Where Caring about the World Cup is Way Cool!

I'm a soccer fan. I have been since I was a little kid and kicked a ball around with my dad in our hallway, garage, and yard. Growing up in America, the World Cup wasn't really all that big. I remember more of an excitement over the Women's World Cup than the Men's, and that I was the only one of my friends who would get really excited that soccer was on.

Being in Europe for this World Cup is exhilarating. There are flags hanging out of windows, stuck onto cars, and available for purchase on the streets. Everyone seems to have some kind of patriotic gear and are always talking about the matches. There is a giant screen set up where people from the city can all gather to watch the live match. And shops have capitalized on the World Cup fever with soccer themed everything. When a goal is scored and when a game is won, the streets erupt with car horns and people making noise.

Anyone who has been watching knows that it has been an interesting World Cup with lots of big teams (hello, Spain???) leaving the tournament earlier than expected. Many goals have been scored at the last minute, just enough to tip the scales from uncertainty to victory, and many players have dramatically rolled around in the grass looking for a free kick, penalty, or maybe a few minutes break. In fact, the major criticism that I have heard throughout this World Cup is about soccer players pretend falls. When you watch the replays, it becomes pretty obvious pretty fast that they're a bunch of fakers. In a game that takes a lot of skill, endurance, and team work, it is a shame to see its reputation being spoiled by the very players whom you want to admire. This led me to wonder what would a player of integrity look like? What if there was a player who only stayed down if he was well and truly injured? What if there was a player who never cried wolf? Who fell and got back up again? Maybe then we would admire him not for his fancy hair, fancy foot skills, or flashy jersey, but because of play and not his playacting.

Pain and Desperation

It all happens in a moment. One minute you're running down the field confident you'll get the ball, and the next you're rolling in the grass wondering if you'll be able to walk. It's not the first time I've found myself downed by an injury in the game of soccer and it probably won't be the last. But my most frequent problem was usually getting the wind knocked out of me because I was always so much smaller than many of my opponents, and that's an injury you can recover from and play on in the same match. I knew lying on the ground on the field in France it was much more serious than that.

The best thing about being on a church weekend away when you get injured is that there are so many people who are willing to help you. So many who are doctors or nurses, so many who are willing to help you walk, get you dinner, or make you comfortable. But, so many who want to know what happened and how are you and does it feel better than it did 5 minutes ago? And I know they all mean well but it's tiring and I don't want to be in the spotlight. I just want to feel better, to be able to tell them it was nothing. "The wind was knocked out of me, but I'm fine now," I'd like to say. I don't want to have to depend on them to walk, to eat, to get around. I don't want to have to ask for someone to help me to do something like tie my shoes. And there I come face to face with the ugliness of pride in my life. I don't want to have to be dependent on other people, I want to be strong on my own. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet and yet, if those people weren't there, I wouldn't be able to move at all.

Being a cripple recently has made me reexamine the injured in the Bible who desperately sought Jesus. It's funny how their pain was linked to their desperation and perhaps even fueled it. But pain can also lead us to anger, despair, or even pride. And if it does make us desperate, does it make us desperate for the right thing?
Consider the example of the paralyzed man who was lowered through the roof so Jesus could heal him (Mark 2:1-12). It was actually his friends who went out of their way to take him to Jesus. And seeing the friends' faith, Jesus forgave the man his sins. Or, the woman who believed that all she had to do was touch Jesus and she would be healed (Luke 8:41-48). She was so desperate to stop her bleeding that she fought her way through the crowd to touch his cloak just because she hoped he could heal her.
Don't you ever wonder why if Jesus had the power to heal everybody, he didn't just heal them? Do you think that perhaps it has to do with our desperation to be near him and our faith that he will heal? And sometimes our injuries and our healing are nothing to do with us. In both of the cases above, Jesus used healing to demonstrate his power to the people who were watching. It's not that he wants us to suffer, or that he withholds his power, but he uses it all for the greatest glory.

And no matter what kind of healing we need, it highlights the fact that we are not invincible, that we cannot survive only on our own. We were meant to live in community with others and in communion with God. So, thank you, Jesus, for reminding that my injury is not about me. Thank you, church friends, who were willing to be Jesus' hands and feet (especially feet) for me at the retreat weekend.

Getting off the island one stroke at a time.

I'm sitting in a room surrounded by people, but it feels as though I have been marooned on a desert island. It's not like I haven't felt alone before in a crowd of people. I'm an introvert after all, and it takes effort for me to be sociable with lots of people. Usually, when I feel disconnected it's because I don't know many of the people or they are super different from me and I'm struggling to come up with how to make connections quick so I become connected to the group. But, this time, my isolation is due completely to language, or rather lack of understanding. The loneliness hits me like a particularly large wave as I realize just how much of our human connecting is done via words.

This is not my first time speaking French, but it is late and I am tired and we have moved on to a whole realm of vocabulary I don't have the words for. Conversations hum around me and I just don't know how to break into the flow. I struggle to martial up French phrases and make them stand at attention, ready to fall into line. My English keeps getting in the way, mowing down the French constructions as quickly as I summon them. Je pense que…I have no idea.

My helplessness and frustration are quickly getting on the highway for self-pity city, so I mentally grab my shoulders and give them a shake. I politely explain to the person sitting nearest me in my English-ravaged French that I can't understand what they're discussing because they're talking too fast, and make a quick exit. I refuse to feel like a failure for this. Sometimes, it is just too hard or too late in the evening to continue to think.

When I think about this experience and my emotions in it, I begin to better understand others when they are trying to learn English or exist in an English-speaking environment. It is exhausting and it is lonely to not be able to communicate more clearly than a child. I have thoughts and opinions but I can't express them. Everyone's laughing at something, but I have no idea why. I'm asked a question to which the answer isn't really yes or no, but I somehow make one of those responses work because it would be too complicated to explain more. The hardest part is inserting yourself into the conversation. If someone asks you something directly, it is so much easier, and if someone offers to explain something, it is even better!

Now, to the flip-side. I AM making progress in French. Not every day is like the situation above. When  people ask me if I speak French I have stopped responding by saying, "un petit peu" (a little bit) but instead saying, "Oui, je parle français." Because I do! Not as well as perhaps I would like, but I do speak French. The other evening, I had a whole conversation with a French-speaker in an English-speaking context just because I was imagining myself in her situation. Her English was great, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it's nice for someone to make the effort to talk to you in your own language. It's perhaps harder to speak French with a native than with someone who is also learning French. I become very conscious of my mistakes in any case but we were able to connect on a much deeper level because I made an effort in her language instead of expecting her to make an effort in mine. I know it's not always possible to do that, but when you make an effort it can have a big reward.

The isolation that can come from not speaking the language is a very real, very present ocean. But I can't let my fear of the water keep me on the island forever, so I wade in and start to swim and if I sometimes get caught up in a big wave, it's ok to come up for air and strike out once more.

Global Impact - Berlin

This blogpost is long overdue, but it's been a crazy week since I arrived back from Berlin on Monday. I went there with my team leaders for the Global Impact conference which is all about international student ministry (ISM) in Europe. There were about 80 people from 40 different countries all over the world with a whole range of ages and experiences. Some of the participants are currently international students studying in Europe, others were there because they are involved with their country's national movement, and still others who have long been involved in ISM and were there to train and encourage those with less experience. The conference center we stayed at was about an hour outside of Berlin, but we had some time before the conference and afterwards to visit the city. I finally saw the Berlin Wall! Unfortunately, I had a cold before and during the weekend so I was in a bit of a congested fog for a lot of the time. Some of the people I will see again at future conferences, and others are now my newest Facebook friends, but it was wonderful to meet so many really awesome people. One of my favorite parts was when we had a multicultural night. People had been warned ahead of time so they brought food from their countries to share with everyone. YUM! We also were treated to several different performances of songs, dances, stories, and skits.

Here we all are!

Strasbourg

This past week, my team joined other teams working in Francophone countries for a mini retreat. Twelve of us met up in Strasbourg, France where another American couple works. We were able to stay with them in the church where they have an apartment. It was great to have free accommodation and lots of space to hang out in. We enjoyed fellowshipping together and sharing with each other. 

Strasbourg is an amazing city and a mix of French and German influences because it is right on the border between these two countries and changed hands many times throughout history. I also got to meet up with an old friend of my mother's who is currently living there. She showed me around the city and it was beautiful even in the rain! On Thursday, we left Strasbourg and it was sunny so we arrived early enough to wander into the city before our train left for Switzerland.

Our group of Francophone workers, Teams Lausanne, Strasbourg, Paris, & Brussels

Making dinner

Samuel in Molsheim, where we stayed.

With Lynette, my personal tour guide, in Strasbourg

La Petite France, Strasbourg

Strasbourg Cathedral

inside Strasbourg Cathedral

inside Strasbourg Cathedral

Astrological clock

Strasbourg from the river boat ride

The European Parliament and Council

Strasbourg in the sunshine

Andrew and Claire enjoying the sun in Strasbourg.

More than Hot Milk

One minute and forty-five seconds. I have determined that this is the ideal amount of time that my cup of milk has to stay in the microwave in order to become a delicious mug of hot chocolate. But it's not one minute and forty-five seconds all at once. First I zap the milk for one minute and thirty seconds. Then, I take it out and add three teaspoons of Cadbury's drinking chocolate to the now hot milk and stir vigorously. I replace the mug in the microwave for an additional 15 seconds, remove, stir, and sip happy warmness in a mug. Mmmm...

Sorry, short break while I go make a cup of hot chocolate....

Precisely one minute and forty-five seconds later...I'm back! :) Imagine one day my milk starts talking to me. It complains that it is too cold in the refrigerator and that it would like to try being warm. So, I stick it in the microwave and before the first minute is up, it is complaining it is getting a little too warm. Then, I have the indecency to dump in chocolate powder and it complains that it doesn't like brown and why didn't I try to turn it blue or pink or orange? It also detests being stirred and complains bitterly about being heated for even more seconds. When, at last, it has been turned into a delicious mug of hot chocolate it cries and says heatedly that it wishes I had spilled it on the way from the refrigerator rather than having gone through all the hassle and unpleasantness.

It is a little bit ridiculous to think of milk talking, even more so that it wouldn't want to become something as delicious as hot chocolate! But even as I sit here contemplating this whole ridiculous situation I find that I myself am often rather like this "sour" milk. I tell God I'm too cold, then too hot, I say I don't like brown, I'd prefer green, I complain about being stirred, and I whine about the rising temperatures. I don't even notice that he's working to improve me, that he's turning me into something even better than cold milk. He's making me warm and chocolatey and all I can say is I wish I was a puddle on the floor. It's a little like the verse in Isaiah:
You turn things upside down, as if the potter were thought to be like the clay! Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, "You did not make me"? Can the pot say to the potter, "You know nothing"?

Or, perhaps sometimes I am aware of the uncomfortable circumstances are caused by God and I tell him that I'm hot enough, that I can't take any more microwaving, I'm fine with being just hot milk. That's when he takes me out and I think I'm done, he says "not yet" and calmly sticks me back in. Because, God does not want us to be comfortable. He wants us to be mature and complete, not lacking in anything. In fact, if God were to take us out before we had learned from our trial or hard situation, he would be doing us a disservice. We would be a lukewarm chocolate that no one wants to drink.

The fact of the matter is, I need to be heated up, stirred up, and changed by God into something delicious into a pleasing aroma of Christ amongst those who are being saved and those who are perishing. And all the while, he holds the mug in his capable hands. He knows exactly how long I need to be in each and every situation of each and every day. And I have the audacity to complain. I am silly foolish milk, but by the grace of God, I don't have to stay that way.

A Christmas Tradition

I know it's Christmas time because of the clementine peels that are crammed into the car ashtray where my dad puts them and forgets about them. The smell of orange is in the air. Clementines seem to be everywhere this time of year and, in fact, my dad is peeling one now, while steering the car with his knees. He offers me a segment and I accept it with a gloved hand because it's Christmas and because I want him to keep his eyes on the road.

We are going on our annual last minute shopping trip around 9PM because the stores won't be as busy then and yet they are open late during this busy sale season. In my purse lies my mother's carefully composed wish list and my dad is on a mission to tick off as many things as he can. I have come along to validate his choices and help him make decisions. He knows my mother very well and can usually tell just as well as me what she will like, but still, it's important that I come and give my opinion too. It's a part of my job as the eldest and it's a part of the Christmas traditions in my family that I wouldn't trade for the world.

When I was younger, my dad was also my soccer coach and we spent many hours driving back and forth to practices together talking and thinking out loud and laughing. We have the same sense of humor. Now that I'm older, now that I can drive myself places, the times where we are alone in the car are few and far between. But, there's always this moment in December, I can count on it, even down to the orange peels and slight stickiness on the steering wheel.

"I gave you Mum's list, right?" he asks me as he accelerates to make it through a yellow light.
"Yes, I have it."
He casts me a smile, the one that says, 'you're such a good dependable daughter.' At least, it could be that one, or it could be the smile that says, 'I just saw a car, MAKE MODEL#, that I would love to own someday.' Either way, I smile back. He continues to weave his way through the traffic down Route 50, Celine Dion's These Are The Special Times CD can be heard faintly in the background. He doesn't care for the radio much but he adores Ave Maria. I now know why my mother couldn't find the CD when we were decorating the tree two weeks ago. What's Christmas without Celine Dion?

We don't say much of anything all the way to the mall, which he accomplishes in about half the time it normally takes me, due to frequent lane changing and bursts of well-timed acceleration. He just so happens to find an empty spot right outside the main entrance and soon we are inside with Christmas songs blasting over the loud-speaker and twinkling lights in every shop window. We head into JC Penney, find the specific socks detailed on the list, and start looking at sweaters.
"What about this blue one?" I ask, holding up one the color of cornflowers.
"OK, but what size?" He never knows what to get and always saves the receipt. Even though I usually get the color right, I'm not always good with the size either. It's the game we play every year, so in the end we just pick one and move onto the perfume.

After buying a bottle of Anaïs Anaïs, we head to a jewelry store. I simply love going to the jeweler's with my dad. He always talks just a minute too long with the sales person, to the point where they wonder if he's there to buy something or not. Then he makes them get out everything in the genre that he is looking for. This time it is pearl earrings. After he has asked the young, overly made-up, Helzberg Diamond's employee if she is enjoying the Christmas season and will she be skiing in the near future, he asks for her to pull out a pair of pearl drop earrings. What I know, but she doesn't know, is that he will probably end up buying these earrings. But, he still makes her get out the others, one after the other, until they're lined up on the counter. He asks me what I think and I tell him I like this one for the size, this other one for the color, this third one for the style. And of course, I confirm what I already know to be his top choice. He goes so far as to ask Jenny, (he has seen her name badge by now) if I can try on a pearl and diamond pair. Finally, he buys the pearl drop earrings just like I knew he would, but only because by this time the sales clerk is just desperate and tells him there is a holiday special where he can get 15% off. After a "Merry Christmas, Jenny," we finally head back to the car mission accomplished.

Christmas Eve will find us wrapping all the presents for my mother, including small things for scrapbooking and a half open bag of chocolates that were hidden in the garage, but that my dad had to dip into because he had had a "chocolate emergency." I've also found her some cute lotions at Bath & Body Works, as well as some other small things from Target. There will be new white board markers and some pens. We don't wrap things individually though, because we haven't the time. Sometimes, we're even lazy with the socks.

I can see it all now, smell the freshly peeled clementines, hear Celine belting it out, feel the sales person's displeasure, but I am not there this year. It's a first. I will not go on this special trip with you this year, Dad. Although I know it's selfish, if you take a sister I hope it's not the same. I hope you miss me as much as I miss you and our annual tradition. And when you listen to the CD I hope you think of me:

And through it all one thing will always be true;
The special times are the times I spend with you.

Merry Christmas, Dad, and try not to wait 'til the 23rd this year!