And can it be…?

It’s my responsibility to choose the songs for our Sunday sunrise service. The Easter Sunday selection often falls on me, I think, or maybe it’s just a reflection of how many years I’ve been in Spain to have the selection fall on me (or a reflection of my age and coinciding inability to remember).

There is an overwhelming number of songs to choose from. The traditional hymns that make the male voices boom, “Up. From. The grave. He. Arose!” to some of the newer songs that encompass Jesus’ life and passion. I only get to choose a few, but that doesn’t stop me from snooping through other people’s Spotify playlists.

What are some of your favorites? And why?

One of mine (one of many) is “And Can It Be, That I Should Gain?” by Charles Wesley (1738). The lyrics are powerful, the music beautiful (especially with an organ!). The hymn starts with questions, evoking shame and guilt.

And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior's blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain?
For me, who Him to death pursued?

The hymn goes on to share the mystery and grit of the Savior’s death followed by the hymn writer’s own testimony of freedom and life from the living “Christ my own.” Yet, through the entire song, we are pulled back to the refrain:

Amazing love! how can it be
That Thou, my God, should die for me?

A reminder of our helplessness before God without Jesus’ death and resurrection for “Adam’s helpless race.” A reason to celebrate Resurrection Day with gratitude.

Photo by Henrique Jacob on Unsplash

What am I fit for?!

If you’ve ever given your heart to more than one place in this world, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I am in a culture that is not my own; yet, in a strange way, I feel like I belong. But I will never fully belong because this is not who I am. Paradoxically, returning to the place I most expect to belong is not as comfortable as it used to be. I’ve changed, adapted, conformed–or whatever you want to call it–to my new culture, and I can’t go back without wearing that change.

One evening not long ago, I was on my way home when suddenly confusion washed over me. Where was I going? “If I were to go to the homiest home I can think of right now, where would I go?” I asked myself. My flat in Spain? My room at my parents’ house? Or any of the other places I’ve lived in my lifetime?

The concept of “home” was foggy, like waking from a dream and expecting to be in one place but being thousands of miles away instead.

When I feel that sense of homelessness, I think of Eliza Doolittle in the musical My Fair Lady. As the result of a wager between two learned men, Eliza has been transformed from a street flower girl into a proper lady. But now the experiment is done, and she is turned loose. But to where? In one world, she can only ever be an imposter; in the other world, she has changed too much to go back and belong. “What am I fit for?!” she cries.

I feel that agony sometimes. I want the luxury of fully belonging to one home and one culture, of not being different or feeling misplaced.

But this strange in-between space is also held in the hand of my loving Father. Today, that is enough. And tomorrow it will be too.

A stray in Andalusia

I hefted my bag onto the closest seat as the bus lurched forward, nearly carrying the rest of me and mine down the aisle. But I caught the seat handle just in time and wrestled off my backpack.

It was one of those four seater sections of the bus where two passengers faced another two passengers. The kind of seat I typically avoid because I dislike riding backwards and letting my knees protrude into someone else’s territory. But today, the bus was full and at a quick glance, it didn’t seem like there were many other options.

The woman across from me, knees against mine, watched me curiously. I smiled and decided, given the close quarters, not to mention that I was still getting over the flu. I was trying to subtly clear the cough in my throat when her questions began, each in thick Andalusian. “Where are you from? Where do you live? What’s your name?”

Every time I replied, she broadcasted my answer over her shoulder to an elderly gentleman sitting a row back. He watched me with delight, his eyes peering between the clouds of white which were his head and chin.

“Where do you live in Mytown?”

“Close to Central Market.”

“SHE LIVES CLOSE TO CENTRAL MARKET.”

“Oh, Central Market!”

This was how the interrogation went as I bounced along backwards, feeling both annoyed and amused that everyone on the bus now had access to my personal data. She began to preface questions with my name, dragging my attention away from the window where I was pretending that I had forgotten she was there. I kept my answers to the point, swallowing back the coughing fit that kept swelling in my airway.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Six years.”

“SHE HAS LIVED HERE SIX YEARS.”

“Ah! Six years.”

Andalusians, pleasant as they are, have a way of reducing me to the feeling that I’ve just stepped off the plane. They pick me up like a stray. Under their burning curiosity, I get tongue-tied. Getting tongue-tied leads to falling behind in the conversation. Falling behind is a blow to my confidence, which in turn, makes me appear ignorant and lost. That’s when I try to preserve my fizzling dignity by looking for an escape.

Fast forward to not many days after my backwards bus ride to find a friend and me face to face with three abrupt police officers. This time, curiosity was backed by the authority of the uniform.

“What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, I felt as if I were wandering into territory that was not mine for the wandering. I was three and half blocks from home and I felt like they had found me lost.

“Where are you from? Holland? Russia?”

I had never been stopped by police officers before. I don’t even have a speeding ticket to my name (although, I can’t say I’ve never deserved one). A few questions in, I realized they didn’t believe we had done anything wrong, but they were curious who we were and why we were in this particular neighborhood. Their method was protection by intimidation. Not very effective, but very Andalusian.

Once again, the stray puppy was held up for examination and then sent home. Literally this time.

“Go home. You’ll get robbed here.” As if I didn’t live three and a half blocks away. As if I hadn’t been living three and a half blocks away for three years.

Sometimes, I just want to make a list of all of the things I’ve experienced and survived in life and hand it to the next person who tries to protect my presumed naivete. My list may not be long, but I’m guessing it’s longer than a stray puppy’s.

Birthday reflections

Welcome to the world, Della Grace. You are wanted. You are loved, you little imago Dei, you. I’m so excited to be your aunt and to share your little world.

And you joined the family string of November birthdays. Happy birthday Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett… and me.

Zayne’s word for all candles is “happy-to-you.” Alex and Bennett love to sing happy birthday. In August they got stuck on singing to “Clarkie” and continued singing to “Clarkie” well after Clark’s birthday.

So now there is one more of us in this crush of birthdays. One more life to celebrate, and do we ever celebrate you, Della!

As I think about another year, I want to face it head on–to throw my arms around it and laugh. I am not naïve enough to believe that the power of positive thinking will let me skip my share of heartache along the way. But I don’t want pain to keep me from the delight of another day, another opportunity to live well.

Happy birthday to us, Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett. 🙂

Photo credit: K.K.

Blooming and growing

Less than a month ago, I was driving a winding road through trees that were just changing color. As I drove, golden leaves sprinkled my car, catching the afternoon sunlight.

My chest ached like something was trying to get out. Or in. The beauty of the moment was so sharp it physically hurt.

I knew I was leaving this beauty–the golden leaves and dry cornfields–for a different world with a different beauty. I was in between seasons of life again.

Despite the busyness of an Illinois summer, my family managed to make quite a few memories. I became “Isha” to three of my nephews. Exclamations of “Isha” were usually accompanied by sparkling eyes and an equally sparkly grins. Well, except that rough day during potty-training when Alex said wistfully, “Bye-bye, Isha.”

My oldest niece decided to pray for a “good husband” for me. When did this little fluffy blondie get so big? Every time I visited their house, her little sister Joanna asked me to “pick stones.” She has a fondness for all things little and finds remarkable traits in the unremarkable. I love that about her.

When feeling particularly independent, some of us would quote Camden, “Camden do it self!”

Zayne called a tiny Fisher Price slide a “wee.” We spent our last moments together on our backs, wildly kicking the air like we were running and then dissolving into giggles much to the amused consternation of the other adults in the house.

Nettie came over to me after church to tell me that her new little cousin, Boone, “–is like a tiny pea!” She squeezed the tips of her thumbs and index fingers to make a tiny dot as if to indicate Boone’s unnatural smallness.

Boone was small, although not quite that small. Just small enough to snuggle and smell like a new baby.

I read stories to ones who are learning to read for themselves. I had them read to me too. They were excited when Grandma brought home The Pancake Pie from the library (one of the best children’s books ever!).

There were days I just wanted to squeeze them tight because they were so cute–like when Dylan pointed out the “-ole” in his sock. There were also days when I was relieved when everyone went home and the house stilled. Oh, we made lots of memories, not just the littles but the “bigs” too. And I return to Spain with a full heart.

It’s time for another season. This season includes a time of not feeling well. I spend more hours than I would like in bed or curled around a hot water bottle, as my body fights the bacteria in my system. But seasons don’t last forever, and the drier seasons often make room for us to dig our roots deeper as we search for water and nutrients.

Besides, I heard recently that one doesn’t have to bloom to be growing.

Leaving, arriving, and the perks of Spain

Leaving Illinois–leaving family, friends, and church community–was hard as usual. Well, maybe even harder than usual. I flip on the electric kettle and wait at the counter’s edge while my Barry’s tea bag floats atop the milk in the bottom of my favorite mug. I’m back in Spain and life in the States feels far away. “Well, here I am. Alone again.”

My bags are unpacked. My house is relatively clean except the random projects strewn around the living room. I live downtown and it just feels so quiet.

Then again…

A neighbor (and her irritating dog) dropped by because I’d promised her chocolate for watching my apartment while I was gone. She apologized over and over again for killing my plants and insisted I take the remaining straggler with me before she killed that one too.

Another neighbor (a new one) dropped by to ask if my apartment was for rent. Umm…

Yet another neighbor dropped by to ask if I could pick up her daughter from school. She caught me during a salad laden with chia seeds. While we were chatting, I felt a seed swelling between my front teeth. I couldn’t subtly pry it out with my tongue, so there it stayed and I punctuated the conversation with seedy smiles.

My neighbor boy dropped by to visit, strewing cookie crumbs across the floor as he made his rounds, examining everything new in the house. “What did you miss most?” his mom asked him. “Her or her toys?” He grinned and looked away. But he pointed at me.

As I was out and about this morning, I decided to make a list of the things I like about being back in Spain. The cons can go without mention this time.

The sunshine!
The accessibility to quality food, especially fresh produce.
Knowing my way around stores.
Having sales tax included in the price.
Living downtown where neighbors pop in and out and almost everything I need is within walking distance.
Good ol’ Spanish directness. (Yes, this can get annoying too, but I’m choosing the positive side today.) This morning, as I was standing at the hardware store counter, another customer plunked a packet of screws on the counter and said they were the wrong size. “How do we know you didn’t take some out?” asked the clerk, eyes narrowing. “There’s a screw of a different class.” Indeed, on a bed of bland screws was a gold-colored one. Where had it come from? There would be no getting around the fact that the package had been tampered with. I felt a giggle bubbling up but tried to swallow it down. Even in customer service, there were no niceties. No frills or lace bordering this conversation.
Amazon packages that arrive rápidamente with or without Prime.
Fast internet.
Cheap phone plans.
The reminder that God is here too.
The variety of people–colors, ages, personalities, nationalities–all piled into my neighborhood.
The late schedule. When I roll out of bed at 8:00, the streets are still pretty quiet, as if I’m not the only one reluctant to get started on the day.
My apartment. Knowing my kitchen–what utensils and pots and pans I have and what is in my fridge because I’m the one who put it there.

That’s all for now. See? I’m already feeling less alone and more… I don’t know… ready.

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash

Baby Boone

Well, hello, Mr. Boone, my newest little nephew. It’s a delight to meet you. I look forward to many more newborn snuggles over the next few weeks before I travel back to Spain. You won’t remember me, but I’ll remember you.

May this life delight but never absolutely satisfy you. May you invite Jesus to walk with you every step of life’s journey. Even when you stumble on doubt and sin, reach toward Him, not away. Find your satisfaction first in Him.

I love you, little man.

Toddler poking baby's eye — “Baby Boom” with big brother, Zayne. (Photo credit: M.H.)

Quick update of life in the States

It’s been a fast month. Month and a half, really.

Since I wrote last, I feel like I’ve traveled the world. If not the world, then much of the United States at least. After an unexpected night in London, I landed in Chicago and spent enough days among the cornfields to get over my jetlag before I was packing my bags for Ohio, Pennsylvania, Delaware, NYC, Virginia, and North Carolina, for a PR trip dotted with visits to dear friends. I returned to the cornfields just long enough to catch my breath before heading to Nebraska for part of a week. And now I’m about to embark on another adventure.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all this except maybe to excuse myself for neglecting my blog. Besides, I’ve been spending time with many of my most faithful readers so writing has seemed less important.

Should I summarize the last month? Wrap it up with a tidy bow when inside is only sweet chaos? I don’t know. The truth is that I have hardly touched the memories I’m making. I feel like I am skimming along their tops, saving them to remember later.

Learning to know my nieces and nephews all over again: changing diapers, reading stories, wiping noses, giving golf cart rides, explaining things I don’t even know how to explain and how did they grow up so fast?
Speaking almost exclusively in my mother tongue.
Spending time with friends over tea and coffee and dark chocolate peanut butter cups, looking at recipes on coaches or sprawled in nylon hammocks with a cloud of mosquitoes whining above us. Or maybe a time or two peering out an upstairs window at an unusual neighbor.
Almost never eating alone.
Laughing with family until tears streamed and abs ached.
Traveling, traveling, traveling. And now traveling again.

Oh, look! It’s almost time to head to the airport!

Growing older

Some days, I can’t wait to be old.

To push my walker to the grocery store and watch kind people step out of my way. To chat with an old friend about aches, pains and loved ones. To fumble with a cell phone–or whatever device the younger generation will be using by then–pressing one deliberate button at a time and still contacting the wrong person. To love and invest in the next generation or two…or three. To be able to lounge in an easy chair with a cup of tea and a book without anyone expecting anything else of me. To stop trying to be eternally young and just get to be who I am, wrinkles and all. To daily remember that age is a passage-way. I can even imagine myself enjoying being an elderly single–not having my own to belong to and therefore belonging to everyone.

Most days I still pull out those grays and keep limber with walks and stretches. And I forget that I’m not 18 anymore (until I meet an 18-year-old). But I want to stop dreading old age. Stop making negative predictions like, “If I’m already this feeble, I’ll never even make it to 60!”

Aging is hard. It’s not all cups of tea and good books. It can be chronic pain and loneliness. Is that what scares us?

I decided years ago that I wanted to age gracefully. Now that aches and pains have reminded me that “old age” isn’t too far away, I wonder if I have any idea what “aging gracefully” even means.

But just maybe it starts with anticipating rather than dreading the inevitable and being exactly, exactly in the age I am right now.

When the world shifts

I awake to my bed shaking. The window frames click and tick with the shifting earth beneath them. Another earthquake. Is it a bad one? In my sleepy stupor, I wonder if this time we will all have to dash onto the street in our pajamas. My heart pounds as I listen for voices and wait for more tremors.

But all I hear is the thump and whine of the garbage truck making its rounds like it does every night. It is comforting to wake up in uncertainty and then find the world is familiar after all.

Is this what my neighbor boy thought when I slipped across the street in the middle of the night to pick him up? While Mommy and Daddy were at the hospital awaiting baby brother, Little S had spent the evening with another neighbor but would not consent to spending the night. He filled their home with his wails.

When he saw me standing at the front door, he ran into my arms, sobbing as if he had just been waiting for something that made sense.

I picked him up and brought him home. He knows my house, and he knows me. We curled up on the couch after he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. For hours, his breath shuddered from leftover sobs. The body does not quickly forget its tears. Spending the night away from his parents for the first time in his life wasn’t easy…for either of us.

But in a sense, I got to be his garbage truck–the familiar presence as the earth shifted beneath him.

Photo credit: Lucas van Oort on unsplash.com