September 30, 2008: A Change of Plan

Dear Friend,

I had a conversation with a homeless man this morning. His name is Marin, or something like that. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying all the time. I had taken Iris’ two dogs outside for their morning fresh air when he approached me, asking me something in Romanian.

“Nu vorbesc româneşte bine,” I told him (“I don’t speak Romanian well.”)
“English?” he asked.
“Da,” I replied (“Yes.”)

We then had a conversation in English. For a homeless man he spoke English rather well. He looked like the typical homeless man. He wore a long coat, underneath was a long sleeve shirt of some kind. His pants didn’t have holes in them (none that I could see) but were worn in. He had a cap (not a baseball hat) on his unkempt hair and his beard and mustache obscured most of his face. He smiled when he spoke, though, a little twinkle in his eyes, probably the remains of whatever joy he continued to hold onto despite his circumstances. Every so often, during the conversation, he would fold his gloved hands and nod his head, emphatically understanding a point being made. I was having a battle inside of me the entire time I was speaking with him. He was homeless, a stranger, someone and altogether something I had rarely encountered before. I was also trying to keep an eye on two dogs that weren’t my own and that I was only beginning to be able to command. Yet, as has been happening lately, I looked at him and told myself, “He’s a child of God. What would Jesus do?” That sounds tacky, but when you actually ask yourself that question your relationships with people begin to change.

“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Wisconsin.”
“Wisconsin, ah. In the north.”
“Yes.”
“What is the news there?”
I didn’t know how to reply. “Elections are coming up.”
“Who are the candidates?” He didn’t actually say those words, but that’s what I believe he was trying to say.
“Obama for the Democrats and McCain for the Republicans.”
“You have Tony Blair now.”
“No, George W. Bush.”
“What?” He was confused.
“Tony Blair is England.”
“Ah! You are United States.”
“Yes.”
“I understand now. I thought you were English. I was confused when you said Wisconsin. What ocean are you by?”
“I’m by Lake Michigan.”
“Lake Michigan, yes. And Seattle is?”
“In the west, by the Pacific Ocean.”
“Yes. Wisconsin is a region?”
“A what?”
“A region.” He started making a circle in the air with his hands, as if building a perimeter around something. “A province?”
“Wisconsin is a state.”
“A state, yes.”
“What’s your name,” I asked.
“My name is Marin.” (again, I have no clue if that’s what he actually said)
“My name is Kailen.”
“Kevin?”
“Kailen.” I said it slowly this time.
“Kailen. Your accent is so…” He started moving his hands in the air again, trying to demonstrate the words he couldn’t find in his head.
“Slow?’ I offered.
“No, not slow,” he assured me. “Maybe in the South. Slow.” He elongated the last word and we laughed about it. I had a feeling my accent sounded strange to him, but how strange and what kind of strange I couldn’t tell. “You have to go?”
“I do.”
“Well, then, Kailen,” he said, now straightening himself and touching the collar of his coat in a very businesslike manner, “I have no money for a coffee. Do you have money for a coffee?”
“I don’t,” I half-lied. “Sorry.”
“Well, then. I’ll be going.”
“Alright. Nice meeting you.”

Iris told me later when I mentioned my exchange with Marin that he was once a professor, or learned man of some kind. Drinking, however, took over him and he’s now utterly lost. People have tried helping him, but he won’t accept. I felt bad for not offering him money, but I had already been told by a number of people not to offer any of the homeless any money. Despite my desire to help, and the guilt I felt from not helping, it was probably, in some way, the right decision.

I was supposed to go to see the parliament building today, but Luisa told me she hates that building, so we didn’t go there today. Instead, we went to a museum that happened to be open on a Tuesday (some museums are indeed open on Tuesdays here.) The “George Enescu” National Museum is in the Cantacuzino Palace. George Enescu was a famous composer, violinist, and pianist. Most of the time at the museum was spent watching a documentary I felt I could’ve watched during my free time, but then I realized this was my free time. I got to see some original manuscripts, awards, and pictures of Enescu in the museum. He was an amazing, humble man, a great teacher, and an innovative composer. Romania is very proud to have him in their history.

Luisa had to leave early, so I was handed off to Alina. Alina took me to the Museum of the Romanian Peasant, which apparently has an indoor museum and an open air museum. We went to the indoor museum. I really didn’t know what to expect, but was completely amazed with what I saw. I’m only mildly interested in textiles and pottery, but this museum had an old fashioned stove, an old house, parts of an old Orthodox church, and a giant windmill. All of these things were the real deal and all of them were made of wood. I just couldn’t believe the resourcefulness of a people who didn’t have electricity or the knowledge of fossil fuels. At least, at this point this didn’t. I got especially excited about the windmill (must be a Dutch thing) because I finally got to see for myself the inner workings of the machine. The whole romantic idea of building one myself came to mind, then my common sense overruled my imagination and reminded me that I really wouldn’t take that much time out of my life to build a windmill. It was fun to dream for awhile, though, especially in a museum.

Vali and I did get to see Romeo and Juliet, or Romeo şi Julieta. We managed to get in free, but had to wait until everyone was seated. When we were allowed to enter, we discovered that everyone hadn’t been seated. We got unseated twice because we had sat in seats already purchased. It was an unusual feeling, being kicked out of a seat you know isn’t yours and then moving to another one you may also be kicked out of. Part of me thought we should’ve just bought the tickets, but as we were able to get in free it made sense to try and make it work.

The show was, of course, in Romanian, but I already knew the story well enough to not need English. However, because I wasn’t listening to English I had a hard time figuring out if this was indeed William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, or if someone simply adapted the idea, maintaining the obvious and necessary plot points in order to stay true to the general story. It’s quite possible the script was abridged also, because the show was a little over two hours and didn’t have an intermission, very atypical of an unabridged Shakespeare play. Then again, it’s also possible I don’t know the show as well as I would’ve thought.

The theatricality of the show was very impressive. It was a bare stage, with a starry backdrop. The only set pieces were chairs and a ladder and all were used effectively throughout the show. The lighting was done very well. The costumes were also minimal. From what I could tell, the acting was done very well. The scene where the nurse discovers Juliet “dead” after she drinks the potion was very moving. Juliet isn’t actually dead, but along with the music (which was, to my knowledge, original) the actor who played the nurse made me feel as if Juliet actually was dead. It was very moving. The choreography was also very well done. In one instance, the actors who played Romeo and Juliet performed a dance during what would’ve been the love scene. Overall, it was a very good production. I feel I had desperately needed some form of good theatre by this point.

Vali and I had a really good conversation about faith on our way back to the flat. I don’t know if I necessarily agree with everything he has to say, which would be quite alright with him. We do, however, agree about being prompted by the Spirit to love others as Christ did and also to live a life which involves sacrifice and does not involve complete and absolute comfort. I told him about how I’ve recently been compelled to actually name individual people I see as “children of God” or being “made in the image of God.” He was really happy with that.

A change of plan. What exactly does that mean? Initially, I titled this entry “A Change of Plan” because that’s what happened with regards to visiting parliament. However, there were a lot of “changes to the plan” throughout the day, even “changes to the Plan.” Take, for instance, Marin. I’m certain being homeless wasn’t meant to be a part of the Plan. Even my not giving him money. Was that a part of the Plan. It was a part of my plan, but was it a part of God’s? Did I fulfill some other part of God’s Plan simply by having a conversation with Marin? I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that will somehow fulfill some extra measure of the Plan. How that will play out, I’m not certain. I’m probably not supposed to know. I told a friend today on Facebook that, in general, we’re sometimes not supposed to know. Only God knows. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. And that’s cool. Talk later, friend.

Blessings.
Kailen