Kosova Revisited

And so I awoke to the unfamiliar way the emerging sun lights my house, to a sore throat, a complaining stomach, an inexpressible fatigue, and to thoughts and reflections as unorganized as the pile of dirty clothes now strewn across my floor.
The first time I left Kosova it was with a sense of awe and admiration. I witnessed the presence and working of God in a place filled with love and hope for humanity (and all its distorted past). I left Kosova the first time with a clarity--questions answered and visions of the future set in my mind. I left knowing that I would return, and knowing that the course of my life had been altered in both hidden and recognizable ways. It was from that first time that I knew I would later have an Albanian word permanently stamped on my wrist--lavderoj. What I didn't know was that five years later I would be sitting on a beach in Albania with seven precious students surrounding me, and that I would be telling them about my belief in God's voice and his unmistakable plan for my life and my passion for Kosovars. I told it in words that were not my own. I think I ended by explaining just why the word glorify had to be in Albanian. Not finding the adequate words, I said "and I really like you guys," and patted Rufat's knee. They smiled. And so did I. I think Lynn was crying. My love for Kosovars had been exposed and expressed. There it was, frighteningly dangling in the silence. But it was not left unreciprocated. The hearts of Kosovars are generous and willing. They have loved me genuinely. They have shattered my shell.

As the Americans stood around a van at 2:45 in the morning on the day of our departure (the abashed sadness apparent in the smiles) Besarta, one of our students and a believer, squeezed me hard. She released me, grabbed my hand and turned it skyward. "Don't forget this," she said with a point to my wrist. "Don't forget this". She may have said it more. I was too baffled to notice.