Lucerne.

German has a nice guttural sound that reminds me of mountain lions purring. The vocal gymnastics you must do to make the right sounds is fun in a gurgly kind of way.

The low rumble required to spit out works like ‘Danke’ and ‘shpitzel’ is oddly comforting-- like a hug.

All week, I enjoyed the baritone rumbles of this dialect while trying to sound out the ridiculously long words. Consider: ‘Himbeermarmelade’ (aka: raspberry jam). Admittedly, it’s a bit intimidating. My friend often laughed at my mispronunciation; I laughed with her.

The best part of my trip however wasn't the language, but the fact I didn’t need to think.

If anything was in English or French, I would have found myself endlessly reading and translating. However, not speaking more than two words of German, freed me from this burden. Instead, I let my friend organize and plan.

We went on walks, slept in late, and ate like royalty. (Oh, how I love fondue!)

One day we traveled by bus and boat to Lucerne for a walk about the city. Smaller than Zurich, it’s full of brutish swans, sparkling waters, and ancient wooden bridges.

I learned that the bridges there were set on fire a few years back, incinerating most of the countless murals painted in their rafters. In a span of minutes, priceless masterpieces were lost. It was a sad day for Switzerland.

However, not all of the paintings were ruined. Some were rescued, and today testify to the heritage lost -- one side of the painting depict rural Swiss life, while the other side is charred beyond recognition.

Walking around the city, we took our time leafing through books stores, sitting on museum steps, and sunning ourselves in yellow shaded tea gardens.

Then toward the end of the day, we went to the Kunstmuseum Lucern (or the Museum of Art Lucerne) for a quick look around. Normally, I’m not a huge fan of squiggles and splashes-- I tend to prefer a bit of form to my fancy-- but this museum surprised me. 

There were four small exhibits of artists I’ve never heard of before. One artist built a wooden door that looked like bricks which opened to an empty room with another similar door on the opposite end. It was disconcerting being the artwork instead of the art critic, but I liked it and had to laugh.

Another artist disturbingly tried to paint death and hell. It wasn’t so much the images as the somber colors. He looked like he was trying too hard. A third artist was all about taking blurry pictures of herself in store front windows.               --Not a fan.

However, the last exhibit made up for everything.

Her name is Patricia Bucher. She is a Swiss artist in her 30’s who painted a 30-meter circular panoramic of battle scenes since the dawn of time. It’s called the Schlachtenpanorama. (Please don’t ask me what that means... ha ha!)

My Swiss friend tells me that battle panoramics are very common in Switzerland, however, this was my first.

Bucher mixed Aztec Indian warriors with Napoleon's troops; she painted the Indian goddess Shiva among Egyptian hieroglyphics; she placed Star Wars battle troopers against cave men and revolutionary soldiers. It was epic!         --Simply AM-az-ING!

I am now definitely a fan of epic battle panoramics... and Patricia Bucher!

All in all, my time in German-speaking Switzerland was fabulous. I loved seeing my friend. I loved discovering these new places. It was just what this tired midwife needed.

Thank you, MT! I sure do love you!

The symphony of trains.

I love trains. I have always loved trains.

My first time riding the railways, I was 11 years old. My father got tickets for my older brother and I to go from Las Vegas to Vermont on the Transcontinental railways. The three day journey took us on rickety tracks that switched back and forth through the Rockies, only to rocket through the Midwest planes. I remember going to sleep with views of corn fields and waking 8 hours later to views of corn fields. It was amazing.

When I got a bit older and came to Europe, I reveled in traveling everywhere on trains. Here it’s the easiest way to travel, unlike in the States.

In Europe trains leave on time. They are timed with such precision that if you are not paying attention you can miss it by seconds. More than once, I have found myself running breathlessly to catch a train as the last whistle blows. Boarding microseconds before the doors slide shut with an air-pressured ‘whhoosh’, I smile in solidarity at all the other passengers sweating and grinning breathlessly, like me.

It’s intoxicating! 

Plus, you get to people-watch! I love people-watching.

Staring at strangers is not impolite in France. My American-ness resisted the urge at first, thinking it was rude, but a year in Paris cured me of that. Now I love it.

I love to stare. I love trains. I love staring on trains.

So this week, as I boarded the train for Zurich, I excitedly found my way to the upper level (Yes! It was a double-decker train!). Wandering around a bit trying to decide where to sit, I stumbled across the dining car.

Each table was neatly set with a bright, linen table cloth with burnt-orange leather chairs. Even though every table was occupied, there were still a few empty chairs. Smiling inwardly, I remembered that in Europe you can share public tables with strangers where seating is limited. Scanning the small car for the best place to sit, I found a large table with an elderly gentleman reading the paper.

-- ‘Do you mind if I sit with you?’ I asked in French.
-- ‘Not at all,’ he said with a smile, and slowly inched his newspaper out of my way.

He had a neatly trimmed beard that was graying in all the right places. His finely tailored suit screamed ‘business-exec’, and his sparkly watch flashed money. I guessed banker. Small thin-rimmed glasses perched on his flawless face, hid the smile tucked in the corner of his eyes.

He ordered tea which was served in a loose-leaf tea bag, on real china! DE-luxe!

Behind him sat two men in their thirties, drinking espressos. One kept glancing over at me with interest, perhaps trying to figure out why this jean-sporting-backpack-carrying woman was in first class. Or perhaps, he was just people-watching, too.

The view from my lofty seat revealed acres of newly-budding grape vines on tightly-wound wire frames, stretching for miles. Behind them, as the hills melted into mounts, the vines were replaced by spots of tan and red with brightly colored shutters.

Even further beyond, sharp, rocky cliffs jutted from seemingly nowhere, pointing to the snow-capped peaks above. The flashes of whites, browns, and greens blurred by as I tried to take it all in.

What world is this?

Pulling my thoughts back to the train-car at hand, I continued to look around. The clink of metal spoons stirring coffee, the whirring of the espresso maker brewing sludge, and the gentle voices of distant lands collided to make me swoon with delight. I had to close my eyes to get a grip.

Coming back into focus, my eyes glanced sideways at the petite woman to my right ordering an espresso with a German accent. The couple behind me read the paper-- one engrossed in the financial times, the other skimming cartoons and looking bored.

Mellow, accented voices floated passed, keeping time with the tickety-tac of the train. It was a symphony of indulgences and sensory delights.

“Un autre espresso, S’il vous plait, M’dam,” I ordered from the server walking passed.

... the second act was just beginning.

A glimpse of Heaven~

One of the last outings together in France, my French Parents and I strapped on hiking boots and packed a sac lunch for a walk in the woods. They live in the Pre-Alps region of south-western France and have the luck of being a ten-minutes-drive from some of the most jaw-dropping, rustic views.

We decided to go on a 10 kilometer hike around one of the mountain peaks, right outside the village of Beauregard (which in French means ‘beautiful view’). It’s a fairly simple trek once you make it up the 400 meter incline!

I had to stop more than once to catch my breath... but once on top, it took my breath away!

This time of year in France is magic.

Spring, in all her glory, bursts on the scene with lime-greened nuanced buds intermingled with emerald boughs and leafy jades. The freshness of her youth, accentuated by the pinks and yellows of bloom, takes you by storm and forces you to gawk in scintillated delight.

The well worn path we trekked took us through peaks and valleys.

The peaks, with rugged, scraggy edges, pushed their stoney teeth skyward in worship. The grass, laced in dandelions and wild violets, bounced back undaunted by our steps. The gentle afternoon light of Spring, back lit the scene, casting purple shadows and white highlights on all it touched -- even us. 

Alone in this valley of dandelioned-dotted paradise we marched on and on -- giggling, snapping pictures left and right, and marveling at God’s astounding artistry!

It was so much more than a breath of fresh air... it was a glimpse of heaven.

Thank God for afternoon walks in the French countryside!


One of my favorite pictures I took that day is this one... my French Mom and I giggled like school girls while catching our silhouettes on film.    -- a very sweet memory.

Une Vie de Reve!

Years ago, I came to France to study a year abroad. The first family to receive me didn’t work out, and by Christmas I was packing my bags to go home. However, the student exchange directors encouraged me to give it a second chance. They told me about a kind couple who lived in the South. Would I consider meeting them before hopping on that plane?

Having nothing to lose but a few weeks, I told them I’d give it a chance.

The week I spent with them was a bit tense. I thought they’d be just like the first family (who considered me a nanny/house help), but they surprised me.

The couple was also a bit leery; they were so disappointed in their first exchange student. Later they would tell me that they were looking at me in suspicion, as well. Would I rebel or cause trouble like the last one?

After our allotted week, we had a conversation.
“Do you want to stay?” they asked.
Shrugging my shoulders in teenage nonchalance: “Why not?’” Then a bit more hesitantly, I asked in turn: “Do you want me to stay?”
They looked at each other and nodded.        
            -- I guess it was settled.

At that moment, something clicked inside. We had only 6 months together, but we all fell in love. In that short time, they spoiled me like nobodies business, we traveled extensively all over Europe on my school breaks, and I continued my studies.

That was 17 years ago.

I won’t bore you with the details.... suffice it to know, they are more than friends. They are my ‘French Parents’. I’m never a guest in their home. When I’m with them, it’s family.



So in coming to France for my break, in essence, I was coming home. Sigh.

It has been a whirlwind of AM-AZ-ING food, laughter, reminiscing, and hugs. I cannot tell you how delightful it has been.

In this short week, I’ve gorged myself on ‘all things culture’. We’ve listened to opera practically non-stop while discussing the finer qualities of Verdi, Donazetti, and Puccini.

We visited two fabulous museums and delighted ourselves in modern dance productions, movies, and monuments. We’ve talked of Mozart, Chopin, Chagal and Soulange while nibbling chocolate and sipping espresso. (There is no pretense in France, this is really how they live!)          -- I loved it!

Years of ‘cultural drought’ have brought a ‘renaissance’ of desire. I want to write poetry, sing opera, dance ballet, and paint the walls in yellows and reds!

Oh... and the food! I don’t think I can describe the array of culinary delights without making you all so very jealous, that you refuse to read on! Suffice it to know, I’ve gained a few well deserved kilos... and loved every bite! 

It’s been heaven!

However, one of the finest moments came not in activity but silence. As I sprawled out on the lawn and breathed in the aromas of spring, I could feel the garden yawn beneath me. Stretching out each flower laden branch of pinks and whites, it stirred languidly from its wintery slumber, intoxicating me with scents of honey and wet earth.



Tenderly caressing my skin, the westerly sun lulled me to sleep where I dreamed of nothing-- absolutely nothing. Distant lands of harsh winds and blistering suns, were so far away as to seem unimaginable; my brain strained to remember them.

Unbelievable even to me, my memories seemed foreign. Could there really be a land of spear-carrying giants that spit? Or did I dream it?

Succumbing to my lotus-eating ways, I forgot everything and slept. Divine!

Sigh.

However, my ‘French Dream’ has come to a bleary-eyed end; I rub my eyes and stretch as I slowly wake. Although sad to say goodbye, I’m excited for what’s to come.

Today, I’m off to Switzerland. During this last half of my trip, I’ll be able to catch up with family and friends in the land of chocolate and cheese!     --Woohoo!

Who knows, I might even get to see the Matterhorn this time.

A girl can hope, right?

Baffling Silence.

For those who are part of my newsletter list or friends on Facebook, my silence has not come as a surprise. However, for those who only know me by this blog, my silence must have been a bit baffling. Sorry for that.

I’m new to blogging. I wasn’t aware of what my silence would do to my faithful readers. I get that now. Please forgive my blunder and let me explain.

The work I do in Sudan is taxing. It is 24/7 of unrelenting pouring out. In wisdom and concern, my directors told me before coming, I’d need to leave Sudan every 3 to 4 months for a little R&R.

After 12 years of living and working in Sudan, they knew that taking a break would help me maintain perspective. At first, I thought it was a bit excessive, but now I see the wisdom of it all.

Living in the Sticks doesn’t facilitate a weekend away. In order to get the needed rest, I have to fly to Kenya (our base country). But since there is only one flight in and out each month, I often have to leave for a month at a time.

My first R&R was last September. I spent my time getting used to my new setting and meeting other missionaries in the area. It was refreshing but VERY expensive.

When I complain to my Kenyan friends that Nairobi is expensive, they often try to disagree with me. For Kenyans Nairobi is pricy but not exorbitant, but for Mozungus, it’s outrageous.

Perhaps my reference points were all twisted during my time in the Philippines (where you can eat a meal for 50 cents), but I find Kenya to be a tourist trap of outrageous price-gorging and luxury.

Sigh.

So, as my second R&R approached, I felt conflicted. I knew I needed to rest --- my brain was fuzzy with fatigue-- but I also dreaded the idea of spending so much money in Kenya’s capital.

Sharing my dilemma with friends in Europe, they instantly suggested I come to spend my time with them.

At first I laughed. There would be no way I could go to Europe for cheaper than staying in Kenya. But when I looked into it, I was surprised to find out I could.

That is how I’ve found my way to Europe.

As I sit in this chilly cafe, techno music drowning out the espresso machine, I can’t tell you how far away Africa feels.

Was it all a dream to which I’ve woken with a start?

As I shake off the sleepy confusion of these crowded few weeks in Europe, I find myself trapped in a mire of culture shock. Sigh.

I’ve never felt more disoriented. I’ve never felt more unnatural. I’ve never felt more at home.

An illegal alien, but one adept in dissimulation and mimicry, I’ve slipped into my European cloak. No one suspects me for the intruder I am.

Here, I’m not a Mozungu. Here, no one calls me Kowaja. Here I’m a faceless number in the crowd-- a short smile that passes by in scarf and jeans, unworthy of note.

It has been a time of forgetfulness and escape. I’ve lost myself in this crowd. It’s been oddly comforting.

Thank you for praying for me to have this restful break. Thank you for making this trip possible. Thank you for loving me so well and caring for me so dearly. I’m unwinding... but there are still a few persistent knots.

Please pray with me as I slowly unravel them. They are tricky knots soaked in tears and confusion. Please also pray for my personal Bible study time, it’s more of a chore then ever to read His precious words. Pray I can take my knots to Him and find rest. Thanks.