Aging.

I am eighteen.
I can make the above statement for thirty-four more hours.

Eighteen is safe. Eighteen is me. Eighteen is The Youngest, which I usually am (and which I love).
It's bad enough being prematurely serious, but nineteen? For the first time in My Personal History, I feel too old.

My schedule tells me that my birthday will consist of taking two finals (New Testament and NT Field Trips) and then spending the evening at the Western Wall, which makes for good personal essay fodder, if nothing else. I've been there so often it almost seems routine. That isn't to say I don't love the place, though. Nowhere else in the world can you find an open-air synagogue where dramatically dressed Orthodox Jews bang their heads on Herodian stones.

Life here is so much better than beautiful; I can't believe my four months end in nine days. It's all so surreal--I live in Jerusalem. I love the friends I've made. Though it's cliche, I can say I've honestly changed. I am more fully an adult, in the best sense possible. I came to Israel as a hardcore young professional. I leave with more balance, spiritually, physically, intellectually, and socially--and maybe just the tiniest added measure of grace.