The moment finally came, the spring equinox, the part of the year where the light begins to overwhelm the darkness in the Northern Hemisphere and all the birds start singing love songs. There was a day a few weeks ago where the cafes first opened their doors and put chairs and tables onto Plochingen's cobblestone market street and every child between the river and the top of the mountain went down to the local park (mine included). I saw new friends, sympathized with fellow parents and found out someone had waxed the slide when my brave daughter landed on her bottom three feet (one meter for all you continental Europeans, one metre if you're the writer of the technical English book I use) in front of it. The sun stayed up later, giving everyone color and smiles. (It's not all fun, of course - right now the trees are taking their revenge on my using them for fuel and shelter and lesson plans by warring against my sinuses)
Next week is Easter, and I intend to bite into a big fat chocolate egg (and finally check my Facebook account - what's new?). Here in Germany, they're usually filled with egg liqueur (the taste makes this American think of the Christmas nog), though I hope to get some good Cadbury egg in the mail. You know, the tasty treats that rot your teeth on contact and taste like love mixed with sugar. In any case, I waive my palm in glad anticipation.
These are the feelings of new life: taste, smell, sound, sight, touch. It's appropriate that Christians confiscated pagan fertility symbols for our Easter parties. We eat the eggs and hug the bunnies and then, still shaking from sugar highs and feasting, we go to church and shout, "The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed!" Life renewed. Resurrection. New birth.
This is good news. No, this is wonderful news. Wonderful in the literal since, and I find it especially grand here in Western Europe where people have told me they love the feeling of wonder but refuse to believe in wonder itself. After all, how could anyone rise from the dead, the way Jesus did, the way his closest followers risked their lives to say he did.
It means that things like death, suffering, injustice and evil, results of the fall, however they got here, don't have the final say. These things, present as they are to our senses and our newspapers, as real as they are to our lives, especially those who face the worst of it, do not lord over us. This is wonderful news.
It also means that, however messed up we are (and make no mistake, we are) that there's something about us, in our flesh, in our spirit, in our soul and all we are, that God loves and wants to preserve. God sees it, made in his image. He loves us enough to send his Son to die for us, to take the penalty for our sin, and to raise us with him. Jesus' rising means that we will also rise. God wants to renew us and preserve us, for his love, for his unending pleasure.
This holy week, it's worth stepping into a church to observe the worshippers, the smell of spring and new life in their nostrils, celebrate the wild coronation of Palm Sunday, break bread on Maundy Thursday, mourn death on Good Friday and revel in Resurrection on Easter Sunday. If you find you can't believe in wonder, it's a good week to give it a shot. The awakening flowers, the jubilant birds and the chocolate eggs invite us to do so.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The Train to Stuttgart
One of the best parts of my weekly routine adventure is Wednesdays, when I take the train from Plochingen to Stuttgart. It starts with a brisk, 10-minute run to the train station (hey - I'm a parent and I happen to enjoy breakfast) where I'm usually just in time to catch the Regional Express. The Regional Express only stops three times along the Neckar river before we hit the Swabian metropolis. Sometimes I hit the Jackpot and land an Interregional Express, which is a nonstop trip to the mighty Hauptbahnhof (main train station).
I love speeding through past the Neckar hills as they wake up to the gentle glow of the Eastern sun. The hills and the buildings and the trees get thicker as we approach Stuttgart, a testament to Germany's lively effort to weave nature and civilization. I love that I'm not driving so I can watch them. I love that I can read the enormous book that I got at the library and that I'll regret bringing later as I lug my backpack down Koenigstrasse (hmmm... Kindle?..nahhh). I love that I can go through my prayer cards, which help me better love all of those who I think about and who are not on the train. I love that I can see the people.
People on the train are the best. Students buried in their iPods. Hippie punks with dread locks, patches and tattoos. Businessmen with ties and glasses and important newspapers. A bouncy Japanese woman with bouncy hair who bounces her son on her lap while singing a bouncy Japanese song. It's a strange thing about public transportation. During the commute everyone is equal, united in a sense of purpose and destination. Everyone is close. Sure, we try to be far away, choosing the seat furthest from any possible contact with strangers, especially if we have strategies for when we arrive and which car we take. But eventually, the train fills up and people from every tongue, tribe and nation are packed together like a game of human Tetris. It's awkward, funny, uncomfortable and humanizing. And it sure as heck beats vehicle Tetris on your local highway.
Of course, the camaraderie ends at the train station. That's the moment we stop, well, ok, many moments before, we race to the door like it's a fire drill, everyone aware of the trouble each day has and how everyone else should learn patience.
But before that, there's the serene moment of speeding with a book, a prayer and so many flavors of human to look at. The train speeds ahead like a mechanical wild horse. We run parallel with another train, this one carrying cargo cargo instead of human cargo. It's hard to tell which train is faster, but they both seem to be enjoying the chase. I imagine that they greet one another with a sunrise smile, glowing that they're doing what they were created to do.
I love speeding through past the Neckar hills as they wake up to the gentle glow of the Eastern sun. The hills and the buildings and the trees get thicker as we approach Stuttgart, a testament to Germany's lively effort to weave nature and civilization. I love that I'm not driving so I can watch them. I love that I can read the enormous book that I got at the library and that I'll regret bringing later as I lug my backpack down Koenigstrasse (hmmm... Kindle?..nahhh). I love that I can go through my prayer cards, which help me better love all of those who I think about and who are not on the train. I love that I can see the people.
People on the train are the best. Students buried in their iPods. Hippie punks with dread locks, patches and tattoos. Businessmen with ties and glasses and important newspapers. A bouncy Japanese woman with bouncy hair who bounces her son on her lap while singing a bouncy Japanese song. It's a strange thing about public transportation. During the commute everyone is equal, united in a sense of purpose and destination. Everyone is close. Sure, we try to be far away, choosing the seat furthest from any possible contact with strangers, especially if we have strategies for when we arrive and which car we take. But eventually, the train fills up and people from every tongue, tribe and nation are packed together like a game of human Tetris. It's awkward, funny, uncomfortable and humanizing. And it sure as heck beats vehicle Tetris on your local highway.
Of course, the camaraderie ends at the train station. That's the moment we stop, well, ok, many moments before, we race to the door like it's a fire drill, everyone aware of the trouble each day has and how everyone else should learn patience.
But before that, there's the serene moment of speeding with a book, a prayer and so many flavors of human to look at. The train speeds ahead like a mechanical wild horse. We run parallel with another train, this one carrying cargo cargo instead of human cargo. It's hard to tell which train is faster, but they both seem to be enjoying the chase. I imagine that they greet one another with a sunrise smile, glowing that they're doing what they were created to do.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Talking the Talk with German Talk Shows (Discuss.)
What do you get when you combine Oprah, David Letterman, Meet the Press, Around the Horn and the McLaughlin Group? You get an average German talk show.
You see, most American talk shows center around a theme and either do one on ones with celebrities, gurus or experts - think Oprah or Letterman - or have a panel to either (depending on the day of the week and the network in question) cooly analyze the significance of the topic or screech like howler monkeys about how the opposing political party uses the shredded pieces of the Constitution for floss. But most of them at least have a focus and guests who can either talk intelligently about a topic or scream in panic until we either believe them or switch to that episode of Modern Family we've tivoed for later.
German talk shows usually have a theme and a minimum of seven guests to discuss the theme and it's at this point that the German sense of Ordnung (order, but with much more stability and cleanliness) that has kept the German economy going and the streets swept clean, breaks down into the chaos of a good German discussion. The panel introduction usually goes something like this:
You see, most American talk shows center around a theme and either do one on ones with celebrities, gurus or experts - think Oprah or Letterman - or have a panel to either (depending on the day of the week and the network in question) cooly analyze the significance of the topic or screech like howler monkeys about how the opposing political party uses the shredded pieces of the Constitution for floss. But most of them at least have a focus and guests who can either talk intelligently about a topic or scream in panic until we either believe them or switch to that episode of Modern Family we've tivoed for later.
German talk shows usually have a theme and a minimum of seven guests to discuss the theme and it's at this point that the German sense of Ordnung (order, but with much more stability and cleanliness) that has kept the German economy going and the streets swept clean, breaks down into the chaos of a good German discussion. The panel introduction usually goes something like this:
Moderator: "The theme of today's show is 'The German Economic Miracle: A Nostalgic Look Back.' Our guests are a junior politician from the Green Party who has published a pamphlet called 'Solar Powered Cars: It's Not Rocket Science,' a woman from Hannover who just published a romance novel about the forbidden love between a zoo keeper and a taxi driver, Schalke 04 Football Club's new Korean Striker (will be speaking through an interpreter), the public relations director for Audi, a professor from the University of Bonn who's expertise is modern history and recently wrote a critically proclaimed book called The German Economic Miracle: Why It Should Still Make You Angry or Maybe It Shouldn't, the new light-weight women's kickboxing champion, the pirate party's senior press officer who will be live tweeting the event, and a thirteen year old boy who overcame protests from the local health department to start his own doner kebab stand."The host then proceeds to bounce through his roundtable like a butterfly in a daisy garden while each of the guests tries to use his or her three and a half minutes of fame to promote their book/cause/film/lifestyle while attempting to say something intelligent about the topic at hand. Sometimes, of course, it makes great television - I remember when a pirate party candidate came on for the first time and a guy who looks like the guy who updates your software at work except with green hair had some interesting ideas about trade law while some woman (an actress... maybe? On a German talk show it's really hard to keep track of who is who) told him she hopes he doesn't sell out like Joschka Fisher. Well, I guess that was great... But more often I get dizzy.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Sacred Gummy Bears
My first thought was: "there goes the nap." If you're a parent, you understand. A child's nap is a parents' oasis, the proverbial eye of the storm, the cigarette break on the construction site, a moment where peace reigns once more and you can find yourself finally cleaning the house or doing that extra work or simply ignoring the pile of dirty serial bowls to indulge in reading, music, TV or blogging. To skip the nap is worse than skipping breakfast. To skip the nap is worse than watching your favorite team lose to the last-place team in the division. Not only do you have a cranky kid to contend with, but your chance to ease your day with something soul soothing and life giving has been banished to the bottom of the diaper pale.
Speaking of which, nap killer #1 is what we Americans euphemistically call #2. If a child stinks her diaper after you laid her in the crib, well, forget it. She ain't going back to sleep, and if you don't act fast, you're going to have to send a load of laundry on an emergency wash (followed, perhaps, by an emergency bath, emergency floor scrubbing and an emergency shower).
Nap killer #2 is sugar. It could be fallen nature, it could be genetic disposition or maybe she's just a quick study of her father, but my little girl sucks down sweets faster than a puppies devour a stolen bratwursts. After which, she buzzes around our apartment like a trapped wasp, leaving stuffed animals, crayons and my wife's makeup supplies in her wake. To lay her in the crib after sugar is to risk her kicking through the bars while singing her own medley of "the ABC's" and "The Wheels on the Bus." She ain't gonna sleep. That's why this morning, as my pastor gave each church child a packet of gummy bears (to my daughter's shrieking delight), my first thought was: "there goes the nap."
Today was our special family church service. We met in the morning instead of the evening, and we brought a potluck dinner. The sermon was something applicable for children, and the "children's church" pre-sermon warm up involved a competition for gummy bears. Naturally, all the children, including the adorable two-year olds along for the ride, got their own packet.
I wrote earlier of soul soothing, and I wonder if those gummy bears were good for my daughter's soul. For her, gummy bears are a sweet, joyous occasion, a special treat and a beautiful indulgence. And today, this was associated with church. Church can be an oppressive place for children. A place of uncomfortable shoes, strange chairs and the coercion to sit quietly while an old stranger talks. There is, of course, a place for children to learn to sit quietly and listen - patience is worth learning for any part of life, but there's only so much a little girl can take. Today, I was grateful that my little girl got gummy bears.
In a weird way, these gummy bears reminded me of a deeper, spiritual truth. All sermons, prayers, songs, stand up, sit down, how are you, please be quiets and peace be with you point to something wonderfully sweet. The Gospel, the Good News of Jesus Christ is a wonderful thing, the kind of thing that would cause someone to sell all his possessions so he could have it, the kind of thing that would cause a woman of ill-repute to smash an alabaster glass of perfume at Jesus' feet and perform a bizarre and sensual and public act of worship.
Many (though not all) of those close to Jesus thought he was wonderful. Wonderful enough to leave much behind, wonderful enough to perform these bizarre acts of worship, wonderful enough to run to him the way a two year old runs down the aisle for a packet of gummy bears, uninhibited, unashamed and free. It feels strange for me, two thousand years later to imagine, indeed appreciate this sort of devotion. But devotion to Jesus offers something sweeter than any of the wondrous things present to our senses (though when used properly, these wondrous things point to it). The pastor went on to say that Jesus compared himself and his Kingdom to a mustard tree that gives livelihood and shelter to the birds - he offers us his livelihood and shelter, and he teaches us to give livelihood and shelter to others. He offers forgiveness and reconciliation to our Creator, to him we've sought when we thought we were looking for other things. He offers change in us, that we can learn love each other without ambition, agenda or manipulation, that we can learn love God with all that we are. It's worth running after, reveling in, talking about, thinking about. It's worth tasting.
An update. My daughter ran off her sugar high by following the bigger kids around the church. She went right to sleep at nap time, only to have the moment cut short by nap killer #1.
Speaking of which, nap killer #1 is what we Americans euphemistically call #2. If a child stinks her diaper after you laid her in the crib, well, forget it. She ain't going back to sleep, and if you don't act fast, you're going to have to send a load of laundry on an emergency wash (followed, perhaps, by an emergency bath, emergency floor scrubbing and an emergency shower).
Nap killer #2 is sugar. It could be fallen nature, it could be genetic disposition or maybe she's just a quick study of her father, but my little girl sucks down sweets faster than a puppies devour a stolen bratwursts. After which, she buzzes around our apartment like a trapped wasp, leaving stuffed animals, crayons and my wife's makeup supplies in her wake. To lay her in the crib after sugar is to risk her kicking through the bars while singing her own medley of "the ABC's" and "The Wheels on the Bus." She ain't gonna sleep. That's why this morning, as my pastor gave each church child a packet of gummy bears (to my daughter's shrieking delight), my first thought was: "there goes the nap."
Today was our special family church service. We met in the morning instead of the evening, and we brought a potluck dinner. The sermon was something applicable for children, and the "children's church" pre-sermon warm up involved a competition for gummy bears. Naturally, all the children, including the adorable two-year olds along for the ride, got their own packet.
I wrote earlier of soul soothing, and I wonder if those gummy bears were good for my daughter's soul. For her, gummy bears are a sweet, joyous occasion, a special treat and a beautiful indulgence. And today, this was associated with church. Church can be an oppressive place for children. A place of uncomfortable shoes, strange chairs and the coercion to sit quietly while an old stranger talks. There is, of course, a place for children to learn to sit quietly and listen - patience is worth learning for any part of life, but there's only so much a little girl can take. Today, I was grateful that my little girl got gummy bears.
In a weird way, these gummy bears reminded me of a deeper, spiritual truth. All sermons, prayers, songs, stand up, sit down, how are you, please be quiets and peace be with you point to something wonderfully sweet. The Gospel, the Good News of Jesus Christ is a wonderful thing, the kind of thing that would cause someone to sell all his possessions so he could have it, the kind of thing that would cause a woman of ill-repute to smash an alabaster glass of perfume at Jesus' feet and perform a bizarre and sensual and public act of worship.
Many (though not all) of those close to Jesus thought he was wonderful. Wonderful enough to leave much behind, wonderful enough to perform these bizarre acts of worship, wonderful enough to run to him the way a two year old runs down the aisle for a packet of gummy bears, uninhibited, unashamed and free. It feels strange for me, two thousand years later to imagine, indeed appreciate this sort of devotion. But devotion to Jesus offers something sweeter than any of the wondrous things present to our senses (though when used properly, these wondrous things point to it). The pastor went on to say that Jesus compared himself and his Kingdom to a mustard tree that gives livelihood and shelter to the birds - he offers us his livelihood and shelter, and he teaches us to give livelihood and shelter to others. He offers forgiveness and reconciliation to our Creator, to him we've sought when we thought we were looking for other things. He offers change in us, that we can learn love each other without ambition, agenda or manipulation, that we can learn love God with all that we are. It's worth running after, reveling in, talking about, thinking about. It's worth tasting.
An update. My daughter ran off her sugar high by following the bigger kids around the church. She went right to sleep at nap time, only to have the moment cut short by nap killer #1.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Tall One and the Short One
In a flash of spiritual inspiration, I gave up Facebook for lent. On Fat Tuesday, after an orgy of status updates, link sharing, photo tagging and friend stalking, I closed the blue f-tab for the last time until the Feast of the Risen Lord, during which I will open the tab back up and frantically share every funny thought that occurred to me during the previous forty days. The tab was closed, and I moved my neck. Up. Down. Right. Left. Roll the neck. Look around. Evidently, the computer is at some sort of table designed for eating (judging from the crumbs on the keyboard). There were three chairs - the one I was sitting on, white and wooden, an identical one next to it, and, across, a funny-looking chair with long legs, a small seat, and it's own individual table.
My steps away from the computer were tentative. Everything was strangely non-digital. There were colorful playthings on the floor and bookshelves much like the ones I see in the backgrounds of literary blogs. The difference was that it was so three-dimensional and there's a feeling of touch to it. It felt like I was imposing myself.
Suddenly, I heard a noise! It was the light, clumsy rumbling of little feet. A very short human person came running at me with a peculiar smile on her face (from the dress, hair and other appearance indicators, I am assuming "her"). I made gestures to indicate that I came in peace and that she should take me to her pigmy tribal leader, or at least a representative from the nearest Consulate. The little person simple smiled, grabbed my leg and said "pa pa pa pa," and some other phrases in broken English, including "story," "pretty," "I'm a Little Teapot," "Jesus," and "Elmo."
Then, what I will now call the "Tall One" entered. She (and I am sure she was a she) was not especially tall per se, but she was significantly taller than her babbling companion, whom I will now refer to as the "Short One." The Tall One seemed to be the matriarch of the... well, where were we? Clearly indoors (as indicated by the large wooden door and several windows that couldn't be clicked)... However, unlike the Short One, she did not speak the language I'm accustomed to on Facebook but rather the one they use at studiVZ. The Tall One spoke to me in a familiar manner, something involving food and plans for the evening, but I was relieved to see that I understood her. My translation function was working away from my profile (though I haven't been able to test other languages).
In an effort to bond with the Tall One and the Short One (no telling what they would do if they turned on me), I tried sharing a clever commentary from the New York Times website. I couldn't post it anywhere on the walls, so I simply held up the computer and used gestures to point to the still open tab, highlighting a sentence that I found especially pertinent. But I got no response, no effort to re-share - not even a thumbs up. Well, I thought, if they weren't into insightful observations, how about humor?
I held up a series of funny, tongue-in-cheek pictures about how various strata of society - the media, my parents, the education system - see personal bloggers. I found the pictures hilarious and was secretly comforted by the thought that anyone sees me at all, but no dice. Neither the Tall One nor the Short One Got it. In fact, the Short One wanted to draw on my pictures. I suggested she use the keyboard to type, but the Tall One intervened.
Then it dawned on me why I wasn't getting through to them. I hadn't sent either of them a friend request, and with my privacy settings, that means they wouldn't be able to see what I shared. I wasn't sure how to do this without the Internet, so I improvised. I found a couple of pictures of myself (for some reason, there were several of them, along with pictures of the Tall One and the Short One framed by polished wood). On the back I wrote "Un Till would like to be your friend". The Tall One frowned and put hers back in the frame. The Short One drew on the picture until the Tall One took it away.
My last hope was an ancient socializing technique called "poking." Cautiously, I drew closer to the two companions. I extended my index finger and poked each one in the belly area. The Tall One gave me a bemused look, but the Short One shrieked with childish laughter. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Facebook has a lot to teach them about bonding.
My steps away from the computer were tentative. Everything was strangely non-digital. There were colorful playthings on the floor and bookshelves much like the ones I see in the backgrounds of literary blogs. The difference was that it was so three-dimensional and there's a feeling of touch to it. It felt like I was imposing myself.
Suddenly, I heard a noise! It was the light, clumsy rumbling of little feet. A very short human person came running at me with a peculiar smile on her face (from the dress, hair and other appearance indicators, I am assuming "her"). I made gestures to indicate that I came in peace and that she should take me to her pigmy tribal leader, or at least a representative from the nearest Consulate. The little person simple smiled, grabbed my leg and said "pa pa pa pa," and some other phrases in broken English, including "story," "pretty," "I'm a Little Teapot," "Jesus," and "Elmo."
Then, what I will now call the "Tall One" entered. She (and I am sure she was a she) was not especially tall per se, but she was significantly taller than her babbling companion, whom I will now refer to as the "Short One." The Tall One seemed to be the matriarch of the... well, where were we? Clearly indoors (as indicated by the large wooden door and several windows that couldn't be clicked)... However, unlike the Short One, she did not speak the language I'm accustomed to on Facebook but rather the one they use at studiVZ. The Tall One spoke to me in a familiar manner, something involving food and plans for the evening, but I was relieved to see that I understood her. My translation function was working away from my profile (though I haven't been able to test other languages).
In an effort to bond with the Tall One and the Short One (no telling what they would do if they turned on me), I tried sharing a clever commentary from the New York Times website. I couldn't post it anywhere on the walls, so I simply held up the computer and used gestures to point to the still open tab, highlighting a sentence that I found especially pertinent. But I got no response, no effort to re-share - not even a thumbs up. Well, I thought, if they weren't into insightful observations, how about humor?
I held up a series of funny, tongue-in-cheek pictures about how various strata of society - the media, my parents, the education system - see personal bloggers. I found the pictures hilarious and was secretly comforted by the thought that anyone sees me at all, but no dice. Neither the Tall One nor the Short One Got it. In fact, the Short One wanted to draw on my pictures. I suggested she use the keyboard to type, but the Tall One intervened.
Then it dawned on me why I wasn't getting through to them. I hadn't sent either of them a friend request, and with my privacy settings, that means they wouldn't be able to see what I shared. I wasn't sure how to do this without the Internet, so I improvised. I found a couple of pictures of myself (for some reason, there were several of them, along with pictures of the Tall One and the Short One framed by polished wood). On the back I wrote "Un Till would like to be your friend". The Tall One frowned and put hers back in the frame. The Short One drew on the picture until the Tall One took it away.
My last hope was an ancient socializing technique called "poking." Cautiously, I drew closer to the two companions. I extended my index finger and poked each one in the belly area. The Tall One gave me a bemused look, but the Short One shrieked with childish laughter. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Facebook has a lot to teach them about bonding.
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