Time Travel

This is my friend Ber or formally Amber. Amber is wonderful; she is an inspiration and one of the truly happiest people I know. She has great compassion for others and I am so glad God let her be part of my life. He knew I would need her!

Amber and I were gracing Sugar Browns with our presence. (Honestly I think they should pay me for all the props they get on my blog, I don’t even like coffee.) Any way we were just chilling and chatting. When some guys that we know through Harvest showed up; the convo weaved it’s self from our normal girly chatter and ended up on a wide range of talk on food, movies and music. Eventually before the guys went and grabbed their own little cozy corner of the shop we spoke briefly about traveling in Europe and how Ber is diligently and smartly saving her money for a trip to Greece. …. QUE my daydreams of sandals and togas, olives and white columns, racks of lamb and people yelling OPA!

Back in reality this little fleeting conversation about Greece rekindled my passion for the nations. Not that it ever needs much help raging in to a fiery inferno but this convo sparked it. On the way home I thought about the first time I ever felt compassion for the nations oddly enough on a trip to Greece but the impact took place in Italy. Come with me as I explain and relive the memory……



Acropolis

We, 15 year old Robynn and a couple of her classmates, with passports in hand, boarded a plane at ATX’s new international airport, back in the day when mom and dad could walk you all the way to the gate. Don’t do the math it was March of 2001. In fact this was my birthday present. I had saved all my money, done lots of fundraisers, and mom and dad helped pay for the rest. I would turn 16 in Greece during the trip, not many people get to say that.

Coliseum

The plane ride was long but we were young and jet-lag never set in. We would eventually make it to Greece and see the Acropolis in Athens, the temple of the oracles of Delphi and the first grounds for the Olympics in Olympia but before I ever made it to Greece we stopped for 6 days in Italy. We saw the Coliseum, the roman forum, the Trevi Fountain, Pompeii and Naples. Since this all took place back in the day when digital cameras were only for the wickedly rick and even then held their memory on floppy disks of less than a gig; I don’t have any picture to share. But I promise they would have been magnificent seeing as how I am a professional photographer and all. LOL

Half way through the trip, we stopped in a little village for lunch on our way to the boat that would take us over night from Italy to Greece. (On that boat I experienced my first go at gambling, since we were on international waters I was free and clear; legally allowed to throwaway my 10 bucks on the slots.) But never mind that, back to the Italian village. It was beautiful and almost empty because this village was a winter playground for native Italians, I wish I could remember the name of it, but it eludes me now. My classmate and I decided to take a little walk, go in the shops and the grab our lunch in a bistro near where we were to meet the bus.

After narrowly escaping a run in with the Italian law, for being accused of stealing, we sat down at the bistro. I don’t think this quaint little eatery had electricity because the only light was coming in through the windows at the front. As my eyes adjusted and my classmate went on and on about how scared she was that the owner who had just thrown us out of her shop was sure to call the Italian police, I noticed a small girl in the corner. My friend kept gabbing but I focused on this beautiful little girl.

She was not poor or evil looking, ready to pick our pockets, as we had been warned by the tour guide that all Italian children were. She was beautiful with rich brown hair, olive skin and big deep brown eyes standing quietly playing with a Barbie. As the little beauty noticed me noticing her she stepped into the light and looked back and forth from her Barbie to her mother and then to my friend who was a blonde hair blue eyed American. I watched as the wheels in her tiny little mind kept turning. She touched the Barbie’s hair and then her own, the Barbie’s arm and then hers. Then in slow motion, almost as if in a movie, she dropped the Barbie and ran to her mother, the Barbie hit the floor with an echoing boom.

I don’t understand Italian, I never studied even one word of the language, but its close enough to ours that I understood the short sentence the child said to her mother. Even if I hadn’t understood her words I would have clearly understood her body language. She pulled at her mother’s dress, with sad eyes pointed to my friend and stated almost as a question, “Momma that Barbie is beautiful?” Her mother who did not turn or even seem to notice the child shooed her away, and the little girl dejected, returned to stare longingly at her Barbie.

My heart broke into a thousand pieces. Who would comfort this child? Who would be there to tell her in her own language that God had made her beautiful and had a great plan for her life? Who would tell her, her culture was wonderful and unique and she didn’t have to be like an American? Would she ever know the truth? How would she know His love for her? I didn’t understand then what to do or say or why it had impacted me so. I still think about that girl who is well into her teens by now. I pray that someone lets her know about God someday, and that she is not still haunted by the desire to be like a fake Barbie.

And that’s how it happened, folks. Like I said I had no knowledge then of the Lord’s great commission or that he would call me to serve internationally someday. But it was the first moment that I felt a desire to comfort someone outside of my own culture, and to let them know of the wonders of my Lord.