Hymn

Perhaps it is the novel sensation of having nothing to do. I've been trying to think, to remember the last time I was so free from worry, so utterly lacking in stress and concern. I can remember no such time, unless it were the time between January and April of 2000. To have nothing to do with my days but wander through a new strange city that begins to feel like home, eat meals with strangers who seem to become friends, read books for the mere pleasure of reading and enjoy the novelty and peace of being a rest in a space I consider my own.

To be visited, not only each morning and each night but throughout the day, with a profound feeling of joy, an astonishing sense of well-being and right-being. To sit down and explain the path that brought me here and feel so profoundly that it was neither luck nor chance nor skill but utterly and profoundly Providence.

No doubt the next twelve months will contain their stress, sorrow and suffering, as all of life does, but I cannot deny that these days are a gift. There are not words to express my sense of peace, of wholeness, of rightness, of gratitude. Perhaps this is one attempt at a prayer of thanks. Perhaps it is an attempt to leave myself a reminder. Perhaps I want my friends and family to understand what a holy experience this is. Rejoice with me, my friends, thank God for his good gifts to me.

Break?

I have a strange feeling: I ought to be writing. For the first time in 9 months it has been over a week since I was working on, or should have been working on a research paper of some kind. For the latter several months that became an obsession, a drive that kept me from looking up or seeing clearly. I had to finish. I had to do it. I'm still not sure if I enjoyed it, but if I didn't I must be fond of punishment. I've been sitting in a chair for the last ten minutes or so trying to do some recreational reading and I can't. It's a waste of time, I want to be reading Luke Timothy Johnson's The Creed or perhaps one of the many fascinating and engaging works by J.A. McGuckin, anything but mindless travel literature. I ought to be researching, compiling information, working toward the next big project.

I am, of course, aware that I will have work enough and to spare in a short time, but at this moment October 1 (less than two weeks away) seems like an eternity. I am impatient to learn, to dive into the history, the doctrine, the ancient conversation, and to offer my tiny mite, my contribution, my voice to the discussion. It is this more than anything that makes me feel I have chosen the right path, the right place, the right calling.

Perhaps in six weeks I will be panicing and wondering why on earth I ever came here, but somehow I doubt it. Something has changed. I have.

Peace

Ok, maybe by now you're all tired of me talking about it. (Those of you who are reading this.) After all, I went through it all last year, didn't I? Saying 'goodbye,' packing the bags, boarding a plane. It is odd to think it was only a year, somehow it seems so much longer ago, on the other side of 26 credits and I have forgotten how many pages of papers. Last year I was walking away from potential, a place that was just starting to be comfortable, people with whom I was just starting to be familiar. Now I am walking away from a home.

I visited the halls of the Leland Center to meet, greet and share, and when my friends went to their classes I lingered in the hall for an extra minute, wishing I could hug the walls, somehow express my love for this strange foreign place that became my home. Sunday morning I sat in church listening to the voice of the pastor giving mundane details about the church calendar. I nudged the girl next to me at a private joke and winked to the pastor's wife in the back row at another, and then I went still as the thought this is my home washed over me in waves. Tonight I sit in the chair my father bought me, in the house I grew up in. This has always been my home.

This Sunday night I will walk away from all three homes, with the contents of three bags I will board a plane for another country and set my feet on the path of another life, another story, another degree, perhaps even another home. As the days pass time seems to telescope, rushing me toward the change in slow motion, highlighting every day, every word, every farewell. This time it will happen, as my friend said I now have all my "paper ducks" in a row: acceptance letter, proof of finances, passport, visa, round trip ticket, and I know enough to have them in my carry-on luggage.

Another friend asked me today how are you feeling? Are you excited? Well, yes, I'm excited, ecstatic really, on one level. This is something I want so badly I have cried over it, but my excitement is not unadulterated. The adventure brings change and danger, and I've been about the world enough to know that faith is not a sure guard against "bad things" happening. My mother is quite fond of repeating Murphy's law (don't ask me who 'Murphy' is, no clue): If it can go wrong; it will. I wonder if I have done all that I can to ensure something doesn't go wrong. As far as entry clearance, yes, but what comes after that? You see, I have experience at (not) clearing immigration. I have no experience at living in a foreign country for twelve months.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not looking for reassurance. I don't need to be told that this is a good thing or that everything will be all right or that God is in control and will take care of me. I just need to acknowledge the natural fears associated with the awesome changes taking place in my world . . . my life . . . me.

Courage is not the absence of fear. Love casts out fear. Joy is both more precious and more enduring than happiness, and peace lives under all for the one who's heart and mind is guarded by Christ Jesus. When I look through the fear it is like thick glass, but under the glass is love, joy and peace. Peace that passes understanding.