Vagrant Story

the plural of ajax

2006-09-22T19:49:00.000+01:00

Reed's been home for a few months now and it's time he begin blogging again.

the plural of ajax

Vagrant Story is still here as archives.

Vagrant Story XVII: my last introduction

2006-07-27T08:12:00.000+01:00

Date Taken Unknown: INTERNS!

To the delight of the Reed that prefers everything in its right place, I am at long last home. However, the Reed that has tasted the risky mysterious may not remain dormant for long.

To be honest, at first it wasn't unlike traveling again. Homecoming was simply visiting a place I knew once but hadn't seen for a while. Old friends, old places - some things had changed, and some had stayed the same. Part of my identity while I was away was 'the guest.' So reintroductions, questions about where I've come from, and adjusting to change were part of my interacting repetoire.

Yet, unlike Poland and the Czech Republic, (countries I've revisited these past ten months) I was home. My room was actually my room and not just a space I occupied for a limited time. I wasn't supposed to feel culturally different anymore. There was no more, "Oh, is that what it's like here? Back home, we're like this." Suddenly I'm the same as everyone else when I buy gum at a gas station. I don't have an accent and I don't have a very interesting origin. There's a poetic tragedy for the traveller unpacking his luggage for the last time. Fold them up and put them on the shelf downstairs Reed. I lived out of those bags for 10 months! - "Home is where the bags are" is handwritten with permeneant marker on the side of my carry-on. It seems that The Guest is now The Resident.

June was the month of wrapping up business abroad and daydreaming of Minnesota. July has been the month of unwrapping the life I packed away last Autumn, and sorting out what to dream about next. It's altogether familiar with a twisted 'brand new' aspect to it. Just what will I be like now in this house, at this school, with these people? I'm very curious to find out.

There is a pattern in my writing that I am steadily trying to break. To be perfectly honest, I am too top heavy. My introductions are always more engaging than my conclusions. I can get very excited about starting an idea only to break off in the middle and almost call it quits towards the end. Whether or not this is a metaphor for my life and the way I approach new projects is another essay (which I'll probably never finish) and I wont discuss it here.

With this limitation in mind, I have been agonizing over how I would bring my Vagrant Stories to a close. Many of you, perhaps familiar with my habit, were probably astonished to find this last email in your inbox, announcing one final story. The problem is that I hate conclusions. They always have to end in such a firm place and wrap up all the loose ends you were too lazy to take care of earlier. Worst of all, they have to be best part of your piece because the people that take the time to read your story in its entirety will most likely remember that final paragraph more the anything.

Thus I have decided that I will have no ending. This is my last Vagrant Story, certainly, but I refuse to conclude at what is not the end. In fact, my stories will continue since I anticipate all sorts of awesome stuff to come my way this year. My only option is to leave you with an introduction - my last introduction.

Richie and Reed: Um, apparently, we've found a rock

Every great writer begins from the same place - a blank page. I repeat to myself almost audibly, gazing into the emptiness of my dusty computer screen. It's intimidating watching all that nothing. Plus, it's got finger prints all over it. The cursor line blinks impatiently like an animated child tapping her foot at the grocery store while mom looks for a fresh bunch of bananas. "When are you going to fill this page with stuff worth reading, Reed?"

Every great writer begins from the the same place. My mind is a slide show, flicking through a catalogue of experiences attempting to find a moment or a memory to put to words. I need to get my job back. Click. I need to delay my jury duty summons. Click. Why is gas so expensive? Click. I need to register for classes at North Central. Click. I need to call easyJet and collect my travel insurance. Click. For a moment I smile and indulge myself while considering the narrative I would likely compile with these motivations - a young man dressed for an interview pays too much for fuel while presiding over a court case about lost luggage.

the same place... Ok focus Reed, the cursor is losing patience, I think it's blinking faster. Write a story. Write a prayer.

God I want to write for you a beautiful prayer. I want this prayer to say everything I feel and everything I fear. It would contain in its brevity and its concise wit, the essence that I could not say audibly with my hands folded and my eyes closed. Grimly I would greet this prayer, almost unaware of my fluttering fingers, studying the appearing words like telekinetic paper and quill. Tears would collect in my lids as the canvas on the screen hazardly faded in the utterings of my spirit and I would feel as if I were naked, standing in front of mirror after not seeing my body for many years.

What kind of revelation surprises its author? What is this article existing only in dreams that teaches its creator what he feels? Am I capable at the feeble of age of 21 conceiving of something so precious, so honest, and so dangerous? Am I just filling in space or do I really believe that tonight, while sulking in the every day cares of my current situation, such a mystery would manifest itself on my computer monitor?

Every great writer does not start at the same place. There is no such thing as a blank page when you know what will be there, or at least, what should be there.

Ok cursor, your wait is over.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

"Keep No Score"
Sleeping At Last

Vagrant Story XVI: the machine

2006-07-01T01:27:00.000+01:00

It was raining outside so games were definitely out of the equation.

I fingered the tennis ball in my pocket and pondered my options. About fifteen ten-and-older gypsy boys stared at me expectantly, awaiting my manifestation of some grand activity. My face did not betray that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing while their faces betrayed their complete faith in my sense of fun. I kept fingering the tennis ball and prayed for inspiration.

I'd been asked to prepare a drama workshop for the older boys during our children's program on a missions trip in Slovakia. The idea called for our team to split up and help the kids prepare a presentation for their parents. The children would then be followed by some drama, live music, and most importantly an introduction to the pastors of the church plant. Some of my teammates had grabbed a guitar and our only interpreter and began teaching the younger kids a song in English. Someone else took the CD player and had the older girls follow along with her as she taught them a dance. I took the older boys to the only available space in the building, the stairwell, and regretted the rain. I had no interpreter, no one from the team with me, and no relief in the schedule for another hour. I fingered the tennis ball in my pocket.

I motioned for the boys to sit down on the stairs and be very quiet. This took some settling and gave me time to develop an idea from a memory I had of a high school theatre improv game.

"This game is called 'The Machine.'" I said to no one in particular. Most didn't react, but I think a few understood the word 'game' which they seemed to react to favorably. Slowly and deliberately I began snapping my fingers.

Snap* Snap* Snap* Snap*

As theatrically as possible I made eye contact with every boy in front of me. I had one advantage in that, as a foreigner, I was an innately engaging person.

It's hard for us to understand how being from a westernized country like the UK or America can garnish such instant celebrity status in towns like Slavošovce until you consider the kind of media we export. There are many in the world (especially young people) that believe the lifestyles portrayed in our popular music, TV, and movies is an accurate representation of an average westerner. We'd met most of the children in the past few days by visiting their school, joining them in soccer games, or passing out balloons and singing on the street. Our presence in their small town of 1,800 was a major event, so it was not difficult to get children to attend our events. However, entertaining them upon arrival wasn't so simple.

The Team: This is that one picture where everyone's like "Ok, now for a silly one."

I started pointing at the older boys, signaling that I wanted them to join with me in snapping. The idea caught on. Those who couldn't snap clapped, as I paced around rhythmically trying to prevent a rush of tempo. After engaging the group as much as possible I took the drastic next step.

I motioned them to maintain the beat while kneeling a few feet in front of the crowd. Keeping with the music, I began what could be described as a pulley motion with my arms and uttered a kind of cartoonish 'woop' noise on beat 1. My aim was to mimic a sort of mechanical lever with a obnoxious creak. It was more likely I resembled a constipated elephant swinging his trunk from side to side. The boys giggled but kept up the beat. I smirked confidently as if doing the constipated elephant made you the coolest kid in school.

After establishing (perhaps even burning) the image in their minds, I gestured for one of the more audacious boys to join me. He quickly gained confidence in the lever/pachyderm maneuver and I grabbed another kid to join the machine. His motion, I decided, would be of a conveyor belt beeping twice on beat 3. It took some coaxing but I got both boys beeping and wooping in time while their peers snapped along. The periodic mischevious laughter, however, was impossbile to set into rhythm.

It probably took 2 or 3 more additions to the machine before the idea was generally accepted by all. Each boy had a motion and a sound effect, and after a while, I simply allowed them to be creative and invent their own components. Ten minutes later, the boys were whistling, beeping, clicking, clucking, and kicking along with my snapping fingers. I was conducting a living, loco-motive, absurdity-apparatus and it was singing it's own theme song. While assembling the machine, the rain had stopped, and I could retreat outside to the safe realm of kicking around the soccer ball.

The next day was sunny and I again had an hour with the older boys. I was walking outside with the soccer ball when they stopped me. One gestured the lever we'd invented the day before and the other boys nodded 'yes' in agreement. Apparently, 'the machine' was a hit. They'd even dragged along some of their friends to modify the contraption. That day we practiced 'the machine' for a half hour. After, I nabbed our interpreter and told the story of how God called Samuel when he was young using the boys as my actors. At the end of the week, their parents watched us perform 'the machine' live and a mother and father told me through the interpreter how much they appreciated my influence on their son.

A Performance of The Machine: unfortunately, this evening some of my players were missing so members of the team had to fill in.

There are many more stories about my 10 days in Slovakia. I could tell you about how, in all my missions trips, I've never felt more welcome than I did by this cell group. I could tell you about how the airline lost my luggage for 5 days and how I had to go shopping with the church planter, Ladsko, who didn't speak any English. I could definitely tell you about how many people made important decisions about Christ and how many more got connected with the brand new church in their town. To be honest, the past ten months are filled with stories I wish I could write for you. But some things are just better in person.

This is the last entry to the Vagrant Stories I will make from abroad. Next week I'm coming home. Tomorrow night I'm flying to Dublin, but after that I'll receive my final passport stamp in Minneapolis airport on the 4th of July. Fireworks and hot dogs will welcome me in all their familiar splendor, and soon I will be bombarded with the adventure of creating a new normal. These ten months have been so much more then what I can say right now but I plan on writing the final Vagrant Story after my return.

For all of you reading in the Twin Cities area, next week I'll be saying hello.

For all of you reading on this side of the Atlantic, tomorrow is goodbye.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO

"Eyes Open"
Snow Patrol

Vagrant Story XV: cymru

2006-06-01T21:07:00.000+01:00

It wasn't until the third inconspicuous toss that I identified the perpetrator. The unassuming old man in the tweed coat and hook handle umbrella was my culprit. Tourists scurried like spring squirrels in and out of the quaint sidewalk cafe in Portmeirion, Wales but this particular gentlemen lounged stoically in contrast to the pandemonium around him. I maintained surveilance from behind my book at a nearby park bench and stood by for more mischief.

His eyes narrowed and bolted from side to side as he methodically chewed a slice of buttered toast. Satisfied that he sat unobserved, he tore a chunk from his bread and began ripping it into smaller bits between his knees under the table. In a flash, he tossed the crumbs out into the busy sidewalk and replaced his hand innocently around a white tea cup. I could tell I was dealing with a professional.

This type of character seemed out of place in the Welsh attraction town. The bow tie, steady english posture, and precisely calm expression, made him seem more fit as a spectator at a cricket match or Oxford crew race. Each time he threw bread, a slight smirk would materialize at his lips. I liked him so much I began hoping he wasn't senile. Everything about the old man seemed so sensible and sane, save this one eccentricity.

Then a small blue and yellow bird hesitantly fluttered in amongst the crumbs and quickly snatched a morsel before darting away with his prize. A few moments later, he returned and boldly pecked up more mouthfuls until an approaching stroller caused him to retreat. As if spurred on by the success of their peer, two more birds joined the first for a third sally onto the sidewalk. One had a red chest and the other a green head. All the while, the old man continued discreetly tossing bread crumbs to the pile. More birds of varying colors and sizes were added to the mix and soon pedestrians previously bent on admiring the eclectic architecture began to take notice of the spectacle forming at their feet.

"There's a robin." I heard a father say to his daughter.

"Is that a swallow?" A woman asked her husband.

In reaction to my own ignorance, I was surprised at the deft avian recognition skills amongst the assortment of visitors present. I also recalled Mary Poppin's advice from my childhood: "Feed the birds/two pence a bag." The nursery rhyme seemed to fit the situation perfectly.

I lifted my eyes from the birds and wandering families that had paused to admire them. The old man's guilt would never be proven since the evidence was currently being devoured. I observed him carefully and pondered if he'd forseen this whole episode. My movement must have caught his attention because he glanced up as well and we locked eyes. For a moment neither of us did anything. Then he grinned. Then he winked.

Wales is abundant in three natural resources. Sheep, misty mountains, and abandoned castles and for the most part you will never find one without the other two present. Some of you might remember my decision late last year to become a full time shepherd. While many have tried to deter me, I remain steadfast in my calling. In fact, this weekend has convinced me to not only transfer my future flock into Wales (in what I will call "the great vagrant migration") but also to fortify them into an abandoned castle. This strategic maneuver will allow me to protect the herd from invading wolves, lamburger companies, and Anglo-saxons.

I joined Neville and Wendy on a light jaunt to the tallest point in Wales. I tried my best not to slow them down but I just don't climb mountains the way I used to when I was a wee lad. It took us a little over two hours to reach the summit of Snowdon where we were met with fog, blustering wind, and the sound of a train whistle. Apparently Wendy and Neville had known about this convenient little "Snowdon Railroad" all along but assured me that the fun was in climbing and not riding to the tops of mountains.

Traveling for nine months has succeeded in making me aware of how much there is in the world I haven't seen. At the end of each new chapter, I always ask myself if I would want to come here again. After four days in Wales, I know it's imperative I return. I've been to many places I know I'll visit again, I've ventured to some exotic locations I'm content to experience once, and I've stumbled upon a few locales I'd rather not know existed (Blackpool for instance). The criteria is always the same. If I come back will there be more stories to tell?

I think the promise of telling the story is one of my favorite aspects of travel. First of all, it gives me something to talk about during awkward pauses at parties. (Her: Cool party, huh? Me: I've been to Scotland and I saw a highland cow, have you?) Second, I relish recreating an experience for people to enjoy - and not just relaying the facts and figures of a trip - but actually communicating the essence of what I felt or saw. Third, once you've been somewhere someone else hasn't, you can create the most elaborate fiction imaginable. (Me: Highland cows are 15 feet tall, breathe fire, and once I saw one in mortal combat with the Loch Ness monster.)

I'm busy here but on those occasions when I do lift my head, I can see that homecoming isn't as far away as I'm used to. And I look forward to returning home to what I'm beginning to call 'the comfortable wow.' Honestly, the lessons learned here would exceed what I have left to type in this Vagrant Story. But along with all the expected "comings of age" and "findings of yourself" associated with this particular brand of adventure, I've learned to treasure my stories. Souvenirs and trinkets will rust or get lost but the stories of people, places, and purpose can only improve with age.

And this is encouraging because I'll be telling these stories for the rest of my life.

NOTE: "Cymru" is "Wales" in Welsh

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

"Pink Moon"
Nick Drake

Vagrant Story XIV: i came, i saw, i captured

2006-05-18T22:38:00.000+01:00

Last week was Romania. This is my video.

Hopefully I'll be able to write a little something about the trip soon.

PHOTO: My Jimmy Stewart "Rear Window" Impression

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

"Music In Mouth"
BELL X1

Vagrant Story XIII: nostalgia

2006-05-01T02:37:00.000+01:00

PHOTO: Lucy is regretfully not in England.

"Are you good at 007, Reed?" asked the smiling, mop-headed blond boy.
"I don't know, how do you play 007, Isaak?" I inquired.
"C'mere, we'll show you."

I followed brother and sister to the sitting room in the obeyingly enthusiastic manner associated with babysitting. Steve and Michelle Melnichuk were out for the evening and Steve, being my boss at NLI, had decided to encourage me in the gift of childcare. For the record, Isaak (6), Shayelle (8), and Alexa (10) are fantastic kids and I suggest (if you're ever in the Bedworth/Nuneaton area) that babysitting night at the Melnichuks be one of your top sight-seeing priorities. Ask Isaak and Shayelle to perform their rendition of "Napoleon Dynamite" word for word, emphasis by emphasis; or listen as Alexa repeatedly and tirelessly relates to you the life-story of your girlfriend (that presumably you've been ignorant of for quite some time) whom lives in France and wears a beret. All in all, you're in store for some ingenious, well-behaved fun.

Incidentally, here's the Melnichuk website. Checkout what they're doing with NLI or some pictures of the kids in this story.

Isaak and Shayelle didn't notice when I smiled to myself as they handed me a familair three-pronged game controller. 007 was known to me as simply "Bond" or "Goldeneye" for the Nintendo 64. The game had been released when I was 12 or 13 and is held by many young males aged 18-24 across the world as probably the best video game ever. Bond holds a special place in my heart because, well frankly, I was so frickin' good at it. I wielded rocket launchers as proficiently as other 13 year olds might have wielded a plastic shovel in a sandbox. I knew the secret ambush posts of Goldeneye's battle complexes the way another suburban boy might know the best hiding spots in his neighborhood for his cool rock collection. I was lethal, and amongst my posse, a legend.

"And then, and then, you press the blue button to shoot."

"No Shayelle, you press the button underneath to shoot." Isaak corrected his sister.

"Oh yeah! I forgot." The 8-year-old smiled big with her teeth showing the way little people do. "Um, ok, first you have to choose your character."

I politely endured their adolescent tutorial, all the while relishing the thought of their imminent demise. It was true I hadn't played the game for a few years, but certainly time wouldn't have completely depleted me of the skills necessary to vanquishing such young and inexperienced foes.

At the last minute Isaak inexplicable backed out and resolved simply to watch the 1 vs. 1 contest between his sister and me. Perhaps he sensed the urgent combat-readiness lurking under my relaxed, fun loving facade. This would be my moment of blissful nostalgia. Years of crushing academics and burdensome grown-up stuff like jobs and girlfriends may have dulled my battle sense, but it couldn't quite squelch the dreams of gruesome glory I held at 13.

The deathmatch finally began. Shayelle had chosen the arena and the weapon set and neither were my best, but I wasn't concerned. I was the mythical hero of Hanover Court. After a few moments of reorienting myself with the controls, I felt the familiar adrenaline flood my veins, and I began my search for a weapon.

My first death was unavoidable since I had an inferior gun, but my second was shocking. I wasn't entirely sure how to react. The score was 2 - 0 in favor of an 8-year-old girl with blonde high-lights. I found myself running scared through the level, more preoccupied with staying alive then gaining the upper hand. Each time I died Isaak and Shayelle giggled innocently as if they were watching Sponge Bob Square Pants or standing on their heads. She was relentless and immune to my counterattacks. I tried every underhanded trick I knew like looking at her screen and retrieving fresh weapons already in my possesion, but the onslaught was inescapable. The final score was 5 - 4 when the clock finally declared her the victor, but my measley 4 kills felt hollow. The mighty hero of Hanover Court had fallen and none of my previous victims were left to gloat. After the massacre, Isaak and Shayelle manuevered seamlessly into a racing game, the clash of titans practically forgotten as soon as it was finished.

I cannot explain why this seemingly extraneous event exacts such an excessive emotional response, but I know it's worth documenting. It doesn't mean much to anyone except me and maybe any other boys reading this that have since laid down their virtual arms in order to create a real life. I guess my little 007 defeat represents more then just losing to an 8-year-old. It represents losing the person I was when childhood games were the only contests that mattered; when fantastic stories of spies, jedis, and bad guys were all I thought about before falling asleep.

Most people would rather hear about Oxford or (shutter) Blackpool or any of the other new places I've seen since my last Vagrant Story. But for whatever reason, this story means something to me.

'Farewells' and 'welcome homes' are rarely the benchmarks of our lives. Instead, it's often unexpected episodes and unintentional incidents that mark time's passing. A boy picks up his favorite toy and discovers it no longer gives him joy, a college freshmen comes home for Christmas and finds his old friends boring and awkward, a middle-aged man plays basketball like he once did in University and wakes up the next morning with unbearable back pain; these are the moments we recognize we've lost something we never knew we had.

Normal nostalgia increases exponentially when living abroad. After a long time, 'the past' and 'home' can come to mean the same thing. I've realized that "looking back" pertains to more then just 'who I was.' It's 'who I was with,' and 'who they were,' and 'who we wanted to be.' It's recognizing how God used specific, seemingly, accidental occurences to shape my person and character. If I'm lucky, I gain some perspective on the present, since someday I'll be looking back to the now and romanticizing my seemingly innane daily activities. It's a simultaneous yearning for both the past and future that's capable of drowning us in grass-is-greener depression or elevating us to eternity-minded elysium.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Sigur Rós
Agaetis Byrjun

a vagrant in romania

2006-04-21T13:29:00.000+01:00

It's all true. I'm going to Romania next month and I'm gonna shoot some chickens.

I've been asked to put together a promotional video for an extended church planting project in Romania. The video will promote chicken farms. Potential investors will be introduced to church planters that are supporting themselves through the egg industry. These Chicken Farms will produce finances for the Romanian Church Movement so that pastors and churches can remain self-sufficient.

I'm also going to see Mark and Patricia (my Canadian NLI friends) and see what their life has been like in Romania these past few months.

If you're looking for my latest Vagrant Story, it's right here.

Vagrant Story XII: from the UK to the Ukraine

2006-04-13T01:01:00.000+01:00

RUSSIAN NAVEL BASE IN BLACK SEA: Who loves the Russian Memorial Guard? Reed loves the Russian Memorial Guard. Even if they are high school age.

Karlson That Lives On The Roof

There was a reason I couldn't introduce myself to a Ukrainian without them laughing at me. I just hadn't discovered it yet. At first I was concerned I had something hanging from my nose, but after three days and numerous mirror checks, I realized it had something to do with my name. Certainly, "Reed" was obscure but nothing to joke about. I held my composure with the "Vlado's" and "Euri's" that I met, why was my name so outlandish? It wasn't until my last full day in Crimea Nik let me in on the joke.

Nikolai Sytchev is the "Bishop" of one of the charismatic church organizations in the Kiev area and NLI's main contact in Ukraine. In addition to attending the NLI Training Conference at the Bible College outside of Kiev, Nik also took Steve and I down to Crimea to do networking for future projects.

"This is Karlson," Nik proclaimed to me, gesturing towards a television broadcasting an aging cartoon. A small-yet-plump red haired man with a helicopter-like propeller fixed to his back was conversing with a small boy in Russian.

"Karlson lives on the roof and has adventures with the boy." Nik said smiling.

As Nik translated, my cartoon double flew to the refrigerator (though he could've easily walked) and proceeded to refuel. Apparently the little boy's parents were out and Karlson was going to play tricks on the babysitter. I was transfixed. So this was the namesake that had caused even customarily sober-faced passport control officials to smirk. The 70's era Russian translation of the Swedish cartoon was apparently the equivalent of Charles Shultzes' "Peanuts" for popularity in Ukraine.

"Cute." I whispered after a few minutes..

Neither East Nor West

Ukraine is non-EU. And they wont be any time soon. From my perspective, Communism in Poland, Czech, and Slovakia is the past, it's history, the "old-way" that people have risen above. In Ukraine, Communism is an establishment. It has a taste and a flavor, it's simultaneously an adjective, a verb, and a noun that still exists in the present tense. For many, 1989 was not so long ago.

"Slavic culture is neither eastern nor western." The young philosopher explained chewing a perogie. I had known Alexei only a couple of hours but the twenty something had already proven an intriguing conversationalist. Steve had met him a few years earlier when Alexei was a translator for a conference. He played bass in a band, and was studying to teach Russian literature. He also maintained the strong opinion that though he was a Slav physically, "In my mind, I am a westerner."

"So throughout history we cannot decide if we want to be traditional or thinking-forward." He extrapolated to Mark, Patricia, Steve, and me at a Ukrainian Cafe. "There is always a conflict between the old-way and the new-way. Some friends in my band, they say that America is a stupid and uneducated place because they don't know anything about other cultures. But I tell them that American education is just a focus on what is important and not a wide, um, approach, like ours. I study Russian Literatures, so why should I read John Updike or Ernest Hemingway?

I sensed that this was not the best time for expressing my love of Hemingway.

"Why should I learn about American system of Government if I never will live there? At school, I study Russian Literature only 2 hours per day. But all day I study physics, and maths, and Ukraine History, and many other things. I can't choose my courses like in American University. Everyone has the same."

I nodded saying nothing as if I could identify with him. I couldn't.

Icons and Catacombs

Orthodoxy is beautiful. It's mystical and strange and all-together foreign but it is a gorgeous tradition. A Roman Catholic Cathedral's majesty lies in it's vastness. Everything is larger then necessary because God's limits are beyond our mortal conceptions. But the majesty of Orthodoxy's experience is mystery. Both traditions are rich in ritual, but somehow Orthodoxy seems more approachable to me. This is perhaps due to its emphasis on the unknown.

The onion-domed Orthodox churches gave me the familiar impression associated with all ancient places of worship. Inside the sky-blue, gold-trimmed, ornate-detailed structure, tradition had weathered the political turmoil outside its doors. As the priests sang and the attendees crossed themselves and kissed the icons, I wandered around the corridors like a scuba diver inspecting a coral reef. I was out of my element, and anyone who observed me knew it, but I was too entranced to care.

In the catacombs beneath the church, I was Indiana Jones traipsing by torch light into archeological adventure. At least I was until I came into an open chamber where a mother under a flowery scarf and a boy in Adidas track suit kneeled before a glass coffin. I pretended to read the Cyrillic memorial while spying them pray. The brightly-woven, body-shaped shroud in the box covered a dead saint of the Orthodox Church. Combined with the flickering candles and whisperings of pilgrims down the hall, the corpse scared the religion right out of me. But mother and son's comfortable proximity and familiar-styled reverence towards the casket was unafraid.

Hold Your Treasure

Nudity is an non-negotiable for a proper Russian Sauna.

Steve and I were in Crimea networking for future NLI projects. One night, our hosts offered us the use of their sauna. Being polite we agreed. I had been warned that this might happen, but it was always in a comedic sense. Steve and Sheldon has told me stories about the Russian sauna while still in the UK but, at that time, it had seemed so far away. Plus, I never knew if they were joking or not.

They were not joking.

PHOTO: My reaction tomorrow when I realize I actually posted this story

Nik approaches a sauna the way I might approach coffee. There is a right way and a wrong way to have both. Of course, there is room for preference but certain aspects must remain constant. Most importantly, there is a system that insures quality. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, then 15 minutes.

So there Steve and I were, men of God, serving His mission in the Russian Sauna with a bunch of naked Ukrainians. Nik kept on adding more water, explaining that the inferior, Finnish-style sauna depended on excruciating, dry heat to function. The Russian sauna was a more moderate, humid heat. We wore thick-cloth bell shaped hats on our skulls to lock in air and keep our heads cool. We looked like big, white lamp posts. After five minutes it was time to drink tea.

So there we were, men of God, serving His mission outside of the Russian Sauna drinking tea with a bunch of naked Ukrainians. As the sweat beads dried, Nik produced some bundled branches and waved them around, presumably checking the strength of their knot. He noticed my curious expression and smiled at me.

"Air-massage."

So there I was, a young man of God, serving His mission in the Russian Sauna about to be ... well, I didn't really know. I had no idea what to expect. I lay on my stomach with my arms over my face as instructed. Nik approached me with the dripping branches. We were alone in the sauna. I was scared.

The heat was almost, but not-quite, unbearable. The idea of air massage is to make you think you're on fire, just not burning. Nik spastically waved the branches from my head to foot over and over again. It was suffocating but I forced myself to breathe. Half-way through I started laughing. The whole experience was just too surreal. When he finished I kept chuckling, this time with more gusto.

"OK, now for front." Nik said.

"What?" I questioned, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"Flip over and cover your treasure." He replied deadpan from under his hat.

I stopped laughing.

Conferences for Kiev and Crimea

NLI exists to come alongside national movements and strengthen existing churches in European nations. It's a throwback to everyone's favorite "teaching to fish" proverb, but it's true. My trip was divided into two parts. First was the last conference of a three year partnership in the Kiev area. The second was networking for future partnerships in Crimea (another part of Ukraine.) While the conference teaching was exceptional, I was particularly struck by two unexpected aspects of my week in Eastern Europe.

First, were the relationships I was able to form in just a few days. Ever since my first mission's trip to Czech Republic when I was 14, I've always been surprised by the comraderie among Christians that seems to cross cultural and language barriers. Yet for me, Ukraine was different. It seemed my conversations were more meaningful, more purposeful, or else perhaps just less forced. For five years I've been traveling into Central and Eastern Europe for a week at time, but this trip I had some of the most exceptional conversations of my inter-cultural interactioning career. I can't explain why quite yet. It may simply be because I'm older or because I'm just more experienced. This trip I came as a representative of NLI intead of Oak Hills Church, so maybe that had something to do with it. Hey folks, I just report stuff, I can't always explain why it happens.

The second experience was networking in Crimea. For the past few months, Steve has made me aware of a valuable skill I never knew existed. Basically, he goes on these networking trips to sit down with ministers and leaders and get to know them. Discover where their ministry is and how NLI might help them, this is the goal. These conversations are often abrupt, passed through an interpreter, and thrown together at the last minute. Steve is incredibly adept at extracting just the necessary information from these short meetings. He can also positively relate the NLI menu and help people understand what they should order. If you look through NLI history, it's meetings like these that begin years and years worth of partnerships.

PHOTO ABOVE: A sign for "T. G. I Fridays"

PHOTO ABOVE: A sign for "O'Brien's Pub"

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

"Very Best of Sting And The Police"
Sting and the Police (of course)

Vagrant Story XI: carlsons succeed where spaniards failed

2006-03-28T22:51:00.000+01:00

4:15 in the morning greeted me the way an owl greets a mouse on the hunt. I hobbled to my closet and sifted through my clothes fishing for something clean while scouring my chest for talon wounds. Finding neither, I clad myself as adequately as possible and proceeded to further preparations for the day. It was Friday March 3, 2006, and my family was due in at Heathrow airport at 5:55 am.

At the time, I hadn't seen my dad, mom, or sister for almost 6 months. It was a very exciting event for all four of us, and in typical Carlson fashion, we entered it with little sleep and a lot of coffee. Mom and Dad were headed to Poland until Wednesday and their flight left Stansted at 5:30 in the afternoon so we only had a few hours together. However, Ally was to spend the entire week with me.

Ok, sorry to start the story off at the beginning of the day. I mean, seriously, how many times has that been done? I promise I wouldn't have done it if not for the fact that it was so early and I thought of that cool owl/talon thing while I was on the bus yesterday. At least I didn't look at myself in the mirror and admire the "masculine cut of my chin" or the "intense mystery in my eyes" or something. If you were hoping for one of those typical, shining-hero-type protagonists, I apologize. Unfortunately, manly jawed males dynamically gazing into destiny through a bathroom looking-glass are not my specialty. Anyway, back to my story.

On the motorway, I angled the sun-visor's mirror and admired the charismatically playful slope of my hair and the comforting ease of my lopsided grin. Certainly, if ever there was a main character worth rooting for, this young man was him.

I think everyone was too tired for tears at the airport. Plus my family was traveling with some other American pastors for the tour of Central Europe and introductions are always made more complicated by sniffling. Actually, the best thing that happened at Heathrow was probably the long awaited gathering of the Carlsons and the Wendy. I use the article because, though they'd never spoken, my numerous descriptions had turned both into an institution for the other. I wonder if the people I'd been proudly portraying to both my family and the Morris' for months were the same they were introduced to at Heathrow.

Despite the exhaustion, we toured outer-London like true Americans. We marveled at Windsor castle from the empty street and consumed a hearty English breakfast at a nearby hotel. (Incidentally, a hearty English breakfast is basically the same as a hearty American breakfast with the addition of brown beans and the subtraction of pancakes). Outside, the Etone lads were meandering to class in their 19th century garb (Incidentally again, this is the high school were princes are manufactured). Ally remarked that all the boys looked like Harry Potter.

We also visited St. Alban's Cathedral and two Starbucks. It was an exciting memory for sight-seeing, but really, Friday was about being together. The eight hours before mom and dad flew to Poland were a pleasant reminder that there was once a time when I did not live in England and the people I loved were not quite so far away.

That week Ally got to live my life. She came to church, she came to youth group, she came to the NLI office, she came to my friend's houses, and she even came to the pub. It probably wasn't the exhilarating, action-packed wizards and griffons thrill-ride of the summer you'd expect when you came to England but her curiosity was satisfied by simply seeing what the heck it was I was over here for anyway. We did get to see an Anglican Cathedral bombed by the Germans in 1942 as well as the British version of street fashion. But best of all, brother and sister were reunited and thus released to wreak well-intentioned havoc on culture. The regular conventions of fish and chips, the Warwickshire Bus system, and the funny way English people say words with the letter "R" in them were refreshingly foreign as I re-experienced their discovery alongside my little sister.

Mom and Dad's arrival meant it was time to conquer England. My Mom provided the motivation (and delusion) that Her Majesty The Queen's Empire was susceptible to destruction by the sight-seeing of four Minnesotans, my dad provided the driving. So in the tradition of European explorers venturing for glory and fortune in the new world, the Carlsons departed Coventry Enterprise Rent-A-Car to brave the old one. We began our campaign in Stratford-Upon-Avon; the birthplace, and overall memorabilia haven, of William Shakespeare. The town provided ample opportunity for all day sight-seeing but we had a crown to vanquish and could not linger. A stop for coffee, shops, pasties, and a meander through Shakespeare's birth home (including an embarassing encounter I'm not at liberty to relate involving my mother and a tour guide) and we were again pressing onward with Stratford in our wake.

In the end, Dad was quite adapt on the English roads. The difficulty was not in remembering right and left, but instead, maintaining the English attitude towards the road. While culinary excellence and the embrace of liberal European reform are not typical trademarks of Brit society, proper automotive technique is. The minimum driving age is higher, the liscensing test is harder, the competition on the road is hotter, and the beast that possesses us when our foot hits the clutch is hungrier. When you drive in England, you drive in England. For Brits this redundancy insinuates that you do not eat lunch, drink coffee, use your phone, look at a map, or in anyway pervert the ritual of wheel and combustion. For my dad, his list of 'do nots' included using his signals, touching the temperature control, or converse about anything other then the operation of our Vauxhall Astra.

Rather then bother with witty descriptions of scenic sherperd villages and ancient Roman cities, I'll allow the pictures my sister took to tell the story.

Cotswalds Outside of a little town called Snoweshill

Stratford-Upon-Avon Shakespeare's House where I bought some Tempest finger puppets. I'll let you play with them when I get home as long as I get to be Prospero. Tory, you can be Caliban.

Bath: An old Roman town that was trendy when Jane Austen hung out there. Now it's a college town that closes down too early.

Snoweshill: I don't know what a "Coach House" is but I'm sure it's awesome.

Snoweshill: A cool picture Ally took of a graveyard.

Nuneaton: Victory dinner at Wendy and Neville's house.

A Non-Descript Telephone Booth: This is simultaneously an ad for Nordstroms, Starbucks, and 1-800-Collect.

Where the Invincible Armada failed, the Carlsons succeeded. We at least made it is far inland as Bath.

Regardless, the true victory was Friday evening when my English family and my actual family could finally sit down to a meal together. A few hours in the span of a ten month hiatus may seem trivial but the limited time frame only propelled the flood of warm sentiments. There was Ally (who had spent the week before with Wendy, Neville, and me), Rebecca (Wendy and Nev's daughter who had travelled 3 hours to meet us); and Neville, Wendy, Mom, and Dad who were so eager to finally meet in person that the brevity was barely noticed. I can barely understand it myself (let alone describe for you) my pride at seeing everyone together. It was a good night.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

"Gravelled and Green"
Actual Tigers

Vagrant Story X: A Short Story

2006-02-26T22:24:00.000Z

This is an excerpt from a short story I've been writing this week. If you want a copy of the full thing email me.

... Calvin smirked mischievously to himself as he boarded the passenger car and trotted down the hall. The linoleum walls and plastic seats glowed in the gloomy, fluorescent light and Calvin blinked in ecstasy. He was intoxicated with the concept of travel. I was tempted to say Calvin was in love with the concept of travel, but really, the romance metaphor is far too dependent on attraction to do his hunger justice. For Calvin, the movement of the self from one place to another was a drug, and consequently, when he finally stopped traveling, his behavior resembled more of withdrawal than of heartbreak. For many years after, Calvin would rattle off the names of the many acclaimed monuments and historical sites he had visited in far away places to the delight of small-minded socialites at home. But in reality, Calvin lived for the trip. His trophies were not the places so much as the numbers of trains, buses, and taxis it took him to get there.

Now recall that this is the exact train where Calvin met the most beautiful girl he would ever see. She was Polish, in her early twenties, and a student of something refreshingly western like business or sociology.

Still grinning stupidly, Calvin continued down the walkway whispering the numbers above the rows. He was halfway done before he realized he didn’t even know what number he was looking for. His black pea coat had many pockets and Calvin tried each one twice before discovering his ticket in his jeans. After a few more minutes of idle, half-hearted searching, he realized he was investigating the completely wrong car and began his fourth march down the aisle, past the tired faces of Slavic travelers, through the chilled passageway between cars, and into his correct coach.

It just so happened that through one of those numerous, unexplainable occurrences of travel, Calvin had accidentally purchased a first class ticket. Or perhaps the wrong ticket had been given to him; or as likely as anything, Calvin had actually read his ticket wrong in the first place and ended up with a free luxury. Actually, the circumstances surrounding his arrival in the presence of this beautiful girl are insignificant. What is pivotal is the fact that she was stunning, European, and alone in a first class train car. As delightedly bemused with his seat-finding mystery as Calvin was, he had to be at least startled by his good fortune. But that's the strange thing about Calvin, anyone else would see this as an opportunity to take advantage of. Calvin saw it as just one more aspect of his ever-deepening adventure.

First-class seating is more then just comfortable, it's intimate. The seats are separated into booths with a door, windows, and curtains towards the outside walkway. It's like every group of four gets their own little house in a row, except there's a train where the white picket fence should be. Inside you have special light fixtures, ornate wooden seats, and plush disinfected cushions. Privacy is merely a matter of closing the door, and conversation is unavoidable since the lack of piercing track noises makes silence awkward.

She was blonde and reading a Polish fashion magazine. Her chic French heels and white crisp mac jacket suggested her intent was research and not just amusement. So far I've only said "stunning" and "beautiful" but you probably have some picture in your mind of her appearance. No doubt that picture is someone you've seen before, maybe a kind of Euro-super-model-in-italian-jeans-and-shampoo-commercials type. If you don't have that picture then you might as well grab it anyway and then work with me as I try to deconstruct it into something more accurate.

Super-models (and many other mind-numbingly beautiful people) are well aware of their appearance. I think this is probably because a lot of people have told them this (and nothing else) since birth. Calvin's polish train girl probably wasn't born awe-inspiring. She wasn't clumsily dunked into beauty but rather eased into it delicately, like one might carefully sink into a warm bath. In adolescence she had defined herself by something more constant. Her elegance was simply an unexpected bonus to an already confident young lady. The fact that she didn't know how to use her beauty to manipulate other people was perhaps her most dynamic trait.

Her face was barricaded behind the magazine when Calvin first walked in. She was leaning against the window, and being polite, Calvin sat at the very furthest distance he could from her; on the opposing side next to the door. She was probably the third thing he noticed in the room. The first was the almost dusty stillness in the booth, the second was the frozen landscape out the window, and the third was his inability to see the face of the thus-far gorgeous girl sitting at the opposing corner of the booth. Thinking creatively, Calvin stood up and removed his coat attempting to peer over the top of the magazine. Simultaneously, the beautiful Polish girl's impenetrable periodical rose like a shield to deflect Calvin curiosity. It wasn't necessarily a direct motion, but I doubt it was unintentional. His air attack foiled, Calvin continued his siege with a more lucrative tactic. Setting his rucksack onto the seat next to him, he loudly ripped opened the zipper, spilling the contents onto the bench and floor. Calvin regretted his clumsiness with a comically loud sigh (no doubt inadvertently vocalizing the Polish girl's sentiments) and began returning his belongings to their case. With a steady gaze on the back of her glossy magazine, Calvin darted around the room yet her defense was subtle and unrelenting....

21

2006-02-17T21:02:00.000Z

Surprise Party: I'm smiling because I'm surrounded by girls and also Sheldon

Surprise Party: Country of Origin From Left to Right: States(Baby) Scotland, States, Ireland, States, Canada

Surprise Party: I'm wearing my "Oak Hills Church Block Party" Shirt because it was laundry day when they surprised me. Also, shirts that say "staff" on the back are cool.

At The Office: At precisely 4:04 AM CST in Naperville, Illinois on February 14, 1985 I stopped being not born. At 10:04 GMT 21 years later I have accidentally drawn on my face with an open pen in the NLI office.

Holsworthy Close: Capuccino and opening socks mailed from home.

Gifts from the Morris': The robot and external hard drive serve as my highly advanced book ends. Publishing year from left to right: 1864, 1930's (both don quioxotes), 1890.

Badge or Button: Either way I am just that much closer to reaching my life long goal of getting old.

Vagrant Story IX: God was my band

2006-02-04T18:51:00.000Z

God was my band. And you’re listening to him wrong.

In 1997 an indie band of three young, professional somethings from San Diego California released an album of gritty three-piece pop-rock songs with anxious highschool-type lyrics and catchy basement melodies. Two years later, this same band released their second independently produced album that was of higher recording quality, but no less inquisitive, immature, and honest. The combined power of these CDs found themselves in my hands sometime in winter of 2000 and would provide me the soundtrack for my highschool years. Their lyrics were a lens I could use to examine the world, either far removed by telescope, or immersed in by magnifying glass. Not many people I knew had heard of them, those that had heard didn’t appreciate them the way I did. They were my band, and I was proud of them. The band was “Switchfoot” and the albums were “Legend of Chin” and “New Way To Be Human.”

Fall of 2000 brought one more album, “Learning to Breathe,” which I had mailed to me on launch day. At release this album was equally unpopular with the masses and I was safe to enjoy my band’s slightly more sophisticated side in peace. However I underestimated the power of “Switchfoot’s” new label Columbia, and the awesome promotional prowess of the team pushing for “Switchfoot’s” prominence. Within a few months, “Learning to Breathe” was snaking its way into Church Youth Groups, Youth Conventions, and Youth Camps. Looking through my Christian friend’s CD cases I would discover the familiar sky blue disc sitting comfortably next to the latest release from “Delirious?” or “The Newsboys.”

“Hey, you like Switchfoot too?” They would say.

“Yeah,” I’d respond, “but mostly the old stuff.”

It wasn’t until summer 2002 that I realized my band had lost whatever exclusivity I had once enjoyed. A Mandy Moore film called “A Walk to Remember” based on a novel by the same name was released and Switchfoot was providing the score. For those of you not familiar with the movie, it is based on a book written by Nicholas Sparks, the same man behind such literary classics as “The Notebook” and “Message in a Bottle.” He, who has made a career out of making suburban women cry and their husbands/boyfriends bored, is the man responsible for the corruption of my teenage soundtrack.

Aside from mercilessly ripping numerous musical gems from all three treasured albums and inserting them behind sappy, out-of-context, out-of-touch dialogue, the producers of the film actually had the audacity to perform the ultimate blasphemy. In the climax of the film, Miss Moore (dressed in fluffy-white angel-garb) performs a sweeter, girlier version of my once favorite Switchfoot ballad “Only Hope.” This fated scene would forever solidify the myth that Mandy Moore was actually a talented artist. To this day, I can’t absent-mindedly sing “Only Hope” to myself without someone chiming in “Hey, isn’t that that Mandy Moore song?” Once, on a drive to school, a girl I knew was foolish enough to suggest Switchfoot was covering Mandy Moore’s music. I nearly crashed the car.

There was no recovering from that loss; both of my favorite band, and my friend’s faith in my my driving ability. From there “Switchfoot” guitar riffs could be found in tv commercials and football games. They recorded a widely circulated radio single with Mandy Moore called “Someday We’ll Know” and I saw them sing live on Conan O’Brien. The betrayal seemed complete when I arrived at Bible College. At least in public high school many students had the lasting belief that “Switchfoot” was Christian music and thus irrelevant to every day life. There was no such prejudice at North Central, where Christian music was every day life.

As “Switchfoot’s” 2004 release “Beautiful Letdown” catapulted up the secular charts and started making college-age Christians start saying stuff like “evangelistically-relevant” and “innocently-disguised-Christian-message,” my bewilderment was morphing into bitterness. At the same time, my frustrations with Christian sub-culture and hyprocrisy became more defined and “Switchfoot” became my martyr. Though I hardly listened to them anymore (for fear someone would overhear) to me, they represented everything wrong with a materialistic, lost in tradition, bickering, and fragmented faith group. “Switchfoot” had soldout and the masses loved it.

This week I’ve been able to identify that band-based, silly, self-pity as a cover-up for a larger issue. In public high school I was one of the few that took my faith seriously. Not only that, but I was capable of lobbying for it against the atheist kids, simplifying it for the students that didn’t grow up thinking about God, and explaining it uncondescendingly when my lifestyle went contrary to the norm. I was Daniel and Eagan High School was my Babylon.

Bible College awoke my eyes to the fact that many (dare I say all?) Christians were called to be Daniels in their own respective Babylons. But I wasn’t ready to admit that yet. North Central seemed to be a playground for the uniform, a collective of similar breathing, being, believing Christ-followers. How could I possibly differentiate myself from all these . . . well Christians? They were clones scooting around from class to class, musing on the latest hip worship song, and reading authors whose main theses circled around a certain amount of steps to leadership, influence, or any other of a hundred buzz words. Was North Central Replicant the next step in my spiritual development?

Of course North Central wasn’t without its standouts. Flag-wavers, gay-haters, and Bush-backers swam around me like tadpoles in a pond. Their fledgling young-adult opinions would eventually metamorphasize into the bullfrogs and toads of the religious right croaking in the night around Minneapolis’ many lakes and ponds. But the progressive Christians were just as amphibious. Stumbling into the dorms drunk after curfew mumbling about freedom from the Law, their liberation from the constraints of tradition included everything behavioral and nothing eschatological. With each restrictive rule the school board instituted, the progressives restored disobedience in its place like a salamander regrowing its tail. In the end, the insurgents weren’t rebelling against the school but only their parents who had forced them to go to college. That their benefactors had the audacity to pay for the entire experience only intensified their malice.

Suffocated by my own judgemental attitude, I sought refuge in England. I was pretty sure that ten months with NLI in a foreign country was something never completed by a North Central student, and thus I found solace from my oppresive peers. I left the American church in its identity crisis in order to solve my own abroad. Church, however, refused to stay at home.

It wasn’t that the English pentecostal movement was the exact same as its American counterpart, it was just that I was the same. It was impossible for me to become satisfactorily independent, no matter what country I was in. I thought that moving away would show everyone at home how I didn’t need them. Instead, all it did was show me that I needed people. Not just people, but Christians. Ok, I don’t like the tradional church’s stance on a lot of social issues. Yeah, I don’t like their attitude towards our modern day “lepers” and “gentiles.” And I hate that the church approaches art as an obstacle (or at best a tool for the “livening of up” of their image.) But I’ve realized that I still need the Church. Unfortunately, Jesus isn’t exclusive enough for my tastes. His message isn’t for my elite group, it’s approachable by all. Just like “Switchfoot,” Jesus sold out and the masses love it.

In Mark 9, the disciples approach Jesus and report that one outside their number is casting out demons in his name. The disciples had stopped the man but Jesus rebukes them. "Don't stop him. No one can use my name to do something good and powerful, and in the next breath cut me down. If he's not an enemy, he's an ally. Why, anyone by just giving you a cup of water in my name is on our side. Count on it that God will notice.“

God was my band. When I came in contact with the wider Christian culture I recognized them using his name but they had never asked for my approval. I knew I couldn’t stop them, so instead I separated myself and grew judgemental. I was just as bad as the hipocrites and judgers that I criticized. This one confession is one of the hardest I’ve ever had to admit in my life.

Christians are not my enemies, not anymore. I can’t say I agree with everything they do but I’m no longer bitter. At least I’m gonna try not to be bitter. I still have a lot to learn, perhaps the Christians will teach it to me. Either way, it’s time for me to start listening to Switchfoot again.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Vagrant Story VIII: Stasis-Phones

2006-01-20T18:12:00.000Z

PHOTO: This is me in Glasgow. It has absolutely nothing to do with the following entry.

Listening to music is always more intimate through headphones. Especially if you have old style, DJ-like, over-ear, noise cancelling due to size rather than technology type headphones. I call mine stasis-phones because all I have to do is shut my eyes when I have them on and suddenly I’m nowhere except where the music is. (For a more dramatic effect I can plug my nose and close my mouth. However, this particular modus operandi has been known to cause a slight burning sensation in my chest.) The point is that my other senses no long determine my environment and my lack of input becomes a blank canvas to paint a new reality. This is an especially useful technique when the seat next to me on the bus is occupied by a certain unappealing tenant or when I am forced to endure yet another episode of the UK’s own pop idol contest, “X-Factor.”

The same behavior was useful in preparing myself mentally for speeches in high school. Calming my nerves was simply a matter of a discman and a 3-minute window in which to utilize it. Incredibly, I can return to those places right now by simply recalling my favorite “Switchfoot” songs on the iPod and closing my eyes. After a few moments of Jon Foreman’s soft tenor voice constructing teenage philosophy in “Life and Love and Why” I am sixteen again, in character, and ready to compete. After all, with my eyes closed it does look and sound the same as it did, thus logic would dictate it is the same place. Could you prove me wrong?

I imagine someday after my homecoming, I’ll use my stasis-phones to return to Nuneaton’s stage coach 48 bus on a rainy, green and grey day on my way to NLI. My friends will gaily gather round to watch “American Idol” whilst I slyly extract from my coat pocket my larger then life stasis-phones and slip into contended melancholy as I recall my vagrant adventures on the British Public Transportation System. Damien Rice will sing about something sad and I’ll remember how I had no idea what he was going on about but he just sounded so darn passionate that I ended up feeling sorry for him. I could also listen to the “Arctic Monkeys” and reflect on how they would share with me in song what it was like to be young, musical, and from Sheffield. Thanks for that guys.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, this particular Vagrant Story is about all the books I’ve been reading while on my internship.

On the plane I read the American classic “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger (Picture). I found it so engrossing, I didn’t sleep or watch the in-flight movie; I just read all the way from Minneapolis to Amsterdam. The narrator’s name is Holden Cauffield, who relates how he left his prep school last Christmas break. Holden keeps a very conversational tone and digresses quite often. He also frequently and abruptly changes the subject. Those of you who have ever read “The Catcher in the Rye” will find it ironic (just as I did) that I would read it on the first of my 254 days of travel. Salinger’s tale is that of a young, cynical boy who is trying to understand life through his simultaneously mature yet naive eyes. He journeys alone to unfamilar places where he both accidentally and intentionally finds himself in situations that teach, test, taunt, and totally terrify him. Now I can’t see what any of this has to do with me, however, isn’t it ironic that both our last names begin with the letter “C?”

Sherlock Homes is intriguing because he is absolutely nothing like me. The man is mercilessly tied to everything that is real, documentable, and completely evidential. Holmes has no interest in the ethereal, the unseen, or the paradoxical. I side with Watson’s astonishment when he discovers that Holmes has absolutely no concept of the Copernican Theory of the solar system. The fact that a man as genius as Holmes would be ignorant that the earth rotates around the sun appalls him.

‘“You appear to be astonished,” he (Holmes) said, smiling at my (Watson’s) expression of surprise. “Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it... You see, I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out ... It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”’

Of the Solar System, Holmes merely states.

“What the deuce is it to me? You say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or my work.”

Through the course of his first two novels, Doyle goes on to illustrate how Holmes has extensive knowledge of 140 kinds of tobacco ash and can identify a man’s afternoon activities by the soil on his trousers. Yet he is a preschooler with literature, myth, theology, politics, or even self expression save his sometimes painful strummings on a violin.

The “Brothers Karamazov” is an instant “Top Five Books of All Time” type novel. (I’m sorry, I seem to be making poor use of my transitions today. I suppose something like “Another book I’ve read is called ‘The Brother’s Karamazov....’” at the beginning of that sentence would have been helpful but I just don’t have it all together for some reason.) The story is so complicated and so many different interpretations can be made of it, that I cannot possibly do it justice by trying to explain it to you now.

The only way I can conceivably explain it to you is through geometry. Imagine a perfect triangle with 60’ angles all the way around and a car at each corner. Each of these three cars is one of the Karamazov Brothers. One of those cars is very moral and faithful, one is very moral but very cynical, the last is very faithful but not very moral. Now imagine if they all drove at full speed towards the middle at the exact same time.

That’s basically “The Brother’s Karamazov.” The only differences are that the brothers don’t run into each other, there’s no triangle, and the book also deals extensively with complicated themes like the moral obligations of God, the church as an enforcer of protective structure and restriction of freedom, the redemption of man through selfless sacrifice, and the consequences of elaborate Epicurean justification for immoral action. I've created a more accurate representation of my opinions of relationships between characters below.

I admit this entry is disorganized and half-explained. But I don’t apologize, I just admit it. That’s all I got.

Diagram: This is the Brothers Karamazov translated into English

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"Illinois"
Sufjan Stevens

Vagrant Story VII: Boltoners and Scotts

2006-01-04T20:08:00.000Z

Christmas was spent in a house built in 1869.

My friends David and Laura Harvey invited me to hang out with their families in the Manchester/Bolton area for Christmas and then go up to Scotland for the New Year’s celebration on the streets of Edinburgh. It was a two hour car drive from Nuneaton, where I live, to the Bed and Breakfast in Bolton owned by Laura’s parents. We left around noonish on the Wednesday before Christmas and since my departure (between the two families and the church in Bolton) I’ve met and had at least one meaningful conversation with no less then 46 people. No really, Dave and I figured it out.

The house is old but does not have any suits of armor. It was once the servant’s quarters of a much larger mansion in a very posh neighborhood in Bolton. Even without the mansion (which probably did have suits of armor) the house is quite large and is overall, exactly what you think an English Bed and Breakfast should be. If you do not believe me, here is their website www.jumbles.info.

The mansion has long since burned down or gone to Narnia or something, and is now replaced by a large man-made resevoir. I didn’t know what they meant when they said resevoir but they told me my room had a view of it and I thought “Hey, my bedroom in the states has a view of the Eagan water tower, I bet it’ll be just like home.” I was very surprised when I discovered that “large man-made resevoir” translates to “large lake with geese and rowboats.” It was absolutely beautiful and my room did have a good view of it.

Arriving in Manchester, I was immediately immersed in Dave’s family. I felt like I had just been pushed into a pool with all my clothes on. It was his Grandpa’s 70th birthday and we joined them in about the 3rd course of a 5 course meal at an expensive restaurant. The meal and the occasion put everyone in high spirits and I was immediately accepted as Dave’s quirky American friend. It wasn’t long before the jokes about real football and Bush let me know I could get comfortable and even throw around some of that legendary American weight. I was hopelessly outnumbered and knew nothing of organized sports, but I could say one or two things about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle which saved me from drowning in the end. Also, I’m pretty sure I became best friends forever with Dave’s 6-year-old cousin, George, who had been told I had an expansive knowledge of Star Wars and would not leave my side. At the end of the evening, I decided that my surprise dunk had been into a pleasantly warm pool.

The origin of most of our Christmas traditions lie in England, so the tree, the gifts, and the carols were all present. Yet there was something different about it all. Everything felt older. People have been celebrating Christmas on this island since before George Washington’s parents were born. The whole country was a comprehensive Christmas image. Driving around these old towns with their cobblestone streets and chimneys, I felt like I was actually in the middle of a Christmas movie. At any moment I could have a real, family-friendly adventure involving elves, reindeer, moderate peril and a moral lesson. If nothing else, it’s much easier to believe in Santa in England then it is in the States.

PHOTO: Who loves Mel? Scotland loves Mel.

Scotland is not England and I suggest you don’t assert it is while you’re there. It’s further north, it has more mountains, plaid is always in, and there’s more Scottish people. The war was over long ago and most of the few fanatics that still advocate a free Scotland live in isolation in the northern lowlands out of touch, but this still doesn’t stop the instillment of the friendly-rivalry/blood-lust between Scotts and English. There’s this fiercely contagious nationalism among the people that is so overwhelming at times, it’s admirable. You find yourself acting Scottish, wishing that you were Scottish, perhaps even telling your parents that they’re Scottish. And for what you’re not even sure. In the material realm, Scotland offers very little that isn’t available elsewhere taller, colder, older, or better preserved. Yet, you’re proud that Scotland exists and feel that somehow the world would suffer if it wasn’t there.

My travels included the two biggest cities, Edinburgh and Glasgow, as well as a visit to a small village called Callendar and the historical city of Sterling. I saw highland cows, bagpipes, some lochs, a statue of Mel Gibson in Braveheart gear, the underside of a drunk man’s kilt, and a new castle every day. Travel is always better with nationals who live there, and my guides made sure I saw everything that was worth seeing. (Except for the kilt thing, that was unintended. You see it was New Year’s eve and he fell down in front of about two hundred people on the main street of Edinburgh and it was funny because it was New Year’s eve and I was in Scotland and somehow it just fit.)

PHOTO: Laura and I at Sterling Castle fighting off the invading English.

I would say if you ever to go England for 10 months, make sure at least 2 weeks of it are spent divided up between Bolton near Manchester at the Jumbles Bed and Breakfast and Larbert near Falkirk in Scotland at Robert and Lynda Harvey’s house. I was welcomed in like family by people I’d never met and enjoyed a side of travel few tourists get to see. I wasn’t just at these places, I was in them, with people that lived there and told me what it should really be like. You don’t get these experiences by simply buying a plane ticket, someone has to put you there. I’m not sure I did much to deserve this long list of memories I write down in my journal, but I know that it would be wrong to forget them. Everyday I’m flooded by feelings of both providence and blessing and I don’t bother to try to understand them anymore. I’m just thankful that I’ve gotten to see everything that I have seen. Except for that whole kilt thing of course.

PHOTO: This is a highland cow. They hunt in packs and change color to reflect their mood. They are rivaled in size only by the other mythical highland creature, the Wild Hagis

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"O"
Damien Rice

Vagrant Story VI: The Top 3

2005-12-10T01:06:00.000Z

PHOTO: This is Caesar. He's 17-years-old, completely deaf, and infatuated with my computer desk.

The third best thing about living somewhere in England is being an American living somewhere in England. Especially since I’m an American living somewhere in England that’s not London. This is because the farther I am from London, the farther I am from any other Americans to spoil my mystique. People who know me well, know that I’m not very mysterious, but even I can be mysterious when I’m the sole representative of ‘The Colonies’ in a little town like Bedworth. Why, I could be from anywhere, maybe even some place exciting, like California or New York! And just why am I in England anyway? What kind of fascinating things would drag an American all the way to a small town in Warwickshire? Well, despite the fact I come from the Midwest and I’m here for a missions organization, I carry an iPod, which accounts for some intrigue. Perhaps I’m listening to Bob Dylan.

Contrary to what we would like to believe, my nationality does not elevate me to celebrity. It does, however, lift my status to novelty. This means I can approach people without being invited and still be welcomed warmly. It means I can spill something and not be called clumsy. I can start conversations with attractive girls without needing something witty to talk about. Even if I forget some crucial detail about someone’s life like they’re Irish not English, named Nathan not Nigel, or they’re married not single, I can simply cite a cultural misunderstanding. Hey it’s ok, I’m foreign. Yesterday I stepped on someone’s foot and I blamed it on jet lag.

I’ve found it very easy to make friends, in fact, I already have 5 or 6. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m from the western hemisphere or because of my charming collection of pink shirts, but either way, English people tend to like me, which is nice, because there’s not too many other types of people around. I guess Irish people like me too, there’s some of them here as well. In all seriousness, I think people tend to appreciate me because of how far I’ve traveled and how long I’m here. They see me carrying a tea pot around church or walking into NLI and they say to themselves, “Oi, der’s a noice lahd ‘oohs ‘ear ta ‘elp out.” (Hey, there’s a nice lad who’s here to help out) “and ee’s wearn a brioght paink jumpa.” (and he’s wearing a bright pink jumper.) Imagine how you would feel if you went to Church and there was a nice english kid pouring coffee for everyone and he was wearing a bright pink jumper, you’d like him too.

The second best thing about living somewhere in England is that everyone speaks the same language as me. All of my travels up to this point have been in countries where people spoke Czech, Polish, Slavic, French, Italian, German, Spanish, or Southern Accent. Strangely enough, everyone in England speaks English, except it’s slightly different, but that somehow makes it better. If I want to know where to catch the bus, I can ask someone “Excuse me, where do I catch the bus?” instead of, “Excuse me, do you speak English? If so, where do I catch the bus?”

UK society is absolutely fascinating and I love being immersed in it. Language is a reflection of culture - like art, literature, advertisements, food, and clothing - so being able to understand how people are saying something is just as important as knowing what they are saying. The numerous dialects on this island share the same roots as ours, and I have the pleasure of seeing how each has developed first hand, without the foggy lenses of stereotypes, preconceived images, and poor Hollywood accents. It’s funny, how you picture England is probably a good idea of what it looks like, but a completely wrong notion of how it feels.

Being an American in England is very pleasant, and the fact that everyone speaks English is very convenient. However, the very best thing about living somewhere in England is that this specific somewhere happens to be with my host family, Neville and Wendy Morris. Because of their unparralleled welcoming spirit and cheerful willingness to open their home to me, in my mind, the Midlands accent will forever be the herald of hospitality and home away from home.

In the 12th century AD there were some Saxons that set up a farmstead next to a river. In all their cleverness they called their settlement “Farm (Ton) By The River (Ea)” or Eaton. A few centuries later, an Abbey was placed in the city and populated by Nuns (Nuneaton). Though the Abbey is deserted, the farm is demolished, and the river is dried up, the name remains as a reminder of, well, some nuns, a river, and a farm. Anyway, over the next few centuries some very minor things happened in Nuneaton; a bunch of rats made a plague, Richard the III wanted a horse, a man named Willy moved to London, and some guys with blonde hair and blue eyes dropped bombs, etc, etc. Then, in 1990, something truly historical happened. The Morris family moved to 26 Holsworthy Court and put Nuneaton on the map.

Neville Morris is a man constructed of strong convictions and firm faith. He uses this steady frame to support an easy disposition and genuinely friendly exterior and both traits extend to his very foundation. Neville is a medical Doctor in the Occupational Health Department at Jaguar which provides him with an inspiring work ethic. His home is his castle. And of course by this I do mean his home is a castle, not only in comforts but also in cables. He has the contents of two Radio Shacks in an upstairs closet and no less then a 3:1 computer to human ratio in the house at all times. He was delighted when he discovered I brought my laptop from America but then instantly dismayed when it was revealed I owned an Apple. Neville and I have managed to lay down our arms, but my computer refuses to even commence talks with his wireless network. Also, Neville is in fact, a Trekkie, but only in the academic sense. Don’t let his collection of all seven seasons of Star Trek: Next Generation on DVD coupled with his Star Trek: Episode Guide Encylopedia fool you; he knows perfectly well the line between reality and fantasy. Neville is simply a professional with an appreciation for the fantastic. Considering I’ve spent more of my life believing Yoda was a real person then I have not, perhaps there are some things I can learn from him.

I believe that Wendy Morris is some sort of mythical Greek hospitality Goddess disguised in a petite, English, human form. Aside from working full time in the Worker’s Safety Department at Land Rover, she is also the full time hospitality director at King’s Community Church. This means she spends four to five hours every Sunday in the kitchen preparing refreshents for a two service complement of 20 - 30 church volunteers. I help her make the coffee.

Watching Wendy in the kitchen is like watching ice go ice skating. This is a terrible simile but believe me, nothing else does the display justice. Wendy doesn’t walk, she glides between sink, stove, and refridgerator as if the kitchen floor was made of conveyor belts. For Wendy, regardless if it’s for three or thirty, preparing dinner is about as stressful as tying her shoes. In my mind, I’ve often compared her to that other pinnacle of welcoming wonderment, my mother. However, watching mom fix a meal for the family is the equivalent of every volcano on the planet erupting simultaneously and bursting forth tomato sauce and garlic. It’s terribly good, but also terribly loud.

For the last two months, Wendy and Neville have been my hosts and my family. I feel more then just welcomed in their home, I feel like there is a place for me. Over Thanksgiving I was in Eastern Europe for twelve days, where I spent a lot of time hopping trains and sleeping in different beds every night. After returning to England, I arrived at the Morris’ house drained but happy to be somewhere familiar. That night I sat down to a huge turkey feast Wendy and Neville had prepared for Thanksgiving. (In case you miss the significance here, they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in England.) As we sat down, I was giddy with anticipation and excitedly explained the significance of the Thanksgiving Holiday in America. Someone asked me if I was happy to be back after Slovakia. I answered “yes, it’s great to be home,” and it was true.

PHOTO: It's up to the Canadians and me to show all the Brits how to celebrate a proper Thanksgiving.

PHOTO: That's Neville and Wendy standing up

PHOTO: Absolutely delicious meal.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"Hearbeats"
Jose Gonzalez

Vagrant Story V: rovers and sheep

2005-12-01T23:52:00.000Z

PHOTO: They told me it doesn't snow in England before Christmas, I told them that's fine because I brought some with me.

While traversing the english countryside in the back of Ian’s Red Rover 25 I received my ultimate calling in life. I know, I know, it’s what we all expected when I ran off to England. We probably all have this image of Reed discovering his truest passion in the midst of a monk’s chant in the bowels of some medieval castle surrounded by the Tutor coat of arms and engulfed in the scent of swine on a spit. At least that’s what I expected when I signed up for the internship in Warwickshire, UK. However, my actual moment was much more simple.

I sat scrunched in the back seat staring out the window into the sheets of green lost in thought. In reality, I was trying to lose myself in thought since another drive with Ian meant I had to listen to the queer mix of Hillsong United’s pounding pop worship tracks and his slippery Nottingham accent singing along (sorry Ino, it’s true though mate). The sun was out there somewhere but the thick clouds had formed a ceiling over the country side leaving a healthy, ambient, shadow-less light across the fields. About the fourth time through “Come on, come on we’ll tell the world about You!” something truly heart shaking happened.

I saw some sheep.

And they were just standing out there in the field.

I stared intently, trying to decipher what was so thrilling about these lazy beasts behaving so carelessly. Ian rounded a bend (something that happens quite often in England) and I saw more sheep in another field, grazing harmlessly. It was astounding. I thought back to all the sheep I had ever seen and each one was the same in this way. They were very good at hanging out in fields. That’s when my life’s calling hit me. I was supposed to be a shepherd.

Now I want to make something perfectly clear to all of you. In the Bible there is a lot of imagery of Jesus or God being a good shepherd over the people of the earth. He knows all of the sheeps’ names and loves them and is willing to look out for them and a bunch of really good stuff like that. Because of this, the illustration of being a shepherd is often used with being a good pastor or counselor.

That’s not what I’m talking about at all.

There is no imagery here, no deep philosophical thoughts or stingingly clever parables that I can write a book about someday. I’m saying that I want to be a shepherd. A cane staff touting, pie eating, harp playing, wolf killing, sheep dog training, wassailing, field rocking, English Shepherd. Every day I would sit in a field and watch the sheep. Perhaps I’d bring my iPod, perhaps I’d bring a good book, but for the most part I would hang out in the field and watch the sheep. I could pick a new field every day and I wouldn’t stop until I’d spent a whole day in every field in the UK. If I needed a nap, I’d grab a sheep, set ‘em down under a tree, lay my head on his back, and tip my cap over my eyes. It’s ok, they don’t move.

The point is, everything in England in green and gray. No wait, the point is that I want to be a shepherd. No wait, the point is that everything in England is green and gray. That’s why I want to be a shepherd, I want to study the green and grayness of it all.

You see, when they design places, most of the time they (whoever ‘they’ are) take a palette and spread all the colors across the geography creating a kind of cultural Crayola crayon set. Drive through Minneapolis, for example, and you’ve got a rainbow of color - reds, yellows, greens, purples - and that’s just on the sticker of the VW Golf in front of you. The city itself is full of color, the buildings, the sky, the leaves on the trees, the neon advertisements on the highways; it’s a typical urban color wheel. But it’s just the basic crayon set. You’ve got the full scope but only one or two tints.

But the real heart of England, the midlands, is green and gray. (Don’t count London cuz they’re not really England, they’re a different country called London.) But when they designed England they threw away the basic crayola set and produced the “Deluxe Green and Gray Extravaganza” kit. Green fields and gray skies for every occasion.

Would you believe me if I told you there was such a thing as a happy gray day? Our limited exploration of that strange color between white and black has left us with only the simplest of dreary hues. However, the complexity and distinguished pride of a proper english happy gray day cannot be denied.

To be fair to all of you that haven’t realized it yet, I am only pretending. I can sometimes get carried away in fantasy. The day I discovered this fascinating aspect of English culture, I could barely contain my ecstasy. I had been inspired by the engish isles muse; the same muse that had galvanized geniuses like Geoffrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, William Butler Yeats, and John Cleese. It was a funny thought and I knew I had to write it down.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"Eye to the Telescope"
KT Tunstall

An 8000 Word Essay on PoSlo

2005-11-27T13:21:00.000Z

I just got back from a trip to Poland and Slovakia. Here's my essay. Click for a bigger picture.

Swednica Snow in a Polish Town.

Slovakian Mountains: The balcony of my hotel room. That's the English Adam

Opole 5am and that's the water from the shower head in our Poland hotel

Czech Train Looking like a vagrant and riding a train somewhere in Eastern Europe. This is the day that I had breakfast in Poland, lunch in the Czech Republic, and dinner in Slovakia

Slovakia I saw this on a dessert menu right above the picture of an inviting tiramisu. No one ordered the Friky

Slovakia Needs no explanation.

Jawor: Sharing my testimony at the Oak Hills partner church plant in Poland. That's the Polish Adam translating for me

Swednica Celebration of 11 new churches in West Poland

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"Plans"
Death Cab For Cutie

Vagrant Story IV: Nilly

2005-11-15T21:36:00.000Z

“So Reed. What is it that you’re actually doing, anyway? I mean seriously.”
“Well, I’m in England.”
“That’s nice. What are you doing in England?”
“Oh, well, I’m interning at NLI.”
“Oh ok. What’s that like?”
“Well, it’s kinda like this...”

Nothingness fades backwards. Slowly, somethingness pierces your perfect sphere of ignorance. One eye slides open and begins the slow process of focusing. Your mind eventually realizes the concept of sight and attempts to comprehend what it is now seeing. Strange symbols lit up by a greenish glow flash rudely. Numbers, they're numbers! A "6." Reacting purely from instinct you watch your arm move towards the newly recognized clock. Were you coherent enough, you would wonder who told your hand to move like that, since you certainly had nothing to do with it.

Seeing the hand snap the top of the clock you are suddenly alerted to sound, or rather, the lack of sound. It wasn't until now that you realized something was existing that woke you up in the first place, it was the alarm. However, with your new found freedom from senses, nothingness again approaches. "Somethingness is overrated anyway," your body thinks without your brain's help, and you fade again.

Nothingness fades backwards again. This time it’s your alarm and your phone. “6:15 AM,” the letters on the clock face mock you, as if you actually needed a reminder it was the morning. One leg slowly slides out from under the duvet and is greeted by the cold air your blankets had held at bay all night. At the same leisurely pace, you slowly creep out from the covers and stand scratching your head. I need not describe every detail since this story is written in the second person and thus you know all too well the adventure of getting out of bed in the morning.

Your AM activities are more of a purposeless wander than a regimented routine. You start at the closet and put your jeans on, then go to the bathroom to put your contacts in, then go to the kitchen to turn on the espresso machine, then to the closet again to put your socks on. Each individual step requires it’s own individual trip, as if the journey itself somehow was part of the duty. Often you’ll fail to recall your purpose for entering a room altogether; like when you go into the bathroom, look at yourself in the mirror, forget what you went there for, leave, then return because you remember you had to use the toilet.

Cappuccino, crumpets, cologne and you’re out the door as Ian pulls up in his red Rover. Roundabouts and random radio songs comfort you on the drive and by nine o’clock you’re walking through the front door of Dovedale House, Next Level International’s base of operations. Actually, it was once a base of operations for miners in the mid 19th century but that’s not important to you since it has high speed internet and a copy machine. You imagine that most modern bases of operations have both.

Your day will consist mostly of desking and observation. Desking is the activity where you sit at your desk and do office work. Sometimes you type stuff, sometimes you write stuff, you can get up every once and a while and make coffee, these sorts of things are desking. It is an altogether foreign activity to you since you’ve never worked in an office before but you’ve heard that many people do it quite regularly and even enjoy it. Either way, you’ve been assigned many desking activities to finish before Christmas so you have plenty of time to observe it further. Some of the work is challenging, some of the work is engrossing, and some of the work is terribly boring but it is a good mix and you’re happy that NLI is using, applying, and teaching you all at the same time.

Nilly is divided into 3 (but kind of 4) wings, and you’ll end up helping out in all of them by July: Church Planting now, Leadership Development after Christmas, Operations after that, and then Short Term Missions until the end. The staff is about 25 people long, and every morning at around 10:45 everyone stops desking and has tea together on the first floor. To be honest, four english people work at NLI, well five, including the other intern, Ian. The rest are New Zealanders, Australians, Canadians, three Americans (including yourself), a Swede, and then the one Welshman who started the whole blinking thing.

It is a fluid dynamic you work in; coffee and tea flow freely. Like the surface of water, NLI’s face is constantly changing since it’s anyone’s guess who will be in the office that day. At any given point, more then half the staff can be out of the country on mission in Estonia, Slovakia, Ukraine, Poland, or else fundraising in the UK, North America, or Australia. Often there will be no more then six people in the office for the day so in this kind of erratic atmosphere, you can imagine what kinds of crazy, unexpected things can happen. Why, last week, for example, someone brought in donuts.

The church planting office is on the third floor and can be identified by the space heaters scattered across the floor that serve as both temperature control and navigation aids through the corners of the old house. As you climb the stairs, the building shutters against a particularly harsh wind. The walls are a monotone gray, or at least they would be if not for every square inch being coated by some sort of map. Slovakia, the Czech Republic, and Poland greet you as you sit down at your desk, and numerous little red flags with slavic city names point out the churches you write proposals for on your little Apple laptop computer.

For a moment you ponder the poetic picture of the insignificant Dovedale House in forgotten Bedworth, England. It’s occupants have few windows to the green and gray landscape immediately outside, but through the panes of their emails, their maps, and their plane tickets, they can see far away nations “hoping for something to hope for.” Can anything good come out of Bedworth? Well, something good certainly came out of Bethlehem.

You find yourself studying the maps again; you never knew Estonia was so close to Latvia, and that Georgia was a country. Someone offers you some tea and you kindly accept without taking your eyes off of Kiev. When asked if you take sugar, you have no idea, and repeat the question in a whisper almost asking Bratislava if they know. That same someone hands you a mug as you wonder why Russia is so big. And why everyone begins their capital cities with “B.” And how is “Wroclaw” pronounced? And why is this tea so sweet?

Disoriented you step back from the individual countries and look at the world map. Nothingness fades backwards, North America is very, very far away. Greg from Canada pats your shoulder and says something like “there’s your parish Reed.” You sip the tea and stare, saying nothing.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"Amos Lee"
Amos Lee

foreman lyrics

2005-11-10T21:43:00.000Z

PHOTO:A record shop in Birmingham. This is completely unrelated to the post below.

A Song by Jon Foreman

life and love and why
child, adult, then die

all of your hoping and all of your searching for what?
ask for what am i living or what gives me strength that i'm willing to die for

take away from me
this monstrosity

'cuz my feeble thinking's not gonna solve nothing tonight
ask me for what am i living or what gives me strength that i'm willing to die for

could it be this, could it be this
could it be all that i ever have missed?
could it be true, can life be new
can i be used, can i be used?

give me a reason for life and for death
and a reason for drowning while i hold my breath

something to laugh at, a reason to cry
everyone hopeless and hoping for something to hope for

could it be true, can life be new
could it be all that I am is in You?
could it be this, could it be this
can it be You, can it be You?

the lost bridge of Life and Love and Why

escape my confusion but don’t leave me senseless tonight
I’ll keep on digging ‘til I find what You’ve buried inside of me
what’s inside of me?

could it be true? there’s nothing to do
lose it all just to gain something new
could it be this? could it be this?
and I am through, could it be You?

Vagrant Story III: back at the swings

2005-10-20T18:23:00.000+01:00

It is impossible to capture every detail of what happens to myself when I am bombarded by culture shock. This is largely do to the fact that I am often away from my record books, intimately confronting the beast in its natural environment. Like a researcher who has abandoned his shark cage, I plunge into the depths of the every day armed only with my wits, my memories, and my snorkel. Returning back to the boat, the captivatingly colorful coral reef below me is summed up in a series of black and white keystrokes as my fingertips attempt to explain in a few moments the mystery my eyes have gorged themselves upon all day.

Description can be a relative term however. Especially when told as a story. Though a long inventory of names, places, words, and customs is certainly more exhaustive, a story with nothing exceptional save a beginning, middle, and end, often captures a spirit that is lost amongst lists. This in and of itself is no great revelation, yet I am amazed how easily I forget when engulfed in a grossly undocumented environment. Perhaps I echo Adam’s sentiment to Eve when they first attempted to catalogue the world. Overwhelmed by the excess of his surroundings and relieved to have someone friendly to talk to I imagine him admitting, “He’s right, perhaps it’s not good for me to be alone.” And even their experiences are condensed down to a handful of concise stories.

PHOTO: Frisbee at Coombe Abbey. I caught it, honest.

I threw it too hard. I admitted this to myself soon enough as I visually followed the line of my pointed finger towards the rapidly escaping frisbee my hand had regretfully let loose. The purple disc dipped on it’s axis, caught a cross wind and hurdled beyond the patch of lawn where my intended target stood. It was dark and the park was not lit, which was fortunate at the moment since it hid the stupidly sheepish grin I couldn’t seem to remove from my face, but unfortunate since we had to now, once again, quest to find the frisbee in the sea of black grass.

“It’s beyond you.” I yelled, echoing something I’d heard somewhere before.

“What?” Scott exclaimed. Apparently, he wasn’t even aware I’d thrown the disc yet.

I was about to explain to him the benefits of watching the thrower instead of his girlfriend on the swings to our left when suddenly I caught sight of the frisbee perched precariously against a gutter, well lit, but bordering the far side of the road.

“The frisbee is in the road.” I finally half muttered, half yelled if such a thing is possible, since at that moment, headlights appeared on top of the hill to my right. A queer emotion comes over a young man in a foreign country when he feels his frisbee is in danger. Dread is certainly the pervading ingredient but it is a dread that is drenched in embarassement. Did I really want all my new English acquaintances to know I feared for the life of my frisbee? Was this land-locked, iPod savvy, football ignorant, american young man really enveloped in his own beach sport melodrama?

I watched in horror as the headlights slowly transformed from two bulbs in the distance to a menacingly massive metal frisbee-eating monster hunkering maniacally towards my unsuspecting sport disc.

“That thing is gonna kill the frisbee!” I warned Scott who had taken advantage of my momentary distraction to wander back towards the swing set.

“It’ll miss it Reed.” He mumbled nonchalantly without looking back.

For a moment I considered this possibility. English roads were small but then again so were the cars. Perhaps the approaching danger would stay closer to the middle of the road and avoid my disc all together. I let out the breath I’d been holding as my perilous tormentor reverted back to a Peugeot 206. I slowly ambled towards the road content to allow the car to pass by in peace.

A gust of wind caused me to squint my eyes and wrap my shirt tighter around my body. England was a cold country at times and . . . whoa wait a second! As my eyes adjusted from their blink, I gazed once again upon a scene that could only have been conjured in some horror novelist’s twisted imagination. That wind, that hideous and horrid wind, had handed my frisbee it’s final fate. Like a penny across a table, the disc had caught a draft and rolled into the middle of the far lane of the roadway. The Peugeot to my right roared to life with a new fervor, its prey now helplessly spinning on its rim like some sort of sick plastic smorgasboard. Stephen King couldn’t have designed it better.

I’d like to say I was a hero. I’d like to say that my endorphins ignited my flesh up into some sort of superhuman, comicbook style state that miraculously enabled me to save the day. I would even like to say I stood idle and simply resolved to accept my misfortune and perhaps calculate the hit my finances would take with the cost of replacing my frisbee. Heck, I’d even like to say I stood there still and silent in a moment of stress inspired stupidity. I’d like to say I did anything to spare me the shame of reality.

There are any number of words that could be use to described my situation, and thus many that I could have utilized in that particular situation to articulate my feelings. “This is unfortunate!” or else “I feel disheartened.” Doubtless I’d heard of these words before and perhaps even then had some idea as to their definitions. But instead I decided on that all too silly substitute.

“Frick!” I yelled with a fervor worthy of a football game. Scott turned and looked at me the way a teenager stares at a zit in the mirror before prom. From the swings I heard only thunderous giggling. It was at that point I looked to the frisbee and watched as the Peugeot harmlessly danced past mockingly in the left lane as my disc perched unscathed in the right. “How very english,” I thought.

I sauntered across the road and delicately plucked the frisbee from its perch. Back at the swings, I was welcomed with Scott’s impression of my performance. My new friends were grinning at me and I felt like the Folger’s guy at a Seattle coffee convention. It wasn’t that I had said the word. It was that I had said the word with so much vigor. To them it sounded silly, as if I thought I was reciting Hamlet or the lyrics to a Coldplay song. “Oh pickles!” would have been a better response. All in all it was a humbling experience, especially since no one bothered to notice the fact that it was a quality toss that put had the frisbee so far down the road in the first place.

You can try your best to adjust to culture but you can’t hide in it. Identity will make itself apparent no matter what box you try to stuff it in, especially when your disc is in danger. But I’m ok with being myself. I’ve come to Bedworth as an ambassador, not a defector, and I’m proud of that. However, I’ll try not to say such ‘rubbish’ things anymore, just for my own sake.

Still ... I hate that friggin’ Peugeot 206.

PHOTO: Scott at Buckingham Palace two seconds before he fell and broke his leg and his ego.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Arctic Monkeys
"Chun Li's Spinning Birk Kick"

a sonnet about London

2005-10-09T21:39:00.000+01:00

I wrote this after returning from my first trip to London. It's very specific and ambiguous, sorry.

An italian compact spins down a road.
Straight and narrow’s nice but so’s the M1.
Sometimes in structure our heart is forebode
from that which is still new under the sun.

A tube train lazily spins underground.
Why does a late start mean an early end?
Soho’s brilliance dulls the emphatic sound
of an empty pleasure we wont defend.

Church shoes spin down to a fast food basement,
while city beckons and grace is too far.
Art for the sake of art follows my bent,
but red towns support our idle rock star.

Where can I go to discover my face?
Urban landscape is a wide hiding place.

PHOTO: English protest is much more clever

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Jamie Cullum
"Catching Tales"

Vagrant Story II: cast list

2005-09-23T20:15:00.000+01:00

The first thing I noted about english culture (aside from the obvious) was time. In the states there are many possible times that occur during the day, all of which are dependent upon the exact figuring of symbols called "numbers" on a digital clock. In the UK, numbers and time exist separate of each other. There are but four times from dawn to dusk: the hour, quarter past, half-past, and quarter-til ... anything else simply doesn't exist. This remarkable phenomenon is repeated in all age groups, economic brackets, and genders. Yesterday, I decided to test my theory by asking the time of the different people I'm staying with.

"Richie," I asked the tall 22-year old Dublin native with short brown hair, "What time is it?"

"Half-past." Richie responded gesturing towards his watch. I looked at my computer, it read 3:21 PM. Richie is interning with Release, a para-church organization who's main office doubles as our home for the first five weeks of training. Frowning quizzically at him, I decided that Richie had reason to state the time as nine minutes later then it actually was. His major is leadership training and thus he had doubtlessly trained his mind to assume he was always late in order to always arrive on time.

I approached Scott as he played his guitar. Scott is english and grew up in the area, so I figured that his opinion of the telling of time would best reflect the views of most of the people in the countryside. Bedworth is a small township that’s only about a half hour drive from a major metropolis, Birmingham. Despite their proximity, the area is rural minded and rural paced and I've found this to be one of the hardest culture shocks to recover from. After living in the suburbs of the twin cities and working downtown Minneapolis, I was not prepared for the pace of life in an english township: stores close at six, there's no Starbucks, people wake up before dawn to do chores, the internet is elusive, there's no Starbucks, etc.

Scott plays his guitar upside down with the neck in his left hand. He's not left-handed. Apparently, this is the product of his self-taught nature.

"Scott, why do you play your guitar upside down?"

He laughs non-chalantly, "Cuz I'm stupid."

"Scott, what time is it?"

Scott didn't have a watch and informed me as such. He was preoccupied with his guitar and I let him be. As I walked out the door, a helpful voice yelled behind me "half 3!"

Karene I hoped, would be more helpful. She’s from Toronto and is focusing on Children's Ministry at King's Community church where we are volunteering and attending on Sundays. Karene is a 25-year-old suburbanite and I like her because she's the only person who brought more bags then I did. I remember being nervous on the first day over whether we'd be able to live down our instant reputation as the high-maintenance, materialistic interns from the western hemisphere.

"Karene, what time is it?"

"Ten twenty-two." Apparently, her clock was still set for Canadian time but at least this confirmed my suspicion that the non-UKers had a tighter grip on those times between right-angles on the clock.

Next was Liesl, (rhymes with easel) who is an 18-year-old church girl from a neighboring town. She's majoring with King's Church in the Youth Department and heads up their dance team. Liesl was typing on the office computer when I asked her the time.

"Quarter-past 3" she remarked faintly without looking up from her e-mail. In all honesty, I could think of no reason why Liesl would tell me it was seven minutes earlier then it actually was. Doubtless she thought it was 3:15, but the time difference from where she was sitting to where I stood 6 ft away needed to be alloted for. The Brits can be a very precise people when necessary.

Ian's 6 foot 6 frame greeted me at the door of the room that we shared. My toes dangled off the edge of my bed, but when the Nottingham native slept at night, his feet and a good portion of his legs lay unprotected by both blanket and bedframe. I felt sorry for him until I discovered the angle and height of his feet provided an excellent work desk for my laptop computer.

"Ian, what time is it?"

"It's time to go I think."

It was indeed time to go, as we have been very busy since I've arrived here. Our training at Release had been concerned mostly with team building and personal goal setting. We've had a very specific schedule in regards to meals, meetings, and mingling with locals. This explains some of my difficulty in finding time to write.

"Everyone's waiting in the car." He remarked as he grabbed his coat.

Apparently whatever time it was, we were already late.

PHOTO: The master of time and the intern director, James , exemplifies my point all too well

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

The Format
"Interventions and Lullabies"

Vagrant Story I: A Traveling Song

2005-09-18T20:15:00.000+01:00

PHOTO: A scene from my 14-minute hunger strike at Buckingham to have the queen release the brave POW's still held from the Revolutionary War

PHOTO: Richie the irish intern and me on the tube to Essex where we stayed

Where Have I Been?

Well, I've been in Arley, UK. They don't have much in the way of high speed internet out there, and to be honest, I didn't have much in the way of time to write. However, there was much in the way of filling my time. You see, I've been in training for 5 weeks and now I've finally begun my internship with NLI. And . . . oh wait you probably have no idea what I'm talking about.

Hi, my name is Reed and I'm in England. I'm interning with a missions organization called Next Level International. If you click the blue letters you can maybe learn more. Actually, the letters are just blue for me, they might be a different color for you. Anyway, I will be gone for a while and then I will come back. July I think.

By receiving this email, you should feel privileged. Not because it was hard to get on the list but because you are in the company of some of the finest people I have come across in my life. Family and friends mostly: best-friends, long time friends, friends who didn't know I considered them friends, friends who are girls, ex-girlfriends, parents of my friends, parents of my parents, kids of my parents, my parent's friends, people that don't know my parents, bosses, co-workers, and even my dog. Chances are you're in one of these categories, and if you're not then you probably received this email by accident and you should tell me so that I don't tell you anything embarrassing.

Not that I'm gonna say anything embarrassing.

My plan for this email, and any further emails, is to share with everyone whatever I type into my computer. Most of the time it will be an update on what I'm doing, where I am, how the coffee tastes, and how many mini coopers I saw that day. Perhaps sometimes I will write about why english words are spelled differently, who the person next to me on the bus looks like from back home, or maybe why I enjoy wearing a certain shirt. In all honestly, I have no idea what my emails will be about. Actually, I'm not even sure how consistently I'll be able to maintain my Vagrant Story. Perhaps I'll get so caught up in being an intern in the UK that I'll completely forget that I was a student in the US.

But probably not.

I'm calling this Vagrant Story because that's what I feel like this is. It's the story, of me, the vagrant and how this one time I left home to find my fate or something like that. A vagrant is someone who travels around from place to place looking for something. No one knows what he's looking for (I have doubts whether even he knows) and most of his exploits are not noteworthy since, often, if you don't spend enough time in one place, there isn't enough time for something significant to happen to you. I was a Vagrant for a long time but now I've left on this adventure thing and I will hopefully have a story worth telling.

Vagrant Story is also the title of one of my favorite (favourite?) video games for playstation. If you like video games then you probably wont like this one but if you like engrossing fables and complicated board games that take too much time then you might like Vagrant Story.

I'm sorry I've been out of touch for so long, but hopefully I can change that now that I have more regular internet access and more time to write. As of right now, I have a lot in my journal already, so I'll be doing a lot of copy and pasting so I can give you the full picture of what's been going on.

Last thing, if you know anyone who would want to get their email address added to the Vagrant Story Subscribers, let me know. Also, don't think I'm using the "bulk email" effect to avoid sending out individual emails. Feel free to send me a hello, some words of encouragement, a funny joke, or a joke that's not even really all that funny. I want to write back. However, the best thing you can do for me is pray. God called me to leave my home, my school, and my studies to teach me something away from everything that was familiar. The process has already begun but I know He's not through with me yet. You can pray that I'll remain moldable in His hands, and that most of all I can be a real blessing to the NLI team and their ministry in Europe.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Nickel Creek
"Why Should the Fire Die?"

Welcome to My Story

2005-09-14T20:03:00.000+01:00

Hi. You're on my list. Welcome to my story.

Yesterday at 3:46PM CST I boarded a Northwest Airlines DC-10 and flew away. I've landed now, and I'm writing everyone a little note. I'm going to be away for a long time, 10 months in fact. Most of you knew this, some of you did not. Some of you had a chance to say goodbye, many could not. But if I sent you a link to this site, it means that I want you to have an update on what's gonna be happening to me.

But as for right now, not much is happening. I'm just in an airport in Amsterdam ... going to England for 10 months. Actually, that's quite a lot happening isn't it?

PHOTO: My seatback table on the plane containing the essentials: New Testament, Legal Pad, iPod, and Holden Caufield

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Jimmy Eat World
"Clarity"