discoteca

Sitting in a series of interlinked all-brick underground pubs, surrounded by new friends from Australia and Alabama and enjoying the Czech-pride Pilsner Urquell, a girl from another table kitty-corner to us leaned over, which sparked the beginning of our first authentic local experience.

A 22 year-old University student in diplomacy who spoke very clear English and Spanish, I complimented her many times on her language, though she was very self-conscious and struggled to receive the encouragement, but was quick to mention that Americans were very lazy because the majority of us only know one language.

She was very complimentary of American personalities, asking why I was smiling so much and nice to them. She didn’t fully comprehend the concept of being open and friendly—she mentioned that Czech people are often stereotyped as very cold and impersonal; though that has not been my experience.

I responded that life is about people.

(Based on my experience in Belgium, I could easily pin the country down as unpleasant and an anti-American place, but that would be a fool’s choice. We had a negative experience with one person, which temporarily changed our mindset of the city.)

Discouraged with her studies and career-outlook, she and had dreamed of being an international diplomat, but many people had been crushing her aspirations, convincing her that she didn’t have what it takes, the ideologies of former communist rule still evident in her mindset.

(The tagline for the Communist museum in Praha reads “Dream. Reality. Nightmare.”)

While she had her complaints on her visit to the U.S.—the inefficiency of America’s nearly all-auto travel model (we have yet to use a car in Europe), the dirtiness of New York City, the sun in Phoenix and the debauchery of Las Vegas—she ultimately envied its freedom, saying, “You can do anything you want.”

I responded, whether in ignorance or blind idealism, that I believe she could do the same. I told my new Czech friend of a quote I recently heard that said, “Everything I ever did that was worthwhile, I caught hell for.” The book The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson basically delivers a similar message with a focus on God-given dreams.

We talked about the power of outside forces on our lives—whether its religion, politics, stereotypes, education, family, friends, social oppression—and how that relates to the way we live day-to-day. The big question is this: can we choose to live in the way we’d like to live despite outside circumstances?

On a macro-level, I recognize that many things are outside of our control, many things are within our control. In most cases, we can choose to accept imprisonment, or we can live our lives freely.

This quality was famously personified through the biblical characters of Job and Paul, the first lost everything to the Devil’s scheming, yet refused to disrespect God, and Paul, who wrote in the ancient text about plenty and abundance, yet his hope in the redemptive work of Jesus in the world kept him content, even while in chains.

In the end, we accepted her invitation to look for a disco for some dancing. I asked for techno graces and assured them that my dance skills are limited (with the exception of the “YMCA” and “Chicken Dance” at wedding celebrations).

Her friends were just as friendly: a very beautiful and sweet girl-next-door brunette, a blonde firecracker with a red dress who informed us that she would prefer to be addressed as “The Boss,” but later resigned from the title after the second disco was empty, their male friend from Ecuador who was confused by my travel partner’s use of Spanglish, and a petit Czech girl who spoke little English, but was animated and full of energy.

With translation help via the blonde firecracker, the girl who spoke little English asked me why I came to Prague, to which I responded that “It’s very beautiful,” which it is. Looking disgusted by my cliché, she said some words I didn’t understand which were loosely translated into, “Everyone says that. Not good enough. Try again,” to which I responded with intricate details of the sites, the amazing view from Prague Castle and the ancient feel of the Charles Bridge.

That seemed to satisfy.

We ended the evening looking for a disco, traveling to four different places, all of which were closed, and we realized that what we were looking for was exactly what we had at the underground pub—enlightening conversation.

mercy mathematics

Who am I?

A belly full of money, at ease;

Who are you?

A hand outstretched, emtpy;

That we should meet and our roles reversed,

For an instant, than returned;

To the mountain of injustice, where I have and you have not,

Where people rot while passersby shake their heads and turn away;

What difference will it make?

If I empty my pockets into yours,

Soon you will be empty again, and I will still be full;

Me; strong-legged, youthful, dreaming;

You, weak-legged, limping, screaming;

The streets have robbed your youth and divided its plunder.

If we traded lives, would you find relief?

You; on a train to exotic lands,

Me; on a bench with outstretched hands;

We speak in foreign tongues, yet we were created much the same,

Our stories, worlds apart, but we know this is wrong,

It wasn't supposed to be this way, I promise;

Hope is the drug you need, but the last thing you want to hear;

How much will it cost?

To obey; to stop crunching numbers while people perish over pious arithmetic;

I've met many like you, and in my mind,

I ration my portion of convenience-store mercy;

Mercy-mathematics and your belly
make strange bedfellows for a one-night stand;

I've been taught by the One whose mercy is unceasing,

I walked away in tears when He said it would cost everything,
While tonight I weep for justice;

Travel with me, to Zion's Holy Mountain,

Where trees dance and barns overflow,
Where bread is life,

And all are invited to the feast of ages;

Mercy Mathematics was written on a midnight train from Frankfurt, Germany to Prague, Czech Republic on July 10-11. While traveling, I've seen many homeless, drug addicts and strippers on the streets. I've always been torn how to react to the homeless, and oftentimes, my conclusion is based on convenience--if the person is really needy, if I have cash or coin, if I have healthy finances--the list goes on.

I recently rejected a plea for a crippled beggar at the Frankfurt train station, asking for money with a faint voiice. My travel partner reached into his pockets and gave him some coin, while I looked and communicated that I had nothing to give.

Minutes later, I went to buy some food, and saw the begggar again. I couldn't stand to think that I had told him I had nothing, yet I had a belly full of money and was about to enter a food line. Again, I rejected his plea, but in the moments that followed, I knew I was wrong. I dug into my pouch and gave him some money, and decided that tonight, our roles should reverse.

I have much to learn about mercy.

The night before I had walked through the red-light disctrict of Frankfurt--not for entertainment--but to witness the conditions of how people live: Women selling their bodies, drug addicts working first like chemists, then like nurses to experience the rush of false reality pulsing through their veins. I saw many robbed of life, voide of hope, reduced to rubble.

I am too often quick to judge, and slow to help.

During WWII, most of Frankfurt was completely destroyed by Allied Forces bombings, except for a historic church dating back to the 1400's. We visited the church, which stands out like a grandfather on a little league team against the modern city skyline. A small poster showed an aerial shot of the bombings--everything was destroyed--yet this church remained untouched and offered a refuge for those still alive in the city.

Reflecting on this visit, I wondered if our lives are much the same--we can be destroyed (by ourselves, others, society, or God)--yet a fragment of hope always remains. Scriptures talk about the body of Christ as a metaphor of a city on a hill: it's light is always visible, even in the darkest places. In the bombed out, rubble-ridden places of our world, where we often turn our heads, we must remain open, remain a refuge.

What if the Church really was the refuge, the last place standing when all else is lost?

all-nighter

In two hours, we’ll board all-night train at 11:30 p.m., arriving at 8 a.m. in Prague, Czech Republic. We've heard amazing things about Prague; it is one of the few cities in Europe that survived WWII without damage. Frankfurt is a very modern city; today we walked through the only church that wasn't bombed during the war.

goodbye, head-baggage

Unfortunately, last week, I decided that my haircut boycott must come to an end. After four months and many bottles of shampoo, the fro had morphed to unmanageable chaos, especially for a trip of this nature.

Appropriately, there is no better candidate to cut your hair than someone you can’t effectively communicate with. Today I decided to end the boycott in a Turkish section of Frankfurt. After I snapped a smiling “before” picture, I put my hair’s fate into the hands of a stranger.

After two words of English were spoken and I confirmed the price (10 Euros), I made one slight hand motion to signify the desired length, and we were off. Within seconds, large clumps of hair were landing in my lap.

Admittedly, I was overly concerned and slightly entertained at the possible outcomes.

The outcome? Not good. However, I now carry much less head-baggage and may easily be mistaken for an U.S. Marine, which will impress my father and JZ. While I mourn the loss of the fro’s symbology, I know that it will return once again. I also know that I may never have the opportunity to get my hair whacked by a Turk in the middle of Germany, and for this experience, I am grateful.

representing deutschland

We traveled from Belgium through the German countryside and arrived in Frankfurt last night. We spent the evening on the street at a restaurant and pub watching Germany defeat Portugal for the save-face consolation prize in the World Cup.

We enjoyed our time in the rain-soaked streets alongside two very interesting, outspoken Aussie girls on a two-year global travel hiatus, and a 20-year-old college kid from Atlanta, surrounded by a combination of cheers and jeers for Deutschland's bittersweet victory.

Today's Aussie vocabulary lesson:

1) Dirty Bird Perv = Creeps;

2) Danks = Pants.

cynical waffles

“I’m going to see how far we can get away from Belgium tomorrow,” Cam just said, to which I responded with the kind of laughter that can only be heard after a day like today.

London was beautiful and the people diverse; we absorbed much of the sights (Big Ben, St. Paul’s, Hyde Park, Tower Bridge, Millennium Bridge, and Westminster Abbey) and grew accustomed to hostel life and the time-change.

On the train ride to the continent this afternoon, I was typing while watching the northern French countryside pass by. I wrote that it looked very much like Iowa, with slightly different architecture. I thought about two passages in Scripture about money and rest; and confidently ended with the following sentence:

“I anticipate the journey ahead; of rest; of peace; of enjoyment and reflection, of adventure and expansion.”

Then the rest of today happened.

The appropriate descriptor for today would be an “adventure with no rest, no peace, and a reflection of the enjoyment we had in London.” If trekking around Brussels with two backpacks for three hours before locating already-booked hostels and being forced to purchase a hotel room is an adventure, then adventure we had.

The expansion prophesy must’ve been fulfilled after being approached while taking a photo in an amazing city square like I was prime mugging bait, then asked, “What are you doing in a city like this by yourself?” by a drunken stranger, who then made cowardly terrorism threats against America via the translation vehicle of a Paris-born friend we made while walking to the square, then I’ve been expanded.*

My cynical tone is thicker than a Belgium waffle, sitting in a hotel room at 1 a.m., trying to determine where to go next, as long as it’s not here.

All frustrations aside, I know how to recognize a bad day for what it is: a bad day. And again, I write:

I anticipate the journey ahead; of rest; of peace; of enjoyment and reflection, of adventure and expansion.

*The threat via the thugs in the square was empty; no need for concern. What it did do was bring further attention to the way Americans are viewed globally. Check out http://cameronconant.blogspot.com for further insights from my fellow backpacker.

hyde park: london

beauty surrounds in every form,

every fashion, every detail,

perfection

so much to see;

the eyes treated to a feast fit for kings,

while queens dance in the streets,

teach me, my creator:

to see more clearly,

to praise all beauty,

to understand that I am only one

piece of your creation so complex, so intertwined

independence day

We arrived in London on Independence Day, jet-lagged from our red-eyed journeys across the sea. For the first time, there will be no cookouts, no parades, no saunas or fireworks; in this city, there is no reason to celebrate the intertwined events of history's past.

But for the first time, it is a new kind of independence that I celebrate.

god in the details

My mother is a lovely God-fearing woman who used to tell me that God knew how many hairs I had on my head. I didn't really believe her. After all these years, it turns out that she was right.

I'm learning that God is in the details. Not being a detail-oriented person myself, I often shrug my shoulders, figuring that everything will work itself out.

When Jesus talked about the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, and how much more he loves and provides for us, I'm realizing that he meant it. I'm reminded of the popular Sunday school song anthem that boasts, "He's got the whole wide world in his hands."

In between long hours of business plans, phone calls, travel arrangements, and finishing up at my current job, God has been there, working his magic. He's been busy filling in the details of a plan, which, at first glance, seemed impossible.

For example, tomorrow I will sign a lease for a beautiful 3-bedroom Victorian home in the Easttown district of my city. The owner "Googled" my name, which sparked a conversation about careers. We are both writers. We both left the corporate world to start our own ventures.

I spilled everything--the travel plans, financial instabilities, high risk, first year cash flow issues, no proof of employment--and instead of rejecting us, he decided to slice rent in third, cancel any security deposit and delay rent for a month.

God.

I talked to a good friend late last night, and we traded stories of how God has been working in our lives. We talked about how often he blesses us or teaches us, and how quickly we revert to the thought that we had something to do with it.

God.

I love our stories. I love to hear how God is moving. Unfortunately, we often don't share about our spiritual journeys as often as we should. Last week, our men's small group took an entire night to listen to each others stories, to share, to vent, to pray, to ask.

Life is a journey of people; we are creatures with eternal value.

Tonight I worshipped with my community, surrounded by people in love with God and those in search of Him. Tonight they prayed for the journey ahead, sending blessings, and offered me up to God to do the work He's out to do in my life.

Tonight I said goodbye to my community. I will miss them. I think of how I almost left this city for new beginnings. I think about what it would've been like to leave everything behind. And I have this growing confidence that the work here is not yet finished.

There's more to learn, more life to live, more people to love, more stories to tell.

she was...

she was the oriental queen of the information superhighway,

a sign of hope, of peace, of love come my way,

both fast and slow-moving, but always on time,

two clocks tick; one God's, one mine...

welcome to summer

This is the first day of summer.

It's 9:10 in the morning, but the sky could easily pass as a frosty dusk in December. The dark grayscale clouds are hovering above, dulling my office space. The scene triggers memories of Will Smith’s Independence Day or the arrival of alien abductors from Area 51.

And I’m reminded again that things don’t always turn out the way I think they should.

I would think that today, in celebration of summer, I would be forced to shut my blinds because the sun is busy throwing a “welcome back to Michigan party” in the cosmos, dishing out sunburns and forcing those outside to seek water for refuge.

Instead, I am sitting in this quiet morning darkness, waiting for a storm. It’s not what I expected.

Soon, thunder and lightning will shake the earth; the noise will startle and excite us, dogs will bark, babies will cry and adults will gaze in awe at the storm's power.

On the first day of summer, children will be forced to sit inside and play video games, instead of street baseball or riding bikes or swimming at the lake.

Our willingness to enjoy the unexpected, to celebrate both sun and storm in recognition that we do not have control, will aid us as we journey.

peace through the fog

As the thick white fog poofed though the vents, my guts informed my hollow brain that this was not good.

Though I’m no mechanic, I knew smoke inside a car under any circumstance—especially without turning the vents on—is inappropriate. Though I didn’t order white fog to invade my car on my morning commute, life is full of surprises.

Naturally, like any procrastinating-and-slightly-embittered used car owner would, I turned up the music and cracked the window. Problem solved, for now.

“Lord I don’t know where all this is going, or how it all works out.
Lead me to peace that is past understanding, a peace beyond all doubt.”

As I repressed the smoke and tuned into the music, the CD player sang these perfect words for me. Because you see, thick white fog in my struggling 1996 VW Jetta with a burnt out clutch, no shocks and three hubcaps, is actually further down on my list of items to be concerned about.

I recently quit my steady job to backpack Europe for six weeks, though I don’t have the money to do it. The weekly paychecks, health insurance, job security, paid vacation—will soon be gone.

The old cliché “you have to pay to play” has oddly become reality.

Simultaneously, I’m launching a video productions company with a college friend. With less than five weeks until I arrive in London on Independence Day, we haven’t even chosen the city we’ll be living in.

And the truth is this: I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know how it’ll work out.

I don’t know if I’ll endure another Michigan winter, officially become an immigrant troll and marry a Dutch princess, or if I’ll fall in love with a Southern Bell (yes, God, please) and country music (please, no, God) and emerge with a southern-twang-mixed-with-an-artic-Yooper dialect.

As intimidating as the path before us often appears, we must recognize God as the author of mystery, and trust that his ways and thoughts are superior to ours.

His promises? They’re real. His peace? Beyond all doubt.

The Word:

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD. "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:8-9)

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:7)

Song lyrics from Newsboys, Lord (I Don’t Know)