The Best Dollar I Ever Spent

We were in the Land of Edom where the descendants of Esau grew and multiplied.  It was Esau who had traded his birthright for a bowl of lentil soup.  At breakfast I was prepared to trade my birthright for an egg that tasted like an egg and had the texture of an egg.  For the previous 3 mornings I’d been fooled into taking a chunk of “egg casserole” onto my plate at breakfast only to put a fork full into my mouth and suddenly realize that that wasn’t egg.  Not sure what it was but definitely not an egg.  Not from a chicken anyway. 

The restaurant we were in gave us a buffet breakfast but had someone on hand who would cook you an omelette with the ingredients you chose.  I gave him my order, watched him crack the real eggs, get the ingredients ready and then pour what must have been a cup of oil into the hot pan.  My omelette would not be sticking to the pan or anything else. 

Any.  Thing.  Else.

Back at my table I looked at my shiny omelette for a long time before deciding that it would be wasteful and insulting not to eat it.  So I did.  I chewed but I didn’t need to.  I’m pretty sure I could’ve tilted my head back and pretended it was an oyster and each bite would’ve slid right down my throat.  I suspected there would be repercussions from my choice to be cultural sensitive.

Just as we were about to leave word came that one of our group had received some very bad news from home.  It involved the words, “critical condition”.  Pete filled us in on the details and then led us in a prayer.  We left Aqaba with heavy but hopeful hearts.

We rolled on our bus out of beautiful, clean, safe Aqaba.  We passed giant billboards of the King of Jordan’s head.  Again and again.    It was hard for me not to think of 1984.

Our bus climbed up from the sea to the King’s Highway.  The KH is an ancient transportation and trading route cutting south to north along Jordan on the highlands.  The road climbed and wound around and my omelette made contact with every part of my digestive system as we made our way toward Petra.

Petra is an amazing place.  It changed hands over the centuries numerous times but all the people who came to call this place home added elements of their culture and style to the stone tombs, public places and living quarters.  It’s the Rosetta Stone for architecture and icons.

We walked the Siq:  a winding walk that was cut through the rock by wind and water.   The natural beauty was astounding and the horse drawn buggies that hurtled by us kept you from looking up for too long or you’d become road kill.  As we came to the end of the Siq the Sun was at just the right position to hit the Treasury so that it burned before us with reflected light.  My little archaeological heart wanted to wet my pants.

It’s difficult for me to put into words how it felt to me to be standing in that place, in front of that structure, literally surrounded by ancient history.  There was a dream-like quality to it but if pressed I would have to say something far more mundane.  It was deeply satisfying.  A part of me is acutely aware that I’m living out some rich man’s dream.  Me with little money, no bankroll or uber-salary to afford a trip like this (or any of the others I have been on) and yet, by grace, here I stand in a place I would have never gotten myself into.

 

And then my omelette found my lower intestines.  Thankfully a small bathroom had been built nearby which saved me from sneaking off into a cave.

Soon after I was wandering around on my own and a very, very old looking local approached me.  “Want to buy coins?” he asked.  He held out a palm full of old looking coins.  I told him I wasn’t interested.  “Ah, you want the real thing!” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wadded up piece of tissue.  He slowly unfolded the tissue and showed me some smaller and older looking coins and we were playing “Let’s Make A Deal”.  I’ve got reservations about buying the antiquities of another culture so I passed and he took me as being a tough negotiator.  He wrapped the coins back up, stuffed them in his pocket and said, “Let me show you a funny old lamp.”

From another pocket he pulled out more tissue and as he unwrapped this, a small oil lamp appeared.  I looked closer and the top of the oil lamp had a graphic image that is usually depicted as number 12 in the Kama Sutra.  I looked up at the little old man who had a big grin on his face.  I could see he had four teeth.  “Funny lamp.” And a price, was all he said.  I smiled and said, “It must have been a bedroom lamp.”  Nothing.  He looked at me blankly.  He didn't get it or it wasn’t as funny as I thought. “No, no…” he said and he swore it was ancient.  I shook my head, "No thanks." And I finally walked away as I thought to myself that “Porn in Petra” would make a great title for an article in Archaeology Review.

There’s a saying about highlighting a book that you are reading that once you’ve highlighted 60% of the book highlights are really no use.  I photographed well over 60% of Petra and while it might be psychological torture to make someone sit through all my pics, these highlights still hold great significance for me, even now, weeks later.  Plus, the clock, as I have said before, was ticking and our group had to get back to the meeting back at the entrance and get back on our bus to continue our journey up the King’s Highway.  On the way back up I was met by a class of friendly Jordanian kids on a field trip exhausting their English to greet me one by one and ask me where I am from. Adults with them pass without a word.  There’s something important we lose when we give up our childhood.

 

As we boarded the bus I was down to my last American dollar with no ATM in sight.  The bus was rolling along with not much to look at outside but desert wilderness and then a little more desert wilderness followed but an incredible amount of desert wilderness.  I popped a couple travel tabs so they could fight it out with the parts of my breakfast omelette that hadn’t found its way out yet.  A half hour later I was feeling groggy but the omelette from hell had clearly kicked my travel tabs butts.  Just as sweat started to break out on my forehead and I was considering an alternative use for my hat, we pulled into a souvenir centre rest area.  To use the bathroom would cost me my last dollar.  It was the best $1 that I have ever spent.  


Ever.

Nebo's Connected to the Qumran

So many stories to tell and yet again I'm at the end of an exhausting but positive day and I'll let some pictures tell the stories for me.

I will be giving you a full account of the journey once I land back home -- or get time on the road -- but for now this will have to work.

The day started early again today as we made our way to Mt. Nebo.  That's in Jordan, for those who may not be familiar, and according to the Bible it's the mountain that Moses climbed at 100+ to get his look into the "Promised Land" and then to die.

Having followed the trek of the "Exodus" out of Egypt, across Sinai and up into present day Jordan (ancient days Ammon and Moab via Edom) I can say with a new perspective that the Land truly appeared to be flowing with milk and honey.  We have been in a dry but beautiful wasteland and coming up to the top of the mountain today it was a revelation to see the lush, green valley stretching out below.  Moses would've wept at the sight.  It was hard not to.

The vista was spectacular and would've been even more amazing all those years ago.  The Jordan river flowing out of the north, a ribbon of blue hugged by fertile fields of green running down into the Dead Sea.  A valley created in ancient times by the shift of tectonic plates so that the hills rise sharply on both the east and west.  This creates an interesting weather pattern that creates and keeps the moisture "locked" in the valley.

I'll spill the beans on the adventures of today later but I will say it ended at our hotel tonight with the manager explaining that this is an "all inclusive" hotel, including all the drinks we can drink.  Milk and honey, indeed.

Brian on top of  Mt. Nebo, standing where Moses stood.
More or less.

This is the view Moses had.  This doesn't do it justice.  More to follow.
In the distance, Jericho.  Behind that, the hills that would one day support Jerusalem.

Qumran, cave 4, where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered. (accidentally)

A close up of Cave 4.

and this is a "scriptural" olive tree on top of Mt. Nebo for my friend Dede who requested  it!
I've never seen so many olive trees nor have I ever eaten so many olives!

Sorry for the lack of details.  More to come.  Tomorrow is another early morning.  We will visit Masada first and then we make the long drive north to Galilee.  I'm chuffed for both!

I've got a lot to learn but one thing I know is that if I don't sleep I can't learn!  Good night!

p.s.  For those who would like to contribute to the fund that's making my education possible - and thank you to those of you who already have! - you can use the details or the buttons over there ----> to keep making this happen!

Packing and Unpacking

I've been getting info emails for my upcoming module.  Working towards a Masters at SSU means hitting the road not just hitting the books.  The emails are giving me details on what to pack and what not to pack for our upcoming trip to Egypt, Israel and Jordan.

Ever since the last module though I've been neck deep in packing and unpacking.

To go to SSU meant digging in to the baggage I already carried.  Fears, expectation, hopes, more fears, prejudices and fears, some rolling around in dark places I didn't want to open.  Then reading a pile of books: some that comforted, some that irritated and some that have left a permanent mark.  Conversations in and out of class that continued the emptying process while day long lectures crammed in more than I could process.

You know that crazy announcement at the airport about not leaving bags unattended and not accepting bags from someone else?  It applies to educating Brian as well.

One afternoon session I had taken note after note and just as I was getting my head around one idea the Prof tossed out another and another and another.  It was all I could do to get them in the suitcase like a barrage of socks and underwear, "I know I'm going to need this later...".  And then, arriving home, I've been surprised over the last several weeks as I've unpacked those bags to discover stuff I didn't know I'd packed.

Good stuff.

Solid stuff.

Stuff pilgrimages are made of.

I'm still unpacking though and I'm supposed to be in serious re-packing mode now.

I've got 10 books and 10 papers due in a couple weeks.  Each book so far, and I've barely scratched the surface, has caused me to start sorting out my baggage yet again.

Hemingway once wrote, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."  Yeah, it's mixing metaphors but a single module at SSU has become a moveable feast for me.  It's an experience of unlearning, unpacking, grasping some things and letting go of others.  I'm not so young but it's a meal I'm glad to finally be getting down to.

So tonight I sit here blogging, sitting on my metaphorical suitcase and hoping to get the zipper closed on this one before I move on to the next.  I don't think it can be done.  Partly that's my fault because I keep pulling out souvenirs and mementos from this first module to share with people I love.  As soon as I get something out I notice something knew about it and off I go again digging through the rest of the suitcase.

Packing and unpacking is work and I usually end up forgetting something important but today I'm grateful that my bags aren't empty and this journey, this pilgrimage, just keeps getting more exciting.

I've got a lot to learn but today I know I'm getting there.

Hey, if you think it's worth your while, please say a pray for Educating Brian.  Peace.

30 Years Late(r)

Homework.  I left that behind once and then I had kids.  Once they were old enough that I couldn’t help them with their homework because I didn’t have a clue, I was done with homework again.  So why would I willingly put myself back into a situation where I’m doing homework, my own this time, again?

My original plan was to go from undergrad to grad right away.  Then life intervened.  I talked with a prof in those days who told me that as long as I was open to learning I’d always be a student.  I think he was right but that insight became all the excuse I needed to let the study I was interested in give way to the job I needed.

And then years went by and then decades and it became much harder to convince myself that going back was even an option.

Just over a year ago I came to a “dark night of the soul” that lasted a whole season.  In the midst of that process there came some clarity.  I was searching for answers about my future and I was coming up empty.  Piece by piece I was getting disassembled, it felt like God was taking my world apart.  In the midst of great uncertainty came this one clear step: go back to school.

I like to think that my undergraduate studies have taken me 30 years to complete.  I know there’s a depth in my reading that didn’t exist 3 decades ago.  Life has given me some perspective that I seriously lacked when I was 20.  Suffering, disappointment, relationships, unexpected satisfaction, grace and hurt have all marked this road I travel on.  For me, now is the time and though it’s 30 years late(r), I’m ready for it again for the first time.  Besides, how long is too long to wait for a dream to come true?


Thanks to all my friends who are helping me on this journey!