Tucked in by a dozen dogs

Inexhaustible barking at the moon

Dreams convincing clear

Sweet morning sun to wake you

Breathe the air of it

Sun stretching beyond your reach

Bright vibrant verdure

Soaking in the light of God

Buzzing over the fields

Let the heat surround you

All of you sweating

Cool water cool

Albania is a rare hospitality

Smiles met with smiles

A kind stranger

A walk after dark

Telling stories

Telling truths

Hand under your elbow

Guiding as you walk close together

Insistent, sure, kind, direct

A generous plate of food

Prepared by tired friends

“Leave the dishes for me”

At the beginning of next week sometime there will be a team of 11 students arriving from Rome at the school.  To prepare for their arrival, some things had to get shifted around on the third floor of the school, where my room is.  Before today I was the sole occupant of a five-person dorm room.  Today we swapped a set of bunk beds for a single, and I became the fortunate recipient of constant company.  Miriam is the campus translator.  He speaks the Albanian, Italian, and English languages in their entirety.  He even has a British accent to his fluent anglisht, which to be honest makes him sound like more of an authority than he otherwise might.  

Miriam is able to say that something I might refer to as “cool” is “wicked,” and have me believe that he means it.

He is from Fusharrez which is a city of about 9,000, four hours to the north of Tirana.  Today the school was visited by Gazim, the Assemblies of God pastor in Durres.  Gazim speaks Albanian and Italian.  It would have been useful to have Miriam around.  I may have to split my time between learning Albanian and Italian.  Proximity to Italy has made Italian the second language of Albania, as far as I can tell.  Italian isn’t as close to Spanish as you might imagine, but it is easier to learn than Albanian by far.  Digression anyone?

The Plagenhoefs are set to arrive late tomorrow night, at which time I will be given an outline of my official duties in Fushekruje.  If things work out here, I would love to serve in Durres with pastor Gazim as well.  He is one of those men who is loved and respected by everyone; charismatic, intelligent, caring, warm and energetic.  I’ve only met him once before, but he seems to be equal-parts: fireplug, tornado, and brain.  He is just the type of person who you might imagine as being very effective in the spreading of God’s word.  

Good night.

There is a concept called “Intentional Community,” in the United States.  That is one of the ideas behind Life Groups at All Saints Church.  It is a great concept which was the brain-child of Ed Harowicz and a few others about 6 years ago.  They don’t have that concept here in Albania.

This evening I called out the window to Bruna as she was getting into the school van to take about a dozen people into town.  Asking for two minutes, I ran upstairs to my apartment, then down to the bottom floor and into the van.  One of the people we were going to town with needed to stay behind, so six of us stayed.  We added two more to our party to walk into town together.  Following an uneven and unlit dirt path through the farm-land which constitutes our back yard; we spoke in pairs about our days and the evening air.  I thought we were going out to eat somewhere, but that was a result of my ignorance of the language and custom here.  Soon we were walking back from town, each with between one and three small bags of groceries.  Hana was going to fix pizza.

After a good deal of time in the kuzhinë, Hana emerged carrying the first, hand-made, tray-sized treat.  Soon she was out with another.  The people from our group had put out place settings for the eight of us.  Before the fourth pizza was served, Hana’s efforts had fed at least fourteen people, including Chimee the security guard.  It was wonderful sitting and talking together, literally breaking bread in the form of pizza.  My foreign perspective may have heightened my enjoyment of it all by just a little bit.  Monday night, nothing planned, no phone calls made; just friends delighting in each-other the way friends do.

I was issued a cellular phone by my handler Lindita upon arrival at the school.  On Thursday I turned it into the office so that a pastor who is here visiting from Philadelphia could make use of it.  There is another pastor here visiting from the states, Washington State in fact, a man named Bill Bates.  Dr. Bates and I started our day together walking to the bus station in Sauk, to head into Tirana to meet Alban, our pastor of Fushe-Kruje.  Bill is without a phone because the prices for using a phone from back home are prohibitive here.  But because I had arranged to meet Alban ahead of time, I had no doubt that Bill and I would be well taken care of.

Buses here take about four times as long to reach their destinations as private transport.  In order to cut down on time lost, there are vans which can hold around 9 passengers which hop from city to city.  Vans leave as soon as they have been filled to capacity.  After boarding the van in Tirana, we had only started to role when Alban’s phone rang.  He quickly exited to handle a concern with his family, and Bill and I were on our own.  

We got out when told to do so.  Looking for the church, we had to rely on landmarks which were only remotely familiar.  While I don’t have the gift of directional sense like my brother Brandon, who could find his way back to a gas-station-rest-room he had seen in the reflection of a passing car window in the middle of the night during a 100-year rain storm a decade earlier, I was confident that we were walking in the right direction: North.  My confidence was soon reaffirmed and rewarded as I nearly tripped over Edvis, a friend of Alban’s who had come to meet us.  We had met Edvis the Sunday before, he is a leader in the church at Fushe-Kruje.  Trying to make up for lost time, the three of us hurried on ahead.  We took little time to notice women carrying two, upside-down chickens in each hand, calling out prices; or men hauling their baying lambs up the street for slaughter.

There is a life-size bronze statue of George W. Bush in the town square of Fushe-Kruje.  

Church was lively and well-attended.  Counting both myself and Pastor Bates, there were 19 people in the 16′ x 24′ room.  Four of these people gave testimonies about how God had worked in their lives that week.  The style of service here really captures and celebrates God’s activity in the lives of His people.  God is doing wonderful things in Albania.  Please pray for Alban’s wife and son.  Thank you. 

It is uncomfortable to be in doors, but this cafe does not have its outdoor furniture deployed.  I am seated next to an open window near the entrance of the place.  Two old friends discuss at leisure the hypotheticals which form their futures.  Cigarettes, espresso, and hard boiled eggs compose their post-dinner snack.  

Outside, a man heading north on foot directs his cow with a switch.  A motorcyclist heading south leans slightly to the left; order.  

Inside a third friend arrives.  The lights dim, then flicker back to life brightly as the owner delivers an espresso to the latest of the three.  Coffee stirred so long with a miniature spoon; the man might be imagining mortar and pistil, turning diamonds from coal.  

The owner sits across from me and offers a cigarette as he lights one for himself.  “Yo, falemnderit,” I say.  He leans back with a chuckle, turning to discuss something with the others.  His gray suit conceals a gold watch at the wrist. His manner conceals the rest.  “Who is this man?” each of us asks about the other; I in silence and him is speech.

“Avni,” he says directing a pointer finger toward his chest.  Then he points to me.  

“Joshua,” I say.  

“Joshua, Joshua.”  He says nodding his head.  “Prey nga jeni?”  He asks causing me to cock my head to one side, eyebrows raised.  “Prey nga jeni?”  He repeats.  “Anglia, Itali, Zvicra, Gjermani…?”

“Amerikë,” I reply.  

“Amerikë,” he repeats back to me looking over to the others who concur a new understanding.  “Më shumë ujë?”  He asks, pointing at my empty water glass.

“Po, po, falemnderit,” I say.  

Twenty minutes later I stand to go.  As I depart I hand the man 150 lek, he promptly pulls the 50 coin from his palm to hand it back to me.  Raising my hands and shaking my head, I insist that he keep it.  Understanding, and laughing once more, “Viva Amerikë,” he says.  Pointing at me, he makes a circular motion with his hand and then points down to the seat I have recently stood from.  I am welcome back anytime.

Last night I took a walk along the road behind my home.  There are many cafes along that road, but one I found on my first day here; that one I particularly enjoy.  Last night the owner was explaining to me how to say good evening.  “Mirëmbrëma,” he said.  “Mear brehma,” I struggled back.  “Mirëmbrëma,” he repeated patiently as I leaned my ear toward his mouth as he spoke.  I find it difficult to catch the subtleties of pronunciation here.  “Mere im brama,” I concluded.  He tilted his head slightly, tipped up his right hand open palmed from his side and said in Italian “Buonanote,” with a smile.  “Grazie,” I replied with a smile as I turned to go.  I suppose him thinking that I am an Italian isn’t the worst thing in the world.

En route to this cafe I encountered a number of sights.  A group of children running across the road to jump off the berm into tall grass from three feet up; a pair of women with a stroller standing by.  Olive treas (ullinj) along the road catching the light of a long-setting sun.  Ten young men with three crop-eared pit-bulls walking up the middle of the road; invincible.  A white capped person in a brown robe sitting alone just above the slope to the lake below.  My own 100 foot shadow staggering in height beside me.  A goat and two kids harassing a sapling.  It brought to mind the extraordinary nature of the places we humans choose to live.  There is no limit to what could be done here in Sauk, or an hour away in Fushe-Kruje, just down the road in Tirana, or further away still in Kruje.  God has a clean canvass in Albania; a canvass of finely woven, sometimes course thread.  Threads don’t choose to be of silk, jute, or sisal; God chooses that.  And He has a purpose for them all.   

Our little cat died in the night.  Last night she was not making sounds as she cried, but she was not interested in eating, so I set her down for the night.  When I woke up this morning she lay cold and lifeless in her box.  Sprout brought many smiles.  She may have been a week old, maybe not quite a week.  Her eyes never opened.  I placed a bottle filled with warm water next to her body in her box because I believe in miracles, and I do believe in miracles.  I am not looking forward to telling Nella and Parek, just as I was not looking forward to making this post to you.