Romanian Musings

Beautiful Escape
Purity melted by passionate intent.
A story of contrast,
A tale of paradox,
Ripping and rhyming,
Chiming and chipping.
Where do we go from here?

--

Tin Roof
Beaten into position
Assigned in submission
To a permanent place.
Unchanging.
Rusted by storms
Beyond a capacity for change.

But how noble they are
To protect
The fragile pieces
Broken within,
Awaiting restoration.

Occasionally appreciated,
More often intimidated
To follow orders
Without question;
Not that they ever would.

Rome or Romania, pt. 4

The moment: Romanian youth to the left who had refused to take back his chair, clicking around the computer. Romanian adult on to the right sharing a random story about Microsoft Vista. Right hand index tapping through the slides of a song to the tune. Western words and worship instantaneously transform into international community upon the projection of lyrics on the wall. From half of the room half-heartedly mumbling a melody to a boisterous bombardment of brave barks bellowing bouquets of beauty to our Beloved Being. The Kingdom of God claims no nationality or party line. Or perhaps, more appropriately put, The Kingdom of God claims all nationalities and party lines. Glory and honor and power and praise be our God, the Lord of the Heavenly Hosts.

Why do some people call it Rome and others call it Romania?

Faint alarm of a watch chirps a humble wake up. A chilly breeze wanders the room warmed by the aimless heater. Attention. Out the window, a stream of snow not warm enough to be rain danced horizontally with rain not cold enough to be snow. The morning matured as did the snowfall. Precipitation pauses premeditated plans.

Instead of hands wreaking from raunchy trash, at the end of the day now blisters, bruises, and blood mar the mitts frozen to the chisel and hammer. I love labor that I can look at.

Rome or Romania, pt. 3

3/25
Yesterday, we met an angel named Betty. We didn’t know she was an angel until today when she and her Canadian husband, Hardy (sp?). They bussed us around Medgidia to pockets of poor where the kids we played and prayed with slipped out through holes in these pockets. But at least the city was fortunate enough to have pants to wear. Regretfully, I cannot say the same for some of the children today. Shirt and boots would suffice for multiple children because many of the parents refuse to wake up even to dress their own snot-dried face, let alone their dirty, disfigured bundles of joy. Instead, Betty, Hardy, and on occasion one other couple rise early in the morning to cross the bridge to where these families live in exile. By 7:00 in the morning, these front-liners present the schools with clean, combed, and awake children.

“You can cry in your heart because my heart is always broken,” Angel Betty quips. When you work in these conditions, time lives only as a luxury. These scenes not only beg for money but also beg to argue with Solomon in Ecclesiastes. There is there a time to mourn, unless sadness falls with your head on its way the pillow. Nor is not a time to weep, unless tears roll with each brush through mangled, matted mess of mop.

The puddles on the morning street provided the necessary evidence that God Himself wept the night before as he foreknew what we would watch wearily within the ensuing hours. Open hands welcomed us into open homes more cramped than our adulterous hearts and sparser than our skinny world perspective.


As we crowded the muddy, manured yard our guiding Angel Betty mentioned something about leading a song or two with some of these fine folks. Indeed, I blessed God for giving me the sunglasses covering my eyes that day otherwise the tears resting in my eyes would have been exposed beyond repair. Verbatim, “God, if you make me worship with these people, I am going to lose it.” But instead, the chill of the grueling wind froze that salty water in place, hidden behind my dark lenses. We ended up signing for them “Open The Eyes Of My Heart” (that we had learned before we left Egypt) where I managed to distance myself just enough to keep the dammed tears from crashing through. What a privilege it would have been to worship with those who are so near my Daddy.

“They are my friends, but they steal from even me.”

Daddy, how could you be so cruel as to set before our eyes and in our very hands your Kingdom then leave us actionless? You’ve heard it said that the Kingdom is near, but I tell you, hell yeah it is; its in your front yard.

If you want me hear (here), then I need to know. Bless you Daddy for your faithfulness and persistence after my stubborn, stone(d) heart. May the name of Jesus Christ move swiftly and mightily across this country. Amen.

Rome or Romania, pt. 2

Is 58:6-7 “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter – when you see the naked to clothe them and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?”

Daddy, I want the Spirit of compassion, perseverance, and service so that others may know you better. But then I start to think about your first requisite: Love the Lord your God, and love your neighbor as yourself. Both. It is not a two-part dictation but I lean towards believing that you instituted the order with purpose.

Do you hear that? Shh, listen... [inaudible whisper] Can you hear it? Listen again... [shivering murmur] "C...c..com.m.me." and "Bbbbring your fffriendssss..." Do you know what that is? It is the voice of Romania luring us into its frigid, frozen heart - Brasov.

In a few hours, we (the youth staff) will squash 14 youth into an uncomfortable economy-class seat, check all our 30 pieces of luggage, argue or "discourse" with the Egyptian personnel, and nudge into our own airline seats. All this will be followed by a temporary sigh until we land in Bucharest, Romania. Did I mention that we won't meet to go to the airport until 12:00 midnight? Yet the still and quiet voice tempts us, come and play.

From Bucharest, we again compress these vibrant young into a bus upon which we will sleep for a couple hours until we enter a camp in Brasov, Romania (geographically located very near the center of the country). When I checked the weather for Brasov mere moments ago (9:45 p.m.), I kid you not, -11 Celsius; that rounds out to approximately +12 Fahrenheit for all you non-metrics. Are you serious? Since when did the earth get that cold?! I live in Egypt man, temperatures that cold only exist in like Antarctica or something. But still the frosted breath beckons.

Supposedly we will be keeping tabs on our daily events while we wander abroad the Transylvanian mountain range. Should you like to follow along and perhaps pray for our students, the Romanians we'll be with, the country itself, or perhaps your favorite, beloved group of youth staff scurrying to preserve the lives of our blossoming teenagers, the web link is given below:

http://mccromania.blogspot.com/

We pre-thank you for your gracious supply of encouragement and prayer. We're gonna need it.

Let's rock, let's rock.

Gilligan's Isle, Series Finale

[deep commercial announcer voice] Find your seats ladies and gentlemen. Tonight is the highly anticipated yet bittersweet series finale of Gilligan's Isle: Sands of Egypt. Butter that popcorn; top off your soda because this will be one magnoon (crazy) moment. It just got interesting!


I had fallen asleep at 9:30 the night before, leaving me overly rested. I raced my alarm to 8 a.m. and rose victorious. A day like any other, except I was in the middle of a desert town, somewhere, surviving only by the grace and mercy of the locals and a quirky German speaking Egyptian-wannabe. Good morning, world.

Our rescue vessel, as well rested as I, lounged in its parking spot awaiting our luggage. We piled our bags, pillows, equipment and bodies into the back seat immediately following another imitation breakfast. The sail set for Maadi, we shoved off that tiny desert island.

All of us gazed out our respective windows mused. I don't know what splashed around in the head of my fellow shipmen and maids, but the ripples of the wavy sand drew me into a state of worship. Leaning overboard, I could see my reflection crashing the tides with the rhythm of the craft's bouncing and bobbing. From dust we came, to dust we shall return.

In the distance, I could see enormous, tsunami-sized sand wave that could have been mistaken for a mountain. Repetitions of far off power line towers wobbled in the wake of the ensuing tidals. Mammoth rock formations surfaced to spray out mists of sand from their blow hole.
Smaller, more agile dolphinic dunes leaped and bounded across the tanned expanse. Heat waves added the gloss that transitioned from sea to sky, steps from earth to heaven, Gilligan's Ladder.

My attention rotated back into our vehicle to observe how the rescue captain would give a weary and nearly unnoticeable motion to greet passing travelers. I tinkered through our collection of fossilized and petrified sea shells that had been kicked around by thousands of years of beach bums. Despite the oxymoronic beauty of the desert, the boredom of travel sunk me into a short nap washing me in and out of consciousness.

Startled by the rumble and thump of brick, concrete, and other debris in our path, I reinstated my gaze though this time something new grappled from my peripheral. Glancing left, the colors had changed. A dark gray, perhaps even black now dominated the landscape. Shorter dark waves crested with a light beige floated by on occasion. I rolled right. The same shadowy omnipotence now the glaze. An uniquely extended surf had mutinied for ownership of this shady place. The 40 million year old volcanic rock lingered at the surface to give the same darkness to the wave passively framed by a railroad track (nearly the same age) that foamed a dirty white atop it all. Endless.

The Dark Wave, as I came to call it, exuded old wrecked train cars, land cruisers, and barges that obtruded an drowning warning to any who might attempt to ride the beast. Fierce, merciless, indiscriminate. We past other broken vessels steadily bailing water just to keep afloat. Others thumbing their way home. Nothing was too far from the oil rigs that had been anchored into the inky belly, speckled with trash and veiling oil spills that can only be expected when one crosses the path of "Petroleum Co. -- Welcome to Visitors."

It was about the time my soul started to shake that the tears and traces of attempted communities littered the once purer place. Unfinished or fallen walls. Half piles of bricks forever waiting to be cemented into place. Rod iron bars croaked, hunched out of eroding pillars. It was an combination of Water World and Mad Max with an Arab flavoring. As we inched closer to some semblance of "normal" life, what was once an oasis and sanctuary for burdened travelers had morphed into arid wasteland plundered by garbage, rubbish, sulfur, smoke stacks, and row after row of graying vegetation choked by the popular, prized pollution.
There was a moment when it seemed as if the people we now passed rusted into a functional absorption of the ashen aridity. Even the ruddy flowers tinted of a desert frostbite. Beauty lives by the contrast of a wretched counterpart.

Disgusted, my eyes lifted to notice not only the Great Pyramids of Egypt but also clawing and scratching for attention were the innumerable plastics, papers, and violating trash clustering along kilometers of fence lines. "These people don't deserve claim to such rich culture," I vomited. Just as vomiting relieves the stomach, it also varnishes the mouth with a great distaste for what just spewed.

I tried to secretly steal MaryAnn's ruby red shoes and heal-click my way back to where there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...

I couldn't find them.

We left one desert isle only to find ourselves trapped back on another. Oh, the irony.

Gilligan's Isle, Part 3

Like a shy banana*, he peeled slowly the corner of the sleeping bag timidly from its nestled place, tempting a single ray of light to pierce my snuggled hibernation. Slow yet sure, yet quite slow, it let loose a nasty warning snarl keeping away other antagonizing creatures, only to uncover the dismantling warmth of the fresh air. The furry beast simply sat for quite some time hoping the grogginess would fade without initiative. Another more thunderous bellow echoed this time when his sunglasses had gone missing.

The sand, cold and snickering, got a kick out of the stiff old bear watching him stumble and bumble and tip-toe atop its inhospitably chilly grains. Distraught settled in with morning hunger leaving him to forgo the search for his absent sunglasses. He matched a disappointed leg hug with periodic nibbles of slightly burnt and sweaty pita bread. If the rest of the Kingdom did not wake soon he would need to gargle another gutteral guffaw. Lucky for them, about that time the blanket rolled from Kevin, unsealing his cocoon. Others followed.

Much puttering transported the lifeless bodies from tents to "breakfast" back to tents or mats used for laying out (a concept I will never understand). This last long enough for everyone to become sweaty and irritable. By mid-morning, the lifeless mutated into hairy werewolves. Egypt often does things strangely and without explanation so it is not surprising that it took a full sun instead of a moon to transform the staff into illogical mythical creatures. But soon we were on our way.

As instantaneous as Belle's kiss for Beast vanquished the curse, so did the embrace of our team to civilization semblance. In form, everyone took to their resting form - some reading, some sizzling in the hot spring, some back to tempestuous slumber. Ironic, especially since we had only sat and waited all the day long anyway.

Annie casually invited anyone for a stroll through tiny town Bahariya. Up for a run with the locals, I responded and we left the crowds for a quieter place. Misspelled signs and clever postings boasting "Popular Restrunt" or "Cheepest store in town" provide me for the most entertainment and function as perhaps my favorite idiosyncrasy of these Egyptian towns. It took some time but we tracked our footsteps back to the hotel.

An hour later, a monstrous plate of spaghetti intimidated the tomato sauce into one pitiful pile atop its layers of weaving strands. All ended well when our friend Peter lilted us with a welcome back story about the Bedouin people. Thanks Pete, old boy.


*This is only funny to me because "shai ba anana" in Arabic means "tea with mint." It was a bad joke, I know.

Gilligan’s Isle, Part 2

We set sail late that afternoon to drift into the majestic setting sun, refracting light off the dust canvassing the painted sky. It was supposed to be a 5-hour tour to the Hot Spring Hotel. Slowly but certainly, my desire to control the time faded as well it should on retreats and vacations.

Upon our check-in, we checked out the room briefly but wasted little time in bee-lining for the fanatically anticipated hot spring. Rusted brown, or more aptly, a muddy auburn color. Skeptical, our starvation for any type of hot tub-like experience nudged us past sweating ambiguity. And oh, how it was worth it. (note to parents: next Christmas, I’d like my own personal hot spring. Thanks in advance.)

We sloshed around the next morning, zombified into the cafeteria following the plopping of our luggage somewhere near what we felt might be our transportation for the day. If I’ve learning nothing else about this culture, I have learned they do not understand the importance of starting one’s day off with a healthy, hearty breakfast. This is a nagging disappointment to a husky American boy who dreams each night of a generous morning meal. Instead, we compromised with an imitation and lackluster pancake flavored with either honey or your choice of apple jelly or peach, and pita bread (served at every meal) with orange slices.

After consuming something disguised as breakfast, another fun encounter stood waiting for us in the door of the lobby darned in traditional Egyptian galabaya and head covering. However, accidental entertainer lacked one common denominator among Middle Eastern men: skin tone. The man was whiter than any of us, because as it turns out only a true German can yodel like that. Indeed, our host and owner turned out to be a true blue (eye and blonde hair) European boasting a whopping 140 pounds hidden under his pastel Arabic man dress who had established this enterprise strictly by accident but welcomed it with a motherly embrace. You can imagine that when each individual member of our team ocularly scoured the grounds of this humble hotel when our Arabic-anticipating ears fell victim to the lilting German accent of Mr. Peter. Pandemonium calmed when our combined wits gathered to acknowledge the absurdity of this soar thumb.

Accepting and celebrating, we greeted and ol’ Pete abruptly commenced his history lesson of the “40 million year old desert.” I nearly thought aloud, “I suppose that means the rest of the world is not as old as this desert,” that is, before Tact and Respect double-slapped me in the face. Petey persisted unbeknownst to my unaired comment. We paid our attention in backsheesh* and loaded the Land Cruisers to wander the dry and pure sands of this rich, ancient land (40 million years worth).

Much of the drive time drifted us over road as rough as the off-road paths that solicited the more entertaining parts of our trip. But after 3 or 4 touristy stops, one extended lunch break at our Bedouin guide’s smokin’ oasis abode, and a couple seemingly unnecessary minor detours explicated in Arabic, the shadeless plot we called “home away from home… away from home” velcroed to our affections swiftly and without permission. 7 hours had left us hungry, grouchy, tired, and achy. Good thing we were on vacation.

A game of 3-on-3 football formed leaving us exhausted, beaten, and defeated for the night. Sand glued by sweat provided new color and UV protection. Unfortunately, the sun had left us with only the twinkling stars to keep warm.

A truly satiating dinner matured into a time of story telling and truth exposure as only a dimly lighting campfire can do. We laughed, we gawked, we drank tea. We sang, made fun of each other, and reconciled with awkward heartfelt explanations. Eventually we slept; some of us with the stars as a blanket. It had been a good first day of retreat.


*backsheesh – the petty cash given as tip to “valets” and other menial occupations flooding the Egyptian streets.

Gilligan's Isle, Part 1

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fearful ride
That started from a smoggy Port (Said)
To rest in the sandy tide.

The mate was a mighty intern man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Youth staff team set sail that day
For a white desert tour, a white desert tour.

The drive there started getting rough,
The youth staff getting cross,
If not for the humor of the tour guides
Their salvation would be lost, salvation would be lost.

The Land Cruisers make camp that night amid the crowdless sand
With Gilligan (me)
The Skipper (Travis) too,
The millionaire (Brophy) and his wife (Mo),
The movie star (Ashley)
The professor (Kevin) and Mary Ann (Annie),
Here on Gilligans Isle.


So this is the tale of the youth staff team,
Stuck in the desert land,
No comforts and no luxuries,
but smoking contraband.

The first mate and the Skipper too,
Will organize a game,
But working on their summer tans,
The girls would just act lame.

From 10 am to 5 pm,
We jumped from dune to dune,
Like Bob Barker or Mr. Burns,
We dried up like a prune.

So join me here the next few days,
You're sure to get a rile,
Reading 'bout our adventures,
Here on "Grilled Again Isle." (We roasted in that hot sun...)