A sunset over Korçë
People told me it would be hard when I stepped into overseas ministry five weeks after saying "I do."
I wish I could say those five weeks in between were restful, rejuvenating, and prepared me for what awaited me in Albania. But the truth is, we slept 19 different places in 35 days. We moved my things out of my former roommates' house and stayed up until 3am packing 6 suitcases with wedding gifts and the things from my life that were important enough to bring halfway across the world. We spoke at churches, were given another wedding reception, and drove 862 miles to see my grandma. I met dozens of the people who are my husband's community in San Diego and said my goodbyes to the ones who are my community. We saw ancient ruins* in Mexico and visited Disneyland and the San Diego Zoo, thanks to people's generosity. Then we went to the British Museum when we had to stay in London on the way to Albania. We carried a sewing machine through five airports. We spent hours trying to get our borrowed car out of a tow yard. It was a wild, wonderful, and sometimes tearful ride and we couldn't have done it without the help of our parents and friends.
Then we arrived home and slept for 19 hours straight.
And home meant new things.
It meant Luke.
It meant that when I left the house I greeted people with "Mirëdita" or "përshëndetje" and said "faleminderit" when the lady at the store gave me my change.
It meant sitting and smiling with a group of women in a village during Bible study, without understanding more than a few words of what was going on.
It meant saying, "I'm sorry, I'm learning Albanian and I don't understand very well." Saying it often enough that people would tell me, "No, you speak very well."
And eventually it meant saying, "Watch it. I understand more than you think."
It meant learning to follow God in a new way… a way that meant commitment to one place instead of options and maybes and "I wonder if this is it" thinking.
And one day after another, one moment full of meaning followed by another that seems so mundane, and we are almost at a year of marriage.
I've learned a lot.
And yet, I feel much less smart than when I arrived.
There are moments I wouldn't trade for anything… like finding Luke waiting for me after a language lesson, hanging out with three young street kids and a street puppy. The street kids know our names. They come to me for hugs and often ask Luke for something to eat. We bought them sandwiches that night and as we walked away from the shop one of them reached up and held my hand. My heart melted… then they ran off into the night and I washed my hands as soon as possible. Heart melting or not, there's only so much I want to ask of my immune system.
Or like listening in on Luke's Bible study with the young men. They met in our apartment yesterday after church and talked about the life of Peter. I was encouraged to hear so many of the guys getting in on the discussion. Luke told me later some of what they were saying and I was even more encouraged. It's exciting to see that their spiritual understanding is growing.
There are moments of disappointment too.
We invited the teenage girls in the village for an afternoon of Christmas crafts. Two girls came. After discussing the way I'd invited them we realized that they might not have seen the invitation. So we did it again the next week inviting each girl personally. And nobody came.
Luke reminded me that everything here is about relationships. That's what this was supposed to be, I thought. I want to build relationships with the girls, but it's difficult when they are in the village and I am in the city. I know it will be better when we live in the village. Right now, all I can do is invite myself over to their home or invite them to the church building. The first is awkward to me and the second is apparently not appealing to them. But when we live there it will be possible to say "Come over and have a coffee. Bring your knitting if you want." In the village, there are coffee places but girls don't go. It's a men-only environment. Women and girls get together in each other's homes.
I long to have that community with them. To invite them to feel comfortable in my home.
And yet I wonder if I'm ready.
My language skills are growing, but even trying to have a conversation by myself can easily become challenging. "Fjalet! S'kam fjalet…" The words! I don't have the words.
One of the most difficult things this year has been learning to function in a different way than I ever have before. It's exhausting and the exhaustion leads to discouragement. My mind gets confused about whether English is still the primary language or if it should retrieve the word I'm looking for in Albanian instead. I feel like I'm living in slow motion, but time is moving more quickly than ever. I lose thoughts in the middle of thinking them.
I feel fragile. And I desperately miss feeling on top of things.
And yet, I suspect both of those are just feelings.
Still, I wonder if I can handle the villagers… their expectations and the culture clash.
The expectations of a spotless home, a young bride who should be (but is not) expecting a baby by the first anniversary, who should know the right things to say and that it's her job to offer the candy to the visitors.
They can surprise me though. There is a boy about 13 years old who comes to the program and is learning to play guitar in the music classes afterward. He uses my guitar for his lessons and we've had some conversations about how exactly he is to handle it. He likes to make fun of me for having a guitar and not really knowing how to play it. Or for anything really that is outside his experience as a 13 year old shepherd from a poor family in a small village. Several days ago I was having a hard time and he saw me and started to make fun… but then he stopped and asked me, more seriously, "How are you?" I said I was ok and he asked further. "Have you been upset?" I didn't know what he meant exactly, but the question surprised me with its kindness. "I've been sick," I told him, which was true. "People get sick," he said, again in a kind way, and continued, "…then they get better," as if to remind me that life goes on.
Maybe he has learned something in his 13 years that I've yet to learn in my 30.
I so often look at the challenge of living here the wrong way… the American way of "get it done!" Life should be successful and success is measured in results, right?
But that's not how life works here.
And maybe it's not even how life works at all.
Maybe life isn't in the getting done. Maybe it's in the doing. Maybe it's not "staying well" and "functioning at top capacity" that means I'm alright. Maybe the cycle of getting sick and getting better is what's normal.
Maybe struggle and pain and success are all part of the same path.
In a nutshell, to all of those who told me it would be hard… eh… you weren't kidding. To those who said it would be hard and then prayed for me…. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. To those who have walked beside me here in Albania and through encouraging emails, etc… you are a blessing beyond words. I thank God for you.
(*edit... this said "pyramids" before... but I just realized that's not what we saw.)
