There's this thing that happens when you move to another culture. You have a really great day, everything flows, you accomplish much and feel like things are finally clicking. You've been waiting a long time for this clicking, this normalcy, and victory awaits you in the wings.
Read moreThings that happen when the dad is away
OK, so background: When I was a freshman in college, my mom and sis were away for a week. I was driving back to KC from school late at night when I started having car trouble. Thinking my sad car wouldn't make it to my dad's house, I stopped by my mom's to let the car rest a bit and gather some things.
At 1am, as I reached to open the back door, there was no handle to turn. The door had been kicked open by a size 9 boot, the house was ransacked, and the front door was swinging wide. Still swinging. As in, they just left, these mean robbers who stole our computer and tv and beautiful new CD player/radio my dad had just given me for graduation. Even the couch was upturned, kitchen drawers ripped out, our cat was missing, and the only thing left untouched was the baby grand piano. And that front door was still creaking in the wind.
Read moreFaith in the ink of rebellion
I had a boyfriend once, whose thick hoop earring and cross tattoo on his back made him quite the object of fascination among us youth group girls. When I finally got the chance to touch those dark lines, I asked him why he did it, the earring and the tattoo. I thought I knew; he was all hard edges and loud music. But he looked at me with such innocence, "I am a slave to Christ," he said, referencing the Old Testament binding of a slave to his master. The boy with the ring in his ear.
This was how I knew I loved him. Faith in the form of rebellion.
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Tossed about and wild
We've been to the edges of our little island. Such cold and windy days, we have to be careful from falling straight into the sea. On these daredevil patches of land and rock and sand, I try to open my eyes to it. The gusts, the force, the might. I stand on a field of baby white flowers, they barely notice it. It's all I can do to keep upright.
Even on our road on a mild spring day, the wind knocks us back on the balls of our feet. There's a breeze INSIDE my house, my friend says, and she speaks truth. Rattling our windows and moving our curtains. The wind here is wild. My hair here is wild.
Read morewordless wednesday {Dublin Edition}
