Fried chicken and buttered corn

Marhabah! That's the English pronunciation for hello in Arabic. You've read that I desperately need to grasp the French language to survive here, but little did I know that I would also be learning some basic Arabic. While there is a Belgian flag displayed in the link to this blog on Gayton's web site, the two weeks I've spent in Brussels have felt more like two weeks in Morocco. The neighborhood in which I live is actually known as "Morocco II" by the residents here. Meandering into any store, I can find an abundance of seasonings, fruits, and packaged goods from Morocco or Turkey, but the only recognizable items I can find from home are Coca-Cola, Fanta, and some generic produce. Moroccans, the most prominent nationality in this neighborhood, have commented how ridiculous the idea of inviting a family member here from home would be, as it seems so much like home to them. To say that I'm a minority is an understatement.

Adjusting to life here has necessitated a fair amount of culture shock, much more than first anticipated. I was headed for Europe, which I assumed would hold striking similarities to life as I knew it, maybe even with an extra dose of sophistication. I've only encountered the Europe I imagined a few times, however, for a quick trip downtown or for the afternoon I strolled the cobblestone streets of Bruge. No elegant cafes, canals, or high fashion can be found in my neighborhood. Instead, women donning foulards (headscarves) stand in line at bakeries and butcheries, what could be casual cafes are actually bars filled with Arab men at night, and the "park" in front of our apartment consists of concrete slabs instead of grass and a few pieces of play equipment.

Besides the blaring cultural differences, simple, everyday tasks are now learning moments for me. At church on Sunday, I had to leave the restroom to ask one youth how to flush the toilet. In an attempt to blowdry my hair yesterday, I filled the entire third floor with putrid smoke from overheating the electrical adaptor. Reading the clock requires extra time to convert the numbers I see to meaningful information. Even the simplest tasks require special concentration and a request to God for patience. I've found myself longing for the familiar much more than expected. On Tuesday, that yearning led Janee and I to deep fry pieces of chicken, butter some corn, and cut up potatoes to make french fries. As much as I love the Lebanese, Syrian, and Tunisian dishes I've tried, there is comfort to be found in good 'ol American cooking. All of you at home, don't take it for granted!

The truth that God is the same in Brussels, Morocco, and the States has provided great encouragement and rest to me in a very powerful way. He is the familiar, and certainly fills and nourishes me in a way that fried chicken and buttered corn simply cannot. In many afternoons of language study and conversations over tea lately, I have asked God where He is, what He's doing, and what I am to learn in that moment. So far, it's been difficult to hear God's response in the midst of this empty, spiritually deficient place, but I've seen a few glimpses of Him. And He is big. When everything feels foreign, when expectations fail us, when I don't know how to flush a toilet, He is the familiar.