The $523.00 meal

It was pretty salty to be honest with you. A month ago I would not have noticed, but know I can really tell, since I have been cutting out almost all salt from my diet. The doctor threatened me with death if I did not get my blood pressure under control, but that is a different story altogether.

So as I was saying the tiny bit of meat with three slices of mushrooms on it, surrounded by gravy on one side and pureed potatoes on the other side, was a really expensive and salty meal. Although I must admit they were serving free wine along with it, to enhance what little nutritional value that might be found somewhere deep in this dish.

The reason I call this the $500+ meal, is that I had to buy this ticket a second time. And it cost four times as much the second time as it did the first time. Competition would be nice. Then these airlines in the hairy armpit places of the world would not have monopolies and be able to charge whatever they want for a given ticket, because more venders would create more options and more options would create an environment where one company would charge less or give more options for the money. Competition always results in lower prices eventually. They don't really know what that is here in Ukraine.

So as I was saying I had already bought this ticket once and now I had to buy again. And I mean HAD to. There is no other way back home. So when you are stuck somewhere because of visa problems, and the only option left to you is to go back the way you came, and there is only one flight going that way, well that places you at the complete and utter ruthlessness of the one selling the ticket. The way I look at it, I basically paid $524 for a very poorly made meal.

Shame on me

This is being written in a rather bad way. I feel terrible because I have been bad-mouthing British Airways and Raptim travel all day . . . and now I find myself sitting in a business class seat -backwards. Yes I said backwards. The reason this is so, and that I am uncomfortably close the man facing the proper direction is that these seats fully recline and the way that they accomplish this is by facing one seat forward and the other one toward the rear.

Worse yet, this is actually my wife's seat. She gave it up for me, because she can't bear the thought of being in business class with all these high-fluting souls who can actually afford these seats. Brenda had what is known as a "forced upgrade" whatever that means. How do you "force" an upgrade? Anyhoo it was totally weird taking facing the rear of the aircraft, but I am glad that I am being forced to do so.

Being able to cross my legs and eventually lay down is such a huge relief. The lack of possible positions in standard coach seats is one of the reasons that long distant travel is so tiring and exhausting. But I feel a little ashamed for talking bad about all these companies and then having such a gift bestowed on me. The moral of this story, don't complain, because you never know what good thing is coming.

Jots of the moment

This is a journal of the moment. At this moment I am sitting in an Indian outdoor cafe on the island of Penang in Malaysia. If that sounds weird to you then you need to understand that 50% of the 800000 people that live on this island are Chinese, 40% are Malay and 10% are Indian. So the Indian food is quite authentic and tasty. I would have enjoyed this meal more, except for the waiter who was fascinated with my iPad and was a serious Apple fanboy, and wanted to talk Mac OS throughout my meal. All I wanted was some peace and quiet and a good meal. The meal I got, the quiet I did not. Sometimes being an early adopter of technology is rather hazardous. But the tandoori chicken was still excellent.

I got to see a disappointingly small amount of Malaysia and the island of Penang. One has to work it seems, and after coming so far, it would had been a pity to have not garnered everything possible from the conference. Yet, it would hzve been more relaxing to have toured a bit.

Two very very short days after my return to Macedonia from Malaysia, I find myself on another flight bound for London. I have no idea what time zone my bod is in, but my watch seems to be swinging wildly from one time zone to the next. In London more of the same sit down and type as fast as I can mode, gaining the material as cogently as possible for digestion at a later date. I hope the food is better than I have been told, and that the beer is as good as promised.

After Paradise where can one go?

For the seventh time in my life, I went to Paradise. Not the Muslim one nor even the Christian one, but rather Paradise, California. Now having lived in four countries and having visited some 30 plus other countries, I think that I can safely said that Paradise is, um, Paradise. All cliché’s aside, Paradise California is a lovely place. It’s always hard to go somewhere well after having been in Paradise for any length of time.

Yet what makes Paradise a paradise is not merely the location nor the vistas nor the mountians nor the lakes nor the rivers nor the wildlife nor the peacefulness of a small wonderful town. It’s the people of Paradise that make Paradise a paradise.

And as I think about the last week of my life in Paradise and all that happened there and all the connections made there and all the incredible people I was blessed to meet, I came to realize that there is a great spiritual lesson here for the church and for the Church. That heaven or the church and eventually the Church will be a heaven or hell or paradise because of the character and integrity of the people that populate it . . . or not. What an indictment to our modern evangelical movement, and what a challenge. After all, once you have been to paradise, you rarely want to go somewhere else.

A culture of self-destruction

There are many many things about American Culture that are fascinating, but this one may take the cake (or kill the constituents) more so than all others. Take the cake in the sense that it is so much more widespread here in North America than elsewhere, or kill the constituents in the sense that this culture of self-destruction is amazingly accomplished or at the very least leads to much of the crime that this country is facing; either way destruction follows closely.

I was having a lovely conversation with my youngest daughter who is one very tough yet compassionate chick (she plays hockey on the varsity BOYS team!). She wants to help everyone she meets. Yet she confessed to me in our lovely conversation this morning (between traveling trips for me, making it all the more important and lovely) that there is not much you can do to help people bent on destruction. People determined to have the most irresponsible sex you can imagine, determined to try every illegal drug available, determined to get high at every opportunity, determined to diminish all morals, determined - we agreed - to self destruct. There is not much you can do to help those bent on self-destruction.

As Sam Levenson’s father told him when he was about five years old, “son, if you ever need a helping hand, there is always one at the end of your arm.” A lesson few seem to know or understand in the modern world and one that I tried to teach my daughter today. Only those who are willing to take some responsibility for their pursuit of self-destruction are potential candidates for help. You can’t help those who aren’t interested in being helped . . . the entire horse and water story in a nutshell. Nor can you change those who are convinced that irresponsibility is the rite of adulthood, as are the vast majority of the high school students in my daughter’s school. Perhaps all high schools?

As I said in my opening volley, these seem to be particularly North American traits, “due to the fall of the traditional family“ as I was told in church this past week. But these matters are not the centerpiece of youth culture in other countries who haven’t had a ”traditional“ family structure for decades. so can we really blame the fall of the traditional for a current culture of self-destruction? I think not. Moreover I think there is a tie-in here to the piercing, tatooing, and now cutting trends seen in the youth cultures of North America. While there are many people out there far more qualified than I to assess these trends, as a father of three teenagers, I think that my understanding carries some small weight and I think these trends come from a society bent of the pursuit of self-expression at the cost of logic and reason. ”We aren’t in the age of logic and reason any longer“ some would quickly say, and for once we would agree. But nevertheless, without a voice of reason in a world of self indulgence, one rarely finds a higher reason for living. Lost is the chance to live ofr others, God, eternity or family. What other possible conclusion can they find then in this world, except out of leisure, wealth and boredom they destroy themselves? A culture of self-destruction indeed.

Tick Tock Tick Tock

The clocks are ticking. Especially here, at my parents house, in the deep country, where the ticking of the clocks are the loudest thing going. I am not talking only about those noisy (relatively) things with pointers that endlessly go round and round either.

Today is my parents 50th Anniversary. That clock has been ticking a long long time, even longer than me! :-) It is a huge milestone that few reach. According to Divorce Magazine.com only 5% of all marriages reach the 50 year mark . . . or another way of viewing that statistic is that 95% of all marriages do not last 50 years. Kudos to my parents, number one for raising me - a most cantankerous child, number two for staying together when it would have been so easy to go their own individual paths. I am humbled and amazed that my folks are so special.

But this morning at 3:18am when I woke up and could not fall back to sleep, I realized that their clock is ticking. Health issues are eroding their quality of life. That clock has now become an enemy of sorts. While they have beaten it by staying together 50 years, it will still win in the end, and it appears much sooner than later.

I also realized that my clock is ticking as well in the quiet of the sleepless night. 47 years old is such a big number . . . to my 16 year old especially, not so big to my parents, and a childishly small number to my grandparents who are almost 90 years old and still pushing cows around with their walking canes. But everything works a little slower than I think it should, heals slower, comes to mind slower, decisions are slower, even my definition of fast is slower. Yes the clock is ticking.

I guess than means it is a good day to make it count. Tick Tock Tick Tock go the loud clocks out in the country . . . make 'em count.

Mileage

Mileage. We all have more of it on us that we would like to admit. But I like old things. Heck, I am an old thing! Everything I own is old, except for my technology:-). My little old house that I bought sight-unseen some 6 years again has some serious mileage on it. It was built in 1895 with square nails, not round ones! My clothes tend to be old too, although not made in 1895! My mother (I am visiting my parents at the moment) grabbed my clothes this morning and dumped them in with her clothes in the washer, while I was yelling, "don't dry my jeans on high heat!" She listened to me thank God, but commented when I returned home, that my jeans are the oldest piece of clothing that she has seen in the last 40 years. The reason that I don't dry them on high heat is because high heat makes all the patches peal off. (Don't feel sorry for me, I could buy new jeans if I wanted :-))
























My oooolllldddd jeep wrangler was reaching some milestones this afternoon on the way back from Carnesville, Georgia (a city that you have never heard of) after trying to do some banking. These mileage photos throughout this post, have been from my old worn out Wrangler which hit a huge milestone, as I pulled off the road into someone's driveway and took this amazing photo this afternoon. Well the photo sucks, but the numbers are impressive.
























Two Hundred Twenty-Two Thousand, Two Hundred Twenty-Two point Two miles. Thats alot of mileage. Not the most that I have ever had on a car that I drove daily (my Toyota Van had 365,000 miles on it and ran like a top. I hated to leave that van in America when we went back overseas), but definitely the most unique number I ever turned over in a car that I drove daily. But what that big number means is that my jeep has lots of character, lots of memories, lots of things that could be fixed, but a keen sense of dependability - that it will get me where I intend to go. I like it and wouldn't trade it for a new one.

My point in this post, is that most folks have a mileage one them, and milestones behind them. Hopefully we all have more mileage and milestones ahead. My personal milestone of the moment is a job change. This month, December, 2008, is my last month in the employment of the CMA. I have worked with no other organization since August, 1986. Twenty-Two years and four months. I have logged far far far more tham 222,222.2 miles in those years. We have led churches in two states domestically, and planted three churches in two different countries in three different languages abroad. But now it is time to move on to a larger vision and hopefully more milestones. I'll be sure to send you more pictures along the way.

BBQ GA style

There are many cultural ways to eat, not to mention a million different cultural foods. In Russia the thing was peroshkies, and in Macedonia it is Ajvar or Lutenitsa. The South is no exception, neither in culinary arrogance nor in specialties. One of the local favorite haunts is Zebs.




You would not be impressed with the decor. It is the utmost in utilitarianism. It is a celebration in Southern simplicity. A worship service of minimalism - the Brinks would love it. It is the ultimate no frills no chills design.



But the food is divine, in a good ole boy, country boy sorta way. It is plain eating done well. Tender, spicy and filling (the three main roles of food in this part of the world) and frankly it is a one of a kind experience to go and have BBQ at Zebs. You have to have an adventuresome spirit to embrace the experience :-)

Here is a photo of my meal . . .
























That is BBQ pork, or "pulled pork" as they would say up in PA where I live at the moment, cole slaw, and Brunswick stew (a Southeastern delicacy, which is a thick vegetable-meat stew). While I will admit it is not much to look at, the taste is top-notch, kinda like most American's who look at Macedonian Avjar think it looks awful, but once sampled, never find anything quite as satisfying.

So on this trip to see my folks, my dad treated us today to this great local piece of culture and cuisine. I am still savoring the experience. Jesus is the same though; He is an unrepeatable flavor, an irreplaceable taste, and unforgettable experience and contextualized piece of heaven to the senses. As He well should be. Jesus is uuuummmmmm.

The roads of freedom

America the beautiful. And tis true as I can testify to with authority after completing a 6800 mile trip to the West Coast from the East Coast and back again. America is indeed beautiful. But for someone like me who has lived much of the last 14 years in post-socialist nirvana, better known as Russia and the Balkans, beauty, while breathtaking, was not the most profound discovery of my transcontinental motorcycle trip. Freedom was.

Freedom to travel so far, unmolested, without documents, without police interference, with no border guards, with no customs officers, with the freedom to stop wherever I wanted whenever I wanted and pretty much do whatever I wanted . . . was . . . amazing.

Few people in the wide wide world experience such freedom of travel, thought and action. While American citizens who never leave their zip codes probably would not notice, nor appreciate this phenomena nearly as much as I did, they should. Freedom should never be taken lightly.

There are other freedoms I pondered while on my motorcycle for days and days . . . the heaviest of these is the end of my professional holy man days. I am more and more convinced that our evangelical system of church is less and less biblical. Professional Christians, known as clergy in many circles, are those people who stand in for God. We serve His sacraments, we lead His hymns and songs, we pray His prayers, we teach His book . . . we also take much of His abuse and almost all of His adulation.

Professional Christians maintain the system that makes weekly gatherings mandatory for those who wish to be in good standing with Him. We professional Christians also dictate that you, the Christian professionals, must give your money to this system, that you must volunteer your time to this system, that you must serve on committees that preserve this system, that we must do everything possible to maintain and perpetuate this system . . . and on and I could go, but won’t.

There just seems to be little left of the two great commandments of Scripture, in the system (we all this church). There is little human, caring, loving texture left in the system. I think God wants to set us free. Free to be human, free from rules of the system (think modern contemporary pharisees here) free to love and care for humans in human ways. I may still work in the system occasionally and I may still perform some of actions of clergy. But inside the garden of my heart, and in the manner I earn my living, my professional holy man days are numbered. As my friend Mark said to me not too long ago, I can be a Christian professional, but I can’t be a profession Christian any longer.

Deserts and Mountains

There is so much varied terrain in the USA. Today I drove through a 170 miles of Nevada desert and also crossed the first range of the Sierra Nevada mountains. What a day of contrasts. The flabbergasting hues and colors of the desert are amazing. And how anything can grow out of nothing is even more amazing. But it was so hot that I was riding in a short sleeve shirt on October 1, 2008. I don't often ride in a short sleeve shirt, because my riding jacket is also one of my best lines of safety defense. That ballistic material could be a life-saver if I lay the motorcycle down. I ride without my jacket very reluctantly on the highway at high speeds. But when it is 100 degrees in the desert, you ride without the jacket.

But as I crossed the 6000 foot elevation marker, I had to stop and get the jacket out . . . the change in temp was phenomenal. And as I reached nearly 8000 feet elevation, it got downright cold! Brrr!

Then there was that running out of gas problem. There are such large distances between gas stations, that I came into Big Pines, California today on nothing but gas fumes! Add to that that no one should every try to cross the Sierra Nevada's after the sun sets, and you have the recipe for a tough and difficult ride today.

But what a study in contrasts. I am having so much fun that I feel guilty.

2250 miles so far

I am currently on the road, traveling from the East Coast to the West Coast. Working along the way to pay my way, speaking at churches and small groups and meeting some great people. I have always wanted to make this trip and so far I have traveled 2250 miles west on my motorcycle (which is affectionately named Therapy).

It has been a very interesting 2250 miles so far and I still have quite a ways to go yet. The most fascinating thing is how big and beautiful this country is . . . especially the big part. The people are interesting. I am amazed at the creative people I am meeting and how they are reaching out to their communities. I have also met with key leaders from my current parent organization, including the president. I have also met tons of regular church folks who are seeking to live out their faith. And I have met lots of pagans who have no faith.

But the 44 hours that I have spent on the motorcycle thus far on this trip has been the most beneficial. These 44 hours are great thinking times and great working-it-out times. You can solve about half the world’s problem with 44 hours of thinking time. Now if only people would listen :-)

The best part of this process is the de-structuring that is forced upon you. It de-structures the life that schedule-obsessed North America obliges one to live. There is nothing to do but continue down the road . . . and that is refreshingly freeing.

In the girls room

There are times when a person can be too tired for doing things right. I am currently riding my motorcycle across the USA, speaking in churches, riding my motorcycle across the USA, meeting cool people, riding my motorcycle across the USA . . . you get the picture. Well this afternoon in Missouri of all places, I made a stop at a rest area on I-70. I needed to go.

Well I was going to the right and saw that the right side of the building was the girl's room. So I went to the left side of the building and went into the bathroom. Choose a stall and went inside. I noticed that this was one of the nicest State Restroom's I had ever been in. No cigarette damage, no graffiti, no missing parts to the doors . . . you know what I am talking about if you are a guy.

I started to get the idea that something was amiss, when someone came into the stall next to mine . . . someone with very dainty shoes on . . . and then again it happened . . . and it suddenly occurred to me that somehow, someway, I was in the ladies room!!

I carefully waited until I was reasonably sure that the place was empty and I made my escape!! Just glad I did not get arrested :-) I then discovered that the Women's room was on the entire front of the building, the men's on the back!!!

There has to be a lesson in this somewhere, be it escapes me. All I can say is that the girl's rooms are much nicer than the guys rooms.

I've Shrunk!!

No this is not sci-fi pseudo science. This is not an attempt to not be tall. This is also terrible for the BMI scores and all that jazz ... puts me back in the obese category (is anyone normal according to Mr. BMI??) Perhaps it is too many air-miles logged, and all that pressure inside airplanes at 35,000 feet. Perhaps it is too many bone-crunching accelerations in my lifetime, motorcycles, skis, snowboards, race cars, etc. Perhaps it is too much diving and the atmospheric pressures that come with that, I don’t know. But long story short, I have shrunk an inch and a half!

If only my waistline kept up with my height loss, things would feel better, but in America, they eat big time, and I am struggling with that side of things more than enough. Plus we eat so often in this country! Yikes . . . the pillsbury doughboy returns :-(

So I wonder if this means I will be one of those tiny little old people (when I get old I mean)? Naw, there is no chance of that happen. Short does not equal small, much less tiny. Maybe this is God’s judgment on me for calling my niece and executive assistant “shorty” for the last year? Actually I think this whole getting shorter thing is about the Dr.’s measurement tool, I couldn’t really be getting shorter, can I?

Compression

Compression is what I am experiencing right now. I find myself sitting in this hard chair, staring at this computer, attempting to figure out how to express four years worth of literal blood, sweat and tears . . . in 25 minutes. That is what most churches are giving me . . . to tell the tale.

To tell the tale of Ahmad, Sasho, Sime, Dragi, Mirche, Vanessa, Linda, Jagoda, Bilijana, Nada, Linche, Boyjan, Dan, Rodger, Tim, Jonathan, Leonie, Gerco, Ray, Michael, Leyla, Dragan, Sasha, Bledar, Angie, Olie, Simon, Alexsandra, Marko, Dejan, Memo, Rachel, Caroline, Sarah, Mite, Tony, Venco, Katarina, and on and on and on I can go . . . literally.

Don’t get me wrong, the 25 minutes is generous, especially since most folks have about 5 minutes capacity for such telling of tales. And I find this to be true even though I am generally considered to be an excellent teller of tales.

But this level of compression even Jesus could not do. So obviously this format of telling will not work a fair hearing. The stories are worthy of being told, of being heard, because they have the power to encourage, challenge, wow, hurt, build and change us all.

So should I write them all? Compose a poem for each one? Perhaps make a movie? A skit? The real problem is that most of us are only interested in histories and stories that are immediate to us. The wider work of God in the world bores most people that I meet. Perhaps I should get out more some of you are thinking. And that may be so, yet who among you are free/interested/open to/willing to/hot to/wanting to spend a few days talking about what is happening in the lives of people 5000 miles away? If you are, then you belong to a small and select group of folks.

I confess this compression moment depresses me, because I too am guilty of a reduced attention-span for the life stories of those not very near by me. Maybe instead of compression, I should be concerned about my lack of compassion and overpowering selfishness.

Childhood memories

There are few things more jumbled than childhood memories. Everyone has experienced going away from their parental home at some point, and then coming home to the feeling that everything had gotten smaller while gone. Its not that I have gotten larger (although that may be true too), but that our childhood worlds have grown small. Our childhood worlds are very small, inclusive, introverted, inwardly focused, not much beyond 5-7 relationships.

Adult world is much larger (and more frightening) and the scope is terrifying. Adult life is huge! But that is not the point nor subject of this particular post.

Childhood and youth memories are funny. As I have been riding about the roads and venues of my childhood these past days, the memories are all out of perspective. Those painful ones are not so hurtful anymore . . . and those wonderful ones seem to have lost their richness and pleasures. On the other hand, when I review those hurtful one and/or great ones, I can see the tapestry of who I am . . . and I then question who I have become, because of that perspective skew.

I think of what I may have become if I had made this choice, or that choice, or took that option, or travel that road instead of this highway? I think of those things I ran away from by going to Russia, and then wonder if I have lost too much by making that run? Or did I gain? Or did it matter? Did it really matter? Honestly?

There may not be an answer to my questions. Perhaps all any of us can do is enjoy today for what joys and pains that come our way. Perhaps 80% of life is attitude and not circumstances. Perhaps the best things are now, not the past nor the future. Perhaps we should just enjoy today, this moment, now. Childhood memories are too small for today.

Childhood memories

There are few things more jumbled than childhood memories. Everyone has experienced going away from their parental home at some point, and then coming home to the feeling that everything had gotten smaller while gone. Its not that I have gotten larger (although that may be true too), but that our childhood worlds have grown small. Our childhood worlds are very small, inclusive, introverted, inwardly focused, not much beyond 5-7 relationships.

Adult world is much larger (and more frightening) and the scope is terrifying. Adult life is huge! But that is not the point nor subject of this particular post.

Childhood and youth memories are funny. As I have been riding about the roads and venues of my childhood these past days, the memories are all out of perspective. Those painful ones are not so hurtful anymore . . . and those wonderful ones seem to have lost their richness and pleasures. On the other hand, when I review those hurtful one and/or great ones, I can see the tapestry of who I am . . . and I then question who I have become, because of that perspective skew.

I think of what I may have become if I had made this choice, or that choice, or took that option, or travel that road instead of this highway? I think of those things I ran away from by going to Russia, and then wonder if I have lost too much by making that run? Or did I gain? Or did it matter? Did it really matter? Honestly?

There may not be an answer to my questions. Perhaps all any of us can do is enjoy today for what joys and pains that come our way. Perhaps 80% of life is attitude and not circumstances. Perhaps the best things are now, not the past nor the future. Perhaps we should just enjoy today, this moment, now. Childhood memories are too small for today.

Swirling mists

It was kinda like being in a spooky sci-fi flick. My friend said that it was a sign from God. It was strange at the very least. On my very last bike ride up the mountain of this four year term, Vodno was capped by a heavy cloud cover . . . and I mean capped, as in the sky had a solid ceiling of gray clouds. Nothing peeking through that mass at all.

So as I was approaching the end of my ride up, about 75% of the way up the mountain, I actually entered the cloud cap. It was spooky to see ghost-like hunks of mist enveloping me and seemingly moving through me. I have flown in planes hundreds of times through the clouds. I have been in pea-soup thick fog that was bulletproof. I have climbed and skied in and above the clouds a number of times. But I have never been in such a swirling mist that seemed so . . . alive and living.

The weight of the air was so heavy that breathing was as solid as eating or drinking. It was like I needed gills rather lungs. It also was like I was in a room alone with God. God was in the swirling mists . . . and it was refreshing.

$7.33 gas and currency robberies

There is much to like and love about Western Europe. Gas prices aren’t one of them. This morning I filled up the rental car at a Shell station to the tune of $7.33 a gallon for the very cheapest unleaded gasoline. That sticker shock is bad enough but following our $61.32 splurge at the ice cream shop last night, the gas was anti-climatic. I could go on and on for pages about how expensive Europe is compared to North America, but I won’t. The bottom line of what these numbers mean above is the devaluation of the US dollar. You don’t want to know what attending my son’s graduation in Germany actually costs. Of course he was worth every euro :-) Yet it was an obscene amount of money in the end.

This blurb is being written at 34,000 feet in the air in a tin sardine-can commonly called an airplane. We are about half way across the Atlantic ocean and as Aderholdt traveling adventures go, this one has been terrifyingly amazingly flawless. Up at 5:30 this morning to shower and shave, final packing in the room, re-packing of the car, breakfast with Frau Shulberger, getting Jake, then picking up Helen, driving to Zurich, stopping at the Petrol station to top off that embarrassingly expensive gas, missing the rental car return - with Jake finally figuring out how to actually do it, getting all our car bags to the check-in, Jake and I then going to get the remaining bags that Brenda and I had left in storage when we came through Zurich on Wednesday evening, then checking in at United, paying the $193.00 for having one too many bags, breakfast at Burger King (Jake’s choice!) which cost an astounding $43 for burgers and fries and ketchup, meandering to our gate, going through security where Jake was flagged and searched because of the breathtaking number of electronic gadgets in his backpack, boarding the plane with me pushing in front as much as possible in order to find a relatively safe place for the guitar to make our trans-continental journey, to this moment where I am logging my thoughts onto my computer. Believe it or not, the plane is actually supposed to arrive an hour early in Washington! As I said . . . terrifyingly amazingly flawless.

Frankly it is a fitting end to a long and productive term. Four years of our lives poured out into the soils of Macedonia, Germany and the USA. Five Aderholdts working, stretching, changing, and getting it done. Heidi graduates with honors from High School and goes off to college, where she works two jobs, and continues to make the Dean’s list semester after semester. Jake has a great four years of high school where the boy became a man. Everyone looks up to Jake, and not just because he is 6 feet tall either. He is a voice of reason and wisdom everywhere he goes and he enables others along the way so that they shine. Helen traversed the pain of Middle School, two different dorms as well as a year with mom and dad, completing an amazing run at her first year of high school under the most challenging circumstances. Brenda has trained more women leaders in Macedonia than any other women in recent history. Churches will never be the same, women have evolved into powerful sisters dispensing God’s grace and mercy in their cities, and lives have been forever changed. Not to mention years of teaching English in multiple cities and settings and making a way for people to read God’s Word for the first time in their lives (and I could go on and on). David finished his doctorate, began teaching in regional seminaries immediately, and along the way planted the International Church of Skopje. And these are just the highlights of all that happened. There were disasters along the way too . . . I think I may save those for another day . . . today is for marking the progress we each made these long four years.

Interestingly enough, this day marks the first time in four years that the five of us will actually all be living together once again. We are all eager for that closeness again. Too, you would think that after a slam-dunk term of work behind us, that life would be stable and predictable. Nothing could possibly be further from the truth. We have never faced more ambiguity about our future than we do today. Perhaps in a couple of weeks I will be free to share more about that . . . perhaps not. The point of today’s blog is that life is amazingly expensive, in terms of what it costs and demands from us. If we knew the final tally ahead of time, few would willingly pay it I think. But I think the real question here is this, is it worth what it costs?

Six strings loose

After two flights, tons of waiting in airports, renting cars, storing luggage in Left Luggage departments, missing exits, finding the Gastehaus, getting our room, collapsing into bed and finally sleeping like the permanently dead, our day of travel to Germany came to an end. Compared to my usual travel horrors, this one was a charm (because I had lovely wife with me for sure) but still exhausting.

One of the main reason it was so exhausting is that I am lugging around my amazing guitar. Now guitars are not airplane friendly. Heck, they are not even travel friendly! Guitars want to be lovely held and cherished and be stroked and strummed into sweet oblivion. They are not kind nor thoughtful passengers while traveling. They are more like demanding fragile brats.

So this morning after a nice Germany breakfast, I returned to our room and as usual have the compulsion to reach for the guitar and hear a few measures of beautiful music. This morning no such thing happened of course because I had six loose strings. I loosened the strings prior to flying so that neither they nor the wood instrument itself undergoes undue stress.

So I tuned for a half hour or so, until all the strings were once again vibrating under the appropriate tension and the harmony produced was satisfying to the ear. Then Brenda and I sang together for a half hour. But tuning those strings back to proper tension got me to thinking . . . dangerous I know.

I said yesterday, we are at the place of new starts. New tasks, new place to live, new people to meet, new (different) cars to drive, new roads to explore . . . and perhaps new jobs, new futures, and new everythings. I am sure we will make mistakes and have to do it over and try again and again. There will be times when have to stop in the middle of what we are singing (doing) and adjust another string to find harmony once again. Getting it just right is sufficiently challenging to a person like me with an average ear for music, and that means lots of effort to compensate for my deficiencies. This coming year has many many parallels.

I have a feeling it is going to be much like tuning six loose strings . . . .

A New Start

New starts are hard. At my age and with my temperament new starts seem terribly threatening. But life with the living requires new starts. Even if you go kicking and screaming.

Today one of my very best friends encouraged me to start blogging again. And she said it in such a way that it made sense and gave me hope that more good than harm could come from it, so here we go . . ..

In an hour I will walk outside, get in my car for the last time, pick up my ever-social wife in the center, turn the car toward the airport, check-in my tons of luggage, and fly away from our third term overseas.

New starts are almost always tied to new endings. This end is one of those that cycle around every four years for us and is almost unbearably painful and difficult. How do you put into words the sum total of your relationships? The internet is far too small a medium to handle the immensity and weight of such significance.

Of course the new start has its ups as well. Re-unitied with all our children, son’s graduation from High School, living all together for the first time in five years, fishing in pristine waters with another best friend, motorcycles, some rest and restoration of my soul.

But today is about pain. The pain of separation, of not knowing if/when we will see one another again, who ever will be that honest and truthful with me in caring concern?, an end to the richest and most comfortable being that I have experienced in decades, not being judged for who I am, . . . good friends are in short supply and high demand, and are the richest currency of life.

Heaven simply may be the contentment of having all these friends in the same place and never having separations ever again. New starts and new endings are hard (I can think of several choice choice words in a number of languages more descriptive than hard, but I will let this one stand today).

You know, my friend was right as usual . . . I needed to start blogging again, and not allow the naysayers and whiners in this sometimes miserable world, win yet again.