Amsterdam Asp

Getting Better All the Time

2007-01-07T21:09:00.000+01:00

Have you visited my new website yet: www.ericasp.com? It's a great site that keeps getting better and better. Just this weekend, we added a Pictures section that is especially cool, with all the latest (continually updated) images of our family, our ministry, and the city of Amsterdam...

Don't forget to make the switch to the new website! Go now (before you forget) and check your computer's web browser, to make sure that the new website is listed in your favorites (this blog is being phased out)... If you use an RSS aggregator to keep up with your blogs, why don't you just cruise on over to the website right now and subscribe using the handy syndication feature at the bottom of the right sidebar... And if you have a website or blog of your own, please be so kind as to direct your links (I love the publicity!) to my new website: www.ericasp.com (and remember, there's no better time to take care of it than right now -- before you forget!).

I hope you're not too annoyed with my repeated reminders for making the switch to my new website. But I know that such adjustments can take time (and if you're reading this announcement in this space, even after having seen the other two reminders, it seems that you may very well need some continued encouragement).

We'll see you at the new website (hopefully)...

Road Trip...

2007-01-06T14:40:00.000+01:00

Our family just got back yesterday from a road trip to Düsseldorf (Germany). Actually, I don’t know if you can technically call it a “road” trip because we took the train -- but you know what I mean…

[The remainder of this post can be read on my new website: www.ericasp.com. Don't forget to adjust your Favorites, RSS Feeds, and Links so you can keep in touch!]

New Year, New Blog

2007-01-01T08:36:00.000+01:00

Gelukkig nieuwjaar! (Happy New Year)! To start off the new calendar year, I'm extremely excited to unveil a new website: www.ericasp.com.

It's more than a blog (although it includes a blog and will, in effect, replace this more generic blog) -- it's a full-blown website. You can take a look for yourself, but the site currently includes an extra "About" section, a still-developing "Ministry" resource center, and an expansive "Recommended" section, offering recommendations for some of my favorite books, films, music, and websites. In the coming weeks, I (with much help from my good friend Will Lafferty) am also planning to add an extensive photo gallery and expand the resources offered from the website to include everything from teaching notes to Bible studies to stories...

Please add www.ericasp.com to your web browser's "Favorites" and your RSS aggregator. And please redirect your links to set up www.ericasp.com as my new blog (and so much more!).

Progress Report - Number Umpteen

2006-12-30T16:55:00.000+01:00

I fear that I may become boring at times, with my relatively repetitive updates about the seemingly snail-paced progress on renovation of our church's new ministry space at the Herengracht 88... But I sometimes feel that I don't have much else to talk about these days. Our church's relocation has been quite consuming -- not just on the practical level (i.e. number of hours in my week), but also on the physical level (I haven't really gotten to immerse myself in any good ol' fashioned physical labor since summer jobs during my early university days) and on the emotional level... It's hard to explain, but I feel like this project has a metaphysical dimension to it.

At any rate, we had a couple more "work days" at the Kelder this week.

We didn't get quite as many volunteers as I might have anticipated (or at least hoped for) in the week between Christmas and New Year's Day... But the people who did come by to help worked hard (like Avantia, pictured above), and we were able to take some significant steps forward. As you can see from the pictures, the two biggest rooms of are nearing completion. Ninety percent of the surface area in this area has been painted. Our furniture, appliances, and boxes have all been moved in, neatly stacked, and covered. We just have a bit of trimwork to finish up and some general touch-up work -- and then we'll be as done as possible... for the time being (the kitchen, hallway, and the two smaller rooms in the other half of the facility are still under construction by the contractors).

The Lounge area (pictured above) has become a bit of a personal project for me (although, let me be quick to point out there have been numerous other individuals who have also worked extremely hard on this space). In my original estimation of the renovation work required, I anticipated that this room would be a relatively "quick fix" (famous last words) in comparison to the other parts of the facility... However, we found ourselves unexpectedly spending hours and hours in scraping and sanding the ceilings... only to be followed by unexpected hours and hours in preparing the walls for painting... only to be followed by unexpected hours and hours of applying layers and layers of paint (some walls have now received no less than five layers of paint!).

But it's finally getting close to being finished (or at least so I assume).

There's been a lot of discussion about the choice in paint colors (for which I cannot take credit or criticism -- as I let other, more qualified, individuals make the decisions about aesthetics). Some fear that the shades of brown will be too dark and overwhelming -- creating a cave-like effect in a room with no natural lighting... But personally, I've come to really like the brown. It's earthy and strangely warm. It's reminiscent of the famous "brown cafes" celebrated for their gezelligheid in the surrounding Jordaan neighborhood of Amsterdam. The color seems to flatten out a lot of the imperfections in the walls, and it creates a nice resting place for the light. Especially once we get some furniture in there, and some artwork on the walls (it's intended to be a sort of art gallery, in addition to a lounge), I think it will be a very cozy space.

So that's the progress report from the Herengracht these days. Keep praying for us. I'll keep you informed of our progress (for better or worse)...

Which Way to Waterloo

2006-12-27T19:18:00.000+01:00

The Napoleonic allusion is a bit obvious -- perhaps even cliché -- but under the circumstances, I find it simply irresistible. A 170-cm (5'8") Frenchman trying to push my solid frame over the threshhold, nervously pushing buttons on his mobile phone and crying out: "Gyet out! Gyet out! Zis is my a-part-a-ment!" He did not care if it was as cold as the Russian tundra outside; he was determined to maintain his heading at all costs.

After a brief moment of resistence, I decided that it wasn't worth the struggle -- though I must confess that I momentarily considered how enjoyable it would be to manhandle such a thorn in my side. In the end, I chose to step deliberately and carefully out into the hallway. After all, I had just been trying to do a simple check-out -- a business formality, really. And if the diminuitive French tenant was going to handle things like this, then so be it.

The troublesome business relationship with this particular renter was symbolic of the greater struggle experienced by the non-profit organization for which I work, over the course of four years in trying to navigate the real estate market of central Amsterdam. Although the stichting had been set up to provide the legal framework for establishing a church in Amsterdam's city center, we also found ourselves enmeshed in the business world when the church ended up renting a space that happened to include a number of extra apartments intended to be used as short-term rental space for business clientele. It was a brilliant idea, really, to creatively generate income for the notoriously high start-up costs of a new ministry project... but unfortunately, the idea backfired on us. We quickly found ourselves in over our heads, under declining market conditions and general inexperience. And even now, as we're nearing the completion of our unentanglement from the situation -- which I can only hope and pray that we are -- nothing ends up coming easy.

In the matter of this particular check-out procedure, I had come at the tenant's request -- his urging, as a matter of fact. He didn't want to wait for our originally-scheduled check-out time; he wanted to depart for Paris immediately. So I obliged him... And the check-out was actually going relatively smoothly. The apartment was in decent shape. We were good to go...

Until the question of payment came up.

We were fully prepared to settle up with the moving costs, as had been (albeit reluctantly) agreed. But when I asked for verification of payment for his last three months of rent -- a routine request, really, given that the man was about to slip across the border and disappear into his native French society -- Monsieur Bonaparte threw a hissy-fit. His face turned the color of spoiled tomatoes, he paced dramatically while waving his arms in the air, and he just - kept - yelling. The cacophony was terrific: he was complaining to his friend en Francais, I was talking on the mobile phone to my colleauge in 't Nederlands, we were going back and forth with each other in English... And, well, the situation just kept escalating. If I do say so myself, I managed to stay incredibly cool, and calm, and collected while the angry Frenchman raged -- but my composure seemed to only fuel the tenant's rage. And I could see that we were rapidly approaching the threshhold scene, both literally and figuratively.

So under the hurried counsel of businessmen and lawyers, I walked away from the situation. Napoleon may be choosing to lay siege to the empty apartment -- and I can imagine that there may be more fireworks in the future. But it seems that our position is quite fortified: a veritable Moscow in January (or, if Biblical analogies are more your thing, you can think of it like Jehosaphat's Judah up against the Ammonites and Moabites, i.e. 2 Chronicles 20).

And even though the present situation presents some hassles and hindrances, I can't help but hope that Waterloo is just around the corner.

A Christmas Love Story

2006-12-25T15:27:00.000+01:00

Christmas is a season of love, and light, and magic… and well, so is this story. It’s a Christmas story from long ago—so long ago, in fact, that its precise date has escaped recollection. But rest assured: it’s only the day of the calendar that has been forgotten… because the rest of that day was imprinted on my consciousness like a footprint in a field of virgin snow.

It was, in fact, a snowy day—a winter day. Not like in the thick of winter—not harsh and dry and bitter. No, it was a day of new snow—soft and romantic, like cool white butterflies dancing. The gentle flakes were sparse and sporadic on the drive down to Columbus, and the two of us felt like we were in the opening credits to a romantic holiday film where something unforgettable happens.

Of course, as with any day consigned to the distant past, the memories of that day are vague and incomplete. I don’t remember parking the car, for instance, or stopping to fill up with gasoline at any point—though I’m sure we did… But I do remember walking through the zoo with her, gloved-hand-in-gloved-hand, two of the very few visitors to be taking in the subfreezing sights by the last hours of cool gray daylight preceding the more popular “Lights Before Christmas.” As we walked along the way, oblivious to the rest of the world, I remember stealing a moment behind the sea lion tank for a kiss… Ah, I remember the moment well. The kiss was sweet—like cinnamon—and long. Warming. It would not be decent of me to speak of it more than this… But it was a memorable kiss.

As darkness fell, we continued to wander through the zoo, which took on the appearance of the Land of Sugar Plum Fairies as the twinkling lights glowed from every snowy edge and orifice. We strolled past an open fire which was attracting the bowing adoration of many a frozen stranger. To our amazement, chestnuts actually roasted over this open fire—just like in the song. The experience seemed too classic to pass up, so we bought ourselves a bag: our first time eating roasted chestnuts… It turned out that the idea of the chestnuts turned out to be more appetizing than the chestnuts themselves… So that was likely also our last time eating roasted chestnuts. Still at least we could say that we did it together.

Shortly after the chestnut experience, the pace of the snowfall started to pick up. I guess you could say that it was becoming a snow storm—still a generally pleasant, romantic sort of snow storm, but a snow storm nonetheless. I still vividly remember the bombardment of thick, fat flakes—actually more like small snow balls more than flakes—being playfully tossed from the heavens. Since we had been out in the elements for several hours, it seemed especially appealing to hail one of the horse-drawn carriages to take a little ride, to enjoy the scenery from a different vantage point and to momentarily escape the pummeling snow storm. In the back of the black carriage, we huddled close as we listened to the clop-clop-clopping of the horses’ powerful hooves penetrating through the piling snow to the stone surface beneath—and then, as we rode, we heard another sound. A familiar sound, but strangely incongruous with the wintry setting. We listened again, more carefully, to verify what we had heard… and after a hushed moment’s pause, punctuated solely by the ticking equestrian cadence, we heard it again beyond the shadow of a doubt: thunder echoing through the gardens. The snow was familiar enough to us, born Midwesterners. The thunder, too, was a regular experience throughout decades of Ohio summers… But “thunder-snow”—it felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Absolutely unforgettable, much like the rest of that day.

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves back on the road, driving home through the snow in a Ford Taurus the color of glüwein (I remember the car because it was my parents’ car, a special car). The windshields were wick-wick-wicking away watery snow, and we were enraptured in the moment, saying very little. Just listening to Christmas music. And holding hands… And falling deeper and deeper in love.

On that car ride home from the Columbus Zoo, in the confines of that Ford Taurus soaring through the snow-streaked night, I knew that I wanted to spend a great many more Christmases with the woman sitting beside me. I wanted to savor her cinnamon kisses, warm my hands in her tender touch, drink up the sights and sounds of Christmas together for years to come.

And that’s exactly what we’ve done ever since. The best part about this Christmas story is that it’s not over. We can’t just tack on some corny “And they lived happily ever after” line to finish out the account. The story of these two young lovers is still in the early chapters of its ongoing development. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Sensation of a Solstice

2006-12-21T20:43:00.000+01:00

Ever since moving to Amsterdam -- 52 degrees and 22 minutes north of the Equator -- this day has been an important day on the calendar: the 21st of December... the Winter Solstice.

There's simply no getting around it. The natural phenomenon of the Earth's revolution around the sun has a visceral effect on an Amsterdammer. The darkness creeps in on the day, like a dark fox hunting its helpless prey, circling in on the sunrise and sunset each day from June to December. It's unnoticeable at first, just a few minutes here, a few minutes there... But as the apex of darkness draws ever closer, the sensation is attacking, strangling, overwhelming. These days, we must will ourselves to get out of bed at the "usual time" -- even though the sun will do no such thing until hours later -- and again we are forced to don safety lights in the middle of the afternoon, as we ride our bicycles to complete a day which the sun is content to finish hours before us.

Ironically, when the winter solstice arrives -- the shortest day of the year -- it is actually a time for celebration. Not celebration because the day is so temporary, so weak, so dim... but celebration because it's the beginning of the end. From this day forward, each day becomes a little bit longer, a little bit lighter. And such a realization is a subtly significant source of hope.

To be honest, I can understand why the pagan religions of northern Europe -- the Norse, the Celts, the Druids, and whatnot -- celebrated the winter solstice as a holy day. And even though Christians are sometimes criticized for adopting such pagan holy days for their own holy days, I can understand why early Christians decided to appoint Christmas to fall roughly around the same time as the winter solstice. The parallels are beautiful.

The prophet Isaiah spoke of hopes for a coming Messiah in the following way: "The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine." Zechariah the priest, just a generation before Jesus echoed Isaiah's prophecy, saying, "Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace." The first chapter of John metaphorically speaks of Jesus as "the light (that) shines in the darkness." And Jesus himself later spoke of himself as "the light of the world..."

Anticipation and renewal and hope -- such natural responses to the beginning of darkness's end at this time of the year -- found their fulfillment in the birth of Jesus, the Messiah, the Christ, the Light of the world.

So... Happy Solstice. And Merry Christmas.

Getting There

2006-12-19T10:40:00.000+01:00

We're getting there. We really are. We still haven't completely arrived... but we're getting there.

I like the above photograph of my friend Jeroen, standing in front of an empty moving truck with his arms out to the sides as if to say: "Ta-da!" or "We did it!" or "Wie wist dat het zo makkelijk zouden zijn!?!?" It definitely seems like we're turning a corner in our church's relocation process, and yesterday was a key step in getting us to such a point.

Our work days over the last couple of weeks did not go quite as smoothly as we would have hoped. We kept running into unexpected obstacles (isn't that always that case?) -- some caused by our own stupid mistakes and some caused by unavoidable circumstances -- but we pressed through it all. And even though all of the painting is not completely finished (not even in the two big rooms, which we had been hoping to complete by this point), enough of it was done that we could move our church's vast collection of stuff from its temporary storage location to our new ministry center on the Herengracht (making it more accessible for when we are completely finished with the painting and avoiding the extra €400 per month in storage fees). So that's precisely what we did yesterday: we moved our stuff in.

Again, as with each stage of the process -- from moving out of the Zolder, to fixing up the Kelder, to moving into the Kelder -- we had the joy of working together as a team, as a family, to make things happen (this sense of teamwork is very evident from the above photograph, where Leslie and Maria offer "moral support" as Kor does the dirty work and Andrew stands by with a strange look on his face!). Seriously, I'm consistently surprised by how much fun we can have together -- even while we're working our butts off (and I should certainly mention that Leslie and Maria were not sitting down for the whole day!).

Working on the Kelder end of things (we had a separate crew at the storage facility, loading things up), I really enjoyed the time with Jozalien, Leslie, Kor, Maria, (myself), Andrew, and Claire (pictured above, from left to right). We decorated our piles of stuff with Christmas lights, we sang songs and pretended that we were playing "Tetris" with the boxes and furniture -- and we worked hard to accomplish our objectives for the day.

So you still couldn't exactly say that we're "moved in" to our new facility. More or less, we just transferred storage facilities. But still, I feel good to know that we're getting there. Langzaam maar zeker -- slowly but surely -- we're getting there.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

2006-12-16T19:55:00.000+01:00

I don't know what my old professors from BGSU's telecommunications department would think... or the production staff from good ol' WBGU-TV27... But for the first time in a couple of years, I've made a video.

My side of the family decided to send personal Christmas gifts this year which focused on our family connections (as opposed to adding to our collections of material possessions)... So this video pageant was our offering for the holiday (together with a personal letter, looking back on some old memories -- family members should be getting their copy in the mail soon!).

I thought others might enjoy seeing it as well. So... um, yeah -- enjoy! And Merry Christmas!

Work Days #2-6

2006-12-15T09:03:00.000+01:00

Things are moving right along at the new ministry facilities on the Herengracht... I haven't had much time behind my computer in the last week, and in fact I still have to leave for another work day in just a few minutes. But I thought I could at least post a few more pictures (from yesterday).

It's definitely a work zone in there...

The help from volunteers has been great...

We're having a lot of fun together...

Soon, we hope to be done!

Work Day #1

2006-12-08T07:03:00.000+01:00

We had our first real work day, yesterday, on the new ministry facilities at Herengracht 88. You may remember that our church has a history of "work days" -- not always with the most positive of connotations attached to such a phrase -- but let me tell you, at least from my personal perspective, it felt good to be in there yesterday, finally getting our hands dirty and making things happen together as a church community. The renovation project had been stalled for a little while, but things took a big jump forward yesterday -- and the situation is more optimistic than it's been for a long time.

I love the effect of sawdust on photography. From a purely technical standpoint, the tiny particles filling the air can be a hassle for getting images properly focused and properly exposed (as you can see in several of these pictures) -- but the sawdust lends such a quality of authenticity to the photographs. And to me, any such picture seems immediately nostalgic. Indeed, days such as these are significant days in the history of our church!

The above image is more or less the "standard" shot of the ministry space, and I've basically tried to take such a picture every time that we get a little bit further on the project. You can compare the image above to the picture taken on the 23rd of October and the picture taken around the middle of October. Slowly but surely, we're getting there...

While we were working yesterday, the contractors were also working to tear out the existing kitchen (with hopes of reinstallation later). It turns out, due to fire regulations, that we have to install some extra walls to seal off the kitchen and create a more divided space between the "Lounge" area and the "Studio" area. We were a bit bummed to lose the openness of the Kitchen, Lounge, and Studio being all together -- but there are some practical advantages to the new arrangement, and we kind of just had to roll with the punches. So it goes...

My personal project for yesterday was ripping out the mirrors in the Lounge. I've been looking forward to tackling this project for quite some time. There had been some squabbles with the contractor and the owner about whose responsibility it was to remove the mirrors (which we never wanted) -- but since there had never been an explicit arrangement ahead of time, and since the contractor was saying that it would be an additional €2000 to take out the mirrors, we decided that we'd do it ourselves. I decided, in fact, that I'd do it myself.

And after two hours of hard work, the mirrors were out -- and I was feeling a whole lot better about where things were going with the Herengracht 88 facilities.

This is ministry?

2006-12-06T22:28:00.000+01:00

Why did I go into ministry? Why was it that I decided to make a career of working for the church? Hmmm...

Was it so I could be involved in high-stakes business negotiations? Was it so I could spend my time talking with lawyers and mitigating areas of legal exposure for the church? Was it so I could familiarize myself with the real estate market in Amsterdam? Was it so I could write employment policies and training manuals? Was it so I could keep track of time cards and vacation request forms for a moderately-sized staff team? Was it so I could answer e-mails and voice-mails and post-mails? Was it so I could spend my days in administrative oblivion?

Or was it to make an eternal difference in people's lives? Was it to serve God and others? Was it to be a part of fulfilling the Great Commission: making disciples, baptizing believers, teaching the ways of God, changing the world one life at a time?

Hmmm... Well, I thought my reasons for getting into full-time ministry were more of the latter and less of the former... But during this week -- and this season of life and ministry in general -- it would be hard to prove it empirically. My time and my priorities feel like they've recently been consumed by lawyers, e-mails, contractors, phone calls, paperwork, and administrative what-not... These days my job can be a thankless job, an invisible job, an insignificant job. Frustrating, to tell you the truth.

Yet, when it really comes down to it, I feel that I am where God wants to use me, for the time being. I've been reminded of some of the last words of Jesus, spoken to his disciple Peter and recorded in John 21:15-25 -- who didn't want to fill the role that had been assigned to him, who wanted someone else's job instead, or who wanted someone else to carry out his assignment instead of him... I believe Jesus understood the frustration and entrapment that Peter was feeling in this conversation. Yet Jesus said simply and directly: "If I want (such-and-such a purpose for such-and-such a person), what is that to you? You must follow me." And that call to follow included a command to take care of God's sheep -- which I feel is a call that God has placed on my own life as well... Even if that means managing a staff team, or negotiating business transactions for the ministry, or mitigating areas of legal exposure for the church. These things may not be the reasons for which I went into ministry, but perhaps they are the very reasons for which God wants me to be in ministry this week.

And who am I to question that?

Sinterklaas (for the English speakers)

2006-12-05T13:36:00.000+01:00

Congratulations, my Dutch friends [note: "Congratulations" is the standard birthday greeting in the Netherlands, offered both to the "Birthday Boy/Girl" and -- oddly enough -- to the other members of the immediate family]! Sinterklaas -- your good saint, your dear saint -- is celebrating his birthday today. Yesterday, Elliot celebrated the occasion with his school (see the picture from the last post) -- but today is the real day!

We really have no comparison in American culture -- kind of perhaps, a little bit, with Santa Claus and Christmas... but not nearly so exciting, so hysterical, so real! It's obvious that the children (and also the parents, the teachers, and the people playing the roles of the Zwarte Pieten and Sinterklaas himself) enjoy the day of Sinterklaas such as none other in the Netherlands. Sinterklaas is not merely some strange disconnected symbol in this culture. Sinterklaas is a friend -- no, actually, a family member!

Therefore, I offer my congratulations to all of you for the birthday of your beloved Sinterklaas. Have fun, and have a great day...

Sinterklaas

2006-12-05T12:24:00.000+01:00

Gefeliciteerd, mijn Nederlandse vrienden. Sinterklaas -- jullie goede sint, jullie lieve sint -- is jarig! Gisteren vierde Elliot met zijn school de verjaardag van de favoriete sint van Nederland (zie foto boven) -- maar vandaag is de echte dag!

We hebben geen echte vergelijking in Amerikaanse cultuur -- wel een beetje met Kerstman (Santa Claus) en de Kerst... maar niet zo spannend, zo hysterisch, zo echt. Het is zo duidelijk dat de kinderen (en ook de ouders, de leerkrachten, en de Pieten en Sintje zelf) Sinterklaas genieten zoals geen andere dag in Nederland. Sinterklaas is geen vreemde figuur van het cultuur. Sinterklaas is een vriend -- nee, eigenlijk, een familielid.

Dus, ik feliciteer jullie met de verjaardag van Sinterklaas. Veel plezier en fijne dag...

You'd Never Know

2006-12-01T14:11:00.000+01:00

The first of December is a meaningful day for our daughter. It was this day, exactly one year ago, when Olivia underwent surgery to remove her hemangioma (a benign tumor, about the size of a golf ball, which had been bulging from the right side of her forehead).

Though she has -- and will always have -- a small, flat, colorless scar right along her hairline, we've never regretted the (elective) surgery from a year ago. It gave our little girl's personality a chance to emerge from the shadow of her rather prominent medical anomaly. It permitted other people to fully see the Olivia that we knew so well. It allowed our lives to become more ordinary...

Or at least as ordinary as possible with an extraordinary girl like Olivia.

Something Different

2006-11-30T13:54:00.000+01:00

It's been an interesting social experiment.

I've been growing a moustache for the last week and a half or so, and I've been intrigued to see the responses to the 'stache -- or, more accurately, the lack thereof. A moustache is not an extremely common form of facial hair for twenty-somethings in the world today -- and especially not in the Netherlands (where facial hair of any kind is quite rare). Furthermore, facial hair is also pretty unusual for me, as I almost always opt for the clean-shaven look... Yet oddly enough, the response to my moustache in the last week has been negligible. Almost non-existent.

I might have suspected that nobody even noticed -- except for the fact that those who know me better were immediately responsive to the moustache. Todd seemed concerned when he first noticed it last week, apparently fearing a flailing sense of fashion and mentioning the moustache like the way he would have politely muttered under his breath if I had left the fly of my pants open in public. Marco saw it on Sunday, and immediately started laughing and joking with me about it. Jason also noticed it immediately -- even though he only got to see it for about 30 seconds, on a low-resolution webcam image in a failed Skype conversation! So apparently, the moustache has been plenty noticeable. In addition to the comments from good friends, at times I've sensed that people are grinning at me extra wide, trying to catch a glimmer in my eye that would reveal if I was joking or not. But very few people have said anything about it...

Isn't that interesting? So be honest: if you've seen me in the last week or so, what were your thoughts about the moustache? Why did you or didn't you say something about it?

For the record... the moustache is gone now. I shaved it off this morning, just after taking the photographs above. I had just been taking advantage of the opportunity to grow out some facial hair in the absence of my wife (who is not a big fan of the prickles). The beard got too itchy, so I shaved it off. But since I was taking some vacation time this week and basically hanging out around home -- not feeling socially obligated to make a good impression on strangers out in the city -- I thought it would be fun to try hold onto the moustache for a bit longer. And, like I said, it's been an interesting social experiment.

Beautiful Body

2006-11-29T13:27:00.000+01:00

I suppose it has a lot to do with the fact that my wife has been out of town, in America, for the last week or so... But I've recently caught myself admiring the beauty of another feminine body. Not in an erotic way, mind you -- on the contrary, my admiration for such a beautiful body is completely honorable, I assure you. But I would be lying if I said that such beauty has gone unnoticed.

I'm just awe-struck sometimes by the way that the Body of Christ (also referred to as the Bride of Christ, or the Church) works.

Today, my mother-in-law and father-in-law are moving. Almost three decades' collection of mementos, appliances, furniture, and other miscellaneous stuff are being packed up, loaded onto a U-Haul, and delivered to a new domicile (which is actually a very old farmhouse that's been in the family for generations, but which has required a massive renovation effort to host the new tenants)... As you might anticipate, the project requires lots of heavy lifting, lots of cleaning, lots of physical and emotional energy over a sustained period of time... And it's all coming to a head today.

Yet here I sit -- typing at my computer in Amsterdam, an ocean away, while my children nap in their bedrooms. It's pathetic, really.

On such an occasion when family is supposed to rise to the occasion, when the call goes out for "all hands on deck," when a strapping young son-in-law (if I may so identify myself) could be extremely useful -- I am rendered useless, powerless, and ineffective -- constrained by our son's school schedule and the thousands of dollars that would be required to transport all of us back to Ohio to help out. Days like today are some of the hardest to be following God's call to live and lead a church in the Netherlands. Days like today honestly make me wonder if I'm doing the right thing, living with my family in a foreign land -- even if it may be "for the sake of the Gospel"...

In spite of the situation, though, I find contentment and hope in the fact that I'm part of a big, beautiful Body that's able to extend past the conventional constraints of time and space. My hands may be tied today, figuratively speaking, "holding down the fort" in Amsterdam -- but my membership in the Body of Christ allows me to have hands that are available, able, and active to help my extended family in this time of need. Even as I'm typing here in Amsterdam, ten strong, young, able-bodied believers should be driving the roads from Bowling Green to the home of my parents-in-law in order to offer the helping hands that are so desperately needed today. Old friends from our previous community of faith, h2o, have responded to the "nerve impulses" sent through the Body of Christ and are enthusiastically embracing the opportunity to be my family's hands and feet in Ohio today. Today will actually be their second trip to help! And if past experience is any gauge of what will happen today (which I'm quite confident it will be), the help offered by these young men and women is that of no ordinary "volunteer work force," or even the work of well-paid hired hands -- oh no, our brothers and sisters from Bowling Green will apply themselves like true family. Like the Family of God. The Body of Christ.

It's beautiful. I'm telling you: the only way that we're able to be active in "missionary" work -- serving the greater Body of Christ in Amsterdam -- is through the other members of the Body that allow us to cover our bases in America, that allow us to be financially supported in our ministry, that allow us to receive the spiritual protection that we so desperately need through prayer, that allow us to feel loved and supported on both sides of the ocean (let's not forget that we have a beautiful surrogate family on this side of the ocean as well!). The Body of Christ is a beautiful thing. Don't you agree?

The Puzzle

2006-11-28T21:34:00.000+01:00

We got this puzzle on Koninginnedag (the end of April) this year. Second-hand, of course, from the vrijmarkt (think of it like a city-wide yard sale). I don't really remember how much we paid for the puzzle -- not very much, I'm sure -- but it seemed like a nice little find. A 1000-piecer, with a painted image of the Dam, in central Amsterdam, as it would have been in the 1600s. For whatever reason, puzzles of Amsterdam are not very common...

I sorted through the puzzle pieces for a little while a few months ago -- you know, putting the edge pieces in one pile and the sky pieces in a different pile and so on and so forth... But really, the puzzle just sat on a shelf for half a year. That is, until my parents came to town (in the second week of November). Since my Mom likes to put together puzzles, and since a puzzle can be a good down-time diversion that offers an alternative to television and allows for casual conversation, we set up a card table in the living room and started working on the puzzle in earnest. Well... maybe not "in earnest." Maybe just a little bit here and there. But still, by the time my parents left (two weeks ago, now), we had basically passed the "point of no return" as we couldn't bear to simply scrap the work that had already been done (perhaps 10-15 percent of the total puzzle). So we kept the card table up in our living room and kept chipping away at the puzzle from time to time.

Marci pieced together all of the people on the plein... I built the paleis, in the left foreground of the picture... Over time, the picture slowly started to take shape. The chaos was ordered. The jaggedy surface was smoothed out. The holes were filled in. The confusing pieces (a person that actually turned out to be part of the building, or such) slipped into place, often in unexpected ways. The piles of pressed cardboard pieces became a piece of art.

By the time Marci left, a week ago, pretty much everything had been assembled except for the sky (it's always the sky, isn't it?). Unfortunately, a full quarter of the puzzle (if not a third of the puzzle) is composed of drab whitish-grayish-bluish sky (very true to the real skies of Amsterdam)... But I didn't want to give up on the puzzle. I didn't want the card table to stay up in my living room for another month, but I wasn't going to let a stupid puzzle beat me! So I kept chipping away at it. In between tending to the needs of the kids, or while I would be trying to think in the midst of my writing project, I would systematically work through pieces of the sky -- painstakingly bringing everything together. It was only this morning that I started to feel that the end was near.

But now I can say that I've done it! I finished the puzzle today... or at least I mostly finished the puzzle today.

The truth is that I came up one piece short. Our masterpiece is actually only 99.9% completed, and we will never be able to say that we completely conquered the puzzle. For being a second-hand puzzle, bought on Koninginnedag, for the price we paid for it, verification of 999 out of 1000 pieces actually isn't so bad... But the lack of completion still bothers me.

And if you've every worked on a puzzle yourself, I'm sure you know what I mean.

Me and the Munchkins

2006-11-25T22:31:00.000+01:00

I love my children. And I feel like I'm getting to know them better this week. Marci has gone out of town for eleven days, as she's helping her parents move out of the home in which she grew up -- thus I am running the household on my own for the time being. And although it can be quite a heavy load to keep the house clean, maintain a regular routine, prepare healthy food for three of us, and provide emotional and spiritual leadership for two young children (full-time "stay-at-home" Moms deserve so much respect!), I've actually been enjoying the time with me and the "munchkins." It's like I've been getting to see sides of them that I've never fully noticed before...

In particular, I got to know my daughter a little bit better earlier this week, as we pedalled through the streets of Amsterdam on my bicycle. Early on Thursday morning, I had told Olivia that we'd get to go on a bicycle ride together later in the morning (while Elliot was in school), so I could drop off some documents at the church office. Thus, after having Olivia finish her breakfast, put on her shoes, and use the potty, we prepared to leave for our "bicycle ride" -- at which point Olivia resolutely informed me, with the candor and clarity of a true two-year-old, "Not bakfiets. Bicycle ride." As opposed to riding in the plastic-domed comfort of our three-wheeled "mini-van of bicycles," Olivia made it clear that she wanted to get out her helmet and the single children's seat that can be affixed to the front handlebars of my brown Batavus bicycle -- for a faster ride, with the wind in her face, and in close proximity to her Daddy who was powering the bicycle just behind her.

As we started picking up speed on the ride, Olivia gleefully sang, "Wheeeeeee!" Then, for the rest of the ride, she was like a microphoned tour guide on a bus tour through the city of Amsterdam. She pointed out every dog that we passed on the way, and barked "Arf! Arf!" to solicit their interaction with us. She pointed to the boats on the Amstel River, as we pedaled over the Hoge Sluis, and she laughed freely when I affirmed her by saying "Good eyes." She pointed to trams along the way, but she called them "trains" and made heartfelt sound effects -- "Choo-choo" -- to make her point. Occasionally, as we rode along in the brisk November air, Olivia would say, "Oooo. I chilly." So I would place my gloved hand on her shoulder or her arm and rub some warmth back into her a bit -- to which she would faithfully respond with a touch of her mittened hand on my hand and coo, "Thank you, Daddy." It was so much fun to be seeing the city with my daughter in such a way...

Olivia was a true lady as we completed our errand and continued on the return trip back toward home in Amsterdam Oost. Crossing the Amstel on the return trip, she saw another boat out on the water and gleefully shouted "Look! Look! A boat!" And when I failed to compliment her on her observation (as I had done on the first pass over the river), she complimented herself: "Good eyes!" As we turned onto the home stretch and pedaled into a fierce wind, I put my right arm around Olivia's midsection to shield her from the cold and encourage her that we were "almost there." And when Olivia again affectionately responded with resting her arms on mine and sweetly singing "Thank you, Daddy," I had to consciously resist the urge to throw my other arm around her as well in a full embrace (otherwise, we might have ended up in a nasty "Look Ma - no hands" bicycle accident). In any event, it seemed like the "bicycle ride" together that day cemented something in my relationship with Olivia...

With Elliot, too, I feel like I've gained further insight into his character this week. And -- just as with Olivia -- I like what I've been seeing.

My son -- like the rest of school-aged Dutch society -- is totally obsessed with Sinterklaas (a Dutch holiday, with many similarities to the American Christmas holiday, celebrated on the 5th of December) these days. In the last day or two, in fact, Elliot has taken to wearing his red Sinterklaas hat (a tall bishop's hat emblazoned with a golden cross) and carrying a basket full of pepernoten (dime-sized gingerbread cookies) whenever we go out in public. Essentially, he's campaigning for the job of Sinterklaas. If he manages to make eye contact with anyone (and often even when he does not) -- in the grocery store, at the coffee house, on the sidewalk -- he cheerily greets the stranger with a question: "Wil jij een pepernoot" (Would you like a pepernoot?). Of course, it's kind of embarrassing and awkward -- but it's also kind of cute and definitely well-intentioned...

Of course, most urbanites (and particularly Amsterdammers) are unaccustomed to eye contact, conversation, or interaction of any kind with strangers -- thus unfortunately, Elliot's (or should I say Sinterklaas's) solicitations have typically been falling on deaf ears. But to his credit, my boy is indomitable; and you've just got to admire him for his cheerful persistence. I've explained people's lack of responsiveness to his invitations by suggesting that people simply "tune out" when they're out in public with so much noise and so many people around. Thus, when someone doesn't listen to Elliot's incantation of "Wil jij een pepernoot?" or when he is refused his kind offer, he just looks at me with a look of innocent incredulity and graciously shrugs: "He tuned me out." And if, by chance, someone accepts his offer and thanks him for a tasty pepernoot, he beams with joy and satisfaction, doing a little dance, and singing to me: "She didn't tune me out!" It's such a beautiful image of innocence and kind-heartedness that should make any parent proud... At least, I know it does for me.

These times of increased parental responsibility and rearrangement of standard schedules can certainly be challenging on a number of different levels (I'm sure I could write an equally amusing post on some of the trials of the last week)... But such times as these can also be so rewarding. So I'm looking forward to the week ahead -- striving to look past the sibling rivalries, screaming tantrums, and messy clean-ups... and seeking to soak up the opportunities to warm chilly little arms and encourage generous hearts... enjoying a more intimate connection with my children.

Quagmire

2006-11-24T22:01:00.000+01:00

Have you been wondering about what's going on with the new ministry facility on the Herengracht? I know I sure have...

It's been a few weeks since I last posted about our church's new home in the heart of Amsterdam's grachtengordel. And even though there's been a continued process of renovation (some plaster work, reconstruction of some wider doorways, installation of some technical fire safety measures) -- and even though I've got the inside track on all the up-to-the-minute information -- I have to admit that I myself am somewhat uncertain about what's going on with the Herengracht 88.

To put it succinctly, the Herengracht 88 has become a bit of a quagmire.

It is neither rational nor relevant to disclose the particulars of the situation -- suffice to say that we've run into challenges on just about every front: with the building owner, with the contractors, with the city officials, with members of our own team, with our own consciences... At times, I'm content to let the process run its course -- as I know it should. But at other times, I worry that we've gotten ourselves into a land war in Asia. As with about a thousand other instances throughout the last four years of establishing a church in the heart of Amsterdam, we've found ourselves in way over our heads, just a bunch of hacks trying to figure things out as we go. And yet -- and yet... God always seems to always find a way to take care of us.

I've been told that virtually all such building/renovation projects always seem to take longer than expected, require more money than expected, and run into more problems than expected... So if that's the case, then this project is right on track! Still, I would hope that we could soon see a resolution to the renovation process, so we can move into the space and be done with it. Of course, I'll do my best to keep you updated... And if you could, please pray with us for God's intervention in the situation.

November Day

2006-11-23T09:27:00.000+01:00

It's an absolutely November day in Amsterdam. Skies the color of concrete, gusting wind and driving rain, temperatures hovering just above the freezing point... What leaves have managed to hang onto the trees so far are today being unceremoniously dismembered and dumped into the gutters. Dawn and dusk blend together with a sickly gray light, as temporary as time... Indeed this is as November as it gets.

Nevertheless, children must still be brought to school. Groceries must still be bought. Meetings must still be had. Life must go on as it does in May or September. It's just that... It's just that everything seems to take on the palor of November. Do you know what I mean?

November should be an adjective -- a word to represent everything cold, gray, damp, and dark... And in that case, this day is not just November. No, it's Novembest.

Classic

2006-11-19T08:47:00.000+01:00

The image quality was, at best, choppy and vague -- like some kind of Monet stadiumscape (and at worst an indistinguishable blur of scarlet and maize that occasionally blacked out entirely). The audio quality was muffled and mumbled, as if listening an early-20th-Century phonograph recording of a turkey farm. We had to stay up until 1:30 in the morning to absorb the entirety of the broadcast, even though our wake-up time and breakfast schedule could not be mitigated...

But it was so worth it. In fact, it may have been the finest experience of "The Game" that I've ever had.

Back where I come from, the weekend in which the Ohio State University Buckeyes and the University of Michigan Wolverines play their annual football game against each other is a very significant weekend. It's much more than "just a football game." It's a cultural event. Similar to the running of the bulls in Pamplona or the experience of Queen's Day in Amsterdam. Personal lives and community events are scheduled around the kick-off time of the OSU-Michigan game. I remember a friend who encountered relatively severe relational difficulties with her father when it was discovered that her wedding day (for crying out loud!) happened to have been scheduled to coincide with the day of the OSU-Michigan game (by the way, I seem to remember that they worked it out by coordinating the pause between the wedding ceremony and the reception to coincide with game time -- and several of the wedding guests even complimented her for her "prudence" in allowing them an opportunity to watch the game as well!)... Suffice to say -- that Saturday in November is an important day for people where I come from: parties, foods, traditions, superstitions -- the works.

Nevertheless, the day means virtually nothing for Europeans. Or for most Americans living in Europe, for that matter.

Therefore, it was especially meaningful to join with a handful of Ohioans (all church leaders in various parts of Europe) -- and even a couple of Michiganders -- to fight through technological issues together and enjoy a shared experience of this year's rendition of "The Game" (which turned out to be a classic). Locating an internet feed of the game on a laptop computer, routing its audio through a dilapidated computer speaker and projecting its video onto a white wall, we managed to experience to OSU-Michigan game for the first time in years. In a castle. On a lakeside. In the middle of the Austrian Alps. In the wee hours of the morning. In the company of Dutchmen and Ukrainians and Ohioans and Michiganders...

It doesn't get much more classic than that.

Austrian Adventure

2006-11-18T20:54:00.000+01:00

[with apologies to "Gilligan's Island"]

Just sit right back, and you'll hear a tale -- a tale of, well, a rather uneventful trip. It started from the hamlet of Obermillstatt, upon this alpine trail...

The hikers were an enthusiastic bunch -- though perhaps not fully physically fit. There were eight of us in the group, all told, for a four-hour tour. That's right -- a four-hour tour...

The weather actually stayed quite pleasant (at least for November). We didn't quite manage to make it to the summit, but we didn't want to get lost. As dusk approached, we definitely didn't want to get lost...

So we managed to return (mostly) intact, to our castle on the lake. With Todd (an American Amsterdammer)...

And Michaël (a Dutch Amsterdammer)...

Samuel (a British Amsterdammer)...

Anthony (an American from Torino)...

Mark (from Orlando)...

Drew (from Detroit)...

Lee (an American Amsterdammer)...

And, of course, me.

Here in the Austrian Alps!

The Sound of Music

2006-11-17T08:49:00.000+01:00

Austria is all that... and then some.

I never had any reason to doubt Maria von Trapp -- what with that innocent face and angelic voice -- still, visiting Austria for the first time, seeing it with my eyes and hearing it with my ears is an epiphany. The hills are indeed alive with the sound of music. The songs of the mountains, which have been sung for thousands of years, cause my heart to expand, inflate, elevate, and reach out in an experience of rediscovered life.

Hiking through the misty dawn around the majestic expanse of the Millstatersee seems to be exactly what my heart has needed. The fresh mountain air has awakened parts of me which I didn't even know were sleeping. These past couple of days, I've felt like a puppy -- panting, pulsing, pounding my talk against the floor -- hoping at every moment for another run through the Alpine trails.

Oh, to be in the mountains! I don't know why a boy from the flatlands of Ohio, living in the flatlands of Holland, should have such a built-in desire for the mountains...

But I do. And I thank God that I'm in Austria this week.

Learning to Pastor

2006-11-14T20:26:00.000+01:00

Learning to pastor a church is like learning to speak Dutch: a practically infinite learning curve, regular feelings of inadequacy that gradually (though never fully) become displaced by a sense of confidence, and an unpredictably meandering path toward "completion" of the process...

And I guess that now I can say that I've "completed" both.

When I first started with Dutch, I just picked up a few phrases here and there. A "Colloquial Dutch" cassette tape/textbook package gave me the basics for pronunciation and such. Over time, as opportunities presented themselves, I just started practicing -- sometimes with a degree of effectiveness, and sometimes with embarrassing and/or laughable results. Slowly, slowly, I gained "fluency" in different aspects of the Dutch language: first it was "restaurant Dutch" -- then "tram Dutch" and "casual-greetings-with-a-stranger Dutch." Eventually, I was able to enroll in Dutch classes and gain more regular exposure to the language (personally, I think the greatest benefit of these classes was simply the opportunity for systematic exposure to a Dutch-speaking environment, more than the formal education process). Along the way, I discovered ways to express more complex thoughts in Dutch and communicate more effectively with Dutch-speakers. I found that my greatest strides in language acquisition came as I was able to build friendships in Dutch and experience both successes and failures within a loving and nurturing environment. So when I finally took the NT2 Staatsexamen 2 (Dutch as a Second Language National Exam Level 2), it was merely a formality when the results came back saying that I could officially speak Dutch. The slip of paper with my passing scores -- although valuable for authenticating my linguistic abilities for strangers -- did not essentially alter the universe... It just officially recognized what had already come to pass on the practical level.

In the same way, learning to pastor started very simply and casually. I learned how to lead small group Bible studies and simply serve within the context of a church community. Over time, I took more responsibility for other tasks and "shepherding" people's lives on the most basic level (organizing teams of volunteers, forming deep friendships incorporating accountability and learning together about God, handling "problem" issues that might come up in a small group setting)... I made lots of mistakes along the way but also learned how to allow God to work through me to produce good spiritual fruit. When other opportunities for leadership fell in my direction, I was able to trust God and see Him work in bigger and more varied ways in my life and in the lives of those around me. And with systematic exposure to pastoring opportunities, I was able to grow in my ability to pastor. Over the last year or two in Amsterdam, God's work in my life (and in the life of my good friend Todd) seemed to gain a wider recognition among the church here. So when it finally seemed right to lay hands on us and formally ordain us as pastors for Zolder50 (this past weekend), the ceremony simply served to officially recognize what had already come to pass on the practical level.

Even so, there is something meaningful about an ordination ceremony (my analogy paralleling this to the NT2 Staatsexamen 2 is a bit imperfect). The laying on of hands is a symbolic act, concretely representing something that happens on the spiritual level -- kind of like a baptism. And more than a formal ceremony, ordination is an impartation of blessing from one generation to the next. Thus, it was especially meaningful to have Daniel Goering (director of Great Commission Europe and founding pastor of the movement's first European congregation in Dortmund, Germany), Joe Dunn (director of Great Commission Europe, off-site pastor of Zolder50, and personal mentor for the last three years), and my father, Dave Asp (who also happened to be a pastor for the better part of two decades, as well as being my life-long mentor) lay hands on us and pray for us at the Zolder50 Soul Gathering this past Friday. It happened in the newly acquired (but still-unfinished) ministry facilities at the Herengracht 88 -- which seemed to be an appropriate setting for the new beginnings represented in the ordination ceremony itself.

No less meaningful was the follow-up recognition at our Sunday afternoon worship gathering in De Poort this past Sunday. All of the home group leaders and members of the board of trustees for the church gathered around me and Todd to pray for us and bless us in our roles as pastors for the church. Again, on the one level it was just a formality -- but on the other level, it was a very special, very meaningful symbol to demonstrate something truly deep and powerful in the life of our young church. And in the lives of two young men given the task of shepherding the flock in Amsterdam.

Todd and I are still very much learning and growing. Pastoring is like Dutch -- not our first language, not our most natural state of being. We've come a long way, and God has taught us lots over the last few years. Following the past weekend, we've got the "official" recognition of the role that we are playing. However, we still make mistakes, and we've still got lots to learn. Thanks to all of you who are praying for us. Please don't stop now.

Quite possibly the coolest picture I've ever taken of my children

2006-11-12T13:48:00.000+01:00

Oud, Ouders, en Oudsten

2006-11-11T22:14:00.000+01:00

It's been a long week. A good week -- but a long week. Out-of-town guests (5 sets of people from 3 different continents totalling anywhere from 12 to 50, depending on how you count) along with the convergence of multiple projects have left me feeling badgered and bent like an old man. In the grand scheme of things, they're all good things -- and even refreshing in their own ways -- but altogether they can be rather wearying. In the last week, I've found myself looking forward to bedtime when the day is hardly even half-completed... Finally, I can relate to my grandparents who would always turn in by 8:30 in the evening. Either it's been an especially hectic week, or I'm getting older -- or both. C'est la vie.

Regrettably (though necessarily), blogging has taken a backburner during this period (thus my previous post). Nevertheless, the irony remains that the weeks in which I have the most to write about are the weeks in which I have the least time to write. Even so, I wanted to post a few pictures and share a few brief highlights of the past few days -- because it's been a very special week, in a lot of ways.

One of the most exciting events of this week has been the visit of my parents. Obviously, living on the far side of the ocean, we don't get too many opportunities for extended interaction (other than telephone conversations or chatting on-line) -- and prior to this week, my parents had never been able to make the trip to Amsterdam together (though my Mom was here a year ago, around the time of Olivia's surgery, and my Dad was here about a year before that, just after the time when Olivia was born). So it's just been a lot of fun having them around. We've had some really great times of conversation, and we've been able to enjoy some fun activities together as well. I've recently been reflecting on how special my parents are and how greatly they've blessed me throughout the course of my life. Thanks to their love and care (physically, emotionally, and spiritually), I've had a lot of chances in life that the vast majority of others in the world have not... And especially as I get older, I want to nurture my relationship with my Dad and Mom and bless them in my own way.

All that to say, it's been great having my parents in town this week -- even if their visit does happen to coincide with the crazy crossroads of other people and projects in Amsterdam...

And my parents' visit is all the more sweet because it allowed them to participate in a significant spiritual event in my life: my official ordination as a pastor for Zolder50 (or whatever our church may eventually be called), together with Todd Watkins. This element of recognition is the result of a long process that God has been working in my life -- and perhaps sometime soon I'll be able to reflect and explain more of what this development has meant to me (more than just a quick blurb in a newsy blog post)... But to say the least, it was a special occasion.

Indeed it's been an interesting week. A very good week. But to tell you the truth, I should hope that it's a week that will not be repeated anytime soon.

Haiku of an Apologetic Blogger

2006-11-09T06:55:00.000+01:00

In times of struggle,
In seasons of stress,
Why are the things that we love
The first things to go?

Mystery

2006-11-03T14:13:00.000+01:00

How much of our lives have been predetermined? To what extent are our lives ruled by an uncontrollable destiny -- an inescapable fate? Is it fair to think we were born a certain way or "born for" a certain purpose -- or should we place more emphasis on the role of our choices and/or the environment in which we've sought to define ourselves? Who's pulling the strings of our marionette show? How much is God involved in the day-to-day affairs of mankind, and how much of what we presume to be God's involvement is actually just the logical consequences of inborn laws of nature that work themselves out according to people's actions and reactions within the created order?

These questions have plagued mankind for ages. Sociologists theorize the impact of "nature" (the way we were made) versus "nurture" (the way we were raised). Theologians ponder the spectrum of Calvinism (predestined script for the universe and for each individual life) to Armenianism (freewill of humans dictating their destiny, with God choosing a laissez-faire approach). But the fact is that it's still a mystery. Both ends of the spectra may be correct -- or neither. We live with a paradox of choice and destiny. But what does this mean for our lives?

What about the person who "just so happens" to end up following the career path of his father before him, and his father's father before him? What about the person with "control issues" whose mother also had considerable "control issues" of her own -- or (perhaps more commonly) considerable "out-of-control issues" -- but who must still make individual choices as an adult and must live with the consequences of those sinful patterns in life? What about the person choosing to "come out of the closet" -- claiming to be inescapably and inherently homosexual, claiming to be born that way -- yet simultaneously fitting every pattern in the book to precipitate such lifestyle decisions (dysfunctional parental relationships, sexual abuse, a persistently depressive state of looking to belong, looking to be loved)? What about the married couple that falls into estrangement and adultery -- seemingly caught in a star-crossed pattern of love's reversal, but only after a classic progression of broken expectations, feeding into each other's pain, and subconsciously wounding each other in the very most sensitive areas -- and only to be repeated in ten-year cycles of love-marriage-estrangement-divorce-love-marriage-estrangement-divorce?

We don't want to be patterns, statistics, type-casted characters, unoriginal pawns in some great big choreographed show... But we also don't want to be alone, cosmic orphans, hung out to dry, ultimately responsible parties in a world that's completely out-of-control. Similarly, I can't buy into arguments and explanations of "it's all my parents' fault" or "God made me this way" or "it was just meant to be as such"... But I must equally reject blanket claims of "I'm the problem" or "I chose for this completely independently" or "If only I would have done this one thing, the situation would have been different"...

What an impossible conundrum! What a dilemma! What a mystery...

Oddly enough, such mysteries only strengthen my assurances of the supernatural. In the face of such impossibilities, I can more purely put my faith in God. And infinite God. A God of the impossible. A God whose ways are higher than my ways and whose thoughts are higher than my thoughts -- a God capable of understanding these things on a higher plane where the "irreconcilable" can somehow be reconciled. Somehow, I must have hope in this omnipotent omniscient God and His ability to right all wrongs in their appropriate time and place... But I must also accept responsibility as an agent of God's Kingdom, trusting the Holy Spirit to fill me and use me to supernaturally reverse the flow of natural events.

I guess when it comes down to it, there are no easy answers. Only faith (any point on these spectra requires a significant element of faith). And as for me, I choose to put my faith in the mystery.

Patrol

2006-10-31T20:17:00.000+01:00

"Attentie! Attentie! De Chemocar rijdt door uw straat..."

The sound of the loudspeaker sets me on edge. It doesn't matter that it's announcing the presence of friendly orange-vested municipal workers trolling through the neighborhood for chemical waste products. It doesn't matter that the announcement is delivered in the voice of a Dutch female telephone operator. It doesn't matter that each repetition of the announcement is preceded by a funky Middle-eastern melody, like some kind of ice cream truck in Damascus...

The sound of the loudspeaker sets me on edge because it's mounted to the top of a slow-moving truck, moving through my neighborhood, announcing its propaganda in a foreign (albeit recognizeable) language.

I know this sounds crazy -- but every time the Chemocar drives through our neighborhood (maybe once every three months or so), I think of the Holocaust. Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner myself... Or maybe it's because I live in a neighborhood that was highly populated (and depopulated) by Jews during the time of the Second World War... Or maybe it's because I'm developing a nasty case of paranoid schizophrenia... But whatever the reason, it seems that I can't help but feel like a Jew in hiding whenever the Chemocar comes around. My natural impulse is to freeze, to breathlessly listen to the endlessly recycled message blared through the loudspeakers, and above all else to keep the curtains closed.

I can't imagine what it actually would have felt like to have been a Jew in Amsterdam during the 1940s. I can't imagine what it would have been like to hear those words and those policies -- amplified for the neighborhood to hear -- against me and my people. The Verzetsmuseum, just a five minute bicycle ride from my house, is a good start to understanding that period of human history. The Anne Frank huis, on the Prinsengracht, is interesting and instructive. The Corrie Ten Boom huis, in Haarlem, offers a unique perspective.

But the Chemocar helps me to imagine it a little more fully. And I don't think that's such a bad thing -- as long as my overactive imagination doesn't get me hauled off in a straightjacket, into the back of a padded truck...

21 Nets

2006-10-29T19:40:00.000+01:00

I'm proud of my family: my wife, my children -- and 150 of our spiritual relatives from our church family here in Amsterdam. Together, we raised €163.37 (EUR) -- which translates to $208.23 (USD) -- which translates to approximately 21 mosquito-proof bednets for children in sub-Saharan Africa.

That's pretty sweet.

The idea started with Marci. She heard about an initiative to fight the spread of malaria in Africa through an organization called Millenium Promise. Basically, for a $10 donation, you can ensure the distribution of one malaria prevention kit including a specially treated bednet that has been proven to limit the spread of the mosquito-borne disease among children in Africa (one of the most susceptible populations). And since our church has been recently striving to get more involved with meeting some of the massive physical and material needs in Africa -- and since we want to strive for the same as a family -- and since our children have an basic understanding of the problems associated with mosquitoes and bednets (because their fair skin and overactive immune systems give them fits with Amsterdam mosquitoes in late summer and early autumn each year) -- the Millenium Promise malaria prevention program seemed like a good way to connect our kids' hearts with the needs in Africa.

It turned out we were right. More right, in fact, than we expected. Elliot especially latched onto the idea of doing chores around the house to earn coins here and there, to add up to mosquito nets for kids in Africa. Over the last couple of months, he's nickled and dimed his way toward the purchase of two malaria prevention kits (€16). And still that wasn't enough. He wanted to help get more mosquito nets for the kids in Africa. We had to start getting creative in our thinking of how kindergartners could earn some money... And that's where we came up with the idea of a good ol' fashioned American-style bake sale.

Over the week of their fall vacation, Elliot and his friends from church -- Tobias, Caden, Amelie, and Shay, in particular -- worked together with their mothers (and, let's be honest: it's the mothers who really made it all happen!) to bake cookies. And brownies. And more cookies. And more brownies. And then we brought them to our church worship gathering at De Poort, so we could offer them afterwards in exchange for a donation toward the Millenium Promise malaria prevention program.

We thought it could be a neat way to connect our children's ministry with our heart to minister to the needs of the less fortunate in Africa with the general population of our church family... But honestly, we had no idea that it would be nearly as successful as it ended up being. We never made an exact count of how many baked goods we had to sell, but it was probably a couple hundred or so. In any event, we easily averaged between €0.50 and €1.00 per item -- and to come out with a total "profit" of over €160 was beyond our most optimistic expectations in a church full of students, the unemployed, and the underemployed (especially considering that we also solicited a very generous offering for the costs of renovation in our new church facility earlier in the afternoon). It was very encouraging for Elliot to know that we're going to be able to get 21 bednets for children in Africa.

It was encouraging for me, too.

Instead of the normal "Halloween" season of greed and gluttony (these words are too strong -- and I don't intend them as a judgment of children who participate in the American ritual of trick-or-treating -- but I think you know what I'm getting at), our kids got to dress up so Superman and The American Football Star could serve treats to the rest of the church, in exchange for the opportunity to treat dozens of children in Africa with an improved opportunity for health and well-being.

I'll say it again: That's pretty sweet.

Encouragement to Exercise

2006-10-26T11:16:00.000+02:00

I sent in my ballot today -- filled in with a number two pencil and sealed up in a manilla envelope for my absentee participation in the great American democracy.

Some might call me a patriot... Some might call me a starry-eyed idealistic fool... But I just say I'm doing my job. Playing my part. Exercising my right -- for whatever it's worth.

I'll be the first to admit that I have my doubts. I've kept no secrets about my lack of faith in the effectiveness of political activism; the governments of the world still bother me with their self-assured smiles in the face of their inherrent inability to fix the real problems of humanity. The relative poverty of viable candidates frustrates me, as I often feel forced to choose between the lesser of two-hundred-thousand evils. Like most other people from this nation of 300 million, I frequently doubt the effectiveness of my singular vote (there are even some rumors floating around that absentee ballots are not necessarily counted in certain states). I'm as critical, cynical, and disillusioned as the next guy.

However, I feel compelled to participate in the democractic process anyway -- because I am a citizen and because I am a Christian.

I'll be short -- because no one likes to read long drawn-out political and/or theological diatribes (least of all me) -- but my citizenship compels me to vote because participation in a representative government is an incredible privilege that has not been afforded to the vast majority of the people to have lived (and to currently be living) on this planet. And even though I have my fair share of criticism for the government, I feel that I would essentially lose the moral right to criticize a representative system in which I choose not to (at least attempt to) elect my representation... Furthermore, as a follower of Christ, it seems quite clear that I am called to love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my mind, and with all my strength -- essentially my whole self. And although it's far from easy to find the most Christ-centered political position (especially in a limited two-party system such as the USA's), I feel that I must try to follow God and my conscience in all matters of life -- be it, spending my money, or watching the television, or eating responsibly, or interacting with my neighbors... or voting.

I guess my thinking on these things has become a bit more crystalized as a result of living abroad. I've come to realize that whoever may get elected back in America (even he or she with whom I am generally ideologically opposed) stands to become my closest ally, as an official of the government that authorizes my passport -- so this helps to assuage some of the cynicism. Also, living here in Amsterdam, I have the good fortune of escaping a lot of the distasteful mud-slinging campaign advertisements and mind-numbingly circular debates in the news... Whatever the reasons may be, I feel more strongly than ever that voting is a right that should be exercised whenever possible.

Progress Report

2006-10-23T19:25:00.000+02:00

Have you ever been consumed by a particular person, or problem, or project? This one thing -- whatever it is -- becomes the primary subject of your conversations, your correspondance, your daily activities, your dreams... your blog... Do you know what I'm talking about? Surely, everyone has experienced such a phenomenon!

At least I know that I have.

Especially lately, as much as I'd like to be able to say that I've been consumed by a passionate love for God, or for my wife, or for my children... The truth of the matter is that I've been more or less consumed by our church's recent process of relocation over these past several weeks. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Or perhaps simply a necessary evil? I don't know... In some ways, it's kind of fun and exciting. But in other ways, it produces awkwardness and anxiety and arguments -- to the point where I find myself simply looking forward to the end.

The end, however, is still a ways off in the distance. For better or for worse, we're basically just getting started. I'm encouraged, at any rate, with how well and how quickly things seem to be progressing. As you'll see from the pictures below, the renovations on the Herengracht 88 are moving right along...

They started in on the children's ministry space today (which was formerly a locker room). It's hard to get a decent picture that shows the whole space, but at least you can see more of the space now that they've got a wall out of the way! I'm impressed with how quickly they're working...

Above, you can see a picture of the kitchen. We probably won't make too many changes to this space for the time being, as it should be adequate for all of our current needs...

I think the space pictured above really takes a bit of imagination. Functionally, we're hoping that this space can fill some of the same roles as the old "orange room" of the Zolder. They still need to yank out some of the risers that were used by the yoga/meditation center, and a new coat of paint will definitely be needed to reduce some of the ocean effect. But I think there's some potential...

Comparing the picture above with the picture from last Thursday of the same space, you can see how things have opened up nicely. I'm still hoping that we'll be able to get rid of the salmon color on the pillars and the flourescent bank lights on the ceilings, but we're off to a good start.

The Door is Opened

2006-10-19T14:13:00.000+02:00

Olivia and I went to pick up the keys for our new church home this morning. Also while there, we also received our official copy of the signed contract...

It's really happening. A new level of reality set in while touring the place with the owner and the contractor this morning. And a new level of excitement took possession of my heart...

So I thought I would go on with sharing some of the excitement with you (the readers of this humble blog). I realize that perhaps this is boring and meaningless for many of you, but I feel compelled to share some images and information because of my recollection of the fall of 2002 -- when I was stuck in Ohio toiling to raise financial support to join the staff team in Amsterdam, while others were establishing themselves in Amsterdam, relentlessly remodeling the Zolder... and consequently living in their own world (apart from mine). I remember the hunger to see just a low resolution picture of the building's exterior. I remember the desperation to receive a simple e-mail to share the news of how things were going. And I remember feeling stuck on the outside of something that had a very personal and intimate meaning for my own life.

Thus, for those who may resonate with these feelings (and for those who choose to read on even if not in resonance with my earlier experiences), please allow me to open the door for you and show you around a little bit...

I counted today: it's actually five steps from street level down to the arched double-doorway that serves as the entryway to the cellar (Kelder50?). Plus one more step from the doorway down to the landing. This entryway area has a bit of the feel of urban grit and passage to a secret space -- which is actually kind of cool, although we're going to have to figure out how to keep it welcoming as well... In the picture below, Olivia is modelling the entryway.

One of the most distinctive features of the new space is its extended corridor from the Herengracht, passing beneath the majority of the building, leading to the actual rooms that will house our ministry center (Corridor50?). Just like the spiraling staircase that led to the old Zolder, this long corridor (probably 10-15 meters) is a unique space that has its own charm. Although I'm not going to be a part of the official design team (I defer to the experts in all matters of aesthetics and practicality), I could see this space being an art gallery or some other kind of artistic expression of hospitality to people who come to visit our church...

After passing through the corridor (which is shared with other tenants from the upper levels of the building), there's another doorway that marks the official threshhold of our ministry space. Inside the door, the hallway is continued for another 5 to 10 meters, with access to a couple of rooms off to the right (not pictured) that will probably be used for office space and children's ministry facilities (again, I defer to the design team in all matters of aesthetics and practicality!). After rising a few steps, the room opens up dramatically into what will become the primary meeting space of our church community. There's a kitchen on the left as you come in (not pictured), then beyond the kitchen there is a space for a cafe/lounge area (not pictured), and beyond the cafe/lounge area, you can see the main room.

We're going to be removing a few of the existing walls in the main area, to allow for an expanded meeting space. The wall pictured above will be totally removed (and actually, I was glad to get a picture of it when I did -- because demolition was just about to begin!), and another wall (the one with windows in the picture below) will be reduced to a half-wall. It's kind of hard to envision what it will look like when it's all finished -- especially if you haven't been able to walk around inside and get a feel for it yourself -- but I think it will be a nice open space with plenty of places for people to sit and gather together.

You'll notice in all these pictures that there are actually no windows in the entire space; all of the natural light, in fact, is let in by way of skylights. It's kind of an interesting effect. I'll be curious to see how it all works out in the end. And certainly, there is a lot to do between now and "the end." But at least you've seen the beginnings...

Thanks for praying with us.

Herengracht 88

2006-10-18T09:26:00.000+02:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce to you: the Herengracht 88.

I wanted to provide a few more pictures of the new home location for our church in Amsterdam... Particularly for those who can't drop by and see the place for themselves, I hope these photos will help to provide a little sense of connection with current developments in our church. It's pretty exciting stuff.

In the above picture, you can see the general setting of Herengracht 88 -- a beautiful canal-side location in central Amsterdam. The church space is located beneath the "Lieve" Belgian restaurant, in the brown building featured in the middle of the picture. Just next door to the Belgian restaurant (at the bottom of the gray building) is a pub called 't Arendsnest (The Eagle's Nest), and three doors in the other direction, at the corner (with the red awning), is a place called Cafe Baton. And in nice weather, the cafe uses the broad space in front of the canal (stretching for almost the entire length of the picture) as an outdoor terrace. So there should be no shortage of places for people from our community to hang out!

In the closer view above, the door to our facilities can be glimpsed directly behind the bicyclist, five steps down from the street (there's a red sign on the door, which you could also see in my close-up shot from yesterday). It's kind of funny that we'll be moving from an attic to a cellar! We've still got some work to do to figure out what we're going to call ourselves (since the name "Zolder50" means "Attic50")...

Herengracht 88 is located close to the intersection of the Herengracht and the Herenstraat. If you look on the map, you'll see that this is really an incredible location! We're only about 400 meters (a quarter of a mile) from the Dam (historic center of Amsterdam), and about 800 meters (half a mile) from Centraal Station. There are tons of unique shops and cafes and restaurants in the neighborhood...

We should be getting the keys and taking our first real look inside the place for the first time tomorrow (Thursday). I've actually been inside several times already -- and even once with a camera -- but we haven't really gotten to look around the place since the previous tenants have vacated the premises. I'll try to post more pictures and information and stories as I'm able. Please keep praying for our church during this period of transition!

Where is it?

2006-10-17T13:40:00.000+02:00

If you want to find out the significance of the location pictured above, visit the News section of www.amsterdam50.nl.

Pleading the Fourth

2006-10-14T17:38:00.000+02:00

I've got a pair of holy pants. Not holey (full of holes) -- holy. They're gray and fuzzy and a bit baggy, which makes them incredibly comfortable (if not the most fashionable). I usually wear the holy pants on Saturday mornings, after I've slept in for a little while. They serve to keep me warm and comfortable as I lounge around the house, eat breakfast with my children... maybe enjoy a leisurely shave, if I feel like it. And other such holy activities.

At some point, the holy pants find their way back to the wardrobe, and I choose other attire to continue my day of holiness. I may enjoy a bicycle ride over to the bakery for some fresh sacred raisin bread. Or I may walk with my son to the Coffee Company to enjoy a Bambino Marz with a blueberry muffin. Later on, if the day allows, I may read a copy of the NRC Next while eating a holy lunch consisting of my own personal adaptation of Mr. Spot's philly cheesesteaks, with some Dr. Pepper... And napping, well, napping is almost a requisite element of my weekly day of holiness.

Perhaps these activities do not fit the traditional understanding of the word holiness. You may even think that I'm spouting heresy in the above paragraphs. However, I've come to believe that this is exactly what holiness means in the context of my life. These activities are holy because they are set apart. Called out. Separate. Protected. They remind me of the joys of life and the goodness of my Creator. These basic activities refresh me and renew me and bring a sense of balance back into my life, after a weary week of work. In short, they are sacred expressions of the Sabbath in my life in 21st Century Amsterdam.

Exodus 20:8-11 says to “Remember to observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. You have six days each week for your ordinary work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath day of rest dedicated to the Lord your God... For in six days the Lord made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and everything in them; but on the seventh day he rested. That is why the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and set it apart as holy." And even though I am not a legalist -- and I do not advocate pharasaical implementation of Sabbath practicalities -- I do believe that God created us with a need to rest. And as I've grown in my own experience and understanding of Sabbath rest, it becomes a more and more treasured part of my life -- and indeed, my Saturdays become holy days.

Should it be any other way?

Autumn in Amsterdam

2006-10-13T13:12:00.000+02:00

Autumn in Amsterdam generally lacks the flair of the American Midwest. There are no sweatshirted stadium spectacles on frosty Friday nights or weekend afternoons. There are no corn-husked community festivals or grinning pumpkins. The leaves typically evolve from bright green to dull green to bright brown (maybe this could be called a dull yellow) to dark brown to dust -- a simple, unglamorous death and collapse into winter. Gray lifeless Dutch days in September and October can make me simultaneously wistful and resentful.

But when Amsterdam manages to muster up a crisp sun-choked afternoon in October, I find myself looking around with the eyes of a recovering amnesiac... And I feel awed and invigorated by the spirit of Autumn in Amsterdam.

What is it...

2006-10-12T07:26:00.000+02:00

What is it that allows us to embrace change? Seriously -- don't you think it's incredible how we can somehow anticipate and even hope for transition, season after season? This, quite honestly, astonishes me...

What is it that makes us willing -- even anxious -- to leave something good for something different? I would never call myself a revolutionist, but I can observe the pattern in my own life; something in us always finds a way to override the fear and negative possibilities (and sometimes even probabilities) of the unknown. The world keeps turning and changing, with or without our consent -- and more often than not, "with."

What is it that greases the wheels of the passage of time, as the calendar rolls from month to month? How can I find myself satisfied by summer's departure -- even when I know some of the heartache that winter brings? How can I be exhilarated by the autumn -- by the colorful death of those tender green leaves? How can I even look past the autumn to the wonders of winter? I don't understand how it is possible, and yet I already find myself humming Christmas melodies and thinking warmly of the golden glow of a Amsterdam brownhouse with a steaming cup of warme chocolademelk, crested with slagroom.

What is it about candlelight that entrances us and captivates us? It romances us with its orange hues and swaying sensitivities. Children instinctively understand its appeal. My four-year-old son begs us every evening now, to turn off the electric lights and set the house aglow with candles, candles, candles -- the candles that make us forget that we would have still been playing outside at this time of day, just two months ago...

What is it about a fresh perspective on something old and familiar that creates an epiphany? A new season becomes a time for renewed hope. A tired fixture of the home becomes a classical work of art. And a heart settled becomes a heart aflight.

What is it?

2006-10-10T13:36:00.000+02:00

Buckeye Pride

2006-10-08T09:19:00.000+02:00

There was a big football game in Ohio yesterday: the Ohio State University Buckeyes (representing the biggest school in my home state, with a proud athletic tradition) against the Bowling Green State University Falcons (representing the more humble university from which I happened to graduate seven years ago). Not surprisingly, the Buckeyes won pretty easily. However, I found myself somewhat surprised by my reaction to the public humiliation of my alma mater.

I was glad that my Falcons lost. Or, to put it more accurately, I was glad that the Buckeyes won.

And in such a response to yesterday's game, I realize that I have come full-circle in my sense of identity and affiliation. Four years after my departure from Ohio -- and almost twenty years after initially moving to the state -- I can now proudly call myself a Buckeye. I know this may not mean much at first glance -- particularly not in the context of sports -- but I know that for me, it's a significant step.

You see, I moved to Ohio when I was ten years old. The state of Wisconsin had been my home for a vast portion (eight years) of my young life -- and when I moved to Ohio it was, well, a pretty big transition. I had to adjust to a lot of new people and new places. I had to break into new circles and find new ways of being part of the crowd, while simultaneously maintaining my fragile sense of pre-adolescent self. And while I'm sure that this process of assimilation took many different forms, it seemed that sports affiliations became one of the most obvious -- because that's what ten-year-old boys in America are into... because athletic competition draws such clear and colorful lines between different geographic regions.... and because Ohioans are especially obsessed with sports.

So somehow it delineated me and defined me to enthusiastically embrace the Twins and Vikings and Gophers (all teams from the northern Midwest) -- and to vehemently scorn the Indians and Browns and Buckeyes of Ohio. Every week -- particularly during football season -- I would delight in each win by my (northern Midwest) teams... and I would delight even more in each loss by the Ohio teams. Compounded, if the Vikings could beat the Browns, or if the Gophers could beat the Buckeyes -- I would be ecstatic, proudly wearing Minnesota team jerseys and T-shirts at school every day of the following week and claiming "bragging rights" over all of my devestated Ohioan friends. But conversely, if the Vikings somehow lost to the Browns, or if the Gophers ended up getting beaten by the Buckeyes -- I would be devestated, trying to find excuses not to go to school the following Monday, dreading the ridicule of friends exercising their "bragging rights" over me. Yes, it was juvenile. Yes, it was silly. Yes, it's kind of embarrassing to remember what a huge role sports played at that stage in my life.

But fortunately, I mellowed out through the second half of my teenage years. Over time, I downgraded my passionate hatred of Ohio sports teams to a moderate dislike, and eventually to a comfortable ambivalence. I would still favor my northern Midwest teams in head-to-head match-ups with Ohio teams -- but as long as they weren't directly opposed to each other, I could be OK with the success of the Browns, the Buckeyes, and the Indians. In the mid 1990s, I actually caught myself cheering for the Indians during the playoffs (not against the Twins, mind you, but still it was a big step forward). Still, cheering for the Ohio State University football team against my Bowling Green State University football team is a new phenomenon. I remember during my university days, I was baffled by my fellow students who were more than willing to forget about "being true to your school" and who would choose to support the big bad "enemy" instead...

But now, I get it.

Affinity for the Ohio State Buckeyes is a regional identity -- larger and more basic than the school from which one's diploma is obtained. It falls more in the same categories as dialect and regional cuisine and ancient family feuds. Pretty much everyone in Ohio has some kind of connection to the Ohio State University (for me, I can now claim a more intimate connection through my brother Alex, who is a freshman at OSU). Thus, particularly when OSU is at the top of the national rankings, the status of our state's football team is the affirmation of our worth to the rest of the country. Again, I know it sounds silly... but that seems to be the way that it works among Ohioans.

So perhaps you will chide me for jumping on a "bandwagon" (this was the ultimate insult among peers in my early adolescent years of sports obsession). But after a couple of decades in development, I figure it's about time... And living abroad, in the Netherlands -- where I can only describe Ohio as "a big state about half-way between New York and Chicago" -- I don't have the luxury of nuanced regional identity. I must embrace the realities encircling me. And I must say it: I'm proud to be a Buckeye.

The Breadlines of Amsterdam

2006-10-07T10:35:00.000+02:00

Breadlines used to indicate destitution and poverty. Bad times. Hardship. Soviet Russia or Depression-Era America... But today in Amsterdam, believe it or not, a breadline actually indicates affluence and prosperous consumerism.

On Saturday mornings, at the corner of the Ruyschstraat and the Wibautstraat -- not far from where I live -- a breadline outside of Hartog's Volkorenbakkerij (Hartog's Wholegrain Bakery) is a happy sight representing an attractive recreational activity bringing in the weekend with style. There's no grim-faced despondence or weary grumbling in the line that can wrap itself around the corner, with dozens of expectant Amsterdammers. In fact, locals smile and nod at each other as they wait their turn to step into the bustling golden alcove of fresh breads and baked goods, where customers gladly pay €2,65 for a single loaf of bread. And they do it day after day, week after week. It's something desirable, high-quality, and maybe even a bit fashionable.

Does anyone else see the irony in this?

Of course, I am a perpetuator of the system. I've become quite fond of the raisin bread from Hartog's Volkorenbakkerij. I like to go there on Saturday mornings -- with one, or both, of my kids. We stand in line with the happy masses and soak up the aroma of freshly milled grain and freshly baked bread (they mill all their own grains and bake all their own breads). The kids offer rushed "Dank u wel"s to the bakery workers for free cookie samples -- and when the bag of raisin bread is delivered to my waiting hands, it's almost always still warm to the touch. It's no wonder the establishment was named the best bakery in the Netherlands for 2005 (and apparently, it's among the top four nominated for this year again, with results to be announced at the end of this month).

It turns out that the crowds often know best. I hate to admit my susceptibility to groupthink -- but I don't know if I ever would have found Hartog's Volkorenbakkerij if it were not for the breadlines that piqued my curiosity. And there's a Turkish bakery on the Van Woustraat -- which serves the best döner kebab in the city -- that I discovered through the same set of circumstances. What can I say?

Sometimes, the breadlines are simply the best indication of a crowd-pleaser.

School Circus

2006-10-03T16:52:00.000+02:00

Why is it that elementary schools so often include the Circus as an educational theme? It's a bit archaic, isn't it? And perhaps a bit impractical -- you know, it's not like intimate knowledge of the characters and activities of a circus serve any greater purpose to equip children for the rest of their lives... Perhaps the pedagogues of the world could better explain this to me (maybe there's something with the circus involvings a lot of role-playing and hands-on learning... or that there are a lot of songs about the circus... or that you can use the sights and sounds of the circus to teach more general concepts like shapes and colors). But c'mon -- the circus?

Then again, after visiting Elliot's class circus this afternoon, it occurs to me that nothing brightens one's spirits quite like a room full of four-year-olds and five-year-olds prancing proudly in circus procession.

Thus, it must be the nostalgia of educators and parents that keeps the class circus in circulation. I remember my own experience in the circus put on by the kindergarten class of Winskill Elementary in Lancaster, Wisconsin, circa 1982. I was the ringmaster. It seems that I was a naturally thespian youngster. With a wave of my hand and a swoop of my voice, I could summon magicians and tigers, acrobats and strong-men. What a thrill! The experience remains as one of the clearest, earliest memories of my life.

And it seems to me that Dutch schools must have been doing the exact same things as the Wisconsin schools were doing decades ago. The "grandstands" were filled with excited parents, and the teacher exhibited extraordinary enthusiasm that clearly rubbed off on the students. Everyone was grinning from ear to ear.

Especially my son, Elliot.

Elliot was given the honor to play the part of the clown -- colorful wig, face paint, costume, and all. And not just any clown: he was Clowntje Piet! He got to stand in front of the class and act out a song (sung by the rest of the class) about a poor clown who finds himself very sad because of his broken balloon, only to be revived by the hopes of a new balloon which he blows, and blows, and blows -- until it pops! It was classic. We clapped and cheered -- and cheered and clapped -- and the teacher even decided to go through the song a second time. And Elliot simply beamed from pride in a performance well-played.

Just like his father.

As the circus continued with plush bunny toys being pulled out of a magic hat and giggling lions jumping through hoops flaming with red and yellow crepe paper, I just kept smiling and thinking to myself: I'm glad that elementary schools so often include the Circus as an educational theme. Why ever would we hope for anything else?

Unashamed

2006-10-01T21:26:00.000+02:00

Sam came up to me this afternoon, about an hour before the start of our church's first worship gathering in De Poort, and he asked if we were planning to keep up the wooden cross in front of the room. He suggested that the blatant iconography might be a bit disconcerting to some in the church (as the Zolder50 culture has typically chosen for a less direct presentation of the cross, in an effort to make it more meaningful and less, well, decorative and cliche). But in this case, on this day, I disagreed. I told Sam that we should let the cross stand.

"I am not ashamed of the cross of Christ," I said... "Nor the flag of Mexico."

The maps and flags of the world -- spread along the circumference of the room -- seem to serve as a reminder of the dramatic geographic transplantation that our church has experienced within the last week. And not just a geographic change, but an aesthetic adjustment as well. The Kantina Room of De Poort is designed to be a multi-purpose room -- used by multiple groups for multiple purposes -- and as such, it is a bit of a departure from the natural, wood-hued gezelligheid of our church's former home on the Leidsekade. It's a fairly significant adjustment for us to sit in rows of chairs, with flourescent lighting overhead, and explicitly Christian wall hangings. Very onzolderig (I think I just made up a Dutch word).

But at least we had a place to gather!

As a church community, we managed to completely alter our weekly routine, move out of the Zolder, pull together the necessary personnel and parcels to put on a worship gathering... And over 150 people managed to find their way to our new location (which, in my opinion, seems to be a very promising start -- given the drastic changes in location and meeting schedule)! I'd be curious to hear what other people thought of the experience, but I felt like it was an encouraging start to the post-Zolder era of our church. It was so great to have a place to gather, protected from the threatening rainclouds (thanks to our friends from YWAM!). Todd did a great job using this week's teaching to remind us about the inherently nomadic nature of the people of God. And even though we had a couple of minor glitches in operations, things went remarkably smoothly.

We have very little to complain about. And quite contrary to feeling ashamed about our nomadic circumstances, we have every reason to feel nothing but thankful and thrilled.

And in the End

2006-09-29T12:14:00.000+02:00

You may be strangely comforted to know that the Zolder was nothing but a corpse when we left it.

I mean no disrespect in saying this. On the contrary, I've come to a place of great respect for what the Zolder has meant to all of us. It was the home -- the womb, even -- that gave birth to an eternal part of us. And as I took my final stroll through the echoing caverns of the Zolder -- before descending those stairs one last time, before closing the door behind me and handing in my key -- I marvelled at the Zolder's beauty and cleanliness. Indeed, we left her with dignity and care. She was pristine and proper and magnificent...

But she was empty. Lifeless. Soulless.

I know that it's a bit macabre, but the best parallel that I've been able to draw is that of a body in a casket. Immaculately dressed, lying in a beautifully padded box in a room filled with flowers and brass fixtures -- the features of the face, the folded hands, the contours of the body are immediately recognizeable. Others may even be whispering how good she looks, how natural, how restful... But it doesn't seem real. More like wax than flesh. More like sculpture than person. And I think -- in spite of its intangibility and invisibility -- this is because of the exodus of the soul. Theologians can debate it, scientists can attempt to empiricize it, morticians can endeavor to mask it -- but I think we can all see it and understand it on an instinctive level: a body without a soul is not a person. It's just a body. A corpse.

And so it was with the Zolder.

I suppose it's sad to talk about the Zolder in this way. Sad and disturbing and maybe even a bit cruel. But that's not really the way I see it. Actually, I'm glad that the Zolder was nothing but a corpse when we left it.

That means we're taking all of the parts that were living along with us.

Our laughter, our songs of praise, our comraderie, our gezelligheid, our love for each other and for God -- it turns out that these elements of our church's soul are remarkably travelable. Even beyond the beautiful works of art and the sentimental keepsakes of the Zolder that were moved out and packed away in a temporary storage facility -- the life and essence of our community are transcendent. I saw it on the sidewalk in front of the building as we moved out on Wednesday. I saw it in the Cafe Zouk that evening, with a foursome from our home group huddled around a table in conversation. And I look forward to seeing it -- much more of it -- in the future.

The last song of the Beatles -- those troubadors of the 2oth Century -- closed with the conclusion: "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." And while the true spiritual depths of this dictum may be flawed (or at least incomplete), I can say that the Zolder made little love of its own accord. Rather, everything that the Zolder came to be was the result of God working through His people in Amsterdam. And as such, the Zolder has nothing of its own to take or claim. But we, the people of "Zolder50" -- following our pillar of cloud by day and fire by night -- walk away with the blood of life coursing through our veins and the very Spirit of God filling our souls, leaving the casket behind.

Moving Out

2006-09-27T22:22:00.000+02:00

Moving out of the Zolder went much more smoothly than expected. We managed to finish ahead of schedule, no one was seriously injured, and the whole experience seemed to be a beautiful exercise in dependence on God and each other. I thought I'd share some of the images from the past couple of days (and let the pictures speak the thousands of words that they are supposed to do)...

This is what the Zolder looked like during the packing process: piles of boxes and furniture and people having a good time together between hours of hard work.

We had a great moving crew, with some truly providential help from a moving company called Stuart From England that serves as an employer to a couple of the guys from our church.

We moved out all the bulkiest and heaviest items by way of the window, with the rope-and-pulley system hung from the gable that epitomizes Dutch architecture.

Only the manliest of men could serve as rope handlers!

Since all of our furniture was down at street level by the middle of the day, we had our lunch break right out in front of the building!

Zolder50 is now officially moved out of The Zolder. I guess we should call ourselves "Exile50" now... until God leads us to our next home.

Stirring the Juices of Sentimentality

2006-09-26T13:16:00.000+02:00

I hope that nobody thinks I'm a monster for so openly sharing my (somewhat challenging)emotions surrounding our church's departure from The Zolder. It's a complicated situation, with many different angles to consider (and I write, in part, because it helps me to process). At any rate, we're basically packed up now -- much further ahead of schedule than what we anticipated -- and we're ready for the big moving day tomorrow. And as I was packing up boxes today, I started to think more about the beautiful things, the fun things, the powerful things about the Zolder that I will miss... as will many others, I'm sure. Then after getting home from working at the Zolder and relaxing by checking some blogs, I noticed a beautiful tribute by Todd that further stirred some more juices of sentimentality. Thus, I offer the following yang to the yin of last Saturday's post -- my list of things that I will miss about the Zolder:

The photogenic light of the "Orange Room." I've mentioned it previously on this blog, but there was just something about photographs taken in the orange-reflected hues of the Zolder Lounge that seemed to make anything and anyone appear instantly and effortlessly vintage, classic, poignant. In our last weekend in the Zolder, we watched a slide-show of compiled Zolder images from the last four years, and I was struck by the naturally photogenic quality of images captured in that room. I don't know exactly what it was -- but these images will likely remain embedded in my mind forever...
The view of the Bosboom Toussaintstraat from the northwest corner of the Zolder. This is the view that I wrote about a year-and-a-half ago, and that I reposted a week-and-a-half ago to start off this series about leaving the Zolder. I used to love to sit in this window during our church's monthly Soul Gatherings, and every time I sat there I was reminded of God's call on my life. This will also be the window through which many of our church's belongings will be hoisted out and down to streetlevel tomorrow, by way of a rope and pulley hung from the gable...
The passing canal tour-boats. I often took it for granted that our ministry location was in such a scenic part of Amsterdam that it warranted a spot on many of the canal tours that wound their way through the city center; we truly had a beautiful location overlooking the Singelgracht. I still hope that our next place will be someplace scenic and beautiful in its own way (we stand a good shot at this, as we're pretty seriously committed to staying in the city center) -- but of course, it will never be the same as the Zolder...
The beautiful oak flooring. Unfortunately, we will not be able to take the wood floors with us, as we had originally been hoping (there's kind of a long story behind this). But the floors in the Zolder were no ordinary floors. They were paid for with a king's ransom, laid by volunteers from our original church planting team, oiled to glistening perfection by yours truly -- and they did a great job of emanating a sense of earthy warmth and gezelligheid that became the hallmark for our church community...
Being a stone's throw away from Cafe Toussaint. Fortunately, ending our lease on the Zolder does not preclude us from visiting the Cafe Toussaint, on the Bosboom Toussaintstraat -- but it will be sad to no longer have this lovely cafe just a couple hundred meters from our ministry space. Yes, beautiful brown cafes are a dime a dozen in central Amsterdam, but this one was something special to us...
Serving as a roadside inn for world travelers. The Zolder (and its associated apartments) served as temporary home for a wide spectrum of different people: homeless Amsterdammers, itinerant Canadians, businessmen from the United States, a vast horde of Ukrainian Christians, and other assorted characters. Although the lodging thing brought its own set of complications, it was cool that we could so practically offer Christian hospitality to such a wide range of people passing through our city...
Lost tourists, asking for directions by the bicycle rack. Actually, who am I kidding? This will probably happen anywhere in Amsterdam, regardless of the bicycle rack in question. But there always seemed to be a steady stream of confused travelers studying a map beside the bicycle rack at the corner of the Leidsekade and the Koekjesbrug, and I enjoyed pretending to be a resident tour guide...
Exquisitely carved handrails. The wooden, twisting, curlicued handrails in stairways of the Zolder were a work of art, possibly dating back more than 100 years. Thousands of hands have held those rails on the epic trek up the 55 stairs from street level to the Zolder...
The fireplace mosaic. We had three special mosaics in the Zolder, which were all specially designed and implemented by visiting mission teams from American churches; two of them (the sunburst from the cafe's bar and the four images of Christ guarding the top of the stairs) we're going to try and take with us to retro-fit into a new surrounding -- but unfortunately, we can't take the fireplace one with us...
Leidsekade, number 50. Our church owes its name (and a significant portion of its identity) to the attic (zolder) space located at Leidsekade 50. And even though we chose to identify ourselves by the number 50 for symbolic reasons as well as practical reasons, it still won't be quite as logical (or easy to explain) to invite people to visit "Kelder50" at the Herengracht 88 (or whatever name and address that we will end up with)...
Using the Rijksmuseum as a timepiece. I really did come to enjoy my commute from my home in Amsterdam Oost to the ministry facilities on the Leidsekade -- and in particular, I loved to pass by the magnificent Rijksmuseum. I would always glance at the clock on the museum's southeast tower to make sure that I would make it on-time to whatever meeting or event I might be headed toward. If I had five minutes or more left according to the Rijksmuseum's clock, I would arrive in plenty of time. If I had three or four minutes, I needed to pedal pretty hard in order to get there on-time. And if I had less than three minutes, I was going to be late! How cool is it that I could use a world-famous monument in such a practical way...
A live-in relationship with Gread & Partners. It was great to share an office with our good friends from Gread & Partners financial controllers; Theo, Steef, and Jurren were always available for advice or for gezellige conversation. We really had a special relationship with those guys that we're definitely going to miss (although we'll certainly still get to see them in other contexts such as church activities)...
Creative use of space. There's no way of getting around it -- the Zolder was a very unique building with a certain built-in architectural intrigue that cannot be easily replicated. The set-up of the old building forced us to be creative in our ministry activities; ideas such as "freestyle teaching" and "worship in the round" were basically inventions borne out of necessity -- but they've become a special part of our unique church culture. Hopefully, we'll be able to carry on this creativity regardless of our specific setting, but there was definitely something special about the Zolder itself...
Memorable nights of passionate worship. Of course, we plan on continuing with regular episodes of intense worship in whatever location(s) we may occupy in the future, but there's something to be said for the fact that many of my most memorable worship experiences to date have taken place in the Zolder...

So there you have it! Quite evidently, the Zolder has been a gift from God. Even so, in generating this list I was actually (pleasantly) surprised by the number of items that I thought of but which decided to omit because of the fact that we should more or less be able to recreate the same situations in any other environments which we eventually occupy! Things like deep conversations and dynamic prayer times and parties are actually quite transferable and non-geographically-specific. Even some of the items that I put in the list above may be easily re-created in other environments. Regardless, we will always remember the Zolder.

Coming of Age

2006-09-25T20:56:00.000+02:00

It occurs to me that I've been somewhat cynical and negative in my reflections upon our church's departure from The Zolder... I've talked about my rash and foolish behavior in the earliest days of working to renovate the Zolder... I've talked about our church's stupidity and naivete in its slow realization of imminent danger by fire... I've listed a (rather extensive) collection of reasons that I will not miss the Zolder... And yet, I haven't waxed eloquent about the Zolder's many virtues, and I really haven't written much in the way of the typical overly sentimental tributes that one might expect.

Honestly, I don't pretend to completely understand why this is. I certainly didn't set out to observe my reminiscence in this way. My emotions surrounding the Zolder -- though certainly complicated and occasionally confused -- include a much greater proportion of positive feelings than what the last few posts would seem to indicate...

Still... I guess my feelings about the Zolder are very much in keeping with any environment that represents a coming-of-age experience. It seems like I've seen it in the movies dozens of times (though I'm having difficulty recalling specific scenes from specific titles right now). But surely, you must know what I mean. The protagonist returns to his childhood home with a sense of anger and indignation from past injustices -- but also with a profound realization that the person he has become was largely forged as a direct result of experiences in that place. And even when there is a sort of wistfulness that recalls those days long bygone, there is a deeper sense of conviction that one would never wish to return to that same scenario given the greater sense of understanding that has been borne out of the intervening years...

The fact of the matter is that my years in the Zolder have been some of the most difficult years of my life. Learning to adapt to a new culture... surviving a succession of crises in church planting... saying countless good-byes to dear friends... stepping up into unsolicited leadership responsibilties... living in fear of failure (financially, legally, missionally)... getting trampled in unfamiliar roles as pastor, supervisor, coach... It all happened here, in the Zolder. I don't know if I've never felt more stressed, more inadequate, more powerless -- than I have in the Zolder. And yet, I treasure these experiences in the Zolder from the past four years. I don't know if I would wish for the same set of experiences again, nor can I say with confidence that I would have embraced the challenge had I known what it would be -- but I'm a better person for having lived through the last four years in the Zolder. I've seen God work in amazing ways -- most notably in my own life! And through our time in the Zolder, I've been refined in such a way that would have never happened in a laboratory or an academic institution, to be a better pastor, a better supervisor, a better coach, a better friend, a better husband, a better father... a better person.

Truly, such realities are to be celebrated and savored like fine wine.

However, because anger and pain tend to be processed before acceptance and wistful sentimentality -- I find myself currently unable to brew up syruppy love songs to the Zolder. Not that these ballads do not deserve to be written! And I enjoy hearing the stories of people who have had more time to process (it's so curious how the people who think most fondly of the Zolder and Amsterdam always seem to be those who have moved away!) -- as well as the reflections of those who have been blessed with a more innocuous experience of the Zolder, through the contexts of varying stages-of-life and levels of exposure to unpleasantries surrounding the building. But I cannot and will not force myself to artificially manufacture golden clouds of nostalgia. Instead, I will nod soberly and knowingly while embracing the fact that the Zolder is the place where I came of age.

Welterusten, Zolder

2006-09-24T22:49:00.000+02:00

I like the way this picture turned out. The amber glow of a crowded attic, against the backdrop of twilight in the heart of Amsterdam... It seems like an appropriate image to accompany this, the last Sunday evening worship gathering in the history of our church's occupation of the Zolder. Our final song, "Blessed Be the Name" -- a perennial "Zolder anthem" -- was a fitting farewell to the space that has housed our ministry for the first four years of its existence:

"You give and take away. You give and take away. My heart will choose to say, 'Lord, blessed be Your name..."

Good Riddance

2006-09-23T14:13:00.000+02:00

I thought it might be useful to write down a bunch of the things that I will not miss, after we've moved from The Zolder. Perhaps it will come across as a bit of an exercise in "sour grapes" -- but I think it can be helpful to remember some of the not-so-good things about a place from which we'll actually be grateful to get away. Here's a few of the things that came to my mind:

55 steps from street level to the main meeting space. The exercise was good, and the attic space was gezellig -- but it's not always so gezellig to arrive for worship out of breath and sweating mildly...
The broken buzzer. This is compounded by the 55 steps from street level to the main meeting space. Sometimes, a meeting among four people could end up meaning four different trips up and down the stairs to let everyone in...
Electrical overload. I'd be curious to hear from someone like Arienne or Michael, who would have more personal experience from having served as gastvrouw/gastheer throughout the years, but it seems that blown fuses were a weekly (if not more frequent) occurence in the kitchen of the Zolder...
The idle dishwasher. Go figure: we had a perfectly functioning dishwashing machine in the kitchen, and we had hundreds of used cups and mugs to be washed within the space of a few hours on Sunday afternoons and evenings -- but we almost never combined the two, because the use of the dishwasher would cause an unpleasant splurge of black sludge in the sink of the apartment two floors down...
Baking in the summers. Fortunately, Amsterdam has a very moderate climate with only a handful of days out of the year where the temperature climbs higher than 30 Celcius (85 Farenheit), but when those days would come, and when they would happen to fall on a Sunday, we would bake in the Zolder...
Pigeons cooing. On the end of the Zolder furthest from the Coat Room, it always felt like you were right in the middle of a pigeon colony; the sounds were amusing at first but increasingly annoying the longer you sat there...
Pots and pans scattered throughout the Zolder to catch the water that dripped through the ceiling. This was a testament to less-than-vigilent landlords; we tried to get the owners to invest in some new roofing for over four years -- without any success. Instead, we tried strategically-placed pots and pans behind couches and drum-sets; even so, we ended up with some pretty ugly water damage...
Frustrated staff members. Obviously, the demands for maintenance and marketing our rental units had to be met by someone -- and this ended up being certain members of our staff team (especially Lee and Patricia, in the early years). I'm sure they considered quitting their jobs on more than one occasion because of the stresses associated with the building. To be honest, the thought crossed my own mind a couple of times as well...
Frustrated tenants. Part of the stress for Lee and Patricia came from the stress of tenants who had some random appliance stop working or such. Oh, how nice it will be to be finished with sub-leasing...
Frustrated neighbors. We learned to get along with our neighbors pretty well, but we always had issues with bicycle parking and noise (especially on hot days, when we'd try to keep the windows open). The cops were called on us a couple of times, and we had to pay out an insurance claim for some dents on a car (which may have been caused by the bicycles of people from our church). But it will be good to leave with our good name as neighbors more or less intact...
Requests for lodging from everybody and their brother. Did I mention that it will be nice to be finished with sub-leasing? What were we thinking in trying to establish an apartment rental business at the same time as a church!?!?
Financial crises. Of course, this is the main reason that we're finally succeeding in loosing ourselves from the chains of the Zolder. More than once, it seemed we were down to our last euro -- only to see God come through for us again and again! Still, it only seems like good stewardship to move on to a situation that should be more financially viable for the long-term...

Ah, yes... it's funny to realize how easily and how quickly I can come up with such a list! I'm sure there are many other things like this (which are only amusing to enumerate because of the long list of counterweighted benefits that we've enjoyed throughout the last four years)... So in what ways will you secretly rejoice when we're finally departed from the ministry facilities on the Leidsekade?

To Olivia, on the occasion of her 2nd birthday

2006-09-21T15:08:00.000+02:00

Dear Olivia,

Happy Birthday, my sweet little girl. Can you believe it?!?! You're two years old! A big girl who can feed herself and take care of baby dolls and put on her own boots to play outside and use the potty and sing beautiful songs of her own invention. You are a truly unique person, and there's no one in the world like you, Olivia. I'm so happy to have you as a part of my life.

It's funny that the first week of your third year of life should happen to coincide with the last week of our church's occupation of "The Zolder" (which has been taking a lot of Daddy's time and attention over the last bit of time). This coincidence is actually kind of appropriate, I think.

I was in the Zolder, believe it or not, when I first heard that you were on your way into the world, back on the 21st of September, 2004. I was taking part in an early-morning men's group in the Zolder lounge, and your mother called to say that it was happening! Your birth was imminent! So I rushed home with my head in the clouds, and I remember crossing the Amstel River with a distinct cognizance of the fact that my life was about to change dramatically over the next couple of hours. We didn't have to wait too long for you to grace us with your presence. It turned out that we had just enough time to call the midwife, get someone to pick up your brother, and turn our bedroom into a maternity ward (which was not our original plan!) -- and then you were there. A real live little girl! When I think about that morning, I still feel awed and excited...

You were dedicated in the Zolder, about a month after your birth. Me and Mommy stood in the middle of the room and told the church that we wanted to raise you to be a woman for God. We explained that we named you Olivia because you were our "olive branch" -- our little sign of hope and new life that came after the Great Flood that threatened to destroy the earth. And indeed, you've brought much hope and life and renewal into our home during the past two years. You've taught me what it means to be passionate. You've thrilled my soul with your exhuberant grin and your eyes that flash with excitement when fun is in the air. Even thinking about it now, as I type these words, I cannot help but smile at the image of your smile...

And I guess what makes me realize the propriety of the juxtaposition of your second birthday and the church's relocation is the way that you remind me of hope and life and the expectation of good things to come. Of course, the Zolder is all that you've ever known as a church home (you're not alone in this). Departure from the Zolder means the destruction of everything familiar and established. And yet, truthfully, you'll never really remember the Zolder except as blurred old photographs (thanks to the quirky way that the brains of two-year-olds work)... But I'm hopeful to think that you'll move on so easily and spend the rest of your life bringing hope and the life of God's creation to other places and other people.

And really, a father could hope for nothing more for his daughter. And I have an inexplicable confidence that this is exactly what you'll be doing for the rest of your life. I can't wait to watch and see... I love you, Olivia.

Yours,

Daddy

The Flaming Deathtrap that Never Was

2006-09-20T22:34:00.000+02:00

If I remember the story correctly, Steve and Marcel got it at the fleamarket on the Waterlooplein -- the crowning glory of the newly renovated Zolder. It stood about a meter-and-a-half tall and perhaps a meter in diameter. Gothic yet gezellig, it seemed to fit well with the feel of the new ministry space. And, if that wasn't enough, it was functional.

Our earliest church meetings were by candlelight, actually -- so this giant candelabra was more than mere ambient light. We set it smack-dab in the middle of the Zolder, across from the main staircase, with five fat candles casting their light up and about, into the dark recesses of the triangular ceiling. It was "European" (which, to Americans trying to plant a church in Europe, is synonymous to the word "cool"). It was beautiful. It was charming.

It was stupid.

Honestly, I don't know what we were thinking. We put a sprawling candelabra with the collective equivalent of about a liter of liquid-hot wax and five open flames directly in the middle of a room with exposed freshly-varnished wooden rafters, a freshly-oiled wooden floor, and lots of nice, new wooden furniture. Furthermore, in choosing to place it across from the main staircase, we confined the candelabra to the narrowest section of the Zolder that also happened to be the primary emergency exit! And if these factors weren't folly enough, I remember that the flooring in that section of the Zolder used to be especially springy -- such that anyone heavier than 10 kilograms could set the candelabra to swaying by simply tip-toeing within three meters of the thing! And we kept using the old candelabra as our attendance swelled toward 100 people... What the heck were we thinking?!?!

Ah, the folly of inexperience and idealism... It's funny to look back on those days now and remember some of our mistakes -- the things that we did to try and be "European" and "relevant." We've come a long way since the days of the flaming deathtrap that never was.

Work Days

2006-09-19T11:16:00.000+02:00

I've forged an inferiority complex from the fact that I cannot count myself among the original sacred slave-laborers who spent hundreds of thousands of man-hours in shaping the Leidsekade and Marnixstraat facilities from trash-heaps into treasured homes. And as a rule, I've tried not to talk too much about my own experiences in "working to renovate the Zolder" since such a suggestion has occasionally been thrown back in my face with the air of an old emancipated field negro laughing at the complaints of his Dust-bowl grandchildren who had "no idea what it was really like back then..." But as I've shouldered my own crosses and bourn my own burdens over the past few years, I've become emboldened to talk about the old days -- when the Zolder was just a crummy old attic, when times were hard, when we worked by the sweat of our brow to literally build the ministry in Amsterdam. And so now, dear friends, I tell my tale to you...

Of course, I cannot deny that some of the most arduous tasks were completed prior to my arrival in January of 2003. I wasn't there to clear out the diseased mattresses and used condoms that littered the apartments when we first took possession of the facilities. I never lifted a finger to carry the countless cords of oak flooring from street level, up 55 steps to the attic space. I didn't do much in the way of demolition and power-sanding to open up the shabby fourth-floor apartment into a post-modern cathedral. Nevertheless, when I came on-site -- not just to work, mind you, but to live -- the place was still far from polished.

The first night staying in apartment 51-2, we had no door to keep out the winter drafts (nor the potential thieves, for that matter). Our ten-month-old baby boy climbed up and down the wood-pile in our dining room for entertainment. Some of my earliest job assignments with the new ministry in Amsterdam were to oil the oak flooring of the Zolder and paint the walls of the hallways... And, even though I can't claim a full understanding of the trials of toiling on the building, I was not so late in my arrival as to miss out completely on the one phrase that elicited groans from all of the team members who had arrived before me: "work day."

Our first Saturday in Amsterdam, actually, was just such a work day. Everybody showed up in work clothes early in the morning, weary and haggard even before the day's physical labor... And I suppose I would have been, too, after a long succession of "work days" that actually would add up to "work weeks" or even "work months." But on that first Saturday in Amsterdam -- jet-lagged though I was -- it seems that I was the fiesty one that morning: a starry-eyed idealist, I guess, ready to take on the world, unafraid of anyone or anything... much less a painting project. I wanted to earn my stripes, to win my place of belonging on the team. So whether it was this sense of needing to muscle my way up the pecking order, or whether it was simply adrenaline and pent-up energy for the day ahead, I remember picking a "fight" with Todd that morning. He was one of the few team members with whom I had any real semblence of a relationship (we had met each other some five years previously, going through GCM's Staff Training program together), so I started playfully sparring with him... and then playful sparring led to more energetic swats at each other -- and before long, we were all-out wrestling and rolling around on the ground and laughing with each other. And although I must confess that I was a good bit heavier then (and even now that I've trimmed up a bit, I'm still probably a couple of weight classes higher than Todd) -- I am still proud of the fact that I became the first champion of the Zolder Wrestling Federation that day...

Later, as the work day went on, I also found myself locking horns with another young buck on the team named Sam. An articulate young Englishman, Sam was fun to talk with -- and we related to each other well, having both joined the primarily Colorado-based church planting team as outsiders who never took part in the initial team development in Fort Collins (and, in fact, we both arrived in Amsterdam the same week). However, while painting the navy blue hallway between the kitchen and the coat room, we found ourselves discussing the numerous merits of American civilization, and I ended up making the mistake of saying something to the effect of the Americans having needed to come over and bail England out, during the World Wars (by the way, I've since learned that this is a very calloused and shallow perspective that can be rather offensive to our colonial progenitors). Fortunately, the English are a very genteel people that do not resort immediately to fisticuffs -- and we were wise enough to eventually veer our conversation toward topics that were less tense -- thus, Sam and I are still friends to this day... But I shudder to think about the way that I burst onto the scene in Amsterdam that first work day.

Fortunately, I learned my place over time. And after a few more work days, spread throughout the following weeks (and months and years), I was equally weary and haggard -- and, I think I can say, invested in the project. As the "work days" became fewer and further between and as the building was transformed into a home for our ministry, I was able to see a different kind of work take shape: the work of transforming lives that has become the distinguishing characteristic of our community in the center of Amsterdam. And if the rest of our days as a church could be such spiritual "work days" we would be glad to let it be so -- with maybe just a few of the manual labor projects thrown in periodically to keep things interesting.

Others Remembering...

2006-09-18T23:34:00.000+02:00

In the vein of remembering The Zolder in this, its final week of use as our church facility, I wanted to post some further recollections that have been posted by other friends who have passed through Amsterdam at one time or another.

Stef shared some of her memories of the Zolder, as viewed from a scattering of visits with various short-term missions teams: "I still remember the first time I saw the Zolder. It was a year and a half ago. My first missions trip to Amsterdam. We walked up the seemingly endless staircase, through the doorway, and into a space that had clearly been set apart for God and His work..." Click on the link to read more...

And then, I'd also recommend a visit to Bret's blog, to hear some of his recollections of the commute from his home in the Watergrafsmeer to the Zolder (which, incidentally, happens to be very similar to my own daily commute, as we used to live in kind of the same neighborhood -- before Bret moved back to Colorado). Also check out Bret's collection of images from Amsterdam on his Flickr account (which can be accessed from his blog). To this day, my memory of the city and the church have largely been framed by Bret's creative lens...

Thanks, Stef and Bret, for adding your memories to the mix...

Remembering...

2006-09-17T21:59:00.000+02:00

I was chatting with my Dad earlier today, and he asked me something that caught me off guard with its abrupt reality: "So, this is your second-to-last Sunday in the Zolder, isn't it?"

He was right.

Even though the reality has been staring me in the face for months and months -- even though the practical logistics of relocating our ministry have consumed countless hours of thought and action -- the departure has still snuck up on emotionally. And yet here it is. We're now in the final week of ministy in "The Zolder" ministry facilities on the Leidsekade. One last staff meeting. One last home group leaders meeting. One last Soul Gathering. One last Sunday of worship... And then, we say "tot ziens" to the Zolder.

Thank God "the church" is not confined to a building. Thank God our best days of ministry are still ahead of us. Thank God we've never been outside of His protection and provision. Thank God for perspective to see our church's relocation for what it really is -- a step toward bigger and better things, an arrangement of circumstances that will allow us to build for the future...

But I also have to thank God for all of the memories that will forever be attached to "The Zolder." And I hope to take some time in the coming days -- when I'm not packing boxes or meeting with city officials or real estate agents or lawyers -- to post some of my reminiscences of our church's first real home in Amsterdam: as a means of celebrating, as a means of grieving, as a means of releasing the past to make way for the future... If you have any memories that you'd like to add to the mix, I'd encourage you to post them as comments -- or as independent entries on your own web space (and if this is the case please let me know, so I can link to them!). With that said, I'll close this post with a revision of an old story (from the early days of this blog), that seems like an appropriate stance for remembering the Zolder in the coming days.

* * * * *

(Photo by Marco Pauws - February 2005)

Zolder Venster
Originally posted 19 February 2005

I remember the first time that I really gazed out the attic window to the view of the Bosboom Toussaintstraat. The night was black and starless, but the string of amber streetlights offered a gentle glow to this quiet urban canyon. The tall, gabled houses framed the narrow street with a sense of diminuitive grandeur. A typical Amsterdam street, except for the absence of bends or crooks in the thouroughfare, allowing an unrestricted view of the entire Bosboom Toussaintstraat -- straight as an arrow pointing to the monolithic urban developments built on the fringes of the city long after its illustrious golden age.

The view offered an epiphany. A moment of realization and understanding. A quiet knowing of the fact that this was Amsterdam. The strange amber light, the 17th Century architecture, the traffic flowing with hatchbacks, scooters, and bicycles, the measured two-pitched song of an ambulance racing through the night... That first deliberate view out of the attic window provided a sense of genesis -- a threshhold to new beginnings in this city we chose for our own.

I've sat to gaze out of that attic window many times since my initial reflection upon the Bosboom Toussaintstraat. It seems to offer a timeless window on life in Amsterdam. Through all the people who have come and gone, through times of sorrow and joy, through sleet and sunshine, through silence or singing... the amber streetlights flicker to life every evening and illuminate the Bosboom Toussaintstraat, essentially unchanged from my first view of the Amsterdam nightscape. Every view is an opportunity to re-center, re-focus, and renew my perspective. I remember who God is. Who I am. How we came to find ourselves in Amsterdam in an attic space overlooking the canals and streets of the city centrum. Every gaze is a new beginning.

This evening, I look down upon the dancing waters of the Singelgracht beneath me. The amber reflections of the city streetlights are refracted and projected in a cycle of perpetual motion, as if I'm methodically running my fingers through piles of golden treasure. Above the canal, a woman on bicycle is sillhouetted against the streetlights as she struggles to surmout the incline of the Koekjesbrug. And beyond the bridge, on the other side of the busy Nassaukade, the Bosboom Toussaintstraat stretches out like a long, straight finger, pointing the way to tomorrow.

Een Kloppende Hart

2006-09-14T09:53:00.000+02:00

I realize that for some people, this may sound a bit twisted or masochistic -- especially for a boy from the heartland of rural America, brought up in the wholesome environment of sleepy little towns like Lancaster, Wisconsin and Shelby, Ohio... But I might as well say it:

I enjoy rush hour in the city.

Of course, I realize that rush hour in Amsterdam is a great deal different than rush hour in many other cities of the world. With a higher proportion of people riding bicycle or public transportation, rush hour in Amsterdam (at least in the city center, where I live) is considerably healthier, more ecological, and less gridlocked than the horror stories that I've heard about two-hours of creeping along the freeway with hundreds of thousands of other automobiles. But even when Amsterdam's intersections are jammed with impatient commuters honking their horns, even when I'm forced to slow my cycling pace because of the high volume on the bicycle paths, even when I get frustrated by the elements of rush hour that are niet-zo-leuk -- there's still a part of me that enjoys rush hour in the city.

There's something breathtaking, something beautiful, something fresh and living about the way that the city moves and breathes during its hours of greatest circulation. Have you ever seen some of the time-lapse video footage of places like New York's 34th Street at the beginning of the day, Chicago's Michigan Avenue at lunch-time, or the freeways of Los Angeles at sunset? It looks like the arteries and blood vessels of a living heart -- pumping its lifeblood throughout the body with every change of the traffic light. I wish I could find some similar time-lapse footage of Amsterdam's Frederiksplein at 8:55 in the morning, or of the Vrije Universiteit at 11:00 (the photos that I tried to take this morning, including the one above, fall short of capturing the true feeling of the urban circulatory system)... But even when I see these events in real-time, I am struck by the sheer volume of humanity. It inspires awe to observe the flow of people during rush hour.

When I am in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I admire the absolute stillness of a sunrise over the Appalachian Trail... When I am in Shelby, Ohio, I admire the easygoing banter of small-town acquaintances on a "bustling" Monday morning on Main Street... And when I am in Amsterdam, I admire the pulsing of the city's heart each morning and evening, as observed from the seat of my bicycle.

Should it be any other way?

Where I was...

2006-09-11T08:11:00.000+02:00

I was in my car -- my 1985 Chevrolet Chevette, "The Cherry Bomb." I think it was about the time that I was turning onto Conneaut Avenue, close to the Bowling Green City Park. Denny Schaffer and Trisha Courtney were talking about it rather casually on "The Breakfast Club" (one of the few programs with a signal that was strong enough to be picked up by the Cherry Bomb's primitive radio) -- as I was driving back from a "Breakfast Club" of my own on the campus of Bowling Green State University. Apparently, there had been some freak accident with an airplane colliding with one of the towers of the World Trade Center in New York -- which was certainly an item of interest and more-than-viable fodder for banter on a morning talk show... But when I stepped out of the car, at the City Park, it didn't seem like too big a deal...

For the next hour or so, I strolled around the park together with Jeffrey -- a lively pre-law student with a penchant for animated conversation. It was a beautiful September morning -- sunny and warm, with just the beginnings of autumn's crispness in the air. So we walked and talked. Talked and walked. We prayed together for a couple of minutes, and then we climbed back into our cars -- he in his trim Honda and me in my Cherry Bomb -- to set out for the rest of the day. And when I turned the key in the ignition, reviving the radio as well as the engine, I was surprised to hear Denny Schaffer and Trisha Courtney still talking about the airplane crash in New York City. Their tone had become much more serious, and I was unsettled by the emerging gravity of the situation.

It took me about five minutes to drive down the length of Conneaut Avenue from the City Park to my house. But as soon as I got home, I turned on the television to see what was going on. And the television set didn't get much rest over the next three or four days.

Angry black smoke was pouring out of both towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. And as they replayed (and replayed and replayed) footage of the crashes which started to be referred to as "attacks" instead of "accidents," as I heard more of the news about other plane crashes in Washington D.C. and in rural Pennsylvania, as I watched with millions of my countrymen as the towers crashed to the ground, it felt like life as we knew it had crashed too. The world suddenly became as black and as sinister as the smoke rising up from the New York skyline. Rumors circulated on the newscasts about planes headed for Cleveland, for Chicago -- for seemingly every major metropolitan center across the continent. Someone on one of the local stations suggested that the nuclear power plant just east of Toledo could be a target. It was hysteria. Paranoia. Panic. I called my brother Jay, in downtown Chicago -- fearful that he could be in a target zone. I called Marci, at work in the clinic in provincial Gibsonburg -- which seemed like less of a target zone (although you never could tell, in those panicked hours). And I was adhered to the television. They just kept recycling the same news over and over, but I couldn't not watch. It was my lifeline.

It's interesting to remember what it felt like that day. To remember where I was. What I was doing. What I was thinking. Obviously, I've gained much perspective in the days since that fateful day... and I recognize our misunderstandings, our irrationalities, our failings, our fears in the heat of that moment. But it's interesting to remember... and perhaps instructive.

So where were you five years ago -- on September 11, 2001 -- when you first got caught up in the chain of events surrounding the terrorist attacks in New York City?

The Ocean and the Styrofoam Cup

2006-09-08T11:13:00.000+02:00

The ocean is filled with life, motion, color, power, and vast expanses of mysterious depths. And the styrofoam cup is filled with the remnants of yesterday's coffee -- cold, bitter, a slightly metallic aftertaste as but a memory...

The ocean is framed by rocky cliffs, wide beaches of powdered sand, glorious cities with gleaming skylines, and an infinite stretch of horizon hosting rosy dawns and amber sunsets. And the styrofoam cup is framed by dingy, dented, pressed-chemical-compound with brown stains and the indentations of anxious incisors...

And yet -- and yet... the ocean invites the styrofoam cup to submerse its tired corrugated form into the infinite, enchanted fathoms of living water. And if -- and when and as long and as often and as deep as -- the styrofoam cup dares to be immersed, a miracle of renewal is enacted.

The ancient, briny deep enters the shallow confines of the dilapidated space-age refuse. Not merely into but around, under, through, over, out, and in again. The substances and stains of the styrofoam cup are scoured and scuttled by the ebbs and flows of the salts, minerals, and microbes of the ocean water. Yesterday's coffee grounds, saliva, and bacteria are combined with the primordial depths until they are so diluted as to be indistinguishable from the hundreds of billions of molecules which hold their imprint from the dawn of time. The rolling tide reshapes the supple styrofoam into something clean, new, bright, and beautiful.

And when the styrofoam cup is lifted from the ocean, it is drenched and dripping. And filled to overflowing with infinity.

Call to Prayer

2006-09-07T20:21:00.000+02:00

Every month, I send out a letter to all of the people who provide financial and spiritual support for our ministry in Amsterdam. And although I typically refrain from publishing these "prayer letters" in this space, I feel that this month's issue deserves an exception. Not that it's such a well-written letter or anything like that -- but because the issues outlined in the prayer letter need as much prayer support as possible. If you feel so led after reading the letter below, please join us in asking for God to show up in a big way over the coming month. Thanks.

* * * * *

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going… (Hebrews 11:8)

Greetings from Amsterdam! It’s a season of new beginnings. It’s the beginning of new seasons for the weather, sports, and television programming. It’s the beginning of new routines in family life and ministry life, following the summer. It’s the beginning of Elliot’s school year (our little boy is now a full-time elementary school student!). And, well, it’s the beginning of a new chapter in the history of our church in Amsterdam as well…

After four years of ministry in “De Zolder” (“The Attic”), we are saying good-bye to our beloved home overlooking the waters of the Singelgracht and entering a period of transition in the relocation for our ministry facilities. In many ways, this departure is an answer to many prayers and much practical effort to ensure the long-term viability of our ministry in central Amsterdam. Still, there is a certain amount of grieving that goes along with relocation, and we must look to God in faith for the future of our church.

Our four years in the Zolder have proved to be a critical period of formation and development as a church community. The renovation of ten rental units on the Leidsekade and Marnixstraat became our first major project as a seedling ministry—with just a couple dozen people from America, England, and the Netherlands. And through transforming the dirty and decrepit building into something beautiful and functional, we found a powerful metaphor for what was to become our mission in the city: transforming broken people through and into the beauty of Christ. As the renovations concluded, the restored attic (which we referred to by its Dutch name, “the Zolder”) hosted our first worship gatherings by candlelight—and in just a few months we had more than a hundred people joining us for food, fellowship, prayer, singing, and Bible study each Sunday evening. In addition to hosting worship gatherings, the Zolder became a place for wedding receptions and baby dedications and birthday celebrations and farewell parties. Consequently, as with any place so full of laughter and tears and rich memories, the Zolder has taken a special place in our hearts (not to mention in the name of our church!).

However, as much as the Zolder has been a great blessing for our church, we’ve also been hindered by the financial and practical responsibilities associated with the facilities. Our original eight-year lease was for an entire set of properties which were intended to provide not just a location for ministry activities but also rental properties that could be sub-leased to (ideally) cross-subsidize ministry costs. Yet in spite of the investment of significant resources in time, money, and energy, our rental agreement has been a significant financial burden—and we’ve had to fight to keep the ministry afloat as it ended up cross-subsidizing an apartment business that never fully materialized! For almost three years, we tried to negotiate with the building owners to adjust the terms of our contract to reflect fair market values and/or to release us from parts of the rental agreement. Thus, when we were finally given an opportunity for early termination of the lease this fall, we felt that it was the time to respond—in faith and in common sense.

Thus, we now find ourselves in a place of dependence upon God—seeking His will for the future of our church. First and foremost, we need to seek God for a new home. Although we’ve been working on things for several months and there are definitely some distinct possibilities for the future, we are still without a new church location. Regardless, we need to be out of the Zolder by September 30th. Therefore, we desperately need God to provide us with a new home: a place that is inviting, well-situated in the city center, affordable, and big enough for our growing community. We’re praying for favor with the building owners, with fire marshals, and with the city council as they consider our applications for occupation of a new space. And more than just a new place to meet—we desire for God to use our church’s relocation to bring His Kingdom to a new section of the city center. We want to be a blessing to our new neighbors. And specifically, as we enter this new chapter of our history, we’re asking God to use us to help bring many people into a meaningful relationship with God through Jesus.

We also need much prayer this month for the basic logistics of our relocation. Efficiently executing our departure from the Zolder, the transition (to temporary facilities, if necessary), and the renovation and arrival in our new home (wherever that may be) is a major operation. Of course, it’s going to take a lot of muscle to relocate all of our furniture, equipment, and such; but even more than that, it’s going to take a lot of brainpower and good organization to coordinate the move. In addition, we still have a few sub-leasers that need to move out—and because of the way our termination agreement is structured, we cannot leave anyone or anything on the premises beyond the last day of this month. So to say the least, there are a lot of loose ends that have to be tied up during the next few weeks—while simultaneously keeping up the general flow of ministry within our church!

Actually though, as much as the details of the move can make our heads spin, we’re excited for the ways that our ministry will benefit through this month of relocation and re-establishment. We see a great opportunity these days for deeper growth and commitment of existing church members—moving them from self-centered “consumers” to mission-minded “producers.” We believe that God will use our church’s relocation to develop deeper courage, faith, love, devotion, loyalty, unity, and vision for reaching the city. We’ve always sought to keep Jesus as the center of our church, and it seems that God could use our current circumstances to do just that! The present situation highlights the fact that our church is not defined by our meeting location or by our weekly order of events. Thus, in a sense, it seems that God could teach us more through this experience than through any kind of teaching series or Bible study or seminar.

Particularly in the month of September, we are encouraging the people in our church to commit to prayer, fasting, and seeking God’s will for the future of our ministry. Specifically, we are challenging the people in our church to fast every Monday, ending with corporate prayer on Tuesday mornings at 6:00 in the Zolder. And of course, the reason that I write all of this is to encourage you to also join with us in prayer! If everything gets pulled off smoothly, it will be nothing short of miraculous… But fortunately, we follow the God of miracles. Thank you for your invaluable partnership with us…

Eric

First Day of School

2006-09-04T20:36:00.000+02:00

While all of his peers in America enjoyed the Labor Day holiday, Elliot had his first day of school in Amsterdam today (you can read more about it on his blog). To our surprise and delight, there was very little anxiety and actually quite a bit of excitement for a return to the classroom following summer vacation. Our little boy is growing up...

Larkastic

2006-09-02T19:39:00.000+02:00

I appreciate good satire. Suggestive but subtle, critical yet comedic -- well-written satire can scathe with a smile. It is a true art form.

If you want to understand more of what I'm talking about, I'd advise you to check out LarkNews. I often find myself laughing out loud as I read the monthly updates to the site, yet I'm simultaneously impacted by the profound observations contained within the stories. LarkNews is particularly engaging for those who have grown up in the context of North American Evangelical Christianity -- but even outside of this context (or perhaps especially for those outside of this context), the site offers some very insightful observations into the subcultures of Western Christianity (although I'm not sure how well satire and sarcasm translate across linguistic barriers; in fact, I'd actually be very curious to hear how a Nederlander experiences LarkNews).

For some specific recommendations, see Worship leader seeks church that appreciates 'good synthesizer' or 'Perfect' pastor found to be dead. The headlines alone are hilarious, but the stories are well worth the read. If you've got the time, you could also check out: Man's prophetic actions offer lifestyle of fun or Churches adopt mascots. And I've found myself regularly referring back to a particularly poignant article from March 2006 entitled Church franchise a hit, but hostile take-overs rattle congregations. The pictures and "quotes" are a truly authentic touch to make the stories extra entertaining.

I wish that I could write good satire. Whenever I try writing something along these lines, I end up sounding either not very nice or not very funny. But at least I can enjoy the satire of others...

Incredible

2006-08-30T18:56:00.000+02:00

So I'm sitting in my living room, feeling kind of buzzed by the day's business and busyness... And as my children dance around me -- all brisk and boisterous -- I realize what a blessed antidote these two bubbly bundles are to the heavier and harder parts of life. They are hope, joy, and meaning in living, breathing form. They are beautiful and unique reflections of the face of God. And they are my children! How cool is that?!?! Caught up in the moment, I flippantly ask Elliot, "Do you realize that you're incredibly handsome?"

"Yes," Elliot says with a spry grin, "I am incredible."

Could this be church?

2006-08-28T13:52:00.000+02:00

Seriously -- could this be church!?!?

We've had some very different “worship” experiences throughout the month of August. The first week of the month, we were in the Vondelpark -- lounging on blankets, enjoying picnic food, taking turns in a Tug-of-War contest, playing Ultimate Frisbee with both friends and strangers... In the second week of August, we criss-crossed Amsterdam's city center in a creative scavenger hunt including assignments such as composing an original song and taking a group photo with strangers on the Leidsestraat... The third Sunday of the month gave us an occasion for more intimate gatherings in homes throughout the city, sharing dinner and conversation like in a holiday gathering of extended family... And then the fourth weekend of the month -- this past weekend -- we gathered as a church on Saturday night (thus, we didn't even meet on "The Lord's Day" unless you count the wee hours of Sunday morning) simply to throw a big party! Food and drinks, music and laughter, a totally fun and festive environment that could definitely call into question the meaning of the word "church..."

So perhaps the question should be asked: Why have we been doing this?

Have we just been lazy? Have we been taking a vacation (like everyone else in Amsterdam during the month of August)? Have we decided that worship music and teaching from the Bible are not valuable church experiences? Can a picnic really be called “church?” Can games truly be considered “ministry activities?” Could a Saturday night party actually count as “worship?”

I'd be interested to hear the perspectives of others (please leave a comment if you have ideas!)... But most importantly, perhaps we should try to catch a sense of God's perspective. What would Jesus have had to say about the way that our church operates? What can be learned from his model of ministry? Certainly, Jesus sang songs with his disciples (Mark 14:26), and he preached sermons to large crowds of people (Matthew 5:1-2)… But it seems that a lot of his “ministry” was simply living, traveling, eating, talking, and laughing together with his disciples over a period of months and years…

So maybe we're not so far off in our concept of church... Or maybe we are... What do you think?

Kenya? Ken je? Can ya?

2006-08-25T16:37:00.000+02:00

I've been thinking about Todd today... I've been thinking quite a bit about Todd -- and I've been thinking quite about about Africa.

Actually, Fridays quite typically cause me to think about Africa. But I am especially mindful of Africa this Friday because my good friend and colleague is there -- in Kenya (see some of Todd's recent posts for further explanation of his mission).

In case you're curious, the reason that Fridays usually make me think about Africa is because I've recently been choosing not to eat on Fridays, as a way of emotionally and practically linking myself to the problems of famine and disease in the developing countries of the world. This decision goes back to a time of personal reflection upon Proverbs 27:7 from last spring. And while I typically believe that fasting is not meant to be a public affair... I think this particular discipline is different from the typical spiritual fast.

My Friday fasting is meant to draw attention (primarly my own attention) to the problems of hungry people in other parts of the world. When I get hungry, I remember to pray for those who experience involuntary hunger on a regular basis. When situations arise in which other people ask me why I'm choosing not to eat (and seriously, it's amazing to realize how much food I get casually offered in a regular day, and how many of our social interactions are organized around the consumption of food!), I can initiate a dialogue about the problems in Africa and some ideas for potential solutions.

Then in considering possible solutions -- and in observing the practical outworkings of my Friday fasting -- I begin to realize how much of the key to world change is tied up in incremental changes that I can slowly and increasingly implement within my own life. For me, I had noticed a pattern in which I would typically spend anywhere from €5 to €25 on eating out each Friday (which tended to be a more expensive day in my week, almost always including a lunch, sometimes a supper, and often a cup of coffee or such). So I figured if I could cut out that money (which actually adds up quickly to probably €70 to €75 per month), then I could have some extra money to contribute toward charitable organizations focusing on development in the "Third World" (particularly in Africa). And because my shift from extra spending to extra sparing on Fridays was an incremental change -- actually a rather subtle adjustment to my life, in the overall scheme of things -- I've been able to maintain consistency, and my heart has actually grown for Africa in the last six months or so...

As time goes on, I believe that I (or anyone else who is willing to take such baby steps) will find more areas where such substitutions can be made. And in time, it will be like the farewell scene from "Schindler's List" where we'll realize how each watch, each cufflink, each adornment could have been another life saved. But contrary to the grand campaigns to wipe out poverty in a single swipe, I believe it all starts with incremental steps of faith.

Our family has started talking more about Africa recently -- especially with Todd in Africa right now. We're praying more for Africa. We're thinking up creative ways to involve our children in meeting the practical needs of children throughout the world (so don't be surprised if someday Elliot tries to sell you a cookie or glass of homemade lemonade, in order to offset the cost of mosquito nets for children in malaria-stricken portions of Africa). We're also currently in the process of researching possibilities for participating in an "Adopt-a-Child" type program that will further humanize the issues of hunger and poverty in the world today, and we hope that bit-by-bit we can make further incremental steps toward changing the world. By the way, we're particularly interested to find a child that we can support in Niger (there's a long story behind why we want to focus on that particular country that I may choose to tell another time) -- but we haven't found a lot of leads in this direction yet. So if anyone has any leads for us, or other suggestions for incremental steps, please let us know.

I hope that maybe this post stirs your heart a bit, too, and pushes you a small bit closer toward incremental changes that will revolutionize the world.

Ephesian Asp

2006-08-24T10:47:00.000+02:00

I've recently been reading through the book of Revelation, and I've been freshly stirred by the messages dictated by Jesus to the seven churches in the province of Asia -- particularly in regards to the letter for the church in Ephesus (you can read this letter in Revelation, chapter 2, verses 1 through 7).

I think I would have fit right in with the Ephesians.

At least according to my judgment of myself (which, granted, is not always the most reliable point of reference), I'm a hard worker and a patient endurer. I place a high value on righteousness, and I have a very low tolerance for "evil people." Generally speaking, my life would seem to be characterized by obedience, vigilence, steadfastness, trustworthiness... and so on. Very much like the church in Ephesus.

But of course I'm human. By nature, I'm not perfect. I'm a sinner... Yet it seems to me that my sins do not typically take me down the road of spectacular self-destruction. If I'm "not doing well," it doesn't typically mean drinking binges or one-night stands or violent rages or whatever might typically be categorized as "sinful" lashing-out or backsliding... Rather, if I'm not doing well -- if I'm living in the power of my own will instead of God's Spirit -- it usually means that I simply become more disconnected and more dead. I lose my ability to emote -- to love, to feel alive, to be passionate about anyone or anything... Just like the church in Ephesus.

Honestly, the last couple months have been a struggle for me. For whatever reason (which I suspect is somewhat related to a new wave of culture shock experienced upon returning from our most recent trip to America and a general season of less structure and more chaos), this has been a season of duty instead of romance in my relationship with God. I've been able to see God's face in the midst of the challenges, and I've been consistently choosing to remain in the struggle, striving to regularly create opportunities to jump-start my heart and maintain avenues for connection -- like a parapalegic exercising leg muscles in hopes of future recovery. But I often feel the temptation to let parts of me die and forsake my first love in the process.

However, it's encouraging to know that Jesus is calling me out of this, just like he challenged the church in Ephesus. He affirms my integrity in the process, and he reminds me that he knows my good deeds and my heart -- but he minces no words when it comes to the consequences of choosing for apathy, indifference, and allowing myself to drift off in to an emotional coma. My life and my ministry is at stake!

Yet if I can overcome -- if I can seek God with all my heart, even through the difficult times -- I will be rewarded someday with the right to eat from the Tree of Life in the Paradise of God: big juicy pieces of Life Fruit that will dribble their nectar down my chin and stuff my belly so that I can never feel tempted to be dead again... Just thinking about it makes me hungry!

And there's nothing like a healthy appetite to keep me focused on the task at hand.

Circus Fun

2006-08-21T20:24:00.000+02:00

It had probably been about twenty years since my last experience at the circus... and then I went twice this weekend.

Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen -- boys and girls -- I visited two different circuses on two different days in two different cities! And to say that there was a bit of a difference between the two experiences would be more than a bit of an understatement. It was the difference between night and day. Right and wrong. Good and bad.

On Saturday evening, Marci and I had the unique opportunity to visit the celebrated Cirque du Soleil on its second-to-last night in Amsterdam. And although we opted for the "restricted view" seats (which were much less expensive), we were absolutely enthralled by the performance. We had heard that the Cirque du Soleil was more like a Broadway musical or Las Vegas light show than a true "circus" -- and indeed we were impressed by the technical production, costume design, and stage engineering that went way beyond any three-ring circus from years gone by -- but the show (we saw their production entitled "Allegria") was much more like a genuine circus than we expected, actually. Trapeze artists, contortionists, jugglers, clowns, ringmaster -- pretty much everything except for the animals... But indeed, it was a fabulous show. I was particularly amazed by the contortionists and the manipulation artist (I had to look up the website to see what they called her); they were some ridiculously skilled performers. Almost inhuman. If you ever get a chance to visit the Cirque du Soleil, I would definitely recommend it...

However if you're thinking about visiting the Circus Herman Renz (the Dutch National Circus), I might suggest that you reconsider and choose in favor of a more worthwhile activity... Like clipping your toenails.

OK. So perhaps I'm being a bit too harsh -- and I was certainly set up for disappointment after seeing such a great performance the previous evening... But seriously, watching the Circus Herman Renz was like being transported back in time by fifty years. There was a certain charm and nostalgic appeal, and Elliot and Olivia were overjoyed by the elephants and lions and horses... but the quality of showmanship was poor, and the jokes were crass, and it was painfully obvious that the performers were all too human. The midget clown included cursewords and lewd gestures in his comedy acts. The trapeze artists had a few drops. The elephants managed one weak wave with a fore-foot. And that was about all there was to the show.

Certainly, the second circus served its purpose (Elliot was being rewarded for learning to read this summer, and he certainly enjoyed the Circus Herman Renz!). But if all the circuses are to be like that for the rest of my days, then I think I'll wait another twenty years before I take in another show...

Symetrical Society

2006-08-18T16:00:00.000+02:00

The Dutch are a very symetrical people. Ordered and organized. Planned and prepared. Trim and tidy. Meticulously engineered. Balanced to the utmost degree.

Of course, this social symetry is most obvious on the physical level -- particularly in neighborhoods such as mine, which were built in the first half of the 20th Century. I recently took a walk through the streets around my house -- taking pictures as I went -- and I was stunned by the degree of physical symetry all about me. The architecture, the schema of urban development (streets, sidewalks, sewers), and even the landscaping are composed in mirror images. The sheer scale of these "unimaginative" construction projects showcase astonishing creativity and craftsmanship.

On the one hand, this symetry can be perceived as boring and predictable. But on the other hand, it's fascinating...

The Dutch love for symetry extends well beyond the realm of city design and layout. Traveling through the countryside, one can see it in the layout of the roadway interchanges, the fields and canals. Upon careful examination of the "forests" and "wilderness" areas of the Netherlands, it becomes clear that the trees are planted in straight rows stretching to infinity. The dikes and bridges of this low-lying region of Europe are world-reknown for their ingenuity and efficiency -- making lake out of sea and land out of lake. "God created the heavens and the earth," so the saying goes, "but the Dutch created the Netherlands." And, quite apparently, they did it with a keen eye for balance, symetry, and quality control.

Even in matters of the abstract, the Dutch engage their universe with unparalleled, breathtaking, intertwined, complicated, symetrical systems. Government and politics (verzuiling), business and science (Antonie van Leeuwenhoek), morality and religion (Calvinisme) -- even art and aesthetics (M.C. Escher)... Dutch design is dominated by symetry, balance, and attention to detail.

At least that's the perspective of this American Amsterdammer. And I, for one, don't think it's a bad thing. Actually, it's kind of like any unique trait of a person or object -- the Dutch sense of symetry tends to be the thing that I most admire and the thing that I most despise about my adopted home culture, simultaneously.

I'd be curious to know if Nederlanders also observe this attribute of their own society (or if it's like trying to get a fish to explain water). And I'd be curious to find out if they pride themselves on this or feel embarrassed by it... Or if they think I'm totally off base.

August Blues

2006-08-17T10:57:00.000+02:00

Is it sacreligious to say that I'm looking forward to the end of the vacation season?

Ministry in Amsterdam in August depresses me. I know that it's a horrible time of year to accurately gauge the health of a church or home group or life group or staff team -- but still... it can be challenging to feel so alone and so meaningless in a people-based profession during a month when so many people are in and out of town. At our home group on Wednesday, it was just four of us (and the other two that came, apart from me and Marci, were basically coming to say their good-byes before a two year leave-of-absence). Business-related tasks take twice as long to complete because phone messages, e-mail messages, and mailed documents experience a universal "vacation lag." Other aspects of ministry are basically paused for another couple of weeks until everyone gets back in town again.

I have to keep reminding myself that there can be no sense of expectation in the face of such irregularity... And it helps to remember that it's not just ministry. Our neighborhood butcher shop is closed until the end of August. The closest bakery that we frequent is in the middle of a four-week hiatus. Half of the shops on the next street over are closed during the month of August... It's such a strange and bizarre experience for me each year.

I know that it's normal. I remember that I end up feeling this way every year, toward the latter half of August. Still, I'm anxious for a return to normalcy!

Rainy Days and Mondays

2006-08-14T11:40:00.000+02:00

So this is what it feels like when summer turns on you with a vicious gleam in its eye, spits in your face, and drop-kicks you into autumn...

I woke up this morning with the realization that the "hay fever" which has plagued me for the last couple of weeks has now graduated into a full-blown sinus nightmare (a sinus infection or a flu virus or whatever; the diagnosis doesn't really matter). And if (extensive) past history is any indication (which it usually is), I will likely continue to suffer from this for the next several days... which momentarily makes me want to subject myself to some kind of experimental medical procedure such as a sinusectomy (even if it would mean living out the rest of my days as Darth Vader, half-man, half-machine, hissing my breath through a triangular respirator).

Then, biking my way to work through the pouring rain, I actually found myself wishing that I had chosen to wear gloves (!) to keep my hands from exposure to the wind and cold rain showers. Upon reaching the office, I stripped off my coat and rain-pants to realize that I had been participating in strenuous activity (bicyling) with three layers of clothing (undershirt, overshirt, and jacket) in the middle of August -- without breaking a sweat.

I hope that this is not a sign of what's to come this winter...

Ons 2 - Wereld 0

2006-08-13T23:07:00.000+02:00

I wasn't going to say anything about it, but Naomi and Erica made me do it...

Much to the dismay of my wife, I came home this evening with the "coveted" Zolder50 cup -- for the second straight year (I say that it was to Marci's dismay because, well... Let's just say it's not the most beautiful mantlepiece ever crafted; thus she would have been more than happy for another home group to hold the prize for the coming year).

Seriously though, we had a great time participating in the second annual Zolder50 Speurtocht -- a race among the five home groups of the church to solve riddles and race through the city. The weather was beautiful, we got to meet some great new people, and our team used its combined strength, speed, and creativity to win the contest. I think that a speurtocht (scavenger hunt) is a great metaphor for the real role of a home group -- working together, complementing each other's strengths and weaknesses, facing challenges as a family, and having fun as we go along...

Plus, I thought some of the pictures turned out pretty cool -- so I decided to take the risk of sounding somewhat braggadocious and declare our victory to the world (or at least to the limited extent of the world to which this blog may reach).

Take on the Tour

2006-08-10T16:00:00.000+02:00

I wonder if people have found themselves curious about my take on the aftermath of the 2006 Tour de France -- namely, the scandal surrounding the alleged doping of Tour winner Floyd Landis. I've kept no secrets in this space about my affinity towards the sport of cycling (and towards the Tour de France in particular), and even my four-year-old son Elliot has posted about Floyd Landis and the Tour de France on his blog... So it's only natural to consider our response to the demise of our countryman and champion of cycling's greatest race.

Yet, in short, I don't really know what to think about everything. I'm trying to leave room for there to be a mistake -- a misunderstanding -- some glitch in the system... But the damnifying evidence seems rather overwhelming. Thus my overwhelming emotion to this overwhelming evidence is a profound and overwhelming sense of sadness.

But, of course, this is only natural. The Proverbs of Solomon speak extensively to these issues: "A wise son brings joy to his father, but a foolish son brings grief to his mother" (Proverbs 10:1). And in the case of one of America's presumedly great sons -- and one of the triumphant products of the sport of cycling -- a doping scandal brings nothing but grief to us, the progenitors and supporters of these constituencies... It feels like a personal stain on my conscience and the conscience of my family.

I decided to tell Elliot about the situation last Saturday -- when the news broke about the second testing of laboratory samples and the immediate disciplinary actions being taken by Landis' racing team and the officials of the Tour de France. In the weeks since the beginning of the Tour de France, Elliot had embraced Floyd Landis as a hero -- as a persona, even. He would wear his yellow bicycle helmet and his yellow rain-jacket, racing around the house on his four-wheeled plastic "racing bike" -- soliciting cheers for Floyd Landis, answering to the name of Floyd Landis, reveling in the glory of Floyd Landis. And since there was a very real possibility that Elliot might go off and introduce himself to some stranger with his gruff make-believe voice -- "Hi, I'm Floyd Landis" -- it seemed that it would be best for him to hear the demoralizing news from us and be given a framework for processing the news... But honestly, I didn't know if Elliot would understand...

He did, though. His lower lip quivered, in fact, and his face was painfully downcast as he personalized the shame of Floyd Landis. While all of the other racers had been expected to ride the same kind of bicycles and eat the same kind of food and drink the same kind of drink, Floyd Landis had eaten a special kind of medicine that had made him strong and given him an unfair advantage in the race. And that's cheating. And that's bad. And when you take a kind of medicine without a doctor's approval and without following the rules, it's called "drugs." And drugs are really bad. Cheating is bad, and drugs are bad.

It was actually a very good teaching moment. Again, it was sad. Yet through the experience, hopefully our son can learn the value of righteousness and gain wisdom from the mistakes of others. Like it says in the Proverbs of Solomon, "Ill-gotten treasures are of no value, but righteousness delivers from death. The Lord does not let the righteous go hungry, but he thwarts the craving of the wicked... The memory of the righteous will be a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot" (Proverbs 10:2-3, 7). And, to reassure you, Elliot was fine after we told him that he could have just as much fun pretending to be Oscar Pereiro instead of Floyd Landis. He even thought that "Oscar" was a cool name (why is it, by the way, that so many cyclists have "old man" names like Floyd, George, Levi, and Oscar???); kids are great like that...

As for me, honestly, I'm learning quite a bit through the experience as well. Obviously, I've had to rethink some of my thoughts on spectacular vulnerability (though I still think there's something to this that will always pester me)... And, yeah, maybe it's not so bad to identify with Lance Armstrong instead of Floyd Landis. Methodical, robotic, calculated -- call it whatever you want -- but seven straight cleanly-contested (though some would argue this) Tour de France championships look a lot better in the history books than one line item, smudged out and scribbled over, no matter how much "heart" that ride seemed to have. This whole sequence of events in the cycling world has encouraged me to simply persevere in my unglamorous attempts to plod along the straight-and-narrow here in the real world: "The man of integrity walks securely, but he who takes crooked paths will be found out... And when the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone, but the righteous stand firm forever" (Proverbs 10:9, 25).

Yet I must confess that I do not feel secure or firm. I cannot be arrogant or smug. For it wasn't until the 17th Stage (out of 20) in this year's Tour de France that Floyd Landis allegedly resorted to cheating... And as a young man of just 29 years, I fear that I've not yet even crossed into the Pyrenees of Stage 10. I need God's help to persevere! And I need a strong and steady team to keep me in the race. Just staying the course, pumping the pedals, honestly striving, avoiding temptations so that I can one day say: "I've fought the good fight. I've finished the race. I've kept the faith" (2 Timothy 4:7). Gloria in excelsis deo.

A Shot at Glory

2006-08-08T20:20:00.000+02:00

I did it! Thanks to you (specifically those who responded to my earlier pleas), I had my shot at a spot on the Dutch national disc golf team last Saturday.

After two and a half weeks of on-line voting in the Lipton Ice Tea Summer Disc Golf Challenge, I actually ended up not just in the Top Five-hundred -- but actually in the Top Five of all contestants in the Netherlands! Thus, I was notified of my qualification by e-mail and voice-mail earlier in the week. And after returning from our family's camping trip to Fryslan, I had just enough time to unload the rental car, take a quick shower, and drive to a large recreational area in the Haarlemmermeer (between Hoofddorp and Haarlem -- about a forty minute drive south-west of where I live) for my start-time at one o'clock in the afternoon.

It was such a fun afternooon. Trying to figure out directions to the competition site, driving into the parking lot under the giant yellow banners that marked the event, walking into the main pavilion that hosted the registration tables -- I felt a bit nervous but also extremely excited by the opportunity to try out for the Dutch national disc golf team and actually simply the opportunity to throw around the frisbee again (since I haven't gotten to play disc golf so much since my departure from Bowling Green in 2002). When I checked in, I was given an envelope with information about the qualification competition, including when and where and with whom I was to be playing. I was also given a bunch of free stuff -- including vouchers for a free lunch and free drinks (Lipton Ice Tea, of course), a new mid-range disc (emblazoned with the Lipton logo), and a bright yellow Lipton-logoed polo shirt (which may not be my natural fashion choice but is still a neat token anyway).

Since I had a bit of time before my group was to start, I sat down to enjoy some lunch by the lake and read up on the orientation materials (helemaal in 't Nederlands, of course). After finishing lunch, I was able to take a casual stroll up to the competition area and take a look around to visually reinforce what I had read from the information packet. Each registrant was to play five holes of disc golf (a temporary course was set up for the occasion) as well as participating in four skills events (longest drive, best putting, best mid-range accuracy, and a consistency challenge). And partipating in Round number 3, together with registrants 17-21, I was to start at the first hole of the course.

At the appropriate time, I got to meet the other members of my group: Menno and Ronald, from the Rotterdam area, as well as Ivo from the Eindhoven area. Ronald and Ivo were basically beginners, just playing for the fun of it. But Menno was actually quite good, and we enjoyed getting to know each other through the course of the afternoon. He turned out to be a physical therapist (which I could easily relate to, since Marci is also an accomplished PT). He had lived in America (Louisiana) for about a year and a half. And he maintained an attitude that embraced disc golf not so much as a passion or a mission in life -- but more as a purely recreational pasttime to enjoy hanging out with friends and experience the out-of-doors (which is very much my take on the sport as well). Ronald and Ivo were also really nice guys that had a very easy-going attitude, so it made the afternoon very enjoyable.

Out of the people in our group, I did the best with the long-range-driving skills event (74 meters) and the consistency challenge (which is a bit difficult to describe). But Ivo surprised all of us (himself included) by taking the mid-range accuracy contest. And Menno consistently proved to be a better putter -- also beating me by one stroke over the five holes of regular play.

Unfortunately, I didn't exactly play my best on Saturday. So I didn't qualify for the Dutch national disc golf team. However, even if I would've played at the top of my game, I don't think I would have been an automatic lock for the top five (and thus a spot on the national team, assuming of course that they wouldn't have had any issues with my American citizenship -- which would have been a pretty big assumption, actually!).

More importantly, the experience on Saturday allowed me to tap into a subculture within the Netherlands. It turns out that there are about 40 to 50 guys in the Netherlands (and most of them are actually native Dutchmen) who play disc golf fairly regularly. They hold tournaments on temporary courses several times a year. One of the temporary courses that I visited a couple of years ago in Rotterdam is apparently now a permanent course. And another new course is just being built in Utrecht. I was introduced to a few websites for disc golfing in Holland. In general, things seem to be on the up-and-up for disc golf in the Netherlands. Menno also introduced me into the circle of "regulars," and we exchanged contact information so we can meet up for a round in Rotterdam sometime. So I'm excited for future possibilities in building friendships and relaxing on the disc golf course more often.

And if that's not a successful disc golfing experience, then I don't know what is.

Fryslan Boppe

2006-08-07T20:07:00.000+02:00

It was a desperate juggling act. I was trying to keep the tiny Hibachi grill dry, trying to keep the grilling sandwiches from burning, trying to keep the kids away from the hot grill, trying to strategically redirect the streams of water plummeting from the canopy of our tent, trying to move our camping supplies toward the drier parts of the tent, trying to keep the kids out of the mud, and trying to maintain my sanity in the midst of the deluge that threatened to derail our family camping adventure practically before it had even gotten started...

I was trying to keep it all together -- madly juggling like a court jester whose king was inclined toward beheading those subjects who displeased him -- but I was not really succeeding in any of these desperate attempts, and dropping balls like crazy in the process.

My sanity was actually the second ball to drop. Like the dike that holds back the powerful North Sea from flooding Fryslan, my powers of concentration and self-control were stressed by this storm of unparalleled ferocity. And when the overloaded canopy of our tent bent and unloaded its weary shoulders onto my bent and weary shoulders in a moment of distraction, the dike was breached. I bellowed like a caveman and reeled backwards, toward the inside of the tent -- toward and, yes, into the grill that was cooking our supper. Like a Charlie Chaplin comedy sketch, I stepped on a corner of the grill, upsetting the grilling sandwiches and spilling red-hot embers onto the wet grass, releasing a sizzle of fury and frustration that paralleled the downward spiral of my spirits. A stream of curses started rising in my chest, churning and billowing up my trachea and into the back of my throat. I tipped my head back to call down angry curses on this cold wet world from the angry gray heavens above.

And then I noticed them: my children.

Elliot's half-curious-half-horrified countenance served as a mirror reflecting and interpreting my martyred anguish. In marked contrast, Olivia clapped her hands and shimmied in a little dance that indicated her (mistaken) comprehension of the funny show which Daddy was so obviously acting out for her entertainment. Thus in that moment, I realized that I had failed my family with the grim outlook and gruff demeanor that I had adopted for the vacation. My memory involuntarily reviewed the thousands of times that Marci and I had talked with our children about choosing a "happy heart" instead of a "grumpy heart." Our response to life circumstances is a personal choice, and no one or no thing can make you feel happy or sad. And as my mind recollected these repetitive parental lessons, a new cold wave of realization washed down my back: I needed a "time out" on my bed. I needed to check my attitude and make a choice. Would I choose a "happy heart" or a "grumpy heart" for this camping trip?

I opted for the happy heart.

Of course, the change in my attitude was not instantaneous. The much-anticipated "s'mores" (a traditional American chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker sandwich) did not turn out very well because the grill had cooled considerably through the accident. The rain persisted and pounded our tent throughout the night, keeping the children awake until after 10:00 at night and allowing us parents only fitful sleep until the morning. But a fundamental change had started to take root that could not be derailed by thunder, lightning, or rain.

The rest of the time in Fryslan went remarkably well. Marci's logistical prowess and cool-headedness throughout the weekend should one day be acknowledged by the Vatican as a sign of her sainthood. The kids reveled in the joys of sleeping bags and tents and flashlights. And with my choice for a happy heart -- well, we were basically one big happy family. When the first night ended and the second day of our camping adventure dawned, the precipitation had tapered off and a few brave rays of sunshine even dared to warm our campsite. The second day was a little bit windy, and we caught a couple of rain showers when we tried to venture out -- but things went much better overall. We enjoyed walking through the forests and meadows of the countryside. We enjoyed driving through the vast flatlands, stopping at drawbridges for a parade of sailing masts to pass in front of us. We enjoyed traditional Frisian pastries from a local bakery. And in the evening, we enjoyed ooey-gooey s'mores and marshmallows roasted over a dry bed of coals.

Against all odds, the mini-vacation ended up being a great success. Unbelievably, we suffered less from problems with mosquitos or hay fever than what we've recently been experiencing in the city. And although we were certainly glad to get back to our own beds and the comforts of civilization, a part of us was also sad to say good-bye to Fryslan.

Dark Clouds over Fryslan

2006-08-05T20:42:00.000+02:00

I was virtually certain that the excursion was doomed, right from the beginning. Sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm optimistic and spontaneous -- but the truth of the matter is that I often think in terms of worst-case scenarios, especially when there is no clearly definied precedent or pattern to channel my expectations.

So perhaps you can imagine the dark thoughts running through my mind upon consideration of a rather hastily-organized three-day camping trip to Fryslan (otherwise known as "Friesland," the northwesternmost province of the Netherlands) with my wife and two small children... Let's just say that I went ahead and paid the extra seven euros per day for the extended insurance coverage on our rental car (which I normally consider to be an exhorbitant precaution). From the start, I was thinking largely in terms of damage control...

Of course, it didn't help that the weather forecasts were calling for an average 80 percent chance of rain over the three days of our excursion. And did I mention that we were going camping? As a whole family? For the first time? In unfamiliar territory?

After picking up the miniscule rental car, I traversed Amsterdam to park in front of our home -- point of origin for the week's adventures. Ferrying loads from the basement to the backseat of the car, Elliot persistently begged for opportunities to be of assistance (which had to be creatively manufactured for the faculties of a four-year-old). Olivia cried and qhined -- for no apparent reason. And Marci and I observed our ritual stress-induced pre-traveling bicker-banter about very stupid and largely meaningless minutiae until the car was packed like a circus clown car -- ready to explode with all kinds of whacky surprises.

The first fat raindrops splattered the windshield on our drive through the flatlands of Noord Holland. Yet we rediscovered some degree of optimism and hope with the peaceful lull of the open highway, and we started to believe that the break in the clouds just up the road a bit meant something for us. When we stopped in Enkhuizen around lunchtime, we felt brave enough to try a picnic in a nice grassy meadow overlooking the IJselmeer. But even before the sandwiches could be manufactured, the wind and rain picked up to the point that we decided to finish our lunch in the rental car.

The rest of the afternoon ebbed and flowed with neither total exhileration nor total despair. We actually managed to arrive at our campside and set up camp during a break in the weather that allowed us enough time to figure out how to put together our brand-new tend whose bargain price invoked an increasing level of anxiety that corresponded directly with the increasing level of cloud cover building in the vast Frisian skies. I prayed as we raced to conclude preparations: "Please God, protect us. Please God, deliver us. Please God, forgive us for our foolishness..."

I don't suppose there ever would have been a truly "good time" for the rain to begin. Still, the timing felt particularly bad when the skies opened up in the midst of our dinner preparations...

The Road to Durgerdam

2006-07-29T19:40:00.000+02:00

You can take the boy out of the country -- but you can't take the country out of the boy. Or so I've heard. And so, in fact, I've come to believe as I've observed the inexplicable refreshment in my own life that comes from casual time spent in quiet, open spaces.

I know it sounds strange and somewhat incomprehensible, but I genuinely believe that the biggest adjustment over the last four years -- moving from Bowling Green, Ohio, United States of America to Amsterdam, Noord Holland, Nederland -- has not been the shift from American culture to Dutch culture, but rather the shift from small town life to big city life. To be certain, there are advantages to urban living and we've genuinely enjoyed opportunities that the city brings... But truthfully we've never quite been able to "get over" our love for the quiet, the privacy, the simplicity, the freedom, the openness, the color, and the freshness of the countryside. And as green and quaint and charming as the city of Amsterdam may be (in comparison with other cities of the world), the fact remains that we live among hundreds of thousands of people, in close physical proximity that can often be claustrophobic.

Thus, it was a great refreshment for our family to load up our bicycles and pedal from our home in Amsterdam through the eastern neighborhoods of the city, past the urban sprawl, over the IJ river, outside of the A10 ringway, and into the fresh, green countryside of Noord Holland this afternoon. It was amazing that in just 30 minutes of casually-paced riding, we were able to breathe deeply, soak in the sunshine, bleat with the sheep, feed clover to the ponies, and enjoy the countryside. We rode from Amsterdam to the tiny village of Ransdorp, to the lakeside settlement of Durgerdam, and back to Amsterdam... It was a three hour circuit in all (including time for a number of stops to look at animals, take drinks, eat snacks, and so on). And we were reminded -- like with anything atypical yet so refreshing -- that we need to do things like this more often.

It was... magnificent.

The country may never fully leave the boy -- regardless of his geographic setting -- but I desperately hope that the boy will never have to fully adandon the countryside.

Back in Business

2006-07-28T19:35:00.000+02:00

In case you haven't heard (see my post on Hoop Dreams for more information), I'm currently campaigning to qualify for the tryouts of the Dutch National Disc Golf Team...

And while the good folks at Lipton can pride themselves on their ability to make a tasty and refreshing glass of ice tea, they have shown themselves to be a bit susceptible to technological glitches in their marketing schemes. Specifically -- without any kind of communication -- they altered the link to the profile page which had allowed good people like you to go on-line and vote for me. But thanks to a little perseverence and a lot of dumb luck, I figured out how to repair the link (in the original post, too) and once again stump for your vote to keep me at the top of the popularity contest which determines who will get to try out.

Fortunately, as of the time of this post, I'm still clinging to a 7.3 average rating and a spot in the Top Twenty (thanks to everyone who has already voted!). Nevertheless, I would be infintely grateful for your continued support (as there appear to be no rules or regulations to deter casting multiple votes). And I'll even be so bold as to offer a trick for casting multiple votes: once you have voted for me (hopefully with a 10!), you can click on "Top 500" momentarily and then go right back to "Vote" to put in another vote (again, ideally with a 10!); this process can be repeated for as you'd like (I suppose it's kind of sad that I know this, isn't it?)...

So yes, this is a silly gimmick. And no, it doesn't meaningfully impact the world much (if at all). But it sure is a lot of fun for me. And I'd appreciate your participation (hopefully you won't have much trouble finding a link in this post that can be used for joining the fun)!

Spectacular Vulnerability

2006-07-25T21:44:00.000+02:00

To read the sports news write-ups of Floyd Landis's victory in this year's Tour de France, you have to wonder how anyone could have ever admired or loved Lance Armstrong (record-breaking winner of the previous seven Tours). "Floyd is human; Lance was machine..." they suggest. "Floyd rides with heart; Lance was ruthless and calculating... Floyd is maverick; Lance was predictable... Floyd wins the hearts of the world; Lance was aloof and lonely in his perfection..." Can the difference between these two champions really be this great?

As far as I can tell, really, the primary point of distinction between Floyd Landis and Lance Armstrong is simply this: spectacular vulnerability.

What else could be the reason? One single performance (among a depleted field of contenders, at that) -- somehow celebrated and serenaded over the staggering feat of seven consecutive championships... It seems illogical and imbalanced (and, yes, perhaps an attempt to make a big news story that an American audience would want to read after the sport's most recognizable name and face has retired), but I believe you can pick up the clues for this celebration from the adjectives used to describe Floyd Landis's ride to victory: "gutsy... resurrected... heroic... legendary... big-hearted..." It's not the fact that he won that's so special; rather, it's the fact that he almost lost it all that made everything so special. One day, Floyd Landis took the lead in the three-week race, seeming to lock in his victory. The next day, Floyd Landis bombed miserably and gave it all back (and then some). And then the very next day, Floyd Landis came back from the depths of despair to dramatically put himself back in contention.

Essentially, the glory of Floyd Landis's victory in the Tour de France this year came from the fact that he was dramatically unveiled to be human. Weak, powerless, ashamed... a loser -- who suddenly became a winner. And, let's face it, losing is much closer to the reality of the world. The sports-viewing public -- for all their worship of dynasties and hall-of-fame credentials -- can actually relate much more easily to a loser. And a loser who somehow, dramatically, figures out a way to become a winner becomes a type of mythical figure giving hope to the frustrated and downcast masses.

So why -- perhaps you wonder -- am I musing and waxing eloquent about all this?

It's true that I've become a bit of a cycling enthusiast over the last couple of years living in Amstesrdam, and I see many parallels and lessons for life from the long and winding roads of France. But, actually, the truth is that I worry sometimes that my efforts to live to the most of my potential in the world -- to be a good follower of Jesus, good husband, a good father, a good church leader, a good citizen, ad infinitum, ad nauseum -- have unknowingly cast me in the role of Lance Armstrong, doomed to be overshadowed by the gutsy, spunky, spectacularly vulnerable Floyd Landises of the world.

Too often (I fear), I hear people praise my organizational skills, my self-discipline, my conscientious maintainance of personal priorities and boundaries... But I rarely hear people complimenting my heart, my reckless abandon, my gutsy comebacks...

So I can hardly help myself from wondering: What does this mean?

It would be a gross overstatement (not to mention arrogant hubris) to declare that I am the "Lance Armstrong of Life" -- but perhaps you can sense my conundrum. Can the "good guy" ever really be the hero? Does the "nice guy" ever get the girl? Must I fail dramatically for people to love me? Or what if my tragic flaws tend to be more internal in nature? Can long-term perseverence on a gradually sloping incline be considered "gutsy" -- or must my life resemble a sine wave to be considered in any way remarkable? I always try to be as humble, as transparent, and as vulnerable as possible -- about both my strengths and my weaknesses -- but if I cannot be spectacularly so, will anyone notice or care?

In the end, I realize that it does not matter what anyone else thinks of me, so long as I am secure in my identity in Christ. But I would be lying if I said that these questions do not bug me.

Apocalypse on the Herengracht

2006-07-24T12:43:00.000+02:00

A beautiful queen.

A hideous monster.

Strange and fantastical creatures...

frozen in stone... solely resuscitated...

by delicate tendrils of moss.

Queen of the Beasts

2006-07-20T08:15:00.000+02:00

Imagine our fear and trepidation as we heard the news that one of the largest carnivorous creatures in the world had escaped yesterday from Amsterdam's Artis Zoo -- within just a kilometer or so of our home. Neighborhood playgrounds were deserted and armed military officers stood guard along the major thoroughfares of Amsterdam Oost, as news reports indicated that the ferocious beast was stalking southward from the zoo... Confident men strutted down the street, to the mailbox, to the cafes -- pretending that they weren't conscious of the danger lurking in the shadows, hanging over their shoulders. Mothers kept vigil from streetside balconies. Teenagers dared each other to go more than 10 meters from the safety of a reinforced door. The tension was palpable.

Thus, it would be a bit of an understatement to say that Marci and I were terrified to hear a rustling and a low growl coming from our bedroom during the heat of the day. Marci screamed and snatched Elliot from the living room floor, where he had been playing. I jumped up and grabbed a chair from the dining room table -- the closest weapon I could find. Marci screamed, "Where is Olivia?!?! Oh, please God -- WHERE IS OLIVIA?!?!?!?" The rising pitch of the growl from the bedroom matched the soft padding of footsteps from the back of the house toward the living room... It was a moment of absolute horror.

As the beast stepped into sight, the lion looked at me with big eyes and a gaping maw full of teeth. And then the lion said, "Look Dayee! I'm a li-uh!" Oh, the relief! Oh, the ecstasy! This lion answered to the name of Olivia. And yes, in fact, the lion was my daughter.

Hoop Dreams

2006-07-17T19:11:00.000+02:00

I need your help. Yes -- you, noble reader of this humble blog...

Please follow this link to the Lipton Disc Golf website, and vote for me -- so that I might have a chance to try out for the Dutch national disc golf team. Of course, you may vote your conscience (which would mean providing a rating of anywhere from 1 to 10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest) -- but I might be so bold as to suggest that you rate me "10" so that I can come as high up in the rankings as possible.

I usually try to avoid using my blog for stupid gimmicks like this. But with your cooperation in this voting contest (follow the link now!), I could see a life-long dream fulfilled...

Well... OK. So I haven't exactly been hoping and dreaming about this my whole life long (maybe ten years, actually, at the most)... And, all right, I don't even know if something like trying out for the Dutch national disc golf team could actually qualify as a true "life goal" or "dream"... But I can definitely say that I enjoy disc golf as a hobby (ever since my latter years in Bowling Green, Ohio). And I'm all in favor of raising disc golf awareness in the Netherlands (hoping that communities may eventually create more disc golf courses in public spaces throughout the country). And it could certainly be fun to say that I tried out for the Dutch national disc golf team...

Heck, I figure I might even make the team if I can get as far as the tryouts.

But qualifying for the tryouts basically seems to be a popularity contest. The more often you're rated at a higher level by other viewers, the higher you rank in the standings. So, if you could take it upon yourself to vote for me (please!) and help me get into the Top 500 -- my chances of trying out for the team on August 5th would be that much improved.

I fear that I'm a bit handicapped in my "foto/filmpje" entry, since it's just a static shot of me (and the great Jason Slack)... But believe it or not, I actually made the effort to visit the Lipton promotional event on the Leidseplein and have a "filmpje" (little video clip) made of my real-life disc golf skills. But the good people at Lipton seem to be having some technical difficulties with uploading the materials from their promtional events to their website, so I went an alternate route to -- forgive the pun -- "throw my hat into the ring" and get in the contest before it's too late (and to be honest, I missed the 10-meter shot that was caught on camera, anyway). So in case you're wondering why my "foto/filmpje" seems to be the most boring one on-line, that's why! And besides, I have faith that you, my friends, can help to overcome this handicap by responding to this blog and going directly to vote for me on-line (and please feel free to vote as many times as you like, as there seems to be no rule against this!)!

In case you're not so good with your Dutch, here are the basic instructions: First, you'll have to click on the link (have I made this point clear yet?); then, it will take you to the website with a picture of me (and the great Jason Slack) standing on a grassy hill next to a disc golf basket. The site will automatically run through some instructions (in Dutch) that basically tell you what I've already outlined above, and then it will come to a stopping point where it says "Start nu met stemmen!" ("Start voting now!") -- and if you click on the button that says "Start" you'll be able to see the full picture (that had been in the background of the instructions) with a vertical listing of numbers (from 1 to 10) along the left side of the screen. Again, you're free to vote your conscience (and pick any number you'd like) -- but if you're asking me, I'd encourage you to give me a "10." Then, the site will bring up another picture or video clip, and you can choose to vote for some others, or you could simply exit after voting for me.

I hope that makes sense. Thanks for playing along with this gimmick.

The Neighborhood of Make-Believe

2006-07-13T14:23:00.000+02:00

So I suppose I'm putting my credibility on the line here... But does anyone else sometimes catch oneself living in a fantasy world?

I'm not trying to be deep or philosophical here -- like "How do we negotiate the tension between the physical realm and the spiritual realm?" or "What are the masks that we wear as a form of self-defense in society?" I'm talking about true childlike fantasy. Pure imagination. Unfettered frolicking in the neighborhood of make-believe -- you know, baking mud-pies for a tree-house feast... transforming one's back-yard into a collosal stadium with a sell-out crowd watching your magnificent performance in the championship game... enjoying afternoon tea with the royal family... We all know that these things are well and good for children -- even admirable, adorable, and praiseworthy -- but what about adults? Can "grown-ups" pretend in such innocent, frivolous ways?

I've just recently realized how many imaginary adventures I can pack into my daily commute.

The other day, one of the television networks in Amsterdam was airing the classic Star Wars film, The Empire Strikes Back -- and I couldn't resist reveling in what had been one of my favorite movies as a boy. In particular, I enjoyed the chase scenes -- rebel snowspeeders racing over the Hothian landscape to engage Imperial walkers, noble X-wing fighters squaring off against evil Tie Fighters in the star-specked vaccuum of outer space, Han Solo's Millenium Falcon dipping and diving through asteroid fields and the gigantic teeth of horrific beasts... And somewhere in the midst of one of the chase scenes from The Empire Strikes Back, it occurred to me that I have envisioned these very scenes dozens if not hundreds of times during my incidental travels through the bustling city streets of Amsterdam, mounted upon my brown Batavus bicycle (incidentally nicknamed Darth Brown, as if the Star Wars connection hasn't already gone far enough!)...

Perhaps I'm crazy or childish, but it occurs to me that I often imagine the orchestral themes of Star Wars as I dodge delivery trucks and pedestrian tourists each day. Narrow escapes, bursts of speed, tight corners -- these are daily maneuvers that are easy fodder for an overactive imagination. And it's so much more interesting to be an X-wing fighter pilot, racing to thwart the sinister plans of a tyranical intergalactic empire -- than to be a peddling peasant on his way home from work. It brings joy and excitement to race stormtroopers through the forests of Endor on my speeder-bike. It lightens my spirit to take a break from reality and get lost in the Tatouinian deserts or Hothian tundras of central Amsterdam.

But is this normal adult behavior? I'm afraid the bicycle adventures do not stop at Star Wars...

Sometimes my bicyle is a fighter plane -- dogfighting with the Luftwaffe over the skies of Europe. Sometimes my bicycle is a galloping stallion -- rounding up vast herds of cattle on the open range. And sometimes (particularly at this time of the year), my bicycle is a top-of-the-line racing bike -- zooming through the far corners of France for Team Discovery, seeking an illustrious victory in the Tour de France. The steep bridges of the city are the Pyranean peaks or the legendary summit of l'Alpe d'Huez. The far side of each intersection is a sprint finish against Thor Hushovd and Robbie McEwen. Every bicycle ride can be a mystical quest. My imagination knows no bounds.

But tell me, does this mean I'm a freak? I know that we delight in the comic imaginations of Snoopy or Calvin & Hobbes. I know that we all smile when Peter Pan encourages us to never grow old. I know that we love Don Quixote for his idealism... But don't we also lament the fact that he was just a crazy old man? I'm looking for validation here. Identification and empathy. Here I have bared my soul to the world wide web, and I await its judgment of my sanity. Please tell me that I'm not alone...

Or -- if you're going to put me in a mental institution -- please make sure that I get a nice room with a good view of wooded grounds and a bicycle trail where my desperately careening mind can dart about freely and serendipitously for the rest of my days.

What a Bicycle Crash Means

2006-07-08T16:06:00.000+02:00

As we were watching live coverage of the Tour de France individual time trials this afternoon, a nasty crash by American rider Bobby Julich prompted a series of questions from inquisitive Elliot:

"What happened?" He crashed going around that corner.

"Why did he crash?" It's hard to say. Maybe he hit some gravel on the road or something.

"Did he get hurt?" Yeah, it looks like he hurt his wrist or something.

As the medical crews from Team CSC huddled around the injured rider and consulted with race officials, it appeared that the veteran rider's race was over. I commented that I was sad to see one of the American riders out of the Tour. Elliot evidently started to grasp the fact that Bobby Julich would be going home. But I was surprised and amused to observe the thought process of my American-born-Dutch-bred son, when he asked his next questions:

"How will he get home?" Ummm... He'll probably get a ride in one of the team cars.

"How will he get his bike home?" They'll probably fit it in one of the cars, too.

Only in Holland is bicycling not just a sport or a recreational activity -- it's a way of life. Since living in Amsterdam these last three and a half years, bicycle has become our primary means of transportation. Our way to get to school. To church. To the grocery store. To the park. To get back home...

It's so funny to see the way that living in Amsterdam has affected my family's view of the world. But it's kind of cool, too.

Summer Shostakovich (Part Four)

2006-07-07T20:13:00.000+02:00

[Marci and I enjoyed a truly unique -- and truly bizarre -- evening in Amsterdam's Vondelpark last week. But... to do justice to the experience, I wanted to try painting with smaller strokes and a more varied pallette in my writing. But... realizing that the blogging format is not ideally suited for longer blocks of text, I wanted to try a different publishing strategy: a serial. But... the success of this strategy -- and your enjoyment of these posts -- depends on your willingness to follow along. See Summer Shostakovich (Part One), Summer Shostakovich (Part Two), and Summer Shostakovich (Part Three) to catch up and join the adventure...]

* * * * *

...Soon after the feather silently touched down inside the piano, the audience loudly erupted in applause -- not for the feather, of course, but for the conclusion of Shostakovich's piano ballet for the glory of Soviet soccer. After an impersonal bow to the audience, the pianist presented his arms to the side, in the manner of a Spanish toreador, as a graceful woman in a simple black dress took to the stage with her cello. He offered a brief introduction. They took their seats. She needed a bit of tuning. Then the duet began to play.

To speak succinctly: it was glorious. The rich sweet resonance of the cello swelled through the amphitheater and made me feel like crying, or sighing, or flying with the parrots of the Vondelpark. De Kamer van Sjostakovitj gave me a place to live and remember everything good and beautiful about life in Amsterdam: beautiful public spaces, appreciation of the fine arts, creative self-expression, a broad network of intelligent, cultured people...

It was then that I noticed the woman in red.

All evening, she had been obviously and ecstatically enjoying the music. Her bespectacled husband was a bit more reserved, befitting his earth-toned three-piece suit and in marked contrast to her red-dressed exhuberance. As the musicians performed just meters beyond their front-row seats, he would pat her arm in a tactile communication of love and consideration. In a reserved, earth-toned way of course. But she would smile freely and sway gently, maybe even humming along to the music at times -- soaking, seeping, savoring the music in a fresh red way that seemed decades younger than her gray hair and laughlines would suggest. When the music had reached its point of saturation -- somewhere in the middle of the duet's second number -- it seemed she could contain herself no longer. Instantaneously, though not inconspicuously, she rose to her feet and began to dance.

My heart was summoned by the romance of the moment. I wanted to pull Marci closer, forget the crowd of strangers, and push the collapsable chairs aside to create a dance floor for us. And for the silver-haired lady in red. And her reluctant-though-raptured gentleman escort...

But because my feet are slower than my mind -- and because of another brief flash of the foreigner's flu -- I did no such thing. Instead, for a moment longer, I watched the red dame dance, and suddenly I felt a flush of vicarious shame that ravenously swallowed my sense of grandeur and romance. As I watched, I could see that her dance was not the waltz. Nor the foxtrot -- nor whatever sort of ballroom dance would be appropriate for a Shostakovich concerto. Rather, her dance was a clumsy two-step -- slightly off-balance and decidedly unbecoming a lady of her age and stature. Her elbows were cocked at her sides; she shimmied from left to reft in a poor impersonation of MC Hammer. She tried to pull at her husband, to coax him into dancing with her; but he sat stolidly in his seat, and I subconsciously sunk deeper and deeper into my chair with empathic embarrassment for them both.

Apparently, the red-dressed, silver-tressed lady's demonstrative joy throughout the evening had not been the result of stirred sentimentality (as I had previously assumed), but rather a painfully open succumbence to senility.

As others in the audience started to notice the spectacle, they would alternatively stare and divert their gaze. The scene was simultaneously compelling and repulsing -- like a slow-motion instant replay of a horrific sporting injury or a low-budget made-for-television movie. Most folks did their best to be polite. To not point and stare, to not let on that they had seen this private peculiarity. But when the red dancer attempted an awkward twirl that nearly broke my heart and her ankles, a nearby guffaw broke the code of respectability.

Someone was laughing.

It was the flaming sailor, just a couple of rows in front of me. His pink bangles and beads shook with laughter and accusation, hysterically mocking this woman dancing under the influence of Alzheimers. He made no attempts at discretion. And while other strangers cast him rude looks or deliberately ignored the scenario, the woman sitting next to the sailor started twittering as well. They looked at each other -- like fourth-grade girlfriends -- and their giggling escalated, unchecked. When the lady in red let loose another clumsy twirl, their shockwave of laughter became momentarily audible, even from several meters away. The woman sitting beside us quietly tsked, her dog perked its head curiously, and I was ignited with indignation.

As we all painfully watched, the dancing mevrouw returned to her regretful man and beligerantly pouted when he again refused her invitation to the ballroom of her dementia. She gave a half-hearted effort toward a few further dance moves but then wandered off toward stage left where the amphitheater shell ended and the wooded regions of the park began. As she quickly disappeared into the thicket, her gentleman husband patiently gathered himself, straightened on the lapels of his suitcoat, and casually strolled after her as if to reluctantly settle a lovers' spat. I felt sad for him. And for her.

But my primary emotion upon their departure was anger. Fury, even. The juvenile mockers' gulps and giggling gradually subsided to stupid grins. Yet my outrage escalated as time went on. I was incredulous at the insensitivity of these strangers! Particularly the gay sailor! This man wore his alternative sexuality on his shirt sleeve (and around his neck, and on top of his head, and upon his feet) -- a seemingly open invitation to mockery from the straight world -- still he had the audacity to publicly disparage those whom he might judge freakish... Oh...

An epiphany... I flashed back to my snap judgments of the ugly dogs, the Orneüs Trio, our waiters from dinner earlier in the evening... And I realized that I hadn't really taken notice of anyone that day who was significantly smarter than me. Or more fashionable. Or handsomer. Or wiser. Or who had any more admirable qualities whatsoever. Instead, I had been climbing on the backs of strangers to get the highest view of the world. To secretly laugh at the "freaks" around me who could provide reassurance that I was "normal" and likeable. To pass judgment on those worth or unworthy of my consideration.

As the evening air grew cool, the park no longer bathed in the indandescent rays of the setting sun, I pulled close to Marci and asked if she was ready to leave. I'd had enough.

Summer Shostakovich (Part Three)

2006-07-06T09:47:00.000+02:00

[Marci and I enjoyed a truly unique -- and truly bizarre -- evening in Amsterdam's Vondelpark last week. But... to do justice to the experience, I wanted to try painting with smaller strokes and a more varied pallette in my writing. But... realizing that the blogging format is not ideally suited for longer blocks of text, I wanted to try a different publishing strategy: a serial. But... the success of this strategy -- and your enjoyment of these posts -- depends on your willingness to follow along. See Summer Shostakovich (Part One) and Summer Shostakovich (Part Two) to catch up and join the adventure...]

* * * * *

...The Trio's second set awakened the dormant masses. If the first set had been politely received with knowing smiles, as a prim and proper hostess at a formal dinner party -- the second set was affectionately embraced, like an old friend with open arms and sloppy kisses. The violinist pitched and swayed in a fevered pitch. The clarinetist closed his eyes and wailed, as if he was playing jazz. The pianist commanded the concert grand to louder louds and softer softs. Their music somehow meant more. And the audience understood this. They either signaled their comprehension by becoming more active -- like the silver-headed woman in the red dress up front who could be seen beaming and swaying in time to the music -- or by becoming perfectly still. Like the flaming sailorman and his partner and his lady friend... Like the woman in the next seat over and her dog... Like me. We became enchanted statues, listening to the frenzied arpeggios with a sense of awe and exhilaration. And when the set was closed, and the Orneüs Trio took their bows, the musicians had earned their applause. Any embarrassment of a previously unsolicited encore was loudly forgotten.

The barritone enunciator broke in with an explanation that he would be coming around with a collection box, to help support the costs of the summer concert series. And as he ushered his way through the aisles, I pushed my way back to the café area for some refreshments. People crowded around the bar and ordered coffee, liquor, candy. The wait staff buzzed from coffee machine to customer, beer tap to cash register, refrigerator to bar... As I waited in line, I noticed the Orneüs Trio, sitting at a nearby table -- just the three of them and the pianist's page turner (presumably some underclassman at the Conservatory). No mothers. No teachers. No girlfriends. Just the three of them and their drinks. I almost said something to them. I almost bought them a round of drinks.

Almost.

In the end, I succumbed to the foreigner's flu -- that startlingly temporary affliction which instinctively shuts one's mouth in order to maintain anonymity and avoid betrayal of an accent or a poorly structured sentence, lest one is subjected to fantasmical scenarios of betrayal as a poser, a foreigner, an outcast, an enemy, a loser, someone needing to be mob-lynched. So I secretly stared at the spent musicians from my peripheral vision, and I said nothing. I got my plastic cup of koffie verkeerd and micro-carton of Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream; and I returned to my seat to watch the next performance that was just being introduced.

The featured act was De Kamer van Sjostakovitj (Shostakovich's Chamber). A lone pianist with frizzy black hair and an uncomfortable black tuxedo started with a discourse about his passion for Shostakovich and his pleasure at such a beautiful opportunity to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Russian composer's birth. He was to start his performance with a piano ballet composed around the theme of adventures with Soviet soccer hooligans (seriously); then his cellist colleague would come out to join him for a couple of concertos; and for the finale, vocalists would be added to the ensemble -- bringing the full glory of Dmitri Shostakovich to the humble masses assembled in the Vondelpark.

The hooligans' ballet was interesting, engaging, entertaining -- imaginatively composed music interpreted imaginitively and lovingly. Nevertheless, I found my gaze wandering upward -- above the jet-black euro-fro of the pianist, above the jet-black lid of the grand piano, above the red and blue gelled fresnels and lighting trusses -- to the pigeons that nestled beneath the rafters of the amphitheater's concert shell, huddled together in clumps of two and three with their beaks burried into their puffed out chests.

They had likely been there all along, from the very beginning of the evening; but I was instantly piqued by my discovery of their presence, and I studied them as the chords and clashes of the piano filled the air. Such odd birds. Such city birds. Cosmopolitan and campy at the same time. They seemed not to notice de Kamer van Sjostakovitj beneath them. They seemed not to care about Shostakovich's 100th birthday. Or his penchant for mixing ballet and soccer hooliganism. Or the surreal mix of personalities that made up the audience beneath them. The pigeons epitomized apathy... until the grand conclusion of the hooligans' ballet.

Tapping into the ecstatic and eccentric vibe of the evening, the piano crescendoed and shouted forth a barrage of power chords that shook the stage and the audience. Even the pigeons. One clump of pigeons, in particular, were stirred by a particularly powerful pound of the pianist's left hand -- and their wings started to flutter in an act of surprise and desperation to maintain equilibrium. In the process, one downy underfeather from one of the startled pigeons was dislodged, and it began a slow dancing descent toward the stage. I followed it the whole way with my eyes. Down, down, down. It drifted toward the center of the stage, and I started to think that it might land on top of the piano. Or inside the piano -- which is, as a matter of fact, exactly where the feather ended up.

The feather dropped into the cavernous interior of the ebony instrument. And in the moments that followed, I can only assume that this meant something...

[to be continued...]

Summer Shostakovich (Part Two)

2006-07-03T19:16:00.000+02:00

* * * * *

...The articulate barritone host interrupted my observations with his return to the front of the stage. I sensed sarcasm in his voice as he waxed eloquent in his introduction of a group of three young men who had just graduated from the Amsterdam Conservatory two weeks previously: the so-called Orneüs Trio. Once again, he rattled off the list of titles which they would be performing -- once again proud of his accent-égu's and ümlauts -- and he elegantly though unconvincingly referenced the legend upon which their group's name was based (some kind of centaur from Greek mythology, whose name just happened to be comprised of syllables correlating to the names of each member of the trio). The announcer guy talked some more... and more... and more -- I tuned out -- but finally the audience was clapping as the three young men strode out on stage.

The musicians looked exceedingly young, I noticed. And tall. And thin. Crisp black suits undergirded by crisp white shirts, their wide starched cuffs flashing in the stage lights. The clarinetist and the violinist were evidently brothers -- likely even twins -- and the pianist was a nervous third wheel. But when they sat to play, they summoned a secret maturity and instantly impressed me with their skill.

As I listened, I leaned back in my chair and soaked in more of the ambience. The gay sailor and his girlfriend were chatting nonchalantly, though not loudly enough to disrupt my enjoyment of the performance. The gentleman in the brown suit had his arm on his wife's shoulder as she was esconced by the music. Just a meter to the right of where I was sitting, a border collie curled up like an ampersand at his owner's feet -- an astonishingly well-behaved dog, I thought. And above my head, in the deepening dusk of the Vondelpark, dozens of emerald parrots flocked through the treetops.

How odd, I mused, to see such an example of mankind's perversion of the natural world: these shrieking, swooping, long-tailed, tropical, green birds -- naturally befitting the Amazon basin, but somehow thriving in the gray North-Atlantic climate of Amsterdam's Vondelpark. Once domesticated, once contained, once carefully tended -- the parrots had taken wing and multiplied in "the wild" (if the Vondelpark can, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered wild). And what likely started as two starstruck love-birds flying the coop somehow became large flocks of slender green streaks in the dusky sky over our summer concert. A dozen in formation, off to the West. Six or seven high above the treetops, their shrill cries distant and faint... A solitary parrot darting about from tree to tree in the direct vicinity of the amphitheater, his call to the other parrots an irregular accompaniment to the trio.

After a relatively short set, the Orneüs trio scampered off-stage to a short round of applause. I asked my questions to Marci: "How did you enjoy that second number?" "Do you think those two were twins?" I pointed out the green parrots swooping overhead, which she had not previously noticed. Then suddenly, awkwardly, although certainly not summoned by the crowd's lukewarm applause which had ended some twenty seconds previously -- the Orneüs Trio was re-emerging for an unsolicited "encore" performance.

I felt vicariously embarrassed for them. They had probably been put up to it by their music teachers. Or by their mothers. Or by the aristocratic announcer-guy, filling the time before the next performers were ready. Whatever the case, the Orneüs Trio prepared to made the most of the situation...

[to be continued...]

Summer Shostakovich (Part One)

2006-06-30T20:55:00.000+02:00

The lesser-known works of Dmitri Shostakovich provided a fitting soundtrack to the surreal setting. Simultaneously magnificent and strange -- almost too nebulous for words... yet singing to be heard.

Marci and I were charmed by the idea of a sunset performance of classical music in the park, following our electric candle-lit dinner at an Italian trattoria just off the Leidseplein. We rode slowly to the heart of Amsterdam's Vondelpark and entertwined our bicycles together in a steely embrace against a green barricade before walking trepidly, arms likewise entertwined, toward the concert venue.

I had never considered the angular half-shell amphitheater to be especially noble, but the golden glow of the sunset gave it a certain if unfamiliar dignity in spite of the faded grafiti and in spite of (or because of -- I can't make up my mind which) the ecclectic audience which was assembling. At the outer extremity of the listening area, steel platforms and picnic tables made up the balconies where amiably-inebriated locals coiffed another pilsner or sipped another glass of cabernet. Aluminum bleachers comprised the mezzanine, where cautious tourists and twittering teenagers soaked up the last rays of sunshine that managed to escape the leafy boughs of oak and elm, past the fountain and over the pond to provide the day's last vestiges of warmth and pigmentation. But Marci and I chose for the main level -- toward the front -- in full view of the stage and comfortably accommodated by collapsable wooden chairs.

Two thick-boned middle-aged Dutch women stood in the aisle, talking and motioning toward their dogs -- scrawny chihuahua types with mottled shaved bodies and skanky clumps of hair like weeds around their necks and rumps. As we approached, I gasped to Marci, "What ugly dogs!" under my breath -- right before the ugliest dog's owner turned toward us with a warm smile and handed us a flyer for an upcoming series of Shostakovich recitals. Although I was quite sure that she had not heard my preceding impolite aside, I nevertheless felt the blush of shame for my secretive impropriety toward such a pleasant stranger.

Shortly after settling into our seats, a man with a long face and a white T-shirt sauntered to the front of the stage with a wireless stick microphone and offered an introduction to the evening in a rich barritone Gooise accent. Obviously pleased with the sound of his voice and his elocutionary excellence in pronunciation of Spanish, French, and Russian, he listed the titles for the opening set and noted that the performance would begin within approximately ten minutes.

Thus, we had a bit of time for some people-watching.

Two rows in front of us, a man in a white sailor's hat slid into a seat beside a big-eared fellow with a crew cut. A pink chrysanthemum garnished the top of the sailor's hat, and his old-fashioned sailor's coat was accessorized with a bright pink patent leather handbag, an arm full of bangles and gaudy costme jewelry, and large red sunglasses such as Elton John would wear. Surprising, I thought, that I don't see such flaming homosexuality more often here in the "gay capital" of Europe... He was obviously feeling beautiful this evening, although his partner didn't seem to take much notice of him. Nevertheless, after a couple of minutes, a lady friend came by with a warm welcome and plenty of doting for both of them -- a bright, wide grin and the typical kiss-kiss-kiss of old Dutch friends. She and the sailorman apparently had a lot to talk about, and they got right down to it in the waning minutes before the concert.

In the very front row of the amphitheater, an old gentleman in a neat brown three-piece suit shuffled a beautiful gray-haired lady in a red dress to an empty seat where she would be able to see and hear clearly. He stood off to the side, anxious but patient, for a few moments until the other strangers in the aisle noticed the situation and rearranged their seating to make room for him, too. He settled in graciously and gratefully, seeming very content to enjoy an evening of fine music with his wife of many years...

[to be continued...]

700 to 30

2006-06-27T19:33:00.000+02:00

I just totalled it up: during our month in America, we took a total of almost 700 photographs! Over the last couple of days, I've boiled the collection down to my favorite 30 images and posted the collection on-line at Shutterfly. Check out "Asp Family North American Summer Tour 2006" to see it for yourself.

Love the One You're With

2006-06-23T09:57:00.000+02:00

Only in the 1960s era of "make love, not war," only in the long-haired hippie commune generation, only in the song-stylings of Crosby, Stills, and Nash could one get away with lyrics such as "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." Normally, I would have nothing but contempt for such a fickle, conditional, contextual concept of love.

But recently, I've been pondering the benefits of this philosophy.

Before I left for my month-long journey to America, I had been feeling anxious and unsettled -- worried to leave what had become a comfortable rhythm of life in Holland and concerned that I might find my native land suddenly foreign and uncomfortable. However, after a few short weeks of being "back home" in Ohio, I discovered that these fears were unfounded. In fact, the time in America was wonderful -- better than expected -- and I reveled and relaxed in the presence of familiar people, places, and customs. It was like closing my eyes, smiling, and swaying to an old favorite song on the jukebox...

So much so that I didn't want the song to end. By the end of my time in America, I started feeling anxious and unsettled again -- this time worried about leaving the comfortable (though only shortly established) rhythm of life in the United States and concerned that I might go back to a very foreign and uncomfortable scenario in the Netherlands. But once again, I've discovered over the last few days of being "back home" in Amsterdam that my fears from the other side of the ocean were largely unfounded. Although there have certainly been some challenges (primarily with jet lag and crabby children) -- it's been great to be back in our own home, sleeping in our own beds, getting caught up again with our circle of friends and faith.

So it turns out that the grass can actually appear to be greener on this side of the fence at times! So you see, if you can't be with the one I love -- well, maybe it's better to simply love the one you're with.

Short Night, Long Day

2006-06-21T10:32:00.000+02:00

Today is the longest day of the year: the summer solstice. But the day seems to be infinitely lengthened for our family, as we had our shortest night of the year last night -- racing forward toward the sunrise from across the Atlantic ocean, on a jet airplane -- and the short night was made even shorter with some of our poorest quality of sleep of the year (I never do well with trying to sleep on the plane). Marci and I are exhausted, as we hardly slept at all. Elliot is also less than 100 percent, although he probably had the most sleep and the smoothest ride of all of us. But it seems that this journey was most difficult for little Olivia, whose travel included only four hours of sleep (compared to a typical night's twelve hours), two and a half "blow-outs" (an affectionate term for where the diaper cannot hold all of its contents), and a surge of vomit upon landing (needless to say, the transition has been a bit of a shock to her system).

Today -- this longest of all days -- we must deal with jet lag. And to be honest, it's no fun.

But we made it safely back to Amsterdam. The flights and connections went very smoothly, and all our bags arrived without incident. We've made our way back to our home, and we're starting to pull things back together and resume "regular" life (whatever that means). Your prayers for the adjustment process would be greatly appreciated.

If Only Steef and Jurren Could See This...

2006-06-20T07:41:00.000+02:00

On our last evening in Ohio, Elliot and I took a visit to one of the largest retail centers in my old hometown of Shelby: "The Sportsman's Den." It's a large store on the north end of town that specializes in equipment for fishing and hunting -- and there's really no equivalent for such a store in Europe...

So quintessentially American, so Midwest, so Shelby: 25 meters of wall lined with rifles and ammunition, taxidermied deer and elk accenting the simulation log cabin interior, customers in work boots and mesh-back caps leaning up against the display cases... Nobody asked me why I was taking the picture -- but if they would have asked, I would have responded by saying that if I didn't establish photographic evidence of such a place, my friends in Europe would never believe my accounts of it... Elliot and I had some fun, reveling in such Americana...

Here, Elliot blends in with the environment as he tries on a camouflage jacket and hat...

Here, Elliot poses with a different camouflage hat (there were at least 20 different varieties) in front of the toy section of the store -- proudly featuring an extensive line of "Hunter Dan, American Sportsman" action figures, including: Rifle Hunter, Turkey Hunter, Bow Hunter, Bass Angler, Hunter Ann, Duck Hunter, and (Elliot's favorite) Elk Hunter...

This junior-sized T-shirt reads: "This little RUNT likes to HUNT." What fun...

I can imagine that some of my European friends might be horrified that I would visit and celebrate such a store (and even bring along my four-year-old son)... And yet, I can also imagine that some of my American friends would be offended that I would insinuate that there's anything unusual or amusing about such a store...

It's so interesting to highlight the points of contrast between American culture and Dutch culture. I'll leave the value judgment up to you.

An IM Interaction Observed:

2006-06-19T14:46:00.000+02:00

* Never give out your password or credit card number in an instant message conversation.

-------------

Marco says:
Eric dude! You're coming back tomorrow right???

Eric says:
Hey Marco! Indeed, we are leaving tomorrow for Amsterdam... (although we won't arrive until early Wednesday morning).

Marco says:
how do you feel about leaving?

Eric says:
Unprepared...

Marco says:
in what sense?

Eric says:
That applies physically (in that we still have a lot of packing and stuff to do today)... But also emotionally... And perhaps also on other levels... It's been a really good trip... And we're still excited about our life in Amsterdam... But at the moment, it seems kind of challenging to get back into "regular" life over there.

Marco says:
I can imagine... a month is long in a sense... but also very short in another sense

Eric says:
Yeah, the month-long trip ended up having a strange effect... The first week was like a tourist... everything was beautiful and quaint and charming... I took about a million photos...

Marco says:
haha

Eric says:
The second week was like a wake-up call... and I noticed all the not-so-nice things about America... I was annoyed and disgusted and angry... I saw all the ways that Holland is "better" than America... And then, toward the end of the trip... we've slipped into a mode where everything just feels normal again... both positives and negatives...

Marco says:
(it will be the other way around when you're back here...)

Eric says:
Exactly.

Marco says:
that's bizarre

Eric says:
I guess that's what they call "culture shock."

Marco says:
yeah... man... 'culture shock' is such a cliche concept. But it is nevertheless very real everytime... even when you know in what way you're going to be 'shocked'

Eric says:
That's the crazy part about it... I should have expected it... But I didn't.

Marco says:
Yeah, I also recognize it... I know that when I deal with certain people, I'm going to be shocked by certain things they do or say... but when it happens it still has an effect.

Eric says:
We're idiots, aren't we?

Marco says:
ehm... yes we are

Eric says:
Hey, Marco, what would you think about me using this IM conversation for a blog post? I haven't posted for awhile...

Marco says:
It would be cool to post it literally... including this last sentence of me approving of you using this IM conversation

Eric says:
Yeah, that's what I was thinking... So you're up for it?

Marco says:
Do it!

Eric says:
OK. Thanks. I'd better get going...

Marco says:
ok that's cool! talk to you later

Eric says:
OK. Doei.

Marco says:
mazzelf

Elliot's Fish Tale

2006-06-17T22:04:00.000+02:00

Elliot has learned the art of the "fish tale," an embellished account of personal achievement in the art of angling. Today, he had his first experience with fishing, and just moments after the catch, we were able to snap this picture of him in a classic pose of fisherman's exageration. Follow this link to Elliot's blog, for the story of his first fishing experience.

Sunset Over Oceola

2006-06-14T22:15:00.000+02:00

I never thought much of Oceola. Truth be told, I considered it little more than a speed bump between ''home" and "school" during my college days -- a small village of about 250 people, tucked in the Ohio countryside along the old US Route 30, about a third of the way from Shelby to Bowling Green. The only reason I really took notice of Oceola at all was because of the quarter-mile 45-miles-per-hour zone and the subsequent fear of a speeding ticket. Otherwise, the town just barely passed through my peripheral vision: a small campground, a two-pump filling station, a tiny church with a rickety sign calling out to passers-by, "May God Bless You as You Travel." And God did bless. I never had a break-down or flat tire in Oceola; I never hit a fuel emergency that couldn't wait until Upper Sandusky; I never needed to use the restroom facilities of the town. God blessed as I traveled through Oceola, and as a result I never really had the occasion to stop and think much of the town.

So I am surprised by the fact that I'm missing Oceola on this, my most recent drive from Shelby to Bowling Green. Apparently, the Ohio Department of Transportation has been busy over the last year and a half. And since our last time on US Route 30, the highway has been broadened, diverted, and improved to create a four-lane super-freeway for the entire extent of my old college "commute." Now I can drive an hour and a half solid to and from Bowling Green, without ever leaving the luxury of the 65 miles per hour freeway...

And without ever passing through Oceola again.

Inexplicably, I find this sad. Perhaps it feels a bit like the burial for a town that had been on its deathbed for many years. An unexpected, unannounced, unattended funeral that only happens to be discovered in passing. Of course, such a eulogy is overstated. Oceola will continue -- as it has for generations. In fact, I can imagine that Oceolans (Oceolites? Oceolers? Oceolanaren?) may have even initially rejoiced at the "liberation" of their town from the constant flow of semi-trucks and minivans and noise and exhaust fumes. In re-routing US Route 30, Oceola acheived the peace and quiet that are truly befitting a town of just 250 residents. However, as I drive through western Crawford County on this rose-colored summer evening -- ceremoniously bypassing Oceola without so much as a road-sign pointing toward the tiny settlement -- I wonder if and when the people of Oceola will start to miss US Route 30... I wonder when they will realize that they've become obsolete.

As I drive and muse, the skies above and beyond Oceola (at least where I reckon Oceola to be) are stirred by a magnificent sunset. Pastel gold, shimmering silver, and rosy copper are harvested from the Ohio farmlands -- creating the impression of an eternally enduring beauty that unfortunately lasts for just a moment instead. It's only a mirage. A cursory illusion. Such twilight theatrics seem soberingly similar to the story of Oceola... which is soberingly similar to the story of my own life.

The song on the radio seems to telepathically connect with this mournful reality. Although I'm sure that folks in Oceola would consider Elton John to be much too extravagent, too theatrical, too far-fetched, they could just as easily sing his lines: "Don't let the sun go down on me. Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see. I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free. But losing everything is like the sun going down on me..."

The thing is: I don't know if there's much we can do much about the rotation of planet earth. I don't know if there's much we can do about the setting of the sun. I don't know even what this all means. I just know that I feel sad. Yet strangely serene.

Yearning for the Shackles

2006-06-09T08:37:00.000+02:00

Let me start with a confession: I need routine.

Many seem to bemoan the rigors of a schedule, a system, a script -- the repetitive patterns in life. Words like predictability and punctuality seem to have taken on shades of negativity in today's vernacular (at least among the "Postmodern Generation"). And yet, speaking truthfully, I often find myself energized and catalyzed by the "chains" of the "daily grind."

Don't get me wrong. I love vacation, and I'm grateful for opportunities to shake things up from time to time. I love meeting new people, visiting new places, and sharing new experiences. Indeed, there is refreshment in the retreat from routine... But it can also be a bit wearying, too.

When I'm away from my "regular" routine, I tend to get flabby. Of course, this applies on the physical level -- less exercise, less self-discipline, less built-in restraint from overindulging in "ordinary" fare... But it also applies on the spiritual level, as I'm not as regular in taking time to read the Bible or connect with God in prayer. And emotionally... And relationally... Even things that are typically enjoyable and energizing -- like blogging or playing with my children -- can be challenging for someone who is feeling flabby all over.

Nevertheless, I'll revel in my flabiness for another week and a half... and then embrace a return to the chain gang slogging through the routines of life.

Daylight Slipping through My Toes

2006-06-07T22:41:00.000+02:00

The sunset is visible just above my toes and through the hammock in which I'm reclined. The robin sings sweetly in the maple tree beyond the fence, and I can almost make out its lyrics:

Swing slowly. Breathe deeply. Let tomorrow worry about itself.

He's singing to me. He can somehow subliminally sense my inhibitions and anxieties. My sense of sand slipping through the hourglass, my mourning for the passing of the present, my projected nostalgia for events that have not yet happened. The end of eras, the conclusion of vacations, the transformation of relationships, the decline of familiarity... If I dwell on these thoughts, though, I find myself forgetting the wisdom of the robin.

This moment is to be enjoyed. Swing slowly. Breathe deeply. Let tomorrow worry about itself.

Under the Milky Way

2006-06-04T23:11:00.000+02:00

There’s something classic about a semi-slumbering child being carried from the backseat of an automobile to the quiet confines of a bedroom, on a sleepy summer night...

Limp limbs list lazily from side to side in rhythmic response to the concert of chirping crickets... The leafy green earth breathes back her wispy warmth to the cool canopy of constellations overhead, and my daughter's deep and dreamy breathing is audible through the soft blanket that separates her mouth from my ear...

I rush through the night to complete my mission -- to deposit my daughter -- but I wish the moment could last forever...

This is summer... This is memory... This is love...

Eight is Great

2006-05-30T22:37:00.000+02:00

Marci and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary this week, in the beautiful settings of Mackinac Island. It was a great get-away for the two of us. Luxurious, in fact... Grandparents took care of the children; we were able to take our time and really connect over two days of travel and recreation; and we soaked up the peace and quiet of a great vacation spot. Mackinac Island is located on the straits of Mackinac -- at the intersection of Lake Huron, Lake Michigan, and the two peninsulas of the State of Michigan. Three-quarters of the island are covered by state park wilderness area, and motorized vehicles are totally prohibited from the island. The weather was beautiful, and we simply soaked up the sunshine and silence of the island...

It was a wonderful celebration of a wonderful anniversary marking the beginning of a wonderful marriage with a wonderful woman.

Deep Roots

2006-05-28T17:49:00.000+02:00

I’m a wanderer. Of course, I’ve been living as an expatriate -- straddling Dutch culture and American culture -- for the last three-and-a-half years. But even before that, I never had the chance to develop deep roots in any particular geographic location. Three years in Amsterdam preceded by seven years in Bowling Green (Ohio), preceded by eight years in Shelby (Ohio), preceded by eight years in Lancaster (Wisconsin), preceded by shorter stints in Minnesota, North Dakota, Iowa, and Colorado... Relatively speaking, my whole life has been somewhat nomadic.

My parents, before me, were also wanderers -- which naturally explains my childhood wandering. And their parents, before them, were the sons and daughters of immigrants from northern Europe. For generations, my family has learned to survive and thrive with a shallow (easily transferable) root system.

And I don’t necessarily consider this to be a bad thing. In an increasingly global society, travelers have distinct advantages. Furthermore, as a disciple of Christ, there’s a role for people who are willing to wander, like the Son of Man, with “no place to lay his head.”

But there’s definitely something appealing about deep roots, as well. Marci’s family, for instance, has maintained a homestead in the fertile farmlands Richland County, Ohio, since the turn of the 19th Century. Marci’s distant relatives are listed in local history books that call back to the time “when the land was wild, and the men were even wilder” and the region “was infested by Indians, wolves, and deer in abundance” (the quotes are pulled from a family copy of “The History of Richland County, Ohio: 1807 – 1880” authored by A.A. Graham in the year 1880). The family is currently in the process of some pretty drastic renovation of the old farmhouse, to ensure its establishment well into the 21st Century. But the work is motivated by a sense of history and heritage -- a realization that our children represent the eighth generation to stake their claim on that soil.

Eight generations.

That’s amazing to me! It’s such a different sense of establishment from my life that counts eight years as its longest stretch of semi-permanence in any particular locale. Such familiarity and connection to a place are understandably powerful and special.

I used to feel cynical and arrogant towards “local yokels” who were emotionally tied down to one place -- such that they had never even ventured to travel beyond the borders of Ohio. However, I’m starting to understand a bit more completely, and as I understand I feel less critical. I see my mother-in-law laboring to restore her childhood home, and I hear my wife recall stories from her time on “Grandpa and Grandma’s farm,” and I see my son pumping water from the old pump to help water the garden... and it all makes sense to be in a new way. Deep roots can be stabilizing. Deep roots can be comforting. Deep roots can be empowering.

USA - OCD

2006-05-25T20:26:00.000+02:00

One thing I've recently noticed about American culture is how it seems so easily susceptible to obsession. Maybe it's gotten worse in the last couple of years, since I've been in Amsterdam... Or maybe I'm just seeing it with new eyes (i.e. I've been the one doing the changing, not America). Whatever the case, I've been consistently astonished over the last week by the sense of hype and hysteria with which America embraces the story of the moment.

When we first landed in the country last weekend, it seemed that there was no end to conversation about "The DaVinci Code." Talk radio, television advertisements, merchandise, magazine headlines, books, reports of ticket sales -- even Sunday morning sermons! Total obsession, I'm telling you...

But by Tuesday, all talk had already shifted to "American Idol." Blah, blah, blah, Taylor Hicks... Yadda, yadda, yadda, Paula Abdul... Blah, blah, blah... The machinery just kept cranking and cranking and cranking. I must confess that I was even convinced to tune in for the season finale (although, in all fairness, this had more to do with my sister-in-law than with my own viewing preferences). No matter -- the point is that America found its new obsession for Tuesday and Wednesday in the season finale of "American Idol" (and I also happen to know that the end of the television season for "Lost" and "24" were also equally obsessed over by their respective constituencies). Seriously, we're talking about a national obsessive compulsive disorder...

Then today, I got to visit my old high school (middelbare school), and I was able to observe another longstanding obsession that had previously averted my gaze (or at least, I should say, it had not been so painfully honest before). Now, it's difficult to locate the epicenter of this obsession, as I'm not sure if it's an America thing or a Shelby thing -- but I was amazed (and somewhat embarrassed) by the place of honor consumed by high school athletics. At this end-of-the-year awards ceremony (in which my little brother was involved), giving out scholarships and grants for prospective college students, probably half of the rewards were connected to "outstanding student-athletes." And, conspicuously, about the first five or ten awards of the morning were handed out to the school's heroes of the fields and courts. Academic achievement seemed to be a mere footnote. And as I wandered out into the school cafeteria (to divert the attention of my antsy children), I was struck by the sports-obsession at Shelby Senior High School. Well -- to be fair -- there were several rows of 8 x 10 photographs taken of the honor students from each senior class going back several decades (group shots, featuring 20 to 30 students in each photograph)... But these academic honors seemed puny in comparison to the sports honors. Dozens of student-athletes were featured in poster-sized individual portraits -- in addition to group photographs of championship-winning sports teams and a trophy case full of the glories of Shelby's athletic history. And in this I realized that there was a clear priority being communicated by the sports-obsessed community of Shelby. Not necessarily bad -- but so much different from the priorities of other parts of the world. And in any event, it's another clear example of American obsession...

Maybe I'm just being cynical. Maybe I'm reading into things too much. Maybe I'm just jealous that my image appeared in the honor students photograph, about the size of a thumbprint, while Barbie Metzger got a poster-sized glamor shot on the wall of fame. Maybe I'm just envious of having missed the cultural trends of the last year... Or maybe America is just obsessed.

What do you think?

Thank God I'm a Country Boy

2006-05-24T20:09:00.000+02:00

When I talk to Europeans about my place of origin, I must confess that I’m somewhat timid and apologetic. “I come from Ohio -- in the Midwestern region of America.” Typically, I must respond to the corresponding blank stare with an attempt at clarification: “About halfway between New York City and Chicago, in the boring farmlands of middle America...”

I say this because Ohio has no globally-recognized landmarks such as the Empire State Building or the Grand Canyon. Its international reputation is somewhat bland, if in fact internationally-reputed at all. I mean, let’s be honest: my home state does not have the most breathtaking natural scenery or the most cosmopolitan cities.

Nevertheless, I appreciate Ohio’s simple beauty. As I view the area with new eyes this month, I am struck by the classic character of the land and its people. I’ve been taking photographs like a tourist, and in the process I realize that I’m proud to be an Ohioan.