Dear Fourteen-Year-Old Me

I’ve been reading through my old journals, and I want to tell myself a few things:

Dear fourteen-year-old me,

You don't know me yet, since I won't exist for ten more years. To me, those ten years feel like a lifetime. 

You might not recognize me right away; I've changed considerably. In fact, you’re probably horrified by the person I’ve become. You probably see me as shockingly liberal, though perhaps moderate-conservative would be a better descriptor. You no doubt think I'll be a bad influence on you, but rest assured - I don't think I've permanently damaged anybody by influencing them.

The truth is that as I’ve grown up, I’ve opened my heart and my mind to the Bible and closed them to the extra stuff that’s so important to you. You're still so very young, and you know nothing more than the small, narrow world around you.

Oh, I’ve offended you; that wasn’t my intention. I still haven’t outgrown my bluntness, I’m afraid.

However, my point still stands: you don’t know as much as you think you know. It's true that you're a compulsive researcher; and it’s good that you're willing to seek out opposite viewpoints to the ones you hold. That will challenge your mind like very little else will. You just don't realize that there are opinions and facts out there that never come up in your little world of rigid, two-dimensional morality.

In your view, everything is sure and certain; everything has a moral edge so sharp you could cut your finger on it. That’s not how it works. There isn’t a dichotomy of good and evil; good is still good and evil is still evil, but there are myriads of ways they can overlap. Just because something isn't wrong doesn't make it right. Just because something isn't ideal doesn't make it bad. The right thing with faulty justification might still cause heartache. The right argument with the wrong motive will still push people away. The wrong belief for a good reason doesn't make it right. The decision you honestly thought was right turning out to be wrong because you didn’t have all the facts doesn't mean you sinned. There is more to righteousness than rules.

Your opinions on some things will change entirely. That’s a good thing, too. Time has a curious way of uncovering different facets of an issue. For instance, your insistence on never owning an iPod because it is inherently sinful will age rather badly in the future. Your belief that the King James Bible is the only one that’s not part of some demonic agenda will fare badly, too, as you do your research. So will your conviction that any music other than hymns is of the Devil. 

Your judgment of morality based on appearances will transform as well, as you find out that Godliness has more to do with the heart than with unyielding behavioral rules, and modesty has more to do with an attitude than clothes. You’ll meet people who are more modest in short shorts than others are in those dreadful things you call culottes*.

These are some superficial examples. The main thing that I want to say to you, dear little fourteen-year-old me, is that changing doesn’t mean you’re falling away from the faith. Oh, no! You’re finding your faith, faith in a God who loves this broken world like he loves you – with all he is. Find a different translation of the Bible, and read through it. Let God be God, and don’t try to explain away the uncomfortable facets of his nature. Find comfort in an uncomfortable God, who doesn’t have to conform to your ideas of what a god should be to still be God.

Read through the Mosaic Law and get a firmer understanding of the love and care underlying every interaction God has with his people - better than you’ve ever gotten from your narrow reading of the Gospels - and start from there. Throw out the old, legalistic teaching (as much as you can) and find what the text says. Get the historical background for it all. It will help.

You will not lose your faith, I promise you. Instead, you will rediscover the God you have faith in. And he is a good God, never fear. He is a far greater God than you ever realized. He is a more loving God than you ever knew. He is terrible in his goodness, wise in his anger, and right in his love. He is an active God, not withholding his love from those you see as unlikely and unlovely candidates, for you were – and I am still – unlikely and unlovely as well. He is an unrelenting, unstoppable God. He is the God who the world desperately needs.

The God you think you know resembles him, to be sure, but He is infinitely better.

This is what I want to tell you, little me.

That you’re wrong, about so many things, and only time can show you that. 

That you're right, about so many things, but you lack the compassion and gentleness to make a difference with it.

That the world is less scary than you know, and far more broken than you can ever guess. That it's your part to go out into it and do something about that.

That tolerance doesn't have to mean acceptance and approbation. It can mean the knowledge that with that person's background and circumstances, your life and choices would be no different, because you are no different from them without the mercy of Christ.

That the 'goodness of God leads to repentance' not because, as you think, it might guilt people into acknowledging him, but because thankfulness and gratitude to a good God might lead to wanting to know him.

That you’ll keep on changing, that you’ll keep on stumbling forward the best you can, that life is good outside your bubble. 

That you, and I, have so much more to learn, and good people to learn it with.


Sincerely,


Your future self

*Also, if a reader has managed to avoid experience with the specific type of culottes I mean, here's a photo:

(Also, think about it, Little Me: if you’re climbing a tree, are culottes - long, flowing, to the ground, and VERY wide at the bottom - or pants more modest? “Culottes!” you say, and I don’t say anything, because I have the benefit of knowing that someday you will change your mind. It will take years, and traveling to a different country, but it will happen.)

Chasing Castles

Life feels cleaner after a good rain. The dust has settled; the temperature has gone down. When I left Lupe's house in Córdoba on Saturday morning, the city was actually cool. (This is saying something, since it has the highest average summer temperature in Spain and Europe!)

The land changed as I drove the three hours north to Mérida. Mountains gave way to broad, flat plains. I saw a Roman tower behind a gas station.

In the middle of the plain, an enormous rock pile suddenly loomed up. To my utter delight, a castle perched precariously atop it. I did not realize just how precarious it seemed until I drove around it.

I found out later it was the Castillo de Belmez, built originally in 1245 and last used by the French when they were attempting to overrun Spain (Napoleon=idiot, remember?).

I thought about going to see it, but I had a lot I wanted to do and I needed to be in Sevilla to turn in the car that evening, so I kept going.

I've discovered that there are few things that make me happier than driving through unfamiliar territory without the fear of getting lost.

 I could thoroughly enjoy sailing along at 90km/hr. I began passing through fields upon fields of solar panels - small wonder! The sun was beating down and there were few, if any, clouds to be seen.

Once I passed the solar panel fields, I began to go past acres of sunflowers, all pointing toward the sun.

In Spanish, the sunflower is called a "girasol". "Girar" means to turn, and "sol" is, of course, the sun. They are sun-turners! It's an apt name.

Of course, I was stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle for most of this, but once I went around it, the sheer emptiness of road stretching out in front of me was simply glorious.

I was driving along happily when in the distance I saw another hill fortress, this time looking like a crown. I determined I was going to go find it.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw a small brown sign with an arrow pointing toward the castle, with "Roman theater" written on it. Naturally, I immediately turned off the main road onto a winding road toward the hill and the castle atop it. My GPS proceeded to have a panic attack.

The road led steadily toward the castle, winding up and up the mountain and right through the small whitewashed town of Reina.

It was a sleepy Saturday morning; the only stirring inhabitants of the town were three women. They looked at me curiously, but without much interest.


My quest for the castle ended rather ingloriously and abruptly. I simply could not find a way to go farther.

As I backed my car back down what turned out to be a sheep track and did a 3-point turn on the side of a mountain with a steep drop no more than a yard behind my back tires, I reflected that this whole situation probably counted against the promise I had made to a friend to "not do anything stupid" while in Spain.


After heading back through the still-sleepy town, I headed off to find the Roman Theater. This detour turned out much better.

A bored and sweaty security guy emerged from his air-conditioned trailer only just long enough to not answer my question of how much the theater cost to see and merely tell me it was "that way". He then immediately went back into the trailer. I therefore assumed that it was free.

The path to the theater was lined with fences to keep sheep in. It was an intensely hot day by this time - 11:45 in the morning! I felt like just lying down in the shade like this poor sheep.

A word about this Roman theater: it was completely deserted and remarkably intact. I could climb down the steps, stand on the stage, go "backstage", and explore as much as I liked. 

                     




There was a Roman town in the field nearby, and I could see plainly where the foundations of the buildings were. An informative sign told me in good Spanish and Google-translated English that the town had been mentioned by Pliny and Ptolemy; that the Emperor Vespasian had been involved in the planning of the city; and that centuries later the hill fortress had been made by the Moors, using Roman stone.








I only spent about half an hour at this fantastic spot, but it was absolutely worth it. It isn't every day that you get to have an entire Roman theater all to yourself. Well, as much as you can have it "all to yourself" when you're sharing the space with about a hundred sheep and one completely uninterested security guy.








To be continued...

Late

On Tuesday morning, we woke up to bright sunlight and a messy hotel room. Having got in late, we had pretty much fallen into bed, still aching from London, drained from our travels, and grateful to have a room for the night.


Joy still wouldn't say she wasn't mad at me for making her drive, though a restful night in a quiet country inn, surrounded by thatched roofs and chirping birds, seemed to lift her spirits.


We gathered up the laundry that had accumulated over the course of our trip, and my mom took £5 with her to do our laundry. Apparently, laundry is free. While she was doing the laundry, my mom told the owner a condensed version of something Joy had mentioned.


Joy said, referencing Pilgrim's Progress,


It doesn't matter what time you get to the Celestial City, or how long and hard the road is, or how much difficulty you had getting there. As long as you have a roll, a confirmed reservation, if you will, signed and sealed by Christ, the owner of the Celestial city, you will be welcomed and greeted. This reminded me of it.


It is true that we were not greeted by a detachment of angels, and that the comparison really did stop right there, but it was a great thought, nonetheless.


While our laundry was getting clean, we had breakfast - a welcome sight since we had had nothing to eat but apples and cheese sandwiches on Monday. The food was served in a low room supported by old oak beams.


We'd had a couple full English breakfasts by this point, but they were both in London. The addition of a teapot, milk, and sugar lumps, served in the country, made a wonderful meal even better.


After breakfast, I took off to take pictures around the area while waiting for the laundry to dry. Then we packed and checked out. I was sorry to leave. It was such a homey little cozy place.

We were still behind schedule, but we determined to do everything we could to get where we wanted to go. We still hadn't had our afternoon tea, but we figured we could do that somewhere between Anne Hathaway's cottage and the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool.


It took us a while to get to Anne Hathaway's cottage. It seemed that everything took longer, especially since we were still getting used to the fact that right was our left and left was our right. But the car no longer told us to take tea breaks, and people no longer honked at us, and traffic circles were no longer so much of a problem, and we didn't get turned around at all. (That last in itself was lovely.)





Anne Hathaway's Cottage was absolutely lovely. The grounds were delightful, and the house itself was beautiful and well-preserved. To be sure, Anne Hathaway did not live in any rooms but the kitchen and dining room (the rest were added later). This, however, did nothing to detract from the pure charm of a wattle-and-daub thatched cottage.




We set off toward Liverpool next, realizing that we would not, in fact, have time for tea this day. Traveling took longer than we anticipated - Joy was not exactly ready to fly through the countryside at a staggering 70 mph around curves on two-lane roads with no shoulders. So we arrived at the tunnel that ran under the Mersey River not long before the International Slavery Museum closed.


This was, incidentally, our only toll for the entire trip. Fun fact: at £1.70 both directions, we paid the same fare as a motorcycle with a sidecar or a three-wheeled vehicle.


Liverpool is an interesting old place, an odd mixture of history and trendiness. We stuck mainly by the Albert Docks, since we were there to see the International Slavery Museum, which had closed by that time.


It was still interesting to see all the ships in the docks, many of which were restored. One is used to teach the troubled youth of Liverpool a trade, as well as important characteristics such as respect, promptness, and initiative.



We left Liverpool behind, went back through the tunnel, and tried to get to the little place where I'd planned to have dinner. It's a darling little country pub, and I really wanted to get there.


But our directions were wrong. I don't know how, but we had to get lost in order to find it. I finally said, "Well, let's just go down this wrong turn and see where we end up." (Joy thought this a really bad idea, especially as it was getting dark, but she still went with it. This is how tired she was.)




And there it was: the Stamford Bridge Inn. I was looking forward to bangers and mash, or just a bit of nice, warm comfort food. This was not to be: it was Italian night at the English country pub.




We were greeted at the door by a charming and somewhat bashful centurion, who told us that we were welcome to stay but that it wouldn't be traditional English fare.

I hadn't realized until that moment how much I had wanted an evening like this. Never are the English more English than when they are pretending to be something else; finally I would get to see what that meant.

The fare was nothing like what Americans think is Italian. It was probably nothing like what Italians think is Italian, either.

What made the evening spectacular indeed was the music. Someone we had never heard of, Jon Christos, sang Italian songs, old love songs, and a wonderful rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream". We had not expected to find opera-quality talent in a small country pub. The patrons were encouraged to dance, but the only ones who did were two of the waitresses (both of whom were convinced it was the other who couldn't dance) and a very determined lady who danced by herself because her husband refused. Being the type of person who knocks paintings off walls just by standing up, I didn't try.

Jon Christos was apparently in town to perform with the Liverpool Philharmonic. How we managed to miss that small detail when planning our trip to the Stamford Bridge Inn I will never know, but at the time, we were only delighted that the evening had turned out so well, especially after our disappointment at Liverpool.

Since the Inn is not, in fact, an inn but a pub, we ventured forth into the dark once more to find our hotel for the night. It was a Day's Inn, thankfully not too far from the roadway, with three beds and an electric tea kettle. Having shared a bed with Joy since our trip began, I was glad to have my own again!

Second Day of London

I woke up with a start on Friday morning. It was two minutes past when my alarm should have gone off. Considering the fact that it was also six hours behind (or ahead of - my sister and I never could agree on that) the time that my alarm normally went off, I apparently have adjusted to the time difference rather quickly.

To misquote A.A. Milne, it was a blistery day in the (several thousand) acre city. We walked. And we walked. And we walked. Despite the blisters and the soreness, it was a wonderful day.

We saw the Tower of London, something that both Joy and I have dreamed about for years.

My mom went to England years ago for her high school senior trip, so she has some memories of a lot of the places we've been going. But even for her the Crown Jewels were a surprise and a delight - they had changed the display, and installed conveyor belts for viewers!

Photography not being permitted, this is not my picture.

Something I thought was fascinating about the whole display was the care taken to explain what each piece stands for. I may not be able to give a recital of their meanings off the top of my head, but it was great to know what I was looking at when I was looking at it.

After the Crown Jewels, we had to go see the White Tower. Built in the eleventh century by good old William the Conqueror, the Norman Keep has survived the Blitz, Henry VIII, and even the tourists. Much of the space is dedicated to the Line of the Kings - a wonderful display detailing the armor, weapons, kings, and battles of various times in the history of England. Nooks and crannies were particularly photograph-able. 

You can't go to the Tower of London and see all these wonderful things without feeling a good deal of the weight of history.

Then, of course, we had to see Tower Bridge, as well as its inner workings. It was covered under the London Pass, which we got before we came (less money for what we want to see). Anyway, the bridge was incredibly complicated. We went up on the top and walked across, even over the glass overlooking the Thames and the lines of traffic on the bridge. This particular part of the exhibit was not ideal for a person as scared of heights as me. I can only imagine what it would do to a person with a real phobia of heights.




From there we went to the HMS Belfast, a cruiser that saw duty in WWII, the Korean War, and several other wars since. It is now a museum. I regret to say that we did indeed get lost - in the boiler room. I think it had less to do with us and more to do with the only exit being cordoned off. The ship is enormous. From the top of Tower Bridge it looked tiny; up close and personal it seemed endless.

By this time we were very hungry, so we stopped in a courtyard with a metal tree and for-hire ping pong tables and had our packed sandwiches. I don't get the whole metal-tree thing. It seems to me that real trees help provide more oxygen, but I just might be wrong.

Westminster Abbey was next on the agenda, but we got there just before 3:30 and they had already let in the last group. Apparently promptness can be retroactive. So we hung around, took a picture in front of Churchill's statue, paid for public toilets and refilled our water bottles from the sink (it's clean water), took pictures of absolutely everything, and took a selfie in front of the Houses of Parliament.

We returned to Westminster Abbey for Evensong, one of the highlights of our visit. It was beautiful, and worshipful as well. It was a sung Evensong, which means that it's pretty much all sung except the Scripture readings and some prayers. On the way in to Evensong, we passed the monument to William Wilberforce, the driving force behind the abolition of slavery in the 1800s.

While there will inevitably be major differences, I do want my epitaph or obituary to speak of me in the same tone. The epitaph is long; there can be no denying that. But it is worth the read.

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM WILBERFORCE (BORN IN HULL AUGUST 24th 1759, DIED IN LONDON JULY 29th 1833;) FOR NEARLY HALF A CENTURY A MEMBER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, AND, FOR SIX PARLIAMENTS DURING THAT PERIOD, ONE OF THE TWO REPRESENTATIVES FOR YORKSHIRE. IN AN AGE AND COUNTRY FERTILE IN GREAT AND GOOD MEN, HE WAS AMONG THE FOREMOST OF THOSE WHO FIXED THE CHARACTER OF THEIR TIMES; BECAUSE TO HIGH AND VARIOUS TALENTS, TO WARM BENEVOLENCE, AND TO UNIVERSAL CANDOUR, HE ADDED THE ABIDING ELOQUENCE OF A CHRISTIAN LIFE. EMINENT AS HE WAS IN EVERY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC LABOUR, AND A LEADER IN EVERY WORK OF CHARITY, WHETHER TO RELIEVE THE TEMPORAL OR THE SPIRITUAL WANTS OF HIS FELLOW-MEN, HIS NAME WILL EVER BE SPECIALLY IDENTIFIED WITH THOSE EXERTIONS WHICH, BY THE BLESSING OF GOD, REMOVED FROM ENGLAND THE GUILT OF THE AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE, AND PREPARED THE WAY FOR THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN EVERY COLONY OF THE EMPIRE: IN THE PROSECUTION OF THESE OBJECTS HE RELIED, NOT IN VAIN, ON GOD; BUT IN THE PROGRESS HE WAS CALLED TO ENDURE GREAT OBLOQUY AND GREAT OPPOSITION: HE OUTLIVED, HOWEVER, ALL ENMITY; AND IN THE EVENING OF HIS DAYS, WITHDREW FROM PUBLIC LIFE AND PUBLIC OBSERVATION TO THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY. YET HE DIED NOT UNNOTICED OR FORGOTTEN BY HIS COUNTRY: THE PEERS AND COMMONS OF ENGLAND, WITH THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND THE SPEAKER AT THEIR HEAD, IN SOLEMN PROCESSION FROM THEIR RESPECTIVE HOUSES, CARRIED HIM TO HIS FITTING PLACE AMONG THE MIGHTY DEAD AROUND, HERE TO REPOSE: TILL, THROUGH THE MERITS OF JESUS CHRIST, HIS ONLY REDEEMER AND SAVIOUR, (WHOM, IN HIS LIFE AND IN HIS WRITINGS HE HAD DESIRED TO GLORIFY,) HE SHALL RISE IN THE RESURRECTION OF THE JUST.

Talk about a glowing report! Considering the bitter opposition he faced in Parliament, to be thus honored is quite remarkable.

After Westminster Abbey, we went to the British Museum for about an hour and a half. That is not enough time to see the history of humankind. We did manage, however, to see the exhibition about Roman and Saxon Britain, as well as some other things.

Like the Rosetta Stone:

 And a bust of some Pharaoh before Rameses that was appropriated and changed to reflect Rameses (isn't that violating copyright laws? Oh, wait...):

And the friezes of the Parthenon:

And the entrance statues (AKA guardsthingies) of Tiglath-Pileser:

By this time we were "exhaustificated" (Beckett speak for "a lot more exhausted than exhaustified, which in itself means a lot more exhausted than just 'exhausted.'"), so we just went to our hotel as quickly as possible. Of course we had to look in the gift shop first, but we didn't think anyone back at home would really want an eyeglass cleaner cloth shaped like the Rosetta Stone.