Category Archives: Poland

Two Good Stories

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1. This is a book recommendation for the next time you’re at the library: The Soloist, by Steve Lopez, a journalist for the LA Times. It’s about the redemption and power in friendship and music. It’s a true story, and happened in LA.  You can watch the movie, and it’s good, but the book is really worth your time and thought. It was born out of Mr. Lopez’s search for a story for his column, and how he bumped into Nathaniel Ayers, a homeless musical genius. There’s more than one unlikely hero in the story, and maybe that’s part of why I like it.

2. I live in a flat that has 4,000 English books on its walls. This is in a town where the average adult doesn’t speak English, so this flat is exceptionally exceptional. About once a year our landlord hires a lady to dust all the books. This morning she came, a pleasant, patient lady.  We chatted a little bit now and then. My Polish is slow and childish, but functional. She said this is a happy place, and I agreed and said I feel like a princess in it.

At one point in her work, she peered into the room to ask me what the date is today. I glanced at the calendar to make sure and said it’s the 95th. The cleaning lady, God bless her, never flinched or smirked. Then I heard what I’d said, and quickly cancelled it and stumbled out the correct number and explained that numbers are so hard for me. (Never mind that I learned them in the first week of Polish classes three years ago; I still stutter out most numbers higher than 11.) The most amazing part of this story is how graceful the woman was, and how she listened calmly and patiently til I finished what I wanted to say. I guess if you have the patience to carefully dust 4,000 books, you can also wait for the foreign girl to sputter out and self-correct her Polish mistakes.

Redemption Keeps Its Own Calendar

Posted in life, music, Poland by

Some years ago, my pastor and his wife would frequently invite a depressed, lonely lady to their house. Her husband was an alcoholic and life was dark and difficult on every level for her. They would sit at the kitchen table and listen to her talk, and tell her about life in Jesus, and then they’d sing “God Will Take Care of You.” She’d  cry, and they’d cry with her. It was her song, the one she always asked for.

Now she’s my friend, my Polish mom, and more importantly, God’s child. We laugh and cry together a lot, but mostly laugh because her joy and peace is so effervescent.

This morning in church our pastor’s family was gone. One of the ladies in church, Maria, couldn’t come to church because of her high-risk pregnancy but was listening to the service via Skype. Maria’s husband Nate led songs and asked for suggestions from the (small) group. My Polish mom said she wants us to sing “God Will Take Care of You” especially for Nate and Maria.

As we sang of course I cried, because I saw it had gone full circle. What she had been given years ago, she is able to give to someone else now.

When I talked with her later about it, she said she doesn’t remember the words our pastor said in her visits to their kitchen, but she remembers their warmth and what they sang.

Back in the Swing

Posted in Poland, teaching English, travel by

Jet lag is a bear.

Coming east is much harder for me than going west. My mornings this week looked like this:

Get out of bed. Comb my hair. Go back to bed.

Get out of bed. Wash my face. Go back to bed.

Get out of bed and make coffee.

Wrap myself in my furry red blanket to drink coffee and slowly let the morning seep into my limbs.

There’s this deep, unsettled ball in my stomach that hates getting up at my inner clock’s 3:00 am. And when I walk to school, I wish for good old Irish wellies that keep the water from the toes because the snow is melting into small lakes and my boots aren’t water-proof.

But that’s all I can complain about these days, so that’s precious little hardship.

My two-month sojourn in the US  showed me how rich and good and beautiful life is at the same time that it’s yucky and hurtful and imperfect for everyone. I met lots of people.  Good people. Relatives and deep friends. They laughed and cried with me, poured love and grace on me, and sent me away feeling rich and refreshed beyond words.

Now I walk Polish streets and hear Polish conversations and teach English to Polish students. It’s another world in many ways except that people are people, and I find love and beauty and whimsy in them.

And maybe tomorrow morning won’t be quite as grim.

 

To the Women I Saw Yesterday

Posted in life, Poland by

Dear Women on the Street,

I walked past you this morning, sun shining and snow glittering. I was wearing my long down-filled coat, with the hood up, practically wrapped up in a blanket. I want to ask you why you scowled at me, raking me over with your eyes–eyes filled with what seemed to be contempt and disdain and disapproval.

I don’t get it.

Was it the tall hood that looks sort of like an astronaut? But lots of other ladies use their hoods too.

No, mine isn’t fur or even fur-lined. Was it the unfashionable tan color you disapproved of?

And I don’t wear mascara or lip-stick, but surely I wasn’t so haggard-looking that my un-painted face shocked you into scowling.

I was smiling. Was that it? The sun was shining, and I was happy thinking about the day and what I had to do before hosting my sister’s baby shower. Was it the smile that shocked you?

Would it be too much to ask for you to smile back? Yeah, I thought so.

You know, some days it gets to be Too Much. Some days I think I’ve had it with women who obsess about their hair and skin and nails and figure and I want to say CAN WE PLEASE JUST BE? Can we just relax and say I’m ok–you’re ok. You’re ok, just the way God made you, and I don’t have to prove anything, and you don’t either.

This class-consciousness, this taboo list of what you can wear or not wear because of what year it was fashionable, this caste system that has untouchables and upper-caste, I’m sick of it. Sick of the favoritism and elitism and snobbery. Sick of the capriciousness and pressure to perform. Is that why you can’t smile–you’re worn out from it?

So I opt out of it, and I’m happy to be out of the race. I probably don’t care enough about clothes and how I look, but I aim to be clean, smell nice, and dress modestly. Which is a whole other subject, and we won’t get into that here.

But please, please, please, if the sun shines and the snow is like glitter, please smile. Just try to eek out a little pleasure from the spires stretching into the sky and children on sleds.

I know it’s a sad world, and we cry when we see the news about children being shot, and our friends are ill, and our hearts are smashed into bits for reasons that no one knows. I know, I know, and it’s ok to cry.

And I know it’s different in this country, when you used to be able to curry favor from the police if you told them about an insurrectionist like me who didn’t do everything that everyone else did.

But today is today! The sun is shining! I’m walking past you and I’m not SO ugly!

I beg you, ladies, please smile back at me! It would make me so happy.

Together is The Way to Be

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When I go to church on Sunday morning, I think I don’t have impossible expectations. But it would be nice if everyone could be there on time. And please don’t expect me to chat with you while we’re singing because I don’t like being disturbed from focusing on the song and leader.

Would it be so much to ask to have the window cracked, so I could breath? Would it really be the death of anyone to have a light breeze in the room? It’s hard for me to concentrate on the speaker while I’m breathing fumes of fried onions and bad personal hygiene. I try sucking mints and holding my hand to my nose so as to smell the (nice) (Irish) lotion I used, but I still feel nauseated and need huge self-control to keep from bolting out the door.

When we’re drinking tea together afterwards, I want to have meaningful conversations, not negativity or complaining or arguing. I like to argue, but not after church. Let’s please try to take a day off from our vices.

We work hard to clean the place every Sat. and in several hours on Sun. the floor has clouds of dirt scattered around, sugary tea is splashed down the steps, empty water cups stand around, song books and chairs are anywhere and everywhere. It would be nice if someone else would care about keeping the place clean instead of just using it and leaving.

I could stay at home on Sunday mornings and be more comfortable on most every level. I could talk to God; He could talk to me. I could sing alone. I could even listen to a sermon. There could be worship and communication and encouragement.

But there wouldn’t be community.

I’m finding that when I leave seclusion and walk into a messy, unpredictable universe full of  personalities and bodies, there are a lot of aspects that prickle, disturb, irritate me. But I would also miss out on way too many things that make my life richer.

So yesterday, I could hardly breathe during the service for the smell and the stuffy air. But there were wise words spoken, sad news shared, tears, hugs, and songs. There was care and love poured out, worship and surrender. Glints of beauty sparkled around us–beauty that I’m not willing to do without.

There’s a woman who searches me out every Sunday to kiss  me and ask how I am, because she knows that I’m not always ok, and sometimes we’ve cried together, mingled tears on cheeks. There’s another who tells me about her week, and says she has stories to tell me when we’ll meet later in the day. There are creative little people in Sunday school who chatter happily to me and draw pictures as easily as they breathe.

Community means give and take. Not liking some things, but welcoming other things. It means color and texture (did I mention smells?) and depth that is impossible to find anywhere except together. I like it that way.

What You Say is What You Are

Posted in life, Poland, words by

Two days ago, I was driving an unfamiliar car out of an unfamiliar car park. It was snowy and the windscreen was foggy, but I was being as careful as I knew to be. I saw pedestrians around me but I wasn’t close to knocking anyone down, and didn’t skid.

As I waited for a break in traffic to pull out onto the main road (the one that reaches from Moscow to Paris!), a woman knocked on my window and harshly told me to pay attention when I drive out of there. Through the window, I said I’m sorry. She started walking away, then turned around again and pointed her finger at her head: “Stupid nun!”

I nodded dumbly because I can’t defend myself in Polish, beyond saying “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Her words shook me because I’m not the brightest light on the street, but I’m not used to being called stupid.  Which says more about the people around me than about me. But I wasn’t crushed or devastated by her rudeness.

It’s something I’ve heard all my life, but only recently the penny dropped for me, and I see that what someone says about me or does to me reveals more about them than about me. The rude lady on the street. The hurtful words or actions directed at me. Neglect or carelessness that hurt me. None of that means that I deserve those words and actions, that I’m stupid or unworthy of care. It only reveals the perspective and the life experience of the one whose words and actions I receive.

Not that I’m perfect and never fail, and never need to be called to higher things. But no one ever deserves rudeness or abuse or harshness, no matter how imperfect they are.

But it cuts both ways. When I judge/criticize/make a statement about someone else, I’m revealing my own heart more than I am giving an accurate picture of that person. When I call someone unfeeling or impossible or thoughtless, chances are that I’m saying words that describe me.

Ouch.

More than English

Posted in Poland, teaching English by

“What do you do that all these people want you to be their private English teacher?” she asked me.

I don’t know. I just love them. I wish I could teach better, but mostly I love them.

She nodded. “And they feel your love and want to come back. I had a teacher like that once too.”

Walking down the street later,  it occurred to me that that I’d heard those words before.

It was when I asked Urie Sharp how he got good sound of choirs when the members hadn’t sung much before.

“Well, it works like it did when I taught school. I discovered that students will do anything for you when they know you love them.” And it was true, because I was in his choir, and we knew he loved us.

So today I taught useful words like butterfly and flamingo and factory and our. But what I value more was that we laughed together and met each other’s eyes and when each class left, little crumbs of my heart trailed out the door with them.

A Story of a Whim

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Last November, two of my friends and I went to Warsaw. We had a free day from school, so we went just because we could. One friend knew Warsaw better than two of us, so she took us here and there, to an elegant coffee shop, then the place with the best ice cream, and we meandered down old streets and posed here and there for photos just for memories, not for being photogenic.

On a whim, she took us into the church where Chopin’s heart is buried. (He died in Paris, but they sent his heart back to his birth country.) Poles are proud of this relic, and can’t understand why most Americans think it’s gruesome and strange.

In the back of the church was a bulletin board and a poster announcing a chorale festival the next week. I took a photo of it with my phone to be able to retrieve the details.

The next week, knowing the time and place of the concert, my friend and I went back to that church to listen to two youth choirs, one from Germany, and another from Sweden. It put me  into raptures and we arranged to go to another church the next night to hear the last of the choirs in the festival.

It happened to be a church on the outskirts of Warsaw, and after the girls choir from Russia sang and the next choir on the program didn’t show up, our small group stayed to chat with the priest. He told us this is the oldest church in Warsaw, and his warm, grandfatherly spirit made it easy to talk and ask questions. We asked if we could sing a song for him, and we formed a small half circle and sang “Amazing Grace” in Polish.

As we left, we said to each other, “We have to come back here with Hope Singers!”

In time, the  right contacts were made, and August came,  and Hope Singers came to the church’s door, but the priest didn’t really remember us and wasn’t sure why we were there.  We felt a little unnerved, but certain that we were there for reasons bigger than ourselves.

It was the last program of Hope Singers 2012. The acoustics  were good, the small audience warm and responsive, and we prayed to be able to spread light and life to what felt like a dark place. At the end, we stood around the auditorium and sang an African song that carried us away with the words “Satan has no power, he flees far from us, hallelujah!”

It seemed that light had penetrated the place, and the priest told us that he’s never been with Americans where he prayed the whole time. He welcomed us warmly to come back,  and that he would publicize it next time.

You never where a whim will take you. That’s why I like them.

The Sound of Silence

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A conversation last night, after talking about the team’s plans for intensive Polish language lessons for the next few weeks:

1st friend: What about having an English fast for a few days?

2nd friend: Oh yeah, that means we talk English as fast as we can and see who wins.

Me: Great, we’re on! I’ll give you a run for your money.

1st friend: I wouldn’t want to compete with Anita. (This is the same friend who thinks I should be an attorney.)

I laughed and laughed, humored with the play on words and not needing to defend myself.

But today I’m trying to take a talking fast of sorts. I didn’t take a vow of silence, but almost.

Not because I’m ascetic but because I’ve been socializing and singing intensely for the last 3 weeks with The Hope Singers.  Besides vocal fatigue, a sore throat virus attacked me, and now I can sing bass instead of 2nd alto.  This has happened the last 2 times I was on Hope Singers, so I know the pattern, and know that a day of silence will be medicine.

We used to have a neighbor who led retreats with his wife. He told me of the time they led a 4-day silent retreat. “It was hardest for the women,” he said with a wink.

I’m the girl who has enough words to finish everyone’s sentences without even trying, and even today a lot of things want to come bubbling out, but it feels so incredibly good to just be quiet.

Until, of course, the moment that I think of some comment or advice that will completely change your life and you MUST hear it now.

Happy, Fractured Dreams

Posted in Ireland, life, Poland by

I used to insist that Christians should be happy all the time. They’re the ones living without condemnation from sin, they have joy and peace and fulfillment in Christ, they have everything! Why should they squander a perfectly good day by talking about difficulties and disappointment?

Thankfully, I think I’ve grown up a little bit since then. Or life has knocked me around and showed me some things.

I still don’t have answers for this crazy, surprising life. I just know that when you talk with emotionally-healthy people, you can be having a normal conversation and then only a word will trigger tears you didn’t know were coming. And I’ve learned that tears don’t mean something is terribly amiss. It just reveals the fact that tears are often just under the surface, even for people who deeply love Jesus and know His joy. Maybe this is true especially for those people, because they are the ones who can be better equipped to have emotional integrity and deal with pain and discomfort and grief and don’t need escapes from that.

In others words, I can say that my world shifted when I heard a widow speak with tears running down her cheeks: “You know, life really stinks sometimes. It really, really stinks.” Then over her tears, her eyes lit up and she talked about God’s nearness and love and wisdom in her desperate grief.

So I’m trying to give up insisting that life feels good all the time. Because it’s not going to happen, but it doesn’t mean that life is all bad.

This morning I met a student for coffee. She’d asked if we could meet, and I said my brain isn’t working to have a lesson during vacation, but we could go for coffee, and we did, and it was lovely, and she wants me to come to her house next week to look at her vacation photos and eat food. Last Sat. morning I was in Ireland and met an old friend for coffee too, and I felt so loved and cared for and relaxed and happy. And it was at the end of a week with my whole family, in which we didn’t do much more than take care of little children and make food. And swim and go canoeing.

I’m living a lot of happy dreams. Of course good coffee always makes me happy anywhere, but living in Europe, meeting with women who want to meet just because they like me, having a student-teacher relationship grow to a dear friendship–this is the stuff of my dreams.

Which means that other dreams haven’t come true (because–surprise!–you can’t have everything) and my life stinks in places, and I cried pretty much every day this week.  Life is wonderful and terrible, and that’s about all I know about it, and for now, it’s ok.