Looking Up

As a new graduate student, I’ve spent a lot of my first semester hiding in the spacious Kathryn A. Martin library at UMD. It’s one of my favorite places to decode French art song texts and bleed out research papers (if you can have a favorite place for that sort of thing). They let you eat chips at this library, and headphones mean you can fine-tune the dull art of Googling Sergei Prokofiev while jamming out to…uh, well, probably more Prokofiev for that upcoming jury you should be practicing for.  Mercifully, people rarely look at you unless you talk to yourself or sneeze or break your 6-second limit for discreetly removing contact lenses. However, I people watch more than I’d like. I can’t help it—people are so fascinating. Everyone walks around with a life story zipped up in their backpack, and sadly, those stories often go untold. The other day, however, I heard a story that wasn’t meant for me. While standing at a printing station, my eyes took in an upperclassmen girl wrappe...

Imagine this: You believe there’s some sort of God—a God who intelligently designed you and the world you live in. But other than what you see in nature, you know nothing more. Well, you have some ideas of what God could be like. You live in a country that is approximately 87% Muslim, and about 10% Christian, and those populations certainly seem to think they know. You watched a movie about Jesus once, so you have a vague idea that he was a martyr who sacrificed his life for the good of all people (and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything to you). But that’s it. So it was with my new friend from Indonesia, Eka (a common Indonesian name meaning “firstborn”). He was done using the Wi-Fi at the Seward Seaman’s Mission and plunking out a mellow tune on the janky (but well-loved) upright piano. I slid in next to him and questioned him about his playing, his language, and his home. There was songbook in front of him with Indonesian Christian songs, so I asked if he knew any. He didn’t...

“It was a sign from God.” A pair of coal-black eyes, embedded in a troubled expression, met mine from across the Seward Seaman’s Mission’s kitchen table. In one hand he clutched some freebies he had snagged from one of the mission’s tract shelves—a world map, a key ring of English Bible verses, a little post card. With the other he paged through an old mission photo album, looking for faces he might recognize. I sensed he was looking for something else, too. A full kitchen table at the mission. “I found a little—how do you say it—pamphlet in an elevator on the ship this morning, and I think it was a sign from God.” he continued. “It talked about a woman who died and stood before God. Your name had to be in this book, or you couldn’t go to heaven. And when God opened the book,” he leaned back in his chair, “God said ‘Your name isn’t there.’” He looked like he had just heard about an incoming comet or something. “Ah, I see. That is very interesting,” I nodded. It was clear G...

Flashback: On a spring evening 5 years ago, I found myself slouching against the stained wall of a dingy college dorm room. I watched helplessly as a nearly inconsolable girl paced and turned multiple shades of wet, blotchy pink (harsh fluorescent lighting isn’t exactly flattering). It was unfortunately familiar scene in my short friendship with this new resident. I had pity for anyone new—in the almost-completely freshman hall, our floor was the odd one, stocked with anti-social transfers and misplaced athletes. It was hard to make friends before people either moved out or got kicked out. The room I shared with an older transfer, for instance, was hedged in by the pumpkin pie sharing Canadian and the scary gaming guy who liked to yell at night and fist bump the wall. On any account, this sobbing girl in front of me didn’t have a lot going for her when she decided to switch colleges mid-year and live on our floor. And she had even less going for her with a syndrome that made her feel,...