Well Then

Or, a not-so-well-thought-out post that just kind of rambles, because it has been over six months since I wrote anything, and anyone who still reads this likely believes that I'm dead or missing in action.

Everything is turned upside down right now because this lovely little school doesn't have kids.

So I have been here since August (well, all summer really), trying to figure out what a teacher does with nobody to teach. It's been interesting.

I visited my best friend a lot over the summer, also visited family, took a class for my certification. Got a very mischievous ginger kitty from said best friend's family. ^_^ Read new books, enjoyed them, got new plants (currently have an African violet, an aloe vera, a basil, and a viney thing). Tried to recruit kids with not a whole lot of success.

Continued to repeat that last sentence indefinitely this fall. Did finally register one child officially for the January semester--yay!! Also heard that two will not be able to come back till next fall--hrmm. :/

Created a school website, chased my (proverbial) tail in circles over various projects, some of which were accomplished and some of which weren't, and here we are at the end of September and I have received a tentative offer to do a long-term substitute position somewhere in Georgia (the level of secrecy regarding location is both amusing and frustrating, you'd think it was classified CIA information). For various reasons I said yes (with my board chair's approval) and so I sit here and wait a final decision that will launch me southward, at least for a short period.

But I did talk to one of my eighth graders from last year, just yesterday, and she is in academy and doing well and enjoying herself. Which, I like to think, she would not be if it hadn't been for what we'd been able to do last year. So it was worth it, however it turns out.

I know this time will be, too. Some things just take longer to see results than others.

When Love Shatters

It's a drippy, foggy week before Christmas and I am on a trail run in the woods behind my house (family's house, my second home--or maybe my first). Feet pound rhythmically and the questions fire beside and behind them. And foremost among the questions is one:

Why does love break?

Because I'd said before, I told it to my parents, what I'd been thinking for months now: Everything I touch shatters. The friendships, the love, the relationships, community, everything. Everything breaks, sooner or later, when I've touched it.

Why? All I did was love them. All I did was care. And it shatters. Time and time and time again, it breaks. Is it worth it, to keep loving? Is it right, to keep reaching out, when it will only cause them worse pain later? (And that's not even counting what it does to me.)

So my feet pound the trail and my heart pounds questions. The trail slopes downward and I break to a walk to save my knees. My prayer drifts out, mist into mist. "Why, God?"

And just like that, there's an answer that stops me cold; my feet freeze in the trail and I grab the nearest tree and hang on, like the force of the thought might knock me over if I'm not careful.

Love always shatters. 

Always?

Always, on earth. Because Love will always be colliding with evil. And that causes shattering.

The lyrics of a song drift into my head: "Love's like an ocean..."

Those waves--they roll on and on across the deep, strong but peaceful, gentle--until they reach the shore. That wave breaking, it can break you, it can kill you, it can drive you under, make you feel you're drowning. But it's not the wave that does that. It's the wave breaking. Striking the rock. Clashing with something completely opposite to itself.

Like Love. Like Love always is, always will be, as long as there is evil in the world.

Love's collision will break others, will break itself, will create a million pieces out of things that looked whole. But the only alternative is to abandon Love and choose evil. Because there is no middle ground, no safe walled-in place, not in this case.

And perhaps, as we choose, it's worthy to remember that sometimes, breaking is the only way to healing.

Love by the Wayside

I have wondered, in the dark damp days, Can love be wasted?

I see it lying by the wayside, after all, in the ditch, like a tossed away rag, like a child given up for dead. It looks wasted. It looks used-up. It looks dead. It looks as if it would be useless and inefficient and half-broken and hopelessly out-of-date, even if you could and did revive it.

But Love is not a rag and Love is not even a person. Love is greater than all of these.

Love is a seed. A seed that never dies because it is a piece of the very heart of God. And so when it appears used-up and dead and thrown away, that is the most magical time of Love. 

Because that is when Love grows. It sends out a root. It anchors itself deep. It brings out leaves, more roots, stems, and, eventually, it blooms. 

Oh, the birds will try to snatch it away. And the thorns will try to choke it out. And the winds will try to blow it away and sometimes they succeed. You know what? 

They only blow it somewhere else. Where it's dropped, and it looks dead once more, and then, bit by bit, it revives. 

Nothing that God IS will ever be wasted. Ever.

May He give us courage. Not only to be the seed, but to accept it. Not only to grow again, but to nurture what comes to us. Not only to love, but to be loved.  Because Love is never wasted.

Christmas Home

It's almost Christmas.

That makes twenty-three Christmases I've been through. That's a lot of holidays. A lot of "Jingle Bells" and "Silent Night." A lot of packages. A lot of readings of Luke chapter two.

And I am home for Christmas. But not really. Allow me to explain...

Once upon a time, all of us were little. And once upon a time, all of us wanted nothing more than to grow up. To be on our own. To forge our own path into the wild, beckoning, rosy world.

Then we got there. And of a sudden it wasn't so rosy any more.

Everyone tells you of the bills to pay, the job to hold down, the lack of "freedom." But those are the easy parts of growing up. Bills can be earned. Jobs can be fulfilling. Freedom is a relative thing.

Nobody told eight- or ten- or thirteen-year-old you of the pain you'd encounter. Of the friendships you'd lose. Of the times you'd want so desperately to cry--but you couldn't. Of the long walks in the woods just trying to find your heart and maybe put two pieces back together again. Of the suffocating darkness that would strike at you from every corner. Nobody told you about all that.

I'm still not sure if they didn't tell us because they didn't know--or because they didn't know how to explain--or because they'd tried so hard to forget, that they did forget...

It doesn't really matter. We're here now, and there's a part of us that desperately wants to go back, to be a child again, to go home. But we can't. There's no turning the clock back. There's no stepping backward.

What does Christmas really mean when you realize you will never be home for Christmas again? That there's not a place in this world that is your true home?

Maybe--just maybe--it's remembering that once, two thousand years ago, a Baby was born into a world. A world that, though He'd made it, would never, ever be His real home. Yet He chose to be born here, He chose to live here, He chose to die here--

So that, Someday, we could go Home. Home for Christmas. Home for eternity.

Because it wouldn't have been home for Him--without us.

Story

Bible class is always the hardest.

Oh, and I know why too. *Someone* isn't happy with any focus on the Bible or on our relationship with God. And thus it increases my prayer life, not knowing what I'm going to talk about until Friday or Sunday! ;)

This last week, praying (again) for inspiration, especially after stumbling across a revealing Bible journal entry by one of my kids, I was impressed by a thought:

Story, Bri. 

What story? I don't have stories.

Sure you do. 

THOSE stories? Oh my kids love stories. They don't care what it's about either. The magic words "I'm going to tell you a story..." get them all quiet and staring rapturously, no matter how uninteresting the story itself might be. But...really God?

Those stories.

 On my walk, I started thinking...God redeems everything. Every fall, every stumble, every pain and tear shed. And He has wired our hearts and souls for hearing stories. Even His Word is primarily stories. Perhaps story--our story--our testimony of His faithfulness--is the primary way He redeems the past.

So why should we be reluctant to tell, even though it may be raw and unpolished and stumbling? Why should I hesitate to share how He has worked and is working, even if it isn't "amazing"? Maybe, just maybe, the common everyday life stories of God's little and big providences are what we are missing.

Maybe, just maybe, some more of them should be told.

What's your story today?
What's mine?

What It Means

"Still Path"

"What does following in God's steps mean to you? And what happens when you do follow in His steps?"

Good questions, dear friend. I've been pondering them all week.

And as I sit here at the near-end of a week of rain, listening to music to fill the silence in my empty house, worn from a week of late nights and early mornings, trying not to think about how I miss my friends, overwhelmed with a hundred responsibilities, it's a little hard to see the light as I usually do. But I can say one thing with confidence.

For me, following God's steps means two words. Or actually, four:

Caring more. For healing.

More than is comfortable. More than is convenient. More than is necessary. More than others have. More than others will, or could, or should.

And yet, just caring isn't enough. You can care, and break. You can care, and wound. Horribly. And then it is better not to care at all.

So true caring must be always focused on healing. And that means receiving everything--every heartthrob, every touch on the shoulder, every smile, every tear, every note on the to-do list, every e-mail, every meeting, everything--from the ultimate Healer. Because as people, we are the Wounded. And without Him, we wound.

But praise God, with Him, we can heal.

What happens when I follow? Loneliness. Exhaustion. Emptiness. Sure. You read my third paragraph. But so much more. So much more. When they don't fill (because they never do), He does. Sunsets and stars. Full moons and foggy mornings. Flowers in the fields. Cool breezes. Storms sweeping down across the lake. Thunder and rain. So much beauty it literally hurts. Richness.

And, ultimately, a dream of the certain Victory to come. That's what it means.

Day Breaks

The sky is pink and orange over the eastern horizon.

I lean against the window seat and watch it. There's a moment of stillness in the hectic pace of life. The color shifts and fades and grows again, almost alive.

A thousand heart-stirrings surge inside. Someday I will have to leave this place. And though I love it here, I hope I leave soon.

Not for another school. Not for a marriage or for another job. Someday soon, I hope to leave because I'm not allowed to be here longer. Because only a short time after that, I'll stand and watch another sun rise. Watch a day break in which I know there'll be no end.

Soon, He will come. And the sunrise won't compare.

Oh, may the Day break soon.

But in the meantime, may it break in my heart every morning, as I watch the sun rise.

First Night

It was night when I became a guardian.

To you that might seem inconsequential--a little puzzling, perhaps. But we have only experienced night three times in six thousand years.

That was the second time.

It was also the reason I became a guardian.

You see, in the beginning, I thought about guardianship and decided not to. It seemed a very difficult job--and not only difficult, but wearing.

Then that night came.

It fell suddenly, like a shadow from some gigantic monster, a darkness almost smothering in its heaviness. From one side of the city to the other, we pressed into the Father's throne. The air vibrated with emotion. Only once before had this happened--and we could not imagine what might make it happen again. We did not know what fear was, then, but I daresay that fear was what we felt.

The Father was weeping. There had been tears of joy when the stars were made. There had been shouts of welcome when humanity was placed. But only once before had we seen sorrow. We glanced at each other, and pressed closer. He looked up.

"My children." The sound was flat, and almost dull, shot through with a pain I could almost touch. "My children--" and His voice failed. He only motioned. And we looked, and we saw.

The darkness. Oh, the darkness. If we had thought it was bad here, it was a hundred times deeper there. And as the days passed it grew worse. The planet itself seemed to groan. The ground, to shriek. And they were deaf. Deaf to the pain. Deaf to--to everything. They thought they saw, they thought they heard--but they saw only a flicker, heard only a whisper. When the light is gone, you do not know how deep the darkness is.

The light returned to the city. But not to Earth. Not to most of it, at least. I watched and the pain tore into me like so many knives (those, too--I had not known them before that night), till I could no longer stand it and I rushed into the Father's presence.

"Is there not something I can do?"

His eyes were full of pain, but gentle. "Yes. Yes, there is. But it is hard now."

"I do not care. Whatever it is. Anything to ease that pain."

"Anything?" He whispered, as if to Himself, and I thought He blinked away a tear. "Yes, my star, there is something for you. Look." He pointed. "See that one?"

"Of course. She is only a child. How can a child live in such a dark place? She will die. Oh, my Father, she will die!"

"She would," He said, with a smile, "if not for you. Will you go?"

I only bowed my head in response. He laid His hands upon me, and gave me blessing enough to last the years. And so I went into the night, and I became a guardian. And a star.

Little Things

Memories. Memories make a lifetime.

"Do you remember that Sabbath when we were all so tired--and we came to your house--and we made spaghetti and random tortilla things--and sat and talked--and played in the hammock?!"

"Do you remember that evening when we had that snow day and we all came over and had popcorn and hot chocolate and tea and talked?"

"Do you remember when we sat on the lawn and looked at the sunset?"

"Do you remember..."

Yes, I remember. How could I forget? Last semester I had the great privilege of becoming "mom"/"big sister"/"twin sister"/general-carer-for-of-people to a rather large group of college students. Many of whom I'm still in touch with, still their sister, still even called mommy on occasion. (All this, by the way, makes me ridiculously happy).

And I've noticed something. As we re-connect over the summer, and as I hear and recite with them the times most precious to us, we remember the big things--but it's the little things we really remember. The times when we felt heard and loved and we felt safe and cared for. The times when we looked another in the eye and said or just felt: "You too?!'

Those are the times we remember. And usually they were tiny times. Spur-of-the-moment thoughts. Words said that seemed to take no root at all. A quick invitation to a few friends. Popcorn and tea. But they are what sank in deep. 

I'm increasingly convicted that we are not called to great things. We are called to a hundred tiny little things. God alone does great things. But He does them through our tiny actions.

May I do little things in His love. 

"Don't look for big things; just do small things with great love. ...The smaller the thing, the greater must be our love." (Mother Teresa)

Salt and Light

"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

"You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden." (Matt. 5:14-15)

The salt, the light--their essence comes from deep inside. The light is lit by someone else; the salt distilled by another. Only the impurities allowed in, the loss of a wick or of oil, keep them from fulfilling their tasks.

May nothing else slip in to taint my heart; may nothing separate me from the Source of my light!

If Truth Never Triumphed

There's been a shooting today, in the city I've known as home for the past eight years.

"Domestic terrorism"... "ISIS"..."violence"...

These words were never supposed to exist. Period.

We cry, "Why this little city? Why this little town? Why those children? Why these husbands? Those mothers?"

And we cannot know the answer. Because evil has no answer but the selfish core of selfishness. Evil is its own entity. And deep inside, the most hardened of us still know that it is a foreign entity. Evil is not supposed to be. 

This hatred of evil, this hatred of pain, this burning anger at things that are just wrong, this is one of the strongest indicators that we were made for another world.

But here, and now, truth, integrity, love...they battle today. And more often than not, they lose. In little ways, and in big.

Truth forever on the scaffold,
Wrong forever on the throne.

And so I have a question for you today--and a question for me. Why do we choose truth? Why do we choose integrity? Why do we choose love?

Do we choose it because we think life will be better when it triumphs?

What if it never overcame? (not, that is, that we could ever see...)

What if it never won? (not that our children, or great-great-great grandchildren, could ever enjoy...)

Would we still choose it now?

Oh, How He Loves

We meet "virtually" at the end of a long week--she walking along a creek in the rain, I sitting atop a warm rock in the sun (by another little creek). Almost 200 miles apart, but still beside each other in heart. Sisterhood is like that.

It's been a week full of joy and full of sorrow, for both of us. Full of the joy of serving, of giving unashamedly, of pouring into other lives. Full of sorrow from others' pain, of staggering under the hundred-ton weight of someone else's hurt. Sometimes second-hand sorrow is hardest to bear.

We share (much-abbreviated) prayer requests and though we laugh at each other and with each other, our hearts break for each other and for our friends. People I haven't even met set my heart throbbing, make me close my eyes as if to try to block out the agonizing reality of the darkness that has set itself against them. I ache to wrap my arms around each one, hold them tight, tell them You ARE loved. YOU are loved. HE loves you--and through the darkness, through the pain--He'll never, ever let you go.

And that night as I go home, half-reeling from the overwhelming need to be loved that resounds through the hearts of this broken, pain-throbbing world, I can't help but think, this must be a glimpse into the heart of God.

'Cause if I love these people so much--people I've never or only barely met--how much more must He love each one of them and each one of us--His children--when He knows so deeply and so intimately?

Wow.

"Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God!" (1 Jn. 3:1)

You Matter

Rallied by one young prince's victory, a thousand men of the Israelite nation rush from their hiding places, armed with sticks and shovels, to pursue and to destroy their enemies. Successfully.

Ranks of young men file into ships, to land at Normandy Beach and to scramble and battle their way inland in a desperate struggle to free Europe.

Suicide bombers train for days, weeks--only to destroy themselves in a final explosion for what they believe is the right.

We are obsessed, we humans, with being part of something bigger than ourselves. With fighting for the right. With the ideal of the stalwart hero who battles and struggles and finally, though his death or through his life, wins. We want this. We crave it. It is part of both our deepest fears and our deepest dreams. It constantly drives us upward toward glory, or downward toward greatest loss. 

Because we are. We are part of Something Bigger. We do fight for it. Every day. 

The question is: What? What am I fighting for? Am I the hero fighting to free Europe, to rescue Israel from the Philistines? Or am I the suicide bomber who destroys not only others, but himself, in a blaze of terror?

There are only two sides. The side that destroys, and the Side that renews. The side that wounds, and the Side that heals. And one of the essences of the Gospel is just this:

YOU MATTER.

Your life matters. Your choices matter. YOU matter. More than you can ever dream. Because in every choice, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant, you fight. Because every time you choose the good, evil loses. 

And so in a hundred little choices, in a hundred little prayers, in a hundred little surrenders every day...we fight.

By His grace, choose the good.

"Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, to which you were also called and have confessed the good confession in the presence of many witnesses." (1 Tim. 6:12)

Somewhere Between

Source

It's a strange feeling being between two worlds.

That's where most of us grads (or soon-to-be-grads) are right now. Two worlds. One world is the one we've been in for at least four, sometimes five or more, years--college. To expand it even further, school in general. We've been students for at least sixteen years, most of us.

The next world varies a lot from person to person, but it has one thing in common--the unknown. Unknown grad school, unknown new jobs, unknown mission service. Unknown.

And for the moment, standing between last finals and an anticipated-but-unknown future, we look at the world and wonder one thing: Where am I today--really?

Because I don't belong here any more, but I still am here.

Because I will belong there someday, but I'm not there yet.

And so we stand somewhere between, in a strangely surrealistic "wood between the worlds," happy but unsure, relieved but just a little apprehensive, not knowing.

The parallels are intriguing.

"These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland." (Heb. 11:13-14)

Broken Healer

"The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me,
Because the LORD has anointed Me
To preach good tidings to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And the opening of the prison to those who are bound" (Is. 61:1)

What makes God such an incredible Healer? Besides, of course, that He is God, and can do whatever He wants. . .

When we are hurting, we want someone who has been there before us. Somehow, knowing that someone has walked this trail before--it smooths the thorns. It gives us hope. And somehow, that hope is really what most of us are looking for.

So He was broken--He was crushed--so that we might be healed. And so that we might recognize that healing, see it in hands and feet and heart, in flesh and bone.

And perhaps, just perhaps, He sometimes asks us to share in that brokenness--so that we might be able to offer healing and hope to another.

Other Side of Chivalry

"UGH!"

She stomps her foot and crosses her arms and scowls. Seventh-graders haven't yet mastered the art of the death glare, but they're getting close. Especially this one.

He looks at her with a crooked smile and doesn't say anything (he's smart). With an exaggerated sigh, she flings her arms to her sides petulantly and stomps . . . through the door.

He grins and waits for me to go through and closes it behind us.

"He's trying to be a gentleman, M," I smile; "let him do it."

And they say chivalry is dead. Girls say chivalry's dead. Are we the ones who've killed it?

I find this definition when I look up "chivalry": "the combination of qualities expected of an ideal knight, especially courage, honor, courtesy, justice, and a readiness to help the weak."

I don't think girls really mind courage or justice, or even honor--look at the popular movies and books and you know we like those things. But it's that "courtesy" thing, especially because courtesy ties precisely to the last item in that list: "a readiness to help the weak," that gets us.

God made people to be strong. He made guys to be strong. He made girls to be strong too. Look at the women in the Bible and you see strength all over the place. Eve, Deborah, Esther, Jael . . . these women are no pushovers. And we, as their daughters, want to be strong. We want to be the warrior princess of the story. And our culture pushes that even harder. Women must be "empowered"; we must be tough and strong and not give in to anything. Especially men.

We say this--we do this--partly because strength is built into us, and partly because we are afraid. The strength part is good. The fear part is not. Because fear always makes a fake hardness, a brittle china sort of toughness that isn't at all tough. Instead, it breaks and cuts.

What are we afraid of? It probably depends to a degree on the individual girl, but I'd say there's one thing that carries through us all: We are afraid of being hurt.

"But I'm not hurting you!" the poor guy protests. "I'm being nice to you!"

Yeah, you are. But you are also, even in one small way, making me dependent on another person. You. I'm depending on you to hold that door for 30 seconds and not let it smash back in my face. I'm depending on you to hand those fallen books back and not toss them away just to spite me. I'm depending on you to not cut in front of me in line. Little things, yeah, but I'm depending on you. And that is a terrifying place to be. Most girls have been let down enough little or big times (even by seventh grade) that we're gun-shy of any kind of dependence.

Maybe it's a scary place for you too, gentleman at the door. Maybe it's not. I don't know. But if you want to make it better, what do you do?

Keep doing what you're doing. Try to be patient. Try to be a little bit nicely stubborn--sometimes that's what it takes. But don't just be a gentleman when it comes to holding doors or picking up books or letting me go first in the potluck line. Be dependable other places too. Build my trust. I don't care if I'm not and never will be your girlfriend. We all need to build trust--you, and me, and my seventh- and eighth-graders, and all of us.

Girls? That's a whole different post. But try to see the true strength behind accepting courtesy. It takes a lot more strength to graciously accept an offer that makes you momentarily dependent on another, than it does to bull your way through alone. Remember that. And act on it.

If we want chivalry, we can't refuse it. If we want kindness, we can't put it down. If we want to be open and true with each other, we must move past that fear that cuts.

How To Be a Teacher

...according to second grade:

--"But she's a STUDENT teacher."
--"Yeah...but she has a whistle!" 
--"That's true...I guess she's a teacher too!"

Never-failing source of amusement right here. Love having the combination of older and younger kids--best of all the worlds! :)

His Lamps

I don't remember if I've shared this before, but just in case I haven't...this is a great little poem I have posted on my wall to remember.

We are His lamps, to shine where He shall say;
And lamps are not for sunny rooms,
Or for the light of day,
But for dark places of the earth,
Where shame and wrong and crime have birth;
Or for the murky twilight gray,
Where wandering sheep have gone astray;
Or where the lamp of faith grows dim,
And souls are groping after Him.
And so sometimes we find a flame,
Clear shining through the night--
So dark we cannot see the lamp, 
   but only see the light.
May we so shine--His love the flame--
That men may glorify His name.

~ R.J. Flint

Teacher Diaries: New Journey

Yesterday and Friday found me up at my new community/church/school! Spent Friday looking around for apartments and possible places for my horse, and then yesterday was Sabbath School, church, and potluck.

It was really a great weekend--overwhelming sometimes and exhausting for the introvert who met what seems like a hundred new people, but great! The church members are really wonderful, very friendly and welcoming. I could hardly have a conversation without at least three other people coming up to say hello and welcome! Beautiful little active church, a healthy growing school and active homeschool community :) . I'm excited. God is doing big things there and I'm grateful He's given me the chance to be part of it!

It will be a big shift for sure as I transition. I've never lived away from home before, so it's all kind of happening at once. ;) But it's still fairly close which is a big positive. I can come down to visit home on a weekend or my family can come up. Friends can come up from university too, if they want to.

Life feels like it's duly in an uproar right now! Decisions--ah I hate decisions and there are about a thousand just waiting in the wings! But I know God's got His hand in this and He'll bring me through. That's what I'm holding on to. :)

Waiting: Part 2: What's It?

Or, some stories for you. :)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. And this little girl loved horses. (Don't most?) The fabled "horse bug" bit her when she was around seven years old, and it just never really quit.

Of course she asked for a horse, she wanted a horse--but her parents couldn't afford a horse, and that was that. So she wore the covers off her book on how to take care of horses, reading it and re-reading it. And always she hoped for a horse. She befriended horses that showed up in the cow barn (unfortunately they stayed only a few days) and then she made friends who had horses, and she got to ride one at long last. But only once or twice before her family moved. She still hoped for her own.

Eventually, three years after the initial bug bit, her grandpa offered to fund riding lessons every other week. She learned to walk and trot and eventually to canter. And still she hoped for her own horse. There were bad instructors and good ones, lost confidence and regained confidence, and as she got older the horses got younger and a bit wilder sometimes. There were more falls, more bumps and bruises, broken bones, drives home in tears because things didn't work out. And still she hoped for her own.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a little boy. And this little boy decided he wanted to work with physically hurting people, to reach their spiritual hurts too. So when he grew up he went to college to study. 

But when he got to college some huge issues came up. Issues so big that it seemed there was no way through. No way around. No way over. He tried every angle. He analyzed every opportunity. But things just didn't seem to be looking up. So he asked, and he shared:

"What keeps you going?" 

The answer? Hope. Hope to make a difference. Hope to change someone's life. Hope to shine a light. 

So he kept getting up every day, and he kept going to class, and he kept hoping for that difference. There were no answers, and there were no guarantees, and the dream was held off (it seemed) maybe forever. He waited on the answers, and he waited on the outcome, and there wasn't much promise of a good turnaround and a happy ending. Still he hoped to be that difference. 

* * *

Two stories, two very different people, two very different situations. Or maybe, at the core, not so different after all.

What is "waiting"?