Colossians 3:17--And whatever you do, whether in word or in deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.
The thing I knew for sure about Mom is that she knew everything. Or, at least, she knew whatever I needed to know. I think most of all she knew how to love me. She knew how to nurture and support and encourage me—and all four of us girls. I loved how we all had our own toys or household items in our assigned “favorite” colors. Of course, she already knew that I liked blue best, and it’s still my favorite color.
Christmas 1957: Jim holding Mimi, Kate, Betty holding Lisa, Jan
One year for Christmas we all got big stuffed dogs we could sit on. Another year we all got kitty cat chairs. Every year I loved decorating the reindeer cookies with icing eyes and collars. For Easter we always got pretty new dresses—and shoes and socks and pocketbooks and maybe spring coats or sweaters and even hats when we were little. I know we looked adorable, because I remember people telling us we did. “And no boys?” they sometimes said to us. “No boys!” I would reply proudly. No yucky boys, I always thought.
Easter 1959
I remember our trip to New York City when Kate insisted on going through the lobby of our real hotel with her enormous Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent wrapped around her. I think Mom was a little embarrassed, but we never saw anything wrong with it. New York was just one of the fascinating places she and Daddy took us. I loved seeing the US on our family vacations—even when, as a money-saving measure, she made us switch to camping and I cried at the prospect. All our adventures together around Europe were especially sweet. She and Daddy just let me and Maurice be in charge and take them wherever we wanted to go.
Pastor Randy at the Stone of Unction, where Jesus’ body may have been prepared for burial, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem
I knew he was dead. Everyone else who had been there knew that too. In response to the Jewish leaders’ request that the bodies not be left up on the Sabbath, Pilate sent soldiers to break the legs of the crucified to hasten their deaths. But they didn’t bother to break Jesus’ legs because he was already dead.
The other two crucified Jews would probably be hauled to the trash dump in the valley of Gehenna. But what about Jesus? How I loved him!—all his followers did. He needed a proper burial. I couldn’t do it alone and there were no men around. Besides, it might be dangerous to step forward and claim his body. Already there were rumors that Jesus’ disciples were the next target of the ruling council. There wasn’t time for tears. I sat down in the shade of a rock to think.
Soon a small group appeared led by two men in richly-ornamented robes. Members of the Council? Pharisees? They approached the cross and began the process of taking down Jesus’ body. I didn’t know they were believers that Jesus was the Son of God. They never let on. I didn’t know they loved my Jesus too. How carefully they pulled out the nails. How tenderly they cradled his body as they balanced it to earth, laid it on a stretcher and covered it with a shroud. How nimbly they walked through the descending dusk to the garden across the way. I followed. I had to see. He was my master.
Propped a little off the ground in a space amid the lush plantings of the garden lay a long rock, its top flat, its sides chiseled away. Someone had managed to drag it there near the tombs to ease the labor of preparing a body for burial. Joseph and Nicodemus carefully placed Jesus’ body on the rock and called for their servants to bring the supplies they were carrying—bundles of linen and jars of spices, so many spices that it took three men to carry them on their backs. Then Joseph and Nicodemus wrapped Jesus’ body in strips of linen layered with the spices—and they themselves did it, not their servants. Such humility these embroidered and gilded Pharisees showed. Had Jesus served them too by washing their feet? Now they lifted and wrapped, aloe caking under their rings, tears falling into the spices and releasing more fragrance. Finished. Night was falling, the Sabbath beginning, but they stood in silence for a minute, these two respected leaders of the Jews. They had defiled themselves, made themselves unclean, by handling a dead body. To my astonishment, one and then the other bent to gently kiss the body of my Lord. Then, with the help of the servants, they laid him in the tomb and struggled together to roll the huge stone across the entrance. Joseph and Nicodemus placed their hands briefly on each other’s shoulders then walked away.
*****
But Jesus didn’t stay dead. That’s not possible! How can a dead body come back to life? He really was dead, with the marks of death and a deep sword gash in his side where a gush of blood and water poured out. I saw it!
Yet now the strips of linen are piled empty on the cold stone of the grave. Jesus spoke to Mary of Magdala in the garden. Some of his disciples saw angels. The Roman soldiers guarding the tomb are in trouble. And Jesus’ mother—well, she can’t stop singing!
I saw Jesus too. The blood and wounds from three days ago are but strong scars. He called me by name. I fell at his feet and wanted to cry but instead we laughed together. He is risen from the dead! He is risen indeed! “I can hardly believe this is true,” I told Jesus. He looked at me deeply and smiled. “I told you, didn’t I? Now go tell everybody,” he said. “Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet believe. I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me will never stay dead either but will have everlasting life. Tell everyone!”
Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Savior, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord.
Vainly they watch his bed, Jesus my Savior, vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord.
Death cannot keep its prey, Jesus my Savior; he tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!
Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o’er his foes!
He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever, with his saints to reign.
He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!
Robert Lowry, 1874
From Jan, with love in our crucified and risen Savior
(John 19:28-42; John 20:1-18, 29; Matthew 28; John 3:16; John 11:25-26)
I hung behind the crowd as Jesus was taken from the Praetorium to the Place of the Skull. Jesus was weak from the scourging, so the soldiers made a passerby carry his cross. I could see stripes of dark blood staining the back of Jesus’ tunic. As he stumbled along the road he wasn’t even wearing his sandals. One of the guards at the palace had snatched them away as he mocked Jesus, sneering, “You won’t need these anymore.” Three men were being crucified. I couldn’t look as soldiers stretched out condemned limbs and pounded nails. I covered my ears to cries of anguish, to moans as the crosses were lifted and body weight pulled against the piercings. Done. “Who’s next?” yelled one of the soldiers. The rest of them laughed and the crowd shrank back. In a short while many people had drifted away. The main event was over and it would take forever for these men to die. The centurion released most of his soldiers to other duties. Plenty of people looked up at the crucifixion from the busy road and made comments, but soon, up on the hill, just a scattering of onlookers remained, with a huddle of women some distance back.
Finally I looked at Jesus—bleeding, racked with pain, already struggling to breathe, his face in anguish, yet his eyes focused. Ahead he saw the city he loved and wept over, the city whose people forgot their hosannas and turned their backs on him. To his left he saw the magnificent temple, his Father’s house, whose leaders clung to the laws of men rather than their Maker. Across the road he saw a garden, with a new tomb cut out of rock. Nearby he saw his beloved mother, his dear friend John, and the criminals crucified next to him. And he saw me.
Oh Jesus! It’s my fault! I didn’t believe you. I was afraid. I was selfish. I loved praise from men more than from you. I loved my comfortable life more than your truth. I thought I could make my own rules. I didn’t love as you love. I denied you. I pretended you were someone else. I pretended I couldn’t hear you. I betrayed you. I hated you. It’s my sin that put you there. It’s my death you’re dying.
I ran to the cross. I kissed Jesus’ wounded feet and let his blood fall on me. At noon the sun disappeared and darkness descended. Creation mourned its dying Maker. The minutes ticked by interminably. Jesus’ physical pain was excruciating; what was his inner torment? He was in agony, yet still Jesus spoke words of love and truth as his life was slipping away. How long, O Lord? How great is my sin!
“Finally, with a loud cry, Jesus breathed his last. The curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. And when the centurion, who stood there in front of Jesus, heard his cry and saw how he died, he said, ‘Surely this man was the Son of God!’” (Mark 15:37-39).
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It is finished. Jesus completed his mission to bring salvation to sinners. The Son of God came to earth as a real human being, lived the perfect life we could not live and died the death we deserve. In the greatest exchange ever, he took our sin and guilt and gives forgiveness and new life now and forever to those who believe in him. God himself put an exclamation point on his completed work by tearing the thirty-foot-long, four-inch-thick curtain in the temple that separated him from his people. Jesus’ broken body is the entrance into the forgiving embrace of our Father. All are welcome, even a centurion who pounded nails into human flesh. Even me. Even you.
O wondrous love! Bountiful forgiveness! Amazing grace! Would you run to the cross with me? Kneel in repentance. Believe in his death for you and receive forgiveness and eternal life. Fall down in grateful worship under his blood poured out for sinners—poured out for broken people, poured out for me, poured out for you.
(Mark 15:16-41)
From Jan, with love in our Crucified and Risen Savior
Mark 14:32-42 v. 32 Then they went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.”
With all the talk and all the candles the room was warm and still scented with the olive oil and lamb of our Passover meal. Jesus wanted to pray in the garden across the Kidron valley so we all got up to follow. As I stepped out of the doorway the cool night air pushed aside my drowsiness. Fragrant spring blossoms contrasted with the uneasiness I felt as some of us lagged behind. “What’s all this about betraying Jesus?” asked one of our number. “Did you get who he meant?” “I don’t know. But what did he mean when he said the bread was his body and the wine was his blood?” “I love to be with him but I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time.”
Jesus had picked up the pace and we almost had to run to keep up. The olive grove was away from the city and peaceful. “Sit here while I pray,” said Jesus. He took Peter, James and John with him as he walked in farther among the trees. They were the closest to Jesus and I didn’t begrudge them the time with him. Maybe I could get a little rest. But almost immediately Jesus began to pray. I stepped a little closer underneath thick branches. Jesus’ intensity kept my attention though I couldn’t understand what he said. One of the three put a hand on Jesus’ shoulder. He stopped and turned his head and now I heard his words: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch.” Death? Could sorrow kill a man? Peter, James and John sat down, their backs finding the curves of gnarled olive trees.
Jesus went a little farther and I had a clear view of him through the branches. There was a rocky ledge where the olive trees couldn’t grow and he stopped there, falling to his knees on a broad stretch of flat stone. He raised his arms to heaven and cried out, then he folded himself to the ground. His shoulders heaved. He got up, walked back and forth, lifted his hands, knelt again. I had never seen him so agitated, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I glanced aside at the three who had walked ahead with him. Were they in agony of prayer too? They were asleep! This time when Jesus got up he walked toward the three. “Wake up!” he commanded. He was sweating profusely and there was urgency in his voice. “Can’t you even pray for one hour?” He needed them, I could tell, but even at a distance I could hear his love for them temper his voice as he added, “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” They looked at him, groggy and confused, then at one another as they straightened up and returned to prayer.
My focus moved to Jesus, who had slipped back among the trees to the bare rock and was already in agony again. He knelt, he called out, he pounded at the rock, he paced, he rubbed the sweat from his face with his sleeve, he reached to heaven—I couldn’t turn aside as I watched this tumult of prayer. Then Jesus exhaled deeply and was still. He bent down and lay facedown flat on the rock, stretching his arms out to the sides. I could feel his peace even from my vantage point. Strange, though. His form on the rock reminded me of a Roman cross. I shivered.
I don’t know how long Jesus lay there motionless. When he got up and headed back he circled in my direction. He knew I was there; he always knows where we are and what we’re thinking. His hair was matted with sweat…and was that blood smeared on his face? I didn’t know if I should look away, or apologize for intruding, but Jesus caught my eye and with his great compassion held my gaze. He almost smiled. “I love you,” he said. “As I have loved you, love one another” (John 13:34). I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know why my eyes were filling with tears. I could hear a commotion in the distance. The other three were sleeping again. “Enough!” said Jesus as he approached them. “The hour has come. Let’s go! Here comes my betrayer.”
They brought Jesus to Golgotha (which means the Place of the Skull)…and they crucified him…. Those who passed by hurled insults at him (Mark 15:22, 24, 29).
“Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?
Alas, my treason, Jesus, has undone thee.
‘Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee.
I crucified thee.”
(Johann Heermann, 1585-1647)
Forgive me, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus, that you died for my sins so I can live forever with you. Thank you, Father, that you accepted Jesus’ sacrifice as payment in full for all my sins.
The gift of forgiveness, peace and eternal life is for anyone who will believe that Jesus died for him or her. Would you kneel with me in repentance and trust as we await the resurrection?
What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul, for my soul,
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul?
(American folk hymn)
The Lord is my shepherd; I have all that I need. He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name.
Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.
You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honor me by anointing my head with oil. My cup overflows with blessings.
Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.
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Who could have thought, when we brought in the last of the garden vegetables in October and started cozying ourselves inside for the winter, that the whole world would still be locked indoors come spring? When I listen to the neighborhood, silent of human activity, and when I drive on almost-empty streets, and when I keep my distance during senior hours at Walmart where an associate keeps guard over a bin of small bottles of hand sanitizer and the toilet paper is rationed, I have the same sense of surrealism that I had when the towers in New York fell. Is this really happening? How could this be? Has the world gone crazy? I’m not in the medical field—what can I do?
I’ve been reading about early Christians who cared for the sick and dying even during pandemics when government officials and the wealthy had left the cities. In the Antonine plague (165 AD) five million people died; the plague of Cyprian in 251 had a 50% death rate. The Christians who helped their neighbors at great risk to themselves truly believed, they knew, that their real home was in a better place; dying was not the worst thing that could happen. What should I be doing today to love my virus-stricken neighbor? What the Christians did during the Roman plagues filled a need that no one else filled. Today we have government edicts and skilled medical personnel orchestrating care. There doesn’t seem to be any point in disobeying willy-nilly and carrying victims into our homes for care. But there is also the fear-stricken neighbor, and the lonely and the elderly and so on. Maybe we have to step up our care for them.
A friend sent me an article by the theologian R. R. Reno (https://www.firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2020/03/say-no-to-deaths-dominion). I’m not sure he’s got it right about people carrying on with life as usual during the 1918 pandemic. A writer in our local paper did a little research on that Spanish flu. The reason people may have, as R. R. Reno says, “continued to worship, go to musical performances, clash on football fields,” etc., could be that they did not know how bad the situation was, since “the government essentially banned leaders and the press from reporting upon the flu epidemic.” Nothing negative could be published that might affect the war effort. The pandemic was called the Spanish flu “because Spain, which was not at war, allowed the press to report on it openly” (quotes in article from John Barry of Tulane University). Warnings from the US medical community were not passed along to the citizens. (https://www.baltimoresun.com/maryland/carroll/lifestyles/cc-lt-dayhoff-032220-20200320-wmahqlv3drbghpv2hziglq4jny-story.html)
But R. R. Reno makes some interesting points: “Fear of death and causing death is pervasive,” but “man was made for life, not death…. The mass shutdown of society…creates a perverse, even demonic, atmosphere. Governor Cuomo and other officials insist that death’s power must rule our actions.” Children cannot play on playgrounds, we cannot touch our grieving friend, we cannot share Christ’s body and blood around the altar. Basketball hoops are being removed and skateboard ramps covered with dirt (https://www.cbssports.com/general/news/basketball-rims-removed-skate-parks-shut-down-and-more-ways-cities-are-trying-to-enforce-social-distancing/). We have ignored the truths of living and eternity and made physical survival a god. “Alexander Solzhenitsyn resolutely rejcted the materialist principle of ‘survival at any price.’ It strips us of our humanity.”
So what do we do? Stay or flee, cower or reach out? Be sensible, but live. I do think that, if we can do it, flattening the curve is a good idea so we don’t run out of ventilators. If we have a spike in covid-19 illness that requires hospitalization and not enough ventilators, that’s not a potential fear that “somebody” might get sick but a real fact that a real person is likely to die.
A certain relative is genuinely concerned for us. We feel blessed by God to help him in various ways. We feel responsible to try to stay healthy to be there for him, and for all our family.
My mother lives with my sister in Baltimore now, and we try to visit once a week and take lunch to the family. Should we stop doing that? Where has my nephew been? Who’s been at my sister’s grocery store? Could we infect my mother? And Maurice—he’s over 70, and our son gives us worrying statistics on the danger we’re in. I don’t want us all to die—and we Christians are called to defend life. (Plus I personally have too much clutter in my house at this point to want to die now and leave it behind for someone else to clean up). But my thinking hadn’t gotten to the theologian’s point: “There are many things more precious than [physical] life.” Of course. And I know that. But I hadn’t thought of that yet. A woman from church was visiting her mother who has Alzheimer’s at the facility where she lives. Of course visitors are no longer allowed, so my friend and some family members stood outside and talked to their mother through a window. Not surprisingly, the mother kept forgetting why they weren’t inside and why no one could visit her. And what about all the residents who don’t have first floor windows?
And then there is a bigger issue altogether: What is the Lord God Almighty doing through all this? Jody Wood, director of New York City Intercessors/UN Global Prayer, suggests, based on Hebrews 12:25-29, that God is shaking the earth and its systems to destroy the false foundations upon which people have built their lives (https://youtu.be/GWYn5r60dhk). Will we listen to God and hold to his unshakable truth, or, having made up our own rules for living, will we find we have built on sinking sand (Matthew 7:24-27)? Oh, that many would run even now to the cross of Jesus, the immovable Rock of our eternal salvation and the only hope for lasting peace!—while there is yet time.
It’s a lot to balance—questions of life and death, principles of truth and goodness and beauty. Indeed, is beauty anywhere at all in this mess? But it is. I saw it. Driving home from church last Sunday, where six of us provided a streamed worship service on Facebook live, I was practically slapped in the face by the earth in sudden and full spring bloom—pink and white trees, with yellow forsythia and daffodils below, shining under under a sapphire sky that for days had been gray. Were there always so many trees on this road? Do they always bloom at once? Even in troubling times, if God’s people don’t praise him, the very rocks will cry out! (Luke 19:37-40)—and the trees and the flowers and all creation. God holds us in the palm of his hand (Psalm 95:4-7). He is working out his perfect Kingdom purposes in us through Jesus (2Timothy 1:8-10). He sees the end from the beginning (Isaiah 46:10). One day the fallen kingdoms of this world will become the kingdoms of our Lord and of his Christ, and he shall reign forever and ever (Revelation 11:15). Lord, may we look forward to that day with faith and patience. On the hard journey that is life (John 16:33), give us the courage to love one another deeply (1Peter 4:8). Help us not to look at the turbulence around us but to cling to your steady hand (Matthew 14:22-32). Guide us along right paths so that we bring honor to your name (Psalm 23:3).
So I pray and think and hope I don’t take too long to act. How can I be a witness to the truth and power of the gospel in this time? How can I honor the Lord? We have decided to still visit my mother. I—we all—can love the ones in our household, write notes, make phone calls, work from home, support local businesses as much as possible, deliver groceries, find a way to connect with neighbors, support our churches, donate what is needed locally and farther afield, pray for one another by name.
Let me know if you would like Maurice and me to put your name on our prayer list.
Lord, we don’t know what to do, but our eyes are on you (2Chronicles 20:12). Guide us along right paths so we bring honor to your name (Psalm 23:3).
Approaching the ruined Inca mountaintop town Pisaq
1Kings 19:1-18
v. 11b-12 Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. We started hiking at Amaru. It was about a mile up to the 14,200-foot pass. It was very slow going and incredibly hard to breathe (though not all the others seemed to find it so) through the spectacular scenery of the mountains all around us. But the Lord was not in the mountains. The alpacas were fluffy and shy, grazing on surprisingly abundant growth, but the Lord was not in the alpacas. Much of the way was rocky with little slippery stones, bigger ankle-twisters and lines of boulders here and there. But the Lord was not in the rocks. As I walked through the empty potato field just before our lunch stop there came “a gentle whisper.” “My Spirit is within those who trust me,” reminded the Lord, “so I am with you wherever you go.” The day’s majestic mountains, skittish alpacas, too many red rocks, the thin air and the smiles of the Quechua people—my Lord was already there with me in these things, showing me wonder and strengthening me with himself so “the journey [would not be] too great” for me (v. 7). Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the reminder of your presence in this adventure.
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All ten in our group wanted to do today’s hike so up and up our two vans chugged on ever rougher roads, snaking past tiny settlements above the treeline, slowing down twice for little flocks of sheep ambling along the road.
Lady shooing her sheep out of the road because our van was coming
“I’ve jumped out of airplanes lower than this,” said Maurice. At 13,150 feet we stopped on a broad slope near a church a bit frayed at the seams.
I slipped in for a quick look. It was the Nativity of the Virgin, and I chatted in my nonexistent Spanish with a local family decorating the sanctuary.
Juan had told us today’s hike would be accompanied by a couple donkeys, one carrying extra water, first aid supplies and oxygen, and the other for transport in case someone couldn’t manage the walk. I was surprised; none of the information from REI mentioned emergency donkeys (probably because they don’t want you to sign up for the trip unprepared thinking you can easily drape yourself over a donkey and inhale pure oxygen whenever you want). But there they were, walking down the hill to meet us—three donkeys, not two, with their owner and her daughter. The donkeys must have had names but we didn’t know them; Monica soon dubbed them Uber, Lyft and Nine One One.
Up we started. “We’ll take it really slow,” Juan had said several times. It was a gentle slope, beginning on friendly green grass, and we had our hiking poles—so why was this so hard? Ah, yes—there’s not a lot of air up here. We walked and rested, walked and rested, and the rest stops gave us time to look back at the magnificent mountains, and over at the alpacas, and contemplate the rich brown earth of the potato fields, the only crop that grows this high.
Zoom in to see alpacas, the donkey lady and the donkeys
We also looked more carefully at the donkey lady behind us. What was she doing? Did she have a rope for the donkeys? A yo-yo? No. She was spinning—spinning wool into yarn! Walking behind us in her skirt and sandals—behind the wimpy North Americans moving at snail’s pace in their latest REI gear, leaning on their poles and gasping for air—the donkey lady, who had already walked over the pass once this morning, was drawing wool from the blanket tied around her shoulders, dangling her spindle and getting some work done.
Note potato fields behind the donkey lady
We walked for about an hour and twenty minutes to Challwacasa, the pass at 14,200 feet. Nobody needed oxygen or a donkey. We took off our packs and reveled in the 360-degree panorama. Even from the “ladies’ room,” just down the hill on one side, the view was exquisite from every clump of grass.
Starting down the other side of the pass
The descent was easier on the lungs, the rocky ground was trickier on the feet and the vistas were no less beautiful. The pond we saw from on high turned out to be a water source for the valley, held back by a dam we walked across.
In an hour and a half we reached the tiny village of Viacha where an al fresco lunch was waiting for us.
There was even a little building with a flush toilet and a sink with soap and paper towels (oh, the luxuries of organized group travel!). I sampled the local beverage Inka Cola, one of the drink options. Tastes like bubble gum! After we ate, two Quechua men in a nearby potato field showed us how they plant potatoes—one of their village’s 230 varieties—with a digging stick, fertilizing each tuber with dried alpaca pellets.
Father and son potato farmersAlpacas
We continued our gorgeous descent. As we passed small settlements, potato fields, alpacas and stands of eucalyptus trees (flourishing but invasive here too), the intriguing markings on one of the smaller hills below us came into focus as the ruins of an Inca town and terraces. As we stopped for a few minutes, two little girls appeared selling woven bracelets. Monica bought one for each of us ladies.
Group photo of the hikers on our adventure. Visible on the dark mountain to the right are the outlines of the Inca village ruins.
We had to negotiate a steep path made up mostly of boulders before we got to Pisaq, the Inca town we had been approaching.
Our vans were waiting, but we had the option to walk through the town first, so I joined that group. Did I mention that the town spilled down the steep hillside of its strategic mountaintop location? So up we climbed again, the fit young(er) hikers scampering up like mountain goats and me lagging behind unable to take in enough air. We saw the remains of houses and got the same views from the top as the Incan rulers had as they made sure their slaves were working hard on the terraces below. On the ascent through Pisaq we paused at a nondescript location. “Give me your camera,” Saul instructed. I complied. He zoomed out the lens, scanned the cliff opposite and took a picture. “Look at this,” he said, zooming in on the screen. There were openings in the cliff, with white spots visible in some of them. Skulls! To keep animals away, the Incas buried their dead in fetal position in the sides of cliffs, sealing up the holes. When the Spanish came, they eventually dug up graves as they pushed into every corner of the Incan empire looking for gold (which the Incas did not use much in burials). Many untouched graves were later looted in the 1940s and 50s when there was no functioning Peruvian government.
Inca gravesLeaving the Inca village Pisaq
Juan is willing to share with us what he really thinks, the real truth about Peru—things like, that the only people who celebrate Columbus Day are politicians, and how the Spanish invaders destroyed native genetic diversity. Tonight at our meeting he told us about coca leaves: It’s been scientifically demonstrated that, contrary to popular belief, coca doesn’t do a thing to help with altitude sickness. The maka it contains is a stimulant and an anesthetic. Chewing the leaves numbs the mouth and stomach so the person doesn’t feel hungry and can work in the fields all day. Coca usage is also just cultural. But 50% of coca production currently goes to drug dealers to make cocaine. All the jungle countries now deal in cocaine, and it will never be controlled because politicians are in the business.
The hotel toilet paper situation is becoming…more unpleasant. As nice as this lodge is, what with chocolates on the pillow and a jacuzzi and llamas in the garden, you’d think they’d have the trash can by the toilet all dust ruffled and perfumed. Sadly, no. This trash can doesn’t have a swing-top lid like the ones in the previous hotels. In fact, it doesn’t have a lid at all. (What is this—an airport bathroom?) I still had part of the Carroll County Times in my bag, so I tore off the front page and folded it to fit over the trash can. It’s not a swing top but at least I don’t have to look at the contents.
v. 38 Then the fire of the Lord fell and burned up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones and the soil, and also licked up the water in the trench. Amazing things have happened on mountains. On Mount Carmel the Lord showed himself to be the true God when he sent fire to Elijah’s sacrifice, leaving the prophets of Baal shouting in vain. On the Andes, today between Chinchero and Urquillos, the fire was in my lungs, burning up what little air I could suck in. It was a break-in mostly downhill hike, and I’m not at all sure how much uphill I will be able to do on the real hike at even higher altitude tomorrow. But the Lord does amazing things, which is why the people watching the spectacle on Mount Carmel cried out, “The Lord—he is God! The Lord—he is God!” I declare that truth with them, and beg him to send the Breath of Heaven to fill my lungs and the lungs of all of our little group of adventurers!
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At breakfast I crushed coca leaves and put them in my hot chocolate. Maybe the coca really will help with the altitude. We were out at eight, hopping into the second van with our assistant guide Saul. He pointed out ladies selling breakfast at sidewalk stands—quinoa porridge, papaya juice, and cheese or avocado sandwiches.
Breakfast stand (another hail-Mary photo from the bouncing van)
We asked Saul about all the half-finished buildings. People just want to be able to build a good foundation, Saul said. When and if they have more money they will build more. They might even leave it to their children to construct the next floor.
In the tiny village of Chinchero we went to a weaving demonstration in the yard of one of the local families, set up to accommodate visitors. Three ladies were in traditional dress, but I don’t think that was just for us because I saw other ladies around the village who looked similar. One of our ladies was spinning wool, one was weaving on a lap-held loom, and the other explained things to us in English, passing around baskets of lambswool, alpaca wool, and baby alpaca wool (aaah!).
Weaving, washing and spinning wool, with baskets of the textile workers’ naturally dyed yarns
She showed us how to wash the wool, and passed around bowls of natural flowers and leaves that made different colored dyes, all rich and earthy, describing how long various colors had to soak. An intriguing dye was made from dried cochinilla, a parasitic insect that lives on cactus leaves; our wool worker crushed it to show its rich purple color, then squeezed lime juice over the purple to make flaming orange. Of course our Peruvian ladies had a whole display of beautiful, authentic, intricately woven textiles that we could buy if we wanted. Hmmm. I bought a winter alpaca hat and a baby alpaca shawl—a special deal if I bought both!
Our next stop in Chinchero was a church built by the Spanish when they knocked down the Inca building they didn’t like on that site. The church had a lovely painted wood ceiling and all sorts of wonders but of course no pictures were allowed.
A market and celebration were being set up alongside the churchA peek (that I found online) at the beautifully painted wooden ceiling inside the church
Maurice went off with our guide Saul’s cultural group for the rest of the day. They visited the Maras salt production site, a mountainside carved into hundreds of ponds for the evaporation of salt from a salty stream flowing constantly out of the mountain.
Maurice’s lunchtime view
After lunch Maurice’s group explored the stunning and somewhat mysterious Moray site, where the reason for the beautiful curving and concentric terraces is unknown.
During their hundred-year empire the Incas built 50,000 miles of trails, with four main ones starting from Cusco. The group I was with for the day, led by Juan, was following one of the trails, starting at about 3500 meters (11,500 feet), down to a valley—a break-in hike. Our descent began along Inca terraces.
Down into woodlands we wound, along a stream, past fields crammed in between steep mountainsides, needing to watch our footing but stopping occasionally to look at the soaring green walls ahead. After an hour we paused to remove some layers where the trail came into the open, facing a high mountain ridge.
“Are you guys adventurous?” Juan asked. “That’s why we came,” said Monica from Vermont. “I’m going to take you to see a beautiful waterfall,” Juan told us. We continued down the slope and soon turned right onto a steeper trail downward.
“You’re not scared of narrow places, are you?” Juan asked—meaning a narrow path where one side is straight down. Who, us? Down and down we went, leaning on our poles, the sound of rushing water growing louder until, rounding a bend, there was Pocpoc Falls tumbling down in two ribbons from the mountainside high above.
Great side trip!—except then we had to go back up. Just when I couldn’t get any more oxygen into my lungs, Juan turned again and we were back on the trail and heading down to the valley floor. Stands of wild geraniums punctuated the wild growth along the Urquillos River. We crossed little rias that spilled over into clearings.
A eucalyptus forest around a grassy bank of the river provided our lunch spot.
If you eat quick there’s time for a nap!
After an hour Juan got us moving again, uphill a little to a narrow track along a channelized irrigation canal.
I had thought we were near the bottom of the valley but suddenly glimpses through the jungle to our right gave views to the cultivated valley floor far below. “It’s corn for Europe,” Juan told us.
We had a few more ups and downs with the final downhill slope especially hard on my knees. Then we turned into the dusty red town of Urquillos.
Juan gave his uneaten lunch sandwich to a little boy hanging out with his mama and the family chickens.
The REI van appeared. We bounced along the road in the Sacred Vally to Lamay Lodge, our home for the next two nights, where the back door of each room opens onto the garden with the giant fire pit, jacuzzi and llamas.
Shower, laundry, tea time, pisco sour demonstration and tasting with Juan, and a fine dinner, and we were all well done for the night.
v. 27, 29 “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms….Blessed are you, Israel! Who is like you, a people saved by the Lord? He is your shield and helper and your glorious sword. Your enemies will cower before you, and you will tread on their heights.” It’s the final verses of Moses’ blessing of the Israelites that strike me. God spoke verse 27 to me once before, when I was terrified as a glider on a winch shot up into the sky with me in it. Now he faithfully speaks it to us, part of the new Israel, as we go up into the high Andes: “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” Blessed are we indeed! Who is like us, sinners by our own choice who have become “a people saved by the Lord?” Holy God, may we tread on the heights this next week secure with you. Be our shield against danger and our helper when muscles weaken. Holy Spirit, please fill our lungs with your breath.
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We finished drying our laundry by laying it on the plug-in heater, repacked and were out by ten in a taxi to our next hotel, the nicer (read “more expensive”) one that came with our REI adventure. The room is fine, if with a somewhat odd bathroom arrangement, but aside from the basket with three pieces of fruit, it isn’t appreciably better than the one we left. The public areas are lovely, though, including a comfortable patio filled with chairs and tables for daytime and firepits and blankets to tame the night air.
But there was not much time to indulge in amenities. After a quick lunch we met our group: Monica from Vermont who, in spite of her fitness and energy, had already suffered through such severe altitude sickness that a doctor had to be called (she was fine now); Adrienne from Arizona; the sisters Kim and Cheryl from Western states; Gil from San Francisco and his college senior daughter Eleanor; Tony and Mary from Boston; us; and Juan, our experienced and extremely knowledgeable Peruvian guide. Our quiet group hopped into the van for our introductory outing, through crazy traffic, past all Cusco’s half-built structures sprouting tall rebar bouquets with flowers of overturned plastic jugs.
It was hard to get pictures of the city from our swift-moving and bouncing van. Many structures used the topmost unfinished floor for laundry.
Our first stop was at an aqueduct built by the Wari people almost a thousand years ago for a city that was never finished. A few hundred years later the Incas repurposed the site to control access to the valley. The Inca stone blocks stand out from the rougher masonry of the Wari. Though the Incas rough-cut their stones at the quarry, amazingly they set them by trial and error: dropping a stone into place, lifting it again to file it down where needed, then dropping it again, as many times as needed. When the position was right, the protrusions that had been used for lifting were filed off (unless they hadn’t gotten around to that part—some are still visible).
The Incas cut a road through the Wari aqueduct.The Wari aqueduct was bisected by the Incas and faced with larger and more even stone blocks. Note the handles still protruding from some of the Inca stones.
The unfinished Wari city, its original name unknown, was disparagingly called Pikillaqta (“flea town”) hundreds of years after its abandonment. Crossed by straight streets and surrounded by a high red stone wall, Pikillaqta was supposed to be a city for about 10,000 but only its builders lived in the adobe houses.
PikillaqtaMost archeological finds are hustled off to big city museums, but this delightful jug was among a handful of objects displayed at Pikillaqta.
Our final visit was to Tipon, guinea pig capital of the world. “Don’t bring one home for the kids,” texted Eric when we told him where we were. Not a problem. It’s the guinea pig capital because they eat them here. Restaurant after restaurant lined the main drag, welcoming customers in with signs of smiling guinea pigs apparently not knowing what you’re here for.
Look closely at his platter
But we had come to see Cancha Inca, the broad agricultural terraces the Incas built, each with a microclimate temperature one to two degrees different from the next, to develop crops for the empire. The ground in each terrace had been built up in three different layers to absorb rainwater and prevent flooding. Controlled water channels for irrigation were fed by mountain springs. A few simple houses for workers were perched at the top of the site, which a sign said was at 3400 meters. That’s 11,154 feet, about the same as Cusco. After the climb we were still breathing, if gasping.
The tier of agricultural terraces doesn’t look nearly as steep as it really was when we were climbing it.View from near the top of part of Cancha Inca’s irrigation system
Back at the hotel Juan gave us a detailed briefing on the next day’s two options. He talked about altitude sickness, encouraging us to drink two liters of water per day (right!) and mentioning two symptions I hadn’t heard of—a metallic taste in your mouth and tingly fingers. We had a fine dinner. My itching continues to subside and I have no new bites. I’ve quit the heavy-duty oral meds and just use the cream now. Surely this high-class hotel will let us flush our TP, I thought, until I saw the admonitory sign, right in front of my face at eye level when I used the facility. As we went to bed at a reasonable hour to be rested for the next day’s first real hike, my fingers were tingling.
v. 2-4 Destroy completely all the places on the high mountains, on the hills and under every spreading tree, where the nations you are dispossessing worship their gods. Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones and burn their Asherah poles in the fire; cut down the idols of their gods and wipe out their names from those places. You must not worship the Lord your God in their way. Destruction of these high Inca places in the mountains around here is pretty much what has happened. Shrines are ruined, buildings are smashed and idols are forgotten. Some of it was done by the Spanish conquistadors, likely acting through misunderstood tradition rather than true faith in God. The rest of it happened through the neglect of time and persistence of weather. It will be amazing to see what is left of these ancient places in beautiful settings; that’s why people are coming and overcrowding Peru’s most famous ruin. I hope we can still see the wonder of Machu Picchu among the many visitors. But here’s the warning to me: God is not now and never was worshiped in the way of the Incas; he is worshipped through the Spirit and truth revealed in his Word. His people are not to be drawn to whatever spiritual aura lingers at Inca sites, or is imagined or brought in. We “must not worship the Lord [our] God in their way.” Lord God, may I see your glory beyond all the majesty of the mountains and creative work of the Incas. May I give you praise for all the wonders you have made in the earth and inspired among her peoples.
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Maurice seems to be having a bit of trouble breathing; I am OK (so far), as long as we’re not going steeply uphill. Coca leaves, an Andean favorite, are supposed to help your body adjust to the altitude. Our hotel lobby not only has the urn of coca tea but also a bowl of dried coca leaves one can take for chewing. I am not persuaded.
We started out late in the cool morning air and walked to the main square on the truly dangerous narrow streets—smooth stones, about twelve-inch sidewalks before a very shallow but enough-to-turn-your-ankle drop into the street, generally unnoticeable because of all the mottled tan coloring, and then another dropped trough in the center of the street. We tended to fall off the narrow sidewalks, and we couldn’t pass people and stay on the walks, but we had to watch out for taxis in the streets. We passed Peruvian ladies decked out in traditional garb carrying baby llamas and alpacas, heading to favorite spots to pose for tourists.
Shops were bursting with colorful textiles. Vendors approached selling all sorts of wares. Everywhere we went we almost stumbled over dogs—the street dogs, too many of them. Most minded their own business, some tried to be friendly and some slept unperturbed in the middle of a plaza or sidewalk. They didn’t look underfed, and I hope for the best for them.
Cloister at the Convento de la Merced
I decided to visit a museum while Maurice found a place to draw. I wandered through rooms around the elegant cloister of the Convento de la Merced. No pictures were allowed inside, which is really too bad, as there were some beautifully carved wooden ceilings and an entire carved wooden library.
Since the walkway under this fabulous ceiling was around the second story of the cloister and open to the outside, I decided it was not technically “inside” the museum.
There were also paintings, miscellaneous trinkets and a display of elaborately embroidered chasubles, one of which had a picture of Jesus with a llama behind him. I was charmed by a small contemporary Pietà in one of the rooms, made of some kind of sculpture and cloth. Peruvian Mary cradled a dead Peruvian Jesus, his head fallen backward from her arms. Jesus was wearing a colorful wool hat of the type worn by the local indigenous people for thousands of years, a chullo, with earflaps for warmth and an extra long crown for carrying coca leaves. I went back to look at the Pietà several times. Should have snuck a picture.
When I came out of the museum a group of red-Peruvian-outfitted dancers was assembling to draw attention to a cancer fundraiser.
Maurice wanted lunch. Right across the narrow plaza was a building housing a cafe with a raised porch and a perfect view of the dancers, so we adjourned there and got a seat right in the middle. The chairs had blankets against the chill, and the porch came with its own cultural event—two guys with guitar and pan pipes—so we were well entertained. We got quiche that wasn’t really quiche, and I got a tall glass of thick papaya juice (now where else can you get fresh papaya juice, and for only about $3?)
Lunch opposite the dancers and the Convento de la Merced
We watched and listened and ate and it was all so pleasant that we even bought two small original watercolors from Luis, a talented and persistent artist who had approached us once before and must have figured our “no” really meant, “oh, you’re a great guy, come back and hustle us later when we’re eating and can’t get away so easily.”
We went back across the main square and up the hill (gasping) to the Inca Museum in the Almirante Palace, which I picked because it had Inca mummies. Many of the museum’s displays were old, dark and lacking English descriptions, but I found it all fascinating: the pre-Inca pottery with beautiful frog, snake and feline forms, some lovely textiles, models of nearby Inca sites, dioramas of life in the Andes, huge jars, old photos by Hiram Bingham, a whole room dedicated to coca leaves with not a word of English, and finally at last the mummies. They were crouched in niches, baskets and big pots in a red-lit room behind a wall with peepholes; I was disappointed I couldn’t get up close and personal with them like I could with my Egyptian buddies in childhood visits to the Walters. Once again no pictures were allowed. This museum had a comment book, though, and in case someone actually reads visitors’ suggestions, I wrote a plea for the growing worldwide museum practice of allowing photographs.
Picture I found online of the Inca museum’s mummies
I met up with Maurice on the main plaza. Vendors continued to approach us, a constant source of irritation. You’re eating lunch, or taking a picture, or consulting a map, so of course there’s nothing you’d like more at that very moment than to buy a change purse, or a pair of earrings, or an original painting, or a massage.
Rush hour in the old cityMaurice making friendsWalking by Inca walls
The Lord our God said to us at Horeb, “You have stayed long enough at this mountain. Break camp and advance into the hill country of the Amorites…. See, I have given you this land. Go in and take possession of the land….” It was a quick visit with Chris, but “you have stayed long enough at this mountain,” the Lord said to us. “Break camp and advance into the hill country of the Amorites”—or, for us, the Peruvians. So here we are in Lima in this two-bit hotel, under a sky that is overcast all the way down to the ground, and I am wondering how I’m going to manage now that I’ve figured out why I kept having to go to the bathroom yesterday when I had very little to eat or drink at all: Two of my new medications are diuretics! No wonder I’m uncomfortable. My itching has subsided and there are no new spots; maybe I’ll stop the meds I don’t like. But all this is really just pebbles under my shoes. “Go in and take possession of the land,” says the Lord. “I’ve given it to you for blessing and enjoyment in this season. You’ll be fine.” Are they really his words to us? Does he care this much about our personal dreams in this world? Thank you, Lord, for the medical care. Thank you for this journey that has already been wonderful. Please strengthen our weak bodies and walk with us every day.
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The bathroom was Camino-perfect with no place to put things, then I failed to put the shower curtain in the tub and flooded the floor—the kind of error I am prone to and that sets Maurice off, though he helped clean it up. Breakfast was about the worst hotel breakfast ever: undercooked scrambled eggs, sort-of roasted potatoes, cups of peculiar tan lumpy yogurt, an adequate fruitbowl from which I could pick the pieces that had been properly peeled, two uncertain kinds of juice, and tasteless plain white rolls with bad butter. Bad butter! —not rancid, just fat and tasteless. (How do you ruin butter?) And there was no jelly. After I drank two small glasses of juice for rehydration (since yesterday’s water supply was gone and there’s no drinkable water in the room) and was pouring another glass of juice into my water bottle, Maurice said, “You know, they probably make that juice with water and concentrate.” No, I didn’t know, thank you very much, it never occurred to me, and why are you mentioning it now? I talked myself into keeping my half bottle of juice and went upstairs to brush my teeth in the poison sink water. Maurice then mentioned he had been using bottled water on his teeth. I didn’t think we had to because we weren’t in the Andes yet, but Maurice mentioned he had just met a young Australian in the elevator who said definitely don’t use the water. Well. Maurice decided to go get some Peruvian money and buy a bottle of water. Surprise. He got the money but couldn’t get change for the big bills, so no water. But he stopped in the hotel restaurant and asked about the juice. They do reconstitute it but they use filtered water; a guy that Maurice said sounded like he had an English degree pointed out the system to him. Whew. When Maurice returned with the report, I had just been imagining that I had tummy rumbles, but suddenly I was all better.
The taxi to the airport arrived, but it didn’t look like a taxi, just a non-English-speaking guy in a car. There were no accessible seatbelt receptacles though I got grime under my fingernails looking for one. Ugh. “No seatbelts?” we said to Silent Sam. He just smiled and shrugged in a non-comprehending way but he did drive much more carefully than the previous night’s driver. “He’s not going to have change,” Maurice said. “This is not a taxi.” “It’s got to be a taxi, we reserved a taxi,” I said. “He drives people around, he has to have change.” But Maurice was right. Peruvian Pedro had no change. It was my intention to tell him he had to go find some change, but he had stopped in a lane where a sign that even I could understand said, “One-minute drop-off only,” and he couldn’t comprehend anything I said. I was fuming as I fished out an American twenty, an acceptable alternative to the sixty soles price (at a rate beneficial to a Peruvian). As I turned to go, there was Maurice, shaking the hand of Clever Carlos and thanking him for the safe ride.
Inside the airport I needed the baño due to the diuretics and my desperate need to get the grime out from under my fingernails. After we checked in Maurice bought a bottle of water—finally a customer-friendly business that could change a hundred-soles note (about $32). Looking around at the crowds I realized we were definitely the foreigners here. We waded into the melee to get lunch—nice American Papa John’s pizza, and two overpriced chocolate Dunkin Donuts to go. It’s not fast fast food here, but it was comforting. The plane was already boarding when we got through security, but I had to find another baño. One stall was occupied, one had a door that didn’t stay shut and one was locked from the inside. “We have assigned seats,” said Maurice, and he waited patiently.
The flight was only about an hour, and from the mob of taxi drivers who all wanted us to get into their taxis we found our official REI pick-up guy. We drove on wide roads through Cusco’s sprawl of colorfully painted but unfinished or abandoned buildings to the old part of town where no cars except taxis are allowed, then we had to get out and do an immediate hike up a mountain of stairs to get to our tiny street. Did I mention Cusco’s altitude is 11,250 feet? We could tell by our gasping that we weren’t in Maryland anymore. The hotel was shabby-quaint, with religious art and urns of mint and coca tea in the lobby.
We rested, had a light supper at Pacha Papa, filtered some water with the filter we had brought with us (now how hard was that?), moved slowly, and we were still breathing adequately when we fell asleep in the cool Cusco night.
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