River Market, Kansas City.  

A window, veiled in sun bleached fabric.  The image invites me to consider the way we all shroud what is within with our own garments, torn, faced, stained, and wrinkled.  What lies behind?  That which we seek to protect, which we seek to guard, that we will not show, or reveal.  Shrouded windows make me wonder, what lies behind?  What lies within?  What care needs given or what beauty awaits?  How much I shroud my own innerworkings, with my humor, my sarcasm, my silence.  Do others ever wonder, what lies behind the shroud or are we content, to just see that which is on the surface, never to ask what is beneath?  

What awaits

Bright white cloud on the horizon,
worn paths beckon me onward
beyond the present into that which waits
a place of light, unknown, distant
Away from here, loaded with the
daily burdens of captive life
longing, longing, to leave and arrive
in a land of light and liberty

Day old coffee grounds cold at sunrise

Sharp must of stale earth

Yesterday's joy grows old too quick.

Cementerio Maria Magdalena de Pazzis

On day four, our last day in San Juan, we decided to go back to the fort to explore the rest of the fort. Castillo de San Cristabol is actually the newer section of the fort, built over a hundred years after the first fortification, Castillo de San Felipe del Marro. San Cristabol is an impressive and beautiful structure. The newer space is refined and clearly built with both beauty and functionality in mind. Castillo De San Felipe del Marro, or El Morro for short, looks and feels like a fortification.

Today, there were no cruise ships in port. Traffic was clear, the streets were easily navigated. We walked up to Castillo de San Cristabol, and from there skirted protected fortifications along Norzagaray, a street that borders the ruins of the fort. The city has overrun the old fort. In the late 16th Century as the fortifications were being built, the fort was the city. Walls, some still present between houses and businesses which have grown up over the centuries over and around the original fortifications. Here one can see progress covering up history. The two main fortifications are separated by about a 3/4 mile of walking. We decided that instead of waiting for a trolley to take us to El Morro, we would walk.

Along the way, I encountered an interesting site. In fact we would encounter these in every town and village we would visit from here on out. In the middle of this bustling city was a colorful outdoor basketball court. Bleachers sat on one side facing a court decorated in brilliant colors that reflected

Carmelo's Court 

the colors of many of the houses in the neighborhood. What caught my attention was a name in huge white font across one side of the court: Carmelo Anthony Court. I am no aficionado of the NBA, but even that name rings a bell. This court was built by Anthony in the La Perla neighborhood, a low income neighborhood of Old San Juan. Since then, Anthony's foundation has built 4 other courts in low income neighborhoods and villages across Puerto Rico promoting the Puerto Rican's beloved sport, Basketball. Two sports reign supreme here, basketball and baseball. There are multiple venues for these sports even in the smallest villages. An older gentleman stopped and watched me take pictures of the court, and in broken English agreed that the court was beautiful, he was proud of it, you could tell. Then, he invited us into his neighborhood to visit, and see the beauty of his community. La Perla is a paradox, low income houses situated right on the island shore, facing the majestic beauty of the ocean. 

We arrived at the terrace of El Morro. The terrace is several football fields long and wide. It is a huge expanse of space that serves as an open space public park. There, we saw youth programs doing exercises on the lawn, smoothie vendors, fruit vendors, families picnicking, and kite vendors, yes, KITES. The green space is huge and without buildings or trees to slow the ocean breezes down, the constant flow of wind is ideal for kite flying. Children and Families were flying kites, over a dozen in the air. The atmosphere was festive and it felt like the city's gathering place.

El Morro is flanked on the North by Cementerio Maria Magdalena de Pazzis. A beautiful historic cemetery and chapel in Old San Juan. The fort itself also houses a still active automated lighthouse. Its architecture is much more rustic, more simple, the fort was built for defense not comfort. Even the refined rooms held a more simple beauty, archways were simple. You can see the differences in the architecture in the images of the two sets of archways.

I did not want to leave Old San Juan, it held the allure of beautiful architecture, narrow cobblestone streets and history. Perhaps, another day, we will find our way back to explore more. After another long day of walking, climbing, looking and talking, Terri and I headed out of Old San Juan and South West, across the island to Guanica, our next stopping point and the start of new adventures. 

Archways at Castillo de San Cristabol

Archways at El Morrow

Day Three, El Yunque

Of all the things that Terri said she wanted to do while on vacation in this tropical paradise, hiking in the rain-forest was near the top. We had that opportunity at El Yunque, a US National Forest a half hours drive from the hotel we were staying at.

The forest is a 28,000 acre reserve situated near the Northeastern tip of the Island. The forest receives nearly 200 inches of rain annually. The island forest has over 150 species of animals and fish, however, there are no large animals that live naturally in this forest.

We entered the forest on a small foot path just off a roadside parking spot:  La Coca trail, named for the La Coca falls. The trail would cross the stream at the foot of the falls.  I had read online a little about this specific trail, it was supposed to be a little technical, a good hike and take you deep into the rain forest. The sign indicated a 1.6 mile hike awaited us. I did not pay attention to the elevation difference, the highest elevation on the climb would be 1476 feet above sea level, and at the lowest we would be at 820 feet above sea level. A
difference of 656 feet! By the end of the hike, which traversed hillside and valley numerous times we had easily walked 3.2 miles of trail, we had easily climbed .5 miles.

For the first few hundred yards I continued to feel like I was in another land. Like some magical land in a Jules Vern story, we walked a fairly manicured path through the dense undergrowth until we reached a wide spot where the trail picked its way across a bolder strewn rain-forest stream. Here, looking up stream a few hundred feet was a small rain-forest waterfall. We could have ended our trek

here, the view was beautiful; however we had hopes of seeing a larger waterfall deeper in the rain-forest. The trail picked up on the other side of the stream, so we picked our way across the boulders to a set of vertical rock steps carefully laid up the steep opposing slope of the stream. We traversed the steps and found ourselves on a new path, one that had very little tending and was at times no wider than two feet side by side. The trail from here was somewhat precarious, and not well marked. Occasionally I stopped to carve a notch on a tree for way-finding later, or took note of other notches or flags that previous hikers had placed so the trail could be identified in the deep undergrowth. By the time we reached our midway point, we were ready for a rest. We thought there would be some large fall at the midway point, however, there was no waterfall, just cool mountain water flowing loudly between rocks the size of my pick-up truck. We sat and relished the walk so far and ate a power bar, drank some water. For a moment, we were so alone, it felt like we had discovered this secret place and were the first to lay eyes on it.

Our hike out was uneventful, by the time we found the car we were ready for some air conditioning and a real meal. We headed down the mountain into the neighborhoods East of San Juan and found a little bakery and we enjoyed breakfast and a pastry. We were tired conquerors. It was a day to remember, something we never dreamed we would do, strike out on an adventure deep into a wilderness trail.

That night, dinner refueled our bodies, our walk, refueled our imagination and sense of adventure.

Day Two, our first full day in this new world. We had planned while in San Juan area to visit the historic old San Juan and the fort ". This ended up being a trip highlight. The old Fort is a wonderful work of architecture and fortification. I have never been able to climb around anything this old. Even when I was in Moscow and we visited St Basil’s Cathedral (1560s) we were very limited in where we could move. The fort offered us few limits, the grounds, the tunnels, and the fortifications were all open for people to wander through. Around every wall was another vista, another fortification, another room to explore. It was hot, no air conditioning, and most of the area was outside.

Castillo de San Cristobal (On the right in the map below) is the latter of the two fortresses. According to the history provided by the National Parks Website, "The Spanish Crown then decided to fortify the entrance of the San Juan harbor and commissioned the construction of a fortification in a headland (“morro” in Spanish) on the Western-most side of the San Juan Islet. In 1539, construction of what was to become Fort San Felipe del Morro was initiated." Castillo de San Cristobal was a later

fortification which was constructed during the mid to late 1600's. Both fortifications continued to be modified and served as active military posts even through WWII. Today, the forts are a National Park and World Heritage Site. Later (with pictures I took at Castillo San Felipe del Morrow) you will see the difference in architecture, however both of the forts held a rustic beauty and a strength in their thick walls and heavy doors. 

On the first day in Old San Juan three large cruise ships were docked in San Juan Bay. They were impressive in size and Terri loved it when the deep "fog horn" sounded signaling to the cruise folks that their ride was about to leave. The sound echoed across the hillside and you could feel the vibrations all the way at the top of the fort a half mile away. 

After a long hot day at the fort we were ready to pick our way through the tight city streets back to our car. Along the way, we encountered a lazy local coffee shop and had to stop in for some refreshment and for me, caffeine. We were greeted in English as was the usual on this side of the island, ordered a cold drink and a coffee. We sat and reflected on our day's journey and enjoyed a respite before the long walk back to the car.

8 days of grace.

Adventures start with a long gaze into an unknown future. In December our church presented us with a travel voucher, a presentation certificate, a diploma of sorts, showing we had graduated from the mundane, the everyday life and were now permitted to head out on an adventure. The paper only told us how much we had to spend. The 4 arrows on the compass beckoned to us, North to cool weather, deep green forests, East to the coast, the sophistication and distinction of our nation’s first colonies. The hipster and progressive West coast wooed us: “Hang in Seattle Kick Back in San Diego, be young again.” Perhaps we would go South, to the beaches of Galveston or the tropical tip of Florida. All of these possibilities called to us, “adventure awaits here…” Yet, part of me yearned for an adventure beyond the confines of the lower 48.

A gamble, a risk, a hope struck me, what if we went to Puerto Rico? How much more will that cost us? A quick internet search for airline tickets yielded an adventurers dream, the cost of traveling to this tiny Island stocked full of adventure and other-world charm was a tiny bit more than going to the farthest point we could reach here in the contiguous 48. A long gaze into the future had begun. A few meetings with a travel agent, a few tweaks of travel and lodging plans and we booked our flights and lodging. Then, the hardest part was waiting.

The most dangerous part of adventure is waiting.  The anticipation of adventure has a way of stealing your focus and leaving you dreaming. You find your thoughts wandering from the work at hand and gazing into a computer screen at the pictures from someone else’s adventure. Soon, they will be your pictures, they will be your stories, it will be your adventure. So these next 8 posts are intended to give you a moment to gaze into our adventure, and hopefully, give you pause to dream of your own adventure.

Day One: Wednesday April 29, we woke early; bags had been packed since last night. Lisa, a friend from church, was going to arrive at the house early to take us to the airport for our 7:20 flight. Anticipation was high, we were ready for a break, Terri had just finished a grueling tax season, and I had just not taken a break in way too long. The John Denver song, “Leav’in On A Jet Plane” was rolling in my head. We said goodbye to Esther, reluctant to leave our family for such a far destination. As it turned out, our church family adopted her for the week, keeping her busy, well fed, active and laughing. While we were sharing trip photos with our girls, she was sending photos of cookies and puppies back to us, we knew she was in good hands.

The flight was not bad, an hour and a half to Atlanta, then a 3 hour flight to Puerto Rico, a short travel day for what felt like another country. Funny how many people asked us if we had our passports ready, somewhere our history classes and our government classes forgot to teach us that Puerto Rico is a US Territory. We had all the ease of moving around just like in the states, driving, familiar laws, and a bunch of signs we could not read but figured out by their familiar shape. We had all the adventure of going to another land. Puerto Rico retains much of its culture, language, food and architecture.

We have the benefit of having friends who grew up in Puerto Rico. We went over to one of their houses for dinner before we left. Michelle’s parents who still live in a mountain town in Peurto Rico were there and together we planned out some of our adventures once we reached the island. Michelle cooked us a homemade Puerto Rican meal. So when we landed in San Juan, we did not head for the first Dominoes, Chinese (Plenty of these) or Mexican Restaurant we saw, we asked a local where the best local food was. We were told about two places and she began to give us directions. Between her accent and our complete disorientation we tried to navigate to one of the local eateries. We had confidence, we had Garmin, but this place was off-grid! We tried google maps, but lost signal at every turn, so we finally gave up and found the second place, an hour later.

On our first night we ate at Don PePe’s a little restaurant a mile from our hotel. We walked in, the lower portion seated about 30 and was full with people lingering over good smelling food and beverages listening to a three piece jazz band. We took a seat and began to look through the menu. It was in both Spanish and English, so ordering was easy. Terri was looking forward to sea food, since we happened to be so near the sea! I was just looking for something local. I ordered the fried pork, rice and beans, so similar to what Michelle had prepared for us, Terri ordered a lobster and rice dish. After a day of traveling, we had arrived, we were reclining in a local dive, dining on local flavor, and listening to a little local ensemble fill the night air with music.
Day one ends with us returning to the hotel, listening to the ocean beckon, but I am old, older than I like to admit so rest called louder than the breakers.

Hope

Dandelion

Sacred seed drifts forth

Lodging deep in stony heart

Life blooms recklessly 

Out near Osawatomie Kansas, we found an abandon bridge.  The old 1st Street bridge had been closed to traffic for years.  The old wood planks on the bridge floor were barely safe for foot travel.  I climbed down the embankment to the bank of the Marais des Cygnes River.  Underneath the bridge there was an interesting sight; a dandelion seed had found its way between two rocks in the foundation.  There, somehow, it found soil and water enough to live and bloom. 

Life emerges in unsuspecting places.  Perhaps it is reckless, or indiscriminate; but life emerges where we least expect it.  The little flower was a parable of hope.  Hope that between the rock and hard place, we can still grow.  Trials we will have with us always, the art of life is to grow where ever we are planted.  Jesus told a parable about a farmer who it seemingly indiscriminately sowed seed.  Some landed and was eaten by birds, some landed in the thorns and was choked out, some landed among the rocks and did not last, and some landed on good soil and grew and produced seed.  Perhaps this little dandelion reminded me, the good soil, is wherever life is permitted to flourish.  The seed, perhaps we can call it Hope, will bloom where ever the soil permits.  That seed can find a fissure in nearly any environment and there, if permitted, it will grow.    

Zion Church, Nebraska

Deserted Church Central Nebraska

Sunset glows through amber veil

Wood cloaked apse bathed in yellow hews

Impoverished lights cast no glow

Phantom souls fill the cold hard pews

Prairie wind howls through cracked mosaics

Ghost choir sings its eerie hymn

The sacred desk lay silent wasting

No crier to proclaim our carnal sins

Store up O church divine wealth

Spend your riches on human kind

Here moth and rust give way to schism 

The faithful leave the church behind

On my way home from a retreat at the Benedictine Center in Schuyler Nebraska I found this deserted Presbyterian Church.  Zion once stood proud at the intersection of Highway 15 and County Road U111.  Today, she stands as a reminder of days gone by.  Perhaps the population has shifted in the wake of corporate farming.  Perhaps the population of a nation is shifting away from the church.  Across the road, the church cemetery lay silent.  Someone takes care of it, grooming the grass, trimming bushes.  So many of our churches are becoming graveyards.  Empty pews, challenging mortgages, and an inward focus is driving the institution to irrelevance.   The last line of this poem states "The faithful leave the church behind."  Perhaps for some this is a sad event, or perhaps, the faithful leaving are departing from mortgages, overhead, and upkeep and spending their human and financial resources on the community in need.  Buildings soon become superfluous.  

Sacred Profane

Profane

Sacred desk
              Profane space

Pulpit silent—no voice drifts   
     toward hearing ears.

Gangland Tag: “Holy” was here  
Holy   
Holy                                      
Holy

Lord God Almighty where is the church!

Are we fleeing the coming wrath

or

Running headlong

     arms           open          wide

A giant net of love and hope

      set to catch a falling star

      a human soul

Run church run!

Leave your hallowed sacred desk

and tag the world
                               Love has come….

About the Image: 

I wrote this verse as a reflection of what I saw just off I-80 in Nebraska.  Just 100 yards off the Highway sets and abandon church.  Windows are gone, pews are piled up and the old organ is smashed. The pulpit still stands alone in the corner surrounded by graffiti filled walls.  The words on the walls are both profane and sacred.  The side of the building still reads “God is with you.” 

I am caught by the decay of church buildings.   It challenges me to see the church not as architecture but as a sent people.  Sent to a world longing for hope, a world outside the walls.  Too many pulpits face empty pews.  The hope of the Gospel must incarnationally leave the building, empowered by both faith and deed.  Then, the church will once again encounter a hurting world and leave her mark on history. 

Doors

I am a photographer of opportunity.  I throw the camera in the car and head out on trips and don’t quite know what I will see.  Doors fascinate me.  They seem to invite us in yet also keep us closed off.  There is always a curious wonder about a door, what is behind it?  

Recently I visited a friend in ministry and toured the church he pastors.  I pulled up to the lot and saw a large structure, giant parking lot and multiple double door entrances welcoming me to come in.  I went up to the front door and the first three doors I tried were locked.  The last single door was open, so in I went.  He took me on a tour and we saw the gymnasium, dining hall, two large kitchens scads of small classrooms and several large rooms.  As we walked the halls on a mid week day, the giant facility was a ghost town.  There were a few staff walking about, one couple of adults having a conversation in a casual seating area and that was pretty much it. 

What is the purpose of a church building?  Some buildings and their architecture are artistic and esthetic beauty within a community.  Some are generic buildings that serve a worshiping population once or twice a week.  A few offer the families of the church day care for their children.  How does a church justify two kitchens, large rooms and volumes of space when just down the road parents struggle,  families and individuals don’t eat and children walk home after school to empty houses?  

How far have we come?  

In Acts, the people of God gathered in rooms all over the city, they opened their doors and their hearts to each other, they ate together, talked together and shared their limited resources with each other.  Recently some of the members of our congregation gathered at a local meal ministry to serve folks in our community.  We gathered at the Center for Grace, a local church that serves a meal twice a week.  We walked into open doors, filled with people, the smell of food, the chatter of friends.  I love the way the Center for Grace does their ministry, we served the folks at their table, we talked, ate and laughed with the community of people gathered for a meal.  This is what a Church should look like, a modern version of an ancient concept.  The gathered sharing a meal, being loved and Christ was present at each table. 

 

A tale of two sets of doors, one locked and behind them empty halls, another set open, and behind those doors, life!

Beautifully Weathered

South of nowhere I am driving down a two lane Kansas Highway.  As my mind wanders my eye catches the fading green of a modest mid-west farmhouse.  I am drawn in by it's rustic decay and yet vibrant green paint.  I pull off the road, and begin to snap pictures.

What drew me in?  I am not quite sure.  There is nothing really extraordinary about the building, or her surroundings.  The glass is mostly gone, a few rippled panes hang onto time frozen windows.  The roof is nearly rusted through, the old corrugated tin is slowly returning to its elemental state.  The front door is a mere formality at this point.  It will not hold back an intruder, it will not shield anything from summer's heat or winter's icy gale.  Why am I drawn to such decay?

Back in my truck I pass a dozen white farmhouses surrounded by picket fences and summer flowers.  They don't draw me in.  What continues to capture me is the search for the lost.  The lost story. 

Luminosity

Luminosity

Generous light floods forth.

Diverse colors reconcile their boundaries

To play upon the eyes desires to see

Unity

Displayed.

Light outstretched

Reaching deep into darkness,

Beatific,

Beneficent,

Beckoning,

Behold, a light shines in the darkness

And the Darkness--

Welcomed it.  

Lee Jost