Category: Musings

Good bye

My thoughts are not from “afar” anymore. I realize this as I think about picking up blogging again. I also realize that the breathtaking whirl and now the steady plod of my life isn’t conducive to consistent writing.

J and I are thinking of starting a garden. I’ve never gardened before in my life unless you count the times as a child that Mom coaxed us out of bed to weed the garden before the summer sun got too hot. Oh, and I did manage to keep a pot of spinach alive for a few months when I lived in Spain.

As I write, I can see the rectangular plot of brown from the office window. Brown, spotted with yellow dandelions and a general air of forsakenness. These are the moments that I realize I’ve romanticized gardening. Imagine: me slipping out the kitchen door to pluck two ripe tomatoes, a cucumber, and some fresh cilantro for supper.

Yep. I forget that we must select, then plant, and wait, and weed, and water, and wait, and wait.

Likewise, I’ve romanticized my time and ability to keep up a blog. One must be attentive. Attentive I have not been. Attentive I will not be.

This is to say that my blog will continue in its general air of forsakenness until it closes down in April of 2026. It has served its purpose of giving me the space I needed to process my life overseas. Now, that is done.

Life here is every bit as interesting as my life was overseas. I’m basking in the white blossoms of springtime, learning the nooks and crannies of a new area, spending every possible moment with my companionable husband, and starting that long and beautiful process of cultivating relationships in a welcoming community.

But blog, I will not.

So, this is my goodbye. And my thank you for investing time and energy into reading my ramblings week after week.

Moving

I’m leaving Spain in a few days. Not just leaving, I guess, but moving. My mind hasn’t fully soaked that in yet.

Some days I’m oh so ready. I would love to skip over the lasts: wondering if I’ve said all I need to say or done all I need to do or packed the right things. But those hassles of leaving are also what are preparing me to be gone.

I know that.

That’s why some days I’m not ready at all. I want to soak in every last memory and moment, letting myself bump up and down through the feelings in order to fully experience everything that life brings my way.

Well, ready or not, I leave on Tuesday afternoon.

Until then, I will continue packing, clearing out my cupboards, giving away things, and saying those sweet and dreaded goodbyes.

I’ll be back on my blog sometime after my feet are on U.S. soil and the fog of jetlag has dissipated.

See some of you in less than a week!

Was it worth it?

“Was my time in Spain worth it?” This question has crossed my mind a hundred times since I started winding down my life here. Was all of the time, energy, and finances invested worth the results I see? Or rather, the lack of results? Were they worth the years of being far from the people I love best in the world? Far from my own culture and community?

Lord willing, I plan to move back to the States in just over 2 weeks. My emotions are everywhere, leaking out in goodbye tears with a friend or bouncing in sheer giddiness as I remember that I don’t have to face upcoming life transitions alone anymore.

But was my time worth it?

I came across a quote from Elisabeth Elliott that I had jotted down long ago: “[People] cannot be hustled into the kingdom of God. And it is well to remember Christ’s own descriptions of that kingdom–leaven and seed, things that work slowly and out of sight. We long for visible evidence of our effectiveness and when it is not forthcoming, we are tempted to conclude that our efforts never had anything to do with the kingdom.” (From Made for the Journey by Elisabeth Elliott)

Exactly. I have coached myself not to dwell on the question of whether or not my time in Spain was worthwhile. After all, God works in ways we can’t see and I don’t have to understand the whys of His calling. Like Elisabeth Elliott said, God’s work is often slow and hidden.

When I shared my thoughts with J,  he suggested a new perspective, one he had gleaned from an article he had read. In his unimposing way of communicating truth, he suggested that rather than asking myself, “Was the sacrifice worth it?” it’s better to remind myself: “He is worth it.”

My personal fulfillment takes a backseat to God’s glory. 

This doesn’t mean I can’t evaluate my work and make adjustments. Neither does it mean I cannot grieve my losses or my lack of perceived success. But staying stuck in my questioning grief reveals a lack of divine perspective because neither sacrifice nor success can define the worth of a kingdom endeavor. 

A life spent for God is worth it, no matter what.

Deeper sorrow, deeper joy

I know how to hide my feelings from myself. I’ve had practice telling those miniature white lies about how I don’t mind or that I’m unconditionally happy and galloping through life without unwanted feelings lassoing me.

My body gives me a jolt now and then: a wrinkled forehead glimpsed in the mirror, indigestion, weight loss, fatigue. But look on the bright side, I think. I don’t really feel that stressed, weary, cranky, or conflicted. I am living the ideal life. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be me right now?

What I don’t remember is that shutting down my “negative” feelings also shuts down my capacity to deeply feel joy.

Earlier this month, I realized that wedding planning all day on my day of rest was not a sustainable pattern. So on my next day off, I forced myself to rest, really rest. I wrote “read” on my to-do list and that was all. As evening came, I transitioned into watching Call the Midwife. Two episodes later, I shut down my computer and cried. It was as if feeling vicariously for almost 2 hours helped to release my store of pent-up feelings.

This is where I want to be: feeling. Even if sometimes it means feeling an aching loneliness or feeling downright scared at what looms ahead. When I open my heart to feel, I experience the richness of the ups and downs of a life fully-lived. Because joy is right there too, every bit as deep… deeper even, but I can’t notice it when I’m only skimming along the top of life.

This season of life is filled with lasts and goodbyes as I prepare to leave Spain in 3 1/2 weeks. “Another last,” said my teammate when we dropped off my final guests. My guests and I had had a marvelous time, exploring and talking, processing and laughing. Their leaving set me into motion, clearing out my house and closing up my life here. It aches, but not all aches are bad.

I’m also filled with energy as I think about trading this life for several months with family and friends in my home community. And then there’s the dizzying delight of marrying J in three short months.

God meant the sorrows and joys of this season to be felt rather than ignored. So today, I choose to stay in this vibrant sense of being alive.

Does it feel strange?

“Does it feel strange to be getting married?” a friend asked me.

I paused.

To be in my late 30s and getting married for the first time. To share my day-in-day-out life with someone who sees my most embarrassing moments and my glaring flaws. To regularly cook for someone else, occasionally burning the potatoes and hard-boiling eggs until the yolks are green, but I have to serve them anyway. To put away food because the climate doesn’t have a year-round growing season. To factor someone else’s preferences and opinions into every decision. To not have to worry how I’m going to support myself or how I’m going to fix the wiring in my lamp without electrocuting myself or where I could invest a little extra cash.

Yes, I’d say that the idea of marriage is absolutely strange.

On the other hand, getting married to J feels like the most natural thing in the world, a natural progression of a serious relationship built on trust. And after all, why in the world wouldn’t I want to spend the rest of my life with my most favoritest person in the world? 

So, no, it doesn’t feel one bit strange.

At the end of the day, I don’t know that it matters where “getting married” falls on my strange-normal continuum. I’ll take the strange and the normal feelings–and everything in between–as part of the beautiful package of being married to J.

My landlady, chocolate, and Ecclesiastes

My landlady is coming in a few minutes, and I’m dreading her visit. She wants to “see” what things she left in the apartment. “A whole wardrobe full and then some.” I want to say, “Please don’t buy anything else. I think your apartment can be considered ‘beyond furnished’ already.”

But I will try to smile as she pokes through my drawers and makes loud, unfiltered remarks. Maybe I will soothe my shattered calm with chocolate once she is gone.

The other day, I had a thought: Would it work best to be mentally present in only one world at a time? My feet are inevitably in two worlds right now, but does my mind have to be?

Yesterday, I was mentally in the States, shopping online for wedding paraphernalia, acting on a few decisions, buying a wedding gift for a friend, laughing with my bridesmaids about imaginary wedding disasters, and the like. When I needed a break from the screen, I returned to Spain, chatting with a shopkeeper, going for a walk, etc.

Today, I stayed in Spain, bouncing along on the bus to a meeting, setting up final healthcare appointments, and whatnot.

Now I am waiting for my landlady to come peer in my cabinets. Once she leaves, I have a handful of other projects I’d like to get to… after my chocolate, of course.

I’m not feeling particularly inspired to write on my blog. I asked J if he had any inspiration for me. He suggested that I write about Ecclesiastes, but only because he’s preaching through Ecclesiastes right now and that’s what’s on his brain.

I don’t have anything “ecclesiastical” to enlighten you with, but I remembered a poem I wrote many years ago. You may read it if you promise not to analyze it much; I think the only value I had in mind when I wrote it was face value. 

"Vanity"
The sun races across the sky
Another day; another try.
The wind circles as it blows
Terrific sound; nowhere to go.
All day trickling streams will stray
To oceans same as yesterday.
What’s the purpose to be me
In light of so much vanity?

…

Well, since I copied and pasted this poem, my landlady swept in, summer dress billowing behind her. She snooped in the cupboards, teetered on a stool while trying to fix a blind that was broken long before I moved in, told me her moderately-unrealistic dreams for the apartment, and took the last payment of rent that I will give her.

I’m glad that’s done. I found that her presence eerily echoed the words of my poem. I could unpack that a little more, but right now, I feel depleted in a way that not even chocolate will alleviate.

I’m doing terrible, terrible

“Estoy fatal, fatal…” I’m doing terrible, terrible. That’s how an elderly neighbor typically greets me. 

Maybe I’ve lent an ear too many times. Or, for all I know, she dumps her health issues on everyone she comes in contact with. 

Being on the receiving end of her complaints isn’t much fun. It’s hard to listen to how the doctors can’t give her any answers, about her latest trip to the pharmacy, or how her legs refuse to work (although they mysteriously carried her several blocks from home). 

She never asks how I am or what I’m doing. I doubt she even knows my name. 

I help roll her walker down the ramp from the elevator, open the door, and stop for a “Oh, uh-huh, oh that’s too bad” chat on the street. I even take her cinnamon rolls at Christmas because I know she likes them. Still, I inwardly groan every time our paths cross.

“Estoy fatal, fatal…”

As much as I hate to admit this, I know that sometimes I sound just like my neighbor: “Why me? Why do I have to be the one to deal with this bumpy relationship/chronic illness/broken heart/smashed dream? I’m doing terrible, terrible…”

When life doesn’t feel fair, it can be an easy slide from lament to griping, from heartache to bitterness. Even with the Spirit of God dwelling in me. 

So it’s a good thing God sends my neighbor into my life every now and then to give a face to my inward grumblings and remind me to trust that God knows what He is doing. Then, as Jen Pollock Michel writes in her book In Good Time, I can receive life with gratitude and say, “Whatever you choose to give, Lord, I embrace” (p.99).

Pollock Michel, Jen. In Good Time: 8 Habits for Reimagining Productivity, Resisting Hurry, and Practicing Peace. Kindle ed., Baker Books, 2022.

What’s NOT been happening recently

I was planning to jot down a few of the things that have been happening recently here in my daily life in Spain.

So what’s been happening recently? When I thought about it, I realized that there have been a lot more things that haven’t been happening. In fact, it’s precisely because of what’s not been happening recently that gave me time to sit down and write today. 

At times, it’s hard to keep a full schedule in the summer. Most people don’t care to do things during the hottest part of the day, so social interaction hours are limited. Besides that, there are fewer people to do things with at this time of year. During summer vacation when the greenhouses and packing plants are mostly empty and the children are out of school, immigrants pile their cars and vans high with the gifts their families are expecting and return to their countries. 

That means that when plans are canceled here in Mytown, the backup plans are a wee bit sparse.

Take today, for instance. I had a full day planned. Actually, several layers planned. A friend had invited me to the restaurant where she works to learn how to cook lentils. Last night, she messaged to say that something in the restaurant was being repaired today and the restaurant would be closed. 

All right. My canceled English class from earlier in the week had been tentatively rescheduled for Saturday morning in case my first plans were canceled. “I hope you’re feeling better…” I wrote to my student. And she was, but not enough better to leave her house. 

So I reached out to my neighbor. I enjoy when she brings her boys over to play or when I pop down to visit, catching up on the happenings of life. But she was out of town visiting her sister. 

That was the point I gave up trying to be social. 

It was my week to clean the center anyway. And besides that, the inch of dust glaring at me from the baseboard in my own apartment attested to a month full of Saturdays of half-hearted cleaning around uncanceled plans.

So that’s what hasn’t been happening recently. What about you? Anything not happening in your day today?

A life of perpetual humiliation

I just finished reading Anthony Doerr’s Four Seasons in Rome. Someone discarded it, and I picked it up, curious. This isn’t a book recommendation unless you happen to know that you like Anthony Doerr, but Doerr’s descriptions of life on the outside of a culture cut me wide open. I didn’t know there were words for these “in but not of” feelings.

Apartness and perpetual humiliation are part of daily life for those living overseas. Sometimes we talk about it too much. Often we don’t even acknowledge it but let our frustration become part of the existing barrier, like a thick moss growing over a wall we’re trying to ignore.

We are outsiders, always outsiders, chipping at the barrier that stands between us. And there are successes! Moments when a chunk of the wall falls away and we glimpse the other side…only to find razor wire. 

“To be a nonfluent foreigner is to pass through one gate only to find yourself outside two more,” writes Doerr (p. 46). “We are humbled over and over–humility hangs over our heads like a sledgehammer… Oh, you think you’ve been here long enough to barter at the street markets? Guess what, you just spent €8 on three plastic clothes hangers” (p. 76).

After nine months in Rome, Doerr walks into a grocery store and makes an order without messing up a single syllable. “What happens?” he writes. “I get my groceries. No streamers drop from the ceiling, no strobe lights start flashing. The grocer doesn’t reach across the counter and take my face in her hands and kiss me on the forehead.” Instead, the grocer asks about his boys and speaks so quickly he can’t keep up. “…I miss 80 percent of it and sheepishly, stepping down from my throne of fluency, have to ask, ‘I’m sorry, more slowly, please?’” (p. 168)

For some, eventually the barriers do not loom so large or feel so insurmountable. But for many? “I know nothing… I never made it through the gates between myself and the Italians. I cannot claim to have become, in even the smallest manner, Roman” (p. 201).

True. Despite my efforts to integrate into the culture around me, my North American worldview remains mostly intact, placing me decidedly on the outside. 

But if we let it, doesn’t living on the outside help us accept who we are? After all, like it or not, we cannot cease being a part of something. Not being a part of the culture we’re living in is because we’re part of another, or even several. Being on the outside can help us identify our own “inside.”

Apartness and perpetual humiliation are hard, but they are also opportunities to learn and grow.* And we need these opportunities to understand ourselves.

So I will try to be grateful. Even as my neighbor gives me a list of what is wrong with my couscous. Next time, it will be better. I can promise.

Doerr, Anthony. Four Seasons in Rome. Scribner, 2007. 

*Thank you, J, for your positive spin on life to remind me to keep on growing!

Summer blessings

I could whine about whining mosquitos and the wet that blooms on my back as I walk to the store with the sun burning the top of my head. 

Summer is not my favorite season of the year, but today I choose to remember the things I like about summer…

Electrifying cold water descending down down to pool in my belly. Coconut oil that pours rather than being chipped from the edges of a jar and butter that comes pre-softened. The chorus of air conditioners from those lucky enough to have them. Shadows sharp from the bright sunlight. Coolness seeping out of underground parking garages to embrace passersby. People who aren’t afraid of the night because of other people who aren’t afraid of the night. Late morning yawns on balconies and on streets. The long shadows of morning and evening, wide enough for everyone to walk in the shade. The coolness of freshly mopped floors under my bare feet. Open windows, open doors. Always a conversation on the tips of tongues: the heat, the dust, the wind. The perfume of sunscreen–cocounty and sweet– from those in line at the supermarket. Every excuse for a siesta. The lack of hurry from a summer culture who has time to wait. Cars and vans leaving town, roof racks piled high with bundled gifts for family just a ferry-ride away. The lessening, the stealth of quietness that crawls into town as more and more people slip away for the summer. A pace of life that finally matches the projects at hand. And enough time in the day to spend with friends (those who remain).