When Your--Danish--Friends Bring Treats...

 We had guests earlier this week...

And they brought gifts.

The gifts were in the form of a box of treats, but not just any treats...Danish treats.

Like us, another family left the congested roads and gunky air and migrated north, to the land of open fields and happy people. They contacted us and we invited them over. They brought deliciousness.

Funny thing about the times in which we live. I had actually never met these new residents of our county, even though we had known of each other since the advent of social media. That's when I got to know one person, someone who came from Denmark and who moved to America around the same time I left that country to come home.

Man, I miss Denmark, especially at Christmas. These homemade Danish goodies took me back.

We use the word, "Danish" to describe not only a language, but also a food. There's a reason Denmark is famous for its pastry. The treats in the box did the Danish people proud. Holiday food is just one type of delicious food the Scandinavians enjoy. Red cabbage, Danish meatballs, rice pudding...it's all great.

I've loved being able to connect with the Danish culture, even though I'm not 100% Danish...my tests show me having 8% Scandinavian DNA. And it's fun meeting and enjoying the company of new neighbors. Thanks for the goodies! We'll have to make it up to you sometime soon.

A Picture Or Two...For A Friend

Last Thursday I was at our writing group when I saw two missionaries walking in front of my friend's house. It's strange but I had been wondering if I would ever see them in the neighborhood. Each week I looked for them because one of the missionaries serving in that area was my friend's son, a friend who lives in Denmark.

More than a quarter century ago I wore a white shirt, tie and a black name tag. I did all this in the most amazing country of Denmark. Even though there are many differences in the mission my friend's son is serving and the one I served years ago, much is the same. We both lived by the mission rules. We both lived with a fellow missionary--a mission companion--twenty-four hours a day. We both taught people who were interested in the message we had to give.

There's another reason I was rude and excused myself from the writing group so I could hail the two young men. It was because for the last fifteen months my own son has donned a white shirt, tie and black name tag and is doing all those things my friend's son is doing now and that I did thirty years ago.

I correspond with my friend from Denmark via Facebook now and again. I told her if I ever saw her son I would stop him, tell him "Hi" and take a picture. I was so glad to be able to do that. And if I knew his companion's family in Switzerland, I'd send them the picture, too. Because if someone I knew ran into my son, I'd love it if they did the same thing for me.