Censorship: Silence of the Lambskin?

On campus, I bemoan my fate each time I have to lug around my hefty textbooks. I usually force my husband to carry my Shakespeare book. However, my husband should be grateful we did not live in the time of clay papers or my books would be much heavier.

In my last post, I talked about the reasons why I read: for my imagination, understanding, problem solving, awareness, and to help others. From the library presentation, we learned about many different forms of writing in Mesopotamian/roman/medieval times. These different eras each sought for ways to write in order to also communicate with others and to spread awareness. Indeed, the simple need for a receipt in the Mesopotamian era demonstrates how necessary it is to document and record in each society. This need prevails as all people, from every generation, have a desire to remember and to record simple concepts, simple transitions, or profound memories through writing.

From the library presentation, we learned about how writing has changed throughout the years depending on the writing materials available. The Mesopotamians wrote on clay. The librarian showed to us a receipt from this era that weighed far more than a simple slip of paper. We also looked at a Roman ID made from metal, writing materials from plants and lambskin. The collected texts that the librarian showed us included the receipt, ID, the Bible and the Book of Hours.

From this presentation, we can answer the question about whether or not censorship plays a part in maintaining the morals of a society. I would argue that yes, censorship does control the morals of a society. That is, censorship allows a certain body of people to decide what will be the morals of the society and through writing, they can produce propaganda to support those morals. For example, monks wrote the Bible that the librarian showed us. The monks were able to choose what parts of the Bible they would include and also what images they would paint on the gold sleeve pages. Similarly, Dante could produce his own idea of morals and spread his ideas through his literary work. When censorship controls what writers can say (as we saw during the Roman period), then certain morals that were deemed “acceptable” are the ones that we now receive today, while other ideas were censored from the clay, metal, plant, lambskin, or paper writing supplies.

Top 5 Reasons Why We Read

Top 5 Reasons Why We Read
1. Imagination--We read to expand our imagination and explore the possibilities only found within our own minds. It is only within the realm of our consciences that we can perhaps find the greatest solutions and the greatest adventures.
2. Understanding--We read to open our minds to others' opinions and ways of perceiving the world around us. While we prattle throughout the day and tell one another our opinions, when we allow time to consider our thinking and write down our opinions, we can better communicate with one another.
3. Problem-Solving--We read to seek solutions to our own life's story or to society's life story. Indeed, by examining the stories on shelves, we may find the solutions or cautionary tales that will keep us from living better and more fulfilling lives.
4. Awareness--We read to make ourselves more aware of problems that perhaps remain hidden in other countries or in other's minds. By reading, we dispel our own ignorance and reach out to receive greater knowledge.
5. To help my husband--Tragically, my husband believes in spark notes. I realized this after we were married. Thus, I read to help educate my husband and those around me. During pillow talk, I quote Shakespeare to help educate his chemistry-filled mind.

Juvenal and the U.S.

1.     School System-“I have never examined the entrails of a frog.”

a.     Just as in the United States, Juvenal mocks Rome’s educational system. He dramatically hyperbolizes Rome’s situation by saying that he, as a student, never even studied the anatomy of an animal. Clearly, Juvenal is demonstrating his disgust at the school system.

2.     Health Care System-“Here in Rome the son of free-born parents has to give the wall to some rich man's slave; for that other will give as much as the whole pay of a legionary tribune to enjoy the chance favours of a Calvina[17] or a Catiena,[17] while you, when the face of some gay-decked harlot takes your fancy, scarce venture to hand Chione down from her lofty chair.”

a.     In the United States today, many rich bemoan how their taxes go to pay for the poor man’s health care. Likewise, Juvenal criticizes how “the son of free-born parents has to give the wall to some rich man’s slave.” A true citizen has to help someone who has a lower-income than him and that, in Juvenal’s view, should not be tolerated.

3.     Nutritional Problems-“It is no easy matter, anywhere, for a man to rise when poverty stands in the way of his merits: but nowhere is the effort harder than in Rome, where you must pay a big rent for a wretched lodging, a big sum to fill the bellies of your slaves, and buy a frugal dinner for yourself.”

a.     Juvenal says that he intends to leave Rome because he can only “buy a frugal dinner for” himself here. Likewise, many in the United States can only afford cheap dollar-menu items with no nutritional value.

4.     Mental Health: “What else can you do when attacked by a madman stronger than yourself?”

a.     Juvenal questions what would happen if a “madman” came at you. By using this term, “madman,” Juvenal demonstrates how he also does not understand mental illnesses. He frivolously uses the term “madman” to describe a dangerous man and yet, he does not know the mental health of that person. Likewise, not all mentally ill persons are dangerous. Thus, just as in the United States, Juvenal demonstrates an ignorance regarding mental illness.

5.     Literary Loss-"What can I do at Rome? I cannot lie; if a book is bad, I cannot praise it, and beg for a copy.”

a.     Juvenal recognizes that there are poor quality books in Rome. While the Romans certainly did not suffer from using clipped sentences on Facebook, they still struggled, apparently, to create noteworthy literary texts.

Top Five Social Problems Facing America Today

1. School System: At times, I feel as though society likes to throw its hands up and say, “oh well, this generation is a disaster.” Then, we try to teach the younger generation so that they will not be so unfortunate as our own. However, the school system is failing. In many public school systems, the teacher to student ratio is absurd. Teachers cannot receive sufficient supplies to even teach their classes. Similarly, students fail to appreciate academic possibilities and instead, turn to dangerous paths.

2. Health Care System: Unfortunately, the health care system is failing to meet the needs of the citizens. While taxes pay for those who do not need emergency care, those who truly stagger under the weight of medical demise cannot receive the help they need.

3. Nutritional Problems: I eat a sandwich for lunch and, to be honest, I am not sure what I truly put into my body. The amount of hormones people now place in meats has negative health consequences. Likewise, our nation’s consumption of preservatives is creating more health problems.

4. Mental Health—Perception of/Treatment: Staggering amounts of people have been diagnosed with mental health problems in our nation and yet, many do not receive the treatment that they need. Furthermore, those who do not have mental disorders are ill educated about the psychological problems of others.

5. Literary Loss: Most people read text messages or tweets instead of novels. Consequentially, we are turning our language into a convoluted chaos of mere statements instead of sentences. As we lose our ability to read admirable texts, we stumble upon an inability to properly communicate with one another and other nations.

To Blind Oneself or Another

Like Oedipus, Hecuba was born into privilege. She was a queen, who tragically lost her status and became a slave. Similarly, Oedipus was a king, who tragically lost all when he discovered he had killed his father and married his mother. Both Oedipus and Hecuba, as tragic characters, have stories, which evoke emotions ranging from pity to outrage amongst viewers. Aristotle explained that a tragic character “is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty.” Both Oedipus and Hecuba, from the beginning of their plays, are not horrible people. They do not seem capable of either incest or murder. But in the tangle of their stories, they both fall to these sins. I would argue that Oedipus fell accidently into his tragic state. Certainly, we may argue that Oedipus’s hubris or violence was the cause of his downfall. However, no matter his character flaws, Oedipus did not intend to kill his father and sleep with his mother. Likewise, Hecuba found herself in a destitute state. She did not intend to hold both of her children, as they lay dead. However, both Oedipus and Hecuba responded to their tragic states differently. Oedipus, disgusted by himself, the mistakes of his parents, and the messenger’s inability to kill him at birth, harmed himself. He could have taken revenge upon the messenger. But instead, he gouged out his own eyes. On the other hand, Hecuba declared herself to be the “most miserable of women,” and gouged out the eyes of the man, who killed her husband. She also killed the man’s own two children. Thus, Oedipus blinded himself in an attempt to hide from his tragic reality, while Hecuba blinded her son’s murderer, to find some shred of relief in revenge.

Running Away: Oedipus' Hamartia

            Before I heard Oedipus’ story, I heard of his sin. I learned about the tragic character that killed his father and slept with his mother. I wrinkled my nose in disgust at such a man. I scoffed that such a creature prowled within the realms of our imagination and exhaled a sigh of relief to hear he existed only upon the stage of a Sophocles’ mind. Now that I have read Oedipus’ story, I pity him. I pity this man lost in the tangles of a tragedy. However, though I pity the self-blinded man, I sighed at what he considered his fate. Indeed, fate nor the gods condemned poor Oedipus. Oedipus committed hamartia, when he did not take the necessary precautions to change his “fate.”

            According to the article by Aristotle and subsequent definitions, “hamartia” is to “miss the mark” in archery (Butcher). I argue that Oedipus did “miss the mark.” Oedipus first “misses the mark,” when he unknowingly curses himself. Upon learning that the gods order the death of Laius’ murder, Oedipus declares that he himself will seek out the murder and then, curses the murder’s life. Ironically Oedipus says, I shall fight for him in this matter, as if for my own father, and I shall try everything, seeking to find the one who committed the murder” (19). Thus, Oedipus fulfills his words and seeks after the murder, as if for his father. Yet, he finds that he is the murderer. He killed his own father. Creon wisely says in the beginning of the play, “What is sought can be captured, but what is ignored escapes” (15). Oedipus “missed the mark” when he continued to pursue the murderer, when he ignored his wife and mother’s entreats to leave the matter, and when he realizes his own ugly crimes.

            But in all tragedies, sin can never hide, as it can never be ignored. Thus, Oedipus’ true “hamartia” came earlier. Oedipus reveals that he knew of a personal prophecy concerning himself. Phoebus once told him that he would sleep with his mother and kill his father (38). In an attempt to escape the prophecy, Oedipus ran. He says, “I heard and fled, henceforth to share with Corinth only the stars, where I would never see completed the disgrace of those evil oracles of mine” (38). Thus, Oedipus’ great “hamartia” is that he believed running was sufficient to escape the prophecy. To truly run away from such a prophecy, more precaution is necessary. Oedipus should have never killed any man, just to prevent any prophecy of murder. If no murder is done, then Oedipus would have never killed his father. Furthermore, Oedipus should have never slept with a woman, who was clearly older than him. At times, we humans believe we can escape our fates by merely running.

            Thus, because of his great hamartia, Oedipus learned the truth. In the agony of his pitiful tragedy, he witnesses the suicide of his mother and wife. He gouges out his eyes and holds his cries tearless tears upon his children and siblings’ shoulders. Truly, Oedipus is to be pitied. He was a common man. He was a good man. If only, he had taken more precautions. If only he had done more than run.

Epithets To Describe Kimberly

Dear Notebook,

            Since I last blogged in you, so much has happened. I returned home from Jerusalem. I served a Spanish-speaking mission in Salt Lake City, Utah (no one but the heavens saw that one coming). And then I fell in love with Patrick (yes, that boy from 5 years ago). We got married on August 23, 2014 (again, the heavens helped that one along…I am eternally grateful for that).

Now, I am back and blogging for a school assignment. Typical. But this one is a fun assignment. Below, I need to write 4 epithets to introduce myself. This is the perfect assignment as I feel I need to reintroduce myself to my 9 followers (hi, mom!). So here it is…4 epithets to describe myself.

1.     Sappy Sentimental:

a.     I swoon over Hallmark sayings and think the perfect Christmas gift is an angel statue to hover above my bookcase. If the angel carries a little banner reading, “God loves you,” I may start weeping from sheer sentimentality. I am just a sentimental creature, who treasures memories. Yes, I have hoarded every gift my husband has ever given me (even a rock) and scowl at him when he says that I can throw the rock away.

2.     Blessed Bride:

a.     Just a few weeks ago, I married my husband, Patrick. We met 5 years ago and I never get tired of telling any listener our story. Our poor children will probably hear our story every night at bedtime…until they each turn 18 and can legally leave the house.

3.     Ironically Fearful:

a.     I refuse to drive a car on the freeway. When I do drive on road trips, my husband must calm me down from a hyperventilating attack about every 5 minutes and then redirect me from swerving into a bus. I do not like driving. I also once had to leave a haunted house early because I was too scared (I was 17 years old). And I think horror movies are of the devil. My motto is that it is better to watch a nice Disney film then to have the image of the girl from The Ring creeping into your room at night. Ironically, I love all adventures in the wild. I will go snake hunting or swim with sharks, but, please, do not tell me a scary story.

4.     Hopelessly Bookish:

a.     I love to smell books. I love to hold books in my hands and listen to how the pages turn (back to that whole sentimental thing). I love to lose myself in a story. Growing up, my mother gave up all hope of me going out to play with the other kids, if I was lost in a good book. I also love to write. The way words combine and the stories they can create is like magic, to me.

Bobbing in the Dead Sea and the Final Days

Our happy, touchy-feely, awkward, Christmas photo. Please note the reindeer sweaters. The only thing that is missing is a big plush red cotton ball to attach on one of the reindeer's noses as a button.
Of course, another doughnut.
Dead in the Tomb of the Kings.



Warm pita from the "pita factory." It turns out the factory is a tiny little store, with men munching on falafels inside. I love the smell of a warm, soft pita.

We became bobbing apples in the Dead Sea.
My skin felt oh-so smooth and supple after a leathery mud bath.

Dear Family,

Ugh. My heart hurts.

I don’t want to leave.

Mom, Dad, when you come to pick me up, you may be quite started to see the difference in your daughter: I turned into a gypsy.

Yes, I bought another gypsy hat, today.

I asked the boys if the guys back home would find my ensemble attractive? I thought I was looking quite sexy in my long curtain dress, gypsy hat tucked around my fluffed up hair-do, and pulled up thick socks, complete with "hole-y" sneakers.

Their blank stares and fish-gapped mouths said enough ... Next time, I will ask the men in the Old City. They always think I look like wonderful.

But I will wear my gypsy hat in the States, simply as that little bit of Israel always with me.

The only reason I am glad for the end is because with the end comes the end of finals. (Hooray a break from mental breakdowns!) When I returned from Galilee, I was determined: I would raise my grade in ANE. And then I would declare it a Christmas miracle.

So I locked myself within this Castle on a Hill (Oncoming: Mental Breakdown alert!), towed my heavy backpack up the Mt. Sinai-like flight of stairs, and basically lived in the cold, stuffy library.

Miracle of miracles, I think I passed the test.

While I was quite busy figuring out who in the world was King Ahuta-what’s-his-name was, don’t fret too much, I did still manage to have fun.

Our last field trip was on Monday.

And we went to the Dead Sea.

I am sure we went to other historically significant places and I’m pretty sure those places were on my field trip final (Masada, Qumran), but let’s get to the good stuff: I became a bobbing apple in the Dead Sea.

When we pulled up the Dead Sea, we grabbed our towels and swimsuits and ran for it. We all handed in our shekels and raced for the locker rooms. I tiptoed into the shower, shimmied into that sexy swimsuit Melissa gave me (modest is hottest), and then we rushed down to the sea. All around large barnacle-like salt stones fissured around the sea. The waves crashed and churned on the salty stone diamond crusts and I was, I’ll admit it, a little scared to jump in the water.

But all my friends had already become bobbing apples. So I carefully climbed over the fake, salty diamonds and jumped primly into the water.

My head didn’t go under.

I bobbed up.

I loved the feeling of just letting the waves curl around the salty brine buoy and me up. But then, my eyes started to feel like marching ants were doing the Macarena on my eyelashes.

Salt crusted in my hair and when I smeared mud all over my body, I became a human strip of beef jerky. Or actually, more like the Slim Jims, Melissa and I used to eat like licorice but they smell like a dog’s treat.

Yes, the sea salted me with enough salt to beat out Top Ramen.

I had more sodium in me than an Arby’s meal.

I smelled like rotting eggs for the rest of the day but it was so, so worth it.

After this field trip, began the week of stress, which I can’t really recall right now. It is just a blur of Byzantine, Persian, and Roman empires. Then, scripture passages that still echo in my mind. I still make Bible jokes all the time now. Yes, I am a nerd.

But, finally, I finished last night and today, we went back into the City.

I just wanted to grab each person’s face and hug each person close (not a good idea with some of the men out there…). But I just wanted to keep a mental picture of each person: Omar at the olive wood shop, the doughnut man, the woman who tried to scheme us on red-pea coats.

I will miss them all.

Now, it is time for me to blubber:

Life is so wonderful. I stepped off the plane, with an agenda. I told my Heavenly Father that I had many questions and here, in this place where Christ prayed, I wanted answers.

But Heavenly Father had other lessons for me to learn and other adventures for me to experience.

I wish I could peek at the heavenly schedule on my life, but I suppose that is cheating.

Our last Sabbath day, yesterday, we went to the Garden Tomb. Together, a big group of us sang hymns. The other groups there, from parts of Africa, Australia, and everywhere and from other churches, joined in, too.

It was windy and my hands felt chapped, and I probably looked like a purple urchin child, but it was so warm, just to be there.

We ended with “I Know that My Redeemer Lives.”

What I will miss about Jerusalem:

· I will miss getting lost in the Old City.

· I will miss passing by the people: the tacky senior tourists in their J-ru shirts, the children munching on falafel balls, the women with the babies cradled in the arms, the shopkeepers with their carvings.

· I will miss running on the rooftops and losing my shekels in the shops.

· I will miss the warm, gushy doughnuts outside of the shuk and the doughnut man who gave us chocolate hearts.

· I will miss waking up on Sabbath mornings, looking like a little bit of bukra fel mesh mesh, clipping a cow plop of rumpled curls atop my head, and going to breakfast with 81 friends looking every bit as bukra fel mesh meshish as me.

· I will miss Dr. Chapman calling me “Frenchie” when he sees me in my gypsy hat.

· I will miss waiting in the pita line after dinner, for my warm milk.

· I will miss the Sabbath day question: Where to today, Gethsemane or the Garden Tomb?

· I will miss scooping the diseased cats up onto my lap and wondering what strange diseases they are sneezing on me.

· I will miss the impromptu Justin Beiber dance parties.

· I will miss my 81 friends.

· I will miss singing hymns at the Garden Tomb.

· I will miss feeling like a gypsy as I get lost and wind around the cobblestone streets.

So Mom, Dad, you can come pick me up now. It’s time to go home. As much as I will furiously protest, it is time to go home. I am trusting Heavenly Father from now on. I know I was supposed to come to Jerusalem and now, I know it is time to go home. So hurry and come get me. We have a date with the doughnut man.

I will be the gypsy girl waiting under the olive tree.

Olive you,

Kimberly

“I Know that My Redeemer Lives”

“He lives to bless me with His love … He lives my hungry soul to feed … He lives to help in time of need.”

A Jelly-Filled Day in Jerusalem

My family is not a Martha Stewart family. I do not understand the purpose of doilies and I cannot fathom why anyone would spend hours making cookie dough when Nestle already cooked up a batch.

My family is a Betty Crocker quick mix family. For Christmas dinner, we order Chinese take out. I love it. Kyle shovels out the sticky white rice. Melissa makes a “salad” out of crunched up fortune cookies and squiggly lo mein noodles. Sheila stabs her fork into the carton with meat. I savor the sweet and sour chicken.

Christmas dinner with our Chinese take out is blissfully perfect.

But then, we tie on our apron strings, sneeze out flour, and for Christmas, we become Martha Stewarts as we make homemade doughnuts.

It is the one time of year our culinary ambitions come to life in the form of rising warm bread and spitting hot oil.

The Family Doughnut rules:

· You are only allowed to make homemade doughnuts on Christmas Eve.

· You must stuff your face with the doughnuts until you put Santa’s own appetite to shame.

· If Dear Jolly Old Saint Nick takes more than his allotted two doughnuts we leave on a plate for him, he is on our own kind of list.

We spend Christmas Eve rolling out the dough until the warm, yeasty smell fills the kitchen. The kitchen smells like a hearth with dry cracking oats and sweet syrup. We savor our doughnuts because this is the only time of the year, with no exception, that we make our homemade dougnuts.

Today, I may have broken this rule.

I did not want to go out into the Old City. I spent the morning helping paint a mural at a special needs school My feelings about that are simply too long to put into this blog post, so that will be for another day. But simply: I loved the morning. I loved being at that school. It was where I needed to be. But I needed to study. I still need to study. Desperately. So after lunch, Kaylie promised: we would just go out for doughnuts at the shuk (aka the open market) and then go home to study. So I agreed.

Off we went.

I wrapped myself up in all my sweaters, because I just can’t stand the cold wind on my chicken skin. Kaylie, Suzy, and I brought our pink and green baggie lunches out to the terrace and ate out on the lawn. We finished our pitas and sandwiches then munched on the chocolate muffins (aka cupcakes) we smuggled from the cafeteria this morning, and the sun came out.

By the time we walked the hill to the Old City, the curls on my head were starting to stick to my forehead.

So I started to take off my big hoodie sweater in the middle of a crowd.

Bad idea.

A boy behind me called out, “Ahhhh!” and other boys started yelling.

I quickly shoved my sweater back down past my belly.

Lesson learned: Do not partially undress in the middle of the street in Israel.

We dawdled along the streets of West Jerusalem. Suzy saw a ruby red pea coat, with pomegranate red buttons, and a licorice red belt hanging in a store window. Of course, we stopped. And, of course, we each tried on the bright red pea coat. We admired and cooed at our fashionable reflections in the mirror, but the price tag was just too much. The woman at the store chased us down the street, jabbing a finger in our direction and ordered us into a dark alley to re-negotiate the price…so we had to run.

We dawdled some more down the street. I found another hat. But this one is like a gypsy hat with bits of fabric trailing behind the tag. Of course, I bought it.

Finally, with my gypsy hat tucking my hair all around ears and shoulders, we made it to the open market for our doughnuts.

It smelled like warm, rising yeast. And sugar crumbs. And soft, doughy moist bread.

We had a large order: 17 doughnuts. No, no we already get these doughnuts for ourselves every day so these 17 weren’t all for us. I needed to get some for the girls I visit and teach. Suzy did too. And Kaylie needed to get enough for her entire family home evening group. And other people who heard we were going asked us to pick some up for them (we are all obsessed with the shuk’s doughnuts).

When the shop owner heard our order, he just grinned, and invited us into the place. He tossed a few more grapefruit sized balls of dough into a vat of oil and then invited us to help. I took over the job of flipping the balls of dough in the oil. The liquid hissed and sizzled as I tried to maneuver the wooden spoon under the fleshy dough balls. Kaylie and Suzy busily pumped a few of the cooked doughnuts full of sticky strawberry jelly. The shop owner dusted our order with a snowfall of powder sugar.

He seemed to take a sense of pride in his little shop. I kept trying to flip over a glob of dough in the oil and it wouldn’t budge. He stepped over as I tried to maneuver the wooden spoon.

“Faster, faster,” he said, “bloop, bloop.”

I kept trying to “bloop” the dough balls and eventually I turned over the white blobs to their dark moon sides.

Next time, maybe I will just powder the doughnuts.

The shopkeepers helped us take all of our pictures. I think they were having just as fun as we were.

We walked away from the store with a box full of seventeen doughnuts. Then, with the doughnuts in our arms, we continued our search for ruby red pea coats. I still felt like a gypsy, wandering the streets of Israel, licking the sugar and strawberry goo off my fingers.

Today was the kind of day I treasure.

I want to wrap up today.

I want to bake today inside of a jelly-filled doughnut.

Then, on days, which are not so jelly-filled, I will unwrap my doughnut, take a bite, and remember a jelly-filled day.

Me helping cook the doughnuts at the open market.

The shopkeeper dusted our 17 doughnuts and then wrote us a special message in strawberry jelly: "wlcom"

Our good friend, the doughnut maker. No, that is not blood on the ceiling. It is sweet strawberry jelly.

Just a wonderful, wonderful day.

Gazing at Galilee

At the Sea of Galilee

I will say it again: Sigh. So, so beautiful

On the Sea of Galilee

Shalom/Marhaba Family!

I am sitting on the bus and my computer is about to die but I thought I would try and write up this email. Sometimes, it feels like the only time I have to sit down and write you is on the bus. It is Thanksgiving Day (hooray!) and we are driving home from Galilee. Our bus reminds me of the magic school bus: it is daffodil yellow, with dolphins and little sea creatures all over it. I keep waiting for a teacher with frizzy red hair to come sauntering down the aisle, announcing we will be shrinking ourselves today so we can fly with butterflies or drive into some student’s mouth.

Instead, Professor Huntsman shuffles us around Galilee in our magic school bus. I think Galilee may be better than any adventure from the cartoon shows.

We arrived in Galilee ten days ago. Everyone else in my group got aboard the bus with plump, fully packed suitcases. I came with my little duffel bag. Bad idea.

After ten days of living out of my little duffel bag, I now smell. Like campfire ash, muddy feet, mixed with manure. But I can’t complain.

I smell like a campfire because I snuggled up around a bonfire three times on the seashore.

I smell like dirt because we hiked to waterfalls and jumped around on rocks where Christ may have spoken to another rock, Peter.

I smell like the sea because I swam in the Sea of Galilee. Yes, in my professor’s words, “We swam where Jesus walked, today.”

We stayed at a kibbutz right on the sea shore of Galilee. The Sea of Galilee is so, so clear. When I went up to the water, I put my toes in the tide and looked down. I could see every pink-pearled seashell and every pale pebble. I understand why Christ chose to walk in this sea instead of Bear Lake (no offense, Grandpa-I still love Bear Lake for fishing).

We lugged rocks in the water and each took our turn “walking on water.” But I kept begging someone to accidently push me into the water.

For the first few days, the teachers told us we could not go swimming and I was just itching to get into the water (one, to cover up my smell and two, because it is the Sea of Galilee). But, no, we needed a lifeguard.

I didn’t have too much time to complain. Every day, we went on a field trip or we went to class. I think our teachers want us to become as wise as Christ’s disciples with the amount of studying they expect from us. I tried to hush my mental breakdowns, because Galilee already has a history of women possessed with devils. I took the readings on the bus and carried my scriptures around like a baby, trying to squeeze in time to read and study.

The day of our midterm came and I basically stitched myself to my study guide. After lunch, and cramming for another hour, I went to take the test. Right before then, my teacher told us-miracle of miracles-they found a lifeguard for us. But we had to be to the water by 4:30.

I grabbed my test, sat down in one of the seats without a desk, and nearly choked on a hysterical laugh when I looked at the test.

I am a slow test taker. And I knew this test would take me a while. But I dove in. Question after question, I ached to rest my hand. I kept looking at my watch. I tried to scribble in the tiniest hand writing my every tiny bit of knowledge on every term.

I only had a few more questions left and I looked down at my watch: four o’clock. There was no way I was going to make it to the beach. I sighed and consigned myself to a sad fate: I would never swim in the Sea of Galilee. But then, I read the last question. It was about Mary and Martha.

I knew this answer.

Martha was always so troubled … about everything.

And I know I am always so troubled … about everything.

At that moment, I made a decision. I did something I don’t normally do. I did not look over my test five thousand times before I turned it in. I wrote in my last response, stood up, handed in my paper and then … I ran.

I ran outside, slipped off my shoes, and I ran to my little cottage near the end of the kibbutz. My backpack sloshed around on my back and my tailbone still hurt from basketball, but I continued to run. At my kibbutz cottage, I slammed the door and grabbed my swimsuit off the bathroom hook.

Then, clad in a damp, mildew-smelling, ultra-modest, there is no cleavage anyways, swimsuit, I ran down to the shoreline.

Everyone else was already at the water’s edge. There were some people “walking” on water. Other people were wading out past their ankles. And other people were throwing clumps of mud at each other. I turned to the closest person and asked, “did I make it?”

No.

The lifeguard had just left.

I wanted to sit down and cry.

I felt like one of the ten foolish virgins, who was not allowed into the wedding.

I felt like I did when Sheila left for Seminary without me, because I was too busy dabbling on my tube of mascara.

But then, Scott and Thomas grabbed my arms and while I protested, they threw me into the water.

I wasn’t allowed to go in past my waist without a lifeguard, but I still floated around and got fully soaked in the Sea of Galilee.

You remember the part in Ever After where Danielle floats in the pond? I felt like that. The sun decided to join me in the water and slowly sunk down at the edge of the horizon. I am getting gushy again but, really, Galilee is beautiful.

There is so, so much I need to tell you. But I am afraid I am just blubbering now so we’ll keep the rest of this short (I promise Sheila!-This will not be another high school sized, Kimberly essay).

We sang gospel songs on boat rides. I lifted my hands and sang, “My God is an Awesome God!” until my throat hurt. I still have that song stuck in my head.

I think I may have experienced the first stages of hypothermia on our hike. But we found a waterfall so I stopped complaining about my yellow, molten purple looking-skin.

We ate at another fish restaurant. There were options: fish, pizza, or pasta. Everyone was so happy to get the plump rolls and bread everywhere we ate in Galilee. But I was not surprised—of course, the land where Christ fed bread and fish to the five thousands would have delicious, doughy warm pitas. Plus humus. So, I ordered the fish because I wanted the full experience: bread and fish, please. I felt like one in the crowd of five thousand. But when my fish came, it looked like one Peter had just caught in the net. Except a little fried. So I ate some of Jessica’s pizza, too. This time, I stayed away from the fish’s eye.

….

My computer died on the Bus

…

And now I am back at the Center!

…

When we trudged off the busses, and got back into the center, we all almost started to cry.

They decorated the Center for Christmas.

It is so beautiful.

There are pine trees and gold twinkling lights.

I really do live in a castle on a hill.

Our teachers told us to go wash-up for dinner (yes, they knew I smelled). By this time, I smelled like fish paste mixed with humus.

I got in one of Kaylie’s dresses and tried to scrub off the dirt on my face.

Then, we went outside the Oasis.

Achman made Thanksgiving dinner. I like to compliment Achman whenever he makes fudgy brownies or anything I like because I know he will make it again soon, if I do (I like to believe that is why we have potatoes at almost every meal).

But this Thanksgiving dinner Achman outdid himself.

We walked into the Oasis and the cooks were just grinning, as if they had big ears of corn stuck under their lips. We did not disappoint them with how excited we acted. I think I squealed. The cooks stood along the buffet line with two grizzled turkeys slicing thick tender pieces for each plate. They gave out dollops of stuffing with the softest pieces of bread and crispiest pieces of celery (and some olives but we all picked those out). Royal purple cranberry sauce. Fruit salad with whipped cream and gold, sugared pecans. Then they presented the pies. The pies were sugared with crumbled doughy tops and warm sugared apples. I feasted like a happy queen.

But, Grandma Allen, your Thanksgiving dinners will always have my heart.

And I wish I could have been there at the Michels' home with everyone. I miss you all!

Today, we are still in recovery from our Turkey comas. I am too deliriously happy to have another mental breakdown about my grades. I think later I may just go into the Old City.

The shopkeepers will be waiting for me.

Love you all so much,

Kimberly

P.S. Sorry Sheila, this turned into a rambling email…per usual…just imagine what headaches I give my teachers with the essays I sneeze out.

We (Kind of) Walked Where Jesus Walked

(Please note the gapping holes in my right shoe. I know understand why Christ wore sandals)

This time, I did not eat the fish's eye.

On Mount Tabor, where Christ may have looked out from.

We went on so many field trips the places are now jumbled around inside my head. We had a pig race where the devil possessed swine ran into the sea. We saw John's home (at the place pictured above). But my favorite, still, was probably going on the boat ride.

Robin and Me at Nimrod's Castle. Our friendship is defined by the sunbeam.

I wish I could live in Galilee forever.