Girl Next Door

Or restaurant...

I get a lot of creepy. No, that's not fair. Let me try again.

My restaurant (and I assume many slash all restaurants) get a lot of lonely people. They don't always seem lonely; in fact, a lot of them seem like pompous, arrogant pricks. However, they are overcompensating for the truth that no one really wants to go out to lunch with them.

Along this vein, I get a lot of single men at my tables. Being a young woman, many of these men (after asking me how old I am) make passes at me. Some women find this creepy, find them creepy, and sometimes it  can be, don't get me wrong. However, more often than not, I just end up feeling sorry for them.

Allow me to lay it out for you in my line of thinking. These middle-aged, single bachelors are willing to come to a restaurant and literally pay for someone to spend an hour or so talking to them and taking care of them. In that hour, that woman is required by threat of no-tip to be gentle, kind, indulgent, sumptuous, and smiley. She also comes bearing food.

And you do this because normal woman don't. You don't have somebody at home who thinks your  jokes are hilarious, your small-talk brilliant. You don't have someone who will make you food. You don't have someone period.

 I'll take your tip, sure, but then I go home to my family and my best friends and my wonderful boyfriend and live my life. And you, sir, will go home to yourself.

That is how I live with myself in my position of low-grade prostitution. I am not your groveling servant. You need me just as much as I need you. Shoot, you need me more than I need you. I'm so sorry, sir. I'm so sorry.

Learning to Love

When I first started my job, I felt this overwhelming realization of just how much darkness and lostness there is in the world. People don't realize it, but we see how you interact with one another, we hear your conversations. We know you're lonely, fighting, joyous, on that  first date, on that 1635th date, hate your kid, hate your husband, can't get over how much you love your husband, are cheating on your wife, are hiding an office relationship. We know.

And my coworkers. Before I started, I decided to find something good about each one of them. And I have. I truly love each one of my coworkers and managers. I think they're wonderful people and good at what they do. But you all just don't see how much your chirpy servers drink and smoke and cry about when they leave or how much yelling and attitude happens back in the kitchen on your behalf. You just don't.

Gentlemen, ladies, your words have power over us. Regardless of how your day is going, we are going to treat you the best that we know how. In return, though, we are often treated a little better than dogs by you. You cut us off, you snap your fingers at us, you poke us with your forks, you are quick to tear into us if we make the slightest mistake.

Which brings me to my point. At every moment in every situation and location, there is someone who could use encouragement. It sounds cliche, but you just never know what's going on in someone's life, so treat each person as though they were Christ. It doesn't matter if we will never see one another again, did I behave toward you as though you were someone worthy of love? Did you treat me as though I had any value in your eyes?

I'm not attempting to change the world through waitressing at a mexican food place. That doesn't mean that I can't pray my way through each interaction and hope I leave in my wake the aroma of Christ, without giving you a card or even telling you that I'm a Christian.

"Where's Home for You Anyways?"

Last night, as I was running my checkout with my  manager, he asked me, "So, where's home for you anyways?"

I said, "Here."

But I didn't mean it. On the drive home, I thought about his question, and I think my answer isn't "here," but more along the lines of, "What is home anyways?"

I wrote sometime during college that I felt like a nomad, and it's still true. My point of reference and the place where I will always think of as home is in the house where I'm writing this. Not Tulsa, necessarily, but in this home. I will always have a secret pleasure in driving up the hills and through the fields and past the big blue wall to get to my wonderful, wonderful home and family.

And my body is here right now, but this still isn't home.

My heart is in Arkansas.

I went to college there, a few of the people I love best are there, my church is there, my academic self found an outlet there. But it was my college home, and college ended for me. So it's not my home anymore.

Then I'm moving to Ireland, and it will be lovely and adventuresome and everything good and wonderful. But again, it will only be a year. Not my home either.

Then to Denver for another degree. Still not home.

So, folks, am I meant to redefine? Or am I meant to continually wander with my heart in five different places at once?

"Where's home for you anyways?"

My heart is playing in the pool outside in my backyard and in the mountains with Haley and in Stillwater with Caity and in Houston with Kira and in Siloam with Noah and Abby and Becca and Maddie and JBU and First Pres and in Belfast with Queens. That's where.

What I Know.

The first thing many writing teachers will tell aspiring (or not aspiring) writing students is to write about what they know. This has meant different things to me at different times. If I would have been asked to do so (and I was) last summer or any of the summers before, I would have written about lifeguarding.
or being a student.
or a publishing intern.
or an aunt.
or a daughter.
or sister.
or dog-mom.
Currently, though, "what I know" is mexican food and being human.

I waitress at an extremely popular mexican restaurant in the town I grew up in. As an introvert, I was actually more anxious at the idea of working this job than I am about moving countries in September. However, by the Grace of God and the need of money, I have overcome that for the most part.

The best part of waitressing is that there are no wholly bad days. There are bad tables and bad interactions, but one good tip or one kind family can honestly make everything better. I have had every extreme of people from black to white to indian to christian to very nonchristian to creepy old men to darling old ladies and couples.

This serves as my preface, and it comes with no sour cream or guacamole on the side, unless, of course, you'd like to add some for an upcharge of 2.29.

I spoke in chapel. Listen if you will.

9//5/12

Sometimes in life, there are moments of absolute certainty. 

For a handful of people, this comes when they “hear” God’s voice telling them what direction they need to turn.

Others, like my Grandma Ruth, have their moments of absolute certainty when they are in the market and have taken their broom-straw to test melons. And find one. 

My most recent moment of certainty was when I realized, in my distractedness, that my dress was completely seethrough and my underwear were shining straight through. This, and I had already been publicly out and about for three hours. I was certain that it was in the top twenty-five things I wish I could do differently. That or the moment I stumbled over my words and accidentally told my male professor “good cock!” instead of “good talk!” 

It’s in these moments that, in your absolute certainty, you learn more about who you are as a person. God hearers get direction for their life, Grandma Ruths get to prove their half-baked theories when a beautiful red shows itself in a watermelon. And people like me are reminded once again that “cool” will never be my middle name. 

9/3/12-Powerful Things

• Big words used correctly
• The answer “no.”
• The answer “yes.” 
• a smile from an attractive stranger 
• listening to whipporwhils in summer
• sitting on the kitchen floor with a best friend and ice cream
• bike rides
• affirmation, sticker charts, and a star from a professor. 

7/1/12-Following Vs. Pursuing

When it comes to living the Christian life, there are two routes you can go: following Christ and pursuing Christ. 

Both are headed toward the same goal. 

But, I assert that they are two entirely different activities. 

When you follow someone, it is as if you are blindfolded being led through a room full of mousetraps (a horrible, horrible activity that I’ve had to do on many occasion due to various leadership retreats). You have to move, but you have to move based entirely on faith, on trust in your leader. 

Pursuing is like being a hunter. You have a plan. You know what you want and you have plotted out the ways that you can go to get it. You’re all prepared with your gear, your “spot,” and your plan for what to do once you get it. A plan designed by you and followed through by you. You focused. And, while you may refer to hunting books or buddies for guidance, it is, ultimately, you who calls all the shots. 

Do you see the difference here? I am a controller. I like to know where I’m going and what I’m doing and I like to be in charge of myself. This flows over to how I relate to God. But that doesn’t leave me much room to be surprised by joy or for faith to be a pillar. 

So, instead of pursuing God and righteousness, I am going to start this summer following the path of righteousness, led by God. 

6/30/12-Flower Child

But if I’m noticed, I’ll have to go.

If I’m spotted, they’ll cut me

                stem from feet

                put me in a vase

                twist me beautiful

                make me useful.

I’ll be conquered.

     A prize.

        Silent.

        Stoic.

    A symbol of supremacy

    over those who wander well.

But maybe

 in this quiet corner,

  they will pass me by.

And I can sing here, soul in chest

          swilling in the sun

           and watch their languid little girls

           twirling, having fun.

(J-me Odom)  

6/29/12-Secrets to the Workout of a Century

Step one: go to the lake with your entire extended family
Step two: wake up before the rest of your cousins
Step three: go jetskiing by yourself
Step four: go to middle of the lake.
Step five: make sure engine battery dies, thus stranding you
Step six: unsuccessfully attempt to flag down help
Step seven: start swimming. Don’t stop.

Yes. I know this from personal experience. It took me 2.5 hours until I received divine intervention. My body is now akin to jello. But it was fun.

6/29/12-Living Out of Forgiveness

I have felt very convicted about something this summer. And it’s a thing that I was very convicted about during the school year as well, but in a different sense. Then, I was merely convicted to seek out the forgiveness and to forgive those who had wronged me/I had wronged. Now, I am convicted about the way I have lived my life afterward .

You see, when you forgive someone, the responsibility then becomes yours. You no longer have a reason to be angry or resentful. Because you have forgiven them. 

Because of that, the way that you speak about and behave toward that person should be markedly different. 

Mine has not been.

Even though I am no longer angry, I continue to speak in a vile manner with anyone who brings up the subject. Why? Because I am being sanctified; I am no saint. Although I strive toward righteousness, it is very easy to engage  in sick human pleasures such as gossip. Sometimes because it is the only way that certain groups of people can find to relate to one another: through trashing a common enemy. 

To quote Relient K: “I’m part of the problem, I confess. But I gotta get this off my chest. Let’s extinguish the anguish for which we’re to blame, and save the world from going down in flames.” 

Christians, such as myself, ought to be characterized by our love. Not by this. 

6/28/12-Ode to Old Ways

Spongy grass reminds me of everything.

The smell of sun lit air.

The taste of mud pie made under the oaks of my front yard.

The swirls and whirls of each individual toe print left on hot cement.

My brown, brown skin.

Sprinklers.

Cut bits of green sticking to my ankles

until coming to their watery end in the skimmers of the pool.

My playground.

My land of adventure where I was a mermaid.

Always in distress.

And always rescued by

Autsin.

My neighbor. My buddy. My comrade of

Imagination.

We were dogs, ninjas, jungle swingers, married.

We only quarreled when I tried-and succeeded-to be the boss.

I’ve always wanted the power.

Now that I have it, I can’t give it back.

All I can do is try to forget my summers of freedom

And that spongy, green grass.

6/27/12-Working Girl

Hot and sticky.

She peels her thigh off the sun-whipped chair and

sucks her upper lip into her mouth.

One wetted hair curls, slinking around her throat.

If I lie here long enough maybe she’ll assume I drowned

and rake those fingers through my Mediterranean muff

to clench my pex and grope me to life.

I would call her Helen if she’d let me, yes.

Protectorate of cement seas, burning sacrificially. 

(J-me Odom) 

6/26/12-First Drafts

Some books make you feel lovely.

And small.

As if you understand everything and nothing all at the same time.

It is with those books that we change.

That a little bit of us is altered.

All because a verb or

a particular adjective combination

hit us just so in between two particular vertebral plates.

Because you don’t get the feeling that the author put them there.

You get the feeling that they are, in and of themselves, alive.

And in that moment,

that indelible moment, that missable moment,

your soul can meet them and survive. 

And for all the other moments missed,

you stare up into the pages of old books lined up on a shelf.

Because they remind you that,

while there aren’t ever going to be just the right phonemes for life,

there will and always have been those who are willing to risk the chase

6/25/12-The Family Stone

Because maybe you’re like me.

And you’re looking.

For a clue. A connection. A dot to make the picture clear.

And all you find is a grave.

In it buried all the secrets of the past.

Mysteries long forgotten by all but you.

So you sit in the shadow of the looming headstone

And darkly dream of the kisses and bad hair-as and ouchies and reveries

That lie so closely underneath you.

You sit. And you worry that someone will know.

You sit and you worry that someone won’t know.

That you’ll fall in love with a speeding car

And careen into this fresh dirt,

Guarded by lilies and pale green shale.

A meditative garden ponders with you,

Concerned for your fate.

So lay to Rest this quest for a Haven of blood.

You won’t find what you’re looking for. 

(J-me Odom)

6/24/12-The Home

I wonder what it would be like to bite.

These gums can only gum themselves to numb.

Phantom juice from meat between my teeth.

The nutrients I need come through a tube.

I wonder what it would be like to bite

the nurse who comes to turn me on my side.

Her clothes are soaked with smoke from cigarettes.

Immobilized I cannot flee the stench.

I wonder what it would be like to bite

straight through the only cord that keeps me live.

Maybe I would shock my nerves awake

long enough to crunch the thing I crave.

Food used to make me squirm in fear and fright.

Ironic now that all I want’s a bite.

(J-me Odom) 

6/11/12-Gravity

Gravity

pulls us closer to Earth.

But more than that.

Gravity pulls us closer to ourselves.

Neurons weigh down in a bed of veins and capillaries. 

Logic and passion get squished together

until we can’t find one completely bare of the other. 

Gravity falls us.

It crashes tears to shirts—

ours or somebody else’s. 

It yanks on arches in contact with concrete.

It sucks your heart down into your belly

-when you find out what you didn’t know

-when you almost run a red light in 5 o clock traffic

-when you walk in at the wrong time. 

Gravity does not manage grief.

Gravity pulls grief into your lungs to sit,

have a cup of tea, 

and stay for a snatch, 

totally oblivious of the time gone by. 

J-me Odom (5.14.12)

5/31/12-Adventures in Ireland: Waters of Life

There were three stops on our trip today: the rope bridge, Giant’s Causeway, and Port Stuart. 

The rope bridge was not something that my father would ever desire to experience, although it truly was not as bad as I was anticipating. It held out over a crevice in the rocks above crystal clear blue waters, there was even a seal on a rock! Once across, you were atop a large rock-islet of sorts, covered in lush green, green grass. I climbed down to a little ledge overlooking the water to lean back into a wall of flowers and watch the waves. Needless to say, I could have stayed there forever and  been perfectly content.

Next up was Giant’s Causeway. Legend has it that this world wonder (comprised of hundreds of thousands of rocks in the shape of almost perfect pentagons) came about when two giant brothers fought, ending in one brother smashing the Earth with his fist. Others claim that it is, more rationally, caused by some freak volcanic accident. Personally, I think the Giant story is both more rational and closer to the truth. :)

At Giant’s Causeway, I made my way down over the slip-slidy rocks to a thin stretch of pentagons extending into the water. There, I swirled my fingers around in small tidepools of creatures like living shells and these funny little red bush looking fellows that suck your fingers lightly when you poke them. Having satisfied myself with these pools, I stepped out onto the farthest edge to watch the water. The ocean has, for all my life as I have known it, been my favorite sight, smell, taste, feel, and sound. In it, I feel all of God. In it, parts of myself and parts of Him make sense to me. So I stood there, with the clean, cold foamy crests crashing about my ankles and knees and the salty mist tingling my skin and talked to Jesus. A good long talk about life and all the things that I’ve done wrong and all the ways that I love Him. And I made promises. Oaths of love and commitment and dedication to whatever plans are in store for me that I am not yet aware of or comfortable with. It was a beautiful hour. 

Finally, we stopped by Port Rush to be stupid Americans at their finest. Although the locals were taking dips in wetsuits, we jumped on in the loch wearing athletic shorts and tank tops. For five minutes. Everything was right about it. Everything was wrong about it. 

Two more days here in Northern Ireland. Two more days to learn and grow and be stretched in very good, very Irish ways. 

5/19/12-Irish Adventures: Remembering Titanic

How many Americans can say that on the day of the hundredth year anniversary of the Titanic, they were in Belfast, Ireland, at the birthplace of “The Unsinkable Ship”? Not many, I’d think. But this girl can!

One major thing struck me as I moseyed about the Titanic museum with my new friend Flo (I adopt strangers. It’s rather a fond hobby of mine). Belfast makes a huge deal out of the Titanic. In fact, they erected an entire center of town for it, complete with tours, coffee shops, and a museum, all for this. At first, this all really bugged me. Why on Earth would you celebrate something that is such a point of shame? Yannic, my host parent, answered me by saying “well it wasn’t the Irish that sunk it.” And that’s true. Building the Titanic reignited the economy of Ireland for a time. It was a ship built with hope, commissioned with hope, and sunken with broken dreams and broken bodies. 

More than that, though, there were thousands of letters aboard the ship. Millions of words, commas, sentiments, questions, and propositions were lost to the depths of the sea. How many family members, business partners, and loved ones never received word that they so hoped for? And in the end, there was silence. Silence for years. It remained a rather quiet affair until the major motion picture came out. 

And that’s another reason Belfast is blowing up with publicity. They exploit their connections with Titanic to a world that has heard a beautiful love story. It is no longer about the ship or the real event. We’ve turned a tragedy into something we can market. And I can’t decide whether I should be in awe or be ashamed. But at least it is remembered, no?

5/13/12-Irish Adventures: Wandering Well

It is common knowledge (at least to my tweet followers) that I frequently get lost in forests. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. Often. 

yesterday, I got lost in the best way. While in Tollymore Forest, a friend and I decided to travel up dried-up waterways. It was a lovely choice. It took us through yellow and purpled meadows, across a stream, to a well-hidden staircase cut into a hill, and through to a mossy archway dated back to the early 1400s. It was in this forest that C.S. Lewis got his ideas for Narnia. It was in this forest that Tolkein imagined his living trees. And it wasn’t hard to see why. These trees breathed with us, invited us along on our journey to discover life and creativity and magic. 

When we stumbled upon a log cabin and a farm (not part of the intended tour) we decided it was time to find the main path again and book it back to civilization.

We then went on to Newcastle. It was here that I got to walk along barefooted on the shore of the Irish Sea. Despite the chilly whip of the wind, the water was warm and inviting. Madi and I tripped along, periodically tossing our shoes farther onto shore with the swelling tide. I found some beautiful shells, almost stepped on a crab, and seriously considered going European and taking a skivvy-dip.

I did not.

It was a day of unscheduled time to wander and wonder at lovely places.  

6/11/12-irish Adventures: Cultural Castles

Today we went to Carrickfergus Castle. It was absolutely, amazingly beautiful. Built out on a rock face that overlooks the sea, it has access to fresh water through a well, the smell of salt in the air, and strong, long-lasting walls.

Not only was it created in the 1100s, it continued to be in use until the Belfast Blitz during World War II. It has been almost perfectly preserved and even the cannons that are out and about are originals. Dungeons, the chapel, the death hole, the poop chute, we saw it all! (Death hole? Near the entrance. Used to drop acid on enemies from the room. Poop chute? Literally a shoot cut into the side of the castle that they pooped out of and it dropped out of the castle.

As I was there, I couldn’t help consider the reality of this building. How many people were real and used this? We see it as some sort of fairy tale, but they saw it as a safe haven. It protected them from foreign siege, it was their home. Or they saw it as a source of fear. It symbolized war or it was their dungeon or it was the place they took their last breath as they died by acid.

It’s not a trinket or a photo-op. It’s so much more. And how often do we parse apart reality into something “cute” because it’s easier to handle? How do we avoid that? And is it okay?

5/16/12-Irish Adventures: Lessons in Silence

We went into the city in silence yesterday. silence as in we weren’t allowed to talk. at all. for four hours. I’m an introvert, so this wasn’t that hard for me at all. I really enjoyed the time that I got to spend just thinking and reading and journaling and watching the people here.

and there’s something that I noticed.

It wasn’t weird. The culture actually encourages this lifestyle. The Irish weren’t at all what I expected: loud. They are passionate people, but speak when they need to. They don’t just run their mouths like we Americans do. They think with depth and clarity and come out on the other side with something intelligent to say. And with what lovely accents do they say it. 

I don’t really want to leave at all. Not because I’m one of those people that freaks out in love with what is different. I actually am usually strongly opposed to what is different. I don’t want to leave because I make sense here. My personality type is actually normal and understandable. There are other people who think like me. And it is not hard for me to understand now why so many writers escape to here. They can hear themselves and they can hear the silence. You can’t hear silence where I’m from. It’s a lovely place, but it never stops. I think it may be because we’re all afraid of what we’ll hear when we do.

5/8/12-Irish Adventures: Stories of Love

Today I met a very lovely gentleman named Hadden. He drove us very safely on the wrong side of the road (to me) from the airport to our garden manor on Finaghy Road South. 

While we drove, he told me of his life, how he’s seen poverty beyond compare. But a proud poverty. A poverty in which the people are excellent and generous stewards of the little they are given. He told me of the workshops he teaches on sexuality. Of the pastor in Ukraine who asked the question of what it looks like to love your wife just as you did in your youth. 

Then he told me of the first time he saw his wife. How he saw her at church, wrote to her to meet him, was afraid she wouldn't show, and how ravishing she was in her fitted royal blue coat when she did show. Though she has aged, that is the woman he still sees. 

Then we departed and our group went to a park. And I was struck with the overwhelming recognition of the beauty and creativity and coolness of the God we serve. There were trees three times the length of my arms that moved like slides, like elephant trunks along the ground and up. A rabbit-sized opening led to a cavern made of trees, with the ground sprinkled with pink petals. To quote one of my favorite books, it was "lovely beyond any singing of it". There are reasons that Europeans love Europe so much. The earth is enriched with culture and history. You feel the ages under your feet. In those large, respectable trees I can’t help but imagine all the years of couples picnicking underneath, carving their names, children climbing, growing older. There are stories upon stories of love, of loss, of life.

This is a land of impossibilities and adventure. 

5/3/12-Goodbyes Without Promise

The human experience is one that I don’t think I will ever understand. I do, however, recognize so many parts of it as overwhelmingly beautiful. One of the most dichotomous aspects of it is the idea of saying goodbye. Parting is not, in my opinion, “such sweet sorrow,” as Shakespeare so put in Romeo and Juliet.

Parting builds anticipation of the next sweet moment of reunion, but it does not breed hope. When you part with someone, there is no promise that you will ever see them again. And, if you do, there is no assurance that they will continue to play the same role in your life as they had done previously. In some cases, this is a lovely thing. A friend becomes closer (separation makes the heart grow fonder?) or you recognize the importance of a family member.

More often than not, though, dear friends fade out. I no longer think I fully agree with a former blog post of mine, however. I said that this loss was akin to sand being washed away, no trace. But there is a trace. There is always a trace. No matter how short or how long or if it is gone forever or if it will come back, people leave traces, they leave marks.

The simple knowledge that a person such as them exists is enough. One conversation may start a mindful revolution. One person can change everything about another’s life. And there is no limit as to how much you can grow and change and discover. That is the beauty. That is the only sweetness I see in goodbyes.

When you formally bid someone goodbye, you sit back, reflect, and collect in your thoughts all the reasons that you love them, all the good things that you’ve learned. We often take the presence of others for granted, but we never take for granted a goodbye.

6/21/12-I am Enough.

Lately I’ve been doing a lot of introspection about the idea of success.

How does what I verbalize as my definition of success compare to the definition of success that my daily living gives? 

Because the two are different.

On the one hand, I give success as following Jesus wholeheartedly, throwing people’s opinions to the wind, and loving others well.

On the other, I find myself constantly careening toward some high end goal that, really, I don’t even know what it is. I make “career moves.” I choose the “right friends.” I time manage, write the best papers, dress well, make a good name for myself. For what purpose? 

What are my real intentions? 

Because I want to “succeed.” Because I feel as though I would be better if I were more like the person that I am striving to be. 

What this says about me is that I find myself lacking. The thing is, when you’re in that place, that sweet spot of “right,” you won’t be lacking at all. It’s when you try to jam yourself into the persona of something else that “you just don’t fit in.” It’s not that they won’t accept you or that you don’t fit in. It’s that you’re meant to fit best somewhere else. And something about your personal definition (or at least mine) won’t allow me to let myself fit. 

Because maybe I won’t be associated with the “popular” or “most spiritual” people on campus. Or maybe because I won’t end up doing something that will make me well-known or something super spiritual. But what I’m finding more and more is that some of the most spiritual experiences come through some of the least obvious spiritual places. Because that’s just how cool God is. 

Recognition is responsibility. Recognizing that I am not fitting because I am not meant to means that I have the responsibility to follow my real position. 

and fully grasp and recognize that

I am enough for me.

And I accept who I am and what I am here to do and who I am here to do it with. 

6/14/12-point of No Return.

There are two-ish more weeks to this semester. 

I have taken to a survival-only instinct. 

My idea of being social is sitting at a big table in the library. 

Friends tell me I “shovel” food into my mouth at meals. Shovel. Then run. Back to my boyfriend…the library. 

I haven’t seen my roommate in over 8 days for more than 20 minute segments of time. 

My blood has to taste like a latte from the amount of coffee I’ve been ingesting. 

I get panicky if my planner isn’t within a few feet of me. 

Eye of the tiger: I will survive. 

2/2/12-Nehemiah and Why I'm Reassured

Today’s reading was from Nehemiah. 

I didn’t want to read Nehemiah. I didn’t feel like it applied to me. I don’t really have a reason, I just had a very strong aversion to starting it. However, I had just finished Ezra, so it just felt unfair to Nehemiah to leave him hanging. 

Good choice. 

Here are two of the things that I have thus far encountered.

1. The walls were rebuilt…twice. Both times met with great opposition, but both times God intervened and miraculously brought about the restoration of Jerusalem. Only to be torn down again. Why? God doesn’t need proper walls to know the hearts of his people; the walls are for the people to understand the heart of God. 

2. Everyone, from the son of a local ruler to the gold smith, pitched in to help. Everyone. That includes daughters (the daughters of Shallum to be exact, and these women carried swords. Fierce, fierce women of God). All members worked on their own sections of the wall. Everyone worked together: building, repairing. A reminder that my section of the body, of the wall, isn’t the only one destroyed. A reminder that we are all constantly working out our salvation, allowing God to make repairs and renewals. We rebuild as a community, even though enemies attack. And sometimes we take turns keepng guard, watching over those who are building, helping defned them from all evil, from attacks. And when they finish, we switch. There is a balance, an equilibrium. We are never alone. We are all part of the soma, the body of Christ. Hallelujah. 

1/8/12-Nomad.

I feel as though I live between two worlds. 

I have my life at college and I have my life at home. At school, I am completely responsible for myself. If I don’t wake up on time, I will miss whatever it is that I had scheduled. If I don’t turn in assignments, I will fail and will fail alone. My time no longer belongs to me alone and my social life is varied. Every night is a sleepover, and I absolutely love the place I hold in my respective groupings. 

At home, I am a daughter, an aunt, a little sister, and a granddaughter. I play the roles that each title entitles me to. I am dependent on my parents, have to tell people when I leave the house, and have a living room and a kitchen. I am very quiet here, able to spend hours and hours reading and being alone. Almost every evening is spent with my three best friends. 

But I am not a permanent fixture to either place.

I never fully unpack.

I would take that over having to grow up any day, but the reality of it still baffles me. I cannot fully belong to either. Persephone must have felt similarly. Neither my home nor my school are akin to Hades, but the general basis is the same. 

I have one more day of peace and freedom and unscheduled time until I return back to discipline and paper grading and very thin walls.