Carmen did not want me to leave either. And I wanted to take her with me. Each day closer to my departure, I grew anxious. And then there was the most disturbing thought of all: What could I possibly do with my life now that could compare to this?

One of the main factors that played into my return to the states was money. We had none. Nick and I had been promised donations from various places and people that we never received. I have never been so poor in all my life. A $5 bill was to me then what a $50 bill is to me now. We did not have money to survive. Not enough to pay rent. Not enough to buy a souvenir. Not enough money to eat. Because of this, we decided one mouth to feed was better than one, so I left.
As much as I had gained, I knew I was still very weak. I had been broken. My heart was torn open and I felt undone. I know people talk about having a broken heart. But do not misunderstand. I did not feel hurt or upset. I was broken. All my preconceived ideas about who I was and what was important to me in life had changed and I had no idea how I would make myself acceptable to my family and friends back home. It was as if I had learned who I really was and unfortunately, it was not the person I was pretending to be for 24 years.

My struggle, those precious last days, was between my desire to stay in a world where I was alive and going back to one where no one really knew me, yet I had an obligation to return. I walked through the snow packed streets of Sighisoara and the silence was deafening. I prayed that I would never forget what happened there and that one-day God would let me come back.

At that time I wrote the following poem:

Normal

in one hand i tasted sugar
but the other was so bitter
i don't know which one was right
or what will be left
it seems they're interchangeable these days
but i know that in this room
i spent time with you
peering through the mist and fog
i can see your face on the other side

i'll hold this memory
between my teeth
to let it fall about
won't set me free
who's to say what's normal
at their given hour
God, don't let me be normal
anymore

we pounded our fists in the air
confession got us everywhere
i don't know to use my mind
so i used my heart
it seems they disagree a lot today
alone here in this room
i knew a love with you
when i peer through the fog
i see your face on the other side

penny rene' 11 - 95

The morning I left Romania, Bucharest was covered in snow and I almost missed my flight. At the gate, I hugged Nick and thanked him. He had given me the greatest gift I had ever received – an opportunity to see with new eyes. God used him to bring me to Romania. No thanks could be enough.

The Longest Night
I arrived home in time for the holidays. I sat by the Christmas tree that year and cried over the presents that my sister gave me. This was my families’ first clue that I was not the same. I was to discover that crying was something I would do a lot. It was one of many things that were different about me. The strange thing was that I discovered these differences along with everyone else. I was often so surprised at my feelings that I would become frustrated. My natural defense mechanisms no longer worked. Emotional walls that used to protect me were gone and I was left to deal with my fears and dreams face to face.
One example of this is the simple pleasure of seeing a movie. Before I left for Romania, the only movie that had ever got the best of my emotions was Born on the 4th of July. But when I returned, I found I could hardly stand any type of sadness at all. Sitting through stories like City of Angels, Saving Private Ryan or Evita would tear me apart. I literally had to go into bathroom stalls and hold myself together with my own hands. There were days when I could not pay attention in business meetings because I kept having little flashbacks of this other life I had led that seemed far more real and important. I could barely control my impulses to scream at entire groups of people who complained about everything from the weather to the quality of sound on their new car stereos.

Back in Nashville I had landed a very good job at Caffe Milano and was quickly promoted into a position of considerable responsibility. During the day I came in contact with the largest sums of money I had ever dreamed of and at night I watched music celebrities from every genre grace our stage. My name alone became a backstage pass, but this did not satisfy me. I felt I was leading a pointless existence, making the rich richer and ignoring the things that mattered most to me. One evening I sat eating my dinner, specially created for me by our staff as I watched Kevin Bacon and his brother Michael, not ten feet away on stage. It was a good show and I was quite aware of my good fortune. But at the same time I was depressed and I had the most frightening thought “What if I always feel this way? What if nothing will ever touch me again like the people and children of Romania did? “ It was a terrifying thought.

All these years since I have left Romania, there has been an underlying sadness in everything I did. It wasn’t until 1999 that was able to express my deep thoughts about Romania and finally begin to heal. The following is part of my journal entry from that day.

17 May 1999
The day slips by without even a nod from me…Last night I watched the video of the ENC Romania Studies Programme. The photos are amazing. For those who were there, the truth comes from Matt Hanlon’s interview. I can see the sadness in his face. It is the only trace of understanding I have seen in four years. Possibly, like me, he has a small spot in his heart, not visible to the human eye that will never be warm. – A pocket of memory that will never be understood. We have sadness, a regret that we cannot let go of for fear it may be the very glue that holds us together.

It has been so long. I rarely bring it up in conversation anymore. What can six months compare to four years? In truth, it is though I lived another life, while those who knew me here slept. To explain… oh, what is there to explain? … I often think of the day I came back to America. Getting off the plane, long hair pulled back, overalls, hiking boots, pale skinned, thin as a waif, tired, and very quiet. I was suddenly aware of the well-oiled machine I was a citizen of.

I wanted to wave a flag, sing O Beautiful, and murder each well meaning friend all at once! There was somewhat a feeling of betrayal from every direction - even from myself. My feeling betrayed me. Every time I had to leave a movie theater crying, I would ask my reflection in the bathroom mirror “What have I done to myself?” And when my parents or friends tried to console my longing for my new friends, (now scattered across the globe) I had no compassion for them. They were all appearing as heartless fools who were ignorant of real troubles, a worldview, or lacking in gratitude for the lot they’d been handed.

I finally quit wearing my sweaters from Braun Castle. I started eating again and I bought new clothes. I even, for a while, tried to fit the new me into the life plan that the old me had laid out so carefully. I threw myself into the sometimes-glamorous race of the entertainment industry. My motto was Deny! Deny! Deny! But I was never very good at it. The pain of broken dreams was all too real and only served to remind me of orphans with large brown eyes wearing oversized diapers. Everytime a conversation got too ambitious, I thought of my teenage Romanian friends who thought the key to a happy life was to leave their own country. And every fleeting friendship caused me to miss Matt, Anita and David more and more. I drove to my high paying, high profile job, often crying.

When Nick and I began talking again (after he returned to America) I stopped crying long enough to marry him and fly to England. It seemed the only cure. He has been there, I told myself. And he will take me back. It never entered my mind that I could go back alone. I did not believe that God would call someone like me to Eastern Europe. When the dream of returning to Romania began to fade, I found reasons to make it OK. But as well as a fear of being poor, I had also developed a fear of being underappreciated in Romania. This did not mix well with my acute sense of patriotic prejudice in England. One more American joke and I might have gone postal.

I suppose there are those, some of who was there, that would say this experience was good, that they are better people for it. That is a good package to sell. And then there are those who look back with dissatisfaction. They remember being hungry. They remember the smell and they swell with pride as they say they are glad to be American. But I remember it all. I seem to feel all those things at once, knowing, simply, that I am changed. I may never be able to pinpoint the differences but I feel, think and believe differently than before. Am I stronger? Weaker? Yes. Yes. I cry much more easily than before. But I can face uncertainty now and I am more willing to fight. Am I closer to God? I liken myself to King David – after God’s own heart, but still very stupid. Will I go back? Will I enter the mission field again? This, I do not know. I have often tried to believe others who insist this is my calling…

Full circle is what I’ve done. The fact remains that my time in Romania changed me in ways that no amount of words can convince you. The wounds are deep and I do not wish for them to heal, for fear the impact may be forgotten and the veil through which I view my life may disappear.

For four years I was afraid that I would turn back into the person I was before. I was afraid I would forget. It was easy to think that after all that, I must be “done”. I wanted to end on a high note, ya know? (:

I think I wasted a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. It rolled over into everything I did. I can only guess that I would have fared better if I had gone to counseling that spring after I returned to the US. Certainly, I needed someone to look me in the eye and say, “You are not done yet!”

I cannot tell you when I finally realised this. I did go to counseling the summer and fall of 1999. I also have spent a great deal of time alone in my little house in Nashville. And if I had a dime for every time someone has told me that I have led and interesting life… Hee hee. These people have obviously never met a Swanson or a Tarrant! But somewhere, even through my own self-pity, God got through. I have come to understand through this experience and others that the beauty of a life is not only measured by the amount of happiness one claims to have experienced, but also by the hard time spent breaking down barriers between people. I have concluded that every time my passport is stamped I am doing something to better the world. Every time I mention Romania, it is my hope that someone listening feels a bit closer to kids on the other side of the world because I was there. I hope you are thinking you might want to go.

It is impossible to relay the full story of my experience through these memos. – Especially since this isn’t at all why milk memo was started. But it seemed only fair to let you in my head a little, to let you know where I am coming from. Some of the people on this list have known me a long time and have never heard me talk about that time in any detail. Others have asked me out of curiosity, I suppose.

I know you want to know if I’ll go back. But a lot has changed since 1995. What I left behind is not there. Carmen is a teenager now – a young woman. Dorothy has seen many, many students through the ENC program. The high school kids are adults – possibly married and moved away. There is probably a McDonalds near the pizza place I used to frequent. But there are still children there who need someone to hold them. The trains are still running. Dorothy is still Dorothy. And I bet it still snows like crazy.

No, I’m not done yet.
Penny Rene’