The invitation arrived like a life preserver.
I'd been struggling in a sea of stress and sadness. A months–long work project had led to late hours at the office. Another dating relationship had come, disappointed, and gone. Spring—with its rejuvenating sunshine and new buds—had been slow to arrive in our corner of Chicagoland. My blood pressure had risen and the antidepressants were back on my nightstand.
So when my friend Sandie e–mailed and said I should join her and her husband in visiting our mutual friend Pepie in Athens, Greece, the invitation felt like a much–needed lifeline.
Though the timing was good emotionally, it wasn't good logistically. A coworker announced she'd be leaving our staff around the time of the trip. And the money … Let's just say flying to Athens isn't cheap.
But everyone I told about the possibility replied the same way: "You have to go." Especially a colleague close to retirement. She quoted a speaker she'd heard long ago who recommended building a memory museum throughout life and filling it with rich reserves. "No matter what happens in your life—to your loved ones, to your health—no one can take away those memories," she spoke emphatically, no doubt visiting rooms filled with rich relics of life with her late husband.
So, armed with her good advice and some gracious monetary help from my folks, I went.
After a long flight and a quick driving tour of the amazing and historic attractions around Athens with my friend Sandie and her husband, Jean, I proceeded to get carsick and throw up all over the street outside Pepie's apartment. I joked it was a traditional American greeting. Or perhaps it was my body purging some stress and anxiety. Whatever the reason, the trip certainly improved from there.
We ate rich Greek food—souvlaki, tzatziki, freddos. Food with as much fat and flavor as consonants. And I didn't count a gram. Vacation calories never count anyway. And we ate like the locals—slowly, savoring the great cuisine and company.
We scrambled up the hill to the Acropolis, the famed historic ruins presiding over Athens like an ancient and revered judge. It was humbling and perspective–giving to stand amidst the rubble of once–imposing structures built for kings and gods now long gone.
When we visited Corinth a few days later, it was inspiring to stroll the stone walkways the Apostle Paul once trod. To see the stone walls of the shop some believe to be the one where he made and sold tents. To hear Jean, a former Bible teacher, remind us of Paul's teachings in 1 Corinthians 3:16: That we are God's temple; that his Spirit lives in us. That God doesn't need or demand some ornate temple; somehow we, his broken, redeemed children, are enough to carry around his presence in our fallen world.
We climbed Mars Hill one night, the place where Paul first preached the gospel in Athens, and watched a spectacular sunset bathe the city in amber light. We ate fish at a taverna right on the Mediterranean Sea. We ate dinner at midnight and breakfast nearly every morning on Pepie's balcony, surrounded by her two bunnies, four parakeets, and the occasional dove who dropped in to join the party.
I watched Pepie and Sandie, in the midst of hosting a conference on combating sex trafficking, change the world right from Pepie's dining room table as they made calls, translated materials, and created presentations. Their determination and faith in the face of such evil inspired me.
I enjoyed fun, anachronistic moments, like watching Pirates of the Caribbean (in English with Greek subtitles) at an open–air theater in the shadow of the Acropolis. (I literally could've stood up from my seat and seen the Parthenon farther up the hill.) And Sandie and I were delighted to find the Greek version of our summer reality–show guilty pleasure So You Think You Can Dance? on Pepie's TV.
