Even if

Say what you need to say...

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
Its better to say too much
Then never say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking --
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open.

(John Mayer)

Jeans or Khakis?

After finishing a pesky application that has loomed overhead for a few weeks now, I could dedicate the entire day to packing for school. The grey skies and intermittent rain threatened to plunge me into lethargy, but luckily Jens Lekman and tea-filled mugs kept me energized and focused :)

The calendar says it's August. This can only mean one thing: the dining room has transformed from peaceful to frenzied. Books, bags of clothing, and boxes clutter a far corner near the windows. It's taken me four years to perfect the art of packing light for the semester; we'll see if I've succeeded when I load the car in a few minutes.

While finishing the last of my packing, I realized I hadn't remembered pants (now that I think of it, Williamsburg is pretty balmy until mid-October... do I really need to bring them?). I set off upstairs to find some.

Jeans or khakis? I mused.

But then it hit me: I have a choice. I can choose either to bring jeans - or khakis. Or both! Or neither!

This skirt, or that one.

Flats, or sneakers.

Thousands of other twenty-two-year-old girls don't have these choices: they wear the same outfit everyday, the same one they were given two months ago from the truck carrying charity donations. Still other girls have vastly different (and much more difficult) choices:

Should I give up on this pregnancy, or should I give up my baby for adoption?

Should I stay in college, or should I drop out and take care of my father?

Does my sick baby get fed dinner tonight, or do I eat dinner tonight?

Do I escape this abusive relationship, or do I stay with what seems like the only man who shows me the attention I crave?

Do I stay in my village with my family and risk being bombed, or do I run across the border to safety and freedom?

I am a college senior at a top university. I have two loving parents who encourage me to follow my dreams. I have an older sister who cares for me. I can vote. I can drive. I can read. I can show my face in public. I can practice my faith without shame or fear of persecution. I can voice my opinions, even if they aren't shared by the majority. I can walk. I can laugh. I can love...

I am thankful. :)

"Life is a gift, and it offers us the privilege, opportunity, and responsibility to give something back by becoming more."

(quote by Anthony Robbins)

!!

It's my last week in town before heading back to school.

Mum baked a pumpkin pie. Currently cooling on the kitchen counter, that pie sparkles and shines like a finely-cut diamond.

Mmm, it's going to be a very good day. :)

Spreekt u Engels?

Hallo, ik ben tweeentwintig jaar. Ik ben een meisje. Ik woon in Amerika met mijn moeder en vader. Vandaag, ik heb at de brood en de goede koekjes met mijn opa en oma. Ik houd van mijn vriends en mijn school in Williamsburg, waar ik bestudeer politiek en het Frans.

Tot ziens & groetjes.

From across the room...

Late last night, long after the dinner dishes had been washed and put away, my grandma prepared some peppermint tea and shared the story of how she met grandpa. My grandparents just celebrated 64 years together last month.

After the war, my grandpa returned to Rotterdam after being a prisoner of war in Germany. He was 21. My grandma, too, lived in Rotterdam at the time - although they didn't know each other yet. Both of them attended the local young men's and women's Christian clubs in Holland: de Christelijke Jonge Mannen Vereniging (CJMV) and de Christelijke Jonge Vrouwen Vereniging (CJVV). These two groups were the Dutch equivalents of today's YMCA.

One day, the CJMV and the CJVV decided to meet at one of many Dutch "victory festivals" in the wake of WWII. My grandma stumbled upon two friends of hers who happened to be dating at the time. While making small talk, she glanced around at the bubbling crowd around her.

"All of a sudden, from across the room, I saw your grandpa. And I knew right then and there, I had to meet him!" my grandma recalled with twinkling eyes.

She said he was impeccably dressed in nice slacks, a crisp, white shirt, and a tie. "The other guys at the festival weren't wearing such a nice suit... he had come from work, of course."

Being the bold lady she was (and still is!), grandma confidently requested that her friend introduce her to my grandpa (the two guys were in CJMV together). Soon after, the four of them began to take afternoon walks up and down the main streets in Rotterdam - the Coolsingel and Hoogstraat. After the war, there weren't any theatres, cafés, or large places to gather with friends: they had all been damaged when the city was bombed. To pass the time in good company, one spent the day strolling the streets.

One time, the dating couple broke off from Lena and Johann (my grandparents) and my grandma and grandpa walked along just the two of them.

"We just talked...about anything, and everything. Every now and then, we'd run into people we knew and we would stop and talk together."

My grandma didn't want to get too close to grandpa because she had trained her heart not to do so. My grandma was born with only one hand. At the time, "being different" like that wasn't widely accepted. Some boys thought that her condition was hereditary and didn't even want to associate with her (how appalling). Grandma waited for assurance that grandpa accepted her exactly as she was before she let her heart love him as more than a friend.

When I asked grandpa about grandma's first sighting of him at the festival, he responded, "I was just standing there, minding my own business..."

Half-joking (or maybe completely serious?), grandma attributed the entire success of their meeting and marriage to her keen eyesight. "It's only by luck that we ended up together. Good thing I spotted him all the way over there!"

Hilarious.

I was a little hesitant to jump out of bed this morning. Yesterday evening, grandma said she had a little task for me the next day: wash the bathroom floors. I'm pretty sure my grandma hasn't washed the floors in her bathroom in quite some time - perhaps six months or more. She mentioned that the floor tiles around the toilet were especially in need of scrubbing. I adore helping my grandparents around the house, but I confess I was a little uneasy about the chore to which I was assigned...

After breakfast, I slipped on an old t-shirt and shorts and got to work.

As I mingled near the toilet and crouched on chilly, hard tiles, my perspective shifted. Dirt particles, dead bugs, and dust that had accumulated for many months surrounded me. The scent of mildew and toilet water pricked my nose. Moving nimbly on hands and knees, I worked quickly to sweep and spread soapy suds to the farthest corners of the bathroom.

How many layers of dirt was I removing?

I thought of Jesus.

One evening, he surprised friends and onlookers when he removed his robe, stooped on the floor, and washed the feet of his disciples (John 13).

Back in those days, you wore sandals everywhere. One's toes were constantly exposed to dirt and sand. If you couldn't bathe often, I bet your feet became crusty and dusty and probably quite smelly, too... Kind of like the dirty floor tiles I was crawling on this morning.

But Jesus didn't worry about how dirty these feet must've been. He didn't hesitate once. Instead, he demonstrated ultimate humility and self-lessness by taking those feet in his hands and wiping away weeks worth of filth.

Jesus' disciples sat amazed and humbled as their Lord became lowly.

...What a Savior :)

Lord, thanks for this beautiful week with my grandparents. Thank you for the example of Jesus for treating others with love and humility.

xxox

Running low on cookies? Code Red Emergency.

This morning, grandma and I ran off to "stomping class," a title she affectionately gives her daily exercise class at the community lodge (haha). The exercises seem to be a blend of line dancing and hopping around to tunes from the 1950's and 60's. All the ladies sing along while skipping around the room.

Back at the house, I finished writing letters to incoming freshman at William & Mary. In the letters, I invite them to check out Reformed University Fellowship (RUF) on campus, a Christian student club at The College. Grandpa wanted to know a little more about the group and inquired about the church with which RUF is affiliated (Presbyterian). In Holland, he said, Dutch Protestantism consists of two branches: "Christian Reformed" and "Reformed" (Nederlandse [Dutch] Hervormde [Reformed] Kerk [Church]). He wondered aloud if there was any connection.

Before lunch, we drove to the Farmer's Market down the road. It is managed by an extensive group of Amish families in Pennsylvania. My grandparents made a beeline for the bread and cookie aisles. Grandma confessed, "It's almost the week-end and we're running out of cookies. If we don't buy cookies today, we'll run into a dire situation." I believe it. We left grocery store with two packages of cookies. I thought we were done, but how wrong I was! Instead of driving home, we sped off to the grocery store across the street. No joke: they bought EIGHT more packages of cookies plus an apple pie. Eight? Goodness gracious. While filing the groceries into the fridge and pantry back home, grandpa showed me the bread box that sits inside. "This storage box filled with cookies is for rainy days," he asserted, half-joking.

My grandparents relish cookies like treasured gems. It must be a Dutch thing. You must understand - for them, buying cookies is like test-driving a car or trying out a new brand of toothpaste; it's a thrilling endeavor. Perhaps a reminder that the small, often overlooked elements of life are what make it special?

During lunch, we watched The Charlie Rose Show. A British author was interviewed about his new novel about the "sexual revolution" in the 1970s. Charlie Rose kept pressing him to elaborate on what it is like to craft a novel all about sex. I found myself blushing and focusing intently on the contents of my soup and sandwich. Meanwhile, grandpa chuckled loudly. Grandma, in accordance with her free spirit and curiosity, followed the program with interest.

Grandma has always been a very relaxed and liberal-minded person (I have no objections). This usually translates into her being very bold as far as "personal space bubbles" go. Last night, I told grandma that I a bug bite on my lower back. This morning, instead of asking me how it felt, grandma came up to me from behind and lifted up my shirt! HA. She is a feisty one, and I confess I inherited a large portion of her silliness. I love her to pieces.

We just returned from the community pool. There, grandma and I swam a few laps and chatted with the other sun-bathers. To my surprise, the lifeguard was a young guy from Serbia! I was thrilled at the chance to meet someone from the Balkans after my internship in DC last Spring. He is from a small town in eastern Serbia and came to work in the US for the summer. He wrote down his e-mail address and asked me to contact him if I was ever in Serbia. Soon after, out walked another lifeguard: a young gentleman from Bulgaria. The three of us had a great conversation about life in America and I was happy to leave with two new friends from the Balkans! Whatever line of work I end up in after graduation, I hope that I can use my degree in International Relations to meet and work with people around the world. I've always been a bit shy, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying getting to know new people. :)

Sending love from Annapolis.

"The house is cold," grandma says...

...she wants to turn the fireplace on.

The house thermostat reads 78ºF [folks, I'm melting over here]. It's mid-August. It was 98ºF outside today. The fireplace?

"No, Leni," grandpa answers.

Adorable.

Day 2 in Annapolis: Today's findings

1) Couscous is the best food invention in the world. I could eat it everyday for the rest of my life!

2) Jeopardy is seriously slacking on creating challenging questions.

3) The Regis and Kelly show is just about the most obnoxious, mind-numbing television program on daytime television. But grandma likes to watch it in the morning before her exercise class at the community lodge. She also turns the volume up to the maximum level so that Kelly’s abrasive voice resounds throughout the entire house. Today Mrs. Ripa spent 30 long minutes lamenting her children's recent outbreak of hair lice, after which I felt so enriched [cue sarcasm]. I think Kelly should visit a third-world country and re-evaluate her life.

4) Can you tell that I’ve been watching a lot of gameshows with the G-‘rents?

5) My grandma is a speed monster in her Kompressor. Every fiber of my being tenses up when she starts driving, but by the sheer grace of God we arrive safely at our destinations. When she drives through green lights, she shouts - "The Queen is in town, let me through." She cracks me up.

6) Pat Sajak (the chipper host of “Wheel of Fortune”) is a native Maryland-er and contributed lots of cash to the local hospital here. My grandparents say there’s a center within the hospital named in his honor, and that he and his family live right down the road.

7) Fareed Zakaria is pretty cool.

8) Life is good here in Annapolis :)

Annapolis: chocolate sprinkle lunches, the fashion passion gene, and stories of love and war

Well, it certainly has been awhile since I last posted. To make a very long and thrilling story short, France was great. In fact, I’d like to return aussitôt que possible (as soon as possible). I will forever remember the brightly-painted flowerboxes, chatty cicadas, and plentiful sunshine in Montpellier. And Paris is like a dream!

This summer, I am spending a week in Annapolis with my grandma and grandpa. The last time I did so was the summer of 2008, during a week in August before I transferred to William & Mary. How much has changed since then!

Lunch is a big deal at my grandparents’ house. First, my grandma prepares her usual steaming pot of vegetable soup: my bowl was filled with carrots, celery, onions, and bits of potato. Usually halfway into soup, my grandpa ambles off to toast some bread. He and I are the only ones who prefer our toast dark and crunchy. We eat our toast open-faced and reach for the boter (butter) instead of standard condiments, like mayonnaise or mustard. After spreading on a generous layer of butter, I sprinkle de Ruijter chocoladehagel on top: little chocolate shavings. De Ruijter offers several varieties, but my grandparents usually only purchase puur or melk (dark or milk chocolate) from the online Dutch store. Being Dutch is awesome: it provides the perfect excuse to eat butter and chocolate sandwiches at midday.

Our lunch spread normally also includes fresh fruit, like blueberries and canteloupe. Today my grandpa opened a package of Leiden cheese (Leidse kaas), a yellow, cumin-spiced cheese made from cow’s milk. It is most famously produced in the western town of Leiden in the Netherlands. Ik ben een kaas kauwer.

After lunch, tea, and an afternoon of playing grandma’s old tique piano, we trekked to the grocery store in pursuit of milk. Thrilling, I know. No, it was such a lovely adventure, primarily because my grandma got all dressed up to go to Giant. She changed into a flowered dress and leather wedges and looked like a little doll. The more time I spend with my grandma, the more I discover the extent to which I have inherited her love of fashion. Lena de Leeuw, you are the reason why I changed my outfit three times a day when I was five years old. My grandma’s closet is like a treasure trove. What is most amazing about it is that she sewed most of its contents herself.

Following dinner (Indonesian chicken made from a cookbook, fresh salad, and a glass of Italian red wine), grandma and I set out to explore a US Navy band concert at the dock in downtown Annapolis. Maybe that half-glass of vin rouge at dinner was a bad idea: I sure felt drowsy on the way there.

I thought I had fallen in love with North Carolina. I realize now that it can never compete with my fondness for Annapolis. Heading towards the dock from the parking garage, we passed quaint little shops and outdoor restaurant patios. Streetlamps lining the dock donned cheerful American flags and seemed to twinkle as twilight emerged. We soon discovered the concert had been canceled due to the heat index and poor air quality, but grandma and I were determined to make the most of our evening. Unfolding our lawn chairs like fragile old books, we secured a peaceful view of the sailboats and harbor from the dock. We spoke of my grandma’s first meeting of grandpa, her adventures in motherhood, and her first job. Although I’ve heard snippets of all of these stories before, they never get old.

Back at the house, my grandpa and I spent the remainder of the evening speaking of his time during World War II in Nazi-occupied Europe. According to my grandpa, in November 1944 during the razia, all Dutch males ages 18+ were summoned to Germany to perform “labor” - clearly a euphemism - for the Nazis. I had never asked about nor heard the stories he shared tonight – but the tears in his eyes were proof that he had kept these memories tighly guarded for a long time. I don’t feel comfortable sharing his story here on this simple blog. After what I’ve heard tonight, though, I believe that my grandpa is hands-down the the most courageous, noble, and selfless man I know. And to think he endured all of that when he was only twenty years old…

Que tes rêves soient doux. Sweet dreams.