8 Rules for Easy Moving- Part 2

Snow falls gently from the wintry grey sky, drifting on my eyelashes and stinging my face a little. I smile in spite of myself. With finals for my first semester just around the corner, a challenging month to recover from, and packing to do, I work at getting my brain to shut up and enjoy the peacefulness for a couple seconds.


In August, I wrote an entry called “8 Rules for Easy Moving.” I was nervous about a new start, and said:

“God’s reminded me that not all of the new things are bad and firsts only last for awhile. There are the things to look forward to, like taking a dance class for the first time in 12 years or the job that I was hoping for and got. Refining and expanding my Spanish. Being in college and knowing why I’m there this time. Unforseen ministry opportunities. And above all else, that I am not, and will not be, alone.”

My class had our end of the year dance performance yesterday and it was a blast! And I just took a Spanish final over sequence of verb tenses and the pluscuamperfect, imperfect subjunctive, and adverbial clauses (yeah, only Miss Judy understands- don’t worry about it). It turns out that UNK has over 500 foreign exchange students, so God just brought the world to me. And He’s blessed me with good friends and a great church.

I thought when I wrote the first edition of “8 Rules for Easy Moving” that I was moving for several years. Studying abroad in Peru next semester was not on the forefront of my mind, but with a plane ticket dated January 6th sitting in my inbox, it certainly is now. And while my brain says, “This is an amazing opportunity!,” my heart says, “But I just got here!” The truth is, I don’t feel adventurous or daring or ready to take on another culture in a couple weeks.

Therefore, God has been continuing a lesson on the amazing power of gratitude. Instead of His usual applications of a bad attitude or depression, He’s working on fear. A fear of both stepping into a new unknown and of leaving what has only recently become known. Of living with a family I don’t know. Of taking Peruvian Literature in Spanish! He has been challenging me to be grateful for what lies ahead, even if I don’t know what exactly it looks like. Because no matter what else is in my future, God is.

My mom, who is generally pretty smart, recently told me about a song by Casting Crowns:

“When I'm lost in the mystery

To You my future is a memory

Cause You're already there.”

And because He is, the unknown doesn’t seem so intimidating.

So as I take a couple minutes to enjoy the snow, cram for finals, and find my hiking backpack (which actually hasn’t had time to get lost yet), I will look to a challenge and call it an adventure.

Because God lives in Lima, too.

8 Rules for Easy Moving

I heft the ancient wooden fruit crate stuffed with textbooks new in their plastic wrap, a few favorite novels, and folders of important information sideways down the narrow stairwell, simultaneously attempting to avoid bumping the hand rail and escape scratching the paint on the opposite wall. I’m going to regret this tomorrow, I realize, chastising myself for my poor body alignment while lifting a heavy object. Maneuvering between the post and the empty stacked clothes hampers at the bottom of the stairs, I carefully wriggle free of the confining space and bump the door open with an edge of the box. Several minutes later, the crate joins pillows, clothing, hangers, a coffee maker, and other items necessary to a college student’s survival that spill from the trunk and over both seats of the van. Three more days, I think to myself four or five trips down the stairs later. Three more days until I wipe my wet eyes, grit my teeth, and drive off into my next big adventure: University of Nebraska.

Over the past couple years, I’ve developed a habit of moving at the beginning of fall. In 2007, it was Kansas to Idaho. The next year, I was still reeling from arriving in Mexico a few months earlier. 2009 moved me from Tijuana to Ensenada, and then from Ensenada to Costa Rica last year. Now, it’s Kansas to Nebraska. Thankfully, all my stuff doesn’t have to fit into a hiking backpack and shoulder bag this time (okay, honestly, it never did. . .). In all my shuffling of countries and states, I’ve learned a few things that make moving easier:

1) Pack your items into the container you will store them in. That way, you know they fit and you just have to find a place for the container.

2) If it can be bought cheaply in the place you’re going, leave it behind here.

3) Make room for personal mementos and pictures. The sense of home and security in a new place is worth the extra space.

4) Get an aerial map of the town and memorize a few main street names and how they intersect. Also find a catchphrase that describes the general layout of the city for easier navigation (i.e. “gridlock,” “wheel,” or “diagonals”).

5) Know ahead of time what you actually need and what you just want to have along. Saves time when you find out you brought too much.

6) Know what your first commitment is, who your contact is, and how to get in touch with them.

7) Even if you’re the new girl in town, don’t wait to be welcomed. Be friendly first.

8) Remember, God’s waiting with a smile and a hug at the airport (or dorm room).

That last one’s been reverberating through my insecurities all summer. See, as many times as I’ve started over, I still hate it. I don’t like being friendly first when my heart’s hammering, my palms are slick, and I’m wondering what the heck I was thinking. Learning how to share a room with a stranger (or several) is still awkward, and that inevitable lost feeling chases me for the first couple weeks. But over the past several days as the trepidation threatens to overwhelm me, God’s reminded me that not all of the new things are bad and firsts only last for awhile. There are the things to look forward to, like taking a dance class for the first time in 12 years or the job that I was hoping for and got. Refining and expanding my Spanish. Being in college and knowing why I’m there this time. Unforseen ministry opportunities. And above all else, that I am not, and will not be, alone.

Because God lives in my dorm room, too.

A Valley-able Lesson

Gold and rose light tinge the lacy curtains. Glancing at my alarm clock, I decide it’s time to admit defeat in my battle for more sleep and trying not to make much noise, I slip out to the kitchen. After a few moments of rummaging, I find the coffee and filters in the cabin’s kitchen. The amount of grounds recommended on the tin looks lonely in the white wrinkles, so I add a generous portion and set the pot to percolate. There’s a mug in the cabinet that has “I love my grandpa” scribbled in bright crayon font on the side. Somehow, it seems profoundly appropriate for this morning.

Grandpa’s memorial service is later this morning. I ache for my dad and uncle, knowing the next few hours will be difficult. Wandering to the deck door, I push open the screen and inhale crisp, moist air. Before me, a dew-dripped field stretches toward winding Back Mountain Road, broken only by the slate pebbled driveway. My ear catches the faint clip-clop of horse hooves on pavement, and I search the road until a lone ebony buggy emerges from a clump of silhouetted trees. A smile plays on my mouth as I remember the delighted giggles of my cousin’s five-year-old upon feeding a horse for the first time yesterday. I hope that he treasures his memories of Big Valley as much I do.

Now, several days after returning to Kansas, I get to add a few more beautiful memories. Like reading grave markers and road signs entitled Zook, Kanagy, and Stoltfuz and realizing that my last name fits in for once. Or when a relative I’d never met walked up to me and said, “I wouldn’t have had to ask. You have Esh eyes,” and gave me a hug. And the box of food and friendly handshake waiting at the cabin when we arrived. The easy references to God in everyday conversation; the pizza meal that appeared in the hands of all the Big Valley cousins; the genuine concern in people’s eyes as far-flung family members shared the happenings of the last several years; the way people lingered over gatherings, making the time count.

I was sipping very black coffee and watching the sun burn away the mist over a valley at peace when I began to realize what I have lost. You see, somewhere between what I’ve been taught to believe and thinking for myself, between a mile-wide independent streak and being saved from legalism, between selective hearing and issues with how principles are presented, I threw away a treasure: a deep appreciation for my heritage.

Forgive me for rambling, but I’m still figuring out my thoughts and their implications. What I do know is that I was profoundly blessed and cared for by people who barely know me. People who are connected not only by blood, but also in spirit. It has something to do with a family tradition of shared and private relationship with a mutual Friend. I’m still deciding what else. But I want to pass on the inheritance I experienced. It might mean eating my words or changing my mind about a few things, which is honestly a little scary. It grates on my pride and self-righteousness. That in itself should tell me it’s worth it. I hope I take the opportunity to pass on a handshake, a hug, and a box of food to someone else. I’d hate for the tradition to die with me.

Going Native- March 2011

Giggles shriek through the chilly afternoon air as Maximo bounds over the tufts of grass in front of me. I smile and spurt forward, capturing his tiny wriggling body and pouring on the tickles. A full on tickling war ensues, quickly joined by 4 or 5 other boys. Panting 10 minutes later, I wave good bye as the ragtag group climbs up a steep hill toward their cardboard homes. My eyes tear as I realize this will be the last time I see them for at least a year.


After a lot of thought and prayer, I have decided to return to the U.S. Over the last year, I have been searching for a long-term vision. While God has only given me glimpses of the specifics, I know that I need to be further equipped to take on that vision. When God fills in the details, I’ll be ready.

I hope to get a job in the next couple weeks and reconnect with people here in Kansas. I have applied to several different colleges in the Midwest and am praying through my options for the fall. I’m also considering several shorter term training options involving teaching English and Spanish fluency. My goal is to become licensed as a Spanish/English interpreter, as well as round out another set of skills to give me more options. Long term, I hope to be back in the foreign mission field within the next 1-4 years. For now, I’m headed to the mission field on both sides of my front door.

Thanks for being part of my vision. Whether you prayed for me, sent money, or wrote a note, you have impacted my life and the lives of many others. To quote Paul, “I thank God every time I think of you.”

Please continue to keep me in your prayers. Transitioning back into your culture can be difficult. I’m praying for ways to avoid debt so that I’m free to go back on the mission field as soon as possible. Pray for good scholarships, lots of work, and creative ideas. Also, pray for clear guidance and wisdom through this transition and beyond.

Good to Be Home

The hum of the generator and ring of ten hammers on the roof swirl around Lupe and me as we stand at the corner of the build site. After a delicious spread of carne asada tacos and sandwiches, the team is back at work. The walls are up, the trusses hung and flipped, and dry wall is being cut and nailed up inside as we talk about the menu for tomorrow’s lunch. Lupe specializes in making tamales, her friends from California buying 2-3 dozen at a time to bring home. She wants to make us some sweet corn tamales as a dessert follow up to the grilled chicken tacos tomorrow. Being a fan of these warm, corn-husk wrapped balls of goodness, I love the idea.


Our conversation turns toward her family, and I smile as I catch sight of her daughter and son-in-law hard at work on their new home. Lupe’s husband left her with seven children to raise. She eventually developed her tamale business as a way of supporting her children through school, which can be expensive here. Her dark eyes sparkle with fun and wisdom as we commiserate about our friends’ well-intentioned matchmaking attempts. She has been a light spot during this build, even bringing us coffee earlier in the morning as rain and cold weather had the paint running in rivulets off of the roof sheeting.

Carlos, Lupe’s son-in-law, hurt his back over a year ago, and since then hasn’t been able to get a good job. His wife, Lupita, cleans homes in the morning and goes to beauty school in the afternoon. Their daughter, Karla, is in kindergarten. The family is barely able to make ends meet. They’ve been living with Lupe as they couldn’t make payments on their house any longer. She’s donated the land that we’re building on to them. I can see the closeness of this family as sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, and neighbors come to lend a hand at some point during the two days we’re there. This Saskatchewan based team is small but has raised extra money to help Carlos and Lupita, even buying them a frig and hundreds of dollars worth of groceries and homemaking items. Carlos and Lupita fight overwhelmed, grateful tears all afternoon on the last day of the build, embarrassed at the outpouring of love. They have never had the money for wants before.

Amidst rain showers, tacos, teasing, conversation, and hard work, a new home and relationships are built. And as we pray and load up (and I get promised fruit tamales soon : ), I share a final wave and smile with Lupe, Carlos, Lupita, and Karla, and think to myself, “Boy, it’s good to be home.”