Coming home to America.

This time last year, instead of being in the sunshine-y state of Utah in February (WHAT?!?!) I was freezing in Romania, trudging back and forth in thick snow, walking to the orphanage. I think about my kids a lot.

There are still a few stories I wanted to share. Thoughts that were part of it- perhaps the hardest part- that need to be a part of the story.

So- let's start, (or end?) with coming home. I'm gonna post the thoughts I had when I first came home. America is.... so weird.

The food is huge. Way too much. Way too huge or portions. Grocery stores are like malls. Why do we need so many brands of peanut butter?

I have way too many shirts. And clothes in general. And blankets. And books. All I really need fits in a suitcase. So why do I keep all this extra stuff?

My house is a mansion. All I really need is a small apartment with crooked pipes. Didn't my parents know that? So how come I got my own room growing up? Romanians couldn't even comprehend my living situation. It's too out-of-their-experience. It wouldn't even make sense to them- to have so many acres, so many animals, so many rooms and kitchen cabinets full of food and heaters and plumbing and two ovens.

And how come pizza doesn't have ketchup on top?

And at fast food places, how come I have to clean up my own mess? Shouldn't the employees do that?

Why are all the cashiers so nice to me? They don't have to ask me how my day is. All they have to do is frown, grumble about my lack in having exact change and make the transaction. :) And I'm pretty sure that deep down they really don't care about me anyway, so how come they pretend? Customer service is huge.

Roosters say "cockadoodle doo" here instead of "Crookidee croo", and dogs say "bark" instead of "hum hum!"

It's weird to not have to plug a converter into my electronic stuff.

I miss the Romanian advertisements down the sides of my facebook page and in between youtube videos.

My cool Romanian scarves don't seem to match here. They don't belong in America. They belong in Romania.

I don't blend in wearing big black leather boots anymore. I look too classy. Everyone here is in tennis shoes, t-shirts, and jeans.

But I can't comprehend wearing different clothes.

My siblings have no idea how big their vocabularies are, how grown and strong and healthy they are. How much technology they have. How much their parents love them.

 

I can't stop looking at pics of my kids, and I eat Milka caramel cream bars to wallow away my sorrows. It's hard to do nothing here when I know I could be doing something there. It should get better when I start school next spring.

Troy

When people die, suddenly there is a flood of reflecting, and gratitude, for the impact the deceased person has had on the people's lives around them. 

It's not father's day, and he's definitely not dead, but his heroism is unsung, and he deserves to know just how grateful I am that He is my dad. 

He is a family man.

He is simple. He wears the same plaid shirts and jeans today he was wearing when I was a newborn. He shops at Goodwill. He doesn't care about what other people think of him. I like him that way.

His favorite place to be is outside. He likes hiking, and camping. But he's never been interested in reaching peaks, or hitting milestones. On Sundays, he likes to walk to no where in particular, just enjoying the fresh air. He likes going slow, and looking at the trees all around him, and enjoying the beauty of God's creations. Life is a journey for him, not a destination.

If there is one thing I never doubted, it is that he loves me.

Before I was born, he was nervous. He didn't know how to be a dad. He asked his father what to do. Grandpa Bob told him, "Just love them." And Dad did a good job.

Once I broke into tears because I didn't want to pay so much money for a prom dress I loved. So, he got out his tight wallet, and paid for it.

I don't know what about me disappoints him. He never points those parts out. He kinda skims over my faults, and just tells me when He's proud of me.

He taught me to love dancing, because he'd pump up the tunes in our dining room and let his soul carry him free of inhibitions.

He taught me to say hi to people, memorize their names, and to be interested in them and notice what they need. He is the reason I had so many friends all growing up, and was the good kind of popular.

He taught me to love learning. He's a thinker. He'd take me along to the library and spend hours in the non-fiction section, because he just wanted to learn everything there was to learn. At ward parties, he was never explaining his job to other people, he was asking them about theirs. His curiosity made me want to learn too- I wanted whatever was so delicious that he loved. (Some people ask me why I scrunch down my eyebrows when I think. It's cause my dad does.)



He taught me to get down and dirty working and be a good sport. He'd whistle while we picked rock in the field and sing me songs early on Saturday mornings so I'd get out of bed and help him build fence.



And when we were done moving pipe, he insisted we jump in the puddles. He dumped us in cow troughs and jumped with us into cold summer creeks with all our clothes on and insisted we swim around. That's what life's all about, he said.





He taught me you don't need anything to be happy. Happiness is entirely my choice.



When the work gets hard, he taught me to suck it up and just do it anyway, because I am strong, and I can do it.

He taught me to love people, and cultures, and ideas. Not by telling me to- because that's what he did.

I don't know what his yell sounds like. He has never yelled. When he is most angry, he uses a very soft voice. But to be honest, I'm not entirely sure that he ever gets angry.

When Bradley left, and he took me, a 18 year old young woman drenched in tears, and held me in his arms, and rocked me, and held me close, and didn't say anything.

When I am lonely, I call him or skype him. Usually at midnight. He's always available, and he's good for a few laughs. Being away from him is a huge downside of growing up. I miss him a lot.

He doesn't understand or appreciate ballet or dance, but he still never misses a recital, and he never fails to tell me I did a wonderful job and was beautiful.

His hard work is the reason I ate three meals a day for 18 years, and was clothed, could participate in extra-curricular dance classes I loved, and got Christmas presents.

He comes home at lunch just to eat chips and salsa with Molly. And they sing while they eat.

He loves my mom, and sacrifices every day to try and make her feel loved in return. Perhaps the imperfections in their marriage are the reason I think it is so wonderful they make it work anyway. They're not soul mates, but I'm so glad my momma didn't choose anyone else to be my daddy.

In making plans for my future, he gives me very wise advice at how I can achieve what I want to achieve, not what he wants me to achieve. His two-sentence wisdom is golden.

He helped me clean my room and pack my things when I moved down to college, and I'll never forget the moment when he put my blanket in the car, and then kinda looked at the ground and said, "It makes me sad that you're leaving. I'll miss you, but, your mother and I want you to learn how to fly." And then he went back inside to get more stuff while I cried on the driveway.  

And laughing with him is my favorite part of coming home.

I have never doubted he loves me.

He is wonderful.

Not every child gets that. I worked with countless orphans in Romania whose father's alcoholism, abuse and neglect is the reason they ended up as orphans. I have known many friends in America whose fathers have left them for other women, other hobbies, other more important things. 

I am so lucky my daddy never abandoned me.

Many people get the chance to know him a little, but I was lucky enough to know him a lot. 

I don't think I would be capable of trusting in that same love from God if I couldn't place the same trust in my father on earth.

I've never met Jesus Christ, but I think when I do, I'll find He is a lot like my dad. Happy, kind, wise. I even think Jesus wears plaid button-up shirts and jeans. He has to. That's what humble people do. Like my Dad.

I hope that someday, I can end up marrying a man like him.

Love ya Daddy.

Wonder of Wonder, Miracle of Miracles

Another miracle, perhaps the biggest yet-

TEO (our volunteer coordinator at the orphanage- aka wonder woman and the nicest, most selfless lady on the whole wide planet) SAID CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES APPROACHED HER ON FRIDAY AND SAID THEY FOUND A FOSTER HOME FOR MR. MAGICIAN AND... MY LITTLE SQUIRT!

As of two weeks ago, they still needed to evaluate the family and let them meet little squirt and make sure they would be okay to take him on with all his problems, but... he had a chance! Teo said they came with a CPS agent with the prospective parents to meet him and see if there was a connection there. Oh how I hoped there would be.

And there was. His foster mom is is kind, and very nice. I got to meet her on my last day at the orphanage during a birthday party in the kitchen. I looked at her helping feed the little squirt birthday cake and cried because of how good God has been.

This is a miracle. I was so sad about having to leave Romania, feeling like my life would be worthless because he still didn't have parents and look at that- God was looking out for both me and my little squirt and is giving him some parents right as I'm leaving. Only two weeks after I leave Romania, he is scheduled to go to his new home.

God sure planned that perfectly- I learned to love a little boy that needed love, and he got to teach me about being amazed with God's creations out the window, and now when I leave to go back to America, I won't be as worried, because he'll have a mom. :)

I get it easy. Teo loves him just as much and more than I do. She has known him for longer, and has seen him progress. Sometimes life is very, very, unfair. The people, like Teo, who do the most for these kids, who save them and love them when no one else does, who take them on special trips to the zoo and visit them just to see how they are doing every day in the orphanage- who give everything they can to loving these kids while no one else is loving them... are not the ones who get the credit for it. He's going to his new home with his new wonderful mom, and Teo will keep taking care of all the other kids at the orphanage. Will anyone tell Teo thank you? Not even the little squirt is old enough to comprehend or to say, "Thank you for changing my life." Even though she has.

Matthew 18:

 "1 At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the^agreatest in the kingdom of heaven?

 2 And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,

 3 And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little ^achildren, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

 4 Whosoever therefore shall ^ahumble himself as this little ^bchild, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

 5 And whoso shall receive one such little child in my ^anamereceiveth me."

Teo is my hero. She found a mom for my favorite little boy. I don't know if anyone will ever tell her thank you- but she really is my hero- always doing good, even though it is good no one else ever knows about unless they work directly with her.

So here- Dear Teo-

Thank you Teo. Thank you for helping a miracle happen. It means the world to me, and it means the world to that little boy. You are God's hands.

Love, Alana

Mary

Mary has always been my hero. My grandma is also named Mary, and I think it's the greatest name ever. For goodness sakes, Mary was the mother of Jesus Christ. Talk about God trusting you. When she was only 14, she was pregnant. So by 15 she was a mother.

This is me at 15. Aka- NOT ready to be a mother:

If I were Mary, and I'm 18 years old, Christ, my son, would be three years old. That's the same age as my little beaver kid in my room- the one with fetal alcohol syndrome. 

Little Beaver was really sick this week, and he was in the hospital. Sometimes I wonder how Mary did it. She was only 14 years old- how did she possibly know everything about being a parent to Jesus Christ?

Well- I don't know anything about being a parent either- but I know that it's sure easy for me to love Little Beaver. He's just a little boy, and he just needs someone to play with him, color with him, hold in and rock him while he is sick in the hospital. I couldn't wait to trek the 30 minute uphill walk to the hospital so I could see little Beaver's eyes peering out from between those white metal crib bars, and so I could take him out of that crib and hold him.

Maybe Mary was like that. Maybe she just really really loved her little Jesus, and so God knew she would do a good job, and taking care of him was natural.

My dad once told me he was afraid for me to be born. He didn't know how to be a father and he was worried he wouldn't be good enough. His father, my Grandpa Bob, told him, "Just love them." Maybe it's not so much about knowing as it is about loving.

" I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things." -1 Nephi 11:17 

Hiding Orphans

The hospital has a strange phenomenon:
Many times, when we ask what rooms the orphans are in, the nurses will just shake their fingers at us and say "nu avem" (we don't have). Even though we KNOW they have kids. Sometimes we can literally see the orphans through the window, but oh no- "nu avem."

Why would they say that? Sometimes it's because they don't want the kids to cry when we leave. But even more often than that- it's because they just mopped and they don't want footprints on their wet mopped floors. So, the children go unvisited. It's "nu avem" and a shaking finger.

Obviously it's wrong. Obviously it is infinitely more important that a child without family or friends has someone who will come and visit them than that the floors get a few footprints down one side of the hallway. Yet- the nurses who mop the floors want their coworkers to admire their clean floor, and they don't want American girls messing that up for them. So, it's "nu avem" and a shaking finger.

There's definitely a bigger and greater analogy to that. It made me think-

Do I hide orphans behind mopped floors?

Obviously I don't. But- when I say orphans- I mean- are there greater needs in my life- people who need loved, a friend who needs to be listened to, educational things I should take the time to learn, but I don't because I don't want any "footprints" on my floor?

And by footprints- I mean- the time to sit down and talk with that friend, or maybe that friend annoys me and I don't really like them and don't want to be their friend even though they need one, or maybe I am too afraid of what they would think if I shared my religious beliefs with them, or maybe I feel too lazy to take the time to learn something right? Or maybe footprints are things other people see that would be sacrifices to make if I were to take the time to actually do what is more important. Maybe I would have to sacrifice my status in a group of people to help someone not seen as "cool". Maybe I would have to miss the big end of semester ward Christmas party to help them study for a test. Maybe I wouldn't have time to curl my hair and look fabulous for church because I'd be making them breakfast. (Haha. I never have time for curling my hair anyway. I like sleeping in way too much. :) )

Maybe I am like Martha, too busy in the kitchen trying to make an impressive meal for the Savior, that I never take the time to be content to be known as the hostess who just served bread and water, so I could take the time to sit and talk with Christ.

It's worth thinking about. Do you hide orphans behind mopped floors?

Bad Dreams

 I keep dreaming about leaving- getting leaving anxiety- every night I dream that I'm back in America and I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to my kids. What am I supposed to do? Go on with my life- pursuing dreams to be a teacher to rich white kids with parents who love them? Why should I do that when these kids still doesn't have a mom? Shouldn't I stay here? Isn't that the right thing to do? It's all so confusing. With great privilege comes great responsibility. Responsibility to do what? To be a teacher to rich kids and make enough money to live comfortably in a nice neighborhood? Or to stay in a poor country loving these kids? But- even if I dedicate my whole life to this- it won't fix the problem. There will be orphan after orphan, abuse story after abuse story, and even if I help as many as I can it won't even put a dent in the problem. Does great privilege entitle one to sit back and enjoy their privilege? 

Part of me doesn't even want to go back to America. I was looking out the window today at the big apartment buildings and the street leading past the palace away from our apartment, remembering the first day I woke up in Romania and was a little scared, but mostly curious, about the unknown. I was not on U.S. Soil. This used to be communism. All the buildings looked so blocky. The people looked different. Would I be okay? Would I be good at my job? 

And now- it's my home. And while I miss Jiff Peanut butter like crazy, I don't need to go back to huge shiny elevators and clean streets and English. These small elevators and dirty stairs work just fine, and Romanian is a beautiful language. Who says America is the center of the world? (Actually, the Romanians do. They don't know why I came here, because they all save up money to leave here and go to America, or at least another European country to work. They play American music on the radios, dress their children in shirts with Minnie Mouse on them, and encourage watching American movies like Finding Nemo. America is their future.)

I'm crying now. What am I doing with my life? :) I asked myself the same question when Bradley left. I guess when you loose something you love, you start to question everything's meaning. Which proves- that love- specifically choosing to love others and to give your life to their service- really is the meaning of all of this life stuff after all. So, maybe, even though I have a lot of faults, and I don't listen as much as I should and I'm not that observant, and I say the wrong things and make the wrong comments, and slaughter my Romanian when I talk, and I don't know how to fix a lot of problems for people and situations, maybe if my heart is at least breaking at the right times, I'm doing something right.

Pillow fighting!

Today's highlight at the orphanage was a pillow fight. The workers were vacuuming the floors and asked Little Sissy and Little Squirt to sit on the little bed by D's play pen in the room. I sat on the bed with them, and after the vaccumming finished, I tossed a pillow at Sissy and it kinda hit her in the face and she thought it was so hilarious. It turned into me tossing multiple pillows at Sissy and Squirt and them loving it. Then it turned into the worker also tossing pillows at their faces, but harder, and from farther away. They loved that. Then she started tossing pillows at me too. :) Mostly at the kids though. We were tossing pillows at each other, and the kids kind of tossed them back. It was so cute.

Uniquely Romanian

 On Saturday the Stoicas (Radu's mom) invited us and the sora missionaries over for lunch. We ate in their living room, and there weren't enough seats, so Sora Stoica just watched us eat standing up, making sure we liked it and that it was okay. She didn't eat herself at all. She was a very formal host. We had coirba de legume (vegetable soup), mamaliga (like a moist and non-sweet, grainy homemade cornbread- really good), sarmale (pickled cabbage wrapped around chicken, vegetables, and rice, and boiled, then stored in these little ceramic pots- some with cabbage leaves, others with purple grape vine leaves), bread from a bag, and tort cu mere (apple cake). It was all delicious! The Romanian thing to do is to sit around and talk for a long time. The sisters even had a spiritual thought to share, but they allowed awkward silences until conversation got going for about 2 hours until they finally did the spiritual thought right before they left. They wanted it to be the last thing, I guess. Conversation was so fun, and it worked, interestingly enough, with Sora Stoica speaking in Romanian, and us speaking mostly in Romanian, but with a little bit of English, and we could understand each other and have funny conversations. By the end of our time, we had pulled out all 3 of their family photo albums, laughed at a picture of Radu in a rooster outfit, seen all the pictures of her daughter Andrea at BYU, and discussed all the different food in Romania. I even brought up farming where I lived and goat cheese came up, so they offered me some sheep cheese that was alright. I was the only one brave enough to try it. :) It just looked really bubbly. I love trying new things. I think everyone should do meals like the Romanians- keep the food coming, and you might as well just stop all the clocks. :)

 I also found out that Romanians don't like to sit on the ground because it makes girls go infertile. Oh man. No wonder the nurses used to get mad at us, but now they just laugh at us. Once you've lost your fertility, I guess there's no going back. :) Hee hee.

Amazing Grace

Amazing Grace.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.

T'was Grace that taught...
my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear...
the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares...
we have already come.
T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...
and Grace will lead us home.

The Lord has promised good to me...
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be...
as long as life endures.

When we've been here ten thousand years...
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise...
then when we've first begun.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.

The song amazes me. So does the story of the man who wrote it- and the irony of his former position as a slave trader, and then how the song gained momentum in the American south through the slaves.

Here's a video about it if you're a history nerd like me and want to watch, otherwise skip the video and keep reading:

The song first seriously struck me last summer, right before I went to college, when the father of one of my dear friends sang a solo in sacrament meeting. The man has been literally going blind throughout his life, and  has such limited vision left the doctors predict he will be permanently blind within a few years. When he sang, "was blind but now I see", it struck me that he couldn't possibly be talking about literal vision. So- what was he talking about being able to see?

I think... it's seeing a deeper meaning in life, and that is Jesus Christ. Seeing His love. Seeing His miracles. Seeing the power of his Atonement change you from the person you didn't like to be before into the person you could not have become today without His hand.

This song is very true of my life. Grace has saved me from struggles with my testimony, trying to love friends and collegues when I felt like I did not have any more love to give, letting my best friend Bradley leave on a mission to Spain for two years, and leaving all my friends in Amarillo Texas when we had to move to Washington. I cannot deny that grace alone got me through those hard times. It truly is amazing.

So- here. Give it a try- play this video, close your eyes, and listen to the lyrics.
Think about your life.
Think about growing up, learning, loving, falling, and getting back up again.
See if it touches your heart like it did mine.

Soarele

It was crazy. There I was, sitting at church next to the window, and all of a sudden, this yellow stuff started to get all over my arm, and my arm started getting warm. What the heck is going on? What is this stuff? I wondered. I looked out the window, and the entire street was super bright. Oh my goodness. It's sunlight. 

Two months in Iasi, Romania, and I had forgotten what the sun was like. It was so bright. I even thought to myself, God- the street doesn't even need to be that bright. We can see everything just fine under layers of clouds- you could save some energy and tone down the sun a little. It was crazy.

The palace we were used to seeing:

In the sunlight:

But man, it was nice. My forearm felt so warm, and the street was like- wow- so bright.

Sitting in church, I suddenly realized- No wonder they compare Christ to the sun. He is the light of the world. The sun is so bright- it's overwhelming. It illuminates everything. It gives everything warmth. It is the source of energy for all phtosynthesizing life, and thus, every single food chain, and all life on earth. And Christ is the source of all the light, warmth, and life in my life, just like the sun. Even when sometimes I don't think Christ is there- He is. Just because there's layers of clouds doesn't mean it's not the light of Christ by which I am learning and growing. Without the sun- there is nothing. Just darkness, and coldness, and death. 

Îmi place soarele. I like the sun.

Even more beautiful

'Cause the little princess painted my nails today.

I brought some nail polish to paint the two little girls' nails. The little boy squirt was heartbroken I wouldn't paint his nails. Sorry Buckeroo- I refuse to paint little boys' nails.

When I had finished with the girls, the little princess insisted I give the brush to her so she could paint my nails. I felt like my mother, who would always let my little sister Molly paint her toenails rainbows.

The workers thought it was so hilarious- they kept laughing and pointing. I loved it. "Uh.... original." They said.

Didn't she do a good job? :)

Feeling Beautiful

My favorite little squirt was getting restless, so I pulled my little black comb I always keep in my pocket out for him to play with. Usually he likes to comb his hair. But today he wasn't in the mood, and just wanted to comb the worker's hair, but she was running around like a chicken with her head cut off as usual, so I asked him if he would comb my hair. He loved it! I took out my ponytail, and had all my hair down, and he was brushing and brushing for a good 10 minutes, with the wrong side of the comb, just kind of wiggling my hair around and around, getting it more tangled than it was before. But I loved it. He thought he was doing a good job, and he was fascinated with my hair. He probably hadn't ever really touched longer hair that was down before. Sometimes he would “comb”, sometimes he would just touch it and feel it. He even pulled it, but it didn't hurt me at all. Most of the time he went really slow, and was very careful. My hair was getting tangled, I was in blue scrubs with little fuzzies from the carpet all over me, I had no makeup on and my eyes were red from my allergies, but I felt so so beautiful. To be loved and treated like a princess by a child you love. I wonder if I have ever felt so beautiful in all my life. 

He also loves to look out the window while standing on the windowsill, but the workers are back and forth over whether or not it is okay because it's “Frig” or cold, and Romanians firmly believe coldness brings sickness. I had him up to the window yesterday, and she came back from her smoke and said, “Oh! Nu nu nu! Doctor nu e place. E frig.” The doctor wouldn't like it- it's cold. Of course. I said “Asa,” and started to take the kid down, but just to pull their strings a lot, I asked him, “Tu este frig?” Are you cold? He smiled super big and exclaimed, “Da! Frig!” He loves the cold. He lives his life in sweat. :) Anyway, so today I stood up and put one foot on that little shelf with all the toys and let him sit on my bent leg, so he could still see out the window, but he wasn't right up against the cold glass. He really wanted to get closer to the glass, but I wanted to respect the workers so we didn't. He still loved it. We pointed out the casa mare, big house, and machina, cars, and biserica, church, and soarele, sun, and the birds and the blue sky. He kept saying, “Uite!” Look! He loves looking outside at the beautiful outside air. After a while I asked him if he was gata, done, and he said “nu gata.” And he just sat there on my knee, looking and gazing out the window, for a long, long time. After a while he leaned his head up against my chest to rest while he kept looking out the window. I felt like I might melt in a puddle of love. I felt like a mom- like he was my little boy, and I was his mom. I felt beautiful again. 

Michael Jackson's "Heal the World" played on the radio, and I picked up my sweet little fetal alcohol syndrome girl, and we slow-danced and twirled around in circles with her in my arms, and she laughed and smiled the biggest smile ever. I almost cried from the shock of how much joy was filling my soul all at the same time. It was almost too much joy to handle. I felt beautiful again. 

There are many different kinds of beauty. I remember getting dressed up for prom, and feeling so special, hoping that in Bradley's eyes, I would be beautiful. But- that was more of a confidence that I looked good. 

The beauty I feel in the orphanage has nothing to do with how I look- because today I was in oversized dark blue scrubs with white fuzzies sticking to them all over, and no makeup, and my eyes were red from allergies. The beauty I feel is more of a confidence that my life is bigger than me- that my actions are helping the world in a way that makes my life worthwhile to another human being. That because I exist, a child is happier, laughs more, cries less, because I am a source of love and protection for them.

I think I like feeling beautiful in scrubs better.

The Happiest Day in the Orphanage

Chloe brought some life into the orphanage today. Last night, Teo shared an article on facebook about 50 balloons being in a room and people helping each other find balloons with their own name on it in the room. But the accompanying picture showed a room full to the brim with balloons- way more than 50. Chloe commented, “That's way more than 50! But there's only one way to find out. We'll definitely have to test this sometime.” Teo jokingly commented, “The birthday party tomorrow will be the perfect time.” Chloe said, “Oh my gosh. I have balloons. We're totally doing it.” Teo insisted that she had balloons in her office already, but Chloe said, “We're bringing more.”

Sure enough, Teo had 10 balloons blown up already by the time Chloe arrived at the orphanage, and Chloe and Madeline brought way more, so they spent from 9-9:45 blowing up balloons. Teo said, “Oh, my boss is going to be so mad at me.” If it was me, I would have been like, “Oh, I'm sorry. We can throw all the balloons away.” But no- Chloe's like, “No- it'll be fine!” Teo said, “That's enough” after about 20. Chloe said, “Wait, how old is the doctor?” “And the child?” “Well, then we have a lot more to go!” Little did Teo know- Chloe and Madeline would end up blowing up over 100 balloons. Workers helped hang them up in the kitchen.

I had no idea this was all going on. When M left for his usual 10:00 snack, Cristina brought me back a coconut cupcake as a snack for me, but M didn't come back. I continued practicing walking with A, and she somehow communicated to me in Romanian that I somehow understood that it was D's birthday and they were having a party in the kitchen and I could go see if I wanted to, and I could put A down. 

So, I did. Holy moly. I was not expecting what I saw. I thought there would be a bunch of kids sitting at the table like usual, eating cake, with a few toy presents on a table. Oh, heavens no. There were balloons everywhere. About 30 hung up around the ceilings of the room. Chloe later told me that when the kitchen sang the traditional “Multi ani treasca” happy birthday song, Chloe and Madeline threw all the other balloons through the serving window and all the kids started jumping up in their seats, they were so excited. I thought the workers would be sushing the children, telling them to sit down and finish their snack so they could go back to their room. 

Nope. All the kids were gobbling down their cake, and there were chocolate cookies and coconut cupcakes and orange soda, and the workers were very kindly offering to get refills of orange soda for all the kids that were still sitting at the table. Most of the kids were up- playing with all the mountains of balloons on the floor.

It was so crowded. All the doctors, all the physical therapists, all the workers, everyone was in the room. No one wanted to miss the party. And all the adults were holding balloons in their hands, popping kids on the head or encouraging the kids to dance. With all the squealing and hollering from the kids who maybe have never played with balloons before- it was so so loud. But hey- Teo plugged in some speakers and pumped up the tunes and played the “Happy” song by Pharrel Williams. My favorite song. And the Dr? The boss Teo was sure would be angry? Well- she was popping all the kids on the head with balloons too. In fact, she got the birthday boy and said, “Hai- uite-” Come here- look. And with her long nails- she popped a balloon. Suddenly tons of balloons were popping everywhere and everyone was squealing and laughing. And, in the mist of all the chaos, Chloe is blowing bubbles over the crowd. And laughing. Everyone was laughing. It was the most happening, and happy party I perhaps have ever been too. Well, I don't know. Peters family reunions get pretty epic during the dance parties....

But this was different. This was a party... in the orphanage. And to see all the fatigued workers- laughing. That was amazing. To see the young physical therapist with red scrubs put a balloon over A's feet and see him jump and kick in his wheelchair with energy I've never seen him have before, and laugh. That was a miracle. To see Dr. popping balloons to make kids laugh. That was a miracle. To see kids that are usually so desperate for attention- with such severe attachment disorders that usually see me and cling to me at once- to see them look at me, smile, and then sit down and eat cake or pop more balloons. That was a miracle. To see them satisfied with life. For once. Not needing more. It was heaven. Heaven in Sfanta Andrei's Section 2 orphanage.

It also proved to me- that different people can do different miracles in different places at different times, and God places us in situations where He knows we can be His hands for Him. If it was me- I definitely wouldn't have pushed the limits on birthday parties in the orphanage and risked getting a severe lecture on trying to control the children. But it was Chloe- and she just kept blowing up over 100 balloons, and everyone loved it. It had to be Chloe. Section 2 needed her Chloey-ness to be heaven. 

It was the happiest day in the Orphanage.

When we traveled back in time...

Or, at least it felt like it. We went to Maramures, a county in Romania very isolated in the mountains, that is thus able to maintain lots of tradition and culture that has slipped away in many other parts of Romania.

First we explored the village town of Vadu Izei. 

Most houses had satellite dishes, and most houses had wells and clothes lines for drying. Does that seem backwards to you? I grew up with a very comfortable income, in a big house, with a washer and dryer and even when we were poor in college we had pumped water. And we still don't have cable tv of a satelight dish. That was a luxury we never got to. These people have that, but they never quite got to running water. Isn't that a little funny? Like dudes- satelight tv was invented maybe 30 years ago, and it's awesome and stuff, but the Romans invented indoor plumbing 2,000 years ago. And yet, old women with head scarves are visibly all over the village drawing water from wells in buckets and boilng it over cauldrons in their backyard. Like- does this really exist? Apparently 50% of people here do have running water, they put in a pipe system themselves. I also saw a kid on a bike today listening to an ipod. Wouldn't he want a car before an ipod? I don't know.

It was like a fairytale. Not the happily ever after part. The princess-is-living-as-a-pauper part. People have cars, but horses and buggies are always used for any type of big load- hay, logs, sacks of stuff. And instead of people being dressed for work in shirts and ties getting ready to go to the office, they're all in outdoor farming clothes, and most every house you pass has someone out working in the yard, trimming bushes, building things out of wood, working in the garden. And it's February. This community is a legitimate farming village.

The clothing. All women wear flower-print head scarves and skirts with thick tights underneath. All men wear leather shoes and button-up shirts. But jeans.

It's like poor house, poor house, poor house, huge ginormous beautiful church. Church is the pride and joy of the community. Florin says if the church needs money, everyone gives. But, if the city needs money to fix the road, no one does. I think he's bitter. :)

Then we went to a brandy-making shop, with a turning water wheel that used to power a corn grinder, and a strainer for water so the man could use it for brandy.  In the back a girl 17 years old that just got married last year was making bracelets and jewelry. She got married, moved in with her in-laws, and started helping out with the new family business. Traditional yes, but abnormal for Maramures today. 17 is very young, too young Florin says, and she probably had no other prospects for education or a future.

Highight: I told Florin I wanted to get pictures of people in traditional Romanian clothes, so as we drove by a young kid in traditional garb, Florin pulled over to the side of the road, asked the kid if I could have a pic with him, and took the picture. SWEET.

Then we got to go see a world-famous wood carver. He just sent off a shipment to Washington DC. It was so beautiful! I love the carved wood look. I also got to try carving some wood. You get a scalpel thing, and pound on the end with a heavy pounder, like a hammer with nails, and slide it along the wood at an angle. With wet wood, it's easy. Making lots of big crosses and crusifixes of Mary and Jesus and stuff is very common. So are chains- wooden chains. And gates with braids on the sides. They draw with a permanent marker on flat wood and

 then work their way into the wood. So beautiful. I said it smelled good (I mean because of all the fresh wood and the spring air) and the wood carver said, “Good? But I just drank beer.” And apparently he's a priest, which just makes it all the more interesting.

It's funny- to pass many horse-drawn carriages with hay, logs, or manure, driven by a guy with stylin skinny jeans and nice leather shoes. Whatevs.

My favorite part was going to the Barsana Monestary. There were maybe 7 large wooden church buildings, large buildings, and it's nestled in the mountains overlooking a valley with the wooden spires slicing through the fog against the lush green background of the mountains. I kind of felt like I was in a Lord of the Rings movie. You could see how for Eastern Orthodox Christians, this is their pride and joy- their temple square- and they want it to be beautiful for the people, but mostly beautiful for God. 10 nuns live there, to keep the place up. We saw 3 inside a gift shop making crafts, and one weeding in the garden. I bought a fun colorful bracelet for me and for Aspen too. Homemade by the nuns that live there. They also had a free (not all toilets are free) squat toilet- my first one! We went inside one of the churches, it was so intricate, so beautiful, with gold and colorful mosiacs of saints everywhere. The wealth of these small village communities- they obviously choose to give to the church.

Our tour continued with a tour of the Merry Cemetary. All the headstones are made intricately with a description of the person and a picture depicting their life- either their job, or how they died if it was an accident.

We also saw inside the church the cemetary surrounded, a service was going on. The men were in the front, the women were in the back of the church. All the women wore floral skirts with matching floral headscarfs and black coats with black high-heeled boots. They were looking' fine. :) All the men wore black pants, black leather shoes, and black coats with black or fur hats. A very Romanian look. Children were surrounding the church, begging. It was harder to ignore them this time, because I had just read that book about street children. One boy even showed me a “certificate” from the government asking the people to please give the boy assistance. But in the book, I read about how the kids fake those certificates- they type up an official looking paper and lightly color over a piece of bani with a colored pencil to make it look like a stamp.

Then we went to a very tall wooden monestary. The steeple was very tall. It was supposed to be the tallest wooden monestary in the world, but the stone foundation was too big, so The Guiness Book of World records didn't acknolwedge it as the highest wooden church. It reminded me of those big wooden playgrounds- with secret tunnels and stuff. There were many different stairways, spiral stairways, and chandeliers. It was in the mountains, and it really was beautiful. There was a service going on downstairs, and when I opened the door, the people said I could come in. So the 5 of us did, for a moment, but it was very very crowded, and we barely fit in the door, so we quickly left afterwards. Something interesting- inside, the men and women were not separated, but when the service ended, we saw all the men exit before the women were allowed to exit. Gender equality wasn't the greatest. :)

We went to a Victims of Communism memorial that was built in one of the rennovated prisons for communist victims- people that died being arrested. 7,000 people died in that prison, but all over Romania there were 700,000 victims of communism- either executed because they were a former leader, policemen, or religious monk or priest or nun, or because they were a minority sent to a concentration camp, or they showed resistance and were sent to the Gulags in Siberia and died there, or they were relocated and died in the moving process, or they were set to work on public works projects in Romania like the People's Palace in Bucharest or the Danube Canal project, and they died in the process. Horrible. It was very similar to the Holocaust museum in Washington DC. Very educational and eye-opening for me. I've always thought that the holocaust was horrible, but I have tended to forget that even after the holocaust ended, concentration camps still existed in eastern Europe, run by the Soviets, and that communism was just as bad as extermination camps. The torture was unbelievable. I walked into a cell that was all dark with a single chain in the middle of the room where a person's ankles would be chained to- where the people had to stand all day in cold water, and it gave me the chills. Kind of like walking through the cattle car in DC- these were cells where people actually died- actually breathed their last breath- all because a government wanted power over the people. Horrible. In the back there were 12 trees to symbolize the 12 apostles and we lit a candle for the victims.

After that, we visited the house of Elie Wiesel- author of Night (we read in Mrs. Skeen's class).

The ride home was lovely- through the mountains in the snow.

And we picked up a monk. So that was cool too.