Living Together Beautifully

Well, so far so good, but we know how quickly throwing 40 internationals together to live, eat, sleep and create together can go sideways.  Self cultures join Incarnate culture, nestled in Kingdom culture, nested in Italian culture.  So Orientation Week is a crash course in how to Live Together Beautifully: 

Boundaries!!!

Social Policy: romantic entanglements off limits: “Fire in your heart means smoke in your brains!”
 
"Describe, Interpret, Evaluate."  Don't assume or be quick to judge someone's actions or facial expressions (or lack thereof).

The Kolb Learning Cycle: Have an Experience.  Reflect on it.  Develop a Theory. Test the Theory.

How do you learn best? Activist, Pragmatist, Reflector or Theorist? 

Introvert or Extrovert? 

Is your culture Reveal or Conceal?  Directed or Directive?  Informal or Formal?  Traditional or Innovative? Time oriented or People Oriented? Is status Ascribed or Achieved?  Is communication Direct or indirect? Turn around and look at whose hand is raised.

As we fumbled through classroom, dining, and bus schedules, we learned the copier, laundry, and kitchen clean up and set up routines.  We asked our students, who had just crossed cultures, to manage jet lag, settle quickly into new quarters with a roommate possibly from another country, who maybe doesn’t speak the same language, and may be 4 decades older than you.  Eat a new cuisine.  Get to know the staff--juggling multiple administrative, relational, technical, teaching, logistical and communication tasks, while wifi and internet blink on and off. Don't forget to goof off! 

After a tour of the facility, their studios, and small group meeting rooms, students jumped into a tightly compressed schedule, and joined a small group with whom we hope they will bond over the next three months.  They learned we will run "Swiss time," and worship in a variety of styles, and maybe have different theological leanings. Don't be afraid to lean into the differences, and ask questions (employing all the intercultural intelligence you can muster!

Are we exhausted and withdrawing or curious and exploring?   

Now we're thinking about supplies to pick up this weekend, or the logistics of taking all 40 of us up the mountain for our first field trip--to the leading high school in Italy for ceramics.  The catch: we only have one 9-seater van...

Our students managed magnificently, and today we enjoyed a much-needed Sabbath rest.  Where will God take this amazing, dynamic, just-a-bit-crazy community?

God alone knows, but in the meantime, I am daily adding vocabulary to my Italiano: Compro, ogni, ieri, nemici, settamani, al buio, giusto, broccoli, se, utile, Noi abbiamo...

Maybe I'll get to Bancomat tomorrow, or get the laundry done, or set up my art space.  But for now, time to call it a day and enjoy the dogs barking till midnight as I drift off to dreams of mountains, mobs and olive groves.  Buona notte! 

One Week Later…

Jet lag notwithstanding, the week took off with a blistering pace—as much as you can ‘blister’ in jet lag—to get our ducks in a row.  Learning how to get around the campus, meeting the Italian staff and volunteers, goats and baby goats, dogs and puppy dog, and a Shetland pony; stumbling through introductions, pronunciations, fracturing the language as the Italians fracture ours. 

Learning the kitchen routine—recycling, courtesy (don’t throw any food out), schedules, names of plates, foods, condiments. Setting up our office, main classroom/ library/worship center—not only with furniture, copiers, printers, office supplies and desks, but space heaters to ward off the frosty conditions as radiators failed in the cold snap.

By Tuesday our tech wizards had the AV system set up—an heroic effort—and within days we were fully functional (more or less) on internet and wifi.  Computers passed to the wizards to download necessary softwares for videos and audio clips in teaching sessions.  Passwords entered, memorized or written down.  Downloading What’s App to communicate with one another. 

Setting up our own living quarters.  Food shopping, finding out where the cafes, drug stores, ATMs, laundromat and supermarkets are. 

Setting up my own apartment: the heating system, shower, stove and recycling routine.  Meeting Mico the cat.  Learning I needed to keep all technology out of sight, and the curtains drawn when I go out, as there have been a number of thefts in the neighborhood.  Walking the roads around me to find the best views and trails ( a work in progress).  Discovering a vineyard and olive grove along the way.  Streams. 

Discovering I have a wonderful bed (praise be to God), and a tiny shower (don’t turn too fast). 

Combining English, Italian, French and German in conversation with my host family, to figure out the mysteries of the heating system, shower, stove and recycling routine…enjoying a pizza with them, and Theresa’s honey cakes, and learning her washing machine (maiden voyage: tomorrow).  Sharing a ride to church.  Enduring two hours in Italian, jotting down words, mashing my French/English/Italian together in an effort to talk with those who greet me.  Meeting the artists.  Invitations to meals, coffee, studio exhibits.

Staff meetings, prayer meetings, team meetings and meetings with the Italian staff. Syncing up on all materials, programs, curriculum, reviewing student files, portfolios and applications.  Crunching numbers and navigating GPS failures.  

Discovering Granny’s Attic and hauling furniture down, for our living, working, studio or teaching spaces. Setting up rooms for the creative disciplines and small group meeting rooms. Discovering artwork stored there in 2010, after the Artslink outreach; discovering one of my own pieces propped up in the hallway. 

 

Laying the dance floor, taking pictures, posting comments, praying over the rooms for the arrival of the students tomorrow, distributing spiritual and actual chocolates on pillows.  Learning the history of the place.

Arrivals of three more of our staff, and praying for the luggage that didn’t make it.  Preparing our first worship service together, and enjoying one meal after another.  Poring over dictionaries or Google Translate.  Practicing said fractured Italian. 
 
Miracolo--we got traction within days, each one busy with individual tasks, friend-making, explorations, reactions and adaptations.  I have one word for the week: buono!  (Buona?)  A Sabbath breather, a Sabbath walk, a visit to a local church, an evening to recover from immersion. 

In the morning: Week 2 begins.  

And just like that…

Leaving CT to head to NY, to fly out to Rome, to take a bus to Teramo, to be fetched by car to Isola.  One week and one day, 2 airport runs, and 33 hours later (for that last NY-Isola leg), my geographic journey is done.  

I stow the carry-ons and strap myself in to seat 20C for the plane ride.  All departure tasks are done or on hold.  No last minute errands, glitches, phone calls, or curve balls.  Everything stops now for the voyage.  The deep exhale familiar to the seasoned traveler--now I only have to sit in a plane.  

I have a window seat and no seat mate—a mercy.  Mind, body and spirit are somewhat numb and need to be decanted.  I’m also in a window seat; bathroom breaks are easier than waking or climbing over a sleeping seat-mate.  The snacks arrive. 

I dig out reading material and computer, but mostly I will relax and enjoy the journey.  Watch the movie.  Eat the dinner.  Rehearse the truths, the memories, the dreams.  Anticipate the next 3 mos.--passionate work, Italian cuisine, the mountains, language and cultural adapatations, a new home to settle into, reunions with dear friends and colleagues, expecting to make new ones. Digesting, while preparing a feast.  Recalibration.

A party erupts behind me with 4 people clustered to socialize just as the fuselage lights go out for sleeping.  Dang.  I sleep well enough though, another mercy. 

Arriving in Rome, I follow the pack to Customs, breeze through the kiosk with my Irish passport, and marvel at the upgrade Fiumicino has had since I last came through.  I forget about the cigarette smoking but not about the coffee, which I order up while waiting for my bus to Isola.  Maxi Cappuccino: 2,50. 

I watch the nuns and priests go by, and note shoe fashion--boots and the thing with sneakers--hairdos, veils, saris, jackets, coats and jewelry. 

A congenial, fast-talking bus driver pulls in and starts bust-a-moving: Destination?  Luggage?  Payment or invoice?  I manage with rudimentary Italian and hand gestures (their second language).  We are loaded quickly and efficiently; I text all parties tracking my voyage, grateful for wifi on the bus, looking up at the palm trees and darkening skies.  Snow is predicted. 

We exit the airport along a long alley of a highway, to dozens of flagpoles flanking and saluting us on either side, with the fluttering flags of Italy and the EU.  I feel regal.  

The parasol pines--I forgot about them and smile immediately upon seeing them again.  A flock of white birds that look like egrets fill a green field.  Low-hanging clouds fill the sky and in the distance, shroud the spine of mountains to which we are headed: L’Aquila & Teramo.

Familiar French chain stores also bring a smile: Leroy Merlin, Carrefour and Total.  And on the highway: Renaults and Peugeots.  Some international staples, like IKEA and the trance-like stare into iPhones (if not loud conversations in several languages) on the bus. The blue highway signs.  The palm and cypress trees, first glimpse of an olive grove.  First hillside towns.

As we ascend, the temp drops, as does the snow, from mountaintop to hillside to field to road.  The clouds lower again and we study the sky, wondering if we will beat the snow.  I shoot a quick prayer that my connection will be on time, and/or there will be a bus shelter to wait in if not, and/or the fitful freezing rain stop long enough for me to transfer luggage and myself into another vehicle.

 Not to worry.  The freezing rain changes to snow as we arrive in the bus terminal, and as I unload the luggage, a kindly-faced elderly man taps me on the shoulder.  “Pat? Gianpierro”—my chauffeur!  I silently bless him for being on time.  Stunning punctuality by both the bus driver and him--for Italy.

Gianpierro and I exhaust our tiny vocabularies of each other’s language, and just as well.  I’m tired, and he needs to focus: it’s snowing well now as we wind our way to Isola, and getting dark.  Gianpierro threads the narrow mountain roads to a country house, in which is my apartment. 

Marco, Teresa and Pascal meet me at the door—all smiles—and our tiny vocabularies of each other’s languages is quickly exhausted…Marco calls for a translator and we go over what I need to know about lights, oven, recycling, shutters, keys and showers.  My mind locks up on Italian and instructions but we’re done soon.  Teresa gives me a big hug and tells me to rest well.  We are going to be friends before this is over, I predict.  (And we’re each going to learn a lot of each other’s languages!)  They live upstairs.  I have a downstairs living area and and an upstairs bed and bath. 

And just like that, I am in a new country, a new home, a new lifestyle, for three months.  From the salt marshes of my home town to the Abruzzo region of Italy. Time  to stop now, thank God for safe passage into Italy and up the mountain, and into an inviting home. 

Now I lay me down to sleep…

LEAST LIKELY SUSPECTS

It was a dark and stormy night.  I was scheduled to meet with a small group at a local church--was it worth it?  My host didn't think so, guessing that only 2-3 people would be there, given the weather, and that it was summer.

"People are away or not motivated," she reminded me. 

"True.  But let's see what happens," I replied, and pushed myself out the door. 

When I arrived, there were my three, faithfully gathered.  One, a visitor, asked if I knew where the leader was.  No, I answered, I'm a guest.  She offered me a chair, and we sat and waited.  Off to a good start, I thought.   

While we sat, I learned the visitor was the daughter of an old friend of mine at the church.  We enjoyed chatting and sharing news, while the other couple nodded approvingly.

The leader burst in then, looking harried, blurting out an apology--"I forgot about tonight!" and ushered us into the meeting room.  

We took our seats around a table and he asked me what we were supposed to do.  I made a suggestion, he nodded, and off I launched into a brief history of my ministry.  A few minutes later, a single mom came in, with her daughter, and sat down next to me (the daughter fixing me with an unnerving stare).  I lost my train of thought, but now we were six.

Regaining my composure, I returned to my story, when my new visitor friend began coughing and sneezing uncontrollably.  I hesitated.  

"Are you okay?" I asked, "Do you need a glass of water?"

"I think I better leave," she apologized. "I'll just be disruptive."  

"No," declared our leader, "I think Pat should pray.  You've been talking about healing in France; why don't you pray for it here?"  Yikes.  How did we get to this?!

I hesitated again, looked at the miserable, coughing, sneezing woman, who was looking at me with hopeful eyes.  So she has faith, I thought.  

"Would that be okay with you?" I asked her. 

"Oh yes!" she brightened. 

"Ok then!"  I asked the leader to join me and we each laid a hand on her shoulders.  I invited the others to pray with us, and then asked God to unclog whatever was clogged, dry up the congestion and...can I just say I didn't have a lot of courage at this point?!   

"My left nostril just opened!" the woman exclaimed, interrupting my cowardice and startling us all.  

"Praise God!" the single mom rejoined, and the fervency of prayer dramatically increased. 

On we prayed and the woman began inhaling more and more deeply, as if coming up from underwater, and was soon weeping, 

"I've not been able to do that for years!"  

What  joy filled that room. Our 'ordinary world' had just gone spectacular.  As we finished our prayer time, the woman, completely healed, glowed with gratitude and joy. 

I drove back in that dark and stormy night, shaking my head.  Worth it?  Absolutely, and why I continue to meet with any and every group or person that wants to hear more of what I'm doing.  You just never know when God is going to show up.  Within the month, I had three checks from a very grateful small group that had been touched by God. 

My own touch from God was to encourage me again to  press on into two of the most perplexing mysteries of my life and faith: raising funds for ministry and healing.  I've learned that I need to keep showing up and praying, because you never know when God is going to show up.  And it seems that the more I show up, the more He does. 

“I Don’t Want to be Like You!"

Hallway conversations that begin like this have pretty much only one way to go. I had one at SALT, but they are common enough that I can give you a profile:

The speaker is a young lady, in her late 20’s or maybe early 30’s, and single.  She comes, like Nicodemus, for a clandestine conversation: she is considering missions, but is terrified that she’ll end up like me: 60 something and single.  I represent her worst nightmare, its personification, to which she is irresistibly drawn.

A pleasant greeting perhaps, with a request to talk with me, disintegrates quickly as she blurts out, “I don’t want to be like you!”


To the average young woman, a lifetime of singleness looms as a primal fear.  God has not yet answered prayers for a husband, and she is aging out of the marriage pool.  Watching her friends marry off, one by one, she wonders when--if--it will be her turn.  Missions will only complicate matters.

She is afraid of God, afraid of her call, afraid to take the risk.  I wish I had a nickel for every conversation I’ve had like this. 

I let her pour out her heart. Inevitably the verbal eruption subsides and she melts a bit, having found a sympathetic ear, one that has the mileage.  A few tears start falling when I ask her how she knows the future.
My script is relatively short.  I’ve learned to cut to the chase: to talk about the Threshold Guardians of fear in her heart.

“There are no guarantees,” I promise.  “No conditions you can make.  Are you going to follow Jesus or not?  Are you going to trust him for marriage or contentment in singleness?”

It's a bucket of cold water, I know.  But also the reality check needed to rout lies and fear from an anxious mind.  We end in prayer, rehearsing the truths, and say goodbye with a hug. 

I almost never hear from her again.  I’m not sure if I’ve salvaged any calls by these converstations, but I know each one has had one more chance to face her Threshold Guardians and move past them. I hope to meet every one of these precious women in heaven, having successfully completed their Hero’s Journey: the call to follow Christ.  Unconditionally.  Single or married.  God bless them.

Round II: Don't Pray!

Day 2 at the airport began with the joy of reunion with my team, and catching up on the past 6 months.  But the mood deteriorated minute by minute as my chances of getting out on the same flight began slipping away.  Two others on our team were in the same boat as me, flying standby. One bailed, and the other was about to. 

I talked with Teri about how the difficulty in understanding this when literally hundreds of people were praying for us.  And while it was a small matter in the grand scheme of things, it mattered. 

We compared it to Teri’s situation, dealing with cancer; in spite of literally thousands of prayers going up globally for her, Teri was not healed (though thankfully on the road to recovery).  We puzzled over the mysteries of unanswered prayer, from the frustrating inconveniences to life-threatening ordeals.  Puzzling scenarios that defied explanation, yet we believed were in God’s design.

By now, our team of 10 was scattered all around the large waiting area.  I wandered over to discuss options with another standy-by-ee, about to bail.  We had one option to fly into Amsterdam and catch a train then down to Brussels—an option with a $120 price tag she wasn’t so willing to pay.  Would I?  I offered to go research train schedules while we waited, and she’d discuss it with her husband.

I headed back to where Teri sat with my computer.  As I walked I wondered if I should post requests again on FB, and email, but wasn’t “feeling it.”  All this communication was getting kind of ‘old,’ wasn’t it?  Was I over-communicating?  And though I didn’t want to admit it, to be honest, I had just lost faith in that course of action.

Why was I soliciting prayer?  Was it as simple as just wanting to get on the plane?  Was I feeling sorry for myself, or fearful that my prayers wouldn’t work?  I didn’t know, but until I did, I knew it would do no good to pray without faith for something I didn’t believe in. 

“Yes, I don’t think I can pray in good conscience,” I concluded, and nearly tripped as the Lord interrupted to agree, “Yes, don’t pray.”

I stopped in my tracks, stunned.   Was that really God saying that?  Linda and Hannah, sitting a few feet in front of me, looked up in surprise. “You ok?” 

I blurted out the update.  As Linda began to say, “We need to pray,” I corrected her: “No, I think the Lord just told me not to pray.”

You can imagine the look on their faces, but I was so convinced, I didn’t have time to explain.  I headed over to Teri; she would have more context because of our previous conversation. 

“You can excommunicate me later but I think that’s what I heard!” I called over my shoulder.

I repeated to Teri what I had told Linda and Hannah.   She agreed that it made sense and it resonated completely with her.  Motivation of the heart was key.  

“I need to go for a walk,” I told Teri.  “I need to sort this out more.”  She nodded and off I went, pacing the long corridor of the international airport, asking God to show me my heart.  Linda caught up with me to see if I was ok, and I asked her to pray with me, and we did. 

For some reason as we finished praying, I began to sing some hymn I knew.  Up and down the corridors of the airport, we then marched, arm in arm.  Not militantly, more like tourists, only we were looking for something no airport shop could sell.  I had the feeling that whatever I couldn’t figure out in this scenario was being healed just by that simple act.
As we strolled we sang whatever hymns and praise songs we could remember, and then turning at the end of the corridor to sing some more.  On one turn, I joked to Linda, “He didn’t say not to worship!”  And the light bulb came on.

Don’t pray, worship. 

I thought of Paul held prisoner with Silas, and how they prayed from their jail cell.  Not exactly comparable circumstances, but I too was being held captive by a system and needed to get free.  Freedom would come with the sacrifice of praise.

We laughed, and all the frustration of the past two days evaporated.  Joy, lightness and delight flooded in.  I remembered the verse I had read when I first set out, in the coffee shop:

“Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger.”—Ps. 8:2 

I thought of all those negative thoughts that were trying to penetrate - put to silence by praise.  

Linda was reassured that I hadn’t lost my mind, and I had my prayer of faith.  Whatever happened now, I would continue to worship, and see when God would open up a flight for me.

Boarding began, we waved our team off, the doors closed, and we waited.  Within minutes the announcement came: no seats.  I was sent home once again.  Only this time with a pearl of great price.

Groundstop

Two  hours later, we took off, arriving in Atlanta about 11:30 pm.  Assured there would be an agent at the exit to help us with our connections, we deplaned.  Our tiny Asian agent was there alright, swaying with exhaustion as I asked her help. 

“You wouldn’t believe what happened here today,” she stammered, eyes flickering with fatigue.  Yep, I would, and asked about my luggage.  She recovered some professionalism enough to wave me to the right—“It will take three hours.  Go to Gate B19.”

A few dozen feet away, there was B19, easily identifiable by the long line snaking down the corridor away from it.  Hundreds of people.  

I worked my way through the sea of people running, wandering, on their phones, iPads or laptops, or sleeping on the floor, draped over chairs or each other, pillows made out of backpacks and laps.  Trolleys of snacks and drinks were parked everywhere, and blankets and travel kits were being distributed.  I got on the line.

Rich and Silvi were going to pick me up.  I texted to tell them I had arrived.  

“We’re here!” Silvi texted back.  "Where are you?"

"On a line!” 

20 min. later, I was rerouted to another gate....wait
....wait....wait...only to be told this agent didn’t handle international flights, only domestic.  Back to B19.  I detoured at another gate with a shorter line, grabbing some snacks and a travel kit. 

Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  Rebook, secure luggage arrangements for tomorrow, text Silvi and Rich.  Emerge. 

Silvi found me first and scooped me up in that big hug so needed at the end of 18 hours of travel.  We drove to Susan’s, who was going to put me up for the night, babbling all the way, making arrangements for tomorrow.…um, later today…

Rich would bring my computer into the office and see to getting it some badly needed service.  Our ride to the airport was at 2 pm, when I could pick it up.  Maybe some of us could get lunch tomorrow?  I texted my team to say I would be joining them in the van, sans luggage.   

Entering Susan’s home, exhaling.  She had fallen asleep while waiting and the two of us, bleary-eyed and bone weary, hugged, said, “Good night!” and staggered off to bed. 

And what traveler, at the end of 19 hours, wouldn’t smile on finding this:

Ok, maybe a guy...but thank you Rich, Silvi, and Susan!  My true sanctuary and friends.