Remnants

            It rained the evening of your funeral.  I remember, because the smooth sole of my heels slipped on the wet pavement as I walked from my car to the MSU Alumni Building.  It was how I felt: treadless.  Unable to move in the heavy downpour that had recently thundered in on my heart.

            I didn't know you for long.  I was attracted to your writing posted on our class forum before I ever saw your face.  I mentioned it as we walked side by side in Wilson Hall after class.  You said you admired mine as well.  You said it “re-inspired you to the core of your being.”  You were strong, carelessly handsome, laughed without concern, thought with great depth, and wrote with uncanny guts.  Effortlessly we would slide into conversations about our cavernous souls, the order of the cosmos, and virtue.  Your writing egged me on, sparking my thoughts into an ever-increasing blaze of idea and admiration.  We had a few meals together, a walk in the dry fields behind your house, and late-night study sessions in the Library.  I was touched by your intriguing soul, and the way in which you were continually confused at my self-consciousness.  Life happened, and we drifted apart come the end of the semester.  I thought you were upset at me. 

I saw you again twelve days before Spring Break, in front of the printers where I could nearly guarantee to find you (English majors print everything) and you gave me an immediate tight hug.  You delved into questions regarding my job writing for the University Paper, and shared with me your opportunity to go to London on a Senior trip.  You were every bit as ecstatic, intellectual, and intelligent as always.  My brief romantic feelings for you had long passed, replaced by great respect and desire to know the man you were.  I was happy for our brief reunion.  It touched my soul. 

Then over Spring Break, I received an email from our mutual professor, Doug Downs.  You had been in a fatal accident in London.

My friend, the one with the insatiable mind, the one who always doubted his own skills and pushed harder and harder to achieve greater heights, the one touched with the gift of amazingly creative and talented writing, the one with whom I fixed that high-tech blender that wouldn't start, the one who always encouraged and applauded my writing.

            You were gone.  Still are.

I miss those ugly blue shoes you wore far too often; I miss seeing them in front of the printers.  You pushed me, you encouraged me, you made me believe I could be something greater.  The world was touched for a very brief time by a very bright light, and is dimmer for its absence.  You loved the quote "Let be be finale of seem," from a poem by Wallace Stevens.  I now realize it means it's okay to let you go.  But it's not actually the end.

I miss you, Aaron.  You were touched by God’s incredible handiwork.  And in turn, you touched me.  

Then and Now: Building Blocks and Laundry Soap

                        On my way to bed I navigate building blocks of various sizes and shapes, an enormous cardboard box that is actually a fort, a spread of wrapping paper scraps and cardboard tubes, climb sturdy pine steps to the attic, and crawl into a king size bed covered in quilts that almost swallow me at night. Man, it’s good to be home. 

                         It’s curious how time has a way of changing irritants into lovely sentimentalities. The way the bottom half of our Christmas tree is more heavily laden with ornaments from little brother’s decorating jobs would once evoke a perfectionist mentality in me, driving me to rearrange the adornments into an even arrangement. Now I smile across our living room, remarking how the décor steadily gains in height as my brothers grow. As a teenager living in my parent’s household, I would grumble at the prospect of doing laundry. Now I satisfactorily fold towels and dishrags, push buttons here and toss a scoop of soap in there, knowing how consistently hard my mother works and relating to the relief of knowing there is one less thing on the to-do list. I head down to the basement and instruct the youngest boy “this is your last game on the Wii,” and he frustratingly stomps up the steps five minutes later. Within a half an hour his exasperated and pouting demeanor has been exchanged for a motivated joy, as we chop and prepare apples, discussing the many baking options for our newly readied ingredient. Even short amounts of time can have transformative powers. 

                      I am currently thick in the middle of multiple challenges and stresses in my life, ones that often feel overwhelmingly large and unconquerable. A heart that feels fragile and walled off; yet constantly having its wounds re-opened by memories and places. Health issues that remain unanswered; numerous doctors and needles. Workplace relationships that are sticky and complicated; some are delicate, and some require concerted effort to effectively communicate uninterest. Sixteen credits next semester, and I recently took on a third job peer tutoring in MSU’s writing center. My relationships with my roommates, my desire to regularly integrate exercise into my routine, my black lab that constantly desires my attention and affection… These must all be balanced, while simultaneously avoiding making string cheese my only meals. In the midst of the looming trees, I easily lose sight of the grander forest. 

                     Being home reminds me of how frustrations, stresses, and burdens can evolve into joyful memories, reminders of grace, and thankfulness. “Tika tika,” a friend told me recently, which is Maori (I believe) for “little by little.” It’s been my silent reminder, whispered to myself in the mist of struggle. All bad things will come to an end. Little by little, with grace, faith, and courage, I must persist through. I believe that what seems to be overwhelming and enveloping stress and challenge will eventually be transformed into character through time, shaped by the Authour. So as I dodge legos on the floor, make effort not to collapse a block castle, and find my towel damp from recent use (that was not mine), I find the joy in the reminder of the healing and changing capacities of time. 

~Anjeli