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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Eric

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

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

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

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

< sigh >

It's just been one of those weeks.