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

Our Love Story Part 2

Chapter 2: The Courtship

(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. You can read the first chapter here: Chapter 1: The Encounter)

Esther and I met in late November and got married late December the following year. Normally ours wouldn’t have been considered a whirlwind courtship, especially since I was over 30 years old. But if I were to tell you that during that time, we lived in the same town for fewer than six weeks before we were married, you might consider it whirlwind-like.

On our first date, I took Esther to Wichita to see a movie. I don’t remember the title, but afterwards we stopped off at Taco Bell for a bite to eat. I remember outlining on a napkin the names of our siblings; she had 9 and I had 10. The first thing we found that we had in common. There wasn’t much else. We struggled with communication. Her English was better than my German, but that wasn’t saying much.

Esther got three warnings about me. The first one came from her host parents. When they heard she was going out with me her host mom exclaimed: “Goodness gracious, sakes alive. He’s dated a lot of girls and can’t make a commitment,” they said. “I would avoid him if at all possible.” They added that I was known to be interested in Latin women. Hesston is a small town, everyone knows everyone, and they were kind of correct. But then again, I hadn’t met Esther yet!

Later Esther asked me, “How is it possible that a fine upstanding Christian woman would say, “Goodness gracious sex life???” That was what she understood her host mom to say. This was the first of many uproarious language errors we each made over the years.

At Christmas I received my first gift from Esther. It was a bilingual German/English New Testament. The German version was the easy to read “Gute Nachrichten” and the English version was the equivalent “Good News for Modern Man.” I cherished the gift and vowed to increase my German knowledge by reading the New Testament in German.

Over Christmas, Esther’s best friend from Switzerland visited her in Hesston. They met in nursing school and had done numerous things together over the years, including spending a year as volunteers with a Swiss missionary doctor in Israel. Her friend decided not to do the IVEP program, but instead arranged to stay with a Mennonite missionary doctor and family that they had met in Israel. They lived in Morgantown, West Virginia.

We decided to go to Wichita to a coffee house that had a live band playing. Esther’s friend sat in the back reminiscent of the trip to the German restaurant with students a few weeks earlier. As I piloted my VW Beetle, which Esther dubbed “huggie buggie,” toward the interstate, I reached out to take Esther’s hand. On previous dates, this meant that she would snuggle closer to me and hold my hand as well. Not so tonight. She moved closer to her door and coldly refused my hand. Oh dear, what’s going on? Even though we had a fun time at the “concert” with her friend, Esther avoided any close physical contact with me or endearing looks. Doubts began to cloud my head. I thought that she had decided, upon the arrival of her friend and remembering her homeland nostalgically, that I wouldn’t fit in her future.

Esther and I didn’t have much time to move our relationship beyond that disconcerting night, because at the beginning of January, I led a group of Hesston College students to Mexico for what was called Interterm. We were headed to a language institute in Saltillo. This was the last full month for Esther to be in Hesston, since IVEPers were moved to a new location after their mid-term conference. She was scheduled to leave for Roanoke, Virginia, several weeks after I returned from Mexico. I was quite busy shepherding a group of students while also taking a course at the institute. We all stayed with host families. After I settled in, I sent a postcard to Esther to let her know I was thinking of her. She never got it.

I only sent one postcard because I was holding back on what I thought was a cooling off of our relationship after her friend’s visit. She spent the whole month wondering why she got no communication from me. She also remembered her host family’s warnings about my interest in Latin women and was worried that I had gone a-wandering.

After returning from Mexico, I attended Hesston Mennonite Church on the first Sunday I was home. I spotted Esther entering with her host family. My heart skipped a beat, but I didn’t yet know that she hadn’t received my postcard. After church, her host dad approached me and asked me to join them for lunch at the Colonial House, the best restaurant (and only one?) in town. He obviously was oblivious to what strains there might be between us and how awkward things could potentially become. Wanting to see Esther, I nervously accepted.

I sat across from Esther at the restaurant. I engaged in a lot of small talk with Esther’s host parents about things in Hesston and my trip to Mexico. Esther kept her head bowed during most of the chit-chat, not adding much to the conversation. My mood was getting gloomier and gloomier to the point that I thought things were over for us. I kept the chatter alive trying to fill the void in my spirit with what I thought was clever conversation.

At one point in the afternoon, Esther lifted her head and looked directly at me, fixing her eyes on mine for just a bit more than normally accepted social convention. That look went straight to my heart. It communicated to me more than any words could have done. It told me that it was okay for me to pursue the relationship. And so I did.

In February Esther left for her mid-term conference in Pennsylvania and then on to Virginia. We saw each other a few more times before she left, agreeing to keep in touch, but still not sure of where this was going. I surprised her greatly with a huge bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day that arrived at her new home in Roanoke, and that seemed to make up for the lack of attention she thought I had shown her while in Mexico.

Shortly after she arrived in Roanoke, she got her second warning. It was from the director of the IVEP program. She had heard that Esther was seeing a US American man. “Don’t let your heart be broken,” she wrote. “As soon as you leave for Switzerland, he will forget you.” Technically it was against the rules for IVEPers to date while in the USA. She didn’t forbid Esther from having contact with me but tried her best to discourage it. Many years later, when Esther and I were in the process of applying for a position with MCC, we visited her in her office. She gave us her blessing.

I visited Esther in Roanoke during my spring break. On April 1, when I saw her for breakfast, I said, “Look, it snowed last night!” With her mouth wide open, she looked outside to see green grass and new buds on the trees without a trace of snow. “April fools,” I exclaimed to her! She giggled delightedly to discover that English has the same April fool’s joke as they have in German. Over the years we discovered many such similarities in idiomatic expressions in our two different languages.

Our long-distant relationship continued to grow. At the end of my semester of work, my good friend and former roommate got married. Esther returned to Hesston for the ceremony. At the time I had a sister living in Charlottesville where her husband was attending medical school at the University of Virginia. She found a summer job for me and invited me to live with them for the summer so that I could visit Esther on the weekends—about a two-hour drive. After the wedding, I loaded my “huggie buggie” and moved to Virginia taking Esther along with me.

Somewhere along that long drive from Hesston to Roanoke, we stopped at a Chinese restaurant to eat. After the meal we received the expected fortune cookies. Esther asked me to read mine out loud to her, which I did. Then it was her turn. She began “Be sure and don’t wait too long . . .” she couldn’t finish reading her fortune because I burst out laughing, much to her embarrassment and the amusement of the other diners. I knew by the sentence structure that she was making it up as she went. Instinctively I knew what she was going to ask. She wanted a commitment from me. This was the watershed moment for our relationship. We agreed to get married. There was no kneeling with a ring at some exotic place with a photographer waiting to capture the moment to put on social media. It was simply two souls who wanted to join their lives together amidst the unbecoming smells of Chinese cuisine. Ever after I’ve joked that Esther proposed to me.

Shortly thereafter, I began making plans to go to Europe for a year. I didn’t go on the choir tour I expected to go on but getting married in Switzerland seemed even more exciting. I took a leave of absence from my job and enrolled in a Goethe Institute in Freiburg, south Germany for a semester of German study. From there I could visit Esther in Switzerland on weekends. We planned to get married during the Christmas season after my studies were over.

Esther wrote to her parents about my proposed arrival to Switzerland. That is when she got her third warning. “We don’t want to meet Don,” her mother wrote. “We know he will take you away from your homeland and family.” Her warning was prophetic, even if at the time I was fully intending to relocate permanently to Switzerland. I had taken a leave of absence from Hesston as a backup.

Weekends in Roanoke during the summer months were filled with fun. Esther was an au pair for two young boys and her host parents were busy with a furniture business and with their church. Her host father had been a volunteer with a similar program in Germany before he was married. Esther’s English improved immensely, using it daily with the boys. She even picked up baseball lingo while accompanying them to their little league games.

My job painting at a government hospital wasn’t the most fulfilling, but I needed the money for my trip and looked forward to my weekends with Esther. We attended a young married Sunday school class each week and were dutifully embarrassed when they chose a Christian book on sex as one of their topics for discussion. “You guys are engaged,” they reasoned. “It’ll do you good.”

Esther left for her home mid-August. I scheduled my trip to Europe for the middle of September, several weeks before the semester at the Goethe Institute began. That gave me a few weeks in Switzerland before study. That is the subject of my next chapter.

Chapter 3: Meeting the family

Our Love Story

(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)

Chapter 1: The Encounter

December 27, 1980
Mennonite Church Langnau
Switzerland

Later this year Esther and I will celebrate 40 years of marriage. This was no easy feat. We had to overcome numerous pitfalls, twists and turns during the first several years. It almost didn’t happen. The unlikelihood of our being together began the first day we met.

I was teaching Spanish at Hesston College, a small two-year Mennonite-related school in Kansas. Ever since I had participated in an exciting three-week tour with a choir through South America, I wanted the opportunity to do the same in Europe, especially Germany and Switzerland. It was the cheapest way I could think of to do so, and I loved singing. So, when Hesston College announced an alumni tour of these very countries, I was in! To prepare myself for the trip, I sat in on Ervie Glick’s German class. I had had a semester of German when I was in college, but could barely utter “Guten Tag” properly, let alone “Wie geht’s?” which happened to be the title of the book Glick was using.

One day in early November, Glick came up with the idea of taking the German class to a German restaurant in Wichita, about a 30-minute drive from our campus. The students were supposed to speak German together both to and from the restaurant and while we were munching on Kraut and Wurst. I secretly scoffed at the idea. I had tried this numerous times with my Spanish classes and gave up on the idea since students usually were either silent or spoke English no matter how much I prodded them. I didn’t tell Glick, but I decided I wasn’t going to participate—just another wasted evening when I could be grading papers.

On the day we were supposed to go to the German restaurant, I arrived at class ready to learn how to decline articles in the complicated German system of nominatives, accusatives and datives. Before we dove into the subject matter, however, Glick started naming student car drivers and assigning students to each car. He pointed to me and said: “Clymer, you will drive and take students so and so with you.” I hoped he wasn’t observing my face with his pronouncement because it would have revealed a combination of shock and disgust! How was I going to get out of this? He was counting on me to help get the students to the Deutsches Fest in Wichita. I was trapped!

Begrudgingly I decided to go along with the plan but wasn’t much looking forward to it. That evening I drove my beloved yellow VW Beetle to the parking lot where we were supposed to meet. I saw the two students who I was to take with me, and I directed them to my vehicle. They quickly hopped in the back seat making me wonder if I had forgotten my deodorant. Perhaps they were scared of me because of my position of distinguished professor of Spanish. Either way, it would be hard for me to shout German to them in the back seat over the roar of my underpowered VW engine. Oh well, they probably wouldn’t say anything anyway, like my presumption.

I started up my car when I saw Glick heading toward me with another person for my vehicle. He introduced me to Esther Reichenbach from Switzerland. She jumped in beside me, and because it was a VW bug, it was RIGHT beside me. I’m not exactly sure I believe in love at first sight, but it was indubitably attraction at first sight. She was beautiful with some of the blondest natural hair I had ever seen.

Apparently, there were three native German speakers in the area with Mennonite Central Committee’s International Volunteer Exchange Program (IVEP); two males and one female. They were added to the different cars to make the experience more authentic; and more threatening to us students, I might add. I was indeed grateful that I got the female for my car. Glick now claims that he wanted to set up Esther and me. I guess his plan worked, even if I initially had no interest in the trip. But the story was only beginning to unfold.

Esther and I awkwardly tried to communicate in German, while the two young women in the back seat remained silent, as expected, curiously observing our interactions. I don’t remember much of our conversation, only that it was me fumbling and stumbling with my few German words.

We arrived at the restaurant. It was a cold, drizzly November evening. We were the first to arrive, so we went on in awaiting instructions from our leader. Had he assigned seats in the restaurant like he had assigned cars? I was hoping I would be able to sit with Esther. My hopes were soon dashed as the other cars arrived. One of the other IVEPers, Daniel also from Switzerland, came through the door, and Esther swiftly ran up to him throwing her arms around him. Their eyes sparkled and they giggled as they chatted away in some undecodable gibberish. Oh well, I thought. She already has a boyfriend, even from her own country. Dejectedly, I sauntered over to an empty table and sat down before receiving instructions for proper seating order. The warmth on the drive to Wichita I had felt in spite of the ugly weather dissipated. To my delighted surprise, however, Esther left her Swiss boyfriend to sit next to me. My spirits lifted immediately.

I don’t remember what I ordered, nor what we talked about, but it was soon time for the long ride home. Esther seemed to be reciprocating the attention I was giving her, and in spite of fearing she already had a boyfriend, I decided on the way home that I was going to ask her out. It was the perfect set up. We would arrive at the dorm; I would let the two female students out and then offer to take Esther to her host parents’ home. In that short stretch, I would ask her out. Perfect plan, or so I thought.

While we were pulling into the college, I offered Esther a ride home. “Oh,” she said. “You don’t have to. My host parents gave me their car to use to get home.” This was ridiculous!! She only lived a block from campus! Why would they give her a car to drive when it was less than a five-minute walk?! And why did she accept? The Swiss love to walk. So much for the perfect plan! If I couldn’t ask her out in the scenario I had laid out in my head, it was over. Done. Fertig. I was NOT going to go to her host parents’ home to ask her out. I was NOT going to call her on the phone, communication being hard enough face to face. I was devastated but resigned to the fact that we would probably not see each other again.

Gloomily, I opened the car door on my side to let the student behind me out. Esther did the same on her side. I got back into my car to go home silently cursing my fate. No sooner than I pushed the clutch in and put my car in gear, Esther jumped back into the car. “I thought you had a car here?” I asked surprised at this sudden turn of fate. “It’s over there,” she answered pointing to a vehicle about 10 feet away from where we were. I couldn’t believe it! First, that she had driven a car for one block, and then that she had wanted me to take her 10 feet to where her car was parked. My opportunity arrived and I took advantage of it. I asked her out and she accepted. The grey November evening had turned to gold as I soared home.

Next chapter: The Courtship

Dealing With COVID-19 Isolation

Our Fridays are normally punctuated with delightful shrieks and raucous banter from our two chatty toddler granddaughters. Because of the COVID-19 epidemic, our two children decided not to grace us with the presence of their children so that we vulnerable, “elderly” would be safe from anything the granddaughters may have picked up from their daycares. We were reduced to Facetime chats with them.

We turned to other activities to fill the gap and to help us with the isolation. Several people who attended a local Centering Prayer group at a local church, decided to continue the practice using Google Hangout as a way to be together without meeting in person. At 8:00 am five of us signed in and after introductions sat in silence together for 20 minutes. Afterwards we hung around for another period of time to talk about how we were dealing with the fear and anxiety brought about by the epidemic and the self-enforced isolation.

Two things emerged from this experience. First, silence is ALWAYS good for dealing with anxiety as well as most of the ills that dance through our streams of consciousness. We came out of the forced silence refreshed, relaxed and mostly anxiety free. Secondly, we felt solidarity with a group of other people who were dealing with the same issues as we were. This was the first time this Google Hangout met, so it was still in the experimental stage. As the group grows in the coming days and weeks, the sense of solidarity will be even greater.

After the prayer group, and because the weather was to be warm and beautiful, we took off for Skyline Drive for a hike. We approached the entrance, expecting to show our senior pass to allow us to enjoy the Shenandoah National Park for free. Apparently, due to the virus, they were not collecting fees from anyone. I guess handling the money and free passes was too risky for park employees. We found the parking lot for the hike we were going to take, and were surprised to find numerous vehicles there, expecting to hike as well. As the day progressed, more and more cars drove past to enjoy the scenery and the bounty of nature. We met other hikers on the trail and kept a safe distance while exchanging cordial greetings.

The trail head information was rather confusing. It showed three trails, one which had a rock scramble, while the other two were to be moderate without the rock scrambles. We took off. We only saw markings for one trail, the color of which was not represented on the information board at the trail head. We figured that eventually the easier trails would split off from the one we were on. We crossed the venerable Appalachian Trail, but never saw any other trails, so we continued on. We were on the rock scramble trail. The first outcropping didn’t look too daunting, so we clambered up the rock and emerged without a scratch. 

Unfortunately, the trail was a bit damp from some rain on the previous days, and some of the rocks were rather slick. We crossed another rock scramble without incident, but suddenly came upon an intimidating outcropping that was smooth as glass and stretched about 15 feet in front of us with no places to place our feet for a secure foothold. We looked for detours around the outcropping to continue on. Finding none, we gave up. We turned around and went back to the parking lot without reaching our goal. It was good that we did. By the time we reached our car, it was drizzling quite heavily, and more slippery rocks were not something our aged knees needed. We ate our picnic lunch overlooking what was left of the cloudy view of Massanutten and returned home, refreshed and relaxed.

While trampling through the forest, when I wasn’t concentrating on properly placing my feet on the trail, I was reminded about how intertwined we are with nature. I was saddened by how much our extravagant lifestyles have scarred the sacredness of God’s creation, and yet rejoiced at how anxiety free the birds were that soared overhead. I felt like I was soaring with them and being uplifted by the updrafts created by the clashing of the wind and mountains. Even if they could catch the virus, their demeanor wouldn’t change. “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life . . . look at the birds of the air . . . and yet your heavenly Father . . .” (Matt. 6: 25,26)

For a few hours I was away from the anxiety-producing news. I was away from the noise of the streets (even though there is less traffic these days), from social media, from the clamoring of my unconscious longings and needs. I felt a delightful, calming presence.

Silence, community and nature. I recommend these three for dealing with anxiety and isolation. Even if there is no COVID-19.

Although I am exhausted by the end of the day, I can’t wait for the return of my two granddaughters; to play with them, to eat with them and to hug them. Until then, I will try to live anxiety free every day, not just on Fridays.

A Charmed Life

Reflections on my dreams and realities

Boyhood dreams:

1.     Be a major league baseball player. Dream unrealized but played on three all-star softball teams.

2.     Sing in a folk or rock band. Dream partially realized. I sang in a folk/pop duo that performed at various church functions and coffee houses. Never went beyond my twentieth birthday.

3.     Be a radio announcer—especially announcing my favorite sports team, the Phillies. I would announce games in my head while mowing the lawn. This was partially realized. In high school, I did a weekly news show about my school at a local radio station. Part of my co-major in communications at Goshen included radio. I did a shift at the college radio station and announced basketball games. Later I managed the radio station at Eastern Mennonite University and was the on-radio personality for several shows each week. My wish of being a baseball announcer was never realized, however.

Teenage dreams:

1.     Be a missionary aviation fellowship (MAF) pilot. I was inspired by Nate Saint, MAF pilot who was killed by the Auca Indians in Ecuador. I read every issue of Aviation magazine, knew every model of Cessna, Piper and Mooney airplanes and reviews of each. I went to our local small aircraft airport on my bicycle and hired a pilot to take me up for an hour at least once a year. I began taking pilot lessons and was ready to fly solo when I suspended my lessons to join an aviation club that was remodeling an Aeronca Defender, similar to a Piper Cub for use as our aircraft for flying lessons. When we were about halfway through the remodeling job, I sold out my share to attend college. I decided on Hesston College, Kansas, because of their aviation program, but because of the cost, decided to major in something else.

2.     Be a Spanish teacher. I was inspired by my high school Spanish teacher, but never dreamed that I would end up teaching Spanish for more than thirty years, let alone at the college level. I had no intentions of going to college because it was discouraged by my socialization and was expected to pick up a trade. Never received a blessing from my father for my vocation until the last time I saw him alive. It meant an awfully lot even if it was late in coming. 

3.     Be a choral director and composer. Somewhat realized. I became enamored with choral music in high school and it continued as I sang in numerous choirs in high school, between high school and college, and after college. I began my college career as a music major, but because of a lack of skills on the piano, turned to the easiest way to graduate—Spanish. Nevertheless, I have led singing in many venues over the years.

4.     Be an actor. This was partially realized. While attending college at Hesston, I was granted several lead roles in plays which continued at Goshen College. I co-majored in communications which included drama. I acted in some 10 plays including being in the choir for the production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni.

5.     Be a missionary, especially in Spanish-speaking countries. This was realized more fully than many of my other dreams. It began with a two-year stint in Honduras to fulfill my alterative service as a conscientious objector to the war in Vietnam. It continued with a short-term service in Guatemala to help rebuild after an earthquake. It was broadened with a three-year term with Mennonite Central Committee as the country representative in Mexico. I then worked for Virginia Mennonite Missions for seven years in administration. In this role, I traveled to Jamaica, Trinidad and Italy. This was a very fulfilling time.

Beyond my wildest dreams:

1.     As stated earlier, I never expected to go to college and even less expected to teach Spanish at the college level. While studying at Hesston College, I was a student assistant to the college professor at the time. When he decided to move out of the classroom, Hesston invited me to take his place. I did and with a few exceptions, never looked back. Thirty-two years of teaching ensued. After a number of years at Hesston, Eastern Mennonite University (EMU) invited me to teach there, and that is where I taught until I retired.

2.     Through my seven years in Latin America, and through leading cross-cultural programs with students from both Hesston and EMU, I accumulated numerous stories that I thought had to be shared. I began writing these stories for various journals and was surprised to discover that my writing was accepted by a larger audiences than expected. This led me to begin to write manuscripts for books. I recently had my fourth book accepted for publication. I never expected that I would be a published author. What a thrill!

Indeed, my life has had many unexpected twists and turns, some of which were difficult and challenging. Nevertheless, as I reflect on my past 70 years, I cannot believe how much I have been able to experience—experiences that I never could have expected. I have been extremely blessed and I thank God, my family, my church, and all the people who put faith in me through my many dreams. I have indeed had a charmed life.