Oh the adventures in Dutch bureaucracy! Seeking to fulfill my employer's requirements for a three-month "home service leave" with the entire family, we submitted an application for our six-year-old to miss his last seven weeks of kindergarten, way back on the 29th of January (I can recall the date with such specificity because it's stamped on top of the centimeter-thick stack of related papers that have accumulated throughout the course of the last several months).

Within a week or so, I had an appointment with the government official whom I've affectionately dubbed our "Compulsory Education Bureaucrat" (a literal translation of his Dutch title: leerplichtambtenaar), and after talking for over an hour-and-a-half together, he gave me a massive homework assignment -- translating GCM employmee manuals, submitting a detailed travel schedule, filling out an education plan for Elliot, and more. I estimate that I spent approximately ten hours completing these assignments and turning them back in for inspection and approval by the Compulsory Education Bureaucrat.

Then over the following few weeks, I'd guess I had another (cumulative) two or three hours of telephone conversation with our Compulsory Education Bureaucrat. I didn't necessarily enjoy these conversations, but in a strange way I came to admire the conscientious dedication of this public servant and the rigorous system for which he was working. Of course, the whole process has been frustrating! It's highlighted a number of European/American differences in the philosophies of education and government. Still I have to be impressed with the system -- because it seems to genuinely reflect the will of the Dutch People. Just about every Dutch person with whom I've spoken about the situation has repeated for me the stories about the Turkish and Morroccan immigrants who took their kids out of school for weeks at a time, causing the taxpayers to shoulder the burden of offering special education to get foreign children back up to speed after they had so wantonly disregarded the system. Just about every Dutch person (even those who are sympathetic to our cause) has knit their forehead together when I tell them how long we're requesting that Elliot be allowed to miss school and said, "Well, seven weeks is a very long time for him to be missing school, you know." Through the whole process, I've come to more deeply understand and appreciate the differences between the two cultures which dominate my existence.

But still, I've been stuck: between the requirements of my local Dutch government and the requirements of my American-based employer (not to mention my own personal desires to allow my family a greater opportunity to connect with our American roots) on the other hand.

Anyway, after a long drawn-out process -- throughout which the Compulsory Education Bureaucrat repeatedly warned me that he was inclined to deny our application, only to allow me to spend a few more hours preparing and submitting another piece of evidence that might be able to sway his decision -- we learned about two weeks ago that our application was definitively denied. In spite of our hours and hours of conversation and administrative aerobics... in spite of impassioned pleas by Elliot's teacher and school principal (who have been a great help and encouragement to us in the process)... in spite of our (and maybe even your) dedicated prayer for a favorable ruling -- our request for a leave-of-absence was rejected.

We initiated the appeal process right away -- which starts with a hearing before a Commission of Compulsory Education Bureaucrats (our guy's colleagues), and which could eventually move to a court within the regular Dutch legal system (if the Commission upholds the original ruling and we still desire to press our appeal) -- however, the first stage of the appeal process could be up to eight weeks... And our predetermined travel dates fall within this time period. Which is to say: It's entirely possible (and probably even likely) that we could have no official ruling on our appeal until after the time has come for us to leave! So we inquired about the possible penalties for disregarding an official ruling -- and it turns out that we would be looking at a minimum of €250 per week (or a total of €1750 = $2800 USD) plus probation and a maximum of €500 per week (or a total of €3500 = $5600 USD), potentially even including jail-time for "serious offenses!" Obviously, even the minimum penalties would be too much for us to afford... So we had to reluctantly start looking into developing a "Plan B" for our trip back to America -- seeing how doors had been slammed (or were poised to be slammed) on all of the legal channels that we had pursued.

And then we found a back door.

After reading the actual statutes relating to the enforcement of Dutch compulsory education law (not exactly the kind of reading material that you'd like to take with you to the beach), we started to wonder if there might be some room for accommodating our situation based on the issue of school enrollment.  When we asked a Dutch friend to take a look at the statutes for us, to offer some help in interpreting the legalese, he basically finished by asking us the same question:  Well, why don't you just unenroll Elliot from the school system?  So, a couple of days later, when I was working with our Compulsory Education Bureaucrat on the appeal process, I basically asked him the same question:  "What would happen if we simply unenrolled Elliot from the school system?"

Upon hearing my question, the Compulsory Education Bureaucrat paused for a second, audibly shrugged (if you know what I mean), and replied, "Hmm -- yeah, I guess you could do that" with the tone of voice you might use to decide to go to the movies after dinner instead of going to the library.  I'm not sure if he had ever thought of it before -- but his response was definitely not negative, and though I need to be careful not to read too much into his response, I basically got the feeling that he might have even been relieved that we had discovered such a possibility (since, as I mentioned, all along he was only doing his duty to meticulously follow the provisions of Dutch compulsory education law -- not to meanly and deliberately antagonize us).  Of course, it would have been nice if we could have had this conversation a couple of months ago!  But better late than never, I guess...

Following up on the conversation with the Compulsory Education Bureaucrat, I consulted with a trusted businessman and a lawyer -- and it basically turns out that the ultimate consequences of unenrolling Elliot amount to a loss of less than €150 (total) from tax-related considerations... and, well, that's it.  The lawyer that I consulted suggested that we may want to talk with the school administration at the Frankendael School (where Elliot is currently enrolled) -- just to make sure that there would be no complications with waiting lists to re-enroll in the fall or bitterness about them losing some tax funding in the process.  So last week I talked about it with the principal at Elliot's school, who smiled when he heard our solution and nodded reassuringly that Elliot would be welcomed back "with open arms" to the Frankendael School in the fall.

So, officially, Elliot will be moving to the United States this summer!  He will be un-enrolling from school for the last seven weeks of the school year, he will be written out of the city register (but not the national register, thus leaving his residency status unaffected) -- and then he will be moving back to Amsterdam in August and starting the new school year with the rest of his old classmates.

Crazy, huh?  Talk about adventures with the Dutch bureaucracy... I wish that all of this could have been settled earlier.  But I'm glad that we have been provided with a solution in the end.  We've got a lot of work to do now in the coming month (organizing vehicles to transport us and houses in which to stay), to get everything organized for our three months of home service leave.  But at least we're finally on the right track!  Thanks for your prayers.

Dear Elliot,

Happy Birthday! Six years old, huh? That's pretty incredible. You know, I don't think I can refer to you as a "little boy" anymore. Somewhere, somehow, sometime within the last year or so, you crossed a threshhold -- albeit vague and ambiguous, as it often is with the vast majority of life's various threshholds -- and you ceased to be a "little boy." You became a regular, full-fledged, out-right boy. A big boy, even... Of course, all of these terminologies are relative and basically irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. People will always call you what they want to call you -- based on their preconceived notions, their personal perceptions, their prejudices -- but for whatever it's worth, Elliot, I think you ought to be called a big boy now. A gen-u-ine, bonafide, certifiable six-year-old boy. And not just any boy: my boy.

I sure do love you, Elliot. I'm so proud of the boy that you've become (and are becoming). You're tall, lean, fast, tough, intelligent, spirited, and fun. I cannot help but marvel at your intelligence and maturity. You're a good, responsible kid who just seems to "get it," understanding the complexities of life -- on two continents, in two cultures, no less -- in ways that even I cannot fully comprehend. Truly, your innate sense of understanding is a wonder to behold. I hope and trust that this will be a blessing from God that will serve you (and others) well throughout your life. At the same time, though, it's unfortunate to note that your giftedness can seem to work against you at times. You notice hurtful comments and actions that others might not notice. You feel the weight of emotional events on a level that many of the other kids your age do not, or cannot. You can become so frustrated at your own personal imperfections -- simply because you're self-aware!

I'm glad that God made you this way. I really admire these traits about you. However, please be careful not to let your quest for complete comprehension block your view of the great beauties of life (even the painful parts of life) and the incredible strides that you've made along the way. I hope you can grow to realize (in all these things) that you are a highly capable, very special boy, who is still very much at the beginning of a lifetime of learning -- whether it's building the ultimate Lego mansion, or sketching the most intricate Superman portrait, or racing your bike around the Bikoplein, or tying your shoelaces, or practicing fast-listening to me and Mommy. You're doing a great job, Elliot. Go ahead and keep asking questions if you don't understand something (I know you will anyway!). Go ahead and keep practicing, getting better, improving your techniques in all these (and other) various disciplines. But give yourself some grace, too, OK? Imperfection and pain is a part of life. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody hurts sometimes. Just don't forget: I'm proud of you, and I love you just the way you are. And even more signficantly, God is proud of you, and He loves you just the way you are.

I know that all of this is easier advised than applied. Easier said than done. I know from personal experience. But maybe we can work on it together. And as we can learn to accept our imperfections and accept God's grace (like it says in Ephesians 2:8-9), we'll be able to walk comfortably and confidently in the good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Ah Elliot... my boy... you simply cannot comprehend the affection in my heart, the smile on my face, the warm thoughts in my mind -- when I think about you, as I'm sitting here, writing this letter. You simply cannot comprehend it -- not because of your inability to accept it, but because of my inability to fully articulate it! How can I verbally summarize your frownish/smilish "game face," which signals you're about to tackle me, or show me a new trick on your bike, or bust into rhyme about Ned, who's dressed in Red, and lives in Bled?!? How can I speak of the scintillating softness of your heart, when you sob uncontrollably upon the realization of the way you've wronged your mother, or when you respond (unprompted) to the spilling of your sister's appel-vier-bessensap with a slosh of your own precious portion, or when you meticulously manufacture incredibly thoughtful gifts for your friends and family members?!? How can I explain the depth of respect and admiration for a boy who is 25 years my junior?!?

You've truly become a beautiful boy, Elliot. I can't take much credit for it, though. Your people skills and linguistic abilities already show signs of being far beyond my own. Your dashingly smooth good looks, clearly, are thanks to your mother. And above and beyond all of this, as the first-born in our family, you're working against the dubious distinction of being our family's proefkonijn. You know, there's a pretty steep learning curve for parents -- and I've only recently been realizing how much it's had to come at your expense. We were, I'm afraid, far too rigid, too regimented, too principled in the beginning, with you. We've never been -- and (I hate to break it to you) never will be perfect parents. And yet, I have no doubt that you're turning out to be a terrific kid in spite of it all. I guess it's just one more reminder of God's grace in the face of our imperfections. Apparently, God even gives grace for children (such as you) to deal with our parental (and personal) shortcomings. Wow. Hallelujah for that...

I sure do love you, Elliot. My boy. My big boy. Six-year-olds sure can do a lot of cool stuff -- and what's coolest is that you've still got gobs of potential for the years to come -- but remember that none of us can do it all. That's why we've got each other. That's why we've got Jesus.

God bless you, my boy. Happy Birthday!

Love,

Dad

"So what'd you do today?"

"Oh, some grocery shopping. A few telephone calls. Nothing too unusual. What about you?"

"Me? Hmmm. Well, um... I, uh -- I bought a house this morning."

* * *

It's true. Surreal. Anti-climactic. Understated. But true.

Today, Marci and I signed the papers for the purchase of our first home in the Netherlands. The process here works a bit differently than it does in America -- so we still have to wait three days (a mandatory "thinking period") and then secure the final financing from the bank before we can officially call ourselves homeowners -- but basically, it's a done deal. We bought a house today.

Lest the story sound any more dramatic than what has really taken place, the house that we bought is the house that we've lived in for the last five years (which is actually just an apartment, in American terminology). The opportunity to buy the place kind of just fell in our laps. Because of our renters' rights (which make it nearly impossible for a landlord to have us removed, against our will) and because of tax incentives for the owner to sell within a six-month period of time since his own acquisition of the space, we were given an offer that we felt we couldn't refuse. So we bought a house today.

It still sounds crazy to say it out right like that -- but it's true. We got the place for about 75% of its market value (which is to say, 75% of the cost that the other apartments directly above our apartment went for -- in exactly the same neighborhood, exactly the same square meterage, and exactly the same time of the year), and believe it or not, our monthly mortgage payments will actually be less than what we've been paying in rent each month (when some tax breaks are factored in). Thus, the decision to go forward with purchasing the house seemed like a no-brainer for us.

Still, it's crazy to realize that we bought a house today.

Elliot celebrated his sixth birthday today (even though his official birthday is not until Saturday). We organized a "Cars"-themed party, which turned out to be a big hit.

Believe it or not, after celebrating five other birthdays here in the Netherlands, this year was Elliot's first real Dutch party -- which is to say: a majority of the guests were Dutch (or at least non-American) and the primary language spoken during the party was Dutch. Somehow, this threshhold seems significant.

One of the main reasons that we organized the party for today instead of for Saturday (his actual birthday) was that we wanted to create some separation between Elliot's birthday (a fun occasion) and his best friend Tobias' departure (a sad occasion). This Saturday will be the last big hurrah for the Dubois family -- with a farewell party at the H88 -- and Elliot has been dreading the arrival of his birthday, because it means that he'll have to say his last good-byes to Tobias. When we dropped Tobias off, back at his house, and Elliot saw all the moving boxes piled up -- it seemed that the reality of the Dubois family's imminent departure started to set in more fully. I feel bad for my boy. I know that it's going to be hard for him.

Still, today was a day for smiling. A day for celebration. Saturday will be that in a way, too, but in a hard kind of way.  Today was just a good time for eating cake, playing games, and being silly with friends.

I came back to my house after a week away. Picked up the scattered pieces of mail in the front entryway. Ritualistically put away the things from my suitcase. Started a load of laundry. Rifled through the mail.

Out of all the various pieces of mail, there was only one hand-written envelope -- so, of course, it was the first one that I opened. And as I read the contents of the envelope, I was touched by the beauty of this hand-made (though seemingly professionally-printed) Easter card. Very simple: a beautiful photograph (or is it a painting?) of a screw through weathered wooden planks, with an original poem printed along the top. And yet very profound. I thought I would share the poem with you:

Hout van God


Delen van die boom
Van goed en kwaad
Mijn oog verblind
Kennis van duizend dromen.

Toen keerde ik terug
naar mijn gestrande schip
Alleen nog wrakhout van de boeg
Lichten van jutters doemen op
Wartaal door de splinters in hun ogen.

Nu zit en pent mijn hart
Op de balken uit mijn ogen
Mijn tranen zullen niet bedrogen.

De Timmermanszoon woog kundig
Zijn kruishout voor mij af
Haaks op mijn bedacht bestek
Oogt het soms één millimeter te lang
Zelfs één millimeter te zwaar?

Zijn adem blies Hij er over uit
En riep: houd moed...

-- Kees Roeleveld, Pasen 2008

I was going to try and provide my own English translation of the poem (and maybe I'll still get around to providing it sometime soon) -- but then I started trying to do it, and I realized how difficult it is to accurately capture the meaning and feeling of poetry in translation.

For now, I'll just leave it at that -- and I'll wish you a very happy Easter.

Christ is risen!

Like many other Americans at this time of the year, I enjoy the delicate balance of science and intuition that goes into guessing the winners of the annual basketball tournament of the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA).  There's a certain excitement about the whole process -- especially in the days leading up to and including the first couple of rounds of the tournament (when there are several games simultaneously being played in varoius parts of the country).  I have warm memories of filling out the tournament brackets in high school (and even stealing glimpses of the games, together with the teacher, on the classroom television set in our cheminstry laboratory)... I remember debating the prospects of various games together with the other guys in my dormitory at Bowling Green State University... And even since moving to Europe, I've kept up with the annual observance of "March Madness."  It's a lot of fun.

For the first time this year, though, I've included my two oldest children on the tradition as well.  A friend of ours (with whom we also happen to be hanging out this week) organizes a rather sophisticated contest for the NCAA basketball tournament, with prizes handed out primarily for the sake of prestige (more than financial gain, like most "bracket pools" in the USA).  Thus, together, Elliot, and Olivia, and I are now vying for the coveted March Madness Traveling Tropy (and yes, the spelling on that last word is, in fact, correct) -- and competing amongst ourselves to see whose skills in sports prognostication are the most developed.

It's funny to see how Elliot and Olivia approach the selection process.  Elliot used some degree of logic -- albeit a rather unusual sort of logic -- in making his picks.  He asked a number of questions and sought my input on a number of occasions, pausing at times to genuinely consider a difficult pick in his mind.  But ultimately, he made his picks according to his own wisdom -- which seemed to be primarily linked to acquaintance and familiarity with the names of the schools in the tournament.  American University (a lowly #15 seed) was picked to advance a few rounds, "because I'm American." Kent State was picked to win a few rounds because it's an Ohio school.  Siena was picked for a number of upsets (making it all the way to the "Elite 8"), because Elliot and Olivia have a friend named Sienna.  Likewise, West Virginia (though not quite as much of a long-shot as Siena) was picked for the "Sweet 16" because Elliot has a cousin named Virginia.  Ultimately, Elliot picked Wisconsin and Texas to be playing for the championship -- Wisconsin because "Daddy used to live there," and Texas because his cousins Aydan and Brennan live there.  Don't ask me how he figured out that Texas would be his ultimate pick for the national championship.

Olivia, on the other hand, seemed to use almost no logic in making her picks.  Remarkably, she didn't even hesitate from one choice to the next.  At first, I thought she was just picking the second team that I mentioned (i.e. a question of "Team A or Team B" would always result in an answer of "Team B")... But as I experimented with this hypothesis, it was definitively disproved.  Apparently, it was just the aesthetic appeal of one school's name over another.  Thus, she picked three of the #16 seeds (the lowest teams with the longest odds of success) to advance to the second round (even though such an upset has never occurred in the history of the NCAA Tournament, up to this point).  And her Final Four were Boise State (a #14 seed), Austin-Peay (a #15 seed), Georgia (#14 seed), and Gonzaga (#7 seed) -- with, who else, Boise State winning the national title.

What's really funny, though, in all of this is that Elliot and Olivia honestly have as much of a chance to do well with their predictions (Well... OK, Olivia less than Elliot)... You never can tell when it comes to March Madness.

The lakes of central Europe have become a sort of finish-line for me: specifically Hungary's Lake Balaton and Slovenia's Lake Bled. Subconsciously, these places have become that landmark point on the horizon toward which I can orient my last gasping breaths, my final stumbling strides from the marathon winter in Holland. And when I make it to the lakes of central Europe, I collapse climactically, gulping in deep mouthfuls of air that renew me and revitalize me in the deepest portions of my soul.

Every year around Easter, GCM (my employer) organizes its annual missionary retreat, for all the GCM employees working in Europe. The first four years that I lived in Europe, this retreat was held on the shores of Lake Balaton, in western Hungary. And the last two years, we've been upgraded (in my opinion -- no offense to Hungary) to Lake Bled, Slovenia. For five glorious days in early spring, we gather with other kindred spirits from the scattered corners of the Continent in a sort of spiritual family reunion. Special activities are organized for our children, so they can play together with other missionary kids, under trustworthy supervision, while the parents are magically enabled to interact freely with the other grown-ups. We share meals together with surrogate aunts, uncles, and cousins from Italy, Poland, Germany, Ukraine... We encourage each other with stories from the scattered churches and with personal insights from the Bible. And we deliberately take time to go for walks, swims, and naps. Simply put, it is a highlight of the year for our family.

It can make me feel guilty, in a certain way, to consider these annual retreats as part of my job. True, my employer benevolently requires my attendance. And true, I also come away from the annual retreats with new lessons learned, new skills to apply, and new energy for the day-to-day ministry tasks with which I'm regularly involved. But still, it's tough to express my annual anticipation to the Dutch (volunteer) leaders in our church -- or to the people who provide the regular financial support for our ministry in Amsterdam -- because I'm afraid of being considered a slacker, a lazy person, a scam artist. I guess it's that whole Protestant work ethic, or maybe northern European frugality.

But as I thought about things this year, I realized that it's good to rest. It's healthy to be refreshed and renewed. It's a spiritual discipline, in fact. Did you realize that Adam and Eve's first full day in the newly created Earth was a day of rest, not a day of work? From a human perspective, rest is the starting point for our lives and work and ministry. We're not supposed to just work and work and work to the point of collapse at the "week-end." We're supposed to start by resting, relaxing, enjoying God's creation, as the first thing in our lives. And then there, from that place of rest, we can get the power and presence of God that we need to live out the rest of our days until the cycle starts all over again.

Thus, mindful of this basic spiritual, the annual retreat to the lakes of central Europe is a blessing from God that serves as the starting point for a new year of ministry. After the long, dark, dismal, damp, gray, bleak, depressing (is that enough synonymous adjectives for you?), it truly feels like a finish line to have a special experience marking the end of one season and the beginning of another. It's so fitting, too, that this annual retreat coincides with Easter and the spring season in general. And because it happens in a far-away place, well outside the normal realm of Amsterdam activity, we're able to get a fresh sense of perspective on life and ministry. Somehow, going back to Amsterdam after a week by the lakes of central Europe, the city feels brighter and warmer --- and even more promising with the knowledge that the sunlight and days of warmth will only increase and intensify for the coming months, bringing us into the most beautiful time of year in Amsterdam.

Yes, the lakes of central Europe are a finish-line for me. But they're also the starting line for the next race ahead.

In observance of the five year anniversary of Zolder50's inception in Amsterdam, I helped to put together a video slide-show representing a visual history of our first five years as a church community. It was pretty challenging to sum up so many lives, so many stories, and so many years in a fifteen-and-a-half minute video presentation -- but I'm pretty pleased with the results.

Because of YouTube restrictions on length, I had to post the slideshow in two pieces (rather crudely hacked off between songs). But the show starts with the window above and continues with the window below.

The pictures in the slide-show are arranged chronologically, starting with the initial exploratory trip to Amsterdam in May of 2001 and proceding all the way up until March of 2008. It is far from a complete history of Zolder50 (I'm really, really sorry if your picture did not make it into the show) -- but it's still a fun monument to the last five years. It includes images from every single baptism for which I was able to find a photographic record (which, unfortunately, does not encompass the entire lot of baptisms) -- but I did this because I really wanted to emphasize the work that God has been doing in individual lives throughout the last five years. You may notice that the slide-show is somewhat heavy on pictures of the staff team and my home group... This is partially practical (approximately 80 to 85 percent of the images were from my own personal collection) and partially philosophical (as I considered that I am, after all, really only capable of telling one man's story of Zolder50, and taking this vantage point also helps to provide a kind of "control group" that demonstrates how people have aged, as well as how families and groups have grown and changed).  Again, it's not a perfect slide-show.  But it's something fun to see.

One extra thing that's really cool about the presentation is that all of the musical accompaniment for the slide-show is done by people from Zolder50. Also arranged more-or-less chronologically, the music from Chris Smith, Danny Stimac, Leslie Phillips, and Claire Buswell shares beautiful stories about our community, in their own ways.

I hope you enjoy the slide-show.  Thanks to all of you who have been involved in this church community in some way, or who have prayed for us.  We look forward to seeing what God will do in the next five years! 

We missed you tonight, man. We missed you a lot. I wish you could have been there. Of course, it wasn't the first time that these feelings have cropped up throughout the last five years or so. But it was a particularly poignant evening in Amsterdam that became a particularly painful reminder of your absence.

Your name came up quite a few times throughout the course of our time together. Not with the venom and animosity that you probably suspect, but with affection and honor. For a lot of the people assembled, you were just a name, a second-hand memory... But for me -- and for the rest of us who knew you -- you are (not were) a beloved friend, whose presence is deeply missed.

If it were not for you, Steve, I would not be in Amsterdam. Zolder50 would not be in Amsterdam. I can still hear the sound of your voice on my answering machine, echoing through the white, white kitchen of our Bowling Green home -- the Conneaut house -- in the sunny summer dawn. 6:30 in the morning. Yet it was your cool, casual voice -- calling from Amsterdam to playfully pester me, to pull me through the final months toward the far side of the Atlantic. Breathless from my run down the stairs, I snatched the telephone from the receiver, and I heard your smile through the line. I tried to scold you for forgetting the time zone differential, but you diffused it immediately and effortlessly, like you always could do: "When're you gonna get here, man?" I told you I was doing my best. You said, "Good -- get your butt over here, OK?" I said OK. And then I did.

I don't know how the whole thing ever would've unfolded without you, Steve. I'm sure it would have somehow; I am, after the last five years, a firm believer in the sovereignty of God. Indeed, God has sustained us in ways you never could have, Steve. But at the same time, I have to believe that God used you in the early days of the "Amsterdam Project" in an extremely unique way. I mean, seriously, three-dozen people transplanted from the heartlands of America (Colorado, Kansas, and Ohio, for goodness sake!) -- to Amsterdam, of all places?!?! Taking on real-estate development projects to subsidize ministry costs? Developing an international resource center with people posessing plenty of talent and ambition, but just a handful of stamps in our passports, to start things off?!? You were (and probably still are) a genius, Steve. Some of your ideas were absolutely brilliant. Others were, perhaps, delusional -- even crash-and-burn material (which is to say that I've got some of the bruises and blisters to show for it). I can't deny that there have been nights when I've cursed your name, Steve... And yet, in the grander scheme of things, when I step back and get a sense of perspectve -- like this weekend -- I have to give you credit, Steve. You accomplished a great deal. The fruit of your work is still ripening, still developing, and even carrying seeds to the far corners of the earth...

I wish you could've been there, Steve. I wish you could've heard Sunita talk. . And Jeroen. And Gerard. And Jurren. But you weren't. For what it's worth, everything is going all right, here. Probably not as well as if you could've stuck around a bit longer. But we're doing all right. You'd be proud. You'd be glad.

Thanks, at any rate, for everything you did -- everything you gave -- to make this weekend possible. The cost has been high, but so have the dividends... I almost wrote, "but it's been worth it" there, yet I don't know if I can really make that value judgment. Especially not on your life, your sacrifices, your pain. I can scarcely make such a claim for my own life! All I know is that God has managed to salvage some good things from our efforts. So for whatever it's worth, I just want to say "Thank you."

We sure have missed you this weekend, Steve. You, and Ali, and Chris, and Marcey, and Bret, and Jayla, and all the rest... I wish we could have heard some of your masterful storytelling. I wish we could have heard Chris play "Hallelujah." I wish you were all here.

God bless you, Steve. I hope you're doing all right. Give us a call sometime, if you ever feel like it... even if it's at 6:30 in the morning.

Love,

Eric

Sorry for the silence. I haven't been able to do much blogging this week.

It's just been one of those weeks. A preaching week (whenever I preach on Sunday, my work week is inevitably more stressful). The week before an out-of-town trip (which is also an automatic stressor). And, on top of it all, this is the week that we're celebrating the fifth anniversary of our church community here in Amsterdam.

The fifth anniversary thing would normally be prime fodder for blogging -- all kinds of opportunities for sappy sentimentalism and introspective nostalgia -- but instead, I'm being kept busy with practicalities, more than anything. In just about every free moment throughout the last week, I've been exercising some old, atrophied video-production muscle: putting together a slideshow representing the photographic history of Zolder50 (which, by the way, I hope to be able to post here on-line before the end of the weekend). I've also been helping to plan and organize some of the activities for the weekend, as well as taking special time to hang out with some of the out-of-town "alumni" who have come to celebrate with us. It's all good stuff, of course, but it is extra stuff. And added with all of the other stuff from a preaching week and a preparation-for-an-out-of-town-trip week... well, it's just made it one of those weeks.

As icing on the cake, we found out late this afternoon that our application for Elliot's leave-of-absence from school at the end of the year has been denied. Rejected. We jumped through all the hoops they asked us to jump through (flaming hoops, suspended 3.5 meters up in the air). But in the end, we were still rejected. It stings. But we're going to enter the appeal process and maybe seek some legal consultation on how to deal with the fact that the six weeks of the appeal process (following the six weeks of the application process) will push us right into our travel dates.

< sigh >

It's just been one of those weeks.

"So are you a working mom?" the dental hygenist asks Marci, innocently, simply seeking to determine how to best advise a schedule for helping our kids brush their teeth better.

I can't say exactly how my wife would feel about such a question, herself, but I cringe at the question on her behalf. In such a social situation, it's hard to go into an explanation about the intricacies of the Dutch government's view of our family -- granting work permits and residence permits which do not allow Marci to ply her profession as a physical therapist. It's hard to discuss our family's philosophy behind raising children -- which places a high value on the active presence and involvement of parents, so far as it is possible -- without sounding moralistic and defensive. But it's also a moral dilemma to answer the question with the simplest and most direct provision of the information that the questionner is seeking: which would be, No (i.e. "I do not work for a company which pays me a monthly salary").

I guess the phrase "working mom" is essentially oxymoronic. Is there anything other than a working mom?

True, my wife does not log her hours on a time card.  She doesn't have set hours, outside of the children's school schedules and such.  And she doesn't receive a regular paycheck, directly compensating her for her labor and toil.  Nevertheless, I wouldn't say that she isn't a "working mom."  In fact, I'd say just the opposite.  She works her butt off.

It should be obvious, from the fact that she's sitting in a dentist's chair, having her mouth cleaned and examined and conversing with the dental hygenist -- while simultaneously holding a six-month-old baby on her lap (who was supposed to be napping in his infant carrier), and glancing out of the corner of her eye from time to time to check on her three-year-old daughter coloring on the floor in the corner of the dentist's office!  She has to balance dutiful dental care, with a squawking squirming baby on her lap, and a little girl prancing like a pony around the office.  And though it nearly drives her crazy, she does it all with skill.  Yes, yes, she is a working mom.

Believe it or not, the dentist's office craziness is actually the third or fourth such chaotic conundrum of the day.

After getting up early to feed the baby, she hurried to prepare herself and leave the house by 7:45, so she could ride her bicycle to the grocery store and be there by 8:00.  She rode to the "big" supermarket, even though she had to pass three other grocery stores on the way there, thinking that it would ultimately be quicker and easier to gain the advantage of "one stop shopping."  However, when it turned out that the big supermarket hadn't yet stocked its produce for the week, she ended up having to do just a portion of her shopping there and then stop at the smaller neighborhood grocery store on the way home after all!  And, oh yeah -- she had to do all of this in the rain.  On her bicycle.  Carrying the groceries home in her bicycle's saddlebags.

Once the groceries were put away in the cupboards and refrigerator of her miniscule urban kitchen, she threw in another load of laundry (it's astonishing how much dirty laundry a family of five can produce), and then finished the grueling preparations our three children for a trip to the dentist's office.  Negotiating outfits with our three-year-old girl, coaching our six-year-old boy to think positive thoughts about the dentist's office (and not spook his younger sister), bundling up our baby boy and trying to engage him enough to hold off his nap-time until the trip to the dentist's (figuring that it would be best to overlap nap time and dentist's office time as much as possible).  Then, loading everyone into the family bakfiets (the mini-van of bicycles), she had to pedal hard, for perhaps 5 or 6 kilometers (about a half-hour's worth of bicycling), in hard-gusting winds of perhaps 30 or 40 kilometers per hour.  Wind and rain.  And three kids in a bakfiets.

Of course, the dentist was already behind schedule, giving the baby just enough time to awake from his nap -- just about the time that everyone was being called back into the room.  And then, as already painfully explained, the adventures of the dentist's office proceded from there.  And all of this happened before 10:30 on Monday morning.

Yes, indeed, my wife is a working mom.  She may not get the luxury of being able to tell her dental hygenist so.  But she is.  And I think she's doing a wonderful job.

I'm intrigued by the process of blogging just as much as the actual writing of the blog posts themselves: how people come into contact with a blog, how they interact with the blog, how a blog becomes established and recognized by the internet community -- that kind of stuff. It's really interesting stuff, once you start looking into the statistics and noticing what kind of internet traffic comes your direction.

For whatever reason, the volume of visitors to this blog has tailed off in recent weeks. For a while, basically between the American holiday of Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day, I was getting hundreds of random hits per day: just some scattered search engine query bringing someone in for a quick bounce in-and-out (curiously often related to "appeltaart," "Fonz" or "dating in Amsterdam," and more through image searching than through text searching). But recently, the flood of random hits has slowed significantly (again, don't ask me why)... And now, I find myself getting more e-mail reaction to particular posts -- sometimes from quite a long time ago.

For instance, a number of international expatriates from Richland County, Ohio found my blog through my post on absentee voting, which included an incidental mention of the race for Member of State Central Committee, Mansfield (19th District). And while these visitors didn't typically leave comments on the blog for everyone to see, I got to have some interesting e-mail interaction with a unique sub-culture of people scattered throughout the world.

And then there've been the requests for advertising space. Like the following e-mail received last week:

Hello,

dead monkeys in a party dress? now i've seen it all.

Say, I was wondering if I can place an ad on this page http://www.ericasp.com/blog.php/2008/01/22/dead_monkey_in_a_party_dress
for someone who sells pet insurance?

I don't have much, but I can pay $25 for an ad there. If this works for you let me know and I'll send you over the ad and the payment.

Thanks,

A.K.

I honestly don't know how much of this is spam, and how much is legitimate business entrepreneurialship. I'm not naive -- still, I can imagine that some small business would do a search on Google, see what it came up with, and then try to place ads on those sites that already have some exposure (as opposed to making their own site and then waiting for it to rise the ranks of the search engine robots).

I'd be curious to hear if anyone has any experience (positive or negative) with advertising opportunities in the context of blogging. Up to this point, I've been fairly averse to the idea... But then again, maybe I'm just scared of the unfamiliar... Who knows?

My friend Patricia and I got to talking about the great cities of the world, during the course of our bicycle ride through the streets of Amsterdam on Friday afternoon. Obviously, there are a vast number of interesting places around the world -- places that would be well worthwhile to visit -- but there are really only a handful of truly great, glamorous, epic, international cities. "Cities that could serve as the setting for a great novel or film -- in which the city almost serves as one of the characters," as so aptly described by Patricia.

There are a number of such cities in my native land, the United States of America. And yet, as we talked about all the different places, I realized how unfamiliar I am (on the personal level) with America's great cities. I've never been to San Francisco, Seattle, or New Orleans (which would definitely qualify for such a listing, in my mind). I've passed through cities like New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, and Los Angeles (other "givens" for the category of "great, glamorous, epic, international cities") -- but I can't really say that I've ever spent enough time in any of the places to really know them, to have cheered for one of the local sports teams live and in-person, to be able to participate in arguments about the best place in town to go for such-and-such a delicacy -- you know, to have personal memories of my time in these places, to be able to distinguish anything off of the well-worn tourist paths.

Really, of all the "great cities" of North America, I can only lay claim to an acquaintance with Chicago in any kind of meaningful way. That is to say I've spent a considerable amount of time there, on multiple occasions; I've cheered on the White Sox from Comiskey, I've acquired a distinct preference for Giordanno's over Gino's East; and I've experienced much more of the city than the Sears Tower, the Miracle Mile, and the Hard Rock Cafe.

There are, of course, numerous other places that I've visited within the United States which are wonderful in their own ways -- but not so much as to qualify for a starring role in their own motion picture. The biggest cities from my home state of Ohio, namely Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Columbus -- frankly -- do not make the cut (though they have served as the setting for classic television series like "Family Ties," "WKRP," and "The Drew Carey Show"). I do kind of wonder about places like Atlanta, Minneapolis, Detroit, and Saint Louis -- which may be closer to that inexplicable international greatness -- but I don't really think that they make the cut either... Las Vegas, Miami, and/or San Antonio might qualify for "honorable mention" on a listing of the world's greate cities -- but I haven't been to any of these three anyway.

Crazy, isn't it?  My homeland.  "My" national cities... and yet I don't know them at all, except for what I've seen in movies and on TV.

I might get to slide in a few of the European "greats" as compensation:  Paris, Barcelona, Budapest... Even so, I'm not completely confident, upon objective analysis of these cities, that any of them -- apart from the immortal Paris -- really qualify for the list, or if I would qualify as one who is intimately acquainted with these cities at any rate!  At the very least, I have special memories attached to each of these cities -- which is more than I can say for most of the American "greats."  I also have special memories of places like Dublin, Prague, Torino, Krakow, and Stockholm -- but I honestly can't think of many films set in any of these places, so I'm not sure how they stack up on my rather arbitrary list...

Like the American "greats," I'm saddened to realize how few of the European "greats" I've missed.  In spite of their relative geographic proximity, I've never been to London, Berlin, Venice, or Rome -- which would be other "givens" for the list of "greats" (in my humble opinion).

But I'm curious about Amsterdam.  Would Amsterdam qualify for being one of the world's great, glamorous, epic, international cities???  I certainly think it would make -- at the very least -- the list of honorable mentions (like Las Vegas, Dublin, or Copenhagen).  But would it possibly be higher than this?  I can think of films like "Ocean's Twelve" and "Munich," which pass through Amsterdam at one point or another.  And certainly, if I were ever to write a great novel, it would be set in Amsterdam.  But am I simply biased toward my adopted hometown?  Is Amsterdam merely a "bit part" in the world's great storylines -- or is it a full-fledged well-rounded character in its own right?  Certainly, Amsterdam couldn't stand up to the headliners like New York, London, or Jerusale; but where does it actually rank?  I'm curious...

I've spent the last week processing the lessons learned at the European Church Planters Network learning community in Portugal.  After having spent approximately 40 hours in a 72 hour stretch in organized interaction with other church planters from Europe -- my brain getting filled up with all kinds of questions and ideas along the way -- I needed some time for myself to sift out the most important elements of of the week's learning... And although I still feel very challenged about things like developing an entrepreneurial culture without our church, the missiological implications of paying full-time ministry workers, and thinking in terms of church-planting-movements instead of simply linear church-planting strategies -- I think my biggest take-away from the week in Portugal was the time that I got to spend with Victor John and Sandy Millar (pictured above).

Both men amazed me with their wisdom and experience, while maintaining a sense of earthiness and genuine warmth.  Both men challenged me with the richness of their prayer life and their commitment to God.  Both men encouraged me by taking a genuine interest in Zolder50's work in Amsterdam and basically coming alongside us as we considered our future as a church.  Both men stood out as role models for me.

Victor John was a full-time pastor in an Indian congregation that had been established by Swedish missionaries during the first half of the 20th Century.  But as the European missionaries were gradually phased out of responsibility for the work of the Church in India (according to government policy), Victor found himself facing a crossroads in his ministry about 15 years ago.  Ultimately, he decided to step out of his role as a full-time pastor for his congregation (which is a very unusual thing to do in India, where the pastor is highly honored), and he helped to establish a rapidly-multiplying network of house-churches which has led to an estimated 3 million people coming to Christ among the Bohjpurri people of northern India.  Among these followers of Christ, approximately 50 former Muslim clerics are now helping to catalyze over 200 house churches among the culturally-Muslim popluations of the region!  Now, they're hoping and praying for another 30 million people to come to Christ in the coming ten years!  It seems crazy!  And yet, it's all accomplished through a very simple (though radical) commitment to prayer, studying the Bible, and empowering others to pass on the things they learn from God throughout their social networks.  As Victor talked with the pastors of the ECPN, he minced no words and threw out some massive challenges -- and yet he maintained a supportive, encouraging tone.  He called us out on the carpet, and yet he let us know that he wanted to help us.  For one whole session, Victor sat with Todd, Gerard, and me -- just the four of us -- helping us to think through the implications of his experiences in India for our church in Holland.  We asked question after question after question, and we soaked up all the wisdom he poured in our direction.

Sandy Millar is a white-haired Scotsman with a warm personality, a genteel manner of conversation, a quick smile, and a witty remark always on his lips.  He gave me an immediate hug when he saw me in Portugal, even though the extent of our acquaintance was basically limited to a paella dinner in Barcelona almost a year ago.  He's a highly-esteemed bishop in the Church of England, and yet when he retired from his ministry with London's Holy Trinity Brompton (the church who started the Alpha Course, under his leadership, no less) -- he took a position as vicar of Tollington Park (one of the poorest parishes in London) for his "retirement."  As we talked with him, he would continually come back to the themes of loyalty and gratitude (particularly toward the Americans -- I was interested to hear -- who other Europeans seem somewhat prone to disdain, even if politely or silently).  And he regularly demonstrated the importance of generosity:  giving away resources from the church, being willing to walk away from "success," giving credit to others, always trying to hand off the microphone to someone else from his team who could explain things better than he could.  He was a beautiful man with a beautiful wife and a beautiful life of ministry -- yet he somehow managed to remain infinitely approachable.  In fact, I continually wanted to rush up to him and give him a big hug!  It was such a privilege to be able to pray with him and talk with him.

These two men -- though representing opposite ends of the ministry spectrum -- were definitely the highlight of my time in Portugal.  I hope that I can be like them, when I "grow up."

Our house has been under siege for the last several weeks:  construction workers pounding on the walls, floors, and ceilings, as well as running mechanical equipment from dawn until dusk, every day of the week except for Sunday.  Quite aggravating.  I understand that it's all stuff that needs to get done; but Lord, I pray that it gets done very, very soon!

Today, the siege was taken to a new level as they asked for us to open up a number of our doors and windows on the back side of the house, so they could sand and paint the woodwork.  It made things colder and louder, of course, but what could we do?  We could only grin and bear it.  Try to make the best of a bad situation.

But then, around lunch time, I went in to use the toilet and was taken quite aback to see the face of a balding, bespectacled Polish construction worker smiling back at me through the small window, which is situated quite high on the wall and typically closed (with distorted glass to maintain privacy).  Awkward, embarrassed, I smiled.  "Excuse me, sir," I said, in Dutch.  "I'd like to use the toilet."  He smiled and nodded.  And kept staring at me.  "Excuse me, sir" I tried it again in English.  "I'd like to use the toilet."  He smiled and nodded.  And kept staring at me, apparently not understanding a word I was saying.

"Please close the window," I motioned with my hands.  "I need to use the toilet," I pointed.  He smiled and nodded.  I wasn't getting through to him.

"Listen, I" -- pointing at my pants -- "need to pee" -- pointing at the toilet.  "OK, OK," he said, finally closing the window with an awkward grin.  I did my business and then opened the window again, revealing that he had apparently been diligently waiting.  "OK," I said.  "OK."

I'm ready for the end of these renovation projects. 

My friend Jason and I have a funny tradition for celebrating each other's birthdays. Instead of awkwardly browsing to find just the right birthday card to express just the right sentiments -- we pick whatever kind of greeting card we want, and then just adapt it to more accurately align with the real-life circumstances.  I think it started with a card for a 2-year-old girl being adapted for a 22-year-old boy... but since that first card, we've covered a lot of territory -- everything from Secretary's Day to Swimming Lesson Graduation... But this year, for my birthday, my friend brought things to "a new level of inappropriateness" with this sympathy card.  Perhaps others might think that it's macabre and tasteless, but not me.  I thought it was hilarious.

In case you can't read the text of the card very well, it says:  "May your mother's life birthday be honored by all she you loved.  May her your memory day be cherished a celebration for all she gave of your life.  May your heart be comforted glad by all you shared 've accomplished.  With Sympathy Happy Birthday!"

Good ol' Jason sure does know how to celebrate a birthday (and creatively adapt a sympathy card). 

I thought I'd just throw up some less newsy, more artistic photos of my time in Portugal, to go along with the report from yesterday.  The top one here is my favorite.  Something about the framing and the colors (really, just the one horizontal strip of color, with the reflection in the water adding the vertical component) and the two sources of light compared and contrasted with each other...

The above photo is not everything that it could have been because I had to shoot through a chain-link fence that prevented me from shooting anything closer in the foreground.  But I still think it turned out pretty well:  a classic scene of a fishermans marina (very different from the wealthy yacht club marina a kilometer or two up the coast).  Small boats, fishing net on the docks, sun rising from behind the onlooking city... Simplistic.  Beautiful.  Simply beautiful.

As I walked along the beach at dawn on that one day (all of the top three photographs were taken on the same walk), there was a section of beach in which thousands of seagulls were congregated.  As I approached them, they all flocked to the skies in one great swoop.  The picture, of course, doesn't nearly do the experience justice... But I though it was a pretty cool scene in its own right.

The final picture here shows the restaurant at which we ate on the evening of my 31st birthday.  Pretty cool, huh?