Mary Caroline Whims

I’m sitting down to write this blog post with the intention of finishing it in less than forty minutes. Let’s see how it goes. It’s simple, really: I just want to tell a story. There once was a girl who went to college, a sophomore with dreams of becoming a gifted writer. In the margins of her notebooks, she scribbled poems. She had so much to say. She dreamed of finding her voice, of becoming wise and talented and mature like several of the juniors she so admired.

So often, in the cafeteria, she’d sit with her older friends around round tables discussing theology, philosophy, or literature with an enthusiasm rarely possessed by any besides college students. She especially loved watching some of the more charismatic students. How their hands would fly through the air when they were describing the immanence of the eschaton! But, though she enjoyed these discussions, she always felt a little left out. Why was it so hard to talk about the things she was thinking? Why couldn’t she hold everyone’s attention all the time, make them laugh at all her jokes, nod their heads at her insightful points? She sat at the table, and they gave her a place, but she still didn’t feel included. She still didn’t feel important. 

So she decided to try and earn that feeling. When she was invited to events with the older students, she went out of her way to make sure her presence was a net positive. Was there a poetry gathering at someone’s house? She’d make cookies. She’d hand out the music sheets. Hell, she’d even wash the dishes. She’d stand there and scrub like a little Cinderella while everyone else talked. Surely this would make them happy. Surely she’d be invited to the next get-together. Usually she was, but it didn’t make the not-enough feeling go away.

Then one night, she got invited to something that sounded really fun—a study session in the basement of someone’s house. Several of the girls she looked up to the most would be going. They’d talk and laugh and maybe, just maybe, read pages 420-438 of the Norton Anthology of American Literature. She couldn’t wait. When Marissa, the oldest, told her she could come, her first thought was what she could bring. 

“Thanks so much for inviting me! I have some cheese and caramel popcorn back at my dorm. Let me just…” 

And then Marissa stopped her. And Marissa smiled. And Marissa said, “You don’t need to bring anything. We just want to see you.”

A small remark.

A life-changing remark.

For the heroine of this story, the world shifted just a little bit on its axis. What if other people wanted to see her just as much as she wanted to see them? You don’t need to bring anything. She could just show up. She could bring her textbook and herself, and that would be enough.

For years, Marissa didn’t how much of an impact her words had on our heroine. But one day, Marissa received something in the mail. It was a postcard, thanking her for what she’d done. 

And so I (the humble writer of the story, definitely not the heroine) share this story with you, my friend. I can’t tell you anything new, or anything you don’t already know. I can only tell you what I heard. But here it is.

I just want to see you. We just want to see you. The whole world wants to see you. And you don’t need to bring anything—just your honest self. See what happens when you live like that. Watch the world around you fall into balance, just a little more every single day. 

Image credit: Stefan Vladimirov for Unsplash.