A Shabby Metaphor Containing Chalupas

I am back in America now, and have been for a couple days under a week. The sleep schedule has been pretty normal, I'm not having trouble with the time change. Flushing toilet paper is absolutely fantastic.

My stomach has been very confused by everything. It is happy that it is seeing old friends, it is just a bit overwhelming for it. Truthfully, that is probably the easiest way to explain what it has been like coming back to the states. It is very much like how adjusting to food is.

You love the food, it is what you've grown up on, it is what you've eaten all your life. But you've spent a significant hunk of time nowhere near it. There was some American food over there but it was different, not quite the same, and you didn't eat it all that much. You become accustomed to a certain pallet of tastes and certain meals. You go through a sort of physiological change to accommodate the differences. Then you take yourself out of it and are immersed into the unfamiliar world of familiar food.

It is a strange thing. As good as everything is, you have to be careful because you aren't really ready to fully engage in the partaking of such things. You make acceptions, like for chalupas, but you really have to be a little guarded.

Time is important for me. I need time to reintroduce myself to these old habits, to let my body get used to them again. That is where I am right now.

I'm a little bit of time away from enjoying the food I used to without having the weird feelings afterwards.

I've enjoyed seeing people. But I haven't consumed many of them, figuratively of course. I don't intend to sound cannibalistic about my relationships. Relationships should not be about you devouring another person. They should be about mutual snacking at first. You share a little of yourself and they do likewise. Then you digest the things they've fed you. As relationships grow, you find yourself wanting more and sometimes less. There are some relationships I could have at every meal (pizza, cereal). Some relationships, I enjoy only occasionally (sea food). Some people you have to develop a taste for (coffee) but that you become addicted to after frequent consumption. Some foods I'd like to never taste again (Baby). Some foods I rarely get to enjoy because they aren't always available (the glorious McRib) and get very excited when I can consume them. And so on and so forth.

I feel like the Bible backs me up a bit on this a bit, at least in our relationship with God. Psalms certainly does, I think in 119 something (that is a really long chapter [i think it is somewhere around 100, if not 103]) and 34.8 too. Peter does in 1Peter 2. Ezekiel ate the scroll and it tasted like honey. I'm assuming this was a new type of food for him. Jesus calls himself the bread of life in John. All I'm saying is that it is a valid metaphor, regardless of what I've titled this entry.

Wow, this has gotten away from me. My mind doesn't like to stay on board with me. It does what it wants.

What I'm saying is this: I'm still adjusting to life back in the states and I'm not really at a point where I can enjoy the company of people around me. There is just too much going on in in my head to be present. I hate not being present with people. They deserve it and I don't like when I can't stay in it.

This could have been a much shorter entry. Perhaps I should start having a plan of attack.

Actually, I am considering stopping this blog now that I am back. I've enjoyed writing it at times but have had trouble keeping at it. Many of you have come up to me and told me you have enjoyed it and I do appreciate it. I think your crazy, but I still appreciate it.

If I do continue, it will definitely take a turn. I'd probably flesh out more ideas and opinions I hold/am working through. It probably won't be focused on Moldova, although it will come up on occasion. I'll let you know what that looks like and you can keep reading if you would like to, though I wonder if it is a mentally healthy decision to do so. If I don't continue, I'll give a proper goodbye.

Either way, I'll be good for at least a couple more posts about Moldova, my time there and the decompression process. That is enough mindless dribble. Godspeed.

post script: American roads = glorious

Dance!

Last night we finished just about everything I wanted to accomplish at the orphanage with the construction team we have in town. It was such a relief to have all of that finished. The team worked really hard and we got a lot accomplished in the three and a half days we worked. The last project we finished ended the construction week on a great note. We replaced the rotten floor in a play room. After the new floor was in, with no sagging spots or splinters weighting to happen, the floor administrator was just about in tears. She suggested that we could now use floor for dancing. Next week Scott and I will work on installing the fog machine, disco ball and multi-colored lazer lights - my last great calling in Moldova. When those things are in, we party. In preperation for this event, we had a dance party in CJ's van on the way home as Scott yelled out Moldovan grettings to passersby and the rest of us sang the Macarena. We like to party, we like, we like to party. Today however, we will be delivering an order of beds and mattresses to Falesti, another orphanage we work with in a more rural town.

Towards the end of yesterday, Ivan and Artur came into town. I haven't seen them in a while because they are working in a city about 100 miles away on a construction crew. At the end of the month they will come back to Chisinau to work with the same company and Ivan will go to driving school at night to become a professional driver - a taxi and eventually a Marshrukta. I look forward to the day that I am in Moldova, use a jazz hand to waive down a Marshrukta and find Ivan sitting in the driver's seat. That ride better be on the house after all the money I've loaned him.

Saying goodbye was a really encouraging thing. I talked with them a bit at the orphanage. We spoke our last words there, talking about their jobs, future plans and encouraging them to continue seeking the Lord. Afterwards we went to dinner with the team, another team and a bunch of the boys and girls from the orphanage. These nights are always very moving for the teams. Hearing the stories of the boys and girls puts what we're doing here in perspective. I see only a small part of what we're doing and have done. It is great to step back and see how God is using CERI and Sweet Sleep in Moldova. I am blessed to have been a part of it.

spam and the spirit

I'm very tired, my trend of the past couple weeks. The great news is that I've had all the energy I've needed. I like how Paul says it in Colossians 1.29 "For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me." In Romans 8.11 it is put this way, "If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you." It is nice to have those promises and the assurance that God provides those who are working at serving Him with the energy they need. And it is his energy. We don't have to manufacture it. We don't have to produce it with Red Bull or coffee or the Moldovan energy drink Spam (i've not yet had this even though I love Spam). God's got it for us and He is willing to give it to us in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, poored into our laps. All this is ours if we will only give and give more than we can.

not much time

well, a team just arrived and i will be pretty busy working with them. i'm also trying to close out my time here. i've said many of my goodbyes and have a few more loose ends to tie up before i say the last.

this is a very surreal time for me. i'm not sure what to make of it or how to express the state i'm in. that is partly because i don't really understand it. i haven't had the time to sit and try to either. when i get the chance, which might not be for a week or two, i'll write some overall reflections.

it has been very challenging to keep this blog going while i've been here. i can get really busy and tired, which doesn't help me to think coherently. i hope that returning home will allow me to really take in all the things i've encountered, all the things i've been too unaware of while here. just getting seperated from something helps you to see it better.

this one time i was in a piano factory (this is probably the best story beginning i've got). i was a kid and we were taking a tour, something i was not overly excited about at that tender age. it was the mid-eighties and my father was wearing one of 12 standard issued dad uniforms for the time. he was wearing simple white sneakers, very high white socks, short shorts -which revealed much man thigh-, and a red polo shirt with horizontal white stripes.

another man on the tour was wearing the same outfit. it is important to remember that there were only 12 outfits for men of that age to wear in the 80's so it should be no surprise that they were wearing the same clothes.

as all kids do when they tire, i began to fling myself onto my dad's leg for support. this was a tactic i used much when i was tired. perhaps the frequency of my personal use of this technique caused me to become over confident and made me think i didn't even need to look up to verify the man's identity.

you see, i had flung myself onto the similarly dressed man. i did it several times. each time had the same result. i would back off a little, look up, see the man was not my dad and seperate myself from him. it felt awful, like i was cheating on my dad or something, metaphorical adultery.

but while i was connected to the man, i had no idea anything was off. it was when i made a little space that i was able to see the mistake i had made. when i was right and the man was my dad, i still had to make a little space to confirm it was him.

it's a bit of a stretch, but right now i kind of feel like i'm hugging somebody that could or could not be my dad. but i'm in too far to know who the person is and all i see is socks, short shorts and a red horizontally striped polo shirt. i'm looking forward to pushing back a little and being able to see what i've been hugging over here.

i feel like that makes no sense at all. so i'll stop writing after trying to simplify it a little. basically, my mind is everywhere but no place at all. that didn't simplify it at all, did it?

Tales of the Marshrutka

As promised, I now bring you two exciting tales from the Marshrutka. For those of you not in the know, Marshrutkas are my primary means of transportation while here in Moldova. Recently the price of a ride on these bad boys went from an affordable 2 lei two an appalling 3 lei. Outrageous price increase aside, they are still my favorite chariot to ride about town.

I'll briefly try to describe these faithful steeds. They are basically vans with seating typically for 11 and a space about five feet, 10 inches high and the size of a twin size bed for standing passengers. I've seen over 30 people on these things. It isn't pretty. It also doesn't smell that great. A picture is worth about 60 words. Here you are.
One last thing and I'll start in on the Tales of the Marshrutka. Some of you know how I enjoy seeing people, especially children, fall. I'm sick. I know. Well, today I hit the jackpot.

As I was walking to the orphanage I noticed two young boys, maybe 8.5 years in age, riding one bike. This had the makings for catastrophe since their collective balance was not much better than that of a toddler. As they turned down a street, a car, yes a car was slowly rolling towards them. It stopped. They did not. In fact, they were completely out of control.

Yes, they crashed into the car. It even made the car crashing noise. They hit the front right bumper and fell to the side. I had about 2 seconds of concern until they started yelling at each other. The people just stayed in the car until the boys didn't get up for close to a minute. Then they got out and assessed the situation. The boys were fine. I was even better. I got to see two kids not only bite it, but bite it because they played a losing game of chicken with a Lada (my favorite Russian car).

Now for Tales of the Marshrutka.

The Marshrutka Tale of the Potato of Providence

It was a day like any other on the 184. I was enjoying a ride home on the marshrutka, getting close to the mustached old lady next to me. How was I supposed to know that blessings from on high were just one more stop away?

The number of passengers had dwindled down to me and my lady friend. You see, the 184 begins and ends very close to the street my place is on. As it ends its journey, the 184 rolls down a large hill. When the driver stopped to let his beloved sojourners off of that crazy ride, a beautiful potato rolled from the back of the machine towards the front.

We all paused, looking at it with eyes of wonder. I reached down and picked up this magical potato. My and the mustached old lady studied the potato. It was so beautiful. I looked her in the eye and asked her if she would like the potato. She declined. Then I looked at the driver, also sporting a flavor savor. He looked right back at me, with a soup catcher under my nose. (I am thinking about how I will change the world through the power of my mustache.)
I asked if he would like the potato. He said no as well.

I placed the potato in my bag.

When I reached home, I set the potato in front of me and pondered. What would I do with this potato? I stood up, cleaned the potato and cut it up into bite-sized pieces. I then began to make a soup. I added the potato, or cartofi for my peeps in Moldova. After the proper amount of cooking, I ate the soup with the potato and it was nothing less than delicious.

The moral of this tale of the marshrutka: my life is sad.

The Marshrutka Tale of the Understanding and Sensitive Marshrutka Passenger

Marshrutka drivers are not necessarily known for their benevolence. It is understandable. They don't make a whole lot of money - that is until they started charging 3 lei - so I can sympathize with their financial stinginess.

I encountered such a man on the 180. I had just climbed the hill up to Doina Street to ride into town. It was hot. I was tired. The marshrutka approached and I used a classic jazz hand to flag him down. Once on board, I was surprised to find that I was the only passenger on board.

I handed him my money and sat behind him. Then he got cut off really badly. A guy turned into the street on our right and just stopped in front of him. There was nowhere we could go.

Needless to say, this made the driver quite angry. At this point, I must bring up the fact that my Romanian is terrible, absolutely terrible, surprisingly and shamefully terrible. I know enough to get by and I can understand it a little when it is being spoken slowly and I know the basic topic of conversation.

I have never heard a person talk so rapidly or with such pure rage. I didn't know what to do. He was yelling these things to me. There was nobody else to talk to. So I employed to simple phrases. The first was "I know" and the second was "I understand."

I simply kept repeating these two things. "I know. I know. I understand. I know." shaking my head which implied that the other driver was an idiot. After a few minutes, the car left and the marshrutka driver's rage went with it. He was still complaining, but was much calmer. I offered two last and comforting 'I know's and then something completely unexpected happened. The driver said "Thank you."

Even more unexpected was what he did next. He turned around and gave me my two lei payment. This ride was on the house. I couldn’t believe it. From then on, we were brothers.

A little later, he picked up a few more passengers, then a few more and a few more until the beast was full. But no matter how full that marshrutka got that day or any day after, it will never be as full as the brotherly love we shared on that gorgeous Moldovan afternoon.

Moral of this tale of the Marshrutka: do what you can with what you got.

This concludes Tales of the Marshrutka. God bless us, everyone.