Here's to Hoping

No, I haven’t disappeared.  I’ve just been spending the last two weeks drinking several cuppas*, bundling up in my warmest jumpers*, and getting lifts* from my new friends.   Thanks to my trip in June, adjusting to life in Ireland has actually been quite relaxing.  I’m finally sleeping pretty regularly these days, but life is commencing at a ridiculously fast pace here.  I think we’ve learned that, even though the Irish value their downtime, there is still a crazy amount of work to be done.  The trick will be figuring out how to check everything off the list while still saying yes to all the tea breaks and surprise hour-long chats.

Part of the adjustment over these two weeks has been getting acquainted with entire groups of new people.  The questions are endless, meaningful, and sometimes very challenging.  Sure, it’s easy to respond with, “Cleveland, Ohio,” every time someone inquires about where I come from, but it’s a completely different story when someone asks, “So, why are you here?”  The answer to that one could take me eons to come up with.  For now, a simple, “Because it’s where I need to be,” has been sufficient for everyone.

There’s one question I’ve been asked a few times, in a few different contexts, that has thrown me off guard each instance, though – “What makes you passionate?”

I can very easily answer what I’m passionate about.  Music, theatre, traveling, working with children – those are just a handful of the things that keep me going from day to day.

But, what makes me passionate?  I have no clue.  Seriously, I don’t.  Other people have great answers, which often are in some form of “people.”  Unfortunately, I don’t think people are what make me passionate.  People make my passions great, and people are certainly involved in my passions, but they’re not the driving force.  So, what is?

One answer that I’ve heard does come closer than all the rest.  It’s quite simple, really.  I only wish I had realized it myself.  It’s hope.  Hope is what makes me passionate.  Hope has been the catalyst to so much of what I’ve done; it just never dawned on me until now.  

When I was told majoring in music and theatre was a poor choice for someone who graduated top of her high school class, I sought to prove everyone wrong.  My hope for a future where I could do what I love, what I’m passionate about, and still be successful at it drove me to accomplish this lofty task.  And I did.

When I was lucky enough to travel to China with my college choir and got bit by the travel bug, it only made me more eager to study abroad in France.  My hope for a life beyond that of my small hometown inspired me to see as much of Europe as I could in my short time there.  Not only did I travel to several countries and explore some amazing places, but I now also have the bragging right of saying that I live in Europe.

Working with children is something that I’ve done since I was in high school.  From teaching theatre to volunteering in Title I, I’ve worked with a wide range of ages and backgrounds.  My hope for each child is that they take advantage of every opportunity and grow from it.  Whether it takes me running around like a lunatic to demonstrate some acting exercise or me helping them learn how to write their name, I’m hoping that something I’m teaching them sticks with each of them for the rest of their lives.  I want them to know and understand that they are capable of achieving whatever they want to if they’re willing to put in the effort.  My passion is driven by the hope that no child will ever have to grow up facing the same resistance that I did.  If I wasn’t doing what I’m doing today, I wouldn’t be happy.  Without this happiness, what would be the point of living any other life?

Man, who knew that Ireland would teach me such an important life lesson in such a short amount of time?  Not only knowing what I’m passionate about, but also what makes me passionate, will be important as I continue my ministry here.  Sure, there’s a big part of me somewhere deep down that still wants to perform on Broadway or tour with an opera company in Europe.  But, just like those kids I work with, I have time.  Loads of time.  For now, I need to live in the present and face the task(s) at hand.  I’m somewhere where my actions can truly make a difference in a significant way.  I have plenty of time to chase the big dreams.  Right now, it’s imperative that I take this time to use my passions to help others.  I can only hope that what I’m doing here will stick in some way.

Peace.

--Joy.

* Cuppa = Cup of Tea; Jumper = Sweater; Lift = Ride (in a car)

All The Feels!

Wow, another blog post within two days - I must certainly have a lot on my mind!  Oh, wait, I do.  I'm moving to Ireland in a week.  EGADS!

I've been a mess of emotions over my move for awhile now.  On the one hand, I'm so excited for this journey.  I'm going to be doing a job that I know I'll love, living and working with others who enjoy doing the same thing, and meeting so many new people who are genuinely thrilled I'm there.  I'll even be working towards a Certificate in Theology from Notre Dame over these two years.  This is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  Plus, it's Europe!  I love Europe!

On the other hand, it's tough knowing that, if I were still a student, I'd be moved into my dorm right now and working on campus already.  Most of my friends would also be back for whatever reason, and we'd be catching up on our lives amidst all of the craziness of this week.  There'd be wine nights and Finny's nights and innumerable laughs all around.  This level of comfort and security I discovered at Saint Mary's will be hard to replicate for me.

On a third hand, (great, I'm adding appendages to myself,) I also wonder if the choice I made was the right one.  I turned down my top-choice grad school, a chance to return to France, and even a couple of job opportunities in order to give up my service to the House of Brigid.  I only applied to one college because I was fearful of making "the choice" at the end of the day.  This time around, I kept my options open.  How could I have predicted that nearly all of them would come through?  My Saint Mary's education put me in a much better place to make "a choice", but my poor brain grappled with it for a very long time.

I know I'm not alone in these feelings.  Two of my best friends from Saint Mary's, Angie and Erin, are also moving to Europe this year to teach English in France and Austria, respectively.  The three of us were all abroad in college at the same time, and we went through many of these same feelings of "FOMO" (Fear Of Missing Out) then, too.  We've been talking a lot lately as we fight these internal battles of missing Saint Mary's and getting excited about leaving for our new adventures.

Me, Angie, and Erin.  Aren't we the cutest?

The last couple of days, especially, I've been feeling some very high levels of anxiety over everything.  Since Erin's leaving so soon after I am, she's starting to feel it, too.  We had a long talk on the phone today, which was a much-needed reminder that I'm not going through this blindly.  There are actually several things I came to realize today with Erin's help:

1.  These are going to be two of the best years of my life.

Yes, my four years at Saint Mary's were unforgettable, and I will always count them among my best.  But there's no way I can move abroad and do what I'm going to be doing without making some incredible memories along the way.  My four months in France changed my life forever - who knows what two years in Ireland will do?

2.  I'm not going to be alone.

In addition to Angie and Erin, I'm also going to have two of Angie's sisters and my good friend Allison in Europe, too.  Allison and I met when we were abroad in France, and she is one of my go-to people when it comes to planning for this type of thing.  All of my random connections give me places to go and people to see while I'm there.  Not to mention the incredible House of Brigid community that I'll be entering into.  There are already so many people in Clonard who are praying for me and eager to help me adjust.

Allison and I during her visit to South Bend this year!  Elle est ma petite chouette!  :)

3.  We're growing up, and it's time to face that.

Similar to how I had to leave high school behind and go off to college, I need to leave college behind and go off into the real world.  In fact, a lot of those pre-college feelings are similar to what I'm feeling now.  But, I know Saint Mary's has given me a greater schooling than I could have ever hoped for, and I've truly been educated in mind, heart, and soul.  It's time to put that learning into action in order to make a difference and leave my mark on the world.  If there's one thing I've learned, it's that we never truly leave a place - there's a piece of us that will always be there.  I've been saying it a lot lately, but it's true: The Avenue will always lead me home.

4.  My families will still be there at the end of the day.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about all of the various families in my life.  Leaving them was certainly a factor in my decision, too.  Last night, I went to the only choir rehearsal at St. Bart's that I'll be able to attend for quite a long time.  The whole evening made me feel like I had never left.  There was a freshman in high school there who's joining the ranks of the adult choirs for the first time.  I realized that I've been a member of the adult choirs for nine years now.  I'm the only one from my "generation" who's stuck with it, despite collegiate obligations.  It made me realize that it's time to pass off the torch and let the new generation come in.  My prayer for her and the others is that they embrace it with full hearts.  I've gained what I needed from ministering with the groups, and I know I'll always be welcomed whenever I'm home.

As for my "real" family, my greatest concern was leaving my nieces.  Emme and Allie are growing up so fast.  This year, I'm missing Emme's Confirmation; next year, I'm missing Allie's First Communion.  The reality of this is very hard on me.  I remember what it was like when I was three years old and my sister got married and moved far away.  I missed "Evie" everyday, and my mom convinced me that I could still talk to her through our dryer.  (Yes, I stuck my head in it and did it numerous times.)  But, that's just it - we've got technology nowadays that didn't exist back in 1994.  I can Skype, FaceTime, and even call my family on the phone cheaply all the way from Ireland.  The days of "long distance" bills no longer exist.  The Internet has truly changed how we live.  Sure, it won't replace the holidays I'll be missing, but I have the rest of my life to celebrate with them.

My little mini-me's.  I couldn't be prouder of both of them!

5.  This isn't the rest of my life.

Probably more important than all the rest is the notion that these next two years aren't the rest of my life.  I will come home at the ripe young age of twenty-four, and I'll still have lifetimes ahead of me.  Sure, it's hard not to feel like I should be getting married and beginning a career because many of my classmates are.  However, there's no right or wrong time to do those things.  I'm a lifelong learner, and it also takes a lot for me to trust someone in a relationship.  I can't imagine, in any way, that I'd be ready for a family or a career right this very second.  I very much want that one day, but it's not going to be tomorrow, and I'm okay with that.  When the time comes, I'll be (young!) and ready for it.  Just as I didn't know nine months ago what I was going to be doing post-graduation, I don't know where I'll be or what I'll be doing in two years.  Who knows?  I might be in a very different place than I ever imagined.

So, while I feel like I'm drowning in luggage weight limitations, service visas and tax paperwork, loan deferments, and some tough goodbyes, there are so many good things I have to look forward to.  Erin reminded me today that there are probably many people who are envious of what we're doing - we're young and taking full advantage of it!  There's nothing keeping me here right now, so why shouldn't I indulge in a little selfish "me" time?

During all of these "feels" today, my mom came in with a package for me - my godmother sent me her grandmother's St. Christopher medal to take with me and protect me on my journey.  This simple token really couldn't have come at a better time.  It reminded me that I'm not alone, and that I'll always have Christ alongside me on the many journeys I'm certain to take throughout my life.  Perhaps I need to take a step back and take a little more time for prayer during all of these many preparations.  This time next week, I will be landing in Dublin to begin my new adventure.

For now, it's time to go back to eliminating items from my suitcases.  I really don't need all seven cardigans that are in my closet - as badly as I want to take them all...

Peace,

--Joy.

Hogwarts Is My Home

Hi, my name is Joy and I'm addicted to Harry Potter.

Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes already knows this about me.  My liking obsession with Harry Potter began when I was around ten years old.  As an avid reader, my godparents gifted me the first three books one year for a Christmas or birthday.  I distinctly remember reading the first chapter of the first book, putting it down, and not picking it up again for a very long time.  It was boring.  I didn't like it.  It felt too much like a Roald Dahl book, and I wasn't a huge fan of him.  So, I simply stopped reading it.

When the early talks of the movie started cropping up on the news, I decided to give the book another try.  This time, I forced myself past the first chapter.  Then, the second.  By the third, I was hooked.  Since it was summertime, I finished all three books in about four days.  The fourth book had come out since I received the first three, and I borrowed it from my aunt so as to not miss a moment of the mania.  She eventually gifted me the book for my next birthday.

I clearly remember my mom taking me to see the first movie.  In fact, I had recently turned eleven years old.  We had waited until it came out in the dollar movie theatre, since movies were a rare treat when I was growing up because of how expensive they were.  We were both mesmerized by the magic of Harry's story.  My mom became obsessed, too.  She immediately took to reading my copy of the first book and caught up to me in no time.

Then, there was nothing.  Sure, I had movies to look forward to, but it took Jo Rowling almost three years to release the fifth book.  I reread the first four countless times.  (I mean it, I think I've read each of those books 20+ times each, and that's not an exaggeration.)  I created websites for book reports that Sorted people into one of the four Houses.  I forced other people to start reading them, too.  I even started writing my own version of the fifth book.  Here I was, barely thirteen years old, and I was letting a fictional character and his fictional world run the majority of my out-of-school life.

Eventually, the fifth book did come out.  That was the first midnight opening I went to.  My mom faithfully took me to all of them.  She stopped reading the books herself, daunted by the length of the latter ones.  However, she's always loved the movies, so she does know Harry's story to some degree.  I was am obsessed enough for the two of us, anyway.

Somewhere during all of this, my friends and I joined forces in our Harry Potter-ness.  We created trivia board games and started holding joint parties for Harry and Jo to celebrate their shared birthdays.  I've had my own birthday parties themed after the great character.  My friend Aimee and I even named our Titan corporation "Hallows 'R Us" for economics class and dressed up the day of the tournament, complete with wands.  We even went to see the Remus Lupins in concert.  (Wizard Rock, you understand.)  I won a drawing with my local library to visit the touring Knight Bus as part of the promotions for the last book.  That day, a reporter from the New York Times interviewed me and featured me in an article she wrote on the book's release.  (I stood out a little bit since I was the only sixteen-year-old in the middle of all the five- and six-year olds - oh, and I came dressed up like Hermione.)  My other friend's mom sewed us our own wizards' robes for the last book opening.  Actually, we played one of our trivia games while waiting for midnight to hit.

Me at the last book opening.  I still have that stick wand, which I found in my backyard.

We came up with crazy theories all the way until the end.  I sobbed through a good portion of the second half of the last book.  I went through severe withdrawal.  Thankfully, I still had movie openings to look forward to.  I was even able to enjoy some of the last couple with my new college friends who shared the same love of it that I did.  But, soon, the movies ended, too.  Eventually, Pottermore was released.  I fought my way into the beta testing group.  I was sorted into Ravenclaw, found my wand, and began working my way through the adventures there.  Unfortunately, as much as I love the new bonus content, the speed at which they're updating the site is not keeping me content.  I still reread the books and watch the movies whenever I find the time to.  I even have a Pinterest board dedicated to the series.

Remember those birthday parties for Harry and Jo I mentioned?  Yeah, we still have them.  Basically, a group of twenty-somethings sit in a room, play their homemade trivia games, read excerpts from the book, bake and decorate a cake, and watch one of the movies.  In fact, we just celebrated their belated birthdays this past weekend.

This year's Whomping Willow birthday cake for Harry and Jo.  Can you spy the Ford Anglia?

Why do we still do this?  I think the answer's different for each one of us.  Tradition, love of the books, feelings of nostalgia, keeping our childhoods alive, etc.  For me, it's some weird combination of all of these.  I grew up with these books.  I am one of the few who will be able to say that they are the Harry Potter generation.  There's something to be said about a series of books that got kids my age reading again.  Harry's story, magic or not, can apply to so many people on so many different levels.  I longed for a world like Harry's.  But, it reminded me of the life that I do have, and I realized that mine's pretty awesome, too.  I've made friends bonding over theories and trivia matches.  Even my college had its own Quidditch team.

Sure, I've been made fun of for how much I like the books.  It's never bothered me, though.  For me, it's just a part of my life.  Harry taught me how to be brave.  He taught me that it's okay to bend the rules every once in awhile.  He taught me that there's always, always, always something worth fighting for.   He taught me to embrace who I am no matter what others do or say.  He taught me to use my imagination.  He taught me to read between the lines.  Most importantly, he taught me how to love my friends like family.

Harry Potter will always be a part of my life.  I'll read the books with the same anticipation as when I did the first time.  I'll even go back and reread the cooky theories I came up with prior to the series being finished.  I'll give my own children the books someday, hoping that they love it even a fraction of the amount I do.  And I'll still go to the yearly birthday parties we hold whenever I can, even if it's just an excuse to meet up with my old friends.

So, whether you think I'm crazy, crazier than you thought, or deemed worthy of institutionalizing, I hope you can at least understand where I'm coming from when I say that I love Harry Potter.

Next on my bucket list - visiting the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  I'll accept monetary donations in any amount.  :)

--Joy.

Blood or Not, fam(ILY)

This post has been a long time coming.  Every time I sit down to try to write it, I can't seem to find the words to convey what I want to say.  However, I found the strength I needed after singing a friend's funeral yesterday.  That being said, this post is all about family.

My "real" family is often difficult for me to talk about and explain.  Long story incredibly short, there aren't many of us.  In my generation, there's just my older sister and I.  And - get ready for it - there are seventeen-and-a-half years between us.  Yes, you read that right.  17.5.  No, this isn't some huge family secret where she's actually my mom or something.  (I was just a very, very pleasant surprise.)  My mom is also one of two girls, but we are currently estranged from my aunt and her family.  My dad, whom I have not been in contact with for almost eighteen years, is an only child.  I do have a stepdad, but his family currently isn't talking to him, and I've never met my three stepbrothers.  Add my sister's husband and their two girls, and we have a grand total of seven family members.

I mean, seriously, I have friends with more siblings than that.  But I can't say I'm bitter about not having a big family.  There are perks to there being so few of us.  Nearly everyone can always be there for major holidays/birthdays/life events, and it's super-easy to exchange Christmas gifts.  We can all go out together more often on a smaller budget and still eat somewhere fancy.   Thanksgiving is awesome because we all fit around one table.  And, my favorite, we are all so incredibly close-knit.  However, there is a tiny part of me somewhere that has always longed for something more.

Cue the choirs!  Growing up, St. Bartholomew's parish was my home away from home.  It was there that I discovered my gift of music, fell in love for the first time, and found some of the most loyal friends I could ever ask for.  Many of my childhood memories revolve around the numerous events hosted by the parish and the choirs.  My high school graduation party boasted over seventy-five of St. Bart's finest.  Even now, when I'm home and singing with the choirs during school breaks, I'm welcomed back like I never left.  They haven't even given up my spot in the choir yet, despite the fact that I'm moving overseas to minister with a different parish - I still have my assigned music "number", and a binder is made for me even though I'm unable to sing most of the year.

The parish family of St. Bartholomew has been a family, in every sense of the word, my entire life.  I was baptized, given my first communion, and confirmed there.  It is still where I call home after twenty-two years of living.  I can't say I've ever been more loyal to anything in my life, simply because it has been there for the entirety of it.  Sure, my St. Bart's friends are a bit older than I am, in varying degrees, but who says you can't have a couple dozen ladies in your life that you can call a grandmother?  Or maybe a few dozen more who are like those crazy aunts no one ever talks about?  (My biological one included.)  Let's not forget the men, who have been more like dads to me than my own flesh-and-blood one could ever be.  The camaraderie between the generations has been the single greatest aspect of my life with them.  St. Bart's has undoubtedly filled the "family" void that I have felt my whole life.  I've never really been one to be considered ordinary in any way, but I feel my parish family is completely normal, despite what anyone says.

(This isn't to say that I haven't felt familial ties with any other very important groups in my life - my Saint Mary's family and my various theatre families, for instance - but there's something to be said about a group of people who have watched you grow up during the most formative years of your life, and who have stuck with you despite how blonde your hair was or how weepy you were when your goldfish died.  That's love, and that's family.)

Earlier, I mentioned a funeral.  One of my "grandmother" figures at St. Bart's, Lottie, passed away last week at the ripe old age of ninety-five.  Her health had been failing for the last several years, so the phone call wasn't too much of a surprise to me.  I'll always remember her for her crocheting, and how she once raised $2500 selling her wares at a parish picnic in order to purchase our first-ever choir sweaters.  (I bought my own "Lottie scarf" that year, which I still proudly own.)  She used to cook all of the onions for the Lenten fish frys, and even acted as the cashier when she wasn't physically able to cook anymore.  (She actually willed her onion pan to our choir director, John, on her deathbed.)  Lottie was a unique combination of class and wit, and was never afraid to speak her mind.  She called us all her grandchildren, and was so proud to be among the ranks of the choirs.  I'll never forget her sharp, sure voice, or her words of wisdom that could only come with age and experience.

Lottie had told John that she'd come back to haunt him if the choirs weren't present to sing for her funeral.  Well, John did his duty, and more than thirty members showed up to sing yesterday.  There certainly would have been more had it not been a Tuesday morning workday, but the number was still impressive.  One thing that struck me, though, was the fact that there were more people in the loft than in the congregation.  However, as I came to learn during the mass, Lottie only had one daughter and no biological grandchildren.  It struck me how Lottie calling us her "grandkids" for all those years really meant more than what any of us realized.  Then, it finally hit me - St. Bart's was a family to Lottie, as well.  As a forty-five year parishioner, Lottie had made St. Bart's just as much her home as I've made it.  Only a grandmother's love could endure sitting through hours of sewing and crocheting in order to provide the warmest sweaters for the chillest loft in the Diocese of Cleveland.  Lottie loved St. Bart's as much, or more, than I do.  If this was true for her, who else is it true for?

Certainly, St. Bart's isn't the only parish family that has people who feel this way.  All over the world there have to be others who view their parishes much like families.  Over the last hundred years, back when European immigration to the United States was much more abundant, parishes were indeed like families to the newcomers.  It was the way they kept in touch with people who were from their homelands, people who spoke their languages, and people who could understand their situations.  Parishes were the hub of family life not that long ago.  They're where the kids went to school, where the parents went to socialize, and where major life events occurred.  This holds true whether someone is Catholic, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, or of any other religious affiliation.  What's happened?  What's changed?  Or are these same things happening in new ways that I'm just not seeing?  I'd love to know, only because I find this type of "family love" some of the most powerful on Earth.  I also believe it needs to be shared among the masses.

I'll be honest, I'm terrified of moving to Ireland and having to establish myself in a new parish.  I've already been so warmly welcomed by the parishioners of Clonard, but will I find the same sense of "family" that I've grown up with at St. Bart's?  I trust that God will, in His own way and His own time, give me the answer that I'm searching for.

So, whether you're from a more traditional family, or one that's even wackier than mine, I hope you found something to take away from this post.  After all, we weren't put on Earth to walk alone.  We need lots of kinds of families if we hope to survive this crazy thing called life.

To ALL of my families - ILY.  (I Love You.)  :)

--Joy.

Tinderella Finds her Prince...Sort of.

Alright, let's be honest here.  One of the latest social media crazes is the Tinder app.  Tinder is basically the smartphone version of "hot or not" - swipe right for hot and left for not.  It connects to your Facebook, providing the app with some photos of you, letting people know what common interests and friends you share, as well as how far away you currently are from each other.  If you both swipe right, you are "matched", allowing you to start a conversation with that person.  I have the app.  You have the app.  And, now that Androids can enjoy Tinder, we all have the app.  It's creepy, stalker-ish, a wee bit juvenile, and terribly addicting.

But, let me clarify.  I only use the app when I'm back in Notre Dame.  I made the mistake of not turning off my Tinder once, only to come back to school after a break to find myself matched with several people I went to high school with.  High school.  I am not the person I was back then, and I certainly do not want to be "matched" with anyone who knew me from before.  So, suffice it to say, I completely deleted my profile and the app after I graduated in May.  I was moving home, and therefore done with it.

Old habits die hard, though.  This week I've been back in Notre Dame to teach at a summer camp.  The first night, a few of us adults found ourselves downloading Tinder.  In my opinion, there's really no harm in the app, and it's pretty much safe if you keep it to just talking via the conversation tab.  Plus, as most girls do, we talk about boys.  A lot.  It's fun to compare our matches and laugh at some of the ridiculous-looking photos that crop up.  "Oooh, he's an ND football player - right swipe!" "Look at that adorable dog in his picture - right swipe!"  "Is that his nephew, or his kid?! - left swipe for safety..."  These are generally how our Tinder circles go.

I know what you're all thinking - "So, do you ever meet anyone from this app?"  The answer varies.  Yes, I've met people from it.  Nothing serious, of course.  Maybe we happened to have some mutual friends, or realized we passed each other regularly all along but weren't Facebook friends.  Or, more commonly, I recognize them out on the town as "that guy I saw on Tinder!".  But, until this week, I had never deliberately set up a date with anyone.

Yes, you heard right.  I set up a date via Tinder.  His name is Luke, (name changed to protect the innocent,) and we were both in South Bend this week; me for camp, him for Army training.  First and foremost, he was gorgeous.  (Why do you think I right-swiped to begin with?)  Second, he didn't start our Tinder conversation with the typical "hey, baby" that you get from others.  Plus, since it's connected to Facebook, these are real people we're dealing with here.  We chatted about this, that, and the other, and we found out we had a lot of random things in common.  For instance, our mutual passion for wanting to teach under-privileged children.  Since we were both in town, we decided to exchange real phone numbers and meet up.  He asked me to come to one of the local dive bars where him and his buddies were hanging out, but I refused to step foot in there - I told him I'd pick him up and we'd go to a different bar instead.  Luke agreed, and I was already halfway out the door.

(Fun side note - the three songs that came up on my shuffled "Guilty Pleasures" playlist during the car ride to pick him up were the following - Taylor Swift's "22", Robyn's "Call Your Girlfriend", and The Wanted's "Glad You Came".  With every song I kept going, "Oh my God, this is perfect!"  The lyrics were literally speaking my thoughts, and I couldn't have been more pumped for the evening ahead of me.)

After picking Luke up - which, before he got into the car, he shook my hand and introduced himself like a proper gentlemen - we headed towards a downtown bar where I knew the atmosphere was chill and where my friends could easily meet up with me worst case scenario.  Actually, we both commented to one another how overprotective our friends were being of us.  I had to give play-by-play details to my group, while his was very worried that I was going to murder him and dump the body somewhere.  We laughed at the mutual situation and continued to get to know each other.  I told him about Ireland, which he was incredibly supportive of.  It made me feel better knowing we were both going into this with the understanding that we just happened to be passing through South Bend at the same time.  No strings attached.

Before we even got to the bar, though, Luke's sergeant was calling to look for him.  Apparently he didn't get permission from the correct person to leave, and, even though he was on civilian time, he still had to follow some rules.  Incredibly embarrassed, he warned me that he might have to leave, and wondered if I could drive him back, if necessary.  Normally I'm the one making a fool of myself in these types of situations, so I told him it was perfectly fine.

A weird run-in with theatre friends, a dead phone, and a horde of Army men later, Luke had to cut our date incredibly short.  He didn't say much other than goodbye because he had to rush right off.  We had lots of time to talk in-between all of the antics, and I felt like we did get to know each other much better.  Out of the conversation, I found out that he was Catholic, too.  That made him instantly more attractive to me, and I found out it helped make sense why we had so much in common.  (Joy's two major rules for any datable guy - he must be taller than she is, and he must be Catholic.  Check and check.)

I spilled the details to one of my best friends after he left.  Even via text message, she could see how incredibly giddy I was over the whole evening.  Despite him being so embarrassed by the entire situation, I tried to lighten the mood by expressing my own nerdy side to him.  (Harry Potter, class valedictorian, etc. - the whole nine yards.)  He texted me later to apologize again, and explained how he felt even more inadequate because he had never read Harry Potter himself.  I could only laugh.  Unfortunately, much to my own guilt, he did tell me he got put on lockdown as a result of leaving the first bar to go with me.  He insisted it wasn't my fault, but I still felt terrible nonetheless.

The next day, I waited for a text that never came.  I can't say I wasn't a bit stung by that - I thought the date overall went really well, and, despite everything, I thought he'd still follow-up.  I broke the ice by texting him something cheesy about hoping his lockdown went okay.  He didn't respond.  I realized that, even though this clearly wasn't going anywhere, I was still considering myself extremely lucky that I got to meet him.  I hadn't been asked out on a date since I was 17, and it was such a nice change of pace to be with someone who I was able to be so open and honest with.  Call it my "finishing school" training, but after living and learning with all girls for the last four years, I think I've discovered that I need to just be myself in order to be truly happy.  The idea to blog about it was born out of this realization.  I knew writing my feelings out would make it all better.

I sat down and began to write this when the text back finally came.  He flew out of South Bend this morning and is now en route back to the Army base in Georgia.  Will this ever go anywhere?  Who knows.  Do I want to be friends with him?  Certainly.  At the end of the day, while we were both mutually attracted to one another, we also had a lot in common as friends.  Having positive, forward-thinking people in my life is a top priority.  He seems to be one of those people.  Will we ever talk again?  I hope so.  Whether or not it goes any further than this?  Only time will tell.  I have two years in Ireland and he has at least another year-and-a-half in the Army.  Maybe our paths will cross again when the timing is right, and maybe they won't.  Much to my own surprise, I'm okay with whatever happens.

For now, my hope has been renewed that God will bring me to the right person at the right time.  I no longer feel like I will be alone forever, or be forced to join the convent.  There are guys out there who find me at least somewhat attractive.  (Let's ask my 100+ Tinder matches this week!)  But, more than that, there are guys out there who are genuinely honest and caring human beings.  If there's one, there must be more, right?  The task at hand is my dedicated service to the Catholic Church in Ireland.  But, when the time comes, I will go on more dates and meet more of these men.  Someday, I might even find "the one" to share my life with.  There have been so many weddings and engagements lately that it feels like my time will never come.  All I can do is privately whine to my friends who are in the same boat and forge ahead.  I just have to keep reminding myself that the time will come.  If only I had ever learned the art of patience...

Oh!  There goes my phone!  Another text...  :)

--Joy.

Sing-Song the Witch is Dead...

Due to a lack of consistent wifi and armed with only my iPad, I'm afraid to say that I didn't get to do much blogging while in Ireland.  (Granted, my post about Irish animals was one of utmost importance that I knew I had to get up, no matter what the cost.)  Regardless, I also viewed my time on the Emerald Isle as one of reflection and relaxation, since come August I will hit the ground running with work.  Now that I've been home for two days, with only minimal jet lag, I've had a chance to digest everything I've learned and realized over the last few weeks.

Most importantly, I'M MOVING TO IRELAND!

I mean, when I found out about this service opportunity, the fact that it was abroad was just the cherry on top.  After a long talk with a dear friend over it, we both agreed that I would've applied for the position even if it was in some boring American city.  Ireland wasn't necessarily a country that had ever appealed to me because they speak English there.  Where's the challenge in that?  Even so, I'm quickly realizing that the cultural adjustments I will have to get used to are more staggering than I ever could have envisioned.  The most important piece of new culture I encountered were the sing-songs.

What exactly are these, you ask?  Pretty much what it says - sitting in a circle and singing songs.  Someone will inevitably have their guitar, and probably a whole slew of other instruments, including Irish tin whistles and a bodhrán (Irish drum).  What do we sing?  Everyone has their "party piece," usually a traditional Irish tune or a popular arrangement.  Was I prepared for this hugely important part of Irish culture?  NOT. AT. ALL.  I can barely stand listening to the radio, and beyond Danny Boy, I knew about zero Irish songs coming into this.  My limited knowledge of American musical theatre and operatic literature wasn't likely to get me through this.  Or was it?

At the insistence of Teach Bhríde IV's Nick, I was urged to sing a little of Carmen's Habenera one night at a particularly lively sing-song hosted by our friend, Therese.  The thought to sing something a little - ahem - more classical had crossed my mind, but it definitely didn't seem appropriate for the setting. I mean, come on, where's my grand piano?!  However, I got over myself pretty quickly and sang it anyway.  Everyone seemed to really enjoy the familiar aria.  I ended up using it at a few different "sessions," (which are mostly instruments rather than singing,) and even at a post-morning mass tea.

One of the infamous "Tea Ladies" at Clonard parish is Maura - a delightful woman who is the epitome of what it means to be stylish.  She is a truly sweet soul who is there every morning without fail.  Our parish priest, Fr. Denis, asked me one evening after I sang at a session if I'd be willing to sing the Habanera at tea the following morning.  The Tea Ladies were celebrating Maura's 70th birthday, and Fr. Denis informed me that Carmen was her all-time favorite opera.  (She saw it three times in one year!)  I hesitated - Carmen and I have a rough history after some underlying health issues caused me to give a not-so-favorable performance of the aria at my junior recital.  The fact that I was even singing the Habenera at all was a testament to the level of comfort I was feeling in my new surroundings.

However, I realized you only live once, and if Maura was living to 70 and beyond, it was the least I could do for my new friend.  The crowd who came out for Maura's birthday tea was quite larger than normal.  I stood up and sang it just like I had the previous nights.  The smaller space made my voice seem even larger than I think it already is, and it felt quite staggering.  Afterward, everyone was very appreciative of my effort.  Wexford Town, with good reason, is a little picky about their opera - they hold an annual festival every fall, which is considered the most important in Ireland.  However, I passed their test, and Maura, especially, was so delighted with my special gift to her.  The next morning, I was asked - no, dragged - to give a repeat performance for a couple of the "regulars" who had to miss Maura's birthday.  I think I might've scared a couple of the maintenance men who were helping themselves to tea in the kitchen.

So, I suppose I came to Ireland with my "party piece" in tow, after all.  It isn't necessarily the most traditional of the bunch, but it is definitely something unique to me.  I'm still preparing for the fall, when I know that the members of the sing-songs are going to be expecting much more out of me because I know exactly what's coming!  However, it didn't hurt to also have a monologue in my back pocket when the Habanera began getting a little overused - even if I did forget the words to the end of it...

Cheers!

--Joy.

Bunnies and Sheep and Cows...Oh My!

I'm currently blessed to be spending some time in Wexford, Ireland where I'll be living come the end of August. Not only is this trip wonderful for me because I'm learning about my duties and responsibilities, but it's also my first time ever visiting Ireland! Although I'm sure I will find many things to love about this country, I can already say after roughly 36 hours that the animals are  definitely at the top of my list. Here are the reasons why, sorted by animal:

1. BUNNIES!!
Rabbits are my all-time favorite animal. I have wanted one for as long as I can remember, but have had to settle for the brightly colored stuffed alternatives every Easter. (I grew up with a beagle, so I suppose my mother was justified in saying no to a live one.) When the plane was landing, I looked out of my window to several green patches of grass among the airstrips. In the first grassy patch were four bunny rabbits hopping merrily around chasing one another. I see this as a sign of welcoming from St. Brigid herself!

2. Sheep
I've been told numerous times that I must get myself an "Irish sweater" while I'm here. These wonderfully warm-looking articles of clothing can only be made from the finest wool, of course. So, I was not at all surprised to find numerous sheep grazing in fields as I looked out my window on the bus ride to Wexford. They looked recently-shaven, so perhaps one of them will be the provider of my soon-to-be sweater!

3. Dogs
On our excursion into town today, we stopped into a silver shop that sells handmade jewelry. Upon entry, a very large and fluffy Scotty dog greeted us warmly. Although he initially seemed rather friendly, he was much more interested in grabbing ahold of anything on us he could chew. Namely, Molly's pants and my jacket. I gave him his lion stuffed animal, which resulted in a short-lived game of tug-of-war, and we went on our way.

4. Cats
There are plenty of cats around Cluain Dara (our neighborhood) that should keep me content with not having animals around the house. There's one in particular who came to our back door during the first family dinner that only has one eye. (Apparently he's a regular visitor!) I saw another one walking across the top of a neighbor's garden wall. I'm sure I will start feeding them before long... :)

5. Cows
I'm pretty sure the only interaction I've ever had with a cow was in second grade when we visited a farm and got to pet one standing in her stall while hooked up to the milking machine.  It never dawned on me that American cows must be completely unhappy until I saw my first herd of Irish cows on the bus to Wexford. I'm not kidding you, these cows were actually frolicking through the fields. I didn't even know cows could run! They are by far the happiest things I've seen since being here.

I will, without a doubt, find more furry creatures to befriend. After all, I will have two years here! Now, the biggest question is whether or not there are squirrels in Ireland...

--Joy.