My house is empty. Not a big statement for some, but for me- I live with 9 interns school year round, and up to 20 interns in the summer. Not to mention the dozen or so groups we host on weekends sprinkled throughout the year. I have this 1.5 weeks of break where there is just one car in the back parking lot, no steps at midnight across the floor above me, no one to eat dinner with, no laundry being done at odd hours of the day and night… Just quiet. I have to resist the urge to turn on music and fire up the fans.
So, I turn off the lights, the stereo, the fans. I shut the doors and curtains and settle myself here to write. What stories I could tell of this year’s intern group. How Tiffany led a girl to the Lord at the Pregnancy Care Center, how Yasser taught me boxing out of his Mixed Martial Arts background, how Bryan diligently worked at community all year and it failed him? I could write of a biology major changing her thesis to the implications of poverty on head-lice instead of cattle and botflys, or perhaps how a girl raised on a dairy farm with a second lease on life became an urban minister, and a cookie-cutter urban minister departed out of that same calling for what seems in freedom, the same, second lease on life. Maybe it is the care and touch of an Italian that softened my heart so, or the one with the best laugh who showed me my weaknesses as a leader. I would certainly tell you about he who spent 3 months of the internship in prison, and rejoined our house, why I framed the graffiti draft artwork he drew me and why I miss him.
I miss them all. I crossed the line between director and friend. I didn’t last year, I risked it this year and won. Huge gamble, huge win. I don’t think I’ll regret it.
I can’t just tell their stories, I have to tell mine too, but it is pretty wonderful to get to frame it in the context of theirs. So more stories to come…