And then there are those kind of days...

I know you know it's not all peaches and cream.  This morning we had one of those moments.  A few hours after it transpired I received a wonderfully encouraging e-mail from a special prayer partner with just the words I need to hear.  To let her know how timely her prayers were, I wrote her the following account, which I've decided to copy and paste here. 

We had a rough morning with a couple of boys who are at our center more than any other of the village kids.  Their home life situations are not great -- their parents pretty much let them roam all day and they only come home to sleep at night.  I'm not sure they get much to eat either.

Today in kids' club they got up in the middle of the Bible lesson and walked out of the room in a very disruptive manner.  Nathan saw out the window that they were just sitting on the steps of the center so he went out and told them they could come back in, or they had to leave the yard altogether -- they could not be inside our gate, but outside of the building, unsupervised.  They chose to leave so we locked the gate so they couldn't come back in and we could finish kids club without continually chasing them out.

After the Bible lesson I remembered that we had a pan of brownies left over from church last night so during games I went upstairs to our apartment kitchen to cut them up and put them in cupcake liners for handing out (my economical alternative to plastic disposable plates).  I came back down with a tray in my hands and re-entered the center.  The layout of the building is such that the stairs to our apartment is on the outside of the building so the boys outside the gate saw me carrying the tray of food inside.

In anger that they were missing out on a special treat, they used some items on the corner missed by the trash men that included a not-quite empty jug of motor oil and a chalky stone used for making white paint -- it doesn't come off with water.  They wrote some obscene words directed at us with the chalk and sloshed a big splash of oil down the wall.  They also took stones to chip away at the cement on the wall corner -- the wall which we just had neatly plastered last spring.

When Nathan was locking up the grounds at the conclusion of post-kids club free play he saw their vandalism and came inside to tell me about it.  

Our first response was anger and frustration (we strongly suspected that one of these two boys had already started 'decorating' the wall on Wednesday and we had employed a group of boys with brooms, buckets, and bleach to clean it up, albeit unsuccessfully). 

I looked out the window and saw the boys in the street so I went outside to confront them, not sure what I was going to say.  I knew they would expect an angry response, so I tried my best to refrain. 

Initially, they didn't want to come to me (a sure sign of their guilt), but they could see I wasn't going to let them walk away. I told them that I thought we were friends.  I told them that we were really sad at what they did.  I reminded them that it was their choice to come to the program or to leave, but that they shouldn't be angry at us for the choice they made. I told them that what they did would cost money to fix and that would mean that we would not have money for other things.  That coming to our center to play every day is a privilege and that they would not be able to come and play for one week.  One of the two boys got tears in his eyes, the other one just left (no surprise).

I have no idea what impression it made on their hearts.  One of the two culprits shows up an hour early every day, he's so anxious to come (or bored, not sure which).  I'm sure the penalty will only serve to make them more angry each day as they face the consequences of their actions.  The last time we imposed this consequence, one of them took it on himself to throw rocks at the gate to make sure we knew of his anger.  I feared, though, that he would break out a headlight on our van or crack the windshield.

We have also have a dilemma about dealing with their vandalism -- is it good for them to see a reminder of their impulsiveness, or we should spend the money and paint over the offensive words, only to create a blank slate for future vandalism?  

Sigh.  Keep praying! ;-)

We Have Hope!

On February 3 my grandfather, Lawrence Whiteford, passed away at the age of 93.  We were so glad to have said our goodbyes in August.

I never expected to be able to attend his funeral, however my mom graciously offered to trade her ticket for a winter visit to Albania for me to be able to go home for the memorial service.  Nathan  remained in Albania with the children.

The trip was incredibly good, for so many reasons.  I cannot imagine having missed those days.

Our Whiteford family, after the post-funeral luncheon provided by the church.  It wasn't until later that we discovered that Grandma and Aunt Viola didn't know the photographer was in the balcony above!

Two weeks after his passing, and three days after returning from a week in the frozen prairie of central Illinois, I was back in the village preparing for our weekly women's Bible study.  Warming the tea kettle and setting out dessert, I was still struggling to figure out my plan for the evening's gathering without the help of a translator.  Shpresa, who usually facilitates, was representing Planters at a conference, and my usual go-to, Eda, had a conflict (she never misses Bible study).  At the least, we would fellowship and have a time of prayer.

One by one, the ladies started arriving and chatting while I set out refreshments.  They started asking about Nathan and the kids and about my unexpected trip to the States to be with my family.  (This is the kind of conversation I can maintain sans translator -- getting into deeper level conversations about theology?  Not there yet).

Then, because we are friends, they started asking more curious questions.  Obviously, I did not get there within 24 hours of his death, so surely he must have been cremated?

No, he was in the tokë (ground), in a kuti (box).  Note to self: learn the Albanian word for 'embalm.'

Was he buried on family property or in a public cemetery with other people around him?

I shared that he was buried in a community cemetery, where he had bought a place for himself and Grandma several years ago.

At this they shook their heads.  No, here we do not have to pay.  It's community ground!  Why would anyone have to pay?

Then came the next question.
So when and where did everyone sit and drink a coffee with us?  At grandmother's house?

I explained that we have different traditions, and that our friends, family and neighbors gather at a large, fancy house run by a funeral agjencia.  A date is set and announced in the newspaper and people come during a two-hour block of time to give their greetings to the family, or they send a card if they cannot attend in person.

Oh, they nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as they tried to digest this information.

But if you do not have a coffee, how do they give you money to pay for the funeral?

I explained that my grandfather had paid the agency for his funeral several years ago.

At this explanation, one of the younger ladies let a laugh escape and asked incredulously.  "He paid it himself?"

I could see why that would be surprising. No one here would trust an agency to hold your payment for several years and honor that contract. And few people here could save enough money to pay their own way, even if you could make arrangements in advance.

But what about the meal after the funeral?  Who paid for that?

I explained that my grandparents' church provided the meal, but that it was primarily only family and friends who had traveled a great distance who stayed for the meal.

That didn't seem so hard to believe because who would expect to be fed if they hadn't given cash to the family of the deceased?

At this point I sent off a quick message to Nathan to bring down the laptop.  I had to show them photos as I could only explain so much in Shqip.  They curiously gathered around the computer screen, remarking how young my 91-year-old grandmother looked.  I agreed.

But she's not wearing black!  someone pointed out, aghast at what would probably be considered here to be the height of disrespect for the deceased.

I smiled, thankful for the open door to share something that has been on my heart since my first Albanian funeral experience.

I explained that my grandfather was devoted to Christ from his teenage years until the end of his life, and that our family knew we would be reunited with him in heaven some day.

Ne kemi shpresë!  We have hope! I explained.

Again the heads nodded as if they understood, but in their eyes I could see the wheels were turning.

Someone even affirmed this novel idea, that the widow shouldn't have to wear black, and I think she understood my point -- it's not just because "Americans know better than we do."

I clicked through more images.  The flowers at the visitation.  The pallbearers carrying the casket.  The tent at the grave site (could they even imagine a temperature of 5 degrees Fahrenheit, without windchill factored in?).

The pastor at the graveside service had arranged a woman from church to sing I Walk Through the Garden.  At the sight of the singer, I identified her as a këngëtare.


Do you have special songs for funerals?
Not really, I explained.  We sing songs from church that praise God and remind us of the promise of heaven.
Did you have a professional cry-er?
Again I could understand this question.  While we had serious expressions on our faces, you could see in the photos that our family was not really a weepy bunch (to be sure, we had our tears, but we did not wear this expression on our faces continually).
At this point I wanted them to understand that this particular funeral was not just an AMERICAN funeral, but the funeral of a Believer.  Again I reiterated that we have HOPE.  I read from I Thessalonians 4, how we do not grieve like those who do not believe.






None of these women had ever attended the funeral of a Christian before. For most of their lives, their Muslim traditions and beliefs did not offer them assurance of eternity with God.  Death was a scary, sad, awful end with no consolation.

But what I wanted them to see, to understand, is that when we, as Children of God lose a fellow believer, we have HOPE.

Before I knew it, our hour had passed.  As everyone filed out of the center to walk back home in the coming darkness, I could hardly believe the way the evening had unfolded, better than any plan I might have devised. Even today I marvel how God continues to give us open doors to share His truth and the promises from His Word.

Not Quite the Schwann's Man

One of my favorite visits growing up came in the form of the Schwann's man.  We lived in the country and ever-mindful of the cost of gas and mileage on vehicles, Mom and Dad limited their grocery shopping in town.  But the Schwann's man?  He brought food to us.  I remember Mom perusing their colored leaflet to make her month's choices, then pulling out her checkbook for whatever special treats fit in the budget that month. In those days there was no Sam's Club or Costco -- just Schwanns' chicken strips, frozen pizzas, ice cream and orange push-ups, to name a few. 

Now imagine you lived in a country where less than half the population had their own personal vehicle.  Imagine you had to walk or take public transportation every time you needed to shop.

We hadn't lived in the village long before we started noticing trucks and vans that would slowly drive up and down our street with an indistinguishable voice blaring out a loud speaker.

Eventually we started to understanding the words of the purveyors:  "Onions!  Potatoes! Chickens!"

The light bulb lit up in our head -- the free market was at work right here in our sleepy little village.  If the customer can't get to your store, bring the store to the customer!  Especially if you are selling an item that is too heavy or bulky (or wiggly) to carry in hand long-distances or on a bus.

For months I've been wanting to photograph such an experience to share on the blog, but I'm a bit too shy to just step out into the street with my camera. Thankfully, the event above transpired last week right in front of our building so I could capture it from the privacy of our living room window.  

There is no professionally-painted vehicle.  There are no attractive glossy leaflets, just a husband and wife selling used clothes out of the trunk of their car and our neighbors stopping to peruse the merchandise with their own eyes and hands.

Another time we returned home to find a scraggly-looking flock of nearly feather-less chickens in our yard.  Someone who had been making a repair at our house had heard the street merchant (a local egg farm with a truck selling its old hens) and decided with his crew of workers to surprise their families by bringing home the evening's chicken dinner -- still alive.

And lest you think we haven't been brave enough to sample the goods, you'd be wrong.  One late afternoon almost a year ago, Nathan and I were preparing to hop in the car of some friends from Tirana  to go scout a location for an upcoming event when one of these trucks starts driving up the hill into our village.  Curious, our friends asked us the nature of the truck and what the man inside was shouting out his loudspeaker. We listened and told them that this particular truck was selling potatoes and onions.

Excited to be in a 'village' where we are so much closer to the source of the produce sold in the city markets, our friends said they wanted to buy some potatoes and onions to take back home to Tirana.  We waved the truck down and he stopped, opening the tail gate to reveal 10 kg (24 lb) bags.  It was way more than either of us would eat, so we agreed to split the cost and the produce 50/50.

A few days later I went to clean the potatoes for our evening meal and discovered they were full of eyes and overall quite old-looking.  I was embarrassed that my friends did not get the 'fresh' produce they were hoping for.  Then it dawned on me.  We had just bought planting potatoes and onions.  Duh.  We later put them in the ground for a summer harvest, laughing at our misunderstanding.  It was even funnier when we later ran into our friends and not wanting to be wasteful, they explained how much work they spent cleaning and cutting those potatoes to get something edible!

So no, the Schwann's man hasn't made it to Albania (yet), but his distant cousin has.  Sort of. 

Another Cultural Stumble

Nearly two and a half years into life in Albania and the learning continues.

The other night I was at our friends' home in Tirana.  Nathan was speaking at a church service and rather than ask the kids to sit through their third Albanian service in 24 hours, I thought they would enjoy the treat of seeing some American friends whom they hadn't seen since well before Christmas.  

The grown-ups were on the couch in the living room while the kids played upstairs.  I remarked about their family photo hanging over the fire place, asking where they had it printed and framed.  

My friend answered with the name of a nearby store then added, "They did great, except the guy re-cropped the photo."

My ears perked up.  What did she say?

In my opinion, photo cropping is reserved for the artist or client. Cropping can change the whole story of an image.  It directs the focus of the picture and can change the perspective of the viewer.  How a photographer chooses to crop an image is entirely personal and unique to the photographer's personal style and artistic approach.

The printer changing the cropping of the image is not unlike the server deciding the chef's food wasn't good enough the way it was plated before delivering it to the table, then adding elements to or removing items from the dish.

If I had taken the portrait of my friend's family that was arbitrarily altered... well, I'll just say I would have been perturbed.  

My friend continued, "Yeah, he re-cropped the photo so [my husband] would be in the center of the image, instead of the center falling in between us. You know, here the man of the house is supposed to be in the center of every portrait."

I gulped, thinking of the 50+ family pictures I took last year in our village.  How had I not known about this local "rule" of portraiture?  

I think I have a slightly more egalitarian approach to posing my subjects, not to mention I try to follow rules of symmetry, framing (like the "rule of thirds") and practice complementary posing to help the subjects look like the best version of themselves.  

Undoubtedly I had broken this other rule MANY times.  

Was this a big deal?  Had I unknowingly offended the heads of nearly household we visited? 

As foreigners, we are given passes when we unwittingly create cultural blunders.  But as foreigners, we are outsiders and that's not a place we want to remain.  We want to earn the right to move closer into the center of the circle, to have a seat at the table, to be heard.  Breaking unspoken rules only serves to remind everyone of the outsiders we are.

Unfortunately, as Americans living in an honor/shame culture, we have also learned that we will rarely be told when we are making mistakes.  This doesn't help in our desire to adjust our behaviors into culturally appropriate ways.

I'm pretty sure this will not be the last time we break a 'rule'.  Next time it won't be failing to frame a photo around the head of the household, but something else entirely.  Hopefully we won't have to wait so long to find out!

It's Winter

Last night we sat around the table waiting for the other ladies to arrive for our weekly women's Bible study.  Shpresa confirmed what I had heard -- that it was her son's birthday.  She made a comment about how warm the hospital had been the day he was born.  I responded about how it must be better to have a baby in the winter than be pregnant during a hot Albanian summer.

I was immediately corrected by another.  "Oh, no!" I was told. "In the winter we worry how we can keep our infants warm!"

I immediately felt silly.  Then, in an effort to relate, I shared how when I was born (in December) my parents were living in an old drafty farmhouse in the middle of the prairie, how the curtains would waft in the breezes of a winter wind, so they put me in a cardboard box to sleep above the heating register where I might be warmer than in my crib.

That's all I shared because even that little recitation was all I could muster in Shqip. But my memories wandered to later winters in that farmhouse. Memories of stacking and hauling firewood to heat that drafty place.  Of sealing windows with plastic film that would puff out from the force of  howling winds outside.  It may have been 1982, but other than our electric lights, it might not have been too different than Laura Ingalls herself had to deal with a hundred years earlier. Good preparation for living through Albanian winters.

To be sure, it's not nearly as cold outside as a midwestern winter, but inside -- that's a different story.  I have figured out that when the temperatures fall into the 20s, it's going to be a struggle to stay warm in our concrete box.  It's going to be a struggle to want to take a shower in a bathroom where you can see your breath because to turn on the heater might just put too much strain on the tenuous electrical system. It's a race to dress on cold tile floors, remembering all of the essential layers, like leggings under jeans to keep calves warm, tanks, long sleeve t-shirts, a sweater, vest, and maybe even a jacket then a scarf around the neck because that just seems to make all the difference. I sound like such an old lady.

Then, for some reason, Nathan bought a thermometer that measures outdoor and indoor temperatures.  So now we know how cold we really are in measurable units. That outside of the room with the wood stove, our home's average indoor temperature is in the mid 40s and on sunny days is usually colder inside than out. But I think some part of us likes a struggle,  to know that we are tough and that we can persevere.  After all, we're not worried about keeping a newborn warm.

To be sure, I consult the weather app on my phone looking for a break in the arctic front.  Then I wonder what is worse -- to deal with winter's cold or summer's wilting heat?  I don't know.  Right now, summer feels oh so far away, and I try not to worry about future winters since the 10-year-ban on cutting firewood was announced last week.

Instead, I warm myself inside over genuine conversation with neighbors whose struggles are so much greater than my ability to keep my hands warm or a case of goosebumps.  They don't talk about the cold, so neither will I.

Mirupafshim!

As I look back over my life, I marvel at the people I have been blessed to meet and get to know.  I don't know why but God has set our lives on a journey that has meant a lot of people entering our lives for a season, then leaving again.  (I'm sure all of you teachers, career military people, and fellow ministers can relate).  Then we moved to Albania and that sense was only intensified as we forever after had two homes -- where visiting one meant saying goodbye to the other.

Today we said goodbye to the Goodings! Yesterday marked 8 weeks in Albania and I know LeeAnne is good and ready to get home with her new daughter and see her family, home and dogs. :-)

While she has been in Tirana (Aeneas went home shortly after New Years to return to their teenage son and work) and we have been in the village, we've been able to see her fairly regularly!  These pics are from a few weeks ago when she came out to the village to demonstrate cake decorating techniques! 

 Albanian desserts are pretty different than our American ones, so the concept of decorating with icing is pretty much limited to media and not something practiced in our average village kitchen!

We gave each of the ladies their own cupcake and several icing bags with various colors and tips to practice techniques as they would choose.

As you can see, EVERYONE had fun.  If you come and visit us, what little talent or skill do you have that maybe you could share here?  Thanks, LeeAnne, for sharing of your time and resources to give these ladies such a memorable and unique experience!

Fast forward to this morning when we stopped by after class for a quick goodbye.  I'm sure they would appreciate your prayers for a safe trip home tomorrow in time to beat a snow storm!

That Morning We Felt Like Rock Stars

Editor's Note:  This post was all composed and ready to publish when the internet dropped out and I couldn't save my changes.  Then the electricity went out and my text was lost forever.  Then my spirits dropped and I didn't get back on Blogger for more than two weeks... Here we go with "Take Two."

Christmas Eve 2015.  We were slated to deliver shoe boxes at our local grade school's Christmas parties.  I must admit I didn't have the greatest attitude.  All I could think of was how much work was left to do for Christmas Day.  I know.  Bah humbug.  How selfish am I? 

Elio, son of our colleagues, Genti and Shpresa, joined us to distribute gifts

But as soon as we arrived at the restaurant hosting this year's party, my thoughts evaporated.  One of the doors to the banquet room opened slightly and one side of the room got a glimpse of our group's presence and the room erupted into cheers.

At their cue, the DJ cranked up Moriah Carey's All I Want For Christmas is You and the students were on their feet, clapping in rhythm with the song like they were waiting for their favorite sports team to enter the stadium or musician to walk onto stage..

A few girls from church asked if they could join us (Ambra even skipping her own class's party to be with us).  Instead of Nathan explaining the reason we give gifts at Christmas, he gave the microphone to Eda (known by virtually all of the students as 'the nurse's daughter').  She went beyond a simple explanation of why we give gifts at Christmas and shared the Good News with boldness.  We were so proud of her!

Then in an orderly fashion we handed out gifts by class and gender.

It's so fun to see 'our kids' from the center sprinkled around the room -- some from our village, others that walk to our center for English class ... they all seemed happy to say they 'knew' us! ;-)

I can't say enough how grateful the kids were, as well as how excited they were for their friends as each opened his or her box.

I also loved seeing how happy the teachers were for their students.

Some special girls I can't resist squeezing whenever I see them.

We finished by singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" in Shqip.  As you can see, Ellie never resists a chance to hold the microphone.

Santa's helpers are all done!

December 22 | Telling It On The Mountain

I skyped with my parents yesterday.  

The first thing my mom said was, "You've been quiet!"

Yeah.  I didn't open my laptop for about a week after Christmas. (Maybe you can relate.)

Now that it's back in use, I have a lot of catching up to do -- that is if I can even figure out where to begin.

December was a kind of unusual for us this year.  

I think it started with our van being in the shop for nearly a month.  Yes.  It was promised to be done in 10 days (we dropped it off December 1).  Then at the end of ten days they said, "Not til next week." Of course, each of the subsequent days it was to be ready, we were told it would be 'just a few more.'  The clincher was when they said it would finally be ready on Christmas day.  Nathan skeptically questioned if they would be open.  The tech vigorously assured us that they would be open (and just to show you how 'foreign' we know Christmas to be to the average person here, we actually believed they might be open).  Of course on Christmas Day when Mandi called, the owner admitted they decided to take the day off.

So you would think without a vehicle we would have had more time on our hands, not less.  

Somehow it didn't feel that way.  Between camping in Tirana for a week (to be closer to our Albanian class), walking to Reni's school twice a day after we returned to the village, hitching rides where we could and borrowing a car from Pam or Mandi in between... figuring out transportation meant a lot of stress and some upheaval -- but we were also incredibly humbled by the generosity (and flexibility) of everyone around us.

The other (more positive) difference about December this year was the opportunity to make some new friends!  Contrary to what you might think, we don't get to spend much time with adoptive families that come to Albania (if we even know they are here -- usually we don't know about them until they are nearly done with the process)! But if we do happen to connect online with an adoptive family, most American adoptions take place another part of the country and said child is usually young and limits their ability to do much outside of hunkering down and bonding.  If we're lucky, we might get to meet in person for a quick coffee.  But this time, our new friends actually reached out to us months before arriving. And given that their new daughter was living in an orphanage in Tirana, we offered to let them use our old apartment in the city as it was a short walk away.  (I was selfishly happy that this worked out because I knew we'd get to see more of them that way!)

We were able to do a lot of fun things with the G's, including sharing Thanksgiving dinner, taking them to a few special places a short drive outside of Tirana, and what I was most excited to include: a visit up to Darshen to distribute food boxes and gifts to the school kids a few days before Christmas.  It wasn't just the act of giving gifts, but I was glad for the opportunity to share with the G's a glimpse of a different side of their daughter's country -- far different than the hustle and bustle of the capital city.

Our traditional photo at the mountain pass.  We couldn't have asked for better weather!

Xhina shared the Christmas story and then we handed out shoe boxes.  The kids were very quiet and obediently refrained from opening them until later (who knows if they followed Mandi's admonishment to wait until they got home)!

It was interesting to hear Ellie and Reni remark about the poverty this year.  Not that conditions have declined, but our children are starting to become more aware themselves of the various levels of poverty and affluence that exist.

Mandi told us later he slipped an Albanian New Testament into each box.

Then it was down to the billardo to hand out food boxes to each family.  We are grateful for special friends who give to make this possible, and Mandi's family for assembling the food boxes this year!  Once again, Nathan explained the reason why we give, the reason for our celebration of Christmas.

Each box contained a variety of staples from flour, sugar, oil, rice, and pasta to soap and detergent.

Before we knew it, it was time to head back over the mountain.

Continue to pray for the folks of this community.  The ground is hard and rocky in more ways than one...