It's such an exquisite joy to learn an embarrassing secret about the past life of one of your closest friends, isn't it? Why do we delight in seeing a picture of someone we deeply love and respect -- back when he or she was 12 years old, wearing braces, and holding up a beloved poster featuring the New Kids on the Block? Why do we smile so broadly (and share so willingly) about an absurd childhood obsession or experience -- even if it's something like collecting "Garbage Pail Kids" trading cards, or roller-skating backwards, or holding some obscure title in the Guiness Book of World Records? Why is this? This, to me is one of the great mysteries of life...

All of this just goes to say that I've been infinitely fascinated to learn the colorful history of my dear friend and co-pastor, Todd Watkins (a.k.a. T.T. Watkins, a.k.a. TW, a.k.a. T-dubs)... Or should I say, "Twinkle-Toes Watkins?"

Just a few weeks ago, Todd and I were casually chatting at the H88 -- then, whether from boredom or simple joie-de-vivre, Todd busted out this rather remarkable tap-dance maneuver. I laughed and clapped at his spontaneous burst of kinetic expression and said something to the effect of, "Wow, that looked surprisingly professional!" Todd laughed too and then kind of wiggled his eyebrows mysteriously and said something like, "If only you knew..." His remark was meant to be something of a joke, but there was something in his tone that made me wonder if there might be more of a story behind it. So I kept asking questions, pulling the story out of Todd piece by piece. And in the end, I was simply amazed by what I learned about my friend.

One of the things that I really like about Todd is his humility. He's really a very remarkable person, but he doesn't flaunt it. He doesn't feel some insecure need to regale you with stories about his illustrious talents and life experiences. But if you get down to it, asking specific questions about a specific area of Todd's life, he will slowly bring you in on his life story (smiling in such a way that you know that he is secretly, though appropriately, proud of his past acheivements), and you can learn that he is truly one of a kind. As it turns out, Todd was actually a childhood tap-dancing prodigy! He was classically trained in a number of different kinds of dance, but apparently he showed a special aptitude for tap. And as he developed his skills as a six-year-old, seven-year-old, eight-year-old, he became something of a national sensation for a time in the early 1980s.

Big stars like Sammy Davis Jr. and Ben Vereen performed live with my friend, the child prodigy, on Broadway stages and on the Silver Screen in films which have, apparently, become cult classics for those in the tap-dancing subcultures of the world. I guess Todd made the circuit of the television networks' morning shows at one point, and even appeared on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson! Do you maybe remember Savion Glover -- a kid who often appeared and exhibited his own tap-dancing skills on Sesame Street during the 1980s and 1990s? Apparently, he's a personal acquaintance (and once something of a rival) of our own Todd Watkins! Isn't that crazy!?!? You think you know a guy... and then you go and learn something totally unexpected about him!

Hoax or not? I don't really know. Even now, when talking about it with Todd, there's something about his mannerisms and his tone that makes me alternate between completely believing his story and completely questioning it. But as I've searched the internet a little bit and checked out some of the background facts, it seems that enough checks out to at least make the story credible. And you know, it's just one of those things that sounds almost too crazy to be made up! In any event, all I know is that I've attained a whole new level of respect for my friend and co-pastor: the great Twinkle-Toes Watkins.

For the first time in a long time, I had ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard for my lunches this weekend.

The above sentence may very well qualify as one of the most boring, mundane, ridiculous opening lines for a blog post ever.  And let's be honest:  for the average blog browser, it may very well serve as a ridiculously boring opening sentence for a ridiculously boring post... But then again maybe not.

I think my ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard are actually kind of significant, in a way.  For me personally, I think they may serve as a sign of acceptance, perspective, and coming-to-terms with the past five years of my life.  You see, when I first moved to Amsterdam, in January 2003, I probably ate ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard for my lunch four or five times a week.  Partly because they were very tasty -- made with fresh, crusty, European bread, topped with salty ham and finely aged Dutch cheese, and accented with sharp, zingy, French mustard -- and partly because they were one of the very few things that I knew to prepare as I learned a new system for grocery stores, kitchen utensils, and daily routines.  For the first month that I lived in Amsterdam -- in an apartment on the Leidsekade just below the old Zolder -- ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard were a staple of my diet.

But then, as I moved out from the Leidsekade apartment and into the city, and as I grew tired of the same old food every day for lunch -- to the point that I was willing to overcome my inhibitions for trying new things and acclimating to the culture around me -- I moved away from the ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard.  I fell back to the old American classic, peanut-butter-and-jelly.  Or I had roast beef.  Or I made pasta.  Or I ate at one of the cafes in the city.  And for whatever reason, I never came back to the ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard again.

Oh, sure, I probably had a ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard every now and then -- most likely if someone else had prepared the lunch for me... But I found myself very deliberately avoiding ham-and-cheese with mustard.  I would sooner eat just ham.  Or just cheese.  Or maybe ham-and-cheese with no mustard.  But however it happened, I developed a subtle aversion to a ham-and-cheese with mustard because it reminded me, quite viscerally, of a very awkward and painful period of my life.  It left, in a very literal way, a bad taste in my mouth.  Those early days in Amsterdam have a certain nostalgia and "glory days" feel to them, on one level -- but really, when I think back on those days, even now I get a bit of a sick feeling in my stomach.  Of course that was a necessary period of my life, to get me to where I am today (living and functioning in daily life in Amsterdam), but those early days were a very uncomfortable period of my life -- feeling ignorant and useless and powerless and lonely most of the time.  And although I'm glad that I went through the whole process, and I feel confident that God directed through that season of life, I would never relish the idea of going back to that time.  And for whatever reason, without really giving it much thought, a ham-and-cheese sandwich with mustard came to symbolize this to me.

So I actually think it's kind of significant that I made a specific and deliberate choice to enjoy a few ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard this weekend (even though there were other options at my disposal).  Laugh at me, if you want (it is kind of silly).  Congratulate me, if you want.  But I'm glad to be eating ham-and-cheese sandwiches with mustard again.  Though I wouldn't want to do it every day.

We got a new-old CD in the mail this weekend: Ken Medema: "Just Us Kids." It was a gift from my sister for my and Elliot's birthdays -- and man, has it been a good one!

When I was growing up, our family had the album on vinyl (yes, boys and girls -- I am old enough to personally remember records, eight-tracks, cassette-tapes, CDs, and MP3s as the dominant listening formats!). And listening to the songs and stories of Ken Medema (now digitally remastered) again this weekend was returning to a very happy place in my life: remembering our family's plaid couch, the orange-velvety upholstered chair, our dog Muffy, my blue Darth Vader T-shirt... Ah those were the days...

And although the nostalgic effect of the Ken Medema album was immensely enjoyable, in and of itself, I have to say that even if I hadn't grown up listening to that record, it's just a great album! You couldn't exactly say that it's timeless (the mid-70s brass section coming in at parts, like Chicago's "Saturday in the Park," definitely anchors it in a certain era) -- but it's absolutely classic. The music is really cool -- not just some crap for the kids (a presumably undiscerning audience). It's kind of Billy Joel meets Chicago -- but not merely pop-rock; kind of jazzy and bluesy, too. And then beyond the music, Ken Medema's storytelling is absolutely brilliant. He uses the piano as a beautiful complement to the stories (kind of background music, kind of sound effects), and the stories themselves are both entertaining and insightful. I'm not a professional album critic, so I find my descriptions here falling
miserably short -- but all I know is that it's very enjoyable
listening.

My kids, too, have really enjoyed listening to the new album. Already, after just a few listenings, Elliot and Olivia are singing along with the music and listening in gape-mouthed silence to the stories. I love it.

Thanks, Anna for a great birthday present!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Eric

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

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

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