It’s a speck in the distance, a stream of cloudlike fuel spills behind the jet. “Take me with you.” The thought flips by my mind. I’m called to be there, not quite words, more knowledge. Then the cognitive thought, “No, Mom and Dad are called to be there. I had the privilege of joining their calling, but that time is over now. I’m called to be here.” I look at the waist high snowbanks along the curving sidewalk; at a pile of snow blocking the three crosses on our campus.

 Miller library stands welcoming as I walk by it, big windows allowing light to poor inside. “I’m called to be here.” The realization sinks in again. I don’t always want to be here. I don’t want to deal with seemingly empty author debates or discussions of topics that, while valid, are rather useless for my life right now. I’d rather not have to face the constant stream of transition that follows me around, screaming that I only have ten weeks left before summer interrupts classes. And yet, I am called to be here. No, there are no Andes mountains here. The need or reason to not indulge does not stare at me in the face every day. But, I am called here. To this campus. To these studies. To these people.