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Once again I’m posting this a week late, but here it is!

I’m in Romania!! I arrived three days ago and I’m currently living with the Christian Reformed World Relief Committee (CRWRC) Romania Team Leader’s family. My time with their family has been wonderful; the Team Leader and his wife have three kids and I have really enjoyed living with them. Sometime next week I’ll be moving into an apartment at a church across the street from the office. It will be nice to have an apartment, but I’ll also miss living with a family.

I start language lessons next week, which will be good. I was so proud to announce that I could order a chicken salad on day 2, but yesterday—day 3—I tried to order a salad and the man behind the counter immediately switched to English! But my self-esteem returned slightly this morning when I took the Metro all by myself to the office and made it just fine. I only had to say three words in Romanian the entire time, though, “Zece, mulţumesc,” (ze-che, multz-oo-mesk) “Ten, thank you.” Not that I fooled anyone anyway—the blond hair gives me away before I even attempt to open my mouth.

I received a Romanian Bible yesterday and it’s so exciting to find passages that I have memorized in English, because I can pick out what a lot of the Romanian words mean. That’s one nice thing about the Bible—the same words appear over and over again so it’s actually not that hard to figure out.

For those of you in Arkansas (I love you), here’s an interesting bit of information: the population of Bucharest is not much smaller than the entire population of Arkansas! I was reminded of this when I was leaving the Metro station today and I felt like almost all of Bucharest was going up the escalator at the same time. Two million Romanians who know exactly what they’re doing and one pasty blond ignorant American!

Here I am eating my sardines (yes, I like sardines) in my hotel room in Grand Rapids, MI. I’ve been contemplating my aloneness, the aloneness that happens everytime I leave. At the moment, it’s probably good that I’m alone since the sardine smell has left the room a little fishy. I’m back from training in Colorado and I miss being there. When I talked to my mom as I was leaving and said that I didn’t want to leave, she commented that I never want to leave where I am. This is only partially true. I love going new places and starting new adventures, but the sadness in leaving the people that I love (even if I have only known them for three weeks) is almost enough to make me never want to leave anyplace again. And I’ve made a habit of leaving for the last couple of years. So I guess that means I’m a sad person. I am sad, but in the midst of the sadness there is still the joy of what comes next and the memories of the people I’m leaving. It wouldn’t be so bad if the people just came with me wherever I go. Places are hard to leave, but they don’t love you back like people. I’m self-centered enough to think that life should revolve around me. My friends should follow me wherever I go and if they can’t do that, they should at least quit having fun when I’m not around.

On the flipside, I’m leaving for Romania in TWO WEEKS!! I am so excited! So here is the paradox: I am in deep sadness when leaving, while at the same time I can barely contain my joy in FINALLY leaving. MTI (Mission Training International) would be proud; they continually talked about the paradoxes in the life of a missionary. I’ve decided that I should no longer be called a “missionary”–it just brings negative stereotypes with it–call me a walking paradox instead.

This is the last week of training at Mission Training International (MTI), and I don’t want to leave. This place has been more of a home to me than anywhere else since the end of June. I’ve lived here longer, have made wonderful friends, and have gotten to live in a real Christian Community once again. And in many ways this community has been more rewarding than college even because of the more diverse nature of the participants (not just 18-22 years old). Probably the most important part of this community is that we are one in our purpose and understand each other. I have some family and friends that understand some of my life right now, but unless you are also raising support, preparing to leave the country for the indefinite future, moving more times in the past year than you can count, and are trying to explain the calling on your life, it is difficult to comprehend why I’m doing the things I do. It would be like me trying to understand someone taking the vows of a monk. It just doesn’t make sense to me, and I will never understand it fully unless I become a monk myself (which obviously won’t happen)!

You know you’re a missionary when an exciting weekend means crunching double in a car to see a fancy hotel (and you comment on how many more people you could have fit into the car)! Six of us crammed into a small five-person car this morning to visit the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs. Here’s a picture: a clown car of broke missionaries piling out to let the valet parker take the vehicle. Then we wandered inside, found free pretzels, and then borrowed some umbrellas to wander outside in the rain. For the cost of one night in the grand Broadmoor, we could be supported for weeks in another country. When we got there, we never felt comfortable in the glamour and fanciness of it all. It’s easier for me to conform to a culture of poverty then to fit in with wealth. Perhaps the biggest irony of my going to Romania is that my life there will be cushy compared to those in authority over me, as well as my life for the past year in Arkansas. I always said that I wanted to live my life in financial poverty, but God seems to be getting a little laugh about that. Why am I going to be relatively un-broke and comfortable in the midst of so many who have virtually nothing? My life in Romania certainly isn’t going to be like living in the Broadmoor, complete with valet parkers, guests who bring their parrots, a grand piano, ballroom, geese, heated outdoor pool, and lots of fancy fountains—of naked women naturally (although, bathing suits are optional in Romania!). But it will be more comfortable than sleeping in the corner of a kitchen in Little Rock. I’m not sure if I’ll be comfortable with that level of comfort–it’ll be out of my comfort zone, anyway (sorry!).

Me at Garden of the gods (I think it looks like a senior picture that I never had)

At the beautiful Broadmoor Hotel with some beautiful ladies

Thirsty?

WooHoo!!

I have a horrible stereotype to admit. When I hear the word “missionary,” I automatically think of a sixty-five year old, frumpy, single woman who doesn’t generally seem terribly happy. I apologize to all of those who might fit this description. It is for this reason that I am a little wary of admitting that I’m a missionary. But besides the sixty-five year old, frumpy, not terribly happy person part, I guess it fits. Which leaves a single woman who is having the time of her life. How many people get to have their dream come true and call it “work?” This is my life! I get to wander across the world, homeless and in need of clean clothes (not all of the time), meeting all sorts of amazing people. What more could I want?

I’ve realized recently that planning a commissioning service is akin to planning your own funeral. This isn’t morbid; it’s actually kind of fun! Just in case you didn’t know, I will be leaving in less than a month to live and work in Romania for at least two and a half years. I’m going with the Christian Reformed World Relief Committee (CRWRC) as a community development intern. The commissioning service is the send-off from my church the day before I leave. And now I keep getting emails and conversations full of questions about what songs I want to sing, and who I want to preach, and what passage I want preached, and what songs my friend, Melanie, should sing, and . . . you get the idea. My oldest brother may or may not be writing a song for me, and there will be a potluck after the service. Just like a funeral. Along the same lines as this, I recently accidentally told a friend that I was leaving on September 11 “for good.” She immediately said, “You better NOT be leaving for good!” And I backtracked by saying, “Well . . . for good, until I come back anyway.” But I realized later that what I said was true in its meaning. I am leaving for good, aren’t I? I certainly hope so. I’m not leaving “for bad,” right? Anything that’s done according to God’s will must be “for good,” because he is good (not safe, but good). So, I’m leaving for good. I hope you go somewhere for good as well.