Another nephew!

Peter Allen Harms came into the world yesterday.  He is amazing.

He is also already a celebrity.

Welcome, little man.  You already have lots of people who love you.

A Voice is Sounding

Listen, a voice is sounding
"Christ is near,” we hear it say
Cast away your dealings of darkness
All you children of the day

Shaken by the solemn warning
Out from the shadows we arise
Christ, the sun, all ill dispelling 
Shines upon the dawning skies

Come and see, in awe and wonder, The Word as silent babe
And with a blast of thunder, his majesty proclaim!

A voice is sounding loud: Christ is here, Christ is here
A voice is sounding loud: Christ is here, Christ is here

See the lamb so long awaited
Comes with pardon down from above
Let us haste in tears of sorrow
To receive his benevolent love

When he comes again in glory
And the world is wrapped in fear
He will shield us with his mercy
And, in love, will draw us near

Come and see, in awe and wonder, The Word as silent babe
And with a blast of thunder, his majesty proclaim!

A voice is sounding loud: Christ is here, Christ is here
A voice is sounding loud: Christ is here, Christ is here

- "A Voice is Sounding," as performed by Sojourn on A Child is Born

Based on a 5th century text | Written by Jamie Barnes

For what it's worth, I highly recommend Sojourn's albums Advent Songs and A Child is Born, as well as The Soul Felt Its Worth by Maeve—both bands bring out the rich truths that make me like Christmas music in the first place, in that steeped-in-tradition-yet-somehow-new-sounding way that's hard to find.  (Plus, Maeve uses harmony and syncopation in a way that just makes me happy.)

Wait— Should I eat the banana now?

Yesterday I stopped by my neighbor B.'s house to drop of some decongestant.  She has been having terrible sinus headaches, and was unaware of the miraculous existence of pseudoephedrine.

I was distracted and in "America mode" when I went over there, and—without thinking—expected to stand on the stoop, hand her the box, explain the dosage, and leave.  Not so.  I was immediately ushered inside by B. and her daughter and son-in-law.  They sat me down, handed me a Coke, and we visited.  B. and her daughter don't really speak any English, so that mostly meant I talked with her son-in-law, who I could understand about 80% of the time.  He interpreted some so I could talk with B., but we also did a lot of sitting and smiling in silence.  (B. smiles all the time, even with terrible sinus headaches—an amazing lady.)

After a while, B. started talking animatedly to her son-in-law in Jarai, and stood up to go get something upstairs.  He explained that she wanted to show me something—I caught the words "movie," "Vietnam," and "Jarai history."  They stopped the old Jackie Chan movie they had been watching and put in the DVD B. brought.  It was a home video of a Jarai holiday held in Greensboro a couple months ago.  Hundreds of Jarai people had gathered there to celebrate their culture with dance and music and speaking.  They are an often-oppressed minority in Vietnam, and I love to see how they proudly show their culture here.  It was a privilege to see something clearly so important to B.  It was a privilege to be invited into her home, period.

The situation also had its beautifully awkward culture gaps to navigate.  I wouldn't let B. pay me for the medicine, even though she offered.  As I declined, though, questions were running through my mind: Is this the right call here?  Am I insulting her?  Does her culture have a strong reciprocity code, where she's now indebted to me in a way that stresses her out?  I know the Jarai I've met take family responsibility very seriously—am I insulting her husband or son-in-law by "providing" for her in a way they think they should?

A few minutes after I told her the decongestant was "no problem, I don't need money," she handed me a bunch of bananas.  I took them, and thanked her.  Maybe—I thought—this would take care of the reciprocity issue.  I gave her medicine, she gave me bananas.  An exchange of gifts.  We're good.

As I sat there with the bananas, though, she came over to me again—this time with a paper towel, which she carefully lay on the coffee table in front of me.  I'm stymied.   Is it for the bananas?  Is a place to set the bananas?  Am I supposed to eat a banana right now?  I'm holding several bananas.  Is she expecting me to eat one, or all of them?  Is the paper towel totally independent of the bananas—a place to set my can of Coke, for example?  Or maybe it's not for me at all.  It's right in front of me,  but that might be coincidence.  Now I see she set one in front of her son-in-law, too—wait, am I supposed to give a banana to each of us, so we can all eat?  Does it look like I'm hoarding them?

In the end, I just continued to hold the bananas and chat normally and smile.  It was a pretty low-risk decision—they had been clear enough about where I should sit and whatnot that I knew they could communicate with me if the paper towel or banana-eating was extremely important somehow.   And, as far as I know, our  friendship survived my confusion unscathed.  It's very possible, though—I'd venture to say likely—that they were laughing at me as I left.

Every time that happens—every time I'm sitting somewhere, trying to be friendly and wondering whether I'm showing friendliness in an understandable way—when I'm trying to show goodwill or gratitude and hoping not to insult anyone instead—when I hear everyone else in the room speaking Jarai or Nepali and know I can't be a part of what they're saying—when they gesture towards me while they're talking and I wonder what they're saying about me, or they laugh and I don't understand the joke—when I have no real way to gauge how well the situation is going socially or whether I'm breaking all sorts of norms and I know I probably look a little silly, sitting there in (to them) strange clothes, clutching a bunch of bananas and sipping Coke while conspicuously ignoring a paper towel—every time that happens, there's this moment when I remember that for my neighbors, life here is like that almost all the time. 

I mean, I'm able to laugh at myself for my ignorance at B.'s, but that slight tension of cultural confusion ended for me with my visit—it lasted for all of forty-five minutes.   I imagine it being there every day, often involving people who aren't nearly as gracious as B. and her family were to me.

How tiring that must be.

And as I remember that, I feel even more privileged when my neighbors allow me into their homes.  B. invited me into her one space where she and her family get to relax and set the social rules themselves and not be expected to know English or crazy American customs.  It's a humbling thing, you know?

(Then again, maybe it's just therapeutic for them to get to be the ones laughing at the American for a while…)

A strange trend continues...

I have been summoned for jury duty in every single county in which I have resided--four counties between turning eighteen and moving here, which makes my fifth--but I have never had to report.  They always summon me either the week before or within the couple months after moving out of that county.  This morning, Marion County, Oregon summoned me to appear next week.  This morning, for the fourth time, I was excused by reason of "not a resident."

I just think it's kind of weird.

The Truth

I often had to recognize that the need to 'do something special' was born of a restless spirit.  Such  persons wanted to dedicate themselves to larger tasks because those that lay nearest did not satisfy them.

- Albert Schweitzer, Out of My Life and Thought

One can never see, or not till long afterwards, why anyone was selected for any job.  And when one does, it is usually some reason that leaves no room for vanity.

- C. S. Lewis, Perelandra

I came here without knowing what "being here" would look like.  I knew some things—I would live in a place where they resettle refugees, I would volunteer in the nearby refugee-ESL classes—but overall it was sort of vague.

Yes, when people asked "What will you be doing?" I could rattle off a list: "Well, I'll be living in the refugee community and loving on my neighbors.  I can do practical things like give people rides to appointments and help navigate social-services bureaucracy and make sure they have enough food and teach them things like how to use drugstores and buses.  I have training in language and culture acquisition and cross-cultural communication and adult literacy—I can help people learn English and understand our weird customs and explain words and situations they don't understand.  I can be a friend to people thrown into an inherently bewildering and intensely lonely life situation.  I can advocate on their behalf when people are taking advantage of them." 

Those are good things.  

The truth, though?  The reality I desperately try to disguise and am secretly terrified that you and my church here and people I meet will find out?

I really don't do any of those things very often.

The truth is, my life here is—at its core—exactly like my life was in Portland, and Baltimore, and Salem.  Yes, some of the superficial details are different—the sights, the smells, the languages—but overall it's the same: I work, I eat, I try to have a social life, I pay bills, I try to love God and people better.

And the truth is, I often fail at loving God and people better.

And the truth is—the big glaring truth is, to my shame—that I have made "being here" all about me.  Whatever I may have told myself and others, at the end of the day I expected to come here and get to be this amazingly useful person.  A hero of benevolence and self-sacrifice and evangelism.   A spiritual and cultural adventurer and guide.

And the truth is, I'm not.

… I'm here because God invited me.  I still don't really know why.  I mean, yes, many of the skills and experiences and desires he has given me fit well with being here, from a practical perspective.   I'm also introverted and non-confrontational  and have to work really, really hard to pretend I'm comfortable meeting new people—those things don't fit quite as well.   Maybe God will use all of that here in a way that makes sense to me.  I don't know.

The thing that I do know, though, is that he did not invite me here so that I could be, or claim to be, extraordinary.

I so distinctly remember coming back from visiting my brother in Haiti, and reflecting on how beautiful and powerful God was in the "ordinary" lives of him and his fellow missionaries.  I remember recognizing how often my own desires to go overseas or do "missionary work" were rooted more in a desire for the exotic—in a desire to look different and special—than in a desire for God and his glory.  I thought at the time that I had learned that lesson. 

Ha. 

… Truth be told, I am often discouraged by and ashamed of how useless I feel here.  I have my three or four solid "I did something helpful!" stories, and cling to them and tell them and hope that other people will assume the rest of my days are filled with equally "good-thing-Marybeth-is-there" usefulness that I simply don't have time or inclination to share.  I hope that they—you—won't know how the majority of my days are spent doing nothing that looks special, and how often I see my weaknesses and fears and feel at a complete loss even how to begin "helping" here.

I am discovering, though, that the shame is not so much the shame of actual failure or sin.  It's just the soul-squirm of pride being mortified.  It's embarrassment that I'm not in fact the amazingly-awesome hero of service I want you all to think I am.

And—despite all that I have just written of my "uselessness" and fear—I am also discovering that this lack of clarity about my role here and "what I can do" is not in itself failure.  It's even, in a hard-to-grasp way, freeing.  The pressure is not on me.  God is here.  God is not useless.  God invited me here.  Apparently, though, God is needing to break or heal or change some things in me before he can use me in any way I can recognize.  Or maybe I won't ever recognize it.  Maybe that's the point.  I don't know.

I still want to be useful here, and I think that's okay.  But I am having to address the underlying question of what I mean by that.  Useful, like "people will love me and be so glad I'm here and be aware of how wonderful I am"?  Or useful like "holding my time and skills with open hands for God to do his work through them, however the heck he sees fit and however big or small my role looks in that work"?

I want to say it's the second, but so often find myself stuck in the first. 

I think I'm going to be learning this lesson for the rest of my life.

O for a thousand tongues to thank God for his patience with me. 

My grace is sufficient for you, 

for my power is made perfect in weakness.

2 Corinthians 12:9

Cats. Everywhere, cats.

These fluffy guys are all over the place right now:

I've counted at least eight.  They live under my neighbor's apartment. People here have been feeding them, but not adopting them—and they are multiplying.  This is the third litter since I've lived here.  Cats are great for keeping rodents at bay (a very helpful thing here), but this is getting a little excessive.

They're super cute and fluffy though, hey?

Magical Knitting

I'm afraid this post will be irrelevant to many of you, but—all you knitters—I had to share!  There is a magical way of knitting small things in the round without double-pointed needles.  Really.  It's amazing.  You should go learn how at knittinghelp.com.  They have a handy video.

My life has been changed.

Pest Control

The notice was waiting on my door when I returned home Friday afternoon.  It was essentially meaningless:

MANDATORY FOR ALL RESIDENTS
Quarterly pest control treatment
Take out all things from cabinets
Make sure everything is free of clutter

Okay.  There seem to be some details missing.  Like, when is this happening?  "Cabinets," like kitchen cabinets, or the whole house?  If all the cupboards are emptied, won't that guarantee clutter?

I called the apartment manager (who, miraculously, actually answered the phone), and she filled in the details.  "Monday," she said.  "Just the kitchen cupboards, but they'll be treating the entire premises."

Then she paused.  "Oh, hey—you sometimes help, you know, the other tenants, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Do you think you could maybe tell them, too?  We have the notice in English and Spanish, but we don't know all their languages and dialects."

My turn to pause.  "...Okay, sure. I'll do what I can."  In my head, I'm wondering how the heck I'm going to help.  I mean, I would have tried to help my neighbors, anyway, but what was the office ultimately expecting me to do?  There are more than a hundred units here, and I still only know a handful of the tenants.  And it's not like I speak Nepali, or Somali (or Arabic, or Kurdish, or Kunama, or Jarai), any more than the office does.

I'm also encouraged, though, that—even if it's in a vague way—it seems the leasing office is beginning to see me as an ally.

There is ongoing tension between the office and the tenants here.  I can definitely see why: On one side, you have this group of people who don't speak English, who have no idea how the American system of paperwork and checks and deadlines works, some of whom have distinctly non-American hygiene habits, and some of whom do things like throw their trash on the lawn instead of into the dumpsters or start "cooking fires" on their kitchen counters.  Then on the other side you have a normal American leasing office trying to maintain order and sanitation and run a successful business.  The language and cultural barriers turn small, easily-resolvable issues into huge problems.

Unfortunately, at my particular office, certain employees' frustration seems to have turned into apathy mixed with a lazy sort of exploitation: they don't really engage with the problems anymore, and take advantage of the tenants whenever doing so is more convenient than justice.

I have been trying to establish what my role is here, as someone who is not technically on either side.  How can I sow peace into this situation?  Of course, I want to advocate for the rights of the tenants, and step in when they're being treated unfairly.  At the same time, though, I've been praying through how I can do that in a way that shows love to the leasing office as well—that acknowledges that they do have a perpetually frustrating job, and that shows them that I want to help ease that frustration for them as much as seek justice for the tenants.

I haven't been convinced that it's working.

Friday was the first glimmer that the office recognizes me as a potential help, and not a threat.

There really wasn't much I could do in this case, though.  I asked the neighbors I saw whether they understood the paper on their door (always "no").  Trying to explain that they needed to empty cupboards for pesticide treatment was largely unsuccessful, and it's a very hard thing to mime.  I brought a couple ladies to my house to show them what I meant (I still don't think they understood), and explained it to some older children who spoke better English than their parents.

Hopefully, though, even if no one emptied their cupboards, God has begun—however slowly—growing peace here.

(Side note: Can I just say, I'm not a huge fan that there will now be poison coating every cooking and food-storage surface of my home?  I'm all for preventing cockroach infestations, but still.  Not a fan.)

Gardens

My adoptive family in Charlotte celebrated my birthday yesterday by taking me to the botanical gardens.  It was perfect wandering-around-in-fall weather and the light was perfect for photography.  That plus cheesecake equaled a pretty darn good day.

I have posted photos on my flickr site (including some black and white studies), but here's a small sampling:

 

Not even goat?!

Over the years, I have witnessed many reactions when I say I don't eat meat.

I've been asked why not. I've been asked whether I count fish as a meat.  I've been told I'm crazy.  I've been interrogated. I've been admired.  I've been asked what medical condition I have ("No, Slava, I choose not to eat meat." - blank stare of incomprehension from the Ukranian -).

But today was a new one:

"Not even goat?!"

It was from the lips of a seven-year-old, eyes wide and face solemnly incredulous as only a child's can be.

No, dear, not even goat.

Check mark in my life's "not in America" column today.

Settling

I can get most places now without using GPS.  That might not sound terribly impressive, but this is a city where street names change often and unpredictably, and you have awesome places with Queens Road and Queens Road W. paralleling each other, and then smashing together at an intersection with both the Queenses and also a Kings Drive, where Queens Road then becomes both Kings Drive and East Boulevard, while Queens Road W. turns into Providence (which is actually Highway 16 on maps, although no one calls it that aloud) and Providence turns into Queens Road and then a couple blocks later splits again into Queens and Morehead.  And then Kings loops around from a north-south road to an east-west road, and becomes Central.  Got that?  So, yes.  Be impressed.

I found a grocery store that is not only affordable but sells quirky international products and—best of all—my tea!  My tea from Kenya, which I have only been able to find sporadically available online since I visited and got hooked.  It's right there, on the shelf, available for purchase any time.  (Granted, this store also sells cans of "No Sugar Added Pears, Artificially Sweetened"... Not really sure how that works, but it seems to defeat its own purpose.)  It's a store that fits right in with the America/not-America theme of my life here.  Those of you who have shopped in other countries' grocery stores, particularly in non-Western countries, will understand—it just doesn't feel quite like an American store.  It's hard to explain exactly why: the products are almost the same (although a lot of unidentifiable ethnic ingredients are mixed in there, too), all the signage is in English, it has the "big supermarket chain" architecture and aisle signs.  But there's just something about the way it's organized (baking supplies sharing shelf space with baby products and cookies), and the slightly-different colors of the food packaging, and the hard-to-describe seafood-mixed-with-unfamiliar-spices smell of the place.  I'm also the only white person in there, and the produce has a much more "whatever happens to be available" stocking philosophy than the huge, thoroughly American supermarket across the street.  (The produce that is there, though?  Cheap, and good.  I'll take unpredictable for that.)

Some of the students in the English class where I volunteer know my name now.  (From the students' perspective, volunteers are in and out all the time, have unpronounceable names, and all look basically the same, so that—like not needing GPS all the time now—is actually a bigger deal than it sounds.)  My name is basically impossible for them to say, of course, being three syllables and ending in a "th," a sound which most of their languages don't even have.  They recognize me, though, and try.  I'm sure I'm terribly butchering their names, too.

I have made some good connections with other believers here; both those involved with the refugee community and just people who seem like they could become good friends.  I've been invited to a meeting on Saturday for many of the people here who have a heart for refugee ministry (and there are many, I'm finding), to come together in one room and share ideas and build unity.  I've met a few Christians in the refugee community itself, and hope to build those friendships more, too.

In short—although I still don't know how to balance all the new demands on my time—I am settling here.  I no longer have that slightly startled "that's right, I actually live here now" feeling when I pull up to my building.    

And God is at work here.  I don't know if or how I fit into that work, but he's doing it.  So it seems like a good place to be...

Who needs sleep, anyway?

Bang Bang Bang

Half-awake, I realize that the pounding I'm hearing is not just part of some strange dream, but an insistent knocking at my door.  Groggily, I try to figure out what time it is.  After midnight.  What the heck?

Then my phone starts ringing.  I see the caller is H., a refugee in the apartment complex here.  I had spent most of that morning helping him work out an issue he was having with his lease.  I happen to know that H. sometimes overreacts to things, and it wouldn't surprise me if he had some question about his lease or wanted to tell me some way he thought the office was treating him unfairly.

The battle begins in me: How horrible would it be to pretend I didn't wake up to the knocking?  What could he possibly need in the middle of the night that couldn't be resolved in the morning?

On the other hand, I came here to show the love of Jesus to people. That love doesn't leave a lot of room for hiding from people because I don't want to get out of bed.

But—the sleepy, looking-for-justification-to-ignore-him part of my brain says—H. is not only a guy, but a Muslim guy.  I'm a single woman. Maybe it would be improper to go downstairs.  Maybe I shouldn't.  

...I know I should get up and see what he needs, or at least answer the phone.

But maybe this is a time when I should "teach" American  customs by ignoring unreasonable requests.  Like ones after midnight.  

While this is going on in my head, the call rolls to voicemail.  Maybe my stalling had worked, and he'd go away?

Then the texts begin:

Bzzz  Mary r u slept I think today I give wrong key
Bzzz  R u wake
Bzzz  I'm sorry text u now but I can not open my apt
Bzzz  I give u wrong key
Bzzz  R u wake

Bah.  Is this really my problem?

The phone rings again.  The door banging resumes, this time with the doorbell ringing intermittently.

In the end, I don't know whether it was a genuine desire to help him or simply the knowledge that he wouldn't go away that motivated me, but I went.*

That morning, he had given me a key to return to the office, but he had accidentally kept that key and given me his only apartment key instead.  Of course, my sleep-dazed brain couldn't remember where I had put the key.  And, of course, H. is a talker, and continued to stand on my porch apologizing to and making small-talk with me for a full fifteen minutes after I had found and delivered it.  (I need to work on more obvious cues for "it's-the-middle-of-the-night-so-please-go-away"...he really doesn't pick up on the subtle American ones.)

...Life here doesn't follow a normal schedule, at least for me.

That morning, before the key-in-the-night incident, was my first time helping someone with a transaction with our leasing office.  My main purpose, in these cases, is simply to be there as a native-English-speaker presence to make sure everything is clear and fair.  It's really not hard.

When H. asked me to help that morning, though, I ashamed to say that my initial gut reaction was to say "no."  I thought of all the reasons I wouldn't be good at it, and the ways I could mess things up if I handled it badly.  Plus, it could take a long time and with the move and everything I'm behind on work hours.  But, why, then, did I come here?

I admit, I have still not established a sustainable rhythm for working full-time plus English classes plus ministry meetings plus trying to build relationships (refugee and peer alike) plus randomly helping with lease questions or trips to the Department of Social Services (picture the DMV, only worse).  Not with eating and sleeping and keeping my house reasonably clean in there, too.

I am not someone who thrives on incessant busyness.  I need at least a little quiet space in my day, or I go crazy.  Right now, I'm sacrificing sleep to get that, but I'm feeling that catch up with me, too (midnight visitors not helping).

It's going to take me a while to figure this out.  There are a lot of needs surrounding me.  I know I will not be able to meet them all, even if I want to.  There will be times I will (and should) say no.  However, I don't want fear or self-interest to dictate which times those are, but discernment of where God wants me to invest my time.  ...I wish that were more magically obvious sometimes.

*Note to all the mom-type-people reading: I would not open my home at midnight to just any random person (without really good reason).  H.'s sister is my friend, and by extension H. considers me part of his family.  He is extremely protective of me, as his "sister-friend."  I was in no danger.  Just for the record.

Outsider

In that drowsy interval between sleep and wakefulness, lying in bed with closed eyes, my lounging is interrupted by the charming squawk of a rooster.  It takes me a second to remember that it should be weird to hear a rooster.  That, in fact, I'm within the limits of a major American city, where we don't do roosters.

It's easy to forget that, because I also hear people talking outside, and I have no idea what they're saying, or even which language they're speaking.  I look out my window, and I don't recognize the clothes people are wearing.  I can't identify the smells coming from their open doors, or the foods they're drying out on their stoops, or the things they are doing.

There's the added complicator that I'm living among so many different languages and cultures that I can't just learn "here" in one fell swoop; it varies from house to house.

I try—and often fail—to figure out which people consider eye contact between strangers rude and which people find it friendly.  I wonder whether saying hello to that guy as I pass is fine, or a scandalous breach in gender-role etiquette that will be discussed for the rest of the day.  I'm never totally sure whether any given stare I'm receiving is because of my reddish hair, or because my shoulders (or knees, or head) aren't (or are) covered, or because I don't have a husband and kids, or because it's simply bizarre that a random American would choose to live in this little not-America.

Stared at, I am, though.  Always.  Through slats in mini-blinds or openly from doorways, my neighbors watch me.  It's not unfriendliness—just curiosity.  I am the outsider here.

I travel two blocks, and I'm back in America.  It's not quite my America, though.  Even there, the clothes, the accents, the driving habits, the expectations, the rhythm of life—they are different from what I know. There, too, I am an outsider.

The interesting thing—the tension I am experiencing—is that these two places are so different themselves that any attempt to fit into one takes me farther from the other.  I don't expect (or even want) to claim that either place is "mine," ultimately.  I can never "be" a refugee, and I have too much Northwest blood in me ever to "be" a Southerner.  I would like, however, to fit in, as the outsider-eventually-accepted.  I would like to figure out what my place is—as the mostly-monolingual white American amidst the refugee community and the crazy vegetarian Oregonian amidst the North Carolinans—in both "here"s at the same time.

And, while I am settling in fine and am at peace that coming here was the right thing to do, I'm still not exactly sure why I'm here.

"Okay, God, here I am."   - expectant face -

- long pause -

"... Now what?""

So far, there haven't been any visions or burning bushes, or even whispers (at least that I've heard).

I continue to wait.

While I wait, though, I am volunteering in a refugee ESL class twice a week, trying to make friends, and working crazy hours to make up for that expensive little vacation called "moving."

There are so many things to say and describe, and yet they are mostly still so unsettled in my own mind that I can't give them shape with words.  Know, though, there is more to come...

Pictures

Here are the promised pictures of my new home:

More photos are visible on flickr, but this is the idea.

It's old, and quirky, and I like it.

(Oh, and that blank picture frame hanging up in the second picture is a placeholder, not an expression of modernism or anything.  For the record.)

Settling

Lest you wonder, I did arrive safely at my apartment, and am settling in.

I will be posting pictures and giving more details soon!

Destination: Charlotte

Eight days, twelve states and one pigeon-fatality later, we have arrived safely in Charlotte.

This morning as we planned our final route, we saw one option that wound through the Smoky Mountains.  Google maps claimed it would take barely forty-five minutes longer than going on the main interstate the whole way.  Perfect!

The road turned into a beautiful, winding path through green foliage,

 with periodic pull-outs to see the mountains.  We were so glad we had chosen this route.

...Did I mention that the path was "winding"?  And green?  Eighty miles into hair-pin turns through absolutely identical green foliage, and we were both cursing google.  Forty-five minutes, my eye.  Try two hours.

Okay, actually we decided that only about ten percent of ourselves (the somewhat carsick, ready-to-go-faster-than-thirty-mph part) cursed google.  Overall, we actually were quite happy to get off the interstate for a while.  And it did feel somewhat adventurous.  The only other people we encountered were motorcyclists and a convertible or two.  And it was gorgeous.  Just...curvy.

And, finally, it brought us to North Carolina!

It's a little sad that the drive is over (although I'm not sorry this is our last hotel night).  This has been like vacation.  Tomorrow I actually have to do things, like sign papers and clean and move heavy things.  Sigh.

But being here is good.  I'm excited that this next life thing--whatever it ends up being in the long run--is beginning...

Superman and Music City

The signs began almost 100 miles out: "Superman waits for you!  Come tour Metropolis!" and "Giant Superman Statue!!"

We couldn't help ourselves.

Who knew that the populous-seeming, crime-ridden home of Clark Kent and the Daily Planet was actually a tiny, tiny town in the middle of southern Illinois, which looks like this?

At least, though, they have their fifteen-foot statue of the Man of Steel in Superman Square (although I would hesitate to call fifteen feet "giant").

It took a while to get over the sheer excitement of experiencing Metropolis.  By the time we reached Nashville, however, we had recovered sufficiently to putter around for a while.  

I'm going to pull a Victor Hugo here:  Although it in no way concerns my story, I will now include an aside about the parking garages of Nashville. (Unlike Hugo, though, I'll keep the aside under fifty pages.)  In short, the parking garage we used was insane.  You Portlanders?  Picture the garage at Powells--you know, with the random posts in the middle of the road and the narrow, tightly curving honk-as-you-go-to-avoid-head-on-collisions passages with layers of paint scrapes along the walls from all who misjudged their cars' turning radii--only crazier, with a more maze-like configuration and chambers off of the main artery with no exits, so you had to do a seven-point turn to get out if there wasn't a spot.  Yeah, insane like that.  Gold star for my car, though, for handling the turns. We escaped unscathed. Barely.

Okay.  Aside finis.  Back to the day's narrative.

My mum had never eaten at a Hard Rock Cafe, and we figured Nashville was the perfect place to check that seems-like-something-iconic-to-do-sometime thing off her list.  It was sort of hilarious, though, since neither of us are huge rock and roll people--not to mention country-loving rock and roll people--so we were not fully able to appreciate what I'm sure was an excellent collection of memorabilia.  We kept saying really knowledgeable things like, "Interesting jacket.  I wonder who that guy is."  Our waitress was very sweet, but quickly gave up on actually trying to have a conversation with us.

Actually, I had that I-bet-that's-cool-if-you-know-about-those-kinds-of-things feeling throughout most of Nashville.  It was fun--as it always is to wander around and see new places--but not somewhere I would hurry back to see again.   I felt like it was filled with history and significant moments that were just completely lost to me (also filled with lots of loud, live country music, honky-tonks, and western apparel--"buy one pair of boots, get two pair free!").  I bet it would be more fun with a local to show me around.  

I will say, though, the ice-cream at Mike's ("Home of Nashville's First Espresso Machine") was phenomenal.

More on point, however: We are now definitely south of the Ohio River and in the land of elongated vowels and sweet tea.  Tomorrow, Charlotte-ho!

Baptism by Steam - St. Louis

We are officially east of the Mississippi River, in Mount Vernon, Illinois.

Most of the day, however, was spent in St. Louis.  My cousin and his family live there, so it was a chance to connect with them for the afternoon.

If you want to be incredibly encouraged about the work of God in the midst of really hard things, check out their family's blog, Tulips and Rembrandts.

My mom and I also spent some time wandering along the Mississippi waterfront near the Gateway Arch.

The humidity is exciting here.  As my cousin's wife put it, they were giving us Oregonians a "baptism by steam" today.  (As West-coasters themselves originally, they would know.)  I think there should be a rule against sweating without exertion, though.  Seriously.

On to Kansas City

Today we skirted the edge of Iowa and dropped down through Missouri to Kansas City.  It's nice to be back among hills and trees and green grass. It was a shorter driving day, so we tried to take some roads less traveled instead of sticking only to the interstate.  Good choice.

There was enough time when we arrived in Kansas City to do a little exploring, so--after some road construction detours and wrong turns--we found and wandered a path along the Missouri River.

Strangely, it has looked like late autumn all day.  Whole groves of trees in Iowa had no leaves at all, and--although it's warm and humid--the sky has been deceptively Oregon-autumn overcast.  Beautiful, but odd.

Nebraska...

...is quite lovely right now, at least along the river where the drought is less apparent.  There were trees and green fields and wildflowers (perhaps weeds to some people, but wildflowers to me) lining the roads, and even some variations in the elevation here and there which you may be able to call hills.

We were able to visit my dad's aunt out on the family farm, which was a cheerful break to the driving.  I love being a part of my family.  It's filled with great people.

Tonight, we sleep the bustling metropolis that is Lincoln.

Unrelated note update: The worst of the tropical storm has gone over Haiti. They had high winds and a lot of rain, but it's unclear as of now what the damages are.  Please continue to pray.  (If only some of the floodwater in Haiti could go to alleviate the drought in the Midwest...)

Ah, Wyoming

We crossed the great brown flat of Wyoming today, and are sleeping in Loveland, CO.

Actually, although it was brown and flat and, let's be kind and say "repetitive," Wyoming is beautiful in it's own way.  And, we found a fort we didn't know about (Fort Steele), and a tree growing out of a rock (apparently that rates its own official, state-sanctioned blue "Point of Interest" sign by Wyoming standards), and I got to test the patience of my mother by pulling over multiple times to take photographs of interesting rock formations and rain over distant hills (and, of course, the tree growing out of the rock).  Thanks a lot for passing along that compulsion, Dad...at least Mum is used to it by now.

Other than that, it was a lot of brown and scrubby bushes.  At least they let you drive fast.

Tomorrow, on to Nebraska...

(More photos from today can be found here.)

Nampa to Salt Lake City

Twin Falls, ID — I was intently focusing through my camera, choosing a position to capture the interesting angles of the trestle, when in my peripheral vision something large and blue went flying off the edge of the bridge and plummeted towards the water.  I about had a heart attack.  Oh my gosh, it's someone's car.

Not a car (thank goodness).  A paraglider.  Then another.  Then another.  All told, four people leapt off the bridge in front of me and gracefully steered themselves to the edge of the river.  Unfortunately the pictures are out of focus, but here's the idea (upper left):

We had stopped at a scenic viewpoint outside Twin Falls to take a look at the Snake River.  It was a good view, but incredibly hazy.  Evidence of recent fires—blackened roadside fields, charred bushes, smoky air—has surrounded us on the drive so far.  

It has made the sunsets gloriously rich and red, but has also tinged them with a sort of terribleness, even in their beauty.

Now we've arrived in Salt Lake City, Utah for the night.  Like Nampa, it is so far uneventful.

I did take more pictures at the Twin Falls stop.  Feel free to check a few of them out here.  (They're mostly studies of pattern and color, though, so I don't know how interesting you'd find them...)

On a completely unrelated note:  There's a hurricane headed right for Haiti right now, scheduled to hit tomorrow.  Please pray for the people of Haiti—and my brother and sister-in-law, who live there—that there would be minimal damage (or miraculously, no storm at all).  Hurricane winds and tent cities do not get along well.