I've been meeting lots of new students on my caseload and something struck me. In fact, it's something that has been resurfacing in my mind. Those students, those people that seem to thrive the most are the ones that are willing to make connections. They're not the most adept ones necessarily, they still say awkward things, but the ones that I think will thrive are willing to connect with others.
It can be in a quiet sort of way. It can be in the animated sort of way. You know those people who extend their figurative hand and offer you something that seems unique? It's not always an easy thing to do, but acting as though you are 1. glad to see that person whether you expected the interaction or not and 2. genuinely interested and invested in what the other person has to say goes a long, long way.
I'm looking at this little sample or microcosm of people. And there will always be outliers, but I think the ones that will thrive and enjoy this life are the ones that are willing to make a connection and make you others like they were glad to have talked.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
woven story
When I'm doing my "best" and by "best", I mean - feeling the most like myself, I am able to write.
Specifically, short stories that are mostly fictional, but inspired by my own life. There something about seeing a situation from a narrator's perspective that brings added beauty and significance. A feeling, a moment, an exchange - they become a pivotal part of a plot (ooh lots of alliteration there!) that, at first, seemed temporal at best. That's life, I think. Moments that seemed unimportant, but as you look back - you see how it was woven into an intricate pattern.
(part two of post that is loosely related...)
Why do we feel compelled to visit places from our past? Or, why do we feel compelled to avoid them? Are we hoping that it'll look exactly the same? Completely different? The paint has faded or a new owner has moved in. That boutique is an electronics store now.
Do you remember how you felt when you were there? The hope? The desolation? The people who were your friends, but are no longer? Or maybe you text them pictures of your own haunts with a message that only insiders would understand.
Those years and those memories. Whether bringing joy or pain - they were worth it. Sometimes I think to myself - what was the point of that happening? Why did that last/not last? Things could've been so different.
I have to remind myself of who Jesus is in the midst of that woven tapestry. The deepest of hurts. The most triumphant of victories. He was there when I cried by myself in my room. He was there when I was sitting with someone who would become a dear, dear friend.
He walks through it and with us. Those things from years ago. They happened. I'm praying that I will see Jesus in the retelling of my story. And I'm praying that I will see him as my story continues to unfold.
Specifically, short stories that are mostly fictional, but inspired by my own life. There something about seeing a situation from a narrator's perspective that brings added beauty and significance. A feeling, a moment, an exchange - they become a pivotal part of a plot (ooh lots of alliteration there!) that, at first, seemed temporal at best. That's life, I think. Moments that seemed unimportant, but as you look back - you see how it was woven into an intricate pattern.
(part two of post that is loosely related...)
Why do we feel compelled to visit places from our past? Or, why do we feel compelled to avoid them? Are we hoping that it'll look exactly the same? Completely different? The paint has faded or a new owner has moved in. That boutique is an electronics store now.
Do you remember how you felt when you were there? The hope? The desolation? The people who were your friends, but are no longer? Or maybe you text them pictures of your own haunts with a message that only insiders would understand.
Those years and those memories. Whether bringing joy or pain - they were worth it. Sometimes I think to myself - what was the point of that happening? Why did that last/not last? Things could've been so different.
I have to remind myself of who Jesus is in the midst of that woven tapestry. The deepest of hurts. The most triumphant of victories. He was there when I cried by myself in my room. He was there when I was sitting with someone who would become a dear, dear friend.
He walks through it and with us. Those things from years ago. They happened. I'm praying that I will see Jesus in the retelling of my story. And I'm praying that I will see him as my story continues to unfold.
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