11. Nostalgia

Sometimes I wish you could replay life, but despite my good memory of people, elements, and sounds, the moment won't ever be recreated. Too bad, because there were some nights that were just so good. Late nights in Farley or the Alpine House, when we college students could stay up late and suffer minimal consequences. We could spend the entire day together, then again the next day.

I walked into my living room a couple hours ago to find a number of students jamming. The live music is pleasant, the harmonies so good, but at the same time, I feel like I'm watching other people create these memories for their own lives. These are the nights they will look back on: jamming after large group, finding chords and playing songs as they please. Sometimes worship songs, sometimes goofing off to old school hits. Sometimes making up things that just sound good: Jesse says he has no idea what he's playing, but his guitar picking is right along with Garrett's piano chords.

I'm sitting right here, and it's relaxing and good. But nostalgia is what it triggers: memories of friends near and far, nights when I distinctly remember being so glad to be alive, so grateful to know the people around me. But now they're miles and miles away, further from the living rooms we loved in Stockton but closer to who God has made us to be.

Not that I don't like where I am now, but how do you move to different life stages? How do you simultaneously recognize what was good but also let it go to fully love the next chapter? Will it always sadden you that that specific combination of people at that night in that place with that music will never be recreated?

My Name

English 1A, 2002

My name is the blue of the ocean, which is more and more beautiful as you go deeper. Unfathomable. My name has as many layers as an onion—peeling off one will only lead to another. One must take eternity to explore the crevices. And yet I am still accepted, despite that I, like the universe, will never be fully known.

In a snap, my name changes to happiness. Like the shard of sea glass you pick out among the grains of sand, it stands out. My name is different, rare as the certain jellybean that is scarce in the jar. Audrey. Like the feel of soft dough in your hand. Comfortable. Warm, even accepting. Like the smell of cookies in the oven.

In the name books, my name means “noble strength.” I know nothing about my nobility, but my strength is drawn from my friends. I am dependent, guided by many friends and mentors along the road of life.

My name matches that of Audrey Hepburn. Unlike her, I am neither sophisticated nor poised. But like her character in “My Fair Lady”, I am being trained and polished for the life that I am meant to live.

I will not change my name. My name is representative. It is the rainbow holding the beauty of diversity from friendships and lessons blended into one. Someday I will live up to my name. As for now, I guess I’m working toward it. I have yet to become a 100% Audrey.  

Sophomore year

December 10, 2007 

I think following God in college is so much more different than what I thought it was.  Not to say God isn't radical (because he is, and we don't recognize it enough), but that he's also practical.  He's real, he's every day, he's decisions, he's there.  And sometimes, following God is JUST THAT.  You don't always have to push hard, always have to chase him.  Sometimes, you just follow.  Passive.  Submissive.  Trusting.  "He maketh me lie down in green pastures.  He leadeth me besides still waters.  He restoreth my soul."  Slowly, letting him take control.  Letting go.  Releasing.  Relaxing.

Flashbacks of India

The weather is warm in Stockton again, so I put on my lightweight cargo pants, a t-shirt, and my Merrell sandals. The cargo pants were the only non-salwar pants I wore for 6.5 weeks.  I wore them on the long plane flight, I rolled them up in the humidity of Bangkok.  The sandals have trudged through puddles, mud, and likely even feces.  They stayed on my feet in the chaos of being shoved on and off the trains.  They have tread the alleys of red-light districts.

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Natalie and I meet Rob in Berkeley and go to a restaurant with Pakistani, Mexican, and Indian cuisine.  The Indian menu is familiar and I want to order and eat everything:  veg pakora, samosas, mango lassi, palak paneer, galab jamun, and combinations of masala, chicken, curry, paneer.  Gobi for cauliflower, aloo for potatoes.  We order just like how Jane, Rich, and I used to order at Ricky's:  one naan each, a chicken dish, a vegetable dish.  We break the naan dip it in the tender and flavorful chicken curry.  The paneer is a bit firm but the masala makes it worth it. 

The women who serves us is wearing a goldenrod salwar.  There is complimentary tea, which we excitedly discover is actually spiced chai.  Milky and sweet, we drink it in cups three times larger than the small clay cups for two rupees on the streets of India. 

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In two weeks, I will be making a presentation to one of my old churches about my Kolkata trip.  It has been nine months since my return, and now I must find a way to summarize it.  The Poverty Timeline floats back into my head, and I wonder where to begin.  How do I articulate the beauty?  How do I talk for thirty minutes and trust that God is moving hearts where they are ready?  How do they understand this is more than a humanitarian effort, a sacrificial summer?  No, it is a calling for us all. 

And I must make the same presentation in Chinese.

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Nearly every day I stand at the crosswalk waiting for the line to turn.  Anytime there is a someone else waiting with me, I can't help but notice the distance between us.  In India, the people are crowded around you; if the train is in sight, you are pressed sweaty-arm-to-sweaty-arm.  But here a radius of several feet is our normal personal bubble.  Any closer and the stranger may feel uncomfortable, intruded upon. 

Sometimes this still feels foreign to me.