Last spring, I took a class called Life Stories. The point of the class was to explore our lives up to that point, and look toward the future with anticipating eyes. At the end of the class, we had to take a favorite quotation, and explain what it meant to each of us in the context of our "life story." A classmate used this quotation: "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
Today, during my ConEd site meeting, we had to read our reflection papers which we had written about our first visits. In mine, I expressed some worry that I didn't have enough training to do what I was being asked to do. I walk into hospital rooms, and introduce myself as a chaplain.
I have been in seminary for, count them--one..two--weeks.
Who am I to be anyone's chaplain.
With that being said, my supervisor made a good point. "You keep talking about the knowledge you think you lack....what do you know?"
I know how to love people. And how to relate to them. I know how to be scared of the unknown, like so many who find themselves in hospitals. I know how to pray. And how to sing. And how to find hope in the hopeless.
I know that God's will doesn't involve suffering--that sometimes bad things happen to good people. And that it sucks when that happens. I know I can't explain it all. I know I don't have to.
I know how to laugh. And how to help others laugh.
Maybe I'll start there.
blessings.
jon.
Showing posts with label Elon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Elon. Show all posts
19 September 2007
28 August 2007
The Last Farewell
I've been thinking a lot about Elon today, and what I've left and what I've started.
With those thoughts on my mind, I stumbled across this column I wrote during my freshman year of college. It's a little long, but now that the time which I wrote about has passed, and is passing, it seemed appropriate to visit it again.
The Last Farewell
“Fare thee well/ My own true love/ Farewell for a while/ I’m going away But I’ll be back/ Though I go 10,000 miles”
-Mary Chapin Carpenter, 10,000 Miles
I hate goodbyes. Leaving home this past August and moving to college signaled a great change in my life. I went from a total semi-parasitic dependent to a somewhat independent young adult. And in the process of gaining this great title of young adult, I lost the certainty of my past. I no longer have the safety net of home, at least not how it used to be.
When I went home for fall break I was shocked. My Waffle House, the one I had spent countless hours sitting and chatting in, the one I read in, the one I would eat pecan pie in at 1 in the morning, was nothing but a pile of old crumbled ruble. That place was like my comfort zone.
Upon arriving at college, many of my new friends had never heard of Waffle house. If they had, they hadn’t eaten there. They would ask me “don’t they only serve breakfast there” or “isn’t it closed” when I would ask if they would accompany me at 1:30 am to the nearest yellow and brown house. “Ignorance can be cured, stupidity is forever.” The immortal words of my father echoed in my head. All they needed was to be introduced to the Waffle House experience.
In my high school days, Waffle House, or Wa Ho as we called it was just another part of growing up—like nightly homework or daily practice. There were three waffle houses within a mile of my school—all three on the same road, Virginia Avenue
I suppose that some of my readers don’t understand my connection with this place; I guess that can have the best guess at how I feel about this restaurant are my fellow Atlantans. This is where I came upon the “great teenage revelations.” It was here that one of my best friends brought her fiancé the night before the wedding to hang out. It was here that I said many goodbyes.
And where did all those memories go? Sure I have a menu from the eatery that a waitress gave me once, and I can order my hash browns the same way at any Waffle House, but will it be the same? No, it never will.
That’s what makes me the saddest about leaving home. It’s not so much missing my family and friends as it is missing me. Missing the way I and life used to be. I may be able to fly back to Atlanta, but I won’t get to light the Jack-o-lanterns each night or help to decorate the house for Valentine’s Day or even do something as simple as feed the dogs.
This past May, I gave a speech to my church. One of my goals was to figure out exactly how to bid the congregation and this place I had grown up in goodbye. I tried. I couldn’t.
Instead I thought of an old family friend, whom, when one left a visit, would not allow you to say goodbye. You would have to say “I love you.” That’s what I told my church. But I can’t do that with my past. I can go back to that church. I can’t live in my past. I feel almost like I have lost a home.
And that is why I am dreading my last farewell in May of 2007. I don’t want to loose this home too. I’ll say it. I’m scared. And any person who claims they aren’t just a tiny bit worried is lying—even those graduating in may this year.
I’m sure it’s completely natural to have these fears. But it’s more than just fear. It’s disappointment as well. There is so much hype that leads up to a graduation. You wait excitedly for the appointed day. Finally, it arrives, and you walk up that stage, grab your paper that makes you king of the world for 2.3 seconds, then its over. You just spent so much of your life working towards that sheet of paper and in under three seconds, it is finished. All the reading, writing, studying, worrying, and sleepless nights were for one sheet of paper and three seconds.
Granted this piece of paper hold the key to success further down the road, there is some sort of let down that is involved.
When I received my high school diploma, it was the end of an era for me. I had attended this particular school for fourteen out of my eighteen years. As I reached my hand out for that single certificate I shut a door on the life I had known for over a decade. I put the final stamp on my career as a highschooler and it was the beginning of having to move on with my life.
My Scoutmaster, with whom I worked closely during past summers at a summer camp and who graduated from the same school, probably put it the best. He said that “when you leave, its like having a door slam shut behind you. You can’t go back.” That is so hard to hear sometimes. What if I want to go back? I can’t just hit the back button on my internet web browser or retype the address into the address bar.
I do miss high school. I miss having friends that I saw daily, but could easily get away from by retreating home. I miss my mother’s hugs and my dad’s jokes.
But now I am at college and meeting fantastic, loving, fascinating people. The bottom line is that I am having the time of my life. But deep within me, I know its all going to end…again. I will have a new family and then I will be forced to say goodbye one more time.
Friends remind me that I have four years (well, a little over three now). That is just it, I have four years. I only have four years to make friends, to live college, to have fun before I have to grow up for good.
It’s a harsh reality. One that is not fun in the making. You might say that life is full of goodbyes, that there never really is a last farewell. Fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to look forward to them.
To all those who are counting down the days until you bid Elon farewell, just remember my old friend--the one who wouldn’t let you say good bye, only “I love you.”
With those thoughts on my mind, I stumbled across this column I wrote during my freshman year of college. It's a little long, but now that the time which I wrote about has passed, and is passing, it seemed appropriate to visit it again.
The Last Farewell
“Fare thee well/ My own true love/ Farewell for a while/ I’m going away But I’ll be back/ Though I go 10,000 miles”
-Mary Chapin Carpenter, 10,000 Miles
I hate goodbyes. Leaving home this past August and moving to college signaled a great change in my life. I went from a total semi-parasitic dependent to a somewhat independent young adult. And in the process of gaining this great title of young adult, I lost the certainty of my past. I no longer have the safety net of home, at least not how it used to be.
When I went home for fall break I was shocked. My Waffle House, the one I had spent countless hours sitting and chatting in, the one I read in, the one I would eat pecan pie in at 1 in the morning, was nothing but a pile of old crumbled ruble. That place was like my comfort zone.
Upon arriving at college, many of my new friends had never heard of Waffle house. If they had, they hadn’t eaten there. They would ask me “don’t they only serve breakfast there” or “isn’t it closed” when I would ask if they would accompany me at 1:30 am to the nearest yellow and brown house. “Ignorance can be cured, stupidity is forever.” The immortal words of my father echoed in my head. All they needed was to be introduced to the Waffle House experience.
In my high school days, Waffle House, or Wa Ho as we called it was just another part of growing up—like nightly homework or daily practice. There were three waffle houses within a mile of my school—all three on the same road, Virginia Avenue
I suppose that some of my readers don’t understand my connection with this place; I guess that can have the best guess at how I feel about this restaurant are my fellow Atlantans. This is where I came upon the “great teenage revelations.” It was here that one of my best friends brought her fiancé the night before the wedding to hang out. It was here that I said many goodbyes.
And where did all those memories go? Sure I have a menu from the eatery that a waitress gave me once, and I can order my hash browns the same way at any Waffle House, but will it be the same? No, it never will.
That’s what makes me the saddest about leaving home. It’s not so much missing my family and friends as it is missing me. Missing the way I and life used to be. I may be able to fly back to Atlanta, but I won’t get to light the Jack-o-lanterns each night or help to decorate the house for Valentine’s Day or even do something as simple as feed the dogs.
This past May, I gave a speech to my church. One of my goals was to figure out exactly how to bid the congregation and this place I had grown up in goodbye. I tried. I couldn’t.
Instead I thought of an old family friend, whom, when one left a visit, would not allow you to say goodbye. You would have to say “I love you.” That’s what I told my church. But I can’t do that with my past. I can go back to that church. I can’t live in my past. I feel almost like I have lost a home.
And that is why I am dreading my last farewell in May of 2007. I don’t want to loose this home too. I’ll say it. I’m scared. And any person who claims they aren’t just a tiny bit worried is lying—even those graduating in may this year.
I’m sure it’s completely natural to have these fears. But it’s more than just fear. It’s disappointment as well. There is so much hype that leads up to a graduation. You wait excitedly for the appointed day. Finally, it arrives, and you walk up that stage, grab your paper that makes you king of the world for 2.3 seconds, then its over. You just spent so much of your life working towards that sheet of paper and in under three seconds, it is finished. All the reading, writing, studying, worrying, and sleepless nights were for one sheet of paper and three seconds.
Granted this piece of paper hold the key to success further down the road, there is some sort of let down that is involved.
When I received my high school diploma, it was the end of an era for me. I had attended this particular school for fourteen out of my eighteen years. As I reached my hand out for that single certificate I shut a door on the life I had known for over a decade. I put the final stamp on my career as a highschooler and it was the beginning of having to move on with my life.
My Scoutmaster, with whom I worked closely during past summers at a summer camp and who graduated from the same school, probably put it the best. He said that “when you leave, its like having a door slam shut behind you. You can’t go back.” That is so hard to hear sometimes. What if I want to go back? I can’t just hit the back button on my internet web browser or retype the address into the address bar.
I do miss high school. I miss having friends that I saw daily, but could easily get away from by retreating home. I miss my mother’s hugs and my dad’s jokes.
But now I am at college and meeting fantastic, loving, fascinating people. The bottom line is that I am having the time of my life. But deep within me, I know its all going to end…again. I will have a new family and then I will be forced to say goodbye one more time.
Friends remind me that I have four years (well, a little over three now). That is just it, I have four years. I only have four years to make friends, to live college, to have fun before I have to grow up for good.
It’s a harsh reality. One that is not fun in the making. You might say that life is full of goodbyes, that there never really is a last farewell. Fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to look forward to them.
To all those who are counting down the days until you bid Elon farewell, just remember my old friend--the one who wouldn’t let you say good bye, only “I love you.”
Goodbye Elon, Hello Emory
Classes started today at Elon. It's the first time in 4 years that I'm not there for that. I didn't move to a new place. I didn't go and buy books, or print off my schedule or visit my favorite people on campus.
Instead I got my hair cut.
I know that moving on is necessary. And, I was quite ready to be done with the work and some of the drama that invade my last two months there.
But, I know I'm gonna miss it. It was home. And, I definitely left a piece of me there.
Yesterday, I ventured onto Emory's campus to run some errands. I bought books, visited some fun folks, filled out more forms, and got my ID made.
I bummed around with two friends (one new, one old). Later that evening, a group of us first-years made our way to Decatur and Virginia-Highlands. Good company. Good moments.
And it really began to sink in that I was starting the next chapter.
And I'm glad for that.
And that is a good place to be.
Instead I got my hair cut.
I know that moving on is necessary. And, I was quite ready to be done with the work and some of the drama that invade my last two months there.
But, I know I'm gonna miss it. It was home. And, I definitely left a piece of me there.
Yesterday, I ventured onto Emory's campus to run some errands. I bought books, visited some fun folks, filled out more forms, and got my ID made.
I bummed around with two friends (one new, one old). Later that evening, a group of us first-years made our way to Decatur and Virginia-Highlands. Good company. Good moments.
And it really began to sink in that I was starting the next chapter.
And I'm glad for that.
And that is a good place to be.
27 August 2007
remembering grace at the waffle house
Yesterday evening I went to Waffle House. I used to go pretty regularly as it’s a way of life down here. I remember moving to Elon, and trying to get my new friends into the Waffle House experience.
“But I’m not hungry,” they would whine.
“We’re not going to eat,” I’d nearly shout back
Eating isn’t the point (however, it is a nice added bonus).
The point is going, and being. There were three Waffle Houses within a mile of my high school--each with its own group of kids that went there often. I went to the one closest to my church so much during my high school days, that they gave me a menu when I left for college.
When it was all said and done, Waffle House was always there--open, with good food and usually good friends.
Last night, I was meeting my friend, Kellie, at the Waffle House up by the highway. Assuming I would be the first one there (we went to the one far closer to me than to her), I brought a book with me.
The book was Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. The book, which I read once before for a class during my junior year of college, is about Dr. Paul Farmer’s quest to solve the health problems of Haiti. The title comes from a Haitian proverb: “Beyond mountains there are mountains.”
You can imagine how the book goes. I was somewhere in the third chapter where Kidder writes about the policies of Farmer’s rural healthcare center. The one rule that was distinctly Farmer’s and the one which couldn’t be broken, was that no one was turned away. They would help every last patient.
And I realized that is our call--to not turn people away. And in that is the Grace we are given, that we won’t be turned away.
As as Charlie Daniels sawed on that fiddle, playing it hot over the jukebox, I knew that I was glad to be at Waffle House--at a place where the door was open, and smiles waited inside. And I was glad to be reminded of God’s grace--where the arms are open, and love awaits us all.
blessings.
jon.
“But I’m not hungry,” they would whine.
“We’re not going to eat,” I’d nearly shout back
Eating isn’t the point (however, it is a nice added bonus).
The point is going, and being. There were three Waffle Houses within a mile of my high school--each with its own group of kids that went there often. I went to the one closest to my church so much during my high school days, that they gave me a menu when I left for college.
When it was all said and done, Waffle House was always there--open, with good food and usually good friends.
Last night, I was meeting my friend, Kellie, at the Waffle House up by the highway. Assuming I would be the first one there (we went to the one far closer to me than to her), I brought a book with me.
The book was Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. The book, which I read once before for a class during my junior year of college, is about Dr. Paul Farmer’s quest to solve the health problems of Haiti. The title comes from a Haitian proverb: “Beyond mountains there are mountains.”
You can imagine how the book goes. I was somewhere in the third chapter where Kidder writes about the policies of Farmer’s rural healthcare center. The one rule that was distinctly Farmer’s and the one which couldn’t be broken, was that no one was turned away. They would help every last patient.
And I realized that is our call--to not turn people away. And in that is the Grace we are given, that we won’t be turned away.
As as Charlie Daniels sawed on that fiddle, playing it hot over the jukebox, I knew that I was glad to be at Waffle House--at a place where the door was open, and smiles waited inside. And I was glad to be reminded of God’s grace--where the arms are open, and love awaits us all.
blessings.
jon.
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