Red Double-Decker Tour Bus

I was sitting in a coffee shop in Budapest, Hungary doing one of my favorite activities,  . . . just sitting. I had brought my oldest daughter, Hannah, there to visit a friend and I used the time to goof around the city.  One of the advantages of living in Europe is that places like this are close by. I was reading John Eldredge’s book entitled Desire as I sipped my cappuccino. The book is of the kind that makes you think.  So I would read and stare off in space trying appear to be intellectual and deep in thought. I put the earpiece of my glasses in the corner of my mouth. I think that made me truly look like a philosophical academic type. And I was just watching all the people of all sorts and nationalities go by. Yes, it was all very good time: sitting, reading, trying to look intelligent, watching people.

As I was watching people a big red double-decker tourist bus drove by the coffee shop and down past the beautiful gothic church across the street that is now a museum. The bus was full of sightseers gawking out of the windows and pointing at all the amazing things to see. I was struck by almost a sadness for the people in the bus. “Really,” I thought, “you have spent who knows how much money to come to this breathtaking city and you're gonna to experience it from the seat of a big red bus.” I understood the draw of the bus. My feet were aching from two days of treking all over those cobblestone streets and climbing all those stairs. And I realized that the bus stops at the important places so the people could file out and take pictures. But I couldn’t help but feel like all the people on the bus were missing something.  I wondered if staring out the windows from the comfortable bus seats was that much different than watching a documentary on Budapest on their big screen TV’s at home. The bus just seemed so safe, and easy, and sterile. Think of the things their comfort cost them. They didn’t hear the many musicians playing on the street. They didn’t smell the food coming from the street side cafes. They didn’t look into the faces of the 1000’s of people they passed. They avoided the discomfort of the beggars whose faces betrayed painful lives and intruded into mine to ask for money. They didn’t hear the children playing in the squares.  They didn’t smell the garbage or have to step over the vomit left by the previous night’s revelers. They weren’t constantly bombarded by a multitude of languages.

I wondered if their Budapest experience was somehow less real than mine. How much had their security and comfort cost them in truly experiencing life. I realized how easy it is for us to make that same trade all the time. How easy it is to try to live vicariously through others on television. Think of how popular reality shows are. In them, we get to watch others live. We don’t have to risk travel, we can watch others race around the world (I am for the hillbillies from Kentucky.) And if more normal things don’t excite us we can live the surrogate lives of tattoo artists, or women who have babies even know they didn’t know they were pregnant, or who push their toddlers to win beauty pageants, or have strange secret eating habits. It is almost like junk food. We get a sugar buzz, but does it really sustain us? We even train our children to live make-believe lives through video games. They don’t have to actually do anything they can just pretend to do or be greater than reality. My son is a 7’5” center for the Oklahoma Thunder. He just led them to a championship and won the MVP award. All from our living room chair.

I don’t mean to down television, it just seems that we were created for more than surrogate lives. We were made to enjoy risky lives that often make us deal with discomfort. In the Bible God was always calling people to leave their comfort zones, to take risks that lead to faith. Our own fears keep us from it.

There, as I sat in the coffee shop sipping cappuccino and of course looking intelligent, I noticed the following quotation painted on the wall:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”    -Mark Twain

A Bus Ride by Luke Campbell

The following is a journal entry by my son, Luke (17)

On my journey home from practicing some hoop, I once again, had the pleasure of riding on the bus home. As per usual, it was filled to its bursting point. I was pressed against the wall while several people breathed down my neck. The bus, with all of its patrons and various articles, assaulted my ears with all manners of noise. I shut my eyes and drank deeply from the ever growing pool of sound. The flavors differed in their extremes, some a hot jalapeño and some a cool and soothing sip of lemonade. A young man, exclaiming loudly for all to hear as he answered the phone. He was planning a party with a friend, making sure that we are all aware of his plans. Behind me, a young mother giving instructions to her daughter on the phone. “Put the food in the oven in about 5 minutes.” She was calm, her voice likewise. A grandmother, sitting next to her granddaughter who was chattering away like a chipmunk exposed to a half full can of Redbull. The bus itself, a machine that had seen many loyal years of service to Sofia, emitted sounds that were evidence enough that this giant, two-sectioned bus was a veteran. The rattle of the windows, the cough and choking of the engine as it pressed on through the crowded streets, seeking out each bus stop in the cold. This is bus travel, a loud exposer to life. 

In the same ride, once we left the centre and came closer to the final stop, the noise slowly, person by person, waned. What remained after the departure of the primary sound creators, was much more of a simple sound. Simply the bus. The sounds of all the old parts clanking together. The old ladies, gossiping quietly in the corner. This was the quiet time on the bus. An old man’s breathing, bearing the wounds of years of smoking. The car alarm shouting its protest in the distance. All very calming, when compared to my earlier experience. This is bus travel, simple solitude.

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

One of the purposes of this blog is to help publicize our work in Bulgaria. Click on one of the links below to post this to your Facebook or to email this to a friend. Click on "Follow" to the right to automatically receive updates about the blog. The more the merrier! Please feel free to leave your comments. I would love to here your thoughts.

Click on the link to the right to check out Laura's blog. Hers is much better than mine!