Kosovo: Chapter 10, Scene 3 Coming Home

I’m back in Ohio now. My last week in Kosovo was filled with visits to friends houses. Several people invited me over for coffee. Of course coffee may include a light meal but always a hefty dessert. 

I cleaned my apartment, packing those memories to bring home and dividing the spoils of my pantry among my friends staying there. It was a bittersweet moment as I closed the door Saturday morning and made my way to the taxi. My taxi driver, Faton, has driven me many places. His wife is my friend. 

“You’ll come back,” he says. It isn’t a question. 

“You never know what God has in mind,” I tell him. “But right now, it’s not in the plan.”

“You must come back,” he tells me. 

I smile. I’ve heard this all week.

I was surprised and oh so happy to see my family!

My plane leaves for Vienna at seven in the morning as planned. I board another plane in Vienna to take me to New Jersey. It’s a long flight across the Atlantic. I measure it by the movies I watch and the routines of the flight. Three movies, one television show, a full meal, two snacks, and one nap later I’m in New Jersey. By seven o’clock in the evening I am in Cincinnati, making my way to baggage claim. 

I expect my mother and youngest daughter will be there to greet me. My oldest daughter and her family are in South Carolina…a trip they made reservations for long before I made this decision to teach in Kosovo. My middle daughter and her family live in Wisconsin. It’s a long drive for a short visit. And I think my youngest daughter’s husband will be at home with two of my granddaughters getting them ready for bed.

I’m wrong. Well, mostly. My oldest and her family are certainly on vacation but the rest of the crew is standing with signs and balloons, hugs, and kisses. It is a warm homecoming. 

There is s true sense of piece to be
on American  soil. A true place of rest.

My mother is the first to wrap her arms around me. Then again, she has always been the first to wrap her arms around me and bring me home, if you think about it. 

All I know for sure is there is a certain peace...a feeling of true rest to have my feet on American soil. It must be what my Albanian friends felt when they returned to Kosova after the war. It is a deep awareness of being in that place of comfort we call HOME.

.

Join me next week for my final Kosovo chapter…the Epilogue.

Kosovo: Chapter 10, Scene 2 Forever Changed

As I write this I am looking at the calendar. My class of fourth graders will be moving on to fifth grade next year. I suppose all teachers look over their class at the end of a school year with mixed emotions. A sense of relief that we all made it…a feeling of concern for that one child who still struggles with reading…and of course the pressure to finish everything, get grades in, and supplies put away for next year.

I’ve been through this transition nearly twenty times with elementary students and fifteen times I’ve watched my college students graduate. You’d think I’d be totally prepared to say my goodbyes. I’m not. 

This year is different. I’m not sure when I’ll see these students again. 

I’m not merely saying goodbye to fourteen students…I’m saying goodbye to Prishtina High School, to the friends I’ve made here. I’m saying goodbye to my church family at Drita e Botës. I’m saying goodbye to Prishtina, a city I’ve come to love. And I’m saying goodbye to Kosovo.

Not that I will ever leave it all behind. I’ll still be working for the school recruiting teachers in the US. Although we have a few teachers who have been here much longer, most of our American teachers make a two or three year commitment. As a result, we are always on the lookout for new teachers. I want the best teachers I can find. I made an investment in fourteen very special people. They deserve the best. 

My students have been reflective these last couple of weeks as well. They give me hugs and tell me they’ll miss me. They’ve been talking about what they did and what they learned this year. It has been an incredible year.

I pull Ardian aside. “You’ve learned so much this year,” I tell him. 

“I know, Miss! I can divide and multiply and I understand fractions,” he says enthusiastically. 

Celeste tells me she’s writing faster now. She is… and she is growing every day in what she knows.

Cedric is a smart cookie. His English and Albanian are both strong. He’s learning to navigate the tumultuous social waters of fourth and fifth grade. We have a good rapport. I tell him I only want the best for him. I do… and he knows it.  He flashes me that big smile and tells me he’ll miss fourth grade.

Naser has really made progress. We talk about it. His reading, writing, and speaking in English makes him one of my top students. He loves math. We’ve been doing a lot with fractions of late. “Miss, I thought changing fractions [to like denominators] and adding them and all that stuff would be too hard, but I remember when you promised you would never give us something to do that was impossible. And now I can do it!”

Zana , my one who is always thinking and asking questions for clarity tells me how much she loves school.

Fortesa asks me if I’ll come to her graduation. “I hope to,” I tell her. “And when you are President of Kosovo, I hope I am able to celebrate with you.” She offers that smile that I know will win her a million votes.

I give the students their weekend reports. Every Monday they come in and write about what they did over the weekend. Now I’m having them put them in order by date. It is a long process. They want to read everything.

“Look at my writing back when we started! I wrote like a little kid!”

“Miss! Look! Almost every weekend report says ‘I did gymnastics.’”

“Wow! Miss! This is so funny! Look how I used to spell cousins!”

“Sometimes I didn’t want to do a weekend report, but I’m glad we did!”

“Miss! Look! This is funny. I wrote down that I had bread for dinner. That’s all. I must’ve had something else, right?”

“Miss? When was the Winter Dance? I forgot to write the date on my weekend report.” [And no, the fourth graders didn’t have a winter dance, but Ardian’s older sister went to it.]

It wasn’t all about reading and writing and arithmetic. We engaged in science experiments. We made water filters and fossils among other projects.

And this year we studied history, geography, government, and economics through the lens of Kosovo. We made books to highlight what we learned. The students interviewed people who lived here before the war, during the war and after the war. It was a ten year window. They wanted to learn about the birth of their tiny nation but they also looked for the unexpected stories. Those similar to the one I posted about Bajrush Ibishi a couple of weeks ago. 

We made fold out books to highlight what we learned this year. My favorite part consisted of the stories they dictated to me in response to the question, “Who is your neighbor?”

Here are a few excerpts:

Florije: My neighbors are caring, loving, and have hospitality. People who help us when we’re in need and people we help when they’re in need.

Naser: My neighbors are the Balkans: Montenegro Albania, Serbia, Macedonia… the countries that help us whenever we are in danger or when they need help we help them. That’s how we can be better at everything.

Zana: My neighbors are caring people who are helpful. That have hospitality. They are people who are nice and friendly and they’ll help you and you’ll help them.

Ylber: My neighbors are Albania, Montenegro, Serbia. People who are around Kosovo who care for us and we care for them even though we don’t know them. The caring, loving and “kindful” people who saved this country are the ones that are the true people we care for. 

Rezarta: You’ll help them when they need help. Everyone in the world can be your neighbor if you help them and they help you.

Ardian: My neighbors are Albania, Montenegro, Serbia, and other people around the Balkans. The people who care for us even though we don’t know them. What’s inside is what matters. The ones who cared for us and respect us. Albanian Kosovars are true people… these are my neighbors.

Yes, this has been a wonderful year. A year to grow and change and explore and learn. But I’m not talking about my students now. I’m talking about me. 

I’m more independent. I feel far more capable of tackling the difficult without thinking it is impossible. My sense of who is my neighbor has stretched across an ocean and deep into a different continent. 

My life is forever changed by the hearts, the smiles, the love and trust and the hard work of fourteen fourth graders and the people of Kosovo.

Each week I share my experiences living and teaching in Kosova. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 10, Scene 1 Pite Perfect

I love Albanian food. I do. I love all the fresh vegetables and fruits, the meat and potatoes. I love the stuffed peppers and the peppers in cream sauce, byrek (bur-rek) and tave.  But one of my favorites is pite (pea-tay).  Pite is a flaky pastry roll stuffed with cheese or meat or spinach. At least that’s the way I’ve eaten it. 

 

My friend and mentor, Zara

Through a crazy set of circumstances in the winter, I wound up spending one evening with my pastor’s family. He and his wife and children were going to Imir’s parent’s house for dinner and they invited me to tag along. 

 

Imir’s mother, Zara is a gracious hostess and genuinely likeable woman. His father has lived an interesting life. That night, along with other traditional foods, Zara served us warm…fresh from the oven…golden brown…flaky cheese pite. I was hooked. She said it was easy to make and told me, with Imir acting as our translator, that she would teach me sometime.

 

My sometime came this past Sunday. I went home from church with Imir and Janette and their children. A bit later, Zara arrived laden with her bowls, ingredients, and pans for my cooking lesson. She set everything up in the kitchen.

 

Brushing the Fila with water
then oil

The cheese is called “gjis.” Janette said the closest thing we have to it in America is cottage cheese. Zara popped the lid off the plastic bowl to show me the cheese mixture: gjis, egg, milk, and salt. The only actual measurement I caught was one egg and about five spoons of milk. That’s okay. I like to cook by feel and taste anyway.

 

Zara offered a shortcut for the pastry because it takes hours to make the flaky dough. She bought fila dough already prepared at the store. I’m in on that. Totally doable.

 

rolling the pite

Each pite roll requires two squares of the fila dough. We first put one square down, brushed it with mineral water, then brushed it with oil. We then put the second square down on top of the first and did the same. After that we dolloped some of the cheese mixture over the fila, rolled the dough carefully and placed it in the oiled pan. Once we had filled the pan with our cheese filled rolls, we brushed more mineral water on top of the entire pan of pite and brushed them again with oil.

 

We put the pan in a hot oven for about twenty minutes. Once the crust started to brown we turned the oven off and let the pite continue to cook in the hot oven for three to five minutes more. 

 

Into the pan

While the pite was baking the real fun started. Zara and I talked (through Janette, mostly). We talked about our husbands and our children. We talked about our grandchildren. I showed her pictures of mine. Hers were playing in the other room. Janette had to leave us for something but we barely noticed. We managed to share bits and pieces of our lives though Zara speaks no English and I speak very little Albanian.

 

And we connected. There is a special bond women have. Especially when they are of the same generation. We understand each other and though our lives have been very different in many ways, they are the same in so many others. If I were to live in Kosova much longer, I can see how Zara and I could be friends.

 

Warm fresh pite

We checked the oven. We both declared the pite “perfect.” Zara had also made stuffed peppers. We sat down as a family and ate. Zara’s peppers and my first attempt at pite. 

 

And it was good.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 9, Scene 5 Four Pieces of Wood

This Little One has a Rich Heritage

Ever since I arrived in Kosovo, I’ve heard stories of Bajrush Ibishi. The first person to greet me in the country was Bajrush’s son, Valdet. Valdet takes care of every employee at Prishtina High School. 

He is a good man. 

So when I started hearing stories about his father—a man who had been an educator, an entrepreneur, a government official and mayor of the place where the director of Prishtina High School, John Chesnut made his home, I was anxious to meet him. My chance finally came.

Bajrush Ibishi is a well-educated, well-spoken, and interesting man. He graduated in 1979 with a Degree in Philosophy and History from the University of Prishtina. He subsequently taught for six years, was the principal of a local school for ten years and served as a high school professor in Podujeva following that. In 2001 he worked in Prishtina in the Ministry of Labor and Social work while also serving his community in Orllan as mayor.

He has many stories but there was one in particular I wanted to hear him tell. Although Bajrush understands and speaks English, this story, this one that has inspired many…this story that is close to his heart and has woven itself into the history of his family and community, he shared in Albanian. Valdet translated.

Bajrush: 

“We were under occupation from 1989-1999. We were suspended from every official duty in Yugoslavia. They took us out of schools, fired us from our jobs, and yet we would continue to teach kids in Albanian without salary for that period of time.”

“During that time I was arrested many, many times. Twelve times in front of the students, just because we were not accepting Serbia’s discriminating laws for Albanians.”

“They did not recognize Kosovo Albanians and the Albanian language.”

“Milosvic was in charge and he destroyed Yugoslavia. When Tito was in charge, until 1989, Kosova had its own constitution. Milosvic suspended it in 1990. This was Kosovo then, with our salary suspended and everything.”

“I’m explaining the circumstances of that time.”

I nodded my understanding while trying to capture everything on my computer. Bajrush waited a moment for me to catch up before continuing the story. Finally, as my fingers came to rest, Bajrush began talking again.

“In Podujeva, 99 % of the population was Albanian yet no Albanians worked in Podujeva. We weren’t allowed. Yet we had to pay taxes and all taxes went to Serbia. We had to pay. If we didn’t pay the taxes, the police and military would force us to pay.”

“We had to open a business elsewhere. My three brothers and I opened a lumberyard to do a business so we could survive. The day before opening our business, the police arrested me but they released me. The next morning my brother called and told me the police and inspectors were there again.”

“I went to the business. One of the inspectors said, ‘Would you please give me some wood I need for my house.’ I thought they had come to arrest me, but he wanted wood. And he wanted to pay me later. He needed four pieces for his house. It was close to winter. I told him ‘You get the wood and you don’t have pay anything.’” 

“After a couple of years, on my way to Nish in Serbia, I see him when I went to get tires for my truck. He was waiting for a bus.”

“I take him home. When I get close to his house, I don’t just drop him on the road, I drive him to his house. From the main road to his house was about 5 kilometers.”

“He said, ‘Drop me here and I can walk.’ But I drove him. Then he said, ‘You don’t need my help but if you need it I will give you my help.’”

“More than three years after that, the Serbian police arrested me. It was in April of 1999. I had come from the war to bring food to the refugee camp. I was bringing food to my family.”

At this point, my friend Valdet, Bajrush’s son, spoke up. “They took him away and we thought they would never release him. He left and we were all in tears. I was seven years old.”  

Valdet with his beautiful wife. "They took him away and we
thought they would never release him. He left and we
were all in tears. I was seven years old."

Bajrush took a deep breath before continuing with his story. “They took me to Podujeva to their base. Their station. It was around 11:00 in the morning. They beat me and tortured me. They made me stand straight up to the wall. Several different people beat me. ‘You are bombing us!’ they said. It was at that time NATO had started bombing.”

“At 10:00pm they took me to a different house.  A private house because the city of Podujeva was all empty. Everyone was leaving Kosova or they were in hiding.” 

“When I walked in that house, the inspector there, his name was Milan, saw me. He said, ‘Professor, why are you here?’ He calls me inside he gives me a cigarette and he brings me food. But I couldn’t eat. I didn’t eat the whole day and now I couldn’t eat.”

“And then the inspector tells me, ‘I owe you your life. They were going to kill you slowly. In the middle of the night, about midnight, I’m taking you out of this place.’” 

“I asked him to take me to the middle of the city. ‘I know more people there to get help,’ I told him.”

“He said, ‘No, it’s not safe for you there. I’ll take you to a different village. I’ll drop you at this village and please be careful. There are snipers all around the houses. If they shoot at you, fall down and crawl.’”

“I crawled for a couple of miles to this river and then I got up and walked to a house where I spent the night. The next morning I wanted to see my family at the refugee camp which was about 12 kilometers from where I spent the night.”

“That guy and God saved me because I would have been dead…that guy, Milan. The one I gave the wood to many years ago.”

“After the war, friends of mine that traveled from Germany and Switzerland went through Serbia. Milan met them and asked them about me and sent me greetings. But I cannot go and see him. I could get arrested because I was part of the KLA.” [Kosovo Liberation Army]

“Since then I’m a free man living in a free country.”

“After the war I decide I’m going to work more than I used to. I want to do everything I can do for my country. I wanted to dedicate myself to Orllan and the Podujeva area. And be thankful for my life and for living in a free country.”

“We came back home on June 15, 1999 and everything was burned to the ground. We started life from zero.”

“And one of the first to help us start our life was John Chesnut and his family. Their family and my family, we are like one family. Later, as a leader, the mayor of the area, I had a great relationship with KFOR and Swedish organizations. In the beginning we all had meetings everyday and then later every second day. And then we didn’t need to meet so often.”

Bajrush is ready to share
 the family history with his grandchildren.

“So bit by bit our life was getting back to normal.”

Relationships. Isn’t that what it is all about? Bajrush harbors no ill-will toward the Serbian population. He is a testament to the fact that there are good people even in the most difficult of circumstances. And he shares a lesson…a real life example of how being kind and doing what is right is the way we must live. Bajrush didn’t help his Serbian neighbor in hopes it would one day benefit him. He helped him because the Serbian was his neighbor. That’s all. 

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 9, Scene 4 Staying Curious...In Spain

I’ve said it before. One of the perks to living in southeastern Europe is the ability to travel easily to other countries. Well, mostly easy. I did have one minor glitch on my recent trip to Spain. 

The World Wide Conference on Qualitative Research (QRCA & AQR) in Valencia offered more than great conference topics for me to explore. My youngest daughter was one of the presenters. The fact it was held in a beautiful Mediterranean city was merely a bonus. But for a moment I wondered if I would get there.

For the best rate, I flew from Prishtina to Frankfurt, Germany. I had an hour to make the connecting flight. You guessed it. I missed the connecting flight. So instead of arriving for lunch, I arrived in time for dinner. However, sitting across the table from my daughter made me forget my earlier airport ordeal. 

Beach Party After the Conference

The conference itself was engaging, starting with the rather well known author of Curious, Ian Leslie, and ending with the incredible Kendall Nash presenting The Apprentice Project: Tales of a Novice Unicycler.  (Okay, I’m a bit biased. After all, I’ve known Kendall all of her life.) Both presentations were inspiring as were many of the ones sandwiched between them. A QRCA conference is never a disappointment.

The Flower Bridge

The hotel was lovely, the food delicious. But the real treasure of Valencia is found in exploring the cobbled walks and streets of the town with your “little girl.” Kendall is adventurous and fun. We did some sightseeing in the evening hours but enjoyed the whole of Saturday exploring.

This particular weekend the entire city was celebrating the arts. Perfect timing for us. Beginning Friday night and lasting the full weekend, all of the museums were free and the streets were filled with crafters, dancers, and people in costumes representing a time gone by. 

On Friday, we crossed the reclaimed riverbed-turned-park via the flower bridge and joined up with a few of the other conference attendees to visit the Ceramic Museum located in the old palace. A music ensemble was preparing for their concert inside, so we stopped on the street to hear them practice. We entered through the ornate doorway to view the ceramics. The living quarters of the palace were the most interesting. We also saw three plates Picasso had made for the royal family. 

Kendall Painting at Museu de Belles Arts

After a lazy breakfast on Saturday, Kendall and I walked part of the riverbed park taking in a bicycle event and enjoying the flora and fauna. We then made our way to the Museu de Belles Arts de Valencia. Kendall and I both enjoyed touring through room after room of paintings, but the best treat was the opportunity to be part of a collaborative work recreating Tomas Yepe’s “Bodegon Con Ceramica.”  

In the words of the museum, the re-creation “turns the museum into a studio and the public into artists.” Every participant painted a square from the painting on a gigantic collective canvas. Museum artists loaded our palettes with the appropriate colors needed to paint the square we selected and we set about our work.

Leaving the museum, we crossed one of the many distinctive bridges to explore the district near the castle, indulge in some delicious gelato, and shop in an outdoor marketplace. We poked our head in several shops along the street and managed to find a few not-too-tacky souvenirs as a remembrance of this special trip.

Leia and Lace

We were heading back toward a restaurant for dinner when we encountered a parade of sorts. Women and girls of all ages were dressed in layers of brocade and lace, their almost Princess Leia-like hairstyles framing their smiling faces. Men and boys, also dressed in outfits reminiscent of the renaissance era escorted the women up the street past the cultural center toward a large almost castle-like building. 

The day was long, but didn’t seem so until we finally sat down for our dinner of tapas at an outdoor restaurant. The food did not disappoint us. It would have been easy to crash into bed that night, but a little exercise and time spent in the sauna made the evening complete.

Of course I’ve only shared the highlights. But I could have done that with one simple sentence: I spent the weekend with my daughter.

Selfie with My Daughter

More Pics:

Our Hotel

Ensemble at the Palace

Picasso Plate at the Palace

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 9, Scene 3 Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? I See The Future Looking At Me

My Dear Friends, Matt and Julia

My British friends, Julia and Matt, live in a Serbian town near Prishtina. They are a sweet young couple I met at church and until recently we were all active in the same small group meeting every week. They invited me to visit them in their home one Saturday. I happily accepted. We set a date. Julia texted to say she and Matt “love to show off the gems of Gracanica,” I was pretty excited. I have always been curious about the Serbian enclaves in Kosovo. After all, there was a war. Many Serbians left the area. Yet, for the people in Gracanica, life goes on.

I took a taxi to the center of the town. Julia and I had agreed to meet in front of the monastery. We walked from there back to her house. I thought we might have lunch and she had mentioned seeing the monastery and perhaps the Bear Sanctuary, but I was in for so much more. 

Ulpiana

Matt drove us out to the Roman ruins just a few minutes from their apartment. Ulpiana is one of the largest ancient sites in Kosovo. It began as a Dardanian settlement in the 1^stcentury AD and reached its peak as a Roman town in the 3^rdand 4^thcenturies AD. Three sectors have been excavated and the work continues.

As we left Ulipiana, clouds were forming so we headed to Hotel Gracanica for lunch. Our food arrived just as the rain came pouring down. Lunch was a treat. Not only was the food delicious, the restaurant is decorated with colorful woven tapestries, rugs, and pillows handmade by the Roma people of Gracanica. Roma are what most of us would consider gypsies. I can attest to the fact Roma are both good cooks and talented artists. 

The Monastery in Gracanica

Our next stop was a trip to the monastery. This active monastery is extraordinary. The rain had passed and the grounds were a vibrant green dotted with roses and other flowering bushes. But the real beauty is inside the monastery chapel itself. The sweet smell of incense lingered. The four domed areas are dedicated to the four gospels, the frescos covering the walls telling of the story of God’s love manifested in Jesus. I have seen the Sistine Chapel in Rome. It is ornate and artistically done, but the paintings in this little chapel of the monastery in Gracanica were so true to the Word, its beauty surpassed all I saw in Rome. It was built in 1321 and is still an active church under the care of orthodox priests and nuns.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear

A drive out of town into the mountains took us to the Bear Sanctuary. The bear sanctuary is a national park dedicated to rescuing brown bears once held in captivity throughout the region. For many years, baby brown bear cubs were snatched by animal dealers and sold to restaurants to be caged in small cages. The restaurants used the bears to attract customers. The bears were not treated properly and often endured a diet not conducive to their health and well-being. In 2010 a law was passed making it illegal to hold the bears captive. In 2013, thirteen bears were rescued from around the area and brought to the rolling and forested hills outside Prishtina to a park created just for them. There they have room to roam, are cared for, and enjoy a life free of torture. They lack the skills to be fully released into the wild, but are thriving at the bear sanctuary.

Village in the Mountains

On our way back to Gracanica we drove into a Croatian village in the mountains. Roma children living there spotted Matt and Julia and swarmed our car, thrilled to see their teachers. We drove through narrow streets winding our way up the mountain to a school where Matt and Julia once worked. The view was spectacular.

Matt and Julia teach young children. They took me to their center. A bulletin board boasted the smiling faces of the children attending the center-Serbian, Roma, and Albanian children learning and playing together. 

The day wasn’t a geography lesson. It wasn’t a history lesson. It wasn’t simply a tour of interesting sites. It was more. Our day together was the story of life and community. 

It was about preserving the past but not living in it. 

It was about creating hope for the future.

It was about caring for people. All people.

And in the center of it all was the story of God’s love for all of us.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email." 

Kosovo: Chapter 9, Scene 2 Waking Up On This Side Of The Dirt

If you ask my mother how she is feeling she often answers, “Well, I woke up on this side of the dirt, so I guess I’m okay.” I guess I’ve heard it enough times, I took it to heart as I approached this milestone birthday. 

Actually, I’ve never been one to shy away from my birthday. I’ve always been afraid that if I didn’t acknowledge it or if I tried to pretend to be younger than I am I would live to regret it. As if I would suddenly wake up and see an old woman in the mirror.

But as I approached sixty-five, I found myself worrying a bit. Okay, worrying may not be the right term. It’s just that sixty-five sounded so old. Much older than I feel. 

Most days. 

Since I was born in early May, I’ve always claimed anything good or fun that happened in May as part of my birthday celebration. 

Beautiful weather? For my birthday.

The school Arts Fair? All for my birthday.

Ice cream on a sunny May day? For me. It is my birth month.

Of course the birth of my first grandson on the fifth of May was a perfect gift. 

And my two youngest granddaughters were both born in May. For me. One was even named after me. 

Kayleigh and I share a birthday...so...
her mom made us a cake!

Taking intentional delight in my birthday has helped me accept the reality of it and find the good in growing old-er.

Then I moved to Kosovo.Six thousand miles away from home. No school Arts Fair. No birthday dinners with my family or parties for the grandchildren. And worst of all was the email from Social Security. 

Yep, Sixty-Five Was Not Looking Promising. 

I had two choices. Ignore the day of my birth or embrace it. Ignoring would be easy. Oh sure, I would receive phone calls and messages from my family. Facebook would plaster it all over the place. But if I kept my mouth shut, I could slide past it with the people here in Kosovo if I wanted. 

Then I remembered my mama. I figured since God has seen fit to have me wake up on this side of the dirt for sixty-five years I should be grateful and embrace it. I decided I’m sixty-five…I may as well “Own It.” 

One thing about Kosovo is that older people are valued. Honored. The country has 1.8 million people and over 50% of them are under the age of twenty-eight. It is a young country with a young population. Still, it is a country that has taught the young to defer to the older and sometimes wiser, to give up a seat on the bus for an older passenger, and to look out and care for senior adults such as myself. 

Birthday dinner with my PHS family!

It is not just the citizenry of Kosovo. I am the oldest person at my school yet the community we have there is amazingly non-discriminatory. Friends took me out to eat on my actual birthday. A new friend took me out the next evening. Another friend took me out on Friday night and on Saturday twenty of my coworkers took me out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate!

It didn’t stop there. There was cake after church and an ice cream treat on Monday after school. I haven’t had to “find” fun things to claim for my birthday. 

As it turns out, sixty-five really is just a number. I don’t feel any different than I did at sixty-four. Except, there is that “full of joy” thing happening.

Join me in Kosova (the Albanian pronunciation for Kosovo) in Southeastern Europe. Each week I share my experiences. Leave your comments and questions below. I’ll try to address each as best I can. And if you don't want to miss a post, simply add your email address in the box on the right where it says "Follow by email."