This summer at VIAŢA there are three interns from the United States (well, one's from Korea, but they all went to college in the US) and four volunteers from the European Volunteer Service (two from Italy, one from Spain, and one from Latvia). It's been a delight to get to know all of them, learn about their personalities and passions, and watch them experience and adapt and struggle and love this new culture. Jack and I have only been here half a year, but both of us had been to Eastern Europe for significant chunks of time in college, and it's starting to feel familiar -- so watching the culture stress and adaptation of newer members of our community has brought back old memories and new reflection on what it means to be an American living in Romania.
For instance. Last week at VIAŢA, after the campers had left, we spent an afternoon playing various experiential educational games with the counselors and debriefing what we had learned. The second game we played was not very well explained, and we all felt rather confused: it was a series of ridiculous competitions, judged by three people. The rules were unclear, we weren't sure who was on what team, and the judges' scores after each round seemed completely unrelated to our performance -- so we were confused. But it was fun anyway, and we laughed a lot as we blew balloons frantically across the floor, stumbled blindfolded after the squeaks of a toy pig, and chased each other in an attempt to grab bandannas tucked in each other's pockets. At the end of the game, we sat down to debrief -- and that's where it got interesting.
First of all, we finally found out that the judges' scores were, indeed, arbitrary. One team in particular had been given really low scores in each round, and we later learned that the game was meant to spur discussion about discrimination -- about how sometimes systems are rigged unfairly, etc. Had there been less confusion around the actual tasks, perhaps we would have realized this midway through the activity and started to protest or something -- but we didn't realize it until debriefing, which then prompted a lively discussion. Why didn't we do anything to fight back against the corrupt judges? Does that happen in real life too, like perhaps in the notoriously-corrupt Romanian political context? Also, none of us noticed the discrimination until it was pointed out to us -- except for the team that was being discriminated against. Does that say something about our blindness to systems of oppression? Does that say something about privilege? (Yes, yes, and yes. You can probably fill in the rest of the blanks. It was a fascinating analogy.)
But in the meantime, what did we learn? Here it also got interesting. Some of the Romanian participants spoke up and said it was important that even in the midst of discrimination and confusion and a broken system they still had fun and enjoyed themselves. That's an important life lesson, they said -- that you still need to make the best of life even when it's lousy and you don't understand the systems you're part of or think they're fair. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
As this was happening, I noticed one of our American interns getting visibly more and more frustrated. She eventually piped up, too, something about how that's not what life is about -- it's about changing systems that are broken, doing something to speak up for others when discrimination is happening, and not just ignoring it and having fun in your own life. Plus, she said, fun isn't the highest goal of life -- for her, it's living as a witness to Christ, and that doesn't always mean you'll have the most fun. For her, the whole focus was off.
Suddenly, in watching the conversation bounce back and forth, I recognized culture at play in a really tangible way. I generally try to avoid making generalizations about Romanian culture, but hang with me for a second. Romania has had a really rough history, especially here in the Jiu Valley. The conquer and oppression of the Ottoman empire, then the Austro-Hungarians, then two world wars, and then a series of nasty dictators and one of the most brutal Communist regimes in Eastern Europe... Romanians have had a lot of hard knocks. Romanian folklore reflects this, with almost all of its famous stories, poems, songs, and legends involving tragic fates for sorrowing peasants and shepherds. There are no mighty underdog heroes in Romanian folklore. Kids don't learn about "The Little Engine That Could" or Rosa Parks or the American dream in school -- or if they do, it's not their story. It's imported from somewhere else -- in fact, probably from America. So for a Romanian to play this game and come away saying, "Well, when life is hard, we still have to do our best to make the most of it" -- that comes from history. It's the source of all Romanian Communist-era black humor. It comes from this country's cultural narratives. It's hopeful and counter-cultural in plenty of ways, and it's a true and right response.
But as an American (well, at least as a white American, because I know that my whiteness creates a different cultural narrative for me as well), it's different. We believe the line about making lemonade. But I think most of us would have no trouble going on from the lemonade idea to then think that we could build a lemonade stand, sell our drink on the street corner, make a little pocket change, and use that money to help make the world a better place. I mean, we see little kids doing that in our own neighborhoods. This optimism and social entrepreneurship, this belief that we can do something to change the world? That's part of our culture, part of our history, part of the American narrative -- that anyone can "make it." We may know it's not true, (in fact, we may have plenty of evidence that this narrative is often a lie unless you fit certain racial, economic, gender, and/or educational prerequisites), but we know the narrative. And it means we think we can change things. And it's also a true and right response.
So how, as an American, do I faithfully work for an organization that's trying to teach Romanian kids that they can help change the world, that they can help fix broken systems and communities? How do I do that in a way that's culturally sensitive, that acknowledges the places where my assumptions are different from those of the community I now live and work in? How do I recognize and appreciate my own culture without devaluing the culture of those around me? How do I value and honor the rich wisdom of Romanian culture, even when its narratives feel unfamiliar to me? That's the question. That's what we're learning.
But it fills me with hope.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Melon.
Can I just rejoice in something about Romanian summers?
Watermelon. Watermelon everywhere.
I have no idea where Romania is on the world's watermelon-exporting statistics, but the sheer volume of this fruit amazes me. On my 5-minute walk to work this morning, I passed three different vans parked on the side of the road, back seats taken out so the whole cabin could be filled with watermelon, stacked three feet high and spilling onto the sidewalk. As you ride along the road, people are camped out under tents on the gravel shoulder, selling their mountain of green, luscious melon for incredibly cheap. Like, incredibly cheap: usually .8-1 lei per kilo, which is about 25 cents.
And it's delicious, too: juicy and satisfyingly crunchy, lovely pinkish-red, huge slices studded with black seeds, dripping down our chins and forearms as we eat and eat and eat. There's fabulous cantaloupe and honeydew here too, orange and green and sweet and soft, but it's the watermelon that takes the cake.
Mm. Yum. And may your days be full of summery delights too.
Watermelon. Watermelon everywhere.
I have no idea where Romania is on the world's watermelon-exporting statistics, but the sheer volume of this fruit amazes me. On my 5-minute walk to work this morning, I passed three different vans parked on the side of the road, back seats taken out so the whole cabin could be filled with watermelon, stacked three feet high and spilling onto the sidewalk. As you ride along the road, people are camped out under tents on the gravel shoulder, selling their mountain of green, luscious melon for incredibly cheap. Like, incredibly cheap: usually .8-1 lei per kilo, which is about 25 cents.
And it's delicious, too: juicy and satisfyingly crunchy, lovely pinkish-red, huge slices studded with black seeds, dripping down our chins and forearms as we eat and eat and eat. There's fabulous cantaloupe and honeydew here too, orange and green and sweet and soft, but it's the watermelon that takes the cake.
Mm. Yum. And may your days be full of summery delights too.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
VIAȚA, week one.
Well readers, it's high time that Kelly wasn't the only one posting here. I've had a very full month, and I want to let you know how my work has been going.
I've been the newbie at camp. VIATA has been going since 1999, and the director, Ilie Popescu, has been involved, in various positions, since 2000. And he's really good at his job. He oversees and maintains the ropes course, figures out camp finances, extends grace to camp leaders, tells leaders to grow up, is mean when he has to be, is soft and gentle when he has to be, and is a great dad and husband. To work with him is a joy.
Valters Melderis is the other assistant director, more in charge of programming and on-the-ground fun things. He leads large group games, plays with fire, performs in most of the ridiculous skits, provides inter-personal advice, makes people laugh, and provides a small word of caution to Ilie. He's from Latvia, lives in Bucharest, and is planning on this summer being his last at VIATA.
I am the American assistant director. I am the "mom" to American interns here for the summer, "mom" for the camp storage room (I organize the place, hand things out, and demand their return), put participants into groups, and keep track of meals and accommodation for our participants during the week. Also, wonderfully, Ilie has been training me in ropes course set-up and maintenance, so I get to be high up in the trees three days a week on Romania's first ropes course.
Our first week went from June 30-July 5. I was so nervous about all my responsibilities that I didn't want to get out of bed and go up the mountain on Sunday. Fortunately, I had no say in that matter. Ilie picked me up at 10 (after eating pancakes with Kelly!), and we started our preparations for the week. When we got up to the FNO cabana, we learned that the coil on our water heater had melted, so there was no hot water for us and it was 45 and rainy on the mountain. The bus bearing the kids rolled in around 8:30pm (they usually arrive around 2 or 3), and we greeted them with cheers and smiles. They were mostly from a poor community around Cluj, and as such were used to warmer weather in June and hadn't brought a whole lot of clothes anyways. They were almost silent at dinner, and seemed to not really understand the camp rules presentation (we learned the next day that very few of them could read). Everyone went to bed early, and hoped that Monday would go well.
When we woke up and it was just as cold and cloudy, we decided that taking our poorly-clad group to the ropes course wouldn't be a good idea. The course is about 2.5 km from the cabanas (very uphill for half the way), and there's a lot of wind and little sun in the woods. The groups decided to play games and hike and do other things around the cabana. By 4pm, the kids wouldn't circle up for any more games or listen to any more order from the leaders, so we got some balls and hula hoops out and played with them until dinner at 7. A few of the leaders were disappointed that their teambuilding games hadn't been enough to capture the kids' attention, but as we watched them play with balls, we noticed other barriers. The younger kids (8-10) were happy to play together or snuggle for warmth on their leaders' laps, but the older kids (10-14) would either play with their own ball or hula hoop or go around and try to take them from those who were playing. It seemed that we never had quite enough balls to satisfy their individual desires, and the constant comment to me was, "Hey! He took my ball!" Every time I asked, "Why don't you play together?" a small back would turn to me and I would hear, "No!" How could we play teambuilding games (in many ways, the basis of what VIATA is all about) with kids who wouldn't even share a ball with each other? Ilie had said beforehand that our goal with these kids was to give them a really good week of life with good memories and a lot of love, because it seemed like they wouldn't be too receptive to ideas like social capital and societal change. We were prepared to mainly try to show them some love, but it was really hard to watch their own love for each other be so conditional and temporary.
The next two days, we went to the ropes course and had, for the most part, a really good time. The younger kids were very brave and responsible with the high elements they got to do, albeit forgetful of safety rules at times. The older kids had a hard time taking things seriously, but they had their moments when they were totally invested in getting everyone across a cable without touching the ground. At every free moment, the kids begged for balls, and we indulged them. They just had to play and it was good to spend that fun, though somewhat nerve-wracking time with them.
On Thursday, we realized that many of the fights over balls revolved around a red and a yellow ball, and who was in control of either. We decided to not bring those ones out anymore, which caused a lot of whining and pleading and standing in the corner with arms crossed. After almost non-stop asking, we decided to bring out only the yellow ball and the hula hoops, and we said they would either have to play together or do something else. Wonderfully, it worked, and the boy who usually bullied the others led them in passing the ball to each other. The hope that I had been holding for them all week had become apparent, even if just for 15 minutes before dinner.
On Friday, as everyone was leaving, no one cried, but many of the kids asked, "Are you coming back with us?" or shared how sorry they were that they had to leave. Even the ones who had said awful things about the camp leaders or had fought every decision to do something that week were obviously sad to leave. We had done our job, and loved those kids well in ways that mattered to them. Few of the carefully crafted teambuilding games worked like we thought, and I doubt anyone mentioned social capital, but something important happened to a bunch of underprivileged kids, and we had the privilege of being a big part of that week of their lives. We left that week feeling more confident as a team, knowing more of our own weaknesses, and remembering that there's hope even for the ones who seem the most twisted and lost from the goodness that we want to share with everyone that comes to VIATA.
I've been the newbie at camp. VIATA has been going since 1999, and the director, Ilie Popescu, has been involved, in various positions, since 2000. And he's really good at his job. He oversees and maintains the ropes course, figures out camp finances, extends grace to camp leaders, tells leaders to grow up, is mean when he has to be, is soft and gentle when he has to be, and is a great dad and husband. To work with him is a joy.
Valters Melderis is the other assistant director, more in charge of programming and on-the-ground fun things. He leads large group games, plays with fire, performs in most of the ridiculous skits, provides inter-personal advice, makes people laugh, and provides a small word of caution to Ilie. He's from Latvia, lives in Bucharest, and is planning on this summer being his last at VIATA.
I am the American assistant director. I am the "mom" to American interns here for the summer, "mom" for the camp storage room (I organize the place, hand things out, and demand their return), put participants into groups, and keep track of meals and accommodation for our participants during the week. Also, wonderfully, Ilie has been training me in ropes course set-up and maintenance, so I get to be high up in the trees three days a week on Romania's first ropes course.
Our first week went from June 30-July 5. I was so nervous about all my responsibilities that I didn't want to get out of bed and go up the mountain on Sunday. Fortunately, I had no say in that matter. Ilie picked me up at 10 (after eating pancakes with Kelly!), and we started our preparations for the week. When we got up to the FNO cabana, we learned that the coil on our water heater had melted, so there was no hot water for us and it was 45 and rainy on the mountain. The bus bearing the kids rolled in around 8:30pm (they usually arrive around 2 or 3), and we greeted them with cheers and smiles. They were mostly from a poor community around Cluj, and as such were used to warmer weather in June and hadn't brought a whole lot of clothes anyways. They were almost silent at dinner, and seemed to not really understand the camp rules presentation (we learned the next day that very few of them could read). Everyone went to bed early, and hoped that Monday would go well.
When we woke up and it was just as cold and cloudy, we decided that taking our poorly-clad group to the ropes course wouldn't be a good idea. The course is about 2.5 km from the cabanas (very uphill for half the way), and there's a lot of wind and little sun in the woods. The groups decided to play games and hike and do other things around the cabana. By 4pm, the kids wouldn't circle up for any more games or listen to any more order from the leaders, so we got some balls and hula hoops out and played with them until dinner at 7. A few of the leaders were disappointed that their teambuilding games hadn't been enough to capture the kids' attention, but as we watched them play with balls, we noticed other barriers. The younger kids (8-10) were happy to play together or snuggle for warmth on their leaders' laps, but the older kids (10-14) would either play with their own ball or hula hoop or go around and try to take them from those who were playing. It seemed that we never had quite enough balls to satisfy their individual desires, and the constant comment to me was, "Hey! He took my ball!" Every time I asked, "Why don't you play together?" a small back would turn to me and I would hear, "No!" How could we play teambuilding games (in many ways, the basis of what VIATA is all about) with kids who wouldn't even share a ball with each other? Ilie had said beforehand that our goal with these kids was to give them a really good week of life with good memories and a lot of love, because it seemed like they wouldn't be too receptive to ideas like social capital and societal change. We were prepared to mainly try to show them some love, but it was really hard to watch their own love for each other be so conditional and temporary.
The next two days, we went to the ropes course and had, for the most part, a really good time. The younger kids were very brave and responsible with the high elements they got to do, albeit forgetful of safety rules at times. The older kids had a hard time taking things seriously, but they had their moments when they were totally invested in getting everyone across a cable without touching the ground. At every free moment, the kids begged for balls, and we indulged them. They just had to play and it was good to spend that fun, though somewhat nerve-wracking time with them.
On Thursday, we realized that many of the fights over balls revolved around a red and a yellow ball, and who was in control of either. We decided to not bring those ones out anymore, which caused a lot of whining and pleading and standing in the corner with arms crossed. After almost non-stop asking, we decided to bring out only the yellow ball and the hula hoops, and we said they would either have to play together or do something else. Wonderfully, it worked, and the boy who usually bullied the others led them in passing the ball to each other. The hope that I had been holding for them all week had become apparent, even if just for 15 minutes before dinner.
On Friday, as everyone was leaving, no one cried, but many of the kids asked, "Are you coming back with us?" or shared how sorry they were that they had to leave. Even the ones who had said awful things about the camp leaders or had fought every decision to do something that week were obviously sad to leave. We had done our job, and loved those kids well in ways that mattered to them. Few of the carefully crafted teambuilding games worked like we thought, and I doubt anyone mentioned social capital, but something important happened to a bunch of underprivileged kids, and we had the privilege of being a big part of that week of their lives. We left that week feeling more confident as a team, knowing more of our own weaknesses, and remembering that there's hope even for the ones who seem the most twisted and lost from the goodness that we want to share with everyone that comes to VIATA.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Six months.
Today is July 9 -- and six months ago exactly, we were landing in the Bucharest airport, hesitatingly gathering our mound of luggage and searching out the face of Steve Michmerhuizen, a smiling West Michigan expat who we'd never met before. He greeted us warmly, finding us easily in the small crowd of arrivals, and ushered us to a hotel amidst the bitter cold Romanian night. That first 24 hours in Romania remains a blur: dinner in the heart of Bucharest, a long conversation with Diana (who has since become our supervisor and friend), and a night of deep, exhausted, dreamless sleep before a long drive across the country to Lupeni.
It seems so long ago that we were dragging our tired selves up the stairs for the first time to dear little Apartment Lucy, unpacking and arranging and cleaning and hanging things on the wall. Our three months of study in Târgu Mureş also seem like ages ago -- the first hesitant meetings with our fabulous language teachers, the long evening walks up the city's immense hills, the many hours of flashcards and vocabulary practice in miscellaneous cafes, the Sundays full of church and friends and way too many crepes. And now we've been in Lupeni for almost three full months, and work with FNO is starting to feel familiar, and life is slowing from the frantic excitement of everything new to the calmer rhythms of life in a place that's becoming home.
Yet at the same time, it feels like not long ago at all that we were giving tear-stained hugs to my mom and sister at the Minneapolis airport; those tears still surface now and then and remind me of the heartache of leaving. It seems not so long ago that we were building snowmen with the Bradford girls on the retaining wall that Jack helped Nate build. It seems not long ago at all that we were eating breakfast at Brandywine, and visiting our friends in East Hills and Alger Heights, and commuting to work via bicycle from our little apartment on Calkins. We've been gone for six months, and life looks different for us now. We still grow herbs and tomatoes and invite people over to eat them with us. We still go running and hiking off the beaten path as often as we can. We still are married, and happily so. Six months in, I am happy here. I feel useful here. It is beautiful here, and the people and work and natural world around us fill me with joy and purpose, and I am glad we came. We've missed a lot in six months -- weddings of dear friends, the growing-up of our little neighbors, the transition and healing of our church community, graduations and milestones in the lives of our siblings. But we've gained a lot, too, as all the stories on this blog and in our journals and our memories now attest to.
So that's that, I guess. We've lived in Romania for six months. That's amazing. Please keep praying. We love you all.
It seems so long ago that we were dragging our tired selves up the stairs for the first time to dear little Apartment Lucy, unpacking and arranging and cleaning and hanging things on the wall. Our three months of study in Târgu Mureş also seem like ages ago -- the first hesitant meetings with our fabulous language teachers, the long evening walks up the city's immense hills, the many hours of flashcards and vocabulary practice in miscellaneous cafes, the Sundays full of church and friends and way too many crepes. And now we've been in Lupeni for almost three full months, and work with FNO is starting to feel familiar, and life is slowing from the frantic excitement of everything new to the calmer rhythms of life in a place that's becoming home.
Yet at the same time, it feels like not long ago at all that we were giving tear-stained hugs to my mom and sister at the Minneapolis airport; those tears still surface now and then and remind me of the heartache of leaving. It seems not so long ago that we were building snowmen with the Bradford girls on the retaining wall that Jack helped Nate build. It seems not long ago at all that we were eating breakfast at Brandywine, and visiting our friends in East Hills and Alger Heights, and commuting to work via bicycle from our little apartment on Calkins. We've been gone for six months, and life looks different for us now. We still grow herbs and tomatoes and invite people over to eat them with us. We still go running and hiking off the beaten path as often as we can. We still are married, and happily so. Six months in, I am happy here. I feel useful here. It is beautiful here, and the people and work and natural world around us fill me with joy and purpose, and I am glad we came. We've missed a lot in six months -- weddings of dear friends, the growing-up of our little neighbors, the transition and healing of our church community, graduations and milestones in the lives of our siblings. But we've gained a lot, too, as all the stories on this blog and in our journals and our memories now attest to.
So that's that, I guess. We've lived in Romania for six months. That's amazing. Please keep praying. We love you all.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Baptisms and dance parties.
Ordinarily I think of American infant baptisms as short, sweet, and to-the-point. At least in my experience, the ceremony was always pretty simple: the parents carry their swaddled child to the front of the church, the biological and church family promise to raise the child in the faith, and the pastor prays and dribbles water on the infant's head, after which the startled, screaming baby is paraded through the sanctuary to the sighs and ahhs of the congregants. Afterwards there's sometimes cake and more cooing over the little one, but in general that's about it. It's a welcome to the family of faith, a powerful symbol of the way God chooses us before we can ever choose Him -- but it's not usually, in my experience, all that celebratory. Perhaps I'm just not very sensitive, not having any children of my own -- but it always has seemed to me that the welcoming of a new baby into the family of God deserves a big ol' party, where everyone comes and dances and sings and eats and celebrates the promise and hope of this new life.
Well, on Sunday we did just that. One of our coworkers at FNO, Andreea, had recently had a baby girl named Teodora (Teia for short), and on Sunday she was baptized into the Orthodox church. It was an intricate ceremony, one I need to do some reading on to understand. Romanian Orthodox baptisms involve the godparents heavily, while the parents simply observe -- it was the godmother who held Teodora throughout the entire service, except for when little Teia was taken by the priest around the front of the sanctuary, to bow in reverence before the icons of Jesus and the apostles. The baby is brought in wearing frilly, fancy baptism clothes, but all the clothes (even the diaper) are removed for the moment of baptism itself, which involves the baby being totally submerged or, in this case, being held over a basin while an entire pitcher of water is dumped over her entire body. (No little sprinkle-and-dab in this case!) Then the baby is laid back down and dressed in new, white clothes -- symbolic of the "new creation" that he or she becomes with baptism into the family of God. Before being dressed, the priest dabs oil on the baby's chest, forehead, ears, shoulders, and feet, symbolizing the protection and anointing of God over every part of the child. Once re-dressed, the priest carefully snips hair from the child's head as an offering to God, also symbolizing the way that God knows and numbers every hair of our heads; this lock of hair is given to the family and kept as a remembrance for years. And eventually, the priest takes the baby and brings her to the altar, to the front of the church which is, in Orthodox churches, the holy place, and sets her gently down to rest. Only after the child is laid gently at the feet of Jesus, symbolically, is the baptism over. The father swooped in to pick up Teodora, many pictures were taken, and there was much rejoicing. (Here's a link to a liturgy if you want to read more.)
We headed straight from the baptism to a local restaurant, where Andreea had arranged a party to celebrate little Teia's baptism. It was decorated like a wedding: white gauze draped the stairs, white cloths covered each chair, and pink bows and butterflies decorated the table. There was an abundance of food and a DJ, who gently teased people into dancing. We ate and ate and ate, first full plates of meats and cheeses and vegetables, then -- an hour or two later -- sarmale and mamaliga, the famous, delicious, traditional Romanian stuffed cabbage rolls and polenta, topped with a thick sour cream. In between we sampled from big bowls of fresh cherries and apricots and nectarines, juicy and delicious, dripping down our chins, and drank homemade wine from grapes and brandy from summer cherries. There was a beautiful cake, bedecked in pink and purple, sparklers burning merrily on top while we sang the Romanian birthday song to Teia in jubilant voices. And we danced -- bobbing and twisting, some of us terrible, grandparents holding little Teodora adoringly as they swayed to the music, the younger crowd moving sexily to the beat, everyone joining in the circle and clasping hands for the traditional Romanian hora, little kids spinning and running through the dance floor for the sheer joy of it. When I eventually left at around 9:30pm, the pork and potatoes and cabbage salad course was still coming, and the music was still playing. Oh, what a Romanian party: eating and dancing, laughing and teasing, celebrating and supporting and loving. What a baptism. What a joyful celebration... a big ol' party.
Welcome to the family, Teodora.
Well, on Sunday we did just that. One of our coworkers at FNO, Andreea, had recently had a baby girl named Teodora (Teia for short), and on Sunday she was baptized into the Orthodox church. It was an intricate ceremony, one I need to do some reading on to understand. Romanian Orthodox baptisms involve the godparents heavily, while the parents simply observe -- it was the godmother who held Teodora throughout the entire service, except for when little Teia was taken by the priest around the front of the sanctuary, to bow in reverence before the icons of Jesus and the apostles. The baby is brought in wearing frilly, fancy baptism clothes, but all the clothes (even the diaper) are removed for the moment of baptism itself, which involves the baby being totally submerged or, in this case, being held over a basin while an entire pitcher of water is dumped over her entire body. (No little sprinkle-and-dab in this case!) Then the baby is laid back down and dressed in new, white clothes -- symbolic of the "new creation" that he or she becomes with baptism into the family of God. Before being dressed, the priest dabs oil on the baby's chest, forehead, ears, shoulders, and feet, symbolizing the protection and anointing of God over every part of the child. Once re-dressed, the priest carefully snips hair from the child's head as an offering to God, also symbolizing the way that God knows and numbers every hair of our heads; this lock of hair is given to the family and kept as a remembrance for years. And eventually, the priest takes the baby and brings her to the altar, to the front of the church which is, in Orthodox churches, the holy place, and sets her gently down to rest. Only after the child is laid gently at the feet of Jesus, symbolically, is the baptism over. The father swooped in to pick up Teodora, many pictures were taken, and there was much rejoicing. (Here's a link to a liturgy if you want to read more.)
We headed straight from the baptism to a local restaurant, where Andreea had arranged a party to celebrate little Teia's baptism. It was decorated like a wedding: white gauze draped the stairs, white cloths covered each chair, and pink bows and butterflies decorated the table. There was an abundance of food and a DJ, who gently teased people into dancing. We ate and ate and ate, first full plates of meats and cheeses and vegetables, then -- an hour or two later -- sarmale and mamaliga, the famous, delicious, traditional Romanian stuffed cabbage rolls and polenta, topped with a thick sour cream. In between we sampled from big bowls of fresh cherries and apricots and nectarines, juicy and delicious, dripping down our chins, and drank homemade wine from grapes and brandy from summer cherries. There was a beautiful cake, bedecked in pink and purple, sparklers burning merrily on top while we sang the Romanian birthday song to Teia in jubilant voices. And we danced -- bobbing and twisting, some of us terrible, grandparents holding little Teodora adoringly as they swayed to the music, the younger crowd moving sexily to the beat, everyone joining in the circle and clasping hands for the traditional Romanian hora, little kids spinning and running through the dance floor for the sheer joy of it. When I eventually left at around 9:30pm, the pork and potatoes and cabbage salad course was still coming, and the music was still playing. Oh, what a Romanian party: eating and dancing, laughing and teasing, celebrating and supporting and loving. What a baptism. What a joyful celebration... a big ol' party.
Welcome to the family, Teodora.
The FNO women, Briana, and Teodora!
The beautiful, beautiful Orthodox church.
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