Days 6-7: Back to Hannibal and Homeward Bound--Reflecting Back

Endless hours in the car have led me to two conclusions. One: We live in such a beautiful country. Two: My definition of family vacation is more accurate than I realized. On Monday morning we packed up the van one more time and headed back through Mississippi, Tennessee, and Missouri where we stayed at the Best Western in the Mark Twain historical area of Hannibal where we rested at the beginning of our trip. Earlier in the day we stopped in Defiance, MO, and toured Nathan Boone's amazing fortress of a home, built about 200 years ago. It was here that Daniel Boone also lived his later years, acted as judge of the area, and died in the main floor bedroom. The kids again enjoyed swimming in the hotel pool. James acquired a rock in the state park back in Mississippi and named one side of it, Rocket, and the other side, Me. He enjoyed throwing it into the pool so Emily could dive for it. The boys only once nearly hit me in the head with the rock. In typical Jen fashion, I tried to break into the room we stayed in a week ago, jamming my key card in and out of the reader, pounding on the door and then pausing in alarm when I realized that the room we were currently occupying was not the room I was now standing before. I hope the room was vacant, or at least that the possible bothered guest didn't catch a glimpse of me through the peephole as I sprinted out of sight. On Tuesday we headed back to Minnesota. The van did not want to drive the speed limit and reminded me of a horse turned towards home. We are happy to be back. I have enough dirty laundry to keep my machines running steadily for two days. Overall it was a pretty good week! Reflecting Back: Sleeping arrangements throughout this trip were close. I learned some things about us while sharing these small spaces. James yells at Timothy many times a night in his sleep. His angry outbursts woke me up every time, which is probably the biggest reason I am now exhausted. Timothy must have lots of happy dreams because he laughs. Emily is an aggressive cover-stealing bed mate. At one point I found her sleeping sideways in the bed with Timothy standing beside the bed with his head resting on the edge--and he was asleep! Mom and I are the only ones used to sharing our beds. When we shared a bed one night at the hotel, we were both sleeping on the opposite edges. There was enough room between us to comfortably sleep a lumberjack! (No, we didn't try it--this is only theoretical.) We thought there would be room for six to sleep at the cabin in Mississippi with two double beds in the bedroom and a sofa sleeper in the living area. Upon opening up the sofa sleeper the first night, we were surprised to discover that it was probably one of the first models of sofa sleepers ever manufactured. The antique mattress had a huge dip in the middle. After laughing at it, I pressed my toe into the "nest" and nearly fell through to the floor. Obviously the sofa was only going to work if it was folded up, so Mom took the sofa, and I spent the first night sleeping on the coffee table. On Sunday morning, my mom gifted me with the opportunity to don my running clothes and head off on my very own adventure. When I got back, I wrote this: I worshiped this morning in God's cathedral. The section reserved for me was Tishomingo State Park in Mississippi, most specifically, The Outcroppings Trail beyond the swing bridge. I took to it as part runner, climber and wild cat. My praise was the padding of my feet on the damp, leaf-covered dirt paths. My inadequate, yet solemn prayer, offered from my soul upon reaching the summit of a prominent boulder and looking down on the budding trees with a smallish waterfall whispering nearby was, "Oh God, what a majestic world you have made. What an honor to witness your splendor in this glorious place, where I feel so small in your awesome presence." It was an intimate encounter with the Master Artist, as though I caught him dancing with pleasure in his own breath-taking creation. When I returned our cabin key to the park office, before we began our journey homeward, the park ranger, the same one who greeted us when we arrived, was working again. While exchanging pleasantries, I noticed that his eyes show a man who is kind to the core. As I left, he casually spoke a blessing over us in his sweet southern accent, "May the weather favor you on your trip home." I let the words wash over me and resonate through my mind. This beautiful benediction would be my souvenir from our trip to the south, words that will live on as I share them with travelers who are precious to me.

Day Five: Sweet Home Alabama

Christian fished this morning and didn't even get a bite. He did, however, nearly freeze to death. We came to the south in hopes of sunshine and warmth, but the dreary cold followed us for most of this trip. I confess, yesterday I dared to shake my pointing finger at the raining-heavily-for-hours sky and exclaim, "Ha ha ha! You may give us rain, but we're STILL having fun!" Oh, the weather hasn't been all that bad: I can recall a few hours here and there when I wasn't cold.

We went to Muscle Shoals, Alabama today. We took the Natchez Trace Parkway, a scenic road that follows what was once an Indian trade route. It was beautiful. We got to see a couple works of the Mound Builders. The mound we saw on the Natchez Trace once had a small temple on it that was used for worship. We later saw a huge mound in Muscle Shoals. It stands taller than our two story house.

On the way, we took the most peculiar 30 mile detour through the back country where I would occasionally point out in sadness, "Kids: these are people's homes. People live in those dilapidated shacks." This detour was not because we were lost. Oh, no. We were on our way to Alabama's only Coon Dog Cemetery. We had to see this place where people pay to lay their purebred coon dogs to rest. It maybe wasn't worth the lengthy drive, but how many of you can say you saw a coon dog graveyard on your last family vacation?


We ate catfish, hush puppies and squash casserole at a family restaurant after that little excursion. Truth be told, we barely picked at our meals. I was so excited to eat catfish in the south, but you know what? Catfish is just as disgusting in Mississippi as it is in Minnesota. And what in the world is a hush puppy anyhow? Our stomachs just are not used to fried food, I guess.

Our waitress was my age and she gave us her life story of how she's raising her grandchildren and one of her own that she conceived years after her husband had a vasectomy. I sat there and wondered how I attract these people who feel so free to tell me their most disturbing personal details (this happens to me A LOT) while simultaneously praying that my eight year old daughter doesn't ask me to define "vasectomy" for her. If you are laughing at this "redneck" experience, then I need to share that Young Grandma Waitress is a product of the north, having moved to the Shoals from Illinois.

When we returned to our cabin, Mom took C and E fishing while I walked the boys down to a playground by the swing bridge. Those Chickasaw Indian spirits must have done another rain dance in the ravine by our cabin because we slept again to the sound of thunder and heavy rain and even a little hail.

Day Four: Tishomingo to Corinth, MS

Rain. Raining, rain, rain. So much for spending the day hiking and fishing in this beautiful state park in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

Plan B. We went to Corinth to the Civil War Interpretive Center, where we learned that over 23,700 men gave their lives here in one of the bloodiest battles ever fought in our country. We saw part of the battlefield and the city cemetary where I sniffed a blossom (it's a Timm thing--if you know my brothers, you know what I mean), and picked a leaf the size of my hand that my kids ended up fighting over.

We ate at Borroum's Drug Store, which has been open since the mid 1800's. This place serves the best fresh strawberry malts from their soda fountain that I've ever tasted.

When we left the quaint drug store, I came face to face with the Ku Klux Klan. Well, they were across the street on the courthouse steps. The police had blocked off the street and bystanders listened to the man in the black robe babble about taxes and how we shouldn't help the people of Japan. I could not believe what I was experiencing and asked the girl standing next to me, "What are they doing? Is this for real?"

I stood there with my mom and kids for a moment, dumbfounded. Just yesterday at the Civil Rights Museum, I had told Emily about the KKK, showed her a picture of one of those "hateful, ignorant men" wearing his "cloak of cowardice" and here was a whole lot of them trying to look all intimidating and legitimate.

Anger flooded over me as I looked up and down the street wondering, "Who are these people that they would give their ears to this voice?!" My family and I would NOT stand there and be a part of it. "Let's go," I said leading my kids through the crowd to our car trying to explain that which doesn't make sense and and calming fears, "But Mom: We are for equal rights. Will they hurt us?" "No, Em, all they see is your white skin, not what you stand for."

We went fishing later this afternoon when the rain let up. Christian caught a couple catfish and the little boys reeled in their lines every 30 seconds "just to be sure" there wasn't a fish on the other end.

As we fished, I contemplated the day. We learned about heros and tragedy, ate good food, saw some interesting history and what I will remember is this: I am staying in a dry county, where it is wrong to drink a beer on the front porch, but okay to stand boldly on the steps of the courthouse and spew hatred. We've got some work to do!

Day Three: From Memphis to Tishamingo, MS

This morning I took Christian and Emily to the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. Christian said it was pretty amazing to see the place where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot, a place he knew only through textbooks and a documentary to this point. Dr. King is one of our nation's historical heros whom I deeply adore, and the Civil Rights movement yielded some remarkable and inspiring acts of selflessness and courage. It was powerful to be taken back in time to the events of this era.

We hustled back to the Peabody Hotel where we met Grammy and the boys to watch the duck master roll out the red carpet and bring down the ducks (from the hotel roof) in the hotel's elevator to swim in the lobby fountain. It's an odd tradition, but a popular one, judging from the lobby packed with tourists.

From there we crossed into the alley to partake of the best barbecue at Rendezvous. I ate my weight in BBQ chicken. No, I'm not exaggerating.

We had to take the kiddos to Beale Street and bought some candy at the old hardware store--Schwab. The Rock and Soul museum was pretty cool, except that James took my headset that I could have used to learn some more history and used it to listen to jukebox selections. Christian had to get a set of drum sticks, of course!

After a visit to Cotton Row, we headed off to find our cabin somewhere in northeastern Mississippi, 2.5 hours away.

Day Two: Memphis, TN

We made it to Memphis--proof that there IS a God!

My mom brought her GPS, which is better than mine, of course. Yesterday I had mine set and jammed in the console before she set hers on the dash. Every time her GPS spoke, there was a distant echo of the same basic information, about a half second behind. After a couple hours of this I finally said, "Mom, why does your GPS echo? Don't you find that confusing?! She looked at me like she didn't know whether to laugh or smack some sense into me and then pointed in the direction of my forgotten GPS, which was causing the echo. We laughed ourselves to tears.

That stupid GPS. My mom angles it in her direction while I'm driving to monitor my speed. Then she offers loving suggestions about how I should adjust my speed. Downwards. *sigh* Then she asks if I'd rather she sit in the back seat. I suggest the far back seat and we laugh. I liked life before GPS, when her aging eyes couldn't see my dashboard.

Our hotel is in a good location: we are staying along the currently mile-wide Mississippi. We went for a walk this chilly, sunny evening and are in the heart of downtown. There's this odd mix of people: locals, tourists, homeless, and wealthy. We'll "get our tourist on" in the morning when we start at the Peabody to see the ducks.

It's time for the kids to go to bed and Christian will be in charge. Mom and I are headed to B.B. King's for some blues and an adult beverage.

Day One: Hannibal, MO

The van was loaded by 12:30 p.m. with everything I could remember we may need for a week long adventure trip across the country and back. By 12:32 the cooler and a bag of food had fallen out of the back before I had a chance to close it, spilling their contents of food into a mud puddle while the older two kids bickered and the youngest whined about the movie HE had selected.

I was pretty sure that if I looked up "family vacation" in the dictionary, I would find the definition to read, "An event that causes one to spend lots of money only to discover one really doesn't like one's family that much after all." Of course I love my family. The truth of the matter is simply that packing them up into a minivan makes me crabby. Thankfully things quickly took a turn for the better. The dreary drive in and out of rain actually went very well and we found a Best Western in the Mark Twain historical district of Hannibal, MO. The kids enjoyed an appetizer spread and then went swimming. This morning after breakfast and a quick look around, we'll spend 6.5 more hours in the car-Memphis-bound!

Procula (Pontius Pilate's Wife): A Lenten Dramatic Monologue

Every once in awhile, I get to use my brain for simultaneously artistic and intellectual purposes, like writing this monologue that I got to perform at our church's March 16th Lenten service. To God be the glory...


Blood. And Water. What are the two essentials in the Jewish system for cleansing impurity? It’s blood and water.

When I married my beloved, I never dreamed it would bring me to this place. Well, I knew it would bring us to Judea. After all, it was Pilate’s appointment to prefect of Judea that finally prompted that handsome bachelor to permit us to set a date for our wedding. I was so young and idealistic!

A couple months after our wedding, we arrived in Caesarea. The town was more sizable and cultured than I had imagined it. Valerius Gratus, the preceding prefect, was was a kind man who offered my husband the most valuable information and advice regarding governing the Jews that he had received so far.

We knew little of the Jews who occupied this area of the great Roman empire. There weren’t many in Rome, and those who we knew did little to prepare us for this lot my husband was to govern. “A Jew in his homeland and the Jew in foreign countries are cousins, not brothers,” Gratus explained, “Here in Judea, the people think it’s heresy not to be ruled by their own priests. Their normal form of government, they insist, is a theocracy, a rule by God. Foreign control is considered a temporary arrangement, a punishment. They await the Messiah to suspend this arrangement of foreign control.” I was eager to learn more about these Jews.

The traditions and beliefs of the Jews were peculiar to me. They were offended shortly after we arrived because my husband displayed the standards at the palace in Jerusalem. Because Caesar’s face was on the flags, hundreds of Jews gathered in protest, beseeching my husband to take them down. They even came in from the countryside. Gratus had reminded Pilate to be firm; but talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place! Pilate was left with the choice to either massacre the hundreds who had gathered when they refused his order to disperse, or to appear weak and remove the standards. But my husband acted very statesmanlike, and I was proud of how he handled his first major problem in Judea. He explained to the crowd, “I had to test your sincerity in this matter. I see now that the military standards in question are truly offensive to you and that you are not simply testing Roman policy. I will transfer this cohort back to Caesarea and send another in its place without the iconic insignia.” The crowd left in peace and I knew that my husband would be a worthy leader with a very promising future in the Roman empire.

Life after that settled into a routine as we adjusted to our new life far away from Rome. Our marriage is a good one. Perhaps the reason we hold one another so closely is because there aren’t many Romans like us in Judea.

I suspect things go well between Pilate and I for another reason, though: I knew when to keep my mouth shut. This is not always easy when interesting news or a problem has been shared in my presence. But I know that my husband will not bow to the wishes of a woman, especially when other influential men are around. I learned early that my influence is best used when the two of us are alone, when the intensity of the situation has quieted a bit. It is then that I can share my ideas and thoughts--the truth I see in the situation. I try to do so gently, subtly, but my passion for religious and political scenarios tends to get the better of me. And I may know when to keep quiet, but that does not mean I am afraid to share my candid opinion when the situation calls for it. Pilate respects me and he does care what I think. After all, several of my ideas have been well received and I’ve learned several days later how he’s incorporated them into his decisions.

Pilate and I debate politics with a passion, but we are so different when it comes to religion that our discussions on the matter seem to just go in circles. I have spent my life searching for truth, seeking wisdom from the gods. The Jews, with their one God, well, this was so different than what I knew in my polytheistic upbringing and I wished to learn more about their practices, their customs, and yes, their omniscient God. Pilate considers himself an “enlightened skeptic”. “The search for truth,” he says, “is noble enough, but who ever really finds it?” This is his way of keeping the entire matter of religion at arm’s length where it will not affect his reasoning and sensibility. In reality, it is this almost-fear of that which cannot be explained that has now left him nearly absent of his senses completely.

What I’m talking about is Yeshua, Jesus. I had first heard of him through Cornelius, one of the commanders of our troops who has become a good friend and confidant to Pilate. There were many reports on this prophet. Several said he raised his friend, Lazarus, from the dead. Lazarus had fallen ill and had been dead for three days before Jesus raised him. Pilate was not to be convinced. “How do you suppose the two of them pulled that one off?” he mused. But Cornelius spoke to the doctors who cared for Lazarus, who confirmed the man was indeed dead. I began to wonder as the stories about Jesus traveled around if there was any truth to the “Messiah-Anointed One” theory. If he was the Jew’s Messiah, what did that mean, exactly?

I could hardly wait to accompany my dear husband to Jerusalem over the Jewish Passover. This time, Cornelius confided in me, he believed Jesus would be in Jerusalem to celebrate with his disciples and I hoped to catch a glimpse of him, or even better, to invite him to the palace to dine with us so that we could perhaps talk with him about what he was doing and what it all meant. But that never did materialize.

I heard he was in the temple early in the week, that he had become angry with the money changers for turning “his father’s house,” he called it, into a den of robbers.

I was determined to see this man for myself and so the next day, surrounded by a bevy of my attendants, I got to hear Jesus speak in the temple. How I desired to get close to him, but I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I stayed back and listened. One of my attendants gave me a running interpretation of what he was saying, since I don’t understand Aramaic. The pharisees were trying to trap him about paying taxes, but he handled it well, and their trap failed to ensnare him. Then a lawyer asked him what the greatest commandment was in the Torah, the Jewish book of law. My servant girl told me this was a terrible question as the law was supposed to be equally great in all its parts. I’ll never forget what Jesus said: “God is one. Love him with all your heart, soul and mind, and your neighbor as yourself.”

His statement took my breath away. A religion based on love? A God who desires love? It was so different than what I knew. Yet, if this was the truth...was it even possible?

Just a couple days later, Pilate was holding court. He had a full docket, but that didn’t stop the Sanhedrin, the governing board of Jewish affairs, from demanding his time. The Sanhedrin had arrested Jesus and brought him to Pilate asking that Pilate permit them to put Jesus to death. Curious, Pilate actually heard the case instead of simply deferring to the judgement of the Sanhedrin. Then troubled by the obvious innocence of the accused and the growing mob of angry people, he tried to pass Jesus off to Herod, who is also in Jerusalem for the Passover, since much of what Jesus did, happened in Herod’s territory. It wasn’t long, though, and the crowd was back, asking--no demanding--that Pilate put Jesus to death.

Not feeling well, I had slept late into the morning. I had a troubling dream that involved this Jesus and when I heard that he was in fact at the palace, that my beloved was being asked to judge him, well, I didn’t waste any time sending him a message warning him to leave this innocent man alone! But he didn’t. He explained later that he was stuck in an impossible position, with a crowd threatening insurrection, yet having blood on his hands if he condemn the innocent man.

I understand that our very lives hung in the balance. If he declared Jesus’ innocence, the mob would have turned on him and the soldiers. Word would have gotten back to the emperor, a Jewish sympathizer as of late, and we would have been recalled to Rome in shame and then exiled to an island or worse yet, put to death. But it was against the very principle on which my noble husband stood to condemn an innocent man. To have acquitted him would have been a supreme act of altruism.

Pilate ceremoniously washed his hands of Jesus’ blood. Then the crowd called to him, “May His blood be on us and on our children.” It was their way of assuming accountability for these actions. Only know do I understand the significance.

They took Jesus and crucified him. Because of the severe beating he endured beforehand, Jesus hung there just a few hours before he died. Then a couple of his friends took his body and buried it in a tomb.

What if Jesus was the Son of God? What if this all didn’t HAVE to happen? What if Jesus COULD have defended himself and chose not to? What if he suffered of his own choosing, for a purpose far bigger than I can even comprehend?

It was reported Sunday morning, just a couple days ago, that Jesus body was no longer in the grave. Pilate was convinced the disciples had stolen it from right under the noses of the large guard. When he realized they would have likely slept in shifts, and that none of them would have slept through the noise of moving away that large stone, he shifted his focus to what could have happened that Friday night, before the temple guard had been posted. That too fell apart when Pilate discovered that the guard indeed had looked in the tomb to confirm the body was in there before they sealed and guarded it. Could Jesus have risen from the dead? It was beginning to seem as though a divine intervention was the most probable possibility!

This evening we attended a dinner party. We women dined separately from the men, as we often do when we’re in Jerusalem. The talk at our table centered around the missing body of Jesus. Joanna, one of the ladies at the table, had seen the empty tomb herself on Sunday morning. After much coaxing, I got her to tell me her story.

The group of women, early on Sunday, went to the tomb to properly anoint Jesus’ body with spices as is customary at burial. They were unable to do it right away because they had to wait for their Jewish Sabbath to come to an end. There was an earthquake that had rolled away the stone. When they looked in the tomb, the body they expected to see, wasn’t there. A radiant personage told them that Jesus who was crucified was not there, that he had risen just as he promised. Then he told the women to go quickly and tell his disciples. On their way back to Jerusalem, Joanna said, they suddenly saw Jesus in their path. As they fell before him in joyful adoration.

Pilate and I arrived home a short time ago and I shared with him what Joanna had said. Of course he discredited the whole thing as “foolish woman talk”. But when I told him that Jesus’ disciples also saw Jesus after he had shown himself to the women, that men would give an account of this Living Jesus, he immediately summoned those who were directly involved with Jesus’ death, and has been interviewing them ever since. Yes, at this late hour!

He’s speaking now to the centurion who was in charge of the crucifixions that day. He had ordered the breaking of the legs of the two men crucified with Jesus, but because Jesus had been dead for a good hour, he didn’t break Jesus’ legs. Instead he thrust a spear into Jesus’ side. When the centurion told us what happened next, I nearly fainted and had to step out. He explained that blood and water flowed from Jesus’ side.

Blood. The sign of his life flowed upon those standing beneath his cross...and water--the spirit within him poured out upon the world. Death, far from ending Jesus’ life, became the moment he shared his life with all who stand below the cross.

Surely this man was the Son of God!

Baking Cookies

One of the happiest Saturday morning activities in my world is baking cookies with my kids. Raising up the next generation of cookie burners: just another service I offer!