Christmas in the valley.

There are a lot of amazing things about being here in Lupeni for Christmas this year.  One of them is that it's the first time Jack and I actually will stay in Lupeni for a week straight without having to go to work at all -- we can just see our friends!  Explore the mountains!  Make good food!  Take naps!  We always go away for our "vacations" -- either back to the US to visit long-missed beloved ones, or to other parts of Romania to explore this new beloved land, or even (very occasionally) elsewhere in Europe because flights are so incredibly cheap on this continent.  But this time we're staying put.  And look what a wonder it is!

An evening with the girls from church, including two who are home from the holidays from university.  We hadn't met for our weekly Bible studies this fall, and gathering again felt like such a homecoming!

A Christmas party with the Lupeni office staff, including good food and lots of laughter.  

So thankful for the sense of friendship among these colleagues!

A Christmas carol concert in Pestera Bolii, complete with traditional hymns, a choir of monks, and the fun local caroling traditions -- see below!

Yes, those are giant sheepskins with bells attached.  And tinsel hats.  And swords in their hands. 

The thief of joy.

Teddy Roosevelt was apparently a very wise man.

His quote, "Comparison is the thief of joy," is a mantra that has been ringing in my head for well over a year now.  It may not sound very missionary-esque to say this, but it's really easy to be jealous of others here in Lupeni.

Perhaps it's because we live in a small community, with only a few foreigners, so it's all too easy to keep up on who seems to be most popular, effective, integrated, humble, and hospitable.  Whose Romanian is most fluent.  Who has the most local friends.  Who sees the most effective and sustainable results in their work.  Whose house is warmest in the winter ('cause that, I am telling you, is serious stuff!)

But really, I think it's perhaps because living in a culture that's not my own, in a country that's not my own, in an apartment that's not my own, has exposed all sorts of insecurities that were simply hidden back in the States.

I was always jealous and insecure.  I just didn't really notice before, because I was always in places I felt accepted, loved, safe, and competent.  Now that I am living in a place where I don't always feel those things, I haven't become some crazy person.  God's just had the chance to point out that this same ugliness was always lurking under the surface.

Some days I miss the familiarity and comfort and security of our life in the States, in Grand Rapids, back among Calvin friends we loved and trusted -- not only because of their own goodness, but because of how that life made me feel.  It was so much easier to be able to hide from my crazy ugly sin there... or at least replace it with a focus on other areas of improvement that didn't shake me quite so much to the core.

But in the last year or two, I think I've been making progress.  I have moved from terror and grief at this new self-knowledge (think "weeping puddle on the floor") to this place of acceptance.  Not acceptance of the sinfulness that's so deeply embedded in me, but acceptance that God's grace is slowly at work in my life.  Acceptance of the pain of being changed, even if it feels like Eustace Scrubb getting his dragon skin ripped off, knowing that underneath is something a little bit closer to Godlikeness.  Acceptance of the indisputable realization that God knew about that jealous-needy-angry side way before I stopped hiding or ignoring it, and loved me anyway.  (In fact, he probably wasn't the only one who knew about it and loved me anyway...)  Acceptance of this long, long road.  Of owning up to my own sin.  Of asking for forgiveness.  Of fighting off jealousy.  Of embracing gratitude and joy.

This other missionary writer really helped.  Because he says it better than I could, I'm going to quote him here:

... I am getting better at formulating a second thought, which consists mostly of a prayer.  It's not a complex prayer.  In fact, it's only four words: "I'm sorry" and "Thank you."  The complete prayer is this: "I'm Sorry.  Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you."

And somewhere in the midst of my prayer I smile.  I smile because God is good, because God is working, because others have great stories to share, because it's not all about me, because smiling makes my face feel better even when my heart disagrees, even when the smile doesn't last very long.

It's like waving my arms above my head -- the "sorries" and the "thank yous," the prayers and the smiles -- scaring the birds away.

19 degrees, baby (celsius, that is).

Our office got gas heating a week ago. We're happy.

Like, really happy.

Like, this happy.

We definitely made that face when we walked into the office and it was warm. I can now get to the office in the morning and take off my coat. Kelly isn't working under a blanket. We're not huddling ourselves around weak electric heaters. It's so great. We're more productive. In better moods. Don't go home freezing anymore.

So be happy too!

In the news.

Romania's making international news!

It's a rarity, so we thought we should acknowledge it here too.  Because this news is both tragic and hopeful, both terrible and full of promise.

On Halloween, a fire broke out at a nightclub in Bucharest.  Apparently the band had decided to shoot off fireworks indoors, and the interior soundproofing materials which covered the club quickly caught fire.  With only a single exit and pieces of burning insulation falling from the ceiling, things quickly turned into chaos.  It didn't take long until the roof collapsed.  Thirty-two people were killed on the scene, with another hundred-some taken to the hospital with critical burns and other injuries.  Blame for this tragedy can be placed in a lot of places: on the nightclub owners, who allowed a band to shoot off fireworks in a place clearly not-fireproofed; on the fire marshal and other inspectors, who allowed the business to remain open despite clear violations of code; on a general culture of corruption and bribery that allows regulations to be enforced only for those who can't pay to skip over them.  Romanians are furious about the event, and the owners of the club have been arrested and multiple officials have already resigned -- including the mayor of that sector of Bucharest, the interior minister, and the prime minister, Victor Ponta.

Since Sunday, there have been protests happening across the country.  On Wednesday I was on the bus for much of the day, returning to Lupeni from a conference, and the reporters on the radio just kept adding to the number of protesters they counted in Bucharest's University Square -- by 10pm it was well over 30,000.  Many of the protesters are young, and they're sad and furious.  "People shouldn't have to die for us to deal with these issues," President Klaus Iohannis said.  But in this case, people did die, and the horror of it has Romanians on the streets.

It will be a long road to truly arrive in a place where democracy and rule of law function without corruption -- I'm not sure there's a country anywhere in the world that's truly corruption-free.  But the level of obvious corruption in Romania has had terrible consequences, and we are praying that the protests will lead to some serious and profound changes.

We've seen signs saying Bunicii la război, parinții la revoluție, acum este rândul nostru! -- or in English, "Our grandparents had the [world] war, our parents had the revolution [to end communism], now it's our turn!"  It might be true -- this might be the wake-up call that this generation of young Romanians need to truly get involved in making their country a place they want to live.  But please join us in praying that there will be wisdom, and patience, and prudence along the way.  A lot of people died in the war and the revolution.  Pray that no one else will die in this fight -- and especially that hope for an end to corruption would stay alive.

A different sort of trust.

So, our work here revolves around building trust among people so that as Romania develops, more people will have the willingness and skills to work together rather than looking out mainly for themselves.

What's interesting about living here for almost three years now is that I'm seeing ways that Romanians (at least in our small town, but in bigger cities sometimes too) trust each other in ways that I rarely see Americans doing. Not that we're trying to teach Romanian youth to trust each other like Americans do, but I have seen that us in the US are better, in general, at collaborating in the workplace and between churches. Big generalization, but I've seen it.

However, here, there's a different sort of trust. People sometimes leave their cars running while they run into the store to get something quick. Moms leave their infants outside in strollers while they shop. Kids leave their bikes lying on the street for a few minutes. Kindergardeners walk to school on their own.

It's how I've heard of the States being back in the 50's. I hope that Lupeni doesn't lose that as Romania develops economically and democratically. Maybe the sidewalks don't look great and there are plenty of drunk pensioners on the streets, but at least you can still leave your bike there and not worry that it'll get stolen.

Now let's all just settle down for a bit.

So yes, I know we keep saying, "We're sorry it's been a long time since we've written and this is what's happening in our lives..."

I'll do that again but without the apology.

This is what has been happening in our lives. In March, I (Jack) got some lung infection and was out for three weeks while Kelly helped down the fort. In April, I took two short work trips, we went to France for the 2015 CRWM Europe and Egypt missionary retreat, and then went to Cluj for a CRWM strategic meeting. In May, Kelly led IMPACT and SKYE trainings in Cambodia and Germany, and I got the VIATA ropes course ready along with two volunteers from CRWM. In June, we celebrated our anniversary at a friend's place a few hours away, and then my sumer interns came. We did a training week, and then camp started. We had a good summer (over 500 kids!! and we developed a new program that includes more hiking), but that meant that I was up on the mountain while Kelly diligently worked down in the valley in the office where the sunlight has a hard time reaching. I was done with camp in the middle of August, and we took a few days of vacation (camping in AWESOME places), and then I went to a training in Georgia for 9 days. That brought us into September, in which we went on the Study Abroad Program backpacking trip for a week, I had another week of camp, we had a week together in Lupeni, and then Kelly's parents came. They had a great two-week visit, and when they left, we left to the States to go to a good good friend's wedding and see a few people.

And now we're back.   :)

It's messed with us, being out of a rhythm and apart for so long. We're not in danger of going crazy or suddenly leaving or anything drastic, but it's good to think that Kelly has only two trips left this year, and one of them very short. We can be here. Present in our place. Not trying desperately to be present in whichever place we find ourselves in any given week. I guess we're young and our bodies can still mostly take it, but it's getting hard on our hearts. We're really excited to settle into rhythms of work and being with people and prayer and church and not have to think about finishing all the food in the fridge before we go on our next trip.

If you think about it, ask us how it's going in a week. Or two or three. I'm curious myself.

By the numbers.

Lately I was reminded (by reading a fellow missionary blog) about the importance of blogging about "the little things" -- daily events and stories, even if they're not full of "deep meaning" -- because these give a glimpse into the reality of our life in Romania.  So in that spirit, here are a few little snippets, organized by number... you'll see what I mean.  There's pictures too!  :)

15: The number of kids who came to the cantina on Friday to eat potato soup and be loved on for an hour or two.  Discipline and politeness continue to be problems, and yet seeing these kids is still one of the highlights of my week.

14:  The number of hours traveled back from Tusnad after a meeting last week.  Jack was there for a full week of camp, but I was there only for two days of meetings.  Tusnad's the smallest actual city in Romania (1500 people -- there are lots of smaller villages of course), and it's tucked away in the mountains halfway across the country.  From our remote mountains to their remote mountains by train takes a loooong time.  Like, 2:30am night train to Bucuresti, followed by an 8:30am bus to Petrosani, followed by a 4:00pm maxi taxi to Lupeni.  It was a long trip.

13:  The number of nationalities represented at a wilderness education training Jack recently attended in Georgia.  Sometimes living in this part of the world is really, really cool.

12:  The number of currencies I found in our desk drawer as I cleaned it out this weekend.  This included the expected (US dollars, euros, and Romanian lei) and the more interesting (Hungarian forints, Nicaraguan cordoba, Cambodian riel, Armenian dram, Georgian lari, Swiss francs, Turkish lira, Moldovan lei, and -- weirdly, since we've never been to the UK -- British pounds?!).  As I think back over the past 2-and-a-half years, it has included seeing much more of the world than I ever dreamed of, thanks to IMPACT international trainings, CRWM European retreats, and the chance to live on a continent where a long trip brings you into an entirely different country and culture, instead of just across state lines.

11:  The number of kids from our IMPACT club who came to our apartment on Wednesday night for a beginning-of-the-school-year planning meeting and kick-off.  It was really fun to see them again, though we've got our work cut out for us this year: most of them are entering 7th grade, and the drama and giggles of puberty are already in full swing.  You can pray for us...

10:  The number of counselors at the last week of VIATA camp, held last week in Tusnad.  This week of camp was for 60 ninth grade students from the American International School in Bucharest -- a lot of children of diplomats and businesspeople who are often in transition and move frequently, as well as wealthy Romanian children who can afford this private school.  It's a very different group than our typical clientele, but provides a really cool chance to help this group of often-disconnected youth bond with each other, talk about difficult feelings, and find a safe place to be themselves.

9:  The number of jars of zacusca I made with our friends Alina and Flavius a few weekends ago.  We spent a whole Saturday sweating in the hot sun, stirring a delicious concoction of roasted eggplant, roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, tomato paste, and spices over an open fire.  Needless to say, they're really beloved friends for being willing to help!

8:  The number of beds in our friend's hospital room.  One of our friend's sons was hospitalized for a couple of days this past week, and his room in the surgical ward had 8 beds in it -- each occupied by a patient, and each surrounded by friends and relatives.  I was grateful that there was so much energy in the room and that there was always someone for them to talk to, but it certainly didn't seem like it would be a good place to rest and recover... there's not even the privacy of curtains to pull around your bed.  The Romanian medical system, at least its Jiu Valley manifestation, leaves much to be desired.  Please pray for the good doctors and nurses who are doing their best to slowly change a messed-up system from the inside.

7:  The number of miles we hiked on Saturday, on the (possibly) last hot, sunny day until autumn really starts!

6:  The number of mosquitoes I killed in our closet today.  There's a mysterious vent in the back of the closet that leads, apparently, to their breeding grounds.  I think we've found the epicenter, folks.

5:  The number of types of berries we collected yesterday on a hike up the mountain with some friends: blackberries, blueberries, bittersweets, red currants, and elderberries.  Yummmmm.

4:  The number of nights we spent in a tent in Retezat National Park a couple of weeks ago.  We got to accompany the semester abroad students on their annual backpacking trip, getting to know them and helping support them through 5 days of beautiful but challenging hiking.  We're hopeful that the bonds that started during this trip will pay off in good relationships throughout the semester.

3:  The number of very loud men yelling across the street to each other right now.  Usually the number's a lot higher, but it's only 4pm, so we should be on target for maximum volume by 9pm or so.  (We love where we live...)

2:  The number of weeks until Kelly's parents come to visit Romania for the first time!  We're really excited to have them here.

1:  The number of wedding parties we've seen this weekend -- and this one's for a wedding at the Pentecostal church right across the street from our apartment!  Lupeni weddings (which are usually at least 1 per weekend in the summertime) are marked by a long procession of streamer-and-flower-strewn cars, which weave their way up and down the main street of the town, honking loudly all the way to the ceremony and the reception.  Recently we've seen a trend of giant veils and top hats to mark the cars in which the bride and groom are riding... but today's procession was more demure, with simple white tulle and red roses adorning the shining black car now parked in front of the church, awaiting the newlyweds.

So... snippets of life.  It's a good one.

All too familiar.

Hopefully you have heard on the news about the refugees and asylum-seekers who are flooding into Europe.  It should make the news everywhere -- though I have a sad, sneaking suspicion that it doesn't.  But in case you haven't heard, here's the scoop: people fleeing terror and war in the Middle East and northern Africa have been migrating to Europe en masse, and Europe doesn't know how to respond.  And so -- just like in the States, where the debate rages between those who want to extend mercy and those who want to be wary -- fences are being built.  Protests are being staged.  Compassion and help is being offered.  Violence is being wrought.  It's a mixed bag of reactions and motives and emotions, and for now it's hard to know what is going to happen.  So please pray.

And read.

I recommend reading here, with a good overview of what's going on and a few EU opinions.  And then see here: "The Walls Europe is Building to Keep People Out."  And here -- what's going on in Hungary.  And here for some beautiful pictures of beautiful people who really need help.

But mostly, please read here.

"How can we not move heaven and earth to let the broken in -- when heaven moved and came to earth to let us in?"

The twin.

I want to tell you a bit about a little town that died. Or was killed.

The town's name is Geamăna, which is the female form of "the twin." I don't know if there was a twin town somewhere, but it's located in the Apuseni mountains in central Transylvania. The Apuseni are shorter than the mountains we live in. They almost seem like hills--they're rolling mountains, one after another with pastures and trees all the way to the top. They seem friendly.

This is also the location of Roșia Montana, the little town that's been recently making news and protest headlines as an international gold mining corporation was trying to open a strip mine right near the city that would provide some jobs but also create a open pit of cyanide from the runoff. The Romanian parliament didn't allow the project to get started (mainly due to pressure from large protests all over the country), and now Gabriel Resources, the corporation, is looking into suing the Romanian government for wasting their time and money.

Kelly and I have been to a few of these protests in Cluj, and I have to say that we're not in favor of a multi-national corporation destroying a zone that's on the list to become a UNESCO World Heritage site and leaving behind a lake of cyanide that could leak into the Danube. It seems like a destructive way to make a quick buck, and we're glad that Romania said no. But, when we went to Roșia Montana this past weekend to do activities for the kids' tent at an activist festival there, we were very open to hearing the other side of the story. The town is divided as to what's better, and we wanted to hear everyone out (even though we didn't get the chance).

After seeing Geamăna, I think that I'm more glad that Romania said no.

Our friend told us about Geamăna on the night we stayed at the festival. She told us that it was a little town like Roșia Montana, but the corporation had been allowed to strip mine for gold. She said that when they were done, they moved everyone out (except for one old lady who still lives there) and flooded the valley to hold all the toxic waste from the mine. I've heard of things like this, but I'd never seen it, so we decided to find Geamăna on the way back home.

A teenager from the village before Geamăna helped us get on the right road, and after driving 20 minutes uphill, we arrived at the pass into the valley. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the valley was still so green and lush, but there is a big, old, nasty-looking pipe that goes over the road. On the concrete support someone gaffitied "Don't forget Geamăna. Save Roșia Montana!"

It appears to be a valley like so many other valleys, but it's a lake in between the mountains, not more cute Transylvanian thatched roof houses.

But under the lake is where the houses were. Or still are. Our friend told us that sometimes you can still see the old church when the sludge is low enough. I'm not sure if this is part of the church, but it for sure used to be part of someone's life back when people lived in Geamăna.

We found the edge of the lake eventually. The picture, of course, can't capture how vast the dam is, but it's big. Probably 200 meters long, stretching from one side of the valley to the other, dividing the toxic from the natural, perhaps the cursed from the uncursed. I hope it holds. It kind of looks like they're trying to extend the dam into the lake.

All the trees that touch this lake are dead. They make a strange, sad barrier between the green-grey sludge and the vibrant, green forest that used to cover the whole valley. Again, I hope this line holds. The flooding began in the late 80s, so I have hope that the toxic waste has stopped where it is, but I wonder if it's creeping its way into the earth.

We also found the source. It's a pipe spewing grey water, presumably runoff from the stripped area up the mountain. Even though the trees right around the pipe continue growing, the leaves are covered in grey. We tried not to breathe while we drove past. And it's not just running, it's gushing out of a big pipe, down a grey gulley, into the grey lake. A grey lake that seems to be half hard on top from where the sun bakes the waste solid.

When we were leaving, we saw the old lady who still lives at the edge of the lake, at the entrance to her old village. We slowed down and said hello, but she didn't really look at us. I don't know if I could say hello to the people who came to take a quick drive around the village that I had lost forever. I think that it makes me want to say, "Don't forget Geamăna. Save Roșia Montana." Even though in this day and age, more and more people are moving out of the Romanian villages for the cities, and the inhabitants of Roșia Montana could make some money to move out if a strip mine opens, it still seems that it would be an awful waste of something so good for Roșia Montana to be covered by a pool of toxic waste. The water covering Geamăna reminded me of the water at Birkenau where the Nazis dumped ashes from the furnaces--a sickly greenish-grey color, and covering up something that too many people want to forget about. I'm not in a position of being desperate for money, but I still think that money isn't worth this.

For life in these wild mountains.

"Just a glimpse, Moses: a clift in the rock here, a mountaintop there, and the rest is denial and longing.  You have to stalk everything.  Everything scatters and gathers; everything comes and goes like fish under a bridge.  You have to stalk the spirit, too.  You can wait forgetful anywhere, for anywhere is the way of his fleet passage, and hope to catch him by the tail and shout something in his ear before he wrests away.  Or you can pursue him wherever you dare, risking the shrunken sinew in the hollow of the thigh; you can bang at the door all night until the innkeeper relents, if he ever relents; and you can wait till you're hoarse or worse the cry for incarnation always in John Knoepfle's poem: 'and Christ is red rover... and the children are calling/come over come over.'  I sit on a bridge as on Pisgah or Sinai, and I am both waiting becalmed in a clift of the rock and banging with all my will, calling like a child beating on a door: Come on out! I know you're there.

And then occasionally the mountains part.  The tree with the lights in it appears, the mockingbird falls, and time unfurls across space like an oriflamme....  I wait on the bridges and stalk along banks for those moments I cannot predict, when a wave begins to surge under the water, and ripples strengthen and pulse high across the creek and back again in a texture that throbs.  It is like the surfacing of an impulse, like the materialization of fish, this rising, this coming to a head, like the ripening of nutmeats still in their husks, ready to split open like buckeyes in a field, shining with newness.  'Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not.'  The fleeting shreds I see, the back parts, are a gift, an abundance.

Ezekiel excoriates false prophets as those who have 'not gone up into the gaps.'  The gaps are the thing.  The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once-blind man unbound.  The gaps are the clifts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery.  Go up into the gaps.

I go on my way, and my left foot says 'Glory,' and my right foot says 'Amen': in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise."

(from Annie Dillard's A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)

These lives matter.

Over the last few months, I have been reading, heartbroken, the all-too-frequent news from the US about the racism-inspired violence, police brutality, and other injustices that are faced by our black brothers and sisters in increasing number.  In the face of the horror, I have been moved and thankful for the Black Lives Matter movement, those brave and truth-seeing people willing to stand up and cry "No!" in the face of systems that are broken and entrenched.

And I have been thinking a lot about the phrase "Black Lives Matter," especially in the face of those who push back with "All Lives Matter."  I mean, of course they do.  No one is disagreeing with that.  The lives of middle-class white small-town Iowa kids matter too, and of course there are those from my small town who slipped through the cracks, who were never told that they mattered, who didn't know they were loved (or still don't), and their wrecked lives and insecurity are proof that people failed them, too.

But for the vast majority of "us" -- we the privileged -- we already knew we mattered, and the world treated us that way.  By the grace of God and the systems at work in the world, we got a good ol' public school education that told us we could grow up to be "anything we wanted to be."  We had parents who came to watch us play pitiful viola solos and told us that our effort mattered, we had teachers who knew our names and coaches who cheered us on and friends who reminded us our lives (in all their excruciating teenage drama) mattered.  We saw people who looked like us on the news, in college brochures, in suits & ties receiving rewards on the international stage.  We knew that our lives mattered already, intrinsically, and they could matter in a big way.

And it would be wrong, of course, to take that away.  The Black Lives Matter crowd isn't saying that it's wrong that some kids know they count and have hope and a future -- it's wrong that all kids don't know that.  But what's especially wrong is that it's mostly black kids who don't know that.  It's not all kids of every stripe, or all lives across the board, that are missing the security and confidence of being told -- verbally and in every observation -- that they matter, that they have possibilities, that they'd be missed if they were gone.  It's those who are outside of the systems of power, who -- for so many reasons, and such a long racist history -- don't hear that at school, or on the media, or in the workforce, or maybe even at home.  Of course every life matters.  But we don't need to remind people to care for those who are already well cared for.  Black Lives Matter points out that black kids also need to know their value.  They also need to know they're precious.  They also need to know that the world would ache with missing them if they were gone.  They need to know they have a hope and a future, that the Creator of the universe made them special, that He adores them, that He sees them, that He knows their names and far, far more.

And all of this is making me think of the kids at the cantina.  Granted, the situation of the Roma (gypsies) in Romania can't be fairly compared to the situation of African-Americans in the United States.  The history, the way the systems work, the political forces at play... I know they're different.  But if we're talking about groups of people who are ignored and considered that their lives are less valuable, and the need for solutions that are complicated and wide-ranging and deep -- we've got something in common going on.  So here's what it's made me think about.

There are these little girls at the cantina whose mom is clearly unable to care for them well.  They are dirty and stunted, mucus constantly dribbling out of their noses, raggedy sweaters hanging from their skinny little shoulders even in the midst of summer, because they seem to be the only clothes they have.  The five-year-old barely whispered and couldn't even feed herself using silverware when we first opened the cantina a few months ago (now, there's a new light in her eyes and she has mastered the art of using a spoon... she is undergoing this beautiful transformation from a silent, scared waif to an actual child, who giggles and looks at you with bright, flashing brown eyes, just because she's finally getting enough food).  Her younger sister, though, is still a long ways behind.  She's three, and still needs to be spoon-fed, and isn't yet totally in control of her bowels because she usually just walks around without pants, going whenever she feels the need in their tiny dirt yard.  Her eyes are glazed over and she stares blankly at you when you talk; she hasn't yet found her voice.  A week ago, I happened to be outside her house when her mom began to yell at her, and this tiny little girl just stood in the door, wailing heartbrokenly at the top of her lungs.  Crouching down to try to calm her didn't work, but as soon as I scooped her into my arms, she was quiet.  Instantly and completely.  And clinging to me like she'd never let go.

That was all it took -- lifting this little wisp of a girl who doesn't weigh a thing, holding her in my arms, whispering in her ear, and she calmed down.  She stopped crying.  For a minute, she knew she mattered.

And so here we are again, in this situation that is so unfair.  I walk home from the cantina past hundreds of kids who are playing and laughing with friends and holding hands with their moms and generally being cared for -- even if they live in an economically depressed small town with imperfect parents and a lousy school and a corrupt mayor.  Their lives matter, a lot -- the life of every single kid in Lupeni matters.  But these little girls, these ones who live on the margins in every way -- they are the ones who I want to raise a placard for.  They are the ones who are forgotten, or brushed away.  Their stories are blamed on something else -- parents who are lazy, bad moral character, poverty (but not its root causes), whatever.  And I just want to scream and say "No!" in the face of it -- to cry out that These Lives Matter, that these forgotten ones matter, and to pray for mercy and grace and truth.

So please pray with me for a day in which all kids will grow up knowing that they aren't the center of the universe, but that they are seen and known by the Creator of the universe.  And He adores them.  Not enough to accept them blindly to do whatever they want, to let them run and wreck our lives, but enough to die for them in order to remake them as His beautiful sons and daughters, the ones they were created to be.  They matter to Him.  They have to matter to us.  Especially the ones that currently don't.

Parenting practice.

Ordinarily my life in the summer is down in Lupeni (this is Kelly writing), while Jack's is up on Straja at camp.  But last week I got to join him on the mountain for a week of camp!  It was a crowded week with 95 kids coming, so Jack and Ilie were looking for some extra help.

My group was comprised of 15 kids between the ages of 5 and 10.  Kids under 8 aren't really supposed to come to VIAȚA, as they're too small to be able to do many of the ropes course activities and too young to keep up with the pace of the schedule, but our group had mainly come from a Montessori school in Bucharest, and they sent the whole class.  It quickly became apparent that dealing with the youngest kids was going to present a challenge... but it was also a really fun, adorable, and amusing week. 

One of our kids in particular, a 7-year-old named Zeno, was really, really homesick.  Every few hours we'd see his lower lip start to quiver, and within a few minutes he was wailing, "I miss my mom!  I miss my dad!  I miss my baby brother!  I miss my cat!  I miss my bed!"  If we let his cries go on too long (and particularly if it was close to dinnertime when they were all hungry and tired), he'd set off a chain reaction in the other young kids, and soon we'd have a whole choir of wailing children, sniffing and hugging their stuffed animals as my co-counselor and I raced around trying to dispense comfort.

Zeno slogged through the week fluctuating between happy and sad.  We hit our low point one day at lunch when, tears in his eyes, he looked up from his untouched plate and said to me, in his hilariously-adult vocabulary, "I am going to walk home to Bucharest.  I implored my dad to come get me but he didn't, and I can't resist any longer.  I will start walking and sleep with a boulder as a pillow if I have to... but I can't stay here any more!"  I tried to reason with him at first: "Zeno, don't you think it would be better to wait until the bus comes to get you on Friday?  Then you will be home on Friday night.  But if you start walking it will take you at least a month to get to Bucharest, and you won't be home until August!"  He shook his head.  "I don't care," he said.  "At least I will be on my way home to a beautiful place and leaving behind this camp.  It's the worst camp in the world."  I nodded and said okay, but pointed out that he'd better eat his lunch so he had enough energy for the long walk to Bucharest, since this might be the last meal he'd get in a while.  (Yes, a shameless way to convince a kid to eat, I know... but it worked!)  Once the food hit his belly he started to feel better and soon enough he was out playing with the other kids, happy for a few more hours.

Our group's week at camp was perhaps less educational than VIAȚA usually is.  Yes, we got our kids up to the ropes course, and had a few debriefs about working together and not yelling at each other, but for the most part our goal was just to let them have fun and feel loved.  But there were tons of beautiful moments in individual conversations with kids -- about loneliness, about being bullied, about missing people you love, about being brave, about not letting other people's opinions bother you, about being nice to new kids, and on and on.  These were great moments.

But for me, the biggest victory came on Friday afternoon, when Zeno stepped onto the bus, grinned at me, and said, "I get to go home and see my family now!  And I am going to tell them that this is the coolest camp in the world."

Heat wave.

It's hot here.  Like, mid-90s.  Which, as a kid who grew up in Iowa, isn't strange for the summer -- but for these mountains, it's blazing.

Thankfully big concrete apartment blocks keep relatively cool in the summer, and the forests offer shady relief as soon as you step under their green, leafy canopy.  But mostly, people are wilting -- lethargic, sitting in the shade fanning themselves slowly.  The streets are almost abandoned, except for a few brave old ladies who are grocery shopping with umbrellas to keep the sun off.

It's hot enough that little boys strip down to their underpants and play in the river next to our apartment, jumping off the big flat rock (usually used to wash rugs) into the gentle ripples of the Jiu.  Today I saw an older man dragging his dog on a leash into the river, presumably to cool him down under all that fur.  I'd jump in too, if there wasn't so much trash caught in the weeds on the edge of the river.  Actually, I might jump in regardless.

So here's to summer!

Leaving for camp.

Yesterday three of our IMPACT members left for a week at VIAŢA camp.  A wealthy Romanian businessman had donated money to send a few kids from the Jiu Valley to camp for free, and we offered three spots to anyone from our club who wanted to apply.  Three of our most involved girls jumped at the chance, filling out forms explaining why they wanted to go to VIAŢA and what they would do with the lessons learned there – and so it happened!  None of their families can afford to send them otherwise; the cost of a single week at VIAŢA is almost equivalent to a month’s salary here in the valley.  So when I told them their applications were accepted, they squealed and jumped around, hugging each other and giggling, as 13-year-old girls are wont to do anywhere.

Throughout the past week, they’ve been stopping by the office to drop off permission forms and ask about their luggage.  One of the girls’ moms called me a few times to make sure tennis shoes were okay – the packing list says to bring boots, so she was thinking to send her daughter with snow boots, but I talked her out of that.  Their enthusiasm has been adorable... and contagious.

So yesterday, on a gorgeous, sunny Sunday afternoon, we met near our apartment to send them off.  The three girls were grinning ear-to-ear.  Like my own parents did when I was young, their parents gave them hugs and sent them off with parting instructions as they piled into the van (“Listen to your counselors!”  “Don’t go wandering in the woods alone!”  “Be good!”).  The van pulled away, grinning teenagers hanging out the windows waving, and the moms sniffed while the dads patted their shoulders.  The little brother burst into tears, burying his face in his mom’s stomach and wailing, “I’m going to miiiiiiss her!”  And I just couldn’t help but laugh with delight, at the wonderful familiarity of families loving each other, watching their kids grow up, and sending them off to the great unknown.

I think it’s going to be a great week.

Daruind, devii erou.

By giving, you become a hero.

That's the title of our IMPACT club's most recent project, which we finished just this morning.  For the last few months, our kids have been working to fundraise money for the local children's home (an orphanage/foster care center for youth of all ages here in Lupeni).  It's been quite a journey, and now that we're done I wanted to share some of the most memorable moments.

Like this one: the first time our kids visited the Center.  They had decided at that week's IMPACT meeting that they wanted to do something "to help the poor orphans," but Jack and I were a little skeptical of their plan of gathering hand-me-downs and buying a bunch of candy as a way to really serve.  So we convinced them to come with us and actually visit the Center, meet the kids, look around, and talk to the director to ask what their real needs were.  On the walk there, one of our girls looked at me and said, "I've never been in this neighborhood before."  I was shocked -- it's basically our neighborhood, and Lupeni is small enough that I was astonished you could spend a life here without roaming all of its streets.  But sure enough, their stereotypes were in full swing as I asked them what they thought about "White Crow" (that's the slang name for the area) -- that it's poor, dangerous, full of gypsies.  A suitable place for an orphanage.  I sighed, but at the same time I was proud of them for coming.  And it's a step in the right direction, even if it's a tiny one.

As we approached the building, the same girl whispered to me, "I am worried that when I see the kids there I'm going to cry.  It's just so sad.  How could anyone leave their children?"  I internally sighed again, but I nodded -- I had been to the Center a few times and know that it's clean, bright, and full of kind staff who really do (for the most part) love the children in their care.  But I get it: the idea of being abandoned by your parents is scary and sad, and even the best orphanage in the world can't make up for that.  But still, the care of this Center I think of as a point of light in Lupeni, and so I was glad when, as we walked through the gate, we were met by the happy sounds of children playing ball in the courtyard and our IMPACT kids broke into smiles.  On the way home we talked about how parents who love their children sometimes still can't take care of them, and how it must feel to kids who live at the Center to be pitied or looked down upon at school.  Yes, a few of our IMPACT members still blinked back tears... but I think they were tears of compassion and a slightly larger dose of empathy, instead of pity and fear.  Or at least I hope so.

Our conversation with the Center's director had resulted in our kids deciding to fundraise to buy exercise equipment for the Center.  To do so, they had two strategies: movie nights and fun days for kids.  The movie nights were probably completely illegal, as they involved showing a downloaded feature film on a projector screen to an assembled group of kids, while "requesting" (but really charging) 5 lei for admission and another couple lei for snacks (which, at least, we baked ourselves: popcorn and chocolate chip cookies!).  Over the course of three movies (Big Hero 6, 1000 Words, and Nanny McPhee, if you're wondering... yes, a strange assortment, we agree) the kids raised about 150 lei.

But the real winner -- both in terms of fundraising and fun -- was the Fun Day for little kids.  One bright Saturday we invited neighborhood children to come join us for a few hours of games, arts & crafts, scavenger hunts, and face-painting, all for a mere 5 lei entry ticket.  Almost 60 kids came, and the day was great -- check out the pictures!

From the four events, our kids had collected a total of 445 lei after expenses (about 110 US dollars), and they were really proud of themselves -- especially because that money was mostly in 5 lei and 1 leu notes, meaning the wad of cash was really, really thick!  We didn't have enough money to buy the exercise machine we had hoped for, so we decided to go back to the Center and ask them again what would be useful -- and in our price range.

So yesterday we went back, and as we entered the director's office, we heard them talking about next week's trip to the beach -- and lamenting that they didn't have any spending money to buy snacks or ice cream or sunglasses or anything else.  The IMPACT member standing next to me nudged me, and as we told them we'd come with our money, the staff began to smile.  "You came just in the nick of time," one of the women said.  "We're leaving on Sunday night to take 12 kids to the seaside for a week, and we don't have enough money for the trip.  Would you be willing to help us?"  We looked at each other, smiled, and nodded.  Definitely.

And so today we went, hand-in-hand with six of the children whose lives will be happy and sunny and full of sand next week, to buy flip-flops and swim suits and bubbles and baseball caps.  The money left over we handed to the director for use on ice cream and other summertime happiness accessories.  Not all of our IMPACT kids were able to come to the Center to see the grins on the kids' faces as they prepare for their big trip next week, but we took some pictures so they could see the happiness they'd made possible.  And now you can see it too, in the pictures of these points of light -- these children who are bright and beautiful and next week get to spend a week on the beach!

Showing off new hats and bubbles.

After months of work, most of our IMPACT members couldn't come to the Center today to go shopping and present the cash to the director.  The kids at the Center will never know who most of them are -- but they've made it possible for these kids to have an amazing week, to be loved and spend time in the water and sunshine, and that -- in my opinion -- makes our IMPACT kids heroes.  I guess their project title was pretty accurate after all.

The calm between the storms.

Sorry folks.  We know our blogging has fallen off quite a bit this spring, and here's the reason: we've been crazy, wildly, buried-in-jet-lag-and-work busy.  Jack spent the month of May hosting American interns up on the mountain as they repaired winter damage on the ropes course and prepared camp for the summer season, and I led trainings for IMPACT international in Cambodia and Germany.  In April we were in France for the annual CRWM European spiritual retreat, which was lovely and a breath of fresh air, and then at strategic planning meetings in northwest Romania, and in between there's been office work and IMPACT and the church cantina and girls' group/guys' group and budgeting for next year and planning for summer interns and washing dishes and laundry and... oh yeah, the blog.  Somewhere in there.

But this week we're taking a deep breath and catching up.  We celebrated our 3rd wedding anniversary by spending the weekend with a newly-made pastor friend in Curtea de Argeş, a gorgeous small town on the edge of the Făgăraş mountains, hiking and talking ecclesiology and eating his wife's delicious food.  We've spent the week spending a lot of evenings at home, watching Scrubs and making good dinners and just resting.  It starts again soon: Jack's summer camp interns arrive tomorrow night, as well as our close friends Robert and Becky, who are coming to spend a little over a month helping with English lessons at our church and pastoral care for the summer camp and other great stuff.  We're excited for it all to begin, and I personally feel like I don't know what to do with myself in this, the calm between the storms.  But catching up is good, and good for my tired, distracted soul.  So here are the travels of the last few months, in pictures -- an overview.

Paris, France: CRWM European Spiritual Retreat

Phnom Penh, Cambodia: SKYE Training with World Vision

Stuttgart, Germany: IMPACT Training with Young Life

Potholes.

So you know how we talk often about how lousy the roads in Lupeni are?

Well, finally someone decided to do something about it... and filled in the potholes.  With flowers.

This person, whoever (s)he is, is our new hero.

Life with Bumb.

Our relationship with our IMPACT kids is growing up. As are they. As are we.

When we started at IMPACT 1, we thought we would be with high schooler, doing more intense, interesting, thoughtful projects, having conversations about college, jobs, sexuality, music, hopes for the community, stuff like that.

We got 5th graders instead.

For the first 3 months I wanted to quit, but I knew that eventually I would care enough about the kids that my desire to work and play with and help form them would win out over my desire to run away from them. That sense of care wins much more often these days, unless I'm really tired and need a break from everything, not just 13-year-olds. I've come to love them more and more.

When Bumb first stared coming to IMAPCT, we knew that he was different from the other kids, mainly because they all stayed away from him. He would hit them, call them names, sometimes make threats, and nobody likes that. We really wanted for him to stay in the club--he said that his dad was on disability pay for a mental illness, and that he doesn't talk to his mom. Obviously something is wrong at his house, and IMPACT could be second family for him. That's difficult when he lashes out at the other kids, not always out of anger, but sometimes just because he thinks it's funny and doesn't know how else to get attention. And our kids, like most anyone, wanted him to leave, so he wasn't getting any friendship out of IMPACT.

Things got better when we started sending him home from meetings. He realized that IMPACT, this time that he held so dear, could be taken away from him if he didn't act like an IMPACT member (trustworthy, compassionate, participates in IMAPCT activities...), but also that at least Kelly and I wanted him there because we expected him back the next week. It also gave us a chance to talk to the other kids about how they treat Bumb. They would usually yell at him or hit back, so we explained that his actions are bids for attention, and by responding to negative bids, they reinforce the negative behavior. We asked them to begin to accept him, which has led to many of them kind of ignoring him, but a few trying to engage with him (with varying degrees of success).

Bumb is by far the most reliable IMPACT member where attendance is concerned. He'll come on building clean-up days, gets to meetings 30 minutes early, even stops by the office to make sure we're still doing IMPACT. While we can't always understand what he's saying (mumbled slang is still beyond our Romanian abilities), we hope that by listening we're giving him someone to trust. Whenever we can understand that the mumbles are about him skipping school or fighting, we reiterate that that's not going to help him in the future or the present, and that we expect better from him. We offered to try to help him in school for a while, but then his grades improved. It looks like they're slipping again, so we may dig that offer back up, though neither of us is sure if we have the time or ability to really give him the help he needs. He needs a good school counselor and teachers who are willing to work with him more individually. And IMPACT. His odd little family that still accepts him, even if most of the kids at school stay away from him.

Thanks you for asking about him over Christmas break, those of you who did. Kelly and I feel often that we don't have a whole lot helping us in this situation. A bit of youth work experience and some patience, and hope for him to apply himself in school and to learn how to constructively interact with other people. Your questions about him and prayers are so welcome.

Holy week.

Romania celebrates Easter on the Eastern (Orthodox) calendar, meaning that this year we're a week behind our families in the US.  Easter will be April 12, and so this is the week of waiting.

For me, this week has been full of work.  I am frantically working to finish some big projects for work before Easter comes, before we head to the annual CRWM retreat and meetings and IMPACT international trainings.  It's been hard to keep my head above water this week, much less take time for sober reflection on Jesus.

But it hit me in a flash of revelation last night, as I was eating a hurried dinner before returning to my work, that perhaps this frantic-ness and sense of desperation is part of what Holy Week is about.  That my mixed-up longings (for Easter celebrations, to finally break our Lenten fast, for a much-longed-for break from work, to be done with a stressful project) are largely selfish, and yet they are producing in me a real longing for this coming Sunday.  I may not be entirely pure of heart, but it does feel right to be desperately hoping for the coming of Easter.  And it's a reminder, when I can lift my head up and think about it for a second, that even though I am just like the fickle crowds who wanted Jesus for their own purposes, I am still cared for.  Cared for enough that God would die for me.  And the things that worry me are already overcome in His victory.

On Saturday we visited some friends in Sibiu, and on Sunday morning we decided to go to the Orthodox church there for Palm Sunday services.  The Orthodox church in Sibiu is enchanting -- gorgeously painted with the stories of the Bible on every surface, and blessed by priests and a choir with the most beautiful voices I have ever heard in a church.  (The first time Jack and I visited Sibiu we heard their liturgy being sung from blocks away, and like cartoon characters sniffing a wafting aroma, tails wagging, we followed the sound to the church, where we stood in awe.)

This Sunday was no different, except that the church was packed.  The liturgy was beautiful, the choir glorious, and the church was full, shoulder-to-shoulder while a thin line of people wove their way through the middle to kiss the icons of Jesus and Mary near the front.  In the crowd there was plenty of sniffling and coughing, rustling of plastic bags and the occasional cell phone -- and yet somehow it was still transfixing.  Jack reminded me afterwards of how some church fathers had written about how, during the liturgy, they couldn't tell if they were on earth or in heaven, and at that service I felt like I suddenly knew what they meant.  The heavenly music, the beautiful art, the warm light -- and the sniffling, awkward crowd of humans -- all adoring the God who came down from that perfection to stand in our midst as we shuffle and clear our throats and hush our children.  Heaven and earth, intermingled.

And so rather than berating myself for being too caught up in work this week, I am embracing the fact that this is what life on earth looks like -- deadlines and stress and wrestling and work -- and that even so, if I just look up, there is Holy Week.  Holy and full of light and present and hopeful, even in our broken humanity.  They co-exist, if we just have eyes to see.

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!

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 tocaniţa 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.

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.