Didn't somebunny say that Easter is almost here?
For many years, after church I've hosted my family's Easter dinner and then we had an egg hunt in the yard. Instead, I now make reservations for our celebratory meal at the Jackson Country Club for their big Easter buffet.
That taken care of, always one to do a little spring house cleaning I reach for a carton at the side of my recliner. I am very slowly going through a few old boxes from an outside storeroom, and in this one I see some items going back to the early 2000's.
Many years have passed and in some ways my world has gone on as before those times, and in some ways it hasn't I think, as I lift and toss ear plugs, a shredded arm brace, and a small, rusty black funnel into a garbage bag.
I push back in my chair, settle down and let myself remember what I had them for.
***
"Final destination, please?" the Jackson ticket agent had asked.
"Cairo," husband Willard answered.
"Illinois?"
Because of a sore arm, I quickly moved a case of stuff from my left hand to my right before stepping in front of my husband. "Egypt," I said in a small, soft voice, answering for both of us. "Egypt sounds pretentious, colonial, and like belly dancers," I whispered to Willard. "You and I are none of the above. And it's almost Easter."
Following Willard toward our gate, I once again had to shift the case, this time right to left. It’s not like I had a major problem, it’s just that my right hand was affected with carpal tunnel syndrome and was velcroed with a black brace. Too much computer and mouse pushing the doctor had said. I walked a little slower than usual because I had a small bladder infection.
I had to have my stuff with me; terry cloth house slippers to wear on the plane, ear plugs, blackout eye shades, my Bible, converters and plugs for electric sockets, my laptop and portable printer. And in case I couldn’t find a ladies room, I had a small metal funnel with a cup attached; my own private outhouse, fashioned by my loving husband.
Twelve hours is a long time to be squooshed into a very small seat. Air Egypt allowed two cubes of ice apiece with their soft drinks, served no cocktails and only one meal. We were heading into a different country, one with a different culture and religion, Muslim. A pathologist from Egypt, who was now a US citizen and practiced in New Orleans, sat next to me. Right in the middle of our conversation, he dropped his head, his arms began waving like bull rushes in a river breeze. The time had come for him to chant his prayers to Allah.
"It's a wide world out there," I said.
"'This is our Father's world'," I sang to myself. "'And blest be the ties that bind'."
***
Air Egypt finally reduced power and the plane dropped through white clouds that made dark shadows on the tawny sand. Far down below us Willard and I could see a step pyramid, our first view of an ancient ruin; our turn widened and the huge city of Cairo came into view.
When the plane hit the runway, the engines stirred up so much copper colored dust that it looked like we were in a sandstorm. Taxiing toward the terminal I saw no Delta, Continental, American, or Northwest planes. Instead, unfamiliar names: Pakistani Air, Royal Jordanian, Ethiopian, Air Yemeni, Pharoh, Sudan. The name on our plane, Seti I.
All of the Americans from the plane loaded on a bus and we were led by a police escort and were followed by a truck with machine guns. Cairo was an immense, confusing city, and I liked it immediately; it was like being plopped down on the set of an exotic movie. Mile after mile of adobe colored, flat top high-rises, all of them with slightly bent satellite dishes on top and facing one direction, as if they were praying to the great Mecca dish in the sky.
The early morning traffic was a tangle of motorbikes, bicycles, taxis, buses and trucks spitting out black smoke. Each moving vehicle or person nudged for space on the crowded streets, all the while drivers leaned on their horns and people called out to one another. Twisting off the main roads were alleys that could have been there for hundreds of years. People chewing on stalks of sugar cane or smoking water pipes, sat out in front of cafes or small stores. Women, most of them with their heads covered, some of them enshrouded head to foot in black robes, followed their men who were clad in flowing gray, green, or beige robes. Rugs, bedding, and drying clothes hung from almost every window on long poles. If they had washing machines in these buildings, there were apparently no dryers.
Approximately 30 hours since we left home we finally pulled up to our large four star hotel with beautiful grounds and accommodations.
This was Easter weekend, a celebration and a holiday for Egyptians, so the Marriott was full. Most everyone we encountered said, "Happy Easter," in hard to understand, back of the throat guttural "h" sounds.
Over and over, "Loves redeeming work is done," I hummed to myself.
"Egypt is the gift of the Nile," I had read someplace. Checked into our room and standing at the window of our seventh floor room, Willard and I could look out and see the magnificent Nile, with sailboats belling and gliding down it, and floating restaurants looking like small palaces.
In our room the water was not fit to brush our teeth in or drink; only bottled water was safe. I shook my head. "Traveling is not for sissies."
Afraid we would forget, Willard tied his underwear over the spigot as a reminder not to turn it on. "It's Easter in Egypt," he said, "And we are here in the same lands that Jesus walked in. Why don't you read your Bible, and then we'll close our eyes and have a short prayer." Leave it to Willard to grasp the real significance of this magical place.
***
I blow out a sigh of relief the size of an Easter egg. This year I didn’t dye eggs or bake a ham and turkey—the Boggan family no longer runs through the backyard carrying baskets and looking for candy and eggs.
And Easter, always so many unresolved questions, I think.
I bend over from my chair and lift up a Northminster Church Bulletin that was printed on March 30th, the Fourth Sunday in Lent and read a quotation written by Anne Lamott. "I do not understand the mystery of grace, only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us."
Setting the bulletin down, I get up from my chair, lift the garbage bag filled with ear plugs, a shredded arm brace, and a small, rusty black funnel and march toward the trash can.
Peace spreads through my being as I whisper, "'We is more than us'."
