Without you, the earth turns, the sun burns; but I die without you.

I read a story once about a boy trapped in a magical forest. He glimpses a unicorn and follows it, desperate for hope in this strange, scary place. But when he finally, finally catches up, the unicorn falls apart into decayed, disgusting pieces and the boy realizes that his glimmer of redemption was a vindictive illusion all along.

Life feels like that sometimes.

Sometimes you see the light at the end of the tunnel and think, finally, finally, I have caught up to the good things I’ve been waiting for. Finally the dreams I’ve been chasing are close enough to touch. But then the dreams fall apart or the light fades or you find yourself alone in your apartment with already two weeks of loneliness at your back and many more to come. And then you cry–maybe a little, maybe more than that–but you also realize that life isn’t like the magic of the forest. It’s not vindictive; it’s not looking for revenge. Life isn’t out to get you; and sometimes bad things happen to good people; sometimes bad things happen just because.

King Solomon asked a really important question once. He looked at all his wealth and all his kingdom and he looked at God in all his power and declared, “Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!” And then he asked, “What does a man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?”

The earth turns and turns and turns. And we’re born and we work and we love and we die and the earth keeps turning. And that’s it. Maybe, if we believe the right things and listen to the right teachings and live the right way, we end up somewhere better afterward, but maybe we don’t. Who can know?

Solomon, wise, wise King Solomon, considered this cycle and was devastated by it. He decided that wisdom is a heavy burden that brings “much sorrow,” and that greater knowledge brings nothing but greater grief.

Honestly, the man was probably pretty depressed, now that I think about it. The wisest, historically richest man in the world, writing that “all things are wearisome” is understandably concerning. And confusing. Because if I was the wisest person in the world, I’d have at least a doctorate or two; and if I was the richest person in the world, I’d have enough money to pay for them.

But what did Solomon do with his time and money? He wasted away.

He tried all sorts of things to find meaning in life. He was a hedonist for a while, then an ascetic. He made friends and worked hard and still found everything meaningless. Then, at the end, after all of this, he wrote that yes, life is meaningless no matter how you choose to live, so the only thing to do is “Fear God and keep his commandments.” Sounds pretty straightforward, right?

Except Solomon doesn’t say that doing this will bring meaning to life. He just says that we should fear God because it’s our duty as humans–and because God will judge us if we don’t.

Talk about disheartening. Solomon was a total downer, but then, when I read Ecclesiastes the first time by myself, I was in college and suddenly felt like I’d never been understood so completely before in my life.

Honestly, I was probably a little depressed too, now that I think about it.

Because I read Ecclesiastes and thought, Solomon gets it, Solomon gets me. Because I read a book that was a lot like the story of the unicorn, where the author makes you fall in love with characters who are flawed and despicable but also desperate for salvation, where you end up rooting for them to win, and where they all die at the end. All of them.

Because I read that book and I read Ecclesiastes and I wondered, like Solomon, what’s the point?

The earth turns and turns and turns. And I was born and I am loved and I was going to graduate from college with a degree in something I actually liked and maybe, one day, I am going to get married and have a family of my own. But then I’m going to die at the end; after all that striving and toiling, I’m going to die and everything is going to be meaningless. So what’s the point.

The point–which I learned and Solomon, sadly, didn’t–is Jesus.

Okay, yes, what a cliche. But sometimes cliches feel overused because they’re true, so hear me out.

I noted earlier that King Solomon asked a question: “What does a man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?” Well, hundreds and hundreds of years later, the apostle Paul gave him an answer:

“For me to live is Christ,” Paul wrote, “and to die is gain.”

Wow. Is your mind blown? Mine was, when I first heard this. I remember that day because I’d been so burdened for so long and I finally had an answer to all my wondering. Solomon asked, what do we gain, and Paul told him, we gain Jesus.

Jesus is the point. Because for me, too, to live is Christ. To live will always be Christ. And then, at the end, as the earth turns and turns and turns, it doesn’t matter if I’ve loved or graduated or gotten married or made a family, because at the end, to die is gain. At the end, I get to see Jesus, who I’ve lived my whole life for, and I get to spend eternity with Him in heaven.

Solomon didn’t know this. For all his wisdom, Solomon didn’t know God like I do because Jesus hadn’t come yet.

I cried so much when I realized this. I cried for Solomon and for myself, and for all the people who don’t know this truth, cliche as it sounds. And I vowed to make Paul’s words my motto, and to start living like Christ is my reason.

And, for a long time, I was better. I lived and loved and the earth did it’s thing. I was hurt and hurt in return, and I graduated, twice, and went back to school again because I’m a glutton for punishment but I still want to know everything. And, honestly, despite everything that’s been going on in the world, I thought I was still fine.

Then a very good friend of mine asked me a question (it’s becoming a theme, I know). She spent no small amount of time pouring her heart out, then looked at me over our video connection and asked, “Do you have anything in your life that you struggle with, something that you want God to take because it’s hard?”

My first instinct was to protect myself. Growing up, I’d always been told to guard my heart, like those words were some magic spell that could keep me safe from loving boys who wouldn’t love me back. But when you’re grown up and you’re lonely, “guard your heart” can really easily become “build walls around yourself for your own safety and don’t let anyone in.”

But this was my friend. My very best friend. My platonic soulmate, even, because I’d been 18 and afraid and a lot homesick, and I’d turned to God and, in my desperation, prayed for a friend. And he’d given me her.

So my second instinct–the Holy Spirit’s prompting, honestly–was to open myself up, to be a little vulnerable, and to share with her what I was feeling.

Which was this: a global pandemic is scary; and I’ve been alone for more than a month; and people are dying; and I’m a third-culture kid who has none of her family near her and who can’t go anywhere this summer; and I feel trapped, a little, in my apartment, and this country, and myself; and the world is going to get better, because it has to, but things are going to be different than they used to be, and that’s scary too.

And all I can think right now, in the midst of this fear and unknown, is what’s the point?

And I told her that I already knew what that felt like–to not know my reason for living; to fear that I didn’t have one–and I told her that I didn’t want to feel like that again.

But then I remembered what I learned from Paul, and it overshadowed what I’d learned from Solomon. I told my friend my testimony, so to speak, and I cried again as I was divinely reminded that the point of my life, of everything, is Jesus. And He’s got this.

Since I’m on a roll with the crying and vulnerable-Jesus-moments thing, I’ll share something else. It’s related, I promise.

In the midst of my college crisis–somewhere around the really dark middle of what was at least six months of misery–I also read through Job for the first time.

I’ll be honest, most of Job is terrible. The man suffers a lot, questions everything, looks to his wife and friends for comfort, and is let down and judged by them at every turn. Literally every part of the first 37 chapters is angst. But then, in chapter 38, something amazing happens: God shows up, and speaks to Job out of the storm. Like, what? That’s unfathomable. I sort of want to cry just thinking about it.

But then it gets better.

God speaks to Job and basically says “Who do you think you are?” He tells Job to man up and asks “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” And then He keeps going. For the next five chapters, God totally and completely puts Job in his place.

And He put me, reading this in the middle of the night as I waited for my connection to start boarding out of Washington-Dulles, in my place too.

It’s so easy to look at everything that’s happening and wonder where God is in all of it. To be like Elijah and search desperately for some trace of God in what feels like the wind and the earthquake and the fire, and then miss his presence in the still, small voice. Or, like with Job, in the storm.

Where was I when God laid the earth’s foundation? I didn’t exist yet. But the earth turns and turns and turns, and I became, and it still doesn’t matter if I don’t know what’s going on because God knows.

Like I said, He’s got this.

And, also like I said, life isn’t out to get you. Neither is God. He has a whole plan that somehow we’re part of, and all we can do is continue to listen. To live for Christ with the promise that to die, someday, will be gain.

There’s a poem that, like Ecclesiastes and Job, really stayed with me while I was struggling. In it the poet writes that she is healing by mistake. At the time, coming out of that darkness felt a lot like accidental healing. And sometimes it still rings true to me–the words “I am healing by mistake.”

Now though, I view things differently. 

Some days it doesn’t feel like I’m healing at all. And that’s okay. But when I am healing, it is not by mistake, but by intent. I am healing because I choose to heal. Because I found my purpose in Jesus and every day I choose to live like it.

**Title: “Without You” from RENT but specifically as sung by Leslie Odom Jr.**

They say there’s linings made of silver folded inside each raining cloud Well, we need someone to deliver our silver lining now. And are we there yet? Home, home, home.

I’m told that being an adult involves thinking ahead and making goals and knowing what you want to do and paying bills and taking actual responsibility for your actions even when you don’t really want to. Because no matter how much you think back to your glory days—college or even high school; take your pick—you’re grown up now.

And being grown up means rationality. Logic. Sacrifice. Restlessness that was okay in your teen years because it meant you were open minded with a wide variety of interests; now it just seems flaky and a little juvenile, even to yourself.

So fine, I’ll make goals. I’ll graduate from university next year with two degrees and two theses, but probably still no concrete idea of what I want to do. Or where to go next.

I like Chicago. But I’m told it’s cold. And then I wonder…does it matter? Do I care? If moving to Chicago is what I want, why don’t I just go?

Is that too selfish of me? Do I care? Of course I do. Usually.

Yet it just occurred to me that it’s kind of hard to make goals for myself when my self doesn’t quite know what it wants. So excuse me for a moment while I process. Call this a running diatribe if you’d like, but I prefer the term “open and unfiltered self expression.” So maybe just consider yourself lucky that I’m sharing this at all. Because usually I wouldn’t but today I’m feeling a little irrational and quite a bit petulant and there’s a first time for everything, right?

Well then, what do I want?

I want to go home. And I want to know where that is exactly.

I want to eat speck and pasta with my Host Dad’s tomato sauce and Tuscan bread with olive oil and salt. I want to have real gelato one more time. Or maybe more than that, if this whole thing is about being honest.

I want to go everywhere and see everything and meet everyone; without worrying about money, without being shy, without wasting hours upon hours in stuffy airplanes and long immigration lines.

I want my senior thesis to jump from my brain into the hands of my professor and basically research, outline, and write itself.

I want to be consistent. As a blogger (what an awful term. Bleh), a student, a secretary, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a general human being.

I want to be able to cry when I know it would make me feel better. And I want to know why I can’t.

I want to write something people want to read. Partly because I’m a words of affirmation person and partly because ideas, even fictional ones, are better when shared.

I want to be with someone who’s a little dangerous, a little wounded, and probably a lot bad for me. And I want it to be okay that I probably won’t find him at church. I’ll just have to bring him there and hope he doesn’t lose what it is that drew me in the first place.

I want to protect myself without seeming villainous or self-centered. If you feel you can tell me anything, please know that you truly can and I will do my very best to be loving and supportive in any way possible. But if this is not reciprocal, then where does that leave me? Alone and drowning in myself.

I want to express what I want without seeming petty or childish. Or like I don’t care what God’s plan is for my life. Because that isn’t true.

I want life to be easy. Not for me, but for the people I love. I want my parents to retire whenever they’d like. For my sister to get into her dream school. For my Dad not to worry about my ever deepening academic debt.

I want to have lots of kids so that 50 or so years from now I will be my grandma. And I want to be the same inspiration to my grandchildren that she is to me.

I want River Song to come back to Doctor Who. I want Eun Sang to choose Young Do. And I want Maid Marian to go back in time where she belongs.

I want exactly twelve happy days to every one that is even moderately sad.

I want university snow days. Or at least rain that is only ever warm. Even in winter.

I want the A’s without the effort. And the ability to go back and improve those grades from the days when I thought such academic magic was actually possible.

I want to go to Cuba. And North Korea. And Saudi Arabia. Just because I know I can’t.

I want extraordinary willpower so I can use it to exercise every day. But mostly just so I’ll read my Bible, even when it’s not Sunday.

I want my hair to be long enough for people to instantly tell I’ve never cut it because “You’ve never cut it? Really?! Then, why isn’t it longer?” isn’t exactly something I like to hear.

I want clean cut to be enough when I really know that I prefer sharp edges.

I want this to mean something. To be more than a petty, childish expression of my current (and likely changeable) desires. And I want this to actually assist me in the writing of my goals so I stop feeling too unorganized and irresponsible for all the sacrifices that have been made for me.

I want to think I’m not the only one who feels this way. That maybe my exercise in self help has maybe helped you too.

So lastly, I want to thank you. No one asked you to stick with this project; to read all the way to the bottom; to attempt to relate to the wants of someone else, but you did. And I thank you for it.

**Title: “Are We There Yet?” by Ingrid Michaelson**

This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill. Fifteen percent concentrated power of will. Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain. And a hundred percent reason to remember the name.

You sneak a surreptitious glance at your watch and realize that you’ve already been in this interview for half an hour. That’s a good thing, right? When your eyes leave your watch to reconnect with the interviewer’s, she gives a practiced smile and says “One last question.”

You hold your breath and hope she’s not going to ask what your self-defined strengths and weaknesses are because everyone knows that’s a loaded question. Instead she asks “What three words would you use to describe yourself?”

First reaction: Why is it always three? Why can’t it be five words for describing yourself? Why not one?

Second reaction: Oh, no. What am I going to say? This is almost as bad as the strengths and weaknesses question.

Third reaction: Just go with responsible. That’s always a good one. Maybe creative too–what kind of job is this again? Okay good; that’s two. For the last one…

You tap your lip as you think but pull it away and clasp your hands together on your lap when you realize she’ll probably perceive the gesture as a manifestation of nerves. Or worse, as your tell (creative might be a stretch but you really are responsible…in your own way…that’s not a lie, right?).

Suddenly, it comes to you; the perfect answer has been there all along–literally.

You tell her your name.

——————————————————————————————————–

Who would you be without your name? Who would I be without mine?

When I was a kid my parents would describe a person to me and I would usually be able to come up with a name. I was right too, most of the time at least. I guess names are just something I’ve always been good at remembering; it’s a side effect of the many moves.

Tangentially, I’ve now lived in more countries than my mother. Quite a feat, I know.

That minor digression aside, I really do believe that a person’s name is an important aspect of his or her identity, even though said name is generally not self-appointed. This is why your name can be used as a clever addition to the above three word self-description exercise.

Anything can be argued as long as the argument’s support is valid and logical, even if the argument itself is not. Apply this thinking to the interview situation and what do you get? A job.

Actually, don’t quote me on that. Seriously, please don’t. My point is that everyone has a name but it’s the meaning you attribute to it that makes your name important. Here, I’ll give you an example.

My name means “safe harbor.” Does that make me one? Not necessarily.

I was named after one of my parents’ favorite places. Does that make me their favorite? I wish.

My middle name is arbitrary. Does that mean I am too? Of course not.

So in what way can my name be used to define me? When people ask my mom about the artist of the pieces she hangs in her office, they aren’t told to look for a Concordia graduate or an NYU student. They’re given my name.

When someone wants to know who they should look for if they’re interested in the on-campus Bible study, they aren’t told to find a girl in skirts with River Song hair the color of On Golden Pond. They’re given my name.

When my sisters are asked about their jie-jie who’s off at university, they don’t say they miss the instigator or 1/3 of the whole. They say they miss me; and they say my name.

That’s what I mean when I say your name can define you. Your actions and your words, your accomplishments and your mistakes, everything about you that makes up who you are is encompassed in your name. If your name is mentioned there are pictures and memories of you that inevitably appear, even if you aren’t physically present.

In a way, yes this is a never-ending cycle. You are your name because it’s the first thing you’re given after birth, and then you live your life and your actions are attributed to your name. So you are who you are. Basically.

And your name is who you are too. Less basic, but still true.

Response time! I’ve never before actively asked for responses to these because it never occurred to me that people might be interested enough in my rambled musings to actually comment on them. That changes now. What do you think comes to mind when people think your name?

**Title: “Remember the Name (Clean Version)” by Fort Minor**