I used to say nineteen was a useless age. Now I know that it's not true.
Nineteen is hard and scary and fun and awe-ful in both senses of the word, but it's not useless.
Nineteen is last Friday night.
Nineteen is sharing beautiful dreams for the future over bowls of cheap Pad Thai.
Nineteen is cranking the music up and rolling the windows down and driving fast and singing loud.
Nineteen is praying about the future and getting acceptance letters and praying some more.
Nineteen is seeing the hurt in the eyes of the girl shooting up on the side of the road, asking you to pray that she can get more drugs.
Nineteen is being naive.
Nineteen is not knowing what to say or do but trying anyway, because you hurt for others.
Nineteen is crying for prostitutes who can't even accept love in the form of a taco.
Nineteen is sitting on a filthy street, praying and crying and singing and watching people go to hell and crying and praying some more.
Nineteen is believing that something can and must be done.
Nineteen is feeling overwhelmed by all that needs to be done and tackling it anyway.
My childish optimism is passing away--it's being replaced by a fierce, enthusiastic realism (still with loads of romanticism). I'm learning about the world and its prospects and hopes and its sin and despair. I'm learning about what I can do. And I'm learning about this God Who holds the future.