Let me preface this post with the following statement: People are strange...and I include myself in that group.

Thankfully my journey home was much less exciting with the exception of a few odd moments.

Odd moment number one happened on the first flight to Chicago. I am fairly sure the girl in front of me was trying to market every skill she had to the whole plane...because we all heard about her "vast experiences" and everything else about her career. I know our plane was a little loud...but yelling wasn't really necessary.

Odd moment number two quite honesty left me speechless. As we were getting settled in for the nine hour flight, I looked over to find my seat mate undressing. She undid her bra, unbuttoned and unzipped her pants, took her shoes off and went to sleep. I was flabbergasted. Shoes...I understand shoes. But if your pants are that tight and uncomfortable, maybe you should wear different pants. And the bra...don't even get me started. When we were getting ready to land I got worried she was going to ask for help because she had some trouble redressing...

Odd moment four occurred with every Spanish old man. I recognize that some cultural differences occur between us...that being said, I've never fought the urge to yell quite so much. Anytime and every time I stood in line during my seven hour layover, I was cut by men. It didn't matter that there was a line behind me...they would simply walk around the barrier, right up to the agent and ask their question while I stood jaw-dropped that they had the nerve. It wasn't just with airport personnel either. When I went to order food...same thing. There I would be, next in line...and out of seemingly nowhere a man would skip the whole inconvenience of waiting and cut me off. I can handle it a few times...but I felt like after 24 hours of travel on little to no sleep I was going to lose it. I do know at one point I said, "Am I invisible? I AM in line..."

Odd moment five keeps happening. It's odd. I'm odd. But it smells like home here now. (I told you I was weird...) When I walked in yesterday, it was the weirdest thing to recognize smells here. I guess I hadn't ever been away long enough to notice what my home here really smelled like. It's just odd...but kind of fun to feel at home here.

And I am sure odd moment number six will occur when I visit my classroom and realize school starts in two weeks. Wow...how am I starting my second year here already?

I spent a lot of time praying before I came home that God would use this trip to really show me what He wants me to do in a year. I prayed that He would show me if I could return to the States and plug right back in to life and ministry...or that my heart had forever been altered to love serving and living overseas.

I don't think I quite expected God to answer. Or at least not to make it quite so obvious. Maybe what He is showing me is just temporary...or maybe He is going to teach me to once again be content where He puts me...even if it isn't necessarily what I love or want. I am not exactly sure...but I know He is making it so clear to me that I could be content the rest of my life to live in a country that is not my own. I really would be fine being an ocean away from everyone and everything. Because although there are people here that I love...I feel like I no longer fit...and honestly, I have no desire to fit back in. I don't really value what I used to value...and I can't imagine ever being back in that place again.

So what does it all mean? I don't know yet. I know for now it means the awkwardness of recognizing that things will never be "normal." I know it means I feel like I'm losing anything that would have previously tied me down or made me long to return to the States. I know it means that sometimes when I'm with people here I wonder what's wrong with me...why am I so alright with disengaging from what used to be so comfortable and important to me?

And while sometImes it has been overwhelming...I know it's really just answered prayer....and God working. And with so many other things in my life...sometimes He has to bring death before He can bring life. So once again...He's walking me through another process of death...and I am learning that in the valley of the shadow of death there is great joy...because He is always beside me, quietly leading....patiently listening...and sweetly understanding the things that no one else will ever understand. And the valley always eventually leads to the mountaintop...

Excess...

I feel like that could describe America...simply put: excess.
An excessive amount of food, space, cars, and churches. Everywhere I look it just feels like excess. There are so many other things I'd like to write...but some things are better left kept unsaid.
Why do we need so much? Or feel like we need so much? Acquiring things is a way of passing time... A hobby, and even a justified excuse for not being more involved in things that actually matter.
I feel like in some ways God has used this trip to show me who He saved me from becoming...
And for that I am grateful...

A Material Girl

Today I probably cried the dumbest tears I've ever cried. In fact, I was mad that I would ever even consider crying over such a stupid, ridiculous thing. I hated that it mattered to me. I hated that it bothered me. I hated my heart. And I'm pretty sure my tears were sin....if tears can be sin.

Coming home has been a weird and odd thing. The things that I thought would be awkward have been completely wonderful. It's been other things that have caught me off guard. For instance, I walk into my room and open up drawers and see all the things I left behind. I look in my closet and see piles of shoes I haven't worn. I walk around my house, and I see all my things that used to hang in the room of my very own apartment. I drove my car...my first car that I paid for and loved...but is no longer mine. All my "things" are now either someone else's, hanging on someone else's walls, or occupying space and collecting dust.

And I have found that this has started such a war in my heart. As I drove home from the dentist in my old car...it just got to be too much. I miss "my things." I miss getting to be a materialistic American with money to spend on clothes, shoes, and things for the house and having it be completely acceptable and not bother me or anyone around me. I miss disposable income.

And more than anything...I hate that about me. I hate that I miss that. I never, ever think about that when I am in Portugal...because I love where God has me. But coming back and seeing friends who don't bat an eye about dropping money here or there on ridiculous, frivolous things...and can shop without really considering whether or not they can truly afford something... it makes me frustrated. Because I used to be able to do that...but can't anymore.

Isn't that stupid? And sinful? Ugh, wretched, wretched girl that I am. Who will rescue me from this mentality of materialism? Christ Jesus...

Today I found a book and started thumbing through it. Ironically (or perhaps I should say, divinely) this is the quote I read:

"We rationalize these passages away...'Jesus wouldn't really tell us not to bury our father, or say goodbye to our family, or actually mean we needed to sell all we have and give it to the poor. What Jesus really meant was...' And this is where we need to pause. Because we are starting to redefine the Jesus of the Bible and twist him into a version of Jesus we are more comfortable with...a nice, middle class, American Jesus. A Jesus who doesn't mind materialism and who would never call us to give away everything we have. A Jesus who would not expect us to forsake our closest relationships so that he receives all our affection. A Jesus who is fine with nominal devotion that does not infringe on our comforts, because, after all, He loves us just the way we are. A Jesus who wants us to be balanced, who wants us to avoid dangerous extremes, and who, for that matter, wants us to avoid danger altogether. A Jesus who brings us comfort and prosperity as we live out our Christian spin on the American dream."

I know how good it felt when I was getting ready to go to Portugal to purge my life of things...and to know that I was following Him. It's interesting that now, a year later, when faced with them once again...my heart is a little torn. Am I really alright with this life? Could I really "do" missions? What is my heart really craving and desiring...a life of radical abandoning of self? Or my own Christian American dream?

Home...

I'm finally home from a journey of which I would very much like to never repeat again.
After starting out thirty minutes late from leaving Lisbon, I managed to run for thirty minutes through Madrid's airport only to find I had missed my flight by five minutes.

As I stood at the gate panting (yes, that is quite possibly the longest I have run in a long, long while) and trying not to cry, I managed to finally find the airport counter for "customer service." I put "customer service" in quotes, because let's be honest...customer service in Europe...really isn't customer service at all.

I tearfully explained what had happened to him in Sportinglish (a lovely combination of what little Spanish I still remember, Portuguese, and English). He listened, took my ticket, and for the next hour communicated nothing to me as he typed away on his computer, made phone calls, did a few texts, talked with his colleague, and typed more on his computer. I stood, reminding myself that it wasn't like I was in a rush, I'd already missed everything. Finally, he gave me a hotel, a new flight itinerary, and horrible instructions for how to claim my luggage, get out of the airport, and find the hotel. I walked away, once again tearing up because I knew there was no way on earth I was going to find my way out of this ridiculous airport and then find my way to the hotel. After wandering for what felt like an eternity, I finally found the baggage claim, where I then waited another hour for my luggage to appear. Then I wandered outside praying I would somehow find the "white bus" that would take me to my hotel. Sure enough, as I imagined was going to happen, I exited the airport and saw approximately fifteen white buses all lined up. Once again, I waged a day long battle with my tear ducts and started making my way down the line of white buses. Eventually I found four guys with the same papers in their hands as I had, and they kindly helped me find my bus.

The next morning, I got on my bus and headed to the hotel four and a half hours early. I knew Madrid was a mess, and I wanted plenty of time to find the right gate. Sure enough, right off the start I was dropped off at the wrong terminal. I finally found a bus that would take me to my terminal. When I arrived, I was told three different instructions about where to be and what terminal I was supposed to be in. Once again, I tried hard not to cry and to figure out what on earth I was supposed to do. Eventually, I found my line, made it through and took my train to the right concourse.

After finally getting to Chicago, I had to locate the correct agency to reissue me a new ticket because I missed my original itinerary. God was so good in placing it DIRECTLY outside of passport control. I made it to my gate with plenty of time to spare. Once at the gate, we received the announcement that our plane had mechanical problems and most likely would not be flying...unless they could locate another plane. Praise the Lord, I was sitting next to a young man who was reading a Bible. We started talking and when he found out I was delayed, he handed me his phone and said, "Call. I won't take no for an answer. Call your mom... tell her what's going on...she's probably flipping out." Fortunately, after I called we were told they had located another plane for us, and we would be able to get home.

I had about thirty minutes to talk with my new friend. He and his wife lived in Germany working for the military. We shared frustrations with living in Europe, frustrations with all that comes from cultural differences and a million other stories. I was able to share how God led me to Portugal, my purpose in being there, and my walk with the Lord. I don't know whether or not he is a believer...he never said. But he shook my hand when he left and said, "Thanks for all you are doing..." To which I replied, "Thanks for all you did for me today...and all you've done for our country."

I've been thinking a lot about that divinely appointed meeting. There were a lot of things he shared with me that I now realize I needed to hear. He talked about the things that overwhelmed him and frustrated him when he came back to the States. He shared with me about the strange familiarity yet out-of-place feeling he had...and told me of the three things he thought I'd struggle with...

I've been home less than twenty-four hours...and it's interesting to think on all that he shared. Again...I don't know if the point of our meeting was for me to share with him...or him to share with me...but I know it was of God. And I'm grateful.

Now if only he could have been scheduled to fly on my original date of flight... :)

Is he really gonna eat that?

I have seen a lot of odd things. I have seen some disturbing things.
But this...this tops all.
Last night I went to an ice cream shop with a few friends to celebrate the end of camps. While we were eating our ice cream, the man sitting across from me received his order of food. On his plate was a ginormous hamburger. This hamburger was still completely raw. In the center of the hamburger was a raw egg. All around the sides of the plate was Worcestershire sauce, garlic, and other seasonings. The waiter then took the plate with the meat and turned it side ways so that all the sauce and seasonings would drip onto another plate. He then scooped the raw egg from on top of the raw meat. He began to mix the egg with the sauce. I kept thinking that SURELY they would take the hamburger back and cook it. Nope. After thoroughly mixing the egg with the sauce, he then scooped up the raw (did I mention it was COMPLETELY RAW HAMBURGER MEAT??????) meat and began to mix it into the sauce.
When he had thoroughly mixed the two together, he grabbed another plate with a leaf of lettuce on it and then reshaped the raw nastiness into the appearance of a hamburger. And then...then he handed it the customer. And he ate it. All of it. Raw. Blood, red, raw. And I sat staring at him with a look of disgust...and began to watch him for signs of death. He didn't die. Yet. But he might. Because that whole thing was raw. All of it.

Doesn't everyone else know that raw things, ESPECIALLY RED MEAT, are not good for you? Surely that's not just an American thing....right?

Oh man...I thought I was going to vomit watching him eat bite after bite of completely raw meat.

You seriously couldn't give me anything that would make me do that. Ever.

From my head to the keys...

There are a few things I want to blog about tonight.

1) Skin. I keep wondering if the tanner I get the more Portuguese I'll look. I've decided it just isn't going to happen. We've got different skin bases. I'll always look more red/pink. Bummer. Cause their skin is so beautiful...

2) Lips. Apparently their lips are stronger too. Because mine are continually burnt...peeling...or in a perpetual stinging stage if I am not constantly applying sunscreen...to my lips, mind you. I've NEVER had to do that before in the States. Maybe theirs develop differently because of all the kissing they do...what with beijinhos and all...

3) Beijinhos (kissing). I'm terrified I might accidently do them to people in the States. Yesterday, I awkwardly greeted an American friend with them...and we both looked at each other like, "Were we supposed to do that? Do you feel weird?...because I feel weird." My apologies if a few slip out while I'm home.

4) HOME. Seriously...wow. Where do I begin? I am so excited. Beyond excited. I feel like I'm five. And it's Christmas. And I just found out I may be getting a puppy...yeah...about that excited.

5)Puppies. I really want one. A pug, actually. There's a really cute one at the pet store in Dolce Vita. I stood staring at him for about an hour the other day...along with two small children who kept shoving each other to get a better view in the tiny space that is the store front. I didn't move. I was there first. And I'm bigger. And, let's be honest, who would look more likely to buy the dog? Me. So I kept my spot and let them duke it out for the remaining view. Besides...were they even really ready to be dog owners? Would they clean up after it like I would? Walk it? Train it? The dog would clearly pick me as it's owner if given the choice...which really means I should be allowed the better view. :) But seriously, what is cuter than a pug? A PORTUGUESE pug. ;)

6) Portuguese. I decided tonight that if I leave here speaking Portuguese at the level of a four year old, I will have succeeded. Four sounds like a pretty lofty goal. I'm wondering if I should aim for three...

7) Three. That's about my average bedtime right now. I can't figure it out. It's like my body knows that jetlag is coming...so it's responding early.

8) Early. Tomorrow morning begins another week of camp. The last one to be exact...which means...maybe I should at least TRY to get some rest.