The Singapore Job

"Reporting to you live from Sweden..."

I have a job in Singapore. It came suddenly and without warning. I had applied for a job in Korea, where my friend Elaine would show my resume to various members of Kosin University, but mother pestered me (as mothers are wont to do) about applying for more than one place. Weeks before I had emailed Mr. Eiler, my former science teacher, about working at my old school as a freelance something-or-other and he pointed me in the direction of Mr. Herring (wonderful name), whom I emailed on the double. I had no expectations whatsoever--I did not think a mere question would cause a stir (but it did)--and I was quite surprised to find a letter waiting for me in my inbox the next day. Then followed a flurry of emails, as Mr. Herring tried to reach me, by phone (which did not work) and through Skype (which I missed). He finally managed to catch me for an interview on Sunday morning, which we held over Skype and from which I had to excuse myself to replace the malfunctioning headset with an unreasonably large microphone father had bought the day before. I felt a bit silly. Mr. Herring gave me three days to decide.

Over this brief few days, I was inundated with greetings from people who had known me at some stage in my young life; they wished me well, as if they knew I would inevitably accept the job. To everyone else the choice seemed obvious--TAKE THE JOB AND RUN--but I refuse to move until God points me in the right direction, and now he closed to door to Korea and gave me a well-timed shove to the southeast to let even this bear of little brain know that this was His doing.

Before college graduation last year, God told me to wait, though it made absolutely no sense and flew in the face of all those scrambling for first employments and mumbling about college loans.This year I waited and wrote my father's book, and I have been blessed with an incredible time of encouragement. I have worked through the necessary paperwork for my employment over the last few days, and though the thought of Singapore seems distant, the thought of leaving my friends is far too close. The work in the church is just beginning to bud, and there is so much more to be done. I understand now for the first time how my father felt in leaving his ministry work in Singapore in 1989. Larger political forces had intervened in his life. The wall had fallen in East Berlin, and missionary efforts were immediately funnelled into Russia and Ukraine. Even before my father was pulled out of service in Southeast Asia, he knew he would go home:

Håkan and Erika assumed they would be staying on [in Singapore] for the next few years, but human plans are laid in the face of an unforeseeable future, and on 26 August, 1989, Håkan went into his inner chambers to pray and seek the Lord and read his Bible, and “suddenly like a flash, a word from Isaiah jumped out from the text. ‘You shall leave ‘the East’ and return from where you came.’ Håkan walked out with his Bible, verse in hand, and showed Erika what the Lord had told him. They would be moving back to Sweden, and though the Lord’s call was abundantly clear, it was not easy to hear; they wanted to stay on and nurture the work that was just beginning. It felt like deserting a newly-ploughed field.

Funny how one life oddly mirrors the other. Almost as if I were part of some Greater Plan.

I Will Not Fall

My brother leaps, my father catches. This is how I imagine God.

I find the most frustrating thing about faith is that it requires complete and sincere abandon. 

It Is Well with My Soul

Ah, Sunday mornings. I wake to sun glittering along snowdrifts and slanting through windows. I spent the first part of the day buried in bed, typing out worship lyrics for kids' songs at mother's behest, before I rose and ate breakfast and put my hair up in a bun before church. I looked positively Victorian, which my mother protested, saying it was "youth Sunday" and that I really should look more "youthful." But I like my hair and I like my high-waisted skirt and polkadot blouse and white sailor collar. Ida came over half an hour before we were to leave, and I showed her the proper way to eat a peanut butter and jam sandwich.

"Really?" she said. "Peanut butter and jam together?"
"Really," I said. "One of the best things to come out of America."

Church was wonderful. I was up to my elbows in cables and sound equipment, trying to stretch my meagre supplies to catch the sound of an electric keyboard, four singers, two acoustic and one electric guitar. Worship went off very well, and Mike had an excellent sermon prepared, and Jakob mustered the strength through his fever to man the projector, and Masika sang a solo, all by her fourteen-year-old self. Impressive, no? I am proud of the work of our hands. And I am looking forward to many more such Sundays.

My Peace I Leave with You

When I visited last week, Uppsala was not blessed with snow--not a flake to be seen--but it remains a beautiful city with the river that wanders through its heart and the trees stark against pale skies and the bright cafes where you can duck in for a hot chocolate. My father, brother, and I went for a walk along the cobblestones, beginning at the church and ending at the same, after a stop at Cafe Linne, named after Carl von Linne, the famous botanist.

Father and son 

Uppsala Cathedral is massively impressive. Its current form comes after three different constructions and reconstructions. Building on the cathedral began most probably in 1273, under the hand of the french stonemason Etienne de Bonneuil. Masons were called in from England, France, and Germany to create something lavish in the modern gothic style. In 1702, almost all of Uppsala was ravaged by a fire. The church towers burned down and were rebuilt in a shorter, rounded style. Finally in the years 1886-1893, the church was returned to its former glory and the two tall spires were rebuilt.

Joel and I walked the halls and listened to the warm notes of the organ. The church was empty, save for a few other souls that had come to admire the architecture. We sat in the pews and leaned forward against the pews in front, and I felt that in that moment, we joined hands with all those worshippers who had gone before, who had looked on the same walls and had fought the same doubts and felt the same surrender to the same, good God. Perhaps it is most telling that we began our journey only a stone's throw from the church steps and ended it within its walls, as if drawn by some subconcious, inexplicable force.

Yo-ho, yo-ho, a Pastor's Life for Me!

I have good news to share before I fall asleep. Our church Christmas party was a success! Alas, I have no pictures to share with you--I was told I would be the royal photographer at the event--but as I was running around doing many other things, I took perhaps three pictures in all. Instead you can imagine a room with long tables covered with red paper tablecloths, tea lights in glass holders and vases filled with boughs of holly and red berries. Before all this materialized, before we even arrived at the church, I was woken from my sleep by a terrible racket in the kitchen, tin pie pans and metal pots and pans falling from what could only have been a great height. Through the door, I heard mother exclaim that she was burning the rice porridge and that she was quite done with this particular thick-bottomed pot and that--by Aslan's mane--she would buy a new one to keep if it so cost her a thousand kronor. Then father pulled open the door to my room and leaned over me to look through our collection of cds, currently housed in our bookcases.

We spent the morning packing up everything we would need for church--candles, biscuits, vases, flowers, decorations, bread, breadbaskets, microphones, cords, stands, to name a few--and mother made strong coffee in our two French presses, whilst I helped father pick out a tie to go with his waistcoat. Arriving at church was no small matter--we packed and pushed all our things into the car, and still we had to drive back for a second helping--but thankfully, volunteers descended upon the building to arrange tables and decorate, giving me the time to set up the sound system and slip on some sugar. Ida arrived with a tall, silvered candelabra, saying she thought the church needed one, and we found a quiet corner to practice our song, to which I was forgetting either the words or the melody in rapid succession.

The evening passed too quickly as I ran from place to place to move things along, and while I realize they were important and necessary, I cannot help but wish I could have been a little bit less like Martha. I felt I was leaving my friends halfway through the conversation, darting off to attend to something or other. I have trouble forming an opinion of the evening (I was much too disconnected), but I have been told that everyone enjoyed themselves, and it was a splendid evening, all in all. I gave up my position as a spectator to become an active part in the evening's engineering and execution--to my loss, but to the benefit of others--and for that I can only be thankful.

Someone once said, every pastor should try their hand at mission work, and every missionary their hand at pastoring. Only then could they understand not only the importance of the other's work, but also its joys and hardships. Pappa is used to tent meetings, to large crowds that come with a free and open spirit, that expect God to show up in full form, trailing miracles in His wake. Now he has to contend with a much smaller group, a church that has suffered through hard ground and declining membership and is only just beginning to cautiously sprout again. He must lug boxes and synthesizers and sound equipment from the cellar every Sunday, must be the first there and last to leave, must see the same people every week, encouraging their talents, tempering and training their personalities to work together in the cohesive whole. He must, quite simply, tend to a flock for an extended period of time (a new dynamic for him altogether), and of course, rejoice in the results of his care--increased interest and a growing spirit of unity among the members of our tiny but hearty church.

It is not easy, but it is worth the doing.

City on a Hill

Last night I attended 11-11-11, an ecumenical worship service in Tegs Church. We had planned the day long before we knew it was the Global Day of Worship, and it was an unexpected pleasure to know we had gathered with Christians all around the world to lift up our Saviour on this day.

We are all like little Emmanuel, who articulates very well for a two-year-old, ran around the sanctuary calling,"Pappa! Pappa! I'm calling for my pappa!" It reminded me that we, in much the same way, had come to stand before our Lord and cry "Abba Father!" 

The vicar of the church, himself encouraged by the believers who had come, read a blessing and sent us on our way into the dark night.

May the LORD bless you and keep you;
May the LORD make His face shine upon you,       
And be gracious to you;
May the LORD lift up His countenance upon you,       
And give you peace.

Numbers 6:24-26

Master of None

Today I had a simply marvelous day at church. Yes, we still meet in the cafeteria, but God is good! Attendance has doubled. Over fifty people came to share fika--there was Elsa's baked mocha squares and homemade red currant cordial, among other things--and listen to our guest speaker Hans Sundberg, also known as my brother's father-in-law.

The most significant improvement  to our church has come in the form of a sound mixer board (that is what it's called, I assume). My father unearthed it from among the debris in the church's storage room, along with two portly speakers. Let it be known that I have no prior experience with sound systems, but arriving early and being the pastor's daughter and it being a small church, I have happened into the position of key sound technician. I am the one who runs most of the cables, and I spend Sunday afternoons among plug-ins and mono stereo lefts and reverbs and lists of microphones. Someone told me I looked very competent behind the mixer board; they did not hear the prior conversation between me and Denzel.

Denzel (pointing to the array of microphone plugs): Which one of these is mine? I need to check my mike.
Me: It could be this one. Or maybe this one. (I finger the plugs, pretending to look helpful.) Or maybe it's this one.
Denzel: Nevermind.

I wonder what this button does.

Good sound takes hard work. Not only does a sound technician have to gauge the best strength for amplified voices, but also measure it according to the size of the room, the instruments in play, and the gathered crowd that both absorbs and muffles sound. I cannot deny there has been a great deal of fiddling with buttons to see what they do and some needless running around and tripping over cords, but I do enjoy the challenge.

When the worship team stepped up to play, Elsa asked me if I wanted to comp with them, so I played djembe with Mike on the box drum, despite not having a rhythmic bone in my body. This may be the defining character of our church--we do not have the means, the location, the gear, the sound system, the musicians--but we have jacks of all trades who are willing help move desks into formation and set the fika table and usher and greet visitors and run sound checks; and until someone with more experience and madder skillz comes along, we will make things work and keep them together, provided there is enough duct tape.

Rest for the Restless

I have to change. I want to change. If we remain the same at all times, we would not be complete people. I have to fight against my migratory instinct, that still small voice that tries to convince me that 'it will be better somewhere else'--wherever that 'else' may be. It's a common theme among internationals, and some suffer severely from it. My restlessness grows stronger when I stay too long in a place that does not simply hand me the adventure I seek, that needs me to make the most of my time. I grow impatient. Thankfully, I am not much plagued by this impulse, though I do find my thoughts turning to another place, another time, wanting to be far away when I am needed right here.

That is the great challenge. It lies not in overcoming impossible obstacles, but patiently staying put and working with (not settling for!) my circumstances, resting in the knowledge that there is a purpose for my time here, a reason for growing where I am planted.

Operation Underdog

Sundays always fill me with hope. There is something about joining together in one accord that makes me hopeful for the future. And I say this, despite the outward lack of success in our church. Last Sunday, the first Sunday of the fall, we had an outstanding turn out of twenty-eight people. This Sunday, we had lost seven people, or rather rotated them out, save for the few faithful--they seem to move in cycles, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. Today was the lowest number in attendance we've ever had, according to my father.

The dwindling numbers are largely due to a change in leadership as the old pastor stepped down and my father took his place. Change is a great thief of believers.

We meet in a school cafeteria; we have one piano and one microphone. To add to our one-woman-worship team we need amplifiers we do not have for musicians who have not yet volunteered. (Myself excluded--I volunteered--but I wouldn't call myself a musician.) But we do have a good projector and many chairs, which we arrange hopefully every Sunday in the belief that more people will come.

 I led Sunday school.

We drew manga warriors for our Armor of God lesson, whilst discovering we all like Beyblade--Kai being a clear favourite. Having things in common with nine-year-olds seems to be a recurring theme with me. 

Kai Hiwatari: Because he's awesome.

Despite all the things that could be taken as setbacks, the spilt milk that we could cry over, we find blessings in meeting. We have fika; we hear the Good Word; we pray for each other; we have Sunday school for the little ones. And all this, in it's simplicity--men and women from different nations meeting under one God--is what gives me joy and brings me hope. There are new adventures on the horizon.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Jeremiah 29:11

Happy Resurrection Day!

I went to church, and I felt slightly sacrilegious taking pictures in church. But hey, if I never take pictures I never take pictures.

 A Pew with a View

 Ben reprimands me with a raised eyebrow

 Sneaking a peek over dad's shoulder

After the service, there was an Easter egg hunt on the church grounds. Ben and John were to round up all the kids and lay out the basic rules, like "If you see someone smaller than you, do not hesitate to shove them out of the way and take their egg," which was met with vehement protestation from most, but not all, of the gathered.

 The crowd stands in awe of Ben's hypnotic charisma.

 Ben and John demonstrate how to hold an egg.

 "Yes, O Great Master."

 " The egg is on your side!"

 Kyle takes a quiet moment with the daffodils to reflect on the advent of spring. 

After church, we all headed off to the Lennons for lunch. We played basketball, blew bubbles, ate a lunch, (some) had water fights, petted the dog, petted the guinea pig, and talked of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.

Ben and Ella

 

 A lovely spread of hors d'oeuvres

 Hummus dip and crackers

 John throws his hand up, admitting defeat in the Great Sidewalk Race.

 Due to residual embarrassment from his failure, he expired soon after.

 Jack back-flipped off this tree, but my camera could not catch the moment. You'll have to imagine.

Father Holmgren says a prayer to bless house and home

The carving of the roast beast

 A man of Swedish descent, who told me remembered Swedish words from his childhood. "Latmask!"

 The man with the can; the beard and the beer. 

And as for the rest of the afternoon? I avoided my homework and introduced Melissa to the vlogbrothers on youtube. Their videos are for the people with even the slightest leanings toward nerdhood. She consequently spent her precious time viewing their videos instead of going to bed, nerdfighter that she is.