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A Good Hostel is Hard to Find.
I have an unfortunate disability with directions and maps. I didn’t decide to come to Eastern Europe and automatically get a better sense of direction and intuitively know how to read a map… no no. I learned the hard way.
In Krakow, the hostel where I wanted to stay was marked on my handy dandy Lonely Planet map. Unfortunately, I misjudged the scale of the map and thought the hostel was outside the square. I walked and walked around the little side streets of that old town with my bright yellow pack and my Lonely Planet book marking me as the tourist that I was. My sense of adventure held strong for the first hour as I kept thinking that the hostel had to be just around the corner. Then it got dark and I realized how alone and young I was and my bag started to feel very heavy. Pity parties are usually sparsely attended. I began to have a pity party with two guests.
That night, as the rain started to come down in slow sad drops, I cried out in homesickness and prayed for a temporary home in the hostel I couldn’t find. I prayed a foolish, selfish prayer of fear and loneliness, knowing I had a God who heard me and walked with me every step of my way. So, it didn’t make my bag miraculously lighter, but I wasn’t alone.
I found an internet café in a little side alley and looked the hostel up on hostelworld until I was convinced it was right on the square. I even got to talk with friends back home, which was super encouraging. I left the café and walked out of the alley. As soon as I looked out across the square I noticed a huge sign that read “HOSTEL.” I had seen it before but there are so many hostels in Krakow I just assumed that the one I was looking for would be labeled in a more specific manner. I approached the hostel and sure enough, it was the right one. I had passed it two or three times already.
When I went up to the receptionist, I was welcomed in, given the grand tour and a nice bed. It was wonderful.
I settled into a chair in the kitchen with some tea and a book a friend lent me, “Generous Orthodoxy,” by Brian McLaren. In the book, McLaren talks about why he believes what he believes. It’s a great book so far and has started so many good conversations mainly because of the irony in the title. Historically, orthodox and generous do not go together.
I was sitting in the kitchen when a voice with a familiar accent asked me what I was reading. I looked up to find a Dutch guy standing next to me. He sat down across the table and I explained my book to him. He asked if I was a Christian and I answered in the affirmative. We started talking about the Netherlands and church. He had gone to a strict Dutch church and now he felt like the faith wasn’t really for him. We had a realy good conversation about faith and religion.
He left and within a few minutes a British guy sat down and we started to talk about his experience at Auschwitz-Birchenau that day. He was still processing the things he had seen there.
My tea grew cold and my book sat unread on the table, but I gained some friends I didn’t expect that night.
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The Reichstag in Berlin
After leaving my London buddies, I wandered around Berlin a bit, then decided I had better go get my bearings. I went back to my hostel and grabbed my backpack from the luggage room to move it upstairs to my room. I opened the door to my room and shut it again quickly without going in. I was confused. Why was there a guy standing in the middle of my room? There was also a girl, so I thought maybe they were a couple and that he was just visiting her. I stood in the hall puzzling over this new development and finally went into the room and claimed a bed.
The girl greeted me warmly, while the boy went into the bathroom and shut the door. “It’s a mixed dorm,” she said quietly with a little laugh. Apparently we had both booked ourselves into a mixed dorm without realizing it. Nadia and I began talking, and it turned out she was from Amsterdam.
We talked about our travels and about our plans for Berlin. She asked if I was going out that night. I said I wasn’t sure. I knew I would be ready for sleep after riding the night bus into Berlin. A little later, I went out alone and wandered around the city centre. I found a park and took some pictures. I went into the Rathaus (which in German means “council house,” like a city hall) and looked around. When I came back to the hostel, Nadia said she had found a fun, reggae music place to go the next night and asked if I would like to join her. I agreed.
My second day was full of sightseeing in Berlin. I awoke early to go see the Reichstag, but wasn’t early enough to beat the crowds.
The Reichstag building was opened in the late 1800s to house the German Empire’s first parliament. It is the building that Hitler used to take absolute control in 1933. When “Communists” burned it down in that year, he asked the Parliament for powers of war and then was virtually unstoppable. He used those powers of war to annihilate the Jewish race in many places and to persecute and murder many others he deemed unfit in his new world order.
I waited in line for three hours, but I still think the view was worth it. Something amazing happened while I was waiting in line. I have been reading through the beginning of the Bible, very slowly. I came into Exodus while I was standing on the steps of the Reichstag. Exodus is the story of God freeing his people, the Jewish people, from Egyptian bondage.
The story of Exodus is a true one. I have no doubts that the God who freed the Jewish people in Exodus is living and active today. I have no answers for why the Holocaust happened. I can only say that standing on the steps of that historic building, many things came home to me. I know there are stories of hope scattered throughout the Holocaust, but those do not recount for the mass tragedy of the lives that were taken.
What came home to me was the knowledge that I will never understand. I cannot give an adequate answer to the suffering in the world. I cannot say why some are rich and some poor, why some survived and others were murdered.
But I can trust in a God who is bigger and who sees the mass plan. When I was in Amsterdam, I visited the home of Holocaust survivor Corrie Ten Boom. She and her family sheltered people during the Holocaust and were caught and sent to an interment camp. They were devout Christians who shared the Hope of Christ while in the camp. Two weeks before they were released, her beloved sister died in the camp. After Corrie was released, she helped rehabilitate others who experienced trauma as a result of living in the camps. Then she toured the world calling herself a ‘tramp for Christ,’ sharing her story and the hope she had despite the horrors of her past. Wherever she went, she took a beautiful embroidered crown with her.
Let me pause to say I am oversimplifying Corrie’s story for the purpose of this blog, but highly recommend that you read her book, The Hiding Place. It is well worth your time.
Wherever Corrie went, she would take out this bit of embroidery and show the crowd, saying that we only see the backside of the embroidery, the threads as they are being knotted and tied and nothing makes sense. It is a jumbled heap. But God sees the front side. Oftentimes, the worst times in our lives are the jewels in the crown of our lives.
I respect Corrie Ten Boom for saying this and feel it might sound cliche coming from someone else, but she lived through hell. That moment at the Reichstag taught me something.
My God stands the test of time.
Standing on the steps of the Reichstag, I realized history will make itself everyday. We have a choice how we will react or if we will take a stand when troubles come into our lives.
Unfortunately, it isn’t in only the big things that we must take a stand—it is also in the everyday acts of taking out the trash for our moms and feeding our sick neighbors that create in us the character to change the world when our time comes.
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BERLIN TOUR
My adventures in Eastern Europe are well under way. The first stop on my journey was Berlin, Germany. I took an overnight bus from Amsterdam and arrived at 9 a.m. Miraculously, I found the hostel with no difficulties. I stowed my luggage and came to the receptionist desk just in time to catch the free tour of Berlin at 10 a.m. Tours are done by an international company, and all the people converged at the Brandenburger Tor to be split up into groups by the language they spoke. My group guide was a hyperactive artist from Maine.
He was knowledgeable and entertaining as he gave a fantastic tour of all the main sights in the city. We went to the Holocaust memorial and walked amidst blocks of concrete, remembering those who died. We stood on top of Hitler’s bunkers, in what is now just a parking lot. We went to Checkpoint Charley and to the Berlin Wall. So much history was in every building; it was hard to take it all in. Berlin was nearly obliterated in World War II, so much of what we see today is rebuilt to look like the original. The city is still beautiful in its own right,
For the first part of the tour, I walked, listened and didn’t talk to anyone. When we stopped for lunch, I had to find an Automatic Teller Machine (ATM). As I went off to find a bank, a voice behind me asked if I was going to look for money. I said yes and realized I was talking to one of the guys from my tour. We found an ATM and got to know each other a bit along the way. He was from London traveling Europe with his friend. When we got back to the Schlotsky’s where everyone was eating, he introduced me to his friend, and we all ate together. They asked what I was doing in Europe. I explained I was studying missions and had done an internship in Amsterdam.
Jackson asked what missions entailed. I explained I wanted to be a missionary. He asked if you had to be a nun to be a missionary. They had these really confused looks on their faces. I gathered they didn’t hang out with many girls like me.
We started the tour again, and my two new friends were hilarious. They were really chill London boys with no plans in life. I don’t think that is a virtue, but they were definitely peace-loving and friendly. Their next stop was Amsterdam, where they hoped to get as high as possible and stay in a coffee-shop all day. I encouraged them to see the sights instead.
When the tour ended, I pulled out my map and started planning my next thing. The guys were talking about going to a cafe near their hostel, so I went with them. We talked along the way as they asked me about Christianity and about church. When we got to the cafe, they asked questions about Jesus. Why did Jesus dying on the cross magically erase our sins? Won’t being good and following the Ten Commandments get you into heaven?
We talked awhile. They were serious. They said they didn’t know anyone in London who goes to church. There are churches, and they don’t close, but nobody they know actually goes. This was discouraging to me. How can we be so disconnected?
After we ate, I left them and went back to my hostel. I had learned a lot from them. Europe is in deep spiritual need—even as they have so much in material goods.
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Reflecting on Amsterdam
My time at the Shelter Jordan has officially ended. I am onto a new journey. Over three months ago, I arrived in Amsterdam with all of my luggage and a bit of a naive picture of what lay ahead of me. These past few months have been amazing and I wouldn’t change anything about them because I have learned so much.
One of my friends at the Shelter, Elizabeth, has done a lot of traveling. She and I came in and left at the same time. She taught me a lot about adjusting to a new place and keeping a firm grounding even when everything around me is changing. Elizabeth was reading a book on World Religions while we were at the Jordan, and she found a quote that really portrays one of the main lessons we both learned. “If you never mix with people from different races, you will have no eye for detail.”
Before I began working at the shelter and meeting people from every walk of life, I would put them into general groups. Japanese tourists go to Disneyland with cameras strapped to their necks. Hippies smoke joints and are peace-loving. Those are just a few of my narrow-minded categories. Now I have faces and names and personalities in my mind who are Japanese, Italian, French, Spanish, but that is only a small part of their identity.
I can no longer put them into general groups because they are all so beautiful and unique. I have memories with them. I built card castles with Baptiste from France, reminisced about favorite Mexican food with two medical students from Mexico, talked about tulips with Chiang from Japan and have even been invited for a visit to her home.
I am not defined by my American passport, though being an American definitely has an impact on who I am and how I grew up. I am fortunate to have been raised by parents who taught me the importance of learning about the world. My mom used to say that everyone should take a semester and travel the world. I now whole-heartedly agree.
There is a movement in the youth, the idea that the holocaust never happened. This makes me so sick to my stomach because one simply has to cross the border into Europe and they’ll see the aftermath of it everywhere.
I believe coming here has taught me to appreciate my family and to appreciate communication. I have gotten to know my grandma better through this experience because she is pretty hip and we get to talk on skype.
In high school, I hated history class. Here, I eat it up. I will go to museums and read historical markers and investigate random statues all day long. Everything has a story, and many of those stories form the foundation for the story of America.
God has taken me on a long spiritual journey through my time at the Shelter. I am still processing it all. I have learned about moral relativism and about loving people even when I wholeheartedly disagree with their theology. I’m still learning to love actually-I think that will be a lifelong process.
I have learned to listen, and continue to learn to listen, to people when I really want to talk. People are so hungry to pour out their stories and to be reassured they are worth something to someone else. Some days all I did was sit and listen. Oftentimes while ordering a hot chocolate or a tea, someone would just pour their story out over the counter. I haven’t the wisdom to deal with the issues many are going through, so I gingerly take in their story, massage it for a bit, until it feels better and a bit more manageable, and give it back. Sometimes an opportunity for the Gospel would present itself, and sometimes not. That wasn’t really the issue. I am learning that these are people, not just possible converts.
The next journey is Eastern Europe. I have 20 days, from May 1st to May 20th, to travel some of Eastern Europe. I’ll be alone, so your thoughts and prayers are appreciated. The first stop is Berlin, Germany, and then on to Krakow, Poland. I picked Eastern Europe because it is cheap, because I think my heart has been leaning toward this direction for a while, and because Western Europe is so.. Westernized. Eastern Europe has a unique culture. I hope all of you have a fantastic summer and continue reading the blogs I post from my Eastern Europe adventures.
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Painting the Town Orange!
Goede Middag! This is Kelsey Hitzfelder, your Longview Queen’s Day correspondent, reporting to you from the lovely Jordaan neighborhood of Amsterdam. (Jordaan is the Dutch word for garden.) Thousands of Dutch nationalists have gathered to the streets of this beautiful city to celebrate the birthday of their Queen’s mother, Juliana.
Orange Day, known as such because of the royal family Orange and the color that paints the streets on this day, brings a party for all ages and a spirit of congeniality to all cultures in the great nation of The Netherlands.
In Amsterdam, the party began last night, when street vendors, hippies, and otherwise thrifty folk packed the sides of the streets to claim a spot for the all-city garage sale and flea market that took place today.
A stroll through the Jordaan this morning brought a feast for my senses. Orange balloons were strung everywhere and every costume imaginable was to be found on people of every culture. There were some incredible bargains as well. I was lucky enough to be accompanied by two Dutch friends, so I had quite the authentic experience. Bars brought their business to the streets where drunken costumed men sang Dutch national songs and enlivened the spirit of the day. In contrast to the drunken liveliness of many in the older generations, children filled the sides of the streets, hawking their toys and their talents. Many played piano or sang to make a few euros.
Gradually, my friends and I made it to Vondelpark. This large park in the Centrum of Amsterdam is usually an oasis of green. Today is was a sea of bodies and children selling everything from a dance show to a plastic white board that was passed and sold continually from person to person.
The sheer number of people was overwhelming. There wasn’t ten feet anywhere without at least one body on it. Hippies with dreadlocks were selling jewelry, and their children were sleeping on the blow-up mattresses behind them.
As the afternoon draws to a close and the night nears, the beer flows more freely and the children disappear. The city will take on a whole new look for tonight’s festivities. Much like New Year’s Eve in a big American city, trash now fills the street as many have been indulging in the alcohol a bit all day and the remnants of the street market have been left for people to pick through. The music of free street concerts fills the air and dancing mobs are everywhere. The culture is that of youth, vitality, flippancy.
Tomorrow will be a bit rough on many of the celebrants of today’s festivities, but for now- Long live the Queen! Hup Holland Hup!
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Apples and Addiction
An apple hangs from the tree in the garden outside the Shelter Jordan. The tree isn’t an apple tree, but I’ll get back to that.
John is one of my favorite people here at the hostel. He came to work at the Shelter Jordan for a month as a cleaner after working at the Shelter City for a month. John is legally blind. He jumped out of a 5th story window when he saw a little girl drowning in a pool below and couldn’t get anyone to save her. He jumped to save her, but he missed the pool. His face was shattered along with several of his other bones. I have never met anyone so chivalrous or with such a heart as John’s. He is a 44-year-old Hungarian. His broken English frustrates him because he fights for the Cross fervently and sometimes doesn’t have the right words.
His life is a testimony to me. John comes to mop the floor when I am finishing my sleeper shift at two in the morning. It isn’t his job, and he should be sleeping because he actually has to get up early to go to work. But he comes in and takes the mop from me and pushes me out of the kitchen. When I say ‘Thank You!” he gets a funny look on his face and says, ‘Don’t say that.’
John is a paradox. He can be tremendously serious one moment, trying to convince you that The God will give you a miracle to help you see Him, and the next minute, he is copying everyone’s sound effects and using fruit to make antlers on his head. For Lukas, he says ‘OmAha,” because Lukas can’t say “Omaha” right. For Elizabeth he makes a siren noise, because she told a story and made that noise one day.
Last night, John wanted a fifth coffee, but the night before, his heart had been racing from too many coffees, so we made a deal that he should only drink two a day. We shook on it. He came up and begged for his fifth coffee, and I firmly said “No” and offered him a hot chocolate, instead. He gave me a five-year-old-boy-begging-for-a-cookie look and leaned forward, pleading with his eyes.
“Please Kelsey!” he begged.
“No, John. We shook on it. You promised,” I said. He grabbed my neck and kissed it! Silly Old Man.“No,” I said, again, and pushed a hot chocolate across the counter.
The apple on the tree outside is some kind of reminder of original sin.
I just laugh every time I see it. I will forever think of a blind beggar with an intense coffee addiction.
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Monday Market Days
I need to issue a public apology since I have not blogged as much as I originally planned. These past few weeks have been especially busy while I have tried to suck the marrow out of my last bit of time here in Amsterdam. As a result, I will post some catch-up blogs. I hope you will bear with me and enjoy the most memorable stories from the past few weeks.
This past Monday, I was scheduled to attend class in the afternoon and then work the sleeper shift in the evening. I had a grand plan for how I would use the morning, but my plan didn’t work out. I ended up walking around my neighborhood in pursuit of a memory card and rechargeable batteries. As soon as I stepped out of my back door, I saw an increased amount of people on the street and realized, “It’s Monday Market Day!!!”
I had been wanting to go to a Monday Market since I first heard of it. Monday Markets are like the ultimate flea market/Goodwill shopping experience. Since I was raised on a steady diet of antique shopping and backwood’s Texas town touring, I really looked forward to an eclectic feast for the senses.
I wound my way through some booths, touching bolts of fabric from around the world. There were Muslim women with their head shawls and their attentive husbands trying to decide which kind to buy. There were tall Dutch women in packs looking at the piles of resale clothes, trying to find the perfect deal.
I stopped at one tent stuffed full of costumes. My family loves costumes. Our attic is full, and we regularly hunt at Goodwill for new finds; all thanks to a faithful Grandma and mom who valued the imaginations of their young daughters. My eyes lit upon a beautiful violet pair of used ballet slippers. I slipped them onto my feet. They fit!!! I puzzed over whether to buy them for a minute and then realized I would never again find such a comfortable and beautiful pair and they were only five euro!
I walked through the market some more, thinking about how much better this was than Canton Trades Days or any other flea market I had ever been to.
Then I saw it. An old map of Amsterdam. It was a remake for sure, a map made in the seventies to look like Amsterdam in 1641. I brought it to the owner and asked how much it cost. He said five euro and I could hardly believe my ears. I was looking at it, deciding whether to buy it, when a random old man with a very American voice walked up and started talking to me about it. He showed me all the differences between Amsterdam today and Amsterdam 350 years ago. He used to live in Colorado and Washington, so we talked about the States and Europe.
I then meandered on through the market and ended up at a hat booth. I picked one up and asked the vendor if it was a girl’s hat or a boy’s hat. He gave me a funny look and asked, “Exactly how do you define what is for a boy versus what is for a girl?”
This seemed like a strange response to my query until I looked down and took in his denim skirt and brown ribbed leggings ending in huge Goretex boots. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended. There was a slightly humored look in his eyes. He was a huge Dutch man with a grizzly face and silvery gray ponytail.
The vendor grabbed my map and proceded to give me a history lesson of Amsterdam. This was becoming quite the learning experience. He asked where I was from and then told me how he hitchhiked through the United States and Canada for six months back in the 1980s.
We probably talked for 45 minutes, but he had my map in his lap, so I couldn’t really go anywhere. His story was fascinating—even if a little farfetched. At one point, he said he opened YellowStone National Park with the head park ranger who gave him the keys to open the gate and let him go off and hike in the wilderness, only cautioning him not to pick up antlers. In his story, he said on his backwoods camping excursion, he happened upon some poachers and reported them, thereby saving the park’s population of ‘beer.’ He called deer ‘beer’ which was also rather amusing to me. I didn’t think it was worth correcting since I caught his mistake only halfway through his story, and by then, it was too funny.
I decided I really like talking to people on the street. My Monday Market day started a plan formulating in my head… what if I were to walk everywhere with my map or a similar conversation piece. Think of all the people I would meet.
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Good times and good friends
I have 3 weeks until the end of my time working at the Shelter. I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed and how full it has been. I keep thinking about all the lessons I have learned and the memories I have made with my new friends here. I feel so incredibly blessed. Last night, in a dreadful bout of homesickness, I started looking through all the pictures on my computer.
I kept laughing as I came across pictures from great times last semester and pictures with my family taken years ago. I feel so blessed knowing I have these friends here who love and accept me, and my incredible family and friends at home as well.
My grandparents celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary a few weeks ago and won the “Unsung Heroes” award in New Braunfels. I am so proud of them. The award is well-deserved. My cousin is getting married this Saturday; another good friend will be getting married at the end of this month. I am almost overwhelmed by it all sometimes.
Aside from being entirely too homesick, yesterday was a great day. I had my weekly day off and decided it was about time I saw Mr. Van Gogh’s paintings for myself. I had seen Starry Night at MOMA once before and stood for a ridiculously long time, completely entranced. A museum full of his paintings sounded absolutely amazing. I woke up, made breakfast, and talked with my friend Kimberly about where we could go travel after I finished. I will have 21 days to travel by myself before my family comes to Europe to join me for a little while.
I decided to take my day off and go to a thrift store in North Amsterdam. As I was getting ready to go, Martijn, a staff member from the city, asked if he could come along with me. I explained my plan to go to North and to go to Van Gogh, and he seemed eager to do whatever it took to get out of the house.
We started out toward Central Station and Martijn lead the way without my having much say in where we were heading. I was content to follow until I realized we were headed to the wrong ferry — the one that took us to a different part of North Amsterdam. Martijn said he knew of a good cafe in this area of North, so we went. It was fantastic. I had a cappuccino, and we talked about fasting for a long time. Martijn is one of those Christians who really likes to dialogue about spiritual issues, all the time. He challenges me to think about the tenets of my faith, but talking to him for long periods of time is also very fatiguing. We headed to Van Gogh after this, and I had plenty of good, quiet time looking at the paintings and soaking in the sheer magnificence of the different art collections.
That night, I worked on a memory box, got my hair cut and learned to juggle, sort of. Natalie, our new Australian staff member at the Jordan, brought juggling balls and taught Kimberly and I how to juggle. Kimberly had recently taken a fall on her bike that left her black and blue, so she got her bruises decorated as we all sat around in the community house. I wanted to take a picture. There was Kimberly with her bruises-cum-butterflies, Lianne with her sketchpad, Christian playing random notes on his guitar and Natalie juggling in the armchair to my left. I have struggled in the community house since I came, dealing with moral relativism; where to draw the line between accepting people and not accepting everything they do. But as I sit in the midst of these people, I am proud of the strong friendships we have forged together. I am proud of how unique they all are. I’m going to miss them all so much.
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He’s the Rock that Doesn’t Roll
I was scheduled to organize, all by myself, a fun night last Thursday night at the cafe. It had been a busy week, and I didn’t really know what to do. Thankfully, the nightman Marco came to my rescue. He is an awesome musician and asked if we could do an open mic night in the cafe.
Thursday morning, Marco came into the cafe where I was working and we practiced singing an old Larry Norman song, “He’s the Rock that Doesn’t Roll.” I was a little worried about my role that evening, but Marco emceed the night in his relaxed manner, handled the sound equipment and was great. A lot of guests attended, and a lot of staff sang songs and played music. Francine and Douwe both sang songs in Dutch. Marco did several really fun songs on his own, in various languages.
One guest from Germany played really beautiful music by heart on the piano. She said she would only play if we did our song next. Marco, Brandon and I got up and sang. It was really fun, singing some good ole’ “Jesus rock and roll,” despite the fact we butchered our ending chorus when we were supposed to dialogue the ending!
Then one guest got up and sang the Dutch national anthem. I think he was perhaps coming off of some substance, because he gave a rather extensive, animated and confusing history lesson on the anthem.Overall, thanks to Marco, I felt like the night was a success.
It’s a funny thing that I connected Larry Norman with Amsterdam because one of my professors, who so happens to be Dutch, told me about listening to Larry Norman in Amsterdam in the 70’s. He was kind of my ministry role model before I came to Amsterdam to work at Shelter Jordan. He handed out free records to get people to come to his concerts, but at that time, he was too Rock and Roll for the church and too Radically Christian for everyone else. He sang about issues that hippies related to, and lots of people felt the love of Christ through his music. I feel honored to have sung back-up for one of his songs.
Here are the lyrics to “He’s the Rock that Doesn’t Roll”:
I was lost and blind, when a friend of mine came and took me by the hand. Then He led me to His kingdom that was in another land Now my life has changed, it’s rearranged,when I think of my past I feel so strange. Wowie, Zowie, well He saved my soul, He’s the rock that doesn’t roll.
Chorus: He’s the rock that doesn’t roll, He’s the rock that doesn’t roll, Well He’s good for the body and great for the soul, He’s the rock that doesn’t roll.
I was all alone like a rolling stone, I was going nowhere fast. I was on the road so far from home, when the future touched my past. Now I feel so blessed, ‘cause He gave me a rest. And I finally feel like I passed my test, I want to be like Him, yes that’s my goal, like a rock that doesn’t roll.
(Chorus)
I was lost and blind when a friend of mine came and took me by the hand, And He led me to His kingdom that was in another land. Now my mind is blown, my head has grown, a Solid Rock and a rolling stone, Wowie, zowie, well the Cat’s got soul, He’s the Rock that doesn’t roll.
(Chorus)
Bridge: He’s the rock that doesn’t, the rock that doesn’t, The rock that doesn’t, the rock that doesn’t, You’ve got to rock me on the water, You’ve got to rock me from the grave, You’ve got to rock me till I’m feeling good, You’ve got to rock me till, rock me till I’m saved.
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Easter Surprises
Easter wasn’t quite the same for me this year, but was really special in a different sort of way. I definitely missed my family and our Easter traditions. Here, Easter brought snow, an awesome conversation with a homeless friend, an evening with the movie “Ben Hur” in the cafe, and a prophetic blessing. Saturday night before Easter Sunday, I had the day off, so I stayed up watching a movie. I had planned to get up early to go to a sunrise service, but my plans failed when my movie ended at 3 a.m. So silly.
I awoke at 11 a.m. feeling rather discouraged I had wasted Easter. I knew I would be going to church that afternoon, but doubted the service would be very Easter-y, so I moped about the house for a bit, sad about missing church and lacking direction for my afternoon. I wandered into the living room of the staff house and heard a cacophony of human voices from our courtyard below. I looked out of our window and realized the Tweede Mil, a homeless ministry run by the same organization as our hostel, was having its Easter lunch in the classrooms downstairs. Amid the crowd, I noticed one of my fellow staff members, Sam, talking with people. I didn’t have anything I needed to do, so I padded back upstairs in my bare feet and changed out of my PJs so I could join the party.
In minutes I was heading to the crowd of Dutch-speaking homeless and otherwise hungry people. I realized with a bit of discouragement that most of the conversations going on around me were happening in their native language. I stood awkwardly amongst the crowd until I could make my way out to Sam, who was speaking in Dutch with an old man, wizened with age and leaning heavily on his cane.
One man, about 30, was standing off behind the rest. He was the last in line and seemed to be in no hurry. Sam asked him in Dutch if he was going to eat. ‘Excuse me?” the man replied in English. I immediately knew he was an American. We started talking and it turned out Daniel was from Arizona and had been traveling wherever God led him for the past year and a half.
His story was incredible. He told me about his perceptions of Amsterdam and The Netherlands. We shared a few of our same observations, and then shared a few different ones. Daniel got his plate, and we sat down next to a Portuguese couple. I introduced myself to the woman. She said something about not knowing much English. She spoke some Spanish, and I responded by saying I didn’t know much Spanish, but could understand. We ended up having a conversation, half in English and half in Spanish. I could understand her when she spoke to me in Spanish, and she could understand me when I spoke to her in English. It was awesome. She and her boyfriend had been traveling and were possibly going to work at the Shelter City. Daniel also had some connections with the Shelter City, going to Bible discussions and such. What are the odds?
I sat and talked with them for awhile and invited them to come to watch “Ben Hur” at the Jordan that night. Eventually, I went to get ready for church that afternoon and walked with some friends and cleaners to Zolder 50, a really friendly church in the Jordan.
That evening, several guests sat with me and Jens to watch the movie. About 15 minutes after the movie began, Daniel walked in and joined us. He was wearing about 5 layers of clothing, including his thick camouflage pants. His grizzly chin looked somehow squished underneath the beanie on top of his head. We watched the movie as more guests gathered to watch with us. I had never seen it before and was really impressed at how awesome the story is portrayed, considering it was made 40 years ago. I did catch some power lines in the backdrop of Judea in one scene!
After the movie, Daniel and I went to sit at one of the cafe tables to talk privately. His incredibly fitting words encouraged me. Even though I had only met him that day, he seemed to understand what I was learning and struggling with during my time in Amsterdam. He encouraged me to continue being a light here in Amsterdam, that people can see the light of Christ through me. His words were exactly what I needed to hear, even though of the things he said I had to chew on to understand. When he left, I realized he was a modern day prophet, traveling and encouraging those who God puts in his path.
That night, I biked home with friends, gathering snow from the cars to make snowballs to throw at each other as we laughed and tried not to fall. It was a beautiful Easter, indeed.
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Easter and a Political Awakening
Easter preparations are under way for at Shelter Jordan. On Monday, we had a staff meeting to discuss plans to share the true meaning of Easter with our guests over the holiday.
I felt a little frustrated because it seemed like all our ideas were old and worn out like used Kleenex; when your nose is a drip and you really want a fresh Kleenex but all you’ve got left is a shriveled up dried wad and you have to settle for finding a little shred of clean fiber on which to wipe your nose… I didn’t want to settle. The Gospel is worth more than used Kleenex.
The problem is, when you are working in a Christian environment day in and day out, it gets hard to continually find new activities through which to share the truth. I think it is especially hard to make the Gospel relevant to an audience of people from all over the world in Amsterdam for every different reason.
So, we met and discussed different ideas. After two hours, the team had generated some pretty good ideas. We decided to center the Bible discussions for the week on facets of the crucifixion such as how Christ was abandoned by his friends.
The plan for the weekend is as follows: On Good Friday, we planned a hostel night, where we give the free dinner, and the presentation will be about the Symbols of Easter and their meanings. Saturday we paint eggs with guests and show the Casting Crowns mime about Christ saving us from the temptations of the world. Finally, on Sunday we will have a special breakfast with the café decorated with flowers, and then watch Ben Hurr that evening.
Today was Friday and my day off. The hostel has been booked solid this whole week, so there have been some awesome opportunities to speak with guests. We were all excited about the hostel night, but I knew I needed to take advantage of my time away from the Shelter, so I went to a liturgical service of the Stations of the Cross instead.
Christ Church is a beautiful, small Anglican church a few streets over from the Red Light district. The priest stood and explained the order of the service. His lilting Irish voice was soothing and only added to the experience of meditating on Christ’s last hours as he read the scripture and prayers aloud. After the service, Marco joined me outside and invited me and a New Zealander friend of his to come to his community house.
We walked into the heart of the Red Light district until we came to Kajuit Niewes. The first thing I saw was the fish tank, sitting inside the wall and next to the little coffee bar. The next thing I saw in the comfy little living room we had walked into was an old nun with a black cloth pinned to her head and some metal rimmed glasses perched upon her nose.
There were people from all ages sitting in the circle of chairs and kids running around in the adjacent dining room. I talked with Marco, then with two girls who were temporarily serving in the community house. The house serves as a ministry since they often bring people in who don’t have a stable life. They provide a secure lifestyle and help them get on their feet. They also help the prostitutes in the Red Light and often provide sanctuary for them. It was really encouraging to hear the story of the place.
Afterward, I headed to the Jordan to eat dinner. I settled down next to Coralline, a Dutch friend who often comes to hang out at the hostel; Barry, the guy from Sierra Leone who used to be a cleaner; and a German guest named Stefan. We talked about traveling for a long time and poured over a book of maps that was at least 20 years old. Stefan has traveled all over the world. I asked if he could recommend some good places for me to go in Europe. The conversation gradually shifted to deeper waters.
I had been reading a book for school about evangelizing through asking good questions. I just wanted to get to know these people. Coralinne left after awhile, but the guys and I delved into a discussion about traveling our own countries. We eventually got into European and African politics. I don’t like political conversations, but I do understand that politics are the basis by which a country is run. If I want to change what I dislike about a country, I have to go to the power at the top. I have a burden for the world. It’s been there since I was nine. I’m still waiting to see what God will do with it. This trip has taught me that I am not alone in that burden; God is preparing people continuously to go out into His world. If only I wasn’t such a broken vessel.
Barry started talking about how the subsidies in Europe are ruining the agriculture and economy in Africa. If a country (like Kenya) decides to abstain from signing a free trade agreement and keeps all its trade local, it will keep its economy healthy by keeping the cheap, mass-produced vegetables from Europe out. Unfortunately, organizations like the World Bank and IMF play hard ball. They tell Kenya that they will not bring their money unless Kenya opens its borders to outside trade. They know this will wreck Kenya’s economy, but they don’t care. Then our non-profit organizations come in and teach the people to receive aid, but we don’t teach them to do for themselves. It is a wretched, bloody, starving cycle.
And so, I vote for no more government subsidies. We then moved on to American politics. I realized it is not ok for me to exist in the realm of denial, not talking about my country and her problems. I love America. But we have issues. We have gang rape in our inner cities, we have AIDS running rampant, and we have war veterans sitting hungry and cold on street corners. I know these issues aren’t fixed overnight, but at least I am beginning to think about these things. I am a part of the problem if I sit and let them happen. I refuse to be a part of the problem.
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Pot Smokers on Street Corners
Last Friday was full. On Thursday night, I worked the sleeper shift—which means I worked from 10 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. cleaning the café, and then I slept at the hostel to back up the night man for extra security. Except on the sleeper shift, Derek was working night man for the first time, so he wanted people to come and hang out with him to keep him awake and keep him company. Two other staffers came, and we watched two movies, “Meet the Robinsons” and “Over the Edge.” I didn’t go to sleep until 4:30 a.m.
The next morning, I woke up at 9:30 a.m. and went to eat breakfast in the café. I sat down next to a Dutch staff member and friend. Immediately I felt a bit of tension. She was supposed to be working the breakfast shift, which was halfway over, and she was sitting down to eat breakfast. My gut twisted. The other morning café worker was in there all alone. Then I noticed she was eating one of the apple turnovers I put in the fridge to take to Douwe and Els. She probably hadn’t known this, but why would she take something that wasn’t hers? I had only gotten five hours of sleep. I knew my mind was a little foggy. But then she told me I shouldn’t eat my pancakes because they were unhealthy. I eyed the apple turnover sitting next to her bowl of cereal. My gut twisted again, and I sipped my orange juice quietly.
Most missionaries leave the field because of conflicts between staff members. Personality and cultural differences are insanely powerful in making one lose perspective. Thankfully, I finished my plate without saying anything to rectify our misunderstandings. I hung around the hostel and read my Bible while watching the activity of the café. I spoke with my friend while sitting in the café and learned that no one had a plan for the hostel night outreach to be held that evening. Two people were supposed to plan it, but all of us are still so new and there is still confusion about what these outreaches are supposed to look like. I went home and had an emergency planning meeting with one of the people who was in charge. It went really well. We went with a simple program for the night.
That evening, we served dinner, and then I gave a short testimony afterward. Our theme was relationships. I believe the two strongest feelings in the world are acceptance and rejection. Pretty obvious. People long for acceptance, but human beings are incapable of truly accepting one another because they can never give unconditional love, and they can never know each other completely.
I told the story of a friend in my past who had come to me for true acceptance. I was incapable of giving it. She was lost and lonely, pregnant and abandoned. But I tried. I accepted her as best I could. God showed me that He loves us completely and accepts us as we are. He is the only one who can completely know us through and through because he created us. God is just and definitely puts us through a purification process after we run to him, but it’s because of his awesome love.
Three guys from Spain came to the dinner, along with two French girls, and two girls from Germany. It was incredible. We had someone on staff and at the hostel night who was either from each of those countries or who spoke their language. Jens talked with the German girls, Elizabeth translated my testimony into Spanish for the guys, and Claire ended up talking with the girls from France.
Before I started talking, one of the Spanish guys raised his hand and asked, “Why are you telling us this in the first place?” Uhh… It took me a second to process what he was asking. “Well, I think I have something to teach through this story.” Awkward.
After I shared, everyone sat and talked for a while. I ate my dinner and talked with my friend who I had not understood earlier that morning. We had an awesome conversation. We connected over our shared experience of having a friend who needed help and who ran to us for acceptance. As I walked back to the café to work, I had a sense of awe. How can one have such misunderstanding in the morning, and such a connection just hours later. I am so thankful for these moments because I am storing them up for future times when I need to remember that conflicts can be solved in time.
That night, as I rode home, I soaked up the stillness of the city. Nearing the backdoor of the staff house, I decided to bike longer to give my legs a little exercise and my mind a little more time to think about the day. I biked down to the Browersgracht and turned till I came to a dead end, then turned again and kept going till I found a good street I knew.
The city is so quiet at night. I passed a group of young men lounging near some trash cans, smoking joints. I kept going, thinking about this city and its people. I passed the staff house again, biking toward the old church. The bars on the Leliegracht were full and loud, casting their amber glow into the street and projecting an image of warmth and camaraderie. People were walking, cold and distant in the street, some with friends, some heading home from a night at the pub. I passed a bar, and a man who had gotten on his bicycle was biking ahead of me. He was so drunk he couldn’t bike straight. He wove across the narrow street, back and forth. Finally he stopped and let me pass, then made another attempt at steadying himself on the bike.
I find myself embracing the culture of this city. I find myself settling in to the rhythm. Obviously I don’t plan on smoking pot or frequenting bars until I am falling off my bike (I fall off my bike without the help of alcohol!), but there is so much beauty in this city amidst the tares.
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Touring Urk
When I first went to Urk, I planned only to stay Friday night and part of the day Saturday. But then I met Douwe and Els, was invited to church on Sunday, and realized I was in a special place where time passed slowly and needed more time to be fully appreciated.
Saturday morning, I woke early and had breakfast with the family. I like the Dutch way of eating. Fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast with tea and coffee. The family was so hospitable, and I was invited to help feed the menagerie after breakfast. Douwe and I walked outside, and he showed me his normal routine.
The cat is always fed first. She purred urgently as he cut her a thin slice of rookwurst and only stopped when she had it in her mouth. I laughed when I saw several pairs of clogs on the shelf in the garage. They were caked with dried mud.
Douwe gave me a pair of red boots to wear outside because the bird pen was muddy. We went to feed Dierek, their giant Rottweiler next. He was a friendly dog, but when Douwe turned his back, Dierek gave me a big muddy hug and smeared mud all on my jacket. I laughed as I tried to push the huge mass of black fur and muscle away and was reminded of my family’s insolent Labrador, Hunter.
Next we fed the birds. Douwe put grain and pieces of bread in a bucket and let me scatter them in the trowel as the geese and chickens clamored for their fair share. He pushed an empty bucket in my hand and led me to the chicken coop where I gathered the fresh eggs. Next we went to get the mail, and I asked Douwe what kinds of vegetables people grew on the farms around us. The land here is so flat and the fog obscures the view, though if all was clear, you could probably see all the way to the ocean and the line of windmills that sits right on the shore.
After finishing the morning routine, we went inside and ate a brunch of sweet bread and coffee. Els went to djembe lessons and Douwe offered to take me to Femi’s resale shop in Urk.
I have officially decided that I like seeing a place from the local’s perspective. We drove all around town and then Douwe showed me the old part compared to the new part that has been built since the island was expanded. The old part is gorgeous with houses squeezed tightly together, using every inch of the ground.
At Femi’s shop, I found some used boots for €2.50! I also found an awesome depiction of Martin Luther nailing the 95 theses to the door of the church. Douwe wouldn’t let me pay for my finds. He said I was a volunteer so I shouldn’t have to pay.
Next we drove to Els’ djembe lesson and bopped to the music as we listened to her class beat out different rhythms. There were people of all ages learning to play and it was such a fun environment.
Douwe and I went back to Urk and walked around the village, seeing all the old houses. There was a church built in the 1500’s. Douwe laughed when I exclaimed,“That’s older than my country!”
We went to a friend of Douwe’s house because Douwe thought he might be cooking fish and would probably give us some. Everyone is so friendly and hospitable. Sure enough, we walked up to the little house and caught the smell of fish and heard the crackling sound of oil in the shed outside his house. The older man came out and introduced himself to me. We walked inside and saw a group of five men already gathered with the family. Everyone had a drink and the conversation flowed.”
Douwe’s friend put some fish in front of me and it was delicious. I sat and enjoyed the rhythm of the Dutch around me. Sometimes it is nice to soak up the culture and just feel accepted. We made one last stop at a fish market to pick up food for lunch before going home.
That night, the family invited me to a birthday party for their cousin. I went along gladly and met the majority of the extended family. Once more, everyone spoke Dutch, but those who spoke English were so kind and obliged me with conversation when they could. Els, her niece, and her cousin are all in the djembe class together, so they pulled out the drums and put on a concert after everyone had eaten. Douwe brought an extra drum so I could play as well, though I cautioned him that I didn’t know how yet. I asked Els’ niece to give me a lesson and she showed me several beats. It was so much fun!!! I think I am hooked. We stayed at the party for several hours and then came back to the house and played on the djembes for an hour longer before retiring.
On Sunday morning, we all went to church together. Of the 20,000 people who live in the town and surrounding areas, about 95% go to church. When we walked into the church sanctuary, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Half of the ark was protruding out of the front wall and the pulpit was on top. The stained glass windows portrayed waves and storm clouds, and the very top window showed a dove with an olive branch. The pastor, when standing at the pulpit on top of the ark, was about eight feet off the ground. It was the Sunday for the kids choir to sing, so 30 children paraded up front to glorify God with their beautiful voices.
I noticed several men and children with golden earrings in their ears. The little earrings had ships on them and I thought all the people wearing them were sailors. It turns out some men were indeed sailors and some were wearing the earrings because it was a fad.
After church, we went back to the house and I packed all of my things. I ate lunch with the boys, had coffee with Douwe, Els, and several of their friends, and then Douwe drove me to Amsterdam. I think being with their family made me miss mine a little more, but I am still glad I got to meet them. For me, they painted a picture of hospitality that I hope to emulate one day.
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Urk
It all began when the Shelter Jordan had our big reunion of old staff members. A sweet older woman named Femi came in from a little village called Urk to make bean soup for everyone for dinner. I was working afternoon café and helped her find the food supplies and kitchen tools she needed. She spoke mainly Dutch, but we were able to figure everything out. She sat down to eat lunch, and I finished working and ate with her. She told me about the village of Urk and about the resale clothing shop she runs there. Her English wasn’t fluent, but there were enough Dutch people around that she could ask for the translation of a word when she needed it.
Urk used to be an island, but in typical Dutch fashion, the ocean has been reclaimed and now a series of dikes joins the island to the mainland. Urk is a society all to itself. I would liken the people in Urk to the American Mennonites. They are conservative, and 95% of the 14,000 citizens go to church on Sundays.
On Friday, I was supposed to take the hour-long train ride to Urk, but was able to ride out with my new friend Crein, who is the former head director of Tot Heil de Volks, the Shelter’s parent organization. Crein gave me all the background information about Urk. He drove along the dike instead of taking the highway so that I could see the ocean and marshland full of birds.
We first went to Crein’s house where I met his family, two sons, and his Spanish guest. The guest spoke only Spanish and Dutch so I spoke some broken Spanish with him for a few minutes. There are perks to being from Texas.
Next, we drove out to my host’s home. The first thing I saw was the menagerie in their backyard. They had five peacocks and several geese! Who knew? I had already squealed with glee at the sight of horses on the way to their house.
I hadn’t previously met Douwe and Els Yska but they welcomed me in with open arms. I was shocked at the size of their home. It would have been considered average in America, but very large by Dutch standards. African artifacts and Greek icons were everywhere. It was beautiful. Crein sat down with the couple for a long conversation in Dutch—this would be the first of many for the weekend.
Soon Crein left, and I was shown to my room. On the way there, I noticed a room with a tanning bed—A TANNING BED! I asked my host about the fake-baker. She said they don’t use it as much as they used to—and no, it isn’t typical in Dutch homes.
I went back downstairs to help cook dinner. I am not sure what it was called, but it was delicious. The Yska’s oldest son and his wife joined us, so it was a full, loud Dutch family meal. Afterward, their younger son read from the Bible and, then their nephew arrived to hang out with the son.
I prayed and meditated for the majority of dinner. The conversation was held in Dutch, and every once in a while they would switch to English to ask me about myself. I knew they weren’t being impolite by speaking in their native tongue even though they all spoke English as well. They were being themselves, and I had come to their house to rest and take in the Dutch culture. It was just what I needed.
I stayed around to talk with Douwe and Els as the son and his wife left and the younger son and nephew went off to be mischievous.
We were talking about Els’ hobby of playing the djembe when the nephew came down for a Band-Aid. He had gotten a blood blister. The boys were shooting at cans with a BB gun in the attic and he had pinched his finger when he cocked the gun. I talked with the parents for a few more minutes and then asked if I could go shoot with the guys. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.
It was so boy. That crosses cultures. Give a guy a gun and something to shoot at, and he will be content for a good long time. The guys had set up cans along the rail of the ceiling in the attic and were having target practice. They readily accepted me into their clan, even if I was a little rusty at shooting. My grandpa taught me how to shoot on an old handgun. He was a marksman in the army. We shot at books, cans, and coke bottles.
One side of the attic had a crawl space and a thick plywood wall. This was the target zone. We could shoot at that wall all day and do no harm to the exterior of the roof or the rest of the attic. It was obvious that the space had been used for such devious purposes for quite some time. BB’s littered the floor along with shot-up cans.
After a while, I decided to turn in, so I headed back downstairs. On the way to my room, I stepped outside to the garden. It was so quiet. No city noises. So peaceful. So beautiful. And the stars! Finally, I see some stars. It was so refreshing.
Dancing in the Street
A few days ago, I decided I needed to start using my days more wisely. It is so easy to work the shift I am scheduled, come home and let the rest of the day slip away. I sat down with a handy tourist book for Amsterdam and made a list of all the things I want to do while I am here.
Here are a few of the top items on my list: 1. Listen to jazz music at a good jazz bar 2. Learn some Dutch (two months is not enough time to learn it all) 3. Visit a Dutch town 4. Eat fries on the street 5. Visit the Troppenheim Museum 6. Go shopping at the Waterlooplein Market
I am happy to say I can cross off a few things on that list! The full list is 22 items long, so I still have lots to work on.
Last night, a group of us from the Shelter, along with a group of college students and a hostel guest went to this great jazz club called Alto. The place was no more than 10 feet wide all the way through, and the band played Latin-style jazz.
On the way to the club, we tried to fit all seven of us on four bikes belonging to the Shelter staff members. Three of the bikes had seats on the back. This would have worked perfectly, except that my bike broke shortly after leaving the hostel. The back wheel couldn’t handle the weight of the two boys riding it. We did a little rearranging, and I ended up walking the rest of the way to the Leidseplein with the guest and one of the college students working with the mission team.
When we arrived at the jazz club, our group had reserved a table right up at the front. We squeezed in and proceeded to talk and wait for the music to start. The place was covered from floor to ceiling with old jazz advertisements and movie posters. The low lights and smoke-filled air made for the perfect atmosphere. A saggy-jawed musician stood up to the microphone as the musicians got into their places. There were two djembe players, a piano man, a bass player, and the saggy-jawed man turned out to be the alto himself.
“Are you ready for Freddy?” he asked.
The two men beat out a rhythm in unison on the biggest djembe’s I’ve ever seen, and the rest of the band followed their lead, mixing sounds to create an awesome melody. I settled back to watch the crowd. Sitting at the table right in front of the stage was a man that could have doubled for Brad Pitt in the movie “Snatch.” The group relaxed as the jazz flowed, and then we talked and tried to play games with the drink coasters. Eventually we were kicked out because only two people bought drinks, and one of them was a coke.
The guest, whose name was Bradford, wanted to taste some of Amsterdam’s famous frites, so the group headed to a fry place down the street. We sat inside while he ordered and then meandered outside and shared the huge rapper full of greasy goodness. Check two things off my list. We three Shelter workers split paths with our friends and headed home. On the way there, we danced to the jazz in the street, tried not to fall on the ice, and sang at the top of our lungs from our bikes.
I can now heartily recommend the Leidseplein to any other tourists visiting Amsterdam. Good music, good food, good memories.
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Let the Real Fun Begin!
The Shelter Jordan is officially open, and I can’t believe I have been in Amsterdam for a whole month!
We opened for guests Friday and had a full hostel all weekend. I had the pleasure of working the first morning café shift, and it was kind of surreal, watching the receptionist check people in as I continued to clean the café and wait for the first customer.
I can honestly say I am exhausted. There are so many things to process—aspects of hostel and community life I haven’t fully gotten my mind around. Marco, the night security man, said something during morning prayer that has made me think and prompted me to notice the little blessings of late. He said it seems like the hostel is constantly on the edge of chaos, as all of us are finding our way and learning how to do everything in the midst of guests, but Someone is holding us all together.
Last night I was supposed to train Brandon, a new staff member who arrived the day before yesterday and hadn’t been trained at all. We were scheduled alone and had the task of cooking dinner for 60 guests for the Shelter reunion. Thankfully, we mainly needed to work out the timing and cook the rice without scorching it. I confess to having never prepared a meal for that many people before, only dessert. We also made brownies, which was fun because both of us are Americans and the Dutch definitely call them American brownies.
It was amazing! The kitchen manager, Jaco, hung around to make sure everything was done on time, but there were no problems. Everyone was served and the food was gone before we knew it. The brownies were delicious, served a la mode. It was so cool how everything was orchestrated.
Two aspects of the hostel life I love most at this point are working in the kitchen and talking with people from different cultures. Because we are in such an international city and because we are a hostel, we get travelers from everywhere. Elizabeth and I had an awesome conversation with two guys from England last Friday. We talked about English and American immigration, good things to do in Amsterdam, and their lives back in England. They were so British! Their sense of humor and the way they expressed ideas was so blunt, and it was fantastic talking with them.
I also met two girls from Mexico who are studying in France. I had a great conversation with them, reminiscing about Mexican food, chile powder candies, and other things we miss from home. One of the girls was from San Luis Potosi. I have been to all the areas of Mexico immediately surrounding her home, like Guanajuato, Aguascalientes and San Miguel de Allende on various mission trips. These girls are studying French for a year and then are going to study to be medical missionaries.
I love being asked for a cup of coffee and trying to figure out where the guest is from. There are difficulties that come with having so many different cultures together. Many times I have to resort to charades to help someone decide what they want for breakfast. I think it is building my patience to listen through the thick accents and figure out what people mean.
All in all, the work so far has been fulfilling. It is tiring, but well worth it.
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A view from above
I love heights. On Friday, the builders put together some beautiful scaffolding that stretched to the top of the Shelter, three stories high. I ached to climb it and take in the view. The Westerkerk (West Church) sits at the end of our street, and I could see its turrets peaking out above the roofs of the houses around us. Friday afternoon, I asked Harold, the construction coordinator, if I could climb the scaffolding to wash the windows outside, but the builders said no. They needed to work.
On Monday, I was helping with cleaning and storing extra sheets and Christmas décor in the closet when Harold walked up to me and said “Your dreams have come true!” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, and he refused to tell me. I dutifully followed him downstairs until we got outside where construction workers were stationed on and around the scaffolding. They were taking it down and needed a hand. Harold knew my dream of climbing the scaffolding and suggested me. They looked a little doubtful when they saw I was a female. Harold started talking to the builder in Dutch and at first; he told me I wouldn’t be able to go up. Then they negotiated and the builder motioned for me to scurry up the ladder. I climbed till I was about 2 1/2 stories up, almost to the top.
The men started unsnapping pieces of the scaffolding and handing them to me to pass them down to the man on the roof below. I was a link in the disassembly line. It was thrilling. The sun was shining in over the houses, and it was a beautiful day. I could see the Westerkerk from a completely new angle. We gradually worked our way down, strategically taking off one piece at a time and climbing down as we deconstructed our own ladder. I loved every minute of it. I especially loved the fact the construction workers didn’t see the necessity of giving me instructions in English, so they would motion for me to do certain things, but the meaning was sometimes ambiguous—not good when we’re 30 feet up in the air!
The scaffolding came down in about 30 minutes. I shook hands with the builder, my new business partner, and shuffled inside to commence cleaning. I was playing worship music with my MP3 player and started praying for the rooms as I cleaned them. Elizabeth had suggested the team do this the night before at dinner. I started to get a vision for what God is going to do here in the hostel. I know I am going to be taught so much here. A lot of what God is teaching me is uncomfortable, but I am excited that He is using the Shelter to show people He loves them and has good plans for their lives. He wants to redeem Amsterdam. The Shelter opens in two days!
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Burritos in Amsterdam
The weather lately has been a little on the chilly side—i.e. minus 5 Celsius each night.
We have had some beautiful sunny days, but the cold prevails despite the sunshine, and I felt the need to find a warmer jacket. I also had a craving for a warm, giant stroopwafel, so Elizabeth and I headed off to the Albert Cuyp market on Saturday morning.
It was my job to cook dinner for the Jordan team Saturday night. I decided to bring Tex-Mex to Amsterdam. I selected vegetables and meats: avocadoes, tomatoes, cilantro, limes, and some really affordable chicken. I could almost see the gorditos/burritos taking shape in my head.
I also found a jacket for 5 euro. The vendors don’t have dressing rooms outside for trying on clothes, but I was wearing a spaghetti strap tank top under my sweater. I looked at Elizabeth, and took in the market crowd surrounding us. Then I considered the fact that it was about 35 degrees Fahrenheit outside. My brother has told me before that I am very sheltered, living in a bubble, under a rock, in a cave. Sometimes it is good to be sheltered, but if I am to reach people in Amsterdam, I have to get to know them. My Dutch friend told me that people strip down to try things on in markets all the time—in the summer. I was only going down to my tank top.
I could hear the murmurs of astonishment as people passed the booth and saw my bare arms poking out before I quickly thrust them into the sleeves of the shirt I wanted to try on. It was worth it. One comfort zone passed, and one cute shirt was successfully attained.
Elizabeth and I made it back to the house safely with all of our purchases in tow. I set to work preparing ground beef, chicken, rice, and homemade burrito tortillas—the thick kind. Jens was assigned to help me with dinner, and I was excited about the prospects of teaching a German about burritos. Unfortunately, we had stopped at the grocery store for black beans, and I accidentally bought black olives because I was looking at the pictures on the front of the cans instead of decrypting the Dutch. Olives were a nice touch. Who knows? Ten years from now one of my German or Dutch friends might be inspired to open a Mexican food restaurant and they’ll never know that olives aren’t really a Mexican thing. It could become a trend!
Everyone chipped in to finish the meal and it was so much fun to have the whole team in the kitchen working together. I always go overboard when preparing a meal… When we finally sat down to eat, Elizabeth was telling Jens that there would be burritos in heaven, but they would be fat-free. Jens smiled and said, “In heaven, I will be by the Mexicans.”
On Sunday, Elizabeth, Jens, and I biked 10 miles to church. It was a beautiful day, and the ride was splendid. Sunday was a wonderful day of rest—just what I needed. I finally started reading some books for school. In one of the books about cross-cultural servant hood, I kept reading “what not to do’s” that I had already done. I have certainly made my share of blunders while here in Amsterdam. At least the book is relevant! I recommend The Master Plan of Evangelism by Robert E. Coleman. I am also reading another awesome book, Cross-Cultural Servanthood by Duane Elmer. I have so much to learn, and each day I feel overloaded with new lessons in relationships and work. But there is grace—from God and from my fellow housemates. I wouldn’t survive without them.
Crash Course in Dutch Transportation
Quite a few times since I got to Amsterdam I have wondered if God is trying to rid me of excessive pride. Here in Holland, people bike everywhere because cars are so expensive, and usually the distance from point A to point B is shorter than it would be in most places in Texas.
Unfortunately, as I have already explained, European bikes are different than American bikes, and I have had a hard time adjusting to the new bike and all the traffic. On Friday, Elizabeth and I rode our bikes after work. We followed the sunshine because it was really cold out and worse in the shadows. Biking through the city, we ended up on a busy street without a bike lane. There was a taxi sitting dangerously close to the curb, and Elizabeth biked through the narrow space. I thought, ‘Well, if she made it, surely I can, too.’ I peddled forward and suddenly heard a crash. I felt my bike lurch to a stop, as I swung my foot out to brace myself on the curb to keep from kissing the pavement. My hand and handlebar had collided with the taxi’s rearview mirror and caused it snap forward, out of place. It looked very broken.
The driver leaped out of the car and started yelling at me in Dutch and rubbing his thumb to his fingers; the universal sign for money. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else and thought the dumb American card might work in these circumstances. The driver came around the side of the car and popped the mirror back in place. As soon as he saw it was fixed, he waved me off.
Elizabeth and I crossed the street and collapsed into laughter because there wasn’t much else we could at that point.
Ten minutes later, we crossed another intersection where I almost died. I am deathly afraid of tramlines in the road because I had an encounter with one that flung me from my bike and planted me nearly face-to-concrete with a raspberry on my knee. I watch for these little ruts. This intersection was riddled with tramlines in every direction, and I got a little worried.
I headed through the intersection, angling my bike to go across the tramlines, and failed to realize I was biking out of the bike lane and directly into the car lane. Suddenly, I heard the blaring ‘HONK’ and turned to see the driver in the car three feet behind me slam on his brakes. I believe God has guardian angels stationed over me when I ride my bike—not the cute little baby angels, but the big, warrior kind with swords and rippling muscles.
My German friend, Jens, went to the grocery store with me the other day and shared something that helped me put biking in perspective.
“I think God smiles when we bike,” she said.
I think sometimes God outright laughs, not at me, but with me.
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Kelsey! I am so glad to hear of your God-sent encounters with people. I am slowly learning how very involved the spiritual is in everything. Can’t wait to see you! God keep you!
... read the full comment by Laura | Comment on A Good Hostel is Hard to Find. Read A Good Hostel is Hard to Find.
I really miss Martijn; you gave quite an apt description of him. He really likes to talk and often has great things to say. I also miss the museums. For me the most inspirational was in Rotterdam, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen. Also there are many other
... read the full comment by Wes | Comment on Good times and good friends Read Good times and good friends
Kelsey, I just got this link from your mom at 5-something AM and I read a few of your entries. I would love to read more, but duty calls. I see two recurring thoughts. You are truly being challenged as a person and as a Christian and your victory through
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Thank God there was NO MOLD with which to pour Larry (Norman) into. God richly used “Stormin’ Norman as I liked to call him greatly. I miss him along with his family & friends. Was their another Christian ON THE PLANET who could’ve
... read the full comment by Timothy M. Tobin | Comment on He's the Rock that Doesn't Roll Read He's the Rock that Doesn't Roll