TheCarpetBag.com

culture shocked

2006-04-04T21:08:00.000+01:00

I’m in America, sitting in the Atlanta airport, on the Internet. Wireless. Weird. And I’m about to say goodbye to the United States again. I think I was ready to do that a few days ago, but I’m glad I got to connect with so many friends and family. I just wish I could have seen everyone I wanted to.

But then I would have been here much longer than a week.

Several people asked me over the course of my seven days here if I was feeling any culture shock yet. Most of the time I said, “Nope. Not really.” I think I’m pretty good at flipping a mental switch when I go from America to Europe and vice verse.

But then I went to a place called San Antonia Taco, Company, in Nashville, TN with some friends.

Tons of people. Talking. Loud. Southern American voice over the intercom. Loud. Tex-mex food. Greasy food. Americans everywhere with not a drop of European blood to be seen.

I think I actually got a little dizzy. That’s when I realized culture shock was setting in.

Yesterday I realized just how worn out I had gotten. Physically. Mentally. Over the past week I’ve seen old friends and new friends. I’ve driven through large cities, inner cities, hill country, and farmland. I’ve also had much more food than I normally eat. I’m just glad I’m getting on a plane soon to go back to Holland. And then on to Israel.

I guess my culture shock is only just starting.

On Sunday I did get to see something I didn’t expect that made my day. I went to a church with my friends to hear Don Miller speak, and before the service the church performed two baptisms. The church is called the People’s Church and is huge, which is quite a culture shock in itself. But even if Don Miller hadn’t been such a good speaker I would have been glad to go to the service.

The People’s Church is a Baptist church, and the second baptism that day was an elderly guy who had two people baptizing him.

A Baptist pastor.

And a priest.

Very cool.

things you wish you'd never seen

2006-03-15T21:49:00.000Z

Do you notice anything disturbing about this picture, besides the slightly perturbed look on Kurt’s face?

No?

How about now?

Would a close-up help?

Last week I was in Ireland with two friends of mine, Joost and Kurt, and for several days we noticed a large number of men walking around Dublin in kilts. I lived in Ireland last year, so I know that kilts are not the normal fashion in Dublin. Later we found out that Ireland and Scotland were having a big soccer match that Saturday, and some of the Scottish guys were showing their colors, so to speak.

You’d think guys walking around in skirts would attract unwanted attention, but I definitely wouldn’t have messed with these men.

Anyway, as Kurt, Joost, and I enjoyed a drink in a pub that Thursday, several of these Scottish guys sat at the bar across the room. We had already commented a few times about the men in kilts and why there were so many in Dublin, but during a lull in our conversation, and with a nod of his head, Joost suddenly asked, “What do they wear under the kilts? I think Jimmy said they wore nothing.” (Jimmy is a Scottish friend who is a long-term guest at the hostel.)

I looked over and said, “I don’t know. I imagine they wear underwear. They have to!”

Then Joost said, “Well, I hope so. Look at how they’re sitting.”

That’s when I noticed the back of two of the Scottish men’s kilts draped behind the barstool. Which means that if they’re not wearing anything underneath those yards of tartan cloth, bare butts are gracing leather cushions.

Not an especially pleasant thought.

What made the experience especially funny was the moment these men left the pub. I leaned up to see if there were any moist looking indentations on the cushions. Yeah, gross, but I wanted to know.

Not five seconds later two well-dressed women walked in and took their seats, but not before one of them steadied herself on the top of the barstool with one manicured hand.

Had she only known.

If you’ve ever wondered what a Scotsman wears under his kilt, the time to find out would not be after he gets up from a bar stool.

Ewww.

he did not have a home

2006-03-13T10:37:00.000Z

Crisp air…gloved hands thrust deep into coat pockets…cars rushing past. I leaned against the same signpost, waited for the same bus, that I had countless times before. Nothing had changed.

But.

Everything.

Had.

Changed.

I didn’t live there anymore. Ireland was no longer my home.

But, then again, Amsterdam will soon cease to be home as well.

I wasn’t even sure I was supposed to be in Ireland.

A few weeks ago I found cheap tickets flying Ryanair into Dublin. At first I thought about visiting another country before I left Europe—I have this rather silly desire to add more countries to the list of those I’ve already visited. Yes, it’s a numbers game. My European friends here at the hostel would say that’s a very American trait. I usually try to avoid those qualifications as much as possible.

But I had a good excuse! Nicole, my Floridian friend whom I worked with at the Shelter, was finishing her time at the hostel and traveling around Europe for two weeks. The first leg of her journey would be to Zurich, where Cecilia, another friend and co-worker from Liechtenstein, had friends with a gift for hospitality.

Zurich proved too expensive, though. People may think that Amsterdam is a European hub-city for travel—we certainly get a lot of people stopping through on their way to other countries. But it is dang expensive to get from here to anywhere else on the mainland. Very sad.

Then I saw plane tickets for 50 euros to Dublin. Do I add another country to my growing, but still sadly short, list, or visit my friends in the land of 40 shades of green where I lived for 13 months?

The decision shouldn’t have been difficult.

Money was the deciding factor. Two of my friends from the hostel came along with me, and we had a fantastic time. I enjoyed showing them some of Ireland’s natural and historic beauty, as well as catching up with old friends.

Back to the bus stop.

Over the years and in my travels I’ve learned that I have quite different reactions to different kinds of trips. There are times when I love traveling alone, such as when I spent three days in Rome, and there are times when I would much rather have been with people, like in Barcelona. (Barcelona is not a city where you should be by yourself. And I don’t mean because it’s dangerous!)

I have a similar reaction to visitors. When friends or family visit me from another city or country, I usually prefer for them to come with other people. That means that I don’t have to cart them around and show them all the sights since two or more people are more likely to be proactive in doing that themselves. I don’t have to be the perpetual tour guide.

Yes. Very selfish. But I’m getting better!

Going to Ireland with Joost and Kurt—let me remind you that I had a great time with these guys—made me a little nervous since it combined the best and worst of these things. I was traveling with friends, which is great, but they were dependent on me to get them around and show them the sites. That also meant the catch-up time with my Irish friends was drastically cut.

So as I leaned against that cold signpost in the village of Lucan, thoughts whirled and bumped around the inside of my head like Charlie and his grandpa did in that original version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when they drank that fizzy drink: “Was I supposed to spend money to come to Ireland? I didn’t need to come here. Why does it feel like I’ve never even left?! That can’t be a normal feeling. I’m having some serious déjà vu here…”

The last thought was the weirdest. Well, not the one about déjà vu, but the one about how it felt like I’d never left. And at the exact same time I knew that I had a life in Amsterdam. A life that was ending soon, of course, but a life filled with friends, ministry, lessons to be learned, etc.

And very soon I will leave Holland. Which means my life will be in Israel. So when I visit Amsterdam, will I have the same feeling that I did leaning against the signpost in Ireland?

I think I will.

In Ireland and Amsterdam I’ve entered into life and all that God wants for me to live more than anywhere else in my previous seven years. And that life has not ended. It will not end. Do you remember that scene at the end of The Last Battle, the last book of C.S. Lewis’ Narnia series, where one of the characters noticed in “heaven” that a particular house still existed, although it had supposedly been destroyed?:

“Why,” exclaimed Peter. “It’s England. And that’s the house itself —Professor Kirk’s old home in the country where all our adventures began!”

“I thought that house had been destroyed,” said Edmund.

“So it was,” said the Faun. “But you are now looking at the England within England, the real England just as this is the real Narnia. And in that inner England no good thing is destroyed.”

Simplistic. Not particularly academic or theological. But it fits. The life I lived in Ireland is gone. My friends are doing different things. My old room is now a storeroom for broken chairs and computer boxes. There’s a McDonald’s down the road from where I lived. But the life I lived there is still growing within me. Better yet, it is me.

And the same thing will happen in Amsterdam. A year from now not a single staff member will remain who I worked with. The guests will obviously be different. And someone will probably paint the walls or do some weird thing with the computer system.

But my life here will remain.

I suppose I do have a home. Home is all around me.

It’s kind of fun to see the world as one big living room.

• • •

One last note:

I mentioned that I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be in Ireland. That’s a legitimate question. We all make purchases that, in hindsight, we know we shouldn’t have made. And going on a trip is harder to quantify. How can I prove that an experience is worth a few hundred dollars when a few hundred dollars is so valuable?

But on that bus I finally boarded, the one I was waiting for with the confusing thoughts knocking around inside my noggin, I knew that I was supposed to be in Ireland. I sat in the back of that double-decker with the cool Irish breeze from an open window in my face. I closed my eyes. I’m sure I smiled. That was good…that was right.

And later, at my church home group, I sat among friends who laughed, talked, listened, and finally prayed for me. I felt at home.

I also felt that I was ending my time in Amsterdam the way that it had started and leaving for Israel in the best way possible—with the blessing from my church.

So how much is a trip to Ireland worth? For me? It’s a bit like a credit card commercial.

Priceless.

surreal moments in amsterdam

2006-03-07T11:57:00.000Z

This morning I walked to the Shelter. I don’t normally walk to work, especially so early in the morning. But my bike apparently has a unique nozzle, which needs a unique pump, to put air in the tire. I didn’t know that until this morning. So I walked.

When one walks through Amsterdam at 7:00 am, one might become privy to many interesting sites. I’ve seen fog turn a cold winter morning into an impressionistic painting, with canals disappearing into a pearly haze and church towers rising out of nothing. And I love strolling down the center of Amsterdam’s red brick streets with not a person, bike, or car to be seen and only sea gulls to be heard.

But I want to tell you about a surreal moment, not an impressionist one.

To get from my house to the hostel, I have to walk down Zeedijk, one of the oldest streets in Amsterdam. Zeedijk is also one of the more unpleasant places to walk early in the morning. Some days and nights are worse than others, but I’ve seen junkies shooting up and more on this street.

Zeedijk symbolizes Amsterdam for me: an incongruous mix of beautiful old buildings and human depravity lining the streets. I suppose this street by itself is quite surreal.

This morning wasn’t too bad. I didn’t see any junkies, but I did see two guys pulling their luggage behind them and smoking what I thought, at first, were regular cigarettes. On closer inspection, and as I smelled the smoke that drifted past me, I knew it was marijuana. In Amsterdam that’s no surprise. Especially from tourists.

What surprised me was my imagination. I’ve never had a desire to smoke marijuana, but this morning I imagined my reaction if one of those tourists offered me a puff. I even asked myself if there would ever be a circumstance where I would say “yes” to such an offer.

Like I said, I’ve never desired to smoke pot. But it was in this surprised state of mind that I saw Oliver Twist riding a bike down Zeedijk.

I promise, I didn’t smoke any pot!

Okay, so he wasn’t Oliver Twist. But this little boy with trousers that didn’t reach his ankles and feet that barely reached the peddles rode by so slowly and without a glance in any direction…he could have been a ghost. Or conjured up from the depths of my own misty mind. He certainly didn’t belong on Zeedijk at 7:00 am on a Tuesday morning.

Surreal.

And, in a strange way, worth having to walk to the Shelter this Tuesday morning.

more pearls of wisdom from jason

2006-03-04T02:25:00.000Z

When you go to the post office to mail a package, don’t forget the address.

On February 28, Cecilia Allart, my Liechtenstein friend, and I had our one-year anniversary at the Shelter. So we went on a date. (Don’t explode, Mom, it was purely platonic.)

On the way we dropped by the post office so I could mail a package to a friend. I bought the box—it took both of us to put the thing together—and the bubble wrap, and then we packed everything up nice and tight.

It was only when I started towards the counter to mail the thing that I realized I left the address at home.

Cecilia, of course, laughed. This is the same woman who describes me as “that American who couldn’t ride a bike the first time we rode from the Shelter to the house.” She snickered then, too. (I remember the situation differently, but I’m secure enough not to try and justify what she recalls so poorly…)

One year. That’s how long it’s been since I came to Amsterdam. Cecilia is the only one left who arrived at the same time, and we both leave at the end of the month. The others? Joel and Aaron are gone. Laura. Nora. Most of the other staff has changed, too.

Joel is in Maryland.

Aaron moved to New Zealand two months ago.

Laura went back to Mexico.

Nora has gone to Indonesia until her marriage.

Rebekka is ministering in India.

Neal lives in the country music capitol of the world, better known as Nashville.

Nicole is traveling but will go to Florida soon.

Rachel is living in Kansas until she can get back here.

Els is in school somewhere in Holland.

Cecilia will go back to Liechtenstein soon.

I’m going to Israel in a month.

And the list goes on…

february 2006 thoughts

2006-03-02T02:12:00.000Z

I just finished a 920-page book. It was fiction. It was pure fantasy.

I love reading.

My Las Vegas roommate arrived back from the States after a three-week hiatus. We thought he would show up in Amsterdam on February 28. That’s what he told us. His small group put up a big sign that said, “Welcome Home Maurice!” Pauline baked a cake.

His plane actually arrived today, March 1.

It left the States on February 28.

Always forward your entire flight plan to the friends who are expecting you. Otherwise they will start calling relatives, the airport, and maybe even the police.

Not that we would do anything like that.

Last night I went to a free jazz night at the Bim Huis. Fun stuff. I met with a German guy, Carsten, who majors in jazz in university. Carsten is the kind of person you want to hang out with at a jazz club if you don’t know much about jazz music.

One of the rules of the Shelter, which we have recently been reminded of…repeatedly…is that no alcohol or tobacco usages are allowed while on staff.

It’s a silly rule.

But what do you do when you find a fellow staff member who preaches, quite loudly, about righteousness, holiness, and a plethora of other religious words he tosses around like confetti drinking beer with hostel guests at that jazz club?

Ignore it? Too easy. Call him to account? Too hard.

Actually, rebuking someone is not hard at all.

Ask him why he was drinking while being fully aware of your own sin and admit at the same time that you’ve done similar things…that’s harder.

But he heard me. We’re having coffee next Monday.

Nick, my crystal wielding English friend with an amber ring that looks like an eyeball is not doing well. He had an operation last week to remove a tumor, and he’s only 25 years old. He’s a musician, an artist. Recently he’s started saying he’s seen death. I’m afraid he’s starting to hope for it.

I just hope he allows the truth he longs for to wash his soul clean of all the crap he’s fed it.

Let go of the crystal, Nick. Let go of the tarot cards. You need God. You need the reality of Jesus.

Why is truth such a hard thing to see?

things i never thought i'd hear/see in amsterdam...

2006-02-12T07:00:00.000Z

1. ...a Dutch man and a French man playing blues in the next room, and not sounding too bad!
2. ...a room full of people line-dancing to very, very country music. Not strange enough? I saw people from Holland, Germany, Liechtenstein, Russia, Portugal, Canada, and the USA, all in various states of western dress. And the Americans were, by far, the minority!
3. ...my French friend tell me during a nightman shift that Jimmy was in the lobby in his tidy-whities. Then I had to tell the inebriated Scottish man on the phone, "Jimmy, please leave the reception and go put some pants on." Geez, man!

Funniest quote: During the country hoe-down I asked Mattieu, our sole French staff-member, "Are you going to line-dance?" His reply? "I'm French!"

"so, i´m in barcelona, and this guy says..."

2005-04-24T20:14:00.000+01:00

Yeah, it´s been a LONG time since I´ve posted--sorry about that. But I thought you might like to take a look at some journal entries from my time in Barcelona, Spain. Right now, Saturday, April 24, I´m still here. I´ll try to add more when I get back to Amsterdam!

Sunday, April 24, 2005, 10:10 am

"So, I´m in Barcelona, and this guy says..."

The start of my trip to Spain didn´t start out that great. Work was crazy, and I left later than I intended. Then the trains from Amsterdam to the airport don´t leave as regularly as the website would have you believe, so I got to the airport only 30 minutes before my plane left and they wouldn´t let me board! (There´s a chance that an earlier train might have left from the Amsterdam station, but if that´s true then it wasn´t spelled out properly on my ticket or anywhere else in the station. Very frustrating!) KLM let me board the next flight with no penalities, though, and so I was supposed to fly out at 4:30 pm instead of 12:30 pm.
Did you catch that "supposed to?"
The plane only left an hour-and-a-half later than it should have, but by this time I was hungry, tired, and wondering if I was supposed to go to Barcelona at all. Then, when I got to Barcelona, I discoverd that "The New Hostel" was neither new or "an easy to stumble to" location as the website claimed. As a matter of fact, I only found it because I started checking the building numbers--they don´t have a sign! And I only got into the hostel because a guy sitting outside with a key noticed the "where´s the damn New Hostel!" look on my face. On my way up to the hostel I didn´t hold out much hope about how nice it would be, and I was right. The place is a dump.
But the people staying there are nice.
And I got a surprisingly restful sleep that night. Frustration can be a very tiring thing!
Yesterday, Saturday, I decided to explore Old Barcelona, and I had a great time. Apparently, April 23 is called "La Dia de los Libros," and it´s also a day of celebration for St. George, I think. The city looked like an anthill had exploded with all the people wandering around! There were bookstalls everywhere and all kinds of events, including some really cool drums and dancing at a park west of Old Barcelona. I think I wandered around all the stalls there for a few hours. Before that I saw quite a few interesting pieces of architecture, and I took a look around the Museo Picasso. Cool stuff.
Another interesting thing was this dance I saw in one of the Placas. I was on my way back to the Hostel when I heard some live music and saw hundreds of people holding hands in a number of large circles. Most of the people were old, although a few of the circles were made up of younger people. They all looked very solemn, and the dance seemed very simple. But there was something special about what they were doing, and they all looked so satisfied when the music stopped! I really need to find out what that dance was about!
Last night I spent a few hours in the hostel having some fun talks with other guests, including a couple of kiwis who work in Dublin. I still think the hostel is a dump, but I´m enjoying the travellers. Today I´m heading down to the beach and maybe the aquarium.

Sunday, April 24, 2005, 8:50 pm
I found out the name of the dance is "sardana."
The sky didn´t clear up until early afternoon, so instead of the beach I headed up to Parc Guell and then down to the Sagrada Familia. As much as I enjoyed seeing Old Barcelona, visiting those two sites eclipsed everything from yesterday. I don´t think I´ve ever seen anything quite like the art that Gaudi produced, and I´m in awe of what he accomplished.
I also enjoyed getting out of the center of Barcelona tourism. To get to Parc Guell I could either have taken an hour or more stroll or a 10 minute metro ride. I opted for the metro.
Once off the train, I found myself in an area with more apartment blocks and less touristy stores. It felt real--more like Spain. I think I let out a sort of mental sigh of relief, perhaps because my over-stimulated brain finally had a chance to relax. Interesting.
May the sky be blue and the sun shining tomorrow!

an apology, and a word of encouragement

2005-02-11T15:02:00.000Z

I'm sorry for not blogging in such a long time! In just a few days I fly home to the States for two weeks, and then I fly to Amsterdam for three months to work at a Christian Youth Hostel. So my last month or so has been crazy, trying to get my new website up, loose ends tied, and traveling arrangments planned.

Even now I don't have time to do an adequate blog, but I wanted to share a poem that encouraged me a great deal.

When Rich Mullins, one of the Christian music industry's greatest artists, died in 1997, he left very little in terms of prose. The following short piece, "Scared of the Dark," was written only two days before he died. When he finished it he told one of his closest friends, "I think this may be the best thing I have ever written." I don't know if it's his best—Rich wrote a lot of powerful music—but the piece certainly impacted me. Please read this Godly man's last written words with a prayerful attitude. I hope it impacts you, too.

Scared of the Dark
by Rich Mullins
September 17, 1997

i don't remember meeting Him
He had just always been there.
when people ask me, "how did you meet the Lord?"
i don't know how to answer.
meeting Him seems unavoidable
recognizing Him can be tricky
loving Him seems impossible.
people often ask that too--"do you love Jesus?"
and again i'm stuck for an answer
i know the right one--the answer you're supposed to give
i know that it presupposes so many things that it could hardly
be honest
so i say
as much as i love,
i love Jesus.

if love was easier, i would love Him more
but then again
if love was easier, it would hardly be worth the little
it would ask
if i was stronger, i would love Him more
or maybe
i would more know how little i love

we grow slowly,
and love takes time...

He's always been there
even in that dark room where i
slept as a child
scared of that dark
in that room that seemed to want
to suck me deep into the night's
great lungs
i hated the thought that we were all
hanging upside down--off the bottom of the world
and that all that darkness out there that we
might fall into
was just a shadow of our own selves
just a shadow you could fall through forever.

she said that You were out there too
and then she'd tuck me in so tight that i would likely be safe
till morning
but no woman--not even your own mother
can kiss you without mixing some unspoken sorrow
into her affection
and i always thought
she might be kissing me good-bye
as well as good night.

my aunt said that Jesus would knock on the door of my heart
and if i would open the door
He'd come in and sup with me
and when i was old enough to be ashamed of trying to tether
myself to my mom
(with that last desperate good night)
i decided
that instead of lying there being afraid
i would listen for His knock.

i heard all kinds of things
scary things
amplified by the dark
and by my nervous and hopeful listenings
was it the voice of Eli? or the call of God?
was it the limbs of the trees outside?
or the knock i was to open to?

i did not worry about what Jesus would find to eat if He came in
i was a child and knew that out of a crowd
a boy would most likely have some fish and some loaves

but i am no longer a child
i am no longer afraid of the dark
i have new things to fear
i am no longer afraid that i will drift away from this world
i am afraid i will never escape it.

and i'm not afraid of good-byes
i've become so used to them it scares me.

i have never heard any knocking sound
that was distinct from every other noise
but i have learned to listen
and i'm thankful for learning

i don't know that the rumble of the thunder
or the crackle in a good fire
or the hum of my wheels
is the sound of Jesus knocking on
the door of my heart
but i'm thankful to Him for all those sounds
and for giving me ears
and for teaching me to listen.

i don't know that the lonely ache that i
feel--even when times are the best
and friends are near--
is the way that it feels when He knocks,
when He calls,
but i'm thankful to have a heart.
i don't know that He would like everything in it
or that He would find any fish or loaves anymore
or much besides stone and snakes.

but sometimes
i get really brave, and
if i don't open the door
i at least unlock it

and when i look in
or when i look out
i can see that He's just always been there.

meeting Him seems unavoidable
recognizing Him can be tricky
loving Him seems impossible.

we grow slowly,
and love takes time

what's more important?

2004-12-21T12:00:00.000Z

Yesterday I met with a friend for lunch, and, although I didn’t intend on talking about future business propositions, we ended up chatting about our visions for opening a coffee house in Ireland for almost two hours.

What I discovered was actually more interesting than the details of how K would run his perfect coffee house business. Our ideas for a business would probably look very similar on paper, but the whys, wherefores, and ways we would approach the business differ considerably!

I don’t particularly want to go into those details right now. I just found it amazing how two people’s ideas could be so compatible and yet incompatible. I found myself arguing with K and trying to get him to concede some of his points to me or to flex just a little with his vision, but he was completely unwilling to do that.

I definitely got frustrated—inflexible people irritate me a great deal. But should I have? I don’t agree with the way my friend is approaching this unformed business, but he has a very specific and admirable purpose, which is mainly to promote fair trade and make a difference in poor countries around the globe. I love that idea. For me, however, that’s not enough.

The business I envision has as much to do with the two people talking over their cups of coffee as it does for the third world country in South America. And I want a part in facilitating those relationships, especially if somehow the people who come in learn more about the God of the Bible.

Is one of those visions more important than the other? Does my desire to promote the arts in a business and build relationships that lead to and honor Christ get trumped by building a viable water system for an impoverished town in Peru? Do they have to be mutually exclusive?

My friend did essentially say that helping the poor thousands of miles away is more important the building relationships with the person next door, at least in terms of what should be important to a profit making business, and especially for what he wants to accomplish in a business. Is he right?

I really do want to be a part of a relational, profit-making, God honoring coffee house business that allows me to interact with the people I work with and those in the community. I want to see it become a venue for the visual and musical arts where people in the community can enjoy the talents of those they live beside, and I want artists to become better artists because they have a place to display their work and to perform.

That vision, I admit, is more meaningful on a personal level than fair trade. But I don’t mind being convinced differently, especially if my desire is counter to God’s will and what He reveals in Scripture.

nearly trampled in dublin!

2004-12-09T23:20:00.000Z

Have you ever noticed how rude people can get when walking down a crowded street? For those of you who aren’t used to major tourist thoroughfares like Grafton Street in Dublin, you can substitute “street” for the wide avenues you find in American malls.

Today I met one friend for lunch in Dublin and then another for coffee a little later, but I had a difficult time moving quickly up Grafton Street because I had to weave in and out around people the entire length. I’m used to that, but I found it unusually frustrating today, knowing that if tried to stay polite my journey would take twice as long.

Do you know what I’m talking about? Teenage girls and couples are the worst, although groups of mothers pushing strollers can be just as bad.

Girls in high school are inseparable! When they walk down streets, they don’t want to move aside or split if a single unit (person) is walking the other direction. If there are 15 girls walking together, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder and move like a bulldozer down the street, glaring at any unlucky passerby who tries to push through the girl-wall.

Oh, I can attest to the glaring, first-hand! I had no choice but to walk between two girls, and it was only at the last second that they begrudgingly parted company, although as soon as I slid by they clicked together again like a pair of magnets. Weird.

And couples can be just as bad, although I don’t begrudge them their desire to stay close together. It’s just frustrating trying to move against a tide of people going the opposite direction. Today I felt like a tiny salmon moving upstream against a flood of Christmas shoppers!

What I don’t understand, however, are the three mothers with baby carriages who seem to think they can walk abreast along a sidewalk without causing a logjam. No salmon can get past that!

So the only solution is either to learn how to pivot and dodge like an American football quarterback or put your head down and push through the masses. I think I’m doing a little of both. I just hope those teenage girls never lose their ability to actually break away from each other for a few seconds—some poor passerby could get trampled!

a day in edenderry and an important conversation

2004-12-06T16:20:00.000Z

Yesterday I spent the afternoon and evening after church with a few friends of mine, a South African couple, in Edenderry, which takes at least 45 minutes to get to from where I live. I generally wouldn’t be able to visit Gavin and Wendy since I don’t have a car, except that once a month they have a Bible study in their home for people in their community, and since Keith, our pastor from Maynooth Community Church, drives over to help, I can come back with him in the evening. So every once in a while I catch a lift with Gavin and Wendy to their home in the middle of nowhere and spend the day with them.

I’m not joking about where they live! Part of the reason it takes so long to get to Gavin and Wendy’s house is because you have to take so many back roads to get there. They live in a little cottage on their landlord’s property, who own a farm. Every time I visit I see something new. The first time I went I walked on a bog, which is almost like strolling across a giant, water logged sponge. If you jump up-and-down on a bog you can see the ground several feet away ripple. Very strange.

The landlords also raise turkeys, which I’ve discovered are startlingly ugly creatures. The last time I visited my friends the landlord’s sheepdog puppy killed one of the turkeys. That’s a big no-no at a turkey farm. I was surprised yesterday to learn that they still had the puppy, especially when I heard he had killed another turkey. Obviously they have a soft spot for wayward dogs!

I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday, not least because of the relaxed nature of the day. Gavin and Wendy are very easy people to be around, and the Bible study usually ends up making for a nice evening. But Keith said something to me last night that I haven’t been able to get out of my head.

His exact words aren’t really important, and I can’t remember them, anyway. But at one point I thanked him for something he had told me the previous Sunday, the essence of which was that I should work more often with young people, that I was gifted in that area. When I said that last night, he made the comment that I need training in that area.

Keith didn’t say it in a condescending manner or even imply that I was inadequate in any way. On the contrary, I think he was just trying to encourage me in that direction. But I did hear something different, something he didn’t even realize he put in my head.

I realized that, despite my gifting in certain areas, such as the arts and with people, I haven’t accepted any kind of “mantle” of leadership in the areas I’m passionate about. I’ve been open to where God wants me to go and what He wants me to do, but I’ve never worked boldly towards anything.

If you know me you may not believe that, especially since I live in a foreign country as a missionary, doing things that some people only dream of. But I don’t feel strongly about graphic design—it’s a means to an end. I do want to pour my life into people, but I’ve practically waited, to be honest, for people to knock on my door. I may use my “people” gifts to a certain extent, but not to a degree to which I can be proud of.

None of these are new thoughts, especially in the last few weeks, but Keith’s comment last night put those thoughts in a different order, he made me think about who I am in a new way.

Isn’t it interesting how one person’s casual comment can make a tremendous difference in another’s life?

I want to be bold in my faith, in my relationships, and in my passions. Today may just be my first step towards a more “alive” Jason McFarland.

a little help with the fire, please?

2004-12-02T13:39:00.000Z

Have you ever thought about all the different sounds a fire makes? The most audible noise resembles the sound of dozens of tiny blankets being shaken out at the same time. (Well, they’re tiny if the fire is small. Big fires probably require bigger blankets.) Do you know what I mean? Like when you make your bed and pop the sheets to get them across the mattress.

I can also hear pops, sizzles, clicks, and even what sounds like little sticks banged together by little hands. Then there’s the rustling of the ashes settling or, in the case of the fire in front of which I’m currently sitting, the charcoal clicking together as the fire burns down. Different types of fuel probably make different noises.

The sound of a roaring fire can be quite soothing. But I’ve never had to hear the sound of a wildfire, the kind that destroys homes, forests, and lives. Hopefully I never will.

I do love to watch fires, though. Tonight I decided to take the evening off, so to speak. (By “off” I mean sitting in front of a fire reading instead of staring at the television. Hey, watching some of the shows on the boob-tube can be quite strenuous!) A few weeks ago some friends of mine, K and A, gave me a house-warming present: some peanut butter—I’m still trying to find a decent tasting brand here in Ireland—and a ready-to-light bag of briquettes. I’m not sure if the term “house-warming” has ever been taken quite so literally!

The fire did eventually get started, but its beginning was slow and almost nonexistent. Lighting the bag was supposed to set the charcoal to burning, but I think the fireplace was too small and the briquettes packed in too tight. I ended up throwing quite a bit of paper in the fireplace, including paper towels, cardboard, and paper bags—I don’t get newspapers here, so I had to improvise! But it didn’t want to start. I was convinced I would have to throw away quite a bit of unburned charcoal.

But as I sat watching the television (yes, I gave in when the fire didn’t start!), I noticed the charcoal smoking. Suddenly, half a dozen of the briquettes burst into flame and the fire started to burn tall, beginning from the right and creeping across the egg-shaped briquettes to the left of the fireplace. I had a roaring fire! It took a while to get started—perhaps my paper towels did help—but now I’m sitting toasty in my skivvies watching the red-gold briquettes burn to powder.

I’m sure there’s a sermon illustration in there somewhere. Too bad I’m not a preacher.

My first blog...EVER!

2004-12-01T18:22:00.000Z

Yeah, I'm a newbie. I'll probably break dozens of unwritten rules and incur the wrath of a dozen more adept bloggers. I may even look back one day and laugh at my naiveté and wonder how I ever survived.

But for now, here I am: a guy who goes by Jason with the surname McFarland, who wants to see what this blogging thing is all about and maybe hone some writing skills. Maybe, with your critical help, I may even become a Maestro blogger. Right now I just want to get one post up!

Oh, you probably want to know why I have a website called "TheCarpetBag.com." A lot of people have asked me why I named my website after a piece of luggage known for being carried by unsavory people in the 19th century (see "carpetbaggers"). I had several reasons, one of the most basic being that www.thecarpetbag.com was more interesting and memorable than www.jasonmcfarland.com.

But I had another reason. Carpetbags were not just used by manipulative itinerant salesmen. All kinds of people who explored the roads of the United States carried carpetbags. And sometimes all of a person's worldly possessions might have been held in a single piece of luggage. That's not far from how I'm living at the moment, except I'm not just exploring the United States—the road I explore follows the curve of the world.

I can already hear what some of my friends here in Ireland will say when they read that: "Jason, I didn't know you were so full of crap!"

Anyway, if you've taken a look at the welcome page of my website, then you've already seen that I have unashamedly plagiarized some of my own words. Welcome to my life!