To rob God

‘God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.’

Probably one of the most provocative quotes ever, spoken by the madman in Nietszche’s ‘Thus spoke Zarathustra’. There’s something strangely sad about the idea. To an atheist it may sound a bit like ‘Santaclaus is dead’. To believers the confusion depends on how you define God. If you believe that divinity can be found in every person or in nature, it may sound pretty logical, if your God is defined beyond earthly dimensions and time, it is a contradiction in terms. An Everlasting Being simply cannot not exist, let alone be killed.

With this story Nietzsche is trying to say that God doesn’t fit in modern man’s science and rationality anymore. The basis for morals has gone and with that the meaning of religion as a whole. It’s nihilistic. I don’t agree with Nietzsche, I think God is much more than what we can fit in our minds. I don’t believe that we can kill Him either. But Nietzsche’s findings do remind me of something:

We can rob God.

There’s a verse in the Bible, Malachi 3:8, Where God says that He is robbed because the priests are not giving their tithes to the temple and not offering their best meat. Most of the times this passage is explained that the priests were not giving to God what was rightfully His and were therefor robbing Him. You can imagine that it is a nice one to use when you want people to give more money to the church. And it happens.

But there’s a completely different angle to it that is mostly overseen. You see, in those days, tithing and offerings to the temple were all an essential part of a system in which the most vulnerable and poorest of the society were supported. If the priests didn’t do their job well, strangers, widows and orphans were the first ones to suffer. Loving others, taking care of people in need and serving God have always gone hand in hand. There isn’t a book in the Bible in which some prophet, disciple or Jesus, doesn’t get really mad about disconnecting the three. Because religion without heart for God and other people robs God from His reputation.

Now fastforward and think of all the sexual abuse that has taken place in Catholic boarding schools. Little boys had to confess their sins after being raped or beaten by a priest. God’s name was used as a motive for violence and manipulation. It must have robbed God of these kids’ trust and most probably killed their faith in Him as well.

Jesus said: ‘Whatever you did to the least of my brothers, you did unto Me.’ What state must He be in?

 

Fokke and Sukke rather not think about it. 'What if God really DOES exist?'

 

2010
10/14
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theology
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Ground Zero

The quarter looks like any other quarter in Warsaw that was built after WWII. Monotonous, straight streets and ugly concrete buildings. If you didn’t know, you would never have guessed that there is hardly any other place on the entire globe where so many people have suffered and so much injustice has been done. The Warsaw ghetto, three square miles that served as the last stop before the gas chambers of Treblinka to 400.000 Polish Jews.

When I lived in Warsaw about 13 years ago, I would walk through the quarter and try to think of what had happened there. It was actually impossible to grasp. Never could I leave the place without goosebumps and tears in my eyes.

I guess it’s about the same kind of experience people have when they pass Ground Zero in New York. Even if you haven’t lost a loved one on that horrible day, being at the place is a reminder of how cruel mankind can be and that it’s the innocent that suffer from absurd radical thoughts.

Remembering can make you sad and scared, but also thankful for the freedom that we enjoy in the here and now. The fact that we can be who we are, believe what we want and live without fear in a society that values each individual equally.

This is what I thought of while wondering about all the upheaval around the intended construction of Islam cultural centre near Ground Zero. Could you compare that with for example, establishing a German Cultural Center in the middle of the Warsaw Ghetto? And would that be wrong?

My first reaction would be yes. Simply because of the trauma. For a long time after my son had almost drowned and I had seen him floating face down in a pool, I would already get a panic attack if I saw a doll floating face down, or a child swimming under water. If you’ve ever gone through a traumatic experience, you’ll know that any link to the terrible event will bring forth some of the same horror that you lived through before. So perhaps because muslim extremists were responsible for the attack, an Islamic cultural center around the corner might trigger all the hurt and fears that a lot of Americans still suffer from.

Since it were the Germans who carried out their mass destruction plan, any reminder of them would only add to the immense silent pain that is still going around the Warsaw Ghetto.

But when I chew a bit more on the matter, I come to a different conclusion. First of all, it is important to realize that reactions to trauma are often not rational and even very dysfunctional. Coming back to my child’s drowning: If I had let my fear of water rule, my kids would never have even tiptoed in a paddling pool again, let alone swim and therefor run a great risk of drowning later on in life. I had to set my fear aside, I couldn’t blame the water for almost killing my son. It was my negligence that did it.

The Nazis weren’t only guilty of almost eliminating Europe’s entire Jewish population. What is often forgotten is that they also stole their nationalities. Ever since the Nazis started their anti-semitism campaigns, the Jews were not regarded as Dutch, German, French or Polish anymore, they were simply Jews. Not allowed to live in their own countries and be part of their own culture. Even after the war this continued. Most of the the Jews who returned from concentration camps were not welcome in their own country anymore.

So it is important to realize that the Jews who lived in Germany before Hitler were just as much part of the German culture as the Nazis were. With that in mind, pure rationally seen, a German Centre should not have to be a stumble block in the Warsaw Ghetto. Not the German culture, but the Nazis, abusing their culture, killed the Jews.

And you could say the same about the Islamic Cultural centre. This centre is built and run by American people. They are part of the rich American culture that has the freedom of religion, the freedom to express beliefs and opinions and the freedom to get together and exercise faith. It is wrong to isolate these Americans and exclude them from the rights they have, simply because they are Muslims. Not the Muslims, but extremists, abusing their faith are responsible for 9/11.

I’m not drawing any conclusions about whether the center should be built or not. Nor do I want propose the building of a German Centre in Warsaw! Neither do I want to compare the attack on the World Trade Center with the Holocaust. It’s all very complicated and there are no straight forward answers to all these issues. I just think that we have to be very careful with our responses. Because before we know it, we’re thinking and acting exactly the same as the ones who inflicted all the pain to start with.

2010
08/21
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Bugs and all

This morning while I was having my coffee and slowly waking up, all of a sudden I felt something moving in the back of my throat! I had swallowed a fly. Those big, black ones that used to buzz around the house when my father had manured the garden with fresh cow pooh and the next door kids would tell us that our house smelled like a pig stall. It was a pretty gross experience, but it did remind me of a radio programme that I had listened to a few weeks ago. Some insect farmers had launched a few snacks that were made from insects: The bug nuggets and bug balls.

Not all insects are edible, and I’m sure the fat fly that I tried this morning is one of them. In a lot of other countries in the world, grasshoppers, ants and meal worms are concidered as delicacies though. And that is a good thing. Our flying or crawling friends are full of proteins and other healthy stuff and to breed them and get them ready for consumption is much, much more environmental friendly than getting a piece of cow, pig or chicken on our plate.

On the radio programme most of the people who tasted the snacks were pretty enthousiastic about them. A few excited vegetarians were thrilled to have found a good substitute for the gross tofu they had been chewing on for years.

So am I going to eat insects as well? I think I should, with all my blogging and preaching about the environment and all. To be honest, the thought of eating these creepy creatures doesn’t appeal to me at all! But I will give it a try, and if it doesn’t work an other one. I also thought that it might help if people in other Western countries would start eating them and turn it into a culinairy hit. And thinking about it, I concluded that the country to begin should be France.

The French are trend setters and really like organic stuff. They already made pretty nasty sounding food find their way to the menu cards of the world’s best restaurants, like snails, fois gras and frog butts. And last, but not least, as I discovered later in the day: You can get them here already!

Albeit in the pet shop!

2010
08/03
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Superwoman

I met Louise during my first week in Skopje. She was a teacher at the school where my children went to. We soon found out that we were destined to meet each other. We discovered that we have mutual friends and have lived in the same places. My father grew up where she did. Our children have the same age, we share our faith and interests. For the past 5 years she has always been around, no matter the distance. I think I’m one of the most fortunate people in the world to have her as a friend.

You see, Louise is not just a normal person. She has lived under the most basic circumstances somewhere in a village in the Himalayean, without electricity or running water for 3 years, then moved to an Albanian village to live there for an other 5 years. She can tell you amazing stories of her travels and life and is the most no nonsense, but nevertheless passionate person I know.

A few weeks ago, Louise, I and the children went on a little holiday in Sauerland, Germany. We had spent our day at a little lake, talking, laughing and playing with the kids and made our evening plans. Louise would do some groceries, cook a meal, bring it to the lake and we’d eat it there, afterwards go home, get the kids in bed and eat some delicious raspberry cake. In the whole wide world there are no better raspberry cakes to be found than in Germany. They are divine.

And so it happened. All went according to plan, wasn’t it that 8 year-old Kristel stepped on a wooden deck and had 4 huge splinters in her feet. That night, we had to get them out. Kristel put her feet in a bucket of water with detergent soap for about 15 minutes, then lay on her stomach and Louise and I skillfully pulled them out with a needle and tweezers. It really hurt, but Kristel was very brave and only cried a little. As a reward we decided to share our cake with her. With pain in our hearts we cut it up in three and gave her a piece.

I think Kristel had only taken one bite when we heard a ‘Plop’. She had dropped the cake in the bucket of by then muddy water and detergent soap. With a great shock I realized that now I would have to share even more of my cake and there would be hardly anything left! But believe it or not, almost faster than the eye could see, Louise fished it out, ran to the kitchen, rinsed it off, put it on a plate and ate it.

‘It’s still crispy on the inside and I don’t taste any detergent at all’, she said. Kristel and I looked at her with big eyes of amazement and then burst into laughter. Louise didn’t get a stomach ache, drop dead on the spot or something like that. No, she enjoyed the cake just as much as we did and was as fit as a fiddle the remaining part of our wonderful holiday.

You see, she’s not even an unusual person, she’s a bit of a superwoman!

2010
07/29
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Cathedral

The lady at the town hall tells the children to sign a form within the given space. Excited Aaron, Julian, Eva and Michelle write down their names as tidy as possible. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m so proud of them. My kids, an identity of their own, all printed and signed on a card. ‘Can we get money with it as well?’ Julian wants to know. ‘No, we just need it when we go to an other country or if you want to vote and when somebody else asks for it’ I explain.

Next to me, a guy in his eighties hands over a very old picture of a woman. ‘It’s an old one, but there’s no way that I could get her to go to the photographer now. I would like to get an identity card for my wife, but she’s in a home and unable to come by herself’ ‘Well’ the lady behind the counter says, then we’ll just come and visit her. She has to sign these papers and affirm that you have filled them in for her and confirm her identity to us. The man gets a bit nervous and explains: ‘You see, that’s the problem, she suffers from Alzheimer’s and is very confused. We’ve been married for 61 years and she doesn’t even know who I am anymore.’ I couldn’t decide on if he sounded sad or a angry. Maybe both.

A professor in Biology, specialized in love matters, once said that what stands in long-term relationships after all the chemical, hormonal excitement has gone, which takes about three years btw, is a cathedral of memories. Designed and built together.

I wonder what this man’s cathedral looks like. Can he marvel at the beauty of all these years spent together, the fun they had, how they worked themselves through tough times? Did the familiarity of their bodies together become more exciting, no matter they were growing old? Or perhaps he always thought that the good years were still to come. Once she could stop being so grumpy, or finally shut up and listen to him instead. How many nights did he stare at the ceiling, wishing for somebody else’s touch? I don’t know, I didn’t ask. And even if he told me, I would never understand what his building looked like. And neither will the friendly looking lady on the picture who helped building it herself.

The man made an appointment. ‘I’ve visited my wife every day for the past 5 years, but about a month ago I decided to not come on Thursdays and Mondays anymore. It’s just too hard.’ When did he give up hope on getting a glimpse of recollection? The possibility to ask for forgiveness or teach her her final lesson?

How lonely he must feel. Getting a card for a forgotten identity that he used to be such a part of.

I leave the town hall pretty sad and impressed. Time to go home and build a bit more on my own cathedral. Gerco and I are doing a great job. Making sure that it will stand. Whether I’ll be around to remember it or not.

2010
07/28
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New blog

I have moved my blog to leonieslife.squarespace.com

Hope to see you there!

2010
07/16
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Turism

Luanda 2010

‘Mind your step’, the sweet airport voice resounds through my head when I enter the elevator. You never know where it has stopped. This time one step up. Just before the doors close a man jumps in. ‘Boa Tarde’, I say. A big mouth with beautiful white teeth smiles back at me.

‘Such a beautiful day today!’ He draws a freshly ironed handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the little sweatdrops off his nose. ‘I have to go to the sixth floor, because I’m the Minister of Turism and we have a very important meeting today’. Not entirely confident I press the golden button number six. Ordinals in Portuguese can be pretty tricky.

‘We’re going to build hotels! Next year there will be an eclips in Angola and this is the opportunity to attract tourists!’ ‘Gosh, that sounds interesting’, I say. ‘Absolutely!’ Full of enthusiasm he tells me about all the country’s highlights. The impressive nature, beautiful beaches, the elephants that were flown in to inhabit the empty nature reserves, the lovely people and the delicious food. ‘As soon as we have beaten UNITA, Angola is going to be Africa’s most popular holiday destination, mark my words!’

But my toughts wonder off. Personally I have never travelled more than 100 kilometres outside  the city. Too dangerous. I think about yesterday’s cockroach rain. After an enormous leak in the bathroom we had taken out the ceiling. ‘Yes, your neighbour upstairs splashes too much water when he is taking a bath’, the plumber had said. How on earth could he have known that?

My daily walk on the Marginal. I look at the far gone beauty of a city that was called ‘Paris of Africa’ only 25 years ago. The unimaginable smells of garbage, sweat and rotten fish sticks in my nostrils. There is Florencia, who has displayed her single-shoe-merchandise on the pavement. Business is thriving. Only has one leg herself, she stepped on a mine. We talk about her children and I kiss the little baby who is bundled on her back. Two little feet sticking out in the front.

The guy in the elevator babbles on. I have to say, it is a beautiful country. Last Saturday we saw sea turtles swimming and fish flying. We drank avocado milkshakes and something cowy in a little cafe on the beach, spectating a beautiful sunset. In Angola there is always dance and laughter. Ebola viruses, hunger, injustice or not.

The elevator comes to a halt. About half a meter above us the doors slide open. For a minister his size, he climbs out of the elevator quite skillfully. ‘Bye!’ He turns around, gets on his knees and asks: ‘Actually, are you a tourist?’

‘No, fortunately not!’ I shout at him while the doors are closing. ‘I live here!’

2010
06/02
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Laundry

If it wasn’t for the cold, hygiene, lack of supernatural manipulation skills and impossible amount of will power, I would pack my bags, get my family and move to a nudist colony. Not because I feel inspired to run around naked all day long. No, simply because I hate clothes.

I don’t like to try them on, I don’t like to buy them. I find it difficult to keep up with the latest fashion and almost impossible to keep up with my children’s sizes. The process of keeping six people properly dressed every day is a hard one and to stay understanding and keep the ‘oh, it-doesn’t-matter-darling-look’ when they get all muddy or tear their clothes requires a lot of acting. But most of all, I hate to wash, fold and iron them. It can suck away one’s joy in life.

But I have come up with a coping strategy. In my 4 to 6 hours of clothes related hard labour I might as well add an enriching twist. So now I listen to podcasts about the most interesting subjects. Like Nascar drivers and concussions, whether food really makes you fat, smelly feet, how to make a tornado from flames, blind scorpions and how to make your own solar cell from electronics. All very surprising and fun to listen.

A few days ago I listened to one podcast that really kept me thinking. It’s about the mystery of the single socks. Isn’t it strange that you put a pair of socks in the laundry basket and often only one gets back in your drawer? Well, according to this podcast, somewhere in our universe there must be a sock sucking worm hole that collects all these single ones. Just like that there’s an island of plastic somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, our socks might end up on a planet between Jupiter and Mars. Or somewhere else.

So if you ever come across these socks, you know you have found the end of the sock sucking wormhole!

What an exciting turn in doing the laundry!

2010
05/07
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Jewish Child, part two

There’s something magical about poetry. I love the way words and phrases have rythm and how layers of feelings and ideas can be expressed in a single strophe. I don’t think I will ever be able to write a poem worth reading myself but I do like to translate them. You can keep the inspirational, creative thinking to the poet and just play with the words and interpret the ideas behind them. I know, there are many more ways to waste your time, but if I had a choice between doing a Sudoku, laundry, playing the bagpipes or translate a poem in a beautiful language, I’d definitely know what to pick!

The result of some of my attempts can be read in former posts. Most of them are poems that I read for the first time when I was in high school and they all qualify as my all-time favourites. I wanted to translate ‘Jewish Child’ because I think it really brings the reality the WWII very close. I stop thinking in terms of black-and-white images and start to feel the harsh reality of what happened to about a hundred thousand Jews and five thousand Roma in my country 60 years ago.

I wonder how I would have responded to the little girl and her father. Would I have noticed them, or rushed on to get home as soon as possible. Would I have seen the yellow stars on their coats, notice the love between them, feel sorry for them? Would I have said the same prayer and believed that it could make a difference? Would I have sheltered them and risked my own life?

I don’t know. Thankfully I have never been in a situation where I had to make these kind of choices. I do hope that I will become a bit like the writer of this poem. That I will be able to see beyond somebody’s race, background or faith and share in the beauty of loving each other.

There’s so much more that I could say about the poem, but you have to ponder on the words yourself. Tomorrow at eight the Dutch are going to commemorate the victims of WWII. I think this time I will think of the little girl and her father.

2010
05/03
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Jewish Child

Jewish child

At the railway station she waits for him, every night
The little girl with the non-Arisch black hair,
With eyes, fixed in a stare
Making sure that daddy walking out of the tunnel is in her sight.

Commuters shuffle past the entrance gate
In their daily haste rushing down the stairs
Close to the conductor’s den, where
The dark child is only to stand and wait.

Then, a man’s arm is waving a salute that she can’t miss
Suddenly recognition blossoms in her eyes
At once to her father she flies
He gets down on his knees and gives the delicate girl a kiss

Now they’re walking together at the end of the day
The man bent and burdened with sorrow
The little chatterbox really wants to know
Why she still can’t go to the swimming pool and others may…

Today I have only one prayer, O Lord
Almost every Jewish family is being ripped apart, I beg You

Let the Gestapo forget these two
Let them stay together, in Jesus’ name, let these be ignored.

Henk Fedder,

2010
05/02
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Spleen

Spleen

I’m sitting here in front of the window pane
inexpressively bored stiff
I wish I were two doggies
Then we would have somebody to play with

Godfried Bomans (1913 – 1971)

2010
03/25
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poetry
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To a far away Princess

To The Far Away Princess

Never again will we reunite:
The world has forced itself in between.
Sometimes we both stand behind the window at night,
But different stars in different times are seen.

Your country is so far away from mine:
From light to the depts of darkness – That I
Traveling restlessly, on wings of desire,
would greet you with my final cry.

However, if it’s true that by great dreams dreamt
Up to the most distant heavenly light
the strongest desire can be sent: then I will come
Then I will come, every night.

J. Slauerhoff (1898 – 1936)

2010
03/25
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To a day of tomorrow

To a day of tomorrow

If I die tomorrow,
then tell the trees
how much I loved you.
Tell it to the wind
that climbs up the trees
or falls down from the branches,
how much I loved you.
Tell it to a child,
that’s young enough to understand.
Tell it to an animal,
maybe simply by looking in its eyes.
Tell it to the houses, made of bricks,
tell it to the city,
How much I loved you.

But don’t tell it to any human.
They would not believe you.
They would not want to believe
that just a man, just a woman
that a human could so love a human as I loved you.

Hans Andreus (1928 – 1977)

2010
03/20
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Blasphemous

‘Hey, how nice to see you again!’ It was somewhere in 1999, Gerco and I were on a holiday in the Netherlands and visiting the church we used to go to before we moved abroad. The guy asked the 3 polite questions: ‘How are you? Good, how nice. Where do you live again? Warsaw? Aren’t the winters cold there?’ to continue talking about an uncle or next-door neighbour who had been there one time and then smoothly move on to what would be the main subject: Talk about himself and in this case about all the miracles God had done in the church in the past year that we weren’t there. You see, special things had happened; people had been healed, fallen in the Spirit and on and on. His cup was full and he got a refill every Sunday, you know with the sinful world sucking it empty during the week and all…

I was starting to feel a bit uneasy and his last remark really dealt the blow: ‘What a pity that you weren’t here, you have totally missed God working and the Toronto blessing!’

Let’s go back a few years earlier. I’m attending a wedding of a good friend and am sitting at a round table with next to me his 20-year old, don’t-need-to-do-bible school-because-God-tells-me-directly-what-to-do pastor and a very young, newly wed couple who are discussing what decisions they should make career wise. Should they continue studying or start working? I had always been asking these questions myself and was very curious about the advice the pastor would give, who knows if it would help me. Well, this is what it said:

‘Hmm, have I already spoken some prophecies about it?’

Now fast forward to last Sunday. I went to an international church in Rotterdam. I like going there now and then, it reminds me of the church I used to go to in Skopje. What a surprise to meet somebody I knew from my home church years back. We said hi, again the 3 polite questions and soon continued talking about my parents.

Ten years ago, together with a lot of other people worldwide they stepped into a financial scheme, set up by former YWAM workers that would provide as a pension facilitator for missionaries. Well, as you can read in this post, it turned out to be a millions-of-euros sucking wormhole. To cut a long story short, my parents discovered it and brought it in the open and are still fighting to protect others from making the same mistake and bring the truth to light.

What makes everything much more complicated is that one of the inventors of this pyramid, with a construction the ancient Egyptians would be envious of, is closely connected to my former home church. And quite a lot of people there are upset with my parents for bringing the whole issue in the open, even though a number of them have lost a considerable amount of money as well! But back to the conversation: I never enjoy talking about this issue and was getting slightly annoyed, but what really made me furious was the following question about my parents:

Has God spoken to you whether what they are doing is right?

Three different times and three different remarks that mark a certain tendency in religion that is utmost dangerous. I say religion, because I don’t think it is typically Christian.

The thought that God is only manifesting Himself with one specific group of people, or in one specific place, isolates a believer. It’s a double edged sword. Not only is it entrapping, it also shuts off from all the God-given wonderful people, things and thoughts outside and most of all, the needs of others, responsibility within society and care for the planet itself.

Furthermore, it puts God in a box. If we start to view God as a Being who only acts in one specific way, or only answers if we pray at a certain time and place, in a specific order or with some magic words, we condemn Him to not be involved in the lives of the millions of people who did not grow up with the same religious practices. The ones who lack the trust when times are too rough, the ones who are too sick to have faith, or too lonely to feel a Presence.

The tendency stimulates to trust a person to speak on behalf of God and make all the life decisions that each one is given to make themself. It is so easy to let somebody else be responsible for our lives. Even more so if that somebody tells you in detail how to do it, adding promises of fortune, riches and fame.

The majority of these ‘prophecies’ lack moral and ethic standards and are used to meet the needs of a very selected group of people. How different from the type of prophecies good old Elijah, Haggai, Micah or Jeremiah spoke out in their times. They called for a turn from religious practices to a life of love towards God and the needy. They suffered for justice, often under very weird circumstances by the way, and cried for all the pain that was inflicted on their people.

And last but not least, the tendency gives ample of opportunities to manipulate and abuse. And I could give you enough examples of when that has happened. I’ve seen people end up in psychiatrical hospitals, others being octracised from communities they had been part of their entire lives. The twenty-year-old pastor now lives the life of a king in Kenya while his ‘servants’ are paying off their financial and emotional debts.

‘Absolutely ridiculous’ a non-believer would say. Thinking about the way I have come to know God through the Bible, in my life, the life of others, the Polish people in 1999 included, I can only say:

It’s blasphemous.

2010
03/18
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crocuses


2010
03/17
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Cars

This afternoon, I was driving the car with Eva and Michelle in the back, when they started talking about wanting to drive themselves. ‘I’m going to drive when I’m a mother’ said Eva. ‘You have to be eighteen before you’re allowed to drive, you’ll have to wait a little bit, with having kids as well with driving!’. She seemed quite ok with the answer. ‘Ok, then I’ll just bike instead!’

Then Michelle spoke up: ‘But I want to drive when I’m six!’ ‘But you’ll be too small, your feet won’t even reach the clutch and break’, I said. It was quiet for a while and than with a very determined voice Michelle answered: ‘Well, then I’ll just become a car myself!’

I often wonder how her little brain works. Is it because her eyes were rather squinted in her early years that she has such a peculiar view on life?

It’s number gazillion in the row of things that she wants to be when she grows up: Ranging from Superman to nurse, kangaroo to school teacher, mother of course and on and on. Even if Michelle pursues only a few items on her to-be list, her life is going to absolutely fascinating. And now she’s turning material!

Pretty perplexed I asked her how that would be possible. Then she answered: ‘Oh, I’ll just get a car suit with wheels and all, that should work!’

Who knows!

2010
03/14
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Pigs: To chop or not to chop

Imagine that you travel back in time and have the honour to have dinner with…. let’s say: Julius Caesar. You’re lying on the sofa, talking about gladiators, battle strategies and pretty women, drinking some wine, having your feet manicured and getting ready to have a bite. On the low table in front of you are all sorts of dishes displayed; fruits, vegetables, bread. But also some weird looking meat dishes and smelly rotten fishy stuff. You’re supposed to eat a bit of all, o boy…. But what a surprise! There’s a platter full of perfectly marinated pork chops! Anticipating on the familiarity of the taste, you grab the chunk of meat, chew on it and then find yourself completely disgusted: This tastes like a combination of manure and sweaty feet! How on earth could that be?

The answer is quite simple. When a male pig is sexually mature, it produces smelly hormones, called castrol and androstenon. They are concentrated in the pig’s fat, making its meat pretty impossible to eat. That is why nowadays male piggies are castrated at a very young age. It prevents them from producing these hormones. It’s all pretty logical, wasn’t it that this little intervention cause the pigs to be stressed out and give them higher risks to get nasty infections that might contaminate humans as well.

And it’s not only the testicles that get chopped off! In pig industry piglets’ tails are cut off directly after birth as well! Because with the very limited space the pigs live in, they get stressed and bored and start chewing on each other’s tails, again causing infections and conflicts in the pigsty.

These surgical interventions all sound quite ok, if only there weren’t much animal friendlier options. If consumers would be willing to pay a little more money for pork, the pigs could live in bigger pigsties. With hay to play with so that they wouldn’t even be bothered to chew each other’s tails. And the baby hogs wouldn’t have to be castrated if consumers could let go of the idea that vaccinating the pigs with stuff that stops the production of the smelly hormones is dangerous. And again wanted to spend just a bit more so that a farmer could afford to take the right safety measures when vaccinating.

But we like our meat to be cheap. And we like to eat lots of it.

So next time you’re in the supermarket or at the butcher’s, looking at the nicely cut, sterilized packages of bacon, ham and chops, think for a second about the creature that used to be this meat. Did it live a dignified life, in a clean place without unnecessary pain and stress, or was it raised as efficiently and fast as possible, solely for the production of lots of cheap meat? What had to be chopped in order for you to have your chops?

And going back to Caesar’s table, I’d say: Try the fried peacock tongues or stuffed giraffe’s neck instead!

2010
03/10
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First Macro Lens Attempts

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2010
03/06
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Rotterdam, bright lights, big city!

2010
03/04
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End of Winter

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2010
03/03
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Politics and Promises

Today are the local elections for all Dutch municipalities. Nothing particularly thrilling on a global scale, but for me personally it’s going to be an exciting day. I’m going to be able to vote for myself! It must have been late October, I was having a coffee after church, when totally out of the blue I was asked to join a political party and run for a seat in the council. Well, why not? I like getting involved in lots of different things, am interested in what’s going on on a local level and definitely like a hearty discussion. The only problem that might arise would be the fact that I only moved to my town less than a year ago…

I got lost when I biked home from our first meeting in the city hall. I thought it would be nice to take an alternative route, but it ended up being a sightseeing and safety check Ridderkerk at night. Hmm, definitely need to work on my geographical knowledge a bit. Plus read all the files and papers about a tram line that is going to be constructed in town, a polder that will be turned into an industrial area, health care issues, school building repairs, social problems, etcetera etcetera. Because already during campaigning, you need to know what you’re talking about!

I had gotten clear instructions: 1. When you don’t know something, shut up. 2. Ask lots of questions, to show that you’re interested and divert them from your ignorance. 3. Never make any promises!

So well prepared I had my first political debate and did pretty well. Then there was a radio debate with an other political party. I was supposed to do this together with our number one, but he was half an hour late. I had taken my time to explain the party’s ideology, why you can vote for a national party, even though the elections are local and stuff, but then the real discussions began. About the polder. But shutting up on the radio is hard and asking questions a bit tricky during a debate. I held on for a few nerve wrecking minutes and was just about to say something pretty dumb when thankfully the other guy walked in. From then on, we had a super discussion.

Next item on the campaigning program was visiting the elderly in an old people’s home. A wonderful opportunity to ask tons of questions. I heard all about a 98-year old lady, whose father had run off when she was 3, leaving her mother and 2 other siblings behind. Her brother had drown and she had watched the police get him out off the water. Then she got married and had two boys and two girls. Great kids, except for one son who had constantly been cheating on his wife. And then there was the war, the crisis, o yes, and politics. The only thing she could say about that was that at her age you could only trust God and Jesus. Politicians were a self-enriching bunch of people, promising all sorts of stuff, but never making anything happen.

Hmm, well it sure was fun to listen, and even if I had shouted my little political talk, she wouldn’t have been able to hear what I said. Fortunately the 85-year old lady sitting next to her promised to vote for me!

And last, but not least, last Saturday we were in the center of town, baking poffertjes for our fellow citizens, having a debate with all parties and talking to the people in the streets. It was a lot of fun to hear everybody’s ideas about the future of their town. At a certain point, I had a conversation with a couple and I asked what they would like to see change in Ridderkerk. ‘Well, a better concert hall for sure!’ It turned out they played the trumpet and bass in a band. We started talking about the wonders of music and before I knew it, I made a promise: I would come to listen to their band practice if they would vote for our party.

So Monday night, I jumped on my bike and got lost again. But when I made it to the band I was warmly welcomed, got an instrument and allowed to play along straight away. After about an hour I had blown my lips into shreds, but it sure was super fun! We talked about brass bands, their upcoming concerts and things band players talk about. They gave me a cornet to practice on at home and now I’m third cornet player in the band.

Today’s the day. I’m not sure if I will make it in the city council. On a national level my party is at one of its lowest points in history. But I’ve sure learnt a lot. About polders and tramlines, The Netherlands in the past century, family drama and streets and signposts in Ridderkerk.

I think I did pretty well when it comes to sticking to the rules. I’ve listened and only talked when I knew what I was talking about (still quite a lot though). I only made one promise and have kept it. Now let’s hope that the band will vote for me as well!

O yes, upcoming concert on March 20th….

2010
03/03
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A bit of a miracle

Hobart, 5 January 1975

The lady left the building with a big, yellow envelope under her arm. She got in her car, carefully lay it on the passenger’s seat and drove off. A substitute GP had done her 32-week check up and taken a close look at the size of her huge belly. “You know what, I would like you to have an x-ray, just to make sure you’re not carrying two”. In a shocking state of shock, the lady had rushed to to the hospital to have it done and was now on her way back.

With you’re-not-supposed-to-do-thises whirling through her ribcage, she parked the car on the side of the road, grabbed the envelope and, carefully trying to not tear the paper, opened it. She took the black x-ray out and held it against the sun. Phew, only one little skeleton to be seen. Quickly she shoved it back, closed the envelope and drove to the GP’s office.

Only a few hours earlier, a couple of kilometres down the road, a bulk ore carrier, with a cargo of 10,000 tons of zinc concentrate collided with the bridge that connected the east and western part of town. Two pylons and a total of 127 meters of road fell in the water and on the ship. The ship sank immediately. Seven of the ship’s crewmen were killed and five motorists died when four cars drove over the collapsed sections before the traffic was stopped. As you can see on the picture below, two cars were right on time.

The lady blushed a little when she handed over the envelope to her doctor. Without noticing the slightly torn paper, he opened it and had a close look at the white blurs. “Yes, this was just the one I was looking for! You are having twins!” Panic stroke and the lady had to sit down. How on earth was she going to cope with 4 kids under the age of five?

The cars got towed away and the people who were in them saved. They had been smart enough to get out on the right side and not lean forwards. And the pregnant lady? The stress made her go into early labour and she had to be admitted to hospital to quiet it all down. But she was smart enough to accept this surprise as a gift, determined to love these little ones as best as she could. And thank God for a wonderful, helping husband.

One year later the repaired bridge was open again. New concrete pylons had been constructed, safer and stronger than the former ones. The city of Hobart was connected. A car crossed with in it a young and happy family. The lady, her husband, a five-year old, a two-year old and two fat babies.

One of them was me.

Even though there has not been any fear of dying nor great fits of panic, in the past year I have often felt like the cars dangling on the edge of that bridge. After our move to The Netherlands it has been such a struggle to find a sense of direction. I knew that there was no way back to the place where I felt at home, the friendships I enjoyed and the sense of belonging that I had. But on the other hand, I just couldn’t trust enough as a lever to move on and have a positive look on my new life.

But last week I decided that I’ve done enough nasty seesawing. I’m ready to cross the bridge. Be excited about the future and thankful for the ones who are riding along.

It’s a bit of a miracle.

Just like the cars who stopped on time.

And my parents who simply lived on.

2010
02/06
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sticks, drops and dead

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2010
01/22
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Feeling alive

There was a strong, cold wind, leaving snow flakes on my hair and in my face. I almost felt like Laura Ingles Wilder’s dad when he was on his way home and found himself in the middle of a snowstorm and then got attacked by a bear and all. I had gone for a run in the forest but had gotten totally lost. Google maps on the iphone is great, but you do need to go in the right direction! My ears were tingling and I had tears in my eyes. How wonderful to feel such intense cold, to hear myself breathing, to worry about wild boars ready to attack.

I kept on running and felt so alive.

Wasn’t it Descartes who shook the world when he said: ‘I think so I exist’, because for the first time in history he explained the world around him in ways in which he perceived it. His idea was that you can never be sure that the things that you are experiencing are true, you might actually be dreaming everything and suddenly wake up in a completely different reality. The only thing you can be sure of is the fact that you can think about the things around you. And that is how you know that you exist.

Anyway, there were lots of other very smart guys (and probably also girls, but somehow they never got famous) who developed these ideas and came up with other factors that determine our sense of being. Heidegger wrote a totally unreadable book about ‘Dasein’, in which he says that we can be conscious of the fact that we are conscious and that should be enough to give life its meaning.

Well, the tricky part of these types of explanations is that they are very self-centered. They focus only on our own perceptions. We value our lives by what we experience. And depending on whether that’s good or bad, we either become depressed or happy, but in both cases will always struggle with the pursue of the best for ourselves. And somehow never be able to answer the questions of meaning.

But then there were a few other guys (and probably also girls but somehow they never got famous) who lived through the Second World War and personally experienced the dangerous results and emptiness of this way of thinking in its extremes. Because where is the other in our self-perceived reality? If what we experience is the rule, we automatically value ourselves above others. If we decide that others do not fit in how we want to experience life, why not just ignore them or worse, get rid of them? And that’s what happens.

To cut a long story short, they found that we can only find what it truly means to be human if we live in response to the lives of others and what happens around us. If we stop looking for meaning in what we experience and start putting meaning in it ourselves. Stop trying to prove the existence of God, but start responding to what His existence means. Stop being stuck in preconceived ideas and unshakable truths about other people, but start valuing each one of them as much as ourselves.

I was driving through the streets of Luanda when all of a sudden I saw a lady stumbling on the pavement. She had obviously had polio, was walking very slowly and I could see that each step hurt. I felt so sorry and awful, like I would do a gazillion times a day when seeing the most pitiful people in the streets. Normally I would try to ignore them and shut my nagging conscience up for a sec. But not this time. I stopped, let her in and took her home.

It was an hour detour and I was late for a meeting, but I felt so alive.

2010
01/10
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The berch of a tree is a little landscape in itself

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2009
12/26
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Viagra

He took the change and I said: ‘Thank you sir, have a nice day!’ The guy had just paid for a magazine and was about to leave the shop when he dropped his keys. He turned around and picked them up. Then I saw it: A huge bulge in his pants. I had just turned 15 and it hadn’t been that long ago when I had gone to the library to learn about the birds and bees and all the things men could do with their lower body part besides peeing. Quite shocked I stared at him. He blushed and strode quickly  to the exit door. How embarrassing!

If you have ever watched Wall-e you will remember the way people moved in the space ship. They didn’t walk, but were flown around in space lounge chairs. I wonder how that had started. Who had decided in those seven hundred years that men were not really able to walk themselves and needed to lie down all the time? Let’s make a simple guess. One guy had invented this chair and cunningly realized that if he could just make the people believe that they were actually not able to walk properly anymore, he would be able to make a huge amount of money, or let him have all control of every person’s whereabouts. The result is quite sad: a huge bunch of overweight, helpless and totally dependent people. Fortunately, Wall-e and Eve saved their day!

This is what I thought of after watching a documentary on Viagra, world’s most popular medicine. Ever since its launch in 1998, the number of users have rocketed, resulting in a multi billion yearly turnover for its developer Pfizer. Strange enough, the problem it’s supposed to cure isn’t called ‘impotence’ anymore, with a relative small amount of mainly older men suffering from it. No, the problem we’re talking about is ‘erectile dysfunctional syndrom’. Lots of men seem to have it. And guess what, it doesn’t have anything to do with the psychological, cultural, social or emotional aspects of a man’s being. This is a pure physiological dysfunction. And it can be fixed with one simple purple pill.

This approach fits really well in the way people approach sexuality nowadays. It seems to have become an individualistic act of meeting your biological needs. And whether these are met by an other person, or by watching porn or other DIY’s doesn’t really matter anymore. Love has gotten a different meaning. Feelings apart from physical sensations are completely shut off. What matters most is that sex is always available, doable and different. It doesn’t matter whether you’re in a relationship or not, old enough or even physically up to it. Whereas the monkeys still have their mates, we people are certainly down to rabbit level.

It’s just like lying in the chairs in the space ship. Even though we are moving we have forgotten what it was like to feel our feet after a long walk or to gasp for breath after a good run. Somehow we have started to believe that it’s all about getting from one place to the other and that there is no way that we could do that on our own.  Sex has lost its original drive, we hardly know anymore what true intimacy is like. An essential part that brings meaning to being human is gone.  And Pfitzer laughs in his sleeve and cashes an other billion.

I wonder what our sex future will look like. If the number of Viagra and related drugs keeps on rising like it does, in a few decades we might all be completely dependend on pills. This is what a regular night for a couple might look like: Man and woman go to bed, take a pill, have a massive orgasm on their own, turn off the lights and say ‘Love you and goodnight!”

Some alarm bells need to start ringing. We need to make a big effort to get love back in our sex lives. Stop wanting (to be) a Mr Darcy, a Pamela Anderson or a supersized Duracell-powered porn star. Start caring about and be faithful to our innerselves, our bodies and most of all, our partners. Find back the meaning of being intimate and loving each other. And I bet that there will be a huge amount of men with ‘Erectile Dysfunction Syndrom’ less!

Well, the alarms certainly went off for the guy in the shop! The manager ran after him and dragged him back inside. They took him to the back and were also rather struck by the swelling in his pants. They searched him and you know what: He had stolen a lightbulb and had put it in his underwear! In a way a fortunate, but certainly unexpected ending to my first encounter with men and their bulges.

2009
12/22
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My Great-Grandfather

Last Saturday, I heard a very interesting story about my great-grandfather. He is the head of this happy family. My mother’s father is standing on his right. Mr Hendrikus Landeweerd was born around 1870 and was the proud owner of a big farm, somewhere in the eastern part of The Netherlands. He was quite an extraordinary man. Not in the least because of his somewhat compact build, but also because of his outspoken character. Every Sunday after church, groups of men would circle around him to have lively debates about politics, that Sunday’s sermon and theological issues.

He was a man of influence and as I found out, in quite a profound way. You have to know that up till about 20 years ago, people in most churches would have their own seats. I remember churches where every bench had little lights on the back and when those were on, you were not allowed to sit there. These seats were reserved and in a lot of cases, paid for!

And guess what, my great-grandfather was in charge of designating the seats to the people. Everybody could place a bid and then he would decide where they would sit. The more you paid, the more in the front, the less you paid, the more in the back. A nice reflection of society those days. I wonder if my great-grand father enjoyed his churchly responsibility, and can just imagine all the fuss and gossips and power struggles that must have come along with it! And where did he actually sit?

I am always quite shocked to hear these kind of stories. That social and financial status can make such a difference, even when it comes to faith.

But not all churches were like that. The church my father went to as a child had a system in which every 2 months every row of people would move up one bench. And once you had been in the front, you would have to start all over from the back. I think that was a splendid idea!

Since then, things have changed completely. Nowadays churches almost have to pay people to actually come, or they sell their buildings to real estate developers to be changed into an apartment complex, museum or shop. But still, globally seen, we in the West certainly like to sit in the best spots. So I was thinking that some Sundays, we should all swap places. Let’s have a service in a church like this:

and let them have their service in a ‘cathedral’ like this!

People are always so busy worrying about their own seats and statuses, do they actually ever wonder in which row God is sitting? And how much He would have to pay a man like my great-grandfather for that?

Strangely enough, it appears that for us religious people those questions don’t really seem to matter that much!

2009
12/04
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Near Death Experiences

Santo Domingo, March 2004. ‘Out, out’, he said, pointing at the door. Julian was bored of playing with his trains and obviously in for some more adventure. ‘Ok, Julian, you can play outside, I’ll be there in a minute.’ I let him out and went back inside to finish something on the computer. I should have known, he is Houdini in the making after all, because I didn’t notice that he managed to open the gate and get to the pool. He must have taken a big jump, like he always did. But this time without his floaties…

A few minutes later, I turned off the computer and turned towards the window. It was very quiet in the garden. ‘He must be eating mud again,’ I thought. Then I saw him. Floating in the pool with his face down. I screamed, ran outside, jumped in and got him out.

He wasn’t breathing and looked purple. Julietta and the guards ran towards me and started yelling as well. I simply did not know what to do!

Fortunately, Haitian workers saw me from the building across our house and came to help. I screamed: ‘Where can I get an ambulance? What should I do?’ Every second seemed to last much longer, I felt like I was dreaming. ‘Get in the car and drive yourself, I’ll come with you and give him mouth-to-mouth’, one Haitian boy said. We jumped in and raced to the emergency room. ‘Respira-lo, respira-lo’, I kept on shouting. Had Gerco not had an accident a few months before, I never would have known that there was one so close by…

We arrived and the doctors started CPR on him immediately. I was crying so loud, that they told me to leave. I just wanted to be with him in these last moments of his life. I was almost sure that he wasn’t going to make it.

And even though I wasn’t dying myself, I have never been nearer to death than at that moment as well. The panic was so strong that it just couldn’t stay in my body. I felt like slamming my head against the wall, hurting myself, I had to physically feel something to deal with all that pain.

It was horrible, but strange enough, this moment did show me who I really am and what I truly believe about this life and after. Because the only thing that I could think clearly was a prayer. ‘Thank you God that he’s with You, there’s nobody else that could take better care of him, no other place that I would want him to be with if he cannot be me.’ I know, this is not a philosophical nor scientifically reliable proof of God or life after death and of course all very subjective, but for cynical me it has been enough. I know how to trust.

Julian lived! He got CPR and his little heart started beating again. They transferred him to the hospital where we used to go to, since the emergency room where we had gone only had one respirator. Dr Garcia, our pediatrician waited for us at the door, carried him to the IC and hooked him up on all sorts of machines. He joked: ‘It doesn’t matter under what circumstances you see him, he’s always drop dead gorgeous!’

That night I stayed with Julian. So did the doctor and he took such good care of him. After a few hours his worried look started to ease up. Even though Julian had been without oxygen for quite a while, it seemed that he hadn’t suffered severe brain damage. He was going to be alright. I felt such a relief, but was still very upset and especially angry with myself.

And as soon as Julian woke up, he was his active self again. The next day, Julian was allowed to the normal ward and I had to stay with him as well. There was no baby cot, so we slept together in one bed. Then, in the middle of the night, Julian woke up and literally jumped out of bed! He fell straight down and started screaming. The nurses ran in and I was just completely shocked. Even when the kid is lying next to me, he still slips away and almost kills himself!

We were allowed to go home the next day. Julian seemed to have forgotten the whole ordeal and played nicely that whole day. Later in the evening Julian and Aaron were watching television. Then all of a sudden, Julian started jumping on the couch I told him to stop, but before I knew it, he jumped so high that he literally flew over the couch and smacked on the tiled flour, head first. Still quite upset I started sobbing. ‘Can somebody please take this child away from me, I’m obviously absolutely incapable of looking after him!’

Fortunately after this dreadful weekend, no more life threatening things have happened. At least, short term. Never know what damage all the parasites and bugs that he has had will do to him longterm! And you know what, he’s never been afraid either. Not of water, heights, or anything else.

I like to think that he had such a nice Near Death Experience that all fear of dying has left him forever.

Not for me though! I sometimes have nightmares of people drowning, or floating with their face down. I am conscious of the fact that within a few minutes, something life-changing can happen. I know that I’m incapable of looking after my children all the time and protect them for every danger that’s lying around the corner. It’s scary. But do you know what? There’s not a day that I don’t realize how blessed I am to have Julian and my other children with me. That they are healthy and such wonderful kids. So I just do what I can do and try hard to leave the worrying to moments that there really is something to worry about and nothing else.

Julian and I both had a Near Death Experience that afternoon. And even though Julian’s was probably way more fun, I’m thankful that I had mine. The Life After Near Death is much better!

2009
12/04
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Pooh in the Cave and Safety in the Class

Warning: This blog contains some very gross elements.

It was pitch dark. We had hiked for about 2 hours in peanut butter mud, paddled through little lakes and at a certain point even had to crawl through an underwater entrance to get into the next cave chamber. We were all wet and extremely dirty. Some of the unfortunates hadn’t payed enough attention to the instructions on how to waterproof your backpack.Their sleeping bags were completely soaked. Poor teenagers, this survival camp would turn out to be a lot nastier than that they ever could have imagined! We had cooked ourselves a meal in the biggest chamber of the cave and got our mattresses out. It was time to go to sleep. One by one, the little flashlights were turned off and there I was, lying on the cold cave floor, not being able to see a single thing. ‘Try not to panic, just fall asleep’ I kept on repeating to myself, ‘enjoy the uniqueness!’ And that’s what I did.

Our camp leader had instructed us very carefully before we had entered the cave. That we needed to stay together, keep the flashlights going, waterproof our bag and most important, not leave anything behind. A cave is a bit like a fridge, it takes ages for things to rot away and you guess it right: Number twos included. So we all received a little plastic bag in which we would have to scoop our pooh and then take it back outside.

I’ve been teaching at a high school for about three months now and I have to say that things are getting harder every day. I haven’t been very consistent in my disciplinary actions and that has resulted in quite a bit of chaos and disrespect in the classroom. I am thinking really hard on how I can turn this for the better and fortunately, I’ve got some wonderful colleagues helping me along the way. This afternoon I’m going to a course that all new teachers have to take. It’s called: ‘Learning in Safety’. The main goal is that you learn to create an atmosphere in your classroom that has clear boundaries, so that students know how they are supposed to behave and also know how they will be treated by their teacher. This clarity makes the classroom a safe environment in which ideally, the children will flourish and learn.

For me this involves a few heavy learning curves. First of all, I have to set the rules, that are also given by the school and stick to them. Second, I have to respond directly to the behavior of the students, whether it is positive of negative. Well, I don’t find it too hard to respond to positive behavior, but in these past months it has happened more than once that I saw something that was not allowed and just let the student get away with it. Often because I didn’t know how to respond, but also because I couldn’t face an other argument or was simply happy to finally get some work done and didn’t want to interrupt the lesson.

And outside school the same thing happens. I don’t know how to deal with the consequences of my response, or I am afraid of them. And when it comes to raising my own kids, I simply let them get away with not cleaning their mess, talking back, well the typical naughty things, because I’m fed up of having to say the same things over and over again. So in the same way that I’m confronted with my laissez-faire attitude in class, also at home it gets a big mess, the kids fight and I get very frustrated and grumpy. I used to be quite different though…

Back to the cave. When I woke up, probably a few hours later, it was still pitch dark, no wonder, we were still in the cave! Even though the floor was hard, I felt quite comfortable. How annoying that I really had to pee! So I got out of my sleeping bag, turned on my Petzl and walked around the corner of the chamber. The little creek over there would carry my water all the way out to the river and finally in the Mediterranean Sea, since the cave was in France.

Psychologically seen, peeing in a cave is not easy, the sound echoes through the whole chamber, but I managed to anyhow. Some kids started to giggle and woke up the rest of the group. I was about to hurry back, but luckily enough could stop just in time to not step into an enormous pile of pooh. All the rules that were told the night before, the plastic bag in my pocket, the cave’s temperature and the horrible smell reminded me of what a terrible thing this was. Somebody had just left it there!

I spoke up in a loud voice through the cave: “Who has left his (9 out of 10 boys and size wise, quite logical) shit out here, Can you stand up right now and put it in your plastic bag! The giggling stopped, some flash lights turned on and it was all quiet for about half a minute. Then from the corner of the chamber a huge figure stood up. Our camp leader stepped forward and murmured in a soft voice, ‘Oh, that was me’. He walked around the corner, scooped up his remains, put it in his plastic bag and that was it. I don’t know who felt worse, me or him. Unintentionally I had put him to public shame. And I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he was really angry with me as well. ‘Me and my big mouth’, I thought. Why can’t I handle these sort of things in a better way?’

But do I regret the fact that I did do something about that enormous pile of pooh? No, because if I hadn’t, chances would have been big that even now, 15 years later it would still be there. Later confrontations and consequences with my own and others’ faults have made me more and more insecure about how to handle them. But I’ve seen that not dealing with them isn’t getting me anywhere either. I need some of that boldness back, especially at school. I want to find a way to be consistent, but forgiving, outspoken but wise and most of all to keep the places and relationships where I work at and live in safe and happy.

So I’m off to my course now, there’s enough to learn!

2009
11/17
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Guns

handheld-gun

About 10 years ago Gerco and I went on a last-minute holiday to Orlando, Florida. We had tons of fun in all the theme parks, saw a shuttle launch at Cape Canaveral and ate fried food all week long. On Sunday we decided that it would be nice to go to church. We went to a Baptist church just outside of Orlando. We were warmly welcomed, joined the young-couples Sunday school and then sat down for the standard service. I don’t do very well on jetlags and sleep deprivation and felt quite spaced out that entire morning, but there’s one line that I remember vividly. The pastor was talking about discipleship and money matters. I don’t remember the clue, but this line woke me up in an instant:

‘Sometimes you have to make responsible choices and spend the money that God has provided you with wisely. Do you really need that new gun that you’ve been thinking of buying for such a long time, or can you simply keep the one that you already have?’

2 years later, we moved to Angola. One day I was driving through town, when at a certain point I was stopped by the police. The guy was a bit stressed out, quite understandable because the president was about to pass by and he was responsible for getting the road cleared. So he held up his gun and pointed it at me. I had never experienced something like that before and was shocked to the bone. The realization that this guy could simply end my life in that moment, just by pulling one little trigger.

An other time one security guard dropped his loaded gun right in front of me, fortunately it didn’t go off! Whenever I opened the door of my appartment I would find at least one guy sleeping with his automatic rifle ready to be stolen. I cannot say that I wasn’t happy with having an armed guard. 2 out of 3 people in Luanda owned a gun, it certainly was not a safe place to be in! But even though they had all the best intentions of protecting me and my family, the dangers of them having one were also quite significant.

In the summer of 2007 Media, one of my best friends’ cleaning lady was visiting her mother with her two kids. All of a sudden, her brother-in-law showed up. He was looking for his wife and very angry. Media and her children were standing in the door opening when he opened fire on them. Media died on the spot, her daughter was severely wounded and deeply traumatized. A daughter, wife and mother lost, all in a single second. It’s still unclear where he had gotten the gun from, but in a place like Macedonia, it’s obviously not such a big deal.

And the same counts for the United States. Tonight I read a news item from March this year about Mr John Maxwell, a writer, preacher and consultant on leadership, He had been arrested at an airport, for trying to board a plane with a concealed weapon. In his blog he admits that it was a stupid mistake and that he’s not a gun person at all. But since this was a gift for his wife from a member of the church where he had spoken, he had taken it and put it in his bag and dumb enough, completely forgotten about it.

So you can actually give a preacher a gun as a present, and he will accept it as a nice token of friendship!

Surfing the net a bit more, I came across the website Church Solutions, a very informative site about all sort of practical issues churches deal with in America. One article talked about how a church should set up a security plan to keep criminals, terrorists and random shooters out. An other on how to deal with crying babies during the service. But this one totally flabbergasted me! Church cancels gun giveaway at teen conference.

Read the article yourself to draw your own conclusions.

Here in the Netherlands the only people who own guns are policemen and soldiers and a handful of heavy criminals, who use it to mainly shoot each other. For a regular girl like me there’s no need to have one for your own defense, there simply isn’t a whole lot to defend ourselves from. And even if you wanted a gun, you could never just buy one over the counter, get one from a friend from church or let alone win one at a teen camp raffle! And even though it might seem that we have put ourselves in a very vulnerable position, we don’t have to worry too much about some idiot shooting randomly in public places. Or about leaving a gun in a place where kids can find it and kill themselves. That does have everything to do with the regulations and licenses that are needed before you would ever even touch a gun.

But back to a person’s own decision. How on earth or in heaven can you approve of owning something that is designed for killing, nothing more or less. Your protection means the end of somebody else’s life. Is that a responsibility that everybody can just carry?

I wonder…

2009
11/15
CATEGORY
life
travel
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