Dear person who browsed here from the MHGS Blog Hub,
Last week we had an assignment that was nicknamed The Tragedy Paper. We were to write the story of a “defining personal tragedy,” and reflect on how it affected our Faith, our Hope, and our Love.
I have not led a tragic life by most standards. The story I ended up writing had never been called a “Tragedy” by anyone, including me. When I first told this story to my Practicum Facilitator in September, I spoke of my adolescent self in third person. I had very little love for her. She had embarrassed herself. Surely she deserved what she got.
My PF looked horrified. “Do you hear the contempt in your words?” she asked.
I tried telling the story again, through a different lens. I started to listen to that teenage girl. She was scared, and trying so hard to do the right thing. She asked for an advocate, because her world silenced and dismissed her. I spoke for her, not with contempt, but with compassion. In defending her, I grew more and more angry.
If all that sounds weird, but also intriguing and maybe a little bit wonderful, consider applying to Mars Hill.
I made the mistake of going to the coffee shop where I used to work to write my paper. First I typed out the part that I remembered best: the horrible words that were spoken to me, the ones that have echoed in my head for years. Then I went to the bathroom to weep.
For three hours I sat at Peet’s Coffee, reflecting on my tragedy as well as my Faith, Hope, and Love. The customers I used to serve came over and asked if I was okay. And I really didn’t know the answer. No, I’m not okay, this hurts. But then again, Yes, I’m wonderful! Writing this paper feels right and good, and the dead part of me is beginning to stir. And did I mention that I’m furious? Yes, I’m very angry, and I think that’s part of the new alive-ness. Thank you for asking, how are you?
I turned in that paper along with my 90 classmates. We were exhausted. All week we had wept, raged, and posted not-so-clever facebook status updates (“Christine is working on her tragedy paper…. FUCK EVERYTHING”). Some had shared their tragedy papers with new friends. None of us are the same since handing it in.
In the end, I was proud, so proud, of that paper. I’ve rarely heard my own voice freed from the demand to please others. It was unapologetic, furious, explosive. It blew open a space in my soul for God’s words: I grieved that too.
I like this school. Maybe you would too. Drop me a comment or email if you want to talk.
