Mormon Life - Travel Tips

6 Must-see Castles in the British Isles

Tue, 03 Aug 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by Fun For Less Tours
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: We have made a list with pictures of the 6 castles we feel should not be missed when visiting the British Isles. There are over 10,000 castles in Europe and Asia. Our 6 recommended castles are on everyone's list of the top castles in the world. Take a look at the best of the best the British Isles has to offer, and then print the list so you will have it for your next tour or vacation to England, Scotland, and Wales.

Warwick Castle The Warwick Castle is a medieval castle in Warwick, the county town of Warwickshire, England. It is on every ones list of the best castles in England and the world. It sits on a cliff overlooking a bend in the River Avon. It was built in 1068 by William the Conqueror. Warwick Castle has been compared with Windsor Castle in terms of scale, cost and status.

The Tower of London Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress more commonly known as the Tower of London or The Tower, is a historical monument in Central London, on the north bank of the River Thames. The original fortress was built by William the Conqueror in 1078. It has also served as a place of execution and torture, an armory, a treasury, the Royal Mint and since 1303 it has been the home of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom.

Windsor Castle Windsor Castle is located outside of London in Windsor, in the English County of Berkshire. It is the largest inhabited castle in the world and dates back to the time of William the Conqueror. It is the oldest castle in continuous occupation. The castle's floor area is approximately 483,000 square feet. Queen Elizabeth spends many weekends of the year at the castle, using it for both state and private entertaining. Windsor Castle along with her other two residences, Sandringham House and Balmoral Castle, are the Royal Family's private homes.

Edinburgh Castle Edinburgh Castle is unequaled in the whole British Isles. It has over 1,000 years of history and dominates the city of Edinburgh like no other castle in Scotland. Edinburgh Castle is every schoolboy's dream of what a castle should look like. It is also the home of the Scottish Crown Jewels. Make sure you take the time to walk the Royal Mile. The Royal Mile acquired its name over the ages as Scottish and English Kings, queens and Royalty have traveled the approximate 1 mile from the Edinburgh Castle to the Royal Palace of Holyrood located at the bottom of Castle Hill.

Conwy Castle Conwy Castle was constructed by the English Monarch Edward 1 between 1283 and 1289 as one of the key fortresses in his "iron ring" of castles to contain the Welsh. Located in the northern part of Wales, Conwy was referred to by a distinguished historian as incomparably the most magnificent of Edward 1st Welsh fortresses. Conwy Castle is listed as a World Heritage Site. You can also enjoy the ancient walled city connected to the Castle.

Caernarfon Castle The mighty Caernarfon is possibly the most famous of Wale's castles. Its sheer scale and commanding presence easily sets it apart from the rest. Begun in 1283 and finished in 1323. Like Conwy Castle it was part of the "iron ring" of castles to contain the Welsh. History comes alive at Caernarfon in so many ways – along the lofty wall walks, beneath the twin towered gatehouse and within imaginative exhibitions located within the towers.

--- To learn more, visit funforlesstours.com

Blessed Honored Pioneer

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: I undergo a traditional ritual every time I leave Nauvoo. It is a walk from the blacksmith shop down the "trail of tears" to the Mississippi River. I walk slowly, looking frequently behind me to the lovely city and the temple reigning above it and let the land speak. What fears and regrets, hopes and anticipations passed down the road to the river in wagon after wagon? A chorus of emotion still echoes through the dust and around the once abandoned buildings. There was no "Come, Come, Ye Saints" to cheer and strengthen in those early months. I have a journal account of the day by day progress across the plains written by an ancestor. Her entries tersely record what was on the minds of so many as they struggled across the plains towards that final descent into the Salt Lake Valley.

"June 23rd. A little child died with the measles this evening in the wagon next behind us."

"June 27th. Passed five fresh graves yesterday after crossing a creek."

"June 28th. Rained this morning. Cold and uncomfortable. Several quite unwell in our camp. Passed the fifteenth new made grave."

"July 3rd. A child died and was buried yesterday. Another this morning, making six persons out of our camp. We have passed 33 graves besides."

They passed the landmarks that are so familiar to us, but not to them, for the great Westward migrations of the 1800's were just beginning. The Platte, the Sweetwater, Independence Rock, Devil's Gate, South Pass, Big Mountain - the names continue on and on as long and tiring as the plodding march of oxen and the singing creak of the wheels. Still, the tiny mounds of soil or piles of rocks weighed in their minds more forcefully than mountain ranges or river fords.

My initial journeys, my first travels centered on Utah, the pioneer's pole star of Zion. And though I have since explored many exciting places around the globe, there is imbedded in my memory a peace and assurance that only Utah can give. I recall the excitement, I felt as a child when June came and we packed up the car for Utah. There was no air-conditioning so we hung a canvas water bag from the front of the car and left California in the night. I felt like a pioneer. We strained our eyes for St. George and the bright white of the temple stark against the red rocks. We were in Mormon Country, and it was filled with the courage of the past. The landscape changed from the flat deserts of Nevada to cedar covered hills, orchards, irrigated hay fields, fences, cattle, tiny islands of shade trees framed by the spine of the Wasatch Mountains. There was always a contest who could see the temple first, the tallest building in the city then. We turned off the highway and down a dirt road to my uncle's ranch and a summer of work in a pioneer paradise.

My uncle was bred from pioneer stock, as old as the West and I have never known a better man. He instilled in me a love for the "old times," before television, and air conditioning, before the freeways bypassed the fruit stands that marked every hamlet of Brigham Young's "Deseret." He taught me how to shoot a stream of milk into a kitten’s mouth, curl a grasshopper on a hook and lay it in the ripples above a deep hole where the "rainbows" waited, cut a calf out of the herd and hold him down for the branding, catch a horse in the open field with a willow halter, hitch a team to the rake and lay the hay into windrows, and square up a hay stack with that most useful of tools - a pitchfork. I learned the sweet ache of muscles that have worked hard all day in the summer sun, the fresh rinse of river water poured over head and back and arms, the quick, deep falling to sleep in the bunk house at sunset, and the chill, shivering feel of the air at four in the morning when it would all begin again.

My aunt ruled the kitchen, which was the center of the house, and the smells that filled that room - well, it makes me smile to think about it. I'd stand next to the wood burning stove in an aura of heat and breathe in. Fried chicken rolled in batter, hot buttered scones dripping with home-made current jam, oatmeal mush at five in the morning buried under a layer of maple syrup or molasses half an inch deep, apple pies steeped in cinnamon cooling on the front porch, warm bread cut two fingers thick, cornbread light and easy with honey, buckwheat hot cakes, venison from the canyon, trout from the river, eggs from the henhouse, buttered corn on the cob so hot it burned your fingers, bread pudding drowned in morning milk, dumplings moist from the boiler, mashed potatoes pooled with beef gravy. They knew how to eat in those days, and I pity the McDonald's and Pizza Hut generation.

If anything ever happened that wasn't basis for a warm memory, I have forgotten it. I can bring it all back and fill my imagination with a child's wonder. I remember the lantern's glow at twilight, the constant steady rush of the river accompanied by the crickets and cicadas, Saturday night baths in the galvanized tub on the porch, stained fingers from picking berries with only half going into the pail, hawks circling in the warm currents of the canyon, watermelon cooling in the river, rain from a sudden thunderstorm rattling on a tin roof with the booming thunder in the distance. We lived close to creation and were neighbors with the beavers and the badgers, the packrats and the mule deer, and the mountain lions. Lizards sunning in lazy silent, solitude on the hot rocks, the sound of chuckers clucking in the sagebrush, or the warning buzz of a rattlesnake, or the tiptoeing feet of mice in the attic are present with me now and always will be.

I know how to shave a cake, straightening out the edge so you can say with innocent honesty, "I never snuck a piece." I know how to turn the ringer on the phone the right number of times to reach every ranch in the valley; I also know how to gently pick up the ear piece and listen with forbidden, hold your breath, delight to the neighbor's gossip. I know the best time of the night to lie out under the sky and count shooting stars or watch a full moon’s pale light cast shadows down the canyon walls. I know the dark hiding places for "kick the can," how to walk the flume without falling, where to find arrowheads, how to strip the bark from a willow, notch it, and slide it back to make a whistle. I know the welcome fright of ghost stories and how to tell them too. All the simple, sweet, stately joys once felt, and seen, and known by the old timers were mine to experience.

And every 24th of July, in the front room that served as our meeting house because we were too isolated to travel all the way into town, my aunt would have us sing in robust enthusiasm,

They the builders of the nation . . . They unfurled the flag of truth, Pillar, guide, and inspiration To the hosts of waiting youth. Honor, praise, and veneration To the founders we revere! List our song of adoration Blessed honored pioneer.

(Adapted from Beautiful Zion by S. Michael Wilcox)

The One Place in England I Must Always Visit

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: I have been thinking of writing about England for some time now, but I love the country so deeply that it has been difficult to focus on a single place to begin, so I keep putting it off. I am sure in the future there will be time and space to express gratitude and respect for all this "sceptered isle" gave to me by way of a legacy. Its history and its literature have been part and parcel of my soul's furniture for as long as I can remember. Its landscapes and cobblestoned villages, its castles and cottages have enriched my imagination and peopled it with characters as diverse as King Arthur and Ebenezer Scrooge. All my memories of England bring a smile and a welcoming invitation at reflection. So many gifts did God allow this island nation to bestow upon the world that I will inevitably be drawn out into pleasant reverie for hours. So - where to begin? Perhaps, at the ending place would be best.

Among all the vistas that linger through my mind, one always returns with a poignancy and vividness that is tinged with irony. It is a place in Liverpool along the Mersey River where so many of our ancestors took their last loving look at the land of their youth before setting sail to America. I know what it is like to sail into New York Harbor and see that sentinel of freedom, that lovely lady of liberty holding her torch for the "teeming masses." This was their first view of their new home, but what of the last view of their old one? Somehow, the Albert Dock fills the holding places of my heart with equal tenacity, and I feel the sacredness of so very many goodbyes that still echo across the river's water and among the brick buildings that once framed tall-masted ships.

An English friend once gave me an 1844 half farthing as a memorial to all the poor British saints that saved, sometimes for years, the tiny coins, one by one, until they had enough to buy their passage to Zion. It is worn and smoothed by many fingers. Now it rests in my own.

I carry this coin with me when I go to England and finger it softly as I walk the dockside. It takes me back into the past and I can see it all as if it were my own memory, my own farewell - the ship resting securely moored to the riverfront; trunks and cloth bundles waiting to be loaded, stacked pell-mell along the wharf; sacks of grain swinging precariously above the deck; sailors climbing the rope ladders and yardarms rhythmically moving to the music of their shanties. Everywhere there is bustle and hurry and business and excitement. I can hear the sounds of the loaded carts shaking along the cobblestones groaning under the burden of each family's precious belongings, taste the warm freshness of scones pedaled in the streets, feel the rope roughness of the ships rigging stretched taut against the sails, smell the salt sea breeze coming off the Atlantic and up the river, and see the fading evening light which heralds that last sacred day in England. Candles are flickering throughout the city and the ship's lanterns sway on the night air as the stars blink into life over Liverpool Cathedral. There is homesickness in the air, yet there is also the call of the new land and all its promises.

Then there are the people. Mothers clutching the hands of tiny children fearful of losing them in the rush of hurried preparations. Fathers with firm faces, trying so hard to hide their own anxieties and be strong for their families. Young men huddled in tight masses speaking knowingly of what they do not really know. Girls looking in the shop windows for that final stretch of ribbon or English lace to bring a memory of Europe to the log cabin wilderness into which they go. There is excitement, wonder, laughter, tears, longing and love washing across the riverfront, baptizing the red brick of the warehouses that still stand silently today as if they knew that they had witnessed God moving among his children directing them to a new world, new lives, new hopes. Were they not engaged in His work and was He not pleased with their sacrifices?

Some years ago, I also boarded a three-masted tall ship at the Albert Docks and sailed down the Mersey River. The fates were kind to me and I drew the position at the wheel. I steered a course straight down the river. The tide pulled the ship towards the Atlantic as the sails filled with the winds of England, a parting gift from the island that has almost become my own home. It seemed that all the hopes and dreams of tens of thousands sailed with me that evening. I looked back at the docks and could still see, over a century and a half later, the ghostly waving hands and handkerchiefs of loved ones left behind, whose faces and voices our ancestors would never see nor hear again. I thought of the words of one who stood on these same docks framed and sailed down the quiet waters of the Mersey toward America, my wife's great grandfather.

"We left Liverpool on the 18th of May. Seeing my native land gradually sink into the horizon gave me a feeling of loneliness and uncertainty. I realized how dear it was; containing all that had given me a fullness of joy. Loving parents, the companions of my childhood, all my relatives, faithful friends, the land I revered, the ancient castles whose ruins I loved to explore, the stately mansions, splendid cathedrals, green lanes, cozy cottages, the hills and vales, green fields and fragrant gardens ran through my mind. My path was separating us by an ocean, a continent, perhaps forever."

Yes, I must begin at this ending-place when I write about England, for it is here along the banks of the Mersey River with its quayside memories that all that is dear about England rises to the surface, and I begin to understand the sacrifice of those who went before me and they they bequeathed to me and my children - ah the loveliness of Zion - but at the price of the majesty of England.

Pre-trip Preparations Check List

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by Fun For Less Tours
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: Make smooth preparation for your cruise or tour vacation with this handy checklist. Begin packing 2 or 3 days prior to your trip

The greatest stress to your vacation is the packing and lack of sleep the day before you leave.
Pack and prepare everything ahead of time so you can relax and get a good night's sleep before your vacation.

Use a packing list

Use a packing check list to do your packing. Click here for our Packing List.
Take the time to check everything you need off the list as you pack.

Contact bank and credit card companies

Find out if your ATM cards will work where you are going.

Let your credit card & debit card companies know which countries you could be using your cards in. Leave valuables at home

Leave expensive rings, watches and jewelry at home.
Leave credit cards that you do not plan to use at home.

Safeguard your home

Contact your neighbors and let them know you will be out of town. Ask them to keep an eye out for anything unusual.
Check your doors and windows, secure the locks, set the alarms and set the timers to turn on lights while you are away.
Make arrangements to have your lawn mowed and watered or driveways and walks shoveled.
Setup vacation holds on your newspapers and mail (Mail holds can be done online).
Look over your billing schedules to make sure all bills will be paid while you're away.

Medications

Be sure you have enough of your medications to last through the whole trip and a few days beyond.

Leave a copies of your itinerary, hotel list & cell phone numbers with . . .

Your neighbors watching your home.
Close family members.
Work if necessary.

Prepare your personal travel pouch in advance with your . . .

Passport
E-ticket itinerary or paper tickets (if applicable).
Cash, credit and debit cards for the trip.
Travel insurance information (if purchased).
Copies of the picture page of your passport & credit/debit cards, in case they are lost.

Weather for Your Trip

Click here to access Weather Channels website and enter the cities you plan to visit. If your trip is at a later date, you can also get the yearly averages here as well.

Prepare entertainment for down times

Books to read.
Games to play.
Personal entertainment devices.

Enjoy your wonderful cruise or tour vacation!

No Photos Please

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

As Americans we are used to a tremendous amount of independent thinking. This translates into American tourists frequently ignoring the request at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo or in the tombs of the pharaohs in the Valley of the Kings to refrain from taking pictures with cameras or cell phones. My very own wife in a moment of mental relapse took a picture inside a "No Photos Please" zone and had her cell phone confiscated.

With great dismay she came to me and said, "They took my cell phone!" In this particular case, the guard was a man that I had known for ten years. I apologized for my wife’s indiscretion and assured him it would not happen again. Fortunately, for only twenty American dollars in "Bakshish," a tip or gratuity in Arabic, I was able to recover my wife's valuable cell phone. The guard could have kept it and sold it for more than the twenty dollars. We were lucky. Others get away with a sneak shot or two, but many have sacrificed cameras worth hundreds of dollars. Frankly it's not worth the risk and most of the photos you might have taken are available in packets that can be purchased ten for a dollar by vendors everywhere.

Thousands of people a day cross the borders of Israel and the borders of other countries and have had to deal with smugglers or terrorist. When entering Israel we tell the people on the bus "No Photos Please" when we approach the borders. We tell the people that there are plenty of abandoned tanks and other interesting things to photograph once we are inside of Israel. There are security cameras pointed at the bus and we are under surveillance by the Israelis.

As you might imagine, there was once a very determined lady who decided that she was going to click a couple of quick photos. It was hot and the (IDF) Israeli Defense Force was not in a forgiving mood. Our bus was stopped and all of the cameras were confiscated, all the pictures deleted or the film was exposed and their ensued a discussion on whether the person who had taken the photos with her camera should remain at the border for further questioning. An hour and a half later, after a call to the American Embassy, and the assurances of a high Jewish official, who was a friend to Fun For Less Tours, we were permitted to cross the border after a careful inspection of each and every bag, purse, suitcase, briefcase and computer bag that we had brought with us. In all it was a four hour delay.

Imagine how the fellow passengers resented the lady who just had to ignore the “No Photos Please” request. It also meant that we were not able to stop at an extra site we could have seen had we had the time. We did tell her the consequences of her choice to ignore the request of "No Photos Please." She felt terrible and promised to never do it again. All was forgiven and we went on to an incredibly wonderful experience in Israel, Jordan, and Egypt.

In Italy, Mexico and Guatemala the local guides and guards will tell you that the flash from your camera will ruin the picture or artifact that you want to photograph. It doesn't matter that it may not be true. It is an issue of following the rules and respecting the laws of the lands we visit.

When you return from your trips abroad you will have dozens if not hundreds of great photographs. They will remind you of the wonderful times you spent visiting these historic sites. For your sake and the sake of all those who will travel with you, respect the signs and observe the request: "No Photos Please."

The Nourishing Place - The Cathedrals of Europe

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

People travel to Europe for many reasons. There is so much to experience and every country has its own cultural charms. I never tire of exploring the castles with their memory of knights, ladies, the codes of chivalry, jousts, and, of course, they are all haunted by ghosts. The villages and thatched-roofed cottages, the green rolling hill, patchwork countryside, hedgerows, and rock walls topped with wild raspberries and tangled ivy bring a sense of peace and well-being found nowhere else in the world.

The Alps of Switzerland, the fiords of Norway, the coastal beauty of England and France, the meanderings of the Rhine or Danube, the Roman ruins and Renaissance art of Italy have all found a place in my heart never to be removed. These are the lands of our ancestors and we feel a unique bond with them while walking the ground that gave them birth. Time's limits fade as we carry on our conversations with the past. But there is another aspect of Europe's draw that sits so deeply in my mind, it is a spiritual dimension that I first discovered, and is constantly renewed, in the great cathedrals that dominate the skyline of so many cities.

I was raised in the Mormon faith and though it is a tolerant and open religion, the emphasis on "the great apostasy" left me guarded and somewhat cautious in my feelings toward Catholicism, Orthodoxy, and Christian history throughout the Medieval period. Entering a gothic Cathedral was an alien experience because everything was so different from the simple surroundings of my native faith.

I often listen to the comments of people in the groups we take to Europe when we enter the abbeys, basilicas, monasteries, and cathedrals of Europe. They sometimes focus on the differences and occasionally the comments reflect the sense of unease, even negativity. I understand that perspective, but the darker interiors, the incense, the statues, mosaics, and art dedicated to saints and apostles no longer provoke from me a judgmental eye. It is easy to appreciate the master workmanship involved in these towers of faith, but we miss their essential message if another calming emotion does not accompany our awe. I feel gratitude as I stare upward into the echoing domed and arched spaces lifting above me. I always silently express that gratitude to the past builders of these monuments to the survival of Christianity in a hostile world.

The story of that survival is dramatic and compelling and would require much more space than devoted here. Nevertheless, in spite of all their faults, the monks and nuns, the bishops and Popes, the friars and priests, the architects, stonemasons, artists, sculptors and makers of stained glass all played their role and kept Christianity alive during the period we call the Dark Ages. These grand tributes in stone bear testimony to their accomplishment. The Lord, Himself, indicated as much in the book of Revelation. In chapter twelve John was shown a beautiful woman clothed in light which represented the church adorned in truth. But she was driven into the wilderness by a great red dragon, her light obscured. Yet in that wilderness of apostasy where so much was changed, so much placed in jeopardy of being lost forever, we read that the Lord prepared a place for her where she would be nourished and kept alive. Though wild, Christianity lived and preserved the teachings of our Savior, gave us the Bible so that a fourteen year old boy could read James 1:5 and launch the Restoration which would bring the woman out of the wilderness and into the light. Even in the Book of Mormon the grafted in wild branches of the European gentile peoples kept the roots of truth alive that they did not perish during the ages of chaos and darkness.

I never tire of visiting the churches of Europe, be they the grand cathedrals or the simple rural parishes, for herein God saved the essential realities of His Son's ministry. The stained glass Rose Windows of Notre Dame and La Saint Chappell in Paris take my breath away. The master craftsmanship and sheer audacity of the domed Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence seem to define the very limits of architecture. The immensity of Saint Peter's in the Vatican is overwhelming. That single sky penetrating point of stone on the tower at Salisbury Cathedral in Southern England and the slender columns at Amiens, Chartres, Beauvais, Cologne and half a dozen other gothic creations defy gravity. They are remarkable to see and I hope everyone will one day visit some of them, yet there is that spiritual dimension, that survivor quality, that testimony to the enduring power of Christ's teachings that could tame even the barbarian invaders of a more civilized Mediterranean world.

This haunts my thoughts and draws me inside to smell once again the incense, see the rainbow colored light streaming through the stained glass, feel the cold moist stone laid so lovingly centuries ago by long forgotten masons and stonecutters, gaze at the frescoes and mosaics of saints and prophets, hear the chanting monks, the whispering feet of the sisters and remember how close we came to losing it all. Where would the world be without the Sermon on the Mount, the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son? I leave with forgiveness in my heart for all the cruelties, abuses, inadequacies, and excesses of Christian history. The beautiful woman of Revelation, though wild and lost, would yet arise from her nourishing place to once again spread her glorious light throughout the world.

''Red Eggs'' of Romanian Christians Proved Stronger than the ''Red Stars'' of Communism

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

As World War II came to an end in 1946, Romania and many millions of people in the eastern European countries found that the Nazi boot of oppression was replaced with an intolerable Russian boot of brutality and loss of political and religious freedom. From 1946 until 1989 a Romanian generation was indoctrinated with anti-religious propaganda. Hundreds of the beautiful wooden churches dating from the thirteenth century were boarded up and abandoned. All of the historic stone gothic churches and their intricate stain glass windows remained seldom attended and stood as silent sentinels and were often only visited twice a year by the devote at Easter and Christmas. For fear of destruction, many religious works of art were hidden in caves and the lofts of the faithful. Today they have returned those treasures and we were able to visit these great churches.

In 1946, those who professed a belief in God were denied entrance into the Communist Party. Christians were replaced in every government level of political influence. After eradicating the political and most of the religious leadership of Romania, the Communist installed puppet Romanians to govern the people. Even the leadership of the smallest village was supplanted by a Pro-Communist Romanian. Anyone found speaking against the Communist regime was imprisoned and many were taken away in the night never to be heard of again. They were killed or sent to work in the frozen Siberian mine fields.

After nearly five decades of anti-religious teachings under Communism most of the rising generation of Romanians abandoned the faith of their fathers. The Communists were far more successful in suppressing religion in the large cities of Bucharest, Brasov, and Sibiu, than the smaller towns and villages which dotted the beautiful countryside of Romania. Many Romanians learned to go underground with their religious beliefs. This was especially true in the villages where the Communist leader was also a Christian believer. The surviving priests and Christian believers kept a low profile and were tolerated because the great majority of Romanians were sympathetic to Christians. Some Romanian school teachers would profess Communism and secretly pursue their belief in God.

Alexandru, our guide who was from a tiny village in Transylvania, told us the following story. Every Friday his primary school teacher would announce that God did not exist and told the students they were forbidden to attend church. However, the grandmothers of these children would bring these same children to church and "Lo and Behold" every Sunday, there was his school teacher at the village church. The teacher pretended not to recognize the students and the students pretended not to recognize the teacher. Every week during his growing up under Communism this scene was played out. After school while the men and many of the women were working in the fields or factories, the children were taught by their grandmothers, called "bunica" in Romanian, to believe in God. In Romania, Easter is more important than Christmas. Alexandru's bunica told him that Easter was the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. Among the traditions ingrained in his soul was to respect "Lent," or the forty days of fasting, prayer, repentance, and good behavior preceding the celebration of Easter. Alexandru was told to not curse, to retain no bad thoughts or hard feelings towards anyone, and even not to spit on the ground during those forty days.

On Easter Eve, at midnight, all of the faithful in Alexandru's village would bring an unlit candle to the church. When all were gathered outside the Church, they would knock on the door of the Church and the priest would open up the door and invite everyone in. The priest would bless the congregation which always included his grandmothers, his classmates and their teacher. Next, candles which had been lit in the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem and brought by special messengers to the local priests throughout Romania was used to light the candles of all in attendance. There were hymns of praise sung to Jesus as the risen Lord who had conquered death. After much rejoicing and well wishing the faithful returned to their homes and with them they brought their lighted candles that their homes might be filled with the Light of Christ. There were baskets of sweet bread and "Red" painted Easter eggs. Alexandru was told that when Mary, the mother of Jesus, was told of the crucifixion of her son that she was carrying a basket of eggs. She laid down the basket next to the cross and after they had removed the body of Jesus to the tomb, she noticed that some of the blood of Jesus had stained the eggs red. Thus began the tradition of painting Easter eggs. Great care was taken to paint the eggs with wonderful patterns and intricate designs. Eventually other colors were used to paint the eggs. The famous Faberge's eggs of the Russian Czars were a reflection of this tradition. All through the night the family would talk and paint eggs and rejoice. At dawn, when Christ emerged from the tomb, the family would break their fasting and celebrate with a glorious breakfast. Neighbors would greet one another with the phrase "Jesus is alive!" "Indeed He is!" would be the response. The children would go from door to door asking for painted eggs. To give a beautifully painted egg was to bring good luck for the entire year. The more eggs you gave away the greater your fortunes would be. Around noon everyone returned to the Church. It was the duty of the priest to ring the Church bells throughout the year, but on this day the children and all the villagers were permitted to enter into the steeple and to ring the Church bells. As in Adam all die and in Christ all will be resurrected, both priest and practitioner.

The godless domination of Communism could not replace the faith in God of the "bunicas" in Romania. The "Red Eggs" of Easter and the testimony of believing grandmothers proved more powerful than all the "Red Stars" of Communism. In Romania, "Jesus is alive!" "Indeed He is!"

That Magical Border Bedlam

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

One of the most amusing, albeit occasionally frustrating, aspects of travel takes place at border crossings. You never know quite what you will find - opportunities for laughter are always anticipated, as well as an invitation in multi-cultural discovery. When we approach the border, I hold my breath, set my patience meter on high, turn my hope dial up to its highest frequency and wait for what humanity will bring me. I am so rarely disappointed.

Because of the nature of the tours, border crossings in Central America are often in the back country or out of the way stations. At one crossing we play Red-Light-Green-Light. It brings out the kid in you. Descending from the bus we line up before an ominous looking large black button attached to a traffic light. Really, it's an old traffic light! The yellow has been disconnected. Push the button and see what your destiny brings you. Green - you don't have to open your luggage. Red - unfortunately, just the opposite.

We were proceeding through this checkpoint one dark rainy night. Everyone was tired and the button was delivering an inordinate amount of red lights. There was mass confusion as everyone tried to find their own luggage under the bus. Americans always have too many bags. Knowing the easy-going manner of the Central Americans, I told the group to just grab any bag and take it through. There is usually just a cursory check, often without even opening the zippers. My plan would have worked fine except one man grabbed a woman's suitcase. His was the only bag opened! There was no end of smiles as the guard pulled various articles of female attire from the suitcase. It wouldn't have been so bad, actually, but the particular bag belonged to one of the women who dressed to the nines and even the border guard had to stifle a laugh when he pulled out a leopard skin article of clothing that no man from here to eternity would ever wear. I'm not sure he has forgiven me yet.

Filling out forms can be another experience altogether. One year we were crossing from Belize into Mexico. They had run out of English forms, so I asked if they had any Spanish ones. No, they were out of that too. "We do have forms in French, however," I was eagerly told. "That will do," I replied, since I had been on a French mission. I got on the microphone and interpreted. My wife and I refer to that crossing as the Frenspanglish crossing as we were going from an English speaking country into a Spanish speaking one with a French entry form.

You always hope the next country's buses are waiting for you on the other side. One year we crossed at dusk in an out-of-the-way spot in the jungle. No buses! That is every director's nightmare. However, it was a beautiful evening, so we sat around and watched the sunset through the rainforest. Sooner or later the buses had to get there.

After an hour they were still nowhere in sight. Again, knowing the laid-back mentality of the locals, I figured they could be watching the latest lottery drawing. (We once sat in an airport in Egypt for 2 1/2 hours while the pilots finished viewing a soccer game on TV. There is always time for a flight, but when the national team is on TV, well . . . .) Our border guard suggested taxis. I was game by this time and he assured me he could get us the 20 taxis we would need for the 15-mile drive to the hotel. That was an experience! "Where does one find taxis in the rainforest," I thought. But he didn't fail us; within a few minutes, seemingly from the very floor of the jungle, taxis began to emerge. I think he was related to every single one of the drivers. My wife and I got his sister's husband's brother-in-law. Most didn't have windows, a number were held together with duct tape. My wife and I sat next to a door held shut with bailing wire that squeaked when we turned a corner, but we all arrived safely and had a great laugh together.

We used to take four-wheel drive buses into Copan, Honduras. The border gate was a tree trunk trimmed by machetes weighed by a cement block. The guards were taking their siestas in hammocks and we needed to wake them up to clear our passports. Ah! the easy life. Even the dogs hadn't noticed we had driven up. And for years at one crossing the border agent had died and they hadn't quite got around to replacing him so the wonderful people of the town just waved us through.

Some crossings are not quite so relaxed. I recall crossing into Israel many years ago from Jordan. This was before the peace treaty between the two countries was signed and the tensions were high. We had a professor with us who loved watching birds. He carried the biggest binoculars I had ever seen and they were always around his neck. He was the cliche absent-minded-professor and he chose this time to look for birds. He walked to the end of the military installations guarding the border and began scanning the horizon. The landscape is desert, and I don't think a bird has lived there since Joshua. You can imagine the excitement that erupted. Alarms, shouting men, guards pulling out some rather menacing looking firearms, were all part of the chaos. You can imagine how silly we sounded trying to explain to some rather skeptical security officers that he was really "looking for birds." Of course! Right!

I was spoken to so sternly and militarily at one crossing by a female border officer that without really intending to do it, I answered her question with a brisk, "Yes, Sir!" What followed was a lecture such as I had not received since elementary school.

All in all we have had some great laughs about borders even the tense ones. Whenever you are dealing with people you are in for an adventure. Isn't that one of the reasons we travel? And the fun may begin as you step through the looking-glass of passport control into a "wonderland" of different people with their individual definitions of - BORDER SECURITY, or should I say, "bedlam!"

Is It Really Safe to Travel in Israel?

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: Is it really safe to travel to Israel? What about terrorists? Are the hotels safe and secure and what about the buses on a tour, are they truly safe? Here is the simple answer to all of those questions: ABSOLUTELY YES. Bad press and exaggerated TV reports have frightened many of the would-be travelers to Israel. But traveling to Israel is completely safe. Let me put it into perspective what I mean.

A few years ago at the height of an Arab and Israeli conflict in Gaza, I received an emergency phone call from my 89-year-old mother while I was leading a tour in Israel.

"Are you safe?" she asked.

"Well, yes Mom, and so are all the people that are traveling with us," I responded, "We watch it on TV just as you are but we are far away from Gaza." The conflict that people in America hear most about comes from the border between Israel and Gaza. Gaza is fifty miles away from Jerusalem and has never been a problem for any of the hundreds and hundreds of people who travel with my wife and me to the Holy Land.

It was during that same tour that I was asked while in Israel by several Jewish men and women if I thought it would be safe for them to travel to Disneyland in California for a vacation. I laughed because I thought they were joking. They assured me they were serious. They had seen on Jewish and British television all of the drive-by shootings that were taking place in Los Angeles, California. The only news coming from America was bad news and these people were sincerely concerned. I assured them that a trip to Disneyland would be a safe and enjoyable experience.

The same is true for travel in Israel. From my understanding, since 1948 and the establishment of the State of Israel, there has not been one tourist who has died on a bus tour as a result of a terrorist attack. I have been traveling to Israel since 1976. Some years we travel four times in a single year to Israel, Egypt, and Jordan. Only twice in thirty-four years have we cancelled a trip to Israel because of wars in the Holy Land.

Because tourism is Israel's number one source of income, the Israeli government has taken extraordinary precautions to ensure that tourists are safe. In terms of violent crime, you are at greater risk in New Orleans, Detroit, or Washington D.C. than you are in any city in Israel. Are you afraid of Italians? No, but you might be afraid of the mafia. Are you afraid of Arabs? You don't need to be. Some of the most wonderful people you will meet in Israel are the Palestinian shop owners like Ephraim in Bethlehem, or Jimmy, Omar, or Shabaan, the owner of Ali Baba Shop in Jerusalem.

Your trip to Israel will be one of the highlights of your life. There are places where you can say, "Today, I walked where Jesus walked." The scriptures will come alive and you will read and understand them in ways that you could not imagine. It will change your life for the better. When you ride upon the Sea of Galilee, walk the streets of Old Jerusalem, and gaze upon the faithful Jews praying at the western "wailing" wall at the base of the Temple Mount, you will be grateful that fear did not rob you of an opportunity to increase your faith.

Afraid of Flying?

Tue, 11 May 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Fun For Less Tours is owned by the Tyndall Family. As a family they have traveled over 50,000,000 miles by air. They are constantly asked if they are not tempting fate by continuing to board another airplane. For most, the fear of flying seems to be only natural. Even the heartiest may feel a little nervous as the plane reaches the end of the runway and lifts off. But there is a huge difference between the fear of flying, and the actual risks associated with flying . . .

How Safe is flying really? When you look at the hard numbers, the safety of flying is very impressive. On average, air traffic controllers in the United States handle 64 million takeoffs and landings a year. On any given day, more than 87,000 flights are in the U.S. skies. Considering the large number of flights per day, there have only been a small number of commercial airline crashes since 1982.

According to the website PlaneCrashInfo.com, which compiles information from OAG Aviation Solutions, the NTSB and other airline and data sources, the chance of being killed on a flight is about 8,000,000 to 1. Another way to look at it is . . . if a passenger were to board a random flight once a day, statistically it would take 21,000 years before he or she were killed in a plane crash.

The truth is, the most dangerous part of flying is your drive to the airport. According to the National Safety Council, you're more likely to die as a pedestrian, on a motorcycle, in a car, on a bus, riding an animal or animal-drawn vehicle, on a train, a streetcar or a watercraft. Flying is in fact, the safest mode of travel everywhere in the world! Many have had a friend, neighbor or relative lose a loved one in an automobile accident. On the other hand, very few have had a friend, neighbor or relative lose a loved one because of commercial airline crash.

Don't let the fear of flying stop you from seeing the world. You need to be more worried about driving to the grocery store than flying to China.

A Land as Old as Time Itself

Tue, 04 May 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: No land fires the imagination quite like the land of the pharaohs. Like all of us, I watched The Ten Commandments with Yul Brenner and Charlton Heston clashing as Ramesses and Moses against the backdrop of Egypt’s monumental might. I ached to go to Egypt. It was the number one destination in the field of my daydreams. My mother used to read Bible stories to my sisters and me when we were young. We had a coffee table in the front room and I would lie underneath it, try to shut out the modern world, and see what I was hearing. I would paint it with all the details I could create, the colors, the sounds, the feel of the stones and the movement of the air.

You can imagine how thrilling it has been to see in reality so many of those places colored by my boyhood imagination. The stories of Genesis and Exodus were particularly inviting because so much took place in Egypt and the very name brought with it images of mystery. It was old, as old as the Bible, as old as time itself. Then one day the imagination became reality. I was in Egypt! I could feel the uninhibited rays of the Egyptian sun warming the morning air as its light reflected across the expanse of the Nile.

Back in time I went for this was the river where an anxious mother accompanied by her daughter lovingly placed a basket in the reeds and watched it float into scriptural destiny for it was filled with more than her baby son. Upon this tiny floating sanctuary breathed the defender of slaves, the messenger of God, the giver of the law. In the distance, sky pointing pyramids reigned supreme over both desert and fertile flood plain and the Sphinx continued his solitary watch as he had done so for more than four thousand years.

What is time and history in such a world? Though stripped of their casing of polished limestone and golden tip, the skeletal stone remains of the pyramids still draw the breath in, these wonders of the Wonders of the World. Abraham had seen them, Jacob lived for seventeen years under their shadow, Joseph knew them from his youth, and Moses from his birth. What were their thoughts as they pondered the achievements of the Egyptian race, for the pyramids were a thousand years old when the patriarchs knew them in their glory?

We boarded our cruise ship and floated down the Nile. In the stillness of dawn, fishers standing on their tiny boats threw their nets like their ancestors had done through countless generations. In the bright morning light farmers walked through their fields of grain testing the harvest. Cattle grazed along the river then rested under the date palms silhouetted against the rising sun. "This is Joseph's world," I thought. Here were his dreams being played out before my eyes, and pharaoh's dreams too - the years of feast and of famine, fat cattle and bowing sheaves of grain. Somewhere along this river brothers were united by tears of forgiveness and reconciliation.

We sailed past temples which surpassed everything I imagined as a boy. Philae, Kom Ombo, Edfu, Luxor, and the mighty Karnak overpower the senses. The Valley of the Kings invited us to explore underground chambers of painted hieroglyphic secrecy. All robbed but one. When it was discovered and Howard Carter peeked for the first time through a tiny hole revealing what had lay hidden for thirty five hundred years, he could only say when asked what he saw, "Wonderful things!" I saw those same wonderful things in Cairo, more wealth than the mind can wrap itself around - chariots of gold, inlaid jewelry crafted by the most skilled of artisans, decorated thrones and footstools, alabaster vessels of every shape and design, and the nesting golden shrines and coffins of Tutankhamen himself. Here, as elsewhere, my mind was drawn to the great lessons of the Bible, for we read Moses walked away from it all, "esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt." Moments later I stared into the face of mummified kings, the great Ramesses II, himself, and pondered the glory they so demandingly desired be preserved.

Egypt is everything I could have wanted it to be. I thought of a vision God granted Moses from the height of an unnamed mountain when He said, "Look, and I will show thee the workmanship of mine hands," and spread before his wondering eyes all the varied lands, nations, and peoples of the earth, then beyond unto "worlds without number." In amazed reflection Moses pondered the grandeur of the Egyptian court he had known from his youth and concluded, "Now for this cause I know that man is nothing, which thing I never had supposed." For the first time I began to comprehend these words, for how could one not think man was powerful in the shadow of red granite obelisks - the needles of the pharaohs - hundreds of tons lifting delicately over towering pylons deeply etched with images of the great kings driving their chariots triumphantly into the scattering masses of their fleeing enemies.

I walked into the Hypostyle Hall of the great temple of Karnak, cooled by the shade of over a hundred massive columns, thinking of Moses on his mountaintop being prepared by God for that moment when he would stand before the mighty pharaoh and speak those immortal words, "Let my people go!"

Piled against the back of a lofty pylon sat the decaying remains of a mud brick ramp. It was as old as the Bible, and I was drawn to it by the un-resisted force of a collected memory that awlays guards the heritage of the children of Israel - "their lives made bitter with hard bondage, in mortar, and in brick." It is a different kind of monument, but one just as compelling.

Moses would teach the Egyptians something of his God, a God whose majesty was beyond chiseled tombs and soaring temples, beyond pyramidal splendor, beyond golden coffins and hoarded treasure, for this God had seen the affliction of the mud-brick makers, the despised ones, whose children could so casually be tossed into the Nile. "I know their sorrows," He said. "I have heard their cry."

"Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice?" taunted pharaoh. Ah! He is the One who can command worlds without number yet hear the cry of slaves. How could we expect the pharaohs to understand such a God? Yet Moses came to understand. I suppose that awareness began the day "when Moses . . . went out unto his brethren, and looked upon their burdens." Something happens to our souls when we contemplate the mystery of human suffering and the burdens of our brethren. We are never the same again, the old comfort zones no longer satisfy.

And so, amidst the wonders of Egypt - the soaring obelisks and pylons, the secretive tombs and towering columns, the massive pyramids with their millions of stones, the ashen mummies and embellished coffins - it is the mud bricks that penetrate so deeply into the recesses of my thought. To see them again, I return year after year to this land of unforgettable memories, this land which seems to know no limit of time, this land that teaches us of the God we worship, the God of the cosmos, the God of prophets and patriarchs, and yet, the God of slaves, the God of the disinherited, whose cries He will always hear until their deliverer appears.

--- S. Michael Wilcox recently retired as an instructor at the institute of religion adjacent to the University of Utah. A frequent speaker at Brigham Young University Education Week, Michael also conducts tours with Fun for Less Travel, tours of the Holy Land, Church history sites, Europe, China, and Central and South America. Find out more about these tours.

Water, Water, Everywhere, Nor Any Drop to Drink!

Tue, 27 Apr 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: From "The Rime of the Ancyent Mariner by Samuel" Taylor Coleridge, comes this famous line: "Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink." Sam was referring, of course, to salt water. However, it is a statement that can be applied to the fresh water supplies around the world. When you travel abroad always remember that you are the guardian of your own personal health. Be careful of everything you eat and drink. As a rule of thumb, it is easier to buy bottled water than to boil it. It's the bacterial bugs in the local water that you have to watch out for, and with a few wise choices your trip will not be interrupted by bad water.

Outside of Western Europe, USA, Canada, Japan, Australia, and New Zealand, the risk factors for poor quality drinking water come into play. The water in the nicer hotels in Israel are safe. Here are some tips that will make your H20 travel experience a good one.

If you are not sure whether you should drink the water; DON'T DRINK THE WATER!
Buy bottled water, it is available nearly everywhere. When you buy bottled water, look to make sure that the seal on the bottle cap is not broken. There are poor people who will recycle the brand name bottles with water from their local wells and sell it to you at bargain prices.
If available, buy brand names you recognize like Evian, Fiji, Dasani, or another brand. The key is to check and make sure the seal on the bottle cap has not been broken.
If bottled water is not available, you can find soda drinks or soft drinks, as they are sometimes called, with brand names like Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, and Fanta.
If you are going to travel to someplace that is so remote that the Coke or Pepsi salesperson hasn't been there yet, you may want to purchase a small portable water purifier or even a water straw that removes 99.9999 percent of all bacteria. This tip is only for those who are going to the hinterlands of Timbuktu, which, by the way, is in Africa.
Even in nice hotels that claim to have a water purification system, it is a good idea to not drink the tap water. Those who do drink the hotel tap water are also lucky at playing Russian roulette. And here's another tip: Don't buy the expensive hotel bottled water. Go outside the hotel to a local store and stock up.
When taking a shower, keep your mouth shut and don't drink the shower water or brush your teeth in the shower.
To remind yourself not to use the tap water from the sink in your hotel room, put a bottle of water right in the sink basin. We are creatures of habit and it would be a natural thing for you to turn on the tap water and brush your teeth. The bottle of water standing in the sink basin will remind you to brush your teeth with bottled water.
Beware of lettuce and those wonderful mouth watering salads that are made with lettuce. Lettuce is like a sponge and even when you wash it off you do not remove the bacteria inside the lettuce leaf. It would be better for you to say "I went through Egypt" than to admit after eating the lettuce that "Egypt went through me!"
Drink lots of water and avoid dehydration, which is the number one cause of headaches and loss of strength for travelers. Your body is estimated to be about 70 percent water, so maintaining proper hydration keeps your body running effectively and efficiently.
Think of "ice cubes" as frozen bacteria. In countries where the water is unsafe, beware of using ice unless the ice has been made with purified water. It would be unwise to buy safe bottled water and mix it with "frozen bacteria" that may come alive when thawed and kept you close to a toilet for the rest of your trip.
Washing your hands with soap and water is okay, but carrying a small bottle of anti-bacterial hand gel for public restrooms is always a good idea.

Remember being water wise and following these suggestions will contribute to an enjoyable journey.

--- John L. Lund has taught as adjunct faculty at major universities throughout Washington, Idaho, California and Utah. He is a consultant to both the business world and the private sector as a family counselor. He currently travels with Fun For Less Tours as an educator. Find out more about these tours.

Passport Family Portraits

Tue, 20 Apr 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: It was a Saturday afternoon, the mail lay waiting on the kitchen counter. I saw the slightly thicker envelope topping the pile addressed to my daughter-in law. When she came in the door my wife casually said to her, "There's a letter for you, Carolyn, you may want to open it." She looked at it and read the return address--U.S. Passport Office. Picking it up somewhat breathlessly she broke the seal. Holding her first passport in both hands she said with almost reverent awe, but with a voice bursting with excitement and tinged with a measure of joyful disbelief: "I have a passport! I have a passport!"

For such moments I live. We travel for many reasons, but prime among them is the opportunity to watch our children thrive in the atmosphere of another country, among other peoples. Most people who travel carry their cameras, snapping shots with each new locality. We too bring our digital memory cards, but the most precious stored images are those held in our minds not those captured in the electronic world of gigabytes. They are the memories, savored and relived when the tour is long past of connections made between those I love and that broad, wide, wonderful world of which we are all citizens. These are moments that can never be captured by the limited focus of a lens.

We took our children on a journey from Palmyra to Winter Quarters. At that critical stop in Carthage my nine year old son shared in the collective memory of that sultry June day in 1844; heard as if he had lived it, the hopeful sadness of "a poor wayfaring man of grief," then the noises of the mob, the rush to the door, the gunshots, the final words, and the troubled silence of the summer rain on the grass below. I found him a few moments later outside lost in the poignancy of the moment, the love of Joseph forever sealed into his heart.

Perched on a cooler next to the driver's seat in a bus in Guatemala another son, age 12, listened to the unceasing joyful banter of our driver Sergio. It was all in Spanish, of course, and our son couldn't understand a word, but the feelings came through and a bond was created strengthened every day as the two became inseparable. He shared with him the colorful costumes of the Highland people, the farmers in their corn fields green with the summer rains and the women weaving by the lakeside. They saw the children peddling their tiny homemade crafts, smelled the tortillas warming on an outdoor grill, laughed at the antics of the spider monkeys--and my son's spirit was enlivened. When we left, Sergio put his hand on his heart and patted it tenderly his dark eyes soft as he looked at my son and said, "Mckay, McKay. In here." You can't buy that kind of education for all the tuition in the world.

A few years later we walked with our daughter and son in law through the rainforest at Tikal whose pyramids wait hidden until that moment when the jungle clears and they tower above you in Mayan magnificence. Not one given to expressions of exhilaration or the use of the exclamation point my son in law stopped dead center in the trail looked up to the roof comb scratching the sky and said, "You've got to be kidding me!" It was a six exclamation point sentence and we all laughed in the delighted uninhibited emotion of his wonder--the most excitement I had ever seen generated in this man of controlled and guarded enthusiasm.

There was that moment in the Louvre with my oldest daughter who took an Art History class in college. She loved the painting by the Dutch master De La Tour titled "Christ with St Joseph in the Carpenter's Shop." De La Tour was a master of the contrast of light and dark and you can almost feel the warmth of the candle held by Jesus, its glow shining through his closed cupping fingers. We were running out of time and had not found this one painting she most wanted to see. We separated to broaden our search. At last, rounding a corner, there was our daughter transfixed before the painting tears flowing from her eyes. We said nothing, the silence confirming the truths imparted.

And in my memory will always breathe that moment in the Sistine Chapel as my wife looked up to the central panel of Michelangelo's ceiling. There was the Father cradling the yet uncreated Eve in the protective reach of his arm, the other extended in life-bestowing gift towards Adam who received the offered sacrament in trust and adoration. My wife's head bent full back was unaware of the tears streaming down the side of her face, wetting her hair and ears or the soft murmur of her voice.

There were the Chinese kites soaring above the deck of the ship bright against the cliffs of the Yangtze River and the soaking downpour on the Li as we vainly but laughingly ran for cover. Reading Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey" in the ruins that inspired it, listening to my father in law recount the Christmas story in Bethlehem, counting tropical fish on the Great Barrier Reef, walking in Red Square surrounded by echoes of the fading Cold War, an evening meal in a sidewalk cafe off the Piazza Navona in Rome, a son doing magic tricks with the children in front of the Pyramids, all rest comfortably in the holding places of my heart. It doesn't seem to matter where or how far one travels, sharing it with family sanctions the recollections and embeds the feelings deep within.

The story is told of a guard at the Rijkmuseum in Amsterdam who was standing in his assignment next to Rembrandt's "The Night Watch," the museum's most beloved treasure. He heard a visiting tourist comment, "I don't see what's so great about that." "Ah," replied the guard, "But don't you wish you could."

There is nothing quite as satisfying or so completely heart-healing as when your own child opens their eyes and sees. Then the earth is created anew, man's dignity reborn, and the world seems a friendlier, more welcoming place, where all are lifted by all. "I have a passport! I have a passport!" But not one that simply allows us to visit other countries, but a passport to experiences that leave us and our families touched by the universal goodness scattered in a hundred thousand places across this earth--from pole to pole.

The Most Influential Jewish Man in Modern Mormon History

Tue, 13 Apr 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

Had I not made the decision to travel abroad and to tour with Fun for Less Tours, I would never have met the most interesting man I had ever known, Dr. Joseph Ginat. His friends called him Jose (Yo-see), a nickname for Joseph in Hebrew.

Jose was a very important person in the Israeli Government. Over the years he developed a personal relationship with Presidents Harold B. Lee, Ezra Taft Benson, Spencer W. Kimball, Howard W. Hunter, Gordon B. Hinkley and Thomas S. Monson. He gave personal guided tours of Israel to four of these Prophets. He heard President Harold B. Lee say at the Garden Tomb, "The Holy Ghost bears witness to me that this is the place from which Jesus resurrected." (Ensign, Apr. 1972, p. 6 and Ensign, February 1974, p. 89.)

He was with President Lee again on the ground floor of the Antonio Fortress when President Lee asked a group of loud and boisterous French tourists to be quiet for "you are standing where the Roman soldiers mocked Jesus and placed a thorny crown atop his head."

Jose was a Sabra, or a Jew born in Palestine before the Jewish State of Israel was created on May 14, 1948. A Sabra is the name for what we in America call the "Prickly Pear" fruit on the cactus plant. The fruit is sweet on the inside and very tough on the outside. In order for the State of Israel to be established, it required a durable and determined people. Jose's grandfather, from the Tribe of Levi, came to the lands of Abraham when it was still called Palestine. For Jose's grandfather it was enough to live in the Promised Land for eleven years and to die and to be buried in sacred soil. Three times a day the grandfather had prayed for his children and grandchildren to be able to live in a Jewish nation, that the Holy Temple might be built again in a New Jerusalem that would me once again become the capital of the Jewish people, and that the Messiah would come. Jose told me that from the time of the scattering of the Jews by the Romans in 70 A.D.(C.E.), Jews from around the world have prayed for a return of the Jewish people to Jerusalem, for the Holy Temple to be built atop of Mount Moriah, and for the coming of the Messiah.

The State of Israel was a dream and remained the hope of every believing Jewish heart around the world. In 1948 a twelve-year-old Jose Ginat was given a World War I rifle and told to defend the east entry of a small Jewish village north of Tel Aviv. Once again, with a rifle in hand, a thirty-one-year-old Jose would help in the liberation of the city of Jerusalem during the Six Day War in June 1967. He served as an aide-de-camp to the one-eyed General Moshe Dayan. One third of the prayers of his grandfather had now been completed. Even though the State of Israel was created in 1948, the Jewish People did not have access to the Western Wall in Jerusalem. After the Six Day War, Jerusalem was declared the capital city of the State of Israel.

Jose found out from President Ezra Taft Benson that Orson Hyde, a Jewish American and a Mormon, had dedicated the Holy Land for the return of the Jews thirty-seven years before Theodore Hertzl. Most scholars have, and still do, credit Theodore Hertzl as the Father of modern Zionism. Jose also discovered that Orson Hyde had traveled to Europe and spent months going from one synagogue to another in England, France, Germany, and Poland to convince the Jews to return to Jerusalem; this was in 1840. Jose recognized that Orson Hyde was the First Zionist and wanted Orson Hyde to be honored and recognized as such.

It was only due to the hard work and effort of Jose that the Orson Hyde Park exists today on the side of the Mount of Olives. It is also true that the Orson Hyde Memorial Garden located at Netanya College today, north of Tel Aviv, is due to the passionate commitment of Dr. Josef Ginat and the donations of many who have traveled with Fun For Less Tours.

Dr. Josef Ginat, as an instrument in the hands of the Lord, is the reason there is a BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. As an Advisor for Arab Affairs five times to three different Prime Ministers of Israel, Dr. Ginat was able to obtain permission for the land to be leased to the Church through BYU.

The Temple in Jerusalem has not yet been dedicated nor have the prophesies of Zachariah concerning the Messiah standing on the Mount of Olives been fulfilled. Those of us who travel to the Holy Land at this time are "In-Betweeners." We are blessed to be witnesses "in between" the establishment of the Jewish nation and the appearance of Jesus on the Mount of Olives, wherein he will say in answer to the question, "What are these wounds in thine hands and in thy feet? . . . I am he who was lifted up. I am Jesus that was crucified. I am the Son of God" (D&C 45:51-52).

You owe it to yourself to experience the Holy Land. You will feel the spirit abundantly when you walk upon the sacred ground where Jesus walked.

Central America: In the Glow of the Golden Plates

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: “ . . . an allure incomparable with any place in the world.” Though all countries and climes of the earth are wonderful to visit, there are some places around the globe I never tire of visiting. I have never stepped off the plane in Central America, took a breath of mountain or jungle air and failed to receive that initial swelling of excitement I first encountered twenty five years ago. I have wandered the paths, the rivers, and the back-country of Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, and Mexico with renewed passion year after year.

The vibrant green backdrop of Palenque, the roof combs of Tikal's pyramids displayed above the canopy, the quiet sanctity of Copan's stone forest of kingly monuments, the secretive ruins of Yaxchilan reached only by river--the Mayan world--have an allure incomparable with any place in the world. The sweet smell of the jungle teeming with life and hidden temples promises an adventure I think few can resist. These all have felt my footfalls and I have stared into the still stone lidless eyes of ancient kings and pondered the decay of nations and their brief blink of power on the world's stage of vanished empires.

This is the world I had pictured and peopled in that rich creative world of human imagination as I read the Book of Mormon as a boy. It became a part of my inner world when I first heard my mother read, "I Nephi having been born or goodly parents."

Yet, somehow the stories once recorded in the glow of golden plates seem more real, more intense, more deeply true against the backdrop of root-gripped ruins with their fading stuccoed palaces, crumbling terraced pyramids of grey and black covered with the runic mystery of hieroglyphic memory. The angry scolding voices of macaws, the deep-throated roar of howler monkeys, the warning hum of insects, the sweet-flowered scents of jungle green, the rising majesty of volcanic peaks stir and awaken the oft-repeated, oft-told tales, as though they were memories of events mine own eyes and witnessed.

I half expect to see a kneeling Enos with every turn of the forest path or a solitary lonely Moroni fleeting secretively through the hidden mazes of a ruined city. I can hear the earnest fatherly voices of Alma, of Helaman, of Mormon in the private courtyards of family dwellings away from the former busy city centers and can see in wonder the sleeping Alma the Younger awaken from his born-again sleep and descend the steps to an astonished crowd. I feel the tremors of marching feet as stripling warriors move towards their meeting place with recorded time, the calm assurances of their mother-engendered faith beating in their hearts. On the steps of a temple I witness the torn cloaks of brave men valiantly thrown at the feet of Captain Moroni as they join in a covenant of courage beneath the waving title of liberty. And above all--the very land itself seems to proclaim the joy of a humid sunless night of brightest noon and the despairing darkness of the mist filled land which was pierced by a voice mild with understanding and filled with forgiveness.

We ascend to the "highlands" to visit the native people whose skills with the loom display patterns centuries old with colors seemingly pulled from the rainbow itself. Their humility and gentle warm ways remind me of why the ancient prophets so loved their people and why Mormon would mourn, "O ye fair ones," with such depth of emotion. They are still "fair ones." The children gather around showing their tiny weavings and beadwork; faces bright with expectation and always so full of promise. I think of Jesus in Bountiful surrounded by faces such as these, and moved to the soul He knelt and prayed for them with such beauty the words could not be recorded.

I always leave these Book of Mormon settings with an old familiar ache, a longing deeper than mere homesickness. I hear it calling my return before I direct my face homeward for this too is home, a dwelling place of the spirit baptized in the truths of scripture. I know it will draw me back with the desire to share its wonders with new friends, creating new memories. The voice from the dust has whispered its testimony into the winds and breezes of corn-covered highlands, of hazy heated lowlands and vine entangled long-forgotten cities.

I shall ever hear those welcome tones, those Book of Mormon voices, that will never be silenced, never be dimmed, nor forgotten, nor ignored, nor challenged as long as pyramids lift their roof combs above the jungle's green ocean or there remains a child who hears from his mother's lips the words, "I Nephi having been born of goodly parents," and her voice carries him into a world enlivened by the spirit of God.

Every Face Tells a Story When You Travel

Tue, 23 Mar 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: Cruising the Greek Islands can create memories for a lifetime. A few years ago while cruising with a group of tourists through the Greek Islands, I had an experience that will stay in my memories for ever. During our free time to explore the island of Rhodes, Carol Tyndall discovered an ancient, 400 year old, Jewish synagogue. Inside there was an elderly man and elderly woman speaking in Spanish. The old fellow asked Carol if she spoke Spanish or knew anyone that did, and knowing I speak Spanish, Carol asked me if I would speak with the elderly gentleman.

I entered the ancient synagogue wearing my Indiana Jones hat that was accepted as sufficient head covering, even if it didn't look like the traditional yarmulke, or Jewish skull cap. When I spoke to the elderly man in Spanish, he embraced me and asked if I would do him a great service. The type of Spanish he spoke was called ancient "Ladino" and it was not difficult at all for me to understand him. There were two Jewish American couples that he was about to meet with and since he did not speak English well he wanted to know if I would translate his Spanish into English. When I said yes, he considered my presence as an answer to his prayers.

A brief history lesson is necessary to appreciate the story of this man, Shemuel Modiano. A Jew from Spain was called a Sephardic Jew because in Hebrew "Sepharad" means Spaniard. During the Spanish Inquisition in Spain, hundreds of Sephardic Jews fled in 1577 A.D. to the Island of Roses, or Rhodes. It was a safe place for the Jews and had been since the Jews escaped from the rage of the Roman Empire in Jerusalem in 70 A.D. Josephus mentioned that the Jews of Rhodes were there in the first century. There was a time during the 1920s when one out of every three inhabitants of Rhodes was of Jewish descent. Here they built six synagogues and flourished as jewelers, fishermen, farmers, and bankers.

In July of 1944 the German soldiers swarmed over the island of Rhodes and 1,500 Jews were sent to Birkenau and Auschwitz for extermination. There were another 1,500 Jews who fled to Argentina where they could continue to speak Ladino. Among those who were carried away to Birkenau was a thirteen-year-old Shemuel Modiano who was planning his bar mitzvah the very week of his imprisonment. It requires a community of ten men to open and read from the sacred scrolls of the Law of Moses. The bar mitzvah introduces a young man into that community. Shemuel Modiano was not only denied this right of passage, he also was denied 119 members of his own family that perished in the ovens of Birkenau. He was one of a 151 holocaust survivors from the 1,500 that were carried away by the Nazis. Only thirty Jewish survivors of the 151 returned to Rhodes. On May 11, 2005, when I translated for Shemuel Modiano, there were only ten Jews in all of Rhodes. But there were not ten men. This meant that the surviving scroll of the Law of Moses could not be opened.

On June 23, 2002, Rhodesians from all over the world gathered at the square to commemorate the unveiling of a six-sided column Holocaust memorial translated into six languages and spoken by the people of Rhodes. The inscription reads: "Never Forget. In memory of the 1,604 Jews of Rhodes and Kos murdered in the Nazi camps July 23, 1944."

Shemuel told me that among this group of adult Jewish males were descendants of those who fled to Argentina in 1944. They came especially to find Shemuel and to hold his delayed bar mitzvah when he was seventy-two years old. The young man who been denied the right of passage at thirteen was finally accepted into the community of adults.

There was a lump in my throat as he lifted up his left arm and I saw the tattoo B 7456, the mark of a holocaust survivor. If that weren't enough, tears streamed down my cheeks as I translated these words for Shemuel: "For the first time in my life I was able to carry the sacred scroll that my father carried at his bar mitzvah, and that my grandfather carried at his bar mitzvah, and that my great, great, great grandfather carried back in 1577 A.D.(C.E)."

Shemuel's face told a story, and my life is richer for having traveled abroad.

Saint Patrick: Worthy to be Called a Saint

Tue, 16 Mar 2010 18:00:00 -0600

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: The most Irish of Irishmen was not from Ireland. I did not know this just a few short years ago. In truth all I ever knew of Saint Patrick was to wear green to avoid getting pinched on the 17th of March, and far too often I forgot. Yet the irony of Patrick's birth and life teaches us something of the quality of the human soul and its capacity to forgive, to love, to work God's wondrous will and bring it to fulfillment. Having learned something of St. Patrick's life finds my mind drifting each March to the Emerald Isle of over 1500 years ago, when a sixteen year old boy was captured and sold into slavery by Irish pirates.

Patrick was born on the west coast of England in the early years of the fifth century. He was a Roman Christian, "a simple countryman . . . a beardless boy," as he described himself. This was a dangerous time to be alive. Rome was falling and the legions that once protected the civilized life in Britain were leaving, exposing the island to a never ending series of raids. One such attack took the teenaged Patrick from family and friends across the Irish Sea where he pastured flocks on Ireland's hills in the cold rains and wind of the northern winters. Now the boy, who by his own admission, "did not know the true God . . . did not keep his precepts" found his only solace in prayer. "I used to pray many times a day," he wrote. And God, knowing the heart of Patrick, began to mold and shape his instrument for the salvation of souls and the lifting of a country, a whole continent, out of darkness. After six years of misery and slavery, the clay was ready for the Potter's wheel, and God spoke to Patrick for the first time.

"Your hungers are rewarded. Soon you will depart for your home country. Behold your ship is ready." With this assurance, not knowing where he was being led, but confident that "the power of God was directing my route," Patrick ran from his master, crossed Ireland, and found a ship on the southern coast which took him to northern France. Though not yet home, he was free. There followed a perilous journey covering many miles and requiring great faith before he returned at last to a family who thought he was surely dead. Yet one more journey awaited him, one that would encompass the rest of his life.

Barely restored to his family's embrace, God called and Patrick listened. "In a vision of the night," he said, "I saw a man coming as if from Ireland with innumerable letters, and he gave me one of them, and I read the beginning of the letter: The Voice of the Irish. I seemed at that moment to hear many voices crying as if with one voice: We beg you, holy youth, that you shall come and shall walk again among us." Others who wrote of Patrick’s call to teach Christianity to the Irish said the voices were the voices of children, those born and yet unborn, thousands of youthful voices crying out for the truths, the parables, the solace, and the hope of Jesus’ life and teachings. "I was stung intensely in my heart so that I could read no more and thus I awoke."

There followed years of study in the scriptures to prepare himself for the call. In time he was ready and one morning, a small boat with Patrick and a few friends pushed through the waves and sand of the Irish coast, then inland past the forests and rivers, past the meadows and the deep green of the fields, past the rolling hills and into the soul of the Celtic people. Patrick came to Ireland as a boy, a slave, he returned with a forgiving heart, with the love of Christ--and God worked his miracle with this youth, for when he died many years later the voices of the children had been answered. They and their own children for generations, into the last edges of time, would know the gentle God who walked the shores of Galilee, would know that they too held a place in his heart. He sent them Patrick--God's gift to the Irish and to all of us. In time Irish monks, inspired by the example of their patron saint would spread throughout Western Europe teaching the barbaric tribes who had invaded the old boundaries of the Roman Empire. They, like Patrick, would bring goodness and light, the civilizing force of their knowledge, into a world on the brink of darkness.

"I was like a stone lying in deep mire," Patrick wrote, "and he that is mighty came, and in his mercy raised me up and, indeed, lifted me high and placed me on the top of the wall. And from there I ought to shout out in gratitude to the Lord for his great favors in this world and forever that the mind of man cannot measure."

What are the real treasures of a country, the pearls of great price, the enriching gifts, each nation offers the world? Do we find them in the crowning majesty of their natural wonders? Certainly! Are they inherent in the literature, the art, the architecture, or the music that lifts and edifies us? Of course! Do we discover those treasures in the moral values and ethical dignity of their religious or philosophic view of life? Without doubt! Yet I think the truest measure of a nation's cultural wealth is found in the lives of its greatest people for herein we discover the heartbeat of a nation, the pulse that is truest to itself.

I will return to Ireland again, for how can one resist the magical pull of its thousand shades of green. I will climb the grey, moss-claimed stones of its castles with their sweeping vistas of the Irish Sea, and, yes, kiss the Blarney Stone. I will hike once more along those jagged coastlines dotted with cottages staring out to sea. I will share in the bustling energy of Dublin which pulses with the rhythm of Celtic dancers celebrating their heritage to the mystic music of a singing violin. For all this is Ireland.

Yet, when I walk through the ruins of the old Irish monasteries with their round towers, high crosses, and simple stone churches, I will think of Patrick and hear fading on the night breezes and across the still lakes and green forests the voices of children. They are voices of gratitude, and my own voice will mingle with theirs.

Things I Didn't Know in Church History about Palmyra, New York!

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 17:00:00 -0700

by John L. Lund
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: Here are a few interesting facts in church history that few people know. When you take that next tour or trip to Palmyra, hopefully these facts will help enhance your experience at the Sacred Grove, the Hill Cumorah, the Grandin Printing Press and the Joseph Smith Farm. Why did Joseph Smith's father choose to live in Palmyra? Obviously, the Lord guided his pathway so that young Joseph could be near the Hill Cumorah where Moroni had buried the plates of gold upon which were written the abridgment of the Book of Mormon. However, for the Smith family it was a move of desperation.

After three years of failed crops in New England, hundreds of farmers from Vermont and New Hampshire fled to the west for the promise of better land. Joseph Smith's uncle, Stephen Mack, owned a mill in Rochester, New York, before Joseph Smith Senior moved to Palmyra, just twenty-three miles away. Some Church historians believe that the Prophet's father went to Rochester to counsel with his brother-in-law about where to live in the area.

What was the Sacred Grove? Most people know that this was the place behind the farm house where in the spring of 1820, young Joseph went to pray after reading James 1:5, "If any of you lack wisdom let him ask of God." This was known as the First Vision, wherein the Father and the Son appeared in a glorious light and gave instructions to the boy Prophet. But did you know that it was a grove of 750 to a 1,000 maple trees that was purposely not cut down and cleared, as had been the rest of their farmland? These maples were used for the harvesting of maple sap that was boiled down by the Smith family into maple sugar. Blocks of maple sugar were used like money on the expanding frontiers of a young America. The Prophet's mother reported that the family harvested an average of "one thousand pounds" of maple sugar a year.

Why didn't Joseph Smith pray vocally before the First Vision? In describing the events leading up to the First Vision, Joseph said, "I had never as yet made the attempt to pray vocally (JS─H 1:14)." In the LDS Hymn #26 "Joseph Smith's First Prayer" are the words "'Twas the boy's first uttered prayer." The key words in both of these statements were "vocally" and "uttered." Saying "Grace" over a meal and "silent prayers" were common in the Smith home as they were with most Bible centered families.

Seven-year-old Joseph would have seen his parents kneel in prayer and plead for the life of nine-year-old Sophronia who was stricken with typhus. Did you know that one of the traditions in Joseph Smith's day was that if you prayed out loud the devil would hear your prayers and interfere with God answering your prayer? Many modern day Christians still believe that the devil listens to your prayers. Joseph would learn that our Heavenly Father's power to answer all prayers was greater than the power of the devil to prevent them from being answered.

Did you know that early in the spring of 1820 when Joseph went to pray that there were only three mornings that could be described as "beautiful, clear" days? How do we know that? The U.S. Navy required a medical doctor, Dr. W. Wheaton to report on the status of the weather three times a day at a naval base near Palmyra, New York, on Lake Ontario. He reported on the weather at 7:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., and 6:00 p.m. John Lefgren went to the government archives and made a photo static copy of the weather report for the spring of 1820. March 24, 25, and March 26, were the only days that the mornings were clear with a temperature above 40 degrees.

The Smiths were in the middle of collecting maple sap. The sap is pumped out by the freezing and thawing process. The sap will stop if the temperature stays above 40 degrees for more than twenty-four hours. Sunday, March 26, 1820, was the only day that met all the qualifications. The important thing is that the Father and the Son appeared and that was the beginning of the restoration of the Gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith.

Did you know that the grave of E.B.Grandin, who printed the first edition of the Book of Mormon, was in the Palmyra Cemetery? He was born in 1806 and died in 1845. He was the editor of the local newspaper, the Wayne Sentinel. He was twenty-three years old when he printed the Book of Mormon. He was born a year after Joseph and died a year after Joseph was martyred. Both men were 38 years old. Another person buried in the same Palmyra Cemetery was Lucy Harris, the wife of Martin Harris, one of the Three Witnesses. She had the dubious distinction of having lost or destroyed the 116 pages of translation from the Book of Mormon.

There is so much to see and to feel when you stand on the street and see a church on each corner in Palmyra. If you decide to walk, it is only a mile and a half to the Hill Cumorah where Moroni buried in a stone box the abridgment of the Book of Mormon. On your way you will pass by a Mormon Temple. Where will your thoughts take you as you visit the Smith family farm or the grave of Alvin Smith or walk among the maple trees of the Sacred Grove?

Notes i. John L. Lund, "Joseph Smith Before Palmyra," 2006 Church Almanac, pp. 120-129

ii. Lucy Mack Smith, "History of Joseph Smith," p. 24

iii. Lucy Mack Smith, "History of Joseph Smith," p. 88

iv. Lucy Mack Smith, "History of Joseph Smith," p. 52

v. http://christianblogs.christianet.com/1149455982.htm

vi. John Lefgren, http://www.meridianmagazine.com/sci_rel/021009maple.html

Hidden Jewel of Creation

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 17:00:00 -0700

by S. Michael Wilcox
source: MormonLife.com

Mormon Life says: I always knew it was there, the last continent, the end of the earth, the final destination for the exploring soul of man, and I wanted to see it, but I was not prepared for the experience. For me visiting Antarctica was the opportunity of putting another pin on the map, of finally reaching every continent on the planet, hitting that magic number seven. But a hidden jewel awaited me. This is the most spectacular place I have ever visited in the world!

The unexpected wonder is often the most memorable and the beauty that spread before me that first sunlit morning may have been the best day I have spent on any tour, certainly it topped my list of spectacular and untainted majesty. Black pinnacles of rock shot up from the Antarctic sea, their heads capped with overhanging ledges of snow. Glaciers poured through the valleys wedged between mountain walls which bore that tremendous pressure in the constant struggle between ice and stone.

Here was the whitest white nature brings forth. Here shone the purest light, one which magnifies the distance and gives everything within the range of the eyes a translucent clarity. Here the most pristine waters rose and fell in the gentle ocean swell. The light played upon the surface of the icebergs displaying blues that put the sky to shame and inviting a dozen new shades into the wheel of color.

If other than man knows beauty and the joy it can bestow then I could understand why whales travel half way around the world to breech in these waters. Flocks of penguins leaping like skipping stones through the calm sea showed their own joyful appreciation of their southern home. Seals slept on the bergs without a care in the world and an albatross skimmed the surface of the waves grateful for the gift of effortless flight and unmoving motion.

Perhaps the Lord placed this beauty, this unchanging change, in the frozen grip of ice and frost because its perfection could not be improved. I thought as we rounded another island how few people in the history of the world had seen such splendor. I suppose the Creator may have made it for Himself, a place He would fill with wonder that none of his children would see until thousands of years after the morning of creation. Yet He would see it and joy in His own handiwork. And the day would come when the vital curiosity of His children would probe the last place on earth and know one of His brightest jewels.

I had read the gripping tales of the southern explorers, the victory of Amundsen--first to reach the pole; the tragedy of Scott--frozen with his companions a mere eleven miles from his largest food depot after a passage of over a thousand; the enduring inspiration of Shackleton who willed survival for all his men in a journey of courage and hope unparalleled in history. Drake, Darwin, Captain Cook, and Magellan sailed these seas and into legend, reshaping the map and man's understanding of his world. This is a land which brings the very best out of those who come to know her and to love her, a challenging landscape which in spite of the hardships compelled men to venture.

For three days I stood on the deck of the ship taking it all in, the beauty, the wildlife, the history--rock and ice, sea and sky--and I could feel God's smile in my enjoyment. So I will adjust once again my list of favorite places in the world, vistas I want my children and friends to see for the sheer joy of sharing the sense of wonder that settles over us, and in that sharing coming nearer to the soul of God.