Stephanie and Somebody

I have a friend named Aaron who has been trying to get into philosophy PhD programs for about three years now. The first year he got turned down, so he decided to get a Master's degree in philosophy to complement his Master's of Divinity degree from Fuller. (Oh, he also has a Master's in Engineering from Stanford, just so you know.) Last year, halfway through his Master's program (in philosophy--pay attention now) he applied again to just one or two programs and got turned down again. He is now finishing his program this spring and applied to six or eight schools (or eight or ten?), got into a few, but especially wanted to go to UCLA.

So he gets on the waitlist at UCLA, which is an incredible feat because the PhD program at UCLA is in the top three or five in the country (let's compromise and say it's the best one imaginable). The scene at UCLA is idyllic: green pastures, sunshine, liesurely academic discussions around putluck dinners, lions and bunny rabbits lying down together for afternoon naps, unicorns prancing around and doing tricks for apples, in the middle of campus there is a fountain flowing with grant money--you get the picture.

So the waitlist is great, but it means prolonged agony, since decision day for PhD programs is April 15. On that day, everyone finally decides where to go (I offered to tell a few of them where to go to make it easier, if you know what I mean) and there is quite a shaking out of the waitlists at various places.

So Aaron finds out on Friday that he is number one on the waitlist, but that there are four undecided people with offers still out there and only 2-3 spots left in the program. So he emails. And we all pray.

This morning he finds out that two of the four have accepted their offers, one has rejected, and the other is in Cambodia or someplace really out of contact (okay, not really). So we wait. And we pray.

Aaron comes down after a shower (I am taking him on his word here--I wasn't there to see it) to his wife, Angela, crying at the computer. Oh great, right? She asks him, "Is this real?" and he reads an email congratulating him on his acceptance to UCLA. Yes, it's real! It's as real as the prancing unicorns (maybe not the unicorns, but again, you get the picture). So he emails. And we all pray.

When I read his email I threw my hands in the air and shouted, "Yes!" (what must the neighbors have thought, eh?). Then I rushed to read past the first line and make sure that my uncharacteristic display of unrestrained exuberance was not in vain. It was not, and so I repeated (now the neighbors just figure I'm bragging).

Then a couple of thoughts set in. First, I am truly happy. I write him a congratulatory email of my own, with probably a tad more lighthearted profanity than the one UCLA sent him (I am assuming, although I would be pleasantly surprised to learn otherwise). I tell him I am happy and end the sentence there. It occurs to me that I ought to put "for you" after the "I am happy," but just as I reach for the key to go back, I pause. I am happy just. Happy "for you," sure, but mostly happy. Period. Happy.

Now you have to know that it has been a tough couple of years out here for us (for me) with friendships, especially ones connected to our church. I have wondered if I am a good friend, if I bail out of friendships and abandon relationships (I do sometimes), if I have any real community or am really capable of it or willing to pay the cost for it. But in the aftermath of that moment today I realize that I am tied to Aaron--my life to his, my happiness to his, and who knows what else. The admonition to laugh with those who laugh was not needed, and it didn't take conscious effort to obey it. I was not happy for him, because I did not need to imitate his joy in order to share in the moment. I was happy just. I had my own joy. It was shared, yes, but it had become as much mine as his.

And I realized I had done something right, or perhaps more accurately, God had done something in me to set me right, at least in this relationship. I felt, perhaps for the first time in any relationship, blessed to have this friend that I have and at the same time also blessed to be this friend that I am. I don't think these two have ever really come together for me before, and the latter one has been much more elusive.

The second thought came later as I was driving and listening to Tommy's song "What a Good God," which he sings every year (on Thanksgiving?). I was thanking God for his many blessings, blessings so beyond what we deserve that to even mention deserving or not deserving muddles the point. They are blessings with no reference to what we deserve, as if it doesn't matter, as if they are free gifts.

Then I thought, well shouldn't we be happy like this all the time? Don't we always have blessings that are more than we need? And remember, there will be parts of this PhD program that Aaron won't like, that will wear on him, that will stress him out. Let's not forget about that, now.

Then I stopped the song, took a deep breath at a red light, and when it turned green I started the song again and regained my joy. I decided I did not need to be happy, but remember it would also be hard. I didn't need to be happy, but acknowledge that I should always be this happy about food and breath and the many other necessities of life--as if having meaning and a calling had become disposable appendages to life, true life, eternal life. I did not need to be happy, but. I could still be happy just.

And so I started to be happy again, and I stopped there and didn't move on to the many qualifiers and disclaimers and statements of supposedly mature faith that buttress tattered hope against the imminent likelihood that God will turn out not to be as promising as he first seemed. Or if he is as promising, then not as fulfilling as I would like. And so it struck me that my joy stands or falls with the faithfulness of God, and when I lack joy it is so often because the God I serve is not faithful enough to ellicit joy, not strong enough to warrant unrelenting trust, and not deep enough to secure the anchor of my hope.

Then comes the transition: The moment becomes about my lack, and not his. Have I entrusted myself to the sturdiness of my disappointment? Reality is so predictable, and it masquerades as a pessimistic kind of faithfulness. I can safely count on things to fall apart, to fail, to die. The moment becomes about my life and reaching for God, not halfway so that I don't lose my balance, but forsaking all others in an all out desperate attempt to hold onto something sturdy--or, rather, to be held by him.

And so I am tied to him as well--my life to his, my happiness to his, and who knows what else.

And I smile at the declaration of my dependence.

And I am happy just.