Another Suitcase, Another Hall
Hello, flisters and newcomers. It has been awhile. Over four years, in point of fact. Most of the people who would have read this post four years ago are now Tumblr or Twitter people (at least until tomorrow, at which point since explicit material is banned from both sites, both services will probably be largely silent and unused by the bulk of the internet.) Regardless, I am writing an update now for purely selfish reasons. As absolutely none of you know unless you're friends of mine from real life, I have been in seminary for the last 2 1/2 years. That's why there have been no new stories (fanfiction or otherwise) posted by me on this or any other writing sites for that time. By the time I was done writing papers on exegesis and church history and conflict analysis and theology, I did not have much motivation to write fiction.
To all those wondering what happened to my library job, in the time since I last blogged, I went from part time to full time and worked there for two years, and then I left my full time job in order to move across the state for seminary. I went back to part time work of 20 hours a week and have been working as a school age child care teacher ever since.
That brings us to now, and the earth shattering news that I and my fellow seminarians received on Thursday. We are closing, and the closure is happening immediately. We had been told just before Thanksgiving that we would be closing at the end of the academic year, and the professors at our seminary had already begun working to help the students transition at the end of the year. The school had said they would provide transitional help for us and that counseling would be offered to help the students process the sudden change. Three weeks later, we were told that none of that would be happening. The professors had no advance warning, and the students were told in the middle of finals week that we had no school to return to in the Spring. In addition, there would be no chance for students to congregate together and heal together; there is to be no community grieving period at all. When I entered BTSR three years ago, it was with confidence that I was finally on the right track -- finally answering the call God had been issuing to me my entire life -- and now the only emotion I can associate with a school that has been a fixture of my life since I was five years old is bitterness.
My emotions since Thursday have run the gamut between apathy (which is the stage I am most happy at these days) to complete grief fueled panic. My favorite writer C.S. Lewis once wrote, "I never knew that grief felt so like fear." Every time I feel like I have managed to talk myself into a feasible plan, another question or possibility pops up that springs me right back to the heartpounding, mind numbing panic that has characterized the last four days. Meanwhile, as my brain fluctuates between extreme emotion and lack of emotion, my assignments (which are three final papers) are still due, Christmas still barrells down on me with the speed of an oncoming train, I still need to put a brave face on in front of my kids at work, and I still have bills to pay and practical life changes to figure out within the next three weeks.
And meanwhile, I am fielding well-meaning questions. "What are you going to do now?" "What school are you looking at?" "Are you going to move?" "Have you contacted FAFSA about getting loan forgiveness?" Inside my head, there are no answers to these questions. If someone could hear my thoughts, it would resemble one long ear piercing scream that doesn't stop. I suddenly understand how grieving people must feel while planning a funeral. You're still trying to process what you've lost and all everyone wants you to do is have answers to what seem like pointless questions -- casket size and color, burial places, funeral costs, last will and testament. All I want to do is cry in a place where I can feel comfortable breaking down, but all anyone else wants from me is to hear that I'm okay. I'm not, and I probably won't be for a very long time, and what I need most is for everyone else to be comfortable with my tears because I can't make them stop anytime soon.
I can hear your thoughts now, because they sound a lot like younger me. "Luna, it's just a school." Yeah, that's true, but nothing is "Just" anything. For me, BTSR was the first place outside of my immediate household that felt like home. Even my closest friends never really cared about my religious or theological proclivities. I never had friends before BTSR that would let me sit down and talk their ear off about Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Luther or my issues with Calvinism. It's not that my friends didn't love me, but that was a part of my life that did not hold as much sanctity for them. BTSR is the first place in my life where I felt truly understood, and in one email, that community has been dissolved, and any healing I get about it is going to have to happen on my own.
Despite all the pain and questions, life continues on. As I grieve, I find myself gravitating toward the familiar stories that have brought me comfort in the other painful times of my life -- the Harry Potter universe, musicals, and (of course) Doctor Who. Some of you are probably wondering why a seminary student wouldn't list the Bible as a source of comfort. To be honest, I've never found Scripture particularly comforting. So what if the Israelites understand my pain? It doesn't give me any answers as to how to make the pain stop or what I should do now. To be honest, a lot of the statements the Church makes to people who are grieving make me angry as opposed to comforted.
And the list goes on. There are various DW quotations about beginnings from endings, and that leads into a famous Semisonic song from my middle school days. It's very loud in my head right now, and a lot of the peace talked about for the advent season seems to be a foreign concept to my soul this year, to say nothing of the "joy" we spoke about in church this morning. My one hope is that by getting out these conflicting, rambling thoughts on here I may finally have enough quiet in my brain to write these final three half-hearted papers of my truncated seminary career. They'll be half-assed, no doubt about it, but at least they will be completed (unlike the majority of my fanfics).
My closing thoughts for the day are famous song lyrics that have emotional resonance between my brother and I. The movie Evita came out when I was 9, and since then, whenever there has been a moment of deep crisis (be that emotional or physical), I'll ask my brother "So what happens now? Where am I going to?" and he'll sing back "Don't ask anymore."
Yeah, it's kinda like that.
To all those wondering what happened to my library job, in the time since I last blogged, I went from part time to full time and worked there for two years, and then I left my full time job in order to move across the state for seminary. I went back to part time work of 20 hours a week and have been working as a school age child care teacher ever since.
That brings us to now, and the earth shattering news that I and my fellow seminarians received on Thursday. We are closing, and the closure is happening immediately. We had been told just before Thanksgiving that we would be closing at the end of the academic year, and the professors at our seminary had already begun working to help the students transition at the end of the year. The school had said they would provide transitional help for us and that counseling would be offered to help the students process the sudden change. Three weeks later, we were told that none of that would be happening. The professors had no advance warning, and the students were told in the middle of finals week that we had no school to return to in the Spring. In addition, there would be no chance for students to congregate together and heal together; there is to be no community grieving period at all. When I entered BTSR three years ago, it was with confidence that I was finally on the right track -- finally answering the call God had been issuing to me my entire life -- and now the only emotion I can associate with a school that has been a fixture of my life since I was five years old is bitterness.
My emotions since Thursday have run the gamut between apathy (which is the stage I am most happy at these days) to complete grief fueled panic. My favorite writer C.S. Lewis once wrote, "I never knew that grief felt so like fear." Every time I feel like I have managed to talk myself into a feasible plan, another question or possibility pops up that springs me right back to the heartpounding, mind numbing panic that has characterized the last four days. Meanwhile, as my brain fluctuates between extreme emotion and lack of emotion, my assignments (which are three final papers) are still due, Christmas still barrells down on me with the speed of an oncoming train, I still need to put a brave face on in front of my kids at work, and I still have bills to pay and practical life changes to figure out within the next three weeks.
And meanwhile, I am fielding well-meaning questions. "What are you going to do now?" "What school are you looking at?" "Are you going to move?" "Have you contacted FAFSA about getting loan forgiveness?" Inside my head, there are no answers to these questions. If someone could hear my thoughts, it would resemble one long ear piercing scream that doesn't stop. I suddenly understand how grieving people must feel while planning a funeral. You're still trying to process what you've lost and all everyone wants you to do is have answers to what seem like pointless questions -- casket size and color, burial places, funeral costs, last will and testament. All I want to do is cry in a place where I can feel comfortable breaking down, but all anyone else wants from me is to hear that I'm okay. I'm not, and I probably won't be for a very long time, and what I need most is for everyone else to be comfortable with my tears because I can't make them stop anytime soon.
I can hear your thoughts now, because they sound a lot like younger me. "Luna, it's just a school." Yeah, that's true, but nothing is "Just" anything. For me, BTSR was the first place outside of my immediate household that felt like home. Even my closest friends never really cared about my religious or theological proclivities. I never had friends before BTSR that would let me sit down and talk their ear off about Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Luther or my issues with Calvinism. It's not that my friends didn't love me, but that was a part of my life that did not hold as much sanctity for them. BTSR is the first place in my life where I felt truly understood, and in one email, that community has been dissolved, and any healing I get about it is going to have to happen on my own.
Despite all the pain and questions, life continues on. As I grieve, I find myself gravitating toward the familiar stories that have brought me comfort in the other painful times of my life -- the Harry Potter universe, musicals, and (of course) Doctor Who. Some of you are probably wondering why a seminary student wouldn't list the Bible as a source of comfort. To be honest, I've never found Scripture particularly comforting. So what if the Israelites understand my pain? It doesn't give me any answers as to how to make the pain stop or what I should do now. To be honest, a lot of the statements the Church makes to people who are grieving make me angry as opposed to comforted.
- "Where the Lord closes a door, somehow He opens a window." For one, why should I assume God has anything to do with what is happening to me and my friends' lives right now? God plans to leave us stuck in a financial rut with no time to get our lives in order before creditors come knocking on our doors? What kind of God do these people think I worship? The Lord has not closed the doors of BTSR; the Board of Trustees who were rubbish at handling our finances did that.
- "I'm praying for you." At this juncture, prayers don't do me any good. For me, this line gets used way too much. It should be used when there is literally nothing you can do to help. I don't need prayers; I need comfort and friends who are willing to be uncomfortable with my ugly crying face.
- "The Lord has a plan." See my statement for the first platitude. Also, stop saying this at funerals. It's the worst thing you can say to a grieving person -- suffering is not part of God's plan; it's only something God works through, and not something God willingly gives to people.
- "Everything is going to be okay." That's not a promise anyone can make. And when a person is grieving, it's an easily detectable lie. At this moment, I'm trying to make it through the next five seconds, and the promise of "okay" feels like a wilderness and 40 years away; just help me through the next five seconds and help me keep breathing until each breath doesn't hurt so much.
And the list goes on. There are various DW quotations about beginnings from endings, and that leads into a famous Semisonic song from my middle school days. It's very loud in my head right now, and a lot of the peace talked about for the advent season seems to be a foreign concept to my soul this year, to say nothing of the "joy" we spoke about in church this morning. My one hope is that by getting out these conflicting, rambling thoughts on here I may finally have enough quiet in my brain to write these final three half-hearted papers of my truncated seminary career. They'll be half-assed, no doubt about it, but at least they will be completed (unlike the majority of my fanfics).
My closing thoughts for the day are famous song lyrics that have emotional resonance between my brother and I. The movie Evita came out when I was 9, and since then, whenever there has been a moment of deep crisis (be that emotional or physical), I'll ask my brother "So what happens now? Where am I going to?" and he'll sing back "Don't ask anymore."
Yeah, it's kinda like that.