The Right Place at the Right Time

Ever since I moved to Germany in June 2016, it's as if God has been pulling all the threads of my life together. Three years of mostly forgotten German in high school and college. Time spent as a child in the Middle East among Arabs. 20 years in Africa. Traumatic life experiences of my own to soften my heart to those who have seen worse. And a decent ability fixing bicycles from years of having to do it myself. 

One of the first ways this came together was in the bicycle ministry at the refugee camp here. My friend Gene is the main guy behind a ministry that finds used bikes for refugees to use getting around town and to school. I go with him every other week to help repair the bikes, which also gives the opportunity to get to know precious adults and kids from Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Guinea, Nigeria and meet a practical need. 

Gene(L) and Me (R) under the tent working on bikes at the refugee center some time last year. 

Today was one of those days where EVERYTHING COMES TOGETHER in a way that only God can orchestrate. One of those times where you just kind of sit back and say, "Okay, God, You obviously set this all up. I'm along for the ride. Do your thing."

First of all, we weren't even supposed to be at the camp today. Our normal time should have been last week, but since Gene was away, we had canceled. Rather than make it a whole month between visits, we decided to go today instead of next week. 

We each fixed several bikes - not too many, with good time to chat with folks - as always in broken German and English with the odd Arabic word thrown in. 

We got done a bit early and were carrying the tools to the car. I rounded the corner to see an American guy, Brian, with an African talking to the security guards. I hadn't met Brian yet, but Gene knew him. He was saying, "Does anyone know French?" just as I walked by. 

I chimed in and was swept into that place where you're speaking multiple languages. Brian to me in English. His son interpreting into German for the guards. Me to the African guy with him in French: "What's you're name?"  
"Dembele" 
Wait a second. That's a MALIAN name! 
Switch to a Bambara greeting. Dembele breaks into a bigger smile than when I spoke French, beside himself that someone in this strange land speaks Bambara. 
Turns out he's a Malinke from an area in Mali where I did language survey 23 years ago. 

Brian had been out driving with his sons and saw Dembele walking down the road several miles back. Brian works some in East Africa and was moved to stop and see if this guy was okay. They shared no language but somehow he convinced him to get in the car and come with him to the refugee center. He arrived only minutes before we left. 

Confusion ensued as we talked with the camp staff about procedure to follow. I related that he had come from Italy arriving today on the train. He was 10 months in Italy and then before that he crossed the sea from Libya. He had no papers or documents on him. He hadn't eaten in 2 days.

It seems we needed to take him to the larger camp 15 min away. But in the meantime, the police had been called and so we had to wait for them to arrive. Brian needed to get to soccer practice but managed to find a bag of food among his groceries to give to Dembele. We all exchanged contact information. 

Then I sat with Dembele and made him comfortable as we waited 45 minutes for the police to come. It was good to be able to comfort him, tell him a bit what to expect, reassure him of that all would be well. 
It was obvious he was both tired and a bit scared. 
I got someone to go inside and find the couple from Guinea and they came out and talked to him in French and reassure him. 

I asked about his family. His mother is 58. She and his older brother are back in Mali in the village, where his brother grows millet and peanuts. The best I could tell, he left Mali only in search of better opportunities. We tried to call his brother but couldn't get through, but I left a text telling where he was and that he was okay. 

The security guards came over a few times as did different refugees. We'd switch to German or English and I would introduce them. My synapses were close to bursting trying to go back and forth between German (which I speak poorly) and French. At times, it felt like I had to go in and manually shift gears on the language derailleur in my brain. I kept throwing "und" and "oder" into my French sentences - call it skipping gears. At least it made things funny for those around. 

Suddenly the police were there. They were asking questions in German and found out he only speaks French. So I get to be the interpretor. 
Then they're searching him, patting him down, going through his pockets. I'm trying to keep one step ahead with explanations so he'd know to take off his shoes and socks, show the bottom of his feet. Put them back on. Now get in the car. 
I was able to stop and ask where he was going and tell him so he'd know that he was going with them to a nearby town for tonight. Then 2 hours north of hear to a bigger center where he'd be registered and possibly relocated. And then I said goodbye. 

Pray for Dembele. He's a fragile young man making his way in a strange land without any English or German or any papers. 
It would be great if he ended up in a camp nearby where Brian's family and I could visit. 
But if not, it was great just to be a friendly face speaking in a familiar language in a strange land. And to know that God is orchestrating a majestic dance around us. 

PS. Oh, and guess what? Today I discovered my "Toubabou" t-shirt from Mali in the bottom of the drawer and put it on for the first time in perhaps a year! God has a sense of humor. 

Celebrating 200 years of the Bicycle!

This past weekend I went to the Dreiländermuseum (Musée des Trois Pays) in Lörrach, Germany for a special exhibit on the history of the Bicycle.

Did you know that the earliest form of the bicycle had its debut 200 years ago on June 12, 2017. Invented by Karl Drais in the city of Mannheim, about 250 km from where I live. The "Draisine" or "Vélocipède" (French), or Laufmaschine (German, literally: Running machine) had wooden wheels and no pedals.

Except for the wheels, it is basically the same design as the push bikes that children learn to ride on.

Karl chose a nice flat area to do his demonstration and managed to do 14 km (8.5 miles) in one hour.

Without pedals, though this really was quite a lot of work and it did not really take off for some time. 

The next leap in design came in the 1860s when pedals were attached directly to the front wheel. In order to get any efficiency without gears, you needed a really large wheel, which in turn made it quite hard to handle. 

Apparently there were clubs of gentlemen who would ride these around for fun, but they were not practical enough for everyday transport. 

In 1884, an Englishman invented the "bicyclette de sûreté" (Safety Bicyclette) pictured below. 

With the addition of rubber tires, a chain and pedals attached to the middle of the frame, we finally arrive at something similar to a modern "fixie" bicycle (only one speed). 

Note that this even has a bell and a light. It's hard to tell if the light was meant to hold a candle inside it or a lamp with a small gas reservoir). 

In the 1890s, bicycles came into mass production. Apparently there were bicycle clubs in this area of Germany dating back to the turn of the 20th century - and they are still going strong. 

Bicycles also began to be used in armies. Initially they were used for messaging, but eventually some countries had bicycle infantries. The bicycles below are quite literally "Swiss Army Bikes".  They apparently even had some sort of foldable bikes the soldiers would carry on their backs. 

With the arrival of WWI, bicycles came into the mainstream because fuel and vehicles were in short supply and this was the only way to get around. 

The widespread use of bicycles also brought social change. It meant that workers could live further away from the factories where they worked. And it provided a way for women to get around, once it became acceptable for them to ride bikes (around 1900). 

It was also interesting to note that during World War II, bicycles were used by resistance fighters to smuggle documents across the border from Basel, Switzerland into Weil am Rhein and Lörrach (on roads that I likely took today on my bicycle ride). They would hide the documents in the frames and inside the tires and inner tubes! 

There is much to the history of the bicycle - it's replacement by the automobile in the 1950s and resurgence in the 70's due to the energy crisis and more recently for health and environmental reasons! 

If you live in the Drieländereck, head over to this exhibit which is running through Sept 17, 2017 and celebrate this truly marvelous invention! (entry is €3)

Same, Same. . . . .But Different

A few weeks ago someone asked me what it was like to live somewhere where I blended in. After 21 years in Africa, now living in Germany, it's a good question. 

SAME, SAME
That got me to thinking. Up until I was eight, I lived in my home culture. A perfect one-to-one match where I was indistinguishable from those around me, both in the way I looked and the way I understood the world. 

Then my family moved overseas and we lived in various countries in the Middle East from 1973 to 1979. I also had a a year of boarding school in Ethiopia (5th grade) and India (9th grade). 

DIFFERENT
One of my memories from that time was going shopping in the big open market. I always knew I could find my parents easily because they really stood out from everyone else. And of course, I stood out as well. If I got lost, everyone would know who my parents were. 
Not so, when we came back to the US. There it was easy to lose your mom at the supermarket. 

When I was 30, I moved to Africa and lived there for 21 years, mostly in Mali.  
I stood out. Everywhere I went, children (but also adults) would remind me of the fact - in case I forgot - by yelling out Toubabou or better yet, "Toubabou, Toubabou! Toubabou de Toubabou". 

[Toubab is a word used across West Africa, but also seen as far away as India. One etymology is that it comes from the Arabic word Tabib, meaning doctor. In any case, it is used to refer to people of European descent, but does not actually include any element that refers to the color white] 

Having your differentness yelled out everywhere you went certainly DID get old. 

Now, if you live anywhere long enough, you can do things that move you from the camp of outsider to being an insider" 

• Learning the language goes a long way, especially when that language is NOT a language of power but a minority one. (See Language Learning and the Incarnation) 
• Wearing clothing that is appropriate to the context, including things in the local style. NOT wearing clothing that is deemed inappropriate. 
• Eating local food (and not gagging). 
• Taking a local name. This was important in Mali where I took on the name "Dawuda Tunkara" which opened doors to a specific language group. And allowed me to enter into all sorts of games and joking. Tunkara identified me as a "griot", a member of the minstrel/bard class who sing the praises of nobility, warriors, etc. 

• Oh how the Malians loved it when they told me, "If you're a Tunkara, you must be a djeli (griot)." And then I responded by asking them their name and singing a funny song about all the Coulibalys eating beans. The icing on the cake was asking them to give me a dollar afterwards. 

But even if you do all these things, you're still an outsider and will always do things that are funny, strange or even offensive without knowing it. I learned to not be too upset by it all. Try your best and realize you're always going to be something of an oddity. 

In Mali our status of Toubabou came with a level of deference, respect and preferential treatment which was automatic and not earned, and usually made me feel uncomfortable. There's no reason to let me go first when paying my electric bill, for example. Or to make me come up and sit at the front of church. 

I've been in other countries where I stood out and was not always received as kindly. I gone exploring on my bike and ended up in neighborhoods and had people tell me to go back to my part of town. 
I've had people get upset because they were sure I was taking their picture, when in reality I was checking my GPS map to figure out how to get back home. 

SAME, SAME but DIFFERENT* 

Same Same but Different is a very popular "T-shirt Meme" in Thailand

So this brings me to the summer of 2016 when I moved to Germany.  There's no doubt about it - I certainly blend in. I can go anywhere and people do not KNOW that I don't belong. As long as I don't open my mouth. Then they know I'm not German. 

But even when walking the streets, shopping, or attending events, you always have the nagging feeling that at any moment you might DO something that reveals that you are an outsider, that you have no place and then the gig will be up: 

• show up at the church potluck without your own plate, silverware and drink. 
• take forever at the kiosk where you buy bus tickets because you have no clue how it works. 
• cut your cheese with the wrong knife

Of course, people are generally very understanding, especially when they figure out you're a foreigner - but that depends on where you are from (sadly). 

SAME, SAME but DIFFERENT 2.0

These thoughts originally grew out of some facebook interactions. At the time one of my friends also pointed out that she felt this same fear of being discovered as a pretender when she returns to the US after 20+ years overseas. 

Sadly this is very true. After you do your time overseas, you head home and think you'll finally be able to blend in. Once someone takes you shopping for clothes that are in style, you can look the part, and sound the part in normal conversation. 

But then you go to a party or Sunday School class and realize that you really can't relate to the casual talk that is going on. You may not even know WHO or WHAT they are talking about. And the things you have to contribute are so foreign that most of the time you don't share them.  

Strangely you end up not fitting in either in your host country, or your own country. You become truly a "Third Culture" person. You only find yourself fitting in with other cross-cultural workers. And oddly enough, they don't even need to have served in the same area of the world you have. 

Recently, I talked with a Third-Culture Kid who is now back in his home country as a young adult. He said that even though he LOOKS and TALKS and SOUNDS like those around him, he does not FEEL like one. 

Same Same . . . . but Different. 

Tending the Vine

Last summer, I discovered the joy of cycling through the vineyards that are one valley over from where I live in Kandern, Germany. (Between Holzen and Tannenkirch).


In early September they started putting up netting over the vines to keep the birds off.

And then in late September and October came the harvest. The vines were loaded down with beautiful green grapes (and a few red ones). There were roadside grape vendors, and lots of local grapes at the grocery store. The Autumn festivals all boasted new wine. 

On my last few rides before winter set in, the vines were picked clean and then I did not see them until this week. After weeks of snow, on February 2, it got up to 55 and I decided to go on my first real bike ride of the spring. 

I rode through one set of vineyards and didn't notice anything. After all, there were no leaves. But then I went to the other side and there I saw people out working among the vines. And I realized they were pruning the vines in preparation for warmer weather and a new season of growth. 

I remembered a Bible Study my small group did several years back on John 15. 

John 15: 1 “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. 2 He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.

The study pointed out that it is the new growth that is cut off each year to allow more growth. And that it might be painful the things that are cut off. 

Here is the before picture. The vine (french: le cep) is the dark brown section going about half way up. And the Branches (french: les sarments) are the red parts in the upper half. 

What struck me this week was HOW much they cut off.
My inclination would be to cut off maybe half of last year's growth.
I was shocked to see that there was just one little branch left coming out of the vine.

Below you can see the untrimmed vines on the left. And the trimmed ones on the right, looking a lot like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree.



Seriously, you would think the vine would not grow at all with just ONE little branch to grow leaves. But then I remembered the verse. The growth comes because the branch is connected to the Vine which has roots going down and provides nutrients:

4. Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.5 “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.

Here is one last shot:

This is the finished work of pruning. See all that has been cut off from last year. We must not cling to our growth from last year, but allow ourselves to be pruned back.

And leave the rest to be gathered up, and thrown into the fire! (vs 6)

But

7) If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. 8 This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.

Picture I took in 2012 in France, of a vine with new growth.