curiouser and curiouser

it's not often that the first thing i do when i hit the office is pen a blog, however, my train ride today has topped them all and i feel compelled to write it all down before i move onto excel and why so and so's claim hasn't yet been paid.

riding 4 trains a day i have had my fair share of sharing a seat with 'the drunk guy' or 'the wasted guy'; sometimes i fear i am a magnet for such people.

what bothers me the most is that despite him acting drunk, he didn't smell like a drunk and he didn't smell like weed, so i was already confused. he was walking past me to another seat, stopped, backed up, put his face very near to mine, and asked if he could sit next to me. i told him he could sit across from me (there were plenty of other open seats to sit in NOT close to me). there was something about him that was off, that immediately put me on my guard.

he didn't speak much english, but my attempts to waive him off with my standard "désolé, je ne parle pas français" did not work. he told me 'for you, i will try my best to speak english'. (great.)

i tried to nonchalantly indicate that i was VERY into my new French Elle magazine in my hands, but he just kept putting his face closer to mine and trying to talk.

(fine. i'll be nice.)

we got through names. yes, i'm from america. he's from rwanda. the handshake (thank God it wasn't the 'kiss hello') he started pushing me for my number and saying i could teach him english and he could teach me french. (um, no) maybe we could stop at the next station and hang out a bit, i could teach him some english? (no) we could just be friends, and he could call me? (no) he could be my boyfriend? (no. as i repeat, again, that i have a husband and 2 children i love very much). when can we see eachother again? (probably never). what is this word 'probably'? (it means no. very much no)

this whole time he is staring at me very intently. (very). you know, the kind that makes you so uncomfortable that you envision clawing the other person's eyes out so they can't look at you anymore? that kind of staring.

at this point i could tell i needed to steer the conversation elsewhere (especially after he grabs my hand and holds it to his face).

so i ask him where he's going (antwerp). where he works (for a university). where he lives... this is where he gets all upset out of nowhere and must assume i am insinuating that he is a refugee. he is no refugee he assures me and crosses his arms and turns his body away from me. do you have family? he gets teary eyed and tells me they were all killed in rwanda. (great.)

now part of me wants to pray for him and part of me wants to jump off at the next stop and take my chances with the next train. i do neither. (God, what am i supposed to do here? this guy is creeping me out. he doesn't speak much english. i don't speak much french. is he really hurting or is he just playing a role? why is he so creepy? whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!!)

drama evaporates after a few (even more akward) silent minutes and he is back to trying to hold my hand and get my number. denied. he starts talking to the guy in the seat next to us. apparently he's missed his stop while chatting me up. (sigh.)

then i can tell he's saying something about me to the other guy. i look at 'other guy' and raise my eyebrows.

"he says you are a... (long pause while he tries to find the right word)... nice, girl.'"(yeah, i bet that's what he said and yes, dammit, i AM a nice girl).

thankfully by then, my stop (my glorious stop) is up next and as i head to the door, he grabs my arm and asks me for my phone number. (nope) my calling card. (nope)

and with a final shake of my head and a smile i walk (run) out the door. i have never been so happy to see Diegem station in all my life.

view from the top

top of the map, i mean. yes, belgium is pretty far up there. not as far up on the map as my hometown of Chickaloon, Alaska, but still, it ain't no Texas.

so here is a glimpse of our little family 3 months away from completing our first year in our new home.

dutch does have a great natural smile; he just doesn't know quite how to use it in posed pictures.

love that kid!

living the dream

i've been on medical leave for the past 3 weeks and as it winds down and i face going back to my job, the whole reason we are even able to be here, doing 'the stuff', i am facing a bit of a depression.

let me start at the beginning. when we decided to move here, i had a completely different vision of the life i'd be leading as a missionary. in my version, i'd be working from home, doing the same work i was doing in the states, under the same rad boss i'd been working for. i'd be doing ministry; 'work' was just my side job, my bread and butter job, and i'd have my hands in all sorts of cool ministry opportunities and life changing situations. but the real truth is, i'm not.

i've come to grips with this over the course of the last long 9 months, but honestly, i just thought it'd be different.

in my version, i'd feel like i was touching lives (for the better), making a difference in young people's lives.

in my version, i would be super mom and would bring in the money AND spend the day with my kids, AND bake yummies for my family, AND keep a clean house, AND spread the word of God effectively to Belgians near and far.

the reality is that i work 12 hours a day and i see my family at most, 2 hours a day. i wake up in the middle of the night freaking out about the spreadsheets i didn't finish and hoping i won't get reamed too badly tomorrow for it. the reality is that i rarely get to participate in the team ministry that happens on a daily basis because i am busy telling companies why i won't let them use their funds for a go-kart event and churning out reports on ROI and MQL's.

most days i wonder why i spend so much time on things i don't even really care about, other than the fact that it is the reason we are able to pay our rent and buy groceries each week.

i know God is preparing me for something; something great and amazing. something life changing. i guess i didn't realize how much preparation i still needed.

this isn't a plea for more financial support. this isn't a plea to feel sorry for me for the choices that i've made. i'm not sorry i made them and i know the desires of my heart will be fulfilled; i am just human. impatient, lacking in grace, lacking in understanding, and, well, yes, maybe even selfish.

these past 3 weeks have shown me what it would be like to spend an entire day with my little men. to wake up to their sleepy eyed-faces and the sweet little 'hey mommy' each morning. to make them pancakes and bacon; to feel my heart well with pride and admiration as i watch my husband scour the Word for insight and understanding with a fervor i have yet to grasp myself. to share a meal with my team and spend time with them late at night; to be part of the organic discussions, whether they be spiritual or full of laughter without worrying about having to wake up early to catch the train to the office.

for 3 weeks i was ME. the real me. the fun me. the one who makes jokes and laughs. the one who cuddles with my son when, really, he should have been in bed hours ago. the one who has time to talk about things that really matter. the one who takes time to enjoy an early morning chill in the air. the one who has time to teach my son how to write his letters and welcomes little helpers in the kitchen even though it means a much bigger clean up when its all said and done. the one who dreams big.

i miss that version of ME and i'm finding it difficult to let that version of me go.

the light at the end of the tunnel is that i serve a God who knows the real me. knows my desires, knows my shortcomings, and knows what is around the curve that i, myself, can't quite seem to see around, no matter how hard i crane my neck and squint. He's good like that.

i find it more than a little unsettling that some unknown colleague's prescription ointment is sitting on the shelf in the shared cafeteria fridge with my raspberries and "bio" yogurt.

that is all.

a tad bit disconcerting

so in fear (and a little teensy bit hopeful) that i have carpel tunnel syndrome, i've booked an appointment with the local osteopath here in town. (the 'hopeful' bit only relates to the 3 weeks off from work that i would receive as part of the recovery package, but i digress...)

thankfully he speaks some english, but after trying to spell the street on which his office is located nearly 4 times and i still couldn't get it right, he told me to go to his website and i'd find it there. of course it's in French, but thanks to the ever helpful Google Translate, i found the addy and once on the site, i decided to peruse further and see what medical adventure i could be in for.

and then i found this little gem of a page:

i encourage you to scroll quickly past the sketchy image of the open wrist (gah!!) and read the post-surgery notations.

here let me help you:

thanks to my best friend, yes, i mean you Google Translate, i know am now the owner of the knowledge that not only will i lose the use of my hands for a few weeks, i will also lose a son. maybe 2, not sure if it's 1 son per hand or just 1 son in total; i must remember to clarify with the doc.

tranquility

Battle: Lowrie vs. Public Transport

My first day to attempt public transportation was not a good one to begin with. It was a frigid 17 degrees and snowing. Armed with the optimism and innocence of Leisel Von Trapp, the enthusiasm of Richard Simmons and my bit of paper with my train & bus information that my dear friend Laeticia helped me assemble the night before, I thought I was prepared.

3 hours later, standing unsheltered in the cold, waiting for a bus that never came and ever so quickly losing what little feeling was left in my fingers and toes, the revelation came – I had grossly underestimated my opponent.

Belgium Public Transport came in swinging and I pretty much just peed my pants and ran back to my corner.

A little post battle summary for you:

2 – the number of times I’ve gotten on the wrong train, turned around and come home and had to ask someone to drive me to the office because I couldn’t navigate myself from my wrong destination to my correct one.

1 – the number of times a bus driver laughed at me when he read the piece of paper I showed him that had the name of my stop because I couldn’t pronounce it. *in his defense written under the name of the stop was ‘tell the bus driver what stop you want and pay what he tells you’. He happened to read this bit out loud as well.

3- the number of times I’ve missed my stop whilst on the bus because I am not familiar enough with the area to press the red ‘stop here’ button to tell the driver to stop.

3 – the number of times I’ve asked the bus driver to tell me when we are at my stop.

0 – the number of times the bus driver has complied with my request.

6 – the number of hours I’ve wasted on an errant train that I should have spent at the office working

9 – the number of times I’ve had to ask someone on the platform to translate what the lady on the loudspeaker just said.

3 – the number of times the train attendant has furrowed his brow at me because I hadn’t yet written in my stops on my key card.

10 – the number of train rides I’ve paid for.

18 – the number of trains rides I’ve taken, erroneous and correct.

It has taken me 2 weeks to get to the point where I don’t sit on the edge of my train seat and press my face against the window every time the train slows down to see if I’m missing my stop. But then again, just yesterday, I rode all the way out to Leuven because the train I normally ride no longer stops at my station. BPT slapped me in the face with a new train schedule as we cruised on past my stop and the helpful train attendant looked at me like I was a stupid American (okay, I am, but still…) and kept saying “Leuven” in her thick Dutch accent, when I asked if the train stopped at Deigem. If nothing else, at least I had multiple confirmations on where I was headed.

I no longer take the bus. I just walk the 1.5km between the office and the train station. This little decision saves me 4 euro and I get to walk off the waffle I bought at Midi Station for breakfast that morning.

This love/hate relationship with my nemesis, can best be summarized by quoting the ever eloquent Andy Bernard - [BPT] may have won the battle, but I will win...the next battle.

Nailed it!