A Pep-Talk for a Sinner

The other day, one of my teachers gave us a little pep-talk. He said that we are in school to learn - and part of that learning process is being willing to make mistakes. That's the point of grace, isn't it? That we live in expectancy of delighting God - not with our own perfection (which we really have none of) but in redemption.
Enrico then went on to say that we shouldn't be making the same mistakes over and over - but should be getting better. And that's part of the process, too. It's the sanctification that grace gives.
So, here we go...

Mail

This week I got my first care package from America. And I remembered seeing a list of things you can't send to Italy. Here it is:

Albums of any kind (of photographs, postcards, postage stamps, etc.).
Arms and weapons.
Articles of platinum or gold; jewelry; and other valuable articles unless sent as insured Priority Mail International parcels.
Artificial flowers and fruits and accessories for them.
Bells and other musical instruments and parts thereof.
Cartridge caps; cartridges.
Clocks and supplies for clocks.
Compound medicaments and medicines.
Coral mounted in any way.
Ether and chloroform.
Exposed photographic and cinematographic films.
Footwear of any kind.
Haberdashery and sewn articles of any kind, including trimmings and lace; handkerchiefs; scarves; shawls, needlework including stockings and gloves; bonnets, caps, and hats of any kind.
Hair and articles made of hair.
Human remains.
Leather goods.
Lighters and their parts, including lighter flints.
Live bees, leeches, and silkworms.
Live plants and animals.
Nutmeg, vanilla; sea salt, rock salt; saffron.
Parasites and predators of harmful insects.
Perfumery goods of all kinds (except soap).
Playing cards of any kind.
Postage stamps in sealed or unsealed First-Class Mail International shipments.
Radioactive materials.
Ribbons for typewriters.
Roasted or ground coffee and its substitutes; roasted chicory.
Saccharine and all products containing saccharine.
Salted, smoked or otherwise prepared meats; fats; and lard.
Tobacco.
Toys not made wholly of wood.
Treated skins and furs.
Weapons of any kind and spare parts for them

A Day in the Life

woke up
took a long bath
cleaned the kitchen
mopped the floors
snuggled up with an Italian grandma
sang Holy, Holy, Holy in both Italian and English
danced to Ghanaian drums
ate with 200 strangers
walked 6 miles in Autumn's hillside beauty
ate fajitas
spent a couple of hours at Barns and Noble... well, via Skype
...
What a perfect day.

If I Hear That Song One More Time...

Have you ever heard a song that really caught your attention - and you loved it... well, that is until you heard it for the 384th time?

The Italians have a name for those kinds of songs - ones that get played over and over and over and over: "un tormentone estivo" ... do you see the word torment in there?! Perfect.

What $170 Buys in Italy

one tiny tube of super glue
one thesaurus
a protractor type thing
120 pages of lined notebook paper
a compass
two grammar work books
a bag of 25 balloons ($3.40)
two tiny disposable Xacto knives
a bottle of glue
two permanent markers
four pens
a binder

How An Italian Makes Ragu

(Translated into English, but dictated from a real live Italian. You have translate the measurements.)
Chop an onion, a clove of garlic, a carrot, and a stick of celery. Roast in olive oil. When they are well roasted, add about 1/2 a kilo of ground beef. Stir well and add salt and pepper. Add half a glass of white or red wine. When the wine is evaporated, add two cans of crushed tomatoes. Cook on low (as low as possible!) for at least two or three hours. DO NOT ADD WATER. If it cooks slowly enough, you won't need water. (The "Do Not Add Water" was very emphatic.)

Sometimes the Little Things are Very Big

The store where I bought my kitchen cabinets delivered the wrong shelves twice. The first time I was a little annoyed, but counted it as an honest mistake. The second time I was really annoyed… and then was on the verge of steaming when the delivery guy told me to just find a carpenter and have him cut them. What carpenter? How do I find a carpenter? How do I take all these shelves somewhere without a car? It’s not my problem, miss.
So, today, I did it. I put the shelves in my rolling shopping bag and called a taxi. I made a list of all the carpenters in my area. Nope. Nope. Nope. The taxi driver suggested a lumber yard right outside the city. I rolled my bright green and blue flowered shopping bag ignoring the seven men who watched wide-eyed as I made my way through the stacks of wood to the office in the back. No – but you might try one of the big Home-Depot type stores way outside the city. My taxi driver warned me that they were far, but we were already half way.
An hour and a half later I was able to install the shelves… and I cried as I did it.
Those shelves represent a problem. One that I felt shouldn’t have belonged to me in the first place. One that I could have been solved in a few minutes with the hands of my dad or one of the Rogers in Haiti. One that Matt, my team leader, would have taken care of for me. And one that for some reason or another – God wanted me to live through and learn through. I know that people think I am braver than I am – and more independent than I am. But I didn’t want to take care of this. I wanted to ask someone else. But, I needed to stand on my own two feet and be the grown up and just deal with it.
And they represent a language. An argument with the delivery guy. A conversation about the book the taxi driver was reading. A discussion at each of the places I stopped at which didn’t have the correct saw. A long brainstorming session with the guy who eventually did cut my shelves. And a good talk with one of the ladies at the store who said, “Your Italian is excellent for living here for only three months.”
Those shelves are more than a little piece of setting up my home here in Italy. They are reminders that God is going to be faithful as I try. He’s already been.

A Little Reminder

My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, "You're tearing up the grass." "We're not raising grass," Dad would reply. "We're raising boys."- Harmon Killebrew

Cappuccino