Email: Stacey Horn

Elmentem messzire és itt vagyok,
magamból nem térhetek vissza soha.

I have gone far and I am here,
I can never return from myself.
Sándor Weöres (1913-1989)

Dear Friends and Family,

Greetings from Hungary!

In November, my roommate Zsofi lent me a book of poems by the twentieth-century Hungarian poet Sándor Weöres. I still haven’t given it back. I often return to the two lines above. Though my journey to Hungary began in August, I feel as if the inward journey I have taken since arriving has covered far more kilometers than the airplane that brought me here. Even as I continue to travel, I constantly remind myself that “I am here.” During the past month and a half, I have traveled to various cities, towns, and villages in Hungary, and I have covered new ground emotionally and spiritually.

“You are not a bad volunteer if you feel sad,” Anita, a pastor I work with, says to me in English. I am sitting in the lobby of the mission office, sobbing in front of the entire staff. I have an ear infection. I am tired of being sick. I am tired of living in the school. I am tired of winter. I am tired of Hungarian food. I want to go home. Anita offers suggestions: maybe I could live somewhere else, maybe I need a break from teaching. In the end, though, I accept none of the alternatives and trudge back through the snow to the tiny room I share with Zsofi on the second floor of the dorm where I hear students carousing in the hallways and smell cigarette smoke drifting up from the porch.

I spend about two weeks recovering from my ear infection and crying in front of everyone I know in Miskolc (as well as various strangers), and I discover something: When people ask “Hogy vagy?” (How are you?), they actually mean it. In general, Hungarians ask this question far less often than Americans, but when they do ask, they don’t assume the answer will be short and positive. In fact, complaining is encouraged! As I complained to anyone and everyone, I found that they listened, and that, in the end, this listening, rather than a new place to live or some delicious organic vegetarian food (though I still crave this) was the thing I needed most.

“Vékony a kabátod.” (Your coat is thin.) Erika Néni (“Néni” is a polite and affectionate way of addressing middle-aged to older women in Hungary) shakes her head as she fingers the layers of my ski coat. She says, “Gyere!” (Come here.) She pulls me into her bedroom and lays a series of winter coats on her bed. “Na—tetszik?” (Do you like it?) She offers a red coat lined with faux fur, then a white wool coat with a pattern of gray squares. She waves away my protestations and orders me to try them on. The white wool coat suits me best, and she insists on giving it to me. Erika Néni, who listened patiently to my tales of homesickness, urges me not to cry anymore, to come and talk to her when I need to, and for goodness sake to keep warm so I don’t get sick again. Erika Néni and her family live in the village of Novajidrány where my friend Njeri, a volunteer from Kenya, lives and works. Erika Néni has taken Njeri in as if she were her daughter, and every time I visit her we go to see them. I know I will be back for many more chats throughout the rest of this year, and every time I wear my coat I feel the warmth that comes from being among family.

“Minden nap, csak érted élek!” (Every day I live only for you.) David, an 11th grader, plays guitar while a room full of students belt the lyrics to their favorite worship song. Some of them have just come from P.E. and are still in sports clothes. Others are already in pajamas. Some hold mugs of tea. Reni, one of my English students, helps me find the next song in the photocopied booklet, while a group of girls in the back shout out song requests. A couple of boys sit in a corner rolling a basketball back and forth. A cell phone rings. Joco, another one of my students, turns around to a group of chattering 8th graders and says, “Csend, légy szí!” (Be quiet, please!) David sets down his guitar and begins to preach. He speaks quickly, and the room is echo-y. The students are never entirely quiet. I miss parts of the sermon, but I don’t miss David’s sincerity. When he preaches, his passion and dedication are as affecting as what he says. After worship, I do my best to tell him so (though my Hungarian is far from eloquent). We chat a little about the sermon and decide to get together the following day to talk more.

The next afternoon, David asks me why I am here volunteering in Hungary and what mission work means to me. He pulls out a pad of paper and draws a picture of the world. He says, “This is the world, and here we are. You have traveled to a different country to be a missionary, but my mission is here. This is my congregation.” We discuss our favorite Bible verses and talk about the way different versions of the Bible interpret the text. We talk about different styles of worship. We frequently consult the Hungarian-English dictionary. We draw pictures and use hand gestures to make ourselves clear to each other.

This past Monday, I preached during evening worship for the first time. I wrote a simple, short speech based on Luke 12:22-26 (“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear”), a passage I have returned to many times this year. My friend Éva, who spent last year in the U.K., translated what I wrote into Hungarian. I felt nervous, not only about my American accent, but also about sharing my personal reflections with the students. When I stood up to speak, the room was absolutely silent. My students are never so quiet when I teach. I spoke about the way this year is teaching me to trust God to fulfill my needs, to rely on faith rather than on my intelligence or strength, about the challenges I have faced, and about the fact that my students and I do not always understand each other. After I spoke, I prayed in English, then David prayed in Hungarian. At the end of worship, a number of students came up to speak to me. Some complimented my pronunciation and speaking, but the comment I value most came from a student I do not teach, but who I see regularly in evening worship. She said (roughly translated) that she wished me all the best on my continued faith journey.

When I first started attending evening worship, I considered it part of my job. Since I live in student housing, I felt that I should attend events hosted by students. I did not expect the worship to fulfill my spiritual needs, but now, when I walk into that room, sometimes wearing pajamas or holding a mug of tea, I know that I am as much in need of pastoral care as the smallest 7th grader, and I am thankful to be a member of David’s congregation, to be on the receiving end of mission work as well as on the giving end.

“By the way,” Éva says, as we travel to the nearby village of Erdõbénye where her grandmother lives, “We’ll be having a worship service in addition to lunch. It’s a special time because our whole family is together.” When we arrive at Éva’s grandmother’s house, much of the family is already there. Children run underneath the table and chase each other through the small living room into the kitchen and back again. People help themselves to sütemény, coffee, and tea. After a half hour or so, we clear everything away and bring every chair in the house into the living room. We sit in a tight circle. Some people share chairs or stand. Children are distributed over various laps. One of Éva’s relatives, a minister, puts on the black cloak that all Hungarian Reformed pastors wear when they preach. He conducts an entire worship service, including a sermon and Communion. Afterwards, the sütemény returns, and we talk, look at family pictures, and eat until lunch.

I have, as usual, forgotten to bring my worship supplies: my English Bible and my Hungarian Reformed hymnal. (In Hungarian Reformed churches, hymnals are not kept in the pews, but rather everyone brings his or her own. I was given one as a Christmas present by the pastor in Novajidrány.) In the States, however, if someone invited me to her house for lunch, I would not expect that we might also hold a worship service, no matter how many family members were involved.

Among the Reformed Hungarians I have met, worship is not an event relegated to a particular hour on Sunday, but a practice that continues throughout the week. Here at the school, we all troop over to a nearby church for worship every Monday morning. Every day, before first period, a teacher reads a Bible verse and gives a brief sermon. The students lead worship in the evenings. Cantus Firmus, a chorus I have joined, ends every rehearsal with a Bible reading and prayer. On Tuesdays, I chat and pray with a group of young people from a small Reformed mission congregation with whom I worship. On Sundays, I generally go to the morning worship service, and if I go home with a family for lunch (which I usually do), we often all head back for the afternoon service, which features a different sermon and different music.

At first, this nearly constant worship seemed strange to me, even excessive. During the Christmas season, I found it irritating that the “concerts” to which I was invited often turned out to be worship services punctuated by brief musical performances. Now, however, I am thankful for these reminders to look to God, not just once a week, but all the time. Like the other teachers in the school, I have gotten into the habit of praying silently before every meal. For the first time, I have also started to make time every day to read the Bible and pray on my own. I am discovering that my faith, rather than my intelligence or my independence, is my greatest asset.

I wish all of you blessing and peace.

Áldás békesség,

Stacey