Hebrew Bible and Christian Scriptures

As it’s halfway through January and I haven’t written a word on this thing, I thought I should make a start of it. New Year’s and the following week was spent in South Africa (specifically in the Pretoria/Johannesburg region) and there is much to say about that. I attended my first professional academic conference as a potential future PhD candidate and saw many zebra while on safari.But before I jump into discussions of either of those things – let me tell you about the journey back to Waco.

Getting back from Johannesburg was an adventure to say the least. I was traveling with Brother-in-Law, so thankfully I had someone else to help me navigate the shenanigans. Upon arriving at Johannesburg International (JNB) on Sunday evening, we were told the weather in Atlanta was turning ridiculous and our flights leaving ATL were all cancelled. We stood in line for about 45 minutes to be told that fact and then were directed to stand in another line because we were trying to fly anywhere by ATL. As any seasoned American traveler knows, getting stuck in ATL when there is ice on the way is to be avoided at all costs. That line took another few hours to be told that no, in fact, we had to go to ATL and get stuck there and Delta didn’t care for how long we’d be there

Charming of Delta, eh?

So, after all of that, we had about five minutes to check our bags, find our gate and board the plane. Thankfully, that all happened and we settled in for a 17 hour flight which we knew was only leading us to more headaches.

Upon landing in ATL on Monday morning, there were even more lines and we stood in them for about three hours to find out that the earliest we could leave was possibly Tuesday afternoon but most likely Wednesday or Thursday. Awesome. So my quick-thinking brother-in-law called Amtrak to see if there was a train going from ATL to Philly and could we have a seat on it. They said yes and there was much rejoicing. The train left that evening at 8, so we had about 7 hours to kill in the airport. We found plugs for our phones, snack and coffee and settled in to wait.

Around 5 we decided to make our way to the train, taking the MARTA to the closest stop to the Amtrak station. That still meant we had to walk a mile or so in snow to get to the train. For me, the best part about this part is our attire. Remember we had been in South Africa for two weeks, which is in the throws of summer. Our footwear were TOMS and flip-flops and I had on linen pants. There are some ridiculous pictures of our jaunt through the ghost town the ice turned the town into.

We finally made it to the train and boarded for our 16 hour journey to Trenton where my wonderful mother was there to collect us. We thought we were leaving Philly the next morning for Waco, but weather once again had other plans. More snow hit Philly on Wednesday morning, pushing our flight to Thursday morning. This delay was frustrating, but at least we were someone safe and warm and we were well fed. There was also a puppy to cuddle with and a fireplace to enjoy.

Thursday morning was spent racing to a very early flight out of Philly to DFW and then waiting in DFW for a few hours to finally return to Waco. So, after many detours and an extra 52 hours, we landed in Waco early on Thursday afternoon.

The moral of the story? Due to ATL’s complete inability to deal with snow, it should be avoided as a connection city during the winter at all costs. Which means one must also avoid Delta at all costs. Lesson learned.

There are lots of ways to measure a year – how many large events, how many small events, top ten lists or collections of pictures. I find myself struggling with how to define this year. There have been amazing experiences – like collecting a few new passport stamps – and some other ones which are less than amazing. I made some life changing decisions this year – like applying for a doctoral degree – and a thousand ones which simply shaped my life – like my relationship with Chipotle.

So, how do I sum up 2010? I am not, in all honestly, quite sure. Perhaps I’ll be able to articulate it better in future months or years. Like I said above, there are concrete events which I can celebrate, but even those have lingering effects which I have yet to fully ascertain. I’m still not fully sure how to process much of what happened in India, let alone Colombia.

Thus, I have decided to simply offer snapshots of memories. Because I am myself, I had to put a limit, so I chose twenty. Twenty shutter clicks out of possibly millions.

How I rung in the New Year – aboard the Ruby Princess

All the ingredients of my Irish Stew, which I made often this year. It was a strange act of liturgy for me as I began to craft ideas of my future. As I would smell the stew simmering, I would dreaming of what future lives could look like. The stew and the dreaming are both markers of the year.

Adding to the dreaming of a life back in Norn Iron was Muzzo’s visit in Feburary. We explored Waco and had all sorts of ridiculous adventures but mostly just reminded each other of the place we both loved.

The Lady Bears were in the Final Four and we had the privilege of attending the game in San Antonio. SIC ‘EM BEARS!

Siblings. Marker of life, not just the year.

For a few weeks, we had a foster dog named Utley and she brought much joy to our lives. The day she went to her always home was very sad.

Even though it was only a few short days, the time in Hong Kong was so excellent. I loved walking around and feeling the energy.

There were several unbelievable moments in India – most of which I don’t know how to talk about. One of those is the few moments spent making chipati at the Sikh temple in Delhi.

Another moment I haven’t found words for was standing in front of Mother Theresa’s original house and feeling the enormity of her legacy.

It was a great privilege to get to share India with many travelers – but especially my brother-in-law.

Colombia is a beautiful country, let that be known. This particular shot was taken outside Medellin and the vision of the mist rising over the mountains imprinted on my soul.

Invisible Dots of Death. Images that break my soul in half.

Traveling companions through Colombia.

For one brief day, we got to introduce another Waco favorite to our favorite city.

This little here? Spent a lot of time with her. Loved every minute.

This fall semester was full of game nights with the favorites.

The Onion defines so much of my life in Waco.

There is a certain point at which there is no better description of Texas than the State Fair. Not the selection of fried things at this one particular booth. You could also buy fried beer, fried caviar, fried salad, fried alligator, fried oreos and fried pop tarts.

Birthday week was musical themed this year – I especially love the monster book which molts fur all over my house.

Sisters. This was taken right before my birthday party and I love it. Not only do I think we both look great (agree with me, won’t you?), but it’s just joyful.

Since at least 1948, the cultural answer for conflict in Colombia has been violence. The guerrillas want power, the cartels want power, the government wants power. The only way to achieve it is to kill anyone standing in your way. In similar stories to thousands of others in conflict countries – there are few other lives provided to the citizens of Colombia than to participate in the cycle. So the question – which I pose as a social worker and a person of faith – is where is hope? How can things ever change?

During my weeks in Colombia this summer, I had the privilege of spending time with inmates in two of the prisons in Medellin. After a morning in Bellavista, I scribbled down some thoughts that I haven’t known how to share. As we move towards the new year, I want to process the events of my year. The one which I have processed the least is my time in Colombia, so the trend should start there. After several failed attempts of crafting my scribbles into something larger, I am simply going to offer them in their entirety.

Upon entering Bellavista and after being fingerprinted and patted down, we walked past the soccer field. That field is where they used to play futbol with other inmate’s heads. Bellavista, you see, was once the most dangerous prison in the world. The stories I heard that day of its ‘heyday’ would turn anyone’s stomach. Now, however, it’s controlled. My friend Weimar tells me the most dangerous now is in Venezuela. Anyway, we walked through the courtyard and up the stairs, being jubilantly greeting by prisoners and guards alike. I was even invited to play chess! We were lead up a narrow flight of stairs to a room full of school chairs. Discarded clothes laid neatly upon them – the men had changed their for their upcoming baptisms.

I stood in a room reserved for reconciliation counseling and restorative justice and drank in the juxtapositions of healing, freedom and barbed wire.

After being offered coffee – yes, hospitality is holy even in prison – we were lead into the ‘temple’. Built and maintained by the prisoners, their church building is a bright room with plastic chairs and proclamations of their faith painted on the walls. I should explain here – the churhces in Bellavista are organized by patio (cell block). We met the pastor of this particular patio, a gentleman named Carlos. He was serving time for homicide, but like so many others found a new life while in prison. He explained that 15 men would be baptized that morning. Each had been led to faith by a fellow prisoner and each had been through a class before being allowed to make the confession.

The worship service was already happening – deeply off tune but achingly passionate singing filled the temple. I could actually feel their need to tell God how much they loved him and who he was to them; tangible joy overwhelmed me.

A baby pool was brought in filled with water. One by one the men were called forward. In white robes, they loudly confessed their faith in the living Christ. The pastor proclaimed that they were burried in Christ and raised by the Spirit as two staff members of the prison ministry dunked them under the water. And with that simple action, they demonstrated a change that had already begun.

We talk a lot in faith circles about change which must come with confession. I’ve rarely seen it demonstrated as strongly as I did that morning. Those men who were sentenced for heinous crimes stood up and rejected the plan for life their culture provided. They chose no to perpetual violence and yes to mercy and grace. They chose no to the cycle that runs through Colombia like a disease run amok and chose yes to reconciled life. It was possibly the holiest thing I’ve witnessed.

typical view as we drove in the outskirts of medellin

I used to think I was a person who processed quickly. That I would come back from some ridiculous experience and be able to summarize and compartmentalize it and move on. I know now this is not true. I have levels of processing and I have only begun to enter the first stage of processing for my experiences in Medellin. I can give you a brief photo summary (which I’m about to do) and tell you some quick stories, but I’m not super confident that I’m conveying anything elegantly.

Also, know that some of the most significant experiences were not photographable ones. Look forward to word pictures about prison, baptism and hugging guerillas.

At one point, the question was posed to me if Colombia was the first violent country in the world. The first country to create culture around violence and the myth that more violence is the solution to violence. With grief in my heart, I had to assure the person ‘no.’ That the story of humanity is littered with misconceptions and casualties that stem from the deep brokenness we find ourselves in. I suppose that is why I was both over and under whelmed by Colombia. I felt like I had heard the stories in many different languages and in many different contexts, but in the same way, the stories were distinctly Colombian. I look forward to talking about those further.

Precious button at the La Cruz feeding center

La Cruz Feeding Center

Lunch : potatoes, carrots, yuca and beef. For most of the kids at the center, the two meals they provide are the only meals the children get the entire week. Any conversation about poverty really should also include nutrition.

Another precious : I spent most of the time at the feeding center hanging out and taking pictures and attempting not to cry at the holiness of it all

View of the houses of Medellin from the gondola ride we took from Acevedo

New friends : myself and dana with michael and natalia

It’s tamales wrapped in banana leaves, but it looks like the snack Samwise takes for the journey to Mordor.

One of the more awesome experiences I had was the privilege of chatting with some girls about worth, dignity and respect. It was like standing in Belfast, but with more Spanish. Holy. Moment.

A raw coffee bean

Travel Buddies : Dana, Myself, Sarah

When I talk more about Medellin in further blogs, I want you to remember this dot. It marks a boundary called “The Invisible Line,” and they’re scattered throughout the city. One of my friends actually told me that things are more violent in Medellin now than they’ve ever been. And that, my dear readers, is a statement. If someone who does not live past this dot crosses the line, they will die. Plain and simple. And something that I haven’t stopped crying about since being told.

sunset on friday in bogota

Colombia was the first trip I’ve taken in a while where I was not academically prepared ahead of time. A lot of that was due to continual India recovery, but most was due to being completely overwhelmed by my lack of knowledge about South America and not knowing where to start my search. While I felt often frustrated by my lack of comprehension and my need to ask the same question repeatedly, it was also refreshing to simply be a learner. Colombia, from what I can ascertain, is at a crossroads of sorts. A new president is about to take office while gang warfare is ramping up in Medellin. Almost everyone I spoke to was eager to share their stories and opinions – a researcher’s dream. I plan on blogging properly about Colombia itself in the next little bit, so look forward to that. But first – the traditional photo tour of my few days in Bogota!

Randomly, on Wednesday morning, Leckie and I stumbled upon a protest parade. We’re still unclear as to the point of the protest, but we do know that “kick the gringos out” was invoked and the above people thought we were in 1988.

Police patiently guard a peaceable protest taking place outside government buildings in Candellaria

Stumbled upon this gentleman in Old Bogota

Leckie, Marcella and Cyndy : new friends out for dinner and coffee

Meet Christian, the newest supermodel to come out of Bogota. No, really, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. Christian lives at a resident for at-risk boys in Bogota where we spent our Friday afternoon. After becoming a music video director and an English tutor, I quickly became a fashion photographer with all the boys doing their best poses. Christian was the chief star.

Me, Leckie, Ximenia, Cyndy : new friends hanging out with the boys

Last evening in Bogota: dinner with Leckie, Fabian and Cyndy

thank you, michael, for this glorious shot taken at sunrise

Really, all there is in Agra is the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort. Because when those two things are in a city, why would you focus on anything else? This post will be largely pictures. Also, the Taj is just as impressive as you think it is. There are things in life that are underwhelming because the hype overtakes the reality. However, the Taj is not one of them. It was incredible to stand there and gawk at the incredible structure. The detail is fantastic and the symmetry is striking.

We’re almost at the end of our recaps of India – only one city left, friends! Stay tuned for the last round of temples and forts: or, our time in delhi

This is the entrance gate to the Taj. Yeah, just the entrance.

THE TAJ MA-FREAKING-HALL! I happened to be walking in next to Stroope and I looked at him and shrieked. He just laughed.

Side view

Detail work on the Taj

These are the pieces that make up the detail work on the Taj. And each of those pieces are made up of several pieces. DETAIL.

What the Taj looks like backlit

Obligatory picture

Clearly, my turn

Me and Stroope

Architecture at Red Fort

Another shot taken by Michael on his early morning adventure

Me and Michael in front of the Taj

a view of the ghats of varanassi from the river

Varanasi, located on the banks of the Ganges River, is the holiest city in India. It’s regarded as deeply holy by Hindus, Buddhists and Jains and is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. Varanasi is in the state of Uttar Pradesh and contains hundreds of temples to various gods in various faith systems. Those are some simple words to sum up one of the most chaotic and fascinating and frustrating and beautiful cities I’ve ever been to. There are hundreds of legends that surround Varanasi, and I’d encourage you to seek them out for yourself. (For instance, the creation of the Ganges as rivets of water flowing from Shiva’s hair is one of my favorite.)

I’ve struggled how to explain this city. I decided that instead of offering my traditional summary, I’d rely largely on the photo summary. Know that we were there for about three days and arrived and left by train. We took a boat ride down the river at sunrise and attended an evening worship service unlike I’ve ever seen. In our team language, Varanasi was the bottom of the Indian well. It was the place that the messes that come with Indian culture came up and demanded our attention in a way that hadn’t happened before. Plus, friends, it was HOT. We were hot everywhere, but Varanasi was like baking inside a humid oven.

My experiences in Varanasi will probably feature in my posts again, especially as I begin to understand how to describe it. In light of that, stay tuned for the final two summaries concerning Agra and Delhi.

How we arrived in Varanasi: night train from Calcutta to Varanasi. This is the compartment I shared with CJ, Katie and Kari.

CJ hangs over to her bed to watch Chef Kari make our snack

I love that the cow is sleeping right underneath the sign for the Internet cafe

Man sitting by the ghats

Me and my travel buddy Casey in the back our of cycle rickshaw

Clearly, I have no idea what this says. But this is what Hindi looks like.

Boy playing in the Ganges

The Ganges Arti is performed each night at the same ghat at sunset. It’s an amazing example of devotion and ritual that I was honored to experience. It’s also typically dichotomous. People sitting next to cows, mixed with child beggars and girls selling hand stamps, next to men selling Dora the Explorer blow-up toys and tourists with expensive cameras. All while the service is happening and the sun sets.

A large part of Hindu worship experiences is about getting the attention of the diety. Gongs are clanged, bells rung, insense burned, candles lit – it’s a completely visceral experience. So here’s a shot of the end of the arti, where the priest ritualistically throws flower petals in the air.

The Bodi Tree where Buddha received his enlightenment – located just outside Varanasi

Tibetan prayer flags hanging around the Bodi Tree

There’s a Jain temple located down the road from the Bodi Tree. Ask me about peacock feathers sometime.

Please remember that I love India when I say this : the three hours we spent on the Varanasi Train Station platform will rank as three of my least favorite hours of life. Hot, stuffy, rats, exhaustion…

Out of order, I know, but I wanted this to be your parting shot of Varanasi.

“Mother’s First Love”, Mother Theresa’s Home for the Dying and Destitute

Kolkata is a mess of contradictions. For instance – Kalighat. Kalighat is the temple to the goddess Kali, who is the manifestation of the destructive power of the god Shiva. Shiva is the creator of the universe, but his dark side and the side that can destroy all things is called Kali. I find it interesting that the destructive force is feminine – but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, the Kalighat temple is insanity. It’s the only temple that still accepts human sacrifice as a way to appease the diety and the best way I can describe the temple is that it’s a circus of color and prayer and insense. However, right next to it – literally sharing a wall – is Mother Theresa’s Home for the Dying. Talk about juxtapositions. The home is a sanctuary for people. There is only limited medical care – if you are a patient there, you are terminal and there is no hope. And yet, as I stood in front of it that day, I felt nothing but hope. In the midst of the worship place to the goddess of destruction, a small woman stood up and said ‘no’. She said ‘no’ to the idea that humanity is simply playthings of the gods and that people who are dying are worth being discarded. She said no to the cycle of understanding that if you are poor, you deserve it.

She chose yes to hope and to grace and to dignity. She chose yes to believing that loving one person may not change the known universe, but that it makes a difference to that person. In the midst of overwhelming sadness, chaos and destruction, she choose yes to love. I cannot fathom that and yet know I must make the same decision. I must chose yes to hope and to love. I must.

everywhere a misionaries of charity house is, this statue will be too. mother saw her job as quenching the thirst of Jesus and her sisters do as well.

rickshaw rides in kolkata as we walk to mother house

Clearly, there are elements of our time in Calcutta that defy words. At a later date, I plan on highlighting some of those elements in their own post. To give you an overview, however, is appropriate for this post.

Kolkata, as Calcutta is now called, is the capital of West Bengal. The commercial capital of East India, the metropolitan area has a population of around 15 million. During the time of the Raj, it served as the capital and was regarded as a second London of sorts. There were times I felt like I was in a British Victorian city – the same architecture, similar street names. But at the same time, it’s distinctly Indian. Life happening on the street and rickshaws being pulled amidst the rest of the culture. One of the best ways I can describe it is this: Imagine Times Square in the 80s and 90s – life happening everywhere and stepping over people to get into restaurants. That’s Kolkata. The slums, of course, are a different ballgame. 25% of the city’s 6 million live in slums. I walked through some of them today to get to the home I’m working at and they were every bit as bad as your imagination tells you they are. Children – naked or partially clothed – running everywhere, women doing laundry on the side of the road, men dealing glue to huff so people forget how hungry they are … these are all realities of life in a slum.

We spent our time living at the Fairlawn Hotel on Sudder Street, working at one of Mother’s houses and eating at the Blue Sky Cafe. We spent five days in this fascinating, bustling city and I loved it. I loved that we were there long enough to have a routine and long enough to know people in the neighborhood. I love that we bought water at the same place every morning and that we could walk to the coffee shop on Park Ave. I know several of my teammates who hated Kolkata and it’s frenzy and they were not sad to leave. I was. I feel unfinished with Kolkata – hoping to go back and spend more time collecting stories of natives and expats alike.

We’ll do our brief photo tour and then stay tuned for next time when we’ll talk about Missionaries of Charity, Mother Theresa and how those things have intersected in my story.

The view from our hotel gate. The white building contains the Blue Sky Cafe, easily Michael’s favorite eating establishment. Anywhere. We probably ate 70% of our meals in Kolkata here. Our waiter there was Chico and he is amazing and we miss him.

We stayed at a British hotel. Complete with tea time each afternoon. Here, Stroope proves to us that he did live in the U.K.

Laundry : one of those things that happens in the street and happens in droves when it rains.

The entrance to Mother House, which serves as the headquarters of the Missionaries of Charity. The room where Mother spent her life and last moments is preserved for posterity. It’s a surreal and holy experience

Mother’s tomb

We ended our time in Kolkata by spending about eight hours in the train station as we waited on our delayed train to Varanassi

reflections in kerala

Our final stop in southern India was Cochin, located in the state of Kerala. It’s referred to as “God’s Own Country,” because it’s simply that beautiful. The language is Malayalam and it is the most non-Hindu state in India, with only 40% of the population claiming Hinduism. Our time there was one of Sabbath and tourism, spending one day doing each. On the Saturday of our time, we were given a Sabbath day. Some of us slept in, some of us journaled, some of us watched television. We did gather for a time in the morning to discuss the nature of ‘mission’ and its role in the Kingdom. It was an excellent conversation about roles and vision, grace and community. That night was also the night of the EPIC game of Telepictionary, which resulted in Andy’s new nickname.

Sunday was a definitive tourism day. We went to the oldest church in India, visited Vasco DeGama’s grave, helped some fisherman bring in their catch, toured old castles from the time of the Dutch and took in a cultural theater experience that evening. We also had the opportunity to visit Jewtown, which is literally an Orthodox Jewish community nestled in amongst Cochin. The synagogue there is the oldest among the British empire. It’s random and beautiful. (Side note: one of my Jewish friends and I were talking before I left and I told him I was going to Jewtown. He responded that it’s not an authentic Jewish community unless there are bagels and nagging mothers. I saw neither, so take that for what it’s worth.)

By the time we finished in Cochin, I was anxious to head north. The cultures in each Indian state are diverse (much like Phoenix and Atlanta have different cultures), but the divide between north and south is strong. There is significantly more Western influence down south – mostly due to the various East India Companies that settled and prospered there. Besides the British, no other country penetrated the north, and they did very little cultural change there.

So, onto the photo tour of our time in Cochin. Because of the cultural shifting point, this provides a great opportunity to pause. The next post will be a brief introduction to Hinduism, followed by a quick history of India which I’ve been meaning to type since before I left and then onto Jaipur.

This is Katie, CJ and Stroope playing in the Arabian Sea. We gathered on Saturday evening on the beach to watch the sunset.

Sunset on the Arabian Sea. My life is ridiculous.

See the above link for further explanation – but this is how they fish in Cochin. They let tourist come onto the platform and pull up the nets.

Gates of the synagogue. Pictures were not allowed inside, clearly.

Signage in the city

This is one of the more ridiculous stories from the trip. In Cochin at the resort we stayed at, we were offered the opportunity to do ayurvedic massages. Thinking this would be super relaxing, Mike, Kari and I signed up. Instead of a massage, it was an oil bath and instead of relaxing, it was traumatic. But, as they say, bad decisions make good stories!

I have no words to describe Kathakali. Theater, culture, awkward… all appropriate words. I’m going to let Wikipedia take this one.