Late Love (Virgin Version)

The past two weeks, I've attended at semi-university affiliated event entitled Late Love, which is a gathering of Jesus lovers to sing loudly and with gusto.

My chauffeur and partner in crime to this event is Miss Kiera Mitchell.

She's been my ever-valiant friend and Belfast connector since October now, but we've not had much one-on-one time to really get to know one another.

Last week, she very kindly and bravely came to karaoke at Robinson's Pub with my Americans and myself. We shut the house down with TSwift's "You Belong With Me." And yes, mostly that involved us shouting loudly without any rhythm or tune into the mics and dancing just as boldly. Twas a blast.

We left the pub just in time to attend LL, which felt only semi sacrilegious, but we hadn't had any alcoholic beverages, so it was quite right in our minds. Even if we had, though, who better to be in church than drunken sinners?

I met a few of her friends and we ran into a guy from church.

Yesterday, she picked me up early and we went out for Starbucks before the gathering (good idea in theory. bad idea in practice. old woman here should NOT have caffeine past 2 pm).

It was there that we had the shocking realisation that though we've been friends for a good long while, we neither of us really knows one another at all.

So, we spent our extra hour asking some super basic questions, like "How many siblings do you have?" and "What is your favourite colour?"

It was very nice.

I often complained last semester at the fact that I didn't feel known by anybody here or have friend chemistry (pardon me if I've already discussed this).

However, that's not a fair assessment.

I did not behave like myself, gave them nobody to work with, and never opened up, not even to tell them my siblings or ask after theirs.

I didn't make last semester any easier on myself by shutting down like that, but I also think (along the same lines of a recent post of mine involving the redefinition of failure) that I wasn't at a place where I was ABLE to succeed in that way.

I needed to grow up and get settled into myself. I needed to get to a place where I didn't need other people anymore. Not in the flippant way I used to, but in the way where the only one I truly need is The Lord and the loves in my life are wonderful complements instead of necessities.

It's a lovely place to be.

*In case you thought I was joking about the laundry...

Deep, Pockets That Is

I think I'm wearing boy jeans. I've no actual evidence to support this theory, but I snatched them from the students' give away clothes pile (Jeans and I struggle, so I'm always on the prowl for a fit) and they have pockets large enough to actually hold something in them. Given that all girl jeans have unreasonably small pockets (both front and back and count your lucky charms if the fronts aren't faux), logic stands that they must be male.

I am okay with this fact.

If you're tracking with me, you'll also recognise that a donation pile means I've once again been abandoned. Enormous piles of laundry surround me currently, as I sit at the top of the staircase to write this, and I've got two full months to ready the house for my group of fifty coming in May. This house sleeps 38. I've got some creative rearranging ahead of me.

This past month has been so wonderful (if you've read my few wee posts, you'll already know that. If you haven't, well then, do so as I'm not going to reiterate myself and bore the others).

I've learned just how on the line between introvert and extrovert I am.

Literally have had less than a couple evenings/afternoons by myself and haven't had a hermit breakdown, but I also find myself rather relieved that they're gone.

I've loved them and will miss them dreadfully soon, but my body and type Aness are a bit exhausted and confused at the way I've been treating them.

It's time to rearrange my sleep schedule into normal hours again, start doing my homework thoroughly, and just overall rebecome more productive.

However, I have a couple of things to say in slight defence of how I've lived this past month.

First, I came to Queen's not because I was particularly interested in school (which I was) but because I was interested in Northern Ireland as a place. I fell in love with this country, so I found a program to suit me. Not the other way around.

Therefore, if there was ever an opportunity to explore NI presented to me, of course I chose that (and rightly so!) over secluding myself in the house.

Second, they were only here for a month.

Therefore, it was good and right for me to maximise my time with actual human beings, the likes of which I will not get to be with again until May (at least not in my house).

Third, I have never ever been the type to demonstrate in my life organisation the fact that I value people more than tasks.

It's one of the defining qualities that drew me into NI in the first place, that they do that.

And yet, it goes so much against basically everything I stand for, as I think I've mentioned in a previous post (whichI will link here if I remember what it is).

I just don't. I get things done and THEN will spend time with you.

Not this time.

I think that's important.

Obviously it's not something sustainable for me to do--as it had a direct hit on my actual studies and work--but for a short while, I can not think of anything which would have been more healthy.

So thank you, Jesus.

He is just so good. I never would have even begun to fathom or ask for the beauty and restoration this past month has been for me.

And, because I was so shoddy at posting my adventures throughout the month, keep watch for some tardy write-ups and pictures of them.

It Matters or The Bigger Picture

I used to listen to a lot of Ginny Owens.

She's a blind pianist and pretty great, I think. Wonderful lyricist. Not like the wit and charm of Relient K (who literally has an appropriate song for every occasion) but wisdom and spiritual encouragement.

Over the break home, I played one of her songs on repeat called, "I am."

The chorus says, "There's a bigger picture you can't see. You don't have to change the world, just trust in me. "Cause I am your creator. I am working out my plan, and through you, I will show them I am."

I thought of this song when one of my professors from university asked me what the bigger picture here was. Did I see a purpose, a greater purpose in my emotional suffering of last semester?

I didn't know. I saw no purpose except for the death of me for the glory of God which, to be fair, ain't too shabby of a reason all in itself. But things are always greater than us. What is the purpose?

Bit by bit, I think I've started to understand. Not in whole, but in part.

Time after time, I have had the honor of hearing the stories of my own friends back home and students in this group. Time after time, my own story has aligned with theirs, except that they are in the midst of what I've finally been dragged out of by my ponytail and throat and learned from.

I have BEEN there. I am with you in this.

I don't have answers, but I have revelations that never would have occurred to me before and I can't help but pass on with gushy joy and vigor. And if nothing else, I can very simply just be someone who can reassuringly say, "Me too" and stand by them in joint understanding so they know their struggle is not theirs to carry alone.

Hours after one of those conversations, I'll have the evil passing thought of, "Was I just...wise?"

Then there is a moment of choice for me. Either, I say to myself, "DUH!" or "I have no wisdom."

Both are false. I think by experience, nonchristians as well as christians can gain wisdom. The first answer would be prideful and show me to be not wise at all. The second answer just isn't true. By the grace of God, I do have a slight degree of wisdom.

For me, I think the ones who are truly wise are the ones who don't even question it. Who don't care or even consider the question. They love God. They love God so much that he can't help but dominate conversations with his wisdom and grace through them.

My struggles matter. Even if my story only touches one other person in such a way as to cause them to think more critically about his or her life and somewhere, somehow down the line, they are drawn closer to God because of it, then it was all worth it. I don't even have to know.

That's the beautiful thing about being part of the bigger picture. The thin purple thread has no idea that it's a necessary twist to complete a sunset/robe/tulip in the tapestry. But it does. The only one who can truly see its purpose and place is the creator.

It matters what I say. It matters what I do. It matters how I respond to God and people. It matters how I love. It matters how I pray. It matters how I engage.

And how beautiful it is that I'm alive.
Not just resurrected but recreated.
Equipped and able to worship and praise and rejoice with a thankful heart in my and others' existences and place in one another's stories.
I'm not who I was. 

Let Us Now Forget One Another

I'm working on it, I am.

This whole, making friends outside the house thing.

It's a struggle for me, not like that's any surprise. There's a desire for connection and relationship, but that seems to be equally matched by intense resistance to "putting myself out there."

This past Monday, though, was a moderate step forward for me. About a week ago, I made nice with a classmate (one  of the five in my program) in the Special Collections room (the same day I got in trouble for sprawling on floor). That conversation was followed by middleschoolish note passing during class, orange eating under the table (also during class), and an invite to join the weekly group ritual of pre-class lunch (didn't even know they had been doing that).

Therefore, half assuming that they weren't going to actually show up, I arrived at Monday lunch. And you know what? They did.

Each of we five brought a contribution to the meal (mine was orange bread. Yum!). And we chatted and got on. It was actually very fun, and it made class dynamic feel like, well, like it actually had a dynamic.

The social doesn't end there. After poetry class (and my presentation which went quite well I will add), lunch, and modern Ireland class, two of my church friends lifted me from Queen's for dinner.

Over dinner, we caught up on everything we'd missed while I was away in The States over delicious food at Benedict's. A note on them: they've got this stellar deal for dinner where the time you order is the price you pay. So a £12 meal could potentially be gotten for a mere £5.30.

Afterward, we FINALLY got to go to Bible study. The whole group--by nature of it being the Newcomers Lifegroup--had changed over, so there were lots of new names to learn.

After a full 13 hours away from the house, I came home to my Kanukukers.

Things with them are still going well, but I'm beginning to feel the start of separations and, while still enjoying them in spurts, pulling away bit by bit so as to lessen the social "cold turkey" that'll happen in a mere 7 days when they leave.

I never intended to like them or to get attached to them. I can't express how wonderful it's been to have them here as a transition resource, though. They could never understand just where I was and just how much of a blessing their just liking me has been.

With their leaving, the old fear of forgettableness is coming back up.
They will leave.
I will stay.
They will continue to build relationships with one another and live in community.
I will not.
The journeys divide.

I've had thoughts on that particular note of fear over the course of the past few months, and if I'm sincere in them, then this will be okay.

I've always worked so hard to make myself unforgettable, so that people don't want to let me go. But life isn't about me.

All of creation is oriented around the glorification of Jesus Christ.

I'm not meant to be remembered. The pieces of my own fabricated persona are probably pretty revolting in the eyes of God and not worth being remembered.

So if I'm to be remembered by anyone at all, I would hope that they would forget everything about me save that which is of my God.

I Make a Truce With You, Valentine's Day

Loathe would be the most correct verbal form of my hatred for Valentine's Day.

It's consumerist, materialistic, and puts enormous amounts of pressure on everyone involved.
---What does she expect? What does her best friend expect? What if she does something for me but I don't do enough for her? What if her best friend's boyfriend does something crazy romantic and I didn't come up to par? What if there's a glitter cannon mixup and chocolate syrup comes gushing out instead and she's wearing her new dress and it gets all ruined and she starts to cry and there's mascara everywhere and oh my gosh we're out in public and she's gonna hate me forever and won't even let me scoop up some of the chocolate off her arm with a pretzel?!?!

You get my point.

And, even if a girl (such as myself) truly is not a fan of large romantic gestures, nobody will believe her because it'll seem like a cover-up for her actually really, really wanting a romantic gesture. What.

V-Day has also historically been for me a day of bad news. There was a space of about four years there where something legitimately tragic happened on Valentine's Day.

So, I've held a grudge against it. In my mind, not unwarranted.

This was even to the extent that I cancelled Valentine's Day last year. Cancelled it. As in, I didn't even see my now ex on the day.

I've had a lot of time for reflection since I moved to NI in September (by that I mean that I have thought through everything on God's green Earth for lack of something better to do with my ungodly amounts of free and alone time). During that time, VDay and I have had an all-out.

It's amazing to me how many of life's decisions and revisions are driven by a deep deep rooting in fear.

For this day, there's a fear of not measuring up to expectations, of having expectations and being disappointed, of being vulnerable enough to let yourself be loved in unnecessary ways. It's what I talked about once in my definition of intimacy. 

Intimacy as that moment of tension, that point at which you're dancing on the edge and could either fall to your death or jump to a higher ledge.

When I realized at what depth my hatred really did stem from terror and how much I was denying myself as well as other people an opportunity for relational growth, I owed VDay some reconsideration and an apology.

Still not a fan of the gross spectacle it has become, nor am I cozy with being fussed over in almost any capacity, but I recognize that there is some intrinsic value in its existence, if not solely its history.

For that reason, Valentine's Day, you are safe from my slander and cancellation tenancies.  We can now be friends. 

Troubles You Can't Unsee (Movie Style)

This week, I've been given a reprieve from reading, especially nice considering I had to read three novels for class on Monday and I'm enjoying being around people too much to actually want to do my homework.

(What? You, Jamie? Valuing human beings over homework? Who have you become?)

Yes. It's true. My world has gone quite mad in the past couple weeks. I'm welcoming it along.

If you've been following along with my unending reading list but never had any intention of actually reading what I'm reading, maybe then you'll be interested in the movie list that I've endured (yes, endured) for my next class.

*Odd Man Out (1947)(Available on YouTube): Love story, mob story, escape story, tragedy. Predating The Troubles but postdating Irish conflict (does anything really predate Irish conflict? I mean other than the Jews, they take the scone for struggling people groups).
*Nothing Personal (1995): The "other side" of the story. The Troubles mob heads friends? Childhood mates torn apart by religion and faced with betrayal via murder? Confusion as to what is true and what is not. Unchilding.
*Hunger (2008): Not for the faint of heart. I had to watch this one in two parts, actually. Wept. It does a really powerful job of showing both sides. Not the Catholics and Protestants but the political prisoners (both C and P) against "the man." A determinedly quiet movie, but even more moving because of that. No clatter to distract from fully absorbing just what Hell is happening.
*Five Minutes of Heaven (2009): Not to be confused with 7 Minutes of Heaven. Story of violent juxtaposition of reconciliation and the desire to heal violence with more violence.
*A Belfast Story (2013): Can't yet comment. Haven't watched it yet.

Something you'll notice in both Irish (not solely Northern Irish) literature and film and art is the prevalence of women named Cathleen or Cathleen Ni Houlihan. She is representative of Ireland. Her treatment and person (take note of who is persecuting, to whom she shows kindness, what she is wearing, and her age) demonstrate the speaker's view of Ireland.
There are two Cathleens spread between those five (maybe three Cathleens. Haven't seen that fifth one yet) movies.

Can't tell you about either of them or I'll ruin the endings. Meet 'em yourselves.

It's funny. War movies (yes, The Troubles was a period of wretched civil war) don't usually mess with me all that much. I mean, I'm kind of a wimp (but is wimp really the right term there? Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have a healthy, nonsociopathic response) when it comes to physically harming others, but my water works stay pretty well turned-off. I'm not playing with you. I found myself writhing in horror at some of the stuff those movies presented for my full visceral reaction.

Maybe it's the fact that I live here in Belfast. I know those streets, been on them even, go to Bible study in an East Belfast neighborhood identical to those involved.  I've read more than my fair share of Belfast literature, thinking, and politics. I've heard these people's stories and hearts. I know this city. I love this city.

And some of the stuff of The Troubles are still going on here.

So when I watch movies about it, really raw, cram-some-dirt-in-that-capped-knee movies, they get me.
It's not popcultural trash. Not fictional. Not some kind of entertainment conjured up for your sick pleasure. This was--and is--life.

Small Miracles, Big Difference

It was yet another cheery day in Belfast (can you believe it?!) two evenings ago (and today, but we're not chatting about today, are we?), and I was aboard bus 8A headed home.

When we arrived at my home sweet Trossachs Avenue, I dismounted the bus, began my dander toward the Manor, and stuck my hand into my trench pocket to retrieve my Vera, on which I have caribeenered my housekeys and in which is my life, basically, thumb drives and all.

But.

No Vera.

What.

Wait...what.

No.

Nonononononononononononono.

Gotta be in the backpack.

Search through the backpack.

Bus driving off.

Jamie running.

Throwing backpack into bushes as she runs faster.

Cursing her ugly and ineffective running and getting honked at from behind.

Seeing my struggle, some kind school girls informed me that the bus would come back round if I'd wait on the other side of the road. Or, it would be there at the turning at Erinvale if I ran quickly.

It was then that Jim pulled up beside me (source of honking. No, I did not know Jim).

"Miss! You dropped your bag back there!"
"Didn't drop it. Threw it. Chasing bus."
*insert explanation.
Jim then insisted I let him help me on my quest, showing me proof of identification by way of work badge and a prescription with his name on it.
Now, looking back, I don't know why knowing his name would have possibly made him any more credible a person to me, but he sure thought it did, so I followed suit and after a, "yah...don't take this wrong, I really appreciate your stopping, but I don't know you..." I eventually got in and let him drive me down the road.

The bus was indeed sitting at the turn, I hopped aboard, retrieved my lost item (praise God from whom all blessings flow) and prepared myself for the walk back up, but Jim was there, drove me, saw that I got my bag back, and left me there, "good deed for the day accomplished."

Now, I see where that could have gone horribly awry, and I have no intention of jumping into every strange man's car I see (though this would be the third time...please don't panic, ma), the Irish are indeed a people who help me restore my faith in humanity.

Truly, I would never ever ever have done the same thing in The States (wouldna been in a bus in the states either), but things are just different here. That probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense and explaining it would be a big to-do, but you're just going to have to trust me.

The Irish may be a house divided and occasionally violent, but they are people of great hospitality and a pretty shockingly genuine care for their fellow people.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Home

*photo cred to Eli Zuspan

Yesterday was magical.

I joined the Kanukuk group that's currently residing here to Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Giant's Causeway, and Dunluce Castle.

The thing is, I've gone to all three of those places more than once. The first time scooped my heart out and guaranteed I'd do anything to move here. The second time, I felt nothing beautiful. The loveliness of my surroundings oddly made me feel all the more alone and disconnected.

This time was different. I experienced those beautiful places with. Thanks to Kira's book (once more! Seriously. Those 4,000 questions are rocking my social sphere), I made a few friends on the twisty bus ride over to the North Coast, and they didn't forget I existed when we exited the bus.

I spent the whole of the day getting to know and becoming known. I wasn't being tolerated. I was being liked. Better yet, I was being myself. There wasn't any intense social anxiety making me weird or overquiet or overloud. Just me. I can honestly say I haven't felt that...normal since I moved here.

"Ordinary" is underrated. What many people consider an average day, I now consider a miracle. It's not something to give me that "Oh, the poor dear!" look for. More, I mention it to tell you all, I shall tell you all to be thankful for the everyday joys. They may burn slowly but they burn bright.

*Causeway photo cred to Emily Orf

*Dunluce photo cred to Eli Zuspan

Reading in the Rain, Through the Fog

There are all sorts of rains here in NI.

There's the kind that falls even when the sun is shining like the liquid version of sifted powdered sugar: light and sweet. 

Then there's "wet rain" (previously discussed, I think) in which you can't really hide from it no matter how big your umbrella is. It just kind of saturates the air; the tiniest water buds falling in such slow motion as to seem as though they're not moving at all. 

Then there's the kind that actually smells of rain and comes down straight and hard like at home. I've only experienced it once here. 

And then, of course, there's what's been coming down nonstop I hear for the past two months to today. Sideways, holding onto the sides of the wind, coming in just as hard and from what seems like every direction but up. 

Tireless stuff. From inside, it's hard to tell if you're hearing the wind or the rain, the sounds have become so congruous. Either sound is nice, though. 

Inside is me, snuggled into a pile of pillows, with my journal and laptop, an oscillating heater and an oscillating reading list: Oswald Chambers (I'm behind), The Elements of Philosophy (an old textbook I'm reading for fun), Dubliners (James Joyce. Again, for fun), Connecting (A reread by Larry Crabb). 

Cozy, cozy. 

2.5 hours until my first class of the semester starts. 

Many would question the sanity of such thick reading before I get smacked with my semester heap's. 

It makes sense to me, though (which I guess is all that matters). 

You see, I really do love to read. That isn't a surprise to anyone, but what may be is that in the 42 days I was home, I only read one book. One. It was one I'd already read and YA at that. 

I started 9. 

Never seemed able to make it past the first page of any. My mind wouldn't do what I wanted. Didn't do any content developing either. 

My mind, which I've always felt able to bend to my academic will, sat down and fell into an unwakeable sleep. 

A bit before I left, I started writing copious letters to send out to my students of last semester, people I attended the OneThing conference with, and a few other JBUers I appreciated. 

I planned those letters a month before I actually wrote them. It took me that long to make myself do it. 

Those two ideas are connected. I started to judge myself and get frustrated, knowing the degree to which I am capable of accomplishing such feats as note writing and book reading. 

The thing was, though, I was also coping with an extended period of depression. My mind literally wasn't functioning as I had become accustomed to. 

I had to change my outlook on myself, start lowering my expectations and raise my commitment, as Pastor Tom Harrison would say. 

Grace, with myself.

One day, I may read three pages. But that was more than the day before!!! So I celebrate. Or I wrote five notes in a row! So great! Well done! That was more than the zero of yesterday! 

As I explained this process to someone, they asked me the very valid question: "How do you avoid becoming complacent or underachieving?" 

My answer was "Thankfulness." I see where I want to be. I'm not "content," necessarily, with where I am, but I recognize that I am, in fact, here. Therefore, I have to celebrate every step that I take toward becoming who I want to be. 

If I don't achieve as highly today as I did yesterday, very well. I am thankful for what I did happen to accomplish today (comparison is the thief of joy. Let yesterday's victories be yesterday) and hope for at least as wonderful, if not more so, tomorrow, with the knowledge that if I "fail" tomorrow, I am not a failure and it is not a signal for perpetual failure in the days to come. 

My current reading is varied so as to allow me to trick myself. I can only get through 10 pages of Dubliners? Awesome. I can do that and maybe half a chapter of Crabb and one wee article of philosophy. 

By the end, I've accomplished much more than I would have out of just one subject and my mind has gained a little more grid in its goo. 

I needed to practice before put back in the big leagues of grad school, and what better weather to practice in than the glowey green raininess of Ireland? 

This Could Be the Start of Something New

Everything and nothing is happening here in Belfast.

In terms of nothing, I can't exactly say that anything really that drastic has altered.

There's a new group staying in the house, yes, but other than that, it's the same city, my same church, and I'm in the same home. 

But, at the same time, everything has changed and, perhaps, that's because I have. 

I can't tell you how free I feel. 

Perhaps it's because some of my major relational ties I felt last semester have been cut and I now feel able to be fully present just where I am. 

However, it potentially is something else entirely, something much deeper. 

3-2-1 let go. Let’s go!

The trip over went a million times more smoothly than in September. 

On the first plane, I made buddies with the flight attendant and we chatted for nearly an hour about the crazy snow in Atlanta (sorry for that 14 hour drive home Joey, but it has really helped fodder social interactions for me this past week) and working in the service industry. 

Then, in the Dulles airport, I continued on my terminally happy journey of making airport friends. 

Airport and coffeeshop friends are the best to make because you only have to generate small talk for an hour or less. It's the perfect practice, though Kira's book of 4,000 questions did make it home with me just in case. 

Trucked-on through my very long layover (and flight delay) with content developing, bubble blowing, puzzle doing, and even a wee nap. 

My favorite part on the plane back was that I was mistaken for Irish twice. Unconsciously, I seem to have adopted a slight lilt to my speech, especially when I'm talking to someone with a strong one.

On that note, I must have passed the test for looking local, too, because the tour vendors near city hall left me well alone today for the first time. HaHA. 

It's good to be back in Belfast. 

Yes, it is nearly three and already dark and yes, it is unapologetically rainy and yes, my room smells like bad memories. 

But there was sun this morning a bit, I've got on warm socks and waterproof shoes (though the hair I forgot to pin into submission before hitting the wind), and there's always Febreeze to alter the stench of past anxieties. 

My circumstances last semester suffocated me into such venomous, claustrophobic state that I had come to believe I hated Belfast, but coming back into it now, how could I ever have believed that? Sure, I could stay bitter with Belfast, but that wouldn't get me anywhere positive and I am definitely here for another four plus months, so I am prepped to be pleased. 

You know, with how little I actually did venture out of my home last semester, Belfast and I really do have the opportunity to start over almost completely with one another.

There's a happy bustle in the wet streets, rich history and culture, and "genuoinley" lovely people.

Time to fall in love again, NI. I believe we can make it now. We'll be rocking till the sungoes down.