Sometimes, it is difficult for me to ascertain whether it's the Christian or the woman part of me that causes my ambition to be question and squelched.
Contentment with your position is valued above all. If you love God, then you should be content with where he has led you. If you are a woman, you should be thankful that you are being respected or paid well at all, especially since it might not be a long-term investment in you, being a baby-maker and all.
Sometimes, this is communicated overtly, sometimes covertly.
The contentment issue, though, is not. Be thankful, they say. Be thankful that you have a job and a good community.
However, what I am wondering is if ambition and thankfulness are maybe not mutually exclusive things. I am thankful for my job. I am thankful for my workmates and for the community of really wonderful people that I work for. I am thankful for the consistent grace and pay and 4 minute commute. I am thankful for the beautiful grounds that I can walk briefly every hour. I am thankful for the luscious autonomy I enjoy after being in my position going on 6 years. I am thankful.
Does that mean I am not allowed to want more? Where is the line between greed and drive?
I've been told that I shouldn't desire more rungs on the ladder.
I've been told I should be happy.
What if I could be happy going through several different doors instead of just the one hallway? What if there's another option for me that could potentially lead, not just to my happiness, but potentially to the happiness of another group? Shouldn't utilitarian principles outweigh?
I'm currently sorting through a very full plate of thoughts, and it feels confusing on a host of levels: loyalty, community, family, purpose, future-thinking, sentimentalism, ambition.
What if ambition were re-framed as "growth". Would it be ok then? Would it be kosher to express that, while thankful, you desire a bit of a change so that you can continue to grow and flourish? But what if that choice hurts your team? Or perhaps ambition, or even growth, is always a two-edged sword. No one grows without destroying at least a part of their past: a seed discards its shell as it sprouts. At the end, though, you get a zucchini. Unless, of course, a groundhog eats it.
Showing posts with label thankfulness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thankfulness. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, June 15, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
For A Moment Like This
Just got off the phone with a parent, with whom I got to share the news that her daughter was admitted.
Now, normally, I get a dull, "Oh cool....".
Sometimes, I get "AHHHHH!!! AWESOME!"
But other times, I get to make calls like this one.
When a student is not, for one reason or another, able to meet our admissions standards, but their heart is set on us (and, let's be real, we're usually pretty bonded and set on them, too), we put them to an admissions committee.
There is paperwork, references, and a formal proposition by their loving admissions counselor (*ahem*) to a committee.
And sometimes, we get a yes.
Then, after months of testing and re-testing, homework and extra credit and tutors, prayer, tears, and anxiety, I have the great honor and privilege of ending it with one phone call, one yes.
How many times have we all been given a no when we so desperately needed a yes? How many times were we not given grace? How many times were we failed to be believed in? How many times have we thought to ourselves, "If they would just give me a chance!"
Calls like these leave us both in tears of thankfulness, tears of relief, tears from all the nos past and all the hope that comes with the present yes.
Calls like these make everything worth it.
All the "image" alterations, all the Arkansas, all the residual culture shock and missing my friends and feeling like I don't quite fit. All of that becomes worth it, and I remember, once again, that it is by the grace of God that I was brought here.
He is good.
All the time.
Now, normally, I get a dull, "Oh cool....".
Sometimes, I get "AHHHHH!!! AWESOME!"
But other times, I get to make calls like this one.
When a student is not, for one reason or another, able to meet our admissions standards, but their heart is set on us (and, let's be real, we're usually pretty bonded and set on them, too), we put them to an admissions committee.
There is paperwork, references, and a formal proposition by their loving admissions counselor (*ahem*) to a committee.
And sometimes, we get a yes.
Then, after months of testing and re-testing, homework and extra credit and tutors, prayer, tears, and anxiety, I have the great honor and privilege of ending it with one phone call, one yes.
How many times have we all been given a no when we so desperately needed a yes? How many times were we not given grace? How many times were we failed to be believed in? How many times have we thought to ourselves, "If they would just give me a chance!"
Calls like these leave us both in tears of thankfulness, tears of relief, tears from all the nos past and all the hope that comes with the present yes.
Calls like these make everything worth it.
All the "image" alterations, all the Arkansas, all the residual culture shock and missing my friends and feeling like I don't quite fit. All of that becomes worth it, and I remember, once again, that it is by the grace of God that I was brought here.
He is good.
All the time.
Monday, February 24, 2014
It Matters or The Bigger Picture
I used to listen to a lot of Ginny Owens.
She's a blind pianist and pretty great, I think. Wonderful lyricist. Not like the wit and charm of Relient K (who literally has an appropriate song for every occasion) but wisdom and spiritual encouragement.
Over the break home, I played one of her songs on repeat called, "I am."
The chorus says, "There's a bigger picture you can't see. You don't have to change the world, just trust in me. "Cause I am your creator. I am working out my plan, and through you, I will show them I am."
I thought of this song when one of my professors from university asked me what the bigger picture here was. Did I see a purpose, a greater purpose in my emotional suffering of last semester?
I didn't know. I saw no purpose except for the death of me for the glory of God which, to be fair, ain't too shabby of a reason all in itself. But things are always greater than us. What is the purpose?
Bit by bit, I think I've started to understand. Not in whole, but in part.
Time after time, I have had the honor of hearing the stories of my own friends back home and students in this group. Time after time, my own story has aligned with theirs, except that they are in the midst of what I've finally been dragged out of by my ponytail and throat and learned from.
I have BEEN there. I am with you in this.
I don't have answers, but I have revelations that never would have occurred to me before and I can't help but pass on with gushy joy and vigor. And if nothing else, I can very simply just be someone who can reassuringly say, "Me too" and stand by them in joint understanding so they know their struggle is not theirs to carry alone.
Hours after one of those conversations, I'll have the evil passing thought of, "Was I just...wise?"
Then there is a moment of choice for me. Either, I say to myself, "DUH!" or "I have no wisdom."
Both are false. I think by experience, nonchristians as well as christians can gain wisdom. The first answer would be prideful and show me to be not wise at all. The second answer just isn't true. By the grace of God, I do have a slight degree of wisdom.
For me, I think the ones who are truly wise are the ones who don't even question it. Who don't care or even consider the question. They love God. They love God so much that he can't help but dominate conversations with his wisdom and grace through them.
My struggles matter. Even if my story only touches one other person in such a way as to cause them to think more critically about his or her life and somewhere, somehow down the line, they are drawn closer to God because of it, then it was all worth it. I don't even have to know.
That's the beautiful thing about being part of the bigger picture. The thin purple thread has no idea that it's a necessary twist to complete a sunset/robe/tulip in the tapestry. But it does. The only one who can truly see its purpose and place is the creator.
It matters what I say. It matters what I do. It matters how I respond to God and people. It matters how I love. It matters how I pray. It matters how I engage.
And how beautiful it is that I'm alive.
Not just resurrected but recreated.
Equipped and able to worship and praise and rejoice with a thankful heart in my and others' existences and place in one another's stories.
I'm not who I was.
She's a blind pianist and pretty great, I think. Wonderful lyricist. Not like the wit and charm of Relient K (who literally has an appropriate song for every occasion) but wisdom and spiritual encouragement.
Over the break home, I played one of her songs on repeat called, "I am."
The chorus says, "There's a bigger picture you can't see. You don't have to change the world, just trust in me. "Cause I am your creator. I am working out my plan, and through you, I will show them I am."
I thought of this song when one of my professors from university asked me what the bigger picture here was. Did I see a purpose, a greater purpose in my emotional suffering of last semester?
I didn't know. I saw no purpose except for the death of me for the glory of God which, to be fair, ain't too shabby of a reason all in itself. But things are always greater than us. What is the purpose?
Bit by bit, I think I've started to understand. Not in whole, but in part.
Time after time, I have had the honor of hearing the stories of my own friends back home and students in this group. Time after time, my own story has aligned with theirs, except that they are in the midst of what I've finally been dragged out of by my ponytail and throat and learned from.
I have BEEN there. I am with you in this.
I don't have answers, but I have revelations that never would have occurred to me before and I can't help but pass on with gushy joy and vigor. And if nothing else, I can very simply just be someone who can reassuringly say, "Me too" and stand by them in joint understanding so they know their struggle is not theirs to carry alone.
Hours after one of those conversations, I'll have the evil passing thought of, "Was I just...wise?"
Then there is a moment of choice for me. Either, I say to myself, "DUH!" or "I have no wisdom."
Both are false. I think by experience, nonchristians as well as christians can gain wisdom. The first answer would be prideful and show me to be not wise at all. The second answer just isn't true. By the grace of God, I do have a slight degree of wisdom.
For me, I think the ones who are truly wise are the ones who don't even question it. Who don't care or even consider the question. They love God. They love God so much that he can't help but dominate conversations with his wisdom and grace through them.
My struggles matter. Even if my story only touches one other person in such a way as to cause them to think more critically about his or her life and somewhere, somehow down the line, they are drawn closer to God because of it, then it was all worth it. I don't even have to know.
That's the beautiful thing about being part of the bigger picture. The thin purple thread has no idea that it's a necessary twist to complete a sunset/robe/tulip in the tapestry. But it does. The only one who can truly see its purpose and place is the creator.
It matters what I say. It matters what I do. It matters how I respond to God and people. It matters how I love. It matters how I pray. It matters how I engage.
And how beautiful it is that I'm alive.
Not just resurrected but recreated.
Equipped and able to worship and praise and rejoice with a thankful heart in my and others' existences and place in one another's stories.
I'm not who I was.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Home
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| *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.
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| *Causeway photo cred to Emily Orf |
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| *Dunluce photo cred to Eli Zuspan |
Monday, February 3, 2014
Reading in the Rain, Through the Fog
There are all sorts of rains here in NI.
There's the kind that falls even when the sun is shining like the liquid version of sifted powdered sugar: light and sweet.
Then there's "wet rain" (previously discussed, I think) in which you can't really hide from it no matter how big your umbrella is. It just kind of saturates the air; the tiniest water buds falling in such slow motion as to seem as though they're not moving at all.
Then there's the kind that actually smells of rain and comes down straight and hard like at home. I've only experienced it once here.
And then, of course, there's what's been coming down nonstop I hear for the past two months to today. Sideways, holding onto the sides of the wind, coming in just as hard and from what seems like every direction but up.
Tireless stuff. From inside, it's hard to tell if you're hearing the wind or the rain, the sounds have become so congruous. Either sound is nice, though.
Inside is me, snuggled into a pile of pillows, with my journal and laptop, an oscillating heater and an oscillating reading list: Oswald Chambers (I'm behind), The Elements of Philosophy (an old textbook I'm reading for fun), Dubliners (James Joyce. Again, for fun), Connecting (A reread by Larry Crabb).
Cozy, cozy.
2.5 hours until my first class of the semester starts.
Many would question the sanity of such thick reading before I get smacked with my semester heap's.
It makes sense to me, though (which I guess is all that matters).
You see, I really do love to read. That isn't a surprise to anyone, but what may be is that in the 42 days I was home, I only read one book. One. It was one I'd already read and YA at that.
I started 9.
Never seemed able to make it past the first page of any. My mind wouldn't do what I wanted. Didn't do any content developing either.
My mind, which I've always felt able to bend to my academic will, sat down and fell into an unwakeable sleep.
A bit before I left, I started writing copious letters to send out to my students of last semester, people I attended the OneThing conference with, and a few other JBUers I appreciated.
I planned those letters a month before I actually wrote them. It took me that long to make myself do it.
Those two ideas are connected. I started to judge myself and get frustrated, knowing the degree to which I am capable of accomplishing such feats as note writing and book reading.
The thing was, though, I was also coping with an extended period of depression. My mind literally wasn't functioning as I had become accustomed to.
I had to change my outlook on myself, start lowering my expectations and raise my commitment, as Pastor Tom Harrison would say.
Grace, with myself.
One day, I may read three pages. But that was more than the day before!!! So I celebrate. Or I wrote five notes in a row! So great! Well done! That was more than the zero of yesterday!
As I explained this process to someone, they asked me the very valid question: "How do you avoid becoming complacent or underachieving?"
My answer was "Thankfulness." I see where I want to be. I'm not "content," necessarily, with where I am, but I recognize that I am, in fact, here. Therefore, I have to celebrate every step that I take toward becoming who I want to be.
If I don't achieve as highly today as I did yesterday, very well. I am thankful for what I did happen to accomplish today (comparison is the thief of joy. Let yesterday's victories be yesterday) and hope for at least as wonderful, if not more so, tomorrow, with the knowledge that if I "fail" tomorrow, I am not a failure and it is not a signal for perpetual failure in the days to come.
My current reading is varied so as to allow me to trick myself. I can only get through 10 pages of Dubliners? Awesome. I can do that and maybe half a chapter of Crabb and one wee article of philosophy.
By the end, I've accomplished much more than I would have out of just one subject and my mind has gained a little more grid in its goo.
I needed to practice before put back in the big leagues of grad school, and what better weather to practice in than the glowey green raininess of Ireland?
Monday, December 16, 2013
Hold Up, Wait a Minute; Put a Little Love in It
Missed last evening's post because I was pleasantly detailed by excellent banter. I'm sure you understand.
I knew I liked rugby...
Meet Eamonn!
Paddy. (Eyes match that shirt)
Amy and Johanna.
Tonight was the last lifegroup of the semester. I've never actually enjoyed small groups of any kind, but I can't imagine my life here without my NewComers' LifeGroup. It's the highlight of my every week.
Tonight, as our wee ice breaker, we were asked to reintroduce ourselves (everyone chimes your name back like an AA meeting) and tell about our most favorite anticipated Christmas gift.
Then it was my turn. My answer was home. I have spent the past three and a half months answering the question: "Are you going home for Christmas or what are you doing?" with an out of nowhere choked throat. My family drives me up the attic insane. But they're my family. And I've never wanted them more. This Christmas, I get the gift of going home and into the arms of people that truly and unconditionally love me.
Well, I see fit to fill you in on the true highlights of the past three days.
Friday and Saturday, I reached the end. Not like I was on suicide watch or anything (I hope), and I'm not entirely certain what I even mean consequence wise. The best way I can explain is there wasn't a single area of figurative skin left that wasn't bruised to the bone.
And then, things changed.
My first stop was the French Village where my friend Lynsey works.
Lucky for me, the place was about empty. She took one look at me, assessed my emotional state, hugged me, and gave me a cupcake. And I said my friends here don't get me...
Next stop was home. Elaine had some missionary friends over. I had been pretty heavily rained on, so I ignored them to go dry off when I got home, but when I came out, it was to the most delightful family. They were so bubbly and welcoming and warm and just easy to be around. I weirdly felt as though I were the guest. [Elaine I think had forewarned them about me...Don't you love when you're the worrisome child?]
While I was hiding in my room, I was looking at flight changes. Not encouraging. The prices for every single way out of here were unbelievably high. Then, I clicked on Tuesday. Tuesday, my friends, was fractional. Miracle miracle miracle and mercy.
Cue explosive weeping.
Then I went out and, like I said, bonded with the family. That, and danced about like a freaking fool. I don't think I've ever felt such a pure form of gratefulness and joy.
While Sunday afternoon Christmas shopping:
Sunday night was "Carols and Candles."
I was late. Very. ha. It was dark and cold and wet outside, and I wasn't doing so well on the self-persuasion that being on time was all that important. Besides, I was sitting next to a heater and enjoying a conversation and contextual beverage.
Received call:
"Ruth? Where are you?"
"...home...I'm leaving now, though!"
"No you aren't. Stay. I'll be there in two."
Two minute later, a car containing Lauren, Lynsey, Lauren's Mark, and Kiera as driver. Thought for a moment they'd been on their way into town. Nope! They just all wanted to come along to fetch me.
Candles and carols was lovely. Candlelit (duh...) with mulled juice and whole families and hymns and stories of struggle and grace. Jesus is very present in Belfast City Vineyard, let me tell you.
Had to leave a bit early to make sure I was actually at my home when Naomi showed up, so I scampered out, only to receive a text within moments from Megan (last week's friend from after lifegroup) asking if I were okay. I hadn't even seen her at the service. Little things, my friends.
Ran into the driveway as Naomi and Craig (the boyfriend? or boy friend?) pulled in.
Despicable Me 2 was in store for us at her home, surrounded by her housemates Josh and Allen. I don't know if it was because I was seeing the world with rosy glasses or so encouraged by my unexpected liberty that I was silly and myself. Also, that movie is hilarious.
Today was class: I finally figured out how to work the wifi network of Queen's (4 months later...), so I spent it phone out and taking creeper shots of my classmates to keep me awake. I've been time-zoning myself, so the sleep thing has been very off.
Meet Eamonn! 
Paddy. (Eyes match that shirt)
Philip, Amy, and Emma. They did a really nice job of making this picture look staged.
Tonight was the last lifegroup of the semester. I've never actually enjoyed small groups of any kind, but I can't imagine my life here without my NewComers' LifeGroup. It's the highlight of my every week.
Tonight, as our wee ice breaker, we were asked to reintroduce ourselves (everyone chimes your name back like an AA meeting) and tell about our most favorite anticipated Christmas gift.
Then it was my turn. My answer was home. I have spent the past three and a half months answering the question: "Are you going home for Christmas or what are you doing?" with an out of nowhere choked throat. My family drives me up the attic insane. But they're my family. And I've never wanted them more. This Christmas, I get the gift of going home and into the arms of people that truly and unconditionally love me.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Stop. Collaborate and Listen.
It's that special time of year! No, not Christmas. THANKSGIVING!
My all-time favorite holiday. It used to be a close runner-up to Christmas Eve, but since we've grown out of our old Christmas traditions, Thanksgiving has taken its rightful place at the top.
Every year growing up, Chon and I would watch the Macy's parade for hours, then he would...well...I don't actually know where he would go, but I would get changed (usually more than once. Jansie usually called my first attempts "homeless") and ready for the day and help the women in the kitchen.
Mashed potatoes are only right one way. Once they are in mountain form, a spoon forms a crater, a slice of butter goes in, and a dash of paprika sprinkles across the top.
My food roles are cranberry sauce and stuffing. My stuffing recipe is absolutely incredible. The cranberries, though, I never get exactly right. It's a delicate art, cranberry sauce.
When she's there, Krissy joins me in our joint role of table setting. We are in charge of putting ice in the cups. That's it. It's a lonely job without her. There's nobody to hide escaped ice cubes under various table toppers with. Or roll eyes when my mother or aunt cracks a joke about finally letting us in on the family secret recipe for ice cubes. (One day, we'll get that recipe...:))
From there, it's just a mess of singing, people, food, getting trapped at the table (literally), games, pie, mass naps, food, rifling through the black friday ads, and maybe a drive down to Utica Square for Lights On.
The very best part of this tradition is the way my family collects people.
I don't remember a single Thanksgiving where I was related (or knew) everyone at my table. Friends, family, friends of family, teachers of family, random college students with nowhere to go, random church members with nowhere to go, etc. And for that one day, they are my family.
Today, we had Thanksgiving Irish Style with a few splashes of home.
The Macy's Day Parade was on all afternoon, the food was everywhere, and gathered around the table were friends, family, and a stranger. The students, who have become my friends and family; Hadden and Betty, who are a very sweet and sparky older couple who look after us and are also like our family; and Naomi, who is a friend to me and a stranger to them.
And the very best thing happened. All this was good and well, but I received two phone calls that made my day. Two of my brothers FaceTimed me. I don't know. It seems like a silly thing to care so much about, but being remembered is a big deal to me. I met my nephew Superfly for the first time (met is a liberal word for staring at a phone pointed at a sleeping baby) and got air kisses from two of my nieces. Here's a silly, unclear screen shot of my oldest brother and his family.
Jansie, too, has sent me various pictures from the day's festivities. It's a quiet year for the Odom's. The siblings are due for their Thanksgiving with our family next year, so this year was just my ma and daddy, my aunt and uncle, and my sweet grandmother.
Check out my mother's impressive edible arrangement (she really has quite a gift. At my graduation, she made my face, nosering and all).
What am I thankful for?
1. My full handful of nieces and nephews. They completely changed my family and my life. They're so itty bitty, but they've made such a dynamic impact. One they won't ever completely understand. I love them with my whole heart. And while I'm at it, I'm thankful for the technology that allows me to be a part of their lives even while I'm so far away.
2. My family. My brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. I'm sure everyone has a wonderful family, but mine...man. Lord has blessed us.
3. I am thankful for a God who forges unlikely relationships between unlikely people and gives us the grace to break and grow with one another as we pass in and out of seasons in our lives. Freak accident friendships. The three I have in mind are with Haley, Caity, and Kira.
I know the top one's blurry, but it captures us perfectly. Always in motion. Always laughing. Always doing something ridiculous and silly and fun. Just fun. And yet, they are the first people I go to when I need to talk through matters of the soul. These pictures in particular are taken in Haley Nelle's room by her boyfriend who met all of us simultaneously. That's how we like to do things. He survived the vetting. We kept him. He's a good one, David is.
4. I'm thankful for my amazing college friends, professors, and mentors who continue to impact my life. Rabbi, Tracy, Abby, Becca, Peter, Adam, Maddie, Anna, Carli. I'm sure there are others.
5. I'm thankful for change. Like the change of me living here, the changes of family additions and marriages of my best friends, the changes God is making in my own life.
There is no need to make a specific number for God. The rest of the list simply doesn't exist without him.
To close this incredibly long post, I leave you with the song we sing around our Thanksgiving table (hands held so nobody sneaks food. Grandma...):
Father, we thank thee. Father we thank thee. Father in Heaven, we thank thee
*Cue male family members attempts at prayer and successes at tears.*
My all-time favorite holiday. It used to be a close runner-up to Christmas Eve, but since we've grown out of our old Christmas traditions, Thanksgiving has taken its rightful place at the top.
Every year growing up, Chon and I would watch the Macy's parade for hours, then he would...well...I don't actually know where he would go, but I would get changed (usually more than once. Jansie usually called my first attempts "homeless") and ready for the day and help the women in the kitchen.
Mashed potatoes are only right one way. Once they are in mountain form, a spoon forms a crater, a slice of butter goes in, and a dash of paprika sprinkles across the top.
My food roles are cranberry sauce and stuffing. My stuffing recipe is absolutely incredible. The cranberries, though, I never get exactly right. It's a delicate art, cranberry sauce.
When she's there, Krissy joins me in our joint role of table setting. We are in charge of putting ice in the cups. That's it. It's a lonely job without her. There's nobody to hide escaped ice cubes under various table toppers with. Or roll eyes when my mother or aunt cracks a joke about finally letting us in on the family secret recipe for ice cubes. (One day, we'll get that recipe...:))
From there, it's just a mess of singing, people, food, getting trapped at the table (literally), games, pie, mass naps, food, rifling through the black friday ads, and maybe a drive down to Utica Square for Lights On.
The very best part of this tradition is the way my family collects people.
I don't remember a single Thanksgiving where I was related (or knew) everyone at my table. Friends, family, friends of family, teachers of family, random college students with nowhere to go, random church members with nowhere to go, etc. And for that one day, they are my family.
Today, we had Thanksgiving Irish Style with a few splashes of home.
The Macy's Day Parade was on all afternoon, the food was everywhere, and gathered around the table were friends, family, and a stranger. The students, who have become my friends and family; Hadden and Betty, who are a very sweet and sparky older couple who look after us and are also like our family; and Naomi, who is a friend to me and a stranger to them.
And the very best thing happened. All this was good and well, but I received two phone calls that made my day. Two of my brothers FaceTimed me. I don't know. It seems like a silly thing to care so much about, but being remembered is a big deal to me. I met my nephew Superfly for the first time (met is a liberal word for staring at a phone pointed at a sleeping baby) and got air kisses from two of my nieces. Here's a silly, unclear screen shot of my oldest brother and his family.
Jansie, too, has sent me various pictures from the day's festivities. It's a quiet year for the Odom's. The siblings are due for their Thanksgiving with our family next year, so this year was just my ma and daddy, my aunt and uncle, and my sweet grandmother.
Check out my mother's impressive edible arrangement (she really has quite a gift. At my graduation, she made my face, nosering and all).
What am I thankful for?
1. My full handful of nieces and nephews. They completely changed my family and my life. They're so itty bitty, but they've made such a dynamic impact. One they won't ever completely understand. I love them with my whole heart. And while I'm at it, I'm thankful for the technology that allows me to be a part of their lives even while I'm so far away.
2. My family. My brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. I'm sure everyone has a wonderful family, but mine...man. Lord has blessed us.
3. I am thankful for a God who forges unlikely relationships between unlikely people and gives us the grace to break and grow with one another as we pass in and out of seasons in our lives. Freak accident friendships. The three I have in mind are with Haley, Caity, and Kira.
I know the top one's blurry, but it captures us perfectly. Always in motion. Always laughing. Always doing something ridiculous and silly and fun. Just fun. And yet, they are the first people I go to when I need to talk through matters of the soul. These pictures in particular are taken in Haley Nelle's room by her boyfriend who met all of us simultaneously. That's how we like to do things. He survived the vetting. We kept him. He's a good one, David is. 5. I'm thankful for change. Like the change of me living here, the changes of family additions and marriages of my best friends, the changes God is making in my own life.
There is no need to make a specific number for God. The rest of the list simply doesn't exist without him.
To close this incredibly long post, I leave you with the song we sing around our Thanksgiving table (hands held so nobody sneaks food. Grandma...):
Father, we thank thee. Father we thank thee. Father in Heaven, we thank thee
*Cue male family members attempts at prayer and successes at tears.*
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Trailblazing or "What She Will"
I promised stories of folk museums and friendship.
Nahhhhh. The folk museum a walk-through of thatched roofs and green grass and my friend date was fun and involved shakes. mmm.
What you want to hear about is horseback riding through the Irish countryside. On Saturday morning, a group of the students and I (7 of us in total) set off via bus and bus transfer to the northern town of Armoy. Our destination was Shean's Horse Ranch.
Save Shawn, none of us had ridden a horse in around ten years. In addition, we had all ridden western style. I, not being a horse person, didn't realize that there were two styles of riding: western and English. I mean, I'd heard of English style, but in my mind that entailed side-saddle...
So there we were, on our enormous creatures, without a saddlehorn in sight. My horse's name was Flo. Flo was hands down the most ginormous of our entire group. She also had the personality to go with her size. If I were to think of her as a person, I would say that she was very much like my Grandma Daisy Marie. She won't necessarily tell you what she wants, but she sure ain't gonna take instruction contradictory to her own ideas. And if you catch her at it, she will feign innocence.
Flo stood dead still when I urged her to walk, trotted when I wanted to "woah", and turned in the opposite direction of the group when I tried to steer her. She also fancied a wee stop and snack every couple of minutes (also similar to my sweet grandma. haha).
In response, I figured I'd just let her do what she wanted. "Go with the Flo" if you will. And, excepting for the times when my instructor realized just exactly who was in control of our relationship and tried to put me back in charge, the plan worked. Flo and I made it safely from trail beginning to trail end, traversing creeks, crevices, and craggly paths alike.
Flo's ears and the trail ahead
On a separate and final note to this post, I have officially been here a month. Aller anfang is schwer: all beginnings are hard. I found that in Maria VonTrapp's autobiography, and I thought it fitting. Although the same is true in English, it feels fitting in German. Both are complicated and a bit ugly.
The beginning was hard. There's no getting around it. And, though I'm still in the beginning, it's changing. I'm making friends, I'm getting involved with my church, I'm in classes, I'm starting to breathe and relax, I'm becoming able--through the grace of God--to accept and even enjoy life here without my loved ones. Each day brings along with it a new set of different, but I'm becoming less afraid and less defeated by those changes. That only leaves room for thankfulness.
Nahhhhh. The folk museum a walk-through of thatched roofs and green grass and my friend date was fun and involved shakes. mmm.
From the left: Shelby (house cook 1), Lynsey, Abbi (house cook 2) and Lauren
What you want to hear about is horseback riding through the Irish countryside. On Saturday morning, a group of the students and I (7 of us in total) set off via bus and bus transfer to the northern town of Armoy. Our destination was Shean's Horse Ranch.
Save Shawn, none of us had ridden a horse in around ten years. In addition, we had all ridden western style. I, not being a horse person, didn't realize that there were two styles of riding: western and English. I mean, I'd heard of English style, but in my mind that entailed side-saddle...
So there we were, on our enormous creatures, without a saddlehorn in sight. My horse's name was Flo. Flo was hands down the most ginormous of our entire group. She also had the personality to go with her size. If I were to think of her as a person, I would say that she was very much like my Grandma Daisy Marie. She won't necessarily tell you what she wants, but she sure ain't gonna take instruction contradictory to her own ideas. And if you catch her at it, she will feign innocence.
Flo stood dead still when I urged her to walk, trotted when I wanted to "woah", and turned in the opposite direction of the group when I tried to steer her. She also fancied a wee stop and snack every couple of minutes (also similar to my sweet grandma. haha).
In response, I figured I'd just let her do what she wanted. "Go with the Flo" if you will. And, excepting for the times when my instructor realized just exactly who was in control of our relationship and tried to put me back in charge, the plan worked. Flo and I made it safely from trail beginning to trail end, traversing creeks, crevices, and craggly paths alike.
Flo's ears and the trail ahead
Flo and I along the path less green
The group
On a separate and final note to this post, I have officially been here a month. Aller anfang is schwer: all beginnings are hard. I found that in Maria VonTrapp's autobiography, and I thought it fitting. Although the same is true in English, it feels fitting in German. Both are complicated and a bit ugly.
The beginning was hard. There's no getting around it. And, though I'm still in the beginning, it's changing. I'm making friends, I'm getting involved with my church, I'm in classes, I'm starting to breathe and relax, I'm becoming able--through the grace of God--to accept and even enjoy life here without my loved ones. Each day brings along with it a new set of different, but I'm becoming less afraid and less defeated by those changes. That only leaves room for thankfulness.
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