Saturday, December 15, 2012

And i have been blessed, over and over again.


Dreams that come true are jarring. 
When you realize that what you wished for may be in fact what you will receive, a bizarre and giddy solemnity sets in.

A gift that was so deeply desired is often a lot easier to receive, although it weighs a great deal more in your hands. But the sense of total gift is relieving and palpable. You have done nothing to merit it, so there's a sense of detachment, an ability to keep your hands open, and let it go or come as it chose. At the same time, there's a a keen desire to protect the gift entrusted to you. To live up to what that gift demands of you.

They say that God laughs when you tell Him your plans.
He must laugh for two reasons, either because: 
A) You're way off. And He just lets out a laugh and an "Oh HON." Oh hon. Nice try. Just wait 'til you see what's in store.
B) You're dead on. There must be so much joy in His laugh then. Delight in the fact that your desire is so in line with His plan for you: like when someone gives you a gift that you were going to give them. It's startling that two wills and two hearts can be so in tune. When we harmonize so closely with Him, I'm sure the Eternal Word slips into a hearty, wordless guffaw of sheer delight.

But, even when our desire and our will are so in tune, its is so magical, beautiful, and laugh-able that the road that leads us to our dream is an unexpected and completely unpredictable journey.
We could never foresee all the bends and twists and ups and downs in the road.

When we say, after a period of intense development and growth that we "feel like a completely different person than I was then" or "I've changed so much" what we should say instead is: I feel different, because I feel new. I have discovered depths of my soul and corners of my heart I had no idea were there. I have transformed into a person I could never have predicted, because I had not yet found that person hiding in the deepest recesses of my being.

I arrived at college as a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old ("Shots" were the noises guns made, "fifths" were intervals in music, and a "handle" was a part of a pan.), whose world went through a gigantic paradigm shift freshman year. I had spent my high school career working hard at my reputation as a hard-working and talented young actress: professional to a fault and with an attitude to rival Pollyanna's. I didn't know what to do when that was stripped away and I was just Renée again. The nickname I'd attained was Homeschool Girl (Homeschool Homegirl in the house wut wut).  But I was no longer homeschooled.
Being stripped of the exterior trappings that made up my identity, entering into an environment that seemed at times even contrary to my gifts and my strengths, and in which at times felt difficult to be myself was frustrating and sometimes confusing. But I was being stretched. Stripped of the comfort of being able to fall back on my usual modus operandi, I slowly began to encounter the person that resided at the very core of myself. Being stripped of my exterior identity allowed me to find the core of Renée that had been there all along.

At the beginning of this semester, I left home as a callow young twenty-year-old, and I'm returning as an equally as young, equally as foolish twenty-one-year-old. 
Although each person who looks me in the eyes sees the same blue eyes, the eyes that look back at them see them differently.
Although the eighteen-year-old heart and the twenty-year-old heart both yearned for Kolkata, neither of them could have predicted that the twenty-one-year old heart that finally received that gift would look this way. And that is the mind-bogglingly beautiful thing about this adventure. The Joy of reaching a signpost you spotted from afar, and longed for from a distance, is that the road that led you there was not what you expected.
But it has only deepened the joy of arriving.

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