A Groove, Slightly Transformed

Sunday was the first day of summer and the last day of the recent cold spell. Arna has one of the milder Norwegian climates but it's been freezing for weeks. I've even heard it said that this is the longest cold spell for sixty years although Terje did admit that he received this information from 'The Old People' so it's some way from being officially confirmed.

It has also been unusually dry over the last few weeks. So dry, in fact, that last Sunday we were a week away from a water shortage. I find this to be ridiculous. Ask Dave and Anna how much it rained when they were here in the autumn. Any place that breaks records for rainfall in November and then flirts with drought in March can only be regarded as careless in my opinion.

Anyway, it being so dry has meant that there has been a lot of dust in the air in Bergen. It comes from the metal-studded winter tyres that some drivers use on their cars churning up the road surface, creating a dust cloud that is visible from the top of the surrounding mountains. What annoyed me is that while the tyres are only neccesary for about half a dozen days every winter, the use of them in these dry periods gives certain people breathing problems. Why not take the bus six times a year? Or, if that's not possible, these drivers have to decide if they value their ease of travel and getting to work for six days higher than the lungs of someone else.

Drums, please! Wick-a-wick-a-wick-a-wick-a... Here it is...

In celebration of the first day of summer I listened almost exclusively to old-school hip hop on Sunday, most repeatedly the seminal Summertime by Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. I feel that this action may have swung things weather-wise and as a result Arna is once again moderately cold and often raining. Hopefully spring will get its act together soon.

On Sunday evening I went to Betel, a church in Bergen to hear the gospel choir from Ansgar School of Theology. I was asked to welcome people on the door and my colleague in this task spent a large part of the time either pointing out the choice single girls in my age bracket or sharking for the ones in his. He divided the people we were welcoming in a very similar, unorthodox way. The concert itself was great fun and I especially enjoyed the times when the synthesizer and lead bass combined to create that Kanye sound, like the opening track on The College Dropout.

This week I finally finished the scout film of the trip to Finse. Technical problems had risen up at every turn, not only delaying the finished product but making the process a bit of a chore at times. Now that it's completed I have mixed feelings about the project. On the one hand I think it's a good home video (although spending so many hours working on it makes it hard to judge just how good it actually is) and I know it has a killer soundtrack. Moreover, the chances are that I have become Arna's first foreign film director. Oh, how I exude culture. On the other hand though, it is only a good home video. I find it hard to think of how much time I spent on something so trivial when there is far more important work to be done; I don't think I can justify it. Maybe God will use it open a door to send me as a missionary to Hollywood but at the moment I don't think that's His plan.

I was asked by one of my youth recently about what I'm going to do after the summer. They said that they knew that I wanted to do what God wanted, but wanted to know what it was that I actually wanted (if you follow). I can honestly say that I'm not just giving the standard youth leader answer when I say that I want to do what God wants.

We use the word 'want' in different ways. Sometimes it only expresses desire, like the way that, at the moment, 'I want sausages' (normal British bangers just don't seem to exist here, they're beginning to occupy my thoughts). But if someone says to you, 'You want to eat those sausages before they get cold', then they're also indicating what is best for you; what you ought to do. They may even add the abstract 'believe you me' if that's what is called for. And I think that's how I feel about God's will. I was never Al Capone but I know there have been times in my life when I haven't been doing what God wanted and to sum it up, it is rubbish. It wasn't good for me and I don't want to live that way. The only place to be is in His will; not only is it the best for me but it's what I truly desire. I want to follow where God leads me. And so, my friend, do you. Believe you me.

Yeah Boyee!

Casa Feliz is usually a low-key affair. Every week there is a game, a few songs of worship and a short talk but, other than that, it's just a space to chat, play cards and eat pizza. It's important to have that format so that there's a chance to have decent conversations with the youth. Once a month though, we put on some larger kind of event. This Friday we held a fancy dress party and I think it went down as one of the best Casa Felizes yet.

The outstanding effort of the evening was undoubtedly made by Øystein (or, more accurately, his wife Jannicke) who turned up dressed as an impeccably detailed, six foot milk carton. I went as an eighties b-boy in my vintage Arsenal tracksuit and some assorted sweatbands. As I was doing the talk, the game and playing bass I had to wear something relatively practical and less distracting. While the 100% polyester caused an immense static build-up, I was happy to find out how much more comfortable a wristband makes bass playing.

I chose a multicoloured Adidas sweat rag to wear on Sunday, when the youth led worship for the family service. We spent almost all of our preparation time learning kids' songs and I feel it is my duty to report that the Norwegians have mangled the chorus of "Who's the King of the Jungle?", giving it a truly bizarre, horrible melody. But the youth did well; I knew they would.

After the service, a bit of time spent on the scout video and a short walk in the mountains I cycled home for dinner. I knew what the main course would be - my first taste of that controversially-eaten marine mammal, the whale. I don't know much about the issue of whaling but I do know that the meat was already dead, bought and cooked so to refuse it would have been pointless and ungrateful. I was a few minutes late so they had already started but there was still plenty left for me. You might say that they saved the whale.

Four Weeks, Sorry

This Norwegian year (or whatever period of time it ends up being) has so far afforded me more new experiences than I know how to put across. I've had the chance to do things that I otherwise would never have had the chance to. Even the daily routine is hard to take for granted - cycling up and down hills, overlooking the frozen fjord, surrounded by mountains and, at night, under a clear, starry sky. The weather in Arna has been beautiful lately; cold but beautiful. It's been roughly somewhere between five and ten degrees below freezing but the sun is out, the sky is blue and the days are now long enough that it's actually worth calling them that. There's a lot to love about the Norwegian way of living and even more to love about the life that the Lord called me here for.

I'm really enjoying my work with the youth worship group especially and each member has really grown in both their playing or singing, and their attitude and focus. They are learning to listen to and play off of each other too and I'd love to see that increase to the point where they feel totally free to listen to and follow the leading of the Spirit as they play and sing. If you're praying a bit later, why not give them a mention? See 'A Fistful of Ham' for a rundown of who exactly is who.

Casa Feliz continues to attract a good number of young people who otherwise wouldn't see the inside of a church but, obviously, we're all for getting more of them in and accordingly I've produced a gaudy monstrosity of a flyer to go out via the youth of the church. I wish that you could see just how unsubtle it is - primary red and yellow, with something like a hundred stars crammed onto an A5 sheet. Elton John would reject it as 'too loud'.

Not last Friday, not the Friday before that, not the Friday before that, not the Friday before that, but the Friday before that (that's right, I haven't posted in a while), on the tenth of February, a bunch of Torbjørn's Colombian friends came to Casa Feliz and taught us all to dance the salsa. The Norwegian chaps, rock hard as they may be, proved beyond a doubt their lack of rhythm and coordination on the dance floor. Naturally, I set the room ablaze with my moves. The South Americans had a few moves of their own on the football pitch the next day, as they triumphed over Europe in an intercontinental clash of four-a-side in a school playground.

That evening, I had a small, unusual birthday party. It was particularly unusual because my six companions were all aged between thirteen and seventeen years. Accordingly the party involved both Haribo Starmix and stupid games, although to be fair I brought the Haribo and instigated the tightball. I did, however, draw the line at being swung twenty-three times by John Håvard and Magnus. As I'm not much younger than their combined age I felt it right to maintain some air of maturity. And, allow me to be frank for a moment, if you know me at all then you know that I'm not even getting swung once on my birthday, or any other day.

The following Monday, my official birthday, I went into Bergen to buy presents for Tim and my mum and was thinking about having a quiet night. I had heard around the house some mention of cake so I planned to eat brownies, then maybe watch a film and - let's face it, I'm twenty-three now - probably fall asleep before the end. But while I was waiting for cake that evening, writing an e-mail, I was surprised to find a company of Norwegians singing in my hallway. Effortlessly mono-tasking, I didn't realise there was anyone there until they were almost finished with 'Happy Birthday' but that is of no consequence; when I did notice I was genuinely surprised. It was lucky that I'd ran a hoover around the place earlier; an activity that roused Anne Britt's suspicions that I'd smelled a rat. In truth I had no idea and was only engaging in a little spring cleaning. Anyway, it was a touching gesture for them all to turn up and, saving the evening from any awkward tension, there was still plenty of cake.

You know that feeling of bewilderment when you wake up in another person's guest bedroom? The confusion of not knowing quite where you are, or how your bed moved, or indeed how your room changed size and was redecorated without you noticing is one I'm sure that many of us have felt. So just imagine my freak out when I awoke to find that my bed had not only moved but had also become a sleeping bag, and that my room had become significantly smaller, cave-shaped and snowy. The shock quickened the realisation that I was in fact in a small snow cave.

Graham Geddis told me (on a previous occasion, he wasn't sharing my snow hole) that a year in Norway would furnish me with all the anecdotes I'd ever need. He was not wrong. I'm rapidly building an impressive stockpile of chestnuts, yarns and adventures to be wielded both at my discretion in everyday conversation and also in preaches and small groups to drive home some profound nugget of wisdom. And two weekends ago, I hit the mother lode - the scout winter trip to Finse.

The now-engaged Tim and Vikki flew in on Thursday, the day before the trip, and we spent quite a few hours trying to borrow all of the equipment that we needed. Skis, mittens, woolly underwear; we found the final few items on the list literally minutes before the train arrived to take us to Finse. Every year the scouts stay for a weekend at this remote spot with a population of no one, although there are some winter holiday homes. To give you an idea of the landscape, let me tell you that Finse is where the young Jedi Luke Skywalker was attacked by the wampa ice creature in 'The Empire Strikes Back'. Yes, we had come to the ice planet of Hoth.

On the first night, Tim, Vikki, myself and about a dozen scouts slept in snow holes. We split into groups of three or four per hole and spent about five hours tunnelling, excavating and shifting snow. We also had to saw bricks out of the snow to build a roof and close up the entrance. Eventually, at about three in the morning, Tim, Magnus and I had a decent sized cave to sleep in. I can't pretend it was the best night's sleep I've ever had - certainly not in the same league as a stay in the guest bedroom at Rose Cottage - but considering we were sleeping in a small, icy cave, it was quite cosy.

The next day was one of cross-country skiing. Some went a trip round a mountain, I went with two of the scout leaders across a frozen lake to find a hole to drop through into a cave. In the evening was a kind of talent show with every troop putting on a contest or sketch or something. One group just got me and Tim onstage to play chubby bunnies, something that ordinarily I'd love. I'm a fan of marshmallows so to force feed myself with the fluffy treats is no chore as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately, there was a shortage of sweets on Hoth so we had to use screwed up toilet paper instead. My mouth was dry enough to be considered suitable for something requiring storage in a warm, dry space. The rest of the trip involved a lot more skiing, a little vomit, two toilets between sixty-three people and a lesson in navigation by the night sky. After everyone got dragged along on their skis by a skidoo, it was time to go home, reeking like you can't imagine.

Once back in Arna, there was time for a little eighties karaoke. I was undefeated. Only Anders can beat me; I can't match him at 'Heaven is a Place on Earth' or 'The Final Countdown'. That said, I can wipe the floor with him at 'Ice, Ice, Baby'. The next day the three of us caught the morning plane back to Stanstead. I thoroughly enjoyed watching Arsenal become the first British team to beat Real Madrid at the Bernabeu and then caught the train to Greenwich. The Tates were picking me up from the station and from there we'd travel down to Ashburnham for the Ichthus Worship, Prayer and Fasting Conference. But naturally, as soon as I set foot back in South London, there was a pastoral visit to be made. You can take the man out of New Life but it doesn't take long to get back into the New Life way of getting things done.

The conference was excellent and I felt like I'd got a renewed focus for my final four months in Scandinavia. After another pastoral visit on the way home, Debs gave me a free haircut, making me once again resemble 'The Prince of Egypt', just after he flees and loses his wig. That's not to say it wasn't a great cut, just that I don't seem to be able to avoid that look when I've got short hair.

After a birthday breakfast with the Oranges, a chemical spill on the M11 defeated Lucie's bid to get me to my flight on time. That was no great disaster for me though, I got to be at New Life for the family service and witness Phil's intense John the Baptist. Revolution!

Then I came back to Norway and since my return I've spent almost all of my time editing the video footage of the Finse trip. It's a long process but quite satisfying when things go right and it hasn't quite eaten up my entire life. I visited a church in Bergen called Bethlehem a couple of times this week. They were having a week of 24/7 prayer and it was great to be able to be a part of that. Then yesterday, my congregation in Arna held a day of prayer and worship. It was a good time and the evening meeting was a jumble of prayer, testimonies and different kinds of worship. Anita performed another incredible dance and I led the congregation in a partner-swinging rendition of 'The Happy Song', for which they offered me a Britney headset mic. I was disinclined to accept as the combination of the microphone and the country style music would've made me feel far too much like Garth Brooks.

If you've read this entire post then I am not unimpressed. I appreciate that it may have taken several sittings. And if you've come this far, maybe you're willing to come a little further. I'd like to extend to you the offer of a Norwegian visit. Not a Norwegian visiting you, you understand, but know that if you feel like a visit to the only city in the world surrounded by seven mountains and seven fjords, then I have a comfortable sofa and would love to show you around (probably - there's no way of knowing exactly who visits this blog, although the length of the post will probably have driven away most casual readers). Just so you know that the offer is on the table.