"I WAS COMPLAINING I HAD NO SHOES...."

It was early Autumn,  a few days before the end of September.  The slowly ebbing heat of the mid-afternoon sun  still cast an uncomfortable residual warmth from the scorching summer.  The traffic was agonizingly slow on the four-lane thoroughfare that I decided to take on my way home from an errand.  As we stopped for a traffic light, my thoughts unwittingly wandered to some painful, often-visited path of late that churned out unintended- yet expected-  consequences:  sadness, tears, sorrow.  It was an exercise in futility to completely  ward off those feelings when they hit and inadvertently, I had to give in to the unleashed hills and valleys and eventual plateaus of emotion.   Never one to feel sorry for myself before, a recent personal tragedy shattered my equilibrium and left me reeling from the blow.  That day, as those painful thoughts began to consume me, I was distracted  by something on the street ahead, a human drama of somebody else's pain.

I could have easily ignored her, a young, white woman dressed in a brown,  hooded jacket with a loose, white-speckled beanie on her head.  Stray blonde locks escaped on the sides of her face.   She was of moderate height, with faded jeans hanging on her thin frame that the baggy jacket failed to completely hide.  Walking toward the stopped cars, she was holding an  off-white cardboard that caught my attention.  It was a hand-written sign that the glare of the sun half-obliterated from my view but I was able to make out the last word: "food".  Sights such as this were commonplace in some streets in town but something about this young woman stirred in me a feeling I could not quite define. Pity?  Sadness?  She looked straight and her eyes bore that distant, almost detached stare.  For somebody who was panhandling, she seemed disinterested to take alms as she held her sign below waist level.  Her face did not show that hardness often obvious from those who had been on street life for a long time.  Rather, there was that almost shy softness,  a haunted, far-away look, like those of a reluctant soul in hopeless, painful expose'.  She was walking two lanes away on my right side and as I reached for my purse for some change, I did not know how I could get her attention.  My dilemma was resolved when the traffic started moving and she went to the sidewalk farther away from me to dodge the oncoming vehicles.  That was the last I saw of her but that scene of human despair stayed with me as a profound lesson in gratitude.

November is  almost synonymous to Thanksgiving. Although gratitude to the Lord should always be a part of one's daily worship, this feeling of being blessed by His tender mercies seems more acutely felt and deeply acknowledged on Thanksgiving month. There is a festive aura that surrounds this time of the year enhanced by the cool, crisp  air and the blissful panorama of multi-colored leaves reflecting the soft, burnished glow of the mild autumn sun,  things that afford us a more profound spiritual reflection  about the timeless and the infinite. 

 One's conjured image of Thanksgiving would  always ostensibly feature the warmth and love of family and friends surrounding a table laden with food.  It is a time for fun, laughter, togetherness, gratitude.  Those blessings should dispel all negative emotions, if only for a day.  But the feeling of gratitude when cultivated and expressed daily, would transport our emotions to a higher plane,  not just for the moment.  As I thought about that young woman and her plight, I prayed for her, and my gratitude for all of my life's abundant blessings was immensely renewed.  Who was she?  What were the unfortunate events and circumstances that drove her to such life in the streets?  Where were her parents, her loved ones?  There was a quote I learned as a youth that vividly came to mind as I contemplated on the dichotomy of life:  "I was complaining I had no shoes, until I saw a man (woman) who had no feet." How often do we mistakenly magnify our own needs and pain when they could easily be eclipsed by countless human sufferings all around us?  Without warning, I heard loud and clear the Scriptures' gentle voice that touched my errant soul:  "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." - Matt. 11:28-30 -

The proverbial November of one's life need not be staid and desultory for it holds a cornucopia of blessings all its own.  Our halcyon days of spring and summer should have left in their wake a feeling of contentment and peace allowing us to instinctively sever that anachronistic link to things that are less important in designs of eternal significance.  That, I would attempt to remember as I resolutely cling like an enduring leaf to life's cold winter. As I take an inventory of those priceless tender mercies from a loving Father, I would endeavor to  once again hear the reassuring voice of the Spirit and its eternal promise:  For "my burden is light".  Then in quiet retrospection, I would look back to that fateful autumn day and remember that young woman with the brown hooded jacket and a speckled beanie on her head.  With a heart full of gratitude, I would again imagine that haunting countenance of hopelessness and offer a prayer for her who had unknowingly taught me one of life's greatest lessons, she "who had no feet"!

"Hello, My Name Is GRIEF!"

They call me GRIEF.  Like many of the branded "woes" of your dystopian universe, I am a great equalizer.  Free to roam in the infinity of time,  I spare no one, fear no man,  and don't play favorites.  I move with stealth and cunning and can easily creep into anyone's peaceful existence undetected.  Some people unwittingly invite me into their lives as I lay hidden in sugar-coated array of destructive choices.  But I need no invitation, unknowingly or otherwise, for my role is woven into the maze of the fabric you call "life".  You don't often see me as you wander aimlessly  in the easy, happy, uncluttered confines of your night and day or even as you journey in the dark haze of life's busy, rough, complicated tunnels.  But I am there;  make no mistake, I am there. 

Once I identify my victim, I waste no time to launch my merciless claim.  I strike without pity and come to you safely concealed in varied cloaks - illness, poverty, accidents,  relationship problems,  loss of a loved one in that end of life called death.  Ah, death!  How easily can I disturb your peace as I gain a sudden access when life is snatched away by that unseen hand.

I come to you and linger for as long as you unsuspectingly let me.    More than that, I am not alone.  Like a soldier ready for battle, I am prepared with an arsenal of weapons that can destroy - pain, tears, guilt, anger, and depression.  I use them without mercy  in my ruthless quest for the real you.  So I use the tender fringes of your emotion to taunt you as you evoke self-pity; I haunt you with the lyrics of an old,  half-remembered song; I thrust the sharp dagger of pain in your heart with every twinge of some unspoken guilt; I use tears of regret in every speck of memory of him who is not coming back.  Oftentimes, I strike when you least expect me for I know how vulnerable you are.  I see you - wearing that familiar smile looking at some old family pictures, or sitting peacefully with a novel in your hands, or exchanging funny stories with friends while visiting some foreign shores, and I am unable to spare you.  I watch you alone, quietly listening to the sounds of life outside your home,  walking with easy strides enjoying nature's beauty in some neighborhood park,  interacting in a seeming happy mood with your family, and I strike you with pain, remorselessly and without pity.  You know I am there as you let the tears flow, as you search in vain for someone you will never see and feel again, as you look at everything that had been a part of that life that is no more.  I creep noiselessly into your day as you watch the bright sunlight unfold its rays across the cyan sky,  or even as you listen to the deep silence that hugs that eddy of pain in a dark moonless night. No, I cannot let you go.  Not yet.  Oh no, not yet!   For I have not completed the mold of who you must be that I must present to Him that sent me. 

Wisdom.  I must fashion it into that mold.  Encrusted beautifully with that fine ingredient  and embedded with grace and charm into what you must be, I can walk away with pride for I have taught you the lesson you must learn.  I would have confirmed what the scriptures say: "For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."  - Ecclesiastes 1:18.  Aeschylus, the Greek dramatist who is often cited as the father of the genre called Tragedy, basically said the same thing:  "He who learns must suffer.  And even in our own sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."  Wisdom.  Ah, how you need to incorporate it into who you are!  I am sorry for my draconian approach to school you but I am not made for the amorphous and easy.  I wish I do not have to visit your days with a seeming interminable glut of searing pain and tears but you must learn wisdom and discover who you really are.  Then, and maybe only then, can I  bid you goodbye.

Yes, my name is Grief.  I seem cruel and callous to everyone I meet - the simple and the weak, the smart and the strong, the short-sighted or the clever, the bold or the meek,  the saint or the sinner.  I know no age nor season and I am no respecter of persons.    I am ruthless; I have no mercy and in no time I can destroy the weak.  But hold on before you pass that harsh indictment that comes so easy to one who has not yet discovered my true purpose.  I am life's tool for instruction and learning.  I am the hideous mask that conceals that magnificent instrument that will uncover the best in you as God's beautiful creation,  if you let me.  I can destroy,  but I can also build and thus magnify the tiny fragments of divinity within you,  if you allow me.  Yes, I am Grief, but I am not your foe.  Learn the lesson I am sent to teach you to earn your liberty.  When you do, like a trapped butterfly in a hard, confining cocoon of pain, you will soar triumphantly to a starlit galaxy of joyous realization that you, the imperfect you, have overcome and won.   Then and only then will l say: " Fly, fly, for now at last you're free!"       

RAINBOWS AND GOLDEN SUNS

 

Light and darkness present a classic, contrasting imagery and they are,  in many ways, metaphors to life.  Inexorably intertwined, these cyclic phenomena are often equated with the opposing forces of good and evil, happiness and despair, joy and sadness, jubilation and depression, and their quintessential rivalry to dominate life is as timeless as the earth.

Life revolves around the same conflicting paradigms  with its 24 hours equally dispensed between night and day,  those dual, interminable  miracles that alternate in coordinated precision like unerring notes of a perfect symphony.  As creatures of habit, we have structured our daily routines around the boundaries set by their recurring occurrences and frequently, our adeptness on how we balance those routines dictates our happiness or despair. Even physiologically, the circadian rhythm, our body clock that science often speaks about, will be seriously compromised when we alter those set patterns of change.

Ignoring the sense of egalitarian principles we often advocate, most of us favor one more than the other in their figurative state - light more than darkness - and only those who have stumbled unknowingly to the clutches of darkness and lost the struggle to free themselves may have preferred it in the long run.  Light brings beauty and clarity to life while darkness blinds us to the wonders of what is true and real.  But both are essential elements to the enjoyment of our mortal existence and their disruption tips the balance of order that should prevail in the universe.  Light, with its unmitigated charm, will always outshine darkness unless one sees beyond the murky shadows and uncover the beauty that lies beneath.  Because underneath the gloom,  down its uncompromising depth, is the surreal path of a muti-faceted jewel of startling colors - a rainbow - beyond the ugly chasm of crippling hopelessness.

In this mortal journey, we have traveled and experienced both:  a glut of darkness and rainy days more than bright summer suns for some, and scattered resplendent beams of sunlight festooned along the way for some lucky ones. Does fortune favor one more than the other? Should we begrudge life for its seeming injustice? Must we inhibit ourselves from hoping for even just a gentle ray of sunbeam because we have lost hope for a full burst of sunshine? Have we been so inured to the darkness that we have forgotten a lovely rainbow loomed beyond? Have we lost the lesson that can be learned from the challenge to find the rainbow after life had doled out thunderous roaring storms all along? Do we fret we will never find our way through the dancing shadows in the rain?

On the other hand, for those who are fortunate to live a charmed life seldom touched by rainy days, have they missed the beauty of the rainbow, the refreshing touch of the falling rain to a face upturned toward the sky? Has the glorious sun robbed them of the beauty that comes from the calm after a raging storm? Has the sun completely lured them to its blinding beauty that they somehow failed to appreciate the exquisite colors of the rainbow after a cleansing rain?


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow penned a poem of bleak imagery that somehow encapsulates such mood:

The Rainy Day

"The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the moldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all.

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary."

At one point or another in life, we have taken them for granted:  the rainbow, that multi-colored wonder of nature,  as well as the sun, that brilliant orb of light,  and the lessons they offer.  We despair and lose hope for golden suns when we are burdened by the vicissitudes and tribulations that are staples of earth life.  We become soft and malleable to the harsh shadows of reality that are supposed to toughen us when we are shielded by the brightness of the sun so when the rainy days come, we focus on the swirling dark clouds and completely miss the beauty that they hide.  Life is not just an experiential realm; it is a school of learning, albeit a stern quasi-master that teaches us powerful lessons that,  when applied with wisdom and soberness, define and shape us into that special flesh and blood entity of intrinsic value, and ultimately, into an eternal, pure, and precious spirit that God wants us to be.
                                       
Rain, dark clouds, and the gloomy dismal feelings that we often encounter before the appearance of a glorious rainbow are stark contrasts to the brilliant, warm, shimmering summer sun that creates a needed lift to a drab, cheerless mood.  No life has a monopoly of either and there are lessons to be learned from both.  We always long to be greeted by the lovely morning sun but there is a different brand of beauty we cannot fail to appreciate if we look past the darkness and the rain that precede a magnificent rainbow.   Life is not a day of golden summers, not a romp on misty meadows of bright-colored fragrant blooms.  But neither it is a dark day of unabated, pouring rain of despair and desolation.  Rather, there are swatches of both in each life to make us appreciate their opposing beauties. When we learn to conflate the salient and profound instructions they unfailingly bring, that unfettered understanding of a divine, prescient hand in our lives will carry us through.  The rainy days, however long they may last, always hold beyond the clouds a marvelous, opalescent rainbow, a promise, solid and unbroken, of days of golden suns.

FAITH IS THE COLOR OF THE WIND

A few days ago, as I was nursing a rather fierce attack of one of those "blah", desultory moments that usually follow a holiday sugar high, I received from a dear friend one of those "email forwards" that clutter our emails on a daily basis,  about a  complex, mind-boggling wonder- the solar system.  It consisted of frames of illustrations and pictures of our universe and beyond,  and as I started scrolling down to each frame, I felt my lethargy started to dissipate.  It showed the different planets and their comparative sizes from the smallest to the largest.  As it presented the other systems in our galaxy which were much larger in scale than our own,  it gave the viewer an idea of the enormity of the universe.   A Hubble telescope deep field infrared view of entire galaxies billions of light years away captured millions and millions of stars that, due to their distance, were hidden from the naked eye. 

Just looking at the simple illustrations of the vastness of God's creations made me shiver in the sheer realization of how insignificant we are in the  magnitude of the other handiworks of this Supreme Being.  But in his inifinite wisdom and love, he did not view our significance on the basis of size; rather, he placed us on a chosen plane a mere notch below the angels.  The Scriptures is succinct in its declaration of who we are in our Creator's eyes:  "What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?  For thou hast made him  a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour." (Ps. 8:4-5)  A speck of dust, a nano of nothingness we all are.  And yet, the Father of our Spirit, that Divine Being who rules the immensity of earth and space has made us heirs to the incalculable richess of his eternal realm forever and ever.

Considering his unfathomable love and what we stand to lose, how can we still deny him?  With all the solid manifestations of his existence and the glaring certainty set before us and  reflected at every turn, how can some of us still refute the truth that he is real? An apocryphal being that only resides in someone's overactive imagination is how the atheistic community regard him and the morass of its egregious confabulations reveal a detachment from what is sacred and divine.   As I seriously contemplated this paradox, I was reminded of the story shared to us by one of our ward missionaries.  He said that one of their would-be investigators asked him and his companion after they introduced themselves how they could believe the existence of a God they had not seen.  The missionary responded with his own question and said, "What is the color of the wind?"  The person of course answered that he did not know because he could not see it.  Again, the missionary asked him that since he could not see the wind, how did he know that it existed?  The would-be investigator responded that he knew because he could feel it.  The missionary used that analogy to explain his knowledge and bear his testimony of the existence of that Divine, Exalted Being who knows us personally and loves us unconditionally regardless of who we are and what we believe.

I look around me and pause in wonder at the sight of the handiwork of God an unbeliever is able to see with his physical eyes but sorely missed by his sightless spirit.  I marvel at the rose pink horizon as the morning sun makes its way to dispel the darkness of the departing night.   The white cottony clouds set against the backdrop of a shimmering blue sky is God's promise of a beautiful day.  The towering mountains of brown earth surrounding the teeming valley in the place I call home and the calm lakes and blue oceans that dot the earth's immense landscape reflect the power of the Mighty Being that gives them their strength.   The soft warbling of tiny birds hopping on the nearby trees adds to the presence of life around me and everything, from the boundless expanse of space overhead to the hushed whisper of the untouchable wind across my face,  are incontrovertible testaments to the work of the Master's hand.  In my mind's eye, I watch the fast-forward tableau of the cycle of the seasons, each crowned with a beauty all its own, an interplay of colors and nature's  wonders that can only come from the God of Creation.  I think of my beloved children, then my grandchildren, those little marvels of flesh and blood that seem to have suddenly sprouted from nowhere, then clutch at the nucleus of the heart with a ferocious strength  and never let go - and I think of God's kindness and tender mercies.  Most of all, I am a presence.  I breathe, I talk, I walk, I think,  I feel, I see, I create.  I am a living, thinking reality, a specimen of God's craftsmanship, a being fashioned unerringly by his caring,  loving hands.

I am the offspring of divinity, a royal heir to the glorious heritage that my Father in Heaven so graciously and generously bestows upon me.  He is my Lord and Master who has given me all that I possess in this life and whose kingdom in the most high has been promised to me on the condition of my obedience to his divine laws.  In his infinite mercy, he sent to earth his Only Begotten Son who offered the ultimate sacrifice and died in the agony of the cross to ensure that the way back to his eternal realm is open and mapped out for me anytime he calls me home.  He blessed me with the knowledge of his divine Lordship that with faith centered in him, I may have the opportunity to be joint-heirs to all that he has with his Son, my Lord and Savior,  Jesus Christ.  It is an unbroken, unchanging covenant with a prize that he will only withhold when I neglect to do my part.

Belief, knowledge, faith.  Belief in his goodness, knowledge of his existence, faith in him, that he was, that he is, that he will reign as the one true God forever and ever.  Acquiring faith in him is a marvelous gift, a blessing singular in its significance that every living soul must strive to earn.  It is described as the principle of action and power in all intelligent beings.  It is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" (Heb.  11:11). Sometimes I will fall; some days I will be weak and many times I will succumb to the wiles of the adversary.  There may be dark days when I will grope for the redeeming power of light when I am down spiritually.  But during those times, may my repentant soul always strive to be lifted up by the hand  that bears the imprint of the nail, by the  One who suffered on the cross for my sins  that I may be rescued from the pain of eternal agony through his atoning sacrifice.  May his unfailing love be a shining beacon as I walk through earth's bleak nights and may my long wearisome journey be sustained by the comfort of the unseen wind - faith in all its vibrant hues visible only to him who believes.  For faith - resolute, strong, unwavering -  is the color of the wind.

                                    

In His Divine Footsteps: Journey Through The Holy Land

It was a long-awaited trip with the degree of excitement that was usually generated by the anticipation of breaking the tedium of everyday grind, seeing new places and being exposed to the novelty of other people’s culture, or simply experiencing that unique thrill of bridging an imagined connection to the distant past in visual and other sensory explorations .   Combining those with the spiritual sense that only a place where the Son of God had lived, taught, and died could offer, was a fascinating aspect that added to  my eagerness to see the Holy Land. I have visited many parts of the world in the past, perused the history of other people and culture, stared in awe at their man-made monuments and palaces, walked in their famed gilded halls that boasted of long-ago glories, marveled at the accomplishments of their past and present leaders and was enriched tremendously in secular and empirical knowledge in the process. These were things I expected from my visit to Israel, but there was something more, a yearning more compelling and powerful that went beyond the need to satisfy the tug of wanderlust.   For Israel has that singular Biblical distinction that ostensibly puts it above the rest.  It is the land of the Redeemer, the Promised Land of Jesus,  where he dwelt among men and where he became a living sacrifice for the sins of the world.  

Yet, I was not going there to find Jesus. For I had found him, many long years ago, not in garishly ornate but casual relics of sand and stone in a high-pedestalled altar, not in the finely-crafted words of a lightning and brimstone believer, not even in the smooth, fine type-set of scriptural dogmas, for I did not understand them then. I found Jesus in the crevice of the heart as his Spirit spoke to me of love, and truth, and goodness and provided me with fine human examples to look up to. I found him in the sincere words of his anointed and authorized servants, words that stoke the fire of faith that had been previously left latent from ignorance and lack of sound spiritual understanding. I found him as I learned of his life, his mission, his unequalled sacrifice of mercy and love for my sake and for the sake of all his creations.

I did not need to go to the Holy Land to seek him in the broken fragments of structures of antiquity in the place he once called home. Because those, even as they could satisfy the sense of touch in their concrete form, would fail miserably to convey the depth of the loving omnipotence of this God called Jesus.  But I wanted to be where he once walked; I wanted to roam  in those ancient places where the wind caressed the bowed tree branches when he passed, where the sand and stone crunched under his silent footsteps, where the tumultuous sea obeyed his voice, and where the dark of night hid the anguish of his soul as he prayed for the sins of the world.  Like a beautiful story in a beloved book that I wished to see portrayed on a silver screen, I wanted to view his life in another medium, in another dimension, not to validate its truth- for I know the truth - but maybe, to give homage to the earthly memories of that consecrated life.  I wanted to feel, and see, and hear, even in a fleeting moment in time, the sights and sounds of Israel, that vibrant, pulsating, living,  religious melting pot that became central to the Savior's divine mission. So to Israel, the Holy Land, the Land of Jesus, I went as a pilgrim would.

In my cautious effort to avoid presenting this under the heading of a common travelogue, I would skip many of the places my husband and I, as well as our son, visited that did not completely add to the spiritual aspect of the trip. Instead, I would focus on the areas I felt had direct significance on the life the Savior led on earth commencing on his birth, then his ministry and his death on the cross, and how those places affected me.

The Church of The Annunciation

The altar in the Church of Annunciation, the exact spot where the Angel Gabriel appeared to Mary announcing that she would be the mother of Jesus (Luke 1:26-32).

The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, Palestine

Bethlehem is on the Palestinian side, in the central West Bank, approximately 5 miles south of Jerusalem.  The Church of the Nativity is only about 5 minutes from the border and faces a big square called the Manger Square.  The facade of the church is starkly different from most churches in the Holy Land, not only due to the absence of a "real" door but also in its modest, unassuming appearance.  Its entrance is a tiny opening left from an enormous original door that has been closed ages ago to prevent people from bringing their animals, like donkeys, inside.  The small door is aptly called "the humility door" because everyone has to bend to get through. Being the oldest church in the Christian world, the Church of the Nativity bears the scars of time in its discolored walls of brick lime stone that have seen both marked and subtle changes in the history of man.  The church is expansive inside, featuring three main altars facing the doorway maintained by three Christian denominations, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic. and Armenian.  But despite the presence of old relics and priceless though faded works of art, it has maintained the same unpretentious simplicity of its outside appearance as if honoring the humble, yet glorious event that took place within its confines more than 2,000 years ago.

The Star of Bethlehem in the grotto under the Church of the Nativity, marking the exact spot where Jesus was born.

I felt the Spirit of the Lord as I ran my hand in reverential awe on the "Star of Bethlehem" that marked the site of Jesus' birth into mortality and was reminded of the unfathomable love of an Eternal Father who sent his Son as an unblemished sacrifice to save a sinful world.  I stayed kneeling for a few minutes to soak in that unsullied peace, that indescribable feeling of being connected to something divine, that intense sense of reverential wonder that I was indeed in the place where the Son of God first came to earth in his mortal form.  I uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for that opportunity to be a partaker of that knowledge and that testimony.  And in humility and immense gratitude, I wept.

The altar in the grotto of the Church of the Nativity that marks the location of the manger.

Inside the Church of St. Joseph.

The inscription says:  "This church was built in 1914 on the site of an earlier 12th Century church.  The caves, granaries and wells in the lower level were used by the early dwellers of Nazareth.  Later, Christians turned the site into a worship place.  Travellers who had visited the place in the 7th Century pointed out that this had been the location of the 'Carpentry Shop of Joseph'.  Later traditions identify the place as being 'The House of Joseph'".

The carpenter’s shop in the basement of the church where Joseph probably taught the child Jesus his trade.

Part of the Jordan River where pilgrims come to get baptized to commemorate the baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist (Matt.3:13-17).

Part of the Jordan River flowing along a major highway.

                     Cana, the site of Jesus’ first miracle when he turned water into wine (John 2:1-9).

A Roman Catholic Church had been erected on the site where a mosaic revealed that a synagogue once stood and where the wedding, when Jesus turned water into wine, was held.

                 A reinforced original wall outside the church in Cana that existed during the time of Christ.

                                                Going on a river cruise on the Sea of Galilee.

The waters of Galilee that obeyed the command of the Savior - "Peace, be still" (Mark 4:35-39).

The waters where Jesus walked (Matt.14:22-27).
I stood in quiet reflection surveying the expanse of the Sea of Galilee with its calm waters sparkling in the midday sun  and marveled at the role it played in the Savior's ministry.  I could almost see him there, walking toward his frightened disciples, calming their fears and saying, "It is I, be not afraid".  I imagined that even in the midst of our own uncertainties and doubts as we sailed on our own personal Sea of Galilee, there would be comfort that would not fail to offer peace if we would reflect on those long ago but unfailingly reassuring words from a loving God, "It is I, be not afraid". 

On the back porch of the Church of the Beatitudes. The hills beyond is probably where Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount.
I looked in wonder at those hills where they said he taught the Sermon on the Mount and reflected on the beauty and enduring appeal of his teachings.  "Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God."  Those truths were as unchanging and eternal as the God who taught them and I could only imagine what glorious blessing it would be to learn those lessons at his feet.

Above the altar in the Church of the Beatitudes. There are 8 glass panels where the Beatitudes are written.

The altar in the Church of the Beatitudes.



Capernaum, regarded as the center of Jesus’ Galilee ministry where lots of his healing miracles took place.



The foundation of the original synagogue in Capernaum where Jesus worshipped.

Ruins of Peter’s house in Capernaum where Jesus healed Peter’s mother-in-law of a fever (Mark 1:29-31).



Statue of St. Peter in Capernaum.



The "Thorn of Christ" tree, source of the crown of thorns placed on the Savior's head.



The Upper Room, where Jesus held the Passover meal with his disciples before his crucifixion (Mark 14:13-16).



Mosaic facade of the Church of Gethsemane also called The Church of All Nations.

The actual rock in front of the main altar where Jesus agonized as he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22:39-44).

Inside the church in the Mount of Olives, I touched the rock where the Savior knelt during those agonizing hours in the Garden and felt transported in a journey of the spirit that intertwined with the timeless sense of the divine. 

I walked on the concrete paths that were laid out around the Garden of Gethsemane and gazed at the panorama of nature's beauty on display before my eyes.  The garden was now blanketed with flowers in a beautiful array of colors.  The olive trees still stood, some probably half as old as time, their weary branches genuflecting to the ground.  As I stood pondering about the Savior's offering of boundless love in a dark moonless night as the olive trees stood in watch, I felt his sweet spirit that even the crowd of tourists huddled everywhere could not dispel.  Being in that place where he offered himself to die for our sins was an experience so uplifting that I would not soon forget. 

The Garden  of Gethsemane dotted with olive trees.

A plaque marking one of the Stations of the Cross on the Via Dolorosa.

An impression on a rock behind the present wall on the Via Dolorosa believed to be from the hand of the Savior.

One of the streets of  the Via Dolorosa where the Savior walked carrying his cross on his way to Golgotha.

I joined the throng of believers tracing the path of the Cross on the streets of the Via Dolorosa with its cobbled stone surface,  some deeply etched and smoothened by a millennia of footsteps, that served as silent reminders of the unspeakable hate that brought the very Son of God to the horrors of the crucifixion.

Outside the walls of the city of Jerusalem is the Garden Tomb, believed to be the burial site of Jesus.
It was a cool, slightly hazy Jerusalem morning with the muted rays of the sun barely sending its warmth when we went to the Garden Tomb.  The place was calm, quiet, with the dappled sunlight peeking through the dense trees as birds fluttered overhead.  There were blooms of carefully tended flowers along the narrow garden paths and I felt the strong presence of the Spirit that testified to the depths of my soul I was treading on hallowed ground.

The top area is believed to be Golgotha or “place of the skull”, site of the crucifixion.

I gazed in veneration at the craggy limestone rocks of Golgotha and wondered if drops of his divine blood drenched their rough- hewn surface.  Did even those lifeless forms created by his hand weep in anguish and sorrow as they became helpless spectators in the brutal expression of blind hatred against the Son of God?

In the Garden Tomb

The tomb of the Lord Jesus Christ (John 19:40-42).

The empty tomb (John 20:1-9)

The floor of the burial tomb.

In worshipful silence, I entered his burial tomb and felt so undeserving to tread such a holy place, and yet, so immensely grateful for the gift accorded to the sinful soul by a loving God of Mercy.  In John 11:25, the Savior said, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."  The empty tomb cannot be more explicit in its unspoken declaration of such divine promise.

"He is not here, for he is risen".  Sign on the door of the tomb.

The Golden Gate where Jesus came through when he entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Tradition holds that the Golden Gate or Gate of Mercy will open miraculously at the end of days to admit the Messiah. This gate was permanently closed by the Ottoman Empire in the early 1500's on the belief that it would prevent the Messiah from returning.

Israel, the Holy Land; Jerusalem, the Holy City.  What's in a name?  What's in a place?  The Lord's spirit dwells everywhere where there is righteousness and peace.  We can have our own Jerusalem, our own Holy City, wherever we may be.  And yet, there is only one place on earth where the Master lived in divine purity among mortals, where he walked, and talked, and taught eternal truths, a place where we can find a trace of his glorious years on earth in the religious memorials built by the faithful, in the ruins of structures where he visited and worshipped and performed his miracles. 

Israel, Jerusalem, the place that betrayed him, the people that crucified him; and yet, it is his Promised Land, it is his Holy City, its people his chosen people and one day, in the timetable of the Lord, they will accept him and worship him as the one true God, the Millennial Messiah foretold by the Scriptures.

I did not go to the Holy Land to find Jesus, but what I found is so wonderfully akin to the glory of him.  For I felt a renewed closeness to his Spirit that I hope will stay with me for as long as I live.  Perhaps it is presumptuous to hope that the vicissitudes of life will never cloud the memory of this trip of a lifetime, but the testimony will remain.  Faith can never be built on a pile of rough-hewn stones but I felt a closeness to the Spirit that fortified my faith in those places where the Son of God once inhabited and taught profound lessons of love, and sacrifice, and forgiveness.  In the hallowed sanctums of the Holy Land's churches and religious cenotaphs to the Savior's name, I experienced an increased testimony of the divinity of this extraordinary Man, this Precious Redeemer, this only Begotten Son of God, this Jesus...and I am blessed beyond measure.

Song - The Holy City