Why Just the 14th of February?

Valentine’s day is a little different here from how I remember it, back in my elementary school days. I remember going to the store with my mom, picking out my box of valentines (mom checking to make sure there would be enough to give one to every member of the class.) Disney princesses, Scooby doo, Winnie the Pooh, you choose the theme you want. Then emptying the box over the living room carpet, and carefully addressing a card to each of my classmates, and signing my name.

Here in Magyarmecske, we did things a little different on the 14^th of February. Pink and red papers were still scattered across the classrooms, hearts, and puppies, and flowers, drawn to your heart’s content. But rather than blindly giving a cookie-cutter valentine to each and every one of your classmates (don’t want any kids feeling left out now), the kids were given time, and supplies to make their own valentine creations, and send them, or not send them, to whomever they wished, within the school. You may think this would set us up for an emotional disaster; little girls crying because their valentine box was empty, teenage boys taunting one another over who got the most cards; but amidst the scraps of red paper flying left and right, I saw something spectacular, as I was being pulled at, left and right to draw little puppies in love, and roses, and cupids, shooting their arrows, onto my fourth graders’ papers.

A boy in the class came up to me where I was sitting with another girl, helping her draw two puppies that looked as though they might be in love. He asked me if I would draw a rose for him on his valentine. I was very reluctant to draw it, knowing that he was just as capable as I, and thinking he was just trying to get out of doing the ‘work’. So, we made a compromise. I would draw a cupid on the valentine, if he would draw the flower and write his own message on it. He agreed, and handed me the piece of pink construction paper. I drew a cupid, shooting an arrow off the page, and handed the paper back to him carefully, partially expecting this young man, who can sometimes be a little less than respectful toward me, to take the paper and hand it right back to me, telling me to draw the flower too, then to write the message for him. But, to my surprise, he took the paper, drew a flower on it, and proceeded to write a message on it, to his older sister, a few grades above him.

I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t think I would have made, or given anything to my brother in fourth grade, unless maybe it was a mud pie, or something. This boy wasn’t required to send a valentine at all, let alone to his sister, yet he chose to do so, to tell her that he appreciates her and loves her. I think we can all learn a lesson from how these kids do Valentine’s Day. Yes it’s great to make everyone feel equally ‘loved’ on Valentine’s Day, by requiring kids in elementary school to give valentines to all their classmates, but wouldn’t it be even better if we shared “valentines” with those around us, just for the sake of letting them know we appreciate them, and love them. Not just because it’s Valentine’s day, or not just because it’s someone’s birthday. Not because we feel obligated to do so because of cultural norms, and Hallmark’s advertising, but because we are grateful for the blessings of love and joy that God has placed in our lives, through the presence of those around us. I know Valentine’s Day has passed, but why not send a “valentine” to someone in your life, as a way of thanking God for blessing you with their presence….any day…every day...it doesn’t matter that it’s not technically Valentine’s Day.

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4: 7-11

Ps. You can read more from me, and other missionaries around the world, in my home church's "Mission Beyond Saint Matthew" newsletter, which can be found here: http://saintmatthew.org/DL/news/MBSMnewsletter.pdf

I spent this past week in Berlin, surrounded by my fellow American volunteers, as well as others from Germany, Hungary, Romania, Serbia and the Ukraine. We came together for a seminar hosted by RGDTS (Roma Gadje Dialogue Through Service), and spent the week learning about Roma history and discussing our placements, and struggles, and ways we can better help serve the Roma community. All in all, it was a great time to be in community with others who are serving in similar communities as I am, and was great to learn and grow from our time together. Stay tuned....an entry about Valentine's Day in Hungary coming soon!

To be a kid again...

I played tag today. Stood in a line clenching hands with those next to me, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Nikki right over!” Sat in a circle on the damp grass, nervously looking behind my back as a girl walked around us, waiting to choose the one she would drop the Kleenex behind – they would be the goose to chase her around the circle. I ran through the dark blue, dusky sky, looking for a place to hide amongst the worn-down buildings, so as not to be found….the counting echoing in the distance, “tizenegy, tizenketto, tizenharom…”

It was a time to play, to enjoy the unusually temperate winter evening…a time to not worry about homework, or troubles at home, or the test at school tomorrow…a time to just be.

The funny thing is, though, I wasn’t playing with first graders, third graders, or even sixth graders. The hands that fit into mine weren’t small and sticky, rather, they nearly mirrored my own. A frequently moody sixteen year-old girl, a seventeen year old boy, typically ‘too cool for school’, the twenty-year old who will head to Germany next year as a volunteer. Somewhere around ten in all, everyone far too old to be playing such games without a younger participant as an excuse; yet here we were, excitedly playing these silly games from our childhood. When I got home, I wondered at what it was that inspired those teenagers to play in such a way, to pretend, if just for an hour or two, that they were children again.

While we may spend our younger years waiting to grow up, yearning for the freedom and responsibility that comes with adulthood, I think there’s a little part within each of us that always wants to hold on to being a child in some ways. A part of our hearts that yearns to know we are taken care of, and loved, and that life really isn’t all work and paychecks, but a beautiful gift and journey that we happen to find ourselves on. Thankfully, no matter how old or young we are, we can rest assured that God invites us all, to be His children.

Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God…John 1:12

What an incredible gift, to be given the right to become a child of God. You may not want to go sit on the grass and play duck-duck-goose, or run around playing tag until you get a cramp in your side, but just imagine what it means to be called a child of God – not just God’s friend, student, or follower, but His child.

A Poem for the Headmistress

We sat in a circle, chair touching chair. The large alphabet letters, rhymes and colorful math posters hanging on the walls seemed slightly humorous and out of place as I looked around at all the adults filling the room. Some older, worn from a lifetime of dedicated work, many younger, in their 30’s, still in the Summer of their lives, all the way down to me and my fellow volunteers in our 20’s. It was the last day before I would venture outside the small town of Magyarmecske, and head up north to spend Christmas with some fellow volunteers in Budapest, and it also happened to be the day for the teachers’ annual ‘Christmas Party’ at the school where we volunteer – and they had graciously invited us to join in the fun.

Now, I can’t say I know what a typical teachers Christmas party consists of, but I can say this turned out to be a bit different than any ‘holiday work gathering’ I’ve encountered before.

Let me take you back a bit…perhaps to about two weeks before the date of this party…back to the day we were told we could attend, and of course, going hand-in-hand with that, we were also invited to participate in a gift exchange with the teachers…you know, put everyone’s name in a box, pull a name out and you get a gift for that person. Nothing new, I was used to that type of Christmas tradition, even though I ended up drawing the Headmistress’ name out of the box (as if that wasn’t intimidating!), I still felt fairly confident that I could successfully complete my task of finding a gift to wish her a Merry Christmas with. Now, let us fast forward two weeks, to the night before said Christmas party. After a day full of little kids’ Christmas skits and festive songs at school, I found myself walking home through a lightly snowy evening, beside Ildiko (the teacher who also happens to live with us). We were chatting about how the day went, when seemingly (to me), out of no where, she asked me if I’d finished writing my poem… (translated from Hungarian)

“hmmm, poem?...what poem?” I ask…trying to rack my brain and remember if she saw me writing a letter, or something she might have thought was a poem.

“You know…the poem.” She replies, thinking I must not have understood the Hungarian.

“hmmmm, was a writing a poem?” trying to figure out why she’s asking me about writing a poem I can’t remember writing…

“You know…the poem…for the party tomorrow…” uh-oh…

“We’re supposed to write a poem for tomorrow?! Like about the person we drew?! I did NOT know this…” haha, double uh-oh

“No one told you?!” Ildiko asks with a laugh

“I don’t think so….”

But then again, I’m beginning to accept that there are a lot of things I happen to miss out on hearing, when I don’t speak the language as fluently as those around me J

I proceeded to spend the rest of that night struggling to write a poem…in Hungarian…about the headmistress of our school. And let me tell you, it didn’t rhyme, and I highly doubt it was pretty J but at least everyone laughed at my last stanza that said something about apologizing for making them all suffer through my horrible Hungarian, and they were able to correctly guess the person I’d written about! (and no, her name was not in the poem J)

As we went around the room – everyone reading their poems, people standing up at the realization that they were the subject of a poem, and graciously giving the writer a hug and receiving their gift, my eyes were opened to what incredible people these were, surrounding me. It wasn’t just a room filled with co-workers, it was a room filled with friends, and brothers and sisters, joined together by their compassion and concern for the children they work with every day. With every poem that was read, laughter filled the room, often, along with tears, for the incredible overflowing of love and friendship spoken in the thoughtful verses. I couldn’t even begin to understand all the humor, or heartfelt feelings that were presented in the words spoken in that 2^nd grade classroom, but I could see that these were incredible, beautiful, compassionate people, whom I was blessed to work with. People committed to working in a school that others might turn and run from, people committed to teaching and loving children who may be at a loss to find someone who believes in them, and people committed to making a difference in their students’ lives. I have no aspirations to become a Hungarian poet, but I do hope that my days would reflect the same love and passion and commitment, that those teachers revealed to me that day…and what a lovely world it might be if we all aspired to do the same J

Well, the camera is still broken, but someone has graciously donated some pictures to my email inbox recently! Sooooo, you finally get to meet the two other volunteers I'm living with this year! That's Krisztina on the left - she is a Hungarian who comes from the Ukraine, there's Michael in the middle, from Germany, and in case you've forgotten what I look like, that's me on the right :) The Christmas season is in full swing here - including a little snow fall outside and a big display of 'snow-laden trees' and fake animals prancing through the 'forest' next to a giant ginger bread house inside the big mall in Pecs :) We've been working at the tanulda in Gilvanfa for the past few weeks doing Christmas themed crafts with the kids, and decorating the rooms with paper angels, stars and Christmas trees (among other various winter and Christmas themed shapes - like that Rudolph on the water heater behind me, lol), and krisztina has even painted a nativity scene in one of the windows! Stay tuned, more photos and stories coming soon :)

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 :)