divisions

We're not supposed to speak to the Arab waiters in the restaurant anymore.  I don't know if something happened or if there was just aggressive flirting going on.  I don't necessarily understand, but I do trust N. when he gave us these instructions.  We're not supposed to speak to them-- but today one of them blocked my way to the door and asked my name, and I had to tell him.  This brief encounter has left me slightly flummoxed.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but this waiter has a nice face and gentle eyes-- not like some of the others, whose eyes get predatory when they smile at me-- and yesterday while I was walking with M. she greeted him in the parking lot.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but I almost wonder if this waiter is Jewish, and not Arab.

And the fact that his ethnicity matters so much to me makes me angry.  Drawing such strict distinctions feels racist and prejudiced and wrong.  But, I remind myself, perhaps it's less a racist thing than a cultural allowance.  The moshav residents understand that we foreign female volunteers are not promiscuous, no matter what our films and television shows might portray.  In the Arab culture, perhaps there has been less exposure to foreign women, so maybe it leaves much more of an impact when we wear short sleeves, or smile, or say hello, or look men in the eyes . . .

I don't know the cultural mandates exactly.  I just know how much it all grieves me.  We were never meant to live like this, separated from and wary of those we live with.  We were meant to be unified and live at peace with one another.


Come, Lord Jesus . . .

Thy Kingdom come . . .

Today I visited ha'Kotel for the very first time.

It was much more intense than I could have imagined it being.

Even though I prepared myself for strong emotions there, at the place now called the Wailing Wall, I wasn't quite ready for the wave of grief that swept over me.  All around me were women-- Orthodox, modern, little girls in jeans skirts, women my age in jeans, babushkas, mothers with little babies-- praying.  Though I always knew why this was such an important place to the Jewish people, I had never really felt the greatness of the tragedy which overcame them.  To have a covenant with God, to be gifted as the only nation with that, and then lose it?  There are no words to describe the horror, the pain, the brokenness.

No words-- but all those emotions were captured and manifested in the prayers of the women at the Wailing Wall.  Whether they were rocking and praying through their books, praying quietly, praying in broken whispers, sobbing out prayers, they all were crying out the heartbreak of hundreds of generations of their people.

And I cried, too, because the remedy to their pain dwells within me, but many-- most-- of them . . . don't want Him.

when I look at the stars

Entering Israel yesterday was fairly horrible in some ways.  By the time I got to the Tel Aviv airport, I was ready to emotionally collapse and cry out of exhaustion and tension and anxiety.  But there was one little thing that kept me from that.

On the flight from Warsaw to Tel Aviv, I woke as the pilot announced we were approximately twenty-five minutes from landing.  I peered out the window, hoping for a first glimpse of the land.  There were no lights below-- we were still over water-- but. . .
Above and around me were scattered stars, more stars than I have seen in months, and certainly far more than I have ever seen from an airplane.  They were only clear for a few moments, but I somehow couldn't catch my breath the whole time I looked at them.
I thought about it later, while I was sitting in a hot little sheirut waiting for our driver to find one more passenger so we could begin our journey toward Jerusalem.  It was a perfectly fitting little vignette in this story.

When I was frightened nearly out of my mind, God confronted me with this skyfull of stars.
"Just as I was faithful to Abraham under these same stars," He was whispering.  "So I will be faithful to you now."

give me wings

on the plane from Boston to Chicago

I never realized until today how much I love take-off.  Maybe it's because it's always the same.  No matter what language the flight attendants speak, the planes all speak a common tongue.

I speak it, too.
I may not be knowledgeable about the inner workings of the engine, or understand the science behind flight.  But I know the racing-pulse of the engines, remember the thrill of lift-off, anticipate the glee of peering down on the Earth from far above.  It's a marvel, yes, but a familiar one.  I've been doing this since I was born.  Perhaps it's in my blood, to some extent.  Born to an aviation mechanic, raised under an international and military flight path, growing up as a frequent stand-by passenger-- I am a comfortable and usually-happy fly-er.  Oh sure, there's a bit of nerves before flight, sometimes during the flights (especially at landing)-- but I think that's true of any relationship.

And we are friends-- flight and I . . .

talking to strangers

I was at the cash register, looking down and counting out the right amount, when the pharmacy cashier asked his question.
"Oh . .. are you . . ."  I glanced up, saw his eyes fastened on the Star of David necklace I was wearing, and smiled.
"No.  I'm not Jewish."

I'm used to the question from months of wearing the Star in an attempt to engage strangers in conversation about faith.  It's worked pretty well; no one asks about a cross, but a Star of David-- that's different, odd, provocative.  Most people won't ask past the preliminary ethnic/religious-background question.  If they do, I explain that I believe that Jesus Christ is the fulfillment of the promises of a Jewish Messiah, and therefore the Star is a very fitting symbol for me to wear.

This cashier asked more.

"Not Jewish?  What about Israel?  They're like my favorite country in the world."
"Well, I'm living in Israel for three months," I began.  His eyes lit up.
"I went on a missions trip to Israel," he informed me.  "I led a group of kids-- kids about your age."

I've had conversations like this before, where the other person is at least sympathetic toward if not entirely pro-Israel.  They're my favorite type.

"What will you be doing there?" he asked.  I explained, and he nodded, his eyes eager and happy.  "You'll love it," he said.  "The food is great, and the people . . . you have to come back and tell me about it.  I'll probably still be working here."  His last words had a hint of a sigh in them, but the glow in his eyes still didn't fade.

This was the first time I'd told a complete stranger about my trip.  It was a strange feeling.  It made this impending adventure feel . . . real.