Work in Progress

The boys and I arrived in soggy Barcelona last Thursday.  I arrived with three European sized suitcases and two happy children in tow all by my own self.  Brett had been there all week for a busy work conference and so we decided to take the kids out of school for a few days and crash Brett’s hotel room.   It’s one thing to family crash in a big hotel, but quite another in a forty room boutique hotel.  For example:  when your children insist on taking the scarce elevator upstairs to the first floor.  However, Brett has been a loyal customer of La Pratik Rambla for five consecutive years now and has sent a lot of Amazon business their way, so they were happy to make an exception allowing the four of us to stay in one room.  By the second day, they knew to up the resupply of toilet paper.  By the first two minutes, I knew it was a mistake to let the nine year old pack himself.    

I intended to do some pre-work with the boys by having them research La Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s famous Basilica.  I have a friend here in Luxembourg who has her kids write a brief synopsis on a site they plan to go visit in advance of the trip.  The thinking being that the more the kids know in advance, the more interested they’ll be when they see it in person.  It sounded like such a good idea (and it is a good idea), but in execution it felt a little like spiking the kids’ orange juice with Aloe Vera juice.  It was an obvious, medicinal “I know what’s good for you” overture.  Extra, unassigned writing for a nine year old boy is something that requires a long runway and a convincing sales pitch.  I had neither.  And uninspiring YouTube clips of La Sagrada Familia weren’t helping.   I concluded that it must work better with daughters, or with families who played more Trivial Pursuit than Battleship.  The boys did however study up on the FC Barcelona Basketball team as we got tickets in advance to watch our first Euro Basketball game.  Ah-ha! So that’s the ticket.  Maybe it would have been a better idea to let them pick the thing they want to do pre-work on.

I, on the other hand, did study up on La Sagrada Familia and within an hour of our arrival determined that Friday would be the day that we would all go see it and we would see it WITH GOOD ATTITUDES.  Thursday night: Euro Basketball Game.  Friday: Spain’s Most Visited Monument.  And there would be no complaining, no rushing Mommy, and maybe a quiz at the end.

There is nothing quite like seeing La Sagrada Familia in person.  Millions of people visit it each year and much has been written about it, and there is good reason for it.  Antoni Gaudi’s passions were architecture, nature, and faith and you see the intersection of those passions in his work.    There is something for everyone.   Gaudi said: “Everyone finds his things in the temple.  The peasants see the hens, the scientists the zodiac signs, the theologians the genealogy of Jesus.”  When I saw it for the first time two years ago, I was impressed by its scope but turned off by its extravagance.  It was like Tammy Fay’s make up.  Too, too much.  Seeing it from the street was enough for me.

This time, I wanted to get closer.  I was ready to hand over some Euros to get inside.  Pre-work does work! The line was long, but fast moving, and Brett got us tickets with the audio tour while I traipsed around the perimeter with my camera.  Gaudi wanted La Sagrada Familia to be the “Bible in stone.”   There are books dedicated to helping you read through the Bible in one year, so getting through La Sagrada Familia in one morning was only going to be scratching the surface.  Knowing the ambition of my goal, Brett gladly took charge of the children.

Immediately you are reminded that this cathedral that began construction in 1882 is still far from being finished.  Scaffolding covers the Glory Façade, and ten of the eighteen planned spires are yet to be completed.  The goal is to have it completed in 2026 which will be the Centennial of Gaudi’s untimely death.   It still seems a lofty goal.   You can spend hours on the outside tracking the story of Christ’s birth in the overwhelmingly detailed Nativity Façade and of Christ’s last days in the haunting Passion Façade.  But I came this time to go inside.  Plus, it was very windy. 

Once I entered the cathedral, I understood what all the fuss was about.  I was no longer counting towers and looking for the column supported by a tortoise.  I was experiencing what Gaudi wanted to evoke – a sense of peace.  The whole interior is a majestic exaltation of beauty.  Layered with symbolism, Gaudi used tree-like columns to convey an enormous spiritual forest where the believer feels protected and united with God.  With light filtering in and hundreds of people like me wandering through the cathedral with their audio headset on, it felt like a community of people who were “Connected, but Not Alone.”

As I walked and listened (and the boys walked and listened on their own), I found myself thinking about how this monumental work – even with all its beauty – was still a work in progress.  That Gaudi envisioned a place so beautiful that it would take more than a lifetime, and many setbacks like the Spanish Civil War, to realize.  I also found myself thinking how wonderful it is that even unfinished things can be of use.  The church was consecrated in 2010 and is now used for religious services – scaffolding and all.  Work in progress, unfinished – some words that came back to me later in the trip when I lost my temper with my kids, when I lamented my aging body, when I wondered “what’s my next vocational chapter? – and p.s. it better be good.”

When asked about the slow construction, Gaudi was reported to have said:  “My client is not in a hurry.”  I’m so glad God isn’t in a hurry with us either – the beautiful works of art we all are.

​(See all Barcelona photos)

Four words

“Pretty cowardly of you.”

I received these words in a Facebook email.  The email was written in October.  I didn’t see it until last week. The reason for the delay was because I had unfriended the person before it was sent, so it landed in my “other” inbox which I never check.

When a difference of opinion with an acquaintance over Facebook started to go sideways, unfriending was my solution for disengagement and taking the high road.  I didn’t trust myself or some of my friends who agreed with me to advance the discussion productively.   And, truthfully, this person wasn’t looking for common ground; she was looking for a fight.  She is smart, well educated, and I’m sure a very nice person but I was an easy target because we didn’t have a relationship that needed to be protected.  I thought I had put to bed the sourness of that October exchange, but reading those four words, four months later was like getting stung a second time.  

My initial reaction was to lash out and reply with some snarky comment.  My President won after all.  But I KNEW that would not be taking the high road.  Anger feels good sometimes, but only for a fleeting moment.   Being in another country with people coming from all walks of life and world views only dramatizes how insular we can be in our belief that our way is the best way.  And I’m not just talking politics.   My second thought was to send something productive, but I couldn’t figure out what that might be.  I don't really know her.  My final thought was to stick to where I started – stay disengaged – but with a twist.  Maybe I needed to look at those four words and ask myself where maybe I have been a coward.

I still don’t believe it’s cowardly to step away from a heated discussion about issues that our outside our control, but I’m sure I’ve been cowardly in other ways.  In trying new things that I’m not got at, in doing things that scare me, in truth telling with people who I’m in a relationship with, and mostly in trusting that there’s a God who loves me enough that I don’t have to carry the weight of future worries.   The big ones and the even the ridiculous ones.  We all know we can’t control our futures, but it takes daily courage to believe that our futures are being taken care of for us.  Saddling up to live fully in the present moment is not easy for most of us.

A few days ago I had an unexpected glass of wine with a neighbor.  A very new acquaintance (as everyone still is here.)  I had the courage to ask her a bold question, which lead to her bravely sharing the tumultuous story of her life for a few hours.  A story that was about to take a big turn.  My role wasn’t to be an adviser, or counselor, but simply a listener.   It is in our nature to want to change people’s minds or solve their problems, but when someone is sharing their story with their whole heart – our job is to actively listen and know that the God who loves me is already in deep love with that storyteller.  And as Brene Brown said in her TED talk, “What makes us vulnerable makes us beautiful. And it’s the birthplace of joy.” So in that moment, this coward’s job was merely to be a stepping stone.  I can only hope that I was a gentle landing.

Working yourself out of a job

One of our favorite parental refrains is this one: “What’s our main job as your parents?”  The responses vary from a decent answer of:   “To love us” to a smart ass answer of: “To do XYZ for me.”   That’s because they know what’s coming next.  “Our main job as your parents is to work ourselves out of a job.” 

Really, it’s one of Brett’s favorite refrains.  Utensil usage is still well below 50%, so I’m not convinced.  I honestly don’t see myself retiring from my job as Table Manner Counselor until age 65.  I’m glad Brett is teaching them “How to Treat a Woman” because that will come in handy when they are blowing their nose in their napkin.

I kid the husband a little however, because that philosophy has been put to the test with this move.  With our 15 year old still back in Seattle, we are getting a preview into how well we have fared in working ourselves out a job.  A job we love, and one we’ve worked pretty hard at.  (Note: we’ve also realized that some projects are harder than others.)

It is with mixed emotions that I am able to report that I think we are ahead of schedule (at least in the areas that matter.)

It’s not when a 15 year old sends a picture of his perfect report card, or stats on his basketball game, but it’s when he sends regular texts like this one:  “Thanks Mom.  I really appreciate those kind words!! I love you too!!!” When at an age where it’s in style to be cool and evasive, he can still tell the people he loves that he loves them with 5 exclamation points. 

Several months ago, Quinn told me that he has three main things he tries to live by.  To go with the flow, that practice makes perfect, and to be kind to everybody.   I saw that to be true in his life then, but even more now at a distance.  He is open to everything and deeply content no matter his situation.  He hasn’t asked us to send or buy him anything, only to be available for a FaceTime chat.  He works hard – with or without us around – maybe even harder without us because his drive is within.   And I have a log of texts that echo his kindness to me -- the person in his life that it would be easiest to forget to be kind to.

As my six year old nuzzled into bed with me last night after a bad dream, I was reminded of how good it feels to be needed.   To be needed in that visceral, tangible way.  That a hug would not just protect, but also overcome, anything scary your child had to face.  There is still so much to fear even after you’re 15, but if you’ve established a pattern of trustworthiness with them and taught them that there is Someone even greater to trust --- then maybe they can feel their hair being stroked while on a FaceTime chat.

When in Rome .... Solvitur Ambulando

Ahh, Bella Roma!  It is as wonderful and rich a city as everyone says.  Five days is hardly enough time to even take in all the piazzas and fountains.  Though I was there over twenty years ago, it felt both new being there with my husband and children and also familiar with the warmth and charm of the Italian people.  My maternal grandfather was 100% Italian, and it’s the part of my ethnicity that I most relate to.  Though my skin is not olive, olive oil runs through my veins.  I talk with my hands, I love a good meal, and mi familia is the most important.  And my face has been known to get red when angry.   But I will forgive you and forgetaboutit two minutes later.

For this trip, we decided to go broad instead of deep.  With over two thousand years of history and more churches than days of the year, we decided we would skim the surface – see the sites but not tour them.  Quinn just finished doing a paper on ancient Rome and so we promised that we would save some of the touring for another trip when he can join us.  Plus, given that our six and nine year old boys can’t even stand at the Trevi Fountain without tackling each other or competing for “longest coin throw” – we decided that touring the Vatican Museum would be a risk not yet worth taking.  But you bet your Roman artichokes that we stepped into Vatican City so that the boys could log their ninth country visited. 

Stationed at a wonderful rental apartment (the best!) between Piazza del Popolo and Piazza de Spagna, we loosely followed the Doris Kindersly Eyewitness Travel Rome Guidebook (a must have if you are going to Rome) and diligently followed my friend Gretchen Harmon’s day to day itinerary, restaurant and shopping lists.  Gretchen and her family lived in Rome for two years and following her tips and recommendations helped to make “big Rome” feel more like “neighborhood Rome.”    We knew where to find the leather goods (boots have been added to the collection), the cashmere (too rich for my olive oil blood), the hip teen clothes, and the best bakery in all of Rome (which we frequently often enough that they knew us.)  Watching Brett hold court with a group of high school boys who were practicing their English (who he is now friends with on Facebook) was worth an admissions price under the heading of “Experiencing Rome.”   Our apartment is owned by the delightfully charming Giacomo who invited us to dinner in his home on Friday night with his wife Betta and three children (of similar ages to ours.)  We had such a grand time that we spent Sunday morning again together, but this time touring the National Etruscan Museum on the outskirts of Rome to learn more about the pre-Roman civilizations.  Nothing was broken. 

We ate and ate.  The food was consistently good and fresh if not spectacular.  I have high expectations when it comes to pasta.  We lingered over meals and played “Would You Rather:”

“Would you rather be roommates with Damarcus Cousins or Metta World Peace?” (Colin)

“Would you rather be teammates with NBA Player 1 or NBA Player 2?” (Colin)

Sub in different NBA player names, and repeat ad infinitum.  But wait for the gem.

“Would you rather be famous and an overrated knucklehead or really talented but poor?” (Colin)

And then there’s Lawton who was trying to get the hang of the game.

“Would you rather eat the rottenest blueberries or rottenest apricots?” (Lawton)

“Would you rather eat broken glass or knives?” (Lawton)

“Would you rather jump off a roller coaster or apartment building? Both landing on pavement.”  (Lawton)

“Would you rather marry a shark with sharp teeth or a snake?” (Lawton)

Would you rather sit on a snake or a porcupine?” (Lawton)

“Would you rather see a gross giant or Zombie?” (Lawton)

Brett responds: “Gross giant, but would you rather smell a Gross Giant’s smelly feet or swanus?”

It did get better.

“Would you rather have two great teachers and two bad teachers or four average teachers?” (Kate)

Okay, that was a little abrupt.

“Would you rather tour a church or a castle?” (Kate)

Lawton responds: “Are there knights in the castle and dragons in the church?”

Circle back.

“Would you rather have hops or speed? (Kate)

Rome is a wonderful walking city and public transportation is not its strength (we Seattleites empathize),  so we experienced Rome by walking.   Like crazy walking considering we have a six year old.  Fueled by at least two gelato stops every day, we estimate that we walked a cumulative of close to thirty miles.  There is a phrase in Latin called “Solvitur Ambulando” which means “it is solved by walking.”  We heard it first from our interim Pastor, and have since adopted it as a family mantra.  It proved very useful in the decision of moving to Europe, and even more useful in the times when things got a little hairy.   When things are breaking down, we keep walking – both literally and figuratively.  Some of us are better at adapting to new surroundings than others, and some need a “break in period” – so forward progress is the thing we do to hasten getting to the other side.   It also helps when you turn over the map and let someone else lead for a while.  We did that with each of the boys, and I’m pretty sure that the “follow the leader” game is perhaps the thing they will remember most.  The Pantheon was on the former side of the break in period, and our nine year old lead us back there for a “do-over” before taking us on a circuitous but outstanding route to the Colosseum.  I know having him walk us around -- revisiting the place where we needed an olive branch extended -- in deep love with his new favorite city, was the thing I will remember most.  I will try not to remember that Brett used the word swanus at the dinner table.

(See all Rome Photos)

Administrative Formalities (just a few dozen of them)

When we were moving from our first house into our second house (both in Seattle), I remember thinking: “Has anyone else ever done this before?”  The logistics around selling one house, buying another house, and then closing both transactions on almost the same day seemed like a puzzle only we had ever tried to solve.   No one tells you all the steps between the Open House (for the new house) where you fall in love with staged furniture and the Inspection Report (for the old house) where you curse the electrical wiring that you *thought* had been keeping you safe.   That same pioneer feeling then revisited me many times with our first child.  Because surely anyone who praised the benefits of breastfeeding had ever been engorged quite like this.

One of the great things about living in an Expat community is that there are in fact people who have done this all before.  And, even better, they have done it recently.  So recently that they still have contact numbers in their phones, and write ups on their computers.  And there’s something about living through a totally new experience that makes you want to pass it on to people that are trailing in your fresh footsteps.   This proves to be incredible helpful with travel tips, buying a car (still on our to do list as we are nearing the end of our 60 day rental), and registering for your commune.

Shared wisdom is a good thing too because getting your registration cards is like navigating the US tax code while waiting in DMV lines.  It is not meant to be understood, and it requires the patience of Job’s wife if he had one because children are always required to be present.  In the 3 hour morning that was Step 1 some 7 weeks ago, every page of every family member’s passport has to be copied – not by a copy person, but the same person that was serving you. That takes some time people.  And printers go down around the world it turns out (although they are much more relaxed about that in Europe.)  There’s then the chest x-ray step and TB test step.  Paid in cash, by the way.   Followed by another step 48 hours later to check the TB test, where a doctor looks at your arm and may announce if you are the only one with a raised bump, “You have antibodies.  I have antibodies.”  Translation being, we don’t *think* you have TB.   Then there’s the waiting step where more things need to be copied and mailed to you.  Once you wait long enough, you are ready for the fingerprint step where you have to hold your finger at just the right angle with just the right pressure, the photo step where seriously, you must not smile or smirk or tilt your head or think thoughts like “just what step are we on now?” Meanwhile, your hard-to-fingerprint children are still with you and you’re in a very small room with too many layers on because the “twenty minutes max” comment was the only bad Expat expert info you have gotten.   And then after today’s step, you have that same conversation with your children about appropriate behavior, and patience, and opportunities for a 5th chance.  Because next week’s step in a two part one.  We will return to pick up the registration cards - again with children, but in a quicker queue line.  Then we will go to another building where the registration cards will be copied.   And by next week you hope that you will not mutter under your breath something about knowing they do copying on site.   You’ll also pretend that you didn’t hear that passing comment that you will need to do this process all over again next year.   And you’ll reinforce with your children that they will definitely, definitely not be carrying their own registration cards because they want to show their friends their serious face picture. 

The expat gift of gab is a welcome salve for all these little nuances of legally living in a new country.  It’s also a wonderful spark for building community.   Because community isn’t just living together, it’s sharing experiences with one another.  We are so grateful for the community here – Brett’s work community, the school community, the church community -- who are sharing their stories with us – laughing with us, troubleshooting for us, and letting us know that some uncomfortable engorgement is completely normal.

I am a Euro Runner

It’s Monday.  It’s a new month.  I’ve been here six weeks.  It’s time. 

8am:  A  Runner’s Prayer

Create in me new legs, oh God

And renew the endorphins within me

Cast me not away from Thy pavement, oh Lord

And take not thy air from my lungs

Restore unto me the claim of being a runner

And renew the endorphins within me

10am: A Runner’s Nursery Rhyme

Euro washing machine, washing machine, quite contrary,

Just how long does you cycle go?

With itty bity water and a tumbling party,

And running motivation about to blow.

10:30 am: Pre-Run Playlist (inspirational)

(Ho!) I've been trying to do it right

(Hey!) I've been living a lazy life

(Ho!) I've been walking here instead

(Hey!)I've been eating lots of bread,

(Ho!) I've been eating lots of bread (Hey!) (Ho!)

(Ho!) So show me the front door

(Hey!) All the calories that I will burn

(Ho!) I used to wear a thong

(Hey!) I don't know where I went wrong

(Ho!) But I wanna live strong (Hey!)

I belong out there, you believe it too, you're my accountability

I belong out there, you believe it too, you’re my accountability (Ho!)

10:35 am: Pre-Run Playlist (hurtful)

It's time to begin, isn't it?

I get a little bit bigger, but then I'll admit

I'm just the same as I was

Now don't you understand

That I'm never going six weeks again.

11:30am Post Run Anthem

I’m breathing out

Let’s hope it’s not the last thing that I do

So I sweat my skin

And I count my mins

And I close my eyes

And I take it in

And I’m breathing out

I’m breathing out WAHOO!

Silver Linings Rantbook

It’s Friday and my attention span isn’t what it was in 1990, so a bulleted list for easy reading.  Speaking of easy reading, when I think about my style choices for this blog – “Body Font Size” is the one element I keep going back to change.  Eyesight isn’t what it used to be either.  Bigger still, huh?

Things I won’t rant about:

• Silver Linings Playbook.  I want to see that and whole bunch of other movies, but we got a gap here.  Not in our Lux English theatres, not yet on Amazon Video.   
• Tri-lingual-ness as table stakes.  Let’s all agree on “Bon Jour, bitte.”
• My Landord’s SLA.  I trust he is on holiday.
• Mumford & Sons is coming to Luxembourg!  Gotta love tax friendly countries.   What – we will have to wait??  Mumford & Sons is SOLD OUT?!   Super big sad face.
• European toilet paper.  We’ve all been there, and I’ve been to Africa.  The tree may be happy, Shel Silverstein, but the tush is only appreciative.
• Eat early, eat alone.  Metabolize that.
• Rain.  I come with 20 years’ experience, and appropriate gear.  I do however wish meteorologist/therapist Cliff Mass was here to make me feel better about it.  And sing me a snow lullaby. 
  
• Sports physicals and licenses.  There is an entire blog on this subject, but since we are still “in process” on this one – best to let it unfold before I rock your US-is-the-most-youth-sports-crazed-country  mind.   
• Pate.  I want to believe, but my gag reflux will not be suppressed.  You can go have a party with the oysters – those pompous shellfish who don’t have a hint of anything but the sea.  I still like oysters, just not  the ‘tude.   Pate, on the other hand, is turd.  (And I will eat turd if this opinion changes in next 2 years.)

Things I will rave about:

• European tipping policy.  Loose coins makes happy waiters.  Tipping the hairdresser 20 euro bills makes me blonde -- even blonder now .  Not exactly “yikes” blonde, but “whoa-this-will-take-some-maintenance” blonde.
• No bumper stickers.  Either everyone here unanimously supports the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, or they don’t believe they change anyone’s mind at a traffic stop.  Everyone’s child is obviously an honor student – reference tri-lingual-ness.  And clearly no truck driver wants me calling to report how well they are driving.
• 250ml Coke Zero bottles.  Oh, so petit and easy to hide.  It’s like four Dixie Cup swigs of home.
• Swipe free bus riding.  Public trust and transportation. Swipe once to activate your monthly bus card and then take a moment to locate your nearest entry and exit door, and use whichever you like.
• School lunches.   Move over Japan, you aren’t the only ones keeping kids happy with Bento Boxes.  You are however keeping my kid from enjoying recess because he “can’t wait” for lunch.
• Diesel.  Because I think I’m supposed to say that.
• Konrads Café & Bar.  A little piece of Seattle in the heart of Luxembourg City.  And tonight a concert by an Icelandic singer with my Seattle pal Angela!
• Much, much more … but we should pace ourselves.