Just a normal day

There was still no glimmer of light between the slats of the blinds.

From the street below came the familiar creak of the neighbor’s metal garage door and the roar of the box truck. Greenhouse work doesn’t rest. A passing car dropped off noisy teenagers who were still on a high from their night-long partying.

It was like the morning exhaled and both happened.

I wrapped the covers over my head and tried to fall back asleep. Too late. Thoughts outside of dreamland had already kindled my consciousness:

News from family.
The Amazon order I just placed.
The sense of standing on the brink of the unknown. And the accompanying senses of exhilaration and panic.
The earthquake the other night that jostled me awake in a swaying bed.
The moment when crying out to God for a definite answer, I only heard Him say, “You are my child.”
I should get that birthday card written soon.

I finally crawled out of bed to welcome the morning with a steaming cup of coffee (special delivery from Nebraska). My quiet time was punctuated with an invitation to a spontaneous breakfast on the beach. Of course!

I caught a few moments of afternoon alone with David Copperfield and a nap long enough to let my body soak in the day off.

The evening brought what was supposed to be a literacy class. But when I arrived, alphabet flashcards in hand, my student and her neighbor were busy making shbekia.

I learned to roll out the speckled dough and run it through the press. I soaked the fried pieces in honey and picked pebbles out of sesame seeds. Literacy gave way to the urgency of Ramadan preparations.

One of the ladies went to pray. The other soon followed her. I was busy with the rolling pin when there was a burst of laughter. The first had recited her prayers facing the wrong way. She sighed, turned the rug toward Mecca, and started again.

We talked about prayer and food and family. And then a pair of women and a pair of children arrived.

One of the women was the female version of a man who had wanted to marry me. She had the same nose and the same intense eyes that sparkled but didn’t quite smile.

When they found out that I was an American to who spoke Arabic, one of them said, “Aaaah. She’s one that helps people.”

Thank you.

I played with the little girl while the women discussed which acne cream worked best for their teenagers, how many children was enough but not too many, how to make specialty Ramadan foods, and how the American prayed.

“She sits in a chair at the table and covers her head like this.” One of them made motion of draping a shawl over her head.

I smiled. “I can pray wherever I want. I can sit here and pray for you. Or I can bow down and pray. Or I can even pray while I am walking on the street.”

Blank faces stared back at me.

“God hears us no matter where we are.”

Yes, yes. That was true. And they all agreed and moved on to a discussion about their prophet.

The maghreb sounded. After a bit, I said my goodbyes and reluctantly took the proffered baggie of too-sweet shbekia.

I walked home in the dying light, smelling like old oil.

Belated birthday trip: Florence

Our final stop was Florence, Italy. Since we had already done a quick tour of Pisa the same day, we arrived tired… but still had a long walk to reach our airbnb (due to a [not-so-slight] miscalculation). Our little suitcase rattled long-sufferingly along behind us.

We had to wait for our host to come with the keys. In the meantime, we met some friendly Italians who were curious what we were doing so far out of tourist territory.

We spend 3 1/2 nights in Florence. During the day, we ate, napped, met a few nice people, and browsed the city. Since none of us are touristy at heart, we were less impressed by the normal touristy places and more impressed by the food.

white vintage car in front of house with wooden door

florence cityscape — Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, also known as the Duomo.

corner of duomo — The Duomo was more impressive from the lookout where you could see more than just a corner of it at a time.

bridge over the arno river — We spent a lot of time strolling along the Arno. This bridge is the Ponte Vecchio, known for being lined with little shops (and too many tourists).

crowded marketplace — The market place was not our favorite stop. We unanimously decided we didn’t need souvenirs after all and headed home.

plate of gnocchi — Give me rice over pasta any day… unless I’m in Italy. The gnocchi and bucatini were so amazing that we have yet to recover.

pasta aisle of grocery store — The pasta aisle in an average grocery store. And these are only the *dry* pasta options.

elderly man standing behind gelato counter — We read up on what makes gelato worthwhile. This man had nailed it… and his shop was close enough for us to swing by more than once.

cup and saucer with italian coffee — And the coffee was always worth our while, even when we sipped our cappuccino after 11 a.m. like the ignorant tourists that we were.

We left Florence at 3:30 a.m. and spent most of the day racing from one mode of transportation to the next, with several heart-stopping moments when we thought all was lost (hello, train to Bologna). We made it back to Almería by 10:30 p.m., exhausted. No one seemed interested in brainstorming for our 40th birthday trip. 🙂

Belated birthday trip: Pisa

We were flying through Pisa anyway, so joining the teeming masses of tourists was logical.

Being thrifty (or downright tight) we shared one Ryanair carry-on among the three of us. However, since Pisa wasn’t our final destination, the carry-on rattled along with us, whithersoever we went. Talk about looking like amateur tourists.

After getting off of the shuttle train from the airport, we stopped for pizza in Pisa. That was my idea. I’m not much of a pizza fanatic, but pizza in Pisa sounded like fun. It wasn’t just fun; it was delicious. And see that leafy rucola pizza? Go ahead and make fun of me but I ate all 30+ centimeters (except the slivers I traded with the others). Meanwhile, the suitcase hung out under the table while we tried to be local, practicing “grazie” until it slipped from our lips with relative ease.

three colorful pizzas on restaurant table top

We came up to the Leaning Tower from the back. In fact, we didn’t realize how close we were until we rounded the corner and there it was, serenely waiting for us to notice. As if it didn’t have enough to do posing for all of the geography textbook photographers and snap-happy tourists.

We constantly had to remind ourselves that the iconic building was indeed before our eyes. And yes, it’s still leaning, even more so in real life than the pictures we were snapping with the other tourists.

We enjoyed watching tourists trying to get the perfect pose with the tower from across the lawn.

It was a slow walk back to the train station (or should I say “slow rattle” on behalf of the poor suitcase?), where we caught a train to Florence, our next and final stop.

Belated birthday trip: Madrid

Two years late, my friend and I began to plan our 30th birthday trip. Ten years ago, we had dreams of celebrating in India. Then India morphed into Portugal. And finally, Portugal became Madrid, Pisa, and Florence. And the 30th birthday notion got a bit murky when my sister joined our group and helped plan the trip. After all, why not? None of us are 30 anyway.

So there were three of us bouncing along in the Almería-Madrid bus. In Madrid, we met up with our airbnb host and attempted to regain our land legs by climbing the steps to the top story of a too-tall apartment building.

We had dinner in an unimpressive restaurant with a flickering fluorescent light. Madrid had to be better than that, we knew.

It was.

The next day:

But our favorite part of Madrid? The street musicians.

Lose your life for my sake: Remembering Grandpa

What does it mean to lose my life for Christ’s sake?

I was sitting on a park bench, feeling the warm sun just under the gentle breeze of a perfect day.

Florence, Italy. My sister, my friend, and I had been planning this trip for months. Flights, buses, trains, shuttles, airbnbs, tourist sites.

But there in the park, I was thinking about losing life. Because while we were still in Madrid, Grandpa had passed from this world to the next.

“Dad, should we cancel our trip?” I would not have been able to travel back for the funeral anyway, but being on a belated 30th birthday trip while my family mourned…

“Absolutely do not cancel your trip!”

So here I sat in Florence, pondering Matthew 10 on the day of Grandpa’s visitation. Have I found life by losing it? This familiar passage wasn’t making sense anymore.

The late cappuccino (we had defied the culture by sipping our cappuccino after 11 a.m.) was still taking effect. Just over the mesh-lined fence, tennis players swung rackets at a yellow ball. I could barely see them, but I heard them. Grunt. Thwack. Grunt. Thwack. “Out!”

Am I worthy of Christ? Do I love Him more than family? Have I taken up my cross?

In Italy—in a world so different from the one I grew up in—it was hard to understand that Grandpa was gone. But I let my mind drift through memories.

Hours and hours of reading “Burn-stin Bear” books and “Dead-Eye Dick.” Patiently teaching us grandchildren (his “coochtie boochties”) to play 42. “Honda” rides. Issuing drivers’ licenses for the golf cart. Constantly wanting to tape record his little grandchildren singing songs. Sketching maps that directed us past where this or that “used to be” as if we had been born in his generation. Chanting “Cumbine coorn and cumbine be-eans,” as we pulled ourselves up to sit with him in the combine. Giving us “bubble gums” from the door pocket of his F-150, the one that had the automatic window buttons in little blue and red bubbles that I would run my fingers over while I waited for my gum.

Letting Grandpa serve you something from the shop was always exciting because it was fascinating to watch him prepare something from his stash of snacks. (Did you know you can make hot chocolate from microwaving chocolate milk? Or a “roastin’ ear” by microwaving an ear of sweet corn wrapped in a wet paper towel?) Sunday night at Grandpa and Grandma’s typically included helping Grandpa get the ice cream out of the “shed” and hiding a pickle or an olive under the heaping scoops in Dad’s ice cream bowl.

And then Grandpa began to get older and frail. Some of his stories came out confused. His tall body began to shrink. His blue eyes got watery. But those watery eyes always brightened when he talked about his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

When I told him goodbye last summer, I wondered if he would remember that I was going back to Spain.

Grandpa had dozed off while Grandma and I were chatting. “Touch his shoulder,” Grandma said.

I touched his shoulder and his blue eyes opened. Instead of watery, his eyes were clear as they stared up at me wordlessly.

“I’m going to go Grandpa. And I wanted to tell you goodbye.”

The clear, blue eyes continued to stare for several long moments. Had he heard me?

And then, “Kiss on the cheek!” So he remembered that my goodbye was longer than a “see you later.” I leaned over to hug him, kiss his cheek, and let him kiss mine.

My voice was still cheerful as I said, “If I don’t see you here again, I’ll see you in a much better place!”

He smiled. I cried. He was silent as I hugged him again.

That goodbye felt like a closed chapter in my life. It was one that I mourned, not only that day but also when Grandma passed away in November. And now again while sitting on that park bench, trying to register the reality of Grandpa’s death.

Death is real. It’s ugly. It hurts.

But what does it mean to lose my life for Christ’s sake? My mingling thoughts that late Florence morning brought me here: It isn’t until you die that the greatest potential for life is set before you.

France and other things

Tomorrow!

My little sister and my friend are already on their way.

After lots of planning, we are still sitting on a bunch of unfinished details. But the 3 of us have decided that even if we lounged around and did nothing for 2 whole weeks, we would still have a blast just being together.

But doing nothing is NOT the plan. Instead, we have plans to attend class, visit friends, browse the market, make complete meals out of olives, tour various cities, and do lots of other together things. We will see what actually comes to pass and how exactly it comes to pass… I’ll let you know in a few weeks.

Meanwhile, enjoy a few pictures from a recent (and brief) trip to Lyon, France. Although the trip was not a vacation, we managed to spend an afternoon touring parts of the city. During my trip, I discovered a few things about France, namely:

The French are snobbier in my mind than they are in real life.
French food it incomparably better than Spanish food. Sorry, Spain.
French is hard to fake. I can’t even say merci with the right accent.

Knitting with the nuns

I crocheted 3 baby blankets, 3 hot pads, 2 children’s scarves, and 1 shawl.

My teacher said I am a machine. There was one pattern that I learned on youtube at which the nuns marveled. “You will have to teach us how to do this!” So there I sat, teaching the ones who had taught me.

For a few weeks, I became the crochet poster child. “How it cost her to learn a chain! And now look!” “And she’s left-handed!”

My goal was not only to learn crochet but to learn it well.

But my teacher had other plans. “Now that you know how to crochet, you can do everything on your own. It’s time to learn how to knit.” She was no longer content to have me happily stay within the safety of crochet. Every class, she would remind me, “You must learn to knit.”

One day, she caught me rather defenseless and handed me a ball of practice yarn and two mismatched knitting needles. And there I was, getting angry with the “arriba”s and “abajo”s and deciding I would have to pore over youtube videos at home before I really understood it at all. But even that didn’t help. I made lumpy little rows with missed stitches. Nothing helped.

In short, I was exactly where I had begun with crochet. And my teacher was in the same depth of despair with my work. Classes passed, me with my knitting needles, glaring at the uncooperative yarn.

Until I learned that to get out of knitting, all I had to do was leave my needles at home and bring along a crochet project.

I’m currently crocheting myself a sweater.

I wouldn’t say I’m giving up on knitting, exactly. Someday, when I feel more confident in crochet, I will pull out those malevolent knitting needles again. And I will probably finally understand it. After all, one day my despairing teacher told another nun,

“She learns well what she wants to learn.”

Her perception is her reality

It was happening again. Round two of the same problem, only this time her hurt was bubbling up in anger. As rage overpowered her tears, she clawed at her clothing as if wanting to rip it—to rip anything—to shreds.

But was her reality real? Ever since I had met her months earlier, I had never been able to determine exactly where reality and her misguided perception began to blur.

And yet, her perception was her reality because it was the filter through which she understood life. Pain and shame were just as real in both truth and misconception.

And the questions I have asking myself over and over are:

What does loving her look like? How can I help? How do I enter into her reality and walk with her through her pain to bring her to truth? What does that look like practically?

That night, I held her baby while she wept and spat out in anger. I prayed for her but after my amen, I still let her ask the question, “Where is God in this?”

When she had calmed down, she stood up to leave. Anguish still twisted her features into a frown, but she thanked me for listening and praying.

Most of the time, loving isn’t easy. I will probably spend the rest of my life learning how to do it well.

What’s been happening recently

A lot of time has passed since my trip to North Africa. Really, it feels like more than it was. Instead of trying to fill you in on all of the juicy details, here is a bullet list that might bring you sufficiently up to date:

Meeting a friend at the market to browse the various market stalls together and then walk back to her house for a relaxed visit. Recently, she told me I am a friend, not a guest.
Spending birthday/Christmas Kindle credit on books I had been drooling over for months.
Being stalked… and then protected by friends.
Post-Christmas candy-making and caroling.
New Year’s celebration complete with candles and fireworks.
Starting a hard copy recipe book that doesn’t include dusting my computer with flour every time I bake something.
A friend moving in about two blocks from our apartment which meant lots of pop-in visits at both my place and hers.
The same friend suddenly leaving town without any plans to return.
My Spanish teacher relocating to Madrid… resulting in my class being transferred to a teacher who uses “ustedes” instead of “vosotros.”
Crochet class morphing into knitting class against my will. (More on this later.)
Friends’ birthdays: small scale parties, a princess cake, and a photo shoot.
My friends’ children lighting up when they see me coming—it melts my auntie heart!
Blue Hat, Green Hat over and over again as dark, serious eyes soak it all in, even the title page.
A friend giving me two flowers she had planted at work. “No!” I cried, since I am a terrible plant keeper. “I’ll kill them!” “Look, you keep two and I’ll keep two and we’ll see whose dies on them first,” she said. The race is on. But, contrary to all reason, mine are BLOOMING!
Lots of book reading with children.
Helping a friend withdraw money from the ATM… an endeavor that had us laughing ourselves to tears.
Walking 45 minutes with a friend to the ER.
Anticipating visitors in March!!!
Lunch with a friend who started food preparations at 6:30 a.m. What an honor to be her guest!
Spending time with American teammates who belong to my culture and speak my language.
Trying out a few North African recipes, with moderate success.
Making copies at the African store down the street and being asked to run the copier myself since they were understaffed. I enjoyed watching customers’ eyes bulge when a pale face greeted them from behind the counter. The owner even gave me a discount because I had done the work myself.
Branching out a little with crochet patterns.
Attempting to grasp that God’s promises are for me and that my identity is, above all, a child of God.
Finishing up my visa paperwork! Lord willing, all that’s left is to pick up my residency card in March.

Would I do this trip again?: North Africa part 5

In December, I spent most of a week in North Africa, visiting friends. My intention is to give you a glimpse of my trip. Please forgive me for omitting certain details and for changing names in order to protect my friends.

The last two nights of my North African sleep were interrupted by an unsettled rooster in a concrete courtyard just over the wall. At 4 a.m., I began to envision a warm bowl of rooster noodle soup. Just a room away, Erika was preparing to brandish her shiny knife set.

Despite the lack of sleep, Erika and I made chocolate cupcakes and took them to Arabic language school. We laughed with former teachers about old times and chatted about the present. Then I wandered home in the sunshine and stopped for a potato patty sandwich with extra hot sauce.

That evening, we ex-pats fellowshipped, telling stories, talking about our dreams, and praying.

Time was winding down quickly.

In the morning, I hauled my heavy-laden backpack to the airport taxi. As the traveling hours stretched ahead of me, I tried to wrap my mind around all that had happened: starting with the multiple trips to the Almería immigration office and ending with the bumpy bus ride home.

Unless I took time to process all of the joys and sorrows that had been packed into this tiny space of time, I would not experience the fullness of my trip.

And bouncing along in that bumpy bus, I kept returning to one question: If everything remained unchanged, would I do this trip again?

Definitely.

“There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.”
(Nicholas Sparks)