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.