Catch-up Blitz: German Achorns and German Bureaucracy

I met Mr. Achorn on my seventh day in Germany. I had finally found my way to the correct office to do the correct bit of paperwork to get the ball rolling on all those wonderful doorways: visas to stay and SOFA status to get on base and mail packages and visit the library and get driving all over Europe. I waited in his lobby for forty minutes, reading posters on the wall about immigration laws and proper procedure, and the dire consequences of misinforming a government employee at any point in the process. If there is anything they take really seriously in Germany, it's beer and bureaucracy. He was polite, even quite friendly and joking with me. He answered all my questions and provided explanations when I was confused. He was new in the office, also just moved to Bad Schwalbach. He clearly marked off which items I needed to obtain to get the process rolling, and included his email address if I had any questions. Lovely!
I got started immediately, stopping on the way home to take my biometric pass photos. That evening, I emailed him my proof of insurance, told my boss how important it was to have my name on the mailbox (they won't deliver if your name isn't on the box), and asked for the 100 euros to cover the fee. Then came the debacle where my boss lost her wallet (it was lying on the counter) and canceled all of her bank and credit cards so that she didn't have access to her money either, but after another 5 days or so I was able to show up with everything I needed. Again, Mr. Achorn was friendly and firm, making clear that I was here at the moment on a Tourist visa, and was allowed to be in Germany for three months on that visa. I was expressly forbidden from working without a permit-- including as an au pair. I was here as a guest until I received the appropriate documents in the mail, which was not guaranteed. It would need to be approved by the appropriate body. (I have no idea if that is a committee or just an official.) It was good that I had a contract, because a contract was needed to give approval for work and work was needed as grounds for the visa to stay.
Five days later, after it had all fallen apart, I emailed Mr. Achorn again. My boss wanted me to try to get the fee back (since when does any bureaucracy refund fees? that's a nice dream.) and I wanted to ask my friendly Mr. Achorn what kind of paperwork I needed to do now that my situation had changed. His first question? "Where are you living? I need to know if I am still responsible for you." Typical. Essentially, when I told him, his main point became that I needed to register in the new location in order for him to no longer be responsible for my file. Except that my generous and hospitable friend's rent might go up if I were registered at her apartment, which is ridiculous to start with since I was only one-month guest. I tried to explain this, stressing over composing emails in German and going back in forth with edits. In the end, I made an intentional decision to ignore this, hoping a little silence, a little holding close of the cards, would be in my favor. We will see, when/ if it comes time for me to complete work permit/visa paperwork if this story with Mr. Achorn has a pleasant ending or foreshadows an unpleasant twist. He was waiting for my file to come from Berlin, from eight years ago, so I know that anything that goes into my file here will be there literally forever, though I may never know the contents.
In the meantime, I am grateful for his thorough explanations. I am prepared: I know how much time I have and I know what kind of paperwork I need to be an au pair. I know I need to bring lots of cash to the Auslaenderbehoerde and I need to keep my biometric pass photos. I know I need to get there first thing when it opens and I know that I do not need to be intimidated by the process: I can follow a checklist, and now I have some practice writing inquisitive emails in German. I just may send Mr. Achorn a thank-you note.

A snapshot of a quick flight.

Here I am, Fleeing Egypt! There is no leavened bread in that lunch bag-- just rice cakes spread with my homemade chicken liver pate-- I wasn't going to leave that behind! The German lady who took this picture looked at me like I was crazy. I can't decide which part of this trip was the most difficult-- the 600 yards uphill to this bus stop, or the 1000 yards from where I got off the S-bahn to where I met my friend in the station. I actually had to stop and rest several times! I thought my forearms would fall off.

Here is the street where I have stayed in beautiful, beautiful Frankfurt. They plant so many trees! There is one right behind and right in front of my friend's apartment. It is unbearably lovely to look out the window and see green, even though I can hear the city just beyond. It feels so sheltered and safe, screened from prying eyes, but in an organic way that doesn't isolate. I also notice how much care Germans tend to take with their buildings. They have such amazing high ceilings, and it is typical rather than unusual to find lots of ornamentation framing the different floors and windows-- like molding, but on the outside. The paint is fresh, but the proportions are from a different time. I think most of the buildings left here were built in the 1800s or early 1900s. Germans prefer to renovate, rather than tear down and build fresh. This is not to say that there aren't ugly buildings or neighborhoods too crammed for trees, or very modern buildings, just that as I walk the city I see more evidence of intentionality than neglect. The impression is formed that people who are permitted to make a mark on this town are somehow required to consider their long-term effects. I'm sure it's a pain in the butt if you are trying to build something, but I can see the fruit it produces.

On Saturday it will be a month since I moved here, and I will begin moving my things out. God has been incredibly faithful, and I have now another friend who has invited me to stay while I work things out. She even lives quite near the first friend, so that I am not completely uprooted from all the exploration I have done of this area. We will see what happens in October-- this second friend has someone coming to live with her then, maybe, so it may be best for me to have something else by then. I'm aware-- but I'm not worrying. God provided a second place, He can provide a third, or a fourth, or a fifth, and even if He doesn't and I wind up flying home to the states-- I still trust Him. His good doesn't always look the way I am expecting it to look. Actually, His good almost never looks the way I am expecting it to look, and I find that He has to work on my eyes as He's working good for me, that I may see it. But here at least are two good pictures, which I never would have imagined before. Frankfurt was never on my radar, and who could imagine that lugging a lunch bag, a purse, a bag filled with books, a guitar and two heavy suitcases across two cities could be such blessing?

Already?

These are pictures of Bad Schwalbach, the beautiful little town that I fell in love with in two short weeks. For the record, I wasn't trying to guard my heart at all. On the contrary, I made a point to wake early and wander from end to end and all over the hillsides, opening my heart wide to the sunrise. I made friends with the lady who runs the only book store in town, promising to see much more of her as soon as I was paid. She was full of helpful recommendations for books I might be able to enjoy already that would improve my German. I had a long conversation with Bernhardt, who runs the tanning salon, while he took the biometric pass photos I needed for my visa. He wanted to get right into modern politics and American-German relations since WWII. It is not surprising that Bernhardt preferred deeper topics to "flaky" American small talk, but it is rather unusual that these people were willing to be so helpful and so open with me so quickly. It usually takes a long time to get to know anyone German. You have to prove that you really are here to stay.

I thought I was.

I collected tourist material and I took pictures to post later with detailed descriptions of the town's history as a holistic healing center, the Roman mud baths, the main drag full of cute little shops that only takes a half hour to traverse, the Jane-Austen worthy fields at the top of a serious hike. I went in search of a farm for raw milk and I started a batch of homemade sauerkraut. I found a place to take the little girl for a milk shake as a treat. I explored every grocery store, making mental notes of their offerings and comparative prices. I want to church, stayed after for coffee, memorized names and starting dreaming about where to volunteer when the summer holidays came to an end. I found the library. I began writing a post about how perfect it was that this was a little holistic-health town, sprung up around the baths, and here I am ready to practice and experiment with a holistically-based healthier lifestyle.

It all seemed so perfectly aligned.

Just this one little problem-- where I wasn't getting paid, the way I was told I would. And I was being expected to cook, but not given a portion of the food budget, as discussed. And I had waited for the discussion. And I had taken notes, and I had written down my bank information and handed it over. And then I had waited another day-- because life gets busy, and remembering is (apparently) hard. And then I waited another day-- for essentially the mystical reason that God told me the timing wasn't good. I used this day to prepare and pray for what would now need to be a boundary re-negotiation.

And on the third day, as is wont, everything changed.

Out of respect (for my own desires to stay classy-- don't be too impressed) I will neglect all the details. I will say only that I believe God was absolutely faithful to help me through this confrontation (which always makes me nervous) with my integrity and my courage intact.

But the fourth day found me packed and jobless in Germany, newly homeless and headed for a dear old friend's apartment in a city nearby. (Coincidence that she should be there? Ha! God is great.)

A week (und munze= small coins) later, I'm blown away by the speed at which the wind can change. God does not forbear to send me tacking quickly this way and that at full throttle, and I must admit I love every second of it. Except for the vague panic when I think too long about how I will soon be really homeless (my friend is moving) and my savings won't hold out too long and all of these job prospects could so easily fall through and maybe I won't get a work permit and maybe I will have to come home with my tail between my legs and OH gee, Jesus, these waves are really big and I'm beginning to sink........

So I gulp down some deep breath and I fix my eyes on Jesus.
I admit that there is fear; there is lots of uncertainty. And it does get to me.
I say I am sure that God brought me here. And that He knew that this job was untrustworthy, even when I didn't. I am surprised, but He isn't. He tells me to try to stay, so He has something else in mind.
I say He will come through.
And after I do, I have a second of angst: Oh, Lord, I will be so embarrassed if have just said this and you don't come through. I will be humiliated if I am wrong about all this-- please do not let me be put to shame. I've already done shame-- I don't want to go back.

I remember long ago weeping on a different friend's floor-- utterly undone by the emotional consequences of some bad relational decisions and sobbing Psalm 34. My sweet friend's face hovered near mine, bewildered as I tried to cry and laugh at the same time, unsure if she should comfort me or smile at my comic mess. She was the perfect audience for this public Psalm to make its way into my heart, in that subtle way Jesus has of doing dramatic things in the most anti-climactic way possible. Today I still remember Psalm 34 with the texture of dorm carpet pressing into my elbows.

"I sought the LORD, and He answered me;
He delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to Him are radiant;
their faces are never covered with shame." v.4+5

So I sought the Lord-- and my plans changed from set to spinning.
And I found myself unemployed in Europe, with no ticket home.
And yet, free from odious employ. Given generous hospitality, and plenty of time to look on Him and radiantly enjoy this fantastic adventure that I would never have been so prodigal to choose for myself.
And so I say again, tweaking the angst 'til it twitches no more, He has a plan-- an amazing plan-- full of good works, prepared in advance for me to do HERE. He will come through, and I will not be put to shame.

Stay tuned. (!)

First Impressions

The first sight of those European license plates gives me tingles. Squat and long with square numbers and a circle of stars: they are a forgotten familiarity suddenly made fresh. The air is muggy and hot like in Virginia, and I have been through the Frankfurt airport before, so it, too, vaguely lacks a sense of strangeness. But then we pull into the garage of this new place where I will live and it is indefinably, quintessentially German. It's something about the ratio of height to width and the white washed walls, or maybe it's just the door handles. They have flat bars of brushed steel where knobs would be, and I think they may be on the wrong side of the doors. Yet they are not on the wrong side--they're on the European side and they are letting my subconscious know that I really am here. I'm here in Europe and it's exactly right. It's not Berlin but it's Deutschland, and I am back in that strange in-between existence that I like best. I wrap the tension of "far-away-ness" and familiarity around myself and sink into my favorite comfort zone-- the one that inevitably stretches me. I am not from here, but this is home.