paths and light

It was that horrible part of the month when the moon didn't rise for a few days. Because it was winter, the stars were veiled in the night sky. The sidewalk was an example of the depravity of mankind and a testimony to Communist quality (or lack thereof) and the cobblestones peeking out underneath the gaping holes in the road's blacktop might have been set down by the Romans in BC days. The road and the sidewalk were separated by a 10-foot deep ditch filled with snow sludge, cow manure, dirt washed off from the nearby fields, and last summer's grass.
And pre-European Union Transylvania did not believe in street lights!!!!
My host sister had been walking this life-threatening trail since she could walk and remembered when many of the snags and cracks had formed. She walked with confidence, never breaking her stride, matter-of-factly blazing the trail in front of us, plunging into the inky blackness that opened before us as we left the church.
I, however, was not nearly so confident.
First of all, the crags, snags, and jags of the way in which we were traveling spelled death to my American feet, unaccustomed as they were to walking everywhere we went, let alone on that kind of byway.
Second, I will admit this: I just don't like dark. I mean, I like it when I am trying to fall asleep. Thats it. Dim, sure. Night time with night lights where teeny specks of lumination glow and bring warm fuzzy feelings, sure. Pitch black? Forget it.

So I slowed down. In fact, I barely creeped forward. My host brother walking behind me almost crashed into me.
"NA!" He exclaimed in surprise. Our fearless leader turned around in surprise, but didn't see a reason for the interjection, so resumed her pace. I was too proud to ask her to slow down, because then I'd have to admit my fear of the dark, and the sidewalk, and I wasn't about to do that. (I've had a few years of sanctification since this took place ;-D)
Hungarians are an observant bunch. As I was picking my way, trying to speed up but not trip, suddenly a blinding light illuminated my path. It seriously was really really bright at first. I turned with surprise to see what it was.
My host brother had turned on his cell phone, which gave off a very very dim light, and was holding it over my shoulder so that I could see where I was going.
The thing is, cell phones 5 years back did not give off the brightest light.
However, my eyes were starting to adjust to the dark dark darkness of that Transylvanian winter night. So even a little light was almost overwhelming.
I was sooo grateful for that light. I could see where I was going!!!!

However, I realized I couldn't see that far ahead of me. In fact, just barely ahead of where I wanted to plant my feet next as I picked up my stride. However, it didn't matter, as I knew my guide knew where we were going, and I had a light held by someone I trusted who was making sure I didn't trip. Showing me what to do just then.

Now, I'm utilizing poetic license here to slightly dramatize the situation, as it illustrates a dilemma I've been struggling with for the last few months.
Gosh darn it, I knew where I was supposed to go and who I was gonna minister to, and how, and somewhat when.
However, the chain of events starting almost exactly a year ago have completely incinerated all such plans.
Its slightly irritating.

Today I sang with the college choir at the Seminary chapel. Before we started I noticed a couple I have seen at my church. The husband is deaf and the wife is hearing. I haven't had a chance to talk with them yet, but took the opportunity when we took a five minute break right before the chapel started to run say hi.
I haven't practiced my Signing in over a year.
But both were thrilled to meet a fellow 'Signer'
The husband watched us while we talked and signed at the same time so he could follow our conversation and the wife asked what I was studying. I told her missions.
"Have you thought about Deaf Missions?" (a new focus the International Mission Board has been emphasizing recently, as there is a huge need for Deaf Ministries overseas)
"Yeah I've thought about it. I'm a little overwhelmed right now with all the different options I have though."
"Well, how much longer do you have at school?"
"After this semester a year and a half." (suppressed squawk of shock, thrill, pride, and terror at that statement)
She laughed and her signing became a full-bodied expression.
"Honey you have TIME! God will show you at the right moment what to do and not before."
We laughed.

At the beginning of the semester I was griping to a guy friend my dilemma of not knowing the specifics of what God was doing in my life, why such intense refinement, why did my dreams and plans have to be shattered.
I love this friend because he is arguably brilliant yet very unassuming about it. He's one of those throw-back hippies who expect people to act smart and logically and don't have the time of day for those who don't. It can be irritating of course but also very helpful.
"You know, I really struggled with that too. Why did God send me to the Mission Field and have me fall in love with it right before my health completely broke? I can't live far from American medicine; I'll die without it now. God knew that. He also knew I would fall in love with South American when He sent me. It drove me nuts for a while. God could heal me. He doesn't. Why? And God kept bringing me the verse in Psalm 119:105 "Your Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path." That frustrated me because I was like, 'God! I AM reading Your word! I don't get it!' And then I thought about what kind of lights they used back then. Really small hand held oil lamps that only lit up the path directly in front of you. And I realized, when God gives you direction He only gives you enough for what is directly in front of you."
In Exodus 16, Israel complains because they don't have food. So in verse 4 the Lord tells Moses that He is going to rain Manna down from Heaven. (Manna is a Hebrew word that has been transliterated because saying "Manna" sounds better than saying "What is it" which is what Manna means. Manna = what is it. See verse 14-15)
"...and the people shall go out and gather a day's portion every day, that I may test them, whether they will walk in my law or not. On the sixth day, when they prepare what they bring in, it will be twice as much as they gather daily." (Exodus 16:4-5)
It has always struck me that God only allowed the Israelites to collect the day's portion of food. Only on the Sabbath - the day they were to rest and reflect on God's goodness - could they gather enough for two days.
I find myself wanting enough for today and tomorrow. However God also said that He was going to test the Israelite's faith by limiting them to one day. They, unfortunately rather predictably, failed the test and gathered enough for two days, frustrating Moses and witnessing the Lord making their food moldy, unclean, and just plain gross.
Its not a nasty test, its just an example to me of my lack of faith, which is just as appalling as that mess of worms and mold the Manna turned into.
Proverbs 4:18 says "But the path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day."
Dawn doesn't come all at once. It starts as a very small tiny light on the horizon. Barely clouding the stars. Then it grows slowly, easing back the blanket of stars, chasing them to the opposite horizon as the various morning colors slowly overtake the sky. First the velvety black blue of the outer space the stars peek out from, then a lighter blue and bright purples, and then the warm orange and reds that announce the sun is about to come up.
But it starts slowly. Its mistakeable for something else. But then, agonizingly slow it seems at first, or unnoticeably, suddenly things are not shadows and dark shapes anymore, but merely dim, and you can see whats in front of you, and then you see them clearly.

"For the LORD gives wisdom; from His mouth come knowledge

and understanding; He stores up sound wisdom for the upright;

He is a shield to those who walk in integrity, guarding the paths

of justice and watching over the ways of His saints. Then you will

understand righteousness and justice and equity, every good path;

for wisdom will come into your heart, and knowledge will be

pleasant to your soul; discretion will watch over you, understanding

will guard you..."

Proverbs 2:6-11

To just wait for His wisdom to come and illuminate and guide in His timing. I'm sure at first I'll be blinded by it like I was by the cell phone in Romania. "WHAT THE MESS KIND OF PLAN IS THAT?" I'm sure I'll yell in flabergastation when "The Plan" is finally revealed. "THAT'S what You've been preparing me for?!?! Well for goodness' sakes, why didn't You just SAY that in the first place?" And then the realization will hit me, as my eyes adjust to the new illumination, that if He had shown me that earlier, I would have been completely blinded, not just dazzled.

So anyway I've just been mulling over these things pretty much all semester. So I thought I'd get it out of my system and send it into cyberspace. :-) I hope it encourages you; but it is late, and I've been praparing for midterms and class presentations and a spur-of-the-moment-mission-of-mercy-trip some AMAZING buddies from school have thrown together to help my family in rebuilding their house (which is STILL undergoing reconstruction and refurbishing from the house fire that happened almost a YEAR ago... how time flies and at the same time limps by... it seems like yesterday and also another lifetime ago...)

All that to say, I'm exhausted, and I fear it may show in my writing. :-)

In Christ,

~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!

The hot sunshine was allowed in the kitchen just enough to give it a bright, cheery feel, without letting in the sharp heat that pounded into the Transylvanian countryside. My home in South Dakota had experienced an extra long winter, and so the coolness of the house was a welcome relief after my walk around the village, which was hot even for the locals.
A kitchen in Transylvania has a unique smell, especially Elizabeth’s kitchen. She is in her eighties, and so her kitchen has had a long time to accumulate the homey smells of coal and wood fires, pig lard, wine, garlic, muddy shoes, dill, and the usual mold that creeps into older homes. Today the smells of pastry dough and raw eggs were added to the mix, along with the wonderful feeling of excitement. Elizabeth’s grandson was coming home for the weekend. She carefully kneaded the pastry dough to just the right consistency while her forty-five year old daughter, Magda, mixed a chocolate syrup to add to part of the dough.
I stood in a corner and watched the two ladies expertly whisk together the scrumptious concoction, trying to stay out of their way. They encouraged me in their soft Hungarian voices to take the seat, but I had a better view standing. I always felt tall amongst them. At five feet six inches, I am the shortest in my family of tall Germanic Americans, of whom the shortest after me is five feet ten inches. Elizabeth was maybe five feet at the most, and Magda couldn’t have been more than five two.
Elizabeth asked in her whispering, aged voice something about the consistency of the dough and Magda answered equally as quietly. Their calm demeanor belied the excitement and nervousness that crackled in the air.
Soon Marta, Elizabeth’s elder daughter, came visiting and brought her daughter-in-law and granddaughter. I was shooed out of the kitchen to go eat lunch with the younger generation while the three older women continued cooking. Rahela and I made some small conversation in Romanian about the grandson who would be returning soon while Sanda babbled in two-year-old delight and tried to fling our lunch around the room. Apparently the little girl found extreme delight in the mysterious substance of sour cream, and kept trying to mix her lunch into the main container with her small plastic spoon. She screamed with frustration when Rahela absent mindedly moved her hands away and relocated the container to a safer and unreachable spot on the table.
After the meal Sanda was taken to the bedroom for a nap and I returned to Elizabeth’s kitchen. Magda had yielded the cooking surface to Marta, who was rolling out a delicate dough and was sprinkling some kind of sweet cheese, nuts, sugar and unsweetened cocoa onto the surface before rolling it up into a kind of jelly role type pastry. I inched closer to the table when no one was looking and snatched a quick taste of the dough. Mmm, it was delicious!
Soon the smells of the baking pastry floated around the room and I was offered a sample of the finished product. I rolled my eyes in mock ecstasy and licked my lips, earning a satisfied chuckle from the chefs.
“Meshaysh feenom.” I said, raising my piece of pastry. The best translation I can give you of the Hungarian compliment is, “Excellent worthy of the legend.” A bit melodramatic perhaps, for a mere country kitchen’s pastry. But first off, you must understand that Hungarian is a poetic, melodramatic language. And second, Elizabeth and her daughters are just very good cooks. Worthy of legend.