My Cousin Burnell

Several weeks ago, out of the blue, I received a friendship invitation from Sue Clemmer. She only had one mutual friend with me, but out of curiosity because of the Clemmer surname, I accepted her request.

Sue and Burnie Clemmer

A few days after accepting her invitation, I received an email from her husband, Burnell Clemmer. He and his wife have done a lot of work on their genealogy, and he claimed that we were related. We had a 6th great-grandfather in common, Valentine Klemmer (Klimmer, Clemmer, Clymer) dating back to 1665. I descend from one of his sons (Heinrich) and he descends from another one (Christian). 

We also discovered that we both live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia: I in Harrisonburg, and he near Mt. Jackson. We decided that we should get together and compare notes. 

Before we got together, we exchanged numerous emails giving each other information about our common ancestors we were researching.

Today I went to visit cousin Burnell. I set my GPS to his address and proceeded north on Rt. 42 toward Mt. Jackson. Despite the cold, it was a lovely drive. There was little traffic and I enjoyed the scenery as I meandered through the Shenandoah Valley. 

I soon turned off the main roads and found myself driving on unpaved lanes. After numerous turns on different rural lanes, in the distance I saw a beautiful log cabin home on the top of a hill. I thought it was where Burnell lived, and so did my GPS. There were no vehicles in the driveway, and as I approached the door, there was a pistol hanging by the door with a sign: "We don't call 911." This cousin of mine may prove to be more interesting then I had imagined, I thought as I knocked on the door. No one answered. I realized that this is not where my cousin lived, and since that was the case, I was glad no one answered door.

I called Burnell, and he gave me the correct directions, and soon I was approaching another lovely home with my cousin waving from his balcony. "Hello, cousin," he said as he beamed and hugged me. "Welcome to our home. This is my wife Sue."

Turns out that his wife is the one who works so diligently on genealogy. She has an extensive family tree on Ancestry.com, and was trying to track down how Burnell and I were related. 23andMe said that we were third cousins, but the Clemmer line was too distant for any such close relationship. What she found was a huge surprise. We were related through the Sensenigs as well, and much more closely. My maternal grandmother was a Sensenig, and Burnell and I share a common 3rd great-grandparent. 

I spent most of my childhood and teenage years in Goodville, PA. Burnell's relatives are scattered all over the Blue Ball, Navron, Weaverland area, all within a boyhood bicycle ride from Goodville. We discovered many other similar surnames we were related to.

We got to meet each other because of our common 6th great-grandfather, Valentine Klimmer (Klemmer, Clemmer, Clymer). Little did we know that we were much more closely related to people on the maternal side of my family.

Nice to meet you, Cousin!

Review of My Meditations on the Beatitudes by a Buddhist

This review was posted on Amazon.com by a good friend, Jody Fagan. Book can be purchased at the links provided. Published by Cascadia Publishing House.

The venerable Vietnamese Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh (Thay) often spoke and wrote about “the Kingdom of God” as a place “where all of us can learn to be more understanding and more compassionate.” Buddhists and Christians may disagree, wrote Thay, about whether suffering exists within the Kingdom of God. His own view was that we cannot have flowers without the mud: 

If we take the time to look deeply, we see that understanding and compassion arise from suffering. Understanding is the understanding of suffering, and compassion is the kind of energy that can transform suffering.

Meditations on the Beatitudes provides an entryway - a “dharma door” in Buddhist lingo - into the kingdom of God as a space of struggle. The book does not strive to provide answers to philosophical questions, but offers personal experiences as a pathway toward navigating our lives on this Earth. Don’s humility in sharing what he has learned—and is still learning—invites us to learn with him. 

As a Buddhist, I found this book highly relevant for my spiritual practice. First, I want my practice to be global—I want to include all cultures in my understanding of the world. Yet my default mindset often reflects my upbringing in U.S. middle-class suburbia. This book’s vignettes from Mexico, South, and Central America open windows for me. Second, I want my practice to be intimate—a word in Buddhism which means setting aside all preconceptions and being present with what is. This is the approach with which Don offers his experiences. He doesn’t try to smooth over rough edges, over-analyze, or bring anecdotes to any particular resolution. Third, I do not want to push away difficult or negative thoughts, but to recognize them and thereby, transform them. Thus, the meditations and prayers of disorientation provide an excellent way to learn from conflicting and difficult thoughts and emotions that arise. The meditations and prayers of orientation provide a gentle example of ways one might move forward, growing a lotus even amidst the mud. 

Buddhists don’t recognize a separate deity-entity, and therefore don’t generally address prayers “Dear God,” as is done in this book. However, it is a simple matter to embrace the phrase as an idiosyncratic way to reach for our Buddha nature—that which is greater within us. I don’t set the phrase “dear God” aside, either, because it offers a reminder to reach outside my small self-conception for something larger and more vast, which I will need in order to grapple with true suffering. The phrase also connected me with the author, so that at least “two are gathered” for the prayer. The references to God and scripture throughout the book also offer additional opportunities to reflect on the potential for commonality between Buddhist and Christian approaches (e.g. the discussion of Matthew 7:3 on page 51). Don’s presentation of Christianity as a social endeavor within our networked, collective society also supports the book’s broad applicability. Conceptualizing racism, for example, as a social problem (p. 52-53), is aligned with Buddhists’ understanding of the world as completely interconnected. Yet, Buddhists also constantly challenge themselves to wake up to the world right in front of us, too: individual actions matter. And this book contains repeated calls for individual action in the offered meditations. 

Long story short, although this book may have been written with Christian readers in mind, I would recommend it highly as a guide for interfaith explorations. I also think people of many faiths would find it valuable, as I have, as a devotional for personal spiritual development. 

Thich Nhat Hanh quotes from:

https://www.mindfulnessbell.org/archive/2015/04/dharma-talk-the-keys-to-the-kingdom-of-god-2

I’m Religious, Not Spiritual

Yes, you read that correctly. It is the opposite of a phrase you've probably heard from friends or the media. Among the college students I taught for many decades,  one of their rallying cries was! “I’m spiritual, but not religious.” The idea behind the phrase is that I believe in God, and I have several spiritual disciplines that I practice. However, I do not want to be involved with organized religion because it is too hypocritical. This sentiment became even more pronounced as the Evangelical church in the USA became increasingly aligned with extreme rightist ideology.

While listening to a podcast featuring an Episcopal Priest, he stated: “I’m religious, not spiritual.” From his statement, I got the title for this blog post. At first I was brought up short by his proclamation, but after he briefly explained his position, I had to admit that he had a point. 

He claimed that the quest for spiritual enlightenment is a very individualistic endeavor, lessening the need for community and gathering together for worship. This fits all too well into the individualistic culture of the USA. Although he was not against spiritual practices, he wanted to make a point about the need for organized religion to properly maintain connections to other people, along with providing important rituals. 

The Catholic Church has always had a certain focus on spiritual practices, often only for certain people Forms of meditation and other spiritual practices have recently become very popular in Protestant circles, including Mennonites. In the Salt & Light materials prepared by Herald Press for Sunday schools, each lesson includes a section called "Spiritual Practice." I personally have been on an inward journey and even wrote a book about spiritual practices titled: “The Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening." Through these practices, I have become more aware of myself, deepened my relationship with God, and even learned how to relate better to others. I affirm individual practices of devotion. 

I have lived in collectivistic cultures where most individual quests, like spirituality,
are suspect. Seemingly the only way to connect to God is through corporate worship, and services are provided almost every evening to fulfill that need. Their worship is lively spontaneous and meaningful. They are relational and committed to community.  This is certainly a good dimension of spirituality. 

"I am spiritual but not religious." "I am religious but not spiritual." I find both of these expressions to be an inadequate expression of spirituality and religion. They set up an "either/or" dichotomy. Life is more ambiguous than that. I think both an individual quest and a corporate expression of spirituality are necessary for a healthy spiritual life. In the aforementioned book, borrowing from Ronald Rolheiser's book "A Holy Longing," I outline four essential practices for a healthy spirituality. They are equally divided between individual and corporate quests.

    1. Contemplative prayer or meditation. Individual quest

    2. Belong to a community of faith. Corporate quest

    3. Social justice. Corporate quest

    
4. An open, spacious, mellow heart. Individual quest

Therefore, I am both spiritual and religious.

Comprehensive Review of my Honduras Memoir

 

Contextual note for this book review: I was born and raised in Honduras by pioneer Mennonite missionary parents. But I “came of age” as a teenager, young adult in the United States. Hence my experiences are opposite of the author, Don Clymer, who was raised Mennonite in Lancaster County, but transitioned into adulthood while serving in Honduras. Moreover, as a boy growing up in Honduras, I had personal experiences with voluntary service men. In fact, my interactions with the VSers formed my first impressions of what American young men were like (the impressions were, uniformly, good). 

    Coming of Age covers the years 1968-70. In the case of author, Don Clymer, these involve his late teens, until just before his 22nd birthday. In lieu of serving in the military (Vietnam War years) via the draft system, Mennonite conscientious objectors were given official alternative options of serving two years elsewhere in the world, as directed by their pacifist church mission leadership. These voluntary service men were known by the acronym, VSers. In the book’s Forward, Don provides a context about “registering for the draft.” Every 18 year-old male, at the time, had this heavy bureaucratic appointment hanging over their heads. 

    Don’s story begins with a description of sharing in a Mennonite missionary family meal, in Honduras, who specially prepared a traditional American Thanksgiving meal. However, outside the house window, a “pair of large brown eyes” appeared; a young, hungry Honduran girl watching them eat their American feast.  Don writes: 

God will never let me forget those eyes. Whenever I am ungrateful, whenever I become jealous of someone else’s material “blessings;” whenever I see someone waste or complain about food; I think of those eyes.

    This is just one theme of Don’s stories, wrestling with poverty and faith, yet it is one subject of several that carry through all of Don’s stories. Other prominent themes in the book, include faith and youthful sexuality, working amidst an unfamiliar business culture, protecting his identity from American stereotypes (hippies, soldiers, etc.), Mennonite cultural distinctions in choice of music, expressive language, drinking alcohol, dancing, relaxing, and other activities. The author doesn’t just tell, he shows the reader how vulnerable and unprepared he was for his Honduras experience. 

    Moreover, Don provides an inside look at VSer inter-relationships and church life, along with and such fascinating side trips as “vacations,” “pranks,” and “softball.” Furthermore, we read of Don’s observations on differences between island life, and life on the mainland of Honduras. Each of these diverse themes and stories are told with candor, humorous chagrin, even honest, transparent perplexity. Don does not pretend to master all that he absorbs in the two plus years of his Honduras service—this is no sociological treatise. Rather, Coming of Age, engagingly tells the stories, as if, in the present tense, we, the readers, are coming of age with Don, as we turn the page . . . by page.   

HONDURAS IS A HANDS-ON COUNTRY

     As Don tells it, because the VSers, in general, were from rural farming areas of the USA, they were well-equipped for Honduras’ limited technology and engineering. Electricity was not always available; outhouses were still common. Maintenance, or logistics, in Honduras, is a full time, 24/7 job. So, despite being thrust into a 3rd world country with foreign language and customs, most of the VSers knew how to fix things, work with their hands, and problem solve with whatever was to hand. The VSers engaged in agricultural projects, including construction, carpentry, painting, plumbing, electrical work, mechanical repair, and, of course, many of them knew how to play softball. This hands-on service ability and mentality endeared the VSers to many Hondurans—they weren’t academics or bosses telling them what to do—but actively doing and showing how things can be done in a way that benefitted many. 

    By contrast, due to Don having been exposed to Spanish in high school classes, and being adept at numbers, he got involved in service projects dealing with accounting, assisting with keeping track of how funds were being used and tabulated. Hence, out of the all the VSers, Don had the unique experience of working with Hondurans in an office setting. Don’s accounting/Credit Union work took place on the mainland, mostly in La Ceiba, on the coast, and on the three bay islands, some 30-40 miles off the mainland. Island settings were more rustic, but the islanders spoke English, enabling relationships to quickly form.

    After a full year on the isolated, English-speaking island of Guanaja, Don spent the rest of his time working in La Ceiba, a larger coastal city, which also housed the VS housing unit and office. It is here where “rubber meets the road,” where Don learns to adjust to Honduras culture and people. Other VSers often traveled to La Ceiba for training, retreats, and for short vacations. Hence Don got to meet many of the other VSers scattered throughout the country. 

    Don also writes of church life, and interactions with Standard Fruit Corporation headquarter employees. One office in which Don worked, was the Vicente D’Antoni Hospital credit union office. Here, Don engaged in conversations with employees regarding what was happening in the United States, and some negative Honduran feelings about the USA. Being a Mennonite, set Don apart from what others thought Americans were supposed to be like. Later, at an out-of-hand office party, Don had to deal with an inebriated married woman who wished to have sex with him (announced aloud to the party guests). Don chose, like Joseph with Potiphar, to flee the scene on his bicycle. 

THE SEXUAL NEXUS OF FAITH AND FORBEARANCE

  Don had several unbidden, and some awkward encounters with women. Some of the women were up for a momentary adventure, others for friendship, and a couple for romance, or just plain, sex. These encounters took place in Costa Rica (2 months of language training, and vacations), on the islands, and the Honduras mainland. Don writes these stories the way they happened, in surprise, shock, confusion, desiring, rejection, and fleeing. Don’s storytelling here, is superbly clear and specific with details, and perhaps highlights the book’s theme of coming of age. 

      Sojourning from Mennonite teenager to adulthood in your own country can be daunting, much more so, in Honduras, away from your home church, youth group, family and spiritual peers. In Honduras, Don was given sufficient freedom to deal with the awful, but wondrous continuum of dating, being friends with, getting close to local women, while at the same time, having to follow VS rules: “no dating, no kissing, no messing around.” I was not surprised that much of the time, Don was lonely, bereft of understanding confidants, having to press on, without knowing quite what to do, how to be; in other words, persevering, while living with a kind of existential home-lovesickness. 

    This was the nexus of trust and temptation, faith and forbearance, where Don’s disciplined Mennonite upbringing served him well. Mennonites, like other Evangelicals of that time, put up natural sexual hedges around their youth, so that if one were to break thru and have a sexual relationship, out of bounds, you would feel “the fearful breaking through” of that fence-hedge. To that end, Don writes with what I call, epistemological humility; He knew his limitations, both in what he knew, and how to embody who he was as a Mennonite. As much as faith can inspire, or aspire to greater things, faith can also restrain, and wait for a more fortuitous time . . .

MENNONITE SELF-DISCIPLINE AVOIDS FOOLISH ENTANGLEMENTS

    Mennonites, during those years of the 20th century, were particularly disciplined in all aspects of life: work, play, romance, sex, church life. Each area had discipline and purpose. Wasting time, fooling around, lying, stealing, etc., were all forbidden. Now, to most of us, this kind of fenced–in living feels privative, even demeaning. Yet for the VSers, in the 60s and early 70s, this learned and ingrained discipline kept them from many foolish, temporary attractions and distractions. Mennonites are already set apart by custom and spiritual practices. In Honduras, Don writes about the many times that this sense of ‘difference” was relationally efficacious. Nevertheless, the charm of the book is that Don reveals that though his Mennonite instincts served him well, they did not always satisfy the emotional upheaval, and confusing situations in which he found himself. We forget how fragile this coming of age is, the tremendous energy there to try out, to explore, or how easily the natural passions are subverted and compromised. Don’s Honduras experiences were a life-changing testing ground, which he tells, later in the book, transformed the arc of his life. 

OTHER SIGNIFICANT ANECDOTES

    In Honduras, Don was exposed to the tragedy of warfare, playing competitive softball in a foreign country, leading singing and Sunday school classes, interpreting for English speakers, and what it’s like to vacation in Guatemala, El Salvador, Costa Rica. He also tells a harrowing tale of almost crashing, facing death, in a small airplane. And much more besides . . . The author squeezes a lifetime of stories into two years, 124 pages. Don has a startling rest of the story, of what happened to him, since Honduras, acknowledging that the trajectory of his life was formed by what he lived through in Honduras. Going south for two years, changed everything for him, for what resulted up north for the next 50 years. You will need to read his book to find what happened . . .  

For the sake of limiting my review, then, in conclusion, Don acknowledges that most Americans think they are the center of the universe. He writes:

It was not only potential girlfriends who didn’t understand . . . Unfortunately, few people were interested in my story. They would ask me enthusiastically, “How was your time in Honduras?” And after I got beyond “It was great,” their eyes would glaze over, making it clear that they really weren’t interested. This was tough to swallow. It wasn’t until many years and many heartaches later, that I was able to use my writing as a means to tell my story adequately.

       Indeed, in the fullness of time, Don Clymer has overcome glazed eyes, and written a forthright, even fearful, but enlightening account of his formative adult years. I wish the book had gone on another hundred pages. But that very desire, “for those who can’t see the end from the beginning” is a good token of life here on earth, wanting more of a good story than can only be had, momentarily. Thanks, Don, for giving us such a sensate experience, for letting us see and feel how Honduras helped form you, and give you a destiny in Christ, in whom all our stories begin, and move onward, without end. 

Of course, I highly recommend this book, for all the reasons stated above.

--Danny Blue 

Malinda in Mexico

Here is an exchange between a mother, Amy Ledyard (a former student of mine), and her daughter on my book about my daughter's experiences living in Mexico, "Malinda in Mexico: The Magic of Mexico Through the Eyes of a Young Girl": 

"Mommy, did you know that at the end of Malinda in Mexico, they moved to the United States of America?!?" Afton just asked me. "Yes, I did know that Afton. That family actually currently lives in Virginia."

"WHAT?!? In Virginia?? How do you know that?"

"Because the man that wrote Malinda in Mexico was my college Spanish teacher."

"MOM!!! YOU KNOW THE MAN WHO WROTE MALINDA IN MEXICO???? WHY DON'T I KNOW HIM??"

Then Amy wrote a review of my book for Masthof Press, the current publisher:

We first read Malinda in Mexico as a read-aloud with my 4 and 5 year-olds. We loved reading the book together and living these beautiful stories of life in Mexico from the perspective of a little girl. My oldest has now re-read the book independently, and she picked up even more. It sparked wonderful conversations about living abroad and different cultures around the world. I even got to share some of my own stories from spending time in Mexico. This was such a wonderful story, full of relatable young-child emotions, fascinating experiences, and a culture that's warm and rich. We highly, highly recommend Malinda in Mexico!

Thank you Amy! 

Pick up your own copy at Masthof Press and learn about the magic of Mexico!

Am I really who I think I am?

While teaching at Hesston College, Kansas, a group of us formed a small group that met weekly. Most in the group spoke Spanish except for one friend. Once at a meeting we were jovially interacting in Spanish while my friend was a passive observer. After the meeting he told me: “you are a different person when you speak Spanish.” This was my first realization that this was probably true and it has made me think about how learning other languages has affected me as well. Am I really who I think I am? How am I different when I speak Spanish, or Swiss German? When a walk in and out of these language-induced personalities (personas?) which is the real me?

I became friends with a couple who were children of missionaries in Italy. He was from the USA and her heritage was Swiss. When I saw their wedding pictures, I viewed her as a sophisticated model and when she spoke Italian it in no way took away the image I had of her. When she spoke Bärndütsch (Bernese Swiss German) with us, she was suddenly transformed into a common, ordinary country girl. Who is she? A beautiful and sophisticated Italian model, or a simple country girl? Perhaps she is both. Perhaps it depends on which language she is speaking at the time.

Psycholinguistics is a field which looks at how language affects behavior and culture and how culture affects language. One can say that it is like the question, "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" I have reflected a lot on certain usages in languages that influence how one behaves. When I learn and use these usages, have I changed who I am?

For example, in Spanish, whose speakers notably belong to a face-saving culture, they have a linguistic construction which reflects this reality. Instead of saying, “I dropped the ball,” they say, “The ball dropped itself on me.” In the English version, the subject, “I” takes full responsibility for dropping the ball. However, in Spanish, the subject is the ball, as if the ball was to be blamed for having been dropped. I am only indirectly involved, as an indirect object. Couldn’t one surmise that that is a face saving mechanism? When I use this expression which is grammatically called the “accidental reflexive” and many others like it, have I become part of the face-saving culture? 

In another example, in Swiss German, there is no simple past tense, normally called the preterite. To express time in the past, they use either the present perfect or the pluperfect. For example, we would say, “I took three pills.” They would say, “I have taken three pills.” The preterite tells us in English, that the action is over and done. The present perfect, on the other hand, tells us that the action in the past continues to influence the present moment. Our sentence in English isn’t complete until it tells us how it affects us in the present. “I have taken three pills” implies as of yet, up to now. I might take more. 

How might the use of the present perfect for reporting events in the past influence how speakers view past events? Does it mean that for them, things that happened in the past always continue to influence the present? That nothing is ever over and done? 

The Swiss German dialect also does not have a future tense. Adverbs of time are used with the present tense to show that something will take place in the future. In contrast, English has two forms for the present: "I will go to church tomorrow" and "I am going to church tomorrow." Spanish uses both futute forms and in addition, like Swiss German, frequently uses the present tense to speak about something in the future. For example,  both Swiss German and Spanish can say "I eat in a restaurant tomorrow" while that sounds very strange to an English speaker.

For the most part, English is very precise with its tense usage, but lacks the nuance and ambiguity of the subjunctive moods where Spanish excels. 

I have only given a few examples of how different languages influence thought, and by extension the cultures within which they are spoken. Since people have observed me  being different when I speak with Swiss German speakers and Spanish speakers compared to when I speak English, has my mode of thinking changed as well? Am I three separate personalities? Am I who I really think I am? 

I don't think I have split personalities. I believe I have been able to integrate the various modes of thought into one personality and that allows me more flexibility and openness in my thought processes. So it is with others who have learned to speak more than one language. 

 Other posts on language learning:

 Learning Language a Spiritual Discipline

 Technically Speaking . . . Motivation

 Confessions of a Polyglot 

Just Another Day in Washington, DC

No, this is not a post on politics. It's about a day showing our nephew from Switzerland, Andreas Moser, the usual turist sites to be found in that historical city, and especially the famous cherry blossoms during this time of the year. 

It started off fairly normally. We drove I-66 to Vienna, VA, to the first metro stop available on the way to downtown DC so that we didn't have to deal with parking and traffic in the metro area. We got off at the Smithsonian exit and headed by foot to the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin which is surrounded by cherry trees. The blossoms were a bit past their peak, but still beautiful.

After taking an inordinate number of pictures dodging mostly Asian tourists, we headed back to the Washington Memorial and then on to the White House. Because of added security since the BLM demonstration and the Capitol riot, we walked forever to find a place for Andreas to get a shot of the famous house housing our President.

We were exhausted and not only exhausted, but desperately needed to use a bathroom before continuing our adventures. We found a restaurant near the White House and settled down to a meal that cost $61.02 for a hamburger with fries and a salad. At least we got to use the bathroom. The toilets were not golden.

We tried to get back on the metro, but were surprised to find that the station was closed. We were told by an kind African-American man where the next closest station could be found. He asked us if we were tourists, and after responding that we were showing our nephew from Switzerland around the city, he smiled brightly he said that he was glad that tourists were returning to his city for visits. I observed that we had seen quite a few tourists thus far on our tour.

We found the station and headed for the Capitol. We arrived there at around 2pm, not knowing that just a few minutes before our arrival, a man had driven his car into a barricade, jumped out of it and threatened the police with a machete. He was killed by the police but before doing so had injured two of them, one fatally. The Capitol was put on lockdown, even though Congress was in recess, and few people were inside. We really didn't see anything that we thought was out of the ordinary while there, and were totally unaware of what happened until we saw a newsflash on our phones after we had departed the area. We then remembered that we had seen a helicopter flying overhead. It was reported that a helicopter had landed at the Capitol earlier. We jokingly thought it was carrying President Biden somewhere.

Our next stop was the Lincoln Memorial, which was completely on the other end of the National Mall. We had walked a great deal already, so we decided to get back on the metro to go to the closest stop to the Memorial. 

When we emerged from the Foggy Bottom station, there were hundreds of police cars and motorcycles surrounding the George Washington University Hospital. There was a cadre of media across the street from the hospital entrance. All the streets in the area were blocked by police. 

Being curious, we went to investigate. I approached a soldier: "Am I allowed to ask you what is going on?" I quiered. He gave me a friendly smile, and answered, "I can't tell you, but you will see it on the news.

As we walking down 23rd St. NW, the police cars and motorcycles came down the street. In the middle of the escort there was a black van which we decided was probably carrying the mystery patient from the hospital. 

We scoured our news websites, and found nothing. We didn't find out anything until the next day. Apparently it was the police victim of the Capitol incident, who had been at the hospital for forensic examination. 

With no further incident, we continued on to the Lincoln Memorial, then returned to our metro stop to return to where our car was parked. With two stops before station, they announced that train service was suspended, that we had to get off the train and go the rest of the way by bus. We waited for what seemed like an eternity until the bus finally arrived. We packed into the standing room only bus and headed out. Seemed like a super spreader incident since there was no way to social distance. 

Another eternity passed till we arrived at the next-to-last stop. There we were told that the train was now functioning again, and we were to get back on the metro to go to our final destination. We arrived without any further problems. Exhausted, we jumped in our car to return to Harrisonburg--another two hours.

Indeed, it was just another day in Washington, DC for many of its residents. For us, it was an extraordinary day in DC. I'm sure our Swiss nephew will never forget that trip.