Category Archives: travel

An Epiphany About Running

Posted in life, travel by

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Last week I flew from Warsaw to Tel Aviv in order to spend Easter with my friends in Jerusalem. Sound exotic? Yes, it was. I’m still floating.But this is not a travel blog, though I dream of that. This is about an epiphany I’m still living with.

The plane was filled with Polish Jews and I reveled in the beautiful, exquisite atmosphere with the families mingling and smiling and comparing notes. “We’re going for Passover in Jerusalem then rent a car and travel further. What? You too?” Polish Jews have suffered so much in this country, and I could feel the pulsating home-coming atmosphere and was so happy for them.

Wedged between two pleasant gentlemen, one wearing a kippah and editing his movie of a rabbinical school, I opened my Bible to Luke’s account of the resurrection. I wanted to enter into the story as much as possible in the next several days. I wanted to hear and see and smell what Jesus and His loved ones did. (As it turned out, it seemed that I could only see the same sky they did, because not much else is the same, but that’s ok. The journeys of the heart are what really change us, I think, not a physical pilgrimage.)

Luke says the women found the tomb empty and heard the angels say that Jesus was no longer dead, and then went back to tell “all the others” about it. You know how women are when they get to be the first to tell someone their exciting news.

This was the best news that could ever happen, but Luke says that to the disciples, the women spoke idle tales.

Empty words.

Jibberish.

Jesus had repeatedly confided in these men. He’d told them He would die and rise again. He’d done what He could to prepare them for the devastation they would feel, but it did not compute for them. Now this morning they were so crushed that they couldn’t let themselves believe what the women were saying.

Do you know how blankety-blank hard it is to sustain hope? It’s easier to write it off as nonsense and foolishness and tell yourself not to care anymore.

Mark says the disciples didn’t believe the women nor Cleopas and his friend from Emmaus who had walked and talked with Jesus that day. It’s impossible to believe news about a miracle when you watch your naked hopes dangle on a bloody cross in an earthquake.

When everything you counted on is gone.

When you don’t even have the remains of what you loved.

But Peter ran, Luke says. John’s version includes himself in the running. Peter had loved Jesus the most boisterously, the most rashly, and he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard but he had to check, just in case, and neither of the men could wait or walk calmly.

They ran, and I weep over their eagerness and their stunning courage. They ran head-long into the situation that held the potential to break their hearts even more–if it’s possible to break a heart that’s already shattered. There was no precedence for what Jesus did, and they had no proof of the women’s words being true.

Except they had Jesus’ words earlier, which is life and power in itself.

Wedged in a tight airplane seat, I tried surreptitiously to wipe my tears on my scarf because I didn’t want the men to get worried about me crying.(“No, no, I’m ok–I’m not scared of flying—everything’s ok!” I would have said.) But I can’t stop crying about it even now. There is maybe no other scene that speaks so powerfully to passion and longing and life than this one–of the men running toward what they couldn’t believe.

There are a thousand things I hope for myself and those I love. Sometimes I get a tiny glimpse of how things could be. How a miracle would change things for them or me, how we could enter more fully into what we were created for.

But it feels so impossible, so far away, that I write it off as pish-posh. Or I believe the lie that I don’t deserve these miracles. Or we’re not one of the lucky ones and God is handing out miracles to others but forgot about me and my people for awhile .

And lies and fanciful tales don’t sustain and don’t give life. In fact, they starve me. Poison my system. Shut me down. Keep me from running.

With the power that woke Jesus from the dead, I want to run toward His miracles. Not wait around and see what happens. Not discount it as excitable women’s words.

The best thing that could happen had just happened, and it was impossible and Peter couldn’t believe it, but he still ran, and by the Lion’s mane,  I will too.

The Road Goes Ever On

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Last year, on the first Friday of May, I was in Rome.

It was the only day in my life that I ate (at least) three servings of gelato. It was glorious weather, and I soaked up the crazy, happy, loud atmosphere. I was touring there with a friend and her son, with reservations for 4 days. But I had only Friday there because my grandpa died that night. I’ll always be grateful that we had  lived that day so expansively, so thoroughly and freely.

The next day, travelling home alone and dealing with rude airline agents, part of my heart broke and died. The part of myself that always thrilled to step onto a plane or train or bus, ticket in hand, was gone, and stayed gone for the rest of the year. I flew several places after that, and always with dread and whimpering, even tears.

It was many things. Losing my gentle, globe-trotting grandpa. Disappointment of leaving Italy so soon. Later, it was about not having energy to travel. At Christmas, it was wonderful to fly home but having just had surgery and needing a wheelchair gave me a kind of identity crisis. Plane tickets started feeling like a bother. It didn’t help when one flight cancelled just as I was ready to leave for the airport in the middle of the night. Airports became something to endure, airline staff couldn’t wait to call me out on something.

I missed the thrill. I missed not being excited to travel when I had the chance. It didn’t feel like me. For most of a year, I wondered if I would ever really want to travel again.

Slowly, it came seeping back.

In February, I felt new energy, new impetus to fly. It helped that I wasn’t alone, and when Janelle and I stepped onto the jet-way in San Diego, we could smell the humid sea air, and suddenly that dead part of my heart felt warm again. We stood outside waiting for our bus, and watched the gulls and palm trees, and met friendly people, and then it came back to me– why I love to explore the far horizon.

It was confirmed when I flew back to Poland, via Amsterdam.  What other airport has an art gallery and museum, and a cafe where the booths are giant delft cups? I fell in love again with Holland. With travelling. With bags and airline workers and tickets and arrival times.

Not everyone has to travel to have a good life but I will never live long enough to see every place I want to.  Travelling isn’t a right for me to demand, so I’m grateful beyond words for the opportunities I’ve had. It has expanded my soul to talk with other people, observe different lifestyles, eat new food.

Especially gelato.

 

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Our Roads Converged

Posted in life, Poland, travel by

Jewel and I were hungry for kebabs so we trotted down the street to the doner kebab shop that’s on the road we live on.  It’s pretty heady, really, to think about being able to follow the road west to Berlin and Paris and east to Moscow if we’d go far enough.

The man at the counter was taking my order (cięnki, z kurczakiem, sos mieszana) and suddenly he said in English, “You’re not Polish. How long you live in Poland? You speak Polish well. I’ve lived here two years, and I understand everything but I still don’t speak Polish well.”

I told him I’ve lived here three and a half years, and I understand how he feels, because I understand more than I’m able to speak. He said he’s from Egypt, and I said I dream of travelling there, and he said that would be nice, but the economic situation there isn’t good right now. “Are you happy here?” I asked. He nodded, avoiding my eyes. “I live here because my wife is from here.”

Later, I stood where he was preparing our food. With no warning, he turned to me and spit out, “I HATE this country. I lived in Holland for six and a half years and you can have a wonderful life with everything there. I HATE this country.”

The venom in his voice and fire in his eyes took me aback.  I asked why he hates Poland. “People here are aggressive.” I didn’t comment on that, but said I think that in general people in Holland and Ireland seem friendlier and happier than here. “They’re racist here,” he said, and the way he spat the words broke my heart. I said I’m so sorry, and I haven’t experienced racism myself, but it’s a terrible thing. “I’m going to wait some time, then I’m going back to Holland.” His posture told me he was ready to defend his decision had I tried to dissuade him.

The kebab and cold Coke was wonderful comfort food, a splurge for a Friday night on a holiday weekend, but I was heart-sick, remembering the shards of his words. We’ll be back down the street for that good food, but the real reason will be to have a chance to talk with the sad man from Egypt.

All the roads of the world should unite us, not divide.

 

 

 

Sand and Stories

Posted in books, life, travel by

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I bought ten tulips, pink and yellow, at the market. The lady who sold them to me wrapped them expertly in rustly cellophane, gathered everything together at the bottom with a rubber band, and I carried them home proudly. I love carrying flowers!

At home, I unwrapped them and trimmed several inches off the stems in order to arrange them in a glass jar. My work space got gritty. Sand. Ah! The tulips came from Holland. Reclaimed sea. Hence the sand. I’ve been there. The tulip boxes at the market were marked “Alsmeer.” I know where that is in Holland, have walked through the tulip fields, got the sand on my shoes. The sand on the kitchen counter was Dutch sand. How exotic is that?

I’m reading Michael O”Brien’s A Father’s Tale. I’m hardly past the first sixth of the tome, but already it is delicious and deep and aching though not nearly as hard a read as his Island of the World. Today I read of Alex’s journey to Oxford in search of his son who was studying there. It takes me back several years when I was visiting a friend and she took me around Oxford for a day, and I fell in love with the place. I had fish and chips in the Rabbit Room at the Eagle and Child. Even while I ate, I couldn’t believe I was there.

There are probably a million things that that play into what shapes a person. I believe that part of this shaping is a combination of all the books we’ve read and the places we’ve been to. Having been at Alsmeer and the Bodleian Library shaped my perception and understanding of the things I encountered this week.

In addition to books and travels, we are also a product of our own choices. I had opportunities to travel, and I chose to take them. I have other opportunities every day. Choosing to say ‘yes’ to something means saying ‘no’ to something else, and each decision affects the shape of my life.

Choices this week:

  • unsubscribed to good newsletters that talk about good things, but don’t address matters that I really need to focus on.
  • walked past used clothing stores even when I have time to shop, because I’m not buying clothes for myself for a year.
  • journaled extensively.
  • lowered my lecturing teacher voice, sat down, and laughed with my students.
  • read in the morning sun.
  • dreamed about travelling to see China’s stone mountains and India’s bougainvillea, saris, and elephants.

Because dreams shape us too, don’t you doubt it for a second.

Travelling, books, choices, dreams–some of the infinite amount of things that make me who I am. Which means that I’ll probably always have itchy feet but also that I’m always changing.

Which is a good thing.

 

Related posts: Oxford of the Dreaming Spires

 

Tribute to Grampa

Posted in Family, life, travel by

This is what I wrote on the plane coming over, and read at the funeral yesterday:

My first memory of Grampa was a scary one. I was three and outside the house on Williams Street. My parents and strangers were around me on the sidewalk and this tall black-bearded man crouched down and spread out his arms to me. Everyone around me was laughing and telling me to go to him. “Go–it’s Grampa!” But I was scared and refused. It was the thick black hair that did it.

Now I know the occasion was that the family was home for furlough and we were visiting from VA. In a day or two, I saw that Grampa was actually a nice man but I was stubborn and refused to let him hold me.

After that initial scare, Grampa became a normal part of my life in our visits to IN. He was always jolly and his gruff voice belied his soft heart. I loved watching how he treasured Gramma Mabel, and later, Gramma Barbara. He’d always give Gramma a kiss when he came home, and hold her hand when they walked together. Even though I was a child, it felt significant to me that a man his age was so openly affectionate.

I remember at Susan and Delbert’s wedding, he read Proverbs 31 and I Corinthians 13, and the way he read made it sound like poetry, and I dreamed he’d do the same at my wedding. I remember several times when he read poetry to the family. What impressed me most was how he’d unashamedly choke up at some particularly meaning words.

Now when I write and wrestle with words to make them do what I want them to, I sometimes wonder if one reason words affect me so deeply is because he valued words. Maybe it’s in our genes. After all, family lore is proud of his winning the county spelling bee in grade school in KS.

I last saw Grampa this past February. It had been four years since I’d last seen him. I think I’d taken him for granted and thought he’d always be the strong, stalwart man I knew. But when I first saw him in February, I wanted to weep for the stooped, halting body that trapped his expansive mind. The Parkinson’s made his speech slow and slurred. He told me the words don’t come like they used to. He knows them but they don’t come out. “Is that frustrating?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It would be if I’d let it.”

To this emotional, impulsive girl, those were wise words to digest.

I was in Rome when Grampa died. I had one day there instead of the long weekend I’d planned. In the scrambled plans, buying new tickets, and foreign, unfriendly airport agents, all clouded with this abrupt loss, I tried hard to stay calm and remember what he said: “It’s frustrating if you let it be.”

Leaving Rome, the plane took off over the coastline and I saw the smooth, deep curve of the gulf that forms the sole of Italy’s boot. It was thrilling to see, and I knew that some of my itchy feet comes from Grampa who also loved the far horizon. I know I’m shaped by his love for new places that took him from KS to IN to Central America where he became Papi Juan to dozens of children and adults. I saw how happily and easily he entered that world as often and as long as he could.

Now the tables are turned. All his children and grandchildren have pushed away from their geographical roots for Kingdom work for some part of their lives. The two grandchildren who aren’t here today are in Poland and Thailand. Grampa gave to us a love of learning, expanding, exploring. He was always asking questions, reading, and quick to learn. He even learned from Gramma how to sing better. It was easy to see that his life motivation was to serve and be useful because He loved Jesus simply and completely, and cherished the gift of salvation. It wasn’t so much what he said. It was the shape of his life.

Now it’s me who comes back home from living in another country and the small children are shy and don’t know me anymore. It’s bittersweet. Mostly, it’s sweet because of the enormous legacy we have of a bearded man whose heart was big and his arms stretched wide.

 

Scattered

Posted in Family, life, travel by

I lost my heart to Italy. I’m completely smitten.

Finally I’ve found a place where it’s ok to have a raised voice in normal conversation. Where I found a market and bought the best pesto I ever had, plus real ciabatta and vine-ripened tomatoes and the lemons and oranges still had their leaves attached. Where the espresso and cappuccino is first-rate and the gelato is beyond words.

Thursday night I went to Rome with a friend and her son, with plans to spend four days there. Yesterday was a fantastic day of getting our bearings and relaxing and being charmed by the way the Italians enjoy life. We did a bus tour then sat at the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain and soaked up the sun and atmosphere. The crowds–I never saw so many people– were happy and not too obnoxious.

All I could think to say was “It’s really real.” The ruins, the faded walls of the houses, with geraniums and greenery on the balconies. They’re real. The cafes where four men at a table all talk at one time. I saw/heard them. It’s not just in stories and pictures. It’s real. The smiling clerks who never hurry. The lack of a personal bubble of any size. It’s how they live. The crazy driving and the crazier pedestrians and the parking that’s so tight you can’t walk between the cars. It’s a mad, happy chaos that could become addictive.

All the pomp of the pope and his attachments are pretty much lost on me. It made me sad to hear that the Vatican is considered the heart of Christianity because I know what Jesus would say about the wealth and power it wields. But I had my heart set on seeing the Sistine Chapel, and paid a deposit yesterday to join a tour this morn.

Then in the evening my sister called while we were meandering toward a park. It’s my grandpa. A brain hemorrhage. He’s got only several hours.  Later the text: he died during the night.

Today I spent all day alone, travelling back from Rome to Warsaw. The map worked and I could walk to the right street for the bus. (You have no idea how huge this is to me.) I had an espresso in a simple cafe and read Psalm 90 in a piazza while waiting for the airport bus. I cried and read by turns during the hours but I cried when Wizz Air said they’d charge 10 euro for the cabin baggage, but the agent said it no, they charge 20. And then no, it’s 30 because the airport gets a commission. It felt like extortion and deceit to me, and my tolerance was in short supply.

But finally I’m home and  doing laundry and packing to leave for Indiana with my sister in the morning. I’m glad and sad to go. The week will have tears and laughter. There will be grandma and parents and aunts and uncles in grief, babies to cuddle, stories to re-tell and reasons to laugh. I want to celebrate my grandpa whose itchy feet I inherited. Whose solidity and faithfulness gave us a legacy that I don’t even realize fully.

I guess it figures that tonight I feel completely scattered.

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.

 

Normal: Travelling and Telling Stories

Posted in travel, Uncategorized by

“Do all Mennonites travel as much as you and your friends do?”

Last night wasn’t the first time that my friend asked me this. but it stumped me again. I don’t know what is normal for other Mennonites, only what’s normal for me. And normal for me is to hear stories of other countries, the food, the houses, transportation, the languages encountered. Stories and details galore, to wonder at and admire.

I said it’s normal for my family. Both of my grandfathers are globe-trotters dedicated to service, and the trait is strong in their grandchildren. An hour before my friend’s question, I’d read an email from my aunt planning Christmas activities with the extended family. There will be photos and stories from schools and missions in Liberia, the Far East, El Salvador, Mexico, Ukraine, Poland. Not to mention places of ministry within the US. Stories, stories, stories!

I’m not as well-traveled as I want to be, but packing a bag and making sure the ticket and money are safe is something I’ve often done–though not often enough to satisfy me.  So I was ecstatic to be able to fly on a whim to Ukraine last week end and join a friend for a missionary conference. The quick decision and foreign country and new acquaintences thrilled me like little else could. I wrote my family and close friends a report that was long but didn’t nearly say everything because it’s impossible to put all one’s impressions and comparisons and theories of a new country on paper.

While I’m immensely grateful for the legacy of travelling and missions that my grandparents and parents gave me, I don’t want to minimize the value of being steady in the home place. (Though I have this sneaking suspicion that the majority of  people do that because it’s their default setting rather than their calling. This makes me sad and a little angry sometimes. Is that my problem?) Going out to ‘do missions’ isn’t something to do for adventure. Sometimes the most anyone can do for the Kingdom is to be gracious to the irritating person beside them, to be gentle to the child speaking to them, to do more than the boss asks, to do the next thing even though it feels impossible.

Which we all must do, no matter where we are on this wide, beautiful globe.

Related post: Lengthening the Cords

The Sound of Silence

Posted in music, Poland, travel, words by

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.

__________ isn’t Perfect

Posted in Family, life, travel by

She stood in the doorway, looking like a storm cloud. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“Life isn’t perfect,” she said.

Oh. Yes. That’s what’s wrong.

I remember when it occurred to me, after years of insisting that life is wonderful (and it is), that it feels a lot more honest and freeing to admit imperfection. To acknowledge that Eden was a long time ago. To remember that perfection is still ahead of us.

One thing I hate about the enemy is that he’s the source of imperfection, but that’s not enough: he uses our longing for perfection to pit us against life and  each other. So we’re not perfect, and we hate that, but at the same time we hold others to our expectations of perfection. It can get really ugly.

I wonder how Jesus lived in this tension of knowing perfection but walking, sleeping, eating, loving in a fragmented world. Maybe what made it possible for Him to live well was that He was full of Grace and Truth. He knew reality– the unchanging, clear sense of what was accurate about the moment, but He had grace to cover the shards, elastic to stretch past real limitations.

I’m thinking alot about perfection and imperfection since the week of Christmas, which held more laughter and tears than my normal capacity. In a perfect world, we would understand each others’ hearts and have no expired passports.

The week was also filled with grace. Magnanimous, expansive grace.

Two days after Christmas, my parents, sister and brother-in-law, a friend, and I took a train to Berlin. Our 3 days there were filled with education, laughter, coffee, good weather, discussions.   I think laughter is such a big grace that it’s almost sacred. All of trip was a wonderful way to recharge the batteries.

I have no New Year’s resolutions. I am unspeakably grateful that God is over time, and doesn’t mark years and days as we do. With Him, the next moment is always the moment that is untouched, clear, and ready for new beginnings. For that reason, I know He doesn’t mind when I keep pleading with Him for His grace and truth to become the fabric of my life.