A catholic church in our old neighborhood

This past week I took a trip down memory lane. When we first arrived in Vienna, we lived in a charming flat in an equally charming district.  Little did we know how that charming flat would be a safe haven from the world around us.  Complete with a proper private garden,  two private terraces,  we also boasted of a shared Hoff (a large gathering space), and lots of quiet.  What felt so "foreign" to us (urban living) was actually a very gracious introduction of what was to come.  Where we live now is smack in the middle of town, lots of traffic, no outside space, and constant noise.  But then ... O sweet bliss of that charming flat.

What we also experienced in that charming flat was a lot of stress.  Stress of learning a language, adapting to a new culture, acclimating to a new school system, and discovering the inner workings of an organizations dynamics.  As with most of life experiences, in the middle of sweetness was a smattering of sour.

This week, as I rode the Strassenbahn (Streetcar) through what once was "home", I could not stop smiling.  There were new buildings erected and old buildings being demolished or being restored.  There was a familiarity about the place I once called home but no sense of the pain that lingered in the air from the past.  Those buildings were such a physical representation of what has taken place in our family's lives since those days:  new things being built, old things being demolished or being restored.

If we belong to Christ, all things are made new.  It's a basic tenement of Christian belief.  There's a certain economy in Christ that makes the old new and the new spring up from ashes.  It doesn't relegate us to wallowing in junk.  We can, if we choose.  And sadly a lot of people who have placed their faith in Christ choose not to believe that He is a master builder and restorer of all things! ALL things - relationships, career, dreams, finances, health.

It was a joy this week to traverse old territory.  It was a gift to be reminded of a living God doing real things.

Memory lane is nice place to visit,
Christina

You can't tell, but under this bridge, about 4 minutes walk from my apartment, sleeps a homeless man.  I hardly recognized him as being human until I closely examined him.  As I walked by during my routine, morning walk, there he slept.  Under the bridge.  Accompanied by the smell of urine.  The traffic rumbling overhead.  His dirty socks were airing out on a ledge.  His shoes neatly aligned next to his body.  He slept in a sleeping bag.  His other belongings were gathered in a tidy form serving as a pillow.  Out of respect, I took the picture after I passed him.  I somehow wanted to preserve some sense of his dignity - one human to another.  I could give him that.

Lately my family and I have begun to struggle - for the first time since living abroad - about the concept of "home".  Where is "home"?  Honestly, we feel a bit in transition mode.  I always pay attention to this mode, knowing there is probably a healthy tension that is going to come to the surface.

I've come to believe that tension is always a way of God moving you from one comfort zone to another.  What once seemed foreign, odd, strange, awkward, not doable, impossible, really scary - becomes "normal".  Comfort zones are like invisible circles that get drawn around you.  When you expand that zone, your circle increases in size.  You are now prepared to handle another circumstance that will force you to make yet another choice.  Embrace another thing that caused you at first to tremble, allow it to be walked through, and then encounter achievement OR ... don't.  Your circle increases - OR it doesn't.

Home.  Right now it's where I am.  As I explore what that looks like - or may look like - and freak out a little about the possible expanding of a comfort zone - I will remember my fellow human.  His home is under a bridge.  It puts everything into perspective.

Grateful for clean socks,
Christina

I didn't think to ask for 10 acres.  I just asked for a place to stay.  However, as I'm coming into my "No More Crumbs" mentality, I asked knowing that whatever He provided would be just what I needed.  As I unpacked my undergarments, I was struck with a need to utter praises to my Father for being so unmistakably gracious.  That's His nature.  I'm His and He desires to bless me ... abundantly!

Lesson:  no more crumbs.  

 

I love feet.  I especially love summer feet.  Summer feet make great pictures.

The above picture was taken last Sunday.  The young woman to my right, Dorothea, has become a dear friend.  She and her hubby ... and their precious son ... are from Germany.  They, like us, have planted themselves and their lives in Vienna.

In 1999, I was 7 months pregnant and had just gotten off a plane from Tucson, Arizona.  Hours later, what we knew as "home" was ravished by record setting storms and a new category of killer tornado.  Never, never in a million years did anyone think it could happen again.  It did.

As I've sat in front of the live feeds from an Oklahoma City news channel, I have heard the reports and seen the images.  Phone calls back home remind me how real the tragedy has invaded our lives.  Friends houses have been wiped off their foundations.  My precious Linda Patterson (seems like a family member but is the Grandma to my nephew) was one of those teachers who also happens to be a hero.  If you've seen the interview of the man in a red t-shirt, describing how he and others lifted a car off a teacher who was sheltering three children under her body ... that was her.  His tearful comment, "Good job, Teach"  says it all.

As I scan my Facebook page, reading friends notifications of what damage they have sustained, where they are relocating, what they have lost ... I just sit and weep.  I'm not even sure where these emotions are coming from.  This place that I call home ... has been hurt.  Therefore, I hurt.

Deciding to trust in a loving God ... even in the midst of horrible tragedy ... keeps me anchored.  Anchored doesn't mean you don't weep.  Anchored doesn't mean it hurts less.  Anchored doesn't mean you ache for those 9 parents who have lost babies.  Anchored doesn't mean your heart sinks with every new bit of information about dear friends.  Anchored just means holding fast to the truth ... despite all those things.

In the middle of such horror, there are the  miracles.  That's when I see God's fingerprints pointing to Himself ... pointing to the anchor that never shifts or changes no matter how strong the winds.  My heart is sad.  My faith is strong.

God bless my Oklahoma!