Parched Before Rain

Just an explanation. I've been accomplishing a great deal at work. I really don't have much choice, as the pressure has been on to meet deadlines including the start of school in a few weeks. In the meantime, my creativity for blogging has been about as dry as a parched land.

Here in the U.S. we are going into Labor Day weekend. Thank goodness the irony of Americans is such that Labor Day means a holiday. I don't think I shall ever understand that, but I shan't fight it. It comes at just the right time.

Who knows. It may rain this weekend, both literally and figuratively! I, for one, expect it and am looking forward to it.

When It Was All New

At Jubilee Lake, in northeastern OregonDo you remember exploring the world as you grew up? Lately I've been watching kids and how they explore their world and make connections, draw conclusions. It's fascinating.

We forget what it was like; we take for granted all the learning that can happen in a single hour, and even more in just one day. We forget what it's like to use all five of our senses, to take in things that are new to us all the time. We forget what it means to see something and take it at face value, because we don't have prior knowledge that causes us to make assumptions and to judge. We forget how fun it is to explore something that is completely unfamiliar.

You haven't yet developed much of a measuring stick when you're a little one.

Do you remember the smell of the plastic parts of a new doll? The silkiness of her hair? The unfamiliar feel of her clothes?

Do you remember what it was like to caress the face or arms of a family member you loved, and to learn the shapes and the lines and textures, or to play with the floppiness of your grandma's underarms?

Do you remember when every song in church was new? (Okay, I guess that's still sometimes the case.) Do you remember when you never had anything to compare them with? Do you remember how doing movements with songs made you remember them forever?

Do you remember what it was like, trying to get your balance to ride your bike on two wheels for the first time? Remember how scary it was as you wobbled, unsure of staying balanced? Do you remember the triumph, the feeling of being more "yourself" when you got the hang of it?

Do you remember comparing the feel of different kinds of grass when you'd lie or sit on it? Do you remember the smell of grass, and the bugs crawling through it if you looked closely? Do you remember pondering why grass and trees were pretty much all green?

Do you remember what it was like to read your first letters, your first words, and how it opened up a whole new world to you? Do you remember the first story you read from start to finish? Did anyone celebrate that?

Do you remember what it was like to throw rocks into water and watch the way the water splashed, and how the ripples worked, and to try to predict what would happen if you threw a different rock ... or just threw a rock differently?

Do you remember when the Bible stories were all new and unfamiliar and interesting?

Do you remember when you first strained your ears to hear God talking to you, and what you heard or didn't hear, and what you thought about that?

I wonder what it will be like someday when all things are made new. Will we return to the mode of learning everything from scratch, with brand new information coming in through our senses (and maybe there will be more than five senses) every moment of every new day?

He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!" Then he said, "Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true." Rev. 21: 5

Where Do You Fish?

Fishermen on Jubilee Lake last Saturday afternoon, Blue Mountains, OregonJust a reminder that when Jesus said we were called to be fishers of men, he must have intended to send at least some of us to do so in breath-takingly beautiful, peaceful surroundings . . . either figuratively or literally.

If that has been your calling, remember to stop for a moment now to savor your circumstances and to say, "Thank You!"

The Test of Discipleship

The plan of the road from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, from Williams' edition of "The Pilgrim's Progress," 19th century
For my recent morning worship times, I have been working on a project of reading and paraphrasing a hundred-year-old book called "Steps to Christ." The language is outdated, complicated in some parts, complete with phrases twisted around olden-time style. But the project of paraphrasing has been such food for my soul that I've sometimes been unable to stop for an extra hour or two. Here are some quotes from my paraphrased version this morning of a chapter called "The Test of Discipleship," which I hope you enjoy:

While the Spirit’s work is silent and gradual, you can see what it does. If God’s Spirit has renewed your heart, your life will bear witness to that fact. You can’t do anything to change your heart or bring yourself into harmony with God. And you can’t trust at all in yourself and your good deeds. But your life will reveal whether the grace of God is living in you. People will see a change in your character, in your habits, and in the things you choose to do. The contrast will be plain and clear between what you were and what you now are. Character is not shown by occasional good deeds and bad deeds; it’s shown by the trend of your habits in words and deeds.

***

Who has your heart? Who has your thoughts? Whom do you talk about? Who has your warmest affections and gets your best efforts? If you are Christ’s, your thoughts are always with Him, and your sweetest thoughts are about Him. All you have is devoted to Him. You long to bear His image, to breathe His Spirit, to do His will and to please Him in everything.

***

The less you see anything of value in yourself, the more you will see of value in the endless purity and loveliness of your Savior. A view of your sinfulness drives you to Him who can pardon you. And when your soul realizes its helplessness and reaches out to Jesus, He will reveal himself in power. The more your sense of need drives you to Him and to His word, the more glorious views you’ll have of His character, and the more fully you will reflect His image.

In the Clouds

Cloudberries at Nyrölä, in Central FinlandI'd never heard of cloudberries before I went to live in Finland twenty-some years ago. And I haven't heard of them anywhere else since then. I guess that's because they grow in sub-Arctic regions, and I don't usually hang out in such places unless I'm on a trip back to Finland.

Cloudberries are especially delicious as a jam on ice cream, or as a topping for a Finnish cheese called "leipäjuusto," a squeaky cheese with the consistency of firm tofu, only smoother. Mmmm!

The part about cloudberries that intrigues me, other than their gorgeous bright yellow-orange color, is the word "cloud." Why were they given that name? How are clouds associated with the berries? Was the name chosen because they are so delicate and rare that you think of them as somewhat heavenly?

I happen to have an appointment coming up in the clouds. It's one I'm looking forward to. In fact, my heart sometimes aches with waiting and longing for that appointed time to arrive.

For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words. (1 Thess. 4:16-18, NIV)

After a Summer Rain

The after-rain look of our valley two evenings ago.
Husband and I went for a walk after a good rain a couple of days ago. It's so gorgeous here when there's been rain, and then the evening light sneaks under the dark skies and lights up the flanks of the Blue Mountains.

It almost makes me forget California. Almost.

The Parable of the Tea

The Kingdom of Heaven is like unto the preparation of a cup of tea.

Here's how you make a good, rich, satisfying and mature cup of tea. Read carefully:

--Get a teacup.
--Put boiling hot water in the teacup
--Put the tea bag (or tea leaves) in the teacup.
--Move the tea bag (or leaves) around in the hot water so as to thoroughly saturate and heat the tea.
--The tea will "bleed," infusing the hot water with its flavor and color, saturating the hot water with its response to the environment around it.
--Taking the tea bag/leaves out of the hot water too soon will reduce its influence on its environment.

So. How do you respond to being in hot water? And who are you to judge the timing at which you should be lifted out?

Tonight's Entertainment

Husband waits for his food to arrive in a Russian pancake restaurant."We used to play this game with Dad," Stepson once told me. "He would fall asleep while we were sitting on the couch, and I'd wake him up and ask him what he was dreaming. It was so funny. He has the weirdest dreams!"

Well, tonight I thought I'd try it.

"What are you dreaming?" I asked Husband right after he fell asleep.

"Someone was in a car giving me guff," he replied sleepily.

Huh. Where did he come up with that? Dreams are supposed to process the stuff of our day. Our day was spent sitting in a teacher inservice in Spokane, listening to an expert talk about improving student learning. Then we made the three-hour drive home, during which I drove and no one gave us guff.

Soon a twitch told me he'd just fallen asleep again. "What are you dreaming?" I asked.

"It was about washing some dresses," he said. Then he added: "And the people were still in them."

For Pete's sake! I busted out laughing, which I'm sure didn't serve to calm him for his next attempt at sleep.

"What are you dreaming?" I asked, as soon as the heavy breathing told me he'd conked out again.

"I don't know," he said sleepily. "It was chaotic."

I guess it would be, if your wife were waking you up every two minutes to ask you what you were dreaming. He's now being allowed to snore peacefully.

Until next time.

God's Many Houses

"Be prepared; I must go into any church I pass by," I have often told people who travel to Europe with me. I love churches. I mean, LOVE them, like the feeling that I have come home for a little bit. Be prepared to pause, to look, perhaps to pray or to light a candle. It's a moment of connection with Heaven for the soul.

By the way, it strikes me that God's houses in brick, wood, and stone bear many similarities to God's dwellings in us--flesh and bone. You may want to keep that in mind as you read and look.

In this post I will take you into the twenty-one churches I visited in two weeks of travel in Estonia, Finland and Russia. Our university's string quartet played in eleven of these --everything from prison chapels to a cathedral or two. Clicking on any of these photos will give you a better, more detailed view. Come along on the tour!
We start with the Tallinn church. Despite our visit during traditional vacation time in the countries around the Baltic Sea, we had a good turnout for our concert here. You can tell the difference between the protestant churches (like this one) and the Catholic or Orthodox ones by the level of decoration on walls and ceilings. I really liked the effect of wood and ferns in this church.

This is the ruin of the Padise monastery in Estonia. Despite many fires, the chapel has survived over hundreds of years. The sturdiness and endurance of this room through much hardship is what struck me. I wonder what the windows were like--when it had window glass?

Now we go to prison, where this chapel had surprisingly good acoustics despite the look of being in a third world country. I was told that the prisoners might not like having their pictures taken, so I respectfully avoided pointing the camera in their direction. I'm struck by the thought that this space regularly welcomes more than its share of pretty desperate-feeling, needy souls.

The second prison we visited was more decorated, with the rugs on the platform softening the bare spaces of the prison. The prisoner in the green shirt sang some lovely praise songs (with the pop beat on the synthesizer keeping time). This is the chapel in which I took the pictures of chaplain Olavi and the prisoner (post below).

This organ graces one wing in the beautiful Helsinki cathedral in Finland. Despite the glory and gorgeous decorations of this huge church, I managed to pinch my arm in the pew door. Ow.

The Uspenski cathedral in Helsinki serves the Russian Orthodox believers. This is the view as you look straight up. I love those churches where, when you enter them, they draw your eyes straight up to heaven, and then are painted to make you feel that you are looking even higher. They tend to remind you of your place--pretty small--in this universe. It sets your problems in perspective.

My favorite church in Finland is the huge Temppeliaukio church in Helsinki, chiseled down into a solid rock hill. The colors in the rock are beautiful, as is the woven copper dishlike ceiling. There's something strong and thoughtful about the aura of this sanctuary, something that reminds you that we are very much still of the earth while we yet endeavor to make connection with God.

This is the church room at a place called Hopeaniemi, which is a lifestyle change center and spa about 45 minutes west of Helsinki. It also serves as it gym. We had only 10 people at the concert here, but they drank in the quartet's music appreciatively. I love the colors in this room, and the windows that draw your eyes out toward the view into the green of the forest. It's both a folksy and restful place to sit for awhile.

I've written about the cathedral in Turku, Finland before. The altarpiece depicting the transfiguration of Christ is beautifully done, and contrasts with the stark stone simplicity of the rest of this Lutheran church. Unlike altars in Russian Orthodox churches, which can only be approached by a priest, you can walk right up to this altar and take a moment to gaze up and be thoughtful, to symbolically approach God directly and personally. And yet the massiveness of the altarpiece reminds you that you are simple and human before a glorious God.

This pulpit graces a chapel in the Turku castle. Rather ornate, isn't it? I wonder if people sitting near it got a crick in their necks from looking up at the pastor? The special place for speaking the Word is a signal of two things to me: that God does indeed call some people--no matter how flawed--to be the bearers of His word, His encouragement and His exhortation to us. Second, it reminds me that this "higher calling" makes the called individual more visible to everyone, with every word and gesture examined. You get my drift.

Right near the pulpit is a box on each side for seating the highest ranking royal couple. I guess royal couples didn't get to sit together in church in those days.

Our string quartet performed in Bethel church in Turku. I love the moderately simple decor, the colors, and the familiar painting of Christ in Gethsemane for the altarpiece.

This church is actually hidden from any thoroughfare, surrounded by other buildings so that you must approach it through either a little alley or a tunnel staircase from the pedestrian mall. Perhaps at one time it was visible, but somehow it's gotten obscured by the others around it. That's rather sad for such a sweet gem.

In Tampere, Finland, there is a very unusual cathedral worth going out of your way to visit because of the paintings in it, which continue to be controversial (as in, you either love them or hate them). This altarpiece of the resurrection was painted by Magnus Enckell, and the rest of the paintings were done by Hugo Simberg. You can read about them and see more of the paintings here. In all of the paintings there are parables and object lessons, which remind me that some of the most powerful ways of communication are through story and metaphor. It also reminds me that some of the most powerful messages about God and the condition of man can remain unendingly controversial and divisive over the years.

We performed in Jyväskylä at the church pastored by my real-life friend Ansku, who blogs over at Pastorin blogi. The good-sized audience that turned up on this warm Friday evening was encouraging and appreciative.

This sanctuary is designed in the form of a square box built of brick, quite sparse. I think that simple surroundings turn the thoughts toward the examination of the inner life in a way that is not otherwise possible. Some of us appreciate the sacredness and protectiveness of a simple space that is boxed in, and some may feel--well, boxed in. I personally liked it, especially with the light streaming in from above.

This is the worship hall of a summer camp called Kallioniemi ("rock headland") near Jyväskylä. The floor is covered with woven rugs and the teenagers who were there for camp that week sat on the floor. They were surprisingly quiet, attentive and appreciative of the classical music. Maybe that's because we didn't overdo the length.

I love the warmth of the light in this wood building with candles burning on the front mantlepieces, and the informality and camaraderie of people sitting together on the rug-covered floor, in worship. At times, the kids would stand in lines during a song, their arms around each other and swaying as they sang. Singing and swaying together. We are so blessed and built up in these times of worshiping corporately.

Valamon Luostari is a Russian Orthodox monastery in central Finland. When Russia took away a big chunk of Finland following World War II, Finland lost part of this monastery.

They have a madonna icon in the church that is said to work miracles. You might see her on the right there, with all the incense burners hanging down over the top of her. I took two pictures of her and they both turned out fuzzy because of the low light. I tend to believe that it is the faith that makes the miracles, not the icon. Faith in the house of God is a powerful, undefinable thing.

This chapel is in an old Finnish manor house near a town called Siikasalmi. Some people bought this campus and have been trying to run a school and industries there. They had just finished providing a summer camp for a bright-eyed group of children from Russia.

As I looked at the people attending our concert, they appeared to be very simple, down-to-earth farming-type people. Men whose hands showed the signs of working with the dirt. Women with no makeup or fashionable clothing, but beautiful open faces. A spread of ages running from small children to very old people. And I mused that there must be a lot more to know about these people and their lives, belying the simplicity of their exteriors.

Our final concert in Finland was in the Joensuu cathedral. As with many old churches in this country, paintings decorated the walls and the vaulted ceiling. It was one of the most beautiful churches, and had the best acoustics. It was also the best performance by our string quartet. The audience seemed delighted with the quality of the concert.

The ceiling paintings depicted the local plants in this area. The carved balconies and organ casings showed much love and care put into their creation by the artists. But when you looked at the front of the church, the beautiful altar painting got right down to business by depicting Christ hanging on the cross, the darkness of that afternoon surrounding him. You could not forget, in this church, what this was all about.

Welcome to St. Petersburg. This is the chapel in the fortress of Peter and Paul. The last Russian royal family (Nicolas II and his family) now has their bones interred here, near many other Russian czars including Peter the Great and Catherine.

This church is used as a mausoleum rather than as a place of worship. It has long been a place of the dead, not the living. Status is celebrated by the more ornate tombs of those who are higher in the royalty food chain. Any depiction of Jesus is dwarfed by the huge columns and walls of cold marble.

The Cathedral of the Spilled Blood is also used as a museum these days, but I think it's going to be resurrected as a place of worship. It was erected on the spot where Czar Alexander II--who freed the serfs--was assassinated by some of the very people he had set free.

It was amazing to hear that during the soviet time there was a plan underway to turn this cathedral into a swimming pool. This was, hands down, my favorite church of any of these pictured. I could have stayed in there for hours and looked, and looked, and looked.

The edifice is huge, but even more impressive are the many mosaics stacked on the walls up to the ceiling, depicting in living color the scenes of the life of Christ. This is a church that constantly tells stories of Jesus from one wall to another, from one column to the next. It doesn't shut up. Had it been made a soviet swimming pool it would have continued to tell the stories of Jesus, beautifully, brilliantly, eloquently.

St. Isaacs cathedral in St. Petersburg was designed by Auguste Montferrand, a French architect who died 2 months after it was completed. It was his life's culminating work.

During the soviet times this church was turned into an "anti-religious museum." The dove has been there the whole time at the top of the cupola depicting Jesus and the apostles--that dove symbolizing the abiding presence of the Holy Spirit. As best as I can tell, God has had the last laugh at this point.

We ended our tour with a performance in a very simple church in St. Petersburg, a building funded by believers in southern California shortly after the breakup of the Soviet Union. The topic of Bible study that day was the family of Moses (Zipporah, Aaron and Miriam) and what we can learn about family relationships to help us today. These people were digging deep into the Word.

It was at this church that we met Alexey of the bus/police incident fame described two posts below this one.

So there you have it. A whirlwind tour of such a variety of churches. When I wrote the title of this post, "God's many houses," and considered the differences among these churches, their designs and their usages over the years, I thought it was an amazing metaphor for who we are individually as the temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 3:16), and the fact that our diversity in Christ is mirrored in the houses we build for God.

Just think about it.

And We Went to Prison

Remember those in prison as if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering. Hebrews 13:3

This morning I am drawn to write about Olavi (OH-lah-vee). I don't know much about him, but what I know, I admire greatly.

When our string quartet was planning to visit Estonia, our tour director (Kari of the bus fame below) asked me if we'd be willing to play in a prison. A member of the church where we would play in Tallinn was a prison chaplain, and had asked if we would come. I wrote back to Kari and said yes, of course!

We ended up spending most of Sunday playing in two prisons. And it was a very meaningful, thoughtful time for me.

Olavi grew up with no faith during the time when Estonia was under Soviet rule. When he became a Christian his parents disowned him. He persisted, his heart truly given to Jesus. He felt a calling to prison ministry, and was hired by the Estonian government to do that work. People around him can't understand why he likes doing it. The pay is minimal. Other chaplains only go to the prisons on Sundays; Olavi is there every day along with one fellow chaplain.

As I sat there and watched the two chaplains work, I was struck by several things. First of all, the chaplains were truly happy to be there, doing what they were doing. Their faces exuded joy and peace. This was a particularly joyful day for Olavi because he conducted baptism for a young prisoner, as I mentioned here.

Second, the prisoners' faces and demeanors struck me. They looked like a really tough lot to work with. Their faces were hardened and scarred, several noses broken. You would remember these faces (see the one in the background in the picture below). I would not have wanted to meet these guys on a dark street. There were haunted, sad and lonely looks in most of the eyes.

And finally, the circumstances around us reminded me of the poorest places where I grew up in Asia: ugly surroundings, unfinished block walls, dark, dank-smelling stairwells and hallways with narrow wooden doorways, faces looking out the windows and watching us as we went through successive courtyards on our way to the chapel. Men walked in circles in the courtyards as we passed. Prison is truly an awful place to be when you're in Estonia.

It's not work that I would do, driving an hour each way daily to the two prisons we visited, spending time with these men who may or may not be thinking straight. But these chaplains are answering a calling.

At the second prison I watched a young man come up to Olavi after the service and ask politely if he could talk with him. They moved back in the pews to talk. The picture is above. Look at the expression on Olavi's face as he listens. Many of us could only hope to have a friend or pastor who would listen with that kind of love and sympathy on his face.

After they talked for some time, Olavi prayed for his young friend. I have no doubt that it made a difference. For both of them.

Sometimes I long for work that is this raw and up-front in terms of fulfilling the things Jesus told us to do. I want work that makes a visible difference in a stark world, work where I can go home at the end of every day and think, "I made one person's life better today." I want something to be able to point to that indicates the world needed me to be born.

As I think about it, though, it's not about what gem you can take home and feel good about. It's about doing exactly what Olavi is doing--responding to the call, and doing the work God put in front of you to do, to the best of your ability. It's about focusing not on satisfying results or trophies, but on your faithful answer to God's call, day by day.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom. Eccl. 9:10

The Bribe

The square in front of the train station to Moscow, in St. PetersburgSo here's the story of the weekend.

We were in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida) last Saturday, and members of the string quartet from our university wanted to see Tchaikovsky's grave, which is in a crowded cemetery by the Russian Orthodox cemetery at the far end of Nevsky Prospekt (that's "Main Street" for that city). We'd just tanked up on a delicious lunch at a little vegetarian, non-English-speaking restaurant on the island across the bridge from the Hermitage art museum, and our tummies were full and happy.

Our bus driver, Kari, has taken a number of tour groups to St. Petersburg and knew just where to take us for the grave visit. We drove to the square in front of the Moscow train station and veered to the left to take the last part of Nevsky on down to the monastery, moving into the bus lane. Half a block into that road a bus was stopped in front of us, so we pulled up behind it, pausing for a moment until traffic would pick up again.

From across the road where his car was parked came a Russian policeman, a young guy with a bland round face a nothing in his eyes. He asked Kari for his license. (Providentially we had Alexey, a Russian friend and retired curator from the Hermitage Art Museum, along with us and he translated.) The policeman told Kari that he was driving in a bus lane designated only for public bus transport; he'd just broken the law. Then the policeman asked for the bus papers.

Kari just happened to have left the bus papers in his hotel room that morning.

The policeman wheeled and walked across the road to his car, taking Kari's driver's license with him. Kari took our small bus through a u-turn and pulled up behind the police car, jumping out to catch the police officer. An animated interchange followed in two languages--English and Russian, with Kari arguing and the policeman stoic and insistent ... and not at all ready to return the license. Alexey hopped out to help with translation.

The policeman conveyed that we were blocking traffic, and to follow the police car back to the square in front of the train station. We did, pulling into an empty space between traffic lanes. Then Kari and Alexey got out of our bus and into the back seat of the Russian police car to talk with the two policemen in the car. More conversation. Kari got out and slammed the police car door hard, coming to the bus in a fury. We all waited quietly while he took a moment to regain his composure.

"They say we were in the wrong lane," he said. "But I have traveled in that lane many times. It's a bus lane and we are a bus! But they insist it is for public buses only. Tour buses use that lane all the time. They make me so mad, I had to leave before I lost my temper."

Hmmm. I grew up in a third world country; when you are at the mercy of police, you sure shouldn't slam the policemen's car door. I sensed impending doom.

Alexey came back to the bus. "They say that Kari must go to the police station to get his license back. And they will tow the bus because we don't have the papers. But the people on the bus are free to go."

Well now. Tchaikovsky's grave was probably out of the question. But the bigger issue was, were we going to be able to leave in the morning as planned so that we could get our flights home on Monday? The tension in the bus grew deeper.

"What do they want?" I asked.

"Well, I think they want money." Alexey was a bit apologetic in his manner.

"How much?"

"I think we should make them an offer."

"Twenty euros?" someone asked.

"I think that's not enough," said Alexey.

"One hundred dollars?"

Alexey went back to the police car to negotiate, returning shortly. "They say that the costs because of the fine and for towing the bus will be $400 U.S."

"FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!" Disbelief and disgust went through the comments from various people on the bus. We didn't have $400 to give the police.

Kari sent two of our group to the metro station to make a quick trip to the hotel. They were to bring back the bus papers. "Go and talk with them," he told Alexey. "Negotiate with them. Tell them we are just a small group from a college and we are at the end of the trip and that we have no money. Tell them the sign doesn't make it clear that the traffic lane is for public buses only. Tell them whatever you can to stall them until Phil and Sandra come back with the papers for the bus."

Alexey went back to the police car. I saw the stoop of his shoulders, and felt sorry for him. He's a gentle, classy man and it was clear that this was not in his repertoire of experience from working as an art curator. Soon he was back.

"They will take two hundred dollars," he said. We knew we'd better not press our luck. I pulled out $100 from my meager stash of cash, and Albert, at the back of the bus, pulled out $100. We sent the money with Alexey. Soon he was back, bearing with him Kari's driver's license. There was a mutual sigh of relief from us all.

We were free to go, once Philip and Sandra returned. The police didn't even wait to see the bus papers. They drove off with their freshly "earned" cash, in an amount equal to half a month's pay on their salary.

Alexey kept telling us, "We are lucky that they let us go. From what I have heard, they would usually make us pay much more."

Small comfort.

Our student with the strongest justice bone was furious that we'd paid off the police. But I know this from living in third world countries: when you're a visitor in a foreign country you just have to with the flow of the culture. If you rise up to make a statement based on American Judeo-Christian values, you'd better be prepared to miss your flight home.

The Neva River as seen from our hotel window, St. Petersburg, Russia
(click on the picture for the larger view)

Turku

Turku castleTurku is a city in southwestern Finland that serves as the gateway to and from Sweden. The Swedes and Russians alternately ruled Finland for many years, and their influences remain strong in the fortifications, the architecture, the language, and probably hundreds of other ways within Finnish culture.I had not visited the castle for many years, and found delightful changes. The exhibits have expanded enormously, you can see much more of the castle, and the whole place is getting better and better at demonstrating Finnish roots and culture. The one huge annoyance was that in such a massive museum, English is scant at best. Finnish and Swedish are the official languages of the country, and if the caretakers of the castle want to serve the visitors more fully, they'll have written explanations not only in these languages but also in English, the language of tourism. I don't mean to be snobbish about my language by saying that, simply practical.

Our guide for the tour part of our visit, however, spoke excellent English and was entertaining and humorous. (There she is, to the left, during a thoughtful moment.)

In Turku there is a wonderful "Handicraft Village" museum preserved despite the fires that regularly swept medieval towns over the years. On any given day you can stop by and poke around in the houses, seeing various craftspeople at work. Husband insisted on going into every single one that had a door open. In these small rooms people lived, often a whole family in one single room with the stove in the corner. You'd want to live that way if you had a long, cold dark winter to get through. Here you see the "cupboard-style" bed with the curtain across the entry to it. I would have loved one of those when I was a kid! No bed-making!

The other artifacts of life were scattered around as though the inhabitants of these homes had just left for a moment--spinning wheels, cooking utensils, linens for the beds and tables and windows, a chamber pot in the corner, tools of their trade in a corner or a room all of their own.

The artisans have carefully studied the old ways in which people did things hundreds of years ago, and recreate those as you watch.

They are so authentic that they use no artificial light, rather doing their work near windows so as to be able to see. We enjoyed watching the potter as she worked on molding her jugs. (As you can see, the wearing of glasses is not banned for the artists.)

It's really nice to see how handwork is still highly valued in Finland. It would be unheard of--for the most part--for people in the U.S. to value as highly the American hand arts: cross-stitching, hand printed or embroidered linens, etc. The only place I've seen us tend that way is at Williamsburg, Virginia, and that's a long, long way from Washington state.

Both of these museums (the castle and the handwork village) are fun places to visit, but I must end with my very favorite place in town--the cathedral.
I used to go visit the cathedral nearly every time I went to town, just to sit and think quietly for a while and savor my blessings at living for a year in Europe where an edifice like this was a mere bus ride away. The outside of the cathedral is more like a fortress than a cathedral: solid, massive, with none of the lacy decorations that you find on gothic style cathedrals in France, for example. It says to you, "This church will be here forever and it's not moving a centimeter. This church reminds you that God is much bigger than you are, and there really are some things that won't shift in your life." It's rather comforting.

The inside has the gothic arches with side chapels. Most of those are typical things that you'd see in churches anywhere in Europe: stained glass windows, the tombs of royal people, pictures of ships that remind us to pray for family members who work on boats. But one of these is my favorite because it's so unusual, way in the back right hand side of the cathedral. It's a chapel rich with color, with gold stars on a brilliant blue ceiling. I hope heaven is full of colors like this. I do believe that there will be no tombs in the chapels there.