Welcome to the mess.

My friend Jessica just returned from Honduras.  Today I got a message from her on facebook, lamenting the questions she’s been asked by people—well-meaning Americans who love her dearly and want to communicate their interest and affection but have no idea how.  It made me laugh to read her examples, that sort of painful half-laugh that you snort out because if you don’t you might just cry.  I suppose it’s funny.  I mean, it is funny, really.  The sarcastic side of me wants to respond to comments like the one poor Jessica had to endure (“Enchiladas, tacos, burritos… all Mexican food is the same”) with a really snappy response, like, “Are you an idiot?  One, they’re all pretty distinct foods; two, Mexico and Honduras are NOT THE SAME PLACE!!!”  But that’s not very nice.  I know that.  So I don’t say things like that, at least not out loud and in public.  When people ask dumb questions about Romania, I bite my tongue and come up with something kind and affirmative to say to the well-meaning, middle-aged, white man who has never left the country, and if I’m feeling bold enough I’ll correct him gently, but I certainly don’t open up and even try to explain the ways my life was changed.  I dare not try to paint pictures with my words of the spiritual moments from my time abroad.  I stick to anecdotes that are funny and interesting, that paint Romanian culture in its best possible light, and that never dig too deep.  I might comment on its political culture and history and how I feel about communism, and if you’re well-informed, we might have a good conversation.  But few people are.  Actually, few people really care.  Which is maybe okay, because it’s not like I even have adequate words to describe what happened, anyway.

My least favorite question is the one I get most often: “How was… uh… (thinking frantically for the name of the country I was in, and coming up short)… Europe?”  (Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially generous, I’ll interject “Romania” before it gets too painful.  But not always.)  I’m from the Midwest and therefore almost eternally polite, so I usually smile and say, “Wonderful.  I loved it.”  And I mean that, I really do.  But that’s so inadequate.  I don’t know what else I can say, really, to explain to you what Romania means to me, and because of the lack of words, I find myself now, almost two weeks back, all-too-often simply resorting to those same anecdotes and brief explanations.  Wonderful.  Romania was wonderful.

But in reality, to explain to you how it was, you’d need to live 20 years in my life to understand who I am.  And then you’d need to spend almost four months in Lupeni, walking up and down the road to Straja every day, lifting that heavy wooden gate from its peg and stepping over the cow pies to enter my host family’s farm.  You’d need to read the Psalms and cry out to God in your loneliness and run up the mountain in the morning fog and listen to “Born” by Over the Rhine while you drive through the cloud-shrouded mountains of Transylvania.  You’d need to talk to the old woman outside the Pentecostal church and eat shaorma from the piaţa and smile at the security guard with the gray sweater in Penny.  You’d need to meet my beloved friends there, to be welcomed into their homes with such generous hospitality, to wrack your brain for ways to show love back.  You need to go.  You need to go walk the streets of Eastern European cities and villages, learn the region’s history, understand its pain, mourn its brokenness, celebrate its triumph, love its people, work for its healing.  I’m not there yet.  I want to be.  I want to be so badly.

Which is why I also can’t really answer that other recurrent question: “Is it good to be home?”  I suppose so.  It’s nice to be in Iowa for the holidays, for sure.  It’s nice to be surrounded by familiar traditions—it wouldn’t feel like Christmas otherwise, and I think it’s probably good to have that comfortable familiarity right now.  But honestly?  I’m not really at home, so I can’t say it’s good to be here.  I love being with my family, and there are some things that are really nice about being back in the States, but it no longer feels like home.  Not fully.  Calvin doesn’t either.  It’s a good thing that God has already told us that our home is nowhere on earth, or I’d be really lost and confused.  I am a bit anyway.  But I can deal with it, as long as I keep looking for the kingdom of heaven.  I hope.

I’ve made a lot of interesting observations about American culture since coming back.  (Well, they’re interesting to me anyway… haha).  Don De Graaf, the study abroad guru at Calvin, told me I should write them down.  I probably will, one of these days, but for now I’m just going to leave this post unedited, in all of its somewhat-grumpy confusion.  Welcome to the world of Kelly’s muddled mind.  I’m okay with the mess, though.  At least it’s honest.

And I choose to love, and I choose to seek God, even in the midst of it.  That’s all I can see to do… so I will.

Se încheie bine.

"You get a strange feeling when you're about to leave a place...like you'll not only miss the people you love, but you'll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you'll never be this way ever again."

[Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran]

It’s hard to believe this is the end.

Funny, because a few months ago, there were days I thought tonight would never come.  But now here it is—the night before we leave Romania.  I’m sitting on the floor of the hotel room I’m sharing with Kadie, listening to Romanian Christmas music and trying to gather my thoughts (and my stuff, but I don’t want to talk about packing. Grr, I hate packing). 

When I think about the semester, my memories are scattered and too numerous to count.  There are so many moments I don’t ever want to forget, scenes and places and people whose faces are imprinted in my mind, who already seem a life apart, in some ways, and who in other ways seem so alive and near that I can’t imagine not seeing them again. 

Well, not seeing them again for a while.  Maybe I’ll return to Romania.

Oh dear God, I hope so.

Right now, I don’t want to write about leaving.  I’m going to write about this weekend in Bucharest (it’s Bucureşti in Romanian) instead.  It’s been a memorable one, that’s for sure…

We left Friday at about noon from Lupeni.  I went on one last run up Straja Road early Friday morning, which was good for my mental and spiritual health but bad for the state of my packing… it was pouring rain all morning, and I was absolutely drenched by the time I got back.  (This also, by the way, resulted in the disapproving glares of many Romanian grandmothers, who shook their heads in frustration at my ignorance, walking outside in the rain without proper clothing… I might miss the over-protectiveness of the elderly population once I return to the States!)  Anyway, I quickly had to try to dry my running clothes with fans and radiators so I could pack them, while in the meantime Julie hastily finished packing and Marit and I cleaned Apartment Lucy.  (Which also was quite a fiasco, since when Marit tried to pull the trash bag out of the can, the bag broke and spilled all over the kitchen floor… ewwwwwwwww!  Coffee grounds plus squash soup plus a moldy pomegranate plus an old pair of shoes plus clementine peels plus various other delights… mmm… we burst out laughing and cleaned it up.  If we hadn’t laughed we might have cursed.  It was gross.)

Eventually the Bates family arrived and we somehow dragged our enormous suitcases down Lucy’s dank stairwell and loaded up the vans.  Tibi, Alice, and Lindsey came to see us off.  (And the couple who own ‘Te Quiero,’ the little snack shack at the base of Lucy…)  Goodbyes suck.  But I’m not focusing on goodbyes yet, remember?  So moving on.  I rode with Brandi and her two kids, Briana and Gabe.  It was really delightful, actually—I remember the same ride, the opposite direction, at the beginning of the semester, sitting in the car with Brandi and Briana and Gabe and Kadie, when Gabe was teething and crying the whole time… that one was pretty tiring.  This one was great.  Brandi and I talked for most of the trip to Bucureşti, and it was so lovely.  Thank You, God, for gentle spirits and friendship!

Bucureşti is the capital of Romania, but it doesn’t really feel much like a capital city to me.  Granted, in three days here we certainly haven’t seen it all, but I haven’t yet seen a really modern district of the city or anything.  I kinda like it.  The weather has been awful—rain on Friday while we drove, downpour all day Saturday, and cold and gloomy today… maybe Romania’s just mourning that we’re leaving.  (Haha.)  But it’s been fun to explore Bucureşti a bit—Kadie’s friend Graciela has been showing us around, which has been such a joy.  And the time here has been a good way to say goodbye to Romania piece-by-piece—first by leaving the place and some of the people who we’ve come love; then gradually by leaving all the people we love here; then finally the country itself.  Perhaps this gradual goodbye makes it easier.

Aaah, I’m talking about goodbyes again!

OK.  Saturday.  We went to the People’s Palace, which is this ridiculously large administrative building Ceauşescu constructed in the center of Bucureşti (the second largest in the world, in fact).  It’s… enormous.  There are 12 stories above ground, and are supposed to be 8 underground as well, but only four are completed.  The building boasts a million cubic meters of Transylvanian marble, and it’s put to good use—the construction is absolutely gorgeous (albeit rather strange—700 different Romanian architects collaborated on the project, so the design is often criticized for having no real architectural style).  But since I know nothing about architecture, I simply enjoyed the building in all its splendor.  Because it really is spectacular.

The problem with the splendor, of course, is what’s behind it.  To build the People’s Palace, Ceauşescu razed 1/5 of the historic city center to the ground.  Bucureşti, once the “Paris of Eastern Europe,” had really fallen into disrepair after WWII, and Ceauşescu wanted to rebuild some of its former glory—but in his image.  (He had visited North Korea in 1972 and came back enamored with the idea of a personality cult like Kim Il-Sung’s… it was bad news.)  So, about 40,000 people were forced out of their homes, and huge parts of the city’s history and culture were destroyed.  Construction started in 1983 on this massive project in the city center, which also included a huge boulevard meant to outshine the Champs-Elysees of Paris (by being a meter wider and six meters longer).  The building wasn’t completed yet by the time of Ceauşescu’s execution in 1989, despite work crews laboring around the clock, seven days a week.  Part of the reason for the delay might be Ceauşescu’s penchant for changing his mind—apparently he’d stop by the construction site and decide that he wanted the stairs a different height, etc., so all sorts of arbitrary changes were made over and over and over again.  Obnoxious.  The more troubling legacy of the building, however, is that at the same time as Ceauşescu was building the most extravagant project he could dream of, most of his people were starving.  So much for the building’s original name—“House of the People” is the English translation.  Yeah right.

Because it was still pouring rain when we left the People’s Palace, we changed plans a bit.  We stopped at Revolution Square—the place where Ceauşescu gave his last speech in December of 1989—and then headed across the street to an amazing art museum, where we spent hours looking at art from all over Romania (I love the work of Nicolae Grigorescu, by the way… love, love, love).  We got soaked again on the way to dinner, but were allowed into the restaurant anyway, even though we looked like drowned rats… and then on the way back to the hotel, were drenched yet again.  It was definitely a memorable day.

This morning dawned dry, though still dark and gloomy.  We went to an international church, which was wonderful, and after the service grabbed a quick lunch and headed over to the rock gym where Graciela’s brother works.  (Her brother is the Balkans champion in bouldering, by the way… so I was rather nervous to meet him.)  It was sweet.  I’d never bouldered before, and I loved it.  I’m not great at it, and I’m definitely not strong enough to be really good… but I loved it.  Oh, good times.  After a few hours at the gym, we headed back to the hotel to primp quickly before our goodbye dinner with Kadie, Graciela, and the Bates family at this gorgeous downtown restaurant (Caru’ cu Bere… check it out… crazy, huh?). 

After dinner, we wandered around a park downtown for a while, enjoying the Christmas lights strung all over the city.  Bucureşti is really beautiful at Christmas time—there’s no snow here right now, but the lights are spectacular.  It was so festive—the park was filled with couples and friends strolling around, buying food and drink and crafts and Christmas gifts from lighted booths lining the path, the lights twinkling on a giant Christmas tree in the center… lovely.  We stopped and began singing a Christmas carol together, just softly, because we were so filled with Christmas spirit (or something)… and suddenly, we were stopped by a reporter and a cameraman, who approached us and asked us to sing for them.  We were shocked.  So once we stopped laughing, we agreed, and sang a couple carols for the TV crew (and the rapidly-growing little crowd accumulating behind them), and then were briefly interviewed (we were sure to mention the Fundaţia, just in case we got air time… haha).  It was hilarious.  I never would have expected our last night in Romania to end up potentially getting us on the news…  (We didn’t make the cut, by the way… we watched it at midnight.  No Romanian fame for us.)

Funny.  Altogether, a great weekend.  And now?  It’s after 2:30 AM, and I should have been in bed hours ago, but I can never sleep the night before traveling, so instead, you get a long and rambling blog post.  Sorry to all who read this.  It’s late.  I’m a little drained.

But excited.  Because although the words at the beginning of this post are true, so is the promise God has made to His people over and over again: that He is with us, so we need not be afraid.  I’ve been listening incessantly to an Advent song that encapsulates all my emotions pretty perfectly right now: “Follow the Shepherd Home” by Mindy Smith.  Look it up.  For now, I cling to this promise: that the God who has been faithful to His people for thousands of years, and who has brought me faithfully to and from countries around the world this year, and who brought me through this semester, and who has promised to be faithful to his people forever… I cling desperately to the promise that God will also be faithful in this return to the States, and that I need not be afraid.  And so?  Hai să mergem.  Onward.  To new adventures.  Through new open doors, to new blank pages.  Because God is still writing this story.

When my paper heart’s in a frantic wind

And I feel I’m all alone

My whisper is heard when I call out to Him

And I follow the shepherd home

All the burdens weighing on my back

Aren’t so heavy after all

Faith is knowing, you need to only ask

You can follow the shepherd home

You can follow the shepherd home

When struggles come like they tend to do

I hope still I will not run

I will draw my strength from the well above

And I’ll follow the shepherd home

All the burdens weighing on my back

Aren’t so heavy after all

Faith is knowing, you need to only ask

You can follow the shepherd home

You can follow the shepherd home

When my bones are tired and I’m near the end

I will know I’m not alone

My whisper is heard when I call out to Him

And I’ll follow the shepherd home

All the burdens weighing on my back

Aren’t so heavy after all

Faith is knowing, you need to only ask

You can follow the shepherd home

You can follow the shepherd home

You can follow the shepherd home

You can follow the shepherd home.

[Mindy Smith]

Ahem, charity.

The other day at IMPACT we went downstairs to sort through these boxes of charitable donations brought to Lupeni by a German group of philanthropists.  The point was to create boxes of gifts to give to the neediest families in Lupeni--so I was looking, for example, for clothes and toys suitable for a mom and two little boys, ages two and five.  Easy, right?

Wrong.

I understand the good intentions of the German group.  I do appreciate their generosity, and the selfless service of driving all the way to Romania from Germany towing trailers full of clothes.  But honestly?  Most of it was, well, junk.

And I just couldn't help but wonder... what sort of love is this?  Now the IMPACT building is full of boxes of clothes, most of them out-of-style cast-offs of the 90's, which kind and well-meaning Germans have sent to Romania in an attempt to be nice.  Little do they know that Lupeni is full of second-hand shops where even the poorest of the poor can buy plenty of clothes.  Little do they know that what the people of Lupeni really need is a way to control the population of stray dogs that periodically attack people and roam the streets in packs, or a way to get the corrupt mayor out of office and replace him with somebody who will be held accountable by the public, or better training in medical ethics in the hospital so mothers won't be forced to bribe their doctors and nurses to get a C-section when it's vitally necessary.  I could go on.  I appreciate their attempt at love.  I don't mean to knock the German group.  I'm sure plenty of my own well-meaning actions have been just as naive.  I just wonder... what do we do when charity is so misguided?