In one week, I’ll pack up the little basement suite that I’ve called home for the summer. I’ll move 20 minutes down the road to a college apartment. I’ll print out a class schedule and wait to buy the most expensive books till after I’ve looked over my syllabi on the first day of class.
I have 74 days of class, before I walk away with a diploma and a boatload of valuable life experience. Yes, I’m already counting down.
As I enter the final stretch of the undergraduate marathon, I’ve been paging through journals and scrolling through Facebook albums, remembering where I’ve been and what has shaped me.
There’s freshman Angela, sporting a Wheaton sweatshirt, tentative but happy. She’s pushing past the comfort of her introverted patterns and learning be ok with failing at games like pool.
Next, there’s the fragile sophomore, smiling hopefully just a week after the trauma of a friend’s hospitalization. She’s lost a little weight and a lot of hair as she struggles with the growing symptoms of anxiety.
Then there’s the junior, just turned 21, learning to stand on her own after that brutal breakup.
And now there’s a senior, secure in her identity and community, strong from what she’s learned and ready to face the future.
And of course, you can read the whole story in her hair.