Prolog Week: What I’m Carrying Home
I’m still here in Dubuque, where seminary began not in a classroom but in a swirl of chapel bells, auditoriums, orange shirts, rally days, and conversations that asked more of me than I expected.
Every morning started with worship — daily chapel that stitched together voices from across traditions and towns, voices that didn’t always sing on key but carried the weight of presence. In that space, the Spirit met us in ways that were both ordinary and startling. I don’t think I’ll forget the sound of prayers echoing through a tired body that still kept showing up.
The days stretched long — sessions filled with words of opening and words of assessment, moments of being seen and moments of being pushed to see differently. Formation doesn’t come in tidy lines or bullet-point takeaways. It comes in the hallway conversations, the questions asked out loud and the ones scribbled in the margins, the late-night talks that turned strangers into companions for the road ahead.
And yes, there have been trips and stumbles. Physically, emotionally, mentally — I’ve felt the weight of my limits. There were moments I couldn’t quite find my footing, moments where the exhaustion and the newness pressed hard. But there have also been leaps and arches. Leaps into conversations that stretched me past my comfort zone. Arches of grace that rose above the dissonance and reminded me that presence is enough.
I haven’t just met people. I’ve met the kind of people who are needed — people I needed, and who in some mysterious way also needed me. We laughed about kings and emperors, with Kuzco sneaking into our conversations like an unexpected prophet — reminding us how humor, humility, and a little “no touchy” can carry sacred weight when shared honestly. Underneath the laughter was something fierce and holy: bonds made of Spirit, trust, and the recognition that we were meant to cross paths.
There was one who carried my weight — the backpacks and books, the outstretched hands and the steadying balance when I needed it most. And somehow, even in that, grace made sure it was someone who knew what it meant to carry more than themselves. Someone whose own story holds laughter about emperors and “no touchy,” and a love that shows up in unexpected places. I have no doubt it was all because of the One who carries all our worldly weight.
I’ve had to navigate more than the campus. I’ve had to navigate myself — the way I show up, the places I shrink back, the courage it takes to admit both. Prolog week hasn’t been about perfect answers; it’s been about letting myself be stretched, broken open, and still held in a community that makes space for the mess.
By now I’m tired— the kind of tired that goes deeper than sleep. But I’m also awake in new ways. Awake to the questions that won’t leave me alone. Awake to the fact that my story is being reshaped by the stories I’ve now encountered. Awake to the reality that grace is big enough to hold our scattered attempts at faith, learning, and life together.
I’ll carry home more than notes and books. I’ll carry the ache of growth, the weight of new community, the stumbles and the leaps, the trips and the arches — all of it bound together by a grace that wrecks and remakes. This is just the beginning, but already the road feels wider and holier than I could have imagined.

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