An Idea

Driving home just now I saw this verse of scripture on a car bumper. Actually, an SUV, but I don't suppose that matters. 2 Chronicles 7:14. So I came home and looked it up.

2 Chronicles 7:14 If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.

Here's what I wonder. If you put that scripture on your bumper, do you forget it's there? I'm afraid that's likely. Or is it already part of your thinking so that you do those four things, or try to, every day? 

1. humble yourself (myself)
2. pray
3. seek your (my) Father's face
4. turn from your (my) wicked ways

I believe we are called by God's name. Or by the name of his son. We have taken his name and call ourselves Christians. And, goodness knows, we need forgiveness. And we need healing.

It's not on my bumper sticker, but it's in my head now and worth trying, I say. I wonder how long I'll remember.

Hastings. It's a huge store.

I'm not judging. Well, I'm trying not to.

I mean, I know little about what passes for music these days, so I guess it should not surprise me that people who work in a store that sells music and CDs with music on them know nothing about certain other music, like Handel's Messiah.

"I'm looking for the Messiah." That's me speaking to the manager of the store.
"Is that music?"
"Yes." That's me.
"Is it Christmas music?" That's him.
"Moan." I didn't say the word. I moaned.  Then I said, "Yes," like the polite old lady I am.

He asked Amber to direct me to the Christmas music section. I looked it over and said, "I'm looking for the Messiah. Have you heard of it?"

Pause. Then I showed her the CD cover I carried in with me. It said Handel's Messiah.

"Oh. Hondel's Messiah. Yes."
"Good. Do you have it here?"
"Hmmm. Not sure."

We looked. All this stuff was used, by the way.

"Let's go over to the classical section," she said, which was even smaller than the Christmas music section.

"Here," she said. Then, "Oh no. That's not Hondel. That's Hayden." The Hay part as in what you feed your horses.

Believe me. I don't usually do what I did then. But I did it today. I said, "That's Haydn. You'll want to know how to say it correctly." Note. I didn't correct her pronunciation of Handel. It is German, after all.

To her credit, she thanked me and said, "I guess I haven't ever heard anything by him."

This is no big deal. I'm aware of that. It just seems kind of big to me.

I said to her as I turned to go, "This is a very small classical music section."
"Yes, I know," she said.
"When people like me are gone," I said, "there won't be one at all."

Just home from shopping

What I don't want when purchasing items.

1. Do you have a ____________credit card?
2. Would you like to open an account today and get 15% off your purchase?
3. Are you a member of our rewards club?
4. Would you like to join?
5. Would you like to donate 73 Cents (or 47, or 29, or 8) to Food Bank, Red Cross, Boys and Girls Clubs, Am Fam, whatever?
6. Please take the survey on the back of the receipt. You could win--what?--half the world or something like it.

What I do want.

The cashier tells me what I owe. I pay it. We exchange a thank you. I take my stuff and leave.

Body surfing. Believe it

A poem I read the other day said that people under water do not know up from down. Seems unbelievable, but it's true. I know from experience. 

So this post. It's from something I wrote some years ago.

Pardon the varied spacing and such.

It's one thing to catch the wave and ride it in. There's a technique to it, of course, but that is not what this is about. This is about when you don't catch the wave.

When you miss it you miss it, and one of several things can happen.  Maybe you are not low enough in the water or don’t swim hard enough and the wave moves too fast and gets ahead of you.  In that case you just float up, watch it break, and start looking for the next big one. 

   Or maybe you can’t get out to it in time and it begins break on you.  In that case, if you can get your breath, you dive through the wave, right below the top of it, and you’re okay.  

Otherwise, it takes you under, and, in that case, you are “taken” in the worst sense of the word.  Time slows then as you are tumbled, churned, rolled over and over, thrown to the sand, which is the only way you know down from up, unless you open your eyes and catch one glimpse of light above the water’s surface.  There it is, you think, there’s the top, all the while holding your breath, needing air, fighting for it, for control, for a way up and out, but fighting does not save you. 

It’s the wave, as if it has had enough of you, has taught you something, perhaps, and simply lets you up.  And when you break through the water and open your mouth wide to grab in air, you look around and see that everything and everyone looks the way they always did, like nothing at all had happened, and no one knows you are not the same person who went under.  But you’re not, because you’ve been down there in panic, thinking your life was ending . . . within a breaking wave on the Santa Monica beach you know well so close to your home and yet not there with your mother or anyone you love or might love if you could survive and your life shouldn’t end in such a stupid way with your bathing suit full of sand your mouth shut so that you can’t cry for help or shout against it or say anything to anyone and your eyes shut so that you can’t even see the end coming . . . under water, but actually becoming a new person with this forced immersion, this sudden, ceremony-less baptism.

     And if you come out of it a new person, if the wave teaches you, what do you learn?  That you are not invincible?  That the wave has a will of its own and your will cannot interfere there?  Perhaps you learn not to fight but to relax and give yourself over, that some things—many things—are stronger than you and you are small against them.  Or perhaps you learn that whereas you thought you were strong you are not or maybe that you are actually stronger than you thought because, after all, you came up and walked away.  Perhaps you simply learn to value life and breath.

Oh my.

Okay. I did it.

They will be delivered Monday.

I spent about twice as much as I thought I would.

What else is new?

I've had buyer's remorse, and I could swear my washer spoke to me today as I put a load in. "I'm good, " it said. "I'm still good."

Randomness

Don't you think it's kind of weird that my neighbors across the street are named Quick and my neighbors behind me are named Click?

I do.

*    *    *

If you ever need your face cut, as in skin cancer surgery, I can recommend Dr Funke. I think my scars will be not too bad.

That is a recommendation, you know, because she had to do a lot of cutting to get all the cancer--a hole the size of a dime, and that's big when it's over your eyebrow. And stitching. Twenty-three stitches, actually.

*    *    *

The cold weather is here, not winter, but a darn cold autumn. Not one day warmer than low 50s this whole week. I don't like running the furnace, dries the air, you know. I turn the thing off at night and scrunch down in my bed with lots of covers then turn the heat back on in the morning. So, is it costing me more money to run it that way? I really need to know.

*    *    *

Yesterday I ate an entire artichoke for my lunch. I mean, that was lunch. It was good enough, but I don't think I need another artichoke for a while. Maybe a whole year.

Hmmm, What to do

My dryer makes noise. Loud metal on metal noise. Really loud. This noise has been happening for a few weeks, and it might be getting louder. Like, by the day. Maybe.

It makes me think I need a new one.

So I went to Sears yesterday, looking. I thought I'd stick with Kenmore. But why? Kenmore is made by Whirlpool--and so is Maytag--so why bother? And I've learned over the years not to buy fancy features, like the little shelf you can stick inside for delicates, or the 300 fabric settings, just in case you might need that. No, I am looking for basic. Just something to get the job done.

Anyway, at Sears I could get a Kenmore/Whirlpool dryer that looks good. I mean, one that does the job, has a pull-down door, no fancy stuff, for $500. Plus $79 for delivery and installation. Plus $28 for the hose and hook-up gizmo and other stuff. Oh yeah, and plus tax.

I told Ann. She said, "Have you thought about a used one?"

I said. "I have a used one."

She said, "You know what I mean." I did know, and, no, I hadn't thought about it.

Lucile said to go to Home Depot or Lowe's. Maybe cheaper there. I will go there this morning.

My dryer is 22 years old. As old as my house, a year older than my granddaughter Anna. Not so old for a person. Pretty old for a dryer, and I wish I had a nickel for every time someone--sales person and regular person--has said, "Well, you'll never get that much use out of a new one." Okay, another reason to keep this one. Noise or no noise.

You may be thinking I have my money's worth out of my current dryer. Twenty-two years. But here's the thing. It still dries the clothes. I can shut the door to the laundry room and leave the noise behind, well, some of it.

Just a Part of Growing Up, You Say

My father used a hatchet to chop off the heads of chickens. Why I watched I don't know. I couldn't have been older than five or six.

No doubt there was blood, but I don't remember it. Just now I wonder if Daddy washed the hatchet blade after each kill or if the blood of all the chickens he killed mingled on the blade. Oh well. What I do remember is being sad and sorry about the chicken. I have never liked the idea of death, and seeing it close up made it more real than I expected. I don't know what I expected. I was a child, remember.

Of course, I later ate the chicken with the rest of the family. That's why Daddy killed them, so Mama could cook them for our dinner. I wonder if I put it all together then.

I do not know what I was thinking as I watched that hatchet come down and hit the neck of the chicken. That was a hard thing. The hardest part, though, was seeing what happened after Daddy chopped off the head. I am sure I thought that would be the end of it--you chop off a chicken's head, and it's dead. No. It's not dead yet, or it doesn't know it's dead. It runs around the yard until--until what? Until it can't run any more, I guess.

Such a scene, such an event was shocking, perhaps even traumatic for a little girl. I don't know how many such executions (harsh word, I know) I saw. Maybe only one. And, again, I do not know why I was watching. Where was my mother?

We also had rabbits. I don't think I ever saw how Daddy killed them, but I know he did because I remember seeing their skins stretched across those wire frames. And I remember eating the rabbit Mama cooked.

Don't get the wrong idea about my dad. I can say with full confidence that these killing chores were just that--chores. He was not a blood-thirsty man. Far from it. He was a provider, and that's why we had chickens and rabbits, because they fed us. Someone had to do the killing. It was Daddy's job. I suppose I understood that all those sixty-some year ago. I suppose.

(I know we also had goats, but we didn't drink goat's milk and we didn't eat goat's meat, so I'm not sure of their purpose, except to eat down the grass and weeds in the vacant lot. But that was before we moved to Santa Monica, which is where we had the chickens, at least the ones I remember.)

The chickens. The killing of them has stayed in my memory all these many years. I can still see that headless chicken running wildly around the yard, soon to be followed by another. And I wonder if a small girl witnessing such a thing didn't file away what she saw and keep it as just one more reason to be afraid of things.

The Owl Has Flown

I'm in my writing room. Duh.

I just heard the finches outside my window. Last night I heard crows in the back yard, not that I love crows. And, yes, the squirrels are back, jumping on the trees--especially when they see me coming--running around my lawns, pulling up mouthfuls of grass. Nest building, no doubt. And, no, I don't much like squirrels either.

Clearly, the owl is gone, and the other animals know it. They are risking the return, coming back home.

I can't help how that sounds--too, too sweet, like I need to get a life. Tough.

I could go on about how this is really MY home. But why bother? It does not good.

And here's another perspective. I was standing on Jan's front step last week when that one squirrel came running over to her yard. He began doing all the little tricks and poking into things as I have seen him do many times in her absence.

I said, "He thinks this is his yard."

She said, "It is his yard." And she seemed quite happy about it.

Truth is Truth

Last night a friend told me something I want always to remember. No doubt I will.

He said it was one of those sayings you see somewhere, couldn't remember where. No matter, I say.

Here it is.

We must save the planet. It's the only place we can get chocolate.

Keep Your Eyes Open

Yesterday we passed the 11th anniversay of 9/11.  And I do remember where I was--coming downstairs to go for a long training walk. Wayne and Richard were in the family room watching the terrible events unfold. I sat with them for a time. We were all stunned and I could hardly believe what I saw. Too frightening. The world changed that day.

I walked with those pictures of the World Trade Center going down playing over and over in my mind. When I got home I called Ann. We cried together.

Later in the day President Hinckley spoke to us via satellite from Salt Lake City. To offer comfort and counsel. Many of us needed it.

Wayne went to work. Richard went to work. That night I taught my class, and that event in New York is what we wrote about. I will always remember my student from Croatia writing, and telling us, that this frightened her more than the war she had escaped from, because this is America. She came here knowing she would be safe.

What changes have come about in those 11 years. Many.

In my family: Richard is married, living in Canada, two beautiful children. Alyce is married, living in Pennsylvania. Wayne no longer sits in the family room or goes to work. And I miss him. I have retired from teaching. And so on and so forth.

Today, this very day, Israel is miffed at the treatment (a euphemism for snub) Netanyahu has received from the White House. And I am, too. Unrest (a euphemism for violence) in Egypt. Muslim protesters storming the US Embassy, burning our flag. Libyan muslims burning the US embassy in Benghazi, killing the ambassador and three other Americans.

Why? Apparently someone in this country made a film that, purportedly, insults the prophet.

The world is not a more peaceful place. And--dare I say it?--we had better watch out for the muslims.

Oh yes, I know, we're supposed to say muslim extremists, but look at the news photos. There are more than a few people involved in these very violent acts. Obviously, many muslims are extreme in their behavior.

Poem, September 2012

So. I haven't put up those pictures of Petra. It seems such a hard task, so I have simply not done it.

What I'll put here is what I think may be the completed version of the poem I started some weeks ago and posted in The Widow's Chronicle. But it's risky to think I have finished it. There's always another day, another way of seeing it.

What I See

That squirrel
plays around my neighbor's lopsided maple tree,
jumps up on the trunk and runs down,
turns flips, stops to flick his tail,
then repeats the whole dance.
It is like a dance,
wild and joyful.

What I see is his singleness.
Day after day he runs to that tree,
always alone.
And I try to draw some lesson,
as I often do.

I have seen squirrels
perform those acrobatic flips
in my own yard, but always by twos.
They chase between
the ash and the dawn redwood,
stopping now and then
to hold a pose for one another,
dash up the trees and down again
or take their noisy chase
across my roof.

Funny how the birds hold their peace
while the squirrels play.
The blackbirds and sparrows stay still
and out of sight,
even the mourning doves,
who every day whine out their grief.
(What are they mourning? I wonder.)
Perhaps the birds watch
from the nearby sycamore or honey locust,
drawing their own lessons.

The trees I know,
what they will do and when,
like the sycamore--it will hold its leaves
until late, late autumn
while the ash turns wine red
with the first frost--
or the dawn redwood
which, in spite of its name,
is not an evergreen.
And I know the birds--
robins, quail, magpies, even flickers
peck their way around my lawns;
sparrows and finches have long used
corners of my house for nest building,
with my blessing.

I don't much like squirrels,
but here they are,
so, yes, I watch them,
note their wildness with some small envy
and, after twenty years,
thought I knew them.
But this one squirrel
acting out his happy dance alone--
I do not know what it means
for him, for me,
perhaps nothing at all.
But it seems not quite right,
and I cannot believe
that squirrel
is not longing for something,
someone.


As I write it here, I see a few spots I'll likely have to come back to, tinker with. But I'll leave it for now.

It's now Saturday, and I have tinkered, and how.

Petra

On the way to Petra, which is in Jordan.

Camels grazing, as we might see cattle here at home.

A home by the highway, simple and unpretentious.

You can google Petra and, while you're at it, google Nabataeans.

Here we are at Petra. I cannot describe its effect upon me. Perhaps the pictures will show you.

Doesn't look like much from here.

Or here.

We're just getting started.

 But you can see there was some sophisticated society here who knew how to use the rocks that surrounded everything.

More to follow. Maybe tomorrow.

What the shoemaker gave to his wife

It has become clear to me that writing about Petra, our final stop, is daunting.

I don't think it's because that is the last and the all of my trip. But there must be some reason I have not written it.

Whatever. The fact is I have not done it.

So.

Maybe in a day or two I'll post some pictures of the place and let it go at that.

But not now. Not yet.

It is a fabulous place, by the way.

Shopping in Old Jerusalem

You can buy many things here. I think most of them are made in Israel--as opposed to China. I think.
The first three pictures are Brian's.

This is a street with shops on either side.

Yes, it's crowded.

On the street in Old Jerusalem you can buy freshly ground herbs and spices, just like this.

This next picture is mine. 

Take a guess about who is the potential buyer of the kind of stuff displayed in this shop. That's right. The American tourist.

But, as you can see, the shop is closed. Not that it's the only one of its kind in Old Jerusalem. Oh no.

This guy's shop is closed.

On the Mount of Olives

A sacred place for Jews and Christians, here's what it looks like today.

It's the guy's mustache people were photographing. Notice the hose he carries--for beating his donkey.

With Jerusalem in the background. And a whole bunch of other people. We were not alone on the Mount of Olives. Directly below is a cemetery.

Notice the hose in the hands of the camel driver. It's for beating his camel. I quite like the look on this camel's face.

A Muslim village. Bethlehem in the background.

The bottom left corner of the picture shows another cemetery. There are many such cemeteries in Jerusalem. Muslims accuse Jews of placing cemeteries--which Muslims claim are empty--in areas where they don't want Muslims to settle.

I know it says 24 hours, but it was closed.

Okay, so I was a bit disappointed in the Mount of Olives, not the place itself. You know.

Still in Jerusalem

The Garden Tomb

In Jerusalem you can go here, the Garden Tomb, where, it is believed, Joseph of Arimathea placed the Lord's body. Not far from here is, it is believed, Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified.

Waiting to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

This ornately decorated area inside the church contains the Holy Sepulchre. People wait for hours to get in.

You can also go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Since the 4th Century AD pilgrims have come here. The place is claimed sacred--and the actual place of Christ's crucifixion and burial--by Greek Orthodox, Oriental (Eastern) Orthodox, and Catholics.

Not all the people you see in this picture are tourists, you know. Many are devout--believers who count this spot as the climax of their pilgrimage.

No Anglicans or other Protestant groups have a "presence" here. Perhaps they believe the Garden Tomb is
the actual site. But that does not forbid those folks from coming here to see this place, of course.

There is much to see here, above and below ground level. Way below ground we were shown a spot where it looked like three crosses could have been anchored into the ground. Now, that may be confusing because we speak of the crosses being on Calvary's hill. But remember the tel concept.

Inside the church. Not sure why I took this picture. Seems I just liked the light in that spot.

From inside the church.

Also inside, down a level or two. I believe this is the Greek Orthodox "presence."

And what do you think?

Old Jerusalem's Western Wall

Yes, of course, we went to the western wall, or The Western Wall. You can't go to Jerusalem and skip the western wall. It's the Wailing Wall, a sacred site for Jews, because it is part of the wall that surrounds the Temple Mount. For centuries Jews from the world over have made pilgrimage to the wall and there have prayed and lingered to pray again.

You might guess that there is a section of the wall designated for women. They cannot stand near the men. The men of orthodox Jewry are not allowed to look at--or on or whatever the right word is--women.

As I indicated many weeks ago, the Temple Mount is a sacred place for Jews and Muslims. And conflicts have arisen over the wall. Muslims fear it is part of a Jewish reclaiming of the entire temple mount. And so on and so forth. Religion can be a great divider. Should I say that? Of course I should. Everyone knows it anyway.

Jewish sentiments.

When we talk about the Temple Mount, we have to bring up Herod. Remember Herod, the Great? The murderer of many, including his own wife; the tyrant; and the rebuilder of Solomon's Temple. Actually, he did begin the rebuilding in about 19 BCE but probably did not finish it. This wall is part of that rebuilding era.

Anyway, we went there, and I was glad, because it has long been a point of interest for me. And yet I did not write a prayer on a slip of paper to stick into one of many cracks in the wall.

This is it. Spectators can go up to the wall, although it doesn't look like it here.

I turned around and took a picture.

My pants are long enough and my posture could be better. Or perhaps I should say, "What a cute white-haired woman." The canopy-covered passageway leads to the wall. It's for the non-orthodox people, like me. See also the corner where the western wall meets a "new" wall.

Here you can see the places to put your prayers. You can also see a newer wall built on top of the older one. It's the way of Israel.

I was in Israel eight days (another five days in Egypt and Jordan), and my blogs have stretched over many weeks. I'd apologize, but I don't feel like it. Life has intruded, and, besides, I figure people can only tolerate one or two posts about this trip in a week. Again I will say this was the trip of my lifetime. Certainly not the only place I've been but likely the most interesting to me.

Sometimes some people do hard things.

Hezekiah's Tunnel is now a tourist attraction in Israel, but it didn't start that way. Its purpose was to divert the water from Gihon Spring to a) keep the attacking Assyrians from cutting off Israel's water supply; and b) to ensure that the Assyrians did not get that water for themselves.

The digging of the tunnel was close to miraculous--through solid rock, of course, far below the city. Two teams of men dug and finally met to complete the tunnel. One third of a mile.

I do not have pictures of the tunnel. I didn't go. But just let me say this: it is not lighted, not wide or high, not straight or easy to get through, and once you're in it, you cannot turn back. It was made for water to flow through, not people.

I have seen it, though, on You Tube. You can see it, too. Google Hezekiah's Tunnel. It's a fascinating story. And the narrated tour through the tunnel is worth thousands of my words.

I do have pictures of Ann before she traveled down to the tunnel and walked through it. By the way, a) it still has knee-high water in it, and we're talking about--what?--2800 years ago; and b) as the man said on You Tube, if you're claustrophobic, this is not the place for you.

Ann is very claustrophobic, so her walk through the tunnel--20 plus minutes--was remarkable and a high point for her. I can only tell so much about this. Ann will have to tell the rest.

The pictures:

Christel, Tina, Ann with their flashlights, before going down, way down, to the tunnel.

Ann comes up the final steps after traversing the tunnel.

No explanation needed.

My post script: I love Ann. I am proud of her.

Banias Spring

Remember the Jordan River?

The River Jordan, near where Christ was baptized.

Up north, near Tel Dan, this is the Jordan.

Jordan River. This is the way I wanted it to look.

The Jordan is fed by three sources, one of them at Banias Spring. Banias comes from Paneas, for the god Pan. The place was an ancient Greco-Roman city before we read of it as Caesarea Philippi in the New Testament.

Banias Spring, one of the sources of the Jordan. Brian and Ann Johnson are in the picture, too.

Banias Spring, Caesarea Philippi

It's a lovely spot. The Brett Johnson family relaxes by the water.

Water used to gush out of the cave. Now it's not a gush but a stream.

Matthew 16 (and Mark 8) tells of Christ's visit to Caesarea Philippi with the twelve. This is where he asks them who other people say he is. They answer. He then asks who they say he is. Peter bears testimony that Christ is the son of God. Then Christ says, among other things, "Blessed art thou Simon [Peter]" and later that he will give Peter the keys of the kingdom.

This is an important time for these men. Christ is preparing them to carry off the kingdom. They don't quite get the picture yet. I say it because when He tells them all he must go to Jerusalem and he will be killed, Peter can't accept it.

"Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord; this shall not be unto thee. (Mattew 16:22)
"But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan; thou art an offense unto me; for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men." (16:23)

Striking contrast.

Caesarea Philippi is at the base of Mount Hermon, which is believed to be the mount of transfiguration. You can read Matthew 17 about the transfiguration. You will note that Peter was there, of course, with the Lord.

Yep, still in Israel

Brian's photo of the burning truck.

We were winding down the hill in our bus, came around a curve and saw this, a stunning sight. The road ahead closed because of it. We waited 15, maybe 20 minutes, then took another way.

Of course, many of us wanted to de-bus and get closer. Too bad.

Tel Dan

Some restoration has been done at Tel Dan. Walls rebuilt, I suppose. But it is a tel, built upon ruins of other cities.

The City of Dan was the northernmost city in the kingdom of Israel, which was the northern kingdom anyway. Dan was one of the 12 tribes, remember. In 1 Kings 11 (and other chapters) we can read about Jeroboam, who led the revolt against Judah and the family of David, achieving separation of the kingdoms. Ten tribes in the north, two in the south.

And Jeroboam became king of the northern kingdom. Duh.

But Jeroboam wasn't a true follower of Jehovah, although the golden calves he built for the people to worship--one in Dan--were, he said, representations of Jehovah. He also started worship of wooden images. (Like a log could bring salvation.)

I have a few pictures of Tel Dan, most at the restored city gate, a place of much socialization and city business. The governor of the city would sit on a throne at the gate and see people, conduct business, hear complaints, etc.

Walls at Tel Dan. And a guy I didn't really want in the picture.

A sculpted mural depicting typical activities at the city gate.

The throne at the gate.

And there she is.

From a hill in Dan, I looked across at Lebanon. Things are close over there, nothing like driving all day just to cross Montana or Texas.

Lebanon

Coming down from Tel Dan, Ann helped her mother down the cobblestones. It's just because I wore the wrong shoes.

Thanks to Kathy for this picture, although there is only one thing I like less than a picture of me from behind. Right. It's a picture of me from in front.

The old becomes new ish

A tel is, to quote our friend Abraham, "town upon town upon town upon town." If time or natural disaster or war destroyed a city, the people who remained simply rebuilt upon the ruins. I mean, why waste the rubble? Use it. Use whatever foundations remain and rebuild. It's what they did.

Remember the synagogue at Capernaum? And, when you go to Israel, take a look at the walls in the old city. Newer built upon older.

Archeologists are all over Israel. Digging. Here we are at Beit Lehi (by the way, beit means house), an archeological dig. We have been down.

Underground in the olive press at Beit Lehi

The columbarium (dovecote) at Beit Lehi. Underground.

And we have been up.

Ann at the church at Beit Lehi, or what they have found of it. 

The church is not underground. So, what do you suppose is under it?

Mosaic, one of many, at the Beit Lehi church.

But a tel could also be a mound or hill, under which lie the ruins of who knows how many cities. Which means if you like to dig, you could be happy for many years. Well, no doubt you'd want to find something.

Pablo. He's an archeologist from Argentina.

Here is our friend Pablo at Beit Lehi, telling us to look around at the hills, then telling us that there are ruins beneath all, that's ALL, of those hills. He knows. He's been here for seven years, has advanced degrees in archeology from U of Buenos Aires. That pretty much makes him an authority.

Lots of people take pictures of flowers. I don't. But this time I did. They were right at my feet as I listened to Pablo.

Some of the hills Pablo spoke about.

Next post, we go to Tel Dan. The name lets us know the place was built upon an older city, or two.

Remember, I'm not going in order. Do you care?

Two Things

We're at Caesarea, on the Mediterranean Sea. Such a gorgeous spot. And here are the two things.

Ice Plant. Exactly like what we had in our front yard in Santa Monica, by the Pacific Ocean.

The ice plant surrounded our palm tree. Yes, we had a very tall palm tree in our front yard, on the east side of the concrete steps. On the west side, we had lawn. You know, grass.
Makes a person feel at home to see such things. This person. Me. I really liked this ice plant.

A raven.

I had not seen a raven like this before. But I saw many in Israel. It's a big bird, you may be able to tell. Remember, the ravens fed Elijah. These birds could do it.

That's it. The two things.

Well, one more picture from the Mediterranean. It's a favorite, and I know you'll see why. This was our first sight of the Mediterranean, just before we went to Caesarea.

Couldn't be better. Me, my daughter, the sea.