Where my Heart Lives

It has been 14 years since I left Austria, and still my soul feels slightly more alive inside its borders than perhaps anywhere else, even if it no longer quite feels like home. Here's a mini attempt to capture some of my love.

A Year in Red-White-Red

Fluttering red banners beckon the brave
“Slide up my oil-slicked May tree”
Double-headed eagle soaring above
White-tipped Alps studded with mountain goats
Cowbells echoing blissfully from Alms
Summer’s delight to hike 800-year old masonry

Trade in Holundersaft below fountainheads
For red-leafed glory on pressed wool jackets
Eating Speck on spacious pastures with view
Toward white sails dotting the lake
October bells peal the approach of coffee time
Reminding of seasons, tradition, and apple strudel

Forcing chins deeper into felted red scarves
Old-style wooden sled drags behind
Leading to mugs of Jägertee on the mountain,
Where knees knock to accordion music
Beats count out stars scintillating like diamonds
Across the snow-white playing field

Melt into warm white rays of March
Bouncing off onion-domed steeples
Drink from the glacier-purified brook to
Twirl my flowered Dirndl at Salamanca’s feast
Catching red embers of fire masters
And repeat again colored stripes of home

Photo credit: jessgibbsphotography.com

A Day in the Life of a History Teacher: Competition Day

I checked my watch again while Brittany stopped the group to check directions. Were we going to make it? We studied the French street signs cluttered with extra letters no one pronounces, and finally found a match on our google-map printout. “This way,” I confidently announced to the 6 middle schoolers and 2 parent chaperones in tow behind us, and off we went, our suitcases clattering over the otherwise silent cobblestones. Few Parisians are out early on a Sunday morning, yet here we were heading to school on our weekend so that we could take part in our first ever International History Bee & Bowl. The name itself sounded intimidating. As we trudged on, I could hear HW say for the seventeenth time this morning, “I’m so nervous!” LW was pale; she had refused to eat breakfast, claiming that her stomach was too tight and would reject it.

“Do you think we have a chance at Rome?” JS asked next to me. Rome. That is where the European Championships will be held, and it had become synonymous in our minds with victory. “One competition at a time,” I smiled back at him. I didn’t want to acknowledge my own ambivalence of whether or not I wanted to think about Rome, let alone whether or not I thought we stood a chance today.

Brittany suddenly halted again, and the street fell eerily silent. “Are there stairs anywhere?” she asked, turning her map sideways. The middle schoolers immediately fanned out, and DE was the first to find them. “Over here!” he shouted loudly, only to be shushed by the European-born MK’s, whose worst fear is the disapproving glance of a stern adult. (Sidenote: We met him later on the train. Boo.) We raced down the stairs, the Seine River glittering just in view, and finally located the elusive International School of Paris. We had arrived with 2 minutes to spare for registration. The competition could begin.

Other students lined the halls and tables and eyed us curiously in our matching royal blue t-shirts, proudly proclaiming BFA across the front. Exuding more confidence than I felt at the moment, I signed the forms and filled in names, grateful for a task to have. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched HW redo her braid yet again and then ask AD if she could braid her long blond hair as well. Instructions were given, teams formed, rooms filled, and before I could even pat each student on the back one more time, they were gone. Out of sight. Out of my control. There was nothing more I could do for them now. Nothing else to teach, no word of encouragement I could speak one last time. It was up to them, and I wrung my hands in prayer, Brittany and I grimacing at each other across the room.

Seven hours passed in this manner. Rounds were won; rounds were lost. I was given the job of Reader, and often it was apart from any of my students. I waved through windows and watched with pits - yes several - in my stomach as they buzzed and either half-rose out of their chairs or half-sunk down into their depths. Friends were made. HW had braided every girl’s hair by the end of the day, and MS spent lunch in the corner with his new buddies.

Suddenly, in a flash, it was time for the Finals. We checked the standings on the Master sheet, and JS had qualified for the Bee Finals at the Junior Varsity level while MS and LW had qualified for the Middle school level. We had all qualified for the Bowl finals. Cheers ensued, and we headed to the gym where an intimidating table was set up at the front, and the buzzers stood waiting. I perched as far back as I could so that other teachers wouldn’t notice my constant shifting positions, and where I couldn't be accused of cheating if I mouthed the answers silently to myself.

MS took 1^st place for the Middle schoolers followed by the 1^st runner-up, LW, and JS put up a valiant fight before winning 1^st place at the Junior Varsity level as well. There was no holding back DE as he hooted and hollered embarrassingly, but his teammates didn’t seem to mind as much anymore. The individuals beamed in their medals, holding their prize chocolate, but the day wasn’t over. The team competition still stood before us.

The students took their place at the front table; Brittany, the parents, and I all adjusted our camera settings, but I was too flighty to take pictures, so I put mine away again. Deciding I needed a new seat, I readjusted myself twenty times and cracked every knuckle twice as the questions began to fly at the students. “Name the first Holy Roman Emperor crowned on Christmas Day, 800 AD.” “Charlemagne.” “What word is given to describe the somewhat aggressive expansion of nations into other parts of the world to start colonies and – .“ “Imperialism.” “Name the Christian apostle who denied Christ three times – .” “Peter!”

It was neck and neck. I moaned when they missed what seemed to me easy questions but cheered when they surprised me and got ones we had never studied. (English sheep?!?) And just as quickly as it had all begun, it was over. BFA had won!

I was in complete shock and wanted to rush the table. The ever-composed Brittany gave me a hug, and we received the plaque, raising it high for pictures and accolades of the other schools. MS’s buddies came up to shake his hand. “See you in Rome,” they declared, and he smiled back at them. “Will you braid my hair again in Rome,” Adita asked HW. “Of course!!!” HW replied, all nervousness replaced by bright smiles. We walked composed back up to the room where all our suitcases were being stored, the students congenially shaking hands and congratulating other winners as well.

And then we walked into our room, and all decorum went out the window. Whooping erupted, and I was surrounded by bouncing blue t-shirts who were chanting, “We’re going to Rome! We’re going to Rome!” (Stay tuned for a Rome blog following May 24-25.)

Annie Jr: a view from backstage

I put my finger to my lips, and immediately my little protégé shrinks back, mimicking my gesture and ducking a little further into the shadows. Any second now, eight orphans are going to come belting off the stage, and those of us whose costumes are head-to-toe black will replace them in the darkness that follows. It is our job to unstick the self-made bunkbeds and carry them out into the alley in as little time as possible. During yesterday’s practice – the first with the actual beds and screens – it took us nearly 5 full minutes. About 3 minutes longer than desired.

My stomach is in knots, and for the tenth time, I whisper to Jacob and John exactly what their duties are when the lights go off. For the tenth time they humor me and nod dutifully before peering back through our makeshift window to spy onto the world of a 1930’s orphanage. Seeing the eagerness on John’s face, I allow myself a second to fully engage in the musical notes being declared on the other side of the fabric curtains. Lyrics from “It’s a Hard Knock Life” alternate with bucket slamming and sponge swinging. Sweet little Molly starts barking out orders, and it’s comical to see the others pretend fear as they scramble for mops, brooms and sheets. One broom falls over, and I make a mental note to throw it onto the bed before we take it out. The actresses playing Kate and Duffy seem to be in fine form today, their faces hardened and their voices clear. A fleece of red curls pops up above the rest as Annie jumps onto Pepper’s back, and the final chorus rings out over the captivated audience. Cheers ensue.

That is when the lights go out, and I’m jerked back to the immediacy of the present. Jacob, John, and I bolt out onto stage. My foot catches on a metal pail and sends it flying, but fortunately, the continued clapping of our adoring parents and colleagues masks the noise. Beds are jerked apart, sheets flung over shoulders, and beds whipped off the stage in just over 2 minutes. Sweat beads coat my palms, making me nearly lose my grip on the beds. When the music cues and the lights flood the set once again where Annie is getting ready to sing “Tomorrow,” I exhale deeply before glancing at the list of what will come next. Just as I’m getting ready to whisper-yell new instructions at John, I catch the look of wonderment on his face. It’s so perfect, so pure. His mind is fully engaged with the scene unfolding before him, even if he’s seen it multiple times in practice. Annie demands to be watched, heard, and enjoyed. My heart physically softens. The instructions can wait, at least another 2 minutes or so. Rather, I take a seat, breathe deeply, find my own hole in the fabric to peek through, and join John, ever the dark shadows behind the scenes.

2nd Blog

It's time to go public and come clean: I've been cheating on this blog by creating a second one. And rather than just being about my random ramblings of life, it has a very specific purpose. (And a pen name. Heehee.)

You see, I have a plan. A plan to walk. For a month. In Spain. (I'm a bit crazy.) However, if you would like to follow me on this adventure and lend your support (and prayers), I'd love it.

Check it out: The Santiago Tales.

Love and Grace

I’m sitting in a large hall beneath three futuristic looking chandeliers – the oddities in this medieval room otherwise full of columns, crests, and iron-wrought railings. The echoes of our worship still cling to our fingertips and tongues, both of which I now use to embrace one of my junior small group girls whose body is shaking with sobs. Eying my co-leader, she knows to lead out the rest of the group to our room where the chocolate treasure trove will be unveiled, and where, Lord-willing, deep thoughts will be shared and discussed. We have just heard amazing truth from Colossians. God’s Spirit is at work in many hearts, and I see his evidence before me as my girl and I smile at each other through tears.

Grace (not her real name) allows me to hold her head to my shoulder while I wait, wondering how best to pray for her. When she finally finds her voice again, I’m genuinely surprised at the part of the message that God has struck into her heart this evening. “Why does God love me? I know myself, and I don’t love me. How could God find something lovable within me?!”

I’m not quite sure what to say. My mind searches frantically for a clear answer to this question in Scripture. Nothing. What a mysterious thing, God’s love. If simple human love is a topic best left to our poets and philosophers, how can I even hope to describe God’s perfect love that has called all of creation into being and endows it with purpose and meaning?

Grace is right. There really isn’t anything lovable within us, excepting that God puts it there. He created us out of dust and then elects to lavish his love on us simple creatures. “He rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves … One you were alienated from God and were enemies in your minds because of your evil behavior. But now he has reconciled you by Christ’s physical body through death to present you holy in his sight…” (Col 1). It’s all him; our salvation is completely undeserved and unearned, and so is his love for us. But that doesn’t explain the why.

I watch our shadows dance on the columns behind Grace. What if I chose to love my shadow? Would that seem as wasteful as God’s love for me, a mere human? How could my shadow ever capture the essence of my soul, yet – as we just heard that night – all the fullness of God’s deity dwells in Christ, and Christ dwells in us. A God who contains all treasures of wisdom and knowledge living inside of me?! Am I meant to understand?

Eventually I am able to look Grace in the eye and shrug my shoulders. “Nope, I’ll never know why he loves you. Or me. But I know that he does, and that’s enough.” She doesn’t nod right away, her thoughts obviously distant, outside our current castle walls. I fear my answer fell far short of any wisdom. I know it did. But eventually she takes my Bible from my hands, and while she reads again about God’s love for her through Christ, I am able to do nothing but dwell again on this truth: I owe my life to love and grace.

Olympic Fever

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

I LOOOOOVVVVVVEEEEEE the Olypmics. I don’t even think I can express strongly enough just how much. More than Winnie the Pooh loves honey.

I love the action, the friendly competition, the drive, the inspiring stories, the international stage on which this all takes place, and the freedom I have to be as patriotic for any country that I want to be. A long time ago I told someone that in the summer games I cheer for the USA and in the winter ones for Austria, but the truth is that my heart is much more of a hodgepodge that than. Of course when it comes to skiing, I’m rooting for a podium that would include gold for Austria, silver for the USA, and bronze for Austria. In gymnastics, it’s USA, all the way. When it came to pingpong two years ago, I was hoping quite badly Taiwan would score a medal, and thus become more recognized again. Yesterday, amazingly, I found myself hoping Germany would score high in pairs ice dancing – not knowing they were never expected to.

But it’s okay. It’s the Olympics! I’m allowed to be schizophrenic in my cheering.

[Hang on. Pause. Matthias Mayer is on.] Okay, hand-wringing over. He is in the lead! Whew.

I love the Olympics because they represent that Winnie-the-Pooh anticipation, the potential of what could be. They're made up of dreams and possibilities, of utter pleasure, and I get to partake and watch the world's players unfurl the scene. The Olympics bring together the best, top athletes who represent so much more to me than sports – the willingness to leave their homeland to be quasi “ambassadors” and hopefully come home with the prize. Mini missionaries?

No, I won’t try to spiritualize this. I’ll just continue to soak in the atmosphere of international pride combined with congeniality and eat my honey.

Sometimes it clicks.

There are these moments in life when God places people in your life for such a time as this. It can be a friend who's been there for 10 years or one you've only known for 10 days. When I headed off to the WorldVenture conference right after Christmas, I was missing my Germany teammates Amanda and Jill very very much. I had only a vague idea of who my roommate was going to be (which is to say I knew her name and that she lives in Spain) or if I would get any alone time to think or if I would have anyone to hang out with when I didn't want to be alone. Would she be okay if I nerded out at the Parthenon and yet fell asleep at 9 o'clock at night (it was at the end of a busy semester after all)?

So when I walked in and JM smiled brightly and exclaimed, "Katrina! I'm so excited to get to know you," my heart sighed with relief. When she slipped into her pj's and earplugs at 9:30, I excitedly got into mine. When she dragged me out the door at 12:30 am on New Year's Eve, I followed with thrill. 10 days can be so short in many respects, and yet there was so much bonding that happened. From late-night chats about theology to walks around the Acropolis quoting Brian Reagan and all kinds of laughing in between, we connected at a heart level.

And then there was KP. With her own flair and love of all things beautiful at the end of her camera lens, she brought viewpoints to the table and insights from the her part of the world that amazed me. Together, the three of us spent our last day on the island of Aegina, walking, talking, eating, and basking in the sunshine. Stories of life, hurt, and success poured forth, and I wanted to freeze time and bottle up this day forever. They got me. They could relate without needing to try very hard - not that I don't appreciate the people who do, but sometimes it's nice not to have to put forth any effort at all, especially when time is short. I guess there is such a thing as instant friendship.