The Dangers of Ambition

Sometimes, it is difficult for me to ascertain whether it's the Christian or the woman part of me that causes my ambition to be question and squelched.

Contentment with your position is valued above all. If you love God, then you should be content with where he has led you. If you are a woman, you should be thankful that you are being respected or paid well at all, especially since it might not be a long-term investment in you, being a baby-maker and all.

Sometimes, this is communicated overtly, sometimes covertly.

The contentment issue, though, is not. Be thankful, they say. Be thankful that you have a job and a good community.

However, what I am wondering is if ambition and thankfulness are maybe not mutually exclusive things. I am thankful for my job. I am thankful for my workmates and for the community of really wonderful people that I work for. I am thankful for the consistent grace and pay and 4 minute commute. I am thankful for the beautiful grounds that I can walk briefly every hour. I am thankful for the luscious autonomy I enjoy after being in my position going on 6 years. I am thankful.

Does that mean I am not allowed to want more? Where is the line between greed and drive?

I've been told that I shouldn't desire more rungs on the ladder.
I've been told I should be happy.

What if I could be happy going through several different doors instead of just the one hallway? What if there's another option for me that could potentially lead, not just to my happiness, but potentially to the happiness of another group? Shouldn't utilitarian principles outweigh?

I'm currently sorting through a very full plate of thoughts, and it feels confusing on a host of levels: loyalty, community, family, purpose, future-thinking, sentimentalism, ambition.

What if ambition were re-framed as "growth". Would it be ok then? Would it be kosher to express that, while thankful, you desire a bit of a change so that you can continue to grow and flourish? But what if that choice hurts your team? Or perhaps ambition, or even growth, is always a two-edged sword. No one grows without destroying at least a part of their past: a seed discards its shell as it sprouts. At the end, though, you get a zucchini. Unless, of course, a groundhog eats it.

Prozac Nation: A Confession of Allegiance

Today, I am starting anti-depressants.

It's a decision I have made willingly but have a history of staunchly refusing for the majority of my life.

No, I'm not depressed, but episodes of depression, headaches, nausea, and a whole host of other symptoms have added up to a long, frustrating history with chronic anxiety.

Whether it's social anxiety or the anxiety disorder I've been struggling to conceal since I was a child, anxiety has dominated most every conversation and interaction and self-reflection I've ever had.

I have long feared making this decision because I feared the consequences of what would happen if I were to go off of the medication. Would I be plunged into an even deeper pit than before I started them?

I think I was also scared of feeling "normal."
I've never felt normal.
My happiest moments in life have all been tinged with anxiety. Happiness in itself scares me. I've always worried that if I'm happy, it just means that unhappiness is about to catapult itself toward me in the subsequent moments.

I've gone to counseling, I've joined support groups, I have an accountability partner from group I don't even know the last name of, I've coped, I've exercised, I've gotten fidget tools, I've taken homeopathic helpers, I've prayed. It. Doesn't. Help. Not long-term, at least.

There's a weird mentality about being Christian that if I am a good enough Christian, if I pray hard enough, if I am prayed over, then this will subside. There's a mentality that this is spiritual warfare, not serotonin.

The truth is, this doesn't have anything to do with my faith:
I love God.
I lack the necessary amounts of serotonin receptors.
It is as uncomplicated as that.

I've never wanted to start them in the midst of a major depressive episode because that would be admitting defeat. If there's one thing anyone knows about me, it's that I'm tenacious. I'm insanely tenacious. If I can fix it, I will fix it.

Another frustration in friends and family pushing pills is that they don't deal with my anxiety. They may deal with the effects of my anxiety, but they have no idea what my disorder feels like. They just want me to chill the heck out.

You aren't taking pills! You don't know!!! Don't sell me on something you know nothing of other than researching them.

A year ago, I joined a support group. It's all online, just enough to troll through responses and whatnot. Through that, I met Lubs. She and I are similar ages, struggle with the same thing at the same level of severity, and get on really well. I never went back to the forums after that; we communicate, commiserate, and collaborate.

Her symptoms temporarily subsided around 6 months or so ago, and we lost touch.
Last week, she reappeared and we started our talks again. She had tried all that I had as well and finally had given in to trying medication for her anxiety.

For me, now, the timing is perfect. I'm still striving against my anxiety, but I'm not debilitated. I have a friend who is starting this process with the same struggles I do. I have camaraderie and I have sensibility. No one is pressuring me. It's finally my choice.

Shocker, I'm worried.
What is life without anxiety? Or rather, what is life with chemical stabilization?

I guess I'll find out.

Struggles to Human

Let's talk plainly about social anxiety.

Personally, I find it frustrating.
Yes, also debilitating at times, but frustrating.

For me, I gt so angry with social anxiety because social anxiety feels selfish to me.
There's an event, usually very casual, that's designed to be fun and easy and you, because you just can't handle it and just can't help it, make it about you.

At the same time, I recognize that it isn't something that I can think myself out of, though I have indeed tried.

There have been some methods of coping that I have learned and have imparted to other of my socially anxious friends. Things such as going to check out that restaurant/school/baseball field/shopping mall before you have to go there with a friend or date.
Things like searching on the internet for a campus map if you're visiting a university friend or a museum or a hospital.
Knowing the name of the person you're dropping by to see: "Hi! I'm here to drop off materials for Angie Smith".
Doing anything to get acclimated to the new surrounding.

For me, a lot of my social anxiety is over-stimulation.
I can handle brand new location if I'm with someone I'm very comfortable with.
Or, I can handle a brand new person if I'm in a location I'm comfortable in.
I can even handle brand new location with brand new people so long as I have one solid person I know.

It's when everything is new, everything is unstructured, everyone is new that my ears drown and I can't hear what anyone is saying to me and I can't differentiate shapes and shadows and my heart starts racing and my nails start sinking into my palms and I have missed that gap in time where I can recover and cope and have disappeared into the dark place where I need to run away and cry and find solitude and silence.

It's embarrassing. It's selfish. And yet, at the same time, it isn't intentional even a bit, which is a key aspect of selfishness I think. More than anything, we'd like to feel like we were a part of the wallpaper, able to observe without the pressure of engagement. Able to exist without being noticed too much but still kind of noticed. Noticed enough.

It's a struggle I sometimes feel I've learned to manage.
And it's a struggle that still knocks me completely flat and bepuddled when it isn't on my radar to prepare for.

Wish Says, 'Gotta Keep Movin'

My Aunt Joycie used to be integral to the coordination of an event in Tulsa called the Wish Lemons run.

The run was designed to raise money for missions, and it fit Wish well because he himself was an avid runner. On all the cups and t-shirt designs, his mantra, "Gotta Keep Movin'" made you feel like you could actually accomplish something.

Moving isn't running, isn't sprinting, isn't jogging. Moving is determined progress in an intentional direction.

You may be wondering if this is a post about running (it isn't, but I'll get there), since I've mentioned my running progress more than once recently, though I did, in fact, complete a 5K with my coworkers without walking once:

It was on the coast of Florida, and it felt like I was chewing my oxygen.

My stamina is pretty pathetic generally.
It took two months of training with the Couch to 5K app to be able to do it.
Have I run since?
No.
Running is the worst.

More to the point, though, building stamina through slow determination and a time-oriented goal can be really helpful.

If I had been asked to run a 5K in a week's time, I would have been miserable. Miserable miserable miserable. There would have been shin splints, vomit, walking, stopping, and a lot more complaining. Because I hadn't run in multiple years really. At least not with any consistency.

The app started me slow. Lots of walking, with spurts of running, just short enough that they were doable, but just long enough that they winded you.

By the end, I could do it. I did do it.

Reading is something that has been important to be since long before I could actually read. Words, movement of language, poetry, the poetry of communication, the communication of poetic experience. I love it. I have felt more known by books and language than by other people for most of my life. It's interwoven with my identity.

Then it was tidal waved out of my life.

There comes a point of fear when we realize that what we thought was a temporary phase of complacent mediocrity has become a sturdy "normal".

My diet of philosophy, history, historical fiction, modern poetry, creative nonfiction, and science fiction became replaced by pinterest, twitter, and facebook status updates. Neither my eyes nor my attention span could hold on for much longer than 8 or so seconds.

Scroll scroll scroll.
I missed movement, but I couldn't move.
Depression robs you of all you love.
Worse, it  makes you feel as though you weren't robbed but rather have made a choice to abandon.

Perhaps because that's easier than admitting the truth. It's better, you think, to claim you have power, even if in doing so you're communicating that you knowingly want to make the choices that your life is now characterized by.
For me, that's been lethargy, apathy, and mass consumption of the digital world.

Where I had read nearly 60 books in 4 months, the next 4 were only 20, reduced to 8 in the 8-9 months after.
I can't even tell you how many more I started and failed to progress past the first chapter. Didn't even make it through the first chapter, actually.

My pen was just as dusty as my bookshelf. I used to fill pages a day with thoughts and curiosity and updates.

There's not a record of the existence of this past year. I have nothing to say.

Frustration with myself grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.
Grew.

Is there a point in frustration that frustration becomes your new identity?
Where your words about your inabilities become who you are?

Yeah.

There is.

I also wasn't being very fair to myself.
The books I was choosing were either far above my "reading level" or so far below that they were children's books that I had already read.
Neither are something to build momentum on.

Then, I don't know, I chose one that looked fun and easy, but it was new and interesting, too.
And I finished it.
In two weeks.

After that, I finished A General Theory of Love, which I had started in October and a bunch more technical. The next day.

Two days after that, I finished a book on the history of JBU, which I had started a year to the day that I had started both the book and my work at JBU.

Then I started a totally new one last Thursday, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. And finished it yesterday.

That's more consistent reading than I have done in more than a year.
My pen has been more active, too, beginning to fill up the final pages of a tiny journal that's taken me more than a year to fill a quarter of.

It's now been a year since I moved back to The States.
This is the first time in that space or even more than I have begun to feel a return out of the ditches of my dead mindedness and back to me. I'm starting to feel ebbing relief in knowing that the part of me I love most isn't lost for good.

I no longer feel defeated. I feel like moving.

Crucified at the Crux

We are a culture and a people of extremes.

Obese or anorexic.
Unshutupable or brick silent.
Dramatic or dead pan.

When I go to my work twitter or Facebook and read all my students posts, they are full of the feels. Just...all the feels. All screaming, "Notice me notice me notice me!!!"

They post about:
Loneliness
Not fitting in
Feeling stupid
"Love"

I am not saying their posts don't reflect their reality, but I think they make us believe that we're seeing the total reality.

Because the kids we're hearing from are the ones we expect to hear from, because they're the ones who never stop whining about how lonely they feel instead of wiping off some of their makeup and trying out their own skin. A lot of times, it's part of their identity to be misunderstood.

Don't get all huffy; I'm not being a jerk. If you find me offensive, it's probably because you were once one of those kids. I work with kids, I was a kid, I am a kid. I know kids. Let me talk.

What we don't get is the honest look at the structural identity of other human beings.

We either stigmatize to the point of normalcy or we cloister problems into oblivion.

Let's have an honest discussion about what happens when you come to "the crux."

"The Crux" has been on my mind today because we have been going through our promotional material for re-vamping. Several of the smiling faces on our shining boards are students I knew very, very well.

And they aren't here anymore.
They didn't graduate.
Their cruxes crucified them.

That doesn't make them lesser people, and that doesn't make them failures. They just lost that one particular round of mental monopoly.

Yet there they are, smiling, holding a stack of books, pointing to a white board, reading with friends, about to sing another original song.
They are literally our poster children.
I'm sure they can think of nothing more ironic.

In one sense, it's the perfect example of "putting on your church face".
We obliviate their stories with glossed on smiles, whether that's our goal or not.

At the same time, I don't find it ironic at all for them to be our poster children. I actually love that we didn't choose all the seemingly perfect students. Because that's not who we are. We're all broken people. Their "cruxes" just made that more obvious.

"The Crux" is the moment when what you have been taught and raised to be drops off, and you have to grow new skin all on your own. The Crux is when you are faced with something so personal, so intimate, that 20 years of "life lessons" are insufficient to suffice for an answer.

We search. 
We listen.
But who do we listen to?

Though we would like to say, "God", like a good Sunday schooler, often we can't.
It's hard to admit, but we can't listen to him. We aren't ready.
More than that, maybe we truly do not yet have the capacity to hear the decibels he's speaking in.

Who do we listen to?
Them.
Whoever our "them" is.
And we "run to the things they said could restore [us]//restore life the way it should be".

And it doesn't work.
It doesn't work and doesn't work and doesn't work, and we're trapped in this horrible Dante-esque second circle of Hell running running running .

It breaks us.
It broke my friends.
It broke me.

Brokenness is ugly and unspoken.
In our shame, we hide because that's what feels correct to do. Because a snide "nobody loves me" comment on Facebook is one thing, but the genuine vacuum in our hearts, the kind that feels unrecoverable, isn't one you can post.

We publish the present.
We present the version of ourselves that we feel reconciled with, even if we don't love it. We can deal with it. We can stand by it.

The intimate pain is something we can't own because its muchness has too much muchness. That means, when we are sucked under the current, drop out of school, overdose, attempt suicide, no one sees it coming.

In times I have felt the most alone, the most broken, I have ached for someone to tell me they've been there too and not another God-awful repetition of Jeremiah 29:11 or a "I felt sad once, but I'm better now".

I wanted to read someone else admitting, with humor, hope, and honesty, that they were there as well.

At the same time, I am most usually unwilling to be that person for other people. The closest I've ever come to it is attempting to speak the truth of myself in my posts.

We're broken, but we retain such a capacity for forgiveness, for partnership, for love, and for redemption. We are capable of connection, to make pain into partnership, to turn someone's "I hope I can do this..." to "We can do this. I know we can do this."

How often do we opt to halt our thinking about our public images in deference to thoughts of how we can love other people through letting them in on the truth of our pain and of our regrowth?

We need the in-between.
That's what we're missing.
No more attention-seeking, connectivity-defying Facebook statuses of how nobody understands but no more hiding either.
Rather, with patience, with humility, and with discernment, let us all practice letting people join us where we stand. Or sit. Or kneel. Or are crawled up in.
Let's practice letting ourselves be seen.

Yoga Best

It's time to accept the fact that there is not going to be a time where the prospect of going to yoga at 6am will appeal to me. Especially in winter.

But I'm always glad I have gone.

Our instructor always has us dedicate our time to someone, which feels weird.
It shouldn't, though. since I spend most of the "mindfulness" time praying anyway.
Dedicating the time is more akin to intercession.

Usually, I don't plan who to pray for. When we start the whateverit'scalled breathing (ujjayi breathing) and starting stretches, a lot of times someone just shows up in my mind. It's not work at all to pray for them, it just kind of happens.

Yoga and prayer are a funny couple, as yoga a lot of times involves a lot of pain and struggle and "almost", almost getting that pose right, almost getting that anxiety out of my muscles, almost about to break my wrists and, consequently, my neck.

There are so many times when I pray that I feel a space of contentment, of speaking the words I know.
It's not until some event comes along that I push in to my heart to speak, meaning the words more intently, much like a yoga instructor pushing you deeper (horribly) into a certain pose. Tell you what, there's nothing like the feeling of poisoned needles into your lower spine to wake you up to talk to Jesus. HEYO

Nothing like God doing something similar to push you in like direction toward him.

Sometimes I wonder if that's all right, though.

I have been told before and have come to think of myself as a good woman for a crisis.
Stress and I handle one another pretty well actually. I'm extraordinarily productive and focused, if not a bit edgy.
When given a challenge or serious opposition, some fire licks inside and I kick it into ninth gear.
It's the straight shots, the easy doors, the mundane office work that gets me dumps water on me, however.

How do you learn to serve God in the shavasana as well as the mandukasana?

A Book, A Box, and a Blessing

Gifts are not my favorite.

It makes me anxious to think of people spending money on me, especially if they're doing so after a misplaced sense of obligation: I'M SO HAPPY TO JUST HAVE YOU WITH ME LET'S PLAY JENGA!!! 

But thoughtful gifts stick with me absolutely forever and make me feel warm and sunny inside. 

Until yesterday, two were tied for first place. 

1. When I was a freshman in college, my boyfriend gave me an old copy of Oliver Twist. I actually dislike Dickens. A lot. But our first bonding moment involved me quoting OT and him mistaking it for "Little Orphan Annie". It was a cute thing. He even stole my mom's number, called and asked her if I already had it. Then, remembering I love old books, he went out and found it special for me. It was such a great, tangible moment of, "I know you!!!"

2. A second moment like that was the year after when my best friend of that semester presented me with a small gold-enameled jewelry box. It has daffodils (my favorite flower) engraved into it and it's delicate and beautiful without being too frilly and fussy. She had found it in an antique shop and thought of me. I use it every morning and think of her. It's practical and lovely both.   

Both of these were off the beaten track. Not mass manufactured or easily found and very...deliberate. Not like what I do sometimes and drop in Target to pick up something real fast before heading to the party. 

However, yesterday, something arrived on my desk that now ties for third place. 

On Monday, I got to spend time with my friend Leslie, who has been my penpal and confidante for what...? Three years now? She roomed with me when I went and visited NI for the first time, and we have written each other letters since (despite being on the same campus for one of those years). 

This is the same girl who whittled me an elephant with an eerily dead-on note attached. Sometimes, she Charles Wallace-es me. 

Yesterday, atop my desk, appeared two glasses (with lemon slice pictures on the sides) and a pitcher, all three filled to the brim with lemons, and a note stating:

 "Jamie Odom

Found these and thought you might put them to a worthy use.

Abundantly yours, 

Life" 

All day, when people passed my aromatic workspace and asked after my fruit, I'd tell them Life sent them to me. 

It was thoughtful, timely, unexpected, and so very sweet. Brightened my whole day. 

Old Wounds

We've all got them.

Whether it's from those rough ugly years as a fat adolescent, the brutal times when you thought your best friend hated you or hated herself (and she did, on both accounts), or when just plain awful was going down for a good long while. 

Suck eras aren't surprising. 

What I find surprising are the "triggers" you didn't know got left behind after you had been put together post-suck. They come up in the most random of times and places, no? 

For instance, at one point, I lived with someone who had very strict ideas about what should be done with left over food. The chastisement I received when I failed to follow those guidelines was severe, but I soon fell into habit of doing things "correctly." 

Later, when my housemate moved out and another moved in, I saw her throwing something out and started to have a panic attack. It was so strange. Because I had been conditioned to one way of life. Her violation of that rule unearthed serious anxiety in me as I recalled my chastisements of the past. 

It happens. 

The important step when your triggers get tripped (because they will) is how you respond. 

Do you take the time to understand the root cause or to explain to whoever you are with why you flipped out so "unnecessarily" for the given situation? 

Do you sort through what is legitimate and what is illegitimate? 

And do you take the time to pray through those long-ago pains and find peace and security in Jesus? 

It doesn't make you "unhealed" to still have your past in your blood, but it will if you let it have power over your present.  

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

Finding Neverland

26 hours and I'll be on a plane back to Northern Ireland.

It's funny, I have a really vivid memory of sitting on Tracy Balzer's living room floor eating dinner with her, her husband, and two of my gateway students. They were asking me about grad school applications and why I wanted to go to Ireland.

I gushed with radiant energy and excitement and absolute passion for that country and grad school program and adventure.

And now here I am, trying to convince myself to go back, knowing very well that I am "living the dream" of so many. And feeling very much like an ungrateful brat.

NI has taught me so much already. If the Lord sees it necessary to repeat a version of the second half of last year, He will. He is not unkind, but He is just.
And if he doesn't find it necessary, he won't do it. He is just, but He is not unkind.

I was given a great gift of mercy in being able to come home for this long. Many have asked me over the past week or so if I'm ready, and I haven't known exactly what to say.

However, my default quote-bank movie came to me with the perfect visual image of my sentiments toward the situation.

Princess Bride: Westley, in pursuit of the kidnapped Buttercup, follows the trail up the Cliffs of Insanity (which are actually the Cliffs of Moher in The Republic of Ireland), climbing quickly up the rope set out for that very purpose.

Then, the rope is cut! This leaves Westley clinging desperately to the side of the rock face, climbing every slowly upward.

When he finally makes it to the top (with the reluctant help of his impatient enemy), exhausted Westley pulls out his sword to begin the duel, but receives an unexpected reprieve first.

After a few minutes, Inigo asks:

"You ready then?"
"Whether I am or not, you've been more than fair."

And they duel.


I've climbed the rope, held on to the cliffs, received help in unexpected ways by unexpected people, made it to the end of the semester, received mercy and rest, but now, whether I'm ready or not, the Lord has been more than fair, and it's time to duel again.


While I rested on the floor of my soul and the floor of my bedroom, I've given some thought back to that night with the Balzers and my initial love. What was it? And what have I found to love now?

I love Ireland because:
-The people are kind and warm and understand how to value relationships over tasks.
-The grass is greenest on every side.
-If there's any conversation, it's everybody's conversation. You hear someone ask for directions, feel free to answer--even if you weren't the one asked. Weigh in on debates, shoe choices, anything.
-The pub culture. It's not a sleezy thing. It's just this culture of togetherness, in a way. They don't try to hide away from their neighbors (unless they differ on the Catholic/Protestant question)
-My church. Warm and loving and accepting and my safe place and my place of prayer and the place where I refound my roots in the Holy Spirit.
-The food is better. Period. Fresher, healthier. Except they have some serious blindspots in the realm of Chinese and Mexican.
-Public transportation. It is clean, mostly efficient, and means I don't have to find a parking space.
-The little green men who clean the streets at night.
-The traffic officers have hilarious wee red suits that I just can't take seriously.
-The material I read, I can have first copies of it. And see the actual places they were written. And see the actual places they were written about. And talk to people who experienced the things written about first-hand.

I'm seeking out that initial love, joy, and anticipation. That kid on Christmas eve frenzy.

It's there--somewhere, buried under heartbreak and exhaustion, but it's there. Few things lost are lost forever.

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.

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.

Caged Human Survival Treatise

Unless they reach the point of desperation or brokenness, caged animals will not go to the bathroom. Or, if they do, they confine their "messes" to the same area. The reason for this is because, whether or not they like it, that cage is their habitat, their den. It helps them retain their wee animalial dignity to keep their area livable. I would venture to say that it also helps keep them from going completely wild.

A clean den is a happy den.

Caged humans need clean dens, too.

Unhealthy situation: caged human sleeps in late, spends all day in comfy sleep-like clothes/clothes he or she slept in, does homework or watches movies or reads all day in bed, goes out of room to fetch some sort of easy food, leaves dishes and clothes strewn about, returns to den, waits until bedtime, and goes to sleep. Repeat daily.

Healthy situation: Caged human wakes up at a set time, gets out of bed, makes it, puts on publicly acceptable clothes, leaves room, does something, anything productive, makes food and also cleans up kitchen and other living rooms, uses mind constructively, interacts socially in some facet, waits until bedtime, and goes to sleep. Repeat daily.

I am going to avoid situation one with one minor adjustment. Jasmine pants are clearly an acceptable form of clothing.

My actual den (or cave, if you will) is the C.S. Lewis Study room.

Super delicious quesadilla I made for dinner. It was just so pretty I needed to show someone. 

It's been a really good alone day.

I have a few survival tips for anyone ever considering self-inflicted international isolation:

1. Embrace the fact that parts of every day are going to feel like the worst possible, most hopeless moments you have ever experienced. They might actually be.
2. Self-judgement isn't going to get you anywhere. Other than God, you're the only person around, so it doesn't matter if you freak out every once in a while.
3. Speaking of freaking out, sometimes that's really helpful. If you feel a bout of absolute panic coming on, and you know it's unavoidable, here are some pointers.
----Run up and down the stairs, dance, or do some other physical activity.
----Use your mind. Something like a puzzle or sudoku would be good. Listen to a sermon or some uplifting music at the same time.
----Tactile activities. Start crafting something, play Jenga, cut up and freeze fruit, make a meal.
----Distract, distract, distract. Leave wherever you are. Pick up around the house, organize a pantry or freezer, vacuum, iron, fold laundry. Create a mess in order to clean the mess.
----Scream. Talk out loud to God (not yourself. bad road). Sing as loudly as you can. Play the djembe. Play scales on the piano. Pretend you know how to play the guitar.
----Cry. Have a nice hard cry. That may feel like the opposite of good (and if you stay crying and defeated for multiple hours, it will become the opposite of good), but it can actually be really healthy. Suppressing emotion or pretending it doesn't exist will actually create insanity. You are feeling what you are feeling and it's okay. So have yourself a nice wee cry and then get on with your life.
4. When you can, get outside.
5. Build in fun into every day.
6. Create a "thankfulness" list.
7. Get a social outlet. It can be a daily walk down to the grocery store or a chat with a barista or a text sesh with your best friend or a skype call or, if you don't have legs or technology, a letter written to a friend, but you absolutely must keep connected.

 I have decided to embrace the fact that each day is going to be an entirely different experience for me. One good day doesn't mean that all my days are going to be good. And, conversely, a bad day doesn't mean all my days will be bad.

I still can't allow myself to think beyond the day (or hour) at hand, but I have every assurance that I will be given the exact measure of what I need to life fully and well each day.

How many people are given the opportunity to have a very long, very thorough detox session with the Lord?

This is absolutely going to suck, and I am going to get pretty desperate here as soon as the newness and almost fun, game-like quality comes to a close, but at the end of this, there ain't no way I'm going to be the same person as when I started. Amen to that.

Crap Spinning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Week in Her Shoes

And if the world were black or white entirely

 And all the charts were plain

Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,

A prism of delight and pain, 

We might be surer where we wished to go

Or again we might be merely

Bored but in brute reality there is no

Road that is right entirely 

- excerpt from Louis MacNeice: "Entirely"

It was a week of pro-con listing and prayer.

Therefore, it was a week of fasting and walks. Since my sincerity is not to be trusted in food fasts, I redirected it to the next obvious thing: liquid. Anything that wasn't water was off-limits. I have never wanted tea so badly. However, when I felt myself craving it, I took it as an opportunity for prayer and focus.

In addition, I took a daily walk. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others.

Monday, I decided to take a morning run. Those who know me know that running is not nearly my forte. I look like some sort of wounded animal. It ain't pretty and I give up fast. It's my go-to for burning off excess emotion, though. My wee run ended in walking the perimeter of my home.

Tuesday, I walked at night down to the food co-op about a half mile away to top up my bus pass. I left the house at 17:30, which mean my descent down the hill matched the descent of the sun, and my walk home was dark. Cold air, music, and seeing my neighborhood by night. It may be my favorite walk of the week.

Seen at Co-Op: He's with Royal Mail.

 Isn't his wee truck just the cutest little thing? I love it I love it.

Wednesday: I finished up my first class' homework early, so after lunch, I headed into town for a few errands and then a dander down to Queen's Library to retrieve my books for class 2. Just before I started down to University, the heaven's opened up (from the side) and spurted water on us like a slit jugular, in pulses. Luckily, my "errands" were to pick up an umbrella and some wellies, so I changed into them, slipped my cloth shoes into my backpack, and headed out. 

The McClay Library in "Fall"

yes, two views of the same thing. The first because it's clear and the second because I like the reflection of the light on the wet stone. It's my favorite walk in Belfast, from the library to the bus stop. Especially when it's wet, the whole street glows and the church at the end of it is lit at odd angles, giving it an ominous look, but ominous in a good way. I don't know the right word. 

Thursday was Halloween! My walk was more of a swagger in my sweet onesie and, of course, my smooth dance moves (not smooth. not cool even kind of. don't let me fool you). The Europa Hotel was right across the street from Robinson's Pub, where I was. 

Fun fact: The Europa was the most bombed location in all of Belfast during The Troubles. It's also a thing here to fasten yourself to the top and rope shimmy down the hotel. Man, I butchered that. There is probably a real name for what I just described. Either way...

Friday's walk was in Dublin. I went with the group of students down to the south. Dublin is built up around the River Liffey. Our walk mostly involved walking from Grafton (tourist shoppy area) down to Kildare Street (political and artistic area).  

This is across the street from the Leinster House (like the capitol building. hub of political life). This house in particular has absolutely no historical value that I know of, it just happened to have a lovely door next to a really cool lamp post. 

It was also on this day that Hadden (wise and old. all you need to know) told me something I thought was some very good fodder for thought: "If you are true in your intentions and ambitions to follow God, no matter where he's leading you, then he may not show you the one right door--in fact he probably won't, love--but he will make absolute sure you don't open the wrong one." 

Good words and good perspective. 

Saturday: Turning point: figurative and also pun. 

Wet streets, if I haven't mentioned before, are one of the most soothing things, especially wet streets that have stop lights glowing on them. There's a place in Tulsa that is especially beautiful in the rain. It's a couple stoplights in a row with an overpass separating them. The whole street glows, but you can only see it from certain angles. Mmm. 

I went out at 17:30, but it had been dark for an hour already. I walked from the house down the hill to the stoplight above. No earbuds, no people. Before I left, I was trying to finish up some homework and found myself praying instead. I don't know. I just felt different in my head and in my heart before leaving for this one.

And it was a different walk and I came home from it with an entirely different perspective, one which didn't make me cheerful exactly but one which finally gave me peace, like that's what my pro-con list had been lacking all along. 

For the first time all week in my debacle-ing, I saw my own part in the problem. Praise God for that. 

Sunday: I anticipated the ability to tell you that today brought total resolution and clarity, but it hasn't. Some things can't be fixed that fast. That doesn't mean they can't be fixed or that it's not right to fix them, but change is hard and slow and forces you to own up to yourself and confront your insecurities and shortcomings and that's just never fun. 

The "autumnal" walk to and home from church. Joined by Abbi and Shelby and mostly spent in silence. Silence which I usually fill up with mindless chatter because that's just what I do in my own socially anxious way, but I didn't today. I just let it be quiet and okay. The sky was perfectly cloudless, the wind was a little whippity, but overall, it was a nice cleansing walk. 

My final walk of the week was 12 hours later and to the mailbox just a bit down the road. Why tonight and not tomorrow? Because tomorrow I might have answers. And tonight I just have faith. 

Comes in Waves

According to Professor Eamonn, there was some sort of minor hurricane off the coast of England this past week. He told me about the weather when he caught my horrified face looking out the window watching us get slammed with rain and listening to the wind screech like a pissy ex girlfriend.

NI is getting the backlash of it all. I would have known this if I had checked the weather.

The thing is, I don't check the weather anymore. In Oklahoma and Arkansas, I always check the weather. It's one of my favorite parts of every day. It's wildly different from one week or hour to another and I can't wait to see if the projected forecast lines up with reality. It's nerdy and weird, I know. But when I move back and you want to know the highs and lows and percent chance of rain for any given day, I'm your girl.

Here, though, it's different. Mornings are very bright usually and pretty lovely to walk about in. Then, around 2 or so, it clouds up, and by 5:30 it's dark. Expect rain and cloud cover throughout.

Because I don't check the weather, I wouldn't know that English waves were to be splashing our streets and skies with that level of force.

Life in the house and life for me has gotten into patterns. Monday mornings are family meetings followed by hours of class and, if we can snag a ride, Bible study. All the rest of the week, I read. Every hour that I'm not out with the students for a meal or something, I am doing my prep work for class. Fridays sometimes, I go on the day trips with the students, but mostly, I read.

Not complaining. I like to read. Always have. I mention it to say that I am settled into routine. Even the insanity of house relationships has calmed. There's no reason to check the weather. The incoming waves take me by surprise.

Practical Christianity.

The realm of Christianity often remains up there in the cloud of happy ideas. You  hear, "Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young," or "Fear not!" or "Cast all your cares on Jesus," but what does that look like?

Do you stand up for yourself? Go jump in front of bullets?

Let's be honest, I'm really most concerned with that last one. Casting our anxieties on Jesus. Taking our thoughts captive. At what point is it just faking it till we feel it?

Sure, in the morningtime, we pour out our hearts to Jesus, ask for guidance and peace and a big cosmic hug, but then you go out into your day. Things haven't changed. All those things that were filling you with fear and anxiety are still there! But you cast your anxieties on Jesus! So you feel as though if you're not joyful and bubbly, then something is wrong. So you do it anyway until you feel it. Obedience, you tell yourself. Acting out in faith, you tell yourself.

A friend of mine (a very wise owl type) this morning was telling me about a situation in her life and ended her little talk with saying, "Honestly, I think it's a good thing [I don't know what's going on]. It's reminding me to be constantly surrendering this to God. This isn't mine to have and control."

Beautiful. Two thumbs up, really. (No, you cynics. I'm not being sarcastic).

But what does it look like? Does surrendering something to God mean you stop trying to fix things by your own means and if it works out it works out? Pray hard? Does it mean you keep working and keep fighting but rely on his strength and guidance to help you get there?

Or at what point do you realize that it's time to let go? Not "let go and let God," but let go entirely.

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.