The bus is just one of those things that messes my life up in the best of ways.

Just when I start believing that most of the world looks, acts, and thinks like me, I get on the 17 or the 21 and sit next to the widest assortment of people Minnesota has to offer. Just last week I sat next to a very tall African American man sleeping beside me. Across the aisle, an ex-hippy looking 60-something year old man carried on quite a sophisticated conversation with himself, even discussing the the finer points of the Franciscan order. Two blind men boarded the bus. An old couple, the woman knitting, sat in front. Teenagers loudly discussed every detail of their day behind me. An African American woman with bejeweled fingernails asked a younger Hispanic woman for the time, only to realize that she didn’t speak any English.

Oh, the bus.

The bus also messes with my “disposable” lifestyle. I forget I actually need to plan a little farther in advance to ensure I make it. I have to walk a little ways to the stop. I may have to actually sit and wait for it to come for a few minutes. Today, I all but ran to the stop only to miss it by one or two minutes. Then I had to wait for the next one, which didn’t come for another 16 minutes. I felt upset at the bus and myself until I realized how few and far between are the times I actually have 16 minutes to do NOTHING. The bus also goes so much slower. I could drive to my pottery class at South High School in about 15 minutes. By bus, it takes me about 40 minutes. But then I realize that those 15 minutes in my car could only be used for driving, saving me 25 minutes for free time, whereas I can do many things on the bus for a whole 40 minutes.

When my life is too harried to take the bus, this is a good indication that I’m in over my head. When 40 minutes of down-time that is actually simultaneously carrying me to my next destination is bothersome, I need to take a step back. When entering a bus full of people who sound, act, and look different from me feels strange or uncomfortable, I need to re-evaluate where, how, and with whom I spend my time.

The bus is a microcosm of the place I live and a constant reminder that I am not too important to spend a few extra minutes waiting around.  And all for the price of a mere $2.00.

-Jessie, May, 2008

All of my life I’ve eaten Swedish meatballs at Christmas, learned the art of making Swedish pancakes from my grandpa, and heard stories about my ancestors on boats to America from Sweden because “we are Swedish.”

This has always been a bit funny to me because, while perhaps physically I could pass for a Swede with my bluish eyes, blondish hair, and hearty eaters arms, I’d never even set foot in Sweden and the only Swedish word I know is Valkommen. Growing up, being of Swedish descent hasn’t really affected my life in anyway—although I always found it bizarre that in the ethnic hodgepodge that is the United States, my ancestors were able to preserve their pure Swedish blood all the way down to my mother’s generation, who was born more than 80 years after our first ancestors immigrated to the U.S. Of course, she went ahead and married my father—a mutt of German, Scottish, and English heritage—making me only 50% Swedish. But in this day and age, that is still quite a lot.

So when we were planning on being in Europe, I decided I wanted to take the opportunity to see this distant “homeland” of mine and see if it indeed felt anything like home. Fortunately, my mother (along with Josh’s mother, who isn’t Swedish, but has married into the heritage) was able to join us. I say “fortunately” mostly because it was a special experience to share with family, but also because Sweden is crazy expensive, so it was nice to get a little support from “the moms.”

After spending a few days in Stockholm, we rented a car and began our journey into the past. We had lots of chicken scratch notes of where our ancestors had lived, but no real map, so it was basically like setting out on a wild goose chase sometimes. As we drove south into the Smaland region, we began to look for the small village of Asebo, where my grandmother’s father’s father lived before he came to the U.S. at the age of 12. As we drove through the countryside, it wasn’t hard to see why the Swedes would prefer Minnesota. The land looked very similar to our state, dotted with lakes, surrounded by trees and rocky cliffs, like the north shore. At one point, when we got lost, we stopped to ask a friendly bus driver for directions. She hadn’t heard of the town, but was aware of the area, and with her directions we fell right into the grips of this hillside village.

The word “village” even seemed a bit of an overstatement for little Asebo, as it stood in front of us with all of its 5 or 6 buildings. It was peaceful and in the middle of nowhere, and I wondered what life must have been like to make them leave the serenity and venture such a great distance to Harris, MN.

The rest of the week we meandered through Villesjo, the town outside Malmo where Josh’s great grandfather came from; the seaside town of Frillesas where my great, great grandmother Sophia left for America, and Bengtsfors, where my great, great grandmother Melvina boarded a boat right from her dock in her teens to find her love, Ben, who had left for America ahead of her.

The places were beautiful—picturesque towns near rolling open fields or tucked back in the forest near a lake. And there was always a lovely church involved in the visit, with at least some of my ancestors having been baptized, confirmed, buried, or having participated in the construction of the church.

This is what struck me the most—the line of faith that has transcended so many generations, all the way to me and to be passed to my own children. It was my grandparents who brought my mother to church, and it was my mother who insisted making church a priority for our family as I grew up. And it strikes me that no matter what really drove my ancestors to their knees or in the doors of the church, their faith remains alive in me to this day. That, and of course their love for pancakes. And for this, I am grateful.

~Jessie, May 25th, 2007

On our pastor Doug’s recommendation and connection, Josh and I were welcomed into the home of Mark and Nadine in Karlsruhe, Germany. We literally had no clue who Mark and Nadine were, what they did, or what was in Karlsruhe, and they had little to no information about us either. This is the beauty of staying with friends of friends—you really have no idea what to expect. We have been extremely fortunate thus far however, and Mark and Nadine were no exception. Upon arrival, we joined their community of friends at a barbeque, outside the café that Mark runs. The café (called Nun, or “now” in English) is a place for people to come and relax, listen to some music, have a drink, and on Sundays people come together for a church service where they share the tasks of music, speaking, planning, and all the other logistics. Josh and I had a chance to meet and talk with many of the people from the community, who share many resemblances with the people of our church community, Solomon’s Porch.

Later on that week, Mark took us on the grand tour of the Black Forest and Freiburg, then the next day we went north through the Rhine Valley. They fed us wonderful food and let us hang out with their two little sons, Noah and Meo. The last day we were there, however, we decided it was time to venture out on our own in this country called Germany. And since we were in the birthplace of the bicycle (Karlsruhe), we decided there was no better way to get around than by bike.

Mark had told us about this beautiful monastery, located about 35 kilometres east of the city and said we could borrow his bikes. He recommended that we take the bikes on train to a nearby town, and then bike from there. In our infinite wisdom, however, we realized that the distance from Karlsruhe to the monastery was approximately the same distance as from Eden Prairie to Minneapolis. Having made that journey with ease, we figured that it would be no big thing to bike all the way from Mark and Nadine’s home to the monastery. So, armed with only a few road names on a scrap piece of paper, we set out on the completely unknown roads of Germany.

I don’t remember how long it takes us to bike between Eden Prairie and Minneapolis, but it surely doesn’t take four and a half hours. Granted, we ate lunch in the middle, but 4 and a half hours? Maybe it took so long because Josh was riding the heaviest cruiser bike in the history of the world (complete with a decal of a naked lady on the side), or maybe it was the numerous times we stopped and had to walk our bikes on the sides of the highways we encountered. Quite possibly, it was partly due to the several times we had to stop at a fork in the road and use our best judgment (in other words, guess) which way to go. At one point we stopped to ask an elderly German man for directions. Although it was obvious that we did not speak German, the man proceeded to give us the longest explanation in history. A few minutes into it, I could not help myself anymore, and I literally started laughing hysterically (to tears) right in his face. At this the man simply finished his explanation and walked on his way, seemingly unphased.

Only by the grace of God did we roll through the gates of the monastery—unfortunately, with only 45 minutes until closing time.

After strolling the grounds for a while, we made the decision to bike to one town over and take trains the rest of the way to Karlsruhe. Apparently, for us, trains and busses are even harder to navigate in Germany than the roads, and it took us nearly the same amount of time to get back. I think the real kicker was when we exited the last bus about 5 stops too soon, and were forced to bike the last leg in the dark. Luckily for us we had Mark, who rescued us and lit our way home with the headlight of his Vespa. Thank God for friends of friends.

-Jessie, May 4th, 2007

I never intended on becoming a U.S. ambassador to the world. Normally, when I am at home in the U.S., I find myself generally disgusted with the state of affairs, usually with very few good things to say about my country. I mean, it’s not like we have American flags hanging from every corner of our house. But lately I have been shoved into the corner by one too many Europeans, and feel that I have to stand up for my country—at least a little bit.

At Taize, we met many great people from all over the world. We cleaned toilets with girls from India, the Philippines, and Korea. We discussed texts from the Bible with folks from the Netherlands, Germany, France, Columbia, Brazil, Austria, Spain, and Italy. We ate alongside teens and adults from Ireland, Chile, Sweden, England, and Finland. It was beautiful and fascinating to spend a week among so many different people, to pray and sing with them in several different languages, and to learn new things from each person we met.

Most people seemed to have the ability to separate “Americans” from “America,” and even though NO ONE we met had anything good to say about our government, most people accepted us with an open mind.

On the other hand, a couple people we ran into really dug into us. To be fair, all their questions and concerns about the U.S. are questions and concerns I also have: Why do Americans drive such large vehicles? What is going on in Iraq? Why does the government spend so much money on the military when there are elderly people who can’t pay for their prescriptions and youth unable to pay for college? Why did the allied forces in WWII bomb so many innocent people?

We want to scream, “I DON’T KNOW! I AM AS CONFUSED AS YOU! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

We do scream that—sort of. But then we try our best to honestly answer their questions and try to dispel the myth that all Americans are evil—that some really do care about the environment and don’t will the death of thousands of innocent people. That actually there are many people that didn’t even vote for the current president and are equally unsatisfied with the state of affairs.

Unfortunately, there are some young people that exclusively use Michael Moore’s films for their information on the U.S. To them, we are all gun-wielding, gas-guzzling war mongers who don’t care whose toes get stepped on as long as we get where we want to go. Eventually, these people usually concede that at least Josh and I have seemed to escape the dreaded “American plague” that the rest of the country is suffering. They tell themselves that by some stroke of luck, they have met the only sane Americans on earth.

This experience has forced me to two places: first of all, I feel like I need to be a better-informed citizen. Often, non-Americans are more informed on the politics and world issues than I am—maybe for a lack of good news sources, but nonetheless, I need to be more well-informed. And with the internet, there is really no good excuse not to be.

Second of all, Josh and I have found ourselves grasping to remember the beautiful things about our country. No, we haven’t bought matching American-flag sweatshirts, but we are finding that having a little national pride doesn’t have to look like a Wal-Mart store on the eve of the Fourth of July. Our beautiful national parks, a constitution built on freedom of expression, and inventions like rock and roll and the light bulb are nothing to sneeze at, you know.

That is why we have decided to call on you—our friends and loved ones that we consider to be intelligent, open-minded American people—to help us create a top-ten list of what is great about the United States (and if you happen to be reading this and call another country your homeland, you can feel free to give us your perspective on the good things the U.S. brings to the table). We all recognize and have talked to death about the ugly, almost unbearable aspects of our country and government. I think most of us are aware of the oppression, the dirty politics, and the big businesses trying to take over the world. But just for a few minutes, let’s remember that it’s not all doom and gloom. Let’s reclaim the good.

To get the ball rolling, here are a couple thoughts:

Eat Street: there are few places outside the U.S. where you can walk down the same street and see restaurants serving food from India, Malaysia, China, Germany, Vietnam, Greece, Mexico, you name it—its there. And that’s just in Minneapolis. Not only that, but often the people that are running these restaurants are actually from these countries. That’s right, in one street you can find people from literally every corner of the globe.

The National Parks: Being outdoors kinds of people, we have a deep appreciation for Teddy Roosevelt and his sanctioning of so many beautiful areas in the country as national parks. On our road trip out west, we took advantage of many of these parks, sleeping for next to nothing under the stars, surrounded by the redwoods, the Joshua trees, the Grand Canyon—you name it.

Baseball: Just kidding.

Share you thoughts with us …

- Jessie (and Josh), late April, 2007

We spent a week in Taize, France in a monastic community in the southern part of the Burgundy region. It is in a small town set on a hill about an hour by bus from the nearest train station. The place was started before the Second World War as an ecumenical and international prayer community, as a way bring reconciliation across nations through faith. People from all over the world come to visit, volunteer, and pray with the brothers who have committed themselves to a common life in simplicity. Large groups of youths regularly come to Taize, especially during the summer, but it is open to people of all ages. At times, upwards of 4,000 people join together from across Europe and the world, but in our week there were around 500.

We arrived on a Sunday evening just before the evening prayer. Three times daily there are prayer meetings which involve a time for songs, silence, and scripture in several languages (French, German, English, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Polish, and Russian were all sung or read in our week alone). Loud bells rung above us to signal the time of prayer. We were some of the last people to enter the chapel and found the nearest seats we could on some steps near some older people. There is no real seating in the place, just a big open floor and some chairs on the perimeter for people who have trouble kneeling or sitting on the ground. Most people kneel on the floor forming two inexact aisles. In the middle of it all are the brothers, a collection of men devoted to God through song and prayer, seated in a two long lines. Everyone faces towards what can only be described as the front of the chapel. Long orange cloth banners flow to the floor from the ceiling. The entire chapel is lit with candles and dim, low hanging lights. Icons of Christianity are located in several locations throughout the chapel. There is no pulpit, no preaching, no package; everyone just sings and prays together in common.

Shortly after we sit the music starts, a beautiful mix of harmony and chorus. It is truly beautiful. Everyone singing together the repetitive verses in beautiful harmony. A man and woman to our left add depth to the songs with alternate harmonies. The whole scene is powerful, the people around us alternately singing and kneeling to pray. About three songs into it, a smell rises into our noses and disrupts our previously holy trance. Jess turns a suspecting glance in my direction. My face cringed, I shake my head the honest truth, no. An older gentleman was sitting to our left, and two older women were directly in front of us. My money was on the old man, but Jessie wasn’t so sure it wasn’t one of the two women. The truth is, these same people were probably suspicious of us as well. The whole scene was tantamount to when you are confronted by a terrible smell in a single stall public restroom after waiting in a long. Your first thought is, “Cover my nose and get out of here as soon as possible.” You strain to remember the face of the person who went in before you, to match the person to this awful smell. You probably didn’t make eye contact, and anyways, by now he has already fled, long gone from the scene of this unpunishable offense. When you leave the bathroom, you know the judgement will be passed down to you so you try to think of a way to blame the last person. A hand signal, a rolling of the eyes. Then you remember that the next person probably won’t remember your face anyways, and you can leave rest assured that they will have to deal with this same problem when they leave the bathroom as well.

After a few minutes the smell subsides, and we are able to hold in our laughter. The music has caught our attention again. We are back to singing, enjoying the beauty of singing, and experiencing, God and his humans together.

- Josh, April 24, 2007

After several of whirlwind days of train stations, bus rides, and cafeteria food, we touched down in what could be aptly describe as the “French quarter of heaven.” Thanks to my aunt and uncle who graciously connected us with their friends, we were warmly received into the house of Alain-Michel and Segolene.

As soon as they picked us up at the station, we knew we were in good hands. They drove us to their home, which is a lovely, old, restored farmhouse in the Loire Valley countryside. From here, we passed about three days learning what the good life really is: warm sunshine, long meals, drives in the countryside to visit chapels and chateaus, shopping at outdoor markets, feeding the donkeys in the morning, going to vineyards for dinner, and beautifying the local caves in the neighbors. We tried all sorts of new foods from rabbit to escargo to duck–even donkey. We drank wine and ate cheese at every possible opportunity (which is often). We learned world history through the histories of cheese, wine, and quilting. And at night, we slept like it was our job, peacefully in a canopied, soft bed, listening to the frogs sing us to sleep.

After all of this, I have to wonder why so many people put up with the hustle and bustle of life, going crazy with appointments, keeping up with the neighbors, breathing dirty air, eating mechanically “enhanced” food, when this other kind of lifestyle exists in the world. I must assume that most are just unaware of its existence, because I have a feeling that once you’ve had a taste, it’s hard to go back.

~Jessie, April 22nd, 2007

In the middle of Morocco in the middle of criss-crossing streets and passing strangers lies the city of Marrakech, Morocco. Marrakech is a maze of narrow streets and back alleys, elaborately decorated closed doors and open markets, old world Islam and Western influences, settled in a valley below the Rif mountains.

We arrived on a Tuesday with no place to stay, but a few names on a piece of paper. Most of the accommodations are Riads, former houses or mansions, converted into hotels. The taxi from the train station to the hotel dropped us off at a Moroccan corner (read, a street converged on by about seven other streets) next to an old man, a small push cart, and the promise that for a couple of dollars would guide us to our hotel. We put our bags in his cart and twisted our way through a series of narrow streets only to discover that the first place on our list was fully booked. We pointed to the next place on our list and the old man gave us a dumbfounded look, shaking his head no. We were not sure he read very well or at all, so we attempted to pronounce it in our best Arabic accents, “Hotel Sherazade?,” we asked. After a few minutes he grew excited and began to speak to us in Arabic, most likely reassuring us that he knew the way. We followed him for the next 30 minutes on an unofficial tour winding through a series of twists and turns that no amount of breadcrumbs could help us to find our way back from. We passed over side streets and main roads; past stands selling fresh orange juice (for less than 50 cents) and fried donuts (or something like it); between beggars, merchants, and a movie set; through the central square, the Djemaa el-Fna; and finally down a side road to the Hotel Scherazade. They have space, we pay the old man, set down our bags and sit to have breakfast on a terrace overlooking the roofs of the city around us.

In the center of all the action rests the Djemaa el-Fna Square. To the north the minaret of the Koutobia Mosque towers over the action below where five times daily the imam chants the salat above the square. The square is an open space that spills into the adjoining market to the south. The whole area is a never ending tunnel of stands and shops competing for the attention and business of passersby. Fruit, nuts (ok, also a fruit), leather belts and bags, henna tattoos, meat, seafood, incense, dyes, berber sandals, elaborate metal lamps, knit goods, scarves, rugs, and jewelry are all lined one after the other in shops stacked ten feet tall with their specialty. Shop owners call out to the passersby first in Arabic, then French, then English with shouts of “Bon Jour!” and “Hello my friend!” Local men, grown and young, walk hand in hand past tourists and salesman working against each other for the most sales at the best price.

Nearly everything is negotiable in Morocco. And nearly everything has a price. If you appear lost, the person who seems kind enough to help you, the poor visitor, without question is expecting some kind of compensation. Children will follow you, making sure to walk a few steps in front of you until you reach your destination, at which point they raise their hand hoping for some coin for their “help.” During the day light hours, snake charmers invite you to take some pictures, before wrapping one of their snakes around your neck to negotiate the price for this act, while nearby, women in traditional Muslim attire hope to entice you to look at their books of Henna so they can decorate your skin “like a tattoo.” Every afternoon, like clockwork, only men crowd the cafe’s to drink a cup of espresso while they watch the world pass by. Our hotel is a respite from the activity happening outside it. Chairs and tables are spread out along a two-tiered terrace while the sounds of the snake charmers flutes are only very faintly heard in the distance.

When we return for dinner that night, the square has undergone a complete restoration. We have walked into a scene from an Indiana Jones film. Smoke rises from the grills of a hundred food stands seated that were not in the square an hour before. A hundred food stands selling kebabs, tangine, fries, cous cous, and soups to the empty bellies of their customers. All orders are accompanied by olives, bread, and a tomato mixture. At every stand, the cooks and waiters wear white doctor cloaks, and the only difference between them is the occasional place making sheeps head, hair burnt off, face boiled, and body cooked in a soup that only the locals seem intent on devouring. Around the outside of the square, large circles of mostly Moroccan men surround drum circles led by someone playing a combination banjo and sitar.

At the end of the night we retreat to our hotel and the roof top terrace beyond the action. The smoke continues to rise in the distance where the pounding of the drums is fading. The stars have come out and we are sitting alone, amongst it all but in our own peaceful respite in this always moving Moroccan town.

- Josh, around April 18, 2007

I am finding that although we often speak of leaps of faith, baby steps of faith are much more common. Sure, it was maybe a leap of faith to get rid of our apartment, quit our jobs, and pack up all our stuff in storage to set out for traveling the world. But as we live each day of our journey, we are confronted with opportunities to take baby steps of faith. A week in Morocco provided a good lesson on this. Going to Morocco wasn’t even a part of our original plan. I had some reservations about it, but when you’re so close to being in Africa (you can see it from Spain) it’s hard to pass up.

So the first step was to board a ferry across the Mediterranean Sea. The next step was to hop on a night train to central Morocco, to the city of Marrakech. As soon as we arrived, we set out to find a hotel that could take us in. We entrusted a little man to lead us, carting around our bags, through the maze of the medina, and found a wonderful hotel that happened to have space for us. We spent all day wandering the city with all its smells and sounds.

The next morning we awoke to the news that (contrary to what we were told) there was no space for us in the hotel that night. It seemed our luck had run out. Where would we go? This place was perfect. I stomped my feet a little bit, and then realized this was a great opportunity to trust that God would provide. And almost immediately there was a knock at our door—they had found a place for us right next door. As another man led us to our new place, I mentioned to him that we were interested in possibly going to the desert for a couple days. Next thing we knew, we were sitting around a table in someone’s house, drinking mint tea with three Moroccan men, and pondering the idea of going on a 3-day trip to the Merzouga sand dunes. We hesitate, not knowing how legitimate these guides are, who speak about other travelers who want to go too, but whom we have not seen. For some reason, we decide to go for it, and withdraw the maximum amount of dirham (Moroccan currency) we can from the ATM (no one ever accepts cards in Morocco), pay up front, and tell them we’re in.

The next morning a new adventure begins, and we meet these other travelers: Sarah and Malcolm, a Canadian couple traveling for 3-week vacation; Nao, a reknowned Japanese photographer working on an exhibition; and Saki, a Japanese woman, studying in Paris and serving as Nao’s translator. We’re off, piled in a van, with Kareem as our guide, winding through the Atlas Mountains. We trust Kareem to lead us the right way as we stop at various locales to take photos and explore Kasbahs along the way. We arrive at the edge of the sand dunes before sunset and climb right on camels. They lead us out into the great abyss, further and further from civilization, until we can only see by the light of the stars twinkling overhead.

After two hours (of painful camel riding), we come upon our camp. We sit in the sand and stare at the stars, and I think, “How in the world did I end up here, in this beautiful desert, under the stars, eating tagine and laughing with our new Canadian friends, listening to the Berber men beating the drums, watching the pretty shoe-store owner from California dance in a tent lined with beautiful rugs and lit with candles?”

Just then, the Rastifarian interior designer from D.C. repeats this Arabic phrase he’s been trying to remember all evening: Hamdulillah, thanks be to God. I smile at the beauty of the phrase and realize that is exactly how we got here. God leads us, God gives us courage to step beyond what’s familiar, God provides: Hamdulillah.

-Jessie, April 17th, 2007

Being back in Sevilla, I am reminded of how sensual this place is. My sense of smell is the first to kick in when the aroma of the orange street blossoms fill the air and mixes with the sultry smell of the incense from processions passing by, and the wafting scent of fried food drifting out of the bars and cafes the line the streets.

The sheer number of people in Sevilla awakens my sense of touch, as I am forced to squeeze through the masses of people on the streets. The heat of the sun warms my face, yet the cool air gives me the chills.

Taste is one of my favorite senses in Sevilla, as Josh and I retrace all my steps from the last time I was here five years ago, searching for every good meal I wanted my tastebuds to remember—Sangria, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cola cao, tostada with tomato and olive oil, olives, croquetas, patatas bravas, churros con chocolate, and the list goes on.

The beauty of Sevilla hasn’t changed either—carefully hand-painted ceramic tiles adorn halls and doorways, flowers hang from window sills, ornate churches loom before us at every corner, and the children—the children must be some of the cutest dressed in the world. Almost every single person under the age of six has on brightly colored leggings (girls and boys). The girls have bows in their hair, little cardigan sweaters, and poofy dresses. Boys were little pedal-pusher pants and vests or little sweaters. All wear pea coats and patent leather shoes.

Our ears are constantly assaulted with a mixture of rapidly spoken Spanish, flamenco music, and Semana Santa processional bands beating their drums and playing their horns. Constant chatter all the time, people everywhere—there almost seems to be no escape.

No wonder Semana Santa is particularly spectacular in Sevilla. It too entices all the senses. The incense, the horns and drums, the ornately decorated figures of Mary and Jesus being carried through a massive crowd of people, all jammed together to experience something bigger than themselves.

My sentiments around this traditional celebration have run the gamut in the last few days. On the negative end, both Josh and I were feeling particularly frustrated with the whole thing after noticing how much of a show it becomes sometimes. People are dressed to kill, teenagers drink themselves into oblivion and then harass the nazarenos in the processions for candy. So much money and time poured into gold paint, flowers, and expensive costumes. I was beginning to wonder where the religious aspect was to all of this Holy Week.

But last night I went to one procession that really caught hold of me. The procession is called “El Gran Poder,” and it is a silent procession. Thousands of nazarenos carrying candles passed by us. We stood in a crowd of thousands of people, and everyone was perfectly silent. It was quite amazing. As the statue of Jesus carrying the cross was carried out of the church and into the crowded plaza, a woman began to sing a beautiful ballad to Jesus in a deep, gypsy-like, flamenco voice. Everyone silently listened and watched Jesus float across the plaza, accompanied by thousands of candles. It was such a powerful presence, such an emotionally-charged moment, that I felt like I understood why this tradition exists. The carriers of the procession sacrifice their bodies and a night of sleep to bring this experience to the people right out in the streets, to remind people of Jesus’ sacrifice for them. It wasn’t reserved for just the church-goers or for the more affluent crowd, it was for everyone—even those teenagers drinking in the streets, those dressed in their Sunday best, those begging on the corner, and those who want nothing to do with it whatsoever. And that is what I believe Semana Santa is all about.

-Jessie, April 6th, 2007

Before we met up with the Solomon´s Porch group to work in San Juan La Laguna, I didn´t know how much I had missed feeling a sense of community.

Community was what the week in San Juan was all about. The first glimpse I caught of Doug (our pastor who is almost 2 feet taller than the average Guatemalan) and then everyone else from our church among the many strangers at the airport, my heart leapt inside of me. None of the people coming from the Porch were long-time or close friends of ours (except for Ruben, who Josh mentors), but it didn´t matter. For me, they represented a community to which I belonged, and it made me feel at home.

As we gathered together as a group, it didn´t take long for people to warm up to each other. By the end of the first night, Doug was assigning personality types to people based on the oh-so-famous enneagram, Ruben and Taylor were dropping water balloons on people from the rooftop, and a lot of laughs were shared after a story involving one of our group members (who shall remain nameless), a Wedge Co-op cashier, figs, and a failed seduction.

The next day, when our boats pulled up to the dock in San Juan, our community joined the larger community of San Juan. Families from the village quickly swept us up the hill, carrying our bags alongside us. They prepared a feast for us in a tiny school classroom of chicken stew, tamales, rice, tortillas, and coffee. They opened their homes to us and engaged us in conversation and their daily routines at our homestays. And that is just in the first 24 hours. Throughout the week, we are constantly reminded that we, the people of Solomon´s Porch, are out of place yet somehow exactly in the right place. We provide materials and a little sweat and muscle to build a few homes and desks, and they return the favor ten-fold with hospitality, conversation, generosity, and lessons of grace. Families from years past visit with us, and I run into several familiar faces and receive many kisses on the cheeks. Blessings and salutations are sent with us for those who were not able to return to San Juan this year. Although we do not speak a common language (except possibly Victor, who mysteriously can communicate in any language) than us, we learn from eachother, laugh together, and find common understanding.

As our time winds down, the strong bond of community becomes even more evident to me. First when we go to each home for the “house blessings.” Tears are shared between group members and homeowners of gratefulness and connectedness. Taylor gives a photo to his 2 friends, both named Andres, along with his best Spanish explanation of his plans to return as soon as possible. Many tiny children climb every possible limb of Jeff and Josh. God has brought us together and I think we all feel a sense of this, making it hard to say goodbye.

The second time I realize the strong sense of community surrounding me is our last night together as a group in Guatemala. Tomorrow the group will return to Minnesota and Josh and I will continue to Europe. By now, I feel comfortable in this group and relationships have been formed. The thought of breaking it up feels like a pit in my stomache. But one thing God is teaching me is that community does not only happen when we are all in the same room, talking face to face. Community has the ability to span time and space, which is lucky for us as we move on to a new continent, in a new time zone.

-Jessie, April 3rd, 2007