Grieving My Identity as a Professor: Letting Go of Books Amid College Closure

This piece was originally posted on September 9, 2024 on Facebook and before I started this substack. I’ve written about the things I’ve learned since this piece was written here: To Those Who Come After: What I Want You To Know If Your Christian College Closes.

From September 4, 2024

I stood in front of my shelves, hundreds of books staring back at me, each one a chapter in my story as a student, professor, scholar, and daughter. As Eastern Nazarene College closes its doors, I’m left to sort through not just books, but also the memories. So many of these books can be accessed digitally. I don’t need many of them. My head knows this, but my heart is really struggling. 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞?

The closure of Eastern Nazarene College is like a dark cloud over me, especially as I stand in the office I’ve called home for the better part of eight years. It is a space that was occupied by so many gifted scholars before me!

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐨

My faculty colleagues and I are feeling the urgency of the September 27 deadline to clear out our offices due to the college closure. This is not just a logistical challenge for us as college faculty, but an emotional one. 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞? Yet here I am, left with the impossible task—deciding which books to keep and which to let go.

These precious books are more than just tools of the trade. They tell the story of my love for learning and teaching. Each one holds memories of guiding students through spiritual formation and helping them develop intercultural mindsets. They also reflect the experiences I created to teach them to listen and appreciate those different from themselves.

With the help of a colleague, I decided to create three piles: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩,” “𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭,” 𝐚𝐧𝐝 “𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐟” 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬.

𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞

Every book I place in the “let go” pile feels like both an act of closure, a sigh of relief (because a decision was made), and a prayer for the strength to keep going. The shelves are slowly emptying, but my heart is heavy with the thought that “𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬.” The deeper part of me knows that I’m not just deciding which books to store until the shelves are built in our two-bedroom condo.

There are books I know I can let go of easily—Plato’s Republic, a textbook on statistics.

Then there are books like Brian McLaren’s 𝘈 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯, which I read while traveling through Tanzania on a Youth in Mission trip. There’s Christine Making Room: 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, which I read at a Benedictine retreat house in South Korea and which showed me the relationship between hospitality and reconciliation. Anne Lamott’s 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘥, which I read in an airport in Cambodia, planted the seed for my writing journey. And John Paul Lederach’s 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘐𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, which sparked my dissertation. All of these go into the not sure yet pile.

I keep getting stuck, staring into the distance, unable to make a decision. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦. Half of these books on Christian spirituality I inherited in the last 10 years, passed down from retiring mentors and saints of the church who have since passed on. 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠?

Then it hits me—I’m not just sorting books. I’m also sorting aspects of my identity, deciding which parts to keep, which to let go, and which I’m not sure about yet. What parts of my life as a professor do I hold on to?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬

This fall, I was supposed to guide freshmen through spiritual formation, lead conversations on intercultural dialogue during a divided election season, and teach the delicate art of bridge-building in world religions. These weren’t just 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. And now, standing in my quiet office, surrounded by books that have witnessed my journey, I’m forced to reckon with the fact that this chapter is ending. The impossible question is not just about the books—it’s about which aspects of my career and ministry I want to keep and which ones have served their purpose and can be released. Unsurprisingly, the biggest pile is the “I’m not sure yet.”

Outside my office window, I hear the birds chirping and the wind in the pine trees. The usual hum of students and faculty in early September is gone. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨—𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. The relationships I’ve built with my colleagues, sitting on my IKEA office chairs and talking with students about faith and purpose, the creativity that flowed through the classrooms—it all feels distant now, like something I’m grasping at but can’t hold onto.

While walking across campus this week and passing the Student Center, I had the same feeling I had when I returned home after my father passed away—expecting to hear his voice but only finding silence. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.

𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭

Each day this week, I’ve sorted through a few more books, but the process remains slow and exhausting. Some days, it feels as though I’ve made little progress, but I remind myself that 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞. Each decision carries weight, and I am learning to honor what each choice means.

Before I leave, I pick up a book that I’ve used for years in spiritual formation classes. Its 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲. Letting go of this book feels like letting go of those moments of transformation, of the students I guided through their first steps of spiritual growth. Yet I know I can’t carry it all with me. Some things must be left behind, not because they’ve lost their meaning, but because 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝.

As I close this chapter of my life, I realize that what I’m truly letting go of is 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐲—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐦𝐞, even as I step into the unknown. I may not know exactly what comes next, but I trust that by releasing the past, I’m making room for something new. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬.

P.S. Humanisaverb is like a classroom. I’d love for you to join me. I help people tend to their soul through spiritual formation so they can transform conflict within themselves, with God and in their relationships.