I stumbled upon a black, worn-out North Face backpack during the fall semester of my freshman year at Bethel. I’m pretty sure it was found on the side of the road, but at this point, I can’t actually remember how it got from there to room 407 in Edgren. All I know is that the second that backpack was on my back, adventure was on the horizon.
My backpack has been with me for almost four years now. It’s seen a lot. Like my summer in Costa Rica after freshman year—hiking volcanoes, taking Spanish classes, falling in love with social work, jumping in puddles while it rained and eating an impressive amount of McDonald’s ice cream cones for the U.S. equivalent of $0.49 each.
This beat-up backpack held my computer with all of its Spiderman and “BU” stickers on its case as I wrote 26 papers during finals week December of my sophomore year (would not recommend getting super sick and falling behind). It also held my camera when I disguised myself to photograph my best friend Madi’s engagement right after we returned from our road trip to Colorado for spring break.
Junior year, Anna Kristin and I tied matching pink bows onto our backpacks that we found at some random Bethel event, so our bags were no longer completely identical to 80% of Bethel’s student population. This was the year my backpack came with me to my social work internship. It was present for the silent prayers in a public school, endless listening and desperate hope as I helped children through things that most 80-year-olds could never imagine experiencing.
This fall, I got the news that I had torn my ACL playing soccer. From then on, my backpack became my closest companion as I adopted two crutches and lost the ability to carry things in my own two hands. My backpack weighed on my shoulders as people stopped to talk to me, ask about my knee and then continue on with their lives, while I just wished I knew what was going on in mine.
On the floor of my room in Bodien in late January, my backpack watched me lift my right leg for the first time since my December ACL reconstruction surgery (what an accomplishment at the ripe age of 21, am I right?). It witnessed my first steps re-learning how to walk, my tears and my heartbreak as I mourned losing my ability to dance and cartwheel and kneel to pray.
At the end of February, my backpack came with me to say goodbye to my Mormor (a Norwegian name for “grandma”), one last time. It’s what I grabbed my Bible from when no other words seemed to help with grief. And it’s what sat there as I read Psalm 23 –my grandma’s favorite chapter— over and over again.
At this point, some of you are probably thinking, “Jeez, Mikiah, it’s just a backpack. Maybe try and make some human friends for a change.” But don’t worry guys, I promised my mom I would try to make at least one friend before I graduate. I think it’s safe to say she’s proud of me.
In reality, I never actually asked for this backpack or the experiences that have come with it. It just showed up one day in my life. And the more I think about it, this backpack starts to remind me of life.
I’m about to walk (or limp?) across the stage in Benson Great Hall in less than a month. Crazy, right? As I prepare for this “journey” across the stage, it reminds me of my four-year journey here at Bethel. Countless memories of pick-up basketball with Elsie in the gym, late night Taco Bell runs, random road trips to find the northern lights, sick days spent with Madi on our couch, weekly omelets with Maren in the DC, learning lots and loving big and laughing loud—all the things that just showed up in my life the day I drove onto Bethel’s campus with a car full of my belongings.
My experiences weren’t what I expected. I didn’t always ask for the pain or the learning or the hardships. But I also had no idea I’d be blessed with so much joy and growth.
It’s been almost four years with my tattered backpack. Its straps are torn, the small pocket’s zipper is broken and I can’t ever figure out how to actually wash it fully. Maybe that’s TMI. But every time I look at my black North Face with its little pink bow, a smile comes onto my face. This backpack has lived life, and so have I.
