Yesterday I agreed to meet Visi in town this morning.  He wanted me to get some pictures of him in his suit.  Today was a celebration in Tirana for the Christian Church in Albania and he planned to attend the festivities with Pastor Alban.  Visi has really risen over the past seven months to become Alban’s right hand in Fushekruje, which is a blessing both to him and to the Church.  Alban is fortunate to have a man like Ervis Reka at his side and on the other end of the telephone line whenever he needs something.  

I celebrated Thanksgiving dinner at the Plagenhoef’s house in Sanitorium.  At the house were the Diaz family from Brazil, and the Wiersma family from Illinois.  There were 13 of us in all.  Pastor Kurt asked us each to say one thing that we were thankful for.  The thing I gave thanks for was for my friendship with Visi.  I tried to explain, as I will briefly try to explain here, that my friendship with Visi was not something I would have sought out on my own.  

Visi and I were given the challenge of working together early on in my time here, and our differences became obvious before the first moment had lapsed.  He has honored me from the beginning, showing me favor, friendship, care, concern, grace, and generosity.  Today while we sat, talking over coffee near the center of Tirana, I found that we were genuinely laughing with each-other.  Working side-by-side for seven months makes the language barrier a blessing to expression.  We have grown to be able to interpret each-other’s eye language, moods, body language, tone of voice, even pace of speech.  And isn’t that what we really need to be paying attention to anyway?  Isn’t that how we were intended to be known?

I am physically very tired now.  I learned how to apply fino yesterday, which is the Albanian equivalent to stucco.  Today I put that knowledge to use.  Fino is the last coating to go onto walls or buildings before the paint is applied.  Fino is mostly composed of a fine, not sandy granular substance mixed with cement and a thick white mixture called gelquere.  The gelquere gives the fino a lighter hue, adds and adhesive quality, and also makes the fino less likely to foster mildew.  Fino is applied with a half-meter long trowel and each trowel can cover about four square feet of surface.  Putting it on is like finishing concrete flat work, only you are standing to face the work instead of facing down.

Somewhere around the noon hour I noticed how low our barrels were on water.  With only about four muddy inches at the bottom of each one I said to Visi “Nuk ka uje sot?” (we don’t have water today?) “Nuk ka drit,” (we don’t have electricity) came the reply.  “Pse jo?  Nuk ka per Fushekrujes?” (why not?  Is the problem for all of Fushekruje?) I asked.  At which time I looked at the wire which lead to the fresh water pump.  “Ah.” (ah) I said.  There was no wire to the pump, it had been stolen the night before.  I was not surprised when less than an hour later Ardi, the son of Shpetim, our guard, drove onto the jobsite in his fugon.  With him was a young man I did not recognize who had our exact cable, with the electrical tape in the same place, mending the same breaks in the plastic coating.  Fushekruje is a small town.

By the end of the day, Visi and I had a rhythm for applying the fino.  It is a task one can manage without doing a lot of thinking, which provides an arena for small talk and joking with one’s coworkers which is very enjoyable.  Like splitting wood with a maul, digging a trench, or hauling debris; applying fino is just the thing for getting out of your head and into the work in a satisfying way.

I am not aware of a medical term or a term from psychology which describes a reminiscent longing which occurs before something has come to an end.  If there is such a thing as antenostalgia, it may be the cause of my experience after boarding the bus for home this evening.  If life can be like a Norman Rockwell painting, then here it is.

I took the seat nearest the exit door at the front of the bus to Sauk.  My backpack was full of treasures including a folio of Albanian language lessons, some hand-knit, homemade handicraft, three hand made axe-heads, and three persimmons.  The folio was from my Albanian language teacher, the handicraft was from a street vendor near Zogu i Zi, the axe-heads had been purchased by Ervis on my behalf at a bazaar in Fushekruje on Sunday, and the persimmons were a gift from the woman I had ridden next to on the fugon from Fushekruje to Tirana.  Before we had completed our taxiing out of the bus depot area, I stood to make room for one of the most beautiful women I have seen.  She seemed grateful for the gesture, though not entirely surprised at its being made.  Both of us faced away, not looking again, which is the custom here.

After exiting the bus, I walked to the local market to buy food for my street dogs.  The proprietor knows me and we chatted a bit.  Across the street was the baker with bread, hot fresh.  She knew my order before I placed it, extending the courtesy to ask after my day.  And then I was on the sidewalk heading home.  I walked passed a boy of twelve with a tray laden with a coffee service he was travelling to deliver.  “Hello,” he called in English.  His father’s restaurant has great chofta and fruit salad.  Around the corner I had a man on a motorcycle stop to ask if he could give me a ride.  Before ascertaining if we had known each other from some time before, I took the seat and held onto the cargo bar with my free hand.  By the time we had reached the bottom of the hill, he knew I was an Amerikan, and I knew for certain that we had not in fact met before.

He dropped me near the field path which leads up a small hill to the school house where I live.  The low clouds caught enough ambient light from the houses below to reveal the ground ahead.  The air was still, but not stale, wet, but never cold, quiet, without being queerly void of noises.  Upon entering the school I found Paridi heading up the stairs for a nap, Petrit and Nardi playing ping-pong, Hektor and Neda seated texting on their cell phones, and Etmira mopping the floor of the kitchen.  If life can be simple, if strangers can give gifts, if acquaintances can enjoy conversations, and a man can walk home alone in the dark with nothing but singing in mind, then it is here, and I will miss that.

I was told upon arriving in Albania that the building process would be slower than I had grown accustomed to while working in the States.  The Plagenhoefs told me at one point in time that they knew the church would eventually be finished, that it was in God’s hands, and that whatever was accomplished during my time here would be the proper amount.  Having to source materials for the fence around the children’s play area has become much more of a project than I had anticipated.  From what I can tell, it comes down to the basic principle of supply and demand.  It is not the Albanian way to build a fence like the one we want, so sourcing the supply becomes like a kind of game.  What makes the game more challenging is that the people we come into contact with will typically say “We don’t have that,” not taking another second to digress further; which leaves us to guess at where to look and ask next.

It may be a cultural trait in the States to refuse to settle for a product which does not meet specifications.  It may also be a cultural trait in Albania to make due with what is available.  There seems not to be an awareness here that the world is big and that anything can be built, it is possible to make anything, you can be part of the solution.  It brings to mind photographs of modern Cuba.  Resourcefulness is a matter of necessity, and for most Albanians it is still necessary.

Kreshnik and I were eventually able to find a plant which can take 6 meter long, 6 centimeter square tube-steel and convert it into capped, 2 meter, zinc-coated posts.  I would show photographs of the plant that can accomplish this, but the engineer on sight threatened to call the police if I could not prove to him that I had erased every photograph I had taken of the facility.

A few Christmases ago I was given a lesson.  Visiting someone’s house, being a guest in someone’s home, is disorienting.  It is difficult to know what, if anything, you should do to help your host.  Often as not the guest and the host differ on what a definition of “help” might be.  I can remember hearing one of the children in my family complaining about something, and in response I asked a snide question.  My sister looked at me and said flatly “Josh, that is not helpful.”  I realized in that moment that my host had the right of things.  My presence in her home was an anomaly, a blip, a point of inconsistency.  Her home finds a harmony of its own without me there and there is little I can do to add harmony.  Albania, like my sister’s house, operates as it does without me in it.  The most I can hope to do is take out the garbage when it is full.

This morning I was surprised to find that the fugon into town had been canceled because Prime Minister Sali Berisha was coming to Sauk for a rally.  I was going to be too late to make it to church in Durres on time.  The fugon, like the water supply, like the power grid, like so many things, is a service one can depend on, mostly.  Finding no way to add harmony to my situation through any other action, I decided to walk into town.  Walking is good for you.

The man who spoke at church was an Amerikan, I didn’t catch his name.  The Amerikan accent takes all of the beauty out of the way the Albanian language sounds.  In the north Shqip has the latte-steaming growl of French, and in the South it has an almost rhythmic chop like the prop of a boat motor idling on a cold morning.  I have been frustrated on numerous occasions trying to accurately imitate this way of speech.  Often as not I am unable to distinguish one sound from another.  Avash, avash.

This afternoon I stopped in a Gensi’s for a haircut.  He is so rigidly focused on his craft, sitting in his chair I feel like a block of marble on a stand in Michelangelo’s studio.  My dogs were waiting impatiently outside his door for him to finish carving shape into my scalp.  Before long I was beautiful, the mutts were fed, and I was back in my apartment writing this post.

The second day of the Tirana Leadership Summit was as helpful as the first.  What I think is true, what I walked away from the summit knowing, is that one does not attend these summits for the teachings alone.  One attends for the fellowship which stems from being in the same room with leaders you know and respect, and with people you never knew you wanted to meet.  The family of God, the family God chose for me, the family that is my family because they have also said “yes” to God’s offer to lead their lives, is not as big as you might imagine.  Yesterday I found Betuel and Bianca at the Summit.  I met this lovely couple just a few weeks ago in Macedonia.  They are two of our five missionaries serving at Qender Qiriazi in Skopje.  

The three of us had lunch together in a restaurant located on the same street as the International Church and the Iranian Embassy.  They invited me to come and serve in Macedonia with them, for as long as I am able to, even if that only means for a week or a few months.  It hadn’t occurred to me until today that I have every reason to go and to participate in what God is doing to move and shape the lives of the people in that city.  When Jonah was sent to Nineveh it was a city of some 120,000 people.  And God said “Should I not be concerned about that great city?” (Jonah 4:11, NIV)  Skopje is a city of over 500,000, and God is surely concerned about it.

At some point in a missionaries’ journey, after dawning the fabric of Jesus, either God’s concerns become our concerns, or we are in fact making our journey away from God, and not towards Him.   

This morning I nearly missed my bus into town.  I had waited to don my boots until I was out of doors because they were still dirty from the last time I had worn them.  As I sat down to pull them on I found myself faced with a dilemma: should I rush off and leave behind a potentially great photograph, or should I take some time and capture an image or two which are certain to earn enduring appreciation from my three nephews.

I have seen one other praying mantis in Albania, but it was the color of dry wheat.  I asked one of my friends what the word is for this beauty in Shqip and he said “Insect.”  That was the end of our conversation.

I spent the lion’s share of today at a conference in Tirana for leaders in the Christian Church.  We watched a number of pre-recorded seminar presentations.  One was a talk by a man named James Collins who focused on a book of his entitled “Great By Choice.”  I often times find inspirational Christian messages lacking, but when it came to this man I found myself taking copious notes.  He didn’t sight Mayamato Musashi’s “Seven Spheres,” but the principles for success are definitely transcendent of culture and time.  Maybe on the plane ride back to the States in December I will try to get into a conversation with Mr. Collins between naps on the plane.

Today I was faced with a beautiful young woman who was upset.  Of course she was beautiful, she is a daughter of God.  As we spoke I looked around and saw a five-string guitar sitting idle where its owner had set it down.  To paraphrase, I told her, “Psalm 96 and Psalm 98 begin in the same way.  They both begin with “I will sing to the LORD a new song…”  You are like an instrument designed by God, and He knows exactly the song he wants to hear when he plays you.  You see that guitar?  You see how it was crafted, and how beautiful the wood is?  Before that wood was part of a guitar it was a tree, which may have taken a long time to grow.  That guitar didn’t take a few months to make, before the wood was a tree it was a seed, and before that it was something else.  So really that guitar took hundreds of years to make.  And the creator of that guitar cared for it not nearly as much as your Father God cared for and planned for you.  And now God is putting you to use to play a new song, a song he wrote with you, His daughter, in mind.”  It was a good reminder for me to see that guitar as well, and to remember all of the promises God has made for my life.  I am His son, and He loves me more than I can know.

Honey run make shift bazaar

Leaking sky slicks corner turns

Two to town too tenacious

Thankfully driven out of doors

For dried figs and mandarins

Giving sweet tree for seasons

Branches over senses nurture air

Union for commerce generous kindness

The man who taught me how to be a carpenter is fastidiously clean.  On any given work day the two of us would spend no less than one hour cleaning up.   Once a single task was completed, it was the protocol on site to put all of the tools involved away.  On a typical jobsite there is cleaning, but typically that takes place on Friday afternoon for the last twenty minutes of the work-week.  A tradesman might leave his tools wherever he happens to drop them until he has need of them again.  My Uncle Norman was self taught.  Now that I am older, out from under the umbrella of my mentor’s oversite, I find cleaning on the job site to be cathartic.  When there is trash scattered around, no matter who it is that did the spreading, I find I can focus on little else.  

Today I walked to the local market and purchased a roll of trash bags.  In the States our jobsite would be outfitted with trash cans and maybe even a dumpster.  The last location I worked in Seattle was on the campus of the University of Washington.  If precaution, safety, cleanliness and the proper disposal of waste are taken to the extreme in Seattle, Washington, the opposite can be said about Fushekruje, Albania.  As it strives for acceptance into the European Union, perhaps Albania will take a greater interest in the environment and the human animal’s constant damaging of it.

Visi worked on the wall, as has been his running task off and on for the past two months.  Our friend Kole came by to check up on us in around mid-morning.  We plan to have him back for a day of work tomorrow.  Kole is strong and works with a rare intensity.  I am looking forward to seeing what he can accomplish in a day.  Yesterday, while I was in Vorë, 14 of the windows were installed at the church.  Hopefully you will come to a service there some day, to get the lay of the land for yourself.

One of the tasks I’ve been given to perform on behalf of my handlers, the Plagenhoefs, is to find the fencing material for the children’s play area at the church.  In the States a search of this kind might yield a dozen or so good options.  In Albania I have only found two.  Iron work is a common enough trade, but having someone build a fence entirely out of iron is prohibitively expensive.  They have rolls of chain-link fencing here, but there aren’t the components to properly assemble it.  Today Kreshnik and I took a trip up to Vorë.

Albania has some eccentricities to it which I can not discern the genesis of.  When I first moved here, back in April, I can remember telling Kreshnik I wanted to buy some oil for my leather boots.  “I don’t think we have that here,” he replied.  Honey, real honey, must be purchased at a market, it cannot be found in regular stores.  If you want a quality fencing made of metal that won’t cost in the thousands of dollars, you will not find a place that sells it within the city limits of Tirana.  All of the people I spoke with about such a material mentioned a fabricator in Vorë.  Vorë is about half an hour to the north and west of Tirana.  SH 2, the highway that connects Tirana to Durrës is also called Rrugë Industriale (industrial route) which is a carry -over from the days of communism.  

If you ever need to know someone, who knows someone, who knows how to get their hands on shoe dressing, honey, or low cost, quality, rust resistant, metal fencing, send them my way.  I know people here.