Sometimes We Accidentally Learn In School

                My electronic devices all inform me that this is October. I find this hard to believe as it feels as though only yesterday I started another year at Best Place on Earth University. Since my last post, I am no longer homeless *touchdown dance* and am having lots of fun learning to be domestic. Future husband, whoever you are, you owe housing a big hug for arranging that I practice all these skills before you get here. So far I have successfully fixed a toilet, prepared meals, and squished all the spiders that my vegetarian roommate wasn’t around to rescue.

               In the meantime, I find that the further I get into my degree plan, the more interesting my subjects become. Who knew I could study things I actually care about? A surprising course this semester has been World Literature. I am aware that this sounds like one of the most painfully boring classes a person might be unlucky enough to take, and for a while it lived up to that entirely. My notebook contains more pictures than anything useful. For example, this is what I know about the Epic of Gilgamesh:

                In the midst of such excruciating boredom, some things started to get my attention. All of these stories, works that are considered essential to any educated person’s repertoire, have something peculiar in common. They all have some element similar to the Bible. The Epic of Gilgamesh has a flood story; Plato’s The Apology sounds incredibly similar to how Peter and John answer the Sanhedrin in Acts 4; The Aneied mentions an event when the primarily male city of Rome attacks the Sabines to carry off women as their brides. This parallels the Judges 21 story of the tribe of Benjamin snatching up wives out of a vineyard. These are just a few shallow examples. I’m sure that people have made lifelong studies of the similarities between the Bible and the world’s major literature.

                I find that this can be a little disconcerting. Was the Bible…cheating? Is the author of the universe a plagiarist? It only took a moment before the pimp hand of faith dealt with that. If anything, these similarities only validate the truth of the Bible. Romans tells us that the truth is written on man’s heart, whether he acknowledges it or not. Anything valuable, anything worth reading gets ideas from the best source: the truth. In the beginning was the Word. Was, is, will be. How beautiful that our God is a skilled wordsmith. How empowering that the words of our God endure forever. How interesting that the truth of our God shows up wherever we find man looking for something worthwhile.

                Classes are certainly not the main reason I go to college. In fact, I think college would be much easier without classes. I’m having a hard time convincing administration of this idea.  Either way, campus activities are terrific ways to avoid homework and make friends. I get pretty excited when Wayland students do things like this: I Am Second WBU. I look forward to more videos and more stories, all different but all the same. One redeemer, lots of redeemed. I think it’s fantastic. But I’m having some trouble. You see my thought when I watched was what my own I Am Second might look like. Of course I have a testimony. There was BC and now we’re rocking AD with JC. What God did for me is beautiful and real and worth sharing. But it’s…fuzzy. God has been consistently good, I have been consistently pathetic. I have grown and served and been blessed but all along I’ve failed and stumbled and strayed. What’s the theme of my Christ story? Which parts are clear and relatable? How do I deal with times when I’m not sure where I am or what God is doing? Times like…now.

                I don’t have an answer. I don’t have the answer to a lot of things. But I know this:

                I write, but I know The Writer. My name is Katie Jo and I am second.

Sleepin' on a Park Bench

                It did not take an entire nine days in Israel to discover that Hebrew is not the language of love. It is this phlegm-friendly dialect that brings you names like Haggai. Oh, Haggai, the forgotten little book that makes me want to hold my hands up like claws in the “scary monster” position as I pronounce it. Flipping through my bible this week I came across some sermon notes. Brother Tim preached on Haggai so many weeks ago, he may find it a little strange that I’ve only now decided to get something more out of it. However, life events have a way of slipping lessons in our drink when we aren’t looking.

                I write this blog not from my cozy dorm room, nor from the snazzy student house I moved into Sunday, not even the new house I anticipate being relocated to. This comes to you from Parents’ House, Texas, Population: Homeless McGee. As classes began today at my favorite place in the world, three roommates and I remained in student housing limbo. I have to admit that I lost my cool a bit this evening. Everything I own is currently crammed into my magical Mary Poppins car waiting for news. And yet, this is not a sad story. This, my friends, is the good part!

                What does housing have to do with Haggai? Well…Everything! You see, Haggai all about building a new house for the Lord. This may be a bit confusing or our post-Christ, you-are-the-temple understanding. Just a little bible history will tell you that the temple is where the people of God (Israel) went to meet with the Most High God. When the temple was destroyed and the people scattered in exile, everything about Israelite life was devastated. When Cyrus, king of Persia, allowed the remnant of Israel to return to their home and rebuild the temple there was much rejoicing. Still, how could things ever be the same?

                Haggai comes onto the scene just after this. The foundation for the temple had been laid years ago, but the people had abandoned the project. I encourage you to read it for yourself, it’s only 2 chapters. In short, God through Haggai tells the people they are wrong. Enough excuses, enough indifference. They are so focused on building their own mansions that they have forgotten to build a house for their God. After a good scolding, the people come to their senses. The Lord follows up with encouragement that he will be with them. He’s not a mean, old bearded man in the sky shaking his finger. God wants his people to be excited about the work he is asking them to do.

                This book has become so pertinent to both my spiritual and my physical states. Can I rest in Him when I have no place to rest? What is the work he is asking me to do? The foundation has been laid; Jesus Christ redeemed my life and raised me up to walk again. It’s time to put away the excuses and start building. As a new school year begins, there is plenty of construction to go around. *cough*5th Street*cough* I challenge you to take a look at what you’re building. Are you busy putting curtains on your own concerns or are you laboring towards monuments to his glory?

Who's Who on the Holy Land Holiday

           I write again beseeching your forgiveness. In trying to be reliable in everything going on this summer, I have become increasingly unreliable. I have been struggling for some time now with a complete lack of inspiration. I want to share experiences from my trip to the Holy Land, and yet I find it hard to think of things I’d like to write about. Even more difficult is deciding what you’d like to read about. With that in mind, I remembered the wisdom I picked up somewhere or another that everyone likes to talk about themselves. Unfortunately, you were not on my trip to Israel (unless, of course, you were in which case I say Hello!). I think that the next best thing would be a few short stories about those who accompanied me in Israel.  I’ve decided to start off with a little ‘Name that Professor’.

        

          Our first contestant could hardly be discussed without mentioning his lovely wife. In her sun-conscious hat, she kept us students like little ducklings, safely near her. Mr. Professor was easy to find, as long as you kept your ears open. It seems there is a hymn for everything, particularly in the morning. This Man may give you a hard time, but he is always ready to teach, to laugh, and to have fun with his students. Hey teach, you the Man!

           You’ll have to hurry to catch up with our next contestant, he’s probably catching his next plane. Careful observation revealed that this teacher rubs his head approximately every 45 seconds, perhaps to restrict hair re-growth.  This professor opened our eyes to the people around us, the lost, oppressed, and down-trodden who are easy to lose in the shadows of the monuments.  He Shaw is a good’un (even if certain young members of his family do refuse to take much needed baths).

                Who’s the raddest grandparent in Israel? Yeah, she rode a camel. Yeah, she slept in a tent. Yeah, she talked down market prices like a pro. Can’t say I disagree with her statement that “Israeli boys are hot!” Jokes aside, this professor has a way of explaining the truth of the bible in a way that is practical, accessible, and just plain brilliant.

                There were several other great professors among our Israel travelers, not to mention a wonderful group of students. It was a joy to have each of them (and their terrific wives). I want to make sure that everyone knows that Erasmus is dead and that if she doesn’t eat with me then she doesn’t eat at all. I hope you were able to guess the professors, but I also hope you know how much I admire them all. I love my school and the professors of Wayland Baptist University help make it a great place to get an education. Thank you all for being so very knowledgeable, but even more for caring so much about your students.

Can't Quit Now

     Ladies, gentlemen, and blog readers of all shapes and sizes, I am pleased to inform you that the show goes on. It's been a bit since I posted anything, but now that I've given the Holocaust Museum time to soak into your brain, I shall continue. We're all aware that my trip is long over and I am quite contentedly back in Texas (that is, if you've read anything else on this page.) Nonetheless, I am having fun blogging and I'd like to keep adding Israel insights and memories. You guys have been pretty silent, so I'm not sure if you can't figure out how to post a comment or if you are hiding from me. Speak up! I'd love to answer questions about my trip or to get some feedback about my writing. If there is a topic you'd like me to cover, whether mosques or moose, please let me know!

     Before departure, I said a lot about having never flown. I don't think I have been as thorough about my actual flight experience. I'm sorry to say that I might be a little bit of a Negative Nancy again. You experienced flyers..fliers..fly..individuals who travel in airplanes will grin and nod when I describe my frustration with airports. At first, I was in awe. We started in DFW and everything was HUGE. Huge windows looked out on huge runways with huge planes carrying huge numbers of people. Huge signs, huge bathrooms, huge I heart Texas coffee mugs. We took a tram to our gate and joked that all in one day we would be on 'planes, trains, and automobiles'. Speaking of gates, there is a whole system of vocabulary that exists in an airport. There are gates and terminals and 23492 different lines each with different purposes. Apparently, one is supposed to be born with this system etched in his or her brain. I, however, was not and had to suffer all day through the "Are you stupid?" looks of airport staff and customers.

     Airport security. Everyone, their dog, and now me knows that it is a dirty, awful word. Taking my shoes off?? Maybe if I was entering a Japanese home and being offered a delightful cup of tea in return, but seriously? The strangest thing to me was being security checked in New York. We had been checked in Dallas, gotten on our plane, and then went straight into the airport. No, I did not fashion an explosive during my connecting flight, you took my dangerous toothpaste away, remember?
     So we have all these ridiculous measures that I'm sure were designed very carefully by very smart people to keep us safe. Whether that's working or not is up for debate, just not here. Oddly enough, there are other times when it seems entirely too easy to get in and out of countries. Did you bring anything awful? Why, no, sir, I most certainly did not. Fantastic, you're in. I felt that way about passport lines. Although, sometimes it is surprising how hard it is to remember your name when someone asks you. Uh..uh..oh right, I'm me.
     Israel has a bit of a reputation. Basically, it's a beast. Being attacked by all your neighbors after you move in is not exactly the jello-giving reception one hopes for. Every citizen enters the army at 18, boys for three years, and girls for two. How does this translate to airport security? Well, there is definitely no jello. Airport staff are a little scary. Hebrew is a very harsh language, similar to German. This makes for a pretty intimidating accent. At 4AM we stood in line at the airport in Tel Aviv. I made my way up to a woman wearing a military uniform. She began asking me questions and I began freaking out because I couldn't understand her. After three tries and help from some of my group I was able to decipher her asking if I had packed this luggage and if I'd been with it the whole time. I then went on to the x-ray machine that another uniformed employee tossed my suitcase into like a sack of potatoes. From this point, some passengers were asked to go to another security counter and others were allowed to continue. This is where the sad, sad, sadness happens.
     Of course, you can see that I was asked to go to the security counter. Please remember that it is now approximately 4:27 in the morning. I've had 2 hours of sleep, I still need to finish my journal for class, and I'm ready to get out of this country and away from its awful food. I've now switched tenses, something that happens when I get too excited. So here I am, standing in another line. This one is short, but slow, because a rather intense search is going on at the counter. Finally, it is my turn. But wait! A NUN CUTS IN FRONT OF ME!! That's right, a seemingly sweet little lady in a habit cuts in front of me. So with that super experience, I wait some more, and finally get up to a woman in a dark suit with that formidable, unclear accent. At this point, I have an ugly feeling in my tummy about the Dead Sea sand inside my suitcase. The woman asks me if I have any lotions or creams from the Dead Sea, and truthfully, I said no. Perhaps I should have been a little more forthcoming, but she didn't give me time to think. "Open", she said, pointing at my suitcase. I had no choice. I unzipped the compressed disaster that was my luggage. Things sort of popped up on their own. Then, the woman and a new one began digging through my belongings. They took things out and chattered back and forth in Hebrew. They were just tossing my things left and right! My delicates were out in front of everyone! I asked if I could help and she quickly barked back no. Eventually they found the sand, chattered some more, and put it down apart from my other things. She looked at the disaster that she had made and said "Close" and then the two walked away, leaving me completely bewildered in the wreckage of my suitcase. I had to wave her back over to ask if I could keep my sand. Why on earth did I have to be so invasively searched for a bag of sand I got to keep? What a horrible day and it isn't even 5:00.

     Finally, I got a plane ticket. Our wonderful tour guide, Mickey, helped me get through an airline member line. I eventually met the others at the gate and spent my last shekels on pizza hut that had a little bit of a wang. This is where the next story starts. I started that long day off by putting a motion sickness patch behind my ear. I found it pretty effective for the first trip and wasn't taking my chances on the way home. Unfortunately, by the time I made it past those kniving, little nuns and cranky Hebrews, I had forgotten my patch and its warning about drowsiness. Since that was a thing of the past, I got into my head that I was really not interested in being sick on the way home. I asked one of the women in our group for some dramamine. That's right, more drowsiness. Vewy, vewy dwowsy..
     As I hurried to finish my journal on the flight to London, my eyelids became heavier and heavier. Finally, I had a nice airline experience when all the seats on my row were empty. After scribbling down the journal, I hoarded up all the blankets and tiny pillows I could reach and passed out. Even when I flew out of Miami between a slightly creepy man and a noisy Cuban, I slept sitting straight up. Then I got home and ate chicken and dumplings and lived happily ever after. The end :)

Holocaust Museum

     Sometimes the past is difficult to look at, especially when looking back forces you to look at yourself. I want to share another of my journal entries from my time in Israel.

     The unscheduled visit to the Holocaust Museum was an exciting surprise. I had never been to one before and had always found the Holocaust to be a point of interest. I remember a history project in fifth grade when I first learned of the event. It shocked me that so many human beings could be so cruelly abused. This wasn't even ancient history, it was recent and relateable.
     I was unprepared for how emotional I would become. In the first stages of the museum, I read about the almost imperceptible onset of racism in Germany. Much like the frog in boiling water metaphor, discrimination crept in slowly. People began making generalizations about others, assumptions that some people were too different. This slowly turned into the idea that one group was superior to another. I began to feel a personal indictment for some of the attitudes  I have, at times, harbored. How many times have I thought, even just a little, that I was better than someone else? It is that hardly noticeable attitude that opens to door to tragedies like the Holocaust.
     Continuing through the museum, it was as if I was waiting for a hero to show up. I waited for the non-Jewish neighbors to speak out in protest. I waited for the adjacent countries to object. Most of all, I waited for the U.S., my own country, to step in. I was shaken by a quote from a German pastor:
      First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out --
      Because I was not a Socialist.
      Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out --
      Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
      Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out --

      Because I was not a Jew.

      Then they came for me -- and there was no one left to speak for me.

The quote was so striking to me. It challenges the "not my problem" attitude that is so easy to adopt. Injustice is everyone's problem. If we wait until it directly effects us, it becomes too late. With this in mind, I continued to wait for the video or description or photo of the U.S. intervening. I waited in vain. Soon, I saw that not only had the U.S. ignored the injustice in Germany, but it had closed its doors to Jewish refugees. The victims had nowhere to go, no relief from the oppression of the Nazi party.

     Indignant and embarrassed, I began to watch the testimonies of those who had lived through the Holocaust. In its early stages, people lived in fear, children watched fathers and mothers be taken away. The tears came as I thought about how senseless it all was. Nothing can justify a child living with fear or a family broken apart. No reasoning can account for people being displaced, humiliated, and impoverished. Long before I reached the more graphic detailsof the internment camps I was unable to control my tears. The words "this never should have happened" echoed over and oever through my head. The most paralyzing idea was how easily the attitudes of the people who initiated, ignored, or allowed the Holocaust could be repeated, and are repeated by myself and others every day. The most dangerous thing we can do is to say another holocaust could never happen, for we are not like those people. That is the very sentiment that set the disaster in motion.

     Contrary to what we want to believe, holocausts have happened and continue to happen since WWII. But despite the attention that these deserve, I'm not talking about the big things. I'm talking about the small ones. I'm calling you and me out on thinking we are better than others. I'm blowing the whistle on the small injustices that you and I allow daily. As a writer I feel the need to draw you into this, but honestly, this post is talking to myself. 'Get over yourself' may be a good motto to adopt.

Whoa

It. Happened.

     Ever since we landed in Tel Aviv, I have been waiting. Waiting for something to happen. An epiphany, a eureka moment, an emotional experience with the Holy Land. Some of you may have noticed a negative tone throughout my updates. I apologize for this, but I have to admit that it didn't take long for me to wish I was home. I was disappointed in the big, unfriendly cities, the churches and mosques covering the good stuff, and most of all myself. Was I a defective Christian for not having that moment? Was something wrong with me because I wanted to leave?
     I may never have the emotional experience I expected, but today that became okay. There's nothing wrong with me. I don't love Jesus less because I didn't cry(not counting the Holocaust museum of course). But I can continually discover the lessons available to me through my experiences in Israel. Today was a great example.
     I was standing in church this morning singing "Jesus is all the world to me". Suddenly, I had this awareness of the truth. A little background is necessary.
     The orthodox Jewish lifestyles I saw in Israel was like stepping back in time. We were transported back into the Old Testament, the laws, the traditions, the culture. The broken relationship with God. Paul tells us that the law shows us that we need a Messiah, shows us just how screwed up we are. There are plenty of examples, but I was most interested in the relationships between men and women. In devout Jewish communities, a married woman is expected to either cover her hair or shave her head and wear a wig. This keeps her from being attractive to any man but her husband. Birth control is a negative ghost rider, so women grow old before their time caring for huge families. At the Western Wall, the place that Jews believe to be as close to the presence of God as you can get, the women have less than half as much room as the men to worship. A Jewish woman lives oppressed, ignored, and excluded from the worship of her God.
     As I stood in church this morning, I rejoiced that I was allowed to participate. I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that Jesus is indeed all the world to me. I realized how absolutely vital he is to me. Without him, I'm a nobody. Without him, I don't count. Without him, I have no voice. I have important things to do with my life. I can actively participate in worshiping God, in serving his people, in sharing his good news. Motherhood is beautiful and I hope to someday experience it, but I thank God that I am worth more than that. I saw today who my savior is. I saw what he rescued me from.
     I believe that this was only the beginning of the things I will learn from my trip. I hope that you will continue to read, because I will continue to post. Harpatkah'ah doesn't end when you get home. Adventure lasts a lifetime, woman or not. Bring it.

CAMEL DAY!!!

     Mark your calendars, because June 12 is Camel Day, complete with Camel Day hand motions and theme songs. On Camel Day, we left the green, blooming coast and headed for the Jordan Valley. As we drove, the land began to look more like I expected Israel to look. There were towering mountains with not a speck of plant life. Surprisingly, rocks and sand can be quite pretty. We did some souvenir shopping in Jericho, saw a monastery on the Mount of Temptation, and drove by a very old sycamore tree. It wasn't the original, but not too much later than the wee little man we know so well.

     At the Dead Sea Scroll caves, Dr. Ratcliffe did all but squeal like a schoolgirl. After teaching about the manuscripts found there for years, she was finally in the place it happened. Your Bible is what it is because of these scrolls. If you've ever wondered how accurate the text was after so many years, here's a fun fact. The best text we have is the Masoretic text, much of our modern translations rely heavily on it. About 1,000 years earlier than the Masoretic, the Dead Sea Scrolls were written. There are only 6 differences between the two. 6!

     Next, we went to the Dead Sea. The sand there is a weird mustardy color. Ivy and I went for a float and it was one of the strangest experiences I have ever had. I couldn't stop giggling! Then, like slow motion bumper cars, Ivy and I drifted toward each other and gingerly bounced away. We cracked up. When we finished, we had to shower off so our skin wouldn't freak out. Still, our skin felt weird and slimy for a while.

     And theeeennnnn....drum roll please.... CAMELS! We drove up some more dirt and rock covered mountains, a place that looked devoid of anything at all. Out of nowhere, we saw the patch of green that was the bedouin camp. We hopped off the bus and sat down on cushions surrounding a small fire inside a big tent. A bedouin man came to teach us about the hospitality traditions of his people. He also explained that the bedouin way of life is beginning to fade. He had been born in a tent, but now lived in a house. I was a little sad to hear about what life was like for women, but we had a some fun getting into character. An important part of the hospitality was coffee. There was a wooden container of coffee beans with a long handle sticking out. This was used not only to grind the beans, but also to make music. It must have taken years of practice to do both at the same time. There are many important nuances to being a good host or a respectful guest, but a fun one is the amount of coffee the host puts into the guest's cup. If the cup is only partially filled, it is appropriate to stay and continue drinking and visiting. If the host gives the guest a cup that is full, he'd better be on his way. This kind of cup says, "My heart is full of you".

     I know, I know, I told you we were at camels. Here they come. After learning about the bedouins, we went outside the fence around the tents (do I detect a rhyme??) to the camels. One of them was rolling around like a puppy in the dirt. Camels make the most awful noises and have even worse teeth. But as long as their mouths are shut they're pretty darn adorable. We paired up and sat on either side of the hump. The camels were tied in lines of about 5. Carefree as can be, the camel behind me walked up and used my knee to scratch his neck. We walked around the camp for a while. As soon as she stopped crying in terror, 10-year-old Grace began to name them all and sing about Camel Day. It was a very successful holiday, if I do say so myself.

     We all agreed that the bedouin camp had the best food we ate the entire trip. We sat on cushions at low tables and enjoyed some delicious, fluffy bread and (finally) identifiable meat. The low table made the meal into a very shared experience. We enjoyed each other as much as the food. After filling our bellies, we slept in another tent. Our entire group was in one tent, which if phrased just right gets us in a bit of trouble :P Despite having a pretty thin pallet to sleep on, another group of girls being obnoxious at 4am, and the desert getting a little cold at night, we all really enjoyed the experience. I think most of us would have been happy to stay a few more nights.