Confessions (On Graduation and Premature Eggs)

At the beginning of this semester (oh, crap! Adult life doesn’t happen in semesters!). Scratch that, at the beginning of this past season (or is it phase? section? chapter?), nevermind, at the end of the summer, my life faced a little implosion. Fresh off the plane in America after taking a big risk by serving overseas, my plans were upended by financial and spiritual struggle. Plans that were once set in stone now splintered like wood under an ax. My career aspirations split into several camps, like warring tribes of ideals in my own head (not exactly what you’d like to hear from a recent college graduate that, after showing up back at home, should have some inkling of a career path). All the things I “should” have had: the internship hours, the work experience, and the extracurriculars that lead right to that modern fantasy of the ideal “adult life.” College felt like an incubator, protecting me with a shell of security as I soldiered on toward receiving that golden ticket of a diploma. Instead, I came out a soft, sickly yellow egg, only half-baked, dragging with me an extraordinarily expensive piece of paper. Unfortunately, there is no reentering after exiting the birth canal of graduation. Life has officially started.

Yet I still cling tightly to the inside of my egg, still surrounded by the protective reality created by undergraduate attitudes. I try to ignore the cracks that form in the shell that protected me from the barbs of real-life as the demands of a world that, despite all the “preparation” I was supposedly getting, served to help me rest inside my yolk., suckling on the last remains of that membrane we like to call “liberal arts.”

Yet I wouldn’t trade it away for anything. I wouldn’t be the same person without college, not because of the utility of it, but the more intangible abilities involved in developing connections with people irrespective of their value in setting me on the path toward a specific career or attaining financial stability. It helped shape who I am and challenged me to think outside of the boxes I had created for myself (all whilst remaining ironically inside of a box).

As a slightly non-traditional student, I spent the first two years embedded in academic work, quietly hidden behind a computer screen as I tried to obtain that mythic 4.0. The fact that I was able to finish the last couple seasons of The Office during finals week should not be counted as academic brilliance, but a severe case of social stasis. College posed a two-fold problem to me, indicative of the nature of the two different institutions I attended. I dove straight into academics at my junior college, and upon arriving at university, discovered how small my world had become. For me, this lack of patience and fearlessness ended with me, at the beginning of my Junior year, “starting over” just in time for my college experience to almost be over. Those last two years embodied the paradoxical experience that liberal arts college represents. While supposedly preparing me for a “career” through a generalized set of skills, I sacrificed the ideal “work-experiences” that cast a shadow over nearly any job applications. While establishing relationships with students and faculty, I missed out on other forms of “networking” (a term which retains an inherent ickiness for me) with a specific career field. My extracurriculars, with a mind toward “expanding” myself, have actually served to limit the kinds of opportunities I can apply to. That dissonance between my academics and my personal endeavors seem only to confuse people looking for candidates they can snugly fit into a pre-fabricated position.

College reminds me of a great book, that despite all the praise and adoration showered on it, cannot be dissected effectively. It cannot be balanced with sets of weights. It cannot be added to an equation or judged by a set of statistics. As soon as you try to grasp at an absolute value, it slips through your fingers again. All the while it sinks a little farther into memory, evermore unclear in its purpose. College is a time for transformation and can be a catalyst for enormous growth. Unfortunately, I never gave myself to time to discover how to put that transformation to work. Sometimes, the pain of solace (which, while effective to encourage me to write and share pieces like this, pierces deeper than a knife), makes it hard to remember any detail about my undergraduate experience that changed me. In these times of forgetfulness, I feel the weight of its shadow, which, unclear and foggy, constitutes a more oppressing substance in its absence.

Sometimes, I simply want to run after some wayward and simple dreams, irrespective of the training I received. To learn to be a carpenter in New England, a miner in West Virginia, a deep-sea fisherman across the Atlantic, or a cow-herder in some far-off country. One of my favorite songs, by the band The Head and the Heart starts with a simple line, “I wish I was a slave to an age-old trade/ Riding along railcars and working long days.” College’s greatest burden is the weight of ambition. Often, more than anything, I wish I could be freed from that expectation of success. The reminders about my “potential,” although intended as thoughtful and true statements of my ability to grow, now elicit soft pangs with every memory. Why must I be so filled with the need to find purpose and the spectre of “potential”, when all I really need right now is a job?

Today, though, there remains hope that someday it will be worth it. One thing college teaches you is that a moment is just that, a moment, and we are not defined by one day or one season. Mistakes are not death sentences and life does indeed go on. A season of struggle does not decide your direction, and in the midst greatest times of conflict and uncertainty, the seeds of success are being sown. Facing rejection and regret can be steps toward a brighter future. Returning to my egg metaphor, that shell, which, dim and discolored as it appears, may be the key to that future. The very unpreparedness I resent could enable me to see the world through different lenses, not limited to one path toward fulfillment. Life is short, but it’s also wide. Possibilities still lie on the horizon, and it might take some time to find my path again. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t appreciate the journey, with all of its peaks and pits. Like all great stories, something’s bound to go wrong. All I can do is get to work writing the next chapter.




Lost Love

Lost Love

As it drifts toward memory,

a slow, suspended journey,

Dark and lonely heights,

Carved out by the flames

of bittersweet days

descending toward the dark.


Looking back I see

idol hours spent for naught

I sit forsaken

by my own burning heart,

a flaming shrine

to passion undone.

My mind is dust,

an urn full of ashes

freshly gathered from a fire.



A word too often writ,

Doesn’t sting,

It crushes.


Cruel time,

Without a pause

Rolls onward, and when I push

For one last fight

Against its ever-steady pace

I stumble against its motion.


I crack upon the sidewalk,

Blood pools on the pavement,

A harsh release,

I rise a little less of a man,

But readier to walk again.


Thank God for that wasted time,

Rejoice at what is lost,

To live a little is to die,

Bit by bit,

With pieces

Left behind

In pursuit of wayward dreams

And useless memories.

On Returning to Old Things

I’m not the best cleaner in my household. My room has been notoriously dusty for years, and when the time to finally manage the mess comes around, I can remain stopped up for days, breathing through a film of years-old decay gathered under my bed, my drawers, or my bookshelf. The dust bothers my lungs, and once, when I still had carpet, it got so bad after a serious vacuuming session that I moved myself and all those that matter most to me (that being my sheets, comforter, and three pillows, onto the living  room couch for several days. I was worse off after cleaning than I was before.

Sometimes, when you start cleaning up though, despite all of the dust and grime that emerges from years of carelessness, you find something valuable in the midst of it. An old collectible, a tattered middle-school notebook, or even a favorite sweater shoved under a box of unread books can bring light to a dark day. Even as particles of dead skin of any number of people or animals fly through the air, memories can flood irresistible joy in the moment you find something you love again.

That’s what getting back to writing feels like. It’s a little dusty and decayed, but it’s mostly stayed the same. In college I wrote a lot, but it was all for classes that demanded unnatural adherence to academic style. I didn’t spend much of my own time writing and spent most of my free hours wandering campus, talking to people, working, or doing whatever random extra-curricular I would fall into. The craft I once loved sat in the back of my mind, with tools of prose and poetry that I once used often remaining untouched for months at a time. I brought out my best only when it was absolutely necessary, when I needed an especially good closing paragraph, or a catchy metaphor. Exchanging what I was comfortable with for a drier, formulaic tone more appropriate for term papers on Milton or Medieval poetry, I forgot what it was like to love writing and to breathe in the fumes of creativity like sniffing the wafting scents of wildflowers. Instead, I traded the ecstasy of expression in for a quieter satisfaction, like exchanging the scent of those real wildflowers in for a Yankee Candle substitute on my window sill.

And so I’m back, for at least a moment, in the wild outdoors of creative thought, where the things aren’t real and the points don’t matter. I missed it, and now I begin the process of intentionally pursuing that which was lost.

Today begins a journey to rediscover that joy, perhaps even try to make something out of it. It’s time to dust off the old tool chest, polish my pen, and sit down, learning to love the art of creation again. I hope you enjoy.

A Few Stories to Tell

More than two months ago, I had the extraordinary opportunity to go to Lebanon for nearly three-and-a-half weeks. When I left, I had no idea what to expect, having never been out of the country. Heading to the Middle East, I knew I was taking the high dive before the short one. The reactions of people before I left was usually one of shock, followed by either a routine pat on the back “I could never do what you’re doing” or a dismal prophecy of how terrorists would blow up my apartment, kidnap my little brother, hold my crappy computer for ransom, and any other horrible outcome in-between. I knew it was what I needed to do. Spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, it felt like the right time to take this chance, to do what I had always said I wanted to do, travel, and travel right.

By travelling right, I mean working. There was very little cross-continental galivanting, no late-night-partying, no dangerous escapades with random foreign strangers who would eventually steal my credit card, and definitely no pictures of myself on Instagram hanging out by the Mediterranean (I think it’s for the best if I keep all my clothes on). I came to work and to teach. I’ll leave the Instagram selfies for the Protestant white girls in Jamaica. So, with no real communication back home besides the occasional phone-call back home, I committed myself fully to living into an often stressful, distressing, confusing, and all around fantastic experience. I only really knew three things that were definite before leaving, a) I was teaching English to Syrian Refugees 2) I was working in the middle of an actual refugee camp and c) I was technically working for a private school exclusively serving Syrians, which, when all the other aid agencies leave, sticks around to do the hard work. The rest was a total unknown until I got there.

Before the trip began, I emailed the head teacher with my teaching preferences (as requested by the school) and put down high-level learners as I wasn’t particularly excited about handling Kindergartener. It’s not that I didn’t love kids, I do, but I had never considered myself good with kids. Often I thought I was not only awkward in dealing with them but fundamentally disconcerting to them. With my thin rail of a body, my long head, bony cheeks, and my unintentionally supervillainesque smile I hardly thought I was made, neither physically or mentally, for handling toddlers. Imagine my surprise when class started on Monday with me looking over a class of 16 low-level students where almost all of them still had all of their baby teeth in. With no previous experience (besides some tutoring in college), no teaching certificate to back me up, and no other qualifications besides a fresh off the press English Degree, I had to transform myself into a great Kindergarten teacher in three weeks. This was not even considering these were Syrian kids, many of whom had not known life before having to live in tents. So yeah, I was in for quite a ride. And that ride changed my life forever.

I’ve got a few stories to tell. Over the next few days, I will be posting some writings on the trip that I’ve been working on over the past while. I need to learn to share more, and this is where it starts.

Pain and Faith

“It’s going to be an amazing experience!”

I’ve heard a lot of people say that about my trip next month. I love the sentiment, but I often worry about the assumption behind it. Going overseas and serving is definitely something that will be pretty crazy and challenging, but I often worry what people mean when they say “amazing.” It often seems like what people mean by that is usually designated by fun, exciting adventures, filled with joy and fulfillment. When we step out in faith, we may have some struggles, but all in all, it’ll be “awesome.”

I’m not sure if life works like that.

Those kind of expectations might even be bad for the experience of such a trip. Life never goes according to plan and I earnestly believe that God’s will doesn’t always place us where it’s fun or “amazing” all the time. Often, God places us somewhere where it’s going to be difficult, uncomfortable, and virtually impossible to adapt to. God doesn’t change us without challenges. The Psalms are filled with songs of lament, real struggles by real men following after the Lord. Whatever one does, whether they think it is a good thing or not, God may yet have it in the cards to wound us. Job, though he seemed righteous, had lessons to learn through pain. God’s is not limited to “amazing experiences” but to some pretty gosh-awful ones. He moves in the tears and in the laughter.

As I approach my departure I am reminded of the need to keep an open mind, and to be ready to deal with whatever comes. As I step out to try to serve as best I can, I need to stay aware that God moves in uncomfortable spaces, and that the joy of the Lord exceeds understanding and my situation.

Once I talked to someone about the experience of culture shock and how, despite how awful it can be, it has to happen for us to grow. Someone who does not go through that phase of really wrestling with their place as they try to adapt to a new setting may in fact be resisting change, and actively escaping the reality around them. I must be ready and willing to go through pain and discomfort. I must not settle for false visions but must be open to the hurt around me.

I cannot begin to predict the pain that I will experience, the lives that I will interact with, and the discomfort I will be in. No matter how much I research, I cannot begin to know what it will look like, and that is something that simultaneously terrifies me and excites me. When St. Francis decided to give up all he had and embody a radical faith in poverty, there was relatively no knowledge of what waited on the other side, except that it was going to be painful. I do not mean to make any parallels between me and St. Francis, as what he did was far more drastic than me. I will simply be taking one month out of my summer to serve and returning to a cushy grad school gig that pays me to go to school, but I understand that his decisions were based on the knowledge that he didn’t know what he was getting into, but he knew he would have to go through pain. Many times faith means jumping in somewhere even though we know it will hurt.

Hosea says in chapter 6, verses 1-2: “Come, let us return to the Lord. For he has torn us, but He will heal us; He has wounded us, but He will bandage us.” God uses pain to change our perspectives. Many times, as American Christians, who have been immensely blessed with wealth, status, and safety, pain is a symptom of a sinful life, not just a sinful world. We cannot embrace it as a part of faith. Yet, as we see throughout history, with Christ as the supreme example, pain was often found an essential part of the Christian walk.

God is good even when life stinks.

A Prayer of Peace

On Monday night, the world was reminded of the terrible things human beings are capable of. A young British man walked into a crowd mainly composed of pre-teen and teenage girls, and, in a moment, ignited a bomb that would engulf himself and kill 21 other people, injuring dozens more. This is an act that undoubtedly deserves a swift response, but unfortunately, the most common reaction seems to be one of fear, and as the fear spread I begin to see more accusations than acts of grace. While I think that justice should definitely be done for those lives lost, that job is best left to the authorities that are responsible for it. For the ordinary person, and especially for the ordinary Christian, this is a chance to embody a spirit of love, with our thoughts and prayers reflecting a holy grief alongside divine hope. Although we should fulfill our civic duties and be educated in the issues surrounding such an aberrant act of violence, we must listen to a higher call. This attack may continue to spread fear and destruction, but we must make ourselves living vessels of a healing power.

This is not to say we must explain away or shroud the evil at the root of this act. We must not ignore the evil in the world and we must not dismiss the power of the darkness in it, but we must overwhelm it with the glory of grace.  Recently, I found an old prayer (often attributed to St. Francis, but more likely the work of a writer in the early 20th century) that made me think about how I should respond to such an attack.  So, when I am tempted to fear before I love, I challenge myself to think about these words:

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me bring love.

Where there is offense, let me bring pardon.

Where there is discord, let me bring union.

Where there is error, let me bring truth.

Where there is doubt, let me bring faith.

Where there is despair, let me bring hope.

Where there is darkness, let me bring your light.

Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.

O Master, let me not seek as much

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love,

for it is in giving that once receives,

it is in self-forgetting that one finds,

it is in pardoning that one is pardoned,

it is in dying that one is raised to eternal life”

– Anonymous


There is one passage from the prayer I’d like to quickly remark on:

“O Lord let me not seek as much/ to be consoled as to console, / to be understood as to understand”

Sometimes we must learn before we can love. I must never assume to know the pain of another. So I pray, more than ever, to understand more, not because I want to be smart or seem well-informed, but because I want to love more.