In less than a week, I plan to leave for the States. Three weeks of family and friends and a very important family wedding.
I have a lot more family and friends than will fit into three weeks, but I’m going to try anyway.
And, by the way, no more blogging until I get back to Spain. Priorities, you know? Yes, you probably do know.
I’ll give you an update when I get back. But hasta luego…
As a life-long language learner, I often always struggle to find the right word in the right language. And I always often end up using the wrong word anyway.
One time, a friend in the thick of language school told me that she had burst into laughter when a non-native English speaker used the word “elephant” to describe an “eggplant” dish. Although she was embarrassed by her own uncontrollable giggles, she knew that it was coming from a sense of relief that other people make mistakes too.
I can understand.
Heavily accented English. Mispronounced vocabulary. Misused idioms. Misspellings. I can smile… because when I do, I am smiling at my own mistakes too.
Like my language school director once told me on a particularly bad language day: “You’re a victim of the Tower of Babel!”
I’m glad I’m not the only one.
Today is the first day of Ramadan. Earlier this week, a friend told me that Ramadan is a time of growing close to God.
Whether or not her comment reflects her true goal during the obligatory month of fasting, there are many who are seeking God. And many are finding. Sometimes in ways they don’t expect.
“You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.”
(Jer. 29:13)
Pray that those who are seeking will find.
In my blog post last week, I told you that I wanted to see beauty in the daily grind of life. I wanted to intentionally notice.
I managed to get a photo from each day and multiple photos from several days. My self-induced challenge made me look for beauty, even when I wasn’t snapping pictures. I liked that.
There were a lot of photos I would have liked to have had and one I accidentally deleted… but instead of telling you about those, I’ll show you these:
(Most of the photos below were taken on my phone, so I won’t vouch for their quality.)
Sometimes beauty gets lost in the daily grind of life until I hardly notice it anymore. Noticing the beautiful things in life generally doesn’t happen unless it’s intentional… at least for me.
Many days, I would notice the trash, but not the snail.
This week, I want to be intentional about noticing beauty. I propose one photo or descriptive scene each day.
I’m making the “descriptive scene” an option because sometimes the best photos lodge themselves in my mind and never make it to my camera. Sometimes because pulling out my camera would detract from the beauty. Sometimes because the moments happen too fast. Sometimes I am trying to be culturally sensitive.
(Pictures speak a thousand words, but sometimes words can speak a thousand pictures because words come from human perception rather than a camera lens.)
So for one week, I will look for beauty in every day… and give you an update next Thursday.
Join me?
“The words don’t come anymore. It’s like they’re stuck,” I told my roommate. I used to love sitting down to answer emails. Now, despite the fact that I still love to get emails, it’s harder to sit down and respond to them. What used to be a joy now feels more like a discipline.
“It’s like the one thing I used to be good at no longer works!”
My journal entries have grown thin and factual. My blog entries are dry.
Sometimes I get tired of words, trying to recall or learn words in three languages. Tired of trying to make myself understood in any of those languages and their respective cultures.
Sometimes I want to turn off the words in my brain and just be—I want the “nothing” box that men claim is real.
So instead of writing something profound, I offer you some snapshots of my favorite little people: Carissa Joy, Clark David, and Albert Harris. My family kindly keeps me updated with pictures of my growing niece and nephews.
Featured photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash
Niece and nephews photo credits to my family
I found my first gray hair after more than a year in North Africa. I wailed as I looked at its reflection in the mirror. Was it really gray or just blond? I yanked it out and gingerly carried it to my roommate. She inspected it too, pulling out her flashlight for better lighting.
There, in the glaring battery-powered light, we knew the truth. Grimacing, my roommate (only one year younger than I) looked up at me, “I’m sorry!”
I could have wallowed in despair. But I didn’t. For some reason it didn’t bother me as much as I was expecting.
Long, long ago—and I’m pretty sure I’m qualified to use this phrase now that I’m over 30—long, loooong ago, my older sister told me that she didn’t think there was any point in feeling old. “We’re never going to be any younger than we are right now.”
I’ve remembered that.
Why are we so afraid of age? Is it the aches and pains? The slowing metabolism? The realization that our bodies are “past their prime”? The imminence of the grave (even though “to die is gain”? Why do we focus on the negative aspects?
Long, long ago, an English professor told me that the best part about getting older is the accumulation of knowledge. I’m not sure I would agree that knowledge is the best part, but it’s a pretty hefty perk.
As we get older, we get to embrace adulthood, make our own decisions, continue maturing, grow in wisdom, and teach the younger generation.
In Arabic (at least in this North African dialect), the verbs “to grow old” and “to honor” are almost identical. In the culture, gray-haired people are respected because of their life experience and wisdom. For some reason, my one gray hair—or maybe five or six by now—doesn’t hold a lot of weight yet. Maybe in another ten years I will be ten years wiser, and ten years more worthy of respect.
“All we get are windows,” he had said.
And this after my week of cancelled plans, disappointed tears, and familiar feelings of uselessness. But his words rang in my head all weekend so that now in the middle of a lively West African church service, my mind was still stuck.
The dissonant keyboard chords, the steady drums and tambourine and my mind was thousands of miles away in last summer.
I could still hear those testimonies of broken men and women who were crying out to God for the meaning of their years of overseas service—men and women who felt they had little to report except failure.
“All we get are windows of time in people’s lives. We walk with them while we can.”
Sometimes those windows feel pointless. Like walking with someone on their journey is a waste of time and couldn’t God please bring someone else into our lives? Sometimes the windows feel so nice that we frantically try to prop them open when they begin to close. But they close anyway and we label them as aborted opportunities.
In the snippets of time we have with people—these “windows”—sometimes we lose sight of the bigger picture and think that the windows are all that matter. That’s when we feel useless, like failures.
The keyboard, drums, and tambourine faded as a new song leader took the microphone. Pacing back and forth, she started an African version of “Alleluia.”
“Alleluia. Alleluia. For the Lord God Almighty reigns.
“Holy, holy are you, Lord God Almighty!”
Behind the song leader was a pillar that supported the center of the little church building. There on the pillar, neat rows of pink and white silk rose buds formed a cross.
“Worthy is the Lamb! Worthy is the Lamb! Amen!”
Amen. So where will I place my focus? On my interpretation of efficiency or on the bigger picture: the glory of the Lamb? On the brevity of the windows of time or the fact that the Lamb is worthy of a life spent in faithful service?
Previously, my roommate and I compiled a list of a few hints to help you survive living in Spain (or just visiting us!). Click here to read part one. Below are a few more helpful hints…
Stay tuned! I’m sure we’ll find more things to add to our list!
When I think of my family, friends, and church at home, the word that comes to mind right now is “thank you.”
Thank you for the strength I feel behind me. When I struggle, you gently carry me along with your prayers, encouragement, and advice. When I am happy, you rejoice with me. And you tell me about life at home like I’m still one of you. I am still one of you.
You give me a reason to be homesick. Not every day. But some days it rushes over me and I feel lost, pretty sure that I will drown. And I do for a little, overwhelmed with the sorrow of what has been and probably would have continued being had I not moved here. But then I lift my hands in surrender (literally sometimes), let my tears dry, and blow my nose. Life goes on.
“God, I’m not questioning my calling; I’m just feeling the hurt right now.”
I’m thankful for technology– emails, phone calls, video chats and such– but it’s not the same.
I wonder if Jesus ever felt homesick. He had sweet and constant communion with His Father. And then He left heaven to come to earth. Sure, He could pray to His Father. But it wasn’t the same. Sorta like a phone call.
But without that sweet communion, without something that emotionally ties us to “our” place, there would be no homesickness.
That’s why I say, “Thank you for the homesickness.” You have given me many reasons to miss you.
My Thoughts From Afar | 