Today, I got to watch to police officers wrestle a belligerent, drunken Pole to the ground, trade obscenities with him, handcuff the man (against his will and determined effort to the contrary), and drag him out to the street where the officers eventually loaded him into their squad car... And all of this happened in the church that I pastor... During the middle of our weekly worship gathering... With a hundred spectators gasping through the whole procedure.

It was, to say the least, a memorable afternoon.

Perhaps I should have expected trouble was brewing when I shook hands with the scruffy foursome of Eastern Europeans.  They seemed extra-enthusiastic, pumping my hands as I introduced myself -- telling me spirited trivialities about their native Poland, Latvia, and Russia.  But then again, we're in Amsterdam.  Our church has always been home to people from a wide variety of cultural, socio-economic, and spiritual backgrounds.  And so I really thought nothing of their antics... until they started dancing, as if in a street rave, during the opening set of worship music.  Periodically, they would shout out something unintelligible (but distracting nonetheless).  At one point, I made my way over to their section of the room and addressed them by name, asking them politely to keep it a bit quieter.  Unfortunately, they did not keep it a bit quieter.

After the music ended and Todd started teaching, of course, our guests' raucous behavior became even more disruptive.  Again I asked them to quiet down and listen respectfully.  Again they ignored me.  At one point, one of the men started hacking loudly and seemed to start weeping.  Eventually, he vomited a bit of red pulp onto the floor.  It looked like blood.  One of the guys from our church who was sitting at their table helped him get up and exit the room, going outside to get some fresh air.  I helped to clean up the mess from the floor and then sat down at the table to be a bit more available in case the situation escalated.

This whole time -- though he had stopped briefly during the vomiting incident -- Todd (bless his heart) continued to try and press onward with his teaching.

A short time later, Marco (one of the other guys from our church who had been helping throughout the whole situation) motioned for me to join him in the kitchen for a brief word.  It turned out that he had witnessed one of our guests (the loudest, most belligerent one) pouring generously from a concealed bottle into the coffee cups of his companions.  Duh... of course.  They were incredibly drunk (the red substance was, in fact, not blood from an ulcerating stomach but bile tainted by a cheap bottle of port wine).  At that point, our noisiest guest turned up the volume of his commentary yet again, and so Marco and I decided together that we needed to go and ask the offending party to leave.  Again, the sermon was temporarily paused while the situation was loudly discussed in the middle of the room.

We told him that he'd had too much to drink and needed to leave.

He said he didn't want to leave; he wanted to stay and listen to the fabulous things that Todd had to say.

I reinforced our request for him to leave immediately.

He said "F*** you, I'm staying."

I said that if he would not leave voluntarily, then I would have to call the police and ask them to assist us.

He said "F*** you, I'm staying."

I called the police.

It was funny, when I first walked into the kitchen and pulled out my phone to dial the police, the adrenaline coursing through my veins confused me, and I momentarily forgot the emergency number for the Netherlands.  I dialed 1-2-3-3, only to hear the greeting to my voicemail on the other end of the line!  Then, after another flustered moment, I remembered and dialed 1-1-2 (someone later told me that if I would have dialed the American 9-1-1, the call would have also forwarded to 1-1-2).  While calling the police, Marco came and told me that the belligerent man had said that he had a knife, that he was not going anywhere, that anyone who thought otherwise could f*** off.  So I told the police very simply that there was a man with a knife in the middle of our church service who was defiantly refusing our requests for him to leave the building.  After giving my name, number, and address, the dispatcher said that someone would be along right away.

It felt like it took an eternity for the police to arrive (in reality, it was probably 10 or 15 minutes).  I waited by the front door.  I paced back to the main room.  A couple of the more street-smart members of our church had stationed themselves in the immediate vicinity of the drunken knife-wielder, and he had quieted down a little bit -- with only a very sporadic slur interrupting Todd's sermon (which he kept on preaching!) every now and then -- so I paced back to the street again and simply waited, my heart in my throat, for the police to arrive.  Eventually, the sirens could be heard and the blue lights of a police cruiser could be seen speeding up the Herengracht.  I flagged the police down, and quickly escorted them into the facilities, briefing them as best I could on the way to the scene.  The officers walked into the room, and I pointed out the problem guest.  He was hunched over his bag (where, allegedly, his knife was hidden) and tensing his muscles for a fight.  The worship gathering, as you might suspect, stopped completely.

One of the police officers addressed him, and asked him if he would come out with them.

He said he would not.

They asked if everyone else in the room would clear out to the sides of the room, giving them a wide berth to confront the man.  And then, when the area was cleared out, the police moved in and wrested an arm behind his back.  The man resisted, and was then knocked to the floor.  There was a brief scuffle, as the police officers forcefully hand-cuffed the man and subdued him.

The officer asked him to put his feet under him, as they were going to pick him up and escort him from the premises.

He said "F*** you."

The officer said, "F*** you, too," and then they forcefully pulled him to his feet and out of the room.

In the hallway, one of the police officers held the angry drunken man against a wall, while the other one asked the other disruptive guests (who had been more passive throughout the whole endeavor) to come out with him.  The man in handcuffs vomited against the wall (another lovely red jobber) and continued to curse the police.  At that point, an armored motorcycle cop showed up and helped to drag the man all the way out to the street and into the patrol vehicle.  Eventually, the scene was cleared entirely, and Todd finished his message (hurray for Todd!) while a few of us mopped up (both figuratively and literally!) outside with the police.

Like I say, it was quite the memorable afternoon.

The whole experience was, of course, a little bit scary.  But it was also neat to see the way that the church responded in such a situation.  It was neat to see Fons and Alex play the role of security guards (I'm quite sure we could have also sicced them on the guy, as if they were attack dogs, if it had become absolutely necessary).  It was neat to see Marco and Daniel help to keep an overview of the situation.  It was neat to see how Todd stayed the course and kept the rest of the church from obsessing over the situation.  And when I came back in from the initial conversation with the police out in the hallway, it was neat to see our whole church praying for the guys who had been escorted from the room.  All in all, we responded well.  And in a city like Amsterdam (though situations like this don't happen nearly as often as one might think), it's good to know that we can respond well in such circumstances.  It may not have been the most worshipful experience for everyone -- but then again, maybe it was...

Sometimes, we have to teach each other.  Sometimes, we have to counsel each other.  And sometimes, we have to get each others' backs when belligerent, drunken Eastern Europeans get rowdy on us.

I've been working up some new headers for the website...

What do you think?

Any particular ones that grab your attention?

Some of these are already in the rotation...

But the majority of them are not...

I also just think it's cool...

to line them all up one on top of the other like this...

It's kind of like the story of my life...

In panoramic format...

I was dropping Elliot off in his classroom at school today, discussing the day's logistics and bidding each other farewell in our native English, when a girl sitting at an adjacent desk asked, "Kunnen jullie ook Nederlands spreken?" ("Can you guys also speak Dutch?").

I said, "Ja, natuurlijk" ("Yes, of course").

"O, dus jullie kunnen twee talen spreken!" ("Oh, so you guys can speak two languages?")

I suspected that she, too, was from an international family, so I asked, "Ben jij ook tweetalig?" ("Are you bilingual, too?").  She smiled broadly in answer to my question, shaking her head yes, and then she went back to her coloring project.

Elliot filled in the rest of his classmate's cultural background.  "She speaks Dutch and English.  But she was born in the Philippines."

Just as Elliot was finishing his explanation, another boy from the next row over piped in, "Ik kan ook Spaans spreken!" ("I can speak Spanish, too!").

"Echt waar?!?" ("For real?!?") I exclaimed, in exaggerated surprise.  "¡Muy bueno! ¿Cómo está usted?" I said, using about 50 percent of my Spanish.

He responded with far more Spanish than I could handle, then tilted his head -- likely reading my confused facial expression -- and retreated back to Dutch:  "Spreek jij ook een beetje Spaans?" ("Do you speak a bit of Spanish, too?").

I kind of shrugged my shoulders and said, apologetically, "Alleen een heel klein beetje.  Maar ik vind het geweldig dat jij zo goed Spaans kunnen!" ("Just a very little bit.  But I think it's terrific that you can speak Spanish so well").  And it's true.  I think it's fantastic that the children in Elliot's class are so multi-cultural, so linguistically-capable, so global.  It's not just Elliot and his two classmates.  It's probably the majority of his class.  There's a pretty decent percentage of the blond-haired, blue-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool Dutch kids at the school that our children attend -- but it's also incredible to see all the different cultural backgrounds represented in this little microcosm of our neighborhood and our city.  Portugese, Turkish, Ghanese, Surinamese, Moroccan, Bulgarian, Thai, Chinese... it's a veritable United Nations of elementary schools.

What's most odd to me, though, is that in a city as international and ecclectic as Amsterdam (where approximately 50 percent of the city's population is not Dutch-born), our children's school is an exception to the rule of schools which have somehow segregated themselves throughout the city.

It's extremely common (and not at all politically-incorrect) for people -- and even school administrators -- to speak of the differences between witte scholen (white schools) and zwarte scholen (black schools).  In one corner of the neighborhood, there'll typically be a school which is more upper-middle class, somewhat well-to-do, and 95 percent white Dutch children; these are, of course, the "white schools."  And in the other corner of the neighborhood (sometimes even within view of the other school), there'll be a school with more lower-middle class families, a lot of immigrant children, and perhaps only 5 percent of the blue-eyed, blond-haired Nederlanders:  these, of course, being the "black schools" (though ironically, to an admittedly narrow American point of view, the students don't look very "black" -- but actually more "Mediterranean," perhaps).  As far as I'm aware, there is no law legislating this segregation; in fact, families have an extremely wide variety of options for their children's education.  But as a matter of fact, this black/white divide is incredibly sharp.

I'm guessing that Elliot's and Olivia's school would actually be classified as a "black school," according to the Dutch way of thinking.  But it is indeed unique from other schools in this category, because there are quite a few Dutch families involved in the school as well -- it being an older school, a neighborhood school, in a more working-class part of town (and thus, a lot of the families at school have parents who attended the school as well).  And in the end, it seems to me that the school pretty closely approximates the city's percentages in terms of ethnicities, language groups, and such.

When we were looking into the options for where our children would go to school, we ended up weighting the decision quite heavily according to ethnic make-up of the student body (while taking other factors into account as well, of course).  And even now, three years after Elliot started, I'm very glad we did.  There's just some intangible educational benefit to developing personal relationships with people from so many different parts of the world -- and in the end, it would have seemed a tremendous shame to have lived in an international city like Amsterdam without having allowed our children to absorb the international Amsterdam experience.

So I guess we're black (in a certain way of looking at things).  But I, for one, think black is beautiful.

Dear sweet, little Livi-Loo,

Happy birthday, my girl!  You're four years old now!  In some ways, this seems so difficult to believe -- since I can so clearly remember the morning of your birth, the sensation of holding your featherweight form in my arms with you all wrapped up in that little white flannel blanket with the tiny pink flowers and the lacy embroidered ruffle around the edge... But in other ways, of course, it makes perfect sense that you're a four-year-old.  You've been able to hold your own with your big brother for quite some time now -- be it jumping or drawing or singing or sporting -- and besides that, you've already been dealing with the things that come along with being four for the last six weeks or so.  By this, naturally, I primarily mean going to school.  We actually started your exposure to elementary school a bit in advance of your fourth birthday -- deciding together with the teachers and administration of the school that it would be best for you to jump in at the beginning of the school year, going in the mornings so you could build up endurance and adjust.  And before the school year even started, you too were extremely enthusiastic about the opportunity to go to school each morning, just like your big brother.  I still remember your gleaming smile and hyperactive dancing on the morning of your first day.  You were so beautiful, so radiant... until that moment when we actually had to kiss our good-byes and back out the door.  Unfortunately, it still seems like you're trying to get over that initial shock.

Oh, Olivia, you don't know how much it breaks my heart to tear myself away from you at school each morning!  To feel your hot tears on your cheeks when I kiss you good-bye.  To watch your pretty mouth curl into very sad shapes.  To hug your shuddering little shoulders and help you find your seat.  To blow kisses from the blue window and wave and mouth the words "I love you."  It feels like one of the hardest things I have to do each day.  After drifting away from our farewell and pedaling the bakfiets back home again, I feel totally exhausted -- like I could just tumble back into bed and sleep and sleep until we could come and get you again.  It's just hard to let you go like that, Olivia.  It's hard to have to watch you pluck up the courage to face the outside world each day -- trying to master a second language, trying to deal with Giovanni's physical aggressions, trying to pass the time until the little red hand on your watch is touching the butterfly's antennae again.  It's hard to relinquish my role as Protector to Juf Wies for the mornings.  It's hard to have to let you grow up, Olivia...

But it occurs to me that it may always be a bit like this, my girl.  I honestly dread the thought of watching you go out on your first date, heading off to college, getting married.  I mean, these are great things -- and I know you'll manage them brilliantly, Olivia.  But there's something in the heart of a father -- especially when it comes to his daughter -- that yearns to protect, pacify, preserve, and prolong the precious time with "Daddy's Little Girl."  Oh... it makes my heart ache.  Please know, Olivia, that I'm not in any hurry to move beyond this paternal positioning (and in fact, I hope that you will still allow me to call you my "little girl" -- in the appropriate moments and in the appropriate settings, of course -- for the rest of your life)... But I also realize, my daughter, that I must also let you grow up over time.  I must let your Heavenly Father play His part as well (which He can manage infinitely better than I can anyway!).  And even when this process of growing up involves pain and sorrow and tears and fears, I must figure out how to best love you and support you from afar -- from the other side of the pane of glass in that "blue window," if you will... I think we're both going to have to keep figuring out how to do this as we get older!  It's rarely an easy or tidy process, I suppose, but it nevertheless allows God to do His work, in His time, according to His plan.  And indeed, Olivia, it's evident that God's work in your life is already affecting marvelous developments!  The school thing has been getting better and better in recent weeks (you even smiled at me the other day, after I blew you my last kiss!).  Your Dutch comprehension and expression are getting better and better.  Your ability to read and write is getting better and better (thanks to your eager appetite for learning and your mother's diligent direction in the process).  And in practically every way, you're growing and developing into a wonderful young person.

Your recent spiritual development has been particularly wonderful to behold.  You only decided to follow Jesus a couple of weeks ago -- but already I can see the ways that God's Spirit is becoming more and more integrated into your life.  At bedtime, it's true that you'll sometimes still shake your head "no" and simply cuddle with your blanket, sucking your thumb, when I ask if you want to pray at all.  But more and more, I've noticed that you're volunteering to join me and Elliot in our reflections on the day's events, thanking God for our blessings and submitting our worries and fears about other things over to God.  And, Olivia -- not to pressure you or coerce you in any way -- let me just say that I simply love to hear you pray!  So simple, so pure.  Others could learn so much from your faith.  "Aaand... Thank you, God, for helping me to find a pretty purple flower to give to Mommy... Aaaand... Thank you for Daddy taking me and Elliot to the Coffee Company today... Aaand -- Thank you that we got to go gymmen at school today... Aaaand -- please help Mommy not to come to school in a long time tomorrow (basically your way of praying for the morning to pass quickly and make it feel like a short time until you get to see Mommy picking you up for lunch)... Aaand -- help Cor not to throw his food off the table... Aaaand -- that's it!  Oh, yeah:  In Jesus' name, Amen."  You just share your life -- and your thoughts on your life -- with Jesus.  And that's the way I think prayer should be.  Not staged, not eloquent, not manipulative.  Just straight from the heart.  And that's certainly you, Livi-girl.  You're all heart.  And I just know that if my heart is so warmed to hear your heart so beautifully expressed, just think how much your Heavenly Father's heart is gratified by your heart, Olivia!  I hope and pray that you can do this throughout your whole life, my girl.  I could hardly think of any more beautiful wish for you, my daughter.

What a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl you are, Olivia.  I've come to be fascinated and amazed by the ways that you uniquely reflect God's beauty and glory.  You really are a beautiful girl.  Your brothers obviously have their own unique ways of reflecting God's glory -- but there's something special I've been able to observe about God's character by looking at His reflection in you, Olivia.  Have you ever noticed how when your big brother wants to show off for company, he'll start hitting me and shoving me and more-or-less antagonizing me -- trying to tease me into a (good-natured) wrestling match in which he can exhibit his God-given strength?  But when you want to show off for company, you'll latch onto my hands and splay yourself out, upside-down, with your back arched, your hair cascading, your eyes shining -- so that all onlookers can do nothing but marvel at your beauty.  And how you love to create beautiful things, too!  Given enough paper and time (both of which are, alas, limited resources in our home), you could create beautiful artwork after beautiful artwork after beautiful artwork -- enough to completely wallpaper the house, I think, with vivid, colorful, abstract renderings of people, animals, rainbows, flowers, and random forms of beauty from the inside of your beautiful little head.  And even more than the beautiful artwork, Olivia, I have to admit that I just love to observe your reaction when praised for your creativity.  "Oh Olivia!" I'll say.  "What a beeeeauuutiful drawing!"  And you'll smile as broad as the Mississippi, tilt your golden-haired crown slightly forward and 28 degrees to the side, and splay your arms out to the side while dipping at the waist in a kind of unconscious curtsey.  Sometimes, you'll even squeeze your eyes shut and hug my legs for dear life.  It's so magnificent, Olivia!  Let me tell you, if that's not beauty personified, my daughter, I don't know what is...

Ah, well, I'm sure this letter is already much longer than your four-year-old attention span can handle.  So I suppose I might as well draw this epistle to a close.  I just need you to know, Olivia -- more than anything else -- that I love you dearly, deeply, truly.  You are my special, beautiful, beloved girl.  And even though you're growing up -- going to school, giving up the thumb-sucking, getting taller and taller, and all that good stuff -- I'm still looking out for you.  It may not always be the cleanest of processes, but to quote from 2 Corinthians 7:2-4, "I'm with you all the way, no matter what. I have, in fact, the greatest confidence in you. If only you knew how proud I am of you! I am overwhelmed with joy despite all our troubles."

Happy birthday, Olivia!  Happy birthday -- and lang zal je leven...

Love,

Daddy

It was the worst part of Sam's day.  Every day.  Each and every weekday afternoon, around five minutes after three o'clock.  That inevitable moment in which he had to daily force himself to kill his survival instinct, clench his fists, set his jaw, and keep his feet shuffling, shuffling, shuffling forward, forward, forward past the end of Wall Street and around the corner to the right, following the slope of Hoover Avenue downhill to his home.  Sam had to traverse this same junction each morning as well, on his way to school -- which probably qualified for the second-worst part of his day -- but his mother usually walked with him in the mornings, and somehow it wasn't quite as scary with her.  Even though he was nine years old, a proud and powerful fourth grader, Sam would still instinctively reach for his mother's warm, soft hand as they summitted the hill and rounded the corner.  Most mornings, she would accept his extended hand, offering a warm, motherly, chicken-soup smile.  But lately, she had also been offering occasional remarks about how he was getting a bit too old for that and such.  This, of course, did nothing to diminish his anxiety.  He still took the hand whenever it was allowed, but he had been starting to realize that the day of reckoning would soon be coming, when he would have to endure the dreaded encounter by himself twice a day, every day, both on the way to and from school.

There was really no way to avoid the corner of Hoover and Wall, at least not without needing to cross four lanes of busy traffic or swimming across a river (though he had tried to convince his mother that these were viable options, as far as he was concerned).  Consequently, there was no way to avoid passing the old Dipp House.  And consequently, there was no way to avoid passing the hideous gray gargoyle beast that stood sentry over the corner downspout, closest to the street.

The Dipp House had been built years and years previously as one of the earliest permanent residences in the city of Greenville.  Sam's mother thought it was simply glorious, like a castle in which to live out every girl's princess fantasies.  Sam's father thought it was a magnificent specimen of Neo-Gothic architecture.  But Sam and all his friends thought it was just plain spooky.  They had heard the stories at school.  They clung heavily to every "eye-witness account" of a Halloween dare, a prom-night prank.  Kids reported strange sounds and strange lights flickering around the place at night.  Many parents flat-out told their children not to go anywhere near the old Dipp House.  Pete's grandpa said that the place had established its reputation even back in the days of his childhood -- something about scandal and torture and suicide.  The stories were enough to make one's skin crawl and one's mouth go dry -- and the Dipp House was intimidating even without the spooky stories!  The granite walls seemed impenetrable and impervious to sun, or rain, or wind, or fire.  The eaves were dark and shadowy, suggesting hidden creatures which came out only at night.  And worst of all were the gargoyles.  There must have been a dozen of them -- guarding the front entrance, laughing from the roof supports, sneering from each corner of the house.  Each gargoyle was unique, frightening and grotesque in its own way.  But the one at the corner closest to the junction of Hoover and Wall seemed, to Sam, to be the most terrible of them all.

Splayed out over the downspout, the gargoyle glared daily at Sam with stone eyes that seemed to track his motion as he walked past.  The gargoyle's gray, grimmacing teeth were irregularly sized and shaped -- like a crocodile that's toughened its embrasure by chewing on rocks for breakfast, every morning for the last 150 years.  Starting from the middle of the stone creature's forehead, a row of jagged spiny horns curved up to the crown of the stone head and down its back, all the way to its club-like tail.  A hooked beak-like nose framed flared nostrils that seemed to actually breathe if one looked closely enough.  The gargoyle's ears were pointed and prepared.  Every muscle in the petrified beast was tensed, sinewy, ready for action.  And so, it's not hard understand how Sam was convinced that the gargoyle was going to destroy him someday.  He had tried to talk himself out of this conclusion -- and heavens knows his parents had tried to reason with him as well... But Sam somehow knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that one of these times the gargoyle would smite him, jumping off of its ancient stone perch, ripping into his flesh, and chewing up his entrails right there at the corner of Hoover and Wall.  Sam knew in his deepest being that this would happen; he just didn't know when.

Thus, Sam understood that every afternoon was a step closer to death and destruction.  After school let out, he would march silently, like an obedient soldier, through the shady canopy of Maple Street, along the narrow sidewalk beside Wall Street, to his daily moment of destiny.  Thinking of a drummer's cadence -- like from an old Civil War movie -- helped him to be brave.  But without fail, he could not cross in front of the old Dipp House without a moment's pause.  He never could be sure, after all, if this day's crossing would be his last, fateful encounter with the hideous gargoyle of Hoover and Wall.

"Stay calm," Sam coached himself.  "Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out."

He knew that he needed to keep his wits about him.  Somehow, he sensed that the gargoyle was like a killer-bee, like a rabid-guard-dog -- smelling fear, becoming incited by fear, feeding on fear and desperation and panic.  He knew that his calmness must be the key to his survival.  So crouching down but never taking his eyes off of the path in front of him, Sam picked up a stick which was hidden in the bushes just off to the side.  It was solid like a baseball bat but longer and slightly hooked at the end.  He intentionally averted his gaze away from the gargoyle and toward the mailbox at the corner, at the crest of the hill that would bring him home.

"Hail, Knight of the Woeful Countenance!"  He sang to himself.  He felt slightly emboldened by the sound of this title he had heard in an old musical that his parents liked to watch.   Assuming a slight British accent, he charged himself:  "Pick up your feet, brave knight!  Move forward to your destiny!"   He did his best to be chivalrous, unafraid, quixotic in his step -- but his knees rebelled.  His legs quivered and quaked.  He was involuntarily cemented to the concrete sidewalk.

"Don't panic.  Do - not - panic.  Just look straight ahead.  Just walk.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  You can do this.  You can do this..." He said it, but felt the opposite.  "C'mon.  C'mon.  Let's do it.  Let's DO it!"

He started to shuffle forward.  Each movement of his legs, each shuffle of his feet felt like a monumental push forward -- the stuff that inspired balladeers to compose glorious histories-set-to-music -- but in truth, his progress could only be measured in centimeters.  His stomach never stopped fluttering.  His knees never stopped quivering.  But slowly, slowly -- incremental step by incremental step, he kept moving forward.  He could feel the gaze of the gargoyle, burning its hatred into his skull.  He knew its eyes were following him again, relentlessly, ominously.  But Sam would not let the gargoyle see his fear.  He couldn't let the gargoyle see his fear.

"Just - keep - moving - forward.  Do not look over to the side.  Do not let him see your fear.  Just keep moving."  The self-talk had a minimal effect, but it was better than nothing.

At some point, Sam started to feel hope rising within his chest, crossing the half-way point of his treacherous traversal.  He kept his stick extended in the direction of the gargoyle, now pointing perhaps half-past-three o'clock.  His steps were still labored and liquid, but he was making progress.  He was almost there.  The mailbox on the corner was just two arm-lengths in front of him.  But then -- in a tragic moment of doubt and indecision -- Sam shot an involuntary glance to his right.  Unwillingly, he locked his eyes into contact with the savage, stony eyes of the gargoyle, and fear flooded through his nervous system -- mounting exponentially, incredibly, to a state beyond panic.  Sam could actually feel the gargoyle's drool dripping onto his shoulder and his backpack.  Sam could actually feel the fiery breath of the gargoyle and smell the stench of rotting flesh carried on its wind.  Sam could actually see the jaws opening wider, the shoulders leaning forward.  And in the heat of that moment, the boy did what any boy would do.

He ducked his head and ran with all his strength.

*     *     *     *     *

Sam was never the same again after that fateful afternoon in front of the old Dipp House.  His mother asked him, interrogated him, implored him to tell her what had happened -- where those horrible gashes along the side of his face, across his shoulder, and down his back had come from.  What had bruised him so deeply.  What had seemingly ripped out fistfuls of his beautiful blond hair.  What had put that haunted look in her little boy's eye.

But she never got a word out of him.  And neither did his father.  Nor his teacher.  Nor the counselor.  Nor any of the other kids at school.  It was undoubtedly true that Sam was never the same again -- but the reasons for this were strictly between him and the hideous gargoyle of Hoover and Wall. 

I've recently been learning about an organization here in the Netherlands called the HiP Foundation.  HiP is short for Hulp in Praktijk (Help in Practice), and like its name suggests, its goal is to simply facilitate people helping people in very practical ways.

There are many people in our society who lead lonely lives, without a natural support network (like an extended family or a church community) to help accomplish even the most basic of tasks in times of need.  Ironically enough, there are also a great number of people in our society who are more than willing to help other people (not just grudgingly paying some kind of societal dues -- but actually enjoying the ability to be useful, to build relationships with neighbors, to experience the gratification of altruism)... These peoples' paths just don't naturally cross very often.

So the HiP Foundation helps to facilitate these connections -- running simultaneous PR campaigns (currently in six Dutch cities) to recruit volunteers and to advertise a help-line (0900-447-447-4) which individuals can call in times of need.  All of the volunteers and all of the instances where help is needed are then entered into a computer database which can be used to match qualified volunteers (considering geographic vicinity, particular abilities, and time availability) with problems that need to be solved.  It's simple, really -- but incredibly ingenious at the same time!

Perhaps you would be interested and/or available to register yourself with HiP.  Or perhaps you may want to consider starting a similar initiative in your own part of the world.  In any event, I hope you will check out the website for the HiP Foundation (which is, unfortunately, only available in Dutch), and consider supporting this brilliant organization...

Today was a beautiful autumn day in Amsterdam.  The sun was warm and the skies were blue -- almost like summer -- but the aura of autumn was inescapable.  The wind carries a certain chill, and the sound of the leaves rustling in the trees is even different:  a bit more papery, more desperate... more autumnal.

Fortunately, I had my camera with me and took the liberty to snap a few random shots.  I honestly can't figure out why the above photograph appeals to me so much -- but I'm very pleased with the way it turned out.  Maybe it's because it seems to capture the light well... Or maybe because there's a sense of anticipation in the image (people ringing a doorbell)... Or maybe it's just because I liked the name of the ship... I honestly don't know.  Is it just me?

If any of the more artistically/photographically-inclined readers of this blog can tell me why this photo might seem so appealing (some psychological reason or something), please let me know.

The United States presidential campaign continues to dominate the headlines -- not just in the United States of America, but around the world.  I'm sure there is yet much drama to be played out, many debates to be had, much mud left to be slung... But I've already made an important decision regarding my positioning in this year's election:

I am pulling for the winner.

No, I'm not trying to be cute, or wishy-washy, or non-commital in saying this.  Neither am I claiming to be a prophet or assuming a cocky, arrogant "assurance" of a particular candidate's chances.  But I am saying that I desperately want to move beyond partisan political bickering.  I want to ditch the catastrophizing rhetoric.  I want to avoid becoming a sore loser.  And quite to the contrary of the overly-optimlistic, semi-utopian idealist who thinks that all of America's problems could be solved with the "right" candidate or coalition, I want to just accept the inherrent imperfections of the American political system (which cannot help but copy the pattern of any and every other human institution) and try my best to live my life as contentedly as possible.

I can't tell you the number of times that I've listened to various individuals and groups belittle, back-bite, and bad-mouth a particular administration.  These days, of course, it's very fashionable to pick on George W. Bush.  His "failed economic policies."  His "oil-hungry war-mongering."  His "arrogant imperialism."  And his perceived "general stupidity and simple-mindedness."  It's ridiculous to realize how quickly and with such broad strokes those of the more liberally-inclined population will denounce the President.  Yet at the same time, I can recall many a rant by conservatives against former president Bill Clinton.  It wasn't that long ago that he was the butt of everyone's jokes.  His "philandering, womanizing, immorality."  His "slick political scheming."  His own "military aggression and world-savior complex."  And all that stuff.  The same hyperbole, the same globalization, the same prejudice, the same black-and-whiteism... just a different constituency.

It's politics, polarization, pride, and prejudice at its worst.

For whatever reason, we feel the need to automatically position ourselves against anything or anyone that is not exactly in line with those things which we consider ourselves for.  If you are for Barack Obama, then you are against John McCain.  If you are for John McCain, then you are against Barack Obama.  It's just that simple, isn't it?

Well, I would certainly hope not.  One thing that living abroad has taught me is that the President of the United States of America is my friend (not on a personal basis, of course, but you know what I mean!).  I may or may not have voted for him.  I may or may not agree with his decisions and directives.  His policies may make my life incrementally easier or more difficult.  But at the end of the day, as a citizen of the United States of America, the President of the United States of America -- whoever he or she may be -- is more or less "on my side," serving as the Chief Executive of the government that issues my family's passports, that forges treaties and alliances with the Netherlands (among other countries), and that backs a good portion of my money (not to mention the world economy).  And whatever differences I may have with the politics of the President, the responsibilities of that office demand my respect (again, I'm talking here as a citizen -- though I realize that a great many of people who follow this blog do not fall into the same category).  And while it's true that a good democracy leaves plenty of room for criticism and outspoken opposition, that doesn't necessarily mean that it's always fruitful to mock, gripe, and incite animosity toward "the other side."

At the end of the day, American Republicans and American Democrats are not nearly as far apart ideologically as they might be portrayed to be.  This fall's election is not a choice of good versus evil (however you might want to spin that dial).  Judging from some of the e-mail forwards that get passed around, I know this may be hard for some to believe.  But as for me, I've made up my mind:  I'm going to be on the winning side.

Every generation has its Alamo:  its point of remembrance, its rallying cry, its indelible moment of realization which burns itself into one’s consciousness with surprisingly graphic clarity.  The mention of this particular event provides instant recall of sights, sounds, and sensations; people can remember exactly where they were, who they were with, how they heard, and how their society was forever changed in that moment.  For my grandparents’ generation, it was VE Day -- the euphoric celebration of the Second World War’s conclusion in Europe.  For my parents’ generation, it was Cold War panic attack following the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  And without a doubt, for my generation it was the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.

Today in Amsterdam, 6000 kilometers and seven years removed from the events of “September 11th,” I gathered with a crowd of international friends, strangers, and dignitaries to pause for a moment of remembrance.  I was asked to serve as something of a correspondent for the memorial service by Expatica.com, so at 10:30 this morning, I participated in an event organized with support from the U.S. Consulate General, as the English Reformed Church of Amsterdam hosted a “September 11th Remembrance Service” in its 400-year-old stone sanctuary.  The crowd assembled silently and solemnly, some in crisp charcoal-gray suits, others with T-shirts and sunglasses perched on top of their heads.  At least four different news agency delegations were present, their cameras continually clicking and whirring as the organ prelude concluded and the service began.  The minister of the English Reformed Church, welcomed the congregation and spoke of a time to remember the “grief and suffering which continues” around the world, as a result of the September 11th terrorist attacks.  And for the rest of our 45 minutes together, a succession of representatives from the American Women’s Club of Amsterdam, from the Jewish Community, from the Muslim Community, and from the Diplomatic Community shared brief thoughts and reflections about the events of September 11th, 2001.  Almost everyone had some personal reflection about what they were doing that day.  One remembered trying to celebrate his son’s 18th birthday as the news poured in from New York.  Others spoke of talking with personal acquaintances in New York who were weathering their city’s storm, while still others talked about simply watching the events unfold on television.  The newly appointed American ambassador spoke.  And, of course, the clergymen prayed.

But like the majority of the congregation, I just sat silently throughout the service, filtering through my own thoughts and reflections of that sunny day in September 2001.

Following the service, we drank coffee and tea from ceramic cups in the echoing medieval nave, not sure of what to say to each other and absently stirring our drinks with tiny plastic spoons.  As I stood there, feeling slightly awkward and unsettled, I started to remember more and more about that day in September, and my own experience of our generation’s Moment.  I was in my car, turning onto Conneaut Avenue, close to the Bowling Green City Park. The morning talk show on the radio mentioned how there had apparently been some freak accident with an airplane colliding with one of the towers of the World Trade Center in New York -- which was certainly an item of interest and more-than-viable fodder for banter on a morning talk show... But when I stepped out of the car, at the City Park, it didn't seem like too big a deal.  It was a beautiful September morning -- sunny and warm, with just the beginnings of autumn's crispness in the air, and I enjoyed the chance to walk and talk with a good friend. However, when I climbed back into the car and turned the key in the ignition, I was surprised to hear the radio people still talking about the airplane crash in New York City. Their tone had become much more serious, and I was unsettled by the emerging gravity of the situation.  It took me about five minutes to drive home. But as soon as I got home, I turned on the television to see what was going on. And the television set didn't get much rest over the next three or four days.

Angry black smoke was pouring out of both towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. And as they replayed (and replayed and replayed) footage of the crashes which started to be referred to as "attacks" instead of "accidents," as I heard more of the news about other plane crashes in Washington D.C. and in rural Pennsylvania, as I watched with millions of my countrymen as the towers crashed to the ground, it felt like life as we knew it had crashed too. The world suddenly became as black and as sinister as the smoke rising up from the New York skyline. Rumors circulated on the newscasts about planes headed for Cleveland, for Chicago -- for seemingly every major metropolitan center across the continent. Someone on one of the local stations suggested that the nuclear power plant just east of Toledo could be a target. It was hysteria. Paranoia. Panic. I called my brother Jay, in downtown Chicago -- fearful that he could be in a target zone. I called Marci, at work in the clinic in provincial Gibsonburg -- which seemed like less of a target zone (although you never could tell, in those panicked hours). And I adhered myself to the television. They just kept recycling the same news over and over, but I couldn't not watch. It was my lifeline.

It's interesting to remember what it felt like that day. To remember where we were. What we were doing. What we were thinking. Obviously, we've all gained much perspective in the days since that fateful day... and we recognize our misunderstandings, our irrationalities, our failings, our fears in the heat of that moment. But it's interesting to remember... and perhaps instructive.  Today, I didn’t really need ministers and rabbis and imams to actually instruct me on the lessons of September 11th.  I didn’t really need a church service, with organ music and special numbers about peace and such to comfort my grief-stricken soul.  I didn’t need the pomp and ceremonial moments of silence to memorialize September 11th.  Still, somehow it felt important to remember.  And remember I did.  We all did.  How could we not?

I'm not usually one to participate in chain letters and e-mail forwards and things like that (though offering a clichéed disclaimer like this, of course, let's you know that something to the contrary is coming); however, I was recently tagged by an old friend of mine, Billy Williams (a.k.a. Chanchanchepon) -- and since I had some time to blog but otherwise nothing particularly poignant to say, I figured I'd play along and enjoy some randomnicity for a day.

The "rules" of the game are as follows:

1. Post the rules on your blog
2. Write 6 random things about yourself
3. Tag 6 people at the end of your post
4. If you're tagged, DO IT and pass on the tag

 *     *     *     *     * 

So here are my six random things about myself:

1.  Believe it or not, I used to be a pretty decent trombone player; I played in elementary school, junior high school, and high school band, but also competed in regional solo and ensemble competitions.  But actually, I only switched to trombone because I was forced to do so when our family moved from Lancaster, Wisconsin (where they had a school orchestra) to Shelby, Ohio (where they only had a school band).  My original instrument was the cello.

2.  I've been thinking about changing the name of this blog from "Amsterdam Asp" to "Aspirations."  Over the summer, I was realizing that really only a small fraction of the stuff that I write here in this space is actually about Amsterdam; the blog is actually more about seeing the entire world (or at least whatever parts of the world that I may visit) through my eyes.  So I'm thinking about a name change, and I like the sound of "Aspirations" -- partly because it involves a play on words with my last name (obviously), but partly because I just like the sound of the word and its shades of meaning, and partly because of historical reasons (my Dad always used to title our annual Christmas letters "Aspirations," and for awhile he even ran a consulting business under the same name).  So I've been thinking about changing the blog's title -- but not sure how this might affect the blog's find-ability and strength in the search engines rankings and such.  I tend to be somewhat slow in making these kinds of decisions.

3.  One of my favorite things at the end of a long day is enjoying bowl of popcorn while sitting on the living room couch.  Air-popped would be most preferable; microwaved least preferable.  Typically (in the absence of an air popper), I do mine in a pot on the kitchen stove.  The trick to good popcorn is in the buttering.

4.  I very rarely remember my dreams -- at least not beyond the first few moments of wakefulness.  I always envy people who have wild stories to tell after a good night's sleep.  But for me, I seriously think that I could count all the dreams that I've remembered (throughout the course of my entire life) on my two hands (and maybe even still have a few fingers left over).

5.  My grandparens' names are George and Betty, Ezra and Marguerite.  I think these are great -- absolutely classic -- grandparent names.

6.  I really appreciate the logic and regularity of the Dutch language -- but I'm still baffled by words like zeven (pronounced more like zeuven) and tram (pronounced more like trem).  Well, "baffled" is not exactly the right word.  Maybe "bothered" is more like it.  But I really wish that I knew the reasons why these words in particular are pronounced so irregularly.  I know it's not that important in the grand scheme of things, but I'm just irked by such isolated quirkiness in a sea of relative linguistic orderliness.

 *     *     *     *     * 

And here are the six people whom I am tagging (should they choose to accept the challenge or not):

1.  Jay Asp - My brother.  My compatriot.  My fellow striver.  An art teacher living in Texas while part-time pursuing his dream of success as a painter.  Kind of like Mr. Holland in "Mr. Holland's Opus."  Kind of like me with my writing, living in Holland.

2.  Jason Slack - My spiritual brother.  Old roommate and partner-in-crime while studying at Bowling Green State University.  Just moved to Kent, Ohio, to help start a new church for college students at Kent State University.  He's got a ridiculous philosophy that he will wait for traffic to start coming to his blog before he actually posts new content more regularly (though I suggest that he needs to invert his strategy).  Well, perhaps tagging him here will help to give him some of that traffic and provide that nudge he needs toward more frequent blogging...

3.  Krista Davis - Another old friend from Bowling Green.  Had been living in Poland for about five years, but is now studying theology at Dallas Theological Seminary, in Texas.  One of the most regular female bloggers I know (though even so, I would still like to see more of her blogging).

4.  Sahand Sahebdivani - A friend from my writing group here in Amsterdam.  His family runs this incredible little cafe / cultural center called Mezrab, in the Jordaan (which also happens to be the location where our writing group meets on every other Monday).  He's a fabulous story-teller, he's currently working as a scriptwriter, and he plays in a regionally-acclaimed band called Caspian Hat Dance.  He's a very cool guy.

5.  Marco Pauws - One of my dearest friends in Amsterdam.  He's also an amazingly gifted photographer who doesn't post on his blog nearly often enough.  He always said that he was going to start posting more once he got his Canon 400D... and by golly, I'm going to hold him to that promise!

6.  Helen Bode - Really, I only had a few short months to get to know Helen, while she was living in Amsterdam -- but I've really come to respect her writing talent.  She's originally from Australia but living in England (last I heard).  She's considering a legal career, but I was recently trying to convince her to become a novelist.  Seriously, she's good enough to make it, if she put her mind to it.

 *     *     *     *     * 

I'm honestly not even sure that all of the people I tagged are regular readers of this particular blog (which is fine with me).  I will not in the least be offended if they choose not to follow the "rules" in this game.  But in any event, they're all interesting people with interesting lives and interesting blogs (or at least the potential for interesting blogs, whenever they get around to writing).

So yes.  Now I've completed my participation in swirl of events precipitated by the random tagging of Billy B.Williams.

This weekend, I fell into conversation with someone who had read my recent post about the Amstelkade with great personal interest.  He had grown up along the Amstelkade and held fond -- and frightening -- memories of the neighborhood... particularly about the rats which live along the banks of the canals.

In my "Ode to the Amstelkade," I had mused about the question of whose dominion the Amstelkade really was:  Were the rats invading the humans' turf, or were the humans invading the rats' turf.  Well, I was told that if I really wanted to consider that question I should observe the Amstelkade in the early evening hours -- like around five o'clock... And then my question would be more easily answered.  Apparently, the Amstelkade is unmistakably the domain of rats first, and humans second.

According to this former resident of the Amstelkade, the rats are unbelievably bold and brutal in their domination of the neighborhood.  Regularly, baby ducklings and cootlings would be swimming along the surface of the canal behind their mother -- and suddenly one would disappear under the water, only to be seen again moments later being dragged to the shore by a sleek black shape in the water.  One time, a cat was prowling around the grassy area beside the water and suddenly found itself surrounded by four black rats -- which proceeded to attack the cat and kill the feline "predator" in the space of a few short moments!  Neighborhood residents understood that babies and small children were not to be set down to play by themselves in the grass -- for fear of what the rats might do to them.  Neighborhood boys would wage war on the rat population for sport... But it seems that no one who lived in that neighborhood doubted for a moment that the rats held sway along the Amstelkade.

It's still shocking to me, to hear (and pass along) these stories about the Amstelkade.  As I had mentioned in my earlier post, it seems like such a beautiful place at first glance.  An idyllic place, even.  But indeed, looks can be deceiving -- or at least incomplete informers.  In my mind, it all goes to show that Amsterdam is a place where beauty and vermin coexist side-by-side.  And, to be honest, that's part of the city's charm.

"Hey - hey!  What are you doing?  Stop it?"

"Hm?  What?  Stop what?"

"Stop picking your nose!  Stop!  Picking!  Your nose!"  The boy has not been willfully disregarding the code of etiquette which he has been taught.  But his transgressions, subconscious though they may be, are nonetheless self-evident.  Only the most rigorous reminding has even the slightest effect on his habit -- and even that effect is quite apparently negligible.  "We're going to have to think up some kind of solution to help you remember to stop picking your nose!"  The point is made strongly, but with an over-exaggerated wagging of the index finger and a slight grin that offers reassurance that the error is not absolutely egregious.

"Oh yeah?  Like what?"

"Well... Maybe we could fill in your nasal passages with concrete.  Then that would stop the boogers from coming out -- and the fingers from going in.  And if you ever forgot and started to stick your finger in your nose again, then you'd just stub your finger and bust your knuckles.  And then that'd teach you."

"But then I wouldn't be able to breathe!"

"No?  Well, you could breathe through your mouth.  It seems like you're doing that a lot of the time anyway..."

"But what about when I'm eating?  Or what if I want to smell something?"

"Hmm... oh yeah.  Good point.  Maybe nasal concrete isn't such a good idea.  Well, let's see... What else could we do?"

"I know!  What about cotton balls?  We could fill up my nose with cotton balls!"

"Well... that's certainly another idea.  But I think the cotton balls would get pretty disgusting after a couple of days.  And then you'd just start using your finger to try and pick out the cotton balls.  And that really wouldn't be any better than just picking your nose.  So -- no.  I don't think cotton balls would work.  Sorry."

"I think we should try cotton balls..."

"I don't.  Sorry... How about a little alligator?  Maybe we could stick a little alligator up your nose!"

"Nuh-uh.  You're joking.  You can't put an alligator up your nose."

"I don't know.  Maybe you could.  I've never done it myself, of course, but I bet we could look it up on the internet and find out there.  It could be the perfect solution!  A little alligator, up in your nose.  He could just stay up there, hiding, and no one would ever know that he was there.  But then, if you ever tried to stick your finger up there -- snap! -- he'd bite the end of your finger.  And that'd teach you not to pick your nose!  Yes, I think that would do the trick nicely..."

"But alligators are too big!  You couldn't fit an alligator up your nose!"

"Well, it would have to be a baby alligator, of course.   Or maybe a baby crocodile or caiman.  We'd have to do a bit of research, I suppose.  I've never actually tried it myself, you know.  But yes, if it was a baby alligator, I would think it could be quite possible."

"But alligators don't live here!  You couldn't find any baby alligators around here!"

"Oh, that's true.  But I'm sure if we went to a pet store, it might be possible.  Yes, yes.  I'm sure there must be a pet store somewhere around here that could sell us a baby alligator.  We'd just need a little one, you know.  Otherwise it wouldn't be able to fit up your nose -- and that would completely defeat the purpose.  Now that would be ridiculous!"

"But, but... if there was an alligator in my nose, he'd never stop biting me!"

"Hmm.  Good point.  I suppose we'd have to fit him with a little chain -- kind of like the delicate little necklace that your mother wears when she goes out.  And then we'd probably have to get you a little nose-piercing, way high up on the inside part of your nose, where no one could see it, so we could kind of anchor the chain like on a little eye-hook.  And then we'd tie up the baby alligator so he was positioned just so -- with enough room for him to fit all the way up inside your nose, but then with only enough slack in the chain for him to face just one direction, toward the outside.  So then he could never get himself in a position to bite the inside of your nose -- but only things, like fingers, that might come in from the outside.  Yes, it might be a bit tricky to get everything set up in the beginning.  But once we got it all set up, it should be quite manageable, I think."

"But then he'd eat my finger, if I ever forgot about picking my nose!"

"Highly unlikely.  Highly unlikely.  His teeth would be very small, you know, with him being just a baby alligator and all.  Oh, it would hurt, I'm sure.  Like when your baby brother bites down on your finger, I suppose.  But no permanent damage.  Nothing long-term.  And short-term pain can be a highly useful mnemonic device, you know."

"What's a mnemonic device?"

"Something to help you remember.  Yes, my boy.  I think we've struck upon a brilliant plan!  A baby alligator leashed to the inside of your nose.  It's genius really, if I do say so myself."

"But Dad:  What would the baby alligator eat?"

"Good question.  I hadn't really thought of that.  Hmm... Maybe he'd eat your boogers!  Then we'd be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak!  Wouldn't that be great?!?  What are boogers anyway?  Are they some kind of meat?  Or at least some kind of meat bi-product, I suppose?  Yes, that's a good question."

"Uh... I don't think alligators would like to eat boogers.  Even if boogers are meat."

"Maybe not.  I don't know.  I suppose if he didn't eat boogers, then we would have to feed him.  Maybe just a little meat.  You could hold it up to your nostril, and then the alligator could eat it up.  We could pack an extra piece of ham in your lunch, if you wanted us to.  That would probably work."

"That's disgusting."

"Yes, I suppose it is.  But I guess we're just trying to deal with the lesser of two evils, then, aren't we?"

"Umm... Dad?  What if I just stopped picking my nose all by myself?"

"Well, yes.  There's an idea.  That could work, I suppose... Yes.  That's a brilliant idea, actually!  How ever did you come up with such a clever plan my boy?"

Dear Cor,

Today, we celebrate your first birthday.  Pardon the cliché -- but golly, the last year has gone quickly!  I still have vivid, visceral memories of the night that you were born:  the blood-hot rush of adrenaline as your Mom and I pretended to watch television while we were really just watching the clock and timing each contraction with a sense of hope and anticipation... the heavy, humid coolness of the night on my skin as we rushed from the house to the midwife's car, off into a fate that would change our family forever... the chattering noises of the hospital's medical personnel, scrambling to accommodate the baby boy who was in such a hurry to make his grand entrance... But most of all, Cor, I remember the well of emotion from when I first gazed upon you -- my boy.  My baby boy!  My throat caught, my eyes welled, and I laughed deep, involuntary belly-laughs of relief and release and joy.  You were such a beautiful baby to behold.  Still are, as a matter of fact...

But it's crazy to realize that all of this happened a whole year ago.  Here we are celebrating your first birthday!  You know, there's a very good likelihood that this will be the last first birthday that we'll get to celebrate in our little family... which creates a strange mix of emotions, at least for me and your Mom.  It's kind of hard to explain, but your growing up is something that is both satisfying and sobering.  A beautiful future to embrace -- but also a beautiful past and present that can be hard to release at times... To be sure, we are extremely excited to see the person that you are becoming -- but please forgive us if we get a little bit sentimental in the process.

I'm so proud to have you as my little boy, Cor.  I'm unspeakably warmed by your smile -- which is so quick and full and meaningful.  Everyone notices it.  Everyone comments on it.  You're such a friendly baby.  You smile so easily and with such a radiance that you immediately endear yourself to others.  I'm not sure why you've developed such exceptional charisma (I certainly cannot take credit for it); it just seems to be an inborn part of who you are.  All along, you've been such a laid-back, easy-going, happy-go-lucky little guy:  a perfect complement to our family.  Yeah, you've taken your time in learning how to sit, how to crawl, and all these other silly little physical mile-markers that parents love to worry about... but I haven't been worried a bit.  I can see that you're incredibly capable -- gifted, even.  You're just natrually relaxed -- and I mean this in both the English way (calm, rested, not tense) and in the Dutch way (cool, stylish, happening). I actually kind of envy this about you sometimes.

I'm going to be completely honest with you, Cor, that I can occasionally become... well, how should I say it? Uptight... over-responsible... ultra-conscientious... Even the term "control freak" is not entirely inappropriate.  I guess this is what I mean when I say that I envy your inherrently relaxed nature.  I hope we won't clash too much on this point as we continue to grow and develop together.  It seems that father-son personality differences are quite unavoidable at times, but let the record show (here on your first birthday, no less!) that I appreciate the ways in which you might seem to be different from me!  I genuinely honor and respect a person, like you, who can remain relaxed in different environments, among different groups of people, facing different circumstances.  I'm actually in awe of the ways that you can just stay relaxed and keep smiling (except when you're sick)... I hope I can continue to learn from you as we grow up.

Your easy-going nature being noted, I have to also admit that I love the way you can totally bear down at times and ruthlessly wrestle with the boys (i.e. me and Elliot).  I love our little games of stalking and charging each other on the living room carpet.  I love the wild, sparkling enthusiasm in your eyes, the hoarse cackle in your throat, the reaching hands waiting to snag me and subdue me as we play (though I must say I'm also very glad that we finally figured out how to tame your biting instinct!).  I love throwing you around with wreckless abaondon and absorbing the joy that is mutually generated in the process.

In short, I love you, Cor.

I thrill to think of the ways that God will use you as you continue to grow up, my boy.  I hope -- and confidently believe -- that you will draw strength from and develop the power and purpose latent within your name, Cor William Asp.  I have to admit that we've gotten some flak for the whole choosing a Dutch name thing.  The Americans who meet you seem slightly confused and helplessly inquisitive -- though they're actually probably less hassle than the Dutch people who react to hearing your first name without any empathetic filter whatsoever: "Wat zeg je?  Koor?  Kool?  Hoe spel je dat? ...O, Cor!  Een Néderlandse naam!  Cor!  O wat grappig..." I think we're seen as the Taiwanese couple living in small-town America who chooses to name their child George because it seems like such a good, solid, traditionally-American name -- even though they're actually about 50 years behind the times and they can't even pronounce it exactly the American way and go about the school lawn calling, "Geoge!  Geoge!  Have good day at schoo', Geoge.  When you come home fo' runch, Geoge?"  Ah well... I hope I'm overexagerating the scenarios in my mind -- but even if it is a little bit like that, Cor, I want you to remember that your name is much more meaningful than little Asian-American George...

I remember reading in the Bible one morning just a couple of days after you were born, and coming across the story of Cornelius, in Acts chapter 10.  This is, I believe, the closest Biblical reference to the name Cor (since the old Dutch roots of the name Cor are basically associated with the name Cornelius).  But anyway -- while I was reading, I found myself praying that you, our Cor, could someday grow up to exhibit many of the same character qualities of the Biblical "Cor."  The Roman centurion was noble, courageous, strong, and masculine (which was, in fact, also much of the rationale behind our choice in naming you).  Yet he was also humble and God-fearing, a friend of Romans and Jews alike.  And he essentially proved to be the first-fruits of faith -- the "man of peace," the missionary link -- for an entire people.  An entire Continent, even.  And as I read the original story of "Cor" that morning, I could only hope and wonder how you, our Cor, might live up to some of these same qualities.

It's so exciting to be able to watch you each step of the way, my boy.  From Day One until Birthday One.  From Birthday One until Forver.  I love you so very much, Cor.  Happy Birthday.

Love,

Da-da

Our annual church gatherings in the Vondelpark are not a novelty anymore.  We've been doing it at least once a year for four or five years now (I honestly can't remember).  But we still do it because we believe that the simple act of a church gathering in a park speaks an important message, in and of itself.  We do it to remind ourselves of the true definition of "church."  We do it to stress the importance of the city over the "church building."  We do it to remember the value of personal interaction over the "worship service."

And we do it because it's a lot of fun.

We've had uncommonly good weather each time that we've dared to set a date on the calendar for one of these "Vondel50"s -- in spite of the fact that we scheduled this year's Vondel50 for the last day of August, which can sometimes be weather for jackets and gloves in Amsterdam!  And yesterday's picnic in the park was no exception.  The park was beautiful, like a Monet painting.  The people were everywhere, basking in the last glories of August.  And we were there in the midst of it all.

I was so glad.

One thing that was novel about yesterday's version of Vondel50 is that the kids got to enjoy some wonderful face-painting.  The lovely and lively Patricia Flynn took it upon herself to organize some fantastic children's activities, including the opportunity to be painted up in the likeness of practically any animal of their choosing.  I wasn't going to post anything about this year's Vondel50 (because, as I mentioned, its novelty has worn off)... But some of the face-painting pictures turned out so well that I felt compelled to post about Vondel50 yet again... Like the picture above and to the left of Amelie, the butterfly...

...And Gabrian the Dalmation puppy...

...And Olivia the butterfly (I love how the picture above captured the way her eyes light up as she beholds her transformed face for the first time!)...

...And Elliot the tiger (he was so enamored with his ferocious appearance that he spent the rest of the time before our departure roaring at all friends and strangers within a 50 meter radius)...

...And in the end, even I subjected myself to the artist's brush (primarily because of Elliot's insistence in the matter).  It's fun how parenthood offers one the opportunity for a second (or third, or fourth) experience of childhood.  Others in our group said that they might have gotten their faces painted, too -- except it would have been too awkward riding home from the park without the bakfiets full of kids that could answer all of the strangers' wordless questions (which I can certainly understand).

The picture below was taken by my friend Gerard, who I think beautifully captured the sense of anticipation as Elliot watched Patricia paint (plus I also think the blurred background of the picture is a fabulous depiction of the Vondelpark's lush, enveloping greenness on a fresh and sunny day like the one yesterday).

And when the transformation was complete, you can imagine the fun that we had. :-)