I am astonished by the pages upon pages I’ve written for school papers that only one pair of eyes usually ends up seeing.

One time in my undergraduate, after writing a 15 page research paper, I randomly inserted a sentence two-thirds in that said, “If you’re actually still reading this, can you make note of it at the end?” To my amusement, (and embarrassment,) sure enough, the professor wrote, “nice try, I read it all.”

My desire to know that someone is actually reading what I write gets to a core human issue of futility: Does anything I do really matter? If I write myself onto a page, will I be engaged? Will I move anyone? Do I trust that if I’m real when I write, readers will actually enjoy what I have to say?

I sometimes buy into a myth that suggests that everyone else’s lives are invariably sexier and more purposeful than my own. Who would want to read about my life? Speaking from my own experience, to share my own story, no matter how tragic, mundane, or uncool it is– it’s risky, to say the least. Of course there are others who can write, review, and photograph better than me. And yet, I believe that offering small portions of my life to those who desire to read, shows us something of our dignity, humanity, and value.

I have an artist friend who puts her “in process” and unfinished artwork on her blog. Some galleries prefer that their artists don’t present their work in this medium, because in their eyes, it creates a diluted version of the real thing. Which leaves me asking: “what is the real thing?”

I think my artist friend is on to something: it’s about where we are in the process of this thing we call life– When I blog, what I offer is raw, unpolished, and in progress. This is what I’ve found: people are moved.

Jamie is a recent graduate from the Counseling Psychology program. She blogs and shares her photography regularly at her personal blog.

In the novel, The Giver by Lois Lowry, one young boy named Jonas can see color in a world of people who can only see in black and white. He is isolated and lonely, stuck in a situation in which he is unable to share his gift of vision with those in his life. Much of the time, I feel like Jonas.

Often, it seems as if I am stuck trying to communicate to others what red looks like when all they can see is another shade of dull grey. I often wonder, what is it that keeps people from seeing the colors around them? Is it laziness? Fear? Are they just permanently incapable of seeing more than they already see?

It can be so difficult at times, to see beauty where others only see boredom, to feel passion where so many seem resigned to passivity. I long to strive towards a life of intensity, but it seems like most are content to live lives of indifference.

In The Giver, the other people in Jonas’ life were incapable of seeing color. Through a combination of desire, fear, and genetic engineering, it was simply impossible for anyone else to see more than they did. Is it similar in this world? Is seeing the world well a unique gift? Is it something that only certain people can do? If so, it would seem like those who can see are doomed to lives of isolation.

My suspicion is that in reality seeing well is both a unique gift and an acquired skill. There are certainly people who can see better than most. The greatest art, whether it be novels, paintings, films, poetry, song or whatever else, is the result of people who see some aspect of the world clearly and can articulate that vision in a unique way. Their vision is a special gift. Yet, when the rest of us are willing to encounter that vision with an open mind we can learn to see in new ways ourselves.

In my life, especially in my time so far at MHGS , I am surrounded by people who have learned to see in color. Some see colors I have enjoyed and cherished myself for a long time, while others see colors I had never imagined before these remarkable people taught me how to start seeing them for myself.

Each of us, when we see something which strikes us as meaningful or beautiful, should share that vision. It can certainly be painful when others refuse to listen, when the people we attempt to share with stubbornly insist that the world is devoid of color, or perhaps only painted with colors already familiar and comfortable. Yet, this pain cannot keep us from trying to offer the world a glimpse of how we see, and hopefully, to do so with grace and humility, understanding how difficult it can be to learn to see in new ways.

Somehow, blogging is one outlet I have discovered for offering others the colors I see all around me. It is a way I can share the way I see things, hoping to offer the gift beauty gives to me as a shared gift for others to appreciate. My hope is that people might be blessed by the things I see, but that they also might learn to see in new ways through what I write. I also hope they might respond, thus offering how they see things to me so that I might learn to see in new ways myself. It’s part of the beautiful mystery that somehow, imagination and clarity of vision multiply exponentially when they are shared with the imagination and vision of others.

Scott Small is a second-year MDiv student at MHGS. He blogs regularly at Gloaming and Dawn as well as The Other Journal . Scott loves to have deep conversations about movies and culture and their impact on the church.

The word blog is incredibly nuanced in my opinion. It doesn’t hold a single meaning, but rather layers upon layers of meaning, all depending on the content.

Food blogs. Celebrity blogs. Dog blogs. Stop blogging about your dog. No, but really. Stop it. Ending personal angst: now. Mom blogs. Art blogs. Travel blogs. Gossip blogs. If you can think of it, there’s a blog dedicated to it somewhere.

But my favorite blogs have little to do with content; it’s almost always the context to which I’m drawn. It’s when the writer shows up, when she brings herself. It’s when I can sense her sitting behind her computer somewhere, allowing herself to be fully present in her words. If authenticity seeps from every letter, then I’m hooked. Maybe he’s writing about preparing his favorite curry dish, the detail of each ingredient, the colors and how the smells take him back to that particular day when he was 15, and his mother was teaching him how to get a feel for just the right amount of spice. Or maybe she’s telling a story about when she was driving up Highway 101 on the coast, taking in the breeze, stopping every few hours to take snapshots of the ocean. And she knew that the photographs couldn’t capture what was happening at that exact moment, but they would always stir up the memory, and that’s what she wanted to preserve as much as possible.

I’m a sucker for a good story, and even more so if the author is present in his or her words. Likewise, if the author seems absent, or if the words feel contrived, then I become absent as a reader. But if she flows authentically through her words, then it doesn’t matter what she writes about. I want to read it. It’s through the experiences of others that I often learn about my own. As a human, I have a deep need to relate, to feel another’s presence. I want to know that I’m not alone, that others are in it as well, even if their story is very different from my own.

Mars Hill Graduate School has taught me what it means to be fully present, or maybe more honestly present. I have learned what it means to take steps towards true presence. Yes, I’ve written papers, read books, and given presentations with the goal of getting a degree, but my hope from all of these things is to become a better man, to have meaningful relationships, and to love well.

It’s been the students, my friends and peers, that have taught me the most. They’ve inspired me to strive to be authentic in every endeavor, whether it’s blogging, graduate school, or having a good conversation with a friend over a cup of Seattle coffee. I am learning to be comfortable with myself, to be honest and vulnerable, and to value others more deeply as my time at Mars Hill Graduate School continues. I am here for a degree, but I am also here for so much more.

Joshua Longbrake is a 2nd year MDiv student at Mars Hill Graduate School and a photographer who posts his images and writings on his personal blog. He highly recommends having a cup of Zoka Coffee when you visit Seattle, Washington.