water, water, water

Question: ... one highlight of our pilgrimage to the Holy Land? .... The question is, "What influenced you most and how does it help your spiritual life?" or something like that....

Answer (in 126 words): What influenced me most? Perhaps the water. I now realize, scrolling through my pictures, that the water had me completely transfixed. The Dead Sea: captivatingly beautiful, and yet unable to sustain any life. Juxtaposed with the Sea of Galilee, which supplies fresh water to the country of Israel: equally beautiful, yet life-giving. This is quite a metaphor for faith! It’s not what anyone, including me, sees that is evidence of my faith – it’s what is in my heart and what is life-giving in my actions, my prayer, and my words. Susan, my Jewish seatmate on the way to Tel Aviv, asked me “What have Catholics to do with the Dead Sea?” Along with matters of history, I now have an answer of faith to offer her. 

first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea

I have always felt most at home by the water. Silly, actually, as I grew up inland, and didn't spend any time that I can recall near water until high school. At my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea, I was overcome with emotion. Dusk was falling, we'd just spent 10 hours on a plane, and we were now on a bus halfway around the world, so the 'overcome' was over the top, even for me. Still, it is an ocean I'd never seen before -- and never thought I would! After dinner, we walked across the street (no easy feat!) to the beach, and right down to the water of the Sea that also touches Greece, Italy, Turkey, Egypt, Tunisia, France and Spain. Simply amazing. Calmly, the water lapped at our feet. I stood gazing at what we could see of the horizon, soothed by the sound, the breeze, the sand. 

fishermen at sunset
on the Sea of Galilee

So much happened on the Sea of Galilee. Miracles happened when this body of water was involved. Jesus calmed a storm on the Sea of Galilee. It's where he walked on the water, beckoning Peter to join him. And that's just the highlights. We took a boat ride on Saturday afternoon, and as I sat watching the water, listening to the water and some music played for our enjoyment, I thought of Dad. Water, Dad, and the Father often go together for me, and this particular water pulled these two fathers of mine tightly in my heart. Standing at the back of the boat, watching the wake, and marveling at how small this lake really is, I felt Dad's left arm around my shoulders, and God's right hand on the small of my back. I knew I was right where I should be, physically, mentally, spiritually. Tears streamed down my face as all the sounds of the rest of the group faded behind me. For a time, I was alone on the Sea of Galilee with those who love me in ways no one else ever can: as fathers. I could have stayed on that boat for days. Thankfully, we spent many days travelling around this beautiful lake, seeing it from different angles and perspectives, touching the water, walking on the pebbly beaches, feeling the powerful pull of life -- of water. 

the River Jordan

I had heard that the Jordan River was not what we normally think of as a river. Iyad, our guide, told us that it would remind us more of what we would call a creek. Still, I was surprised to see how narrow the Jordan could be. We stopped at a site where people often go to be immersed in its waters. It was the widest part of the river we saw, and really was smaller than the creeks we have kayaked. When asked how near we were to where John would have baptized Jesus, Iyad looked at us and simply said, "Not very." The river runs through the Sea of Galilee, a channel of water of a different density cutting through the lowest freshwater lake on earth. The area around the Yardinet was beautifully developed. In another spot, closer to where John and Jesus did their thing, it was even narrower, overgrown, and mud-colored. The miracles and diversity of life.

the shoreline of the Dead Sea 

 But the body of water that made the biggest impression on me, based partly by the number of pictures I took, was the Dead Sea. The very name scared me when I was a kid -- so much I didn't want to hear any stories about it, or ask any questions about it for fear that I would die if I heard too much. Growing up, I pictured black or purple water, or water-like stuff, looking more like goo than anything else. What I first saw through a bus window amazed and transfixed me. It was truly magnificent! None of the pictures could do it justice. Likely more because of the difference between what it truly was and decades of misconception! The water was as blue as any I've ever seen. The shoreline was once underwater; the water level has been dropping steadily due to damming of the Jordan. By 2050 there will be no Dead Sea if nothing changes. The lack of life around the sea is disconcerting. All that surrounds it are the muddy flats of soil rich in minerals and salts, but in too dense a quantity for anything to grow -- too much of a good thing! And, oh, that mud! Thick and black, mushy, but almost dry to the touch. Someone in our group described it as being the consistency of Crisco, and I can't think of a better analogy. After floating in the water, and smearing the mud on my face, legs and arms, my skin did feel new; although I wrote that day that "after showering twice, I still feel like a roasted, salted pistachio shell tastes." Before I went, I was told there were no words that could prepare me for the Dead Sea. I would agree. 

time and time

The strangest and most wonderful thing that happened in Israel -- and the most puzzling -- may not even be believable. If you can open your heart, and open your mind, read on. Otherwise, skip ahead to whatever I post next time.

As we toured sites I'd heard and read about, and others I hadn't, there came times when we stood on ground I recognized. My heart leaped or sank, without necessarily corresponding to the details of the location. I remembered people there, what they wore, how they looked, expressions on faces. And each time, I felt at home. It's difficult to explain, and when I look at the pictures now, I can't tell you which places held me so. All I know is that I know. And never once did it seem out of the ordinary. Not a feeling of deja-vu, or vague memories of movie scenes or well-written descriptions. Rather, what I felt was sure, complete, and vivid. I knew at the time I should have written down where they happened, and what was going on, but I didn't, choosing instead to allow the feeling to wash over me, envelope me, and be in each of those moments.

Usually, it was the women. I was among them, watching, serving, often silent, but smiling, and more than just occasionally laughing. Most of all, though, what I can still feel is the warmth of being with others who knew me, and allowed me to know them -- men and women alike. Interestingly, it's the same feeling I have when I try to imagine myself in the boat with the disciples and Jesus when the storm came up on the Sea of Galilee -- every time, I feel like I am exactly where I belong, with the knowledge that all is well (not 'will be well,' is well). Sometimes I was working alongside someone. Sometimes I was alone with someone. Other times I was sitting with so many others, feeling peaceful and joyful.

All of this only makes sense, I think, in the context of the communion of saints. There are many ways to describe or explain it, but my favorite includes the idea that time, to God, doesn't exist as we know it. Rather, it folds in upon itself in every one of our moments, and because it does, we can be in a moment that happened so very long ago. Once I looked at a friend across the church during Mass and realized we'd been together at the foot of the Cross. We really had. There have been times at Adoration, when I am the only one there, that I've been sitting with Mary while Martha prepared dinner -- sitting there not even noticing that anyone else was around, other than Jesus, feeling his robes against my elbow or my shoulder. But the moments in Israel were longer. And I can only say that I could feel them more than see or hear; the same way I still see, hear and feel Dad and his hugs. The same way I know that many times when I pray, I sit on a rock with Jesus, and toss sticks and pebbles into the water flowing gently by us.

There is a temptation to try to recreate the feeling, to hunt for it in my memory and my heart until I find it and feel it again, exactly the way I did on the trip. I know that I can't force it that way. The best I can do is remember that it happened, and be grateful for the experience, the peace, the joy. And continue to pray, learn, lean, and celebrate the love that allowed me into those moments. Along the way, I think I need to get to know some of the women I 'met' while walking the sands of time in the Holy Land. Who are they? I'm not exactly sure, but I feel certain we will recognize each other when the time is again right.

a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.

the next question

Typically, the second question people ask about the trip is, "How was the food?" Everything we had was good! Honestly, though, the hotels we stayed in catered to tourists, so I can't tell you how authentically Israeli the food was. Nonetheless, there was very little we were offered that wasn't well prepared and presented.

If nothing else, we could depend on there being lots of color available. Condiments and vegetables of all kinds adorned the table, whether the hotel buffet at breakfast and dinner, or the street restaurants we stopped in for lunch. Most days for lunch we were offered falafel or shawarma wrapped in fresh pita. While I enjoyed the shawarma, shaved roasted chicken (or beef), I fell in love with the falafel -- a tasty mix of Israeli chick peas and parsley, deep fried to look an awful lot like a meatball, then smushed into pita. Just the right amount of crisp crust, and a really fun shade of green!

Breakfast is always a delight for me. I love to start the day with a cup of coffee and something delicious on a plate or in a bowl in front of me. The fresh yogurt bar became my only breakfast stop by the end of the week. (At first, I was determined to try a variety of breakfast offerings, but I could only do fish once, and there was simply no bacon at all -- a whole week of hotel breakfasts without even smelling bacon!) Fresh dates, dried fruit, seeds, granola and kashi waited as toppings for fresh, creamy yogurt. And always an assortment of jellies, jams, and syrups to add a little sweetness and flavor. My toppings of choice: honey, granola, sunflower seeds, and dried dates. Nearby sat the light pastries. Light as in very airy! My favorite were the chocolate croissants.

Coffee. I love coffee. At home, I sit with a big mug of it, and nurse it for as long as I can. In Israel, the cups were smaller, and the coffee different. Our first lunch out at a nifty little local place, our tour manager advised us not to drink the Turkish coffee that came after our meal! Too late! We had already drained our Dixie cups of the stuff! "I can't stand the stuff," he declared. But I really liked the unusual flavor. There was something added that I couldn't quite place. On Tuesday, in a shop in Jericho, I learned that the mysterious flavor was cardamom. Mystery solved, and I bought three bags of coffee to bring home. It's not the same grind as our drip coffee, so I have to mix it with regular coffee, but then I get the best of both -- a big mug, and the taste I remember. On an unrelated note, I learned to savor a nice 3:00pm espresso while in Israel.

And then I'm asked about the wine. My roommates and I were happy to find some lovely Golan Heights wine in the gift shop at the River Jordan. Dry and red, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Not being much of a wine snob, I won't even try to say more about it, except that it tasted equally good whether served in a wine glass or a coffee mug, and with three of us in the room, it seemed to not last very long!

The absolute best, I would have to say, were the little treats from street vendors. Always enough to share (which is how I got a taste) and always just the right amount of sweet, salty and satisfying, from the nutty nougaty roll to the bagel. Fantastic!

not just a field

Since returning from Israel, people often ask about my favorite thing, or what made the biggest impression. The most honest answer is "all of it," which very few find satisfying. The next best thing I can come up with is that it depends on the current moment. The fact is, I don't categorize things that way -- I don't have favorites in much of anything. For a really long time I thought that made me fickle at best, and abnormal at worst. In reality, it's just the way I'm wired. I loved the whole place! I can tell you about the one meal and "tour" I didn't like, or the one shopkeeper who made me really uncomfortable, or even about the only church that wasn't to my taste, but none of those things matter much. I was there and got to experience each of those things!

There is a setting on my phone that I haven't found yet. It's the one that makes my phone connect to my computer so I can download my pictures. Before I left, I shut it off, just in case, and have no idea where it is. It'll turn up. But the place I keep coming back to in my heart since we've been back I didn't even take a picture of. I was so overcome by a multitude of feelings, questions, memories and amazement that I forgot to get a picture.

Shepherd's Field in Bethlehem was nothing like I could ever have imagined. As a girl, we lived quite near a farm with cows. (I've always assumed a dairy farm, but I never asked!) They had a field, a pasture, where the cows spent the day. It was open, green, and fairly flat -- a vast expanse, considering the neighborhoods and developments nearby. I knew the shepherds probably didn't have something like that, so instead I envisioned something like Scotland: rolling hills of grass and herb-ey flowers, dotted with rocks here and there. (Mind you, I've never been to Scotland, and even this vision is mostly self-constructed.) What I saw when we arrived at Shepherd's Field took my breath away.

There was very little green; tufts of grass and grass-like vegetation sprouted up among jagged rocks and boulders. Lots of rocks and boulders. And there was absolutely nothing flat about it. The 'field' with all its rocks and bits of green lay at something near a forty-five degree angle. It was steep, stark, rugged, and dangerous. I imagined it dotted also with sheep, maybe a donkey, or even a dog. I pictured how difficult it must have been to see wolves and other predators among the shadows that were everywhere. And I thought about a man leading a donkey with a laboring woman up that craggy slope, looking for shelter. The road we walked in on was paved, wide and smooth, leading us to a pretty park and fountain overlooking the field. Beyond were chapels built into the cave Joseph and Mary were given for birthing a beautiful baby boy.

Perhaps part of my reaction was related to the juxtaposition of the modern road, the traditional, and the very real and unchangeable landscape. The road and park against the backdrop of the field jolted me most especially when a newborn baby was added to the mix. Inside the chapel cave was a baby Jesus statue, about the size of my own boys when they were born. That's when I felt the bewildering sense of where we were. There was nothing safe about that night when He was born, and yet, the cave was cozy, the family together, the promise ahead.

Sitting alone, looking out over the field, I was struck by the danger a shepherd faced out there with his sheep. I thought of the parable of the Good Shepherd, when he goes and looks for the one sheep that wandered off and got lost. In so doing, the shepherd took his own life in his hands to search among rocks -- boulders, really, caves and the associated wildlife. Knowing this, and hearing this, are one thing, but seeing what it looked like was something else entirely.

One of the sites that changed my sight.

front and back

From Saturday morning's homily (3/15/15) -- I keep thinking about it...

The Gospel was Luke 18:9-14, about the Pharisee and the tax collector praying in the temple. You know the one, the Pharisee keeps listing all the reasons he's grateful to be great, but all of them are in comparison to someone else, namely the tax collector. Meanwhile, the tax collector is pretty sure he isn't even worthy to pray because of all he knows he's done, as well as what he's pretty sure he might have done unwittingly. [this is my interpretation]

Father pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and said this particular lesson had stuck with him for all these years since seminary. After this reading at Mass, the professor had each of the men pull out a piece of paper and list the things they are good at. Anything and everything they could think of. Happily, they filled the paper, noting things from remembering prayers to playing soccer, and so much in between. Then came the hard part. "Turn the paper over and list the things you are not so good at."

Even hearing the retelling, I could see where this is what hit home. I sat thinking of the things I might have listed on the 'good at' side that either really belonged on the other, or could feasibly fit on both. How many of the things I am good at do I ask for help with? More than I used to, that's for sure. How many of the things that I'm not so good at do I avoid altogether, despite the fact that they very well may be gifts in disguise? How often am I truly honest about either side of the paper?

And do I thank God enough for the gift of me, faults and all? Do I ask forgiveness when I should? Or am I preoccupied?

Time to pull out a piece of paper.