragtime pianists and singers who appear in dialogue with and across each other and their oppressors. A common page format throughout the book has two adjacent columns–two speeches by different people–that can be read either separately or as one paragraph: intertwined sentences that often represent hugely dissimilar thoughts. The contrast between the speakers, and the way the speeches fit together so naturally and almost ludicrously, really drives home the injustices that Jess portrays.

For instance, there is a page where one column is an actual quote from Irving Berlin countering the accusation that he stole Scott Joplin’s work, and the other column is Joplin’s imagined response, a seething and grief-filled reply. Joplin’s work never took off whereas Berlin’s hit it big, yet Berlin’s words were flippant and derogatory. It seemed incredibly unfair to me that Berlin ever got away with what he said and did, and though after a bit of research I’ve discovered the claims of the stolen work are not as clear-cut as the book implies, things like that definitely have happened in America’s history. Things where an unjust system took credit from where it was due and placed it in a white man’s hands. Things where the world was upside-down and totally unfair. And still is.

In The Book Thief, Zusak asks my question even more directly. A character dies; another wonders, why wasn’t it me? Even the narrator, Death, emphasizes the places where if a different choice had been made–if Rudy’s family had let him join the army, if Leisel had knocked on the door instead of stealing through the window, if Hans hadn’t given the starved Jew the piece of bread–things would be different. Rudy would still be alive. Leisel would have a friend and the mayor’s wife would, too. Hans would still be at home, and Max wouldn’t have had to leave. But even with all the choices, there are a thousand things that are still not under the characters’ control. Ultimately, Death comes for all of them, and it is not Leisel’s fault that her family was taken from her or that the Fuhror is an evil man. She is simply where she is. There is no good reason why, or why her.

The question of why has caused me a weight of unsettledness. I’m not sure it can be called guilt, and I’m not sure if it’s right to be guilty for a station in life that I never chose. But here I am. And I know that the unsettledness is right, because I am not a Jew in Nazi Germany, nor am I a slave in early America. I am not, but many people in the world were, and many are slaves and martyrs and mourners right now.

Maybe the unsettledness will drive me to action.

Or at least drive me to look for places where I can act.

Anyway, the only place I have found so far is in my writing. So here I am. Writing to recommend that you read these two not only painful but also extremely powerful books, and that you take my own poetry as an outpouring of unsettledness.  Reading books like this is hard and it hurts sometimes, but that is the point. If we are all unsettled then maybe one of us will begin to know what to do.

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Goodbyes to a Bit of Myself

(In the flurry of the actual publication of my book, I have fallen dreadfully behind on blogging, so I apologize.)

I just wanted to muse briefly on what it means to be in transition. My last day of work is tomorrow and I’m leaving for school on Monday, and it’s hard to know whether to cling to the friends I’ve made and the experiences I’ve had this summer or to long for those ahead. The last few days have been overwhelming and stressful, partly because I’ve had very little alone time and the arduous packing process is still ahead, but mostly because I don’t know how to react to leaving this summer behind me.

All summer I knew that the things I was doing were temporary: I got a temporary job, met many people I do not expect to see ever again, worked on a book that is complete and I will not return to (at least not soon), and spent what might possibly be my last full months at home. At the beginning, I was fine with this. I felt like a stranger at the fast food restaurant where I worked, someone who was dipping in a toe and nothing more and who would pass on like a mist in a few months. But as the summer continued, that changed.

I’ve started to see how difficult it is for humans to be transient.

My sister Lindsey was talking about this in her blog, how her travels for the internship she was doing throughout Peru were too short, too uprooted. But I hadn’t really thought of how the same applies to me, working my summer job here in the town I grew up in. It was only when I started discovering the crazy amazing people I work with–when I began to realize there was depth to this transient place, that it was impossible to drag my toes through for more than a week or two and that I had somehow started swimming without knowing how I got there–that I realized how sad it is to be swimming in a lake you may never see again. Many people think fast food sounds unpleasant. But the people I’ve met, the experience of working with them and being caught in the same temporary lake–even in the mundane things like filling drinks and taking orders and pulping lemons, the things I’ve been doing alongside all the other workers this summer–has changed me, and I know I’ll actually miss it when it’s over.

The thing is, every place we are, every thing we do, every relationship we form on earth goes too quickly. I think of how Ecclesiastes mourns, “he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end” (3:11). We have this need for eternity, for relationships that will last forever, for places we can make a lasting home from. But it’s hard, because we never really get those on this earth. Things change too fast for us to drink it all in.

And here I am, almost reluctant to transition back to the place I hated to leave just three months ago. I thought going in that these few months would be insignificant and easily separable from the rest of my life, but obviously things are never that clean-cut. On earth, we are travelers. We leave bits of ourselves behind everywhere we go, and we will never find the eternal home we were looking for until we follow our eternal Father past the grave.