I used to hate reading. In fact one time I was sent to my room for something (probably hitting Jon), and my punishment was to start reading a book.
I remember looking at the cover and telling my mom it was the dumbest book ever. To which she replied, "How would you know if you haven't read it."
"Fine. I'll read it. And then I'll tell you how dumb it really is," I thought.
I opened the cover, thumbed through a few pages, and solely for spite's sake started reading.
Somewhere between chapter one and chapter two I was mesmerized. The kids were playing with pig guts wrapped in cloth for toys, their dolls were made of corn husks, and they churned their own butter. What kind of world was this?
I devoured the book. Laura Ingalls Wilder became my hero. I read every book I could get my hands on, including the four additional series about her children as well as her adult newspaper articles.

The other day I sat down to my computer to see what other things I could attempt to make for supper. Somehow I stumbled on different home-made ingredients. Instantly I was fascinated. Who knew you could make your own brown sugar, or baking powder, or even ricotta cheese?

So I wrote down some recipes and started making the first one on the list... sour cream. It flopped. Apparently I didn't let my milk sour with vinegar for the appropriate time, so I tried again, and what do you know? Homemade sour cream, just like AE's (ok...not quite...but much better than the stuff here).

So, I moved on to my next item: flavored coffee creamer.

It just doesn't exist here...unless you know a woman named Joyce...in which case she can find some at a magical place that only she has access to... but seriously, does she really need to know how much coffee creamer I consume? And what if God called me to a place without coffee creamer or Joyce?



So... I made my first batch, and despite lacking two ingredients, it turned out decently. Tonight I tried again with a few new additions, homemade syrup (it calls for maple syrup...which we don't have) and a tea strainer to get rid of the chunks of cinnamon.


It's ridiculous, but somehow in the midst of living in the biggest city I've ever lived in...I feel like Laura. And I like that. Now...to churn my own butter. No...seriously, that's next on my list.
:)

Not enough....

Is it just me? Does anybody else feel like they should be doing more, giving up more, experiencing suffering more?
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it comes from my tendency to do everything to an extreme. I know... I know... I struggle with balance.
But sometimes when I read about Adoniram Judson, or William Tyndale, or Amy Carmichael, or Gladys Aylward... or when I watch things like this...

I question my heart.
How surrendered am I? Somewhere tonight in Asia, an eight year old girl's innocence will be sold for $12. Somewhere in Africa a six year old child is now the sole provider for his younger siblings. Don't read into what I write... I'm not saying the purpose of me being on this earth is to provide solely for physical needs... but what I am saying is this: If my Father's heart breaks for them... shouldn't mine too? And if my Father loves them and gave up his very own Son for them... shouldn't I be willing to give up everything I have so that they can know Him?
It makes sense to me...
Call me crazy. Label me whatever you'd like... but this I know: I've told the Lord that my life is His. I've got nothing worth living for here. No family of my own. No husband and children to care for. So I've told the Lord this: My life is His...to do as He pleases. Whether that is a "normal" life... or something altogether different.
This burden/desire is frustrating.
But I'll take frustrated over depraved indifference anyday.

I am highly unqualified to be a P.E. teacher. (As if you really needed me to write that.)
Don't get me wrong, I took a class in college on how to teach P.E. And in that class I remember thinking, "I'd be the last person on earth someone would ask to teach P.E."
I was wrong.

It's not that I didn't pay attention in the class. I listened, participated, and even "taught" a P.E. class for a grade. But, let's be honest, "teaching" a class of your peers is completely different than teaching real, live 6-12 year-old kids.
I really wouldn't mind "teaching" P.E. If only it was "teaching." What I have realized is that the majority of P.E. I don't teach. I referee. I am one person against everyone else. One person who is supposed to see the actions of 17 bodies and make decisions. I become someone who needs to be a split-second decision-maker. Have I ever said how much I do not like making decisions? THAT (refereeing) is what I am NOT qualified to be doing.

Maybe... maybe if I had instant replay capabilities I'd be better. But in the quickness of a catch or a tap... or the smack of a ball close to a line...it's like my brain doesn't engage to think, "Hello, Erin, look alive... you'd better figure out what just happened because in 1.7 seconds 17 kids are going to be trying to convince you that you just saw he/she get out/safe." It's like I can't make a judgment about what is happening in the moment. I watch...I see...and then when I realize I have to make the call...I can't remember when the person caught the ball... or how close they were to the out of bounds...or if they really did touch the base before the other person. It's like I've got "delayed-processing-to-pass-judgment-on-visual-stimulation" disease. Hey, if there's a disease that makes people afraid to throw dog hair away---which I saw on an incredibly reliable, highly informative show that you may or may not have heard of (cough, cough, muffle "Oprah" cough)-- ...I'm sure this is a disease as well, right?

Let's just say... the elementary is getting great practice at good sportsmanship--how to respond to poor refereeing. I guess that's a life skill... right?

On a completely different note, I was told yesterday that I looked like I was in my twenties. To which I replied, "That's because I am in my twenties."
To which said commenter replied, "Yeah, I know...but the first time I saw you I thought you were a young twenty."
Why thanks... let me go grab my walker.

I am my father's daughter...

I really used to think I was much more my mom than my dad. In fact, it used to drive me crazy when my dad would insist I had to fold the towels in thirds because they fit better in the drawers. I couldn't stand it that he thought Saturday should be spent organizing, cleaning, and de-cluttering the home. His way of doing things always seemed to directly contradict the way I thought things should be done. And, unfortunately, on more than one occasion, I made sure he knew I thought that.
But the older I get... the more I realize...the towels do fit better in drawers when they are folded in thirds. And...I actually do enjoy organizing and cleaning on Saturday.
While I'll never be able to see a room of people at a fellowship or wedding and instantly be able to assess a better set-up or line system to get people moving...I am realizing that I am indeed my father's daughter. Nothing said this more than my recent obsession.
I can't even believe I'm admitting this, but I've totally fallen in love with budgeting.
Wow... it's out.
There's just something about putting things into categories and setting weekly goals and calculating weekly expenditures (yes, I just used the word "expenditures." I kind of feel like I should hear a motion for a vote right now)... it's, well, it's exhilarating.
So, here it is, my new obsession.

And yes, those are envelopes marked with Crayola markers. :) Ok... so while I am my father's daughter... I'm also my mom's child as well.
Let me just tell you, the check-out lady at the grocery store was pretty intrigued with my "Grocery Money" envelope. Something tells me she doesn't see that too frequently. :)

Not quite the Friday night I was expecting...

I really thought I was going to our church's prayer meeting tonight. I don't know what happened... all I know is that when I walked in I thought, "Wow! They really decorate for this meeting!" Normally the back hall of our church has a round table where people eat snacks in between Sunday school and the morning service. When I walked in, I saw a large, rectangular table covered in white lace and huge bouquets of flowers. While I thought it was a little odd, I just brushed it off as one more thing I don't understand.
I decided I'd sit as close as possible to the door. I'd heard that the meeting can go pretty late, and after a week of teaching, two hours of prayer in Portuguese seemed a little daunting. How grateful I am for that little choice. :)
As I sat down I looked around at the eight other people there. I realized that I only recognized three of them from church. The others were faces I'd never seen. "Oh well," I thought, "maybe they work on Sundays and can only come Friday nights."
Just about this time, my brain began to focus and concentrate on trying to understand the conversation. It was apparent that it was very intense and very emotional. That's when I heard it.
"We know he/she is in a better place now."
Uh-oh.
Instantly I jerked my head up to focus my attention on that large rectangular table. Sure enough, when I looked at it I realized it was a casket. Not a casket like you would see in the States. This casket opened down the center, lengthwise, and was completely open. The white lace that I mistook for a tablecloth upon first glance was no tablecloth...it was covering a body.
I wish I could record here the next five minute dialogue that I had with myself. All I know is that it went something like this.
"What on earth? I thought they said this was a prayer meeting? Do I leave? How do I ask if I accidentally walked in on a funeral? Or wait, maybe the funeral is over and these are the people sticking around for prayer meeting? What would this be in Portuguese? Ok... think I've got it. I could just say 'Not the prayer?' in Portuguese and maybe they'll understand. BUT WAIT... I don't want to ask the family of the person that died. That would be awful! Then I would majorly insult them by revealing that I thought I was coming to prayer meeting by walking out! There's only eight other people here. What if this is the funeral and only eight people showed up? That would be horrible! I can't leave now!"
Yeah... it was somewhat like that.
I decided my best option was to just sit, look sad, and not attempt to ask anyone anything. I listened to a man read passages to encourage the family members that this person was now in the presence of the Lord. I inwardly cringed at the thought that I was intruding on such a personal time.
Finally, a few more people showed up that I knew. As each one entered, I read what translates in any language (most of the time...): facial expression. Maybe I was just paranoid, but it looked like every person that walked in and saw me thought, "Huh... what's she doing here?"
"Yeah, I'd like to know the same thing," I wanted to say.
We did pray, and sing, and pray, and sing some more... and finally I figured out who had passed away. Or at least, I thought I had...until he walked in halfway through the meeting. I decided tomorrow I'm spending the day working on language. Clearly I cannot distinguish between "he/she" and "brother/sister" when they are said quickly.

As I listened to people talk about this person, I realized that death is a universal pain that just stinks. Profound thought, I know. But something about watching it all, without understanding what was being said, was surreal. Seeing the raw pain of a husband who is now a widower... it's just heartbreaking. And even though I clearly don't know him...I found myself gripped by his new reality. I'm thankful that for me, for him, for all those that are found in Christ... this is my only hell. For me, this earth is as bad as it gets because I've placed my trust in the One who as I type is preparing a place for me. For me... it can only get better from here.

I don't really know all that transpired tonight...or how it came to be that I accidentally attended a funeral, or memorial, or prayer meeting around a casket...I'm not sure which. But I watched as the time concluded and everyone began to walk towards him to comfort him, hug him, and provide some sort of help for him... and I decided it was time to quietly exit.

As I drove home through intense fog, I was reminded again of the brevity of life. Here I am, proudly thinking and planning... knowing I've got a year and a half left here... and frustrated that I don't know what's after this...
I know God divinely arranged for me to attend whatever it was that I just attended... I needed the reminder. Tomorrow is not a promise. And if God grants another tomorrow, He'll also provide a plan for it. I don't need to do it for Him.

Caldo Verde...

One of the things I have fallen in love with lately is cooking. Much to my surprise, I seem to be coming out of my "Amelia Bedelia" tendency of reading and following instructions. You think I exaggerate... but I really used to cook like her. I once spent 10 minutes trying to half all the ingredients of a recipe, made the recipe, only to wonder why I never had to add in the rest of all the ingredients. Seems to me, the publishers of the cookbook should have done the fraction work themselves. Then, I realized the direction to "mix half the flour, sugar, eggs, etc." applied only to the flour. I've also interpreted "place in pan,cut sides down" as meaning "put in the pan and then chop the sides off." My most embarrassing moment was when I thought the direction to "mix in order given" meant that you had to put everything in the bowl layered according to the recipe and then turn on the mixer. I never did understand why my muffins turned out so dense and my mixing resulted in such a mess. Fortunately for me, the majority of my cooking is spent around roommates who either observe my blunders and correct them (thank you, Amy and Brenda, for helping me understand the whole "mix in order" thing... my muffins taste much lighter now), or help me understand what the directions mean.

It's been so fun to find new recipes, try new foods, and figure out ways to make things we can't get here in Portugal (like "cream of" soups for things, taco seasonings, syrup, etc.). It's like some sort of challenge to master...and each and every meal is a mini-success.

Tonight I made my first attempt at something Portuguese. It's ridiculously easy, and I am slightly embarrassed that I'm this excited about it... but I am. So, here you go... Portuguese Caldo Verde Soup. :)


One more story while I'm blogging. The bread in this picture is called "gêmeos" which sounds like "jem-ee-oosh." There is a man at the bakery who LOVES to speak English (and breaks out HILARIOUS phrases that no one really says anymore like, "We should eighty-six that"...which I'm not quite sure how he learned them... but he loves to break them out at all the wrong times...it's pretty fun). I asked him what this bread was called because I love it and he said, "Oh it's called," and then he said what sounded like, "kweens" or to my ear "queens." Well, I thought I understood him... until he said, "You know, queens, because there's two." I spent the next fifteen minutes pondering why on earth "queens" would mean two. Nonetheless, I figured maybe it had something to do with Portuguese royalty... who knows. The next day when I woke up, it dawned on me... he was saying, "twins." Sure enough, I grabbed my Portuguese dictionary and looked up "twins." What do you know? It said, "gêmeos." Mystery solved, embarrassment averted. :)

Catching up....

Ok... I don't even know where to begin... so this is just going to be a random compilation of the past few weeks...
Christmas---
Christmas eve I went shopping at Walmart. Ok, not really... but it felt like it. An anonymous supporter of Cal and Joyce gave them a gift to use for the single teachers... and they went shopping at the Embassy for all sorts of American food that we can't purchase here...Starbucks Frappuccinos, peanut butter, Triscuits, cheddar cheese,chocolate chips, brownie mixes... It was WONDERFUL.
Christmas day was spent holding a newborn babe wrapped in swaddling fleece thanks to Nick and Krista, who lovingly opened their home to Laura and me. Let me just tell you, Krista not only opened her home to us after just having a baby join their family, but she also made a "Thanksgiving" dinner for us.
New Year's Eve---
I have seriously never realized how dull life on John Patterson was on New Year's eve until I experienced it here. About five minutes before midnight we ran into Laura's room to see the fireworks from her bedroom. As soon as it turned 2011 we heard people screaming, blowing trumpets, and (my personal favorite) banging pots and pans. It was hysterical. I ran from Laura's room to see the fireworks to my bedroom to watch the people on their verandas banging their pots and pans. It lasted about 15 minutes. Maybe my life on John Patterson was just unusually dull... but I don't think they do that in the States, right? It was pretty fun... and yes, I used a plate and spatula to join in the celebration. Hey, when in Portugal, do as the Portuguese, right? ;) I tried to take a picture... but it's pretty hard to see the people...

Christmas Break--
The rest of Christmas break was pretty uneventful... and concluded with being sick. Fortunately, I finally started feeling better the day before school started. I'm thankful to be back. I really love my students (even when they accidentally break a gel pen that shoots black gel ink all over the white floor and white walls and narrowly misses my face). There's nothing like seeing five faces staring back at me reminding me of five of the million other reasons why God has me here. :)