One of my most sacred memories as a student at 天美视频 took place at Convocation in the Fall of 2012. It was there that I had the honor of serving communion alongside some fellow students and members of faculty. I don鈥檛 think I was fully prepared for how deeply moving the process would be. As I stood at the front of St. Mark鈥檚 Cathedral, the faces of past and present members of this community came towards me, some with warm smiles, some with streaming tears, some with both. It was an honor unlike many others; a unifying moment with my community, with humanity, with God.

It is with that memory held close that I look back on this past year, my last as an Assistant Instructor (AI). My years as a student were filled with grief, growth, and wobbly, toddler-like steps taken as I figured out what it means to live into who I am created to be. It was a glorious mess. But as an AI, I somehow felt scared to be that glorious mess. Scared my 鈥渉umanness鈥� would show, and others would see me as unfit or unworthy of the position. When would you find out that I, too, am still finding my way? That I鈥檓 still only wobbling towards taking ownership of the truer parts of me?

As I graded stacks of assignments, I would read papers two, maybe three times. 鈥淭hank you for your work,鈥� I would write as I began my paragraph (or five) of end comments. 鈥�Thank you for your work, Thank you for your work, Thank you for your work.鈥� I soon found that I was beginning my end comments with that sentence on nearly every paper. This repetition was deeply troubling to me. Was I sounding robotic, inauthentic, or disconnected? 鈥淭hank you, strengthen your thesis, watch your grammar, and nice job,鈥� over and over again. I would wrack my brain trying to think of new and unique things to write to each student in order to escape my monotonous comments.

And then, my friend and colleague offered a new and holy perspective. As I told him of my experience of the grading process, he understood and said: 鈥淚 think of it like Communion.鈥�

Christ鈥檚 body, broken for you. Christ鈥檚 body, broken for you. Christ鈥檚 body, broken for you. Each person who steps to the front to receive communion hears the same words of truth and blessing. We each bring our tiny-or-huge bit of failures, shame, imperfection, hope, beauty, and goodness to the table, where we receive the elements and are reminded, by people just as gloriously messy as we are, that Christ鈥檚 body was broken for us.

So it is with the work in this building. Each student brings to the AI鈥檚 table their assignment, written in their own way, with their unique personality & perspective, reflecting their strengths and, yes, their weaknesses, too. I read the words you put together with run-on sentences, missing commas, a stunning thesis statement, or a conclusion that causes me to fist pump with joy. And I thank you (and you, and you) for your work, because this work is anything but easy; whatever the letter grade the paper warrants, I get to witness you doing it, which is an honor much like witnessing the faces of this community walk up to receive communion.

As I bear witness to the courage that takes place within these walls, I can鈥檛 not be moved by it. You risk, you live vulnerably, you invite me into your stories and you write the paper that, one week ago, you were telling me you couldn鈥檛 possibly write. You expand yourselves for the sake of stepping (or wobbling) closer towards who God created you to be. And when I get to witness that holy scene, it inspires me to do it, too. This year, it鈥檚 been the result of constantly being faced with the courage of our students that has led me to begin writing and sharing my work. To risk, to tell my stories, to do the things I thought I could not do, with imperfection, wobbling, and a strong dose of courage.

I see you embrace your humanness and so I embrace mine. I thought I had to be a certain version of someone in this job, when really, I鈥檝e been taught to just be me. So I repeat words of truth to you as I read your papers: Thank you for your work, because not only is it brave, brave work, but it is your bravery that has moved me to reclaim my own.

May you feel the glory of this truth: Christ鈥檚 body鈥攊t was broken for you.

And, good people, dear friends, world changers: Thank you for your work.

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In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit

础尘别苍.鈥�

This is what the end of nearly every Student Leadership meeting looks like at 天美视频, and it is how I have spent many Wednesday evenings for the past year. We are different ages, in different degree programs, from different cohorts, we are single, married, and we are here, all of us, with the shared desire of serving 鈥渙ur鈥� 天美视频 and Seattle-area community. What I have found during my time on Student Leadership is that as we serve our community with one another, we also find ourselves serving one another.

This past year has been marked by great loss and grief in my own life. There were, admittedly, many Wednesdays when I didn鈥檛 want to, or didn鈥檛 think I physically or emotionally could, show up to Student Leadership meetings. I was exhausted, grieved and almost certain that I had nothing to give. But, in showing up, I had the opportunity to gather at the dinner table with the other members, share stories of my grief and receive heartfelt prayers, support and words of encouragement. My deepest sense of place at this school has been found in Student Leadership, and it is through this organization where I find myself being infused with life, joy, wisdom, growth and friendship, all while strategically and prayerfully discerning how best to serve our community.

What I now know of community, through my time on Student Leadership, is that here, I am invited and desired to show up, regardless of how 鈥渃haotic鈥� I feel. Student Leadership is not a place where the fittest come together to serve; but, instead, we show up as is, we do what we can out of our love for our school and we stand alongside, listen to, and support one another wholeheartedly along the way.

As we gather on Wednesdays to plan forums and events for the school, I have become unspeakably aware of the beauty and blessing that truly is all around me. It is a holy place, indeed.

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The decision to do homework on Easter wasn鈥檛 exactly an arduous one, anyway. I have been in the midst of a difficult season of life and was not yet past the 鈥渟ilence of Saturday.鈥� Celebrating Christ鈥檚 resurrection felt like a far cry from where I stood. If you need me, you can find me in Holy Saturday; the grief, the questions, the waiting, the confusion, the silence and the mourning of a Christ who was no longer听with us听— or no longer with me, anyway.听Lately, it has felt like I am living in one听谤别补濒濒测听long Holy Saturday. I鈥檝e heard that joy comes in the morning, but I鈥檓 just not sure听飞丑颈肠丑听morning? For me, I felt the joyful celebration of the resurrection on behalf of all of humanity but, in my own little world of Mallory, I still felt lonely and despairing. Lucky for me, loneliness and despair are the perfect combination for paper-writing. This was going to be one forgettable Easter.

With access to the closed building, because of my job at the school, I let myself in just after sunrise and set up shop at a desk on the top floor. The school was silent and dark, occupied only by me. These were favorable study conditions, but also an appropriate representation of how my relationship with God has felt lately. With my full attention focused on assignments, I began plugging away, admittedly impressed with my own productivity. A couple of hours had passed and I was making some serious progress when, suddenly, I was jolted out of my intense concentration.

The time is 9 am.

Three chimes ring throughout every level of the school on the hours of 3, 6, 9 and 12, day and night. They are intended to serve as a reminder to our community, in the midst of our day, that God is present with us in all that we do. They are a holy interruption. 鈥淣ine.Noon.Three鈥� as the practice is often referred to at the school, has been a part of my life for nearly two years now but it was still jarring to hear those bells in that empty building on that weekend morning.

But they rang, loud and clear, at exactly 9:00 am.

My heart started racing when I heard the first bell, startled by its loud and unannounced presence. Initially, I was annoyed by the interruption; I had been making so much progress and the bells were disturbing my flow. However, as quickly as the bells sounded, they were finished, soon allowing me to return to my paper. But, by the grace of God, I couldn鈥檛 just get back to work. Truth be told, I was angry that they had rang, frustrated that they never miss a beat, even if it鈥檚 early or it鈥檚 a weekend or nobody is even there to hear them. They are faithful reminders of God鈥檚 presence and, that morning, they sounded deep into the places of my soul that wanted to stay in the darkness of Saturday. I pushed myself away from the desk, rested my head on the back of the chair, closed my eyes and exhaled deeply. Those bells are relentless. They鈥檙e often unexpected, always interrupting and they never forget to ring, even when I forget about them.

This God is relentless. She鈥檚 unexpected, full of interruptions and just keeps showing up, right when I鈥檝e forgotten about Her or decided She must be taking the weekend off.

That morning, the bells served a greater purpose for me. They were, indeed, holy reminders of God鈥檚 presence, even in the midst of silence, loneliness and despair. Those three chimes, which continued to ring faithfully every three hours, moved me towards the joy, celebration and awe of Easter Sunday. What a sweet gift, to be reminded that as deep into the darkness of Holy Saturday I may feel, the bells still chime, and Sunday comes.

Photo credit: , Creative Commons.

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And, last week, it declared, 鈥淗ere I am, Mallory! I鈥檓 not going anywhere and this time, I cannot be ignored.鈥�

听I had just returned to Seattle from the funeral of my paternal Grandmother, the last of my grandparents to see this side of Heaven. Nine months earlier, I had attended the funeral of my maternal Grandmother, a painful loss in the midst of a busy trimester, which led me to subconsciously and regrettably stuff my grief to the side for the sake of classes, work, and composure.

In the months since that first funeral of 2012, losses have accumulated. Death, ruptured relationships, illnesses of loved ones and the painfully beautiful process of reconstructing how I understand myself and the world around me, have all piled up unforgivingly. Even still, when I walked into our little red brick building after the funeral last week, I was prepared to focus on writing my papers and fulfilling the responsibilities of my job, while energetically participating in our community. I headed straight for a cubicle in the library, pulled out my laptop and鈥ried. Oh my God, I cried. My cheeks were met with more tears in that morning than they had felt in nearly an entire year. I sobbed in the library, in the chapel, and in 4^th floor offices for hours, asking how I was actually going to be able to 鈥渄o life鈥� in the midst of this season, and yet suddenly realizing that I have never really integrated grief with life.

Care and compassion. They speak, too.

And, last week, they spoke through the powerful, love-soaked actions of so many people inside this little red brick building. My tears didn鈥檛 come to an immediate end and it took a great deal of time for any of my assigned papers to find a beginning; but the grace, the hugs, the conversation and the comforting sympathetic glances from others declared, 鈥淚t鈥檚 okay. You don鈥檛 have to try and pull yourself together.鈥� I鈥檓 not sure I was able to land on clear and concise answers to my big questions about how grief and life can work together but suddenly, I found that I was doing it 鈥� both of them, grief and life 听鈥� simultaneously. I was doing them both because I am in this community that allows, even begs, for both to be coexisting in our lives, wholly and authentically.

Never have I felt so invited to simply not be okay. I walk around the school with mascara painted all over my tear-stained cheeks, verbally unloading onto unsuspecting classmates and professors. I might step out of class early, totally zone out during discussions, or fall completely short of the expectations I鈥檝e set for myself; and, even still, the voices of care and compassion in this little red building say, 鈥�Bless you. Bless your grief. Bless your tears. Bless your missed expectations.鈥�

That鈥檚 the thing about this little red building; you step inside and you鈥檙e suddenly immersed in this odd sort of counter-culture. When the funeral is over and the rest of the world says, 鈥�Get back to work,鈥� the people inside the little red counter-cultural building say, 鈥淕rieve on. This is your work.鈥� Because where there is life, there will be grief. They can co-exist and, in fact, they must.

And so, with gratefulness to so many of you, I will honor them both 鈥� this ongoing journey through grief and this one sweet life.

But first, I might need to invest in some waterproof mascara.

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