M Workout Routine

In my former life, I was terrible about working out. I know how good it is for you. I know how good it makes you feel. I know all the benefits of exercise on your stress level, cancer prevention, and so many other things.

I also know that I am lazy.

Then, I moved to Germany. Exercise is built right in! I don't have to give it a second thought.

I live on the 5th floor of my building. At least I think it's the fifth floor. I loose track because I sometimes black out in the middle. (Hyperbole, Mom!) According to Jason, there are 81 stairs. I haven't counted them. First of all, I trust him. Second of all, I am too busy convincing myself that my apartment is NOT on the next floor. That way, I am not disappointed; I'm only pleasantly surprised when I reach my door without experiencing some sort of coronary or pulmonary failure. This is where I get my cardio. I've only been here a couple of weeks, and I can already make it without panting. Almost. Next stop, Boston Marathon! (Berlin Marathon?) By the time I return to the US, I will have buns of steel. And lungs of iron? No, wait. . . the opposite.

Oh yeah, and I have a set of stairs to get to my room. (Loft room. Yes, I know, it is the coolest.)

After that, it's on to strength training. No, this is not when you forget that you live on the top floor and buy 4L of bottled water because you found still water. That is sissy stuff. The real strength training lies in taming the washing machine. Yes, my washer is a bucking bronco, and I am the champion rodeo cowgirl. Something is off-center in my machine, so it goes on a wild tear when it is on the spin cycle. Well, on one of the many spin cycles. (You see, European washing machines have about a million cycles and can take up to two hours to complete a load.)

While I was in the middle of praying with my friend Charlotte, the thing goes nuclear and starts attacking the bathroom wall. I calmed the beast, and thought that all was well. Little did I know, that evening I would be sitting on the thing, coming out of shoot number one, with one hand on the sink, one on the wall (to avoid the heater), a foot on the toilet, and one on the rack. All of this was to keep it from ripping the sink off the wall or turing a 360 and unplugging itself, not to mention the cacophony of thumping and clanging. It's a full-body muscle-training routine. The best part is when it just quivers and you get all the benefits of a massage chair without the Shaper Image price. That's pretty cool, and it's economical!

Not only will I have buns of steel, but I will have some pretty impressive muscles. Don't worry, you can have free tickets to the gun show next time you see me.

Jesus Prostitute

I am here in Germany! Dresden is lovely, yet sad. Outside my window, there are multi-colored apartments. Beautiful, large, and empty cathedrals that stand as the last bastions of dead religion. 

I'm so thankful that the board taught us about culture shock. Otherwise, I would feel like something was terribly wrong with me. Being here, having left my language and my context, I feel, in a way, that I have been stripped of everything that made me funny, interesting, or remotely intelligent. I have literally prayed before going to the grocery store that no one would talk to me. This is not who I am. I am a Harris. Shyness has never really been an issue for us. (Actually, boisterousness and scaring strangers by talking to them is generally more our style.)

I blame culture shock for my newfound shyness, which led me to stand in stark terror in front of a little girl who stared at me at church. (and just say "24," instead of,"Nine, ich bin eine fruendin; ich habe 24 Jahre.")  I also failed to talk to two guys speaking perfect English in the grocery store. 

This (oh, and there's the Biblical precident), makes me wish I had a partner. I've been working on Brie. 

However, it's not like I'm longing to go home. It's just that I'm not so sure what to do here.  According to part of my training, during my first few months here, I should frequent local hang-outs. Even if I cannot communicate at a deep level with anyone, at least I will experience the culture and learn where the cool places are. There's just one problem with that. There's a word for a girl who goes to bars and cafes (or grocery stores?) alone and tries to engage people in conversation. That's not really something I want to be. 

Luckily, it's not about wether I am interesting or not. It's not about whether I am comfortable or not. It's not even about whether or not I can ever understand an answer once I work up the nerve to ask a question. It's about whether Jesus is real or not. It is about whether God is loving and faithful or not. It's a good thing for all of us that He is.