Meanings are not in words, they are in people

I was sitting at the dinner table in Switzerland with my wife’s mother and uncle along with my two children. Someone said something interesting and I innocently said in German what I thought was the English equivalent of “holy smokes.” I immediately realized that I had said something wrong when Esther’s jaw dropped, and her face reddened like a beet. Apparently calling anything other than God “holy” is considered in religious circles in Switzerland to be breaking the third commandment about not taking the Lord’s name in vain. In English, we have countless expressions using the word holy and use them with frequency. “Holy guacamole” is my recent favorite.

On the other side of the table, my face had reddened numerous times when I heard many good, pious Swiss people throw the “S” word around in dozens of apparently good German expressions without any hesitation or embarrassment. These are two simple examples that proves the aphorism in my title to be true. “Meanings are not found in words, they are found in people.”

What makes a word “dirty” or “impolite,” is defined by people in a given time and culture. Words can shift in meaning over time as well. The word “gay” is a good example. Two blocks from me in my town there is a “Gay Street.” I don’t think the namers had the current meaning in mind when they assigned a name for the street. Even more obscure in meaning, my conservative Mennonite culture distinguished between us and the world by calling us “plain people,” and whom we considered the world “gay people.” Again, I don’t think they had the contemporary meaning in mind. “Meanings are not found in words, they are found in people.”

This aphorism applies to translation work as well. Many people think that translating is word-for-word, or at least phrase-for-phrase. It isn’t that simple. I’m not talking only about “dirty” or “impolite” words. I recently translated a document from English into Spanish that had many cultural nuances which could have been seriously misunderstood had I translated portions of the document word-for-word. The amount of head scratching I had to go through to try to convey the proper cultural nuance was agonizing. I was looking for the meaning behind the words; the cultural intricacies. Google translate, however good it has become, can’t do that.

Bureaucratic and technological lingo present potential problems as well. We take for granted that our way of doing business and talking about it are universal. They are not. Technology is changing so rapidly that words for new equipment or concepts are not standardized and vary from country to country. A simple example from the current pandemic is the word for “facemask.” It is called “tapacaras” in some Latin American countries and “mascarillas” in others.

Be careful what you call “holy” in Switzerland and endure without embarrassment German language speakers using the “S” word in their ordinary speech. Afterall, “Meanings are not found in words, they are found in people.”

Rhythm and Rule for Times of Isolation

My prayer altar

Rhythm and Rule is a term used by Spiritual Directors to describe how to create a balance between work and prayer in one’s normal day. The idea originally comes from the monastic traditions. They use Jesus as an example of one who creates such a balance better than anyone. 

However, these are not normal days. Many of us are sheltered in place, working at home. Many of us experience either isolation or overload if we are juggling work and home schooling or childcare. Many of us have extra time on our hands that we don’t know how to fill. We would rather face the demands and distractions of the work world than be alone with ourselves.

I am certainly no role model on how to manage my time, but I will share with you how I have been organizing my days since the onset of the quarantine. Please understand that there is no "one way" or "right way" to construct a rhythm and rule. This is simply my way. The times are quite flexible and can be interrupted at any time for family or friends or other demands that come up occasionally. My schedule varies somewhat from Fridays to Sundays when my wife Esther is not at work. For example, we participate in a virtual prayer group on Friday mornings and a virtual Sunday School meeting on Sunday mornings.

This “schedule” gives me a “rhythm and rule” for the days that I am alone and in isolation. This gives me a day with lots of variety to keep me from becoming down or bored. It includes both physical and spiritual exercises along with productive time and relaxation.  

5:00-6:00 am Exercise: Stationary bike at home.

6:00-6:30 am Meditative walk outdoors. Sometimes I switch around the times of walking and riding the stationary bike.

7:00 am Breakfast

8:00-9:00 am Read online news

9:00-9:30 am Devotional readings: Thomas Merton (currently) and German Bible (I am reading through the Bible in German)

10:00-10:30 am Centering Prayer in silence

10:30 am Meditative porch time (sitting or pacing in stillness, viewing nature)

11:30 am Lunch

12:00pm-12:30 nap

1:00pm-4:00pm “Productive time” writing, translating, household chores, class prep., etc.

4:00-4:30 Dinner preparation

4:30 Dinner. Early dinner in order to have a fourteen-hour fast: 5:00pm-7:00am

5:00pm-9:30pm Catching up with Esther and relaxation: crossword puzzles, reading novels, social media, listening to music, TV or streaming movies

9:30pm to bed (Consciousness Examen-review of the day. Where have I experienced God today? What distracted me from experiencing God?)

Sharing our personal "rhythm and rule" is a way to learn from and share with each other. What is yours like? 

Our Love Story Part 6

Chapter 6: Our Return to the USA

(During my quarantine, I have been sharing a series of stories about how the relationship developed between Esther, a young woman from Switzerland, and me. This is the last chapter. Here are the preceding chapters: Chapter 1: The Encounter, Chapter 2: The Courtship Chapter 3: Meeting the Family  Chapter 4: The Wedding Chapter 5: Our Year in Europe )

We got up early for our train ride to the airport in Zürich, Switzerland. The night before we had loaded our baggage at the luggage drop-off point in the railway station in Bern. From the train they would be loaded directly on to the plane that would take us to New York. For the train trip from Bern to Zürich, we weren’t encumbered with four huge suitcases. That made our sad trip to the airport through the beautiful countryside of Switzerland a bit more relaxing. We arrived in plenty of time for our flight.

After checking in, an announcement came over the PA system that our flight would be delayed for eight hours. EIGHT HOURS! This was during the air controllers’ strike in 1981 when Ronald Reagan fired all the air controllers, and airports in the USA couldn’t handle the normal amount of air traffic. After all the emotions of saying good-bye, and wanting to get on with our lives, we were stuck in Zürich for another eight hours.

Moving internationally was quite a challenge. Over the course of the year we had accumulated a number of things that we wanted to keep, including most of our wedding gifts. To this day we use tableware and some pots that we received. We found the cheapest available international moving company. They provided us with two wooden crates that measured about four feet in height, length and width. We carefully packed everything we wanted to keep into them. They picked them up and shipped them to New York, where we retrieved them later to load into a moving van on the way to Kansas.

Getting rid of our furniture didn’t cause too much consternation. The main items were the living room suite, our beds and the wardrobe. They all went back to Esther’s house. Our beds and mattresses were newer than those at her home, so they replaced the old ones with ours. Whenever we returned to Switzerland, we slept in our own bed! Our couch was located in their closed-in porch and we sat in it frequently in subsequent years enjoying the trickling of the stream running beside their house.

Since we had to give up our apartment before our departure date, we stayed at Esther’s home for the remaining nights. About a month before that we had to share with them our decision to return to the USA. We were sitting at the same table in the living/dining room as we did when we told them we were getting married. It was every bit as difficult to tell them this latest bit of news. Words in Esther’s mother’s warning letter to her during our courtship echoed in my head. “We know he will take you (Esther) away from your homeland and family.” She had been right. There was only one difference. Through our stay in Switzerland, they had gotten to know me, accepted me into the family. Esther’s siblings included me in many of their activities and seemed to enjoy my company.  In some ways that made it easier to tell them we were leaving, but in other ways it made it harder. To soften the blow, I promised them that I would bring their daughter back to her homeland as often as I could. Since I worked in education, I had my summers free. I loved Switzerland as much as she did. I held to that promise. We have returned 15 times over the years, including four full summers with the children, and for a full year after my retirement. Two of those trips were over Christmas with the children.

The home Esther grew up in.

The early morning farewell was very difficult. We gave our good-bye hugs while Esther’s mom held back tears. As we headed for the train station in Bern with Esther’s brother, I took a look back at the family. Tears were streaming down her uncle’s face and I lost it. I am tearing up even now as I write this. Esther held it together better than I. Car to the train station, train to the airport, away we went, leaving behind beautiful mountainous Switzerland for the flat lands of Kansas and new adventures in our married life.

Now we were stuck in Zürich for eight hours. We took a trolley to downtown Zürich and walked around. We invited Esther’s best friend, who was working in Zürich at the time, to lunch. We sat on park benches and watched people walking by and swimming in the Limmat River. We went window shopping without wanting to buy anything. We had a Coupe Dänemark (Swiss chocolate sundae) while looking at our watches about every 15 minutes thinking that an hour had gone by. Finally, the time came to board the plane. We still had nearly nine hours ahead of us till we arrived in New York. We started our adventure at five in the morning and didn’t get to New York until midnight the next day. We would have been underway for 25 hours and were unaware of what other adventures awaited us before we could finally retire for a night’s sleep.

Since Esther was immigrating, we had to go through a special line. The waiting room was teeming with would-be immigrants from Haiti and the Dominican Republic. I overheard some Spanish conversation among the Dominicans stating that they had been waiting over four hours and still hadn’t been processed. We were the only white faces in a sea of black ones. The immigration official with a folder containing Esther’s papers ushered us into the room an put her folder at the bottom of a pile of folders that was at least two feet high. There didn’t seem to be any action taking place. After all, it was midnight. Esther and I exchanged desperate looks. We concluded that we were in for a long haul.

After about 15 minutes, a different immigration officer entered the room and spotted us. “What are you doing here?” he asked, thinking we didn’t belong to the Haitians and Dominicans. “My wife is hoping to immigrate to the USA, I stated, probably looking both tired and anxious. “Where are her papers?” he asked gruffly. I signaled to the two-feet tall stack of folders and pointed to near the bottom. He ruffled through the stack, found our papers and signaled for us to follow him. Relieved, we did, too tired to protest our white privilege. He signed and stamped a few documents and sent on our way.

Our next stop was the normal immigration line at any international airport, that even citizens must pass through when arriving from abroad. The attending officer smiled broadly when I explained that my wife was immigrating and showed him her documents. “I am so glad to see someone coming here from Switzerland,” he stated. “I am so tired of all these g..d…d Haitians and Dominicans coming to ruin our country! I was really taken aback by his prejudice. Again, I was too tired to argue with him. Meekly we slinked away, grateful that we had gotten through that process unscathed.

We hired a cab to take us to a nearby hotel. While we were approaching the hotel, we saw a police helicopter circling around the area with a huge spotlight searching the ground. “What is going on?” we wondered. When we got to the desk of the hotel, the clerk told us that there was a murderer on the loose and they were trying find him. He said it so matter-of-factly, that I was stunned. I can’t imagine what our faces must have looked like. We hurried to our rooms on the fifth floor of a 12-story hotel. We sheepishly entered, looking behind us carefully. When we entered the room, I pulled back all the curtains to be sure the murderer wasn’t hiding in our room. I even checked the bathtub. Satisfied that he wasn’t hiding in our room, we double bolted the door to the hallway and fell into bed exhausted. It was 2:00 am. Our time without a bed had stretched to 27 hours.

“Welcome to the USA,” I said to Esther before we hit the sack. She grinned. We both considered getting on the next plane back to Switzerland, but there too much water passed under the bridge by then.

My father picked us up at the airport in New York. We went to the warehouses of the international moving company and loaded up our goods. Everything passed through customs without a hitch. Our journey back to Kansas through Pennsylvania was rather normal, considering what we had gone through in the previous two days.

We will celebrate 40 years of marriage in December 2020. We had two children, a daughter born in Harrisonburg, VA, and a son in Mexico. The initials of each is MCC. Marisa Carmen Clymer and Mattias Carl Clymer. MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) played a significant role in our lives. Without them, Esther would never have come to the States, and we spent three years serving with them in Mexico, where Mattias was born. We now have four lovely granddaughters. Life has been good. We have been privileged and blessed to experience many exciting things from Switzerland to Hesston, KS, Harrisonburg, VA and Mexico.

Our Love Story, part 5

Chapter 5: Our Year in Europe

(During my mostly self-imposed quarantine, I will be sharing a series of stories about how the relationship developed between Esther, a young woman from Switzerland, and me. Here are the other chapters so far: Chapter 1: The Encounter, Chapter 2: The Courtship Chapter 3: Meeting the Family  Chapter 4: The Wedding )

I was sitting on a train between Basel, Switzerland, and Freiburg in Breisgau, Germany. As I listened to other passengers talk in what seemed like a myriad of languages, and watched the German countryside fly past me, I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. It was even better than the scenes I had remembered from movies shot in Europe. I was now living the dream! The dream of Europe and the dream of marrying a very special person.

This was the first time I was on my own without Esther’s help since I arrived in Europe about three weeks earlier. I was both apprehensive and excited. I was heading to study German at the Goethe Institute for three months. Once again, our relationship had to continue from a distance. It was about a three-and-a-half-hour trip by train. As soon as my classes let out on Friday afternoon, I would hop on a train and head for Switzerland to be with my beloved and return to Freiburg as late as possible on Sunday evening. I was preparing myself for a year in Europe, mostly in Switzerland, by learning German. I was also preparing myself for the wedding, all in German, coming up in fewer than four months.

There are 13 Goethe Institutes within Germany and 159 throughout the world. They have a reputation of being the finest places to learn German. Most of the German ones are located near a university where international students can prepare themselves for university studies with proficiency in the German language. This was the case in Freiburg. In my class we had a mixture of prospective university students and others like myself who were interested in learning German for a variety of reasons. I remember students from Japan, Chile, Belgium, Turkey, France, Australia, and the former Yugoslavia.

We lived in a brand new “Studentenheim” (dormitory) which was part of the University of Freiberg system. We also could eat in the university “Mensa” (cafeteria) at student prices if we so desired. The dorm was divided into suites, each consisting of two bedrooms and a separate bathroom. The two students shared a common kitchen. My roommate was from the former Yugoslavia. I don’t remember which ethnic group or language he was from, but of course I didn’t speak it, and he spoke no English. To communicate with each other we had to use German, our only common language. Sadly, he was more interested in seducing the women in the building than learning German.

As the train sped along the mostly flat countryside, I carefully studied the packet of materials I received from the Institute to try to orient myself to what I was going to do when the train arrived in Freiburg. Luckily, the Institute was almost directly across the street from the main train station. The dormitory was about a 20-minute walk from the Institute, mostly along the Dreisam River. The university cafeteria was nearer to the Institute, but in a different direction. To get there we had to go through the “Altstadt” (old, preserved downtown area with only pedestrians allowed), a rather lovely walk.

I decided to eat my main meal of the day at noon, like most Europeans. I would buy that at the university cafeteria, then eat breakfast and supper at the dormitory. That consisted mostly of coffee with bread and sweet spreads for breakfast, and bread, cold cuts and cheese. This system worked well for me, since I didn’t need to cook a hot meal, and was typical of what and how the Germans themselves ate.

Since the distances weren’t too great, I walked to get from place to place. I did this for two reasons, I was afraid I’d get lost navigating the public transportation system, and it saved me money. I walked more during those three months than I can ever remember walking before. That combined with a fairly limited food intake, caused me to lose a good bit of weight. Just in time to fit into a well-tailored wedding suit in a few months.

The train came to a screeching halt in Freiburg. I grabbed my bag, too heavy and clumsy for walking very far, and got off the train to survey the scene. I felt a little more at home than when I alit from the airplane in Frankfurt, but things were still intimidating. It didn’t take me long to discover how to cross the numerous tracks separating the platform I was on and the street which I assumed was the one the Goethe Institute was on. I followed the people! There were underground paths and overhead bridges. The whole city seemed to be set up for pedestrians and public transportation. There were city buses, inter-city buses, trolleys and taxis, all with curbside service from the train station. In addition, there was a huge bike garage. It was packed with bicycles.

I found the Institute quickly, registered and took a German placement test. I was placed in Intermediate II, which I thought might be too advanced for me. I soon got used to the routine of class in the morning, lunch at the university cafeteria, studying in the afternoon, sometimes at the university library, and sometimes at home. There were ample opportunities to party among the students at the Institute, but for the most part I wasn’t interested. I spent my evenings listening to my portable shortwave radio and dreaming about the weekends with Esther.

I made several good friends in my class at the Institute. The woman from Chile and I spent breaks speaking Spanish. It was so nice to be able to communicate in a foreign language that I felt comfortable as opposed to German. She made friends with a Japanese woman, so I also spent time with her. She spoke her German with the same lilt as her Japanese. Then there was a man from Belgium, Matthias (pronounced Mattias with no “th” sound). For some reason, his demeanor really appealed to me. I was so impressed with him, that when Esther and I had a son, I lobbied to name him Mattias.

I am an avid baseball fan, especially for the forlorn Phillies of Philadelphia, the losingest team in the history of baseball. As luck would have it, they made the playoffs and the won the World Series that year, the first time in my lifetime. With no Internet or the MLB AtBat App, I was dependent on Armed Forces Radio for any information I could get. However, search as I may on my shortwave radio, I could not find a signal. It might not have mattered anyway, since I was in Europe and the games were broadcast at 2am and were usually over by the time I got up. I would buy the International Herald Tribune, a daily English language newspaper with a sports section dedicated to US sports. Problem was, the games were going on when the papers were printed, so I had to wait an extra day to find out the score! Oh, the sacrifices one makes for the love of their life!

source

Other than romancing during the weekends when we were together, the main task for Esther and me was to make invitations for our wedding and send them out. At the time, the custom was to make the invitations by hand. We were taken by Michelangelo’s painting “Hands of God and Adam” in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. We depicted that on the front of the invitation with black-colored pieces of straw (see photo). We also had a star on the invitation to represent Christmas which was two days prior to our wedding. To this day we have a huge painting of Michelangelo’s “Hands of Adam and God” hung above our bed. 

Our handmade wedding invitations in both
German and English

During my weekend trips to Langnau, we attended the Mennonite Church to get to know the people in the church. It was not easy, despite of my enthusiasm for my heritage and faith. Everything read or sung was done in High German, while the worship leading, and sermon were in the Swiss dialect. Sometimes the accent of the readers was so Swiss that I couldn’t tell if they were using the standard German or the dialect. Another challenge was to break through the patterns and friendships that were already established at the congregation. People did not rush up to greet us and invite us in. With a few exceptions, we felt like strangers and pilgrims. It was worse when Esther had to work, which she often did on weekends. I don’t know if it was the shoes I wore, but they smelled a foreigner immediately. Later I learned that most couldn’t speak English and they didn’t think I spoke German. How pleasantly surprised we were when they came out in force for our wedding and how many participated in the choir that sang for us.

After the wedding (See: Chapter 4: The Wedding ) our first priority was to find a decent apartment. Esther had been living in a one-room basement studio apartment which was no larger than the living room in the house we currently live in. It contained a kitchenette. She had a single bed and a futon for her sofa, which converted into a bed for me to sleep in. There was a dining room table in the middle of the room. There was barely room for four people around the table. The bathroom and bomb shelter were down the hall.

The housing market in Switzerland has always been very tight. We were quite lucky to find a two-bedroom apartment right across the street from where we were living. The address will forever be etched in my mind: Kreuzstrasse 49, Langnau i.E. It was within walking distance of Esther’s workplace; a nursing home where she worked as a nurse.

Another challenge for us was to find furniture. Furnishing a home or an apartment in Switzerland is very expensive. At the time, couples often bought the best available, thinking they would keep the same furnishings for many years. Our situation was a bit more tenuous, so we didn’t want to outfit our apartment with expensive furniture. We found a number of alternatives. Esther’s father found an old wardrobe (not many built-in closets in Switzerland) at a used furniture store, and we found a used living room suite, and other relatives chipped in with some odds and ends that they were no longer using. The only new items we bought were beds and mattresses. Slowly but surely, our apartment felt like home.

The next challenge was for me to find a job. As I stated in other places, because of the language and new culture, I was totally dependent on Esther. This included getting our marriage license, registering our names with the town hall, getting my residency established and other necessary paperwork. I was not used to being so helpless and not in control of my own destiny. I was a great lesson in humility.

My first purchase with my own money.

Not only was I dependent on Esther for all the paperwork necessary for our existence together, but I was also dependent on her for money. My savings had pretty much run out with my language school and weekend trips to Switzerland. However, with the very first Swiss Francs I earned I bought a Neuchâtel wall clock. I had seen these clocks hanging in living rooms all over Switzerland. I fell in love with them and decided I wanted one. It still hangs on our living room wall.

I was also dependent on Esther to help me find a job. We first looked to the school system, since I wanted to continue teaching. My work permit was very limiting, however, and I could not become a permanent citizen until I had worked seven years in Switzerland. The schools were very friendly but assured me that my teaching credentials would have to be updated to Swiss standards, and that I would have to become a citizen before they would consider me. Wow, seven years! I felt like Jacob having to wait for Rachel!

So, Esther started inquiring with language institutes which had looser standards for their teachers. They were impressed with my CV but many of them told her that I was overqualified. I was beginning to get discouraged. This was before my writing days and we had no TV or internet, so I was getting bored and restless. Finally, she found a language school in Bern, 30 or 45 minutes away by train, that would hire me to teach English as a second language. I had wanted to continue teaching Spanish, but they replied that they only hired native speakers to teach. They taught some 20 languages including Spanish and English, both American and British.

The school was named Inlingua, and had its own methodology which the new instructor had to learn. They offered both class and individual instruction; the classes were usually held in the evening. I was given one evening class, two nights a week, to prove my worth, and was soon assigned another. When a Swiss army officer who was assigned to a UN post on the DMZ between the two Koreas requested American English, much to the chagrin of my British colleagues, I was assigned to him. He wanted three hours of instruction, five days a week for three months. Since I had to learn a new methodology, I had to spend numerous hours in preparation. My mornings were filled with lesson planning and afternoons and two evenings a week teaching. It was grueling, but I really loved getting to know the wide variety of people who came to the language school, both colleagues and students.

One of my colleagues was a refugee and poet from dictator Franco’s Spain. He taught the Spanish courses. We spent a significant amount of time speaking Spanish with each other during breaks and other events, and after three months, the director of the school took me aside and told me that if the need arose, he would assign me to a Spanish class. I left that day walking on air. He had somehow come to the conclusion that my Spanish was good enough for his “native speakers only” rule.

At precisely 12:30, when the National Swiss Radio broadcast gave their five beeps to mark the time to begin the news, I would leave the apartment to walk to the train station. It took about 15 minutes. Esther and I would eat lunch together. She had enough time off for lunch that she could walk home to eat with me before I left. My train ride took me through the western part of the Emmental Valley stopping in such quaint towns as Signau, Bowil, Zäziwil, before arriving in Konolfingen. The “Schnellzug” (fast train) only stopped once in Konolfingen before arriving in Bern and saved me 15 minutes. However, on the way to Bern, the most convenient train for me was the “Regionalzug” (regional train) which stopped in all these picturesque towns. One of the benefits of the Regionalzug was hearing the local dialect. I would listen intently as little old ladies would board the train in one town and get off at the next one, gossiping away. I was soon able to catch most of what they were saying, and slowly built my vocabulary and pronunciation of the dialect and filed it away in my brain. Interestingly, the most frequently used words and verb conjugations were the ones that were the most radically different from written (High) German. The larger the word, having learned the pattern, the easier it was to guess how to say it in the dialect.

Early on I vowed that I would learn Esther’s family’s dialect, Bern German (Switzerland has over 250 different regional dialects, and even Bern German is divided into various dialects). When they spoke to me in written German, they were stiff and formal, like they were reading out of a textbook. When they spoke to each other in their dialect, they were themselves and laughed uproariously at each other’s jokes. I wanted to be included. It reminded me of some of my relatives who spoke Pennsylvania Dutch (German) and roared at the jokes they told. When I asked them to translate for me, it wasn’t half as funny in English as it seemed to them in their dialect.

After about three months of riding the train to Bern, I started using the dialect when I was with Esther’s family. At first, they didn’t catch on and answered me in written German. Soon their eyes widened in amazement when they realized I was communicating with them in their dialect. They never expected that to happen. I also remember the first time I went into a shop in Bern to purchase something and asked for it in the dialect. The clerk responded back in dialect instead of either answering me in English or written German. I felt that my use of the dialect had turned a significant corner.

Esther and I made it a practice to go out for dinner on Friday evenings. We continue this tradition to this day, from Switzerland to Kansas to Virginia and Mexico. These times were wonderful, but also made for some cultural faux pas. One evening we went to what turned out to be one of the fancier restaurants in Langnau; white tablecloth, expensive silverware and china. I know I ordered pasta alfredo with some cut of pork and string beans. A waitress served us very daintily what seemed to me to be very small portions. She left whatever remained of our order on the table. It didn’t take me long to finish what she had served, so I reached out to the bowls with the rest of the string beans and pasta to serve myself. No sooner then I lifted the bowel off the table, then the waitress came charging over to our table with a huge scowl on her face to take the bowl out of my hands and serve me. Little did I know that I was to wait for her to serve me. I felt like a country bumpkin. Truth be told, Esther didn’t know either. That was the last time we ate in that restaurant.

Once we ate at a restaurant near the train station in Langnau. It was not fancy at all. I quickly found something on the menu that suited my fancy. When the waitress came to our table, in my broken German I haltingly ordered what I wanted. Then it was Esther’s turn. She ordered “Wurstsalad” which was like potato salad with sausage slices in it. There was also the option of including chunks of cheese in it. Esther was studying the menu to be sure that the salad was what she wanted when the waitress asked her, “with cheese?” When Esther didn’t respond immediately, the waitress, assuming we were foreigners because of my interactions with her, took in a huge breath, hoisting her ample bosom high in the air and asked very slowly and deliberately, “W I T H   C H E E S E?” Esther answered her in perfect dialect, “No, without cheese please.” The expression on the waitress’ face was priceless.

On another occasion, Esther joined me in Bern after my afternoon English sessions to go out to eat. I had seen this Argentine-themed restaurant on my way to work every day, called Churrasco. I was quite hungry for anything Latin American at the time, so we decided to go there. One of the features on the menu was corn on the cob. Now the Swiss do not each much corn except to add a little canned corn to certain salads, so my hunger to order corn, especially corn on the cob, was quite tempting. I ordered it to go along with my steak. It came with those little corn ear-shaped holders to stick into either side of the ear. I eagerly and hungrily bit into this treat from my culture. Suddenly, I felt the eyes of someone in the restaurant staring at me. They bore right through me. When I caught her gaze, I couldn’t have been more nonplused. She was a very fancily dressed middle-aged woman who had the most disgusted look on her face that I could ever imagine. I have seldom felt more mortified in my life. Apparently for some Europeans, I was committing two unforgivable sins. First and foremost, I was eating with my hands. Secondly, I was eating corn, which is considered by many to be pig food. Even though it was offered on the menu, and included proper holders for the corn, my desire for corn was quickly quashed.

By now I had become proficient in the dialect and had a job. Esther had a job she loved and enjoyed the times she could be with her family. We enjoyed where we lived and most of what Switzerland had to offer us. However, my year-long leave of absence from Hesston College was coming to an end. The job I had, although fun, was not really a long-term solution for me, and I had really loved the four years I had taught at Hesston. We were stuck between a rock and a hard place. Do we stay in Switzerland and wait the seven years for me to become a citizen and get the necessary certification to become a teacher in Switzerland? This was probably the hardest decision of our married life. Ultimately it came down to my need for fulfilling employment. Esther’s skills were needed everywhere. We decided to return to the States.

Next Chapter: Our Return to the USA

Our Love Story part 4

Chapter 4: The Wedding

(During my mostly self-imposed quarantine, I will be sharing a series of stories about how the relationship developed between Esther, a young woman from Switzerland, and me. Here are the other chapters so far: Chapter 1: The Encounter, Chapter 2: The Courtship Chapter 3: Meeting the Family )

Esther and I were officially married on November 28, 1980, in Langnau, i.e., Switzerland, exactly four weeks and one day before our wedding. As chronicled in these memoirs, our love story seldom followed conventional ways. Esther’s family was quite concerned about where I would live after my terminating German study and permanently moving back to Switzerland. A good bit of consternation abounded as they figured we would move in together, causing a scandal among the pious relatives. Esther’s grandmother came up with the solution. Have them get married officially by the civil authorities and let their lives proceed.

The wedding party at the back of the bus

In Switzerland, church weddings are not considered official. You must get married by the state first. Most couples do this on the Friday before the church wedding and then proceed to have the ceremony with all the fanfare the next day. My parents were really confused when I told them we would be getting married four weeks before the ceremony. Obviously, from their perspective, the church wedding was the official one and the only one they would recognize. It is hard to understand different customs when dealing with two cultures. Esther and I considered the church wedding to be the official “blessing” on our marriage, and have since celebrated our anniversary on December 27, not on the date we were officially married.

Before the state would allow anyone to get married, the couple had to post notices of their intent to get married on the municipal buildings’ bulletin boards in the towns they had lived in, including the town of the origin of the couple’s surnames. This had to be done one month before the official marriage to ensure that the couple had no other binding conjugal relationships. Since I was a foreigner, this only applied to Esther. She had to post notice of our pending marriage in Rüti bei Riggisberg where she was born, in Launen, the town of the origin of her family name, and in Langnau, where she was currently living. This was one hurdle that we had no problem mastering.

Another requirement, since German was not my native language, was to hire an official government translator, at my expense, to translate all the documents into English, so that I couldn’t one day back out of the arrangement, claiming that I didn’t understand what I was signing. The fee was quite steep, but I was ready to do anything to get this marriage done!

Swiss wedding customs are quite different from what I was used to in the USA. There is no large bridal party with numerous people standing with the bride and groom; only a maid of honor and a best man. The two of them are completely in charge of planning the wedding (quite a relief for me!). They were also present at our civil ceremony to sign as witnesses. Esther’s best friend, the one who visited her in Kansas over Christmas, was the maid of honor, and Esther’s brother was my best man. This would not have been my choice if I had been married in the States, but it alleviated the stress of needing to choose between the many male friends I had accumulated over the years; high school, college and work colleagues. However, Esther’s brother knew the Swiss customs and was able to provide excellent input on how the wedding should ensue. We became great friends in the years following our marriage. He has helped us immensely over the years.

After Esther returned from her year in the USA, she looked for a job in a city where there was a Mennonite church. Even though she was not Mennonite, she knew how much my Anabaptist/Mennonite faith and heritage meant to me. She chose Langnau because it was not too far from where her family lived, was near where her mother grew up, and it had a Mennonite church. Little did I know that it was the longest continuous Mennonite congregation in the world, and that it was the cradle where of many of my ancestors had lived and suffered for their faith. This was where we were to have our wedding.

After settling into our studio apartment in Langnau as an “official” married couple, the pastor of the church invited us to his home for marriage counseling. We had two sessions, but one of those was for us to give him guidance for his wedding sermon. We chose several verses centered on love from 1 John 4, and thought he did a masterful job of using those verses for his sermon. At the end of the session, he presented us with a Luther Reference Bible, all in German, of course, courtesy of the Langnau Mennonite Church. (Officially called “Alttäufergemeinde” or “Old Baptist Congregation” to distinguish from the new Baptists of English origin. The Swiss preferred to call themselves Baptists instead of Anabaptists because of how hated the “Wiedertäufer,” German for Anabaptist, were. Until very recently, this particular congregation did not want to be called Mennonite, mostly for historical reasons).  

Esther and I exchanging the "Ja Wort" (vows)

The day of our wedding began bright and clear. We arrived at 10:00 a.m. to the home of Esther’s sister where a light lunch of potato salad and “Wienerli” (hot dog-like sausages) was served to the guests. Traditionally, there are two sets of people invited to Swiss weddings. The “honored guests” who get to go to the whole ceremony from beginning to end, and those who are only invited to the church ceremony. It is indicated on the invitation which are the “honored” guests, and which are invited to participate only in the church ceremony. However, anyone could really show up to the church ceremony, with or without invitation.

At the time we were married, the custom was for a bus to be hired for the honored invitees, transferring them from place to place after the ceremony, eventually ending up at the reception. The bus was decorated with streamers (like we decorate cars) and flowers, and the bridal party sat in the very back seat, rising above the rest of the guests. As we drove through towns, people waved, and car horns honked to honor the newly married couple.

The church service was set for 2:00 p.m. When we arrived at the church on the bus, Esther’s work colleagues and some of her nursing school classmates and even some of her patients were waiting to greet her outside the church. They carried bouquets of flowers and wore their uniforms and other symbols of their profession. If I had been working in Switzerland, my colleagues would have shown up as well. This custom survives to this day.

The choir of Langnau Mennonite Church
performing for us.

The Mennonite Church in Langnau took charge of the service. In spite of the fact that they had little clue who we were, they decorated the church with a mixture of Christmas and wedding themes. Their choir sang for us. Over twenty people participated in the choir and many other members of the church showed up for the wedding. Many years later, we discovered that the mother of a Swiss EMU student we hosted for a semester, was a member of the choir.

The service lasted a little more than an hour. After the church ceremony, the honored guests boarded the bus and headed to our next stop. It was a grocery store. This was a tradition at the time which is no longer practiced by every wedding planner. Our bridal party had prepared a list of groceries in both English and German that we would need to stock our pantry. The few English-speaking guests (my mother, father, a sister and an acquaintance from Hesston who was doing an apprenticeship with a Swiss potter) were paired German-speaking ones to find their items in the store. Esther and I circled the store watching the fun. At one point I saw a brother-in-law looking at the toilet paper. “We can sure use that,” I commented in the best German I knew. Thinking he was quite clever, he showed up at the payment counter with a HUGE supply of the product! All the items were assembled and placed in a large wicker basket and loaded in the luggage compartment under the bus.

We then took off for the next stop. Remember, Esther and I had no idea what was ahead for us. It was all planned by the maid of honor and best man. We came to a community hall that was decorated with Christmas and wedding themes—lots of real candles and fir twigs, both beloved by the Swiss. It was time for “Z’vieri,” the traditional Swiss afternoon teatime. A sister-in-law entertained us with carols and other songs while we sipped on tea and ate peanuts and mandarins, another Swiss Christmas tradition.

Being late afternoon in the winter it was dark when we re-boarded the bus to head for our reception. We were unable to see the beauty of the Alps as we weaved through the countryside to the restaurant we had reserved in Blumenstein, right under the well-known Stockhorn peak. Because we had to bankroll the reception, we knew where the restaurant was, and what was on the menu. However, we didn’t know what was planned after the meal. We had cheese fondue, not a traditional Swiss wedding feast, but nobody seemed to mind.

This was probably my mother’s first encounter with alcohol. We served white wine with the fondue. When she saw the glass in front of her, she thought if she drank it quickly, as opposed to drinking it with each tasty morsel of bread covered with cheese, she would have it over and done with. The glasses were fairly small and not filled to the top. No sooner than she finished her glass, a waiter appeared out of nowhere and filled it right back up again. The look on her face was precious. Not only because the wine went immediately to her head, but also because she didn’t know how she could deal with another glassful! My sister had to explain to her that if she didn’t want any more, she should just let it set and all would be well. It is always hard for a good Mennonite to let something go to waste, even forbidden fruit. Speaking of alcohol, this was the first time I had ever seen a Mennonite pastor drink. He gladly toasted us when the time for a toast came.

After the meal, there was a whole program planned. Swiss wedding celebrations usually go on till 2 o’clock in the morning. Poems were read, songs were sung, crazy stories were told, some of them acted out, and some really silly (in my opinion) games were played like men rolling up their pants to their knees while singing a song roasting the couple. A telegram from President Reagan was read along with greetings from other famous people—all for the entertainment, and sometimes embarrassment, of the bride and groom.

At one point someone took a boombox and started playing some traditional Swiss Alpine music. They started a line dance, and we marched around our reserved room, then out through the rest of the restaurant winding through tables to the delight of the other restaurant guests. They cheered us on. Then we went outside with the parade. While we were celebrating inside, a light snow had begun to fall. Rather than dampening our spirits, it added another romantic touch to our special day.

We all boarded the bus again to return to the church where most of the honored guests had parked. Esther and I headed for Bern, the capital city, where we had rented one of the most expensive hotels for the night. We fell into bed exhausted.

 *      *     *

Side note: My mother, not known to be too adventurous, very much wanted to attend the wedding. My father, on the other hand, was not so eager. He used the excuse that they couldn’t afford the expense. My siblings collected enough money to pay for the tickets, but he still hesitated. They thought that perhaps he was afraid of flying, something he would never admit publicly. My siblings, who except for one, had young families and couldn’t attend, really leaned on my dad to go. Finally, he consented. After he returned, it was all he could talk about for years thereafter. He loved his new daughter-in-law and was delighted to discover that, except for the language, her simple farm family had much in common with his own background.

Our Love Story part 3

Chapter 3: Meeting the family

(During my mostly self-imposed quarantine, I will be sharing a series of stories about how the relationship developed between Esther, a young woman from Switzerland, and me. Here are the other chapters: Chapter 1: The Encounter, Chapter 2: The Courtship )

Esther's parents and mine at the wedding

It was dark and raining hard when we pulled into the train station at Thurnen in the Gürbe River Valley between Bern and Thun, the closest to Esther’s home in Rüti bei Riggisberg, Switzerland. I was traveling with one large suitcase and a guitar case. They were quickly loaded into the rear compartment of a Volvo station wagon and Esther, her mom, dad and I packed into the passenger seats. The car smelled like sour milk since it was used to take the twice-daily milk cans from the farm to the nearby creamery.

I didn’t say a word. Because of the warning Esther got from her mother, I was wondering what was going through Esther’s parents’ heads as we headed for the hills. Literally. Esther’s dad navigated the twisty mountain curves like an expert but left me breathless with the speed we were traveling on rain-slicked roads as the car careened around bend after bend, continually gaining altitude. I was exhausted from 23-hour trip without sleep, yet excited to be with Esther and the adventures that lay ahead.

It was still raining when we finally arrived at Esther’s home, a typical Swiss house-barn facility with a tile roof. The structure looked huge, but less than a third was her family’s living quarters. The rest consisted of a stable for ten cows, a pen for several pigs, and a hay loft under the roof that covered the entire square footage of the building.

My luggage was left on the porch beside the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. We entered the living room and it was filled to capacity with Esther’s family, eagerly waiting to see this exotic creature from the “land of unlimited opportunities.” How would he fulfill their stereotypes of this interesting land? Many of their compatriots fled there in earlier times and many now wanted to visit after being inundated with popular culture and products from there. It continued to be a place for escaping the strictures of Switzerland in the unconscious of many Swiss people.

Esther's siblings

Six of Esther’s nine siblings along with her mother, father, grandmother and uncle were seated around the living room in what appeared to be a circle. They placed me center stage. I felt like an animal in a cage at a zoo. Twenty eyes stared at me, waiting expectantly for me to prove I was worthy of their affection—or at least of Esther’s. I hadn’t been this nervous since I defended my graduate thesis on Spanish mysticism.

¨     ¨     ¨

My father took me to the airport in New York City where I boarded a flight to Frankfurt, Germany. I wore the only suit I had, a light blue three-piece with a light-black hatch print. My shoes were an orangish tan which didn’t match my suit at all but were comfortable. I thought I looked pretty cool, but in retrospect, I looked more like a clown. I fully intended wearing the suit for my wedding coming up in fewer than four months. I wore it to travel in order to have more space in my suitcase for other necessary items. Perhaps I wore it to impress Esther, who was coming to pick me up at the airport in Frankfurt.

I said good-bye to my dad, not knowing when I would see him again. I was intending on remaining in Switzerland if I could find the right employment. He later told me that he thought I looked visibly shaken after our hug and after I turned to disappear down the concourse. It could be, but all I remember is the excitement I felt at going to meet my sweetheart and a new land.

I arrived in Frankfurt and it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. All the signs were in German, and I couldn’t understand a thing. I had been to airports in over 14 countries in Latin America and thought I was a seasoned traveler. The restrooms, the design of the airport, the way people dressed; everything was different. And there were no water fountains anywhere. I felt totally disoriented. A sense of despair came over me. What if Esther couldn’t make it to pick me up? What would I do?

I proceeded to the baggage pickup area, waiting to retrieve my bags. I had no way to communicate with Esther—there were no cell phones or Internet at the time. There was no way to know if she had even left her home to come for me. Was she here? Had she had any trouble getting here?

There were sets of automatic doors leading out to the lobby where people waited to greet their loved ones returning home. Whenever the doors opened, I saw a crowd of people outside, stretching their necks to peer inside the baggage area to try to catch a glimpse of their passenger. Inside, I did the same. For the few seconds that the door remained opened I searched for the blond head and bright smile that I so loved. Nothing. I had to pull myself together to figure out what I was going to do if she didn’t appear. I had no idea that trains run right to airports in Europe, making it quite easy to go from one place to another. Problem was, other than Switzerland, I had no idea what my destination was.

I grabbed my heavy bag and guitar case and headed through the “Nothing to Declare” side of customs and headed out to the lobby scanning the sea of faces for my Esther. In the distance, I saw her making her way towards me with a sly smile. Relief washed over me. I was rescued by the most important person in my life at that time.

The train trip from Frankfurt to Switzerland brought up all the romantic images I had of Europe from films I had seen. We stopped in Basel for dinner, right across the Rhine River from Germany. She ordered a Russian salad for me. The bread that accompanied it was wonderful! However tired I may have been, the excitement of all the new sounds and senses filled my heart with joy; not to speak of being with Esther. This was going to be an exciting adventure. Well, except maybe the part of meeting Esther’s parents who weren’t very excited about meeting me!

¨     ¨     ¨

Infamous suit playing guitar for
Esther's family

I am sitting in Esther’s home surrounded by her family. I had a very limited vocabulary in German, and except for Esther, no one else in the room spoke English. Even as small as Switzerland is, Esther’s home was far away from urban centers where one could hear English, or any other language for that matter. Beautiful, but isolated. I decided that the best way to communicate was to play my guitar and sing. One of Esther’s brothers remembered that I sang Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” After putting on a show of English songs, Esther’s grandmother, about 80 years old at the time, asked me if I knew any songs in German. Now that was not something I had anticipated. I really should have learned some before I came! Guess I was too absorbed in other things!

I racked my brain and came up with “So nimm denn, meine Hände” (Take Thou My Hand, Oh Father). I have no idea where this came from. To this day, I only know the first two lines from memory. I think that once I started the song, most of the family joined in and I simply accompanied them on my guitar. Grandma’s eyes sparkled. My singing, more than anything else, broke the ice and lessened the distance between this exotic new visitor and the sturdy, stoic Swiss farm family nestled in a valley surrounded by steep hills covered with enormous fir trees.

We had two weeks in Switzerland before I was to begin my German study in Freiburg, Breisgau, Germany. I slept upstairs in the “boys” room. Neither of Esther’s brothers were at home, so I had the room to myself. I remember the shock of seeing a MK-15 machine gun at the foot of the bed where I was sleeping. Swiss men are required to serve in their military from age 18 to 32 and keep their guns in their home. They have weekly gun target practice and two weeks of training every year so that every Swiss man in that age category is ready to defend their country on a moment’s notice. This was beyond what a Mennonite pacifist, who had served two years as a conscientious objector to war, could imagine. It didn’t change my view of Esther, however.

One night, four of Esther’s sisters, all single, invited us to go to a Tea Room for a “coup.” This is what the Swiss call a sundae. On Esther’s suggestion, I ordered a “Coup Dänemark” consisting of two liberal scoops of vanilla ice cream drenched in hot chocolate and topped with whipped cream. I was not disappointed. Discovered, however, that whipped cream in Switzerland is unsweetened. Didn’t take much away from the delight! I have ordered many of these over the years.

Only one of these sisters had a boyfriend at the time, and Esther confessed that she was worried that one of them would catch my eye and steal me away. They were all quite beautiful, and their father was pretty proud of all his blonde daughters. But I only had eyes for Esther. I did, however, enjoy relating to Esther’s youngest sister who was only 14 at the time. We spent an afternoon gathering up potatoes on the farm, and I had less problem communicating with her in my limited German than the older siblings.

One gorgeous Sunday afternoon we took an excursion to the top the Niesen Mountain near Thun and only a few minutes away from Esther’s home. The view was spectacular. I remember pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. It was like I was on the set of “The Sound of Music.”

Esther’s parents still didn’t know that we planned to get married in December. There were several problems with that date. First, no one in Switzerland got married in December unless they had to. Know what I mean? Secondly, one of Esther’s brothers was getting married in October. Marriages are grand affairs (you will understand when you read the chapter on “Our Wedding”) and having two so close together would create a huge burden on the family. However, Christmas time made sense to us because it was right after my German program ended, and people traveling from the USA or other areas would have time off.

Being afraid of their reactions, we waited until the last evening to tell Esther’s parents about our plans. We had them sit with us at their formal dining table in the living room. Since it was our last night together before I left, Esther’s dad wanted to have a devotional with us and give us his blessing. The whole evening felt very stiff and formal. So that I could understand a modicum of what he was saying, he had to use standard German instead of his dialect. That made things even more formal. Later I learned that if I wanted to be an integral part of this family, I would have to learn their Swiss dialect.

The evening dragged on. It was approaching 11 o’clock, well beyond the normal bedtime of Esther’s parents. They usually got up at 5:30 in the morning to milk the cows. It was probably my duty to tell them, almost the equivalent of asking for their daughter’s hand in marriage, but since my German was limited it was up to Esther. I kept looking at Esther hoping she would start. I’m sure that at times my looks weren’t exactly pleasant. She just bowed her head and looked at the checkered pattern on the tablecloth. After a few more minutes went by, I gently nudged her with my knee. Her head sank lower. What was I to do? I was leaving in the morning and it was getting late. Finally, in desperation I blurted out: “We’re getting married. We want to have the wedding in December.” In my broken German, it probably sounded more like: “We marry want to December wedding.”

Esther’s face reddened. Her dad and mom exchanged startled looks. Esther told me later that since it was such a sensitive topic, she wanted to wait till the right moment to let them know. Of course, being Swiss and being part of her family, she would know much better than I when that moment was. I just wanted to get it over with. Get it out in the open. Deal with it. We did. Deal with it then right at the moment. The time stretched out even longer as Esther carefully explained our reasoning, hoping for their understanding. I couldn’t tell if they were in agreement with our reasoning or not, but they didn’t protest against it. Esther’s dad quoted some Bible verses about “leaving and cleaving” and wanted to offer another prayer before we went to bed. It was very touching and by the tone of his voice, sincere. We broke up the party and went to bed.

Chapter 4: The Wedding