Butterfly People

I never know what to think when artists come to visit. I get nervous because, in a sense, I wonder if this person is what I'm supposed to be, what I want to be. Today we had the best visitor and his name is Ross Wilson. He is this brilliant artist who sculpts and paints all for the sake of other people. He makes a point to never settle, to always be the very best he can, to not be afraid of failure or "no"s. It made me want to be good. I get intimidated so easily. I see people's photos they've taken, sketches they've drawn, bouquets they've assembled, or clothes they've made and I thrill and shrink all at once. Thrill because they made it and it's wonderful and beautiful and interesting; shrink because I'm afraid anything I shoot for will always turn out lumpy and useless.

My favorite piece he talked about was a mural entitled "The Man with the Butterfly Heart." The name alone is thrilling, isn't it? It is really and literally a man made of butterflys, all the way down to his heart. The caterpillar in us, the ugliness that is our heart and person by nature no longer has to be. The irreversable act of newness has made me a butterfly, made my heart a butterfly. Love that.

In all honesty, I could not tell you now what I will be when I grow up because I do not know. I may go to grad school when I get out for Art Curation or English. I may teach kindergarten and design a little until I save up enough for grad school. I may try to be a photgrapher and flower shop owner. I could live in any number of places and be none of the above. But I am a girl with a butterfly heart. I am made new, but He is by no means finished.

Praise Him.

Queen's

About a month has gone by and gone by fast. By this point I can understand (most) accents and when someone asks if I'm queing up, I can let them know if I'm in line or not. Not to mention the fact that a whole summer's worth of work is gone with no tan line whatsoever to show for it. So now it becomes more than a vacation. I'm studying and writing papers and learning what I can, especially from the culture around me. I want to soak it all up. I ride the bus and I get my groceries in the city (sometimes at a farmer's market). I know my favorite restaurants and where I'm going to go to get coffee, a milkshake, a crepe, or a scone.

Last night Jess and I went to the Queen's University Christian Union, which is basically the equivalent of Crew on our state campuses. I am just always taken aback when I remember this is not a different Jesus. These college kids in Belfast, N.I. are singing to the same Jesus I do when I'm at home, and I'm singing to the same Jesus now that my family and friends are singing to at home. It's at that moment that the world seems very large, and home with the people I know and love seems a million miles away. Yet, God is bigger than that distance. It gives new meaning to the words "He's got the whole world in His hand."

What are mere mortals that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
You made them a little lower than the angels;
you crowned them with glory and honor
and put everything under their feet. (Hebrews 2:7-8)

A miracle.

Classes have begun and I'm loking forward to hearing more from each of these men. In Evangelical Theology the other day Dr. McKeown was talking about miracles and he told a story. It is the largest thing I remember from that class period, although it was really only detour from the main point.
There once was an alcoholic who decided to follow Jesus. He meant this with all his heart and so broke his addiction and all other foul practice in pursuit of his newfound faith. One day he was with his old friends and they began to mock his decision. "You really believe that stuff? Even these miracles this Jesus man did? Tell us, have you seen any water turned to wine lately?" The man looked at his friends and replied quite firmly, "No, I have not seen Jesus turn water into wine. But I can tell you that at my house, Jesus has turned wine into furniture."
This is such a profound way to view miracles, those little things (and big ones) that I dismiss as good decisions or good luck or whatever. I do not give the Lord enough credit for his workings. Anything He produces in me or because of me is indeed a miracle.

First day of class requires a party.

This meant pizza in belfast for Jess and I... who knew Ireland could rival Italy? Go pizza express... whose name is the worst choice for the cutest little restaurant.

This country definitely knows food.

Roma and such

There is so much racing through my mind at the moment that I’m not quite sure how to convey it properly, let alone fully. I’ve been in Europe for ten days now and have been in three separate countries. It’s a lot to take in and process.

I know that I bleed red, white, and blue; that I stand behind the Declaration of Independence, our troops, and the Buffalo Bills. But we try so hard and to what end? In Rome they do not bring your check until you ask for it; Jess and I would sit at restaurants an hour after our plates had been taken up. In Rome they go to work late and they leave early, they drink, and are in full favor of PDA. And the streets are small, so are the cars, and the houses too.

To sum up: THEY ENJOY LIFE. And that may be wherein success lies. It is not in money or power or influence. It is much more about a richness and a success that is deeper than what you have. We, in America, I think can very quickly be overcome with a sense of entitlement that leaks out into the way we live, even down to the way that we eat. The U.S. is called the “land of opportunity” very often, but we miss the big ones sometimes. The family ones and the friendship ones and the desires we do not fulfill because of the lack of money or status and such. We settle for quantity over quality. Sure, it’s nice to know when the bus is coming, but then you wouldn’t have a bus driver that detours from his route to help you mend the mistake that got you lost. It begs the question, What is most important to me?

I wish I could say I slowed down and enjoyed on my own choice, that I did as the Romans did. I can assure that I did not, much to my own dismay. I do not speak Italian, wear heels on a daily basis, drive a motorbike, or have a thorough knowledge of the bus system. I also ate pizza and gelato for every meal, which I’m sure they do not do, any more than I eat McDonalds. Eventually I had to though, because although Rome was not built in a day, it’s possible to see most of it in that amount of time. Because of an airport strike we were stuck for 2 extra days. We had pretty much done all there was to do and so we sat and ate and enjoyed. We soaked up the time, sun, pizza, and all the beautiful and funny and unexpected moments that come with such a place. They were my favorite days I think.

We saw it all: The Trevi fountain (where we each threw in our coins and wished for love), the Pantheon, Vatican, Sistine Chapel, Colosseum, Roman Forum, and Campo de Fiori. The significance that went with such old places would be hard to surpass. You have to stop yourself and say, Paul was here and he wrote the letter Romans to the Christians that lived here.

The art is astounding. It made me want to try, to REALLY take time and make something beautiful. I mean, honestly, Michaelangelo spent 8 years on one ceiling. It was him who said that “Our greatest danger is not that we aim too high and fall short, but that we aim too low and achieve our mark.”

We’ll see how long blogging lasts, but for now there are a few thoughts.
p.s. couldn't get pictures up... facebook will be the place for that.

Not in Siloam anymore.

Ladies and Gents, I no longer live in America. It may be English, but when you have to say, “Excuse me? What?” four times (before you still don’t understand and just nod and smile anyway) the “same language” thing doesn’t count.
BUT I don’t care very much at all because I would rather speak Irish. In this Irish form of English people say cheers instead of thank you, trousers instead of pants, give way instead of yield, sit-in instead of for here, and a bus driver calls you My Love instead of ma’am.
It’s beautiful. It’s all just beautiful. And I can’t believe that I live here for the next 3 months. It’s this precious, city place where the kids in school look like they go to Hogwart’s, exit signs are a picture of a running man, I always ride the bus, and the buildings all are exquisite, just works of art.
Anticipating it all and hoping to look less silly as days go on. It’s confirmed, I am Amercian. But quite a happy one, so who can complain


This is city hall. My bus stop for Bus 8AorB is right around the corner. Cutesy picnicers, ya?


And this is Queens University where Jess and I went today. Gorgeous.