I asked my dad what he liked best about Ramadan.

He told me he likes the evening prayers, where the faithful crowd into the corner mosques to hear the Holy Book read and to pray side-by-side.

"It really reminds you of who you are...which is nothing. You know? It's like, five minutes ago, maybe you were important--maybe you're the boss of people ore making big deals with lots of money--but then Allah has us come into the mosque and touch our heads to the ground and remember that he is everything and we are nothing. Five times a day, we put our faces ot the floor and remember who we are. We live twenty, fifty, amybe a hundred years, and then we disappear again. We're nobody. It doesn't add to God's wealth when we pray--it adds to ours because it reminds us who God is."

I got the chills as he spoke, and my eyes filled with familiar tears--the tears I taste when I receive a hand-written message from the Lord.

My dad spoke the truth--the very words I had heard from God that morning. God had reminded me, just hours before, of how very small I am and how immeasureable he is--the Almighty, the Lord of Lords. Separeate and unspeakably beautiful, awesome beyond our ability to express...This is my precious Savior.

A high view of God is the beginning of everything--fear of the Lord, the trembling humiliation of acknowledging our absolutely finite existence. This is an essential piece of reality--near the very core, I might venture to say.

To believe in a small God is, in my opinion, an incredible failure of logic.

To deny him is one thing--to belittle him is something entirely different.

Holy, holy, holy. Period.

(And, crowning this glory is the unspeakable miracle--one my father didn't share with me--that this God is a Redeemer, a Lover, a Counselor. Tender, tender, tender.)

Ramadan Kareem

Well, friends, I'm here in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia--the city where I made most of my childhood memories. It is a unique, bewildering, bewitching nation of paradoxes, ruled by the arbitrary.

It's currently 113 degrees and blindingly sunny, and our three-room "house" feels stuffy and crowded. Our overworked air-conditioning faithfully cranks in each room, blowing out semi-stale air in an attempt to keep us cool. 

It's Friday afternoon, and, having finished with the noon prayers (Friday is the Muslim holy day, equivalent to Sunday in America) the whole city lies still. Normally, now would be the time for families to gather to eat a large, late lunch, followed by more sleeping or football-watching. Most people don't stir outside their homes until after sundown. 

This is the seventh day of Ramadan, however, which means even more napping and less activity during the day--everyone is hungry, thirsty, and tired, and few businesses will even open before 9 p.m. 

Ramadan is a holy, month-long time of fasting in Islam--something very culturally and spiritually significant to many. I observed Ramadan for the first time when I was 9, and it has become something I greatly value and enjoy as part of my Arab heritage. 

The fast begins at the Fajr prayer, which this year is around 4:45 am. Families will rise around 4:00 for the sahoor meal, which traditionally consists of foods like goat cheese, watermelon, eggs, and bread. These foods were meant to provide nutrients necessary for enduring long days in the desert--i.e., salt, water, sugar, protein, etc. After prayers, many will return to bed for a few hours, while others will stay awake in prayer or meditation before starting the day. 

Muslims will abstain from all food, drink, smoking, and sex for the duration of the day, only breaking the fast at the sounding of the maghrib prayer at sunset, which this year is approximately 6:45 pm. Upon hearing the adhan--call to prayer--we will usually break fast with a date and some water. Prayers follow, then the iftar meal. The evening will be spent in visiting relatives or friends, enjoying tea and delicacies, and, for many, late night shopping. The city really leaps to life after the Isha prayers, around 8 pm, and some don't return home until 4 am, in order to have sahoor and begin again. Many other faithfuls will spend the evenings in the mosque, listening to the  Qu'ran read aloud over loudspeakers. 

The city is famous for having a mosque at every street corner, so the booming voices of the imams, chanting the Holy Book, will often be heard above the street noise. It's surreal. 

Participating in Ramadan as a Christian is a unique and deeply meaningful experience for me. I enjoy the challenge and the spiritual reward of the fast, but, more than anything, the chance to be a part of this culture is precious to me. Islam is a beautiful religion, and the sense of unity and devotion I sense in Muslim relatives, friends, and strangers is inspiring and unique. Indeed, I really feel more warmth and sincerity in many Muslims than in much of the "church" I've encountered in the States. Here, the spiritual is interwoven unapologeticly into every aspect of life--TV programs are interrupted by "Ramadan Kareem" messages, people greet each other with "Peace to you, and many mercies from God!", and believers drop everything five times a day to retreat for prayer. 

These are my father's people. 

Random thoughts from the Frankfurt Airport. 11:40 AM Germany time

“I think today will be a funny day.”

The olive skinned man gave an exasperated chuckle as he checked my American passport, complete with the neatly placed visa bookmarked inside. It was a simple procedure, but his frustrated comment was understandable--already, at the gate, there had been a lot of misunderstandings and complications as Bangladeshis, Saudis, Sudanese, Egyptians, and Jordanians clustered around the German-speaking crew, here in the Frankfurt Airport.

It was so strange for me to step off the plane from Budapest--where, even at 7 A.M on my way to the airport I saw  60 year old woman walking her dog in a bikini--and join this hodge-podge group at the Khartoum-Jeddah flight, where the air smelled undeniably of  oud perfume and sweat, reminding me instantly of my Arabian home. What a difference--moments before I passed through security, I was surrounded by pictures of nearly-nude women touting vodka, and now I am one of the few woman not covering my hair. And I haven’t left Germany yet!

But the familiar sounds of Arabic warmed my heart--even if they were angry words towards the blinking German staff during a visa mix-up. As I type this, a tiny olive-skinned little girl is playing peek-a-boo with me, and her eyes went wide when I addressed her in Arabic.

I’m on my way to a new mission field--the Middle East, and more specifically, the land of Mecca, the holiest site in all of Islam (which I visited, albeit illegally, last year). I’ll be touching down in Jeddah just as the whole country is shifting in to Ramadan-mode, which is a holy month of fasting that began just a few days ago. I can’t wait. My dad, who is a practicing Sunni Muslim, requires us all to join him in the traditional observance of Ramadan, which means rising before dawn for the sahoor meal, abstaining from all food and drink until sundown, and then the partaking of iftar after the maghrib prayer. I’ll write more about Ramadan later--but I’m so excited to return to this culture that I love so, so much.

Time to switch gears...let’s go! 

"There's nothing like two pickled fish at the end of a long day..."

Well, it's almost time for me to leave Europe and head to Saudi. It's been a crazy three weeks here, and I've loved and experienced so much. I literally have been on the move non-stop, so I'm sorry for my lack of updates/responses. 

Really quick--thank you all for your comments regarding my post about being "forgotten"--you are all really far, far too wonderful for me. Thank you for your encouragement and prayers. I know you won't truly forget me--my point was simply that life goes on, and it's always jarring to watch things change. Know I keep all of you in the front of my mind and prayers as well. :) 

A few random memories to share from my time here in Eastern Europe, a culture far different from where I came from and where I'm going.  :) 

--Since I've come here, I've had tripe (cow stomach stew), beefsteak tartar (raw ground beef), pickled fish, liver, cottage cheese and chocolate, spinach pancakes, crepe-cake, "greasy bread" (slabs of fresh bread smeared with pig fat and topped with onions, paprika, and pickles), and countless drinks I don't even want to list...

           ...and to finish off several weeks of strange foods, Eva fed me strudel stuffed with CABBAGE this evening. *twitches*...it wasn't TOO bad. (Just pile on lots of sugar, it helps). 

--I got hit on by a very strange Serbian man on the rooftop of the Esztergom Basilica--it is a round dome, and so I just kept scooting around to get away from him...It was very uncomfortable. Things were made worse when he turned u

p two more times at different locations. VERY STRANGE....

--If I ever decide to move to Hungary, I have a husband lined up--a 14 year old boy named Peter, who spend almost 4 days straight with me and Julianna last week.  He's a friend of her family, and it was supposed to be an afternoon--then he kept finding ways to stick with us longer. He speaks no English, but mostly follows me around with a goofy look on his face--apparently he needs a new crush, now that Julianna is married. :-P He told Juls that he'd like to marry me. I replied that it'd be too hard to learn Hungarian...

--As with most of Europe, "bubbly" water is very common here--and I've decided I LOVE it. 

--Dancing with lots of harmless drunk people is more fun than it sounds. (I was sober, I promise.) 

It's been a refreshing, busy, surprising three weeks. Not a day went by that we didn't go on some adventure, whether to a renaissance castle, a pub for some 'peasant-style' cuisine, to a cathedral overlooking the Danube, to a city-wide festival, to the biggest mall in Central Europe, to neighboring countries of Austria or Slovakia, to art museums, to a Terror House restored from the Hungarian Communist era, to wineries, and...well you get the picture. I've been blessed with many new memories and new friends. :) 

So, it is 2 a.m. here, and i am semi-finished packing. It's bittersweet. I miss my family and I always LOVE to go to Saudi, but I've had a blast here, learned a lot, and I will dearly miss the whole family. I'm looking forward to seeing them all in Saudi over Christmas though. 

Time to march on...to the desert, now. 

"I swear, it's like you have a personal channel with God." 

I heard this from one of my best friends, while driving through Budapest yesterday afternoon. It came out of nowhere, as we were talking about life and her experiences as a young married college student. I'm not sure what I said or did to spur that remark...but I paused for a second and sent a silent praise to God. It was a humbling but encouraging moment--I love this friend deeply, and before and during my stay here, I've been praying passionately that God would find SOME way around my weaknesses and faults to shine through me onto this young woman. 

It's already been happening--conversations we've had, opportunities for me to encourage her. It's all the Holy Spirit, because I myself am far too much of a wretch to make any difference on my own strength. But I find comfort in knowing that God's heart for her is far more passionate than mine, and he's pursuing her and won't be blocked by my shortcomings. 

I answered her, after a pause, "Well...I don't pretend to be anyone special, but I would have to agree with you. I DO know God, and I'm so, so thankful that I do. He really is my best friend, and I do know he's with me and I've heard from him. But it's not me--anyone can know God like this." 

"I don't know. I think anyone can try, but not everyone succeeds," she replied. 

Ouch. God's heart, and mine, broke at these words. 

I spoke softly, then, but firmly--I told her that God is found by every sincere heart, and that the crosses that were seen on the countless chapels and cathedrals in Budapest point the way for us. I told her of the hours and hours of pacing and weeping in the sanctuary or in my bedroom, of the months of rebellion and of the sweet moments of worship--these are the baby steps of a very flawed human heart toward the throne of the Living God. 

It's been months and years of praying through Scripture, of honest doubt, of faith and fear and patience and repentance that have brought me this near to the face of God. 

And I have so long to go. 

But this is real, and raw, and for EVERYONE, i tried to tell her. God leads us so tenderly and tangibly, if only we ask. 

Has your heart ever bled for another? 

They're forgetting me. 

                            They're already forgetting me. 

This knowledge cut me like a knife, although there is not a single part of me that is surprised or angry. 

I finally got a few minutes to browse through Facebook today, and with each status, album, update, and profile, I grew more and more aware that life back home is already moving ahead at lightning pace--without me. 

Oh, it hurt. Hurts. 

People I poured myself into. People who have pieces of me. People who I have continued to pray for and remember because my love for them is only strengthened by this distance. 

Ah, spreading your heart around is dangerous, messy business. 

And then God came down and told me--this is how it is. 

You love with all your strength and give your everything to the place you are. Wherever it is, you must BE there and give, give, give. 

And eventually, God will pick you up and carry you off, and then you do it again. 

I instinctively recoil at the thought. Of never putting down roots in anything but God. It's in my nature to want to build security and some kind of stability. 

But no. "Little girl," He said, "I've got you. But you have to let everything else go--grasp me with both hands." 

I drew my knees to my face and cried, long and deep. All I could say was, "okay...okay." I shook my head as God whispered that there would be many goodbyes, many misunderstandings, many long-distance loves, and not much advanced notice. He was talking about the rest of my life, by the way. 

I'm in God's arms, now, and my feet don't touch the ground. 

Riding Trains with Solomon

Julianna and I visited Vienna this week, and to get there we caught an early train from Budapest. We awoke before dawn to get downtown in time to catch the train, so we were both pretty tired by the time we left the station. We settled back in our seats quietly--Julianna fell asleep promptly, but I didn't feel like napping. Instead, I took out my ipod and played one of my favorite tracks--a recording of the book of Ecclesiastes. 

Most Christians I know fear and misunderstand this book--not many people like to read it, because they say it's depressing. 

I disagree--I think it's priceless. 

My words have run dry for tonight, but I think it's better this way--maybe you'll go read it for yourself. If I could, I would try to tell you the comfort and relief I find in the blunt reminders of the Teacher--that the very things we chase after amount to nothing more than meaningless wind. The solemn reminder of my certain death and the clarity that should bring--these are the gifts of this book. 

I will die, I will leave behind whatever vanity I accrued--possessions, popularity, etc--, and I will be forgotten. 

I can't change this fact--and the wisdom within this is priceless. 

Life is so incredibly simple, really. 

And as I watched the sun creep higher above the rolling Hungarian landscape, I felt eternity.