Nurturing Orchids

Before she left our work and moved to Germany, a friend entrusted her desk orchid to me. It is purple-speckled, lovely, and the sister to my own dual-colored orchid.  

When she gave it to me, I didn't know that I would also join her in leaving our workplace just a few weeks later. Her orchid moved from my desk to my piano at home to the garage when it dropped its flowers and was unpresentable for staging to the floor of a sunroom when it came to Tulsa months later, then, finally, to my new kitchen's terrarium window. 

Orchids are fickle friends. When loved well, they are generous, abundant in their blooms. Three ice cubes a week and gentle sun are what they want. Too much or too little, and they wither and fall to pieces. 

My own orchid gave us 12 blooms this early summer until an ant infestation led to de-soiling, re-potting, and a heavy rinse. The leaves have all dried and fallen, and only 2 blooms remain. 

Tabitha's plant has only remained in our family out of determination--it has been brown and gray for months with no sign of life. Still, each week, three ice cubes are added in with hope. 

Almost a year later, it has regrown a full four huge leaves and is nubbing out for re-growth of a stem. Buds and flowers will follow. 

My orchid will survive with the same determination, but its speed of growth and vibrancy is what drew the predators. What we thought was so strong was being eaten alive below the surface. At this stage, the plant we had taken for dead is the stronger and healthier by far. 

We don't know the roots for the blossoms. Assumptions of strength are mere assumptions and not determinations. All that we can do is be patient, remain consistent with encouragement to grow, and act to protect when enemies make themselves known. 

Trying Our Best

My husband and I decided that power couples, more than anything, are two people doing their best. With how many different monkeys we have spinning on plates, I'd say that for us, we aren't doing our best, but we're sure trying. 

This semester I have felt like I was falling to pieces, dissolving into a human puddle person. Between family medical emergencies, computers that crash when you've just finished an 8 page research paper due that day, huge cracks in your windowshield that you could have prevented but didn't quite make it in time, deceased dogs, fat jeans that don't even fit anymore, 50 students, the work to grade of 50 students, 300 pages of required reading a week for my grad classes, and my never-just-40 hour work weeks, I have been barely holding it together. 

Meanwhile, the hubs stopped working full time in order to work full time for no pay at the same place he had been working full time for full pay. Hooray internships!!!! He also took 12 hours of classes on top of that. 

Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooo you could say that we're a little stretched thin. 

Moments of this semester, I have felt truly thankful and blessed. I love my students. I love them. And I love seeing the students I helped get here around campus, making friends, growing up. 

I have been thankful for the continued life of my grandmother, after she scared us pretty good at Thanksgiving. 

I have been thankful for classmates that I have enjoyed very much in my grad classes this semester. 

I have been thankful for time spent with my brother's family from Atlanta last month. Only seeing them once a year makes me feel like they grow 6 inches and 6 years of maturity each time I see them. I can't believe how much they've grown. 

I've been thankful for time spent in Arizona for my cousin's wedding and the good memories made climbing mountains and laughing with my family. 

and I've been thankful for having my husband as the light at the end of the tunnel of this semester. He makes sure I eat food and take care of myself. And he gives me all the snuggles. Marriage is so hard sometimes with all the stressors of life, but having a human there to love you and bring you shoes when you forget them and bring you snacks to work when you get a meeting scheduled--again--over your lunch break and squeeze you when you're panicking and squeeze you when you have a migraine and try really hard to make you laugh when you're grumpy is the best. He's the best. 

So, at the close of a really hard semester, when I feel like I am dragging my empty body across the finish line by one bloody arm, I can really only be thankful. Anything else might feel justified, but it wouldn't be true. I am loved, I love others, and I am loved by God. At the end of a difficult season, that's the part that's most important. 

Slip into Spandex and Live Your Live

Texting a friend overseas today about the life-crushing "disorder" of perceived self-rejection.

It's a topic currently dominating her life and one I am not unfamiliar with in the least.

My childhood was full of love, but I was not a happy child. In fact, I spent the majority of my first 17 years wallowing in a depressive state I could not escape from. I was utterly convinced everyone hated me, thought I was ugly and stupid and were talking about me. I didn't get invited to the parties and, when I was, I was convinced they invited me because they pitied me.

One of my "life philosophies" is the theory of capacity. I've mentioned it before, and it's not complicated or wise. I just think about it a lot when I'm processing past actions.

At each stage of life, though many choices may be available, I believe that you are only capable of making a select few of those many choices based on your emotional/spiritual/psychological capacity at that time. And, unfortunately, it takes making some "life growing" choices to increase that capacity. Good doesn't always feel good.

When I was 17, I saw a sign advertising a new sport in my high school. The word saber was mentioned. For the first time in my teenage life, I went alone: autonomous action. Not one person in that meeting understood why I was there, as they were all band members, and I had no connection to their world. I joined. The next two years were full of spandex, face-hits from wandering flags, and mockery from classmates that I would be involved in something so absolutely ridiculous. For the first time, though, I did not give one flying crap what they thought. Winter guard made me indescribably happy. There was mockery, but there was not shame.

I felt more comfortable dancing in a blue spandex onesie than I ever had in my own skin. My freedom started to seep into my real life, as I was happy. I was truly happy. Clearly, I was a teenager, so happiness is relative to whatever mood swing was going on that day, but it was a marked difference in personhood. I began to believe good things and behave out of that perception. The last two years of high school were fun.

Sometimes, the solutions to problems come in unconventional solutions. I wasn't in counseling or doing any mental exercises. I was doing something silly that had no direct or obvious "purpose."

The devil doesn't always speak to us like a trenchcoated man trying to sell contraband in a dark alleyway. Sometimes, he helps us "focus". And we focus and focus and focus on the problem until we can't see the solution without somehow spiraling deeper into the problem.

Alleviate. Escape. Breathe. Do things that scare you, that inspire you, that refine you.
Stop trying to force a solution and start letting yourself live your life.

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.

In the Human

People ask me all the time how I spend my days in the office.

If I'm not travelling, what could I possibly be doing?

The answer is, I answer emails, text messages, and phone calls from anxious parents and students trying to figure out all of life's challenging questions like, "Where do I send my shot records?", "Which of my clep courses will transfer as credit?", and "Where is the best place to buy twin xl sheets?"

Even if I've met them before, after that 16th email exchange, it's hard for me to keep my students (and their parents) in my mind as real life people. It makes it difficult to remember to respond to them as though they were human beings with feelings and anxieties.
It's difficult to remember that I once felt similarly, just stuffed with over roommates, refrigerators, and registration.

This past weekend, I tried to play a video game with the beau and, despite telling him that I had never played it and hadn't actually played any video game in years, his instructions were bare minimum. At each turn, I would ask ten more questions, and he would give me answers with words for which I had no foundation of definition, leaving me more confused. I didn't know how to move or shoot or what my goal was in each level or even which direction I was supposed to be heading. And there he was in the split screen below me kicking butt (He may not have actually been, but to someone having her butt kicked, everything above that seems awesome).

We finally paused the game for a tutorial when I got irked at his partial answers and explanations, and he admitted he hadn't played with someone that unacquainted with games in a really long time, so he hadn't thought through totally how basic he had needed to answer.

I'm only so calm about it all now because I've made college my profession. I know all the ins and outs and professors and it came from experience and training. These little greens don't know that. They have no foundation for that and neither do their parents, if this is their first kid headed off to college.

When I answer the phone or the thirteenth text in a row with (what I think are the dumbest ever) questions, I need to remember that I have the opportunity to serve them, relieve their anxiety, get them excited and not afraid, and give them all a sense that they are making the right decision.

Other than a kind email, there is little emotional "return" in my job.
That's okay, I'll keep doing it despite that, we don't need a hug and box of chocolates for being sufficient, but by the nature of my business, sometimes it can feel like nothing we do matters.

You work closely with a family for 11 months and they drop last minute.
You work with them as hard as you can, and they tell you you're their back up back up back up school and they'll come if they have to (local students).
You communicate with them about the importance of choosing a university for it's community and professors instead of major (they're 18. It'll most likely change), and they drop you for some low-grade school you know they'll hate.

This weekend, though, was early registration.
600 people on campus, 319 students registered.
All but four of mine showed up.

And they take selfies on your phone and they cry and tell you how thankful they are for you and they tell you how you've become part of their family and they talk about you at the dinner table. And they're THERE, in the human, not a text, email, or transcript, not a number.

And suddenly, there seems to be a lot more room for grace.

Advice for Aspiring Writers

It's rather ironic that I'm writing this considering that I haven't written creatively in two years now. Nevertheless,

1.) Spend some time each day reading. Read everything. Read non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, smut magazines (People is my favorite), poetry, prose, essays, philosophy, theology, modern, classic, contemporary. Broaden your scope as widely as you can. Inspiration comes from collaboration.

2.) Find a writing friend. My best guy friend for a very long time was named Peter. He is bursting with passion and ideas and words and talking to him is like plugging in to to a supercharger. Every time we would meet up for coffee, I would leave buzzing with residual energy, ready to write volumes of work. Actually, it was after he took me to Panera for my birthday that Woodsy was born. It's my favorite thing I've written, a short novel for a class. Bounce ideas off your friend, exchange pieces with one another for critique and accountability. Friends help you build and keep momentum.

3.) Schedule. Each and every day, whether it's in a notebook or a computer, write. Every day. Preferably during the same time slot every day but at least half an hour every single day. Journal, write a vignette of someone, copy down a conversation you overheard, paint a word picture, music and restaurant and coffee shop reviews, something.

4.) Stay away from screens. Speaking from experience, screens suck out your brain, soul, and creative energy. If you have to be glued to a screen for work, write in a journal for a change of pace.

5.) Get out. Leave your house. Leave the office. Go sit in the lawn and garden section or Walmart, go sit in a coffee shop, go to a local art fair, go to a local flea market, go people watch! Talk to strangers, non-stalkerly watch and listen to strangers, volunteer at nursing homes and talk to old people, babysit, go to museums and make up stories about the people in different paintings or the people who painted them, take a foreign language class at the community college, take a pottery class, go to a wine/painting session (Pinot's Palate is fun). Go, do, collect stories.

6.) If you're a recent college graduate especially, get a job straight out of college that has absolutely nothing to do with your english degree and don't take any crap for it. Work as a dental assistant, waitress, night guard at a museum, do something that will force you to build experience outside of the pages of a book. Collect stories. Make up stories. Re-vision stories you have lived.

7.) "Write shitty first drafts" (in the words of my college writing professor). Don't worry if what you're writing is worth a Pulitzer prize. It's not. Accept it and have fun creating without self-consciousness. You can revise and redesign later.

8.) Write everything. Write poems and prose and non-fiction essays and fiction chapters and short stories and children's stories. Write about the construction and maintenance of garage doors, about the men who maintenance them, about the families of the men who maintenance them, about the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the adventures of imaginary friends in the hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors, about the glitter pony unicorn pets of the imaginary friends in the  hopes and dreams of the kids in the families of the men who maintenance garage doors.

If you run out of creative juices, remind yourself that you are a creative person because you were creatively made. It's in your genes, in your very DNA. Sometimes it just needs be a little teased out into the open again.

I guess that's where I am, in the phase of telling myself, "I have written, I can write, I will write again."

Something Old, Something New

Frequently, I think up a phrase or really good word or, I don't know, a whole paragraph's description of something and don't have a pen on me. Or paper. So, into my phone they go.

I try to delete it out of there once it's been used.

Today I found an email that I had kept for reference.
I liked it.
So I'll share it because it's encouraging, especially since lately I've been feeling a little lonely. It's amazing. I have friends all over the world but just not one in my state. Funny how our own words can encourage us more than other people's.

Last year in February, a professor of mine sent me an email asking several questions about how I am. It took me about a month to respond. And this is what I said:

"I have indeed found my rhythm. It turns out, we're all kinda lonely. And when you realize that, it's not so hard to find your boldness. I've deepened two of my four friendships from last semester and befriended three of my four coursemates. We hang out now, get coffee, make plans to have weekend getaways and horseback riding days. I can't tell you how many times (I could, actually. It's five) I've heard another person here say the phrase, 'I've found it really difficult to make friends here and am often alone' in the past month and a half. It's crazy how similar so many of us are without realizing it. And yet, we all assume we're the only ones.
I'm able to enjoy my classes more now, am doing less of the actual homework (wow, what? Prioritizing relationships over tasks? Me?!), am giving some serious thought to sending out a couple papers for publishing, and do a lot of baking. They love my baking and apparently, Americans are known for loving (and rocking at) baking. Who knew?!
The Lord is good. What I have experienced since being back could be described as nothing short of a supernatural miracle in teh social sphere. Could never have anticipated or even asked for hte level of grace and favor and love and even "like" I have been given. Wow.
In the past week, I've had three different people, whose last Jamie sighting was December, see me and kind of wig out about how different I look, how alive I look. One Irish lady shock me hard and told me about my exuding 'vim'. Haha. It was so cute. I blogged about it. And the thing is, I feel alive. I wasn't ready to come back. I was a little better, but I was still rocked to my core. Now, though, I could not feel more separated. There wasn't a sudden moment of change; it was gradual, but I am alive. Very. And very passionately. And very thankfully.
So that's my very long and probably very ungrammatical answer. I am well. Praise Jesus."

Culture shock, man. It really does take about half a year to start feeling at home, at peace, and get some gumption to go get 'em.
And when you forget that, it's easy to be discouraged.

I'm starting to finally feel settled enough to think again.
I'm reading, I'm forcing myself to journal a bit each night, the fog in my head is starting to clear up.

Even things at work seem to be getting better.

The reception I hosted in Texas last week was well attended, and the board of trustees seemed to have a really good time bonding with my wonderful, wonderful Texan students.

And, in a couple weeks, school counselors from all over the states will come to our school for an event, and over half are mine. There are even some new ones that have never come to our event before. I'm so excited.

Finally, I learned yesterday that a chunk of the Trifecta is coming back to me.
My six best friends are scattered across the globe. Just...so far away. Colorado, Oklahoma, Australia, Washington DC, Scotland, Northern Ireland.

And, after a job offer to her husband yesterday, my Caity Ruth is moving back to Tulsa. Still an Oklahoma away, but an hour and a half closer than where she is now, and that's where my family is located.

The past few years have been hard for us. It's just difficult to keep someone your best friend when, I mean, they aren't there in a literal way. You aren't doing life with them on the daily. I feel like I'm getting my best friend back. That is a really good feeling.

Why I Love My Job

Daily, I come home with mixed emotions about:

a. Living in The States

b. Living in Arkansas

c. Having a job

I get to this lathered-up place where the panic about being confined to one place and a job that keeps me hostage for 8 hours a day overwhelms me. And so many days I come home from that job so wiped out that I begin to panic anew, fearing that my magnetic strong urges toward the hermit life are indicative that I didn't actually kick my depression out of my life, but rather quieted it for a few months. 

Frankly, that aspect is a definite possibility. 

However, there is one thing I know for certain: my job is exactly the place for me. 

Let me tell you why. 

Though a large chunk of what I do is through spreadsheets and emails and endless details and planning details (so many of which I accidentally neglect), the more weighty piece of what I do is interact with perspective students and their families. 

This is what I live for. 

My whole job with those students is maximizing opportunity. 

For however long I get to lead them on tours or talk on the phone with them or talk to them in the office or at my booth, I get to spend time making them feel valued and valuable and wanted and adventurous and important. I get to listen to their hopes and dreams and make them feel as though the actualization of those hopes and dreams is something within their grasp. 

I love it. I love my students, and I believe in both them and the university for which I work. Matchmaking the two when it "feels right" is the best feeling in the world. 

Ende[e]ring

I've told the story before of how Naomi Deering came into my life, but I find that I have neglected to mention the ways in which the Deering family has filled up my life.

It was the original kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Deering that led myself and Kyle Schmidt to their home in Carrickfergus for an afternoon of tea, dogtime, a hike by the lighthouse, and my first experience with poor bear (honeycomb) ice cream from Maud's.

It was then and there that I met Naomi and she herself who reconnected with me last summer.

From there, it was Naomi who consistently instigated conversation with me all through the summer and following semester, taking me away from home and into hers for tea and New Girl. I gave her little to work with, but she kept pursuing me. I really needed that. Knowing she would be here gave me that extra boost of courage I needed to come back here at the end of January.

In that time period, I again received hospitality from her aunt, uncle, and cousins who let me into their home for tea (of course) on one of my first outings (innings) with Naomi.

Before October was even over, she had asked and had received permission to invite me for Christmas with her family in Spain, then Belfast when they decided to come over instead.

If I hadn't come home so early, I would have been removed to their home for a couple weeks.

This semester, I again had Naomi (on a much more equal and balanced level of friendship, thank goodness) and, in April, had the great pleasure of being driven out to the countryside to the family farm where I was taken care of by her delightful grandparents (and met a whole slew of family members).

Finally, I spent this past weekend in the highlands of Scotland with Naomi's brother and driven home from our final ferry by her cousin.

Ten months.

Ten months and more than ten family members.

The Deering family has demonstrated to me what hospitality and love looks like lived out in the day-to-day. I will forever be thankful to them.

A Week in Review: Fun for Me and Fun for You

Lots of changes here at Lakeside.
I've got Americans all over the place.

As of last week, my cook had gotten deported, we didn't have food, and I was unsure as to when my three different sets of humans were to arrive.

Now, though, food arrived on my doorstep (Thanks, Tesco!), I was here to receive my people (all of them), and my cook and two supervisors are on their way up from Dublin, all legal and whatnot.

This past week was a blur of fun and activities.

MONDAY:
My MA coursemates and I got together for a wee dinner party before my house filled up. We didn't get any photos together, but fun was had by all.
Amy Finlay brought a delectable asparagus soup, Emma brought lasagna as I've never seen made before, Amy Burnside provided garlic bread and the contextual beverage of the evening, and I made homemade ice cream and chocolate sheet cake.

We wined, we dined, and we watched chick flicks as they submitted to my fiddling with bobby pins and their long locks.

It took 3 blondes (minus me) to get open that bottle. Way to go, Amy! 

Classroom friendships are one thing but actually getting out and bonding is another.

TUESDAY:
Not only were Lauren and I individually tired of being studious, but I also needed to practice some wedding hair tactics and have aid in eating the rest of my cake.

Therefore, she lifted me from the house and we went off in the rain for a cinema night. After the movie, we sat in her car for an hour or so just talking until the windows were fogged from our warm conversation meeting with the cool rain outside.

Back at home, we popped in another movie but didn't watch it. It just gave us some background noise while I worked some magic on her hair. Don't believe me?

WEDNESDAY:
I may or may not have mentioned this before, but the salsa portions in this country are nothing short of pathetic. Just pathetic. One jar is the equivalent to half a serving size in The States. Where I come from, we buy our salsa by the jug.

Naomi feels similarly. She grew up in Ecuador and her family is now in Spain, so salsa is something she knows and loves as well.

Therefore, Craig fetched me Wednesday over to Naomi's house, and we (Naomi) made homemade salsa and watched  Modern Family. Very chill evening, but we were all pretty exhausted. And, the wee gem, sent me home with some. I was a happy girl.

THURSDAY:
Thursday brought me Americans.

FRIDAY:
More Americans arrived, so I spent a good portion of my day chatting with them and making sure they were settled and comfortable.
Then, that night, I went out on the town with my girlies.

However, the Giro d'Italia was on (international bike race being held in NI this year), so Lynsey, Lauren, and I were trapped on the wrong side of the road from Kiera and our pub.

Eventually, we made it over and ate some lovely food before heading over to a pub for drinks and dancing.

I did leave early, unfortunately, but only because the buses were wacked out from the race, and I was nervous to get home. Not about to make that 6 mile night walk alone again. Made some lovely bus stop friends, though, as all bus stop friends are good friends.

SATURDAY:
I didn't originally have Saturday plans, but I wanted them.
So, on a whim, I texted my friend Amy to drop everything and bond with me.

She did.

Came over with pints of ice cream and we chatted over boys and Jesus for about five hours in the library, stopping only when we realized that it was nearly 3am.

I left that conversation liking Jesus a whole lot.
That sounds a bit daft, of course I love Jesus. But liking and loving aren't the same.

I was reminded just how great I think he is. I enjoy knowing him and being around him.

I was nudged into that sentiment by the way God demonstrated, by way of my conversation with Amy, the way that he makes pain practical.

Our experiences, while personally and intrinsically good, are not meant to affect us alone. No, all the rocks which smash into our souls create ripples and waves that effect all those around us, even when we don't realize it.

And the crazy times, the beautiful times, are when you're having a conversation with someone and can see an edge of the bigger picture, how your story and their stories intertwine with one another and speak into one another.

And when we are bold, when we are willing, we get the chance to actively participate in sharing with another what you see, where you've been, and what the Lord has done.

and Eamonn wears a blackbird pin

Class today in comparison to class last week could not have been more different. I inadvertently skipped another class (They changed the time. Didn’t know. Should have). However, the class I did attend was really fascinating.

First of all, I did not start spurting tears at random moments throughout the two hours of course discussion. Second, I actually understood the entirety of the discussion. That has never before happened in a class period with Eamonn.

Our discussion today focussed on family structure, construction of identity, genre debate, and mental health. Not only are those my favourite topics to discuss, they also helped me to construct a paper topic, outline it, and jot down the resources I would need to uphold it for my final paper. I’m pretty excited about it. I built a similar argument in a previous class at JBU, so I have a semi-foundation for discussion.

Using the background of Seamus Deane’s “autobiography” Reading in the Dark and the subtexts of Earnest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast and Henry James’ novella “The Turn of the Screw”, I’m going to prove that Deane’s book is, in fact, not an autobiography but a novel. And, more than that, a gothic novel.

I’m pretty excited.

To now turn to a different book, I’d like to discuss the concept of “common grace”, as defined by Rick Ostrander in Why College Matters to God. Since obviously I don’t have my copy on me here in NornIron, I’ll sum up for you. Common grace is the idea that regardless of something’s goal of being Christian or NonChristian, anything can reveal and draw us closer to the character of God.

I am rather certain that neither my classmate Paddy nor my processor Eamonn is a Christian. Just drawn by class discussion, which often focuses on religion due to the structure of this nation.

However, I was struck, both last Monday and today at the way my professor and my classmate were genuinely concerned for my well-being. Not that non-christians are in any way unfeeling or not able to understand things, I guess I’ve just never had a whole lot of interactions with non-christians.

A Christian would have tried to spiritualize my being upset or tell me that they were praying for me. The two of them, instead, expressed…I don’t know. It was like they felt hurt with me, and they didn’t even know what was wrong. I don’t think I even knew fully what was wrong. They made me feel joined. And both afterward expressed so verbally.

It didn’t end there, though. Today, in continuation from last week, they individually followed up with me and reiterated the fact that academia doesn’t stop short of relations, that they really did want to stand beside me in whatever way I needed them to. I don’t know. It sounds kind of dumb saying it now, I was just taken off-guard by it, I suppose.

Eamonn wears a blackbird pin, representative of Seamus Heaney and representative of Ireland. Literature and stories are his life. I caught myself staring at that pin throughout class and thinking of what it meant in the context of the whole.

I’ve spoken before of Ireland’s struggle for identity and struggle for a voice and struggle to live their own story. Who are they? British? Irish? Northern Irish? And yet, they are all at the same time. All our stories and identities are interlinked.

And we all seek to live a good story.

Donald Miller speaks a lot about living good stories with our lives in A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. If you don’t like the story your life is telling, change it.

However, our stories are not our own. Like I said, we are all interlinked, Christian and nonChristian alike. Eamonn and Paddy expressing genuine interest into my life was them choosing to play a role in my story past their assigned roles as professor and peer.

That’s why it was meaningful to me.

Anyone can play the assigned role. Requirement says very little. Taking up space out of compulsion is empty of character. It takes boldness and compassion to choose engagement and role-redefinition, going outside the expected to further the greater story at hand. Christian or nonChristian, that speaks volumes of the Lord's grace through them.

"The One"

The one who sits and draws anime by herself during lunch period.

The one reading a book in the corner of the classroom and doesn't look up.

The one who walks around the playground singing to herself because people won't play with her.

The one who silently prays that somebody, anybody will ask her to (the) dance.

The one who waits and waits and waits for his name to be called for a dodgeball team.

The one who shouts out smart-alec, mean jokes all during class so people will laugh with him.

The one with the disability who doesn't know people are laughing at him, so he laughs, too.

At one point or another, we've all been "the one." For some people, they've always been the one. Others make a career out of it, allowing it to define them instead of spur them to grow out of it. Others take "growing out of it" way too far and become obsessed with "never feeling that way again."  They become the smartest, the most professional, the most driven. No one and nothing will stand in their way of success.

The sad and ironic thing about those people, though, is that often they become so focussed on never being the one anymore that they buldoze over, belittle, and berate all those under and beside them, creating a hostile environment, creating "ones."

On the other hand, I've known some ones who choose to grow up and grow out. No matter how much they dislike someone, if that person is numero uno on everybody's hate list, continued hatred becomes impossible. Even if that person has previously singled you out for derision, it doesn't matter anymore. Because you know what it 's like to feel the weight of everything and everyone against you, and nobody should have to feel that way. Everybody needs somebody on their team.

Those are some pretty haphazard thoughts, but they've been kind of the theme of my week, thinking about them. No one is what they seem to be, and it isn't fair for me to pass judgement, and it's not okay for me to ever make them feel as though they are unwanted or unloved. I don't know what's really going on in their lives or why they behave the way they do. And it isn't my job to know. It's my job to love them, no matter how hard that can be sometimes.

Chips, Chinese, and Church People

After much deliberation and much persuasion by my church (which I do consider my home church here), I attended The Newcomers' Dinner.

By an equal amount of persuasion, I got the two cooks to join me, and together we ventured through city centre to locate Storehouse, the venue for the evening.

Allow me to say, attending tonight may be the most positive choice I've made since showing up here in Belfast. You're thrown in a smaller room, given food (yummy Chinese food and, naturally, chips (french fries)), and sitting among a bunch of other people who are just like you: newcomers to the church in search of friendship and community and Jesus.

While there, the head pastor's wife, Harmony, and I chatted for a long while. Not only was she kind (a very admirable quality but a wee stifling if not attended with a dose of sass), she was fun. She is the kind of lady that genuinely comes off as wanting to take care of and get to know you. In the first few questions, she asked me why I was here, how long I was staying, and if I'm headed home for Christmas. Queen's, a year, and no.

Immediately, and without any sort of entreaty on my side, she responded to my no with, "You'll not be alone on Christmas, don't you worry. We'll all take care of you. If not with us, someone in the church will want you with them." Even if I make school friends or Belfast friends who adopt me for the holidays, the gesture was enough to make me want to cry.

The rest of the evening, we listened to Harmony and Andy share the vision of the church and a bit of their own spiritual journeys. The most memorable bit to me was that they explained how very non-competitive Vineyard Church is. "We're not the only church in Belfast. Vineyard may not be for you. If it's not, let us help you find a church body." I think that's beautiful. There's no begrudging of "sheep stealing," it's a recognition that everyone's spiritual life and church background is different and that's okay.

Finally, I made friends. Like, friends I could actually see myself hanging out with in real life. In fact, I decided to join a community group that meets on Mondays in lieu of taking a french class. And, I made arrangements with a couple of the girls to carpool there.

This feels right and good. Engaging--not just observing--the body of Christ tonight gave me energy and filled me up. It's very easy for me here, with my slobbery amount of time and lack of real relationships, to start feeding myself negative self-narratives, and those are straight up from the devil. Digging in is awkward and uncomfortable and totally outside my comfort zone, but I think that's kind of how I know it's the right thing to do. Step one in the right direction.

If You Give A Girl A Castle...

Continuing my series of saying yes to things, I said yes to a Saturday outing. Actually, I said no to the Saturday outing then changed my mind when one of the little cooks here said she would go if I would go. Sometimes all it takes to be brave is to know that someone is on your team.

*Saying "team" makes me miss my daddy. Growing up, my mom used to always say that my dad and I were in a club together. Mostly the club tag-team teases my mother and high-fives, but lemme tell ya. It's a good club. I found out years later that this club was really a way for my mom to bond me to my dad. It worked. Once a part of the club, always part of the club.

Anyway, the group of 14 headed  into the country (truly only 8 or so miles away, but the road and city set-up makes it seem like it's an impossible distance). Where we landed was a place called Hillsborough.

While there, we went on a tour of Hillsborough House (aka Hillsborough Castle). And no, it's not because it's in the hills that it's called so, but because the family of long-time ownership had the last name Hill. Tis true. Heard it from the tour guide herself! This is the place that the Queen visits or any other important person. 

This, my friends, is the castle (even though the church in the picture above looks more like my childhood fantasies). 

After tramping around the castle and its surrounding gardens, 

we went to a nearby fort (large grassy area with a wall around it) and its nearby lake: 

And, if you give a girl a castle, she's gonna want a waffle to go along with it. You know what I mean? 

Listen about this waffle. First of all, it's from a place entitled: Humble Pie, so obviously it gets points from location alone. 

Bottom to top: To waffle, add honeycomb (actual honeycomb) and vanilla ice cream, freshly whipped cream, toffee and chocolate chips and marshmallows, butterscotch syrup. 

What. 

Heaven is what. 

Heaven in my and Lauren's (you didn't think I ate all that by myself, did you?!) mouths. 

Came home from my waffle and castle ventures to a snuggly room and a skype date. A very long, very needed, very wonderful skype date. And, finally, sleep. The first time I've slept easily since my arrival. The perfect ending to an unexpectedly lovely day. 

Is that bad...?

My new boss' name is Troy.

Daddy calls him Troy-boy, and that's actually pretty accurate. Troy's mind is wicked sharp for figuring out the way things work and how to handle people, but he is absolutely a kid.

Yesterday, he described himself to me as a shotgun. Shotguns mean shrapnel, a hundred pieces flying in different directions. You should see his office if you don't believe me.

Well, yesterday I put him on a sticker chart. Yes, I put the co-founder of "the company" on the sticker chart challenge. He "pfft'ed" at me when I told him I was going to, but let me tell you what, he  loves it. I started him out on 7 different categories (one of which being "throw away mountain dew bottle"), and before the end of the day, he asked me for more.

People just don't appreciate the subtle beauty of a sticker chart. In "The Leadership Challenge," one of the foundations of leadership is "encourage the heart."

This can be done in a lot of different ways, but one of them is public acknowledgement of right-doing. That's why kids love to see their assignments and art projects up on the fridge or students love when professors use their paper as an example of "great!" or businesspeople love positive customer reviews.

These things are all free! They don't "technically" get you anywhere! But they say to the heart "You can do this! You're doing great! You have something important and special to offer!"

And that's how we get to sticker charts for ADD business owners. Validation for small steps accomplished. Don't knock it till you rock it.

What I Know.

The first thing many writing teachers will tell aspiring (or not aspiring) writing students is to write about what they know. This has meant different things to me at different times. If I would have been asked to do so (and I was) last summer or any of the summers before, I would have written about lifeguarding.
or being a student.
or a publishing intern.
or an aunt.
or a daughter.
or sister.
or dog-mom.
Currently, though, "what I know" is mexican food and being human.

I waitress at an extremely popular mexican restaurant in the town I grew up in. As an introvert, I was actually more anxious at the idea of working this job than I am about moving countries in September. However, by the Grace of God and the need of money, I have overcome that for the most part.

The best part of waitressing is that there are no wholly bad days. There are bad tables and bad interactions, but one good tip or one kind family can honestly make everything better. I have had every extreme of people from black to white to indian to christian to very nonchristian to creepy old men to darling old ladies and couples.

This serves as my preface, and it comes with no sour cream or guacamole on the side, unless, of course, you'd like to add some for an upcharge of 2.29.