The Tale of Hairold the Fish

In a word, Hairold the fish was spoiled. In a bowl that was more than over-sized for his microscopic likings, he swam freely in a life of moderate luxury full of aquarium ornaments and multi-colored pebbles. He was given three square meals a day and his tank was cleaned every week on the week with no exceptions. Hairold lived well and I loved him as well as any pet owner could love their pet without it being weird.

In light of the fine circumstances surrounding Hairold’s existence, everybody who knew of his exceptional treatment and intentional owners expected him to lead a long and prosperous life of gill-flapping and head-bobbing. He had all the resources he needed to survive and thrive.

“Hey, where’s Hairold?”

Waking up to a fishless fish bowl is not an experience that I would wish upon any person. A mixture of confusion and disbelief blend together to make for a particularly disorienting moment.

Through the bathroom door, my roommate responded.

“What?” she asked.

“Where’s Hairold? Did you do something with him?”

“Lara, what are you talking about? He’s a fish. He’s in his fish tank.”

“No, he’s not in here! Are you serious? You didn’t put him somewhere weird or something?”

She opened the bathroom door and walked towards the empty fish tank.

“Tell me I’m blind. This is completely absurd. I really hope I’m just blind right now.”

“What the crazy-pants?! There is literally NO fish in this fish bowl right now. Lara, what in the world is going on? Did you do something to him?”

“Okay, obviously not. I’m the one who freaked out first and I’m not this good at playing pranks. If I was kidding, you would know by now.”

After about ten minutes of sitting in silent awe of the aquatic phenomenon that had taken place in our dorm, action needed to be taken. I finally spoke.

“Well, I think we have both been sufficiently freaked out. We have no fish. We have no idea how or why we have no fish. I mean, we can’t just sit here all day. I guess we should just... go to class?”

The idea of making “Lost Fish” signs and posting them around campus was on the table for a fleeting moment, but we decided, after a very surreal morning, to let the situation settle itself. As irrational as it may have been, we assumed that sooner or later, he would just show up.

                                                                      #

The next several hours were marked by great confusion. For somebody who has a particularly hard time accepting things that don’t make sense, the fact that my fish had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared was a nearly impossible reality to come to terms with. How could I focus on Professor Smith’s interpretation of Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard when I had such a mystery on my mind?

This may come as a surprise, but the disappearance of my goldfish isn’t the only situation that I have been guilty of overthinking. It takes me twenty minutes to decide between the blue dress at Macy’s and the floral dress at Nordstrom, and that’s on a good day. Choosing my major in college took a solid year. I often find myself thinking in circles around situations that I don’t really have control over and stressing over unimportant details. That in mind, it’s no surprise that I was preoccupied by the remarkable disappearance of my fish. I needed to get to the bottom of this.

                                                                      #

Like any logical person would be, my classmate was very skeptical.

“I don’t believe you. That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Dude, I would love nothing more than for you to come to my dorm and prove me wrong right now. I’ve been freaking out about this all day.”

Walking back to the dorm, I considered the endless possibilities. They were all out of the realm of possibility and completely unrealistic, but then again, so was the idea of a fish disappearing.

When we got back to my dorm, we went straight to the fish bowl.

“Okay, how does the bowl work?”

“What do you mean ‘how does the bowl work?’? It’s a fish bowl...”

“Yeah, but is there a filter?”

“... yeah, but...”

She lifted the top of the bowl and opened up the filter.

Oh, Hairold. May you rest in pieces.  

A Hostel Experience

Four girls, three nights, two bodyguards and a London hostel without door locks.

If it sounds dangerous, it was. If it sounds frightening, it was. If it sounds like the blueprint of a rather eventful weekend abroad, it most certainly is.

College students do not have money, but they want to visit exciting places and be independent. As a college student, most of my travel decisions were made by which restaurants had the lowest prices or which hostels had the fewest number of drunk people loitering around them late at night. With these standards in mind, it is no surprise that myself and the three other girls whom I was traveling with ended up at a pretty questionable hostel on Jerrmyn Street.

After three glorious weeks of studying in the warm and homey city of Cambridge, England, we began our journey to London, where we would be staying for the weekend before returning to California. In theory, a weekend in London with close friends seems like a dream come true. In reality however, four college students at the tail end of an abroad journey will always be exhausted and broke.

As we made our way to our hostel, we saw many peculiar places and even more peculiar people. “We aren’t in Cambridge anymore” we told ourselves. We walked for several minutes down a single street before realizing that we were on the wrong path. Retracing our steps, we found the sign for our hostel, but not until we discovered that it was in fact connected to Abracadabra, a Russian restaurant in the basement of our hostel. After making this discovery, we knew that we were marking the beginning of an relatively high-risk weekend.

This hostel – which shall remain unnamed – is an all-girls hostel run by Russian men. Confusing, no? The only female workers we ever saw there were the receptionists and after check-in, we never saw them again. There were no lockers to put valuables in during the day and, as mentioned previously, none of the room doors had locks on them. There were two bodyguards who would come out at night and guard the doors that led to the street, but other than that, everything was fair game. The only way of “ensuring” that your more cherished belongings remained safe was stowing them behind a curtain near the reception desk. This hardly seemed promising.

After settling in as best we could, we decided to go out and spend the night on the town. We explored a park nearby and found an amazing pastry shop that reminded us that there are in fact good things in life, even if our hostel was not one of them. We delayed our return to the hostel as long as we could, but by about eleven o’clock, the gig was up. Knowing that our night of low-budget adventuring had come to an end, we slowly began our trudge back down Jerrmyn Street.

Arriving back at the hostel, we concluded that although it was too late to be wandering around the streets of London, we were not quite tired enough to call it a night. We remembered the receptionist speaking of a restaurant that all women in the hostel had free access to, so we foolishly decided to visit it. Before we knew it, the short middle-aged man at the front desk was taking us down a long staircase, leading to a single red door. This was the uh-oh moment. He opened the door and the three of us were speechless. Throughout the club, there were several curtained quadrants, each housing a red lounge couch adjacent to a personal dance floor. It was cold. It was dark. And worst of all, it was empty.

Being the only people in the room besides our kind escort, our minds were moving a mile a minute. A million scenarios began rushing through our minds, and after a few short seconds, we told the man who brought us down that we would be leaving. Although he encouraged us to stay longer, we insisted on exiting and were able to vacate the premises without any of our initial fears being realized. From this point forward, we were just counting down the hours before our landing in LAX. We were ready to go home.

My uneasiness regarding our living arrangements persisted throughout the entire weekend. It was not until I collapsed into the rock hard, box-shaped chairs in terminal four of the Heathrow airport that I felt completely safe. I had a nonstop ten-hour flight ahead of me, but the thought of spending ten hours on a plane was infinitely more appealing to me than that of spending another ten minutes checked in at this hostel. I hate flying.

Four girls, three nights, two bodyguards and a London hostel without door locks.

If it sounds dangerous, it was. If it sounds frightening, it was. If it sounds like a long series of close calls culminating into a cautionary tale that I will speak of for years to come, it most certainly is. 

Family Matters

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a story that involved a spider and ended well. It’s always “And then I noticed that there was a GIANT spider” or “I woke up with a bunch of spider bites,” or worst of all, “I still don’t really know what happened to the spider.” I’m sure God had His reasons for creating spiders, but those reasons are about as clear to me as these goggles were to a ‘90s kid in a physical science class.  

All that to say, two weeks ago, I found a spider on my bed, which was obviously horrifying. After a mild – and by mild, I mean severe – freak out moment, I frantically started removing the sheets from my bed while launching off into a well-rehearsed diatribe about how useless and disgusting bugs are.  Mid-rant, I regained clarity long enough to remember that there are two vacant rooms just across the hallway from mine. All at once my problem was solved; my actual bedroom has now become the now-vacant room across the hallway.

As much as I appreciate the fact that these empty rooms in my house accommodate my irrational fear of insects – for the record, I’m not actually convinced that it’s irrational – I do miss the days of having my brothers living right across the hallway from me. When we were all living under the same roof – which, insanely enough, hasn’t been the case for almost eight years – I didn’t really think much of it. The three of us got along well enough on most days, and I’ll speak for myself in saying that we became progressively more fond of each other as we grew older.

My middle brother and I had a rocky start. With a mere fourteen-month age gap and polar opposite temperaments at the onset, we were genetically programed to drive each other crazy. He once pushed my baby bouncer under the piano in the living room just to watch me repeatedly hit my head on its base. After we got past the head bashing, Barbie doll vandalizing, tattletaling years of our relationship, he started to grow on me. In high school, we bonded over a trip to Italy with our uncle, and the rest is history. These days, I guess I’d say he’s alright.

Many years later, with all of us living at least a 6 hour car ride away from each other, I am starting to understand what a luxury it was to have my entire family in one place for all those years.

I began realizing this about five years ago when I moved away for college. My oldest brother and I attended the same university for one year, giving us a chance to see that we could be friends and not just siblings. We took good care of each other that year – he took me to the grocery store and I took him to the gym.  After he graduated, I had three full years of school left, which gave me plenty of time to continue growing in my understanding of how precious my family is.

Within the past two years, the three of us have found ourselves living in different areas, and adjusting to living far from my siblings has been more challenging than I expected it to be. When my middle brother moved up north to start a new chapter with his now wife, I remember it feeling bitter-sweet; I was happy to see him so happy, but I was bummed that he would be so far away. By the end of that same year, my oldest brother and his wife were packing their bags for a big move across the country; they had been given a ministry opportunity in another state that they felt called to pursue. And just like that, a spider-dodging fortress was born. 

Surprised by the bitter-sweetness of this season, I’ve tried to make a special effort to keep in touch with my siblings. We don’t talk every day, or even every week, but I know that when I need them, they’ll be there and I hope they know it goes both ways. As somebody who really values quality time, having family in different cities has given me more excuses to travel and visit. I worried that being far away would weaken our family bond, but that simply has not been the case; for that, I am extremely grateful. 

We’ve heard it said often enough – “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” I wouldn’t necessarily say that I “didn’t know what I had” with my family until I left for college or my brothers moved away, but I would certainly say that the distance has helped me appreciate what I have much more. It has helped me realize that having a supportive, loving, and healthy family is by no means a given and that maintaining closeness with family requires intentionality.

Take a moment today to think about the family that God has blessed you with and how you can show love to them. Whether you are annoyed that your parents won’t let you go to the mall this afternoon or hurt by the unkind words of a family member, think on how you can selflessly serve your family by meeting needs and creating community among its members. The deep love of our Heavenly Father implores us to value, love, and serve our families. Let’s be intentional in seeking out ways to do this.

Coming Home

After graduating from college two years ago, I moved back in to the house I grew up in. It’s only about an hour and a half away from the university that I graduated from, which made the transition fairly convenient and seamless. I didn’t have a job lined up for after I graduated, so the idea of free rent and home-cooked meals was enticing to say the least. All things considered, my parents' home has been a source of stability and familiarity in these post-college transition years; for that, I am beyond grateful.

And now, it’s time for me begin a new phase. The phase of paying rent, shopping for my own groceries, cooking my own meals and working with a landlord. For my last two years of college, I lived in a house with six other girls and I had all of these same responsibilities. I know how to do dishes, fold laundry, and make my bed. I know how to entertain guests and pay bills. Even though I’ve had all of these experiences and responsibilities in the past, I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s all going to feel a bit different this time. 

When I lived on my own in college, I felt like I was playing house. I had adult responsibilities, a home to invite friends over to and a budget to operate within, but at the end of the day, I still felt like a kid. After a long day of classes and studying, my housemates and I would come home, collapse onto our blue couch, and talk about how surreal our experience of early adulthood actually was.  Outbursts of“Man, why is toilet paper so expensive?” and “I HATE street cleaning day!” were far from uncommon. We were going through the motions of adulthood, but they were by no means natural.

While I know that these new responsibilities will not feel natural at first, I like to think that I am better equipped for them now than I was two years ago. Ironically enough, I feel that living at home these past two years has actually helped prepare me for the independence that I’ve been working towards. It has helped me achieve financial stability in the early years of my career and it has also made me more aware of how much effort goes into maintaining a living space. Simply put, living at home has given me a safe space to try new things and learn from my mistakes.

Ever since I was a little kid, my parents’ house has been my home. Barring my two years in the dorms at the beginning of college, I’ve lived in a house for my whole life, and once I move into my apartment, it will probably be a while before I live in a house again. Up to this point, my concept of home, I suppose by default, has always included a house; as I prepare to move in to my first apartment however, I am rethinking this concept and asking myself what makes a place a home. I don’t have a complete answer to that quite yet, but I do know that creating a home takes time and effort and that it’s more about the people than the place itself. 

While I know my parents' home will always be a home for me and I will always be welcome there, I'm looking forward to shaping my own little version of a home for myself. It won't be perfect and it will take time to find the right place, but eventually, it will be home.

I Am Not My Own

When I was four years old and my older brother slammed my head onto the tile of our kitchen floor, I had the right to be angry. Yes, that actually happened. And last weekend, when a stranger at the mall made a rude comment, I had the right to retaliate and talk back. In fact, on most days, according to the standards of our society, there are very few actions that are not considered common rights. 

As an American citizen, I am granted certain rights, but my identity as a follower of Christ demands that I lay down my certain rights that challenge God’s glory. So how do we reconcile these two realities? Does our calling to live in community with one another contradict our calling to lay down our rights, as all communities are made functional through a set of established rights or privileges?

The Declaration of Independence provides us “with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness [and] to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” By nature of being human, we are endowed with rights in America. Even so, as soon as my rights become a stumbling block to my neighbor, I need to evaluate the situation and carefully consider its gravity and implications.

For example, consider the right to the pursuit happiness. This is one that could easily conflict with the interests of others. It is a rather undefined right and is subject to each person’s personal perception of happiness. One who argues that he is justified in pursuing happiness by harming or killing his neighbor does not understand his pursuit of happiness in the context of godly love and sacrifice.  We cannot all mindlessly wander around the country pursuing our concept of happiness because the concepts may conflict and break moral codes. This is why our right to pursue happiness must be sacrificed a times. When we allow our own happiness to be the sole motivator in a decision or action, we forget that we are not our own; we have been bought at a price (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

In some ways, government requires that we lay down rights in order to protect them. Some would argue that you lose freedom when you do not use it well. There are other laws in place that restrict the right to the pursuit of happiness and that would not allow for the killing of that neighbor. Even setting moral conviction aside, murder is not legal. We possess God given rights and we should claim those rights when they are good and healthy, but when they stand on the way of God the Father being glorified, they must be laid down.

So take a moment today to consider what rights you need to lay down. Whether it’s your right to happiness, your right to rest, or your right to be upset about something, think about how claiming those rights affects your relationship with others and with God.

 “By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers” (1 John 3:16).