There is no equal to the seasonal summer chaos in our neighborhood.

I should have known that, I scolded myself. I wondered why I had chosen that specific way home while I pushed a stroller with one hand, pulled a scooter with the other and tightly held onto a sizable backpack.

The street market near our home is on a narrow crowded lane. Every passing car inspired me to climb the high sidewalk with my precious cargo—the children. Every obstacle, like a bucket full of flowers or a lemon stand, had me step back down onto the busy road. My children like to call this the “up and down” trip.

I will make this worth it, I thought. We will stop for a loaf of warm shotis puri.

Shotis puri, that mouthwatering, boat-shaped, heavenly-smelling Georgian bread, was worth everything: the loud people stepping on our toes, the always-frowning lady selling it, the dubious hygiene of the fingers touching it, the narrow stairs to the basement where it was being baked, and, of course, the up and down trip.

I managed to get the children up on the sidewalk again and started rummaging through my purse for some change. 1 Lari, 1 Lari and 20, 1 Lari and . . . Oh, no! I jumped in the most ungracious way, just in time to catch Emily and her stroller that had suddenly started to roll backward. That would have been a nasty fall, head-first onto the concrete. My heart pounding, I sighed, relieved, and gave Emily a reassuring kiss on the head.

Then I noticed two more sets of hands had jumped in to secure the stroller. One set belonged to a stranger, and the other set to the grumpy bread lady. She shook her head and then opened the palm of her hand, waiting for my coins and saying, “I will go down and get your bread. You stay here. How many?”

“One,” I almost whispered.

She seemed intimidating. And, for some reason, a little disapproving of my childcare skills. She came back with my bread and some change. I thanked her, then we slowly walked away. Not a minute later, I heard a loud voice yelling back, “Hey! Shotis puri!”

Although I never respond to the name of a Georgian bread, I felt like I had to turn my head. The bread lady was following me, talking loudly and a little too fast. I quickly did a mental inventory: Child one on his scooter, child two in her stroller, backpack present, bread in hand, purse on my shoulder. I should be good.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No. No. No problem,” she said smilingly. She smiled!

“Do you speak Georgian?” she asked.

“Yes, a little,” came my response.

Now, she vocally articulated a whole long sentence, but what I heard was, “You . . . (gibberish) . . . money?
Hmmm, maybe I gave her Romanian coins? I thought to myself as I reached into my purse and took out one Lari.

“No. No,” she gestured. “You . . . (totally not understandable) . . . money?”

I shook my head, frustrated that I could not understand the one word that was essential to the conversation. She then asked the man selling herbs to explain it to me because I was “a foreigner that did not understand anything.”

I understand everything, I replied in my head. Everything except for that word you keep repeating.

Two minutes, a loud commotion and a Google translation later, I finally put it together: “Have you lost some money?” she was asking.

Oh. I took a quick look in my purse, then sighed, replying, “Yes. Looks like 25 Lari.”

That was when the bread lady was completely satisfied. With a large smile, she opened the palm of her hand again, this time to reveal exactly 25 Lari. That would have been about 20 loaves of shotis puri. I had not noticed the money flying out of my purse in all the previous madness.

I thanked her from the bottom of my heart.

I would have had a panic attack a year ago just thinking of going to the market. Now I was waltzing it with two children and half of our possessions in tow, speaking clumsy Georgian and enjoying some delicious, over-touched bread. This crowded place is now home. We know our way around and have slowly become accustomed to the chaos. We have made many friends in the neighborhood, and people treat us like their own.

As we take a short furlough break, we thank you for making this progress possible. We pray and strive for the people here to get to know the Bread of Life, the One who can offer much more than the famous shotis puri.

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