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Life is hard. God is good.
The last few weeks have been difficult; not because there is anything wrong in my life, only because I feel unsettled. Call it a physiological response or existential angst. Maybe it is the summer blahs. Perhaps it is living in what I like to call “the age of anxiety.“
It doesn’t really matter what it is. Its effects make it hard to relax. My brain scans for problems, and I seek solutions to imagined difficulties that haven’t happened and are unlikely to happen. I feel my muscles tighten and experience intestinal discomfort. I can recognize the signs of anxiety in my body. I spent a lot of years living on coffee and adrenaline. So the sensations are unfortunately familiar. What I don’t understand is why I am suddenly anxious?
Due to my profession, I know a lot about how the brain works. I understand the human need for autonomy, belonging, and competence. I train people on developing environmental conditions that support positive human development for both staff and humans. I work hard to cultivate those conditions in my own life. This does not make me immune to feelings of anxiety.
I have a loving family. I have a wonderful career, doing meaningful work. I have freedom to choose what I want to do each day. I am insulated, and blessed; yet I understand how fragile life can be. I often absorb the emotions and stressors of those I care about.
In our Information Age, not only are there daily reminders that life can be disastrous; individuals use events to create controversy and strife for economic and political gain. Incivility in some circles has reached new heights. Commercials are targeted specifically to me and remind me that I am aging, that I may not have enough money, that I may not be physically fit, and on it goes. Each encounter chipping away at my peace.
If so, I must recenter. I spend less time in front of screens. I spend more time talking to family. I garden and walk in nature. I visit with friends. I read books that inform and entertain. I mediate and pray.
It is said that the brain is four times more likely to remember negative experiences and emotions. Neuroscience also tells us that our brains are constantly rewiring itself and that instant technology is changing our brain waves. And so I wonder….what if my anxiety is less a function of my reality and more a function of my focus?
I remember that faith is a choice each day. I remind myself of God’s great love. That He is faithful. I cannot control any of the things that media and society would have me worry about. I will get older. My health will eventually fail. There may be a time when I don’t have enough money. But in this season, I …like Job, will return to my fortress. I will not take on the cares of the world unless I remember to carry them in prayer to the only one who can help. I will remain a prisoner of hope. In God alone I place my trust. I will dwell on “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, any excellence and anything worthy of praise.”
This may sound preachy (not my intent) and easy. It is not. This week it is a hard conscious choice each day. A mindful, deliberate choice. … because life is hard (even when it seems everything is going your way). But even on my worst day, God is good.
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Headed Home
I am driving home after a lengthy stay with my son. Leaving his house, I have very mixed emotions. I am feeling that (I am dropping you off for college, I don’t know when I will see you again, you are smart and capable but my life’s mission is to make sure you are okay) feeling of emptiness thing that happens every time your adult children leave you or you leave them.
I drive away and spend the next hour reminiscing and fretting as only a mother can. The hour after that, I distract myself with road-trip karaoke (and yes, I am still a small town girl living in a lonely world). In the next hour, I stop at the world’s coolest vintage store. I find countless garments from 1940 to the present to hold in front of the mirror. Curvy girls had it bad in the 1950’s as everything was made to fit like a combat wetsuit (tight and stiff) …except for floppy house dresses (grandma, suddenly I understand).Retail therapy complete, I start the last leg of the journey home.
Because I am thinking of house dresses, I obviously think of grandma. When I was a teenager, my grandmother who could no longer care for herself went to stay with my aunt a few hours away. When I went to visit, she begged us to take her home to her own house just to spend the night. I didn’t get it. We were going to drive almost two hours, spend the night and return. That would leave us with a two hour drive back again to our hometown after we dropped her off. It was already late in the evening, but I worshipped my grandmother and couldn’t have refused her. Off we went into the night.
Each road sign we passed she would smile and say hallelujah. Each town that we encountered would bring a song of praise. “Lodi! Thank you Jesus! Cold Water! Praise the Lord! I’m going home! God is good!” I smiled at her happiness and enthusiasm. I didn’t really get it.
But as I drive these roads home and think of that day, I understand. There is the field with the camels, I’m one step closer home. There is the town with the antiques and homemade bread where we while away the Saturdays, I’m getting closer. Here is the town where my husband’s grandparents are buried so I’m almost there. Crossing the railroad tracks means I am minutes from where we have built a life. I am seconds from my husband, Praise the Lord!
It is just like me to not want to leave one place, yet can’t wait to get to another. But I understand, Grandma’s joy of coming home. Except for me, home is wherever my children are, where my husband is, where my parents and siblings reside. Fortunately or unfortunately they are scattered across the country. Coming home rarely means everyone is in one place. I will have to be content with my heart being scattered.
My husband teases me when we travel in the area surrounding my hometown. It usually starts when I get a big goofy grin as the hills come into view. I remind him I’m a hillbilly girl. I say, “have I ever told you how much I love pine trees?” Some days I even roll down the windows to smell the forest. What he doesn’t know is that in my head where only I can hear I am singing “Lodi, Praise the Lord. Cherokee Pass, thank you Jesus! Lake Killarney, God is good!” Home is anywhere my people are….but the forest, my forest, the hills where I grew up speak to my soul.
Unto the hills I will lift up my eyes…….
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Travel Goals: Wildlife Adventures
It started out as a simple hiking trip, just a few days with a friend to explore a highly rated woodland trail. Nature had other plans. Reviewing the forecast as we packed, we decided that two days on the the at temperatures well over 100 with high humidity was probably not smart. So we decided to drive North instead. We found a lovely state park with a lake for kayaking and trails for hiking. Best of all, the temperature would stay below 90 degrees.
She arrived first and began scouting a campsite. 1000 Hills state park got its name for a reason. Finding any level ground to pitch a tent was a challenge. It had been very dry and so it was hard to get stakes in the ground. I pitched my tent closer to the woods in order to give her the more level and higher ground.
We set a functional camp and had an awesome meal of chicken shawarma cooked over the campfire. There is not much better than a meal cooked over the flames of a fire. If your friend is a chef, using a recipe you love, it is heaven.
Pleased with the camp, the meal, and the weather, we took a twilight walk. Upon return to camp, we noticed we had visitors. Raccoons had stolen our remaining dinner drinks and some some produce from the table.
Raccoons are crafty creatures, but as experienced campers, we made sure the food was tightly sealed and secured in our cars. We removed the trash to a provided and secure bin away from the camp. We carefully stacked our outdoor gear under the table and covered it with a tarp.
I watched the fire for awhile and enjoyed the sounds of the eastern whippoorwill. A common sound from my childhood, whippoorwills are harder to find these days. Hearing them brought back wonderful memories. Feeling relaxed and happy, I went to bed with dreams of the next day’s hike.
Sleep, however, was elusive. I worked to find a way to make the sloping ground work with my body. It is not often that I sleep on the ground anymore. I hadn’t used the backpacking tent in several years and only realized that the fly cover was missing after I set up the tent. I wasn’t worried and was secretly pleased that I had an open view of the stars.
I was admiring the trees through my tent top when the noise started. Banging and crashing sounded like a band of children playing with pots and pans. I got up to find three juvenile raccoons ransacking our gear. They were rifling through our empty coffee pot and grill basket. They had knocked over the stacked firewood and tossed the citronella candle off the table.
After shooing them away, I went back to my tent. About an hour later, I awoke to scratching and sniffing around my tent. I lay quietly trying to determine what was a few inches from my head on the other side of the thin layer of nylon. After hearing the telltale raccoon “giggle”(a high pitched gurgling sound), I raised onto my knees and aimed the cellphone light into their eyes and whispered as loudly as I could, “go away”. After a few slaps to the side of the tent, I heard the band of thieves shuffle into the woods.
About an hour later, I heard the gang return with reinforcements. I climbed out of the tent to find five raccoons. They were hanging from the post trying to knock down our empty trash can. They had carried our water cooler to the woods and unscrewed the lid, wasting all of our washing water. I chased off the wild bunch, secured the gear a little tighter and went back to bed.
Shortly after going to sleep, I heard loud grunting next to my tent and smelled the unmistakable smell of hog. I didn’t move. Wild hogs can be very dangerous. Laying as still as possible, I listened to rustling and shuffling. The critter wandered off and I drifted back to sleep. I’m not sure in what order.
In the next hour, I awoke to more crashing. This time a larger raccoon was attempting to drag a case of canned water to the woods. It was too much for him and the raccoons were becoming to much for me. I decided that they could take everything and that I was not getting up again. In a spirit of defiance, I walked to the bathroom in the dark while dreaming of my bedroll.
True to my word, I did not leave my tent again. Despite rustles and banging, I resisted and dozed in an out of sleep. I heard owls and coyotes. Once I heard deer walking by on mostly silent feet, a gentle rustle at the foot of the tent.
About 3am, I awoke to the sound of someone opening the car door. Except the noise of the handles moving didn’t stop. Someone was trying all the handles. Someone was breaking into the car. I jumped up and used my cell phone light to shine on the cars. There was no one there. I felt silly. It had been too long since I had been in a tent. Every little noise was bothering me, and causing dreams.
About four am, I heard my friend talking to raccoons. They managed to drag a heavy toolbox out from under the table, the tarp, and the lawn chairs. They had one side open and were dragging out anything they could reach. We lost a few spoons.
By five am I was up and building a fire. I needed campfire coffee, the elixir of life. I reset the camp again. We were the only campers in this part of the park. It was quiet, just me and the birds. I live for peaceful moments in nature. A raccoon emerged from the woods briefly and then wandered back down the hill toward the lake.
As it became brighter, my friend emerged from her tent and we swapped stories from the night. As we went to retrieve supplies for breakfast, we noticed the paw prints all over the cars. Tiny prints covered the door handles and windows. The front door of her car was ajar. I hadn’t been dreaming. Someone was attempting to break into our cars. That someone just happened to be about three feet tall, with a striped tail, and wearing a mask. We were camping with a band of experienced thieves.
I was tired. It is a good thing we came with plenty of coffee to fortify for the hike, and hike we did. I was thankful we had comfortable hammocks to accommodate an afternoon nap. I just had to hope that I didn’t wake up with a raccoon on my chest trying to remove my wedding ring. I smiled as I imagined a raccoon overlord selling camping equipment out of a cave at the base of the hill. My nap was glorious as I gently swayed in the breeze.
It’s a good thing raccoons are so cute and an even better thing that wildlife are protected in state parks. Although if this happens again tomorrow night, all bets are off. I will be more careful and put all loose items in my vehicle. I won’t bother them and they better not bother me. Mamma doesn’t play and she is determined to get a good night’s sleep.
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Summer Struggles
I have a love/hate relationship with my yard. It is spacious with wonderful trees. I have small garden spaces and patios. I even have a large freestanding octagonal swing structure surrounding a fire pit. We also have delightful wildlife that, four months out of the year, turn into creatures of mass destruction.
I love to sit on the patio and side porch in the cool of the morning to listen to the birds . In the evening, the animals visit. We have rabbits, foxes, deer, raccoons, squirrels, and even a random bear. Most of the year, I love to sit in the glass sunroom and observe their adventures. Their tracks in the snow are enchanting.
But in the summertime, it is war. I plant bulbs and the squirrels dig them up. I put out my hummingbird feeders and the woodpeckers and raccoons knock them down. The deer munch my hostas like they are at the all you can eat buffet. The rabbits chew my flowering plants off at the stem. And the beetles and worms leave my roses looking like a toddler was turned loose with a hole punch.
I love puttering around the yard, watering and weeding. I love planting and tending. But I hate waking up to mass destruction. The moles have made so many burrows that grass won’t grow in patches. Some large animal thinks the mulch under my Adirondack chairs is the perfect place to dig a sleeping hole. Repair is futile. Each day brings a new indignity.
I have a native plant area in a corner garden that happily grows wild. It is gloriously unkempt. It reminds me that the struggle is futile. We can try to control nature, but in the end nature will have its way.
Stubbornly, I refuse to surrender to the plant eating terrors that live in my yard. So before bed, I sprinkle cayenne pepper on the new growth. Take that you beasties. Perhaps in the morning instead of chewed off stems, there will be leaves missing just a bite. Small victories. I don’t ask for much, but I would like to have a few blooms.
Last night I chased a rabbit from the flower bed. He looked at me, happily munching as I clapped and yelled. He had no reaction until I charged at him waving my arms like a crazed Mr. Macgregor (random Beatrix Potter reference for those of you deprived of bedtime stories). The struggle is real.
So I will water and weed and work to keep the beasties away in the hopes of beautiful blooms. In this way, I can be assured of a few days of stunning garden. At least until we go out of town for a few days in July. Then I will come home to brown and brittle stubs which I will nurse until they become scrawny shadows of their former selves.
My yard is a glorious mess. And yet, hope springs eternal. I see why medieval gardens had high walls. I also know why lawns were uncommon prior to the last century and reserved for those wealthy enough to employ gardeners. As usual, my ancestors had more sense. I guess I will contemplate where I went wrong as I replant the hanging basket that the squirrels have used as a climbing gym this morning.
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You Called
Last night, just as I was getting ready for bed, you called. I was tired and I had to get up really early this morning. I didn’t mention any of that, because you called.
Since you have grown and flown, these moments of insight into your life are rarified. Yes, I could call you and sometimes I do. But those moments when you call are special. The call lets me know that you are thinking of me and that you have things you want to share.
When you were first on your own, you only called when something was wrong. I developed a reflexive response of “what is wrong?” I didn’t really like to talk on the phone and I hated that I couldn’t see you in person.
As the years fly by, I crave your voice. If you need advice, call me. If you need a cheerleader, call me. Need a listening ear, unconditional love, a critic to speak truth to you…. Call me, call me, call me.
Because when you call me, no matter what I am doing, I feel the whispers of your chubby, baby fingers reaching out for me to pick you up and then your hand on my face as you turned my chin to get my attention. I see fingers under the bathroom door as you yelled “mom, mom, mom” when you wanted an answer that couldn’t wait for my attention.
When you tell me about the ups and downs of your job, I am remembering you running off the school bus clutching papers, eager to tell me about your triumphs and tragedies. When you tell me about your latest hobby, I am remembering the countless hours we spent at practices and performances. You tell me about the book you are reading and I remember trips to the library and endless bedtime stories.
You talk about the weather, and I know that you are already tired of the heat because you burn so easily. You talk about your health and I am listening for the way your voice modulates when you are anxious. I wish I could see your face to look for the circles I know you get when you have a migraine. But I know all the timbres of your voice, and just listening will have to do.
Last night you called and I was reminded that though you live far away, I am still your mother. You called and I immediately felt the bond that can’t be broken. My heart was rejoined to my body for the brief period of a phone call. I didn’t mention any of these feelings; it would have been weird. You called last night and I know that you are safe and happy. That is enough. I didn’t have to say anything other than, “I love you, and I’m glad you called.” You called last night and I am content.
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Christmas Magic
As long as I can remember, in the few days before Christmas I am consumed by an unbearable desire to have everyone I love under one roof as soon as possible. I know that the family togetherness is imminent. But can’t come fast enough.
I love the rituals of Christmas. I love the trees and the presents with glittery bows. I love the lights and the ornaments. The music and the foods are like a warm blanket on a cold day, comforting and soothing.
Most of all, I love the family gatherings. In one single day, I will see my core group of family. The people who are closest to us and who shaped our very beings will be together again. We will eat, and laugh. I will shower them with gifts they likely don’t need, because it gives me joy to honor them. And for a brief moment in time, all will be right in the world.
The anticipation is sometimes visceral. I wake early and pace, wondering when they will arrive. Will a storm keep the plane from flying? Will they have car trouble? I keep worry at bay with baking and cleaning and music. In my heart, I know all is well, but time seemingly stands still. I feel as if I will burst from waiting.
My happiness is complete when all the cars are in the driveway and everyone is asleep under one roof. Sometimes, I stay up all night just to relish the feeling of contentment for as long as possible.
Christmas morning will move too fast. The presents will be opened and the base of the tree will again be empty. In a matter of hours, the house will again be silent as my cherished ones will go back to their lives in places far away. But for those few treasured hours, my whole world is together in one place. Christmas magic.
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There is not a “right way” to camp
There is no right way to enjoy the outdoors. I could walk forever with a pack on my back listening to the sounds of wildlife. It is nice to have our RV parked nearby to provide a dry place to sleep and storage for clothes and food. Backpacking, tent camping, rv life, a cabin or hotel room…I have enjoyed them all.
I am happiest, closest to nature. We sit outside when we camp until time for bed. In the late afternoon, a hammock and a lounge chair are good places to regroup after an active day. The fire is eventually stoked and cooking begins over the flames.
I channel my ancestors and cook in cast iron over the open flames. Biscuits and bacon is the preferred breakfast. Nothing can beat campfire coffee on a chilly morning. Dinner can be chili or bbq and a hot cherry cobbler. Sometimes we make steak smothered in butter and garlic over the fire. If you ask me, everything tastes better cooked over the flames. However, if the day is busy, simple fare such as cheese and berries can also be delightful. We take the time to savor.
When we camp, we are usually active. A bike ride around the campground or a stroll to the lakeside provides relaxing entertainment. Along the way, we talk to fellow campers. I also talk to the squirrels, deer, and birds that live in the area. It is good to be outdoors.
My husband and I don’t always agree on the best way to spend our time camping. I have never seen a trail that I didn’t want to explore. Sometimes he isn’t all that interested. Some days I really want to paddle the lake. He can’t seem to find a kayak he likes. Some days he wants to sit in the creek and I find the water too cold. Some days he wants to sleep late, and I am usually up with the dawn struggling to be quiet so he can sleep. Our idea of a perfect day can differ. But we make it work, because there is not a right way to camp.
I’ve been camping my entire life. Luckily, my parents and grandparents also ventured outdoors. It is part of me. Within the past two years, however, I have noticed a subtle shift at campgrounds. The rigs have gotten steadily bigger. The campers seem more interested with their toys than the environment they came to enjoy. They leave behind more trash. Everyone has facing hiking gear and expensive recreational equipment. I want to weep when I am on the trail and hear the buzz of a drone or the whine of an atv. I can’t help the nostalgia for an earlier and simpler time.
RVs with outdoor televisions and loud speakers overshadow the sounds of the owls and crickets. Our neighbors for the last four days didn’t even come outside their giant RV. The man stepped out once each day for 10 to 15 minutes. One afternoon he used his outside time to power wash his campsite pad. The next day he polished his car fender for 10 minutes before heading back inside. I suppose the idea of being in the woods gave him joy, even if he spent his daily 10 minutes of outside time trying to rid his site of all traces of nature. There is no right way to camp.
I must admit that I don’t understand those who drive to the woods with a miniature house and never step foot outside. I don’t understand how you could declare a campfire too dirty to mess with. I am unsure why, if you are not coming outside, that you have to light up the night with lights that make your campsite look like spotlights after a prison break.
However, there is no right way to camp, if it gives you joy and you aren’t ruining the experience for everyone. When our children were little, we traveled in a small camper van. I didn’t cook on vacation. It was too hard with two small children in a van. We lived on juice boxes and cheese sticks until we could find a restaurant. We would roll into camp at evening and be gone in the morning (because the van was our transport for the day). It worked for us in that season.
This past camping trip, college students formed a tent city just down the hill. They were loud and reckless. They rode motorcycles too fast and chased each other with water guns. One of the girls confused me with someone’s grandparent (a first experience that I am not sure how to process). And they were also polite and friendly (except for the “sorry, I mistook you for my boyfriend’s grandmother” comment). They had a great time but respected quiet hours.
While there is no right way to camp, you do need to respect your neighbors. I understand my need for solitude and the sounds of nature and so we always try to select sites that are large and facing the forest. If I park next to “bring my home to the woods and have an outdoor theater/dance party” family, we try to make friends early and realize that solitude may not be on the menu. If our neighbors have small children, we try to befriend them and enjoy their antics as they encounter nature. It is hard not to smile when you hear a child shouting, “come see…come see….it is a GIANT ant!” If we set camp next to the “rolling fortress couple” and no one emerges from inside, I shake my head and wonder why they made the effort. You do you. At least they won’t be loud … although I may have to endure their neon nightlights. There is no right way to camp.
There is definitely a right way to be fellow camper…friendly….accepting….courteous….and conscious that you have joined a voluntary community of people seeking respite from their everyday life. Happy camping, neighbor.
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Serenity
Up at dawn, I sip my coffee in solitude and say a prayer of gratitude. It is peaceful. The birds are making the small chirping sounds that accompany a new day. My family thinks I’m a little crazy for getting up with the sun each day. But to me, it is serene. A time when I can fully be in the moment without distraction.
Serenity (the state of being calm and untroubled) seems to be in short supply. The idea of being at peace seems almost countercultural. Media feeds on turmoil. Advertisement preys on insecurities. People thrive on challenge and conflict. But when I walk in nature, everything melts away. Serenity makes its home in a garden. The woods are a cathedral of calm.
I’m finding that to grasp these little cherished moments of peace, I have to slow down. I have to make time to be still and unplugged. Sometimes serenity comes by simply noticing the beauty of my surroundings. The way a tree outlines the sky can be breathtaking. The black and white photographs from bygone adventure elicit happy memories. Everyday objects are really quite extraordinary when you take the time to look.
So occasionally, I lay in my hammock and I watch the contrails of planes overhead. I make pictures out of clouds. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair. In these moments, I am happy to be alive and the world seems full of promise. I wonder why I sometimes let the noise of the world steal my joy. We live in an age of ease and comfort unprecedented in human history and yet social media screams our discontent. Daily reminders that we should upset or indignant bombard us. It is exhausting. At the end of a long day of dealing with people and problems, the hammock is my peaceful place.
Other days, I find a location and I intentionally sip my coffee. On the best days, I have brewed the coffee over an open fire and can smell the smoke and crisp aroma of the beans. Most days, I set up the drip coffee maker in the faint light of dawn, trying not to spill the water across the counter. Occasionally, I visit a cafe and enjoy the foamy goodness of a latte or a London Fog. Many evenings I brew the perfect cup of tea with a splash of honey. Serenity in a cup. A ritual of calming.
The Bible has a lot to say about serenity. 365 times, we are told not to be afraid. We are asked to cast our anxiety away and instead to trust in the goodness of God. For me, serenity is only achieved by slowing down and deliberately noticing the goodness, beauty, and blessings that surround me.
There is time enough for troubles in the hectic pace of life. Seeking the serene in every day moments is a conscious choice. It takes only a few brief moments to take a deep breathe, to appreciate the beauty of a flower, to savor the smile of a friend, to smell the aroma of a great meal, and to be thankful for the experience. I have learned that I can’t wait for peace, I must seek it. Even when all seems chaos, serenity awaits.
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Making Do
There is a game I play on a regular basis. Perhaps challenge is the better word. I look in the pantry and refrigerator to figure out how random and abandoned items can be turned into a meal. This purging of the remnants is cathartic.
This Easter we took our first camping trip of the season. I had a plan. We would use up the Easter candy that was part of the table decoration at the family gathering. We would make s’mores out of peeps, a chocolate bunny, and graham crackers.
My husband just shook his head and smiled. His job is to make the s’mores. My job is to assemble the ingredients. Despite being unsure of the outcome, they were actually delicious. And we didn’t have to waste food. (Are peeps actually considered food?)
In all seriousness, I hate waste. I don’t like to throw away usable items. I get a little thrill when I can repurpose an item. I am genuinely enthralled with resale shops. Not only do I regularly donate items, it is my shopping venue of choice. Reduce, reuse, and recycle…words to live by.
When I travel, I notice how much Americans waste in comparison to how others live. I want to do better. Recently we were walking through an underground passage in Lisbon. People had set up a camp in a corner of the walkway that was well lit. They had a mattress, some clothing, and a few bowls. I was reminded of how little we actually need as humans. I was painfully aware that they had to “make do” not as a fun pastime but as a matter of necessity.
I am blessed beyond measure. Even so, I can be tricked into thinking I need even more. It takes moments of clarity, to wake me up from my entitlement.
When confronted with poverty and abject need, people are often afraid (as if it might rub off). We look away, we turn from it and attempt to accumulate more and more. We are sure that the more we have, the less we need to worry. Self worth becomes tied to things.
On a trip to South Africa, I visited an area that one might call a slum. An entire city made of things others had thrown away. The “store” was a roadside shack where you brought refuse you found that might be useful and traded it for refuse you might need. I watched a teenage boy bring in two used tires he found along the highway to trade for a bucket and a sheet of tin. An elderly man traded coke bottles for a roll of toilet paper.
Making do in this African village was an art form. Houses were shaped of scraps of wood, tarps, plastic and card board. Shoes were made from rags pieces of tire. I actually bought a beautiful purse from a woman that had been shaped from a used tire.
Despite the lack of material wealth, on Sunday morning hundreds of people gathered in the brightest white clothing I had ever seen (a fact that impressed me because there were no washing machines readily available). In perfect harmony, they sang praise to God for his provision and his many blessings. I stood on the hillside. I looked across the sea of joyful people dressed in white giving thanks for the refuse they bartered to survive and I wept. The experience changed me.
I have to discipline my American self to use less and to share more. It is almost counter cultural, in the land where more is always best. The land of the Big Gulp, Big Mac and super size fries is not known for moderation. How do we remember that people are always more important than things and that the common good is always a higher calling than individual greed? I will resist the urge to sermonize, however, my faith demands that I practice stewardship.
“Making do” for me is good fun. I get a thrill when I can rescue the wilted produce in the bottom of the refrigerator before I have to throw it out. I feel triumphant when I successfully buy a dress or pair of shoes for a dollar at the local charity shop. But I know that for others, making do is not a game. Reduce, reuse, and recycle is ultimately good for all of us.
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In Search of the Order of Christ: Travel Goals
Templar knights…the very words evoke images of adventure and piety. The warrior priests who vow to take back and defend the holy land against the infidels are the stuff of legends. With my head full of images from books and film, we took the train to Tomar. Tomar was a city built as a Templar base in Portugal in the 1100’s at the start of the Crusades.
While the movies romanticize the Templars, in reality they existed to protect pilgrims to the Holy Land. Only about 10% of its members were knights. Their numbers included brothers who fed the poor and looked after lands while the owners set out for the holy land. Women were also part of the order (although I have never seen that in a movie).
The Convent de Christo in Tomar is huge, the size of a small city. The Templar order had deep roots in Portugal and throughout Europe. They cultivated close ties with the Catholic Church, royalty and the nobility. Over time, the services of the Templars expanded to hospitals and agriculture. Donations to the Templars rolled in as they established systems to help the poor and to reestablish communities in the Holy Land.
Templars invented the first checking system, where travelers could deposit money with the Templars in Portugal and present a letter of credit once in Jerusalem or Acre. This allowed travelers to have access to money without having to travel with large sums. Some consider the Templars the world’s first multinational corporation.
Through hard work, donations, and wise investments, the Templars became very, very wealthy. Even then, large stores of wealth provoked envy and greed. King Philip of France owed a tremendous debt to the Templars. Over time he began to circulate rumors that the Templars were immoral. He had Templar knights in France arrested and tortured so that they would make false confessions. He burned the Grand Master at the stake. Money over truth. Murder to cover crime.
Although the Pope agreed to the Templar’s innocence, he disbanded the Templars and divested their resources. The scandal was to great and too many people blindly followed the rumors. It seems that people love a good conspiracy theory, even in the Middle Ages.
The unjust persecution happened in every country except Portugal. Instead, King Denis welcomed the disgraced and fugitive Templars and renamed them the Order of Christ. Tomar became a refuge, the epicenter of the regrouping. A new identity was created with the Pope’s blessing
With some funds intact and a new name, the Order of Christ expanded the monastery at Tomar. A young Grand Master, Prince Henry the Navigator put the knowledge of the Templars to use. He began to accumulate all available knowledge to stage Portuguese exploration around the world. The safe transfer of funds and goods, the logistical travel expertise, navigation, mapping, financing, the building of outposts and missions, as well as countless other lessons learned in the Templar quest for the holy land were put to use for the glory of Portugal.
As exploration expanded, the Order of Christ assumed a place of honor in Portugal. Funds rolled in from the colonies and the Convent de Christo continued to expand. No expense was spared in the chapel. The round unique chapel is a truly exquisite masterpiece to the Glory of God.
Archways, paintings, altars, and carvings overwhelm the senses. It is easy to imagine monks in silent prayer or chanting in the choir loft. We wandered around and around, under arches and golden ceilings. It was hard not to be overwhelmed by its ethereal beauty. Some historic places are oversold and do not live up to the hype. This was not one of those places. You can’t adequately put into words the visual impact of this holy place.
In the chapel, all decorations point toward the Christ. Mary is seen mourning Christ crucified. The apostles line the archways. Various saints occupy the alcoves. But Jesus reigns.
In this sanctuary in rural Portugal, the members of the Order prospered and grew as they served the Lord and the King of Portugal. Various Kings continued to expand the monastery. At its peak, it could house hundreds and support hundreds more. The entire region benefitted from the industrious Order of Christ.
In present day, the Manualine architecture was stunning. It felt like a movie set. I half expected a knight or a monk with their bright Red Cross on a white tunic to appear in a secluded hallway. Walking into the individual cells, I was surprised. The rooms were larger than I expected. The monks here were clearly wealthy and well cared for, although they lived simply. Marble, tile, and hardwood construction was impressive. The building projects must have kept local craftsmen employed for decades.
Walking through the Convent de Christo was a step back in time. The cloisters are silent reminders of a glorious history. With the dawning of the Age of Exploration, The Order of Christ became defenders of Portugal. With outposts in Belem, Lisbon, and throughout Portugal the order defended the waterways and the ships coming and going from around the world.
Despite the grandeur, there is simplicity within the Convent de Christo. While the altars to God are elaborate, the living quarters are beautifully simple and unassuming. You sense humility and a devotion. The hallways echo as you walk in a way that makes you attain to hear their secrets. It is peaceful in the long hallways.
In modern times, the religious order disbanded. As the government became more secular, so did the order. The buildings and grounds were too vast to be maintained without regular government and church income. Private citizens purchased the grounds. Several large areas were abandoned and turned to ruin. Today they are picturesque backdrops for photos among garden walkways.
Empty and crumbling windows look over wooded parklands and agricultural fields. I wonder what a traveler encountering the enormous buildings in the 1400’s would think. I am overwhelmed at the enormity of the convent and two thirds of the structures are in ruins. Thankfully, the structures are now protected as an important historic site and under slow renovations.
Inside the convent, areas like the large dining hall and attached kitchens have already been faithfully restored. It was not hard to imagine the grand master standing in the elevated lectern along the dining hall wall and delivering an address to the Order as they ate their dinner. (Okay, in full transparency, I stood at the lectern and gave an imaginary address. How could I not?)
The cistern was a large and beautiful underground room, whose sole purpose was to collect rain water. It was damp and smelled of moss. I was amazed at the ingenuity. Medieval times may be referred to as the “dark ages” but people were no less brilliant. The cistern and the aqueduct were marvels of engineering that are still serving their purpose hundreds of years after construction.
Once we had lingered at the convent as long as we could, we took a quick walk to the adjacent Castelo. The large and imposing castle was built on the side of a mountain. The location afforded beautiful views.
Looking down at the town from above, I realized why I was a little winded from the walk from the train station to the Convent. In my excitement at being in Tomar, I focused on the city streets and statues. I hadn’t noticed dramatic landscape surrounding the castle on the way up.
A walk along the castle walls gave us dramatic views of the fortifications and the former moat. Orange trees now grow inside the castle, the beautiful fruit always just out of reach. Outside the castle, the Convent de Christo’s parkland merges with forest. The view from along the castle walls was far reaching and beautiful. A wonderful place keep watch over the surrounding countryside. If under attack, defensive slots for watching the enemy or launching arrows were carved in the distinctive shape of the Templar cross.
Strolling along the wall walk, I tried to imagine a time without the guard rails. I would probably fall to my own death by tripping on the stone steps. It is peaceful now, but what would hundreds of knights fending off invaders be like? The Castelo is solid and imposing. It served its protective purpose. Today it is a place where couples hold hands and tourists take photos of crumbling walls.
The Templar knights are long gone, but their legend remains. To be in this space, where reality supersedes my imagination was really special. Tomar exceeded my travel expectations. Just as the Order of Christ continued to evolve into its modern form, so has the city. Tomar proudly preserves its history and reminds us of the once great order of knights who reopened travel to the holy land and who ultimately helped expand travel worldwide with the age ofPortuguese exploration.
Perhaps that is why we were drawn to this place. Fellow travelers who dreamed of seeing the world. Individuals who lived in harmony with nature. People who lived simply and gave lavish thanks to God. Artists who shaped a breathtaking holy place. A community that looked after the poor. It is hard not idealize them. In searching for the Order of Christ, we found a community that was so much more than I imagined.
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Prisoner of Hopes 