publishing peace

Imagine this. It is the perfect temperature outside. The sun is shining. And you are sitting beneath a canopy of wisteria and honeysuckle, the smell of them filling you up as the folks around you talk in rapid-fire Italian and laugh at jokes you are beginning to understand. Any minute now they'll bring you antipasto, and you will twist your fork around beef just barely browned at the edges, prosciutto with honey and walnuts, fresh mozzarella. The children will try to speak English to you, even the ones who don't know it well yet, and you will delight with them in all their discoveries and accomplishments, which they are anxious to share with you. This is my reality. It's taking my eyes some time to get adjusted to the brightness of it all, and it's taking my brain some time to process how amazing it is that I have been where I have been. My host family is always checking on me. They are always saying my name. "Emily, how is the [food I just tried]? Emily, how d...

Wow, wild week! I arrived in Italy Monday night. It's been a wonderful week of exploring my cool little northern Italian town, getting to know my host family, and seeing Design Week in Milan (which really felt like a chick flick moment, might I add). Salone Del Mobile has left me feeling very inspired. For six hours I got to walk around a world-famous display of interior/exterior design elements from acclaimed designers throughout the world. My mind was absolutely blown, and it was super cool to have the lid explode off the top of what I thought was possible as far as design. I kept notes of things I saw that got my gears turning. I'd like to go back there someday -- but not just to look, to work! It's become so clear to me that part of Christ's reason for sharing the talent parable is because He knew how many of us would hide not only our talents but our personalities. I saw a sign at Salone Del Mobile that read: "Build your own dreams or someone else will hir...

They told me not to thank people when they help me, because no one does that in France. But I do. Everyone, all the time. It's a reflex. Guy who picked up my fifty cent piece? Merci. Lady who opened the door for me on the metro when my button wasn't working? Merci. Kids who returned the contents of my wallet as they go spilling out onto the pavement because I forgot I left it unzipped and flung it all over like the clumsy American girl I am? Merci. Even my Uber driver who wasn't my Uber driver who ripped me off got a merci, and he didn't even deserve it. My first couple days in France, I knew I had "TOURIST" stamped on my forehead. What a negative, nasty word that word is. It brings to mind some weird ogling person probably wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat who is completely oblivious to what's around them and how things work. They are in a place just to be there. I would get the looks from the locals, especially when I would ask for help. "J...