Parts of the intensely shared life that is my reality are endearing.  Sitting at a table that would be uncomfortable for six in America, there are at least 10 people, elbows touching, plates wedged in at all angles. There’s never a question of enough space. Entire families live in single rooms, people sleep in armchairs, you eat standing up, but you never consider inviting less people over.  In a teacher’s meeting at school, I searched for where the English faculty had congregated. I shuffled over to the back corner, stepping over the physics department, and giving a cordial nod to the geography teachers. I slipped in next to my three friends.  It was halfway through the meeting before I realized we were only using two chairs. Personal space is as scarce as a tortilla chip in Ukraine. But it’s  not only the physical that’s compacted, it’s mental and spiritual spaces as well.

Coming home from my favorite corner store, my neighbor called out to me from her balcony. “I have mail for you,” she said. “From Aaaa-merica.”  She always sings America, giving it a mystical, cheerful quality that I’ve come to revere.  I scamper up the steps, drop off my eggs and bread, and walk into her apartment. “It’s a lot this time,” she says excitedly. “Dance! Dance!” I do a little jig and hand her a souvenir magnet from Crimea. She holds it in her hands like treasure and passes over my stack of mail.

“That one is pictures,” she says pointing to the biggest package which was bulky and heavy. Her grandson Vadik speaks English and read the customs declaration, which was partially honest but purposefully vague. “This one’s from your Riley,” she says winking at me, “and the last one’s not interesting, it’s just work stuff from Washington.” While I’m truly grateful that she picks up my mail when I’m out of town, the unbelievable part is that she not only scrutinizes every envelope, she expects me to open my mail in front of her. If I start to leave or hesitate to rip into them under her watchful eye, she makes small talk about the stamps or the address labels and guesses what she thinks is inside. Despite the fact that opening someone else’s mailbox is a felony back home, I can’t deny her.  Although practically blind and completely illiterate in English, she’s just too earnestly interested in my personal correspondence. I give in. She claps her hands together and hums as I tear across the seal. I translate partial phrases, summarize main ideas, and describe the pictures. She holds the letters in her hands and squints with a magnifying glass for any familiar word. “Ukraine!” she cries at a letter from my friend Janice in the package reportedly containing photographs.

I reveal two large bags of contraband Swedish Fish. My absolute favorite candy. I immediately open one and give her a handful. She squeezes one between her thumb and pointer finger. She smells it. She plops it in her mouth. Chew, chew, chew, chew. Swallow. Gasp! “Was that gum?” she asked with concern pointing to her intestines and making an X with her arms. I assure her it is safe to consume, but she goes back to the kitchen and shows me a pack of gum. She shakes her head and points to her stomach. Even though I have a pretty decent Ukrainian vocab, there are still words like digestion and water soluble that I  don’t know. I pop four fish into my mouth and chew them up. “Mmmm,” I say. “It’s okay, really. You’re supposed to eat them.” Suspicious yet intrigued, a common emotional combo for her, she extends a small coffee cup for me to fill. “For Vadik,” she says.

My two weeks in the Black Sea came complete with an advanced course in group mentality. Traveling in a group of four, I assumed we would have two rooms of two. Instead we pulled two extra beds into one room. It didn’t save any money. The rate was per person. They just wanted to all be together. All the time. We woke up at the same time and ate the same meals at the same time. If someone bought a bottle of water, the first thing she did was offer it sacrificially to the group.  Regardless of the inevitable culture clash of traveling as the solo-American, it was a unforgettable trip. Over wine one night, my 33-year-old friend, a mother and wife, who traveled for the first time without her husband or son told me something I can’t stop smiling about. “I feel that I’m different since you came here” she said. “I feel that I became stronger.” That one comment was worth every shared seat, letter, and drink in Ukraine.

Believe it or not, being engaged and in the Peace Corps is not the easiest thing in the world. When I started dating Riley, I was finishing my application to the Peace Corps. I remember questioning rather to even include the fact that I was in a relationship since it was so new and seemingly tenuous. Little did I know a year and a half later he would be flying to Ukraine to propose.  Life is full of surprises

The last six months since he popped the question have been exciting, depressing, humorous, confusing, and wonderful all at the same time. The fact that I can plan a wedding from 6,000 miles away is cool. The fact that I only see my fiancé on a computer screen is not. The pain of missing him is compounded by two factors: firstly, everyone is always telling me how sorry they feel for me. This makes me feel sorry for me, too. I mean, really, who goes and gets engaged and then lives in another country for two years? This is illogical, I hear all the time. And then I start to believe it. I see my friends get engaged, shop for dishes and curtains, and get married. In less than a year. Spending nearly everyday together. I get more cynical. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, I tell myself. This is cruel. Which brings me to my second point.

The Peace Corps is not the Marine Corps. I can leave at anytime. It’s my choice to be here. I’m not a masochist. So why don’t I just go home? Live in the same time zone as Riley, pick out china patterns, and be married by Christmas. Well, there’s this tiny little detail. I actually don’t think that I just chose to be here. I feel useful, needed, and challenged in Ukraine. I believe God wants me here. It should make it easier that Riley thinks that, too. But it doesn’t always. I routinely forget this vital fact. And when it smacks me in the face, I rebel against it. The other night, I was talking to Riley and admitted that I just really wanted to come home. I said I wished that instead of doing web development work, he had a steady job with health benefits so he could support us while I looked for work in the states. I said I didn’t know how much longer I could be away from him.

I was coming from a pretty selfish standpoint. I missed him. I missed laughing together and eating ice-cream and watching Cowboys games. But, he came from a different place. He said half-jokingly, “Maybe God knows if I had that kind of job right now you’d come home, and I really think you’re supposed to be in Ukraine right now.” Joking or not, it struck a chord, and I knew God was trying to tell me something.  And I hated it. I literally writhed and whined, lamenting my plight in the world. My friend Molly was over, and I complained to her, “I don’t want to be mature about this.” She replied with a chuckle in her ten-year-older-than-me-knowledge, “Don’t worry, you’re not.” 

God is really teaching Riley and me some pretty important lessons in all this. Like the fact that we are not God. We cannot even begin to do this on our own. Of all the lessons we have to learn as a couple, this is probably the best foundational one. The other day, I was listening to music and feeling melancholy when a song I had never heard came on. The lyrics went like this, “Those who trust in the Lord are as strong as mountains. They will not be moved.” I really needed to hear that. I needed to be reminded that my God is a constant source of strength. And I am human. Trusting in myself and in Riley is not going to cut it. 

As fate would have it, after weeks of trying to track down a protestant church in Ukraine (no small feat!), I finally found a phone number for a Baptist Church about an hour away from me. I called a very enthusiastic and slightly confused man named Vladamir, the local pastor. The trip to Burshtyn was filled with obstacles, like hailing a bus in the middle of the street and getting off at the wrong stop. But we made it. And Vladamir was there to greet us. As soon as we got to church, we felt like family. I know that sounds cliché, but as foreigners in the former Soviet Union, this is not a common feeling. It takes a while for people to trust you and welcome you into their homes. While Ukrainian hospitality is no myth, this was the first time I felt it instantly. Never mind the fact that I didn’t understand half the things being said. They were smiling, gave us hot tea, and kissed us on the cheek. Before the service started, Vladamir gathered Molly and me to pray with a couple of other people. We listened as intently as we could to their heartfelt, Ukrainian language prayers. I didn’t get most of it. As a government employee and secondary school teacher, my vocabulary is limited to social and professional contexts. When it came to my turn to pray, I was afraid. I literally had no words. Then Vladamir said, “In English.” I had forgotten I knew a language effortlessly.  

To open the service, we sang a Christian hymn “How Great Thou Art.” Molly and I couldn’t stop smiling. It was in Ukrainian, of course, but we knew the melody and could translate most of it. One of the funny differences between Ukrainian and English is that we have a lot of little words that mean big things and they have a lot of long words that mean small things. So in translation, the Ukrainian version of “How Great Thou Art” is simply, “Big You.” I mean, really, that gets the point across. So Molly and I sang “Big you, Big you” and thought, truly, How Great Thou Art. God is as strong as a mountain and quite big enough to see Riley and me through this and much more. After spontaneously being asked up front to give our testimonies (in Ukrainian, of course) as the 35mm cameras clicked and flashed, we were ready to sit down. In the back. But Vladamir had another request. “Now you will sing a song?” He half asked, half told. I assumed he meant the whole church would sing a song while we were positioned up front. I was mistaken. He actually wanted Molly and me to belt something out a cappella in English. The congregation waited expectantly. I, true to form, burst out laughing. I have zero musical talent. Molly shook her head and said “We can’t, we can’t,” in Ukrainian. They encouraged us more. I started to translate “Big You” in spoken word, but Molly decided to give them a little taste and sang the chorus. They were looking for more, but we just took a bow and sat down. The sermon drew on Matthew 7, where Jesus asks “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him.” I know that God wants to give me only the best kind of gifts. I know this on my best days. But when I’m at my worst, I think I know better. The next verse I recognized quoted was Psalm 144. I looked it up in my Message translation of the Bible and it began, “Blessed be God, my mountain.” My attention was officially grabbed. 

The day came to a ceremonious end as we ate lunch together and were implored once again to sing English worship songs. We were jolly but at a loss. Then Natalia said she knew only one song with English words, and God reminded me once more that with Him, there’s no turning back, no turning back.

While in any given classroom I’m still the expert on the British-born babble, I can’t help but notice how my own English skills have regressed. (10 point word).  When I started teaching in October, I received feedback like, “Use smaller words and simpler sentence structures.” As a recent Baylor grad, my vocabulary was slightly beyond the grasp of a 10-year-old Ukrainian. Although this particular problem no longer plagues me, I’m more concerned by the fact that I spent a good ten minutes the other day trying to remember the name for thin, green onions (scallions). As a writer, the idea of my vocabulary decreasing is a potentially life-threatening one.

Despite my shrinking lexicon, (maybe I still have it after all), my lack of posts have not been for a lack of words. It is a simple lack of technology. My MacBook Air, which worked perfectly inside the confines of the motherland for a solid six months, decided to reveal a hardware defect once I changed hemispheres–safely outside the reach of any Apple Store.  iTunes, Microsoft Office, and Quicktime programs all mysteriously crashed, something that is apparently related to faulty memory. Oh brother.

This crushing blow coincided with the single-greatest event of my life to-date: Riley proposed! He flew halfway around the world with a ring in his pocket and popped the question. It was pretty much amazing. I couldn’t ask for a more thoughtful, supportive, hilarious, and all-together wonderful fiancé. I’m sure he’ll be embarrassed by my public praise of him, but his modesty is equally as endearing.

In addition to diagnosing my computer troubles, he fixed my sink, and helped me pick out a couch for the living room. I seriously underestimated how sad it would be to watch his plane disappear over the horizon at the end of the week. Not only did I say goodbye to my fiancé, I said goodbye to my fiancé and my computer in one swift motion of isolation.

However, there is quite the silver lining on both accounts. Most importantly, saying goodbye to your fiancé is a lot more reassuring than chunking the deuce to your mere boyfriend. Knowing I have the rest of my life with Riley takes the sting out of his absence—a little bit anyway.  Secondly, in a terrific turn of events, my college roommate, Mary, is traveling through Europe in celebration of her master’s degree (way to go, champ!) and had already planned to make a weekend stop in Tysmenystya, Ukraine. Through the magic of Apple, Fed-Ex, and Riley’s lightening-fast Mustang, my MacBook was repaired just in time to make it on the plane with Mary and thus on its way to me. By the time it is in my hands, it will have logged more than 10,000 miles and a handful of countries, states, and time zones. Oh the wonders of the modern world.

So now you know just how much effort has been expended to ensure that this and future posts will be at your fingertips on a somewhat regular basis. My sincere appreciation to all involved!

**A personal note on the title, I quote the King James Version of the Bible out of context whenever possible. I mean no disrespect for thee or He.

A typical family moment for Brent, 28, Amber, 25, Mom, Dad, and Me, 22

This year, the passing of Labor Day marked more than the end of white shoes or summer vacation. It marked my last month in the states. Since graduation in May, I’ve been to New Mexico, Louisiana, and Waco. I am now nestled in my hometown of Katy, where I will reside until I leave for Ukraine Sept 25.

Far from my typical activities, this summer has been filled with new memories. Besides going to jail with my grandmother, I went swimming with two octogenarians, fed alligators, rode a rice combine, drove an assortment of farming equipment, and taught my grandpa how to play computer solitaire. And that was just in Louisiana.

In Waco, I lived with a darling family of five and worked at the Baylor Line. In between interviews and stories, I learned to crochet (sort of), heard tales of Sergey Bubka, and got the feel for magazine life. In-between work hours, I quasi-nannied three children ages 3ish, 6ish and 8ish. Who taught me that it’s fun to be chased by someone you love, standing on the table is a good way to get attention, and clothes are overrated.

Since I’ve been home I’ve found myself doing things I almost never did growing up. Like going on walks with my parents or doing chores voluntarily. Leaving the country has strange effects on people. Of course, some of my changed behavior could be attributed to increased maturity. But let’s not get carried away.

I love my family dearly. I consider it a blessing that my family isn’t contained in one house, one state, or even one country. My travels have yielded unlikely friendships and broadened my understanding of the world. But the experience cuts both ways. I have learned that to go also means to leave.

When I think about the relationships forged over two summers in South America, I hurt for the friends I may never see again. But I’m so thankful for the time we spent together and the way they shaped who I am today. Our lives are enriched by communion with others, and I can’t wait to learn from and give to a new community in Ukraine.

One of my favorite all-time books is C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves. In it, Lewis says, “The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” So out into the East I go: willfully-vulnerable, anxiously-awaiting new friends, and with a deep and abiding love for all the family I know today.