100 Things I Learned in Switzerland

1) What to do when the pastor drops the F-bomb.

I was fresh off the plane from the USA, eager to get settled in this beautiful country,  when I was invited to sing in all the services at ICF, a Swiss church of 2,000 mostly young people and families in Zurich.  On the day, I was warmly welcomed by an excited staff, obviously full of passion to reach the city, and the rest of the world for Jesus. 

I don't quite remember how it happened…some things are still a blur…but I was talking with Pastor Leo between services when he began telling me a story from his time in Australia.

Toward the end of his weeks-long trip, Leo and another pastor were on the golf course when Leo said, "Man, I can't wait to get home and fuck my wife."  The other pastor was flabbergasted.  "You can't use that word!" he said.  "Why not?" Leo answered.  "No!  You can't use that word," he insisted.  "Are you sure?" Leo replied.  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…!  See?" 

The other pastor didn't know what to do, and neither did I.  I had never heard the F-bomb dropped 20 times in a row, much less by a pastor. 

My jaw was on the ground.  I wanted to throw up.

But there was something special about Pastor Leo that kept me from judging him.  There was an authenticity about him, and the power of God when he spoke, and 2,000 people crowding into a warehouse to be a part of this church that he was leading;   loads of fruit growing right here in the hard spiritual ground of Europe.  It's hard to point the finger at that. 

It was many moons later that I realized, Swiss people view our cuss words like we view theirs…as funny words.  Saying "scheisse" can be fun even for Evangelicals, and it's the same the other way around. 

Also, when speaking in a foreign language, one often doesn't fully understand the weight of certain words.  For example, I might say "I am angry" in German, which would come across too strong when I only mean I am a bit frustrated or perturbed.  

Furthermore, there is no church culture here.  Only Jesus culture.  Meaning, there is no Christian sub-culture with a list of do's and don'ts'…do act like this, don't say that.  There is only the directive to follow Jesus and be authentic.

Even now, I am moved by Pastor Leo's willingness to preach and live his life without any pretense.

This was one of my first experiences here of looking beyond a person's actions to see their heart, understanding cultural differences enough to realize…it's the heart and God's presence that counts most.

We ended up attending ICF for the rest of our time in Switzerland.  We were small group leaders, and helped for a while with the English/Spanish church which was just beginning, and I got my start leading my first Creative Community. 

When I worked in the church office, my stomach still sunk into my shoes whenever I heard someone shout a cuss word. 

Now I just giggle. 

I'm sitting with the worship team at lunch and one of them says "Shit!" and, hey…I'm still an American.  I was raised a goody-goody, so smoking and cuss words and a glass of wine may always for me have a certain air of excitement. 

So I giggle, and they giggle at me, and we understand one another.  And I'm grateful to these people for the first chips at breaking me out of my shell. 

A new project: 100 Things I Learned in Switzerland

In just a few days, the Woodhams family will celebrate 4 years of living in Switzerland.  It's our "Swiss-iversary". 

Our small flat is about to be filled with boxes and bags for our move back to the States; my laptop is already a hub for to-do lists and travel arrangements. 

Outside it is another glorious Swiss spring – the magnolias are in bloom and the fields are yellow and, when the sun breaks through the clouds, the whole country will be one beautiful sea of green. 

I keep thinking of all we've experienced here – all I've learned here. 

It's been an exciting, challenging, rewarding ride.  Sometimes the learning curve was so steep, I could've had a nosebleed, but we kept going.  I've decided to document my education in a little project…

100 Things I Learned in Switzerland.

This is my way of remembering and honoring the things I learned in this beautiful, efficient, "land-locked island" country. 

Some items will hopefully be funny, some a bit more serious, some learned once and for all, others still works in progress.  Some may require explanation, for those on one side of the Atlantic or the other.  Remember, it's just one gal's perspective, and I will do my best.  

Blooming

I like to talk to the flowers in my window box. I tell them how beautiful they are, how they're my ladies. When we left on vacation, they received enough water, but I'm guessing no one talked to them because, when we came back, they were healthy but had lost all their blooms. Now, after a little bit of singing and complimenting, they all are flowering again.

Weasels

We have screaming weasels nesting in the walls/roof of our house, waking us in a fright twice last night. The burly, cigar-smoking, Swiss forester came today to tell us: 1) It's their mating season and it's illegal to exterminate, and 2) He must first put out bits of chocolate and dates to see if, indeed, we have weasels. Apparently, if the dates and chocolate disappear, it's weasels.

Is my testimony of screaming vermin running through the walls in the night not enough to verify the existence of weasels? and could not the disappearance of dates and chocolate also indicate the existence of bears, foxes, or perhaps Wally the dog?

We called our neighbors next-door (with whom we share a roof) immediately to inform them of the weasels. They said…Oh, yes. We know! Apparently, they had the vermin first on their side of the house, and treated their half of the roof with odor-repellents. It worked…for them…for now the weasels have come to our side of the house to nest.

Brüschtli

Doug and I went to a birthday party. No big deal, right? Maybe not, except for the fact the birthday boy was Swiss, and being asked to the birthday party of a Swiss is like receiving an invitation to his inner circle – a relational Holy of Holies, if you will. We got a babysitter and felt super special.

The greatest part of our evening came at the toast. We all lifted glasses of champaign, toasting according to our own cultures. "Cheers!" we said. "Pröschtli!" said our Swiss friends. In an effort to join in, I echoed, "Brüschtli!"

"What did you say?" Oscar said, laughing uncontrollably.

"Brüschtli!" I repeated, with gusto.

He then explained to me, now doubled over with the giggles, that "Pröschtli" means "cheers" but "Brüschtli" means "little breasts."

"Little breasts!"

Neuchatel and Stroller Placement

After dropping Abe off at Chinderinsle for his Wednesday afternoon playtime, I hopped a train to the Zurich main station. Where I was going, I had no clue…only that I needed to get out of Zurich, preferably to spot where they don’t speak German. After standing for a while in the middle of Zurich HB, staring at the departures board, I glanced at a map and discovered Neuchatel, a town in French-speaking Switzerland only 1.5 hours away. Bingo.

My express train caused only minimal motion sickness, and by 2:20pm I was gliding by the glistening Lac de Neuchatel. At 2:30pm, I disembarked in search of a WC and a cup of coffee.

A short walk around the city proved the people very friendly, and not at all upset at my lack of French skills. I thanked the helpful madame behind the information desk and complimented her on the quality of the tourist center. I smiled at shopkeepers. And here in this lakeside bistro, I just had friendly conversation with the waitress who brought my café au lait. The afternoon experience reminded me of what a generally nice person I am.

Such a refresher course was necessary after yesterday’s encounter. Not feeling too well, I decided to go home early, and boarded a bus with Abe and Wally in tow. We pulled away and, within a minute or two, I heard a woman speaking in English behind me: “She doesn’t speak German,” she said. “That was rude…some people are just in their own world. I try to be nice when I am in a foreign country.”

Are they talking about me? I wondered. I was sitting at the bus stop…I got on… I retraced my steps. Surely not. I had no idea what had happened. She continued to go on about the rudeness.

A minute more and the woman got off the bus. As she did, she turned to me and rebuked, “You know, you really should be more considerate of people!”

Shocked, I replied, “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Well! Think about it…you blocked the sidewalk with your stroller! Just think about it!”

I guess I just wasn’t feeling well, and didn’t realize the angle of Abe’s stroller. It wasn’t completely blocking the sidewalk of the little side street, but apparently it was too much for this lady.

She walked away and, immediately, I thought to myself, “I’m just going to brush this off.” I made it up the hill and three flights of stairs with Abe and Wally, put Abe in front of Veggie Tales and laid down to rest. Doug got home; only a few words were said before the tears came.

“She said I was inconsiderate,” I sniffled. Such a comment is like salt in a wound to an expat. God knows the efforts I’ve put toward fitting in here. Still there’s often some rule I don’t know, a custom I haven’t observed. It is not abnormal to give my best to a task – public transit, laundry, conversation, making a new acquaintance – only to miss the mark.

Yesterday it was stroller placement.

“Do you think you are inconsiderate?” asked my sweet husband.

“Well, I am kinda in my own world sometimes, and I wasn’t feeling well, and I just can’t keep track of all the proper things to do all the time…” I continued, frustrated and sad.

Since then I’ve thought of how people here live more inward, private lives. Where I’m from, folks have a decidedly more outward existence; and I admit I can be especially outgoing even among my own kind. This is bound to annoy some people.

Doug smiled. “But are you inconsiderate?”

A moment’s thought and, “No,” I replied. Tears still streamed down my face.

A bit more processing with my patient love, and I was up again. “I don’t do it perfectly all the time,” I resolved, “but it is in my heart to be good to people.”

That evening I headed out to a girls’ night. On the way, I met Mrs. Aida, my nice elderly friend who lives at the end of our street. We talked for a while and she gave me three kisses on the cheek – a Swiss gesture that means "Hello," "Good-bye," and generally "I like you." Down at the tram stop, a girl asked me for directions and I showed her the street she needed. Then I helped a woman with feet problems get on the bus.

It was as if God was giving me opportunity to see, Jesus is shining out of me.

Still, just like that disgruntled lady on the bus, I have rolled my eyes at people who weren’t doing what I thought they should do. How could they be so ­­­–––? I have thought to myself. We’ve all done it. From now on, I hope I am slower to judge, or don't judge at all. Maybe that person was tired, or sick. Maybe they really are a good person, and they just didn’t notice. Maybe they honestly didn’t know the proper thing to do.

Ok...they've cut the overhead music in this little café for the live entertainment to begin: a pianist playing along with karaoke tracks. His first numbers, “Imagine” and U2’s “Beautiful Day”…sung with a French accent. “Bon soir,” he just said. He’s really good. These moments are best enjoyed with macbook closed, I’ve found, so I guess that’s all for now. Thanks for listening…

Bursts of Song - The Bernese Oberland '08

What can I say? Sometimes the scenery is so beautiful, I can't help but burst into song. You would do the same...right?