— Tyler Knott Gregson
— Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Something really special has happened in my Children’s Literature class. Here we are, a random group of students taking a course on books written for kids. Some of my classmates want to be teachers but the majority of us do not. Starting off the year reading fairy tales, we never knew what we were getting into with Dr. Debbie Taylor. Even more powerfully, we did not know what we were getting into with each other.
Its become one of those classes that the minute 3 o’clock rolls around on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you seem to gain a classroom full of friends. All social groups and all cliques evaporate as soon as the door closes and you feel safe. We sit in a circle and we look at each other as we’re speaking and we don’t laugh at each other or feel awkward or embarrassed. Sutherland 210 becomes a very safe place for that hour and fifteen minutes and I can honestly say that it has become two of my favorite times of the week.
We had just covered the most serious book of the semester. It was about a girl who was raped but couldn’t find her voice to speak out and share her pain. Four students were assigned to lead a discussion based on the book and they had to carefully figure out how to approach such a sensitive subject.
After all of the snacks had been eaten and the games had been played, they decided to close class on a more serious note. They handed every person in the class a 5x8 index card and a blue pen. Everything was to be identical. They then asked us to take some time and think of our deepest burden. To dig into the darkest crevice of our heart and scoop out a secret, a pain, that we could share with the class anonymously. They told us to write with our left hands, in cursive, block letters, or disguised handwriting to protect our identity from the cards. They would then be displayed on the whiteboard for everyone to see as we walked out.. to read the burdens of our peers. So that we’ll know what to pray for. So that we’ll know of the pain.
So that we’ll know we are not alone.
The classroom felt silent and I knew that this was going to be taken seriously. Desks scooted away from each other, people hunched over their index cards, left hands scribbled awkwardly on the page. One boy began to cry.
My stomach lurched forward and vulnerability escaped from my fingertips and turned into blue ink. With each word that I wrote, I felt a pieces of me chip away little by little. Would I look pathetic? Would they know it was me?
As I handed Cody the card I pushed my pride away as I Iooked him in the eye as if to say “Take this away from me.” Which is funny, because that’s what I’ve been asking God to do, too.
A board full of white index cards covered in blue ink stood before us. We all slowly got up to leave and make our way to the wall. Each card was splattered with the aches and pains of each of our hearts and a heaviness filled the room.
I found myself reading card after card until I finally realized that I wasn’t trying to put a name on each of these secrets. That wasn’t the point. Identity in the pain wasn’t the purpose of this exercise. It was to open our eyes to realize that we all have our own stories.
And we were all very broken people.
We all had our secrets, our burdens. But that was not who we were.
We were not our sins.
We were not our secrets.
We were not our burdens.
We were not covered in blue ink.
We walked out silently. No one knowing what to say.
No one having to say anything.
No reason to be embarrassed.
No reason to be ashamed.
We are not covered in blue ink.
Academic Advisors give you a high five when you fill out your Graduation Petition..
A committee of Deans approve you to the Psychology Department even though you’re missing a required class simply because they believe in you.
The entire foyer in Rose Hall claps for you when you’ve officially been accepted to Biola’s Psychology Department.
Your boss buys you coffee because you look tired.
Your co-workers leave you notes on your computer as random acts of encouragement.
Professors who you’ve never had before stop you along the sidewalk to pray with you because you look sad.
You talk to someone on the bench outside the library for 20 minutes about Jesus even before you know their name.
There are so many opportunities to be blessed;
and sometimes you just have to take them.
Lately, my mind has felt like this:
Thinking about buying a car, finding another job, planning my schedule for next year, taking a summer class, moving into my apartment, where I’ll be living this summer, when I can next go home, my dog having cancer, my grandma getting older, my friends graduating, upcoming weddings, my plan after graduation, when to apply to grad school, where to apply to grad school, if I can even get accepted to grad school, my experimental psychology experiment, constantly feeling tired and getting stomachaches, looking for an internship, and wondering what else I’m forgetting about.
And in all of that, I’m losing sight of the beauty of life.
Lord, remind me.
— A.W. Tozer
There’s just some things you never feel like you’re old enough for. Like paying the electric bill, buying toilet paper, thinking about careers rather than just summer jobs..
Like having to deal with death.
More specifically, the death of a parent.
We assume and figure that as we get older our parents do, too. We don’t think about it often but if someone asked you when you’d figure you’d have to deal with losing either your mom or your dad you imagine it would happen at some point in your later adulthood. Hopefully with your own family by your side and developing laugh lines around your mouth. Maybe a few gray hairs. But somewhere along that time in your life. When you were adult. When you predict you’ll be able to handle a lot more than you can at the age of twenty-one.
Back home, in Connecticut, I have been blessed. I have been blessed with a friend group consisting of five other faces whose hearts and lives have been carefully knit together for years. Years before, through, and even after the awkward years and the battles that come from growing up. There were six of us. We were so different in so many ways yet the same in those that mattered. We changed, transformed, and still continued to keep the “us”. I look back at it now.. and I can truly say I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for those five other people that I called my best friends.
We’ve gone through ever situation imaginable for a bunch of kids figuring out who we were. We’ve seen each other through it all. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the really ugly. We’ve been there for each other through depression, partying, eating disorders, pot smoking, reputations changing, spiritual apathy, lessened communication, going to different colleges, and entering adulthood.
Last year, on March 23rd, we saw each other through the death of our pastor. Who also happened to be the dad of one of the members of our group. A member of our group who shared him with me as a father figure as well. My closest girl friend growing up.
All of a sudden, we didn’t feel much like adults anymore.
We were forced to have to deal with something bigger than what we have known. Death isn’t one of those things that can go back to normal. All of a sudden, everything around you has changed and the dynamic that you’ve been used to for your entire life is altered. Someone has gone missing. And they’re not coming back.
I think that was the most difficult part for me.
Realizing that he was never going to come back.
Our friend group did the best we could to be what we had always been for each other. Supportive, loving, comforting. There. We did the best we could to be there for each other.
But its a hard thing.. Its a hard thing being 3000 miles away from the people that you need to be around. The people who are grieving the same loss as you, the people that understand. The people that remember what it was like to hear Pastor Dave’s laugh. The people who were just as sad as you are and all about the same thing.
I remember feeling stuck. California felt like another world. It was sunny and warm and campus was busy and I imagined Connecticut to be dark and gloomy and cold. I imagined the weather at home to match the heavy hearts that hung from a church and a family full of very sad people.
Everything happened so fast. It was a Tuesday and services in his memorial were being held on that Friday and Saturday. Easter break was two weeks away and I was already going home for that. So, I decided to stay in California. Forced to by finances and deciding to by fear. So, I stayed in this other world that was sunny and warm and busy and I tried to convince myself that it was for the best. But when it comes down to it.. I don’t think it was.
My only two regrets in life are that I didn’t go to David’s funeral when I was thirteen and that I didn’t go to Pastor Dave’s funeral when I was twenty. My only two regrets in life are that I did not give myself the chance to say goodbye to people that I have lost. I have never felt complete closure and I have always felt restless when I remember that they are gone and I am here and that I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I had to figure out how to surround my friend and cling to my friend group even with many states and time zones between us. Whenever something bad would happen we would always be there to hold onto each other but this time it wasn’t as easy as just driving to Tooch’s house to sit in his basement and talk it out. This time, we all had to deal with it in very different ways and it was one of the scariest things I’ve had to do because I’ve never had to do it that way before and I wasn’t sure if I could.
But here we are, a year later, and we’ve all made it to a place where we can say that which means we must have done something right. I know that there in death there is also a celebration of one’s life.. but for some reason when I think about Pastor Dave’s death I still just remain sad. I miss him, terribly. Today, I missed him terribly. Today I wish I had gone home a year ago and sat with my five Calvary friends and worked through loss among others who were as well. I wish that my heart wasn’t so heavy-laden. I still wish that I could have said my goodbyes instead of arriving to a place that had already done so without me.
I sit here. Torn yet thankful. Sad yet reminiscent. Regretful yet accepting.
I sit here mourning, because I feel like I barely gave myself the chance to do so.
And I think for now. For a year later..
That’s okay.
the earth laughs in flowers.
