Perspective

Writing from Tbilisi, Georgia:

This morning we left our home and started on the long, windy, mountainous road that takes us from Armenia into the Republic of Georgia.

As we were driving through the maze of fog and livestock crossing the road, we passed a Kurdish village that looked very familiar. I looked out to the left, and I saw the house that I had the opportunity to visit just last week.

I remember stepping out of the car and being greeted by the family’s grandmother – the queen bee of the household. She kissed me on my cheek, and ushered us inside to a group of women who were waiting to hear Dr. Naomi’s community health teaching.

We were still waiting for some women to free themselves from their daily mandated chores at home and arrive for the training. As we were waiting, the doctor began to listen to each woman’s personal issues and give them medical advice.

The “wife” of the home (the young daughter-in-law) had caught my attention. She was beautiful – light hazel eyes and chestnut brown hair. I think she was my age, but the hardness of her life made her look nearly 10 years older. When I looked at her, I saw sharpness in her eye. She was the engine of the house, and nothing went on that she did not notice.

I saw her bring her timid eight year old son into the room. As they sat down adjacent the doctor, I noticed that the boy looked at me with eyes of a normal, active boy. But, the drool running out of his mouth and awkward tongue movements revealed a challenging problem: he could not speak.

It was obvious that he could understand and reason normally, but he could not control his tongue. He simply did not have a voice.

I felt like I was looking at a person trapped by his body.

This mother explained how she had done everything in her limited means to help her son. She’d taken him to doctors, had a procedure done that “untied” his tongue, and took him to a speech therapist. All of this was done with very little means and took great sacrifice. She asked for advice, and she asked for God to do a miracle.

At that moment, it was more than I could bear. Everyone in the room was staring at me as tears began to quietly flow.

Dr. Naomi, whose back was turned to me, said, “It seems like you’ve done everything possible. Olivia has had similar issues with her son, and I’d like to ask her to pray for you.”

Similar issues? Similar issues? I knew it was true, but at the same time, I could not compare my story to this woman’s who had endured so much more.

Yes, I also have a son who has had developmental and speech delays.

Yes, I also have a son that I believe is very smart, but has had people judge him because he can’t grip a pencil correctly or speak with clarity and fluency expected of him.

Yes, I’ve tried everything within my means to help him and my means have fallen short. I’ve lived a life overseas in a country that does not have English speech therapists or occupational therapists.

Yes, I, like this mother, love him more than anything and pray to God that He will lighten my son’s burden and heal his body so that he can truly express himself with ease and confidence.

But, I am not like this mother. My son can talk.

Suddenly, I felt as if the five years of worry and pain I have felt during my journey with Oliver were being multiplied one hundred times as I watched this woman’s simple repetitive action of taking a napkin and wiping the drool from her mute son’s mouth.

I stood up and I prayed with all the faith I had within me.

I firmly declared that God had given this boy a voice, even if it was never heard.

I asked God to reach His healing hand into this boy’s body and to do a miracle.

I affirmed the love of the mother and reassured her that God had heard her cries and had seen everything she had done for her son.

I pleaded with God to work on this boy’s behalf. Heal him. Help his body give wings to his voice.

If living overseas has taught me anything, it has taught me perspective.

Perspective. Life is all about perspective. My son struggles to hold a pen correctly, tie his shoes, and sometimes studders and has words that are incomprehensible.

This woman is holding on and waiting for her eight year old son to cry out one single word. I realize that I am privileged to feel just a little of the pain she is feeling. And, because of that pain, I can cry out with more of a fervency, belief and hope that God can heal him.

And, I am reminded of what a great privilege it is to live in Armenia and realize that I am a part of a greater sisterhood.

True, I may be giving up the sisterhood of my American friends who meet and sip coffee weekly as their kids play. I really miss that.

But, in exchange, God has allowed me to be part of an international sisterhood of women – rich and poor, loved and rejected, hopeful and hopeless.

And, once again, over and over, I am reminded that we are all the same.

You can strip everything away from me and place me in a Kurdish village. I can give them the best of everything and place them in a NYC café.

We both have dreams. We both have sharp minds we’re dying to use. We both try to make the best of any situation and open any door possible. We both love and sacrifice anything for our children.

We all cry. We all bleed. We all love. We all laugh. Some of us just have more open doors; more possibilities.

God, you see the disparity between us.

So today, I lift up this prayer for these Kurdish women and their families:
Let them experience your grace, even stronger.
Your love, even deeper .
Your presence, even greater.
And, please give that little boy a voice.

Keep on...trying?

Relax. Just Relax.

I think our American culture teaches us that the more we try, the better we will be at something. We've grown up our entire lives hearing, "Just keep trying!" Swim one more lap. Practice piano one more hour. Run one more mile.

I KNOW that this is a true concept. We cannot succeed in anything if we give up the first time we feel like we just can't climb that mountain. But, sometimes in the trying we work so hard, tense up so much, think so deeply that we cannot succeed.

I've personally had this problem my entire life.

As a very young girl, I would pair and line up my shoes in a perfect row in my closet. No room for mistake.

My mother said she could always distinguish which Barbie was mine and which was my sister’s easily. My sister’s Barbie had mangled, crusty Medusa-like hair and lay naked in the stairwell. My Barbie seemed to be dressed to perfection as if in constant anticipation of being surprised by Ken for a perfect night out on the town. My Barbie was going to the opera. Hilary’s Barbie was heading to a nudist colony and lived in complete, relaxed freedom.

My whole life, I’ve tried hard. Really hard.

But, when you try so hard that you no longer remember how to take a deep breath and enjoy the moment, then it is just time to relax.

I realized this truth a few days ago while swimming laps in an Olympic size pool. I’ve been adding a day or two of lap swimming to my workout routine over the last few months to prep for a triathlon.

This has been a challenge.

I know that I’m really healthy cardiovascularly and in pretty good shape. But, when I get in the pool, I feel like I can only do 2 laps before I am forced to stop and hold on to the ledge for a few minutes like a beached whale.

What is going on? I’m better than this. I’m trying.

Then suddenly this week, as I was half way through my swimming routine, I finally relaxed.

I didn’t think about my breathing. Should I slowly release the air underwater or do one final outward burst of air before resurfacing?

I didn’t think about my elbow’s position when it was pulling up above the water in freestyle fashion.

I didn’t dread looking down at the pool floor's final deep cliff that showed the great depth needed under the high dives.

I relaxed. And, finally, I was able to decently swim. And, as I was finally flowing into this relaxed rhythm, I realized the power of just letting go.

Don’t worry about hitting the right note and having right mouth curvature for vowel production! Just relax and sing.

Don’t worry about accomplishing your mile-long “To Do” list today! Sit down, play and laugh with your kids.

Don’t just sit there tapping your foot. Get up and dance!

Relax. Enjoy. Breathe. Feel the moment.

Try! Try to love. Try to live. Try to follow your greatest dreams.

Just don’t try too hard.

Hope for a Kurdish Woman

I have seen many needs in Armenia.

I've seen people who have lived in shipping containers that were used to bring over aid after the 1988 earthquake. Promises were never kept to get them into a real home.

I've seen countless homes heated by a stove full of cow dung in the midst of a bitter winter cold.

I've seen disabled children who were abandoned at birth due to their conditions and parents who felt overwhelmed in a nation where there is not a lot of support for them.

These are all difficult things to experience - especially when I compare the memories I have of growing up in prosperous America to the lives many people endure here.

I graduated high school in 1996. The Armenians talk about those years and the ones that surround it as the "Dark Years." Communism had fallen. Their infrastructure had broken apart. They were cutting down every tree and park bench in sight to find wood to heat their homes. They were given 2 hours or rationed electricity a day. Students often studied by candle light, and walked home at night, after classes, along unlit streets filled with the unknown.

What was I doing in 1996?

Hmmmm....I was applying for college scholarships, busy with school work and extracurricular activities, attending chilly Fall football games, planning my graduation open house and making sure there'd be enough taco chips from Barbados to feed all the hungry guests who would arrive with Dr. Suess' Oh the Places You'll Go in hand.

Since being in Armenia, I've often thought about the differences between me and Armenians. But, ultimately, there is only one difference - I was born in America and they were born in Armenia.

The world is open to me and my American passport. My education and job opportunities are somewhat limitless.

Most Armenians cannot get a visa to travel anywhere out of the former Soviet Union. I've met many who have dreamed of higher education, but lacked funds. Many who would love to have a decent paying job or a chance to start a business, but they've lost hope in the face to true impossibilities that stand sternly in their paths.

I know that they have passed through valleys that I have never been forced to set foot in, and they have developed a spirit of perseverance I may never have.

I've thought of this truth often, but I was never so moved to do something about it until a few months ago.

I've been up to the Kurdish villages many, many times. But, in March, I was invited to have coffee with our Kurdish friends' neighbors.

That day I saw "me" in the Kurdish Village. She was a young wife in her 20s. She was cowering in a corner; would not speak; no eye contact. It was obvious she had been beaten down. She had worked hard every day of her three year marriage to please her husband's family whom she lived with. She did all their laundry by hand, cleaned their home, made the food, and never said a word. Her in-laws proudly showed me the dowry she had brought into their home on her wedding day.

But, she couldn't do what they desired most: produce a child. She was about to be turned out of the home and returned to her father's home, rejected, with no hope of remarrying.

I realized that if I had been born to this Kurdish family in Armenia, that would have been me. I have a disease called PCOS, and without medical help from very well-trained doctors, I would never have been able to have Oliver and Ava.

I would have been scorned and thrown out with no hope of a future.

I left the village, and her face was burned in my memory.

I remembered something I had once heard Andy Stanley say, "You can't help everyone equally, but don't let that stop you from helping the one with whom you can truly make a difference."

I felt like God was telling me that I could not just walk away, forget her face; her situation. I had to do everything in my power to help her.

Months have passed, and today I had the opportunity to revisit that home with a doctor from America. I do not want to exploit this situation for my betterment. But, I do want to share this so those of you who read this blog can pray and believe with me.

The doctor was able to discuss her specific situation and give her a plan. We met with her. We met with her husband. We decided to not meet with the interfering mother-in-law. We were able to pray with each of them and I hoped that this visit gave them a hope that God has heard this Kurdish woman's daily cries for a child that is not only her family's future, but her future.

Please pray with me that God will do a miracle, that the couple will follow the plan, and that God will give them the gift of a home filled with the sound of barefoot feet and children's laughter.

That is my wish for this woman.

That is the wish God granted for me.

We are not all that different.

Kids' Camps in Armenia

Today was our first day off in weeks. It felt great to sleep in, think about making pancakes, and finish the 500 page novel I had started on vacation back on July 7.

We've had a great and very busy last few weeks!

We had a team of Americans from Philadelphia, PA. They arrived with luggage full of tootsie rolls, suckers, toys, balloons, craft supplies AND everything you would need to put on camps for kids!

Here's a summary of their week:

They trained and worked along side a great team of Armenians.

They had to organize, teach and entertain as many as 300 children at a time WHILE using a translator (not easy).

They had to love on some kids who reside in the poorest area of Yerevan - Squatters' Village.

They had to sweat.

They had to get really dirty.

They had to play with kids and show them love that was communicated beyond the language barriers.

They taught the kids about the value they have in Christ - how He created them and they are safe in His hands.

They succeeded.

One of the greatest memories I have is when I was watching the team at dinner one day and I noticed that one college-aged team member left her "comfort zone" and went and sat down with a group of Armenian leaders, smiled at them and ate her dinner with them.

It may seem like nothing; easy. But that takes guts. It takes thinking outside of yourself. It takes looking for opportunities to bring joy into someone's day. It takes being willing to just sit and smile and pretend you understand what they're saying. But, you are crossing over the barrier, and you are WITH them.

That's been what our last 7 years in Armenia have been about. I, personally, haven't always succeeded, but I can say that I've put my heart and soul into it.

I remember when we first arrived and I told Nick how I was uncomfortable with how the Armenian women hold hands with one another as they stroll the streets etc. I'm not an affectionate person, and I felt rigid. Nick's advice? "When they grab your hand, throw all caution to the wind, and grab back even harder."

This team of Americans who came and gave all they had for these Armenian kids - they grabbed back harder. And THAT makes all the difference.
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How I Met My Husband & Name Change

My first memory of Nick:

I was at Junior High Church Youth Camp, and I was the typical junior higher - glasses, really long hair, permed-like bangs, slightly overweight, and definitely not one of the cute cheerleader girls. We've probably all seen girls in junior high, and we look at them and think, "Poor thing. She is not going to be pretty."

That was me.

But, Nick was the opposite. All the girls in our dormitory were seeking his attention and giggling late into the nights about his good looks and his camp girlfriend, Mandy. Mandy was the opposite of me - tall, blonde, beautiful.

Needless to say, Nick didn't notice me. I don't think anyone did.

As I entered my freshman year, I decided to change. I was tired of everyone having at least one boy interested in them EXCEPT me. I got contacs, I started to run and diet. And, I lost weight fast. And, although I wish I could say it was different, I started to get noticed.

That year, Nick noticed me. I was 14; he was a mature 16. At the end of that year's camp, Nick was already telling me that I was exactly the type of girl he wanted to marry.

I know; I can see your eyes rolling here.

BUT, there truly was an immediate connection that we knew was deeper than a camp romance. It appeared like we immediately understood each other, had the same values and dreams. From that moment on, we were a "long distance" couple (which my dad was VERY HAPPY about).

Five years later, we were married. I was 19 and Nick was 21. God help me if Ava tries to get married that young! What was I thinking?

Thankfully, we flourished.

Nick and I have grown together, matured together, finished college together, moved overseas together, survived the first year of culture shock together and created a family together. He completely understands me; more than I do myself. I trust him, and I am one of those fortunate women who has a man who is completely confident enough to dream big dreams for me and not be intimidated by my giftings.

It is Nick that has really encouraged me for years to get back into writing. He has been hinting at it by buying books on how to write prose for years. So, he was very excited when I announced I already had two posts written on my blog.

He anxiously opened up my blog, and said, “Ohhhhh, Liv. 'The Road Less Traveled' as your blog name? Really? Can you get any more predictable than that???”

I had to agree.

After thinking a while, he asked, “How about 'Summer to Autumn?'”

Me: “Uhhhhhhhh...”

Nick: “Think about it. You are in the summer of your life. You are still young, your life is beginning to blossom, you are becoming, learning, changing. And, ahead of you, you have the best part of your life where all your giftings, life changes, and choices will come to fruition and allow you to flourish.

And, your middle name is Autumn. You’re becoming everything you were created to be.”

And thus, the blog name has changed.

It’s not cliché.

It’s not easily understood.

It’s me – Olivia Autumn Puccini.

Here’s to the best years ahead!