Pyramids

9/6/2010

My bucket list is just a little shorter today.  We made a surprisingly short drive from metro Cairo to Giza to see the Pyramids.  The whole thing really just blew my mind—it's just surreal.  You're driving down the freeway, you look over to your left, and there they are.  Right there.  And just as massive as you expect them to be. 

When we got into the "park," I just stood there, completely stunned.  A little overwhelmed.  I mean, what else can you do when you go to the pyramids but just stand there in awe?  I was dumbfounded—emphasis on the "dumb."  And I'm okay with that.

The pyramids at Giza are over 4000 years old.  They are massive.  Of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, they're the only ones left.  Looking at them, even in the "ruined" state they're in today, it's easy to imagine how magnificent they were in their heyday.  Even the huge stone blocks that were the base and sides of the structure fit together meticulously, and each pyramid was completely covered in gleaming white alabaster to reflect the desert sun. 

 

We descended into one of the nearby queens' pyramids.  The (backwards) climb down was awkward and pretty claustrophobic, but well worth it—I mean, I've been inside a pyramid… and I have the pictures to prove it!

The Sphinx is nearby, and we totally could have walked to it… but why walk when you can ride a camel?  Again, it's one of those things that's awkward and not exactly comfortable, but absolutely worth it!  My camel driver, who led my camel on foot, tried several times to climb up and ride with me, but, um, no such luck.  He asked if I had a husband, and I said yes without batting an eye.  (I think of it as less of a lie and more a statement of faith.  I have a husband—I just haven't met him yet!)  Our little caravan of 13 camels went around the back of the 3 famous pyramids and came out just below the Sphinx.  He's a lot smaller than you'd expect… but he's still stinkin' cool.

I know the pyramids and the Sphinx were man-made.  And they were built as part of a totally pagan system of worship.  Which makes me sad.  But the truth is, these things are mind-blowing.  And even more mind-blowing is the thought that ancient people created them with very primitive tools.  Even today, with all the resources we have, it would be nearly impossible to recreate these structures.  And yet, they did it.

Almost as astonishing to me is the idea that God gave the ancient Egyptians the knowledge and skills they needed to create the Pyramids.  No, they didn't worship Him.  They didn't even acknowledge Him.  They took the knowledge and understanding of the world around them and worshipped people and false gods instead, just as He knew they would.  But He gave them these breath-taking skills and ideas anyway.  He didn't have to.  Knowing they would worship the sun and everything else under it, the Creator God could have chosen to vastly limit what he Egyptians could do.  But He didn't.  It's the definition of grace.

Rules of the Road

9/7/2010

In Egypt, people drive on the right-hand side of the road. That doesn't sound like a big deal, because it's pretty normal. Except that I've spent close to two years in Uganda. In Uganda, we're supposed to drive on the left-hand side of the road. I say "supposed to" because, when you account for all the pedestrians and bicycles we pass, and all the time we spend trying to dodge potholes big enough to swallow a small car, we spend as much time straddling the middle of the road as anywhere else. Even after all this time, I still have moments when I think, "Now, exactly where on the road am I supposed to be?"

One thing that Uganda and Egypt, and India, and Kenya, and Zambia, and Thailand, and Tanzania all have in common is the general disregard for any traffic laws. You drive as fast as you can, wherever you need to, to get where you're going. You drive until a police officer forces you to stop. Whoever is biggest or in front has the right of way. Horns are the accepted and expected form of communication. Four lanes of traffic can accommodate at least six cars across. The number of passengers a vehicle can carry is only determined by how many people can fit inside. You do what you gotta do to get where you want to go. It's often breath-taking, sometimes scary, and always an adventure.

There's just one problem with these adventures in transportation: In six weeks, I go back to America. In America, people expect you to pay attention to the red lights. They want you to take turns at a four-way stop. The lines on the freeway are there for a reason. And you sure as heck better stay on the right side of the road.

I can drive in Africa. In Africa, I'm a great driver. But I have to admit, with good reason, I'm a little concerned about my driving habits once I get back to the States. I'm sure I'll have no idea where my car is supposed to be. I'll probably run a few stop signs. And I can't promise I won't try to make my own lane on I-85.

I say all this as a disclaimer. I'm sure that, in time, I'll be a good American driver again. I have no doubt I'll be an excellent defensive driver, since all the maniacs on the road here have given me plenty of practice. It just might be a good idea to give me a few weeks to get used to following the rules before you ride with me.   Unless you want an adventure. Let's just hope the police have some grace for a girl who's been driving in Africa!

Sealed

9/5/2010

We went to a bookbinding shop in Old Cairo.  Yes, I was in heaven.  They carry a line of original books (journals, agendas, photo albums) made from gorgeous leather, handmade papers, and cloth you can only find in Cairo.  They will also re-bind old books in new leather.  I’ll say it again.  I was in heaven.

So, considering the horrible combination of shopaholic and book-lover that I am, it was a no-brainer that I would buy something.  The only question was what.  After an agonizing decision-making process, I finally chose a tan journal accented with cream papyrus.  It’s so cool!  And imagine my excitement when I found out that they imprint the spine for free!  The whole imprinting decision was a much easier process.  I decided to have my name printed on the spine in Arabic.  (Turns out there’s a Lebanese-Arabic pop singer who all the boys also named Alissa.  But that’s another story entirely.)  So now, assuming you can read Arabic, there’s no question who that cool papyrus journal belongs to.

Which brought a really cool Word to mind.  That book is mine.  There’s no mistaking it.  It is sealed with my name.  In the same way, I am sealed.  I belong to Christ.  He bought me at a price so much more expensive than the one-of-a-kind journal that I forked Egyptian pounds over for.  He set His seal upon me, and there is no mistaking Who I belong to.  And, just like the imprinting can never be removed from the leather binding of my book, He will never remove His seal from me.  It’s permanent.  Which is so completely overwhelming.  Just like I scoured the bookshop for the journal that was just right, He knew exactly where I was in the Universe.  He chose me.  He called me.  He romanced me, and has never stopped.  And then, He stamped His Name on me, to show the whole world that I belong to Him.  I am sealed.

Place Me like a seal over your heart,

     like a seal on your arm;

for love is as strong as death…

Many waters cannot quench love;

     rivers cannot wash it away.

                                    Song of Solomon 8:6-7, NIV

Letter of the Law

9/3/2010

I knew this already, but I’m realizing it at a new level here.  Islam is all about the rules, and about following them to the letter.  Not the spirit, but the letter.

It’s Ramadan, which means that devout Muslims will not allow anything to pass their lips from the first prayer of the day to the last.  Total fast.  And, if you live in a country that’s not predominantly Muslim, that’s a pretty big deal.  But not here.  Egypt has just rearranged all of life for the month of Ramadan.  Stores close at odd times during the day.  As the time for the final call to prayer approaches, everyone prepares for iftar, the breaking of the fast. They all have a drink or something to eat ready and waiting to go as soon as the call to prayer starts.  They stay up all night binging on huge meals, so they’re not really hungry during the day anyway.  Many people sleep for most of the day, so they can party all night.  They entire country even changed the time, like with Daylight Savings Time, so they can break fast an hour earlier.

So far, I’ve seen several women in full burqas, but most aren’t.  The majority of the women make a point to cover their heads with scarves, and to cover arms and legs to their wrists and ankles.  They’re mostly very modest, usually wearing full skirts or trousers and blousey tops.  But lots of women, especially younger, more “modern” women stretch the rule.  They’ll wear short-sleeved or sleeveless tops with a long-sleeved shirt underneath, often with tight jeans or leggings.  It pretty much defeats the whole purpose of “modesty” when you can see her whole body—but hey, she’s covered.  She’s kept the law.

All these laws, and the many ways to bend the laws, make me think a lot about grace.  I’m so grateful that I don’t have to spend my life remembering a list of rules and trying not to break them.  How different is our God, that all He wants from us is our love, our obedience, our devotion.  That everything boils down to loving Him and loving others… and nothing else really matters.  The letter of the law and the spirit go hand-in-hand.  They complement each other perfectly.  It’s not about seeing how far you can bend the rule without breaking it.  It’s just about love.

Ancient PR

9/2/2010

Ben Ezra Synagogue is in Old Cairo.  It’s old… really old.  The synagogue began in the 9^th century, in the remains of a 4^th century church.  I mean, this sucker is OLD.  (And it’s hidden really well… so well, we couldn’t find it.)  One of the claims to fame of this synagogue is that it’s built right next to where Pharoah’s daughter found Moses.  Oh, and did I mention that it’s also where Mary drew water to bathe Baby Jesus during their Egyptian exile?  Both of these “supposedly’s” REALLY make me want to ask the question, “How you know???”

(This is the point where I wish my blog had audio capability.  Because, in my head, the voice that just said that sounds like a cross between Madea and BonQuiQui, and I laugh every time I hear her.  She’s a kinder, gentler BonQuiQui, but she’s BonQuiQui nonetheless.)

Okay.  Back to this crazy synagogue.  Seriously—how do they know?  Was there a log book people had to sign every time they fetched water?  Did they find the lease for Mary and Joseph’s two-bedroom flat right around the corner?  Was this the ancient royal family’s private bathing ground, set aside especially for Pharoah and the kids?  I’m betting that somewhere around the 11^th century, attendance at Sabbath services started dropping off, and the rabbi decided they needed a new PR campaign to bring in new blood.  However it happened, I think there’s one small detail that folks have overlooked.

Ben Ezra Synagogue is almost 3 miles from the Nile.  Someone was a PR genius.

Sweet Babies

9/1/2010

I’ve travelled a lot.  At this point, I’ve landed on almost every continent, and I’m starting to get used to being in the minority of any given group.  (Living in Africa for two years will do that for you!)  I’ve been to Asia, to India, to parts of the Middle East and Africa where most people do not agree with what I believe.  Knowing that makes me sad, but it’s part of life.  As my friend Mandy once reminded me, to most people, Jesus is offensive.  And, if I’m going to follow Him, that means I’ll be offensive, too.

I’m on a plane going from Khartoum, the Muslim capital of Sudan, to Cairo, Egypt.  It’s the middle of Ramadan, the Muslim holy month.  (No, we didn’t check the Islamic calendar before we booked this trip!)  I look around this plane and realized that, to most of my fellow travelers, I am an infidel.  They think Jesus was a blasphemous lunatic, not the loving Son of God.  And though it saddens me, I can accept that.  I’ve been in situations like this before.

Only, this time, one thing is different.  In the rows just in front of and behind me, there are five children under the age of 8.  Every one of them is absolutely beautiful.  Loving.  Precious.  Every one of them is positively adored by their Creator.  And, unless someone steps into their life offering the Truth, none of them will ever know just how passionately the God of the Universe loves them. 

I have no way to communicate with them.  I can’t tell them how much Jesus loves them.  I don’t even know the names of these sweet babies.  But my Father does.  He knows them even better than their precious mothers, covered from head to toe, do.  All I can do is pray for them, that someday, somehow, the Father who loves them will find a way to romance their hearts and draw them to Himself.  And right now, I have to trust that prayer for them is enough.