The Wall Drug of Wisconsin?

At least one reader of this blog will get the significance of this photo, which I recently snapped outside the Old City ...














... especially when I enlarge it. (And no, it's not about the guy, although he's not too hard on the eyes.)

Who's your hero?

Even non-sports enthusiasts like me know that Michael Phelps was the hero of the recent Olympic games. His amazing performances won him fame, admiration and, no doubt, millions of dollars in product endorsements.

I’m no Michael Phelps, but when people praise me for leaving the comforts of home to volunteer for two years in a foreign country, I’m inclined to put myself on a pedestal not unlike the three-tiered rostrum of the Olympics. But the truth of the matter is that I did not get here on my own, the same as Phelps did not win eight gold medals on his own. I don’t know who sacrificed and worked so that Phelps could achieve renown and glory. But I’ll show you who are the real heroes in my story.

This is my family. Every one of them, from little 4-year-old Levi to my septuagenarian parents, made sacrifices without which I would not be in Jerusalem today. Each of my three siblings spent time packing, cleaning or completing maintenance projects. Each of my in-laws hauled boxes, cooked meals or watched kids so that others could help with trip preparations. Each of my seven nieces and nephews was bereft of one parent or the other while they attended to my needs.


If I could hand out Olympic medals, I’d award not one but two gold medals – one to each of my parents. They didn’t just make multiple trips to my house to help, but they lived there for days at a time. Now in their well-deserved retirement, they gave up their free time, their own bed and their central air conditioning to pound, scrub, paint and haul at my house. They were patient with me when my head spun in indecision. They encouraged me when I became overwhelmed with all that had to be done. They soothed and reassured me when the stress rendered me a sobbing mess. And when I had to board a plane on Aug. 19 and leave things undone, they went back to my house – again and again – until it was done. Tears well up in my eyes if I think about this for more than an instant.

There’s another medal to be awarded, this one to the step-mama of my cat. When I first began talking about going overseas, my friend Lois volunteered to foster my pets before I even had a chance to ask. My beloved beagle, Yukon Cornelius, went to heaven in February, leaving only King in need of room and board. So Lois is feeding, watering and scooping poop for King for the next two years. It is said that “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” But I think cleaning out someone else's litter box is right up there! On top of pet care, Lois gave up nearly a week of vacation days to come and help out just before my departure. She was my chauffeur when we needed to go somewhere. She was my brain when I was too flustered to think. She was my hands when things needed to be packed for storage at the last minute. And now she is my heart, loving my cat when I’m too far away to do it myself.

The three weeks before I left for Jerusalem was one of the most stressful times in my life. But the result of it is that I have the privilege of spending two years in Jerusalem. What my helpers got out of it was a few free meals and unlimited boxed wine. Big deal. I guess that’s what amazes me most about all the help I received – they did it even though there was nothing in it for them. As I told my parents one night through my sobs, I never imagined anyone would ever love me that much. I think I must be crazy to separate myself for two years from that kind of love.

Unlike Michael Phelps, I don’t have eight valuable gold medals or million-dollar contracts with which to show my gratitude to my heroes. I just hope they know how much I appreciate and love and miss them. And I hope they realize that every newsletter I create or web page I publish or speech I write is made possible because of their selfless service to me.

Teach a cat to fish

At age 15, my beloved cat, King Carnivore, is probably a little too old to be relocated half way around the world. So my dear friend Lois agreed to add her to her own two-cat household while I was away. Having proved her portability on a camping trip earlier this summer, King was invited to join Lois and her husband, Darin, on another trip into the great outdoors. The destination this time was the "garlodge" (that is, a feature of northern Wisconsin architecture in which a garage functions as a lodge) of Lois' sister, Linda, and her husband, Jeff. Lois' very entertaining account of King's adventures follows. (Below: This is King curled up with a tackle box on her first fishing adventure.)



Lois writes:

If there was ever a cat cut out to be an ambassador, it's King. She's not afraid to go to new and different places, she seems to be inured to the difficulties and/or boredom of travel (sleeping is her favorite remedy), she makes friends easily (Linda and Jeff, this time). In short, according to Darin, she's just like you! Except for one aborted escape attempt behind the Thorpedo Restaurant when we were seeing if she'd take a potty break in the her box in the back of the truck, we had no troubles whatsoever.

We did broaden her horizons on this trip in a couple of ways. First, we've given her retail experience, and not in the way you think. As a surprise to Darin, I scheduled an appointment at Toys for Trucks (yes, a "guy" truck accessory store) to have them install a tonneau cover on the back of the truck so that he could get the secure, weather-proof storage he's been pining for before we trekked yet again across the state with our weekend goods out there for all the world to see. This required the truck without us in it for half an hour. I asked if I could just stay in the truck in their shop, as I was traveling with a cat. He said, "You're more than welcome to bring her in here ... we get guys bringing their dogs in all the time." I shrugged and complied. King handled it like a pro. She sat in her bed in my lap in the waiting area next to the Outdoor Life and American Hunter magazines (two things she's big into) until she tired of the view. Then she wriggled out of my grasp and went on walkabout. Darin did stop her from going back into the office, but otherwise she checked out displays of wheel covers, tonneau covers, etc. On a side note, her full name came in handy in introductions to the staff. It amused me to increase the machismo level of bringing a cat into the world of men and dogs by introducing her as "King Carnivore"!

By our last evening, Jeff had decided she was pretty cool, and had even reintroduced the topic of getting a cat for Linda. We decided to spend the time after a late dinner fishing on the dock. I decided that King had seen everything else, so I thought, "What the hell! Teach at cat to fish ... or at least let her watch." I brought her on a makeshift leash down the 70 steps to the dock. Everyone was sitting on the pontoon since it provided fish cover and had the only seats, so I joined them, figuring the solid, carpeted floor would be less disconcerting than a slatted dock. After 10 or 15 minutes without any luck, Jeff said, "Should we take the boat out for a cruise?" I reminded him that we did have a feline companion about whom a week ago he said would have to stay in the "garlodge" when we took the boat out. He wasn't concerned at all, and King didn't appear to be either, so she is now the first cat of my acquaintance to have gone pontooning! She again handled it like a pro, keeping her sea legs under her and even "helping" a little with piloting. Matter of face, the only fear she showed all weekend was when Darin shot across the room to stop her from scooting her butt across Linda and Jeff's sleeping bag. After she heard "King, no!" and saw him descending on her, she tucked herself quickly under the bed, but came out with some reassurance from him that she wasn't in big trouble.

Now she's back home again, and we're picking up where we left off with developing kitty detente in our house. There's a little less hissing (although still a lot of staring), and King has been allowed by Xan [Editor: One of Lois’ cats] to spend a few hours in the "playpen" (deck, that is). Do you really need her back? ;-)

What's next for King -- sky-diving?

Welcome to Israel!

After many hours in airplanes and in airports, I had the pleasure of a traditional Israeli welcome. I thought my U.S. credentials would allow me to fly through customs. So when the woman in the passport kiosk began asking a lot of questions about whether I was traveling alone and where I was staying, I was taken by surprise. She finally handed my passport back to me and, in yet another line, I waited to pass through a gate manned by an Israeli soldier. You can imagine my shock when he allowed me to pass but handed my documents to someone other than me.

The young woman told me to take a seat because they were going to have to ask me a few questions. Immediately I began to wonder, what had I said or done that had caused concern? Was it the fact that I said I was staying at the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer … I mean, Augusta Victoria Hospital guest house? Did she know that I intended to stay longer than the one month I claimed? Did she know my “return ticket” for Sept. 18 was a dummy? I waited a little nervously as I watched the police question others who had been detained. I assumed the others were Palestinians, who receive such treatment as a matter of course.

More than anything, though, I was curious as to what they would ask me. Finally, after dispatching the other detainees, my name was called. Was this my first trip to Jerusalem? Did I know anyone there? Where was I going to stay? How long was I going to be there? What sites would I see? How was I getting to Jerusalem? What did I do back in the United States? They asked questions like these over and over, as if trying to catch me in a mistake. Their manner was polite if somewhat haughty, as though they wanted me to know they could deny me entry into Israel.

Finally, one officer decided to check out my story that Pastor Mark Holman would be waiting for me and went off in search of him. It was nearly two hours since my plane had landed. I just prayed that Mark hadn’t given up on me and gone home. After a long wait, the officer returned and handed my passport back to me. “Welcome to Israel,” he said. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but this is Israel,” he said.

Israel, indeed – probably the only country in the world where a goody-two-shoes like me might somehow constitute a threat. I pondered these things as I tried to locate my luggage and my ride. Later that day I learned that there had been cases of Western women being wooed by extremists and used to carry contraband into the country. So the cautiousness of the Israelis was not without warrant.

That’s one of the paradoxes of this land: Extremists have carried out horrific attacks on Israelis. But does Israel’s response – police detention, checkpoints, land closures, disenfranchisement – decrease extremism? Or does it intensify it?

For me, the detention was little more than an inconvenience. But it gave me a tiny glimpse into the indignities the Palestinians suffer on a daily basis. For this I’m grateful.

Welcome to Israel, Allison. Welcome, indeed!

Please pass the Kleenex

"Love you."

This simple and unexpected sentiment from one of my cousins at a recent family gathering seemed to open a floodgate of emotion in me. From then on, the mere mention of my upcoming trip and the related two-year separation from family and friends was enough to bring on a shower of tears. My eyes leaked and my nose ran practically the whole four-hour ride home with my sister and brother-in-law. (This was apparently, in my brother-in-law's estimation, one of the most newsworthy events of the weekend.)

Not usually one to cry, I suddenly found myself in tears as, back home, I packed objects that reminded me of those I love. I again grieved the loss of my cat, Frances, who succumbed to kidney failure two years ago, as I disposed of the apparatus I had used to give her fluids. I recycled the plastic detergent bottle poop scoop of my dear departed dog Yukon only after many tears and several photos of the unsightly thing. And a mere glimpse of a family member cleaning or repairing something in my house as they helped me prepare to go left me momentarily blinded by tears. Among the volunteers were my mom and dad, who must have questioned my stability as they helped me two weeks before my departure. Every other thing out of their mouths turned me into a sobbing 6-year-old.

Lucky for me, this crying phase was just a phase and I was able to get back to work. Maybe it was a full moon. Maybe it was stress. Maybe being emotional is to be expected when one is moving to the other side of the world.

Those around us let us know we're cared for by the way they treat us. But maybe it's especially nice, at least once in a while, to be told, "Love you."

"So we loaded up the truck and moved to Cannon Falls ... "

If you had seen our little caravan traveling eastward across southern Minnesota this weekend, you might have thought the Beverly Hillbillies were moving to Cannon Falls.

No, it was actually my family moving most of my worldly goods into a storage unit. After a brisk day of sales at a garage sale at my sister Amy's house, Saturday was a disappointment and Sunday was less than that. So we put our time to good use moving my things into storage. The many boxes and bundles lived in the auxiliary garage and one part of the basement for months. When Amy and her husband, Jerry, and daughter Lenyn moved into the house two years before, we hatched a plan for me to convert the walk-out basement into an apartment. But I put my house in St. Paul on the market just as real estate began its nose dive and I had little interest -- much less a sale -- in the four months it was on the market. The boxes just collected dust in the meantime.

Moving them into an official storage unit made my upcoming move to Jerusalem seem more real. The money I paid ... er, charged ... for a year of storage sure seemed real. And more or less closing the door on our basement apartment dream was a dose of reality.

It was a deeply bittersweet experience -- sweet because of the way my family pitched in to help me overcome one major hurdle; but bitter because I'd soon be leaving this dear family for two years. And no matter that I had been dissatisfied -- the move put me one page closer to the end of a chapter in my life. If it's true that one can miss even a chronic pain when it's gone, there will be more than a tear or two shed for my 11 years in St. Paul.

By the way ...

... my new address will be:

Lutheran Church of the Redeemer
c/o Allison Schmitt
PO Box 14076
Muristan Road
Jerusalem 91140

Drop me a line or, better yet, stop by!

And for some light reading, here is my job description: http://archive.elca.org/globalserve/pd/gm2/Jerusalem_Communications_08.pdf

Change of address

It's been about six weeks since I was offered -- and I accepted -- a two-year post in Jerusalem that starts later this summer. It doesn't feel quite real to me yet -- except for the panic I feel whenever I think about all I have to do before making the big move!

Shortly after an orientation session scheduled for July 8-28 in Chicago, I will serve as communication assistant to the bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan and the Holy Land. It is a global mission position of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America in partnership with the ELCJHL. I will maintain the church's website, write press releases, take photos, help the bishop with speeches and sermons and generally tell the Palestinian people's story to the world. For someone who is passionate about peace and justice, there couldn't be a more ideal job.

In the meantime, I'm trying to learn a little Arabic. That's a relatively fun part of the preparations. The not-so-fun part is selling my truck and getting the house ready for renters. That is, assuming I find renters. I'll be in a pickle if I don't, since my missionary salary of $675 a month is probably not enough to live on there AND pay my mortgage here. I guess this is where faith comes in, mine and yours. Please keep me in your prayers as I get ready for this big change of address!