"Morning Dedication"

Almighty God,
As I cross the threshold of this day
I commit myself, soul, body,
affairs, friends, to thy care;
Watch over, keep, guide, direct, sanctify, bless me.
Incline my heart to thy ways;
Mould me wholly into the image of Jesus,
as a potter forms clay;
May my lips be a well-tuned hapr
to sound thy praise.
Let those around see me living by thy Spirit,
trampling the world underfoot,
uncomformed to lying vanities,
transformed by a renewed mind,
clad in the entire armour of God,
shining as a never-dimmed light,
showing holiness in all my doings.
Let no evil this day soil my thoughts, words, hands.
May I travel miry paths with a life pure from spot
or stain.
In needful transactions let my affection
be in heaven,
and my love soar upwards in flames of fire,
my gaze fixed on unseen things,
my eyes open to the emptiness, fragility,
mockery of earth and its vanities.
May I view all things in the mirror of eternity,
waiting for the coming of my Lord,
listening for the last trumpet call,
hastening unto the new heaven and earth.
Order this day all my communications
according to thy wisdom,
and to the gain of mutual good.
Forbid that I should not be profited
or made profitable.
May I speak each word as if my last word,
and walk each step as my final one.

If my life should end today,
let this be my best day.

The Valley of Vision

weekend

Aside from the general air of gentility and decorum he lends to this page, Babar has no connection with the following entry.

Today I spent almost entirely with Lauren Edewaard. We talked. We ate. We drank. We studied (in that order, and on that value system).

Felty is off gallivanting in Vienna with Julia and Darcee.

Tonight, "The Boys" will visit us for coffee and a movie.

It's been a good day. And that's all I have to say about that.

tongues

Recently, Pentecost has been on my mind.
Seated on a bench in the building as Slovak university students interact with a Slovak lecturer, my mind grapples with noises, styled by human tongues, that hold meaning for everyone there except me. Every now and then, a name will hit my consciousness and register. Schopenhauer! G.K. Chesterton! New Age! A glimmer of excitement, which gutters out in the relentless torrent of a foreign tongue.
I sit there and for the first time truly appreciate the power of Babel over humanity. My mind cannot surmount it. Imagining the horror and chaos of that ancient day entertains me as I resign myself to ignorance. Did God, in a moment, implant original systems of words and expressions in the minds of mankind that day? Did they each think that the other was speaking gibberish, or did they recognize that the words springing to their minds were not the ones they once used? The Bible is really close-lipped about the whole affair. “The LORD confused the language of all the earth. And from there the LORD dispersed them over the face of all the earth.” (Genesis 11:8,9) And, thousands of years later, here I sit: a true daughter of that dispersal.
Of course, I’ve also been taught that in Pentecost, the consequences of Babel were reversed. Acts 2 records that, heralded by a rushing wind and divided tongues of fire, the Holy Spirit “gave [the apostles] utterance” to speak in other tongues. Sometimes it seems to me that this event has only led to more confusion—hostility over the idea of speaking in tongues continues to divide the Christian community. And it had that effect at its occurrence: some marveled, some accused the apostles of drunkenness.
Even as I mused on how convenient a baptism with tongues of fire would’ve been that particular evening, I realized that it wouldn’t solve the real problem. The real problem existed even before Babel: it arrived along with a host of evils with the fall of mankind. Even those who understood the words of the lecture had to grapple with the import of the words, which, from the tone of the debate, was far from clear. If we all spoke the same language, we’d merely be better equipped to argue over concepts—the customary state of affairs for me in America. We speak the same language…and then again…we don’t.
And there is yet another reason heaven will surpass my imaginations. I cannot imagine a realm free of confusion, where every man fully understands every other man. And as I leave the Building, that Final Pentacost is on my mind.

a reminder

It confuses me that Christian living is not simpler. The gospel, the very good news, is simple, but this is the gate, the trailhead. Ironing out faithless creases is toilsome labor. God bestows three blessings on man: to feed him like birds, dress him like flowers, and befriend him as a confidant. Too many take the first two and neglect the last. Sooner or later you figure out life is constructed specifically and brilliantly to squeeze a man into association with the Owner of heaven. It is a struggle, with labor pains and thorny landscape, bloody hands and a sweaty brow, head in hands, moments of severe loneliness and questioning, moments of ache and desire. All this leads to God...
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]

As a pedestrian, I find myself wondering about the people I pass on my daily excursions in the city of Trnava. Each morning I pass the same group of laborers in their orange vests, chipping at a shoulder-high brick wall before the entrance to the city. Twice I have seen a pair of darker-complexioned men on bicycles of such dilapidation that I wonder how the wheels manage to turn on their corroded axles. Often a man or woman in fashionable attire leads a little child by the hand on the way to school. My path leads me alongside the windows of this school, where children clamor and scramble around desks under the supervision of wimpled nuns. Every face interests me. Most intriguing to my fancy, however, are the old people.
Old men with graying mustaches, clothed in somber grays and blacks and denims, lurch along on their one-speed bicycles. The women, many of whom have dyed their hair a strident shade of red (a vestige of Communism), dress in similarly subdued raiment—ankle-length skirts and bulging coats that abruptly branch out into two tiny feet toddling beneath the unbalanced load. There is a certain generation space whose female occupants favor furry gray hats.
Mentally, I parallel their experience with that of elderly Americans. While our Seniors have witnessed their share of woes—World Wars, Depressions, Vietnams, and Cold Wars among them—such sorrows appear almost trivial to the sort of hardships sustained by these hearty perambulators, who dwelled under the blight of Communism for so long, and whose parents and parents’ parents for generations lived under the thumb of various regimes. Ours were the woes of the independent, shaking off the threat of oppression (real or imagined) and natural disaster. Theirs were the woes of the browbeaten, seeking to carve out a life from an imposed mold that as often as not sought to crush them, and leaving their children to reap the benefits.
And yet they walk, while our brave and free seniors settle indoors in little ranches and condos, lose their mobility, and move to nursing homes. What does this mean?
I don’t claim to know. I merely posit the hope that, whether my future lot contain adversity or anesthetizing prosperity, I will walk when I am old.

mazement

So I've been studying Klimt. One of my History textbooks, Fin-De-Siecle Vienna, devotes an entire chapter to his cultural, historical, and political significance for Vienna and for the world. That book also addresses the architecture of the Ringstrasse, Sigmund Freud, Schonerer's Pan-Germanism, Lueger's Christian Socialism, and Herzl's Zionism. Rattling these off makes me feel well-read, but in reality I feel as though the majority of the content whistles between my ears and merrily on its way into the Limbo of Forgotten Knowledge. I am excited about drawing from this book as I wander Vienna in a few weeks, however, and it has definitely awakened me to the complexity and ambiguity of human existence, especially as regards art and politics...and yet how everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) is connected. How these impressive historical figures were raised determined so much about the course of their lives! It made me reflect on my own upbringing, and wonder how the Dutchness, the nurturing sheltering atmosphere of a conservative Midwest family, the deep religious conviction, have influenced the angle my own life has bent. Praise God that I also have the assurance that he will keep me in perfect peace, will light my path, and never let me fall out of his hand! It's also good to be conscious of my upbringing and my instinctive reactions to situations as I go through life, and not confuse God's will with the things that I've been trained to think.

Life is such a complex affair!

However, before I lapse too far into philosophical drivel, I must admit that I rarely acknowledge that complexity as I meander around in the maze. I'm too involved in the life of the senses, both negatively and positively...too caught up in the sensations and emotions incited by the moment to constantly probe deeper. And to an extent, I can rest easy as I do this, knowing that the Lord is my Shepherd and if I wander, he'll hook me and drive me back on the correct path. But I must take care that I don't get too complacent in this world.

Levoca was a particularly fascinating stretch of the maze. I loved studying the cathedrals, churches, museums, ancient libraries, city walls, and other historically and spiritually rich structures. It was almost too much to absorb, however...I could devoted twice the time to half the material. But our time was short, and we made the most of it, and I am enriched.

Now I'm back "home" at the Prestige, with a cup of coffee, ready to tackle Fin-De-Siecle Vienna once again!

cathedrals

Although someone had tipped me off, I found myself spellbound as I walked the streets of Trnava at the number of cathedral spires skewering the cloudy sky. Their contours--barbed, bulbous, bold--rose above the roofs of shops and houses and concrete vestiges of communism. I sensed their theatrical appeal, urging me to soar with them, beyond the concerns of the present and the offenses of the past--to penetrate eternity. These points had a point: to point to God.

I knew that I stood on foreign ground.

Other changes had struck me: confusion of tongues and the physical twilight zone of a different longitude. But the first worldlessly visible distinction between my homeland and Trnava was this: the inescapable hegemony of religion (hated, outdated, celebrated--depict it as you please) over the skyline.

The casual observer, chancing upon one of our modest white steeples gently needling the heavens, can easily miss its message, and has no trouble ignoring it. In Trnava, they leave nothing to chance. The traveler must see, must react in some way.

America hints, nudges, whispers. It respects the sensibilities of its audience at the cost of being ignored.

Europe provokes, propels, cries out. Unaccustomed to such audacity, I balk. But I heed the message, regardless.

if i were queen of trnava...

I would ban stalkers, whistlers, catcallers, and perhaps just men in general. Or I would initiate a new male "fashion statement": caps with blinkers. That might curb the prolific objectivization of females that goes on as the girls and I walk to and fro in the city.

Felty, Julia, and I ate at a wonderful restaurant ("The Dolce Vita")--a calzone for Felty that resembled a breaded whale, and two massive spinwheel pizza for my R.A. and myself.

Later that afternoon, Lauren accompanied me to Tesco, where I stocked up on several necessities (and significant wants) and journeyed back to the Prestige.

We met some gen-u-ine Slovakians tonight at a showing of "Groundhog Day" at the Building...they speak English as fluently as Maartje and Eefje did, and are a crazy bunch. Tomorrow morning we plan on meeting them at an as-yet untested little cafe called Cafe Tete for the reputedly irresistable white hot chocolate.

I am so tired that I struggle to string sentences together. I guess that means it's bedtime.

Happy Groundhog's Day!

"We're not in Russia. We have Starbursts!" [-Philippa, one of our new Slavic acquaintances]

only five days...

the "Status Quo" synagogue

...and already I'm feeling settled, at least considering the fact that I reside in a spacious hotel apartment within walking distance of a myriad of antiquities. My previous experience of "history" (downtown Savannah, the Albion graveyard by my dad's hometown, and the pretty houses lining St. Elmo) could hardly have prepared me for the depth of civilization in this place.

We took a tour of Trnava today, despite icy wind and even icier rainfall. Our tour guide directed us to the Trinity Monument, the City Hall (on its spire a single wire declaring the stark absence of the tyrannical red star that used to dominate the city day and night), the courtyard where criminals were tried and executed, two massively ornate cathedrals steeped in Slovakia's turbulent history, two synagogues even more deeply steeped in oppressive memories, and the ancient Roman wall that formerly encircled the entire city.

I am most attracted right now by the Jewish history here. Both of the synagogues in the area are tragically deteriorated. In the more serviceable of the two buildings stands a monument to the Jews deported and, for the most part, murdered during World War Two. Our tour guide said that over 90 percent of the Jews of Trnava perished during the war. I did a little poking around online and discovered that the Nazis liberated Slovakia from Hungary, and the persecution and deportation of Jews followed immediately after.

Of course, this intriguing and far-reaching slice of history makes up only a fragment of the entire culture and experience of Trnava. I cannot wait to discover more and more!

Before taking the tour, I joined Felty, Julia, and Swanson in an aromatic cafe for a cappuccino, and began reading my History textbook: "Fin-De-Siecle Vienna". It is cumbrous reading, but fascinating enough to motivate my perseverance.

Felty, Heather, Meridyth, and I returned to our apartment after the tour and behaved outrageously over mugs of coffee for an hour or so. Then I showered, dressed, and set out with the girls for The Building, where we watched two action-packed episodes of LOST--my pre-college guilty pleasure. I'm afraid the addiction has been rekindled.

So now here I sit, with Felty perusing "The Marble Faun" in her bed across from me. We've arranged to meet Julia for brunch at 10:30 tomorrow morning (so strange to have Friday's entirely off!) at a new restaurant that Felty and Heather discovered today.

Meanwhile, since I have ample time to sleep in tomorrow, I plan on reading more of "Fin-De-Siecle Vienna" (let's face it: I just like saying the title) before bed.

Till next I write!