a long-awaited move

The neighborhood of Dallas in Vulcan, Romania. Ten story communist blocs as seen from a forest path

Dear friend,

It has been too long since I’ve last written, and so I’m afraid I will have to write a series of letters to get you up to date. Please forgive me—I think you’ll see why I’ve neglected writing for so long.

I spent the last few weeks of May staying late after work, walking up the series of staircases that lead into the heart of Dallas, and still further up, to the second to last bloc before the neighborhood dissolves into the green rising hills. Second staircase, second floor, dark door leading into a light apartment—-my very own. 

I showed up on weekends too, tying my hair up in a scarf before peeling up paint-crusted tape, scrubbing the parquet floors on my hands and knees, standing on the sturdy wooden chair that had been left behind in the apartment so I could paint the corners of the closet with another coat of lace white. When it rained, I threw open wide the windows and watched it fall in sheets over the streets below. The clouds enveloped the green hump of the mountain called Dragoliu and the air couldn’t seem to decide if it would hold onto its warmth or give into the rain’s chill. 

As I was leaving the neighborhood one evening, two girls I know from the gym told me that I shouldn’t move to Dallas because it’s so ugly here. Better to stay where I was. But even though there is ugliness here, I can’t deny it, there is also beauty that I can’t deny, and I try to explain to them that I believe Dallas can be better, that we can work together to draw out its beauty. I’m not sure if they understood me, but they admitted they are excited at the prospect of coming over to my place someday to bake chocolate chip cookies.

The truth is—and maybe I’ve talked to you before about this—I’ve been dreaming of living here for nearly four years. Since moving to Romania in 2018, I’ve felt this tug to live in the same community that I’m trying to serve, but it has never been a simple step to take. Setbacks, doubts, complications, fears, and disappointments…I truly believed it was something that God had put on my heart, and so I couldn’t understand why it just wasn’t working. I was afraid that maybe I didn’t have the right dream after all. Now I know that it just wasn’t the right time. 

In November when I started feeling the tug to look for a place again, I prayed that doors would be opened if it was right, and that they would be closed as they had in the past if it wasn’t. Every door stayed open. Less than a week after seeing the place, I paid for it in cash—less than four thousand euros, (money that I had in my savings thanks to the generosity of several family members over the years)—and they handed me the ring of keys. 

Of course, it wasn’t ready to move in. I hired a friend to do the necessary renovations, including a rework of the electrical wiring (the system was old and potentially sketchy). His business partner did the plumbing (the only water in the house came from one bathtub spigot) and I got a company to pull in a gas line and install a heating system (these were non-existent). I slowly began to furnish what was basically an empty shell, and in the two weeks before moving in I painted everything with the help of several friends. 

As the month of May came to a close, I began spending more and more hours at the Dallas apartment, and significantly fewer in Lupeni. And then, on the last day of the month, after painting the living room with two friends, and then walking up to the hills beyond Dallas to eat a picnic dinner, I returned to my apartment and it was suddenly the place that I lived. 

This first night felt strange, but in a familiar kind of way. Like this is how it had to be. In spite of my expectations, I wasn’t scared, or nervous. In fact, I didn’t feel any strong emotion whatsoever—just a gentle sort of “yes, this is what it was always going to be.” After so many years, the move hadn’t happened with fanfare or ceremony or even a great deal of excitement. It was quiet and organic, just like taking one more step forward on a path I had been following for some time, only this step had taken me over a threshold. 

It’s now been slightly over a month since that first night and I am still feeling gratitude and peace, still walking forward one step at a time, still filled with quiet awe at the places our feet take us if we just keep them moving. 

With love,

Jenna

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