Nostalgia for Sweden

I’m not the sort of person to become an expert on Africa after a 6-day mission trip. But, after all, I spent almost half a month in Sweden several years ago–so that makes me an unqualified expert.

Okay, maybe not. But occasionally, I do feel a bit of nostalgia for Sweden–not so much for “the real Sweden” (which I really doubt I experienced), but for the Sweden I did experience. The dozens of teenagers living together on the floor of the school weight room. The daily routines of cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors for the Christian conference we were helping out with. Going witnessing outside a disco with the Jesus Revolution Army (yes, that really was what another group with us was called.) Exploring the “wonders” of the original IKEA. Strolling the streets of the quaint little city and stopping for ridiculously cheap and marvelously good ice cream.

The nostalgia doesn’t happen often–but occasionally, something sets me off and I remember the wonderful days I spent in Sweden.

Something–like breakfast–set me off today.

I popped the bread I’d thawed last night into the toaster. I saw the cucumber lying on the counter where my mom had placed it a couple of days before and thought I should eat it–after all, Mom asked me just last night if I was ready for some more cukes. I sliced the cucumber and remembered Sweden.

Someone, I’m not sure who, provided food for us for breakfast. At least, they stocked a fridge for us to scrounge out of. There was fresh baked bread, butter, and strawberry jam. There were cucumber and tomato slices. There was a liquidy yogurt–and a huge wheel of white cheese that we could carve slices off of with the provided slicer.

I adored it. The memory this morning enticed me to rig a Swedish breakfast of my own. I pulled out some strawberry jam to slather atop my bread and butter. I dumped a jar of yogurt into a glass and diluted it with a bit of milk.

And I sat with the Bible I’d bought for the Sweden trip (and used ever since) and remembered those days, when I’d sat in a school lobby, eating a similar meal, reading this word while dozens of fellow teenagers sat around me, spurring one another on into love and good deeds.

Good food. Good times. Good fellowship.

A trip worth emulating.