The Collector

I've always been a collector.

When I was around eight years old, I painted a little latched box at a Vacation Bible School program. I do not remember the original purpose of the box, but I do know that I painted it haphazardly with bright shades of blue, purple, and pink. I decided I would use the box for a grand purpose: collecting parts.

I was convinced that if I collected enough small pieces, that I would eventually have everything I needed to one day save the world. I filled the box with springs, a dead battery, a piece of string, the insides of a pen, and other baubles. 

In high school I became very dedicated to my Christian faith, and I took prayer and devotion seriously. I started a list—a list of collected names of people I would pray for. It started with members of my family, and then my friends. I collected names of acquaintances and classmates. On vacation at Myrtle Beach, I even began collecting strangers. I added "girl with polka-dot umbrella" and "baby named Johnny" to my list. I added descriptions of wait staff at restaurants and souvenir shopkeepers and strangers walking along the pier. 

I collected so many names, so many people, that my notebook and soul became heavy. I was dragged down by the weight of it, by the responsibility. 

What if that shopkeeper who sold me my coral-colored shirt was diagnosed with cancer because I forgot to pray for them? What if that baby was involved in a car accident because I went to bed early without my evening talk with Jesus? 

It was too heavy. Too much. 

So I stopped collecting. I threw the notebook away and felt the world closing in around me as that pressure that I had placed upon myself enveloped me, pressing down and down and down. 

The names echoed in my skull, in my bones. Whispers, tendrils of shame and guilt that weren't mine to carry tethered themselves to me like an iron chain. Nothing I could do would ever be enough. I would never be enough.

I stayed in this state for a long time. I believed that if I opened my eyes during a prayer that I would curse everyone being prayed for, so I kept my eyes closed tightly, though I peeked occasionally (and was then crushed by guilt). Every time something went wrong, it was somehow my fault. If I could just be better, do better, then the world might be better too. 

Slowly, I pulled myself out of the darkness. I studied and reflected and adopted a new worldview—one centered on peace, goodness, and controlling only what I can control. I focus on my intentions and their consequences but know it is not my responsibility to "save" anyone. No one's future depends on my good faith. No one's inevitable end is caused by my lack of due diligence. I'm free. Light. And believing this, coming to these conclusions, felt like coming home. Like I finally had a chance at true peace. 

I still collect. But I don't collect responsibility, and I don't pool and spill names onto a page. I listen, and I gather stories. I grow in empathy, not responsibility. And along the way, I think I collect little fragments of myself that have been buried, silenced. Glimmers of the person I'm meant to be. 

I will keep collecting until I find all of her.