Waiting for Boaz (a.k.a. Hey Bo! Get yo az over here!)

When I was in my late teens, I remember feeling sad for my friends who were in their mid to late twenties and still waiting for Mr. Right to come around. These were really spirited, strong and attractive women. Why wouldn’t guys be flocking? I myself just always assumed that I’d be married by the time I was 25. I didn’t have a reason for this assumption and neither did I reflect much over the possibility of not being married by then.

But now I’m on the other side of 25 and as it happens, I’m still waiting.

You know you’re on your way to becoming a spinster with three cats when your friends, work colleagues and students try to pair you off with three different men in the span of a week. Last Friday at our teachers’ party, I noticed a guy watching me pretty intently. I didn’t think much of it until one of my colleagues drew me aside and pointed it out to me. Apparently he’s a very nice, but very shy, math and chemistry teacher from the school’s science program. She’s now encouraging me to ”bump into” him sometime, because he’s obviously not going to make the first move. Yeah....no.

Yesterday my students went a little gaga over the ”special guest” I brought to class: a guy from Canada who’s here in Lidköping for three months playing hockey with the local team. ”You guys looked so cute up there together. You should hook up. We’re rooting for you.” Aww.

And today I got a call from my friend Maria who, totally excited, said she had found the ”man of my life”. Apparently she had asked a pastor friend of hers who lives in a neighboring town if he knew of any eligible young men in search of a life partner, since she has a friend who is also in need of one. And as luck would have it, he did have someone in mind. It turns out that Maria saw him in church a couple of weeks back and her initial impression of him was that he seemed like a good, stable, in-love-with-Jesus kind of guy. As she’s telling me this on the phone, I’m thinking to myself, ”Hmm, I wonder if she’s going to tell me that she’s inviting both of us over to her place for a 'coincidental' meeting.” But instead she proceeds to ask me if I wouldn’t mind going out on a blind date with him. WHAT?? My immediate response was no. Like, omg, awkward. But then I reverted to giving a noncommittal answer because I figured I'm at a point in my life where excuses to not go out on a blind date sound thin. I told her that if he makes the first move, I might consider it. But we’ll see. I’m not convinced.

So Boaz, if you’re out there, please holler back asap, because I’d really like to get out of going on blind dates with total strangers. And just in case you are unsure of whether or not you are the Boaz I’m looking for, I’m laying out my list of requirements here. Be warned that the standard is high. Like my dad wrote to me recently, I’m a pioneer, not a settler. So here’s the list of required awesomeness:

1. You must be crazy in love with Jesus. You need to love the church and you’ve got to be firmly rooted in the Word. Period. I am not compromising on this point. If you fit this description, then you may proceed to point number two:

2. I prefer that you be multilingual. French, Spanish, Swedish and Italian are all good options. English is a must. Still with me? Good. Move on to number three:

3. You need to be mobile, willing and able to live in a country (or countries) not your own. If this is you, move on to the next point:

4. You must love the following: a. travel, b. good food, c. good music. If we don’t share these interests, I really doubt that it would work between us. Sorry.

5. You need to have a job and a vision for you life. And when I say vision, I mean big vision. Why be mediocre when you can be awesome? You serve a big God, so get with His program.

6. I want you to want to be a team with me. Much like my parents are. They’ve worked and ministered together all of their married lives, and although they are polar opposites, they complement one another well (by the grace of God, I should add). They have each other's back, and that's the way it's got to be with us. If you’re still with me, move on to the last point:

7. You’ve gotta be hot. You can call me vain and superficial all you want, but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking that looks don’t matter. You can fulfill all the aforementioned criteria, but if I’m not attracted to you, it just isn’t going to work. But don’t panic. There are a lot of types that I consider handsome, so you may have a good chance.

If you’re still there and not searching for the nearest exit, let me know you exist. Then maybe I can finally stop listening to J Lo’s ”What is love?” and feeling like I ”totally identify.” Thanks.

Home for the holidays

Words that bring nostalgic feelings about Christmas: Boston. Lasagna. Barack Obama.

So, you may think, Boston makes sense, lasagna I can understand, but Barack Obama? Let me explain.

After five years of not having seen my dad’s side of the family, I decided to invite myself over for Christmas. My head and heart were full of nostalgic feelings at the thought of spending a second Christmas in Boston. The big Italian family reunion, the New England cold, that old American something that I find so desirable yet can’t put a finger on.... My uncle and his family live in Boston while my grandparents live in upstate New York (otherwise known as God’s country, if you happen to be talking to my grandmother). I currently live in Sweden, which accounts for the five years of separation. My uncle Christopher and his wife Dorothy were gracious enough to say yes to my request, even though it meant hosting the entire family (Gramma and Grampa included). Anyone who comes from an Italian-American and/or otherwise dysfunctional family understands the full weight of this generosity. But I digress.

On to lasagna. Christmas would not be complete without Gramma’s lasagna. I grew up in a half Swedish half Italian-American home. Since it was my mother who was Swedish, the Christmas dinners at our house resembled those of her native country: crisp bread with butter and cheese, shrimp and marinated herring, meatballs and small potatoes, ham and lutfisk (which was once described by a family friend as the piece of cod that passes all understanding).* But whenever we spent Christmas with my dad’s family, there was lasagna. Turkey, stuffing and lasagna. Pusties, cannoles and lasagna. Italian sausage, meatballs and lasagna. My grandmother felt it was her personal duty to provide the partakers of Christmas dinner with lasagna. Even though there was already enough food on the table to feed all of Manhattan.

So, true to form, Gramma brought lasagna to Boston. And tomatoe pie. And pusties. And her fruitcake. The infamous fruitcake that she made every year and sent to her kids in the mail. Of course, it was almost petrified once it arrived in Portland, Oregon, where my family lived for 10 years. When my parents and I moved overseas to Europe, she gave up on sending it - a great relief to us all, especially to my dad who insisted on eating it out of guilt. He was the only one of us who would touch it.

Over this splendid dinner of lasagna and other delicacies, the inevitable topic of politics came up. My grandparents are both avid watchers of Fox news and equally avid supporters of Republican presidential candidates. My extended as well as immediate family have also historically voted Republican, but in the last election both my brother and uncle voted (gasp!) for Obama. This was of course unsettling to my grandparents who must have felt that they had failed somehow in raising their children right (pun intended). The topic was raised again when this time, my cousin Anthony, who recently turned 18, declared that he would vote for Obama in this next election. My grandfather subsequently went off on how Obama has spent so much money and been irresponsible with America’s economy, etc. His face turned red, his hands shook and his voice grew to a feverish pitch. He concluded his pleasant monologue with what became material for imitation during the rest of our time together: ”Anyone who votes for Obama is an idiot.” (If you say this in a loud voice and with an upstate New York accent, you will be getting close.) Being who he is though, my grandfather quickly cooled down to his normal temperature and was soon back to his jovial self. And after a few minutes, he was laughing at our imitations of him. My grandfather is too sweet to hold a grudge for long. My grandmother remained uncharacteristically silent during the whole speech, but then again, she has been more ”docile” since her stroke a couple of years ago....

The other topic of conversation was of course my (lacking) love life. My grandmother reminds me repeatedly that she lights a candle for me at every mass, so I was prepared for a barrage of helpful suggestions and questions over potential candidates, but I wasn’t prepared for her comment about my fabulously wide hips, ”great for giving birth”. I laugh, because I know she only says those kinds of things out of her great affection for me. But what did give me a slight twinge of despair is that she stated at one point that she’s almost given up hope that I will find someone. Once, several years ago, she told me to not be so ”damn particular” about men. I let it slide because I intend to be particular at all cost, even if it means ending up alone. But somehow that reprimand has stuck with me. Am I too particular? Or am I just aware of my own worth and unwilling to compromise on what I know would make me truly happy? I know the answer, of course, but still, it’s a question that I sometimes ponder during my weakest moments of wallowing in self-pity. But again, I digress.

All in all, the Christmas weekend spent in Boston was most definitely the highlight of my year. I got to play games with my cousins, stroll around the city, wax poetic about my desire to be wealthy, and, of course, avoid eating fruitcake.

Oh! I almost forgot the garish red satin blouse thing that I got from Grandma. She was so proud of it too. I gave her my usual cheerful and slightly louder than necessary ”Thank you, Gramma!” and silently vowed to leave the blouse for Dorothy to take to Goodwill. (She later informed me that they had tried to give the blouse away as a white elephant gift, but nobody wanted it.)

*This is funny if you are familiar with the Bible verse that says ”the peace of God that passes all understanding.”

Starting Over

You can generally tell how full a person’s life is by the number of keys they have on their keyring. Keys to the house. Keys to the car (which in my case was a moped). Keys to the church. Keys to the office. Keys to the post office box. In one week I went from having all these keys to having none. I’m starting over.

I’m thinking about what it means to have zero keys on my keychain, what it means to start over. It means getting comfortable with a new home. Creating that special space from scratch. Choosing furniture, deciding where all the artwork will go, acquiring those basic ingredients you need to make yourself feel at home. It takes some time to introduce yourself to a new situation. Confronting those cracks in the walls, the dripping faucet, the toilet that doesn’t quite flush right. At first all these dysfunctions glare at you for being the stranger that you are. But eventually you get used to one another and agree to ignore each other’s defficiencies, like old friends.

Starting over also means memorizing a new landscape. It takes a few tries to figure out which is the best way to run all of your errands in less than an hour. Which comes first? The bank? The grocery store? The post office? Sooner or later you fall into an efficient routine, but before you encounter that pleasant circumstance, you have to spend some time just wandering aimlessly and decide that that is okay.

Not only must you learn a new geographical landscape, but there is a social landscape that is a bit harder to forge. At least for me. I do not have that strikingly charismatic personality that draws people to me like a baby labrador. It takes a while for me to get comfortable enough in my new environment to muster up the courage to say “Hi, my name is Annika.” I usually have to give myself little pep talks that involve phrases like “Hun, you are God’s gift to this earth” and “Why wouldn´t they want to know you? You’re HOT.” Ha ha, I jest. But the point is, it’s not always easy to arrive upon a scene and know that new friends are just around the bend. But like with any new adjustment, you’ve just got to give it time. Time heals all things, reveals all things.

I have the advantage of not being a total stranger to the country I now call home. I have visited many times and all of my relatives live within a two-hour radius. But I am still a little apprehensive. What if this country that I have idealized all my life turns out to be so far from what I have imagined? It would be hard to face that kind of disillusionment. And what if I don’t fit in? All of my life I have felt so “other,” no matter where I happened to be living. What makes me think this time around it will be different? I don’t know. I’ll just have to see. The most important thing in this new adjustment is to give myself the time and emotional space I need to do just that—adjust. I tend to expect myself to adapt to any situation right away and berate myself for taking such a long time. But just like my now empty keychain, I’ve got space to fill. I am open to every kind of possibility. Step by step I will fill that keychain with new meaning. A new house, a new job, new friends, a new church, a new life. And you know what? I think I’m really looking forward to it. With butterflies in my stomach. And with my keyring in hand.

The Crisis Years

Whoever said that your twenties are the best years of your life was a big fat liar. If these really are the best years, then I might as well stop living when I turn 30. The twenties are the years when your ideals are shattered, you find yourself moving back in with your parents because you can’t afford to pay rent, and you ask yourself, how the hell did I get here?

If you are one of those independently wealthy people who didn’t have to work your way through university and was offered a $50,000 annual salary job right after graduation because your daddy knows someone who knows someone, then I’m not talking to you. In fact, I don’t even like you. No, this is for all those people who had high hopes for a brilliant start to life out on their own, for those idealistic ones who thought the world was theirs to conquer and have instead fallen flat on their faces.

I am 25 years old and one of those unfortunate college graduates who have had to move back in with their parents. And not because I couldn’t find a job after graduation, but because I decided to do the crazy thing and move to Spain. If I had done my homework before moving, I maybe wouldn’t have chosen to live in Andalucia per se. Not only are salaries really low (the average is 1.000€ per month), but the job market isn’t great, especially now with this seemingly endless economic crisis.

But my parents had moved to southern Spain a few months before I graduated from university and it seemed like the perfect place to start fresh. I had this glamorous notion of getting a job at a UN-related NGO, renting a charming old apartment in Málaga’s historic district and buying myself a Mini to speed down the coastal highway on Sundays. How much more European can you get? It was only after I arrived and started job hunting that I realized how unrealistic my ideas were.

After two months of job searching, I landed a job at one of the airport’s many car-rental desks. But of course I got the job with the local car rental company that was still stuck in the Middle Ages when it came to doing business. I worked there for two and a half years and it was such a bad experience that I don’t even want to talk about it. But it did serve to thicken my skin and bring a greater appreciation for my youth. Seeing the resignation in the eyes of my middle-aged colleagues, knowing that this job was all they had, made me feel so blessed to still have options open to me.

I am a bit of a commitment phobic and I get nervous when the choices I make start closing in on me, leaving me little room for escape. But then I think about all the things that I could do during my lifetime if only I would commit myself to something and see it through all the way, no matter what the outcome was. Because the truth is, even though the twenties are crisis years, they are the foundation upon which we build the rest of our lives. These are the years to take risks and make mistakes. If we play it safe now, we’ll regret it later and perhaps make rash decisions that will be harder to get out of as we grow older.

Zora Neale Hurston once wrote, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” The decade that follows college graduation is one full of questions, shattered ideals, financial imbalance, and oftentimes disillusionment. They are years of taking risks and picking ourselves up off the ground. Again. And again. But hope lies in the future, in what is not seen but imagined. And someday we’ll be able to look back at these crisis years and smile, knowing that in hindsight, life is just a series of decisive moments that eventually get us somewhere.

My grandfather said to me recently that it was during those personal desert times that he made the connections that would prove the most significant 10 years down the road. It could be a person he met or something he did or a thought he had, but he wouldn’t realize until much later how important that dry season was for him. Ironically, it is often in our barrenness that we bring forth the most fruit. But it takes time. Nothing happens overnight. So I say BRING IT ON. Crises never last and eventually we will see the light at the end of the tunnel. And no, it won’t be the light of an oncoming train. It really will be then end of the tunnel.

Roadside Assistance

Last weekend my friend and I had planned on spending Sunday morning on the beach. We had spent the night at my boyfriend’s house, watched the Eurovision contest, taken a midnight walk, and the next morning when we got to the car to drive to the beach, we realized the lights had been left on, and sure enough, the car didn’t start.

Now, I have to say that my friend handled it admirably. If it were my car that wasn’t starting, I would be cursing my carelessness and swearing trilingually. She however remained calm, called the car’s owner, then called roadside assistance. A long, hot hour later, the guy arrived, jumped the motor, and asked for her signature. A happy ending to a disappointing Sunday morning.

Today I was sitting down to eat lunch after a frustrating morning at work, trying to hold back my PMS-and-other-life’s-little-complications induced tears when the phone rang. It was my grandfather calling from Sweden to say thank you for that (very short) email I’d sent him earlier this morning. Sidebar: Old people can be really great or really troublesome. My grandfather is of the former category. He loves life, loves God, loves his family, loves the computer. It really doesn’t take much to make the guy happy.

Anyway, he calls me with a most encouraging word about how whenever he’s felt down, in the dark, depressed and disillusioned, God has always worked something in his life that has only made sense years later. No matter how grim the situation looks now, God is working in the background.

I thought about the car in need of a jump start. For the past two years I’ve felt like a dead battery in need of some roadside assistance. Even though I had to wait an hour for the towtruck to arrive, it did get there eventually. That call today was like a jumper cable to my dead battery. As soon as we hung up, I started crying, thanking Jesus for knowing and giving me exactly what I needed right now. My problems are still not solved, my prayers are still unanswered. But I know the towtruck is on its way. Our Daddy knows exactly what we need and His timing is so much better than ours even though it’s so hard to accept. I know He’s working in the background and I have faith that the best is yet to come.