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.