Reu

I always wore my unpierced ears with pride, flaunting them whenever possible, almost as a medal of honor. I explained to people that the money wasn’t worth the trouble to me, described in detail to friends how repulsed I was at the idea of something permanent sticking through my skin.
            And then I met a boy—well, a man, really—and I didn’t “meet” him in the sense that most people would assume.
            It’s a long story.
            I should start at the beginning.
            After I graduated from university, I volunteered and lived on a messianic moshav (communal settlement) in Israel, from June through October 2010. I went with a headful of sightseeing plans and a heartful of secret romantic dreams. I told myself—and others—that this trip was a symbol of how I’d grown, a glorious culminating proof of how God had taught me to live a brave and fearless and content life.
            But I arrived in Israel, June 19, and was terrified. I had few close friends; I spent most free days alone. I was afraid of Jerusalem (a mere twenty minutes away), I was afraid to start conversations with fellow volunteers or moshav members, I was afraid of my roommates, I was afraid of ESLers, I was afraid of my boss. I feared what others thought of me, my ideas, and my thoughts; so I kept silent. I was especially frightened of the boys and men of the moshav. They were stronger in every way, more sure, than the males I was accustomed to, and I wasn’t quite certain how to deal with this strength. Being so petrified of, well, everything crippled my ability to form any relationships. I began to live my “dream trip” as I’d lived my freshman years in high school and university—put your head down, walk fast, don’t let your eyes betray your emotions, don’t open your mouth, and never ever ever fling open your heart.
            I was miserable.
            On July 8, a new male volunteer arrived at the moshav. I was on the way to Jerusalem with a friend, and as we were rushing through the reception lobby, we caught sight of him. He appeared as a tall broad-shouldered strong back, clothed in a striped sweatshirt and topped with thick dark hair. He turned and met my eyes, but I nearly didn't stop because I was in such a hurry. But I put on a smile and put out my hand and said, “welcome.” We learned his name (Reuben) and his home country (Colombia).
            “It’s good to meet you,” I said, then I flew off to Jerusalem and didn’t consider him for the rest of the day.
            I saw Reuben around the moshav in the next couple of days, but didn’t say much to him. He seemed solemn, serious, and I was timid in the face of the depth I sensed in him. I learned that he would be working in housekeeping—the sole male volunteer in that department—and I wondered how he’d be.
            To my surprise, he held his own with all us girls. He made beds and mopped floors; he ran errands and used his Hebrew skills to mediate with angry Jewish guests; he carried heavy baskets and moved boxes. I wasn’t so afraid of him anymore, but I didn’t work to know him more deeply either. He was just Reuben—houseman and enigma.
            Three other girls and I were planning a short trip near the end of July, and one day one of them mentioned that she’d invited Reuben to come with us. I was fine with that—a wee bit relieved, maybe, because then he could drive and use his Hebrew to read road signs and ask directions and such. Then, the day before we left, she dropped the news. Reuben as driver and I as credit-card holder were going to have to go into Jerusalem early in the morning to pick up the rental car and bring it back to the moshav to begin our trip.
            I was irritated. No, more than that, I was upset. Not only did I have to get up early on a day off, I had to spend over an hour alone with Reuben—this tall serious quiet trilingual Latino who still intimidated me in many ways. But, if that was what I had to do to get that car, to go on that trip, I would.
            So he and I arranged it all, met at breakfast, walked to the bus stop in plenty of time, caught the bus with no trouble. We got settled in our seats, then Reuben turned to me and said,
            “Do you want to pray?”
            And all of a sudden, all my irritation and upset and anxiety melted and I knew that here beside me was a very good man.
            All the way to the car rental office, we talked and shared our faith stories (at his initiation). The more we spoke, the less I found myself hesitant and nervous, and the more I felt empathy and kinship with him.
            They wouldn’t rent us the car; they said I needed to be twenty-four in order to rent it. Through a crazy series of events and bus rides and another car rental service, we (all five of us!) made it to our destination. The whole way Reuben kept reminding us that God had the perfect plans in mind for us, and for our journey.
            Of course, he was right. And after that trip, those two days and one night, I learned that I had been far too quick to make up my mind about Reuben. He was serious and soft-spoken, but he had a hilarious sense of humor and a strong sense of leadership. Over the next weeks and months, I began to seriously adore Reu. I asked him hundreds of random questions, beginning conversations about family and culture and faith; I was curious about his opinions and thoughts and personal history. Through our talks, I grew to respect him more than any other man I’d met.
            One day at work—a bad day, one where our boss was gone and Reu was in charge and there was too much work—I trudged to the housekeeping office with my feet bare, a laundry basket on my hip and a pile of sheets under my other arm. Reu came out and met me in the middle of the road, asking me what rooms were finished, if we needed anything else. As we spoke, he reached out and took the bulky sheets away from me. It wasn’t flashy or meant to impress, but gentle, almost unplanned, and given out of a servant’s heart. And in that moment, that tiny gesture, I realized that of all the men I’d known, Reuben best helped me practice my “wife skills”—how to love and respect a man, accepting his service with grace and thankfulness, stepping back and truly listening to his words.
            Then there was another day, when just the two of us were cleaning a room. I was cleaning the bathroom, and leaned out the door to ask him a question about his feelings on a topic relating to marriage. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked such a question, so Reuben wasn’t surprised. His back was toward me as he dusted the room, but I saw him shake his head.
            “Why do women think about this so much?” he asked. I laughed, then sketched the stereotypical reasons—the desires to be beautiful, loved, secure, safe. He turned a little bit toward me, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes. “And do you think you’ll find that with a man?” I shrugged, grinned a little, then verbalized what I’d long known.
            “No. I don’t.” His dark eyes met mine full-on and he tilted his head, calculating.
            “But you—” I knew he meant me, personally. “—you think about this a lot, don’t you?” His question was gentle, unaccusing, but it pierced my very soul. I saw in a sudden flash not only my deep foolishness, but above that, how my skewed focus amounted to idolatry. I managed to answer, honestly—“yes”—but the smallness of my voice kept him from pushing me farther on the matter. The truth was, I’d never been confronted on the practical idolatry of my heart. Reu’s question made me reevaluate my patterns and focus. The disappointment that I saw in those eyes I respected so much pushed me to change. I was shattered at both the realization about myself, and about his disappointment, but I was grateful, too, for his candor.
            Even though I loved Reu so deeply, I found myself clashing with him again and again. One of our most frequent arguments was over “Christian” holidays. Since his heritage was Jewish, his family celebrated the biblical feasts—Sukkot (Tabernacles), Pesach (Passover), Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), and so on. My family celebrated American/Christian “feasts”—Christmas and Easter and such.
            “’Easter’?” he snorted at me once. “What is that?” I explained. “All right,” he continued. “But ‘Easter’? What does that word mean?”
            I googled it later, with him peering over my shoulder. I skimmed the first page that came up—“the goddess Eostre,” “Anglo-Saxon paganism,” “pre-Christian beliefs.”
            “Okay,” I announced, closing the browser. “This isn’t important.” Though I was laughing, he knew I was embarrassed.
            “It’s pagan, isn’t it?” he inquired. My quick nod confirmed, and he shook his head at me.
            Weeks later, the topic came up again, this time focused on Christmas. I argued with Reuben all the way from the room we were cleaning to the dining hall. Paganism, Judaic tradition, the Medieval church, God’s commands—back and forth and back and forth we went. I was frustrated, angry—furious, actually—and near the point of tears. Reu threw one last challenge at me.
            “Well—do you celebrate Halloween?”
            Define “celebrate,” I wanted to say, or Well, not really, or Yes, but . . ., or just plain no. I wanted to lie, to make excuses, but as I looked across the table at him, I knew I couldn’t. Those dark eyes demanded total honesty of me.
            “Yes,” I said. “I do.” He nodded, as if not surprised. I was stung. The pain in my eyes must have been clear, for he raised his hands as if in a gesture of peace.
            “I still respect you,” he told me, and my battered soul snatched at and clung to his words as if to a lifeline.
            “No, you don’t,” my traitor tongue snapped. I wanted to reel back the words. He widened his eyes.
            “Yes. I do.” I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.
            “You don’t have to,” I told him. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think about my decisions.”  Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true.
            Like the wise man he was, Reuben let the matter drop. He didn’t treat me any differently than he had before our “discussion.” The only way I knew he remembered was the way our glances would meet when anyone mentioned Christmas. And I knew he stood by his statement—I still respect you—by the way his lips would twitch into a tiny smile and he would hold his silence.
            There were many other little moments—the times he gently mocked my accent, or tried to explain Hebrew pronunciation; the party where each of us only knew a few others and we clung to each other almost unconsciously; the way I could read what he needed from the office desk (pen? phone? paper? computer?) even before he told me; the afternoon I watched him share the Gospel with two little Orthodox Jewish boys, who threatened to stone him for even saying the name Yeshua; the times he encouraged me to learn Hebrew, reminding me that “if you learn, God will use it”; the amazing day-trip with another dear friend, my first time at Matsada and the Dead Sea, a day that healed much brokenness in my heart; the sound of his laughter when I’d announce, “All right—random question.”
            The absolute truth was I loved and respected and trust him more each day. I knew him to be a honest and good and honorable man, someone who didn’t flirt or treat others carelessly, and that made me respect him even more.
            A few weeks before I left Israel, I was once again cleaning a room with Reuben, asking him all sorts of questions. This time, my questions were focused around one topic. I’d decided to get my left ear’s cartilage pierced, but hadn’t found a shop that would do it for me. When he was younger, Reu had multiple piercings in each ear, and in his face. He’d done some of them himself, so I knew he had some knowledge on the subject. In the middle of the conversation, Reuben stopped, shook his head, and grinned sideways at me.
            “Do you want me to just do it for you?”
            I considered—I knew he had the experience and the necessary steadiness. And I realized, yes, that was exactly what I wanted.
            “Yes,” I told him, and that settled it.
            Reuben told me what I needed to get for the piercing, and finally, one night, everything was in line. I brought the jewelry, the needle; he brought the anesthetic, the gloves, the medicinal supplies. When he took the needle in his hand, his brow furrowed.
            “I think it’s too small,” he announced, but I was so disappointed and the earring itself so small that he agreed to try.  He checked and marked the spot for the earring, then we sat down on the couch and he iced my ear and gave me a small shot of anesthetic in my ear. He let me sit quietly, my legs crossed in front of me, my head leaning against the wall, my hands loose on my knees, as he cleaned my ear and the needle and the earring. Then he knelt on the couch in front of me, his leg pressed against mine, and pushed the needle into my ear.
            I could still feel my ear. Despite the ice and the anesthetic, I could feel everything. I felt the needle go in; I felt it lay there as he picked up the earring to push it in behind the needle. The more time it took, the more I felt. My ear hurt like nothing I’d ever known. I wanted to clench up my hands, to pull away, to shriek. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—after I’d begged Reu for his help. Without my orders, my right hand crept up from my knee to his side, pressing itself there, molding my fingers to his ribcage. I pushed back a whimper I felt rising in my throat. Reuben must have felt it, too, for suddenly his voice was whispering.
            “It’s okay, Katie, it’s okay, it’s okay . . .”
            Finally, he withdrew the needle, declared it no good, gave up. I was crestfallen. But then, another girl produced a thicker needle. I showed it to Reuben, excited over the new possibility. To my surprise, he threw up more excuses. I didn’t understand until a Hebrew-speaking friend questioned him and explained to me.
            “He doesn’t want to hurt you.”
            Oh.
            He’d heard my throaty whimpers, felt my trembling, seen my blood; and he’d hated it. He’d hated it so much that my begging could barely convince him to try again.
            But try again he did, after re-cleaning and more ice. I leaned my head against his shoulder as he prepped, drawing steadiness from his warm solidity.
            That second time, he was quicker. I was quieter, understanding that my pain hurt him. But when he knelt in front of me, as before, I could feel his knee trembling as it pressed into my leg.
            The earring finally went in with a small pop.
            And that was that.
            But it wasn’t, really.
            I left home a scared, shy white girl who didn’t dare trust. I returned with highlighted hair, a tan, and a tiny silver Magen David in my left ear.
            I think back to that evening, and I know some things for certain. I know that I would have let no hands but Reu’s do that to me, inflict pain of that level, without shrieks or stormy weeping. Because I knew his character, his honor—his mettle, I suppose—I trusted him.
            This piercing is far more than jewelry; it is a story-teller.  It tells of a girl who let fear run her life, who never wanted to offend or disrupt, who was terrified of others’ opinions, who made snap judgments based on appearances, who obsessed over marriage, who was crying out within her heart for gentle unconditional love without demands. And it tells of a man who helped her, just a little bit, believe that she could be strong; who showed her what kind of life she could live; who pushed her to do and be more; who tolerated her when she was ridiculous; who taught her to accept his serving her with his strength; who showed her that not all strong men are arrogant and flashy; who answered her worried and silly and serious and personal questions; who prayed with and for her; who let her weep out her grief on his shoulder; and who helped her believe that maybe, indeed, God had more planned for her than she could ever fathom.
            My piercing tells a love story . . . but not the typical romantic cheesy type. Instead, this piercing tells the story of a weak scared little girl who took a few more steps toward being a woman. It tells the story of a good strong man who saw her faults, yet remained gracious and gentle toward her. And it tells the story of a brother who loved his sister enough to help her push past her terror—even if it involved something so trivial and unpleasant . . .
            as piercing an ear.

words fall through me

Sometimes, I like to dream.

I dream of a neat clean little house, of which I am mistress.
I dream of little children, clustering around my knees; singing their baby songs; dancing through my backyard; playing with the dogs; growing up fearless, sure, strong, beautiful; and loving God more than their own breath.
I dream of moving surely in my own kitchen, positive of where everything is and of what I want to do and of the results of my attempts at cooking.
I dream of trees which my hands helped to plant, waving their leaves far over my head as I tip my face back and attempt to see their tops . . . and can't.
And I dream of a man-- handsome, strong, playful, trustworthy, godly-- coming home to me, with his wide grin and his good hands; scooping my-- our-- babies up into his arms and spinning spinning spinning with them as I watch and laugh in pure delight; putting his arms all the way around me and snuggling me into his chest and kissing my mouth and rocking me until I forget all the worries and troubles that niggled at my soul all day long; settling children on his lap and me against his shoulder as he opens the Word of God and soaks it in with the rest of us.


Sometimes I like to dream.


But then I remember other things . . .

Like the wind in the olive trees in Israel.
Like the dust-speckled faces of the dark babies in South Africa.
Like the burning of the Middle Eastern sun on the top of my head.
Like the troubled hearts of the teens at my PA church.
Like the rippling beauty of multiple accents, all speaking a common pidgined-tongue together.
Like the heart-breaking emptiness in the eyes of the elderly veterans at the assisted living center.
Like the rough yet empowering way of moving through Jerusalem.
Like the bubbly laughter of bright-eyed Russian orphans.
Like the way my throat swells with emotion at ha'Kotel.
Like the courage I discovered while I was single and "alone," while God was my only company and my only motivation.

And I wonder if my set of neat clean Americanized dreams is really ever going to come true.
Or if it's what I really want.

I don't know.  Will I ever know?

Sometimes . . .
I like to dream . . .

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.

oh, brothers

"Stop looking down," A. from Brasil told me.  "Look at people when you talk to them.  Don't look down.  Stop being ashamed." His words touched a deep place in my heart.
"Stop it," I told him, looking away and blinking hard.  "You're going to make me cry.  I've already been crying all weekend."
"That's okay," he said.  "You can cry.  It's okay.  Just don't be ashamed-- of yourself, of your body.  No one is better than you.  And you are not better than anyone else.  Different, yes-- different skills, bodies, lives.  But not better.  We are all equal.  So don't look down.  Don't have shame about yourself." He stopped, clearly waiting for a reply.  I nodded.
"Okay," I all but whispered.  He grinned.
"And talk strong!" he laughed at me.

And then he shoved an ice cube down the back of my shirt.


And thus is summed up my relationship with the male volunteers on the moshav-- the older brothers I never had.

a memorial and a name

Remembering . . .

. . . aching at the sight of a mezuzah made out of a bullet shell, from a Polish ghetto, an insistent reminder of the faithfulness of God in a horrific period.

. . . weeping over the story of a grandfather, standing next to his sixteen year-old grandson on the brink of a death pit, hearing the order-- "Fire!"-- from behind him, and beginning the Shema.  The boy only had time to recite, "Shema, Yisrael" before the men fell . . . he alone was untouched by the bullets (though he tumbled into the pit with them) and thus lived to tell the story.

. . . avoiding reading about the Nazis at all.  "May their sins always remain before the LORD, that He may cut off the memory of them from the Earth." (Psalm 109:15)

. . . getting chills down my spine and tears in my eyes about a rabbi, defying his Nazi captors--
"[Rebbe Moshe] Friedman addressed himself to the Germans as he was being led naked into the gas chamber, clinging to his clothing: '"You, cruel murderers, human scum, do not think that you will succeed in destroying the Jewish people.  The Jewish people will live forever and will not vanish from the stage of history . . ." He spoke with great emotion and great strength.  Then, when he had finished, he put on his hat and in great excitement called out "Shema Yisrael," and all the Jews faithfully responded with him "Shema Yisrael" out of a sense of profound faith which had surrounded them all in the last moments of their lives.'"


Apparently, the Shema is the one prayer that will always, always make me cry.  I think it's because it begins, "Hear, Israel,"  but I know that they are destined-- at least for now-- to be a people "ever hearing, but never understanding; ever seeing, but never perceiving."  And this is the tragedy beyond all others . . . even the horrors of the Holocaust.

give it a try, it'll be all right

Tonight I danced in the middle of a road.  I was doing a round with A. from Brasil, who works as a night guard, and he found out that I don't know how to dance, so he offered to teach me.  I was drinking tea, and held my cup up, trying to use it as an excuse . . . but he took it from me and tossed it to the side of the road, then took my hand, put his hand on my back, and said, "Okay-- two steps."

I think I need more people to do that to me-- take my excuses, toss them aside, take my hand, and say "Come on.  Let's dance."

I'll be missing you

When I first came here, I was scared, unsure, nervous, shy.
You took me under your wings, taught me how to do my job, gave me the best advice for navigating Jerusalem, invited me along, shared sunsets with me, opened your arms and hearts to me.  You blessed me in ways you cannot even begin to imagine.

Now it has become my turn to bless you.

Kneeling before you, one hand on each of you; praying praying praying with our brothers and sisters that the beauty of what you've learned and who you've become will continue to be a part of your futures, no matter where you go.

Hearing and agreeing with all the beautiful things people have to say about you as they bid you goodbye.

Sitting with you, just talking and laughing.

Walking our favorite routes, one last time.

Kneeling beside you, one hand on your knee, one hand on your back; your hands held by a dear brother and sister, the others crowding as close as they can, hands on your shoulders, back, knees, hovering over your hair; fighting back my own tearful nausea; trying my hardest to absorb some of the grief I can feel coming from you with each wave of sobbing tears, to pour into you the love I have for you.

Watching a dear brother give you one last beautiful gift of service, as he's been doing for the past month-- carrying your suitcase to the waiting sheirut and engaging the driver in conversation to buy you a few last moments to say goodbye.

Giving one last hug and kiss as you are rushed into the sheirut.

Running running running, and waving after your vehicle as it takes you away from me.

Standing in your mostly-empty room, wishing you were here with me . . .

I hope you know, dear ones, how much I love you.
And I hope you realize how very much you will be missed . . .

I know we'll meet again
'Cause that's how the Story ends
It's so hard to say
Goodbye

the only evidence against us

"There is no holiness without love," said A., the Revive Israel teacher.  "Holiness is to choose to love . . . even when everything is against you . . . suffering doesn't make it holiness; the love makes it holiness.  We're not focusing on suffering; we're focusing on loving Yeshua.  Sometimes there is suffering; sometimes there are good times.  But our focus is loving Yeshua."
There is no fear in love.

Fear is loud and selfish and noisy and arrogant and rude and insane.  It yells and screams and bullies and strikes out at others, because it knows itself to be powerless.  Love, on the other hand, is patient, kind, unenvious, humble, courteous, concerned for others, difficult to anger, forgiving, truth-loving, protective, trusting, hopeful, tenacious.  Love can afford to be gentle and quiet and slow, because it knows itself to be not only in the right, but to be the right.

Jon Acuff touches this subject brilliantly in his amazing profound hilarious book.  And because I love the way he words things, I'm going to quote him here.
" . . . love can feel like it's taking too long.  Love is messy and slow.  It unravels at God's speed, not ours.  Shame is faster.  Fear is faster."

It's true.  I want to be holy right this instant.  I want to be godly and pure and worthy right now.  Scaring myself with rules and consequences and legalism is easier than learning to follow Jesus because, well, I love Him.
And love is hard.  Love is all grey and fuzzy, and I want black and white clarity.

The question I've been asking myself lately, in so many areas, is where is the line?  The conclusion I've been coming to is maybe there isn't actually a line.  Or, rather, maybe the "line" is love.

I think that living by fear is like walking in a deep river, water swirling around my neck, my hands clutching a guide rope.  I'm unable to let go, unable to unclench my hands from the rope, unable to go anywhere but where the rope leads.
Living by love . . . is learning to swim.  Having the river-- and all other bodies of water-- be suddenly and completely opened to me.  Because, living by love, I will know . . .
I am safe.

the "peace" of Jerusalem

Maybe you've heard about the recent missile strikes in Israel and Jordan.  More than likely, if you are an American, you haven't.  This sort of thing-- a terror attack that ended in one death of someone not even targeted-- maybe doesn't make the news, especially as everyone in the West is mad at Israel right now.

But now you know.

There have been planes humming through the night sky for the past few evenings, and with good reason.  Last night, I was in the biblical garden, reading my Bible, journaling, and praying.  Suddenly, something lit up the sky to the south.  It appeared to be a flare, falling in a set of flashes.  A second later, and a little more to the southeast, another fell.  They appeared as brilliant, soundless miniature fireworks.  My heart leapt into a pounding gallop, and I sat still, hands clenched at my sides, waiting.  But as I watched these twin flares, or missiles, or whatever they were, fall toward the ground, I knew one thing with certainty.

I am not afraid.

It sounds naive, foolish, silly, but the thought of a war does not frighten me as much as I imagined it would.  My heart is so tied to this land, after only a month and a half of living here.  Indeed, there is something even stranger that I'm feeling.

If war comes . . .
if this is "the end" (of time, of the world, however you read "the day of the LORD") . . .
there is no other place I would rather be.

In fact, I'm fairly certain being forced to leave Israel in the midst of war would break my heart directly in two . . .