There are a lot of similarities between this place where I've settled, here on the rim of the North Sea, and the place where I grew up, in the American Midwest. The two regions have a similar geography, similar climate, and similar levels of development. Yet after spending several years in both places, it seems to me that the connection goes even deeper than that.

When our family was recently traveling through the northern part of France, I was freshly struck by the parallels between these two disparate parts of the world. There we were in France -- distinctly French and foreign in its language, cuisine, culture, and architecture -- yet somehow, it was strangely familiar. The air was cool, with rapidly shifting cloud cover. The landscape was green with gently rolling hills, cattle grazing in wide pastures. The people were modest and unimposing (very different from the flashy, fancy, "Frenchy" stereotype I so quickly conjure up when I think of French people). The familiarity of northern France was striking. As I was driving along between Honfleur and Trouville, the association suddenly clicked for me: It was like driving through rural Wisconsin! That's exactly what it felt like for me. Coincidentally, I was listening to a recorded broadcast of the Prairie Home Companion, where Garrison Keillor was reporting the "News from Lake Wobegon." It just so happened that "this week's news" was about how one of the women from this small Minnesota town had decided to organize a group trip to Norway -- and then only later had second thoughts, wondering:

"Why in the world? Why did I ever suggest Norway? I mean, all you find there are people who are a lot like people here -- except even more so... Why go to a country where I'm just going to see a lot of large, white, phlegmatic people eating herring?"

Of course, Keillor's intent is comedic -- so he's exaggerating for the sake of effect. But actually only a little bit. That "phlegmatic" label, while aesthetically unpleasant, really does fit beautifully with both Europeans from the North Sea Rim and Americans from the Midwest: "Guardians who pride themselves on being dependable, helpful, and hard-working" (definition from PTypes.com). When you really stop to think about it, the motivations and attributes of people from these two far-flung parts of the world are remarkably congruous. They think alike and act alike. Emotional sobriety and down-to-earthness are highly prized. There's not a lot of glitz and glamor -- no glory-hounds. They're just hard-working, humble people who work well in teams.

Naturally, there is a wide variety of individuals, as well as a wide variety of people groups throughout both the North Sea region and the Midwest region. Even so, the generalizations generally seem to hold water.

Much of the general similiarities between the North Sea Rim and the American Midwest may have to do with migration patterns: Swedes and Norwegians in Minnesota and the Dakotas, Dutch people in Michigan, Germans in Wisconsin, Indiana, and Ohio, English and Scottish people throughout the region. This doubtless accounts for the similarities in surnames and physical attributes. But history has also bonded these two regions in distinct ways: roots in agriculture, yet relatively high population densities which carved the way for industrialization and prosperity through the last couple of centuries. Now, both regions are grappling with post-industrialization and shifting migration patterns (this time, with winds blowing up from the Middle East and Mexico). The social conscious of these reasons is being pricked in new ways -- multi-culturalism, environmentalism, social activism -- and not surprisingly, the people from these two regions are showing themselves to be clear-headed, capable, equitable (and often even exceptionally generous) players in promoting a better world for everybody.

I don't know. I'm not a professional anthropologist, by any stretch of the imagination; still, I find it gratifying to discover, and explore, and live in this resonance between my two "home" regions. I'm proud of being both a Midwesterner and a part of the North Sea Rim. These are "my people," and I revel in the connection. But for the most part, I'm going to keep my pride and revelry quiet, subtle, inward... because, well, that's why my people do.

Amsterdam is experiencing its coldest, wettest summer since 1903.

I've been reminded of this fact on numerous occasions in the last week or two, and I've reminded others as well. Seriously, I bet this statistic comes up three or four times a day. We'll tsk our tongues and look up at the skies and say: "Well, you know, they say that this is the coldest, wettest summer since 1903." We say it to each other as we strip off sopping rain jackets and rain pants. We say it when we're waiting under the canopy at the bus stop. We say it when another downpour lets loose, just as we're checking out from the grocery store. "This is, you know, the coldest, wettest summer since 1903." We keep reminding ourselves of this almanackian wisdom in order to encourage ourselves that we are actually the privileged witnesses of history. A once-in-a-century sort of rainy season.

Yesterday, our annual church picnic fell victim to this coldest, wettest summer since 1903. Believe it or not, it was the first Vondel50 that we ever had to cancel (or, rather, relocate to the familiar environs of the H88) -- which, considering the general climate of Amsterdam, is really a pretty remarkable run, if you really think about it. But if any summer was going to create problems for us, of course it was going to be this one. Fortunately, we managed to pull together a fun indoor picnic after all -- and our spirits were none too dampened by the rain outside. The H88 Kids' Room, however, was significantly dampened. An extraordinary amount of rainfall in the morning, falling down on ground that was already quite saturated, caused the sewer system in the 17th Century canal house to be simply overwhelmed. It just couldn't handle all the water, so we had sewage back up into the lowest lying area of our building: the Kids Room. Yuck! I was grateful for some beautiful teamwork that helped to minimize material damages and mop up the mess. I'm really proud of the way the church rose to the occasion. By God's grace, we were able to get the situation under control again, at least for a little while. But then again, it's the coldest, wettest summer since 1903, right? We can only hope the rains will slacken enough to give the plumbers some time to address the structural issues.

We've been able to stay remarkably encouraged, here in Amsterdam, despite the soggy circumstances. Yesterday ended up being really fun and memorable, in its own unique ways. I can appreciate the beauty of the rains, especially knowing people in the Horn of Africa or in the American Southwest (like my brother in Texas) are experiencing terrible drought and heat. Still, I have to confess that it can be a little bit disheartening to realize that we're at the end of August now, with the window of opportunity for fair weather quickly closing. It's the coldest, wettest summer since 1903 -- but what happened in the fall and the winter of 1903? Perhaps unseasonable warmth? An extra-beautiful canopy of fall foliage? Here's hoping for some kind of upturn sometime between now and next May...

I just discovered the work of Marius van Dokkum this morning, while shopping for greeting cards. I was surprised and delighted to become acquainted with his oeuvre. He's got a unmistakable touch of vintage Norman Rockwell -- but with a distinctly Dutch, uniquely 21st-Century twist.

His subject matter is extremely varied, but there seems to be a lot of intriguing religious imagery... as well as some unusual social commentary.

I don't know how professional art critics would think of his work -- and I don't know if his art is even all that popular here within the Netherlands -- but I certainly found it enjoyable.

I recently read that Bill Clinton has become a vegan. According to the newspaper article I read, he did it primarily for health reasons, needing something relatively drastic to combat heart disease; and then it also helped him to lose weight for his daughter's wedding. Good for him, I say.

I don't think I'm ready to become a vegan, but I have recently been coming to terms with the fact that my metabolism isn't what it used to be. If I eat everything that I want to eat -- especially like I did over my recent vacation -- I gain weight. So I'm trying to figure out ways to adapt my diet, so that I can maintain a healthy weight. For the moment, I'm simply working to lower my caloric consumption (no eating between meals and no liquid calories) and raise my caloric combustion (exercising three times a week, plus daily bicycle riding and walking), at least through the months of August and September, to see what that might accomplish. But I'm also thinking about long-term, "maintenance" dieting -- and I'm researching various possibilities.

I recently heard of an acquaintance in Missouri who talks about his "Diet of the S's." Basically: No Snacks, No Sweets, and No Seconds, Except on Days of the Week which Start with the Letter 'S' (i.e. Saturdays and Sundays). And I kind of like the sound of that...

But I'm also searching for other options. Does anyone have any good tips for "lifestyle diets?" I'm looking for something more simple and more sustainable than short-term, sprint diets, to burn off excess fat -- like drastic diets with no carbohydrates, or only green food, or no solid food. These types of long-term diets seem to be harder to come by... But I'm sure they have to be out there somewhere.

My vacation ended four days ago, and I'm adjusting to normal weekly rhythms again. Getting back into "real life" in Amsterdam has been good -- but also exhausting. Maintaining a house again, paying bills, responding to a backlog of e-mails, getting caught up on ministry relationships and responsibilities, resuming healthier patterns of eating and exercising, riding my bike in the rain again... I see it all as good and necessary activity, but it's been tiring me out.

Even so, I've recently been appreciating the way that exhaustion (particularly in the immediate transition back from a time of great refreshment) is significantly better than discouragement.

Looking at the calendar this morning, I felt shocked to realize that we're already down to the last week of August! This was a very pleasant realization for me -- because, ever since moving to Amsterdam, August has been the time of year when I go through a period of feeling like a complete and utter failure. Amsterdam feels like a ghost-town to me, when so many friends are gone on vacation. Ministry loses all its momentum. I find myself feeling idle, if I try to keep up my normal routines through the summer vacation season. The days start getting noticeably shorter again, two months after the high point of the summer solstice, and (yes, even in August) my thoughts turn towards winter. I find myself asking all these existential questions and getting depressed, when I consider my life and ministry in Amsterdam, in the month of August... And I wallow in feelings of emptiness and failure.

Fortunately, it's usually just a seasonal thing. But even more fortunately, the planning of our family vacation for this year made it so that I practically skipped the entire month of August! We didn't necessarily plan it that way, but it's worked out wonderfully! Of course, we've been here for a week at the beginning and the end of the month; but prior to vacation, it was all busy activity and preparing to head out of town, and since returning from vacation it's been the warm afterglow of vacation rapidly blending into all busy activity and getting caught up on everything that I missed while out of town. I just haven't had the opportunity to do any wallowing in feelings of emptiness and failure! And I view that as a special reminder of God's grace and goodness to me.

So anyway, I share that just to encourage anyone who may not have had the privilege of taking a vacation this month and thus find himself or herself suffering from some version of the Agonies of August (Take heart: Realize that the end of the month is just around the corner!). And now I'd better be getting back to work...

We're back from vacation: back in Amsterdam after two full weeks in France.

I loved the opportunity to visit Normandy. It was just about everything that we could have hoped for in a vacation destination. The region had magnificent, wide beaches with fine, soft sand; yet there were also heavily-forested hills with hiking trails. The area had places of great historical significance, especially medieval and Second World War history; and yet we often felt like we were simply in the middle of nowhere. It was incredibly restful, staying in a little cottage in Berville-sur-Mer, just a five-minute walk from the River Seine: peaceful for us parents, and yet still fun for the kids, with all kinds of wide open spaces around the cottage. Such a lovely vacation destination... and just a seven hour drive from our home in Amsterdam!

But more than the stuff of Fodor's and Frommer's and Lonely Planet and whatnot, our vacation was especially lovely because it ended up being a genuine rest from everyday life. There's definitely something special about a full two weeks of uninterrupted recreation. It can be very difficult, with my personality and with my line of work, for me to truly disengage from ministry -- even though I theoretically endorse the idea of really resting and using all of one's allotted vacation time in any given year. I am becoming increasingly committed to taking recreation seriously as I grow older; still, this vacation was exceptional because I felt like I was truly able to disengage from the ministry of Amsterdam50 in a way that I can't usually manage to do. I didn't spend too much time thinking or talking about ministry stuff. I didn't do any ministry reading (though I managed to finish four other books that I really enjoyed!). Though internet access was still available whenever we really needed it, the signals were poor enough that I could totally ignore my e-mail. Also, because of the internet access issues, I didn't spend much time dinking around on Facebook, blogs, sports news sites, or any of my other typical "recreational" internet activity... and *** Surprise! Surprise! *** my recreation felt more complete without these recreational diversions.

The vacation in Normandy also ended up being a great success because we just had a great time together as a family. I don't know how my kids will remember the trip, but I know how I'll remember it. I'll remember the playlist of songs that we gradually built up for our listening pleasure, while we drove from place to place: Jacques Brel, John Denver, Michael Jackson, Toto, and others. I'll remember "walks along the Seine" and "laughing in the rain" (which also happen to be more song lyrics). I'll remember eating artichokes with lemon-butter dipping sauce, while sitting around the dining room table in our little cottage. Of course there was Paris, and Bayeaux, and Étretat, and Honfleur, and the D-Day Beaches, and the Mont St. Michel -- and I hope that we'll all treasure the memories of these unique parts of the world -- but more than the places, it's the people that made our vacation so special.

Now it's back to "real life" here in Amsterdam. It's always a bit challenging to ramp up again, but I'm actually looking forward to it. I have new energy and new enthusiasm.

What exactly will our kids remember from our family vacation to France? Or will they remember anything at all? If some degree of memory is retained, what kinds of things will "make the cut," and what kinds of things will just fade away?

Childhood memories are funny things. They're not impressed by the sites that are listed by the UNESCO World Heritage Council. They're not necessarily impressed by the most excellent experiences, like a fabulously delicious meal or an exceptionally beautiful panoramic view. And they're certainly not interested in "experiential status," like it seems like a lot of adults from my generation can be. From time to time, it seems that children will be excited to witness famous landmarks that they've read about in books or seen in movies (i.e. Paris = Eiffel Tower) -- but I've found that this is not always the case, either. Try as hard as we might, we can't predict or control our children's reactions to their life experiences.

To be honest, I can't even figure out the rationale behind my own childhood memories! For instance, I can recall a childhood trip to Arizona and Southern California. I went together with my family, when I must have been 12 years old or so. It was one of my first times flying on an airplane, I think -- and it was certainly my first time visiting that part of the world. But the experiences that remain in my mind do not fit any kind of logic. Not even a personal logic. I have only the vaguest recollections of standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon -- which certainly seems like it should be one of the most awesome, monumental experiences in any person's life -- yet I can remember the specific brand of root beer that my Grandma Liechty asked me, my brother, and my cousin to pick up from the grocery store sometime during the course of that trip. I don't remember any of the driving through the deserts between Phoenix and Los Angeles -- even though great drives are one of those things that seem to typically stick with me (and I would love to have the chance to make that drive again) -- however, I have a very specific memory of shopping in a roadside market in a little wayside town called Quartzsite and purchasing a "Baja"-style hooded sweater. I remember almost nothing of Southern California -- even though we traveled all the way into downtown Los Angeles -- but I do have a specific mental image of a rocky alcove along the Pacific Ocean, which I remember as being Laguna Beach. The mechanisms through which these memories have stuck with me are as strange and wispy as the memories themselves.

So I just wonder what my kids -- aged only 9, 7ish, and 4ish -- will remember from visiting Paris and Normandy, in the summer of 2011. We tell ourselves that we take these sorts of trips in order to give our kids great experiences, things they will hold onto "forever." But what kinds of things might that actually be? Will they be more inclined to remember the long walk along the causeway to the Mont St. Michel... or will they be more inclined to remember the PlayPlace at the McDonalds just outside of Rouen? Will they be able to recall the dizzying drop-offs beneath their feet on the white cliffs of Étretat... or will they more easily remember splatting stones into the mud and silt of the River Seine, within walking distance of the cottage where we stayed? I guess I really don't have a vested interest in them remembering any one thing above another... I'm just wish I could know, somehow.

I've heard that you're not supposed to do any kind of internet "publication" about a vacation, while you're on that vacation -- basically anything that might broadcast the vacancy of one's home -- but I'm not so sure that Amsterdam thieves are such big readers of my personal website... And even if they were, well, our house is being well looked after by our neighbors Harm and Pauline. They both have a keen sense of hearing, coupled with mad skills in the martial arts, so that anyone even trying to break into our house would be very, very sorry...

So anyway, we're on vacation in France, and we're having a very lovely time.

First we spent two days in Paris. It was a very different exerpience for Marci and me, almost exactly ten years after our first visit to the city (sans les enfants) -- but still enjoyable.

Since then, we've been in Normandy, enjoying the beaches, the historic sites, and the natural beauty of the countryside. It really has been idyllic, in a lot of ways. The weather has been, well, comme ci, comma ça -- but at least it's been better than the weather we've been having in Amsterdam throughout the summer.

I've actually found myself enjoying the fact that the internet access is very spotty, in the little cottage where we're staying. A week of "radio silence" has suited me just fine. At the same time, I also think it's fun to share experiences and images like this -- so I thought I would make just a bit of extra effort to put up a few of my favorite photographs thus far. In addition, a broader collection of images can also be accessed in the Family Pictures section of the website, in case you're interested.

I'm still looking forward to the remainder of our vacation... though I will not say when we plan to return to Amsterdam (thus, thieves, beware that it could be at any moment -- and even if you get there before we do, you'll still have Harm and Pauline to reckon with!). Vacations are never quite long enough, but we're doing just fine with what we've got.

My brother, Jay, recently posted some of his favorite songs of sadness, and I found the opportunity the opportunity to reflect on my own personal playlist strangely enjoyable. Then this morning, I was bicycling into the city and listening to music on my headphones, I was actually moved to tears (in a good way) by one of the songs. So I thought it might be fun to share more of the "Songs that Make Me Cry," paying homage to the powerful emotional influence that music can have on us. Here are five of my personal favorites:

"Waters of Babylon," by Don McLean

This is the ultimate song of lament: words of the ancient Hebrew Scriptures set to a haunting, circular tune by 1970s folk song-writer Don McLean. The words themselves don't make so much sense in a contemporary context -- but even so, somehow they reflect the character of a people who were deeply acquainted with sorrow and suffering. If you read the stories behind the lyrics (see Psalm 137 and the Old Testament history of the Babylonian Exile), then you can appreciate the sorrow even further. But in any event, McLean's "Waters of Babylon" is one of the most sad, and most beautiful songs that I know.

"Aubrey," by Bread

The 1970s musicians, Bread, were masters of sad songs. I could just as easily have mentioned their songs, "Diary" or "Dismal Day," but this one resonates with me particularly strongly because of its association with the miscarriage that Marci and I experienced in November of 2003. We never really named the child that we lost, but if we would have done so, I think the name would have been Aubrey. That autumn was a really sad season for us: because of the miscarriage, but also because of other factors. Whenever I hear this song, I am transported back to the emotions from that season of life.

"The Art Teacher," by Rufus Wainwright

I love story-songs, and I think this story about a high school girl who falls in love with her art teacher is an especially beautiful story-song. It speaks to issues of expectations, regrets, ideals, and unrequited love. The song is especially meaningful to me because it was given to me by my brother, Jay, who just so happens to be an art teacher himself -- but even without that connection, it would be a powerful song in its own right.

"Blessed Be the Name," by Matt Redman

I have to say that I actually prefer the Chris Smith version of this song (though I don't know of any recording for such a version), but I'll give the props to Matt Redman since he wrote the song. This song also has a strong connection with a particularly challenging season of my life -- the summer of 2003 -- when I had to really put my faith to the test and see if I could genuinely bless the name of the Lord, even in the midst of difficulty. Almost every time this song is sung in a church worship gathering, I feel myself getting choked up... in a good way.

"Barcelona," by Queen

I honestly have no real idea why this song hits me the way it does. I actually feel kind of silly when this song brings out the tears in me, and I can't fully explain the reasons why... But it does. This is the song that I heard on my headphones this morning, and I had a good cry over it. I just love the chorus, when the band bursts into the word, "Barcelona." There's such power and emotion in that section for me. My earliest recollection of the song is from the 1992 Olympics, so maybe the tears have something to do with that experience or that time period in my life; but I genuinely can't explain it logically. It just makes my list because it's one of those "Songs that Make Me Cry."

What about you? What are some of your favorite sad songs -- or perhaps I should ask in terms of emotionally-overwhelming songs? What are some songs that make you cry? Perhaps with some friends' recommendations, I can add to my playlist.

This weekend, our church bid farewell to another pillar of the community: a young woman, headed back to her roots in Colorado. Three weeks previously, she was preceded by another young family who moved to rural Scotland. Of course, it's sad for our church to lose such integral members -- and they will certainly be missed -- but then again, the church here has always found a way to persevere, and I'm really not the least bit worried about our ability to bounce back from these losses. If anything, it seems to me that these types of circumstances should be expected, considering that our church is quite international and largely made up of twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings: a transitory population if ever there was one.

One thing that I find quite unexpected, however, is a curious trend connecting (or contrasting) church planting and organic farming. Believe it or not: there have been at least four families (eight adults, plus eleven kids) that I know of who have transitioned from international, urban, church-planting in Amsterdam to local, rural, organic farming (at varying levels) in other parts of the world. That's something like a full quarter of those who have been a significant part of our church for a signficant period of time, and then eventually moved on! It seems like a disproportionate coincidence, doesn't it? So I've recently been wondering what really drives this phenomenon.

The conclusions that I've come to are that organic farming appeals to people who have been involved with our church in Amsterdam because (1) it's surprisingly similar, and (2) it's drastically different.

It's similar in that it's meaningful work, on-the-grond and down-to-earth, and it feels remarkably biblical (especially when you can combine it with interpersonal ministry, as a number of these families are doing). But it also seems like there's an appeal in its marked distinction from urban ministry -- because you can get out of the "concrete canyons" of central Amsterdam, you can see the sky and feel the dirt, and you can see tangible results from your labors which are not always so easy to come by when you're working with people's lives. I can especially relate with the appeal of this "tangible results" factor. Even though I've never particularly pined for the life of an organic farmer, I can understand why the attraction of working with natural dynamics more than interpersonal dynamics. Working with people is always messy and never finished. It's really difficult to look at one's ministry and be able to clearly discern the "results" of a day's work -- or a year's work, or whatever! Yes, there are little triumphs along the way: conversions, baptisms, weddings, and baby dedications... But these are still not "tangible" results in the same way that a vine-ripened butternut squash or a hand-picked raspberry jam is! I'm not complaining; I'm just noticing.

I don't know for sure if these are the reasons that there seems to be such a correlation between church planting and organic farming... but it's the best explanation I can come up with. For myself, I'm perfectly happy to "bloom where I'm planted." But I also wish my friends much success in their new endeavors... I just hope they might send me a jar of home-made, self-preserved raspberry jam sometime, by which to remember them.