Hogy Vagy? (how are you?)...

We sat around the table – string scattered everywhere, helpless youngsters struggling to thread the unruly, frazzled yarn through the holes of their too small needles, and me and my fellow volunteer, Krisztina scurrying around in an effort help direct all the needles into their right holes, and back around again. The craft of the day was something like cross-stitch done on card-stock. Patterns were on the table – for those wanting to stitch a heart onto their paper, a star, a flower…..but one rebellious (or maybe just creative?) teenager decided to poke holes into his cardstock in order to make a pattern of his name. He roughly (like I imagine most teenage boys would) stitched in the first letter, then got distracted by the foosball table near by and disappeared. The afternoon wore on, and the crowds came and went at the craft table, until all had cleared away, and moved on to do some csocsózni (foosball), play farm-o-rama on the computers, or head home through the dark night for dinner.

I came back into the room containing the craft table and foosball table later in the evening. I entered through the crowded doorway, distracted by all the noise surrounding the game, but my gaze quickly found itself at the craft table, where the teenager’s card sat alone at the empty table, one letter finished, others begging for some attention. So I went and sat down. I threaded my needle and slowly began filling in the second letter of his name while casually watching the little plastic people playing soccer nearby. And out of no where, this boy whose name is on the card in my hands, comes over and silently sits down next to me. I asked if he wanted to finish his craft – if he was bothered that I was working on it. He said no, I could do it. So, I continued slowly weaving the thread in and out, the rowdy bunch playing foosball nearby, close enough to touch, and this boy, sitting there next to me – silent. I wondered why he was so quiet, why he was sitting there next to me instead of playing foosball and joking with his friends; so I asked him how he was….(all this in rough muddled Hungarian…well, my part at least was rough and muddled) “meh….not good”. “Mi a baj?”….what’s the problem?... “iskola”…school. “What happened at school?”… “I can’t go anymore, I have to find a new school to go to”… “what?...why?” … “because I missed a lot.”…. “why did you miss a lot? do you not like going to school?” …. “no I don’t, it’s not good.”... He’s a good kid. I know that much. A smart head on his shoulders, and a kind heart within; you too would be able to tell, just by watching the way he interacts with the younger ones…. “sajnalom.” I’m sorry.

The Tanulda was closing up, the kids had already csocsózni-ed past closing time, and the adults were in a hurry to get everyone out and head home. As he rose to leave, I stood up with him, patting him on the shoulder, looking at him with all this mix of emotion filling my gaze; wishing we had more time, wishing I could hear more of his story, wishing I had more words to help, to form questions to ask, to understand what his sorrow is, to understand why he doesn’t want to go to school, to understand his pain now that he has to find another school to go to….but the tanulda was closing, and he was headed home. So I sat his cross-stitched name card on the table – two letters finished, two letters to go – a conversation opened, waiting until we return. Who knew a simple question could open such a big door?

You never know who might be waiting to be asked such a question…such a one that so often gets asked without a thought in the world, and likewise gets brushed off or answered with a ‘fine’, or a ‘good’…but I can guarantee: you keep asking those little questions, and one of these times, it will mean so much more than just that, to the one who realizes they have been gifted, by you, a listening ear.

Frozen Fingers...

I walked along, a tiny candle in the palm of my hand, my fingers growing numb from the brisk autumn air whisking around them. I couldn’t blow the flame out and put my hand away, safely in my pocket just yet; the journey had just begun. I had no idea what I’d be doing that night as I embarked to celebrate Halloween (or All Saints Day depending on how you look at it) with the people of Gilvanfa. Just when I thought the festivities had started dying down – the snacks were eaten up, and the music put away, everyone’s coats were clothing their shoulders – people began congregating and receiving candles in their hands, and I realized, the real event of this holiday must just be beginning.

She walked beside me, one arm linked through mine – partially for companionship, partially for fear of the utter and complete darkness surrounding us. A glass jar, with yarn strung around its rim for a handle swung from her other hand – a lonely candle rolling around inside with each step we took. We walked amidst some others from the town, young and old alike, some quiet and reflective, others playing around, oblivious to the respectful silence that filled the air around them. We passed down an empty gravel road for some twenty minutes, nothing to see but the pitch black to either side of us, and the star filled, moon-less sky overhead. Then slowly, a small, crooked gate came into view – lightly illuminated by the many candles walking its way.

We walked through the gate, the muddy grass of the town’s cemetery giving beneath our feet. We came first to a grave, which she explained to me in a whisper, was where her grandmother and grandfather were buried. As she lit another two candles and placed them before the grave marker, I read that they had both died this past year. We stood a few minutes in silence, praying for these two beloved family members of hers that had recently passed. She slowly led me through the cemetery, pausing intermittently to pray and place a candle at the graves of people I had never met. The last place we stopped already had five or six candles glimmering golden light across its façade. A picture of a young mans face, lightly etched in the dark stone marker - only twenty years old when he died…so many questions I wanted to ask – Why so young? How? Who was this boy? Would I have met him in the community center if things were different?...and yet all I felt appropriate to do was pray.

I can’t imagine how those around me felt as they stood at the place where their loved ones, friends, and family members lay. What they prayed in that silence on that cold autumn night. If their hearts filled with joy for the hope that their beloveds were in a better place, or if their hearts weighed to the ground with the sorrow from the loss, brought to their attention at this time. I couldn’t find the words to comfort their sorrows, or to remind them of that hope we can always find in God…but I could stand there by their sides, and pray. When all else fails…when I cannot speak – whether for lack of knowing the correct words, or for fear of being culturally inappropriate, or when I don’t know what to do to help the kids with their Hungarian homework, I can pray. No matter where you are, what language you speak, or what language is being spoken around you, if you’re in a familiar place, or feel like an outsider in a room filled with people you know, if your fingers are too frozen to even fold together, or your head aching too much to think…no matter what time of day, remember, we can always turn to good, old fashioned prayer, and rest there, in God's peace :)

Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints…

Ephesians 6: 13-20

Ps. I apologize for the current lack of photos….my camera has officially broken :)