Flashes of Heaven
Hey. I’m finally back in the ol Land of the Free. I’m jet lagged af and I’m kind of over humanity as a whole, so the best thing to do is probably to write you guys a blog. I left my apartment yesterday morning at 5:40am Dublin time (after a solid 2.5ish hours of sleep, oops) and I spent the whole day on a plane next to a frequent pee-er (whose toddler was also a frequent pee-er ) and a sweet little blonde gal who entertained herself by kicking my seat continuously. Good times. So I had lots of time to practice patience and to reflect on the last couple months. I went into this whole shindig with the goal of keeping my blog updated, but I didn’t have a ton of free time, and when I did have a minute, I really didn’t want to spend it behind my laptop, tbh. Instead, a couple weeks into the summer, my goal changed from trying to capture every second possible, to trying to be present for every second possible. In the words of my bae John Mayer, “I didn’t have a camera by my side this time, hoping I would see the world through both my eyes. … I finally overcame trying to fit the world inside a picture frame.”
Don’t get me wrong. I did take pictures. And I took notes and I tweeted and I texted my friends. But many of the most beautiful, stunning things and people I’ve experienced this summer won’t be found on Facebook. They won’t be on Instagram or Tumblr or even on some memory card stored away because I would’ve missed them. I would’ve missed the best parts. Some of the most special things I saw this summer were made precious because they’re mine.
I made my own memories and on the best days, I took pictures with my mind instead of my camera. They’re better than a 3×5 or a digital thumbnail. It’s a little taste of the Divine. I left every encounter a little different than I was before. A little better. I believe in the power of small moments because I can’t count the times I’ve been brought back to life by a brief brush with grace or a fleeting encounter with beauty. These last two months were made up of small moments. Little flashes of heaven on earth.
Sometimes it looked like seeing the sun go down over the River Liffey. Other times it was perfect strangers in a brand new church, reminding me of Truth I had forgotten. It was watching movies in the kitchen and learning about Saudi Arabian politics over brunch. It was saying, “I don’t believe that we’re both right, but I’m willing to learn what you’re willing to teach me. I’m willing to listen.” It was sitting on the edge of a cliff, looking out over the North Channel and seeing Scotland in the distance. It was silently watching for dolphins and seals and feeling small as we weaved in and out of the crooks and crevices of mountains. It was the 360-degree view from the top of the hill of Tara. It was funny stories and traditions and folklore of giants and fairies and Vikings. It was karaoke bars and hole-in-the-wall cafes. It was outdoor movies and early bus rides and Saturday nights that turned into Sunday mornings and strangers that turned into friends.
It was playing cards and eating pizza at 1am with people we just met, but still feeling like some sort of weird little family. It was teaching my new German friend American slang and going on our daily coffee runs. It was walking the friendly office wolf-dog around the city center and the point in time where my coworkers realized my diet coke addiction and just started bringing me one any time they went to the store (Dad, I know aspartame is bad and I am sorry.)
It was chasing down taxis in a sketchy neighborhood in Belfast and eating breakfast on a big stony beach in Bray (which is nice place, despite how much everyone hates on it!!!). It was coffee shop revelations and the overwhelming hospitality of strangers. It was a friendly group of Brazilians parading me around, introducing me to everyone as their “little American gift.” It was charades and Monopoly and spirit animal quizzes. It was looking out at the cliffs of moher and being dazzled and awestruck. It was walking around the Burren and realizing that even stony desolation has beauty written all over it. It was ordering in bland Irish-Thai food and sharing stories of our childhoods and laughing at how ridiculous it is that we all met each other under such random circumstances.
It was that stomach-dropping feeling when the bus kept stalling on a steep hill out in the northern Irish countryside, a 500-foot drop immediately to the right. It was spending the whole evening eating gelato and watching street performers. It was climbing the rocks at Giants Causeway and marveling at how much time God must’ve spent on some parts of the world. It was singing along to The Script with 83,000 people in Croke Park on a Saturday night. It was sitting in a weird movie theater on the outskirts of Dublin, eating too-sweet salsa, and realizing that we’re not all that different. And though there are differences, they aren’t all that bad.
It was doing life with people of different faiths, and of no faiths at all, and entering into worlds that are bizarre and controversial and broken and beautiful – like mine. It was hearing story after story of how we – the Church – have mistreated and abused and abandoned our brothers and sisters, and then being able to look them in the eye and say, “I am so sorry. I can’t promise that we won’t do that again but I can tell you about the One that never mistreats, abuses, or abandons.”
It was the difference between reading about a Middle Eastern war on my CNN app, and living with someone who experienced it firsthand. It was a perspective check. It was a privilege check. It was building bridges and joining hands and laying down our biases and preconceived notions that we have about perfect strangers. It was the moment the little countries on the news became human to me. They became individual people with families and stories and souls. It was the freedom found in the realization that I cannot change anyone. That I cannot save them, I can only love them. It was the bold reminder that our fight is not against flesh and blood. It was saying yes, even when I didn’t have all the information. It was going on a trip with a stranger, and becoming friends before it was over. It was getting completely and hopelessly lost in the pouring rain (I was legitimately very upset ok) and having to rely on a passerby to help me get home. It was walking through Phoenix Park and eating Lebanese food and trying not to think about the fact that it would all end soon.
I’ve found that no matter where I go, no matter how beautiful and awe-inspiring the mountains or the cliffs or the seas, they pale in comparison to the complexity and the beauty of the souls standing right next to me. They pale in comparison to their Creator. I realized that you really can’t capture the best moments, because the best moments – the ones that really stun you and shake you and wake you up – are spontaneous and adrenaline-pinching, breathtaking and heart-stopping. They’re thick and vibrant and fleeting. They stop you in your tracks and engrave themselves right onto your soul, and I would never want a camera to get in the way of that.