Church at Ikea

In Italy it isn’t uncommon to share a table with someone you don’t know. So today at the café at Ikea, when a woman pulled up a chair next to us and set her bags down between Thomas and her chairs, as a divider of sorts, we thought nothing of it. We continued eating our couscous, pasta and very yummy “dolce” (Italian for dessert).

As I was nearing the end of my chocolate crunchy cheesecake bliss, I asked the woman, in Italian, if she spoke English (I had a very important question to ask her). She said, “yes” without so much of a hint of an Italian accent and so I asked her if she knew if the mall next door was open today or not (apparently most things are closed here on Sundays). She answered me with a wonderful British accent, which took us into the next question travelers always ask: “Where are you from?” We exchanged our answers and then began asking (and answering) the next set of questions regarding marital status, children, work, length of time in Italy, etc.

This all spawned our conversation into something of a very spiritual and intense nature. It was way beyond the moment. I knew just by what felt like a force field around our table that this was holy…this was Jesus answering this woman’s cry for help. She didn’t go into detail but told us that she and her (Italian) husband of twenty years were separated…that everything had seemed to fall apart as of late. This very beautiful and kind woman who looked like a friendly sitcom wife said that in the car on the way to Ikea she had been questioning whether or not she was “possessed” because everything in her life had been going so terribly. She couldn’t believe how strange her encounter with us was, given the conversation didn’t start with this intention. Given she was seemingly desperate for some sort of answer to the questions burning in her soul.

We shared about our marriage and God’s redemption and Jesus’ love and abundant grace. At the beginning of the conversation, when it started taking on a more spiritual tone, she mentioned that, having grown up in a home where one of her parents was Catholic and the other a mix between Protestant and Jehovah’s Witness, she thought it was ridiculous that people would fight over little things regarding this one “God.” She mentioned Buddha and Ala in all of this and so we got the opportunity to share the difference between these religions (which was fresh in our minds given we talked with a Muslim man on the plane for about two hours regarding the differences in our faiths). We talked about the assurance of salvation Jesus offers because of his death and resurrection on the cross. The man on the plane said that by doing good works, he “hoped” to get to heaven. In this moment, with this woman, I re-lived my salvation experience, realizing that I really am sure that if I died this very moment, I’d be with Jesus. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because God chose to send His only Son to die for me. It’s because of this that there is anything holy and good that dwells in me and allows me to do “good works.”

At the end of the conversation, Thomas asked if he could pray with her. “Please do,” she said, a woman not too proud to pray in this very unreligious and overcrowded restaurant of sorts. We all closed our eyes and Thomas put his hand on her. We all felt it. I know. It was a rare and beautiful moment of the sweet presence of God. When we opened our eyes, hers were filled with tears. She got up from the chair and we rose to hug her. I felt like I was hugging my sister.

We exchanged information in the midst of all this and I told her that we should keep in touch. “Yah,” she said. “I’ll tell you in an e-mail why this is all so strange.” With that she turned to leave and looking back, she let out a deep breath, as if weight had lifted from her and said, “Well. I’m going to be thinking about this all day.” She smiled, her eyes dry now, and walked away.

I believe she walked away knowing that God is big enough for her questions. Big enough to seat her next to two foreigners who simply wanted to know whether or not the mall was open. Foreigners who God has asked to go to this place, to encounter people like her, to give answers to those who are seeking…to harvest these seeds that have been planted in the hearts of His people. His sons. His daughters.

This is church. Yes, even at Ikea.

Train Ride

Everything I could possibly say about Italy seems incredibly cliché’ and rather asinine. I could talk about the beauty or the culture or the history, but who hasn’t seen the pictures of the Italian villages hanging on every wall of every “Italian” restaurant in the U.S.? Who hasn’t heard about the rich history here? The wars. The fashion. The wine. The cheese. And the bread. Oh, the bread. Foccocia has an entirely different meaning here. Though I have to say that, after eating at an oddly inviting (and a bit dirty) Italian diner of sorts, the only very small glass of wine I ingested left me unimpressed.

Even as I’m riding the train through the mountains, I feel a bit removed from it all. I’m remembering an 18-hour bus (very old VW bus, that is) ride I took through the mountains of Eastern Europe some ten years ago. Recalling how I had to pee so bad and finally we stopped at the home of an elderly Albanian couple in the middle of nowhere, and I mean nowhere… and was directed to a little room with concrete floors and a drain.

I am, however, reflecting on the “aura,” if you will, that I got from our time in Genova the last few days. Our friends, the Paces, live in an apartment that, if you can make it to the top of without heart failure, is beautiful. It has a large balcony that overlooks the ocean that is only a couple of miles away. The day we arrived, Donna and I sat on the balcony, the sun warming our exposed arms, soaking in each other’s presence and awing over the beauty of the view that God has so amazingly given them day in and day out.

But last night, or early this morning rather (jetlag is killing us), as the Paces and we listened to my favorite worship song together (From the Inside Out), one lyric struck a chord in me, in a way that is not really profound at all, but which awakened my heart once again to the reality of people’s need for Light in this place. “Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades…” And in this place, after sojourning through the labyrinth in the downtown district last night, noticing the prostitutes and the street kids and the drunk men and the lack of children, I felt surrounded by darkness and admittedly felt a twinge of hopelessness in giving these people a message of Jesus’ love, as if any of us is “too far gone” for such a God.

And then, like the enemy’s nefarious clockwork, I awoke in a terrible mood and nearly hated my husband for a good two hours for no apparent reason other than he was acting a bit like a child. Donna could see my very obvious frustration building and she prayed with me that I could be kind and filled with love. “Deep breaths,” she kept saying, half joking and half not. Deep breaths, Holy Spirit, Zoloft, a meditative trinity of sorts, got me through the bus ride to the train station. Listening to my IPod and reading 1 Corinthians 13, the infamous chapter on love, got me through the first twenty minutes of the train ride until it stopped, at which point all other passengers exited. Then the train’s engine turned off and we were left on what resembled a ghost train, all alone, questioning weather or not sweet Phil put us on the right train or not.

Turns out, after the janitor guy came through picking up trash and noticed us sitting there like the ridiculous foreigners that we are, that this train was no longer running and indeed it was not heading to Torino and never was for that matter. So we got off and in the midst of waiting another hour for the right train, I began liking my husband again. Of course it helps that he was acting much less like a child and I had gotten a Coke Zero from the little man at the “Chef Express.” And he (my husband, not the little man) is wearing black. And his red hat. And jeans that make his butt look cute. That always helps a little. I overlooked the dog poop on his shoe and made peace with the multi-faceted, flawed but wonderful human that he is. (It seems I come to this conclusion a lot in my writing… much less expensive than a counselor…).

And now we are heading to Torino, our future home. It all seems a bit dreamlike. I mean dreamlike in the sense that most of my dreams are not wonderful, but odd rather, and sometimes scary and most of the time confusing. I imagine our experience in Torino, while wonderful because it’s like a first honeymoon of sorts for us, will be a bit like my dreams.

Our future is truly in the hands of God. It’s both fun and nerve wrecking to follow His lead. It’s fun when it all works out. Nerve-wrecking when we step out of the boat and aren’t really sure whether or not we will sink or walk. Turns out Jesus can handle it all, the days when I’m so sure He’s real and good and a God who provides, and the dreadful days, which make up many, when I ask Him if He’s really sure He knows what He’s doing… and if using us, ridiculous, over-sensitive, critical and melancholy us, is really a good idea. But then I put one foot in front of the other, like a baby learning to walk. Knowing all the while that I will indeed fall, but that God’s kingdom isn’t contingent on my perfection, rather His grace toward very flawed people like me.

And in minutes, I will get up out of this seat and step off this train into a land I know little of. It’s one step at a time…one little baby step will take us off this train and into another unknown.

Tsunami

This morning, I awoke in a reasonable mood. Typically, I awake in one extreme or the other. The few times I wake up in a really good mood usually coincide with warm, sunny weather and sleeping children. The other times, I basically wake up wanting to die. Not in a suicidal way. Just in an “I’m not happy to be alive” kind of way. Meaning I don’t want to get a very whiny Elias out of bed and ready for school. I don’t want to listen to my daughter’s demands for Cocoa Wheats and candy. And I certainly don’t want to face the aroma of Ezra’s daily dose of nastiness when I enter his room.

But we are in Kansas City today and I didn’t have to deal with the first two scenarios, so I was in an okay mood. Surprisingly, even though it’s the beginning of February, it was warm and sunny, with the kind of breeze that teases my senses, making them think spring is nearly here. I made my way to the little workout room and walked twenty-five minutes on the treadmill while watching the biography of Reese Witherspoon. Afterward, I took the kids outside to the playground and let them run around.

So it seemed odd, after returning from a quiet retreat (meaning I was by myself) to McDonald’s and the Dollar Tree later that afternoon, that I found myself emotionally out of sorts. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I apprehended the familiar cloud of loneliness and depression looming over me, concealing the sunshine that warmed me only a few hours prior. I wasn’t sure quite what to do with this feeling…this Tsunami of sorts, which was fast approaching.

So I ran from it.

I subconsciously decided that a pity party was in order. For starters, I would remind myself that I am not a likeable person and this is why when I walked up the stairs to chat with my team, everyone disbanded (nothing to do with the fact that they had been sitting there together the whole time I was gone and probably wanted a little solace). And then, I would begin criticizing people I love, namely my husband. This one always works really well, especially because it gives him a good reason to be mad at me and thus adds some fiery flavor to the pitiful atmosphere I have created, at this point, for the whole family.

Around six o’clock, we made our way over to the home of a couple on our team who lives a mere football field away from the training center where we were staying. The team was convening there in order to head over to the main office. I decided that instead of forcing myself to be a part of the conversation that was happening on the other side of the cul-de-sac, I’d tend to a shrilly Ezra who kept pulling me away from the group, his chubby hands using all their fortitude to drag me into his two year-old world, a world of open fields and plenty of room to run and explore. Thomas calls Ezra our little John the Baptist, and I have to say that in terms of being a wild man, this is true, even down to his crazy hair that matches wholly his personality.

I felt something inside of me churning while he led me into the open field. Something deep and God-like. I knew this was a teaching moment. Only this time, I was the student and my two year-old, the teacher.

He kept walking, his little Chuck Taylors picking up speed with every step. He had something to show me. Something way too big for his little two-word sentences to explain. I kept following him, getting further and further away from our team…from my agenda…from my self-pity.

Suddenly, he stopped, like a man reaching the edge of the Grand Canyon. He took my hand again and turned around, silently asking me to mimic him. I turned just as Keziah and her little friend Katie came racing down the hill, hand in hand, giggling as their bare feet ran over the damp grass and their bellies filled with tickly butterflies. The sun was just setting and pink and orange filled the sky behind their silhouetted figures. I took in the scene, like I was watching a really good independent film. I let the feeling settle down into that place that’s made just for Jesus and me. The place where revelation supernaturally prevails any life circumstance.

I breathed deep, suddenly realizing all of my senses were in tact and that they were all in perfect sync with one another, down to the crisp and dry smell of winter and the feeling of wheatgrass tickling my legs. Ezra stood next to me, like Morgan Freeman on Evan Almighty. It was like he was enjoying this moment every bit as much as I was. Keziah and Katie fell to the ground and their little dresses blew in the wind as their bare legs flew toward the sky. They continued laughing together, so hard, so freely. They were abandoned to the simple pleasures of life. The pleasures I so staunchly repress in all my grown-upness.

Instead of continuing to run from the sad and lonely feelings I held within for half the day, I unknowingly ran into them, knowing that God was beckoning me to embrace the beauty in front of me. All we really need is always in front of us, isn’t it? It’s just that we are sometimes way too sensible to see it. We think, in our very human minds, that we know what we need. And what we need certainly can’t be embracing our negative emotions… or can it?

We forget that Jesus felt lonely. That he spent much of his life empathizing with very sad people, mourning with them and for them. That he was rejected and despised and that even down to the evening before his betrayal, he wanted the cup of despair to pass him.

But He walked into the darkness. And from it came the most glorious moment in all of history. A moment on which hinges every bit of light that this sad world embodies.

I could have told Ezra to hold on for the hundredth time that day and tried desperately to repress my emotions and partake very superficially in the ensuing conversation. But I would have missed the reminder of how blessed I am to have these children. What’s more, I would have missed the opportunity to walk into the bigness of God, where my emotions are all put into perspective…where laughter and solitude dance together, hand in hand, as they apprehend the freedom and simplicity that comes with being children of a Father who delights in meeting us in our moments of angst.