these are the two ladies responsible for our beautiful vacation in spain. thanks, guys! we had such an incredible time. they each received a mr. pepe peep tshirt for inviting us to accompany them.

our feet on the mediterranean shore.

gena and her camel. watch out -- they spit.

a stop for coffee. this was our second attempt at photographing ourselves. this one's better.

it was holy week, and in spain that's a big deal. every town has its own parade with elaborate floats dedicated to the memory of Jesus' final moments. this parade was in malaga in a reach-over-the-maddening-crowd kind of way.

some of the soldiers in the parade.

hannah is my first student on wednesdays at Sitzenkirch, and is quite the loose cannon . . . as you can see here. she also speaks french, but sometimes we talk in our own made-up language.

brooklyn was my first student at Sitzenkirch (the elementary school) on mondays. she looked like this every week -- big smile, mischievous look in her eye. i had to get her off the playground during lunchtime for her lessons, and i think she may have "not heard me calling" a time or two. :) she got through half of her Bastien level two books this year and did an amazing job of improving her playing from memory. that girl gets a lot done when she puts her mind to it!

peggy, the violin teacher, and i played for the staff appreciation dinner this year. they had the most beauuuuuuuuutiful steinway grand at the hall we rented, so of course i had to give it a whirl after the dinner as well. gena and whitney thought this was the perfect photo opportunity. i just like those guys...

fasching was earlier this spring, and is a pretty big deal in this area. this is a view out one of our skylight windows. there's a little band gathered around the fountain, and if you look closely, you'll see people dressed up in furry costumes as well. those crazy germans.

nobody would play mad libs with me at beth's bday party.

clockwise around table from left: whitney, micah, sharri, julia (nice face!), and heather (she belongs to micah)

clockwise from left: me, Chrissy, Chris (behind my big head), beth, heather, sharri.

i found this little record player earlier this year, and designated myself DJ for dave & beth's bye party. it was our first use of the little porch we discovered two months ago.

my roommate gena was head girls soccer coach this year, and her girls gave her this huge chocolate soccer ball as a thank you present. it's nice living with the coach, especially when you get to eat smashed chocolate soccer balls.

dave and beth have been such a fun part of this first year in kandern. beth and i led our small group of sophomores together, and saw each other on mondays and wednesdays when i taught at the elementary school. we both like newberry medal award-winning books (madeleine' l'engle's wrinkle in time is on that list) and took up felting together -- her felting skills have really taken off, however, and her credits include a nativity scene and a cat-head cat toy for edwina. dave likes to borrow my simpsons and laugh with me at my birthday season of seinfeld. :) it's just been really nice to have dave and beth as friends. i'm going to miss them terribly next year as they move back to the chicago area.

they came in contact! we'll miss you, dave & beth!

there they are -- the graduates of 06!

football fever is going strong

so here we are today -- cleaning

Espana

I'm in Spain! We went to see the Rock of Gibraltar today and there are wild and free monkeys! A baby walked right up to us! It was amazing. I promise to post pictures--including one of the Spanish and Moroccan coasts in the same picture! Oh my goodness this world is incredible!

Love you guys!
Suz

Smithing

to Kevin



We couldn't find the nails.

We had sought and sought. We were exhausted from the soughting. Gena and I had been up and down the aisles of Bauhaus, the German Home Depot, looking watchedly for the little boogers. We had found circular Christmas lights, browsed magnetic photo-covers for your washing machine, and finally located hammers, but no nails. And as much as I say I am loving learning German, I am probably just as equally hating the actually-using-it-and-possibly-looking-stupid part. Sometimes it's all I can do to gruntingly grunt out a "danke" or "tchüss."

"Oh, allright. I guess I'll go ask that guy over there," and I was already half-way to the info stand.

*cough, cough* I politely coughed.

"Ja, kann ich Ihnen hilfen?" Not even upwards looking up, the man helpfully asked if I needed any help.

"Um . . . ja, ich suche die . . . " and here I realized that I didn't actually know the word for nail. It was the pause that must have prompted my especially-helpful employee to join my playful game of foreign-language charades. I held up the pretend nail in my left hand and began to pound poundingly at it with the pretend hammer in my right hand. After what I considered to be a sufficient number of pretend whacks for the pretend nail to have been appropriately and sufficiently erected by the pretend hammer, I stopped and grimaced over at him.

"Achso. Sie suchen diese oder diese?" he asked questioningly, pointing to each of my pretend items.

"Diese." (I would hope by this point in the story that I wouldn't have to spend a great deal of time telling you which of the "not real but just pretend" items it was that I gestured to. That would just be a waste of my time and yours.)

"Ah, ein Nagel."

"Genau! Nagel!" and here's where I decided to get fancy and form the plural of nails on my own and try again . . .

"Wie komme ich zum Nageln?"

*silence*

You know, you have to wonder how Janet Jackson felt in the middle of her "star-studded" Super Bowl fiasco. At what point did she realize she was giving us a partial monty, baring her . . . soul to the a world that was about to dish it back to her via internet review-sites. At what point was it glaring that even years later semi-monthly bloggers would be comparing their own shining shame to her bare-chested performance?

"Um, you don't vant to say dat. Dat is some-ting else."

Apparently in the dialect of this region, I had just asked him where I should go to get nailed.

"Nägel sind am Gang 12."

"Danke," I grunted as we each turned, reddening.

Anybody have a sweater? It's getting a bit nippy in here.

"Tchüss."

The Jewish Nation and Me, Part 1: Seder Barbie

Oi! You must watch this film! (It received honorable mention at Sundance this year.)

I got my first Barbie in first grade. She had a purple-sequined gown with a versatile silk wrap that I could twist behind her head or around her plastic arms. Marianne, the daughter of the pastor of the church that had started our little Christian school, gave her to me. She was in second grade. Josh was in second grade. Josh could shoot baskets and make people laugh, and when I overheard him in the lunch line for Frito pies say that he liked girls with ponytails, I wore a ponytail for the rest of the year. Barbie's hair got put in a ponytail, too.

Seven years ago, I found out I was Jewish. Well, an eighth Jewish anyway. My dad's grandmother on his mother's side had fled Germany and changed her name. She changed her name and married my great-grandfather. Their name was Diabell. So Grandma Jean is half-Jewish, my dad is a quarter-Jew, and my brother and I share the rights and privileges of the eighth-Jewish.

I packed up Barbie and her friends a few years ago. Since first grade we had each learned to play tennis, joined a rock band, and collected a few boyfriends. I remembered huddling with them in the bottom of my closet while hurricanes and tornadoes ravaged us. Her legs were sticky and discolored. Her hair was stiff, and stayed pulled back even after I had untangled the ponytail holder. I baby-powdered each leg of each doll and dressed them in their favorite outfits before closing the cardboard flaps again.

As a child, I enjoyed imagining the total destruction of my beloved Barbie collection. My Barbies liked their plastic men with dark hair. I grew up in the southern midwest United States. I went to my first Passover meal last year and didn't stay for the whole thing. I have always liked my dad's pork chops--medium-well, still juicy with seasoned salt.

But the LORD said to Samuel, "Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." --I Samuel 16:7

I am a bearer of the image of God's son. I am a descendant of royalty and a rich heritage. I am a princess dressed in white, twirling beneath the snowflakes that fall today in Kandern. I am beloved and caressed. I can take my hair out of its ponytail. For my Abba, my beautiful One, is pursuing my heart and has captured me.

our living room is now yellow!

the view from my bedroom window

the other view from my bedroom window

Bern Bears

"awwww, beeeears!"

Gena's favorite part of Bern was the bears. These are only two of the ten pictures she took of them... Bern means "bears," and the city has apparently kept bears for over two hundred years. I don't know... they didn't look that old. *mwu-wah-hah*


another bear

285 steps of Bern

beth, whitney, and me. gena was behind the camera. we took a weekend daytrip to the Swiss capital. it's about two hours away from kandern, or, as i like to put it, a full four games of sudoku.


we climbed this there...


in order to see this. looking closer at our view, we discovered dirty laundry, an empty birdcage being used as an outdoor fridge, and i revisited a bout with fear of verticals.

why yes, that is the celebrated ogre-eating-children fountain that you have heard so much about.

now that's a slide.

whitney had seen the spinny-thingy from the top of the cathedral and just had to sit in it...


so we did, too

a musical fly... we apparently hit the city during a protest of the World Economic Forum that was soon to be held in a Swiss resort town. this guy sure made me think twice about my use of the Dsus in a C Minor world...

me, beth, and cappuccino in bern

Dear Miss Emily

Dear Miss Suzanne,
Hi, I am ******'s daughter. They have Awana Clubs here in Missouri. In my Awana book says that I need to write a letter to a missionary and ask them some questions.Could you please answer some questions:
Where do you work? What is your job? What is the hardest part about being a missionary? What do you like best about being a missionary?Thank you for answering these questions!

Love,

Emily

~~~~~~~~

Dear Miss Emily,

Thank you for your letter! I am so glad to hear that you are involved in Awana there in Missouri. I remember having a lot of fun in Awana clubs. I think I enjoyed all of the crazy games the most! :) Our gym floor at school had a HUGE red, green, blue, and yellow circle outlined on it--and it was just for us kids. I felt so special... Which group of Awana are you in now? What's your favorite part of going to Awana?

Ok, now you had asked me some questions...ah yes, here they are. Let's see, first, "Where do you work?" I work at Black Forest Academy in Kandern, Germany. (I think you probably remember a thing or two about that place! :) ) "What do you do?" I teach piano lessons to 39 missionary kids this year. My youngest student is in second grade, and my oldest students are in twelfth grade. Now, answering those two questions was pretty easy for me to do. It's your next two questions that make me think a little bit more. That might also be the reason I didn't answer your email sooner--sorry. It's just that your questions were so darn good!

"What is the hardest part about being a missionary?" Emily, I think the hardest part for me is trying not to live up to the word missionary. Have you ever known someone that you really wanted to be your friend? What did you try to do to get them to be your friend? Did you make something for them? Did you do nice things for them? Did you want them to see how well you could sing or draw or dance?

I think sometimes I think being a "good missionary" is treating Jesus like someone that I really want to be my friend. I try to impress Him by how many students I can teach or how well I can teach them to play scales (your dad has taught you about scales by now, I'm sure!). But Jesus doesn't want to be my friend because I can do all these things for Him. He wants to be my friend because He already loves me. Wow... that's pretty incredible, isn't it? Can you imagine if every person you ever wanted to be your friend, already liked you! Well, the best friend out there (the one that sticks closer than a brother... that means closer than Calvin... ok, maybe you'll understand that one better in a couple years... Calvin, be nice to your sister!) eh-hem, the best friend out there wants to be my friend already. And sometimes the hardest part is to stop trying to impress Him and to start getting to know my Friend better.

"What do you like best about being a missionary?" I am sooo glad you asked that question! My students are my favorite part of being a missionary. I think it's because they are teaching me so much about the countries they have lived in and the friends they have made there. They tell me funny stories and ask me questions that make me laugh and (not very unlike your questions) make me think. They make me want to get to know our Friend better.

Now, I'm no C. S. Lewis, but I hope this email answered your questions well. And I hope that you will get to know our Friend better, too.

Lots of love, Emily,
Suzanne

Gerontophobia

Tonight's the Valentine's party at school, and I've been home sick all day sleeping, coughing, blowing my nose, and watching the sixth season of Frasier (thanks, Sharri). On Friday, the high school guys were supposed to wear a hat to school if they were available, and the girls would then pin something to the hat of the guy they asked to the Valentine party. Girls at the dorm on Thursday night were a bit giddy, and I hear that there was a crowd of girls waiting for the guys' dorm vans to arrive early Friday morning. :) Sorry I missed that photo opportunity!

Last weekend, I went with the strings and choir kids to a church in France to do outreach. First, we visited a hospital and a nursing home. It's been a long time since I visited a nursing home. There are two that I walk past on my way to school every day. If I leave early enough, there's a woman who will be in the common room on the second floor of the building closest to school. She'll wave down at me, and I'll wave back up. If I forget to look up, she'll rap on the glass to remind me. I haven't left early enough in a couple weeks. And it certainly hasn't occurred to me to go in and visit her. I'm sure there are whole college courses on this subject--I know it's gotta be related to my fear of being in there myself or the inability to face old age. Whatever it is, it sucks, and I don't like it.

Maybe I expect them to be cranky or not care, because I was really surprised when the men and women in Mullhouse were appreciative and some followed us around the entire time. One old man was walking around and clapping for each song. The ladies with us explained that he was a pianist and had been pretty famous in his younger days. He wanted to give us a concert, too, so we agreed to meet him downstairs by the piano after we were done.


A few choir members and one of their faithful fans.

One woman started yelling unintelligible syllables while the kids were singing a capella in the hallway. I had designated myself official photographer, since we decided not to lug a keyboard up and down the halls. I don't know any French, so I motioned to some of the women that did. "I think it might be too loud for her," I offered. The lady chaplain went in to speak with her. "No, she just wants the group to come into her room so she can see them," the chaplain explained.

She had explained to us earlier that nearly all of the 400 people in that hospital wing would be in a bed for the rest of their lives. So 20 of us crammed into the small hospital room and sang "Give Me Jesus." The last verse was especially moving to those of us who spoke English..

Oh and when I come to die
Oh and when I come to die
Oh and when I come to die
Give me Jesus

Give me Jesus
Give me Jesus
Oh and when I come to die
Give me Jesus

Dangit, I want to have Him before that! After writing all of this, I have visions of myself becoming the next Florence Nightingale to the nursing homes of Germany. In high school, I started walking to the nursing home across the street with my piano books. I played on the baby grand in the foyer, and there were lots of folks who would wheel or walker themselves in to listen. But then they started asking for requests. I didn't know the pieces they wanted to hear, and I felt like I disappointed them. So I didn't go anymore. Maybe that was just my excuse, though, to not have to go back.

The formerly-famous pianist gave us a delightful concert on the electric piano downstairs. He and his knobby, niccotine-stained fingers played Chopin, Debussy, and a familiar French tune. I sat right by his hands, and he looked up, smiled, and winked while mumbling in French. We cheered and clapped, and some of the kids played for him, too. As we left, I gave him the traditional French kiss-on-each-cheek goodbye. He grinned and reached for his cigarettes that one of the chaplains was holding out for him.

I guess walking in was relatively easy. It was the walking out that was hard. Walking out is still hard. Maybe that means I should be walking back in more often . . .

(pictures from the trip)

Today

I am now sitting at school at my desk in my office that I am oh-so-proud-of. The walls have finally been hung with a painting of daffodils on a red background, a mirror (for the flute students who need to check their embouchure--I promise), and a music staff-lined chalkboard with the question, "What is a scale?" The tall, curly bamboo that I bought at IKEA last fall is still twisting toward the sun on the marbled windowsill next to my desk. The plant next to it was not so lucky--picture a three-weeks-with-no-shower Kid Rock.... but without the hat to hide under. Ravel's La Valse is swelling and pulsing from the cd player behind me, and Für Elise is seeping through the so-very-not-sound-proofed neighboring wall. I just took a break from this post to give my friend Julia a hug, fill the hot-water-making pot, and wash my coffee mug--it's spiced tea for me this morning, though. It should be ready in a few minutes.

In a bold move, I left my gloves at the apartment door this morning and walked to school with my hands inside the pockets of my lime-green coat. It wasn't as cold as it has been but just enough to force me to tuck my chin behind my thick collar and tilt my head down to avoid doggy treasures on the sidewalk. Success today--my school shoes remain undefiled!

Laurel is coming in 12 minutes for her lesson. I love this kid. She's got the curliest hair in school and just got a short bob over break. She always has a smile stretched from ear-to-ear. In one of our lessons last year, she was telling me about a boy that she liked. Well, somewhere in the story, I picked up the phrase "...and then he kissed me."

"Oh, so that's why it was awkward?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"It was the post-kiss awkwardness..." I tried to explain.

"WHAT! NO! HE DIDN'T KISS ME!!" and she burst into the most endearing fit of giggles and snorts.

So I've made it to the leaf particles at the bottom of my tea, and the soundtrack is now Daphnis et Chloe. The post-it on my monitor reads "What's my goal? What do I want (really)?" I think right now I want to change the cd (really).

p.s. the boy in the picture is her brother, Corban.

I Fought the Settlers, and the, Settlers won

It has pursued me, and it has won.


the settlers of catan

I love this game. Mz first invitation to plaz was over a zear ago, and I plazed for the first time last night. Thanks for having a birthdaz, Dave. It has changed mz life.

Germans know their Wurst, snowsports, and games that involve cards. Promise me. Promise me... if zou are given the chance to plaz that zou will take that chance. Zou see, thereäs this island that zou are trzing to ÄsettleÄ on... )i think thatäs where most of the name comes from? and zou can build roads... but onlz if zou have wood and bricks because we all k now thatäs where real roads come from but if zou have too much wood or wheat zou can alwazs trade it in for a sheep or two but thatäs onlz if someone else has a sheep that thez want to trade for zour wood or wheat ... mazbe zou should ask someone else to walk zou through it, though. someone that uses fewer zäs in their explanation...

p.s. couldnät get the kezboard off the deutsche version

Pink Pants and Santa Shoes

I remember reading a children's book when I was little about how different countries of the world celebrated Christmas. The illustrations showed drawings of little boys and little girls in their native garb holding a symbol of their way of celebrating (a synechdoche, if you will). In my heart of hearts, those pictures have continued to come to mind when I hear again of those traditions. If I close my eyes, I can still see the German child holding her leather shoe filled with fruit and candy. She's wearing a red skirt with little flowers and over it a white apron. I see her blonde hair and shy smile.

Tuesday night, Gena and I were beginning our four-flight trudge up to our apartment to have a quiet cup of decaf and enjoy the stretchings of the cat and the twinklings of our small Christmas tree. Gena stopped on the first landing and said, "Oh! Look!" Two small pairs of shoes were in the stairwell outside our landlord's door. They each had an orange, a wrapped gift, and a treat bag. "St. Nikolaus has been here..." Gena and I giggled. "Oh, I have to take a picture!" I whispered.



Alex and Katharina, our landlord's children, in the tradition that has gone hundreds of years before them, put their shoes out on Dec 5 for St. Nikolaus. Huh, I thought. They're not old leather shoes with woolly tops . . . they're tennis shoes and fun bright Euro-school shoes. And an image of Katharina's bright pink pants replaced the red skirt of my memories.

Deck the Claws

Ah... thanks, Sean--a topic. Similarly to a man-of-glass shipping himself to the Americas as a Christmas present, this post will arrive in pieces.


kitties get advent calendars, too... "meow-meow-meow-meow-meow, meow-meow, meow, meow." the girl is Alyssa, one of my roommate's small group girls. she loooooves Edwina.

Death by Death Ray

The things you find when you google yourself... egosurfing, I believe it is aptly named. The following are excerpts from the very first episode of Law & Order in 1990. (I'm the dead girl.)

Dr. Raza: My children want to stay in this country, my wife wants to stay, and to stay, all I have to do is to be perfect all the time!

Det. Mike Logan: Well you, uh, fell a little short of perfection on Suzanne Morton's chart.
_______________


Philip Nevins: Isn't it possible that pneumonia killed Suzanne Morton?

Medical Examiner: It's possible that death rays from Mars killed her. But I don't think so.

A Two-Edged Hope

"We must come to accept and even honor our creatureliness. The offering of ourselves can only be the offering of our lived experience because this alone is who we are. And who we are--not who we want to be--is the only offering we have to give."
--Richard Foster, Prayer

There is so much in my heart right now--so much to say. It's so full, and I can feel it bubbling over already. It seeped into ten pages of my journal on the trainride home from Stuttgart tonight. It flowed into a two-hour conversation with my roommate. And it's currently coursing its way into a post... Maybe the moment when I have much to say is the same moment I should say nothing.

My voice hurts from writing. My throat aches as if I have cried out to Him audibly. If I had, would You have heard me more? If I groaned, would You listen? You are still to be praised. I will still praise You. I must. For You alone know me. You alone hear and recognize my voice. You alone know when I rise and when I lay down. You alone keep me from travelling alone, though the seat next to me remains free.

You are in Jerusalem. You are in Baden-Württemberg. You are in my heart. You hem me in from behind and from before. You--One full of grace and truth. There is freedom in You, and I will not choose mere emotion. I will not choose what I want if it is not what You want. I will not choose self-fulfillment... at least, I'm having a pretty strong moment here, and I don't want to.

How long, my God? How long will I continue to judge by a man's exterior? His verneer? How much am I missing in those around me? Help me to look--to really look--and to know how to respond actively, intentionally, lovingly to what I find there.

Yeah, life is going to go on--it must, and I'll feel tomorrow a bit less than I do today. But I will hold on to hope--the hope that I do, in fact, want You.