The hunger games.

When we were visiting the States, Catching Fire came out in theaters and Kelly, her sister Kendra and I went to see it. It broke us open. Many of the scenes look like the pictures and videos in the news these days of Syrian opposition and government forces fighting in Aleppo or protesters being beaten back by the police in Egypt. Between that and a reality show where the contestants kill each other for entertainment. The games' tagline is, "May the odds be ever in your favor." You see graffiti protesting, "The odds are never in our favor."

I find it hard to believe that one could watch this movie and come out of the theater feeling good about life (unless you can completely divorce what your eyes see and what your body and mind encounter in the world around you). For one, you just spent 8 dollars on a ticket to keep a multi-billion dollar industry going that uses violence as entertainment. Perhaps you could have bought  a burrito or a sandwich for someone for whom the odds are never in their favor. Kelly says that she can't think of that story as removed from the world that we live in, especially since we live in a post-industrial, post-authoritarian region of the world. Here's one story of why.

We were going into the fancier of the two "supermarkets" in Lupeni one evening a few months ago when we met a girl. There are always little Roma girls asking for 10 bani or milk or bread outside of this supermarket, and we usually oblige them. This girl was different. We'd met her in church last week, and we both recognized each other. She asked for some milk for her baby sister, and we gladly bought her some. I forget if we asked her name or not, but I regret not asking. It feels like we've known each other too long now.

We started seeing her often around the city. Not at church anymore, but outside the meat store, outside the Italian restaurant, with her little brother in our stairwell one night. She has a large family, I think 5 or 6 siblings, and she's the oldest at 11. She's with her little, little sister a lot, holding this little, sleeping bundle of clothes and baby. Her brother is full of energy and really talkative once he gets over being shy. She's confident and strong, the oldest child who acts as a second parent. Their mom is a short woman with crooked teeth and a lined face, though I doubt she's much older than 30. It's just her and the 6 or 7 kids, like many Roma families. you receive more government help if you have kids out of wedlock, and since few Roma men can get jobs anyways, it makes some sort of sense.

The mother seemed harsh and controlling to me at first. She was hard on the kids, and the girl has told us several times that she's not allowed to go home and start her homework without milk. I felt anger at their mother for giving this harsh responsibility, and pity for the children. One of the little girls' feet are twisted, so that one points directly towards the other foot and the other is turned almost all the way backwards. I've seen the mother trying to hurry this little girl up as they walk through the city, and I was afraid she would fall for lack of balance and care. I'll sometimes try to avoid them when the mom's around. We're respectful to each other, but I don't trust her. She seems like she's hiding things. But few people aren't.

Last week, the girl and her brother were by the Italian restaurant where our out-of-town colleagues were having lunch. I stopped to talk to them on the way in. They were running down the ramp outside and trying to jump into the square of red bricks in the sidewalk. It was raining a bit, and slippery, but they didn't care. When they invited me to try, I gingerly ran down the ramp and jumped easily into the square. She asked me how you say "taci" in English--she had learned but forgotten. "It's something like 'shuddup,' right?"

"Yeah, you say it, 'shut up.'"

"Yeah, that's it. Thanks." She said thanks in English. She then asked how to say, "ce faci?"

"How are you?"

"Houraou? Oh man, I can't say that. Say it again?"

"How are you." Too hard. Oh well. She told me they also speak Hungarian, and I congratulated her. Hungarian is a hard language. She said that they got cold easily. It was raining, on the verge of freezing, and they only had a plastic bag as a shield and no gloves. I promised to look for gloves and more bags, and then went inside the restaurant to eat a nice, warm lunch in a nice, warm restaurant with our nice, warm friends. I felt like saying bad words the whole time just to express how sad I felt to leave them out there. They kept making faces at us through the window, and it hurt a little more each time.

When I was leaving, they asked me for 1 leu for milk. I didn't have 1 leu, only bigger bills, but I was going to buy some  black beans that we had specially ordered, so I could bring back 1 measly leu when I returned. Affirmative. Hopeful. Kelly had already told them she'd buy them some bread. I got to the health food store and the beans hadn't come. No big bills broken. I decided to just buy a liter of milk. Easier that way. They were thankful when I gave it to them. Hopefully, that meant that they could go home and do their homework.

Today, as I was walking back to the office from lunch, I saw their mom outside of the meat store. She saw me too, and beckoned me over. I went, though I didn't want to. She pulled two half-sheets of paper from her pocket and told me that one of her kids was sick with this problem, and another was sick with this problem. She tells me that often and asks for money. I feel so uncomfortable giving money to people begging at this point in my life that I almost always just buy her a bread or say, "I'm sorry, but I can't today." But today, she told me it was only 15 lei for the medicine that was prescribed on this paper, and where in the world would she get that money? I told her that I didn't quite understand what she wanted, but I would go to talk with a colleague who would.

I went to the office, talked to my boss/kind of big brother here Ilie about it. He buys medicine for a Roma guy every month, and it's not cheap stuff. We talked a bit, and I told him I wasn't sure how much to trust her. He told me that especially in Romania, nice, trusting people are sadly seen as stupid and exploitable. Yeah. I know. But I've been recently trying to err on the side of love. I called Kelly and asked her if she was ok with me buying some medicine. She said yes.

I went back down to the mother and clarified what the she wanted me to do. She gave me her ID card and said all I had to do was ask for the medicine and her baby would be fine. While she was digging out her ID card, she asked me to hold the baby. She's probably 8 months old, sleeping, so beautiful from what little of her isn't covered by her snowsuit. I walked to the pharmacy, bought the medicine, and came back, quietly triumphant. The mother thanked me "from her soul," as you say here. I asked her baby's name. "Ana."

"She's beautiful."

"Yeah, I hope this medicine helps her."

"Me too. May God help you."

"May God help you. Thank you."

We all do what we can to survive. Some of us have to work harder at it than others, so that means some of us can help out more. She's not just a controlling mother. She wants to increase her family's odds. I'm glad to have done what I could to help today.

Work work work work work.

Last year, I (Jack) was a little worried that I would get bored working for FNO. My job is very seasonal, as most camp jobs are. Work from 8 til 11 or 12 in the summer, and perhaps not really have much to do in January or February. I'm the assistant director from America at a Romanian camp, so I'm not so good at going out to look for kids or writing the big reports. A common question for me when we were in the States was, "So, Jack....what are you going to do when you go back? What are you gonna work on?"

Well. Let me answer your question, to all of you who were so kind to be worried about me getting bored.

Right when we got back, I was given a large part of the work on FNO's relationship with European Volunteer Service (a lot like American Peace Corps). We usually have 4 or so European volunteers in the summer at VIATA, and I have to write a lengthy application to ask for the funds from the EU to host these folks for this summer.

I'm looking for American interns for this summer as well. There are two lovely people who have already shown interest, and we're looking for three more to come learn and work at VIATA from mid-June to mid-August. If you know anyone who likes camps in the mountains and doesn't have summer plans, let us know! Love those plugs.

I'm looking for money for VIATA and for other FNO projects. Kelly and I want to start crowdfunding campaigns for putting gas heat in the other FNO apartments (since having it in ours has been SO WONDERFUL already!!), and we'll start one for bringing the kids in Lupeni's residential center to VIATA soon. We're also raising a bit of money for equipment to replace our old ropes course safety devices.

Speaking of that gas heating, the installation was mercifully short (only three days of work), but it was taxing to get up early those mornings when the guys would come and then one of us to stay home for half the day and switch at lunchtime. There was a lot of dust, a lot of noise, and a lot of displaced items. But now we're back to order in the home, and it's warmer and dryer. Thank you for giving us enough money so that we could do this, and thank you Lord for your goodness of provision!

The other day, our chief operations officer asked if I had any time to translate some documents for our website, and I said that I would start slow and see how much I could do.

And then on Monday, during a staff meeting (which I was skyping into from home while the worker guys drilled the heck out of our walls), it was mentioned that one of our buildings needed a paint job in the main room. I volunteered, since I'm the resident painter here, and my boss Ilie actually got worried for me that I was taking on too many projects. What a change from telling folks that I was planning on looking for interns, making a few portable ropes course elements, and experimenting with modeling clay for this summer!

I thank God for giving us work to do, and for a good place to rest. When we first arrived in Romania and all we did all day was learn Romanian and try to buy and cook food, I slept very poorly. I didn't have enough work to do to get me tired, and I actually dreaded going to bed some nights. These days, I'm very happy to fall into bed. It's nice.

Heat.

Our apartment has heat!  Our apartment has heat!!

It's been a few days of topsy-turvy, plaster-dust-covered, drills-roaring mess... but Apartment Lucy is warm.  And just in time, as the balmy, sunny weather of the last few weeks is turning to rain and the temperatures are steadily, ominously dropping.

I am so thankful.  So thankful I can hardly sit still.  It's astonishing what the end of this project feels like -- as we slowly mop up the debris and adjust to the new industrial-looking pipes running the length of the walls and get used to this new reality... of 25 degrees Fahrenheit warmer in our apartment tonight than it was this morning.  Oh yeah.

So, a few things that will take some getting used to:

1) Gas heat = hot water in the kitchen!  But I still found myself headed to the bathroom with the dish tub in hand to fill up after dinner.  I guess some habits take a bit of time to break.
2) Leftovers will no longer stay naturally refrigerated if we leave them in the pan on the stove.  Sad.  But on the plus side, butter will soften if we leave it on the counter! Whoa.
3) I might find places to sit other than bed for the next three months when reading, writing, or otherwise not moving in our apartment.  As I write this, I'm on -- wait for it -- the couch.  The one by the window.  With just one blanket.  And hatless, I will add.  This is revolutionary.  (I won't tell you how many blankets are on our bed.)
4) Our laundry will dry! Our laundry will dry! And it won't start to mold as it does so!
5) Getting out of bed in the morning, or exiting the shower, or putting on clothes, or washing my hands, won't evoke gasps and frantic rushing about in an attempt to recover from shock.  I can't even begin to describe how happy this makes me.  Mornings just got so much brighter.

Oh man, y'all.  This is really exciting.  I'm astonished, and thankful beyond words, to all of you who support us financially -- because you made this happen.  You helped us install heat in our apartment! And now I'm going to invite lots of people over to share the love, including all of you if you can make the trip.  And even if you can't, I just want to say thanks to each of you, oh lovely people scattered across North America -- today you have really really really made me smile.

Lovely.

I was on my way back from my IMPACT club in Petrila on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, the sun already beginning to set at 4:30, gray drizzle clouding the windows of the maxi taxi.  It had been a rough meeting -- the kids were great, but some tensions between two of my co-leaders had finally escalated into confrontation, and I wasn't sure how the issue would be resolved.  Georgiana and I were sitting in silence, listening to the crackly, ever-present techno-pop mix on the radio and lost in our own thoughts, when suddenly the lady in front of us turned around.

"Are we in Vulcan yet?" she asked, eyebrows raised, pleadingly.

"No -- about 15 minutes," I responded.  We were still in Petroşani, trundling slowly along the potholed road that turns right into the narrower part of the Jiu Valley where Vulcan, Lupeni, and Uricani are nestled.  She was confused, and understandably so -- she had apparently just arrived via bus from Bucureşti, a route which takes you on the same road we were now traversing, in the other direction.  "Weird," she grumbled.  "That doesn't make sense."  Georgiana and I shrugged.  It's just the way public transit works in the valley.

A minute later, we stopped on the side of the road to pick up two older gentlemen, their hat brims dripping rainwater.  "Is this Vulcan?" she asked again, louder, half-rising from her seat.  "No," the men chuckled as they moved toward the back of the bus, balanced precariously in the aisle.  "You still have awhile."

And so it continued, for the next 15 minutes.  The poor woman would rise from her seat, turn to the other passengers, and ask in increasingly agitated Romanian, "Is this Vulcan?"  And each time people would gently reassure her -- no, not yet.  Sit down; we still have a ways to go.

It was kind-of adorable, actually.  This poor woman had probably never been to the Jiu Valley before, and was very visibly panicked about getting lost in the rain in this mountainous place with bad roads and small towns.  But every single person on that maxi taxi was kind to her, chuckling gently and reassuring her -- "Don't worry.  We'll help you get off in the right place.  Just a little further."

It was one of those moments when I was unspeakably thankful for speaking Romanian.  I was so grateful to be able to witness and understand the kindness happening in that little vehicle, the humanity of those interactions, the vulnerability responded to with goodness.  When we pulled up to the first stop in Vulcan, half the maxi taxi turned to the woman and said, "This is it."  The rain-soaked men in the aisle stepped aside, and she hustled out into the drizzle, dragging a small suitcase behind her.  As the maxi taxi pulled away, I saw her burst into a grin and open her arms, running into the hug of the friend who was waiting to greet her.

Lovely.  People can be so lovely.

Oh, the weather outside's delightful.

It's so bizarre outside that I just have to write about it.

For the third day in a row, I'm looking out the window to a cloudless, bright blue sky.  Across the room, Jack has the window open because the sunbeam he's sitting in has gotten too warm.  This is a miracle.  It's January 8th.  We went running today in short sleeves.  In the park, kids are playing on the swings and running across the grass, discarding mittens in their joy.  Our clothes are drying on the balcony outside (though they do freeze solid at night, so it's not the most efficient process).  But still.  For January in Romania, this is pretty great.

Granted, inside our north-facing apartment, it's cold enough to see our breath and send us scurrying under blankets well before bedtime.  And to be fair, the warmth of the days doesn't linger -- as soon as the sun sets at night, the temperatures plummet in this mountain valley.  But the skies are crystal clear, and without any big cities within a few hours' drive, there's no light pollution.  The stars wink down from their navy velvet blanket, and it's beautiful.  The city Christmas lights shimmer and glow, blue icicles and white snowflakes suspended over the main street for the entire length of Lupeni.  (By the way, Christmas lights here are wild.  Prolific and many-colored.  And usually sort-of disco-style, flashing and blinking erratically in a wild frenzy of Christmas cheer.  I'll try to take a picture.)

Our friend Adi warned us that his grandma has seen this before: unusually balmy days mid-winter, followed by a startling morning when you wake up with snow past the windowsills.  This fall, people were predicting a harsh and miserable winter.  (Romania has its fair share of those -- only two years ago, there was a blizzard so bad in central Romania that people died and whole villages were practically buried in snow.)  But for now, I'm thankful that it's warm.  I do miss the snow (see the previous post) -- but I admit that I'm growing to appreciate this alternative.  And now, even if the winter gets harsh and snow eventually comes and lasts 'til May, it won't feel nearly as long.

Weeping for snowstorms.

It's Monday night.  We've been back in Lupeni three days.  I'm pretty sure I've cried as many times.

Tonight, it was because I stumbled across something my aunt Teresa, a former missionary in Latin America, posted on Facebook: a post from an online community for people living abroad, this one about grief.  As the author writes, "[Eventually] you realize there are just some things Skype cannot fix. And you grieve, and your kids grieve.  Maybe.  But what if all these things happen again? And again.  You have another round of airport goodbyes, another holiday season with sand. Another Christmas with crying.  What if grieving gets old and annoying and time-consuming and exhausting? What if it becomes easier to just not grieve?  To not let others grieve?" (Jonathan Trotter, Outlawed Grief). 

The author goes on to encourage people to let it out -- to not be ashamed of their pain and sadness and tears, to not fear that their grief at saying goodbyes to loved ones and missing birthdays and not being able to just call means that somehow you don't love the place you're in, that you're not committed to " the mission," or that you don't really trust God.  These things just coexist.  The world is gray.  Trying to live in light of the Gospel is complicated.

Today, I wept at all the news of school cancellations and snowdrifts and baking parties and snowball fights in this giant US blizzard.  It feels stupid.  And I really am thankful for the sunshine and mid-30s temperatures in Lupeni, for the snowless sidewalks and the way these unexpected blessings keep our unheated apartment a wee bit warmer than it would otherwise be.  But I love snow.  I have always loved snow.  We went sledding with friends just before leaving the States, and it was one of the highlights of our six weeks back.  The memories of snow days and cozy times with family and crazy snow forts with my brother and sister are all flooding back as I hear the news of feet of white pummeling the place where I grew up -- and I can't help but lament the fact that we're not there for it.

Really, it's not the blizzard, and I know that -- it's the people, the sense of belonging, the longevity of relationships with family and friends in the States that I have always taken for granted.  I know that, too -- that if I stay in Lupeni for 5 years, like I did in Grand Rapids, I will develop a love for this place too.  If I know someone for over 20 years, like I have known my family, I will love them and ache with missing them too.  I know this.  I know we're young and new and babies to this community -- only a mere year in, such a short time.  I know that.  I'm doing my best to trust it.  But it still feels shitty and sad to leave the known and beloved behind.

Jack asked me, while I was snotting on his shoulder in tears, why I wanted to commit to coming here in the first place.  I snorted out the reasons slowly, trying to remember if they were real -- not just the good "right" answers I'm often so quick at.  And they're still true, at least mostly.  I'm maybe slightly disillusioned by working with FNO, less quick to think the work they do is the solution to the world's problems.  (That sounds like maturity and experience, though, really...)  My excitement about this endeavor as an adventure has worn off some (though I'm still excited about the exploring yet to do).  But I still want to develop real relationships with youth, relationships that matter, and learn from them and speak into their lives.  I still have relationships that matter to me here -- beautiful people who I want to care for well.  I still do feel like God is present here, and that this new place gives me a space and posture to hear from Him that I don't always find -- particularly now, in the time of tumultuous transition and grief.  When I remind myself of all those things, I calm down, and the snorts turn to sniffles.  We will be fine here.  We will even be happy here.  I trust those things.  I really do.

But the tears are still there, and that's okay.  It sucks to be far away.

Basically, to sum it up -- I used to think this quote was poetic and lovely in all sorts of wise and mystical ways.  Now I just think it's raw and painfully and beautifully, heart-wrenchingly true:

"You will never be fully at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere.  That is the price you pay for the richness of knowing and loving people in more than one place."  (Miriam Adeney)