The bright orange EasyJet’s nose slants downward, wings slightly tilting as I glue my face to the window like a child’s first time flying and repetitively snap a few photos with my phone, then quickly lean back as I realize my seat mate also wishes to see out. Land dappled with white buildings and quilts of farmland come into view, framed by a thin line of white beach seamlessly merging with blue water edges its way gracefully, artfully, sculpting the shore with a meandering line as if a skilled potter gently molded a whimsical, imperfect piece of clay into an art piece.

We descend quickly. We land. Immediately I find myself struck by one overpowering thought as I navigate wide-eyed and slightly bewildered to the hostel after immigration: We are most definitely…NOT in Kansas anymore. Or Colorado. I pay my taxi driver in Shekels, taken aback over no public transportation on their Sabbath (“Shabbat”), the inordinate amount of closed businesses today, Hebrew lettering on every sign, impressive amounts of security officers, police, and heavily armed military personnel wandering about their daily business, and fairly baffled with initial culture shock- but this is daily life here.

Everyone told me before leaving about Israel’s peace. Its thick. Its rich. In the people. Their businesses. The ground. The air, the atmosphere, soaking my soul with an impenetrable, unshakeable, never before known depth of tranquility, despite being surrounded by so much Middle Eastern conflict. And I begin to journal, noting sights, smells, tastes, experiences- documenting moments as if expected to write an essay upon my return to America.

Tel Aviv. I share a hostel room with five other girls, a chorus of snorers, and a luggage locker that refuses to open all the way. I engage an attractive young Jewish guy in conversation at the rooftop bar with expansive city views, and before I know it, we’ve talked for hours and go to dinner, his eyes bright with God’s light. Humidity soothes my dry Colorado skin, my hair finally exhibiting some volume as opposed to falling flat in desert air back home, and my sinuses actually feel clear- as if coming out of a steam room. Billboards of President Trump and Netanyahu shaking hands speckle many of the streets, buzzing with European style cars, mopeds, and cyclists. Tomorrow I take a bus to Jerusalem and meet my tour group.

The Wailing Wall. I approach reverently, almost breathlessly, slowly- for almost fifteen years, I clung a dream of visiting the Holy Land. I gently place both hands upon its stone, the whole structure looking like its builders used those thousands of little prayers written on paper instead of traditional mortar to build it. Suddenly tears effortlessly slip from my eyes, I rest my forehead against the cold wall, and cling to it with my fingertips, wedging my prayer into other slips of notepaper. I feel God’s presence. An overpowering sense of love’s purest form descends through my head, into my bones, flooding my heart, rushing through my blood, sweeping into my lungs, overtaking my thoughts like a new lover bound and determined to win me over with adoring letters and endless gifts of affection, going to any length possible to woo my heart, with one simple phrase blaring through my mind: New life, Hannah. New life. LIFE. I soak it in.

Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I press my hands into a slab of limestone, surrounded by kneeling individuals paying homage, bowing, praying, kneeling, touching where Jesus’ body was anointed for burial after removal from the cross. And after nearly two and a half hours in line, I breathlessly press my hands against His tomb, overwhelmed and overcome by Bible history exploding with life, the Word not just written as I study during wee hours of my half-awake mornings, but the Word alive, producing a sense of awe even greater than the Vatican trip in 2012. Like a blazing neon sign crashing into my thoughts, I sense one main powerful message: Out with things pertaining to death, Hannah. No more death. All things pertaining to LIFE. And I scrawl in my journal during a few free moments,

“He is risen. And I am risen with Him. I touched the tomb of all tombs, but He is alive, resurrected, death is defeated and overcome- thus all things pertaining to death in my life have been swallowed up in victory. I am a new creation in Him.”

I make my way to an alter over the rock where Jesus’ cross was supposedly inserted for crucifixion. I almost tiptoe, afraid to breathe, gazing at ornate mosaics flowing across wall after wall, elaborate candelabra fixtures, lavish decorative gold adornments, and what seems like hundreds of glowing candles wherever I feast my eyes. How can anyone hurry through or arbitrarily take photos as if looking at just another tourist attraction? I feel this is the closest I’ll ever get to physically touching Heaven until I actually get there. I linger. I kneel at the altar.

        "When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, ‘It is finished,’ and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.” – John 19:30 ESV. His final words whirl in my head, and though I crouch at the place of the ultimate death, an overwhelming sense of life almost screams in my ear. Life! Life! Life abundantly! Overtaken with emotion, I rise from the altar to let others in, retreating to a bench, overcome and overwhelmed with this concept of life as a result of death. I wipe tear after tear, scribbling thoughts and impressions on wrinkled, stained Post-It notes buried in my purse.

        The people. Their generosity, kindness, and willingness to help- especially if you reveal your American nationality. A Jewish shopkeeper gives me a shofar lesson (ram’s horn instrument), a sweet older man selling beautiful scarves offers to buy me a coffee because I “look tired.” More than once, police men graciously give me directions, and locals welcome U.S. citizens with open arms.

        The Holocaust Museum. I write in my journal, “An extremely sobering, deeply emotional, gut wrenching experience. Its there to remember history, I get it. Its raw. Its real. I cried nearly the whole way through.” I bury myself in a window seat on the bus afterward, clutching remains of a Kleenex pouch, lost so deeply in my thoughts that I mentally transport myself completely out of Israel and into a history book- my soul so profoundly disturbed by all the artifacts, photos, and memorabilia. I will never forget that particular photo of Hitler’s face. I cringe. My stomach turns.

        The Mount of Olives. Dead Sea Scrolls. King David’s Tomb. The Upper Room. Via Doloroso. The Garden of Gethsemane, where I fall to my knees once again in prayer at the rock where Jesus Himself prayed, feeling His gentle nudge asking me to please unload recent emotional baggage, and let Him carry it from here, for He is strong enough. In this moment I realize how much He truly took my suffering, sickness, and sin.

The Temple Mount and Dome of the Rock. Currently Muslim territory, but available one hour daily for curious tourists to take a peek. Upon entering, the guards request we put on long black robes, conservative one-size-fits-all aqua shirts the color of a summer swimming pool, and our tour guide advises us to cover any religious paraphernalia. Within seconds, I feel sweat seeping into every crevice of my clothes underneath, not to mention I’m sure my makeup is already running. I instantly gain tremendous respect for these women here who possess a magical ability to withstand humid heat and still manage to look put-together. I also find myself preoccupied with thankfulness for my personal choice in religion, thinking about taking photos rather than actually taking photos, and gawking over lavish blue mosaic tile designs covering stunning architecture, the entire time wishing to remove this hot, heavy robe.
 

The Jordan River. Water quietly passes by like a lazy Sunday, and I marvel over the color palate…Sage, earthly blues, bright crayon box style leaves brightly framing the calm waters, teeming with fish busily going about their daily business. I wade in, a cool warmth pressing against my ankles, and immediately sense the rich history of this river, flowing with His love, engulfing me in its lavish life-giving abilities.

The Sea of Galilee at sunrise, my mind visualizing Jesus preparing an early morning fish fry by the water’s edge, his eyes laying upon this exact scenery. The Red Canyon, the Red Sea, the Dead Sea. Like a child, I excitedly wade into its liquid salt, retreating back to shore for flip flops as sharp mineral crystals poke painfully into my feet. Nearly the temperature of bath water, I slowly venture back in, its aqua waters swathing my skin with richness yet every tiny cut stinging on my body. Patterns of salt decorate the sea’s floor like elaborate ice crystals with hours upon hours uninterrupted to intricately weave a masterpiece. We all float, bob, bounce in the buoyant water, giggling with fascination and snapping Go Pro pictures.

 And then, Tel Aviv’s beaches. My family cautions me about political demonstrations on election day today, although from the looks of this beach, no one particularly cares to stir up anything other than a good time. My gungy towel flutters in the wind, now loaded with sand in every weave of fabric as I lay against the ground, my body soaking up Israel’s peace like thirsty drought land opening its soil to heavenly rains, and I pray fervently that God will place this unshakeable calm permanently into my soul for a lifelong souvenir. Sun glitters off roaring waves, I hear the sound of Hebrew children laughing in the distance, and sand persistently sticks to my olive skin. I smell the salt, the slight odor of a towel desperately in need of a washing machine, and Banana Boat sunscreen. I stay from morning until late afternoon, the sun warming me to the core, reveling in this day’s sweet goodness.

        “Goodbye, Tel Aviv” I whisper the next morning walking by the beach. “I will be back.” I glance back over my shoulder as if to catch one last bittersweet glimpse of a long distance lover, that one last look knowing Colorado’s winter looms on the horizon. When will I see a beach again? I whisper again, “I will see you again soon, Israel. Soon.”