How it ends

People expected me to go to a different college. The one in my home town that everyone else in my family had a degree from. The one that many of my high school friends were attending. I had the maroon and white wardrobe and I knew all the words to the fight song. Forever bucking up against what I was supposed to do and what my siblings had done, I announced that I wanted to go to Texas Tech. Sight unseen. My parents chose to take me on a college tour in the dead of winter. Hoping that the cold wind would blow away all my interest. It was cold and smelly enough on the tour to deter a few hopeful students, but I was insistent. I’m not really sure why. I had never been to Lubbock. I didn’t know a soul there - I just knew I needed to go.

I graduated high school a few months later and felt so confident in my next steps. I enjoyed high school, but assumed, like all the movies show, that college would be even better. That college would be the best days of my life. That college would be where I find myself, my forever friends and possibly my spouse. I had good grades, made friends easily and was ready to jump in and get involved. I felt like I was ready to make it on my own, until I realized how alone my own suddenly felt that first night in a tiny dorm I shared with a stranger and a pull out bed. No one tells you that finding yourself is full of wondering who the heck you are and what you believe. No one tells you that finding your people (and spouse) doesn’t happen in the first week or even first semester. That it likely will involve a lot of trial and error. Mostly error. No one tells you that your closest friends may not show up until a different stage of your life all together.

I registered for classes and showed up in September with almost everything I owned crammed in the back of my two door Pontiac Grand Am. My parents helped me unload. My father taught the RAs card tricks while I tacked pictures up next to my plaid duvet. They took me out to a nice dinner and I found myself alone. Well, as alone as you can be when you share a 200 square foot room with a complete stranger. I was 18 and a walking talking contradiction. I was arrogant and completely insecure. I leaned on a faith that I didn’t walk. I went to church and clubs. I got tattoos and joined bible studies. I wanted to be independent but still needed so much assurance. I was strong and desperate. Thin and ashamed. I skipped class but was full of drive. I was easily influenced and bossy. I tried on friend groups like I tried on outfits, most of which did not cover nearly enough skin. What I did not tell anyone was that I felt mostly lonely and broken. That I wasn’t quite sure what I had left behind. That I didn’t know about my choices - my major, my boyfriend, my faith, my old hurts. I walked around brash and confident. Loud and laughing but always uncertain. I kept an ache at bay, assuming that if I never named the parts of me that were broken they would heal on their own.

Fast forward 25+ years...today I walked with my son on that same tour across a campus I used to know so well. I already knew he was not interested. He was in town with his high school competing at regionals, I tagged along and scheduled a tour. Like that day so many years ago, the weather did not agree. It was warm, but the wind blew and the sky took on a brown shade. Hair flew in my face and dirt infiltrated every surface. Even my teeth were gritty. I cringed as she talked about the rec center, Greek life and all the chain stores and restaurants you would find in the Hub City. Neither him, nor I, cared where the nearest Chilis could be found. This was not the place for him, but it had very much been the place for me.

One of my college roommates joined us on the tour. She could not contain her excitement. She took at least a 100 photos. She spent a crazy amount of money at the bookstore on t-shirts and fan gear. I loved my time here and look back on it fondly. I even woke up before 6 am that morning so eager to get back on campus and to a place that had been so formative for me. However, I did not quite share her level of enthusiasm (I’m not sure even the mascot did). We met another roommate for dinner. I did not want our conversation to end and we took it to a second location for dessert. One friend had never left. Nothing about this town seemed to amaze her. She seemed to be exactly as I remembered her, only now we talked about gray hair and how our bodies betrayed us rather than boys or shopping. I hugged her hard and asked question after question. I missed her and the history she carried. We spend our day eating at the same pizza places, we drank the same coffee and dined at a restaurant one friend had worked at through college.

I drank in nostalgia, but I no longer long for what was and could enjoy it in a way that I never had before. All the what once was made me even more glad for the what is. Eventually we ran out of things to say maybe because the past is already written.

The next morning I drop off my friend and look for a place to hike. I fail to find a good park and decide to walk across campus to take in a few of the places we didn’t make it to on our tour. Unlike the day before the sun is shining, the wind has settled and most of the dirt stays on the ground. This time I walk campus alone just like I felt 25+ years ago and my cheeks are unexpectedly wet before I even make it across the first street.

Despite my very first freezing tour and my parents chagrin, I spent four years on this campus and five in this city. It is cold, windy and smells like a feedlot but I love it so much. The college offered me a decent amount of money, but I think the draw was mostly the distance. I showed up alone, confident and so incredibly unprepared. I barely knew how to do laundry or read a map. I left behind dozens of friends and a boyfriend I thought I loved. Finding my place and my people took longer than I expected. I was lonely and uncertain and excited about the aspect of being somewhere that didn’t know my parents or my past. I could be anyone here, the only problem was I had no idea who that was. I spent a semester joining things: clubs, sororities, churches, teams, parties and trying on friend groups. My potluck roommate had very little in common. She covered her walls in Grateful Dead posters and my side of the room looked like a spread from 17 magazine. I drank too much, I kissed the wrong boys and I skipped class often. I got so much wrong but still sometimes found myself in some of the right places. I was prayed for and accepted and invited over and over again. I was brave and stupid and still managed to pass almost all of my classes. Yet, sometimes I didn’t eat dinner because I didn’t have anyone to sit with in the dining hall. I felt homesick but not for home. The first semester of college is hard and lonely, especially when you don’t know anyone and aren’t quite sure who to call. But I refused to admit this. Not only to other people but even to myself. It wasn’t until the second semester when I found some of my people that I realized how alone I had been. Two of those people I met on the floor of my dorm - Nadia was across the hall, and Susan down two. I only needed to knock on one of their doors to have someone sit in the dining hall. And now, twenty five years later I sit across from them in a familiar restaurant. Nadia talked about the first time she met my parents. Susan talked about watching Tech basketball with her in her mom’s hospital room a few years ago and that the nurse had to tell us to be quiet. We have a past and an occasional present and I'm so glad for both.

I found my old dorm on my solo tour of campus. I wiped away a few more tears and gave in and sat down under a tree beside it and wept for the girl who had shown up all those years ago. Alone and brave and broken. Searching and eventually found. My life has turned out very different than that 18 year old would have expected. In many ways my life is smaller and more ordinary. In other ways it is more than I ever could have imagined. I did not cry for past hurts or dreams unmet. I cried for the girl, the18 year old, who moved hundreds of miles from home and into the fourth floor. Who left. Who landed. Who rarely cried then, even when she was afraid and lonely. I cried because now I can, because I wanted to comfort her even though she would have resisted the hell out of it. I cried because I was proud of her and wished I could tell her.

I cried because I know how it ends.

It ends with dinner with two other people on that same floor twenty five years later that lasts for hours.

It ends with eventually kissing the right boy that I would also find there.

It ends with walking my own son across that same campus who doesn’t need the same things I did.

It ends with a faith that doesn’t let me go.

It ends with fond memories of a past, but a greater longing for my present.

It ends with forgiveness and compassion and a steadiness on my own that I didn’t know at 18 or 22 or even 32.

It ends with a tender heart. One that can weep under the same trees that a different version of me walked past every day.

It ends with the wind blowing my hair and dirt in my teeth and long overdue tears down my face.

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If you need a confused 90s playlist with some college ministry feels this was our driving music. It goes without saying that my son kept his headphones in the whole way there and opted for the school suburban for a ride home.