let it rain

For my entire time in Israel, I dreamed of seeing the rain fall on ha'Eretz.  During the summer, everyone told me, "It never rains before October, maybe September."

As I was originally going to leave in the middle of September, it seemed highly unlikely that I would be there for ha'yoreh (the first rain).

Oh, sure, there were some scattered sprinkles on a few days . . . but I was assured by many that when the real first rain came, it would soak the ground and everything else, it would wash away all the dust of the summer, it would bring up the smell of the good fertile soil, it would be intense and definite.

This morning, my last in Israel, when I walked to the Biblical Garden to watch the sun rise, I could see that the roads and bushes were wet.  The rain had fallen in the night . . . and I had missed it.  Knowing it had come was good; but knowing that I had missed it was rather heart-wrenching.

Then, tonight, two hours before I had to leave Yad HaShmona for the airport, we were in moadon watching Nooma videos . . . and there was a sudden drumming on the roof.

Though I'd been half-asleep, I leaped up, sprinted outside . . .
and there . . .
was the rain.

It was everything I'd been told it would be-- strong, intense, breath-taking, fully soaking.  It rushed over my face, my outstretched hands and arms.  It soaked my hair within a few moments, streamed down my under my sweatshirt, splashed over my bare feet.  I closed my eyes, tilted my face up toward the sky, wept, prayed, thanked God.

I knew I had to go inside, back to my room, do my final packing and gathering . . . but I didn't want to leave the rain, this symbol of God's goodness and faithfulness.  But I had to go.

Just as I opened my eyes, put my hands down, turned to go back inside . . .
the rain . . .
stopped.

First it slowed to a few scattered drops, then, as I stepped up into moadon, it ceased entirely.

And I knew, deep in my heart of hearts, that it was a special whispered goodbye just for me from my Savior . . . reminding me that, no matter how impossible I think my requests are, He is always strong, always faithful, always able.

Barukh atah Adonai eloheinu, melech ha'olam.
Blessed are You Lord God, King of the universe.

the day that they're gonna throw it back to you

Housekeeping morning shift was rather brutal.  Thirteen rooms, five people, and five hours?  Not so good.
Our lunch table was silent from exhaustion and other maladies.  G. from the Dominican Republic was feeling ill, trying to find something to calm his churning stomach.  O. from Russia was enjoying her breaking-fast meal.  I was miserable, suffering a tension headache, feeling guilty over the way work had gone thus far, and certain R. from Colombia was furious with me for slacking.  And R., across from me, seemed either angry or intent on his food.
From under my eyelashes, I watched them all.  G. was eating slowly, his head bowed, uncharacteristically cheerless over the food.  He didn't meet my eyes.  O. acknowledged my glance, but was too busy to talk.  R. put an olive in his mouth, searching for the pit.  His dark eyes met mine as he removed the pit with a finger and thumb.  I dropped my eyes again, using my fork to scrape up my rice.
"How are you feeling?"
"What?"  I glanced up, startled.  R. ate another olive, removing the pit and lining it up with the others on the edge of his plate, and repeated his question.
"How are you feeling?  About your last week . . . your last day of work?"
Without my consent, my lips turned up, twitching with laughter.  R.'s mouth matched my smile.
"What are you laughing about?" he asked.  I shook my head.
"That was such an abrupt question," I told him, taking the time to explain the word "abrupt" to answer the question I saw in his raised eyebrows.  And then I answered his query.
"I don't really feel like I'm leaving yet.  Or like I'm going home.  I'm not excited to say goodbye.  I don't think it will really hit me until Wednesday, when we come back from the volunteers' trip and I really have to start saying my goodbyes."  I paused for a moment.  "But I am," I added, "excited that today is my last day of work."
He grinned at me, eyes showing his total understanding, and I smiled back at him.

just when we think it's almost over

It is odd, I think, how many conversations in my life feel half-finished; how many moments feel half-undone; how many relationships feel half-begun; how many places feel only half-explored.

Until recently, I had some kind of terror about these feelings.  I still do, to some extent, but it's become better.

Do these feelings of unfinished-ness signal that God will someday allow me restart the conversations, complete the moments, deepen the relationships, revisit the places?  I don't know.  But I am learning, I think, little by little, to leave the half-finished moments in God's hands and trust Him-- either that He will finish them (in His time) or that, contrary to my feelings, these moments actually are finished.

And there is great peace in believing that.

on boarding an Israeli bus

Right now, I can't help but touch the stranger ahead of me.  The bodies behind me push me forward, into his broad back.  I want to apologize, but he looks Israeli and is probably used to it.  I'm sorry, though, random sort-of-hippie-looking man with the fife and violin case, for being all up in your space and breathing down your neck.  I marvel, as I stand (my backpack over my stomach, pressed into hippie-man's waist) staring at his knit vest, at how physically close we are without apologies . . . closer, actually, than I would ever stand to most of my friends.  I feel the breath-- the rising, falling ribcage-- of the large-ish woman behind me, and somehow it nearly moves me to tears.  Without thinking, I place my hand in the middle of hippie-man's back, lean my head toward his shoulderblade.  I needed, somehow, this secure over-warm mass of pressing bodies.

Then we move, lurching forward as one overgrown amoebic creature, and I lose hippie-man and his woolen vest and the woman behind me.  Now, at the foot of the bus-stairs, a soldier-man (plainclothes) and another woman (my mama's age) find ourselves in gridlock, smashed into some kind of impossible sandwich.  Wordlessly, without eye contact, even, the soldier-man and I push the woman forward, hands under her elbows, semi-hoisting her up into the bus.  I force my way behind her, clutching the stair railing to claim my spot.  You seem annoyed, solider-man, or so I gather from the way you grab the railing on either side of me and push right against my back.  The mama-woman shifts back into me, and I all but topple back into soldier-man.  His chest, stomach, hips catch me, steady me, but I can't slide away with a mumbled apology, as all my cultural instincts command me to.  Instead, I am forced to wait there, pressed against his body, depending on him to keep my balance.  I can feel his muscles flex and move against my back as he shifts his balance.  At home, I would be irritated, nervous, even incensed, at this closeness.  But here, I'm not.  In fact, it's bringing me strange peace.

So I stand still, feeling the life throb through us all, all together, and hear the breath of the mama-woman ahead of me and memorize the muscles of the soldier-man behind me.  Both of them now feel less like strangers.

I know, once on the bus, we will find our own seats, carve out our own spaces, avoid each others' eyes.  But for now, we're forced to need each other, and our need leads us to a strange temporary intimacy.


I think I prefer the strangeness to the awful defiant independence.

untitled

I prayed for yellows— meadows of flowers, sunshiny breakfasts, warm laughter with good friends.

I prayed for greens— cool evenings, long quiet walks, days spent lying under trees and watching breezes dance in the leaves.

I prayed for oranges— tempestuous invigorating debates, slow kisses, intense whispers, fiery callings, definite urgent leadings.

I prayed for purples— glory and fame, instances of basking in the fawning of admirers, the swirl of social gatherings centered around me.

I even prayed for blues— the wracking sobs that give full relief, the deep sorrow that cleanses like a flood, the communal grief that creates forever bonds.


But instead, You gave me reds— a pulsing, aching, longing, unanswered desire;  a straining, reaching, fingertips-nearly-touching chase; a throbbing, insistent, terribly-perfect silence.

I think I cannot bear it.  I crouch, scream, weep, plead, outright beg for this terrible silent red to be broken.
But You are firm and do not relent.

I cannot, cannot, cannot . . .

And then I remember . . .

it was this red that You suffered, endured, for me.  It was this red that You shouldered as Your love spilled out in rich waves from Your heart.  It was this red that You screamed against— My God, why have You forsaken Me?!?— as Your ears strained for a Voice, a word, a whisper even, from Heaven.



It was this red that You saw through to the end . . . for me.

I remember this, and it makes me strong.

And I realize . . . the red doesn’t mean there will be no joyful yellows.
(It was the most ecstatic yellow that followed three days later.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no peaceful greens.
(It was the deepest green that was purchased in those moments.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no ardent oranges.
(It was the most burning orange that impassioned You to complete Your task.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no glorious purples.
(It was the most awing purple that was made available through Your actions.)

And it obviously doesn’t mean there will be no wracking blues.
(It was the most grievous blue that You left in Your wake.)

But it is hard to live in, this silent tortuous red.  It forces me to examine everything in its light.  It compels me to admit the truth about all things— even about myself.  It is excruciating and terrifying and difficult.

But I think it is only in the light of the red— the memory of Your agony; my own endurance and acceptance of the unanswered questions— that I can begin to see the vibrance of the yellows and the greens and the oranges and the purples and the blues.

Is it worth it, this terrible invasive all-encompassing throbbing walking-by-faith silence?

I study the shimmer of colors and promises through the lens of the red, and I have just one answer.

Yes.

It is, indeed, worth it.

sing, sweet nightingale

I hate cleaning floors.

There, I said it.  I hate cleaning floors.  Which is kind of awkward, considering I volunteered for about four months of housekeeping.

I'm not really sure why I hate it so much.  Maybe because it generally feels really futile, because I know that in a few minutes/hours/days, all my work will be completely ruined.  Maybe because it's really tedious, taking far longer to cover a small distance than I feel like it should.  Maybe because it forces me to stare at my feet, and I already feel like I do that far too much.

Mostly, actually, I hate cleaning large expanses of floors.  It's difficult to remember where I've cleaned already, it's hard to keep my piles of dust together and somewhere I won't track them all over the rest of the floor, and it seems an even more hopeless case than usual.

Seriously, honestly, cleaning floors often makes me cry.  Don't ask me to explain why.  I don't know.  I'd guess a mixture of frustration and boredom and resentment.

Tonight, during evening shift, I had another one of those cleaning-a-giant-floor meltdown moments.  Burst right into tears in the middle of the empty room.  And while I was blubbering and trying to pray, I said something strange, something I'd honestly not been thinking at all.
"God, I hate cleaning floors.  But right now . . . You have me cleaning floors.  So I'll do it."

And then I remembered something a dear friend told me months ago.
"Remember that all you're doing is preparation for something He might have for you down the road . . . and that you can do it with Him now, instead of by yourself."

Why do we have these nasty floor-cleaning moments, when God sticks us somewhere we hate, doing a job we hate, sometimes with people who are unpleasant?  I have no idea.  But do I have to know?  I don't think so.  I guess, for now, I'll just put my head down, grab God's hand, and clean that floor.  We'll worry about the why later.

mah-mah-mah-mah

There are some people who you meet and never imagine how much you will come to treasure them.

That is what this blog is about.  Actually, one person in particular.

If you've known me for any length of time, you probably know that I love hanging out with boys, but that this isn't necessarily very natural or easy for me.  Growing up, I always wished for an older brother, or lots of brothers (though I was and am extraordinarily thankful for the siblings God gave me).  Alas, this was not to be.  Even in university, though I did make some strong close friendships with guys, I never exactly found that brotherhood I wanted.

Coming to Yad HaShmona, I never imagined I would find these brothers I'd always sought.  I thought that three months (now four) was far too short a time for me to find any level of comfort with new, strange males.  There were three male volunteers, at the time, and only one American boy among them.  Subconsciously, that first month or so, I think we avoided each other . . . not because of any dislike, but because we were both annoyed about our lack of bilingualism and were determined not to hang out only with English-as-first-language people.  After I got over my stupid shyness, though, and actually began talking, we became semi-friends.  And there I thought things would stay.

Then, at the end of August, four of us girls wanted to go to Bet'lehem, which is in Palestinian territory.  We needed a guy to go with us.  So we asked J.  It was a really really good trip, full of J. being a good man and protecting us from annoying or flirtatious Arab men, and culminating with a screaming half-hour of playing on a merry-go-round at a ministry we visited.  At the end of that half-hour, we were all feeling queasy.  There was this tiny moment, as I was hanging over the edge of the merry-go-round, half laughing, half crying, as all the other girls declared they were finished with it, that J. looked at me, and said, "All right, Katie, now you and I."

And right then, oddly, I knew we were really and truly going to be friends.

Since then, this has been confirmed in SO many different ways.  Like the evening I was working housekeeping and he came into the office with two other volunteers and sat down on my lap, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as he did.  Or his fearlessness when it comes to discussing "girl stuff."  Or the day he got his hair cut and let me squeal over him and touch his hair every time I saw him for the rest of the day.  Or his off-the-wall sense of humor and the way he laughs, inviting all around him to join in.  Or his gentleness, during a late-night conversation, with a subject that was extraordinarily emotional to me.  Or the way he hugs me, his long arms wrapping around me nearly twice.  Or how, two days ago, he glimpsed my apparently haggard face and offered to punch out the guy responsible.  Or the way he lets me kiss him "hello" on the cheek.  Or the simple loveliness of sitting on a wall with him today, waiting for lunch and talking about God and life and the future and our plans.  Or the beautiful purity and respect exhibited in his friendships with girls.  Or his finger-spelling to me during lunch today.  Or his obvious desire to serve and please and obey the LORD.

Basically, though he is still young, J. is already the kind of man I am proud to claim as my brother.

So here's to him, and to all the men of God like him.