You've Never Tasted Peanut Brittle This Good

Dad was a multi-talented individual who became best known for his many years as a pastor.  But that didn’t start until he was forty-six years old.  Before that he had been a farm boy, a factory worker, owned a gas delivery business with a brother-in-law, and finally worked for quite a few years at the Lima Lumber Company—working his way up from deliveryman, to sales and management.  After he was called to be a pastor in Wayne County, Ohio, he needed to keep on working because the church was small and could not provide full support.  So Dad briefly tried his hand at being a building contractor, before moving again to sales in a local lumber company, and then establishing a building supply business for the Walter Jones Construction Company of Wooster.  He was a success at this, but after a few years he was called into a full-time, full-paid pastorate at the large Hartville Mennonite Church.

Probably due to his growing up on a large farm, Dad was good at many things, including carpentry, fencing, field work, taking care of animals, painting, repairing things, and just in general, making things better than what he found them.  He was a man with a plan, and never were his hands or mind idle.  I’m thankful that he pushed us to work with him and for him, and we learned a lot.

One thing Dad did not do—he did not cook.  Can’t really fault him for this though, because our home was a traditional one, and Mom loved cooking for the family.  There was one small hitch in the family plan however.  Mom and Dad had six boys, and no girls to help in the kitchen.  So we learned that it’s okay for boys to spend time helping out in the kitchen, cooking some basic things, setting the table, doing the dishes, and mopping up our messes.   These are skills that some of us have continued, and our wives appreciate it.   In Dad’s defense though, I  suppose in a pinch he could have fried eggs or cooked hotdogs if he needed to, but he never needed to.

Dad did love spending time in the kitchen though—eating Mom’s good cooking and conversing with the family while we ate.  He taught us how to say a blessing for the food, and we took turns doing that.  And he taught us table manners, like passing the food, no arguing, saying please and thank you when we wanted more of something, and definitely no farting while at the table.  These are important things to learn.

* * * * *

Last Saturday, while transporting Jacob and his family to southern Ohio, I brought some molasses crinkle cookies along to share with them while traveling.  He was a little surprised to learn that I had baked the cookies.  Amish families are very traditional with respect to a division of duties and expectations between the men and women.  It may be that some men would enjoy cooking, but as far as I know, this is left to the women and girls.  There may be exceptions, I don’t know.

In our conversation, as we motored down the road, I mentioned to Jacob that I had seen a couple butchered hogs hanging from tripods in his backyard a few weeks ago.  “Yes,” he said, “we wanted to get them butchered and make sausage before we moved.”

That made me wonder about something else, so I asked him.

“Do you use the hog’s small intestine as casings for the sausage?”

“Yes we do.”

So now I had another question.

“How do you clean out the intestines to get them ready for stuffing with sausage.”

His reply surprised me. “I don’t know.  The women do that.  I think they have to wash them out and scrape them.”

So wouldn’t you like to be an Amish woman?  They do a lot of chicken butchering too.  In fact, we’ve had Jacob’s family butcher some for us in years past, and it’s always the women doing it while the men are working out in the fields.  The women help with the milking too.  Never a moment to relax, it seems.  The sturdy Amish women are skilled at many things, including cooking, raising babies, and doing a lot of work that we might think only men would do.

So what in the world does all this have to do with peanut brittle?  Well, I’ve chosen to get there in a roundabout way.  I didn’t grow up with a Dad who did things in the kitchen, so as a young married man, I supposed that I would not be doing much in the kitchen either.  Those things I had learned from my mom—I thought my wife would be doing them now.  And she’s done a good job over the years, but I’ve learned that I enjoy spending time in the kitchen too.  Cooking can be fun, especially when it comes to the sweet stuff.  Now to the peanut brittle.

I never really cared much for peanut brittle—that is until an older co-worker introduced me to a recipe handed down to him long ago.  He said he enjoyed making it at deer camp each year, and brought a batch to share at our workplace too.  It was amazing!  Crispy and delicious, it melts in your mouth, with nothing sticking to your teeth.  Only 5 ingredients.  Peanuts, sugar, karo syrup, salt, and soda.  The secret though, according to him, is using a cast-iron skillet and a wooden spoon.

He shared the recipe with me, and for the last thirty-five years (until I, too, have become an older man) I’ve been producing quite a few batches each Christmas season.  It’s not difficult.  It takes no “stretching” of the brittle, and less than 15 minutes from start to finish.

List of ingredients for each batch:

1 C white sugar

1 C karo syrup

1-½ C Raw peanuts.  (Raw blanched peanuts.  Available in bulk food stores or on the internet.)

¾ tsp salt

1-½ tsp soda

10” cast iron skillet

Wooden spoon.

Before you start:

1)  Measure out the soda, and keep it on standby.

2) Have a greased cookie sheet or pizza pan nearby on a hot pad.

3)  Make sure an empty kitchen sink is available or you will have scorched brittle in your skillet.

Put all ingredients except soda into the skillet and turn the stove on high (for gas) or med-high (for electric.)

Stir occasionally as the ingredients begin heating up.   Stir continuously after it comes to a good boil.

This batch is about half-way there.  Boiling nicely.  Keep stirring.

The brittle is finished and ready for the soda when you notice these things:

The color is turning amber, the peanuts begin splitting, and you can smell the roasting peanuts. (On my gas stove, it takes exactly twelve minutes.)

Turn off the heat, add the soda, and stir rapidly, but not for long.  The brittle will foam up nicely.  Immediately, before it scorches, dump it onto the cookie sheet and let it spread out and settle down on its own.

Put the skillet in the sink and fill it with hot water.  The heat from the skillet and the hot water will very rapidly melt off the remaining brittle.  Use a scrubber to easily finish cleaning it up, and you are ready for the next batch.

Let the brittle cool down.  Turn the whole “cake” upside down on the cookie sheet, and crack it with the handle of a table knife.

Enjoy.

And that’s all from Kidron, Ohio, on this chilly, breezy evening.  The homely men and lovely women are busy getting ready for Christmas.  The children are staring at the gifts under the tree, and guessing what may be in them.   Have a blessed weekend, and a wonderful Christmas Season with family.  

Jacob's Moving Day

December 12, 2015.  Less than two weeks until Christmas.  Temperatures reached 70 degrees in these parts today.  I’ll take it.  Reminds me of New Year’s Day in 1978 when Leon Shrock was being the kind of friend that he was to many.  Our house had been hit by a car in February of 1977, and it was declared a total loss.  We rebuilt on the same site, and Leon came on New Year’s day, volunteering his time and skill to finish laying up the chimney.  He was just that kind of guy.  Not only do I remember his act of generosity and kindness, (one of many), but the weather was memorable too.  We were working in tee-shirts  on Jan 1.  

The warm temperature was not to last though, just as it may not last for long this winter.  (No one really knows.  We’ll take what we get and roll with it.)  In 1978, twenty-five days after laying up the new chimney, the weather turned ferocious, and shut down northern Ohio.  Thirty years later, the Akron Beacon Journal recounted it like this:

“A monster storm with hurricane-force winds slammed into Northeast Ohio early Jan. 26, 1978, spreading an icy coat of death and destruction.

The Blizzard of 1978, often called the Storm of the Century, killed more than 50 people in Ohio and caused at least $100 million in damage. Local residents will never forget the big storm of 30 years ago.” (Now 37 years ago.)

That’s true.  We won’t forget it.  No one could go anywhere.  All roads were closed for several days.   Anyone caught on the roads was subject to arrest.  Not really sure how the authorities were going to get out there and make the arrests, but the point was, to stay home and try to stay warm.  It was very cold and many folks were out of electricity, ourselves included.  The local radio station became an emergency headquarters of sorts, and people with specific needs could call in and say what they needed.  Some needed food, others needed heaters.  Anyone with snowmobiles were invited to call in and offer assistance.   I just happened to have an old one, and went on an interesting mission to help a family.  It was a rough ride across large waves of frozen snow and ice—a couple miles from home to a little grocery store, and onward to an Amish family who had run out of some food staples.  They were warm though, no problem for the Amish when the electric goes out.

Well okay, we didn’t mean to go off on a tangent.  Back to today.

It is very warm, and we are enjoying it, but winter may still come.  This morning I rose at 3:30 and drove the rented van over to Jacob’s house at 4 A.M.  They wanted to leave early to travel to their new home near Peebles, Ohio, and hopefully get there by 8 A.M.  Traffic was light and the traveling went well.  We pulled into a long driveway about four hours later, and there were already many other Amish friends and neighbors there to help.  It was a hub-bub of activity, and I walked around for a while to stretch my legs before the drive home.

There are already quite a few Swartzentruber Amish families living in that area, but not so many that they are squeezed for affordable farmland like around here.  Land is less expensive in that area, and Jacob’s children will hopefully be able to purchase their own farms when the time comes.  That’s the main reason they moved.  The land in that area is very much like Wayne and Holmes County.  Rolling hills, farm fields, and wooded areas.  Just to the east of them, however, the land becomes very hilly and rugged—almost mountainous.  Guess that’s why the county is named "Highlands."

I will miss this family, but their relatives and closest neighbors will miss them the most.   Jacob’s brother Sam, who bought the farm from him, was over at 4 A.M. this morning to say his goodbyes.   It seemed that a little window was opened for me to observe the affection they have for each other.   Sam shook each of the children’s hands, and with his other hand on their shoulder, very warmly wished them well.  As he spoke each of their names, his voice and touch were so tender.  I’ve never doubted their love for each other, but they do not display it openly.  This was goodbye though, and it was a moment to let the affection out a little bit.  It was special to see it.  Even though Sam is getting the home farm, he is truly sad to see them go.

Well, we’ll keep on walking, and once in awhile we’ll stop in to talk with Sam as he milks his cows where Jacob and his family used to.   It will be different, but Sam has four children at home yet, and I imagine they’ll all line up on little stools between the cows just like Jacob’s family.  Same place, different people, but all of them really nice folks.

And that’s it for today.  From Kidron, Ohio, we wish you well, and hope you are enjoying this season of Advent.  Remember, Wise Men Still Seek Him.   So long.

Jacob and His Family

Jacob has often been mentioned in these writings.  He and his family live on the Zuercher Road home farm where he grew up, son of Christy and Lovina.  Over the course of the last couple years, we've become friends.  I’ve often stopped in to chat during the evening milking when I’m walking past their place.  Their barn and farm have been the subject of many photos, and I’ve taken quite a few liberties to capture farm scenes, and even at times, to get a shot of Jacob and his boys from a distance, or when they were facing away from me.  

A couple weeks ago, some of his neighbor boys to the south were husking corn, throwing the ears into a wagon driven by a small boy who was standing on the front ladder rack of the wagon, gripping the reins and guiding a team of large draft horses.  It was an excellent photo composition, and they were quite a ways off the road, so it seemed safe to point the camera in their direction and zoom in to capture the scene.  Most often when I do things like this, the boys will wave and smile.  I try to make a point of not being close enough for them to be uncomfortable, or for them to be recognizable in the finished photo.

On this day, as I pointed the camera towards them, one boy shouted loudly and emphatically, “Stop it!”  This was a surprise, and I quickly lowered the offending instrument.  This was not a typical experience.  Because of the distance between us, it would usually have been okay.   I hoped they weren’t too upset.  Maybe they were just showing off for each other like boys do.

A few days later, I stopped in to visit with our friends Esther and Virgene who live directly across the road from Jacob.  Virgene told me that Jacob wants to speak with me.  They mused that maybe I was in trouble.  Or that perhaps he was in trouble for accepting photos from me of his farm.  I began worrying that maybe the neighbor boys had complained to him about the englisher pointing a camera at them.  All sorts of thoughts were going through my head, and none of them very pleasant.  It would be necessary to face Jacob and learn what he had in mind.

Two days later, as I drove up Zuercher Road, I saw Jacob unloading hay in his barn.  What better opportunity than this to find out what he wanted.  So I pulled in, walked up to him and commented that mid-November is pretty late to be making hay.  He agreed, and said it is taking quite a while to dry, but it will be okay.  Then I asked him what was on his mind.

“Well,”  he said, and cleared his throat, (and I thought, here it comes),  “You know we’re moving to southern Ohio, and because we have two invalid boys, we can’t take public transportation like we would usually be required to do. (The Swartzentruber sect will not hire a driver for anything but emergencies.  This is one of their rules).

“So,” he went on, “we were trying to think who we might get to drive us there, and the boys suggested Dave.”

What a relief it was to hear these words.  Nothing but good words, and I was honored to be asked.  I said I will need to check my calendar, and also mentioned that it  would be necessary to rent a van.

He spoke again, “Think about it for a few days, and let us know.  We don’t have to know right now.  We just wanted to check with you first.”

“I’d love to drive you to your new home,” I replied.  “Let me make sure it suits, and see if there is a van is available.  I’ll get back with you.”

It all worked out, and that’s the plan.  Mid-December, my friends, the Jacob Hershberger family, will load up in a van, and trust their lives to the Zuercher Road walking man.  I’m going to miss them.  They’ve been genuinely kind and gracious, not only to me, but to other neighbors as well.

The other day I stopped in to see Virgene and Esther again.  They’re going to miss Jacob and his family the most.  The teenage girls often come to help Virgene with house cleaning and assisting her with 105-year-old Esther.  They have a very loving relationship with each other.  In fact, as I sat visiting with Esther, Jacob’s daughter Susan came over and dropped off the mail.  She went directly to the kitchen and began washing the dishes.  As she worked, Virgene commented to her, “I don’t know what I’m going to do without my neighbor girls.”  Susan was quick to reply, “And I don’t know what we’re going to do without you, Virgene.”

This has been a friendship that spans the generations.  Virgene has been retired for quite a few years, and has lived in this neighborhood all her life.  She’s watched forty-five-year-old Jacob grow up as a boy right there on that same farm.  She’s been there as Jacob and Anna raise their many children, who now help her.  Jacob and his children have no memories of when Virgene and Esther were not there.

How sweet it is to have good neighbors, and it doesn’t matter if they are Amish or English, a different race or culture.  Good neighbors are a gift, and it is wonderful to have them.  And here’s the thing.  In most cases, the best and easiest way to have good neighbors is to be a good neighbor.

From Kidron, Ohio, here’s to a wonderful weekend in this Advent season. Blessings from us to you and yours.  So long.

Making Apple Butter - A Family Tradition

When I was a boy we would occasionally make a meal out of apple butter on bread, doused with fresh, rich, Jersey milk.  Not just a little bit of apple butter either.  The bread was placed in a dish, and a big dollop of apple butter was spread on it, followed by the milk.   It was quick and easy, and delicious too. Our apple butter was always store-bought though, and I wasn’t even aware

that some people made their own.

That changed when we moved to Wayne County, and we learned that one of the families in our church, the Atlee Weavers, made their own apple butter in a large copper kettle over a wood fire, and they shared some with us.  For them, it was a tradition passed down from previous generations.

Since that time I’ve learned that—in these parts at least—making apple butter is a long-standing fall tradition for many Amish families, and some Mennonites too.  In fact, it was a great delight to learn that my Neuenschwander family did this every fall, and when I became a part of the family, it was a pleasure to join in with the project.    

On a Friday evening in October, several bushels of apples from the home orchard would be schnitzed in preparation for the apple butter.  Oh, should I explain?  Schnitz is a German word used in this community, but it means peeling, coring, and quartering the apples.  Literally translated, "schnitz" means “carving.”  

Mom and Pop Neuenschwander have those old-fashioned peelers like Lehman Hardware sells, and on schnitz day, the older kids did the peeling, and the adults quartered and cored.  It was fun to work together as a family.  The next morning the fire was started, and cider was boiled down in the kettle.  This would add extra apple flavor to the finished product.  Next the apples were added, and later in the afternoon, sugar was added.  By early evening, after cooking and stirring all afternoon,  the apple butter was ready for canning, and an assembly line formed to get it done.

                        Cooking apple butter in the old copper kettle.

In later years, the process was streamlined somewhat.  A victorio strainer was used to quickly produce applesauce that was then used instead of schnitzed apples.  No more peeling necessary, and the end product was the same.  Those were great family times, with many pleasant memories of tending the fire and taking turns stirring the apple butter with a long handled paddle that had a lot of holes in it.  We haven’t done it for a number of years, and I miss those days, but it is still possible to enjoy the same apple butter by making it right at home in our kitchen.  The flavor is just the same, and the ratio of ingredients is the same--only  using a fraction of the apples, cider, and sugar that are cooked in the large copper kettle.

A few days ago, Juanita and I made applesauce from one-half bushel of Honey Crisp apples.  It made twenty pounds of apple sauce, and while it was still hot, it was poured into a large roaster and placed into our oven that was heated to 300 degrees.  At the same time, I began cooking down two gallons of cider to quickly reduce it to less than one gallon before adding it to the sauce.   Approximately eight hours later, after stirring the sauce once an hour with a silicone spatula, it was time to add six cups of sugar, and begin testing it for completion.  This is easy.  You simply put a spoonful of apple butter in a dish and watch for liquid to run out of it.  If there is still quite a bit of liquid, keep on cooking for another half hour.  Every half hour, test it again.  It is finished and ready for canning when very little juice runs from the spoonful of apple butter in the dish.

I like to use a small kettle to dip the apple butter, and using a canning-funnel, fill the pint jars.  Quickly and firmly a cap and ring are screwed on, and the jar is briefly turned upside down.  The apple butter is so hot that this sterilizes the lids, and according to family legend "helps them to seal.”  (It pays to wear a glove to do this, as the jars are hot.)  Another method to sterilize the lids would be to boil them before using.  But tipping the jars upside down for a little bit is the traditional Neuenschwander way of doing it, and I’m sticking with it.  :)

                            Applesauce going into the oven.

                      Cooking the cider.  The froth should be skimmed off.

                            Testing the apple butter.  Not quite there yet.

                            Finished and ready for dipping into jars.

The apple butter is delicious!  It is thick and rather coarse too, not at all like the finely pureed store-bought product.  Some people like to season it with cinnamon and other spices, but we prefer the straight apple butter with no additional seasoning.  Apple butter is amazingly delicious when hot and fresh, slathered generously on buttered homemade bread.  Kingly food!

Our one-half bushel of apples produced eleven pints of the good stuff.  This will be plenty to get us through until next fall.  One more note.  We generally use Grimes Golden apples, but decided to try Honey Crisp this year.  The flavor turned out a little sharper and potent this time.  Still excellent, but I think we’ll go back to Grimes Golden next year.

From Kidron, Ohio, where the good men who were homely a year ago have managed to improve only slightly; where the beautiful women remain as lovely as ever; and where the children are still energetic and mischievous, and now they’re about a foot taller.  We wish for you a wonderful weekend, and take a few moments each day to enjoy this season of Advent.  Until the next time.

Israel 6. Bethlehem, Abraham's Tent, Garden of Gethsemane, and more.

Our sunset vista from the Mount of Olives where we could look across the narrow Kidron valley and view the city of Jerusalem, brought with it the sense that we had “arrived.”  This was it—in terms of our faith tradition,the home of the patriarchs, the holy city that we’ve heard about all our lives, the place of Jesus death, burial, and resurrection—this was the place, and it sprawled out before us.  Somehow, it seemed like we were coming home.

Our bus carried us across the valley and to our Hotel not far from the Old City.  We were tired.  It had been a full day, and one that ended on an emotional high note.  Now it was time for dinner and rest.  We would be here for the next three days and nights.  We felt safe and secure as we laid down for the night, ready to continue our adventures in the morning.

                            An Orthodox Jew pushing a stroller.

After an awesome breakfast at our hotel, we piled into the bus and headed out.  Immediately we saw orthodox Jews on the street.  They looked and dressed a lot like Amish, and so we felt right at home.   We were headed for Bethlehem as our first stop for the day.  It is not far away, only six miles south of Jerusalem.  It’s the place where Jesus was born.  Remember that Joseph and Mary were required to travel there to register during the census of their day.  The book of Luke records it in Chapter 2, “And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David,  to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child."  For Mary and Joseph, it was a journey of nearly eighty miles from their home town of Nazareth.

Today, Bethlehem is under the control of the Palestinian Authority.  In order for us to visit the city, we needed to pass through security in the twenty-five foot high wall that surrounds the Palestinian area known as the West Bank.  (The West Bank is so named because it borders the west bank of the Jordan River.)  Our Jewish guide could not go with us into this area.   We were met by a Palestinian Christian guide named Johnny for this part of the tour.

We were here to visit the traditional (and possibly authentic) site of Jesus’ birth.  The Church of the Nativity is built over the cave that is believed to have been a stable, and the very place of the nativity.  The Church of the Nativity has a lengthy history, and has been rebuilt a number of times.  Large and ornate, today the church building is administered jointly by Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Armenian Apostolic authorities.

In the lower parts of the building is a grotto, or cave.  There were so many people in that area that we weren’t able to get right up to it, but there it was before us, a cave hewn out of the rocks, a likely place where Jesus might have been born.

The traditional site of Jesus’ birth.

Our next stop in Bethlehem was an Olive wood store owned by Palestinian Christians.  There are several of these in the city.  The articles of Olive wood were beautiful and expensive.  Since my good wife likes manger scenes, we were drawn to a carved and detailed one that looked interesting and attractive.  It was about nine inches tall and twelve inches wide.  I carefully turned it over to look for the price tag.  I thought it read 220 dollars, but that was a little more than we wanted to spend.  Immediately there was a store employee at our sides, explaining that we could get a discount today.  Instead of $2200.00 (!) dollars, we could get it for only $1800.00 shipped to our home.   Whoa, we were seeing the decimal point at the wrong place.  I slowly took my hands from the piece, shook my head no, and walked to the area of tiny displays.  No doubt these items were worth the money, but too rich for our blood.

We left Bethlehem then, and made our return through the security point.  There is no question about how much the Israelis control this area.  Armed soldiers were all around.

A note about the population of Bethlehem today:  Figures vary, but there are roughly 28,000 people living in Bethlehem.  They are nearly all Palestinian, with about one-third Christian and two-thirds Muslim.  Historians believe that in Jesus’ day, it was a small town of only 300 to 1000 people.

Next on the agenda was a visit to “Genesis Land” in the Judean wilderness east of Jerusalem.  At this location we met Abraham and his servant Eliezer.  In the first building, we were “trained” to ride camels, and given a license to ride camels professionally.  It was all in fun, and Eliezer our guide spoke excellent English, and entertained us well.  Then it was time for the “bucket list” camel ride to Abraham’s tent where we would enjoy our lunch.  A string of camels were tied outside, laying on their stomachs and we were invited to get on them.  This was the moment I had been waiting for.  Juanita and I picked out a lovely camel, slid into the saddle, and waited for Eliezer to get the camel to stand up.   We were instructed to lean way back, because a camel’s rump comes up first.  This way we would not be thrown off the front.  Actually, camels have a three-stage movement to get to their feet.  They have a strange arrangement of bones and joints.  First the rump comes halfway up, then the front all the way, and finally the rump all the way.  By this time you feel like the ground is far below.  Now it was time to amble, and rock-and-roll our way to Abraham’s tent.  We learned that riding a camel is not very comfortable, with its rough and rocking gait.

This is scary!!

There now, that wasn't so bad!

Wes and Nancy, with the Judean wilderness in the background.

At the large tent we were welcomed by a man who looked like father Abraham himself.  It was a bit disconcerting to hear his distinctive British accent, but he was a good actor, and played the part well.  We were served a delicious meal of pita bread with humus and many finely chopped and seasoned vegetables.  The food was delicious!  Thanks, Abe!  And thank you for the camel ride!

Onward then, back to Jerusalem and the Garden of Gethsemane.  The garden is near the base of the Mount of Olives, and is landscaped to perfection.  Large, ancient olive trees are growing there, and the oldest ones are around nine hundred years old.  Right next to the Garden stands the large Basilica of Agony, also known as the Church of all Nations.  It was completed in 1924 with donations from many different countries, and built to honor our suffering Savior.   The building was dimly lit inside, and it was a moment to pause and reflect on the agony that Jesus experienced as he prayed in this place.  There is a large exposed rock surface rising from the floor of the sanctuary, and people are invited to gather around it, to kneel over it, and offer prayers.  According to tradition, this is the Holy Rock of Agony.  Who knows.

The Garden of Gethsemane

                          

                    The Rock of Agony in the Basilica of Agony

That was the last event of our day, and we  headed back to our Hotel then for another delicious buffet-style meal of mid-eastern food.   Following that, we had some time to relax together in the very large hotel lobby, chatting about the events of the day, emailing back home, glancing through our photos, and calling Mom to tell her all about our experiences.  Thanks again, Mom, if it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be enjoying this fantastic journey!  Until the next time.  So long.

Israel 5. The Dead Sea, Masada, Ein Gedi, Qumran Caves, Jerusalem

When I try to pry memories from my childhood about real places in the world that truly fascinated me, the Dead Sea floats to the surface along with several other locations.  Why the Dead Sea?  It’s water that you can’t sink in.  This had great appeal to me as a non-swimming child.  Here would be an opportunity to get into deep water without drowning.  I was terribly afraid of water—or at least of drowning in it.  Dad could not swim either, but he was fond of explaining why.  “My mother always told me not to go near water until I could swim.”  (Huh!?)

It sort of made sense.   But hearing about the Dead Sea made room for possibilities.  Only one problem.  It was on the other side of the world.  For a poor country boy it could only be a dream, but one could imagine it.   I could picture myself laying back in the water and gazing at an azure blue sky, listening to the gently lapping water, smelling and tasting the salt in the air, exhilarating in the feeling of weightlessness.  But as well as it could be imagined, it seemed impossible that it would ever happen.  Sort of like flying with wings strapped onto my arms—another boyhood dream—and one that could never happen.

But…

We were here!  We were really at the Dead Sea.  I still cannot believe that only two of us ten went into the water.  How could anyone NOT go in?  I don’t know.  But for the two of us who dared to face the “slimy water” and wade out into its depths until the buoyancy lifted our feet from the bottom, it was all a child could dream of.  

It was morning now, about 8 AM, and November.  But at this location on the earth—a place that can be unbearably hot in the summer—November was the perfect time for a swim.

After eating our breakfast, Gene and I donned our trunks and took the quarter-mile hike to the beach.  The water was bluer than I had imagined it could be.  Amazingly blue.  The beach was white with salt, and soft to the feet.  The air was warm and perfect for a dip.  The water was pleasant and cool, not at all requiring the slow agonizing wade that one takes to get into the cold waters of the Great Lakes.  Of course, in the Great Lakes, the best way to get into the water is to avoid the slow cringing walk, by running madly and plunging wildly into the frigid waves.  Never mind the crazy people who actually chop a hole in ice and go for polar bear swims.  That, in my mind, is a display of insanity.

The Dead Sea, on the hand, was cool, yet inviting.  And amazing clear.  I’ve never been to the Bahamas, but this was as near to the pictures as any place could be.  The water was instantly welcoming to an old grown-up boy who had dreamt of this moment for over 50 years.  We waded out until we were in mid-chest depth, and at that level we became suspended.  It was magical.  It was marvelous.  It was nearly miraculous.   And yes, it felt slimy, although slippery is a word that I would rather use to describe it.  

Floating vertically, I slowly pulled up my legs and gently laid back, and it was true.  The childhood dream was true.  Crystalline waters, azure blue sky, tiny whispering waves tickling my ears, a feeling of weightlessness.   As if the trip to Israel was not gift enough, this moment was worth the wait.

I could have stayed here for a long time.  It was one of the most pleasant feelings to lay back and totally relax, defying the gravitational forces that would otherwise cause a body to disappear beneath the surface.  This was living.  I could understand why old King Herod had come to this place.  A King can have anything he wants.  Right?  What more could he want than this?

The water was about four feet deep here.   We couldn't walk out any further without being lifted from our feet.  My brother Gene on the right.  I'm on the left.

All too soon, we knew our time had come to return to the hotel and prepare for the day ahead.  So we showered off the salt water at a fresh water shower on the beach and walked back to the hotel.  

   *      *      *

Our next event for the day was a visit to Masada.  This was an exciting place to visit for some of the family.  However, for me, I could have skipped it and not felt cheated.  This hilltop fortress is not mentioned in the Bible, but it was developed in this harsh wilderness place by none other than the infamous Herod the Great, who is mentioned in the Bible.  He built a palace complex on this very steep, inaccessible hilltop of twenty-three acres, and circled the plateau with a thick wall that he believed to be impenetrable.  It was a place where he could go to protect himself from enemies, or to go for relaxation from the hustle and bustle of Kingly life.

We rode a cable car to get to the top, and as much as I don’t trust those very thin wires to carry an enormous amount of weight, we made it safely.  From the top, one could look out over the Judean wilderness to the west, and the Dead Sea to the east.  You have to hand it to Herod, he knew how to accomplish a great feat in the construction of this place.  It makes one wonder how many lives were lost during the construction of the walls on this high plateau that dropped almost vertically on all sides.   

On the top, the quantity of walls, rooms, and remains of buildings is remarkable.  One such room housed a bath area that was heated by steam coming through tiles—a virtual sauna for a king who spared himself no luxury.   I could imagine the old boy laying there soaking in the steam while servants kept the fire stoked and concubines tended to his every whim.

The most notable historical fact about Masada is how a group of Jewish Zealots sequestered themselves here as part of the revolt against the Romans around 70 AD.  Herod had died a couple years after Jesus was born (yes, this was the same Herod that had tried to kill baby Jesus), and following his death, the land that he had ruled was divided between three of his surviving sons—that is, the ones he had not executed.  None of them had the power or control of their evil father.

Taxation under Herod the Great had been heavy.  The people of Judea, Samaria and Galilee were ready for a break.   Naturally, as Jews, they wanted self rule.  But Rome owned the land, and although they allowed the Herod family to reign, it was by Roman rules.  It took a few years to build up to the Jewish revolt, but it happened.  And when it did, Jerusalem was destroyed—as well as the temple—just as Jesus had predicted.

But here at Masada, the final Jewish hold-out took place.  Right here where we were standing, the remaining free Jews had stockpiled provisions and became a thorn-in-the-flesh to the Romans.  Not that they were going anywhere, or posed any threat to the Romans.  They simply were not going to be allowed to defy Roman rule like this.

Masada as seen from our bus.

At the top of Masada

Some historians put the number at nearly 1000 people.  Others have serious doubts about that, and even put the number at less than one hundred.  No one knows for sure.  What is known is that the Romans used Jewish slaves to build a siege ramp up to the top.  Up this ramp they rolled a huge framework that contained a pendulum-type battering ram that was used to breach the wall.  When they finally broke through and went in to conquer the remaining Jews, all they found were bodies.  The Jews had killed themselves rather than becoming slaves.    

   *     *     *

Leaving Masada, we traveled north and made a stop at Ein Gedi.  This was more to my liking.  Ein Gedi is an oasis in the desert fed by several large springs year around that become streams flowing rapidly down steep descents.  It was the end of the dry season when we visited, yet the waters flowed abundantly.  This, in my mind, was precisely the type of water-flow the Israelites may have experienced when Moses struck the rock.

Stream flowing from a spring at Ein Gedi

In 1 Samuel 23:29 to 24:4 we read how David and his men came to this area to hide from Saul and three thousand of his men.  It is easy to see why David came here.  It is a terribly rugged place.  Fresh meat and fresh water were readily available year around.  With an abundance of caves, ravines, and impossibly steep and jagged hills, it would take a miracle for Saul to find the world’s greatest guerilla fighter and his men.   The miracle wouldn’t come.   You know the rest of the story; or if you’ve forgotten, read it again.  

Our stop here was brief, and after putting our fingers in the water, observing a semi-wild herd of goat-like Ibex’s, and sighting the occasional Coney, (little animals that resemble the American woodchuck),  we loaded up for our next stop—the exhibit at the Qumran Caves.

The Qumran caves are important to both Jews and Christians alike.  It was here in 1947 where a Bedouin shepherd boy was the first to discover some scrolls contained in clay jars.  Because of the close proximity to the Dead Sea, the world has come to know these scrolls as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Much archaeological work over the course of many years has uncovered 972 fragments of the scrolls.  It is believed these copies of scriptures and other ancient writings were left hidden in the caves over 2000 years ago by a group of Jews called the Essenes.  Although there are other various theories about the origins of the scrolls, no one is arguing that these are by far the oldest copies of ancient manuscripts, including the entire book of Isaiah from beginning to end, written in Hebrew.

Now here is the exciting part:

No matter what scoffers say about our beloved Bible, about how it has been invented by men, filled with mistakes because of the many transcriptions, and changed many times to suit the whims of men; and how it cannot be considered accurate, and much less the Word of God; the Dead Sea Scrolls are proof of the accuracy of our modern translations.   When the Dead Sea scroll of Isaiah was studied, it was word-for-word identical to today’s standard Hebrew Bible in more than ninety-five percent of the text.  The remaining small percent of variation consisted primarily of spelling alterations and “slips of pens.”  There were no major doctrinal differences between the current Hebrew book of Isaiah and the Qumran texts.  

Jars that contained the Dead Sea Scrolls

I learned these facts about the book of Isaiah from searching the internet.  Maybe they told us these things when we visited the site.  I don’t remember.   What is important to me, and what bolsters my confidence in the accuracy of the Bible, is the fact that these scriptures have not been changed for thousands of years!  God’s word will be preserved no matter what.  This is enough of a miracle for me.

                                        *          *          *

  Jerusalem.

Dear God, I’ve waited all my life for this moment.  We’ve been in Israel for several days and still haven’t gotten there.   We’ve seen a lot of things, and visited exciting places, but these are quickly paling when considering the next stop on our pilgrimage.   

We leave the Qumran caves and wind north, heading toward “home”.   Strange as it is to voice it, and stranger still the thought of experiencing it, anticipation is suddenly hitting with a before-unknown force.   Jerusalem!  The Jerusalem of the Bible!  The Jerusalem that Jesus loved so much.  The Jerusalem that Dad called his second home.  Jerusalem, the most sacred place on earth for Jews and Christians alike.  In a very short time we will be in Jerusalem.  The thought passes deliciously through the mind, the word rolls sweetly from the tongue.  Jerusalem.

We round the corner at Jericho and head west on the winding road that climbs ever upward to the Mountain of Zion.  It is a nicely paved road, and we move comfortably onward in our chariot-of-luxury through the dry and rugged Judean hills.   One can easily imagine the many thousands of Jews who regularly walked this path to celebrate the required feasts in Jerusalem.   One can see the likely places where bandits and robbers might have hidden themselves among the desert hills and ravines, waiting for the lone traveler.  It is not difficult to understand why this is the road that Jesus chose for the parable of the Good Samaritan.    

Onward we climb.  Jerusalem is built on Mount Zion, and it is not a terribly high mountain as we think of it, but it is still quite an elevation change from the Dead Sea at 1388 feet below sea level to Jerusalem at 2577 feet above sea level—a difference of more than 3900 feet.  

The distance isn’t great—only 15.7 miles between Jericho and Jerusalem.  It is late afternoon by now, the sky clear, and a lowering sun hinting of nightfall in about an hour.  Our guide, as always, is very much in tune with the surroundings and the people on the bus.  As we near the city, he pops a CD into the player, and the song “Jerusalem” begins filling the bus with sound.  Yes, the same “Jerusalem” that we listened to several weeks before embarking on this journey.  The hair is standing up on my arms now, my eyes are peeled straight ahead, straining to get the first glimpse, and suddenly it gets dark!  Completely dark—except for the lights lining the Mt. Scopus Tunnel.  It seems like a long tunnel, and although I didn’t know it then, we were traveling through the Mount of Olives.   The song reaches its final glorious crescendo at the very moment when we burst from the tunnel.  There before us in all its glory is the old city of Jerusalem.  The bus full of people immediately burst into cheers and applause, and I get all choked up.  This is the climax of the trip.  Arrival in Jerusalem!  I wonder if the Jews of Jesus day felt this way when Jerusalem came into sight.  No doubt they experienced this mystical exhilaration to a much greater degree than I.

Now I understand what Dad meant when he said he always felt like he was coming home when he came to this place.  It’s a mystery, really, and one cannot explain the emotion that overtakes the soul when arriving in Jerusalem.  It is a spiritual experience.  Yet, the intellectual part of my being would try to explain it away.  It is just another place—God is everywhere.  And that is true.  Contrary to many deeply religious people, I have never believed that one place is more holy or sacred than another, but neither can I explain what happens when one arrives in Jerusalem.  I have to admit, it almost seems that I have arrived on holy ground.

Our bus winds its way up onto the Mount of Olives then, and parks at a place where we can walk out to a wall and feast our eyes.  Looking out over the many thousands of Jewish graves, and across the Kidron Valley, we gaze at the city.  From our vantage point, it is a sight to behold.  The great orange ball in the sky is sinking low, and gently coming to rest on the profiles of the many stone buildings.  It is not possible to ask for a better closing to a day that begins with the Dead Sea and ends with a sun setting on Zion.

Jerusalem at sunset from the Mount of Olives