i speak Welsh

“My wife and I speak Welsh,” said the older gentlemen as he stood in the middle of the congregation at the International Baptist Church in Prague during the introduction of visitors. “My name’s Scott. I’m visiting Prague for the weekend from Scotland.” “This is Lenka. She’s Czech.” Then seven or six others introduced themselves all claiming Richmond, Virginia, as their home.

I looked down from the balcony at the church’s small (yet sincere) choir and was thrilled by the number of nationalities represented there. Wasn’t nine what the pastor said last week? Around me the balcony was filled with young people like myself, some teachers at the International Christian School, some teachers of English, and other young professionals.

Downstairs sat a family from Columbia, students from Ethiopia and Ghana, a team of American Presbyterian missionaries starting a Czech church here in Prague, and at the piano sat an excellent musician from Japan.

It all seemed to be a foreshadowing of the worshipping of nations at the throne of God in the New Jerusalem.

irish breakfast, castle guards, and crazed authors

It was the second time it had happened today. I had hailed the waitress and she came and took my order but ignored my two girlfriends. Perhaps my mind has become infected by the crazed writings of one famous Czech author, Franz Kafka (after whom this particular cafe was named). Were these two girls merely figments of my imagination? Were they invisible to the rest of mankind? No, it couldn’t be that. I haven’t even read Kafka. So why were my friends being ignored?

I can only assume that it is a cultural thing. When a group goes out to eat, perhaps it is customary for one person to order for the entire group. Whatever the case, Christy and Tami eventually got their goulash and dumplings.


The Franz Kafka Cafe off of Old Town Square was our last stop of the day. The three of us had met on my side of Charles Bridge and headed toward the U.S. Embassy to enjoy a hearty breakfast at the Irish Pub just down the street (This was the first location where a waitress ignored my friends.). It all seemed so cliché. There we were sitting at a table on a cobblestoned sidewalk in a European city. Warm sunshine poured on us as we ate breakfast outside, listening to opera music floating out of an open window across the street.

Afterwards we climbed the hill, zigzagging through quiet medieval alleys till we reached the gates of the Prague Castle. Before us stood a massive crowd of spectators. Trumpets blew and over the heads of the crowd I saw the flash of metal. We looked at our watches. Noon. It was the ceremonial changing of the guard. Normally I scoff at normal tourist activity but I found myself rushing forward, holding my camera over my head, snapping away at uniformed youths who pretended to protect the contents of the castle from the republic’s foes.


When the commotion died down, the mob ushered us through the gates till we found ourselves standing in a line awaiting entrance into the castle’s cathedral. The only think I could think of was that I wanted to get as many pictures as I could to one day use in my Art History class (crazy teacher that I am). Perhaps for the first time I appreciated one of Europe’s thousands of Gothic Cathedrals. I marveled at Mucha’s stained glass window. I became excited as I photographed a gorgeous mosaic adorning one of the church’s entrances. And then there was the flying buttresses. I was a zealous fashion photographer determined to capture her model from all sides. My excitement only escalated when we rounded the corner and there stood a prime example of Romanesque architecture.

Call us cheap but we opted for the “free” option as we toured the castle. If a building required us purchase a ticket to be admitted, we turned our noses up at it and turned towards areas where we
were appreciated for more than our American dollar ... which basically limited us to the castle’s garden along the wall. I did, however, defy the system and walked straight up to the gate of Golden Lane, stuck my arm through the bars, aimed my camera so that it pointed down the lane, and took a picture ... imagine paying to walk down a street--the audacity! As if ...! I decided instead to settle for the thousand words of a picture over contributing even more to the weariness of my blistered feet.

From the castle, the Old Town was our next destination to join the masses of tourists in their quest for the perfect souvenir. Surprisingly, I didn’t have the stomach for it. Perhaps it was the heat, or maybe the sight of walls of magnets and T-shirts, shelves of Russian stacking dolls, and rows of sparkling bohemian crystal glasses (that were actually made in Hong Kong) doesn’t impress me as it once did. So I strayed from the stalls of the profit-hungry and approached my old acquaintance, the goose, John Hus, the forerunner of Martin Luther. There he stood memorialized in bronze turned green over the years standing in defiance against a corrupt church. The man who translated the Scriptures into the people’s tongue, forever solidifying the Czech language. This brave martyr more than deserved a few snaps of my camera’s shutter.

As I returned to my souvenir-hunting friends, I passed by the waiting horses and carriages, briefly noticing a bucket that was being filled to quench the thirst of these poor animals of burden. Moments later, I turned around to see a geyser of water rivaling Old Faithful shooting into the air. Horses and carriages moved out of the way, and tourists gathered around to witness one of Adam’s descendants tame this fury of water. Applause erupted as a drenched carriage driver replaced the rod that had been knocked loose from the water’s source. The gusher subsided and the tourists went back to their shopping.


It is here that Christy, Tami, and I sought deliverance for our weary, sunburned bodies under the canopy of the Franz Kafka Cafe.

and then there were ten ...

Once again it was a weekend night and there I sat in the Imperial Cafe, books lodged securely under the table not to be opened all weekend. In walked Christy and Tami, the Wheaton girls. “Late as usual,” said Tami as she pulled up her chair next to me. Just as they were sitting down Jennifer walked in.

“It’s okay. It’s not as if you’ve missed anything. They’re only just now setting up.”

It was a different Dixie Swing band tonight. They were older, all in their 60s and 70s. The banjo player was over by the ancient upright tuning his instrument. The bearded drummer was screwing on his cymbals. And the man with thick spectacles was removing his huge bass from its case. The three other fellows sat on the raised platform on the corner by the window, holding their respective musical instruments: a trumpet, a clarinet, and a trombone. They may have not been much to look at but when the music began ... well, it’s called Swing for a reason. Each gray-haired gentleman was a true master of his instrument. Never had I been in the presence of such fantastic musical talent. Later we learned that the band had been playing together these 40 years.

As the evening wore on, Autumn, Samantha, and Annie joined our small gathering followed by Courtney, Molly, and Julie. The good fun we had that night enjoying the music and the company rivaled any “good time” those awful, annoying British stag parties could produce. One of our number, Samantha, had met the coach of Prague’s rugby team on the metro the day before. He had given her his number promising her and anyone else who cared to join her a spot on the team’s bus the next day as they went to go play their next game.

I declined the invitation to tag along, since my early experiences with the sport were not pleasant ... He said all I had to do was hold the ball ...

sumo wrestling vs. ballet

“This is how the game goes. Go up to a person. Read one of the statements on the sheet of paper and ask if it applies to them. If it does write their name next to the statement. For example ...”

Paul, one of the TEFL trainers, came up to me, “Hmm, okay, let’s see ... Do you have a birthday during the course?”

I was shocked. Of all people he came up and asked me as an example!

“Um, well, Yes, as a matter of fact ...” I stuttered.

“Really?! When?!”

“June 15th. Ha! I guess everyone can put my name down next to that statement. Christine. That’s spelled C ... H ... R ... I ...”

As the big day drew near, my classmates asked me how I was planning to celebrate. I was hesitant to answer, certain that if I mentioned attending a ballet that the others would scoff at my love affair with the arts.

Surprisingly, however, many of the girls in the course appeared more envious than amused. “You wouldn’t want to go with me, would you?”

“Are you serious?! You don’t mind?! How much are the tickets?”

When it was spread around that tickets to see The Swan Lake at Prague’s National Theater cost a mere 50 crowns ($2), I had four girls signed up to join me.

Sadly I waited till the day of to go to the box office. The kind lady conveyed to me in broken English that they were sold out for that night’s performance.

Sigh.

I dodged drizzle and headed for the theater near the Mustek Metro stop in the vicinity of Wenceslas Square. I hoped that perhaps the girls and I could substitute ballet for drama.

“Dobry den. Prosim vas. Nemluvim dobrzha Cesky. Lovita Anglicsky?”

“Ano. A little.”

“Oh, good. Is there a performance here tonight?”

“Skola summinsumminsummin ... but it’s not good for you. It’s only in Czech. You will not understand.”

“Oh, that’s okay. My friends and I will follow the acting instead.”

But the woman at the box office insisted that there were too many characters and too much chaos on the stage. We wouldn’t be able to follow it. With shoulders slumped, I turned to walk out. On my way out, I noted that night’s performance’s poster. “Skola ...” Hmm, School of somethingorother, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

As I thought about it on the way back to the National Theater, I realized that she was right. In college I had designed a fine arts poster for the college’s performance of Sheridan’s The Rivals. The memory of characters like Mrs. Malaprop brought back memories of the confusions of words and actions on stage. If I had difficulty grasping everything in English, imagine the complexity of it in Czech!

I approached the National Theater’s box office again. “Do you have any seats available for tomorrow night’s The Swan Lake?”

“How many do you need?”

“Five.”

“Yes, but they are not together.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take them.”

It didn’t occur to me then that I wouldn’t be able to go tomorrow. I was teaching the odd Thursday evening class. I was more concerned that I didn’t disappoint the girls. All day they couldn’t stop talking about how excited they were about the ballet.

So there I stood, waiting for them to arrive at 6:30. It was drizzling. I had blisters on my feet from walking to and from the theaters in the rain. And by this time I realized the mistake I had made. I would miss the ballet altogether because of my stupid procrastination!

Jennifer was the first to arrive. “Well, were you able to get them?”

Sigh. “No. They were completely sold out. I just got these ones for tomorrow instead.”

“I won’t be able to go tomorrow. I have my one-on-one lesson.”

“I can’t either. I’m teaching the upper-intermediate in the evening.”

“On my way to meet you, I saw a man by one of the theater doors scalping tickets. What do you think?”

“How much is he asking?”

I sent her over to ask him, while I waited for the others.

We ended up paying 200 crowns (a 333% markup from the ticket’s original price) each for lovely balcony seats. Sure, we were on the back row of the balcony, but wasn’t a single column obstructing our view. We may not have been able to see the scenery, but the dancing was in plain view. All in all, we were quite pleased with ourselves for having bought scalped tickets to Swan Lake.

The following day I was able to fork out the unused tickets for that night to some of my classmates. I was more than happy to promote the city’s finer entertainment to the uncultured masses who had been to see sumo wrestling the weekend before.

(Note from the editor: The above sentence is a literary ploy to make it seem the author is above being a spectator of this honored traditional Japanese sport. However, in the presence of two witness, she admitted that had she been among more familiar acquaintances she would have poked her head in to see what it was all about.)

ode to a black currant

Ode to a Black Currant
by Christine K. Hnat

Oh, gastronomical bliss,
That once I enjoyed only during the Eucharist.
You cause me to ponder, oh Dark Berry.
Should your roots have embraced promised land,
Your flowers bloomed in the gardens of prophets,
Had your juice been squeezed to quench the thirst of disciples,
Perhaps then, as we drink and remember,
That divine juice would be of thine
And not the vine.

i've seen you before

“I’ve seen you before,” said the Italian.

“You have?”

“Yes, in my dreams.”

Ha! He stole the words from my mouth.

But I ask you, honestly, how is a girl really supposed to respond to such a statement?! What do men expect to accomplish with such absurdities? (Luke Keller knows that he’d receive a slap to the face should he attempt his ... “Is this seat taken?” as he stands next to a girl with his hand in her back pocket.) And what of the fellow sitting in the corner by the window stirring his coffee, tapping his cigarette, staring at me? What does he really think is going to come of it? Life is not a French movie. I’m not going to return the look, motion for him to come and join my friend and I at our table, let him buy me a coffee, and then go dancing with him. What’s going through their heads?!!

Bleh! No, thank you.

Perhaps I should switch my purity ring to my left hand when I’m in public. I only moved it to my right hand when my mother admonished me a few years ago. She was convinced that I would never get married as long as I displayed my silver band on my left ring finger.

“But, Mama ... I don’t want someone to just want me at first sight. He must get to know the real me, and once he does he’ll know that I’m not married.”

“Yes, but a good man will see the ring and out of respect for the man he thinks you belong to, he will stay away, then what?”

I saw her point, but the ring stayed put. ... until ...

One day I was walking past the student mailboxes at college and I overheard two guys talking. “No way, man. Don’t you see the ring? She’s married.”

I didn’t see who the guys were, nor did I care. But as I left the building I whipped the ring off my left hand and planted it on my right hand’s ring finger.

The move, however, has done little to affect my single status. This I’m convinced is part of God’s sovereign plan. No, no, hear me out. I’m seriously convinced that I’m not called to ...

... date.

Does that seem odd to you? It seems quite natural to me. I’m not certain how to explain it. But I’ve never exactly been in an environment where dating was common place. For goodness sakes, I was homeschooled in Germany throughout high school. And in college ... none of the art crowd really dated, we all just hung out.

Is it possible to just get married, then? Forego dating entirely? I think so. I’ve even jokingly given my parents permission to arrange my marriage. Out of all people I think they know me best and I trust their judgment. This caused a 15 year-old from my church to become quite upset. Never had he heard of such a thing! He was really quite concerned for my well-being. I began to point out all the benefits of arranged marriages, and I believe that in the end I really had him quite enamored with the idea. But I was just joking ... or was I?

Oh, I’m not exactly sure how it’s all going to come about. Perhaps we’ll be serving in a ministry together somewhere in Croatia and decide that our partnership should last “as long as we both shall live.” Whatever the case, of this I’m certain ... It will be a great story to tell the kids.

cowering behind a pillar

I suspected something when they all walked in and sat at different tables, loud and obnoxious, each ordering a pint of beer. The hair on the back of my neck began to raise. Then I saw it ... a sugarcoated, jelly-filled donut went sailing across the room.

I was in the middle of a donut fight at Imperial Cafe. As a glass crashed behind me, I grabbed my things and dashed for cover. Cowering behind a pillar, I wished I had my camera with me.

Meanwhile, fifteen middle-aged blokes from England made a war zone of the cafe turning over tables and warding each other off like lion tamers with their chairs.

At one point a fellow dodging a sugary missile stumbled to the ground next to me. He looked up and saw me clutching my laptop and books behind the pillar. From the floor he reached out his pastry-clutching hand to me. “You want to throw one, luv?”

I stood there wide-eyed, actually considering his offer. Had I been among friends, there’s no doubt that I would be right there in the heat of the battle, but instead I opted for a different course. I don’t know where it came from, nor do I understand the exact logic behind my reasoning. All I know is that out of my mouth came, “Noh, zhank yoo.”

What was I doing? Why was I pretending to be German? I don’t know. Perhaps the same reason I put on the proverbial “blond wig” and played the role of a ditz when Jeremy the helicopter pilot told me that he was at the point in his life that he was ready to get married and have kids. Role-playing is my defense mechanism, I think. I decided to see where this role would take me.

As other fellows left the fray of battle and found me behind my pillar, I continued my facade of stilted English and shy manner, hoping they would leave me alone. However, when the war of day-old pastries had died down, I felt a tap on my elbow.

“C’mon, dear. The battle’s finished. Give it a shot. See that fella over there in the striped shirt. Give this donut a good toss and peg him.”

“Noh, noh! I cahn’t.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s all over ... finished.”

“Noh, I cum ouoot and evrybuddy zhrow aht me!”

“Look, I’ll go with you. You just walk up to him and peg him.”

It was tempting. How could I live with myself knowing I had been in the middle of a donut fight in one of the finest cafes in Prague and hadn’t thrown a single donut myself. So I emerged from my pillar, approached the group of “warriors,” took a donut from one of their hands, pointed at the fellow with the striped shirt.

“Zhis vohn?” I asked the fellow who had told me to throw it. At his nod, I chucked the thing point blank at the surprised stripe-shirted Tommy.

I turned to go back to my belongings and WHAM! I got nailed in the back by one of the pastries. Upon inspection of my things I noticed that they hadn’t quite gone unscathed. Jam speckled my books and jacket ... not to mention my pants.

So while the band played on, there I sat finishing off my tea while the cafe’s staff cleaned up.

running through stinging nettle

With the willpower of a Native American who can endure an hour of sitting on top of a hill of fire ants, I resisted the urge to bend down and scratch off the top layer of skin on my foot. I was running late this morning. In order to catch the 9:04 bus in time I would have to run through the short cut. Forgetting that my feet were clad in mere flip-flops I ran the gauntlet through the path in the woods bordered on each side with stinging nettle ... or “sting weed” as we called it when I was young. Having rained the night before the weeds were bent over in the path, thus allowing their poisonous venom to seep into my skin. But with a clenched jaw I endured the irritations and repeated over and over again, “Mind over matter ... Mind over matter.”

So, classes are great. Each morning we have four and a half hours of training and the afternoons are devoted to actual teaching. This week I’ve been team teaching an elementary level course (just after beginner and just before pre-intermediate). Occasionally one of the trainers will pop in, take notes, and then critique your lesson. Both Terry and Paul are marvelous teachers. They make learning so much fun. And when they critique, one actually leaves feeling pretty good about oneself. But maybe that isn’t such a great thing afterall.

Today Lucie, a teacher’s teacher in training, sat in on our lessons. When it came to my portion of the lesson I had to think on my feet. The girl before me had ended her lesson much earlier than she was supposed to. Thus I didn’t have time during the usual break to go downstairs and grab my audio disk from the resource library. Thinking on my feet, I determined that my students would have to suffer through listening to the lovely voice of their teacher rather than narrator on the audio disk.

Plus, I completely threw out the warmer activity since the teacher before me had done something almost identical. Instead of playing pictionary using occupations as the terms, I turned on some music and sat down and asked them what kind of music they liked. It was just a normal, lighthearted conversation. Did they listen to music on the metro when they were going to work or school? What time do you leave for school in the morning? What time did they usually get home in the evening? ... This all led into my story about the man with 13 jobs who lived on a tiny island off the coast of Scotland, population 120. The article was all about his daily schedule. The students thought that they were just chilling out with their teacher, and then all of a sudden they realized that it was actually part of the lesson. Pretty sneaky, huh?

I even changed the production activity from the original idea in my lesson plan. On the spur of the moment I decided to shake things up a bit and placed my student in pairs and had them fill out a daily timetable for their partner, instead of doing one on their own. This made them have to practice asking questions like, “What do you do at 8 in the morning?” And answering, “I make breakfast at 8 in the morning.” I thought it was pretty ingenious if you ask me.

After the lessons Lucie really laid out in detail each thing we were doing wrong ... in detail. I could tell the other two girls I was teaching with were not accustomed to such criticism. I, on the other hand, was yearning for a tough hand. I knew that there was plenty that I could have improved upon, I just needed someone to point it out to me. Lucie was exactly what I needed.

Afterwards she and I sat around and talked a bit. According to her, there is a need for English teachers in New Zealand ... what do you say we all get our TEFL certificates and head to New Zealand and teach English?! I’m not joking ... let’s do it.

Careful to avoid the sting weed on the way home, I thought about future lessons. Hmm, how can I use the Phantom of the Opera in a lesson? I’ll figure out a way ... maybe with my private student, Hana. She just went to see an opera this Wednesday at the State Opera House.

BRING IT

While waiting for my private student to arrive at the school earlier this week, I found myself flipping through the TEFL Job Location notebook. I’ve discovered that I actually have a bit of a knack for teaching English ...

what if ... ah, here was a small village in Italy that needed an English teacher. I began to daydream. Ah, the golden sun of Italy, the taste of fruits and vegetables beyond what I have ever experienced, hospitable mamas taking on the task of fattening me up.

What about Germany? It would be nice to have the option of visiting with my family on the weekends.

... but ... was I adventurous enough for ... oh, I don’t know ... Slovakia? a place I know nothing about, completely unfamiliar with the terrain, culture, people ... “If God is for us, who can be against us?!!” If God were to direct my path to this new frontier ... well then ...

BRING IT, Bratislava!

strolling through abandoned streets at midnight

If I’m here and the castle’s there ... surely it can’t be that far of a walk.

Armed with my trusty map of Prague, I left my apartment and looked out towards the city. Just down the hill, off a ways in the distance, stood Hrad Chany ... Prague’s impressive castle. It should be simple enough ... just walk down.

Barely bothering to glance at the map, I set my legs in motion and headed toward medieval Prague. As I approached the quaint alleys of the ancient town I made a mental note to one day return to that restaurant boasting baked chicken with melted cheese on top stuffed with ... banana. hmm, curious. I walked further on and to my right I stumbled upon a building in which I could one day have an office: the Czech Republic’s United State’s Embassy. ... maybe ... one day.

I glanced at my watch, hmph, only 30 minutes from my place to Charles Bridge. I can’t say that I’d want to make the trip back up the hill, but the trip down was actually quite nice. I’ll take the bus back.

I wandered about the city avoiding those boasting a germanic language (i.e. Americans, British, and Germans). My goodness! They were so obnoxious. So loud! Obviously they’ve never heard of “practicing good OpSec.” Roaming Charles Bridge felt like Scotty had transported me to Disney World--groups of loud American teenagers, Japanese tourists, and venders peddling their artistic wares. Are there no Czech’s here?! I have a feeling they tend to avoid the popular tourist attraction.

Ironically I decided to go to Bohemian Bagel for lunch. Obviously this is the hub of expatriate activity. I walked in and saw one of my classmates, later two others came in to check their email. Behind us was a booth of American college students roaming Europe for nine weeks. To my right was a mother and her 13 year-old son plotting out the next destination for their vacation.

Later, I sat outside a cafe enjoying a lovely dish of pasta just watching people walk by. Americans ... British ... American ... Germans ... LEBANON? I saw another one of my classmates, Annie from Lebanon she had been taking advantage of all the lovely shopping there is to do here.

At 6:30 I strolled up Wenceslas Square to the National Museum where I was to meet Jennifer. The elongated square was crammed to the gills with the results of free enterprise: Currency Exchange kiosks, cafes, restaurants, McDonalds, department stores, bookstores, hotels, shoe stores, Nike. I peeked into one of the open pubs to see what all the yelling was about ... In the upper right corner of the pub was a medium sized television screen. Below it, scores of kilt clad “football” enthusiasts were moshing and chanting and just downright yelling. Certain that this was no place for a lady, I continued trudging up the hill.

This night was special. All of Prague’s museums were opened for free from 7 p.m. till 1 a.m. Jennifer and I had decided to meet together and take advantage of the opportunity. While the National Museum is a jewel to look at, its contents are not quite as spectacular. Oh sure there was the newly revealed stuffed polar bear or the skeleton of a whale, but I have little interest in gazing at display after display of minerals and plankton.

Desperate to escape this crowded facility, Jennifer and I headed to the bus that would shuttle us to our next destination ... the Charles University Museum of Man. So we crammed ourselves into this moving sardine can and we were off to wait in a massive line to get into the museum. Once inside, we were astounded at the collection of skulls and skeletons and molds of men and women’s faces. In 1900, a Czech scientist was determined to study the difference between the races. There were molds of Australian aborigines, Eskimos, African Americans, Chinese, Native Americans, and so on. In another room there was a chart showing similarity between species at the embryo stage. Some may attribute the similarity to evolution, however, the first thought that entered my mind was ... Wow! what wonderful proof of a common Creator!

After the fascinating science lesson, we headed toward the river to climb the tower of Charles Bridge to gaze at the Castle all aglow in the night. Spectacular. We were fortunate to be there at midnight when fireworks were shot over the river.

Strolling across the bridge at night is a much more enjoyable experience that in the daytime. Here and there Bohemian musicians shared their craft with those passing by. Ah, this was the authentic experience I was looking for.

At the end of the bridge Jennifer and I parted ways--she to the metro and I to my climb up the hill (my bus stopped running at 11:55). It was a beautifully cool night as I made my way briskly up the side of the hill. Streets once crowded were now empty. It was just me, the moon, and the streets where history was made.

dodging donuts

Should I return to this fair city and bring you with me, I shall insist upon taking you to the Imperial Cafe. Imagine entering a dazzling room filled with the ghosts and memories of 1900. Your eye is drawn up the mosaic studded wall to the tile embellished 20 foot ceiling. As your eye returns to earth it falls upon the bar at the far end of the room. The countertop is filled with mounds of ... donuts. Coffee and tea drinkers are scattered here and there. Outside the wall of towering windows trams rumble passed and tourists peer inside.

Along the wall there are black and white pictures. Upon closer inspection you notice that these are not records of bygone eras ... perhaps some of these were captured only yesterday. You recognize the setting of the photographs for you are standing right there in it. But chairs and tables are pushed back along the walls. The patrons of the cafe are ducking and dodging as ... as ...

... donuts fly through the air!

Should a generous customer feel the desire to give the cafe the equivalent of one hundred dollars, that customer has the privilege of having purchased all the donuts on the counter. Not only that, but he may do whatever he likes with them ... even throw them at anyone he pleases!

What do you say, should we try it sometime?!

Having settled into our seats, I’ll order a English Ice Coffee and you’ll order a nice pot of tea and a donut. As we rest our feet from a day of my dragging you from place to place, a band begins to set up in the corner by the windows. What a treat! The Dixie Swing Band soon begins to strum out familiar tunes of yesteryear. Your hand pats your knee to the rhythm while my foot bobs in time. Perhaps ... if we’re brave enough ... we might even attempt a few moves on the open floor in front of the band.

sunsets and castles

The sun has begun its decent upon another year of my life. Here I sit, in a cafe along the river gazing out the window at the magnificent Charles Bridge and the backdrop of an ancient town crowned with a splendid castle. This is one of the few moments when I can honestly say, “I want to be here.” I’m not dreaming of another distant country or longing for unknown adventures. At this moment I just want to be ... be here.

Many of my classmates are experiencing culture shock. I’m not sure I’ve ever been harangued by such anxiety and am not exactly sure how to help my friends with their ailment. um ... lighten up?! Instead of exploring the quaint cobblestone alleys of Prague, they booze their personalities away in an attempt to escape from the reality of now. So, here we sit, Jennifer and I, the daughter of Czech parents and a girl who calls Germany her home, enjoying the reality of the sun setting behind the castle.

This is how I would have wanted to end my 24th year. Living a dream. Living in the land of my heritage. Did you know that it is this corner of the world that once my ancestors called home? Out of curiosity I looked my last name up in the Czech-English dictionary.

hnat = drive

What a wonderful meaning! Christine (believer in Christ) Hnat (drive). It’s so fitting. I am driven, motivated, by Christ. This discovery allows me to look at my life experiences in a whole new light.

Imagine how amused I was, however, when I looked at a Czech word just above “hnat.”

h-m-a-t

Do you know what hmat means? I chuckle at the irony even now. Hmat means “touch.” Those who know me well will catch the irony of it.

Well, as the sun sets, I look forward to the sunrise. June. It’s so full of wonderful unknown possibilities.

my children will eat frozen grapes

Is it possible that Olympia no longer has need of the sweet nectar of cranberries? Have the gods instead turned to the frozen vineyards of the Snow Queen to provide their summer refreshments? Whatever the case, I have been blessed to experience the delight of frozen grapes.

Imagine arriving after 8 hours by train in a city experiencing an abnormal heatwave, then lugging your things from the subway, to the tram, to the bus, and then up two flights of stairs ...

... And then imagine the sensation of frozen natural sweetness caressing your pallet.

Then and there I vowed that my children would one day enjoy this delicacy. And why stop there?! Why not frozen cherries, frozen plums, frozen kiwi? I do believe I’ve stumbled upon something wonderful, thanks to my roommate Anna, a Taiwanese missionary here in Prague. My decedents will call her blessed.

oh, to be turned away!

I would have regretted getting on that train. Had I been an avid fan of european football it would have been one of the most exciting moments of my life. But that not being the case, I turned down the invitation to join a train full of maniac Berlin soccer fans.

My connection time in Hannover was entirely too short. I arrived at my track just as my train to Berlin was pulling away. I rushed to the train station’s information kiosk.

Please, I’ve just missed my train to Berlin. I’m traveling to Prague. What should i do?

There’s a train leaving from track 9 in six minutes.

Well, needless to say, when I arrived at track 9 I felt inclined to try my chances with the next train and let that one go on, despite the promises from the drunken blue and white clad fans that there was plenty of room for me.

When a proper train headed to Berlin eventually rolled into the station, I hopped on board hoping that somehow I could still make a connection to Prague, seeing how I missed the original one. I quickly disembarked, well, as quickly as any girl with two large suitcases and one large gym bag can maneuver, and searched the departure times. Ah, 45 minutes ... and on the same track. wonderful! So, I settled in and make sure everything was in order.

Wait.

My neurological pulses began to quicken. I didn’t remember seeing my passport when showing the conductor my ticket on the train to Berlin.

I checked my travel bag.

There was no use searching the other bags. I knew exactly where it was. It was in my dad’s computer scanner. Just before the taxi came to take me to the train station I was in the office copying my passport so my parents and i would both have photocopies should anything happen to it while i was in Prague. During the copying, a missionary called on the phone and then the doorbell rang. I quickly ended the call, rushed downstairs to meet the taxi driver, and ... you’ve got it ... I forgot my passport in the scanner.

So I had to catch a train back to Celle (only a 3 hour trip), purchase a new ticket to Prague for tomorrow, hail a taxi at the train station, and break into my parents’ home (Who knew there was a key behind the planter on the back window ledge!). Ironically they were gone for the day with the rest of the Hannover church on a field trip to Berlin to visit various Dietrich Bonhoeffer sites.

With no way of contacting them to let them know that their daughter would be home when they got back, I left a note on the door.

“I’m home. Supposedly they don’t allow Americans without passports across the Czech border. Don’t worry, I’ve got new tickets.”

Not one to sit around doing nothing, I decided to take my camera and walk about our town’s castle and enjoy a nice cold glass of ice coffee at a local cafe watching people stroll by on this unusually warm evening. (You do know that it doesn’t really get dark here during the summer months till after 10 pm, right?)

My only regret ... I didn’t get all the way to the Czech border to find that my passport was not with me. What a magnificent memory that would have made! Being turned away at the Czech border.

my right hand

Upon receipt of my luggage, I strolled to the train station of my little town to join my parents in Hannover on this perfect Friday morning. I felt the beauty of nature swirling around me, embracing me; and for a moment, I thought this is a moment when one can enjoy traveling alone. One can enjoy creation without the distraction of conversation. I could hear the birds sing. I could sit on a bench for as long as I wished, soaking in the sun’s warm rays. I could wander along as slowly as I liked. Everything seemed so perfect.

However, this revelry was interrupted by a sudden feeling of emptiness in my right hand. It occurred to me that the only way to improve my euphoria was if I had someone’s hand holding my own. The feeling was overwhelming. Here I was, the spokeswoman to young women all over the world. Did not our brother Paul say, “To the unmarried and the widows I say that it is good for them to remain single as I am” (1 Corinthians 7:8). How often have I stood on the proverbial soap box and pleaded with all young women to embrace their single status, enjoy it, use this time to develop their love affair with Christ? And yet I was allowing my mind to linger on ... marriage?

At that moment I understood the feeling of oneness between a husband and wife, walking hand in hand, enjoying God’s creation, without the need to say a word ... no entertaining each other, no conversing, just communing ... together. I thought that to have a hand holding my own might make the birdsong sound purer, the grass smell sweeter, and the colors appear more brilliant, and the river run swifter.

This moment of prophetic foresight may have caused anyone else in my position to feel disheartened or lonely. But not me. Instead the feeling of ecstasy remained with me throughout the day, for I thought ... this is what I have to look forward to.

for the love of ... Bob and Debbie

Home for me is walking out of baggage claim, seeing my father rush toward me with a bouquet of daisies, and giving into his warm bear hug. Home for me is strolling down the street with my mother with our little fingers linked. While I may have an enormously independent spirit, Bob and Debbie are always worth coming home to.

Upon arriving in Hannover airport, I passed over baggage claim and customs altogether and headed straight to the Lufthansa counter. Experience has taught me that it’s a fat chance that my luggage will show up the same time I do. So why not save a few moments and start filling out the paper work while others are still waiting for men to unload the plane’s cargo?

While Madeline (the Lufthansa representative) was attempting to find where in the world my luggage was (which was made infinitely more difficult by my having flown standby), I turned around and saw that my dad had discovered a coffee machine in the corner of the office and had made himself extremely comfortable with a little plate of cookies and his cup of joe. He looked as relaxed as could be. My mother was on the side of the room idly looking at the posters on the wall. I had to smile. They were as accustomed to this as I was.

Hmm, have I mentioned how much I love my parents?!

Ha! One of the moments that I love, is our mock conversations. These usually occur when there’s not much to talk about ... so, we’ll make up a random topic, something we know nothing about, and we’ll each pretend to be experts on the subject. There have been occasions when these “conversations” have turned into “arguments.” I remember once when my father and I were really going at it in the living room ... our voices were raised and everything. At one point, I heard my mother’s footsteps rushing down the stairs, she opened the door and the concern on her face was heartbreaking.

“Please ... please, stop arguing. Remember, you love each other!”

Poor, dear! She hadn’t actually heard what we were arguing about. She was so torn apart because we never argue in our family.

At that moment, my father and I looked at each other. That all too familiar mischievous twinkle sparkled in both our eyes. Together we began to “float” toward my mother (which involved us moving in slow motion as the astronauts do) and embraced this dear, concerned little woman and told her to “lighten up.” Only then, did she know that it had all been in jest.

One of my favorite memories with my mother, was actually a time when she scolded me this past Christmas. We were walking hand-in-hand downtown from our home across the river and I was bearing my heart to her about a situation that I found myself in. Someone had guessed at my secret. Confiding in her as girls do to their best friends, I was looking to her to soothe and comfort me, assuring me that I had done the right thing. Instead, I was completely surprised. She told me that by suppressing my passions, I was not living. This idea was so foreign to me. While shock still enveloped me, she proceeded to explain that our passions are given to us by God, to suppress those passions is to suppress the life God has intended for me.

Tonight we engaged in a family tradition. We sat together on the sofa and watched a movie. I enjoy it so much when all three of us squish together on the sofa. My father’s hand planted on my knee and my mother’s arm and fingers entwined with my own. I am home.

thank you for the memory

“I have stolen your most valuable possession!” lamented a friend to me today.

“I disagree.”

“What do you mean?”

“I disagree. I do not believe that time is my most valuable possession. Long ago, I decided that aside from the Holy Spirit, my memories are my most valuable possessions. So ... thank you for the memory.”

Last week I found myself coveting the memories made by my friends who had gone camping together. While I sat at home watching rented movies, they were off having an adventure. For instance they arrived at the campsite Friday night at 11 p.m. after the park had closed. They were locked out. They had to find a vacant hotel. I envied them the opportunity to think back on that moment and smile at the memory.

But now ... now, I have my own. My friend, who drove me to the airport to begin my journey this summer to Prague, took a wrong turn at the last moment which caused me to miss my flight.

What a great way to start off my adventure! No. I’m not being sarcastic. I’m in earnest. If no exciting, amusing things happen in life, what is there to remember? What would bring that random smile to one’s face? Oh sure, I would much rather be in the air on my way to Europe at the moment ... but I know that eventually I would make it there. So, I allowed myself to enjoy the moment, certain that it would provide many random smiles in the future.

Perhaps it is a bit Pollyanna-ish of me. You know ... the peppy young girl who played the “glad game” every time people were feeling down. “Let’s see ... what can we be glad about?” However, I make no apologies. I am so assured of God’s sovereignty that whatever happens in my life I am convinced has been predestined for a good purpose. That is why I can calmly ask the airline clerk when the next flight out of Savannah will be. Hey, who knows! Maybe the flight I missed was going to crash over the Atlantic and it was not yet my time to go. Or maybe my new flight IS meant to crash and it IS my time to go. While I would be okay with this, i’m afraid, should it actually happen, it would thrust my chauffeur friend into years of therapy.

Well, as the old song goes, “Que sera sera.”

Or as Paul instructs, “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)

Amen and amen.

becoming Ruth

Have I been blind to God's vision? I can only assume this, since He has chosen to reveal it to me through other people. Perhaps because this new calling contradicts my very nature, I have been unable to see God's plan.

I am to become ... a "Ruth."

For the past year, I have been acting under God's command to be a pre-Isaac "Rebekah." To be a woman who lives one day at a time, doing God's purpose for that day, without concern for what the future holds. Now am I to switch role models? Am I to switch from a passive attitude to one of action? Can I?

Last week, my soul became burdened because of a certain phenomenon in today's Christian culture. Albert Mohler, president of Southern Seminary, wrote a two-part article titled "From Boy to Man--The Marks of Manhood." He sums up the situation by saying, "We now face the phenomenon of perpetual boyhood on the part of many males. Refusing to grow up, these young men function as boys well into their twenties--some even into their thirties and beyond. An extended male adolescence marks the lifestyles, expectations, and behavior of far too many young males, whose masculine identity is embraced awkwardly, if at all." According to Mohler, Biblical manhood is "a functional reality, demonstrated in a man's fulfillment of responsibility and leadership." His article ended with thirteen marks of Biblical manhood that would prepare young men for marriage, fatherhood, and church leadership.

You have all witnessed this phenomenon. You know it to be true. Does it bother you? Does it cause you to lose sleep? It did for me last week. Two questions kept probing my mind. First, have Christian young women somehow contributed to this phenomenon? And second, is there anything we can do to act as a catalyst to rectify the situation?

I asked my wise father for answers. He, himself, is struggling in his own church with men refusing to take on the responsibility of leadership. I emailed Dr. Mohler, hoping that he would have some insight. Nothing.

This past Monday evening, at my church's outreach program, I introduced my dilemma to my table of fellow-letter-writers. What are godly women to do to spur the "boys" in their lives toward manhood? An answer surfaced (suprisingly from one of the young men at the table). "Perhaps it is time that women 'pull a Ruth.'"

My mind floated back to the story of a young gentile widow living in a strage land with her mother-in-law. One of her deceased husband's relatives took an interest in her, cared for her needs, protected her, but it never occured to him to become her kinsman-redeemer (a close male relative who would take on the role of her husband). It was only until she approached him under the cover of darkness where he lay on the threshing floor, uncovered his feet, and pulled his cloak over her, and ASKED him to redeem her did he realize his destiny.

My mind balked at the prospect. Was it even godly what she had done? ... but wait a minute ... there is a whole book in the Bible devoted to her story. On one hand I yearn for today's Christian men to rise up to their potential and realize their desitiny as leaders on their own (Shouldn't it be inherent?!). And on that same hand, I cringe at the thought of pushing a man to do something that should be so obvious as his role. I fear the other hand, however. The hand of action. The hand of confrontation. The hand that Deborah, the judge of old Israel, used to push Barak into his leadership role in Israel's Army.

No, I couldn't do it.

The next morning I had completely tossed the "pulling a Ruth" idea aside. Imagine my surprise, though, when I read an email my mother had sent me that morning.



"Dear Christine,

Hi.  I hope that all is well!

I was doing some research on Ruth, which is our Bible study topic for four weeks, and I thought about this:

Ruth and Boaz knew each other.

They liked each other.

Ruth was interested in him.

He was friendly and nice to her, but nothing more.

She didn’t really know whether he was interested in her.

He didn’t know that she was interested in him.

He never made an attempt to have a deeper relationship.

Then . . .

Do you get where this is going?  It is not at all like the story of Rebecca.  Isaac and Rebecca is not the only model.

Love,
Mommy"



Of course, her email focused on the marriage aspect of the story. What mother doesn't eventually want an Obed (Ruth and Boaz's son)? I found the email amusing, ironic even, in light of the previous night's suggestion.

I decided to give her a call.

C: I don't know when the barley harvest is. What if I've missed it?

M: Pentecost is coming up. You could do it then.

C: Isn't that a little soon? When is Pentecost? Wait, let me look on my calendar. May 15. I think I'll wait till the next barley harvest comes along. So let's say, by some miracle of God, I meet Mr. Wonderful between now and May 15. What are you suggesting I do? I'm not going to sneak into his house, under the cover of darkness and lay down at the foot of his bed! You didn't raise me to be that kind of girl!

M: No, I suppose not. Maybe you should wait till the singles in your church plan a camping trip?

C: Ha, you know ... ironically, they are ... that weekend.

M: Well there you go, just wander over to his tent and unzip the bottom of his sleeping bag.

C: Ha ha ha ... Yeah, that will go over big. That's why we have chapereones!

Well, you can't blame her for trying to speed the courtship process along. I would be concerned if I were her, too. Is it natural to have a daughter who has never dated, or shown real interest in a particular potential mate?

This time I laughed off the suggestion of Ruth.

The following evening, however, I felt a heavy pit in my stomach. After teaching my 5th grade girls' missions class, Wednesday night, I slipped into the singles' Bible study. I peared over to the pastor's Bible to see what passage he was discussing ... and to my astonishment I read in the top left corner of the open page ...

... Ruth.

God had my attention.

I am now resigned to the fact that God has some plan for me in which I am to become a Ruth. I know that in my own power I could never accomplish such a thing. This is how I know that it is of God and not my own making.

Today's Sunday School lesson was about receiving visions from God. God forbid that I should be as the prophet's servant who could not see the armies of fires surrounding their enemies.

"Whatever I am destined to do, whether it's big or small, open my eyes to Your plan."

what are the odds?

It was like a surprise party where the guest of honor didn't show up. You're rather "bummed out" ... but then you realize ... hey! there's punch and games ... LET'S PARTY!!!

So when I went to our nation's capital this weekend to surprise my friend Rebekah with a visit, I was disheartened that I could never get in touch with her. But, hey ... I was in Washington, D.C. ... Congress was in session ... Judy Garland's ruby slippers were on display ... and Borders Books and Music was calling my name.

I've travelled to many places and rested in the shadow of buildings thousands of years old. But I've never felt such awe as I did at the mere sight of the buildings housing our nation's government much less the monuments dedicated to men and women who sacrificed to mold our nation into what it is today.

Now I understand the significance of those twelve stones piled next to the Jordan River. For generations Israelites would pass that location of divine intervention and their spines would tingle. They envisioned their forefathers climbing down the banks of the river. Casting a glance at that covered piece of sacred funriture that housed God's 10 commandments for mankind, they crossed on dry land to their promised homeland. Years later their children's grandchildren would pass by the sight and reverently touch the stones piled to commemorate the event. Tears would involuntarily spring to their eyes as they thought back to that great moment in their history. Their hearts would swell in silent thanks to God for His grace and mercy shown on this chosen people. Well, that's how I felt anyway when I saw each monument that commemorated historic events in our own nation's history, knowing that God's hand was guiding each moment.

Each morning I rode the Metro into town. That's an adventure in itself ... oh, it was wonderfully safe ... but with the number of people who travel on public transportation you just know something fascinating is bound to happen. For instance, I swear that Jason Bourne boarded my Subway car, sat down across from me, and began reading Victor Hugo. Before I finished writing down the siting in my notebook, I looked up and he was gone. It probably wasn't even Victor Hugo but some sort of 300 page Top-Secret document. But that wasn't what was the most exciting part about my Metro travels.

One morning I was sitting there contemplating the odds of someone walking onto the subway at any random stop and seeing someone they know. I entertained these thoughts because I actually saw it happen ... four times. But never did I dream that it would happen to me.

As I sat there lost in my thoughts ... I heard a voice from the seat just to my right.

"Excuse me, did you go to college in Pensacola?"

No way!

I slowly looked up to see who had spoken to me. The couple sitting there looked like the typical middle aged tourists--fanny packs and all.

"Weren't you in some of their plays. You played a Spider ... and weren't you a Frost Princess or something of the sort?"

"Snow Queen, actually." They both seemed vaguely familiar.

"yes, you helped our son, Jamey, campaign for Student Body president."

GASP! it WAS them! Dr. Charlie Brown and his wife, the most wonderful Bible professor Pensacola Christian College ever had, and parents of my good chum and fellow cast member Jamey Brown. ha ha, Memories flooded back to those good times on and off stage. Jamey and I often joked about our being sucked into the blackhole of being typecast. He was inevitably cast as the old man, and I was destined for roles requiring an elegant seductress (perhaps too strong of a title). Ah, Jamey was one-of-a-kind ... I had a general dislike for the typical Speech majors at PCC -- they were too loud, obnoxious, and would strut around campus speaking to each other in fake British accents. But not Jamey ... he was real.

Oh, and girls ... I've been informed that he still does not have a steady girlfriend ... I'm not certain what the reasons are. I've personally witnessed many girls propose to him on the spot after sampling his abilities as a baker ... I fear he just never took them seriously. If you're interested in a mature, fun-loving Christian young man ... you can't go wrong with Jamey. Plus, his chocolate cupcakes are to DIE for, which almost happened one night backstage as two girls fought over who got the last of Jamey's cupcakes. Oh, and don't let his attending PCC scare you off ... he's just about as normal as anyone else you know ... his sister wears PANTS!

His dad, Charlie Brown (as he was affectionately called) is currently the Vice President of a small Bible College in Florida. Last year he was dismissed from PCC after a witch hunt of sorts. He, along with a few of PCC's more brilliant Bible professors, was asked not to come back after President Horton received a letter from a former student. The student praised specific members of the Bible faculty for helping to strengthen his reformed beliefs. Consequently, these professors were questioned and asked not to return the following school year.

I had sat under the teaching of most of these men of God. Not once did any of them pressure their students to believe one way or another. When it came to the controversial topics in theology they encouraged students to search the Scriptures for themselves. It was their mission for their students to make their faith their own, not their parents', not their pastors', not their Bible teachers'. When asked, they would share Scripture passages and suggest books written on the topic from differnet points of view. I'm not even sure Dr. Brown was actually Calvinist. In a way I found the whole fiasco sadly humorous. Articles, sermons, and even SONGS were written to discredit Calvinism.

As a believer in God's hand of providence ... I can't help but wonder at the "chance" meeting. Well, anyway, besides riding the METRO, I took a trolley tour, visited the Smithsonian Museum of American History, and went shopping. Ah, H&M my favorite Swedish European clothing store. I wasn't able to visit everything I wanted to. I suppose I'll have to leave the Museum of American Jewish Military History for another visit. Really ... I saw a sign for it ... it left me quite curious ...

in the dark with a guy

After a particularly horrid week, I decided to treat myself to a seminar on the history of churches here in Savannah. Now who of the people I know wouldn't mind being schlepped along to a boring history presentation? Hmm, Forrest lives only a few blocks from Independent Presbyterian Church, where the seminar was to be held ...

Oh drat! It's already 7 and the doors are closed.

Forrest and I walked up the church steps and tugged on the massive front doors.

Locked.

What about the two side front doors?

Nope.

Forrest: "Do you know where it's supposed to be?"

Me: "I thought there would at least be a sign."

We walked around to the side of the building. The lights were on, surely there were people inside.

The side door ... locked.

The basement door ... locked.

What about that one down there? Dare I try? ... the others had been locked.

Gasp! The door actually opened.

We walked up the dark staircase, searched the deserted hallways for signs of life, and finally stopped and pressed our ears against the back door of the sanctuary.

Forrest: "Are they speaking english?"

Me: "I don't think so."

We peaked through the half-closed blinds. The room was filled to capacity with a total of three individuals tuning the newly installed organ.

Sheepishly, we slunk back through the dark corridors to find our way back outside. Boy, did I feel ridiculous! My first time visiting IPC and I was sneaking around in the dark with a guy!

Well, the night wasn't a complete waste of time. I was at least able to organize my box of pictures. While Forrest looked through them, we exchanged tales of our travels. We both agreed that should I move to Rome, I ought to get a Vespa moped so that I can maneuver through the suicidal traffic on my way to meet with my next 'English as a foreign language" student.

Speaking of the English language, together we came up with two sayings that ought to help native English speakers express themselves better. Both involve coming up with an excuse for not doing something.

The first one was: "I'm sorry. I can't do that. That's something Catholics do."

Ha, Ha. You're shocked aren't you? Probably not as shocked as I was when I first heard it. That phrase actually came about thanks to my mother.

When I was a little girl, I asked my mother once or twice, as we stood in line at the grocery store, if we could get a jar of marshmallow cream. All the kids at school were talking about how wonderful it tasted. Couldn't we try it? I don't remember asking again after the first two negative responses, but everytime we stood in line ... there it was ... mocking me as it sat snuggled up against the Wonder Bread.

Reminissing on old times with my mother recently, I jokingly commented how she had a knack for bursting my bubble ... I would see some shiny new gizzmo and wished to purchase it with my allowance.

"Oh, honey, you don't really want that. What would you do with it?"

With that, my mother had successfully channelled my logical side and changed my mind. So instead I just bought grape flavored bubble gum. (Hey, if you saved two wrappers and sent in a dollar bill you could adopt a humpback whale. My whale was named "Salt and Pepper.")

The recent conversation turned toward the marshmallow cream.

"I should have just told you that we don't eat marshmallow cream because Catholics do."

What?!!

"Well, when I was little it seemed as if everything we couldn't do was because Catholics did it. We couldn't drink alcohol and we couldn't dance ... But as for the marshmallow cream ... well, I just didn't know what you would do with it."

The second saying is a direct translation from the Japanese: "I have something." Pure and simple. I have somthing. "Do you want to go see that movie with us this weekend?"

Sorry, I have something.

"Would you like grits with your breakfast?"

No, thank you. I have something.

It's so versatile. It could mean you have plans, or you have an allergy ... or it could mean you hate that movie, or that grits disgust you. But it remains polite all the same. Sure you may get some odd looks, "What?"

Hmm? What do you mean, What?

And then quickly change the subject. They'll figure it out.