My Letter

Dear friends and family,

I had a bit of a freak-out moment yesterday. Looking at my calendar, I realized that, though I still have 3 full months until my return to Canada, I only have a little over 40 days that I will be here, at my placement. Between closing seminars, camps and other commitments with the Roma mission that take me away from the village, and then some travel after I finish at my site, it's going to be a busy summer, and it's going to go fast.

In my panic, yesterday I cleaned my room top to bottom—going through books I've borrowed, mementos I've picked up, and a massive stack of papers that have accumulated from one thing or another—with packing for my return trip in mind. I kept thinking "how am I ever going to fit this all into one 23-kg suitcase?” Talk about déjà vu . It’s strange that I'm feeling now some of the same emotions as I did a year ago, when I was preparing to come here--that bitter-sweet feeling of anticipation mixed with sadness, that jittery feeling when your mind is going in a million different directions thinking of all the things you need to do, and strangely enough, a bit of fear.

One of the country coordinators for the YAGM program suggested that, now that the date on our return tickets is dancing (or looming) before our eyes (August 31 for me), we write a letter back home to share how we’re feeling at this point. What they call “re-entry,” our return home, is not always an easy transition and I’ve heard many times about how strong can be the effects of reverse culture shock. Once the excitement of reunions quells, we begin the not-so-easy process of coming to grips with what we have experienced in the past year, understanding how we have changed, and reconciling our new selves with our old life. This is my attempt to write (with my usual lack of brevity) such a letter.

My life here—which is quiet and peaceful on the one hand, but varied and unpredictable on the other—is so different from my student’s life back home, yet, against all odds, it’s become my new norm. I’m going to miss not knowing what new adventure the day will bring, whether it’s helping with a grape harvest, traveling with a Roma musician to a funeral, tasting wine at a family’s 200-year-old wine cellar in the hills just outside the village, or having a conversation with a child guiding a flock of sheep or a man gathering firewood alongside the river.

I’m used to operating in Hungarian, or a strange combination of several languages, having coffee with a group speaking Swiss-German (I exhausted almost my entire vocabulary with “danke schön”), or making a frenzied attempt to translate for a conversation between an American missionary and the local Hungarian pastor. Saying the Lord’s Prayer in Hungarian is almost as automatic as in English, and when I need to know how to spell a word in English, I look it up in Hungarian (hooray for phonetic languages.)

The privilege of getting to know the people here is the most valuable aspect of this experience. As they have become a part of my life, and I their’s, they have secured a place in my heart. The people here in Hungary—no matter to which cultural or ethnic group they belong—have introduced me to their culture, welcomed me into their families and their lives, and patiently helped me learn a new language. I’ve been inspired by examples of deep faith, perseverance, and commitment to one another. This year has been an exercise in humility, trust, and accepting my own weakness and vulnerability.

I’m going to miss the everyday life: being greeted by the warm smiles of the people that come to the senior’s centre every day and playing infinite games of Uno with them, going to the grocery store with my wicker shopping basket (handmade by a Roma man I know) and asking for half a loaf of bread and 20 dkg of cheese, going for runs along the river and bike rides in the countryside. I’m going to miss instant heat from the propane stove (you can have water boiling in 45 sec-onds flat), and stress-free shopping (there is only one kind of toothpaste—no decision to make!) and yes, I might even miss the coziness of heating my room with a wood stove in the winter (though will I be ever so grateful for electric heat at the turn of a dial!) I love the new things I’ve learned and that I’ve had time to dabble in hobbies I haven’t been able to enjoy since I was probably about sixteen: playing the guitar, crocheting and knitting, biking, running, yoga, reading, drawing, baking. I’m afraid of leaving it all, especially the people, behind.

In a way, I’m afraid of going home too. I’m afraid of how things have changed. Both sets of grandparents are moving into assisted living or nursing home facilities. My parents have sold the cabin, which in a lot of ways has felt like my childhood home, and it won’t be long and they’ll be moving away from Langenburg to settle in northwest Ontario. I’ll have other friends that are moving away too. Some have finished school now; some have new jobs; some have even gotten married.

I’m also scared about the things that haven’t changed. I’ve become a different person since I’ve been here, and maybe even in ways I can’t recognize yet. There are surface changes: I handwrite now, for one. I always used to print, but here found myself teaching children to write in cursive, so I had to learn it myself (Hungarian cursive is a little different than English), and the efficiency of it won me over. I’ve learned things about myself, some good, some not so good, but overall I’ve become more comfortable with the person that I am. I won’t even begin to delve into the ways that my world view has changed, or the lessons I’ve learned about race, poverty, faith, service, or belonging to each other as people, because most of these things I’m only beginning to sort out myself.

On a daily basis I’m doing things that I used to be afraid of, or that I never thought I’d ever do, often without thinking twice about it. I can chop wood on my own and navigate the Budapest metro (including the death-defying escalators) without a rise in my blood pressure. After being called upon so many times to play the guitar or sing in front of people, it doesn’t seem like a big deal any more (the thought itself used to be enough to turn my hands to ice). I’ve learned that you don’t have to be talented at something like music, but if you can use it to bring someone else a little bit of joy, then you have a gift to share. People who read my blog entry way back into September about my horror at being spontaneously called upon to play the organ in front of a group of Hungarian and Swedish pastors and bishops, despite my protests that I don’t play the or-gan, will appreciate the irony in the fact that I’m the regular organist at church now (on a pipe organ at that!) This experience has eroded me, changed me, and I’m grateful for it. But how will the new person I’ve become fit back into my old life?

Maybe the changes won’t be obvious to anyone else, as to a large extent they’re changes to the way I look at the world, and the way I know myself. It might come as a relief, actually, to the people closest to me that I’m still the same Kristy. While it’s a bit disconcerting that maybe nobody will notice that I’ve changed, the prospect is even scarier that maybe I’ll go back to exactly the person I was before I left (not that that person was all that bad or anything, just that I don’t want to lose the lessons I’ve learned here.)

All that said, I really can’t begin to list all the things I’m looking forward to about being home: being together again with family and friends goes without saying. I can’t wait to have long visits with friends at the coffee shop; to see my hometown again; to walk around Wascana Lake and see the U of R campus (where I’ve spent more hours than I could possibly count); to begin ballroom dancing again with my boyfriend; to go out to my favourite restaurants; to eat sushi (which, for some bizarre reason I’ve been craving since September). I’m eagerly anticipating my first visit to my grand-parents, who are moving to Saskatoon, so will be living nearby for the first time in my life. I’m ex-cited to recommence the tradition I have with my sister of going to Smitty’s for lunch after church every Sunday.

I look forward to a hot bath, to eating peanut butter again, and drinking a big mug of coffee (not espresso-sized!) or a London Fog from the Java Express near my apartment. I even look forward to public washrooms you don’t have to pay for, to pedestrian right-of-way, and to North American-style light switches and power outlets and toilets that flush in the way I’m used to… things that don’t represent a better way of doing things, but just one that is more familiar to me.

I look forward to be to being in a place that I know. To going back to the flavours and smells and sounds that are familiar. To overhearing English spoken in the streets and on television and to understanding what’s being said to me without any struggle. To going to church back home at St. Paul’s in Langenburg, and knowing the songs and understanding the sermon. It’s just not the same worshipping in a language that’s not your native tongue. I’m probably going to cry when I hear “go in peace, serve the Lord,” because I haven’t heard those words since they brought an end the commissioning service last August.

For every single thing that I am anxious about, there is at least another for which I am excited, which is maybe what makes the process of going home so complicated. It helps having people understand that if there is mixed emotion about coming home, it does not mean that I am not happy to be there (quite the contrary) and if I’m always talking about my time in Hungary, it does not mean I preferred that life, or that I don’t want to hear about what has happened in your lives over the past 365 days.

It might take me a little while for my head to stop spinning once I get back home, but I can’t wait to reconnect, to tell you my stories and to hear yours. I can’t thank you all enough for your support through every step of this journey, and for your cards and letters, and thoughts and prayers. See you in less than three months!

Peace, Kristy