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March 2008
Easter and a Political Awakening
Easter preparations are under way for at Shelter Jordan. On Monday, we had a staff meeting to discuss plans to share the true meaning of Easter with our guests over the holiday.
I felt a little frustrated because it seemed like all our ideas were old and worn out like used Kleenex; when your nose is a drip and you really want a fresh Kleenex but all you’ve got left is a shriveled up dried wad and you have to settle for finding a little shred of clean fiber on which to wipe your nose… I didn’t want to settle. The Gospel is worth more than used Kleenex.
The problem is, when you are working in a Christian environment day in and day out, it gets hard to continually find new activities through which to share the truth. I think it is especially hard to make the Gospel relevant to an audience of people from all over the world in Amsterdam for every different reason.
So, we met and discussed different ideas. After two hours, the team had generated some pretty good ideas. We decided to center the Bible discussions for the week on facets of the crucifixion such as how Christ was abandoned by his friends.
The plan for the weekend is as follows: On Good Friday, we planned a hostel night, where we give the free dinner, and the presentation will be about the Symbols of Easter and their meanings. Saturday we paint eggs with guests and show the Casting Crowns mime about Christ saving us from the temptations of the world. Finally, on Sunday we will have a special breakfast with the café decorated with flowers, and then watch Ben Hurr that evening.
Today was Friday and my day off. The hostel has been booked solid this whole week, so there have been some awesome opportunities to speak with guests. We were all excited about the hostel night, but I knew I needed to take advantage of my time away from the Shelter, so I went to a liturgical service of the Stations of the Cross instead.
Christ Church is a beautiful, small Anglican church a few streets over from the Red Light district. The priest stood and explained the order of the service. His lilting Irish voice was soothing and only added to the experience of meditating on Christ’s last hours as he read the scripture and prayers aloud. After the service, Marco joined me outside and invited me and a New Zealander friend of his to come to his community house.
We walked into the heart of the Red Light district until we came to Kajuit Niewes. The first thing I saw was the fish tank, sitting inside the wall and next to the little coffee bar. The next thing I saw in the comfy little living room we had walked into was an old nun with a black cloth pinned to her head and some metal rimmed glasses perched upon her nose.
There were people from all ages sitting in the circle of chairs and kids running around in the adjacent dining room. I talked with Marco, then with two girls who were temporarily serving in the community house. The house serves as a ministry since they often bring people in who don’t have a stable life. They provide a secure lifestyle and help them get on their feet. They also help the prostitutes in the Red Light and often provide sanctuary for them. It was really encouraging to hear the story of the place.
Afterward, I headed to the Jordan to eat dinner. I settled down next to Coralline, a Dutch friend who often comes to hang out at the hostel; Barry, the guy from Sierra Leone who used to be a cleaner; and a German guest named Stefan. We talked about traveling for a long time and poured over a book of maps that was at least 20 years old. Stefan has traveled all over the world. I asked if he could recommend some good places for me to go in Europe. The conversation gradually shifted to deeper waters.
I had been reading a book for school about evangelizing through asking good questions. I just wanted to get to know these people. Coralinne left after awhile, but the guys and I delved into a discussion about traveling our own countries. We eventually got into European and African politics. I don’t like political conversations, but I do understand that politics are the basis by which a country is run. If I want to change what I dislike about a country, I have to go to the power at the top. I have a burden for the world. It’s been there since I was nine. I’m still waiting to see what God will do with it. This trip has taught me that I am not alone in that burden; God is preparing people continuously to go out into His world. If only I wasn’t such a broken vessel.
Barry started talking about how the subsidies in Europe are ruining the agriculture and economy in Africa. If a country (like Kenya) decides to abstain from signing a free trade agreement and keeps all its trade local, it will keep its economy healthy by keeping the cheap, mass-produced vegetables from Europe out. Unfortunately, organizations like the World Bank and IMF play hard ball. They tell Kenya that they will not bring their money unless Kenya opens its borders to outside trade. They know this will wreck Kenya’s economy, but they don’t care. Then our non-profit organizations come in and teach the people to receive aid, but we don’t teach them to do for themselves. It is a wretched, bloody, starving cycle.
And so, I vote for no more government subsidies. We then moved on to American politics. I realized it is not ok for me to exist in the realm of denial, not talking about my country and her problems. I love America. But we have issues. We have gang rape in our inner cities, we have AIDS running rampant, and we have war veterans sitting hungry and cold on street corners. I know these issues aren’t fixed overnight, but at least I am beginning to think about these things. I am a part of the problem if I sit and let them happen. I refuse to be a part of the problem.
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Pot Smokers on Street Corners
Last Friday was full. On Thursday night, I worked the sleeper shift—which means I worked from 10 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. cleaning the café, and then I slept at the hostel to back up the night man for extra security. Except on the sleeper shift, Derek was working night man for the first time, so he wanted people to come and hang out with him to keep him awake and keep him company. Two other staffers came, and we watched two movies, “Meet the Robinsons” and “Over the Edge.” I didn’t go to sleep until 4:30 a.m.
The next morning, I woke up at 9:30 a.m. and went to eat breakfast in the café. I sat down next to a Dutch staff member and friend. Immediately I felt a bit of tension. She was supposed to be working the breakfast shift, which was halfway over, and she was sitting down to eat breakfast. My gut twisted. The other morning café worker was in there all alone. Then I noticed she was eating one of the apple turnovers I put in the fridge to take to Douwe and Els. She probably hadn’t known this, but why would she take something that wasn’t hers? I had only gotten five hours of sleep. I knew my mind was a little foggy. But then she told me I shouldn’t eat my pancakes because they were unhealthy. I eyed the apple turnover sitting next to her bowl of cereal. My gut twisted again, and I sipped my orange juice quietly.
Most missionaries leave the field because of conflicts between staff members. Personality and cultural differences are insanely powerful in making one lose perspective. Thankfully, I finished my plate without saying anything to rectify our misunderstandings. I hung around the hostel and read my Bible while watching the activity of the café. I spoke with my friend while sitting in the café and learned that no one had a plan for the hostel night outreach to be held that evening. Two people were supposed to plan it, but all of us are still so new and there is still confusion about what these outreaches are supposed to look like. I went home and had an emergency planning meeting with one of the people who was in charge. It went really well. We went with a simple program for the night.
That evening, we served dinner, and then I gave a short testimony afterward. Our theme was relationships. I believe the two strongest feelings in the world are acceptance and rejection. Pretty obvious. People long for acceptance, but human beings are incapable of truly accepting one another because they can never give unconditional love, and they can never know each other completely.
I told the story of a friend in my past who had come to me for true acceptance. I was incapable of giving it. She was lost and lonely, pregnant and abandoned. But I tried. I accepted her as best I could. God showed me that He loves us completely and accepts us as we are. He is the only one who can completely know us through and through because he created us. God is just and definitely puts us through a purification process after we run to him, but it’s because of his awesome love.
Three guys from Spain came to the dinner, along with two French girls, and two girls from Germany. It was incredible. We had someone on staff and at the hostel night who was either from each of those countries or who spoke their language. Jens talked with the German girls, Elizabeth translated my testimony into Spanish for the guys, and Claire ended up talking with the girls from France.
Before I started talking, one of the Spanish guys raised his hand and asked, “Why are you telling us this in the first place?” Uhh… It took me a second to process what he was asking. “Well, I think I have something to teach through this story.” Awkward.
After I shared, everyone sat and talked for a while. I ate my dinner and talked with my friend who I had not understood earlier that morning. We had an awesome conversation. We connected over our shared experience of having a friend who needed help and who ran to us for acceptance. As I walked back to the café to work, I had a sense of awe. How can one have such misunderstanding in the morning, and such a connection just hours later. I am so thankful for these moments because I am storing them up for future times when I need to remember that conflicts can be solved in time.
That night, as I rode home, I soaked up the stillness of the city. Nearing the backdoor of the staff house, I decided to bike longer to give my legs a little exercise and my mind a little more time to think about the day. I biked down to the Browersgracht and turned till I came to a dead end, then turned again and kept going till I found a good street I knew.
The city is so quiet at night. I passed a group of young men lounging near some trash cans, smoking joints. I kept going, thinking about this city and its people. I passed the staff house again, biking toward the old church. The bars on the Leliegracht were full and loud, casting their amber glow into the street and projecting an image of warmth and camaraderie. People were walking, cold and distant in the street, some with friends, some heading home from a night at the pub. I passed a bar, and a man who had gotten on his bicycle was biking ahead of me. He was so drunk he couldn’t bike straight. He wove across the narrow street, back and forth. Finally he stopped and let me pass, then made another attempt at steadying himself on the bike.
I find myself embracing the culture of this city. I find myself settling in to the rhythm. Obviously I don’t plan on smoking pot or frequenting bars until I am falling off my bike (I fall off my bike without the help of alcohol!), but there is so much beauty in this city amidst the tares.
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Touring Urk
When I first went to Urk, I planned only to stay Friday night and part of the day Saturday. But then I met Douwe and Els, was invited to church on Sunday, and realized I was in a special place where time passed slowly and needed more time to be fully appreciated.
Saturday morning, I woke early and had breakfast with the family. I like the Dutch way of eating. Fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast with tea and coffee. The family was so hospitable, and I was invited to help feed the menagerie after breakfast. Douwe and I walked outside, and he showed me his normal routine.
The cat is always fed first. She purred urgently as he cut her a thin slice of rookwurst and only stopped when she had it in her mouth. I laughed when I saw several pairs of clogs on the shelf in the garage. They were caked with dried mud.
Douwe gave me a pair of red boots to wear outside because the bird pen was muddy. We went to feed Dierek, their giant Rottweiler next. He was a friendly dog, but when Douwe turned his back, Dierek gave me a big muddy hug and smeared mud all on my jacket. I laughed as I tried to push the huge mass of black fur and muscle away and was reminded of my family’s insolent Labrador, Hunter.
Next we fed the birds. Douwe put grain and pieces of bread in a bucket and let me scatter them in the trowel as the geese and chickens clamored for their fair share. He pushed an empty bucket in my hand and led me to the chicken coop where I gathered the fresh eggs. Next we went to get the mail, and I asked Douwe what kinds of vegetables people grew on the farms around us. The land here is so flat and the fog obscures the view, though if all was clear, you could probably see all the way to the ocean and the line of windmills that sits right on the shore.
After finishing the morning routine, we went inside and ate a brunch of sweet bread and coffee. Els went to djembe lessons and Douwe offered to take me to Femi’s resale shop in Urk.
I have officially decided that I like seeing a place from the local’s perspective. We drove all around town and then Douwe showed me the old part compared to the new part that has been built since the island was expanded. The old part is gorgeous with houses squeezed tightly together, using every inch of the ground.
At Femi’s shop, I found some used boots for €2.50! I also found an awesome depiction of Martin Luther nailing the 95 theses to the door of the church. Douwe wouldn’t let me pay for my finds. He said I was a volunteer so I shouldn’t have to pay.
Next we drove to Els’ djembe lesson and bopped to the music as we listened to her class beat out different rhythms. There were people of all ages learning to play and it was such a fun environment.
Douwe and I went back to Urk and walked around the village, seeing all the old houses. There was a church built in the 1500’s. Douwe laughed when I exclaimed,“That’s older than my country!”
We went to a friend of Douwe’s house because Douwe thought he might be cooking fish and would probably give us some. Everyone is so friendly and hospitable. Sure enough, we walked up to the little house and caught the smell of fish and heard the crackling sound of oil in the shed outside his house. The older man came out and introduced himself to me. We walked inside and saw a group of five men already gathered with the family. Everyone had a drink and the conversation flowed.”
Douwe’s friend put some fish in front of me and it was delicious. I sat and enjoyed the rhythm of the Dutch around me. Sometimes it is nice to soak up the culture and just feel accepted. We made one last stop at a fish market to pick up food for lunch before going home.
That night, the family invited me to a birthday party for their cousin. I went along gladly and met the majority of the extended family. Once more, everyone spoke Dutch, but those who spoke English were so kind and obliged me with conversation when they could. Els, her niece, and her cousin are all in the djembe class together, so they pulled out the drums and put on a concert after everyone had eaten. Douwe brought an extra drum so I could play as well, though I cautioned him that I didn’t know how yet. I asked Els’ niece to give me a lesson and she showed me several beats. It was so much fun!!! I think I am hooked. We stayed at the party for several hours and then came back to the house and played on the djembes for an hour longer before retiring.
On Sunday morning, we all went to church together. Of the 20,000 people who live in the town and surrounding areas, about 95% go to church. When we walked into the church sanctuary, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Half of the ark was protruding out of the front wall and the pulpit was on top. The stained glass windows portrayed waves and storm clouds, and the very top window showed a dove with an olive branch. The pastor, when standing at the pulpit on top of the ark, was about eight feet off the ground. It was the Sunday for the kids choir to sing, so 30 children paraded up front to glorify God with their beautiful voices.
I noticed several men and children with golden earrings in their ears. The little earrings had ships on them and I thought all the people wearing them were sailors. It turns out some men were indeed sailors and some were wearing the earrings because it was a fad.
After church, we went back to the house and I packed all of my things. I ate lunch with the boys, had coffee with Douwe, Els, and several of their friends, and then Douwe drove me to Amsterdam. I think being with their family made me miss mine a little more, but I am still glad I got to meet them. For me, they painted a picture of hospitality that I hope to emulate one day.
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Urk
It all began when the Shelter Jordan had our big reunion of old staff members. A sweet older woman named Femi came in from a little village called Urk to make bean soup for everyone for dinner. I was working afternoon café and helped her find the food supplies and kitchen tools she needed. She spoke mainly Dutch, but we were able to figure everything out. She sat down to eat lunch, and I finished working and ate with her. She told me about the village of Urk and about the resale clothing shop she runs there. Her English wasn’t fluent, but there were enough Dutch people around that she could ask for the translation of a word when she needed it.
Urk used to be an island, but in typical Dutch fashion, the ocean has been reclaimed and now a series of dikes joins the island to the mainland. Urk is a society all to itself. I would liken the people in Urk to the American Mennonites. They are conservative, and 95% of the 14,000 citizens go to church on Sundays.
On Friday, I was supposed to take the hour-long train ride to Urk, but was able to ride out with my new friend Crein, who is the former head director of Tot Heil de Volks, the Shelter’s parent organization. Crein gave me all the background information about Urk. He drove along the dike instead of taking the highway so that I could see the ocean and marshland full of birds.
We first went to Crein’s house where I met his family, two sons, and his Spanish guest. The guest spoke only Spanish and Dutch so I spoke some broken Spanish with him for a few minutes. There are perks to being from Texas.
Next, we drove out to my host’s home. The first thing I saw was the menagerie in their backyard. They had five peacocks and several geese! Who knew? I had already squealed with glee at the sight of horses on the way to their house.
I hadn’t previously met Douwe and Els Yska but they welcomed me in with open arms. I was shocked at the size of their home. It would have been considered average in America, but very large by Dutch standards. African artifacts and Greek icons were everywhere. It was beautiful. Crein sat down with the couple for a long conversation in Dutch—this would be the first of many for the weekend.
Soon Crein left, and I was shown to my room. On the way there, I noticed a room with a tanning bed—A TANNING BED! I asked my host about the fake-baker. She said they don’t use it as much as they used to—and no, it isn’t typical in Dutch homes.
I went back downstairs to help cook dinner. I am not sure what it was called, but it was delicious. The Yska’s oldest son and his wife joined us, so it was a full, loud Dutch family meal. Afterward, their younger son read from the Bible and, then their nephew arrived to hang out with the son.
I prayed and meditated for the majority of dinner. The conversation was held in Dutch, and every once in a while they would switch to English to ask me about myself. I knew they weren’t being impolite by speaking in their native tongue even though they all spoke English as well. They were being themselves, and I had come to their house to rest and take in the Dutch culture. It was just what I needed.
I stayed around to talk with Douwe and Els as the son and his wife left and the younger son and nephew went off to be mischievous.
We were talking about Els’ hobby of playing the djembe when the nephew came down for a Band-Aid. He had gotten a blood blister. The boys were shooting at cans with a BB gun in the attic and he had pinched his finger when he cocked the gun. I talked with the parents for a few more minutes and then asked if I could go shoot with the guys. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.
It was so boy. That crosses cultures. Give a guy a gun and something to shoot at, and he will be content for a good long time. The guys had set up cans along the rail of the ceiling in the attic and were having target practice. They readily accepted me into their clan, even if I was a little rusty at shooting. My grandpa taught me how to shoot on an old handgun. He was a marksman in the army. We shot at books, cans, and coke bottles.
One side of the attic had a crawl space and a thick plywood wall. This was the target zone. We could shoot at that wall all day and do no harm to the exterior of the roof or the rest of the attic. It was obvious that the space had been used for such devious purposes for quite some time. BB’s littered the floor along with shot-up cans.
After a while, I decided to turn in, so I headed back downstairs. On the way to my room, I stepped outside to the garden. It was so quiet. No city noises. So peaceful. So beautiful. And the stars! Finally, I see some stars. It was so refreshing.
Dancing in the Street
A few days ago, I decided I needed to start using my days more wisely. It is so easy to work the shift I am scheduled, come home and let the rest of the day slip away. I sat down with a handy tourist book for Amsterdam and made a list of all the things I want to do while I am here.
Here are a few of the top items on my list: 1. Listen to jazz music at a good jazz bar 2. Learn some Dutch (two months is not enough time to learn it all) 3. Visit a Dutch town 4. Eat fries on the street 5. Visit the Troppenheim Museum 6. Go shopping at the Waterlooplein Market
I am happy to say I can cross off a few things on that list! The full list is 22 items long, so I still have lots to work on.
Last night, a group of us from the Shelter, along with a group of college students and a hostel guest went to this great jazz club called Alto. The place was no more than 10 feet wide all the way through, and the band played Latin-style jazz.
On the way to the club, we tried to fit all seven of us on four bikes belonging to the Shelter staff members. Three of the bikes had seats on the back. This would have worked perfectly, except that my bike broke shortly after leaving the hostel. The back wheel couldn’t handle the weight of the two boys riding it. We did a little rearranging, and I ended up walking the rest of the way to the Leidseplein with the guest and one of the college students working with the mission team.
When we arrived at the jazz club, our group had reserved a table right up at the front. We squeezed in and proceeded to talk and wait for the music to start. The place was covered from floor to ceiling with old jazz advertisements and movie posters. The low lights and smoke-filled air made for the perfect atmosphere. A saggy-jawed musician stood up to the microphone as the musicians got into their places. There were two djembe players, a piano man, a bass player, and the saggy-jawed man turned out to be the alto himself.
“Are you ready for Freddy?” he asked.
The two men beat out a rhythm in unison on the biggest djembe’s I’ve ever seen, and the rest of the band followed their lead, mixing sounds to create an awesome melody. I settled back to watch the crowd. Sitting at the table right in front of the stage was a man that could have doubled for Brad Pitt in the movie “Snatch.” The group relaxed as the jazz flowed, and then we talked and tried to play games with the drink coasters. Eventually we were kicked out because only two people bought drinks, and one of them was a coke.
The guest, whose name was Bradford, wanted to taste some of Amsterdam’s famous frites, so the group headed to a fry place down the street. We sat inside while he ordered and then meandered outside and shared the huge rapper full of greasy goodness. Check two things off my list. We three Shelter workers split paths with our friends and headed home. On the way there, we danced to the jazz in the street, tried not to fall on the ice, and sang at the top of our lungs from our bikes.
I can now heartily recommend the Leidseplein to any other tourists visiting Amsterdam. Good music, good food, good memories.
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