Looking Up

Vejlefjord is bordered on several sides by an inspiring beechwood forest. On pleasant Sunday mornings and afternoons, its many jogging trails and footpaths are visited by industrious Danes, intent on performing their ritualistic, weekly exercise. Although I love jogging, I have discovered an alternative mode of enjoying myself in the Danish wood: tree climbing. The smooth bark, stretching branches, and majestic bearing of Vejefjord's beech trees have reawakened my eleven-year-old passion for scrambling. With each new tree, I am driven to the highest bough by an inner urge I can't suppress. The rewards have been entirely worth the frozen fingers and the scuffed pant legs.

At lunch today, I decided to pocket my apples and brown bread and find a forest perch in which to enjoy them. Following the path towards the donkey field, it wasn't long before I found a beckoning beech. It stood directly at the corner of two intersecting paths. Its posture was elegant and inviting. With several thoughtful foot placements and hand grasps I had wound myself around its trunk and was making promising headway. I was already about 3 meters in altitude. Yet, there were still six meters of climbable branch space above me. I pressed steadily upward, heedless of the wind and cold. All at once, a heavy clumping sound interrupted my concentration. Turning my eyes downward, I beheld Vibeke, our friendly literature teacher, jogging down the hill towards my tree. I smiled and waited for her wave of recognition. But I waited in vain. Without so much as a "good day," she thudded directly underneath me, paying no heed to my twig snapping or branch bending! Amazed by her lack of observation, I continued my ascent, chuckling to myself in amusement.

The brown rolls were delicious. Somehow, food always tastes better outside. As I munched contentedly, I watched a happy couple and their dog climbed out of their car and make their way across the field towards my lookout. I waited for the dog to begin barking and circling my trunk. I waited for the couple to holler a greeting. But again, my anticipation was disappointed. The three of them paused briefly at the bend in the trail to sniff and chat, but continued quickly onward. They walked directly underneath me, with never so much as an upward glance. I nearly dropped my apple in astonishment. Could it be that Danes were used to seeing bright red sweatshirts high up in beech trees during the leafless season? I wasn't trying to be inconspicuous. Could it be that people just weren't paying attention? As I pondered this thought, Vibeke returned from her jogging loop and thudded under me again. She still didn't know I was there.

How often do we look up? How often do we miss the things above, due to our focus on the things below? If the couple, or the dog, or Vibeke had simply turned their eyes upward, they would have been met by a smiling face and a friendly "hallo!" How often do we look up? How often do we miss God's blessing, simply because of our preoccupation with what's around us?

Pray for Power

Ask ye of the Lord rain in the time of the latter rain; so the Lord shall make bright clouds, and give them showers of rain, to every one grass in the field. Zech. 10:1.

Our heavenly Father claims not at our hands that which we cannot perform. He desires His people to labor earnestly to carry out His purpose for them. They are to pray for power, expect power, and receive power, that they may grow up into the full stature of men and women in Christ Jesus.

Not all members of the church are cultivating personal piety; therefore they do not understand their personal responsibility. They do not realize that it is their privilege and duty to reach the high standard of Christian perfection. . . . Are we looking forward to the latter rain, confidently hoping for a better day, when the church shall be endued with power from on high and thus fitted for work? The latter rain will never refresh and invigorate the indolent, who do not use the powers God has given them.

We are in great need of the pure, life-giving atmosphere that nurtures and invigorates the spiritual life. We need greater earnestness. The solemn message given us to give to the world is to be proclaimed with greater fervency, even with an intensity that will impress unbelievers, leading them to see that the Most High is working with us, that He is the source of our efficiency and strength. . . .

God has given us talents to be used in the upbuilding of His kingdom. . . . Do we ask ourselves the question, How am I using the talents my Lord has given me? Have you given . . . to God only a feeble, diseased service? . . .

Are you using all your powers in an effort to bring the lost sheep back to the fold? There are thousands upon thousands in ignorance who might be warned. Pray as you have never prayed before for the power of Christ. Pray for the inspiration of His Spirit, that you may be filled with a desire to save those who are perishing. Let the prayer ascend to heaven, "God be merciful unto us, and bless us; and cause his face to shine upon us; that thy way may be known upon earth, thy saving health among all nations" (Ps. 67:1, 2).

From Heavenly Places, Chapter 332, by Ellen G. White

The Last Fifteen Minutes

“You’ve only got fifteen minutes left to your life. What are you going to do with it?” The preacher points his finger accusingly at the television audience, and the four of us fidget uncomfortably on the couch. We are watching one of my Revelation seminar DVDs in the girls dorm lounge. It has nearly become a tradition between Maria (our Slovakian Student Missionary) and myself to pop in one of these discs on Friday nights for general viewing after vespers. We never know who else will wander into the room. Sometimes it’s our confrontational Atheist student who is looking for a quibble. Sometimes it’s a pair of bored girls who want to make sure we aren’t watching something more interesting. But tonight, it is Tina, a young substitute teacher, and Jeanette, an aspiring nineth-grader. As the theme music comes on and the credits begin to role, the four of us ponder the preacher’s closing hypothetical question. What if we only had fifteen minutes left to life? What would we do with it? “Call my parents, perhaps?” suggests Jeanette somewhat doubtfully. “Snatch up my Bible and begin reading very fast?” says Maria, with a twinkle in her eye. “I might fall to my knees in prayer…” I propose, though not entirely convinced. We sit quietly for a few moments, mulling over the countless possibilities for such a short period of time. One by one I reject our previous ideas. My parents already know I love them. Why call them? The Bible is a wonderful book, but would a hurried fifteen minutes be beneficial to my grave? Falling to my knees in prayer might be the best option. Prayer never hurts. Yet, if I am already confident in my relationship with God, perhaps I should use my final moments on Earth for something else… “I tend to think that I would run outside and begin yelling to random people about the love of Jesus.” states Tina, entirely serious. We all turn to her in surprise. But as we think over what she has said, we can find no satisfactory rebuttal. Why not run out into the streets and begin grabbing pedestrians, telling them earnestly about what Christ has done for us? Isn’t that our mission on Earth anyway? Surely our self-conscious inhibitions would vaporize in the face of death. We wouldn’t worry about what people thought of us. But as the validity of this thought sinks in, we are threatened with an even more daunting question: Why wait till the last fifteen minutes?

On the day of Pentecost, the disciples ran out into the streets and began preaching. They did not have fifteen minutes left to live. Most of them had many years ahead of them, all of which would be filled with scorn from learned theologians and odd looks from common laymen. Yet, they preached God’s word all the same. “We are waiting for the latter rain of the holy spirit.” we tell ourselves in consolation. There’s no real need to make such a drastic move until then. Is there? The disciples were told to wait in Jerusalem until they received God’s promise of the Holy Spirit. We have received no such charge regarding the latter rain. We are told only to be watchful and pray because we know not at what hour Christ is coming. What will He find us doing in those last fifteen minutes?

God's word

“Give me the Bible, star of gladness gleaming to cheer the wanderer, lone and tempest-tossed!” Noting that we were both feeling particularly “tempest-tossed,” Paul and I recently decided to seek that star of gleaming gladness with greater resolve. For the past week, we’ve each devoted two hours of study to the Bible each day. Our schedules are just as busy, if not busier, than they’ve always been. Yet somehow, the Lord has answered our prayers by providing us with the desired amount of time in His word daily. And what results! I can’t speak for Paul, but I can say that for myself, I’ve been ignited with a stronger desire to read even more of God’s book. Two hours a day is simply not enough! No longer do I look at my daily readings as religious drudgery that must be performed out of duty to God, but rather, as an exceptional honor and blessing from His hand. Every passage I read makes me want to read more. The Bible is such an amazing book. The more we’re exposed to it, the more we understand, and the more we are astounded by its profundity! Each line and chapter and book and testament reveal themselves to be more tightly woven together than we ever imagined. God’s face shines through the message in greater clarity. But at the same time, it attains a level of beautiful complexity that is beyond our ability to fathom. What a wonderful book. What a wonderful God! I encourage you to give your Bible a solid chunk of time out of your day today. You’ll find yourself agreeing with the hymnist that the "precept and promise," the combination of "law and love," won't vanish until eternal day.

Brown Goat Cheese

There are many things I savor
about the color brown.
Its constancies don't waiver
as other hues in town.
Where white may fade to grey,
and yellow be unstable,
where orange may pass away,
steady brown is able!

Although I love cows dearly
and though I think them cute,
Not one could serve quite nearly,
as goat in substitute.
A cow will only bellow,
while goats sublimely bleet.
Cows are fat and mellow,
while goats are strong and sweet.

A creature and a color.
Where do these verses meet?
By adding one another
you'll find the task complete.
Where other cheeses waiver,
where others fail to please,
There's one with strength and flavour:
Hat's off to Brown Goat Cheese!

On the Thirteenth Day of Christmas...

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: a partridge in a pear tree!" We've all struggled through the familiar carol at one time or another, strenuously trying to remember the odd assortment of gifts that were delivered during each of the twelve days of Christmas. Recently I've begun to thank my lucky stars that such a song was never written in commemoration of the Danish yuletide. Danes do not celebrate a mere twelve days. They double the amount! Beginning on the first of December, they whole-heartedly feast and make merry all the way down to the 24th, which is their "true Christmas." The 25th is an anticlimactic day of cleaning up wrapping paper and pulling out the New Year's decorations.

There are many delightful traditions that garnish this seasonal period of festivity. Paper hearts, an original invention of the renowned Danish author Hans Christian Andersen, are woven by school kids and filled with miniature ginger cookies before being hung on the tree. Christmas calender boxes are opened (each kid gets a little gift for each day of December preceding the 24th), Christmas candles are burned (the wax must recede past a certain mark each night), and Christmas series are watched on TV (a special episode for each day of the month). Houses, public buildings, and pedestrian walkways are bedecked with fresh garlands and brilliant reds and whites. Young and old belt out major-keyed melodies, repeating up to eight verses of complex carols entirely from memory. "Aebleskiver", egg-sized pancake balls, are dipped in berry jam and eaten in large quantities, along with cinnamon rice pudding, vanilla cookie rings, marzipan, chocolate, almonds, mandarins, wassail, and dates. The final crowning act of observance in nearly every Danish home, is an all inclusive ring-dance around the tree. Christmas is not something to be taken lightly!

Although having grown up with several of these traditions infiltrating my home (due to my Danish grandparents), I have been learning much about what is incorporated in a true "dansk jul." Early this morning however, I participated in a tradition that was entirely new to me: The night of Sancta Lucia. As I was preparing to sign off of duty last night, our head dean informed me that I would be accompanying the female freshman students on their annual 13th of December march. This included setting my alarm clock for 2:00 a.m, and unlocking all the students' doors in all four dorms. For what purpose? The answer was simple: how else were the girls supposed to march into each of their sleepy school mate's bedrooms and serenade them? With such a naturally logical answer as that, what else could I do but obey? I spent the wee hours of the morning dashing ahead of the white-clad procession while the girls excitedly followed at my heels, bearing burning candles and singing the "Sancta Lucia" song in boisterous tones. Some of the younger students were not amused. A few of the older ones, however, had been forewarned, and were waiting with either good natured cookies or grumpy buckets of water. It was quite an experience, over all. You never know what may be expected of you when you're an assistant dean in Danmark...

Eat Marmite

Eat Marmite.
Why?
Here's why:
It tastes good.
It looks impressive.
It's full of vitamin B12.
It comes in a cool jar.
It's a status symbol.
It's vegetarian.
It tastes good.

Testimony of a Chicken Pastry

The first time I met Bolette, I was highly impressed by her vitality. She was visiting my grandparents while realizing her dream of a grand roadtrip along the Eastern United States - at the age of seventy-plus! The greater part of her stay at our house in Maryland was spent running around in the backyard with my sister and I, chasing tree squirels. They do not have squirrels in Danmark. She was entranced by them.

Although not a Seventh-Day Adventist, Bolette was very respecting of our family's beleifs. She gladly participated in our evening worships, smilingly ate our odd assortment of vegetarian food, and patiently endured the English conversation (alhtough most Danes speak English fluently, Bolette has lost the ability due to a serious stroke). Later, once she had returned to Danmark, my grandparents excitedly informed us that Bolette had begun irregular visits to an SDA church in her home town of Aalborg.

It was therefore with high hopes and missionary zeal that I arranged to visit Bolette several weekends ago. It had been many years since I'd seen her, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But, I knew that nothing can serve as a better bridge to religion than personal attention from an already-practicing Christian. What an opportunity to witness!

As I disembarked from the train on Friday afternoon, I scanned the station benches for her familiar, vibrant face. I at last sighted her standing by the platform steps, earnestly searching the crowds of passengers for me. But, oh dear - she was pushing a walker! My train had come forty-five minutes later than we had orginally arranged. Yet, she had remained standing the entire time, awaiting my arrival. She was overjoyed to see me. Still, a walker? I began to wonder whether it had been such a wise idea to invite myself for the entire weekend...

With steady, though elderly, strides we made our way down several cobblestone streets to her city apartment. Bolette lives all alone. Her son is in the general vecinity of the area, but she prefers her independence, and does most things without assistance. This became evident as she laboriously prepared our afternoon tea. I offered to help her various times, but she simply wouldn't hear of it! Guests were meant to sit and relax. Not bustle about with plates and cups! As she rattled in the kitchenette with cookie tins, I surveyed her abode from my armchair. It was a grand total of three small rooms: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a living-study-kitchen-dining room. Although she did not have enough room for anything besides a knee-high coffee table and a writing desk, she had somehow managed to find space for her vast collection of cat figurines. A polished, feline face smiled back at me from every nook and cranny.

Bolette was a firm beleiver in afternoon "tea." When she was at last finished with her preperations, the little coffee table boasted a steaming pot of hot chocolate, three kinds of cakes, and four varieties of cookies. Then began the conversational efforts. It was challenging for both of us. Although my Danish skills can get me from point to point without too much difficulty, I'm still lacking when it comes to light chat. She, although not entirely deaf, had to struggle to understand what my gramatically unstable sentences were trying to tell her! After exhausting my vocabulary and her imagination on the topics of cats, drama, art, squirels, knitting, Africa, and Christmas time, I decided to turn to more practical purposes. Having noticed that there was only one bed on the premises, and recognizing the fact that she had told me it was mine, I wanted to find out where she was planning on sleeping that evening. Would she be spending the night with one of her friendly neighbors? - Merciful heavens! Of course not! - she assured me. Why, she would be sleeping quite cozily on the little livingroom couch. I gawked at her in amazement. You will understand my shock when you take a look at this "couch" pictured above. It was nothing more than a large armchair! No amount of remonstrance or pleading on my behalf would convince her otherwise. She didn't mind sleeping on the couch. In fact, she wanted to sleep on the couch. What's more, she was going to sleep on the couch, so I better forget the subject and let her do it!

When everything had been cleaned up from our refreshment (it had taken quite a while to eat, because Bolette is having trouble with her dentures), we decided to go for a walk in the cool evening air. As she dawned her fur coat, crocheted cap, silk cape, and leather gloves, I felt like quite the vagabond. My admiration of this remarkable hostess grew in leaps and bounds as we made our way up and down the public streets of Aalborg. I could tell that they were often frequented by her aged, bending form. She wasn't going to let a silly think like a walker keep her from getting out and about town.

It wasn't exactly suppertime when we returned from our excursion. But we decided to eat anyway, since there wasn't anything else to do. Once again, Bolette labored alone beside the refrigerator, refusing all offers and attempts at assistance. I wasn't quite sure what I was expecting for the evening meal, but I was sure that there would be a wide variety of edible choices; at least, if "tea" had been any indicator. But I was highly mistaken. When the lenghty proceedure was complete, the table was bedecked with a knife and a fork for each, two empty plates, two glasses of juice, and a small plate of vegetable pastry-cups. Masking my surprise I expressed my delight at their promising scent, and asked what it was that they had in them? She gave me a Danish word that I didn't recognize. I knew she wasn't saying peas or carrots, which I could obviously see peaking out from the top of the cups. But wait. Was there something more there as well? I leaned closer for better look. She began saying something about how she knew I could eat them, because they didn't contain pork. No, it couldn't be. But it must! They were full of chunks of chicken. My speechless eyes rose to meet hers. She smiled at me ingratiatingly, and pronounced, "Vaersgo!"(a Danish equivalent of "there you go!" and "enjoy!")

What would Jesus do in such a situation? I have only eaten meat twice before in my life. Both were accidents, and I nearly vomited from disgust after discovering my error on each occasion. But there was nothing else on the table to choose from! I knew every little task was an effort for her to perform. She had remembered specifically that Adventists didn't eat pig or unclean fish. She had given me her very best as a hostess. What could I do? I met her gaze once more. There she sat, uncomfortably bent forward on the couch that was to be her bed for the evening, eagerly awaiting my reaction. What could I do? I lifted one onto my plate, and set to it.

Bolette did not "convert" during my stay with her. She did not respond to an altar call, she did not clamor for Bible studies, she did not gush forth with promises of fidelity to Christ and His church. But the thrilled expression of joy that she wore on her face as I polished off the last of those Chicken pastries, was all I could have ever asked for...

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.

Keeping the kids under control

It can be clearly seen that I am in charge, can it not?