Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. TICK. TOCK. TICK...
It's on the top left corner of the page. If you're not looking for it, you might miss it - a small, raised circle with irregular corrugated rays splashing out in all directions. There's another spot just like it on the bottom of the page, closer to the verse marked in uneven strokes of black ink: How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart?...Look on me and answer, O Lord, my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death. (Psalm 13:2,3 NIV). A verse I visited once five years ago this month, leaving two small briny tear stains on the page as I realized my perfect plan A was crumbling to give way to Plan B.
Tick. Tock. TICK. TICK. TICK.
The wave of emotion caught up to me on Sunday evening. I'd been running full speed to keep ahead of it - somewhat akin to arcade games I was always terrible at - since Wednesday, hustling and bustling with all the busyness and festivities that surround graduation weekend. There had been banquets, and presentations, and classes, and ceremonies, and baccalaureates, and dinners, and pictures, and loads of planning and organizing, a wedding, and finally commencement. My body seized the Sunday evening moment of a lull in activity to begin digesting all that had happened in a few short days, and I felt myself wilting into exhaustion. Success. Joy. Accomplishment. Achievement. Pomp. Adulation. Embraces. Smiles. Farewells.
I usually find that my most authentic blog posts come when I'm emotionally raw. This week has been a series of ebb and flow tides of emotion, and I've just been bobbing along for the ride.
I've spent the last 3 years becoming family with 34 other aspiring physical therapists. We laughed together, cried together, poked and prodded each other in ways and places I never thought I'd be comfortable to do, and passed through the crucible of PT school relatively unscathed. These people (and others I met on my Berrien Springs journey), I thought, had become part of who I am. But I've had to continually remind myself that the people we are privileged to meet and grow with do not define us, but rather shape who we are. We do not lose our identity when we say goodbye; we simply thank those who helped to weave the tapestry of our character and experience.
TICK. TICK. TICK. TICK.
The clock in my sister's guest bedroom grew louder as I grew closer to sleep. As the silence grew, the clock struck its mark with steady regularity and ever-increasing urgency. The more I stilled myself in preparation for sleep, the louder the clock reverberated.
Be still, and know that I am God...
When I am finally still, stripped clear of all distractions (plans), the still, small voice echoes with such astounding clarity I wonder how I ever missed it in the first place. My aching heart beats in cadence with its soothing tones.
I return to the small, briny tear stain in the Psalms, and read further: But I will trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord's praise, for he has been good to me. (Psalm 13:5,6 NIV)
A chapter in my life is ending. The book is not ending. Though all I see ahead are blank pages, without familiarity or comfort zones or plan A, B, or C, I do see adventures, both planned and unplanned; new faces, waiting for me to introduce myself and become fast friends; a new career, with great promise and longevity.
Moving forward doesn't erase memories. Saying goodbye doesn't alter who I am.
This is the first day of the rest of my life.
Bring it on.
No comments:
Post a Comment