Spanish Lessons

This morning in our Spanish lesson, our teacher delved into irregular verbs and I geeked out. It's the truth. While I want to learn Spanish so that I can communicate clearly with people here, the reality is that when it comes to languages my true love is their structure. I'll blame it on four years of Latin in high school, then some Koine Greek in college, and four weeks of Russian in Ukraine in '93. Talk about languages with structure....

But Spanish has its verb conjugations, and I'm never satisfied unless I know them. One of my greatest frustrations in trying to speak Spanish is not knowing past and future tenses (let's not even get into past-perfect, etc.). I want to know them and I want to know them now! So yes, I was quite excited to get a long list of verbs today and a lesson in irregular verb groupings. I also learned the word for the root of a word: "raíz". This made me very happy. It gives me hope that some year I won't have to puzzle out the strange sentences that Google Translate gives me when I type in sentences from school notes and the kids' textbooks.

Kraig and I meet with our teacher, Christina, every Tuesday and Friday morning over on the university campus. There were supposed to be four of us in the group, but due to circumstances Kraig and I ended up with personal instruction for which we are very thankful. Christina is fluent in English and Spanish, so she can translate things when we need her to. However she makes a point of primarily using Spanish in class, which is a style Kraig and I both like even though it makes it tougher to follow things. It's been good and stretching. And I grab my structure nuggets when they come, because most of the time we focus on practical conversation skills. 

Some days I can immerse myself in the class and get things easily. Other days I'm at sea and my brain is in a fog. This, I assume, is pretty normal. Sometimes I come away feeling like I learned a ton (like today) while other days I wonder if I'm ever going to get the hang of things. 

In the meantime, I shall press on and look forward to learning past and future tenses. Because, you know, in real life we use them.

Missing Home...One of Them

"...[I]t is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." ~Mr. Rochester to Jane Eyre

I believe in collecting homes. Not houses or places. Homes. For me, a place becomes home when I have deeply connected with people in that place. Relationships are the key to my homes. Michigan, southeast Michigan in particular, has been home for some 30+ years. Friendships have waxed and waned, but the past ten years have been particularly rich so when we moved here in July it was painful to say good-bye. Another home is one I carry with me whenever I have my core family; Kraig and the kids are home no matter where we are. Here in Guadalajara we have each other, so we have a home, even when there aren't pictures on the walls and I don't have all my comfort-tools to work with in the kitchen. We are starting to put down little tendrils as we meet people here, and I pray that there will come a day when I can say that Guadalajara itself is one of my homes.

Last year at Hutchmoot each person was given block to color
with specific color instructions. Then all the pieces were
compiled to create this beauty, which captures the many
personalities of the Rabbit Room.

Another home I have had since 2012 is physically located at a small church in Nashville, Tennessee, where every Fall a group of about 200 meets for Hutchmoot. I could spend a blog (in fact I have) trying to explain Hutchmoot, but in essence it is a gathering of people from all walks of life who love to look at how God works through His creation, particularly through the arts. Most of us connected through The Rabbit Room, a blog started by author and singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson, but in the past few years the online connection has become a vibrant community that often "meets in real life" whether at the annual Nashville conference or anywhere two or more "Rabbits" are gathered.

I went to the conference with my sister Carrie in 2012, and while we both attended again last year, I chose to go as a volunteer to work in the kitchen (because food is one of the arts of the conference, too--yummmm). Between those years we got more involved in the online group, deepening friendships, and it's been amazing to watch where it has led. Carrie is now in North Carolina because of connections made. I sometimes wonder where I would be if I hadn't stumbled on The Rabbit Room a year after Keren died. The connections I made through this group have helped me grow spiritually, and have helped me put words to thoughts and feelings I couldn't express before.

It is a group of folks who share honestly about wounds, lift each other up in prayer, and encourage with ridiculously hilarious conversations and wit. It's the kind of nerdy place where people start off with a comment thread of introductions that somehow devolves into an intense discussion on Meyer-Briggs personality traits and how we remember who we are based on what Star Wars or Harry Potter character our traits tied us to. It is the kind of community where you long to see each other in person, but find your heart beating and knees knocking every time you are about to meet because a part of you fears that this time the connection won't be there. But it always is. Every Hutchmoot brings refreshment, and while it is always sad to leave it, there is a renewed energy to take the riches found and spread them to other friends and family. I've been able to do this in Michigan (Totato Soup anyone? Slugs & Bugs?), and I'm looking forward to spreading the wealth here in Guadalajara.

Gathering in the sanctuary at Church of the Redeemer

I am missing the personal connection as many of my fellow Rabbits gather this weekend for Hutchmoot 2014. It's a physical pain--I can feel the cord stretching between me and my friends there and I can't help but fear that it might snap. I skipped the final line of the quote from Mr. Rochester, "As for you,--you'd forget me," because I refuse to be forgotten or to think that I will be. It is a home that I don't want to forget, and a home in which I always want to have some part. I see, too, it is home because it is a taste of my future permanent home. And knowing that, I realize I have nothing to fear. The cord will stay strong and I will never be forgotten.

Bedtime Routine

One of the most valuable lessons I learned growing up is that a bedtime routine is vital to the overall contentment of kids, and that when you travel it's important to keep that routine as closely as possible. In addition to the contentment factor, it helps make any new place home. So to say the least, we've kept to our routine as closely as possible here in Guadalajara.

Jon, do you know the verse yet?

For us, the routine evolved about the time our eldest daughter Keren was five. She'd received The Jesus Storybook Bible for her birthday, and I started reading it to her and Clare (who was two, so maybe didn't get much out of it!) just before bedtime. A few nights after we had started, I had to do something else at bedtime, so Kraig took over. From that point on, he was the main bedtime reader, and I think our lives have been richer as a result. It has become a whole-family event.

We've continued the pattern of some sort of devotional book, but as the kids got older we added in chapter books so we could introduce them to old favorites of ours. Our first series was Little House on the Prairie followed by The Chronicles of Narnia. Since then we've explored everything from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett to Three Go Searching by Patricia St. John. Last spring we enjoyed Jonathan Rogers' The Wilderking Trilogy and before coming to Guadalajara we started into The Chronicles of Narnia again since Ev and Jon were old enough to enjoy those. Devotionals have ranged from our staple Jesus Storybook, to Ruth Bell Graham's Stepping Into the Bible and a couple others.

Ev realizes Peter, Lucy, Edmund & Susan
are in The Horse and His Boy.

After stories are read, the kids hop into bed, Kraig prays with them, and one of them chooses music. We have a calendar with the order of which kid gets prayed with first and who picks music. This is serious business, and great wailing and gnashing of teeth can result in not holding to this pattern. Then there are multiple hugs, at which point I'm called in, too. Final questions are asked. One or more of the kids emerge from their room with a tale of woe or a question: "My mosquito bite itches!" "I need a drink!" "Why did the so-and-so do such-and-such in the story?". But thankfully they're all usually out cold within half-an-hour of lights-out.

Cars! (And books)

I'd love to say my children sit and listen angelically to the devotional reading and story time. They do love the stories, this is true. But they are squirrelly human beings, so some nights go more smoothly than others. Kraig has a hard, fast rule that they need to sit and listen to the devotional reading, but things loosen up a bit for the chapter book and the kids sometimes color or play with cars or LEGO during that. This has been particularly helpful with Jon (can we say "boy"?). Some nights they are threatened with early endings when they get too wound up, and that typically results in cries of "No! We'll listen!" I usually want to add my voice, because I want to hear the stories. Thankfully, it's a rare occurrence for the routine to be disrupted, probably because Kraig wants to hear the stories himself, and none of us want the tears of anguish that result from interruption of the routine.

Each night is a gift. It is one more stroke on the canvas that is our family, and one more paint dob that makes each house we live in a home.

Distracting evening views....

Washing Dishes

I had an idea for a post today, but I'm so wiped that I'm going to save it for another time. Tonight, instead, you will get a glimpse at one of my daily jobs.

Yes. Dishwashing.

Fascinating, isn't it? It's on my mind today because I was also tired yesterday and decided that I could get away with not washing the dishes last night. I'll just go to bed early, I thought, and in the morning I'll wash them up. This was really silly, because I never have time in the morning to wash dishes. And today that meant that I didn't get to the massive pile till this afternoon. I wish I'd taken a picture of it. It was pretty impressive. The small batch in the drainer in the picture above is just the few plates from dinner. I wasn't about to let those sit another night.

Washing dishes is one of those strange chores that can be therapeutic and relaxing--soap, warm water, methodical washing, rinsing, and drying. It gives the mind time to wander and decompress. It can be a beautiful thing.

But not when the dishes pile up. Then it's just a headache. So I hope I learned my lesson for a couple weeks that I can't let the dishes go....

Dishwashers aren't common in this area, so when we moved here the kids were given a new title. They became our extra dishwashers. They thought this was pretty exciting for about a week, and a monetary incentive has helped. But like all novelties, the excitement wears away and you're just left with a task. It doesn't help when plates slip and crash because hands are small and floors are hard. Clare has said a few times, "I wish we were back in Michigan. Then we had a dishwasher and we didn't break any dishes!" I've reminded her that back in Michigan she wasn't washing dishes, so of course dishes didn't break, and what a wonderful learning experience this is. She isn't convinced.

I do hope someday the kids will come to see the pleasure of dishwashing. Until then, we'll require it of them now and then. For the most part, though, I'll selfishly keep the task for myself.

(Don't let them in on my secret!)

Navigating Guadalajara

Our city map gets
a good workout.

This morning I had an appointment in a new part of town, so I spent significant time analyzing Google Maps alongside the city map we purchased soon after arriving here. Maps are essential in Guadalajara. I suppose GPS is helpful, too, but I don't have access to that right now, and to tell the truth, it usually distracts me more than helps. I like seeing the big picture on the map and getting my bearings that way.

One of Kraig's fellow profs told us about a friend who visited Guadalajara and after a few days announced, "I've figured out the signage in the city! The highway signs aren't for people who are visiting the city and need to know what roads they're on. The signs are for people who have always lived in Guadalajara and suddenly decide they want to leave the city! Headed to Chapala? Take this road. Monterrey? Just follow that one. Puerto Vallarta? No problem! You can find signs anywhere."

Today, thankfully, there seemed to be more signs that pointed toward streets, so that was helpful, but one can't expect the street to be clearly labeled when one arrives at it. This is one reason why scrutinizing a map is so vital. Usually I find myself memorizing which streets I'll be taking, and how many streets I need to cross before certain turns. Landmarks are helpful, too. I knew I needed to keep an eye out for a "ninety foot black-and-white cube structure." Sure enough, I found it, though as I passed it I realized it was to my right and should have been to my left. I'd missed my exit.

An open road is promising...until the I realize
the light is stuck on red. To go or not to go,
that is the question....

Time for travel is another key to navigating. I try to avoid rush-hour, and this morning was no
exception, so for the most part there was little traffic hindrance to the drive. But I knew that since it was my first time in this area I would inevitably make a mistake, and I needed to be sure to have enough time to turn around and work my way back to the correct route. It's not wise to second guess. If I think it is the right way to go, it usually is.... But I did plan enough time today, so there was none of the frantic searching and maneuvering. It's amazing how much more relaxing even a new route can be when one has the time to make mistakes. And the thrill of reaching one's destination makes it worth every misstep.

None of these details take into account the need for defensive driving. While people tend to follow road rules better here than other cities I've been to, it is still wise to keep an eye on everything, especially busses and trucks. We've been blessed with a minivan this fall, so we aren't the smallest car on the road, and that helps when we need to shoulder our way onto a street. But busses rule, and it's wise not to test them.

I do like finding my way around; it satisfies my love for spacial relations. But I'll be the first to admit the things I avoid if at all possible: rush hour, driving at night, and a time crunch. Oh, and there are certainly parts of town I wouldn't want to navigate no matter what time of day. So far we've managed to avoid those. If these aren't factors, I'll happily continue to navigate Guadalajara. And eventually, it won't matter what the street signs say.

Helpful signs here, except I realized later I should have been in the
middle lane.

Communion

Our second Sunday here, thanks to new local friends, we were introduced to an English-speaking church. It was something we were hoping to find for our family, but we weren't sure how long it would take. The only service we had heard of until that point was one that met Sunday evenings, which wasn't ideal for kids in school or Kraig's teaching schedule. There were plenty of Bible-based Spanish-speaking churches, we knew, but as our Spanish was close to nil, we knew we needed to start with English.                  

We have been more than thankful for Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) Presbyterian Church in Bugambilias. It has been here for almost two decades and has a few church plants throughout the region, along with other ministries including a school. They also have a Spanish service that meets after our English one, so the building is full all morning. In addition to the service are Sunday schools for the kids--an English one during the service and then a Spanish one afterward.

In all of the ups and downs of our brief time here, the church has been a constant. We could tell from the first Sunday that not only were the people genuine, but the teaching was solid. And since then, whether it is Pastor Trotter preaching or one of the other elders, we have been consistently challenged and encouraged. It never ceases to amaze me how a lesson that I've heard time and again or a passage I've read over and over zings with new import and shakes me to my core. One of the first Sundays touched on Philippians 4 and not being anxious. Another Sunday delved into what it meant to ask God with perseverance for needs, and yet to trust His plan. Again and again God has given us truth we needed to hear.

It's a small and simple service and much more traditional than our home church in Michigan, but that's actually one of the draws for Kraig and me. We love our home church because of the solid biblical teaching and our church family who has seen us through so much over the years. But both of us have a bent toward liturgy and there is a bit of that at Christ the Redeemer. For me, the most meaningful thing is the weekly communion. Each week after the message, the pastor steps down to the table and seamlessly ties the point of the sermon to the table.

I forgot my phone today which I was going to use to snap a picture, so you'll have to put up with my sketch. The communion table is plain, solid wood, deeply grained. On its surface lie three items: a silver tray with a tortilla wrapped in white linen, a silver goblet with a linen & lace-edged cloth, and rows of plastic communion cups each with their swallow of blood-red wine, another linen cloth lying over them. Beside the table is a wood-laminate cupboard, and on top of this is a bottle of hand sanitizer. There's something I love about the contrast between the faux wood cupboard and sanitizer and the simple, beautiful reality of the communion table, silver, and white linen. 

Each week, the process is the same. Pastor squirts some hand sanitizer on his palms and rubs them together as he welcomes us to the table and connects it back to the message. Then he opens the cloth with the tortilla and holds up the circle, breaking it as he speaks of Christ, broken for us. The broken tortilla returns to the cloth, folded again so a portion of bread shows. The cup is then lifted, cloth removed, and he speaks of Christ's blood shed for us. At last, the cloth over the little cups is taken away, and any who are followers of Christ and are members of an evangelical church are called to share in the table. A song is played, and people line up to take the bread and wine. We step up to the table, tear off a bit of bread  that the pastor holds out for us, take a cup, then go back to our seats to wait for those ancient words that invite us to eat and drink. The bread is dry, reminding me of suffering, but the swallow of wine softens it while at the same time shocks and burns, reminding me of cleansing.

Every week I remember a verse of Andrew Peterson's song, "Windows in the World":

"Oh and every Sunday morning

you can see the people 

standing in a line.

They're so hungry for some mercy,

For a taste of the communion bread and wine.

It's a window in the world.

A little glimpse of all the goodness getting through.

And all along the way the days are made,

little moments of truth."

I can't put my finger on it, but almost every Sunday I am moved to tears. 

The Sky Must Be Enjoyed

"In a little while, in a little while

the ghosts return to noise.

But not right now, no, not 

right now

The sky must be enjoyed."

~Eric Peters
"Fighting for Life"

There are hard days--days when the shipment still doesn't come. But then I look at the sky outside of our apartment and I know that God is so much bigger, and His world is so much wilder and more beautiful than my little time-bound mind can fathom. 

It has been rainy season here since June, and rainy season in Guadalajara means days of gorgeous, temperate weather with rain and storms that usually wait politely for evenings and nights to burst. It means great thunderheads that pile up lit by the late sun, and nights where the lightning flickers in continuous strobe while timpani rumble unceasingly. It means a full moon outshining the night lights and an ever-changing canvas. The ghosts of disappointment and frustration will return, but for now "the sky must be enjoyed."

It's In the Shipment

After reading my October 2 post, my friend Africa good-naturedly pointed out, "There's this thing...called an 'apron.' Tends to catch water splashes, etc without staining the clothes underneath." I just stared at her words and burst out laughing. Why had that utterly simple solution never occurred to me? After all, back in Michigan I often used an apron while cooking. Why hadn't I--Oh. I knew why. My apron is in the shipment....

Neat & clean apartment with essentials

"It's in the shipment" has become a family line in our home during the two months we've been in Guadalajara. Every time we think of an item and wonder why we don't have it, we usually end up with a face palm and, "Oh, I know. It's in the shipment." When we flew down in July, there was an airline luggage embargo because it was tourist season, so we couldn't check on everything we needed and pay extra fees. We had to have fourteen trunks shipped separately. This wasn't terrible, because part of the offer from the university where Kraig is teaching is a fully furnished apartment, including basic kitchen items. Also, the university paid for our shipment, which helped ease our initial costs. We knew it wouldn't come immediately, but we were expectant.

Our trunks hanging out back in Michigan

And then we arrived and were informed that a second shipping quote was needed before the school could agree whether to use our shipping agent. This process took a month and a half. At last, at the beginning of September, the word came back that we could use our original shipping agent. Hooray! Kraig's folks who had patiently held our goods carried them to our agent and the trunks were sent. The university assured us that a customs agent would take care of our things when they arrived, and the payment would be sent to our agent. Our trunks arrived in Guadalajara on September 15. Our shipping agent received his payment this past Monday. Our trunks are still at the airport, racking up storage costs.

To say the least, this has been a test in patience that I feel I am failing miserably. I have nothing left. Kraig is frustrated, too, but he isn't the wife and the mom who is trying to make sure that the home is running smoothly, and is constantly reaching for something that isn't there. It's been hard to encourage him as he's tried to navigate cultural and bureaucratic systems, and to have the sense to know when to push and when to step back. My gut desire has been to find the person we need to speak with and give them a piece of my mind...assuming that person can speak English. I have even created little speeches in my minimal Spanish and imagined throwing them out as an oration beyond compare, background music swelling. Applause would follow...and the shipment. But all we have had is an email address, and no advocate to plead our case. We have been stuck here, trudging our way through the cultural morass, no guide at hand. 

Then at last on Tuesday, Kraig approached his department head who was was able to track down a real live person. This person informed Kraig's head that the customs agent would have our shipment processed by today, and would have it delivered to us. Is this going to be the case? I'll believe it when I see it. But it's amazing how every day I find I still have hope. 

I wish I had a deep spiritual lesson to share about how I've learned to trust God so much more through this, and how He has poured out blessing. I don't. We have prayed, we have pleaded, we have tried to understand. But there isn't a neat little answer. I know from many who have moved overseas that these kinds of frustrations are normal, and that almost everyone hits a point of feeling that the whole idea was bad to begin with and how in the world did we think God could use us here. There is encouragement in knowing we aren't alone. 

And I guess that's the biggest thing I can say. I know we aren't alone. God is with us in the midst of this, even if we don't understand. Hope is still here.

Banana bread made in available Pyrex containers

Fashion Statement

I have never been fashionable. I like to think my look is clean, classic, and sometimes elegant, but for the most part it consists of solid-colored tops and jeans or capris. I mix it up now and then with slacks, and when I'm really going for change I switch out my jewelry. Oh, and on Sundays I like to wear dresses or skirts to church (and put on different jewelry). It's not that I don't like fashion, and I love to admire people who do it well, but it is not my gift. My one foray into the fashion scene was nine years ago after Clare was born and I was incredibly thin. My sister and sister-in-law took me in hand an we went on a shopping spree. It was a blast, and I wore those uncomfortable clothes off and on, but a couple years ago I admitted to myself that I was done with the outfits. So I said good-bye and fell back into my comfort mode. It is fairly boring, but it's me and I like it.


Unfortunately my meager wardrobe has taken a beating since we've come to Guadalajara. It is strongly recommended that all fruits and vegetables be thoroughly washed before eating them here. Since the water from the tap isn't safe to drink without treatment, this means that the best way to clean things is to fill a sink with water and add a good glug of bleach.

Bleach, I am sure you know, has a certain effect on cloth.... I realized this one of the first times I washed when I added some white splatters to my simple turquoise top. I was disappointed, but not devastated, because I have two turquoise tops. However, I decided I should prevent this from happening again, and so I sacrificed an old t-shirt to the cause. Simple, right? Each time I need to wash fruits and veggies, I slip out of one shirt and into the bleach-magnet. Except that the reality is that I'm lazy and usually think of washing the produce too late, and I need to rush to get dinner started, and so I think, "Oh, I'll just be extra careful this time." My "extra care" has landed me with a tiny white spot on my other turquoise top (now I'm sad), and last night I noticed a tasteful orange stripe on the pocket of my chocolate slacks.

I suppose this means I must be more vigilant. Either that, or maybe I could start a new fashion trend! Because, as I said, fashion is my thing. Um...right....

31 Day Blog Challenge: Finding Home in Guadalajara

A few days ago, thanks to following the comment of a friend to a blog post, I discovered 31 Days--A Writing Challenge Every October, Every Day. The goal is to post one blog post per day for the month of October. The trick is to keep it within one topic.

I've wanted to write more regularly about our new life here in Guadalajara, Mexico, and have had numerous ideas bouncing around that don't seem to find their way to my blog. That being the case, it seemed like a good idea to take on this challenge. So with that in mind, I hope to write for the next 31 days about Finding Home in Guadalajara--a nice broad topic that gives me plenty of leeway.


As the month progresses, I'll add links for each day to this post.

October 1: Climbing Mountains
October 2: Fashion Statement
October 3: It's In the Shipment
October 4: The Sky Must Be Enjoyed
October 5: Communion
October 6: Navigating Guadalajara
October 7: Washing Dishes
October 8: Bedtime Routine
October 9: Missing Home...One of Them
October 10: Spanish Lessons
October 11: The Bane and Blessing of Technology
October 12: Intersection
October 13: The Tenants of 2515-A
October 14: Heritage
October 15: Skipping School with Jon
October 16: Breakfast Out With the Moms
October 17: Waiting in Hope
October 18: Lazy Saturday
October 19: Cheese Please
October 20: Luminous Ev
October 21: Clare in the Afternoon
October 22: Exercise Routine
October 23: Classroom Observation
October 24: Making Tortillas
October 25: Riding in Ajijic
October 26: Growing Community
October 27: Rosa and Blanca
October 28: Complicated Decisions: When to Accept or Reject Cultural Traditions
October 29: The Street Where We Live
October 30: Our Alternate Education Day
October 31: Still Finding Home

If you would like to brush up on the few posts I've written since we arrived in Guadalajara in July, you can find them with these links:

One Year
Communication Skills
Things That Make You Go "Hmmm"

Enjoy!

Climbing Mountains

Every Wednesday morning I climb a mountain in Bugambilias, a community on the southwest side of Guadalajara, Mexico. Actually, technically, I drive up the mountain. There are people who climb it by foot, and others who ride their bikes up the winding road, but most of us drive it, struggling our way up and around the sharp curves with more or less success. This morning I passed a woman pulled to the side of the road with the hood of her black SUV lifted. My minivan always smells a little hot by the time it has puffed and chugged its way to my destination: "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!"

It is my favorite drive of the week.

The morning begins with dropping the kids at school, usually avoiding the initial snarl of rush-hour traffic. Once I've dropped them off and head back to the main road that takes me to the highway that goes south to the mountain, the cars have packed in, and I'm lucky if I can drive the quarter-mile to the highway in ten minutes. But at last, I ease out of the crush and drive with little hindrance toward Bugambilias. The road passes by industrial areas, a squatter hut in a field of cows and horses, a long plateau, and old neighborhoods and local stores. Buses hog the sides of the roads, overloaded trucks trundle by, motorcycles zip through narrow pass ways between larger vehicles.

Finally I turn right into Bugambilias and my soul expands and breathes. Here, the road is quiet and open. The boulevard flanks a central berm lined with various palms and bougainvillea bushes. Each bush shines with blooms of fuchsia, violet or crimson, little flames casting light even on misty mornings like today. The palms stand stately and prickly, and farther on are some impossibly tall cypress, spaced to catch and draw the eye toward the mountain behind. Gracious homes line the road, closed behind ornate iron gates, their walls painted in tasteful creams, pastel oranges, and deep terra cotta.

I drive around a glorieta (a round-about) and am at the foot of the mountain where the manicured public gardens give way to wild grass and sheered rock. Now for the drive. I take it slowly, partly because my minivan has no "umph" or "hutzpah" as my mom would say. But it's also because to my right is a sharp drop-off down the mountainside. The road is always dry, but I'll take no chances. The view, though, is worth it, particularly when there is little haze and the sunlight dances across the city in the valley below. Mountains rise up across the valley and I always look for the skeletal structure of a conference center under construction that clings to the side of one of those mountains like a giant cicada shell, graceful and ugly at the same time.

At last the steep road levels enough to wrap around another glorieta. A mall rises to the right, and communities close in again. We've been to the top of that mall which boasts three restaurants that look out over the valley. The food was delicious, but I'm not looking for that food on Wednesday mornings. My eyes are now bent toward my goal and a different kind of food. I aim for a home of creamy plaster and accents of terra cotta and cobalt blue, and for a group of women who are gathering there to pray and chat and dig deep into the Bible's wisdom literature for a couple hours. Our hostess has a smile that goes much deeper than her kind eyes and mouth. We are joined for these hours, hanging lightly above the world in the rarified air of the mountain.

Things That Make You Go "Hmmm"

"Americans tend to be problem solvers," said a veteran-professor during our orientation with Global Scholars in July. Danny has been in Nigeria for about 25 years, and he knows what he's talking about.    If something can be done more efficiently, Americans will figure out how to do it. This can lead to marvelous inventions such as a single-handled faucet to control water temperature. It can also lead to some serious head-scratching when we come up against the methods employed in other cultures.

So it is in Guadalajara.

One of the first things we noticed here were insanely high or steep curbs. Our apartment, for instance, has a parking garage under our portion of the building, but we use the one in the section next door because there is no way to get into ours. Why not? Well, the curb is high, and the ramp into the garage is so steep that you would need a monster truck to cross the curb without scraping off the bottom of your car.

"It wouldn't be difficult to shave that down," Kraig the engineer commented. Will it ever happen? Probably not. And we certainly won't complain about this because it means we can send the kids down there to play without concern of cars rolling in, or cars getting bopped by our kids or their balls.

Another head-scratcher is the sink in our utility room:

Look at it closely. The faucet runs into the right section of the sink...which is lower than the left section. "So?" you ask. Well, do you see that drain in the left section? That's the only drain in the sink.... And this isn't a fluke. Apartment 1, where we spent our first month, has the same kind of sink. I know it is used as is, too, because one of the apartment staff who cleans the floors always fills the lower portion with water...which we then have to bail out. I'd like to ask why the sinks are made this way, but I'm going to need to learn more Spanish before I can ask the question without sounding like I'm complaining that the sink water is left in there.

And then there is the field next door. The grass and weeds have grown long and lush over the past couple months of the rainy season. 

Whoever oversees this field determined it was time to cut the grass, which was far too long and thick for riding mowers or push mowers. So last Wednesday a handful of workers were sent out to chop it down...with weed whippers. 

As Kraig says, "To a person with a hammer, everything is a nail." Or, in this case, "To a person with a gas-powered weed whipper, everything is a weed to be trimmed." 

This, apparently, is the standard procedure for cutting grass. 

It is very loud. It is very slow.

By Saturday the field looked like this:

Every day the workers started into their whirring at about 10 or 11, and they didn't stop until about 7. To say the least, unless we closed all of the windows and the door wall on that side of the apartment, I was a frazzled wreck by the time they wrapped things up for the night.

On Sunday, I was sure they'd take the day off. But this was not to be.

They finally finished yesterday. At least I think so. I know I heard a weed whipper for a little while today, so maybe they have some final touches to do. 

The first day Kraig looked at them flailing away at the tough grass and said, "You know, a machete would make a lot more sense." He told us about two workers going out to clear an airstrip in Central African Republic where he lived as a kid. "They had long blades, like straight scythes," he said, "and they just moved down the strip, swish-swish-swish, and in two days they had finished it. It was quiet, and a lot more energy efficient."

Apparently the Africans are better problems solvers than the Mexicans in this case. Or they just hadn't been given gasoline and a weed whipper. 

Rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr-rawr......

I'm just praying they won't have to cut it again for a long, long time.

Of course, while we may have solutions, we also have to make sure we don't push our weight around to try to solve everything. Such is the joy and balance of living in a new culture.

To give credit where credit is due, though, the drop-off and pick-up for the kids' school is the most stream-lined machine I have ever seen. Much better than weed whippers.

Communication Skills

I do not know Spanish.

I can boast of lots of language exposure, and I know a lot about how languages work and how they affect culture, but I am not fluent in any language.

And now we are living in a country where Spanish is key to survival. Sure, there are plenty of people who know English, but even then there are times when things are easily misunderstood because of the way language works, assumptions that are made, and there are unfamiliar cultural procedures. If I use Google translate to figure out how to say, "Can you show me an example of this?" I may be using words or turns of phrase that are not used here, and I certainly won't follow the whole response given. 

We realized this full-force as we entered the education system for the kids. Not only was their registration a full-onslaught of sticker-shock (How much does a uniform cost?), but since it was all in Spanish I had to go through things line-by-line to try to translate. I ordered the uniforms and books online, then got the school supply list printed so we could start our collection.

When it came to the school supplies, I tried to be thorough. One evening new American friends came for dinner, and I had Jeannie sit down and go through the list with me. She's a teacher here, so has more experience with the system, plus she knows Spanish. I learned a few vital details from her, such as when the instructions say "label all items with the child's full name" it means all--every pen, every crayon, every eraser. And when they say "child's full name" this means first name, middle name, last name, mother's maiden name. Do that with "Warnemuende" a few times....

After these delightful discoveries, I still needed to clarify a few items on the list. Each child needed multiple notebooks (a particular style, which, we discovered, costs about three times as much as your typical spiral notebook) and these notebooks needed to be covered with certain colors of paper. We now have a lovely collection of colored paper that I plan to use for gifts down the road. Oh, and don't forget clear contact paper, too.... Anyway, armed with my questions which I'd figured out how to ask in Spanish (I hoped) I went into the office at the school. The staff is very helpful, and some know more English than others. We played a fun game of "find that item" so they could show me examples of different things. Once this was accomplished, the kids and I started our hunt at stores in the area. Supplies were bought and stashed in the cupboard, waiting their colored covers and name tags.

Well, the other week we were told our school order had arrived, so I went into the office to get them. The uniforms were delayed, I found, but we did have books...a few piles (How will they get through these texts? I don't know. That's a story for down the road). And we also had--Ta Da!--school supplies!!! 

There, neatly organized and fully labeled in two beautiful boxes were all of Clare and Evie's school materials: the notebooks, the rulers, the pens, the pencils.... Everything was there, covered and labeled. Apparently these items were included in the list of books that I had ordered online, but the staff had only noticed this the previous day. There was much apologizing that they had just caught this, and Jon still needed his items, but there it was. It was done. 

To say the least, it was one of those moments where I had the choice to laugh or cry, and thankfully God helped me take the laughter route. I kept thinking how much money we'd spent--Yikes!--and the fact that Kraig's paycheck was still nonexistent, and that I'd heard it was often hard to return items here. But still, laughter was the response despite the frustration. It was so obviously a miscommunication involving language, assumptions and culture. Evie kept asking why this all had happened--she was almost in tears, poor girl--but we managed to see the bright side. We'd learned a lot of Spanish vocabulary and we'd learned the area better as we'd traipsed to different stores.

We headed home with our supplies in hand and I pulled all of our purchased stuff out of the closet, thanking God that I'd only covered one of Clare's notebooks and nothing had been labeled. We sorted out a few things we needed to keep for home or had already opened, then I pulled out receipts and bagged the returns. While home, my sister-in-law called and we got to chat for a good long while and she let me vent (and laugh). As we wrapped up, she said, "Hey, let's pray about this now," and she took our situation straight to God to handle. Smart woman . We said goodbye, and the kids and I headed back to the three stores to do returns.

And we did it! Each store took our items back with no questions, and handed me cash refunds so we didn't even have to deal with in-store credit. We also were able to knock off a couple more of Jon's needed items and we got a bunch of groceries. Thanks to my sister-in-law's encouragement and prayer, there was no question in my mind that God had helped us in the process. 

This won't be the last time this happens, I know. Stay tuned for more cultural faux-pauxs.

One Year

One year ago today I wrote a blog post about the death of my friend Joann, and death in general.

I haven't written a blog post since.

It's not just because Joann died, or that the death of others has occurred in the past year (which it has) and more people have gotten cancer and other horrible diseases (because they have). I haven't succumbed to any great depression or given up on God--far from it.

It's actually more because so much life has happened in the past year that for one, there hasn't been much time to write posts for the world to see ('cause you know the world is watching :) ). The other reason is that we have been on the path of a huge family transition which meant a major job-change for Kraig and we didn't want to make that known to his employers too early ('cause, of course they're all reading my blog. Oh. Wait.).

But now life has shifted and things are falling into new routines, and I've had some posts running around in my head that need to come out. But I thought I should write some sort of transition post before jumping into this whole new world.

We are in Guadalajara, Mexico, and least for one year, and who knows what all will happen.

Life is happening whether we are ready for it or not.

Dry Lawns and Promises

I mowed the lawn today. It's that time of year when everything is slowing down; it's drier and the grass isn't shooting up every week. I get to the end of a row and turn, and second-guess. Did I mow that line already? Or is it the line left from a week ago? And so I mow it again, just in case, and by the time I decide the yard is finished, I am hot and sweaty, longing for refreshment...and I am not satisfied that I really succeeded in mowing the lawn.

Today I feel like death is becoming that way to me. I've seen it before. It's happened before. I'm tired of it; tired of the grief, tired of the pain, the ramifications. I am resigned. It is the same line mowed over and over, and it doesn't seem to benefit anyone or anything. There is no refreshment. I am apathetic. It is old and dry.

But then I think of Job who suffered death and grief beyond anything I can imagine, and I hear his words, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him," and I know I believe it. The words from a new song by Andy Gullahorn repeat over and over in my mind:

They say God listens to our prayers,
When you're suffering, He holds you.
I don't feel Him anywhere,
That doesn't make it any less true.

 I listened to those words earlier this week, and while I was hit by the stark truth I wondered, "How do I prove that to people? How do I say, 'Yes, this is the God I believe in, and I do not doubt Him'?"

My friend Joann died yesterday morning after a brief battle with cancer, a form of leukemia. Hers was a hopeful case, despite the shock of it to her and all of us who called her friend. The doctors caught it early, she started chemo and responded well. On top of that, her two brothers were a 100% match for a bone marrow transplant. Despite the hiccups, really, everything looked toward a healthy, hopeful recovery. We rejoiced with her, we prayed with her. We prayed for her husband and young son, for her extended family. She and her husband encouraged us with their trust in God's hand, no matter what.

And then a few weeks after the transplant, her husband sent out word that Joann was sick. And then we got the word that the cancer had returned and it was acute. Then a coma...then death. No miracle of healing. No grand stories. The same old, same old specter swept in and dried the field. One more notch on the death belt.

I'm writing this out of grief. I'm not angry or bitter. I'm tired, yes. I feel like I'm going over the same row that I've already mowed. I wish Joann's story had the ending of another young mom I heard about last week who had had stage 4 cancer, but has recently received a clean bill of health. The doctors can't find any trace of cancer in her body. I know that God can do that. I've believed it for Joann. I wonder if I needed to hear about this other mom last week so that I could remember God's sovereignty and omnipotence. Joann didn't die because He's not capable of miracles and of healing.

So why did she die? I don't know. But I know I trust God and that His promises are true:

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die," Jesus said to Martha after her brother Lazarus died. (John 11:25 & 26)

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you." (Deuteronomy 31:6)

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)

"For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope." (Romans 15:4)

As I've been writing this, I've glanced out my window at our vegetable garden. While the lawn may be dry and slow-growing at this point of the summer, the garden is lush with fruit. Ruby tomatoes weigh down emerald branches, waiting for me to reach out, pluck them and enjoy the burst of tangy sweetness. They will refresh my body as God's promises refresh my spirit.

In the midst of suffering, there is always hope. I know that if God's promises were only true when they played out the way I think they should, or when I feel them, they wouldn't be promises, and God wouldn't be God. I will trust Him and enjoy the fruit that He has for me.

Parables and Seeking Truth

This morning I read Jesus' parable of the sower and the seed in the book of Mark, chapter 4, followed by the final chapter of Through a Screen Darkly, by Jeffrey Overstreet, and some thoughts converged. Always a little dangerous, I know, especially because these converging thoughts led me back to a conversation from my student-teaching days, which is now about twenty years ago. Time flies and all that.

Anyway, it wasn't the parable itself that hit me this morning, it was the context surrounding it. After Jesus told the story, his disciples pulled him aside and said, "Um, so what do you mean?" I love that, because it's such a human response, and so often my response. "Would you mind giving that to me line by line? I didn't catch it." In Jesus' response I can imagine him shaking his head a little sadly, maybe even in frustration. At one point he says, "But if you can't understand this story, how will you understand all the others I am going to tell?"

Immediately before that, he says something that seems absolutely insane.

"You are permitted to understand the secret about the Kingdom of God. But I am using these stories to conceal everything about it from outsiders, so that the Scriptures might be fulfilled:

'They see what I do, but they don't perceive its meaning. They hear my words, but they don't understand. So they will not turn from their sins and be forgiven.'" (Mark 4:11&12, NLT)

He used the stories to conceal things from outsiders so that Scripture could be fulfilled? What kind of loving God would do something like that? Why wouldn't He desire people to turn from their sins and be forgiven? Why wouldn't He make things so clear that even a child could get it?

I've gone over these verses many times over the years, I've heard good sermons preached about them, and even though I get them on one level, I find I have to think through them all over again when I return to them. I have to go back to who I know God to be based on all of Scripture: He is loving. He does not desire any to perish. He provided the one and only way for us to be rescued from self-destruction: Jesus. The problem is mostly that Jesus himself is an enigma, a stumbling block. And God is, too.

So Jesus told stories. And really, that was the best way to make his truth so clear that a child could get it. How many times have my kids truly understood things because they heard a story rather than a lecture? It's just that as adults we tend to hear a story and scoff, "Well, that's just a tale. Let me give you reality."

In his final chapter of Through a Screen Darkly, Jeffrey Overstreet hones in on a point he's made throughout his book: that the art of cinema is one that can lead us to the truth that is in Christ and in God. If we will see it, though, we have to actively engage it rather than letting it wash over us. Sure there is a place for pure entertainment, but much of movie-making is an art, and Truth (with a capital T) can be found in some of the strangest places. He writes how he is encouraged to see more Christians engaging this art with thoughtful intention, and as a result, engaging our culture more effectively.

Overstreet talks about a Christian arts festival he attended that showed films from Flickerings 2003, a venue for short films by Christians with strict limitations. Some of the restrictions included "Refrain from the use of popular religious symbols, including the cross. No church scenes. No conclusions that involve a conversion to Christianity," etc.

By these rules, Flickerings' founder coaxed Christian artists away from the simplistic, didactic, sentimental and condescending qualities often found in contemporary Christian art and entertainment, nudging them toward the language of metaphor. This unsettled some artists. they worried that viewers wouldn't "get their message." It's true--some didn't get their message, but some did. And some got more than the filmmakers had ever meant to convey. (p. 328)

 And I thought of the disciples asking Jesus for a translation, and Jesus telling stories so only those truly seeking him would "get it" (and even then we have to ask a lot of questions--which builds our relationship with him...I wonder if that's on purpose). And I remembered teaching the Medieval morality play Everyman to a group of Christian high school seniors. We delved into the story Everyman portrayed--a good-works-saves-you story, and we talked about the culture of that time where the majority of people couldn't read the Bible for themselves so had to rely on these defective plays for biblical understanding. One of my students asked, "But if this is all they had, how could they learn the truth?" It's a question that has resonated with me ever since, because I see so many things in our world that don't present the truth. I mean, most Christians don't present the truth, whether through words or conduct. We are certainly a faulty picture of Christ.

But God is actively at work, and His Truth is inescapable for any seeking it, no matter how badly the tale is told. And as believers, we need to let Him tell the tale through us, which may mean that our own lives will be strange stories that will either draw or repel others. I wonder, too, in this day and age where the written word is undervalued and visual media is the primary source of information and entertainment, if movies are the modern parables and morality tales.

The Truth is there for those who seek it.

"He who has an ear, let him hear."