Plans and Intentions

I woke up this morning to a beautiful day, sun shining, lawn glistening, looking out the window…everything beautiful.

I noticed my windows need washing and I noticed there was spider webs everywhere, strung from any number of launching places; they too were glistening in the sunshine wet with a bit of dew.    Normally I would have gone out with my broom and swept them all away…but I noticed the spider.  

Have you ever watched a spider weaving his web?  It is a work of art, each thread placed on purpose, with clear intent.  And he keeps going despite the vastness of his job, he simply keeps on keeping on, spinning threads, from here to there, up, across and dropping down.  He has a plan and he is intent on completing it.

This never ending spinning plan is reminding me of the plans I am in the midst of right now, weaving arrangements for my Dads funeral.  It seems a vast job, well, not a job…an honor; an honor to put the final plans to a life well lived, but still vast and deep and hard, hard plans, threads being woven with intention of love.

I am also in the midst of a purchase for a new home, plans being woven in my mind, new ideas; threads of plans and intentions.  But circumstances happen, time gets away and I can see the broom nearby, ready to be picked up to sweep away the web I have been weaving.

I can see it happening, all my plans and intentions torn apart, leaving threads hanging, but I hope not…I pray not and despite the vastness of it, my plan is to keep on keeping on.

   

The spider in my window is still weaving and I will not be taking him down, sweeping away his heart and soul plans.  I will watch him to the end, spinning and weaving, loving his plans, watching them become what he has intended.

Dash his plans, sweep away his dreams?  No, not this time.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD "plans to prosper you 

and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future"

Jeremiah 29:11

I love that.

One Last Breath

My Dad had been such a strong man for so long, full of hard work and full of pride.  Strong hands, strong minded...and simply wanting some confirmation that he was a good man...he was.

Last week my dad was talking one thousand words, he was talking the words of a man who stood alone but not really alone, even though he didn’t know it these last five days we never left his side, day or night…although maybe he did.  Maybe he did know.

Ahh, life is hard; God never did promise it would be easy. Dad fought a long hard battle, fifteen years of a heart suffering with failure and then in turn more aches and pains, burdens overtaking his body, pains and sores overflowing with blood sweat and tears…blood, sweat and tears. 

God never did promise it would be easy.

Dad wanted it easier, don’t we all, we want to have it easy, but life isn’t that way.   Life is filled with trouble, hard knocks and sad stories.  We all have a story; if we listen we will hear the stories that fill the air all around us, stories that bump into each other in the spaces of our breathing in and out.  Stories that float like clouds over the heads of those we pass every day. We passed through them on the way to Dad’s room, into the staircases and elevators, through the halls, past the rooms whose doors opened to the hallways and all of them speaking into the air that we were walking through; breathing them in.

Breathing in and out, in and out, shallow, rapid, slow…crackling, bubbling, in and out, so hard to hear, so hard to watch, so hard to bear…my Dad’s breath, telling the story of the suffering we have known these last years, these last days, the last moments of his last story.

Part of his last story was how he reconciled to God, how the Chaplain came and ministered to him, prayed with him and listened to the words Dad had to tell, words that were still known, words that came before the one thousand words we couldn’t understand.

 

What a blessing for my Mom to hear the story, the better part, the part that came easy and offered peace…peace at last.

Yes, peace, given freely, given in the way of a moment, in slow motion, in…out…in…out.

We were in awe of the silence...so loud in our ears and hearts, taking it in and the world around us stopped as we listened.

   

In.  Out.  Finished.

It was an honor to witness this last breath; the last part of the story, my Dad’s story.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim

In the light of His glory and grace

 I love that…Good bye Dad

My Dad...a Thousand Words

“There are some people who could hear you speak a thousand words 
and still not understand you.

And there are others who will understand without you even saying a word.”

I read this quote the other day, it affected me.  I find it true.  I find it sitting in my heart and filling my mind; I take it in and feel every nuance about it.  Some people know me, they know the words I use and they understand me even when I don’t use those words, they just know.  I love that.  But there are others, those who hear me speak and don’t get it, they can’t take it in, they don’t know what I’m saying, even if I do use a thousand words. Nothing will make them understand.  Their ears, and hearts and minds are closed to me; nothing I say will make them understand.  I’m okay with that.  I’m not made to fit into every one’s space.

The Greek word for understand is Suniemi which “strictly denotes the collecting together of individual features of an object into a whole, as collecting the pieces of a puzzle and putting them together.

Putting the pieces of a puzzle together requires the ability to see the whole picture, knowing exactly what will be made once the pieces are placed there, sometimes there is a pattern to copy, sometimes there are hints of what to expect and sometimes it is a matter of trial and error and guessing, longing for the pieces to fit one way but knowing they never will… each piece has its own place to go.  Once the last piece is put into place the picture is clear, every piece fits, yes, and now we know.

On Sunday, Andrew talked about Lego pieces fitting together,  a different kind of fitting, anything can be made with these kind of pieces and it will always be right, it will always be good, not perfect but good, each piece fitting to the other, made for one another…I love that.  We all want to be a Lego piece, I think, rather than a puzzle piece, fitting together any which way we can, but we also want to be understood and placed right there in that exact space, the one that holds the shape that belongs to me, to you.

My dad is lying in a hospital bed, he has been there for 6 weeks and he is changing every day.  Every day he moves further away, into his own world, but we know him.  We understand him in the ways that we have known him, what he likes to eat, how he likes to sleep, the words he is likely to say, and the way he will most probably respond. We know him.  But we can’t understand him, the words he uses are many; a thousand words but we don’t know what they are.  His hands are constantly moving, holding, folding, reaching, wanting…my father’s hands.  If I put my hand in his he will hold it, sometimes tight, but sometimes no, no touching, his hands are working to tell the story of his one thousand words…the words we can’t understand.

Right now my Dad is a puzzle piece that doesn’t seem to fit, we can’t understand him.  But he is also a Lego piece, he fits together with us, just the way he is,  it’s not perfect but it is good…we were made for one another no matter which way we fit.

“And we know that all things work together for good to those that love God.”     

Romans 8:28

I love that.

Saints and Souls and Watchmen

Haida Gwaii, most people know it by its previous name, the Queen Charlotte Islands.  When I told people I was going there I mostly had to add that last bit.  It is a group of Islands that  lie up north, out from the BC coast across the ocean from Prince Rupert…Alaska and Russia are out in the far distance.  God’s country for sure, His people, His creation…an amazing place of ocean coming together with land, inlets of water ways and tides letting in and out, in and out, skies above, clear and crisp and blue.

The sky goes on forever, the clouds telling the story of what is coming next, always changing, fog rolling in and rolling out, making way for clear skies, bluer than blue.  The stars lighting up the nights, bright, sparkling, peeking, small clouds of stars laid deeper into the heavens, all of them looking down to all of us; standing, looking up, breathing in the crisp night air...framed in by trees and silence.

The trees stand tall stretching out windblown, branches whipped, boughs bent, and trees held there by roots that will not let go.  But some of them do, roots exposed, reaching out wishing for the soil they stood in. Some of the trees are weighed down with moss, moss that hangs like sweaters, blanketing the branches that have lost their own foliage, gracing the forests with soft green warmth and maybe a bit of eeriness too, perhaps holding the secrets of souls who passed by centuries ago, over the ocean and onto the rocks of this windblown land.

The rocks come in with the tides, small round rocks that have been rolled around by the waters of the ever changing ocean, some of them shaped into hard agates, all of these waiting to be found and polished and kept in jars, made into jewelry and laid deliberately along the paths, together with ever abundant sea shells, lain on benches, beside graves marking the sacred places of loved ones lost and buried in the ground, here in Gods Land.

The ground itself calls out with words of the souls who have walked here and those who walk here still.  Every path leads to places where the land changes to water, water coming in and out, again and again.  The land worn and sanded and etched by the years of salty ocean water, all filtered by sand, the sand  filling in all the empty places between the  grasses and rocks and  then wrapping around the edges of the shore stretching out to  the places where the ocean never ceases and sometimes only the waves see.

The waves; waiting for the boats, kayaks and canoes paddling out, the surfers who try to ride their crests and  the fishermen who try to master and catch the life inside…the waves; calling out to the Island people to come and see what they see.

The people wear their heart on their sleeve and their soul sits right there too.  Everyone smiles and waves, everyone smiles; they look in your eyes to see if you are looking, really looking and smiling too.  The people are not so busy that they are in their cars getting to the next place but they are going, whether in their cars or on foot they are going to see who else is there, smiling waving seeing. People taking in life, respecting the land, honoring traditions and families taking care of one another, some of them for generations, living laughing loving always loving.

Sandspit, Queen Charlotte, Skidegate, Tlell, Port Clements, Massett and Old Massett…the villages called home by First Nations people, by others who came to log, by those who came years ago with army assignments and  those too who came to visit and never left. An Island made up of islands, protected by its people and guarded over by the Totems carved with eagle and raven, whale and crests, each pole telling a story; inspirational and beautiful holding onto the traditions of history.

There are two Totems that stand out in Old Massett facing out to the ocean; at the top of them are carved three watchmen, they are said to be on guard ever watching, protecting the souls who live there…a comfort to many, those out on the water and those who wait on land.

  

The minister of the small Anglican Church in Old Massett, Lilly Belle, surely a saint, shared with us about being watchmen over one another, taking care, loving, and giving grace just as God, Salaana, is the Watchman over us all.

Haida Gwaii, a carved and landscaped island made up of saints, souls and watchmen.

I love that.

Don't Cry

Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened

I saw these words posted on a church sign, you know, the kind of sign where the glass door opens and the letters can be placed there to make words and sentences, phrases and quotes.  Words of inspiration for passers-by, people walking, riding their bikes, in their cars, eyes open taking in their surroundings, thinking about their life and taking in the words on this sign.  Two churches are on this corner, the hospital is up the road and my parent’s house a little further on, I always pass by here and I am always looking to see the words of wisdom this pastor posts on the sign with the glass door.

Of course there are those who pass by and never look, let alone take it in, they are too busy with their minds, busy on the inside rather than the outside…missing out on the  life going on around them, missing out on inspiration found on the edges of their travels.

Sometimes I find myself too busy on the inside, my friend says, “Get out of your head and into your heart.”  I love hearing that from time to time, it wakes me up and I see the world around me through my heart instead of my head.  Looking through your heart helps you to see clearer; you can see more of what is going on around you, which brings me back to the words on the sign.

Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened

I wondered why a church would have those words on their sign.  What would be over?  Suffering? A hard life?  A tough lesson? Overcoming a sin? Yes I can see it, all of those would be worthy of a good cry…yes, don’t cry because it’s over, smile because you have overcome, you have found Jesus, you have been saved, Hallelujah!  But no, the sign says smile because it happened?  That doesn’t make any sense at all, yet the message seems to be pointing to what happened.  What happened, that you would be sad that it’s over? What happened that would be worthy of putting on a church sign, the kind that has a glass door, where you can put words of wisdom to cheer up the world that passes by?

Ahh, yes, I know what happened…running barefoot, playing with our children on the beach, camping with our friends, visiting parks and playgrounds, celebrating family in the sunshine, running about outdoors getting sun kissed, tanned and freckled. Cozying up by the fire roasting marshmallows, sparks crackling up into the night, lying flat on our backs arms crooked under our neck,  looking out to the starry night, pointing out the big dipper, mars, the moon, satellites, fireflies, listening to the owl hoot, hoot and the splashing of the water up against the shore.  Walking late in the evenings, enjoying the night sounds; crickets, frogs, traffic in the distance. Spending time enjoying the people God has placed in our life, creating memories together, sharing, laughing, loving, moments of seemingly endless fun enjoying Gods creation, His land, His peace, this season; the endless days of summer, fun days that are over…but don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.

 

Ahh the long days of summer,yes...smiling because it happened.

I love that.

Mary

The sweetest Lady died Sunday morning, the Lords day.  She had been lying in a hospital bed for the better part of a month, her family surrounding her, loving her taking care of her and praying with her.  The tasting of death for all of them…waiting, holding on to God, breathing in and out and in, sharing these last days of life.

Mary was looking forward to seeing her Lord, being with Him and the others, those who had gone before her; friends, family, her husband John.  Yes, Mary was waiting too, to see John again.

Mary reminds me of another lady, one from a movie, a love story…her name was Rose.  You know the movie, it was called Titanic.  Rose falls in love with Jack, but he dies before her, though she mourns his loss she carries on, living life. When in her old age death takes her, she is reunited with all of those who died before her and you see her, youthful, climbing the staircase, all of those surrounding her, so happy to see her again with them. And as they move aside there is Jack standing at the top of the stairs holding out his hand, reaching for Rose…

This is how I see Mary, climbing the stairs, smiling, her arm out stretched, reaching for the hand of John, him smiling too…youthful, reunited…a love story.

Mary and John had a good long life together; they raised two handfuls of children and all of them raising more. Mary was well loved and she loved well; she had a kind word for everyone, an encouraging word, words of hope and faith and love.

The greatest gift of God is love.  Every day I thank God for teaching me about love; for giving me the opportunity to know love, to have shared in it, to have held the hand of it…love.

  

Love is a hard thing to hang on to…living is hard and life is always changing, nothing ever stays the same. People grow up, emotions change, children are born, work takes over, life happens, children move on, people grow older…but through it all love is there, in the cracks, around the corners…up the staircases…love the greatest gift, the gift that binds everything together.

Here is a wise saying…It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.  Love is hard, it is sometimes elusive but it is always there waiting for us at the top of the staircase, a hand held out waiting.

Mary is reaching out for that hand, smiling...death, a love story. 

I love that. 

Here...take this

We were talking about helping others, helping in situations of loss and suffering and coping and living…just living.  And he asked me; what do you have to offer?

At first I was a little taken aback…what do I have to offer?  As if it is something tangible, something real in my hand.  As if it is something worthwhile to give, something I’d have in my hand that I was willing to pass out, to offer freely.   Something to offer, given like a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs or a baked cake.  Here...take this, yes, this is for you.

Sometimes helping is giving something tangible.

But sometimes having something to offer is from the heart, out of the soul; a bit of grace, a touch of mercy, a listening ear, a touch from a hand that seems empty but is filled with compassion, love.  I have certainly witnessed all of these, seen them being offered freely, given from one soul to another.

But the question was; what do I have to offer?

I have what God has given me...

He has given me mercy, mercy to carry on under hard circumstances…I have mercy to give.

He has given me the faith to trust Him no matter what...I have faith to give.

He has given me Love; love to see me through times of great loss and in times of beautiful blessing…I have love to give.

He has given me insight into death, tasting it, feeling it and knowing it is not the end…I have hope to give.

He has given me the opportunity to witness His grace, undeserved and He has given me grace, undeserving grace…I have grace to give.

In the midst of my story He has given me the stories of others, I have learned to listen…I have compassion to give.

He has given me His word, a knowledge to discern it…I have His word to give.

He has given me Himself; lover of my soul, healer of my scars, comfort for my hurts…I have comfort to give.

Sometimes, these are difficult to pull out at the right time, sometimes I have to look deep to see if they are still there but they are always found, sometimes hidden behind a need of my own, under an old scar, or maybe over there by my own broken heart…but always found…always.

And none of these are tangible or easily seen or taken from my hand but they are felt in the soul, they are known to the heart and they are here to give.

Here...take this, yes, this is for you.

The Power of a Word

I have just finished reading ‘Day After Night’ by Anita Diamant, a story about Holocaust survivors who were imprisoned by the British in Israel, freed by the Jewish Palmach and placed in Kibbutz’ throughout the country.

 

“Kibbutz.  The word echoed in her head suddenly unfamiliar and unlike an ordinary noun like pencil or soup.  More like justice or even unicorn.  Not so much a thing you could put a hand on; kind of a fairy tale or a dream…a nice idea, a noble goal perhaps.  Not a real place like the one these men were talking about…just out of view.”

Kibbutz; for these survivors, it was another word for freedom.  Though they knew this word; they knew about the places that they were, but heard now, in this moment, the word held another meaning...salvation, freedom, home at last, a dream fulfilled.

The power of a word understood…said or heard or read at just that moment…the moment of seeing it real…of feeling it, smelling it, tasting it.  Have you ever heard a word like that?

 

A friend said to me on Sunday that he was amazed at the reading of these words…one in particular; the word taste.

 

"Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death 

before they see the kingdom of God."

Luke 9:27

Taste death?

What do you do with a word like that, used in that way for that purpose?  Tasting death…it’s as if it is something to be grasped, held on to, experienced; rolled around on your tongue, filling your pallet and then…to be swallowed. Like a blueberry, a little explosion, popping in your mouth, it’s sweetness laughing there, all sweet, flesh, and skin and seeds.  Like ice cream?  Ice Cream, with a bit of butterscotch, smooth and creamy, sweet; melting over every taste bud and down…your throat cherishing the melting down of it.  Tasting; maybe like a lemon, biting down on it, the pulp, squirting, finding its way into every hidden place in your mouth, its juice sucking up everything into a pucker, your lips, the whole of your face and even your fingertips…bitter.

Tasting death…tasting, the power of a word.

.

A word, how you hear it, how it falls fresh in your mind, powerful, with a new meaning, on your heart, filling your soul.  Words, how you say them matters, how you hear them sometimes matters more.

The power of words…thinking, feeling, tasting…taking them in, filling your soul.

I love that.

Into a Spacious Place

Today I went to pray for the VBS program at our church.  A room was set aside for volunteers to come into to pray, we were given names of leaders and helpers, an overflowing list of names on a page.  There was a list of the Bible stories that would be told and the verses that would be memorized. We were given the stations that would be running, places like the Preschool Palace, Epic Bible Adventures, Tournament Games, The Imagination Station, Chadder Theatre and of course the Fanfare Finale that will take place tomorrow.  And we were given the names of children attending the program, in order of age and in some cases to whom they belonged.  In the midst of the prayers of unity, joy, patience, passion and simple service for the leaders; we prayed for the children that they would easily understand the message presented to them, that what they learn here will hold them for life, a lifelong hope of Life and beautiful hearts.  We prayed that in turn their families would be open to hear their children retell the stories and listen to the message they bring home with them; that they too would be transformed.  A room filled with prayer, for every hour and every moment, for all of those that were there in that place.

Covered in prayer moment by moment…I want to be prayed for like that.

John’s cousin has been in the ICU in Vancouver Hospital for these past 2 months, she was brought in by ambulance and received emergency surgery.  Things did not go well, there were infections and complications. She has been through much.  Before her surgery she told the Doctors to do everything possible to keep her alive, no matter what.  She has been, poked, prodded, taped, tubed, scanned, x-rayed, sedated,  transfused and intubated .  She has been near death; touching death, death touching her.  The Doctors were ready to give up, but Sandra said, “Don’t give up yet, I will ask her friends to pray.” And Frieda is getting better. She is still there in that place but she has started to get better, surrounded by the prayers of her friends.

Covered in prayer by faithful friends…I want to be prayed for like that.

Now, Jesus was in Jerusalem at the time of Passover and He asked the disciples to go and make the place ready for them to share the Passover meal.  It is near the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus goes later to pray, where He asks the disciples to stay awake and pray with Him, to pray for Him. It is in this Upper room where He shares the wine and the bread.  It is the place where Jesus tells them that He will be betrayed by one of them and in this Upper room Jesus tells Peter, you will deny knowing Me; not once but three times.  And in this place, after the Passover meal; where He shares more than food,  Jesus says to Peter, do not worry; I have prayed for you that your faith will not fail…the comfort of Christ.

Covered in prayer by Jesus…I want to be prayed for like that.

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

The Lord was my support.  He brought me out into a spacious place.”

Psalm 18:16-19

I am…I love that.

No, This is Not the End

the end of the Days

June 5, Wednesday

travelling home…

So, this is the end…we have just shared our last meal together and have been told when to have our bags ready for pickup in the morning, when to be down for breakfast and when to head for the bus.

I have loved this Country, the very smell of the land, the color of the deserts, it's heights and it's lowlands; I have loved the waterways; the seas and rivers and lakes...the swimming in them and I have loved the bright sun, the heat of the day and the breezes of the night. I have loved the people, watching them in their diversity and steadfastness.  Israel, taking in the whole of it, loving it and now... leaving it. 

Yes, we are heading home, suitcases packed, keepsakes and souvenirs carefully wrapped in the already over stuffed corners.  Last looks at the countryside and the views around us.  And memories tucked safely inside our hearts and minds; in our very souls. Memories of new friendships made, made from the common desire to know more…more of our faith.  Memories of places seen, places where regular people and Kings have made their homes, where they walked...where we walked too.  And we have been made aware of time; time forever changed because now we see it in a whole new light, we have seen history in its time through the perspective of Gods land, God’s word…His unchanging word.

I think this is one of the most amazing things I have learned, God’s unchanging word, His word proved true through tradition, through discovery in excavations, through the findings of inscriptions, proven by way of found boats, unearthed coins and seals, proven by the finding of His written word in places so hidden that only He could have arranged it…His unmoving word.

His Word proven true by fulfilled prophecy; in those days; in past days and even in these days. 

How amazing to have seen these things in the context of the land where they have happened; artifacts and places that have been protected for centuries by the Orthodox, the Catholic and even the Muslim…amazing…and there is more being discovered fresh and new every day, things old and of historic importance protected by God for such a day as this.  God acts in mysterious ways, what an honor and privilege to know some of this mystery and to have been here, to His House.

As we are travelling along this highway back to Tel Aviv, leaving Jerusalem, we are silent, watching the scenery pass us by, feeling blessed that we have been part of this land and the story it tells.  As we go, David entreats us to spread the word as we head into the places we know, our own cities and towns and homes to spread the word of the good news of Israel…of that we have no choice, I feel I will never stop talking about it!

“But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. 

You have come to thousands of angels gathered together with joy.  

You have come to the meeting of Gods firstborn children whose names are written in heaven.  

You have come to God, the judge of all people, and to the spirits of good people who have been made perfect.  

You have come to Jesus, the One who brought the new agreement from God to His people, 

and you have come to the sprinkled blood that has a better message than the blood of Abel.”

Hebrews 12:22-24 

Though this is the end of our days together, this is not the end.  Yes, we are leaving here, yes, we are going home; but what we have learned here, we will be taking with us, we will not stop talking about it, or leaning in to hear something more about it, or taking in every word we come across that is speaking to it.  No, this is not the end, we have heard a better message, we have been part of it... following the dots of bloody dirt.

I love that.

Prolonging the Moments

Day 11

June 4, Tuesday {the ending}

Our tour is coming to an end, we can feel it, the very air is changing around us…we want to prolong the moments, to make them last, but resolve to know that all good things come to an end.

We are at The Israel Museum; the Knesset sits proudly in view, flag flying, waving in the breeze, marking the Israeli Parliament building, built from the red stones of Jerusalem. We are at the museum to visit the Shrine of the Book; the home for one of the greatest finds of God’s word. We stand on the grand patio flanked on one side by the White Dome representing the ‘sons of light’ and on the other, by the Black Wall depicting the ‘sons of darkness’; these two designs, enticing thought and emotion, are a testament to the way God preserves His Word. On the outside, the White Dome mirrors the lids of the jars that held the scrolls; copies of the Old Testament that remained hidden for over two thousand years; writings of the Essenes. Inside, in a circular room, looking up to the contours of the white dome; under low lighting; in cold temperatures, unrolled and behind glass, are the Dead Sea Scrolls…Holy.

We move slowly; yes, prolonging the moments; taking in the weight of these unrolled scrolls…the unchanging word of God…Holy.

“The making of many books is without limits…

In particular those which make for the welfare of soul and body”

Josephus Flaveous

We wind our way down to the model of Second Temple Period Jerusalem; an amazing ‘lego’ like structure built to scale, a representation of the city of Jerusalem.  These two weeks we have been touring the walled city and here it all comes together, seen in the scan of the eye.  And we have been able to put all of Jesus’ travels into the perspective of His time, out of our imagination and into His real world.  We have discovered that every place where Jesus goes in Jerusalem is but the scan of an eye.  Here, standing on the hill; look there and there and over there…some places touching one another or connected by a narrow cobbled roadway or a tiered stairway or an open gate; an arched doorway; a roof top.

From this fabulous model, David takes us on a tour, where we can see every move and every place; he maps out the route from the Mount of Olives looking out to the Kidron Valley to Mount Moriah; to the City of David and into the Old City; the Muslim quarter, the Jewish quarter, into the Christian quarter and the Armenian quarter; all the gates we entered in, Herods Gate, the Zion Gate, the Jaffa Gate and the Dung Gate; every building, every home, house and roof top…the hidden waterways;  to the Garden of Gethsemane and over there to Golgotha.  Up to the Western Wall,  the Temple Mount, the common steps where Jesus entered in...and where we stood too.

“I rejoice with those who said to me; let us go to the house of the LORD.

Our feet are standing in your gates, O Jerusalem.”

Psalm 122:1-2

Our eyes scan the breadth of it, around the walls, inside the gates; we take it in, all of this filling our hearts souls and minds ...prolonging the moments.

I love that.

Difficult But Necessary

Day 11

June 4, Tuesday {the beginning}

We are here in Yad Vashem, Israel’s official memorial to the Holocaust; the last will and testament of Six million lives…we are on holy ground once again.  The gate, as we drive in, bears the inscription…

“I will put my breath into you and you shall live again and I will set you upon your own soil”

Ezekial 37:14

Inside we witness the stories of some of those affected by the atrocities that took place during the unbelievable leadership of Adolph Hitler.  We see remnants of the people whose lives were lost, children, women and men, young and old, weak and strong; but not strong for long, they were worn down, hoping for an end to these horrific events. It seemed to these souls that all was lost, no help, no safety, and no comfort from the governments of the day. 

The people in the midst of the anguish thought, surely, it can’t get worse than this, but things did get worse and then again and again until the six million were broken, lost…gone.

Exhibit after exhibit is filled with stories; personal items, clothing, toys, books; evidence of leaving homes; suit cases, shoes, diaries…each item crying out with someone’s name; the emotion of their cries felt in every turn, every look, every touch.  Listen, you can hear the cacophony of the cries of the people, all of those who belong to the remnants of the possessions and papers and stories; the cries ringing in your ears, rising up, up…echoes telling the pain, the loss and death; crying out to God…God, God, look down, voices crying out, Here I am…remember my name.

The memorial to one and a half million children who were killed; pictures, Names recorded, and being called out; in my heart I hear the names of my own grandchildren; Riley, Gracie, Kenzie, Hadley, Presley, Brynlee, Ivan, Ben, Anna, Sara…and I think my heart is breaking.

I am looking up and around and up again, at images rising up on a cone sphere; large and round and white narrowing to a point that opens to the sky…reaching to the heavens…to God; photos of those lost; their names, their age… their number.  And there, on shelf after shelf, lining the walls behind, are the books; book upon book, one after the other, more and more; books filled with names…and I cried.

Yet, even here, in the midst, are the memorials to people who stepped up to help and save, to be hiding places, protectors.  The Pillar of Heroism, for those that fought back; the trees planted along the promenade, for those that fought to save; the sculptures for those that gave up their own lives for others. 

And I agree with the words of Anne Frank, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are good at heart.” I do. 

Silently, we head back to the bus,  passing by soldiers, who are on their way to pass through Yad Vashem...and we, on our way to 'Remat Rachel', a modern Kibbutz, it means 'the heights of Rachel' and it is nearby that Rachel lies buried at Hebron, on the way to Bethlehem. As we sit here for lunch, with Bethlehem laid out to the back, we chat about what we have witnessed this day; a sweet place to rest and reflect.

We travel on to the Garden Tomb, an alternate site thought to be the site of Jesus’ burial, not unanimous but possible and it is beautiful, a garden of peace and tranquility, a place that surely would seem true. We see the place of the skull, the water cistern, the wine press, the tomb... bearing the cross like an anchor, engraved in the stone. Here we share in communion; bread and wine and worship; Michael preaching, sharing hope...hope, an anchor for the soul, firm and secure…beauty.

I love that.

Like a Hundred Witnesses

Day 10

June 3, Monday

We are on the roof of the home of Caiaphas, the High priest; his home being the place where Jesus was imprisoned, waiting for the judgement of Pontius Pilate.  This roof, called Galicanto, marks the place where three times Peter is asked, do you know Him? It is the place where Peter three times denies knowing his Lord and it is the place the rooster crows times three… right then, Christ knows; His heart breaking one piece more.  From Galicanto we look out to the Kidron Valley and beyond to the Garden of Gethsemane, the garden where Jesus begged His friends to stay awake; asking them for prayer…weeping and sweating drops of blood.

Entering in by the Zion Gate, we are in the Armenian quarter of Jerusalem, these large stone walls of the gate are pockmarked with bullet holes; it is here where we find King David’s Tomb, marking the place of his burial.  Holy, blue, tasseled fabrics lain over the cabinets, one marking the burial place and the other marking the place of the Scrolls of Moses; the word of God with us. Filing in, one at a time, men on one side, women on the other, we witness this place of prayer…Holy.

Nearby is the Upper Room where the disciples shared the last supper with Jesus, the same room where Jesus appears to his disciples after His resurrection, twice.  This is the room where the disciples and the Nazarene Jews hung out, as if in a Kibbutz, a commune; sharing the bread, worshipping, praising, waiting; the wind of the Holy Spirit, Pentecost, the beginning of Universal faith…this all in the Upper Room.  In silence, we look over the room; taking it in, letting the empty weight of it fill our senses, Timothy leads out in song and we melt in the moment, feeling the wind of the spirit falling fresh…Holy.

 

David takes us into the Jewish quarter, beautiful, clean as if freshly swept…windows and walkways lined with flowers; purple, white Bougainvillea.  We see the mosaicked Modava map; a home burnt by the Zealots, in order to incite their people to fight back; the remnants of the broad wall built during the time of Hezekiah 586 years before Christ and we see the discovery underneath; eight mansions belonging to the priestly line, the opulence of wealth evident; bathtubs, frescoed walls, imported stone and pottery. We watch the short movie telling the story of the views of the day…of the Zealots, who want to fight the Romans; of the Priests, who want to stand fast, saying surely the Temple will not fall; and of the women, who want safety for their families.  And we hear the words from the scripture that has been fulfilled in our time. 

“This is what the LORD Almighty says

‘Once again men and women of ripe old age will sit in the streets of Jerusalem each with cane in hand because of his age.  The city streets will be filled with boys and girls playing there."
Zechariah 8:5

Yes, today we see the streets here in the Jewish quarter overflowing with people shopping, buying, selling, talking, sharing; families, fathers and mothers, children playing, working too; pushing food carts and helping their parents in the shops. Old men and women nearby always watching; we see children in school uniforms following along behind the teachers who are leading them on to their next adventure…as are we, and we are amazed with what we see; what we have seen and what is yet surely to come; knowing there is more.

On our way to the Western Wall, our guide, David, tells us; this is the Holiest place on earth, the place of Abraham binding Isaac, the place of Solomon’s Temple, the place of the rebuilding by Ezra and Nehemiah, the place of King Herod’s Temple Mount and the place where Jesus will come again…the Holiest place on earth!  We must be covered, our shoulders and our knees; David gives us instruction to approach the wall, he says,  “Approach the wall with confidence, this is no time for manners,”  and he says other words like this, that sound firm…walk right up, find your place, reach out to touch it; firmly touch it.  Tuck your prayers into the crevasses; leave your prayers there, spill them from your heart…look up, look up.  David’s instructions end,  “and when you are done, out of respect, do not turn your back on the wall, but back up as many steps as you can.”

I covered my head and shoulders with my shawl and walked the steps; one, two, three, more and more through the throng, up to the wall, firmly finding my place, and then…the most beautiful touch on the Holiest place.  I could hear the prayers of the saints, those all around me spilling from their hearts and those that were tucked into these walls, these large blocks of stone chiselled thousands of years ago; one upon the other, row after row; crevices and cracks filled with the prayers and cries of God’s people, words in print of a hundred languages asking Him for lavishly more and me, looking up…and there holding my gaze, under the wild bushes growing in the places between the chiselled rock, tucked safely in…a white dove.  God’s promise nestled there in the stone of Jerusalem’s wall...Holy.

“The Jerusalem stone, so resilient and supple…bearing testimony

like a hundred witnesses and yet remains silent.”

Cham Be’er

The Western Wall, silent, yet screaming out, God, God look down and His response echoing back loud and clear…I Am here.

I love that.

The Way of Sorrows

Day 9
The Via Dolorosa 

June 2, Sunday

On entering the gate to the City of David, we overlook the Kidron Valley and up to the Mount of Olives.  We are standing on Mount Moriah next to Solomon’s Temple, looking out to the small city, the rooftops all one above and next to the other.  Look, there, could that be the rooftop where Bathsheba sunbathed; David standing here looking down, seeing her beauty…right here, King David, falling in love with a woman who would become the mother of Solomon…the King who builds the Holy Temple.

In this place we explore the ruins of a ‘four room house’, we see the clean divisions of the rooms and we see the remains indicating wealth…the first toilet carved out of rock, a piece of a chair made from wood imported from Lebanon, we see the seals with names inscribed that were found here…believed to be from the Royal archives.  Just above we see the ophel, the land fill, Solomon used to join the Temple to David’s Palace.  

Remains, royalty and ruin here, in this place, the City of David.

Entering Hezekiah's Tunnel, an amazing underground water system, we wind down the circular stairway, spiralling down, following the dark, rock walled tunnel.  Down and down again, a massive tunnel, chiselled, hammered, and dug away by hand; started at each end, nearly a half mile long, the diggers meeting in the middle.  An amazing feat of the perseverance of man, what he can attain in his mind to build and how it can be accomplished…an ongoing excavation of discovery.

 “David said, ‘We will have to use the water shaft”

2 Samuel 5:11

and they went down, down, down...

We walk through the waters of the Gihon spring, running clear, flowing through the tunnel, the whole of its length deeper here than there, clear cool and moving, always moving.  At times the walls of the tunnel come tight around us, close on all sides.  In areas it widens out, taller and deeper following the lay of the land, the rock itself dictating the tunnel size.  Here at the end of the tunnel lies the small pool of water from the Gihon spring, fortified with walls…

“It was Hezekiah who blocked the upper outlet of the Gihon Spring and channeled the water down to the west side of the City of David”

2 Chronicles 32:30

Hezekiah’s tunnel, the same water system used by David’s forces to capture the city from the Jebusites; the same pool where Jesus performs His miracle with the blind man…

"Go" He told him "and wash in the pool of Siloam"…so the man went and washed

and came home seeing.”

We step out of the tunnel into daylight, up and out, on to the square and we sit on the stone stairs that wait, as if standing guard for the pool of Siloam; the pool that lies hidden under ground and growth and gate; waiting to be excavated…there still.

Leaving the City of David we make our way to begin the walk of the fourteen Stations of the Cross, the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows; the pathway that Jesus followed from Pontius Pilate’s judgement hall to Calvary.  The first seven stations are on the streets and the last five are found within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

“So they took Jesus and He went out, bearing His own cross to the place of the skull,

which is called in Hebrew Golgotha.”

John 19: 17

As we walk the streets with the throng we are in the midst of what Jesus saw and felt on that day, people everywhere jostling their way through the cobbled streets, bumping into Him, pushing, talking, doing business and laughing, possibly at Him.  We stop at the Chapel of the Condemnation where Jesus is condemned to death; the Chapel of the Flagellation where He receives the cross.  We see the place where Jesus falls for the first time; where He meets His mother Mary; the place where Simon of Cyrene takes the cross and station six, the place where Veronica wipes the sweat from Jesus’ face.  We look in at the place where Jesus falls for the second time and at Station eight, where He consoles the women of Jerusalem.  We touch the place where He falls for the third time. Near station ten, inside the Holy Sepulchre, we see the game etched in the stone floor, the game the soldiers played to win the clothing Jesus wore, the ones He was stripped of as they nailed Him to the cross, mocking Him, the Church of Anastases marking station eleven.  We stand in line to kneel and pray at the place of Golgotha where Jesus dies on the cross, moving quietly to the place where Jesus is taken down from the cross and to station fourteen, down to the tomb belonging to Joseph Arimathea, where Jesus is laid, the Holy Sepulchre.

Under arcs and inside doors, in and out of the streets, climbing sacred steps up and down, turning into alleyways following the cobblestones leading into churches, taking in the ornate décor, opulent chandeliers and orthodox candle sticks. We sat in the church pews built from olive wood and touched the places carved in stone. We saw the stained glass, the arched windows, the domes and crosses…the sacred places; all marking the footfalls of our Christ as He went this way, the way of sorrow, the Via Dolorosa.

I scarce can take it in...
.

The Holiest Place of the World

Jerusalem

Day 8

June 1, Saturday, The Sabbath

We are on the Mount of Olives looking down on to the Kidron Valley and out over Mount Moriah...the Holiest place on earth!  Here it begins, we are at the beginning.  Laid out before us a thousand handbreadths of God…more; these places steeped in His word, the people of His heart, the tombs of the saints, all of it; everyone, everything looking up to God…Jerusalem, His Holy City on a hill.

Before us the Old Jewish cemetery ever stretching down and down spanning far left and to the far right where it reaches to touch the Garden of Gethsemane.  We see the old city walls and the pools of Bethesda.  We see the Golden Dome that marks the place of Abraham binding Isaac, of Solomon’s Temple, the rebuilt walls of Ezra and Nehemiah, the place of Herod’s Temple Mount and marking too the place where Jesus made His way up the southern steps, it all happened here in this same place, spread out before us…saying, welcome to God’s house!

From here, on the Mount of Olives, we see the city of David, His palace, the ophel where King Solomon joined the temple to his father’s palace; we look out to the home of Caiaphas where Jesus is judged, we see the double domes that mark the place of His crucifixion, the church of the Holy Sepulchre; pointing up we see the tower of Mount Zion and the grey roof marking the place of the last supper; We see the closed up gates where Jesus entered in to the temple and we see the grey dome that marks the place where Jesus turns the tables.  We see the western wall, remnants of the places that were destroyed by the Romans, changed by the Muslims and protected by the Catholics, left bare by the wars, the ‘hell’ where children were murdered in the Gedron Valley.  We see it all; we see too much…we want to see more.

We will soon be  up close, seeing these Holy places, touching their walls and gates. We begin our decent down, walking where Jesus walked, down the cobbled stones of the narrow road; walled on both sides, winding, turning, until we reach the Basilica of the Agony, in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the bedrock where Jesus sat and wept and prayed.  We make our way along to the pools of Bethesda, a public mikveh, a spiritual washing place.  A place where Jesus knew He would have an audience and here on the Sabbath He performs a miracle…

“Sometime later, Jesus went up to Jerusalem for one of the Jewish festivals,

near the sheepgate, a pool which is called Bethesda.  He saw a man lying there and asked

‘Do you want to get well?’  ‘Sir’ the man replied ‘I have no one to help me get in to the pool’ then Jesus said to him ‘get up, pick up your mat and walk.” At once the man was cured.”

John 5:1-13

Jesus heals on the Sabbath and so it starts; the start of His mystery, the beginning of His controversy.

We enter the beautiful acoustic Church of St Anne, marking the birth place of Mary, the mother of Jesus; we take a turn to sing in this amazing place that rings out sound as if from heaven itself...beautiful.

Taking a rest, we stop at a nearby Palestinian café for lunch; lamb kabobs, pita bread, fragrant dips and beer, before heading out to the Shepherds field, a side trip to Bethlehem and the Church of the Nativity.

 

Walking along the entry path, we notice a familiar scent…pine trees, the air filled with the scent of them and the trees loaded with pine cones; bringing a familiarity to how we celebrate this event at home with this same tree and the scent of it. I did not imagine this landscape in the fields where the shepherds watched their sheep, I did not imagine the small cave like huts where the shepherds lived and I did not know that these simple Jewish shepherds would be memorialised in such a beautiful way; this place where the birth of Jesus was announced by a star and heralded by the voice of angels singing…

Glori in Excelcus Deo.

Bethlehem is not under Israeli rule but under Palestinian authority, this seems strange to us, but true.

Bethlehem, mentioned the first time when Rachel gives birth to Benjamin, is the home of Naomi, Ruth and Boaz; and it is the fulfilment of Micah 5:1-5…

“But you Bethlehem, though you are small among the clans of Judah

Out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel whose origins are of old

from ancient times…He will stand and shepherd His flock in the strength of the LORD

For then His greatness will reach to the ends of the earth

And He will be our peace."

From here we make our way back to the hotel, dine together, talking of everything we have seen and  what is yet to be seen...sipping tea infused with fresh mint leaves and flavored with lemon slices...here in Jerusalem.

I love that.

It was Evening and Then it was Morning

Day 7

Shabbat, May 31, Friday

The day begins in the evening…this is why the Sabbath begins at sundown.

On this morning of Shabbat, we are heading to our fist stop, by the evening, when the Sabbath begins we will be in the Holy city, Jerusalem. 

But now, we travel up by gondola up, up, to the top of a fortress and walk the ruins; ruins of an amazing, enormous, colossal palace; a place where the remnants left behind paint a picture of lives lived so magnificently that we can only imagine; a life fantastic! 

Do you know the story of Masada…the amazing palace that Herod built in 40 AD on an impossibly high mountain face in the middle of the desert? The size of it is massive, one half mile long, cut out of the mountain rock, 38 towers, and each 75 feet high. Inside there are store houses, barracks and cisterns to collect rain water.  Built lavishly and lived lavishly where royalty of all kinds including Anthony and Cleopatra were entertained.

Here lies the story of Herod the Great, a megalomaniac, schizophrenic, egocentric who built himself a palace unparalleled to anything in this world as we know it.  A structure of engineering importance for all of humanity to behold…amazing!

Do you know the story of Masada…an amazing abandoned palace that is taken over in 70 AD by Zealot Jews, a sect that believe they should fight back against the Romans.  When they see that they are losing the battle and Jerusalem lies beaten into the dust, these Zealots retreat to the heights of Masada.  Here they make their last stand against the Romans; 960 men, women and children, a remnant of the scattered Jews.  In order to avoid capture; enslavement, rape and murder by the Roman soldiers, ten men are chosen and lots are drawn; and they proceed to murder their own families ending in the final death, suicide.  When the Romans storm the fortress instead of finding a battle to be fought, they find silence…the sound of death.

Two amazing events of history, different times in the same place…in one we find the evidence of lavish living…extravagance beyond compare; Turkish baths, mosaic floors, and frescoed walls…life defying death.  In the other we find the writings of a lost sect; the scriptures of Ezekiel, evidence of a simple life overlapping wealth...and the pot chards with names written on them, evidence of lots cast…death that hoped for life.

Coming down from this place we drive out to Ein Gedi, an oasis of lush wilderness, out of the desert and into a refuge for the wild goats and small Koni’s…a place where the acacia tree grows wild and the jujube plants thrive; one supplies wood for the tabernacle and the other a crown of thorns.  It is a hiding place.  David hides here from King Saul, up in a cave on the mountain edges overlooking the oasis, watching out, hoping for his freedom, lamenting for God to look down…worshipping, praising and waiting…it is a waiting place.

“David is in the desert of Ein Gedi.” So Saul took 3000 able young men from all Israel and set out to look for David and his men near the crags of the wild goats…”

1 Samuel 24:1-22

Driving from here to Jericho, the oldest city in the world, we see the remnants of the walls; the walls that tumbled down from the blasts of the horns, we see the embattled neighborhoods, depraved and war torn. And we see the villages of the Bedouin Arabs, their shanty towns along the edges of the mountains, squatters in this land. 

In the blink of an eye we see the landscape change, we are ascending to the Holy City of Jerusalem, out of the desert into a green and fertile land, we see the change, we can feel it, coming in to God’s Holy city and the air itself begins to be filled with the Holy words of God.

“But you have come to Mount Zion, to the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of the living God.”

Hebrews 12:22

I love that.

Baptized in the Jordan, Baptized in Friendship

Day 6

May 30, Thursday

Well done good and faithful servant…even with this small bit.

Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me…he didn’t deserve it but God gave it; he didn’t have the chance to do it…so I did it in his place.

When it came time to be baptised in the Jordan, I said yes to the opportunity but then I thought no, after all I had already been baptised, so I said no; until God whispered in my ear “Do it for John” and I was reminded of John in his last days, how he reconciled with God and how I wished I could have been baptised in his place during a church service just a few weeks after he died.

This day, God reminded me of that day and I said yes; baptism, in the holiest place to do it... the Jordan River.  This day, I was baptised, a dedication to God symbolising baptism for John.

So, I said yes, and I am sure I saw the heavens open up; I heard the words well done good and faithful servant, with you I am well pleased… and then I swam there, in that amazing river, where Jesus was baptised by John; amazing grace, how sweet the sound…grace from God, love from me.

From this holy place we head out towards the desert, along the highway following the river past groves of mango trees and the rolling hills of the Jordan valley, we are following the route of the Patriarchs, past Samaria to the edges of the Judean desert; passing fields of sunflowers, palm trees and freshly plowed dirt, fertile and red.  We pass by the area patrolled by the Israeli army day and night and on further still into the Judean desert, we look up to the mountain where Jesus was tempted for forty days and then further, into desolation, to the lowest point on earth, the Dead Sea heading on to the Qumran.

Qumran, the ruins of the Essenes, a Jewish sect, that believed their faith had been corrupted, they come to this place and become obsessed with building pools, spiritual washing and the writing of God’s word. It is believed that John the Baptist spent time here with these people, being influenced by their washing and their teaching; to this day seminaries teach the ways of the Essenes.  It is here in the Qumran where a Bedouin shepherd boy discovers the Dead Sea scrolls, contained in jars in the depths of a cave, the writings of the Essenes, the oldest scriptures of the Bible ever found…in a cave, in the mountains of the desert, high above the Dead Sea.

Back on the bus we drive on through the mountains of chiseled rock, surely chiseled by the hand of God, His handiwork; bars of hard, hard, desert sand, cut and wedged and dry and hot; so hot that the air is hazy, the heat rising up and filling the air itself. Below you can see the canal, the waterway ribboning its way to the aquamarine blue of the Dead Sea; beautiful, sparkling, and trimmed in white…salt.

Overlooking the Dead Sea is the Hotel where we stay for this night…the night of the hottest day!  We trek down to the sea and float there in the mineral water basking in the joy of it, feeling the weight of it and taking in the wonder of it; water so heavy we float away as if in a lounge chair floating on air.

Taking the shuttle back, we make our way to the beautiful pool of our hotel and we find ourselves swimming and chatting about the wonders of our day, sights and ideas shared, discussion and thoughts talked out amongst us, friends coming together by the way of this trip, a shared faith…and in this water; baptised in friendship.

I love that.