The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

<<Preface: This is a paper I just turned in as my "Final Integrative Paper" of my time here in Ireland>>

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

      I tasted life today, and for a moment, it was beautiful. It was life behind the external, and it was there I saw hope. Life in its rawest form is not just one emotion. Nor is it a thousand emotions scrabbling around my head for attention. Life is not a logical concept I can get my head around. Life is honesty of the heart, mind, and soul and expressing that honesty to myself, to others, and to God.

      Part of this paper is supposed to integrate the historical sites I have seen in Ireland with the impact they have had on Ireland today. I believe that in other assignments I have expanded on this area. To an extent, I may touch on these things. More than that, however, I want to reflect on my personal journey. For how can I truly tell anyone’s story honestly but my own?

     I ask you to read this like a candid reflection of three months of my life. To hear my voice most clearly, sit on your bed with a cup of coffee and a scone. Listen to Audrey Assad’s serene melodies softly in the background. Here comes the rumble of construction, the turmoil of the sea. Witness God lay me in the house He is building.

      I am tempted to relay my experiences here backwards. So much more depth and beauty came out of my last few weeks here more than the first two months combined. Unfortunately, chapters do not begin with the end. There may be foreshadowing, but never a rewind-version of what happened. There is a reason for this. In order to understand the result, you must see all that preceded and influenced the defining moment. So, let’s start where everything should: the beginning.

     The process of choosing to study abroad was not easy. I knew that I wanted to do it at some point in my college career, but I did not know where. At first, Hispanic countries captured my attention. I love Spanish and Hispanic culture, but the classes would not have helped my major. I also did not want to minor in something that, frankly, Taylor does not teach well. So, I tossed that idea out the window soon enough. Next came my initial intrigue with China. My fascination with such an ancient country and a foreign culture was evident. The Los Angeles Film Studies Program sounded tantalizing, but something drew me to venture to a different country. I had never been outside of the States before Ireland.

      And then there was Ireland, simmering on the back burner as I stoked the fire with these other savory study abroad options. The reality of money hit hard, but my parents were still willing to help me out if I really wanted to go to China. The thing was, I didn’t know what I wanted to do and I was scared.

      Finally, I turned to the “safe” option. Ireland felt the least threatening to me, because I would be with Taylor students while still being immersed in a different country. There was nothing in particular that fascinated me about Ireland, except perhaps Celtic music. Nevertheless, I went through with the application rather late, and I was accepted. Meanwhile, chapel messages were running on a similar theme: worry. Somehow, I knew this would not only apply to me now, but for my stay in Ireland as well.

      “Are you so excited about Ireland?!?” all my friends and acquaintances began to ask me. At first, I responded with an enthusiastic “yes”! As time went on, I revealed my true feelings to my closer friends. No, I was not excited. I didn’t want to leave the college, the friends, I loved dearly. I could barely convince myself to wake up the morning of departure due to a sense of dread.

      Fear hit me like a wrecking ball on the plane ride from Indianapolis to Chicago. I had not flown on a plane for years. I absentmindedly flicked open the Bible app on my iPod touch and the passage that it was on was a psalm entitled “A Prayer Not to Be Killed.” I appreciated God’s sense of humor.

      We landed in Ireland, and met up with Steve and Sarah. All I remember is that they were so excited to see us. As we traveled to Greystones in the bus, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I must still be in America. It would take me several weeks to process that I was across an ocean.

     The first few weeks felt like camp. We had a lot of fun on the Dublin Scavenger hunt and getting acquainted with the city. We were fanciful explorers on the Irish coastline. On the inside, I was terribly homesick. Sometimes, others felt my sadness. Though it seems like such a shallow issue after what has happened recently, I was deeply distressed with missing my wing, classes in my major, chapel, my small group, and many other Taylor things. What events was I missing? Well, as I found out on Facebook on multiple occasions, quite a lot. Were they going to forget about me? Occasionally, it felt that way. It was hard for me to live separate from my desire to be back at Taylor, and it haunted me for close to two months.

     Another thing that bothered me the first couple of months had to do with how the program was constructed. The mysterious unstructured nature of the program played with many students’ sanity. When was anything due? What did we need to work on? Why was class always up-in-the-air? Why did we never know for sure where we were going to go on trips? Why did this program feel more like a time to be lazy rather than school? Why was I not warned that this trip would be more like homeschooling? All these questions caused bitterness in my heart. Near the beginning of the semester, I felt like I was not learning much at all. Thankfully, that changed as the semester continued.

    Meanwhile, we visited many beautiful places in Ireland. Glendalough is still one of my favorite places we have gone. Since then, I have seen more monastic sites than I have ever wanted to, but Glendalough was the first, and I will always remember it. The sun shimmered that day on the ancient buildings. The round tower astounded me, and recent discussions about Celtic monasticism intrigued me.

      It was about the fourth week when I discovered a place to be alone, as Jen had suggested we do in her class. One day, I walked decisively out of the house with a Bible and a notebook, and landed on the stones overhanging the Irish Sea. I found one of the least visible nooks and snuggled into my new little space. I went back several times to that same area to pray, read, and think. The smell of the sea and the sound of the waves tenderly tucked my thoughts in as if I was snuggling under a blanket.

     One day when I was feeling particularly down, I headed to my usual spot. I planned to read my Bible, but I stumbled upon some unexpected inspiration instead. I began to collect some colorful rocks by the coast and arranged them into the word “hope.” I spent close to an hour taking pictures of my rock art near the beach and on the steps leading to the water.

     For the first month or so, I made a concentrated effort to keep in contact with people back at Taylor. It wasn’t until the middle of March that I started to make a real effort to get to know people in the group here. Soon, I realized that these people were worth my time. My selfish desires had blinded me from loving the people right in front of me. I stopped obsessing over staying in touch with Taylor friends. This was a turning point for me. Though I still felt homesick at times, I began to open up to people in the group.

      St. Patrick’s Day was a bonding experience for several of us girls. We fished our way through all the drunken lunatics and managed to have a fun time. It made me sad to think that Patrick’s namesake had turned into an excuse to meaningless binge-drinking, but it also awakened me to the spiritual and emotional state of Ireland.

      Halfway done. So far, I had seen mural-ridden Belfast and the rest of Northern Ireland and plenty of the Dublin area. I had no idea what to do with myself. Initially, one of the major draws to studying abroad was opportunities for ministry. I had found nothing that suited me here, and thus felt a sort of emptiness. Those ministries I did want to try always seemed to conflict with the ever-changing schedule. Why was I in Ireland? Though I loved all of the fun I was having, I was not satisfied.

      I began to feel like I had made the wrong decision coming here. I had heard that Ireland had been wonderful for so many people . . . that they had learned so much about themselves and about God. On the contrary, my spiritual life was going nowhere. I occasionally read God’s Word, occasionally offered up prayer requests, and worshipped Him in chapel, but otherwise left Him in the dust. All the while, He was picking up the pieces of me that were falling behind, waiting for me to turn around and run into His arms.

      One day I was dwelling on the fact that I never seemed to learn anything unless I was experiencing some sort of pain. Death affected me more than anything did. In some sort of morbid way, I felt like I was going to experience something painful here. I had no idea how right I was.

      My downward spiral started, interestingly enough, in one of Jen’s classes. I knew it was going to be a challenge when she organized us into groups. To be honest, I was always a little apprehensive about going to her class. It felt like group therapy, and while I did learn some great things, I sometimes felt uncomfortable too. For two hours, Jen asked us to discuss our opinions on very difficult topics. Discussions included God’s will for our lives, homosexuality, pedophiles, the death penalty, and other issues.

      After a few questions, my heart was starting to beat faster and faster. After several more questions, I was done. I couldn’t speak. I mindlessly watched people in our group banter back and forth. I held back furious tears, wondering when these inconclusive discussions would end.     

      By the end, I was emotionally exhausted. You see, I have a problem that can be both a gift and a curse. I feel peoples’ pain and often take on their burdens. All this talk about all these problems in the world caused a terrible weight to fall on my shoulders. Sometimes I hate talk for the sole sake of talking. In issues such as child sex abuse, for example, I want to do something about it, not discuss if a sex offender ethically should be put on a watch list, forever staining his reputation.

     This pain in feeling the effects of a broken world would become a lot more personal in time. Near the end of March, I thought I had figured out the root of my problem. One evening when I was especially homesick, my friend told me something I needed to hear. “Your life is not Taylor,” she stated simply.

      Suddenly, I realized that my life was Taylor! In my mere three semesters there, I had wrapped all my identity and belongingness at my college. My feelings of disconnect in Ireland stemmed from an idolization of Taylor culture. The realization horrified me. I could never have realized my love of Taylor had become an obsession if I had not come to Ireland. This is one lesson studying abroad has taught me. I will bring this realization home with me. Taylor will no longer be my source of self-worth, but it will continue to be one source of joy.

      Life continued. I learned how to play the Bahrain drum, how to do some Irish dance steps, how to understand the culture I had entered. When Vance came, I immediately wished he had been with us the entire trip. His lecture on “The Art of Crossing Culture” would have been helpful more towards the beginning of the semester, but we still learned a lot in his few days with us. Watching the film Michael Collins and going to Kilmainham Gaol the next morning was a defining moment. The visual guerilla warfare in the movie met their real locations as we walked through the jail.

      Ireland does not have a happy history. If I could describe the Irish in two words, it would be “grim determination.” The fight for freedom from British oppression escalated to a point of contention between Christian denominations and civil war between different views on bringing peace to the nation. The fighting seemed insane at times, but then I examined my heart and realized how it could come to fruition.

      In general, Irish people have a fight in their eyes. Even though the economy has crashed here in Ireland and more than 15% of the population is out of work, I see hope. I see hope in the church. The body of Christ is coming together. They are realizing their materialistic faults that accompanied the Celtic Tiger period and now they are learning the only thing that can truly fill the hole in their lives is Christ. Of course, this does not apply to the entire island. Rather, I see a general shift in the right direction, and the passion of Christians to reach into lives that are trying to fill their emptiness with something else. Their fervor excites me.

      As I continued to learn about Irish culture, history, and literature and as I deepened friendships, I truly began to enjoy myself. Spring break, along with my parents, came and went. I visited London and had a wonderful time. Seeing Wicked and the Harry Potter Warner Bros. Studio, along with many famous sites like Big Ben and Buckingham Palace enthralled me. Then, Easter week came. Of all weeks, I least expected this one to be the worst I would have.

    Monday of Easter week, Corrie’s uncle died. My heart hurt for my friend, and I tried to love her as best as I could. Then, Wednesday of Easter week, Josh Larkin died. I did not know him well, but we had the same major, we both had been chapel leaders, and he had been in my J-term class this year. I found out something was wrong on Facebook.

Please be praying for Taylor. We have lost a dear friend today.

Pray for Taylor. This is a terrible tragedy.

      These vague status updates terrified me. It was just Corrie and I in our room. I asked a friend on Facebook chat what had happened. When she told me, I froze. I even smiled, because it didn’t register with me.  “It can’t be,” I muttered, as Corrie was asking over and over what was going on and if I was okay.

      Next, Corrie investigated. At this point, I was holding on to the hope that there was some miscommunication, some horrible mistake. When she confirmed it, I broke down. I never cried as hard as I did that night. I was heartbroken for his family, for my friends who knew him, and for the fact that he had died so young. It could have just as easily have been me, kept running through my head.

       I sank into a depressive stupor. For days, I moped around and only God knew each time I would burst into tears. They came at times that didn’t even make sense. I let my thoughts fester in the reality of suffering, and I blocked joy from entering my heart. This was the worst thing I could do. On Easter Sunday, I played drums at Hillside Church, but my heart was not in it.

     “Lindsey! YOU are not dead! Continuing in life is not denial,” my friend reminded me. I half-believed her. At times I felt like I didn’t want to continue in life, because I feared the pain that would come in the future. One night, I had had enough. My anger at suffering and death was escalating. I didn’t understand. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t.

      “Look at me now! I’m not going to be able to handle it if one of my close friends or someone in my family dies!” I screamed at Corrie, who was also angry at death, but trying to encourage me at the same time. Later that night, one of Corrie’s best friends died. Just when I thought my heart could not break further, it did. Seeing my constant friend, my best friend on this trip, grieving this loss along with the two others that had occurred in the recent past sucked me of my strength. This gift/curse of feeling for others was becoming too much to bear. Soon, surely, I would have to give it up to God. I could not sink any further. For a day, I tried to be hopeful, and then I sunk back into depression.

      When Corrie left for her friend’s funeral, it took all my willpower not to panic. A lot more crying and hugging followed. We had bookmaking class the week Corrie was gone, and it was therapeutic to create something and get my mind off all my worries.

     With the worst two weeks of my life behind me, I tried to focus on the now. The trip to the South was the most fun of our three long bus trips. It was relaxing and I felt for the first time I could focus exclusively on the beauty of God’s creation. We met a German girl named Lena who was traveling across Europe during her gap year before college. She even hopped on one of our day trips. It was so fun making a new friend and welcoming her into the group. We all hoped that we had served her as Christ would.

      We got back to the “Y” in a refreshed state of mind. I was still working through things, but I thought the worst of it was over. Surely, it was over. Something else happened in the group, concerning a matter of dishonesty and the breaking of trust. It was so unexpected that the two of us who had just found out what had happened were devastated. I drowned in anger for a few days. How dare this person hurt my friends, especially at this sensitive time? Once again, I was broken, and worried for the future.

    A few days ago, I listened to a sermon on my iPod. It was all about worry, and it brought back memories of all those chapel speakers who had presented messages on anxiety before I had departed the States. I learned many things from this timely message. I learned to ask, in every situation, “Where does God fit into this?” and answer it boldly. I learned that worry is a form of materialism, and that the only healthy worry is for unbelievers. I learned that where my worry is, there my heart will be also. I learned that a prayer warrior is a redeemed worrier. Unfortunately, the next day I was just as depressed as ever, but I know that I can go back and remind myself of these things.

      Yesterday was a beautiful day, though not because of the weather. It was awful outside. Forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, battering wind, and sweeping rain all contributed to the dreariest of days. Yet, it fit my emotions well. Jen had assigned us all a project, and it was due last night. I worked on it from the moment I woke up to the minute class started (with breaks for meals of course.)

      The assignment was to make something creative that reflected our experiences and what we learned in Ireland. I decided to put together a video. I had been taking snippets of video here and there the entire trip and I slapped many funny documented moments into the first half of the video. The second half of the video consisted of a “short film” of my emotional and spiritual journey here. I ended the video with an applicable verse. All this time, I had been trying to understand why God allowed bad things to happen, why He didn’t just completely save us all after He raised from the dead. God gave me my conclusion in 1 Corinthians 13:12:
“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”  

      As everyone in the group shared a bit of themselves in pure, unadulterated honesty, my heart lifted. My burden disintegrated. I tasted life in that moment, in all its bitter sweetness. I tasted it again this morning in chapel when the guys in our group shared what they had been learning over the semester.

      It all came together in this moment. God hadn’t been idle this whole time. He had taught me to accept change, to not idolize the people and things I love, to forgive, to treasure honesty, to trust Him, and to hold on to His love for me no matter what.

      Today, I took one step towards letting God have control. My friend was crying after chapel. Her grief was intense, and for good reason. I knew that. As Jen went over to comfort her, I lingered for a short while.

      Then, I left. I left and did not worry.

      I was sad for my friend, but I was not sad myself. I did not dwell. I trusted. And it was the best feeling in the world. It’s so interesting to me that God knows what we need to learn in this life. If it were up to us, we would never choose some of these situations in order to learn them. Even now, I would never go back and re-live all of this pain even though I know good will come out of it. God knows better. He sees the good and knows it is somehow worth it.

      With that, I can end by saying that my experiences in Ireland have ended with newness and restoration despite the hurt. As Charles Dickens put it, though obviously not in my context, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Yes, Ireland was just that.

 << I did not mention in my paper that I deleted my Facebook--in case you do not know yet, yes, that is what I did. It may not be for forever,but it will certainly be for a long time. The benefits of FB are great, but at this point in my life, it was hurting more than helping. It had become my source of knowledge, my impersonal connection to Taylor, an idol I obsessed over checking >>