One Week and Counting

My children are wonderful. After watching most of their belongings walk out the door last week and sorting through the rest of their stuff to pack into suitcases, they are pretty much depleted of everything. Today I see their fuses short, having nothing to do and “I’m bored!” has echoed in our empty house more than once already.

So I sent them down the hall to revive a game we started many years ago – La Búsqueda de Inigo Montoya is an adventure, clue-seeking game, complete with keys, Ecuerdos (money) and shubas (capes). Last time we played my oldest was eight, so I was surprised that she was willing to play. Of course she wanted me to set it up, but I wanted to see how well they did without me. So far, so good; I haven’t heard a complaint for thirty minutes.

Yesterday we picked up our Ecuadorian visas, no problem – of course, it was the third time we visited the office. No paperwork can be done in under three visits to any office in Argentina – I would say most Latin American countries, but having never lived anywhere else extensively, I’ll hold off. While we were at the office we asked how to process more paperwork for our shipping company to begin the process of shipping. So our visa processing helper rattled off an official document verbally as I struggled to write it all down. I got about 5% of what she said, and she left us to attend to someone else.

Bryon and I wrote our own, not-quite-official-sounding document, and he headed back down there today to begin the process of making it sound better, and hopefully she will be more helpful today than she was yesterday. He went prepared, taking a flash drive with him, and plans to edit and re-edit and not return home until he has the official stamp and seal to ship our belongings! Good luck, Bryon!

Moving Muse

The movers came yesterday and packed up most of our shipment; today they return to finish it up and haul it all away. The house is starting to look bare and it brings back memories of our last move. Nada q ver, eh; totally different this time.

First off, I don’t have to have the place empty and clean. That just about killed me last time. The stress was unbearable and even the kids remember me falling apart. This time we have two weeks left before we fly out and those will be days of sorting through what’s left (although most is already done) and finding new homes for everything.

We hired a moving company this time, and so I spent the last months gathering what we wanted to take with us, piling everything up in one area and doing 75% of the packing myself in my totes. I left the kitchen and books for the packers to do, which took them most of yesterday. They also are making a generalized list of what is in each tote, not a detailed description like I did – so much easier!

By this time during our last move I was questioning why we were moving, not wanting to say good bye to my life in Colorado, wondering what had possessed us to consider taking a job somewhere else. I learned not to allow emotions to rule decision making. This move has been strategic, taking us down a path that we never intended, but we can see now where it is leading us; we never would have considered a move overseas had we spent the last 2½ years in Colorado – that would have had us four years in one place, almost a lifetime!

Am I excited about Quito? I have many dreams, mostly revolving around it being as fulfilling as Colorado was. The kids are hesitant, and it is difficult to see that we took them away from something that they really loved and have been missing it ever since. What if it doesn’t pan out the way we want it to? I have a lot riding on the school fulfilling expectations, and I don’t want it to fail, but it very well could.

Watching everything being packed up and shipped, knowing all the money that an international move involves, makes me really evaluate what we are investing in, wanting it to be a sure thing. But it’s not at this point – emotionally it’s not a sure thing – and that’s scary. We live by faith and not by sight, as 2 Corinthians 5:7 says. Never have I felt that I’m living that as much as now. 

Confessions, a little late

Today as my son had a thermometer in his mouth, a memory flashed back to me. Waaaaay back in the day when the nurse’s office was located behind the secretary’s desk at school, I was sick and sent down there to have my temperature taken. The secretary sat me on the bed, stuck a thermometer in my mouth and told me she’d return. After what felt like hours, I wondered what was holding her up, when, to my horror, the thermometer slipped out of my mouth and went crashing to the floor, the mercury spilling all over the place.

I panicked. Dreading the inevitable lecture in high decibels, I scrambled to solve my problem. Did I have enough time to do anything? I hopped down off the medical bed, pushed the glass and mercury to the best of my first grade ability under the furniture, opened the sterilized container to take out another thermometer. Now the true test was on. Was the secretary going to return at any moment and take my temperature, but would it be accurate? Would she step on a remnant of my crime and I’d be found out? Did she know how many thermometers were in the container? And what if the thermometer didn’t have enough time to register my fever before she returned? Because as each moment passed, I was feeling sicker and sicker. I really needed to go home. I needed my mommy.

After waiting another eternity, the secretary eventually returned, confirmed that, yes, indeed, I did have a fever, and called my mom, who came to pick me up and take me home. I never found out if the broken glass and mercury were found, and imagined that they would be under that furniture forever. I never confessed to my mom about my evil deed. And after a while I forgot about the whole incident. Until today, when my son popped an electric thermometer into his mouth, and had to wait for forever for his temperature to register. Which it did, after much beeping and waiting, at 98.7°.

Gone are the days of mercury and glass thermometers, and the risk of students breaking them in the nurse’s office and trying to cover up the evidence. Isn’t that a relief?

Matthew 5:43-45 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor^[a] and hate your enemy.’ ⁴⁴ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵ that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.

I grew up at the end of the Cold War, and like everyone else, believed that the Soviets were our enemies. They hated us, so we hated them. Their government had its finger on the nuke button all the time, and we lived under the scare that at any time, we would be bombed, nuked, obliterated from the face of Earth. The people were starving to death, they didn’t have enough food to go around. Nothing worked properly in their country, all due to communism.

Then came peristroika, and the Cold War was over. Forgotten were the Soviets, and now we were to call them Russians. Country boundaries were restored to nations we had never heard of, and really, what did it matter if the Ukraine, Georgia, Lithuania, or Armenia had their independence? Who had ever heard of Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, or any of the other “stan” countries? They never appeared on the radar in the world of a teenager, and rarely for a gal starting her own family and beginning a life overseas. The animosity was dormant.

Exciting news was that missionaries were being allowed to enter and talk about Jesus. The call was urgent, as no one knew how long the window of opportunity would be open. Exciting stories made their way back to the US, astounding statistics, new inroads and accomplishments. Praise God, Russia was open to the Gospel message.

Fast forward many years to 2009, in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I meet a Russian couple at the international church my husband was called to pastor. Very nice couple, warm hearted, and open to friendship. We hit it off from day one, and the next summer they invited us to their house to share a meal with them.

Meal is an understatement – it was a feast, not lacking anything, including the dessert I brought. At their home we met our hostess’s mother, who is wheelchair bound after a massive stroke two years earlier. Svetlana shares her story, of how after she heard that her mother had a stroke, she flew to Russia, took care of her and her health was restored enough that Svetlana could fly her to Argentina. I heard how she asked prayer for the long flight, that nothing would go wrong with her mother, that they would let her fly, that there wouldn’t be any complications. And God answered those prayers, hallelujah. Faina is now living with her daughter and son-in-la; unable to take care of herself, she depends on them for everything, including interpreting what she wants, as she can only say “ba-ba-ba-ba.”

I watched Faina that day, how expressive her face was, how intently she watched the children in the pool, calling our attention to anything that could be danger. She held our hand with both of hers as she babbled, trying her hardest to communicate something to us. The love that shined in her eyes and the warm smile communicated more to us than if she spoke Russian to us. She was full of hugs and warmth for all of us, no matter who we were.

It was the second time that I was in her presence that it hit me; I was in the presence of who would have been my “enemy” twenty years earlier. This poor, pathetic, helpless, old woman. What was shocking to me was that she was a human being; she lived her life during those difficult years, raised a family. She was taught to hate me just as much as I hated her, hated the idea of her. Yet she was nothing but loving, and it was to that love that I responded with my own. Had she been stand offish or grumpy or hostile in her attitude, I would have expected that, and I wouldn’t have shown her love. But she was the exacct opposite of every expectation that I had, and my world rocked.

Our “enemies” are people, they live their lives, they have to go shopping and provide for the family, keep home, raise children, have good days and bad days. They hurt, they cry, they laugh, they have parties and funerals, they bleed red just like I do. And they hear the propaganda from their governments, just like I do, and most likely hate us just as much as we hate them, but with what cause?

What right do I have to hate? Because my government tells me people living in a certain area are my enemy? Because we are at war with certain people? Because I don’t like how the people in power spew with their venom? Because I don’t like the stereotypical personalities?

Yesterday I visited Faina in ICU. She’s dying slowly, no longer able to communicate. Hopefully she will wake up from her coma, but her quality of life has deteriorated immensly. I said my good byes, hoping that we will see each other in heaven and continue to share the love of friendship that began here between two enemies.

But that is not the end of the story. Svetlana is not sure her mother ever accepted Jesus as her Savior. She never showed an understanding of what a personal relationship with God meant. She relied on her orthodox prayers from her prayer book. Svetlana wants to have an assurance that her mother understands and accepts what Jesus has done for her. She shared with me her story, how it was prohibited in the Soviet Union to talk about Jesus, to share anything with anybody about religion, Christianity, faith, etc. And then peristroika came, and the missionaries came to the country, and the very first time she heard the gospel message, she knew it was Truth, and she prayed to receive Christ as her Savior. She commented that she was ready, was prepared for the truth and received it without any hesitations. God had been preparing her, even though she had never heard of Jesus before.

And now I pray for her mother Faina, that she will wake up, that Svetlana will have an opportunity to share with her and that she will be receptive to hearing the message. Time is running out, yet God is the God of miracles, and He can do it. Please, God, please save Faina, so that she can share eternal life with You forever. Save my enemy-friend, who taught me to love my enemies.

Wii thoughts

Wii got a new toy for Christmas and Wii are addicted. Not a day goes by that Wii don’t play for hours, and when Wii aren’t playing on it, Wii are thinking about it and asking to play. Wii made a rule that Wii don’t play before lunch, but still, Wii ask. Wii have a lot of fun, but Wii fight more and insult each other more and don’t play fairly. Was it really worth it?

Shouldn’t Wii be spending our time in more productive ways? What are Wii gaining by playing so much? Will employers be impressed if Wii list ‘finished all eight levels of Super Mario Bros’ or ‘won the virtual decathlon championships’ on our resumes? Wii don’t think so. And once summer break is over, Wii will limit our playing time to weekends only. And hopefully Wii will return to our manners, thinking of others before ourselves, being polite and considerate, and focused on what matters more – real life rather than the virtual world.

dealing with sadness

Today I'm sad. I sent an email to a friend telling her some news, and she skyped me, telling me that she cried when she heard the news. I cried myself, thinking of how sad she was, and also how sad I am that soon we won't live near each other. We had to take a trip to the capital and turns out we were in her neighborhood, only blocks from her house. Unfortunate then, that she is currently out of the country!
I was thinking about how special our friendship has been, now it took us years to find out that we lived in the same country (we were at college together), and how we picked up as if we had never been separated for almost 15 years. God has always provided friends for me, and will continue to do so. But that doesn't make saying good bye to good friends any easier.

Motherhood and Education

I love my kids. Being a mom is so fulfilling and satisfying.

Andrés gives me joy every day. Today he was practicing being a gentleman. We walked up to the school supply store and back, he concentrating on walking between me and the road, crossing the streets carefully and telling me when to go, holding my hand and directing me around the crowded sidewalks, and opening and holding doors for me. “Pase, madam,” was his polite way of allowing me to pass. As he went, he racked up points, and received a Gogo for every 20 points he earned. By the time we got home, he had 50 points.

Elizabeth has finished her school year, passing every class but one. Granted, some of her classes she received a 7, which is the equivalent of a D, but she passed. She has to take her Natural Science test again, and has until the 16^th of December to study. Next week there is a scheduled study day with the professor, so she will study at home until then, spend some time going over it with him, then take the test in a little over 2 weeks. Tomorrow she has an awards ceremony, and she is receiving an award – for scholastic excellence! I am so proud of her, that she worked hard and even though she came in towards the end of the second trimester, she has been diligent to work towards improving her grades. She says that she didn’t work as hard as she could have, and so we have something to work for next year. I told both the girls that I don’t expect that they will get 7’s next year, that I would hope (expect) 9’s and 10’s on their report cards.

Emily said yesterday, “You’re dis-concentrating me!” to Andrés, who was dis-concentrating her! Tonight she was crying again, wanting to be back in Colorado. It breaks my heart to hear her long to be back in the US, especially as I struggle with not being there, not allowing her to be where she wants to be, seeing her struggle with not having friends at school, hearing how mean they can be to her because she is so innocent. Please God, give her a friend!

Emily is my best study-er. She is very conscientious about what work is due when, and getting a huge jump on it to be finished with plenty of time. I wish her teachers could see the amount of work that she invests in her studies, whether it be for presentations, tests, or just homework. She takes more time than the average student, but she also schedules time for it as well. Many times she won’t go to bed until late because she is still working on an assignment and wants to finish. She has taken her math test twice now, has invested countless hours into studying for it, and hasn’t passed it either time (we think). She will have to take it again in December, and hopefully pass, or she will then have to take it again in February. Again, I pray, God, please help her to pass!

I’ve been thinking about classical education, and am intrigued by the idea, and want to look more into it. I don’t know much about it, only that it focuses on teaching the ability to think, and uses good literature rather than the junk that schools are using nowadays – I say that because the books Elizabeth had to read this year, and what she has to read for next year are sensational, sexual, violent, depressing, godless and (therefore) hopeless. What is she learning from reading them? How is that improving her as a human being? We have to work extra hard to combat this stuff with godly principles and give her tools in order to understand why we don’t agree with what she is learning in school. Seems pointless to have to jump through hoops for school, when you don’t agree with what you’re being taught. Or worse yet, to learn something in school that you don’t quite agree with, but it sits in your brain and you think it over, and it becomes part of your natural though processes. Elizabeth might be able to understand what we are saying about the books that she reads, but I’m not sure Emily will. She won’t understand the books, won’t understand why we object to them, and will get frustrated over it all. Is it worth it?