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

Sunday

Church is the day we designate for the worship of our Saviour. This particular Sunday, Joel and wife Sofia, Sofia's brother Martin and his wife Gabriella, Lotta, my father, and I attended a Spanish-speaking church in Sollentuna. The Sollentuna church joined us during the summer for our first Christian conference in Sjövik (read here). Most, if not all of its members are Spanish, and they have had some trouble reaching out to the very reserved Swedish population. They have been not surprisingly been discouraged by a meager harvest--you see, Sweden is the most individualistic, secularized country in the world.

This chart represents the individual/collective and secular/religious leanings of the countries of the world. You see the dot in the top right hand corner? It's called the Swedish corner, and according to the World Values Survey, which has been tracking national values since the eighties, the rest of the world is slowly coming to join us. 

My brother, his wife, her brother, his wife lead worship in Spanish, English, and Swedish

The members of the Sollentuna congregation had initially been hesitant to join the summer conference--they were not sure if two different cultures could work, much less worship together--but our time together proved otherwise. We Swedes and Spaniards both left equally encouraged in our faith. The church in Sollentuna, however, took away something even greater--hope for a growing, multicultural church, expectation of God's good work.

My father preaches with Pastor Renzo as interpreter

We had not met up with the church for three months, and this Sunday was filled with greetings and embraces, and some of the older church members who had previously resisted integration into Swedish society purposely came up to my brother and spoke to him in Swedish, tried their Swedish phrases, as if to say "We really are trying! We want to reach out!" They smiled and pinched his cheeks, fussing over him like a long lost grandson. 

I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

Many Firsts

And the list of firsts lengthens. Ida and I lead worship yesterday. We made quite the pair. She had never played in public before, and I have never sung. She has a beautifully clear voice, and I being the chief sound technician, I turned up the volume on her microphone to drown out any of my own quavering false notes.

After the service, a church meeting was held. Now, I'm no expert regarding church meetings as this was my first, but it was hysterical. We have some very funny characters in our church. Gustaf pretended great indignation at each speaker's grip on the microphone and offered a demonstration as to proper usage. "Hold the mike to your mouth. Oscar."
Oscar, from the back, accepts the verdict. "Okay."
"That goes for you too Erika."
My mom holds up her hands, innocent as a dove. "I never do anything wrong."

We went through the order of business, discussing church attendance, and possible new locations for our church, as it is most inconvenient to have to cart all parts of the church to and from, in and out of our current premises. (Father and I have to climb into our basement every Sunday and pull out the synthesizer, speakers, mixer board, microphones and respective cords, microphone and music stands, and toy box.) Imagine having a place to store our things! Gustaf suggested the new place should have a resting room, in case the sermons got too long.
Pelle smirked, from his seat. "Yeah, that never happens."
Pappa smiled. 

And to finish a good day, I somehow dipped the neatly-tied ribbon around my neck into my teacup.

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.

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

Baptism

For the past two weeks, Scandinavia has suffered through the shocking aftermath of the massacre in Norway, perpetuated by someone as blonde and blue-eyed as the rest of us. The news reported that we have been robbed of our innocence. That is true. We mourn our loss; we mourn that such acts have forced our hands, have necessitated that we be suspicious of our own kind, of foreigners, of family; we mourn the absence of love.

Therefore, it has been good for my soul to attend the Christian camp in Sjövik, where members of various churches gathered together from all parts of the world--various cities in Sweden, Spain, Finland, and Peru--to worship God in one voice though with many tongues. Collectively we prayed in Spanish, Finnish, Arabic, Swedish, and Norwegian. 

God blessed our time together. We swam in the lake and broke break together in the cafeteria and played baseball in a mix of Spanish and Swedish; we had water balloon fights; we stayed up late to talk; we listened to Pastor Eduardo share about his education ministry in Peru, my father about his work in Nepal aiming to release the Badi women from lives of prostitution, Pastor Renzo about his church in Sollentuna, Stockholm. 

Amidst these times of mourning, we were encouraged by the hope we found in Jesus--hope in a humanity that can still pray together, that can share the burden of hard times, that can raise awareness about societal problems, that can practically and effectively move in the Spirit of God to seek out the lost and the broken to bless them with the grace once given us.

The church gathered by the lake to bear witness to three baptisms, 

 all the while accompanied by songs sung in Spanish, with guitar and djembe, 

 while the children ran around and blew bubbles.

A simple communion table. We work with what we got.

I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7b

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.