Mountainview International Church

It was raining, but of course Devin assured me we'd have no problems finding a place to stay, and there would be hot sand on the beach tomorrow. People with umbrellas wearing business suits and black leather coats were criss-crossing the streets, some on bicycles, and streetcars were waiting for passengers. We pulled our coats over our heads and ran across a broad walkway overlooking the Ij River running in front of the station. We came to a busy intersection and stood behind a group of older ladies with cameras and luggage.

"Kraig," Devin turned to me, his face hidden in his jacket, "did you see the building across the street?" He was pointing at an old four-story building with lots of windows. Written in blue letters near the roof were the words, "Jesus Loves You."

"Do you want to check it out? I'm soaked," Devin said, shivering.

"Why not," I replied. I hadn't expected in a city where weed is sold from a coffeehouse menu to see such a clear sign of hope. We crossed the street and stepped inside, a wind chime clanging behind us as the door closed. It was a bookstore. A guy with a baseball cap stood up from his desk at the far end of the room.

"Hi, my name is Mark," he said, looking at our blue jeans and the hiker's packs slug over our shoulders, "Welcome to Amsterdam."

"Thanks," Devin said, taking off his pack and picking up the latest Christian romance novel from the display shelf.

"Can I help you find a book?"

"You can help us find a place to stay," Devin said, absorbed in the back cover of the paperback.

"We just got off the train and saw your sign," I explained.

"Oh, the one on the roof," he said, walking to the front of the store. He shook my hand and waited for Devin to finish reading before shaking his.

"It's beautiful weather for room shopping," he said, raising an eyebrow as he looked out the window over my shoulder. "I'll tell you what," he looked at Devin and then at me, "I need some help tonight. You fellas know how to make tomato soup?"

"I practically live on the stuff," Devin said, grinning, "it's my dorm room specialty--served with an ice cold Mountain dew on the rocks." He closed his eyes, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

"In that case," Mark continued, "I've got a place you can stay for a few days. I work with college kids at a discipleship training school, and I know we have some dorm rooms open a few blocks down the street" He walked to the front door, "Grab your bags, and I'll show you how to get there." We followed him out onto the wet sidewalk, and he pointed us down the street. "Follow the river, and you'll be fine," he assured us. "It's a huge apartment building on the right side of the street at the intersection with Kadijksplein--you can't miss it. I'll give Anneke a call and let her know you're coming." He patted Devin on the shoulder and said, "See you two tonight at 9:00 in the basement."

************

"Could you grab the sugar?"

"Yeah, sure," I said.

Mark was in the kitchen stirring a large kettle of soup with a long wooden spoon. I scanned the ingredients on the shelf and found the sugar. The bag read, suiker.

"Two cups each" he added, "The coffee thermoses should be there."

I set the sugar next to the three thermoses standing at the end of the metal counter.

"Smells good," I said, unscrewing the tops of the thermoses, "Tomato, right?"

"You bet. It's the guys' favorite" Mark said energetically.

I could hear Devin in the lunchroom cutting loaves of bread with a machine that growled.

"Once the soup is ready, we'll pray in the lunchroom and head out."

"Alright," I said, as I set the sugar back on the shelf and wiped my hands on my pants. I walked into the lunchroom.

Devin was putting red twisty-ties on the ends of bread bags and tossing the loaves onto a metal cart next to the lift. "This is great, huh," he said.

"Yeah," I replied nonchalantly, "It's great."

Devin interrupted, "Think of the people we're going to meet tonight Kraig. They're probably druggies or gang-bangers. Mark was telling me about one of the gangs--they have a compound in the city; the cops aren't even allowed in." His eyes were shining. "And think of what the guys would say back home. Do you realize they're probably in class right now?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Hallelujah, praise Jesus! It's good to be in Amsterdam." He shot his arms in the air, waving his hands.

I laughed, pulling a chair from one of the lunch tables and sitting down. Devin danced over to the bread cutter and unplugged it from the wall.

"Come on Kraig, lighten up a little, it's Spring break."

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms.

"It's my job to tell you when to loosen up, and I'm telling you, loosen up." He wasn't kidding, and he was right. I knew it.

I was nervous. The word "homeless" and the idea of "eating under a bridge" had very little meaning to me. I knew nothing about these people. Who had decided I should be the one making the soup and coffee and saying, "Here you are. I hope it makes you feel good and warm inside," and "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know Jesus. Would you like me to tell you about him?"

Mark walked in from the kitchen, putting his windbreaker on over his head and adjusting his baseball cap. "Okay, we'll load the soup and coffee onto the cart and head down to the bridge. But first, let's pray."

**************

Devin pushed the cart across the street and down the sidewalk parallel to the river. He and Mark talked in high spirits while I trailed behind, staring at the water, black and unmoving, aside from the occasional tourist boat lazily crossing from one bank to the other. Fishing boats silhouetted by the evening sky waited quietly for their owners to return in the morning.

Mark directed us to a pedestrian bridge, and we walked to the other side of the river. Two businessmen on bicycles rang their bells and passed us on the left. The bridge we were headed for was only a couple blocks away, hiding an intersection beneath, where we stopped the cart.

I helped Devin lift the cart off the street and onto the curb. The kettle rattled, streaks of thick red soup running down its sides. A single street light glowed overhead, illuminating the brick walls that enclosed the small street corner. Groups of men already talking and waiting watched as we untied the bungie cords holding the kettle to the cart. Mark tossed me a bag of paper cups and handed Devin a ladle. He gathered everyone's attention, and we prayed.

A loose line formed at the kettle, and Devin began scooping up the soup, pouring the contents of his ladle into paper cups I handed to the next in line. Each man stepped to the kettle, and I became conscious of my hands, carefully picking up the warm cup of soup and placing it into the palm of another. My fingers began to tremble slightly, and I watched Devin nervously as he smiled brightly and shook hands. Mark was nearby laughing with a man carrying a motorcycle helmet, patting him on the back.

A dark, plump man with sagging cheeks approached the kettle. He wore a cream sweater with a stain on the chest. He drew a cigarette butt to his mouth for a moment and exhaled slowly from his tightened lips a ribbon of silky smoke. He rubbed his neck with his free hand and began to speak in a gruff voice.

"Ik heb en vrienden en verenig de staten," he spouted, smiling and nodding his head.

"I only speak English," I said, shrugging and holding my hands out awkwardly. "I don't speak your language." I shook my head apologetically.

"Ik wil hem bezoeken," he continued, with little regard for my gestures. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and laughed abruptly.

"Don't you understand," I said softly, overwhelmed by our differences, "I don't know what you're saying." My voice broke. The man glanced at me, smacking his lips.

"I look at you," I said, my fingers still trembling, "and I don't believe. I don't believe any of it." I bit my lip as the tears began to form in my eyes. "I see the grease in your hair, the dirt under your finger nails, the cigarette butt you picked out of the trash, and it's all a joke to me," I laughed nervously. "I figure it's all for me. A big game, and I'm the lucky one who gets to serve soup to the poor man. But in the end you'll take off your dirty clothes and scrub yourself clean, and you'll be just like me, and we'll all go to our homes to be with our families." The man stood silently in front of me, his arms limp at his sides, staring blankly across the river. "I can't handle you like this. I think you're ugly," I whispered, turning away. I looked up, trying to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks--my sight lost in the brilliance of the streetlight overhead. "Oh Jesus, forgive me" I cried, as I knelt down before him, this man who had no beauty and was despised by many.