gather up your jackets, move into the exits

Closing time
Open all the doors and
Let you out into the world

I was thinking about this song last night, while I was closing up the library.  It's such a sweet feeling at the end of the night-- switching off all the lights, closing and locking all the doors, making sure the computers are shut down or monitors are turned off, tidying what needs to be tidied, gently shooing out those whose dark-circled eyes testify that they should have been asleep hours earlier, listening to the quiet hum of the library-- its lights, patrons, computers-- subside into stillness.  It's a release, of types, to shut off the last light, make my way across the dark lobby, and lock the last door behind me.

Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here

Closing the library is a comforting feeling, but now it's come time to close something else.  On May 15, along with a few hundred others, I'll climb a few stairs, walk across a platform, shake hands with the president of the university, receive a bound case, and descend another few stairs.  But in those few moments, I'll have done more than walk a few yards.  I'll have walked from one stage of my life into the next.

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from

I suspect closing the university stage of my life will not be as comforting, nor as sweet, as closing up the library.  Instead of having the peaceful knowledge that I can come back and things will be just the same, just as I left them, I will be leaving and knowing that in my absence, everything will change.  I won't be back next semester, or next year.  In fact, it's highly unlikely that (except for brief weekend visits), I'll ever return.  That scares me, yet (just like closing the last door of the library) it's a release.  Instead of a gentle release, though, this is an adrenaline-raising, head-spinning, heart-thumping, spine-tingling uncertain release-- like the breaking of a dam.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it entirely.

For now, I'll treasure my last few weeks of school.  It's the little moments-- a random meal conversation, an unexpected visit at the library desk, a spontaneous walk, an unplanned discussion after class, a surprise note in my mailbox-- that have made my life here so fulfilling and precious.  I don't want to miss any others that might come my way.  I feel time starved, like I'm greedily snatching and storing away each minute that comes my way, and to an extent, I suppose that's true.  In these last few weeks, I want to slow everything down and savor the whirl of life around here.

So I think, tonight, when I switch off the last light in the library, I won't hurry to the door.  Tonight, I think I'll take my time.

Closing time
Every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning's end

Here's to the beginning of whatever God brings next.