This is the one-year anniversary reflection I posted on my community's blog today (thanks to Jillian for coining the term "mercyversary"):
One year ago we embarked on this crazy journey called MercyWorks.
I don't want to say it was weird to see next year's class after the Opening Ceremony last night, because I knew they were coming. But it was still strange knowing some chick named Kathryn is sleeping in my bed with my school house quilt. It's a little unsettling when you think of the 13 of them, wandering around the living room and kitchen, not knowing half the stuff we got ourselves into in those two rooms. I absolutely don't like thinking about these kids using stall one, or the kitchen bathroom.
I know it happens every year, and I'm sure the year before us felt much the same way, but as much as I am glad to be out of that apartment, it doesn't mean I want other people there. It's going to take some time to get used to referring to ourselves as "last year's MercyWorkers" and knowing that we are no longer the apple of Mercy's eye (were we ever? some might ask....).
On this Friday in August, I miss begging people to cook me breakfast, trashy TV on in the background, shower parties, writing notes on the white board, and the way my closet smelled.
I don't want to say it was weird to see next year's class after the Opening Ceremony last night, because I knew they were coming. But it was still strange knowing some chick named Kathryn is sleeping in my bed with my school house quilt. It's a little unsettling when you think of the 13 of them, wandering around the living room and kitchen, not knowing half the stuff we got ourselves into in those two rooms. I absolutely don't like thinking about these kids using stall one, or the kitchen bathroom.
I know it happens every year, and I'm sure the year before us felt much the same way, but as much as I am glad to be out of that apartment, it doesn't mean I want other people there. It's going to take some time to get used to referring to ourselves as "last year's MercyWorkers" and knowing that we are no longer the apple of Mercy's eye (were we ever? some might ask....).
On this Friday in August, I miss begging people to cook me breakfast, trashy TV on in the background, shower parties, writing notes on the white board, and the way my closet smelled.
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