ancestors

 

 

monday, September 23, 2013

ancestors

  I looked intensely into the eyes of strangers in my stack of old black and white photos hoping to read the minds of the subjects.  These were photographs of people long gone. Long gone before I was born, heck, most had been gone before my parents were even born.  Yet here was proof that they had once lived, had breathed,  and had at one time stood or sat in front of a camera to preserve their images. These strangers were related to me,  making them relative strangers,  without their existence I wouldn’t be here, or at the least would be a very different person.

My Aunt Dot had given the pictures to me, when she had downsized her possessions to move to a retirement center because I was presently diving into the family history, trying to lengthen the family tree. I had started off with a seed, then a trunk, now I had a few branches. The search had begun because my dad wanted to find out about his great grandfather John, a civil war veteran who had fought for the north and died in 1876. Though we don’t have a picture of him Dad had had his sword once.  I remember it used to be kept in the hall closet, now it’s in my brother’s possession. However, I have the picture of my Great Great Granddad John’s, wife, Abigail, who died in 1910.

Dad and I had left Texas in the late 1990’s for a week and gone to their burial site in New England. Though the graveyard was well kept, Dad had surmised that no one had visited these particular relatives’ graves in decades. Some of their adult children were buried near them in unmarked graves because of financial limitations. How sad.  Once gone it’s not long before you’re forgotten. I was actually surprised the cemetery was still alive, excuse the pun. I had expected it to be some frowzy plot off the freeway run over with weeds and wild trees reserved for civil war burials but it was a tidy, growing necropolis. It had taken quite a bit of time to locate dear departed Grandparents John and  Abigail Pierce and family.

I looked again into the eyes of my great grandmother, Estelle.  I had some of her jewelry given to me by my aunt. I had worn one of her  simple diamond rings when dad and I had gone cemetery hopping up north. She was buried near her husband, Willard Pierce, who my dad was named after, son of the afore mentioned John  and some other relatives I had never meant but whose pictures were part of my acquired stack of photos.  It was really erie to see my very much alive dad standing next to a tombstone with his name on it and date of death in 1935. Dad had hinted I take grandma Estelle’s diamond ring and bury it in the top soil over her grave so she could have it back. I ignored him as though he hadn’t uttered a word hoping he had been joking, but not convinced that was the case.

Then there was the picture of of a man I knew as—get  ready for this—my  grandma Pierce’s mother’s husband’s father, or Great Great Grand Daddy Thompson. It was an old faded photo taken in Belfast Ireland of a man wearing a leprechaun styled hat, a fringe of hair (that I imagined was red) outlining  his jaw, long sideburns and a very serious expression as though smiling would hurt more than child birth. The back of the photo discloses the name and address of the studio that captured his image on paper, or cardboard or whatever. I googled them to see if I could order more copies but they no longer exist. Imagine that. Business must not have been very good.

The reason I had gathered my dearly but not recently departed  family of strangers together on this day was so I could take them to the post office’s coping machine to reproduce them for my cousin, who I’ve never met face to face but have shared many phone calls comparing our genealogical research efforts. 

Once inside the post office I was badly shaken when I discovered Grand Daddy Thompson wasn’t with us anymore,(yes I know he’s been  dead for decades,  I mean his picture was gone!) I retraced my steps, several times, in my search for him. I even asked the postal workers , a few hours into the search, if he had come into their custody some how by a good Samaritan who might have found him lying around the parking lot, but no such luck. I had lost Great, Great grand daddy Thompson. After years and I do  mean years of being safely kept in the family archives he was now a missing person, er, a missing flat cardboard representation anyway . I only had my unreliable memory to remember him by and God only knew how long that would last.

I punished myself emotionally to the point of physical illness, over and over again for having been so undependable, afraid to ever face my aunt again. My Aunt Dot, by the way was now in the company of Grandmas Estelle and Abigail, and Grandpas John and Thompson , but as formidable as she was in life I still feared her reaction in the hereafter.  Was she sitting next to Great, Great Grand Daddy shaking her head and tsking me, saying “I know I should have know better, She’d loose her head if it wasn’t attached?”  I couldn’t even bring myself to disclose the truth to my father for dread of seeing  the disappointment in his eyes.

I emphatically believe in hauntings now because I was haunted for months with unprofitable notions on where the picture might have slipped, like for example into some odd crevice, or under some piece of furniture, or stuck behind one of the other pictures waiting to pop up and yell BOO.

Months later after I reconciled myself to the obvious, Grand Daddy Thompson was MIA, I had to make another rare stop at the post office, my first visit since my lamentable loss. Standing in line waiting to get to the service desk I occupied myself with mindless daydreaming to divert memories of my deplorable ineptitude preserving the family’s memorabilia given to me in sacred trust.

I looked at the line still ahead of me, at the clerks at work at the desk, and then my eyes drifted upwards to the shelves on the wall behind the workers. Without warning my right arm shot up, my index finger pointed out stiff and straight and a bellow erupted from my lips, “That’s my Grand Daddy Thompson!”

 I stood spell bound for a second hoping no one had noticed me. Not realistic, no way in hell had that eruption slipped by unnoticed, (excuse my language but that phrase captures the moment better than anything). Transactions halted while everyone present in the range of my vocalization stopped chattering and centered their attention on me, some even pulled young children closer for fear I might be dangerous. I slowly lowered my arm and tried to look just as curious as they were about who had screamed out like that. Nope. They knew it had been me.

Taking a deep breath and trying to recoup some dignity I explained that I had been looking for that picture for months. I was waved on to the head of the line where one of the clerks explained that and old lady had found the picture lying in the parking lot months ago on her way back to her car. When she brought it back in a week later one of the clerks remembered a panicky middle aged woman inquiring about so he and placed it on public display hoping she (I) would return to claim it. I explained the middle aged woman must have been my mother. Yeah, that was a flat out lie alright, since she also was with my Aunt Dot.

I was so unquestionably relieved to be reunited with Grand Daddy Thompson I forgot my business with the post office and rushed home to rejoin him with his family. 

Now what was the purpose of this story? Glad you asked. It struck me that someday in the future I dream of being in another line far, far away in different dimension. A line of people, uncountable in number,  now conquerors, flowing through a dozen gigantic pearl entrances all streaming towards a radiant figure greater than any super hero, sportsman or celebrity we’ve ever known, seated in an enormous throne grander than any  earthly king’s that has ever lived.  Another man I had been searching  for, but  who had actually found me when I was lost. A man whose picture I didn't possess but who  I would recognize without problem. At that time I will shoot out my right arm, point my index finger and bellow, “That’s Jesus, my Lord and Savior!” without being noticed by anyone else because we’ll all be unified in our outbursts of praise and gratitude.  And then, probably after fleeting millennia spent praising our Redeemer, I would hook up with the souls that had belonged to the pictures my Aunt Dot had entrusted to my care. And no, I would no longer be fearful of my Aunt’s formidableness. (I hope)

Just imagine

Just Imagine

A typhoon just leveled the Philippines. It is reported to be the worst natural disaster (typhoon) in history.

 In 2005 Katrina pretty much destroyed New Orleans and its surrounding area.  People were evacuated to places of safety because we knew for days the path it would take. Elder people in nursing homes were bussed out to other facilities far, far away; families traveled to their son’s, daughter’s or parent’s homes in other states or just to distant motels. Lives were saved because they heeded the warnings; lives were lost because they refused to believe it could be that bad or perhaps had no place to go. Katrina earned the reputation of being one of the five deadliest hurricanes in the United States history. That means there were four other deadly hurricanes. The recent typhoon in the Philippines supposedly trumped them all.

I just read where the thousand or so residents of Tulang Diyot Island in a Cebu town (never heard of this place before in my life) survived typhoon Yolanda because they vacated their homes which were completely demolished during the typhoon. They did this on the strong orders of Mayor Alfredo Arquillano. Now they are being advised not to return to their island. They will have to relocate where they can still be farmers and fishermen or learn new skills, but hey, they are still alive because they were well informed and reacted.

There have been other stories of hurricanes, tsunamis and floods in recorded history. People were saved because rescuers arrived in boats, and helicopters to search for survivors. People were salvaged from roof tops of buildings several stories high or pulled off of floating debris used as life preservers.

Now let’s go back a few years. No, go back further. You still haven’t gone back far enough. Keep going. Go back before people wrote things down, before there were periodicals, journalists etc. Go back to a simpler time when the population was smaller. There are millions of people on the earth right now, go back to a time when there were fewer societies. Picture it, no inhabitants in Europe, South American, North America, Australia, China, and Russia (or whatever it’s called now.) Keep going. Are you there yet?

Go back to the cradle of life. Yes, there was a cradle, the earth didn’t just populate overnight. Right now every so many years the populace doubles, triples etc. and the inhabitants spread out looking for more room, more personal space but right now we’re going backwards to almost the very beginning.  I think we’re there now; that only corner of the earth where life exists or existed.

 Now that we’re there do you feel rain? The earth is starting to get wet.  The grass is bending. Little rivulets are branching out and forming ponds. The rain, now a downpour, keeps on coming accompanied by thunder and lightning.  Days are blending into weeks. The water is washing down the mountain sides and flowing into primitive homes. There is nowhere to get away from the deluge, no distant relatives to move in with, no tree tall enough or no mountain high enough for protection.  No boats to sail out on, no helicopters to come airlift people from high rises. People are treading water now screaming till their lungs are filled with fluid. Other people are hanging onto drifting wood till they’re too weak to hold on anymore. The monsoon keeps coming. Wait, okay, it’s stopped now. But that doesn’t help anyone, no relief is in sight. There is no place that is dry.  The immense flood just sits on terrain too soaked to absorb any more moisture. No one’s feet can touch the ground. Fish are nibbling on them.  There is no Coast Guard; yet.  Everyone and everything is dying from aspirated water, fatigue and hypothermia.

Everyone perished except a few people on a boat, I’m sorry, Ark.  They had heeded the warning. They survived what was really the worst natural disaster in human history. As the story was later recorded there were no other survivors.

What, you don’t believe there was a flood that covered the earth and killed everyone?  I know the recent floods don’t compare to the Genesis account because people were rescued. But just imagine a land, culture, society that didn’t have the technology we enjoy today.  Parts of the Philippines were pretty much wiped out; visualize how many more lives would have been lost without the rest of the world’s assistance. In Genesis there was no one else to help. No one.  And if massively fatal floods can happen today on our densely populated globe why not thousands of years ago when we were a young race just crawling out of the cradle? Just imagine…..

Now just imagine if the biblical predictions for a future cataclysmic disaster are possible. God promised he wouldn’t use a flood again to destroy mankind but fire is still an option. One person heeded God’s warning in that long ago time and saved his family; will the earth’s present populace pay attention to the warning signs? We are cable of totally annihilating the planet with horrific force. Do you really think thousands of years ago the bible writers could foresee nuclear weapons without divine insight? Or we could meet the end by nature’s use of meteorites or comets, hey, presumably it happened before. But don’t get discouraged I can almost imagine I hear angels’ wings as they hover above ready to airlift us to safety or lower us to…just imagine.

 

Gen. 7: 13-24

Gen 8:8-17

Math 25:31-46

1 Peter 3:10

1 Peter 3:20

 

 

 

Gen. 7: 13-24

1 Peter 3:20

GOD KNOWS

God knows


I was young, nineteen, with two kids going to school full time, me, not them. My only income was from my dad's G.I bill (which allowed him to send two dependents to school, providing me with $211 a month), $100 child support check and whatever schools grant money I had left over after purchasing books and paying tuition.

With $311 monthly I paid rent, utilities included,(don't envision something fancy for $120 monthly, though the roaches I shared the accommodations with  thought they were in roach heaven), bought groceries, with the temporary help of food stamps,(they embarrassed me so I eventually weaned myself from them), gas for my $10 car,(bet you can't find one like that anymore, simply because that one caught on fire on my way to school one day.),nice fairly elaborate Christmas and birthday splashes for my kids, (guilt relief for them having to struggle through school with me), with enough left over for a small savings account. This was in the late '70's. I doubt this could be achieved today. Car insurance was not required back then so that was a tremendous savings. I also had wonderful parents who did free babysitting, picked my food up at the commissary on base for an added savings, and they threw in unsolicited butt kicking whenever I got discouraged and threatened to quit school.

You can see how every cent counted in my household. One afternoon a few days after I received my child support check I puttered out to the bank in my lovely car (sarcasm, did you catch it?), to discover I was check-less. I went back home and turned over ever leaf as I looked for that important piece of bank paper valued at a meager $100.00.

I opened every school book, emptied every dresser drawer, dumped the trash on the floor, (the roaches appreciated that, it was like take-out for them), scrounged through the toy chests, and then stuck my hand in every shirt, skirt and pants pocket that hung in my closet or was stuffed in my hamper. I was devastated. No check. I was on the verge of some heavy crying.

That night I went to bible study and asked for prayers. Suggestions galore rolled off every tongue, (but no love offerings in the way of hard cash). I got free advice and many suggestions on where to continue my search, none of which panned out when I got home. Finally the obvious reaction came from the group. "Don't worry, God knows where it is." Nice sentiment from people who didn't need $100 as badly as I did. God definitely didn't need it, so why wouldn't he share his knowledge with me!!! He owned the cattle on a thousand hills, at least give me something for my money: a brisket, roast, a hundred pounds of hamburger meat.

Weeks went by and I gave up the hunt. The check was hopelessly lost. I would make do, after all God had taught me he would meet my needs even if he did hide my money. I pillaged from my savings and continued living on a shoestring, which is pretty tasty with sufficient Italian sauces and spices. Good for roughage.

One sleepless night after studying for one of my finals I picked up some light reading and fluffed my pillows. I stretched, yawned, leaned back, and opened my book. Something fluttered to the bed covers. Thinking it was just scratch paper I crunched it up and tossed it into the wastebasket across the room....then on after thought I flew after it.  Guess what it was; yep, my check. All wrinkled but still cashable. The light reading? My bible. It had been a light for my path for many years and now it was still shining forth with help and wisdom and releasing its bounty. I'd been reading this book regularly over the past few weeks yet God choose his perfect time for the check to dislodge from whatever pages it was stuck between. I now remembered why I placed it there when I had received it, to keep it secure till I made it to the bank. My prayer group was correct. God did know where the errant check was.  He revealed it to me only after reminding me he was my sufficiency. I informed him I learned my lesson and he didn't need to repeat the question on the final exam.

what a manicure taught me

 

 

 

 

I got up one morning recently and did my nails. I chose a nice silver glitter color called “Bling Bling”. It’s not only rare that I use colors other than “natural” colors for my fingers it was the first time. In the past I’ve reserved silvers for my toes only, just to prove I, too, can be a rebel. I don’t know why, but reds and neutrals just seen more normal on the fingers.  Fingers aren’t supposed to be blue or black, as a nurse I always want to tell someone with those colors to take a deep breath in case they are de-oxygenating; I’m not sure that’s actually a word you’d find in Webster’s dictionary.  And when I see green nail polish I assume someone’s been gardening and forgot to wear gloves and then failed to wash their hands.

Anyway, I digress. After I applied my polish, which was in the form of nail strips versus liquid I preceded to my bible study. I read a few verses and came to my thumbs where they were holding my bible open. I stopped reading to admire the glitter and the perfect job I had done applying the strips.  The nail strips were a fantastic invention, no messy polish out of place, impeccable contours at the base of my nails and they were promised to last much longer than their fluid counterpart. Man, my nails looked fabulous. I had to hold my hands up in front of my face to admire them from all angles. I had done such a pretty job, it made me feel like somebody and I could do them at home by myself, no help from anyone. Regular nail polish I went to a manicurist for, because I’m a clumsy painter.

After a few minutes I resumed my bible study only to once again get distracted by my gorgeous fingers. Ultimately I abandoned my efforts at reading and worship; I just couldn’t concentrate because of the “Bling Bling.”

Some days later I was back with my bible, not for the first time but again, and my fingers diverted my attention one more time, only in this instance it was to notice the paint had chipped and the “Bling Bling” was cracking. I held my hands up again to scrutinize, this time unfavorably. My nails looked awful; it was time for a redo. I felt shabby, and not meticulous. To have nice manicured nails one must keep at it consistently and I didn’t have the patience for daily nail grooming.

Oh, oh. Something just struck me. Was it lightning? The words I was reading were the same words I’d read before years ago. Nothing had changed, not one tittle or jolt. God’s word was consistent. It still had the same “Bling Bling” from the day I started studying it, from the day I had come to God and Jesus; when I had come to him as a cracked and chipped individual in need of his presence and saving power. He had saved me then and made me somebody: his child, a saint and an heiress.  I couldn’t do that by myself, I had needed his help, his death, his blood, and it was permanent salvation. No need to redo it daily. But I realized this relationship we had had to be fed daily.  I had to meet with God routinely and I had to do it without the distractions that the world throws at us in the shape of manicures and impermanent glitter. I may just need to wear gloves from now on during bible study, either that or cut off my fingers.

 

Proverbs 3:13-20

Proverbs 16:16

Malachi 3:6

1 cor. 1:2

Gal 4:5

1 Peter 1:3-9

the american revolution

In a letter John Adams wrote to his wife, Abigail, on July 3^rd 1776:

“The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

You will think me transported with enthusiasm, but I am not. I am well aware of the toil and blood and treasure that it will cost to maintain this Declaration and support and defend these States. Yet through all the gloom I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see that the end is worth more than all means: that posterity will triumph in that day's transaction, even though we {may regret} it, which I trust in God we shall not. ”

Let’s remember our independence came at a great cost and that we are free  to celebrate it enthusiastically and without guilt by permission and fore thought of the founding fathers, or  at least one, John Adams. Let’s remember while we’re celebrating with pomp and parade, to include solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. After all, God is, or was?, no, is the Father of humanity on both sides of the pond known as the Atlantic ocean and he lost, or received, children from England and the thirteen colonies and their Allies during the American Revolution. He is not a God that shows partiality. I wonder how he felt when both sides prayed for victory over the enemy as the enemy on both sides were His children. God puts a great price on human lives; in the Old Testament the law required a life for a life. Abel’s blood was the first to cry out to God from the grave. Those years of bloodshed, and all other years before and after, must be horrific to our Loving Father, as he watches sons and daughters die at each other’s hands, each trying to prove a point, to win an argument, to illicit his favor, praying for him to take sides, to back them up with victory.

Well we definitely follow John Adams’ wish to celebrate with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, but I’m sad to say I feel it’s questionable about the inclusion of solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. Let’s not forget the cemeteries, on both sides of the Atlantic, filled with the dead who didn’t get a chance to memorialize our freedom or their widows, orphans, and parents left childless.

It was too long ago for us to feel their grief, 237 years ago. None of us have the honor of reminiscing with survivors of that war, hearing about 13 year old boys running off with muskets, and never coming back , fathers of large households taken on to glory or left so maimed they were, at that time, considered useless, women sacrificing and dying beside their menfolk. The stories of individual everyday families were passed down to a few generations and then forgotten, after all they didn’t have Blogs or Facebook to record their agony, but, regrettably, we have had no shortage of wars to woefully arouse empathy with the long forgotten misery of the American Revolution survivors, so we can partially emphasize with the ordinary colonist’s pain, though in God’s perspective ordinary doesn’t exit, thank you God.

So let’s remember as we celebrate to solemnly include God in our thoughts, this July 4^th, and pray for the Lords return and the eternal peace that will bring to end all blood shed from one end of this global continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

I wonder, when we do get to heaven will we have an annual day of remembrance, a day celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival? Naw, I suspect every day will be July 4^th!

Bring on the barbeque and fireworks, but first, second and last, let us pray.

 

 

the dragonflies

 

 

 

 

Right before my dad's funeral at the Dallas/Fort Worth National Cemetery a few years ago a friend of mine saw a dragon fly land on her windshield and stare her down. She excitedly told me it was a sign from dad as my dad liked dragonflies. I don’t always give credence to omens so I didn’t over think her observation. Well, over two years later, I was walking my dogs over a bridge at park near my house and saw a dragon fly skim over the water below. I thought about the phenomenon at the funeral and said, "Hmm." Then the dragon fly came back, and I said, "Thank you God for reminding me of my dad." Then I thought, it could have just been a coincidence so I prayed, feeling foolish to be testing God, "God, if that dragon fly was a message from my dad let me see it again."

 I waited and waited, (about two minutes, but they were long minutes!) No dragon fly. I was supremely disappointed since I had really expected to spot some more but I decided if I waited too long eventually a dragon fly would show up and that wouldn't prove anything except that I had tremendous perseverance, because of course if I waited 4 hours I probably would see another one. After about three exceptionally long and torturous minutes I gave up and turned around to finish my walk with my eager-to-be-on-their-way doggies who were earnestly straining on their leashes because there was more ground just waiting to be sniffed and so little time to do it .

 On the other side of the bridge two feisty low flying dragon flies immediately caught my eye, whizzed by, crisscrossed each other, did somersaults and vanished under the bridge. If I hadn’t resumed my stroll when I did I would have missed them entirely. Timing is everything after all.

I looked heaven ward and humbly exclaimed, “Dear God, one would have been enough.” Thinking now he was just showing off!

 The name of the park is VETERAN'S PARK. And of course you should know that today is Father's day.

I’m not suggesting it’s wise to test God, but he does like to answer prayers and requests, sometimes in a playful and unexpected manner. It certainly was awesome of him to let me experience his presence, quietly and gently, on a bridge early in the morning while I walked my dogs at a park built to honor Veterans on a day when most of the country was paying tribute to all their dad’s; those alive and those in the company of God, our supreme Father.

 

 

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traditions

Every year I look forward to April. Why? Not because the cool months are fading into history, not because I almost have Christmas paid off, not because it’s about time to get my pool ready, but because my birthday falls in April and I get presents. I only know it’s my birthday because my parents told me so, you see, I was too young when I was born to know anything about calendars. My parents are now gone and no longer here to remind me of my birthdate but I celebrated it for years so I have it chiseled in my memory, plus it’s recorded on my birth certificate.

Every February we celebrate President’s day, to honor the birth of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Were you there when they were born? I wasn’t.  I have to take the word of those that knew them or about them; I have to believe in recorded history, I have to take it by faith that the historians were accurate.

There are other days throughout the year that are celebrated individually and collectively by citizens worldwide, not because all were present at the opening event but because someone started a day of recognition for an occurrence that produced a significant impact on lives. 

In America we celebrate Columbus Day, how do we know he discovered America, (well technically that is up for debate now, since it was inhabited when he arrived.) We celebrate Thanksgiving yearly, were any of us present when Native Americans and Europeans sat down to feast? Did anyone have a Kodak moment that day? Were portraits painted?  Well?

Jews celebrate the Passover every year. That happened millennia ago, according to their history so no one from this century really knows if a group of slaves left Egypt, except of course for Charlton Hesston, Yule Bryner and a few measly thousand other character actors and extras, most of who have died by now. Yet somehow the Jewish people got the memo that something happened at a specific time that needed to be observed yearly. My guess, substantiated by the book of Exodus, is since the celebration had a beginning it was handed down from parent to child, from generation to generation ad infinitum.  Some one that had been present made sure it wasn’t forgotten. Those that honor that day honor it with a sincere heart.

Now there is a segment of society that celebrates Passover in a different light. Something happened on Passover two thousand years ago that changed the focus of things. A man who claimed to be God, or the son of God, or both, died during the Jewish feast of Passover. Twelve men that associated with him heard his contentions of being the Passover Lamb. These twelve were there when he was crucified and saw him die a ghastly death. Then they saw something else. They saw him after he had been buried for three days.  They saw him walk and talk and eat after he was buried. Then days later (fifty days to be exact) five hundred men and women claim they saw him disappear into the clouds. Five hundred men and women with families.

Those five hundred people transformed Passover to the Lord’s Supper modeled after a pattern set by twelve men (minus one) who were present at the original Lord’s Supper/Passover. Those five hundred passed the observance down to their children who passed it on to their children, ad infinitum. They no longer remembered being set free from bondage in Egypt as the primary focus of their joy. They now set the day as a day of rejoicing over the fact that their Passover lamb had risen from the dead and ascended to heaven freeing them from the bondage of sin.  They no longer ate bitter herbs and sacrificed lambs; they drank a cup of symbolic blood and ate bread symbolic of flesh.  They started a new tradition based on facts they had witnessed; a last supper, an arrest, a trial, a crucifixion, a burial, a resurrection, and finally the ascension; just as the Israelites had witnessed the unbelievable ten plaques and the parting of the red sea.  And this tradition has been observed yearly two thousand times in churches all over the world.

Imagine being a part of something that has been handed down by eyewitnesses for two thousand years.