Feliz Nochebuena

Shannon decorates our Christmas tree.

The classical guitarist brushed his hand over the strings and the lush, poignant sounds of "What Child Is This" reverberated through the sanctuary. My ears perked up, waiting, wishing...and suddenly the guitarist flicked his hand back and and the music took on an Andalusian flavor. YES!
"This is my people's music," I whispered to my friend Kelsey. Little accents of my beloved Spain are sweet reminders of what I'm working toward. On this night of nights, I'm convicted to remember the reason why I want to go back to Spain. It's Jesus. And cliche as it might seem, it's all about Him. No more, no less.

Young and Educated in Europe, but Desperate...

A friend sent me this article yesterday.
Pray for the creeping hopelessness that seems to surround Europe, especially Spain. Economic improvement won't bring peace in people's hearts and rest for their souls. Only Christ can.

"Where did you learn English?"

The question took me aback, and I almost spilled the coffee I was pouring for her. I straightened up and looked at Esther, the wife of one of the Colombian church planters. I laughed and explained that I was American. Her eyes widened in surprise. After witnessing a conversation between her husband and me, she had simply assumed I was Spanish.
Busted.
Excited at being pegged as my favorite people group, my pride quickly took a tumble when I couldn't remember a correct verb tense.
Busted again. (Side note: Why is it so difficult for me to remember the preterite?)
As I inch along toward my goal of getting back to Spain, pray for the Lord' continual refining.

In fourteen hundred ninety-two...

Forgot to mention that today's a national holiday in Spain. Check it out!

Some Differences

After nearly a month back, I should comment on some of the everyday differences between the culture of my birth and the adopted culture of my heart.

Things I miss about Spain daily, in no particular order:

Never Retired, Just Re-Assigned

This article ran in this past Sunday's bulletin. Care for retired workers is a concern that's close to my heart because of my grandmother, who served more than 55 years with BCM.

Splendid Salamanca

I left Barcelona on Thursday and took a nearly seven hour train trip down to Lorca, a town named for the famous poet Federico García Lorca. My objective? To see my Spanish family, the pastor and his wife and son I worked with in 2008 at the children's camp in Águilas.
During the train ride I was confronted with the dichotomies of Spain: Muslim immigrants from North Africa with fussing small children, the stereotypical sunburned retired Brits on holiday criticizing our four-minute lateness in loud English, and the rest of humanity plopped in seats, alternately fanning themselves, watching the subtitled movie, snoozing, or reading. As we raced through Valencia and into Murcia province, I thought about how different each region is in Spain. Every part has a different dance, food, and/or cultural slant, not to mention regional dialects.
And then I opened my mouth.