SmallTalking and Gnashing of Teeth

End of semester banquet for the students was this evening.

It was a truly lovely event held at the Ramada. Everyone cleaned up purdy for an evening of commemoration of a wonderful semester together.

The top photo is of the staff, the one on the bottom left here is with Chuck. He kept me laughing and hugged throughout the semester. I'd come out of my room from several hours straight of studying and at the point of weep-laughing, and he'd look at me and just open his arms. A few weeks ago he told me that everytime he sees me, he knows there's always a 40% chance that I need snuggles. Goofy guy. His "friend" has a good catch in him.

The second photo there is with Erynn  Lasse. At the first of semester, every time she'd walk in the room, I'd think to myself, "Oh my good Lord, that girl is tall." Turns out, she always thought the same thing about me. It took us until mid semester to realize we are exactly the same height. Her heels in this picture are higher than mine. Let me tell ya, it is really, really nice to have a tall friend.

Seating was arranged. I was positioned between four trustees and four best friends.

The trustees closest to me were one an old man with severe hearing loss and an old woman who was so soft-spoken I couldn't hear a single word she said.

Now, you may not know this, but when I fill out resumes, "small talk" is not something I add to my strengths section. It's so bad that my roommate sophomore year literally gave me small talk lessons each evening before she'd let me go to sleep. Laugh, please. It's funny, but it was invaluable.

Mostly tonight, I concentrated on looking pleasant and smile when spoken to (because I couldn't hear anything anyone was saying to me over the din).

The sweet couple really wanted to talk to me. Impossible.

My favorite moment with him was when he told me about his son. He'd talked about him for a while, so I asked various questions, leading to:

"So, how old is your son?"
*man outlines '78' on the table and says* "that many is how old I am"
"Oh. Okay. Wow. How old is your son?"
"Oh! The titanic district opened only about a year and a half ago."

At that point, I gave up and answered with feigned revelation about a year and a half ago being the anniversary of the ship sinking.

The whole evening, I channeled Lauren Ware, smiled, nodded, and tried to bury the completely panicked  introvert inside me trying to escape to the nearest corner.

I am fairly convinced there is a special ring in hell requiring an eternity of alcohol-less/tranquilizer-less pleasant small talk.

It made for great story telling and big laughs later on with the students. Awkward small talk in the moment could not be more painful, but oh my goodness, save up several stories and pull them out of your pocket for the perfect ice breakers later on in life.

Stop. Collaborate and Listen.

It's that special time of year! No, not Christmas. THANKSGIVING!

My all-time favorite holiday. It used to be a close runner-up to Christmas Eve, but since we've grown out of our old Christmas traditions, Thanksgiving has taken its rightful place at the top.

Every year growing up, Chon and I would watch the Macy's parade for hours, then he would...well...I don't actually know where he would go, but I would get changed (usually more than once. Jansie usually called my first attempts "homeless") and ready for the day and help the women in the kitchen.

Mashed potatoes are only right one way. Once they are in mountain form, a spoon forms a crater, a slice of butter goes in, and a dash of paprika sprinkles across the top.

My food roles are cranberry sauce and stuffing. My stuffing recipe is absolutely incredible. The cranberries, though, I never get exactly right. It's a delicate art, cranberry sauce.

When she's there, Krissy joins me in our joint role of table setting. We are in charge of putting ice in the cups. That's it. It's a lonely job without her. There's nobody to hide escaped ice cubes under various table toppers with. Or roll eyes when my mother or aunt cracks a joke about finally letting us in on the family secret recipe for ice cubes. (One day, we'll get that recipe...:))

From there, it's just a mess of singing, people, food, getting trapped at the table (literally), games, pie, mass naps, food, rifling through the black friday ads, and maybe a drive down to Utica Square for Lights On.

The very best part of this tradition is the way my family collects people.

I don't remember a single Thanksgiving where I was related (or knew) everyone at my table. Friends, family, friends of family, teachers of family, random college students with nowhere to go, random church members with nowhere to go, etc. And for that one day, they are my family.

Today, we had Thanksgiving Irish Style with a few splashes of home.

The Macy's Day Parade was on all afternoon, the food was everywhere, and gathered around the table were friends, family, and a stranger. The students, who have become my friends and family; Hadden and Betty, who are a very sweet and sparky older couple who look after us and are also like our family; and Naomi, who is a friend to me and a stranger to them.

And the very best thing happened. All this was good and well, but I received two phone calls that made my day. Two of my brothers FaceTimed me. I don't know. It seems like a silly thing to care so much about, but being remembered is a big deal to me. I met my nephew Superfly for the first time (met is a liberal word for staring at a phone pointed at a sleeping baby) and got air kisses from two of my nieces. Here's a silly, unclear screen shot of my oldest brother and his family.

Jansie, too, has sent me various pictures from the day's festivities. It's a quiet year for the Odom's. The siblings are due for their Thanksgiving with our family next year, so this year was just my ma and daddy, my aunt and uncle, and my sweet grandmother.

Check out my mother's impressive edible arrangement (she really has quite a gift. At my graduation, she made my face, nosering and all).

What am I thankful for?

1. My full handful of nieces and nephews. They completely changed my family and my life. They're so itty bitty, but they've made such a dynamic impact. One they won't ever completely understand. I love them with my whole heart. And while I'm at it, I'm thankful for the technology that allows me to be a part of their lives even while I'm so far away.

2. My family. My brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. I'm sure everyone has a wonderful family, but mine...man. Lord has blessed us.

3. I am thankful for a God who forges unlikely relationships between unlikely people and gives us the grace to break and grow with one another as we pass in and out of seasons in our lives. Freak accident friendships. The three I have in mind are with Haley, Caity, and Kira.

I know the top one's blurry, but it captures us perfectly. Always in motion. Always laughing. Always doing something ridiculous and silly and fun. Just fun. And yet, they are the first people I go to when I need to talk through matters of the soul. These pictures in particular are taken in Haley Nelle's room by her boyfriend who met all of us simultaneously. That's how we like to do things. He survived the vetting. We kept him. He's a good one, David is. 

4. I'm thankful for my amazing college friends, professors, and mentors who continue to impact my life. Rabbi, Tracy, Abby, Becca, Peter, Adam, Maddie, Anna, Carli. I'm sure there are others.

5. I'm thankful for change. Like the change of me living here, the changes of family additions and marriages of my best friends, the changes God is making in my own life.

There is no need to make a specific number for God. The rest of the list simply doesn't exist without him.

To close this incredibly long post, I leave you with the song we sing around our Thanksgiving table (hands held so nobody sneaks food. Grandma...):

Father, we thank thee. Father we thank thee. Father in Heaven, we thank thee

*Cue male family members attempts at prayer and successes at tears.*

Love is Not a Feeling

I'm a really big fan of Myers-Briggs personality types. It's actually one of my hobbies to watch people and try to guess their letters.

I am an ISTJ. A sensing, thinking, judging, introvert. It suits me pretty well. Famous ISTJs include a whole host of military leaders such as George Washington, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Stonewall Jackson. If you're not picking up on this, I'm not exactly a gushy gushy feeler. I'm logical.

Feelings are important, but feelings (and feelers) are also often mislead and driven by their emotions.

Love is not a feeling. Love is a decision.

Sometimes, it can be both, and that is really lovely, but being dependent upon some will of the wisp emotionalism to decide important relationships in your life is not okay.

I bring this up to (once again) talk about the Lord.

He and I are taking life one single day at a time right now, and to be honest, I'm having a pretty difficult time here in NI. Learning a lot, not mourning my losses, but just ready to go home and feel like I fit and belong somewhere.

I've written about that a lot, the concept of "home." I don't know where mine is. The home of my childhood will always be my point of reference, but my friends have moved on from there; Arkansas was my college home, so it's already altered from what it was when I was there; Here is home in location and home in practice.

For me, give us this day, our daily bread is give me an exact measure of fortitude to stand up under this day.

If my love for God were feeling-based, we would be on the outs right now.
But it's not.
It's an accumulation of decisions: chosen actions, chosen thoughts, chosen views of his character. I trust him.

I trust that being here is exactly the right place for me and all the consequences of being here what I need to be drawn closer to him.

At the same time, the moments he gives me a break from this taffy-pull growth are delicious.

Last evening, sort of by accident, we had living room snuggle/worship time.

For I don't even know how long (a couple hours at least), one of the guys played the guitar and we worshiped together. The room was dark-ish, the fake fire glowing, and we were all set at ease to spend time individually, communally with God.

It reminded me of NLR Unplugged nights back when I worked at camp. Friday nights, we would pack into the chapel, light candles all over and a fire (even though it was 1000 degrees), and sing together. There is something powerful and awesome about cutting out the electric (lights and instruments) and lifting up your praise together with fellow believers.

For me, there were no chills of holiness nor a feeling of staunch resistance. There were no ping-ponging thoughts or self-consciousness about my singing. No feelings of any kind. For some, this would be discouraging. Not for me.

Still. 

For those two hours or so, I wasn't wrangling my own psyche into the straight and narrow path. I just got to sit on dry ground and sing while the Lord held back the walls of the Red Sea of my mind. And I realize I've mixed some metaphors there, but I'm also okay with that.

I want to go home. That is my feeling. If I followed my feelings, I would be on the next plane to Tulsa.
I am a follower of Jesus. That is my action and decision and statement of devotion. That is love.

You Can't Buy Me a Hot Dog, Man. I'm an Adult

I woke up this morning a new person.

Today, for the first time in my life, I feel ready to be an adult.

I am not afraid. I do not feel inadequate.

I have been prepared, equipped, and in all ways readied for this stage in my life.

There's not really a good way for me to describe what happened except a complete renewal of my mind. What has been asked of me, I finally feel ready to do.

I've been holding white-fisted to my childhood, terrified to death to let go and grow up. It's familiar. It's safe. I'm comfortable here. Well. God must have  been ready for me to hit the ready threshold, so he cut the ties of my kite and, against my will, set me free.

I continue to not know my plans, but I am all here. All present. And the possibilities are endless. Even if I fail, it will not be because I halfway tried out of paralyzing knowledge of my own insufficiencies.

If God wants me somewhere or doing something, he will also create unheard of possibilities to make those things happen. I am not in control.

So what is my next step?

My next step is getting out of my room, eating, and responding to the employment emails I've been too freaked out by to answer.

Here we go.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. -1 Corinthians 13:11 

A Wilde Box of Kindness

It's been a weird day. Strange talks I never actually imagined happening, strange emails with job ideas, strange packages in the mail, strange feedback from professors, strange behavior from myself. You know I skipped a class today? I've skipped two classes ever. We're talking elementary school until now.

The strange feedback was about my Wilde paper. I made some pretty stupid mistakes (re: started a sentence with a lowercase letter and without a subject, quoted a Wilde letter from "1989," etc), but they liked it. I scored 11 points higher than I anticipated and was told I have eloquence and flair in my writing. The paper doesn't actually count toward any class points, but it was enough to make me feel like the next three are in my realm of do-ables.

For so much of my life, being good at school has been the only thing that's mattered to me. This score and review of my work would have, at one point, been worthy of the refrigerator and a call home.

Their remarks gave me some much needed academic encouragement, but I've heard some other words recently that have stuck more strongly in my mind.

There's a couple in my small group with a math genius son (lucky freakin kid. I struggle with basic addition). Jonny told us that Heather's mantra for her son is this: "It's good to be smart. It's better to be kind."

I am good at doing smart. I am learning kindness.

Kindness is not only offering a spirit of grace and love. It's also knowing how to receive grace and love without flippancy or dismissiveness. It's a gentle gift, but it's a powerful gift.

I received in the mail today a powerful gift of another sort.

My mama sent me Thanksgiving in a box. :) Remember that poppyseed bread I talked up in a recent post?

Actual tears were shed over this box and bread. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It was really nice to come home to. Parents get it. Somewhere in those nine months before the kid comes, parents gain this incredible gift of third sight. They know when something's up, they know the right time to send you thanksgiving boxes or glitter glue in the mail so that it arrives on exactly the day you need it, they know exactly how to drive you completely insane with one single word, and they know exactly how to make everything better. All parents. Related or not. 

One month till I get to be driven crazy by mine in person. 

Learning to Breathe

At the end of the day: Jesus.

When I spoke of my anticipations of my journey here, I told people that it was going to be cold, dark, lonely and that God was going to break me in every conceivable way possible.

We're coming up on the completion of month three, and he has been as good as his word. Usually (always) is.

I'm a big picture person, though, and didn't fully understand when I said those things what they were going to entail or what they would feel like lived out.

I have lived in Northern Ireland for three months, and in those three months, God has stripped away everything I came here with, and it has not felt good. In fact, it's felt as though my skin were pulled off while a red hot poker slides through my heart.

Good doesn't always feel good.

But I can tell you, I have never before felt such a sense of right alignment of body, mind, and soul. It is nothing like my personality or individuality. Nothing, because it isn't mine. I'm not 100% and I never will be, but for this moment, for this time, God has me exactly where he wants me.

Literally for the first time in my life, I have no idea what my plans are past my time here. And, for literally the first time in my life, I am okay with that.

I'm tired of being the boss. Every inch of me is exhausted of ambition and trying to hold myself and everything around me together and pushing and pushing and pushing toward these invisible (well, sometimes visible) goals.

More than anything else at this moment when I should be feeling this excruciating sense of loss at something I so so wanted and believed in, I feel relieved.

God has taken away everything (both the good and the bad) standing in between the two of us, and I don't feel bitter and I don't feel like fighting it anymore. He's right. He leads us rightly.

I don't want to follow Jesus. I don't think I even have that capacity right now. The energy for it just isn't there. But I can and I will be led. Nothing in the world sounds more enticing or more restful to me right now.

At the end of the day: Jesus.

My friends, that means at the end of the day, Joy. Peace. Clarity of mind. Wholeness of spirit. Love, Understanding, and Rest. Sweet Rest.

Hallelujah and amen.

One Cultural

The students' final field trip was to have tea with the Lord Mayor of Belfast City.

He apologized to us for the barbarianism of the front hall (and was serious):

I don't think we'll ever forgive the audacity of the too-early Christmas spirit.

The Lord Mayor is new each year, beginning in June. This particular one has been in council for the past ten years and is a member of Sinn Fein (pronounced shin fain). That means he's a nationalist. Really nice guy. Was totally gracious when we answered every single one of his questions with blank faces and stutters.

We did the ignorant american populace justice. It's so hard to be smart (or remember basic information like your name) when people stare at you and you're trying to balance a teacup that looks so delicate a butterfly could land on it and make it explode.

Possibly his best moment was his Obama story. You see, the Lord Mayor wears this...not a necklace. It's this gold string of the crests of Ireland. It's old and important. He met Obama a few months ago and was asked, "Where could I get one of those?" The Lord Mayor responded, "You're not going to rise to the level of one of these." The way he told the story was a lot funnier, but either way. Cheeky, sir. 

The group with the Lord Mayor and Hadden (notice the Lord Mayor's bling and the unreasonably tall bookends that are myself and Erynn. Welcome back to middle school class pictures).

One Familial

Though there's an argument on my side that his birthday is the 22nd rather than the 21st due to timezones, by Tulsa Time, Samuel Jonathan Odom was born to my siblings Chon and Emily yesterday, on the evening of the 21st.

Sammy Superfly (Chon let Weird Al name the kid) is the second baby boy to be born to any of my siblings. He and Harrison (nephew #1 and firstborn grandkid) sandwich my three beautiful nieces. I'm not just saying that. They're seriously good looking.

Feast your eyes:

 Sitting in ascending order below are Ella Grace, Libby Rose, Gianna Aloisio, and Harrison Peter.

They're not particularly fond of taking photos, but meet them once and you will never get your heart back. Do you see Ella's battle cry there in the bottom? How cute is that? You know you're sitting there awkwardly laughing by yourself at your computer. Don't try and hide it.

Libby love is the older sister of Superfly. She is 2 going on 12. Bright, kind, and funny, if not a little shy. Absolutely loves animals.

When I met her, she shocked me with her direct, unwavering eye contact. Literally a day out of the womb and she could stare straight into your soul without blinking for full minutes.

Chon as a dad is a bizarre concept for me, even though he's had Libbs for 2 years. He's a really wonderful father, don't get me wrong, but he's also the guy who used to practice WWF wrestling moves on me and make me sign semi-abusive contracts before I could read. He's still my obnoxious, antagonizing big brother (hides my cell phone every single dang time I see him. I've had to chase his car down the street more times than I'd like to admit).

People grow up. Isn't that weird? Or people exist one day and don't the next. Or people semi-exist one day and are lying sweetly right there in your arms the next. Humanity is madness.

With the excitement of his birth comes a twinge of selfish sadness. He's the first birth I've missed. Even when I lived in Arkansas, I would drop everything and drive to Tulsa if one of my sisters went into labor.

Thank goodness I'm coming home in January rather than June, but still. I miss my family. I want to snuggle my nieces, ask for Libby's "first impressions", and hold my nephew. But life changes and moves us. Sometimes physically moves us. I don't want to miss their lives or be the aunt they only see at Christmas or on FaceTime. I want to come home.

One Spiritual

Ozzy Chambers has me pretty pinned this week.

Today's devotional ended almost completely underlined or bracketed. It would almost be easier to copy it directly, but I'll just share the tweetables and reflection.

Today's devotional cautions against forgetting God in the shallow places and taking yourself too seriously.

Notable quoteables:

• Trying to convince others of your depth and judging their level of shallowness is a "sure sign that you are a spiritual prig" 
• Shallowness is not a "sign that there are no deeps" 
• You must live the "surface common-sense life in a common sense way" so that we are prepared to handle the times of depth. 
• My favorite: "We are so abominably serious, so desperately interested in our own characters, that we refuse to behave like Christians in the shallow concerns of life." 

I had a teacher my first year of high school who advocated for small talk (surprising in a Bible teacher/Christian). His argument was, though some view shallow or small talking as pointless endeavors and try to make everything so damned serious, you can't truly get to the depths of a person until you have gained their respect and comfortability in the shallow things of life. To do otherwise would be to build a house on sand. 

Not only does this "chicken talk" (as my roommate calls it) show you more about the building blocks of a person, it demonstrates them much about you. 

When I was little (and still now. I am little in many ways), one of the most major things that endear me to those older than me are the people who take my wee concerns seriously. The ones who don't belittle me or tell me things like, "You're so young. This relationship/conflict/internal struggle really isn't that big of a deal in the long run." The people I most respected were and are people like my cousin Kristina or my big brother, who always considered my opinions and struggles to be of worth and treated me as an equal. 

Donald Miller, in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, cautions people against treating others as though they were finite. No person can know the depths of another; only God can. Therefore, we must treat every person as though we believe they are infinite, that they have untold resources of value to offer the world just by existing. 

That's for sure an off-shoot of what O is saying, but I consider them linked. 

Along his point, it is easy to forget God in the moment by moment procedures of life. For me, it is often because I feel silly or don't want to burden or annoy him with my...myself really. In so doing, those little moments build until I have run totally off-track from God and, thus, forget him and my common sense in the depths of life. 

Takeaways: 

• Being "shallow" in conversations does not reflect that the relationship itself is shallow. It leaves room for playfulness and opportunities for growth without the predetermined force of seriousness and "growth." 
• Every moment is important to God. Every decision, conversation, and thought either directs you toward or away from Himself. 
• No one is too small for your time or consideration. 

Identity Deliveration

The Lord has been drilling a theme into my life the past few weeks, continued on through small group tonight and Oswald Chambers this morning.

Identity.

Paul tells us to model ourselves after soldiers, athletes, and farmers.

Soldiers who sacrifices their own desires for the sake of The Lord, who are loyal unto death, who seek justice for others.

Athletes who are disciplined and consistent. Take basketball. You show up every day, you do the sprints, you do the suicides, the lunges, the passing drills, the dribbling drills, the shooting drills. And some of it seems applicable and some of it doesn't, but even with the stuff that doesn't seem relevant, you follow your coach because you trust him.

Farmers don't farm for a living. Farming is a lifestyle. They live and breathe their work and do it with diligence. Not just because they want to but because they must. Every day is important in the life of a farmer.

That's the model of identity in Christ, but what about every day living?

NI people struggle with this especially. "Are we British? Are we Irish? We're Northern Irish but there's no checkable for that in the dropdown list." They don't know who they are as a people.

On an individual level, we each state our identities into life every day whether we think we do or not. "I'm crazy," "I'm such a bad friend," "I'm not good for anything," "I'm such a screw up," and those are just a few from the facebook status world.

We may consciously classify ourselves as sisters and girlfriends and daughters (or the male versions) but we speak ourselves into other boxes of identity daily. Those boxes of self-construction become stifiling to growth. If you constantly call yourself a screw up or a bad friend or a non-communicator or an over-communicator or a worrier or whatever it is, then you are disallowing yourself from becoming anything other than those things.

Oswald says, "God will not discipline us, we must discipline ourselves...Do not say, 'O Lord, I suffer from wandering thoughts.' Don't suffer from wandering thoughts. Stop listening to the tyranny of your individuality and get emancipated out of your personality."

Does that not give you shivers? I'll say it again (because I have it both underlined and starred in my devo book. "Stop listening to the tyranny of your individuality and get emancipated out of your personality. "

AMEN! Am I right? We spend so much time labelling ourselves and trying to find ourselves when all we need do is look into ourselves to see the truth of our identity as children of the living God.

And it doesn't feel that way sometimes. But I had a camp counsellor who once said, "Live out of your position, not your condition."

It works with God as well as other people. Feelings do not a friendship or a relationship with God make on any given day. Our position with Christ means that even when everything else sucks, we are still marked with his freedom and truth and must act out of it.

With others, we know not only our ultimate relationship to them but also our relationship with them in terms of how they are our brothers and sisters in Christ. That is our position. Thus, we must live out of that in any season.


Sermon over. I've just been very joyful recently, especially today. The Lord has been filling me with tranquility and freedom, a full release from anxiety because he is greater and stronger and more powerful than anything my personality could throw at him or tangle me up in life.

How beautiful, how wonderful is the grace of the God we serve.

Deck the Hall with Boughs of Holly (and other outdoorsy ventures)

Saturday I was scheduled for Newcastle, but plans fell through. Usually, I'd use that as an excuse to hermit up and watch netflix for multiple hours alone in my room.

This time, though, when Elaine invited me to jump aboard somebody else's plans, I said yes. 

The day started at Scrabo Tower. Once upon a time, Lady Londonderry looked out her window from Mount Stuart and said, "That hill is ugly. Put something on it." 

The tower itself is quite wee, but it looks out onto the most beautiful, most Irish landscape. 

This is Elaine by the way.

Next, we dropped off the two girls who were with us in Bangor and went ourselves to Cultra. 

Elaine (who for some reason I keep accidentally calling "Lainey," which she does not like) wanted to take me on a date, so we got lunch in a little inn there. Pretty across the board but especially in Ireland, I like to get food from the appetizer menu instead of the "oh my gosh how does any normal person put this much food into their body" menu. 

The key is especially good here, because they feed you like a horse. Seafood chowder in a Belfast bap. YUM. My mum would have loved it. 

After lunch, we went for a walk. Finally saw some trees in autumn glory. 

Ready for my favorite part? 

No editing this picture at all. That's seriously the way it looked. Don't believe me? Okay, here's another one. 

Holy goodness beautiful. 

Lainey (she's not here. she doesn't have to know) and I walked along the shore. Well, she walked along the shore. I ran around in circles jumping in the water and sniffing the salty air like some sort of very excited puppy that no one will play fetch with (reminding me, mother, are you playing with Cubby?) 

Home, switched groups again, and went back out into Belfast for dinner and Lights On Belfast. 

*More food photos taken for the sake of my mother and sweet grandmother*

 Dinner at the Crown Bar was brie with cranberry compote. Remember my note about the food here actually coming from animals and that being weird and awesome? Still true. Abby (one of the girls I was with) got lamb. Tried it, couldn't do it. Cheese is one thing.
Sheep is another. There are sheep everywhere here. I'd seen a whole flock just that morning. Wee sheep faces with their wee "baaaaaaaaa"s and there's slippery dead animal on your plate that may very well have been related to the rompers I just waved to in a friendly way.
Sometimes I struggle with animal eating. They have faces and personalities and families. (Do not invoke the New Testament blanket of meat thing).

Worse than me taking this creeper picture is that I had to turn my entire body in order to take it. Super obvious. I don't think he noticed, though. Why? Because this precious middle-aged man is on a date. He's got headphones in connected to his iPhone, and he was just facetiming away with his middle-aged counterpart. It was very cute. A little weird. But cute. 

Kacie, Abby, and I went from dinner to city centre. It was a free event, but you had to have a ticket. We did not have tickets but were fine with that, considering the event was outdoor around city hall. To wait out the kiddie music numbers before the actual light show, we hung out in a coffee shop. To get there, though, we walked through Boots and ended up in the "VIP" wristband section of the event. Funny how that works. 

Messy deliciousness in a cup. 

 City hall always glows, but during the show, it lit up all different color depending on the act. This was my favorite version of it. Belfast is so fun.

Through the whole ordeal, the emcee kept asking the crowd, "are ya feelin' festive?" I don't think I've actually ever used that word like that. No mention of holiday spirit. Festivity! It was also pretty applicable considering that the whole of city hall's lawn is a Christmas festival currently. WOO!

The Lord Mayor (in a festive reindeer jumper) counted us down, then the lights came on! Not even close to giving it justice, but each space between columns has a wee drape and star, the trees all along the entire structure are aglow, and you can see a piece, but there is a large tree in front that is totally decked. 

My day went on to include another walk, an evening spent with naomi, more tea, and a skype with my parents, the pup, and my wee niecey. Jansie was baking Thanksgiving breads (she makes three: banana, pumpkin, and poppyseed). The bully held the camera up to the oven and steamy breads. I was drooling. 

Do you see my face of incredulity at how she caused my tastebuds to stumble? 

So, crazy day, but good day. 

The paper, by the way, was cut down 770 words today. I'm still 230 over, but pfft who's counting? Once I find a printer, get it in hardcopy, and turn it in, that sucker will be off my mind for good. Until my marks come in. :) YAY GRADSCHOOL

End of gargantuan post. 

Scrumming in Dem Shorty Shorts

Naomi is set to turn me into a sports watcher.

Tonight we started with rugby: the Ulster Ravens against the Connaight Eagles. Friendly match, friendly match, only had to use the ambulance twice.

Eccentricities about rugby in comparison to American football.

-a "touchdown" is called a "try."
-fieldgoals are called conversions.
-if you score a fieldgoal, it then becomes a converted try.
-there are no timeouts
-no body or head protection
-shorty shorts
-you  must pass the ball backward instead of forward

Then there are wee cute things like how players will hoist various members of their team into the air to catch the ball.

It's one violent sport, though. In the words of Naomi, "It's the dull thud of flesh on flesh that gets me every time." You've got to have a severe napolean complex, superman complex, or a very thick skull to participate. Yikes.

 Mid-scrum (two parallel lines of men linked together push up against one another while a ball is placed underneath the "bridge" created by their bodies. They then fight for the ball like cavemen over the last leg of mammoth).

Photo evidence of Naomi's existence

The Day Research Methods Blew My Mind

Believe me; no one is more surprised than I.

This morning I woke up fully prepared to skip the projected 6 hour session on archives. I've only skipped two classes in my life, though, and I don't think I could have borne the guilt of three.

It was amazing.

Kickoff was about what the archives are all about. Treasure is what they're all about. The archives aren't just boring journals; they're letters and memorabilia and pamphlets and marginalia and all sorts of other random tidbits from authors all across the times. Things people have found hidden in attics and barns and other random locations.

Then were the library presentations. Our library at Queen's, the Armagh library, the Linen Hall library, and the public records office. Histories of how racy and political libraries used to be, the stores of unpublished manuscripts and original publications with authorial annotations, and the sorts of paper scraps that make literary types drool.

Then THEN came testimonials by PhD students.

One of them is doing forensic linguistics, currently conducting research into a particular case of justice miscarriage concerning a suicide note and a guilty looking husband.

Another found a book in a used book store which led her on a journey of discovering a completely silenced author of the mid-1900s. No secondary resources written about her whatsoever, just primary text in the special collections section of Queen's, which led her to find some hidden letters and opened up her project of resurrection. By the end of her presentation, I was in tears. Sure, I can get through the final Harry Potter movie and The Notebook totally dry eyed, but tell me a story of refound literature and I'm all blubs.

We finished with a practical application of research for our particular area of interest and got to converse with a couple professors about our ideas. They gave me some ideas of other places for me to search and thought my projected subject would make for a fascinating study.

The Siren call of the archives had me entranced to such a degree that I actually began to entertain ideas of a PhD, the realities of which I know would not be to my taste, but still I agreed to attend an informational session.


Archives, man. Archives change everything.

Research Methods: My Way

What I said about my weaknesses in actually caring about my paper or finding a topic or putting together something of actual worth in this particular field are true. No false modesty there.

However, I discovered something during my final few semesters of university at which I am very good, and it makes paper writing go so much more quickly and effectively. And, because I am currently procrastinating my research for paper 2, I am going to tell you about it.

It's called the quotes page.

What I do when I start researching for a paper is not choose a specific topic but rather a general subject matter. For instance: researching Wilde's short stories vs. researching Wilde's views of aestheticism and Christ.

What this does is give me a much wider variety of articles to search through and heightens my chances of reaching my "scholarly sources" quota.

Then, I start the arduous process of going through all the articles which sound vaguely interesting. There is no need for them to have the same focus. Often it's better that way so that you can synthesize several different ideas into a new idea: yours.

As you riffle your way through, pull out quotes from everything you think is interesting and put it into a word document.

Here is where everything gets fun (please note the large flashing "nerd" sign above my head).

Use a specific color for all quotes from the same article, including the page numbers they were taken from and the citation. DO NOT FORGET THE CITATION OR PAGE NUMBERS. You will never be able to find that article again. It's like socks in dryers.

As you add more and more colors and article quotes, you can begin to put them into categories by topic. Put the topic headers in black and also any personal notes about the different articles in black. That way you never mistakenly cite an article for something that you actually said.

Even when you sort out by topic, you have no fear of forgetting which quote came from where. All you have to do is look back to find the citation of the same color. It's brilliant.  

When it comes to paper writing time, you have your whole outline in front of you, some parts you'll use, some parts you won't. When you insert a quote into your actual paper, you can use the strikethrough button to mark to yourself what you have and have not used or do not plan to use.

Doing this process helps you avoid clump quoting (when each paragraph uses only one source), helps lengthen papers by giving you a general idea of how many paragraphs you are working with, keeps you from being choppy and disjointed in your paragraph thoughts, avoids plagiarism, and also gives you a way to keep track of "that one perfect source that was right here oh my gosh I just had it WHERE DID IT GO?!"

Thank you for joining and happy researching to you all.

Crap Spinning

The lack of posts this week denotes the fact that all of my writing energies have been transferred to paper writing.

You may think that this is my cup of tea and, to a certain extent, you're right. Man, tea sounds good right now...Anyway. I'm good at writing things about mental illness or the sacramental theology of spit in the New Testament. No problem. But my one major weak area in academic writing has been for literature. I can't find the point.

Why would I write about something someone (and lots of other someones) have already written about? My work will only make people think more about a piece of writing which, in itself, may be beautiful but has no practical value. So what if I can prove the nonexistence of a particular character in a Poe story or try (and fail) to find evidence of trinitarian symbolism in a Shakespeare play? It's all so meaningless that I can never take it seriously or really do well. Or choose a paper topic.

But my little internal crisis here has very little to do with the fact that I still had to write this paper. Actually, I needed to write two, but that just didn't happen, so I'm pushing that off for another month.

Wilde's aesthetic theory as it applies to his personal views on Christ.

I'm currently 1,000 words over the word count (That is not a good thing, I assure you). I have never gone over on a word count before. I also only have 5 sources for those 4,000 words. And I'm pretty sure if I were to take a critical look at it (like my professors will), that I'd find at least 2500 which do not belong.

I'm so sick of looking at it, though, that I can't think objectively. Therefore, I'm tucking it away until Sunday, when I will go in the file butcher mouse in hand.

"Yes, Alex, I'll take 'Things That Make Me Feel Unfit For Gradschool' for 500, please."

Poppin' Lewis

Yesterday, we attended church at St. Mark's. Usually, I don't attend with the students and go to Vineyard, but we we went to St. Mark's because it was Remembrance Day.

Remembrance Day is similar to Veteran's Day except, and this is maybe due to the size of NI, but everyone gets involved, not just certain families. I don't know. It felt much more widespread and made a big deal of. 

Everyone wears a poppy. 

Feel free to ignore the fact that my skin is so white it glows in sunshine. Focus on the poppy. 

Women wear it on the right; men on the left. The leaf sits at 2 o clock.  Poppies are the symbols of Flander's Field. 

During the service (which was Church of Ireland or Anglican), there was a ceremony. 

First, a robed figure walked down the aisle with "the book" (not the Bible). 

Then, two veterans representing WWI co-carried a poppy wreath to the front. Following them were two vets representing WWII carrying another poppy wreath. 

The wreaths were laid at the altar and the carriers stepped to the side. 

Then, "the book" was opened, and the name of every soldier who died in each war from that particular parish was read aloud in memory. 

When the names were all read, there were bagpipes and bugles followed by a time of silence and prayer. 

It was all very moving. 

Construction, but this is the church. Yes, I took it from the bus. Don't judge. 

This is not a church. This is Little Lee. Did I not mention that St. Mark's was the homechurch of C.S. Lewis? Oops. Well. You know now. And Little Lee, pictured here, was his childhood home. His birthhome no longer exists. Just after Little Lee was purchased by a non-Lewis some years back, it was vandalized. Because of that, the owner is a wee sensitive about trespassers. You may see the house, but you may see it from outside the gate alone. 

Bringing Booty Back

Currently, I am reading for fun.

Please hold your shock or applause. Yes, I will answer the unasked question.

I am reading for fun today not because it is Sabbath (Friday was my Sabbath) but because I am a controlling, legalistic workaholic whose behavioral patterns are relationally and psychologically destructive.

This is something which has recently been presented to me through an uncanny number of sources, resulting in an experience much like Dursleys with a particular letter...

I'm not okay with it. I want to be better. I want to be different. I want so much more than this, not because I'm a selfish brat (which, to be honest, I really have demonstrated myself to be), but because the people who love me deserve better than my half-assed--more like no-assed-attempt at loving them well, and that includes God.

Yeah, it's reading. Small digs, Odom.
But, like Rob Bell would say, as he does in his book Sex God (not the book I'm currently reading but a very insightful look at the connections between sexuality and spirituality), this is really about that. 

It's reading. But it's indicative of the fact that I have, other than this moment, stopped staring at my computer screen and contented myself with the slow process of eating language for breakfast (or brunch or tea time snack or any meal really).

I am doing something "unproductive".
I am delighting in the creation of someone else.
I'm trying--so hard--to change.

"We're Storming the Big Town"

To Stormont we go!

Stormont is the Belfast version of Parliament.

You can't see it well, but from this vantage point, you can see all of Belfast. Also, in the springtime, that long road down the center is lined on both sides with big, blossomy trees and shrubs and flowers.

Some notables about Stormont itself:

During the second world war, after no one would believe the poor diplomat who claimed that NI would be attacked by Germany and the country was left entirely unguarded and, subsequently, was bombed, Stormont was used as a military base for the Royal Airforce. That was a poorly structured sentence, but you get the point.

However, the airforce was loathe to the idea of a station in the structure for, as you can see, it is high-roofed and bright white.

The solution? Double double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Tar and manure were melded together and spread over the entirety of the immaculate building. Green ash was spread atop the road as well to make it blend into the surrounding grass.

Why  not black paint? Excellent question, young man. Black paint would have seeped into the stone, dying it permanently. After the war, a group of men were hired to restore the building. For 7 years, their whole job was to chip the tar off the white stone and make it beautiful again.

The picture of the ceiling there also has a story. It was painted in the 20s and hasn't required a refresher since. There is a special coating of wax topcoat over it, which can never be duplicated, as its creator died with the recipe.

The chandelier was once gifted by Germany to his brother ruler in England (the reason for the eagle between the branches which you can't see because I tend to be haphazard in my picture taking and it's blurry. But the eagle is the symbol of Germany). After a feud between them, it was sent to Ireland and officially gifted to Stormont within the recent past.

This is the NI cresst. 6 roses. One for each county.

The picture within the picture in the second shot there is a portrait done, which includes faces of current members of the government, including a man named Paddy Roche, who is the students' politics and economy professor here. A unionist man (pro-NI-UK). When we went to Dublin with him, he had to bring Hadden along; Paddy is banned from several political places because of his non-nationalist views. 

It's a funny thing about the politics in NornIron. Actually, Westminster closed down Stormont for about 30 years during The Troubles. It was like a child in timeout for a tantrum. A 30 year tantrum. 

When it started back up, the people elected into power were who? The heads of the criminal parties responsible for the destruction. They showed us a picture of the major leaders and who they used to be. Things like, "Chef, school teacher, ex-con, ex-con, ex-con, ex-head of paramilitary group..." A bad wrap sheet, a profession-killer in the USA, actually makes you a likely candidate here. 

For now, the country is stable under the direction of the two opposing leaders (a unionist and a nationalist co-rule).I have my own projections, though. There is going to come a time when The Republic and their nationalist followers will be tired of waiting for their wayward bride to come back voluntarily. And I do not want to be here when that happens. 

Oot

Though I will freely admit my hermit ways, I do occasionally mix with the outside world in a social manner. This week, I did so not one, not two, but three different evenings. Not entirely of my own volition, but it's really not the thought that counts...

Uno:
Mondays are community group nights! Shelby and I have missed the past few due to lack of transit, but we made sure to get there this week. Wes (the leader) had told us to bring our fun hats and be ready to party. Uhm. Yes. I am always about fun hats. Get it from my Grandma Ruthie. :) (Family joke. Slash, family reality).

There were no actual fun hats involved this time, but there was a good deal of this:

Everyone but we two Americans had heard of this game. What you do is start out with an empty cereal box. Put it in the middle of the room and, without anything but your feet touching the ground, pick it up with your mouth.

After each "round", the box is cut down further until only a wee flat square on the floor remains. It's such good fun. Even the elderly lady in our group joined in. More flexi than you'd expect. Although the tongue waggling down from her mouth toward the box is something my mind won't be able to erase.

The whole thing was hilarious. Then came a nice friendly game of mafia.

I'd say the evening was fun hat title appropriate. A good community laugh is always an excellent way to render people more comfortable with one another.

Dos:
Evening two was the Storehouse Fashion Show held at Cafe Vaudeville which, by the by, is gorgeous.

The fashion show was high fashion vs. pre-loved clothing, as one of the branches of Storehouse is a clothing bank, the goal of which is not only to clothe people but to clothe them in things they can feel confident in, things they'll like. 

To that end, I can see how that could seem vain or "not quite in the realm of outreach" But to me it makes sense. Rich or poor, you want to feel as though what you wear reflects who ya are, not who somebody else defines ya as or what you're forced to be defined as because of your position in life. I dunno. Judge for yourself. 

Shelby, Abbi, and I met up at the bar with two of our Belfast best friends, Lynsey and Lauren. Absolutely love them. Shelby compares them to squirrels. In a good way. They're quite energetic and talk enormously quickly, especially to one another. We can almost never understand them. It's a time one wishes for subtitles. 

They're a blast to be around, though, despite our need for a translator (who, when she's around is Kiera). It's been a pleasure to have them adopt us into their lives.

Tres:
I done geared up and snazzed up in a right adult (pronounced "ah-dull-t" for you non okies) fashion to attend a postgrad party at Queen's.

Everything from my earrings, dress, heels, and jacket was styled entirely by somebody who isn't me; namely, my mother. It deserves recognition, really. When I left for college, she started reading 'InStyle" fashion magazines. I come home and she's all chatty about Katie Holmes and knows what's hott and what's not and what's on the fashion horizon.

It was all very disorienting, but has been beneficial in the alteration of my street urchin style ways. Guaranteed if you compliment me on something cute I'm wearing, I'll respond with "mom-buy."

Enough about my fashion-forward mother, though. Let's talk about social gatherings.

Dante had a lot of things pretty dead on, I think. But a chunk of his Inferno must have gone missing pre-publication. There's just no other explanation for the utter lack of a social gathering hell ring.

There are few things worse than walking into a crowded room and seeing no one you know.
Conversely, there are few things more relieving than encountering said event then hearing your own name called out.

Helloooooo Patti! Out of the whopping seven of my classmates, only two of us showed.
Patti and I found a nice wee place and chatted over psychoanalyzation and social theory for the better part of an hour. It was actually very nice to get to know her outside of class. Especially because (drumroll please) she'll be joining my class of one! Upping our attendance by half. Thank God.

Did that change the fact that I was 20 minutes late and left an hour early? No. But it made the 45 minutes of attendance quite tolerable, if not enjoyable, indeed.