That's...shocking!

There's a lot of complex stuff that goes on with cultural transition when it comes to emotions and relationships and psychological processing, and it can get kind of heavy. But it is also a kind of neat time of seeing your own country and life as an outsider, and that's not an opportunity that everyone gets. Having been home for two months now, things are gradually feeling more normal, but I am still often reminded that I am in a transition phase. Some days it feels like I am having to relearn America, which often makes me feel like a dork. So for my amusement, and hopefully yours, I thought I'd share my struggles with America that I jotted down in the early days of repatriation:

1. Toilet paper: Yes, I've been going to the bathroom regularly in the US for many weeks now, but it has taken a long time to erase a two-year habit of having to think every time whether I could flush the toilet paper or have to throw it away. There's a little bell in the back of my head that goes off that makes me stop and consider where I am, what I've been told about that particular facility (or what the signs say) and how I esteem the plumbing. Also, the mere existence of toilet paper in public restrooms is, in and of itself, shocking!

2: Water: Another self-preservational brain alarm goes off every time I turn on tap water. It makes me consider whether I need to turn on the filter for that particular task or not. Except here, there's no filter to turn on! I filled up a glass right out of the tap the other day and felt like I was cheating death when I drank it. You don't mess around with drinking water in developing nations, so the concept of not worrying about using your tap water to drink, make ice, wash vegetables, cook, brush your teeth, or getting it in your nose and mouth when you shower, well that's pretty exciting. To be fair, in Lima we were acclimated so I didn't filter water to brush my teeth, and tap water was fine for washing dishes unlike some places I've been. But every time I traveled to a different city or country I had to inquire of the local Ms what the water situation was, so my brain, being away from my Lima apartment, is still going through that process.

Also, I have water pressure! It's awesome! Aaaaand, a BATH TUB! I can take a long hot shower, or a nice hot soak in the tub. I've had about 20 bubble baths since I've been home to make up for lost time. :-) I can count on my hand the number of times I'd taken a bath in the last two years because they are a rarer feature in most places down south.

Also, I am really missing the option of cheap carbonated water (seltzer/club soda) at all points in time. It's delightfully refreshing and America needs to embrace it more! Water is way better carbonated. (Note: I just discovered weeks after writing this that Zephyrhills- my favorite FL spring water- now makes a sparkling variety! Now I just need to convince them to carry it everywhere...)

3. Laundry: It took me a while to remember how to work our fancy washer and dryer here. There are so many choices and knobs! But the strangest thing is how FAST it is! I mean, seriously. I can wash and dry a load of clothes in what seems like the blink of an eye. Due to the low water pressure in our apartment, the washer took forever to fill, so one load of laundry was a few hour process. I am used to putting in a load before I get ready to go to the store or run an errand, because it'll probably be done when I get back and then be ready to take a couple hours to dry in the dryer. So now that I am back in speedy America, I keep forgetting to check on my clothes for hours and thus they sit in the washer or dryer for a really long time. Oops!

4. Food: What is it with America and processed foods?!  I mean, I love the occasional bag of chips, or a candy bar, or a convenient meal out of a box once in a while, but after being gone, it seems like that is the ONLY thing that is readily available in the US. Between the constant eating out at restaurants who use all sorts of preserved and processed foods, to the enormous selection of frozen, boxed, canned junk, my system has been in shock. In Peru I purchased and ate more imported and processed things than probably the average Peruvian, but since there were so many fewer pre-made options and so much inexpensive delicious produce, I had really gotten used to cooking almost everything from scratch. And you know what? It's not that hard once you get used to it. And my stomach was used to it too, so the first week on a US diet was...let's just say rough!

Also, I'm pretty sure America has invented like 100 new candies and fattening products in the last 2 years. Maybe one day I'll make it out of the store without saying, "What in the world is THAT?!" but it hasn't happened yet.

5. Prices: Peru is cheap. (Well, it was cheap, but the sol keeps climbing against the dollar so it's quickly getting less cheap, so you should get down there ASAP!) Even compared to other South American countries, we had it pretty good in Peru. Thankfully for the conversion rate, the price in numbers in the US looks smaller at first so I don't gasp in horror, but when I do the math in my head, it's pretty shocking just how much anything costs. I'm going to go bankrupt just on the food!

6. Stuff: We have sooooooo muuuuuuch stuuuuuuuuff! Believe me when I say I'm talking about myself first and foremost. Granted, almost everything I own is piled into one room...and down the hall...and in some closets. That's everything from my childhood room, my college apartment, my time in Paris, and now my time in South America, so in those terms its not so bad. But it really is. I have so much more than I need! I've been in major purge mode since I got home, I guess since I had just been doing the same thing to my stuff in Peru to be able to empty my apartment and fit my belongings into my suitcases, that I was already in that mindset. But it's also easier to get rid of things when you've been living without them for two years. It helps you realize more easily what is worth keeping and what isn't.

I remember seeing a tip on TV once about decluttering, and they suggested putting stuff into storage bins and tucking them away for a year. Anything that you had to go looking for and dig out could stay, and anything else you could give away. And now I know exactly where they were coming from. I've been taking big bags of clothes, shoes, purses, books, etc. to the thrift store while it's still easy and before I get attached to my "stuff" again. But just walking through malls and stores, America in general just has so much stuff! Some of it is pretty awesome, some of it is extremely useful, but so much of it is just ridiculous and we don't need it! I've been doing pretty good so far at making myself really justify everything I purchase, and hopefully I can create some new habits that will keep me from getting so cluttered in the future. The longer I am back in the US though, the easier it is to feel the pull of "needing" new things.

7. Driving: Driving in Peru is pretty crazy. Having not driven in Peru I didn't imagine that my time around Latin traffic would affect me much but I can see now I was wrong. I'm much more of an impatient crazed limeña driver now than I was before. I mean, I'm one for efficiency so I've always gotten annoyed with irrational traffic patterns and drivers that waste my time by sitting through green lights, or going slow on left arrows. Seriously, life is too short for that nonsense! Lima traffic stressed me so much at times that I never in a million years would have imagined that I'd get back to the US and actually wish that people would drive a bit more crazily. You don't need 50 yards of open space to make a turn! In Peru, 20 cars could have turned in that amount of time! ;-) Also, horns are very much under-utilized in Daytona, so I'm making up the difference. ;-)

8. Ease: Life is easy here. I don't mean that in the grand meaning-of-life angst-of-human-condition way, but just in the everyday task way. We drive to everything, and there are so many options for everything, and any item you need is easy to find. If not in a local store, it's just a quick internet search and a couple days wait away. Being resourceful is more of a discipline than a necessity for most people here. Everything is instant, and online, and you have choices. So many choices! I don't have to plan out conversations in a foreign language in my head just to call a business or buy medicine. I don't have to rework every recipe I find online because I can't get half the ingredients. Easy peasy!

There's a hundred more little things that catch me off guard or make me stop and think, "Well that's not what we do in Peru!" But after two months I see them less and less. It won't be long until I am just looking back and laughing at how I was scared of the Keurig and didn't have a clue how to operate one. America feels pretty normal now, although I am still piecing together what normal is going to be like for me in this next phase of life. I appreciate your prayers as I begin the search for a job and make decisions about my future!

The Rosa Bowl

Like many Americans, I consider college football kick-off weekend a national holiday. Apparently it has become so popular that Peru decided to celebrate as well, and closed everything on Thursday, and some Friday, in honor of the beginning of the best season of the year!!

At least I think that's what I like to think happened... Although it might be more likely that kick-off weekend just happened to coincide with an important Catholic religious holiday here: Dia de Santa Rosa de Lima. (Saint Rose of Lima Day)

Thursday, August 30th, was Dia de Santa Rosa de Lima, the first saint of the Americas, and the patron saint of Lima, so it's a fairly big deal around here. Her liturgical feast was inserted into the Roman Catholic Calendar of Saints in 1729 for celebration initially on August 30, because August 24, the anniversary day of her death, is the feast of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle and August 30 was the closest date not already occupied by a well-known saint. Pope Paul VI's 1969 reform of the Roman Catholic calendar of saints, made August 23 available, the day on which her feast day is now celebrated throughout the world, including Spain, but excluding Peru and some other Latin American countries, where August 30 is a public holiday in her honor. She is the patroness of native Indian people of the Americas; of gardeners; of florists; of the City of Lima; of Peru; of the New World; of Sittard, the Netherlands; of India; of people misunderstood for their piety and of the resolution of family quarrels. Locally she is also the patron saint of the Peruvian Police, so the day after hers was an optional holiday in their honor. 

I'm sure she was a very nice person, but based on what I've read, she was also a little nutso. You can read what Wikipedia has to say about her, but the short version is she was always very "holy" and did nice things for the poor and sick in colonial Lima. She took the name Rose at her confirmation because a servant claimed to have seen her face transform into a rose when she was a baby. She subscribed to intense physical penance and fasting, and when suitors began noticing her beauty, she rubbed hot peppers on her face to try to become less attractive. She eventually became a nun, and a recluse. She died at 31 after supposedly exactly predicting the day of her death. 

According to legend, she threw the key to her chastity belt down a well in downtown Lima, so people write letters to her with their wants and needs and go and throw them down the well. Thus on August 30th, her shrine and the well are utter chaos. Since this is a big deal for Lima and we have several projects about the city in the works, I figured it would be a good idea to go down and take in some of the activity, and boy am I glad I did. Although I've lived in Peru for more than a year, it is easy to live in my own little anglicized (semi-)tidy bubble and miss out on some of the things that help you get a real sense of the country and the culture. 

Traffic was sparse since most businesses were closed, so I waited a bit to find a cab and then overpaid to get downtown. Ah well, c'est la vie! (Oops, there goes my French again.) I asked the driver to drop me in the Plaza de Armas, but a couple blocks away traffic was being diverted for the festivities. I had just missed the big hoorah in the square at the Cathedral it seemed, but fortunately, I hadn't missed all the action. Lots of policemen were wandering about in dress uniform. I followed them backwards like a trail of ants down a side street to the mass of people. Apparently they were in the middle of a procession, but the process-ing was so slow that it was difficult to tell. 

A group of men in robes and capes with stylish rope "necklaces" and all sorts of patches and badges indicating their membership in...?some unknown group?... were carrying a large litter bearing a statue of Santa Rosa piled high with flowers through the crowded streets. Faithful devotees walked slowly backwards in front of the statue, some carrying rosaries or their own emblems of Santa Rosa. Every 50 feet or so, someone would ding a large bell mounted on the front of the litter and the men would stop, lower the conveyance, and a fresh group of similarly dressed men would take their place. Meanwhile a band played religious or festive tunes behind them and a throng of police followed. 

Every 100 feet, the procession stopped for a speech, or some sort of tribute at various locations, marked by colorful floral carpets carefully outlined on the street. Someone with a loudspeaker would laud Santa Rosa and explain what she was the patron of and why they were thankful for her. Some would pray. Each stop was sponsored by a various organization or department, and each had a fancy floral arrangement made. One of the priest guys would pick it up, climb up the litter, cross the statue with the floral arrangement, and then return it to the owner. When the stop was over, they'd walk over the floral carpet, party poppers were popped, the music began again, and on the tediously slow herd would move.

One particularly disturbing stop involved a large floral display with an arch of pink roses and a small statue of Santa Rosa on a table with flowers in front. Well, at least I thought it was a statue...until it moved. I then realized that it was in fact a tiny little girl dressed as the virgin saint, kneeling on the table clutching a rosary and stoically regarding the crowd. 

While waiting for the procession to arrive at the church where the statue was to be delivered, I wandered around the crowd. Very few tourists had managed to mingle over into this portion of the event. Most seemed to be devout Catholics venerating Santa Rosa. Many clutched pink roses to be laid at her shrine later, some wore pins or medallions with the saints image. The benefit of most Peruvian processions and parades I have seen is that they're not great at crowd control, which means as a photographer you have a lot more freedom to walk in the street and move around than you might in other places. If you have a big honkin' camera and aren't dressed like you're trekking Mt. Everest (read TOURIST) then they tend to assume you are involved officially somehow and don't pay much mind, at least in my experience. 

In front of the church two grand floral carpets were surrounded by men in suits, obviously officials of some sort. I wandered around them snapping away and deciding where to stand for the best shots of the coming performance. I took up a position over the shoulder of one of the gentlemen in a suit. While I fiddled with my camera he turned and asked me in Spanish: "How much *garble garble garble.*" Yeah... I didn't understand the second part of his sentence, I just knew he said "How much" and was pointing to my camera. I asked if he wanted to know how much the camera cost. He looked at me confused. 

Oh, you don't speak spanish, he says. 
No, I'm learning, I just didn't understand what you said. 
Ah, I wanted to know what the zoom is.

I show him the 24-105mm lens. 

Ah, that's very nice, he says. Are you French?
Haha. Noo. -I assure him I am not French, but I do speak French.

Yes I thought so! I can hear your accent. Where are you from? 

The U.S., I tell him.

That's an excellent camera. You should be careful with it around here downtown. There is a lot of crime. 
Thank you, I know. I live here.
Oh really!

We pause a while, the procession is moving into place and I am waiting for young children to come out and dance the marinera. Conversations in Spanish are stressful to me so I don't generally encourage them. But this older gentleman seems more curious about the tall camera-toting gringa than the somber religious festival taking place.

How did you learn French? He queried.
I was a student in France.  
Oh really? Where? Lyon? Marseille? Toulon?
Paris.
That's lovely. And what did you study there?
International relations. 
Ah yes! Like diplomacy and policy?
Yes sir. 
And you live in Peru now? Are you studying here as well?
No sir, I'm a photographer. 
Oh! You should come stand here and get a better view. 

- He scoots over to make a front row space for me on the curb next to him. 

I work for the police, he tells me, as he pulls out polarized sunglasses and slips them on. (It's winter and perpetually overcast in Lima right now, so I can only assume he is doing this for dramatic effect.)
For the PNP, he says, gesturing to where the abbreviation for the Policia Nacional del Peru is spelled out in the floral carpet that they sponsored. 
Oh that's nice, I say, smiling politely. 
We all do! He says, gesturing at the ring of men surrounding the floral carpets. All of the men in suits, he says. 
Again I smile and nod, not really sure why he is telling me this.
See? - He holds up the official I.D. badge. Apparently I hadn't acted impressed enough by his high ranking position with the PNP and he thought maybe it was because I needed more proof? 
Ah, yes. -I ooo and aaah a little over the badge and he smiles proudly.- So if I stand over here, I'm really secure, right? I ask teasingly. 
Oh yes!! He chuckles. 

He keeps up the questioning a while longer, asking what I think of Peru and, of course, what I think of their food. Peru is an up-and-comer in the culinary world and apparently every Peruvian has gotten than memo, because it is invariably the second question I am asked by random people I meet. At least I can honestly tell them that I love their food! 

Do you have a Hotmail? He asks. 

This question catches me off guard. Hotmail is still very popular down here, but out of context and with the accent I almost don't know what he's talking about. I nod. 

Ok! Then I will give you my email, he says.

I dig in my bag and pull out a business card. They are in English but I have 200 of them, and not many opportunities to pass them out, so I try to give them out when I can. They'll only be valid another 5 months, so I have to hurry! 

Ooo! He says, when I pull out a card, impressed that I have something so professional, I think. He pulls a receipt out of his wallet and scawls his name and email on the back and trades me for my card. The children are about to dance, and the conversation stops, but my new friend watches out for me, making sure I have a clear shot and barking at priests who get in the way of my camera angle. I later notice that the very safety cautious police staffer has given me his full name and email on an ATM receipt. Hmm.

Things dissipated from there. Some people followed the statue into the church. I thanked my new friend and walked down the street to Santa Rosa's hermitage where the well is. I was planning on taking some photos of people throwing their letters in the well, but it was not to be. The line to enter either the church or the hermitage stretched out of the church grounds, around the corner, down a city block and disappeared into the masses. People in the line were literally jogging to keep up with the flow into the shrine to drop off their letters. Daylight was beginning to fade and being downtown alone with all my camera gear after dark isn't high on my list of smart things to do. So instead I wandered around in the street, watching people buy cards and pens from vendors to write their wishes to Santa Rosa on them. Nuns mingled with the crowds as cotton candy and chocolate treats were sold alongside "sacred" Santa Rosa figurines and recuerdos (souvenirs) of the shrine. 

With a full memory card in my camera I wandered back through downtown to grab a cab. I got in to head home, "You're French?" The cabbie asked. *Sigh.* Guess too much time away from Peru this summer let my inner Frenchy-ness take over again.  Might as well start brushing up on my français and just tell them "oui!" 

I hope you had a lovely kick-off weekend and that your teams pulled off a nice win. As always...

GO GATORS!

Internet Guilt

 It has been a momentous couple of weeks. We started work, became legal Peruvian residents, and most amazing of all...we got INTERNET. 

I never considered myself a technology junkie. We didn't have a DVD player until I left for college, and when I graduated in 2008 (and for a year or so after that) my mother was still clinging to dial-up internet. In the states I had a 6-year-old laptop, a cell-phone that was falling apart, and I checked my email and Facebook once or twice a day (if I remembered). I never even wanted a smartphone... Enter Peru. 

Communication technology is great, but it doesn't seem all that important in a busy American life where you see most of the people you care about frequently, and it's hard to find enough time just to call a friend on the phone. We take it for granted. When you're 3000 miles away from your loved ones, it suddenly takes on a paramount importance. The internet feels more like a lifeline than a convenient tool. Of course, when you work on a communications team, and you work from home, it's also a very important requirement to do your job. Peru has this silly (read: so logical maybe America should try it) rule about not letting you sign contracts with a com company for them to install internet, phone, or cable until you're actually a legal resident of the country. So, since we left Costa Rica more than two months ago we have not had actual internet. We did get iPhones with international calling, so we haven't been completely out of touch with the world. And, of course, there's always Starbucks! But packing up all of your stuff to camp in Starbucks for a few hours, and praying the signal is strong enough to actually connect, gets old pretty fast. So last week, when we got the call that we could go to immigration and complete the process of getting our residency cards we could only think of one thing...INTERNET! 

We interrupt this story for a stroll down memory lane:

I am thankful that I am old enough, and have lived overseas before, so that the last couple of months without internet really didn't seem like too much of a strain. I was thinking back to the first time I lived in France in early 2005. Only 6 years ago and yet technology has changed so much. Facebook was still just something for select universities, Skype was mostly unknown, and blogs weren't popular with the average Joe. The bizarre French internet in my apartment (ethernet only) wouldn't connect to my Mac, so my only internet access in the house came from my lovely roommate Lori who would let me check my emails when I needed to. 

Dinner with Lori in our apartment in the Marais

Other than that I had to go set up in the drafty creaky library of Reid Hall and was limited to emails and AOL Instant Messenger. I talked to my parents on the phone on Sunday afternoons: we used international calling cards. (Unrelated, but I also didn't own a digital camera. The film developing costs were almost as much as the semester abroad!) 

The courtyard of Reid Hall in the snow. 

Things had progressed when I moved back to Paris in late 2007. Then I had WiFi in my apartment and an internet phone that enabled me to call the states from time to time. Facebook and blogs were mainstream (you can read mine from Paris here), but Skype still required an attached webcam and the connection was pretty worthless. It was still mostly emails and AIM to stay in touch, but at least I could watch foxnews.com videos in the mornings to keep up on things. 

Now back to your regularly scheduled blog:

Claro workers running wires across the street from the top of our building.

Like most things, the process to get internet installed seemed more convoluted than it needed to be, but all in all I was surprised by the efficacy of the company, and by Tuesday evening I was browsing the web from the comfort of my finely appointed bedroom/office. After jumping on my bed and dancing around (shhh don't tell the Baptists) I settled down to catch up on my interneting. Reading blogs of friends serving around the world I began to feel pretty selfish. They serve in places where they don't have real beds, they pay $12 for cereal bars, can't wear blue jeans, only get mail when they travel to a neighboring country, and often have to boil water just to bathe. I read about the places and cultures they work in and I start to feel guilty that I have been called to serve in a fairly modernized city in a pretty safe country with more comforts of home than I could have hoped for. The biggest inconveniences this week have been dealing with the hassles of coordinating internet installation and waking up to a team of plumbers drilling into my walls and a guy installing lovely new curtains in our spacious three-bedroom apartment. Oh, and the grocery store was out of the hot dogs I like. Don't get me wrong, life in a foreign culture and language thousands of miles from home isn't easy no matter where you are or what you're doing. But so soon I forget how good I have it here, especially when it comes to creature comforts. However, I remember something that was said in training, about not being envious or feeling guilty if you are called to serve in a "comfortable" place. It reminds me of what Oswald Chambers writes:

"Abraham did not choose the sacrifice. Always guard against self-chosen service for God; self-sacrifice may be a disease. If God has made your cup sweet, drink it with grace; if He has made it bitter, drink it in communion with Him. If the providential order of God for you is a hard time of difficulty, go through with it, but never choose the scene of your martyrdom. [...] God is working for His highest ends until His purpose and man's purpose become one." 

I don't have to feel guilty that I am serving where I am, but it is good not to take for granted the blessings we have. And it's good to remember others elsewhere that need our prayers and encouragement. I'd love to link you to their blogs, but for security it's best if I don't, so check out this digest of blogs of others serving around the world. Also take a minute to watch this great video about the price that many have paid and the continuing need for work among unreached peoples: Don't Drop the Cross

Adios and vaya con Dios!

I don’t want to go.

The thought exploded in my mind during an unguarded moment laughing with a friend a couple of weeks before my travel date. I didn’t know where those words came from, but like a blindside corner blitz, suddenly they were there, catching me off-guard and knocking the wind out of me. I had guarded my thoughts for a long time, not letting myself linger on the painful parts of what was coming. But eventually the truth burst out: I didn’t want to go. I surprised even myself, and before the pain from that realization could subside, in swept the guilt.

I’m not supposed to feel like this! I’m a missionary for crying out loud! I’m supposed to be thrilled about having this rarefied privilege to go to far-off lands and tell people about Jesus. It’s not like someone is forcing me, I volunteered for this. I worked hard for this! I danced around in my office like an idiot when I found out I got the job. I’m supposed to be so passionate about sharing the Good News that I count everything else as loss. I’m supposed to want to go!

But the truth was, I didn’t. I didn’t want to go through any of it. I didn’t want to try to shop for everything I might possibly need for two years. I didn’t want to pack my life into two (okay, okay…4) suitcases. I didn’t want to leave behind my wardrobe or…*gasp*…my shoes, my beautiful high-heeled shoes! I didn’t want to pick just a few precious photos and knick-knacks to remind me of home, and trade my stacks of books for a Kindle app. I didn’t want to give up driving and leave Gerald with my mom. I didn’t want to exchange my independence and personal space, my comfy bed and house to go live in a rented room with a Costa Rican family, living by their schedules and customs. I didn’t want the sweet cards and thoughtful gifts from the people who care so much about me. I didn’t want the last meals at my favorite restaurants, or one last plate of mom’s spaghetti. I didn’t want a final Friday Night Bible Study or a “Day o’ Lyndsey” to say goodbye to so many wonderful people. I didn’t want the beautiful prayers of blessing, the accolades and recognition, or people telling me how proud they are of me. I didn’t want to be held up as someone to be admired, after all, if they knew how I felt, they wouldn’t. I didn’t want to leave the beach or drive through the darkened streets of my hometown knowing it won’t be the same when I come back. I didn’t want to cling to the people I love and watch the minutes drain from the clock, knowing what was coming. I didn’t want to hug and kiss my friends and family one last time. I didn’t want to feel my heart breaking or cry with so much anguish I thought I’d never stop. I didn’t want to leave my comfortable home and pleasant life. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to go. Not one little bit.

But I did.

5:00am at DAB with Daddy and Timmy and a farewell Dr. Pepper

And you know what…it hurt! Really, really bad. I wasn’t expecting it to be so painful. I really thought that I could handle it. I’ve left home and moved to foreign cultures for extended periods of time before. Sure it was sad, but I was okay. But I was suddenly very aware that this really is an entirely different bag of cats. Moving to Europe for a school year when all of your friends are still off in college is a different challenge from leaving the USA for 2 years when everyone is in the midst of making critical career and life decisions. And I’m a different person than I was back when I moved to Paris. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age? ;-) Whatever it is, I’ve cried more in the last 4 weeks than I have in the last 4 years, and I think my sudden sensitivity was even more alarming to myself than to the close friends who had to deal with my atypical meltdowns. For someone who usually has their emotions in check, the amount of tears that I have shed in recent days is disconcerting.

I’d like to tell you that nearly two weeks after the big goodbye I have some amazing story to tell you about how being obedient to Christ has completely erased the pain and filled my heart with gladness and enthusiasm and I’ve already seen fruit. But the truth is, it still hurts and it’s still hard. It took me a week before I made it a single day without tears, and that was less because I didn’t feel like crying, and mostly because I was simply too tired. Life in a foreign culture is exhausting.

Before you start really worrying about me and my emotional stability and go calling Member Care to get me some counseling, let me assure you I am fine. The first morning I woke up here, my immediate thought was, “Hey. I live in Costa Rica.” And that thought strikes me again at random times and makes me smile. I love learning about the culture. The mountains and plant life are beautiful, the people pretty friendly, and the food not half bad. I like the Tico (Costa Rican) family that I live with and have settled into a comfortable routine.  School has started and my Spanish is improving rapidly. Perhaps nicest of all is that we’ve been welcomed into the community of other staff from our organization that either live here permanently or who are in longer-term language study. They have gone out of their way to get us settled and show us around and are quickly becoming our family away from home. We’ve gone to church, had some gringo gatherings, and experienced a Tico birthday party complete with piñata and a cake fight, and we have laughed a LOT. I really can’t complain.

Piñata at a welcome fiesta at school. Who doesn't love a good piñata?! (Except maybe Donkey from Shrek...)

At the good times I’m amused that I live here, I enjoy the challenge of learning a new language, and I appreciate the unique culture of this place. Anytime I want, I can walk out my front door of my upscale home and buy a coconut with a straw from the guy in the truck on the street. No joke, there’s a coconut guy. But there are still times when I am lonely and the pain of missing people is raw, when I don’t want to learn a language I managed to avoid for 9 years in school, when I want to point out that I never signed up for Costa Rica. I hate to say it, but there are times when I simply don’t want to be here. In my younger years I would never had admitted any of this in a blog that everyone and their grandmother can read. I like to be seen as the one who “has it all together,” who’s competent and strong, not phased by anything. Admit my weaknesses? What weaknesses? Let’s just talk about how interesting everything is and tell clever anecdotes about not being able to flush toilet paper (for real, you don’t do that here). But I am slowly learning to let my guard down. So instead, I’d rather be transparent and show you as real a picture of me right now as I dare. It’s what I like to call “ugly honest.” So I hope I haven’t horrified any of you with what I’ve shared so far, and I hope you aren’t too disappointed with me if I admit that this hasn’t been a walk in the park and that sometimes I don’t feel like being where I am or doing what I’m doing.

As I said at the beginning of these ramblings, I didn’t really want to leave or do any of the hard things that got me here. But I did them and I’m here because that’s obedience. We don’t wait to obey until we feel like obeying. “Living by faith mean obeying God’s Word in spite of feelings, circumstances or consequences. It means holding on to God’s truth no matter how heavy the burden or how dark the day, knowing that He is working out His perfect plan.” People love to tell you to “follow your heart,” but I think that’s some of the most dangerous advice out there. If I were following my heart right now I’d be on a plane headed back to the US, because at this moment my heart is still in sunny Daytona Beach.

Can you blame me?

In Jeremiah 17:9 the Bible tells us that “the heart is deceitful above all things.” Sometimes we have to obey even when we don’t want to, but when we do, right feelings eventually follow right actions. So I think it’s okay if we don’t always feel like doing that to which we’re called, so long as we go ahead and do it anyway. And we don’t do it because we’ve been promised blessings on the other side, but because we were simply asked to obey. Like I’ve said, being obedient doesn’t protect us from hurt, sometimes it leads us right to it, but how sweet to know that while we walk that road we never walk alone.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” –Psalm 34:18

And so, on the good days I will praise Him for bringing me here, for walking beside me, and for His abundant blessings… and on the bad days I will thank Him for bringing me here, for walking beside me, and for His abundant blessings. And when I am weak and crushed in spirit I can rest in His arms and in the promise of 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” I hope that I can learn to say, as Paul did, “When I am weak, then I am strong.”

Leaving church on our first Sunday in Costa Rica.

*Thank you so much for all the outpourings of support and continued prayer during my last days at home and this transition to Costa Rica. It’s a tremendous comfort and blessing to know so many are interceding on my behalf. I mean it when I say, I couldn’t do it without you! Right now would you specifically pray that we will learn the language rapidly, that we will be good stewards of our brief time here in CR, for divine appointments and opportunities to serve, and for the continued health of team relationships. And please let me know how I can pray for you!*

Paris, Tu Me Manques!

Tastes like success!

February 13^th, 2008 I took my last final exam of college.  It was in my French foreign policy class at Sciences Po in Paris.  What a remarkably exhilarating feeling walking out of the building: FREEDOM.  Finishing college, I’m sure, is exciting in any circumstance, but in my case it was probably exponentially more liberating because I had been doing my final international relations courses in French. AND in the context of France’s education system which is a burdensome paragon of bureaucracy and antiquated ideology, or simply put…French.

Last week marked the third anniversary of that day I skipped down rue Saint-Guillaume grinning. (If you want the full account of that day, read here.) Thinking about it brings back a rush of Paris memories colored with the forgiving tincture of time. I love Paris, as anyone can tell you. And I’m probably a bit of an elitist about it, for which I make no apologies. I hope that you have the opportunity to spend some time in the City of Light, but I don’t think a visit really does it justice. I’m gonna hit the breaks right here and change directions because if I don’t I will be in serious danger of turning this into a rambling ode to the wonder that is Paris. I’m not saying that’ll never happen in a blog post,   but it is less necessary since I already have an entire blog nearly devoted to the topic.

First visit to Paris in 1994. 

(Yes, I'm wearing a Lion King shirt at the Louvre. It says "Ooo! The Little cream-filled kind!" 

Feel free to gasp in horror.)

My point here is that I’ve been thinking about my time in Paris a lot during training.  It is only natural, I suppose, since living there was my most significant cross-cultural experience and much of what we are learning is about living and ministering in a cross-cultural environment.  With all the constant reminders, I had begun to feel a bit homesick for Paris and a bit sad that I must now abandon my beloved and laboriously learned French in exchange for Spanish.  Fortunately, February 13^th we celebrated European peoples during our cultural worship service and I was asked to pray in French.  We had scripture readings in Polish and Spanish, worship songs in German, a children’s skit in Welsh, and then the message in… French! It was an excellent message about how we as Christian workers measure success and about patience. I wish that everyone would have been able to understand it all. But beyond the content, listening to him preach in French was a little like going home.  It would have been easy to wax melancholy again about letting go of my French language and culture, but instead, I decided to focus on how nice it’ll be when I finally reach a level of comfort in Spanish where worshipping and listening to the Word of God in that language also feels like “home.” There’s a whole new realm of exciting cultures to be explored in Latin America, and I do not doubt that I will grow to love the people and places there.

My first attempt "growing to love" the Peruvian flute.

Of course, it’s also nice to remember that moving on to new adventures doesn’t mean leaving the previous ones behind. No one put it better than Hemingway:

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

Nutella is also a moveable feast. 

If it had existed when Hemingway was alive he probably would have written about it instead. 

*Want to hear something ironic? When I was discussing my possible international job options with my dad, he was less than thrilled with my choices in South America, Africa and the Middle East.  He voted for Texas. But then, conceding that while practically its own country, Texas was not in the company’s jurisdiction, he agreed that he would be okay with me going back to France. Well the other day a speaker discussing security issues pulled up the current threat list as maintained by the State Department. You know what’s on the list of serious threats of danger? France. You know what’s not? Peru. I think the State Department underestimates the threat of vicious llamas.*