![]() Back in August, Billy and I were walking in town doing our errands (we walk everywhere in town - Spain does not have good parking in the cities) and we passed a fabric shop. We had passed it several times before and I always looked in the window and longed for the days when I used to sew and quilt and do all kinds of handcrafts. This time, Billy encouraged me to go in and ask if they have quilting classes. Yes, I already know how to sew. Yes, I already know how to quilt. But this seemed like a good way to meet some new people and build some relationships in some new social circles in town, as well as a great way to learn culture. In case you hadn't noticed, women talk... a lot. So if you sit in a class full of women, you are bound to learn something about life in a small town! ;) The owner of the shop was really sweet and she said that I could join in the Monday quilt group. It isn't so much of a class as it is a 'circle' or a community. For two hours each Monday, eight or nine women gather around a big table with their individual quilting projects and we work and talk and laugh and help each other out. I always learn new vocabulary in Spanish. And I am sure to learn some special intricacies of culture in the process. They talk about what they are going to cook that day (I learn about the typical foods that people are eating and where they get grocery items). They talk about the upcoming holiday weekend (I learn about a Spanish holiday that I didn't even know exists and about how people will celebrate it). They talk about the new project they are doing and about which colors they will use and why (I learn that color preferences are cultural, too... did you know that baby blue and brown are girl colors? And that rocking horses are only for boys? Even if they have a pink bow?) They talk about what they are getting their children and grandchildren for Christmas (I learn about the kinds of gifts people buy. I learn about budgets. I learn about appropriate giving and receiving.) They talk about faith and the Catholic church (I learn about what they like and what they don't like about their church. I ask questions for this part!) Yes, the quilt group has been a treasure trove of cultural learning for me!!! At first, it seemed like I wouldn't ever fit in. It seemed like a pretty tightly knit clique that wasn't going to let a stranger waltz in without batting an eyelash. I have to say that the key, I think, was the day that I cried in class. I messed up my quilt block and my mentor/teacher made me rip it out. I was a little fragile that day, a little wounded that I hadn't done it 'good enough', and probably just a little hormonal, too. I tried not to cry, but silent tears spilled over as I ripped out the seams. I tried to cover it up and not let others see me cry, but I'm not THAT good... they saw. No one said a word, and I felt even worse. But at the end of the two hours, my mentor put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. One of the other ladies gave me a big hug when I left. No words, just physical gestures. Ever since then, I have been accepted. I don't know why. Vulnerability? I don't know. But I'm "in". We talk. We laugh - A LOT! My opinion is asked, and valued. It is a little family of ladies sharing a couple of hours each week. There have been lots of physical gestures, lots of hugs and pats on the back, since my crying day, as well as lots of loving and kind words spoken between me and my new friends. Today, as I was giving everyone a goodbye hug and kiss, I turned to head out the door and I overheard one of them say to the others, "I just love Laurie. She is so good for us." I don't know how 'good' I am, but I know how good it felt to hear that! ![]() We just got asked THAT question again... you know, the dreaded "What does a typical day look like for you guys?" Never fails. A well-meaning, really interested person asks THAT question and I can't contain the laugh that always follows. Then I feel horrible because the person really does want to know, and they have no idea that it is an impossible question to answer. There just is NOT an answer to this one. Billy responded with, "Well, we wake up at 5:30 or 6 a.m. and have our quiet time and coffee before Sarah wakes up. Sarah gets up at 7:30 and we have breakfast and get her ready for school. We drop her off at school at 9 a.m. That's the end of 'typical' in our lives. After 9 a.m., it's a free-for-all. Who knows what each day will bring?!" It's true. That is about the end of 'typical' or routine for us. It's hard. It's hard to never know exactly what the day will bring. Sometimes, I really long for my life back in the States when I knew that every day had a schedule that I could predict and count on. My mom-duties were defined each morning. My career job had a definite beginning and ending time. My afternoons were defined by more mom-duties or scheduled events for school or sports or church. Scheduled... as in an event that has a time frame! Guess what folks - the majority of the rest of the globe does NOT function like that! Sometimes I really miss that part of my culture. In the USA, I could pretty much count on the fact that the outside-my-house world stopped turning in the evening. My family counted on dinner being at 7 or 7:30. Family time, hanging out in the house... all evening-time things that were routine and normal for us. Not so in I'm-A-Missionary-World. At least it hasn't been that way for us, no matter where we have lived. Costa Rica, Peru, or Spain... there isn't anything routine or normal about any day except for the fact that you can count on it NOT being typical or routine! Atypical IS our normal! So, what DO our days look like if they aren't typical? Well, we usually start out by having our day loosely penciled on our calendar. And I mean loosely in the most loose way. We don't hold much of anything too tightly, as far as schedules go. An actual meeting time is definite, but other things are flexible and floating. In Spanish culture, many important things happen over coffee in a street cafe or in someone's living room. Therefore, if we are asked to have coffee with someone, that will most likely take high priority. Relationships are built or broken over your availability for coffee! Or in the evening, over your willingness to sit and talk over a glass of wine or a beer. Spain... gotta love a culture that does business over coffee (a.m.) or wine (p.m.)! If we don't have a coffee date, and if we don't have pressing business to attend to in town, we try to hit the home office for a couple of hours in the morning while Sarah is at school. This usually consists of Skype calls or computer conferences with other missionaries who we are caring for in one way or another - coaching, mentoring, or counseling. But morning conferences can only consist of people who live on 'our side' of the Atlantic (Africa, Europe, Middle East, or Asia) because of time zone differences. We pick up Sarah from school at 2:00, then head back home for lunch - the Spanish generally eat lunch at 3pm. Sarah hits the books after lunch, and we hit the office again for calls and conferences with peers on the other side of the Atlantic (USA, South America, and Central America). Because of the time difference, these meetings might take place any time between 3pm and 9pm for us. Those 9pm meetings make for a LATE night and a LONG work day for us. If there are no conferences to be had for a particular day, we catch up on paperwork, study, or preparing our lessons for disciple groups and Sunday School classes that we lead. Somewhere in there, Billy will meet up with his language helper and culture tutor for a couple of hours each week. We will run different errands in town. We'll have a Spanish coaching session or a meeting with the pastor. We'll have an hour or so with another missionary couple - peer encouragement, community time, mentoring, etc. I will drive to Campillos to work with a women's cell group bible study. A prayer meeting or two will occur. Sarah will have extracurricular activities that we will need to attend. And I will spend a couple of hours once a week with my Spanish quilting group (always a huge lesson in culture and women's issues!). So, there you have it. Our 'normal' (ha ha ha) life. :) ![]() Oh, the joy that visa time brings! (I hope you are catching the sarcasm here.) Time and time again, missionaries around the globe rank visas and work permits among their top stressors each year. Some of us live in places where we must renew our visas every 90 days (nightmare!). Some of us renew once a year. For some of us, it means that we must leave our country-of-service in order to re-enter under new visa paperwork (frustrating, time away from our lives and work, expensive, etc). For some of us, it means staying in country until the process is complete, which could mean months. And for others of us, it means holding our breath and praying that this won't be the year that we aren't non-renewed and told that we must pack up and leave. I know and work with people in ALL of the above situations. Some of our best friends are living the daily 'unknown' right now as their visa rejected due to some paperwork mistake. They are now fighting for that to change. Other friends have recently had to face the fact that they will never again enter their beloved country because of non-renewal... they have recently changed fields and now serve another country. And yet other friends have been waiting for approval since July, only to find out that they were rejected because the office never received their paperwork in the mail. They have just received word, last week, that all is back in order and they are 'legal' again. Living in a state of feeling like you are an illegal immigrant is not easy. One year, our Peru visa was only supossed to take 7-10 days for the renewal process. In reality, we waited in limbo for 7x10 days... a total of 70 days... before we heard that we could stay in country. Last year, as many of you know, our visas to Spain were approved and granted and affixed to our passports, only to be revoked later the SAME DAY and our passports were confiscated and held for 2 weeks until it could be resolved. This entailed our being held out-of-country without passports, awaiting word as to whether or not we would be able to return to Spain. You just can't imagine the stress. Completely out of your control. In limbo. Just waiting. Absolutely nothing you can do but wait and hope and pray. Stomach aches, head aches, worry... it's crazy! So now we are in 'visa time' again. The countdown began 60 days prior to the date of expiration. Exactly 60 days out, you can begin the process of reapplication and renewal. Paperwork in hand, all the t's crossed and i's dotted, copies made, head cocked exactly right... we turned in the files. About a week or two later, we received the first of the gazillion notices requesting more. More proof of financial stability, more proof of insurance coverage, more proof of residence, more proof of educational attendance for Sarah, more proof of invitation to work for the church... more, more, more. Every notice comes as a certified letter. Every one requiring us to go to the post office, wait in lines, sign to receive the notice. Then the trying to read and decifer the legal Spanish. Then a trip to the lawyer to find out exactly what we need to do this time. Over and over again. They actually sent a request to Sarah (she's 11 years old) asking for proof of financial stabiity and average income in a bank account! She's eleven! But we complied. Our visas actually expired Tuesday. According to the lawyer, we are okay as long as we are still 'in process'. He looked us up in the computer system... looks like Sarah's is doing well and they don't need more paperwork for her. As for us, there is a document still outstanding. It has to come from the Ministry of Justice. It's is out of our hands, out of our control, which doesn't make it any easier to deal with. So we wait. ![]() The last thing I wanted to do when we got off that plane was go to a big lunch. I was so exhausted. We had been at an intense conference for 2+ weeks. My brain was completely wiped out. We left the hotel in Turkey at 4:30pm the day before and were taken to the airport to await our 11:30pm flight (this was our only available ride to the airport). Our flight took us to Istanbul for a connecting flight that wouldn't take off until 10am the next day... a long night in the airport! We finally arrived back in Spain at 1pm, only to find that we needed to go out to lunch with the head of the church denomination and our pastor. Ordinarily, this would have been awesome. But today, all I wanted was a shower and pajamas and a spot on the sofa for the next day or two. So, still in the clothes we had been wearing for over 24 hours and still looking every bit as disheveled as you can imagine someone who just slept on 2 planes and in an airport would look - yes, just like that we went out to lunch. No stopping at the house first, no brushing our teeth, no nothing. We arrived at a 'campo house' (a small house in the country) were we were immediately thrust in to what seemed like a giant family reunion. Lawn chairs were circled up under the grape arbor and bowls and plates of all manner of nibbly foods were passed around with abandon. Every food was completely homemade... olives that were grown and pickled by the owner, ham that was raised and killed and cured by the owner. Even a white wine that came from the grapes of the very vines that we sat under, crushed and fermented and bottled by the owner. We must have looked like deer in the headlights, because we were asked on several occasions if we were alright and if we needed to go home. "Oh no. We're fine. Just a little tired from travel. And trying to adjust our ears and brains back in to the Andalucia Spanish dialect. But this is wonderful! Thank you." Expert liars. We were physically fading away. The campo house was surrounded by vegetable gardens. Cabbage and broccoli, onions and lettuces and spinach were everywhere. Fruit trees were covered in the last of this year's harvest. The quince trees were about to break from the abundance. It was finally time to eat lunch (3:30pm), so we all headed in to the house to sit at the longest table you have ever seen. I've only seen longer ones on TV, like at Downton Abbey! Food seemed to come from all sides. All homemade. It came to the table in butter tubs and repurposed coffee cans, plastic buckets and foil and saran wrap. And just when you thought you couldn't eat any more, they would announce the next onslaught of foods. We had seafood paella and homemade bread and roasted goat. Fresh salad. Little pastries filled with goat cheese and quince jelly. Cookies and desserts just poured to the table. A carrot cake. Dried and candied figs (from the trees outside). And just when you thought it was all over, out came the fruits. Fresh fruits, harvested from the trees on the family property. All the while, the matriarch is continually coming to our end of the table and saying that we haven't eaten enough. Somehow, even though we were exhausted, we were having a blast! Watching all of the interactions. Listening to all of the chatter. Laughing at all of the jokes. Kids were running in and out of the room, playing chase and going in and out of the house. We were having so much fun! Billy and I sat back and just watched for a second, and at the same time we had the same thought. This is my grandmother's house! Billy's grandparents in Sudan and in Rowlett, my grandparents in Arkansas, and my great-grandmother in Waco... this was how we remembered things being. Home grown food, homemade everything, everything stored in whatever container could be repurposed and recycled for the job. Lots of bustle and chatter and laughing around the kitchen. People talking about the crops or the gardens or the state of this year's weather. Lots of jokes. Women sharing stories and recipes. Food that just kept coming, and a grandmother that never felt like you had eaten enough yet. This felt like home. It was after 7pm when we finally made it to our house. A full 26.5 hours after we had left our hotel the day before. But I wouldn't trade that afternoon for anything! Yes, we were exhausted. But it was also the first time that we really felt like living in Spain was something like 'home' for us. So blessed!
After months of no rain, the time has come. I think the last real rain was sometime in May. Then we had a long stretch of sunshine and heat - a typical Spanish summer. Being someone who loves sunshine and heat, I was happy! Once or twice, the sky spit at us. But you couldn't even call it rain. I don't even think that most of it hit the ground. But all has changed now. Now, we have begun the rainy season.
I don't really mind rain. I know that it is necessary. And I'm really happy for the farmers around us. They are really happy that the rains have started! Suddenly, the fields are coming to life. Farmers are plowing and planting and working like little ants. It's good to see. And the cooler temps are allowing many things to bounce back after the hellish temps from the summer sun. And a good nap on a Sunday afternoon during a rain shower? Heaven!!! But, there are a few unpleasant things that the rainy season means to us. For one, it means that the dogs are perpetually wet. Yuck. They don't really have a covered place outside, just their dog house. So, they are wet. And muddy. And all of this means that my floors are in perpetual need of mopping. Secondly, this is a mostly-pedestrian society. If you have a car, like we do (because we live in the country), you drive to town and you find one of the handful of parking spaces - not enough for the amount of cars - and you park. Then you walk to wherever you need to go. There just aren't any good parking options in the center of town. And walking in the rainy season means being wet. We have umbrellas and raincoats, but those can only do so much, you know? And you hope you have on appropriate shoes, because wet, cold feet is just plain miserable. Rain also means cold. It's just cold when it is raining. And I am NOT a fan of cold. I can deal with cold if I have to, but wet-cold is a whole other story. I really hate wet-cold. So, I have become really creative at trying to do as much as possible without having to be wet or cold. The number one thing that the rain means to my life is not the wet or the cold or the mud or the walking or the dogs... it's the laundry. No dryer. Only clothes lines or drying racks. So what happens when it rains??? This leads to my obsessive behavior. You see, I have become obsessed with watching the sky. I have a weather app on my phone. I pay ridiculous amounts of attention to the forecast. I NEED TO KNOW if I can do laundry! If there is any hope of sunshine, I become a raving crazy woman. I run around gathering clothes and stuffing the washer. I tediously plan how many loads I can do in what amount of time and how many clothing items will fit on the lines and dry in what amount of time. I am the definition of efficiency and obsession when it comes to the rain and my laundry. If the weather beats me, then we must go to Plan B, and I abhor Plan B. Plan B means that the clothes racks are brought in to the house. It means that my home is overthrown in a mutiny of wet clothing (and wet dogs) and I am now living in occupied-territory. Laundry hangs from every hook and chair and stair rail and rack. It is draped over the sofa and the bed and the bathroom towel bars. Suddenly, my nice-and-tidy home looks like the aftermath of a hurricane, with wet clothes strewn about like plastic WalMart bags and storm debris. My borderline OCD trips over the border and I start feeling like I'm living a nightmare, drowning in the smell of fabric softener and deafened by the drips as water hits my tile floors. Oh, the agony of defeat... Add to this scene the cacophony of space heaters and fans that have come to do battle against the humidity and the cold, the extension cords weaving their webs across my floor. Sofa, here I come. Fetal position, I'm ready. You are my new favorite yoga pose. The laundry has beaten me down. Wait... what's that?! I see a sliver of sunlight breaking through the clouds. In a mad dash, I'm off to rid my home of the evil Clothing Tornado and win the battle of the laundry. Sunshine and I are on the front lines of this war. This is not over yet! ![]() A little background info: · We are in Spain at the invitation of a Spanish evangelical church (Spanish Pentecostal) · The congregation is 50% native Spaniard, 50% immigrant (mostly South American)... total church attendance averages 100-150 / Sunday. · The pastor is native Spaniard · The church is literally split down the middle by the cultural norms… immigrants sit on the left side of the middle aisle, Spaniards sit on the right side. · We have been involved with this church and have lived in this town for a little over one year. When we arrived at this church (our visa is by invitation from the church), on our first Sunday in town, we sat on the left side. No one told us to sit there. In fact, we were met at the door and warmly greeted. Then we were told to sit wherever we wanted to. We sat on the left because that is where we sit relative to our home church in the USA. We just gravitated there. We had no idea that in doing so, we had ‘chosen correctly’ since we are immigrants. We were later alerted to this fact by someone who literally said, “Great job! You chose the right side to sit on. All immigrants sit on the left.” Wow. The left side/immigrant side is very obviously different from the right side/Spaniard side. The left side is very vocal, very 'charismatic' - hands in the air, lots of Amen and Hallelujah and Gloria a Dios during the prayers and the preaching. Prayer is loud and all spoken at once on the left side, whereas the right side is silent prayer with a very occasional whispered word or two. During the singing portion of the service (lasts one hour), the left side is loud, clapping, hands up, crying. The left side stands and sings, some raised hands, pretty reserved. Early on, I (Laurie) was asked to join in with two women’s bible study groups. I was invited to be involved by a Brazilian woman. The pastor encouraged my involvement, saying that the main two women who lead the effort are great at being very involved and keeping the groups together and meeting, but they are not very deep in their knowledge of Scripture or in the maturity of their faith walk. In his opinion, they lacked discipleship and study and needed a more mature woman to pair up with the effort. Both of these women are Brazilian immigrants. Side note here... I only mention nationality because the culture plays a big factor in the situation, NOT because I have anything against people from Brazil. On the contrary, I have many Brazilian friends and love them all. But the cultural view point is key here, so I mention it. During Sunday worship one week (a year ago), the pastor asked these two Brazilian women to come to the front of the church. He recognized them in front of the congregation as women who have been very involved in leading the effort to build bible study groups/home cell groups, meeting with women outside of the church building each week, praying with women in the community, evangelizing, etc. He publically thanked them for their efforts as leaders in front of the congregation. Then he called upon the congregation to pray for their leadership. He and a few key leaders/elders in the church (all Spaniards) laid hands upon the two women and prayed for them, for their leadership, and for their ministry to women. This step proved to be an accidental cultural catastrophe later. The cultural differences have been very evident from the beginning. Because I have a vehicle and I can drive (not common among women), I have been the designated driver for one of the bible study meetings each week. We meet in Campillos, a town 45 minutes away from our church, one of the MANY towns in Spain with no evangelical presence. We have a cell group that meets each Thursday for at least two hours. This drive time has proven to be valuable time for me to ask questions and get to know the other ladies in the car. More often than not, the Brazilians talk about what is 'wrong' with the church here. Their worldview and culture clash head-on with the Spanish culture. Form and meaning are constantly at battle. In their opinion, this church is called Pentecostal, but it IS NOT Pentecostal… they are not following the rules, they do not speak in tongues, they are not disciplining church members who break commandments, they are too laid back and passive, they don’t take anything seriously enough, etc. They also feel that the pastor is too soft and not a strong leader. (PS... most of you reading this would also never label this church as 'Pentecostal' because of your own worldview regarding that denomination. To put it in perspective for you, this church in Spain looks very much like 100+ people in a contemporary service at any main stream denominational church in the USA.) I try to use stories of the church in Peru and the church in the USA and how ‘Pentecostal’ looks different in every place. For that matter, every denominational name has looked vastly different in each country I have been to or worked in. I try to gently point them toward those ah-ha thoughts and teachable moments and I try to teach culture and worldview lessons along the way. On several occasions, a couple of the Brazilian woman have asked more questions and seemed to be catching on that there might be something to this whole worldview thing and that maybe their expectations of what church should be are different than what Spanish expectations might be. Lightbulb moments when I think that some connections are being made. But, for the most part, their own worldview always seems to win out and we go right back to square one within a week or two, back to the confusion and their wanting the church to fit into their ideas of what church should be. A side note to this would be that we have a reasonably large contingency of Nicaraguans in the church. They don’t seem to have this same viewpoint. Although they are also coming from a Latin-type church model and they talk of the legalism and the problems with their churches back home, they are very pleased with the church situation here. They are happy to be out from under the oppressive authority and legalism that characterized their churches in Nicaragua. For them, the Spanish model is liberating. On occasion, a couple of these women has kindly-but-sternly disagreed with one or two of the Brazilians regarding their views. In May of this year, I was expected to be at a leader’s meeting with the pastor to discuss the cell group ministry. I did not consider myself a leader. I was never named as a leader. I had intentionally taken a learner position to my first year in-country. I only teach if asked to teach and I only give my opinion when specifically asked. Even the pastor had not ever referred to me as a leader or asked me to take a leadership role. I was asked to help shepherd and disciple the two leader ladies as they worked to build these cell groups. I tried to politely say that I did not consider myself a leader, that the leadership was on the shoulders of the two Brazilian women. I felt like I was walking on shaky ground… I don’t see myself as a leader, but these women were expecting me to be in the leader’s meeting. I wasn’t sure where I stood or how to handle this. I knew that I would see the pastor during the week, so I decided to take a wait-and-see stance. When I did see the pastor, he asked if I had been told about the meeting. I explained to him that I had not ever been named as a leader, per se, and that I didn’t want to step on any toes regarding a leadership role. But he asked that I be there to give my account of how the ministry was progressing. The meeting was a Clash of the Titans war zone within two minutes. The pastor asked how the ministry was progressing. The Ladies began to give glowing reports of their ministry, putting great emphasis on one cell group and how it had grown from a handful of participants to having 18 in the room last week. (Side note: That particular group is almost exclusively Brazilian and very fluid.) I was at the meeting when 18 were present. The pastor asked about who these 18 people were, and The Ladies proudly shared who they were. That particular meeting brought several new people to the group, many of whom were 17-24 year olds from both genders, not just women. The Ladies were very pleased. (Quantity seems to define quality for them, but that is an observation on my part.) The pastor was very displeased with the fact that boys/men were in the women’s bible study. Even more so, he was upset that ‘youth’ were in the women’s bible study. In Spain, youth is defined by the ages of 16-30 or marriage, whichever comes first. He was concerned that if youth were in the cell group, the women would hold back on their concerns and prayer requests and relationship building. In Spain, adults do not share concerns and problems with 'children'. He told The Ladies that they were not following the goals that he had set for the women’s cell groups, and that they needed to stop inviting youth and boys to meetings. They also needed to concern themselves with going deeper with the regulars instead of always trying to fill up the room. Major clash for The Ladies. They became enraged and an angry verbal battle ensued. The pastor was visibly stunned by their behavior. They told him that he had ‘no right to talk to them in that way and to tell them what to do with their ministry; that he had made them leaders and given them authority over this.’ They attacked the pastor for quite a while. On several occasions, both sides tried to call me in to the battle, but I continued to play the ‘I’m a learner card’ and say that I didn’t understand enough of the culture to be able to answer intelligently. I did say that I felt that The Ladies and the pastor had a problem with misunderstood expectations and cultural ideas surrounding what a cell group ministry looks like. Honestly, I have never been so uncomfortable in my life. I was (and still am) so stuck in the middle. I have a great relationship with the pastor and I am officially here at his request and invitation. I understand his vision. We meet weekly for coffee and coaching. On the other hand, I participate in these cell groups with The Ladies. They have been my link to building relationships with immigrants here. They are key people in the immigrant community. During the next week, I was super distraught. The more I thought about it, the more I believed that there was a serious issue with the understanding of the definition of leadership in the two cultures involved. Billy and I discussed it and decided to meet with the pastor to share with him what we believed to be the issue. The pastor told me that he was really shocked by The Ladies' response to the meeting that day, and their lack of adherence to his goals for the cell groups. He shared that he just couldn’t understand what went wrong. We shared with him that in Peru (prefacing that Peru is not Brazil, but maybe there is a correlation), leadership is highly coveted. And women in leadership is almost unheard of. The church is a very man-driven political-type system. Women are mostly to be quiet followers and servants. The people who do rise into leadership positions (men) rise because of their financial power, their political pull, or their higher education. Usually, only very dominant, strict, powerful people are given leadership positions within the church. Once they do become leaders, they are untouchable. They hold great power. They are on equal footing with the pastor, in some instances they have more power than the pastor. The more I thought about it, the more I believed that this is what occurred with The Ladies. When the pastor acknowledged them in front of the church as leaders, he unknowingly bestowed power upon them in their worldview. He believed that he was giving them a public pat on the back and a blessing. But in their eyes, he made them powerful women, equal to him. I was also becoming convinced that the other Brazilians, and possibly other immigrants viewed the pastor’s move as a promotion of these women to high leadership, as well. Poor pastor! He sat there with his mouth on the floor. He could not believe what he heard us saying. Worse yet, he saw no way to fix it. Little by little, we have been working together with the pastor to find ways to understand the cultural divide in this multicultural church setting and figure out how to work with that. Understanding why we might misunderstand each other is key. It is a challange, to say the least. But not an uncommon one. In almost every country in Europe, the church is becoming more and more multicultural in nature. Migration and immigrant influence in the churches is now the norm, not the exception. How these cultural waters are navigated may be the key to how the Church functions (or doesn't) in a post-Christian Europe where the church is fighting to stay alive. Finding ways to understand and work with the multicultural congregation is proving to be an essential skill for The Body. How does this shape my role here in Spain?
How do I proceed in this multicultural situation??? That's the question. And the answer right now... lots of prayer and patience, lots of asking questions and clarifying, lots of modeling the ways that I learn about culture and strive to understand, and lots of sitting in the middle of the uncomfortableness that misunderstanding brings and knowing that there is a lot of learning still to be done. Pray for multicultural churches everywhere! As Europe sees more and more immigration, we are going to see more and more need for cultural awareness and understanding in The Body. ![]() “If I could just figure out how to build a smaller frame… I want it to be a size that doesn’t take up a lot of space and that is easily moved. I want it to be about the size of a lap desk. That way I can move it wherever I need to and work on it anywhere in the house and it won’t be in the way. I would get so much more accomplished if I could figure out how to have an individual-size embroidery frame.” That was my constant personal challenge a few years ago. I was living in a rural village in Peru and I had learned to do the specific style of embroidery that is typical in the village. It involved a very large, wooden embroidery frame sitting on sawhorses. It took up about 6 ft. x 3 ft. of the room. Usually, on a good day, eight to ten ladies would crowd around the frame and we would all embroider on the same project. Of course, there were days when only a couple of ladies would be there. And then, there were days when no one was available to work and the enormous frame sat in the room like a giant monstrosity. Our family scooted and shuffled around it. I fussed when people sat things on it, as though it were a table. I fought with the cat, who seemed to always think that the top of the embroidery-in-progress looked like a great place to nap. It just seemed so inefficient to me. If I could figure out a way to somehow make it smaller, more mobile, more user-friendly. I had visions of being able to take it to another room and embroider while I watched my daughter do homework. Or maybe carry it upstairs and embroider while sitting in the bed. Just think of how much more I would get done if I wasn’t confined to the one room. And if every woman could have an individual frame, we could all work in our own homes at our own pace and get so much more accomplished! I voiced this idea to my Peruvian neighbor on several occasions, but she never seemed to really be listening to me. She always changed the subject and we never really discussed it further. Until The Day I Got Schooled. I’ll ever forget it. We were embroidering at the big frame, just me and Elva. I was lamenting (again) how slow the process was and how much more we could get done if I could figure out how to make individual frames for us. We could carry them to our own homes. We could work at our own pace. We would get twice or three times the amount done that we were currently able to do with the giant frame. Just think of it! And that’s when Elva slammed down her hands and lifted her head and said, “You just don’t understand, do you?! If you have a small frame, we won’t be together. We won’t get to work together. We won’t get to spend all of this time talking. We won’t get to laugh together. Why would you want that?!” Ouch. I had missed it. Without even thinking about it, I had let my cultural worldview overrule what I knew to be the better way. I had let efficiency trump relationship. I had let ‘saving time’ become more important than ‘spending time’. Even though I had spent hours and hours and hours (actually years and years and years) in training, I had somehow let my frustration over the size of an embroidery frame take precedence to the time I was spending with my neighbors building relationships. It’s a sad commentary. I write about this today because I was recently reminded of the incredible lesson that Elva taught me that day. I have changed countries of service now, and I am in a different place building relationships with different people. And this time, the handwork is quilting instead of embroidery. But the lesson is the same. I recently joined a quilting group in my new country. We meet once a week for a few hours. I know how to sew, but the method they use for quilting here is completely by hand. It is slow, tedious work. For someone who has spent a lot of hours behind a sewing machine, this seems like torture! Tiny handmade stitches with the teeniest needle you can imagine. Agony for me. I think God is quietly laughing as he watches me work so hard on my patience skills! On numerous occasions, I have thought, “This is ridiculous! They sell sewing machines in this country. Every woman in this room owns one. So why are we quilting by hand?! This feels archaic and so pioneer-woman. Let’s just break out the machines and whip out beautiful quilts!” As I was lamenting this to my husband, Mr. Perfect-and-Ultra-Relational says two words. “Embroidery frame.” Ouch. Again. As I sit in that quilt group every week, I am doing a lot of listening and learning. I am learning about culture and about language. I am learning about the things that women in my town are interested in. I am learning how to read their body language and their tone of voice. I am meeting people and beginning to build relationships. We talk about our families and our lives. It is good stuff. Stuff that I wouldn’t be learning or noticing if I were sitting at my sewing machine. If I had a sewing machine in my home, and if I weren’t doing this quilting by hand, I would not be sitting in my living room with my family. I would probably be sitting in another room, sewing like crazy on my electric wonder. And that’s just it – that’s the lesson. Right now, I sit in the living room and quilt while I talk to my daughter. I sit and quilt while my husband sits beside me and reads a book. I sit and quilt while watching my daughter play outside or while supervising her homework or while we have a funny family discussion about our day. None of that would happen if I were sitting in another room at my sewing machine. Yes, it is slow. Yes, it takes patience. And maybe it isn’t the most efficient way to do it. But when we are talking about relationships, it is incredibly more effective! Relationships are slow to build. They take lots of patience. And they are worth it! I’m so grateful for a giant eyesore of an embroidery frame and a fantastic Peruvian friend who taught me a really important lesson. And I’m happy to be learning it again, here in Spain. Slowly. Patiently. Building deep relationships. Names are omitted to protect the innocent, although they probably wouldn’t care or see anything wrong with it if their names were included, because they have no issue with the topic or the fact that this occurred, but… well, just read on.
I am always amazed at the things that we talk about when I am with my other-culture friends. Topics of conversation are a very cultural thing, in case you didn’t know. Things that we would never talk about in polite company in The South are common conversation fodder here. Take my breakfast group the other day, for example. I went to my friend’s home for breakfast and a small devotional time. By the way, “short time of breakfast and devotional” means that I was there from 9:15 – 12:15 and the only reason it ended was because I said that I needed to get some things done in town before I picked up Sarah from school! Time is cultural, too. Anyway, I went to my friend’s house. It was an unusually cold day for May, and it was dreary and rainy. In her home, all the lights were off. The only light was coming from the television and it was showing cartoons (my friend and her spouse are both in their 50s, no children in the home). We sat on the sofa and chatted while we waited for another friend to arrive. Husband joined us in the chatter. When Friend 2 arrived, the TV was turned off, the lights were turned on, and we pulled up to the table and began to have breakfast. Coffee was poured. My friend made a traditional cornbread-type cake for breakfast, which she served with a bowl of fruit. There was a basket of individual pre-wrapped store bought cookies on the table, too, since Husband won’t eat cornbread for breakfast... another story. I had eaten Friend 1’s cornbread before (delicious!), but today it was covered – I mean COVERED thick – in sesame seeds. I thought that was interesting, but I am forever in “learner mode”, so I just observed and took mental note. Pretty soon, she announces that she read an article on Facebook about the incredible health properties of sesame seeds and how they could be the cure for cancer. The others at the table were impressed with this and pronounced it wonderful that she had added sesame seeds to the cornbread and that we would not die of cancer, Hallelujah Gloria a Dios. This started a conversation on another article that Friend 2 had read on “the Facey Booky” regarding bananas (she never ceases to make me smile when she says “the Facey Booky”). She read that very ripe bananas also have incredible anti-cancer properties. So she has been buying bananas and letting them go brown before she eats them so she won’t get cancer. And she has been eating several bananas each week as a preventative. Friend 1 pronounced this as good, as she had also heard that bananas were excellent for our health and that all the ‘futbolistas’ (professional soccer players) eat bananas and drink a certain bottled water to keep them in top form. Friend 1 only buys Aquarius brand bottled water for this reason (guess the marketing campaign is working). Well, now, Husband had to chime in with a skepticism on the fruit article. He just didn’t think that we should be eating so many bananas. Here it comes, Folks… When he eats bananas, he gets constipated. Therefore, bananas couldn’t be good for you, because it is not good to be constipated. If he eats bananas, and he gets constipated, then he has to have Friend 1 cook special foods for him to get him moving again. And when he finally gets moving again, it is a diarrhea explosion. I can’t believe we are having this conversation. I want to crawl under the table. Can this man truly be telling these three ladies all about his constipation and diarrhea??? Friend 1 supports his claim and goes in to even more detail as to his potty habits. She says that Husband potties at the same time every day, and she knows that something is intestinally wrong when he doesn’t potty at the right time. So she commences to cooking the special diet that will make him potty. Husband says, “No. Bananas could not be good for you.” He says this as he opens his third pre-packaged store bought cookies for breakfast. Just as quickly as it started, it was over and the question was raised as to what the Bible has to say about the sanctity of marriage. WHAT?! Did we really just make that dramatic jump and switch from constipation and diarrhea to the sanctity of marriage? Yep, we did. Then we flopped over to the Great Commandments and how they fit in with the 10 Commandments. Whew! Another dramatic swing in topic! A knock on the door brought Friend 3 in to the game, and she brought a new topic to the table… being lazy in our prayer lives. My head feels like it is spinning. Did we just spend half of our breakfast and study time talking about potty habits, and now we are talking at the depth of comparing the Great Commandment to the 10 Commandments and the importance of prayer in our lives? Yes, yes we did and yes we are… that is exactly how it happened. I think about how time is so much a part of culture. In my home culture, if a breakfast conversation spent an hour or so talking about potty habits and intestinal issues, people would have left the table. Not only because of the topic of conversation, but because it wasn’t an “efficient or effective use of time”… how could you spend devotional and study time talking about this? But I’m so glad that relationship and conversation trumps time in my new culture. Sitting for half of the time talking about bodily functions and food and life is just a part of how this culture works, and it leads in to deep conversations about the good stuff! So, I’m learning how to just roll with it – to just roll with the fact that bowel movements and The Gospel somehow do have a place together at the table. It’s a tough one for this Southern girl who was raised on manners and proper etiquette, but I think that God was sitting at the table, too, and He was probably just laughing at watching me squirm in the cultural intrigue of the day. And I’m sure that He was very happy with the whole scenario, because deeper relationship was built and a lot of love was sitting at the table, talking about whatever came up, and enjoying each other’s company in it all, and learning about The Word along the way. Got to tell you how God works... I took Sarah to school this morning and ran in the market (across the street from her school). When I went back to my car, the anti-theft lock was flashing on my dash and my key wouldn't work. (I didn't even know that I HAD anti-theft! It's a Ford Focus, for Pete's sake! Not a BMW...) I tried all sorts of things, but nothing changed. I got out the manual (have you EVER tried to read the car manual... IN SPANISH!?!) and all I got from that was that there is a code in the key and if the car doesn't recognize the code, it will lock down. Awesome! Just then, my missionary friend from Puerto Rico drove by and saw me. This is odd, because she is usually in another town in the mornings doing mission work. She stopped and tried to help me read the manual (because she is a native Spanish speaker). Then she called the dealer for me to see what we should do. They said to try the extra key (of course, it is out in the country at the house!). So Delilah drove me out to get the other key. When we got back, the second key still wouldn't work. By this time (1.5 hrs), Delilah needed to go to an appointment, but she also wanted to wait. I told her that it was okay...go ahead and go... I would call Miguel - our Spanish pastor. So she left, I got back in my car and sat there and had a big fat ugly cry. Then I called the number in my phone for Miguel (Billy had entered it for me before he left)... but Francisco answered (odd?). Yep... Billy put the number in wrong! But Fran said he would call Miguel (they are cousins) and send him to me. Cry more. Just then, Delilah comes back and says that "Friends are more important than anything else today, and my husband said to come back - I'll stay with you." A couple more tears escape. She says, "Don't worry. This is just 'paja en la leche' (Grass in the milk... a Puerto Rico saying for when something spoils your plans.) Then Miguel drives up and Delilah goes on and leaves. Miguel jumps in the car, wiggles things around a bit, and the car starts right up (Miguel used to be a truck driver and mechanic before he was a pastor). Many thanks to him, and I get back in the car to go home. I try to call Delilah real quick to let her know that all is well, and the little cell phone recording comes on to tell me that my cell phone is out of minutes (we pre-pay) and it is locked until I recharge my acct. I CAN'T BELIEVE I had enough money on it to make it through this morning until all was okay!!! God is SOOOO GOOD! Then I had another big ugly cry all the way home, the kind that is a mixture of relieved and amazed and frustrated and everything all rolled in to one. I'm so glad Delilah just happened to drive by. I'm so glad I have good friends. I'm so glad God let my cell phone work until it was over. I'm so glad I have a pastor that came to my rescue. I'm so glad that none of this affected Sarah and she didn't have to witness me having an emotional breakdown, or get left waiting for me at school. I'm so glad I didn't have to call Billy and say that the car wasn't working and I needed to have it fixed or pay for a rental car or anything... so glad I didn't have to pull him out of his focus!
I swear, if I make it through this next month, it will be a complete miracle!!! ![]() The past few weeks have been a real roller-coaster of emotions for me. My husband just left for a multi-week trek. It is part of his ministry work, as well as having been a dream of his for a long time. He is walking the Camino de Santiago from St. Jean-Pied du Port, France to Santiago de Compostela, Spain – a 769km ancient pilgrimage. He is walking with a group of college students and professors from Texas, as well as with the many other pilgrims for all over the world who make the decision to enter in to this daunting trek. Most are seeking to know Jesus in a deeper way, while some are just plain seeking. So he walks in order to spend his days walking alongside people who need to know more, know deeper, talk and be heard, or just walk in silence with someone who understands. I am really excited for him! I am so happy that he has the opportunity to realize this goal and dream. I’ve been helping him get ready, helping him pack, helping him with devotionals. I am praying for him and doing everything that I can to encourage him and hold down the fort at home. But there is this other side of me that isn’t happy. This ugly side of me that raised it’s ugly head and that I haven’t known what to do with. The Ugly Me has cried. The Ugly Me has been depressed. The Ugly Me has been jealous and envious and has worried about ridiculous things. I really haven’t liked the Ugly Me and I just wish she would go away! It is like there have been two of me fighting an inner-battle for weeks now. Me #1 is excited, while Ugly Me is jealous. Me #1 is proud of him and is telling everyone about what he is up to, while Ugly Me is so envious that I’m not there, too. Me #1 is helping him complete his checklist for packing, while Ugly Me is so depressed that he is leaving for several weeks. Ugly Me is wondering, “Why am I helping him pack?! I’m actually helping in the process of him leaving!” And Me #1 is still 100% in love with this man who is about to take on hundreds of miles of trail and has willingly signed up to be dehydrated and exhausted and have feet full of blisters and sleep on whatever bed is available at the end of the day, all for the sake of helping someone else grow closer to Christ… what’s not to love in that?! In all honesty, there has been a lot of fear in my heart. Fear that for the first time in our married life, he is doing something of major importance without me at his side. We have always been a team, and this is the first time that the team is not hand-in-hand. I have feared that I can’t actually do life without him for weeks at a time. I haven’t ever changed the gas tanks on the water heater and the stove, I haven’t ever done the banking, I haven’t ever paid attention to how to set up the computer when we hook it to the television, or how much we feed the dogs in the morning. Those have all been his jobs. I have had fear that he is going to grow deeper and closer to Christ and be changed in the process… I pray that for him!... but at the same time, I’m scared to death that he will come home so changed and so different that I won’t understand him anymore. What if we actually grow apart in this process? Serious fear creeps in deeper. As we have tried to talk through my feelings about all of this, he has seen emotions in me that he doesn’t know what to do with – Who is this woman? Who is this usually very independent woman? I think a big ah-ha moment came for me about a week ago, just before he left, when I realized that our families and friend probably had some of these same feelings when we started out on our journey as cross-cultural workers. When we took that big step and said “Yes” to moving overseas to live in another culture and work in ministry. I think about my mom and my family and how it must have felt to help us pack and have conflicting feelings of excitement and being proud of us, and also wishing that we wouldn’t go and wondering why they were helping us pack. Hmmm… I think about my fear of not knowing how to live life without this man by my side for the next several weeks, and then I realized that I have friends who have lost spouses to cancer, who are single, who have lived through divorce. They all manage to make it. They all manage to do the banking and feed the dogs and change the gas tanks and all the things that need to get done. Ugly Me is a big, fat whiney baby who thinks she might die a catastrophic death if her almost-perfect husband goes on an out-of-town work trip for a while! Shame on Ugly Me. How embarrassing! Maybe part of this whole process has changed me. Maybe I have grown deeper and stronger. I hope so. I know I feel less fear now, and I’m back to being Me #1 (mostly). Pray for Billy from May 19-June 22 as he ministers to pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago. You can follow his updates from the trail at http://www.drumsforchrist.org/france-to-compostela.html And pray for me a little while you’re at it – Pray that Ugly Me stays away and the Me #1 continues to remain supportive and prayerful and strong in his absence. |
Laurie DrumIn my USA life, I was a teacher in Texas for 15 years. I was also a professional photographer, a soccer mom, a horsewoman, and the neighborhood hospitality queen. I did "Joanna Gaines farmhouse style" before Chip and JoJo were even a thing - we restored an 1884 Victorian farmhouse in small town Texas and did shiplap walls until I thought I'd go crazy. I taught at NASA, scuba dived with astronauts in training, and studied animals at Sea World for educational purposes. I've tried just about everything, because I have an insatiable need to know if I can do it! Never underestimate a Texas girl in cowboy boots! In 2006, my husband Billy and I became cross-cultural workers (CCWs) with TMS Global. For five years, we served in three rural Quechua Wanca villages in the Andes of Peru. And when I say rural, I mean RURAL - like no potty! I spent my days in Peru learning to live a Quechua lifestyle in a rustic adobe house - cooking Peruvian foods, sewing with Quechua women, raising my chickens and goats and pigs, and planting my gardens. Now I live my life in small town Spain, serving other cross-cultural workers via teaching and training and care, and helping displaced people to navigate their new reality in Europe.
I'm passionate about fostering personal growth, growth in community, and growth in The Kingdom. Walking alongside others and helping them to use their unique design, their gifts and strengths and maximize their abilities to fulfill their God-given purpose - that's what makes my heart sing! Archives
March 2024
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