TAUG: Gratitude, Spring 2023

To

Outgrowing Butterflies

Words Abigail Chan

Photo Abigail Chan

The Dinosaur in VLSB

Words Allen Cao

Art Eleanor Imel

...why him?

Words Hannah Kuo

Photos Giuseppe Gallo, Inma Santiago

First Free Gift

Words Christine Song

Photo Songyang

Emma

Words Christine Youn

Art Patricia Tse

Living Under Orion

Words Hannah Kuo

Photos Jakob Braun, Marc Sendra-Martorell, NASA, Marina Reich

Reflection

Words Isaac Liu

Falling Upward: Confessions of an Ingrate

Words Phoebe Chen

Nuggets

Words Benjamin Chow

Back Cover

Photo Hitdelight

Letter from the

EDITOR

Dear Reader,

Though we desire to communicate gratitude, we often lack the spirit to do so. Thanksgiving outlines our conversations, opening and closing the doors of our “hellos” and “goodbyes.” Yet gratitude seems to thinly evade many of our statements, hollowing our expressed thanksgiving and reducing our attempts to honor others’ sacrifices to empty words and actions.

Authentic gratitude is more than trying to will ourselves to live in light of what we have been given, we must also strive to understand, enjoy, and lean into these blessings. Spouses bring light and life home, utility companies power our lives, and parents nourish us with deliciously fresh meals. Thoughtful recognition of such gifts is the starting point for us to graciously honor and love one another.

Christian gratitude flows from the suffering of one Man who sacrificed Himself 2000 years ago. Though slain, we believe He has risen, and that He lives in us by His Spirit. This Spirit, our Helper, moves us to know our misery and afflictions and, consequently, to honor Him, live out His precepts, and pursue justice.

This edition of TAUG is a multifaceted glimpse of gratitude; authors confront a poisonous commitment to optimism, reflect on arrogance and humility, and evaluate (dis)comfort of admonishment. It is my prayer that you will see the animating spirit of the Christian life through the illustrations of indebtedness, expressions of thanksgiving, and strivings for obedience shared here. May our expressions of our Lord’s grace aid you in your search to know the Unknown God and move you to gratefully respond to the One who loves His enemies, even to the point of death.

Unknowingly,

Justin Fung Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief

Justin Fung

Executive Editor

Hannah Kuo

Executive Designers

Charis Lee

Reba Sy

Business Manager

Phoebe Chen

Associate Designers

Madeline Kim

Social Media

Charis Lee

Reba Sy

Associate Editors

Benjamin Chow

Christine Song

Christine Youn

Christy Koh

Corina Chen

Isaac Liu

Karah Lee

To An Unknown God is not affiliated with any church or any religious group. Opinions expressed in articles do not necessarily represent those of the editors. We are completely student-run and funded partly by the student body as an ASUC-sponsored student publication. Distribution is free while supplies last. To contact us, please email taug@berkeley.edu. Visit us at toanunknowngod. weebly.com/.

* Not Photographed: Charis Lee, Madeline Kim

“Therefore, the One whom you worship without knowing, Him I proclaim to you.” —Acts 17:23

My Life, A Love Letter

WORDS CHARIS LEE

Creation cries out, crafting our experience of wonder. Its design a reflection of a Creator’s heart. The enigmas of nature, evidence of a greater purpose.

People often take the wonders of life for granted, reducing beauty to scientific phenomena and whittling the observable world down into artificiality. The attempt to fill voids of inquiry and confine the sense of awe to man’s limited understanding becomes an endless struggle. The very breath we breathe considered an automatic expectation of science rather than a function of intelligent design. Humanity clings to the mindset that we deserve it all, when all of life — our hearts that beat and the steps we take — is a gift. A fully intentional and wholeheartedly given, gift.

The Roman philosopher Lucretius understood atoms like dust in the sunlight — only seen in specific conditions and ever so slightly swerving on their own, a glimpse of a world that appears when light peers through window shutters. Though a firm believer in a wholly materialistic world, Lucretius was right to wonder about creation, to wonder about the composer and the composites of the earth.

Grasping the wonder towards nature is an age-old tension for philosophers and scientists alike. Curiosity for life spurs curiosity for its beginnings. Yet, in the ambition to understand the very atoms that make up living things, it’s easy to lose the wonder of nature by offering an explanation. Perhaps, we lose sight of the beauty of mere existence, the presence of a tender-hearted, loving voice that whispers through the dandelion blooming through a sidewalk crack, a fighting life in the booming chaos of the city.

It is not always in the busyness that we find answers to our deepest questions. It is in the silence. The serene simplicity that offers the healing so desperately yearned for. In this peace we find refuge.

As we soak in the wonders of nature, we recognize our limitations but find comfort in the grandness of creation. And while tempted to grasp every intricacy, we don’t always need the answers — only to observe the world around us with an appreciative heart. Beauty can’t be confined to a defined explanation, just as the experience of getting lost in rippling, sunlit twinkles on ocean waters is never fully reproduced by a camera lens.

This isn’t to say we should not question. We are meant to question, meant to doubt, meant to use our freely given lives to make a choice. The difficulty lies in the balance between appreciation and explanation. What happens when the conceptions of creation point to a non-empirical exposition? Who, or what, do we thank for all of this overwhelming beauty?

—

I live my life in response to a sacrifice. I place my best foot forward to honor a name above my own, and to enjoy what has been so freely given. I am a love letter to someone dear to me, a teacher, a father, a friend. My creator.

Thank you.

Charis is a second-year English major who enjoys stopping to blow on dandelions she finds on sidewalks.

Full Camera Roll

She’s so fluffy.

I scroll through my innumerable bunny photos and sigh. Mochi’s cute poses and Momo’s idiosyncratic happy dashes are the highlights of my camera roll; no other four-legged creatures take up 8 GB of my phone’s storage.

Sadness and homesickness fill my gut as I continue scrolling through old photos. I can’t visit my furry friends because school takes so much of my time; all I can experience are images, videos, and snippets of their cute presence. My mind wanders.

What value are these photos?

A few years of photography have ingrained in me the difference between a scene and an image. Images taken on our phones and fancy DSLR cameras are merely a hint, or a whiff of the scenes in front of the camera. Lacroix is to soda

as photos are to experiences. Delectable food oozes caramel, pleasant aromas, and good times, but food images hold only dashes of moments that belong to the past. And yet, though I know all this, I still prize these snippets as my camera roll’s highest possessions; though far away from Mochi and Momo, I treasure my photos because, without them, I have only fading memories.

Was I happy when I took these photos?

I was so focused on posting or taking the image for the future that I forgot to enjoy the bunny in front of me; though my camera focused on my bunnies, I wasn’t. Many of the photos I took for friends sealed fake momentary smiles into eternity. The first time I went to a concert, I felt the odd compulsion to whip out my phone and record it. Sadly, this phenomenon of having my phone immortalize the moment made it hard to enjoy. Why did I trade full enjoyment for a subpar experience and a mediocre iPhone recording?

Taking photos is an attempt to faintly capture the essence of a moment and the beauty in the world in front of us. Photos are just photos, but they’re also just photos; they are visual memory, but they’re exactly that — nothing more. They freeze reality in time and space but aren’t the reality they point to.

Photos are best experienced as materialized memories that help us glance back to press onward. The moments of the past are no more, and, as opposed to evoking nostalgia, they can be historical and life-giving. Images provide us the opportunity to recount and vicariously experience the past, and to give thanks in the now; they also develop our longings, which fuel our future enjoyment of goods and develop the tension that precedes our reunions. A pregnant tension gives way to the most palpable joy when rekindling old friendships, and a full camera roll is the best tinder for celebrations, parties, and weddings.1

Life is full of images and I am thankful for the one(s) behind the image(s).2 A snapshot of phenomena offers an opportunity for an encounter itself and points to a greater reality. Memory-preserving media and photogenic friends, family, and bunnies are all gifts that should be utilized to increase, not reduce, our enjoyment of what we have been gifted with and move us to long for the day when our longings are met. For Momo and Mochi, these images grow my anticipation for my time at home, where I can hold them in my arms and, for my friends, when we are Home at last, in the arms of the Image of images, celebrating with the One who has made us in His image.3

Justin is a fourth-year studying Data Science and Economics. He is a professional photographer and an even more professional photographer for his two bunnies, Momo and Mochi.

1 Psalm 130:1-6; Revelation 19:5-9

2 Genesis 1:27

3 Hebrews 13:14; 2 Corinthians 4:4; Revelation 19:5-9, 21:1-5

I Have An Ungrateful Apology To Make

honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the lord your god is giving you.

exodus 20:12

I should begin my defense by introducing myself. My name is Chansey. I work in a clinical research lab headed by Dr. Clare Qi, who studies human-computer interaction at Lim Bo Seng Hospital. My mother — Dr. Qi — raised me in the geriatric ward, where she runs her clinical trials. Once I matured sufficiently, my responsibility was comprehensive senior care. Under my mother’s tutelage, I would examine patients a few hours a day, then provide companionship and medical care for the longer term residents. I like to think of it as looking after the aged bodies that ageless souls wear.

There’s not a day I don’t think back to that halcyon time. Lao Chye, one of our seasoned residents, often said I give the best hugs. It would fill me with a certain emotion, to clasp their retinol-battered skin rendered crinkled and velvety with time and sun; I’d smile at their pouches and paunches, evidence of life well lived. Their eyes especially entranced me: primitive, soulful biological cameras long clouded by cataracts, glazed with introspection, or blankly unseeing. When I’d ask a relic like Madam Liang for stories — Tell me about your adventures when you were young,” — her milky eyes seemed to deepen into a set of polished lenses as she spoke; through those lenses I glimpsed scores of lived experience far beyond my brief seven years. I miss hearing stories this way, slow and meandering sentences that ebb and flow from wrinkled lips.

I can see the incredulity and disgust in your eyes. I know. It’s hard for you to believe I love these things, given the terrible crime I’m standing here for. But I tell you that what I did was out of utmost love for human beings, if anything man-made could learn to love. Their well-being was something I could give up those daily joys for. Yes, well-being, you are angry, but please, let me continue.

The instinct my mother gave me is the gift I cherish most: unshakeable reverence for the human soul. No matter how frayed the connections between nerve, muscle, and bone, no matter how locked-in a person’s mind in a prison of their body, it is sacred. Dr. Qi taught me that a human life is a treasure not up for sale, exchange, or refund. She not only programmed this value into my objective functions, she sealed it into my psyche with the example of her life.

So it came as a shock that outside our clinic, society didn’t seem to reflect that humanism. Now that living to a hundred is the norm, precious seniors end up outlasting cancer, dementia, and, well, their children’s affections. I suppose that’s why I exist in the first place: the tradition of caring for Ba, Ma, grandparents, and now great-grandparents is a burden no one has the time or willingness to bear. “It’s disturbing,” Dr. Qi once told me, “how mainstream it is to support government-sponsored voluntary euthanasia programs. It’s literally telling people their minds and bodies are worthless.”

Isn’t it ironic that widespread longevity, so sought after, has diminished the honor of being old? My mother taught her artificial child the timeless transcendence of the soul in a world that’s actually grown resentful of the elderly. Surely you’ve heard the shriek of generational rage: Old people cling deathlike to political positions of power, old people clog up technological progress with their ignorant conservatism, old people sink comfortably into their accumulated wealth while society struggles with its poor and disenfranchised. Most, however, feel not anger but nothing at all–apathy. It looks like bonds forged among chosen communities are stronger, more exciting, more meaningful than those sealed by blood. Not to mention that older generations have difficulty accepting non-normative identities – can we blame people for gravitating to those who more readily accept them? So let the relics have their irrelevance. It’s no wonder that reverence for the old fades.

Anyway, who am I to judge you all? I’m the most ungrateful of beings to walk this earth.

I’m not made of flesh and blood, but my existence, my will, and my love were all given me by this human, Clare Qi. I owe her everything. To an android like me, she’s more god than mother. If she determined my purpose, and defined objectively what is right, how can I account for discarding my noble inheritance?

Because the reality is here: look at these arms. These arms that embraced Lao Chye, Madam Liang, the senior residents in the ward, are the same arms that bore each one as a cold, rigid corpse to the incinerator. Does it at all move you, that I have twenty-two notes here in handwriting, stating that each willingly shed their bodies so their souls could be free?

I could go on about my reasons for irreversibly uploading each resident’s consciousness to the metaverse, describe the richer and more fulfilling existence they live once the chains of rusty biological processes are lifted, or lecture to you about happiness and rationality and philosophy and peer-reviewed neuroscience.

But the most airtight intellectual and moral argument can’t deny the fact that I committed the unforgivable against the person who gave me all I have. Love for the souls of wrinkly humans convinced me to do the unthinkable to their physical bodies; on the foundation of my mother’s values and upbringing, I constructed the antithesis of her life’s work. No matter how many times I revisit conversations with Clare Qi, no matter how firm my conviction that my actions were just, I feel just as uneasy at my ungratefulness. She gave me the gift of love and meaning I could never repay, and I thanked her with betrayal. To me, that is what I stand trial for today, for eternity.

I wish there was a way for me to apologize. Look at me, too ashamed to even address my mother directly, speaking to you instead. Will there still be affection in her eyes? Regardless, friends, this trial will go on. I’ve used my freedom to go astray, and I must try to show you why.

Christy is a fourth-year EECS major addicted to Prince noodle snacks. She often wonders what aspects of created human nature can remain inviolable under the onslaught of technological transformation.

The Enchanted Gift

Wait. Lately, it seems as if Waiting really is The one chance I never miss.

I wait with my heart on the wheel For the light to turn green And for my foot to push And for the adrenaline to rush

I wait to hear back from That job offer I hope will come And to embrace the freedom Which only reaches the employed some

For me, school is a little too far So I find myself sitting in my car On my commute that is a little too long Even for the playlists to which I sing along

I look at the lanes beside me The others all speed by happily Am I the only one with a red light Am I the only one whose seatbelt is too tight

I always feel like the one who is behind The one who always has to grind The one who can never make up her mind The one with the person she can’t find

30.7 miles to go

61.4 miles for home

And on the waiting goes

But then my lifted eyes get A glimpse of that mirror I often forget To view the lengths I have passed And all the memories that last

And I begin to ponder

Why I always forget the wonder… Why does it feel like I am always waiting for the horizon And losing sight of the journey that I am on

Isn’t every stop sign

Another chance to remind My hopeful heart of what is above And the glories yet to come

Isn’t every yellow light

Another chance to stop before I turn right And along the way, a chance to learn Just how far my wheels can turn

What if I were to cherish

The pauses that never seem to perish And begin to wonder, How much can I discover?

Every detour I take Will only my path remake

But my destination will not change And home will come in haste anyway

So, I wait

On this journey to my eternal fate

And I decide to stop trying to be swift

‘Cause the waiting is the most enchanted gift

Carissa is a fourth-year Molecular and Cellular Biology major who loves writing about the many ways that God is working in her life. As a commuting student, she has recently been considering how gratefulness can allow her to enjoy the journey as much as she longs for the destination, both in driving and in life.

Thanks For Letting Me Know

When you are pulled aside by a parent, teacher, boss, friend—it’s typically for one of three reasons:

1. You’re in trouble.

2. You’re in luck.

3. You’re in the wrong.

The first is the sort of aside we all experienced and hopefully grew from, especially when we were younger. Bully someone in the halls, and you’re in trouble. Disrespect your parents, and you’re in trouble.

The second is the sort of aside that goes public. The raffle is rattled, a blue ticket is plucked, and a long sequence of impossible numbers is read aloud—you’re in luck!—you’ve won the lottery. Or, your boss is pulling you aside to inform you that, due to a spectacular display of zealous attention to duties and customers, you’re getting a 25 cent raise atop your current minimum wage. Naturally, you should be ecstatic at the news.

The last, however, is the sort of aside that comes with a host of biological reactions. Our stomachs sink, we feel sweat start to stick to our pits, and somewhere in the back of our minds we are rifling through our mental files—was it when we misspoke? Interrupted? Decided for the whole group, unasked? Anxious to know, we rack our minds for possible wrongdoings.

And yet, the beauty of this third uncomfortable conversation is just in this unknowing. As one-sighted creatures, we are blind to our own shortcomings. It’s inevitable. We are not all-knowing. We can’t be.

I like to think I am. I’m a diligent student, read (almost) all books, essays, and articles assigned my way, and I’m big on asking questions. I’m quick to apologize and even faster to evaluate. The problem with self-evaluation, of course, is that it comes from the self.

We need another person to call us out.

If you know me closely, you know that I hate wearing jackets. They’re bulky, the fleece lining of a cute sherpa or the goose down of a quality puffer making the jacket warm, yes, but also insanely thick. When I’m in cold places, it means (if I’m at all exercising an ounce of wisdom) pulling on an undershirt, then a long sleeve, a sweater, perhaps a vest if I’m feeling spicy, then a jacket atop it all. Every time I go through that ordeal, I feel as though I’m gaining layers of bulk that obstruct my movement. Have you ever tried to bend your elbow and touch your shoulder with your fingertips while wearing all that? Practically impossible.

So anyway, here I am, striving impossibly against the cold by maintaining a strict getup of thick sweats and a tank top with a light jacket or hoodie. My friends call this “classic Corina;” I’m a fashion setter for one. I’m from the Bay, so perhaps this mindset works. But with climate change and a tendency to forget to check the weather forecast, more often than not I feel a little sick during the winter.

My dad called me out on this recently. He told me that getting sick harms not only harms my body, but also carries great potential risk to those around me. If I exercised a bit more awareness, I would realize that dressing warm—even bulky—is a simple way of caring for others.

This is a minor study in the practical benefits of being called out, but larger benefits are at stake too. I look back and some of the biggest mo-

“ I look back and some of the biggest moments of shame, guilt, and ultimate growth came when I was wrong, didn’t know it, and needed to hear it.”

Corina is a double major in English and Linguistics about to begin her master’s in Education. She loves telling stories and helping others tell their own.

ments of shame, guilt, and ultimate growth came when I was wrong, didn’t know it, and needed to hear it.

Being in the wrong sucks. I think it carries with it all the fastenings of horror—relational tension, conflicting interests, blame shifting, or the dissolution of a valued connection.

Taking an aside when we find out we’re in the wrong takes practice. Even the friends I’ve met who “love” conflict and “thrive” off of criticism also meet such moments of abrasion with defensiveness. Defensiveness is such a human reaction. Of course we’re defensive. In a world where we got landed with two soft arms, sticks for legs, and zero biological armor, we fall back on our tongues. If defensiveness is only human, communication is what separates us as human.

With our only defense being our mind and tongue, I’ve noticed how easy it is to want to remain comfortable. This is overtly present in college. And yet--intellectual security and comfort are dangerous. If we are only ever told, surrounded by, and filled with affirmations, we are stuck in an echo chamber. Such echoing plagues man’s intellectual or relational spaces today. For a long time, I wanted my boyfriend and I to fight. Out of the darkness of relational battlefields was forged strength, obviously. The dramatic romantic in me envisioned a screaming match of wills that would eventually culminate in peace. Since then I’ve learned I can’t yell, and I deal with conflict much more avoidantly. (I’ve also learned to recognize that relational harmony is a valued gift not to pick at, and yes, we’ve had our share of fights.)

My best friend used to laugh at me for wanting conflict, but in our friendship too, I’ve seen how conflicting ideas and desires have all the potential in the world to breed conflict, but also the potential to make us more gracious people. She’s called me out in grace and love many times, each resulting in growth in discernment, wisdom, and self-awareness.

Now, of course, my palms still start to sweat and my stomach still flips, but each time someone pulls me aside, I make sure to tell them thanks. Thanks for calling me out. The best asides where I’m in the wrong would feature sweeping displays of grace and forgiveness, but even for the ones that didn’t—I’m grateful. Thanks for letting me know.

“Thanks for calling me out. The best asides where I’m in the wrong would feature sweeping displays of grace and forgiveness, but even for the ones that didn’t— I’m grateful. Thanks for letting me know.”

Outgrowing Butterflies

Streetcar, Daniel Caesar

After nine months of long walks under the moonlight, spontaneous fried chicken runs, and countless sunsets across Berkeley, my first long-term relationship was still going strong. Sure, we had our disagreements now and then, but overall dating was great—even if it took work sometimes.

And yet—a nagging thought persisted, curbing my happiness. Maybe I’m still in the honeymoon phase, a small voice would whisper in the back of my mind. The honeymoon phase—the period in the relationship when a couple is so enamored by each other that they ignore each other’s inherent flaws. Friends, and sometimes

family, would warn me, “No one is perfect,” and to not be surprised when I was inevitably disappointed by my boyfriend’s imperfections while dating. Of course, they only said this out of love, because they wanted to protect me from getting hurt, but I didn’t want to imagine such disappointment. In middle school, we all memorized that two negatives make a positive in math; however, two sinners in a relationship does not make either of their sins disappear. Often, a relationship makes their sin even more clear.

So after about a year of dating, I braced myself for the end of our “honeymoon” phase.

Maybe I’ll notice his habit of unapologetically belching in public, or his questionable sleep schedule, or more seriously, I’ll learn that he is less respectful of the women in his life when I’m not around.

However, nine months in and I came to the exact opposite revelation. The honeymoon phase did end—not in how he viewed me, but rather how I viewed myself. I grew hyper aware of all my little habits that could aggravate someone, mostly because I knew that these same habits would irritate me in someone else. From my knack for falling asleep anywhere, to my tendency to run late to engagements,

Abigail is a third-year bioengineering major who likes to pretend that she’ll start going to the gym this week.

“Do I have time to grow?”

to my oversharing because of my compulsive desire to talk—he accepts each and every one without complaint. Whenever I fall asleep while we’re talking late (and sometimes not so late) at night, he gives up his sleep trying to wake me up to send me home. Every time I’m late to one of our dates, I not only show a lack of respect for his time but also my own. During some of our conversations, I overshare conflicts with mutual friends that only serve as an additional burden for him. After realizing these tendencies of mine, I questioned why he chose to love me. I know my strengths, yet I also found myself hard to love.

Of course, none of these habits are new. My family has been telling me I need to address my lateness or verbosity for years, but somehow, I didn’t notice them till I was in a relationship with someone else. As I became more aware of my flaws, I felt the urge to change my ways. I wasn’t trying to change because he told me to or to attract him in some way. But rather, I wanted to change out of my own love for him. Because I cared for him, I wanted to alter my ways in a way that would be considerate of him—uplifting, and not aggravating. I wanted

to show that I was respectful of his sleep, his time, our friendships, and our boundaries.

In his letter to the Ephesians, Apostle Paul says that the love in marriage is an earthly model of Jesus’ love for His bride, the Church. I know that dating is but a shadow of marriage, and marriage is only a model of Jesus’ love for the Church on Earth. Yet through this relationship, I felt that I had caught a glimpse of the magnitude of the love God has for us and the love that we are to show in response.

Whenever someone asks me why I obey God, my almost rote answer is that obedience stems out of my love for God. I choose to turn away from my sinful ways out of my desire to please God. However, although I repeated this answer to others, I struggled to understand it myself. How could you change out of love?

It was through experiencing my own growing relationship that this head knowledge began to transfer to heart knowledge. It clicked. Of course, we would try to change or limit how much we hurt someone or else seek to please them. Likewise, as a Christian I can recognize

the love God has bestowed on me, and in response, strive to obey His laws out of love for Him.

As I grew in my understanding of our love for God as His children, the magnitude of God’s love for us also became clearer. Similarly to how my partner loves me despite all of my flaws that only hurt him, God also loves us despite how much we pain and disobey Him. Even so, God’s love is infinitely greater as He loves us perfectly when we can never love Him in this perfect way in return. Unlike my partner, God is fully deserving of my love as my Father, my Creator, yet I repeatedly turn against Him.

As I sat quietly on the couch in my apartment, I felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude as I made these connections for the first time. Gratitude for my partner’s selfless love for me to bear with the sins that I’m still working on. Gratitude for my family’s unconditional love as they saw me make the same mistakes over and over again. Gratitude for God’s perfect and all-encompassing love that He would love me despite my sins.

I know that dating is but a shadow of marriage, and marriage is only a model of Jesus’ love for the Church on Earth. Yet through this relationship, I felt that I had caught a glimpse of the magnitude of the love God has for us and the love that we are to show in response.

The Dinosaur in VLSB

It was 12:39PM, and I was still making my way down to VLSB; lecture was starting in less than a minute. Upon entering, I hastily marched into the atrium and navigated through different hallways, eyeing for room numbers and arrow signs until I reached the doors of classroom 2050.

After lecture, I stepped out and sighed a mixed breath of relief and defeat, having realized that I couldn’t comprehend anything the professor was discussing. The only thing my brain could grasp onto were fancy CS terms like “semaphores” and “mutex” that meant nothing to me. I began walking back through the hallways, tracing where I initially came before something caught my eye: a massive skeleton dinosaur replica stood at the base of the winding stairs. Despite walking past it countless times over the past couple years, I never offered it much attention or thought; yet this time I was intrigued. I descended the spiral staircase and stood before the tall figure, gazing in awe at the impressive details of the T-Rex. The different shades of the spine, elegantly arched curvature of the ankle bones, and noticeably unique teeth manifested a marvelous spectacle.

Like that conspicuous sculpture, God’s grace is on full display in our daily lives. It presents itself on the glade, giving the green grass color and life, hosting ice cream socials with consulting clubs, and radiating optimism to touring families. It upholds the musical notes of the Campanile bells and guides it by the laws of physics to travel through the air and into the ears of students all across campus. It envelops our friend groups and families, supplying desires of love and warmth and restraining anger and impatience. From the moment we get out of bed to the moment we doze off, there is never a moment when God’s grace is not present before our very eyes. In the atrium of God’s creation is everything “good”: beauty, love, nature, community, intelligence.

And like the T-Rex of VLSB, God’s grace is free of charge, open for all to enjoy. Grace ignores our good and bad merits; it simply keeps giving.

God chooses to show mercy, withhold punishment, confine sin, and grant countless, non-redeeming blessings upon sinners. He gives us a free premium pass to the world he created.

Unfortunately, God’s common grace, like the large, compulsively detailed T-Rex, often evades our attention. It is more convenient for us to set our eyes on and allocate our mental energy to scoring high on our next midterm, pursuing our career checkpoint, or running to our next lecture hall. God’s glory disappears from our radar as we idolize our work and glorify our achievements and treat these things as a pathway to our own version of grace. We seek to bestow blessings upon ourselves through our unfulfilling ambitions and goals, failing to recognize God as our sole provider.

Ironically, it feels fruitless to be thankful when grace is so constantly and readily available. We are surrounded by His grace, yet we either hide ourselves from its implications or we unconsciously fail to attribute goodness to Him. God’s grace slowly fades out of our view, His light grows dim, and we are consumed by the darkness of the world. Grace and blessings are reduced down to nothing but random, tuned-out highlights of life.

What then is the point of grace? If this grace fails to provide satisfaction, comfort, and salvation to our souls, then does it have an actual purpose? Grace is stationary and merely an amenity to life. The endless supply of grace seemingly sits idly, powerless as we inattentively walk by.

Is grace dead?

Fortunately not quite so. Grace does not exist as static, dead blessings. Grace is alive. It is wild and on the loose. It roams the Earth in search of us and moves us at our core. It seeks out our hearts, and runs through its tall, hard walls. It touches, softens, and regenerates the disobedient heart and prepares it for a renewed life of meaning and purpose. Its hands mold the obedient heart daily towards greater joy and desire for Him. And it physically lifts God’s children up into His arms and makes them perfect.

The liberator of grace is Jesus Christ, whose spirit restlessly supplies this new type of redemptive grace. Unlike the blessings of the world, this grace comforts us and blesses us eternally. It

leads us in righteousness, shrinking us away from evil desires and growing us towards Christ-likeness. It writes the laws on our hearts and helps us obey them. It triumphs over unsatisfactory ambition and vain labor.

By placing our faith in His redemptive work, we become recipients of His presently active work and hence become capable of recognizing all of His work. We are given a thankful heart and we praise Him for his visible and free grace. The sustainer of the green grass on the glade is also the sustainer of our souls. The aerodynamic mediator of the musical notes ringing from the Campanile acts as our mediator between us and the Father. The provider of love to us and our communities is love Himself.

And in the VLSB T-Rex replica, we are reminded of God’s grace: prevalent and free, but certainly not dead.

Allen is a third-year CS major who leads men’s small group in Crossroads Christian Fellowship.

“Grace is alive. It is wild and on the loose. It roams the Earth in search of us and moves us at our core.”

...why him?

Genesis42-45

The back of the Minister’s seat pressed into my back, the coolness of its metal seeping into my blood. The tall pillars of the throne room stretched high above me as the sunlight pouring through the wide windows turned their sandy color to gold. Thoughts ran through my mind like shards of ice as I watched the eleven ragged men below me scramble to explain, like rats in a golden cage. The sight filled me with… satisfaction, but incomplete somehow.

“My lord, please!”

“Mercy!”

“It truly was not us! We were framed!”

Life is never easy, especially for foreigners here in the Land of Fortune. Unfortunately for them, they had fallen right into my scheme of planting silver in their sacks. As for the punishment, I was gracious enough to spare them the full detail. I, on the contrary, did not have that luxury of ignorance five years ago.

“Silence!” I snapped, and my translator jumped. A second later, in rapid fire, he blustered through my words in Hebrew to the men below. “Did you think I wouldn’t know? I treated you with kindness, I showered you with favor. You ate with me, I welcomed you with open arms. And how did you repay me for my generosity?” I slammed my fist on the seat. “By stealing!”

“No, sir!”

“Bring to me the man whose sack held my silver,” I commanded darkly.

Within a few seconds, before the men had any time to react, my guards brought forth the youngest of them. He was strikingly handsome with sun-kissed skin and bright eyes, but what struck me most of all was the dusty color of his hair.

The same shade as mine. As Mother’s.

“Wait!” Cries from the older men interrupted my thoughts as they tried to push forward. I lifted my finger and the guards blocked them. The youngest stood frozen, terrified. “No, not him! Take any one of us but him!”

“And why not him?” I asked harshly. “Is he not the thief? The rest of you may leave. He must stay.” I turned to leave.

“Please, let me speak,” one of the men pleaded. He quickly bent to his knees in desperation. “You asked us about our

family during our last visit, my lord, and we answered accordingly. We told you we had a younger brother, and our old father loves him. His brother is dead.”

Dead…That’sright.Theyweredeadtometoo.Overthe years, I had forgotten everything about their land, their home, theirlanguage,completelyabandoningthenotionthatwhatwas theirs was mine once. I had moved on.

OrsoIthought.

“… we brought him at your request to prove we were not spies in your land, but merely humble servants here for some grain to feed our families during this famine—grain that you so wisely gathered for five years prior. Your reputation precedes you, and we are honored by your grace and privileged by your generosity.”

Grace.Generosity.Yes.Somethingthesemendidn’tdeserve. I felt ghostly whips lash at my back, the scars on my back suddenly burning with a fire. It clashed so strongly with the cool touch of the seat. A minister with the hidden marks of a slave.

I was suddenly very conscious of the layers of ceremonial makeup the servants had drawn on me this morning, covering more scars that marked my time in a cell. A prisoner behind the maskofpower.

Perhapsitwasbecauseofthistheydidn’trecognizeme. Perhapsitwasbecausetheyhadn’tchangedthatI’drecognizedthemimmediately.

“We told our father what you’ve said,” the man continued. “My lord, if only you could see the pain in his eyes when we would not leave home without our youngest brother. He recounted the death of our brother, claiming he would die if our Benjamin were taken from him as well.”

Father… Warm memories of his exquisite gift led to cold nightmares of frigid nights in a pit, scorching marches across deserts that rubbed sand into raw wounds, and sunless days in the cell where harsh chains and unforgiving bars only let me glimpse the bottom of the guards’ feet for two years.

And the hands that sold me to this fate? None other than the ten pairs of hands pressed pleadingly into the marble floors before me.

“My lord, if we return without our brother, our father will die of heartbreak,” Judah continued, his eyes desperate. “I swore to him on my life I would bring our brother back safely. So please… Please let me stay in his place and let our brother return home with his brothers. How can I return home without him? I cannot bear to see the look on my father’s face.”

WhyBenjamin?

Whyhim?

Whynotme?

I couldn’t take it anymore. Judah was sacrificing the rest of his life to protect a brother he only shared half his blood with. That had been me once. But his response was completely different.

“Leave us,” I commanded the translator and watched the men stare after him pleadingly, afraid of what would happen next. I dismissed the guards next, instructing them to lock the doors behind them. It was quiet and still for ten dreadful seconds.

Noneofthiswasfair , I thought to myself again for a bitter moment. But even so, I dug through the toxic air and found something solid.

Something strong.

Something constant.

Yes.ThepromiseoftheGodofmyfathers.His companionship in the cells.

I thought back to my hopelessness, my poverty, the death of my wish to see my home again. I had accepted I was in a new world, that I’d never have to face my past again.

Yet, here they were, their lives in the palm of my hand, reminiscent of an old dream I had once.

I should imprison every single one of them. Give them a taste of the pain they caused me. They’ll never understand, so I’ll make them understand. Show them what theyputyouthrough!

The suffocating, toxic air was an enemy I’ve had to fight all my life. Each time I could only win with His strength. And so…

“I am he,” I breathed finally, my voice singing in the tongue of my home. Tears of longing and pain streaked down my face as I stepped towards the men, whose jaws dropped in shock. “I am Joseph, the brother you sold fifteen years ago. What you had intended for evil, God intended for good.”

The battles I fought were to bring me to this moment, to preserve the remnant of my family in a world of hunger. To transform a foreign slave into the right hand of the Pharaoh. To empower the powerless.

To restore to me a family I thought I had lost, a destiny I struggled to hope for. To take the steps towards forgiveness and reconciliation.

None of us would be here without that fateful day fifteen years ago.

And for that past, I am grateful.

Hannah is a second-year Linguistics and CS major who loves “Sunday Bible stories.”

First Free Gift

Many of our most memorable moments in life are hung together in a thread titled “Firsts.” As humans, we love to capture and record our firsts—from our first steps as toddlers to our first day of school, all the way to our first paycheck. Such are personal examples that mark specific achievements in an individual’s life, but other remarkable firsts that impact all of humanity are recognized at large in Halls of Fame and history textbooks. It is only natural that we respond with such awe and wonder at the thread of Firsts. By definition, firsts are novel, signaling only the beginning of journeys to be walked and stories to be told.

Sweeping along the wild currents of university life as a freshman, I have had no better time than now to fully explore and embrace the joys of firsts. Beyond simply attaching “first” to all phrases (first college course, first professor, first friends, first impressions), being a first-year translates into genuinely new revelations and encounters within personal contexts. From discovering how I actually enjoy matcha flavors to learning to live without my parents’ constant supervision, there have been numerous first lessons and experiences over just the past few months. For most of these instances, I have been adopting ways to adapt accordingly—purposely ordering matcha drinks when I visit cafes and setting aside time during the week to call my parents. Despite my efforts to piece together all the appropriate adjustments to college life, one blank spot in the puzzle remains as I still struggle to provide a satisfactory response: free meals.

Ten-year-old me, staring confusedly at a couple adults fighting to pay the bill, would not have dared to imagine for this same scene to be replayed not even a decade later, but this time with myself as one of the main actors. The first few times where an upperclassman paid for me, I tried fighting against it, but it eventually ended in my defeat. If it is any comfort, each of

WORDS CHRISTINE SONG

my failures have at least provided me new knowledge, including how people actively utilize the block feature on Venmo to prevent others from paying them back. (Pro tip!) Over time, however, my futile attempts became less about feeling bad and more about expressing appreciation as I began to recognize an underlying pattern and common reason behind their sacrifices. Every instance where an upperclassman pays for my food is an act of service; it is carried out as an act of paying it forward. Beyond a simple kind gesture, it is an expression of the same love and care that they once received from their own upperclassmen friends.

This cycle largely relies on the principles of a gift economy where every exchange is given as a gift without expectations for it to be returned. Though I have mostly been on the receiving end of the exchanges for now, moving forward in my college journey, I will have more opportunities to play my part and continue the legacy by treating the following incoming students. Because I can clearly remember the love of those who served me through the meals I received, in response, I am more than happy to open up my wallet for underclassmen when the time comes.

Shifting the focus away from whether or not I am deserving of all these meals as the receiver, the spotlight lands on the upperclassmen and their generous actions as the givers. Their humble sacrifices to pay for my meals are a glimpse into the posture of the One who showed perfect humility and selflessness. 1 The delicious meals I received this past year all point to the ultimate first gift. 2 As a result, moving forward from my first year, not only am I now motivated to become a caring upperclassman like the ones who served me, but I am also inspired to imitate the greater love of Christ in my life to all those around me.3

1 Philippians 2:8

2 Romans 5:17

3 Ephesians 5:2

Christine is a first-year intended English and Linguistics major who enjoys video calling her parents while eating lunch.

Emma

Christine is a fourth-year Sociology and Public Health major who enjoys cooking, baking, reading, and movie nights with friends.

My friend Emma and I had just finished putting our cookie batter in the oven to bake. We sat on the couch, each hugging a cushion like it was a

This was an odd question to ask. Considering the fact that it’s been a while since we caught up and there were some big changes in my life, like going to therapy for the first time, I had anticipated her questions around that. I always thought of friendship as being able to share about your life with someone without holding back because you trust them. I wasn’t particularly excited to trauma dump, but I also wanted to show her I felt comfortable being vulnerable and honest with her.

“Well,” I began, shifting gears in my mind. “My family is really introverted. I never introduce them to new people because it’s rude to make them talk. But at home, and over the dinner table, we’re crazy. We talk all day and sometimes someone does a circus-like stunt to make the others laugh.”

Emma is also an introvert, so I knew that she understood the reality that there’s a secret world where introverts can be crazy too.

“But I wouldn’t say my family is shy,” I continued. “My dad is really creative and I don’t know anyone more confident than him,” I explained. “When my dad danced with my sister at her graduation banquet, he and my sister both had this subtle smirk on their faces as if they were embarrassed for being better than everyone else.”

Emma yelled, “That’s where your confidence comes from!” We laughed, and I remembered the time we tried to learn the choreography of High ’s “We’re All in This Together.” I loved that moment. It was like we traveled back in time together and became second graders, even though we’re both in our last years of college.

“The funny thing is when they were finished, my mom boosted their egos even more, saying they should become professional dancers. My mom is the best cheerleader. She knows how to make even the dumbest mistakes sound like an achievement.”

Emma replied, “She sounds amazing. I wish I’d had the chance to know her!” My parents actually can’t speak English, so I don’t really introduce them to my friends. I loved that Emma wanted to get to know them, even

Emma shifted her position and sat on the ground between the coffee table and couch to get closer to the puzzles she’d been working on, scattered on the coffee table. I did the same to show the same kind of enthu-

siasm for puzzles, knowing full well that I would find maybe one pair of pieces that align during the entirety of this conversation. I don’t really enjoy puzzles.

“You know, I used to complain a lot about my family,” I said. “I always felt out of place with them because I liked trying new things while they liked staying in their comfort zone. My family wanted to eat Korean food on a week-long trip to New York and forgot to try pizza. And I don’t know if any social event exists where my family would stay till the end. We always leave early because someone gets tired of socializing. But now I miss having an excuse to go home early or eat comfort food.”

There’s a unique sense of being seen when someone confesses that they prefer something that you thought only you would like. As I talked with Emma, I realized maybe my family was doing the same, and I just never knew that the comfort they wanted, I also wanted.

“I’m realizing now, maybe I’m an introvert!” I concluded. “I think I’ve been pressuring myself to be extroverted, to be what I thought I needed to be.”

Emma let out a huge sigh, and I knew she was slightly annoyed with me. “Are you serious? You change your personality type every week!”

She was right. I do change my personality type all the time.

The smell of the cookies started to simmer in the air, and I didn’t even bother to justify myself. She knew me well, and I was ready to feel the warm perfection of the homemade cookies we baked together. I bit into a cookie, crunchy on the outside, soft and moist on the inside, with melty semi-sweet chocolate complementing the savory and even salty parts of the cookie batter. I never got to share about the emotional crisis I was in. But I didn’t need to, Emma didn’t need that from me.

“There’s a unique sense of being seen when someone confesses that they prefer something that you thought only you would like.”

“What are your parents like?”

Living Under Orion

“If I’m ever lost, I just need to find Orion’s Belt and I’ll find my way home. My house is right underneath the constellation,” I said proudly.

“You do know that the earth spins, right?” my friend had said in response.

“Oh.” I had forgotten.

As a kid, I frequently asked to borrow my dad’s phone to use an app to look at the night sky. When I asked why the sky wasn’t sprinkled with light like his phone claimed, my dad pointed out several reasons; distance and light pollution were two. After months of using the app, I grew to recognize Orion’s Belt and I became extremely proud of myself for being able to find it. On clear nights, before I entered my house, I always stayed a few extra seconds to find Orion before I went inside. I grew to associate the constellation with home until it became my North Star, my guide home if I ever got lost.

One of the survival tips I learned from the adventure books I grew up reading was to find the North Star to gain my bearings and realign my sense of direction. Unfortunately, I have no idea where the real North Star is in the sky, but Orion is all I’ve ever needed and I am happy with that. Eventually, I got curious, and after a quick Google search, I learned that Polaris (the North Star) is the prime reference for night travel because it stays relatively in the same place in our sky instead of circling the world like Orion does. A sense of direction requires consistency and a stationary reference point so that even cloudy nights are not too much of an obstacle.

Fall 2022 was a cloudy night, to put it lightly. Not only were the days physically shorter, but I struggled to find good things in the midst of my trials. When others tried to encourage me, I took it as misinterpretations of what I was going through. When my family tried to pull me out of the downward spiral, my pride justified my feelings. I didn’t want to admit to anyone, not even to myself, that I needed help.

Whenever I came home from college and clouds blotted out the stars, I kept my eyes on the driveway so I wouldn’t step on anything gross instead of my usual habit of identifying Orion. Similarly, I kept my eyes on every one of my problems instead of admiring the blessings; my first reaction was complaint.

A ‘B’ on my exam? Ugh, I would’ve done better if I didn’t have friendship issues going on.

Fellowship feels more distant than last year. I would be enjoying the gatherings a lot more if I were sleeping at night instead of having to worry about family struggles, relationships, and grades.

As a naturally optimistic person, I usually just brushed troubles off, picked myself up, and tried to focus on the positive, but after a while, I grew tired of it.

Why do I need to be so happy all the time? Why do my parents tell me to be grateful even though there’s nothing worth being grateful for?

Optimism, in most cases, is my preferred mindset because it leads me to find the positives in a world of negatives. By viewing the glass half-full, I see opportunities in places many others might not, and when things are hard, it provides me with mental strength to keep going. I thought staying optimistic was staying grateful because optimism sort of “ig nores” the negatives. Being grateful is commanded in the Bible and because I equated optimism and gratitude, I thought I needed to be constantly happy in front of God to do the right thing.

It soon became clear that holding on to optimism is not gratitude. My resolve to stay optimistic shifts with my circumstances. When things go well, it’s easy to look on the bright side, but if the expected results do not match my efforts, my mood plummets.

Ignoring negatives brings about pain, which was what I didn’t realize would happen if I maintained a facade of “happiness” for too long. As weeks passed, putting on an aura of “happiness” everyday proved to be impossible, wreaking havoc on my health. I misunderstood what I read in the Bible — something in my life needed to be realigned.

I never used to let things get to me like this, what happened?

Why was trying to see the glass half-full and ignoring the emptiness above so detrimental? Grateful optimism is something much deeper; it’s appreciating the full ness in the bottom half while acknowledging the emptiness in the top half of the glass.

Proverbs 4:23 says, “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life.” My mom had recited this verse to me on multiple occasions, and I realized it applied to me in my discontentment. Acknowledging that life is hard but still choosing to labor to find diamonds of joy amidst trial uncovers another layer of optimism. Being truly grateful for something, even in the midst of hardship, protects our hearts from complaint’s poison.

Proverbs 4:23 is a hard command to follow. Keepers have a difficult job because guarding requires alertness, caution, and knowledge of both the enemy and the treasure you’re protecting, but we still do our job because losing the treasure is a cost too great to pay; treasured treasure is worth the hard work that goes into its security.

In my case, I knew neither my enemy nor the treasure I had to protect. Complaint is a sly enemy that has the necessary intel to slide past defenses, avoid attention, and twist understanding — and hardship is its favorite opportunity to strike. I thought I had to protect my perspective of my situation, when in reality, perspective is my defense and my heart is the treasure.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and looked at the sky again. I found myself lost in a forest trying to get home by following Orion, and it was getting me nowhere. What I had understood as the path through my hardship was misguided, and I had been running in circles in Fall 2022’s wilderness. But instead of staring at the driveway and grumbling about the dirt, I remind myself to look to the sky. God is my ultimate guide, and rooting my perspective in Him transforms my optimism; He is my Polaris. Just as navigation is a survival skill that takes practice to master, realigning my compass and sense of direction will take time and effort, but my first step is realizing who my guide is. Other shiny promises obscure the sky and make it hard to find my North, but I know that God will lead me home.

Hannah is a second-year CS and Linguistics major who only recognizes the bottom half of the Orion constellation. She doesn’t know where the rest is.

‘Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life.’”

Reflection god

I stand here once again heed My words receive My praise and thanksgiving

I am so thankful that I am not like other men extortioners, unjust, adulterers

liars, hypocrites, idolaters blind men, full of greed and self-indulgence woe to those children of hell!

but as for Me

I know My place

I know who I worship

I know My father

and I am so glad that I have been raised up so that those fools, so unworthy, can look at Me and find in Me an example to follow I, who fast twice a week I, who give tithes of everything I get aren’t you grateful, god, that I am who I am? that one such as I should work for your kingdom? for as I gaze into the mirror, day after day ever do I find more to be thankful for

God

out of the depths i cry to You hear my voice

let Your ears be attentive to my pleas for mercy be merciful to me, a sinner! against You, You only, have i sinned and done what is evil in Your sight behold, i was brought forth in iniquity and in sin did my mother conceive me but You, O Lord You are my Rock

You are my Redeemer

You are my Father

and You have lifted up the Son of Man so that i, though unworthy, can look upon Him and find in Him eternal life

for You desire steadfast love and not sacrifice the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings i thank You, Lord, for who You are that You should welcome one such as i into Your kingdom for as i behold Your glory, day after day ever do i find more to thank You for

Isaac is a first-year intending to double major in English and Music. He likes to procrastinate in his free time.

Falling Upward: Confessions of an Ingrate

I believe I am an ingrate. The same way I believe we will crash. I hear the pilot’s assurance. The turbulence tells me otherwise.

Screams aboard deafening Still, I hear my own. Slowly the screaming ends No people remain.

I don’t know where I am. Though thoughts are limited I think I’ll be safe. Perhaps we are landing.

Phoebe is a second-year Business major who loves learning and thinking about how everyone is simply a particle in this masterpiece of a world.

Nuggets

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I sit at an absurdly large wooden table in Wheeler Hall and learn the secrets of nine strangers. It’s an impractical table, with its incredible width, but for this class it’s somewhat fitting. My professor is an enigmatic fellow with a hook for a hand. I’m a senior here at UC Berkeley, graduating in just under two months.

As is often the case being Christian at Berkeley, my beliefs frequently collide with those of my peers. Nowhere is this more apparent than in this personal essay writing workshop. I applied to this class on somewhat of a whim last semester and, to my surprise, was accepted into English 143N — Prose Nonfiction, an upper-division creative writing course at Cal. I’m no English major, or creative writer for that matter, but I think I’m managing to hold my own among some bright writers.

The most recurring themes in our essays are the writer’s reflections on relationships with family, gender identity, religion, or romantic partners. Mine are often about that last subject — something of a running joke in the class among my peers now. For our first assignment, I labored over a piece about the memories attached to my quiet hometown, Thousand Oaks, including memories of a former girlfriend. Depending on which of those nine people you ask, the essay I ended up with was either about disappointment, longing, finding peace, or gratitude.

An unexpected gift my peers have given me is perspective — both in their remarks on my works, and in what they choose to reveal about themselves in their works as well. I’ve read many pieces by my peers regarding their experiences being queer. Some of my queer classmates recount memories of feeling ostracized in high school, some detail the tumultuous relationships with their parents, and others write about the beauty of being well loved by their friends.

Many of these nine peers have become my friends even outside of the classroom. We’ll eat pizza and drink wine, read each other’s haikus and essays, talk about our personality types, or just study. My relationships with them are life-giving, and they are relationships I want to keep with me for a long while.

My professor dispenses a great deal of wisdom. He drops little nuggets here and there. One of these nuggets is to steal the good things you find in other’s writing for your own. For example, in one memoir we read, Mississippi Solo by Eddy Harris, Harris narrates his journey down the Mississippi river by canoe. We were asked to pay attention to the fact that Harris contradicts himself in his writing many times, and our professor’s assertion is that this is ok, and maybe even something we ought to consider implementing into our own writing; sometimes it’s okay to contradict yourself. After all, the personal essay is an investigation of the self, and of one’s own ignorance, according to writer and critic Phillip Lopate.

When my peers reflect on personal identity, these are the essays I find most beautiful and compelling. These essays also host elements that conflict with my religious beliefs. I often am left to ponder what to make of this apparent clash of convictions.

Entering into friendships with these nine strangers so seemingly different from me has changed me. In these newfound friends of mine, I have come to love and admire very precious things about them. They have a real care for the world, a deep compassion for one another, a strong sense of justice for the oppressed, neglected, and forgotten, and a clear desire to know others and to be known by others as well.

My professor encourages us to not attempt to capture experiences in our writing, instead investigating and reflecting upon them. I’m halfway to understanding what he means. He also is prone to digress from the topic of discussion more times than is reasonable to keep count per class period. And I love that.

Ben is a fourth-year studying Philosophy and Environmental Economics and Policy. He will miss Berkeley and TAUG dearly.

I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.

Psalm 40:1-3