Considering College
One of my earliest memories is watching my dad go off to work one morning. My mother and I had probably walked him there, as our apartment was only blocks away. My eyes followed my dad into his mystic workplace, which, to my young eyes, resembled Emerald City. Then the door obscured my vision and my mother wheeled my stroller out through a great stone archway.
This is my first memory of Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and the beginning of a long history. But I didn't realize just how much my story had entangled with the school until two days ago, when I returned, this time as a prospective student.
My mother guided me to the admissions office, hugged me, and left me to wait for an information session to begin. The kind receptionist handed me an information packet and I sat down, stiff, to read. Or at least to give the appearance of reading. What else are you supposed to do when your phone is dying and you hardly ate breakfast and a once-familiar place looms large, possibly determining the outcome of the rest of your life? My eyes were wide on the door as soon as it opened again; I gripped my packet, my shield against this unfamiliar territory.
Lucky for me, it was just Gena, another student, and her aunt, who looked as if she couldn't hurt a fly. I wasn't totally intimidated by Gena until, during the information session, she mentioned she had gotten her associate's degree at a community college in her faraway hometown in Arizona. Here I was, sitting alone across from a girl who could walk in almost totally comfortable with herself, who knew the world and was being proactive about life. What was I supposed to do with my arms?
Just as the introductions were about to end, two new additions to the tour walked in: Paul, a missionary kid from the Czech Republic, and his father. Instantly, I remembered a conversation I'd had the day before about my "dream guy": "I'd like him to have some cultural background, either someone from another country, or a missionary kid..."
For Pete's sake, girl, focus! Elbows off the table!
My near-empty stomach growled. I folded my arms across it, beating it into submission. This session was starting to look long...and quiet. I pictured the busy streets of Chicago and comforted myself with the fact that it would all be over soon...
Thank goodness, the leaders of the session were two very sweet Moody alumni: Josh, with the ocean blue eyes and the hands that shook from what I assumed (hoped) were nerves, and Janessa, who's smile was so warm it gave me a feeling similar to eating fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It eased me to think of them as real people, who had roamed these halls and navigated the rigors of college and emerged as totally capable adults, yet who still got nervous talking to a group of gangly students. It wasn't all bad, that hour in a swivel chair, soaking up the wonders of the school that might one day become mine. Still, I was glad when we were finally released.
The next phase of the visit was the campus tour. Our tour guide was a fascinating man by the name of Andrew, who had started at Moody several years prior, taken a break to minister in France, and come back to finish his major in communications. I could picture him, with his slicked back hair, skinny khakis, and tan cardigan, having a lively conversation in fluent French--and perhaps enjoying it far more than giving a tour to three students and their guardians. Still, he knew everything there was to know about the institute, including that the floors in the prayer chapel had been padded to cater to students recovering from injuries.
After giving us a brief introduction outside the admissions office, Andrew led us down the hall toward two large, locked doors. He swiped a card and led us through them. I felt as if I were entering a ride at Disney World.
Thus, we entered the halls outside the Moody chapel, whose walls were covered with the names of Moody alumni who had gone overseas as missionaries--some of whom had never come home. Probably more than ten panels of names lined the walls, the type minuscule. Still, they had run out of room years ago. It was a glorious testimony to the work of the school; I was hooked.
For nearly every place we visited thereafter, I had some story to go with it. As we walked through the enormous chapel, I glimpsed the hymnals and remembered my youth pastor telling me about the time he and his buddies had collected enough knives from the cafeteria to fill the spines of most of the songbooks. One morning in chapel, as the students casually turned to that day's hymn, hundreds of the metal utensils clattered to the floor. That week, the Moody newspaper ran a story trying to figure out who had done it. I wondered how he had had the courage to do such a thing. For each new location, another memory from the campus took its place in my head. It felt like the culmination of a life's journey.
But it ended in a question mark. I still didn't know where I wanted to go to school, where God wanted me to go to school. What was I going to do?
Last night, I groaned to my dad that it was so hard to choose a career. He reminded me that I only needed to rest in Christ, and Christ would do the leading. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows...
It is still my job to rest, to trust, to listen. The stress reminds me of what I have forgotten: that God has a good plan for me. What if I approached every decision with this truth? Not with agonizing questions, not with pressure to make the right decision right now!--but with the knowledge that God is guiding it all? How much more joyful would this process get?
So I pray and I consider and I rest. For I "know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28, emphasis added.)
This is my first memory of Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, and the beginning of a long history. But I didn't realize just how much my story had entangled with the school until two days ago, when I returned, this time as a prospective student.
My mother guided me to the admissions office, hugged me, and left me to wait for an information session to begin. The kind receptionist handed me an information packet and I sat down, stiff, to read. Or at least to give the appearance of reading. What else are you supposed to do when your phone is dying and you hardly ate breakfast and a once-familiar place looms large, possibly determining the outcome of the rest of your life? My eyes were wide on the door as soon as it opened again; I gripped my packet, my shield against this unfamiliar territory.
Lucky for me, it was just Gena, another student, and her aunt, who looked as if she couldn't hurt a fly. I wasn't totally intimidated by Gena until, during the information session, she mentioned she had gotten her associate's degree at a community college in her faraway hometown in Arizona. Here I was, sitting alone across from a girl who could walk in almost totally comfortable with herself, who knew the world and was being proactive about life. What was I supposed to do with my arms?
Just as the introductions were about to end, two new additions to the tour walked in: Paul, a missionary kid from the Czech Republic, and his father. Instantly, I remembered a conversation I'd had the day before about my "dream guy": "I'd like him to have some cultural background, either someone from another country, or a missionary kid..."
For Pete's sake, girl, focus! Elbows off the table!
My near-empty stomach growled. I folded my arms across it, beating it into submission. This session was starting to look long...and quiet. I pictured the busy streets of Chicago and comforted myself with the fact that it would all be over soon...
Thank goodness, the leaders of the session were two very sweet Moody alumni: Josh, with the ocean blue eyes and the hands that shook from what I assumed (hoped) were nerves, and Janessa, who's smile was so warm it gave me a feeling similar to eating fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It eased me to think of them as real people, who had roamed these halls and navigated the rigors of college and emerged as totally capable adults, yet who still got nervous talking to a group of gangly students. It wasn't all bad, that hour in a swivel chair, soaking up the wonders of the school that might one day become mine. Still, I was glad when we were finally released.
The next phase of the visit was the campus tour. Our tour guide was a fascinating man by the name of Andrew, who had started at Moody several years prior, taken a break to minister in France, and come back to finish his major in communications. I could picture him, with his slicked back hair, skinny khakis, and tan cardigan, having a lively conversation in fluent French--and perhaps enjoying it far more than giving a tour to three students and their guardians. Still, he knew everything there was to know about the institute, including that the floors in the prayer chapel had been padded to cater to students recovering from injuries.
After giving us a brief introduction outside the admissions office, Andrew led us down the hall toward two large, locked doors. He swiped a card and led us through them. I felt as if I were entering a ride at Disney World.
Thus, we entered the halls outside the Moody chapel, whose walls were covered with the names of Moody alumni who had gone overseas as missionaries--some of whom had never come home. Probably more than ten panels of names lined the walls, the type minuscule. Still, they had run out of room years ago. It was a glorious testimony to the work of the school; I was hooked.
For nearly every place we visited thereafter, I had some story to go with it. As we walked through the enormous chapel, I glimpsed the hymnals and remembered my youth pastor telling me about the time he and his buddies had collected enough knives from the cafeteria to fill the spines of most of the songbooks. One morning in chapel, as the students casually turned to that day's hymn, hundreds of the metal utensils clattered to the floor. That week, the Moody newspaper ran a story trying to figure out who had done it. I wondered how he had had the courage to do such a thing. For each new location, another memory from the campus took its place in my head. It felt like the culmination of a life's journey.
But it ended in a question mark. I still didn't know where I wanted to go to school, where God wanted me to go to school. What was I going to do?
Last night, I groaned to my dad that it was so hard to choose a career. He reminded me that I only needed to rest in Christ, and Christ would do the leading. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows...
It is still my job to rest, to trust, to listen. The stress reminds me of what I have forgotten: that God has a good plan for me. What if I approached every decision with this truth? Not with agonizing questions, not with pressure to make the right decision right now!--but with the knowledge that God is guiding it all? How much more joyful would this process get?
So I pray and I consider and I rest. For I "know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28, emphasis added.)
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