A week with my best friend in Oxford: An evening at Walter’s, a trip to The Trout, and Answered prayers

Steve and I woke up Saturday morning and headed to the city center for a workout at the gym. I went to grab my gloves on the way out when I realized they were nowhere to be found…

The same gloves that had been reunited only days before when my missing glove mysteriously appeared in my mailbox were now missing. Both of them. They weren’t in my bag pocket, where I had left them.

“They must’ve fallen out somewhere in the city center, again,” I told Steve as we left the house.

I had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Maybe both will show up in my mailbox next week with a sign that reads, “This is the last time!” I thought to myself as we walked along Banbury Road to the city center.

Sunday: Introducing Steve to Walter’s Home

When I visited Walter for tea shortly after returning to Oxford at the start of the term, I had told him that Steve would be coming out to visit the following week. Steve had met Walter when we first visited the Kilns last fall, and Walter regularly asks how Steve is doing. Walter’s good about things like that. He’s always asking questions that shows he cares.

After hearing that Steve would be in town, Walter said it would be nice to see him again. I suggested the three of us find a time to get together for dinner, perhaps. Walter liked that idea, and he invited us over for dinner that Sunday evening Steve would be in town. I had mentioned the idea to Steve over e-mail before he arrived, and he loved it. After hearing about our time with Walter, he was looking forward to seeing him again, and to someday seeing his home. I told him he’d love it.

So that’s what we did. After church that morning, and working away from the house that afternoon, Steve and I ventured north to Walter’s house. Stopping briefly in Summertown to pick up something for dessert. I told Walter we’d take care of dessert, since he was preparing a meal for us. He didn’t seem to mind that idea.

We made it to Walter’s home just after six that night. He greeted us at the door, with that huge, warm smile of his, and big eyes behind his glasses.

“Hello,” Walter said, welcoming us and inviting us in. “Let me take your coats.”

I greeted Walter with a hug and handed the dessert to him, explaining that it’d need some time to bake.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll take it into the kitchen; I’m sure my French chef Benoit will know what to do with it.”

I smiled. I had never heard of “Benoit” before.

Before leaving the front entryway, I pointed out a picture that hung on the wall to Steve .

“Walter with Lewis,” I said.

“Oh, wow.”

Walter returned from the kitchen and pointed out by name all the people in the photos that hung on his walls.

“And this, this is a view of the Kilns before the house next door to it that you saw was built,” Walter explained, helping orient us to the photo.

“They had quite a bit more room back then, from the looks of it,” I said.

“Well come into the living room,” Walter said, waving us along to follow him, which we did.

“This is great,” Steve said as we entered the room.

Walter’s living room has quickly become my favorite place in Oxford. It’s so incredibly comfortable. With the fireplace and large, comfortable chairs seated around it. With the books stacked high along the walls. And not to mention that Walter always has a hot pot of tea and some sort of treat waiting.

Walter showed Steve around the room, pointing out different things along the way.

“This statue shows how movement was first introduced into sculptures,” Walter explained, pointing toward the life-size statue in the corner of the room.

“Prior to this, you didn’t see this kind of movement. The Egyptians, for example, created their statues so that their arms were at their side and their legs were straight. But, by raising this leg just so, you create this movement in the rest of the sculpture.”

Walter continued the tour, pointing out the small table in the corner of the room that had been Lewis’ when he was a young boy, and the small humidor that used to be Lewis’.

“This isn’t his tobacco, though,” Walter explained, as he held it up for us to smell.

He pointed out the illustrations on the wall. Illustrations from the Chronicles of Narnia series. The original illustrations. Crazy. And then he asked us to excuse him while he returned to the kitchen to check on Benoit. His French chef. To make sure everything was coming along okay.

He invited us to have a look around, and to help ourselves to anything. So we did.

I found my way to Walter’s book shelves and allowed my eyes to read over the titles and authors.

“He really did a great job with the colors here,” Steve said. “Even in the entryway. The green works great with the photos of the house and the grass.”

“Yeah, he knows what he’s doing, for sure,” I said from across the room.

Walter’s second passion, to literature and all things Lewis, is sculpture. And he has a fair share of it spread throughout the room. As well as several pieces of art hanging from the wall.

“Here’s a picture of Walter with the Pope,” I said, pointing to a framed photo on the wall, beside one of the framed pieces of art. Walter’s a pretty big fan of the Pope.

Walter returned from the kitchen to tell us Benoit had everything under control, and that dinner would be ready shortly.

Steve told him he had done a great job decorating. And how much he liked the color choice.

“Oh, well thank you. I’m so glad to hear you like it,” he told Steve.

They talked for a while about the particular colors, and why they were chosen. A conversation which I, as a colorblind guy, didn’t appreciate nearly as much as they did.

Walter invited us to take a seat beside the fire. He helped us to some tea, and he held out a plate full of puffed pastries.

“They’re sausage rolls,” he told Steve. “Have you had one before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well surely you have,” Walter said, turning toward me with the plate.

“Yeah, yeah I have. They’re really good, but we don’t have them back home,” I said, taking a bite. “Probably the closest thing I can think of would be pigs in a blanket, but they’re not quite the same.”

We talked for a while over tea and sausage rolls, while “Benoit” finished preparing dinner. Walter asked us what we had planned for Steve’s time in Oxford.

“Oh, well, we’re not quite sure yet,” I told him.

“I just enjoy being here and hanging out, really,” Steve piped in. “I love Oxford, but I’m not much of a tourist.”

“Have you made it to the Trout yet?” Walter asked, turning to me.

“No, no I haven’t, but I remember you telling me about that before. Still haven’t made it.”

“Oh, well you absolutely must go.”

The Trout is an old inn that has been turned into a restaurant, which sits right on the river. Walter had told Jen and I about it the last time he had us over for supper. But we had yet to make it there.

“Yes, you should go early in the day, before it gets dark, so you can take a walk beside the river,” Walter encouraged us. “It’s a nice walk, and I know you’ll enjoy it.”

“We’ll have to do that before you leave,” I said, turning to Steve.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

We finished our tea and Walter invited us into the dining room, informing us that “Benoit” had finished preparing our dinner.

And he did a great job. Benoit, that is. A nice ham, some potatoes and broccoli. It looked really good.

“Why don’t you sit here in your spot,” Walter said, pointing to the chair where I had sat the last time Walter had us over for dinner. “And Steve, you can sit here.”

We fixed our plates and Walter asked me if I’d bless the food for us. I was happy to.

The meal was really good, and we had a great time, talking over the food. Walter’s a keen conversationalist, and he kept the questions coming. Never pressed or forced, but just good conversation.

We returned to the living room after supper. Stomachs now full. We sunk low into our chairs and picked up the conversation again.

He asked each of us how much we had traveled around Europe. Neither of us have much at all. He told us we needed to go to Rome someday. And Italy. He told us he loved Italy, and that he had just recently returned from visiting there. I told him I’d love to see both places someday.

He told us he was happy to see us having this time together, Steve and I, even while I was so far from home.

“It must be difficult to keep a friendship going while being so far apart,” he said, with that look of serious concern on his face.

“Yeah, it is,” I said, “but it definitely helps when this guy flies out to visit like this,” I said, motioning across the room to Steve.

Walter told us he had never seen a friendship quite like ours. And he was thankful for it.

“It’s rare to find a best friend, you know?” he told us.

He also told us we needed to read C.S. Lewis’ book, The Four Loves.

“Have you read it?” he asked us.

“Yeah, I have,” I spoke up.

“I haven’t, no,” Steve said.

“Oh, you must read it,” Walter insisted. “It’s a wonderful book, and Lewis writes about the love shared between friends. He contends for such friendship in it.”

Walter explained how he thought the Feminist movement and a lot of the other changes in the middle of the last century deconstructed such friendships (I love that Walter doesn’t bother with being P.C, by the way; it’s refreshing). He talked about how men don’t share friendships like they did before that time. He talked about The Inklings, about C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkein and others, about their weekly talks, and how these men spurred each other on to do great things.

“I hope you fight for this friendship,” he told us with a look of seriousness on his face. “And if you don’t, then come talk to me, and I will for you.”

We had a great time talking with Walter that night. He’s such a genuinely kind and sincere man.

At about half past 10, we thanked Walter for a wonderful time. We told him to give our compliments to “Benoit” for a great meal. And we asked him if he’d mind taking a couple quick photos. He as happy to oblige, as long as we signed his guestbook. It was a fair trade.

We thanked Walter again for a great time as he found our coats for us. And we promised to check out the Trout before Steve left.

Skyping with Jen: We’re going to Rome!

I Skyped with Jen when we got back to the house. To tell her about our time. And just to catch up. She told me they had just talked with Monti and Heidi about their trip out to see us (Monti and Heidi are great friends of our family back home, and they’re coming to visit with their two kids this spring).

“So it sounds like we’ll be going to Rome,” Jen told me with a big grin over our Skype call. “They just booked a place.”

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome!” I told her. “And kind of funny. Walter was just telling us we need to visit Rome someday.”

I told Steve it sounded like he needed to make a trip out this Spring, too.

Wednesday: Clive’s help with a wedding suit for Steve

I was working on some Greek at Starbucks on Wednesday afternoon when Steve stepped away to go walk around town for a bit. He returned about a half-hour later with a big smile on his face.

“I think I found suits for my wedding, man.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, not realizing that’s what he had been up to. “That’s awesome.”

Apparently he had walked into a place across the street and he told one of the guys there he was getting married in October. And that he had been looking at suits back home. Not long after that, he had a suit picked out for the wedding.

“I’d love to check it out,” I told him.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

I packed up my things and we headed across the street. We had looked at suits at a couple places back home before I left to return to Oxford, but he hadn’t settled on anything. I was curious to see what he had found.

A stocky british guy with a thick english accent and shortly shaved head by the name of Clive greeted us as we walked in. “Steve, good to see you again.” He seemed like a real English man’s man. Like the kind of guy who would be out playing rugby for the first part of the day, and then come to the shop and tell you all about suits the next.

He led us upstairs and handed Steve the suit he had picked out. It ended up being a bit different than what we had been looking at back home, but it was great.

“I like it a lot, man. Yeah, it’s really sharp.”

“You should try one on,” Steve insisted, “to get your size right.”

So I did. Clive snapped a photo of Steve in his suit first. And then one “with the best man,” as Clive said.

I’d love to share the photos with you, but apparently it’s something of a secret.

“I don’t get to see her wedding dress until the day of, so she doesn’t get to see our suits,” Steve said. “That’s fair, right?”

Wednesday: A Trip to the Trout

We were serious about taking Walter up on his suggestion to make it to the Trout before Steve left, so we made plans to venture north to the restaurant on Wednesday afternoon. In the late afternoon, but not too late. Before it got dark. So we could still take in the sights.

It was a bit of a cloudy day, and it had been drizzling off and on earlier, but we lucked out and it seemed to hold off for our walk.

And Walter was right, it was a great walk. About three miles north of where I am living here.

A couple miles into the trip, we came to a bridge that crossed a river that runs through the western border of Oxford. The river had these small boats on one side, which I had been told people live in year-round.

After crossing the bridge, the view opened up into this beautiful English countryside.

Several small ponds were scattered throughout the fields, and a group of ducks skimmed across the top of the water as we passed.

Walking a little further, we came into a small town. With this little market. And all of a sudden I was reminded how very far we were from home. In this small English village miles even from Oxford. It’s funny. I hadn’t felt that way. I had just kind of gotten used to being here. But, for some reason, walking through this little village reminded me I was in a foreign country. I a beautiful foreign country.

Most of the homes in this village were old and built of stone. With little space from one house to the next. The roads were narrow, and we walked on them. Taking photos along the way.

This thatched roof home was seated on the corner of a bend that opened up to reveal another expansive field, which it looked like people were taking full advantage. A couple was walking together. And a man was walking with his dog.

The road narrowed again as it turned into another bridge, crossing another part of what I took to be the same river, bending just so.

After crossing this second bridge, we spotted a tall sign with a fish on it.

“That must be it,” I said to Steve, as we walked past what looked to be a small, communal garden in the center of a handful of older-looking stone homes.

The Trout was just as Walter had described it. An old stone inn that had been reconverted into a restaurant. It was great.

Randomly, a peacock was wandering by the front entryway. “Must be the bouncer,” I thought to myself as Steve and I both snapped pictures.

Entering the old stone building, we ducked our heads a bit for the low entry ceiling. The restaurant was amazing. I was immediately surprised by how modern it looked. Everything was very sleek and minimal. Lots of wood throughout. Dimly lit. And it looked out over this beautiful view of the river.

We passed right through the restaurant and onto the back patio to take in the sights, before finding our seats inside.

The river was rushing pretty swiftly as we stood on the patio, taking it all in. Large umbrellas provided for the seating area, which I’m sure must be great during the spring and summertime.

A long, narrow wooden foot bridge led across to the other side. It really was a great spot.

We made our way inside and found a table in the corner of the room that looked out across the river.

It was still a bit early for dinner, so we ordered a couple drinks and started journaling.

Steve and I had been talking a bit about our dreams. And we wanted to find a time to do that before he took off. To share with each other what we wanted to accomplish. And to pray for each other. So we did.

Steve’s the kind of guy who dreams big. Unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.

Before I met Steve, I always figured dreams were a bit for people who don’t actually do anything with their life. But, instead, for people who simply “dream” of doing something big. Someday. And then someday never comes.

But that’s not the case with Steve. not at all. I still remember the first time I shared with him about my dreams to one day study at Oxford. And to write in a way that helped others see God more clearly. I hadn’t shared this dream with anyone at this point. Apart from my wife. And so I did so somewhat sheepishly.

But he told me I should go after it. As simple as that. Without laughing at me or telling me that sounded like a pretty lofty dream. Just that I should.

That was just over two years ago. It was only the second or third time we had hung out. And now here I am. At Oxford. Studying Theology. Like I had dreamt of for so long.

Needless to say, that’s something I appreciate greatly in Steve. He’s the kind of friend who’s always encouraging me to dream big, and to go after those dreams. He’s the friend who always believes in me.

Having someone like that in your life. . .well, that’s priceless.

“I figured, rather than just sitting down and writing out what we want, maybe we should start with some of the ways God’s blessed our life up to this point,” Steve suggested. “That way, we’re reminded about all of the times God has shown up and provided when we doubted whether He would.”

I loved that idea. So we did. Each journaling to ourselves.

We shared them with each other after a while. All those ways God has shown up. In each of our lives. It was really encouraging to hear those times in Steve’s life, and it was good to remind myself of all those times He’s shown up in my life, even amidst my doubts.

After a while, we decided to order some food. We’re both burger guys, so we went with two of their burgers.

They showed up on these cool, wooden serving trays. Very unique.

After burgers, we talked a bit about what we wanted to set out to accomplish in life. Short-term and long-term. And then we prayed for each other. Lifting up these dreams to God, just like we had done all those years before. With Oxford. From just outside of Oxford.

So thankful for that time. So thankful for a friend who still dares me to dream big and who encourages me to go after them.

A second dinner: Hussein’s Kebab van

We made it back to the house kind of early. As we had taken an early trip out to The Trout.

Both Steve and I had been wanting to make a trip to the kebab vans in the city center before he left. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something so appealing about eating food from a truck. I think it’s unique to men, though, as neither Jen nor Jamie are big on the idea.

Steve told Jamie we were going to go grab a second dinner from the kebab van. She told him to be careful they didn’t serve us rat. Or pigeon.

Jamie used to work in New York. And apparently there was a case where some sidewalk vendors got caught for selling pigeon. So, her fear isn’t completely unfounded, I guess.

Neither Steve nor I were swayed, though. We were dead set on ordering food from a van before he left.

Around 10 o’clock that night, we made our way to the city center. And we found “Hussein’s Kebab Van” in his old familiar spot. On the corner near the Ashmoleon Museum. Where Cole had surprised me with that first-edition copy of Mere Christianity last December.

One of my favorite parts about Hussein’s is the menu. They have everything. From pizza to burgers to kebabs… They even have tuna pizza. I dared Steve to order it, but he decided against it. Choosing to go with the chicken kebab instead.

It was a cool night, but we found a spot nearby to eat our kebabs. Under a large statue in the city center that sits between two lanes of traffic. It’s where Jen and I had eaten our kebabs before seeing Romeo & Juliet last fall.

It was a cool spot to eat. With oncoming headlights cutting through the night air, as though they were going to come straight for you, before finally turning.

The kebabs were great. Messy, but great. The hot chicken was a warm welcome in the cool night air.

It was a great time, sitting there with my best friend. Late that night in the middle of Oxford. Thankful for those times. And memories.

Thursday: Paninis & celebrating Steve’s engagement

Steve’s a big fan of the Alternative Tuck paninis here in Oxford. As am I, obviously. So we enjoyed quite a few trips to the panini shop while he was here. We’d normally meet up there halfway through the day, make our way through the long line, and head down to Harris Manchester, warm paninis in-hand, to find a place to sit and eat.

Steve snapped this one of me unexpectedly. But, as you can see, I wasted little time. That panini didn’t have a chance with me.

We worked away from the Harris Manchester Library for a few hours that afternoon. Me on my papers. Steve on his business. And on wedding plans.

Celebrating answered prayers

I had told Steve I had a surprise for him that night. Before he left. I don’t think he had any idea what it was. I told him we’d take off a little after five for it.

About a quarter after five, we left the college and headed back home. I asked Steve if he had packed any dress clothes for the trip. He hadn’t.

“Hmm… well, maybe you can borrow a pair of mine.” I suggested.

“Actually, I bought another suit with my wedding suit,” he told me. “Not sure if it’s tailored or not, but maybe it’ll work.”

After getting ready at the house, we stepped out and headed back to the city center.

“Well, bud, I felt bad we weren’t able to celebrate your engagement when I was back home,” I told him, “so I wanted to make sure we got to do that before you left.”

“Oh, thanks man.”

There’s a restaurant here in Oxford that always catches Steve’s eye. Gee’s. It looks a bit like a green house. With white trim and loads of windows. It has chandeliers hanging just above the tables inside.

I told Steve I had tried to make reservations for us for Gee’s for the night before he took off, but that they were booked out for an event.

“So, next best option: The Old Parsonage.”

The Old Parsonage is a hotel / restaurant in the city center. It’s supposed to be a pretty nice place. And apparently it’s owned by the same folks as Gee’s.

“That sounds great, man. Thank you so much,” Steve said, turning toward me as we walked. “That really means a lot.”

“Of course.”

The Old Parsonage is a really cool old stone building with lots of vines growing on the exterior. And large hedges along the road, blocking the view from traffic.

The front door is an old, castle-esque wooden door.

We made our way in to find a small room with several people seated with drinks and smiles. A young guy behind a desk wearing a dark suit and a tie greeted us. I told him we were looking for the restaurant.

“Just around the corner,” he told us, pointing us in the right direction.

The small room opened up to a slightly larger room after a couple steps. The room’s walls were plastered in framed art and portraits.

It was a really elegant place. And just a handful of other tables with people at them.

There were two older men seated with a woman at one table, and an older couple seated beside a window at another who talked in french to each other the whole night.

A Porsche pulled into the gravel driveway as we sat down, and I watched as a guy in his late 50’s stepped out, wearing a suit and scarf.

We were clearly the youngest ones in the restaurant.

Opening up our menus, I think Steve was taken aback a bit.

“Oh, wow. Man, we can go some place else if you like.”

That’s just the kind of guy Steve is. He gives other people the world, and yet he expects so little in return.

“This really means a lot, man, but I seriously would’ve been happy just being treated to ice cream or something,” he told me from across the table.

“Ice cream? Had you known me when I got engaged, I know there’s no way you would’ve taken me out for ice cream to celebrate.”

A sheepish grin spread across his face as he looked off. He knew I was right.

When I received the news that I had been accepted to Oxford, Steve treated Jennifer to an umpteen course meal at one of the nicest restaurants in the area back home. Certainly the nicest restaurant either Jen or I had ever been to. And will probably ever go to.

We had an amazing time that night, celebrating my being accepted to study here. And I wanted to do the same for Steve.

“Well thanks, man. It really means a lot.”

“Of course.”

The food at The Old Parsonage was pretty incredible. I ordered the ox. Because I’ve never had ox. And Steve ordered the cod.

Both were great. My ox tasted a bit like the best roast beef you’ve ever had. Falling apart with the slightest touch of a fork. And mashed potatoes to top it off.

We had a great time. Talking about Steve & Jamie’s big day. And remembering about all the times we had spent praying for Steve’s future wife. Over coffee at Wood’s back home. Now the big day was just months away, and I was happy to celebrate that with him.

After cleaning our plates, I slid around the table so our waitress could snap a photo of us. Celebrating just another way God has shown up, in a very big way, and answered the prayers of our hearts. The wife of Steve’s dreams.

Thanks for a great trip, my friend.

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Personal belongings in the toilet, A visitor from home, and Pretend milkshakes & egg burgers

Wednesday: Wet pants and personal belongings in the toilet

It was a wet morning for my second Greek class of the term. And riding my bike didn’t help matters. It was a bit like riding through a sprinkler. It reminded me of being back home in the Pacific Northwest, actually.

By the time I arrived at the Exam Schools for Greek, I was officially soaked. Thankfully, after an hour or so of class, I had managed to dry off a bit. Lyndon had also biked to class that morning, so he was in the same boat.

As Greek finished and we were packing up our things, I made the comment that my pants were soaked by the time I made it to class that morning.

“Trousers,” Lyndon said, quickly correcting me. “Your trousers were soaked,” he said again, with a smile.

“Ah, yes,” I nodded. “Thanks. My trousers were soaked,” somewhat sheepishly. Wondering how many other ears in the classroom had heard my words.

For those unfamiliar with the difference, here in the UK pants are referred to as “trousers.” It seems really formal and out-dated to us back in the States to call pants “trousers,” but here in the England, “pants” are what you wear underneath your trousers.

Having “soaked pants” would mean something quite different.

Speaking of things getting lost in translation, I love this sign in the restroom in the same building that my Greek class is held…

Back home, you’d hope people wouldn’t have a hard time leaving their personal belongings in the toilet. But they might forget them in the restroom, maybe, which is what this sign is getting at.

The word “restroom” isn’t used here. I’m not even sure the word “bathroom” is. Except by tourists.

Nope, it’s just called the toilet. Or the loo. I like the sound of that better. The loo.

I still have a hard time calling the restroom “the toilet.” It sounds so. . .so crass. It doesn’t sound very English, does it? Certainly not very Oxford…

“Hey, where’s the toilet?!”

But that’s what they call it here. I still call it the restroom. Yeah, I’m that guy.

Here’s a fun idea for all you kids reading: start referring to the restroom as the “toilet” back home in the States. Just tell people you’re working on your British.

An odd piece of mail

It’s been cold here lately. Particularly in the mornings. Which makes having a good, warm pair of gloves a necessity. Especially when I’m riding my bike to class in the mornings.

I’ve been tucking my gloves into the rear pocket of my messenger bag when I’m not wearing them. Which seemed like a reasonable spot for them. That was until I misplaced one of them.

It’s not an enclosed pocket. It’s more for slipping notebooks and such into, and so somehow one of my gloves apparently fell out of my bag while I was riding around town at some point. Not good when the weather’s as cold as it had been in the mornings. And, unfortunately, I had no idea when it happened, as I had been riding all over the city. It really could’ve been anywhere.

Leaving Harris Manchester Wednesday night, after reading in the library that day, I stopped into the mailroom to see if I had anything waiting for me. I was surprised to find my missing glove sitting in my mailbox!

I’m still a little unsure how it got there, and how the person who found it knew it was mine, but I sure was happy to see it sitting there. So, if you’re reading this, short of a little bit of witchcraft, I don’t know how you did it, but thanks!

Thursday: A visitor from home

After a grey, wet day on Wednesday, I was thankful to see some sunny blue skies on Thursday. I’m not a big fan of rainy winter weather that feels a bit like fall just overstayed its welcome. But dry, cold winters, I’ll take those any day of the week.

This particular day was beautiful, the white brushstrokes of clouds against the blue canvas of a sky created a beautiful backdrop for the Oxford spyres that stretch high into the sky.

A jet soaring overhead provided the only straight line in this otherwise abstract sky painting that morning.

Thursday was a great day not only because it was a sunny, blue sky day after a day of rain, but because my best friend Steve was arriving in Oxford from back home. He had been wanting to come out at the start of February with Jen, but he had a speaking engagement come up that he really couldn’t miss out on, so he ended up bumping the trip up a bit.

I was really excited to have him out for a week (or just over a week). I made a special trip to the grocery store before meeting him to make sure we had some food around. It’s not such a big deal to have things be a bit bare when you’re a bachelor by yourself. But when you have company, it’s nice to make sure no one’s going to go hungry. I figured I’d give Steve more options than oatmeal and soup. He is my best friend, after all…

Steve caught the bus from London Heathrow to Oxford, which takes right around an hour. I’ve taken it a couple times now, and it’s not a bad ride at all.

I was excited to find him waiting with his luggage at the bus stop that afternoon. He looked like he was doing incredibly well for the 6,000 mile journey he had just made.

“Great to see you, bud!” I told him with a hug.

“Yeah, you, too, man. Good to be here.”

We grabbed a cab and headed toward the house.

“Looks like you timed it right; it’s a beautiful day here in Oxford today,” I told him. “It hasn’t been so nice.”

“Yeah? Well, I tend to bring the sunshine.”

“Apparently,” I replied, both of us taking in the sights as the cab shuttled us through the city center.

“It’s weird, but it doesn’t actually feel like I’ve been gone very long,” Steve said. “I can picture everything so clearly.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of an odd feeling, isn’t it? Kind of like returning to a familiar dream.”

The cab dropped us off in front of the house and we fought with the change a bit before finally figuring out the right amount. It doesn’t make you feel very smart when you have a hard time counting change. It’s taken me a while, but I finally feel like I’m starting to get it down now. Just one more thing that’s just different enough to be confusing…

We unloaded Steve’s bags in the house and I helped him get settled in a bit. He pulled out two large pieces of tupperwear, packed to the brim with homemade muffins.

“From your Mom,” Steve told me. “She really packed them really well.”

She really had. First sealed in tupperwear, then taped up with several rounds of packing tape.

She had told me she’d be sending me out some treats along with Steve. She had asked me what kind of muffins I liked. Looked like banana chocolate chip, blueberry and raspberry.

“Oh man…” I said looking through the clear plastic at the muffins hidden inside. There’s nothing quite like getting home-baked goods when you’re so far from home. It’s a bit like receiving a little piece of home.

“And she gave me these for you, too,” Steve said, handing me several cards.

“To Steve,” read one of the cards. “Looks like this one’s made out to you,” I told him, handing it back.

“Oh wow…”

I had two cards. One from my Mom. One from Abbey. My Mom’s pet Shih Tzu. She’s a great dog, but I had no idea she was literate. It was a bit Lassie of her, really. I was half-expecting to open it and find she had told me Timmy had fallen in a well.

The card from my Mom had two photos. Of us. From when I was pretty young.

“Wow, you were chubby!” Steve commented on the photos.

“Thanks, bud.”

An international pizza

We went to a pizza place in the city center for dinner that night, after I wrapped up a paper for my Old Testament course. It’s a really cool place. With wood fire cooked pizza. The decor is really modern. And open. It’s dim inside, and always full of people. Which tells you the pizza is just as good as the atmosphere.

The three of us had come here the last time Steve was in town, and we were both wanting to go again when he arrived. After a week and a half of being here, some pizza sounded great.

The menu is really great here, too. It’s set up so that pizzas are categorized by geography. You might find some Asian-inspired pizzas featuring hoisin sauce, an African pizza with a mint yogurt sauce, or a barbecue steak pizza inspired by the great State of Texas. Along with some more traditional pies.

We went with one from Australia, with chicken and potato and sour cream, and the barbecue steak pizza from back home. They were both really great. We sat in the bar, overlooking the restaurant and out toward the street. It was great sitting there with my best friend from back home and enjoying pizza. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so far from home.

I told Steve there have been several times where I’ve thought I had seen someone I knew, but then I realized the person I thought I saw was from back home, and there’d be no way they were actually here. It’s a weird feeling.

“That’s funny,” he said, “because I was just thinking the same thing when you said that. I thought for a second I had seen a good friend of mine from high school.”

We sat there and talked for quite a while. Eating our pizza slowly. Until there was only a few pieces left. The place was still busy when we asked for our check.

My eyes caught a couple sitting in the middle of the restaurant as we talked. A younger couple. He was watching something on his phone. A video, from the looks of it. And the girl across from him was busy texting. Almost the whole time. He took bites of his pizza, without removing his eyes from the tiny screen in front of him.

“How sad,” I remember thinking to myself. “What I wouldn’t give to get to spend a meal across from my wife at this point.”

We threw in the towel with a couple pieces of pizza still left on the pans in-between us. It’s not something I’m proud of, not finishing food like that. I’m known for eating several plates at dinner back home, and then having a second dinner a couple hours later. I must be losing my touch.

Steve told me I’m getting older. And that pretty soon my metabolism is going to start catching up with me. I told him I’m not looking forward to that day. But that I’m going to enjoy my two-dinners a night until then.

The bill came and we were both surprised to see that two pizzas had only cost us £8. Usually that would’ve been the price of just one pizza, but apparently Thursday nights are £4 pizza nights at this place.

“Looks like we’ll be coming back here on Thursday nights,” I told Steve as we made our way out of the restaurant and walked through the city center on our way back home.

Friday: An introduction to Patristics

I had Greek Friday morning, so Steve walked into town with me to get some work done while I was in class. He went to Starbucks while I headed to Greek and I caught up with him afterward.

I found him right away after Greek. His eyes looked tired and, before he could even admit it, I could tell the time difference was catching up with him.

“How’re you doing bud,” I said to him as I sat my bag down on a chair at the table he had been working at.

“I’m tired,” he told me in a worn out voice.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“I’m thinking about heading back and taking a nap, actually.”

“You should,” I told him. I had a paper due that afternoon, so I would just be working from the library that afternoon. “Why don’t you head back to the house and get some rest. I’ll catch up with you after I finish and we can get together to grab a bite.”

“Sounds good.” He wasn’t about to argue with that idea.

I plugged away from the library at Harris Manchester to finish my paper just in time before it was due. I would be presenting it in class that afternoon. It’s for a new class I’m starting this term, Patristics. Or early church fathers. Basically, the class is covering some of the more prominent guys who helped define the early Christian ideas as they were handed down from the apostles. Defending the faith against false traditions that were beginning to arise. In the second and third centuries. So, really, not too terribly long after the death of Jesus. A few generations, I guess.

These were brilliant guys, and I’m really, really enjoying this material. I can’t get over how well these guys intelligibly communicate these doctrines, paying careful attention to the Scriptures. I love it. I feel like it’s good for my soul. I feel refreshed and nourished reading for it. And this is part of my class work, I remind myself. So great. I really consider myself fortunate to get to study this stuff full-time.

My Patristics class is being taught by a woman from Eastern Europe. She’s from Russia originally, I believe. Konstantinovsky is her last name. And, for this class, I’m the only student. It’s still crazy to me to think of a university class made up of one student. But that’s how it is. One-to-one student-to-teacher ratio. Crazy. But that’s the beauty of an Oxford education for you.

Cole had told me before class that she’s pretty particular. That she’ll call you out if you use the wrong word here or there. And that she really enjoys this material, so as long as you show an excitement for it, it’ll be great. Fortunately, I’ve been eating this stuff up, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

She has a bare office. Overlooking St. Giles Street. The same street Eagle & Child is on. Just above the Theology Faculty Library. A computer desk sits in one corner of the room, piled high with papers and books, and  a second desk sits in the middle of the room. With a chair on either side. A few sparse book shelves hang from the walls. And a chair sits in another corner. Apart from that, the room is very bare.

I handed her a copy of my paper and saved one for myself. She glanced at it before asking me to read it aloud. She told me the length looked really good, but that there were some things I could do to make it stronger. Like expanding my bibliography (i.e. read more books) and expounding more on the ideas I introduce (i.e. write more without expanding the paper; be more concise about it). I told her I’d do better next time. She told me not to worry, that it was a great paper.

Not bad for my first Patristics class, I thought to myself as I left the room. Down the spiraling staircase and back out onto St. Giles Street. I had another class that afternoon. My Old Testament class, which carried over from last term. It went long, and so it was dark by the time I got out.

A pretend milkshake

It was nearly dinner time, so I made my way to the library to ring up Steve on Skype and see how he was doing.

He had managed to get some good sleep, he told me. He was feeling much better, from the sounds of things.

We ended up meeting in town for dinner. We thought we’d follow up a night of pizza with some burgers. I told him there was a place I had been wanting to try. The Gourmet Burger Kitchen. He was sold.

We ordered two guacamole bacon burgers at the bar. I added an egg to mine (if you haven’t a fried egg on a burger, you really haven’t lived). And we got two milkshakes to go along with the burgers.

What came next was a thing of beauty…

This skyscraper-esque burger was a dream come true. Notice that sunny-side-up egg peaking out the side.

Steve was pretty happy about his, too.

The milkshakes, though, well, those were another story. Back home, milkshakes and chocolate milk are two different things. Here, I’m not so sure that’s the case. At least not at this place. Mine really was the consistency of chocolate milk.

“You know you have a good milkshake when you can hold it upside down and nothing happens,” I told Steve. “That’d just be a mess with this guy,” I said, staring into my “milkshake” glass.

We didn’t mess around with those burgers, though. We were quickly cleaning the remnants of guacamole from our hands with napkins and feeling pretty good about life. They were amazing.

We ventured down the street to a coffee shop in town after that. To grab something warm to drink. And just to chat.

This particular coffee shop is in this great old building. With low ceilings and large wooden beams everywhere. You really feel like you’ve traveled back in time when you’re there.

Their front window juts out into the street and two high wingback chairs are seated across from each other, looking out over the street. The seats were open when we went, so we took those.

Sinking back into the wingback leather chair, I told Steve I needed one of these in my house someday.

“Yeah? In your library?”

“Exactly,” I told him, with a smile, thinking about the library I hoped to one day have.

Books. Everywhere. Floor to ceiling. Maybe with a view of the water, too. That’s my happy place.

We sat there in those seats, looking out over the street, and talking until the coffee shop finally closed. We were the last to leave. It was great having Steve here and catching up. He had just gotten engaged over the holidays. To an incredible woman. Jamie. So we had a lot to catch up on while he was here.

I’ll be proudly standing beside him come October. As his best man. It’s a real honor, and I couldn’t be more excited for them both.

“Thankful to have a whole week with you here, man,” I said, turning to him as we left the coffee shop and stepped out into the cool night air.

“Yeah, me too, man,” he said as we turned the corner and made our way back home along the cobblestone street.

Day 39-43: Dinner with Lewis’ godson, finding family so far from home, and Romeo&Juliet with Jen

Monday: Smiling in the rain and an informal date night

I rode my bike to class Monday morning. For Greek. In the rain. It was coming down pretty good. And I was soaked by about halfway to class.

Normally I would be terribly frustrated by this. I am not a fan of being in sopping wet clothes. Like many, I suppose.

But it didn’t take long for me to remind myself that I was going to class. That I’m studying Theology. At Oxford. That I’m doing something I thought only a year ago I’d never actually get to do. And yet, here I am. Wet or not. I’m living out my dream.

Tacos and cards

We decided to stay in Monday night. Rather than go to dinner at college. To have dinner at home. Just the two us. And to play cards. We made tacos. More mexican food. And they were great.

It was a bit of an informal date night. And I loved it. It felt like we were back at home. Minus the fact that we were always so busy running back and forth at home, from here to there, that we never actually stopped to do something like this. Just the two of us. And I’m so thankful for that time together.

Tuesday: Dinner with Lewis’ godson

I had a load of work to get done early on this week. An essay to read for and write. And a fairly large Greek exam to study for. And some Greek translation. Not much free time whatsoever, but we had been invited to join a small group of people for dinner on Tuesday night. At a French restaurant here in Oxford. Pierre Victoire. On a little, brick road called Clarendon Street, with stringed lights criss-crossing overhead.

CS Lewis’ godson, Laurence Harwood, was going to be speaking at the Oxford CS Lewis Society’s lecture on Tuesday night. Sharing memories from his childhood of growing up around Lewis. And he was going out to dinner with a small group of people beforehand.

As there would be only a handful of people at dinner, it’d be pretty tough to pass this up. With as much work as I had to get done, I’m normally one to say, “I’d love to go, but…”. Fortunately Jen told me I needed to go. She was right. As she almost always is. She decided to come with, too. And I’m so glad she did.

It was so neat to hear stories from this man about Lewis. About the Lewis others never get the opportunity to hear.

“I feel like the movie Shadowlands paints this picture of Lewis that just isn’t accurate,” someone spoke up during dinner. Speaking to Laurence. I can’t now remember who. “That of a standoffish scholar. One who doesn’t allow anyone to get close to him. And one who particularly wouldn’t want to be around children. How does that compare with how you remember him?”

“Quite right. It’s awful. I always loved it when Jack came around,” Laurence told us. (Lewis went by “Jack” with all of his close friends, by the way).

“As children, we’d be playing games when he’d come over, and he’d get right down there with us. On the floor. At our level. He was genuinely interested in what we were playing, and he’d play with us. Not in a condescending way. He’d always beat us, of course, but we really enjoyed him.”

Laurence told us about how you could feel it when Lewis entered the room. Or Jack. That he was just one of those people with a powerful presence. But not in a bad, or scary way. That, even as a child, Laurence thoroughly enjoyed Lewis.

He told us how his father (a close friend of Lewis’) would always mentally prepare before Lewis arrived, knowing the mental battles that would ensue. And he told us how, even as a child, he’d love to listen in to the conversations. Not because he followed a word of it, but because of the sheer passion that would pour out from it. And how he loved being around the energy.

Laurence told us how Lewis never pushed his faith on him. That, even as a child, Lewis never bought him a book, subtly implying what he should believe. “Even though that was his role, as my godfather.”

And he told us about the letters Lewis would write. That he must’ve written more than 200,000 during his lifetime. How he’d spend a couple hours every day. Responding to those who wrote him. And how, as a child, Lewis would often include illustrations in his letters. To make a point. If, for example, Lewis wrote about a book he was writing that had a bear in it, he’d draw a picture of a bear. Not in the margin, but right there in the middle of the paragraph. Laurence told us how he’d always look forward to receiving these letters.

It reminded me of my grandpa. It seemed like something he’d do. Or used to do. For me. As a child.

Laurence shared a slideshow with us during his lecture. Old photos of Lewis. And he could tell a story for each. One of the photos was of Lewis sitting on a hill with his good friend Owen Barfield and Laurence’s parents. The photo is still hanging on the walls of Eagle & Child.

Laurence has a book out. I didn’t manage to get a copy. I wouldn’t have mind having one. Signed. But they were gone by the time I managed to make it to the front of the room after his talk.

We made it home around 10 that night. After dinner. And the talk. Me walking my bike. Jen walking beside me.

Jen skyped with her family. I made my way upstairs to study. I had a Greek exam the next morning. 10:00 quickly turned into 1:30. After feeling I had crammed enough, I made my way downstairs. To make my second dinner. Leftover tacos.

Turning in at 2:00. It’s becoming a terrible habit.

Thursday: small group

We made it to small group Thursday night. At St. Andrew’s Church. Just down the street from us.

It was the second time we went there. The two of us.

We talked with a girl over dinner who moved here several years ago. She told us this was the first church she visited after arriving. And how she hasn’t been anywhere since. She told us she wasn’t a fan of the whole church shopping business. I nodded my head, telling her I could respect that.

We’ve been to one other church since arriving. We went to a small community church with Lyndon and Mim last weekend. Before joining them for lunch at their home afterward. We had a great time. The food is always so good. And those two are just amazing people to be around. It was Jen’s first time meeting Mim, and the kids. She loved them.

But I really haven’t felt like visiting many other churches. There’s one Rob and Vanessa go to I wouldn’t mind checking out. But, I guess I feel like, church is about more than just the message, you know? I feel like I’m realizing it’s really what you make of it, if that makes sense. I’m realizing it’s probably more about finding a community and being a part of it than what you get out of it. Than about how it tastes.

This church is made up of a group of people. Broken people. Not perfect. That church is the same way. Maybe a little better looking people. Maybe a bit more well off. But still broken. This church may have a decent speaker. That one might be a bit better. But I feel like, maybe that’s not the point. I don’t know. Sorry if I’m taking a bit of a tangent here. I guess it’s just, we walked out of church that night, and I couldn’t help but think how grateful I was for the community we had found.

Two girls had prayed for Jennifer that night. Separately. Not because they had to. But because they wanted to. They prayed that this transition would go smoothly for her. That she would be comforted. That she would know what it is she’s supposed to be doing. That she would build friendships here in Oxford. And, afterward, one of the girls gave her a hug. Eleanor. The one from Ireland. The one that got me with the Sleepless in Seattle joke.

And, I don’t know. I guess that just took me back a bit. That we could come all this way. So far from home. And find people who want to care for us. Who genuinely want to help and love us. And I don’t know. I guess that’s the beauty of the Church, in a way. That we can have a family so far from home. No matter where we are, that we can find someone who has received from Him the same love that has been poured out onto us, and who want to share that love with us. It’s nice to be recipients of that kind of love.

Walking home, I told Jen how thankful I was for that. She agreed.

Friday: A story in Greek, drinking from a fire hydrant and a date night with Jen

I’m about ready to break up with my bike lock, I’m afraid. Or Justin’s bike lock, for his bike, I should say. It’s been neglected for quite some time. It’s beginning to rust a bit inside, I believe. But it’s terribly frustrating. I find myself spending more time trying to lock it or unlock it than I actually do trying to get somewhere. It took me five minutes to ride a mile and a half to class this morning. It took me eight minutes to unlock my bike lock.

I arrived in front of the exam schools for Greek right on time this morning. Then I literally watched Rhona arrive several minutes later. And Lyndon several minutes after that. All the while I struggled to get my bike lock to release so I could lock it up and go to class.

It was dreadful. The sweat was beading up on my forehead and dripping off by the time I was through. I wasn’t sweating when I arrived.

But then I get out of class and it works great. The first time. It’s like that terrible girlfriend. The one who treats you horribly 99% of the time, but then that one day, she smiles at you. Or says something nice. And you think to yourself, “Okay, I’ll give her one more shot.”

It’s funny, because at home, I wouldn’t think twice about buying a new bike lock. But here, the idea of spending £25 on a new bike lock. Well, that’s groceries. Ridiculous. This girlfriend may be around for awhile.

At the end of this life

Rhona was telling a story when I arrived in class. I shouldn’t have been surprised. This is the majority of our time in Greek. Anecdotal stories. But I liked this one.

She was talking about a man who had served in the first World War. About how he had literally come from nothing. And how he had worked hard, making a name for himself after the war. As a businessman. And how he managed to do quite well for himself. And how he was able to take care of his family.

Rhona told us about how, when he had grown old, he began to lose much of his memory. And his general awareness began to fade away. So that his family had trouble talking with him as they once did. But the one way his family was still able to connect with him was by reminding him of this fact. How he had taken care of them.

She told us how his daughter would visit him. How she’d bring him a cup of tea and say, “I am so thankful for all you’ve done for our family. You really have provided so much for us.” And he’d smile. He’d remember. And they’d connect over that thought.

Rhona finished the story, pushed her index finger down into the Greek textbook she had been holding open in her left hand and said, “Right…” as she seems to do when she transitions from her stories back to Greek.

I still have no idea what the context was for this story. Probably a Greek vocab word of some sort. But I liked it. I think that’s what we all want in a way, isn’t it? To be able to look back at the end of this road and know that we made a difference. To know that, somewhere along the line, our life had an impact on another life. Or lives. And to smile at the thought of it. I know that’s what I want.

Drinking from a fire hydrant

It’s the end of week five of classes here. Crazy to think. It’s gone by so quickly. Four more weeks and this term will be done. And we’ll be getting ready for Christmas. Hard to believe.

School is a frantic pace here. Unsurprisingly, I suppose. But you can see it on people’s faces. Tired. Lots of yawns in class. Baggy eyes. People don’t want to respond to questions like they did before.

But, oddly, I’ve found myself feeling better about things. I’ve felt like I’m beginning to adjust to the pace. You arrive here and quickly find yourself stunned by the pace. Wondering how you’ll ever keep up the sprint, when it seems like you’re running a marathon. You find yourself certain you’re never going to be able to do it. That you’re going to fail. It feels so overwhelming. But then you just do it. You realize you have a pile of work to get done, and not much time to get it done in, but you do.

And I think it’s probably that way with most things in life. We all have things that seem impossible. Or overwhelming. We find ourselves wondering how in the world it’s all going to work out. But then you just go after it. You get your hands dirty. And it works out. But if we never get our hands dirty, then our fears are right. It will be impossible.

It’s a bit like drinking out of a fire hydrant, being here. The workload. You can feel bad. And get frustrated. Over how difficult it is. Because it is. And it seems unreasonable that someone doesn’t turn it down just a bit. Or you can realize everyone’s drinking out of the same fire hydrant. And it’s not going to slow down when it comes to your turn. You simply do as much as you can and find contentment in that. That’s how I’ve managed to keep my sanity in it all, at least.

I received my first perfect exam in Greek this morning. From the exam I took Wednesday morning. After staying up until 2. Sorry if it sounds as though I’m bragging, it’s just, when I arrived, I was getting only a handful of questions right. Literally. Four or five out of 25. It’s nice to feel like you’re able to get a decent drink from the hydrant every now and then. I’m sure I’ll be drowning again in only a few days.

Dinner from a truck and Romeo & Juliet

We had a date night in Oxford tonight. Jen and I. Jen noticed the other day that Romeo & Juliet was playing at the Oxford Playhouse. And I had been wanting to eat out of a food truck parked in the city center. So we put the two together and we had ourselves a date night.

I hadn’t realized it before, but the name of this particular food truck was Husein’s. Can’t say it didn’t give me a bit of pause. But I was still excited. Jen has always refused to eat from the taco trucks back home, even though I love them. So this was a treat.

A woman was waiting for her food when we arrived, so we had some time to look over the menu.

And it’s a good thing. The menu was all over the map. They had everything. Pizza. Kebabs. Burgers. And egg burgers. I’m still not quite sure what an egg burger is.

Jen went with the burger and chips. I decided to try the Kebab. Which isn’t what we’d think of by a kebab back home. No meat on a stick here. Which I was disappointed to find out.

Hot chunks of chicken and lamb were served on a warmed piece of naan bread. Then they piled on mixed lettuce and cabbage and onions. A couple tomatoes and pieces of cucumber. And then a good dose of tzatziki sauce to top it all off.

We found a seat beside a large statue in the middle of the city center. On the stairs. Cars passing by on either side. Under the dark night sky, lit up by the shops that lined the road.

I had no idea how I was going to eat my pile o’ kebab. But I did. It was messy. Not quite as messy as a birth, mind you, but pretty messy. Sorry, I couldn’t help it.

I told Jen it was pretty good, but the Alternative Tuck was still the best deal in town. She agreed. I told her I got thinking about it this week, and I realized I can’t remember the last time I ate something other than paninis from the Alternative Tuck for lunch.

She nodded.

“It’s the highlight of my day,” she said. “It gets me into town.”

I’m not alone.

We wrapped up our food and made our way down the street to the Oxford Playhouse. Just a few minutes before it was scheduled to begin.

I figure if you’re going to take in a Shakespeare performance, England’s not a bad place to do so. The accents made it seem, well, like it was supposed to be performed, I guess.

It made me remember when Jen and I visited England last summer. And when we toured London. We got to see a small church hidden down a terribly tight lane. It was the location where Shakespeare’s work was first performed. For the Queen. With Shakespeare himself playing the lead role. It was pretty unbelievable.

Tonight’s performance was a pretty modern take on the story. The dialogue was the same, but the characters looked like they were straight out of London. Mercutio wore Chuck Taylor’s. Romeo wore his jeans tucked into high tops. Juliet wore a flannel button up shirt over a pink dress, over black tights, with high, dark-colored lace up boots.

But the performance was actually quite good. Apart from Juliet. I told Jen she reminded me of Kristen Stewart. She agreed.

“I didn’t like her,” she said. “She wasn’t how I pictured Juliet.”

“Too flighty,” I suggested.

But it made me realize how brilliant Shakespeare was. And why his works still draw crowds. He really was amazing with words. I enjoyed that part of it, for sure. Listening to him paint a picture of the dawning sun. Or describe the pain of losing someone you love.

And his works are so unlike modern works. Leaving you hanging. Feeling so unresolved. Not neat and tidy in the least bit. A bit like life, I suppose.

We decided to wrap up the night with a stop into G&D’s for ice cream. Not a bad way to wrap up a great date night.

Things are changing

I love our walks home. Jen and I together. Not driving. But walking. Sharing the cool night together. Feeling the pavement underfoot as we catch up on life. And all that’s been happening.

Things are changing quickly here. The leaves are falling from the trees. The same richly colored leaves that provided cover for a streetlamp only a couple weeks before…

…have now fallen to the ground. Leaving the skeletal tree limbs to stretch out into the night sky. And the streetlamp naked to those passing by.

Things are changing so quickly, it seems.

The Dream Giver

Steve told me the other night he’s reading a book he gave me two Christmases ago. The Dream Giver. He’s re-reading it. With Jamie.

It’s a great read, if you haven’t already. Not the kind of book I’d normally pick up for myself, but I read it because I trusted Steve’s thoughts on it. The first part of the book is a story. About someone who decides to follow their dreams. A “Nobody” from “Nowhere.” That’s the main character. And the story is about all of the obstacles he faces as he steps out in pursuit of his dream.

I remember reading this book and thinking how it was a great story, but that it must’ve been written for someone else. I simply wasn’t the type of person to have dreams. And I certainly wasn’t the type of person to go after my dreams. And yet, here we are. In Oxford. In pursuit of a dream. It’s still so hard to believe.

Thanks for daring me to dream big, Steve.

Day 26: The Big Surprise, I Have Guests, A 31st B-Day Cake, The Happiest Guy in the World

Most mornings I wake up in Oxford thinking, “Awesome. Time to go take a Greek Exam. Time to go get punched in the face.”

This morning I woke up thinking, “I get to see my wife today.” I literally woke up with a smile on my face.

The Big Surprise

Lyndon asked me the other day whether I planned to meet Jen and Steve at the airport. I told him I wasn’t sure. I told him I had class.

He gave me a look like I was crazy.

“Oh, you’ve got to go, man. Why don’t I drive you?”

He said he had a class, but that he’d see if he could miss. So he could drive me to London. To meet Jen & Steve at Heathrow. This guy’s amazing. Time is so valuable here. With all the workload. For him to take a half-day to drive me to the airport was huge.

I thanked him profusely for even offering it. He shrugged it off like it was no big deal. But it was.

“Oh, no worries, man.”

And he was right. Once he mentioned it, I knew I had to go.

I e-mailed Jen a list of things Monday evening. Items we could use here. Things to pack, if she had room. Her flight itinerary. And directions to get to the bus that would take her and Steve from the airport to Oxford. She knew I had class, and they had planned to take the bus. She had no idea…

Lyndon and I had Greek this morning. And we took off right after class. To Heathrow International.

We arrived at the airport five minutes after their flight landed, which meant we’d have some time before we saw them.

“How ’bout a coffee to help get you even more excited?” Lynde asked with a smile. I wasn’t going to pass that up.

The coffee shop was only 20 feet or so away from the door for international arrivals, so we could sit there and chat while waiting. Watching everyone come through. Waiting for Jen and Steve to arrive.

“So, is Jen going to text you when she arrives?” Lynde asked.

“No, her phone won’t work here. And even if it did, she doesn’t have my new number,” I told him.

“Oh wow. So, if we miss them somehow, how will she get a hold of you?” he asked.

“Well, she doesn’t know we’re here,” I told him, forgetting that I hadn’t filled him in on that little detail.

“No way!” he said with big eyes and a laugh. “Well played!”

We had a great time talking. Catching up. I felt bad for continually looking to the door, but every time it opened I felt myself hoping it’d be Jen and Steve walking through.

Another wave of people. Still no sight of them.

I told Lynde I was about ready to run through the doors and start shouting for Jen. He told me if I did, I’d probably find myself with a black bag over my head and thrown into a van. He told me England law allows a suspected terrorist to be held for up to a month. I told him that was the only thing holding me back.

I forgot my camera at home, so Lynde offered to snap photos with his iPhone. I told him he’d better be ready. That I was likely to take off running as soon as I saw them. No matter how much I told myself not to.

After about an hour, I was starting to get nervous. Wondering if something went sideways with customs. Or if we had missed them somehow.

I asked one of the women who walked through the arrivals door where her flight was from.

“Iceland,” she told me. “They shouldn’t be far behind.”

That was encouraging. At least now I knew this was in fact their flight.

Another 10 minutes went by. Still no sight of them.

Lynde and I had been talking the whole time leading up to this point. We weren’t talking at this point. We just stared at the doors. At each face that walked through. Waiting. Nervously. I was growing more anxious by the moment.

And then, all of a sudden, the doors opened up and I caught a glimpse of them. First Steve. I noticed his sweater. I have the same one. I wore it yesterday, of course. This is the way it goes with us. It’s kind of weird, actually. Then I saw Jen. She was just behind him. And immediately my face lit up. With a smile that split my face from ear to ear. I couldn’t help it. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Times a million and a half.

I started walking down the walkway leading up to the doors. With people on both sides waiting for their loved ones. They waited. I didn’t. I couldn’t help it. My chin was quivering. I was so happy to see them.

I walked right up to them both. Flowers in hand. Steve was first, so I patted him on the shoulder. Then I grabbed my wife and gave her the biggest hug. The kind of hug you save up for for weeks. There’s no better feeling than holding your wife after not seeing her for so long.

I kissed her. I told her I loved her. And the whole time I was smiling. I couldn’t help it. I was so happy.

“How’s that for a surprise?” I asked.

I told them I was so happy to have them here. And I was. So much. I introduced them to Lynde. I told them how he had driven me here. To surprise them. And they thanked him. I think they were just as happy about not having to take the bus as they were about seeing me. Maybe more, after their long trip.

I Have Guests

We pulled into our place around 2 this afternoon. 6 am Washington time. I was surprised by how well they were doing. Considering the time difference. Considering the travels. They were doing great.

After showing them around (they loved our place), Jen decided to lay down for a nap. It was so nice to tuck her into bed. Our new bed. She told me I had lost weight. That I was too skinny. I kissed her forehead and tucked her in. She closed her eyes and pulled the covers up to her chin. She had a smile as I closed the door behind me. Which made me smile. I was so happy.

Steve stayed up. This guy’s a machine. He hadn’t slept since, Monday night, I believe. He said he felt great.

Steve checked the cookie jar, in hopes of finding some homemade cookies. Instead he found the strawberry wafers my Grandpa had sent over the week before. A look of incredible disappoint spread across his face.

“I thought I told you to bake me something sweet?” he asked. I laughed, knowing what was waiting in the oven. The cake I had baked for him the night before. In honor of his birthday I had missed.

We worked away from the kitchen table. I on my Greek. He on his e-mails. And Skyping with Jamie back home.

It was so nice. I was used to working on Greek on Wednesday afternoons. I wasn’t used to working on Greek with my best friend across the table from me.

He helped me run through my flash cards, and I told him I had decided he’d have to stay here with us. He said, “okay.” (Sorry, Jamie. I’m afraid I’ve let you down already…).

After several hours, we decided to get some fresh air. Jen was still napping, so I left her a note. That we’d gone for a run.

It was so refreshing to get outside and get some fresh after being inside most of the day. And it was a great way to introduce Steve to Oxford.

I’d point out buildings as we ran. Wycliffe Hall (“Where Lyndon goes”), Eagle & Child (“Where Lewis & Tolkein used to shoot the breeze”). There were several street performers on Cornmarket Street as we ran. A guitarist. And an amazing drummer. Dodging people as we ran through the city center.

A 31st B-Day Cake

I promised Jen pizza when she got in. Her favorite. So Steve and I walked down to Summertown to pick up our takeout order after getting cleaned up from the run.

“I can see why you’d love it here, man,” Steve said as we walked along the cobblestone sidewalk to Summertown. Leaves underfoot. It was encouraging to hear him say that. It was nice to share this with someone from back home. For him to see my new world. To be a part of it.

I told him it still feels unreal most of the time. Like I’m still living back home. It’s a weird feeling. Hard to explain.

We grabbed the pizza’s and walked home. Pizza and sodas in-hand.

After several weeks, it was great to share a meal with Jen and Steve, here in our new home. So great to sit around the table with them again. To talk, in-person.

We cleaned up the table and I pulled the birthday cake out of the oven. Frosted from the night before. Jen and Steve were both plugging away online. Jen on my laptop. Steve on his. So I managed to light the candles and turn off the lights before he realized what was happening.

I began singing. Jen joined in. He looked up with a look of complete surprise on his face.

“What? No way!”

“Oh, now I feel bad for giving you a hard time for not baking me cookies,” he said after blowing out the candles.

It’s not often I’m able to surprise this guy. It was nice to get him twice in the same day.

Jane and her family got in around 8:30 tonight. From Rome. I asked Felix how it was.

“Yeah, it was quite good.”

I asked him what his favorite part was. He told me it was the coliseum. He told me about all the animals they used to keep there. This kid loves animals. I should’ve seen that one coming.

He’s on break right now from school. For another week. It was so good to see him again. I’m really enjoying getting to know that kid.

Jane came over as we were dishing up cake and ice cream. To say “hi.” And to meet Jen and Steve for the first time. Everyone was quite tired from traveling, including Jane. So she didn’t stay long. But it was great to see her again.

I put four pieces of cake on a plate, covered it in saran wrap and snuck it into their kitchen. Along with a note thanking them for letting me borrow their cake pan (well, Beng let me while they were out).

The Happiest Guy in the World

I’m living in England. I’m studying Theology at Oxford. My best friend is visiting. And my wife is now here with me. I’m the happiest guy in the world.