My Man

If this doesn't say, "Good morning, Belfast!" then I just don't know what does.

Good morning, Belfast. Jamie here. Sitting in Starbucks because the phone repair store is neither open nor has posted when it does indeed open. Good thing I didn't end up in City Centre when I'd actually intended to this morning.

According to my countdown calendar, I've only got 99 days left in the land of the greenies, and that doesn't seem like nearly the correct number. I remember looking at the prospect of 10 months and thinking nothing could be shorter. Then, I remember looking at the prospect of 9.5 months and thinking I had never experienced anything longer in my whole life.

Funny how time works that way.

Also funny how things that seem like yesterday were forever ago and things that seem like forever ago were really yesterday.

Today's NI lesson is the concept of "your man."

Now, in The States, if someone asked after "your man," you'd either talk about your husband, fiancé, boyfriend, child, or scream, "WHAT MAN?! FOREVER ALONE!"

Here, though, "your man" could refer to whatever man is in question.

So, when David (our keeper of the house fixings) told me today that he'd call up my man for the laundry, he simply meant that he was to call the laundry man on my behalf.

My coursemate Johanna was recently asked about her man in the context of prison:
"What did your man do?"

During The Troubles, the families, friends, and acquaintances of political inmates would sneak notes and radios and other small such things into and out of the prisons.

Because of this, visit days were extremely important.

When Jo was near about 19, she was chosen by her neighbourhood to serve as the visitor for the son of a neighbour, as the mum was sick.

It was all an uproarious experience, actually, as she had no choice but to go, didn't tell her mother (who wouldn't have let her), and her brother was in the army (enemy of the prisoners and ensuring that he would be informed the moment she entered the prison and questioned as to his sister/family's politics).

Jo had never met the man she was to visit and described to us how very awkward indeed small talk was with a prisoner you've never met: "So...how are things...?"

When their time was through, she got up to left, and as she did, he pulled her in and kissed her on the mouth, shoving something in as he did (no, it was not a tongue).

Freaking out a bit, but not able to show it for fear of being imprisoned herself, Jo made it back to her car, drove off, and drove a mile before risking a spit out.

Inside her mouth was a very tiny note wrapped in cellophane from son to mother.

Genius, her man.

I like this principle of "your man." It's endearing and gives me a sense of community, as though I were actually friends with my house launderer. If he's anything like David, that's something I would like very much indeed.

And Then You

I was an inverted human bell curve the last week my Kanukukers were here. No, that's not an "I've gained the weight of a potato-bred sheep" joke, it's a math metaphor. They're rare. Soak it in.

High: Emily and Eli ditched their plans to spend their final Saturday going ice skating to come along with me instead and meet up with Adam in City Centre.

They didn't know him, and they could have no reason for wanting to meet him, aside from doing so because he is one of my best friends.

We three took the bus and strolled about for a while looking for him, finding on our way an extremely sketchy alley leading to one of my favourite Belfast book stores Chapman & Keats.

We found him at the loopdeydoop (his description) statue and, from there, proceeded to West for lunch.

West is a sandwich shop, so here mentioned because it possessed a very rare quality for a sandwich shop: They ran out of bread. ...what? They literally closed the shop up for the day after we walked in because of this. Only in Belfast...

Then home to play some games and music and back out that evening for Maggie Mays (a local spot for students, complete with delicious milk shakes).

*Local note: Here, a milk shake is exactly what it sounds like. Milk, shaken with a flavour of your choice. Not ice cream.

Maggie Mays was probably the most fun part, as we went about the circle asking each other questions such as, "What colour would you want a cow?" and "If you could name a street, what would it be?"

I met Em and Eli one month ago. One month friends don't meet and spend the entire day with home friends, at least not in my experience. And if they do, they're awkward about it in one way or another.

They made it feel so natural and easy, much like they made my own transition. They made an effort to like my friend just because they like me. It was meaningful and yet unconsciously so, I'm sure, to them.

The low followed, maybe because of the deepening in my sentiment and attachment to them through this. It didn't seem fair, getting them then having to let them go again. And, true to form, I started to shove them out, glibly making comments about them leaving forever and giving them "the timeline."

The timeline is a principle I developed last year to try to make my friend Heather cry. I'm not evil, she just cries unnaturally easily and it's funny. It was a bonding thing.

1. Separation.
2. A few skype dates, multiple texts, and a phone call on the occasion.
3. Turns to Facebook messages.
4. Turns to the occasional Facebook message.
5. Turns to writing on their Facebook wall on their birthday.
6. Turns to seeing their name pop up on their birthday, not recognizing their name (maybe they've gotten married), and deleting their friendship.

It's actually a pretty accurate timeline, but it also isn't fair, as pointed out by Eli.

I'd spent the evening in my room by myself and had also decided not to attend the next day's trip to Whitehead Lighthouse, and we got in a fight about it because I was being selfish in distancing myself to deaden the separation pain.

I ended up going, and it was an absolute blast of a day.

The wind was shove-you-into-the-rocks-below insane, so Emily and I tried to fly, naturally. The walk around by the lighthouse was rocky and salty with ocean spray with caves along the path where pirates used to smuggle salt and butter, and a trip to Carrickfergus Castle followed, where the three of us played a friendly game of Dragons and Ladders.

*Local note: Salt used to be placed in the centre of formal rooms at parties as a symbol of wealth. The more salt you had, the more soldiers you would be able to feed during the winter because salt preserves meat. No salt, no wealth, no protection. Thus, pirates.

That night, we walked all around our neighbourhood collecting ingredients then going back home and baking S'Mores cookies and Nutella Peanut Butter cookies. YUM.

I would have missed all of that had he not caught me enacting my normal "kill the relationship before it kills you" plan. I guess I can be pretty cynical (I prefer the term realistic) about that kind of stuff.

But then I think about Kira and Tyler.

We three met the same day seven years ago in June for two weeks of the Nehemiah program at NewLifeRanch.

And now, seven years later, Kira and I are still best friends, and Tyler and Kira are getting married...in June. :)

There's a solid chance Eli, Em, and I could all fall apart soon, but it's not only not fair for me to act out of that mentality, it's not true.

Sometimes, realism just isn't realistic. Humans happen. Freak accident friendship happens. There isn't an airtight timeline. Man, thank God for that. And thank God for people put in my life to remind me of that.

In Praise of Pubs

Only in Belfast can you walk on the sidewalk and still nearly be run down by a cabby gunning it down the square.

Unlike The States, it is not the burden of drivers to steer clear of pedestrians. Rather, it is up to us to avoid being hit.

On this particular instance, Adam and I were walking (and at one point being attacked by a water-spewing wall) to the Cathedral District to join in a music session where, by the way, we discovered all the cool kids hang out (in the Cathedral District, not the music sesh).

The pub area up in there is a hustlin' and bustlin' sprawl of cobblestoned alleys with strung lights and hanging plants and neon signs and bouncers. Very exciting indeed.

Our goal destination was The Dirty Onion which, despite its nasty name, is actually a pretty cool place.

It's formatted similarly to The Tabernacle (in a non-blasphemous way), with an outer court, inner sanctum, and Holy of Holies.

In the outer rim, there were benches, an outside bar, inverted arches of hanging bulbs, and conicle fires to warm the wee drunk peasantry.

Inside was absurdly packed. People everywhere, standing, sitting. I've no idea how the bartender could hear an order. However, if you're looking for a place to hang with an obnoxiously voiced friend, that's the place to head.

A and I pressed on to the very back corner. A fireplace to the left--open, with hot red coals sparking--Gaelic printing above it.

Splattery painted artwork behind thin plexiglass took up the center of the wall.

To the right was our nook of musicians. 5 + Adam.

Beside me and moving clockwise:
-Clean cut flutist (Fluter? Floutist? It wasn't a flute. It just looked like a flute) who could play anything handed to him with finesse but preferred his flute-ish.
-Acoustic guitarist
-What I'd imagine an Irish Texan looking like: Big, mustached, long grey ponytailed. Played the Irish equivalent of a clarinet.
-On the bench were Master and Prodigy, both Kitchen Pipe players (travel-sized bag pipes). Master had Jesus hair, a Celtic cross shirt, and an elbow band protecting against the constant rub of the pipebag, quiet and watchful. Prodigy was my age-ish and had the look and abilities of a guy who was born with bagpipes already in his hands and heart. His eyes closed all the while he played, which made his so-fast-they-blurred fingers all the more impressive.

If anyone has ever doubted the pleasantness of the pipes, the logic follows that they have never experienced an artist such as him.

Finally, Adam, with his baby Taylor. For the first time since I've known him (summer 2009), Adam was playless, out-musician-ed and totally in awe, or so seemed to be.

And as we sat there, with candles and coal glowing up amber ale and empty glasses with their rings of froth, the air full with the muchness of drink and laughter and music and warmth, I sensed something deeply spiritual about it all.

Maybe it was the way these men would periodically roll their own cigarettes (real Irish roll their own ciggies)--tobacco in paper sheathes, massage back and forth, lick edge, and smooth--and head out for a big, leaving their instruments safely behind or the way they would listen to one another's new melodies of old songs and join in with their own additions, calling the key to the quiet or confused players or how they seemed genuinely impressed by the beauty of each other's abilities, passing along their instruments to one another to check out.

The very unassuming, unaudacious, unconscious nature of it all that was most beautiful to me.

Is that not how we should be or, rather, are when we are wholly pursuing or participating in something we're passionate about? Waiting for someone to pick up the fife on the table and join in, happy to have another tune and not jealous of the extra/different melody or better skills.

Should we not worship in that simultaneously casual and reverent manner? Should we not be ready and willing to just stop and listen, enjoy, full of awe?

Those guys are probably not Christian and they may not even be happy, but they've got a handle on something that could revolutionize our souls.

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.