shelves

The house is emptying out slowly. I find my ears prickling a bit at the sound of my own echo- I am not used to the sound reverberating off the nude walls. Mattresses sit bare and irregular patterns in the gritty dirt outlining the furniture where it sat the entire year look like chalked crime scene drawings--remnants of what once was.

I didn't think you could get so attached to a house. At the risk of sounding cliche, it is more about the people in it, I suppose, but something about the physical leftovers after everyone has written their last exam, packed their toothbrush up and jumped into the car with their families leaves me pensive and thoughtful. I miss everyone already.

There is a part of me that is scared about this summer. Every other summer, I was home. I was grounded. I knew what it was like to live with my family. I knew where the nearest friend was. Things are different now. More uncertain. It has not yet sunk in that I am flying to the Caribbean to love on some sweet kiddos and make some awesome new cross-country friends. But I really am. I will spend more time there than I will at home this summer.

I have nibbled at loss this year in various ways. College is kind of about loss and gain, in general. Losing a bit of your childhood. Losing the old-pair-of-shoes way you used to fit in with your family. The experiences you gain are worth the cost, but that doesn't ever make change easier, in any way. Or at least I don't think so.

In some ways, maybe God is preparing my heart for this summer. Loss may tear away a piece of something that once had a special shelf in your heart, but at the same time, you are left with an empty shelf. Vacant. Waiting for something new.

I wonder what God will fill the shelves of my heart with this summer. I could suspect from the place I sit now that my shelves will be full with the eyes and smiles of sweet Dominican children who will forever tug at my heartstrings. New friendships will be planted and potted and placed on my shelf. Some old friendships will be pruned, but not in a way that kills the plant. Just enough to allow for new growth and healthier blossoms.

I don't know what lies ahead. I am excited and a little nervous. I stand on the edge of a vast canyon. It stretches into the now-fading horizon further than my eyes have strength to see. What does this basin of earth hold? I may not know, but I want Him to have my hand as I take another leap of faith.