But this cow. This is new.
This cow crossed the street in the crosswalk.
Check it out!
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Cows in the crosswalk.
Occasionally random animals appear in surprising places in Lupeni. Like the pigs getting slaughtered for Christmas on some wooden sawhorses in front of our apartment building, or the flock of goats being shepherded down the sidewalk, nibbling the grass along the way. Or the wild horses appearing out of the mist late at night on the railroad tracks, or the cows who often wander through the park or down the street, traffic splitting and flowing around them, undaunted.
But this cow. This is new.
This cow crossed the street in the crosswalk.
Check it out!
But this cow. This is new.
This cow crossed the street in the crosswalk.
Check it out!
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Food and dreams.
For a while now, I have been nursing this dream of feeding people en masse. Not Jesus-style, really, with the miraculous multiplication of loaves and fishes -- more in the style of a local food cafe where people can gather to eat good, fresh, delicious, nutritious meals while gathered around tables with friends. A safe place, a welcoming place, a beautiful place, a warm place. I have had this vision in my head -- little pots of basil and mint growing in windowsills; tables and booths and overstuffed armchairs; an eclectic menu of traditional Romanian favorites and American remixes; handwritten menus on chalkboards in a bunch of languages (Romanian, Hungarian, Romani, and English, if you're wondering); burlap curtains and light green stucco walls; photos of local farmers on a corkboard near the door so people can see where and who their food came from. (Yes, my dream is ridiculously well-developed and hipster-sounding and may have absolutely no basis in market reality. I know, I know. But it's fun to dream...)
The catch is this: I already have a full-time job which I really like, which prevents me from diving into this project right now... and honestly, we haven't yet said yes to living in Romania long enough to see that dream come to fruition. (Oh, there are plenty of other catches too, like my utter lack of business experience; the fact that I'm not actually Romanian; the many, many barriers to investment in the Jiu Valley right now, like corruption and brain drain and unclear local policies on business and economic development; oh yeah, and the ridiculous challenge of using local produce in a year-round restaurant when you live in an area that's covered in snow five months of the year. But I digress.)
However, today I began to see the dream come true a little bit! Let me tell you about it.
Many years ago, our church here in Lupeni (Betel) ran a daily soup kitchen for kids who might not get enough to eat at home. Some of our friends at church grew up in this soup kitchen (called a "cantina" in Romanian), attending it daily, eventually drawn to the church not by its preaching or music but rather by its delicious soups and faithful presence. Unfortunately, after years of a flawless record, someone got sick after eating there and the cantina got shut down. It hasn't been open for at least a decade, but in the past few months a few members of the church have begun talking about reviving it. The part of town where our church is located is the old town center, near the coal mine, and it's known for being a poor area where a lot of Roma people live. And it's true -- there really is a lot of poverty there. If it didn't feel voyeuristic and disrespectful, I'd take pictures, because some of the homes are almost unbelievable -- only a step or two away from shacks, these are ramshackle leaning constructions of wood and cement and sheet metal, surrounded by piles of garbage. Not all of them are that way, of course, and there are plenty of nice homes and wealthy people in the neighborhood -- but there are also people living in extreme poverty, and it's undeniable.
So this week our friend Irina, who lives in the neighborhood near the church (Jack and I live on the other side of town), decided she'd waited long enough and she was ready to start. And sure enough she did. She made a huge pot of tocaniĊ£a de cartofi (a meaty, potato-y stew) on her own tiny stove and slaved over it all day. When I arrived mid-afternoon she'd already been at work for hours, chopping and stirring, measuring and tasting. We carried the heavy pot between the two of us through her own wooden gate, down the street, and into her sister-in-law's empty house, where a large table with two benches had been set up. There is no running water at that house, no sink, no stove, and no bathroom, but it was a clean, empty space, and Irina sent her daughter through the neighborhood to announce that dinner was served.
About 20 kids came, ranging in age from 3 to 13. Irina realized as they entered that many of them had dirty hands, and sent a neighbor boy running for a bucket of water so they could wash up. As I poured cupfuls of cold water over the fingers of one little girl, she looked up at me confused. "Scrub," I said, pantomiming the action. She just blinked at me. So I took her hands and gently rubbed them together, and we slowly wiped off layers of dirt to reveal pink little palms. Shortly thereafter, we realized that this little girl didn't know how to eat with a spoon, as her potatoes kept slipping onto the table instead of into her mouth. Her plate emptied three times slower than anyone else's, and as the other kids slowly trickled out, satiated, I suddenly realized: she didn't know how to wash her hands. She didn't know how to eat with a spoon. When I chatted with the kids, asking them their birthdays, she didn't know when hers was. She's five years old. It made me want to cry.
And then I realized something else, as this little girl finally slipped out the door with a quiet "mersi." Irina was sitting there exhausted, her blue apron limp around her waist, but she was smiling. A stack of dirty dishes awaited us, ready to be washed and rinsed in two buckets of cold water. But children were fed and loved, and their bodies and souls were nourished. And it's only the beginning of a dream that's so much bigger, and so much more beautiful, than mine -- it's a dream that members of our church had, which they are welcoming me into, and together this cantina will become a place that feeds the masses. I believe it. Hopefully we can still use local food and ask for help from nearby farmers, and maybe we can even grow some pots of basil to use for seasoning. But even if this dream never looks anything like the vision of a bustling cafe in my head, it's already beautiful -- because it's real, and it's full of love, and it's shared.
The catch is this: I already have a full-time job which I really like, which prevents me from diving into this project right now... and honestly, we haven't yet said yes to living in Romania long enough to see that dream come to fruition. (Oh, there are plenty of other catches too, like my utter lack of business experience; the fact that I'm not actually Romanian; the many, many barriers to investment in the Jiu Valley right now, like corruption and brain drain and unclear local policies on business and economic development; oh yeah, and the ridiculous challenge of using local produce in a year-round restaurant when you live in an area that's covered in snow five months of the year. But I digress.)
However, today I began to see the dream come true a little bit! Let me tell you about it.
Many years ago, our church here in Lupeni (Betel) ran a daily soup kitchen for kids who might not get enough to eat at home. Some of our friends at church grew up in this soup kitchen (called a "cantina" in Romanian), attending it daily, eventually drawn to the church not by its preaching or music but rather by its delicious soups and faithful presence. Unfortunately, after years of a flawless record, someone got sick after eating there and the cantina got shut down. It hasn't been open for at least a decade, but in the past few months a few members of the church have begun talking about reviving it. The part of town where our church is located is the old town center, near the coal mine, and it's known for being a poor area where a lot of Roma people live. And it's true -- there really is a lot of poverty there. If it didn't feel voyeuristic and disrespectful, I'd take pictures, because some of the homes are almost unbelievable -- only a step or two away from shacks, these are ramshackle leaning constructions of wood and cement and sheet metal, surrounded by piles of garbage. Not all of them are that way, of course, and there are plenty of nice homes and wealthy people in the neighborhood -- but there are also people living in extreme poverty, and it's undeniable.
So this week our friend Irina, who lives in the neighborhood near the church (Jack and I live on the other side of town), decided she'd waited long enough and she was ready to start. And sure enough she did. She made a huge pot of tocaniĊ£a de cartofi (a meaty, potato-y stew) on her own tiny stove and slaved over it all day. When I arrived mid-afternoon she'd already been at work for hours, chopping and stirring, measuring and tasting. We carried the heavy pot between the two of us through her own wooden gate, down the street, and into her sister-in-law's empty house, where a large table with two benches had been set up. There is no running water at that house, no sink, no stove, and no bathroom, but it was a clean, empty space, and Irina sent her daughter through the neighborhood to announce that dinner was served.
About 20 kids came, ranging in age from 3 to 13. Irina realized as they entered that many of them had dirty hands, and sent a neighbor boy running for a bucket of water so they could wash up. As I poured cupfuls of cold water over the fingers of one little girl, she looked up at me confused. "Scrub," I said, pantomiming the action. She just blinked at me. So I took her hands and gently rubbed them together, and we slowly wiped off layers of dirt to reveal pink little palms. Shortly thereafter, we realized that this little girl didn't know how to eat with a spoon, as her potatoes kept slipping onto the table instead of into her mouth. Her plate emptied three times slower than anyone else's, and as the other kids slowly trickled out, satiated, I suddenly realized: she didn't know how to wash her hands. She didn't know how to eat with a spoon. When I chatted with the kids, asking them their birthdays, she didn't know when hers was. She's five years old. It made me want to cry.
And then I realized something else, as this little girl finally slipped out the door with a quiet "mersi." Irina was sitting there exhausted, her blue apron limp around her waist, but she was smiling. A stack of dirty dishes awaited us, ready to be washed and rinsed in two buckets of cold water. But children were fed and loved, and their bodies and souls were nourished. And it's only the beginning of a dream that's so much bigger, and so much more beautiful, than mine -- it's a dream that members of our church had, which they are welcoming me into, and together this cantina will become a place that feeds the masses. I believe it. Hopefully we can still use local food and ask for help from nearby farmers, and maybe we can even grow some pots of basil to use for seasoning. But even if this dream never looks anything like the vision of a bustling cafe in my head, it's already beautiful -- because it's real, and it's full of love, and it's shared.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Our second Romanian Pentecostal conference.
I've been quite sick for the past two weeks, and while I don't know what caused it, I do know what made it worse. If you have the flu, don't go to that annual conference with your church. Even though I was prayed over much there, resting at home and recovering would have been the better option.
I mostly wanted to go to this conference for two reasons: last year when we went it was decided that we could apply for our residence permits though our denomination, and second, we enjoyed the time getting to know our brothers and sisters better outside of Betel. We had no idea what the rest of the time would be like--if it would be a lot of preaching, a lot of praying, a lot of singing, or a lot of all three, like services at Betel. But it would be interesting to meet other folks from other churches around the country.
I began feeling flu-like the night before we left, but in the morning I felt a lot better, so I decided to go along and see how everything went. I ended up sleeping most of the way, waking up to eat, gaze at the countryside, and to listen to our church's prayer warrior ask, "Are we there yet?" He was watching an older movie about Moses and playing worship music on his phone for most of the trip.
Once we arrived and put our things in our rooms, the official conference began. Most of it was led by a guy named Ben who grew up in the Netherlands, then moved to Canada, and received the call to do overseas missions about 20 years ago. He and his wife Maryanne travel in Eastern Europe and Northern Africa, ministering to churches and pastors, giving biblical training and church-planting classes. Ben says that the most effective way to make disciples is through church planting. He had given his church planting seminar at this conference last year, which we hadn't stayed long enough to hear, but we were really intrigued by him.
After dinner, the "foreigners from Lupeni" presented our work with Betel and with New Horizons, and thanked the church for supporting us in our residence permits. A few of the junior leaders from the IMPACT club at Betel told the gathering that IMPACT had changed their lives and taught them a lot about working hard. That was about all I could take, so I went upstairs and tried to fall asleep, but unfortunately, all of us guys from Betel were in the same room and everyone had a different schedule that night (not to mention some good snore muscles). I don't think I fell totally asleep until 2am.
The next morning, I had a ton of trouble even opening my eyes. I had had a fever and developed a pretty strong cough. Kelly came in with some bread and jam and well-wishes from the kitchen ladies. After eating I felt a lot better and came down for most of the day. Ben was slowly working his way through 1 Peter, talking about discipleship, and asking if we, as church leaders, had made strong, mature disciples in our churches. His main point was that disciples who love God and desire God will spread the gospel, whether they do it in churches or out, which was kind of weird since he said church planting is the best form of making disciples. But it makes sense.
I didn't go to the evening session, but realized that I didn't want to have another night like last night, so I decided to just spend time with people and get tired. So we talked for a while and joked around with our people from Betel, and then Vali, one of our church leaders, asked if any of us wanted to to pray with the guys he had been talking to all evening. I said, yeah, why not? We prayed for a while like normal (normal being everyone prays out loud at once and keeps praying until the leaders finish). Then, they all prayed for me, and the pastor from this other church laid his hands on my head and chest. He prayed that my sins would be forgiven, that my sickness would depart, and especially that the generational sin in my life would be erased. There were distinct moments when I felt no need to cough at all, and after he finished, my fever left and didn't come back.
After he was finished praying, he said, "I want to ask you a question. Before you were saved, what sort of music did you listen to?"
"Rock, mostly."
"I knew it. Did you ever listen to heavy metal?"
"No, some of my friends listened to the really heavy stuff, but I didn't."
"Okay, were you ever involved in any activities of the occult or satanic rituals?"
"No, no, definitely not."
"Okay. And now that you're saved, do you listen to Christian rock?"
"Yeah, for sure."
"Hmm. Let me tell you the problem with Christian rock. Even if you take text from the Bible, you can't just put it over satanic music and call it good. It still affects you for bad."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. Can I pray for you again?"
"Uhh....well....." Keep in mind, I'm trying to figure out a way to explain myself in Romanian while still trying not to cough too much.
"You don't want me to pray for you?"
"Well, see, the thing is, I don't think that Christian rock is satanic at all. If it is, that means that a ton of us Christians from the US are really wrong about what's okay to listen to and what's not." This coming from me who went to Calvin College where we listened to Mumford and Sons in chapel services and picked out the gospel parts together. "Christian rock is a big part of my walk with God. When I listen to this stuff, I'm closer to God. When I go to concerts, it's a lot like a worship service. Our old church even played music that's pretty close to rock, so this stuff is the music that I praise God with."
"Okay, so you don't want me to pray for you."
"Not for this, no."
"Okay, no problem. That's okay. No problem."
"Thanks."
"I hope I didn't offend you."
"No, no, this means that you care about me."
"Okay."
One of the guys from Betel then told a story about some Dutch Pentecostals who he saw playing Christian rock, and really praising God. Vali mentioned that many African Christians use their drums to praise God, and dance exuberantly while doing so (you don't dance if you're a Romanian Pentecostal). I felt very cared for by my church in my difference.
The next day as we were leaving, Vali asked me if I had felt awkward last night about the whole rock conversation, and I told him no. I had expected to have to talk about it sooner, but Betel has a drumset and electric guitar, so we understand each other on that front.
So even though my cough is still going strong and I'm pretty tired, I had a really good time with my brothers and sisters from Betel at this conference. I feel like we understand each other better, something I'm always hoping for. God pulling together His church of all nations and peoples has its quirks, but a lot of joy.
I mostly wanted to go to this conference for two reasons: last year when we went it was decided that we could apply for our residence permits though our denomination, and second, we enjoyed the time getting to know our brothers and sisters better outside of Betel. We had no idea what the rest of the time would be like--if it would be a lot of preaching, a lot of praying, a lot of singing, or a lot of all three, like services at Betel. But it would be interesting to meet other folks from other churches around the country.
I began feeling flu-like the night before we left, but in the morning I felt a lot better, so I decided to go along and see how everything went. I ended up sleeping most of the way, waking up to eat, gaze at the countryside, and to listen to our church's prayer warrior ask, "Are we there yet?" He was watching an older movie about Moses and playing worship music on his phone for most of the trip.
Once we arrived and put our things in our rooms, the official conference began. Most of it was led by a guy named Ben who grew up in the Netherlands, then moved to Canada, and received the call to do overseas missions about 20 years ago. He and his wife Maryanne travel in Eastern Europe and Northern Africa, ministering to churches and pastors, giving biblical training and church-planting classes. Ben says that the most effective way to make disciples is through church planting. He had given his church planting seminar at this conference last year, which we hadn't stayed long enough to hear, but we were really intrigued by him.
After dinner, the "foreigners from Lupeni" presented our work with Betel and with New Horizons, and thanked the church for supporting us in our residence permits. A few of the junior leaders from the IMPACT club at Betel told the gathering that IMPACT had changed their lives and taught them a lot about working hard. That was about all I could take, so I went upstairs and tried to fall asleep, but unfortunately, all of us guys from Betel were in the same room and everyone had a different schedule that night (not to mention some good snore muscles). I don't think I fell totally asleep until 2am.
The next morning, I had a ton of trouble even opening my eyes. I had had a fever and developed a pretty strong cough. Kelly came in with some bread and jam and well-wishes from the kitchen ladies. After eating I felt a lot better and came down for most of the day. Ben was slowly working his way through 1 Peter, talking about discipleship, and asking if we, as church leaders, had made strong, mature disciples in our churches. His main point was that disciples who love God and desire God will spread the gospel, whether they do it in churches or out, which was kind of weird since he said church planting is the best form of making disciples. But it makes sense.
I didn't go to the evening session, but realized that I didn't want to have another night like last night, so I decided to just spend time with people and get tired. So we talked for a while and joked around with our people from Betel, and then Vali, one of our church leaders, asked if any of us wanted to to pray with the guys he had been talking to all evening. I said, yeah, why not? We prayed for a while like normal (normal being everyone prays out loud at once and keeps praying until the leaders finish). Then, they all prayed for me, and the pastor from this other church laid his hands on my head and chest. He prayed that my sins would be forgiven, that my sickness would depart, and especially that the generational sin in my life would be erased. There were distinct moments when I felt no need to cough at all, and after he finished, my fever left and didn't come back.
After he was finished praying, he said, "I want to ask you a question. Before you were saved, what sort of music did you listen to?"
"Rock, mostly."
"I knew it. Did you ever listen to heavy metal?"
"No, some of my friends listened to the really heavy stuff, but I didn't."
"Okay, were you ever involved in any activities of the occult or satanic rituals?"
"No, no, definitely not."
"Okay. And now that you're saved, do you listen to Christian rock?"
"Yeah, for sure."
"Hmm. Let me tell you the problem with Christian rock. Even if you take text from the Bible, you can't just put it over satanic music and call it good. It still affects you for bad."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. Can I pray for you again?"
"Uhh....well....." Keep in mind, I'm trying to figure out a way to explain myself in Romanian while still trying not to cough too much.
"You don't want me to pray for you?"
"Well, see, the thing is, I don't think that Christian rock is satanic at all. If it is, that means that a ton of us Christians from the US are really wrong about what's okay to listen to and what's not." This coming from me who went to Calvin College where we listened to Mumford and Sons in chapel services and picked out the gospel parts together. "Christian rock is a big part of my walk with God. When I listen to this stuff, I'm closer to God. When I go to concerts, it's a lot like a worship service. Our old church even played music that's pretty close to rock, so this stuff is the music that I praise God with."
"Okay, so you don't want me to pray for you."
"Not for this, no."
"Okay, no problem. That's okay. No problem."
"Thanks."
"I hope I didn't offend you."
"No, no, this means that you care about me."
"Okay."
One of the guys from Betel then told a story about some Dutch Pentecostals who he saw playing Christian rock, and really praising God. Vali mentioned that many African Christians use their drums to praise God, and dance exuberantly while doing so (you don't dance if you're a Romanian Pentecostal). I felt very cared for by my church in my difference.
The next day as we were leaving, Vali asked me if I had felt awkward last night about the whole rock conversation, and I told him no. I had expected to have to talk about it sooner, but Betel has a drumset and electric guitar, so we understand each other on that front.
So even though my cough is still going strong and I'm pretty tired, I had a really good time with my brothers and sisters from Betel at this conference. I feel like we understand each other better, something I'm always hoping for. God pulling together His church of all nations and peoples has its quirks, but a lot of joy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)