Bowling Shoes

Recently I came to the realization that I needed to let go of “home” and of course this revelation came while I was sitting on a bathroom floor staring at a pair of bowling shoes.

As part of Youth Department training we had some required fun activities; we called them “forced fun” times. Last Saturday was one of these times. All 18 of us went bowling in the morning and then went over to a house to watch a World Cup game. Somewhere in between frame 4 and 5 of the first game I ended up running to the bathroom, trying to keep myself from sobbing.
Being here in Orlando without my family and friends has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. For once in my life I actually have healthy relationship with my sister, my mom and I are closer than ever, and I have a lot friends who have made it past all my barriers. Unfortunately every single one of these people live in Greenville, North Carolina.  With Saturday being my sisters graduation I already had a bad case of “it” aka homesickness, but adding in the bowling alley knocked me off the edge.

To give a little insight: As a kid my dad would take my sister and I bowling rather frequently. He was on several leagues and loved to bowl and we loved the fact that there was also an arcade there. Since his death I’ve been bowling maybe three times …. and never outside Greenville.

Being homesick is a weird thing. Everything reminds you of home. Food, smells, clothing. Or the lack of them makes you realize how much you appreciate. Before moving to Florida three months ago I had never experienced this.

Sitting on that bathroom floor I stared at my shoes. These shoes that hold so many memories in my mind. My sister and I trying our hardest to use correct technique, running around in the arcade, and attacking a plates of chili cheese fries. That is home for me. And sadly enough I need to learn how to make new memories. Not to let go of any, but to be able to move forward in life. I don’t know how to explain this, but the realization that I was holding on, rather tightly, to home hit me while I sat there. A practical way to start walking this out came to mind: my name.
Since being here I have been very adimit about the fact that I want to be called Ireland, not Rebekah, Beckie,  or Beccah. Yes, part of it is because there is another Rebecca here and I don’t like people to shorten my name. But when people have called me by my first name I have offended and upset, much more then I should have been. It is because I was associating my name with home. Every time someone called me by my first name it reminded me of home and because I wasn’t letting go, it would hurt. Sitting on that dirty tiled floor I decided to let go. It was just a thought, a simple choice, but it made a difference. I’m moving forward now.

Funny how much a pair of bowling shoes could change my life.