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!

J&T: A piece of our story

Besides a detailed account of our few weeks together, I haven’t written much about my relationship with J. It’s not because he has been pushed to the periphery of my life–he has been invading every nook and cranny! But I guess those were the nooks and crannies I once used to write on my blog.

Months ago, a reader asked me to tell our story. So here it is from my perspective…

We met at a wedding, our siblings’ wedding, to be exact. My older brother and J’s younger sister married each other in the summer of 2018.

You’d think that we both would have had romance on the brain in such a setting. Yet, he was based in China and I had just moved to Spain. Our minds were on our respective work, not romance. When I think hard enough, I remember things about him from that weekend–like when I tripped on my too-long skirt and he tried to blame my clumsiness on himself–but I can’t remember what he was wearing the first time I saw him or anything of the sort. He remembers even less than I do.

At the Sunday potluck, we chatted with each other. Our conversation was enthusiastic because, as overseas workers, we could connect in ways that we couldn’t connect with just anybody. He asked to be added to my newsletter mailing list.

I went back to Spain. He finished school and returned to China. I contacted him once about an article I was writing and he sent me some information. That was our only personal contact for five years.

His church became one of my supporting churches for two years. I was delighted because I already knew some of the congregation. I also knew his family. (When our siblings were dating back in 2017, I had made a point to travel to Ohio. Twice. And J was in China both of those times.)

In 2019, he returned to Ohio to finish his Master of Science with the intention of moving back to China. And then the pandemic happened, and he found himself planted Stateside indefinitely. Over the next several years, he made trips to Illinois to visit his sister, my brother, and our mutual nephews. I returned to Illinois as well, for a vacation or a home assignment, but our paths didn’t cross, and neither of us considered that they didn’t.

Then while I was on home assignment summer of 2023, I gave a talk at his church. J and I chatted a little that Wednesday evening, but I did a little chatting with a lot of people and nothing felt unusual. I was at the beginning of a long trip and was dealing with ongoing health symptoms I had become an expert at suppressing. Had I been a little more in tune with my surroundings that evening, perhaps I would have seen that quiet question mark above J’s head. But I continued my trip, clueless.

Still, he said nothing. Not that I was expecting him to have anything to say. In retrospect, it was as if, in my mind, he was married to China and therefore ineligible.

Toward the end of my time in the States that summer, he and his parents came to Illinois to visit his sister… the same day I left for Indiana.

It seemed that God was keeping us apart. And I think, in a sense, He was.

While in Indiana, I found a name for the symptoms I’d had for more than a dozen years, the symptoms that were getting progressively harder to suppress.

I started treatment after returning to Spain. Within a month, I recorded in my journal that I was beginning to feel better. I knew I wasn’t completely healed, but I was on my way. I had lots to be thankful for that Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was also the time that J, who had been praying for me in the meantime, sensed that the time was right. He emailed me that weekend.

I woke up at 5 a.m. to take the day’s first dose of treatment. As I crawled back into bed that Sunday morning, I saw I had an email from J. I immediately assumed that he was writing to say he was moving back to China and could I please take him off my newsletter list?

Or.

I didn’t stop to ponder; I just tapped the notification and opened the email that would change my life. Stunned, I lay in bed, lost in thought until my alarm went off.

He didn’t get an answer right away; I had a lot to think through. The truth is, as older singles, we both valued our respective single lives. Could this really be God’s next step for us? I knew I would need to mourn that first layer of loss before I responded to his email. Finally, with both trepidation and excitement, I wrote back, mostly with questions he had given me permission to ask: What about China? How did he feel about singleness?

Our initial emails were full of questions as we tried to sort out if forward were the best direction for us.

Deep down, I had a sense our relationship would work out, which was based on what I knew about him, his family, and his church. At its core, that inner sense was: “Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before?”

We wrote back and forth for a bit and then were ready to make our relationship more official around Christmas. Our families were shocked and excited. Our friends were shocked and excited. At last, these two “permanent singles” were dating!

Starting a relationship while 4,000 miles apart wasn’t for the faint of heart, but I’ll skip over those layers for now. One month after our first official phone date and just when I was admitting to myself how much I liked him, J was nominated to become a pastor in his home church. The next Sunday, one man would be chosen by lot and ordained.

He wrote to me on Monday morning, and all I could do was fall on my knees.

We both had lots of feelings that week. We tried phone calls but found we didn’t have a lot of words. Tears came at unexpected moments. I wasn’t mourning; I was overwhelmed. How could I support him when I was feeling so weak myself? What exactly was the new girlfriend’s role?

The events of that week drew us together in ways neither of us could have anticipated. Our relationship deepened to a level we would have said we weren’t ready for. We learned to trust each other.

I watched the ordination over WhatsApp, tears flowing as J was chosen to serve as a pastor in his home church.

Then we picked up and kept going, in both praise and uncertainty.

He came to visit Spain in May. We had 19 whole days on the same continent. During that time, we finished falling in love and seriously talked about a future together.

Three months later, I spent three weeks Stateside, in my home community and his. Right in the middle of our time together, J asked me to marry him. Even though I had known it was coming soon, he managed to surprise me. (Well, he surprised both of us, but that’s another story. 😉 )

Then came the whirlwind of excited decision-making in the week before I returned to Spain. Spain is where I am now. The whirlwind hasn’t stopped and likely won’t as I close down my life here, move back to the States, and plan a wedding.

But I’m surprised to find how much joy is in the whirlwind too.

This message has been approved by J. 😉

I’m packing my bags

I’m packing my bags. Well, to be honest, I’ve been packing for a while now, trying to make every kilo count down to the last gram.

Mom told me the Amazon packages she’s piling on my desk in Illinois make her think of Mr. Grabbit. Toothbrushes, shoes, supplements, etc. Things I won’t have to bring with me.

I’m planning to wear multiple outfits to give myself several sets of clothes for the trip. “I might look homeless when you pick me up at the airport,” I tell J. The layers of clothing, the bulging pockets I stitched to the inside of my jacket, and the supermarket bag I’m planning to use as a carry-on might make me a key candidate for surveillance. Especially since I’m clambering into Chicago the weekend before the Democratic National Convention.

Time is winding down. Less than two more days now. My to-do list is moderate, all things considered. I put “mop the floor” at the top. The dirt on the bottoms of my feet comes off in rolls when I rub my feet together.

Below are a few snippets of summer life here that happen through the giddiness of preparing to see my family, friends, and J…

I love the extra wiggle room of a summer schedule. While most people choose not to cook or bake this time of year, I’ve tried North African bread, North African lentils, brownies with peanut butter and almond flour, and crackers with ground sunflower seeds. I’ve also attempted couscous twice and decided that “moderately close” is as good as it’s going to get for now. Puttering in my kitchen is delightful without the breath of a dozen other tasks at my neck.

I’ve been studying language at the local library. The walk across town in the afternoon sunshine is oppressive, but it doesn’t eclipse the joy of descending to the cool library basement. The summer crowd is sparse and the quiet is so thick it almost hurts until the ink chamber inside a pen rattles as someone write a note or careful feet tick down the stairs. I don’t use the library resources other than the air conditioning and the atmosphere, but it’s always worth it.

Summer has also been a good time to meet up with the friends who remain in Spain, to spend time in their worlds or let them be a part of mine. Maybe it’s English class or breakfast together. Or my little neighbor boys come up for a visit with their mommy to play with Legos, make the floor sticky with melon juice, and watch cookies bake with great anticipation.

While the cookies are still in the oven, I give them a drink of water which they drink with too-long straws. “Do you want one?” I ask the oldest boy, offering a container of dates I have on the counter.

“No,” he says. “I want chocolate cookies.” And he returns to watch them through the oven door, content to wait.

There have been meetings, appointments, and the like. This week is also my week to work ahead on office manager responsibilities in an attempt to keep my absence from being too obvious.

I guess you might say that I’m planning to be distracted for the next few weeks. 😉 Until another day, then…

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.

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

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!

Sushi and smiles: What’s been happening recently

The Spanish classes of our language school took a day trip to Granada to visit the Alhambra. It was a gorgeous day and we had our own guide, which made the experience more memorable. My souvenir was two strips of bright sunburn on the back of my neck where I had missed with sunscreen. Hooray.

A Japanese classmate made me an incredible array of sushi. “You can pay next time,” she said with a smile. I went straight home and savored every bite.

A teammate and I redeemed Adra. (Read about our previous trip here.) We went without much of an agenda and ended up doing little, but enjoying it more. The fishing museum, the tunnels, the beach, and the baked cod with pisto were perfect.

I was tired on the day I went to visit friends in the countryside. The visit overwhelmed my senses and my language abilities. It was hard not to fantasize about going home and flopping down on the sofa for the entire next week. Then, I came back to a town gone crazy with Noche en Blanco and streets that were almost impassable even on foot and a stranger who thought it would be nice to take me out for a drink. Yep. Those are the moments my nightmares consist of.

Several months passed as I dreamt of a morning trip to a nearby beach town. I erased it from my schedule every time something else came up, which it inevitable did. Until one day… the chance came and I grabbed it. While waiting on the bus, I spontaneously invited a teammate and she came too! We delighted over our British breakfast. And then there was a second-hand shop and the stroll along the port before coming home to real life.

Kicking a ball around in Plaza Mayor with my neighbor boy brought a few other littles to play too. It was quite a lot of fun because these under-5-year-olds were about my skill level for soccer.
Our Spanish class met to buy our teacher a gift to celebrate the end of the school year. Someone had the bright idea of getting a classy looking bag for her teaching materials. Great idea! Except that I was completely exhausted by the time I got home. “How are we so indecisive?” I wondered. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t indecision as much as overstated opinions. Most everyone said precisely what they thought and then acted like they expected everyone else to agree with them.
Stopping by to visit a friend turned into helping her pack her things for a sudden trip to North Africa.
The dentist charged me half price for my cleaning just because. I know I saved just over 20 euro, but with all of the other extra costs that come with returning to the States, it felt like a hug from God.
My baby neighbor boy has grown a delightful little smile that just charms the socks off of people. Well, off of me at least. 🙂 I’ve started wearing sandals.
A friend send me two bags of Barry’s Irish tea. Oh, how I savored those two cups of rainy Ireland memories!
I hauled almost 50 euros worth of olives back from the market last week. I did it with the assurance that my family will be beyond grateful.

That’s all for right now. The rest would probably bore you if you’re not bored already. 😉 My teammates have all gone back to the States and soon I leave too. You may or may not hear from me for the next three months. Probably many of you will see me instead. I’m looking forward to seeing you!

Ireland- part 4

You may be tired of hearing about Ireland. I was only there a few days, after all. I suppose I could be succinct, but where’s the fun in that?

Friday morning we rolled out of bed at 4:45. We had packed our lunches the night before, so it didn’t take us long to get out the door and to the bus stop. Some of the grief from our place of residence had been eased by sleep. We were determined to love the day.

We had booked a day tour from Dublin (east coast) to the Cliffs of Moher and Galway (west coast). Our guide gave us a fascinating peek into Ireland’s history and culture as our coach bumbled out of Dublin. Then it was time to sit back and enjoy the scenery as the sun rose over the Irish countryside. Mists came up from the green rolling land, promising that fairies and leprechauns were real after all. It was breathtaking, but only one small part of a breathtaking day.

The weather was perfect: a mixture of sun and clouds and a constant but empty threat of rain. And the cliffs–Oh, the cliffs! No wonder the place was full of tourists with their cameras. My heart wanted to stop at the wild beauty of the place. (And having a cardiac arrest at the Cliffs of Moher would not have been so bad, really. Rather romantic.)

As we wandered up and down the marked trails, soaking it in, I couldn’t shake the sensation that I had stepped into a very beautiful photo.

We traveled through the Burren, our driver skillfully maneuvering the mammoth tour coach down skinny roads next to steep drop offs. We made a brief stop for photos in the National Park where craggy rocks dropped off into the ocean in impressive cliffs.

Our guide gave us another fascinating history lesson before we stopped at the Kilmacduagh Abbey ruins. I wanted an hour or two to roam, not 10 minutes.

Our last stop was Galway, an outstanding city on the west coast. Our guide told us just to go and enjoy the city without trying to see too much. That’s the best way to experience Galway, he said. He also gave us a list of restaurants, recommending the famous Galway fish and chips.

My friend bought us dinner at McDonagh’s for an early birthday gift–smoked fish and chips and fresh oysters. The last time I had tried oysters, I had wanted to gag. But that was in rural Illinois, about as far from the ocean as you can get. Would I gag this time? I was nervous as I squeezed lemon on my oyster. To make it worse, the place was packed even at this odd hour and we were sitting elbow to elbow with strangers.

But I didn’t gag. The smooth oyster that slipped from its shell into my mouth was fresh, clean, and sweet. I eyed the leftover oyster on the plate until my friend generously gave in.

While my friend did a little shopping in an Aran Island wool shop, I sat outside to listen to buskers who looked like brothers. They seemed to enjoy my enjoyment of their harmony, maybe especially when I dropped coins in their guitar case.

The entire evening felt enchanted. I slipped a few euros in my pocket and we wandered the streets of downtown Galway, stopping to listen to almost every street musician, even the dude singing “Galway Girl.” The way the Irish value the arts is something one can sense, even in a brief interaction with the culture, such as I had.

And, wouldn’t you know, we found another Butlers and strolled back to the bus, hot chocolates and truffles in hand. Darkness fell as we rode back across the island to Dublin. It was a day that made be believe I wanted to stay in Ireland forever.

Well, except the dirty little cottage that we had to return to.