Rain and Other Miracles

Each of my workmates wore their cute business casual footwear to day two of our preview day, except me. Though skies were rather clear, I wore rain boots. In my mind, it was just going to rain, despite what the forecast said.

And, upon leaving on my tour with my Texans, the storm began. Sometimes faith is rain boots. Even if that faith borders a bit on desperate hope.

Three of my seniors joined on this Preview Day, and all were undecided. In fact, one had already closed her application then reopened it in order to visit two months after. I call her my resurrection student. By the end of the visit weekend, I had three yesses, and they had one delighted counselor.

It is the very best when students visit. All students really but especially students that you're currently working with.

No matter how many texts, emails, or phone calls you make, the truth is, they are a file to you. A faceless, electronic file.

Then they visit.

And suddenly, all the random facts you know about them and their family have a face and a personality and a life to attach themselves to, and I am also no longer a voice and a texter and a mass emailer to them then either. Suddenly, I also become a person to them, and all the random facts and information I've told them for months have people and places and a me to attach themselves to.

It's a great feeling.

We really take these students home with us mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Say a student applies in early June. That means that by the time they end up coming to JBU the next August, we have worked with them for 13 months, contacting them in one way or another a minimum of once a month. That's a lot of time. Shoot, that's more often than I talk to some of my closest friends.

We hear about their family lives, know what's going on at school, are the confidant to a whole lot of things really. We learn to truly value our students not as numbers but as people and, more than that, people of vast potential in our university and to their lives beyond graduation.

Then March comes.
Financial aid award letters go out.
The conversations begin.
The nitty gritty comes out.
Decisions are made.

We know how hard making college decisions are, no matter how calm and collected we are on the phone.

When we hang up at the end of a long call, we are burdened with lives that we know so much about. Not a heavy burden (usually) but just the burden of caring so much about individuals we know so well. We want them to fit. We want them to make choices that will benefit them long term. We want them to love Jesus well and to learn how to deepen their understanding of what that looks like in every realm of their existence.

We pray for them.
We take their stories home in our hearts.

And when they close their files, especially when they close them for reasons we can't buy into, we are so sad.

Because we envisioned such a future for you here. And yeah, maybe that's a little selfish on our parts, it is your life after all, kid. But, in painting you a picture of what your life could be here for months and months on the phone and on visits, we saw it, too.

The death of an idea hurts. We know it hurts you, but know it hurts us, too. You are not a number. You are loved.

Each student is a miracle.
From how they learn about our university to how they are accepted (by committee or traditionally) to how they scrounge up tuition and housing deposit to interviews to paperwork to financial aid struggles to registering and move-in day, all while balancing home life and high school (during senior semesters). Every piece had to work exactly, like cogs in a clock, in order for their arrival to occur.

But then they're here. And wow. To see them on campus in the caf or playing frisbee on the quad or working in the library on a paper, thriving, learning, growing.
Miracles.