Unsettled

“Cacophony. The garbled bass voice of the movie in the lobby spars with the soft, eager sounds of Phil Wickham coming from my computer: my mind’s match in sound. I put the spoon back into my jar of peanut-butter and lean over to rest my head on a fuzzy grey pillow. 

Today did not go as expected.

For that matter, this week did not go as expected. And I am exhausted.”

When writing on September 29, I didn’t make it much farther than that before my eyes stopped focusing, my head started to bob, and I went to bed. The words were supposed to begin the ordering of my thoughts about how Jesus has changed me and blessed me in my short month back at school this year. Sleep and then busy-ness interfered, so two weeks and a growth spurt later, I might finally get to put it into words.

I’ll start a bit farther back, stretching my mind to remember the thoughts that flitted there before the school year began. New roommates, a box of uncreased textbooks, and the thrill of the “unknown” were at war with homemade sweaters, saying goodbye to kiddos, and a little brother at college; as August ended, I felt the conflict of summer nostalgia and school anticipation. When people asked for my specific prayer requests for the school year, I consistently mentioned my role as Spiritual Life Coordinator of my dorm, and I pondered what the position might entail. As is normal, my thoughts ran ahead of action; I was (am) waiting for permission and training to begin my year of ministry to the dorm that I live in. A week into the school year, I found myself tossed into a bundle of five other SLCs at a “retreat” that reminded me of my insufficiency in small groups of people I don’t know.

I observed. One sullen face and tired body, with eyes that whispered active, mischievous thought. One four-wheeling and trampoline-bouncing “introvert.” One curly-haired smile with a guise of timidity. One down-to-earth practical thinker with hidden hope for a new adventure. One big-hearted listener who seemed happier outdoors than in.  And me, full of first(ish) impressions. 

That time ended with lofty plans that I didn’t know how to bring to the real world. The hard world. The world where I don’t know everyone and I don’t spend time with Jesus every day and I’d rather be ignored than be a bother. The world where homework (like God’s love) is never-ending and my friends’ hearts are broken-barely-mending.

At the next meeting, the five faces were there, and I told the story of how God had drawn me to a place where I could pray for healing for myself. Without asking what I needed healing for, they blessed me by talking to Jesus about me. I could express my humbled gratefulness with a tiny, uncapitalized “thank you,” only, forgetting to mention the promise God had brought through the pain—that it would be a witness for someone of who God is. There is purpose.

Maybe, through them, it was even a witness to me? This time, after their prayer, I’d surely be able to go back and serve my dorm.

No. (Not with my plans.)

Two weeks later, Deeper Life week began—a week in which my school brings in a speaker and holds three extra chapels that make life-change the norm. From the cynic’s perspective, change seems to be merely the outcome of a social setting where it is expected; in truth, people pray to God over and over for those three days to begin permanent transformation. In those six days, no bedtimes were what I would have planned, whether because of prayer, homework, listening, or hipster-plans and a birthday.

For me, a smaller meeting of the same five leaders brought hope more than the words of the chapel speaker. In that meeting, I began to see a glimpse of friendship in each of those faces, as we articulated a consensus of inadequacy in fulfilling our roles. Who are we, Lord, we seemed to be saying, that you should choose us?

We laughed together, too—not for the first time, but the timbre was new, refreshed. We were expectant in our open doubt.

That next Saturday morning, I watched Phineas and Ferb as I ate a bowl of Cinnamon Chex and mentally planned my day of productive homework, Skyping, and relaxation. A call from the hospital changed that plan to one of a day spent in prayer and encouragement for a precious exchange student from Honduras who needed emergency surgery to remove her stone-filled gallbladder. If I were not her SLC, that hospital would not have been my destination for the day. I likely wouldn’t have known my friend was there—but apart from that, I would have believed that my presence was superfluous and unwanted beside that of her closer friends. I would have been so focused on whether or not she wanted me there that I wouldn’t have thought about how I was needed to minister to her and to the other friends who went through the experience with her. Too focused on my insecurities; too forgetful of my friend’s needs and my Lord’s power.

I went, neglecting the books piled on the couch and the square meal I might have made. Three days later, I went again, visiting the home of the friend with whom she was staying to recuperate. The word whimsical has hardly a better definition than the enchanted yellow dwelling I entered, but the dialogue within is what draws me back. In this home, the conversation looped back to Jesus from every direction. God’s word was spoken through his children:

“Here’s the scoop. This is what I see. In these last few days or weeks, when we’ve been worshipping together, I’ve seen boldness in you—that there is no fear of man in you.”

What?!

You can’t be talking about me.

She was talking about me. And she used the exact words that had filled my prayers as I cried out to the Lord for the past month (or year...or years) to help me discover how to minister to my dorm, or even my friends. My mind plays devil’s advocate: this combination of words is not uncommon—just read the epistles enough and the phrases will start flowing out of your mouth. She was just borrowing words, and words are nothing. But another voice persists: no one would come up with those words for me without some Help. When asked, plenty of other words are available for a complimentary description: joyful, gentle, peaceful, loving, and kind are often used—but never bold. I am almost certain that no one has called me that since elementary school, at least. The Lord is answering my prayers.

May he keep answering, because I’m not there yet on my own. I can’t do this on my own. I don’t know how to be bold—I don’t even know how to make things right with someone who was alone and three steps in front of me for the entire length of a hallway; getting out a “Hello” would have been an improvement. The words that gave my friend strength when the stones in her gallbladder were making speech difficult taunt me: “Jesus went through more pain than this for me.”

If you went through much more, why do I find so little so hard?

Lord, continue to change me…please?