I am what I am

I consider myself basically happy. My future is tremendously uncertain: I could be literally anywhere on the globe in another three months, doing anything. Or I could be home, still job-hunting. It is hard to leave, to go from the known and liked to a gray mystery. But God is good. It is written that He has ordained good works for me, from the foundations of the world, that I would walk in them. That is an encouraging thought.

Yet at the same time I love where I am. It took me a couple years to get reconciled, but now I see the beauties that do not reveal themselves to a casual transient. I know the rhythms of weather and plant and lake and groundhogs, of papers and plays and classes and chapel, of pleasant people all with the weirdest habits and ideas, most of whom I'll miss very much. I have sung the songs, and delight in their repetition and their newness. For the newest thing is not the one that has never been seen before: that way lies jadedness, perversion, and death. "How old is Spring, Miranda?" I never have to come back, but I wasn't here under compulsion to begin with.
I love the eccentricities and godliness of Dr. Hake, who glories in his Redeemer and always tries to come up with a new metaphor and circumnavigates the Bob daily with his prayer cards and has absolutely no fear of "what's done," possibly because he doesn't know what it is and possibly because he thinks what isn't done ought to be! For there is a greater reality than culture, and people are more than the literature they've experienced.

It's hard to be a joyful formalist with universal-truth and traditional tendencies, in a world of harsh laughter, free verse, and divorced and diverse ideas. It's quite impressively unfashionable. I think all my positions are true, which is why I am what I am, but I wish that others did not mind so much. It would be easier if I were a better writer. As it is, I will imitate better writers and write what I am given and keep track of my grammar and punctuation. For I believe that the mechanics of language matter, even if they are "only" customary.

I don't think I'm out of touch with reality. Some people are so worried about the "real world," as though we are not living now: they seem to think that the edgy and raw is more real than the good. It's not that the good is predictable: far from it: Jesus stepped on toes everywhere He went: but the good is good, even if He's not tame. And it's true and beautiful, for I believe in that old triumvirate. Misery is not prior to happiness. It has the upper hand in this world, but it was not and will not be forever.

As it is, I will bring my gold, dimly minted in the likeness of a far-off and unseen King, to His temple. For my gifts are His, and I am grateful that He gave them to me. If I'm wrong, and mint the portrait on the coins badly, please tell me.