The More Things Change
The more they change. Duh.
Willful ignorance: (def.) a mental state where one intentionally denies inevitable reality. (Example: In fourth grade, Jake seemed to have willful ignorance about his friend moving to Florida, only confronting her departure when the time came to say goodbye to her for the last time and he could no longer ignore it, as it stared him directly in the face.)
The best five months of my middle school years were the first semester of eighth grade. Everything seemed to be going exactly, perfectly right. I had finally found friends I was comfortable with, I enjoyed all the stuff I did in and out of school, and I was doing what I do best: executing a routine to a T. Each and every day.
I will put that out here right now: I am the master of all things mundane. Folding mountains of towels? I get paid to do that! Writing long lists? Got that, too. My favorite thing about my math class that time in eighth grade was even mundane: I loved canceling out factored polynomials. I know, thrilling stuff. I never said I was a particularly exciting eighth grade geography geek.
One day, in early November, my friend wrote me an email (yeah, we were the type of teens that thought email was far superior to text) and presented me with a scary proposition: she could not wait to leave for college. Oh. Wait. Yikes. We were middle schoolers. My reaction? I thought to myself, oh, that’ll never happen. I mean, I was in denial about having to leave middle school, let alone move out of town to a whole new city and go to a new school and meet entirely new people. So I told myself, that’ll never actually happen to me. And proceeded to live my mundane, unique, and, most of all, weird life.
Eventually, I would greatly appreciate being able to mercifully leave middle school, but I still ignored the fact that nothing stayed the same forever. I was standing athwart history, yelling stop. History, with its ever-lovable mind of its own, didn’t listen, of course.
Before the day I left for college, I had been on only a handful of trips away from my comfort zone. In fact, the longest time I had been away from my family (and hometown, and the majority of my friends) was a ten-day tour of Italy with the orchestra and band from my high school over spring break of my junior year. Yeah, I knew basically everyone on that trip. Yet, by halfway through the trip, because of the combination of unfamiliar surroundings, unbearable drama, and unusual behavior by some of my best friends, I was basically a crazy person. Away from the comfortable routines of home that played a fundamental role in my regular behavior, I was unmoored, adrift in a sea of occasionally questionable Italian merchant wares and abundant gelato. It was so bad that I came home and wrote a terribly long diatribe generously dubbed a play about my questionable experience. I had to write something down, and then, unexpectedly, it became an almost 100 page affair. So, yeah, that wasn’t the best experience of my life.
What did I learn? I was even more terrified of leaving home than I had been before! I liked taking the 7:06 AM bus to school, even though it was certainly much earlier than necessary, just because that was what I had always done to get to the high school. I wanted to walk the same halls, see the same people, and do the same work I had always done. It was comforting.
Fast forward to the spring of my senior year of high school, and, somewhat surprisingly, I picked, among my options, the farthest school away from home to go to school at the following year. I convinced myself it was the right choice for me because the people were ridiculously nice and because the school of engineering was top-notch. But I’d be lying if sweet tea, Chik-Fil-A, and the nicest pool in America had played a role in my decision. Well, that, and I blindly ignored that I would be in a different state, timezone, and, compared to the liberal bastion of Oak Park, Illinois, utterly different culture than that unto which I was comfortably settled.
Leaving was hard. I can’t lie. But I realized a fundamental truth about how I had been living only by leaving. Being forced by my college decision to move to Atlanta made me realize that the places that are special to us aren’t special just because of the fact that they’re important locations. Yeah, Wrigley Field is a gorgeous ballpark. The River Forest Tennis Club, also a wonderful establishment. First Presbyterian Church of River Forest? Fantastic. But, what would Wrigley be without my dad (and the Cubs themselves)? Or how about the RFTC without my friends, family, and swimmers that make showing up to my long, seemingly unending hours working multiple jobs there something that I eagerly spend eight months awaiting during the school year? Church? I can’t even describe that one. The Bible, from Paul to Jesus himself, repeatedly reinforces the notion that the church is made up of people. It isn’t a building. This is the literal representation of that: it’s not the building, but my elders, friends, and, again, family, that make the community of Christ at church the special thing that it truly is, and I think that wisdom can apply to nearly every place. Granted, not always in a religious way, but it is still a broadly applicable condition: the people make the place, the place doesn’t make the people. The people that fill the places that are special, make them alive, and make memories with us, are what make our homes, or, hopefully for me, someday Georgia Tech, special to us long after we leave them. And granted, I haven’t been gone for long, but I used to see it early on Sunday mornings when I would be the only one in church, unlocking the doors and turning on the lights, that it was just a beautiful brick building until the people slowly trickled in, bringing it to life, and with them, that significance.
Whether the body of Christ or a community cornerstone, the people make the routine enjoyable. People make home worth living at every day. It’s not a chore to see the people you care about. In fact, if it ever comes to that, you’ve probably got some issues you need to work on with yourself or the people important to you! It’s such a privilege to see the family, teammates, coworkers, peers, and friends that matter. And that’s why I didn’t want to move on from middle school; I feared losing people. And, frankly, that’s what happened. It started even long before the year ended! It was rough! But I also learned that the important people, we hang on to them. The people that matter most to us won’t ever be out of our lives if we don’t let them drift away on the current of our own careless indifference. So hold them close, even if it’s from a few thousand miles away.
I don’t like change. I’m a pretty conservative guy, and it sucks to have to uproot yourself from the things you love. But know this: just because you’re farther away doesn’t mean you have to love them any less. FaceTiming, texting, calling, or even an old-fashioned letter means a lot. It took me a long time to come to peace with the fact that I didn’t have to give up on what I loved and what was comfortable for me because I was leaving for college. Staring backwards at the past only distracts from the present and the future, and that helps no one. Keep your mind in the glorious present and appreciate your friends, near and far, because relationships are built and strengthened day-by-day. It may seem routine, but building and keeping those connections is something only done a day at a time. And, if friends and family are not enough incentive for you, the present even has Amazon stores and midnight cookie delivery to boot. So come check it out, and maybe bring your people with you when you do.
Jake Grant is a college student in Atlanta, and yes, it is hot here, and, yes, he spend a lot of money on postage. He likes to think he puts his money where his mouth is, or, more specifically, sealing an envelope with a letter inside of it.
