Give it to God

It was the end of an email from a friend who doesn’t do much of the God thing, but the advice was right on target for this week. “Tough choices today,” the email said, “as there have been tough choices before. You do what you can, you make the calls as you see them, and give it to God.”

It’s a week of giving it to God.

Packing to leave for the other side of the world and the piles are beginning to mount up in the room where I pack. I keep thinking of things I still need to find, or uncover, or locate and it becomes a blur. So I give it to God.

An elderly aunt has landed in the hospital this week with serious heart issues. I can’t stop what I’m doing and go to be with her. I’d like to do that, but it just isn’t possible -- so I give it to God.

The Driver and Tech are waiting to hear about a potential job but no word is coming through. There’s nothing I can do to help but listen, and I give it to God.

My husband has a pinched nerve in his back. This is NOT the best week for a pinched nerve. Why does this stuff happen when we are under pressure? Oh, probably because we ARE under pressure, it happens. So, since I cannot fix his back, I give it to God because after all, God made his back and knows all about it.

That’s the whole point, isn’t it?

I opened Isaiah this afternoon and landed on these words:
“I am the one who creates the light and makes the darkness. I am the one who sends good times and bad times. I, the Lord, am the one who does these things. Open up, O heavens, and pour out your righteousness. Let the earth open wide so salvation and righteousness can sprout up together. I, the Lord, created them.” (Isa 45:7-8)

When I get overwhelmed and feel like the choices in front of me are too much, swirling around me, pushing me down, I need to stop and remember who is in control of eternity, and today’s choices.

The heavens opened a little while ago and poured out rain. I cannot make it rain or make it stop, so I simply watch it happen, and wonder at the power of it all. There is a gaggle of robins prancing around in the dusk on the soaked grass, finding worms and grubs for dinner that the rain brought to the surface. I bet they wake up every morning and give the day to God.

I’ll do that tomorrow with them.

Faster than a...

Computer in lap, I sit in a chilly airport, waiting for a flight. Attendants deployed to Buffalo. Searching for more. Fog and rain persist outside the window, but this is an island of total calm in a week faster than a speeding bullet, or light, or any number of other ragged, worn similes.

Change is life. Life is change. No change, end of sentence.

There are days when I stop and ponder if I can possibly cram more learning into my brain. Days when my fingers hover over the keys, searching the screen for clues, plunging into uncharted territory. Did I get the URL in the right spot? Does the link work? Did I remember to translate the data to a neutral pad before posting it? Will I crash the whole website?

And yet, my world has rapidly become more nimble and multi-dimensional; hence I must too

Other questions hover close by during this, my yearly planning week. What systems work best in 2010? Where should I invest my time? Which projects are high priority among the many clamoring for attention? Is my blood pressure up because I’m balancing too many plates in the air, or does this pace just keep my mind alive and well?.

And then, the ultimate question. As I move forward, sometimes at warp speed, have I allowed space for the Holy Spirit in my own life, and in my workday? I’m not trying to suddenly go spiritual – illustration, question, plunge in the knife. I am not questioning the need for change. I’m simply examining my heart.

God is more than capable of keeping pace with change. The God who designed the speed of light and the mechanics of the speeding bullet is far greater than my time and space. I would say God is the author of change. Change is not a moral quantity. Good and evil are not inherent in technology or lack thereof, in systems, in methods. It is how we use the tool that adds the value.

I also believe that God makes us as we are. God made some who contemplate while others are designed to move. Marys and Marthas. Yet Mary received the commendation while Martha was both the scolder and the scolded.

So while moving at warp speed, I need to seek Mary moments, and remind myself not to have a Martha tongue. I am forced to examine whether it is the excitement of change and speed that brings me a high or the fact that the new system, new accomplishment, new learning is something God has put in front of me for His use.

Flight staff arrive and are deployed. It’s time to board and fly. I’ll move my contemplative spirit from the terminal to the plane, put away my technology and saturate myself in something that is older than time but changes daily to meet the new demands. There’s a little Bible in my bag.

I think I need some Mary time while I fly.

Priceless

The toy that defaults to the youngest in the family is a collection of fist-sized chunky plastic discs in yellow, white, and green, housed in a blue Lego bucket. The older children learn quickly that positioning the blue bucket in front of “Baby” means Baby stays out of the more interesting stuff: vintage Fischer Price, wooden blocks, and serious Lego.

Give the baby the bucket!

Jon-boy has the bucket. Some discs are stacked on top of the coffee table and some tossed on the floor to give him options. He pulls up to standing, enjoying the ups and downs of life pre-walking. The discs are easily grasped by small hands and can be dumped out, chewed, stacked, rolled, or dropped back into the bucket. They are substantial and noisy. What more could a small boy want?

Finally bored, he howls for help and Poppa leaves the table to check on him. Poppa sits down and handles the discs. Somewhere in the neighborhood of forty are in the bucket, on the table, and on the floor.

Memory kicks in and mists over the room. Each disc represents 100 feet of slide film, hand-rolled, shot, developed, catalogued, in print and still on the web. One blue bucket and thousands upon thousands of slides from all over the world. Fifty plus countries, forty years.

Images crowd out the little guy in a red sweater. Vivid green rice terraces climbing to the Philippine sky. Jammed Chinese and Japanese train stations with confusing signs. Narrow European streets dripping with cold rain. Blazing Spanish sunshine. Bitter Siberian and Kazak steppes swept with snow. African plains with herds of elephants. Snowy mountains driving north to Sidney. Babbles of languages. Faces, faces, faces of every color and ethnic mix. Fascinating people, each with a story.

A howl brings Poppa back to the present as a small boy climbs up his pant leg looking for attention. The memories fade gently into the present as he picks up the little guy.

“Do you know this is the most expensive toy in the house, Jon-boy? Each of those discs of film that I hand-rolled cost about $100. That’s $4000 you’re stacking on the coffee table.”

The promise of the future in Poppa’s arms crowds out the past. There will be time down the road to share memories with the big eyed little boy in the red sweater. He may never see all the pictures, but he’ll reap the benefit of where the discs took his grandfather.

Priceless.

Good Friday

Good Friday begins in the soft dark before dawn. How different to rise and be warm! I wander down and put on a pot of coffee, then sit and enjoy the fragrance of the hot brew while I read through Luke and John’s descriptions of the day of crucifixion. Whether or not it was actually a Friday is incidental to the meaning of the day.

Exercise with the “girls” is vigorous, followed by breakfast together at the little café down the way from Curves. They do a thriving breakfast business by providing cheap good food and being in the middle of a busy neighborhood. Conversation buzzes around the table from dogs to books to travel to Good Friday and its meaning.

Later I head to the library to exchange books and pick up Ben Hur. Years ago the Dragon and I watched Ben Hur for several years in succession on Good Friday. She’s watching it today far from me, but I will watch it sometime this weekend just for the sake of the shared memories.

People are just beginning to trickle into the library and I am struck again by the multi-ethnic blend of this community. There are head coverings of all sorts and before I check out I’ve listened to half a dozen languages. The park surrounding the library is bursting with spring. Ducks waddle across the roadways, geese honk overhead and splash into the ponds, while little boys follow their dads with fishing poles in hand.

A quick stop at the market puts me in line behind a middle-aged German couple. Again, the blend of cultures is striking.

At home I put on the classical radio station full blast and open the windows to let in the sunshine and warmth. We change out glass doors for screens and the sweet smell of almost spring is as delightful as the bright yellow of the forsythia bursting across the back of the yard.

Home. A wonderful place to spend the day, even with the routine of cooking and housework. Mikey from next door brings his son over to inspect the “chalet” out back. “Hey, Jeff hasn’t had a chance to see this place.” I chat with Jeff and find he’s married and gainfully employed. Is this the little red-haired kid who used to borrow my movies, hit me up for $$ to clear my drive using my snow blower and my gas, and generally cause mayhem in the neighborhood. Time is a wonderful thing. Living in one place long enough to see kids grow up is another boon. The next generation has taken over the cul-de-sac out front and a soccer game is bouncing around.

Tonight we’ll have friends for dinner – pilots from Africa, Afghanistan, Alaska, and Russia. Only two pilots. Lots of planes, flights, and countries in their corporate pockets. We’ll listen to crazy stories and share life. Then we’ll all head to church and take time to consider the solemn price paid for our lives.

It’s a good Friday.

The Israeli monk

Day is ending as we come to Kiriath-Jearim* west of Jerusalem where a solid old Crusader church is nestled in a neighborhood of an Arab city. The garden inside the gate envelopes us as we walk in.

Our goal is a low door to the crypt, deep underground, but as we gather at the doorway, a small cluster of white robed monks walk down the garden. One sees our group and turns our way to greet us. “Ah,” says our guide, “It is Father Olivier.” His French pronunciation of “Oh-LIV-ee-ay” clues us to the monk's home country.

The two men greet each other warmly as old friends, and our guide explains that this is a group of biblical students.

“Perhaps you could tell them about yourself?”

“My English is not good,” the monk demurs in excellent English, but he proceeds. “I am a Benedictine monk. We spend our days in song and prayer. And we make pottery and liquor from lemons to sell.”

Our younger guide says, “Very, very good liquor.” The monk grabs him and rubs his shaved brown head. “You!” he laughs in obvious enjoyment of friend to friend.

Father Olivier continues. “I came from France. I am 62 and I have been here for 33 years. My family were not believers. In fact, my father was very anti-clergy. But my parents took me to see a movie when I was about twelve called Exodus and the story captured me. It’s a real story, you know, about some of the refugees coming here to Israel after the war.”

“After my military service, I joined a monastery in Normandy. As I sang the Psalms of David and read the Bible, I remembered the Exodus movie and it seemed that every page of scripture spoke of Jerusalem and this land. So I came, and I will never leave.”

“You know,” our older guide says, “Father Olivier is an Israeli citizen.” They look at each other with pride, both immigrants, both standing tall and sun-burnished with a look of freedom in their eyes that we have come to appreciate in this young country.

“Yes,” says the monk. “Young military boys and girls come here in small groups as part of their learning about Jerusalem.”

Our guides are both military guys of two different generations. So is the gentle monk. He goes on, “Benedictines are a hospitality order. We have people come to stay – Jews, Christians, Arabs, from the neighborhood. It is our mission.”

His English picks up as he shares his passion, even though he stumbles and asks for some individual words from our older French-speaking guide. “We are French mostly, but one man is from the Congo. And among the sisters there are French, German, Canadian, and also one from Congo. There are differences, yes, but we look past the differences. We are much the same, like those of this country.”

“I will stay here all my life,” he concludes. “Our commitment is not for a time. It is for all time.”

We leave Olivier and wander the simple lofty church left by the Crusaders. The faces of the frescoes were battered off by one of the Muslim invasions. The church stands, damaged, but solid. Father Olivier will keep his promise. Like the rock of the old church, differences and conflict will not move him. We sing a simple hymn before we leave the nave and the sound echoes off the walls and back to us.

“He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ arose.”

It is a fitting end to a journey back in time. A stop on the way to a modern world, a refuge from the busyness outside the gates, a reminder that commitment brings stability and stability is eternal.

* “And the men of Kiriath-jearim came and took the ark of the Lord and brought it to the house of Abinadab on the hill…a long time passed, some twenty years, and all the house of the Israel lamented after the Lord.” 1 Sam. 7:1-2

The Old City

By day the Old City is packed with tourists of every stripe. As we push our way from the Temple mount toward the Jaffa gate, we mingle with a group of Filipinos carrying a cross and singing, Germans stopping to shop, and a gaggle of middle-aged coffee drinkers chatting in Yiddish.

There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.

The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.

A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.

The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.

Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.

Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.

Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.

“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”

We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.

There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.

A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.

A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.

Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.

We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.

Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.

Ageless, timeless, eternal.

The Politics of Perfume

Roman had a problem. A huge city, people living on top of people, crowded streets and alleys. People who eat, sleep, and well get rid of what they ate through natural processes.

People who live in rural settings have space and fields and can bury today’s problem one place and tomorrow’s another. But city dwellers have no where to put their waste. In Rome, citizens emptied their chamber post out the window to the street. Streets were washed with water from the top down. But water is a precious commodity and doesn’t always cover the smell. No wonder the higher off the street living quarters always cost more money.

Something is needed to counteract odor. Perfume. Perfume in the ancient world became as precious as gold, maybe more.

The best source of perfume was in Yemen, down the Arabian Peninsula from Israel. Traders brought perfume up the road of the kings, across the Edomite kingdom, past Petra, past the Dead Sea, and north to the ports.

He who controlled the route of the perfume controlled the economy. Herod the Great was brutal, braggadocios, and brilliant. He was also the most outstanding architect of antiquity.

It was Herod who built a huge seaport at Caesarea where there was no natural harbor. It was Herod who took the top off one mountain and put it on another to build his Herodium. It was Herod who took the stronghold in the desert and built the fortress that is called Masada. Put a ruler on the map and these architectural wonders lie in a straight line from the source of perfume to the seaport.

Was Masada built originally to control the perfume trade? Who knows? It stands in the wilderness as a stronghold with many stories – the most famous happening long after Herod’s death. The final rebellion of the Jews was squelched by Rome at Masada in the early ‘70’s AD. It is at Masada that the Roman forces seiged for almost two years, finally breaking through the ramparts to find that the rebels had taken their own lives freely to escape slavery. There was food and water left in abundance, but Rome was cheated out of victory. Herod was long gone when this happened.

Power is a strange idol. Herod definitely worshiped power and perhaps controlling the perfume trace was one of his power plays. However the story is told, Herod, like the Roman forces, was cheated out of a victory.

He heard there was a king of the Jews born in Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, smack beside his Herodium fortress. He told the kings from the east to go find the king and come back to tell him where he was so that he “could go and worship also.”

The kings found the young king, worshipped, and left by another route without telling Herod anything. Infuriated, Herod ordered the massacre of all the little boys under two and the mothers of Bethlehem wept in bitterness.

But the little king and his parents had slipped away to Egypt. They financed the escape with perfume.