Notice the klompen (wooden shoes) adorning Elliot's feet as he paints.  The painting itself was quite masterful, with a use of color and texture very much in line with the great Dutch impressionist...

The cool, colorless, concrete corridors of the city were swarmed with swift cyclists swooping and swerving past each other like X-wing fighters in the Battle of the Death Star.  There's nothing quite like the morning commute in Amsterdam.  And then I saw her -- the poor girl -- on the far side of the Wibautstraat.  Her bicycle was upside down, propped up by its seat and handlebars, and she was crouched next to it, desperately tugging at the chain.  The relentless crowd of commuters streamed past, obscuring any accurate understanding of what had actually happened.  I wanted to stream past, too, as I was running late for a meeting -- but felt compelled to stop and offer my services.

"Heb je hulp nodig?"  I asked, with a friendly smile.

"Umm... Yah... Help?" She responded, in an Eastern European accent, apparently hoping that English might serve as a common denominator.

"Do you need help?" I responded.  Her wrinkled eyebrows and wordless gesture toward the bicycle made it obvious that help was appreciated.  So I popped off my bike, flipped down the kick-stand with my foot, and crouched down beside her to assess the damages.

It wasn't pretty.  The girl's long, loosely woven scarf was wrapped in and around and through the chain and the back wheel of the bicycle.  I couldn't imagine what it would have been like to have been wearing the scarf while it all happened.  Before I arrived on the scene, the girl had probably tried to crank the pedals a few extra times to see if the scarf could be emancipated -- because, no exaggeration, it was probably wound around eight or nine times.  As I tried looking at it and tugging at the scarf, nothing could be moved any further.  Not even a milimeter.  It was impossibly jammed.  I felt frustrated and exasperated for her.  "I was on my way to work," she offered.  There was very little that I could do, without any tools and without any time.  But I felt that perhaps it was best to simply choose to remain in the impossible situation with this stranger.  It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.  The human thing to do.

I scanned the scene, looking for a solution, and my eyes chanced upon a Kwik-Fit automotive tire store / garage about 30 meters away.  "Let's take it there," I suggested.  And having locked my own bicycle's wheel lock, I hoisted the upturned bicycle onto my shoulder and ambled toward the Kwik-Fit.  I figured they must have a wrench we could borrow, at least.  I carried the bicycle in and explained our plight to the middle-aged Middle-eastern man behind the desk.

"We repair cars, not bikes," he responded to me in accented Dutch.  Typical city manners.  He had no compassion; he was bothered to be bothered with some stupid situation like this on a Monday morning.

"Please," I entreated in my best, most-polite Dutch, "if we could just borrow a wrench, I could fix it myself."  The important man's co-workers, standing on either side of him, seemed more sympathetic.  And indeed, as I sprayed my plea in their direction, as well as toward the bothered mechanic, one of the others offered to go and get me a wrench.

"Just take that thing out of my garage!" the difficult one yelled after us.  "You can fix it out on the sidewalk."  Such classic cynicism.  I brushed it off like a pesky mosquito and thanked the other worker for his help in supplying the key for unlocking our problematic situation.  As I loosened the nuts holding the back wheel in place, we were able to finally slip the chain from the sprocket and create enough slack for us to gradually untangle the scarf from the bicycle.  It came loose in small centimeters at first, then in handfuls of fabric.  Finally, it was free.  Perhaps not ever wearable again, but at least it was free.  She rode off with a smile on her face -- doing her best to make up for time on her way to work -- and I returned to my bicycle with my own quiet sense of liberation.

Sometimes, it's the littlest things that make the biggest differences.

So I've finally pulled together a draft of my life story, particularly as it relates to my relationship with God.  I've been thinking about it ever since the Day of Storytelling that I experienced two weeks ago.  And even though I still hold on to some insecurities about my own life story -- and even though I'm still not 100 percent satisfied with the way I'm able to tell things -- I wanted to go ahead and share with you My Story...

*     *     *     *     *

When Everything was Simple

You know how, when you’re a kid, some things are just clearer and simpler?  Dad is strong.  Mom is beautiful.  Ice cream is delicious.  You just intuitively understand these things.  They’re not clouded by all the complexities of more “mature” understanding -- you know, trying to reconcile Dad’s strength with his vulnerabilities, Mom’s beauty with her scars, ice cream’s rich and creamy goodness with its calorie count… Some things are just blissfully simple when you’re a kid.  And even though you grow up and develop more well-rounded thoughts and perspectives on life, at least you’ve got a few reference points to which you can return…

This is basically my experience with God.

I honestly can’t remember much of my life before God.  Growing up, my dad was also my pastor -- so I had a lot of opportunity to explore the spiritual side of life, and it seems to me that my church and my home were both very positive spiritual environments.  As I developed my understanding of the world around me, trying to make sense of it all, God just seemed a natural part of the equation.  An old song I used to sing reminded me:  “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so…” It was just that simple.  It made sense.

Mothers Day 1982

As I recall, the first moment of consciously recognizing God’s role in my life took place on Mothers Day 1982.  I was five years old.  I remember standing in the gravel parking lot outside our church on a sunny Sunday afternoon.  In church that morning, my dad had shared a basic outline of Jesus’ life and teachings from the pulpit.  Thinking about it afterwards, I felt that I needed to actively respond in some way.  As I understood it, I was naturally prone to do bad things (hitting my brother, lying to my parents, stealing cookies from the kitchen, etc.), and these bad things deserved punishment.  But if I “accepted Jesus into my heart” (gave God, instead of my own self-interests, the place of first priority), he would save me from being punished.  In fact, he would basically take my place.  His substitute punishment (death on the cross) was like a free gift which I only had to accept in order to enact.

The Rest of Life

The teachings of Jesus and the wisdom of the Bible became my paradigm and point of reference for life, as I continued to grow and develop.  Morality, decision-making, interpersonal relationships… Even before I completely understood the “why”s of my faith, I had a simple childlike acceptance of Jesus and the truth of his way of life, which actually guided me pretty well -- helping me avoid a lot of trouble and heartache.  This is not to say, however, that my life has been perfect.  In fact, as I’ve gotten older, life has gotten more complicated.  I’ve learned that we live in an imperfect, broken world -- and the implications of this brokenness on my own self-esteem, on my interpersonal relationships, and on my day-to-day business transactions are profound.  I’ve discovered the cost of following Jesus -- my relationship with God having had a direct (though not always comfortable) effect on my career choices, my personal ambitions, and even the part of the world in which I live.  I’ve realized the ways that my heart can harbor darkness, as well as light -- my natural human desires setting themselves in conflict with the desires of God.  You know how this goes:  life has just gotten more complicated.

At the same time, over the years I’ve been able to grasp more and more the beauty and complexity and revolutionary implications of the things that Jesus taught.  I’ve learned that God has a design for everything (though we may not always see it).  And as I’ve followed God’s plan for my life, I’ve watched God shape me and develop me more and more.  I’ve come to know Jesus in an intimate, unique, personal way; and I can say that he is in my life because I talk with him and he talks with me.  He’s heard my cries and then comforted me.  He’s challenged my perspectives and then helped me relearn his.  He’s made me promises and then come through.  It’s incredible really, if you think about it, to be able to know God in this way.

When it really comes down to it, my life’s lessons have basically been bringing me back to the same simple truths that I learned as a child.  Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.  God loves me and wants me.  And I need God.  It just makes sense.

When I was a kid, growing up in the flat farmlands of the American Midwest, I didn’t really care much for Thanksgiving.  It was boring:  fancy table settings, visiting relatives, waiting an eternity while my mom stressed in the kitchen… and all for what?  A bunch of food.  And not even food that I would actually order for myself in a restaurant.  Oh, I liked the pumpkin pie… and the mashed potatoes, too… But honestly, turkey was always just an “OK” meat (better than Spam or tuna -- but nowhere near as good as, say, hamburger or pepperoni).  And I was disgusted by traditional dishes like turkey stuffing or cranberry sauce.  No, no, no… the grown-ups could get all happy and misty-eyed about Thanksgiving, loosening their belts and leaning back in their chairs while drinking post-feast cups of coffee -- but not me.  As far as I was concerned, Thanksgiving drew the short straw in the holidays’ lottery for seasonal privileges:  no presents, no firecrackers, no songs -- just cold, gray weather with lame cornucopias and puritan action figures for decorations…  Poor Thanksgiving.  Its only merits were its few days of school vacation and its opportunity to serve as the Christmas season’s opening act.  Indeed, I never really cared much for Thanksgiving.

Why is it, then, that Thanksgiving now seems to be one of the hardest days of the year to be living in Europe?  Why is Thanksgiving suddenly the holiday from my homeland that I miss the most?  Why is it that ever since my move to the Netherlands, five years ago, I’ve been relentlessly trying to recapture the wonder of the Great American Thanksgiving Feast?

A couple of times, my wife and I invited our European friends to share the celebration with us -- perhaps trying to channel the original Thanksgiving celebration between the Indians and Pilgrims, or maybe more like that one year when my brother came home from college with his Wrigleyville resident-assistant and his über-polite Korean classmate who would have otherwise been stuck eating Ramen noodles in their downtown Chicago dormitory… But inevitably, our non-American guests could not muster the excitement and reverence for our American holiday that we typically bring to the table (excuse the pun).  They showed up late for the dinner.  They cracked jokes about the silliness of some of our traditions.  They scorned our videotaped American football games.  They failed to grasp the family nature of the holiday, thus missing our subtle cues to help with preparing the food or washing up the dishes afterwards.  Of course, these occasions were not complete disasters.  They were, in fact, charming in their own way.  Our European guests did their best to enjoy the occasion -- taking pictures of the roasted turkey, engaging in interesting conversation, expressing their own forms of gezelligheid, and plugging in their own paradigms (like we all do) to interpret the events as best they could... But it just wasn’t the same.

On other occasions, we tried to create an impenetrable aura of Americana in our home -- shutting the Dutch out of our lives like Hans Brinker plugging the holes in the dike -- at least for one day of the year.  We cooked only with American ingredients (none of that substituting Gouda for Velveeta), invited only American guests, used the marvels of modern technology to watch live coverage of the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade and the Lions' game (albeit at the wrong time of day)... My parents even came over one year, which should have totally completed the illusion.  But pretense can never overcome reality.  It’s just not the same.

When it comes down to it, I guess nothing will take the place of an American Thanksgiving in the American Midwest, surrounded by my American relatives.  If I’ve had a hard time re-creating the Great American Thanksgiving Feast in the heart of Amsterdam, it’s only because it’s impossible to re-create the Great American Thanksgiving Feast in the heart of Amsterdam!  I was recently sharing this observation with my brother, over the telephone, and while he was willing to wax sentimental with me to a certain extent, he also stopped me short:  “It doesn’t really matter, you know.  Even if you had stayed in Ohio all these years -- always buying the same groceries, always keeping the same traditions, always inviting the same relatives to join you for the big meal -- it still wouldn’t be the same, you know.  You can’t go back, man.  Haven’t you figured that out by now?  That’s the way life works.”

Of course, he was right.  The boring/undesirable becomes the idealized/aspired becomes the obsolete/unattainable… because such is the nature of memory, of the holidays, of the human condition.  And unless we want to turn every holiday into a sort of Memorial Day -- mourning, grieving, yearning, and pining for the past -- we must consciously stop and consider the beauty of the way things are right now.  We must be mindful of the myriad ways we are blessed and privileged and given the unique opportunity to enjoy our families, homes, jobs, and friends for what they are right here, right now.

And if this is done successfully -- regardless of what is on the table or who is sitting around the table -- the result is, well, Thanksgiving.

Sinterklaas arrived in Amsterdam today.  It's quite the event.  His steamboat chugs down the Amstel River, loudly blasting its smoke, steam, and sound into the city and into the hearts and minds of thousands of young Amsterdammers.  Eventually, he makes his way to the harbor, where he disembarks with his Zwarte Pieten (his helpers) and begins his journey by horseback, up from the harbor, through the streets of Amsterdam -- bringing a colorful parade with him and filling the hands, hoods, hats, and sacks of bystanders with pepernoten (small gingerbread cookies) and tai-tai (kind of like hardened circus peanuts) and small promotional items.

Elliot was extremely excited to participate in the Sinterklaas festivities this year.  As I mentioned, he has become thoroughly indoctrinated in the Dutch obsession with Sinterklaas, and never misses an opportunity to participate in (or create for himself) some good Sinterklaas fun.  The large crowds, loud noises, and whacky antics of the Zwarte Pieten used to spook him a little bit -- but not any more.  This year, he was flagging down the Pieten for more pepernoten, singing "Zie ginds komt de stoomboot" at the top of his lungs, and reveling in the fun of Sinterklaas' grand entrance to Amsterdam.  It's kind of fun to watch, actually.

We started with watching the steamboat voyage along the Nieuwe Herengracht, across from the Hortus Botanicus.  Amarys, a friend from our home group, joined us for the occasion; and we also happened to hook up with the Watkins family (who live in the neighborhood) to enjoy the event like one big happy family.

It was a beautiful morning -- especially considering that we're in the latter half of November -- and we had a great view of Sinterklaas waving from the bow of the ship.  Elliot, predictably, ate it all up.

Olivia enjoyed it, too.  She's already learned all the words to the first verse of "Zie ginds komt de stoomboot" herself!  So she had fun taking the experience all in...

...But probably not as much as Elliot (I love the picture below... the reflection in the windows of the Hortus Botanicus is really cool, and the framing of the picture -- which was taken by Marci -- somehow makes it seem like it was all Elliot and Sinterklaas, with not another soul in the world).

After the steamboat had passed, the kids enjoyed some dancing (the mix of Sinterklaas-spawned adrenaline and the sugar-buzz from a few pepernoten and tai-tai provides plenty of excess energy!).

After watching the steamship pass, we went back to our house for lunch.  And then after lunch, Elliot and I made our way to the Vijzelstraat, where we watched the parade come through so Elliot could see Sinterklaas on his horse.  There were, of course, plenty of Zwarte Pieten on hand as well.

I've been thinking more about my life story lately (diligently doing my homework for the Three-Story Evangelism Seminar that I took part in last weekend)... And in the process, I realize how bland my life story seems to be.  Not that I'm complaining.  Just realizing.  You know, a good story should have lots of rising action and falling action and points of crises and intense moral dilemmas... and truth be told, I don't know if my life story qualifies as such.

Conventional writing wisdom would say that "The most visceral and vital writing is about bad people and allows the reader to see that 'We are Them.'  For reasons having mostly to do with arrogance and stupidity, young writers waste years attempting to impersonate goodness and inner peace.  Bad move.  What you really want to write about is greed, anger, pillage, theivery, corruption, eye gouging, meanness, shameless groveling, that sort of thing.  And lust.  Always lust.  He couldn't help himself, once he looked into those dark eyes.  He kissed her again and again and again.  They fell to the floor in an embrace.  'Oh my God,' she said.  Forget about goodness.  Kahlil Gibran did that already.  The world doesn't need more Bill Moyers.  Think dark.  Unbutton that shirt.  Unzip those pants" (quoted from Garrison Keillor, in "Love Me," which is supposedly quoting from a book called "How to Write Your Novel in Thirty Days").

The trick is, you're also not supposed to lie when you're telling your testimony!  So this becomes tricky for me -- telling a good story that is also true.  I've been a good student and a good citizen -- one who conforms to the norms of my environment.  My family of origin has its issues, I suppose, like any other family -- but for the most part, I grew up in a pretty stable home environment.  From the very earliest days of my life, I've been involved in the church.  I learned to love Jesus from an early age, and at the age of five I made the personal decision to accept Him as my Lord and savior.  I can’t really say that I’ve ever experienced an intense, extended disenfranchisement from God, from Christianity, from my parents, from society...  Sickening, isn’t it?  I imagine that some of you are probably gagging right now -- disgusted with my "fairy-tale life."  But I have to admit that I wasn’t always perfect...

There was this one time -- when I was, like, in fourth grade.  And me and my brother Jay and my cousin Andy -- we were up at my grandpa and grandma’s house in North Dakota.  And one day, we all went out to walk around, and we came to this school.  And there was this ladder leaning up against the school, so me and Andy and Jay all climbed up the ladder and got on the roof of the school -- which was really cool.  But then this guy who was mowing the lawn looked up and saw us on the roof.  And he yelled at us.  So we got down and ran away -- but it was a real close one…  True story.

But seriously, that’s probably about the best tale of recklessness and rebelliousness that I can come up with from my childhood.  There really hasn't been much of a dark side to my life.  When it comes down to it, my three decades of earthly existence have been just plain boring.  Maybe it’s just me.  But if I had the opportunity to re-write my life history (just for the sake of effect), I’m sure that I could have come up with a better story to tell.  Here's a "fake testimony" that I once invented for myself (shared, in jest, at a church event during my university years):

I have no idea who my parents are.  From what I understand, when the nuns found me in the dumpster, I couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours old.  I don’t remember very much of the first ten years of my life that I spent in the orphanage -- to me, it just seemed like an endless stream of beatings and hunger pangs.  But at the age of ten, I ran away from the orphanage and joined the circus.  It was there -- hanging out with the clowns and the acrobats -- that I picked up my cocaine habit.  Yeah, life in the circus was good -- plenty of partying, boozing, and circus groupies.  But only a couple of years after joining the circus, I had already seen everything and I was tired of it all, so I ditched the whole scene at a tour stop in Sheboygan, Wisconsin.  I just turned my back on the big top and wandered alone into the wilderness.  That summer, I was taken in by a pack of timber-wolves and brought up in the ways of the forest.  I enjoyed my time with the wolves, but when I hit adolescence and started developing a problem with body odor, the pack simply wouldn’t have anything to do with me.  They just didn’t understand.  So, of course, I left the wilderness and made my way back to civilization…

But I digress.  Perhaps I was laying it on a bit too thick anyway.  You get the idea.  My life has just been so incredibly plain and ordinary that I have to invent wild tales of an alter-existence to make my life sound more meaningful.  When it comes down to it there is no other way to describe my life than to say that I am the “Good Kid”.  Is that a bad thing?  No, I don’t think so -- not necessarily.  I’ve been spared from a lot of heartache and a lot of issues that other people are forced to work through.  I’m glad that I’ve never had to deal with abusive relationships, addictive behaviors, or a lot of those other problems that seem to be so common in our society today.  Being the Good Kid is not always such a bad thing… except when it comes to storytelling.  My life experiences can create a strange sort of insecurity that I'm still trying to work through, 30 years into my life.

Of course, the story is still being written (even after I write it out for part two of the Three-Story Evangelism seminar series)... But I'm not giving up on telling my story just yet.  Within the week, I hope to post my story as accurately and as interestingly as possible.  For now, though, I'm still stewing.

Elliot has come down with the fever.  He got it at school, of course.  And wouldn't you know it -- he's already passed it along to his younger sister.  And I'm afraid that it will likely be about three weeks before it really begins to abate...

Fortunately, the kids are in good health (you didn't think I was talking about that kind of fever, did you?).  But there's no question about it:  they've joined the national frenzy that's currently mounting for the annual celebration of Sinterklaas in the Netherlands.  Every year, I'm amazed by the level of hype and hysterics for the holiday that falls on the 5th of December.  It's all the "childlike wonder" and fondness for tradition and materialistic binge-feeding on purchased goods that accompany the American Christmas celebration -- but with none of the reverence or religious significance or deeper meaning even attempted to mask the occasion.  There are probably about 400 different Sinterklaas songs (though all set to approximately 4 basic tunes, except that even these four sound an awful lot like each other).  There are paper decorations, and dolls, and confectionary creations -- mostly made out to look like the minstrel-show cariactured holiday helper/hero, Zwarte Piet.  There are television programs -- carefully coordinated from network to network and shot in such a way as to simulate actual news programming -- which build on the hype and weave a tale of suspense and intrigue throughout the holiday season (a new storyline every year, though essentially drawing on one of three classic plotlines).  And especially in the school environment, the teachers, and the school administrators, and the kids, and the parents all bang the drum of Sinterklaas together in cadence, steadily increasing the volume and tempo of the beat until the feverish season has run its course.

It's all incredibly fascinating to watch, actually.  And incredibly bewildering -- since I cannot help but see it through the eyes of a foreigner.  I have none of my own childhood experiences to frame the events of this season of the year...

But what's strange is that Elliot and Olivia (and probably one day Cor as well) have already had the passion and fevered-pitch of Sinterklaas indelibly stamped on their young psyches.  They're just like any of the other kids here in Amsterdam, who cannot wait until the day that Sinterklaas chugs up the river on his steamship and into their lives.  They're just like any of the other kids here in Amsterdam who wish they could spend every waking minute completing Sinterklaas-related crafts projects.  They're just like any of the other kids here in Amsterdam, who automatically jump into a rousing rendition of one of the aforementioned Sinterklaas songs at the tiniest suggestion of a few key words or images from the lyrics.  They've got Sinterklaas fever.  I cannot fault them for this.  They are simply living in the place where they have been put to live.  But it is a bizarre experience for me, as a parent.

Unfortunately -- although I am charmed by Sinterklaas to a point -- I can easily get annoyed by the whole rigamarole that comes at this time of the year.  Of course, other adults act like this a little bit, too -- so I'm not just some Grinch Who Stole Sinterklaas.  But the difference is that deep-down inside, most Dutch people (even the adults) secretly revel in the flamboyancy of the Sinterklaas season.  It triggers old, happy memories from childhood, even while offering a degree of annoyance on the surface level (you know, it's probably like American adults who make a show of grumbling because they have to rise at the crack of dawn on December 25th to open Christmas presents with their exhuberant children, but deep down, they smile to themselves as they're sitting around the Christmas tree, remembering that year that they got a shiny new bicycle for Christmas as a kid).  So in a cross-cultural environment, where I do not have the childhood experiences of Sinterklaas to re-live through my children, I have to navigate my befuddlement at Sinterklaas fever with caution and consideration...

When it's all said and done, I'm glad that Elliot and Olivia really embrace and enjoy the Sinterklaas holiday.  I'm glad they've got the fever.  But as for me, I wish I could just take a couple of aspirin and go to bed... drawing hope from the prospect of waking up refreshed and recovered, with this whole fever washed out of our system.

I wondered if the day would ever come.  I wondered if I would ever have the privilege of joining in a Sunday worship gathering at the Herengracht 88 (H88), together with my spiritual family from Zolder50... At times over the last thirteen months, it seemed like it would be inevitable... at other times, impossible.

But this weekend, it finally happened.

If I must be completely honest, Zolder50's first worship gathering at the H88 actually happened last weekend, while I was enjoying Dutch pea soup at my apartment.  Still, this weekend was my first such experience, and my first opportunity to bring my camera to provide visual evidence of this transition into our new season of life and ministry.

I thought others (maybe you -- yeah, you, reading this post) might also like to see some of the better images that I was able to capture... So here they are.

These first four photographs were actually taken at the "Three Story Evangelism" seminar on Friday night (which I mentioned in my last post).  It was a smaller crowd -- perhaps 35 to 40 people -- which turned out to be a considerably easier environment for taking pictures than a Sunday worship gathering (because there weren't as many people to trip over as I moved around the room, and because I didn't really have any other official responsibilities during the meeting time).  I especially enjoyed some of the shots of people hanging out on coffee breaks between seminar sessions...

All I have to say for these pictures, taken during the "Three Story Evangelism" seminar, is that I only hope that I could look half as hip and handsome as Bob Phillips, when I get to be his age (which has to be almost twice as old as I am right now)!

On Sunday afternoon, we also got to give the new Kids Room at the H88 (which is not yet completely finished) its first real test run, with nine children making use of the space.  It's pretty fun to see life being breathed into these rooms that have taken so much time to take shape...

Of all the pictures that I took at the H88 this weekend, the one below turned out to be my favorite, I think.  I can't say exactly why -- but I like the shot composition, with the colors and the silhouetted profiles in the background, and the coffee mugs and candle focused in the foreground... And I think it just gives a feel for what it's like to be a part of a Zolder50 worship gathering.

The time of worship was beautiful...

I would have liked to have come away with a better shot of Todd teaching (and of other elements from the evening)... but I was kind of chained to the one corner of the room because I had to run PowerPoint throughout the evening.  For the record (in case you were there), we didn't get any new volunteers to serve as a volunteer system coordinator, gastvrouw/heer, clean-up crew, or anything else!  So if you were waiting to see if others might offer themselves before you took advantage of the opportunity... well, the opportunity is still wide-open for the taking!  Next time (two weeks from now), we will probably intentionally let a few balls drop and see if that spurs people to action any better (failing to serve coffee might just start a riot).  You can still let me know, though, if you want to avoid this disaster! :-) 

It is amazing, though, to see how many different looks you can get from precisely the same vantage point (the three previous images)!

For some reason, this last photo strikes me as being a little bit cheesy, like something they would specifically choreograph for a university brochure or something:  the two dashing and delightful young men (just spiffy enough to be trustworthy, just scruffy enough to be cool) engaged in spirited conversation, a carefully arranged plate of cookies balanced on the bar between them, other meaningful conversations unfolding in layers behind them in the background, "cool" club lighting (just like those young folks love!) in the distant background... However, I swear that nothing in the photo was choreographed!  I'm sure my good friend Marco (the bearded guy on the left, a regular reader of this blog) will have a field day with my analysis and commentary on the photo -- but I just couldn't resist posting this too-perfect picture.

All in all, it was a fun weekend at the H88.

He had them absolutely captivated.  Entranced.  A room full of eyes following his every movement, almost as if watching the neon yellow orb darting back and forth on the deciding point of a legendary tennis match on Wimbledon's center court.  When he raised his arms up in the air, the eyes went up with him.  When he darted to the left, the eyes darted left with him.  When he stopped his leftward progress, the eyes stopped as if having collided with a brick wall.  He was that good.  While he spoke, mouths gaped absently open.  They cried when they were supposed to cry, laughed when they were suppoed to laugh... It was an incredible example of engaging an audience...

Especially considering the fact that the audience was largely composed of four- and five-year-olds.

The setting was the speellokaal of my son's elementary school.  The members of the audience were children from group 1 and 2, with a couple of teachers and a handful of parents thrown in around the edges of the room.  And the center of attention this hour -- the magnetic force binding all things together, the pied piper playing his hypnotizing tune, the music man mesmerizing these kindergartners -- was de Verhalenman (the Storyman).

Apparently, the Verhalenman has been plying his trade -- telling stories -- for quite some time... because he's quite good at it.  He employs minimal props, simple technology, and no formalities.  Still, his storytelling is quite theatrical.  Relying primarily on tone of voice and active body language -- along with a clever set of interactive costumery -- he spun a tale that involved the kids, entertained the kids, and educated the kids thoroughly for almost an hour.  Heck -- I can't pretend like the magic worked only for the children -- I was absorbed!  We followed the story about Frankie and his mom and their trip to Africa, where they met some of his distant relatives and learned about their culture... And we were totally along for the ride (and not just those who got to be a part of the airplane scene).  I came away from the experience completely awed and amazed by the power of a good story...

As fate would have it, later that evening I found myself congregating with 35 or 40 other people from Zolder50 to participate in the "Three Story Evangelism" training seminar, being offered at the H88 by Bob Phillips (a dear old friend of Zolder50)... We talked about the power of a good story -- of the good story.  The Gospel.  And we mused together about ways in which we could become better storytellers in the city of Amsterdam.  We traded pieces of our stories and spent some time laying the groundwork for honing our ability to understand the stories of others, to more compellingly communicate the story of God and its outworking each of our individual lives.  Even as Bob Phillips shared his own story of coming to follow Jesus in 1972, I was freshly inspired by the transformative power in God's story, particularly observing how it works itself out in countless lives.  As I sat through the seminar, I found myself wanting more and more to become a good storyteller... particularly as it relates to telling the greatest story of all-time.

I just wonder how the Verhalenman would do it.

Ohio is a place where farms, fields, and forests dominate the landscape.  Oh, don't get me wrong:  the good people of Ohio are proud of their cities, their factories, their centers of commerce... but it seems to me that Ohioans are most at-home in the great outdoors -- trolling the streets of their smalltown festivals, working on their yards (maybe raking leaves) or fields (maybe chopping and stacking wood for the fireplace), and enjoying recreation in the form of backyard football or pick-up basketball or capture-the-flag... Yes, Ohio is primarily populated by salt-of-the-earth people who work hard, eat well, and enjoy nothing more than a good ballgame, taken in with good friends in the sanctuaries of living rooms, sports bars, or stadiums.  Archetypical Midwest America.  "The Heart of It All," as the state's license plates used to proclaim.

It seems that my fondness for my home state has increased in direct proportion to the length of time in which I have lived abroad.  Where I was initially bashful about the stereotypical icons of Ohio -- weathered farmers blasting country music on their pick-up truck's radio as they bounce over dusty country roads in the middle of nowhere (for instance) -- I now find an inexplicable pride and joy welling up from within my old Ohio heart.  I've come to embrace this colloquial identity.  I've come to revel in the down-to-earth, rough-and-ready goodness of Ohio.  And as such, it only makes sense that I am now the proud owner of my first Carhartt jacket.

Carhartt jackets are an icon of rural Ohio, the Midwest, hard-work, rugged fun, the great outdoors...  Simple.  Tough.  Classic.  And they're just plain good coats, being exceptionally warm and durable (and no, Carhartt is not paying me to write this post!).  When I was growing up, Carhartt jackets were most popular among the FFA (Future Farmers of America) crowd at my high school, and among construction workers, area farmers, and white-collar weekend warriors.  Truth be told, I never desired to own a Carhartt coat or associate myself with its common working-man identity... However, in the last couple of years, and especially since moving to Europe -- as I've changed my perception of Ohio and of myself... and as such, I've been thinking more and more about outfitting myself in the classic duck fabric of a Carhartt jacket.

And since I was back in the United States over the last couple of weeks -- back in the land of shopping malls and outdoorsman's outfitters, back in the land of the not-nearly-as-almighty-as-it-used-to-be dollar (compared to the euro, at least, which makes all products bought in America seem considerably less expensive), back just at the beginning of the winter season, and back just when I was needing to look into getting a new winter coat... it only made sense that I would look into purchasing a Carhartt jacket for myself.  I tried one on for the first time in the Bass Pro Shop in the Cincinnati Mills Mall, and encouraged by the positive reaction of a couple of my Dutch friends who were able to judge its effect on the streets of Amsterdam, I decided to go for it.  It feels so silly and materialistic and sentimental... But I'm really proud of my new coat!

I'm glad that I came home to Amsterdam with my Carhartt jacket.  It's been lekker warm (nice-and-warm) against the wind, chill, and rain of the fall weather.  It's surprisingly fashionable -- in spite of its iconic American aura -- even on the streets of cosmopolitan Amsterdam.  But more than anything, it's a connection to "back home."  Novembers are typically tough for me in Amsterdam -- probably my least favorite month of the year.  No Thanksgiving.  No American football classics.  No reverent hush of the season's first frosts and snows.  Just a dark and dreary descent into the bowels of Amsterdam's gray, rainy, depressed meteorological calendar.  Especially having just left the cool, crisp, blue-skied, colorfully-foliated glory of October in Ohio -- the nefarious Nederlandse November looms large.  But for some reason, putting on my Carhartt jacket, pulling up the collar against the chill, seems to provide me with some sense of protection... some ability to persevere... some reminder of who I am, where I come from, and where I am going.

Around four o'clock this afternoon, I felt very odd.  At that moment, half-way across town, a worship gathering was just getting started at the H88, organized by Zolder50 (the church for which I serve as co-pastor)... and yet I was casually tidying up in the dining room of my home in Amsterdam Oost.  Not sick.  Not on vacation.  Not disgruntled...

Just not there.  Not participating in my own church's worship gathering.

Instead, I was tidying up the house in preparation for the arrival of the others from our home group.  Instead of meeting for weekly worship as eight combined home groups, with extra attenders thrown in on the side, we're now meeting as two separate neighborhood church communities.  More focus is being put on missional living (taking the church to the people, instead of bringing the people to the church) and embracing community on the level of home groups and life groups.  Thus, four of the home groups meet for worship on the 1st and 3rd Sundays of each month; and the other four home groups (including ours) meet for worship on the 2nd and 4th Sundays of the month.  In the process, more opportunities are afforded for home groups to organize in innovative ways that connect with people outside the church...

Like organizing casual family-style dinners that can serve as a forum for introducing friends to a circle of believers. 

Who knew that Fons could cook snert (Dutch pea soup) from scratch?  It was delicious!  I had no idea that Amarys was such a natural baker... Her double-chocolate cookies were amazing.  Of course, Marci contributed her now-famous culinary skills in coordinating an appetizer... And as such, it seems like our home group has found a meaningful way to interact and to create a hospitable environment for welcoming others into our circle of relationships.

We really had fun doing "church" in our own way this evening.  Everybody cooking together in the kitchen... four kids (our three, plus Maria's Selina) making noise and providing a sense of joy to the scene... It felt like a family holiday gathering.  It really did.  Some might say that it's strange to call such an experience "church" -- and I have to admit that it was bizarre to have a Sunday go by with not participating in the more typical worship gathering, and to know that our church was spread out all across Noord Holland this evening (I believe another home group went to the seaside... another group organized a prayer walk... another four groups, of course, were celebrating our first worship gathering in our "new" ministry center).  But this Sunday's experience of "going to church" was beautiful and meaningful in its own way.

 I just thought I'd post a few brief reflections and a few photographs of the occasion, for the sake of posterity (and my own intellectual and emotional processing of the events)...  In case you were wondering, even though Fons was the primary cook for the evening, my best photograph of meal preparations turned out to be of Marci, chopping vegetables.   So please be sure that Fons gets the props -- but Marci is prettier to look at anyway!

Everyone enjoyed the meal immensely.  And we all felt quite immense after multiple helpings of all the delicious food!  Dutch pea soup is a classic winter recipe, especially if made by a real Dutchman with all fresh ingredients, cooked from scratch.

The evening wound down around the time that Elliot was going to bed -- but not before Amarys, Jeroen, and I helped him make a fantastic lego "tent."

Isn't he just the cutest thing you've ever seen?

There's a lot going on with our church in Amsterdam this month.  Perhaps most significantly, this is the month that we transition from a single Zolder50 community to the circles and squares of two neighborhood church communities (you can read all about it in October's monthly ministry update, posted in the Ministry section of this website)...

Also, after more than a year of waiting and wandering, we're finally moving into the H88 (our "new" ministry facility in the heart of Old Amsterdam)!  I could give you the whole long story behind this... but I won't.  Suffice to say, it's been quite the adventure, getting everything aligned -- but we're glad to see God pulling everything together.

And thirdly (and actually my original reason for writing this post), our sister-organization Stichting Solis Nederland is organizing a special benefit for medical missions in India.  As you can see from the flyer below, it should be a lot of fun -- as well as a meaningful way to support a good cause...

Your prayers and support for all of these various initiatives would be much appreciated.  I'm sure that there will be plenty to write about in the coming month(s), as we actually walk through all of these transitions.  But for now, I just wanted to give the quick heads-up.