This is something that I am sure I have shared with you before, but I must reiterate it in hopes that these thoughts continue to be meaningful. Much like your thoughts about beauty, I have been captivated by the reality that Joy might be one of the only things in the world that cannot in any way be purchased–only received.

I am sure that I told you about the end of my first summer as a counselor in 2005 at SpringHill when I spent some time trying to ponder the “big picture” of the summer. There I was, ten weeks older and well more than ten weeks wiser, and I was asking the “so what?” question. After a good bit of pondering, I arrived at patience and joy.

I would hate to seem too much of a reductionist, but there’s really nothing about life that is more complicated than those two things, working together… I think.

…and if you knew fully where I am coming from in writing this, you would begin to understand. I will try to explain this momentarily.

As Christians, (and this is only possible through what we may regard as “Christian hope”) we understand that there is something better. There is some purpose that goes beyond us. Perhaps most simply, I must, as a Christian, understand that life is bigger than me. My life is for something more. Yours is too.

We will always find joy in this greater purpose, and if we’re having a hard time with even that, we must be patient enough that we may wait until our eyes are opened to that joy. It’s about patience, and it’s about joy. But, you already know all of this.

So… Where I am coming from…
Work here is terrible. I work with good people, and the work is enjoyable and challenging, but I am one of more than a thousand seasonal employees. I care not to elaborate, but work here is terrible. You’ll need to trust me here.

BUT. I live in Alaska. So it’s worth it. Again, you’ll need to trust me here. It is worth it 100%.

It has been much harder than I currently even realize to be so very far away from so many people with whom I am familiar. Alaska is good, but hard. I don’t think that there’s any bit of me that fully realized what it would be like to make life, if only for a summer, so far North into the unknown. At the end of the day, it’s a character building experience.

But really… The distance has been hard…

I received word yesterday that a guy who was on Chapel Core Staff with me this past year was killed, only 20 years old, in a bicycle accident. He was riding to work and a beer delivery truck didn’t see him… Or that’s how the story went by the time it got to Alaska. In any case, this was news that took me 4 days to hear. That was and continues to be hard.

In a completely unrelated story, there are two women, fellow seasonal employees like myself, who are presently lost, somewhere in Denali National Park. They were reported missing when they didn’t show up for work last week, and now, 5 days after they were reported missing, only 100 of Denali’s more than 9,400 square miles have been searched. The dense foliage and rugged terrain make the search very slow, if not sometimes nearly impossible.

I didn’t know either of these ladies, but their story affirms the reality that, in a moment’s time, life can change. They went out for an overnight backpacking trip, and their lives changed. My buddy Patrick got on his bike to go to work, and his life ended.

So… How do you deal with the reality of loss when there’s not a soul in sight who knows you for who you really are?

That’s the predicament at the present moment.

I have been very distracted, so my minute-to-minute life has not been terribly negative, but when I have opportunities, such as now, to reflect on such things, I begin to feel completely overwhelmed by the reality of loss.

I talked to the girl who led our Chapel Core Staff this last year, and she, very profoundly, admitted that she’s not ready to be okay with Patrick’s passing away. She’s not ready to say that she’s okay with his death. She’s not ready to say that she has found the silver lining in the situation, because, in reality, there may not be one. And I really admire her forthrightness about that.

I have, lately, been trying to figure out the logistics of being angry at God.
I read an article in a Cleveland, Ohio newspaper about Patrick’s death, and in the comments section, people kept talking about how his family’s deep and abiding faith would carry them through. Frankly speaking, that sounds like some bullshit that somebody would only say if they hadn’t ever lost a son, a brother, a close friend. Like my friend Carissa, I’m not okay with dismissing this as a matter of God’s will.

What if this is a result of the fact that the world is being held captive to sin, pain, and destruction?

Certainly I will affirm that God is active in the world today, but until Christ comes again, so is Satan. Satan is alive and well in the world today, and because of that, I am not okay with any condolences that dismiss this issue as a matter of God’s perfect will.

And yet…

Scripture is full of passages in which God asks people, very plainly, “what right do you have to be angry?”

What right do I have? None.

But the world is a broken place, and I’m still trying to figure out how to cope.

What right do I have? None.

But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

…and it all comes back to patience and joy, doesn’t it?

It’s hard to be really joyful right now. But I have faith that if I am patient, I will soon find joy again.

And that’s a good feeling.

Please find the opportunity to read Job 38 (and 39?). God is God, and we are not. And while that does little to aid in coping with a broken world, at least it does something to affirm that God might, just maybe, possibly know that there’s a bigger plan in the works here. And at the end of the day, it’s not about you. It’s not about me. It’s about something bigger.

Life is bigger than us, and somehow that’s an idea that is a little comforting.

I am reminded of a Max Lucado quote:
If it’s all about you, then it’s all up to you.God loves you enough to say that it’s not about you.

I will look forward to sharing more about Alaska, but now is maybe not a super time for that.

I am very pleased to hear that you are well.

Most fondly,
Nate

 I received your voicemail last Sunday, and you may rest assured that my heart was both appropriately warmed by your greeting, and saddened by the reality that by the time I got the message, I was already home in Michigan.  I imagine that by now you might be curious about my continued silence.  I haven’t extended the friendly courtesy of responding to the message for a host of reasons—chief among them, fear.  I was afraid that if I were to phone you in response, I’d meet the miserable face of failure in my attempt to articulate just how much I appreciate you, Laura, and how much our relationship this year has meant to me.   

I know.  Lame.  It seems almost contradictory that I would view our relationship with enough value that I would think it wise to not respond.  I’ve got an issue, I think. 

At any rate… 

It’s rather peculiar that I so clearly remember our first meeting.  It was September, and the CSL was crowded.   And, somehow, in the chaos that was the Spiritual Life Open House, Rabbi Al introduced us.  I was, in that moment, relieved to discover that even one thousand miles from anything I’ve ever known, there was at least one other person who shared my beliefs…  My values…  And, perhaps most importantly, my understanding of the world. 

Over the past year, we’ve spent a great deal of time discussing the peril and glory of attending Emerson as a Christian.  And, to be rather straightforward, it is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.  It is hard to sit in a Western Civilization lecture, and tune out the closed-minded defamation of both religion and the existence of Jesus Christ.  It is hard to sit in a class of 14, and listen to a room full of students speaking against the church, and realize that they are, by and large, very justified in their claims and attacks.  It is hard. 

And still, at the end of it all, Wednesday was only a few days away.  

Rather, EGNF was only a few days away. 

Or, sometimes even closer, Sunday.   

You, Laura, were the only person in Boston who sincerely cared whether or not I was able to make it to church on a given Sunday.  Whether you knew it or not, you were in a league of your own—you were the only person who was going to hold me accountable, whether you ever even knew you were doing so.  A result only of your influence, I felt a distinct responsibility to hold myself to a higher standard of accountability. 

Laura…  It is because of you that I have survived my first year in Boston. 

A bold claim, perhaps, but one that I most sincerely hold as truth. 

I previously alluded to the fact that I had very strongly considered transferring schools.  I may have even directly told you—I’m not altogether certain.  Regardless… 

Around the turn of the Semester, and particularly after Spring Break, I was so very convinced that Emerson was not the place for me.  Over Christmas Break, I had seen my friends at Calvin College who had more community than I could ever dream of at Emerson.   During Spring Break, I met a group of 30 of the most on-fire believers from Durango, Colorado.  In both cases, I was one step closer to leaving Emerson.  In fact, I even filled out the applications for Gordon, and Seattle Pacific.  (I still couldn’t bear to apply to Calvin, though. ) 

 But… There was something keeping me.   

I was ready to leave so many things behind.  I had even resigned to the reality that I don’t need the EVVYs to define me.   

 But still… Keeping me back was one thing… EGNF. 

 If for no other reason, I eventually realized that my place is at Emerson—involved in the Emerson Good News Fellowship. 

 …And that is a reality that I learned from you, Laura. 

 So many nights, when I wanted only to sit in despair and heartbreak, I found myself at your door.  Sometimes you were home.  Many times you weren’t.  Even so, it took only the brisk walk across the common, and the hope of a friendly welcome to restore some sense of purpose to my situation. 

 You were right, Laura, when you said that we’re a lot alike.   

So many of our conversations have now, in retrospect, become the cornerstones of my freshman year.   I don’t think that I’ll ever forget walking home with you, along Commonwealth Avenue after the Seder dinner.  That night, and our conversation, beginning over our voluntary dish duty, will long be etched in my memory. 

Thank you.   

I know that I haven’t said that nearly enough. 

It is hard for me to articulate just how sincerely grateful I am to have known you this year.  To steal a sentiment from WICKED, I know that because of you, I have been changed for good—I have become who I am today.  In this past year of transition, your support, encouragement, and place in my life have played an absolutely irreplaceable role. 

And, in the spirit of disclosure… 

You might be curious why we didn’t connect one last time to say farewell.   

That’s my fault.  I couldn’t.  I’m sorry. 

I know that this sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I am horrible at closing doors.   

For whatever reason, I am unable to part ways gracefully.  Instead, I just leave.  (This has happened too many times before.)  I don’t say goodbye—I leave.  And, while it seems easier not to say goodbye, I often find that a short time later, a great amount of disappointment displaces my one-satisfaction with how easy it is to just leave. 

 That doesn’t make a lot of sense.  I’m sorry. 

On the upside (I guess) we can celebrate that we’ve not said goodbye—we’ve just parted company for some short time. 

Regardless… (…and resuming.) 

I appreciate you. 

I know that you spend a good deal of time concerned about your influence, and your effectiveness as the president of EGNF, and more importantly, a role model.  Toward the end of this last semester, too, it seemed that you were overly concerned about the legacy that you would leave in EGNF. 

 Don’t worry. 

You’re headed to such extraordinary glory.   

I, like you, often spend too much thought on how others regard me. 

Let me settle your mind…  You’re amazing.   

Given the circumstances of this year, you did what few others would ever dare attempt—you led EGNF almost completely without the support of your leadership team. 

For that, you deserve a great deal of commendation. 

When all is said and done, I will forever remember our relationship as a paramount component of my Emerson experience.  I will take your lessons and your spirit forth in the leadership of EGNF over the next three years.  I will hold dear our friendship and our common experiences.  I will remember you Laura—don’t ever worry about that.   

And we’ll keep in touch.  

I’ll drop you a line next time I find myself traveling through Wisconsin or Minnesota.  And next time you find yourself in Michigan, or Massachusetts, I’ll look forward to your call.  

I am confident that we’ll meet again soon—probably a lot sooner than we even expect! 

Until then, I offer you all of my warmest gratitude.  I pray that God use you for great things wherever you next find yourself!  I pray, too, that we find appropriate opportunity to keep in touch. 

All in His Name, 

 (signed: Nate Berends)

p.s.  I didn’t ever dare tell you this in person, but you are, without a doubt, the best friend that I had all year.  For that, words cannot express my gratefulness. 

p.s.s.  For the summer, my address is: 

  Nate Berends 

  c/o Camp Roger 

  8356 Belding Road 

  Rockford, MI 49341 

     (let’s please keep in touch!)  

I just got home, last night, from SpringHill Camp, where I spent the summer counseling 4th-6th graders. This experience proved to be more spiritually and personally fulfilling than I could ever have imagined.

Anyhow, an environment like that affords alot of time for personal reflection, and whatnot.

A few weekends ago, I found the chat transcript from that one night when we nearly killed the other. Sadly, I realize that using only those descriptors is probably not enough to really jog your memory, which really a.) makes me sad, and b.) justifies my current thoughts.

At any rate, I just wanted to take a moment and make whatever amends I may.

Our relationship has been very dynamic over the years. It’s had ups. And downs. And through that all, I think we’ve both learned things–some good, and some bad. Regardless, I realize that, considering the real sense of pain that I myself felt on more than one occasion, I must’ve certainly hurt you. In fact, I know that I have. I know, Kelli, that on a number of occasions, I was no more a friend than a plain adversary. I have always, since we’ve known one another, wanted your friendship. For various reasons, that goal was never really realized. And, in the process, I know that I said things I didn’t mean, behaved in ways that I shouldn’t have, and destroyed what friendship we may’ve once had

So. For that, I sincerely apologize. For the tears that were unnecessarily shed, I wish to assure you that, even if it once seemed my intent, I recognize the damage to our friendship that it has done.

It seemed like we could’ve-at any point-been good friends, but were never able to become such. For that failed opportunity, I am also sorry.

As I prepare to leave for school in 12 days, it is my hope that you can forgive my errors, and that we may look back on our relationship in a positive light.

I wish you nothing but the best for your impending senior year–may it be filled with blessings and experiences that far exceed your wildest dreams. May you maintain and continue to build relationships that will last your entire lifetime, and may you learn lessons what will forever serve you well.

With a sincere heart,

- Nate

Adrienne Leigh–

Tonight, I read your latest entry with hope, and the bits of ominous foreshadowing that you offered in the final stanzas of our chat. It didn’t take longer than that which it takes to recite the first line to know just where you were headed; or, perhaps, where you are headed. Whether it surprises you or not, I’ve seen those same words before. Granted not in that form, but certainly in such function.

Adrienne… I don’t know for certain that your post’s reference was to any matter even pertaining to me. But I’ve got a very strong idea that it may well be. If I am indeed all wet, and your post pertains to matters larger and more significant than me, then please feel no compulsion to read any further. If, however, I am indeed correct, I ask that you hear me out, and maybe consider what ideas I contend.

The truth is this Adrienne: I’ve never had a girl be anything other than confused by my actions, my attraction, and me. You might be surprised to learn how frequently it has occurred that I beg a friend to understand that feeling that way really is okay.

Because it is.

Of paramount importance to me, and incorporated rather intrinsically into the general philosophies that govern my lifestyle, is the simple concept of happiness. If you’re not happy, something is wrong. “If it doesn’t feel right, you’re probably not feeling the right thing.” The idea seems to be common sense. Comically, though, the reality of such a common sense is one that is often easy to overlook.

With that in mind, then, I feel nothing but direct responsibility for your bewildered state of mind. I feel at fault for allowing the questions both life and legitimacy. I feel at fault for potentially fouling up what were once your hopes, and your dreams, and your desires. If what happened that Friday morning had never happened, then I could imagine that we’d continue simply as friends, without those nagging questions. Alas, it is what it is, and the situation has indeed been so interestingly altered yet again. For your current disposition, I apologize.

* * *

“i hate it.”

“fuckin shit.”

“…madness.”

* * *

These aren’t statements that typify happiness. Even more so devastating is the knowledge that as I type these words, you lie, alone, with heavy tears where eyes should shine. And as I sit in the fluorescent shadow of my words, I, too, find no coherent release of thought short of my own tears. I find this behavior almost curious.

You’ve not offered specific details, but I have assembled enough conjecture and belief to know that, for whichever of the many and varied reasons you’ve been given to react in tears, you have done it all too frequently. You have likely cried too many nights into the past, and too many days into memory. And all of this for what? I feel almost redundant in, again, reminding you of why this is. It is that same reason that compels me to, again, forego the first prospect of falling to rest on the same day that I awoke, in exchange for writing this letter.

Care.

It really is just that simple.

You have, and I want to.

I choose to.

To again cite my most favorite piece of short literature, I suggest for another time that choice becomes the figurative “bottom line” to which each of our lives is bound. When all layers of our facades are destroyed, and when we finally realize our unprotected, uncovered humanness, it is my fervently post-modern belief that choice is among the very few things left. Continuing then in that vein, please, if you’ve dismissed my words until this point, just understand my basic hope:

* * *

Adrienne Leigh–

I know you’ve hurt (but I know how deeply you’ve loved). I know you’ve cried (but I’ve felt your smile and seen your eyes).

I’m certain that these emotions of mine seem too sudden to be appropriately founded. I sometimes feel the same. But the fact is that I have chosen to know, and to feel and see. After all, to be rather Vonnegut-esqe about the entire situation, it seems that life may indeed be nothing more complicated than a simple series of choices.

Considering, then, such a choice, I am ready to make mine. Historically speaking, I have considered you both a friend and a confidant. For that I am grateful. But now, I step forward onto a limb whose strength I’m uncertain of.

I choose to hope. I choose to care. Most importantly, I choose to trust you.

I’m waiting here, and for the near future, I’m not headed anywhere. It is here that I will stand, wait, and trust. Now, it is your turn to choose. If you decide that at this point in your life you need a strong friend, then, by all means, sign me up. If you decide that you, too, might hope to explore something more, than by all means, count me in. Earlier in this letter, I discussed happiness. Recalling that, I encourage you to discover why it may, at times, be eluding you. The only thing I ask of you is a simple promise. Find out what makes you happy, and promise me that you’ll pursue only that. At this point, I trust you. At this point, I care for you. No matter what you decide, those aren’t things that will soon change. It is your smile, and your heart, and your happiness for which I care; for it is those things that make me sincerely joyful.