Drowsy and Mislead

Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.
And so, like thee, Jerusalem is also sleeping nigh.
All Israel slumbers peaceful, a small repose to take,
While humble shepherds, in the fields, are watching wide awake.

Tiring, scholars and high priests have laid their scrolls aside.
And shamefully a coat of dust the sacred scriptures hide.
Mislead interpretations have kept them unaware,
While foreigners the prophecies inspect with honest care.

In drowsiness and ignorance the priests and people live.
While gentile kings and shepherd men a kingly welcome give.
Although the books and angels foretell the news to earth,
God’s people are not ready, and they miss His holy birth.

Now we, like Israel ago, await a coming king.
The same of whom the scriptures speak and hosts of angels sing.
We mustn’t let opinions our studies now benumb.
Keep us, Lord, awake so we are ready when you come.

Christmas Poem

Hand that formed the earth's array,
By whose touch the worlds were made,
Motioning the scepter's sway,
Now in mother's palm is layed.

Head that bore a kingly crown,
Gleaming brighter than midday,
Causing angels to bow down,
Nestles, now, among the hay.

Voice that rang with royal sound,
Issuing the hosts on high,
Voice that never equal found,
Now is a weak baby's cry.

Heart that loved each one on Earth,
From its width throughout its length,
Now, although of human birth,
Loves with all its former strength.

Too Many Rasmuses

"Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get ONE.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!"
~ Dr. Suess

It took me quite a lot of time to learn who was who here at Vejlefjordskolen. One hundred and forty-three kids don't pose an insurmountable challenge, but when half of these kids have Danish noses and blonde hair, it can make things rather difficult. The names their parents chose for them doesn't help me much. One Lasse Christensen is enough to get your tongue around (if you choose to pronounce each syllable with Danish intonation), but four Lasses? This is to say nothing of the various Jespers, Anderses, Rasmuses, Camillas, Lines, and Josefines. Particularly when over half of them posses the last name of "Rasmussen." For clarity's sake, some of the kids have chosen to go by their mother's last name in order to maintain their individuality. This has worked to the benefit of several of the boys when they’ve been placed on the dreaded "Karantaene Liste." (quarantine: no female visits and no female visitors for two whole weeks! Oh horror!) Early in the school year, while I was roaming the precincts of my dominion, I recognized one of our several Kaspers lazing on the girls’ lobby couch. Noting that a couple of Kaspers had been posted on the dreaded list, I asked him in a warning tone what his last name was. When he gave me a "Juelshouj," and I saw that there were only a "Laustsen" and a "Souholm" on the list, I checked my initial impulse to kick him out and allowed the lazing to continue a while longer. It wasn't until later that I learned he had given me his mother's name when he had been posted under his father's name. Conniving little fellow.

With so many new names entering my vocabulary, I have had many opportunities to remember God's promise in the book of Revelation: "...and I will give him a white stone, and a new name written on the stone which no one knows but he who receives it." Rev. 2:17. This verse used to bother me remarkably. Why on earth would I want a different name? Petra Kingsley Houmann suits me just fine. Perhaps this is because I’ve only met one other Petra in my lifetime, and we’ve never been threatened with the prospect of crossing paths again. In the celestial city however, things will doubtless be much different. If I were to hear my name shouted from across a meadow in paradise, how could I be sure the summons was for me? And what of all the poor Rasmuses? They’d be sure to have a terrible time deciphering which call was for whom. Perhaps God is giving us new names for our own benefit.

I mentioned above that the name Petra Kingsley Houmann suited me just fine. However, something should be clarified: The name suited me just fine, until Paul handed me a new Bible as an early Christmas gift. On the cover in silver gild were embossed the words: Petra Houmann Howe. I immediately changed my mind about my name. Petra Houmann had been fine before. But Petra Howe was so much better. It meant that I would be leaving my former position as a “Miss” in order to claim the new title of “Mrs..” Paul and I would be spliced together as one entity, represented under the same name, living the same life. I can think of no happier way to go about changing names. Can this be part of God’s reason for giving us a new title when we reach heaven? He’ll be reminding us that we have attained a new status in our relationship with Him.

Heaven will not be the first place where God has changed the names of His faithful ones. The Bible states several instances, including Abram, Sarai, and Jacob. The case of Peter is particularly interesting in that it introduces the concept of “what names mean” into this lengthy dissertation. Petra means “rock.” Martina means “war-like.” Paul means “little.” Rasmus means “beloved.” In many ways these names do not exactly fit our personalities (certainly not the Rasmuses at school, poor chaps). The tradition of waiting to name babies until they have developed into persons has died out completely in the west, most of us are now named with titles that simply sound good. But what if we were to each have a name that not only sounded good, but also meant something good? Maybe this is part of God’s purpose in re-naming us.

Despite all of these interesting observations, there is still one part of the verse which might cause some confusion: “… a new name written on the stone which no one knows but he who receives it.” What good would a new name do me if I was the only one who knew it? My proposal to this mystery is this: perhaps the term for “know” is meant to represent the fact that nobody else has that particular name. For example, one can say, “she has a style that nobody else knows.” This does not mean that nobody else knows her style. They all know the style perfectly well, because they can see her wearing it. However, nobody else chooses to use her style. This is what makes her particularly unique. No one will know my name in heaven, meaning: I am the one and only person with that title. What a wonderful God! Even I, who used to name everything living or dead that entered my family’s household, would run out of names once I’d reached a hundred thousand saints or so. Only God in His infinity could have a special name for each member of His heavenly multitude. His creativity will not run out. There won’t be too many Rasmuses in heaven.

Ode to Paul and Marmite

When I was younger and starting to date,
I wondered at how I would pick a soulmate.
And so in my folly I wrote up a list,
Of judging requirements before he'd be kissed.
The list wasn't weighty, the list wasn't long,
One qualification yet narrowed the throng:
He must eat Marmite and he must like it too!*
This dwindled my choices to only a few.
In fact my selection was totalled to zero.
Would no one arise as my brave, Marmite hero?
And then there came one on his toyota steed,
who entered our kitchen with ravenous speed.
I marshalled some toast and a Marmite deployment,
And in awe watched him eat it in raptured enjoyment!
As soon as he'd finished, the deed had been done.
He'd eaten the Marmite. So my heart was won.

*Disclaimer: Paul doesn't actually love Marmite. In fact, I believe I've heard him state before that he "wouldn't walk across the street for it. Still, I remember being impressed at his ability to eat it despite this fact, and I still love him anyway.

"Morgenmad"

I was just hit with a wave of guilt. I have misrepresented to you, my dear reader, the typical Vejlefjordskolen breakfast. I have neglected to even mention the wide selection of cereals, fruits, nuts, seeds, dried fruits, crackers, and other edibles that are laid before us every a.m.. The head cooks, in their considerate kindness, even make a point to provide a couple boxes of rice and soy milk each day for their vegan student missionaries. Although she may be miles from personally giving up her fatty treats, no Danish hostess will ever fail to accomodate her guest's special dietary preferences. In fact, she meets each new gastronomical oddity with delight, excited for the chance to test her ingenuity. With five like-minded cooks aboard the kitchen staff, I feast free from care.

When in Rome

The leading cause of death in Danmark is not heart failure. This used to entirely mystify me. Perhaps you have never been exposed to unadulterated Danish cuisine, but I have. It includes everything imaginable that can be concocted from lactose, and then some. To provide an example, a typical breakfast at Vejlefjordskolen will offer an array of yogurt, varying percentages of milk, one or two mats of butter, five kinds of spreadable cheeses, at least one block of solid cheese, a bowl of cottage cheese, and several cartons of sour buttermilk. This is to say nothing of the breads, chocolates, and pastries which are provided on Sunday mornings. Perhaps now you understand my mystification when I observed that the average Danish citizen was fifty pounds lighter than the average American. Oughtn't they to be rolling down the streets as bloated balls of blubber? But that is where I was mistaken: the very reason that the Danes are not bloated balls of blubber is because they are rolling down the streets. But it's not on the spherical shapes of their rotund forms; it's on the wheels of their bicycles. Everybody, from three-year old Jesper to eighty-five- year old Bedstemor, is cycling. Toddlers pedal off to nursery school on their tricycles. Grandfathers wheel their way home from the pharmacy. Mothers zoom in and out of city traffic, balancing grocery bags on their bike racks. Anxious to join the ranks of active Danes, I invested in a bicycle along with Maria, our Slovakian student missionary. We each payed for half of it and we each use it half the time. This week I decided to make a 20 km venture to Hedensted in order to purchase some necessary goods (Daugaard, which is only 4 km from the school, boasts a booming one-grocery-store selection). The air was crisp and autumnally clear, and the omnipresent gray sky seemed to be taking a much needed vacation. With nalgene in pack and windbreaker on back, I set off, feeling confident and pleased with myself for acting so very Danish. Nimbly I whizzed along, over slight rise and down into slight decline. Life was grand. This was the true essence of the phrase, "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." What pudgey, American couch potato would dare to mount his cycle for a 20 km trip? I was most obviously an exceptional representation of my race. I was making an effort to blend with the culture. I was being active, efficient, and speedy on my bike. Who'd ever be able to guess I was American? Wasn't I awesome? Well, you know what happened next. With no warning whatsoever, the chain flew off its gear and the rythmatic pumping of my legs transformed into a free-air flail. Entirely abashed, I tipped my bike upside down and began fiddling with the chain. I might as well tell you the truth: I'm far from mechanically minded. It took me a good fifteen minutes of wrestling with the thing before it settled into place again. I triumphantly wiped the grease off of my hands and fished in my bag for my camera. Such a momentous victory ought to be analoged for posterity. As I experimented with different angles and background scenery for the shot, a grandpa pedaled idly by on the other side of the road. He nodded "good day", and gave me a wise and knowing look: A young girl with a sporty windbreaker and half-empty nalgene lying askew on the wet grass while she studied the best way to photograph an upside down bicyle on the side of the road. Yep. Must be an American...

Playing Favorites

As a freshly naive sub counselor at Mt. Aetna Summer Camp, one thing in particular was drilled into my head during staff training week: You Must Not Play Favorites! All child guidance manuals will confer on this point, if they agree on nothing else: You Must Not Play Favorites! But as valiantly as I try to avoid playing favorites at Vejlefjordskolen, I have found it virtually impossible to avoid having favorites amongst my wayward flock of dorm students. Lise* is one of those favorites. Her honest smile, her studious diligence, and her willingness to laugh at my jokes are all things which won me over at once. After all, despite an affinity for heavy metal and black fingernail polish, a person who uses chopsticks and likes to knit can't be all that bad, can she? It was therefore with great joy that I found she had signed up to participate in one of our two weekly "discussion groups." A couple of the other student missionaries and myself have begun these groups to facilitate Bible study with the girls in a relaxed environment, where they can ask questions and not just be spoon-fed. The fact that nearly half of the girls in our groups are not Christian (and don't even believe in God) makes things rather challenging. But until recently, Lise has one of our treasured attendants. She has responded with interest to nearly all of our Bible-based studies. Until recently, I say. It was last night, in fact, that the trouble was first drawn to my attention. I was in the midst of leading the girls through a series of verses about the character of God, when I noticed that Lise was sitting closed-mouthed, not even pretending to take interest in what was being said. I asked her if she wanted to tell us what the matter was. In a somewhat grumbly tone, she muttered something about how she was struggling with the belief that there was even a God! I was shocked. How could this be? Coming from Lise? Later in the evening, I decided to make a special visit to Lise's room. I found her alone, listening to some of her jarring music and reading a comic book on her bed. She raised her eyes somewhat carelessly to meet mine, but couldn't resist her hospitable nature to move and make room for me on the bed. I went straight to the issue: What was up? With a choking voice she let the tension seep out. She had thought logically about God, and she just couldn't see how it was possible for there to be a god who had created everything in seven days; when she prayed, she never felt anything; her life had no meaning; she wasn't good at anything; what on earth would she do after tenth grade, and why does God try to force you to do things? Merciful heavens! Which issue to address first? With a prayer shot heavenward, I embarked onto the path of meeting her doubts. I didn't say anything profound and I probably left out a lot that I could've said. I tried not to argue; but I did my best to present logical, counter-statements. I read her face for signs of acceptance. No luck. Everything had sounded reassuring and plausible to me, but when you're dealing with an adolescent who is "finding herself," reasoning will only go so far. Her lip began to quiver, and she said in a shaking voice, "I miss my big brothers..." All at once, I was struck with a revelation: Lise wasn't all that interested in the logic of arguments. She was just plain lonely! I jumped into a volley of questions about her siblings and her dog and the drawings on her wall. What would she be doing for Christmas? Had she ever thought about going to art school? How big was the farm where she lived? The transformation was almost immediate. Her face shone with the thrill of human attention, and by the time I had left, she was joking around and feeling dandy. I learned something new about dealing with kids last night: your mind is an indispensable tool, but your heart is more valuable still. A kind word or gesture can mean everything in the world to a person. Although it's never fair to play favorites, don't let your caution get out of hand. (Here comes the closing sales pitch) Take the time to be friendly to one of your favorites today!
*Name has been changed.

First Frost

Thawing Fingers

The arrival of November has brought the first frost with it. As a matter of fact, the opening day of the month was graced with two minutes of dancing snowflakes. Some rejoiced with heart and voice while others wailed and gnashed their teeth. I was naturally a member of the former crowd. But despite my love of snow and frost, I was forced to turn on my heater for the first time this morning. It was just a little too difficult typing blogs with my mittens on.

*explanatory note of the plant in the corner of this photo: I picked it while out for a forrest ramble. Directly translated from Danish, it's called a Bear's Claw. It turned out to be a good thing that it was dead when I carried it home: it's one of the most poisonous plants in the country! Your skin begins to disolve after contact with a living stem.

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Flame

While scrubbing the lunch dishes in the kitchen this week, I was startled to discover that I am not the only person in this world who thinks that Christmas carols ought to be sung far in advance of December. I was yodeling forth my usual repetoir of hymns, when one of the head cooks interupted me with a shout from across the room, "How's about some English carols?" I was thrilled to oblige. Starting with the letter "A," I sang through as many Christmas songs as I could think of for each letter of the alphabet. I have never before sung with greater relish the familiar tunes of "I'll be home for Christmas" or "Christmas time's a-comin' and I know I'm going home!" Later, as I waded through the chestnut leaves under our campus tree, I discovered a great quantity of fallen nuts. The kids have been using them for target practice in preparation for future snowball battles. I gathered a handful and took them to my room. In keeping with the holiday spirit, I tried roasting some of them over my fireplace. I don't recommend it however: unless you don't mind roasting your fingers as well!

McElligot's Pool

Although I've always been a big fan of Dr. Seuss, I used to think that my friend Athina's wild devotion to his teaching methods were a little excessive. She is a nerdy English major, and insists that there is a gleaming gem of genius nestled within his works. In fact, she is so convinced of this, that she plans on doing her master's in children's literature, and eventually writing a dissertation about the philosophy of "Green eggs and Ham." Whenever she would start on one of her soliloquies in his praise, I would nod my head in approval. But secretly, I would be thinking, "has she gone off her rocker?" Such days have forever gone. I am now a devoted convert! For the past few months, I have been attempting to tutor four eighth-grade girls in the subject of English. None of them possessed an inherent "thirst for knowledge." In addition, none of them were particularly pleasant to one another or obedient to me. This can be illustrated by the fact that my class size recently dwindled by three quarters: one dropped out of school because of teasing from the others, one was sent home for bad behavior, and one was permanently expelled. Now, it's just closed-mouth Sarah and I. It had previously taken all the effort I could muster to coax from her any sort of utterance. But while searching through the library for a read-aloud book which might loose her tongue, I lit upon a Dr. Seuss treasury, and a visage of Athina floated up to haunt me. Why not give it a shot? I placed the book in front of Sarah and told her to pick a story that we could read together. She stared blankly at the cover, flipped it open, and casually indicated the very first tale: McElligot's Pool. Slowly, I read for her the first couple lines. She painstakingly repeated them after me, a glimmer of interest creeping into her eyes. As we crawled from page to page, looking at the sketches of silly fish and eels and whales, her mood lightened even more. It took several days to make it through the entire book. But by the end, she was laughing quite openly and had learned the subjunctive verbs "may" and "might." She was even tripping lightly over the mouthful of "McElligot's." Plaudits for Dr. Seuss! Perhaps there is genius in the cat's hat.