Tolstoy's Clock

“Tik tok, tik tok,” goes the clock. Second by second, hour by hour, day by day, this old friend orders our existence. We seldom take notice of this mechanism or recognize the truly significant place it occupies, but it is always there. By it we schedule our lives and evaluate our usefulness. But what if it is wrong? How can we know? As long as the hands are moving it is impossible to evaluate the accuracy of a clock without another reference. What if the impression given by its face is not correct? Do we continue to orient our lives by its guidance? What if our clock is inconsistent and can be trusted in some moments, but not in others?

Emotions are a mystery. I know there is chemistry behind the way I feel, but I am largely ignorant to the way it all works. Why do smiles feel good? Why does stress wind up my innards and try to steal my joy? Like a clock orders my day, my emotions determine how I experience life. The value of each moment and the beauty of each soul is more often a function of my own sentiment than a reflection of the genuine situation. And, like an erroneous timepiece, I find it impossible to know when my emotions provide an inaccurate picture. Indeed, without an outside reference, maintaining the correct bearings is unattainable.

How can the situation be improved? In his essay, “The Lion and the Honeycomb,” Leonard Tolstoy compared the physical and spiritual sides of human nature to a clock. He pointed out that a clock can be changed by adjusting the hands, or by moving the inner mechanisms. Taking this a step further, while we can correct the time by moving the hands of a clock, we cannot truly fix an errant timepiece without changing it internally. In my own life I realize how I often want to correct my emotional situation without digging deeply in my spirit to repair the brokenness within that is producing an improper view of life. Instead of just accepting my emotions, I must take time to analyze “why” I am feeling the way I am. 

In this process placing blame comes easily. Something or someone is at fault. The problem with this approach is that I often have disturbingly little control over my circumstances and even less on people around me. And since I can’t change them, I am left with the arduous prospect of changing myself. When true internal metamorphosis comes, I gain remarkable freedom to live above my circumstances and to keep true time in the rhythm of life. 

So let me ask you, as I ask myself, are your emotions keeping true time? Are they providing an accurate view? Often the task of correcting erroneous emotions requires an outside reference. A good friend is necessary. Not a judge, or someone with answers, just a listener, . . a friend. For a Christian, faith also provides a critical anchor. Love and hope pour from a genuine, examined, and malleable trust in God.

Tik tok, tik tok. . . how are you keeping time?

The Sofia Effect: A Haunting Gaze

A Haunting Gaze

We saw the tragedy of the two boys as we approached. One was around 11 and I would guess the other was about 9. Laura and I had been to a movie and were walking back to our car through an outdoor mall. It was a little after 9pm.The boys were passing a plastic bag back and forth. They took turns deeply inhaling the fumes they had sprayed into it. Unfortunately, this is not an unusual sight in these parts. Boys at the lowest social level begin inhaling glue at an early age to escape the misery of the days.

When the two spotted us they rushed towards us like missiles. Their approach was not surprising. Beggars are commonplace and we encounter them on a daily basis. The economy here leaves little choice for a large segment of society. Jobs are non-existent for many. There are none to be had. Those lucky enough to receive social assistance from the government receive only $30 a month, barely enough to buy a loaf of bread, much less heat or medicine. But there is a darker side also. Often babies and toddlers are drugged to make them easier to control as they are used as props to make the pleas of their handlers more convincing. Children are often pimped and have to give their take to a “boss.”  These beggars make us uncomfortable because we don’t know what to do. Giving money is not always the best thing. Laura and I usually give something. Maybe they will actually buy food with it. Perhaps that dollar we give will keep that child from being beaten by his pimp. Who knows? I hope we never grow complacent to this vexing issue.

But these two boys were different. They approached with a tenacity I have never witnessed. They began pulling on me, ferociously begging. They were fearless and relentless!  Their hands were all over me. I felt them reaching into my coat pockets. I pushed them away, softly at first, but they keep coming. I yelled at them in my best and meanest Bulgarian voice with no result. It was all happening so quickly and yet seemed to last forever. They refused to stop. How physical was I willing to get? Their faces were wild from the effects of the glue. Emotions and thoughts ran through me like a metal ball in pinball machine. I was filled with anger, vulnerability and pity all at the same time. They were just boys!

As quickly as it all started, it was over as they seemed to give up in unison. The only thing that they had stolen was a parking ticket that ended up costing me $10. The emotional impact was far greater. Laura and I were left empty of feeling.The pair wasn’t quite big enough to pose any real physical threat, but if they were a few years older the story might have been different. My greatest desire is to love and protect children like these, and yet in the rush of the moment I wondered how forcefully I was going to have to fight them off. I am disturbed by the possibility of what I might have done if they had not stopped. There was so little time to think. Three hours have now passed since the encounter and my thoughts are on those two. I can still see the younger one’s face; his crazy eyes, haunting gaze, and his nose covered with dried snot and mucus from the glue. The temperature is well below freezing and I wonder if they will spend the night on the street. Are they passed out somewhere? Where are their parents? Has someone else taken advantage of them? My family and I are now safe and warm in our beds with full bellies, but does anyone give a damn about them?

Sometime we become insulated from the pain in the world. We callously believe that people get what they deserve. But these two boys deserve better. They deserve to be well fed and warm. They deserve someone to protect them from the harm around them. They deserve someone to love them enough to lead them away from sniffing glue. They deserve to be loved. They deserve for someone to give a damn!

(I hope the use of the word “damn” is not offensive. I apologize if it is. I wrote it and then replaced it with the word “hoot.” But “hoot” just does not communicate the weight of the message. Pray for these two boys.)

Two Sides of Life

On one hand: I woke up this morning on the Macedonian shore of Lake Dojran. Looking across its glassy surface I could see the rugged mountain peaks of Greece. The majestic view is breathtaking. I sipped my coffee and tried to absorb the weight of this experience. So much history. So much beauty. So much to think about. I recognized the privilege of being alive in this moment.

On the other hand: We are homeless. The Bulgarian government has taken its time in granting our resident visas. Our temporary visas have expired and we were forced to leave the country.  Everything we own, our friends, our home, all inaccessibly lay four hours away on the other side of the Bulgarian border. The feeling of powerlessness is pervasive. So little sense can be made of the whole affair. We live in Bulgaria to do good. How could all the red tape keep us from our calling? And now we find ourselves unintentionally sojourning in Macedonia.

On the other hand: The hospitality extended to us by our new friends in Macedonia is indescribable. When a friend of a friend heard of our situation he volunteered for us to stay in his home free of charge. In this part of the world, when you are someone’s guest, you become their responsibility. Your host becomes your protector and your servant. They will do any and everything to take care of you. When our friend’s house proved to be unavailable to us, he worked for hours to provide a place for us to stay. Now we are inhabiting two rooms of a small hotel in Southern Macedonia where other new friends are going to great lengths to meet our every need. We are humbled by their service to us.

On the other hand: For the first time in the international aspect of my life, I have had the desire to give up. Perhaps this is all just too hard. Why should I subject my family to all of this turmoil? Why not just return to the States and do something easier? At least in America we don’t have to fight the bureaucracy just to have the right to live there. Is this all worth it?

On the other hand: Quitting is not an option. We have no doubt that God has called us to Bulgaria. The needs are so clear and so great. The poverty, the hopelessness, cry out to us. God is somehow in the middle of all of it. Nikola,the owner of our small hotel is a believer. He told me, “I am all alone.” The closest small church is over an hour’s drive away and he doesn’t have a car. He shared that he had been praying for someone to come and mentor him. This morning I had the inexpressible joy of reading through the first chapters of John with him in Macedonian. How incredible! In this place of desperation, I find myself doing the thing I love most in a language that is close to one I know. 

Life is often complicated. I do not understand much of what happens within my own existence. Questions like “how?,” “when?,” and “why?,” often go unanswered. And yet when we are able to take our eyes off of ourselves, we can see the mystery of God’s hand around us.

Lessons from a Bulgarian Plumber

Something is wrong in this picture. This is the water faucet in our shower. Perhaps I missed something in my years of fixing things, but isn’t a faucet supposed to face down instead of toward the wall? Why was it installed this way? Did the plumber decide that it looked better backwards? Perhaps he thought that spot on the wall may need perpetual cleaning? Was Vodka involved? And most perplexing, why haven’t I fixed it properly?

Taking a shower is a bit of an adventure for us. First, as you can see, the plumber employed a great deal of creative license in his work. I suspect he simply did not have the needed 90 degree elbows to finish the job correctly. So this would have to do. Second, the inexpensive faucet basically acts as an on and off switch. The water exiting its orifice is either really hot or really cold. It usually takes me four minutes of precious hot water time to adjust it to an acceptable temperature. Third, the shower is about the size of a cat’s litter box. Fourth, the shower curtain was hung so that it’s bottom extends about an inch above the lip of the shower basin and water goes everywhere.

On these cool, rushed fall mornings showers have become a source of frustration. Why do I have to put up with this ridiculous excuse of a bathing station? I stand there in the cold lightly tapping the facet handle to the right   . . . too cold . . . back to the left . . . too hot . . . back to the right . . . frigid . . . and it goes on. It is not that I am so picky, but a temperature somewhere between that needed to make ice cream and that needed to boil crawfish would be nice. Once the water is adjusted to a bearable state, I enter the phone booth. I try to reach all the places that need washing without either pushing the curtain beyond the edge of the basin, or accidentally touching the faucet handle thereby knocking the water out of adjustment, a truly alarming experience. Once through washing, I have to try to get dressed without soaking my clothes in water that has escaped all over the floor.

This past Wednesday morning brought my frustration to a head. Once again, I had accidently hit the faucet handle while washing and experienced the invigoration of ice cold water pouring down me. I tried to scrunch to one side of the phone booth while I reached around the water flow to readjust. In my mind I screamed at the plumber. What kind of a . . . . would do something like this???  One thought gripped my mind and changed my attitude.

Gratitude. I get to take a hot shower. Most in the world don’t. Hot baths are a precious luxury. Even in Bulgaria, my bathing situation is far above average. How many in the world will never take a warm, unpolluted shower? I can either let the frustration over my lack grow, or I can graciously celebrate what I do have. The choice is mine. What is my responsibility to those around me who don’t know the luxuries I daily experience? What about the hungry? What is my obligation? Even at this very moment as I write I look out my apartment window and see a man and his young daughter digging through our garbage. When is the last time they had the privilege of a hot shower?

If you are interested, follow this link to get a little perspective:  Miniature Earth

Thanks for reading about the Sofia Effect,

John

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Go Drink a Coffee

Through the small smoke filled room I could see a vast assortment of engine gaskets hanging from the wall. The three men who worked at this auto parts store were sitting on the other side of the counter, talking about "car things” and puffing on cigarettes. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and were not at all concerned with my presence. Through the haze I could see an assortment of interesting auto parts posters on the other wall. I had never made a connection between naked ladies and disc brake rotors, but apparently the girl in the picture really like them.*  Beyond the posters was a window through which I could see the dusk of the first snowy day of the year.  This was one of those uncomfortable situations life sometimes brings. My deficiencies in Bulgarian were evident. I can think of no more difficult language situation than a group of men speaking an unfamiliar jargon. Bulgarian men are notoriously difficult for me to understand. They tend to speak softly and mumble their words. So there I stood: inhaling half a pack of second hand smoke, poorly dressed to go outside in the cold, unable to participate in the conversation taking place before me, staring out the window as I tried diligently not to look at the captivating auto parts posters, just waiting.

My journey to this scene had begun much earlier in the day. Our car had become almost impossible to start on these cold fall mornings. I had come to this store earlier that morning to buy the parts to rectify the problem.** The salesman had told me that they did not have the parts in stock, but they would get them. “Come back before 5 and you can pick them up.” Trying to time my return properly I arrived at exactly 4:42 to retrieve my items. This would give me just enough time to return home and install the parts before dark. I estimated that the chance of the order actually being there when I arrived was only about 50/50. When I walked in the door my fears were confirmed. My order had not arrived. (In fact, I am not sure the order had ever been placed.) The parts peddler informed me that the warehouse was close by. He told me that he would have the items sent over by a taxi and that it would take half an hour at the most. “Иди да пиеш кафе,” he said to me in the familiar form. “Go drink a coffee.” Knowing that “half an hour” in Bulgaria doesn’t really mean 30 minutes, I fooled around for an hour and then returned. My parts had still not arrived. The employees assured me the order would soon come and I should stay there with them. So there I waited, me, and the men, and the smoke, and Ms. Fan Belt. Another whole hour passed before the taxi with my parts finally arrived.

These idle moments led me to reflect on the very nature of time. Time is viewed fundamentally different in this part of the world than in the US. Perhaps Americans tend to view time as something to be used. Its value is often measured by the fruit it produces. Time that is unproductive is time that is wasted. I think Bulgarians tend to see time as something to be valued. The successful use of time is not measured by productivity, but by how much each moment is treasured. “Go drink a coffee” meant for me to capture the time, to enjoy the moment. The three men in the shop were waiting on the taxi just like I was. They couldn’t go home until it came and I was gone. However, I don’t think that they saw the time as wasted. While this attitude does not necessarily lead to great efficiency, it might lead to greater fulfillment. 

The apostle Paul wrote that his readers were to “make the most of every opportunity” (Colossians 4.5). A  literal translation would be, “redeem the time.” Perhaps time is redeemed, not by our achievements, but by the value we place on each moment. Is it possible that our desire for productivity keeps us from truly appreciating the treasure of each second?

*Actually the wall displayed a whole series of posters. I had never realized the romantic side of oil filters before. I began to wonder if I had always taken the wrong approach in trying to woo my wife. Maybe females really do like car paraphernalia. Think of all the money I wasted on flowers. I could have brought home battery cables instead. I pondered, “Imagine how Laura will be dazzled by the diesel engine parts I was then buying.” I was encouraged by this new idea. Upon finally arriving home, I was filled with anticipation as I climbed the stairs to our apartment. How impressed she would be. When she greeted me at the door, I enthusiastically related the harried events of the day and then proclaimed, “Hey Laura, check out these glow plugs I just bought” . . . More research needs to be done on this. Apparently, not all automotive accessories  are equally as effective. One of the girls on the posters seemed to be exhilarated by pine tree shaped air fresheners. Maybe I will try that next.

**For those of you that care. I had to buy new glow plugs for our diesel Toyota Picnic. I had to install them that night under a street light in the snow. A sad picture I know. FYI: Half of the cars in Europe have diesel engines. 

The White Picket Fence

Deep down, somewhere in my soul, I am a writer. Maybe not a very interesting one, but the spark of writing is a part of me. I often spend time producing prose in my mind that will never see the light of day. So when a friend suggested I start this blog, I knew that it was time to let my miscellaneous musing spill out on the page.

The life I have found is far different than the one I pictured in my early adulthood. I was going to be a pastor of a church somewhere in a southern state with a typical family and a white picket fence. (Well, first I was going to be an engineer, then I ended up being a pastor) Life was going to be normal, predictable, secure, and controlled. I was going to massage every detail to fit the portrait I had imagined. This is not the life I now live.

So, what has brought this great change? How did my life move so far away from its projected destination? Two factors come to mind. First, I have no doubt that God has led me this way. If you keep up with this blog you will discover that faith is a key part of who I am. My pursuit of, or rather, walk with God has led me far from my own intentions. He is not exactly who I thought He was, and His desires for me are not what I understood. Second, Sofia is to blame. Nine years ago we left everything we knew and moved to Sofia, Bulgaria. After living here, I knew I could never go back. The noise, beauty, smell, crowds, tragedy, wonder, and dirt of this city and its residents changed the way I understood my own existence.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that life is to be lived, not controlled. My desire to arrive within the confines of my white picket fence kept me from experiencing the journey. And that is what life is, a journey. My own comfort was a narcotic that took the edge off of life. It sheltered me not only from pain and struggle, but also from true joy and celebration. It brought apathy and complacency. It kept me from loving others. My own security kept me from faith. I realized that a white picket fence is still a fence.

The life I write about in this blog is not the one of my dreams. It is much easier and more difficult, very simple and terribly confusing. I would have it no other way. My family and I love where we are and what we do. The narcotic of comfort is unavailable to so many here. Life is rawer and perhaps more real. Laughter and tears are deeper and more prevalent for us in this beautifully dark place. We love it!

Thank you for listening to my thoughts on "The Sofia Effect."

John