That is one of my favorite LeRoy Anderson songs of all time, thank you Mother.

You know what’s awesome about traveling? How extremely unprepared we are for just about everything.

We got here on Sunday in the middle of a snowstorm. For starters no one told me that we were heading up in elevation. For seconds, my weatherman (usually spot on) was right with the “cold and sunny” part but totally missed the “wild snowstorm” bit. We’re doing two feet of snow in sneakers.

When I think of all the &%#$ snow clothes sitting in a bin in my garage…

Thanks to our awesome time share hookup we picked up seven nights for $300, two bedrooms two bath, and all the comforts of home plus a pool. Frankly, judging by today’s field trip I’m wondering why we didn’t just stay at the condo all day long.

Our week came with free train fare so we decided to choo choo off to Freiberg for their magical Christmas festival. We were certain the kids would love taking the train and woke this morning with holiday aniticipation coursing through our veins. Let me tell you, it was a waste of anticipation.

Poor June’s boots were too small (she left her good ones at preschool) so for the first two hours of the morning, amid the loading and unloading of numerous modes of transportation, her boots kept sliding off. And so she wined. And whined and whined and pestered and poked and OH MY GOSH WHY DO WE EVEN TRY TO TRAVEL?

By the time we finally pulled into Freiberg Rex was hungry (they all wanted McDonald’s), Georgia was hot (the only kid I brought a snow suit for) Jason was walking really fast (always a bad sign) and all I could think about was the missing 50 euro bill that had somehow evacuated my pocket (I kept that small piece of information to myself).

The Christmas market was good. We didn’t lose any kids and although the funnel cake was good, the hot chocolate burned my tastebuds clean off and I didn’t get any of the German dumplings with Vanilla cream that I love so much. Yes, we got June new boots. No, her behavior didn’t improve from that point on.

It was cold and I spent the day following the trail of discarded mittens my kids couldn’t commit to. By the time we got home tonight all I wanted was a hot bath and a back that wasn’t aching from stress-induced disk slippage.

I did get a super cute pair of jeans that Jason made me stop and try on. Good man, always looking out for Mama’s happiness. It’s been forever since I had jeans that I love and I think these were sent from Heaven just for me.

Tomorrow we’re going to Triberg to discover the wonders of the cuckoo clock. Despite today’s misadventure, I’m kind of excited. Don’t ask me why but day one of vacation is always a wash with my kids. I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow.

It’s been a surprisingly hard week and I’m feeling weighted down with the responsibility of motherhood. I feel completely inadequate.

Rex had to go in this week for another school screening to see if he could move on to first grade in the German school system. Prior to our cruise we were seeing tendrils of success from Rex. It seemed like every time I doubted this decision I would get a note home from his teacher with smiley faces telling me that Rex is starting to use his German/play with kids/participate in lessons.

But since the cruise? Only frowny faces for everyone involved.

I woke up Monday morning with a heavy dose of dread. Last time Rex went to visit this German school physician it was catastrophic. He acted like he was mentally impaired, screamed and cried and freaked out the entire hour long visit, and I left knowing they thought we were donkey kong crazy.

I was in the bathroom all morning with Rex-induced IBS.

His German seems to be non-existent and a little part of me kind of blames Jason (because I don’t want to own it). I bought Rex a big pile of cheap VHS tapes this summer and have been trying to find a used German tape player so he could watch German movies after school each day. Used VCR’s are impossible to locate. I finally found one two months ago at a thrift store and they wanted 40 euros for it. I begged and pleaded but the man said no, he wasn’t spending that kind of money on a cheap old tape player.

We have no remote for the DVD player so none of our German DVD’s can be switched to play in Deutch, and that means that my big plan of plying him with German media has ended up kaput.

The worst part? I’ve been too busy with stupid mindless cleaning and organizing to sit down with him and study German every day. He’s just so easy to not sit down with; he plays quietly after school with his animals and siblings and only asks to be fed and watered. Out of sight.

In some ways the doctor’s visit was much better than last time. He didn’t freak out and performed all the tricks they asked of him, and in fact it turns out he’s smarter than he lets on.

But the one thing they needed from him he wouldn’t give. Speaking German. Not only did he not say anything to them in German (not even the phrases he knows), but he refused to understand a single thing they said to him unless they spoke English.

ARGH.

The doctor sternly chastised me and I deserved it. Why am I not speaking German to him every day? Why isn’t he playing with German kids after school every day? If he doesn’t learn German by April he’s out of the school. Period.

I’d like to say that when I knelt down and prayed about this problem yesterday my answer was simple: take him out and do something else. But alas, that is not what happened. In fact the answer came swiftly and was more along the lines of, “I’ve told you what needs to happen, stop asking, get off your butt and do it.” I can’t fail my kid and I can’t fail the Lord.

I’m sure reading this that you think I’m the worst parent ever. Right now I kind of agree. I guess there are more important things in life than clean underwear and fingerprint free windows. And even though I’m trying hard to be the best mom I can be (less yelling and not so much candy), it seems like I can’t help falling short all the freaking time.

I must find a balance. The only thing I want in life right now is to help my children learn what they need to learn so they can follow the plan Heavenly Father has laid out for them.

They can’t afford to have me fail.

Sixteen years of public and private education and I’ve learned more from my four-year-old daughter (happy birthday baby!) than any professor could have possibly curriculumed.

Here’s the thing about raising kids: you can get an easy child. In many cases having one kid is a safe bet; if we’d stopped with Harrison (8) my life would be such a simple old thing. Sure Rex and Harrison have handed me their fair share of challenges, but I’ve rarely dealt with head pounding exasperation from either of them.

Then June materialized. I once heard a man say that easy kids are like taking Parenting 101. June is worthy of a thesis paper. Why? Because she’s just plain smarter than we are and she knows it.

For example, the other day at my girlfriend’s house June and her friend were playing the game Memory. She wanted to keep a particularly pretty flowered pair at the end of the first match, but my friend made her add the two tiles to the pile. Then, with all the sneak of a Las Vegas dealer my girlfriend thoroughly mixed them into the game while June sat silently and watched her, never blinking.

When my friend was absolutely certain there was no way June could know where the two tiles were she started the second match. June went first.

With a little gleam in her eye and a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, that girl reached out and instantly plucked the two matching tiles my friend had so carefully tried to mix into the bunch.

See what I mean? Scary smart.

Years ago I took a six week Love and Logic training course  provided by our local school. The premise of the Love and Logic parenting method is simple: let the consequences do the teaching. If you don’t eat your dinner you go to bed hungry. Novel, I know.

Once you get the hang of it and your kids begin to understand that their negative actions will have logical negative reactions, they are supposed to start making good choices out of intelligence, not fear.

It’s worked great with my boys. They know that if you are still in your pajamas when the car leaves in the morning you’re out of luck. This has only happened one time to one kid.

And then June came along. It’s not that my method isn’t working on her, it’s that she’s decided to double the bet and throw it back to me.

For example, I say, “Junie, if you leave all your beads on the carpet they’re going to get vacuumed up. Please put them away so you don’t lose them.” However, instead of recognizing the need to put her beads away she instead looks at me and says, “Fine. But if you vacuum up my beads then I’m going to throw your vacuum out the window,” with the same patient look that I had on my face.

Apparently what I think is logical parenting is being processed as logical threatening. I’ll admit there are times when my consequence storeroom is low on ideas and I resort to less logical options like,”If you throw your boots at my head I’ll take away your birthday,” that kind of thing.

So for now, I am done with logical reasoning where my girl is concerned. As of this morning, and per my mother’s suggestion, I have decided to revisit some age old retro-parenting methods when dealing with June. From now on when she asks why I want her to do something, I’m simply going to tell her what my mom told me ten million times: Because I’m The Mother. That’s why.

I’m homesick for my childhood.

I’ve been away from home for fifteen years now. And while I sometimes I make it back for the family party, being there for the season hasn’t happened since I was a girl.

I love having my home and my kids and making my own Christmas. I love baking and pretending not to eat treats and gathering with friends and yes, even Jason’s coworkers to celebrate the season (he doesn’t understand why his work people need to have a Christmas party when they already spend every single day together. Uh, perhaps for the wives who don’t get out much?).

But every now and then Judy Garland will come on the Christmas station reminding me to have myself a merry little Christmas. And when she does I think about the movie Meet Me in St. Louis, where the song and scene originated from, and I think about that family and those sisters and how very quickly it all changed shortly after the movie ended. They grew up and got married and, in some cases, probably left St. Louis.

Kelly, my niece left a comment yesterday that I can’t stop feeling homesick over. I haven’t thought about that last Christmas back when we were still girls for years. Probably because I hate it when my throat gets lumpy, and also because I can’t bear the fact that life has taken us up and away from those precious moments. No more staying up until 3 am reenacting scenes from Bye Bye Birdie, or seeing how fast we can recite the entire script from The Little Mermaid.

Kids are so naive, we didn’t even know our life would change.

I wouldn’t trade being a mother and a wife and the creator of my very own frequently happy (and sometimes not so much) ending, but today I feel a little like Rexy, who just asked me once again if he can please stay a little boy forever.

Me too, Rex. Me too.

And Kelly? “…Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bow…and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” I’ll come home for good someday and I promise we will pick up where we left off.

I’m noticing some subtle and not so subtle differences in these German Christmases.

For instance, last week at Globus (a really cool German store that is kind of like Target but with a way better in-house eatery and cheese section) they had maraschino cherry chocolates on sale. I personally love cherry and chocolate anything and happily loaded three boxes into my cart to gorge on over the next few weeks.

I got home, broke a box open and popped one of those lovely little cherry surprises into my mouth. And what a surprise it was.

They weren’t filled with maraschino cherries, they were filled with cherry flavored alcohol that instantly burned the tastebuds out of my head and, as Harrison is reminding me, “Tasted like liquor.”

Another thing I’m loving about Christmas here is how very little we’re seeing of Santa. It’s all about Jesus. Instead of Santa being their Christmas hero, it’s the Christkind (think that’s how it’s spelled) that brings Christmas around (this might be slightly distorted due to my laziness when it comes to fact checking).

Anyway, on the eve of December 6th (or 5th if you’re an American who gets confused about foreign policy) the kids leave their shoes out with their Christmas lists inside. Santa comes by and takes the list, leaving them with cavity-inducing goodies of all sorts.

The kids and I were walking through a German grocery store on the 6th and we saw heading our way the tallest, freakiest Kris Kringle you’ve ever laid eyes upon. He was carrying a gunnysack that I’m pretty sure was to capture small children in so he could go home and roast them over the fire. Georgia burst into tears when he got close.

His face was so strange I thought he was wearing some kind of mask (a mask would have been a good idea in his case). I would have taken a picture if I hadn’t been so focussed on getting my children away from him. The guy had hands the size of plates. He reached into his sack and gave them all apples and really old candy bars. Once the chocolate surfaced they loved him. Kids are so conditioned.

And just to set the record straight, I keep hearing that Germany only has expensive, ugly Charlie Brown trees but I totally disagree. Our village tree lot opened up for four hours on Friday afternoon and I found a glorious Christmas tree for a great price that they happily delivered to my door later that evening, no extra charge.

It’s gonna be a good one, I can feel it.

12 years. For the past 12 years I have killed myself off with Christmas cards. Sometimes I nurse an idea for months before finally putting it down in writing, trying desperately to send out something that won’t bore, brag or beleaguer my audience.

I don’t really know what beleaguer means but it started with a B.

And not only have I spent hours of my time and tablespoons of saliva getting said masterpieces in the mail (the past two years I’ve used a wax seal with a “T” crest to seal them because I am bananas), but I sent them out to about sixty people.

Would you like to know how many address requests I’ve had this year? Two. And one of them was my sister-in-law (love you, Heather).

“We’re not sending out a Christmas card this year,” I said to Jason last night in a last ditch attempt to keep him awake and visiting with me.

“What?” Apparently that was interesting. “Why?”

“Because nobody cares if we do a Christmas card. They probably don’t even read them.” I seriously hope this was a lie.

“Honey, we can’t just not do a card,” he says cause he’s big on doing things all proper like.

“Uh, yeah we can. This is me not sending cards,” then I smiled to show him that I can smile even when my heart is breaking.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll write it.”

So here it is. If I can get enough interest generated for a card this year, Jason will do the writing. I am dying to see what he comes up with. If you send me one I’ll send one back to you. Don’t you wonder what he’s thinking all the time?

Annie Valentine Family

PSC 2 Box 10396

APO, AE 09012

Those are the three address lines and all it takes is a little old American stamp and it’s off to Germany, no extra postage necessary. Obviously I’m not at all desperate to get cards in the mail. 

So we were taken hostage in Turkey.

But before I get into that, I should clarify that I’m not pregnant. Best news ever–almost. I have to admit that due to strange hormonal influences I’ve been thinking that I might, in fact, not mind having another child. This is incredibly stupid since I’m pretty sure the last one almost killed me and I’ve had my tubes tied. But I look around at the mess and the fighting and the kisses and my quickly growing baby girl and all I can think is, “I could do this one more time…”

Let the record show that I couldn’t and I won’t. Most days I’m thrilled with that decision. Most days.

My folks are here from home and it’s the most wonderful early Christmas present I could have asked for. Seeing my dad this relaxed and happy (albeit in excruciating pain due to a soon-to-be replaced worn out hip), playing with my kids and playing the piano and taking time to write is wonderful. And my sweet mother, what an incredible woman. I hope and pray that I can grow up and be something like her, she really gets that whole “Trying to be like Jesus” business.

Back to Turkey, we thought we were hiring a taxi to take us to Ephasus then back to Izmir to shop, but apparently we got hooked up with a ring of Taxi gangsters who kidnap tourists then herd them into specific shops.

Things started out fine, we were four families and three taxi’s. Our driver was nice enough but very irritated at my girlfriends who were firm and bossy as all get-out. Love those girls, I hate to think of where we would be if they wouldn’t have interfered and insisted the drivers didn’t have their way with us.

We hired a great guide in Ephasus. Personally, I had no idea where we were going or what we were doing or what the point of Ephasus even was. It was all old stones to me. But once we got there I was totally amazed at the magnificent ruined city. It’s a super old ruin with a massive amphitheater and early plumbing system, some of which they still use to this day. Without going into too much detail, they were incredibly advanced for their time (I can’t remember when that time was, but it was super long ago).

Holly, Rebecca and Megan, three of my dearest friends who were so fun to travel with.

Junie and I with the goddess of...victory? Whatever. She's super old.

Harrison and Kiyah were glued to their guidebooks. Best 2 euro ever.

Watching a master pottery thrower at our first forced shopping stop.

So when the taxi’s insisted on stopping at this first shop we thought, “Cool, our kids can watch them make real pottery!” And it was cool. The shop was interesting (and expensive), and all in all it was a pretty great stop.

Until we realized they had an agenda. This was the first of our forced shops, followed by a leather factory and a rug factory (we made then skip the rug place). What we really wanted them to do was take us to Izmir to the big bazar and let us roam free. Instead they took us from specialty shop to specialty shop and herded us in and out like cattle. Even when we finally got to the bazar they took us in one, and only one shop to buy oursouvenirs. Then they took us to one and only one restaurant to eat. It was obvious everyone involved had the system down to an oily shine.

It irritated me. I wanted to shop for hair bows in bulk and crap from China but instead I felt like a preschooler on a field trip.

One thing I found interesting was how different I was treated when my children were with me. Men in particular were quite respectful with the kids in tow, but the moment I was away from my family on my own they were lewd and suggestive. Having kids actually made me feel safer; my girlfriend Rebecca noticed the same thing.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! The food was good, but super overpriced. I prefer less ambiance and fewer euros. But since it was a holiday, I can't complain.

Rex walked by and this lady reached out and grabbed him and kissed him. He laughed, said "Aww!" and hugged her back. I had to take a picture, it was such a great universal gesture.

I I had to get a picture with this girl. I was having an international female crisis that day and couldn’t seem to get across to our taxi driver that I needed a pharmacy desperately. This amazing girl overheard my conversation, figured out what I needed, and took me by the arm a few blocks away to a pharmacy, found me Turkish feminine products (which are just like any other feminine products), helped me purchase them and returned me to my party. She hardly spoke any English and I don’t know her name but it was definitely a memorable event. It doesn’t matter what country you’re from, there are some things that cross all international boundaries. Being a girl is one of them.

I’m looking forward to getting back to Turkey for some serious shopping. I did manage to procure a wooden rolling pin for myself (4 euros) and a few Turkish pottery bowls. I liked them way more than the Polish pottery which really does nothing for me. All told, it was a fabulous Thanksgiving.

I have been sick this week. It’s that obnoxious flu that just won’t quit, nausea and headaches and total body weakness. I first contracted this flu on Monday and found myself down for the count until Tuesday night. I made a brief recovery and was feeling reasonably better.

Then yesterday came along. It was like Groundhog’s Day, a perfect repeat of my earlier  performance. Sick in bed, nauseated, incapable of changing anyone’s diaper or crawling to the kitchen to sprinkle Cheerios on the floor…trouble.

“Hello?” my husband said, answering his work phone with “hurry” behind his voice.

“ahmgunnadahyee..”

“What? Anne? Are you okay?”

“I’m gonna die,” I said, the very act of speaking enough to make my stomach play shake-n-bake. We talked for a moment about my illness and how fast he could get home, and then he finally said those three words I’d been avoiding.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Don’t say that!!” I croaked.

We have four children. Getting said babies here nearly broke me and no way am I going through that again. Besides we’ve got the perfect mix, boy boy girl girl. Our family is nice and modernly large; everyone knows four is the new seven.

After little Gigi came along I took permanent measures to make sure that this body would no longer appeal to cute little parasites–I’m pretty sure my doctor double knotted things just to ensure he wouldn’t have to deal with me ever again.

I called my sister this morning (night to her) and told her about my horrible flu bug that might or might not someday grow up and go to college.

“You know,” she said in her less than comforting way, “It does happen. We all know women who have had their tubes tied and then gotten pregnant. Besides, they say if it’s going to happen it usually happens early on.”

These were not the comforting words I was looking for. What I was counting on was one of those, “Oh, stop it Annie, you’ve just got the flu so go back to bed and call me in the morning.”

So here I sit, feeling nothing short of panic. If this is the flu, I’ve now added anxiety to it and the symptoms are pretty similar–cold sweats, nausea, headaches.

The icing on the cake? I was laying in bed an hour ago and suddenly remembered the most horrible thing. A few weeks back some of my girlfriends and I were playing Kitchen VooDoo where you dangle a needle over your wrist and ask the VooDoo kitchen spirits how many kids you’re going to have and in what particular order.

(I normally do not consider myself VooDoo material nor do I support the black arts in general, unless they involve dark chocolate. From Belgium.)

Over the years I’ve been roped into this game a few times starting when I was about sixteen. It has always been dead on with it’s predictions; four children, boy boy girl girl, stop.

But two weeks ago for the first time ever, the stupid little needle added a kid just to mess with my mind. Apparently it now thinks we’ve got one more child that needs someone to do his laundry.

Could this really be happening to me? Am I actually going to be part of that irritating 1% of women who finds herself face to face with Powers beyond her control?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how good God is with knots.

If you get to the end of this there is a link on youtube. I can’t decide, but I think I’m slightly horrified that I’m sharing this with you.

So I was walking through the decks on day six of our Italian cruise last week, headed back to the cabin when I heard the most atrocious European karaoke happening in one of the back lounges.

Let’s face it, if I was in charge of my life I would probably be a starving actress living in some miserable slummy little hole in New York City waiting for my big break. Lucky for me God is way better at this planning business; I’m much happier singing lullabies to my babies at night.

Most of the time.

I’ve got to admit that every once in a while I wish there was a back lounge somewhere looking for a mommy like me.

So I sauntered into the room and listened for a moment before discovering that I had happened upon the semi-finals of the cruise talent show. The original contestant pool started at 150 and the top seven were performing that night in the big theater.

I listened to the competition with a slight smile, thinking about how much fun I would have blowing them all out of the water.

Can I take a moment and discuss humility and how I really need to look into purchasing some?

Since I was already scheduled to sing at one of the lounges that evening (what? You know I’m a shameless microphone whore) it didn’t take much convincing to finagle a last minute audition.

I probably should have taken note when all the songs in the karaoke book were Italian. There was a small number of American jazz ballads that I recognized and only one I knew by heart, “Fever.” I gave it a whirl and made the top seven.

Now I had heard all but one of the other finalists during sound check and I’ll admit, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability. The others ranged from whiny to overly nervous, one dude was even using a piece of paper with his words on it. I was pretty much the only person without pit stains from anxiety.

That night I stood backstage as they read the line-up. I was slightly surprised to find I was performing second. Since I was obviously going to wipe the floor with all the Italians you would have thought they’d have saved the best for last, right?

The guy that went before me, Jay, was the only other non-Italian, a Brazilian kid who I hadn’t heard sing. He started singing and I suddenly didn’t feel so confident. The kid had pipes and he pretty much nailed his number. I figured they had probably put the best first. Yikes.

The scoring was two-fold; first the audience had an applause meter that went to 50 in increments of ten, then there was a panel of five judges. Jay only got a 30 on the applause meter and the judges were pretty tough on him, giving him mostly eights with a seven thrown in there. In no time it was Mama’s turn in the spotlight, and boy was I ready to roll.

I worked it stage right, I hit the left side, I even kissed up to the judges table. Sure, I forgot one word, but all things considered I was pleased enough with my performance. Heck, I threw it together a few hours before the show and still managed to deliver a solid rendition. It felt great.

Standing in front of the audience for the applause meter, I was pretty sure I’d get a good reading. We had a number of friends from our large group in the audience and they were  happily cheering me on. But when the meter hit 30, the MC shut them down and moved me over to the judges table.

That was my first sign that things were a little fishy.

Still, the judges were pretty great. I got three nine’s and two tens, although the judges that gave me tens seemed hesitant. I couldn’t figure out why until a few numbers later.

They weren’t supposed to give me good scores.

I sat back stage and listened to the rest of the show as every single Italian competitor beat the pants off me. Not necessarily in their singing, but in the applause meter and at the judges table. The guy who won? Oh yeah, it was the kid who used his crumbled piece of paper to read his lyrics. He got a perfect score, 50 from the audience and 50 from the judges.

I was in the bottom three.

Nobody serves humble pie like the Italians. Amanda Knox, I feel for you.

Click here to see my sorry self sing it on youtube.

Day 5

One day in Jerusalem. One day back in my city. One day to see and smell and taste and touch and buy all the crap that I’ve been vainly trying to grasp with my memory senses and how does the day begin?

In the bathroom, on the toilet, with the candlestick and a barf bag. My one day and I wake up sick as a dog with 40 minutes to get my family up, packed and ready before the bus ditched us (and trust me, they would have).

As I sat there in my mini cabin bathroom trying desperately to get a grip on my intestinal system, all I could think about was the very real fact that I might barf my way through the Old City and completely miss my one day.

So I prayed. It wasn’t anything big or dramatic, but it was fervent and desperate and as it ended I was hit with such an onslaught of [insert bathroom related symptoms] that I couldn’t move for another fifteen minutes.

(Let the record state that in hindsight I highly recommend the Mediterannean Barf Bug halfway through a cruise. It ruined my appetite for the remainder of the cruise and I am happy to report that I returned home one pound lighter than the day I left.)

When it was finally time to go I made my way to the bus in flats with greasy hair and zero makeup, my throat raw and my stomach blessedly empty.

And I didn’t get sick again.

Two hours later we crested the last of the hills in the Jerusalem suburbs and I looked, once more, on my beautiful city. This is one of those moments when words are so lame; Jerusalem far surpasses anything I could key out on this laptop.

Picture a city so beloved by so many races and religions and sects that despite their hatred towards one another (and we’re talking some serious deep issues here) they still manage to work and live and worship right on top of each other—sometimes taking turns in particularly holy places so everyone has access. Incredible and dramatic and routinely messy.

We drove right to the Mt. of Olives and our bus let us out to meet the rest of our group. They had managed to secure a very small amphitheater right on the crest of the ridge at the very top. It was a magnifiscent sight to look out over the Old city in the early morning light.

It was my turn to do the group devotional and I was feeling sick and weak and incredibly humbled by the situation.

Now I love words, but there is no doubt other people (like prophets) are way better at them than silly old me. And so, feet firmly planted on the Mt. of Olives, I read straight from Zechariah 14 and D&C 45 where it states:

“And then shall the Lord set his foot upon this mount, and it shall cleave in twain, and the earth shall tremble, and reel to and fro, and the heavens also shall shake. And the Lord shall utter his voice, and all the ends of the earth shall hear it; and the nations of the earth shall mourn, and they that have laughed shall see their folly…and then shall the Jews look upon me and say: What are these wounds in thine hands and in thy feet? Then shall they know that I am the Lord; for I will say unto them: These wounds are the wounds with which I was wounded in the house of my friends. I am he who was lifted up. I am Jesus that was crucified. I am the Son of God.”

I have to take a second and tell you that I struggled in Jerusalem 13 years ago. I expected it to be a hugely spiritual experience but continually found myself feeling empty, always waiting for some magical moment when the Spirit would bear witness to me in some big fat spiritual way that yes, it was true!

I knew it was true, I’d felt it thousands of times, but it seemed to evade me in Jerusalem all those years ago. The answers that I sought did not come until I was gone, and my time there has been a beautiful sweet and slightly bitter memory.

But on that mountain, in that moment, reading the words of Jesus Christ, I was overcome with their majesty and power and absolute truth.

I closed my scriptures and ended my devotional the only way I could think of. I sang.

Sick, weak, my voice in shreds I sang  “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” It was the second time I’ve sung that song with the walls of Jerusalem at my back, only this time I didn’t worry about how it sounded.

We don’t get many redo’s in life, hardly any now that I think about it, but that moment was a little gift just for me. Someone knew that I needed that chance to testify with no doubt or frustration or any of the concerns that had plagued me so long ago.

The rest of the day was wondrous. We visited the Garden Tomb and it was beautiful. Early in the 1900’s the garden was discovered by a British gentleman. It is not the old “Way of the cross” site that so many visit but a newer discovery that is, I believe, the actual tomb Jesus was laid in. I won’t go into the details but Calvary is within view and everything about the tomb and the remnants of the garden (now beautifully restored) bear witness that it is The Site.

Looking down into the old cistern that dates back to the time of Christ, proving that it was in fact a garden.

If I only had one place to visit in Israel that might be it.

After that we made a stop at Omar’s for olive wood. Would you believe that our friends Dan and Holly looked up on the walls of his shop and saw their family photo from and old Christmas card??!! Very small world.

Last time I was in Jerusalem I bought a cheaper nativity set because I didn’t want to spend the money for one at Omar’s. Instead, I bought from him a beautiful statue of Mary holding baby Jesus that has graced my piano for the past 12 years. This time I was determined to get a good nativity.

But I walked into the shop, gazed up on the top shelf, and what did I see? A cougar. A BYU cougar. I swear it growled at me. I wandered around for two dozen minutes with Jason trying to find something appropriately Christian and Jesus like, but that cat stalked me the entire time.

Needless to say, it didn’t take any convincing once Jason had it in his hands. I guess I wasn’t meant to have a nativity from Omar’s after all. The kids are all bananas for our new super devout cougar.

Someone should teach me how to take a real picture.

We spent the rest of the day wandering through the Old City, just like I wanted. The kids were fantastic, the Arabs and Jews were everywhere, and I didn’t throw up once. It is such an assault to the senses, entering through Damascus Gate, even in my sick condition I couldn’t help feeling energized by how very alive Jerusalem still is. Vegas has nothing on the Holy City.

Note the slightly concerned look. Such a brave soul, we made him pose for the first picture.

The Old City throbs with energy in this quarter, things and people are constantly in motion.

In front of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. You don't want to know how many times Gigi's blanket dropped on the ground that day.

As Jason pointed out to the boys, these were the same streets (a few layers up) that Nephi and his brothers ran through to escape Laban. All the time I spent in the Old City and I'd never thought of that before.

One last photo with our AMAZING tour guide, Tal, in front of the Western "Wailing" Wall. We love her, she rocked it. Also someone should brush my family's hair.

The only regret I have was not making it up to the BYU Jerusalem Center, but you can’t do everything and I wouldn’t change our day for the world. Oh Jerusalem, I will be back.

One last view of the Mt. of Olives where we started the day.