The mysterious towel

Last May my sister traveled all the way from America to visit me here in Holland. She spent two weeks by my side. We had the times of our lives. Anybody that knows Laurel and I know that we are more like best friends rather than sisters. Of course, even best friends have those occasional fights, but our last one was somewhere around July 2004 (at least, that was the last real fight...we didn't talk for a week or so and it was all because of her stupid boyfriend...Actually, he was the topic of the fight, not the beginner, but I'll blame it on him anyway).

So Laurel and I spent two weeks in a small room, watching four crazy kids together (the small room was at night, the four kids were during the day). She re-learned how to ride a bike. I had to too, actually, because she was riding my bike. That meant that I had to ride somebody else's bike. The only other one that we have that would'nt be a temptation for a Dutch bike thief was a man's bike. That would'nt have been quite so bad, except Dutch men are tall. Jack is taller than me, and so it was a man's bike for a tall man, which meant that I could only touch the ground one foot at a time (personally, I don't know how men dare ride their bikes! How the heck do they not hurt themselves on that very oddly positioned cross-bar thingummy?). Even worse than that was the fact that this bike also has an added seat to it so that one of the twins could sit in front of daddy while he rode on family bike rides. So, I had a man's bike that was too tall for me with two seats on it. I had to ride like I'd been riding a horse for a month straight. You know, that cowboy, bowed legged look. The good news is...I survived. Oh, another thing is that the bike doesn't have a first gear, so I also had to get it started in second gear without falling off. It was insane!

It was also fun to play room mate together. I had a top bunk bed and she had the bottom. I have a semi-short bunk and a relatively tall sister. This resulted in a few bumps here and there. I think that on her first full day here she sat up suddenly in bed and banged her head against the bottom of my bunk. Of course, I had to laugh. Something else that ended up being quite interesting is that Laurel moves a lot when she sleeps. You ought to see her bed sometime. She moves so much that she tears the sheets right off of the bed. Well, one night as I was falling asleep I suddenly felt something. Laurel was already asleep, and in her sleep she propped her leg up against the bottom of my bunk. Her foot was right in my back!! Finally she removed the offending foot and I was able to go to sleep. I learned the next morning that she was dreaming that she was running away from somebody and in order to hide on them she had to prop her foot up against something. Another night I had just fallen asleep. You know that place right after you fall asleep where you feel like you're still slightly awake? That's where I was. Well, suddenly my throat got rebelious and snorted very loudly. It scared me so much that I jumped! After I realized what happend I started to laugh. That's when Laurel commented that it had scared her awake also! It was so funny that we must've spent the next ten minutes laughing.

Yes, we had a wonderful two weeks together. It went by way too quickly, though. She was here, and then suddenly, she was gone again. I didn't know how I was going to manage without my best friend.

When Laurel got home she told me that she'd accidently taken a towel from us. She and mom were going to mail it back to us. I never told my host family, figuring I'd just give it back when we got it. It never came in the mail, though, because they never really got around to sending it. That was ok, however. I was home for a surprise vacation for two weeks in July. When I came back to Holland I took the towel with me. I used it the following week, and after I was finished I threw it in the laundry, putting it back into circulation. Danielle washed it that weekend and when I came in on one of those days the towel was there on my bed, neatly folded. I figured that was weird but shrugged it off and repeated the above procedure of using and throwing. Then Danielle repeated the process of folding and puting it in my room.

Finally, we had a little conference. I explained that Laurel had accidentaly taken it while here and so I'd brought it back. She then explained that it's not one of her towels and she was wondering why I'd brought a towel back when I have plenty here to use already.

Hmmm...well, that created a few questions that I had to ask myself. Where did Laurel get the towel from? To whom does it belong? I never received answers to these questions. And so, dear reader, if you noticed that you have a blue (not light or dark, but right in the middle) towel missing I probably can return it. Of course, the length of time before I can return it is dependant on which country you live in. If Holland, of course, I can return it next week. However, if you live in America I am afraid that you have another 2.5 months to wait. But the good news is, I found your towel. And if nobody claims the towel, it will remain very mysterious which means I'll have to keep it because I like mysterious things.

The Society of the Underground Church...has touched my heart

So there I was, sitting in a very old church. I, of course, had to look all around because I am a very curious person. I was at the church to attend a meeting of Stichting de Ondergrondse Kerk (English version is “the Dutch extension of the Voice of the Martyrs”). I was invited to go by the translator. As he was meeting the people that he was to translate for I walked around looking at everything, cup of coffee in hand (that’s one of the weird things about Holland churches…you’re allowed to have coffee in the sanctuary, whereas in America it’s nearly a sin if you have water in order to survive a cold).

There was a beautiful organ standing (kinda floating) in the back of the church, on the second floor. Actually, the organ was the second floor. I would later hear some amazing musical intercession pieces played by an organ player (I’m still not sure why they were played because we all just sat and listened…I didn’t even recognize the pieces).

After walking around a bit and meeting a few of the speakers (compliments of the translator) the meeting was to begin. They started out with the singing of some songs. The man that did the little opening speech/prayer also announced that all the songs would be sung with rhythm. Translator Ben explained this odd announcement to me. Because this meeting was for anyone there were many people that come from more conservative churches. These churches are so conservative that they believe that a song ought to be sung with whole notes for every word or syllable, otherwise there is a loss of holiness, or something. I don’t quite understand it, myself. However, it’s easy to understand that there’s no beat…or it’s pretty rhythmless. After Ben explained that to me the song service began. After it began, I was grateful that we were singing it with rhythm because this supposedly fast version was slower than just about anything I’d ever sung before!! So, yes, that was interesting.

Eventually, the couple of songs ended. A speaker got up to speak. He was a fiery speaker. His English wasn’t bad at all. I could understand it most times. However, because he was a fiery speaker he often burned through my friends translations. That caused an overlapping of languages, which caused both speakers to be not understandable. It was cool, but funny. The speaker was a very good preacher, but I don’t know anything about his ministry. I know that he works at a Bible School in Lahore, but I only learned that because I went to ask him about another someone with the same last name that I met on the internet a few months ago. Other than that, I don’t know why he was there to speak, except that he preached well. If he had a ministry to represent, I’m not exactly sure what it is. But I did learn a lot from him. I learned to wait for the interpreter to finish before I begin my next sentence. Very important.

The next speaker was a man from the Sudan.  He spoke a very little bit. Mostly, his group of many Sudanese spent their share of the time singing and playing instruments, which was actually very cool! His speaking was also interesting. He spoke English, but I often had to listen to my friend's translation to the Dutch to understand what this speaker was saying. I must say that I’m quite impressed that Ben was able to understand the man’s English at some points. I had a hard time not chuckling. However, after that small section of criticism I will say that I respect and appreciate Mr. Murka very much. He and his family are hard at work in the Sudan, working for God and praising His name with their lives, which is more than I can say for myself at times.

The next speaker was a Dutch guy that is a missionary to Egypt. He was very interesting. He didn’t require my friend's help because they guy already speaks Dutch, so I was forced to understand whether I liked it or not (I liked it). This brother has a television ministry in Egypt. He said that 50% of Egyptians have a satellite dish because they like to try to catch foreign programs to watch. Because of that, his ministry has been able to reach many Egyptians through their television broadcast. He said that 2000 people a month are writing them in response to these Christian programs. He also said that soon he’s supposed to be having a meeting with the police in Egypt. It’s a meeting that they asked for. He asked for prayer because they want to evaluate what the ministry is doing. If they don’t like it, they can kick him out of the country permanently, destroying the ministry. So, dear reader, if you’re a praying person, please remember this brother and his ministry.

The last speaker in the morning was a brother from Zambia. Now HE was a GOOD speaker. It wasn’t only because I could understand his English but I liked him. He was friendly. He was open. He talked about the kids that he’s trying to help. I was able to speak with him before the whole meeting started and during that speak I received an invitation to Zambia to witness the official opening of the school that his ministry is starting. That is something that I would like to do if I am able when that time comes about. This man was able to reach my heart. It made me remember that I’m called to be a missionary. It was moving, and that’s especially powerful because I’ve always been sure that I wouldn’t end up in Africa (which probably means that Africa is exactly where I'll end up).

That concluded the morning, but there was yet more to come. We took a lunch break, at which time I accompanied my friend's parents home so that I could eat their food and drag their youngest son back to the meeting for the afternoon. Mission accomplished. He came.

That afternoon the speaker was Dr. Michael Job from India. He was the main reason that I ended up going to the conference. I wanted to meet this man, whom I’d heard much about. He was very interesting. He told us how he began the orphanage that he has, which contains 220 girls from Christian families that are either martyred or that cannot and do not want to support the girls any longer. If Dr. Job hadn’t taken them in then most of the girls would have ended up forced into early marriages or into prostitution. This was the speaker that caught my heart, that had me close to tears. And it wasn’t because of his words because honestly, even though he’s a passionate speaker, I could say enough negative things about him. But the girls, they caught me. I would go and work at that school with those girls if I thought that this was what I was meant to do now (after finishing my current commitment, of course). These girls live in a huge complex, complete with primary school, high school, and now colleges. It’s a huge place. They live under strict rules and rituals, some that I might think are silly. They have many teachers, but many of those teachers don’t care about the girls. They just teach.

I like kids. I have to like kids because I’m an au pair. If I worked at that orphanage it would be to love the girls and for no other reason. They need somebody to love them to the fullest. That’s what I’d be there to do. I’d work, yes. But all around and throughout that work I’d try to remind the girls what it meant to be loved by somebody for who they are, and individually. I think it’s important. Maybe someday I will end up in that orphanage. It houses girls from the three countries that tug at my heart…India, China (Nepal), and Bhutan. Man! Can you imagine? I can!

The Heavenly Man

Today I'm going to wander away from my habit of telling stories about Dutch life and my life. Instead I'm actually going to write about something I've been thinking about often lately. If you don 't want to read normal thoughts, nobody is making you and you're free to quit now.

I've been reading a book called "The Heavenly Man; the remarkable true story of Chinese Christian Brother Yun." This book lays out in detail the way life as a Christian in China is. It's remarkable. In this book you are confronted with tortures, beatings, mental and physical abuse, prison, starvation, thirst, forced labor, and so much more, all experienced by a man because he's a Christian.

As I read this man's story I can't help but see the flaws in my own life, and mostly, the flaws in my own heart. So many of the things that I am used to were a scarcity in his life...reading material, contact with family, even things as normal as food and clothing. His kids walked around for years with holes in their shoes because they were Christians. His kids weren't allowed to go to school and were insulted because their father was an "anti-government criminal, a social disturbance."

I was saved when I was four years old. I went to church my whole life, but I didn't accept Jesus as the Savior of my sins until I was four. When I was five I decided that I wanted to be a missionary. You know how parents or adults are always asking kids in that silly, baby-ish voice, "...and what do you want to be when you grow up?" My answer was always missionary, even through-out my teenage years (even when I wasn't sure if I wanted to stick out like that amongst my peers). I went to Bible school and graduated in 2004. I graduated with a Missions major.

Over the last year or two I've had my most difficult times when it came to "being a missionary". My romanticized outlook on missions wore off the more that I read about it and the more that I learned about it. The older I got (granted, I'm not at all old!) the more I wanted to just one day settle down, get married, have a few kids, and have a "normal" life. Of course, over the last 12 months that desire has changed greatly. The more I think about living that "normal" life the more it scares me. I know that if I lived such a life that I'd find no satisfaction in it, even if I was working full-time in a church (I'm also not so sure on the 'few kids' idea...at least, not for a VERY long time...*chuckle*).

And so I find that I'm stuck. Living the life as a missionary...wow! That'd be the dream come true. But how does that dream come about? Hmmm...yet another frustrating point of view. Back in the old days they would just buy a boat ticket, get on, try to survive for the many months on the boat, and then live their days in the foreign land doing God's work. Somehow, in today's society with all of those ridiculous organizations and passports and visas and politics and credentials and qualifications it just seems as if it must be impossible!!

There's also one other small problem. I'd have to give up my greatest household desire if I ended up on the mission field. What is it? Bookshelves. I so greatly want to have a room that has wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling book shelves that are entirely filled with books!! I've wanted that for so long! My favorite houses ever have been the houses that have had bookshelves and a piano. Of course, I'd rather give up my greatest household desire than my biggest dream. And that biggest dream has always been being a missionary.

Honestly, there's only one thing that stands in my way. It's not the orgainizations, the visas, the politics, not even my parents' preferences. It's me. I have to give me up to God also, not just what I want. I literally have to give up myself wholeheartedly. I don't think I've yet done that.

Brother Yun survived all those years of prison and torture and persecution not because he was strong. He wasn't. It wasn't because he was knowledgable. He wasn't. It's not because he was a smooth talker. He REALLY wasn't that. It's because he didn't think about what he felt. He didn't look at what he looked like. He didn't say what he wanted to say. It's because what he did was what God wanted him to do. He saw, said, and felt what Jesus would have felt in the same postion. He loved the people that beat him, that abused him. As a result, they became Christians later on in life. They became his close brothers.

I get very angry at a four-year-old for peeing his pants all the time, instead of making it to the toilet. And he never even did anything to me. How dare I? Brother Yun loved the men that would urinate on him, never crying out anything harsh against them. He prayed for them. See what I mean? So much needs to change.

Straight and small - very Dutch

When I first came to Holland in August 2004 I was confronted with many new things. One of those things was the particularness and precision of the Dutch. They are extremely clean and tidy people. The Dutch like straight lines.

I first noticed it with the cars. European cars, generally, aren't smoothly curved and soft and fast looking. I first noticed that European cars are like boxes on wheels. They look ugly and unstable. Straight lines. Of course, it's not as bad now as when I first came. I don't know if that's because I don't notice it so much or because curvy cars are becoming more common. You'd have to ask a Dutch friend, I suppose. Most of the cars are also very tiny. This is because of the very expensive gas that it takes to run the car. If they have a big car it uses more gas and isn't very handy. I think that the little cars are also great because of the tiny roads in Holland.

Yes, the roads are little. I remember one day when I drove on the Dutch road system. Actually, it was the only time I've done it. It was terrifying! Oh, yes, not only are the Dutch roads tiny, but they are also the least straight thing in the entire country. They turn here and there, (ninety degree turns aren't uncommon). In fact, the Dutch also use very many traffic circles so that they don't have to use the less handy traffic lights. With the traffic circles you can go when there's time to go (SCARY!!!!!). The city that I live in has three traffic circles that are very close together. I get very sick while trying to read in the cars here. I get sick just sitting in the cars sometimes! Of course, if a road is straight then it's probably a very small road (except for the highways of course). When I say a that they're small roads I mean that they are two-way roads that are large enough for one vehicle. Somehow, the two cars heading in opposite directions always manage to pass one another with no harm done. I like to relate it to the "translating" that Phillip experienced in the book of Acts.

The Dutch houses are very small, also. However, I'm going to save the description of that for another post. Not todays.

I will now return to the topic of "straight". The Dutch are very orderly people. They don't do well with chaos at all, especially in the appearance of everything around them. I realized this most while being driven from Amsterdam, one day long ago. I was looking at the beautiful scenery. I saw wide open fields that were seperated by small ditches filled with water (called a slought and always very straight). The fields were dotted by all sort of cattle...cows, sheep, goats, and horses. There was often a windmill standing serenely nearby. There would also be a quaint and perfect little farm house. And then, beyond all that I saw a forest.

Forests, as you probably all know, are un-ordered and chaotic. There are trees growing from everywhere and in every direction. There are fallen trees, short trees, tall trees, and dead trees. There are small bushes in between all the trees. Forests are not even close to being precise and ordered.

But that is not what I saw from the car as we drove along. When looking at the Dutch forests one will see a straight row of trees, maybe even two rows. These trees are evenly spaced and exactly the same height. They are the epitomy of perfectness. They run the length of the forest, as far as you can see. How on earth they did it, I'll never know. But they did it. And with the few rows of perfectly spaced trees the chaos of the forest behind is well hidden. When I noticed that I realized what a very precise and orderly society that I was about to enter into. If I had not found this part of the culture absolutely intruiging then I would surely have found it intimidating. I am not that orderly kind of girl, though I often wish that I was and often try to be. I do think, though, that the ordered facade of a forest was a great example of the Dutch desire for everything to be neat...or as they'd say, "netjes".

"My police is stronger than yours!" - a tribute to Nathan

One of my American friends, Nathan, is a very popular figure in my Dutch household. He doesn't know that, but he's brought up quite often, and not by me. See, Nathan is a police officer. That's a very important role in everyday life, especially to my little boys. When they learned that I had a friend that is a police officer they asked me all sorts of quetions about him. "Does he catch thieves?" "Does he throw the them in the prison?"

My youngest boy brought up my "police friend" at lunch, again, today. He made sure to tell me, "My police is stronger than yours!!" Of course, I know that he doesn't know any police. And for the honor of Nathan, I'm obliged to argue with the little guy. "No! My police friend is really, REALLY strong!!!" This little argument continued for a little while longer. It ended up bringing up a new discussion, but along the same lines.

Djura brought up a story that I told them months ago. It was from when I first told them about my "police friend". A few years ago I remember that Nathan was really proud of his capabilities as a cop. Actually, he's a very competitive person, which I enjoy greatly because I always try to outdo him. It's almost like a game, one that we both enjoy.

One day, a few years ago, my sister and I were at Nathan's apartment (actually his dad's, but we'll refer to it as Nathan's). He was showing off his police gear...gun, mace, pen (lol), and most importantly, handcuffs. Nathan is a strong fellow. I'm a strong girl (you'd never know it from looking at me, but don't underestimate the force!) and so we often try to pin the other down. He's MUCH stronger than I am, but my God created me with a strong and stubborn personality. I hate to lose. This particular day when Nathan showed off his handcuffs an evil grin spread across his face as he glanced my way. "Uh-oh!" It ended up that he chased me around the table in the kitchen many times. He couldn't catch me. Then my sister decided that Nathan needed help. Traitor! They eventually cornered me. Nathan tried to get those stupid things on my wrists for what seemed to be a good while. I wriggle a lot, especially when I'm desperate. Well, he ended up getting them on my wrists. I was handcuffed. With real police handcuffs. I'm hoping that it was the only time I'll have to have the things on. It'll always be an amusing memory.

I guess it was also an amusing story for my kids because Djura remembered every detail, better than I could! She told me my whole story today. It was funny. And so, I've made a celebrity from my normal "police friend". And he might not ever realize it unless he happens to read my blog. That's funny.

Cobblestone streets and vibratos

Probably one of the coolest things about the Netherlands is the fact that they have so many cobblestone streets. It's absolutely amazing. It's also very beautiful. I remember that back in my hometown there's this one (very small) section of the downtown that has the sidewalk layed out in bricks. It's my favorite section of sidewalk in the whole city. And now, years later I live in a country in which the majority of the city is layed out cobblestone style. Very fun.

Cobblestone streets are very interesting to walk on. You're more likely to fall. In fact, it's a wonder to me that most of the Dutch women can stand at all! They often wear dress shoes with very pointy toes and heels. This makes walking doubly difficult. First, the very pointy heel is very easily caught in between the cobblestones (in my opinion) making it very easy to lose balance and topple over. Secondly, the very pointy toes actually point further than the toe of the woman wearing it, extending her foot many centimeters. I'm always hitting the toe of my normal sneakers on the ground because I forget to lift up my foot high enough up. How do the women not trip over the extended toes of their shoes? It's a mystery (even Paul the apostle would dub it so). In my opinion, we should see the Dutch ladies layed out all over the sidewalks and cobblestone streets due to lack of ability to walk properly. But somehow, they manage to survive.

The cobblestone streets are also fun for biking (except when you don't have very good shocks under the bike seat). Riding my bike over the cobblestone streets reminds me of what it was like to be a kid. Why?

I remember being little, but big enough to jump on top of a washing machine. Of course, I often slipped off and had to perform the jump all over again just to make it on top. One of the many hobbies of my siblings and I was to sit on top of the washing machine while the laundry was going. When the machine got to the spin cycle we'd all begin to say, "aaaahhhh...." holding the same note. The vibrations of the machine caused our little voices to wobble up and down in the most funny way. You all probably know what I'm talking about. I'm sure every kid living in such a society has experienced this fascinating vibrato. Well, Dutch kids don't experience the vibrato on top of their washing machines. Rather, they experience it while they are a passenger on their parents' bicycles. This vibration occurs especially while riding over the cobblestone streets. It also occurs over small bridges that go over a slought, but those don't come across a person's path as often as the thousands of cobblestones encountered every day.

Yes, the cobblestones are practical in every way. They "pave" the roads, making them drivable. They make the towns and cities of Holland look so much more beautiful and European (go figure). And they entertain our little ones on those long shopping trips done on the back of a bike.

The Dutch love spiders (hence...I am not Dutch)

Today I was walking to the school with my three year old to pick up the other three kids for lunch. As I walked I looked down at my feet, a habit I developed while in High School that I sometimes still fall into. It's also useful when walking hand-in-hand with a toddler. Then I can see him. We walked our daily route (the same route we walk 6 times a day) when suddenly I felt something snag in my hair. Instinctively, I ducked quickly and rain my hand over the top of my head. I also did a sort of duck waddle to a safe distance away and glanced back. There, hanging over the alley way, was the remnant of a spider web. Happily, there was a spider in the center of that web (I say happily in all seriousness because it meant he wasn't on me!). He was fat and ugly. I wiped my hand over my hair again, made a comment of relief and disgust at the same time, and we continued on physically and, more-or-less, emotionaly undisturbed (I can't say as much for the spider).

Now, I wish I liked spiders as much as the Dutch do. I remember when I arrived at my first Dutch house. I was visiting friends in Gorinchem (if you're American...please don't try to pronounce that). When we walked up to the front door carrying my baggage I was dismayed to see little spiders hanging out all over...everything. By the end of my two week visit, these spiders had quadrupled in size! I remember going to kill one and the mother of my friends saved its life. I was dismayed. How on earth can anyone save such an ugly little beast??

Having lived here for almost 9 months (!!) I can easily understand two things now. 1.) I understand why the Dutch allow the spiders to live. 2.) I understand how the spiders manage to get so FAT and UGLY! The answer is simple, and the same. Mosquitos. Due to the mosquitos even I have quit killing the spiders (you can read about my room mate Fran, the spider, in a previous post). Israel was a land of milk and honey. Holland is a land of mosquitos and spiders.

Today is September 20th. In Walmart you'd be able to find the Holloween decorations flowing abundantly from too many shelves and isles. The Dutch, as far as I know, don't celebrate this horendous holiday. However, if they did they wouldn't have to do much decorating for it, like most Americans do. The overflow of spiders' webs are already decoratively glistening from every tree and bush. I will say, though, that these webs are very intruiging and beautiful after a soft rain. I've even tried to remember to bring a camera a couple of times so that I could try to get a good picture (forgot...oops). They also make a great biology lesson. It's very easy to find a spider wrapping a fly in its delicate, yet powerful, threads. I've watched it once or twice, but eventually quit.

And so, the Dutch like spiders. Our four kids are only afraid of spiders because they've seen me screech at them a couple of times. That's too bad because they have to live with the ugly, fat, 8-legged beasts for MUCH longer than I have to. Poor kids. Hee hee.

Even scared people can go travel great heights

Friday afternoon I climbed into the back of a van carrying six other people in it. I sat in my usual place, in between the twins at the very back of the van. There we sat, for hours. It was only supposed to be 1.5 hours, but that Dutch traffic turns every small travel into a trip across the Atlantic. Anyway, we finally arrived. Seven people in an attraction park.

We had a house in which we were going to stay for the weekend. When we walked into the house I wanted to laugh...or cry. I'm not sure which. This house was made with families in mind, just not our family. What a cute little cabin. A front room served as a living area and kitchen. Adorable. Tiny. Then there was a bedroom. In the bedroom there were two bunkbeds. Hmmm...seven people is a number greater than four beds. My mind began to work in overdrive. Well, Jack and Danielle were definitely not fitting in these beds. Fortunately, the couch in the living room doubled as a big peoples bed. So, that brought the number of people to five.

Five people is a number greater than four beds. Fortunately, Mama and Papa know about such circumstances and they brought an air bed. Karsten slept on the air bed. Feike slept on a bottom bunk, and Sybren slept on the other. Djura slept on a top bunk, by the door so that she wouldn't walk all over Karsten if she needed the bathroom in the middle of the night. I got the other top bunk, so that I could step on Karsten. Just kidding! I mean, I really did have the top bunk, which isn't odd because I've actually had many a top bunk in my short, but lengthening, life. No problem. Of course, I did say in my last post that I would never have a boy roomate until I got married. Well, I had three boy roomates this weekend. Hee hee. And it wasn't that bad, really. Maybe I'll consider it for the future. WAY JUST KIDDING!!!!!!!

So, there we were in Slagharen. Seven people, four of which had never before been to an amusement park (the kids), two of which needed an adult on almost every ride (the twins), one that wanted to go on almost every ride but couldn't because he was too young (Syb), another two that become very easily motion sickness (the smaller of these was afraid of the dark...Mom and daughter), one that likes everything high and fast (Papa), and one that is afraid of heights but still goes on the darn rides anyway (me).

So, yes, it made for a very interesting three days. On the second day we did spend a lot of time in the swimming pool. That was very nice. The kids are still too young for them to all go on these rides, so it's not very easy to walk through the park and explain to them that they aren't allowed to go on certain rides. But other than that, it was fun. We all were able to go on the Ferris Wheel, one of my greater fears...it's WAY high up!! And on a ski-lift cabel type ride...also way, way high up. I rode with Djura, who is absolutely not afraid of heights and has no problem with looking straight down, or turning around (causing the seat to rock back and forth!). That was one part of kids that I ended up finding amusing. Djura has absolutely no fear of heights. But she's terrified of rides that are a bit dark inside. She wouldn't go on the under-sea adventure with me! Crazy!

Me. I had fun. I don't mind riding the carousel 2 times in a row. Three times is a little mch. I manage to handle the ferris wheels and the other high, slow rides. Of course, I did get a little daring yesterday, towards the end of the weekend. There was this other ride. It looked like a cage in the shape of a boat. Or you could say it looked like a boat that was barred, on bot sides and on the top. Why? Because the ride goes upside down...and stays that way for a little while.

On this boat you are fastened in with a lap bar, which comes over your lap and is supposed to hold you there. I made certain that mine was as tight as possible. Then the ride operator shut the cage doors. And then we were moving. Up. Way up!! And after the boat reached to a point that was more upside down than right-side up, it swung back down and up the other direction. Kinda like a way, massively HUGE swing. And it kept swinging back and forth until we were no longer swinging but just kept going. Upside down, right-side up. Upside down, right-side up. Immense circles at a very fast speed. My hair. It was standing on end, flying in face, blocking my vision, moving again right when I had to look up in order to see down. After going is circles a few times I got used to the movement and the shifting of gravity's pull on me and I was comfortable enough to look around. It was so cool! I was able to pick out which little people's on the ground belonged to me. And then, it was over.

I got off the ride, walking at a normal speed. I found Jack, and accepted the cup of coffee that he handed me. My hands were shaking, but I was proud. I went on that insane ride on my own. And really, the worst part of the ride was watching a kid across from me spit into the air when we hung there upside down. And then myy greatest fear wasn't the height, but the possibility that he would spit again...at the wrong time.

My greatest hate versus my greatest fear

I got home last night late...at about 10:30 p.m. It was dark out, naturally. I let myself inside my house, locked the doors, and made sure that I didn't forget to bring my Bible upstairs with me. I climbed the first of two flights of stairs leading to my bedroom. On the second floor my host family mother was busy putting the kids on the toilet, hopefully avoiding accidents later on in the night (it was a 75% success...one managed to still have a full bladder even after that). I waved at one of the twins who couldn't really see me because he was still mostly asleep, and the light in the hallway had him blinded. I climbed the second set of stairs, letting myself into my bedroom.

Immediately, I noticed that something was wrong. Yes, the mess was still there, in the perfect order that I left it (if that's possible...an ordered mess). But the window was open. I opened it earlier that morning so that my bedroom could air out. Unfortunately, I left it open when I left the house after supper. I like to close it by 8:00 p.m. Why? Because when I leave the window my greatest hate enters the room, to plague me for the entire night.

Mosquitos. As soon as I closed the window I turned on the light. I let my eyes wander to the ceiling, the favorite hiding place of the majority of my late enemies. There it was. An unfamiliar black mark, way up out of reach. I say unfamiliar black mark because there are many black marks (sometimes with hints of red...presumably my blood) all over my ceiling. I like to think of them as my trophys. My dad has one deer head as a trophy back home. I've got a heck of a lot more black/red marks then dad has deer heads...and I've done nearly as much hunting for them. Ok, maybe a couple hours less.

So there it was. The non-squished black mark. And I knew I had to kill it. If I didn't, it would surely have a pleasant evening tormenting me by flying around my exremely ticklish ears. Not cool. With these ears, there's no chance of sleeping through a mosquito. At least I never get bit. However, I do lose sleep, which isn't good if I have to be up early with the little dears the next morning. And so, I knew I had to get this guy, and quickly. Time was ticking.

And so I searched. I searched high and low. Always search the ceiling first. There was nothing on the ceiling. And so I searched the curtain. Sometimes they land on the black curtain, making it next to impossible to see them. My eyes followed the gentle ripples of the dark material. When they reached the top right-hand corner they froze. Right in the tiny space between the curtain and the wall I saw what looked like a tear in the material. I noticed that the thread fibers that make up the material were very thick and longer than normal, especially since I had never noticed them before...and I've inspected that curtain many times. Being a very curious person I decided to investigate the rip further. I pushed the curtain a bit to the side to get a better look, and the fibers moved, in different direction, going up and down, not only side to side. And then I knew.

It was my greatest fear. A spider. And a very large spider,at that. Suddenly, the mosquito was forgotten. I did a great job holding in all my squeals and shreeks. Nobody else heard them. I also stood in the center of my room, trying to figure out what to do. How was I going to sleep in the same room as that ugly, evil, creepy beast??

Finally, I caved. I had to sleep, otherwise the children wouldn't be surviving the following day. The only way to overcome my greatest fear was by...applying for Fear Factor. Just kidding. I decided that I had to befriend the offending spider. Of course, this didn't mean that I walked up to it and shook hands/paws (as the Dutch would call it) with the thing. Instead I named it. She has to be a she because she's my roomate. I won't room with a guy, at least, not until I'm married. So, she's a she. And her name is Fran. Why? I have no idea. It's the first name that came to mind.

And so, I climbed into bed, having not found the mosquito and not exactly knowing what else to do, I went to bed. It wasn't long before the mosquito buzzed around my very ticklish ears, and it was not much longer before I added to the trophys on my ceiling. Later in the night, I added one more. And after that, there were no problems sleeping. Just blissful rest.

Cieda (pronounced See-dah) the bear

One of my boys, Karsten, has a very vivid imagination. Karsten is four years old. He is a typically Dutch boy, with very blond hair, big blue eyes, and rosy red cheeks. He also has a very special creature. That creature is a stuffed bear named Cieda.

Cieda has a very special history. This is a history that I and his parents know very well. It's a history that I hope to one day write in a children's book and publish proffessionally. This is a story that's been written over the last couple of years, by Karsten's active imagination and by the histories of those around him.

Cieda is a precious bear. He's a he. Cieda was born in China. That's where his parents live. But Cieda lives here with Karsten (and inevitably with our family). Now, Cieda's parents live in China, but they work in America. Cieda's father works in a hospital and also drives a firetruck. Cieda's mother works in an ambulance. They have a castle in France, which is where they live during the summer. Cieda also has a sister. We recently tried to ask him how old she is, but it was very difficult to get a coherent answer from him because his eyes and brain were glued to the television (Bob the Builder, I think).

Cieda and Karsten have an extremely close connection. They do everything together. They sleep together. They watch television together. Actually, they haven't been doing that as much as usuall, but when Karsten is afraid he's automatically demanding that Cieda be brought to him. They eat together. Karsten can't seem to survive sitting in his chair if his bear isn't right by his side. Cieda isn't allowed to go to school, otherwise they'd even do that together. While Karsten is at school, Cieda sits on Karsten's chair, perfectly upright. Karsten tells me that nobody is allowed to sit on Cieda because Cieda doesn't like it. If I tickle Karsten, and Cieda is nearby, it's Cieda who complains, not Karsten.

Recently, Cieda was hurt. He had a very large tear in his fur on the front left side of his body. Karsten cared for him as well as he could. Finally, in March or April, Karsten's grandmother, "a doll doctor", fixed Cieda. Karsten was so proud.

That's the story of Cieda and Karsten. I've told you about Cieda. What about Karsten? What kind of a four-year old can be so imaginitave? Well, Karsten is a kid that I'm glad I know while he's still young. It's very obvious to me and his parents that the kid is extremely intelligent, a feature that is best if I don't have to deal with it later on in his life, when he's better at using that feature. He's a boy with a great determination...only when he wants to have that determination. He doesn't try to do something until he thinks that he can do it. For example...one day Karsten started to ride a bike without training wheels. He never learned. He just started. Last school year he refused to draw, glue, tape, build or do anything in school. He "couldn't do it." And because he was convinced, he didn't even try. This year he does all of those things, plus some. The boy is already adding. For four years old, that's good...really good. And at the age of four, he's already developing a taste for beer, which always makes me laugh. Almost every Friday night his dad has a beer with his supper, and Karsten always wants a taste. After taking a sip he wrinkles up his nose, does an excellent job at not gagging, and says, "yummy."

Yes, Karsten is a mind-boggling boy. And I believe he's about to become more complicated. I pity the poor little girls that will one day have a crush on him, because he tends to reject people that want to get the closest to him. He'll be having a lot of fun when he's older. And so will his mom and dad.

However, I must say that I have come to treasure that brave little boy. I'll always remember the little boy that loved a bear and talked constantly of knights and dragons. And books. He reads a lot of books, and he can't even read yet. I love that. What an amazing little boy.

Look to the skies

Last night, just before supper I looked out my window and was amazed by one of the most beautiful sights a person could see. It is the sky of Holland. People know Holland for their windmills, wooden shoes, tulips, and canals (sometimes people even forget the canals). But nobody ever talks about the clouds. Nobody ever mentions the majesty of the clouds. But they are truly majestic. Most people probably think that there can't be a big difference about the sky of Holland or the sky over any other place. But I'm convinced that this isn't true. I mean, look at the historical resources of Holland. The beauty of the sky is, literally, painted everywhere.

Rembrandt was Dutch. He painted many pictures, most of which are portraits of himself or those whom he knew. Many of his paintings were also of Bible times. There are also other paintings and sketches that can be seen. And then there are the paintings he made of the Dutch landscape. The Stone Bridge is one of the two Holland landscape paintings by Rembrandt that I've seen (not personally, unfortunately). Both have an amazing cloud formation in the background.

Jacob van Ruisdael is another famous Dutch painter. He is considered the leading artist of the Dutch landscape. His elaborate paintings are so beautiful that they will always take a person's breath away. And absolutely all of them that I saw displayed on the internet had the amazing sky of the Netherlands. Not many people look at the sky of a painting, but I'd highly recommend it. It's one of the breathtaking beauties of Holland.

Other famed Dutch painters are Jan Vermeer and Meindert Hobbema, a student of Jacob van Ruisdael. I've not seen displays of their paintings, but they're supposed to be artists. However, I'd highly recommend you, dear reader, to check out Jacob van Ruisdael's landscapes on the internet if you've never seen a Dutch sky. Then maybe you'll understand just a little bit of what I had the chance to see before I went down to dinner tonight.

Koffie-holics anonymous

What is koffie? Koffie is actually the Dutch spelling of coffee. Same basic sounds, different letters. Coffee is probably the most widely used soft drug on the planet, but nobody goes to get addiction counseling for it. In college I had a friend, Jamieson, that could drink no less than a pot of coffee every day. In fact, his regular coffee mug was large enough to fit my stomach in, I think. He drank so much coffee that we lovingly reffered to his blood as a constantly flowing stream of caffiene. Healthy? No. But it made for a great college club.

I remember my first year at my college. I went to an unknown, small, secluded, freezing, diverse, strict, and interesting bible college. Here is where I'm supposed to say, "Those were the best years of my life." I won't say that, but I will mention that they were the years that I learned the most. Freshman year was interesting. In October of that year (2000) I went on a trip to Albany, New York. This was a 10-day trip that every student participated in, but we all went to different places in groups of 2-4 people. It is called "Crusades". That particular semester I was in a group of four. There were two other women, me, and then there was Jamieson. Well, I've already mentioned Jamieson's infatuation with coffee. The other two ladies also drank A LOT! I, however, hated coffee and was determined to never drink it (especially since they were determined to get me to join their club). And so, the ten day trip began.

Our journey took us to a lively church in Albany. There were many youth and kids. There was also a Christain school during the week. We were going to be helping out in it. I don't remember a lot. I remember playing soccer for the first time ever (in a skirt, no less). I remember getting along really well with the teenagers, especially the guys (ha ha). I remember the family that I lived with, and their beautiful three daughters (and that I accidentally electrocuted one...but that's another story). And I remember that one of the class rooms had a Guinea Pig for the class pet. That little beast was adorable, cute, sweet...you name it. He was also long haired. So cute. He was one of those little animals that you just HAD to hold! So, of course, I held him.

One of the major misfortunes about being an 18 year old is that you do stupid things. Holding that beast was one of those stupid things, even though it's less stupid than perhaps other things. I am allergic to guinea pigs. I knew that I was allergic to the beast when I saw it. But it was so cute that I just HAD to pick it up and hold it. I figured, "I'm not THAT allergic, just a little. I'll be ok." Wrong. Five minutes later, after holding the cute little beast, my body protested to my foolishness. My nose began to run, my eyes itched soooooooooo much, and then my throat itched. The nose thing, I can handle that. The eyes, that's irritating, but after I wash my hands to get off beast dander I am usually ok. The throat, however, is the most unpleasant, annoying, and unreachable place to have itching!!! You can't stick your hand down your throat to scratch!! And so I had to find something, ANYTHING, to relieve the itching. I drank some water. That seemed to make the irritation worse. I had no other drink. So, I did what came most naturally to a suffering teenager: I asked if there was anything to drink in the building. "Water." "I tried that." "Coffee." I think to myself, 'I don't like coffee'. I say out loud, "OK, where is it?" I thought to myself, "Just one cup to get rid of the itching."

One cup later, I felt a lot better. Two cups later my friends called me an addict. And 5 years later I find it very pleasant to drink a cup of coffee every day. If somebody asks me if I want a coffee I reply, "sure!" I almost never turn down the stuff. That being the case, I've come to the right country. The Dutch love coffee (except for Marjon) and offer it freely.

1 or 2 years ago I finally allowed myself to admit that I'm addicted to coffee. That doesn't mean I'm trying to quit. I just finally let myself say that I'm a coffee addict. Last week I re-thought that confession. We had a visitor from Bulgaria staying with us last week. I made us some coffee every morning, except for Wednesday. Wednesdays and Fridays are the days that Danielle is home from work, and she always makes hot chocolate somewhere between 10:00 and 10:30 a.m. Last Wednesday I skipped making coffee. It didn't make sense to make a whole pot of coffee if we were going to have hot chocolate in five minutes anyway. No problem. I never made the coffee. Later that day, our visitor and I were walking through the town center when she asked if we could stop for a coffee somewhere. I said sure, but inside I thought over how unecessary that was. We stopped and had a cup. Friday morning I made the pot of coffee because I figured she'd need it. I didn't mind having it either. Later that afternoon we were in the center again. We didn't have time to stop to buy a cup, so that was good. Saturday, Jack made a pot of coffee. I had some. I don't know if she did. Maybe she was too scared. But later that day she and I went for a walk. A really long walk. We'd hardly begun walking before she was asking if there was a good place to get a coffee. She talked about how it'd be great if we could get a coffee to go and just walk and drink at the same time. Well, Dutch places don't do coffee to go. Only McDonalds, and we weren't very close to that. So we had to sit down.

It was during these experiences that I came to the conclusion that I'm not addicted to coffee. I don't have to have it every morning. I enjoy drinking coffee very much, yes. But it's more like a relaxing thing. I drink it while folding laundry, or while reading a book or my Bible. It's relaxing.

My host family knows how much I enjoy coffee. When I first arrived they bought me an American sized coffee mug. See, all the cups in the house are too small for the size that I usually drink. The funny thing is that I don't usually drink more than the Dutch. It's just that I put it all into one cup instead of making the coffee twice, like they do. So, when I first got here they bought me a nice, big mug. It only cost 1 Euro at the Albert Hein (prominent grocery store comparable to Shaws). I've been using that mug almost daily since that day. It's been a good friend to me all these months. Why write all this? Well, today, Danielle came home with two little gifts for me. She thought of me when she saw them. They are two mugs shown in the picture. She told me that the old red mug was boring now, so she got these because she knew I'd like them. She also said I'm free to take them home. I intend to sit down to a cup of coffee with my mom because I know that she'll find them very cute. I also have a very beautiful new mug from Mrs. Pluym. I will have a great struggle deciding between which mug to use, which can be bad because I can be extremely indecisive when it comes to such small decisions. I do know for sure, however, that if I ever have a kitchen it will most likely be in the colors of the Mrs. Pluym mug.

And so, "that's all she wrote". The final conclusion is I am not a koffie-holic and will never join its anonymous, and I've got two cute mugs to add to my collection. And with that, amongst other things, I am happy.

A birthday surprise

On Friday, September 2nd, I had plans to go to the movies with Marjon, a good friend of mine. We were celebrating my birthday together. It was going to be a wonderful time, though I had no clue what we were supposed to watch. After supper, Friday, I left my house to meet Marjon at her house. I was going to be right on time for the time she appointed...8:15 p.m. Just as I was coming to her road I saw her riding towards me. She said that she needed to go to the grocery store first. Of course, since it was our evening to celebrate together I went with her. I chatted away the whole time. We arrived at the store. She needed to buy a drink and wanted some candy. We chose M&M's. I then decided to also get a drink. Finally, we were checking out. Once we walked outside, Marjon noticed that she forgot our reservation ticket for the movies. We had to go back to her house to get it. That was fine with me because I had some things I wanted to leave at her house.

We arrived in front of her house. I looked in the front window into the kitchen, which is normal. I noticed that Robert (Marjon's brother), his girlfriend Kelly, Dorien (Marjon's sister), and her boyfriend Eric were all home. It'd been awhile since I'd seen that. "Well", I figured, "they can wish me a happy birthday. That'll be nice." They let us in and I walked into the living room, as usuall. And suddenly I realized that I wouldn't be going to the movies that night. There was a large circle of seats in the leaving room and in them were sitting people (weird, right?). But these people weren't just any people. They were my friends from all over. There were friends from Nieuwegein, my friends from Gorinchem, and later on arrived friends from in IJsselstein. It was amazing. And they all came for my birthday party. I didn't know what to say. I also couldn't figure out how the IJsselstein crew got in touch with the Gorinchem crew. I'd never introduced them, except through stories about one another. I was amazed and happy.

I later learned that my host family was also in on the surprised. Jack and Danielle knew about the whole thing for quite some time. Danielle also knew that my Gorinchem crew were going to be attending. So she decdided to have a bit of fun with it. Earlier on Friday my host family held a previously mentioned birthday party for about 10 kids. Before the party happened I was chatting on the internet with Gorinchem friend, Benjamin. Danielle suggested that I invite him over for 3:00 cake. She did this with the full knowledge that he couldn't come because he was going to the surprise party later on. Benjamin had to think of an excuse for not coming. I helped him, without realizing it. So, I guess that everyone really got to have a lot of fun out of it. I had fun being surprised, my friends had fun surprising to me, and Danielle had fun torturing Benjamin. All profited from the occassion. Seriously though, I had the best birthday party of my life. I will remember it always. It was absolutely amazing and unforgetable.

And now I'd like to take this time to thank Dorien. Dorien was awesome. She was the entire master mind behind the party. She did all the planning. She even called my friends in Gorinchem, whom she'd never met, to invite them. She even had to find their phone number through major research by getting their last name from me (actually, I have been told it wasn't that difficult due to the fact that she asked me their last name and I gave it and then just continued talking...as usuall). Dorien, you're amazing. I'd also like to thank Simon for arranging for the delicious cakes that everyone ate. And last but not least, I'd like to thank everyone that made my 23rd birthday such a memorable event. Thank you all and I love you all very much.

pictures of this event will be added as available.

Benny...the ugly dog

Have you ever seen an ugly dog? I have. Actually, I've lived with an ugly dog. No, I'm not talking about a guy (you people should know that I'm not married and so wouldn't live with a guy) and I'm not talking about a roomate, though I've had those of every shape and size (females) in numerous quantities. I'm absolutely serious when I say that I've lived with an ugly dog. In fact, come December I will be again living with an ugly dog (also not my family members because they're all beautiful or handsome).

My mom has a dog. His name is Benny. It is the general conclusion of all who have come to lay eyes on Benny that he is an ugly dog. However, this ugly dog is adorable because he's hysterical. He does things that can at times seem nearly humans. He's what my mother calls a melancholy dog. He always has to do certaing things certain ways. Every day he has to greet our mailman. If he isn't able to personally see and sniff the mailman he literally sits inside our house and cries. Of course, this could have a lot to do with the fact that our mailman gives Benny a bone every day that they greet one another. He even knows the dogs name, which is funny because the mailman doesn't know any of our peoples' names. Benny always has to eat rawhide bones outside. He refuses to eat them inside. If he receives one he will hold it in his mouth and sit if front of the back door until he is let out. This dog is also typically male in that he thinks that we are mind readers (yeah, fellas, you have every right to be offended). When Benny needs to go outside he sits at either mom's feet or my feet until we ask him if he want's to "go out". He doesn't bark or whine, he just stares!!! I hate being stared at, so it doesn't take long before I ask, "do you want to go out?" At that point in time he darts off and jumps up and down in front of the back door (you follow that ok?). Yes, we have a funny, ugly dog.

Benny is half Pug and half Lasa Apsa. I don't think that the breeders of those two particular dogs realized what a creature they would get out of it. If they had known beforehand what he was going to look like they would have thought twice about breeding their dogs. Or perhaps it was an accident that the match happened. However, I will say that despite his apparant ugliness he also proves the proverb that "looks aren't everything." I would never ask for another dog for as long as I live. I've never "met" or seen a more agreeable or happy dog. He always smiles (he doesn't have a huge choice because his teeth stick out of his mouth in various directions, causing him to appear ugly, cute, funny, and stupid all at the same time). He's always friendly and he's only afraid of little kids and men with deep voices (not a huge help for our family...definitely not a protective factor in our lives). I will always take an ugly, agreeable dog over a beautiful and difficult one. Mom, you made a great choice. When I first saw Benny I was furious that we owned him, and now he's my playmate while I'm home. We play tag, running back and forth throughout the house. God never created a better (or uglier) creature as far as dogs go.

Happy Birthday to me

Yes, all you peoples, today is my birthday. I'm now 23 years old. It's my first birthday on foreign soil, though it's not my first birthday far from home. This morning I woke up early so that I could join my Dutch family in the twin's bedroom. There they sang to me the Dutch birthday song called, "lang zal zij leven". It means, "long shall she live" or something like that. Anyway, it's my birthday. We're having a birthday party at 3:00, complete with cake and guests. The guests are my four kids and one neighbor kid and possibly another kid, friend of one of mine. It'll be insane because that means 5-6 kids in one house to dry me insane on my birthday. But that's ok, because it's my birthday. Tonight I am going to the theatre (not a sin to me, I've "worked it out with fear and trembling") with my friend, Marjon. I don't know what we'll watch, but I'm sure that I'll have a story to tell tomorrow. It'll be great. Well, I must be going, heading to the open market.

Correction on Dutch birthdays

I would like to make this quick correction. On my post that was concerning Dutch birthdays I said that it's a tradition to congratulate every single person that is at the birthday party. I was wrong with that. It's only every single family member. So that cuts down the number to about half. I still view it as a relatively odd tradition because the congratulations does go out to the family members, not just the lucky person. So there you have it folks...I made a mistake.

However, it does appear to be normal to greet every person that is at the party with a handshake. Instead of saying the congratulations to the friends you say your name and they then tell you theirs. After repeating this process on ten people in a row you've already forgotten all the names, but that's ok because they've likely forgotten yours too.

I'll throw him in the water!!!

Today I was talking with my 3 year old. We always hold one particular conversation every day. It always starts close to being the same. Every day he says, "Sarah, if a thief came into our house and shot you dead I would throw him in the water!!" Yes, my boy always talks about thieves and how he'll either shoot them dead or throw them in the water. Throw them in the water? Why would that be a punishment equivalent to shooting the thief to death? I know why.

Last June there were a couple of weeks during which we had some amazingly hot days. The kids still had school. After they got out from school I would set up our little swimming pools for the kids to play in and stay cool. On one particular day our neighbors' child also wanted to play. That boy and one of my twins were splashing the 3 year old, Syb, with the water. Syb automatically cried and I had to correct the two boys. The two boys stopped splashing. However, Syb then began to splash them. Again, I was summoned to fix the situation. When I was forced to correct the offending Syb a third time I told him that if he splashed the boys again I'd throw him in the water. I went inside. About 30 seconds later I was called, once again, back outside due to a once-again-offending Syb. I looked at him, walked over, picked him up, turned him upside-down, and dipped the very tippety-top of his hair in the water. He screamed. I set him down safely and mostly dry onto the ground. He never splashed the boys again. And the ultimate punishment for a thief is throwing him in the water.