The roaring 20s

I turn 30 tomorrow. (Cue a sharp intake of breath.) I can be calm this year because I had my freak out session last year when I turned 29. Still, this birthday feels momentous in some way. 

Let’s summarize my situation: I am unemployed, I live on student loans, I was closer to getting married at 19 than I am now, I’ve still not figured out where home is and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (I thought I did, but then I got confused when I started grad school).  

In short, I shouldn’t be turning 30. It’s irresponsible of me. However, I do have this to say for myself: I may look like I graduated from high school last spring, but I’ve had time to run around the proverbial block a few times. Here are six important life lessons my “roaring twenties” taught me:

1. I am a late bloomer. I’ve needed time to figure out what I think about things. I’ve needed time to figure out what I want. I’ve needed time to fight what I know is inevitable. Basically, I’ve needed time to figure out that everything my mother has ever said is annoyingly true. 

2. Life will never turn out the way I expect it to. Duh, right? But as with most obvious lessons, it’s taken me many years to learn this. Detours can be anxiety inducing. They can also be incredibly life giving. I choose which attitude to adopt. Also, a thankful attitude is really really helpful when you don’t know what the hell is going on.

3. It’s okay to be particular. I apply this principle in growing measure to every aspect of my life: boys, friends, jobs, food, hobbies, purchases, you fill in the blank. And I’m happier and more satisfied because of it. My theory is that when you are particular, you are less prone to make wasteful mistakes. 

4. Relationships are incredibly important. Another duh. But when I say they are important, don’t assume I mean all relationships. It’s easy to indiscriminately invest time in people who are only going to drain you. The older I get, the better I get at differentiating between those who will improve my life and those who won’t. I won’t ignore people, but I will not partake in their drama. You may call it antipathy; I call it relational triage. 

5. Do not grow weary in doing good. This is harder than it sounds. I don’t always like the world I live in, and when I say this I’m not referring to the big world crises that keep journalists buzzed. I mean the subtle attitudes and habits of people - our disgusting degree of consumerism, our quest for happiness in all the wrong places, our conformity to political correctness, our indecently corrupt political and financial systems, our entitled attitudes. The good guy rarely wins. The bottom line steers pretty much everything. I don’t wish to sound cynical, but the romantic idealist in me is feeling slightly deprived of oxygen. Despite this, the truth remains the same: It is always right to do the right thing. Good does win at the end of the story, but we haven’t gotten to the end yet. 

6. The advantages of handing over the reins of my life to my Creator cannot be overstated. The longer I live, the less I understand. The less I understand, the more I have to trust. Trust is not easy, but it is incredibly freeing. Every life plan I’ve ever made has veered into a pit stop and resulted in a change in direction. I’ve had to eat my “nevers.” But what I’ve gotten instead is an inner peace, a grateful heart, and a certainty that the best of life is still ahead of me. I don’t have to know everything. 

Back from Bosnia - Part 4

Put the Sarajevo Jazz Fest on your bucket list. Their slogan is “The best music is where you least expect it” and it proved truthful in every way.

I have been to Sarajevo five times now, the first four for work (see previous Back from Bosnia posts). I feel that with this fifth time I’ve finally put it to rest. The city is depressed and I would never want to live there (as Lina said at one point, this is the first time she’s not heard me say “Ooo I want to live there!” as I point to an apartment building in whatever city we’re visiting), but it is dear to my heart nonetheless. My love for this city goes far beyond strolling the streets and enjoying the sights. It’s tied up in the history of the place and the people I’ve met who call it home.

The point of this trip was to attend the Jazz Fest (which has been happening every November for 18 years). My friend Eldar is the stage manager (that feels awesome to say!) and he arranged for my friend Lina and I to stay at a friend’s mother’s friends’ empty apartment. We even got picked up from the airport in the VIP car that is used to shuttle the festival’s artists around. Incidentally, we arrived on the same flight as Håkon Kornstad, one of the artists we heard (we didn’t know this until we saw him on stage and realized we’d seen him in the passport line). I wonder what car he was picked up in….

Anyways, we’d bought tickets for three nights and each concert was better than the last. I can’t really transmit through words the tremendous music experience that it was. Suffice to say, if you love music it is well worth the trip at some point in your life. Friday night was Dianne Reeves. The woman has an incomprehensible range and vocal elasticity. There is nothing she can’t do. The concert was brilliant. You can get a taste of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6G7K1nIPxE

Saturday night was Håkon Kornstad, a Norwegian saxophone player turned opera tenor (no joke!) who also plays the flute with a clarinet mouthpiece (who knew?). With his trusty old loop machine, he became a one man band. Lina and I even got serenaded in Swedish when he sang a beautiful old folk tune Ack Värmland du sköna. And he was just the opener! The main attraction was Avishai Cohen Trio, three guys from Israel who play jazz like nobody’s business. The pianist was insane, the drummer (who shouldn’t even be called a drummer because it sounds so unsophisticated compared to what this guy did) was brilliant, and Avishai, the contrabassist, was genius. With all of the amazing stuff they did together, the highlight for me was when he sang an old Argentine ballad in Spanish and an old Hebrew song written by a young poet from Odessa in the late 1940s. His voice and expression were so sublimely melancholy. It profoundly touched me.

Sunday’s concert was Ibrahim Maalouf, a trumpet player from Lebanon/France. I’d never heard of the guy, but apparently he is pretty popular in Bosnia because the crowd cheered at the mention of certain songs. This guy is the whole package: a versatile and humorous musician, a charismatic showman, a strong band leader, and a seemingly unpretentious guy. Even though the music itself wasn't my favorite kind (although the bagpiper rocking out to a Led Zepplin tribute was pretty awesome), the full experience was one I am so glad to have witnessed. It was more than music. He comes from a war-torn Beirut and he played in a war-torn Sarajevo. The full significance of the feelings transmitted through his playing is something I may never be able to fully grasp, but the audience around me did. It sounds so cliché, but music like that transcends time, history, conflict and pain. It’s all there in the notes, notes that don’t need words to be understood. In fact, words would just ruin it.

Ibrahim Maalouf

The drummer was an ongoing party

Of course we did more than just attend concerts. We slept till noon, ate our breakfasts on a “park” bench, strolled through the city, befriended a Bosnian tea shopkeeper named Hussein who spoke no English but did speak perfect Italian. He was a colorful character with his wavy long white-gray hair and ankle length black tunic. We ate some good food, saw a gallery exhibition with photographs from the genocide in Srebrenica and most importantly, spent some quality time at my favorite café of all time, The Goldfish.

The Goldfish café keeps bringing me back to Sarajevo. 

Reunited with my friend Eldar and made a new friend in Alfred (far left).

This may very well have been my last trip to Sarajevo. Or it may not have been. I don’t know. But I am certain that I’ve taken the very best of it with me.

Cultural Differences: Episode 2

I was out for a walk this afternoon to clear my head (I’ve been working on a final exam this week) and I noticed that traffic had backed up on the main road going into a roundabout, creating a long line of cars. Nothing unusual, except for one thing: there was a girl on a moped waiting in the traffic line, and I thought to myself, “Huh, that’s odd. Why doesn’t she just zip right past them?” Which led my train of thought to once again consider the cultural differences between Swedes, Spaniards and Americans:

The Swede’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: Of course I should wait in line just like every other vehicle on the road. To do otherwise would be dangerous - and it would violate traffic laws.

The Spaniard’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: I own the road, hombre! To wait in line just like every other vehicle on the road would be inconceivable, and who cares about traffic laws?

The American’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: What kind of loser drives a moped? Gimme a friggin’ Escalade! 

The new (unplanned) diet

Much of Tuesday night and Wednesday morning of this week was spent in the ER trying to figure out the cause for the tremendous abdominal pain I’d been experiencing since Monday night. After much poking and prodding and waiting, I was told that I have an inflammation in my large intestine, a condition that is highly uncommon for a woman my age (I’m much too young). It’s even more perplexing since the most common cause (according to google) is a diet low in fiber and high in stress, something that does not describe my situation at all. In short, I am stumped.

But I am relieved to know that I’m not dying and that I don’t need to be operated on (because there was talk at first of it being early stages of appendicitis). The doctor told me go on a liquid diet for seven days, eat fiber packets for at least four weeks and then come in for a colonoscopy in six to eight weeks. Easy (albeit slightly uncomfortable) plan.

So. Yesterday afternoon found me browsing the grocery aisles for soup, juice and yogurt. Shouldn’t have been hard, right? But the trick was to find these items sans chunks. As in no soups with vegetable and/or other chunks. No juices with pulp. No yogurts with bits of fruit. Still findable, but the choices became really limited. And boring.

Now I’m on day two of this unplanned liquid fast, and I am hungry. I’m feeling much better, but now instead of being distracted by pain, I’m distracted by my grumbling tummy. I feel like I’ve lost the joy of living. If I can’t look forward to the next good meal, WHAT ELSE is there to look forward to in this life???? (Obviously I’m being dramatic.) But it’s making me realize how much I take the joy of eating for granted.

Eating is not something we do just to survive. Eating is something we do together, in relationship, because it’s FUN. Sure, for us single people who live alone, eating is often done in silence and solitude. But those times we do get to share a meal with a group of people, there is so much more involved than just eating. It’s fellowship, it’s community, it’s a celebration. When you are not allowed to partake in this ritual for whatever reason, it’s kind of depressing. Colors turn to gray scale. All you want to do is heave a sigh and mutter “Bah! Humbug!” (at least I do). 

Unexpectedly, I feel that I am developing a greater empathy for those who suffer from food allergies or other conditions that prohibit them from experiencing the full enjoyable spectrum of food. I know several people with such allergies and I’ve not dedicated the issue more thought beyond the occasional “sucks to be them.” My diet will only last a week. Theirs may last a lifetime.

So, on behalf of all my previous insensitivity, I apologize and I empathize with you. I never thought of how isolated it could make you feel. Kudos to you for putting up with people like me.

A contemplation on death, but mostly life

Jenna, the daughter of some dear family friends just died a few hours ago after battling stomach cancer for some time. She was 23.

I’m sitting here crying but I don’t know for exactly what reason. It’s tragic that a young woman with such a promising future should have it taken from her for no apparent reason. And I can only imagine what her family is going through at this moment. The loss, the grief, the questions. I would be a mess if it were my brother or one of my parents. A complete mess. But that’s not why I’m crying.

I suppose it’s natural when something like this hits close to home to spend more time than usual thinking about death, eternity, and the true reason for life on Earth. Hollywood has freely speculated on the concept of death and life after it, my favorite one being the film “Meet Joe Black.” I don’t consider its take on the concept to be realistic, but it comes close to asking the important questions.

So what are the important questions? I don’t have a definitive answer, but I have decided on what the two most important questions for me are: 1) Where does life begin and end? and 2) Is God really good all the time?

If you are unfamiliar with authentic Christianity, it may be hard to wrap your brain around what I’m about to say. But hear me out.

I don’t spend enough time thinking about Heaven. I know I’m going there when I die, I know it’s fantastic, and I know I’ll spend way more time there than I ever will here (on Earth). Still, I don’t think about it a ton. Why? I have no respectable answer to that question. Clearly I’m too focused on natural rather than spiritual reality.

I do however spend quite a bit of time thinking about my own death. It’s disconcerting for me to not know how or when I’m going to die. My dramatic mind thinks up a number of horrific ways I could go. I don’t want to die one of these violent deaths, but at the same time I can’t truly visualize myself dying a peaceful death at a ripe old age. I don’t know if it’s a legitimate premonition or just my own morbidness, but I’ve always thought I’d never make it past 50. You’d think that with this prospect I’d be one of those carpe diem people. But life is something I take for granted. All the time.

Please don’t feel depressed. I’m getting to the good stuff.

Life, eternal life, starts the moment you give your life to Jesus. And it never stops. It just keeps going. Death is merely a door. And Jesus has always been the point.

Also, God is good. All the time. I struggle with the fact that I don’t see powerful miracles happening. The Bible is full of documented healings and demonstrations of power, and since I absolutely believe that God is the same today, we should reasonably still be seeing the same class of miracles. (Note: There are miracles happening today, just not nearly as many in the Western world, the reason for which is a whole other issue and not one I will expound upon here).

But my point is that I, and Christian believers in general, often think about God in a completely erred light. To take the example of the miracle of resurrection, what if it wasn’t a matter of Jesus deciding to not allow this miracle to happen, no matter how much we prayed for it to? What if He gave the person standing at Heaven’s door the choice between returning to Earth with a restored physical body and staying in Heaven with Him? After tasting the splendor and majesty of Heaven, who wouldn’t choose the latter?

So really, when Jesus is the ultimate destination, you can’t not win. There were two options for Jenna: either the Lord would do a miracle and restore her completely from her sickness, or He would take her to be with Him for eternity. Either way, she’d win.

And I think that is why I’m crying. Because in the midst of the sadness, I am overwhelmed by and in awe of the goodness of Jesus. None of the events make sense in light of natural thinking.  None of them. But when I gaze upon who Jesus is and think about the true nature and purpose of life, the life that HE gave us, it’s impossible not to feel joy.

Today, Jenna won.

Woes of a grad student, part 2: When your inadequacy glares you in the face.

I’m generally a secure, self-confident person, not unusually prone to performance anxiety or people pleasing. But sometimes things happen that serve as uncomfortable reminders that it is so easy for me to base my self worth on how others gauge my abilities. I’m generally good at the things I do, and the things I’m not good at, I avoid. I don’t like looking like a fool and I take negative feedback personally. I do not have thick skin. And this bothers me. How can I expect to survive in the world of international politics when I don’t have thick skin?

                         

I’m in a Master’s program that combines the realms of political science, economics and global studies. I am absolutely in the right place at the right time; this is what I’ve been wanting to do since I had an epiphany in 2006. However, unlike my classmates, I don’t have any formal background in any of these areas. Which puts me in the slow lane as far as I’m concerned. I’m not a fan of being in the slow lane, but I’ve kept my head high about it.

Until I got my first failing grade on a paper. Granted, I knew full well that this particular essay was not my best work. In contrast to the first paper (which I aced, by the way), I wasn’t feeling inspired, I wasn’t finding an angle to attack it from, so I just wrote a mediocre essay, handed it in and hoped for the best.

Well, my prof was not having it. She gave me a “no pass,” told me my analysis was severely lacking, and now I have to rewrite it. Which is a good thing, really. I’m grateful for the second chance. I’m just feeling slightly discouraged and inadequate.

But actually, here’s what’s really going on: This particular professor is exposing my weaknesses, and I resent her for it. That’s not fair to her, because there are things I need to learn. This is why I went back to school - to learn what I do not already know. Unfortunately for me, this involves a great deal of pride swallowing. In this season of my life, I need to allow the limits of what my mind is capable of to be tested, and it is very uncomfortable to feel those limits in the flesh. 

Incidentally, this same morning I listened to a convicting podcast sermon about humility. I even had a nice little time with the Lord about it, asking Him to uproot any prideful attitude, to strip away my self-reliance, to help me embrace humility, etc etc. What perfect timing, as I was certainly made to embrace humility. But I can yield because I am loved by God. There is nothing I can do on my own and in my own strength that is going to impress anyone. I know the plans He has for me are epic. I know that I will someday hold a position of influence on an international scale. I’ve sensed this for years, but I do not for the life of me know how or what or when. I have nothing that qualifies me for such a destiny. Only the fact that God chose to plant a dream in my heart and bestow favor. 

So I am going to reject the temptation to grumble and I am going to rewrite this blasted paper, and it is going to be analytically brilliant.  

Woes of a grad student, part 1: No money.

Today I went on a reconnaissance trip to Gothenburg with a friend in order to locate the political science building that is to be my new second home for the next two years. And being from a small town where the shopping is limited, we also browsed the stores. To be accurate, I browsed and my friend bought. This was hard. 

Understand something: I love to shop. And I don’t buy crap. I like the things that I buy to be made of quality materials, which naturally ups the price tag. Since I’ve had a steady income for the last several years, this has not been a problem. My salary has been modest, but I’ve also led a relatively scaled-down, inexpensive existence (if one disregards all of the traveling). So I’ve been able to afford some of the finer things in life. 

Not anymore. Now I attend grad school. Now I’m living on student loans. Now, suddenly, I have no money to spend on anything other than the. Absolute. Necessities. 

Boring. SO boring. 

So today as we perused shoe stores, clothing stores, department stores, I felt the depressing reality set in. I can’t buy any of this. Having a “day on the town” will only be upsetting from now on. Not forever of course, but for what feels like a pretty long time. Ahhhh what have I done?

An unbeatable summer

Here are some things I’ve learned/realized/acknowledged/concluded this summer:

I do indeed have roots. I’ve lived in several different places and I’ve loved (almost) all of them but not felt especially at home in any particular one. Depending on my frame of mind, it could take me 20 minutes to answer the question “Where are you from?”. But spending time with the CFC* team from Potsdam who came to help out at English Camp** this summer filled a hole in my heart I didn’t know I had. You could say that Potsdam is where everything started. It’s where my dad got saved and discipled, it’s where my parents attended university, it’s where they met and got married. It’s where I was born. And now, nearly 30 years later, I’m meeting the children of my parents’ best friends from that time and finding that we connect really well on a personal level, that we flow really well on a ministry level, and that we have a common understand of local church and Kingdom culture. In short, we have the same DNA. And I think it’s because we come from the same place. Very few times in my life have I experienced such an immediate and genuine knitting of hearts. That kind of stuff is meaningful to me. I guess you can take the girl out of Potsdam, but you can’t take Potsdam out of the girl. 

The CFC team (photo cred: Jeannine Pringle)

My grandmother meant more to my grandfather than I ever knew. During the few days I spent with him, most of the conversation revolved around her. He’s a simple man and he’s never been expressive about his feelings, but now, almost two years after her passing, he’s telling me how much he misses her, how beautiful she was to him, and I realize that the pain of losing her is much greater than what I gave him credit for. The house is still full of her. The closets are still full of her clothes, the bathroom is still full of her perfumes and toiletries; she is everywhere. Yet he’s so lonely, and it breaks my heart. I’m thankful to have seen another side of my grandfather. He’s a really good man, and I love him dearly. 

I'm still his favorite granddaughter

I love my Italian family. This is not a new development, it’s just that I don’t get to spend that much face time with them, and each time I do, I’m reminded of how crazy, dysfunctional and lovable we all are. Between us there’s no b.s., we don’t pretend we’re something we’re not, and when we’re together, it’s a Thanksgiving dinner. Or, as it was this time, a wedding.

Wedding rehearsal

In Boston with Gian and Matt

Traveling by myself is no fun. Bags get heavy, layovers get long, and not having anyone to share the boredom with is…well….boring. Normally this would be an excellent time to do so some legit reading, but when my jet lagged brain is in an airport fog, it’s only good for taking in photo spreads. So instead of reading the books I’ve packed with me, I buy fashion magazines, walk around aimlessly, and wish I had wifi for my phone so I could at least “connect” with somebody on the other side of wherever. 

I need to move to New York City. It’s an idea I’ve been entertaining since last summer, but I’ve doubted whether, after several years of living in a small town and having everything so accessible and easy, I could make it in a city like New York. But after spending five days with my brother who lives there, I am determined to settle down there for a time. I’ve got to say, the city has definitely cleaned up its act since I was a kid. It was not at all as overwhelming as I’d imagined; walking the streets felt completely familiar, and jogging in Central Park felt totally routine. Curiously, out of all the awesome things my brother and I did, one of the greatest highlights for me was jogging - once in Central Park and once along the Hudson River. I have never been on such glorious runs in my life. That kind of thing makes a place livable to me, and I’m not even a disciplined runner. It pretty much sealed the deal. Now all I need is to land a job that pays well enough to finance a loft apartment in Chelsea… 

Washington Square Park as viewed from NYU where my brother attends.

Coney Island. Hard to believe these two pictures are of the same city.

I feel out of place at rooftop bars. Granted, I’ve only been to one, but it was loud, it was crowded, and it was pointless. My brother and I and our friend Josh decided to go all in with the NYC experience, so we booked a room at the Empire Hotel across from Lincoln Center that reportedly had a hopping rooftop bar. I was all excited about it - you know, living the high life for a day and all that. So I put on my little black dress and my little black heels and took the elevator up to the top floor. But as soon as we walked in, I felt out of place. The space was packed with the young, beautiful and upwardly mobile, but since I wasn’t there to schmooze, flirt or hook up with anyone, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. So we ordered Long Island Ice Teas and took selfies. 

The view from the rooftop bar of the Empire Hotel. 

This one doesn't even need a caption.

My brother is my best friend. We read each other’s thoughts, know each other’s tastes, have each other’s backs. He lifts up the people around him. His humor is quick and sharp, and he makes me laugh. His talent makes me want to showcase him yet protect him from the world that will inevitably try to take advantage of him. He brings out the performer in me, and he makes me look good (or is it the Instagram filters?). I could easily envy his charisma and feel the need to compete with his charm (and maybe I do, just a teency weency bit), but mostly I’m content to sit back and enjoy the show that is Daniel. With a guy like him on the stage, I don’t mind never being more than an audience member. I know he sees me. 

*Christian Fellowship Center in Madrid, NY (http://www.cfconline.org/)

**English Camp in Alhaurin de la Torre, Spain put on by Centro Cristiano de Alhaurin 

Concentrated goodness, Finnish style

How do I put five days of deeply satisfying quality time with some of the best people I’ve ever met into words? I can’t. Words seem trite. But the phrase concentrated goodness would at least be an attempt in the right direction. My eternal travel buddy Lina and I went to Helsinki last week to discover a new city, stroll around town, fine dine etc. - a.k.a. ”the usual.” We’ve been to Málaga, Portland, Montreal, Budapest and now Helsinki together, and each trip blows the last one out of the water. We don’t know how we keep pulling that off, but I call it living in the favor of God. 

Part of the reason why I wanted to go to Helsinki was to meet up with Sami and Topi, a couple of Finnish guys I’d met at a conference in Berlin last year (see previous post ”Some personality types are just meant to take over the world”). I hadn’t seen them since then, and as we’re practically neighbors, I figured it was high time for an HQSM (high quality short meeting). In short: best decision ever. Here’s how it went down: 

We stayed at the Klaus K, a very cool design hotel situated in the middle of town, in the Design District. Lina and I agree that it has the best hotel breakfast we’ve ever eaten.  Everything was delicious, super healthy, locally sourced and thoroughly designed to make people happy. 

The Klaus K

Our hotel room

The Design District is completely unpretentious, full of stylish boutiques that offer anything from paper products to tea to locally designed clothing and home decor. Inviting cafés and fine dining experiences abound. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to take advantage of our surroundings quite to the desired degree as it was Easter weekend and things were closed. Besides, we were kept busy as Topi and Sami took it upon themselves to show us a good time. We’re a few gentlemen short here in Sweden, but these two men are gold. 

The day after we arrived, Topi took us out to his farm where we went out in his rowboat, caught a couple of fish, ate lunch and took a siesta.

The view of the lake from Topi's farmhouse

Yup, I caught a fish (and when I say "I," I mean the net caught the fish and I caught the net).

Once Sami joined us after work, the guys introduced us to an authentic Finnish sauna experience. I can now say that you haven’t really lived until you’ve sat in a sauna with sweat pouring out from every imaginable opening on your skin. It was amazing. Politicians should solve world conflicts in this manner. At first I was skeptical about the whole sweat-profusely-then-jump-into-ice-cold-water thing. But after trying it once, the shock became addictive. We alternated between steam and ice for two and a half hours. Simply marvelous.

The Finns take their saunas very seriously. Topi is building this two-story smoke sauna, soon to be inaugurated!

Then it was time for dinner! Topi fried up the fish we’d caught earlier and we ate until we were completely stuffed. Then we ate some more. And then we had mämmi for dessert. It’s a bit unfortunate tasting, but apparently it’s an Easter tradition. It looks like gooey chocolate brownie pudding, but chocolate it is not. It’s more of a malty mishmash of grains that tastes like that black German bread nobody likes. 

Lina and Topi frying fish

Lina being gorgeous as usual, Topi and Sami

Mämmi aside, the day was complete and utter bliss. Disregard every bucket list you’ve ever made. This is the only one you need:

1. Go to Finland.
2. Sit in a sauna.
3. Dip yourself in a lake.
4. Repeat steps 2 and 3 as many times as desired/necessary/forced upon you.
5. Catch a fish.
6. Eat said fish for dinner.
7. Fall asleep on the couch with a glass of wine in your hand. 

Other things we did: 

-Attended a ”Holy Thursday” service at the Rock Church whose sanctuary is literally hollowed out of a huge piece of rock with a giant copper disc for a roof. Very cool. 

-Ate dinner Sami’s place, made friends with a ”Mexinadian” named Allen, witnessed the ascent of a red moon and watched Despicable Me (which, incidentally, becomes a lot funnier when watched after midnight). 

-Visited the Charlie Chaplin exhibition and did our best to channel his persona. 

Good Friday was indeed a good Friday. Sami took us to a worship service at a bilingual evangelical church with tons of hip, English/Swedish/Finnish-speaking young adults who love Jesus. Then we stopped by Topi’s place (he’s got an apartment in the city in addition to the farmhouse) where he offered us ”something cold” to drink (I thought he meant water, but indeed he meant Cava). The man’s knack for hospitality is unparalleled. (**A side note on Topi: He marches to the beat of his own drum more than any person I’ve ever known. He listens to opera, studies theology, farms beans and grains, takes road trips through Eastern Europe and drinks Cava on weekdays. The quintessential bohemian. One is blessed to know him.) 

Topi

Friday night was spent in good company at a local jazz club called Storyville. As luck would have it, on this night the traditional jazz had been replaced with the unfortunate genre of country boogie. Not awesome. But we compensated with a spontaneous prayer meeting in our hotel room later that night - hot seat style. Which brings me to my final thought: the global church is an amazing thing. In what other context do random people from all over the world, some of whom have just met, congregate in a hotel room and pray for each other with words of knowledge, love and encouragement? The body of Christ is beautiful and worth fighting for. Regardless. People like Sami and Topi make me love Jesus even more. Amen. 

Sami, Lina, Topi and me