Language Barrier

Martina

Her name is Martina. She is from Kazakhstan, like my friend Naz, who introduced us. My first encounter with Martina was last night, when she went with us to look at the sights and eat too much too late afterwards.
Martina's Russian and Kazakh exceed her English speaking skills. Naz, fluent in English, Russian, Kazakh and Chinese, does the bulk of the talking and interpretation for her.
This morning, I came to Naz's hotel room and Martina answered the door. Naz was still asleep. I summoned Martina outside while Naz got ready.
Martina wore a yellow dress that complimented her Eskimo-like dark features with a pronounced nose and slanted eyes. I motioned for her to sit in the only plastic chair on the sidewalk and perched on the not as comfy air conditioning unit protruding from Naz's hotel window.
"I am a teacher," I announced.
"I'm?" Martina asked, wondering if I meant her.
"No," I said, pointing to myself. "I am a teacher."
Martina smiled. "I'm a teacher, too. I study."
I nod. "I teach from the heart, not the head," I said, pointing to each.
"You are afraid to speak English, but you must not let the fear stop you. You must learn to speak from the heart."
I looked into her eyes. "You worked hard this summer," I said, slowly. "Housekeeping is hard work. Thank you for doing the important job of making sure the dirty rooms get clean."
I paused, making sure she understood.
"You are valuable," I said. "Do you know what valuable means?"
Her eyes brightened. "Volleyball," she said.
"No," I replied. "Valuable. Like gold."
Her foreheard crinkled as a blank look stole her expression.
"Gold," I said again. "Very valuable."
"Dirt," I went on, "No valuable."
She nodded, grasping the concept.
"You are gold," I said, looking directly into her eyes.
She teared up.
"You are valuable. You are important."
\I felt like the lady in the movie The Help who convinced a young unwanted child of her worth.
I took Martina's hand and motioned for her to stand.
"Stand here," I said, walking away ten paces. "Now close your eyes and walk to me."
"I'm?" she said, pointing to herself.
"Yes, you. Close your eyes (I closed mine to show her) and walk to me without opening them."
She looked puzzled, but closed her eyes. Was she afraid to defy this strange English speaking expert?
She gingerly stepped in my direction.
"Come on," I coaxed. "You can do it."
She took a few more uncertain steps before stopping an arms length from me.
Martina opened her eyes.
"You let the fear stop you," I said. I returned her to her original position. I backed up to where I had been ten paces away. I closed my eyes. I walked toward her without hesitation and stopped right in front of her before opening my eyes.
"You must be confident," I said, looking into her face.
"You must not let fear stop you."
She nodded.
Impulsively I hugged her. She hugged back. I whispered in her ear.
"I love you."
She whispered back, "I love you, too."
We drew back and each noticed the other was crying.
The language barrier eroded in the light of new friendship.

Front left burner and other single man ramblings

Living alone has its rules. No one writes them. But the lonely understand them. Like using the front left burner on the stove. It's the only one us guys who live alone use.
No need to dirty up the other three. And no need to cook more than one item at a time. After all, it's just you eating.
Why the front left?
Simple. It's closer. Don't have to reach for it. It's nearest the microwave and sink. The other three burners are strictly off limits, reserved for when the kids come over if I have to muster something beyond the scope of one pan.
Most food in a single man house is pre-packaged. Cereal. Milk. Eggs. But eggs are not dealt with more than once a week or so.
Bread. peanut butter. (Can't ever find the original butter knife, so lots of those peanut buttery knives end up in the water cup in the sink for holding until enough gather for a real dish washing session.)
Dishes are done once a week, or quickly one plate as soon as it's dirtied. Either you wash the plate right after eating, or it will become part of a pile to tackle on the weekend. Or, scratch that, weekends are too busy. Maybe on a Monday night. Or a Friday afternoon, just before the kids come over on their weekend. Ya gotta straighten the house in time for the kids to clutter it up.
Their clutter is annoying. Mine is comforting.

Bathroom visitor

I thought I lived alone.

But one day, in the bathroom, I realized I wasn't the only one in there.

An 8-legged intruder hung from the ceiling.

Normally, arachnid ridding is a ritual in a household.

 But I don't live with other humans. So, not wanting to be entirely alone, I let the spider live.

Sure, I can kill it when I'm ready. On my time. I don't have to comply with the standard of snuffing the spider just because someone is freaked out. Actually, it's okay with me that I'm never alone. That I have a guard over the toilet. And the spider doesn't seem to mind, either. Maybe it's grateful for my willingness to let it live. Maybe it doesn't know how lucky it is to live in a spider friendly house.

The ants on the counter are another matter. They have to go...

Making a big splash

Two-year-olds provide their own entertainment for themselves, and for those of us with more birthdays than they.

Not realizing he had an audience, my lil' tyke squatted by the puddle, stick in hand. He smacked the water like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Apparently, the maneuver was intriguing. He smacked the water again, watching the ripple effect. Then he struck in staccato, not waiting for the ripples to subside. Eight or nine whacks.

Then he stood, moved to another side of the puddle, stick in hand. He squatted and repeated the aforementioned procedure.

After his third session, I giggled. He looked up, detected. Then he turned back to the water and spoke on the puddle's behalf: "Ouch! What did you do that for?" he said, imitating the water's supposed reaction to his striking.

The light in the tunnel

 It's here, finally... 2012... the best year of my life!
2011 wasn't hard to beat, in my opinion. Depression. Anger. Separation. Divorce proceedings. Blah blah blah.
When you don't sleep in your own bed (or any bed, for that matter). When you hear she's with another man, you know, it kinda rattles the ol' cage...

But 2011 is gone forever. Yippee!

And now, its up to me. 2012 is gonna be my personal best. I may not have everything like I want it, but get this: I can change myself into whatever God wants me to be, with His help! All I gotta do is ask, and believe, and seek Him!

God's Word does NOT return void. Proverbs 16: 3 says, "Commit to the LORD whatever you do, and your plans will SUCCEED! Not a bad verse... If that's true (and it is) then I am gonna commit to the Lord my pursuit of my wife. I'm not gonna try to make her mine anymore. I'm gonna romance her through God's romance filter. I will pursue her as HE directs me.
I will keep away when He says keep away. I will pursue when He says pursue. I will listen to God and His Word.
My life's tunnel is DARK. I can't see my hand in front of my face. But with the light of God's glory, I can see perfectly. I can see that it isn't the light at the END of the tunnel, it's the light IN the tunnel with me that matters. It's His light. It's his purpose. I am not alone. I am not afraid. I am no longer angry and bitter. Thank you, Lord, for the light of your truth shining so brightly it overshadows the blackest, longest tunnel!

And, because I am learning to be content in this tunnel, with God's light, imagine the incredible joy awaiting me when I reach the end and step into the actual light of living victoriously!
Sure, troubles will still be there. Conflict won't go away. Issues will arise.
But I will have been equipped with the light IN the tunnel and I won't ever have to walk in the dark again, come what may on the outside of the tunnel.