I had two choices: stay behind and wait for my husband to return from a year-long Air Force deployment in Greece, or hop on a jet with a toddler and an infant in tow and follow him to the remote village of Kato on the other side of the globe. I chose to leave America and all its modern conveniences behind. Nestled among blood orange groves, our new home was a rustic hamlet where we formed a bohemian community with our fellow expatriates, sharing possessions and helping each other. In our white-washed villa on a dirt road, our family was sheltered from the turmoil of the Vietnam War and assassination attempts back home. We were in a place suspended in another time. Hardships and calamities came, but we endured and bloomed like the wildflowers that grew on the rocky hillsides around Kato. Wearing hippie sandals, we rambled through the ruins of an ancient culture ruled by broken deities. From the gentle Greek people, we learned to live a simple and unadorned existence filled with joy. We dined on the food our Creator provided and learned what we could live without. Like a tapestry on a loom, the pattern of our lives was forever changed.