Here's a letter I wrote a few weeks before graduating seminary:

I feel like many things that mean a lot to me are drawing to a close - not only school, but also church work, chances at friendships, good moments to be had. Problem is, most of these things are still going on.

I tried to make friends with people. I smiled and scrambled for something ingeniously relatable to say, to be funny, to be the one they'd go to for advice. Concern to perfect these details has only come off as awkward. Then, I go and say the wrong things to the people who are actually being good to me - can I get it right, for once?

None of these things have truly ended yet. Instead, I'm sitting here waiting for it to happen. And I know I will feel nostalgic about it someday.

I sit in my room with my eyes closed, trying to imagine that I've graduated, left everything and gone home (the only place I can afford), all of my friends are scattered and serving their vocations across the country, and the reality that the 15 minutes I enjoyed of church music and joy is over. Then I open my eyes, and I'm still here, in the shadow of the place I went to school, where I work, and where I practice. My friends are still here, just barely, along with the people with whom I should have been friends. The recitals I've given are not forgotten, the parties I went to are still remembered, the old places I hung out are still there.

I should tell everyone what I think before it's too late. No, maybe not. No, maybe I should.

It's not that I fear change, simply change for the worse. If better things were definite, I might be less sad about it, There's no promise of that, though.

So, if you see me looking wistful at times that should make me happy, I really am doing my best to savor every minute. The main thing I need is assurance that it's part of a drawn-out, really great beginning, and that the riches of these blessings from God will only appreciate in value. I don't see how, but they might.