In the fall of 1972 I was eagerly anticipating a new chapter in my life. I would soon be heading off to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln as a freshman – five hours from home. Pound Hall, Room 818 had already been assigned to me. Even though some of the students coming in for their first year requested to room with a friend or an acquaintance, many students allowed the university to pair them up with someone and this is what I chose. Getting to know (and living with a stranger) would be a good experience in my new chapter of independence.
Sometime during that summer, letters were sent out to future dorm residents, informing us of our soon to be roommate’s name and address. We could now correspond before the actual face to face encounter. My roommate would be Margaret from Roca, Nebraska. I grabbed the map and located it – a small, rural town just south of Lincoln. We exchanged a letter or two, waiting as patiently as we could for responses. (It was a day or two before computers and email.) I tried to picture what Margaret might be like. Was she tall? Was she blonde? Would she be bossy? Would she keep her side of the room tidy? Would we get along? We did discover through the letters that we both grew up in the country – Margaret on a farm; me on a ranch. But most things we wouldn’t know until we met and developed a relationship.
July and August seemed to drag, but eventually the day arrived when both Margaret and I bid our families goodbye, promised to write, and headed to Lincoln. Margaret was already setting up shop when I arrived late in the afternoon.
“You must be Margaret,” I said as I plopped some of my belongings on the mattress across from Margaret’s already neatly made bed. (I chopped this up as a good sign that Margaret was not a slob.)
“I am,” she said as she started to chuckle.
I was a bit unnerved as to why Margaret was laughing. I hadn’t done anything except to introduce myself, but it seemed as if that was what tickled her funny bone.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but I had it in my head, that with a name like DeLila, you were either going to be black or very sexy.”
Having never thought about this, I was caught off guard, but only for a minute. “I suppose that means I’ve surprised you and you don’t consider me either one!” I put on the best downcast face I could muster. She realized she may have offended me but when I started to giggle she chuckled more. The ice had been broken and we began a journey of friendship which deepened through that new chapter of our lives.
I have not seen Margaret in decades but I still laugh when I think how she had formed this preconceived idea about me. How different it is with God, who knows everything about us from our very beginnings. He, after all, formed us in our mother’s wombs. (Jeremiah 1:5) He knows the number of hairs on our head. (Luke 12:7, Matthew 10:30) He knows when we sit and when we stand. (Psalm 139:2) Before we speak a word, He knows what we will say. (Psalm 139:4)
I find it comforting to know God knows me inside and out. I have no need to explain to Him (except for my own benefit) why I feel like I do – He already knows. And whether or not those thoughts are admirable or not – He continues to love me unconditionally. (1 John 4:9-10.) There’s no one that knows me (or you) like God does. That should make cultivating a relationship easier because half the work is already done. It’s now up to us to pursue God and learn of His character through the scriptures and the Holy Spirit. Once we’ve taken that initiative there’s no end to where the relationship will go.
Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.