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I really like people. I really like to observe them, to meet them, to get to know them. Usually, most usually, I am not afraid of people. There is the occasional thuggish looking person in the Ubahn (subway) but they are drunk and harmless. There may be the occational "weird vibe" from someone on the street but I usually have this sense of peace about me that keeps me from freaking out.

Until of late. Until I listen to the media about refugees and ISIS and terrorist attacks and calls to bear arms by American politicians and preachers. Just yesterday, I read where my country is constructing a barrier to bar refugees from entering; I read about 25 young men (16 - 18 yrs. old) arrested after fighting at a Refugee center about 2 hours away due to ethnic differences; I read about a Swedish teenage girl (17 yrs. old) who was arrested at a local train station (just 15 minutes from my flat) in connection with ISIS; I read about the Austrian Minister of Integration declaring that 150 local Kindergartens cater to Muslim children and parents and claims they are teaching radicalization of a culture that refuses to integrate into it's Austrian hosts. This ... this makes me afraid ... of certain people.

I hate it. But I can't shake it. And then ...

Yesterday, I meet my little beggar woman who I've come to know (the one that sells papers outside my grocery store). I've wondered about the young men in her family ... are they potential terrorists? She wears a head covering.

I saw her and wanted to avoid her. I forced myself to meet her eyes. She always greets me with a familiar sense of "friendship". We engaged in our ritual primitive communication and I noticed her hands. Big, worn, cracked hands exposed to the cold. I asked her if she had gloves. No. I then knew what the One who drew me to her in the first place wanted me to do ... give her mine.

Let me interject a little ironic story about my gloves. My dear step-mom ... whom I love as my own Momma and affectionately call my Momma ... always gives the best gifts. Good quality. Much nicer than I would buy for myself. And, because of her Mother's heart and knack for shopping, she keeps us warm with good gloves, hats, sock warmers, and these other things ... that I have no idea what they are called ... but they are like heavy-duty socks with fluffy stuff at the top that you can wear inside your boots ... but part of it sticks out ... the fluffy stuff ... and looks really cool but feels really warm. All that to say ... I thought I had lost one of my fancy gloves that she had given to me just a few days ago ... only to be delighted way too much over a lost glove discovered. These ... these black, fancy, with fur that I secretly think is mink ... or something ... these were the gloves I knew I must depart with ... to give away ... to a potential family member of a suspected-in-my-mind terrorist.

I slipped them off my average-sized, clean, and manicured hands, exposing them to the cold. She shook her head in total defiance. She would not take my gloves. I would not take her rejection and tried to put one on her hands. She joined me ... to no avail. They were too small.

I slipped them back on my hands, grateful, relieved, and on mission to find the biggest gloves I could find and return to present them to my ... friend ... who I still may be afraid of ... and of her fellow countrymen ... and others like her ... and her part of the world ... but for one act of courage ... I beat the fear.

Not Reading Anymore Media Today,
christina

Goodbyes are tough for Modern Day Nomads (MDN). Just because we've said them more than your average person, it never gets any easier. Goodbyes mark end of chapters. New ones are left to be written ... and they will be written well. However, it doesn't make turning the last page of the current chapters' end any easier.

Several years ago, my parents came to visit us. They left Vienna on a train bound for Germany and eventually back to Oklahoma. As we stood on the platform, waving goodbye and trying to be brave, I can still feel that sinking feeling in my gut as the train pulled away. Despite my 40 something year old body, I felt like a little girl lost ... and desperately wanting to run with the train until I could no longer keep up its pace.

To the outsider, it's just another goodbye. You will see them again. Yet, the outsider doesn't know the loss of always wondering if this will be the last time you see those faces or hug those necks. The outsider doesn't know what it means to sacrifice living safe. These once a year - at best - visits have to encompass a whole lot of daily living in a short period of time. That says nothing of missing the passing of birthdays, school events, sad days, happy days, celebrations, promotions, just because visits, dinner out, dinner in ... you miss them all.

As our friends leave, another goodbye begins. These goodbyes are the tough goodbyes. What outsiders don't understand is that we, MDN, form our own ... family. When those with whom we share the same physical DNA are oceans away, you develop bonds with those with whom you share the same spiritual DNA. We come from different places and have different backgrounds but our common MDN status makes us all equal.

This week we went to our friends house to gives homes to some of their belongings that will now reside in our home. As we hauled off their treasures to treasure them at our house, we parted at the Ubahn (subway) station. This wasn't our last goodbye. But, as I watched them ... all five of them ... walk away from our family the tears tumbled down without warning. Here goes another Nomad into the great unknown. We've all been there. They will be fine because they trust One who knows the future ... their future. They are merely taking steps, one by one, to find out what the future holds.

"I know the plans I have for you ... plans to prosper you, not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Our girls attend a unique school called International Christina School of Vienna. Once started as a missionary school for those living on the edge of the "Iron Curtain" over 26 years ago, it now serves the international community as a viable schooling option for over 240 students from over 32 countries.

One day a week I volunteer in Libby's 5th grade class. I get to read with two students who's native language is not English. These boys come from Pakistan and South Korea. At home they speak in their mother tongue, at school they speak English, and somewhere in the middle - between living in a German-speaking country - they are learning German.

I work with these boys to serve the teacher, but my main objective is quite simple: I want them to know how much God loves them. In fact, as they sound out letters and form words ... I am praying. Not out loud, of course, but in my heart. As they utter syllables and consonants pronounced with heavy accents, my prayers on their behalf are being uttered. I've grown to love those boys.

Most of the time I work with Jimmy. (More on my little friend in the next blog). Sometimes I work with ... let's call him ... Billy from Pakistan. I like Billy. He is fresh-faced and bright-eyed! He's so full of personality! In fact, I joke with him by predicitng that he will be a great actor when he grows up! Every time I see him I ask him if I can have his autograph. It's kind of our "thing".

One day while going over English words he was not familiar with, we came to the word "pie". He looked puzzled. I explain that "pie" is an American word for a type of pastry not found in most countries. We than began to embark on a conversation about food ... about the food his Mamma cooks ... what his favorite is ... and isn't it!

Our conversation then led to other things about his country. I clarify that he is from Pakistan. He answers in the affirmative and then proceeds to tell me about his city. There was a bomb that blew up a main bridge. Instead of fixing the bridge that is now in ruins they just use the rubble to create a makeshift path on which to climb to the other side.

I ask Billy if it's dangerous in his city. He tells me the police carry machine guns ... big ones. But, he and his family aren't afraid of the "bad guys" because his Uncle is a policeman. Whenever they are with their Uncle, and his big machine gun, no one bothers them.

Hmmm. It's a lot to take in so I remain silent in front of my young friend. Then he looks at me with those bright-eyes and tells me with complete earnestness in his heart, "Miss, I am not dangerous!" Of course this sweet Billy is not dangerous! He's 11 years old! I am left with an odd sense that this cultural encounter between me and "Billy" has let me inside his world. Because the color of his skin and the orgin of his roots, do most people think he's dangerous?

Then we go back to short vowel sounds and we play memory together.

Most days reality limits itself to washing dishes, combing hair, a meeting here a coffee there. That day ... reality wasn't pretty.

praying with my eyes wide open,

christina

Yesterday as I walked to my neighborhood grocery store, I kept hearing a loud bellow. At first I thought it could have been an animal for it sounded so primal. Then, as I noticed groups of students walking out of a near by business school, I thought that perhaps a few of them were acting silly - hence the sounds. However they were looking in the same direction ... we were all strangely drawn toward the awful bellowing.

After I rounded the corner from my cozy little side street onto the main road, I caught a glimpse of the Sound Maker. A young man, in his early twenties, visibly stricken with some sort of mental illness. Immediately I began to pray. What was my role? What did God want me to do ... say ... be in this situation.

I began walking toward the Sound Maker. He would be stirred by some sort of invisible irritation, begin to wildly shake his head, and then pound his fists into his mouth that had begun to bleed. I felt a maternal need to protect this young man.

As I crossed the street in my effort to get closer to Sound Maker, I noticed a middle-aged man watching him, trailing him, following his every move. In German, I asked him if he knew this young man. He turned and looked at me with eyes that were hollow and tired. He knew him. I'm assuming the tired eyes belonged to Sound Maker's father. I then asked him if the boy was OK. He turned to look at me again, and said, "Yes. He's OK. It's not OK, but he's OK." His weariness in those tired eyes spoke more than his three sentences.

I felt released by the Spirit to move on ... but this Sound Maker and middle-aged follower Father stayed in my heart long after their physical bodies left my presence. All I could do was pray as the Sound Maker continued his bellows .. and the middle-aged follower Father kept a watchful eye on his companion.

I don't know what I'm supposed to "see" in this situation. At first I see the horror of mental illness ... and continue to pray for the power of the living Christ to miraculously heal this Sound Maker.

Then, I keep seeing the eyes of the follower Father. Eyes that were focused on the one in distress, following close enough to intervene but far enough to let him wander. It's here I keep landing ... seeing myself as the Sound Maker. Too often I have struggled and faced my invisible irritations alone ... letting out primal sounds of distress while my following Father kept His watchful eye on me. How did I not see His watchful eye?

Thank God I know now the nearness and closeness of a loving Father who has turned my bellow from a primal scream for help to a joyful song of gratitude for what I now have with Him. And yet, there is a haunting that lingers deep inside me this morning. I can't keep from wondering about Sound Maker. How many people are like Sound Maker? They don't shake their heads wildly or let out primal screams or shove fists into bloody mouths. They are well-dressed, put together, maintain jobs, attend conferences, study, mother, and most frightening ... perhaps attend church. Yet, inside ... they are just like Sound Maker. They cry out from hurts or lostness or faintness of soul. Oh that they find the eyes ... no ... that they turn around and see the eyes of a following Father ... and run into His arms and find all they need.

hearing bellows,
christina

This weekend we traveled with the Junior Varsity Girls Volleyball team of the International Christian School of Vienna to Budapest, Hungary. They played in a tournament and we got to cheer them on along with their coach, and two other parents!

Our Parker and her friends played 4 sets of 3 games (ok, the middle two games were only 2 games because they beat the other team so badly!) and won the tournament! Afterwards, one of the coaches from the organizing school offered to let them play in the next Varsity tournament so they would have some "real" competition! THEY ROCK!

I love the experiences our Addison got to have while her tenure at ICSV ... both academically but also with extra-curricular activities like Volleyball ... and now Parker. On Parker's volleyball team, there are 6 players from 4 different countries. They are gaining global perspectives that most teenagers their age do not have and for that I am so grateful!

And, if I can take the liberty to speak some encouraging words into the lives of those who work at ISCV, both as teachers and as other staff, this school is a unique and wonderful gathering of nations. At it's heart, it strives to serve children of international families by giving them a good educational experience based on Christian values. Their motto: "Education for life". And as a parent of one graduate and two current attenders, that's exactly what my children have gained: an education for life.

Without the school, we would not be able to live and work in Vienna.

Having had friends who are educators, I know that this profession seems to be overlooked and underrated. Put on top of that the calling these teachers at ICSV have to serve overseas, raise their own funds, sacrifice to live in a foreign country - it goes without saying this is an underrated responsibility. And, from personal experience, these teachers are committed first to a calling they have down deep in their souls to serve God. This is not a "job" for them ... this is a chance to make a difference and obey a calling they have to serve the Creator.

Bravo and may God bless ICSV! Be encouraged and hopeful! You are doing a great thing!!

The girls taking a quick lunch break.

Parker's killer serve!

Libby tagged along and appointed herself as Ms. Howard's Assistant Coach!

The "good game" hand thing!

The Champions!!

Since landing back “home”, we have gotten the girls settled into school, moved Parker into her own room and Chris and I into Addison’s old room, moved the living room around, shifted things in the kitchen and bathroom to allow for more ease of access, and discovered that our pillows are way too thin … resembling feminine napkins and not places of comfort for our heads to rest. Excited energy allowed us to do these “housekeeping” chores. Now … we rest. We are pooped. Our bodies and minds have finally taken autopilot mode and we are better for it! After a few days of “down”, I know we will be able to adapt to a new normal.

I’ve been amazed at how easily the German has flown out of my vocal chords. I’ve been equally amazed at how off guard I was taken by the first public act of “schimpfen” I witnessed in the Ubahn station.

For those of you not acquainted with this German term, schimpfen is a scolding. The dictionary defines “schimpfen” as: to get angry; to moan; to curse; to tell somebody off; to curse about or at. You get the picture. You don’t have to know the person who is doing the schimpfen … in most cases you don’t. It usually occurs when some cultural norm or rule has been transgressed and the one dishing out the discipline feels they are obligated to point out your fault – usually dramatically and loudly. In the above reference, one woman felt the need to schimpf another for taking up too much room on the lift (elevator).

Now, back to my observations … streets seem dirtier than I remember, my heart is more deeply mourned by the sight of beggars, people stepping in front of me while I am waiting in line still bugs me, the city is as beautiful as I remember, I didn’t remember how far the Ubahn stop was from our house, the coffee is more divine than my taste buds remembered, the grocery store is as charming as ever, cars will wait as I cross the street (in the designated cross walk) even if it appears they are about to run me over, carrying my granny buggy to the store will get old – but not yet, shopping on Saturday because stores are not open on Sunday is much a pain as ever, and connecting with friends is sweeter than I could have imagined.

However, the biggest surprise of this homecoming are the intangibles I am experiencing in my soul. God is bigger (is opening my eyes in new ways, breaking down old barriers, exposing old ways of thinking) and asking me to expect bigger things than I was prepared to receive. But … receive I will!!

Without going into the inner workings of my complicated brain (I know Chris is thankful for that bit of information that will not be written in black and white for all the world to see and hear), here’s a picture God showed me this morning of what is happening …

Chris and I got new phones. They are “fancy” phones. It’s the first “fancy” phones we’ve had – ever – in our lives. In our contract, we have unlimited data. However, in my ignorance of this modern technology, I was at first afraid to connect to the Internet when I wanted for fear that the “unlimited” is really “limited” and there will be some hidden charge that will require me to pay up!

This morning, in a flash of realization, God showed me a wrong belief I have held way too tightly for way too long. I don’t believe I have unlimited access to God. Somehow, I’ve believed that He will somehow withhold some of His goodness just to show me that He is God and I am only His servant … who has to somehow earn His favor, goodness and blessing. That, my friends, is a lie from the pit of Hell!

He – God - has given me an “unlimited” data plan: His greatness, blessing, faithfulness, grace, wisdom and power through the Holy Spirit! I just have to access it … to push the button … to connect! Just like my “fancy” phone, I just have to push the button to access the power!

For me, pushing the button is as simple as … asking. God desires to give to His children what they ask for … when they ask. When we understand the power we have through the Holy Spirit … and then ask … we better be ready to receive! It will come down in showers! Those are His words … not mine. So … I’m pushing the button to my unlimited data plan again and again and again …

Ready for more,

christina

I have two young women in my life who are both sailing in the same boat, in different continents, learning two different languages, raising small children. They are young wives and mothers. They are adventurous. They have sacrificed much. By all outward appearances they are to be admired, and they are. However, in both of their hearts lie an unsettled, unknown twinge of fear and uncertainty. It’s not created by their lack of faith. Oh, quite the contrary. It’s created by lack of experience. I, on the other hand, have the experience they lack. Guess what … I, too, have unsettled and unknown twinges of fear that lay in my heart.

This morning these two girls are floating in and out of my mind. As I sit facing the window in my room watching snowflakes fall from a grey sky, I am reminded of how bitter sweet this time of year can be. From the very start, it was wrapped in mixed messages. I get that impression from Luke 1:26 – 38. Mary, the unsuspecting, a virgin, betrothed to a man and expected to live a routine life as a Jewish mother, comes face to face with the unexpected. Shazamm! In an instant, her life is rocked, her foundation altered, her future put into the hands of a different owner … not her own.

That’s how these two young women in my life could be described. Both have given up “normal” lives. Both have given up the routine for the unexpected. Both have realized that their lives lie in the hands of a different owner. That’s where the unsettled, unknown twinge of fear finds its’ roots. You see, these girls have answered a calling in their lives, to follow God, and their husbands, to other lands to be used to bring a message of hope … and healing … and love. Noble? Yes. Difficult? Undoubtedly. Impossible? No Way!

I want to encourage these girls this morning. On my own, I can’t. As I pray and think and wonder and day dream about these girls, I am reminded to see things from God’s perspective … and that’s where I get a “spirit conceived” idea.

"I am the Lord’s servant. May everything you have said about me come true."

And then the angel left her. Luke 1:38

Just like Mary, my two precious girls have heard God’s voice. They have uttered those words, through trembling lips; I am the Lord’s servant. They have shown Him they trust Him and desire everything He has said to come true by moving their lives to different cultures. Now, they are left … alone.

That’s where the mixed messages start trickling in: If I am being so obedient, why do I feel so lonely? If I have said yes, why do my feelings say no? If I am doing the right thing, why do I always question? If I am hearing the voice of God, why do I doubt myself? If I have answered a call, why is this so hard?

Sweet girls. You have now joined the ranks of a group of women who have all walked in your shoes. We’ve gotten blisters, sore feet, and cramps. We’ve walked barefoot, limping and often very slowly. Yet, we all continued to walk … one step at a time … one foot in front of the other. You are not alone.

To be weak is to be human. To be strong is to be undeserving of an even stronger Father. You have begun a journey that will lead you to unknown and unfamiliar places. But, you are not alone. Every woman in this club has traveled this same path. Oh sure, we’ve done it in different countries, in different clothes, in different climates and with various ages of children following behind us … but we’ve all trod this path. And, if a thousand different voices could rise up through these words they would all shout the same message:

It’s worth it. Welcome to the club!

Hang on, dear girls. Hang on to the laughter of your little ones. Hang on to the hand of your man. Hang on to the memories of Mamma’s waving goodbye. Hang on to the prayers of those back “home”. Hang on to the ones who’ve gone before you. Hang on to emails that proclaim great hope. Hang on to the words in your BOOK. Hang on to long baths that allow you a moment to breath. Hang on to dirty faces that need stability in your hands. Hang on to long grocery store lines that give you an opportunity to really look at those you’ve been called to. Hang on to uncertainty because it forces you to be certain only of the One who sent you. Hang on to trouble because it provides the opportunity to cling to Hope. Hang on to hurt only long enough to give it to your Healer. Hang on to HIM … because when He is all you want … then it’s He who is all you need.

Girls, welcome to the club. It’s not an easy journey … but … you … are … never … alone.

“You are blessed because you believed that the Lord would do what He said.” Luke 1:45

I recently got an SMS (text) from a friend. When I read it, I smiled. Here’s what she wrote (in German) … “How’s the Elledge Manger?”

Several years ago, in fact so “several” that Addison may have been our only child, we began a tradition called “giving hay” (performing anonymous acts of service) for family members. For example, if I made Libby’s bed, I would give her some “hay” (a small bundle of raffia) on her pillow. Then, after the recipient discovers the “hay”, they put it in a “crib” (in our case a basket … in former years my Dad actually made us a life-sized crib). The goal is to collect enough “hay” to prepare the way for the Baby Jesus to be born on Christmas Eve.

One ordinary day over coffee I was telling my friend about this tradition. It was during our conversation that it dawned on me: We (Elledge’s) haven’t “given hay” in a really, really long time.

Feeling recharged – by both the coffee, time with my friend, and my new found resolve to reinstate the “hay” tradition – I began making little bundles of “hay” for my friend and little bundles of “hay” for our family.

This week, as I’ve been reading about the birth of this Baby Jesus, something hit me. In reading from a translation of the Bible called, The Message, some new wording rocked my world. Most Bibles say that Mary conceived a child through the power of the Holy Spirit. However, in The Message version, it said that the baby in Mary’s womb was Spirit conceived. Being a lover of words, this one caught my attention.

Spirit conceived.

That’s when it happened. I began to see how valuable … how productive … how powerful … spirit conceived things are. If I take the liberty to apply this concept of spirit conceived notions into my daily life, I get flat-out excited. Being a person who has a vivid imagination and a wild love of all things literary, I have lots of idea that roam about … run about … race about in my little head. Few of those get put into action. Still fewer get remembered.

However, those that get into the final cut of life … if I allowed them to be filtered through this idea of being spirit conceived … WOW. Shazzam! How powerful could that be?! Instead of acting on what I think is a good idea … I could opt for acting on what I believe the spirit conceived idea is … and it being the best idea!

That’s tricky, isn’t it? It’s tricky trying to determine what is spirit conceived, what are effects of bad pizza the night before, and what it just our own self. But, I really think Matthew gives us the key. Spirit conceived ideas always last, has power, and bears some kind of fruit.

Allow me to take the liberty to illustrate a spirit conceived idea that happened this week. Walking through one of the busiest U-Bahn stations (subway), Karlsplatz, I saw three young people begging. This is not uncommon. These young people were about 20, clearly druggies and begging for money or cigarettes. My heart went out to them. The three looked like a strange band of weary travelers. Among this trio was a girl, not much older than my Addie, who had bright eyes. She was clearly the leader. There was a real sweetness that lay underneath her punk hair cut and piercings in ears and nose. Her comrades were a short boy who was stoned out of his mind and a tall fellow with a Mohawk and bloodshot eyes. When she approached me I told her the truth, I truly had no cash on me … and to her dismay … no cigarettes either. Instead of acting rudely or pursuing me further like most beggars often do, she threw up her hands and just said, “Schade, aber Danke!” (Too bad but thank you!).

As I passed them, I prayed. There was something about this moment that I knew God wanted to me to pay close attention to. Literally a few minutes later, an elderly man with a kind face was passing out cards to passerby’s. They were free but most people do not want to be bothered. I took one. When I looked down at the print, it said: Gott kennen? (Know God?)

This is where I know it wasn’t bad pizza or my own self, but rather a terrifically, wonderful, spirit conceived idea was taking shape. I knew I was to somehow go back to my little band of weary beggars … but why? As I rounded the corner I saw a McDonalds. McDonalds takes Bank-o-mat (ATM) cards!! I knew I was to feed them. I bought a few hamburgers and a truck-load of French fries, tucked the “Gott kennen” card into the bag and headed back toward my punk, stoned-out recipients. They were walking towards me, obviously not having luck at hand-outs. When I approached, leader girl recognized me and smiled.

I proceeded to tell my little recipients that I was a follower of Jesus Christ. And, because I have a personal relationship with him … I can freely speak to his Father, God. I told them that as I passed them, just a few minutes ago, I knew that God had told me to feed them. I also told them that I did not lie to them. I had no cash, but I did have a Bank-o-mat and with my Bank-o-mat I purchased this food. Would they do me the honor of receiving my small gift?

In that moment, leader girl became my friend. As I was telling my spirit conceived idea, she was responding. I touched her face. She grabbed my hand and kept my hand on her face. I touched tall ones face. He lowered his head. Then, right there in the middle of crazed looks from all the other “decent” passersby, leader girl asked me if she could hug me. As she embraced me, it was hard and long and I felt like her mother. I pulled away … only to have her hug me all the tighter.

Spirit conceived.

How do I know this? God made this very unlovable trio of beggars precious to me. If the truth be told, I wanted to take leader girl home with me and clean her up and feed her chicken soup and let her sleep as long as she needed to.

I’m trusting that as I walked away from my shocked new friends, God did something … spirit conceived in them. For I know, oh how I know, that my little spirit conceived idea of “giving hay” to this misfits did something in me!

Looking for more Spirit conceived ideas ...

Christina

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