I have never been much of a details person. I prefer the unplanned: the wide-open opportunity of possibility, the space for surprise, and the room for wonder. I like the ticket, the destination, and a nodded, smiling, “yes.” I value openness, willingness, and flexibility. I value uncertainty. Is this the self-defensive anthem—a desperate, blind comfort—of a senior approaching graduation? Maybe—but maybe it is more than that. This, perhaps, may be considered as less of an expression of passivity, an aversion to commitment, and more of an active and intentional posturing. Its focus is on personhood, not plans. I’m packing light: my Nalgene is tucked and buckled into the side of my backpack and my passport and some cash are hidden in an inner pocket. The necessities are accounted for and the burden is light. I’m anticipating—I’m ready—to pick up and go, to nod a smiling “yes”, when God, when opportunity, says “Let’s go.”
When I arrived at Houghton, my smile was so wide, so expectant, that it was silly. I was buzzing, brimming, with curiosity. I came with questions and expected to find answers; came with problems, confusions, and frustrations and I expected to find solutions. I said “yes” to opportunity after strange and sometimes serendipitous opportunity—“yes” to Journey’s End Tutoring, to Gospel Choir (though that was soon followed by a “no” when I realized my voice would be heard rather than smoothly and quietly blended with the others), to a One Missions Society (OMS) missions retreat in Indiana with a van full of strangers, to symposiums and Deacon Board meetings. Another “yes” took me to an Interfaith Conference in Kentucky where I was overwhelmed with newness, diversity, and strange, staggering, uncertainty. I spent an October break in the Adirondack Mountains and felt fantastically small, quiet, and happy: a feeling that would return in Tanzania through dwelling in the glory of the unfamiliar and the challenge of the context of close community. I marched through the streets of New York, calling for climate justice. My schedule and person have been full, to the brim and beyond, of new ideas, interactions, conversations, and questions—always questions.
My worldview, ambitions, values, and purpose have not compacted or narrowed focus in my four years at Houghton. No, they have been stretched, sometimes felt torn, into something much larger than I ever anticipated. The curious, but order seeking, freshman version of myself has faded and grown into something, someone, quite different. My more black-and-white world has become gray, in the most beautiful sense. There is magic and mystery in the gray—in that misty blanket of fog. In this space, I’ve had to dismiss the comfort, safety, and satisfaction of the familiar. The gray settles over the similar, disguises the readily recognizable: I’ve learned to lean into the unknown, straining my eyes to see through and beyond the immediate and obvious. Here in the gray, my position is not clear. My placement does not yet have a title or a job description. I am in the here and not-quite-yet. Still gray, still fluid, is the Kingdom of God.
There is value in transience—in this uncertain limbo. This, maybe, is glorified indecisiveness. I’ve romanticized the “not knowing” and masked it as some grand adventure. Questions and uncertainty, though, have this inherent vulnerability. They are not secure. The territory they occupy is sometimes frightening, often in marked contrast to a savings-driven, career-oriented, fast-paced society. I take comfort in this: my tiny story is nested in a much larger narrative. There’s a bigger picture, a mosaic, divinely ordered. I see the scattered, lopsided pieces. I feel their wonky edges. I choose to remain faithful to the process, the working together of a divine vision, not panicked by the disorder.
My options are open and my plans are imperfect, uncertain. They may go awry—they already have. I think of miscalculated travel and a night spent in McDonalds. I think of an early morning in Tanzania, blundering through brush and darkness, losing and finding the path again, racing the rising of the sun. I remember hurrying to the top of the hill, struggling to catch my breath, and clambering on to a rock just as the sun was rising. There was God, peeking over the mountains, smiling, spilling light across the valley. We made it—we’ll make it.