Bonhoeffer and the 15 Foot Angel

Last summer I was part of a group of high schoolers who spent a week at Augsburg College learning about Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer. He was a truly amazing individual, who worked and died for justice at the hands of Hitler near the end of World War II. He spoke out against Hitler's treatment of Jews, and for overtaking the churches with anti-semitic propaganda.
Part of the week's studies involved a service project in Minneapolis. We were at a Lutheran church in the Phillips neighborhood, where many of the parishioners are immigrants from Latin America, and some of them shared their stories of immigration (They were all legal, but told of neighbors and families they knew being torn apart because they were undocumented) They gave us a better understanding of how hard it is to make it in a new country. The pastors there were a husband and wife team: soft-spoken, petite Pastor Luisa, a native of Chile, and tall, outgoing, white, Minnesota-born Pastor Patrick. I was in awe of his seamless Spanish.
After talking with the church members, the pastors showed us two storage sheds outside behind the church, an alleyway going between them. The one on the right had a mural on it, a beautiful green garden that said "God's Creation" in yellow and orange letters, and Spanish words.



The shed on the left side of the alley had also been painted, but by the ugly spray paint cans of local gangs. An incomprehensible symbol of squiggles covered the whole thing. Our job was to cover it with a mural of our own, with 17 people in our group and and hour and a half to work with. When we thought of our design, we got down to business: There was a tree, a big white and yellow daisy, and the words Paz and Alegria, peace and joy in big bright letters.



We were sweating in the sun but enjoying our task and the people we were serving with. But a little later, something really odd occured. A short man in a purple polo shirt and khakis approached us. He carried a plastic bag that I could see had bibles in it. "Oh geez," I thought.
A street preacher.
"Can I have a couple minutes of y'all's time?" He asked us. "Can I tell you about Jesus?"
We students took a pause from our painting and looked at him. "Um...well, see, we're kind of doing this for Jesus. We're doing a service project," we told him. Our leader and professor, Jeremy, a young thirtysomething with a tough-guy look but a good humored personality said to the man kindly, "We're kind of in a hurry to get this done, we only have half an hour until we need to leave." We did indeed, and still had lots of work to finish. "Could we paint while you talk?" Jeremy asked. The street preacher shook his head gravely. "I would not disrespect God that way. I need your full and undivided attention." "Well, ah, sorry," replied our professor, shrugging his shoulders. It was getting awkward. Jeremy went back to our mural, which was coming along nicely by the way.



"What would you say if a 15 foot angel was standing in front of you right now?" The man said heatedly. At that point, we all stopped painting and watched Jeremy and the man. We were all thinking the same thing: What the heck? Jeremy, clothes flecked with paint, face shining with sweat and sunblock, strided over to the street preacher. He was a good deal taller than the man, more intimidating for sure, and it really would be a much more entertaining story if the Augsburg College professor of religion had thrown a John Wayne-style punch right then and there. But this is not an entertaining story. Alas, we were trying to live out not only our Christian principles, but Dietrich Bonhoeffer's as well, one of which was pacifism (for awhile, at least). Jeremy looked the street preacher in the eye. "You are not a 15 foot angel."
And let me tell you, the street preacher didn't look so confident anymore. He went on his way, and we finished the tool shed mural half an hour later.
Bonhoeffer makes this point, which he called 'Christ existing in community.' It basically means going out into the world to see Christ in action through other people, and to experience Christ's love through others. We were trying to be Christ existing in our community that day by just painting a mural. See, in Bonhoeffer's German-Lutheran 20th century, people knew Jesus advised them to be more in tune with the problems in their community, but they were generally more interested in getting themselves to heaven. Making that your life's goal can be blinding. This street preacher we encountered certainly was blind to the fact that we were trying to do something good with God in mind, even though it was something as little as making an alleyway tool shed brighter. He seemed to have his head so deep in the book that he couldn't see God around his world, too. I hope that we all can learn to see Christ existing in our communities.

Fun Times with the Little Guy

So my two year old cousin--whom I'll call Little Guy--was crying big fat tears when his dad dropped him off at our house to spend the night. To make him stop, I took him to the piano, one of his favorite toys when he visits us. He sat on my lap while I played some songs, trying to see the notes over his head of big curly hair. He did stop crying, but he just watched me wide-eyed and didn't play along as usual. So we tried an assortment of other little toys he likes--a tambourine, a little drum, a lap harp, a little thing that walks across the floor when you wind it up--but nothing was making him too excited. Then I went over to the computer and checked my Facebook page. I brought him on my lap, thinking he might want to write an incomprehensible status update for his favorite cousin ever, when he said, "Boom boom pow." It hit me. His parents like to play him the song "Boom Boom Pow" by the hip hop group the Black Eyed Peas, and apparently it makes Little Guy very happy. So I went on to YouTube, and as I found the video, he pointed to it and said happily "I like dat boom boom pow." Okay, then. When I started the video his face immediately lit up, he started bouncing and and waving his arms. Then I let him down and he ran around in circles for about five minutes, while we all were laughing and laughing. I decided to see what other music he'd like, and I YouTubed "Gold Digger" by Kanye West, sung by the cast of "Glee," and "Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It") by Beyonce. The Little Guy looked at me pleadingly and said, "Boom boom pow!" So we watched that two or three more times. The joy of little children is infectious. I don't know about you, but when I was his age I listened to Raffi, Peter, Paul and Mary, and songs of French Canadian voyageurs. Times are changing!

Silent Noon

My favorite song ever as of late is "Silent Noon" by Ralph Vaughan Williams. As an amateur vocalist with a mezzo-ish voice and somewhat unreliable range, I got tired of finding all these lovely songs that required me to hit a high A flat or hold a note for twenty measures then add a fermata to it. A song is not worth it if it makes you feel like you're gonna pass out.* SO, one day I was flippin' through all our song books and was lucky enough to find "Silent Noon." After hearing the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra perform "Lark Ascending" last whenever ago, I spent a week listening to our Vaughan Williams cd over and over again. I loved it all, and was of course ecstatic to find out he wrote singable music as well. Thus, whenever I got a chance I practiced "Silent Noon." Thing is, I don't know what's funner--playing it or singing it? I love the opening piano riff (yeah, I know that's not pianological terminology), the rich sound of an E flat chord...sigh. I was surprised to find out how simple the notes were to sing, but of course when the notes are simple, that means you have to work harder to make the piece exciting, expressive and engaging. You have to work on phrasing and breathing. For the record, my breathing sucks. That's why you need a teacher, a voice in my head tells me. Someday, I guess. It's strange, but lately I've been feeling like it's my song, and with my sister home for break I've been afraid to practice it, because you know, she might steal it from me. I know, it's stupid. A week or two ago I accidentally nearly blew it by playing the beginnging of it on the piano. She popped her head in the door and asked, "What's that?" Thinking fast, I replied nervously, "Um, ah, it's nothin', just somethin' I made up, that's all." And she bought it! For the rest of the day I felt guilty for claiming creative ownership of it, and was waiting for Ol' Ralph to strike me down from heaven. But anyways, I believe this song is a face-melter (that's a good thing), so I found the best-possible YouTube video I could find and thought I'd share. Geek out over.







*or maybe my technique is just really bad!

Wear Warm Clothes

Returning from the wild and crazy fun time that is choir rehearsal, I was piled with layers, wearing leggings all day in addition to my jeans, my MMTA hoodie (the warmest sweatshirt I've ever had), gloves, red pashmina scarf and my Great-Grandma Chickie's hunting jacket (complete with back pocket for newly acquired dead pheasants---eeww!) . That coat's gotta be around 60 years old but it shows no sign of falling apart soon. And oh, how warm and fuzzy it all felt!
I was kind of expecting mass chaos with this 7 inch first snowstorm, but it seemed like people who didn't need to drive their car didn't, the people who did were mostly careful, and we didn't die. Yay!

If only it was the right type of snow, then I'd try and make a snow human/angel. I've always wanted to do some grand Calvin & Hobbes-like snow project. Maybe an ice and snow replica of the Easter Island faces. We can't sled for awhile because our sled is broken, which is something that needs to be addressed. But time and the lovely warmth of inside are what's keeping me from doing all these things year after year.

Yesterday, we embraced the weather--kind of. I shoveled snow off the driveway (and today I really feel it too), which pretty much wiped my wimpy self out, so I read a book to fight off boredom (A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore--it's real good so far). That's the thing when you're home schooled and there's a snow day. It's basically like all your other days, at least for us. So I was trying to find a way to make it less normal, but because I had been outside freezing my mouth closed and getting the most epic of hat hair, I didn't want to go outside and make a snowhuman or whatever. There will be other times, I'm sure.

What we did do was make krumkake, the Norwegian cookie, and we turned on Garrison Keillor singing Scandahoovian Christmas music. That definitely warmed the house up and kept us busy for a long time. I was training in my younger brother to be krumkake roller, and I watched the stove. This is the second batch we've made this week, as we like to give a bunch for Christmas presents for teachers and friends. One of our regular krumkake recievers is doing an internship in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, however, and unfortunately I don't think it'd be the wisest thing to ship it all that way. If he got it, it would arrive as crumbs, and that's no fun.

And of course, while everything else in the county was cancelled for the day, choir still went off without a hitch. The hymn says, "No storm can change my inmost calm...How can I keep from singing?" Indeed.
I walked out the door thinking that I looked like a lumberjack, which led me to sing the classic Monty Python song that goes, "I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay...", which led me to think, "I'm not just okay, I'm warm!"

May all enjoy winter and wear warm clothes.

Em: Christmas Music

I love Christmas music--to a point. I love singing it by myself and in church choir, I love listening to the good old classics sung by Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, and Bing Crosby (especially his duet with David Bowie!). I love it all, but I could never spend my days listening to the radio station that only plays Christmas music. There's enough that people stress out over during the holiday season already, and I would not want to be stressed out even more by something that I usually enjoy. Every store you go into to by gifts, it seems like, is always tuned to that radio station. Most of the Christmas music I like the best though is the church stuff. I mean, that's what Christmas is, a church holiday. I've always found it so interesting how it's supposed to be about celebrating Jesus' birth, but the way we celebrate it has so many pagan influences. Christmas trees did not grow in Israel, I'm pretty sure. Santa Claus, although showing goodwill towards all people in a way that I think Jesus would be proud of, he's...well, I don't know where he came from or why.

One Christmas album I could listen to forever is "Keepers Christmas," a collection put out by Minnesota Public Radio that has simply beautiful renditions of tunes I thought I would hate--but don't-- and some very nice original ones as well. Lots of the musicians are from the Twin Cities, and if you listened to MPR's morning show, you'd recognize lots of voices, like the Steeles, the Roches, Neal and Leandra, and Butch Thompson. I think you can still buy it online and in the Minnesota Store in Mall of America. My parents have played it every year since I was little, and without even trying I could sing along with every track, it's so ingrained in my mind.

On December 13, we'll be having a big Christmas hooha/concert at our church. It's lots of fun, but being in the choir and the bell choir makes it a busy night for me and my family. It lasts about two hours or so, and my feet always hurt afterwards. The price we pay. We always sing the "Hallelujah Chorus" at the end, and the audience stands up and is given music to sing with us. It's so funny to see them try really hard to sing the parts in the beginning, then eventually fold their arms in resignation and just watch us. I don't blame 'em though, it's a hard song to sightread.

Now, Hannukah is coming up on December 11th, sundown, but I only know one song for this: "The Hannukah Song" by Adam Sandler. In this song, you basically learn the name of every famous Jewish person in showbusiness, and many creative ways to make the word "Hannukah" rhyme with everything. I'm sure it doesn't really show the true meaning of the holiday, but if you like Sandler's humor, then you'll laugh through the whole thing. But I'd rather find a Hannukah song that doesn't include the words "smoke some marijuanikah, it's time to celebrate Hannukah." Any ideas?

Pictures from the trip

Here are a few pictures taken on our trip to Tanzania. We've had some camera difficulties where most of the pictures taken in Tungamalenga have strange color tints, but we have a photoshop expert on the case. Here are a few that turned out well from the end of the trip:

On our last day in Tungamalenga, Mom and I went exploring around the village while we waited for our friends to return from safari. You'll find many places to get your hair cut or braided, like the Francis Hair Cutting Saloon.

You'll also see lizards scuttling around. Aren't they cool?

When our group returned from safari, there was a send-off service for us at the church, and we had to say good bye to our friends. Here we are under the mbuyu, or baobab tree, with Barabeig evangelist Alex, his wife and their three children, right before we had to leave.

When I got on the bus, Alex's daughter told me through the open window, "Tutaonana tena, Mungu akipenda."

We will meet each other again, if God wishes it.

I sure hope so.

When we got back to Iringa about five hours later, we managed to get in touch with some university students sponsored by Shepherd of the Valley. This is Grace, whose mother Neema is a student at Tumaini University in Iringa.

Grace had been covering her eyes and being shy, but all of a sudden she popped up and gave this big smile, and she warmed right up to us.

Mom toured the Ilula Hospital (in the town of the same name, east of Iringa), where many of the patients are women and their newborns. This woman just had twins.

A stove for cooking at the guest house in Ilula, the morning we left for the airport to return home.

My Day Not On Safari: Part IV

Sometime in the afternoon, we took off in the landrover again with the same people, but minus Alex and plus Barnabas. We went to Mapogoro, the next village over, to visit the Mtwavila family , who's daughter was also sponsored by my church to attend Idodi, and died in the fire. This family was of the Hehe tribe, I think, and lived in a very nice brick and cement house. We met the father and adult brother, and three women, one of whom was a sister. We all sat in a livingroom-type area on cushioned chairs, and Jacob, the evangelist for Mapogoro, led us in a hymn from the Mwimbieni Bwana, their Lutheran hymnal. Mom gave them words of comfort, a gift of t-shirts, and a necklace for the sister. It's hard for me to think that these two girls had survived all the more common causes of death in Tanzania--malaria, AIDS, bad water etc.--and had gone to school, a place of hope and opportunity, but that is where their lives tragically ended. The only thing we can do, though, is to move forward with them in mind so that we can change things for the better.

This visit was interesting because it was so different from the last. I saw the father wipe a tear away from his eye, but other that, it looked to me like they were in the acceptance process. They were solemn. I wonder how the grieving process varies from tribe to tribe, between women, me, and children. How are they expected to act? A question for my next trip. There were prayers, Mungu akubariki's (God bless you), and pole sana's (very sorry). The brother invited us to his duka, shop, for drinks, so we headed for what I guess you could call downtown Mapogoro. We all sat outside the store in plastic chairs drinking Pepsi and Mirinda and Coke, and the atmosphere seemed to change 360 degrees. We were talking, joking and laughing. I sat and listened, and wondered if we were acting appropriately. I quietly asked Mom, and she gave me the I-don't-know-what-to-tell-ya shrug. "It did kind of happen already," she said. Okaaay. So I just went with it. Next door to us was a bar, and it sounded as if someone was watching a sci-fi movie like Star Trek at very high volume. There were booms and bangs and it was kinda strange. Alex arrived on his bike and approached our group. "Get your book out, Mom, quick!" I whispered. She did, and greeted him with her newly-learned Barabeig word that she read from her notebook. Alex giggles and shakes her hand. Mom is a bit confused now, because on our return she looked at her notebook from her previous trip and found the Barabeig words she learned then. Her last trip, aguna maida bash bakhoda meant good afternoon. This time, we were told praise the Lord. Did something get lost in translation, you think? I love language.

We stayed at the shop for maybe half an hour, then we headed back to Tungamalenga Camp in the good old landrover. We all got back, sat down under the mango tree and talked until dark (and dark in Tanzania is dark). Then we said goodnight to them all, went to have our dinner, and just crashed in our rooms after the long, but very good day. I really enjoyed being there when nothing was really set to happen, we could just wander along at our own pace, and see people living their real lives, not trying to make everything perfect for the wazungu (white people). I feel very grateful for the experiences and memories I have been given by this day in Tungamalenga: sad ones, and happy ones, discouraging ones, and yet hopeful ones. It is something I will not forget.