But unquestionably the best part of the trip was the people and the rich cocoon of community they formed around me. These friends—and their friends—took me sightseeing, daydreamed about the future, invited me into their homes, shared leisurely meals at outdoor cafes, spoke of their faith journeys, taught me my four words of Greek, woke me with coffee, and hugged me goodnight. They gave me gifts tangible (the day after we met Sandie's friend Hope for coffee, she gave me a garnet bracelet she'd made just for me) and intangible.
When I look back at my time in Athens, I realize that Hope gave me a bracelet. Peace (in the form of stately doves) visited the balcony outside my bedroom door most mornings. Joy found me in sunsets, souvlaki, and laughter over my slaughtered Greek. And Love found me on the deck of a ferryboat.
Oh, not that kind of love. Before I took off for Greece several people suggested I'd meet some great Greek man while I was there. Like that's what I need: a boyfriend on the other side of the planet. (Not that I would've minded had that happened, thankyouverymuch.)
No, I found something even better than an Adonis to call my own. I received a much–needed reminder that the God of the universe—the one who pre–dates and post–dates all those gods whose temples we'd visited over the past days—hadn't forgotten about me.
I'd just spent the weekend on an island called Aegina with Pepie and her boyfriend, Stuart. We'd stayed with Pepie's friend Henry, an 80something widower who's half French, half Greek, and 100 percent fascinating and hospitable. On the ferry ride home Sunday night, I decided to give Pepie and Stuart some rare time alone by meandering the upper deck on my own. Standing there in the crisp, black night, the lights of Aegina behind, the lights of Athens before, the lights of God's amazing creation dazzling up above, I wordlessly asked God what I was supposed to learn on this trip. It had all materialized so quickly and serendipitously. And the timing, logistics aside, couldn't have been better for worn–out, beaten–down me.
In that fleeting thought to God about the great timing, I found my answer. For a while I'd been wondering if God's clock had stopped. Where was the husband I was supposed to have by now? And the kids? According to several newscasts I'd seen lately, at my age I apparently have about nine eggs left in my ovaries. The rest of my life was moving forward, but this huge aspect of my life seemed stuck in neutral. If not reverse.
So standing there with the Greek wind dancing about me, the seagulls gliding through the black night above, and hot tears running down my face, I realized God's watch wasn't stopped. He was still in control of my comings and goings, my hellos and goodbyes. His timing, in this instance, was perfect. And if he could orchestrate this amazing trip right when I needed some encouragement and perspective, then surely I could trust him with my relationships and future.
In Greek, the casual greeting for hello and goodbye sounds like "yeses." As a single woman, I value the gift of being able to say "yes" to this trip. To just pick up and go for two weeks. There are nos in life we have little choice over—in relationships, families, jobs, finances. But the yeses—these are what I'm determined to recognize and celebrate.
And to continue to speak whenever another great invitation or opportunity beckons—whether it's one I'd anticipated and desired, or one that takes me by sweet surprise.
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