I will cry.

I have memorized corners and crannies - library couches, classrooms, chairs, benches, picnic tables, seats of concrete, bleachers, tile floors, streets - and have impressed them in my mind as important with my laughter, have surrounded them with my thoughts, filled them with my words, and stained them with my tears.
I have watched the sun come up with another heart that beats in time with mine; with another pair of eyes that have beheld me beautiful above other parts of God's creation have I watched the sun wake and stretch across millions of miles to a split highway and a tree-lined campus.
I have sung alone in joy underneath the stars on a bench that also once held heartbreak and disappointment, and I have sat before a fountain in furious, angry prayer, clenching my fists around my pride and embarrassment, and refused to let them go.
I have been kissed and I have been shunned in the same exact spot outside a mail room; I have memorized a touch on the back and etched into memory the first time I really knew why people usually don't have serious conversations in the daytime - so that you can't see into their soul through their eyes, as I have.
I have lounged in the sunlight and grass with a good book or a cell phone or a friend, and I have huddled in a corner, hidden from the winter night, waiting on a ride bound from College Station.
I have shrunk in a desk seat, hoping the person who just walked in the room would not see me (even though he walked in purposely to see me and make sure I was okay).
I have skipped down sidewalks, skipped class, run across (and sat on) roofs, danced down hallways, walked hand-in-hand through buildings, and been scared to death of someone speaking through curtains late at night on a stage.
I have stressed over, failed miserably, and completely aced tests, quizzes, papers, presentations, oral exams, and all other manner of academia, all the while knowing that what really matters are the things I learn and remember after the tests are done.
I have walked outside on a rainy day and whistled happily; I have trudged to class in bright sunshine while hiding my tears; thus, I have learned that the weather makes a difference in your mood only if you let it.
Likewise, I have learned that situations, like weather, only make a difference in your outlook on life if you let them.
I have listened to and sung music that really matters in a chapel, and have shed countless tears there, draining myself of emotion.
And sometimes, I have had no emotion at all, and have watched in surprise as another, who once embraced me with love and acceptance, has eyed me with fear and asked me to apologize for things I wish I could have actually done and apologized for, just so she would heal.
I have taken too many walks to count, both engaged in conversation and silent.
And the silence has not been exclusive to solo walks.
I have looked back on friendships and relationships that altered who I am and laughed and cried because of how they began and inevitably, ended.
I have walked through these memories, wondering how I ever thought I had a boring day in this place that has made me experience happiness, irritation, belonging, anger, contentedness, joy, learning, depression, hopelessness, grace, surprises, excitement, thoughtfulness, prayerfulness, and self-control.
I last sat alone on the top-most step of the empty chapel sanctuary, merely looking around at the loft, at the windows, at where the chairs and organ should have been, at the dusty and dented floor, at the ceiling, and at my feet. I smelled the scent of history that thousands of people have given that building, listened to its calm silence, and wiped my finger along a brick windowsill, looking out at the world through a multi-colored glass confection of Biblical symbolism.
I will cry when that building comes down. Not because it is the chapel, but because a chapel represents what my school has been for me and so many others: every building, every lawn, every bench was a chapel, every word a song, and every person a pastor. I find it incredible that God works through such a broken place as the lower corridor of IH-35; the "dot" next to UT; "the baseball field next to the highway"; "the small private school"; or, as I like to think, a place which explains a few things, gives me more questions to ask, and sends me out into the world to find God and show Him to others.
But however incredible I find it, I still find it. God is there.
I will still cry when the chapel comes down.
But it's not like any of you aren't used to me crying.
It happens quite often.