In a Room of Yellow

A fellow volunteer proposed an activity with our youth group that required us to fold a piece of paper into 3 parts. He told us to write love, like, and hate in each of the sections and, below them, to write the things in our lives that fit into those categories. He, then, had us fold the paper so that only the lists of love and hate were visible. “These are the things you should write about,” he explained.

It’s true. As much as I like Mountain Dew and soccer, they don’t make for as good of a story as a passionate love affair or a bitter dispute. I am keeping this in mind as I finally sit down to start the novel I have talked so much about writing. It seems to me that I will have no problem coming up with insanely interesting material from that which I call my life. I’m thinking of calling it In a Room of Yellow. I joked about how I am living in a room that is completely yellow inside a house that is completely yellow, with Bridget the other day, and so came this name.

I have the paper out that I wrote all my ideas on during church one day, all the chapters of my life; funny times, serious times, sad times, happy times, ridiculous times, memories that are almost forgotten, and things long ago that feel so recent they could’ve taken place only yesterday. I must’ve shown this to my mom, although I don’t remember, because there is a question scribbled down the side in her handwriting. Good question, Mom.

“What would you be if you didn’t go? If you stayed home, the easy way?”

I would’ve spent more than just one night curled up in a ball on the couch crying. I wouldn’t have put all my faith in God, like I did. I would’ve been open to apologies that I am too wise to listen to, today. I wouldn’t have met the rebound guy, as much as I didn’t believe him to be the rebound guy at the time. I wouldn’t have realized how much I love to travel and how much of the world I have yet to see. I wouldn’t have grown as close to my sister as I did on that fateful journey. I wouldn’t have had the guts to be right here right now. I would’ve settled for a boring life of safety because, truth be known, one trip changed my life forever.

On the back of the paper, is the church service that I had barely listened to while I was working out my thoughts. How ironic that the gist of the message was…

Recognition of God as Sovereign Lord brings peace.

It occurred to me, today, that the world is not standing still, while I am here for 2 years. I know it is fairly obvious, but people are growing older. Some people are growing old so fast that they may not even be there when I get back. This is the hardest part of being here. It’s not the culture shock or the fact that I have to learn a whole new language. It’s not the food I choke down or the giant workload I have awaiting me. It’s not being able to visit one of the most important people in my life before theirs comes to an end. I recommend not taking time with a loved one for granted before it is too late.

It has been a day of extreme emotional highs and lows… eating pizza next to the ocean with a grin I could not wipe off of my face and sobbing into the telephone on a long distant call to my mother. Such is life.