College Station and the melted Reese's cup

At this point, you're all probably tired of me talking about how wonderful my undergrad years at the best university were. Texas A&M and all of its quirks and activities and people made me one happy human. It was here where I learned how to grow and speak well and trust wholly and invest fully without fear.

So I figured that year five would just cap off a magical last four. Even better: I could work at a church and not have to study for classes I don't care about. It was like God said, "Look, I have created the happiest situation for you. Have it and bask in how #blessed you are."

But God probably doesn't speak in hashtags, and he certainly does not make plans centered around my level of happiness. 

Stupidly, I had the idea that College Station would be exactly the same when I returned after the summer. It would be like all the other summers over the last few years. I would go, take my hiatus from the 77840, and then return and poof! Everyone would be there. College Station did not exist without the Cauldron, Timm Dr, Puryear, and Rayburn crews. Right?

Wrong.


Suddenly, I was in an all-too-familiar place with very, very few people who knew me well. And it was, to say the least, a shock. It was like when you open a Reese's peanut butter cup and it's all melted and not at all what you expected and you're not sure that you really want it anymore. That's kind of how College Station feels right now (to put it in an imperfect metaphor).

I didn't realize how absurd, how abnormal, it was to have a horde of people who knew me well until I only had one or two within a short driving distance of me. I freely admit that I took that for granted.

But even though my roommate situation has changed and I'm in a familiar environment that looks different somehow and I'm feeling kind of lonely, I know that the Lord absolutely has me here for a good reason. It's easy to ask him why he didn't prepare me for this immediate loneliness and tell him that it's his fault for not planning ahead, but I know that won't be right.

It's another lesson. It's another reminder that I am perpetually thinking that I can either 1. do all this by myself or 2. don't think he's going to ultimately work for my good. Probably a decent combination of both.

It's a call to come and kneel at the cross again. To do it every day. To realize that none of my expectations will ever be met because I have too small of an idea of what to expect. He can do far more than I could ever imagine (Ephesians 3:20). I can only expect him to fulfill his promises he makes in scripture, but I don't have any clue how they're going to manifest in my life.


The answer to the uncertainty and the loneliness is standing right beside me. But do I trust him enough to reach out for his hand?