Shower Thoughts

We may read this very differently, but to me, those words are less a warning and more a promise. To that end, I have been deceived. My sink's water is many things, including refreshing, liquidy, and face-awakening in the mornings. It is not, however, "very hot." Or mildly warm. Or chilly. It is frigid. 

The shower on the other hand, is a completely different story. Well, first, about the shower. Elaine and I call it the wet room. In the wet room--which is the same size as my bedroom--there is a little sink in a corner, a toilet by the wall, and a shower curtain hanging from the ceiling, slightly concealing a shower head. 

Other than that slight curtain, though, there is no division. Thus, keep anything you want dry in the sink, as the entire room practically gets soaked during showers. The showers are very hot, actually, once you pull the right cord on the wall, of which there are 4. 

I feel like Indiana Jones choosing the Holy Grail or a character from The Emperor's New Groove trying to navigate the way to Ezma's secret lab. Choose the wrong cord and all sorts of terrible will surprise you in the form of glacier-like water. 

It's a little TMI, but I have a point. I like taking showers in the dark. Partially because I'm a morning showerer and it takes the edge off greeting the day and partially because I am not a fan of artificial lights (or fans. which is a pun and also the truth). 

The wet room, other than a ring-sized ring of light on the shower box, is completely dark, and you can't see anything when the light goes off. After a minute or so, though, you are able to discern shapes and shadows and see pretty competently. There's more light in the darkness than you expected at the start. 

I am lonely here. I'm not a JBU student, so I can't fully bond with them. The lady I work with has completely the opposite personality style than me, and I have yet to figure a way to make that relationship cohesive. I know no one in this country, and everyone I love is an ocean away. In short, it feels a wee bit dark in this dark, wet country. 

However, just like my inky wet room, I know that the darkness will soon show to have more light than I currently perceive. School starts in only a matter of weeks and with it, people my age and stage of life--even if the country stays clouded. I am, then, not worried. I just have to wait it out and try to find ways to make my own sunshine. 

Right now, that means reading (if you must know, I'm reading P.S. I Love You. It was in the house. Don't judge me), spending time with Jesus, watching movies, and occasionally venturing out of my room to explore. All is well.

The Spirit of Newness

Welcome to Belfast City Vineyard church, a lovely place for Jesus worshipers conveniently located a mere .6 miles away from my front door.

I've been plotting attendance at this church since I visited last summer. I don't know what denomination to call it, since it doesn't seem to fit with any I know. It's got worship like JBU, sermon style like First Presbyterian, and the presence of the Holy Spirit like Woodlake Assembly. Except also not.

I have found that in the States, there are many kind of churches, but there seem, to me, to be two distinct groups: those who emphasize the Holy Spirit and those who don't. It's perhaps because I grew up very, very charismatic that I notice the difference so strongly, but it's true.

Either the church is ALL about the power and gifts of the Holy Spirit (healing, tongues, etc) or they attempt, in a holy manner, to pretend as though he doesn't exist. Either way, I've only experienced the trinity extremely out of whack.

This church (judgement based off more than just today) is different. They seem to me to have been mentally blank slated and straight read through the New Testament and decided to live and believe accordingly. The church doesn't push the Spirit, try to convince people of His power, or try to hide it, it's just straightforward about His existence. It's very refreshing.

Additionally, since I do not have independent transportation for the first time since I turned 16, I walk to church. Good Jesus time, I tell ya what.

So, after not attending church for an entire summer, I am now reengaging. It's super awkward, I am unbelievably shy (did not talk to a single person aside from my one chat with "Kathy" during mingle time. Hate mingle time.), and breaking into a new community will be hard by myself, but I've a feeling that such experiences will occur with some frequence in my near future.

Bus(ted) in Belfast

Today's forecast: dark with a chance of dry.

Yes, I've decided to do away with this "chance of rain" in my personal Norn Iron forecastings. Because the thing is, it's going to rain. You know it's going to rain, I know it's going to rain, everyone in this dry-forsaken country knows it's going to rain.

Why then did I leave the manor without even considering an umbrella or rain jacket? Because I am not very bright. ha! Get it? Bright. Like what I expected outside. hahaha. Sorry. That was terrible.

I woke up at the inexcusable hour of 12 pm today, threw on clothes, and left the house with the rest of the group. ONWARD TO ST. GEORGE'S  MARKET!

(Sorry, no pics today. I left my phone at home. Yes, ma, I spent the day in the city without communicative capacity. I wasn't killed. It's okay. No, I won't do it again. Probably.).

The market is indoor and is filled with all sorts of local vendors. Scarves, hats, and other clothing items are at the front. Random other artisans are in the next row forward.  Then comes cupcakes, breads, crepes (I ate a veg crepe. It was delectable), and all other manners of food. Finally, we come to my favorite section. Why is it my favorite? I don't know. I've never bought anything from it, I more just love that it exists. Fish. A huge section of fresh fish. Whole fish, fish fillets, crabs, some more fish, and fresh produce surrounding.

After I left (in the pouring rain, mind you), I ventured into city centre, where I purchased shampoo. It was the only thing on my to-do list for today. Mock all you want, but it got me to leave the house.

Then, I discovered a tucked-away library. Two stories and a basement, complete with mini-museum and twisty staircase. After I signed the Seamus Heaney commemoration book, I ventured upstairs, sat, and looked at the rain until the library closed.

When I got kicked out, I walked several miles down to Queen's, asking lots of people for directions. When there, I went to the botanical gardens, ran into a huge group of French tourists (JBU student: "How did you know they were French?" Me: "They are looking at you with disdain and speaking French."), wandered a bit of the Ulster Museum, and then started my arduous bus experience.

Buses. Buses and I struggle. Well, all transportation and I seem to struggle, but buses and I have a history. Anyway, I probably talked to 10 different people trying to figure out the bus (why are there no street signs or bus maps posted?!).

The last lady I asked said she could tell me which road to take to get to my bus, but she'd much rather give me directions to the closest coffee shop. I looked like I needed something, she said (you mean my drowned street rat look doesn't make me look fabulous?).

I made it home. Only had to walk three quarters of a mile uphill when my bus conveniently didn't stop.
Highlight #1: I will not gain weight at this rate. Highlight #2: There was tea waiting at home. :)

Tonight is bonding with my house "family," in which I have assumed the role as "aunt" under our house mom Elaine. Chore time, kids.

Home.

Feast your eyes on my new home.

I left Tulsa at 5:45 am on Thursday morning, had a 12 hour layover in Newark (followed by all my flight fears being confirmed on the flight to Belfast), and am finally, finally home at Lakeside Manor in Belfast.

Fear not, I have kept up my record of crying in airplanes (I blame Dramamine mixed with altitude...).

I also made several airport friends--a wallstreet man, a canadian, a pastor, two Istanbul-bound sisters, and a very kind lady in a wheelchair.

So now, with my cup of tea (at last, tea that tastes as it should), I am settling into my new room and my new life.

Stories to follow, I'm sure. :)

The Girlfriend Goodbye Post.

In May of Last year, I wrote about goodbyes without promise. 

It is now the time for me to reiterate my thoughts in a more concrete way. Beware, there be sappiness. 

My boyfriend Noah defines sappiness as: "The quality of being, at the same time, both very sad and very happy." 

I leave for Ireland in around 40 hours. I will be gone for a year. This may not seem like a very long time for you all who are adept at change and leaving, but I have never been more than an hour and a half away long-term from my family. 

I also hate change. 

This change, however, I think my soul is ready for. The pain of leaving, though, is unbelievable. I say goodbye without knowing when or how or in what context I will see my closest circle again. 

Sappiness has characterized the past month for me as I've said goodbye to my three best friends, mentors, and family members. We are all off to live and live fully, but we will do so without the direct involvement of one another. 

This past weekend, I brought the boyfriend home. It was an absolute blast. We baked together, sang loudly in my kitchen, went on a walk to one of my favorite places, and spent time with my family. 

There was a lot of laughter. But in the times the room got still, we'd remember why he was there and how the weekend would end. 

I've known for the last year that I would leave my family and my friends this September. I did not anticipate Noah. I don't know how I could have. 

God thinks it's funny to mess with me. I, who loathe and avoid committing to anything more than a few days in advance, have agreed to attempt what looks to me as being impossible. It makes me squirm and shiver and want to escape just thinking about it, but I have given a promise with my goodbye and have entrusted it to God. 

This post, then, serves as a slight amendment to its predecessor. All goodbyes are promiseless. All goodbyes, that is, except for the kind of promise you make to a person you can't imagine your life without. Even then it isn't stone, but it's a bond of faithfulness that, if planted in a foundation of the Lord, just might have a chance. 

NAKED

Crazy Grandma Ruth loves telling stories. It's like her crack.

One of her favorite stories to tell on us (I say us because honest, I don't have any idea which one of us it's even about anymore) is about the day that (let's just say me, shall we?) I took off all my clothes and took off through the house and yard and street naked, naked, naked, shouting to the clouds, "I'M NAKED AND I LOOOOOOOVE IT!"

Ruthie giggles till she cries when she tells that story.

I am also a storyteller.

At this point, I have written two non-published books. One in creative nonfiction and one in fiction, though the fiction novella is much unedited.

The creative nonfiction book would make sense as to why it would be extraordinarily vulnerable to share. It's my life, for goodness' sake! And I know what you're thinking, "Aren't you a little young to be writing an autobiography?" It's not an autobiography. It's creative nonfiction. Very different. It's a compilation of stories, stylized, and chosen due to similarity in theme.

Fiction, though, you'd think would be just fiiiiiiiine to share.

You are wrong.

Whether or not they mean to, writers embed themselves within the characters of their stories. Struggles and conflicts and desires that they may not even be willing to admit to themselves come out quite clearly in the struggles, conflicts, and hidden desires of their characters.

It's when the story reaches its resolution that the author often has a gasping, "oh no! This is me!" moment.

That's one reason narrative therapy is getting so popular these days. Projecting your thoughts and feelings onto someone else and working through them is a lot easier and more objective than continuing to stare at the back of your mindscape forever.

That's where the fear for me is and, I'm sure, where it is for other writers.

When we share our work, we are letting you see a most raw part of ourselves. We get naked with you.

That's terrifying.

Manna Munchies and Jericho Crunchies

I'm a big Jill Briscoe fan.

She's a Christian evangelist who happened to visit my alma mater while I attended. 

She's jam-packed with sass and a love for Jesus without being obnoxious. She's what I would call an advocate for practical Christianity. 

By that, I mean to say that the things she speaks of have direct application in everyday life.

While she was at JBU, she spoke of daily walking around Jericho. 

The Israelites were instructed by God to walk around the Walls of Jericho once each morning. Once. 

Now, Jericho was a big 'ole city, and Israel was a pretty shabby looking bunch by the time they'd reached the outer boundaries of this formidable, infuriating obstacle. 

I can just imagine the Israelites finally crawling out of their endlessness in the desert, high-fiving each other, seeing Jericho, stopping, and saying, "You're shitting me, right?" 

Do we not do the same thing? 

I finally crawl out of what seems like an endless struggle or semester or conflict, give myself a pat on the back, then look forward and see what? WHAT?! Another. Right there stretched out in the middle of my life road, just smirking at me like my brother when he's denying he stole my cell phone. 

In those instances, we have a tendency to curse, cry, and crack. That's right: give up. 

Instead, God told the Israelites (and us) to proceed onward with courage and faith! He who brought you to this place will be faithful to take care of you! 

The Israelites could have a. not listened, b. attacked at will, or c. walked around that dang wall once each day. 

Jill calls us to do the same thing. Rather than giving up or letting our anxiety mentally pace around our minds all day, we must walk around our wall once each morning, present our worry to God, then live and leave the stress of our problem there until the next morning. 

Yesterday, I read her book Here I am Lord...Send Somebody Else! and she discussed the idea of--we're staying with the Israelites for this post--picking up our daily manna, our daily provision from the Lord. 

Practical application: spend time with the Lord first thing each morning, collecting enough soul food to sustain you for the day. Not the week. The day. Tomorrow has enough worries of its own. 

He is faithful. He will provide for you new nourishment every single day. We just have to leave our tent and pick it up. We could even walk around our Wall of Jericho while we're at it. 

The point is, we are not just laying something down, we're also picking something up. Like how in yoga you breathe out the bad energy and breathe in the good energy, we stamp down our anxiety and pick up our manna. Every day.

And Jericho? Didn't you hear? It fell. Not one stone was left atop another.