The year is 1997.
I am four. Rosedale is a magical place. It is the only place I know. My family lives in the huge apartment complex across the plain from the men's dorm—a dorm to be seen from the outside but never entered by oneself—scary men live in there. From our skyscraper-height in the second story apartment, we can look down and see the road (it is at least a mile long) connecting our apartment building to the "four-ways." The road here goes four directions. The first way is to turn left and go to the men's dorm. The second is to carry on straight to the cafeteria. Third, one can turn right and embark on an additional mile-long trek to the chapel. The fourth option, of course, is to turn back to the apartments.
We play in the plain in front of our "house" (we don't realize it's an apartment at this point) a lot. The plain has an area of at least one square mile. We have to watch out, though, because sometimes adults throw big heavy round flat things through there that we know will kill us if they hit us. A kid has a foam football with a tail to make it spiral. We throw this thing around. One time a big college man comes and throws it so far and high we loose it in the sky. We embark on a great expedition to retrieve it, and when we finally find it, we vow never to let big college men touch our football again.
The big college guy does have the life, though, being able to throw things that far and stuff.
To the right of the huge apartment complex, across the road going to the cafeteria, is a huge frontier; much larger than the big plain in front of our house. There is a great big tree over there, which we sometimes play by, but we never go past the tree. It's too dangerous. Sometimes we see groups of big college men and women go out there with those big flat round things or balls. Sometimes they never come back.
Far, far away, across the huge frontier, is a line of distant trees. This is the end of the known world for us. We don't know—nor do we want to know—what is beyond those trees. Maybe heaven.
Those college men and women have the life, though, being brave enough to go out there and all.
Sometimes we make the trek down to the four-ways and then turn right and make an even longer trek to the library. On the way, we pass the women's dorm. The women's dorm! As if the men's dorm isn't bad enough—this dorm is untouchable! Literally. Nobody ever actually says so, but we are sure if we go in there, we will never come out. The women will kill us. And they will get away with it to. Our parents, though weeping over the loss of their children, will nonetheless nod their heads in assent that yes, we had indeed received the appropriate penalty for our error and may God have mercy on our souls.
Those women have the life, being able to have a secret place where only they can go and we can't. It's not fair.
Anyways, when we get to the library, it is wonderful. Though we have to be deathly silent, we get to do amazing things—like watch Chariots of Fire on this amazing box with amazing headphones—I'm not sure how it all works (but it never gets old!). We are sure if we so much as breathe at the wrong time, we will get kicked out, but the thrill is worth it.
Such lucky big college men and women; they get to watch these videos anytime they want. They have the life.
The big college men and women are themselves fascinating. Yes, they are very scary, especially the men—you are never sure if one will accidentally step on you. But they are so amazing. Brilliant. They have their lives completely figured out. They know exactly what their future holds. They don't have any problems. They completely understand everything they are learning in those mysterious things called "classes," all the theological nuances and deepest levels of meaning in the Bible. They write huge, flowing, eloquent treatises and thesis papers on the most intimate theology. They interact perfectly with their professors and get nothing but perfect grades in all their work—they are full grown adults, after all.
The professors themselves, omniscient gods of knowledge and wisdom, are the best of the best. In addition to having the entire Bible memorized, as well as being able to discuss the merits of every possible theological system invented by man, each imparts this wisdom to the students with all the confidence and certainty of truth as the apostle Paul himself. Now that I think of it, they probably have written most of the theological systems themselves.
These big college men and women; they have the life, let me tell you.
The year is 2012.
I am nineteen, having just finished my last semester at Rosedale as a college student. Some things have changed for me.
Rosedale is not the only place I know. It is not that big—the entire campus itself doesn't even cover a square mile. Heaven is not beyond the treeline, just a field. I can go out onto the huge "frontier" to play Ultimate Frisbee and fully expect to return. The huge "roads" are nothing more than short sidewalks connecting buildings a short distance apart. The men's dorm has lost it's mystery—instead it's become all too familiar. I've even been into the women's dorm a few times and survived to tell the tale!
The library isn't what it appeared to be then. I laugh now when I think about how excited I was to watch old videos on a small VCR player sharing headphones with my sister. We big college men and women aren't even scary anymore. We're not even big. And we still act like kids. A lot.
We don't get perfect grades, nor do we understand everything we are taught in class. And we don't know our future or have it all figured out. We still have problems—lots of them. And our professors aren't really gods. They don't know quite everything ... yet.
But, still, some things haven't changed.
Rosedale is still a magical place. And those college kids who go there?
They have the life.
I am four. Rosedale is a magical place. It is the only place I know. My family lives in the huge apartment complex across the plain from the men's dorm—a dorm to be seen from the outside but never entered by oneself—scary men live in there. From our skyscraper-height in the second story apartment, we can look down and see the road (it is at least a mile long) connecting our apartment building to the "four-ways." The road here goes four directions. The first way is to turn left and go to the men's dorm. The second is to carry on straight to the cafeteria. Third, one can turn right and embark on an additional mile-long trek to the chapel. The fourth option, of course, is to turn back to the apartments.
We play in the plain in front of our "house" (we don't realize it's an apartment at this point) a lot. The plain has an area of at least one square mile. We have to watch out, though, because sometimes adults throw big heavy round flat things through there that we know will kill us if they hit us. A kid has a foam football with a tail to make it spiral. We throw this thing around. One time a big college man comes and throws it so far and high we loose it in the sky. We embark on a great expedition to retrieve it, and when we finally find it, we vow never to let big college men touch our football again.
The big college guy does have the life, though, being able to throw things that far and stuff.
To the right of the huge apartment complex, across the road going to the cafeteria, is a huge frontier; much larger than the big plain in front of our house. There is a great big tree over there, which we sometimes play by, but we never go past the tree. It's too dangerous. Sometimes we see groups of big college men and women go out there with those big flat round things or balls. Sometimes they never come back.
Far, far away, across the huge frontier, is a line of distant trees. This is the end of the known world for us. We don't know—nor do we want to know—what is beyond those trees. Maybe heaven.
Those college men and women have the life, though, being brave enough to go out there and all.
Sometimes we make the trek down to the four-ways and then turn right and make an even longer trek to the library. On the way, we pass the women's dorm. The women's dorm! As if the men's dorm isn't bad enough—this dorm is untouchable! Literally. Nobody ever actually says so, but we are sure if we go in there, we will never come out. The women will kill us. And they will get away with it to. Our parents, though weeping over the loss of their children, will nonetheless nod their heads in assent that yes, we had indeed received the appropriate penalty for our error and may God have mercy on our souls.
Those women have the life, being able to have a secret place where only they can go and we can't. It's not fair.
Anyways, when we get to the library, it is wonderful. Though we have to be deathly silent, we get to do amazing things—like watch Chariots of Fire on this amazing box with amazing headphones—I'm not sure how it all works (but it never gets old!). We are sure if we so much as breathe at the wrong time, we will get kicked out, but the thrill is worth it.
Such lucky big college men and women; they get to watch these videos anytime they want. They have the life.
The big college men and women are themselves fascinating. Yes, they are very scary, especially the men—you are never sure if one will accidentally step on you. But they are so amazing. Brilliant. They have their lives completely figured out. They know exactly what their future holds. They don't have any problems. They completely understand everything they are learning in those mysterious things called "classes," all the theological nuances and deepest levels of meaning in the Bible. They write huge, flowing, eloquent treatises and thesis papers on the most intimate theology. They interact perfectly with their professors and get nothing but perfect grades in all their work—they are full grown adults, after all.
The professors themselves, omniscient gods of knowledge and wisdom, are the best of the best. In addition to having the entire Bible memorized, as well as being able to discuss the merits of every possible theological system invented by man, each imparts this wisdom to the students with all the confidence and certainty of truth as the apostle Paul himself. Now that I think of it, they probably have written most of the theological systems themselves.
These big college men and women; they have the life, let me tell you.
The year is 2012.
I am nineteen, having just finished my last semester at Rosedale as a college student. Some things have changed for me.
Rosedale is not the only place I know. It is not that big—the entire campus itself doesn't even cover a square mile. Heaven is not beyond the treeline, just a field. I can go out onto the huge "frontier" to play Ultimate Frisbee and fully expect to return. The huge "roads" are nothing more than short sidewalks connecting buildings a short distance apart. The men's dorm has lost it's mystery—instead it's become all too familiar. I've even been into the women's dorm a few times and survived to tell the tale!
The library isn't what it appeared to be then. I laugh now when I think about how excited I was to watch old videos on a small VCR player sharing headphones with my sister. We big college men and women aren't even scary anymore. We're not even big. And we still act like kids. A lot.
We don't get perfect grades, nor do we understand everything we are taught in class. And we don't know our future or have it all figured out. We still have problems—lots of them. And our professors aren't really gods. They don't know quite everything ... yet.
But, still, some things haven't changed.
Rosedale is still a magical place. And those college kids who go there?
They have the life.
I've now been at Rosedale for a significant portion of my life, and I STILL thinks it's magical too.
ReplyDeleteI wrote this back when I left during the middle of my second year, and was somewhat blue about it :)
ReplyDeleteOne of the things that I love about working at Rosedale is the interaction that my boys are able to have with the "big college people".
ReplyDelete