Author: Peri Zahnd

my quirky creative boy (well actually they’re all quirkily creative, in their own ways) had to do a report on stress for his freshman health class. he worked for days at the computer editing a video he and a couple of classmates spent Saturday filming, and was often heard laughing hysterically to himself. he finished up at 10 pm the night before it was due. the teacher liked it so much she made him show it twice, and then showed it to every class she had that day. i want to give you the opportunity to watch it too. the third segment, the trash catapult, is the best. if you make it through that, watch the outtakes at the end.

Health–Stress video

For more films, check his xanga site.

I was thinking last night about "kisses from heaven"–those special times you know Jesus had done something just to show His great love for you. I’m putting together a journal of many of those kisses…..most of which I can’t post here–too special, too personal! sorry!

This is a story of the woman I called "Thoroughly Modern Milly", my grammy who I lost at the age of 100 in 2003.

The Coolest Grammy in the World

I had the coolest grammy in the world. I adored her always. I spent many, many weekends at her house growing up, and always loved being there. She was fun—she was hip—she was cool. She wore shorts and flashy clothes. She had a great wardrobe, and let us play in her big closet and wear anything we wanted. It was a Narnia type closet, and you never knew what treasures you would find as you made her way to the back.. I particularly remember a long pink taffeta robe, belted with a very full skirt. When I wore it, it dragged the ground behind me in a train and made a swishing noise when I walked. I wore it with the white sandals with brightly colored rhinestones. She had plastic pop-it beads, and even let my cousin and me wear her perfume. She kept coloring books and a few toys for us, but her things were the most fun. She had an electric typewriter—what a machine! She had cable TV and a window air conditioner—it was hot at our own house and we only got three channels. She took us to the park and packed picnic lunches in a big basket. She took me and my cousins to the drive-in theatre. She had a fascinating attic we explored, part of an equally fascinating house and yard. I was shocked years later when I had the opportunity to tour it as an adult and found it was so small. I remembered it HUGE! She moved out of that house when I was 14, the home she had spent the entire 47 years of her married life in, moving the year after her husband died into an apartment she occupied for another 30 years. I spent the night with her at the apartment only a little, for I was growing up and changing. But I loved Grammy always. No one could be grumpy when Grammy was around—she wouldn’t allow it. She carried such a happy atmosphere everywhere she went. When I was a teenager and a young adult, and sometimes feeling disapproval from the rest of the family, I always knew I could feel loved and accepted by Grammy.

I was stunned to realize that Grammy had been 57 when I was born—I thought of her as a very young grandmother, when in fact she was older than most. But youth is an attitude, not always an age. Grammy was always trendy. I have pictures of her as a flapper in the roaring twenties, standing in knickers with a headband, hands on her hips leaning on an old Model A Ford. She didn’t much care for "old people", even when she was one. She was disgusted at having to move into a nursing home at age 95—"I don’t want to eat that old people food!" she told me. When I asked her what she wanted to eat, she said "pizza and tacos!" I would frequently take her Taco Bell, and she would be delighted to skip the lunchroom that day.

When her wealthy older sister was giving up her home, my grammy spented weeks helping her sort her possessions. She called me one night and said, "You’ll never guess what Eva wanted to give you—those old crystal chandeliers she had in the dining room. I told her you wouldn’t want those old things." "Yes, I would, Grammy! You go back tomorrow and tell her I’d be delighted to have them!" I told her pointedly. She called me back the next day. "Well, Eva had already given those chandeliers to someone else. But you’ll never guess what I got you!! A blender!" That was Grammy. Out with the old, and in with the new. I gave the blender to my sister.

Her given name was Milly, and her sister’s Eva. But when they were teenagers, they went to the courthouse and had their names legally changed. Eva became Evelyn, and Milly became Mildred Irene, because those names sounded "more sophisticated." Grammy HATED the name Mildred all her adult life, and regretted having changed it–why she never changed it back is a mystery. She insisted everyone call her Milly, and would grimace when a nurse in the hospital or someone else would call her Mildred.

She was a faithful babysitter to my boys. She was almost 80 when my firstborn arrived, and loved to have him whenever I could bring him. She watched the second one as well, and often. The boys loved their Grammy too. By the time the last one arrived, however, she was 92, and beginning to be frail. I wouldn’t leave him with her, even though she begged me to. Every year we would get together to make candy at Christmas—and always peanut butter balls. Those are hard to stir together, but I remember how Grammy would put her whole body into it. And I remember the Christmas she just didn’t have the strength, and how it broke her heart not to be able to stir the peanut butter balls. She had always worked so hard, and was now beginning to feel useless.

She resisted growing old, she fought it with everything she had. She told me many times, especially after being in the nursing home, "I never wanted to get this old." How do you respond to that? My heart hurt for her. She was becoming so frail, and for the last five years couldn’t get out of bed or out of a chair unassisted. She fell often, and I met the ambulance at the emergency room more than once. I watched her being x-rayed after a fall at the nursing home—in such pain with her hip. It was painful for me to see how much it hurt her to be turned from side to side, even gently. And I was so sad to see the actual x-rays, to be able to actually see that her bones had deteriorated to almost nothing.

The dementia was even harder to accept. I got a call once while she was still in the apartment—the manager said she was sick and needed some help. I dropped everything and drove as quick as I could to her apartment. Yes, she was sick, and confused. I had never seen that before, and had to take her to be admitted to the hospital. She got mad at me, and accused me of tricking her, and stayed angry for a long time. My grammy had never been angry with me for more than a few minutes. My beloved grammy was slowly dying, and I didn’t know how to handle it.

She hated the nursing home, at least most of the time. She was sullen and grumpy frequently, and other times told ridiculous stories, stories about her baby twin brothers, whom she had loved and been the best of friends until their deaths twenty years before. She was living some past life with them, and we weren’t much a part of that life. But visiting Grammy was so unpredictable, because sometimes she would be the old Grammy I loved so much. Those times became rarer and rarer.

When she was 98, I was planning a trip to Israel, and a couple of days before we were to leave, I went to visit her. I took my two youngest boys with me, probably 7 and 12 at the time. Grammy was asleep with her mouth wide open when we went in, and no amount of yelling or shaking her shoulder would wake her up. (Well, no amount of yelling ever would. She had become almost stone-deaf, and we kept a dry erase board handy to write her notes. That was a difficult way to hold a conversation. She would ask us why we wouldn’t just talk—she refused to acknowledge there was anything wrong with her hearing.)

The boys got spooked. "Let’s get out of here." They thought she was dead—never mind that she was snoring loudly. We finally left, and after supper I got in the bathtub and cried my eyes out, sobbing and grieving over my dear grammy. I was sure she wouldn’t be there when I got home from Israel. I was sure I’d seen her for the last time. I said my goodbyes as I cried in the tub, and later that evening I took the time to compose a letter that could be read from me at the funeral.

But she didn’t die. In fact, two years later we planned a 100 ^th birthday party for her. We invited everyone who ever knew her, even put an invitation in the local newspaper. It would be a good opportunity to see family we hadn’t seen in a while. Grammy hadn’t wanted to go to family reunions after she needed a walker, and after she was eligible to win the prize for oldest person present. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her age or declining health.

When the big day came, we saw to it that her hair and nails were freshly done, and Mom had a pretty outfit for her to wear. And lo and behold, for that day only, it was as if God gave her back to us. There was no senility that day, no confusion. She sat up in that wheelchair and was Queen for the Day. She told jokes; she entertained her visitors, who came by the droves; she was witty, the life of the party.

One woman approached her "throne", and introduced herself. Of course Grammy couldn’t hear her, and said she didn’t know her. My cousin Sandy and I got the lady to write her name down, and Grammy recognized it instantly. She was the daughter of a very close friend. Grammy looked at her and said, "You can’t be so-and-so, you’re OLD!" We all had a good laugh—the woman was 85!

The next day, Grammy was confused and talking out of her head, but the birthday had been so special—I was thrilled with it, and thanked Jesus for another "kiss from heaven", just something special He wanted to give us.

Just a few months later, Grammy got very sick and we were told she wasn’t going to make it. She lingered a few hours and then drew her last breath. The funeral was cold—it was February. Very few people came. That was perfectly fine—they had all been there to say goodbye such a short time before. I hardly cried at all….I knew Grammy was at peace, with Jesus, and I had done my grieving for the Grammy I loved so much that evening in the bathtub two years before.

Even now I sometimes forget she’s gone, and want to tell her something, or find out how to make her special pickles or homemade chocolate sauce. I do have those recipes, as well as many others. I have her coffee table in my living room, and a picture hanging in my entryway that was hers as well. But she does live, in my memory, and I know I will see her again. What a great day that will be!

My cousin Sandy, Grammy, and me! October, 2003

I’m still trying to figure out Xanga World….I mean, I love to write, but there are all these other functions…..I finally figured out a hyperlink….woo woo! Very helpful when you’re referencing books and get the Amazon link to read further or to order.

But how do you talk back when people to talk to you? I mean, someone comments on a blog, you get notified by an e-mail and so you read it. But how do you comment back? It’s a bit murky to me…and I hope I haven’t just made you all think I’m a complete idiot, but then again, you may already! if anyone wants to give me a few hints, I’ll accept them with gratitude and humility. Another true confession, while I’m being so transparent–I’ve given serious thought to joining a blogring, but I don’t really know what they are, what they do for ya, or even how to join! ha–I AM an idiot!

So, more thoughts on Elie Wiesel and his book "Night", brought on by comments

you’re right, sovereignty/free will–it’s both. How can such a thing be? Only in God’s kingdom–his thoughts and ways are so much higher….his kingdom is full of paradoxes–and they are paradoxes because we exist in another, limited reality. (makes me think of Philip Yancey’s book, Rumors of Another World –a fascinating look at how we as Christians live in both worlds–the spiritual and the natural. Check out the HYPERLINK!!!!!)

You can’t read Elie Wiesel and not be broken by compassion for him…no one should have to suffer like the Jews did. There is a phenomenon that MANY Jews no longer believe in God because of the Holocaust…..the Bible talks about a partial hardening that has come over Israel until the fullness of the Gentiles has come in….a MYSTERY we can only understand as God reveals it to those who have ears to hear.

I’m off to Borders now to do some Christmas shopping, I’m going to look at Wiesel’s other autobiographical books while I’m there and maybe treat myself….hmm wondering how my font just changed again, another great mystery of life…..i truly believe computers work by magic…

I loved/hated "Night" by Elie Wiesel, the story of his life as a teenager in the concentration camp of Auschwitz. It was haunting–the honesty in which he related how his father died and how he, as a young adolescent, did nothing to prevent it, was gut wrenching. I know I for one could never stone him for that sin–there but for the grace of God go I. Anything he would have done would only have made him their next victim.

I saw the interview Oprah did with Elie Wiesel, it is well worth seeing if you’re able to find it somewhere.

This young Jew, so devout as an early teen, said his experiences brought him to the knowledge that there is no God. Why do horrible experiences bring some to God, and push some to "curse God and die," as Job was tempted?

The Holocaust happened sixty years ago, in a world not very different from the one we live in today. Yes, it could happen again, easily.

Some of my favorite books:
The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom
The Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank
Was God on Vacation? by Jack van der Geest
Night by Elie Wiesel

Favorite Movies:
Life is Beautiful
Schindler’s List
The Pianist

I’m currently reading Light Force by Brother Andrew, about persecuted Christians in Muslim countries, and the challenge to bring the gospel to hurting people, who because of being born in the Arab world may never have had the opportunity to really respond to the good news of Jesus.

This world is so full of suffering people. Israel essentially is a nation born of the intense pain of the Holocaust. But that nation, and the region surrounding it, continues to be the most troubled place in the world. There are no easy answers to the pain and tumult of the Middle East. The ONLY answer is a Savior…..

I just thought of this very funny thing that happened once when we were in France. My French is ghastly, rudimentary, but I can get by. I didn’t do four years of high school French for nothing! We were with our friend, Renauld, whose English is about on par with my French. We get by, but not without some confusion from time to time. We had just enjoyed a great lunch, and Brian and I decided to split a crepe for dessert. We were waiting for it–Renauld saw the waiter approaching, and said, "The creep is coming." We busted out laughing, and then tried to tell Renauld what a creep was. It’s pretty tough with limited vocabulary, try it! We finally communicated very well when we said "Quasimodo." Remember the Hunchback of Notre Dame is classic FRENCH literature, not Disney. So Renauld, anxious to improve his English pronunciation, tried again. This time he said "The crap is coming." We laughed even harder after that. I don’t think we even tried to explain that. The crepe was great.

Now why did I blog on this? There are plenty of more profound things going on in my life. I’m going to call it quits and go read a book now.

"Now an angel of the Lord spoke to Philip, saying, "Arise and go toward the south along the road which goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza." This is desert. So he arose and went."
–Acts 8:26,27

While our group went to the Dead Sea yesterday, we spent the day visiting some friends. It would have been a shame to have been so close and not gone to see T and K, so we made arrangements in advance. So close and yet so far. We were asked to send photocopies of our passport weeks ago to them, and they in turn submitted the necessary paperwork to the Israeli authorities, and we were approved for passage to Gaza.

T and K came to our hotel in Jerusalem and picked us up. We drove a little over an hour through the Israeli countryside, passing Ashdod and Ashkelon, two beautiful modern cities with ancient roots, until we reached the Eres crossing, the entrance to the Gaza strip. We parked in what looked like a construction site, and walked to the first office, one of many checkpoints. As soon as we left the car and began to walk, the security dogs began to bark, banging against their chain link fences. They were enormous, some kind of attack dogs, and just looking at them was intimidating. We went into the office, handed over our passports, and sat down to wait. After about fifteen minutes, we were cleared to go on, and began a walk into this very restricted zone. We walked down what was once a road, but now was a concrete block enclosed corridor, maybe a quarter of a mile long. There were electronically operated gates along the way, and a guard using a camera would activate the gates and we would advance. The next gate would not open until the one behind had been secured. The entry process took close to an hour, and T and K said that was fast! They have waited between gates in the corridor for up to two hours. I had the feeling of entering a maximum security prison. In fact, that is what I was doing.

We were finally met on the other side by H, a Palestinean Christian, who out of love for the people of Gaza has chosen to make this hellhole his home. He was born in America to a Palestinean father and South American mother, and bounced between Israel and California during his childhood.

We got in T’s car, and set off for their home at the opposite end of the Gaza strip. The roads are horrible, bombed out in places, but still accessible. We passed a restaurant K said they often liked to stop and eat in, but two weeks ago was bombed. All that was left was some tangled concrete. The Gaza strip is one of the most heavily populated pieces of ground in the world, and 43% of its 1.4 million inhabitants are under age 14. As we drove through Gaza we encountered huge crowds of school kids on their way home–so many kids everywhere!!!
There are two shifts for school, mornings and afternoons. They were dressed in their school uniforms, the girls were covered head to toe in their long black ankle-length jackets, and all were wearing head coverings, but underneath the jackets of every one of them you could see the blue jeans they were wearing, just like teenage girls everywhere. A few wore stylish denim long jackets instead of the black ones. Now and then you would see a girl with a face veil, just slits for her eyes. Some families are more strict than others.

We finally arrived at K and T’s house, a beautiful Palestinean style house that took ten years to build, and had never been lived in. Someone went to a lot of expense to build their home, and now, because they can, are living on the outside. They are renting it for a pittance.It is three stories, with a beautiful rooftop balcony, and six bedrooms. We visited the "kindergarten" they have started, a preschool with sixty children ages 3 to 5. They have only lived here three months, and it is amazing what they have already accomplished. They could fill another sixty spots tomorrow, they told us.

T and K have been well accepted in the neighborhood there and have made many friends. People can’t figure out why an American family would want to live there, and they are amazed at the explanation that T and K love the Palestineans and want to help them. Most Palestineans believe that Americans hate them and want to mistreat them. They have made quite an impact on the neighborhood by the way they have kept their own home. The surrounding neighbors have been stimulated to clean up their own yards and the street. They have secured an empty lot and are building a park–which will be the only park in all of Gaza.

We met a new friend, Dr. Zuhair, who was trained as a pharmacist in Libya and is currently the head of a NGO seeking to improve the lives of the Palestineans. His vision is to begin a cultural center to train young people to live in peace. He and T and K are working together to provide job training and jobs for the Palestineans, who currently live with 70% unemployment. His wife is a highly educated Algerian Palestinean, who under current laws can never leave the prison of Gaza, as she is not a citizen of any country and is unable to get a passport.

They have just moved into a nice house which they have been building for several years. There are surprisingly a lot of nice houses, and a startling amount of new construction. I don’t know, and neither did T, where the money is coming from for that construction. We drove by the Jewish settlements that were bulldozed last year when the settlers were removed by the Israeli government. (Addendum: Brian pointed out that the two houses I mentioned earlier were under construction for many years. How did I know that any progress was being made on the construction sites I now saw? Good point–I didn’t actually see ANY work being done while we were there.)

We had lunch in a restaurant, a really nice meal. We were seated in a private back room, where no one could see us. Brian mentioned later that it was probably for our security–we were keeping as low a profile as we could. We didn’t witness any sort of violence, but the air was thick with the tension of it. The restaurant provided water pipes for the clientele, and would bring you a pipe and take care of stoking it. The smell of tobacco burning in water pipes is nothing like being in a restaurant full of cigarette smoke, it’s much milder and nonoffensive. Dr. Z smoked one, it’s considered to be the way to end a good meal, like we enjoy our coffee.

We tried to visit the Baptist Church of Gaza (it wasn’t open on Saturday), where T and K attend Sunday services. They have just finished construction of a five story building, and it was dedicated last week by Brother Andrew of the Netherlands. They have a lending library for the community on the first floor, a medical facility on another floor. There is a mammogram machine stuck in customs that was donated by an American ministry–breast cancer is epidemic in Gaza and this will be a wonderful service. The church has 250 members after fifty years in Gaza, and is the only evangelical ministry there. There is also an Orthodox church in Gaza.

We were anxious to get to the border and back into Israel before dark–it’s more dangerous to be in Gaza after dark. Our crossing back into the real world was thankfully without incident, and I’m so grateful to have had a chance to visit this very needy part of the world. When I asked T and K their greatest need, they said WORKERS! So I am "beseeching the Lord of the Harvest to send out laborers into the harvest." May the Kingdom of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, come in greater measure to Gaza.

I have received several e-mails from people at the church telling us they were before the Lord at the foot of Mount Sinai while we were on top. I know God did some things there. I know we rarely understand the full significance of things until much later.

Today when I got out of bed, my legs didn’t hurt so bad as they have the last two. It is strange how sore I’ve been, yes, the mountain was hard, but not any harder than what I do all the time in Colorado. Maybe it was like Jacob wrestling with God.

We’re off to Meteora this morning, twenty some monasteries in this area perched high in the cliffs….a little nervous about driving through Greece, getting out of the city and onto the highway. OK, I’m not DRIVING, but I’m navigating, and that can be even scarier.

We had a wake up call early Friday morning at 3:00 am, having arrived at our hotel in Tel Aviv only at 9 pm Thursday, exhausted and desperately hoping for at least 5 hours of badly needed sleep, but the phone rang at 2:30. It was Yossi, picking us up to go to the airport for our 6 am flight to Athens. "Where are you??? I’m here waiting!" We told him we’d been told to be ready at 3:30 am, but he said that was a mistake and we’d miss our flight. So we threw on some clothes and left. It turned out we were through all the red tape by 4:20, an hour before boarding even began, but I suppose it could have taken far longer. The airport really was a zoo, packed.

So we flew to Athens, arrived at 8:30 am, and not getting connected with the taxi sent for us, took a cab on our own. We were able to call the travel agent who was very apologetic and helpful. He sent the info we needed, and we found our way to the hotel, but not without some confusion. All’s well that ends well!

We relaxed in the room for a while, the first time in too many days. Then we went out to walk the streets. Our hotel is right in the most historic part of central Athens. We found a cool restaurant, with tables outside and in, going up some very steep steps, so the tables were on different levels. It had been in that location since 1915.

After lunch, we continued to walk. I have had surprisingly SORE muscles since climbing Sinai–going down steps is torturous! We wanted to find Mars Hill, or the Areopagus, where Paul had preached in the Book of Acts. It wasn’t on the map, and we were just out walking. We came upon a rocky outcropping with steps cut into the side. There was a monument with an inscription in Greek, which of course was Greek to us! But Brian noticed the numbers 22-34 at the bottom, and he said, "That’s it! That’s Mars Hill!" It was the reference from Acts 17 of the story of that event. And sure enough, he was right. We climbed up on the rocks, and had an awesome view of the agora (marketplace) that had once been situated below.

We walked for a while in the area of the Acropolis, but didn’t go up on top. The hill where the Parthenon stood is gigantic, right in the middle of the city. It overlooks EVERYTHING. We went back to the room then just so we could relax. Brian caught up with e-mails, and I read, but after a while got too sleepy, and grabbed a blanket and took a nap. I didn’t sleep long, knowing I should get up, but it was one of those times when you knew you could just go to sleep for a long, long time, so after a bit I made myself get up and take a shower just so I could get woke up.

We went out after that and walked a while longer and windowshopped. We found a nice restaurant to get a bit of supper, we were more sleepy than hungry. We went in at 8, and there was no one else there. They were happy to serve us, but obviously weren’t yet ready for the supper crowd. They began lighting the candles shortly after we arrived. There was some live music, a guitar player and a guy playing what looked like a large mandolin. It turned out to be a bouzouki–and he was quite good. But for most of the meal we were the only people in the restaurant. By the time we were leaving, at 9, there were several other tables. The Greeks eat LATE!

Saturday

I’m finally catching up with my blogging. Today we met a guide who gave us a walking tour of the Parthenon and the museums located there. The art and architecture was fantastic. That culture was far more sophisticated than we usually give them credit for. But it was also very pagan. I started to say godless, but they had many gods–all the gods of Greek mythology. All the great buildings and statues were in tribute to them.

We stopped into a local church, Greek Orthodox of course, in the midst of a service. Our guide George is a PK–that is, a priest’s kid. His father is the priest of a large church in Thessaloniki. He said there will be 3,000 people tomorrow, at the Sunday morning services there. A large percentage of Greek people attend services, according to him. George lit a candle, and we stood in the back and listened to the liturgy and chanting, which is really quite beautiful. I don’t know a lot about Orthodoxy, but have been subjected to it both here in Greece and earlier this week in Egypt. There are many differences from the Roman Catholicism we know in the US.

After this, we jumped in George’s car and took off for Corinth. We drove through the seaside and saw the port of Athens. The topography is beautiful–the mountains always intrigue me, and these mountains are again different from the Rockies I know in America and the mountains of the Sinai I saw a few days ago. Our God Jehovah is an artist of unparalleled creativity!

Corinth–a place well known in Christian scriptures–has lot of ruins, but most of the city has never been excavated. We saw Paul’s berm, and a museum full of awesome statuary. There is a tall mountain directly behind the city with the ruins of a Crusader fort on top.

We ate lunch at a cafeteria, Brian had a pile of fried sardines, which kind of creeped me out, but he liked it. I had souvlaki (pork kabobs) with tsatsiki (yogurt and cucumber sauce) and a Greek salad–simply tomatoes, cucumber, and onions in a vinaigrette, with feta cheese on top. Yum, the feta here is so much better than what we get at home–more moist and mellow.

The restaurant was right on the canal that was dug in 1893 to provide a way for ships to bypass the Peloponnese peninsula–some impressive engineering when you understand that was before big earth moving machines were in use. The bridge there has an operator, who LOWERS the bridge down when a ship needs to come through–it then goes OVER the bridge.

After lunch, we headed back to Athens, drove to a coffeeshop to find a good cappucchino, which Brian and I both have a strong need for after lunch, especially now when we’ve been going so hard. On the way back to Athens, we asked George about the Orthodox church, and he sang us a bit of liturgy–he has a beautiful voice, and he says he loves to go to his father’s church and sing with him there.

We drove around the city of Athens and he pointed out many places of interest–it truly is a beautiful city. He also told us about Greece’s involvement in WWII. They were occupied by the Nazis for a time, but were one of the first nations to be liberated. There is a Greek flag atop the Acropolis which for a time was replaced with the Nazi swastika. One night in 1941, two 13-year old boys replaced it with the Greek flag, and the Nazi flag never flew there again. One of these boys is still alive, and greatly honored by the Greek people today.

Tomorrow we’re renting a car and driving to Meteora–something I’m really excited about. We’re in the room for the rest of the evening, except that we’ll probably walk out and get a little supper at some time. All the shops in the city close early Saturday, and all day Sunday. Sunday is a day which is honored as holy unto the Lord. I wish we still did that in the US.

Thursday, November 9, 2006

We went to bed at 9, hoping to sleep 4 ½ hours until 1:30. I went right to sleep, but then the cell phone went off at 10:30. Drat! We didn’t get it answered, but I never went back to sleep. So at 1:30, after an hour and a half of sleep, and 3 hours of lying there pondering the day, wondering what lay ahead, we got up and dressed, and went out to climb the mountain. We took the Land Cruiser the short distance to the monastery, and found tour buses—at least six. Ahkmed said sometimes there were twenty! It was cold, I wore a long sleeved t-shirt, a turtleneck, and my leather jacket, hat and gloves. Mena went up the mountain with us, but Ahkmed stayed behind. I bet he slept in the car. Those Bedouins can sleep anywhere—life is a perpetual camping trip. There were two twin beds in each guesthouse, and the three of them were in one….Ahkmed had a heavy wool blanket which probably was his bed on the floor.

We started up the mountain, and we weren’t alone. The trail was crowded with people, lots and lots of people going up the mountain, and CAMELS! Lots and lots of camels, and each one had a camel driver trying to find people who would pay for the chance NOT to walk up. I didn’t see too many takers. The camels went along with us for quite some time, hoping people would wear out. I don’t know how people don’t get trampled on. Most of the trail there is very little space to pass, but you get out of the way when a camel is coming. I learned how to say "Thank you" in Arabic quickly—"Shock-ron." I had to say it over and over and over, as I was asked "Camel?", "Ride a camel?" over and over and over.

There didn’t seem to be hardly any Americans on the mountain. In fact, I only heard one or two conversations in American English, a few more Brits. I think there were lots of Russians, few Egyptians, and what else I don’t know!

There were rest stations along the way, little huts that sold refreshments–tea, water, candy bars. As we got higher, some of them had little rooms lined with benches where you could go and rest. I peered in one of them and saw all the benches filled with sleeping people.

The walk up was NOT a walk in the park. It was hard! At the beginning we pushed hard and passed a lot of people hoping to get ahead of the crowd, but finally learned the crowd was everywhere. We didn’t take a break until we were close to the top, when it really started getting steep. There are two trails up, one is a longer winding trail, and the other is the ancient steps. Mena strongly discouraged us going up the steps—he seemed a little anguished that we would even think of it. So Brian was persuaded to go up the longer trail, but still it was a push. About two thirds of the way up, the trails converge, it’s all steps cut into the mountain, and it’s HARD!

The crowds and the commercialization may seem a little crass to some people, looking for a pristine place of solitude. But solitude is a thing of the heart, and the experience is as spiritual as you want to make it. I would guess that many on the trail were just doing it for an adventure experience. We got to the top, and what did we see? Sleeping bags! Side by side, in a long row, people were lined up, camped out, sleeping, waiting for the sunrise. There was an old church on the top, built from stones. Brian found a perch right away, a rocky outcropping right on the edge, with a drop of I don’t know how many hundred feet. He climbed right out there, to Mena’s horror—he’s a fearless mountain goat, and began to read his Bible and to pray. I stayed about six feet away—I don’t do exposure as well. It scared me just looking where he was, but I guess I should be used to that by now! I had a little corner to curl up in, and had a good time in the presence of the Lord.

I was warm enough when I arrived, but sitting still for an hour waiting for the sun to come up, I got SO COLD I couldn’t move my fingers, and was shivering. Brian later told me it was 38 degrees F, and it was very humid. After a while I succumbed to the cries of the Bedouin, "Blankets for rent! Mats! Blankets for rent!" Later Brian and Mena both curled up their noses and said they wouldn’t have wrapped up in a dirty blanket that belonged to someone else, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I gladly handed over the ten Egyptians pounds the man wanted ($2.50) The sunrise was beautiful, as promised, and I particularly loved the mist that formed over the mountains.

After the sunrise, I walked/climbed around for a while on the top, and then went down to the first warming hut. The huts don’t have any heat, but there were enough bodies in there to generate some warmth. I got a hot cup of tea which helped immensely, and then through the crowd saw Brian coming down, and went out to meet him. I was still wrapped in my blanket, which was so huge and heavy it drug on the ground and made climbing down a little awkward, but I was glad to have it! (I’ve got pictures, which I hope to post later, just don’t have time right now!)

The walk down was beautiful, the mountains are rugged and wild. They look nothing like the Rockies which I’m used to. We took the ancient monk’s steps going down—there are 3700 of them! It was awe-inspiring, a very harsh, rough, unforgiving landscape. I enjoyed the climb down, and didn’t regret not taking that route up—we wouldn’t have seen anything in the dark, and it would have been treacherous in the dark as well. I could have done without the camels, but in a way, that was also part of the experience. The crowd was part of the community we all live in, going to meet Him together—it actually contributed to the overall experience.

My muscles had about given out when we got close to the bottom—I was TIRED, a combination effect of no sleep, being hungry, and the very tall, steep steps. And when I got up the next day, my calves HURT like crazy—I could hardly walk, and going down steps was excruciating. I kept pushing myself, however. What’s a girl to do??

We went straight to breakfast after getting off the mountain. I looked awful, felt filthy, but was afraid I’d collapse in the shower if I didn’t get anything to eat. Breakfast certainly didn’t compare to the quality of last night’s supper. Some stale bread, hard boiled eggs, and a strange soupy thing that was milk with tiny hard noodles. There was some veggies and cheese too—and I ended up eating a LOT of food—I was STARVED. After breakfast, we went and showered, checked out of the guesthouse and then toured the monastery. Again, the crowds were HUGE. The monastery is only open for tours from 9am to noon. The eleven monks were roaming the place, they all had long black robes, long beards, and long, long pony tails! Brian really liked the look. I said if they ever got tired of monastic life, they could go join a rock and roll band. Mena didn’t think that was a bit funny. He is very enamored of the monastic life. I watched what I said after that.

The monks claim to have the original burning bush there in the monastery, in fact, that is why the monastery is built there. Helena, mother of Constantine, who traveled throughout the Holy land identifying holy sites 1600 years ago, found this place, and the Chapel of the Burning Bush was built there, right next to it. It is said that the roots of the bush go far deeper into the ground that any other tree—also, that no other bush exactly of this sort has ever been found anywhere in the world. We got to see this ancient chapel, where religious services in the name of Jesus have been held longer consecutively probably than any other place in the world. That is impressive. They also have another, larger chapel built in the 600s, a vast collection of very old icons, and probably the best antiquities library in the world. That collection is now being shown in the US—ha! We come here, it goes there! But the library is never available to the public here anyhow. I did see a copy of the writ of protection that was given by Mohammed in the 600s and signed with his handprint–wow!

I was so tired at this point I thought I was going to be sick. I had felt a little queasy on the mountain, again, lack of sleep, exhaustion, and possibly bad water all contributed to this. But what I really needed the most was sleep. We finally crawled into the Land Cruiser and sped off down the highway. We weren’t going off road today at all, hallelujah. As soon as we took off, I laid down on a pile of luggage, and went immediately to sleep. When I awoke, an hour and half had passed, and we were pulling into another Bedouin encampment for lunch. A repeat of yesterday. Tuna, cucumbers, tomatoes, little baby bananas instead of oranges, and Egyptian bread instead of Bedouin. There wasn’t much difference.

When we climbed back in the truck, I went right back to sleep. I woke up briefly as we went through another military checkpoint, and then back to sleep until we reached the border—three hours in all. I think I could have slept standing up.

We said goodbye to our new friends, Ahkmed and Mohammed. Mena accompanied us to the first passport station (you show your passport to leave Egypt, and again to enter Israel.) This time there were a lot of people at the border—they all wanted out of Egypt!- Just as we were saying goodbye, Mena said to Brian, "perhaps you would come back and speak to our people at the church someday?" I hope it can happen. It would be awesome to be a part of what God is evidently doing in Egypt!

We walked out of Egypt, (the Exodus!) got in a cab, and went to the airport. Hassled again by security, had a chicken schnitzel at the snack bar, and flew to Tel Aviv. I slept on the plane too, and got to the hotel in Tel Aviv at 9, knowing we had to leave to catch our flight to Athens at 3:30. We’d had quite an adventure in the Sinai!