Today, I took my first real breath.
I smell the garlic italian-seasoned potatoes roasting in the oven I’m using for the first time. I see the pale bloom of the garden mum, miraculously well-watered. I hear the basil plant I’ve managed to keep alive practically humming along with its own kind of flavor to Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club spinning at 33 on the roommate’s Crosley. I sense a kind of belonging. Just a stairway below the wide window, energetic youth and neighborhood folk walk the street and take a bus and zoom through the wide lane blasting the latest pop chart top and stroll in the golden hour sun. Separate, but all at once.
Our space faces south, gifting these wide-eyed women (whose companionship I am so, so thankful for) with a glimpse into the side often unseen by the tourist, by the visitor, and by the Wheaton student. Yet, here are sixteen of us students who have chosen to seek to see this place in embodied reality.
The record player distantly crackles. Every so often, I need to reset, flip, or replay. In many ways, these three full weeks have been full of narratives I’ve recognized, but never truly heard before. Repetition is necessary, but no broken records here - just brokenness and beauty everywhere.
History. Philosophy. Theology. Psychology. Anthropology. Sociology. Experiential learning can not be put in these neat boxes. Instead, I am amazed at the continual connections and intersections sparking the lightbulb moments and deep questions. Wrestling with seemingly insurmountable issues has exercised dormant muscles. The hope is for my activity to inform my practiced habits to inform my prioritized loves. In community, this means evaluation and reevaluation of our learning, whether in our structured group time or at our unique internships or in our credited class hours, and beyond. I could not be more grateful for this true fellowship. My heart is full of so many stories already - wow!
To even settle down enough to write this has been a challenge. I don’t know how to “take a breather.” My mind is whirling like a sustained series of notes with a ghost of a melody to be threaded through an eye of a needle. Candidly, we are more tourist than we wish, more transient than we can control, and more overwhelmed than we can handle - but God. He orchestrated these three weeks and these coming three months. In fact, He keeps a record of my wanderings and bottles my tears; Are they not in Your records?
Would you partner in praying for this place, this space, these people? This is my deep breath - and I pray for the Breath of God to infuse this place, this space, these souls.
And then, I want to record the striking melodies still unfolding.
