Dear Seamus, thank you.

Within the first few weeks I lived in Belfast, I visited the Linen Hall Library, which is beautiful and old and makes you feel that creativity lives all around you and literature is alive and breathing and you, too, are alive and breathing and creative. Seamus Heaney had died not a month before and upstairs, at the top of the flight, was a memorial book. I felt the weight of the moment—of course I want to write in a memorial book for any writer I had ever heard of in the upper hall of a library I was enthralled with. I knew of Seamus from his translation of Beowulf, a book I hated in a class I found no purpose in during undergraduate school. I can’t remember what I wrote—I’m sure it was neither impressive nor meaningful. I didn’t know him.

I know him now.

Each time I teach English II, I teach through his entire Field Work collection with my students. We start small with “Oysters”, and by the time we reach “Ugolino”, my students are fiery and on my level in terms of general obsession for the Northern Irish Troubles and for Seamus Heaney’s heartthrob for his people, for reconciliation, and for the willingness of the divisive groups to listen to one another—if only they would listen to one another.

They move from essential non-knowingness (like I did) to being able to describe the man by his themes, his loves, and his heart. They begin to understand his poetry (very hard for people in general) because they can hear his voice and feel the pull of his motivations.

This is when my class starts to shift. We get political. We get real. We talk through the difficulty of listening, of sorting through the hard stuff when divisiveness and fake news surround us. We talk about how bad people can be good, how good people can be bad, and how God is there, swimming around in all of the midst of it, even when we might not even mean to invoke him.

Seamus Heaney loved his wife and he loved his country. He speaks of wounds from their Troubles as though they were imminent and eternal and yet, he spoke through his pain with hope. Together, we feel the pulse of humanity and take that energy into our next two series before the semester’s end.

Were he alive, were I able to meet him, to thank him, I am not certain I could do so without a gush of hot tears, thankful for someone who could create such beauty and such vulnerability and such accessibility and help snotty teenagers learn to open their hearts and their ears to love and care and feel compassion for a situation they could care nothing for beforehand, since they had no heart in the game.

You made them care. You draw us, one another, in and help us to hear in a way we couldn’t before.

Dear Seamus, you planted goodness and hope where we could only see blood, see walls, see bombs. You helped us dream toward a better tomorrow, of white-washed rooms with elbow room, of the smell of saltwater inthe air, and of young women with baskets of green cabbage, new potatoes, andfresh carrots with mould still on the tops of them.

Into the Fold

I cried at work today.

We were doing our morning devotions, and today, we decided to do a devotional thought over "O Come O Come Emmanuel", which happens to be my favorite Christmas song.

It also happens to correlate with my favorite Bible verse, which had been weighing on me heavily for the past week or so. This is what I shared and what brought me to big tears of remembrance and of thankfulness and humility.

It re-appeared in my heart last Thursday. I was sitting there beside my boyfriend, our mothers, and our fathers, in the Candlelight service at my university.

As I sat there, I marveled at how far removed and redeemed both our families (and us) had been in the past two years. In the past two years, both our parents had been at places where they thought they had lost their children to darkness forever.

We had thought the same about ourselves.

And in the past two years, we have been restored to joy, to God, and to our families. Granted, more work is yet to be done, but God is so good.

My heart felt full to burst, and the words of Psalm 126 pushed their way into my thoughts:

When the people returned to Jerusalem from captivity in Babylon, they became as those who dreamed. Their hearts were filled with laughter; their tongues with shouts of praise. The people of Earth said to them, "The Lord has done great things for you." Indeed, the Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.

That's the verse I shared this morning after we sang.

I reflected on my own "return from Babylon" two years ago tomorrow.

I was broken. I was ugly. I was beyond all reckoning.

And my parents opened their arms up and loved me. My aunt, my uncle, my cousin, my grandmother. They loved me and took me as I was: broken. ugly. lost.

And yet, and yet!! the Lord has done great things for me. 
Though Decembers cause me to get way too deep in my head and heart and ache with the past woundedness, I know too of the deep joy of restoration to hope and light and life.

The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.

Prozac Nation: A Confession of Allegiance

Today, I am starting anti-depressants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess I'll find out.

Get Squeamish: Blood and Guts

I'll bet the majority of women spend their periods wondering how it is that women, for centuries, have been able to survive such a substantial amount of blood loss each month.

I was thinking about periods today as I was reading about the woman who bled, who reached out to touch Jesus, and who was healed in her faith.

Bringing up "that time of the month" can be really uncomfortable. Even my sweet daddy, who has been married for a bazillion years to my mom, gets stuttery when he tries to be polite and ask me if I need to pick up any "personal things" at Target when I come home to the "big city" and get stocked up on life supplies (small town struggles).  

I'm sure I lost many readers in the opening sentence even by mentioning that taboo subject (Is she really writing about THAT?).

The Bible sure doesn't shy away, though. It brings up Aunt Flo several times throughout its 66 books. That brings us to the gospels, Luke 8, and the woman who bled. 

This lady had a straight up 12 year period. 

What a miserable existence.

And often, I'll bet, that's where our thinking about her ends, with her blood and with her faith.

God never just stops at the physical though.

You ever pause to think about what her plague entailed?

Women in those days were considered unclean during their periods, banned from the intimacy of relationships. Periods are good, though. They represent a woman's capacity of inhabiting life, even if they didn't take that month's egg up on the option to. 

For our Luke Lady, though, it was a 12 year symbol of death, separation, and shame.

Can you imagine that?

We have nightmares of being turned down for a date, of standing naked in front of the class, of being singled out for our big noses, but those are all pretty fleeting moments of shame.

Picture being known by your qualifier for more than a decade. For her, being known for being "unclean" for 12 years and what that must have done to her personal sense of identity.

Men are thinking, "I don't have a uterus. I can't get there to empathy." So picture just this much: No physical intimacy for 12 years. Nothing. 

It hurts to the bone to go 12 days, 12 weeks without so much as a hug, I would know.

How excruciating that must have been.

And yet. (With God there's always an "and yet") And yet, how beautiful, how wonderful, what an ecstatic sense of relief and glory it must have been to have had that bloody old self ended in one desperate touch. In one desperate move toward hope.

That is the promise of Christ.

That is what we live for: to know that no matter the degree of our unclean existence or removal from dignity, humanity, God is capable and willing to touch us, love us, bring us back to complete selfhood. 

This Could Be the Start of Something New

Everything and nothing is happening here in Belfast.

In terms of nothing, I can't exactly say that anything really that drastic has altered.

There's a new group staying in the house, yes, but other than that, it's the same city, my same church, and I'm in the same home. 

But, at the same time, everything has changed and, perhaps, that's because I have. 

I can't tell you how free I feel. 

Perhaps it's because some of my major relational ties I felt last semester have been cut and I now feel able to be fully present just where I am. 

However, it potentially is something else entirely, something much deeper. 

Finding Neverland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a few minutes, Inigo asks:

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

And they duel.


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


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

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

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

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

Highlights Reel

There needs to be some temperance here. I'm not all doom and gloom.

Lovely moments since I've been home (old pictures):

*the reunion between Jamie and Kraft Mac and Cheese (one of those odd cultural cravings)
*My best friend coming over the evening I got home. She was very kind about the fact that I was practically asleep in front of her.

*Coffee with my friend Anna. We have the most consistent friendship of all my acquaintances. Once a month, without fail, we spend time together.

*Drinks with Maddie Stewart. I don't know how to describe her. The perfect combination of sass, spiritual, and snuggles.

*Sleepover with Heather, Becca, and Allison.

*Getting to see the happy shock of several of my friends to see me in the country.
*meeting my nephew, Superfly. Or Sam. I prefer the former, though the latter is pretty good. :) Baby snuggles cannot be topped, really. And he makes the sweetest wee grunts when he's asleep. They're so contented.

*More bonding time. This time with my dear friend, Sadie. She's one of those friends with which humor and spirituality are always pretty tightly knit.

*lots and lots of this handsome guy.

*driving. There have only been two incidents of "what's this guy doing in my freakin'...NOT MY LANE! NOT MY LANE! NI's got me all mixed around.
*yesterday, I was shopping and got caught waiting in line between four sassy black ladies. We had a great talk. I've missed black people. There are three in Belfast. Really. Like there actually are just three.
*Today I went out with one of my mentors. She was my high school AP Biology and Anatomy/Physiology teacher turned friend/mentor. Giant. More giant than I am, bigger boned, louder, and always wears big ole heels (a trait I have recently embraced for myself). All that, and she can work a sex talk into any conversation topic. It's like a spiritual gift. She used to do it on purpose during class to watch me about crawl under my desk embarrassed.

*my ma drawing tattoos and facial hair on lingerie models in a magazine

I have no idea how or why this picture is snowing. That didn't happen, and I'm not smart enough with technology to make that. But the picture and the ice behind the fake snow is real! aha! "google + 'auto awesome'" did this. 

and this: 

This is so fun! 

And this is the United Airways Dublin way of saying, "You're about to be in the USA! Get pumped!"

 My beautiful Oklahoma.

Tulsa from the plane. :)

*and last but very much not least (and I'm sure I'm forgetting several), I finished two of my three papers. 

24 hours, 19 sources, and 6400 words.

One More Time With Feeling

I had a dream once. Not like Martin Luther King Junior. The real kind. The kind your sleeping self creates.

In this dream, there was a path. A silent man to my left, but to my right were two people standing with their backs to me talking a ways down the sloped road. But I walked past them, walking straight and toward a hill.

I walked with big strides up the pathway, hooking my feet into the creases in the cracked dirt and making good time.

The hill got steeper, though, and as I looked forward, I saw it wasn't a hill at all but a mountain. The nearly ninety degree up kind, and the air was thinning. I got slower. Still long strides, but with so much more effort and not enough oxygen to keep up even that pace.

The man wrapped his fingers into my rib cage. He was having no problem keeping a consistent pace and now steel-grip, half-dragged me up along with him. I could feel his fingers bruising into me.

Feet no longer catching hold but slipping. Air coming less. Rim of sight fuzzing, darkening. Dizzy. Still those fingers in my ribs pulling me up.

We came up and I saw the burning edges of the sunset over the crest of the mountain. And passed out.
_________________________________________________________________________________

There was one more chapter to my pain. I left Siloam perfect. My memories there, perfect. And they needed to be rewritten into reality.

I prayed extensively beforehand, knowing that I was to be watched and knowing I would face questions.

Lord, What do I say? How am I to be gracious? How am I to speak the truth? With what words do I fill my mouth?

Then came the moment when I fully grasped it: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, others will believe what they will believe. I cannot make for myself my reputation. It is the Lord who writes my name.

Therefore, whether it makes me look weak or undone, I will speak the truth. I will speak the truth with deep humility and without shame. "The Lord has dealt with me."

In Siloam, I learned of more betrayal, of secrecy, of broken, broken journeys, and of pain.

I was left with nothing but compassion and a deep ache, knowing of self-destructive bonds forged out of ignorance. You  know not what you are doing, but it is your journey. Not mine.

To my supervisors, professors, and friends, I told the truth of my current state and of my own journey. Never have I been not more open but more raw or present in my answers. Never have I been less lovely.

And yet, and yet, the Lord was seen. In the wreck that is my body and my life, the ones who know me spoke over me favor. I, who have sought my whole life for that favor and respect; I, who have twisted myself mangled to achieve honor; I, who have always fallen short of what I wanted, am only to receive it now, when I am the least deserving of the words I once fought so hard to win.

Then, I walked away and didn't look back. I did not get my closure. I did not seek my closure. I chose my closure. I chose to walk alone and allow The Lord to do his own work without me putsing about in somebody else's path.

Muted by pain and so present in my pain, but I am so thankful.

My future husband and children and friends will bless, bless, bless these past four months. I myself will bless these past four months.

I am changed, told I even look it.

My story is not my own. The Lord has closed my journal and opened a new book, writing my pathway with blood and tears and truth.

I am home, but I am not better yet, and that is difficult for me to accept. However, a whooped boxer doesn't spritz away dainty after his rounds. He is taken out of the ring, cradled away, and nursed back into battle mode.

I have been taken out of my ring. I have been cradled. And now, I just need time to heal.

At the end of the day: Jesus.

At the end of the day: soundness of mind, right alignment of body and spirit, grace, humility, forgiveness, love, compassion, shameless truth, and the deep recognition and value of friendship and of being human.

At the end of the day: hope.

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.

Totally Wilde

Finally, finally, FINALLY I get to write about my classes. Why on Earth did I wait so long? Because class here doesn't start until it's almost freakin' October! Okay, sorry. High school drama queen moment over.

Started the day off right with the "family meeting" (I assigned room checks for this week) and a staff meeting (the little cooks slept through it). Next, I scampered off with my screen shot google map to find Tomb Street. Yes, I informed everyone on my way out where I was headed because, well, I guess I don't have a good reason, I was just a little freaked out with the idea of looking for a warehouse on Tomb Street. 

On the walk there (a walk on which I did not get lost but did ask several very unhelpful people for directions. SO glad that for once I listened to my inner traffic director and not the general public), I ran into this lovely clock. 

Don't worry. Found Royal Mail and picked up my package without being kidnapped or mugged. Then to class! Yes of course I got lost. Just so you know, my 2 o clock was actually my 4 o clock and vice versa. The poetry master's program participants were very kind though...

Once I found the correct room--the office up five flights of stairs, even though it's technically the third floor of the third building, the one you can't actually get to from the third building--I started in on my first class of my master's program with Dr. Eamonn Hughes (resident fire warden, by the way. He has a neon slicker to prove it): Irish Writing from 1920-1960. We're calling it the middle child syndrome era of Irish literature because it's a bit forgotten. It's not so far away in history that it's interesting and it's not so close to now that it's modern. 

Through a series of questions, it became evident to my professor that I hadn't a spark of an idea about...anything. I'd read the introductory chapters he'd assigned, but I don't have a literature or a history degree, and I'm not Irish. Thus, class number one was spent on Irish history lessons from the 1900s on. Did you know that Ireland could be considered both a colony and also not a colony? It can. 

The view, one stair flight down from Dr. Hughes' office: 

Somebody get me a singing chimney sweep. 

My next class--down 5 flights of stairs, over three hallways, up one flight of stairs, around a bend, down a flight of stairs, take a left--is Wilde to Heaney. The first few sessions are taught by Dr. Sinead Sturgeon. She's the loveliest little creature. 

Today, she waltzed into class with a tray of wee, wee goblets, announced that we were to celebrate at 5 properly, but first, my presentation. I hadn't done any outside reading (note: do for next time) but I had read and taken notes extensively and felt really confident about my topic. I discussed Wilde in relation to social justice, religion vs. God, nature vs. nurture, tied them all together, and weaved them through a myriad of his short stories. It was actually really fun. 

17:10: actual event: Sinead: "What sets Wilde aside in this sphere is that his structure--Oh goodness, the sherry! It's time!!" Then out of her bag, she pulls out a bottle of sherry and serves us. We spent the next hour drinking sherry and debating Oscar Wilde. 

Four plus hours in class. You'd think I'd be ready to scream. I loved it. I think this is going to be really fun. 

The Wonderful Fun-derful No Bad Very Good Day

Today's self-motto was: Be courageous! Be bold! Be darling, be daring, make friends.

And, because it truly was a wonderful, fun-derful no bad very good day, I'm going to give you a wee play-by-play. No worries. It'll be sharp and,  hopefully, less than boring.

• I woke up in time for breakfast, ate chocolate o's, and did not kill any single one of the chirpy morning talkers. Really there was just one, but she's alive, folks! 
• Made it out to the bus stop at exactly the right time and got out at the correct bus stop. 
  
  (Who would have ever thought I would be the one at international orientation?)
• Met:
• Chelsea: Tulsan. (We're talking Oklahoman. What are the odds?!) Rides my bus, has lived here for 2 years due to her mom's job transfer, and is a first year. 
• Ryan: Texan. (I know. Weird. My first two meets are home turf). Here for a semester studying abroad for law. A third year student. Tall. Very. 
• Next came dumb American moment number 1: finding the correct line to stand in. In the end, I ended up in limbo and a very pretty, nice pregnant lady found my instruction letter for me. 
• [insert welcome intro here]
• Got shuffled to a new building for registration talk. Dumb American moment number 2: I was in the wrong building. Luckily, a very nice South Korean (of dentist studies) took the fall for the six or so of us who were in the wrong room and did not raise our hands when the room was asked, "Is there any of yoos who think you're gettin' a full degree here at Queen's? Well then, you're not in the right place." Had it not been for him, I would have stayed and been very attentive to things that absolutely did not pertain to me but that my pride wouldn't let me leave. :) 
• Lunch break. I went to a cafe called Sinnamon. THE RUMORS WERE TRUE: THEY HAD PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES THERE.
  
  Good. Moment. Had a lemon slice to attend my latte. It was like a dense, textured lemon pound cake with a thick layer of frost topped with I think coconut shavings. YUM. 
• Couldn't get the wifi to work, so I asked a guy with his phone out what magic he used to connect. Of course he was the owner...nice guy! And got on the internet. WOO
• Met: 
• An NI architect. Loves the rain, hates phone lingo. 
• Library tour. 
• THEY HAVE MAGICAL BOOKSHELVES. Bout 20 shelves all squished together, so you can't see the books at all. So, you press a button on either side of the open shelves and another button on the shelf you want open. Then PRESTO they slide closed and slide open. What. 
• My immediate first thoughts on bookshelves: 
1. Easy way to hide a body. (Okay Jamie. Maaaaybe you should ease up on the crime shows...)
2. Really cruel way to bully. (Hey kid, betcha can't fit in that empty shelf there! Bully closes shelf as soon as kid demonstrates ability)
3. The best hiding spot in hide and seek. (Would require partner. Preferably a new friend still trying to  make you like them and not a best friend. A best friend would close you in and leave you. I know. *Re: Broken-footed Hayhay deserted in a grocery cart in Walmart
• Met: 
• Joris. From Amsterdam, Holland. Originates from Volu, Holand. Studying Urban planning. Wears neon socks. I spent the most time with him based on his promise of knowing a street of bookshops. He did. :) 
• Again, reached the bus stop at exactly the right time and got off, for the first time, ladies and gents, at the correct bus stop! (and the crowd goes wild!) 

The end. Love Jamie. 

The Girlfriend Goodbye Post.

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

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

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

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

I also hate change. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manna Munchies and Jericho Crunchies

I'm a big Jill Briscoe fan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do we not do the same thing? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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