grace

I made two of my classes listen to one of my favorite songs today, U2's "Grace." We do "listening activities" with songs a lot, but the best part is the inevitable "what does it mean" question that follows the listening. We got to talk about how an oyster turning a painful grain of sand into a pearl is a wonderful example of grace. We discussed karma and reincarnation. And there was a moment when one of my students said, "Grace is hard because it makes me feel guilty." In a phrase he summarized one of the great struggles of my life. It reminded me why I'm really glad to be a teacher. Here's the song:

Grace
She takes the blame
She covers the shame
Removes the stain
It could be her name

Grace
It's a name for a girl
It's also a thought that
Changed the world

And when she walks on the street
You can hear the strings
Grace finds goodness
In everything

Grace
She's got the walk
Not on a ramp or on chalk
She's got the time to talk

She travels outside
Of karma, karma
She travels outside
Of karma

When she goes to work
You can hear the strings
Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace
She carries a world on her hips
No champagne flute for her lips
No twirls or skips
Between her fingertips

She carries a pearl
In perfect condition
What once was hurt
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stings

Because grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things

Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace find goodness
In everything

csiga

Now that it's warm out every morning I'm greeted by at least two dozen prime examples of one of the world's coolest creatures on my way to school. I love snails! Did you know they actually have teeth - lots of them? They use them like a file, and they're strong enough to chew through limestone! And they move on that slimy mucous, which is amazing stuff. They also use it to clog up the hole in their shell when they hibernate (leaving a tiny hole for breathing), and it's so gooey it protects them from sharp things on the ground. They also secrete it when something tried to eat them (like a frog) so instead of a yummy snail they get a mouthful of goo.

two wheels are better than four

This evening, as I was riding a tram into the center of the city, I was surpriused to see something I saw on the last Friday of every month in Grand Rapids: hundreds of bicycles filling the road. Critical Mass has reached Budapest! I wish I had a bike here so I could have joined in.

some more books

One of my favorite vacation pleasures is sinking into a good book, so last week I often found myself enjoying the spring sunshine, a cup of coffee, and the current paperback at a café. Specifically, I tackled The French Lieutenant’s Woman, by John Fowles, and A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving. The first is a thoughtful investigation of the Victorian period, specifically Victorian sexuality, written from the perspective of the 1960s. The story and commentary were interesting enough – I still don’t know what to make of the Victorians – but the most interesting parts were the points were Fowles would insert himself, the author, into his own story. He frequently discusses the typical conventions of Victorian novels, and the nature of the writing process. I think if I ever write a novel I’ll have a hard time keeping myself from making the same sort of interjections. Authors often say the characters they’ve created take on a will of their own, which is something I’ve never really understood. Fowles comes the closest, however, to making it clear.

As for Owen Meany, he’s one of the most unforgettable characters I’ve ever read. Irving creates someone so original that as I read I kept thinking it would be impossible to make the book into a movie because nobody could play Owen. My only criticism is Irving’s foreshadowing, which is about as subtle as a brick to the face. I love the tough questions the book asks about faith and belief, especially since Irving leaves so many open ended. Even now, a week after finishing it, I find myself reevaluating Owen’s convictions in my fleeting daydreaming moments. As sure as I am that God doesn’t work the way Owen thinks he does, it has a certain appeal to it. Deep down, I want faith like Owen’s, even though I know it’s misguided. I know this doesn’t make much sense to those of you who haven’t read the book, so go out and read it and then comment on my blog! My only criticism is Irving’s foreshadowing, which is about as subtle as a brick to the face.

vive la france

I’ve had a lot of things rolling around my head lately, but not a lot of time to make enough sense of them to share. This was directly connected to my Easter break travels to Barcelona and southwestern France. I was able to hang out with my old 3^rd Schultze bro, Sam Schoofs, and enjoy his wonderful hospitality. Instead of writing a lot here I decided to simply upload the journal entries I made during the trip. It’s kind of a lot, so consider yourself forewarned! I’ve also posted some pictures.

woof!

This morning I dashed out the door of our building because I woke up a little late and I nearly stepped on... a puppy! I live at one of the buildings of my school, and it's kind of like a small compound. We have a nice 6 foot fence with barbed wire at the top - haven't figured out if that's to keep intruders out or students in. Bobak, the manager of the base (as we affectionately call it), decided it would be a good idea to get a dog to bolster security. Of course, he picked an incredibly cute and friendly beagle/collie mix. We're trying to think of a suitable Hungarian name for him - any ideas?

under the frog

I've started a new book: Under the Frog by Tibor Fischer. It's the story of two young basketball players and the 1956 Hungarian revolution. Perhaps I'll write more about it when I finish, but one of the early chapters contained a wonderful description of the hospitality you encounter in the Hungarian countryside. It is 1949 and our hero, Gyuri, has just arrived in the tiny village of Halas where he is treated as an honored guest. When I read this I'm transported back to my first visits to Hungary with Calvin College, and the families who treated us so well.

"The scale and ferocity of peasant cuisine could be overpowering if you were out of training. Gyuri knew how the breakfasts alone could put feeble urban dwellers in hospital. At Erdovaros, the summer he was thirteen, when Gyuri had been entrusted to one of the local families, they poured him a generous palinka [brandy] for breakfast along with a brick of fat [lard] garnished with a dash of paprika. Thinking well of their liberality, he drank the palinka before walking out the door into the ground. It had taken his legs hours to remember how to walk but his stomach only a few moments to evict the solid elements of his meal. That sort of morning fuelling was tolerable only if you had grown up on it and if you had a day in a field ahead of you. Even as an atheletic thirteen year-old, harvesting for an hour had given him so much pain in so many places that all he could do was lie in the field and pray for an ambulance, while the heavily pregnant woman who had been working alongside him kindly offered to go and get him a drink.

The hospitality was unleashed straight away. Gyuri hadn't seen so much food, so much good food since the point when the war had got noticebly war-like, and it was quite possible that he had never seen that much food in an enclosed space ever before. The depressing thing was that he wouldn't be able to make up for five years' going hungry in one evening, however hard he tried. Even the expansive Neumann was looking awed by the food, since people had unmistakable designs of inflicting several sevings on them. If Gyuri tried to slow down his consumption, the villagers who had appointed themselves his personal troop of waiters would hover around and if he ate up, the consumed items would be swiftly replaced. Within half an hour of mastication commencing, Gyuri was seriously worried about parting company with consciousness: surrounding his enourmous plate, which had grown a stalagmite of sausage, cured pork, pig cheese and boxing-glove-sized chunks of bread, were two glasses of wine, one red, one white, two glasses of palinka, apricot and pear, and two glasses of beer in case he got thirsty. Behind him he could hear enraged villagers fighting to get to his side so they could pour out more of their pressings and distillations."