The Worshipping Church

Imagine sitting in a filled auditorium with a six thousand person capacity. Now imagine the sound of the flipping pages of hymnals mingled with groans as thousands of college students and faculty prepare to sing “There’s Honey in the Rock My Brother;” or the snickers that flicker here and there as you recognize the prelude to the ensemble’s special music number, “One More Night With the Stinkin’ Frogs.” And then there was the unforgettable three page hymn with notes ranging from the highest to the lowest that you were sure to sing at least two times a semester. I actually had it down to a science and could predict which Sunday we would sing it. Is it possible for a church to hold such high standards of musical talent that they much prefer hearing themselves sing than worship? That is what I wondered as I neared the end of my time at a certain Christian college in Pensacola, Florida.

In contrast, imagine how refreshed I felt returning to my home in Germany as I worshipped with my international brothers and sisters in Christ during Winter and Summer breaks. What a joy it is standing in the midst of representatives of all corners of the earth together worshipping our Holy Father. Were they examples of musical excellence like the Campus Church required? No. But as Buyong from Indonesia pounded on his drum, as Sarah from Kenya plucked away at the bass, as Sholah from Ethiopia sang praise to God, as Phillip and Sarah, both from Germany, worshipped on the guitar and piano, and as Mag from Malaysia raised her sweet voice leading the congregation in glorifying God, one had a true sense of being in the midst of the throne room of the Holy One. As one, the body of Christ would kneel, presenting themselves before the King of kings; their hearts eager to embrace the message God had for them that day. As Scripture was read, the reader would begin by proclaiming, “Hear the Word of the King!” and the congregation would respond to the Word by saying, “Thanks be to the King!” The fellowship among these brothers and sisters is like none other. While so many of their family members are oceans away, this small church understood what it meant to be a member of the family of God. The study of the Scriptures was a vital aspect of church life. It was there that my father expounded on the meat of God’s Word to these believers, revealing truths that they had never been taught before. Many have come to Hannover International Bible Church as mere babes in Christ, but they return to their home countries as leaders of the faith.

free green tea frap and no "hairy eyeball"

Even though I had three quarters of my tank filled with gas, I rushed over to the Circle K and filled up. Supposedly the latest hurricane in the Gulf is going to shoot the price of gas to a whopping $5 a gallon. Can America possibly handle a reality that Germany has lived with for years?! But anyway, I thought it would be wise to save a few bucks.

On my way back to the seminary I stopped by Starbucks to visit a friend who works there. It wasn't exceptionally busy so I talked to her and some of the other employees there about the "gas scare." But as business picked up I stood to the side. Hmm, while I was there how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to get my new favorite green treat? So I waited ... and waited as everyone went about making drinks for the on-the-way-home-from-work-crowd.

"Oh, Did you want something?"

"Actually, yeah, I'll take a Tall Green Tea Frapaccino." I held my card out but the cashier waved it away. He wouldn't take it!

"Nah, don't worry about it. Sorry you had to wait. It's on the house."

Wow, and I didn't even have to throw the "hairy eyeball" around. (Not that I ever would!)

"What's the 'hairy eyeball'?" you ask.

Well, this has become part of my vocabulary since my dear friend Ginger used it to describe how her friend Susan used it to get her current boyfriend.

What?!

You know ... when you flutter your eyelashes!

Ha Ha! I love it!

So Chris and I have been using it to describe flirtatious girls. Once we used the phrase in front of a couple of friends at lunch.

"What's a hairy eyeball?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to explain ..." Somehow it seemed that it needed to be demonstrated. Ha! I knew Chris wouldn't demonstrate it. So I let my eyelashes fly.

Ugh! I felt so dirty afterwards. Bleh! Next time I'll let him demonstrate.

I used to think that I didn't have the ability to flirt. But once I was dared to by a friend who had never seen me dabble in the subtle art of womanly manipulation. I thought back to all the girls I had seen partake in the ritual. I raised one eyebrow, tilted my head, lowered my voice and asked, "How's this?"

By his reaction, I believe I passed the test. But I determined that I would never behave in that way again ... unless it was in EXTREME jest! Which I have been known to do.

"After Ever Happily"

Like the title suggests this isn't your ordinary Fairy Tale. See if you can figure out the story correctly. Were they laughing at the squashed chamberlain or the woodcutters 'ands? Who splashed in the puddles? The King, Queen, and Chamberlain?


"After Ever Happily"
or The Princess and the Woodcutter


And they both lived happily ever after...
The wedding was held in the palace. Laughter
rang to the roof as a loosened rafter
Crashed down and squashed the chamberlain flat--
And how the wedding guests laughed at that!
"You with your horny indelicate hands,
Who drop your haitches and call them 'ands,
Who cannot afford to buy her a dress,
How dare you presume to pinch our princess--
Miserable woodcutter, uncombed, unwashed!"
Were the chamberlains last words (before he was squashed).
"Take her", said the Queen, who had a soft spot
For wood cutters. "He's strong and he's handsome. Why not?"
"What rot", said the King, but he dare not object;
The Queen wore the trousers -- that's as you'd expect.
Said the chamberlain, usually meek and inscrutable,
"A princess and a woodcutter? The match is unsuitable."
Her dog barked its welcome again and again,
As they splashed to the palace through puddles of rain.
And the princess sighed, "Till the end of my life!"
"Darling", said the woodcutter, "Will you be my wife?"
He knew all his days he could love no other
So he nursed her to health with some help from his mother,
And lifted her horribly hurt, from her tumble.
A woodcutter, watching saw the horse stumble.
As she rode through the woods, a princess in her prime
On a dapple-grey horse...Now, to finish my rhyme,
I'll start it properly: Once upon a time--

by Ian Serraillier
From the Oxford Book Of Story Poems

a feeble attempt

Annie

Bruce and I hung back watching as Chris approached the merchandise table. Bruce had jokingly dared Chris to go up and tell Annie, "If I buy one of these CDs, will you go on a date with me?"

Neither Bruce or Chris had been to an Annie Moses Band concert before. They soon found out that I wasn't lying ... about the good music or about the beautiful Annie.

I never believed he would actually do it. He really did just want one of the CDs.

But Bruce and I had nothing better to do, so we couldn't help making commentary on Chris' "attempt" to woo this lovely, accomplished musician. We watched as he started to talk to the father.

"Good technique. Get in good with Dad before going for his daughter," I whispered to Bruce.

"Oh look, now he's joking with the brother who played the cello. Nice," commented Bruce.

The crowd had died down, and I noticed Annie was keeping one ear on their conversation. Then he said the magic word, "Bosson."

"Did you say your last name was 'Bosson'? Are you from Savannah?!" She seemed so excited to meet the son of the Pastor from New Zealand. She and her family had performed at Southside Baptist Church in Savannah last year.

"Bruce, look! She's talking to him but she's NOT looking him in the eye. She likes him. She's trying to pull herself together till she can get up the courage to talk to him AND look at him at the same time."

Finally, she lifted up her head and was ready to meet his eyes. She had herself under control now. But he wasn't looking at her anymore or even really listening to what she was saying. He was filling out a form to get their Christmas CD later this year. He finished filling it out, handed it to the brother, and waved goodbye.

Bruce and I had our jaws dropped open.

When Chris reached us, we gave him an earfull! "What were you thinking?! You had her. You were in. You were part of the family. You even used the magic word 'Bosson'! Why did you do it?! Was that form really so important?!"

Poor Chris was so confused. While Chris was merely purchasing a new CD, Bruce and I were practically marrying him off.

disclaimer: Before publishing the above post I sought Chris' permission. C.B. says "Ok, just for the record, I did acknowledge her (albeit through the corner of my eye) and yes, I believe words actually came out of my mouth that were directed in her direction. Anyway, I suppose I have nothing to lose. Go ahead. Send it. Maybe some lonesome seminary scavenger can use it as a manual on how NOT to impress a girl. In all seriousness, I got a laugh out of it. As long as this isn't the beginning of an endless line of people querying whether or not i'm the clueless idiot who 'blew his chance.' I mean, come on, if it had been ... "the hottest guy at Seminary" ..., he would have known what to do. But then again, his last name isn't 'Bosson.'"

I don't know. Maybe that's up for debate.

christine with a "ch" like Phantom of the Opera?

About an hour ago I walked into my "The Worshipping Church" class and someone whispered, "That's her" as I walked by to my seat. A fellow from my class was pointing out the only female in his class to a student from the previous class. Such is to be expected though, I suppose, when one decides to go to seminary. There's not going to be an overabundance of women in most of the classes. Although I hear if a guy really wants to meet girls here, he takes a counselling course. Lots of girls to be found there!

The first thing Bruce said when he heard that I was in a class with all guys was, "Christine, you're going to get married!"

Please ... a man falls in love with a girl a few states over and he thinks everyone else should be in love. Isn't that right, Bruce?

As I was leaving the building, John David, the accomplished pianist in the class, walked beside me.

"Is this your first year?"

"mhmm. First semester."

"What's your name again?"

"Christine."

"Is that with a "ch" like Christine in Phantom of the Opera?"

leave it to a church musician to associate my name with a musical ...

Then on the way to my dorm I saw Jennifer from Accounting.

"Christine, Hi! You know every time I see you I want to call you Michelle. I don't know why?"

I don't either. Maybe it's the same reason my softball coach in college called me "Michelle" all season. "Okay, and Michelle, go out to left field!"

I never corrected him. It didn't seem important at the time.

to market, to market, to see a fat pig

I first saw the father. He turned around and scolded his daughter for not keeping up. I followed his disapproving glare down to the blond little munchkin carrying a plastic bag heavy with produce, struggling to keep it from dragging on the cobblestone street, as well as two other large brown paper wrapped packages. I looked back up at the father. I was incensed. How could a father expect his little girl to carry so much when he wasn’t carrying a single thing?!

As I moved through the crowd I got closer to the wee little thing. She was as blond as blond could be. Behind her little spectacles were eyelashes as light as her hair. Poor sweet darling.

And then I heard something. She was singing. As her father trudged ahead of her, leaving her to carry all the market produce, she was singing.

la, la, I’m shopping, la, la, I’m at the market, la, la, la, I’m shopping with Daddy.

vietnamese spring rolls

There we all sat together with a feast of condiments waiting to be made into Vietnamese spring rolls before us. While little 5 year old Esther sat beside me instructing me in the fine art of Vietnamese spring roll preparation, I took the opportunity to capture on film these ladies I enjoy so thoroughly from my mother’s Bible study here in Hannover.

To my left were Winnie and Catherine, both lovely African ladies who had followed their African husbands to Germany for business or study. They were commenting on their disappointment in German sweet potatoes. They are entirely too watery. When you cut a good sweet potato, you should be able to tell that it has a rich, thick sap.

On my mother’s right were Mag and Nora. Our instructors in authentic Oriental cuisine. Both Mag and Nora are of Chinese origin having been raised in Malaysia. I actually met Mag before everyone else. I was coming home for my Christmas break during my freshman year in college. As I boarded the plane from Paris to Hannover I noticed a little Asian woman as pregnant as could be with a little boy and tons of bags and a stroller to worry about. When we landed I helped her carry her stroller down the plane’s steps and helped her set it up. I had no idea that the next morning I would see this same woman at church. A month or two later my special little friend, Esther, was born.

And then there’s wee little Sarah. When I arrived back in Hannover last Sunday I sought her out. “Sarah, I saw your twin when I went to Prague International Baptist Church. She was sitting directly in front of me. I would have said hello for you but she left before I could talk to her after the service.”

“It couldn’t have been my twin.”

“No, no, I’m certain that it was. She looked just like you, well, from behind anyway. Tiny, African, as cute as anything.”

“I’m certain that it wasn’t. I don’t have a twin ... But she could have been my triplet.”

I love her sharp wit. She proceeded to tell me that she recently met a man, who when they were shaking hands he said that he thought that he had met her before. “Really? Where?” she asked. “In Egypt,” he responded. It seems that the world is blessed with three Sarahs.


And then there were the newcomers, Kate and her 12 year-old daughter Sarah. Kate’s family has recently been assigned here in Germany with the British military. I think they have 7, 10, or was it 19 children?

Over the years women have come and gone. International ministry is known for people coming and going. I thank God for each family God has brought our way. And I pray that when they go back to their homelands they carry the light they have received here back home with them.

cover letter and resume

After a breakfast of horse-food, plain yoghurt, and tea in a quaint, antique-filled cafe downtown, it was off to work. I had much research to do on the internet, a cover letter and resume to write, and a future to plan. After I graduated from the course in Prague, I felt God calling me to prepare myself for His long-term plan for my life.

This past year I have devoted myself to preparing for the Foreign Service Officer Exam by picking up the occasional Economist or U.S. News and World Report magazines at Barnes and Noble, writing graduate papers based on U.S. foreign relations, reviewing my old history books, and studying up on the unknown world of management. All this climaxed in April when I finally took the exam I had heard so many had failed. I left the testing facilities incredibly confident.


“When will you know the results?”

“Late July.”

Instead of waiting, twiddling my thumbs in Savannah, for the results, I hopped aboard a plane to Europe to study in Prague and visit my parents in Germany. As I neared the completion date of the Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, a question began to surface in my mind.

Where did my deepest desire lay? ... in serving my country ... or serving my God? Representing the United States ... or representing Christ? I knew the answer immediately.

Serve God ... that was the ultimate desire of my heart.

Why such emphasis on the Foreign Service then? Was God testing me ... even before I knew whether or not I had passed? Was the Foreign Service to be my Isaac? Isn’t it possible to do both ... serve God and country? Oh, absolutely, dear Reader. But I began to reevaluate my motives for entering the Foreign Service. I realized that this was not the career I desired. It was not what I wanted to do the rest of my life. I discovered that all along I was only thinking of the Foreign Service as something to do before the ultimate plan.

The desire God has placed on my heart is different. I LONG for women all over the world to know and love God with all their souls, hearts, minds, and strength. I desire to enable them to lead their children in the ways of Christ. I want to teach them to love and respect their husbands, to become his helpmeet, enabling him to be all he can be for the Lord.


So, what was I doing sitting around working towards something so temporary when I have the ability to prepare myself now for God’s purpose for my life? So I have committed myself to partner with my parents in prayer and action to see this come to pass. Every night we meet together and I share with them what the Lord is teaching me and what has been accomplished during that day towards that end. Before we retire for the night, I lay any documents or notes I have made throughout the day on the table and we kneel and pray over them. I am confident that when I return to the United States I will have a clear path laid out before me.

i need a holiday

“I need a holiday,” I said under my breath.

“What?!! You need a holiday?!!”

My father and I stared at each other, eyes wide in shock. We hung our heads, slumped our shoulders and kept walking.

My mother still stood, incredulous, in the middle of the pedestrian path where she had made this interjection.

“What do you mean you need a holiday?!”

Almost to the corner now, my father and I could barely hold it in much longer. We motioned for my mother to come to us and get away from the bike path. Laughter started to spill from the corner of our mouths. Tears welled up in our eyes. Soon the guffaws burst out.

Realizing by our reaction that a joke had just occurred, she began to laugh too. “What is it? What just happened? Why are we laughing? I want to know!”

It was difficult to laugh and talk at the same time. “Did you see the woman with the stroller that we passed a few minutes ago?”

“No.”

“So you didn’t see the shirt she was wearing?”

“No.”

“It said, ‘I need a holiday.’”

My mother’s eyes widened as she realized what had happened. “Where was this woman when I said ... what I said?”

“She was walking right by us at that very moment.”

Her fears began to crystalize in her mind as she pieced together what had happened. She ran behind a bush and collapsed into one of the benches in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Through our own tears, we tried to console her. “Maybe she was German and didn’t even understand what her own shirt said.”

“But what if she was one of the British mothers?!”

“No way she’s British! Did you see her? She actually looked in the mirror this morning!”

In the end we felt a little sorry for this young mother taking her baby out for a walk. Raising a baby is hard work. Why shouldn’t she have a holiday?!

Volkswagen Autostadt

He straightened his green and navy tie as he waited in line to receive his assignment for the day. His mother was so proud of him. Her thirty year old son, fresh out of university, and already he has a good suit-and-tie job at Volkswagen.

He picked up his assignment from the employee entrance front desk. “So what did you get, Fritz?”

“I’m assisting Herr Schmidt again today. We should be finishing the model for the new prototype today. What do you have, Michael?”

He opened his envelope. It couldn’t be! “Oh, heh heh, you know, the same ol’ same o’. Hey, I’ll see you later, okay?”

Michael tried to retain as much composure as he could. What had happened? Why was he being punished? He headed for the men’s room and splashed cold water on his face. He then looked in the mirror at the young professional who was assigned to monitor a kindergarten class from Adelheidsdorf all day. Why me? But then he remembered the company party that weekend. He had drunk a little too much schnapps. He vaguely recalled flirting with the boss’s wife. Oh no.

So there he was, dressed for success in the company uniform, holding blond-headed 5 year olds by the hand. At lunch he ushered them through the line as they made their own hotdog, corn, carrot, and peas pizzas. While they sat at their little table he stood at the end armed with a bottle of apple juice prepared to refill the cups of these little brats. He rolled his eyes when they asked him to take them to the bathroom. Yes, wouldn’t mother be proud?!

Michael is only one of many young professionals with university degrees who work at the Volkswagen plant. There’s Diar who has been assigned to man the swing set allowing only 4 children to be on at a time. And Karl and Fernando who stand outside at the gate welcoming visitors. The entire time they’re wondering how Pieter lucked out and got assigned to be the instructor at the Tuareg test drive course.

Pieter was wondering that himself as he flirted with the young American woman. While she concentrated on driving up a flight of stairs, down a 45 degree decline, through a river bed and sand pit, over a see saw bridge, over logs, etc., he was pestering her with questions like what kind of music she likes, does she like parties, does she like Germany, blah blah blah. The entire time she was wondering what kind of maniac flirts with a girl when her parents are sitting in the backseat?!

those lying Australians

My pastor says that you can only believe 25% of what an Australian says. He also says that Australia is nothing more than a pretty desert, whereas New Zealand is where people who go to heaven live. I would think that he’s biased but I met an Australian who backed up his claim.

When I got on the train in Prague to go home, I found an empty seat in a compartment occupied by an Australian family. As we shared stories of our travels, I commented on how four weeks ago I had gone back to Hannover when I realized that I didn’t have my passport with me in Berlin. I expressed how I wished that I hadn’t discovered the loss till I reached the border. What a great story that would be!

“Well, if you were Australian, you would just lie about it,” said the father.

you’re really brave

“I’m not so sure that ‘brave’ is the right word for it.”

“Well, call it what you like. I couldn’t do it. Is it just personal conviction or is it religious?”

“I suppose it’s both.”

“Tell me this then, what did Jesus do with the water at the wedding?”

“He turned it into wine.”

“What did He drink with His disciples?”
”Wine.”

“And why ...”

“Um, excuse me. I don’t think anyone’s actually arguing with you. What point are you trying to make?”

The past four weeks I had been the only one who didn’t drink alcohol and one of the few who didn’t cuss. And that was considered brave? I suppose when that is the only lifestyle you’ve known since college and everyone else you knew had the same lifestyle ... well, it might actually be brave of someone to shake the system up and order a glass of black currant juice while some of the others order beer and belch out curse words as they celebrate the acquisition of their TEFL certificates.

I was thankful, however, for my small group of friends (the “normal ones” as Jesse put it). I was thoroughly exhausted from long days and nights but I knew this would be the last time I saw some of these people. So there I was, in the basement of Tulip Cafe, a favorite hangout for English teachers in Prague.


Autumn, the Presbyterian from Alabama, would be staying in Prague hoping to get a job at James Cook Language Institute. I made sure to give her directions to Kava Kava Kava near my metro station. Not only did they have great spinach quiche, internet, and their specialty Kava (coffee), but they also had two of the most handsome, tall, blond, blue-eyed Czech waiters in the city who spoke excellent English.

Anie, the adorable little girl from Lebanon, was being forced to fly back to Cyprus because she couldn’t get her visa renewed. “That’s an adorable dress, Annie. Did you get it here?” “No, my sister sent it to me from the United States. Do you know a store called Walmart?” Do I know Walmart?!

Tami and Christie, the two Wheaton girls, were on their way to Rome the next morning. I tried to give them tips like carry around big bottles of peach tea, don’t buy water from the trailers near the Colosseum, and be sure to try a melon gelatto while you sit under the pillars of the Pantheon.

And last, but definitely not least, Jennifer, my Czech-American tour guide and dinner companion. She and her fiancé would be remaining in the city for the rest of the summer.

I imagine I’ll see the Jennifer, Tami, and Christie again since all three live in Chicago, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to visit that city for quite some time. But the others ... I can only hope.

it doesn’t work if he speaks German too

It was 9:30. The night was warm and balmy as I stood across the street from the National Theater waiting for my tram home. People were still pouring out of the theater. Sweethearts were kissing each other goodnight as they parted ways.

“Do you know if this tram stops at --- Nahmesti?”

I looked down to see a mediterranean man looking up at me. Sigh. I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment. I had just said goodbye to my Czech student who had invited me to see the modern ballet “The Butterfly Effect” with her. It had been a beautiful portrait of three different stages of a butterfly’s life, and I wanted to remember it in silence.

“Aih dohn’t knohw.” There I went again. Pretending to be German. It gave me an excuse to use short sentences due to a lack of vocabulary.

“You don’t know?”

“Noh, yuh muhst loohk on zhe sign.”

“I need to look on the sign?”

Sigh. Just look at the timetable already! I gave him a curt nod and went back to my revelry.

“Is this a theater?”

Sigh. “Yehs, zhe National Teahter.”

“Was there a play tonight?”

Why did he insist on talking to me?! “Noh, a ballet.”

“Oh?! The Nutcracker?”

“Zhe Buhtterfly Effekt.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Iht’s modehrn”

Then he said something entirely indecipherable through his foreign accent. I stared at him.

“Vaht?”

He said it again.

Still no clue.

“Aren’t you Czech?”

“Noh.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Germany.”

“Ah, eine Deutsche Frau. Aus welcher Stadt kommen Sie?”

Gasp! The game was up! He spoke German too!! “Eh, Ich komme aus Hannover.”

“Ach, ja, eine schoener Stadt. Studieren Sie hier in Prag?”

At that moment, my tram arrived and I pressed forward till I reached the back of the tram getting as far from the little mediterranean man as I could.

dijon baked chicken stuffed with banana

I was overcome with curiosity ... “Dijon Baked Chicken Stuffed with Banana,” read the chalked menu board outside the restaurant of Hotel Constance, a quaint little inn tucked away in one of Prague’s many secret passageways around the castle and Old Town. I had discovered it one afternoon as I was searching for the U.S. Embassy.

“What do you think Dijon Baked Chicken Stuffed with Banana tastes like?” I asked one morning during a break in between classes to anyone who was listening.

Some faces screwed up, some raised their eyebrows, and some combined the two. But the general consensus was that no one could imagine what it could possibly taste like.

“Let’s try it,” said Jennifer.

I find that’s how I get involved in most things. I will be sitting there, and a thought will slip through my lips making itself public. Soon after, the thought blows up into an all out event. “I think I’ll go see Phantom of the Opera movie this weekend,” soon becomes ten people sharing a row in the theater and then everyone heading to Bennigan’s later to grab a bite to eat.

So Jennifer and I decided that today would be the day. We had been let out of class earlier than usual, so we hopped a tram across the river to Hotel Constance. Our tastebuds were working themselves into a tizzy of anticipation. Just imagine ... our sense of taste was going to experience something entirely new. It was like a shepherd from the hills of Kazakhstan seeing the color florescent pink for the first time. Or a couch potato in Madison, Wisconsin watching a National Geographic special hearing the click-grunt language of an African tribesman for the first time ... It’s sensory overload.

If I were a food critic for the Prague Post, my review of the dish might read,

... entirely unexpected and altogether pleasing ...

greenbean soup for dessert

“No, I don’t think I can make it to the Tulip tonight. My roommate is making an authentic Chinese dinner for me tonight.”

Anna and I hadn’t been in the same room longer than fifteen minutes since I arrived. I leave each morning at 9 a.m. and rarely get back home before 10 or 11 at night. So I promised her when she asked if she could cook for me that tonight I would come home early.

When I walked in the door at 8:15, I was pleasantly surprised that company was joining us. It was a girl from the States who had been trained to sing opera in Montreal, Quebec. She had been teaching English the past six months in Brno, the second largest city (or village) in the Czech Republic. Together she, Anna, and I sat down to a feast of spicy transparent noodles and a fried beef, mushroom, and lettuce mixture (was that a hint of peanut butter I tasted in the sauce?).

“Would you like dessert now, Christine?”

There’s dessert, too?

Anna went over to the fridge and pulled out a watery substance in a large clear bowl.

“Mmmm, what is it?”

“Greenbean Soup. I think it needs sugar.” She took a bag of sugar and began to pour a good 3/4 cup of sugar into the soup. As she put away the sugar, I took the ladle and served the soup into three bowls. As the ladle disturbed the soup’s contents I recognized barley and tiny green peas floating around.

It tastes just as you would imagine cold greenbean soup would taste like. Although I never would have picked it off a dessert menu, I must admit that I found it rather refreshing, a nice complement to a hot summer evening.

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.