Works of Art

 I received a surprise this Christmas when I flew to Colorado to be with family: my brother Andi has become an artist. Admittedly, he has only completed paint-by-number masterpieces so far, but they are stunning. The vibrant colors of the sunset or the lonely boat moored on a remote lake both make me wish I could climb into the canvas. My favorite one, however, is this one:

It could be any number of places I wish I could be at right now. The scene looks serene and peaceful, a far cry from the last couple of years we have had. I've been a part of multiple conversations of late in which someone has expressed the wish for such a calm moment away from the mayhem of fires, depression, cancer, and COVID. But I think sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking a remote mountain scene like the one in the picture comes about without cost.

Andi says it took him somewhere in the range of 60 hours to complete the first painting, and even this one is probably upwards of 40 hours. That is a lot of time to be bent over a piece of fabric, trying to distinguish greens and spot the right numbers. And then there's the setting itself - really, if you think about it, you're looking at cold waterfalls over jagged rocks, which are probably a result of snowstorms in harsh mountain conditions. To have been present when this scene was being formed could have meant hypothermia or worse.

Yet, isn't that precisely when hope comes in? As I reflect on 2021 and how it did not see the end of a global pandemic nor the end of my neighbor's cancer while it did hold the death of a beloved grandmother, it could be easy to see only the harshness. Hope rests in the knowledge that beautiful things are never rushed. Psalm 103 says, "The Lord knows how we are formed; he remembers that we are dust. But from everlasting to everlasting, the Lord's love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children's children" (v. 13, 17). 2021 may have been awful. Or it may have been wonderful. Either way, we are being shaped by a patient God who uses time (even more than 60 hours) and all kinds of conditions, both violent and serene, to shape us into beautiful works of art. I dare to call it love.

Rights or Gratitude

In the past month, restrictions have tightened across Germany, so it was with finger-gnawing trepidation that we approached this last weekend of basketball games and the annual Christmas concert. Would they be cancelled last-minute? Would all that hard work never be showcased? But the school needn't have worried; while strict measures had to be observed (only vaccinated and recovered family members WITH a rapid self-test no older than 24 hours), both events were able to happen. The school posted pictures under the caption "with times like these, we are choosing to be grateful."

I've been encountering a lot of war metaphor lately with regard to a loss of rights or maintaining of freedoms. Whether it's the colleague who believes "war is happening on our rights as parents and citizens, so we need to fight back vociferously" or the sweet friend who takes the stance "war is happening on our rights as Christians, and I need to prepare myself well for the coming persecution," the sentiment is similar: don't merely stand by on the sidelines with your head in the sand.

That contrast - whether to be ready to fight or to say Thank you - has struck me again and again in these weeks. I think whichever philosophy we lean toward can end up shaping much more than just our fight for rights or our willingness to surrender them. I see it in my classroom, for instance. One student is mad at me for not giving him his seat preference or for forgetting that he needs his notes printed in a certain way to best suit his learning style; the other thanks for me for the quick turn-around of feedback on his essay or for the Christmas chocolate that he figured out came from me. In one view, every good thing needs to be claimed and comes about through the efforts of us in tandem with the Spirit; in the other every good thing is an undeserved gift from heaven that came about entirely because of God's goodness.

And I'm certain the way I just phrased that last sentence reveals which end of the scale I want to live on. The thing is, while I believe in times of righteous anger and that (at least in the West) we have the privilege of being granted many rights which we shouldn't just hand over, I find the "gratitude" stance to be more Biblical. James 1:17 says "every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights." In 1 Cor 8-10, Paul speaks of a willingness to lay aside rights for the sake of the gospel. E.g. "Nevertheless, we have not made use of this right, but we endure anything rather than put an obstacle in the way of the gospel of Christ" (9:12). He speaks of a willingness to be wronged if it means the gospel can advance, and of course I can't help but see the image of the bloodied Savior on the cross undergoing a total loss of rights because he could see the bigger picture.

Naturally, I can find verses to support the "war" stance as well. Galatians 5:1 says "For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery." And of course all of Ephesians 6 supports the imagery that we are engaged in a battle. Here's the thing though: the war that Scripture shows us fighting is never about preservation of our rights. It depicts our struggle being against "the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places." It's a war over souls! And for those souls that already belong to God, it's a war on that relationship with the Father, an attempt to remove our joy of salvation or trust in his sovereignty. 

I have zero doubt that my friends who are living in the war narrative are strong believers. They love Jesus with their whole hearts and daily seek his face in prayer, probably more consistently than I do. There is so much I can and should learn from them, and I want to listen diligently. For myself, however, I can think of no greater weapon against the enemy than to respond in gratitude. As demonstrated in my students, gratitude fosters joy, an open relationship with others, and an attitude in line with Christ, who made the ultimate sacrifice of rights. "For the joy set before him" (Heb 12:2), "he did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant. ... He humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross" (Phil 2:6-8). I want to be like HIM: fighting the war in sacrifice and joy.

Vorfreude

 It's no secret to anyone who knows me even a little bit that I love Christmas. I mean LOVE. Truly, I enjoy (almost) all parts of it from the music to the lights to the food to the candles to Advent to chocolate to snow to trees to presents to movies to so much more. I've always attributed this adoration of the holiday to my Papa, who seems to have picked it up from his Mom, my Nana. The same Nana who entered glory on November 19.

There was an idiom I grew up with in Austria: "Vorfreude ist die schönste Freude." Translated, it loosely means that the joy that comes with anticipation is the best kind of joy. To that I say yes and no. In many ways, I get more joy out of the Advent season leading up to the 24th than I do the morning of the 25th when all that's left are presents. The anticipation of my coffee this morning was better than the actual cup of remnant grounds. So yes, Vorfreude can often be more beautiful than the actual event. On the other hand, I strongly believe it is still the thing itself which you're looking forward to that gives the Vorfreude any value at all. When I was on the Camino in 2018 (a month-long pilgrimage trail in Spain), many people would say how they wished we'd never arrive in Santiago because "the journey is the true goal." But without Santiago, without an actual goal or finish line, the pilgrimage was just a long hike. If there was no Christmas marking the birth of the Savior at the end of Advent, all that anticipatory joy would be pointless. 

When I think about it from Jesus' perspective, his birth was just the start of a 30-something-year-long odyssey to the cross. Hebrews 12 tells us it was "for the joy set before him" that he endured the cross, and I have to wonder what his joy was anticipating. His birth and life seem to be merely the Vorfreude part, but how in the world can there be joy in horrendous suffering?

My beautiful Nana worked hard for a pain-free, instant-gratification kind of life. She didn't like to wait for things to happen, and she freely admitted it. There was a small sign in her kitchen that declared how she'd been absent the day God handed out patience. But when it came to Christmas, somehow she was able to take delight in the waiting. Her eyes sparkled whenever someone discovered that her little automated Santa Claus could read stories. The light-up reindeer on her balcony made her smile every time she noticed it. Really, the sooner all the decorations could be up, the better, even if it made the wait longer. It heightened the Vorfreude in her heart.

I don't think Jesus took delight in the suffering itself, but I do trust that he fully knew its worth, not just in saving me from my sins, but in the grander vision of God's story being fulfilled. "The joy set before him" had to be looking forward to that day when all things will be restored to their true beauty and ultimate good, when God would be worshiped as he was always meant to be. Nana is getting to live that reality even now, and as I wait to join her someday, I choose to live in the Vorfreude of the Ever-Advent. 

Nana's COVID-Birthday in 2020

Aaron

 I once won third place in a writing contest for the following. Enjoy (as I have no time this week to write something fresh.)

My chest heaves as my lungs gasp for air, the latest cough attack wracking my body. My younger brother’s strong arms support me while I catch my breath, and with the courage and tenderness only a family member can give, he wipes some of the blood from my beard.

“Are you well?” he asks, and I nod, though my eyes are fixed on the bloody fingers he’s retracting and wiping on the front of his tunic.

Slowly, my breathing normalizes, but my mind has drifted back to another time and place. I remember my mother’s fingers, as nimble and graceful as butterfly wings, weaving together the fresh papyrus basket when one of the sharp ends stabbed the tip of her index finger. A bright red bubble of blood formed quickly before she jabbed it in her mouth.

“Are you bleeding, Mama?” I asked, worry lines marking the edges of my eyes, I’m sure.

“Just a tiny bit, sweetheart. Not to worry.”

But as she continued her work, a labor of love that would offer my baby brother escape from the terror of a man intent on killing newborns, she left the tiniest streak of crimson on a green background. I was afraid that Moses would touch it and get it all over himself when she put him inside, but even though he fussed and cried, his little hands couldn’t begin to reach it. Still, when she left the house in the late afternoon in timing with the princess’ routines, my heart went with them and that little ribbon of red. I feared I would never see my brother again. 

The vision shifts, and I remember the criss-cross patterns on slaves’ backs as my caring wife tended to their wounds. Life seeped between rags that failed to hold it in. Each rivulet seemed to etch itself deeper into my wife’s face until one day just before our freedom came, it sapped all her strength, and she too breathed her last.

I see that first day of our freedom again, sharp as a blade in my mind. My father’s sleeve dappled with blood as the flimsy hyssop branch he was holding dripped lamb’s blood down his arm.

“What is Grandfather doing?” my son Eleazar asked me. And for the first of many, many times, I explained to him what the Passover lamb was for.

“This blood will be our escape, son,” I patted him on the head and led him into the house beneath the blood-stained lintel where my mother was furiously chopping parsley to go over the lamb. I looked over at the fresh meat, just about to go into the boiling pot of water and oil. Strange that this poor, perfect animal’s blood would be able to protect us from the coming promised doom. I was only just beginning to understand the cost of a life, especially one bathed in sweat and tears. And to have an innocent lamb pay for it was incomprehensible.

I blink away the memories and re-focus on my brother, Moses, God’s favored one. He sees the clarity return to my eyes and smiles with relief.

“One more cough, and I was sure your lungs were going to come right out of your mouth.”

Daring to inhale deeply, I force a small smile and then push myself up to a standing position. We still have a ways to go to the top of this mountain.

Eleazar, who had run ahead with a pack on his shoulders, comes back into view. “There you two are! Is everything all right, Uncle?” I know he’s addressing Moses and yet wondering about me. It’s been over four months now that the disease has slowly taken over my breathing. Two months ago was the first time I found blood on my arm after a particularly heavy cough, and it has only gotten worse – that red liquid that has marked my journey from small child to senile old fool.

Hours pass, and the sun has nearly set by the time the three of us reach the sacred spot the Lord has whispered into Moses’ ear. Eleazar drops the pack to the dirt, and I exert great effort to suppress a cough closing in upon the edges of my lungs. My son supports me as I sink onto a nearby boulder and close my eyes while I focus on the single task of inhaling and exhaling. My end is near, I know.

“Aaron, are you ready?” Moses asks ever so gently. It’s a little surprising as our relationship hasn’t exactly been a gentle one over the years. But I trust him. We hardly knew each other when God brought us together in order to confront Pharaoh. And when he turned the Nile River into blood, it took every ounce of my willpower not to turn and run the other way away from him. But in his bold forcefulness, I trusted him.

He touches my shoulder, and I open my eyes and nod. With Eleazar’s support, I stand so Moses can remove my garments as the Lord has commanded. I most grieve the first item, the breastpiece with the 12 stones and the names of all the tribes of Israel. I feel both weightless and heavy when it no longer rests against my chest. This is followed by the frontlet and headdress, the ephod, the sash and the blue robe, made most audible by the tinkling of the little pomegranate bells around its hem. I watch as in reverse order, he places each item ceremoniously onto my son. It’s the sharp red sard stone of Reuben that most catches my eye as it shimmers in the setting sun.

It seems like yesterday I was receiving those priestly garments for the first time. Each piece had that new-fabric smell and had been specially consecrated. It almost felt wrong when Moses sacrificed that very first animal on the new altar, dipped his thumb into the mess, and drew a line across my forehead. I tilted my head back, not wanting the blood to stain the new clothes, and still, one tiny droplet managed to find its way onto the collar of the tunic.

I find that dot even now, brown and mostly faded over the years. It stands as that reminder of the promise now etched in stone – that forgiveness must and will come through the shedding of blood. 

Eleazar looks handsome in my clothes, and I smile with joy even as a breeze sends chills down my spine in my light tunic here on Mount Hor. 

Suddenly I feel it well up within me, the final attack. My lungs heave, and I hold my hand up to my mouth as I cough and cough, only to discover it covered in blood when I withdraw it. My head feels heavy, and I fall to the ground. Gently. My brother and son are holding me after all. My life’s journey feels complete, and I trust that the blood of the many lambs I have sacrificed will be my salvation, even as I escape the gravity of this earth.

Color the Seasons

 I was staring out at the orange-mottled scene in front of me, the top edge of the Black Forest reflecting in the Nonnenmattweiher Lake down below us. (What a fun name!) It was a gray drizzly day to be out hiking with 5 friends, but despite the chill in the air, we were responding to the call of the outdoors and the company of lovely people. The last time I had been out this far into the Black Forest was during the Spring of 2020, when the only way to get outside, according to the government, was in the name of "doing sports." Everyone suddenly became a hiker.

I closed my eyes and recalled the vibrant bright green from that time, the tips of trees showing off their new growth. I remembered how brilliant the whites of the apple tree blossoms had been, and the blue of the sky without contrails breaking it up. With another minute, I could've remembered the feel of that spring sun and the cacophony of birds. Today the colors were much more muted and animals were beginning to hide away. Krista pointed out that the oranges and yellows and even reds of our glorious fall were definitely fading away to brown here at the end of October, and soon they would descend to the ground, leaving only the darkest of green conifers. As I tried to picture what the forest will look like in just two weeks' time without the orange, I caught a whiff of Christmas, all pine wrapped up in cinnamon and firewood. It was fleeting, but it struck me how much the colors of the forest are tied to seasons for me. The brown and white crunicheness of winter, the neon green growth of spring, the lush overhead branches with their thick greens of summer, and these muted warm tones of fall. If you can't tell by now, I love the forest!

Nonnenmattweiher Lake and Belchen Mountain to the right

May the Nations Rejoice

Mallory* was the cool trainee, sitting in the far back corner, mask securely in place and phone in hands as she’d both type and nod along to what we trainers were saying. Every now and then, she paused and interjected an incredibly insightful comment, but mostly I struggled to read her engagement level or whether she was internally rolling her eyes at what I was saying. Add to that her observation of my tattoo one day at lunch with a slight shake of her head, and I spent the rest of the week in pants, unsure if I had offended her or all of African culture. Or at least Christian African culture.

Partway through the week, I did observe her put down her phone, cross her arms, and lean back in her chair. It was the session on leaders' being able to cast a vision for their school, and I was sharing personally about the vision that eventually took me into missions work and specifically teaching. As a little girl, I hadn’t really imagined being a teacher, but I did always know I had a heart for the nations. That scene in Revelation 7 when every tribe, tongue, and nation is standing before the throne of God - that could make me tear up in an instance! In sharing that story with the trainees, trying not to choke up in front of them, for a brief moment the vision crystalized right in front of me. The passion to serve their own nations was written all over their faces, and the thought that these trainees were committing themselves to work on behalf of Christian education in their East African countries burst out in gratitude for them. In the corner, Mallory’s face scrunched up, inscrutable as ever.

On the last day, we were presented with Thank You cards, which I didn’t open until I was on the plane back to Germany. Everyone said really nice things and expressed gratitude for the training. And then, there in the corner (where else) was Mallory’s little scrawl that read: “May the nations rejoice because you came.” There was no holding back the tears this time. It was my dream, succinctly articulated as a vision statement, and all I could think was “Yes, Lord, may it be so!”

*not her real name

Mallory is in the back, fourth from the left.

Check the box first!

We had worked our way through the maze of Swedish furniture, lying on all the mattresses and beds in the process, and I stood now in front of the help desk with the certainty of my decision in hand. I wanted the Björksnäs in the 140x200 cm size. That way it would fit the boxspring I already had at home, though I did want a new mattress, please. The lady handed me the printout, and I followed it down to the letter once we got to the large warehouse hall, hauling only the boxes with the codes she had specified. I was sweating by the time we reached the van, but I couldn’t wait until Karen came over and we could assemble my new purchase.

I had cleared my room of all traces of the old bed, the boxspring and mattress took up the entire hallway, but Karen and I had just enough space to spread out the Ikea boxes and begin alan-wrenching together bed-legs and correctly organizing various frame pieces. At one point, the thought crossed my mind, “This bed is going to block some of the window. I must have measured wrong,” but on we forged. The 16 tiniest screws that had to be hand-twisted into the metal portion where the mattress frame would rest were nearly our undoing. The drill couldn’t reach, and it took the two of us 45 minutes and some hand cramps to get them all in.

About two hours into the process, I reached for the fourth and last box, the one that held the spring wood frames, and that was when my eyes caught the large numbers on the side panel for the first time: 160x200 cm. My eyes darted back to the bed and the extra bit that stuck out in front of the window. In panic I looked at Karen, who threw her hands up to her face. “What?!” “I bought the wrong size everything!” Sure enough, we were able to finish assembling all the bed pieces, thank the Lord, but the boxspring and mattress left a giant-feeling 20-cm gap that I rolled into the first night.

Karen laughed and then cut herself short, “We’re not starting over, are we?!” Of course we didn’t. Those 16 screws alone weren’t worth it, much less another trip to Freiburg and the hassle of a German return. In the end, I was able to sell my 140x200 boxspring and mattress and get a 160x200 size one so that I no longer fall into the gap. But I learned my lesson: always check the boxes for all the numbers.

Bible Flakes

My Bible has been slowly flaking to pieces. I picked it out a few years ago because of the brown-blue cover and paisley pattern that I was into at the time. However, it didn't take long to see that anytime my fingernail caught the edge of the cover, a little bit of the leather would flake off. The recent Home Assignment year of travel that saw me constantly shoving my Bible into a suitcase and yanking it out again didn't do the poor book any favors. Add to all this the sticky humid weather we have been having, the kind you have to wear shorts in and thus lay your Bible on your bare knees, and you get the following picture: 

Leather lint sticking to my skin and clothes. Some days I find little flecks as I'm already in the middle of teaching, a blue dot on my yellow shirt, informing people that I potentially haven't done laundry in a few days. But then this morning - as I caught yet another big chunk under my fingernail and sighed heavily - I was struck by the realization that it is such a privilege. Not only do I have God's Word at my fingertips whenever I want and in my own personal copy with colors I selected, I get to (even inadvertently) carry it with me into the day.

I read in Acts recently about the birth of the Church at Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit was poured out on believers in visible fire and each person got swept up by the wind and consequently carried God's presence out into the world. According to a summary I watched (linked here), the symbolism should remind us of the times God's presence came near in the Old Testament, notably on Mount Sinai and in both the desert Tabernacle and the Jerusalem Temple. Now that Jesus has paved the way, we are all like mini mobile temples who can carry God's glory and truth and Word out into the world all the time. Tiny flakes of Jesus's body. 

So the next time I find a brown dot on my pants leg, I hope I remember to shine bright and speak truth in love, just as Jesus would do.

Flags and Butterflies and Screaming Children

The "Day of Screaming Children" began exactly as it had every previous year at BFA: me, lying awake in bed half an hour before my alarm, previewing in my mind all the day’s events and wondering how they could all fit in. This moniker for the Opening Ceremony came from my first principal because our students - after 11 weeks apart over the summer - usually run screaming at each other followed either by a long embrace or a giddy jumping up and down. Though medical masks muffled some of the sound and kept long hugs at bay this year, the enthusiasm was still palpable. The Senior class eagerly grabbed their favorite flags or those that represented one of their best friends and lined up for pictures while parents yelled, “Smile! Yes, with your eyes!”

Due to regulations, most of the staff had to watch Opening Ceremonies on the big screen in the Student Center. We laughed together over the transmission delay every time we could hear cheering from across campus moments before our visual showed us why. The students were literally cheering for everything. Every flag (from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe), every speaker, every sip of water. We were simply grateful in the allowance of being together in person. 

The day carried me through get-to-know-you games with the Grade 8 boys, an Assembly in which I demonstrated proper German recycling, lunch in the sunshine with some Grade 6 girls, Homeroom time going over rules and procedures, and a whole-school activity coloring parts of multiple butterflies that will decorate our hallways. And it was that last activity that got me thinking about the journeys our students and staff go through to get here. In some ways it is ridiculous that a hoard of expats descends on this unassuming German village every year to do school, but it’s also beautiful. Much like the 2,500-mile trek a monarch butterfly can undertake in just one migration, our people aren’t native to here. Whether we come eagerly or dragging our feet, the colors of the flags adorn our hallways as visible reminders that we all had to travel to get here. Our children scream on this day because, if they have to be 2,500 miles from “home,” it seems best to do that among a flutter of other butterflies who can relate.

This day will quickly give way to the habitual, dare we say the mundane. Eventually it will be my alarm clock waking me up again instead of the other way around. Homework will break into reality, and my guess is by next weekend, we’ll have our first students pushing back on some of those rules and procedures. Still, as we inhale deeply and dive into another year, I'm grateful for visual tokens and days that have names. They remind us that some things should be set apart, that our lives are colorful and our calling holy. It's a day worth remembering.

My unique view of the Seniors with the Flags (Aug 25, 2021)

Messy Mercies

Transition is messy. I’ve cried more times than I’d like to admit in the three weeks I’ve been back, mostly in private and just a tear or two before something beautiful bursts the bubble again, like the sound of church bells or the smell of flowers I hand-picked in a field. At work I’ve been moved to a new classroom. Half of me is mourning the old one that holds so many memories, and the other half of me is excited for an escape to this much cozier-feeling room. Getting to hang out with friends I’ve missed over the past year is a boon to my soul, but then I miss those I got to know better this past year, like my small group and Amanda’s family. Thorsen and Eva no longer call me to dinner with their sweet giggles. Plus, there are giant holes all over town where people left, and even though I said a “proper” good-bye to many of them before I left last summer, I still somehow felt swindled out of their presence in my life. See? Messy.

I found this verse in Mark 5:19 this morning, “Go home to your friends and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you.” My first thought was wishing I had seen it a year ago because it could’ve been a great anthem for Home Assignment. My second thought was how much I looked forward to returning to this home here in Germany and how here too I have friends who should be hearing about what God has done for me. His mercies, though often hidden in the mess, are new every morning.

So how has the Lord shown me mercy in this transition? I see evidence in the friend who has walked the same road as I have for the last 12 months, so she gets my tears and I understand hers. His mercy showed up in an email from a former student about to enter high school, asking if I would consider a mentoring relationship with her. (We’re getting together tomorrow to talk about it.) The arms of a long-time Kanderner who has walked her own transitions over the years gave me a touch of his mercy. I tasted it on Thursday when my prayer group gathered around my table for the first time since before the Pandemic, and we read Psalms together and prayed for our hearts, our school, and the world. His mercy is humming right now under the window in the form of an air conditioner, keeping the sweltering humidity out of at least one room in my house. 

In no way do I mean to negate any of the hard or rotten or terrible aspects of transition. They stink, and often there is no way around them; in the wise words of the Bear Hunt song, sometimes you have to go through it. But in my constant struggle to develop thick skins and soft hearts (see my blog from a year ago), it’s useful to remind my heart of “how much the Lord has done for me.”

a Saturday stroll through the vineyards after a picnic with friends

Oh Olympics, how I love thee

The year I was an RA (2001-02), the Olympics were going to be held in Salt Lake City, so there was never a question in my mind as to how I would decorate my hall. Giant rings hung on the end wall surrounded by laurel wreaths and pictures of athletes doing their thing. The girls' names were etched into fake medals for their doors, and between February 8 and 24, viewing parties were held nightly in the TV lounge, where the girls graciously allowed me to fly my Austrian flag for the skiing events.

I love the Olympics. And as I’ve watched my fair share already over the past week, I’ve tried to put my finger on why exactly I love them. It isn’t as if I’m a hardcore athlete or all that patriotic. When people speak of the enduring human spirit of the games, I work hard not to roll my eyes. I’m also not ignorant of the fact that abuses, scandals, and economic debts have followed most games and some beloved athletes. Still, the lighting of the unique Olympic Torch and the joy with which participants wave their nation’s flags gets me. I cheer when a race ends well, whether the final result was exactly as everyone predicted or a surprise upset (I’m looking at you, Anna Kiesenhofer). 

The “internationalness” of the Games is one thing I love. Yesterday I witnessed an archer from Nepal go up against one from Bhutan - the two nations with the coolest flags on Earth. For the most part, I like that, at least for a moment, politics are put aside, and the Mainland Chinese table tennis player can show respect when losing to the Chinese-Taipei (Taiwanese) player. Sometimes we have to practice on the outside what we wish was true on the inside. Another aspect I enjoy is the heart-pounding thrill of a race well run. Swimmers thrash in the pool for 90 seconds, and suddenly my heart is pounding for the lone Austrian in Lane 8, willing her forward to a place in the round of 16. It’s also fun to see sports I know practically nothing about, like handball, and to suddenly find myself invested in the outcome and learning all the team members’ names from Sweden.

For two weeks the Olympics allow me to dive into a world that is beautiful and diverse and feeds an ache in my heart that I know will only be perfectly fulfilled in heaven. Maybe I have on blinders to some of the negative parts, but I will continue to celebrate the victories of the many nations, praying for their ultimate good to be recognized in the true Victor, Jesus Christ.

Cheering on some of the countries I love.

A Year in Review

It’s July 15 - exactly 365 days since I left Germany! 1 day more and I have fulfilled the legal Totalization requirements in order to return, and let me tell you: I’m thrilled. My bags are (somewhat) packed as I prepare to return on Monday. Reaching this longed-for milestone is causing me to look back over the past 12 months of Home Assignment and get all mushy. God’s goodness is evident in the many miles, relationships, and explorations I got to travel despite it being a COVID-Home-Assignment. Below I’ve selected personal highlights by month. (This may be more for myself so that I have a record in the coming weeks when people ask “how America was”).

15 July - 15 Aug, 2020

two weeks of quarantine, reconnecting with friends, moving in with Amanda and her family, going to Grace Church’s outdoor services, having fun with Andi/Jen and family, vacation with my sister-in-law’s family, joining a Grace Small group on zoom

15 Aug - 15 Sep, 2020

driving to Colorado with Ellen, being with the parents, attending a Debrief with Barnabas Ministries, hiking Black Canyon, starting to teach my online History class, seeing extended family in Nebraska, settling into routine

15 Sep - 15 Oct, 2020
Wednesday zoom calls for Grace Kids ministry, meeting with friends and supporters in Minnesota, making the decision to join ACSI’s Paths to School Improvement Team AND return to BFA, designing new prayer cards, hiking in Duluth with Ellen, volunteering for Walk for Water

15 Oct - 15 Nov, 2020

10-day road trip through Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan with Ellen to see many friends, BFA students, and supporters, volunteering for Pumpkin Carving Night, Amanda’s cancer diagnosis, driving the niece/nephew to Colorado, starting regular PSI Zoom calls, getting Cardigan donuts for Amanda’s post-surgery

15 Nov - 15 Dec, 2020

routine of seeing people I love, weekly zoom calls with kids and colleagues, volunteering for Thanksgiving distribution, watching Huskers games with Kristin, Thanksgiving with Amanda and family, computer problems start, decorate for Christmas, limousine tour to see lights, Christmas Around the World at Grace

15 Dec, 2020 - 15 Jan, 2021

stocking up on German goods from Aldi, falling love with my Small Group, driving to Colorado, Christmas with the family, visiting family and supporters, New Year’s, speaking on two panels for WorldVenture training, going to the dentist, solving computer problems, exploring Colorado parks

15 Jan - 15 Feb, 2021

driving to Texas to see family and supporters, leading first PSI trainings on our App, fun memories with niece/nephew, hot springs, second-semester teaching and Grace Kids ministry, driving to Arizona, speaking at Palmcroft Church, car break down, fly to Hawaii, WorldVenture Debrief on Zoom

15 Feb - 15 Mar, 2021

exploring Oahu, time with Scott/Fiona and nieces, weekly zoom calls at early times of the day, Amanda and Lizzie visit, celebrating 40, chasing sunsets, learned to boogie board, in love with hammocks, vacation on the Big Island, Manuela’s visit, luau, making new friends at International Church

15 Mar - 15 Apr, 2021

special flight around Molokai for Scott’s birthday, Becca’s visit, hiking Oahu, fly to Arizona, car troubles, drive to California, visits with friends, BFA peeps, and supporters, Easter with Jim/Lori hike through Yosemite National Park, drive to Oregon

15 Apr - 15 May, 2021

speaking at Treasure Valley Baptist Church, wrapping up online history class, visits in Portland and Seattle, new BFA staff, hike through Glacier National Park with Ellen, 4-day drive back to Minnesota, more connecting with friends and supporters, Grace Kids in person, vaccine, loss of car due to catalytic converter theft

15 May - 15 June, 2021

prayer weekend in Hibbing, meeting my Small Group people in person, new pastor at Grace, puzzling, fly to Colorado for Custer reunion, weekend at The Barn, tea party with the nieces, time with Grandpa and Nana, becoming IT person for PSI

15 June - 15 July, 2021

Up North cabin time, fly to Chicago for 24 hours to see Rachel and fiancé, hear Andi speak at camp, fireworks for July 4th, Shakespeare in the Park with Kristin, adjusting KLM flight, many many good-byes, 40th Anniversary celebration at Grace Church with bouncy slide, kayaking

Wow, if you're still reading, I'm impressed. Thanks be to God for all the safety and fun that was had this Home Assignment year and also for the hard the lessons learned. I wouldn't have chosen COVID, cancer, or catalytic converter theft, but I'm grateful for generosity and goodness I experienced because of it.

Germany - here I come!

Minimalism and Me

 

I did not grow up in a minimalist home. As a child of the eclectic 80’s whose parents were children of the booming 50’s whose parents had survived the Great Depression of the 30’s, I was instilled with the values of saving most everything. Random items could be repurposed into all kinds of treasures like door-stop commentaries and upside-down CD centerpieces, and you never knew when that 10-liter bag of powdered sugar on sale would come in handy. Truth be told, I didn’t mind the many knick-knacks that lined shadow boxes and reminded me of our family travels or the fact that our city apartment had every sports equipment a kid could want for the park or that we generally had the ingredients handy to whip up any midnight snack. Things were organized and cared for (mostly), and the clutter - if it can be called that - was comfort; it was home.

Still, like many Millenials, I have been at least partially drawn to the minimalist trend of the past few years. Credit Marie Kondo, if you wish, but I think the appeal was there before her spark of joy philosophy. My artistic friends wanted to create an aesthetic, clean, designed look in their homes. Stressed-out friends hoped to rid their living space of unneeded toys or clothes in an attempt to pare down the required upkeep. Conscientious friends desired to reduce their environmental impact by buying and owning less. And I wanted those things, too, having always valued experiences over possessions anyway. 

Yet at the same time, it felt impossible. I watched with envy while these friends swept through their homes, tossing items into garbage bins without regret. They would purchase the perfect contraption that could fulfill the function of three others and sell the superfluous ones on Facebook Marketplace. It was like a game. How small of a backpack could you carry onto the plane and still meet all your needs for that weekend trip? Every time I tucked a laundry basket under my arm and walked from shelf to shelf, I would talk myself out of tossing it. That tattered Chinese fan I never touch? Well that was given to me by sweet Rosemary whom I still try to pray for. That stand-alone Russian teacup? That belonged to my Aunt Barb and is dripping with sentimental value since her passing. That novel set I read in high school? It changed my view of Christ, so while I don’t intend to re-read it, I can’t toss it! You can see how poorly the process goes for me.

Thus it was with almost instant relief that I recently heard a podcaster speak about her slightly twisted philosophy on the minimalist trend: Love the things you have. “Yes!” I shouted in the car. In the decluttering process, I can’t help but wonder how many people have purged themselves of items they actually liked for the sake of living more simply. Personally, I can’t fathom living in a sterile home, so opposite of the one of my childhood. The idea that you get rid of something that has outlived its purpose or receives no love from you and keep the items you still love or - best yet - actively choose to love the things you keep strikes a chord. It feels much more true to who I am: someone attempting to be purposeful and intentional with her purchases and possessions yet filling her heart with gratitude and love. Jesus, help me.

The luggage for my trip to see Rachel last weekend.

Class of 2021

 On Saturday, I woke up at 6 am to watch the live stream of BFA's Graduation Ceremony. I cheered, I laughed, I cried, and I was so proud. These were some of my favorite "kiddos" back in Middle School, the 7th graders who welcomed me back from my first long Home Assignment with joy and excitement, even though they didn't know me from a stranger on the street.

As I look at this picture from their 8th grade trip to Lugano Switzerland, various memories flood my mind. I see Joe and instantly remember his attempt at an Italian accent when he was trying to sell me pizza. Sweet Esther opened up with me on the hike during this trip and shared vulnerably about how hard it was being compared to her younger sister all the time, even though she had incredible athletic talents herself. I recall the students who were both new and who walked some of the roughest transitions I've witnessed, but have absolutely shined in high school to the point where both of them received the character award for intense Personal Growth. Well deserved, Lizzy and Daniel. Jaedon and Beth wowed us on stage while Melody and Joel stole our hears on the court. And sweet Sarah - how could we not beam with pride when she became only the second ever female Student Body President; her soft-hearted and clear-visioned leadership in this COVID year was invaluable.

I have nothing left to say but that my prayers go with you, Class of 2021. "Be sure to fear the LORD and serve him faithfully with all your heart; consider what great things he has done for you!" (1 Samuel 12:24).

Double Emotions

Jan was so proud as she flipped the puzzle box around and watched my face as I eyed the inner-workings of a human head. Skull and sinews, nerves and blood vessels, brains and teeth, even a realistic eyeball, it was all there.

“So cool! And so creepy!” 

It was weird how intense both emotions were inside of me. Touching the pieces made me cringe a little bit at the thought of the muscles inside my own neck and how they were tensing and working even now to hold up my head. Jan pointed out the thyroid to me, and I was done swallowing my tea for a while. Clearly I was not created to be a scientist, and yet it was really cool to learn English terms for all the body parts I’d last discussed in my German-speaking high school biology class. I was repulsed and fascinated!

I’ve lived enough years to know that the coexistence of two seemingly contrary emotions is a perfectly normal thing, and yet still it takes me by surprise. Transition always highlights this phenomenon more than any other time. It is the end of May already; my time in America has dwindled from 12 months down to 7 weeks! And as I pack and prepare to move back to Germany, I’m both elated to return and sad to leave. Joy and grief. Sorrow and delight.

“Even in laughter the heart may ache, and the end of joy may be grief.” Prov 14:13.

I read this verse on Thursday and wondered about flipping it as well: “Even in heartache, there can be laughter, and the end of grief may be joy.” They’re both true. Simultaneously. When I am dropped off at the airport on July 19, there is no doubt I will cry with sadness at saying good-bye to Amanda and her beautiful family who have provided a haven for me. At the same time, Ellen and I will screech with excitement to be boarding that plane and returning home, to feel like we’re being put back into the game. I can’t wait to be reunited with my favorite prayer team, and yet I grieve saying good-bye to the Best Small Group Ever at my home church.

I guess I’m not really saying anything new with this blog, just pausing to acknowledge that a skinless puzzle has reminded me how I am indeed in this phase again: fully in sorrow and fully in joy.

Our finished product!

Mythical Ice Cream Trucks

Growing up overseas, the ice cream truck was this magical thing that I read about in books and heard about on tapes (yes, tapes), but never got to experience for myself. Somehow, even during four years in college, these magical vehicles that dispense goodness to your front door never appeared. I began to think it was one of those stories from my parents’ childhood that hadn’t lasted. So imagine the scene when as a fresh graduate on assignment in Taiwan, I was languishing on my first evening in my new home in what felt like 115-degree August heat and suddenly perceived some music in the distance, Beethoven’s “Für Elise” to be exact. I gave it a minute or two to see if the sound was drawing nearer. My housemate, Jenn, down the hall suddenly confirmed my suspicions: “Guys, I think there’s an ice cream truck coming!”

I’ve never moved so fast in such heat. The two of us grabbed our wallets, which had been filled with colorful Taiwanese Dollars mere hours earlier, and dashed down the five flights of stairs. The tinny music was indeed getting closer, and neighbors started to join us on the sidewalk. "If they have Oreo, I'm getting that," I told Jenn. I was too excited to notice that instead of wallets, everyone else was clutching little plastic bags. The truck rounded the corner, and I probably clapped my hands giddily. That is until I noticed the ominous smell radiating toward me as the truck rolled relentlessly toward us, not stopping long enough for people to make any orders. Neighbors closest to the truck stepped off the curb and began tossing their little plastic bags into the back, retreating as quickly as they could. That is when our third housemate came home and in passing by us remarked, “Why are you two waiting for the garbage truck? We haven’t lived here long enough to make garbage yet.” What a let down!

More proof in my mind that ice cream trucks were an elusive thing of the past. Until last week.

Amanda and I went out around the neighborhood for a walk, when a familiar tinny sound reached my ears, and I shuddered slightly. (Oh right, did I mention that garbage truck came every single night of my 365-day sojourn in Taiwan and played nothing but "Für Elise"? It got old by Day 3.) She looked at me with smiling eyes, “Is that an ice cream truck?” “No, I’ve been fooled by that before,” I told her. Unperturbed, she dragged me home quickly and got her kids to come running outside with us. And to my shock: a little white van, non-smelly and covered in ice cream stickers, rounded the corner. They do exist!!!! 

I thought fondly of Taiwan and ate my Oreo bar.

That time I lived in Taiwan and drove a scooter to work. Pictured here with Jenn.