Life After Lockdown

It’s been a few months since I last wrote and I’m sure you have a question lingering in the front of your minds: “Jes, are you glad you stayed in Greece during COVID?”

In a word: definitely.

Don’t get me wrong, life under lockdown was hard. Unbearable at times being so distant from people and overwhelmed with the constant bad news circulating every day. My fear was real, but I felt in my heart that I should stay here in my new home and support the people I’d come to serve, the people I’d come to love. But I found respite in small things, and I walked a lot to get out of my house—though I needed to text a government number and carry my passport for police checks at all times. The American in me bristled at the rules imposed on me. Now, I’m grateful for them.

As of today, less than 200 people have died in Greece thanks to those strict laws. Not all Greeks followed them, but they also received a hefty fine. In the end, as the world faces stark numbers of deaths and COVID cases, Greece has—by the grace of God—remained one of the least hit countries in Europe. If wearing a mask has even a remote chance of protecting someone else’s life, then I’m willing to love my neighbor more than myself. So, I wear a mask, I socially distance, I wash my hands.

This pandemic has taught me many things. I found myself dying to self and gaining a huge amount of humility during lockdown. This, partially due to obeying the laws that I now had to face. But still, I did a lot, despite the paralyzation of society. Everything ministry-related went online and I soon learned Zoom meetings took more out of me than I ever anticipated. I think the majority of society can relate. And I realized after a few weeks that having time does not mean having mental capacity to do with it what you will. Under duress, it’s necessary to be kind to yourself. Get your work done, but be kind.

One of the greatest things to come of these crazy times is that I got to take a writing course from the New School in New York that was done virtually. I stayed up late at night to attend classes and I wrote my heart out. It was a huge boost to my writing project and I began doing the best writing of my life. You’ll see more as progress on the book takes place. Until then, you’ll have to trust me.

However, there has been a cost to staying here. I’ve been away from my family—something I knew would happen but not during a pandemic. I stay in close touch with my close family all the time, but it doesn’t make up for the time difference and spatial difference. I would lie if I said it wasn’t hard. But I see it as living out my call. It may not make sense to everyone, but in staying I took the steps I needed to in order to serve the people and city I’ve come to love.

Greece is pretty much back to herself for the time being—just with lots of masks in public places, social distancing and hand sanitizer everywhere. I’m transitioning some roles, which is very exciting. Beyond that, it’s only just now that Americans will permanent residency are able to come back to Greece at all. If I had gone back to the States, there’s no telling when I’d been able to come back. And that would’ve been a heart-breaker.

I’m glad I stayed and I feel as safe as anyone can be during a pandemic. This season has taught me that sometimes staying put is exactly what I need to do.

I’m glad I did.

Why I've Stayed in Greece During CoVID

I’ve been in quarantine most of 2020. At the end of January, I caught the flu. I got better then caught a bacterial infection. I got somewhat better and caught a viral infection. Finally, I had a lingering cold for weeks.

When I finally emerged, the world had changed.

I went to church at the beginning of March to find no one shaking hands, no one kissing cheeks. The physical warmth of the Greek people—touching, kissing, holding hands—was gone. It felt like I’d walked into a parallel universe. The coronavirus had come to Greece.

Over the course of the next days, public gatherings were canceled, police installed at supermarkets to make sure only so many people entered, businesses shut down and those owners who didn’t comply were arrested. Slowly, the measures got stricter and stricter until today the government imposed a total lockdown.

The new rules are so strict, it feels like something out of 1984. You have to text a number to tell officials you’re leaving the house for work, walking the dog, going to the supermarket, pharmacy, a funeral or wedding or caring for a needy family member (Though you’re also allowed out for exercise). If you don’t text the number, you must carry an official document telling your purpose for being out. Then, you must always carry your ID or passport on you. In addition, no more than 2 people can be out together at the same time. If you go to the grocery store, you need to stand 15 meters away from other people. Police will regularly be checking people who go out of their homes and those who break the rules will be fined 150 euros. Meanwhile, rumors abound that the airport will be shut down as soon as Greeks are repatriated from around the world.

The option to leave Greece during the crisis came and went quickly. I chose to stay. Here’s why:

1. Athens has become my home.

2. I want to be an encouragement to the refugees I serve and the church community I’m a part of.

3. My immune system is down because of my lingering illnesses heretofore this year. Traveling would expose me to the coronavirus and possibly mean a much more intense illness.

4. I came to Greece to serve—to serve in good times and in bad. I can be of use here, even if everything I do is remote.

5. I have a great community here that is checking up on me and making sure I’m ok. They even go to the grocery store for me because it’s unwise for me to go out.

6. I can do more here than I can at a distance in the States.

7. There are so many needs. Though it may be a while before I can leave my house, I can work and pray.

8. If I left, there’s no telling when I’d be able to return.

It’s a heavy decision to come to, being so far from my family. Yet, I feel God’s peace and rest in knowing that my family is in His sovereign care. I’m trusting that.

And so, I sit in Athens, working and writing and praying and studying, waiting to see how I can serve and love those around me. Right now that looks like quarantine lest I accidentally pick up and give the virus to someone. But when this is over, there will be a great need here. I don’t know when that will be, but I want to be on the front lines when it happens.

I feel like I was made for this—and to be here for such a time as this. I won’t lie, it’s scary. Waves of anxiety hit me every now and then, but then I remember why I’m here and who has me here and I’m immediately steadied. I’m resting in His love and praying that He keeps my family in the States safe.

So, all of this to say, I’m in Greece for the foreseeable future. I’ll update you more and more as things change and evolve. But, needless to say, I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be. I hope wherever you are, you feel the same way, too.

About Iran

Iran: it's been on everyone’s mind from the new year. I think the news sunk in slowly, but hit me hard when it did. Here I was in Athens, Greece, having rung in the new year with friends from Iran, now, mere days later, wondering if the US was on the brink of war with the Islamic Republic. With newspapers and social media ominously declaring World War III on the horizon, I wondered what would happen between me and my Iranian friends. How would things change? Should I be concerned?

Turns out, the situation was a good way of understanding my own, fearful heart. And a way of convicting me of that fear.

Well, America’s not at war with Iran. Neither does it look like it will be—at least for now. But I think I can safely say everyone was nervous. It concerned me particularly when the American Embassy issued alerts not to draw attention to your Americanness while in Athens. Then, I heard about beefed up security at the American and Israeli embassies, American businesses and other places in the city. After getting texts from friends back home checking on me, I admit, I became scared. Two days later, I even went to my team leader and asked if there was a chance we would be forced to evacuate if war came. Because, I’m apparently a Nervous Nancy.

Looking back on it, I now realize reading all of the news articles and alerts made me paranoid. Sitting this side of Iran’s counter-attack and a call to deescalate the situation, I see now how easily I fell into fear. In my mind runs the question someone once asked me when I initially told them I was going to Greece to work with refugees. “Why are you going to work with refugees? They’re our enemies.”

When I first heard this sentiment, I was appalled. Refugees aren’t enemies at all—they’re ordinary people fleeing war and persecution for the hope of freedom and safety. And, even if some were, Jesus calls all of us to love our enemies. However, what would happen if war did come? Would there be a line drawn in the sand? Would I be called a traitor for loving my friends anyway? Would our friendships crumble over national allegiances? Would there be division in the body of Christ here?

These are hard questions worth asking, but God’s grace is bigger than fear. My friends are still my friends. There’s been no division, no violence. If anything else, the situation has given me more understanding of what my refugee friends have gone through as I ask them their opinions. I treasure and value them.

Now, a new week’s news cycle has begun with a different narrative. And I sit here thankful—thankful for my Iranian friends, thankful for the way they’ve poured into my life and the ways in which they’ve challenged and encouraged me. I hope for each of them, safety, security and the freedom of a new life. But more than that, I hope the love of Jesus that overflows from their hearts would be seen by the world for what it is—a miracle. Not just a miracle because they are Iranian, but because of the miracle of Jesus is for everyone.

I confess this all to you because we live in a time of fear. I let that fear come into my heart and I ask forgiveness that it did. Let’s not let the fear that weighs down this age break us apart.

May God bring peace to Iran. More than that, though: may the people of Iran come to know Jesus. Please join my friends and me in praying that they do and that the love that surpasses all understanding (and fear) would be known freely.

Clarity Changes Things

It’s been a year since I wrote here—which, in itself, is crazy. Last year I was eagerly adding more people to my team and praying fervently that I’d be fully funded so I could begin my work in Athens as soon as I finished my last training in February. Little did I realize I’d go through a surgery before going to the field. Little did I anticipate losing my grandfather and how close I’d grow to my cousin through her sickness. Little did I expect how difficult yet exciting the transition would be. And, little did I know how much a short amount of time would change who I am.

Since arriving in Greece in early April, nothing has been what I expected. As I sit back and think on this year—since pensive reflections are necessary with the ending of years and decades—I consider what God has done and what I’ve left undone. Of my sanctification in general and my sin in particular. I’ve got new eyes to my life, which is both terrifying and electrifying. I think moving across cultures can do that.

Perhaps that most exciting thing that’s happened since arriving is getting clarity on my call. I wanted to write stories of refugees, of their faith transformations and of God’s sanctifying work in their lives. I didn’t know what that looked like, exactly. Though I knew what the ministry in Athens was about, the depth and meaning and heart behind it hadn’t sunk in. It’s one thing to hear about something and briefly experience it, it’s quite another to live and breathe it.

I’ve been so struck at the amazing work of the At Home Project and was excited about joining the work. But I didn’t understand the layers of the ministry as I do now. Of course, the work itself has morphed since I’ve been here, too. I set out to tell the story of what God was doing, but little did I realize He would focus my skills and abilities in such a way that would inspire me as nothing as done before.

I’ve had the great privilege of getting to know refugees from Iran, Syria and Afghanistan through the work of the At Home Project. These families aren’t refugees to me though: they are dear friends with stories of pain and suffering, joy and hope. As I got to know them, the refugees changed from numbers to people. I’d had the experience before in short-term trips, but knowing these lovely people day in and day out, walking in life with them etches their stories into your own heart. Their pain is my pain. Their joy is my joy. And it’s been extremes of both the entire time.

My clarity for my work came as I grew to know the ladies at the At Home Project. I realized the story of the house they live in, the people who live there, the ministry of the Greek Evangelical Church of Glyfada and the faith that changes and propels them all was a gift I’d been given—a gift given not to keep as my own, but to use my writing skills to amplify their voices. I felt God opening the doors for me to tell this unique story. And so far, it’s been an adventure.

By far the hardest thing was the language barrier, but hugs and kisses cross all boundaries. They don’t, however, tell life stories. After many months of struggle, I found an incredible translator who has opened up the doors for writing a book. I know the ladies so much more and can sit with them as they painfully yet joyfully recount their lives’ tales. It’s been the honor and privilege of my life to get to know these women and I want to share with you what incredible faith and character and love they have in a forthcoming book.

Some of them fled their home countries from war, some from persecution of their faith, others as political refugees. Their strength is unparalleled, even if they don’t believe it themselves. They have leaned on God in more ways than I can begin to recount and hoped in a hope that is everlasting—or at least are exploring what that hope means. I wish you could meet each one and see their love, hope and gratitude.

That’s what I hope to do in the upcoming book: share the lives of these ladies, their stories of faith, of leaving their home countries and getting to Greece; the realities of living in Greece as a refugee and life after the At Home Project.

In future posts, I’ll tell you more about what the At Home Project does, but for now, know there are a small number of Greek Evangelicals loving and caring for those who have been forgotten and despised. It’s a beautiful way that lives out the gospel. Is it perfect? Definitely not. But it shows that even a small group of people making a difference in the lives of a few refugees can transform a crisis into an opportunity to share the love of Christ with others—be they brothers and sisters in Christ or not.

I’m currently working on a book proposal that I’ll be sending to agents in the new year. If you’d like stay updated keep looking to my blog and my instagram, totellthestory. More coming soon!

The Bittersweet Partings Begin (Chicago)

Last night, I went to my last small group gathering in Chicago.

The magnitude of the fact didn’t hit me until I gave my first goodbye. I realized the next time I’d see my friend was in the new year, when I’m back briefly to be commissioned by my church. “Woah,” I said as my eyes filled with tears. “It’s getting real.”

Yes, the bittersweet goodbye pangs are finally starting, as are the harsh realities of leaving. No more bouncing around the Midwest and Southeast like I have for a year-and-a-half. No more dipping in and out of two worlds. Truly, with each step I take toward Athens, I take another away from my old life. And as exciting as I am to move onto my next life chapter, my chest hurts as I say goodbye to the world I knew, to my Chicago.

I walked down Logan Boulevard yesterday and today, passing my old haunts. Everywhere I looked was full of my history and, particularly, the history of my 20s. It’s appropriate that as I move forward in my 30th year, I start a new adventure in a new world. But the goodbyes are hard.

I loved my life in Chicago. I’ve made the most wonderful friends in the world, been a part of the best communities, experienced the greatest concerts, visited the best coffee shops and had the best food. I lived in Old Town, Avondale and Logan Square. Logan Square and Wicker Park were my haunts—ass was downtown, anytime I could. I turned into a child every time I walked past the skyscrapers of Michigan Avenue to see the Wrigley Building and Tribune Tower. I lived a full life here and I came into my own.

And now I’m just another transient saying goodbye to the beautiful city. For all its pain and brokenness, I love this place more than I ever could have imagined. I never even thought I’d be here long, really. I’d decided on a whim to visit for my last spring break in college and ended up finding an apartment, a part time job and church in about 24 hours—without looking. The move became reality when I sold my car to pay my first month’s rent and deposit, and thanks to the $10 overnight Mega Bus ticket, I moved with just a suitcase full of things to a city I didn’t really didn’t know in hopes of pursuing my writing dreams.

Now, almost seven years later, I’m leaving the city, once more stowing everything I own in suitcases pursuing dreams also include writing, but this time with a bigger purpose. I don’t have that much more stuff than what I originally brought with me to Chicago. I have a box of momentos, some clothes and my books. No furniture, no house full of memories. I sold all of those a year-and-a-half ago. Someone else lives in those homes and other people use the goods that once surrounded me. I didn’t leave a physical mark on the landscape of this city or build a tower in my name. When I leave, no trace of my stay remains.

I pray the people I met, the community I grew, and the churches I loved, have somehow been changed, though. Is that too bold to say? (I am an Enneagram 4, after all). I pray, also, that they know how dear they are to me. Though no trace of my physical presence may linger, save perhaps a pendant, I hope I’ve left a mark on their lives letting them know they are loved. Loved, not just by me, but with a love far surpassing anything I can give. A true and perfect Love that brought us together and that remains, even as I depart. And, that hopefully will reunite us one day soon.

As I sit at New Wave in Logan Square, I reflect back on my years in the city: of Help Portrait’s warmth during the cold of Christmas, of GC on Eric’s back porch, runs down North Avenue Beach, the Sunday brunch club after church and setting up candles in the fireplace of my apartment in Logan Square. Of concerts galore and my brief time in the music industry. Of writing, writing, writing. Of working in a dear, secondhand bookstore. Of Halloween sightings on the L and learning the streets of Chicago from behind the wheels of a bike. Of Lollapalooza, Pitchfork, the Chicago Theatre and concerts in Millennium Park. Candlelight services at Covenant. Easter dance parties at Missio Dei. The Christkindle Market and lights of Lincoln Park Zoo. The Art Institute and Field Museum. Insight and the healing I found while there. And, my favorite: seeing both Sufjan Stevens and Radiohead and hearing my favorite songs—ever ever—played live.

So much of this city shaped me into who I am. And now I’m saying goodbye.

I couldn’t be more ecstatic about the road ahead of me; but I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t say it’s tearing my heart apart. It will bleed for a while, and slowly heal. The relationships here will change, but they will always remain memories I cherish. And, I think someone’s grandfather somewhere once said, life isn’t what you take with you, it’s about the memories you gather.

It’s not totally goodbye, Chicago. It’s just goodbye for now. (I’ll be back to get my visa before the final adieu.) But oh, how I shall always love thee and think of thee fondly. Even if I’ve decided against a tattoo in your honor. (You’re welcome, Mom.)