Liberty’s campus is relatively large—not so large, perhaps, as Duke’s campus, or Brown University, or something…but it’s biggerish. And parking is ridiculous…so in order to avoid the trauma of having to potentially find a parking spot more than once in a day? We walk. Everywhere. And doubtless, that is good for our characters and our cardiovascular systems, so no complaining on that note.

But yesterday, as I was walking from the cafeteria to the library, I was looking into people’s faces, like I always do when I walk, and I was struck—as I am frequently—by the fact that despite the fact that this is technically a Christian school, there is so much hurt in people’s eyes. And more than half the time, you can’t even catch the eyes, because the face is looking down—drawn, stressed, introspective, and insecure.

By the time I actually made it to the library, I could feel the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.

“God, there’s SO much hurt here, even just on this campus. And we’re the ones that are supposed to have the answers, supposed to be offering hope—where do we start when it comes to mending the broken pieces of this generation, and what role do I—as the individual—play in this?”

It’s frighteningly easy for me not to care. In fact, for the last several months, despite the fact that I was technically doing everything right—spending time in Scripture, and praying for those around me, and being an active part of the church community and blah blah blah—I’ve kinda gone into survival mode, and I’ve had a growing sense of the fact that I was emotionally and spiritually disconnecting…that somehow, the truth that I was reading with the eyes of my mind wasn’t permeating to color the perceptions of my heart…and what I was doing with my hands wasn’t springing from a deep-seated sense of compassion or real caring.

It’s appalling how easily we can delude ourselves—and others—into thinking that going through the motions is the real thing.

God mercifully opened my eyes to the extent of my own callousness last week and gave me a glimpse of the direction in which my heart had turned in sort of an unexpected way. It was one o’clock in the morning, and I was sitting in a parking lot in a car, listening to a friend pour out some of the struggles of his soul…and suddenly I realized that this was the first time in weeks that I’d actively tried to care about somebody besides myself on any real level. And the realization was startling, and humbling…and as I sat there listening, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of shame. God doesn’t always speak in an audible voice, but sometimes…it’s almost audible:

“Thea, what on earth? How do you MISS it this badly for this long? How did you get so caught up in caring so much about what other people think of you, what other people are doing, and how they’re perceiving you that you lost three months of your life when you could have and should have been reaching out to people as they really are and caring for them as they really need to be cared for? Do you think I don’t know it when your heart isn’t with Me? Do you think I can’t sense your relational disconnectedness when your time with Me is just a ritual?”

As I drove home that night, the tears were rolling down my face and making little splashy tracks all over my steering wheel. The big plastic buttons on my coat probably thought it was raining. But somehow, the pain of God bringing us against the brick wall of a harsh realization is a pain that is redemptive, restorative, and freeing—and the tears were a good thing.

My prayer since then has been that God would keep my heart tender—that I would never become immune to the pain of others, that my eyes would never be able to ignore the needs, and that my heart would never be able to refuse to weep for those who are bleeding inside. It’s overwhelming to live this way. It’s beyond the handling capacity of my emotional and physical resources. But perhaps we were designed and called to live in a way that demands of us more strength than we have and more love than we are capable of giving so that we never come to the point of thinking that we no longer have a need for the One whose unending strength and infinite love have enabled men to do the seemingly-impossible since the beginning of the human race.

Thanksgiving. Giving of thanks. Noticing and appreciating the little things. Gratitude. Such simple concepts. Such an enriching way of approaching life. Such pathetically neglected and underused thinking in reality.

During the past week, as I was basking in the warm glow of being reunited at long last with my family after what feels like nearly a year of separation, I was challenged at times—usually by little things that people said or did—to ask myself if I have formed the habit of thankfulness, and whether I am actively cultivating a spirit of gratitude on a regular basis.

One instance in particular kind of stuck with me even as I deplaned on Virginian soil. See, I have two nephews and a niece, all of whom I am frightfully proud of, and five awesome siblings with two amazing additions by marriage—and often times, it is through one of these mediums that I am most forcibly reminded of my own need to sit back and reevaluate.

One of my nephews, Brock, is very nearly three years old. And he’s precious, and adorable, and possessed of a very compassionate and sensitive little heart. But as with most two year olds, he’s also very possessive of everything that he considers to be rightfully his.

I was a bystander one morning when he discovered that his baby sister, Lauren, was wearing a pair of his socks. Now, he had been running around barefooted all morning, and he had a different pair of socks stuffed inside of his little boots in case the notion to wear shoes might enter his tiny head, but somehow, all of this was completely irrelevant when it came to the fact that Lauren had been dressed in clothing items which he knew to be rightfully his.

“Mom,” he wailed, instantly very distraught, “did you think that maybe I would want my socks?!”

Ok, it was amusing. And yeah, I laughed. But then I had to do a quick double-take, and ask myself how often that kind of blatant selfishness characterizes my own thinking. The verse that came to mind was Proverbs 3:28, where Solomon or some other smart person is admonishing his readers, “Do not say to your neighbor, ‘Go, and come back, and tomorrow I will give it,’ when you have it with you.”

Maybe I’m not so much guilty of this one with my physical possessions…but with my time? Uf dah. Yeah, generosity in that area is a struggle, and I realized (a wee bit guiltily) that I definitely need to work on being more grateful for the time that people have chosen to invest in/share with me and to be more intentional in investing time in others.

On that note, I must say that over this particular break? I am especially grateful for the time invested by my tiny niece and new baby nephew, both of whom invested large quantities of sleep time and prodigious quantities of drool and baby urp in their oldest auntie. I miss it already, and I’ve only been back at school for half a week.

Yet another semester has fairly flown by, and once again, I find myself plowing through that last week of academia before heading back to the arctic regions of Wisconsin to see my beloved family and friends. But as I sat on my bed this morning making a mental note of all of the things that need to be packed/organized/studied before I head out, I took a moment to stop and reflect on the 12 months that have passed since the last time that I made this trek halfway across the U.S. for this particular holiday. It’s been a year full of so many incredible memories, incredible experiences, and incredible friendships—a year perfectly orchestrated by an incredible God.

Last year, when I was preparing for this journey, it was with mixed feelings, knowing that I was going home to the craziness of wedding prep and the emotional chaos of trying to sort through what it was going to look like and feel like to give away my younger sister—who also happens to be my best friend—to her new best friend. For the rest of her life. It was one of those weird experiences where you feel both incredibly happy for the other person and yet inconsolably sad deep down inside…and yet you feel almost guilty for feeling sad, because you strongly suspect that your reasons for feeling sad are entirely selfish.

This year, in going back home, I feel somehow…more excited, but also more disconnected, more independent, older somehow—as though I’m a visitor rather than a resident at the home place now. And I suppose that’s what it always comes to when one has lived away from home for several years—but I was almost startled to realize that this change had taken place in my thinking. I suppose this is part of growing up—of being an adult (whether or not this means I’ve earned the right to jump up and down and excitedly proclaim the fact that I’ve officially “arrived” at adult status? Well, I’m pretty sure not).

But in the midst of this philosophical reflection on life in general, I was impressed with a tremendous sense of the fact that in the past 12 months, I have been soooooo blessed…in my friendships, my family, my mentors, my teachers, and in the random encounters that happen with an odd degree of regularity on an almost-daily basis. And I’m super duper excited to go home and meet both of the little munchkins that have joined the Beaty family since last I darkened the doors of the home place. Woohoo! I'm off to see the wizard.

A belated but very warm congratulations to my beautiful sister and her handsome man on the arrival of baby Bobby...or "Blobby," as my sister has lovingly dubbed this round little feller.

Officially a family! Blobby's grand entry.

Bobby's first bath at home...an event which appears to be deeply fascinating to his wee philosophical mind.

Sleeping is Blobby's favorite activity. It's one of those great pasttimes that lends itself well to participation by the whole family--which is awesome.

Bobby has discovered at a very young age that the best way to keep camera flashes from annoying you is just to...sleep through the ordeal.

Aw, mom. No tickling.

Tonight, as I was sitting in my corner of the library working on a patho for one of my lovely clinicals, a wee little man with blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes plopped his little bottom down in front of the computer which stood vacant on my left.

I confess I didn’t really pay him much heed. Just smiled absently, and nodded, and kept on typing furiously. I had my headphones in, and was listening to a couple of songs that really make me think…so I think I may have lapsed a little, and begun staring very hard at the wall of the cubicle in front of me, or in some other way indicated that my mind had taken a brief vacation.
My reverie was interrupted by a little masculine voice:

“Excuse me,” it said.

I looked to my left, and found myself staring rather startledly into a pair of very blue eyes.

“Yes?”

“Am I invisible?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this question. Was he feeling ignored? Unloved? Pretending to be a superhero with special powers? Was I supposed to play along? I was suddenly at a loss. So I grinned, and shrugged.

“Well, were you hoping?”

He grinned back, and nodded.

“Yeah. For Friday night.”

Oh please. Has it come to THIS? Are we so desperate we now hit on random chicks in the library?!

I just laughed. And then he suddenly turned bright red, and dropped his eyes, and mumbled something to himself about that being a super cheesy pickup line. And I thought to myself, yes. My sentiments precisely. Maybe you should…listen to the little voices inside of your head before you venture to speak in real time...it might be safer for you, little friend.

Some people’s children make me laugh. Others of them make me want to poke them in the face and then laugh…all in the spirit of Christian love, of course. *sigh*