Exclamation filled the seats as we entered the room. Cap, robes, and tassels adorned our accomplished flesh. Our body. Our vehicle. Our destination? Unknown. For all we knew, we’d cross that stage, and apparently our lives would never be the same. Imagine the pressure that gave the wooden-paneled stage. It’s job was to support us as we walked from one side of the stage to the other. After that, we were on our own.
The second I walked through those tall, French doors, my eyes found my family. It was as if there was some sort of magnetic field in my heart that was solely attracted to their comfort.
After seeing my family smiling proudly, you’d think I’d become more calm. Wrong. I grew more anxious for my turn. Fortunately, despite my last name, I was in the first row to graduate. And it all happened in a blur of a moment. And although I remember almost every second of the event, I mainly remember my thoughts. They were blank. While my friend beside my realized she had forgotten to lock her car, I had realized nothing. I thought, perhaps she was worrying too much. Then, I thought, maybe I wasn’t worrying quite enough. But by the time I thought this, it was my turn, and I had bigger things to think about—like not tripping.
To be completely honest, that day went by so fast that the idea of being a a “college graduate” didn’t really cross my mind. Racing from home, the ceremony, celebratory lunch, and back home to the family dinner, there was very little time to sit and contemplate. Not until the day after did it really sink in.
I was a college graduate. It took me roughly 4 1/2 years, but I had finally finished. All of this sunk in while seated in a van headed to Joplin, Missouri the day after graduation. I finished. And maybe that’s most of what college was—a test of patience. And yes, we would all receive a piece of paper proving our patience. This tiny piece of paper would tell the world that we deserved things and were qualified for things we weren’t a month before receiving it. It was of great importance. However, that paper wasn’t the great accomplishment. The most significant accomplishment in graduating was having that feeling that you finished something. Whether you did it as well as you’d like to have didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that you finished. But why did you finish? Why did you work so hard?
This was not completely actualized until I had reached Joplin. For my age, I am a well-traveled woman. But I’ve never traveled this far for more than vacation sake. I was there in Joplin with a group of fellow Texas Wesleyan students and the school chaplain to help with the devastating repairs necessary for tornado relief. This was how I’d spend my first week as a graduate. Not partying. Not sleeping in. But doing something for people who have gone through something I’ve never had to face. These people in Joplin lost a considerable amount of their belongings, including their homes and sentimental pieces of their lives. And even greater, sometimes life through the several casualties.
On my first day, we worked on a house for a family that wanted nothing more than to be in their house for Christmas. I stepped outside for fresh air. While on my break, I looked at the surrounding landscape. Admittedly, tears started to swell in my eyes. The decapitated houses, vacant hospitals and demolished children schools made me realize the impermanence of the world on a level I’d never felt before. How was it possible that something as small and seemingly insignificant as wind could literally tear the ground beneath your feet, and to those that were affected, how could you move on?
Unfortunately, I, like every fallible human, spent most of my college career worrying about petty things— relationships, grades, money, etc. And I can’t count how many times I’ve been told that others, even at my university, had it much worse than I did. I never thought that perhaps those words had more than truth behind them. They had experience. I seek that experience so much. I hope to one day understand this complex world just a little bit better.
One of the days I was in Joplin, I was moved to another location with a friend to help rebuild a military woman’s house in time for Christmas. I stepped outside and looked at the tall flag waving proudly, and the burnt, rusted cross from the church across the street. Both signs of hope, I suppose.
Before entering the house once more, my friend and I were asked to be interviewed by a camera man from the local ABC news station. I’ll never forget what the man asked me. He asked what I thought I’d get out of this trip, and honestly, I gave him a pretty generic answer, but afterwards, I kept thinking about how I really didn’t come there to gain something, although I did. I gained a a realization that everything in life —family, friends, and tangible objects were all impermanent. I have no idea how I would react if everything in my life was taken from me. The few people I met in Joplin were so optimistic, so brave, and so humble about the entire experience. I have no idea how stable or calm I could be under those circumstances. All I know is that while on my trip to Joplin, I realized how fragile our lives are.
I may not know exactly what my life is going to look like now that graduation is over, but I’m excited to find out. And even further, I know that whatever it is I end up doing in life, I’ll try my very best to remember that life is not our to keep, but ours to give.
The flag and cross
