Mackenzie Standing

In a lot of ways, I feel like I'm failing at Ireland. I try to keep my posts to Facebook and Instagram more upbeat. I know that people don't like to listen to others complain on the Internet, and I like posting pictures but don't like taking my phone out in the rain, so you normally get happy, sunny-ish shots. In addition, I know that this is a great opportunity, and I don't want to waste it. I'm trying to cultivate a sense of gratitude and cling to the good days when they come. So I snap a photo, cut it so it only shows the interesting parts, pop on a hashtag, and I update you all. What this leads to, though, is me feeling like I'm being inauthentic: You all see the pretty photos with the carefully applied filters, but you don't get the full picture. In a lot of ways, this relates back to framing. Parts of this town, and parts of this study abroad experience, are truly valuable and life-giving and beautiful , in the most sincere, God-ordained sense of t

I walked into church on Sunday and my heart gave a small leap in my chest. On an unassuming table in the front of the room, covered with a simple white napkin, lay small cups of grape juice and pre-torn hunks of bread. My eye, well trained in Christian practices after ten years of bouncing around their circles, knew that could only mean one thing: It was Communion Sunday. Communion has long been my favorite sacrament in the Church. I blame at least part of this love on my upbringing; my church in Wenatchee celebrates communion weekly, so every Sunday from the time I was twelve until I left for college at eighteen, I partook in the most sacred of meals with my Family. By the time I left, I could say the words of institution backwards and forwards and sometimes, just to freak out my friends, I'd mouth along with the person leading (I never said I was a normal kid). Communion was a certainty in those years; a gift of grace I knew I would receive weekly. The communion table at

I wear headphones often in Galway. Between my four-mile round trip walk to school, running, and any other errand that might present itself, I generally spend almost two hours a day with buds in my ear. Thanks to Spotify Premium, those are normally happy minutes where the soundtrack to my life sounds like James Vincent McMorrow, Sleeping At Last or Matt Maher. Its easy, though, to get sucked into my own little world and forget to notice what's going on around me. My house might be farther from school than I wanted, but the best part of its location is its proximity to the ocean. I can walk out my door, and exactly half a mile away is the Salthill Promenade, Galway's equivalent of the Wenatchee loop trail. It's beautiful, well-maintained, and, since it's such a popular venue and very well lit, it's the perfect place to run if it's starting to get dark outside. Not pictured: The many, many 70-year-old men that insist on swimming in Speedos, regardless of th