Doma: HOME

Jamie and I are living the quintessential transient life; each week we are on the move: next is Waynesburg, then to Tennessee, then an excursion to Ohio, then to Erie, then to Pittsburgh and, finally, the apex of it all, the Czech Republic. Currently, Pine Springs is our humble abode and it has been a blessing. I worked as a counselor at Pine Springs for three years and Jamie has worked as program staff for a year; so, whenever we get the chance to come and visit, we take up the offer.

Pine Springs was the place where I met Jan Dus and his wonderful children, it was here that I found tangible Christian community and it was here where I had relationships with hundreds of wonderful children. And, in coming back, I've realized that nothing has changed.

When you drive to Pine Springs, the road to take is Route 30, as it winds its way through the bucolic Pennsylvania countryside and then into the foothills of the Appalachian mountains, known in PA, as the Alleghenies. I forgot how much I missed the sight of gently rising slopes and long chains interspersed with valleys and rolling farm land; it is beautiful. I could not help but think about how much I will miss this scene when me and Jamie move to Czech Republic; but, then, I have to remind myself that the Czech Republic, topographically, and climate wise is much like Pennsylvania. It was along this train of thought, when my conscious was jarred back 6 years.



In 2002, I was a 18 years old and my grandma was alive at the dignified age of 81. She was a women of much faith, yet, one who knew her fair share of hardship. In 1969 she had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's Disease (ALS) and was only expected to live until 1971. ALS is a ruthless killer; it can subdue victims in less than six months upon diagnosis and most only live about 3 years with the affliction, which explains the sobering death expectancy she received from doctors long ago. Ironically, my Grandma out lived many of those same doctors who gave her the somber news; she was a medical miracle. Instead of only living until 1971, she lived long enough to see her son grow up and have triplets (me!!), witnessed the fall of the Berlin wall and understood the impacts of the proliferation of the internet. However, the age of 81 was not kind to her, and I knew that it wouldn't be long until she passed.

When I think back to her last year on this earth, I am drawn towards a conversation I had in the winter. I used to ask my Grandma about history; I wanted to know what WWII was like, how she lived in the depression and how she met my grandfather; but, on this occasion, she spoke about her childhood. I had known for many years that her region of birth was not the United States; in fact, she was born in what was then known as Czechoslovakia. Where she was born, I do not know, but she spoke of herself as a Czech and spoke a little of the language. Her parents emigrated to the United States in the early 1920s to pursue a better life. They settled in the town of Alquippa, which is located about 15 miles north of Pittsburgh on the Ohio River, as it was the site of J&L Steel company, which employed 10,000 workers at its height. So, my Great Grandfather took a job and settled his young family; he spoke very little English. To this day, much of my Grandmother's family still resides in what is known as "West Aliquippa," the section of the town that was set aside for Eastern Europeans: mostly Czechs and Slovaks.

My Grandma's story is not very different from many of the families that now reside in the steel towns along the Ohio river. Consequently, in Pittsburgh, many families take pride in their past and their families original ethnicity. So, in a way, I was proud of my Grandma and asked her about the Czech Republic. She was too young to really remember, but she passed down to me what her parents and neighbors told her about the "old country", which my Dad still says when talking about the Czech Republic. She spoke of winters, and rolling hills; farmers and folk tales; historically-based traditions, art, the Catholic Church, but she spurned the beer. Then, I remember her saying that her father was content with living in Western Pennsylvania, because it reminded him so much of his home: there are hills, winters, Catholic Churches and beer. I can't say for sure whether my Great Grandfather really did feel that Western Pennsylvania was his home, but I will soon have an inclination as to what he might have felt.
Jamie and I, unlike my Grandma, will not be moving to the Czech Republic to find a better life or to flee from oppression, but we will have a mission and purpose. Whether Policka will become a new "home" to us is a question that we can ask in the future. Yet, I would be remiss not to be cognizant of God's working hand in my life and in my family's. Who would have thought that the Grandson of a Czech woman would now be moving to the "old country" from whence she came? Who could have imagined that my Great Grandfather would struggle to learn English, just as I am now struggling to learn his native Czech? I firmly believe that history does not move in a cycle; that fortune's wheel, so often spoken of in history, might be a fallacy, but I can see that in some ways individual lives can work in cyclical patterns, which God uses to help his people experience personal insight; to reveal how a rooted past is necessary for the future; or for an apocalyptic vision into how God's hand has masterfully woven love, family, history and calling all into one beautiful whole. I think my Grandma would be proud.




Jan's family is at Pine Springs the same week that Jamie and I have been; we both have thoroughly enjoyed practicing our Czech with his kids. They seem to be impressed, which is good, considering Jamie and I have studied hard!

The excitement and nervousness are building....

-Jeremy

He is good and I'll be fine

There is one month before Jeremy and I are on our way to the Czech Republic, and each day it becomes more real for me. We have our flight information, we just received our Eurail passes, we have started sorting our what we are going to take and each day we get a little more comfortable with what we know of the language. 30 days, that's all we have, which is exciting, yet nerve wracking at the same time. What is it going to be like? Are they going to like us? Are our classes going to go well? There are hundreds of other questions that float in and out of my mind, and Jeremy is always there to reassure me that we are going to be fine. Honestly, there are times that I become overwhelmed thinking about our move, and that's when I need to remind myself that God has been preparing us for this move and there are things we are not going to know, which is good. If we knew everything that we would encounter and learn, would we be going? Yet, regardless of how nervous I get, God is going to be there, pointing out in small ways that He is good and I'll be fine. Being a nervous person, God does this all the time for me, through His creation and art. I have noticed that the closer we get to our move the more I want to paint, and I am getting really excited about learning about their art forms and seeing the creativity of the students we will be working with. Art is everywhere, in every culture, and enjoyed by millions of people all over the earth and is one way that we can learn about and accept one other. Praise the Lord, for He is good.

Here are my most resent paintings:

5 weeks and counting...

Less than five weeks separate Jamie and me from our new life in the Czech Republic. Questions abound in our thoughts and rattle around in our heads constantly. One thing, though, is for certain; distance will be a reality. Yet, is distance really such a bad thing? Yes, we know that separation will be difficult for our family and friends and it will surely strain us to a point, but I can't help being excited at the prospect. I mean, for the first time in our whole lives, Jamie and I will be on our own. College gave us a small taste of what independence and responsibility are like, but now we're entering into the world_literally.
Growing up as triplet and Jamie coming from a family that is very close, has given us both childhoods where individuality was hard to come by: it was hard for me, as a young boy, to attain a sense of ownership about my accomplishments, because my brothers were usually doing the same thing; that is how it worked. However, with this trip to the Czech Republic, we now have a chance to see for ourselves and know in the deepest recesses of our emotions what it means to be together, just the two of us. This mission to the Czech Republic, we feel, is the perfect way for us to start out our marriage. To many, leaving the country to live in a foreign nation where you don't speak the language would be marital hell; the stress is more acute, the loneliness is vast and the lack of friendship is exacerbated by the fact that you can't communicate well. Yet, for Jamie an I, we feel that these circumstances can work one of two ways: one, is to lead us apart, if we let the challenges drive a wedge between the two of us; or two, they can work to bring us together, as we rely on each other for our main source of emotional support. There aren't many long-time friends to confide in, there won't be familiar "hide-a-ways" to lock our selves in, and there won't be people around who can relate to our emotions; no, all there will be is each other.
Being married has brought much unwanted "advice" from adults who have shrouded their cynicism towards marriage with a shallow veneer of paternal guidance, and it has affected our emotional equilibrium more than we would like to admit. So, while there are those who would say that our view of traveling abroad as a married couple is naive and crazy, Jamie and I can only answer back as Dostoevsky so eloquently wrote:

"it was a lovely night, one of those nights, dear reader, which can only happen when you are young. They Sky was so bright and starry that when you looked at it the first question that came into your mind was whether it was really possible that all sorts of bad-tempered and unstable people could live under a glorious sky."

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

I guess, in the end, this Czech Mission is our Starry Sky; Jamie and I are young, we are full of hope and, to some, we might be naive. We want our naivety to be challenged and we want tangible examples of how hard this ministry will be, but let that come in God's own planning. For now, what we want is to hold onto our hope for what the mission can be and to build onto the creativity that has already been laid by Kati.

I know that Jan has already written a note in the latest newsletter, where he talks about how this will be an "interesting" time for Jamie and I. Yes, this is going to be one of the hardest and one of the best experiences of our lives and we are so glad that we get to share it, not only with each other, but with all of those involved: from the people in Policka to those in Ohio who will be praying. There is no telling what the next two years might mean for the ministry in Policka, or for Jamie and I; it is good that way.

thoughts...

A few weeks ago, I posted a story about my thoughts while watching a raccoon die. I believe I need to elaborate: I was fighting to grasp evil. I concluded by saying that God works through evil; but, I want to be clear when I say that.

Evil is not the vehicle through which virtue can stand. If that were the case, rape could be seen as a way for God's glory to shine; yet, rape does not point to God, eventhough one's actions, to help the victim, do. Wrongs and injustice cannot and should not be justified by the "good" that comes out.

N. T. Wright has a great quote:

"If we can work toward understanding and being the willing agents of both the divine tears over the world's evil and the fresh creativity that sends out the dove to find new olive branches emerging from the waters of chaos, we shall, I think, be on the right track."

just was thinking and reading.....


6 weeks until Jamie and I leave! We started to organize what we will need to pack; it is sooooo close.

dualisms of heaven and earth

through the course of reading I stumbled upon this:

"the transparent person is filled with wisdom_the wisdom of Socrates, who knew that he knew nothing.
the transparent person is filled with goodness_the goodness of Christ, who said "Why callest thou me good? None is good save one, even God."
the transparent person is filled with power_the power of Paul, who said that the strength of Christ may rest upon me...when I am weak, then am I strong."

- Glenn Clark, Fishers of Men.

Human foresight...

One year ago I (Jeremy) remember telling my family and friends that I felt like I was approaching a precipice: college was over, I was leaving for the Peace Corps and I had to grow up quickly. I was sitting dumbfounded with my legs crossed and my back rapidly closing in on the vertical drop, which would soon lead me down a cascade of rapids and waterfalls_the unknown.

To say that I have grown more comfortable since then would be a lie. After all, I would have never guessed that Jamie and me would be married, that we would be leaving to do ministry in the Czech Republic and that the Pittsburgh Penguins would be in the Stanley Cup (not that these are bad).

The second to last day that Jamie and I will be here at Camp Willson has past, and I know that both of us are ready for our next transition. Yet, we are nervous. In a parallel pattern, I am again feeling the same anxiety from the unknown: this time it is to the Czech Republic. I guess the sitting cross-legged-going-over-a-waterfall thing might be a little bit too extreme, but I know that I am struggling to imagine. Jamie and I are certain that we have ideas and that the Lord has called us and our gifts to the ministry, but it has been so hard to focus. With all the work that needs to be done at Willson and with our daily responsibilities that seem never-ending, I feel that the mundane has dulled my sense that we are making a BIG change. In one day our time in Ohio will be officially over; however, it hasn't struck me yet. I will not be going back to Willson. The friends Jamie and I have made will now be faraway. No more kids. No more tiger salamander. No more Mac-o-chee. TIME FOR CHANGE.

Yet, this might be how God wants it. Anyone that lives a self-sacrificial life in the service of others might only have human foresight. Think about it: if Nelson Mandela really knew that he would spend thirty years in prison, would he have fought hard? Would Medgar Evers have fought for Blacks in Mississippi if he knew he would die with three young children? What about Mother Teresa? Jesus was the only one I can think of who had a hint of his real calling (sacrificial Love) and even he, when it was fully revealed to him, asked for the cup to be taken from him. Now, I am not saying that I am on any level near those wonderful disciples, but I do think there can be a connection: it's like a shot. If I know that the needle is coming to stick me in the arm, and I watch the tip enter my skin, I know that it will hurt. However, the doctor distracts me. While my mind wanders, the needle goes in with minimal pain.

Am I saying that God's work can be painful? Yes.

Giving your life for the Kingdom is much like faith. If we get caught on trying to rationally prove our faith through factual knowledge and scientific inquiry, then what are we really left believing? Where is faith? In the same vein, to chose a life's work or a passion based on the assured knowledge of what is to come lacks whole-hearted devotion (I am reminded the we must hold with both hands to the plow and not look back).

I feel that this is rambling and I am not making very much sense, but I will try to sum up my feelings in short sentences:

God's imagination for this ministry is greater than I could dream.
My foresight is dull and diluted.
Jamie and I must rest in the fact that we are the mediums, not the message.
I am always amazed how God uses imperfect beings to accomplish his holistic plan.
I hope we can be faithful.
A month and a half until we leave.....wow.
Jamie and I wish for acceptance.
Jamie is really creative.
We must be still in God's plan and know that it is for good.

We are blessed.

seeking truth through pain.

Jamie and I have been debating about whether the material on this blog should be relegated to just the Czech mission, or if it would be acceptable for us to post our thoughts and personal feelings for all to see. Well, we have decided that we need to post our feelings and thoughts, as they can be a small window into the type of people we are, which helps those who do not know us feel closer to our minds and emotions, even though Jamie and I are physically separated from many of you.

Here it goes:

Have you ever wondered whether this whole "mustard seed" that Jesus talks about in the New Testament can be seen and felt in your everyday life? I know that I do. But sometimes I think my perspective on the matter of the Kingdom coming and my idea of eschatology can be narrow. It is very easy for me to sit back and point to very tangible manifestations of the mustard seed when I am on a mission trip, or at a Christian camp, or in a great theology class where my understanding is challenged. But, I do struggle to see it at my house or even in my thoughts. Building homes for low income families, counseling forgotten teenagers, micro-lending for economic development, fighting for peace and being the ear for a lonely senior citizen relegated to a nursing home are all great, and I know that we all can see Christ in those acts and through the people those actions help. However, what about us being able to see the Kingdom growing through tragedy and violence?

Can we see the Kingdom in a hurricane that kills 200,000 people? Is Christ there when an African man is beaten because he voted the wrong way? What about sex trafficking?
Is the Kingdom present? Is Christ present?

I would have to say yes. Just as God was present for Daniel in captivity, so he can be in tragedy today, which brings me to today.

Jamie and I decided to take a nice spring bike ride across the Ohio country side. We had planned to rent a movie, so we decided to bike into town. It was a nice ride: the sun was shinning and there was a wispy breeze, just what we wanted. Renting the movie did not take very long, and because we had to get back to dinner, Jamie and I chose to turn back after only a few miles and head back into camp. As we entered the drive way and biked up about a quarter of a mile, we both were struck by a noise at the side of the road. It sounded very distinct and not the normal chatter we all hear from the spring birds. The sound was loud. Jamie had to point it out to me, as she saw it first. Gazing upon the ground, I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of happiness__we were both gazing at a baby raccoon.

We watched it for awhile and listened to it as it was making a kind of crying sound; I thought nothing of it. Jamie wanted to run and get her camera, so I stayed and inched my way closer to the little guy, making sure to keep my distance, yet, be intimate enough to really look at it. As I did this, it began to dawn on me that not all was well with our little friend. It must have fallen out of a tree at one point, because what looked like the wobbly steps of a baby, really turned out to be the pain of a paralyzing fall; the raccoon could not move its back legs. I heard the mother making a call back to her little baby, but she was high up in a tree overhead. Literally, my emotional spectrum shifted 360 degrees from elation at seeing new life, to dread at watching a young life snuffed out. Jamie and I could do nothing: "well, can't I pick it up and help it?" "Oh! The camp could make it into a pet for the children." "Maybe it isn't REALLY hurt."

I wanted to convince myself that nothing was wrong, that all was going to work out and that I had the answer to make this little animal's life better. Yet, with every agonizing cry it made, the more I became defeated. Ten minutes was enough for me. I had to leave. Jamie and I decided to grab our bikes and turn away on the raccoon. As we left, it was laying on the forest floor and was digging its head into the dead leaves from fall.

When people have attachments to animals I sometimes get angry. I mean, why do people seem to care more about a stray dog than a homeless man? The affection towards animals and the love towards a fellow human being are different for one main reason: Human beings have more intrinsic value than animals. I am not saying that I think it is OK for human beings to rape and pillage the earth, which is what we have been doing for quite some time. No, I am talking about Biblical stewardship. Human beings are to cultivate God's creation, bring it into its most glorious form. However, after today, I can see how people are attached to their pets or to an animal they live to protect.

The pain of watching the raccoon suffer overwhelmed me for sure, but I am not convinced that what I was seeing was a bad thing. I knew the entire time that my attempts to help the animal would be in vain and were completely "irrational"; yet, I cared so deeply that I knew I had to at least entertain the thought. At this point, is where I believe I saw the mustard seed today. Not in the suffering of a tiny raccoon, but in the true emotion that overwhelmed me.

Yes, the world is fallen, but it is very far from being chaotic. Some might look at the innocent death of a child or the painful death of a baby raccoon as sure-fire reasons as to why God can't be at work here on earth, but they might only see the dark. Is it not through suffering that Christ is present? Does Christ not work through broken vessels? Vessels are human beings and suffering is the world; God works through both. We are all broken; we all have problems and we all fall short. The world is violent and ruthless, but at the same time both are great vehicles for us to see beauty. Death and destruction are away from God, but our hope is light. I am not saying it is OK to ignore destruction; we must mourn; we must hurt; we must get angry; yet, we can't have happiness without some sadness, and we can't have beauty unless we know that which is ugly.

The raccoon will die. The vividness of my emotional clarity watching the raccoon suffer will surely dull, but I know that I had a true genuine urge to help restore, not to hurt. Maybe this is what Christ hopes for all of us to do? The feelings of restoration are the catalyst for the mustard seed. I hope I might be able to see it more often in my own thinking. What is left now, is whether I can feel the same for people.