sweet blisters on my palms

Last week I saw the cows come home. I’ve played ‘til the cows come home, worked ‘til the cows come home, and even argued ‘til the cows come home, but until last week I’d never actually seen it.

School finished a week ago Friday (see my last post), and Saturday morning I took off for a week in Ozd, Romania. This village of about 200 or 250 people, tucked into a little valley in the rolling Transylvanian hills, is about as idyllic as you can imagine. I went there to visit my friends Ryan and Shannon and to join a work team from their home church in Michigan (River Terrace Church). I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, though.

The story really begins with Ryan and the Calvin College Band. When I joined that esteemed musical ensemble as a freshman I quickly befriended him (it helped we were both 3^rd Schultze men, of course). That friendship has blessed me in countless ways, from the simple (having somebody to go to church with) to the profound (having somebody to listen to me venting my existential angst), but one bond that has proved especially significant is our love of Eastern Europe. It started when we spent three weeks here touring with the band in the spring of 2002. We were tour roommates sharing in the remarkable hospitality of the Hungarian families who took us in both for that first tour and a second in the spring of 2004.

That second tour came after Ryan’s graduation, so at its end he jumped on a train back to Romania instead of a plane to America. Through our denomination's relief agency he has found a position at Bonus Pastor, a Transylvanian ministry connected to the Hungarian Reformed Church. He spent six months in Ozd while Shannon, then just his girlfriend, volunteered in Kolosvar.

In the return of seized property that had followed the Romanian government change in the early nineties the land and castle of a noble family had been returned to them. They in turn donated the property to Bonus Pastor. The ministry has big plans for the various parts of the property, and they’ve been slowly but steadily implementing them. When Ryan was there in 2004 he worked on the first phase, turning the old granary into a rehabilitation center. That work is now complete and in our visit we met the 14 guys who are currently clients there. There are also plans to turn the castle into a conference center and school of sorts. For now it’s where we got to sleep.

Being students again, Ryan and Shannon decided to spend their summer back in Romania (though it means medical and graduate school will take even longer), and part of that time in Ozd working again with Bonus Pastor. I’m so blessed to have friends who share my love for this part of the world and especially the Hungarian culture (while Ozd is in Romania all but one family in the village are ethnic Hungarians).

I headed to Ozd, not really knowing what I was going to be doing there, but having vague ideas of light construction. If you ever agree to help out with a service project, listen carefully to what you’re actually agreeing to do. When I arrived I learned our goal was to pour a little less than 275 square meters of concrete in the barnyard of the dairy farm Bonus Pastor runs. This farm is there to support the rehab center financially, to give the guys some productive work to do, and to demonstrate some modern dairy farming techniques in the hope they will rub off on local villagers.

For five days we worked hard, and it was a joy. The nightly ache of my woefully underused muscles was rewarding (and bearable, thanks to lots of ibuprofen). There were far too many highlights and funny moments to relay them all, but I will say I’m so thankful for every member of the team. I was blessed by seeing each of them contribute mightily in the ways their gifts dictated. How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity!

And, as I mentioned, I got to see the cows come home. Every morning the families open their gates and the cow herder drives the village cows out into the pasture. And then, every night at about 8:00, they come trundling home, each cow knowing exactly which gate to go into. It’s remarkable to turn the corner and see these gigantic beasts heading straight for their own home. Ok, maybe it’s not that remarkable for some of you, but for this city kid it was a sight I won’t forget (which is good because I forgot to take a photo of it).

moving on

While I'm a week late (see my next post for why) I want to comment on school ending. Friday the 15th was the last day of classes, and with it came the end of my time at Kossuth. I was touched and a bit overwhelmed by the many thanks I got. I did not enjoy saying goodbye, and I earnestly hope to see many of these wonderful young people again.

As often seems the case I came to Hungary hoping to help people and do some good, but came away feeling far more helped than helpful. However many lessons I may have taught those kids, I guarantee I learned tenfold more from them. Just a few of those lessons: I learned countless things about myself and my personality (like where my breaking point is when dealing with unruly teenagers). I learned about my country and the way it’s perceived (it’s so much more complex than “they like the people, but don’t like the government”). I learned, once again, how important community is and what a blessing it can be (thank you, Tracey, Jon, Chris, and so many others). And I especially learned, as I will probably have to keep learning my whole life, that nothing, neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything in all creation can separate me from the love of God that is in Jesus Christ our Lord.

how I wish all the children were above average...

Last weekend I drove out to small town of Vac. (It’s pronounced like an especially stuffy British version of “vats.”) Some of you don’t know or won’t remember that it was very nearly my home. My organization planned on sending me there, but couldn’t find a male teammate for me and (wisely) thought better of sending me there alone. Every time I go to Vac I wonder what if, but never more than this trip. Maybe it’s the nostalgic mood I’m in as I wind up my Hungarian adventure.

The reason for my trip (and the reason I got to drive there in a rental car!) was to pick up several boxes of teaching materials owned by my organization. Sadly we don’t have enough teachers for next year and Vac drew the short straw. That means we have to redistribute the stuff that’s accumulated in the flat over the years we’ve had teachers there. As fun as it was to drive up there and back (it’s been five months since I’ve driven anywhere), my real treat came when I got home. Buried in those boxes were two cassette tapes of Garrison Keillor doing the News from Lake Wobegon.

I stumbled across GK rather late in life for somebody who was raised on National Public Radio. While the “All Things Considered” jingle automatically makes me wonder what mom’s making for dinner, and “Morning Edition” is in my mind linked with scarfing down some cereal so I don’t miss the bus, A Prairie Home Companion came later. Our station in Pennsylvania didn’t broadcast it, so I had to wait until we moved to Washington to meet GK.

I had heard about him from my parents, who were fans in their pre-me days, but I was 16 and skeptical. I wasn’t sure about the folksy music (way too cheesy!), the strange “advertisements” (though ketchup won me over in the end), or the whole feel of the thing. I liked edgy stuff (so I thought), and this didn’t fit the bill. But the things I did like (and the reasons I would always suggest we tune in on the way to church Sunday morning) were Guy Noir, The Lives of the Cowboys, and News from Lake Wobegon. As I matured a bit I realized that I am, like so many in my generation, a sucker for narrative. If you want to persuade us, inspire us, sell to us, or mesmerize us, tell a story.

My parents would often lament how much funnier GK used to be, but I enjoyed his stories nonetheless. I can’t say it’s been a gaping hole in my life here, but I’ve noticed the absence of PHC. And those two things are what made finding these tapes so special. The tapes are homemade copies, but they’re labeled 1983. When I put the first one in I did a double take, because it’s the same velvety tone but the accent and delivery are very different. It’s not the smooth story-teller with a sort of general Midwestern accent that I knew. On the tape GK’s Minnesota vowels are far more pronounced (no pun intended), and he’s got that stop and start Minnesota timing that makes the pause before the punch line that much more effective. He also deals with more overtly religious themes than I can remember from the show, and quite wonderfully. The story labeled as “Father Emil’s Starry Night” is particularly poignant. My favorite, though, is definitely “Tomato Butt,” which accurately captures my entire childhood relationship with my older sisters.

Anyway, the tapes have just added another layer of what would have been if I had ended up in Vac. Maybe I would have listened to them with my classes. Maybe I would have listened to them until I had them memorized. For my year 10s’ final exam I made some of them talk to me about Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” How often these days I think of those last two lines: “I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”