Minimalism and Me

 

I did not grow up in a minimalist home. As a child of the eclectic 80’s whose parents were children of the booming 50’s whose parents had survived the Great Depression of the 30’s, I was instilled with the values of saving most everything. Random items could be repurposed into all kinds of treasures like door-stop commentaries and upside-down CD centerpieces, and you never knew when that 10-liter bag of powdered sugar on sale would come in handy. Truth be told, I didn’t mind the many knick-knacks that lined shadow boxes and reminded me of our family travels or the fact that our city apartment had every sports equipment a kid could want for the park or that we generally had the ingredients handy to whip up any midnight snack. Things were organized and cared for (mostly), and the clutter - if it can be called that - was comfort; it was home.

Still, like many Millenials, I have been at least partially drawn to the minimalist trend of the past few years. Credit Marie Kondo, if you wish, but I think the appeal was there before her spark of joy philosophy. My artistic friends wanted to create an aesthetic, clean, designed look in their homes. Stressed-out friends hoped to rid their living space of unneeded toys or clothes in an attempt to pare down the required upkeep. Conscientious friends desired to reduce their environmental impact by buying and owning less. And I wanted those things, too, having always valued experiences over possessions anyway. 

Yet at the same time, it felt impossible. I watched with envy while these friends swept through their homes, tossing items into garbage bins without regret. They would purchase the perfect contraption that could fulfill the function of three others and sell the superfluous ones on Facebook Marketplace. It was like a game. How small of a backpack could you carry onto the plane and still meet all your needs for that weekend trip? Every time I tucked a laundry basket under my arm and walked from shelf to shelf, I would talk myself out of tossing it. That tattered Chinese fan I never touch? Well that was given to me by sweet Rosemary whom I still try to pray for. That stand-alone Russian teacup? That belonged to my Aunt Barb and is dripping with sentimental value since her passing. That novel set I read in high school? It changed my view of Christ, so while I don’t intend to re-read it, I can’t toss it! You can see how poorly the process goes for me.

Thus it was with almost instant relief that I recently heard a podcaster speak about her slightly twisted philosophy on the minimalist trend: Love the things you have. “Yes!” I shouted in the car. In the decluttering process, I can’t help but wonder how many people have purged themselves of items they actually liked for the sake of living more simply. Personally, I can’t fathom living in a sterile home, so opposite of the one of my childhood. The idea that you get rid of something that has outlived its purpose or receives no love from you and keep the items you still love or - best yet - actively choose to love the things you keep strikes a chord. It feels much more true to who I am: someone attempting to be purposeful and intentional with her purchases and possessions yet filling her heart with gratitude and love. Jesus, help me.

The luggage for my trip to see Rachel last weekend.

Class of 2021

 On Saturday, I woke up at 6 am to watch the live stream of BFA's Graduation Ceremony. I cheered, I laughed, I cried, and I was so proud. These were some of my favorite "kiddos" back in Middle School, the 7th graders who welcomed me back from my first long Home Assignment with joy and excitement, even though they didn't know me from a stranger on the street.

As I look at this picture from their 8th grade trip to Lugano Switzerland, various memories flood my mind. I see Joe and instantly remember his attempt at an Italian accent when he was trying to sell me pizza. Sweet Esther opened up with me on the hike during this trip and shared vulnerably about how hard it was being compared to her younger sister all the time, even though she had incredible athletic talents herself. I recall the students who were both new and who walked some of the roughest transitions I've witnessed, but have absolutely shined in high school to the point where both of them received the character award for intense Personal Growth. Well deserved, Lizzy and Daniel. Jaedon and Beth wowed us on stage while Melody and Joel stole our hears on the court. And sweet Sarah - how could we not beam with pride when she became only the second ever female Student Body President; her soft-hearted and clear-visioned leadership in this COVID year was invaluable.

I have nothing left to say but that my prayers go with you, Class of 2021. "Be sure to fear the LORD and serve him faithfully with all your heart; consider what great things he has done for you!" (1 Samuel 12:24).

Double Emotions

Jan was so proud as she flipped the puzzle box around and watched my face as I eyed the inner-workings of a human head. Skull and sinews, nerves and blood vessels, brains and teeth, even a realistic eyeball, it was all there.

“So cool! And so creepy!” 

It was weird how intense both emotions were inside of me. Touching the pieces made me cringe a little bit at the thought of the muscles inside my own neck and how they were tensing and working even now to hold up my head. Jan pointed out the thyroid to me, and I was done swallowing my tea for a while. Clearly I was not created to be a scientist, and yet it was really cool to learn English terms for all the body parts I’d last discussed in my German-speaking high school biology class. I was repulsed and fascinated!

I’ve lived enough years to know that the coexistence of two seemingly contrary emotions is a perfectly normal thing, and yet still it takes me by surprise. Transition always highlights this phenomenon more than any other time. It is the end of May already; my time in America has dwindled from 12 months down to 7 weeks! And as I pack and prepare to move back to Germany, I’m both elated to return and sad to leave. Joy and grief. Sorrow and delight.

“Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief.” Prov 14:13.

I read this verse on Thursday and wondered about flipping it as well: “Even in heartache, there can be laughter, and the end of grief may be joy.” They’re both true. Simultaneously. When I am dropped off at the airport on July 19, there is no doubt I will cry with sadness at saying good-bye to Amanda and her beautiful family who have provided a haven for me. At the same time, Ellen and I will screech with excitement to be boarding that plane and returning home, to feel like we’re being put back into the game. I can’t wait to be reunited with my favorite prayer team, and yet I grieve saying good-bye to the Best Small Group Ever at my home church.

I guess I’m not really saying anything new with this blog, just pausing to acknowledge that a skinless puzzle has reminded me how I am indeed in this phase again: fully in sorrow and fully in joy.

Our finished product!

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).