One thing I forgot to mention last night (before I fell asleep at my computer), which was the point about my “miracle”. After we reached the top and I had finished blubbing (there aren’t many photos of me at the top for this reason), the pilgrims accompanied by Mr Father-Christmas-look-alike also reached the summit. I decided to detach myself from all the photo taking and bible reading that was going on (my teacher had decided to read, quite appropriately, 1 Kings 19 – when the Lord appeared to Elijah on Horeb) to say ‘hello’ to my fellow pilgrims (ha! “fellow pilgrims” sounds so pompous!). I found Mr Father-Christmas-look-alike sitting on the steps of the little chapel playing ‘Amazing Grace’ on his ocarina. I approached, smiled, and thanked him for the music.

He smiled and asked “are you a Christian?”.

Yes, I am (!) I am a Christian. No hesitation. No doubt. Just the joy of being able to say it without worry of some accusatory remark or slighted looks made in return. It is bad that I find it easier to witness to total strangers than to people I know?

It turned out that the dude’s name was Christopher and he was from Poland. “My name is Christopher…like Christ, yes?” I was thinking these EXACT words! Weird coincidence? But then again, they say that there are no coincidences with God.

Was it a miracle? Perhaps the term ‘miracle’ may not stand up to the criticisms of the Vatican’s miracle committee, but there was certainly divine intervention somewhere on that journey. God answered my prayers just when I needed it. No doubt about that.

The evening after the climb was less eventful in terms of declamatory dreams, but more significant in spiritual terms. We have always been warned that spiritual attack could come from anywhere and when we least expect it. Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting it.

The setting: three girlies in the pyjamas in a comfy guest room

The context: bedtime reading

What happened: I as looking up something in the Bible, a roommate asked whether I was a Christian, I said ‘yes’, she began to get rather flustered, and then she began ranting at me.

Firstly, let me tell you about the friend with whom I was sharing the room. In her own words, she was a Christian that lost her faith. I’ve never known her well (as in she’s a friend of a friend), but she was one of the strongest believers I’ve met beyond the context of church. She told me that night that her youth group started reading into the background and context of the bible, after which she said she felt that she could no longer believe that the scriptures could truly be the word of God, nor believe that He is all-loving (having read parts of the OT). My heart broke for her when she told me this. To lose faith is a terrible thing because it is so akin to losing love. She started grilling me on how I could believe in the Bible when texts have been edited and changed over the centuries by scholars so that their original meanings have been lost, in addition to which, the original writers were not the original apostles (contrary to what many people believe). However, despite her slightly malformed arguments I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. I guess this sense of pity was the thing that prevented me from going on a hostile defensive against her (which, admittedly, I am prone to do when confronted with stubborn extremists) and which in the end proved to be a far more effective way of preserving my own sanity.

I realised that in order to confront her, I had to first listen and then take care with my replies, lest she pick apart my arguments. On her side were “scientific rational” and hard-core fact (however poorly derived it may have been), but on mine, I had God. (Hurrah! Another cheesy line I had to put in!) The problem, I quickly realised, when reasoning with a Christian-turned-non-believer is that they know most of your arguments already. There’s no point in presenting the dry dogma that you yourself may only half understand in an attempt to baffle the ‘opponent’, as it were. This was the real-deal, proper, deep theology, where I was at risk of drowning if I were not careful. (This is the point when I began praying mentally in a rather desperate manner).

The problem I had with her arguments was that she never once mentioned turning to God for answers. I can’t be sure whether she did in fact do so, nor am I at liberty to judge whether the way she went about questioning her faith was the correct way of going about it, but I felt concerned that she avoided involving God (unless I’d been the one who brought him up). How can you have a theological discussion without mentioning the subjective experience of God?! Perhaps it was because she has been so used to rationalising belief that she has become fixed upon objective justification (she is a hard-core scientist after all), or because of the fact that she no longer believed in God. Whatever her grounds, surely, it is foolish to question faith purely on objective evidence and reason in any context? Especially since God wants us to have a personal relationship with him!

She told me that instead of God/the Bible, she increasingly turned to science for the answers, however, I feel that science cannot provide you with morality or guidance on how to be a better and happier person. Also, beyond the possibility of reducing suffering through diseases, it provides little hope or future prospects. Besides, science is always so busy in producing new and made ideas that we can easily use for the destruction of the world, it is even dubitable whether the good provided by science outweighs the bad prospects at all.

I took away one lesson from this episode, and this we both agreed on: doubt and challenge is beneficial to faith, for it is the only means through which our faith grows (or in my friend’s case, ends). In my view, what separates someone who walks with God and who doesn’t is how they act when faced with challenge: one could either give up faith and accept what the challenger is telling us, or one could stick by God, learn from the challenge and grow (growth in the spiritual sense, not the physical sense!). I hope that I have managed to do the latter.

Looking back on my reflections over the past couple of days, it seems that I found my spiritual insight afterall. Isn't it odd the way God sometimes reveals himself? The journey, as always, has been tough. But then again, Jesus never said anything about it being otherwise. I don't mind though. Afterall, I've climbed a mountain haven't I? Right now, I feel up to facing anything...unfortunately at present, the mountain I'm facing consists of maths practice papers and impending exams.

Sinai…this word could only refer to one thing at school: the exclusive trip near the end of a long school career enjoyed by the lucky few. For such people, a week of starry nights, camel treks and legendary desert hot chocolate awaits, and all this is topped off with a climb up Mount Sinai, the mountain of God, and a day on the beech by the Red Sea. I was one of such privileged people to go this year. I have always known that I would go. ALWAYS. Ever since the first year of school when I heard about this trip I had known that I would make the journey to the desert in seven year’s time. In my heart, my going was not an ‘if’ or ‘maybe’, but an absolute certainty.

I don’t know why this trip appealed so much to me. Over the years of anticipation, I have tried to come up with numerous explanations and reasons it (many of which I used to convince my parents to let me go), such as the ‘once-in-lifetime-opportunity’ argument and the more extreme pilgrimage idea. But in the end, having failed to find a satisfactory reason, I left for the desert at 5 am on the 10^th February 2008 without knowing what motivated me to drag my bones out of bed at such an unsociable time of night, and in addition, to travel with 26 other girls, most of whom I hardly talk to.

A brief outline of events:

- Sunday: arrive at sunset (felt sick from plane journey), drive out into the desert (felt even more sick in the coach), drive further into the desert in 4x4s (almost threw up), which got stuck in soft sand twice. Dinner on arrival (felt much better). Fell asleep staring at a jewelled sky.

- Monday: spent a miserable night in the cold. Breakfast of bread and honey, plus copious cups of strong Bedouin tea. Spent the day scrambling over rocks and climbing up almost cheer rock faces (not good for peeps with short legs – like me). Lunch at a lovely oasis, before a bumpy ride over sand dunes and our driver’s best effort to rid us of the lunch we’d just had. Hot cocoa after supper accompanied with violin playing and stories by Oscar Wilde. Overnight in a wind tunnel of a canyon.

- Tuesday: a quiet night’s sleep had been interrupted with the manic cries of my friend talking in her sleep. Well, screaming in her sleep would be the more accurate picture as the entire camp woke to screams of “centre…centre…EVIL! EVIILLL MAAANNNN!” and her insistence that she was on the edge of a cliff and about to fall off…eh yes…I have the pleasure of knowing some pretty weird people. And so, we rose after an eventful night to what sounded like many loud, grumbling old men with sinus issues – the noises in fact made by our camels. The day was spent trekking on foot, and on camels, further into the desert, passing on the way some Bedouin settlements and ancient burial sits. Lunch was in a wide, white, sandy valley and was followed by reflection time. Our camp that night hugged the cliffs at one side of a plain. Needless to say, the night was cold, windy and the lack of shelter made going to the loo rather embarrassing. It is at times like these that I’m grateful that girls have no qualms about going together.

- Wednesday/Thursday: Much the same story. Wake up cold, with the sun poking its head out of the horizon and to the comforting sounds of camels. Breakfast of copious cups of tea (Bedouin black/red (aka hibiscus tea)) with yummy Bedu flatbread, fig jam, cheese and honey, on top of something hot. It was at this point that I fell in love with falafel. Then trekking till mid-morning tea stop (Bedouin tea is best served hot, black and frequently!). Then lunch (Egyptian oranges are the best I’ve ever eaten and my camel agrees with me, judging by the sounds he made when he ate my peel). Then dispersal time. Then more trekking. Then camp.

The last day with the camels was probably the most fun and the most tiring of all. The wind was unbearably cold (even under 4 layers) and the sand got in everywhere. My camel was feeling even more horny and obstinate than usual, and spent most of his time either sniffing the girl camels’ bums or eating (whilst blatantly ignoring my pleas and abuses in 3 different languages). All the same, the views have been amazing: the giant sand dunes, the “monster rock” with the hole through its eye, the “melting” rocks that look like they’ve been carved by Gaudi…all amazing.

- Friday: woke up and said goodbye to my dear Sukrora (my camu) and his handler, Siad. Fun drive to St Catherine’s by mid-morning, involving 7 raucously singing girls. Then the climb up Mount Sinai: in short, the most painful thing I have ever done. Overnight in St Cat’s

- Saturday: woke up in a bed for the first time in a week. Tour around the monastery (was not impressed by the sight of the burning bush). Quick spot of shopping at a Bedouin women’s craft initiative (loads of pretty sparkly things). Lunch at a local café. Coach ride to the coast and the hotel. Spent the late afternoon on the beach with a terrible longing for the desert.

- Sunday: lie in, breakfast (hot chocolate waffles and tea; Lipton, not Bedouin). Packed. Still missing the desert. Walk along the beach. Coach. Lunch at a local restaurant on a beach (ate fish for the first time in a month). Coach. Airport. A sad departure.