Monster Mash

Tonight, a very drunk Kenyan man asked me to bear his children. So...there's that.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

Halloween has long been a favorite holiday. When I was little bitty, my daddy and I would go trick-or-treating together. We tried all different modes of transportation. Some years we drove, some years we walked, and I know there was at least one year in there we went via 4wheeler. It was just straight fun.

Then, when I got home, I would sit in front of the fire place and neurotically sort all of the candy. I don't actually remember sharing, but I'm sure a few Almond Joys went missing when my back was turned. :)

All time favorite costume, though, has to have been in college. Junemore year  I went as a wallflower. Had it planned for months (Side note: One day, for some occasion, I and my significant other at the time will go as a Heroic Couplet. Dress up as superheroes and speak only in couplets. Booyah). Since I'm not big on social gatherings, it gave me a brilliant excuse to be excruciatingly awkward the entire night and it be totally acceptable. I went to far as to lie down and hide in a corner on stage while they were doing some sort of awards. One of which I won and they had to find me. It was truly great.

Tonight, Halloween was spent at Robinson's Pub skaraoke-ing. Yes, folks. That's scary karaoke. Since we've a curfew of 11 (or at least the students do), we got there at 9 when it opened and literally were the party. Others joined later.

I went as cookie monster. Thanks, Forever Lazy!

I know. I've never looked more appealing in my life. It's practically the only outfit I will agree to wear if and when I go manhunting. You know?

(--> Two pirates and two onesides walk into a bar. That's it. That's the punchline. Oh, and the part where literally no one else in the bar is in costume...)

Did I karaoke? Pft. Did I karaoke...OF COURSE.

You see, small groups of people I know, no way. No way no way no way will I embarrass myself. But goodness, you put me in front of a large group of people with maybe one person for support and I will blow your mind with shamelessness.

This evening, that meant very loud, very terrible singing to Ke$ha's Tik Tok while interpretive dancing...in a blue onesie with the hood up...sober. They also announced my name as Jimmy, which the guys at the back mockingly catcalled. People here. No one can say my name.

As if that wasn't good enough, then we got back on the bus where I was soon joined by my Kenyan friend who plopped himself down partially on top of me. 20 minute bus ride, my friends, trying to interpret his strong Kenyan/drunk accent and respond accordingly.

His life goals include lots of children and living out happy days with his family. He thinks his mother would like me, but I better get a move on the children train because she already had four by the time she was twenty-two. He just got out of a long-term relationship, so no strings there. "You German?" Nope! "You look like Russia." Uh...ok! I don't really even know what that means.

(My face at the mention of childbirth: a mix of horror and confusion.)

Oh there's more, but I'll spare you. I may have just missed my one and only opportunity to have mocha babies, though.

Tonight's group:

Comes in Waves

According to Professor Eamonn, there was some sort of minor hurricane off the coast of England this past week. He told me about the weather when he caught my horrified face looking out the window watching us get slammed with rain and listening to the wind screech like a pissy ex girlfriend.

NI is getting the backlash of it all. I would have known this if I had checked the weather.

The thing is, I don't check the weather anymore. In Oklahoma and Arkansas, I always check the weather. It's one of my favorite parts of every day. It's wildly different from one week or hour to another and I can't wait to see if the projected forecast lines up with reality. It's nerdy and weird, I know. But when I move back and you want to know the highs and lows and percent chance of rain for any given day, I'm your girl.

Here, though, it's different. Mornings are very bright usually and pretty lovely to walk about in. Then, around 2 or so, it clouds up, and by 5:30 it's dark. Expect rain and cloud cover throughout.

Because I don't check the weather, I wouldn't know that English waves were to be splashing our streets and skies with that level of force.

Life in the house and life for me has gotten into patterns. Monday mornings are family meetings followed by hours of class and, if we can snag a ride, Bible study. All the rest of the week, I read. Every hour that I'm not out with the students for a meal or something, I am doing my prep work for class. Fridays sometimes, I go on the day trips with the students, but mostly, I read.

Not complaining. I like to read. Always have. I mention it to say that I am settled into routine. Even the insanity of house relationships has calmed. There's no reason to check the weather. The incoming waves take me by surprise.

Practical Christianity.

The realm of Christianity often remains up there in the cloud of happy ideas. You  hear, "Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young," or "Fear not!" or "Cast all your cares on Jesus," but what does that look like?

Do you stand up for yourself? Go jump in front of bullets?

Let's be honest, I'm really most concerned with that last one. Casting our anxieties on Jesus. Taking our thoughts captive. At what point is it just faking it till we feel it?

Sure, in the morningtime, we pour out our hearts to Jesus, ask for guidance and peace and a big cosmic hug, but then you go out into your day. Things haven't changed. All those things that were filling you with fear and anxiety are still there! But you cast your anxieties on Jesus! So you feel as though if you're not joyful and bubbly, then something is wrong. So you do it anyway until you feel it. Obedience, you tell yourself. Acting out in faith, you tell yourself.

A friend of mine (a very wise owl type) this morning was telling me about a situation in her life and ended her little talk with saying, "Honestly, I think it's a good thing [I don't know what's going on]. It's reminding me to be constantly surrendering this to God. This isn't mine to have and control."

Beautiful. Two thumbs up, really. (No, you cynics. I'm not being sarcastic).

But what does it look like? Does surrendering something to God mean you stop trying to fix things by your own means and if it works out it works out? Pray hard? Does it mean you keep working and keep fighting but rely on his strength and guidance to help you get there?

Or at what point do you realize that it's time to let go? Not "let go and let God," but let go entirely.

Bad News Bubbles

Sometimes, in life, starting dishwashers can be hard.

Year to date, I have not experienced this struggle personally, but for others, the same cannot be said. 

This evening, here at LakesideManor, we had..bubbles. 

I was sitting in my bed, writing a presentation, when one of the little cooks knocked on my door and motioned for me to follow her. 

The dishwasher was everywhere. Bubbles and water, everywhere. 

Apparently, one of our sweet students had misunderstood the directions and instead of tossing in a single pre-packaged tablet, she filled the dishwasher container full of kitchen dish soap. 

What's funny is that Abbi and I had just last evening seen a commercial for this particular brand: a single drop to clean a sinkful of dishes. 

Try 1/4 of a cup. 

We scooped, we rinsed, we played volleyball with, and we sponged the bubbles, but lo, they come. 

The battle continues. 

What a Soaking Web We Weave

It started out as a beautiful morning here in Belfast City. So beautiful, in fact, that when the three staffers set out for church, they were donned in dresses and left their coats at home.

The walk to church is a lovely downhill .6 miles. 

When we got to church, however, the gate was locked and there was a car with two men out front. We'd already had a very confusing time change struggle that morning, so we thought it was a possibility we'd completely missed church. 

Nope! Apparently, church was relocated due to electrical work on the school it's held in. They told us to hop in. Not knowing what to do, we stared at one another thinking, "Who are these men? Are we going to be taken? Where exactly is church?" 

Sensing our trepidation, one of the men turned a large sign toward us, informing us of the venue change. So, we hopped in and they took us the distance they claimed was a 10 minute walk. It was NOT a ten minute walk. 

During church, it began to rain. 

We decided against waiting it out because of yesterday's downpour. 

And that, is when we began our journey. 4 miles, uphill, in the rain, with broken umbrellas. 

It could have been disasterous, but we spent most of it laughing at how absolutely ridiculous it all was. That, and I started narrarating (in a strong German accent) our walk as though we were filming a  survival documentary. 

A mere hundred or so yards away from our home, we got stopped and laughed at by some locals for our attire and general state of bedraggle. 

We made it home an hour after our start time, drenched but happy and very ready for tea. 

Passport to Paris

Last weekend, I acted upon my nearly 22 years of complete, blinding obsession of Paris and France (which until just this summer I desperately tried to hide from my Frenchie boyfriend so he wouldn't think that was the only reason I was with him) and set off for my dreamed-of adventure. 

You know those times when you build something up in your head. And then it happens, and you're left thinking, "Man. That was so much better in my mind." This was not one of those times. 

If we're being straight, Paris fulfilled and exceeded everything I thought it was going to be. You cynics who believe that's just because I was determined to love it may go ahead and think that (it may be true), but either way, sparkles, magic, and wonder. 

Paris: The Highlight Reel

Day one, or, rather, night one, we went to The Louvre. 

"Isn't she louvre-ly? Isn't she wonderful?" 

Sorry. I had a moment. Thank you for bearing with me. This is a picture of the whole group. It's a bit blurry, but it's the only one of all of us. 

The Louvre is enormous! I don't know why it was smaller in my mind, but the sucker went on for days. Seriously, I felt like I was at Hogwarts (Harry Potter reference for you culturally unaware). I'd go up one staircase, turn around, and an entirely different area would be behind me. Minus the staircase. What. How. 

Additionally, that was the night of the first Eiffel Tower sighting. I don't have a picture of it from that night, but no one NO ONE told me it was going to glitter! IT GLITTERS. Not just glows. Glitters. We all know how I feel toward glitter. I can die happy now (don't you dare roll your eyes, Noah). 

Day 2. 

After a trip to our bakery that morning (and everybody said AMEN), our wee group of 7 walked down to the Parc Zoologique down the street. I feel as though its name was a little misleading, but it was a lovely little parc with a pond. 

After, we took the metro down to this market (without getting lost, I might add). It was extensive and had both indoor and outdoor portions. My purchases were all along the line of jasmine pants. Since returning, I have worn real trousers all of once. 

The Eiffel Tower was next. (suppressed screams of reminisced excitement). When we came out of The Metro tunnels and turned the corner, allowing it to come into view, I think my heart fell into my stomach (again, you can make fun of me. I am okay with that). 

First view.

Looking up from the second tier

Looking down. :) (Sorry daddy)

How does this not fill your heart with                                                                       sparkles and love? 

I could really just stop the post here. 

BUT I won't because we haven't even gotten to day 3. 

 Okay, I promise it makes sense why we're kissing a grave. This is the grave of Oscar Wilde in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yes, Oscar is actually an Anglo-Irish writer, but, through a series of unfortunate events, he was imprisoned, died, and landed in a Parisian cemetery. For reasons I don't need to go into, Wilde happens to be a sort of patron saint of disappointed love. Therefore, people pilgrimage to his grave and cover it in kisses. This happened so much, though, that chemicals in the lipstick began to corrode the grave. Thus, the screen. We got kicked out of the area just after this picture. Worth it.

Notre Dame just before it began to pour. Disney actually got it pretty dead on. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't humming tunes from the movie while I toured about inside. I took this picture while sitting on the edge of the Seine on a walkway below the street. It's just so beautiful. 

Right over the Seine and just beside the Notre Dame was the lock bridge. This bridge, from start to finish and top to bottom, is covered in locks. Lovers will come, write their names and usually a date on a lock, fasten it--somewhere--and throw the lock into the river. It's very sweet, actually. And also fun to sort through and laugh at the goo (and dumb names) of some couples.

That was my view of Paris. I left out quite a bit and lots of funny stories like how I got chased down the Seine, spoke totally acceptable Frenglish to people on the Metro, restaurants, vendors, and to get directions from people on the street, getting kicked out of playpens in the airport, getting made fun of for my accent on the metro, making friends with strangers, and so many other truly funny and fun memories. 

It was pretty near perfect. Don't get me wrong, I was very ready to come back home and don't feel the need to return anytime soon, but as far as reality vs. childhood fantasies, it hit it home. 

Experiences "Gained": Food in Paris

Every time my sweet nana ree sends a message to me through my mother, she invariably asks, "What kinds of foods are you eating?!"
Potatoes.
And normal food.

So, while I was in France, I kept a food journal for her. Please enjoy.

 First stop: Dublin. Basil, tomato, and brie baguette. Locally sourced and delicious.

Lunch in France. Naturally, I had to get a plate of French fries and, if you give a girl a plate of fries, she's gonna need a bowl of chunky chocolate chip ice cream to go a long with it. 

Dinner may or may not have been thick, delicious hot chocolate. 

 Goooooood morning, France! Chocolate chip baguette from the boulangerie across the street, followed-up by a kilo of grapes. A kilo. No one told me how many grapes are in a kilo of grapes. Abbi and I were eating grapes all the live long day. I may also mention that I asked for these grapes in French.

Lunch was at an outdoor market in the city. Yummy crepe! Crepe, cheese, and egg. It happens to be the lady making it's favorite flavor. I know this because we talked about it. In french. 

aaaaand her husband had me try a roasted chestnut. Not my favorite, but he made for a nice (french) chestnut-related conversation. 

 Dinner compliments of our esteemed patron Billy Stevenson. Rose wine, sea bass, mixed veggies, creme brulee, and champagne ice cream.

 See that lovely outdoor, rainy market? It brought me those grapes, that apple, a fig, and a most delicious apple, fig, pistachio  tart.

We went over to visit the grave of Oscar Wilde, and got a wee bit hungry at the end, mostly due to the fact that we got lost for a long time. The owner of this place did not speak any English. Therefore, he and I spoke some really acceptable Frenglish. 

Tomoato, mozarella, and basilfollowed by chicken and fries and finished of with a creme caramel (really more like a caramel flan). 

After the Notre Dame, we discovered a shop with rows and rows of colored meringue puffs. The one below is a fun mint chocolate

 I'm not even entirely sure of what this is, but it's some sort of flat pastry with chocolate, almond, and coconut.  It was night, and I had the munchies. I finished it off with a few pretty currants.

Cafe au chocolat with a tiny shot glass of water. How else would I end off the day?

Purchased at night for the morning before the flight. Orange and raspberry tarte. And that little brown leaf is a most delicious chocolate name tag.





                                                                      Below is my final French yummy. with most awful lighting. It's a simple croissant. Flaky, dense, and yet oddly light.






So there you go, Daisy Ree. Satisfy all your vicarious food needs?

Doin' It.

Via planes, trains, and automobiles (literally), I am going on a wee excursion this weekend with a group of students.

I'll leave you in suspense a few days, as you try to imagine my navigation disability combined with a foreign city and language.

My childhood country of obsession is finally going to be a stamp in my passport.

I'd like to thank Madeline, Marykate and Ashley, the Disney channel, and crêpes for always being there to support and fuel my stalker-like fascination. You guys have never let me down. *tear*

Hopping a bus for Dublin in a few hours and a plane for France in the morning. Will be off the internet grid until Monday.

Until then, Paris.

Mistaken Identity

The big ole house in which I live used to be a residential home for the elderly (which, to be honest, does not make sense to me considering the unfriendly-to-the-disabled layout). Either way, JBU has only been using the house for a few years.

That means, we often get calls and visits from people who are still under the impression that we've got a load of hip-breakers in here.

Context for story: I have never met Professor Hadden's wife. Prof. Hadden is in his seventies.

The doorbell rings. I go to answer it. At the door is a lovely little old woman. I open the door, greet her, and ask, "What can I do for you today?"

She pushes past me into the house and just starts meandering toward the living room.

"Uhm...is there someone that you're looking to speak with?"
"Are you one of the students?"
"No, I work here."
"Ah. Very well."

Awkwardness continues, as I think she's looking to move in or else try to find a relative. Nope, nope. Hadden's lovely, non-introductory wife.

"The One"

The one who sits and draws anime by herself during lunch period.

The one reading a book in the corner of the classroom and doesn't look up.

The one who walks around the playground singing to herself because people won't play with her.

The one who silently prays that somebody, anybody will ask her to (the) dance.

The one who waits and waits and waits for his name to be called for a dodgeball team.

The one who shouts out smart-alec, mean jokes all during class so people will laugh with him.

The one with the disability who doesn't know people are laughing at him, so he laughs, too.

At one point or another, we've all been "the one." For some people, they've always been the one. Others make a career out of it, allowing it to define them instead of spur them to grow out of it. Others take "growing out of it" way too far and become obsessed with "never feeling that way again."  They become the smartest, the most professional, the most driven. No one and nothing will stand in their way of success.

The sad and ironic thing about those people, though, is that often they become so focussed on never being the one anymore that they buldoze over, belittle, and berate all those under and beside them, creating a hostile environment, creating "ones."

On the other hand, I've known some ones who choose to grow up and grow out. No matter how much they dislike someone, if that person is numero uno on everybody's hate list, continued hatred becomes impossible. Even if that person has previously singled you out for derision, it doesn't matter anymore. Because you know what it 's like to feel the weight of everything and everyone against you, and nobody should have to feel that way. Everybody needs somebody on their team.

Those are some pretty haphazard thoughts, but they've been kind of the theme of my week, thinking about them. No one is what they seem to be, and it isn't fair for me to pass judgement, and it's not okay for me to ever make them feel as though they are unwanted or unloved. I don't know what's really going on in their lives or why they behave the way they do. And it isn't my job to know. It's my job to love them, no matter how hard that can be sometimes.

Bus(ted): The Struggle Continues

Transportation systems and I.

Today the struggle only seemed to be bus related. Morning class today, so I headed out to the bus stop to catch my 9:24. No 9:24. No 9:34. No 9:39. No 9:45. Praises and praises when the 9:49 came.

In the bus, I composed what I would say when asked why I was late: "Uhnm. Well, professor. There were no buses." *imagined puffs of incredulity*

The reality? "Proessor, I'm so sorry for my lateness. There were no buses."
                               "Oh no worries! Bomb scare on the A2 again. I only got here 5 to 10."

I know what you're thinking. Bomb scare?

Right? And that excuse totally works here!

Because, normal. My lunch date on Saturday was nearly an hour and a half late to get me because of a bomb scare on the M2. They're kind of recreational here. They're all viable devices, but they're not usually set to kill, just set to annoy. Really.

And then there are the times, like last Monday in East Belfast, that there are dumpsters in the road and the cops just think it's a bomb scare. So you may be driving down the road, go past the trash, see the road is closed ahead and cut off by cops, turn the car around, and see as swarm of black-clothed storm trooper looking fellas flooding the area to remove the "threat."

Oh Belfast.

Other bus noteables from recently:

• Bus takes a look at the group of 22waiting for it and continues driving. 
• Bus decides to ignore the "stop" button and passes stop for house. 
• Bus doors close as I, breathless, make it to the stop. Yes, I ran from the English Department. Wearing a backpack. You may laugh. I know what that mental image looks like. 

Bus tips: 

• You see your target bus, you hail it like the Queen of England. 
• Check news headlines before waking up unreasonably early to catch a lift.
• Avoid the night bus at all costs. 

The Day Blank in the Planner

Starting early my Junemore year of college, I observe the Sabbath.

It may have begun a little earlier than this, but I really committed to it through a project at JBU's Honor Program. Once a month, they would have Sabbath Sundays, based on the ideas in a book of Dan Allender. 

Allender's goal in his book on Sabbath is to dispel the notion that Sabbath has to be this boring, staunch holier than thou experience. Rather, he explains to Christians that Sabbath is meant to be a time of rejoicing and in celebrating God. It's a mandated time for joy. In theory, that sounds awesome. In practice, not always awesome. 

My two favorite events of the program were the week that several professors brought their children (I'm a little baby crazy and was missing my nieces and nephew terribly) and the event I helped run: finger painting. Actually, that second one is a really funny story involving rain, a wet and brakeless bike, consequent wet jeans, a tornado, and a subsequent date. 

Anyway, I read Allender's book and did some thinking. My personality is very task oriented. I can get a little controlling and workaholic. Okay so maybe a lot of those things. I decided to do it as a spiritual discipline on a one-month trial basis. 

I spent one of the days dead asleep, another lying outside in the grass, another reading a book for fun, and yet another in Tulsa, seeing my niece and nephew. After that month, I was hooked. Only missed one Sabbath in all this time. 

That doesn't mean I get excited for it. Often--especially during finals--I dread it. I dreaded it all this week, actually. 24 hours I can't do homework?! I have important things to get done. I have places to go, people to se, drawers to organise (actually, confession. I once did that for one of my sabbaths. I love it. I know it's weird). 

The thing is, no matter how much homework I had, how many meetings I had to schedule around it, how overwhelmed I was, I have never once missed a deadline or had to fudge a paper because of Sabbath. Not even one time. Every week, it all got done in the end. And, every week, my mind was clearer and calmer than if I had spent the whole day getting things done.  

My thoughts on the subject currently are because this is a Sabbath I didn't want to come. Actually, I remembered it right in the middle of a phone conversation and was filled to the brim with dread. I'd plotted out exactly how much time I would need to accomplish my work by Monday and am now 24hours  short of that initial projection. 

But I slept and I showered, answered some friend emails I'd been unable to, am going to lunch with a friend, am blogging, and a whole lot of time thanking God for making rest in him a rule. Even my "rebellious spirit" (which, I will tell you I've heard my mother pray against for my entire life) finds it hard to build a solid case against that. "No, I will not rejoice in your beauty, creation, and joy! Bah humbug!" doesn't sound all that convincing out loud. 

So, if you'll excuse me, I have a letter to write. 

Storehouse Citings

Storehouse:
A huge part of my church is a ministry or, rather, ministry chain, called Storehouse. Everything from food to clothing to debt management to job hunting strategies to Friday church to New Christian small group. Everything. And I'm sure there's stuff in there I don't know about yet either. Either way, the whole network is incredible and it's picking up steam around the city. Where at one point they used to have to call up churches and businesses to try to find partners, they now receive those phone calls.

Well, last night, Shelby and I went to the "family meeting." All the different branches come together at the City Centre Storehouse building to share stories, drink tea, pray, and worship with one another.
It was also an opportunity to listen to Pastor Alan's heart and perspective on the ministry.

A few quoteables/paraphraseables:
"Our ministry is less about the alleviation of poverty and more about the restoration of dignity. I don't want to lead something that's functional. I want to lead something that celebrates others."-Pastor Alan

The team believes in honoring one another. Honoring under the definition of, "treating someone as specially uncommon. Finding their uniqueness and calling it out."

The ministry, while Christian, isn't out to make new Christians. It's not a "pound for a prayer" kind of deal. Instead, they seek ways to build relationships, hoping that in those interactions, those who come will see Jesus in the ministry workers and want in on the secret.

Pastor Alan: "Jesus didn't call us to pray a prayer. He called us to make disciples."
And, shortly after stating that, Alan continued with a thought I've been munching on. He reminded us that even though he's been a Christian for 25 years, he still screws up. But we forgive him. We give him grace. Because being human and being Christian is hard. However, when we see a new Christian back at the bar or back in their respective sin, we're discouraged; we're disappointed.

Why?! "If after 25 years, I'm still not getting it right, how do we expect new Christians to have broken countless years of sin habitudes overnight?"

We can't, is the answer. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to hold one another accountable, but that does mean, in the words of Tom Harrison--Pastor of Asbury United Methodist--that we should rather "lower our expectations and raise our commitment."

//

Meanwhile, in Research Methods...citations.
No, not the naughty kind that I could get a good story from or have to pay a ticket for. Internal citations and work cited pages.
Today, the English and Languages MAs had a little get together over a heart-warming powerpoint and three hours worth of manual citations. We paired off into groups (have I mentioned lately my sentiments toward the words "break off into groups"?), were given sheets of paper with information, and set free to cite, cite, cite! On foreign keyboards that type "/e" every time you want to have "E" and where the heck are the quotation marks?!
My partner? Could smell my American-ness from a mile off and claimed to be from "Michigan." I honestly thought she was joking and told her so by way of accent evidence (I'm actually getting pretty good at accent naming). I could focus on nothing else until she said the words "Russian boyfriend" about an hour in. Zingo.
They did, however, give us coffee and biscuits. It's hard to hold a grudge against someone handing you a cookie. Or three.

Sometimes lowering my expectations has to extend to my academic life.
I raised my commitment (to WB Yeats and Flann O'Brien) here today:

The McClay Library. Second floor. Shelf PR 8899.O and I are becoming quite close. 

In Memoriam

I want to tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, I was a very small sort of person, and I had two very best friends: Sarah and Shelby. I actually don’t have any memories pre-SS. We were inseparable. Sarah and I were inseparable.

These two girls had two great-grandparents, named Nolan and  Ilene or, more affectionately, Papa and Momo. The three of us spent lots of time with them. Even after I didn’t anymore, I knew of how much time the girls spent with them from talks after church with Papa and Momo.

You see, life took some nasty turns and left Sarah, Shelby, and I in very different places. At Woodlake, every single week before I’d leave, I’d find Nolan and Ilene to hug them, tell them I loved them, and ask about the girls. Every week, Ilene would respond the same way by taking my hands in hers, looking at me with her deep, blue eyes, and telling me to pray for “our girls.” It undid me every time.

The beautiful thing was, though, that no matter what was going on in Sarah and Shelby’s lives, no matter how hard and hurt they were, they were still sweet and soft with their great-grandparents. They inspire gentleness.

They were also the kind of couple who still held hands to walk to the car together. It’s a little thing, but it’s a big thing. After more than fifty years of marriage, they still held hands to walk to the car.

When I left Woodlake and when I moved to Arkansas, I worried constantly that due to my desertion of my church and my estrangement from my friends, I wouldn’t ever know if Nolan and Ilene had died.

This past Christmas break, I felt it all through me that I needed to find them and visit. I made some calls, found the nursing home they’d been moved to, and didn’t go for days. I couldn’t do it. At the very last day possible (honestly, I think it could have even been the day I went back; I don’t remember), I went. I think I spent the whole time crying. My heart burned with every sort of emotion. Missing my friends, wanting them to come back to Jesus, seeing Nolan and Ilene reduced to nursing home state, everything.

Nolan was pleased as punch that I’d come, and he remembered me. Ilene was so near death that she couldn’t speak or move. We just looked at one another, and I held her hand and told her how much I loved her. She died a month later. My ma saw it in the paper.

Her funeral was a most redemptive experience. Jesus has done incredible work in Sarah and Shelby and, for a few moments, it was as if nothing had changed between us at all.

This summer, I felt the same sort of pull to go back and see Nolan. Again, I couldn’t make myself go. The day before I left for Ireland, I finally did it.

It was downright fun. When I came in, he was struggling to get energy enough for shoes, so  I sat on the ground, took up his feet, and slid them into socks and shoes. After, he tapped his feet like a jig and started “yippie-kay-ay”ing. Ready to run the Boston Marathon, I’d say.

We looked up at the picture of him and Ilene on his wall, the one that looks so much like Sarah, and he told me how they’d skipped church right after they got married to have that photo taken. He told me how much he missed his sweetheart.

We talked about a lot of things and laughed together and I could not get over how totally sharp his mind was. As a former counselor/professor, he was thrilled I was headed in the same direction. “But of course that makes sense! You’re one of my girls. You got it from me.”

When I kissed his cheek on my way out, I told him he better wait for me to come back. He said he had no intention of waiting that long for his heavenly reunion.

Just before I woke up this morning, I had a dream that I was in my mama’s bed, and she came in to tell me Nolan had died. I woke up instantly and checked my phone. I had a FaceBook message from Sarah. Nolan hit his head yesterday and went to go be with his sweetheart and his sweet Lord.

God is so good. He orchestrates the patterns of life so perfectly and with so much grace. I was able to say goodbye to both my adoptive grandparents before they left and have closure and redemption with Sarah and Shelby.

But, more and better, Nolan and Ilene lived to see their great-granddaughters come back to Jesus. That, is the very best. 

Trailblazing or "What She Will"

I promised stories of folk museums and friendship.

Nahhhhh. The folk museum a walk-through of thatched roofs and green grass and my friend date was fun and involved shakes. mmm.

From the left: Shelby (house cook 1), Lynsey, Abbi (house cook 2) and Lauren

What you want to hear about is horseback riding through the Irish countryside. On Saturday morning, a group of the students and I (7 of us in total) set off via bus and bus transfer to the northern town of Armoy. Our destination was Shean's Horse Ranch.

Save Shawn, none of us had ridden a horse in around ten years. In addition, we had all ridden western style. I, not being a horse person, didn't realize that there were two styles of riding: western and English. I mean, I'd heard of English style, but in my mind that entailed side-saddle...

So there we were, on our enormous creatures, without a saddlehorn in sight. My horse's name was Flo. Flo was hands down the most ginormous of our entire group. She also had the personality to go with her size. If I were to think of her as a person, I would say that she was very much like my Grandma Daisy Marie. She won't necessarily tell you what she wants, but she sure ain't gonna take instruction contradictory to her own ideas. And if you catch  her at it, she will feign innocence.

Flo stood dead still when I urged her to walk, trotted when I wanted to "woah", and turned in the opposite direction of the group when I tried to steer her. She also fancied a wee stop and snack every couple of minutes (also similar to my sweet grandma. haha).

In response, I figured I'd just let her do what she wanted. "Go with the Flo" if you will. And, excepting for the times when my instructor realized just exactly who was in control of our relationship and tried to put me back in charge, the plan worked. Flo and I made it safely from trail beginning to trail end, traversing creeks, crevices, and craggly paths alike.

Flo's ears and the trail ahead

Flo and I along the path less green

The group

On a separate and final note to this post, I have officially been here a month. Aller anfang is schwer: all beginnings are hard. I found that in Maria VonTrapp's autobiography, and I thought it fitting. Although the same is true in English, it feels fitting in German. Both are complicated and a bit ugly.

The beginning was hard. There's no getting around it. And, though I'm still in the beginning, it's changing. I'm making friends, I'm getting involved with my church, I'm in classes, I'm starting to breathe and relax, I'm becoming able--through the grace of God--to accept and even enjoy life here without my loved ones. Each day brings along with it a new set of different, but I'm becoming less afraid and less defeated by those changes. That only leaves room for thankfulness.