The Road Not Taken

I had to memorize this poem during my freshman year of high school. I only remember the first and last six words.

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

This poem is undoubtedly brilliant and famous, written by one of the greatest poets of all time who forever changed the world of poetry and literature. I'm not going to attempt to analyze it but only apply it to events in my own life, which is one of the great uses of poetry. Poetry unifies the human experience, reveals unseen details about it, and ultimately attempts to understand the world in a unique way by shedding new light upon seemingly everyday occurrences.

Like almost every argument, life view, or idea ever conceived in history, this poem can be viewed in two opposite ways. The road less taken that is grassy and used by very few, if any, can be viewed as a metaphor for countless things, depending on the reader. Also depending on the context, it could represent any way of life that diverges from the norm, any idea that differs from the majority's opinion, or even the smallest change in an individual's life. This is one of the reasons why this poem is so brilliant. The scope can be as large or as miniscule as the reader desires, but no matter who big or small, two choices still remain. The left or the right. The known or the unknown. The methodical or the uncertain.

In my life there are always two choices: what I want and what God wants. These two frenemies sometimes find a way to step in tandem, but they more often than not are constantly clashing, pulling, and scraping at each other like infantile siblings. I can usually keep down their unpleasant chatter by constantly reminding myself of what God has brought me through to get me to where I am today. Through a never ending routine of self-reminding, Bible reading, and sought after encouragement, I've been able to ward off that tiny voice that sits in the corner, waiting for the perfect moment to ask, "Could I do this better all by myself?" Sure, I've had little "God vacations" like we all do every now and then, but none of them have been as significant or enlightening as my latest escapade. God took me to France to teach me a few things. It was easy to forget Him there. I had no access to a church, and I was completely overwhelmed with the new culture, new people, new experiences. It took immense effort to stay in the Word and not only on the same page as God, but even in the same chapter. I did not put forth this effort. I forgot Him.

For about a month, I traveled the easy road, laden with the steps of the many, the worldly, and those that live according to the flesh. I allowed myself to be swept to a place where I blatantly denied my faith, did things that I knew were very wrong, and I did not care. I convinced myself that as long as I could see the other path through the trees as I stayed on the grassless one, everything would be fine. As long as I had an exit strategy, a way to get back on the other path when I wanted to, all would be well. I made God my backup plan, there to catch me when I knew this path would fall through. It was the very definition of taking His mercy and grace for granted. It was the first time that I actually doubted the existence of my Savior. It was the first time that I wanted to forget Him. It was one of the greatest learning experiences I've ever had.

For me, life without God consists of me trying to manage my life by my own strength. I try to deal with stress in the way I think is fit. It never works. I was eventually crushed under the weight of sin, worry, and the fact that I knew that what I wanted would just hurt me. It was quite a crushing, but as always, God was there to gently lift the weight and tuck it away where only He could find it. He was always there, protecting me, letting me get close enough to the fire to feel the entrancing heat and get burnt but not completely scorched. He guarded me against so many huge and detrimental mistakes I could have made. For this I am forever thankful. Every day He reminds me that the act of coming back is greater than the leaving. He is faithful even when we forget Him. Even when we turn our backs, He guides us. There is no human that we can depend on to do this for us.

Being on the other side of all of this, there are many things to work through. I regret the things I've done, my stupidity, and the fact that I very much knew better. But if that's what it took for me to draw closer to the Lord, then I can be okay with it. Though painful, failure is in fact the best teacher, and He took me back. He always takes us back, despite how we feel about it. This is the root of His love. This is His character.

Frost's poem cannot help but remind me of Matthew 7:13-14:

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it."

The path the world takes is beat to only dirt, wide, and infinitely easy to choose. The road less traveled is adversely smaller, grassier, and less certain. One leads to life, and one leads to destruction. Every day we choose.

Within full knowledge of all of this, the wide path still is attractive, and it always will be. This is what it is to be human. We can simply try to live well each day in acceptance of but never in submission to our humanity. In short, friends, we must take the road not taken.

 

Babblings

I'm not really sure if I want to keep this blog. I feel a sense of responsibility to it. I think of things I want to blog, but then I have a million other things to do and I never get to it. It might be a let down after all of my romping arounds in France. It might just be random ramblings of a sweatered girl. That is exactly what it will be.
I want to write more. So this will be it, me writing and who ever you are reading. Hey there.

I've moved to our apartment in Minneapolis and I absolutely love it. I love it more than I was ever expecting to. It's a tiny studio the size of a normal living room. Everything is strewn everywhere and I can't find one ounce of chap stick. I really need some too. Who loses every chap stick they own?

I wake up every day surprised to be where I am. It's like waking up in a cute little hotel room with all my stuff. It's homey to say the least, and I haven't thought twice about missing the dorms. The dorms were great for having friends around all the time, but sometimes we don't need that. My roommate works a lot, so I've been alone mostly all week with a huge mess and lots of instruments for company. I feel like the chess piece that just put you into check, like the tiny car so cleverly parallel parked, like the the book that fits perfectly into the last place on the shelf. Snug, happy, and right where they should be.

My favorite thing to do is to sit at my kitchen table and people-watch from my window. Though slightly creepy, it is an activity that I enjoy often because so many people walk down Chicago Avenue. Some of them are loud and some are quiet. Some walk and some ride bikes. Some are North Central students but most are strangers. All are interesting.

I love living in the city more than I can say. The noise, the ridiculous people, the fact that you can't really talk to someone on the sidewalk because it's so loud, the endless places to go and things to do.
I was always bored as a child. This place suites me.

Home At Last - The Exit Interview

I am finally back in Illinois and it feels infinitely weird. Being back here makes it feel like France never even happened. I try to fight these silly feelings of time. After a lovely week at my grandmother's summer home in Michigan with many family members that I haven't seen in years, it's time to get back to real life. I feel both excited and slightly overwhelmed. Such are the in between times.

The journey home proved quite interesting. My host mom dropped me off at the airport at 6 am where a lovely Air France employee tried to convince me that both my carry on objects were supposed to weigh only 12 kg together when my backpack alone weighed twice that. This was ridiculous considering they had let me on the Air France plane to get to Pau without weighing anything. This was only the beginning.

Let us preface this by stating that I have grown up in O'Hare. It is a normal sized, easy to navigate airport that we have always used and I have always been able to get through easily. I have no problem in one of the biggest international airports in the world, but Charles De Gaulle is a nightmare. Getting through to get to Pau required taking a train and a bus to the terminal. It's a maze of insanity.

We landed in Paris and I felt fine because I had three other girls with me and I knew we would figure it out eventually. Our flight to Chicago had be delayed 4 hours, which sucked but it gave us more time. We found our way to United's check in and collectively reached into our bags to get out our passports and info. I unzip my backpack's front pocket to find nothing. Nothing. That's where I put my passport. I didn't put it anywhere else. Telling myself not to panic, I practically dumped both my bags on the floor next to the bathroom looking for the one thing you're not supposed to lose. It wasn't there. There's a moment when you lose things that are as important as your passport where there is a twinge of denial. What functioning twenty year old loses their passport in a foreign country?

A tired one.

Somehow I instantly knew it was in the seat pocket in the plane we had just been in. I don't remember putting it in there, and I rarely ever put things in those pockets, but I knew.

Through a series of pleadings directed at many airport employees I was directed to gate 2F, which required me to take the train. I sat, clinging to my carry ons, and listened to a very attractive Australian pilot talk about the weather with one of his colleagues. I realized I wasn't panicking. I realized I trusted God. I realized He was the One that loved me the most. We always want to be in a place where we can trust God in these crazy situations. We always want to believe that we'll know Him enough to believe that He'll take care of it. If you had asked me before if I would have panicked and started crying had I lost my passport, I would say yes, but in that moment trusting was the only choice. It was the choice my heart made without question, despite everything my head knew. I knew I would get my passport back. I knew I would get home. My flight was delayed four hours so I could run around CDG for two.

After the train ride, some very nice Air France people called around and found out that they were holding my passport at the gate we landed at. The plane could have gone back to Pau, along with my passport. It didn't.

As the lady handed me my proof of citizenship, she told me I should play the lottery. These things don't just happen.

After this I was just happy. I rode the bus, train, and 9 hour flight back to Chicago, went through customs, got picked up by my mom and drove 4 hours to Michigan, and I was just happy. It was probably one of the craziest days of my life, but I can probably fly anywhere alone now.

I can't really sum up everything I "learned" in France or how exactly I've changed. I think those things will reveal themselves over time. All I know is that it was incredible, and that it's strange being back here. Reverse culture shock is a real thing, people. It's so funny to think that "normal" isn't normal everywhere. I really noticed it when I was out shopping with my mom and sisters. We were in a little boutique in Grand Haven, Michigan, when I realized I was really annoyed. It took me a second to figure out that everyone in the store was talking very, very loudly. I realized I wasn't used to hearing (or understanding for that matter) strangers' conversations. People don't talk loudly in Europe. It's considered an intrusion of others' privacy. I had to leave the store because I couldn't hear myself think. It's strange what we get used to.

The second instance was when I was in an antique store buying a couple of rings. The very old, very nice saleswoman started talking about how she thinks it's interesting that people wear rings on their middle fingers when she has always been used to just wearing them on her ring fingers. My instant though was, "Why is this lady talking to me?". Small talk isn't really a thing when you shop in France. Customer relations are generally much more formal than here, and it was and is entertaining to me to see what now freaks me out about America.

I am in a time of intense transition. Last year of college, probably last summer living at home, getting my first apartment. I am beyond excited to go back to Minneapolis, but the whole looming future of actually being an adult is a bit daunting. My blog will no longer be "the adventures of an American girl in Southwest France" but "the adventures of a glasses wearing, sweater sporting, book nerd doing random things".

Thanks for reading.