thoughts, events, and updates

It happened again last week. Ok first off, I woke up to a flash of lightning and a humongous crash right above my head as the Kentucky thunderstorm tried to kill me and my roommates. So I dove into my roommates' bedroom to remind myself that we are all adults and not afraid of a little thunder and lightning (I HATE loud, sudden noises). I was then hit with dizziness thanks to the barometric pressure. My room mate - who is a Naga Indian - has a wonderful answer to all life's problems: Tea.
"Priskali, I'm stressed."
"Drink some tea."
"Priskali! This great thing happened!"
"Great! Let's make some tea!"
Therefore, we made some tea. Not just any tea, but Cardamom-flavored Arabic tea I bought at the Iraqi store the day before. I related to Priskali over our gas stove the adventure my other roommate, Tadong, and I had trying to find the store. I had called a friend for directions and he had given me very interesting instructions: "You go down Frankfurt avenue until you hit a small street, turn left until you hit a big street - its like a main road - you turn right on that street and go past a church on your right and then turn right onto Fourth street, keep going past a run-down gas station and its on your left tucked waaay back in a parking lot. If you get lost, call me."
IF?!?
However, we not only found it but made it out of down-town alive and now know where to buy excellent tea and overpriced Baklava if we ever so desire.
My friend from Cameroon, Africa came over later and we shared stories about snakes and best friends and our different personalities and in general spent a good time laughing over tea and a cinnamon roll she brought over.
We went outside and took pictures in the rain-washed campus and then received a text that our friend from Ukraine was now engaged.
Yay!
After helping her get dressed up for the french-restaurant her Fiance was taking her to, we went to the cafeteria to grab some food before I worked.
And that is when it happened.
Again.
Our other Ukrainian friend took a quick break from work to talk with us and we were all having a jolly girly time when three Seminary guys came over and talked with us (No, this isn't going to end in a Desperate Seminarian Scene, relax). One of the guys said,
"Wow. This table looks SO American!"
What?
"Dude," I said, "the only American at this table is me! She's from Cameroon (I pointed to my friend), she's from Ukraine (pointed to other friend), and she (pointed to girl down the table) is from Taiwan."
"And where are YOU from?" he asked, grinning.
"Well, technically from the US, but in my heart I'm probably from Romania." I answered, grinning.
"Wait, what do you mean, from your heart?"
"I mean I'm joking and have really good friends from Romania who I relate well to."
"But... you aren't Romanian?"
"No!"
"Really? Well, where are you from then?"
"Here...?"
"Wait, you are AMERICAN?!"
I looked at my African friend.
"YES!"
"Oh. You don't act like it at all!!"
"What do you mean?" I asked, thoroughly perplexed. "I mean, I WAS home schooled, maybe that's it."
"No. It's not just home schooled... you talk with a weird accent."
I beg your pardon?!
My manager walked by just then and I called,
"Hey Clint! Do I talk with a foreign accent?"
He had a, please-don't-ask-me-that-question look on his face and nodded. "You have a RACHEL accent."
heh?
My Ukrainian and Cameroonian friends and I had a two hour debate the other day that was glorious, and the whole thing originated from different cultural interpretations on what a pastor's role was in individual's lives, how much leadership we give him, how to draw the fine line between keeping peace and unity amongst the body and when does one stand up for personal convictions and 'clear' guidelines given by the Bible. The trouble is that, at Bible College, what most people think is 'clear' is actually a perfect topic for hammer-and-tongs debates as everyone has a vehement opinion on the subject, and obviously MY opinion is the ONLY correct one, and everybody knows just enough about the subject to be dangerous but not really an expert. However, it gives our noggins a work-out as we try to defend our position against endearing yet misguided friends who challenge them.
The beautiful thing about our particular debate was that I could see both of their viewpoints, so was a sort of moderator I guess. We weren't able to come to any conclusive end of our debate but did end in laughter and joking around, as well as walking away with some fun mental subjects to chew on for a while.
In other news, I went out and bought a book on whim. I kind of had a few moments of anxiety, spending a whopping $18 on myself. But it is Elisabeth Elliot's biography of Amy Carmichael, and looked wonderful and is turning out to be a book I'm pretty sure I'll read over and over again. So I guess it was worth the investment. I didn't know Amy went to Japan first, and that she never had any clear call to any particular country, she just heard clearly from the Lord, "GO YE." So she went, rather blindly, not even sure if the missionaries in Japan would take her, and trusted the Lord to take care of things from there. Which He of course did.
That has been incredibly comforting, as the last few months I have felt rather like a ship lost at sea. The missionary calling is still as firm and clear as ever to me, and I know that I want to work cross-culturally. However WHERE has all but disappeared. I honestly have no idea where to go or who to work with, what people group I'm preparing for or what particular ministry I will have. My room mate encourages me that this is a great place Spiritually to be, as it requires total dependence on God. But it frustrates me, as I don't feel that there's any goal to work for. I like having a something ahead of me that I know I'm moving towards - or at least knowing that I'm NOT moving towards it.
My friend pointed out that with all the incredibly draining events of the last two semesters, it is probably wise to simply acknowledge the fact that I'm emotionally and spiritually exhausted and just need time to rest. But this seems unacceptable for some reason. At the very least, entirely unadventurous. And at the very very least, strips me of any way to distract myself from current situations and facts that I don't like but simply must be or are.
So all that to say, I am going to the womens crisis pregnancy center tomorrow for several hours to volunteer with my friend in the benevolence closet to sort out messy rooms and put piles of donated things into order. I feel completely discouraged of trying to put abstract things in my own life in order, or really anything in order at this point. But hanging up maternity clothes and putting piles of diapers into their proper cubby seems like something I can handle at this point. Blast.
At this point I am truly
~Princess Ouch~

Szia Baratom. Bye friend. And Happy Mother's Day

This was the first picture Erzsebet Borzasi and I took together in 2004. I was 17, had no fashion sense, and was just beginning to seriously ask myself if I was called to long term missions. I had been feeling my heart tugged the entire week that Romania was someplace I could and would spend a considerable amount of time long-term in my future.

My first memory of a decent interaction with Erzsebet was when I was on my way to the outhouse and the dog decided to jump up at me and bark/snarl/snap at me. Scared me to death. I jumped back and let out a yelp myself. I turned around and there was Erzsebet, trying to communicate something to me in Hungarian. finally she made a thumping motion on her heart and with her eyes dancing with exultation at finding the right English word said, "Fright! Fright! yes?" Those were the only words in English I ever remember her saying, but it was by far not the only communication we had.

The day I left Ipp in 2005, Erzsebet came to me and gave me a hug and we took that first picture. She turned to me and asked me a question. Her grandson translated: "Will you come back to Romania?" I looked in the dear old lady's eyes and knew I couldn't tell her a flippant comforting nothing. Could I commit to coming back to Romania? I said a quick prayer and felt the Lord's peace say, ''yes." So I told her. "Yes, one day I will come back." And I did, a year and a half later, and two years after that, and a year after that.

Last summer as I was once again preparing to leave the Borzasi's house to travel to a Gypsy village to do ministry, Erzsebet found me packing in the bedroom. "When are you coming back?" she asked. We looked at each other. She nodded. "You don't know. Well, we pray it will be soon, and I look forward to seeing you again." Me too, Erzsi.

The thought at the time briefly crossed my mind, "What if something happens to Erzsi? She is old." But then I felt assurance that I'd see her again.

Two days ago I checked my email and saw the message with the subject, "Funeral" from Erzsebet's grandson. I thought it was one of the many humerous forwards he often sends me. Instead it was a brief message that caused me to try not to cry there in the library. Erzsebet had gone home to be with Jesus an hour before he wrote that message.

His cousin Johanna gave me more details this morning. Erzsi had been sick for a while and suffered a stroke last week. Apparently she had shown some recovery, but Friday wasn't feeling good. That evening, with Magda her youngest daughter there, she died. Her older daughter, Marta, was in the village but not present when she went.

This picture was also taken in 2005, and is Magda and I just before our vans left Romania. Magda and I have been good friends from the first. Our relationship has been rather odd, as we muddle our way through stilted English and worse Hungarian. But she's put up with my cultural 'woops' moments and I'm sure I've accidently insulted her more than once as I've tried to piece together my thoughts into a foreign language and grammar. She's held me while I cried and smiled while I ranted at the various momentary crises I was going through at that particular moment. And she's always had a cup of tea and hot meal waiting as I return from various adventures and eagerly listened and even asked for stories of said adventures.

When I had mentally registered the fact that Erzsebet was Home, my first thoughts went to Magda. Erzsebet and her husband, Marton, lived in their younger daughter's home. I knew Magda would be hurting. Talking with her on the phone today confirmed it. Having gone through some rough times myself recently, I knew words could only do so much. She asked me twice if not three times, "Just come here. Just come visit. When are you arriving? Please come." Ohhhh my friend. If only the doors were open, but they are closed now. As soon as they open, be sure I will come and sit by you in the garden once again. All I could tell her though was the truths I've clung to throughout the storms of the last seven months: God loves you. God is with you. Its okay to cry. Be strong, but don't see tears as not being strong. Its okay to cry. I love you. God loves you.

I know Erzsebet is in Heaven now. while I loved reading Psalms to her in Hungarian, I'm glad she doesn't need someone to read to her anymore or use those big cumbersome spectacles; she has a new body and is staring in the face of Jesus. Although I loved laughing with her about how we were both a minority in the village with our blue eyes, I'm glad she is in Heaven where she doesn't have to worry about her blue eyes getting weak and sore throughout the day. While I miss hearing her shuffle down the hallway, I'm glad she can jump for joy at God's goodness now. While I am sorry I won't hear her rasp when I visit the village again as she walks, I'm so thankful she can breathe easy now. Our loss, her gain.

This is Magda and Marta, Erzsebet's daughters. Marta is herself a Grandma, and Magda hopes to be one soon. :-) The Hungarians of Transylvania are a strong breed, and as I told Magda, now her heart is hurting but soon she will smile again. And I am thankful that I too am smiling again. My mom scolded me once last year because she said I always brought home the saddest stories from Romania. Well, yes, that's true. But they make me so thankful that these aren't MY story, and they help me realize how much I have to be thankful. This mother's day, while I'm grieving for my friend Marta's loss of her mother, I am reminded again how blessed I am to have my own mother still around.

She's not a Transylvanian Hungarian, she's an American of Germanic heritage. She isn't quiet, but full of snap and spice. She doesn't wait for me to come back from my adventures, she is right there helping me plan them out (often obnoxiously making me very much aware of the holes and problems of my ideas, making me re-think them and improve them so much more than I would have on my own) She helped make me who I am. While we have plenty of miscommunications -even though we both speak English fluently - we always laugh and hug at the end of them. She's the best mom ever, and I love her a lot.

So Happy Mother's Day, near and far!