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.

on our way

In about an hour, the rest will arrive to board the bus that will take us to Newark, and we'll be on our way to the Holy Land. This is a trip I never thought I would take, and the fact that we leave today has still not completely sunk in. The fact that I will not only see the places that are so much a part of our faith, but also feel the air of the desert, feel the salt and minerals of the Dead Sea, ride a boat in the Sea of Galilee, is unbelievable.
I've prayed that I would stop asking how this is possible. That I would stop wondering why I am able to go. That I would be able to simply say thank you to the Lord who drew me here. But I still am so awed and surprised that I can't do anything but follow. "I will go, Lord, where you lead me."
The past year has been so filled with small steps and giant leaps of faith, and each one has pretty much left me in tears for one reason or another. I wouldn't trade a single moment. Sharing the stories brings back each and every associated emotion, and sometimes it's more than I can bear. I'm learning to give over to God positive experiences, as well as the hard things; something I never considered before.
I am not only grateful for what lies ahead, but for each step that brought me to this day, this packed bag, this anticipation in my very soul. Carry us safely, Lord, and show us your hometown through senses opened by your love.

sisters and me

As long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by Martha and Mary: their relationship with Jesus, their relationship with each other, and more recently, just what they represent. I've written about this on at least one other occasion, but recently I've found a new twist. For almost two years now, I've been really almost obsessed at times with the story. It's a short little ditty in Luke's gospel, and when I read it or hear it, I'm always surprised at the impact these verses (38-42) have on me. I've wondered off and on how Mary could just sit, and I've wondered about why Martha can't (or won't!) sit - or at the very least, take a break. I grew up in a family of putterers; Dad and Grampy were always monkeying with something or other, Mom was always busy with her stuff, Grammy kept her fingers moving with yarn and needles if she wasn't cooking or baking or playing cards. Gramma Katie, though, could sit from time to time. It's her Kitchen Prayer, now hanging in my kitchen, that began my interest in the women: "Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind..." She could sit and contemplate a jigsaw puzzle for hours, or sit and watch TV with us, without a book or craft in her lap - just her folded hands. I've come to realize that's a discipline; that she displayed a certain living in the moment that I strive toward. I digress....

Jesus comes to visit and, as is the custom, Martha sets about getting food ready, making sure everyone has drinks and is comfortable, and generally hostessing. Her sister, Mary, on the other hand, far outside of customary behavior, makes herself at home with Jesus and all the menfolk he brought with him. Martha, ticked off because Mary is getting out of doing chores and leaving her high and dry, tells Jesus to do something about it. (By the way, I figure they must be really good friends, otherwise Martha probably wouldn't be quite that bold. Then again....) He refuses, saying, "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her." (NAB-RE) And that's that. That's where the story ends. About a year and a half ago, I heard a homily on this gospel, and it really got me thinking about how difficult it is for me to be still, to sit and listen - without thinking about what time it is, what's for dinner, whether I or anyone else needs anything - so that began to be my prayer. At 3:00 or so every day, I would say, "Lord, I will sit at your feet." And I've begun to be able to. Sometimes in absolute silence. Other times, I know that I'm at the foot of the Cross. And there are times when I sit at his feet and we laugh at the stories he's telling. Or I cry. But at his feet, where Mary sat, has become a refuge for me; time to which I look forward with hope, with joy. In my time at his feet, though, there is no Martha to come along and complain.

I kinda like it that way.

As a semi-reformed Martha, I like to be removed from that lifestyle. I don't know quite how else to put it. I used to be one who did, did, did, wishing I could manage to sit, but not really wanting to. I always thought it was because I couldn't sit still, or because I was too busy/important/needed - or too grumpy! - to be still. I used to think if I didn't do something, anything, it just wouldn't get done, and I'd only have to do it later, so I might as well get crackin' now. Truth be told, I was afraid to be Mary, although I didn't know it; nor could I have understood why.

Tuesday morning, the story of these two ladies, remarkable enough for Luke to include them in his writing, was the optional gospel for the Memorial of St Scholastica. Already feeling a bit pushed around and out of sorts, I was at first irritated because I was trying to follow along, and the optional reading wasn't on the app. Then I was irritated because I (being, of course, the only person in the universe at that moment) was convinced that the celebrant had chosen to read it as a message directed at me. I quickly realized it was not he who had a message for me, but He who did, further irritating me. Here's the thing, Mary may have been on to something good, but the fact is, Martha was complaining about it, and loudly. In the middle of the homily I found myself thinking, Hold on a minute! Do you get what that Martha behavior does to a Mary?

I stayed after Mass for a while to argue it out with Jesus. I went home rather discombobulated and out of sorts, still frustrated that all the Mary-ing in the world doesn't change the fact that the Marthas will complain loudly and persistently, no matter what. And the kicker is: People listen to them. People listen to Martha. [Jesus didn't. He could let it fall to the side. Can you?] It doesn't matter who Martha is, people listen, and then they tend to join in. It's our nature. We had a really long discussion about this whole story and how it was relating to my life that day, that moment, and how bugged I was about all of it. Bugged that in all the time I was Martha-ing - doing - I was really just trying not to be noticed. Bugged that I had to hear yet again that being a Mary was the better thing, the higher road, something to strive for. Bugged that when I finally felt like I could Mary, like I could allow the stories and lessons, the words and the messages to reach me, Martha's words could cut me so deeply. Bugged that Luke's story doesn't include how Mary might have felt in that moment. We know how Martha felt! We even know how Jesus felt, to a certain extent.

In the middle of a rant about how unfair the Marthas are to the Marys, I was filled with laughter. Along with it came a sense of calm, peace, and clarity. 'Don't you remember when Lazarus died? What happened then?' In John 11, Martha and Mary's brother has died, and when Jesus finally gets there, four days later, Martha goes to meet him, and gives him a hard time about not being there when they needed him. John's writing softens the emotions, but in that moment of laughter, I realized that Martha would always be Martha. She would always have something to say about how something should be done - even if she didn't really mean what she was saying. I also realized that my experience with Marthas has greatly affected the level of trust I have in others. Suddenly these five verses in Luke are so much more, as well as my affinity for the story. My notebook now has Mary and Martha points alongside Elijah and some sparrows and the hair on my head. One day it may all make sense, but in the meantime, I'm grateful for the moments that clarity comes.

The Kitchen PrayerLord of all the pots and pans and things, since I've not time to be
A saint by doing lovely things or watching late with Thee
Or dreaming in the dawn light or storming Heaven's gates
Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.
Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind
And when I black the boots and shoes Thy sandals, Lord, I find.
I think of how they trod the earth, what time I scrub the floor
Accept this meditation Lord, I haven't time for more.
Warm all the kitchen with Thy love, and light it with Thy peace
Forgive me all my worrying and make my grumbling cease.
Thou who didst love to give men food, in room or by the sea
Accept this service that I do, I do it unto Thee.
~Klara Munkres

page eighty-six

For over a year, I've been working on this book. While it came highly recommended, and I really do want to finish it, I honestly don't devote a whole heck of a lot of time to it. I'd like to, but it's the kind of book that takes digesting and pondering. On an average day in the past year, I can't quite devote enough focus to it. Frankly, for me discussion is likely necessary, too. Why else would 140 pages (including the index) take over a year to chew through? It's highlighted and underlined and bracketed, and I'm already looking forward to starting it again once I finish.
When I realized that my usual reading times were not going to work with this book, I began taking it with me to adoration. In that hour of time alone, with no distractions, I manage about 20-30 minutes lost in its pages. Once, I fell asleep reading it (yes, at adoration), and when I awoke with a start a few minutes later, the words had changed. I flipped the page forward and back thinking perhaps I'd lost my place, but I think the explanation is that I needed to hear something different from the words, and was put to sleep. (A story for another time, maybe.)
The title is The Divine Milieu, and the author a priest - a Jesuit - who died in 1955, by the name of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Two-thirds of the way through the book he says that we have finally gotten enough background to get to the point. I like to think Dad and I would have discussed him. And occasionally I think perhaps Dad tried to discuss Teilhard's work with me, but I was not where I needed to be.
At any rate, on Friday afternoon, with impeccable timing to fit my life, as God's timing always is, I read:

However vast the divine milieu may be, it is in reality a centre. It therefore has the properties of a centre...the absolute and final power to unite...all beings within its breast. In the divine milieu all the elements of the universe touch each other by that which is most inward and ultimate in them. There they concentrate...all that is purest and most attractive in them without loss and without danger of subsequent corruption....Let those seek refuge there who are saddened by the separations, the meannesses and the wastefulnesses of the world. In the external spheres of the world, man is always torn by the separations which set distance between bodies, which set the impossibility of mutual understanding between souls, which set death between lives....All that desolation is only on the surface. (p. 86)

Spoken directly to my heart that day. A series of frustrations had me feeling alone and lonely. I was already grateful for the scheduled visit to the chapel, but these words more than doubled that gratitude. Looking up, through tears, I asked what I should do next, how to get through the next few days. Clearly my heart heard, "Trust the Lord with all your heart." I smiled and said that I already do. [I often get to speak aloud, as most days no one else is there with us] Again, the same words, clear and direct. And then, "There are those who love you."
"All that desolation is only on the surface." As such, its not nearly as important as we make it out to be. Not nearly as impactful as we determine to allow it to be. The surface, you see, is nothing but a shell, a skin, maybe even a barrier to the real, the beautiful, the true. If you're looking for me, I'll be seeking refuge in the centre.

exactly four weeks

It's February. My favorite month. Always has been. That's a wee bit funny, because my favorite season is fall, but that is what it is. That's me. So many wonderful things packed into such a short month! Actually, I think the fact that it's short is part of the appeal for me. Of course, the month starts with my birthday, and sometimes ends with an extra day (a bonus!), so the in between should be super, right? When I was a kid, we always had a week off in February -- time for me to enjoy all the books I'd gotten for Christmas and my birthday, or to go sledding in the 'forest' next door, or simply wander in the snow making trails when I'd gotten a little older and felt the need.

My dad died in February, and his funeral was on Valentine's Day, so for a time I thought that February would never be the same. At some point, I realized I still liked February, despite that pain and sorrow that still hits me (often when I least expect it) not only this month, but throughout the year. I kept it to myself. Who would understand? Who would believe me? What would happen if I shared? I realize now that if I share, I will be true to myself -- thereby honoring Dad.

So there you have it -- I love February!

Dad's birthday was in February, too, and a lot of really neat people I've met have birthdays that begin with 2. A couple of my very best friends (who also happen to be related to me) were married in February. Our first baby was due in February. There's Candlemas Day, and the Feast of St. Blaise. And there is snow while the days get progressively longer. That's what hit me this morning: the sunlight lasts noticeably longer in February. And that's when I realized I could share.

I love February. I love that Dad's birthday was in February, and that this year it's Ash Wednesday. I love that I can see the sunlight on the snow in the evening. I love that it's been snowing! I love that usually by the last day of February our forsythia bush is covered in buds, and occasionally the first crocus pops up unexpectedly. I love that February is short and sweet, and that the dates are exactly the same as March, except in Leap Year. I love that when I think about February, I remember the good stuff more than the bad, and that I know before long we will be complaining about something other than cold. The end of the school year suddenly seems possible, close, and the prospect of lazy summer evenings on the porch or by the fire is close to real.

I love this sweet little month. Even when it hurts.