Settling In

It’s almost 11 pm on a Monday night. I sit curled up on Helena’s sofa, still wearing the long skirt that I wore to class today, contemplating changing into my pajamas. At the table on the other side of the room, Hans, Nick and Helena are working on their Religion Policy together over bowls of chili. Since I am not in their class, I am over here studying. Can you tell?

There were times when I first got back to California that, as happy as I was to be studying again, to be immersing myself in hard work, to be close enough to see family on the weekends, I nevertheless assumed, quite simply, that friendship was something I’d left behind in Virginia. I would sit at the beach by myself, almost content to be alone, but wishing despite myself that I had my little group of friends to go home to. I missed my college friends. I missed my church. I missed Sunday afternoons with my roommates and Felicity and, yes, I even missed Chris (much as I hated to admit it). After five years of such fellowship I couldn’t imagine being at home with anyone else. But that was ok. I had work to do. This would just be a couple years of a different stage of life, I thought.

But as I sit here tonight, I realize . . . almost for the first time . . . that I’m settling in despite myself. I’ve found a few of those moments of home after all. It isn’t the same, of course – how could it be? People are so very different. But that doesn't change the fact that we are friends. . .

Right now, it’s Hans’ turn to read. He’s reading a Churchill speech about the American Declaration of Independence. In true Hans form, he includes the parenthetical sound effects “this is a war for righteousness! (cheers)” His voice is dry, but takes on a sudden enthusiasm every time he reads the word “cheers.” The other three have turned it into a “drinking game” (good thing Helena’s drink of choice is water and Hans and Nick are only drinking red wine). Now he reads “loud and sustained cheering.” Their glasses clink and they cheer obligingly. From my corner I crack up. They are distracting me. I’m definitely not studying. Oh well. I don’t mind if I get nothing done tonight. It’s almost bedtime anyway. For now, it’s good to feel like I belong.

And if this moment of blessing isn't enough. . . I get to go to my "other home" next week. God is good.

9:35 am yesterday morning, I bid goodbye to my cousin, pulled off the yellow paper hospital gown and blue powder-free latex gloves and threw them in the nearest trash-bin with a sigh of relief. I don’t like hospital visits. Never have. Never will. But familial duty called me to the sick bed early Wednesday morning, and I tried to respond with something resembling cheerful alacrity even though everything in me wanted to rebel. I had found my cousin seemingly comfortable and surprisingly cheerful, visited for as long as I could bear the vinyl chair and scratchy gown and then made my escape.

I was in a considerably better mood as I wound my way back through the maze of hallways, down the elevator and through a series of lobbies. A couple more doorways and the end would be in sight. In my haste I nearly ran into a man about my own age coming through the second lobby door. He was well dressed and attractive, but unshaven and disheveled. In one hand he held a cup of coffee and in the other an empty baby-seat. The visitor pass on his shirt read “maternity.” As I apologized he glanced up with a half smile, but immediately forgot about me as the expression on his face returned to something between sheer terror and pure joy.

I turned to watch him as he entered the elevator. He stared at the empty seat he held, seeming almost surprised by his burden. Soon, I realized, he would come back down the elevator with the same tiny car-seat . . . but it wouldn’t be empty. At the top of that elevator a mother was waiting with a new-born baby – his new born baby and in just a few minutes they would follow my steps out the front entrance. For me, the automatic doors would open on just another Wednesday. For them, they would open on a brand new life. I tried to imagine how that would feel, but failed. As the doors closed on the young father, I wished him a silent blessing, then turned and went on my way.