Finders Keepers

I really enjoy plans. The actually planning aspect of plans could happily be delegated to somebody else, but I do so enjoy putting plans into a schedule and following through with them.

Accordingly, I dislike being spontaneous. It's erratic and there's no sense of reason. I can't control it.

That makes my decisions of the day a little shocking. I had coffee (I think I use the term "had coffee" as a generic "spent time in a public location" term. There was no coffee involved) with my friend Layden today. Near the end of our talk, he mentioned a conference happening tomorrow and told me I should come.

Next thing I knew, I was signed up.

So, this will probably be my last post for a few days, as I will be staying in Kansas with my buddy Steve and his family for this very Charismatic conference.

A year ago, I would have thrown a fit about going to anything related to the International House of Prayer (IHOP). I grew up Assemblies of God and, therefore, charismatic, but there was a massive break between myself and my church (I may have mentioned all this before, but I am going to again. Feel free to skip).

After a very, very long period of unhappiness and hurt, I left my church at the age of 17, and spent the next few years meandering from Catholic (there was a boy involved), Presbyterian (there was a boy involved), and Methodist (there was probably a boy involved).

Among other things, my AG church just stopped feeling real to me. I stopped believing in its sincerity, and I felt personally its inconsistency, though I'm sure my own wretched attitude didn't help my likability factor. I saw the way they rejected people I loved but weren't put together, favoritized and rewarded those who were, and seemed to make church a game of conversion and numbers.

So there was that, and my brother, who I regard (especially at that time) as my spiritual role model, wrote a series of blog posts admitting to the same things I already felt unsure about. To be very frank, hearing it from Jon especially really messed me up, even though he was writing in an attempt to salvage for himself pieces of our pentecostal upbringing.

I was bitter. And I held on to that bitterness for so so so long. I even wrote a paper in college about my disbelief in the practices of IHOP, specifically taught prophecy, or "prophecy rooms."

An awful fault of mine--and one I've been working for several years to alter--is the way, once I am deeply hurt, to cut off, throw in a box, and bury everything related to the issue at hand. All the good, all the bad. It's all thrown away to be remembered no more. I've done it so many times.

That means when I "threw away" my church, I threw away the Holy Spirit as well.

Those who grew up in non-Pentecostal churches wouldn't be able to fully understand the degree to which this would impact a person.

For those 17 years, the Holy Spirit's manifestations and that church were my life.  I was there more than I wasn't there. All my major memories have to do with that church. I was throwing away an enormous part of my life and identity.

Even in my anger, though, I couldn't bring myself to a place of disbelief. I stopped praying in tongues, couldn't bring myself to lay hands or pray for anyone's healing, and never agreed to participate in any kind of spiritually led exhortation (prophecy).

But yet, something in me would erupt in anger if anyone spoke against those same gifts. I remember a particular day in Evangelical Theology class where an AG pastor was guest speaking and the girl in front of me attacked him and attacked him. I was mad with fury. But I couldn't defend him either.

The Holy Spirit in me, so hidden that I didn't remember it, was what called out telling me those attacks were wrong.

Still, I couldn't do it. Any of it.

I didn't return to the Charismatic church at all until I moved to Belfast. I wrote in support of it many blog posts ago, but it really, really bothered me at the same time. You can believe something is real but still not be able to reconcile yourself on a personal level what it looks like lived out.

Then one day, I finally understood.

All those pieces of Woodlake that broke my heart or rejected me. All those pieces that broke and rejected my best friend. All the ways I was let down, felt lied to, felt exploited by, Jesus wasn't in it. The Holy Spirit wasn't in it.

At the same time, there are things I have seen and heard and experienced which are not of this world. I have heard the voice of the Lord through the spirit language and translation of old, feeble men resound through the absolute silent sanctuary and felt the ripples of electric presence pulse through the air. I have spoken in my own spiritual language and known that what I was speaking was the truest form of my own soul. I have dreamt things that I couldn't possibly have known. I have seen healing.

That's where the Holy Spirit is.

When I got there with myself, to that place of recognizing and sorting the truth from the lies, everything changed for me. I felt like the prodigal son received back into his father's arms and home. So right. And the separation terribly long and unnecessary.

I'm still going to have moments of cynicism, thinking everything is a performance and disingenuous, but I'm never going to lose that integral part of myself again, that I know.

So, I am going to this conference. Time to spend playtime with my friends, experience Jesus with thousands of believers, and take a serious break from the monotonous, boring pattern of just trying to stay in the black with my emotional state. It's fun. Spontaneous. Different. And distraction from my circular thoughts.

Cheers to you, God and Serotonin.

Today I opened a fortune cookie: "Advancement is achieved through hard work." and my chinese word of the day was "europe."

...

Good evening, and welcome to the conclusion of the long-awaited 26th of December.

For a long while, I'd had this day marked as the day I had to "make it" till.
Here I am! Making it.
Wrong country, but same girl.
And also, not the same girl.

I received a letter today from my sweet friend Leslie (have I spoken of Leslie before? Surely. Les is my NI roommate from our Family and Human services trip summer 2012. and also my personal Charles Wallace. Invaluable human.)

I actually received two letters today. One which made my room smell of lavender but both marked with the name "Emmanuel." Emmanuel is God with us. To quote Les (sorry if you read this and are horrified. I'm probably going to do it again, though.): "Not only did God care enough about us to come down and be a part of humanity, but He also still dwells with us every single day. God is with me. And at the same time He is with you. How very special I feel when I remember I serve Emmanuel, who never leaves me."

I couldn't think of a better way to word that. Beautiful. Such beautiful truth. God is with us and through us and around us.

My two other favorite highlights from her letter are when she compared me to Frodo on return from Mordor (Her impressions of my person when she saw me in Siloam last week. Yikes. Re: "not the same girl.") and her comment just after.

The Mordor thing is meant to make you laugh, not deepen your worry for me, by the way.

Her after comment, though, was: "I saw you, and there were no layers to peek under to find you, as there sometimes have been."

I don't think I could receive a higher comment from a higher source.

All my life, I've been trying to hide or to become. When I finally realized what I was doing (a much more recent event than I'd like to admit), I honestly had no idea where to even begin to pull off the layers I'd built around me. Sifting through the actual and the constructed, impossible.

Will the real Jamie Odom please stand up?

I guess the real Jamie Odom wasn't standing up at all. She was kneeling. She was curled up in a ball on the floor. And I didn't even know there was anybody else in the room to see her. I didn't see her.

I guess the real you doesn't show up when you're looking for her; she shows up when Jesus himself rips everything else away.

I'm not really even sure what I look like right now. Have kind of a blind spot. But others seem to be able to see me, and they couldn't before. So whether or not I would know me in a crowd, praise God He and others can.

Today, I woke up kind of anticipating I'd want to be alone and hostile. I wasn't.
I actually woke up very cheerful. Jansie and I had a nice long chat, had lunch together, wandered a trendy part of town (decided neither of us are trendy enough to desire a return visit), and walked along the pedestrian bridge. It's supposed to be over the river but, in pure Oklahoma fashion, our river is dry, dry, dry.

After, I'd settled into an inverse parabola. Definite sink.

Spent the next three hours in a coffee shop with my cuz. Krissy, with (not despite of) all her craziness and her very definite, passionate opinions, makes sense to me. One of my most favorite people to be around and has a knack for shoveling me out of any foul mood. Half distraction, half no-nonsense "let's deal with this crap and move on" attitude. It works.

Day 2 in a row of almost total clearmindedness. I'll take it, with thanks.

The Christmas that Could

I love my family.

Anyone that knows me knows that one fact. That, and my deep love for the three best friends, but that's a given. :)

My family, no matter how uncommunicative or overcommunicative or awkward or spazzy, is where I intrinsically sense to go when I feel unsure or so sure. They're the ones I want to share my most happy moments with and the ones my heart immediately needs when it gets broken.

They're the base line. Even when I lose sight of my identity and everything else in my life, I know who I am with them. I am a little sister to three big brothers, a sister-in-law to three as well, a niece, a cousin, an aunt of five, a daughter. I am my family. And what a wonderful one to be known by.

I needed them. And by the grace of God I got them.

Christmas Eve went as expected. Jansie and Daisy Ree whirlwind cleaned, and I putsed about, wandering, disappearing, holding the dog so it looked like I was actually doing something. Useless creature, me. I think it's my learned defensive behavior. My ma gets frenzied near holidays (or any event of any kind at our home. Though, admittedly, she has gotten so much better) and cleans/throws away everything in sight. It ain't pretty. You'd hide, too. I've never gotten as good as Chon, though. He was a master at getting out of things without anyone noticing that he was doing nothing.

The evening was at First Methodist Church, a lovely carol service. Our wee group was comprised of my parents and me, my aunt Joycer, uncle ed, Krissy, her husband Jeff, and my cousins Crista and Noah.

I'm not going to lie. I almost didn't make it. Christmas Eve, I didn't pull it together. I tried. The heaviness took me. I felt like the grinch, and I could see how my darkness was hurting my parents and grandma. I just wanted to be alone and cry. Throw it in my face: "But you so wanted to come home!" Yeah, I know. But not yet. You've got to understand. I so wanted to come home because nobody else wanted me, and the idea of sitting 4,000 miles away from familiar, soaking in minute by minute that knowledge on top of the horrors of the past four months? Acid to my soul. I could not do it.

Yes, I want to be home. I am so terribly thankful to be home, but being home and having to reconcile my brokenness with the expectations of behaving like a normal creature and contributing to a positive atmosphere is hard. And it's hard on my family. I'm hard for my family.

That's who I went into that Christmas Eve service as. Amazing how a guy snoring behind you, really great black singing, and family that can make you laugh and forget can change your inner atmosphere. (nerd moment: laughter really does chemically alter your mood.) I came out better. So much better.

I'd like to give a shout-out of thanks to serotonin for carrying over until today. Despite bad, exhausting dreams (usually a signal for an awful day ahead), it was a truly wonderful Christmas.

A skype with my brother joey, his wife Cristin, and their two kiddos: harrison and gianna.

Later, we were joined by my other two siblings, the kids opened a few presents (the siblings decided to skip Christmas with one another) [side note: thank you to whoever invented gift bags. Honestly, if you ever receive a present from me which is wrapped in something other than a gift bag or a sweat shirt, I probably love you more than any other person in my acquaintance arsenal], and we snacked while watching home movies. It's kind of a tradition of ours. One of my absolute favorites. In a way, it makes it feel as though we're all a part. With them, my Jesus-resting Papa can be with us (now who was in the manger? mary and joseph and the baby.) and my uncle johnnie, aunt lynne, cousins, ruthie and charlie, jojo, all of us.

It's funny how our personalities really haven't changed either. Chon trying to steal the camera, incessantly talking, and being goofy always, Jacob the ultimate caretaker (I dare you to find a single scene in any picture or video from my childhood which features me without him), and Joey...well...Joey actually has changed. He didn't really know he was alive back then. He was sweet boy. He became a great man.
And my niecer Ella actually looks a ton like what I did at her age. Hadn't noticed before.

The rest of the day, we ate, drank, made merry, and were rejoined by joycie, ed, kris and jeff, and daisy marie. We were all relaxed, played some games, doted on the darling kiddos, and were just your basic, garden variety happy. It was very nice.

Merry Christmas from the Odoms.
We probably love you.
Or we will learn to.
Or we will relearn to.
Or we've never met you, but we're sure you're very nice.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Highlights Reel

There needs to be some temperance here. I'm not all doom and gloom.

Lovely moments since I've been home (old pictures):

*the reunion between Jamie and Kraft Mac and Cheese (one of those odd cultural cravings)
*My best friend coming over the evening I got home. She was very kind about the fact that I was practically asleep in front of her.

*Coffee with my friend Anna. We have the most consistent friendship of all my acquaintances. Once a month, without fail, we spend time together.

*Drinks with Maddie Stewart. I don't know how to describe her. The perfect combination of sass, spiritual, and snuggles.

*Sleepover with Heather, Becca, and Allison.

*Getting to see the happy shock of several of my friends to see me in the country.
*meeting my nephew, Superfly. Or Sam. I prefer the former, though the latter is pretty good. :) Baby snuggles cannot be topped, really. And he makes the sweetest wee grunts when he's asleep. They're so contented.

*More bonding time. This time with my dear friend, Sadie. She's one of those friends with which humor and spirituality are always pretty tightly knit.

*lots and lots of this handsome guy.

*driving. There have only been two incidents of "what's this guy doing in my freakin'...NOT MY LANE! NOT MY LANE! NI's got me all mixed around.
*yesterday, I was shopping and got caught waiting in line between four sassy black ladies. We had a great talk. I've missed black people. There are three in Belfast. Really. Like there actually are just three.
*Today I went out with one of my mentors. She was my high school AP Biology and Anatomy/Physiology teacher turned friend/mentor. Giant. More giant than I am, bigger boned, louder, and always wears big ole heels (a trait I have recently embraced for myself). All that, and she can work a sex talk into any conversation topic. It's like a spiritual gift. She used to do it on purpose during class to watch me about crawl under my desk embarrassed.

*my ma drawing tattoos and facial hair on lingerie models in a magazine

I have no idea how or why this picture is snowing. That didn't happen, and I'm not smart enough with technology to make that. But the picture and the ice behind the fake snow is real! aha! "google + 'auto awesome'" did this. 

and this: 

This is so fun! 

And this is the United Airways Dublin way of saying, "You're about to be in the USA! Get pumped!"

 My beautiful Oklahoma.

Tulsa from the plane. :)

*and last but very much not least (and I'm sure I'm forgetting several), I finished two of my three papers. 

24 hours, 19 sources, and 6400 words.

Following Jesus is Putting on Pants or “Structured Depression”

This past summer, I waited on tables for a bit. And, except for the excessive weight and sleep loss, it was a really good experience.

One thing I learned from it is that one crappy table does not make for a crappy day. It makes for a crappy table. Your next table might be the best table ever. Check in with me every 45 minutes or so, and my day assessment would be completely different each time.

That principle is the same with my current struggle against my depression. A morning of exhausted defeatedness doesn’t resign my whole day to the same. It’s hard to maintain that perspective and not sit down in my grief and stay put.

I thought, being home, I would be better, that I would leave this dampered state in Ireland or in Arkansas, but I didn’t.

And I see my siblings and their kids and my parents and I want to be engaging or ecstatic to be with them, but I can’t get there. I feel trapped. I so want to be fun and chirpy or even pretend to be, but I can’t even manufacture that like I used to be able to.

I’m frustrated with myself.

I’m frustrated with who I’ve become, and I don’t want to talk to my friends or “my people” because I don’t want to be such an unending killjoy. Or I don’t want to talk to them because they hear my semester’s story and miss the point. They hear only the superficial struggles, easy to fix and apologize for or only the parts which are congruent with their own delusions of reality, but they don’t hear my heart.

And then, out of nowhere, the plexiglass that stands between me and everybody else melts, and I can hear them and feel happiness and have fun and let go! So wonderful!

Then one comment or well-meant question trips me off again. “Oh you live in Ireland? So jealous. You’re so legit.” You couldn’t be more wrong, but you so don’t want to hear about it.

This was not the plan! This was never the plan! The plan was I go to Ireland and have adventures and the experience of my lifetime, then spend a few days alone, then reunite with people I love for a while, and then come back to my rose-colored life on the emerald isle.

Extended and strangling anxiety was not in the plan, nor being forgotten, nor hatred for almost every moment of my life there, complete aloneness, rejection, replacement, depression, constant misunderstandings, a worry to my family and friends, a worrier for friends who are broken and breaking themselves and, finally, being sent home in disgrace and failure because I just couldn’t take it anymore.

I’m not supposed to be here yet! This was not the plan. I failed. I failed and I’m not getting better. What is the big picture? What is my “why”? And when will I see it?

Being alone, you can be in bad shape and know it to a certain extent, but it’s when you’re surrounded by people that the mirror of reality is shoved in your face.

For instance, I knew I had lost some weight, but I didn’t realize just how much. I’m currently two pounds under my thinnest weight of my thinnest summer, and this the result of “I gained it all back I swear”. No telling how low I got this past semester. Food and I aren’t getting along.

Neither are sleep and I. My sleep schedule has been all kinds of everywhere, but not until I’m around people with normal sleep schedules did I see how odd I’ve been allowing mine to be. 4.5 hours here, 12 hours there, never a pattern, never the same.

Following Jesus is putting on pants; it’s building a steel structure of normality for my fog, and forcing my will and body to cooperate. Like sleep and food. Like making some progress on my looming papers (oops…) or leaving the house. Following Jesus means giving up the last piece of my dignity and self-dependence and getting some help.

I pray so dearly that I never again become so self-important and callous that the Lord has to bring me back to this place.

One More Time With Feeling

I had a dream once. Not like Martin Luther King Junior. The real kind. The kind your sleeping self creates.

In this dream, there was a path. A silent man to my left, but to my right were two people standing with their backs to me talking a ways down the sloped road. But I walked past them, walking straight and toward a hill.

I walked with big strides up the pathway, hooking my feet into the creases in the cracked dirt and making good time.

The hill got steeper, though, and as I looked forward, I saw it wasn't a hill at all but a mountain. The nearly ninety degree up kind, and the air was thinning. I got slower. Still long strides, but with so much more effort and not enough oxygen to keep up even that pace.

The man wrapped his fingers into my rib cage. He was having no problem keeping a consistent pace and now steel-grip, half-dragged me up along with him. I could feel his fingers bruising into me.

Feet no longer catching hold but slipping. Air coming less. Rim of sight fuzzing, darkening. Dizzy. Still those fingers in my ribs pulling me up.

We came up and I saw the burning edges of the sunset over the crest of the mountain. And passed out.
_________________________________________________________________________________

There was one more chapter to my pain. I left Siloam perfect. My memories there, perfect. And they needed to be rewritten into reality.

I prayed extensively beforehand, knowing that I was to be watched and knowing I would face questions.

Lord, What do I say? How am I to be gracious? How am I to speak the truth? With what words do I fill my mouth?

Then came the moment when I fully grasped it: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, others will believe what they will believe. I cannot make for myself my reputation. It is the Lord who writes my name.

Therefore, whether it makes me look weak or undone, I will speak the truth. I will speak the truth with deep humility and without shame. "The Lord has dealt with me."

In Siloam, I learned of more betrayal, of secrecy, of broken, broken journeys, and of pain.

I was left with nothing but compassion and a deep ache, knowing of self-destructive bonds forged out of ignorance. You  know not what you are doing, but it is your journey. Not mine.

To my supervisors, professors, and friends, I told the truth of my current state and of my own journey. Never have I been not more open but more raw or present in my answers. Never have I been less lovely.

And yet, and yet, the Lord was seen. In the wreck that is my body and my life, the ones who know me spoke over me favor. I, who have sought my whole life for that favor and respect; I, who have twisted myself mangled to achieve honor; I, who have always fallen short of what I wanted, am only to receive it now, when I am the least deserving of the words I once fought so hard to win.

Then, I walked away and didn't look back. I did not get my closure. I did not seek my closure. I chose my closure. I chose to walk alone and allow The Lord to do his own work without me putsing about in somebody else's path.

Muted by pain and so present in my pain, but I am so thankful.

My future husband and children and friends will bless, bless, bless these past four months. I myself will bless these past four months.

I am changed, told I even look it.

My story is not my own. The Lord has closed my journal and opened a new book, writing my pathway with blood and tears and truth.

I am home, but I am not better yet, and that is difficult for me to accept. However, a whooped boxer doesn't spritz away dainty after his rounds. He is taken out of the ring, cradled away, and nursed back into battle mode.

I have been taken out of my ring. I have been cradled. And now, I just need time to heal.

At the end of the day: Jesus.

At the end of the day: soundness of mind, right alignment of body and spirit, grace, humility, forgiveness, love, compassion, shameless truth, and the deep recognition and value of friendship and of being human.

At the end of the day: hope.

Pre-Release Reflections

While I've been here, every single thing has gone wrong.

An aspect of each and every one of my most deeply seated fears has come to pass from my nightmare dreamscape and into my reality.

Every single one of my figurative bones was fisted and crumbled in the hands of my God through people and circumstances I had put faith in.

And I did not come out a phoenix.

I came out as blubbering, desperate, shaky, pale, unrecognizable pulp, asking "Who have I become here?"

I have experienced great darkness in my life before. It is terrible and has brought me to moments of unbelievable agony I once felt I could never escape.

This was different.

It was not suffocating darkness but a sword of light.

Lies didn't stick to me. Anxiety didn't overcome me. There was nothing for me to "overcome" necessarily.

Rather, I was being loved so fiercely that He couldn't allow "me" to survive. Good doesn't always feel good.

And then I hit the end. I spoke hope to myself and wrote hope on my blog (or tried to), but I absolutely could go no further.

And it was then, only then, when I was pulverized and defeat had been announced on every front, that God exploded into my life and provided for me a way out. 

The fight that's been so always present in me was beaten out. My hope, my faith in myself, beaten out. Even when I thought everything that could be beaten out was beaten out, God found more.

And yet, I would choose this all again.

No question. No hesitation.

I am not afraid of next semester. After my time of restoration and recuperation, I will come back to the tepee of a life that God and I have built. It will be so good, and I'm even a little excited about what could be in store.

One day, one step at a time.

Hold Up, Wait a Minute; Put a Little Love in It

Missed last evening's post because I was pleasantly detailed by excellent banter. I'm sure you understand.

Well, I see fit to fill you in on the true highlights of the past three days. 

Friday and Saturday, I reached the end. Not like I was on suicide watch or anything (I hope), and I'm not entirely certain what I even mean consequence wise. The best way I can explain is there wasn't a single area of figurative skin left that wasn't bruised to the bone. 

And then, things changed. 

My first stop was the French Village where my friend Lynsey works. 

Lucky for me, the place was about empty. She took one look at me, assessed my emotional state, hugged me, and gave me a cupcake. And I said my friends here don't get me...

Next stop was home. Elaine had some missionary friends over. I had been pretty heavily rained on, so I ignored them to go dry off when I got home, but when I came out, it was to the most delightful family. They were so bubbly and welcoming and warm and just easy to be around. I weirdly felt as though I were the guest. [Elaine I think had forewarned them about me...Don't you love when you're the worrisome child?] 

While I was hiding in my room, I was looking at flight changes. Not encouraging. The prices for every single way out of here were unbelievably high. Then, I clicked on Tuesday. Tuesday, my friends, was fractional. Miracle miracle miracle and mercy. 

Cue explosive weeping. 

Then I went out and, like I said, bonded with the family. That, and danced about like a freaking fool. I don't think I've ever felt such a pure form of gratefulness and joy. 

While Sunday afternoon Christmas shopping:

 I knew I liked rugby...

Sunday night was "Carols and Candles." 

I was late. Very. ha. It was dark and cold and wet outside, and I wasn't doing so well on the self-persuasion that being on time was all that important. Besides, I was sitting next to a heater and enjoying a conversation and contextual beverage. 

Received call: 

"Ruth? Where are you?" 

"...home...I'm leaving now, though!" 

"No you aren't. Stay. I'll be there in two." 

Two minute later, a car containing Lauren, Lynsey, Lauren's Mark, and Kiera as driver. Thought for a moment they'd been on their way into town. Nope! They just all wanted to come along to fetch me. 

Candles and carols was lovely. Candlelit (duh...) with mulled juice and whole families and hymns and stories of struggle and grace. Jesus is very present in Belfast City Vineyard, let me tell you. 

Had to leave a bit early to make sure I was actually at my home when Naomi showed up, so I scampered out, only to receive a text within moments from Megan (last week's friend from after lifegroup) asking if I were okay. I hadn't even seen her at the service. Little things, my friends. 

Ran into the driveway as Naomi and Craig (the boyfriend? or boy friend?) pulled in. 

Despicable Me 2 was in store for us at her home, surrounded by her housemates Josh and Allen. I don't know if it was because I was seeing the world with rosy glasses or so encouraged by my unexpected liberty that I was silly and myself. Also, that movie is hilarious. 

Today was class: I finally figured out how to work the wifi network of Queen's (4 months later...), so I spent it phone out and taking creeper shots of my classmates to keep me awake. I've been time-zoning myself, so the sleep thing has been very off. 

Meet Eamonn! 

Paddy. (Eyes match that shirt)

Philip, Amy, and Emma. They did a really nice job of making this picture look staged.

 Amy and Johanna.

Tonight was the last lifegroup of the semester. I've never actually enjoyed small groups of any kind, but I can't imagine my life here without my NewComers' LifeGroup. It's the highlight of my every week.

Tonight, as our wee ice breaker, we were asked to reintroduce ourselves (everyone chimes your name back like an AA meeting) and tell about our most favorite anticipated Christmas gift.

Then it was my turn. My answer was home. I have spent the past three and a half months answering the question: "Are you going home for Christmas or what are you doing?" with an out of nowhere choked throat. My family drives me up the attic insane. But they're my family. And I've never wanted them more. This Christmas, I get the gift of going home and into the arms of people that truly and unconditionally love me.

No Other Details Matter.

I've prayed nothing but a desperate call for mercy during the past week.

Sweet Jesus Christ, I'm going home. Tuesday.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.

That clip is from my one of my all-time favorite movies. More than anything I could write, it sums up my semester here. Less bitter and defiant on my part, though. Probably. God may disagree if you asked him.

Happy Friday the 13th, y'all.

Highlights from today?

ha. I don't even...where to start?

It ended?

That's not fair. I went and saw a movie tonight with Naomi and her boyfriend/not boyfriend/on and off boyfriend Craig. Frozen. It was just good, clean, sharp wit. Hilarious. Loved it. Then back to hers for gingerbread cookies and, of course, tea.

Got Indian food with Elaine this afternoon and brainstormed a wider band for one of my paper topics. I simply cannot write 5,000 words on an argument for bipolar disorder in Ulysses' Molly. Even if I could, I need a secondary text.

The new topic is "Trapped: The Gap Between Desire and Reality." It's over the juxtaposition between literal entrapment of Lois in her home in The Last September and Molly's bedriddenness. And how it relates to them both relationally, communicatively, and psychologically. An argument for depression in Lois and one for bipolar II in Molly.

A note on Elaine and Naomi.

Often I feel awkward around both.

However, Elaine and I need each other. And, in so many ways, we're experiencing the same kinds of things. Wanting to be known and connect and just have someone there, but not having "our person" there. And she and I have had an incredible amount of struggle--I remember telling a friend's mum earlier on in the semester that an act of God needed to happen in that relationship before it could be even tolerable--but the God who moves mountains deals also in hearts.

Over the past month or month and a half, she has been the one the Lord provided for me. She is not what I asked for or expected--our current church sermon series right now is "The Expected from the Unexpected." Could not be more true here.--but she has been here physically for me. That alone has flooded me with...I dunno...relief? Comfort? Humility? Thankfulness?

And Naomi. Such a lovely girl, but I am just so awkward around her for some reason. But she's also the kind of person I know cares after my aliveness. We don't have that "I must be your friend or will languish in eternal agony" like some of my other best friends and I, but she's loyal and pursues me. I know once every week or two I'll get a text asking for my schedule. A "when" not "if" no matter how busy she is.

So thank you, God.

I also had a wee chat with a guy in a coffee shop today over the existence of God (me and coffee, I swear). I wasn't up on my evangelistic game. However, I neither believe I was going to change his mind forever after it had been hardened right there and right then nor do I think that my sad answer was going to confirm his atheism. It was just good, friendly craic.

He asked me what evidence I had to believe in God.

My answer was something to the effect of my very continued life, that sometimes, you just need to believe in God because that's the only answer you have.

It isn't kosher (I would know. ex-Jew center employee) to reference your own writing, but saddle-in. I'm about to.

My senior thesis was a long work of creative non-fiction called "WaterWorks." It was a chapbook, comprised of a whole bunch of styled, structured essays over a mutual theme of water.

Several them are quite immature and silly, or at least laughable. Some are serious. Some are trying too hard. Some are too vulnerable to actually be in there (thus no push for publication), I think, but it exists nonetheless (feel free to ask after it. I'll email it over, sure).

One of my favorite pieces (though not my professors) is an etymological study behind the word "tear" (the wee eye rain, not paper-ripping). Etymology is just a fancy way to say a study of word origins. I trace it from its root and variations, then bring it from scientific to specific. I like it very much.

I bring it up because the last line of it, which I stole/based-off a line of a poem of mine I didn't want to burn, has been playing in my mind. It's rather worthless to bring up here because you haven't read it, nor would it make sense to take it out of context and reproduce it here, but I've just been thinking about it.

The image it conjures is one total, broken, tears-in-hands, collapse before the spirit of the living God. It's the moment when all you can think to pray is Lord, have mercy. 

Inexplicably beautiful and wretched at one time.

Touchdown Turnaround

Today's morning could be described best by one of my favorite lines of poetry: "I wake to sleep and take my waking slow." However, the rest of the day was characterized by a different line from that same poem: "I learn by going where I have to go."

Despite the three alarms I set for myself and the fact that I was actually outside my bed on three different occasions, I did not make it awake and alive until nearly 11. Shoot. All those big plans of research and productivity went as dim as the pathetic attempt at daylight outside.

However, by noon, I was washed up and out the door with a chunk of banana bread in my hand and a Translink journey router on my phone.

DRUMROLL PLEASE

I had to take a bus and a connector and go to a different side of town and I DID NOT GET LOST. I did make friends with two bus drivers and a handful of strangers, though.

My destination was in East Belfast, across the river. I've talked about the danger of East Belfast before, but perhaps I should explain better what I mean. They aren't as much dangerous as they are paranoid. East Belfast is mainly Catholic Nationalist populace.

They're angry and bullied. Like the kid who was made fun of and beat up so much as a kid that he eventually goes crazy in a school shooting or ends up as the exec of a major business and wrecks eternal psychological damage on others forever in retribution for his own past.

They were made into who they are. It's actually pretty beautiful, their anger, in a way. The murals, their sheer passion, the fact that what they're fighting for (brutally) is a united Ireland; it's admirable.

I wasn't there for anthropology, though, I was there to help in the Vineyard church office stuffing newcomer packets.

After a few hours of my methodical, independent task (I truly love methodical, independent tasks), I took the bus and my connection back, got off at Queen's, and read another chunk of my homework.

The book I need, Stepping Stones, is only in the special collections room. I had the brilliant realization that I don't actually need to buy my school books. I get them all from the library. Then, if I really like it or need it for research, I buy it online off the American Amazon, and have it shipped to my home in Oklahoma. That way I won't have 40 pounds of books when I travel back.

Merry  Christmas from Queen's!

Rushed home, made myself a bowl of soup and another yummy quesadilla, and then went for coffee with a lovely woman from my church named Lynne. She's one of those ladies that the word "dazzling" fits well.

She's got this wee blonde pixie cut, bright white teeth (a real anomaly here), and a sparkly little personality and person. Her whole self just glitters. You want to be around her.

So she asked me out to coffee. We had a very nice talk. Not so surfacey that I wanted to claw my eyes out with small talk fever and not so depthy that I felt as though I was prostituting my personal stories for the sake of conversation. A winner of a coffee date, I'd say.

Lynne also gave me this!

 

Holiday ice trays! The snarky packaging could not have been more dead on. I really have been craving ice. I think  I've had it all of once since moving here. They just don't do ice. Her husband got them random free from his company, and she thought I'd find it funny. Didn't expect me to be so exuberant. Like the year my grandma ree gave me a sham wow for Christmas. Man, aside from the forever lazy she gave me last year, that sham wow was the best gift. Practical but whimsical. 

Last but not least, I made an important life change today. 

Those, ladies and gentlemen, are burn-on bracelets. 

Not just any burn-on bracelets. 

Bracelets I've been wearing for 8 years. 

My wrist is actually slightly bent in from how long I've worn them. The time-worn tan line that's left behind is actually a little embarrassing now that I've cut them and stopped wearing a watch. 

The purple one is my Staff bracelet from New Life Ranch, and the blue and green one is from my first year at NLR as a Nehemiah. Nehi was the year I met Kira (my best friend from day one) and, in many ways, the year that I really took ownership of my walk with Jesus. 

NLR's motto verse is 2 Corinthians 5:17: "Behold! I am a new creation! The old has gone; the new has come!" 

I wore them for so long (except for the exceptionally dramatic time when they were forcibly cut from my wrists at a swim meet and I openly wept. and later burned them back on) not just because I loved my memories of camp and meeting Kira, but they were a daily reminder of the moment my life really started to change, that I was the start of a new creation. I didn't think I'd ever take them off. 

Not quite sure why today was the day, but it finally seemed like the right time. I am thankful that God used camp and Kira to shift my life toward him, but I am no longer that girl anymore. I no longer identify with who I was then, but she's been stuck to me for so long. She was absolutely wretched in so many ways and she's who the devil forces me to remember, claim, and be burdened with when I struggle, that I'll never succeed or be forgiven or whatever it is because I am ____, _____, and ____ and always will be. That is not the truth. 

I started the change as a Nehi, but I needed the daily reminder because I didn't get better for a very long time. I'll always be journeying, but that person I was in high school especially and the strands of her that survived through college was a miserable and mean creature. She needed to be cut off. Literally. 

So now I lay her down to sleep and free myself from her. 

I am not who I was. By the grace of God, I am what I am, and, by the grace of God, I am not finished yet either. 

I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go. 

Give me this day, my banana bread.

It's kind a fad among Christian young adult women to use the phrase, "I think I'm just supposed to be single right now. You know, focus on my relationship with God and all."

Probably at the root of that statement, they know it's the truth of what they need to be doing. Like, ya know, figure out who the heck they are outside of their definition and value found in a man. However, and guys listen to me on this, she is trying to find a way to let you down easy.

More than likely, her little self-vow will last just as long as it takes for somebody super hott and perfect-seeming comes along and shows her a little interest. Then it's all, "Oh my gosh, I'm so glad I was single for those 89 hours. God like totally prepared my heart for so and so!"

It's a typical Christian girl move.

I'm a little different. Go figure.

I don't think I've ever used that phrase. I have no problem owning the value of being single or being assertive when I just don't want to go out with you. There's no need for me to use God as a cover-up.

However, I will now use a phrase very close to that line. I don't think it's all that important for me to be single as much as I recognize the value and necessity of me being alone.

I found myself praying a couple weeks ago not that God would "use" me, but that he would occupy me. It's funny because that would be so completely the opposite of the point.

Regina Spektor (one of my absolute favorite music artists. such good Trifecta memories) has this fabulous line (all her lines are fabulous) that says, "your ears in your headphones to drown out your mind."

I have literally had my ears in headphones since I was an early teenager. I'd stick them in the moment I got in the car (with my sweet Walkman), so I didn't have to engage in the car chatter around me. I have them in when I study, when I drive, when I'm baking, when I'm getting ready in the morning (necessity. you can't toothbrush dance without a good jam), on the bus, walking to the bus, in the shower, all the time.

I listen to music or I'm on social media or I'm with friends or I've busied myself with meetings or classes.

And now, it's just me. With the music off and the friends far away and the boyfriend gone and the family far away too and my old life, which I really really liked, is gone.

The old self, however wonderful or terrible she was, is gone.

I don't know how I'd respond if someone were to ask me what I'm learning. I don't necessarily feel like I'm learning. I'm not even sure how I'm different. I just am. There are small, surface-level things that are changing, but they're just indicative of something more. I'm just not entirely certain what that something more is.

Who am I going to come home as? What am I going to come home to? Or what am I going to come home to do?

Those answers, I suppose, will show themselves in time. For now, I am choosing to learn something: to accept that feeling known by The Lord is enough.

That aspect has been the most difficult for me. I miss feeling known. I've made some lovely friends here, both from the JBU team and around Belfast, but they don't know me.

Skype and texting and letters are great, and I am so thankful for the way they've been able to help keep me in contact with my loved ones for the most part, but just being in the presence of someone who knows me, who I don't have to explain myself to...that cannot be replaced by a screen.

There doesn't even need to be talking or hugging (hugging would be really nice, though), but just to be in one another's presence. Immeasurable worth.

So there's one thing I've learned, and one thing I'm passing on to you.
-Take out the earbuds.
-Shut up with those petty angers and remarks. Patrick Kavanagh once said, "When we--or I at any rate--speak impromptuously, we tend to speak on the surface, expressing surface irritations of the moment. Out of repose the truth speaks." Amen, brother.
-If the only thing between the two of you (or between you and however many people you're pissed at) is your own pride, let it go. Your bitterness will only hurt you, and you're keeping yourself from so much love.
-Be present. So present. Don't check your watch. Don't check your emails or texts. They can wait. The person you're with is of infinitely more importance.

I have learned that spending time in any capacity with a person who gets you is the greatest gift you could ever be given.

God is teaching me to allow that person to be him, even if I can't see him or be with him like a best friend. He is my daily bread.

But if I get hungry...

Mama's banana bread recipe. :)
Like the awkwardly long pan? Me too. Sure beats mussing two different bread pans.

Also, Belfast moment here:

I call it, "Parallel parking is for weanies."

And with that, goodnight Belfast.

Sysyphus

A major textual question begged in Black List Section H was the definition of art. What is true art? The authorial voice criticized Yeats for accepting poetic awards, saying something to the effect that it is not honor that becomes a poet but disgrace.

Once a poet is honored for his art, he ceases to be unconscious in its creation. Not that a poet--or any artist for that matter--can ever truly be free from the consciousness of audience, but there is a certain extra blockade which comes along with the realization that your art actually has an audience and it isn't just being sent into the great world of words, words, words beyond.

Is true art then that which is unrefined? A happy cosmic accident?

I think perhaps it is. Exceptional art can only occur once. As in Oscar Wilde's short story "The Fisherman and His Soul", once The Beautiful is experienced and pursued, it can never be further from you. Its beauty comes in that it is an unconscious reactionaryness to the world within and around.

That is not to say that beautiful things cannot be created, though. It is, rather, a distinction between true art and craftsmanship. A craft can be learned and perfected, but  it also carries with it the sense that it has been crafted intentionally instead of being born. It is flawless or flawed with thought. Something born bears the marks of  its imperfect creation. No less lovely (perhaps more so) but evident in its unrefinement.

I heard recently that we spend our whole lives rewriting the first poem we ever loved. We pursue that chilling  connection between words and soul. That moment, and not the poem itself is art in its purest form. An unpracticed reaction. The search to revise is a search for the same sentiment.

Maybe then craftsmanship cannot be true art but it can beget true art in others. I like that thought. It gives all the searching and collateral creation worth aside from its intrinsic good.

and Eamonn reads my nostril flares.

Belfast dialectics and intonations are often beyond my delicate grasp of the language, thus, Eamonn has begun to analyze my nose as closely as the text.

Without saying a single syllable, he knows the moment I've hung myself up on a particular word or concept and goes about to redefine it.

The best moment of class today was the moment he said, "Well, as they say, there are many ways to skin a cat" and I responded immediately with, "ah yes, but the tail is most difficult."

He didn't quite know what to do with me.

And, unlike my last class presentation with him (the class period I fell asleep right after he told me I had completely missed the point of my presentation topic), this one went by without a remark against its verity. WIN.

I will also mention that my apple cinnamon muffins were a hit. I'm starting to drown in apple-based food items, so I've been pawning them off to anyone who'll eat them.

Course today was on Seamus Heaney. His poem "Digging" is quite good as well as it contains the word "squelching," which makes it awesome. It'll dredge up coursemates' reminiscing about their childhood days harvesting peat (really.) and mine of squishing my feet in mud back behind our fence.

I was asked by my classmates to read the poem aloud because they like my "exotic accent." Welcome, Oklahoma. Betcha never got that one before. :)

This picture brought to you by the strangers in front of me on the bus.

Maybe a little creepy that I took this, but I just think it's precious when boys are still young enough that they will still nestle into their mum's shoulder in public. Ooh. Better yet. One of my professors at JBU also goes to my church FirstPrez. His son, probably aged 14 or so, always puts his head on his dad's shoulder during church. Very affectionate. Front row, too! It's the most wonderful, endearing thing. 

At home, I fixed myself dinner and baked apple popovers. Also the easiest recipe and my LifeGroup loved them. Leslie, wife of our leader and from The States, told me they taste like home in America. 

There's not a better place to stick that mural picture, but that's what "graffiti" in Belfast looks like. This one is in East Belfast. Catholic area. Nationalist area. Super dangerous area during The Troubles and certain parts of the year now even (Scary guys, if you can't tell from that blood-freezing image. They are compared to the US KKK. To be fair, though, their opposition was just as terrorous).  

Next up on my list of activities was small group (Did I mention that my small group is in East Belfast..?). Both of my normal friend drivers were out, so I got creative and called up a randomer from the group. Claire and  Malcolm drove me there and Megan drove me home. 

Let's talk about be courageous, be bold, make friends, my friends. 

Maybe that's an area I'm growing in. I'm often assertive on behalf of others, but I am loathe to ask for help or favors myself. Sometimes, though, what I really need to do is take a hit to my pride and be honest, even if it's something as simple as, "I need a lift." And then let somebody else help you. No excuses or justifications about why you had to ask for help this one time. Be gracious and thankful. 

You cannot do life on your own. I cannot do life on my own. It's okay to be the pathetic or weak one sometimes. Don't live there or make it your identity, but don't begrudge yourself that part of the journey either. 

Speaking of identities, LifeGroup tonight was over the topic of taking every thought captive and the false narratives we feed ourselves. Let's talk about group discussions perfectly suited to my present situation. Restructuring my neurological thought patternings is a definite struggle. 

Not a struggle I have any intention of losing, but a struggle nonetheless. And the difficult part about rewriting personal narratives is that a lot of them have roots in truth. I am deeply afraid of being someone not worth remembering, of being forgettable. 

I have been forgotten. My fears in that area have been confirmed many times over. That is a truth. 

That does not make ME forgettable, though, or someone not worth remembering. Therein comes the lie. 

Megan and I, through small group small group time, found we had much in common and that's how she ended up being the one to drive me home. We actually ended up sitting and chatting in her car for a half hour or so after we had pulled up to my house. 

[Offshoot: when people first come over to pick me up or drop me off, they always have the same remark: "so...you live in a castle..." "yeah....." It is quite funny.]

Back to Megan. It was an exhausting, fast-paced chat, but I felt understood for the first time since coming here. There was, if not friend chemistry, a kinship of spirit, a general recognition of and comprehension of where we were both at (sorry Jansie) in life. Our thoughts made sense to one another. 

After four months of trying to make friends and liking people but not feeling "gotten", it was a really nice moment. 

AND, when I walked in the door, I found a package I'd missed earlier from my cousin Krissy. 

A package of love and chocolate and Flarp. That's another person I feel "gotten" by. Maybe it's because our mothers are practically the same person, but Kristina and I are freakishly similar and require very little to completely understand the other. Despite our age difference and our distance, hers is a friendship of great value to me and not one I fear diminishment. 

There was lots of laughter and good thought and good music (Gungor, if you must know). 

Today was a gift. From start to end. I feel relieved of weight today, both in specific areas and in general. 

When the people returned to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon, they became as men who dreamed. Their mouths were filled with laughter, their tongues with shouts of joy. Then the peoples of the Earth said "the Lord has done great things for them." Indeed. The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. Psalm 126. 

December, Day 9: Complete. 

JBU Audio Archives Fall 2007 (in part)

Do you ever have recurring theme metaphors in your life? Like the ones that seem to follow you?

I have a few including, but not nearly excluded to, knitting, puzzles, and bubbles.

Bubbles are the ones I've been thinking of today, starting with this sweet Vine of smoke bubbles. 

Then, I decided to start at the back of the JBU audio chapel archives and listen through the last five years of chapels. Not today but in my spare time, like when I'm puzzling or playing geography games or blogging.

I started out with a chapel by Tracy Balzer who also happens to be my mentor, so it was a double bonus of Jesus and Tracy. She spoke about the concept of the JBU bubble. It's a pretty popular topic of complaint among JBU students, that they are trapped in "the bubble."

She had some good thoughts on The Bubble, though. Bubbles are translucent (my brother Chon's answer to "what is your favorite color" all while we were growing up). You can see through them. You can't be trapped in ignorance if you have the total ability to see the world around you. Internet, the news, newspapers. You have the opportunity.

Second, bubbles are permeable. You can go in and out of them.

Quotable Quotes from Dieter Zander (spiritual emphasis speaker for Fall 2007)'s first, second, and third chapel talks.
"Grace is not opposed to effort. Grace is opposed to earning."
(speaking in relation to himself as a non-runner becoming a marathon competitor): "I was able to accomplish something through training which  I would never have been able to accomplish through trying...trying is a spur of the moment effort with no preparation. Training is intentional, strategic preparation for an inevitable outcome." 
"Spiritual disciplines create the space in our lives needed for the Holy Spirit to work."
"You can't be a loving person if you're moving too fast, [are anxious/overwhelmed], or [self-absorbed]." 
To become loving: 1. The spiritual practice of slowing. "If I can start [the day] slow, I can stay slow." 2. Observe the Sabbath. 3. Start saying "no." 4. Take time to really see people. 5. Serve others. Go beyond the stated request.
"Jesus was interruptable." 
That last one there is what caught me. A lot of these quotes did, but this last one especially. I often am glad to help but require a few minutes to finish up something. That's kind of ungracious (though perhaps may feel necessary to me). Slow obedience is no obedience. Slow service is no service. Demonstrate through your actions and attitudes that other people are more important than you are.

Approachable

Some things in life do not make sense to me.

Like how I'm always told I look unapproachable and intimidating, yet every time I'm in a coffee shop with headphones in, a stack of books five high, a computer on my lap, a pen in my hand, and a journal stuck somewhere around my chair, apparently I'm irresistibly approachable. People think it's the exact right time to strike up a deep and divulgent conversation with me. I know many a stranger's dark truths and life story. 

That recently happened to me with this man: 

He woke up from his drunken stupor and told me his childhood memories, political views, and made me watch several videos of a sheep. 

I'd like to harness that irresistableness and use it during appropriate social settings, not the ones when I'm trying to decipher criticism of Ulysses or write a presentation on disengagement and father-figure searching in The Gatekeeper. 

Speaking of appropriate social settings, I was tricked into one this evening. 

At newcomers dinner (take 2) on Tuesday evening, the pastor's wife casually invited me to sing with a choir-like group on sunday (tonight) because they were desperate for another alto. Made it sound super casual. 

It turned into me showing up at someone's home, joining an established choir for Christmas Caroling, and discovering that Harmony was never showing up ever. Hello...strangers. Who wants to take me home tonight? To my home, that is, not your home. I don't know you like that. Or at all. Dang you, Harmony! 

Luckily, I've been practicing my small talk social skills a lot in the past couple weeks and have "looking pleasant" down to a science. 

First are the arms. Uncross them and place them delicately in your lap.

Next is the face. Stop staring like you've got laser beams for eyes and give yourself a nice, dreamy expression, making sure the crinkles in your forehead are smoothed. Maybe raise your eyebrows a bit to widen your eyes even more and make you look innocent and curious. 

The mouth. It's pursed, isn't it. Or frowning a bit. Don't smile like an idiot, but you could stand to turn the sides up a little, so you look like you've laughed at least once before and would do so again if called upon. 

Along with singing to some neighborhood folk, I heard all about some guy's reminisces about every english course he'd ever taken, the warm childhood memories of a man and his father geeking out over web design and technology together, and got myself a ride home with a very nice swedish south african girl named Sam, who also made me wear tinsel. 

A battle awaited me at home. The crazy thing is that I don't even know where these attacks are coming from, like what their root is, so there's no way for me to come to plate against them really. 

They knock the life out of me. Literally take me off my feet and to the floor (funny thing: that's another time I apparently am most approachable. Dang near every time I cry--which previous to this move has been seldom--somebody walks in on me or calls me). 

But thank God almighty: New mercies will be ready for me in the morning. 

December, day 8: complete. 

The Hunger Games

How aquatic are you?
Have you ever spent an extensive amount of time treading water?

I was, at one point, a competitive (that word used loosely in my case) swimmer, and part of our strength training was water treading.

We'd gather in the deep end, chuckling to ourselves at our good luck at getting out of a "hard" workout, and for the first few minutes of treading, we were in paradise. Longer treading, though, can get you pretty worn down (for some, that moment comes when they start treading).

At that point, our coach would start to yell out variations on the form. Hands in the air, arms to the elbows, arms all the way up, arms only, each with an impossible feeling timer. By the end of that half hour or forty-five minutes, we'd be wet-sweating. Sweating in a pool is a really awkward feeling.

Treading water takes discipline, determination, and steady, steady pacing and patience with yourself.

Today, I tread water.

I woke up in a dark room on a dark morning with a dark mood.

I did not want to get out of bed or pray or move. However, I needed to do all three of those things regardless of how I felt toward them.

I went with the "keep moving" choice (in regards to my previous post), forcing myself to push against the oppressiveness of...shoot, I don't even know what. Against my spirit's antagonizer.

Thus, The Hunger Games.

Distract your hungry spirit through making daily tasks a game.
And, because my fridge is still bursting with random need-to-be-used fruits and veggies, it was hunger games in that respect as well.

Apple cinnamon oat muffins. I did an alteration of their original recipe to include the oats, two extra cups of apples, and a couple other oddities. They yielded two dozen muffins and a small loaf of bread, and didn't even make a dent in my apple-achian mountain. 

 Next to conquer was Carrot Kingdom. Jansie sent me her favorite carrot soup recipe, which I doubled, cut down, and added to. My editions were basmati rice and oregano and subtracted the heavy cream. Oh my goodness, it is good stuff. Pour some into a mug and hold in your hands on a cold day. Healthy, warm, delicious, and different.

For dinner, I used up a head and a half of my wee lettuces to put together a salad. For my real food, though, I sauteed more mushrooms (gave up and froze the rest of them. There's only so many mushrooms one girl can consume) with a yellow onion and little capsule thing of garlic. Then, after I set those aside (Lainey doesn't like mushrooms), I browned some Irish beef (ground beef here is called minced beef) with Italian seasoning and fresh Thyme, added some bolognese sauce we had around, the rest of the can of tomato paste from this morning's soup, and 8 small tomatoes I found on the counter. Booyah. Dinner.

For dinner, I was joined by Elaine. She may not have come out of her room at all, but I went and got her because I figured (rightly) that she wouldn't have eaten otherwise. Or would eat a bagel at 2am. And I'd made sure that nothing in our meal was against her healthcode.

Mostly we sat in silence (which I am coming to both understand and be comfortable with), while I focused on looking pleasant and ready but not anxious to talk.

When she's tired, she just spouts off random bits of information and thoughts, and I've learned that she's really not going for a response, so I listen and wait for more.

She was feeling pensive and share-y about Nelson Mandella's death and the struggle of her friends back in Africa, says that on sleepy days, her mind is halfrica, half here and half there. Her concern and heart and knowledge of the people there is quite admirable.

Dessert was more apples. Apple crisp this time. The easiest ever recipe. Took all of 5 minutes to prep and 40 minutes to bake. Just enough time to sit down with some good Seamus Heaney poetry.

Bubbly, gooey, and hot fresh from the oven, oozing over vanilla bean ice cream and washed down with a glass of milk.

Yes, I was eating it on my puzzle. It was my nest for study and leisure today.

Please note the mini-heater that I keep by me. I tote it about the house with me when I change rooms. This picture actually captures pretty accurately everything I did today. Cute.

I never did come out of my weightedness of the morning. But I also didn't let it define the day for me nor how I behaved in all the hours before I go to bed again and hopefully sleep this off.

It's treading water, taking patience and measuredness.

Parts of the exercise or day are exhausting, parts are strenuous but not undoable, but all of it inevitable. You're not allowed to drown or quit practice (it would need to be in that order) any more than you can realistically quit a bad day.

It's like the back of our horribly "scripture out of context" team t-shirts said back then, "1 Corinthians 9:27: 'I beat my body into submission, bringing it under complete control, to keep myself from being disqualified after having called others to the contest.'"

Spirit and the Spirit of God within us is stronger than the body, stronger than the mind.