Culture Collisions: Home Sweet... Home?

And so begins a second installment of the inevitable awkward or confusing moments that come when you are in a big melting pot of people from many cultures. Today I would like to discuss the home and colliding comforts therein. Particularly as this relates to inviting people into your home and what they do/don't expect or feel comfortable doing. Obviously many cultures outside of America are known for hospitality- the host bends over backwards to host you, the guest. The best food, the best drinks, really lavishing attention and all that. But how this actually plays out, and how the host/guest interactions actually work amongst people from DIFFERENT cultures, well, that's just really funny to me.

So for instance, in America, if I were over at someone's house and had to go to the bathroom, what would I do? If I even bothered to say anything, my question would be "Where is your bathroom?" or perhaps just "I'm going to the restroom." Maybe if the person was a complete stranger (but then again, I probably wouldn't be in their house long enough to need to use the toilet) and they were obviously more formal, I would maybe maybe ask if I could use the restroom. In most cases though, I would just go. No questions, no nothing. This is particularly true at a friend's house. If a friend ever asked me if they could use my toilet, I would laugh at them and tell them that since they asked, NO.

But most of the people with whom I interact here, particularly Africans, almost always ask IF they can use the toilet. This formality at first seemed strange to me, and I honestly had to hold back a giggle at times, because I thought it was sooooo polite. Um, of COURSE you can use my toilet. I didn't know if it was more of a formality like "How are you?" in America- everyone asks it, but few actually really want to know HOW ARE YOU. We just say it. I'm still not quite sure, because at some level of comfort it does actually switch over to No Question Mode, but I think it's well past when we Americans would feel comfortable. It took me awhile to realize this trend though, and all the while I had been carrying on business-as-usual, just finding my way to the bathroom, no questions asked. When I realized it, I just thought, Gosh, I bet all my friends think I'm terribly presumptuous and rude. Excellent. In reality, they didn't think anything of it, just another quirk in an already quirky gal.

Similarly, if I was at a friend's house in America and wanted a drink, I would open the fridge and get one, look in the cupboards until I found the glasses (or would already know where they were, probably), and pour myself a drink. I tend to do this even with casual acquaintances, but then again, I have been told I'm particularly a "make myself at home", "no one is a stranger" kind of gal and that many others don't do likewise. There are worse things for which to be known. But here, people always ask me IF they can have a drink. Without fail, even my closest friends do this. Which ok, that's reasonable, I surely do this sometimes with friends, too. But if I say, "Sure, help yourself," they look at me dumbfounded. The idea of getting into another person's fridge and "helping themselves" is strange. I don't know if they find it invasive or what, but people just don't do it, and I haven't really noticed this one switch over at any point. Here again, I didn't realize this difference at first, and I had been opening up fridges left and right at friend's houses. Oh Liz Liz Liz, much to learn.

The ones that are harder for me personally (ie, grate against me rather than just seem funny) are when the comfort is flipped. Here's an example. If I went to a friend's house, I unquestionably would ask if I could use their laptop. There are very few friends with whom I would feel comfortable just picking up their computer and using it without asking. I would assume the answer to be Yes after I asked, but I would almost certainly ask. That couldn't be further from the truth with most of the cultures represented here. People who barely know me just sit down and use my computer when they're at my house. The funny thing is that I have a Mac which is definitely NOT common outside of America, so people usually have to ask me to help them use it. But I can't tell you how many times I've had to hold back FREAKING OUT because a person HAS JUST INVADED MY MOST PERSONAL OF PERSONAL ITEMS.

The first time it happened that made me want to pull out my hair is when I was hosting a party and had prepared a playlist in iTunes of dance music, but all of a sudden 10 people were using my computer to bring up dance songs on YouTube from their countries to play instead. Oh the agony! Oh the self-control it required not to kick everyone out of my apartment right then and there. And honestly, when I thought about it afterwards, I had no good reason to be upset, it was just flying in the face of MY comfort zone. This particular one is still really hard for me, but I'm letting go little by little.

This type of scenario also applies to food. I don't know why it's different than drinks, but perhaps it's mostly if the food is out and visible. I'll have freshly baked cookies ready for some event and even as they're "asking" if they can have one, a visiting friend is picking several up to eat and a few to take with them. I used to get really annoyed (internally), but then I eventually got over it by making an extra dozen each time so I wasn't "short" (not that I ever am anyhow, just my Type A OCDness). Problem solved.

Another difference I have seen relates to general hospitality. When I have a friend over to stay the night, I give her options- an extra mattress, an air mattress, or the couch. Sheets, multiple pillows, blankets. If I had a bigger bed, as I did in Brooklyn, I would perhaps also offer that... but secretly hope they pick another option so we could each have our OWN space. It doesn't matter if you've come from 5 minutes or 5,000 miles, that's just what we do. To an American, Choices = Hospitality. And I think that's pretty common of Americans.

My roommate, a Romanian, thinks that's absurd. There is only ONE hospitable option in her mind. She gives her guest HER bed, no questions asked. Or she shares her bed, if it happens to be her sister who is staying over. I can't tell you how many times I've asked, "But I don't understand, you have a single bed, we have an EXTRA MATTRESS, and you could put it in your room, why are you SHARING A SINGLE BED?" Particularly in the summer with no AC, it just seems bizarre to my American sensibilities. To which she looks at me confused that I would even think there was another possibility. It's her SISTER for heaven's sake, obviously she's going to share the bed. Obviously. I think the greatest example of this difference came when my friend Hayley from America was visiting me. Simona was out of town for the first few days of Hayley's visit, so she she slept in Simona's bed. Then Simona came home and I offered Hayley either an extra mattress or air mattress. But Simona insisted that Hayley STILL sleep in her bed. Didn't I look like the crap hostess (I know Hayley didn't think so, but still)!

I think many of these may have something to do with how much Americans value independence and autonomy as compared to other cultures. So, our way of "feeling at home" is that we can do as we please in the house, get ourselves a glass of water, know where the toilet is, etc, and yet maintain the other person's autonomy and personal space (e.g., computer). If we can be in that house as we are in our own, we feel welcome. Whereas outside America the way to "feel at home" is by the host lavishing attention and service upon you, getting you a drink, and certainly allowing everything that is theirs to be available to you (e.g., beds and freshly made food). I fully acknowledge there are other things that likely play into each of these individual scenarios, and certainly I am only one American person with one set of friends and experiences that very likely could be TOTALLY WACK.

I have to say that I've grown a lot through this particular area of friction, learning to take myself less seriously, for one. And just generally learning to laugh when these kinds of things happen, because hey, we're all away from our motherlands, so these things are bound to happen. I'm curious to hear from any of you who have lived abroad or in an international community- any culture collisions relating to hospitality/the home that you can add to the list?

Thanksgiving Round 1

This year will officially be my second year not at home for Thanksgiving. Not only not at home, but not in America. Last year in Mexico we had a nice meal at a restaurant that was billed as "Thanksgiving for Americans." And while it was fine, it wasn't so much Thanksgiving per se. Pumpkin flan is not so much a substitute for pumpkin pie, they get a gold star for effort. THIS year will be different. We are celebrating as a team on Thursday with just our small little bunch of Americans, taking the day off, and have even acquired a turkey from a friend of a friend (not terribly early before December, ie for Christmas). Hopefully it will arrive de-feathered. But if not, it will surely be more material for a future blog entry.

Eli and Hollie also wanted to be able to invite others into our little American holiday as well, so they had a Thanksgiving Dinner one week early. And oh boy oh boy I got invited into that one as well! They did it up RIGHT, with a sweet spread of pretty much all the essentials- turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, green beans, glazed carrots, stuffing, and rolls.

And pumpkin chiffon and apple pies for dessert, with a smattering of gingersnaps and maple oatmeal cookies (seen in intro picture), just to make sure you had to take off your belt AND unbutton the top button (or was that just me?). Can you say FULL? One thing that doesn't exist here AT ALL is cranberries. So we were without cranberry sauce, but Hollie, the great kitchen improviser, made a nice fruit sauce that was really tasty.

Though we don't do this in my family, apparently in Eli's family it's a BIG DEAL to cut the turkey- basically you're not a man until you have done so. Well, I have photographic evidence that Eli is now a man! Congrats brother.

Who, you may be asking, was in attendance at this little gathering? Well, glad you asked. There were 10 in all, including Eli, Hollie, and I. We also had Dov and Neev from Israel:

Anita from Kenya and Bogdan from Romania:

And William, Khai, and Jovi, all from Malaysia:

Basically none of the little 2's or 3's knew the others, so there were definitely some awkward moments, but they were quickly deflated by Eli's Master De-Awkwardizing Skillz. Yes, that's actually a spiritual gift, in case you were wondering. He even had prepared a little skit retelling the Thanksgiving story, and each person had a one-liner throughout as the story progressed. Good. Times. I suspect Thanksgiving Round 2 will be different in some ways and similar in others. I do hope I am similarly stuffed and supplied with food for a week afterwards. If I know Americans, that will unquestionably be the case. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

Costume Party

Way back on Halloween (really, more than three weeks ago? really?) I threw a little costume party. And by little I mean I invited everyone I know in Iasi. Because I just love the idea of my 15x15 foot living room holding nearly 100 people. And potentially crushing the floor through. Not quite sure how durable this Romanian architecture is. In any event, I decided to make it a Costume Party, just avoid all the potential pitfalls of Issues and Misconceptions With Halloween. When dealing with a dozen cultures on any given day, it's best just to avoid all things problematic. Nevermind that it was on Halloween Night. Small coincidence.

I also decided to make it a THEMED Costume Party. Again, I could just picture people showing up dressed as Parlor Maids and Demons and thereby offending someone else. And who would get in trouble for Ms. Parlor Maid and Mr. Demon's decision to wear that? Me. So let's make it a Decades theme, shall we? Everyone come dressed as a decade, or as any era of time, within reason (ie, don't come wearing only a fig leaf and say you're from Adam and Eve's era). On the Fbook invite I stated that since it would be a costume party, those not wearing a costume would not be allowed to enter the party. I was saying that mostly to emphasize the fact that Yes This IS a Costume Party so PLEASE wear a costume. I wasn't REALLY planning on denying people entry (or was I? mwahaha), but I can't even tell you how many phone calls I had to field because of that sentence. Or how many people had actually decided they weren't coming because they had no costume. I'm sorry, but get your lazy self out of bed before 2pm and go to a few Second-Hand shops. Or your roommate's closet. Gosh. So I tried to artfully encourage people STRONGLY to do their best to put together a costume, but also assure them they could come if they didn't wear one. BUT I REALLY WANT YOU TO HAVE A COSTUME.

I whipped a playlist of 60s-90s hits (ok ok, it was mostly 80s and 90s!), planned a few games, made a bunch of food, and then just hoped it would all fall into place. As ya do. And I have to say, with total objectivity *wink*, it was a pretty splendid party. For the most part, people really and truly got into the costume idea, and there was actually a huge amount of variety, and loads of creativity. We played some silly games, like hanging 10 apples from string from the ceiling and 10 people had to compete to eat their apple with nothing but their mouth. Way hard. Way hilarious to watch. And way a great way to bridge all those awkward culture barriers because EVERYONE looks silly biting at the air to eat an apple. And then we played Signs, which, if you know the game, know that you cannot go wrong with it.

And of course we took loads and loads of pictures. Here are just a few to sum up the night:

Three Israelis dressed as Japanese women. And their... pimp?

Just a whole mess of awesome in this picture, from the 20s to 40s to 80s to... an imam? I just told him if any Muslims were offended, he could take the heat.

In a group almost entirely of medical students you KNEW someone had to come in scrubs. And I loved Tobi's rockin 80s outfit

Lilian (center) won best hair HANDS DOWN.

It turns out saying "Everyone give some attitude!" means very different things across cultures... Yay group shots.

St. Parascheva Day: The Bunica Side

I've written several times about my fascination with and adoration of elderly Romanians. I particularly love the old men's hats, and EVERYTHING about the old women. The word for grandma in Romanian is "bunica," and oh how I wish I had my own personal Romanian bunica sometimes! They're just so cute with their head scarves, multiple crazy patterns in their clothing, knee-high stockings, and seemingly unmanageable amounts of bags that they somehow cart around the city. Really and truly, I do not know how old people survive here. But I do know they must be darn strong (in every sense of the word) to do so.

In any event, my commentary on Saint Parascheva Day would not be complete without mention of the bunica. Because they were everywhere. It was like the whole country's worth of bunicas had come to Iasi. St. Parascheva Day should really be called A Bunica Convention Day (great acronym too- ABCD!). And while I really love them, I was also sad to see so many old women out in the cold, waiting in line for hours (days?) to touch and pray to the casket of a dead 'saint.' Especially when they could pray to Jesus from the comfort (and warmth) of their own living room. It's beyond me, but so are many things here. So amidst photographing the vast array of meat and fur products, I also captured a few collections of bunicas doing their bunica thing:

On a short list of "Reasons why I wish I spoke better Romanian" is So That I Could Talk to Bunicas. Literally, just stop one in the street, ask them her to tell me about her life. All of it. I think that a compilation of such interviews would make for a fascinating book. Perhaps someday.

Culture Collisions: Bodies

Living and working among so many different cultures means that I get an education in pretty much everything. Or perhaps I should say a RE-education, because I feel like a lot of what I learned in America about what is an isn’t ok to do/say has just been thrown out the window. Lots of different cultures means lots of different sensitivities, ways of interacting, expectations, and norms. In my 10 months here, I’ve observed and accumulated anecdotes that relate to different ways cultures clash and the often funny results. Read: times when I’m embarrassed or feel totally awkward. Thus I would like to start an occasional series of “Culture Clash” entries that will be sure to amuse you, and perhaps make you a bit uncomfortable FOR me with all the ridiculousness. All in good fun. I’ve learned to laugh at myself, and the next step is enabling YOU to laugh at me.

I would like to start with how and what people say about bodies, specifically other people’s bodies. In America, we pretty much don’t say anything about other people’s bodies, unless it’s behind their backs or about how thin a given celebrity is these days. But in general we don’t talk about bodies. It’s taboo. It’s impolite. It’s not PC. We certainly don’t ask people about their bodies.

Not so in many other cultures. Differences in weight, shape, and any number of other things are just reality. And people making statements are just that- statements. Not commentary, criticism, or judgment. I’m being kind of vague, so I will share a few vignettes to help highlight a few different aspects of what I mean.

One day I was running with a guy friend from Nigeria. We were just chatting here and there, and out of the blue he asked, “How much do you weigh?” Now, I can say with a high degree of certainty that NONE of my guy friends in America would ever dream of asking a girl that. And because of how casually it rolled out, all “This weather is nice. There is a lot of traffic today. How much do you weigh?” made me think it was probably a perfectly reasonable question in his culture. But because I was a little bit taken aback, I resorted to delaying answering while my brain caught up by saying, “In pounds or kilos?” He said either was fine. Which meant I couldn’t say, well sorry, I only know in pounds, so it’s not useful information. I told him, and that was that. A few minutes later I asked him why he wanted to know. He said he wanted to understand the physics/mechanics of running for me, so if he knew how much I weighed, he could understand. Right. I then informed him how utterly inappropriate a question it would be in America. We had a good chuckle and continued on.

Many many times I have been with African women and they just comment on one another’s bodies, in ways that sound, to my American sensitivities, totally inappropriate. But to them, it’s not even remotely so. It’s just a fact that Friend A is fatter than Friend B or that Friend C has more adipose tissue (ah medical students) than Friend D. And it’s totally fine to state that. Or to ask another person if they’ve gained weight. Because gaining weight isn’t a bad thing to them. Certainly in some cultures it’s a sign that you have plenty of food to eat, which thereby means you have enough MONEY to have plenty of food to eat. On multiple occasions I have had women as me if I’ve “reduced” (lost weight) and then listened to two people discuss whether they think I’ve lost weight before I’ve actually answered. One friend told me that she thought all white girls had flat stomachs, so when I got here and didn’t, she assumed I was pregnant. Another friend asked me, completely sincerely, whether I’m doing anything for my pimples. And yes, she used the word pimples. Can you even imagine? Even if someone asked that in America, they would totally case it in some politically correct term, like ‘acne’ or ‘blemishes.’ But to them, well, people have pimples, it just IS that way, it’s obviously not hidden, so it’s obviously fair game to talk about. Super humbling, and super motivational to not take myself (and my body!) too seriously.

But I’d actually have to say that the most shocking comments/questions have come from Romanians, who are notoriously blunt. Maybe because it’s most often (for me anyhow) from people I don’t actually know, yet they somehow feel it’s totally appropriate to comment on my body. Whereas with my African friends, at least they’re FRIENDS and know me well. So a few weeks ago there was a new Romanian guy in church, and afterwards I decided I would just chat with him a bit. About 30 seconds into our small-talky conversation he blurted out, “So… are you pregnant?” Cue awkward silence. Well, um. No, no I’m not. To which he responded by looking down at my stomach, back up at my face and said, “Oh.” To which I awkwardly tried to help him feel not quite so much like a jerkwad by saying, “Um, maybe I just ate a lot for dinner. It was really good.” And then promptly walked away. Totally. Awkward. Ok, so I DON’T HAVE A FLAT STOMACH. You know how every girl has that one place on their body that the fat just doesn’t leave, no matter what they do? Yea, it’s the stomach for me. But gosh, it’s not THAT much. And certainly not worthy of the preggo question? I mean, isn’t that Basic Life Sense 101? Or did you skip out on that class? Yeah, I guess so.

Then a few weeks later, as I wrote about recently, I was at a volleyball tournament, volunteered to do a drawing for a prize, had to introduce myself before pulling the winning name, drew unnecessary attention because I wasn’t Romanian AND was American, drew the name, and sat down. Only to find out that a women a few seats down had said, “Wow I’ve never seen a skinny American.” Really? Have you watched, oh, say ANY movie? Or you mean in person? Because gain, who have you met? But anyhow, at least Romanian Commentary About Liz’s Body had been redeemed a bit. But seriously? Seriously. I just don’t understand.

And that is ok. I don’t need to. I just need to laugh and move along. And write blog entries. Very therapeutic, if I do say so myself. Look out for more fun awkward moments of culture clashing, brought to you from your favorite American missionary in Eastern Europe working with a bunch of Africans and Malaysians. Let the good times roll.

Navobi Charity Cup Volleyball Tournament

Volleyball is kind of a big deal in Romania. It's basically THE sport that EVERYONE knows how to play. It's crazy. Petite little Romanian women are suddenly beasts with a killer spike when they get onto the volleyball court. As this is the case, the annual Navobi Charity Cup Volleyball Tournament is kind of a big deal. People really get into it, and the level of play is quite high. Enter our little ragamuffin bunch of internationals. I heard rumors about the sad state of our team's performance last year, but this year we were all determined to change that. We started practicing well in advance of the tournament- yes PRACTICE! We did our best to meet once a week just to play a bit, practice bumps and sets, and get used to one another on the court.

Most of the people on our team were athletic people but not volleyball players. This would usually be fine, except for most of the people on other teams are athletic people AND volleyball players. The tournament was coed, and one woman had to be on the court at all times. Matches were best of 3 games, playing to 25 points. Each team was guaranteed three matches, and from there the best teams advance. Unlike in America (unless I missed some change), a point is scored every time the ball is served. Wherever it lands, the other team gets a point, regardless of who served. This moves the game along quicker. Another quirk in this tournament is that you're allowed to kick or head the ball once per side per serve, if you can't otherwise get it with your hands. This adds a little bit of spice to the game, and I quite like this addition. Everything else seemed pretty normal.

So we played. And by 'we' I mean not I, because we definitely put our best people on the court, and I was definitely was not the best woman. And we definitely weren't putting more than one woman on. Hollie rocked out, definitely held her own. Then I got sick, so I wasn't so much doing anything but cheering from that point onward. Here is the team before a match, during a time-out, and playing. Please note, all the people cheering were only on one side of the gym, hence the entirely empty bleachers in the pictures.

We lost our first two matches, but managed to score 13-17 points each game. Not so bad. And then, we actually WON the final match! Even though that wasn't enough to advance, it was quite a way to go out! Maybe next year we'll win TWO matches and advance and then the year after that make it to the semis and WHO KNOWS FROM THERE?! The sky is the limit!

In closing, I would like to share a little tangent story from the tourney. I went with some Romanian friends to watch the semi-final and final matches, because hey, it's pretty sweet to watch. At one point they were doing a drawing for something (I still have NO idea what), and they asked for a volunteer to do the actual drawing. I was in a right mood for volunteering, so I volunteered. And wouldn't you know, they let me do it! So there I go, my perky American self, thinking it will be as simple as picking a piece of paper out of a shoebox. Oh but no. I have to INTRODUCE myself. Which is all well and good but I don't particularly need several hundred Romanians to hear my crap Romanian. I would much rather them see me and assume I'm Romanian, with my skinny jeans, black knee boots, and black hat. Blend right in. Until I open my mouth. And say into a microphone, "Sunt Liz din America" (I'm Liz, from America). You know how they do those drawings at sports events and you barely pay attention to it? Yea well, that was the case with these people until they heard some random person speaking Romanian who was clearly NOT Romanian. Then all eyes and ears were on me. Oh the pressure! What if I accidentally grab two papers? Then I'll be the STUPID American with the crap accent. Oh man. Needless to say, I drew one paper, handed it off so I didn't have to read the scribbled Romanian name, and just smiled. With my teeth. Because that's how we do. Then I promptly sat down, but not before the winning man came over and shook my hand. Because that's how they do.

As I sat down, my friend Alina leaned over and said, "You know, this woman over here beside me... when she found out you were American she said, 'That's the first slim American I've ever seen!'" And that my friends, is the first time in this country I have EVER been called slim. End scene. Roll credits. Done and done.

First Day of School

I've written previously about how I teach English one day a week at a high school. With the new school year, me extending my stay in Romania, and adding Eli and Hollie to the team, we worked out a new arrangement wherein each of us teaches two hours a week, thereby covering all of their grades every two weeks. Eli has high school, Hollie middle school, and I elementary. This Tuesday was my first day.

I wake up at 6:45. I note this because this is early for me. Since all my friends are college students, I'm on their schedule. Bed at 12-1, up at 8-9. So 6:45 is really early. But my first class on this first day is at 8am. Yahoo! I get myself together, walk the 7 minute walk to the school, and manage to find the teacher's lounge. Not only am I teaching an entirely new age range, it's in a different (albeit closer to my apartment) place. I walk in at 7:50 and thankfully see one or two familiar faces from the high school. This school is a small private Christian school, with one to two classes per grade, so some of the teachers teach all grades. However, what I don't see is either of the English teachers. So much for showing up a bit early to learn about... say, anything at all about what I should teach. I sit down and just chillax, assuming they'll show up soon enough.

8:00 rolls around and still no English teacher. All the other teachers start to file out for their classes, and I get the attention of the woman I recognize and know speaks English to ask her what to do. She says, "Well, Raluca never has classes this early, and Elisa is in Italy." Great, thanks. At that moment, what I should have done is just said, Well, that's a shame, I'll just have to come back next week. And certainly I would've been completely justified in doing so. But I'm such a glutton for punishment, and have some bizarre sense of 'loyalty' (masochism?), that what I say instead is, "Ok, well I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to teach today, so what should I do?" She says, "Let's go to the secretary and find out what class it is." We do so and find out that 2nd and 4th graders have English at 8 and 9, respectively, so off we walk to find the second graders. And so it begins.

We walk into a large classroom with 15 little second graders sitting quietly at their desks. Alone. No teacher. The woman introduces me and says I'll be teaching English. They all promptly ask (in Romanian) where Elisa is and whether or not I understand Romanian. Great. Then she leaves. I am now alone with 15 Romanian second graders. Did you catch that? Alone. 15. Second graders. Whose knowledge of English is colors and numbers. With no lesson plan, curriculum, nothing. Great. I introduce myself, say I'm from America. I ask them to introduce themselves and say how old they are. "My name is Alina. I am 9 years old." This takes 5 minutes. Only 45 to go! In the middle of this exercise a teacher walks in. She seems surprised to see another teacher in the room. Probably not much more surprised than I am to be there. I tell her who I am and she just sits down in the back of the room. I suppose she's their teacher, and am thankful for someone to keep order.

After introductions I decide we'll do the Alphabet song. Some of them know it, so this goes pretty quickly. They don't know the part at the end that goes, "Now I know my ABC's, next time won't you sing with me." Oooh something to teach! This takes 5 more minutes. And the other teacher leaves. I'm sorry, but do I LOOK like I am able to be alone with these children? Do I really seem that confident and capable? Because I want to curl into the fetal position starting 5 minutes ago.

A bunch of them are saying that they want to play THE GAME. What game? What game children? One kid pulls out flashcards with characters from Toy Story. And in my crap understanding of Romanian I piece together that I should just say the name of one of the characters (Dog! Ball! Dinosaur!) and they will find the proper one and hold it up. Ok, SUBSTANCE! I can do this! A few cards in I decide to start asking what colors are involved in these flashcards. What color is the ball? Thankfully it's 4 colors, so I can involve 4 students. What color are the dog's feet? And so on. This game lasts 15 minutes. Even though the kids are a bit crazy, at least they're participating.

Flashcards done. Now what? Someone is saying Simon Says. Simon Says? Like the Simon Says I know where I'm 'Simon' and when I say Simon Says to do something they should do it but if I don't say Simon Says at the beginning of the command they shouldn't do it... and if they do they're out? Please Jesus let it be the same one! Someone please explain to me... oh wait, what am I saying, YOU DON'T SPEAK ENOUGH ENGLISH AND I DON'T SPEAK ENOUGH ROMANIAN FOR THAT. Ok, let's just give it a try. One boy tells me that when people get out they have to go to the open side of the room that has a carpet and two couches. What I should have done is stopped and thought about what that might mean and what the likely result might be of 10 second graders who have just LOST at a game, being sent to stand all in a clump together. But instead I say, Of course, sure. And we begin. They have no bloomin clue what I'm saying, but they happily mimic me. Many of them are out quickly and they go to stand by the couches. And I'm sure you can guess what happens next. MASS CHAOS that's what. Think every movie you've ever watched with a teacher in a new school on her first day, bright eyed and bushy tailed and TOTALLY NAIVE. And the inevitable riots, fights, and swarms of children running hither and thither. With the camera zooming in on my deflated face. I don't know what to do. I really don't. I have no authority over or rapport with these children, I don't have enough Romanian to say anything more than "Sit sit sit!" and I just keep waiting for the director of the school to walk in and see children dragging one another across the room and jumping on the couches and promptly fire me. Even though I'm not even hired. But somehow, slowly, I get them all back to their seats, sitting. SIMON SAYS NO MORE SIMON SAYS.

There are still 10 minutes left. I am now totally in survival mode. Just make it. What can I do with them? Several of them have their English Adventure books open to the same page and are pointing to a Color-by-Number type thing. The instructions have a picture of a CD and say, "Listen and Color." I decide that I will be the audio CD and just have them color. This is surely ok, right? Simple. Quiet. Oh if it were only so easy as that! I say (in English), "Color number one blue" and immediately someone says (in Romanian), "But why not purple?" Because I say blue, ok?? They start coloring. But probably 6 of them don't a blue colored pencil. Another 3 ask me if their shade of blue is acceptable. Another boy doesn't have his book because he left it at home. So much for simple and quiet. I manage to press onward with this, and halfway through I see one girl not coloring. I walk over and she says (in Romanian), "I won't do it." I ask (in English then Romanian), "Why not?" She replies in Romanian and I have no clue what she's saying other than, 'Elisa says.' She seems really genuine and concerned and not like she wants to make trouble, but I just don't know what she's saying. I make another circuit to check on the other kids, adds another number/color, and come back to her. I ask her again why she won't color, and I finally understand that she's telling me that Elisa (their teacher) told them not to work ahead in the workbook. So I ask what page they're actually on, if not THE ONE THEY ALL OPENED THEIR BOOKS TO. Page 4. What page am I having them color on? 12. Oh right, only 200% past where they're supposed to be. And in my mind I imagine that I've just broken the Number One Rule of the classroom. Excellent. Another bullet point for the list of Why I Got Fired. It's too late to correct the problem, so I just press on, making a mental note to email Elisa immediately after I get home to apologize profusely.

The class finally ends, and the kids tell me they can leave. I'm sorry, you can just leave? That makes NO SENSE to me. So I tell them to stay for a minute, schlep upstairs to the teacher's lounge, ask if the kids are just free to roam the halls, they tell me yes, and I go tell them they're free. Wave goodbye, and mentally regroup for a second hour.

Time for fourth grade. I walk into the classroom alone and as I'm taking in the fact that there are a LOT more children here (about 30) I hear, "Liiiiiiiiiiiiz!!!!!" and someone is hugging me. I look down and see Sabina, the daughter of a Romanian pastor and in this moment MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD. Oh thank you Jesus is all I can think. Suddenly it doesn't matter that I am alone with 30 fourth graders because I know one of them, and that makes a world of difference. She just sits in the back smiling at me and it's allllll ok. I repeat my exercise of having them each use complete sentences to introduce themselves ("My name is X" and "I am Y years old."). Like clock work their teacher walks in during the middle of this exercise, is surprised to see me, but somehow seems to think I know what I'm doing, and then leaves.

The students tell me (in English!) that they're supposed to have a test on numbers. Well kiddos, I'm happy to be the bearer of GOOD NEWS, no test today! Instead we'll play a GAME. Yes, competition. Nothing like competition to get fourth graders interested in what you want them to learn. So I split the room down the middle, have a person from each team stand, give them a math problem in English and they have to respond with the correct answer, in English. It goes over splendidly. And even though there is the snarky kid in back who questions my every move and a half dozen kids who think it's ok to whisper help to their teammate even, I just carry on. After every point there is loud cheering from the winning team, and I wait patiently for them to be quiet. I learn quickly that the pairs of 15 and 50, 16 and 60, 17 and 70, and 18 and 80 sound the same to these children. And certainly when they say those number pairs they sound EXACTLY the same to me in their accent. And since they're at an age where they've learned to lie, especially when a beloved point in a competition is involved, it's just madness. I think I hear him saying 15 but he and his teammates claim up and down he's saying 50. Of course the opposing team says "HE SAID 15!!" And because I'm a glutton for punishment, I continue using these controversial numbers just because I WANT THEM TO LEARN TO HEAR THE DIFFERENCE. Why do I do these things? Why??

This game lasts a solid 35 minutes, and I am thankful, if exhausted at negotiating every. single. point. We finish with Simon Says, which is also fine because they simply sit down in their seats when they lose rather than contribute to pandemonium in the classroom. The class ends. I say my goodbyes. I get my coat from the teacher's lounge. I walk home. I promptly go to bed and dream dreams of being in New York City with my friends, eating a donut. I can only imagine how much my psyche was craving something comfortable in that moment.

The good news is, I survived. I learned. And most importantly, I didn't dismember any children. So, all in all, a success first day of teaching English to primary students. I imagine I will have more stories to share as the semester continues. Although hopefully none quite like this.

9 Ways To Know the Gospel of Jesus Christ is True

Just read this John Piper article today and wanted to share it. As per the title of the blog, here are 9 ways to know that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

1. Jesus Christ, as he is presented to us in the New Testament, and as he stands forth from all its writings, is too single and too great to have been invented so uniformly by all these writers.

The force of Jesus Christ unleashed these writings; the writings did not create the force. Jesus is far bigger and more compelling than any of his witnesses. His reality stands behind these writings as a great, global event stands behind a thousand newscasters. Something stupendous unleashed these diverse witnesses to tell these stunning and varied, yet unified, stories of Jesus Christ.

2. Nobody has ever explained the empty tomb of Jesus in the hostile environment of Jerusalem where the enemies of Jesus would have given anything to produce the corpse, but could not.

The earliest attempts to cover the scandal of resurrection were manifestly contradictory to all human experience—disciples do not steal a body (Matthew 28:13) and then sacrifice their lives to preach a glorious gospel of grace on the basis of the deception. Modern theories that Jesus didn't die but swooned, and then awoke in the tomb and moved the stone and tricked his skeptical disciples into believing he was risen as the Lord of the universe don't persuade.

3. Cynical opponents of Christianity abounded where claims were made that many eyewitnesses were available to consult concerning the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.

"After that He appeared to more than five hundred brethren at one time, most of whom remain until now, but some have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:6). Such claims would be exposed as immediate falsehood if they could. But we know of no exposure. Eyewitnesses of the risen Lord abounded when the crucial claims were being made.

4. The early church was an indomitable force of faith and love and sacrifice on the basis of the reality of Jesus Christ.

The character of this church, and the nature of the gospel of grace and forgiveness, and the undaunted courage of men and women—even unto death—do not fit the hypothesis of mass hysteria. They simply were not like that. Something utterly real and magnificent had happened in the world and they were close enough to know it, and be assured of it, and be gripped by its power. That something was Jesus Christ, as all of them testified, even as they died singing.

5. The prophesies of the Old Testament find stunning fulfillment in the history of Jesus Christ.

The witness to these fulfillments are too many, too diverse, too subtle and too interwoven into the history of the New Testament church and its many writings to be fabricated by some great conspiracy. Down to the details, Jesus Christ fulfilled dozens of Old Testament prophecies that vindicate his truth.

6. The witnesses to Jesus Christ who wrote the New Testament gospels and letters are not gullible or deceitful or demented.

This is manifest from the writings themselves. The books bear the marks of intelligence and clear-headedness and maturity and a moral vision that is compelling. They win our trust as witnesses, especially when all taken together with one great unifying, but distinctively told, message about Jesus Christ.

7. The worldview that emerges from the writings of the New Testament makes more sense out of more reality than any other worldview.

It not only fits the human heart, but also the cosmos and history and God as he reveals himself in nature and conscience. Some may come to this conclusion after much reflection, others may arrive at this conviction by a pre-reflective, intuitive sense of the deep suitability of Christ and his message to the world that they know.

8. When one sees Christ as he is portrayed truly in the gospel, there shines forth a spiritual light that is a self-authenticating.

This is "the light of the knowledge of the glory of God" (2 Corinthians 4:6), and it is as immediately perceived by the Spirit-awakened heart as light is perceived by the open eye. The eye does not argue that there is light. It sees light.

9. When we see and believe the glory of God in the gospel, the Holy Spirit is given to us so that the love of God might be "poured out in our hearts" (Romans 5:5).

This experience of the love of God known in the heart through the gospel of Him who died for us while we were yet ungodly assures us that the hope awakened by all the evidences we have seen will not disappoint us.

Busy Bee

It's a busy season here in Iasi, and days are flying by!

Take tomorrow, for instance. This is what my day is shaping up to be:

8:00- Shower, breakfast, and read my Bible

10:00- Make carrot cake

12:00- Lunch with a student

14:00- Teach a piano lesson

16:40- Volleyball game in tourney

18:00- Romanian lesson

19:00- Group dinner

20:00- Bible study

21:40- Volleyball game in tourney

24:00- Sleep

And Saturday:

8:00- Make pumpkin coffee cake

10:00- Coffee cake club with Erin and Hollie

13:00- Choir practice

15:00- Praise team practice

19:00- Dinner and bible study with some Nigerian women

24:00- Sleep

Today was a crazy mess of errands- picking up two packages (which requires schlepping to the other side of the city and basically takes up an unnecessarily large amount of time), going to buy a vacuum (my roommate and I have been saving up for one because electronics are wicked expensive here), and mailing letters- as well as finishing preparation for a Bible study, going to our first game in the volleyball tournament, and doing some research for a friend who needs a surgery. And now it's 11pm.

My life is certainly "not what it used to be" in the States, but my days are full and meaningful. Well ok, spending two hours just to get a vacuum or a package isn't particularly "meaningful," but it's just part of life here and a genuine accomplishment, insofar as I don't speak the language super well and even the most basic "everyday life" tasks take a considerable amount of time and energy. But certainly choir, praise team, bible studies, piano lessons, meals with students, and yes, even busting up the bureaucracy scene of Romania is all meaningful and helpful and splendid. And enjoyable. I'm tired at the end of the day. But it's a good tired.

Speaking of which, I need to get to sleep and have sweet dreams of the carrot cake and pumpkin coffee cake that will be in my tummy soon enough!

St. Parascheva Day: The Commercial Side

With a religious pilgrimage of the magnitude of St. Parascheva Day (which I wrote about previously), you can probably imagine that the Romanian government would be eager to capitalize on having a million extra people (read: shoppers!) in the city. And while I don't know the history of how Iasi Days evolved (though I could make an educated guess that gradually over time it grew and expanded and included more days and events), today it is a two week festival that includes streets shut down for dozens of carnival rides, concerts, fireworks, backgammon and fencing tournaments, art exhibits, and more food and fur stands than you can shake a stick at.

Being the eager explorer that I am, I spent several hours one day investigating the many offerings of the festival. I didn't plan well enough to see the various exhibits scattered around the city, but I did walk all around the center of town where the majority of the action was. Including the big festival of food. I love this picture because it captures how gray it is here for a lot of the fall, the block apartment buildings that are EVERYWHERE, and the smoke rising from all the grills. Not to mention all the awesome Romanian studs in black leather jackets:

All of my favorite Romanian Celebration/Festival treats were there for the eating- I had only to choose WHICH of the dozen vendors I wanted to try. They're real big on meat here, as you could tell by walking by places like this:

But I went with the tried-and-true mici, basically the Romanian version of a hot dog... made at picnics in summer, some kind of strange mystery meat that you feel happier not knowing what it actually is, eaten with mustard. I don't know what they do to make mustard here, but it's way better than anything I've eaten in America:

Also in abundance was corn on the cob, but thankfully I had been warned that it's more like what we would call field corn than sweet corn, so I didn't venture into that arena:

Plenty of cheese for sale as well:

And last but certainly not least was kurtos, short for kurtos kalacs, a traditional Hungarian dessert that is oh so delicious. I have written about my love of it here, and I will add another accolade to this tasty treat. I literally saw two dozen or more stands selling these all around the city. I was not disappointed in my decision to eat a whole one by myself (I didn't buy from this person- these are REALLY big):

Then I moved on to the maze of shops. I had heard rumors of the amount of shops selling fur during Iasi Days, and people certainly weren't exaggerating. Stall after stall of fur fur fur! Now I understand where everyone gets their winter coats and hats! Seriously, it was unreal. Every color, cut, and creature could be found. Also a lot of leather-fur combinations. Yes in the same item of clothing.

I particularly enjoyed seeing all the hats for men- hundreds of them in one place! I love love love the hats the old men wear in the winter, and to see so many in one place was a little bit of awesome. I wonder if I could ever convince my dad to wear one? I think he'd totally rock it. I particularly liked this stall, with an excellent (and creative) system of displaying the hats:

There were also oodles of shops selling jewelry and all manner of other hand-crafted (or not) goodies. They were mostly lining a major street with stalls side by side by side for a quarter mile and a 3-foot wide sidewalk with oodles of people shuffling every which way. I definitely was very overwhelmed with this madness and didn't have the presence of mind to take any pictures. But at the end of the day I went home with full tummy, a cute bracelet/ring combo and uber traditional (and warm!) slippers:

And even though I didn't go back out that night for the fireworks, I certainly heard them from my apartment and smiled as I wore my nice new warm slippers and finished my kurtos.

Colorful Confusion

So there are plenty of things about Romania that are different from America (and plenty of things that are similar). But occasionally something strikes me as different in a way that just makes my brain really confused. Particularly when it comes to color. I just don't know how to process it. Take for instance this bus:

And this pumpkin:

I'm sorry, a purple bus? A grey pumpkin? It just Does. Not. Compute. I literally spent 10 minutes at the market trying to figure out if it actually was a pumpkin. My crap Romanian was no help in this. Do they just grow grey here? All the buildings are grey, so maybe they're just following suit. And will it taste like pumpkin to me? Do you even know if something exists here that is LIKE this but orange? Aye yae yae. And of course I go to the market without looking up the Romanian word for pumpkin. That would have been quite helpful, so I thought. But as it turns out, they have one word for all squash-like substances, so it wouldn't have helped anyhow. And then the lady was trying to sell me another kind of squashy thing that I didn't think was a pumpkin, but she insisted it was what I wanted for baking sweets (which is what I conveyed in my broken Romanian). It was about this gray color, but it had webby/wrinkly skin more akin (oooh rhyme!) to a canteloupe. I didn't think it was right, and I even picked up some of the pumpkin seeds she was also selling and asked WHICH they came from. She shook her head and said, "No no no, you don't want those." No, I don't, I want the squash from which they came! So finally I just bought this one and was done with it. Turns out it's dang good, if dang hard to cut open.

In any event, just wanted to share about a few of the colorfully confusing moments I've had in recent weeks. Surely there will be more.

Trick or Twelve Treats I Miss

I eat well here. Really well. Loads of food from loads of cultures, and I can buy most items that I use to cook. And with those I can't, I've learned to improvise and be creative. So I don't often have food-from-home cravings, particularly because I now truly realize how much of the food in America is processed and chemically modified/added/subtracted/diluted/altered beyond recognized form. And we wonder why two-thirds of the country is overweight or obese. But today as I was planning for a costume party I'm throwing this weekend, several things came to mind that made me think, "Gee, I wish I had that." And for which there is no substitute. None. Furthermore, most of these items are not things that can be sent either because they will break into a million tiny pieces, or, well, you'll see. Perhaps that's part of why I miss them so much- they can't be had, even in care packages. So, I made a list. I am not including in this list chocolate chips, marshmallow fluff, peanut butter, brown sugar, molasses, or vanilla extract because even though they are nowhere to be found, they are sent to me faithfully by friends and family, so seriously, I have more of those 6 items combined than I would ever have in my kitchen in America. Feelin the love!

In no particular order outside of how my brain came up with them...

1) Ginger Ale. Gosh I miss this so much. Especially when I want to make punch.

2) Wheat Thins. Romania doesn't do crackers so much, and I can't even tell you how much I would pay for a box of Wheat Thins to eat all by myself.

3) Graham Crackers. See above.

4) Donuts. Oh my word what I wouldn't do for a Krispy Kreme glazed donut.

5) Reese Peanut Butter Cups. These were sent to me in a care package recently (thanks DRod!), in a bagged mix of several kinds of candy bars. I told my roommate, "I'm sorry, I like to share with you, but this is where my generosity stops. Eat anything else. Just. Not. These."

6) Chex. As in the cereal. Rice, corn, and wheat. You know why? Homemade Chex Mix.

7) Bagels. I'm a New Yorker. 'Nuf said.

8) Oreos. Yum yum yum. There is NO replacement or substitute.

9) Tortilla Chips. Corn products basically don't exist here. Which is really good in some ways (e.g., sodas are sweetened with sugar and not corn syrup- SICK, America, SICK), but can't a girl get a bag of tortilla chips at least??

10) Mexican Food. All of it. I want it. All. My teammate Hollie made enchiladas FROM SCRATCH a few weeks ago. Like the tortillas and everything. I told her she can make them every day and I would eat them. Every day.

11) Quinoa. I do get this in care packages occasionally, but this is my favorite grain, and I would easily eat it 3 times a week if I could.

12) Canned Chicken Broth. I may be missing it, but I don't think you can buy chicken broth here. I'm sorry, bouillon cubes just aren't the same.

And that about sums it up. There are certainly others (a good cheeseburger, a good slice of pizza), but those are the biggies. This is definitely not "woe is me" AT ALL, because like I said, I eat really well. But just in case you're wondering what particular items I miss, now you know. How about you? If you've lived abroad, what foods did you most miss from America?

St. Parascheva Day: The Religious Side

This is the first of a few entries I'd like to write about Parascheva Day/Iasi Days, which is basically THE event of the year in Iasi. Why? Because St. Parascheva is the Patron Saint of Romania (the region of Moldavia, in particular), that's why. Her intact relics are in a church here in Iasi and every year on Oct 14th upwards of a million people make a pilgrimage to the city to worship her bones and pray to them to intercede with God for themselves and their families. Supposedly miracles also have happened in connection with her bones, but I can't so much find any documented. People literally wait in a line that is miles long, outside, night and day, to walk by her coffin, touch it, and pray. This is fascinating to me, so I tried to find out more about her story and why she would be the Patron Saint of the country. She lived in the early 11th century. She joined a convent and devoted her life to prayer and fasting. She died at age 27. I asked quite a few people and looked around a bit online, but nothing much is to be found. Certainly nothing on par with someone like Mother Teresa or many Catholic Saints who (whatever your thoughts are about saints) did some truly kind, merciful, loving, and generous acts and who lived their lives desiring to follow Jesus. Certainly nothing that would help me understand why old old women, bent-over from years of working in the garden would sleep outside to touch her coffin. Yes, she might have been pious, but how does that justify elevating her to a place of worship? As my roommate said, "Nobody actually knows the story. She just lived a 'great life' is what people say." And my response was, "Yea, and?"

When I went to check all this out, video and still cameras in tow, I was about as saddened as I thought I would be. The pathways right along the church were lined with shops selling religious trinkets and icons. The only thing I could think of was when Jesus went into the Temple and was angered that it had essentially become a marketplace and His house of prayer had been made into a 'den of thieves' (Matthew 21:12-13).

Also along the path were lots of older women selling flowers. I was not sure what this was all about but I asked my roommate and she told me that the priests spray some kind of anointing oil/incense on them when people get up to the coffin, thereby making them holy. (By the way, check out the clothing in these pictures to get a flavor for how older women dress)

Then I walked around behind the Cathedral and saw the shrine set up and the people standing in line... well, at least the beginning of the 2km line, which was a half dozen people across. If only these people devoted so much time and energy to worshipping Jesus as these dead bones! I felt that the deep dark clouds overhead exemplified the darkness I felt in that place. One cool website I found online while trying to find out more about St. Parascheva was this one, which gives a 360 view up close, so you can get a better flavor of it.

The reason this is so upsetting to me is because it's (falsely) claiming to be Christian. But where does the Bible say anything about praying to bones? Where does the Bible say anything about needing a human to intercede for us? In fact, in contrast, the Bible says that JESUS is our all-sufficient intercessor and High Priest... "Now this is the main point of the things we are saying: We have such a High Priest, who is seated at the right hand of the throne of the Majesty in the heavens, a Minister of the sanctuary and of the true tabernacle which the Lord erected, and not man... For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." (Hebrews 8:1-2, 4:15-16) Yet the average Orthodox person doesn't believe or even know about this because it's not taught. Priests discourage people from reading the Bible because it takes someone 'trained' to be able to read it. They teach that you can only pray in a church. They teach a work-based salvation where you must earn your way to heaven by all your good deeds and fervent prayers. And they pray to icons and have all kinds of rituals that Jesus didn't ask us to have. They miss the point that the God of the Bible is a personal God who wants us to talk to him all the time, and we can do so THROUGH JESUS CHRIST, and Jesus alone. People live in bondage and fear because they never know if they're "good enough" to get to heaven if they would die today. Well, I'll tell you what, YOU AREN'T. I'm not. No one is. We all fall short of God's glory and are saved by grace alone through faith alone.

Oh how I pray for a spiritual awakening in this country! That many would come to know the simplicity and truth of the gospel.

But God, who is rich in mercy,

because of His great love with which He loved us,

even when we were dead in trespasses,

made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved),

and raised us up together,

and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,

that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace

in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.

For by grace you have been saved through faith,

and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God,

not of works, lest anyone should boast.

Ephesians 2:4-9

Sunset Over Iasi

A few weeks ago there was an incredible sunset. And even though we're not near a mountain or a body of water to truly get a full "natural" experience of the sunset, I really thought this was quite beautiful. Perhaps partly because it makes this rather gray city seem just a little less so.

Feast Week: REMIX!

School is back in session here in Iasi and that means our church has is back to the usual 60-80 people each week rather than 25-35 over the summer. Ah the ebb and flow of a church that is mostly students. I have written before about our monthly Feast Week, but now that I have been here for awhile and now that it is well-established as a church tradition, I want to revisit it. The first Sunday of every month is a Feast Week. While we share a simple meal together each week before church, during the Feast we encourage many people to cook, particularly food that is traditional to their home country. We also encourage people to wear traditional clothing from their countries. As more people have gotten on board with this idea (and become ok trekking around Iasi looking even MORE strange than simply being brown or black in an all-white city), it's become such a joyous and festive time of international fellowship. People often bring friends, and our choir almost always sings during the Feast Week church service. All around goodness.

Because Americans don't so much have "traditional" clothing, unless you count American Eagle as traditional, I usually just wear a fun dress. But this month I was fortunate to be able to dress like a Malaysian, as a friend brought me a traditional Indian shirt back from Malaysia!

Rock on.

As for food, we had more food than we've ever had! People just kept showing up with food! We had dishes from Nigeria, Romania, Kenya, Iran, Lebanon, and America. Loads of yummy treats, that's for sure.

One particularly excellent aspect of this Feast was that a Nigerian friend brought back MATCHING OUTFITS for Dave, Erin, Zeke, and Marit. Talk about awesome. I only managed to get a picture of three of them together. But wow, so spectacular.

Another item of note was that we had Iranians in church for the first time ever. None of us have ever met any Iranians here, but the week before the Feast Eli met a girl from Iran whose mom was also in town. And by other "coincidences" we had two other Iranians show up. Four Iranians in church all at once! All of whom thought they were the only Iranian in Iasi. None of whom were Christians. But who all met in our quirky little church. I mean, come on now, that's pretty awesome. And we had the usual plethora of Nigerians:

and Malaysians (I SO blend in... right?):

And everything in between. I believe we had people present from the US, Britain, Romania, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Cameroon, Israel, Iran, Dubai, India, and Malaysia. It never ceases to amaze me how beautiful and wonderfully diverse is the international body of Christ. From all around the world we gather to worship God through His Son Jesus Christ. We are united and leveled in Christ, all sons and daughters of God, and all seeking to live to glorify God with our lives, pointing others to Him.

I love our church. Love love love it.