There is one church in this region that has captured me. I'm not sure what actually draws me to this building. Is it the rich history that is contained in it's very structure, the paintings along the walls, the worshipers both local and foreign or the events that have and continue to unfold around it's compound?
One morning, Michael and I wandered through the stone-walled allies of Bethlehem. Upon nearing Manger Square, the allies change from front door entrances to small shops strewn with souvenirs, mixed with convenience stores of spices and fabrics for the locals. Manger Square is rather large. On opposite sides stand two challenging buildings. A rather tall minaret towers above a dominate mosque. In fact, the minaret is the tallest structure in the square, leaving one with a subordinate feeling. Directly across the mosque, on the other side of the square, stands the aged old Church of the Nativity.
To enter the church, one must pass through the Door of Humility, which was added on during the Ottoman rule. Once inside I'm always taken back by the simplicity and raw remains of this church. Pillars display Saints painted by the Crusaders. Old light fixtures hang from wooden rafters and an opening in the floor allows visitors to see the original tiling. Visitors fall into a silence as they progress through the cool naive and up to the alters.
The church was rather empty that morning, so we joined a small group of tourist descending below the alters into the Grotto of the Nativity. I personally don't believe Jesus was born in that exact spot, but I wanted to revisit the sight of excitement for many pilgrims. After a few moments of silence and a snapshot of my own, I ascended back into the church.
I had noticed that I was now with a group of Muslim tourists from Indonesia. One little voice caught my attention. Sitting next to his mother, a child gazed around casually taking in the sight of the church. His mother was explaining the significance of the church to Christianity and who Jesus was. It was obvious that the mother was more into the lesson than her son, for he just swung his legs and very innocently interrupted her and said, "Wouldn't you have liked to have met Isa?" The mother continued on with her education. "I would have liked to have meet him," he replied again.
The spoken words remain in my ears, a young boy probably back home in Indonesia, an earnest statement made and a heart that God is seeking to reveal himself to. I wish I had taken this boy and told him that he will see Isa if he just asks. My prayers covered this child, commit him into God's hands and petitioned that God would indeed reveal himself.
How many others pass beneath the ancient rafters of the silent church of old and question themselves about meeting Isa?
I barely remember the pain, except 'excruciating' was a good term to use. I do remember being able to feel the top of this baby's head, and thinking why is everyone staring at me. I can recall sitting at the edge of the bed and pushing in intervals of three; pushing as if my life depended on each push! And everyone, including Michael, shouting, "He's coming!" And I'll never forget what it felt like to hold my son for the first time!
It was tough packing up my classroom and saying goodbye to so many that we had grown to love, invest and learn from. But, we stepped forward knowing that God has the future planned, even if it's not visible to us.
I can't blog about my school without recognizing the 'shababs' that venture into our back lot for a game a football (soccer). About 3:30 these boys begin playing one of the most entertaining games I've ever seen. I find myself distracted from cleaning, grading, lesson planning all the activities that keep me tied to school when I just want to put my feet up. I can't help but observe the deep friendships that these kids have with one another. Last year, one of the goalies was a boy who played from an electric wheelchair. There seemed to be no difference between him and the other boys. This year, I've noticed the same boy, slowly defending his position in the middle of the field, exercising the ability to use his legs. Our back lot is really an embarrassment of a football field, but its a world of deep friendship that I can't help enjoying watching.
There is one church in this region that has captured me. I'm not sure what actually draws me to this building. Is it the rich history that is contained in it's very structure, the paintings along the walls, the worshipers both local and foreign or the events that have and continue to unfold around it's compound?
The spoken words remain in my ears, a young boy probably back home in Indonesia, an earnest statement made and a heart that God is seeking to reveal himself to. I wish I had taken this boy and told him that he will see Isa if he just asks. My prayers covered this child, commit him into God's hands and petitioned that God would indeed reveal himself.