waiting for words

IMG_1872Sometimes I mark time with a blinking cursor. Tucked into a quaint corner of the Europe that I love, I ponder what to write. What story could I tell?

I wonder how to express this moment that bares down on me like an IC train in full motion. All of my senses are engaged. This Europe is in my head, my ears, it covers and invades my body redefining what I wear this morning, what I eat tonight, and how I view my world.

This Europe interprets the never-changing God in different tones and nuances of historical perspective and propels my faith into new directions.

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IMG_1867There is an article in Engage magazine written by somebody that looks a lot like me. Okay. It is me. And, though it may be a surprise to some who know me, the words that populate that particular canvas did not come easily. Like a skittish kitten, they pasted themselves to the corner closet of my mind and stubbornly refused to budge.

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shades of gray

IMGP7177‘Csilla, my hair is orange.’

It’s not what you expect to say when the towel comes off for the initial unveiling.

Nor does one anticipate your 7 year old son answering in the affirmative when you question whether his friend just referred to you as the ‘lady with blue hair’If memory serves correctly, my friend and colleague, Betsy living in Croatia came to terms with her color by referencing it as ‘midnight blue’.

Midnight blue. Fuchsia. Okay, electric blue. Yes, even vibrant purple. Shocking orange. All, valid and popular color choices for Eastern European hair. Continue reading