Once Upon A Time

You might be surprised. I've sorted through and dissected every feeling and emotion and concern I've had about my graduation through this blog, yet it is now days after the actual event, and I have not mentioned it. You would assume that I would have much on my mind the day of and would need to unload it all here, as is often the case with my posts. You probably expected an extensive metaphor or a sarcastic rundown or some other characteristic recounting, recorded in the early hours of the morning after.

Honestly, I just didn't know how I felt. It was all so surreal, like it didn't really happen. I was so swept up in the odd reality that I just couldn't describe anything, metaphorically or sarcastically.

But tonight, it hit me. I can finally put it into words. And yes, there's a metaphor.

You know that feeling you get after you've read a long novel for some time? You've become well aquainted with the characters. You're invovled in their lives, even parts the other characters don't know about. You know their joys, their cares, their sins, their faults, everything. Also, you're completely familiar with the world they live in. The places they visit and inhabit are places in which you vicariously exist. Finally, you've become completely invested into the plot. The events that unfold seem to directly effect you. Until you read the last page, the book is your world.

But then, the spell is broken. The plot reaches the climax, the conflicts resolve, and you might, if you're lucky, be blessed with a cheerful epilogue, giving you a small glimsp into the future of the characters. And that's it. Sure, you feel a sense of accomplishment, finally finishing the book, especially if it's a long one. But the longer they are, the more time you have to get attached. By the time your eyes find "The End," you aren't quite ready for it. Relieved, maybe. But still kind of sad. You'll miss it. You want to still be there, in the thick of it, experiencing the places and the people you've come to know so well.

But then, you move on. You pick up a new read. You find yourself in a new setting, learning new characters and experiencing new things. It always starts out rough, getting into a fresh book. But hopefully after the first few chapters, you're ready to invest yourself once again.

That's how I feel. I've finished a book. The events are stored in my memory and in my photo albums. The setting is a drive away, but I'll be a visitor if I go back, not an actual inhabitant. And the characters? Well, I know a lot of them are gone, too. Graduation day was probably the last day I'll see many of my classmates. But there are some whom I hope and pray will not go away. They, invariably, will show up in my next volume, which I can't wait to read.

My Bench

There is a bench in the city where I live. It's structure is simple: three slabs of smooth gray granite. I can tell you that this bench has been carefully placed so that it sits right underneath the shade of a nearby tree, whose branches desperately need a trim. This sturdy seat has been placed with purpose, a memorial for a man I never knew. His name is inscribed on the bench, along with a short epitaph.

24 hours ago, I had no idea this bench even existed. I probably didn't need it. Because then, I still had hope. I had faith. I believed.

Now, reality has won. I am defeated.

It was a bad morning. I was just so sad. I didn't understand. And I couldn't get out of it. There was no one to talk to, so I just started driving. After nearly breaking down in tears at Target, I knew the baby car would be my only solace, as she often is. So we went exploring. I didn't care about getting lost. That's nearly impossible around here. We just took new roads, listening to Coldplay, as I sniffled behind my sunglasses.

And then, I saw it. The bench. Nestled in an old cemetery off a nondescript road. I pulled up to where it sat next to the gravel path. It was so inviting, regardless of the morbid setting.

I sat down, a person overcome by the inevitable, broken, empty of hope, full of despair. And I just sobbed.

I stayed there for about an hour, spitting my prayers and complaints and confusion and anger out to God. People change. Relationships change. I knew this would happen. I anticipated it. Why did you give me hope that it wouldn't? Didn't you promise hope that does not disappoint? ...and so on.

I prayed someone would come and comfort me, but I remained alone. I prayed for peace, for joy, for the ability to accept reality, but I was without it all. I drove away released but oddly enough, still burdened. And very exhausted.

Nobody said it was easy.
Oh, it's such a shame for us to part.
Nobody said it was easy.
No one ever said it would be so hard.

Oh, take me back to the start.

Senior Checklist

"So... you excited?"
"How's it feel to be done?"
"I'm going to miss you so much!"
"Here, sign my yearbook."
"Have I signed your yearbook?"
"See you at graduation."
"Where'd you tell me you're going again?"
"Oh. Where is that?"
"Oh! Well, that sounds nice."
"I thought you were going to UGA."
"Did you mail your announcements yet?"
"Did you mail your graduation party invitations yet?"
"Why haven't you done that yet?"
"Explain in your own words the two main themes of Jane Eyre."
"I can't sign this until you've cleaned out your locker."
"... or else you won't walk."
"Torpeders."
"What's that flower thing that goes on your wrist? Am I supposed to get you one?"
"My daughter looks up to you so much."
"Well, if I don't see you, have fun tomorrow night."
"Rosalyn."
"Would you like to join the army?"
"Now, what has this taught you about procrastination?"

Just a few sound bites that have been swirling around my life lately. The last quote was spoken by a lady in the UPS store who was mailing a priority shipped (aka almost late) scholarship application for me. It seems life lessons must always be learned with extra postage.

We had baccalaureate (or, as I like to call it, the Graduation pep rally) yesterday. I am now the owner of a new Bible with my name calligraphied on the inside. Last night was our last regular youth group meeting. I plopped my graduation announcements in the mailbox at the post office this morning, with a ceremonious "'07!" under my breath. I'm still working on the blasted orange senior checklist, getting signatures from everyone saying I can, in fact, walk. I turned in my last test today (thanks for the 523 pages, Charlotte Brontë). I attended the last small group meeting at lunch. P-ROM '07 plans are all made: I got the tickets, the reservations, the dress, the date, the jewelry, the hair appointment, the shoes, the handbag, and the transportation all set. Now I just have to enjoy myself tomorrow night, which will hopefully be the easiest thing on this list.

So here I am, blogging at my familiar coffee spot, pondering dancing with someone who always seems to bring a smile to my face. Contemplating all my pending free time before graduation. Thinking about the summer with my youth group. Musing over the fall at "No, it's not UGA" University and all the people I'll meet, things I'll do, stuff I'll learn there.

So, to answer your question... yes. I am excited. Or at least getting there.

Grain of Salt

Reality and I haven't been on good terms lately.

What is it about human beings? We are logical, rational, understanding creatures. We are able to differentiate between the possible and the impossible. We know we cannot do certain things. We are constrained by reality and are constantly reminded of our limitations.

And yet... we hope. We hang on to that last shred of improbability, convincing ourselves that this time will be different. More than that, we dream. Our hopes are so real to us that we base our futures on them, we act on them, we believe in them.

But why? We are always disappointed. We always let down or are let down. Why do we keep trying? Why are we not overwhelmed by the reality of a situation, left in a puddle of faithless inaction?

I am overwhelmed. Reality, the insuperable juggernaut, is winning.

The reality is this: I have performed my last show; tomorrow, I will play my last concert; I will attend my last classes Friday and Monday; I will graduate; I will leave. People grow up. I am growing up. Growing means changing. I am changing, as is everyone else around me. Our relationships are changing, too. Drastically. I will grow apart from many whom I hold close now. Also, I'm finding it hard to believe in new relationships because of the futility involved. Why start now if we're all just leaving anyway?

This is logic. This is actuality. This is real.

So why am I up late once more, crying about things I cannot change and should have anticipated all along? Perhaps I had hoped it wouldn't happen. I really can't say.

But I can say that sometimes, for absolutely no discernible reason whatsoever, reality lets one slip by. A dream comes true. So you smile, scarcely allowing yourself to keep hoping and dreaming.

Reflections

When I was about 6 or so, I got to dress up for Halloween as a bride. Cute, frilly, white dress with white, Easter Sunday shoes, a bouquet of silk flowers that fell out of their bundle every time I breathed, and two elastic headband veils. The veils were what perplexed me the most. Why two? I didn't get it. Mom explained that the bride's face was covered by one when she walked down the aisle, and the groom moved it back later, when he kissed her. But my 6 year old mind found folly in the tradition. I wanted everyone to see my "radiance," if you will, and the veil only got in the way.

Recently, I've been reading 2 Corinthians. In the third chapter, Paul explains the difference between the old ministry of atonement and the new. He references Moses, who had to wear a veil when he experienced the glory of God after receiving the old, fading ministry of condemnation - the Law. Now that we have the new ministry of salvation, how much more glorious will that appear? And how much brighter will we be, no longer veiled by misunderstanding the old?

"And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (v. 18)

We're like mirrors, reflecting, not our own glory, but God's. Sometimes our veils get in the way: our pride, our pain, our skewed perceptions, our immaturity. But thanks to God, He is transforming us into His likeness, that we may be covered no longer.

I am beginning to realized that my life is not my story. It is God's. He is the protagonist, and He is the author. It's just not about me.

I want to be an unveiled mirror of His glory. I want everyone to see what Abba's love has done to me, for them to look at me as one who is loved, because I am. And maybe, they will be drawn by that reflection of His brilliant rays, rather than the pathetic, fading beam of my own existence. When I look around and see those who are reflecting His light into my life, I know that I am called to do the same.

When I get married, I'm not going to wear the second veil. I want my groom and everyone else to see what love has done to my countenance. Why would you want to cover that up?

So, that's what I learned in Kindergarten. I guess it's all I really need to know.