I haven’t really posted about it on the blog, but I’ve started running.
Actually, I started back when we were in the US. I just realized the spare tire around my waist was growing. A friend of mine called it the furlough-15. This same friend also got me hooked on a running program that takes you from the couch, to running for 30 minutes in ten weeks. I started it, and it wasn’t too bad. Our travel schedule in the US made it harder to be consistent, but a surprising diagnosis of high blood pressure became quite the motivator to get in shape.
I’ve kept up the running, even after getting back to Italy. I found a good running partner and a convenient place to run. And today, we finished the running program. On a whim, at about the eleven minute mark we both decided that today was the day. We pushed through the big hills at our track and made it to thirty minutes of running non stop.
It probably doesn’t sound like a lot to some more experienced runners, but to me it sounds like a lot more than the two minutes that I started with!
Oh – the total weight that I have lost … 18 pounds. And Heidi thinks I’m the biggest stud ever.
The news is on right now, and the anchorman just reported how the Dollar fell to a record low compared to the Euro yesterday. The Euro, which when introduced had a 1:1 ratio with the dollar, is now at nearly $1.40 to €1.00. It certainly makes finances tough when the dollars that people send for our support slowly decrease in value.
But I have an Italian friend who is an investment banker. He is investing lots of his clients’ money into American funds because they can use their Euro to buy more shares than normal. So he’s really happy that the dollar continues to fall.
So if you’re God, how do you decide who’s prayers to answer?
Oh boy … sometimes I’m not really sure what to write.
Last night we had a great dinner out to celebrate Heidi’s birthday. With three tired kids in tow, we hopped the late bus home. When we got to our door, our key decided not to work. We stood there for what seemed like forever trying to get the lock to turn, but it was as if someone changed the locks while we were out.
I try and call my team leader, Jason, who I knew was meeting with some friends for dinner. I was hoping they might have a set of our keys to try. He didn’t answer.
I try and call my landlord. She had recently told me that she can’t find any of our keys, but I was hoping that she had found them in the meantime. But it didn’t matter, since she didn’t answer.
I call Matt. He tells me that the same thing happened to him once, and everyone told him to call the fire department. I was thinking, “Maybe a locksmith would be less dramatic?” But it was Saturday night, and nothing would have been open.
In the meantime, Jason calls back. He asks the Italian couple what we should do. They say, “Call the fire department.”
So I slowly punched in the number into my cell phone. 1 … 1 … 5. The guy answers, and I explain the situation. He gets my information, but warns me that they were busy, and it would be a while before they could get to us. I thought, “If an Italian is warning me that I could be waiting for a while, it really could be a long while.” At no point did he ask me why on earth I was calling the fire department.
I head back upstairs, and our new neighbors from India notice the hub bub. He comes downstairs to try and help, but nothing he does works. So he gets his nephew. He asked me if it’s possible to get into our house from the garden in back. I told him I thought all the windows were locked, but we could go see.
Have you seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?
Because that’s what he did. He shimmied into the garden, noticed the open bedroom window, and wall-climbed up into our second-story apartment. The kids cheered. I was amazed at how easy it was to break into my apartment.
Lots of thank yous were exchanged. I called the fire department back and had them call off the storming of the gates. I called the landlord back and told her we were in, and she half-reprimanded me for not having other copies of the key somewhere (even though I explained to her that the lock had broke, not the key). I went upstairs to thank our neighbors again, who then insisted that we all come in and visit. They were both incredibly kind, though the nephew just arrived here and doesn’t speak Italian. Or English.
When Heidi left the house to come up, she left the door open with the rug sticking in it so the wind didn’t blow it closed.
A friend of ours recently created a short film, which happens to star a certain team leader of mine. I’m not really sure that I understand it all, but tonight he will be premiering the film at our coffee house, so I’m hoping to get an explanation. Make sure and watch the credits – Team Expansion Italia is in there!
Marcus and I met at an outdoor coffee shop the other day. As we talked, we saw a friend of ours pull up on her scooter. She’s the lady that cuts all of us Americans’ hair. I knew that she was closing up her shop for a week to go visit family down south.
As she started to drive off, I jokingly asked her to make sure and bring me some wine from her parents’ region. She looked at me and said, “Are you serious?” I thought I may have offended her somehow and said, “Well … I’ve been down south and tried it before.” She paused and said, “Tomorrow, you come to my shop and I will bring you a bottle of wine I get from a farmer around here. It’s wonderful.” I thanked her and she drove off.
The next day, I got a call. It was our hairdresser. My wine was ready.
So I stopped by her shop, she gave me a bottle of homemade wine. No label. Just a glass bottle and a kind of makeshift cork that reminded me of a Mason jar (they’re fairly common here for bottling your own stuff). I thanked her for her kind gift, and went on my way.
As I walked to catch the bus back home, I sort of smiled as I thought about what a different life I have here in Ancona compared to America. It was raining. I was walking slowly down the slick sidewalk with an umbrella in one hand and a bottle of homemade wine (that the lady who cuts my hair gave me) in the other. The piazza where I was going to catch the bus is actually where a lot of the winos hang out, so I was sure I was going to fit right in. But at the same time, I was honored that she wanted to share something with me that is so important in Italian culture.
Despite the differences, I absolutely love it here.
We’ve hit that time in our home service when we’re doing lots of “lasts.” Last Mexican restaurant. Last Sunday at church. Last walk around our favorite walking trail.
The hardest “last” of all is the last visit to see family and friends. We went to Heidi’s dad’s house yesterday. Heidi was pretty sure she saw her dad tearing up as we drove away. This morning was our last Sunday at Central Christian Church. They’ve been such a blessing to us, and have made Rockford feel very much like home to us. Tonight we went out with some friends (at a Mexican restaurant – we killed two birds with one stone!). Tomorrow will be our last dinner in the US. Tuesday we fly to the airport.
We are incredibly ready to go home to Ancona. But this week of “lasts” has been difficult on us all. I suppose it’s all a part of being a missionary in a foreign country.
I was struck the other day by the strangest feeling. We were at a friends house for dinner, when they asked me some detail about dad’s accident. As I answered, I realized that it was almost 7 PM and it was the first time that day that I had thought about dad’s death. It was a weird, almost guilty feeling – as though life moving on were a thing that somehow dishonored my dad’s memory.
I quickly scolded myself. I can’t imagine that dad would have wanted all of us to mope around for months on end. The day before, at church, was especially difficult for me, so it’s not like I never think about it. But time marches on, and there’s no sense in feeling guilty about marching on along with it.
I just had an awesome lunch with a good friend of mine. He left for Iraq before we left for Italy, and got back after we were already there. I think it’s been almost three years since we’ve seen each other, and it was good to be able to talk face to face.
As he shared with me about his experiences in Iraq, I sensed his frustration with the media in the US. He told me about how his batallion had built 60 schools. He talked about the functioning electric grid and sewer system in Baghdad. None of these facts ever make it to NBC.
The war in Iraq is obviously a tricky subject. But I can’t help but wonder if more people would be in support of America’s efforts if some of the good news made it on the air. Today as the Senate debates “supporting our troops, but not supporting Bush’s plan” (an idea which makes no sense to my friend), I sometimes wonder if we’re getting the whole picture.
I’ve lived in Europe for 2 years, and Europe is (at least now) pretty firmly against the war. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure where I stand. But I do know that I am proud of my friend who served in Iraq. I’m thankful for the times he looked at death and kept moving. And I’m reminded at how much I need to pray for him and his family as they try and navigate life after Iraq.
