One Day in the Life of Agustin Bushgjokaj

Petulla steams warm on the table in the front room, warm with morning. From an orange mug tea wisps with a nearly-audible softness, the air washed in yellow light. It crashes rather violently over the mountains that pin the city in at the moment of sunrise, but here, it cascades as though poured from a bucket through each window.
The dust in the air settles picturesque as warmth rolls over the back of the sofa.

Son and daughter had woken with their mother, each with a different purpose. The night before, one had gone to bed more easily than the other, one had been more eagerly set to destroying the towers of blocks in front of the Americans sat on the floor, but both had dived off of pillows stacked as high as the floor-being-lava would allow. What they deigned to work individually, they tested together. So, while one needed the security of his mother nearby (being the younger) to feel safe with guests in the flat, and the other appeared simply excited to begin again her experiment of living, they both were beset with joy and growling upon waking up, a kind of growing in devotion to each other as siblings.
Such are the sweet things of morning to Agustin Bushgjokaj on his way out into the city.

This morning, the little girl is at school, and his hands can set to work at the ministry after ferrying her by cycle ride there.
The gospel goes forth in a coffee shop at this hour… a cool early morning charmingly slicks the cobbled streets. The bike skids and knocks softly across the stones, dew and rain never stealing control, but ever-endearingly clamoring for it.

This day, as any, Agustin’s experiment of living had taken him to the church (not more than a few hundred meters away) quite early. At that hour, the breathless fall embraces the warmly-clothed tightly, even in its seasonal infancy. Cold, to warm the heart of a minister to his work, is quite effective… a coffee shop should all-round do nicely.
About, down the shallow two steps of the apartment building, the city is already moving. The pavement sees not of the kind of bussle at work amongst its ants (all of whom have something which they must do) but instead a slow-settling busy people, in no rush for anything, but many in number.
The men already at work on their Balkan breakfast smile and nod, or stare, likely, as their night’s sleep esteems them to. It is of a very certain disposition which greets the day with an espresso and a cigarette.

At the church, as it is reocurringly with both his wife and the Americans, he would be greeted as, “Gusti,” were anyone there at the same hour. This is how his introduction had been made to the group he now housed. A single hand in number, these Americans, who had begun work in the area just two weeks prior, had stumbled by astounding providence onto the front door of the church. They had first scared the young worship leader with an altogether middling attempt at a greeting to her turned back, and then, almost instantly, begun attending services, being ushered with great grace into partnership in as many of the ministries as the church was juggling.
These are the things of the Gospel. Each party thanked God daily for their having met.

Ahead — some, as any day — the youth call loudly from the church, and can be heard, as the changing victor of their games frustrates them in the most splendid way. They all find it possible to come out of a shy beginning of the hour, almost every week, and into themselves. They seem to laugh more assured just as he opens the door, greeted warmly.
A sense of pride ought to fill a man over anything he can call fathered by his hand. This, it could be assumed, is no different for Agustin Bushgjokaj upon entering his church; this, as any day.

Over lunchtime, he might be seen walking back to the flat, the thought of his children assuredly bringing that fathering-warmth back to his feet, a short distance from family.
Walking finds the purpose of a minister. To see and be seen to the many reminds of the desperation we ought to feel — could one allow God squeeze his heart like halved citrus, this, he knows, is what should be felt.
Walking finds the purpose again.

Cold hands go into one’s pockets after a short breath into them. He who walks here nearly has to duck and swing to avoid the storefronts spilling out onto the street.

As any day, markets wander each street as people stand or sit at coffee. Especially true of those more meager in their employment of actual things to buy, marketplaces seem to chase their inhabitants down winding alleys; up their wide sidewalks. And how a great a pursuer, the one who knows the blocks so well as to step out in front and cut you off the moment you think yourself free?
Chased like this, Shkodër had, this morning, awoken behind him. It bussles just as sleepily in the afternoon.

The whole of the city resides in walking, everyday with equal energy… the whole of it seems in a kind of sleep entirely lacking dreams — the easiest and saddest kind to endure. Each one calls out a greeting from the rolled door of his shop, talks softly to the man across from him at cappuccino, dominos and raki, or walks by pensively in a skirt, holding the hand of a sweetly mumbling child.

Current in Albania could be likened to that of a brook. Swept along are not many… the stream is listful, warm to the touch, at times, sleepy. Along that morning, and again at coffee, Agustin recognized afresh the answer to prayers that the Lord might send people to his people for their waking. Along came many. Some from Brazil had come and stayed, and now come Americans, nearly ten years to the day since he had first seen American missionaries from this organization in their city.
Coincidence is a mysterious god to many. By this unknown god, they cite many an accidental virtuous thing as fate…
It did not so confuse Agustin to call not this coincidence by Name, and mutter during coffee the great blessing it has been to him to have “coincidence” serve the church in Shkodër.

This coffee with one of the coincidences had closed early that morning. As Agustin biked opposite the American, across from Parruca Mosque, the imam was calling the second adhan.
One might expect something to be insidious which is insidious… oppression ought to sound of oppression, po? This makes sense.
This thing that has often cycled in the mind of man might have so circled as the Islamic fragrance fell melodically over Shködra. It circled back in a meal with the Americans later on.

In the early evening, the Americans call, saying one of them has found himself stuck past sundown on a mountain. Quite the misadventure. He makes funny rings to his relations in the area, saying things about how thankful he is to have had the time to pray up there, starting each call with something akin to, ‘being resigned to sleeping up in the mountains, for he can’t find his way down.’

The same of the Americans stood praying in the open living room in early morning the night before, calling out in the Spirit unto the Spirit, deified, to bless this home and the work of his ragged hands…
God has a way of honoring what God has willed man to ask for. Being eventually found in the mountains then safely and jovially returned home, his heart for the Lord would be made as evident as his gift for storytelling while he recounted the whole thing to Agustin’s wife and American teammates.

A pleasant devotion to see. Warmth to cold hands returned at the memory of this for the Americans, as it might have for Agustin, flying up the steps — six floors — to his door, where dinner will be early-made for the guests.

Toward dinner, there had been for the Americans to see, chess playing late in the park; here, old men sat speaking in multiple tongues, concurrently. Concurrently, this is game in the minds of the playing, as well, culmination of a lifetime sat across from each other in almost every respect. What to say to a friend with whom you’ve shared your city, your family, your country, meals, blessing and suffering, your marriage and your most unworked parts? Your neighborhood in common, your education, also? These are the least of which you have shared… what to say, then?

Perhaps, “Checkmate,” and whatever curse can be shouted through laughs. One giggles and concedes, straight-backed, the other chiding and replaying the match, a piece in each hand. We, reminded of each other’s gracious and competitive natures, recognize a lifetime of brotherhood in these laughs.

He arrives, home, this as any day, to what had been cooking as to so wonderfully warm it. His wife already entertaining, it can be found between bites and laughs, the translation of jokes, and the translation to understand them, an easily-assumed comfort. The church does not want for dinner, and does not want for fellowship.
At some later luncheon, it would be discussed the prevalence of unsound teaching amongst the church bodies of both America and Albania. Lamented and grieved over were they, these lost leading the blind — that much is obvious. Agustin would ask what the Americans see as obstacles to the Gospel in the culture in Albania.
Not much different, they find, the obstacles of their area.
In all of these meals, the belly did not want for food, and the mind, not for the things of God.

As any might, this evening, Agustin’s head won’t find the pillow until he has spent hours in conversation, both in the latest, and earliest of his second-languages. Chess was taught to him young by his father, quite often and in long interval, their conversation in this tongue not fading until handfuls of games were had. One American in the room had wanted to play, and Agustin did not decline. “Now or never,” was the response.

Routed in two games, they conversed at height which challenged the American, and spoke English to degrees which did not challenge Agustin. Fluency in these languages sustained a couple of hours in laughing and friendship.

People do beautiful things quite accidentally. The elderly participate more easily; they have had more practice in the incidental beauty of living. An old man will buy grapes and hazelnuts in a smartly-worn suit and sit down to coffee outside of a market to people-watch as a matter of routine. An old woman, sell produce in the sunniest corner of the market where the old man stops, including in her catalogue beautifully dried herbs from her modest and well-tended garden, thinking nothing of the morning on her headscarf, nor of the fruit in her hands. It is the joy of the Christian to mature in seeing these for their beauty.

On these things waxed one of the Americans bunked in the flat. Agustin, he should think, is happy this day. And why should he not be? Given a less-than arbitrary opportunity to observe beauty as it so exists about him… this might be one of the great brilliant things. 
On the first bit of the neighborhood block, a man has forgotten his car, having left it parked awhile now. A car somehow forgotten was not forgotten always, in perfect condition, but for a flat tire. Perfect condition, yet, the picture of those who walk by the commonplace ’78 Volkswagen Golf without thanking the man or the day, nor the God who makes incident, beauty.

This not so for Agustin Bushgjokaj, who one suspects, can lay with absolute quiet in peace of renewal, thankful to the betterment of his soul. Out of slumber alike with his countrymen, and into rest. This day, as any.