An Ode to my GPS

We've been on many driving adventures this year, and have rarely gotten lost, thanks to our beloved GPS. The roads here are narrow, and twisty, following rivers, and going through forests, making it difficult to hold on to one's sense of direction. But because of our GPS, we always know what direction we're going, and how many minutes till we arrive at our destination. Though it usually directs us to toll-ways, and has horrible German street-name pronunciation, we owe it quite a debt of gratitude, and even more so, after my recent drive to the Basel airport.

 A few weeks ago, I was home alone while Jordan visited a friend in Africa. His trip would probably be a much more interesting post, but I'm afraid you're stuck with me. I'm a big wimp when it comes to staying home alone at night. I'm so thankful that in the three years we've been married, Jordan has only had to travel a handful of times; I realize that for many couples, that isn't the case. On the rare occasion that he is gone, I have to fight against my tendency to imagine all sorts of terrible things happening-burglaries and break-ins, fires and freak accidents. And each time he leaves, I seem to be tormented by some sort of creature that has decided to move-in with me, in Jordan's absence. Once it was a huge, fleshy centipede in the bathroom, and another time it was a (probably) rabid squirrel in the loft.

Well, I am happy to report that despite a recent influx of giant, black spiders into our apartment, stifling heat that could have been abated had I been brave enough to leave the windows open at night, and an elevator in our building that apparently moves between floors at random hours of the night and sounds very much like bad guys breaking in, resulting in a desperate midnight email to the landlord, who kindly came to check out the situation, as there had been some recent break-ins, I wasn't kidnapped, the house didn't burn down, and I didn't see one spider the whole time Jordan was gone!

And while those events would normally made me nervous, it wasn't staying here by myself that scared me the most this time. Surprisingly, what I was most afraid of was driving to the airport. My friend, Johanna, came with me to drop Jordan off, and on the way home we enjoyed the most delicious afternoon floating down the Rhine River with hundreds of other Swiss swimmers during the hottest week this part of Europe has probably seen in thousands of years. Johanna generously offered to ride with me to pick Jordan up at the end of the week, but I decided to be brave and conquer the drive on my own.

The Basel Airport is actually in both France and Switzerland. (You can literally stand in both countries at one time, as I am pictured doing above.) I'd planned to pick Jordan up on the French side, but I hadn't quite made it to France when my day took a turn for the worst. I was sitting at a light in the right turn lane, somewhere in Germany, or maybe Switzerland, obediently following my GPS, when the light turned green. And unfortunately, even after ten months of stick shift driving, sometimes I still stall. And that's what happened. I could blame it on the slight incline, the heat, the distracting blasts of AC that made it difficult to "feel the engine", as Jordan puts it, but whatever it was, I found myself stopped on the exit ramp, holding up traffic.

Cue self talk: "It's okay, no big deal. Just take a deep breath, get back into neutral, and start the car. It's okay that those people are angry and annoyed with you. You'll never see them again. Just start the car." And I did. Or at least, I tried. Three times. But my car utterly refused to start. The self talk began to sound more desperate, " This cannot be happening. Why didn't I ask Johanna to come? Okay....um....okay. What do I do?!?" My thoughts flitted from action plans that involved whipping out the orange safety triangle and matching vest that all German cars are required to carry, to fantasies about pretending I was in America, and that I still had a AAA card in my wallet.

I managed to turn on the flashers; meanwhile, cars were getting backed up on the exit ramp because of me, and angry drivers were staring me down as they waited at the red light. It was then that I noticed a road sign: "Polizei, 2 km". I decided my only option was to walk to the police station and ask for help. That plan was quickly abandoned, though, after exiting the car and realizing that there was no sidewalk, no shoulder, and no cross walk to get me over the four lane intersection.

Thank goodness for our GPS, who is, as you know, the real hero of the story. It showed me the police station phone number. I am never sure if my phone will work in this country. Sometimes I can send and receive texts, sometimes I can't. Up until that point, I'd never made a call but America kept texting me saying, "Welcome abroad! To call back to the U.S., dial: +1 followed by 10-digit number. Please note international rates apply." So I thought I probably could use the phone, it might just be the most expensive call of my life. I haven't yet seen the phone bill, but I'm sure the call was worth it. I dialed, nervously, and pushed send: The sound of ringing was music to my ears!

"Hallo?"
"Hallo! Sprechen Sie English?"
"Ahh, a little bit."
"Great! Well, my car broke down, and I need a jump start, I'm just off the highway, on 69 As Weil Am Rhein/Huningen, I think? Does that sound right? Is that even a place?"
"Ahh, moment."
Long pause...heat rises, more angry stares from fellow drivers.
"Okay. Someone will come. Stay there."
"Okay. Thank you! Vielen Dank!"

Back inside the car, which was feeling more and more like a sauna every minute, I texted Jordan.

Ten minutes later, I had a brilliant idea. I remembered that when our car didn't start this winter, Jordan showed me how to push start it on a hill, so I could get home from the middle school. Well, I was on a hill, I was just going backwards, but I was pretty sure it would still work. And it would have. If I could have remembered to take my foot off the clutch. Unfortunately, all my gear changing and break pumping only got me closer to the highway. I decided to make a video while I waited.

Twenty minutes later, I was ready to give up on the police. The only problem was, I didn't have another plan. And that's when I saw them: two police officers, a man with a gray beard and a really buff-looking woman were running toward me, across the four lane road, right in the center of the intersection. I was so happy to see them, I didn't even care that we didn't speak the same language. They asked me, in German, if I owned the car, where I lived, and what the problem was. We were able to understand each other until I told them the battery died. The looked at each other, puzzled. "Um...the battery...it, it died...car...it stalled...the battery..." I mumbled. For some reason, when speaking to people who don't understand English, my grammar and sentence structure fall apart.

If you look closely, you can see the police officers running across the road.

"Ahh!" The man suddenly cried. "Batteria? Kaputz?"
"Yes! Yes! Batteria Kaputz! Totally kaputz."
The officers then began furiously typing something into a phone. They showed me a screen that said, "English: tow."
"Ohhh, no, no I don't want it towed, I want a jump start."
Puzzled looks.
"Um, I want to jump the car...." I followed this with a charade-like demonstration of someone hooking up jumper cables, and then making exploding sounds and a really happy face. It seemed to work and without even discussing it, they simultaneously trotted to the back of my car and began to push. I guess they figured that telling me the plan would be pointless since I wouldn't be able to understand them. Not knowing where we were headed, and having the unfortunate job of steering the car through this busy, four lane intersection, I distracted myself by taking pictures...

                                   
                         

We eventually crossed the road, and miraculously, the other cars ignored the stoplight and obeyed the hand signals of these two crazy police officers who were pushing my car. It was only once we got to the other side, that I realized we were not headed to their car where jumper cables awaited us. "Nein! Nein! Nein!" the policeman shouted at me when I began to steer toward his car. He signaled me straight on, down the hill, and then opened the passenger door and jumped into the front seat. All at once I was trying to move my purse and water bottle, and save my sunglasses from being squished under his weight, but only one thought came clearly to my mind: "How did I get here? I don't even know what country I'm in, or who this man is, or how I'm going to start this thing." The police officer didn't count on the girl who asked for a jump start to not know how to push start her car. The situation struck me as so funny, I had to suppress my laughter. And it was a good thing that my spirits were high because he then began yelling commands in German, to which I continually responded with, "Mein Deutsch ist nicht gut!"

My stress levels were so high, that I think I blocked out how the next part happened, but somehow, the police officer and I ended up switching seats. We didn't need to speak the same language to understand that our current strategy was not working. Almost as soon as the police officer got into my car, he got it rolling, removed his foot from the clutch, and Voila!-the car started! There was an awkward minute or two as we continued down the road, the German police officer driving me, I wasn't sure where. To the police station? Did I owe him money? Or maybe it was awkward because I was trying to sneakily take his picture.

At the roundabout, he pulled over, and proceeded to give me directions to the airport, that I did not understand. But I wasn't concerned, knowing my trusty GPS would direct me there. I shook the police officer's hand and said 'thank you' as many ways as I knew how, in both German and English.

Never was I so happy to see Jordan, when I finally arrived at the airport. His flight has been delayed, so the timing worked out perfectly. I forgot to leave the car running, so we had to push start it out of the airport parking lot, but we plugged in the address to the park next to the Rhine River in Basel, and our GPS took us there straightaway, where we ate sandwiches, and I relished in the sympathy I received while telling Jordan my tale.

Tomorrow, I will pass on our GPS to Johanna.  Johanna, I hope it guides you to new and exciting places. I hope it recalculates quickly when you make a wrong turn. And I hope your car never breaks down, but if it does, I know you're in good hands.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I've been getting your letters nearly every week for the past ten months now. The familiar, off-white envelopes with your handwriting are bright spots in my week, waiting for me in my mailbox amidst the German newspapers, junk mail, and bills I cannot read. Since August, nearly everything in my life has been new - country, apartment, job, language, car, groceries, friends, church, systems of measurements, culture, etc....Yet each week, you have given me the gift of news and love from home, wrapped in a cream colored envelope with a global stamp in the corner - Something tangible that comes from a place that I know and understand and love.

Not only that, but your letters speak to my heart that you love me. I've always thought "words" were my love language, but perhaps it is more specifically "mail." :) I've felt cared for and ministered to by your letters, whether you are telling me how proud you are of what we are doing, encouraging me to make the most of my time here, or just filling me in on the goings-on at home.

Several times, I've attempted to write back, but with with each try, I find myself moved to tears by how much I miss you...

I missed you every Monday when I played Risk with my middle school students. I was so much better than them, thanks to your coaching. 

I missed you at the eis cafe in town, where I always ordered kokos (coconut) ice cream, just like I know you would.

I missed you as we attempted to hold our breath through Europe's many tunnels, and when they were too long to do so, we timed them to the millisecond, knowing you would appreciate our precision.

I missed you in Italy, remembering our trip 13 years ago, when we ate Pringles at the top of Saint Peter's, did flips at the toga party, and played catch on the lawn. Pronto!

I missed you during Christmas when I saw a tree made of skis in France, and we skyped with you and Mom and Cody on Christmas morning. 

I missed you at every castle, knowing how you would have loved exploring the ruins...remembering the crumbling estate we used to explore in Lake Forest. 

I missed you in Fuerteventura when Jordan went windsurfing and I wished you were there to cheer him on and make sure he didn't die. 

I missed you when I ordered chocolate croissants at the bakery and saw the smiley face cookies we used to get from Claude the baker's bakery on our dates.

I missed you when Jordan drove me through the apple blossom fields with my head out the sunroof and I remembered when you let Cody and me ride on the roof in Gecawa. 

I missed you when I ate a crepe in Paris...but it wasn't as good as the ones we always get in Breckenridge. Plus there was no first customer discount in Paris. 

I missed you in Switzerland when we skied through the most beautiful mountains I've ever seen...but it felt a little empty without you making parallel turns alongside me. 

  

This has been an amazing year of adventures, but I'm excited to adventure with you again soon.

It's been 314 days since we said goodbye, and only 17 until I see you again. I can't wait!

I love you, Dad.

-Kate

Dear English Class

Dear Eighth Grade English,

I'm sitting here, wondering if you have any idea how much I've loved being your teacher. Only two school days remain, and our classroom is a (mostly) quiet buzz of your voices singing school-house rock grammar songs, quizzing each other on poetry terms, and playing your favorite vocabulary game of sparkle, in preparation for your English exam.

I'm trying to grade your tests, and help return library books, but I find myself distracted by memories of the school year. The window is open and the fresh scent of warm earth rushes in, reminding me of the hot days last fall when this first began.

You may not have known it, but I was so afraid to be your teacher. Some of you were taller than me, and others knew way more than I did about grammar. Suddenly I was supposed to be the final authority on how to spell a word, when for the past five years, the spelling tests I'd given contained words no more difficult than, "dog" or "kite". I felt unqualified and naive, not sure how to motivate students without gold sticks and a treasure box.

You told me later that I'd earned a reputation that first month of school, not for being nervous, but for being strict -writing a student's name on the board if they dared whisper to a friend, and handing out lunch detentions like candy. I once confiscated a (very juicy) note that was being passed and gave the offenders the option of having their note read aloud to the class, or promising to never write a note in my class again. They chose the later, and my reputation was sealed. "Mrs. Jones is so strict," was the word on the street, according to one of my coworkers. What you didn't know was that my heart was pounding when I gave my first lunch detention, and that my mind was racing to decide if your signaling to a friend across the room technically counted as talking, and should result in a check-mark, or it that was unfair, since I hadn't specified 'no signaling', while at the same time trying to explain eight different kinds of pronouns that I barely understood myself. You did make my life challenging at times.

But, oh, how you made me laugh. When we acted out "The Diary of Anne Frank," many of you revealed your previously hidden acting talents, and you begged me to let you play Mrs. Van Daan and wear the fur coat, or Mr. Van Daan and get to "smoke" the pipe. A few of you may have caught onto how much fun I was having deciding who would be married to whom each day. The real drama, though, came toward the end of the play when you fretted over who would have to play Anne and Peter in the scene that they kissed! I saw the relief spread over your faces when Mr. and Mrs. Skidmore joined us in English that day, to play the parts of Anne and Peter.

After a few months, we worked out a deal. You'd realized by that time that I was strict for your own good, and I'd realized that maybe you could handle getting up to get a tissue without asking for permission.  (I'm sorry if I treated you a little too much like six year olds at first.) We came up with some classroom rules together, and decided on a set that we all felt was fair. Some of you continued to receive detentions, but I like to think that you at least felt more ownership over the rules, and your choice to break them.

I don't remember how it came up, but one of you wanted to know which section of 8th grade English was my favorite. My vague answers provoked an intense competition between the two sections of English and I received notes, chocolates, flowers, and the best homemade cookies I'd ever had, all in an effort to win the title of "my favorite class." While neither section was satisfied with, "I love you both the same, but for different reasons," you came together and got me back on April fool's day with a fresh batch of cookies and a note that read,

Dear Mrs. Jones, 

The two eighth grade English classes have decided that we both want to 

be your favorite class. So, together, we baked these cookies for you. 

We hope you enjoy them as much as we did when we tasted them.

Love,

The Blue and White Eighth Grade English classes

It was actually April 2nd when I tasted them, so it took me a minute to realize that there was something horribly wrong with them, and I later learned they had been made with a few extra tablespoons of salt, chili powder and garlic! I like to think I had the last laugh, though, when I walked into class, thanking you profusely for the cookies, but regretting that before I'd had a chance to eat them, Coach R's dog ran into the staff room, and gobbled them all up! By the way, the dog was now at the vet with a terrible stomach sickness and they weren't sure he was going to make it...I couldn't hold the joke in for more than a few minutes, but the tears in Hannah's eyes and the guilty looks on all of your faces were enough to tell me I'd tricked you back.

You'd learned at this point in the year that if you wanted to get me off topic, at least for a little while, all you had to do was ask me for a story. Perhaps it's because I have such fond memories of my eighth grade English teacher telling our class stories. Whatever the reason, I was almost always persuaded to spend a few minutes telling you a story when you asked. You were also always eager to hear entries from my 8th grade journal. You couldn't believe I'd written about thinking that a guy other than Mr. Jones was cute. I saw the recognition glimmer in a few of your eyes as I read to you about feeling left out at times and wondering who my real friends were. I hoped that hearing bits from my journal, and laughing together over some of the entries would persuade you to take your class journals seriously.

I even stood on a chair one day and begged you to keep your 8th grade journal forever because someday it would be nice to look back on. And even if you never wanted to look back on it, you might marry someone like me, who would give anything to be able to read the 8th grade journal of my husband today. So, on Fridays, we journaled. You responded to prompts like, What matters most to you in life?, Is lying always a sin?, What are you thankful for?, and the more popular, What are you not thankful for?, What do you wish you could change about yourself?, What do you daydream about?, and What do you wish your parents understood about you?

Do you know how touched I was by your journal entries? You responded with such candor, and honesty. You wrote about the challenges of living life oversees, of the transitions you've gone through, struggles with your faith, and friendships. Kaden, you made me laugh with your "confession" about the plan you had to run away to Italy with Ian, Fabio, and David, while others of you made me cry with the sweet honesty in your entries.

You also wrote letters, often to our first grade pen pals in Arizona. Hudson, I could not believe that you requested a pen pal named Steve, continued to talk about "Steve" as if you already knew him, and when the letters finally did arrive, lo and behold, you had indeed been paired with a little boy named Steven! Though Steven later requested, "Please do not call me Steve," you guys wrote some fun letters and I was so proud when you wrote Steven and asked him if he knew who Jesus was, and copied some verses, including John 3:16 in your letter.

Thank you, eighth graders for teaching me how to be a middle school English teacher. Thank you for helping me figure out how to turn on the projector and plug in the speakers. Thank you for working hard to pay attention and earn class points. Thank you for working even harder to make me laugh. Thank you for opening your hearts to me in your journals. I don't think you'll ever fully know how much you've touched my life.

I can think of no better verse to leave you with than Philippians 4:1: "My dear, dear friends! I love you so much. I do want the very best for you. You make me feel such joy, fill me with such pride. Don't waver. Stay on track, steady in God." (The Message)

I'll miss you guys.

Love,

Mrs. Jones