How beautiful on the
mountains, are the feet of the messenger announcing peace, of the messenger of
good. Isaiah 52:7
So yesterday we heard a lot about
war…the battles that wrecked destruction again and again on these stone villages
layered among the olive trees and vineyards of white eating grapes on rocky
hillsides: from the destruction of Troy after the abduction of Helen, through
the back and forth triumphs and losses to Persia, the Peloponnesian War which
ended in the fall of Athens to Sparta and then Alexander the Great declared himself King of
the World; the crushing by Macedon, the sacking by Rome, the pillaging by
Goths, the invading by Slavs and Normans, the occupying by Venetians and
Ottoman Turks which included the blasting destruction of the Parthenon where
the Turks were storing the explosions (the guide added that “the Italians
should have known better”) and the final insult upon insult, the hauling away of
everything still standing by Lord Elgin in order to decorate his summer home.
We couldn’t exactly understand our
tour guide who kept drifting into French, but we could see the remaining shards
of marble as we made our way through the new museum and climbed up the stone
path leading to the Acropolis that has been used for defense for over 5000
years. That is a long time. War and rumor of wars have haunted mankind since
the very beginning.
And as we stood in front of the
stadium constructed for the first Olympics in 776 BC, we reheard the story of
the defeat of Darius, the king of Persia, at Marathon, and how
Pheideppides ran 42 kilometers kilometers to Athens to bring the good news, and then collapsed, dead.
Beautiful feet, indeed.
Yes, echo the hills, there is
nothing new under the sun.
In the afternoon, after a quick meat pie and cappuccino coffee, we headed
across town, weaving our way through narrow market streets filled with
Byzantines icons, household plasticwares, and heaps of shoes in plastic bags
from China, crossed the main road of Tsaldari Panagi carefully obeying
traffic signals, strode past the archways that said “Open” overhead in green
letters with little red lights outside each closed door in the hallway, to a
place sort of pointed out on a carefully folded map. We found another door,
with “Samaria: Jesus loves you” painted brightly on the wall, and pushed our
way through the heaps of jackets and coats and to walk up the narrow stairs
where we not only discovered rooms filled with small tables crowded with
refugees from Syria and Afghanistan, but we also those beautiful hands and feet
of peace bearers as well.
Samaria’s founder is a South
Korean pastor and his wife and his three daughters. They smiled so broadly when
Mary Anne explained her last name and its rich Korean heritage. There were lots
of other folks, with aprons wrapped around and large spoons preparing the day’s
meal. A low rumble of controlled chaos simmered underneath all of the weary smiles.
We met a young strong German on the stair who is overseeing other German kids
who come to volunteer for a few months at a time. We asked him what he did, and
he answered, “Everything, Anything they need.” They serve food to between three
and five hundred people a day. But they serve a lot more than food and clothes
and medical services upstairs. They served goodness and hope in the midst of
badness and hopelessness.
I mostly hung out with Abdullah
and Hajar and their ten-month-old son. They left Afghanistan three or four
months ago. They are both engineers, but now spend their time serving, both in
teaching English, she to the women, he to the men, but mostly they serve by
“giving advise.” Abdullah said that’s what people mostly need; they have no idea
of what the future holds nor how to begin to walk in that direction. What
direction? They do not know. Abdullah and Hajar do not know. Hajar trembles as
she frets over her old mother and his old mother and her little sister whom
they left behind. Did they do the right thing in leaving? Did they abandon
their loved ones or are they building a future for their son? She is too
anxious to stay in her tent camp so she comes here for courage, for the love
and for the songs and for the bubble bottles that all the children have to play
with. Bubbles fill the air.
We are now Facebook friends. And
we have the pastor’s email address. What they need are books. I told her to
send me a list. I slid twenty euros into her notebook that she pushed back, but
I insisted. Things always come up, and sometime you will think, What I need
is twenty euros. She said that they often did not have enough money for the
grocery store. Could I find an organization to help? I said I would look
around. I said that you may use my name as a sponsor, if anyone asks, you have
my name.
And then we prayed.
For the LORD God is
both sun and shield; He will give grace and glory. Psalm 84:10
May
He be the sun who shines on your path, giving you clarity and wisdom and light
for each day as you walk forward. And may He be the shield around your beloved
family left behind, and around you, as you serve in kindness and strength. May
He cover you in His grace, and may you see His glory.
I
did not want to leave. I wanted to join the young Germans on their sleeping
bags on the floor. If nothing else, I could listen to stories. That’s how
Andres in Spain shares God’s love, by listening to stories. But we walked down
the narrow staircase and out the door. Just a few blocks away there was another
long, long feeding line, someone passing out small Styrofoam bowls of rice and
a clump of brown something to people who then each sat alone in a small field
of worn grass.
And
now Mary Anne and I are off once more, across the dark turquoise Aegean Sea. I
am still adjusting to this programmed,
every-place-I-will-lay-my-head-tonight-has-a-name sort of travelling, but it
was very nice to be picked up in the hotel lobby and transported to the ferry
dock by a smiling Greek whose mother is an English teacher.
Mary
Anne just reminded me that there are thousands of Greek islands. So many fairly
bleak harsh brownish grey mountains with a few low shrubs and a few greenish
grey olive trees, the gift from Athena. Sometimes there are a few low rock
walls that speak of fertility and cultivation. But not so much.
It
is difficult to not think of Paul and his travels through these very waters.
Sometimes he stayed a year and a half, like in Corinth, and sometimes he did
not. Now a cross-topped dome stands on each street corner.
And
how does life come to pass? There are those who till deep down in the soil,
removing the rocks to heft into protective terraces. And those who prepare the
soil, sifting clay and sand and stirring in nutrients, ready for sowing. And
those who pass through, tossing seed hither and thither; rather heedless of
where it lands. That is not their responsibility. And still others follow,
watering and weeding and pruning. At last, there are those come in with great
baskets and harvest with celebration and song and dance late into the night.
And yet, once again, the cycle begins again, chopping up the empty stalks and
letting the land go fallow.
There
is nothing new under the sun.
And
I am reading Richard Rohr and thinking a lot about his idea of the transition
between the first half and the second half of life, as we leave off forming and
shaping the outside pot and consider deeply with what we are to fill it with,
letting go of the small self and being overtaken by the freedom of the Great
Mystery. And for what have I been made? What is to pour out with overflowing of
this earthen vessel? What is my role in the great cycle? The great dance across
the starry expanse of time?
And
as I watch gulls skim the smooth waveless surface, I think of my photos. I tend
towards the panoramic view…push the little button and an arrow moves swiftly
across the scene. And then there are the Marco photos, the photos that made me
fall in love with the children of Peru, the street-livers of Los Angeles, and
the quiet souls of China. Up close. Watching. Listening. Eyes meeting eyes. Intentional
noticing.
Last
night, I determined to look into Hajar’s eyes. The whole time. Undistracted.
May
I truly listen. And look.
Unlike
a seagull scrabbling for scraps of leftovers on the sand or dipping down for a
quick snap.
As
Andres reminded me, I don’t even have to
tell my story.
And as I sit overlooking the timeless sea, wondering how to walk with beautiful feet, Bing, I receive a message. Moments
ago, from Andres. Andres who I was just now thanking in my heart wrote me a letter, "Hola,hoy hace dos años que te he conocido a ti y a tu hija."
It was two
years ago today that I first knelt down and asked God to reveal His power
and love by healing his leg. And then I stood up, walked down the stairs and
rode off, up that great big, big mountain. And neither of our lives have ever
been the same.
God only knows His place and His time.
Peace.
Peace, child.
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