I Pick You

My front garden turned from drab to fab, with these giant purple irises.

They're beautiful, but it's difficult to compare when I have a history with flowers loved on and planted by David: see here . 

When I pulled open my door, though, I saw this one, and a memory with David sprang back to life. 

 It was a damp, sunny spring morning in Belfast, and I was running late to school about to miss the bus. Running through the kitchen, I saw a beautiful tulip on the counter waiting for me. 

I lived alone, so it wasn't as though someone had picked a tulip for themselves. 

It was a present for me. From a man who knows I love flowers, a man so proud of his flowers (but so British he would never have been able to say it) that he wanted to give one to somebody he knew would appreciate its beauty as much as he did. 

The flower was lovely, but it was the man that made it precious to me. 

David, my man, hardly spoke at all, pleasantries at most, but there were many days where I felt as though David was my very most dear friend. He took care of me in such a practically compassionate way. 

At Christmas, he brought me out of my darkness to decorate. 

In the spring, he wanted to show me the flowers. 

He put up a shelf in my room. 

He teased me when I would make my entrance to the world at noon or past (and always made sure to be extra quiet if he thought I was asleep). 

He took me to uni when the bus didn't come that late day in April. 

He made pleasantries with me. 

He showed me the golden finches. He loves the golden finches, "First time in ten years they come back here, them". Even said "you're welcome" when I thanked him. Yeah, it was a huge deal to him to share the finches. 

David is gentle and kind, without a bad word to say about anyone. The one who gardens in his pleated trousers with button-down shirt, sweater vest, and loafers. 

Tireless. 

Humble. 

A big fan of tea. 

I ran out of the house to catch my bus that day, and David was hard at work edging the garden. When I called out a thanks, he told me he had found the tulip downed in the garden: "Musta been a nail or somethin' break it...Thought you could talk to it."

An american would have been making fun of me, but not David. 

He had entrusted one of his broken baby flowers into my care. And since I know David's love for his flowers, I felt the love of the gesture. 

One Last Day, But It's Not the Same

It's different, very different.
And I love that when I will get to say, "Last December in Belfast" it will not be followed with tears. It will be followed with joy.

David (you absolutely remember David, my sweet, wonderful houseman and groundskeeper)  had stopped by the house twice yesterday to see me, but I'd been away at uni all day.

8am it was! And my reserved, British friend kissed me right on the face. Ha!

I hate that the picture is blurry, but I do enjoy having him in photo form. David will never know or be able to understand the depth to which his practical mercy on me touched my life.
Like the time I came in to see a tulip on the counter and, when I thanked him on my way out the door (he was in the garden), he told me, "Musta been a nail or somethin' break it. Found it on the ground. Thought you could talk to it."

Or the time just after the team left, my boyfriend left, and my nephew entered the world (it was a big three days) and I was alone and sad, he came and found me and asked if I would like to put up the Christmas decorations. David does not ask anyone to do anything. He does things. You would understand if you knew David, but that was his way of taking care of, giving me something to do, something to feel a part of. David is a very good man.

Another very good man collected me for tea just after--Hadden. :)
He was my boss over in Belfast, coordinating JBU activities there. We talked over programme information and life stuff.
Getting back into his car after dropping me off (not even facing me), he said, "Let that young man of yours know that if he doesn't treat you right...I'll kill him". Then drove off.
And he's from Belfast, so you know he ain't lyin'.

Next came Amy and Matt.
We hung out at Lakeside, went to city centre, went out for lunch at a fun little pub, shopped a bit, roamed the Christmas market, took the party back home again, watched Everything is Illuminated, and just had a really good time.

When Amy left, Lauren appeared. :)

Last cuddles all around.

Home is a place you fight for. Home is a place that knows you, that you feel known in. Home is a place you feel wanted and loved. When I left for Oklahoma last December, Belfast was not my home. What a blessing, what a treasure, that it was when I stepped off the plane just one year later.

Lakeside, Belfast, my friends (and a lot of Starbucks goers) saw my soul stripped naked, saw me broken, and saw the Lord rise me up again.
And for that, for seeing, for staying, for speaking out truth, they became my home.

My Jet Don't Lag

The planes over?
Best ever.

From Tulsa to Chicago it was clear skies and sunshine.
Arrived in the dark windy city 30 minutes early actually.

A short 4 hour layover then it was off to Dublin. Had a whole row to myself on the largest aircraft I've ever been on.
Arrived in the dark windy city a full hour early.

Got through passport security with ease and walked straight up to my bag. The whole thing took 5 minutes start to finish. Unreal.

Then:

She drove all the way from Belfast to lift me, wee pet, on almost no sleep. Gem, that girl is.

When we got into Belfast, we had a super search for parking, then got lunch/killed time before 2

At the cafe, though, I heard my name screamed and Lauren appeared out of nowhere. YES!

Ames and I turned in the hard copy of my thesis (hallelujah chorus) then picked up our regalia (hallelujah chorus) and graduation tickets (which I will give to two strangers and ask them to pose as family).

Then home to the "new me" and old friend at Lakeside (where Matt and I had to break back into because he had accidentally locked himself out. oops)

I had brought him Christmas from his family in Texas, so we opened his presents and chatted until my church mate Megan got here.

 

She took us for ice cream which turned into bonding all together until 2:30am.
Very long first day. Very best first day.

Begrudge Not Joy

There is nowhere more beautiful than Northern Ireland in the sunshine.

The flowers all abloom, the daylong-morning sunshine lightly brushing against your cheeks, gently swishing air. That's how I met her two years ago. It was in that garb that she entranced me, gave me something in which to fall in love.

So I get it, I do, when my groups of Americans come and spend the majority of their time taking selfies and gushing, "OMG I could like totally live here. That's it. Seriously. I'm coming back and living here. No question. OMG."

I was one of those people. Minus the OMGs and the selfie taking (mostly). But I absolutely did say, even then, that I was coming back.

And you know what? I did.

So my disdain for those comments isn't in their frivolity really because I know that it's possible.

Rather, I detest the ignorance. I detest my own ignorance, not that anyone could have really prepared me for here.

The emotions that run through my head:

-annoyance: They meet NI in spring. Not winter when there is no sun. They see her at her very best.
-pre-anger/jealousy: If they do move here, do as I did, and out-do me, succeed where I failed, thrive where I survived, it will rub salt and lemons into my wounds.

Two years ago I was that girl. I came in a wonderful group, bonded with the country and its people alike and, essentially, had a wonderful honeymoon period.

Last semester, was the statistically awful first five years of marriage when the highs are high and the lows are low (that's a joke. There were no highs.) and it takes very nearly everything you've got not to throw down the pot of gold and get a divorce (you'll need that gold for the divorce. Don't throw it too far).

Then, after that, you learn the rhythms of what it means to live with one another peaceably and joyfully. You made it past the culture shock of marriage. You can do this.

I firmly believe that if I were to have stayed another year or two, I would be so okay with it. I may have even had the capacity to thrive. But that wouldn't have been possible without those first few months.

I, unlike past Jamie and present student teams, am not infatuated with Northern Ireland. I am in love with her. Love is a choice, a devoted, daily, obedient, faithful choice.

At the same time, I want those kids to love my adopted country as I love it.

This is a resilient place with its nooks and crannies full of strange and wonderful humans and sheep and cows and green, green grass and wet rain and gale force winds and universities that look like castles. and tea.

The kids to whom I will promote the NI studies trip to will need to hear those things.
About the rest, I honestly just need to bite my tongue.

Because they will come with a group and be dazzled off their toes. They will leave with clovers in their hearts and tea in their veins.

And to the person who will become the next Lord or Lady of the Manor, I can hold no vindictiveness if they assimilate into this country better than I did. Ain't nobody could have predicted what happened to me in any of those insane categories. I learned and grew and am thankful, but it will still be a challenge not to wish upon them pain and throw a childlike tantrum if they get off scot-free (Why me and not them???).

That answer is not important. The Why really doesn't (rather, shouldn't) hold much ground. Ever. I'm not called to know, I'm called to follow.

Again, I find myself in a state of discipline, practicing grace, practicing how to rejoice with others when they rejoice and not just hurt when they hurt.

F is for Friendship

For the past few Sunday evenings, I’ve attended Newtonbreda Baptist with my friends. And, afterward, gone out for ice cream before landing back in my living room.

Have I mentioned that I am now the sole Lady of the Manor these days? I’ve got to admit: it feels pretty good.

It also feels good to have friends to host.

Last evening, we sat around chatting and, randomly, one of the guys decided it was a good idea to have a circle of testimonies time (while I pinterested one of the girl’s hair).

It was pretty fitting, since the morning message at Vineyard was about the power of sharing stories. On 

Easter, as they did baptisms, each person had a friend read aloud the baptee’s cliffnotes spiritual journey.

I cried pretty steadily through the whole thing. The power and encouragement which comes from hearing of 

God’s good work is more than emotional walls can withstand.

So we went around the circle and shared our spiritual journey with Jesus.

Stories and handwriting are similar.

I’ve got this handwriting analysis book (no memory of where I got it or why I have it) that I used to use to casually analyse the handwriting of my friends. It’s pretty dead on, surprisingly. Or, rather, not surprisingly. Either way.

It’s part of why I miss letters. 70% of communication is non-verbal. Emails and type face just don’t get across the same kinds of things a pen can.

When people tell their story, the way in which they construct it reveals just as much about them as the content. It also demonstrates their level of comfortability with their cohorts and with themselves.

What do they include? Are they jittery when they speak? Eye contact? Tone? Do they even share at all?

For an hour or so, I got to hear the honest hearts of my friends as they told of heartbreaks and inconsistencies and screwups and the desperate knowledge of their need for Jesus. It amazed me yet again of how different we, as humans, all are. And at the same time, how very similarly we fall apart.The circumstances may all be different (or eerily similar), but all people hurt the same. We're pretty fragile things. 

Every day here I all more in love with Jesus and this country and these friendships.

And there’s a part of me that wonders how and why I didn’t have these people 8 months ago when I was so desperate for them. At the same time, I maintain that I would have been incapable of engaging in their friendship. Emotionally unavailable, as someone once told me.

Day by day, I come more alive and my spirit more free. There’s still that voice and my calendar which remind me of the tick tick ticking of my countdown here, but I refuse to live inhibited by the fear of that. I serve a God of anomalies and impossible things. What I have right now is what I thought was an impossible thing. I’m gonna revel in it.

Ain’t that good? Isn’t he just so good?

April Showers (of Blessings)

At the start of this month (in regards to The States), I was phoneless, carless, homeless, and jobless.

And by the end, I have a great vehicle I plan on driving until it dies in a nursing home parking lot sixteen years from now (its predecessor Bess set some pretty tough standards for Toyotas. 500,000 miles logged into that car over 16 years, five of which were mine. And, though she did die in a nursing home parking lot, which really is just ironic, she is still kickin' with a nice hispanic family my dad knows).

Secondly, I have been invited to join a home. I'll have my own room, the kitchen and living areas are lovely, there's a fenced-in yard so they're letting me keep my wee pup (Oh how I've missed him!!), and my roommates, though I don't know them, seem so sweet and warm. They are introverts, too! From our one FaceTime and emails/Facebook posts of theirs, I can already tell I'll enjoy living with their quirky selves.

Third (which I have already mentioned), I have occupation. Signed my contract just this week, actually, when my new boss came to visit Lakeside. I was very thankful for the chance to get to chat with them and rewrite my first impression on them. The first impression? My roommate Lauren's wedding rehearsal was at their home. I had the flu. And spent the majority of the rehearsal puking and hiding out in their kitchen hoping nobody would notice my absence. It was super classy.

My favorite part of all three of these was that they took me entirely off-guard. Honestly, I prayed for a car that worked, a roof that preferably didn't leak, and a direction. At the same time, I had in my mind what would be considered The Dream, the best possible situation. Did I ask for this? No. Because I would have been thrilled with the basics.

In return, I have had the complete shock of not once or twice but three times over being given the EXACT parameters of my dreams.

This is not a "suffering leads to gifts" or rewards for service. Not at all. Don't misunderstand me.
I see this as grace and confirmation over and over and over that the direction he's sending me in is exactly where I am supposed to be walking toward.

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

THURSDAY:
Though it is very nearly impossible to get "in" with a friendgroup here in NI (they've all known one another since the dawn of time it seems. and is.), I had the fortune to have been adopted by Lynsey and Lauren at a Newcomer's meal, a month after arriving here. Later, we were joined by Kiera, their other best friend.

Yes, their reasons were that my friend Shelby (last semester's cook, now gone) looks like Zooey Deschanel and we're Americans, but it happened nonetheless.

Through them, I had a support system, rides to small group, and, to be blunt, a way to stay sane.
This semester, though, that desperation for somebody to talk to me has melted into genuine friendship. I feel safe to be silly with them. They're tops.

On Thursday evening, we had a fancy dinner party and movie night.
Each one of us contributed a course, and we sat about and ate and talked and laughed.

After, we hopped around in my backyard before retiring in my living room for a movie and Ruth's Salon.

When my hair was long, I used to do all sorts of Pinteresty things to it, so my buddies graciously allowed me to pin them up.

FRIDAY
After a long day of work, my friend Megan (from small group) came to fetch me, and we headed down the Lisburn Road toward ice cream. We thought we were going for coffee, but obviously ice cream's voice was like a Siren call. Irresistible, really, as we had forgotten our beeswax. 

Our date lasted for probably four hours as we talked over God's direction for our lives, our recent travel ventures (she spent a month or so in Thailand in January), and what's been running rampant in our minds.

That ice cream? Honeycomb with snickers and nutella. Drooling is acceptable and expected. 

SATURDAY
Remember Craig from the Naomi/Craig combo?
Well, it was his birthday! Yay!!!

I, along with Naomi and a whole bunch of his friends, went out. We sat at a table under a pavilion outside a pub and "had the banter" with one another.

Fun fact, suspenders don't mean suspenders here. Brackets are to suspenders what suspenders are to lingerie/panty hose holder uppers.

You know, just easy ways to make myself look silly.

People don't think I'm funny here.
I was funny in the states! I know because I asked when nobody would laugh at my jokes!!!
Conversely, I don't often find the people here funny.

People laugh, and I just sit there stupidly wondering what I've missed. Happens all the time.

I may not be super thrilled about a lot of the aspects involved with American culture, but I am indeed looking forward to people chuckling at more than my stupidity. Oh they'll still laugh at my stupid moments, but at least it'll be tempered with actual witicisms.

SUNDAY
Part I:
After church at Vineyard, Megan (same one from the evening of ice cream) and I went to the Titanic Quarter. She had heard about a Thai Culture Festival and wanted company. I was all too delighted to oblige.

It took a good deal of walking around confused to find the place but, amidst the vast area of what once was an immense shipyard, we found it: T13.

T13 is a big-ish warehouse (she thought it was huge. I'm american. Ees medium size) which has since turned into a skate park.

It was so Belfast I can't even tell you.

Amidst the "festival" (8 booths, one of which was for dohnuts, one for coffee, and a stage), there were ramps and clusters of kids on bikes, skateboards, and scooters.

We ate pad thai and dohnuts (neither of us suggest combining those), walked around people watching, took selfies with the oil rig outside I think looks like a giant octopus and the cranes used to build the Titanic.

On the drive home, we chatted over the end of the world and how we're all already chipped. Technology is creepy with the degree to which it knows me: exactly where I am, my likes and dislikes, my friends, everything I say and do.

Twas good. She's a valuable friend. We always have such constructive conversations.

The tugboat used to tote people out to board the Titanic. 

Part II:
I miss having guy friends.

As a girl who grew up with brothers and has always found guys to be easier to bond with than girls, not having a single guy friend on this continent for months and months has been a serious gap.

However, I must have passed some sort of test, because Kiera, Lauren, and Lynsey started bringing me around the rest of their massive friend group, as well as night church at Newtonbreda Baptist (which is wonderful, by the way).

Last evening, post service, we all went out for Maud's (again. Man.  Ice cream never ever gets old to me), hung out there until they closed, then headed over to my house for games and just hang out time.

Yes, I've only got a month or so left here and yes, that is a little late to make new friends.
But despite what deepening my friendships and making new ones is going to do to my heart when I leave, I would rather leave with the memory of having risked living boldly and actually having the opportunity to miss people than to leave just as separated as when I came.

Flowers and Flags

Lakeside’s very own wonderful Renaissance man David planted this swan (our emblem), and it has juts bloomed this week.

David, as I’ve mentioned before, is very British. Proper, reserved, and wears a sweater vest and loafers to mulch, chainsaw, and plumb.Being American and very…not any of those things, it’s sometimes difficult for me to understand what it is David is trying to communicate to me or how to communicate well with him.  He’s a gem, though. So kind and helpful.

A charming thing happened with him yesterday in the kitchen. Adam and I were ladling up soup for ourselves when David walked in, said something to me about the laundry, and then asked if I’d happened to notice the flower arrangement outside.

As he told me how it may be difficult to take a picture of it because of its placement in the yard, but aaaalll the different places that one might try to, he got this impish smile like a little kid trying not to get overly excited about the macaroni necklace he just gave his mom because what if she doesn’t like it but I mean really, how could she not like it, it’s freakin’ necklace made of macaroni! Say how much you love it, mom!!!  

According to David’s counting yesterday, there are planted currently around the manner grounds (which means, my man planted them himself) 300 flower bulbs. Come full spring, our estate is going to be bursting with blooms thanks to him.

His obvious pride and excitement (buried by Britishness) was such a pleasure to see.

Belfast, too, is blooming. Crocus flowers are all along the embankments of the roadways.

It’s also a week for holidays, as yesterday was Pancake Tuesday. Yes. Real holiday.

Here, instead of calling it Fat Tuesday, it is Pancake Tuesday, the day when you cook and serve up as many pancakes with as many sugary toppings as your fridge and bodies can handle.

Adam and I took advantage of this and while he made the pancakes (my attempt at flipping one and turning it into a panwad got me banned), I put together the topping bar. We ate so many pancakes we almost burst. 

*everything minus the cinnamon

We did not, however, and instead finished our puzzle of St. Patrick.

St. Paddy may have cast all the snakes and devils out of Ireland, but we are both certain he cast them into that puzzle. We FINALLY completed it, but discovered 5 whole missing pieces. Evil, evil puzzle.

Local piece of news is the current visit of former U.S. President Bill Clinton or, here, Wee Billy Clinton. It’s the only thing they know when I say I’m from Arkansas (if I say Oklahoma, they burst into song.).

Personally, I have no taste for the man. I find him slimy. However, since living here and hearing the depths of the troubles during The Troubles and how he was imperative in the navigation out of those times, I have gained some respect for him as a diplomat on behalf of my adopted people.

What’s most fascinating to me—thoughts coming from both the Lent season (traditionally Catholic) and his arrival—is how The Troubles really aren’t about religion at all but they are most often described as that. It’s easiest.

You see, Ireland is not comprised mainly of Irish really. The British really screwed them over.

There are the Ulster Scots (sent from Scotland to come live here) and the Anglo-Irish (sent from England to come live here) and, finally, the Irish. The first two categories are now what is known as the United Kingdom and are Protestant.

They settled the land on behalf of the crown to dominate the homepeople and extort them for cash money (pft. As if they had any…). The Irish were Catholic and the lowest of the lowest classes. They just want their country back and their oppressors out.

I could give you a whole history lesson even farther back and forward, but that’s the gist of it.

The Protestant are the Unionists (those who wish to stay with the UK and raise the Union Jack) and the Republicans are the Catholic (Use of the TriColor Flag [pronounced here trick-ulur]give me my republic or give me death. Literally).

The fight isn’t on whose religion is more right; it’s a good deal political, with sides who happen to have opposing religious sects.

It’s all very fascinating, really, and maybe even a bit ironic, especially considering how very non-religious Ireland has become. Religion isn’t something you live here. It’s something you are.

They would say “I’m Catholic,” like one would say, “I’m Jewish,” or “I’m Native American.” It’s an identity factor. Even if you yourself are atheist, if someone asked you "what you were," you would respond, "My family is Catholic" or "My family is protestant." 

In some ways, I believe strongly that it is this very quality which numbs the people from having eyes to see or ears to hear Jesus in their country or friends.

In their minds, there’s nothing to see, nothing to hear that would surprise them.

Like my friend from class, their experience with the church has been so abusive and political and non-relational that they could very nicely go for always without hearing of it all again.

God has nothing to do with it. 

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.

Small Miracles, Big Difference

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

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

But.

No Vera.

What.

Wait...what.

No.

Nonononononononononononono.

Gotta be in the backpack.

Search through the backpack.

Bus driving off.

Jamie running.

Throwing backpack into bushes as she runs faster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Home

*photo cred to Eli Zuspan

Yesterday was magical.

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

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

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

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

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

*Causeway photo cred to Emily Orf

*Dunluce photo cred to Eli Zuspan

The Hunger Games

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

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

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

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

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

Today, I tread water.

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

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

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

Thus, The Hunger Games.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's treading water, taking patience and measuredness.

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

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

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

When Life Gives You 11 Pounds of Apples,

you make every conceivable apple-based food item as quickly as possible.

Starting with apple sauce:

Looks kind of like...baby food there, but it's actually quite lovely to the taste buds.

Odom, party of one inherited an entire fridge full of random excess food items, such as 11 pounds of apples (which I diced until I couldn't think), 6 quarts of mushrooms (also diced), two full bags of carrots (which will be diced and made into soup), three heads of broccoli, six heads of lettuce, 3 pounds of pepperoni (which I don't eat), three gallons of milk, 9 large packages of bacon (which I also don't eat), two bags of kiwi, two large bundles of bananas (half sliced and frozen for smoothies and half set aside for bread), a half gallon of cranberry sauce, the aforementioned thanksgiving meal, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Ain't no way I can eat all that. So, I spent a few hours today dicing, packing thanksgiving meals into zip-lock baggies, cooking/recipe making, and asking myself and my mother the question, "Can I freeze that?"

You can freeze a lot more than you'd think, though my freezer is now full to capacity, except for the apples and mushrooms, which will be baked and sauteed and otherwise made more durable tomorrow.

Sauteed these bad boys, put half over mashed potatoes and half back in the fridge with their giant box of uncooked friends. 

Then, post kitchen adventuring (yes, I did do the dishes. All of them) and general winning of wife points, I went to a Christmas concert. 

Lainey invited me nearly 4 times, and I truly did not want to go, but I ended up trotting off to the Waterfront Hall in the end. Turns out, it was not a wee church choir. It is a mass choir, developed nearly 20 years ago now by the then 19 year old Keith Getty (Elaine's brother). The hall it was in is the largest music hall in Northern Ireland, which is a big deal and also not. Because NI is quite wee. I would call it a moderate size for American standards. Smaller than the Tulsa PAC. 

The music was phenomenal. Special arrangements, soloists, and a full orchestra. My mother, aunt, and grandmother would have wept through it. 

Another successful day in the life of the lonely okie.

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.

December, Day 4

Miracle of miracles, this is what outside looked like today at 3. For the past four days, it's been totally dark by this time. 

That little table there has roses carved into the top of it. Much like an even more wee one my ma has on our front porch, but this one has roses because Ireland is full of roses. There's a rose garden just down the road from here. It spans huge tracks of land. I'm sure it's even lovelier in the springtime, but even now, the walk through the very green grass is very nice. 

The botanic gardens down by Queen's has a large area dedicated only to roses as well. I'm rather certain it stems (ha!) from the rosy symbol of the monarchy of England (Queen Elizabeth Tudor I is symbolized with a red rose), but Northern Ireland's emblem is made up of six entwined roses for the six counties. 

 No way this isn't cute. It's a hippo you can eat.

Less cute but very practical is the leftover Thanksgiving food. This is the entire green bean casserole that (along with the equally large leftover portions of cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and stuffing) will make up my every single meal until I head home for good in June.

Before my eating and watching the sun set, I spent my morning listening to a JBU chapel, reading a bit of Brennan Manning, writing, and geography games. I learned the location of both Austria and Switzerland today! Yes, pathetic, but I'm working on it.

After, I said two more goodbyes. Abbi and Shelby head off to The States in just a few hours here.

I can't say I had any irresistible friend chemistry with them, but I have enjoyed spending time with them immensely. They have been my "safe place" in the house the past three months, and I'm so thankful for their friendship. Lakeside will be a very different place without them.