To The Freshmen On My Floor

Dear sisters,

We made it to week six.

All semester, I’ve said two things about this week: that it’s the week where everyone falls apart, and the week by which our brosis finally falls into place. Funny how those two things coincide. Maybe we need to take them together, and not have one without the other.

Right on time, half of you have developed sniffles and coughs. One girl's spleen is spasming, and I’ve checked at least two of you for fevers. Everyone is behind on homework, which is stressful because midterms are happening in the next couple of weeks, and we all feel like we might fail. Homesickness has dissipated for most of us, but it's replaced by a dozen other stressers. I haven't seen anyone weeping yet, but the possibility is always there.

And somehow still, we are here and we are facing each new day.

I wonder if you've heard Lizzie say it yet, in a moment where things are going well, with her eyes all lit up:

"We're thriving!"

Usually, she says this when a difficulty has been overcome.

Despite our ragged appearance this week, I think I can say it of us.

Six weeks ago, when all of you came, I wasn't sure we would thrive. I looked around at each of your faces that first night--and two more a few days later--and I thought, "Lord, there are twelve of them! That's a third of the floor! What did you do?" One wise senior brother last semester had suggested that my closest friends would be from my class or the class below me. Sitting on the lounge floor looking at all of you strangers, I couldn’t imagine that. I didn’t think I would ever love you to the same degree I did all of the people last year.

I see now I was wrong.

Though I studied all of your faces that night, and strained to see your personalities, I forgot the sweetness of building relationships. I forgot that friendships take time. I forgot that each new day of living in proximity with you peels back a new layer of your stories and identities. I forgot that strangers don’t stay that way.

Six weeks after that forgetful night, the twelve of you are a dozen of the greatest blessings in this season of my life. I adore you. I didn’t even think to anticipate the ways God would love me through each of you. He has met me in Crystal’s dancing in the kitchen, and Anna’s long hugs in public, and Mikayla’s love of books and brownies, and Joia’s hysterical side comments. He has ministered to me in KC’s honest delight, and Micaiah’s serious musings, and Myah’s tender spirit, and Hailee’s constant welcome. He has blessed me through Victoria’s easy smile, and Grace’s unfolding beauty, and Rebekah’s attentive listening, and Haley’s genteel but wild sense of humor. Each of you is a lavish expression of His grace to me.

All of this, and we aren’t even halfway through the semester.

Even in sickness and strain, dear sisters, you are a gift to me and to many others. You may not feel as if you are thriving—you may not even feel like you belong. Know that I’m proud of you anyway, that I think each of you is brave and special and important. Christ will continue to work out your details.

And with that, I leave you with the oft-quoted reminder so conveniently emblazened on a certain brother’s hat:

It will be okay.

So much love,

Your very proud and affectionate sister