Mythical Ice Cream Trucks

Growing up overseas, the ice cream truck was this magical thing that I read about in books and heard about on tapes (yes, tapes), but never got to experience for myself. Somehow, even during four years in college, these magical vehicles that dispense goodness to your front door never appeared. I began to think it was one of those stories from my parents’ childhood that hadn’t lasted. So imagine the scene when as a fresh graduate on assignment in Taiwan, I was languishing on my first evening in my new home in what felt like 115-degree August heat and suddenly perceived some music in the distance, Beethoven’s “Für Elise” to be exact. I gave it a minute or two to see if the sound was drawing nearer. My housemate, Jenn, down the hall suddenly confirmed my suspicions: “Guys, I think there’s an ice cream truck coming!”

I’ve never moved so fast in such heat. The two of us grabbed our wallets, which had been filled with colorful Taiwanese Dollars mere hours earlier, and dashed down the five flights of stairs. The tinny music was indeed getting closer, and neighbors started to join us on the sidewalk. "If they have Oreo, I'm getting that," I told Jenn. I was too excited to notice that instead of wallets, everyone else was clutching little plastic bags. The truck rounded the corner, and I probably clapped my hands giddily. That is until I noticed the ominous smell radiating toward me as the truck rolled relentlessly toward us, not stopping long enough for people to make any orders. Neighbors closest to the truck stepped off the curb and began tossing their little plastic bags into the back, retreating as quickly as they could. That is when our third housemate came home and in passing by us remarked, “Why are you two waiting for the garbage truck? We haven’t lived here long enough to make garbage yet.” What a let down!

More proof in my mind that ice cream trucks were an elusive thing of the past. Until last week.

Amanda and I went out around the neighborhood for a walk, when a familiar tinny sound reached my ears, and I shuddered slightly. (Oh right, did I mention that garbage truck came every single night of my 365-day sojourn in Taiwan and played nothing but "Für Elise"? It got old by Day 3.) She looked at me with smiling eyes, “Is that an ice cream truck?” “No, I’ve been fooled by that before,” I told her. Unperturbed, she dragged me home quickly and got her kids to come running outside with us. And to my shock: a little white van, non-smelly and covered in ice cream stickers, rounded the corner. They do exist!!!! 

I thought fondly of Taiwan and ate my Oreo bar.

That time I lived in Taiwan and drove a scooter to work. Pictured here with Jenn.

Another Blog I Once Wrote

 So, I'm a bit behind on posting my end-of-the-month blog, and I have nothing written. April has been a bit crazy ....

Thus, I present to you a highly fancy link to a blog I was privileged to write for my Sending Agency. The topic was "How to Create Authentically Christian Schools." Sub-title: "One Teacher's Opinion."

Enjoy

https://worldventure.com/how-to-create-authentically-christian-schools/

a misty morning in Oregon this month

Arms full of Love

My arms feel naked without the weight of a niece in them or the touch of their hair. Over the two months I was with them, I got used to our ritual of me braiding their curly locks and them massaging my shoulders. They’d race by me in their Hawaiian slippers, and I’d snag them out of a dead bolt, wrap them up completely, and say “Guess what?” And they’d roll their eyes and reply, “I already know: you love me” before escaping my grasp. The sticky cards of well-loved games are a little harder to miss, but I would take their sweaty foreheads resting on my shoulder again any day.

Instead of girls, my fingers are now wrapped around the steering wheel. In 4 days, I've pounded out roughly 1,500 miles of West Coast states peppered with stops at friends’ homes and my new favorite National Park. Initial hand waves after not seeing each other in years usually gives way to a tentative pandemic hug, and I’m grateful every time someone shoves a steaming mug of coffee into my hands. In Yosemite I grip the rocks as I haul myself up the 30%-grade hiking trail, let the frigid glacier water run over my fingertips, and play with a unique pine cone, little wisps of scales decorating its sides like a crown and poking me ever so gently.

The beauty around me is staggering at times. How unworthy and spoiled of a recipient am I? My hands are full of his gifts, none of which I earned, but all of which I’ll accept and say “I get it, Jesus: you love me.”

 
arms full of girls as I improve my handiwork of braiding

 

the ornate pine cone I sat on Fräulein-Maria style as I admire his handiwork in Yosemite

Memories of Frau Borovznik

When I was 6 years old, we moved into a new rental in Villach, Austria. I was mainly concerned with the lack of pink in my room and the huge backyard to be too concerned with the context of where we had moved. But it wasn’t very long before one of the new neighbor ladies, Frau Borovznik, came knocking. She had seen my brothers and me playing in the back and walking our new paths to new schools, and for some reason she was inviting me over to her house for games and a tea party. Looking back now, I’m somewhat shocked my mom said yes. Who lets their 6-year-old daughter inside a stranger’s house anymore these days?

One invite turned into multiple, and tea parties grew into regular dinners. Thus it was that over the next three years of living in that house, I spent roughly an evening a week in her small Austrian kitchen with the wood-burning stove, playing games. Frau Borovznik loved games: card games, word games, art games, board games, made-up games, all games. She’d ask me about school while we sipped our hot soup in the winter or cool elderflower juice in the summer, and I would secretly wonder if she was really this bad at Uno or letting me win. One time, she said the winner of Scattergories would get 10 Schillings, the equivalent of about 75 cents. When I won, my little 7-year-old self was suddenly afraid I had gambled, so I left the coin in the corner of my seat, but she found it and returned it to me the next day with a big grin on her face.

Every now and then Gabriel, her gardner, would join us for supper and games. He cultivated the most stunning array of flowers in the beds in front of the house, something I couldn’t really appreciate at that young age yet. Ahead of special holidays, Frau Borovznik and I would hunt through Gabriel’s masterpieces and create a bouquet of our own favorite selections. Then I’d accompany her on the 15-minute walk to the wooded cemetery up the road, where we would locate the plot with the headstone “Joseph Borovznik.” She would let me set our fresh bouquet into the vase while she lit a candle and said her Catholic prayers. 

She was a very devout woman. The first time she showed up on November 25 with a present for me, I was baffled. “Happy Name Day!” “But my birthday is in February,” I insisted. “Right, but it’s your patron saint name day, silly.” And who was I to complain about extra presents. I was a bit too self-preoccupied to ask her what her first name was and when her name day was. But then again I was 8.

That house ended up being the shortest one we would live in, barely three years, and right or wrong, I wasn’t too interested in riding a bus an hour across town to visit an old lady and her gardner. So last summer was the first time in a while I spent a large chunk of time in Villach, and I decided to walk the streets of the old neighborhood. There was a family playing in Frau Borovznik’s yard, mom hanging laundry on the line while her kids ran through the old flower beds, now mostly dried earth. I entered the cemetery, sure that I would never find the exact path she and I had walked 30 years earlier. But somehow, call it the guidance of the Spirit, I made all the correct turns and was suddenly standing in front of the amended marble: “Joseph & Maria Borovznik.” Her first name was Maria. I don’t know what kind of a marriage they had, but I do know she was a kind lady with a generous heart to take the foreign family’s little girl under her wing for a few years. And sometimes I miss her.

A picture from a hike last summer. Villach is down that valley to the right (south).

A Contemplation on Waves

Waves are amazing. I've had opportunity to observe a lot lately, from the scary high ones that only surfers and experienced Hawaiians dare enter to the soft lapping kind that kiss my toes. I'm learning about surf break and which waves are best for body surfing - exhausting work, by the way. There's something glorious about watching the shifting light dance on the surface of the waves, the consistent rhythm with which they make their way to the shore, the rush of sound when the break extends from one end of my view down to the other, and the silent humility when a finished wave slips underneath the oncoming one. Kids moan in agony as sand castles are stolen from them or squeal in delight as a powerful wave reaches the "pool" they've been digging for hours in the hopes it will fill with water. Twinkling eyes reflect the expanse before them. I see beauty and symmetry and fulfillment of dreams as shoulders relax as both those in need of a thrill and those in need of rest sit in the sand and contemplate the power before them.

So many analogies come to mind as I stare at the ocean: the consistent work of the Holy Spirit in my life that is faithful yet can shift from gentle whisper to volatile pounding as needed. Or how about the idea that I can take my place in a line-up of faithful witnesses, leave my mark, and then recede out again in the humility of a life well lived. Perhaps the waves are the deceptive, sparkle of the evil one that comes ashore and wipes out distinctions or sand castles in an attempt to dull everything, and it's my job to build up defenses. Or there's the truth that God knows exactly what each person needs, whether a wake-up call to adventure or a soothing hour in his presence removing the weight from one's shoulders. A searching mind can find comparisons galore.

However, in this moment, the greatest contentment I find is in the non-meaning-making. A deep satisfaction overcomes me as I sit, watch, enjoy, and praise. What a creative mind our God has to think up something as simple as waves.

Enjoy some Photos of the last 2 Weeks

While reflection is happening, there hasn't been much time to write, so please enjoy these 1,000-word pictures: Valentine's Day, hiking with the nieces, Scott preaching, cake, hammock time, beach time with Lizzie, outside eating with her and Amanda, a Japanese temple, a tree on a peninsula, my HE>I bag, and beach with the family.

That In-Between Mess

I was comfortably ensconced in the hammock on the deck. The sun was setting behind the dramatic Koolaus on Oahu's windward side, and a cool breeze whispered of the night about the fall. Next to me, two nieces were taking turns running at the wall that hid the staircase behind it, grabbing the rail, and hanging on while I counted to see who could keep their feet off the ground longer. Their infectious giggles made it hard to keep the pace while I counted.

At one point, the game shifted from how long they could hold on to how high off the ground their feet dangled. Megan jumped, dropped, and sadly stated, “That was just an inch, wasn’t it.” So she tried again, launching herself with all her might and looking at me expectantly from her dangling position. 

“Sorry, 1 inch again,” I told her.

She dropped back further this time, squared her shoulders, and gave it another running leap with all her might.

“1 inch or 1 foot?” she asked.

I laughed. Those were her only options: 1 inch or 1 foot. There was no room for anything in between.

Don’t we all wish growth happened that way? Suddenly and in giant spurts, from one leap to the next without the painful process of having to develop muscles first or practice over and over again? We want to be better without having to become better. At least I do.

But of course, there are all the benefits of slow growth: the adjustment our arms need to make to pull us up higher, the learning our brains need to hold more information, the development of our emotions to be more empathetic, the stretching of our faith to trust God will prove himself faithful over and over again. We aren’t wired to jump over the in-between stuff, as much as we want to, and in the end we wouldn’t be who we are. It takes time to go from 1 inch to 2 to 3 to 4 all the way to 12. 

And that’s a good thing. It reminds us of God’s patience in expectations, of his confidence and desire even in our struggle and misstep. May I never grow weary in the slow process, as long as I’m persevering. ½ inch at a time.

Megan swinging on a vine