A Platter of His Fruits

Faith Savors God's Fruits in His Presence

Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Ephesians 5:19-20 NIV

Fresh off a bus in Ft. William, Scotland, I looked just like I felt: cold, bedraggled, soaked and lost! Due to a golf tournament in the area, everything was booked up. Finally, I checked out the last hostel on my list.

“Sorry, we’re full up,” the clerk said. After a look at my distraught face, she pulled her rolodex over and flipped through it, “H’lo Conn'lly, I’ve got a young girl here—more apt to be called a drowned rat—at her wit’s end. Can you fit her in there? You can?! Great? No, she doesn’t mind walking a fair distance a-tall.” she added tongue-in-cheek.

Hey, speak for yourself! I'm a little bit tired of being cold and wet, and not knowing where to go and now I have go back out in that downpour, find a new bus stop, get off, walk AGAIN a 'a fair distance' so I can find a warm place to change my clothes and sleep?! Aaagghhh! Grumble! Grumble! Grumble!

Finally at my destination, I rang the bell and waited for such a long time only to hear these harsh words, “Don’t stand out in the rain. Are you daft!” After checking in, I trudged through the dark hallways leaving wet footprints behind in my stocking feet (Foot and Mouth Disease) to the only remaining bunk in what seemed to be a co-ed dorm. I hung up my raincoat. Water dripped down it and formed a pool below on the floor. I quickly changed clothes! Ah! Warm at last!

My stomach rumbled but all the hostel sold on its premises was Oreo cookies, and candy bars. Others had brought their own food. Definitely not one of my better traveling days! Grumble! Grumble! Grumble! Sound familiar? Anything like the Israelites complaining about the manna as they wandered through the desert for forty years?

Later that evening, a loose ends, I wandered back outdoors. I found myself in the glen of Mt. Nevis, the highest mountain in Scotland. I perched atop a picnic table and drank in God's presence. What grandeur! “No matter how much we elevate ourselves, we are still in the valley of His greatness!" I felt small and close to God, in the palm of His hand as I was in the palm of that mountain. A song came to mind: Creation is Awaiting.

What I can remember of it now goes:

Creation is awaiting the return of the King.
The trees are poised to clasp their hands for joy,
The mountains stand majestic to salute their God;
The desert lies in wait to burst into bloom...

Ceation is awaiting, the world is awaiting the return of the King
The earth is a footstool for his feet,
Every knee will bow down, every tongue confess
That Jesus Christ is Lord of Heaven and Earth....

God spoke to me through a small ray of sun that stole over me for a short time as I sat there. I noticed that when I moved out of a certain spot, the sun left me. Isn't that the same with us in life? If we are leaning toward the Son, God touches with it. If our priorities get lost in the shadows of all the things that threaten to envelop us, then we are not reaching towards God and it can get real cold fast.

God doesn’t always send us a blazing sunny day but He always provides enough heat to get us though the day.

He sends us sweatshirts and raincoats with hoods to ward off the chill. He sends people who take pity on drowned rats, and buses to carry them to dry rooms. Then when they get peeved because the food isn’t what they expect, He invites them to a picnic table to slowly enjoy a platter of His own fruits - to savor and reflect. He even sends Himself to keep them company! No wonder creation is awaiting God...

What a joy to welcome the One who welcomes us in spite of our grumbling hearts!

Application: Lord, let me remember to thank You for your hidden blessings, even when I'm out of sorts.

Once Upon A Yogurt Part IV

I am convinced that this dinner was unique! But very comedic...read the account for yourselves and see...!

A Dinner Not To Be Forgotten

Sometime later the gong sounded and still half-asleep I got out of bed. Somehow just being around other people, I felt better and slowly became aware of a delicious aroma that wafted through the hallways of the splendid villa. As I padded down the curved, marble steps to join the two couples, I felt hungry for the first time in months.

The table had been laid out beautifully by Juju, the maid. Each setting looked elegant and had a number of fancy utensils to eat with and a crystal goblet to drink from. My all-time favorite meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, sweet corn, green beans and homemade bread sat within reach. Two pitchers sat planted at either end of the large table, one containing fresh pomegranate juice and the other ice water. “Oh Meryl, bless you!” I cried in anticipation. She smiled over at me, “We’ll get you better yet,” she beamed, then placed a chubby hand over her husband’s, “Marvin, will you do the honors to say grace?” and bowed her head.

“A-MEN!” Lydia echoed loudly as if God might be hard of hearing.

They began to pass the food around, but just as I was about to ask for the roast beef, Lydia puckered her lips, “Oh, no, no, NO! Don’t even go there!”

I looked up in surprise. Was she talking to me?

"Juju —” she called, “What IS taking that lazy woman so long?!” She got up to search for her. “Juju prepared something special for you,” Lydia called from the kitchen.

"For ME? Why would she make something special for me?"

Lydia looked at me as if I had lost my senses.

Was this my last meal or something? Was I that far gone? I was not going to eat whatever special dish she made for me if it wasn't anything like this wonderful-smelling beef dinner...mmh! Ah, such delicious aromas.

Then the torture began...

First, the bread passed by me as if in slow motion, and each person took a piece. Frank slathered his with butter, as did Marvin after him. “I think I’ll have me some a those fresh green beans,” Marvin chuckled. And so it continued, oohing and ahhing with each exquisite dish that passed by me. Meryl looked at me, then at Lydia who came back in the room with Juju, who was carrying a small jar of yogurt in her hand. I loathed yogurt. Was this some sadistic game? “I think I’d prefer some of that roast beast and potatoes,” I croaked, my eyes fixed on Meryl.

“Well, dear, maybe it’ll be okay to have …”

“Do you want that girl to be sick as a dog right here and now? And up all night to boot? Lor-dee, Meryl! There is no way she can eat that heavy food after not keeping anything down for months on end! Juju went to a lot of effort to make this delicious plain yogurt for her, at my request.”

Meryl shrugged apologetically as Juju placed the single jar of creamy white substance next to my plate. I stared at it as silence surrounded me. How could I bring myself to eat it?

“Well Lydia, now I do believe we have some papaya that would sweeten it up just a little and that would be very good for her, too,” Meryl remarked kindly.

“Well, Juju, go on and get it,” Marvin prompted.

The clinking of silverware resumed and I sat stunned. Could this really be happening? Each person seemed to remark on the delicious attributes of the individual dishes I could not touch. It’s like a movie, a spoof, a comedy!

“If that girl spends the whole night in the toilet again, Frank is not going to teach for her! You know that, don’t you? Let’s be certain. The good Lord says, ‘He who does not what He commands will harvest the results in his own day,’ “

“Yes, Lydia, we know.” Marvin rolled his eyes over at Meryl, before plopping a full helping of whipped potato into his mouth, “You hear that?” he asked, turning to me and winking.

I nodded meekly as the papaya arrived. I picked up a spoon and tried to look grateful for this special meal prepared for me. It took quite a long time for me to cut up the papaya but once I did, there was no other course of action but to pour the plain yogurt over it on my plate. I looked down at my plate. I am here in this beautiful house with all these delicious smells and here I sit forced to eat the food I hate the most!

I tried to ignore the delicious aromas around me and slid my spoon into the yogurt for my feast.


That marked the beginning of what would later become my love affair with homemade yogurt mixed with sweet orange papaya, for that’s all I ate until I finally beat Indonesia’s dreaded Salmonella food poisoning. I learned to love it.

I also lived to tell the tale.

Once Upon A Yogurt: Part III

Yesterday I left off with my new resolve to stay "in the fortress on the hill" in order to get over whatever food-borne illness I had contracted. My supervisor had kindly invited me into her more western expatriate home in the hopes that "normalcy," boiling water, and good food would cure me. But first I had to find out what exactly was wrong!

A Scary Diagnosis in a "Real Hospital"

A Scary Diagnosis at a “Real Hospital”

“Today Lydia’s taking Fred to the hospital on the hill and I told her to take you with them. You don’t need to go to those clinics anymore. You go to a good doctor, you hear? And you get yourself better once and for all,” Meryl spoke in a voice that left no room for argument.

I gulped. Riding in the same van as Lydia across town? Could I stand it? Well, if Fred could live with her, I guess I could handle a short ride through Jakarta with Lydia.

We all considered poor Fred very unfortunate to have married the bossy, overpowering Lydia whose southern drawl would have come across as sweet as honey had she had anything nice to say. But she lived an embittered existence with a tongue as sharp as Fred’s was dull. She liked nothing about Indonesia, least of all the Indonesians.

“You stupid girl, this is all your own doing. God gave you a mind to think! Your illness is a direct result of your poor living habits. I buy my cuts of meat only at the German butcher, and I watch him to make sure he cuts it properly. Why God only knows what those local tukangs handle the food with out on the street! You are sinning against God, my child, and you deserve every bit of disease that comes your way. Those IndoNEsians know nothing at all about cleanliness. Why just the other day…” I closed my eyes to block out her voice as the rumble in my stomach grew louder.

When we arrived to the hospital on the hill, Lydia pushed a slow-moving Fred ahead of her and pretended not to know me. “Oh no, she’s not with me. Separate bills,” horrified when the local clerk waited until I arrived before she took their personal information. She turned her back on me and moved discreetly away before she would give any of their particulars.

I discovered I’d contracted the dreaded Salmonella bug, and was busy wondering if I was going to die or not. She only sniffed with her petite nose high in the air, “Thank God we’re in a real hospital!”

When we arrived at the fortress on the hill, I blurted out to Meryl, “They say I’ve got Salmonella Poisoning. People die from that, don't they?"

"Well, yeah, I guess they do." Meryl clucked sympathetically.

Lydia who until that point had no interest in my diagnosis, scowled and scooted away from me as if she might catch it.

“Now you just rest for now, and when we’re ready for dinner, we’ll let you know. Marvin will sound the gong and when you hear that, just come on down. We’ll have something nice for you.” Meryl took me to the guest bedroom, which seemed more like a cozy hotel room with a beautiful view of a pomegranate, and fig tree outside.Exhausted, I splashed some water on my face and sat down on the bed.

If I lay down, would I ever get up again? How fast did Salmonella take to steal one's life away? Was I already dying these past two months? I tried to get comfortable but I felt the bed jab into my bones. I didn't even have the energy to burst into the tears I wanted to. Inside I felt a black despair fall over me. It was so strong that I felt cold. Wait!...I guess that was the very real air conditioning in the fortress! It had been eight months since I'd felt anything but heat all around me. No wonder I was chilled! I closed my eyes...

Mom? Dad? I'm ready to come home now! Please send me a ticket!

Stay tuned for the exciting and comedic conclusion of this tale in tomorrow's entry!

Once Upon a Yogurt: Part II

I left you yesterday filled with images of me wholeheartedly embracing street stall food in Indonesia. It was the medium for friendships - a total immersion experience, if you may. The tables were about to turn, and my hardships would begin.

Local Food Takes Its Toll on My Body

One look at myself in a full-length mirror told me the stomach attacks needed to be addressed at once. The face that gaped back made me grimace. I’d lost the sparkle in my eyes. My hair looked dull and lifeless. I sucked in my cheeks but quickly puffed them out again. Oooh. Too scary. As my eyes traveled down the length of the mirror, I saw my clothes hung on me, shoulders sagging halfway to my elbows. The football-sized shoulder pads in fashion back then looked ridiculous on me, as if I'd become a caricature. Even today, James refers to the shoulder-pad phase as "the attack of the shoulder pads." I adjusted my poofy blouse and noticed my collar bone looked so angular it could have served as a geometrical project to be measured. The chords on my neck looked like tubed electrical wires. I turned away from the mirror.

Just then a gurgle sounded and I held my stomach in a too-familiar-motion. I’d been in Indonesia for eight months and had lost fifteen pounds. At twenty-six years of age, my total body weight came to a mere eighty-five pounds. In today’s world that would smack of anorexia. But back then, excited to be living overseas, we all knew I’d just taken in a bit too much of the local cuisine and couldn’t seem to keep anything inside for long. Montezuma had left Mexico, crossed hemispheres (without virtue of a passport) and was exacting its revenge upon me!

When the problems lingered on for yet another month, big motherly Meryl put her foot down. She approached me after a terrible, sickly day at work, “We’re goin’ to the house on Jalan Salam and get your bag. Don't say a word. You’re gonna move in with me until we lick this thing! Ya just need some good American food. That house boy, Eddy, doesn’t boil your dishes in hot water and that’s why you’re so sick today. Now Lydia, she watches right over our Juju to make sure she boils the dishwater a full ten minutes so they're sterile. You’ll see a difference,” she said kindly as she patted beads of sweat off her brow and upper lip.

I winced at her description of our Javanese house boy, Eddy. He suited me and the few teachers who lived with me on Jalan Salam just fine.We lived simple lives. Eddy spoke no English so having him there forced us--well, I guess I wouldn't use the word force--because at least for me, it was an adventure communicating with our kind houseboy. He laughed at my mistakes, or called on "Mr James" to clarify when I simply couldn't get my point across. Eddy taught us a lot about the local culture, too. We suited Eddy as well. He was always agreeable to run our personal errands, usually to the post office, or to pick up satay kambing at the end of a long work day for a bit of extra cash. I'd never have traded Eddy for anyone else.

But just then Meryl's offer lifted a weight off me. It was time to experience some luxury at the fortress.

“Sure I’ll come,” I said gratefully. I was ready to endure anything to feel well again, even Lydia's sour disposition.

Read tomorrow's entry to find out why I was so ill!

Once Upon a Yogurt: Part 1

I never really liked yogurt until I was forced to eat it for a period of time in the Far East when I was ill. There are moments when expats return back home when nothing, but nothing, tastes like it does overseas. We can only long for the impossible. This account illustrates both the reminiscence and the tale of how my love affair with yogurt began.

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Vivid Memories & Local Indonesian Cuisine

A splendid day, the San Antonio sunshine filled the air making it the kind of Saturday that belied sadness and that invited smiles from strangers. As I sent my car through the car wash, I dangled my purse and smiled back at everyone.

A dark-haired teenage boy swung a drying cloth in the air and tucked it in his back pocket before he handed me my car keys. "Your car is done now, miss."

"Oh thank you," He called me Miss, not Ma'am. That deserved a tip! He took it and sauntered on to the next vehicle, whistling as he swung his cloth. He snapped his towel as another worker, and started a playful fight. Such lightheartedness...

I opened the front door and sat down to the recently-sprayed new car smell. Great! Where could I go next? The sun was shining. I had all the time in the world. I thought for a moment. Why not? Impulsively, I set out for Albertson's, the local grocery chain.

I strolled up and down the aisles and studied the food I could buy with more interest than usual. Ah yes, the dairy products. I browsed through them until I found what I had come for. There it lay where I always found it: white yogurt with live cultures. I checked the price and set it back down again. Maybe next time. I said the same thing each time I came. But deep down, I knew the price had less to do with it than the memories associated with the yogurt. In fact, to try to duplicate the taste seemed sacrilege to me. I longed for the fresh, cool taste replete with sun-ripened papaya just as I remembered it from Indonesia.

The memory had everything to do with my stay at Meryl, my supervisor's, ‘fortress on the hill,’ the nickname my colleagues and I had given her mansion away from the masses. It was a grand place with a wall surrounding it. She actually had a small plot of grass surrounding her home that contained exotic tropical fruit trees. When we arrived at the gate, Yadi, her driver, rolled down the window and rang a little buzzer outside. A gate boy swung the gate open for Yadi to drive the SUV through. Ju-ju, the maid, would then come to greet us, and take Meryl's bookbag from her weary shoulders. Dinner came a short time later after we freshened up. Someone-usually Meryl's husband-signaled meals by clanging an old-fashioned. six-foot gong which stood in all its brilliance in the freshly-swept hallway. I loved visiting Meryl, and on occasion, imagined what it would be like to live there. I'd eat fresh bananas every morning.

Unfortunately, Lydia and Frank, her husband, lived in the same house. Lydia and Frank were Meryl's daughter’s in-laws. Lydia, with her pursed lips and constant whining, rubbed everyone wrong. Frank was her dull, plodding husband. With his hair cut in block-style straight across his forehead and his flat-feet walk, the ridiculous image of Fred Flintstone always popped into my head when I saw him. The way he spoke, "Good mor-ning," in his even, monotone voice, tempted me to take on Barney's persona and respond, "Hi, Fred" in exactly the same way. Thank goodness, I never did. Frank and I taught at the same language school where Meryl directed. Apparently, Frank had recently retired from the Navy and needed a job. So, in a burst of nepotism and goodwill, Meryl hired him on. How she must have regretted it when she realized what life was like under the same roof as that couple! But to her credit, she never said anything about that to me, a lowly teacher. However, the tale of my time in The Fortress comes up later. For now, try to imagine my life in this exciting Far Eastern country I found myself in.

Ah, let me tell you about my culinary adventures in Indonesia...


When I arrived in Jakarta, the sights and sounds of street life beckoned me and most of this included tasting food one way or another. Satay ayam, skewered goat kabobs dripping with lovely peanut spicy sauce cost almost nothing. Kelapa muda, sweet coconut water served in the unripe shell, could be found everywhere. I sampled bakso, small round meatballs, noodles, fried rice, and Chinese food sold in tents on lunch breaks with my local colleagues. I thought nothing of it because it all tasted so delicious.


I also remember some petite square, green rice cakes – twice boiled -- filled with some sort of melted brown sugar and covered with fresh coconut peddled down our road, Jalan Salam, by a local tukang. We could hear the vendor coming. His cart boasted a whistle that sounded like a teapot filled with boiling water. In order to pay, I had to squint through the steam, then I would take the cakes he placed in a small plastic sack from his gnarled, outstretched hand and carry them back to the house.


Life was sweet for me at that time. Both my western and local colleagues formed friendships over that food in the roadside warangs, tents and stalls. I was young, unassuming, and newly-professional, up for all that came my way. At the rate I devoured the local food wherever I went– sweet, spicy, hot and cold, most of it not-so-hygienic -- it came to no surprise to anyone when my life of culinary street savvy turned the tables on me (so to speak!).

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Read tomorrow's episode to find out what happened next!

Coughing My Way Into My Chinese Doctor's Heart

"Aaaarghhh! No one answers."

I left a message at my doctor's office. It's a toss of a coin if he will be in today. He's semi-retired and moving a bit more slowly now even when he's in. That doesn't bother me, it's catching him in that's the challenge. After work, I gave him another call, and again, the answering machine came on. I didn't have much hope of getting in today. I sighed.

My phone rang.

"H'lo... Oh, hello Dr. Juang, you can fit me in this afternoon at 2:30. Great! Thank you!"

I checked my watch. Just an hour's wait.

Right on time, I pushed in the door to his large, dark and very polished old home which housed his practice on the bottom floor. The door creaked, loud and slowly as I pushed my way in. It announced my arrival. I peeked into the absent receptionist's office and found a seat in the waiting room. A Chinese patient was in with the doctor, and when he saw me, he swung the door shut.

A few minutes later, it was my turn.

"Ni-how-ma?" I greeted him in mandarin.

"Ni-how." He looked up from his desk. "You good job. You want translator?"

I shook my head. The movement threw me into a minute-long and labored cough.

"Dr. Juang, I can't stop coughing! "Coughers" are not popular in public anymore, you know. Help me!"

Could I have the swine flu? Nowadays television commercials advocated coughing into your sleeve in public and staying away from hospital visits. I felt like a pariah.

"Say, ahhhh" he ordered after I opened my mouth.

He muttered something half in English, and half in Chinese, which I strained to hear.

"Breed. Big breed," he ordered as he took out his stethoscope.

So I breathed, but had to smile as he checked my breathing with me still wearing my coat. Who am I to question his methods?

"Tsk-tsk. You wheeze?"

"I-uh-I-yeah, I guess so."

"Thought so. You bronchial problem. Next pneumonia. You care now, you better for teaching."

"Oh. Okay."

"You insurance now?"

"Noooo."

"No problem. You take pill and rest. Must take rest. You call me no feel better tomorrow, uh, after tomorrow. Jus' you call and you say me."

I nodded.

"This Obama. No make it easy. He take more cuts. You happy this man?"

"Well--"

"Yes, he make big mix-up now, you see. You brother. I see he struggle his business the insurance." he made a face. "Little business big problem. Too much money they need pay."He laughed-- a dry humorless laugh that showed his compassion.

My doctor's a card and I so appreciate him! He's also the only one in which I can afford to go. At a mere $30 an office visit, he also prescribes medicine I can afford. He tries to work with patients like me. I think it's the nature of small town life. So much better than other doctors with big waiting rooms, who charge bigger bills to support them. $95 a pop is what those doctors charge just for the visit.

My doctor has a great personality. I can understand him just fine. My brother, on the other hand, struggles. They repeat themselves many times to be understood, poking fun of each other all the while.

"You big man," the doctor warned but always with a gentle smile, "You diabetes. Need lose weight."

"What? What? Are you talking English?" my brother would joke back. "Nah, t'day it's my back. Trying to fix my truck..."

"Okay, okay, but you diabetes, so you need lose big gut, now we talk 'back'."

"What doc? You talkin' back to me?"

And so a typical visit between my brother and his great friend, Dr. Juang, would go.

But they like each other. My brother introduced me to him, in fact. Small town life is great that way. A personal introduction to a great family doctor.

"You teach college? No many students. You see?" he questioned now.

"Now high school, doctor. This year, high school."

"Okay, okay, tomorrow you college. You remedial now." I laughed. He looked over the top of his glasses at me and frowned.

"You listen me. You need teach college. Big pay, huh? They want bring community college here, and tax payer need pay. What you think? We need it?" He looked unhappy. I knew it was for show. He'd lived here for thirty years. This was his world.

I shrugged. He shrugged.

"Shay-shay-ni" Thank you.

Delighted at my Chinese, no matter how poor my tonal abilities that butcher his language; this always brings a smile to his face.

"You good. Youuuu good." his face a wreathe of lines and smiles.

"You too, doc. Very good"

I left his office and was almost to the door when I remembered to pay him for my appointment.

"Oh, Dr. Juang, the money!"

He gave me a blank look.

"The thirty dollars!"

"Yes, yes, yes. You can pay now?"

"Of course!" I quickly extracted the money and handed it to his outstretched palm.

Dr. Juang was so kind as to not even ask for the money of his own office call. Then again, usually his receptionist, also elderly, usually took care of that.

The door swung open and creaked loudly, announcing my departure. I tapped my way out to the car with my blind man's cane.

I am so blessed.

How Languages Touched My Life ...! Part II

Yesterday I explained how much I love to learn foreign languages. I took you up to my life in South America and how I became confident in speaking Spanish. Today I will take you through the various languages that I have studied and share with you how they've influenced me (if you can bear with me that long!)

****

After I left Central America, I ended up moving to Indonesia. I was lost at first. I didn’t have a common language or cultural basis. My house mate used to write phrases for me to use with local taxi drivers and in the stores. Oh goodness, it was simple and exciting all over again. I was so motivated to learn! To this day I remember many words and phrases, but unfortunately, I can’t carry on a decent conversation anymore. Once it was no longer relevant to speak, read or write, I forgot the structures that I loved so much. They come back to me in glimpses sometimes. I especially remember double phrases such as "jalan-jalan" (traveling) and "ibu-ibu" and bapak-bapak" (ladies / gentlemen). Indonesian is a fun language with infixes used in everyday speech; prefixes and suffixes are added to make the language more formal.

In Japan, I remember my colleague and I running from place to place (such as bus stops, vending machines, and signage) identifying basic kanji or hiragana, a simpler Japanese alphabet. I felt like Helen Keller when she first discovered words meant she could communicate! I began to study after hours in my job, and then I took a placement test (over the telephone, no less!) that allowed me to enter the university. I began at the intermediate level. My instructor taught me to read and write in three different alphabets (the first non-roman alphabets I'd ever been exposed to). I also developed my listening skills in Japanese. I had to give a speech about climbing Mt Fuji in Japanese during the course. It was frightening and exciting at the same time! Again, my language was relevant and immediate to the life I lived in Japan. It was used to communicate with my boyfriend. So, I advanced rapidly, and was swept into the culture by the very complicated rules uses to refer to various levels of status and cultural habits.

When I moved to Egypt, again, I felt out of my element. But having been exposed to a non-western alphabet in Japan, I was not intimidated by the Arabic alphabet. First, I studied Arabic, and then I studied French through Arabic from an Egyptian General. It was at the same time the most difficult and rewarding language study I had ever done. I’m not sure how much French I actually came out of the class with, but my Arabic grew stronger every lesson! My Arabic did have that urgency as I began to think about marrying an Egyptian man. We walked along the Nile as I practiced my Egyptian Arabic. I remember thinking how melodious and beautiful it sounded when I listened to Egyptian music. It crowded everything else out of my mind. Needless to say that my Arabic grew in leaps and bounds!

When I moved to the Emirates, there was another form of Arabic to learn and another local culture to discover. It was more difficult and I relied on my Egyptian Arabic to get me through the market. But actually, the words differed and I had to mix my Arabic, or speak in English to be understood. I took classes and I learned to read and write like children do. I was consumed by this new language study and the dialectal differences that stood out to me.

Then came the crash!

When I returned to the United States, my languages lay dormant, and I had no use for them. They became mixed up in my head, and I forgot which word went with which culture. Words in the various languages popped out at random and at times, interfered with my normal communication. I felt lost in my own country. English seemed so limiting. How could I express the complexity of life experiences I had gone through for so many years in one simple language?

Looking back on my language experiences, I am so grateful to have had the opportunity and exposure to them. I made many wonderful friends whom I still communicate with today. But in having lost the integral structures of those languages, I feel like I lost the part that connected to deeply with those I'd made contact with over the years.

God knew this part of me needed to be revitalized, so He provided me with a position teaching Spanish. At first, I was frightened to teach it. I had set it aside over twenty-five years earlier and it intimidated me to teach Spanish as a foreign language. But my friends encouraged me, and God gave me the opportunity to do so.

Teaching Spanish has linked me back to my first love. Life once again abounds with words and images in me that links me to a beautiful foreign culture that exists even within my own country. I teach with a passion that I once studied with.