Let the tears begin

It came while I was meeting my niece 12½ hours away from home. There it was! My Spanish residence visa. Dad WhatsApped me a picture. I broadcasted the news near and far and even took the first steps to get my plane ticket.

The ecstasy lasted approximately one hour; because when I pulled out my pocket calendar, excitement vanished with a puff of reality. I was looking at today’s date and my departure date on the same page. I had between three and four weeks.

I should have been ready; all along I had known of this possibility. But now it was real. That night, instead of drifting off into agreeable dreams, I cried myself to sleep.

That was a week ago. Now I have less than three weeks left. I’m still tossed to and fro between the delight of moving to Spain and the sorrow of leaving behind my world.

  • My nephews and niece will grow up, knowing me as the aunt who lives far away and brings them olives and cheap souvenirs with Spanish logos.
  • My family will try to keep me in the loop, even as we age and grow apart.
  • My church family will change dynamics as people come and people go.
  • Friends will move away, marry, and have children.
  • Older friends will have health complications and pass away.
  • The community will change as businesses start up and shut down, land is cleared, and landmarks disappear.

The list goes on.

I’ll change too. It’s just that this part of my life and I will not change together. It’s hard to give that up. But how can I cling to a vapor? My reality on earth is temporary. As important as life is to me right now, I don’t want it to weaken the anticipation of the life to come, the everlasting life.

Tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet

There is shrieking laughter as my nephew shakes bugs off of Grandma’s laundry and watches them vanish in the warm autumn sunlight above his head. Oh, that boy.

And to think that soon I’m going to be packing up my things and leaving. I cringe to think of those moments of transition when you’re sitting on a cold airport seat with little sleep and lots of memories of the world you’re leaving behind. Those are the worst moments.

The moments when you have completely left something but haven’t embraced the new something yet. And there you are, in the middle, caught in a swamp of your internal sorrow.

I know, because I’ve been there.

That’s why hearing my nephew’s laughter today makes me glad to be where there is grace enough, in today and not in the tomorrows that haven’t arrived.

A day of Midwestern culture

One day last week, I started out the day with a friend and dusty chaff in a soybean field. It was a lovely way to celebrate my favorite season: the dry plains that stretch into the horizon, the banter of voices over the radios, the roar of machinery, the swirling haze of dust every time the combine approaches. There is something about growing up on a farm that makes the joy of the countryside stick in your blood.

But in the afternoon, I drove to the city to shop. Within minutes, I had exchanged the hazy corn and bean fields for the asphalt and concrete of the glaring city. And I loved it, as I always do. Right down to the traffic (as long as I’m not in a hurry).

After inhaling the exotic spices in the Asian Market, I had fun browsing up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart with a short list and a lot of time. Of course, I did this in a Wal-Mart that is sometimes referred to as “ghetto-mart.” But it’s my favorite Wal-Mart because one can escape the SUV, soccer-mom rush that usually accompanies Wal-Mart trips closer to home.

After crossing a few things off of my list, I paid and exited the store. The cart man met me in the doorway, gave me a bright look, and said cheerily, “Goodbye, Saint! Have a nice day. Praise the Lord!” And I smiled all of the way out to my car.

In fact, my heart was still warm even after 30 minutes of wandering around on obscure backstreets that inevitably turned into dead ends. (I had left the directions to my friend’s orchestra concert on my nightstand.) I told myself not to despair of ever hearing her play the violin and stopped at Arby’s for directions (and roast beef and curly fries, if you must know). I chatted with the helpful cashier and then tried not to spill the oozing Arby’s sauce on my shirt as I embarked on the remainder of my journey.

The free concert was lovely, but there was a catch: it was in an assisted living facility and I was the only person in the audience under 50 (or maybe 70). But I didn’t care because I had a great view. Plus, I didn’t feel out of place tapping my feet or humming my way along through “The Sound of Music”, “Chicago”, and “Phantom of the Opera.”

Unexpected heroes

When my car broke down in West Virginia, I had visions of myself hunting down a toothless backwoods mechanic. As I stood at a gas station counter, buying every quart of 5W-30 synthetic oil the station had, I told the lady, “My car hates West Virginia!”

“We all do,” she remarked dryly.

A man stood behind me, 12-pack of Coors Light in hand. He looked a bit like Gimli, the dwarf of The Lord of the Rings—a bit pudgier and balder, but not much taller. He caught my glance. “You’re looking pretty today,” he graveled.

Apparently, I was being appraised just as I had been appraising. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed my frumpy traveling clothes. “Thank you.” I turned away from him and slipped outside as soon as I had my change.

I ducked under the hood of the car, carefully re-checking the oil and wondering how I would ever make it to my destination. My dad was helplessly 10 hours away while my car reeked of hot oil.

A man walked past. “Problems?” He studied the car. “This is a new car! It should still be under warranty.” And then he walked away shaking his head.

Thanks. Even if it had been under warranty—which it wasn’t—how would that solve my immediate problems? I was stuck in the middle of the West Virginia mountains. He may as well have said, “Be warmed and filled” before going on his way.

But suddenly Gimli and his equally rough-looking companion were standing under the hood with me. “Problems?” Gimli set down the Coors Light. The men listened to my description of the symptoms, filled the engine with fresh oil, and looked around under the car. Last, they started the car and listened to the heartbeat of the engine. And just as dusk was approaching, they sent me on my way.

No, my car wasn’t miraculously healed, but I limped along with the mighty reassurance that God was looking out for me, even if it was through unexpected heroes.

Learning trust, one call at a time

The first time I got the call, I was woefully unprepared. “Your paperwork isn’t right. You have 10 days to straighten it out.”

“I will look into it. If I have questions, can I call you?”

“No, everything you need is on our website.”

I messaged my team in Spain with my sob story. Within a day, they had straightened out my paperwork on the Spanish side of things. Several agonizing days later, the documents had the proper signatures on them. All was well. Disaster averted.

A few days later, after a day of work, I noticed a missed call on my phone… from the consulate. The chances of this being a “we received your paperwork” phone call were not good. But I still prayed that way until they called again 2 days later.

This time the voice was female. “One of the documents is still not right. You have 10 days to straighten this out.”

Within a day, the team in Spain had amended yet another document and it was on its way to the consulate. But as soon as the document arrived, my phone rang and my heart sank.

“This is not right. How can you live and work in one province when your organization is in another province?”

“That’s how it is.” I tried to explain, but the man remained unconvinced.

“I need a correction on this document or an official letter of explanation or we will reject your application and you will need to start again. This has gone on too long.”

“I know.” I didn’t even try to keep the whine out of my voice. “Too long” was right. My application would be either accepted or denied and we might as well get on with it. This middle ground had stripped my nerves completely raw.

In short, each phone call presented a new opportunity to trust. After each call, I gave the entire ordeal to God… but it was never long before I stole it back from Him. When would I learn?

Just this week, I sent off the latest document. I am waiting to hear whether or not it arrived in time. Re-application is a looming possibility. But I suppose that if I apply enough times, I might actually learn complete trust in the One who is in control of every government and their consulates.

From a family of writers

It was 2:30 a.m. and I was wide awake, when suddenly it struck me: I’m from a family of writers!

My mom, my siblings, and I all enjoy writing. Of course, we’ve had our share of mishaps. Like the time my mom sent a cheerful email to her siblings proclaiming “Hell to you all!” (she’d forgotten an “o”). Or the time when I was a child making a birthday card for my aunt. The card contained a hidden message cleverly concealed under a square of paper on which I had inscribed “Open the flab.”

Despite these unfortunate skeletons, we continued writing and continue to this day.

Mom comes from a family of unusual vocabulary, a vocabulary which still seeps into her everyday speech and writing. Before having children, she used to write poetry and keep a journal. Since children, she exchanged writing time for reading aloud: tales of Ira, Francis, Ichiro, and a little later, Narnia. Now her main writing occupation is optimistic emails to missing family members.

My older sister and I have stacks of journals. Hers go way back, to when she recorded observations from our childhood such as “Tricia eats like a horse and looks like a string bean.” Even now, she writes captivating emails recording events and people that waltz through her married life.

My older brother is the nerdy, theological writer of the family. When he asked me to help edit his Bible school thesis, I read a bit then stuck to editing grammar, not content. Instead of “This deep point of doctrine would be more indisputable if…” I was penciling in things like, “Maybe this sentence structure needs help???” Of late, most of his writing seems to be going out from the mailbox to a certain Ohio address.

My younger brother kept a journal of our family trip out West. The several pages, which gave a snapshot of the vacation in that moment, also gave some humorous insight to the workings of a 12-year-old mind. It was delightful to find his journal in my stash of papers years later… and give a copy to his wife to read! Now he gets to write sermons rather than record who is eating candy and what music we are listening to.

It was on another vacation long ago that my little sister, wrote an adorable note: “Dad, why do you let your whiskers grow?” Her thoughts have run down deeper lines since then. She maintains her own blog now and is more dedicated to her writing than any of us other family members.

At 14-months, even my nephew scripts his feelings quite clearly (see photo above).

Why do we write? Maybe it was due to those years when our parents instilled in us a love of reading. Those evenings that Mom would take us to the library and we would walk out with 40+ books that we started to read on the way home. The librarian told Mom that we were “good for circulation.”

Regardless of the reason, I’m thankful to be from a family who expresses through writing. For one, it makes living overseas more possible.