Rachel in the Jerusalem Branch

Today was district conference for the Israel district--and it was possibly the neatest thing I have done since I got here.

We had known it was happening this Sabbath since last week. We are all members of the Jerusalem Branch here (how cool is that?), and for district conference (the equivalent of stake conference) we would be joined by members from the branches in Galilee and Tel Aviv. President Schafer told us about the group in Bethlehem (the church's only official "group"--the next smallest unti after a branch), but had told us that the likelihood was that none of them would be able to come. If you are a Palestinian you have to have the proper papers to get from the West Bank into Jerusalem, and most of the Bethlehem members don't have that documentation. Without it they would have to drive over three hours out and around to get in. I prayed all week that those who were trying to come would be able to get here and that those who could not would know of our love and feel of Heavenly Father's guidance and assurance.

Anyway--the day came, and we were joined by members from all over. It was incredible. I met people today from Chile, Israel, the United States, the Phillipenes, and Russia. One of the Russian sisters spoke in the Relief Society session with the aid of an interpreter--and even with the constant back-and-forth between her and the young man interpreting, the spirit was there. The Relief Society president spoke as well--and I almost cried for joy to see that she had come from Bethlehem. She was the only one who made it, and it was because she had documentation--but I rejoiced all the same.

Her story was incredible. She was born in Israel, joined the church at BYU in the states, then came home. She spent the first several years of her membership in danger every Sabbath. She used to spend three hours running over hills, climbing fences, dodging guards, and even being shot at--and all just to get to church. I just don't know anything like that in the States--I can't remember a time when I haven't lived less than ten minutes away from meeting house. I am only now begining to realize what an incredible blessing that is. It is not easy to be a member of the church here. The walls and boundaries make travel difficult, and the non-prosylitizing agreement extends not only to visitors but to members as well. I have learned so much from these incredible saints today. I will never again take the blessings of religious freedom I enjoy for granted.

Another even that made the day special is that yesterday I got a calling. I am the Compassionate Service leader for the Jerusalem branch. As I went around meeting the sisters today, I was humbled and overwhelmed. I am in charge of service for the student sisters, and I have some ideas for ways I can serve them--but I am also over the service of the sisters who live here in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas. I am in charge of giving and delegating compassionate service to these incredible sisters, many of whom I have not yet met and who all have sacrificed infinitely more than I have to be members of this church. However, most of them also live very hard lives. I cannot wait to get to work doing whatever might be needful for them.

I played the piano and sang with Katie for almost an hour today. I had missed singing with her. It was wonderful.

The crowning point of the day was this afternoon, when we made our first trip to the Garden Tomb. Nobody knows if that is truly the place where the Savior was laid, but it was a beautiful place to remember Him and His glorious resurrection.  We sat under a pavillion and sang hymns for a while. Several worshipers stopped their walks to listen in or even to sing along with us. I think it touched all of us to think that we were able to bring something to that sacred place. Many of the groups were singing in many different languages--but I loved listening to them all. No matter where we are from or what language we speak, we can all sing praise to our Heavenly Father.

Yesterday night we went to the Western Wall for the start of Sabbath. Both the partitioned sections were packed. Both men and women sang, chanted, danced, read scriptures, or just quietly prayed, welcoming the Sabbath day. I covered my hair and made my way up to the wall with a friend (Carrie, my Old Testament teacher's daughter) to touch the stones and pray. We both followed to tradition of not turning our backs on the wall until the last moment.

I have ben praying that as this trip continues, I would be able to learn love for all the people here--Jews, Christians, and Palestinians alike. Heavenly Father is already answering my prayers. I especially love the members of my district. They are all such faithful, wonderful people. As I was walking around after the service, a sister I had never seen before came up to me, smiling ear to ear, exclaiming, "Sister! It's so good to see you here..." She embraced me warmly, kissed me on the cheek, expressed her joy for my presence here as though she had known me all her life. Her warmth and love touched me straight through.

I gave a talk on charity in my singles ward a few months ago. One thing that I said (though I hadn't thought of it until I said it) is that because we are Heavenly Father's children, we share His infinite capacity for love. I am seeing the truth in that idea the longer I am here. It seems like every time I meet someone new here, my heart just keeps making a little more room to let them in. I hope that process never stops--imagine how much love there could be in a lifetime!

Ma'salaama, friends--more soon!

(PS: Thanks for the comments! I love you all so much! It made my day to hear from you all!)

A Little Slice of Life (with Nutella and Peanut Butter)

This post is for the sole purpose of giving you a little taste of what life is like here at the good old Jerusalem Center. Not the classes and homework, mind--just the fun bits of sweet and sparkle that make this an interesting and fun and exciting place to live.

The locals call this place the "Mormon University." If you tell a taxi driver to take you to the BYU Jerusalem Center, he will have no idea what you're talking about. If you tell him to take you to the Mormon University on Mt. Scopus, you'll be dropped at the front door for fifteen shekels.

The most popular treat here is not havla or gelato, but is in fact pita bread spread with nutella and/or peanut butter (my personal preference is for both). We eat it all the time. There's a special corner reserved for that purpose (and other breads, too) in the Oasis, and you can buy it after meal hours for one shekel (about 25 cents) at the Shekel Shack in the student lounge. According to my mother, this declicious treat has been a tradition for BYU students here in the Holy Land since before the Center was built--and probably at Ramat Rachel before that. And I do love being a part of long standing tradition...

Alyssa and Rachel Holdrige (there are four of us) enjoying  chocolate pita goodness in the Shekel Shack.

Speaking of the Shekel Shack, I attended the Grand Opening the other night. They had a whole ribbon cutting ceremony followed by a very loud but very fun dance party. I was a little standoffish at first (I don't know how to dance to modern music--never have, never will), but Mary dragged me unto the floor and soon I was hopping around with everybody else. I bought myself a peanut butter and nutella pita for a shekel, talked with friends, and enjoyed the creativity being exercised on the dance floor (which was actually quite impressive). The get togethers in the student lounge are a whole bunch of fun--I look forward to seeing what the activities committee will come up with next.

There is plenty to do at the Center, but since we couldn't bring much with us we still get creative with our play. The discovery was recently made that socks tractionless flip flops make great ice skates on the polished limestone floors, so I am thinking a stocking-feet figure skating competition will soon be in order. Volleyball and basketball in the gym are a must, and in addition to that a ping pong club has recently been organized (as a side note, the ping pong and Foosball tables are in the bomb shelters--I guess we really are prepared in there). A few students initiated the Sunset Watchers Club, of which I am a proud member--we sit out on the terrace and watch the sun go down over the Old City after dinner. The best I've heard of yet, though, is a creative use of water bottles. We get big two liter bottles every time we have a field trip or free day. I've been trying to conserve mine, but between the four of us we have a stash of six or seven under the desk in our room after only one week. I'm told that some of the FHE groups are going to put them to good use on Monday night by setting them up in the gym and having a bowling tournament. I am so there.

A gorgeous Jerusalem sunset as captured by the Jerusalem Center Sunset Club.

Me posing with out extensive collection of water bottle ten pins.

I have been practicing the piano off and on for fun, but the rooms are in high demand. The piano in Room 1 is out of tune and the one in Room 2 is electronic (a very nice keyboard, don't get me wrong, but there's nothing like real keys). Everybody wants the one in Room 3, but the end result is that I usually end up somewhere else. I am luckier than all the other musicians, though--I live with Katie and her little Celtic Harp. No contests there.

I couldn't resist this picture. Smile, Katie!

Everyone has been studying like crazy because we now have two new classes and, therefore, twice the reading. We have still made time to get out into the city, though, and I have loved every minute. Yesterday we visited the Austrian Hospice again (for the good view from the top) and the Church of the Holy Seplechure, explored Zedekiah's cave (complete with shadow-making competition) and did a little street market shopping. Every vendor we met promised a good price for the Mormons, and one particular scarf vendor just past Damascus Gate offered me a scarf for five shekels less than for Katie because he said he liked me more. The non-price tag version of commerce is a little frustrating sometimes, but I'm beginning to like it more--the interactions with the merchants are just too much fun.

We have our first test tomorrow morning, and my roommates and I are still singing our song. In fact, I have had it perpetually stuck in my head all week. I shall get down the lyrics I don't know for sure and post it tomorrow after I have (hopefully) aced my exam.

Boker Tov and Ma'assalama, everyone!

The beautiful patio outside mi casa.

PS) Please comment on these posts! I check all the time to see if anybody has said something about my little writings. I would love to hear from you if you've got a spare minute. I would also love to know who all is actually reading this--just for my own record. :)

A Citizen of the World

I just spent the last hour and a half watching as my preconceptions about everything East of the Prime Meridian were pounded to powder.

It was the most influential hour and a half of my Near Eastern Studies education as it stands thus far.

Back up. Today was day one of REAL classwork. Not as opposed to fake classwork--just more of it. Last week we had only Old Testament and Ancient Near East to worry about (which was more than enough what with a reflection paper due today and a test in ANE this Friday). This week we have been additionally loaded up with Israel, Palestine, and a language (Hebrew for me). Hebrew was a breeze--I already know most of the alphabet and vowel markings, and today we covered only a few phrases and the letters A and B (aleph and bet), so I get the feeling that Hebrew is going to be pretty smooth sailing.

Everything else, on the other hand... Let's just say I feel like I have enough homework to keep me busy from now until Rosh Hashana. Looking all my syllabi, that's not actually such a big exaggeration.

Anyway--back to my now non-existant preconceptions.

This morning we attended Israel class--which my teacher calls Judaism, Zionism, and the State of Israel. Professor Yarden was not what I had expected. I know exactly what I was expecting when I thought of a Hebrew teacher. I had unconsciously pictured a Hebrew-speaking man with payots and a prayer shawl from the start--stereotypical and stupid though that may have been. As you might have already guessed, I was dead wrong. Professor Ophir Yarden was close shaven, wore slacks and a polo shirt, and while he does speak Hebrew he is originally from the States. My only indication of his faith was the brown leather kipa on the back of his head.

He is an excellent teacher and kept us engaged from the very start. He started by working us through what exactly Judaism is. Culture? Race? Ethnicity? Political affiliation? Religion? There are arguments for all of the above and he showed us every one of them. He also showed us all the different places Judaism might have started--Abraham (the patriarchs), Moses (the law), David (the kingdom), Babylonia (the exile), the return to Zion (the rebuilding), the Pharisees (the practices), or the Rabis (the law and practices without a temple). He showed us the arguments for each. His feeling was that Judaism began with the exile to Babylon. Most peoples, when taken over by another country, would begin worshiping the new country's God, feeling that since their country had been beaten their new country's God must be the stronger. Israel wasn't much different then. "Average Joe Ephraimite" was a monolater--and accepter of one God but not a disbeliever of others. The exile changed that. The Israelites got to Babylon and realized that something was not right. "How can we sing the songs of Zion in a strange land?" "If I forget thee, oh Jerusalem, may my right hand lose its cunning..." etc. God was back in Israel, not in Babylon--and so a strong faith, different from any other in its time, was born.

Right there--my understanding is different. I felt like I was enveloped in Judaism for a while today and came out understanding more than ever before.

Just now I came away from my Islaam/Palestine class. Our teacher did not lecture us about Islaam or Palestine specifically today. Instead, he talked to us about the way we ought to view this course. He started by asking us what the Middle East is. Middle of what? Well, I thought, it's that part sanwiched between the Near East and the Far East, right? Right. But in relation to what? What was the reference point for determining the "middle" East, or even that it was East at all? The Arab nations didn't decide that--Britain did.

The next hour was spent quickly as Professor Bashir laid before us the many ways in which we simple human beings tend to generalize, categorize, stereotype, and oversimplify. He told us about the dangers of xenophobia, the fear of the strange and foreign, and xenophilia, the love of the foreign for the sake of its being foreign. On the whole, the poitn was this: we have great big assumptions about Arabs or Eastern people or Muslims that simply aren't true because it's not as simple as we think it is. For example, we get certain ideas into our heads when we think about a Muslim. But do we think about the Chinese-born Muslim who lives in Brooklyn and has been speaking English his whole life? Probably not. There is too much complexity, too many hues and shades of gray, for us to be able to draw the bold and simple lines we do.

Above all, Professor Bashir pointed out something particularly striking. He knows about us Mormons--we didn't need to toe any non-proselytizing lines for him to have some understanding of our faith. He put it to us that we should be more sensitive to these false perceptions than anyone because we and our predecessors have been victims of those very problems since the begining. We Latter-day saints have been persecuted and driven away and falsely accused because of warped perception and inadequate understanding. This should be important to us--and it certainly is going to be for me from now on.

There was much more in the lecture of a similar nature, but I think you understand the concept. I was stunned. I am stunned. I have always considered myself a fair person when it comes to critical thinking and weighing opinions. I never realized exactly how warped and distorted and oversimplified and uninformed my perceptions were until now. I am determined that they are going to change. I look forward immensely to learning from Bashir Bashir (yes, that's right) and Ophir Yarden so that my perceptions will have basis in fact and personal experience, not in generalizations and simple assumptions. I look forward to being able to go back to the States and watch the news or read a paper and be able to weigh for myself what is real or false, tainted or true, without taking the potentially distorted word of others for fact.

I want to be a well-informed, fair-minded, critical-thinking individual. I want to be no respecter of persons--Palestinian, Arab, Jew, or Gentile. I want to become, as my father says, a "citizen of the world."

I think I'm on the right track.

-oo0oo-

A play-by-play sum-up for anyone who cares:

Sunday was my free day. I walked the ramparts of the Old City wall with some friends during the morning. I also successfully navigated all of those friends--about twelve people--through the Jewish quarter, around the Hurva Synagogue, past the Church of the Holy Seplechure, through an Israeli street market, and out onto the main street right by Jaffa Gate, which was exactly where we needed to be. Lo and behold, I have an internal compass--and it works. Hallelujah and Ilhamdulilla!

Left to right: Jaelyn, Lauren, Brandon, Kathryn, and  what's-her-name (sorry--I can't remember).

Overlooking the Muslim quarter from the Western ramparts. Who can spot the Dome of the Rock?

I went back to the city later that afternoon with a couple of girls who needed a third buddy to get into the city. It was then that I bought and happily ate my first falafel (with french fries in it--who knew, right?). It was AMAZING. I was an instant convert. Next weeks installment: the Schwarma. Stay tuned.

Photographic evidence of my first-ever falafel (and Rachel Holdrige's, too). Believe it. 

Yesterday was our first field trip--the Jerusalem Overlook Adventure. We went to several sites all around Jerusalem took look at the city and the countryside from different angles. It was amazing--every stop was a new experience. We stood on a ridge overlooking Bethlehem and remembered the birth of the Savior. We stood on the last rise before Mt. Moriah (now the Temple Mount) and pictured what Abraham might have seen from somewhere near that spot as he approached the mount to sacrifice his son. We covered our heads to enter a synagogue beneath a mosque (long story) commemorating the Prophet Samuel, then looked down at the hills where he would have found the shepherd boy Saul and annointed him King, and also across the valley to Gibeon, where battles were fought and where Solomon received a discerning heart from the Lord by night. We entered a Lutheran church called Augusta Victoria, where we sang "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" and "Be Still My Soul" in the echoing nave before ascending the bell tower to look out over the hills (223 steps--whew!). It was an amazing day. I learned so much in so few hours! Next weeks trip is to a Bedouin weaving facility and the Negev--I can't wait!

Love you all--Ma'asalaama! Shalom!

First Adventures in the Old City

Hi, everyone! I'm back again! I want to keep posting frequently, and so far I'm keeping up pretty well (though admittedly the fact that my blogger tabs are in Hebrew does not make things easy).

Yesterday I finally went against my studious nature and decided to forgo homework in favor of a brief excursion into the city. I went with about ten to twelve students, and we headed out at about 3:30 (we are not permitted into the city until then on Fridays since it is a day of worship for the Muslims, which sometimes makes the city a little crazy). We had inteded to go to the money changers to stock up on some shekels only to remember at the top of Saladin street that they are closed on Fridays. Instead we took a sharp left and entered the Old City by way of Herod's Gate. Usually we would go through Damascus Gate, since the main roads to about everything there is to see are down that way, but we wanted to do a little exploring off the beaten track.

We ended up in a quiet residential area, where a kind (or possibly annoyed) Arab pointed us in the direction of the Via Dolorosa, the road tradition holds that Jesus walked on his way to Golgotha. We stopped to study a map while a procession of Christian pilgrims in t-shirts and shorts walked slowly down the way, most holding hands while a select few carried a small-scale replica of the cross on their shoulders. I imagine they were headed for the Holy Seplechure, walking out the way that Jesus walked.

In the end we found our way to the Western Wall. The area in front of the wall is partitioned into men's and women's sides (which Katie and I discovered by trial and error--whoops). The women's side was smaller and very crowded and a little noisy, but also very reverent in its way. Women sat and stood everywhere, some with heads covered and some without, some reading the psalms, some praying, and some chantng hymns in Hebrew. A Bar Mitzvah celebration was going on over the partition on the men's side, which involved some jovial song as a young man of twelve or so was hoisted onto the shoulders of the men and carried while the men danced.

The Western Wall from a distance--women on the left, men on the right. Does it seem a little disproportionate to you?

A kind, American-born Jewish woman near me was telling another visitor about the traditions associated with the wall. When she had finished with the other traveler, I asked her if she might repeat what she had been saying to me. She ended up teaching our whole group of girls about the Western Wall and its significance to the Jews. She said that part of the Jewish faith is the original commandments given to Adam, Noah, and Moses--in basic form, not to kill, not to commit adultery, to keep a system of law and order, to worship God, and to (one other--I forget, I'm so sorry. I'll post it if I remember). She said that as Christians and Muslims also keep these rules, they are also heading in the right direction for Heaven (which holds true with our faith and the teachings of Mohammed). She told us that without the temple, the Jews feel that there is something missing from their world and from their faith (I think we all had a moment of cursing the non-prosylatizing agreement just then). She told us also that the coming of the Messiah would happen whether we were worthy of it or not, but that the building of the temple would require righteousness, repentance, and all people turning to God.

Wow. I guess we have more in common than I thought. Her words gave me hope. I think that when, someday, the gospel finally comes to this land, some of the Jews may find that it fills the hole the destruction of their dear temple left behind. I joined both Jewish and Christian women alike in making my way to the Western Wall to place my hand upon it and bow my head in a few moment's quiet prayer.

We made our away out of the city by the round-a-bout route, which I have decided is the only way to go around here. We took some fun pictures with a bunch of collumns in a sort of exhibit below street level. We walked by tons of shops--including one with backpacks hanging from the ceiling and walls, a spice shop displaying a pyramid of different colored powdered spices topped with a miniature model of the Dome of the Rock, and a candy shop that sported more varieties of gummy candy than I've ever seen in my life (I'll be going back there before too long, I think). Eventually we made it back up the hill to the center, where I gratefully went to the cool of my room to shower and get ready for dinner.

The Haram Es-shariif a'la curry and cinnamon. Cool, no?

That evening I took up studying for Ancient Near East class with Katie and Mary. While we were at it, Mary got the idea to write a song with the dates and events we were memorizing. So we did it. Annie soon joined us and I broke out my jelly beans and swedish fish, and it became quite a party. It took us over two hours, but we put out a good two minute song about our Ancient Near East timeline. The song goes along with the tune of the Disney song "I Won't Say I'm In Love" from Hercules, inspired by the line "...that's ancient history--been there, done that!" My favorite round of the chorus goes "Who can find the ten tribes / lost in 722? / Babylon takes Nineveh / Lehi knows just what to do..." My other favorite line is "Then Alex dies 323... / Then after that comes Pompey / Seluecids 198 not heaven / the fighting Maccabees 167!" I ellicited a lot of laughter by suggesting (in all seriousness) that the "fighting Maccabees" sounds to me like a college football team. And your opponents today are the guests, the Syrian Seluecids, against your home team, the FIGHTING MACCABEES! YAAAAY! I drew a comic along those lines that everyone got a kick out of and that is now hanging on my bulliten board with two of my necklaces and my center ID card. It was a great night. We are not joing to forget our timeline dates anytime soon (at least not before Friday, which is when we're testing on them) and I really came to love my roommates as we spent our evening being silly and having a great time together. When we finished we were shocked to discover that it was 11:30. Time flies when you're having fun! I'm not sure whether I am at liberty to post all of the song, but I'll find out soon (and may or may not post it anyway. We'll see).

The muses hard at work on our next big hit.

Today was the Sabbath. On Saturday. Yes. And apparently the jet lag finally caught up with our apartment, because we woke up at 8:35--twenty five minutes before choir pratice. Oops. Cue the mad scramble for dresses and makeup and mirror space! Yay! The meeting was neat--we heard testimony from members from Chile, Russia, Honduras, and the USA. I bore mine in Relief Society. I also got a blessing today from the Branch President. I had some pretty bad anxiety attacks yesterday and the day before and wanted some extra help so that they wouldn't get worse or make my trip too miserable. President Schafer talked with me for a while to get to know me and my situation, then proceeded to bless me with God's peace and comfort and healing. I feel much better now. I don't think the anxiety will be as big a problem before. I am so grateful for the leaders in God's church--I know that as long as I am part of this church, I will always have someone to turn to for help and guidance.

I just came away from a delicious fast Sabbath dinner in the Oasis (complete with ice cream) and a very statisfying nap down in the room. It has been a wonderful day.

More soon! Love always! Shalom!

The Early Days

It took a a long time and a lot of effort. It took hours and hours of packing to make two suitcases and a carryon bag weiging in a fifty, forty, and eight pounds respectively. It took over fourteen hours of plane travel--including two tickets, a passport that never seemed to be in the same place twice, a five hour layover, a long game of Uno, several rounds on the in-flight beverage service, two movies, lots of pretzels, and hardly any sleep at all. It was long and hard and hot and tiring--but I have made it.

I am here. In Israel. In Jerusalem--the Holy City. I still can hardly believe it. I look out the great big glass windows of the center and I can see the Old City walls, the Dome of the Rock, the Horva Synagogue, three Christian churches, and a whole crowd of limestone buildings and paving stone streets. I have to mentally remind myself that this isn't a picture from national geographic. The wall, the streets, the Golden glittering dome--it's allreally there. The real thing.

My first moments in the Holy Land--sleep deprived and disoriented and happy. Hurrah for Israel!

I settled in alright yesterday and crashed into bed after so little sleep (four hours the night before we left and a few hours of uncomfortable half-sleep on the plane). I get the feeling that jet lag isn't going to be much of a problem, seeing as being tired at night has been absolutely no problem at all.

Today we were oriented. A lot. I believe the current count is six orientations we've done so far, and we have a security orientation briefing tomorrow that will bring it to a lucky seven. It was a little tedious sometimes, but I've been glad to have it. Being in such a different, totally unfamiliar place was a little daunting at first, but all the orienting has begun to make me comfortable again.

My favorite orientation was this morning--the forced-march walking tour of the Old City and surrounding environs. I still just couldn't believe what I was hearing. Just listen to the directions we took leaving the center:

Walk down Mt. Scopus and cross the Kidron Valley. Proceed to Saladiin street until you've passed the money changers and come to the next block. Take a left at the remnants of the Jerusalem rebellion wall and proceed up the next street. Take your first right and enter the city through Damascus Gate. At the fork, hang a left for the Dome of the Rock, stay straight for the Jewish Quarter, or go right for the Holy Seplechure.

Can you believe that? Our guide took us right at the fork, but we didn't get to the Dome of the Rock today, but I believe we're heading to the Western Wall in the next day or two, we'll see it then. What we did do was climb five flights of stairs to the top of an Austrian Hostel and looked out over the City. It was just breathtaking. Unfortunately, they Center faculty told us not to bring cameras, since the walk would be fast and we would be coming back anyway. They were right of course--I will be going back to the Austrian Hostel soon for both the view and the Sachertorte.

We passed through the Old City, descending through a dark monastary and taking a brief look at the Church of the Holy Seplechure. I got a real sense for what a sacred place it is as I watched as a woman with her hair covered in a scarf bent down beside the annointing rock, brushed her rosaries over the oil on the stone, then leaned forward almost prostrate to kiss the place where she believed the body of Christ had lain to be annointed for burial. I don't know whether that is the spot where Christ lay, but it no longer matters to me. That woman's quiet devotion has made the place sacred for me. When we return for our more extensive tour I will kneel there myself, thiking of her faith and of my savior Jesus Christ, and say a prayer.

We left the city through Joppa Gate and found ourselves in East Jerusalem. Our guide told us that East and West Jerusalem aren't really on the East and West ends of the city, but that they name is still appropriate in the sense of "East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet." The division is very stark. Every sign in West Jerusalem was in Arabic, but suddenly in East side they were all in Hebrew. The first thing we saw was the old city hall--the side of which was riddled with bullet holes. It was a chilling reminder that amidst all of the color and richness and bustle of the city, there was a frightening past and dangerous present as well. I feel perfectly safe, though. The scariest thing that has happened was a series of loud bangs the other night that I worried were gunshots at first--until a kind Center faculty member put me at ease by explaining that the Palestinians were shooting off fireworks. East Jerusalem turned out to be very pleasant. We picked up some gelato and enjoyed it at a sidewalk table before heading back.

I did a lot of homework this afternoon amidst more orientations. Most of my reading time I spent on the patio outside my room with four other girls, enjoying the sunshine and breeze, listening to the chanted strains of the call to prayer, and eating jellybeans (thanks, Mom). When I needed a break I walked through the gardens and saw the old olive presses and snuck some grapes from the grape arbor. This evening I went back to the gardens again with Katie after dinner and watched a flaming golden sun descend over the city. One of my new friends--Lorina--took individual shots of us and another friend (Kate) against the backdrop of the sunset and the Old City. Speaking of, I will post what pictures  I can soon--I can't do it here at the Center, but when I have some more shots on the camera I will walk over to the Hebrew University and get them up for your viewing pleasure.

There are eighty two of us here, and I haven't a hope of remembering everybody's names at this point--but since everyone else is in the same boat it's perfectly alright. I've made several good friends, whom you will probably hear about much more from here on out. Suffice it to say for the moment that they are all great people and are making my time here pleasant and cheerful already.

Now I must go complete my reading--ten more pages to go! I also need to braid my hair and get some sleep so I will be ready for more to come tomorrow.

A New Adventure

I am about to go on the adventure of a life time.

This last year I applied twice to go study abroad in Israel--the Holy Land. The first time I was flat out rejected. The second time I was placed on a waiting list in the eighteenth slot. It was better than a rejection, though, so I celebrated a partial victory. And I waited. And waited... and waited. By June I had moved to place eight, and I rejoiced at the possibilities. Three weeks later I hadn't moved at all, and despair sat in again. After the final payment deadline had passed, I had moved to place five--though I doubted whether anyone would drop after that point.

I was wrong.

A week later I called the Jerusalem Center representatives in Provo and was informed that I had moved to place three. The next day they called me to say that they were sorry for the late notice but it happened that they had an opening for me and would I like to take it?

Let me think about--YES. Hooray! Victory! I went to my Heavenly Father with praise and thanksgiving that night--He knows more than anyone how much I desired this opportunity and how difficult the waiting was. I am so grateful that He saw fit to try my patience (which of all my qualities needed refinement) and to give me this gift  when I was ready.

So it is settled. Two weeks from today I will board a plane with some one hundred and fifty students and will fly to Tel Aviv, then go by to arguably the holiest and most revered city in all the civilized world.

Jerusalem.

As you can see, my happy little blog has been the recipient of a complete makeover, both in appearance and title. From now until mid-December it will become the annals of my discoveries and adventures and wonderings and everyday magic in the Holy Land. I begin now, as opposed to before we leave, so that when I look back someday I will know what happened as I prepared to go.

I welcome you to join me on my adventures in these little writings. I can't wait to see what the next few months will bring. 

 

Ahlan wa sahlan--you are most welcome here. Ma'assalaama, my friends! 'Til next time...

The Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies--my new home.

My Own Enchanted Forest

My childhood was populated with characters and places of fancy as I became more and more of a book lover with every passing year. Bilbo Baggins was my friend from early elementary school. Harry Potter and Ron Weasly and Hermione Granger were my companions from fifth grade on up, with their home of Hogwarts school never far from my mind. Merlin and King Arthur and the brave knights of the Round Table occupied my imagination the moment I learned their tales, and the Greek Gods have been my personal fancy since grade school. I  have filled my mind with magic and fantasy for as long as I can remember, but only on very rare occasions have I been able to experience it myself.

Last week it happened--my fantasies came to life. It started with a hike.

I didn't particularly want to go. I had just barely donned my navy blue and white bathing suit and was ready for a dip in the lake. Not that the lake was particularly inviting--the day was windy, the waves were choppy, and the water was chilly enough to raise goose bumps. However, I had gone to all the work to get into my suit and muster my courage to take the plunge with my brothers, who were also properly suited. However, my mother (according to my father) is generally the executive ruling body when it comes to planning and scheduling, and the order of the day was that we would hike first. So hike we would.

I somewhat unwillingly changed clothes and got in the car, groaning a little as I pulled myself in and felt my shins pang in response. I was still sore from the brisk hike we had taken two days before, along with some sprinting practice along the way on my part. I was regretting the sprinting two days later--my shin splints were haunting me with a vengeance, with my hamstrings following suit. Still, the order was to hike, and no amount of protest was going to change the order. So off we went (seven children, four parents, two grandparents, and a partridge in a pear tree), packed into two cars, ready to hike.

We were into the Olympic National Forest and on the trail within half an hour. The forest was unquestionably beautiful--I had forgotten how much so. Thick columns of tree trunks stood everywhere, a sky blue ceiling visible between their branches. Tapestries of tangled green moss hung from their branches. Dead logs lay on their sides, overgrown with lush greenery. The air was moist and sweet, the path easy and the walk not at all strenuous. A few times we crossed sparkling streams over log bridges (or alternate means if the kids decided to get creative).

At length we reached the river proper, deep and rushing, a good fifty feet in breadth. I clambered onto a rock overlooking an inlet of deep, dark blue water so clear and beautiful I instantly regretted my swimming suit drip drying back at the cabin. I wanted to dive off the end of the rock and into the perfect blue of the inlet.

I moment later I watched my brothers clamber to another part of the shore banked by high walls of earth. They didn't reappear. I followed them around, perplexed--and found the most beautiful little room I could have imagined. It was formed by the wall of earth curving around some of the rocks on the shore. Above, at the level of the trail, a tree grew at the edge of the bank, it's roots curling down over the exposed earth and around the rocks and boulders. There was something ancient about the place--something mystical and powerful, a kind of magic. I sat upon a rock draped in a carpet of soft moss and looked out over the river from that place, one hand placed on the nearest root of the tree, as though to hear the beating of an ancient, living heart within it. The river passed by, the tree loomed overhead, and I rested.

Eventually I climbed out of the chamber on the roots of the great tree, thinking my family might be ready to leave soon. They had not yet gone anywhere, so I began to explore anew, walking straight into the forest to see what I could see. I was not there a moment before the real world disappeared and a fairy land took its place. I was in and enchanted forest, creating my very own adventure.

I raced through the trees and over the undergrowth, agile as a deer and light as a dryad. I climbed to the top of a great boulder cloaked with moss and basked in the sunlight. I balanced across fallen logs on tiptoe and leaped over crevices to land softly in the moist earth on the other side. I climbed a rock wall to the crest of one of the tallest rocks and looked out over the forest around me. I felt like part of the woods. The wind blew, the trees grew, and Rachel ran and jumped and danced through the shimmering gold and green wonderland.

I was loathe to leave--I had never had an experience so close to the fantasies of my youth than that one. I wanted to be part of this fairyland, feeling my heart beat and body move along with the rhythms and patterns of those beautiful, ancient, magnificent woods. Unfortunately, all things must come to an end, and we soon had to return home.

Still, all is not lost. William Wordsworth shared a beautiful thought regarding his experience with a "host of golden daffodils" that I have practiced many a time. "Then off when on my couch I lie / in vacant or in pensive mood / they flash upon that inward eye / which is the bliss of solitude / and then my heart with rapture fills / and dances with the daffodils." Like Wordsworth did, I took the beauty I saw and kept it in my heart and mind. Next time I have had a hard day or find myself in "vacant or in pensive mood," I can close my eyes, let myself drift back in time, and remember the day when I raced and danced through my own enchanted forest. When I need to remember the magic of this hard world, I can remember that day...

And all at once the magic will be there once again, as fresh and shining and inspiring as the very day I found it--there in the forests and the riverbanks of Washington.

Thanks, my friends... .'til next time.

Olympia National Park--my enchanted forest. Isn't it beautiful?

Everyday Miracles

I've said over and over again on this blog that magic is everywhere. I've said the same about love and beauty and blessings. Well now I'm about to add another - miracles are everywhere, too.

One of my favorite stories about a miracle is the story of the man born blind in the New Testament. Jesus annointed the man's eyes with mud and commanded him to go and wash in the pool of Siloam. That particular pool was way down at the far Southern end of Jerusalem--based on context, probably the farthest possible water source from the man's location without going outside the city walls. Yet in spite of the inconvenience the man did as the Savior commanded him. He made his way through the crowds in the streets and around the temple all the way to the pool of Siloam and washed--and his sight was restored. He later testified of his healing before the Pharisees, who in the end cast him out of the temple,essentially excommunicating him from the Jewish community. The Savior comes to the man and reveals who He is, whereupon the man worships Him and promises to follow Him. I love this story because there are two miracles in it--a man's sight is restored and a strong testimony is found.

Another miracle that is close to me involves healing also, but by different means. It's a story I have heard hundreds of times about a tiny baby girl who was born with a heart defect, unbeknownst to her parents. At about a week old she began to show signs of being unwell, but no one realized how bad it was. Her mother decided to take her to the hospital, and because the baby's grandmother wanted to come but had to get to the airport soon, she chose an appointment at two o'clock that afternoon. She got there to discover that the normal pediatrician was away and an older, more experienced doctor was subbing in. The doctor recognized the baby's condition at once and had her raced to Primary Children's Medical Center, where she was placed in the care of the most skilled pediatric cardiologist in the state (and possibly the whole western United States). The baby's parents later found out that if they had picked the later appointment their daughter would have died, and that if the normal pediatrician had been there he would probably not have caught the problem in time. The baby survived--it was a miracle. And an even greater miracle is that she had no complications at all, grew up normally and in good health, and is now attending college and enjoying life and even writing her own blog. You've guessed by now that all those miracles were my own--and I am grateful every day for the blessing of my own life.

I hear about miracles every time my father tells me about an adoption he has performed or a life that has been turned around and made whole. The gift we humans have to make choices and improve ourselves and our lives is and incredible miracle. Every time my father tells me that someone graduated from the drug court program I want to cheer. I have seen people in Dad's courtroom on a few occasions whose lives have been ruined by drugs--and even though it was only a few times it was more than enough to make an impression. My most distinct memory was of a woman pleading with my father that she just wanted to be a mom to her kids, but who just couldn't stay clean. I also remember my dad telling me once that he had never met a drug addict who didn't want more than anything in the world to quit and be free of it, but it is such a hard process. When your body becomes so dependent on something, it is a long, hard, uphill fight to try to let it go. So every time I hear that another drug court student has conquered their addiction and graduated I cheer for joy--it is another miracle.

Miracles don't have to be big, though--I had a small one myself the other day. I was feeling very downhearted. I had called the Jerusalem Center earlier that week to ask about my placement on the waiting list, and I had finally found out a few days after that I hadn't moved at all in nearly three weeks. I was discouraged and more than a little stressed about the situation. If I don't get into the Center for this Fall, I'm not sure where I'm going to live this Fall. I sent a text to my best friend, who got initial placement for the program and is preparing to go in August and who probably knows me better than anyone outside of my family. I said simply "Could you give me a call when you get a minute? I need some help with not stressing right now." I wasn't expecting to hear back from her for a while, perhaps not until the next day--she has work often, so I didn't know when her next free moment would be. As such I was considerably surprised when, less than two minutes later, my phone rang and I picked it up to hear Katie's familiar voice on the other end, filled with concern and demanding to know if I was alright. I assured her that I was and told her what was wrong. Katie has been part of my plans for Jerusalem since the begining--she was the brains behind our Arabic learning marathon during Winter semester, and she had been there for all of the anxiety of the application process and the wait for our letters to come. It meant more to me than she knew to be able to talk to her right then--possibly the only person in the world who knew exactly how much the whole Israel thing meant to me. The fact that she had a few minutes to spare right when I needed a little encouragement (to say nothing of the fact that she was willing to give them to me) was a miracle to me.

So it's true--miracles are everywhere. Our bodies work and function perfectly, each system working together with the whole. Our planet is the perfect distance from the sun for all the beautiful life that thrives here to take place. Birds fly and flowers blossom and smell sweet. Sunsets turn the sky a hundred different colors every night. Children are born and live and grow and create. Heavenly Father loves us and watches over our lives.

So many miracles--I can only stand in awe.

Of Honor, Tribute, and Memory

Every Memorial Day is much the same in my memory. Every year we wake early and dress in our nice clothes so we will look our best for the family. We pack some snacks and books and five kids into the car and get onto US 40 heading towards Salt lake. And rain or shine, we take three pots of mums and go to visit three grave sites where rest our kindred dead.

First we go to see Great Grandma and Grandpa Pullan, who are laid beside their son Stan in the Salt Lake Cemetary. If we haven't already heard the stories, we stand and tell them here. Dad tells us about how Grandpa Pullan would always whear a button-up shirt and would pay my dad to mow the lawn. We hear about sweet Grandma Pullan and how the poor woman was diabetic but had a terrible sweet tooth, and how her cupboard was always stocked with cookies just for her grandchildren to sneak away when they thought she wasn't looking. We remember Stan, and remember how he had died in the same accident that had so injured our grandparents all those years ago. Mom arranges us behind Grandma and Grandpa's headstones and takes a picture of us with the mums all well dressed and smiling and one year older than we were in the last picture.

Next we drive around for a few minutes while dad complains about never being able to find the next grave. Finally we find it--a somewhat neglected little headstone beneath a towering pine in another corner of the cemetery. Here lies James and Laurany Huffaker, two of our pioneer forebearers. Mom will tell us the story of Grandma and Grandpa Huffaker crossing the plains in a covered wagon and about the hardships they faced along the way, including the death of one of their daughters just after Laurany had given birth to a new baby. We remember their work to settle in the Salt Lake valley and their early deaths not long thereafter. I take a moment to brush the leaves from the stone and read the inscription beneath their names--"The Book of Mormon is true."

At last we drive to the Midvale cemetery to see Great Grandma and Grandpa Foster. I knew Grandma, so these are stories I can participate in. I can tell about visiting Grandma Foster in Copperton and getting cookies from the cat cookie jar and visiting with her while sitting in Grandpa's big chair. We hear again about Grandpa's legendary strength and his years of work in the Kennecott copper mines. We hear the story of how he came back to the church when he was invited to be a temple worker in his later years; how he quit smoking cold turkey at that very moment, and how he worked in the Salt Lake temple for the rest of his life, even when Grandma had to get up at five in the morning to do his tie for him because his hands couldn't quite manage the knot anymore. We leave a pot of mums with the half a dozen already there, tenderly arranged by the other branches of our family.

Every year I am impressed with how much happiness, blessings, sorrow, and love can fill a lifetime. I love hearing my parents, uncles, aunts, and grandparents tell me about my family members because I get to see a little glimpse of who they were and the kind of lives they lived. I still wish I could have known them all--it would take whole lifetimes of stories for me to truly come to know each of my predecessors. I can see a little, however, and what I see makes me very proud to be part of their families.

Sometimes I wish I could leave something more than just mums--something that would truly show my gratitude for the lives they lived and the examples they set for me. I wish I had the voice to sing something beautiful by their grave sites. I wish I had the skill to create something exquisite and remarkable to leave at their tombstones. I wish I had the memories to give their names and their stories all that they deserve.

I haven't any of those things to give, though. Instead, I follow the words of President Hinkely: "The best things in life give all they have, even if it isn't very much." I say a small prayer at some point in the day, thanking my Heavenly Father for the blessing of the heritage I have been born into.

This year, though, I have thought of something new. There is something I can give in tribute, and it is worth more than anything else I could provide. My Uncle Wayne told the grandkids once that if we truly wanted to thank Grandma and Grandpa for what they had done for us, we could be good boys and girls, the best we can be--because that is what they wanted more than anything. I think I can give the same to my kindred who have passed on. I can live with the kindness and love I have learned from Grandma and Grandpa Pullan's stories of they way they served others, including their family. I can strive for the kind of faith and testimony I have seen in Grandma and Granpa Huffaker's stories of obeying commandments and enduring to the end. I can emmulate Grandpa Foster's dedication and swiftness to do right even after many years of wrong and Grandma Foster's strength to overcome depression and to keep taking her children to church without her husband for so many years.

I can give myself--the best version of myself I can be, made better by the service and sacrifice and righteous examples of those who have walked the path before me. It is the best tribute I can give--the same one my Heavenly Father asks of me every day as I walk the path of his son Jesus Chirst.

I think my grandparents will be happy with my gift.

Happy Memorial Day, my friends - until next time...

The World Turned Upside Down

Do you remember ever standing on your head when you were a little kid? I do. I would put a pillow from the couch on the floor, right up agains the wall (because I never could do a proper cushion-less handstand), then place my head on it and flip my feet up onto the wall above me. All at once the floor was above me and the ceiling below, and the couch and table and my mother and everything else were hanging upside down. What an interesting perspective! Just a little gymnastic work and I could turn the whole world on its head.

Zoom ahead a dozen years or so. A few days ago I went out for a walk with my five year old brother and the dog. The day was cool and breezy, but the sky was still blue and bright, touched here and there with a few gentle clouds. We followed Nathan's directions (my brother, not the dog) as we wound our way in and out of the hilly little streets of our hilly little neighborhood. "Which way should we go, Nathan?" "That way!" "Now which way?" "This way!" Eventually we ended down at the park, where Nathan declared we would stay for "six minutes." I tied up the dog and we went to the set to play.

We started out being pirates, but eventually Nathan wanted to be a monkey on the monkey bars, so we did that for a while - I being the ground level spotter so that the sister monkey didn't have to turn into the family practitioner. When Nathan's hands got tired of being a monkey, we moved on to a set of side-by-side uneven bars. I tried to get Nathan to hang upside down, but he chickened out and fell into my waiting arms. I remembered exactly how to do it from the days when school came with pre-planned playtime, so when Nathan moved on to bigger and better things I tried it myself. I grabbed the bar, walked my feet up one of the vertical pylons, tucked my legs over the bar between my hands, and let go.

The world twisted around and suddenly everything was different. All at once the ground was over my head and the mountains were hanging peaks down from the valley floor. I looked down - or sort of up - and saw my feet dangling over an endless expanse of blue sky. I reached my hands toward the playground sand and planted them there. It felt like I was holding on for dear life to a secure and grounded ceiling to keep from falling into the ocean of blue. All of Heber was on level with my head, and I could see all the way to a flipped Provo Canyon and an upside down Deer Creek. It was singularly interesting just to sit there (even with the blood rushing to my head) and see the world a little differently than I did before.

Eventually I flipped back down and got my bearings. Sand underneath, sky up above, wind in the middle. Perfectly back to normal. After a moment of looking, though, I went straight back to the bar and turned upside down again. Normal is nice sometimes, but abnormal was way too much fun.

The moral of the story? When life gets hard or humdrum or boring or lonely or sad, try turning it on its head - either literally or figuratively, you choose. Kids know the truth that grownups tend to forget - that there's a lifetime of discoveries to make (and a whole lot of fun to boot) by turning the world upside down.

I'll post again soon, I promise! 'Til next time...

Dancing with His Majesty

I told you in my last post that I was going to try to bring to light some of the magic moments I wanted to write about but hadn't had time for. This is what this piece is - a piece of magic recaptured.

I am dancing. I waltz along over the grass and asphalt, dressed in far less than my finest but pretending more. I can picture it--the gown I would be wearing if this moment were part of the ball I am imagining. It is pale, pale blue, so pale it is very nearly white. The bodice hugs my form perfectly, and the skirt drapes over my hips and downward as naturally as willow branches draping down from the tree tops. It is light and flows around me with every step. I wear white gloves, and my hair is piled in elegant curls above my head and around my face, held in place by silver pins. I am beautiful and regal and dancing.

Dancing alone.

Suddenly the trees rush, the birds scatter, and I have a suitor. Lord Aeolus, the Wind, has come to dance. I curtsy, but he does not bow. He never bows to anyone. Despite his effrontery, I consent and we begin.

It is a dance without rhythm, the step he chooses, but he leads well and I follow. He pushes me from behind, his powerful hands on my waist. I can feel him lift my arms in his, lifting them so that I look like I am trying to have wings. He turns and moves me, tosses and turns. My curls are flying out of place, but I don't care. I am caught up in the exhilaration of the dance. I can feel his cool, rushing fingers caress my neck and brush the hair from my face. I can feel his embrace surrounding my whole self, chilling me beneath my thin little gown.

He becomes rather forward, and I become rather uncomfortable. I thank him for the dance and proceed by another way. Buildings surround me now, so it is harder for him to come to me. I am disheveled and worn out, but I smile anyway. It was such a beautiful dance.

I think I am safe at first, but I am wrong. When I have crossed the street and come around a corner, I find myself facing an open field. With nothing left to hinder his progress, my lord flies at me unrestrainedly. I am buffeted and beaten from all sides in his assault, but I stand my ground. I am pushed and pulled from different sides, my curls have fallen out altogether, and my gown is whipping around my knees. But I keep walking. He can do what he will, but I am going home.

Instead of becoming angrier, the Wind dies down to gentility again. He brushes about me apologetically, and I cannot help but forgive. For the rest of the walk home we dance. He knows waltz time, it seems, and is very good at lifts. I leap and jump into his arms and feel their force around me. He is gentler now, and the dance is pleasant. I know I have nothing to fear.

When I arrive home and must part from my lord, I pause and curtsy once more. He rushes forward and tosses my hair around to make me laugh, then rushes away. I retreat indoors, where he cannot follow--but my heart still rushes from the thrill of dancing with the Wind.

An Apology

I have no excuses.

Actually, that isn't true. Strictly speaking I have many excuses. My semester long-house guests have taken over my life - dear friends like Literary Criticism homework and midterms and callings and the ever-preset Arabic. In attending to their constant demands, I have neglected my blog sorely. I only just realized that I failed to post anything for the entire month of February. I had wanted so badly to put something up for Valentines Day, but kept putting it off until St. Patricks is nearly upon me.

So here is my public apology. I am sorry for my readers, I am sorry for my blog, and I am particularly sorry for myself. There were so many magical things I wanted to write that I didn't do, and now they have faded from my memory. I won't let that happen again.

Tomorrow or Sunday I will put up a real post (this one is more like a memorandum), and thereafter I will try to retrieve some of the missed moments. Thank you all for your patience.

Take two - let's try this again.

The Pullan Family Being Human

This is what happens between the good shots that make it onto the Christmas cards. They're not the prettiest ones, but their my favorites. They show just a little glimpse of what my family is really like.

The pre-photo shoot picnic, complete with chips and oreos.



My handsome boys - especially loving Daniel's look here.





Nate the Great rocking it out for the camera!




"Mom..."




I know - great look for me, right?




Mom looked at the pictures Dad took prior to this one and said "Don't cut the top of my head off!" This was his reply. 




Mom looking lovely, Dad with his "you're kidding me" face.







Dad and and little Lyds. Aren't they darling?







Nathan looking ruggedly hansome, if I do say so myself. Well, we had to get him to smile somehow.



My family, amazing and beautiful and wonderful just the way they are.









Everyday Praises - The Arabic Way

Look! I've taken down the Christmas decorations! Halelujah! But I couldn't bear to dress the page in something cold or blue or shivery in any way. Therefore, we have lemons. Happy January!

My roommate and I are currently trying to get ourselves accepted to the Jerusalem center. We have fantasized many times about what it will be like to step off of the plane in Tel Aviv, or see the view of Jerusalem from the BYU center windows, or dance barefoot on the shore of the sea of Galilea, or walk to the Garden Tomb on Sunday afternoons. In preparation for this grand adventure, Katie came up with a daring project. We worked on it for a long time last spring, and now it has finally come to fruition. We are learning Arabic.

As I said, we started last spring. Katie taught herself the alphabet and then taught me. We spent many hours carefully writing out Arabic script on spare sheets of paper and memorizing any word we could find. Kitaab (book), bet (house), bint (girl), jamiil (beautiful)... on and on. For Katie's birthday I found her a copy of the Book of Mormon in Arabic, and we spent that evening crouched over it in her living room, sounding out the names of the witnesses and prophets. "Hee-room Smeeth... Moorooni... Naphi... O-lee-var Cau-dree..." Now, after a few delays, too many textbooks, and some sychronized class registration, we have both enrolled in a BYU Arabic class.

We've only been in the course for a week and a half, but already I am falling in love with many aspects of the language and culture. I wanted to share one with you today.

In their greetings, partings, salutations, exclamations, and proverbs, the Arabs do something I have never seen in any other culture. That is, they invoke the name of God almost constantly. When you greet someone formally you say "A'salaamu aleikum!" which means "the peace of God be upon you." The reply is then, "Wa aleikum a'salaam!" "And upon you also." The reply can even be extended  - "Wa aleikum a'salaam wi rahma alla wi baraketu" which means "And upon you also, and the mercy of God and His blessings." Their goodbye is "ma'asalaama" or "peace be with you," to which you might reply "allah yasillimak" or "God keep you safe." If someone asks you how you're doing, if you are well the reply is "ilhamdu lillah" or "Thanks be to God!" Even their little phrase for "wow" or "let's go!" literally means "God is great!"

This cultural habit is very different from ours, but I rather like it. I don't think about it as often as I should, but it really is true that all I have and all I am is a gift from God. My opportunities, my wordly possessions, my family and friends, my body, my home, my health, my happiness - all are blessings from Him. I don't think it would be such a bad thing to give my thanks to him more often. Can you imagine? "How are you doing, Rachel?" "Wonderful - thanks be to God!" Or this one - "See you later - and God keep you safe!"

I know I won't be able to get away with that kind of thing here in the United States, because it isn't part of our way of life. Just the same, I will think of it every time I speak Arabic. Maybe after a semester's worth of "salaam" and "allah" and "thanks be to God," I'll be able to remember a little better how God and his blessings are always present with me and all His children, wherever and whoever we are.

Ma'asalaama, my friends! 'Til next time...

Sunday Scribblings #301: Normal

I have a special ability. You might call it a superpower. I can disappear at will.

I wouldn't call it true invisibility - more like a kind of camoflage. I can fade away into a noisy crowd or the black of a kitchen chair or the quiet recesses of a room of any size, even if its full. I can put on my glasses, bury my nose in a book, keep my thoughts to myself, and nobody will see me there. I could stay in that one spot for hours without anyone thinking twice about it..

Sometimes I disappear intentionally. When my roommate and her young man come into the living room, I disappear to the bedroom. When my other roommate is talking to her family in the bedroom, I disappear to the outside landing wrapped in a blanket, to look at the sunset or the stars. When my class is busy with eager comments and I don't know the answer, I disappear then, too. Sometimes I disappear simply because I'm tired of dealing with people and putting on masks fo everyone I meet.

However, there are times when I can't control my disappearing - when other people make me do it. Someone will bump into me on the sidewalk and just keep walking without saying a word. I will look for a friendly smile or greeting, or even try to give one away, and no one will acknowledge me. Sometimes when I am in great need of comfort or encouragement, it happens - I look at myself, look around, and realize that I am invisible. No one sees me.

There are a few people, though, who have their own super power. They can see through my disappearing. My mother has this ability, and my younger sister. A handful of good friends have it. My closest companion has a particular gift for disregarding my invisibility altogether. The moment I try to disappear, the moment she sees me wanting to become invisible, she is there with a smile and a hug to keep me present.

That is the superpower I want, that I am working on having - the ability to see those who are otherwise invisible. It's just like magic, isn't it?

The Gratitude Effect

As all of you are educated people (as far as I know, that is), you will be familiar with the concept of a chain reaction. Even if you weren't educated people (which would be alright as well), you would know how this works from playing with things like dominoes or billiard balls or tenpins. One domino hits the next which hits the next and so on until they've all been knocked over, or one ball runs into another ball which causes it to hit another ball, or the bowling ball hits the tenpins at the end of the alley and the whole thing happens in fast motion (resulting, if done correctly, in a strike). The same sort of thing happens on scientific terms, too - as in the nuclear fission chain reaction. A molecule of Uranium 235 is hit by a nuetron, which then causes the Uranium nucleus to undergo fission and split apart, the occurence of which releases further loose neutrons, which then go hit other Uranium 235 molecules and start the process all over again.

I would like to propose another chain reaction, not involving balls or dominoes or nueclear equations or anything like that. It's one that can and does happen every day, wherever and whenever someone is willing to instigate it. An individual can begin the reaction at any level. The process I will describe is much like the way I have experienced it, but there are many other ways. That said, without further ado I give you...

The Gratitude Effect.

An individual sees a need in another individual. Insert whatever specifics you will - a relief society sister finds out about a shortage of clothing in a village in Africa, or someone sees that their neighbor's garden needs weeding and watering. The individual realizes that the individual in need has less than he himself does, and feels compassion. He then fills the need for the individual, ont he condition (and this is very important) that no reward is wanted or expected - it is simply for the sake of service. The individual in need is then grateful to the serving one, and the serving one is grateful for the opportunity and grateful (having seen the need) for what they have been given. The experience on the whole produces love and gratitude in both participant parties.

It goes the other way, too. Imagine and individual sees in themselves a surplus - say that I discover that I have a lot of clothing I don't wear. Realizing a coexisting personal surplus and general want, the individual gives of their surplus to assuage the want. The giving and receiving parties are grateful for what they have, the giver because they have enough to give and continue in bounty, and the receiver for having received. Again, gratitude and love are produced.

This idea is not my own. It came from President Henry B. Eyring, who wrote, "We must ask in prayer that God, by the power of th Holy Ghost, will help us see our blessings clearly even in the idst of our trials. He can help us by the power of the Spirit to recognize and be grateful for blessing we take for granted. What has helped me the most is to ask God in prayer 'Wouldst Thou please direct me to someone I can help for Thee?' It is in helping God bless other that I have seen my own blessings more clearly."

God has commanded us (not suggested, but commanded) that we be thankful and express gratitude for our blessings. This is not because He needs our thanks or our recognition - because neither is the case. Rather, he commands us to show gratitude because He knows it will set of a multitude of cycles within our hearts and minds and spirits, the results of which can only make us better. Among a host of end products are increased love, greater happiness in everyday life, clearer sight for our blessings, and closeness to God. All we put into the equation is a little time or a little resource towards service of others, as well as personal spirituality (prayer, scriptures, church, etc.). Compared with the results, how easy it seems to do what is asked!

Easy though it is, I still struggle with this one sometimes. This I know for sure, though - when I want for things I can't or don't have, I am miserable. When I am grateful for what I have and want for others to share it, I am happy. That is the Gratitude Effect at its most basic level. That is how it always is, and that is how God intended it.

Thank you for your love, tolerance, and support, my friends. 'Til next time...

Infant Holy, Infant Lowly

It's that time of year again - when the world falls in love, chestnuts are roasting on the open fire (maybe), the stockings are hung by the chimney with care (always), the halls are decked, and a spirit of warmth and good cheer descends upon the world with the new snow. People are hurrying about, giving and getting, baking and taking, singing and seeing and greeting... It's a wonderful time of year.

I love the traditions of Christmas as much as anyone. I look forward with great anticipation to the cookies we bake, the eggnog and Christmas morning wassail we sip from holiday mugs, the carols we sing and the stories we read in the evenings, the stockings and decorations hung about the house, and the resplendent Christmas tree. But there is one part of Christmas that is the more special than any other to me, and the most sacred part of my year.

It begins with the olive wood nativity that sits in the alcove in the front entry. My mother brought it back from her studies in the Holy Land over twenty years ago. It has changed locations several times, from window sills to hall tables, and the number of children who have handled the pieces has taken a toll. The shepherds and Joseph lost their staffs a while back (later having them replaced with anything from uncooked spaghetti to chop sticks) and the baby had to have a hand glued back into place once. Aside from those few alterations, the scene remains the same as it did when I was a child, carefully unwrapping each piece from its tissue paper and placing it in the stable. Humble Joseph, leaning on his staff, keeping watch over the manger... beatuiful Mary, her hands pressed gently over her heart, smiling down at her child... a shepherd boy with a cap on his head, accompanied by three wooley sheep... three wise men, lavishly robed and crowned, bearing ornamented boxes in their hands... And there, in the midst of it all, a tiny curly-haired infant lying in a straw-filled manger, wrapped in swadling clothes, his hands outstretched to all who look upon him. I remember the reverence with which I would hold the baby Jesus every year. I didn't understand everything about Jesus then, but I knew enough - I knew that this baby was something more special than any other doll or figurine I had ever seen or touched.

Christmas Eve comes, and the scene from the little olive wood stable comes to life. A little eight-year-old Mary rides into our makeshift Bethlehem on the back of Dad the Donkey. A bathrobed Joseph leads the way, and asks a very young innkeeper if there is room for them in the inn. A baby doll is brought forth, wrapped in crocheted swaddling clothes, and lain in a small laudry basket. The shepherds quake in fear as an angel brings them good tidings of great joy from atop a chair or the piano bench or the arm of the couch, and our little heavenly host joins her for a chorus of "Angels We Have Heard on High." The wisemen (who strangely wear the same bathrobes and costumes as the shepherds and Joseph) come with their gifts of yellow-gold tin, cinnamon, and lavender to worship the baby Jesus. There, in our living room stable, our family can remember here and now that a child was born for us a long time ago in a country on the other side of the world.

It is time for bed on Christmas Eve, but I lie awake. The words of the scriptures we read tonight echo in my head, and I picture the nativity. I close my eyes and imagine... and suddenly I am in a different place and time. It is night. All around me are buildings made of stone and streets laden with cobblestones and dust. I wear sandals and loose robes, my hair covered by a piece of pale linen. The wind blows and I am cold, but the night is not bitter. The streets are dark. I can see lights on in some of the windows and doorways of the buildings and envy the warmth and company within. I don't know where to go or which door to knock at, and I am alone.

On a moments' whim I look up - and stop to stare in amazement. High above, against the backdrop of a black night sky, a new star shines. It is so big and bright it dims every other star in comparison simply by existing. It seems so close, as though it hangs directly overhead. I begin the direction in which it lies, as though following a distant lighthouse across an ocean. Presently I come to an old stable, worn and out of the way - and suddenly I know where I am.

A man a woman lie near each other on the hay a few feet from me. They don't look up when I step into the light of their little flickering candle - it's as though they don't see me there. I don't see them for long, either - my eyes become fixated on a worn manger in the center of the room, and a beautiful new baby lying wrapped in linen upon the hay. He is asleep. As I draw close to the manger, he pushes his little eyes open and looks up at me. I sink to my knees beside the manger, unable to take my eyes away from the holy child, tears running unhindered down my cheeks. I speak to little Jesus for a while, and pray to the Father and worship my God and King - there in the light of a single candle in a lowly stable.

I will not write the words I say. They change every time I picture this scene, and no matter what I say it is Sacred, words to be known only by my Savior and me. Can you imagine it - that first Christmas? I picture the awe-struck shepherds, the wise magi, and the people of Bethlehem looking upon the face of the Savior - our Savior, Jesus Christ, a baby. I see that and I hear the angel of Nephi's vision declaring the same words to me that he did to that prophet - "Behold the condescension of God!"

That is what Christmas is all about. In the midst of all the other traditions and joys and excitement that make Christmas special, remember always the most special thing of all - that Infant Holy in a lowly manger in Bethlehem, born into the world not to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. It is the greatest gift that has ever been given in the history of all creation, there in a stable surrounded by humble animals and a few believers who knew the poor child for the King He would become.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

Merry Christmas, everyone. 'Til next time...