I have a fascination with baseball caps that's similar to the stereotypical woman's fascination for shoes. I already have plenty of baseball caps, but if I see one that I really like I feel a strong urge to get it. I'm able to keep my impulses in check for the most part. However, when I was recently back in Minnesota for my grandmother's funeral, I bought a red Twins cap with the old TC (Twin Cities) logo... And I have to say, now that I'm back in Amsterdam and wearing it from day to day, I'm really liking it.

I think real Major League Baseball caps are the ultimate in cap design. The Twins' TC logo is a significant improvement (and also more original) than their "Underlined M" caps of the late 1980s and 1990s. But I have to admit that I'm partial to this cap's design because I'm also partial to the team it represents.

I was considering this recently, trying to figure out what the best Major League Baseball caps are -- and I think  that my primary criteria for consideration are color, cleanness, and timelessness (i.e. a cap gets major design points if it's stuck with the same basic design for like 100 years). So with that in mind, here are some of the top candidates (outside of my new Twins cap), listed in no particular order:

These picks have absolutely nothing to do with the teams that wear these caps (for instance, I really don't like the Yankees much at all, as a team, and I would never want to wear one of their caps personally -- but I can't deny the fact that their caps are some of the best). Purely based on cap design, I'd have to say that the red St. Louis Cardinals cap (bottom left) is the best. But what do you think? How do these caps rate, in your opinion? Or which other caps do you believe might merit consideration? Does anyone else notice this sort of thing, or am I just weird in this way?

Our local car sharing program, ConnectCar, recently started offering a fleet of sub-compact cars made by Smart, in addition to its regular variety of vehicles.

I was eager to give it a try, and once again (just like with the raw herring) my brother's visit made for the perfect excuse to give it a spin.

Fortunately, I liked the Smart Car a lot more than I liked the raw herring.

In spite of the vehicle's diminuitive stature, I was surprised by how comfortable its interior felt. My brother and I are pretty decently-sized men, yet we were both able to sit in the car without any difficulty. Honestly, it felt like we were just sitting in any small car (not entirely dissimilar to the old 1985 Chevette that I used to drive back in high school). I was genuinely surprised by this sensation of space. The trick is that one's feet basically extend all the way to the foremost part of the vehicle (underneath the engine block), and one's back extends all the way back to within 15-20 centimeters (about a foot) of the rearmost part of the car. I don't know how the car's designers achieve the sense of space between passengers -- given the fact that the car is also considerably narrower than other cars -- but I can simply say that I felt like I had plenty of space between my brother's shoulders on my right and the car's window on my left. It's a marvel of engineering to me that they could make a car so small (enough that it can park perpendicular to the curb in a parallel parking zone, without sticking out into traffic) feel so normal.

In addition to the sense of space, I was also surprised by the sense of safety that I experienced while driving in the Smart Car. It didn't feel like I was driving in an aluminum can or some souped-up go-kart. The car didn't start to rattle and buzz as it reached highway speeds. I didn't worry about any strong gusts of wind. And I was reassured by the knowledge that the vehicle was engineered (by Mercedes-Benz and the Swatch) to be remarkably safe, even in collisions. The Smart Car didn't have quite the pick-up that I might have expected, considering its Mercedes-manufactured engine and its overall light weight. It took off more like a typical compact car, with a compact engine; but if anything, this only added to the sense of safety.

Obviously, cargo space in such a vehicle is extremely limited. Two regular-sized backpacks (day packs) filled up a majority of the rear storage space, and even the glove compartment was very small. But obviously, something's got to give in a vehicle of such limited size.

Personally, I think there's really something to the Smart Car. I don't know if it would be as useful as a primary vehicle (especially not for any family larger than two); but I can totally see it being an economical, efficient, and effective way of complementing a household's regular transportation needs (be it in Europe or North America). For now, I think our family is still quite comfortable with bicycling as our primary mode of transportation (with public transport and the diverse fleet of ConnectCar providing other options, as needed). But I do like the Smart Car, now that I've tried it, even more than I had anticipated I would like it. It's a fun car. A friendly car. A smart car.

I've been avoiding it for almost nine years... but this weekend, I decided I could avoid it no longer. I decided it was time to try raw herring.

It's a delicacy in this part of the world, often served with chopped onions. It's typically sold from small, wayside fish-stands. And from what I understand, a raw herring here in the Netherlands has the appeal of food that Americans might buy from a carnival midway: something seasonal, nostalgic, and special.

I always felt like I should give it a try -- that there really might be something to it, even for an unsuspecting American palate such as mine -- but I could never bring myself to do it. Because, I mean, it's raw. It's herring. It's raw herring! However, this weekend, when we went to the North Sea with my brother, Alex, I felt like the moment was right to give it a try. So I did. And I had Marci take a series of photographs to document the occasion, as seen here below:

And guess what?!? The raw herring tasted exactly what I thought it would taste like: raw herring! It was squishy and fishy and slimy and cold... And although I genuinely wanted to come out on the other side of the experience, saying that it wasn't nearly as bad as I might have thought it would be, the truth is that it was exactly as bad as I might have thought it would be!

I totally respect the rights of Dutch people to savor their raw herring -- but I have to say that I'm glad to have the experience behind me and know that I don't have to try it again.

I haven't been blogging much this week, because I've been hanging with my brother Alex instead: helping him make the most of his first experience outside of North America. We've been to the Royal Palace, a number of the city's finest museums, and a real Dutch windmill (now converted into a brewery).

We've traveled the region by train, boat, and bicycle. We've gotten caught in a heavy rainstorm together (which is an essential part of the true Amsterdam experience). We've eaten the city's best appeltaart, and hung out with some of the city's best people. All in all, I think it's safe to say that we've given my brother a pretty good time...

But it's not just Alex. I'm always freshly surprised to see how hosting a visitor (particularly someone I love) helps me to remember how much I love the city of Amsterdam, too. It's really great to have an excuse to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasures of life that are constantly around us. It's really great to remember that Amsterdam is awesome.

The 22nd chapter of Joshua reads much like "The Hunt for Red October" -- well, except for the fact that it's about pre-Davidic Jewish tribal tensions instead of U.S. - Soviet Cold War tensions... and except for the fact that it involves swords and arrows instead of nuclear arsenals... and except for the fact that there is no double-agent high-level espionage involved... But really, other than those particular differences, the stories are almost exactly alike. :-)

The stories are alike because they both involve calamity hanging in the balance of understanding.

In the 22nd chapter of Joshua, the campaign to conquer the Promised Land has been completed. The Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh (R, G, & ½M) proved themselves faithful in Israel's military mission. Even though their own territory had been secured years earlier, on the eastern bank of the Jordan River, they didn't skip out on their brothers in their time of need. They served well, so when the objectives were accomplished, they were sent back to Gilead with a blessing and a personal thank-you note from the hand of Joshua himself. The only word of hesitation or caution that was given upon their departure was this: "But be very careful to keep the commandment and the law that Moses the servant of the LORD gave you: to love the LORD your God, to walk in all his ways, to obey his commands, to hold fast to him and to serve him with all your heart and all your soul." R, G, & ½M readily agree to this advice, so they start walking back to Gilead with a spring in their step, a song on their lips, and hearts full of warmth, gratitude, and satisfaction in a job well done.

So what do they do when they first set foot in their newly-blessed territory? They make an altar. And why not? It was exactly what they had seen Joshua do when they first entered the Promised Land. It's the same kind of thing that happened right after the miraculous crossing of the Jordan (Joshua 4:9) and right after the Covenant was renewed on Mount Ebal, following the victories over Jericho and Ai (Joshua 8:30) -- not to mention all the other piles of rocks that were intended to serve as reminders to the people of Israel (Joshua 6:26, 7:26, 8:29, and 10:27). Rock altars were the tradition.

However, for whatever reason -- perhaps hyper-vigilance, hyper-legalism, seeds of distrust, "sibling rivalry," or just some unrecorded piece of misinformation that got out of control -- the other 9½ tribes of Israel automatically assume that R, G, & ½M are up to no good: that they're already abandoning the LORD and resorting to idol worship. As soon as they observe the altar being built, they prepare for war!

From the perspective of history (and limited-omniscient, third-person narration), we can see that both sides actually had honorable intentions. R, G, & ½M were doing everything they could think of to preserve their communal relationship with the LORD and make sure they wouldn't just drift away into idolatry. And likewise, the other 9½ tribes of Israel were just doing everything in their power to preserve the worship of the LORD in Israel and make sure that their kinsmen wouldn't just drift away into idolatry. The main problem was simply miscommunication! They misunderstood each other, and they miscommunicated their motives to each other, and thus they brought themselves to the brink of civil war -- over nothing but misunderstanding and miscommunication.

Fortunately, the 9½ tribes west of the Jordan had just enough wherewithal to send a delegation to R, G, & ½M to raise the question that had come up in their minds. Now, I don't think we can hold up the delegation's message as any kind of ideal for other such situations -- as it was ridiculously heavy with assumption and accusation, which is not typically the best way to diffuse tension -- but at least they went in with words before they went in with swords. And fortunately, R, G, & ½M were able to listen well to the other tribes' concerns and respond with important reassurances. The first words of response, in fact, were probably some of the most reassuring: "The Mighty One, God, the LORD! The Mighty One, God, the LORD! He knows! And let Israel know!" They weren't turning their backs on the LORD at all. He was actually the star witness to the trial of their motivations. The rest of their explanation must have been very reassuring, too; because in truth, R, G, & ½M's motives were exactly the opposite of what the other 9½ tribes had assumed. They were much more united than had been feared. So ultimately, the delegation from the western tribes of Israel were able to issue the order for their armies to stand down, and trust was restored in the Promised Land: "Today we know that the LORD is with us, because you have not acted unfaithfully toward the LORD in this matter. Now you have rescued the Israelites from the LORD's hand." Nuclear holocaust was averted. Peace was preserved. And trust between the various tribes of the newly-established Israel was restored.

To remember the whole incident, and the principles of unadulterated worship for which it stood, R, G, & ½M's altar remained on the eastern side of the Jordan. And the people on that side of the river gave it this name: "A Witness Between Us that the LORD is God."

Have you ever heard of Roy Cleveland Sullivan? I was turned on to the story by my friend, Kor, and I find myself genuinely surprised that his story hasn't yet been more widely publicized. Even reading the Wikipedia page about him reads like the script to some quirky-but-meaningful, "art-house," independent film.

Sullivan was struck by lightning seven separate times, over the course of 35 years. The lightning strikes were independently verified and documented by medical professionals. At least four of the seven times he was struck by lightning, his hair caught on fire -- leading him to develop a habit of carrying a can of water with him, wherever he went, just in case his head needed to be extinguished again... When he was struck by lightning for the second time, he was knocked unconscious while driving a truck -- and he only awoke to find that his vehicle had come to rest just short of the edge to a cliff... When he was struck by lightning for the seventh time, the incident was immediately followed by the appearance of a bear who tried to steal the trout from his fishing line (though the attempted "robbery" was not successful, as Sullivan kept his wits about him enough to beat the bear off with a stick).

As he grew older, Sullivan became convinced (understandably so) that storm clouds would actually follow him and seek him out for assault. Others seemd to pick up on this, too, as the lightning strikes eventually got to the point where Sullivan's friends and associates would part company with him, whenever they saw the slightest signs of a storm approaching. Unconfirmed reports indicated that there was once a lightning strike very close to Sullivan's father, when they were working together, and on a separate occasion Sullivan's wife was strike by lightning while hanging up the laundry together with her husband. Consequently, Sullivan started to avoid contact with other people, later in life, because he was concerned for their welfare. Eventually, Sullivan committed suicide at the age of 71 -- with the only documented reasons for this being "unrequited love."

Doesn't that just sound like an indy flick waiting to be produced? So much powerful potential for symbolism about fate, fear, and failure. Even though I've never been struck by lightning -- nor have I ever even personally known of someone else who was struck by lightning -- something in his story somehow resonates within me. Don't we all resonate with these themes? Anyone want to give me a grant of one-year's living expenses, so I can develop a script? :-)

Why do the Dutch not seem to care about the Women’s World Cup? They’re generally much bigger fans of football (soccer) than Americans, and they’re generally much more concerned with gender equality. Yet people here in the Netherlands simply don’t seem to care at all about women’s football (soccer). The Women’s World Cup a total non-event.

It’s odd to have American friends asking me about the Women’s World Cup, yet hearing almost nothing about it through the Dutch media. I’m sure some of this has to do with the fact that America has a good team this year, whereas the Dutch team didn’t even make it into the tournament. But still… I wonder if there are greater societal forces at work in this situation. I’m probably one of the least-qualified individuals to offer commentary on this particular situation, so I’d be curious to know if anyone else has a better theory. But it seems to me that football (soccer) is one of the unique areas of American sports culture where women have an equal—if not even superior—footing with men; whereas the sport is still one of those last bastions of Dutch machoisme.

In American sports culture, football (soccer) is not considered as “manly” of a sport as American football or basketball. Don’t ask me why: it just is. Therefore, professional-level football (soccer) generally gets less attention from most American men. And since men also tend to be the primary sporting enthusiasts, professional-level football (soccer) generally gets less attention from the American public at-large. However, football (soccer) is still promoted at lower levels of competition, presumably because it’s a relatively inexpensive sport with broad international appeal. Therefore, when such an opening is allowed for American women, in a generally sports-obsessed culture, the considerable resources of the United States (material resources as well as human resources) are brought to bear—and the results are a very competitive, very successful team. And since Americans enjoy success (like most cultures of the world probably do), their success attracts attention, which in turn breeds further success… and further attention.

In contrast, it seems to me that Dutch football (soccer) is one of the rare elements of Dutch culture where one actually runs into the grunting, brawling, chest-thumping, beer-drinking stereotypes of “manliness.” Could it be that this phenomenon is to an extent that Dutch women playing football (soccer) justs seem weird or out of place: perhaps similar to the idea of women in the USA playing American football or ice-hockey (not unheard of, but still not very popular)? Consequently, there aren’t very many girls football (soccer) clubs here in the Netherlands. And thus, there aren’t very many women’s football (soccer) players who make it to the highest levels of competition.

Am I missing anything here? Could it just be that I’m completely uninformed? Why do these distinctions seem so pronounced? What do the differences say about our cultures?

Whenever I travel back to the United States of America, now, I find myself picking up on cultural curiosities that had previously gone unnoticed. On my most recent trip back to the United States (for my grandmother's funeral), I was particularly struck by the use of the abbreviation "St."

Have you ever noticed how inconsistent Americans can be with this two-letter combination? Particularly on road signs, "St" can sometimes mean "State," sometimes "Street," and sometimes "Saint." You could conceivably write out short-hand directions to the capitol building in downtown Saint Paul, Minnesota, by saying "Take Rice St to the St Capitol in St Paul." That is: "Take Rice St(reet) to the St(ate) Capitol in S(ain)t Paul." Weird, huh

It's also interesting to see how thoroughfares, in general, are abbreviated. Sometimes, you take the first two or three letters: Street = "St" or Avenue = "Ave." But at other times, you take the first letter and the last letter: Road = "Rd" (or perhaps "St," depending on how you look at it). And then at other times, you can take a few of the most notable consonants from the word: Boulevard = "Blvd" or Lane = "Ln." Why do we do abbreviations like this? I don't know. But it's interesting to observe.

I confess that it feels a little bit strange to take photographs at a funeral, and perhaps even stranger to post the photographs here on-line. But I felt it was important to document such a moment in our family's history; and I hope that others from the family might appreciate the opportunity to access these images, as well.

So far, it's been a beautiful remembrance of my grandmother's life. We had a family viewing yesterday in Cambridge, followed by a burial service in Long Prairie (which also happened to be my first time ever officiating a funeral).

After the burial service, we had a luncheon with friends and family from Long Prairie. Later today we will have the public memorial service in Cambridge, followed by another luncheon with friends and family from Cambridge.

A broader collection of photographs (from the funeral and from other family gatherings in Minnesota, over the past few days) can be viewed in the Family Pictures section of this website. And you can also access my Flickr Photograph Collection directly, for fully downloadable copies of the pictures I've been taking.

I'm really thankful for all the friends and family who have helped to honor Grandma's memory, here stateside, and also for all the friends and family who have been "holding down the fort" back in Amsterdam, so that I can be here with my family.

I've been reading more of my grandmother's "Memoirs of a Minnesota Pastor's Wife," and I'm really enjoying the glimpse into her life and ministry. So much changed during the course of her 86 years.

When she and Grandpa started out in ministry, in Argyle, Minnesota, their parsonage (minister's residence) didn't have indoor plumbing. The school in town was a one-room school house heated by a small wood stove. Grandpa was paid $110 a month to serve as pastor, janitor, and grounds keeper at the Baptist church in town; and the small income was supplemented by meat, produce, and milk, provided by members of the church congregation. Most of the people in the church were still first- or second-generation Scandinavian immigrants, in that region and that period of American history, and they spoke with such a heavy Swedish brogue that Grandpa would often have to interpret for Grandma! It's amazing; reading Grandma's memoirs is not unlike reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Little House on the Prairie" book series.

Through the years, Grandma and Grandpa pastored a number of different churches out on the Minnesota prairie in places like Argyle, Reynolds, Clotho, Gutches Grove, Kerhoven, Rush City, Windom, Taylors Falls, Lake Crystal, and Long Prairie. The families among which they ministered had names like Gustafson, Peterson, Anderson, Carlson, and Tornquist. The places and names sound like they came straight from some Garrison Keillor story, but they were completely real. Completely authentic.

It's also amazing to realize some of the people with whom Grandma and Grandpa rubbed shoulders, during the course of their ministry development. While they were students at Minnesota's tiny Northwestern College, the school president was a relatively-obscure itinerant evangelist... who eventually became, well, not-so-obscure: Billy Graham. Grandma and Grandpa were also personal friends of Roger Youderian, one of the five "Auca Martyrs" (together with Jim Elliot, Nate Saint, Ed McCully, and Pete Fleming). As a matter of fact, it was Grandma's brother, Frank, who was asked to lead the search party to recover the bodies, as he was working among the neighboring Jivaro people during that same time period.

I love the legacy that my grandparents left for our family. I love the fact that their exploits were written down and preserved for posterity. And I love an opportunity to remember and celebrate these things, during my grandmother's funeral this week.

I'm sitting in the airport, waiting for the plane that will take me to Minnesota, to Grandma's funeral.

Even as I was writing out my thoughts and prayers yesterday, considering the more ominous signs of Grandma's life slipping away, it turns out that she was breathing her last breaths. Early in the Minnesota morning, the first morning in July 2011, Elizabeth (Betty) Asp "went to her reward."

I've been thinking a lot about that phrase over the last 24 hours or so: My Grandma, gone to her reward. It's kind of an old-fashioned euphemism for death, something that I assocoate with old Baptist clergymen preaching in a little, white-sided, sharp-steepled church-house, planted out among the waving grasses of the North American prairies. But then again, that's not so far off from the life that my Grandma Asp actually lived. Up until yesterday, when she went to her reward. One of the items that I made sure to pack, as I was scrambling to prepare for a last-minute booking to America, was the self-published memoires of my Grandma's life. Now, when I say "self-published," I mean a three-ring binder filled with plastic sleeves containing print-outs from the senior citizens apartment complex community computer. It's totally hand-made, totally unpretentious... totally Grandma. She's filled out the binder gradually, over the last couple of Christmases, and I find myself absolutely spellbound by the stories from decades and decades of being a "missionary" (Grandma enjoyed using that term, only half tongue-in-cheek) to the Swedes and Norwegians of central Minnesota. She and my Grandpa worked in little churches in little places with names like Clotho and Kerkhoven and Lake Crystal. But their impact was big. It wasn't the kind of thing that would garner national headlines -- a church building project there, a few folks baptized there -- but looking at their overall "body of work," including post-retirement ministry and family involvement, it really is quite impressive to see the way that they lived their lives.

Both of my grandparents understood, appreciated, and lived by, the grace of God, which means they would be the first to admit that no one "earns" their way to Heaven by doing good things or being nice people; still, it somehow feels appropriate to say that their promotion to Heaven is "going to their reward." It feels deeply satisfying and gives great peace to know that Grandma and Grandpa are now both together in God's presence. Rewarded indeed.

I'm praying for my Grandma today. Her health seems to have taken a turn for the worse last night, and it sounds like she might be close to the end. None of us are really all that worried about Grandma's death: Grandma seemingly least of all. She's said that she's actually looking forward to Heaven. All of her affairs are in order, and she's ready for death. But still I feel compelled to pray for the dying part of things with my Grandma. I imagine that it can be very scary and uncomfortable to experience difficulty in breathing -- and I wish there was some way to bypass the difficulties. I wish, and I hope... and I pray.

In this, I realize that I imitate my Grandma.

To look at her, you might not know it, but my Grandma is an absolute warrior. Of all the barrel-chested, testosterone-pumped, idealistic, twenty-something, young men I know -- some of whom might even be willing to step out in traffic in order to shield me from danger -- I can’t think of a single one who possesses the strength, power, and protection of my octogenarian grandmother.

She’s a prayer warrior. Not just one of those types who casually says, “I’ll pray for you,” as a way of basically saying that she just hopes things turn out for the best. If she says she’s going to pray for something, she does it. Sincerely, faithfully, and regularly. She asks follow-up questions about it later. She expects God to move through prayer, and experience has shown that her expectations are not in vain.

In all my years of life and ministry, there’s been an incredible feeling of protection to know that my Grandma has been praying for me.

I worry what it will be like to lose this layer of protection. I worry what it will feel like to have the weight of history bearing more directly, more heavily down on my shoulders and the shoulders of my generation. But I hope that I will keep learning and growing how to apply the lessons that my Grandma’s prayer habits have taught me. I desire to pray for my children -- and, Lord willing, someday for my grandchildren -- in the same way that Grandma prays for me. I pray that someday I might become a warrior like my Grandma.