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 . . .

Kinneret

I wake on the ground, a thin sheet all that's separating my skin from the gravel.  I push my tangly hair back from my face, wiping the sleep sand out of my eyes, and sit up, crossing my legs and pulling on my sweatshirt.
It is not a quiet nor peaceful morning, and R. is awake, too, sitting cross-legged on his sheet a few feet behind me, his face turned toward the east as well.  The other girls-- D. and A. and M.-- are comatose still, and I decide not to wake them.  The sky is cloudy, after all, and doesn't promise much in the way of sunrise.  The birds are going crazy, like this will be the BEST! SUNRISE! EVER!, but I suspect that is what they always do.
To my left, the Arab boys (whose singing and drums and laughter didn't fade till nearly three-thirty in the morning) are dragging themselves one by one out of their tents, to sit in exhausted silence huddled at picnic tables, or to amble across their patch of dust and gravel.  One has a camera; he faces east, too.
Behind me is the main road closest to the Sea.  It's been filled with commercial trucks and commuters' cars for at least half an hour, providing engine and brake noise that at times drowns out the ecstatic pigeons and other birds.
To my right is a large set of empty "campsites" (if the tiny lots of littered ground and lopsided picnic benches can be called that), but at the far end of this section is a tight family group of tents.  I spot a white-haired shirtless Arab man emerge from one of these tents.  A few minutes later, and my ears tell me that he is "cleaning up" by raking away all the trash from last night.  He leaves it all in a large pile beside the picnic table, though, and stops, seeming satisfied.
There are already children in the sea in front of and a little to the left of us.  Their splashes and boy-child cries of, "Come!" (the one word I recognize) and other Hebrew phrases are carried through the morning air to me.  I can't see them, though; the reeds and sea grass are just high enough.
The sky is a light delicate pink just above the blue and grey clouds, and as I watch, a dark rim of passionate pink marks where the sun is fighting for its right to rise.  The dark pink streak fades after a moment, and I am convinced that was all there will be to the sunrise today.  I keep still, though, and watch the sea.  It is calm this morning, but out of the corner of my eye I glimpse something-- a bird? a fish?-- dive and leave a rippling mark on the calm surface.
I wonder what this place was like, two thousand years ago, when You were here.  Was it noisy even then?  More beautiful?  More cruel and rugged?
I sit still, busy with my thoughts and the flies and ants that have been fascinated by my body since I showed signs of life.  I consider getting up, wrapping up my sheet, going to the bathroom to wash up.
And then it happens.
In an act of supreme defiance and victory, the sun bursts over the clouds.  Like a burning sphere of liquid gold, it rests for one glorious moment in a tiny cloud valley, looking for all the world like a flaming gem set in a dull-metal ring.  I have to look away, or risk losing my sight.  I watch the sun's reflection on the water, instead, and think about what brought me here.  A botched car rental, nearly five hours of riding and waiting for buses, a last-minute scramble and final success with renting a different car, miles of walking with our myriad luggage, the docks of the Sea at sunset, eating mainly bread and fruit for most of the day, the full pale moon and scattered stars over the Sea, the quiet conversation over "dinner" late at night.  The golden sun reminds me of what I've always known, but tend to make light of--
You are here.
And, just like the sun, You cannot be hidden forever.  Your glory will be shown.
In a few seconds, though, the sun is once again swallowed in the clouds, and I smile to myself over the poverty of my metaphors to describe You.
Beside me, A. turns over, asks what time it is.  I want to tell her, "just after the most real and beautiful sunrise I've ever seen," but instead--
"Six-fifteen," I say.
And just like that, the moment is gone.

But I have it still, captured in the recesses of my heart.  And I know that You will not let me forget.