CBC Happenings
CBC Happenings
Saturday, May20 New Haven, Connecticut
Matthew, one of our sons, is getting his Masters here this weekend. We arranged our flights to stop here for the graduation. It seems strange to be back home but not all the way home.
After the last article, it was 1:30 Friday morning. Just as I sent that article, my wife came downstairs to the computer room at the hotel. She and I had finished packing, and we decided to walk back to the Western Wall (the Jewish place of worship that is by the wall of the Temple Mount). We thought that everything would be deserted, but we followed several Hasidic Jews down the market lanes of the Old City to the Wall.
The Wall is beautifully lit at night. There was a nice breeze and the temperature was about 55. There at the Wall were at least a hundred people praying. The men, dressed all in black, were bobbing up and down as they read from the Torah and prayed.
The area is divided between men and women. My wife walked over to pray with the women. She carried a small piece of paper with a special prayer concern. As she prayed, she put the paper in a crack in the wall, a custom used by people for many years.
Israel is different from anywhere else we have ever been. I think that it is different from anywhere else in the world. The Jewish worshippers are so devout, as are the Muslims and Christians. So many people worshipping so hard in such a small place. There is an atmosphere of spirituality all around.
The day before we had walked through the markets shopping just as the Muslim time of prayer began. From loud speakers all around, Muslim leaders were calling people to prayer. The shoppers and owners mostly completed ignored the call to prayer. But not all. As we passed one shop, there was the owner, kneeling on his prayer rug, praying as if it was only he and Allah in the market.
I am a Christian. I know that all over the city there were Christians gathered at shrines and holy places praying. For me, and a lot of other people, Jerusalem seems like being at home, being in the presence of God and feeling a peace unlike anywhere else in this world. I think a taste of the feeling we will have in the world to come. "Jerusalem, My Happy Home" the Gospel song says.
As we left Jerusalem, there were some disappointments. I wrote in my first article about wanting to see my friend Muhammed. I did not. The people at the hotel would say only that he is very sick. There were also places I had hoped to visit that we did not see. And I left wanting more. More of being home in Jerusalem.
But home in Alabama called, so we left. And tonight most of the rest of my family will be here to help us celebrate the graduation. Being with them will be home, too.
I will miss many people we met. The four men who were grilling on small charcoal pits by the Dead Sea. As I waited for the rest of our group to come back from the shower house, I talked with them some. One spoke a little English. They gave me a plate with kebobs and another grilled meat, humus, tomatoes, charcoaled onions, pita bread. Wonderful. Maybe the best meal of the trip. They were from Nazareth, and I will probably never see them again, but I will never forget the smell of the charcoal, the sun glinting off the Dead Sea, the taste of the food, and their generosity. They gave me two more plates of food to share with the other six in our group.
Sister Anne, from Ireland. I met her while on my daily run, just outside the walls of the Old City. Running in the grass of Mount Zion. She and a friend had gotten lost. We talked just a few moments and realized we were brother and sister in Christ. Enough. I gave them directions and watched them walk up the path to Zion Gate.
Mr. Dejani, the hotel proprieter, who is trying desperately to keep the Imperial Hotel open. Gloria and I sat in his office Thursday and listened to him talk about Palestine, America and the world. He and his hotel are caught in the middle of a land fight between Israelis and Palestinians. We hope that he will be there next time, but we do not know. My wife and I both hugged him good by in Arabic fashion, once on each side, my wife with kisses on each cheek, then hand over heart to show peace and love.
The two girls in Nazareth. They were in their school uniforms on the way home from school. Probably about thirteen years old. They held hands and led us to the place that we were hunting. Beautiful smiles, very little English, just wanting to help us.
And especially Mauchmud, the baker. His family has owned a bakery in the Old City for two hundred years. Gloria and I stopped to get some pastries about half way through the trip. It was near nine at night, past closing time. He invited us to come in and sit down. We found ourselves sitting on small plastic stools as he made us fresh mint tea on the small burner in the second room. He warmed our breads in the oven.
His English is very poor (of course, much better than our Arabic). He has two wives, though we do not know if that means one died and he remarried, or he just has two wives. Several children and grandchildren. His movements in the two small rooms of the bakery were very economical. He sat our tea on a tray on a plastic crate and sat with us. We talked a while. How different. Christian, Jew. American, Palestinian. And yet how similar. He told us to come back the next night.
We arrived, and he invited us in. We showed him our family pictures. "Very nice, very nice", he said. He called me into the side room. He showed me the five trays of cinnamon rolls he had saved to make when we arrived. He fired up the 120-year-old oven. Wonderful. The aroma. Some of the rest of our group came by and stopped.
Gloria, Debra and I went back Thursday night. We had tea, sat on the plastic chairs and tried to talk. We said good by until the next time. "In'shallah", I said (about my only Arabic). In God's will, in God's time. Arabic for the good Lord willing. He smiled and we hugged. He stopped us and gave us a bag of sesame treats, a bread/cookie. "Gift, gift for you", he said, waving his hand to indicate all of us. And we walked out of his bakery, down the market and back to the hotel.
And so here I am in New Haven. In America, but not home in Alabama or home in Jerusalem. An eleven-and-a-half hour plane ride, waiting in customs in two countries,then driving through New York to here. A thirty something hour day.
Gloria and I sat in our car waiting to cross the George Washington Bridge in New York City. "Twenty Minute Wait" the sign said above us. This is, evidently, about average. We were near exhaustion. I glanced at my watch. Exactly twenty four hours earlier we had been walking to the Western Wall.
I reached into the back seat and unzipped my small carry on bag, pulling out a plastic bag. My wife and I shared some of Mauchmod's gift pastries as we waited in the traffic. Sweet. A taste of Jerusalem. Waiting for home with memories and with hopes.
Saturday, May20 New Haven, Connecticut
Matthew, one of our sons, is getting his Masters here this weekend. We arranged our flights to stop here for the graduation. It seems strange to be back home but not all the way home.
After the last article, it was 1:30 Friday morning. Just as I sent that article, my wife came downstairs to the computer room at the hotel. She and I had finished packing, and we decided to walk back to the Western Wall (the Jewish place of worship that is by the wall of the Temple Mount). We thought that everything would be deserted, but we followed several Hasidic Jews down the market lanes of the Old City to the Wall.
The Wall is beautifully lit at night. There was a nice breeze and the temperature was about 55. There at the Wall were at least a hundred people praying. The men, dressed all in black, were bobbing up and down as they read from the Torah and prayed.
The area is divided between men and women. My wife walked over to pray with the women. She carried a small piece of paper with a special prayer concern. As she prayed, she put the paper in a crack in the wall, a custom used by people for many years.
Israel is different from anywhere else we have ever been. I think that it is different from anywhere else in the world. The Jewish worshippers are so devout, as are the Muslims and Christians. So many people worshipping so hard in such a small place. There is an atmosphere of spirituality all around.
The day before we had walked through the markets shopping just as the Muslim time of prayer began. From loud speakers all around, Muslim leaders were calling people to prayer. The shoppers and owners mostly completed ignored the call to prayer. But not all. As we passed one shop, there was the owner, kneeling on his prayer rug, praying as if it was only he and Allah in the market.
I am a Christian. I know that all over the city there were Christians gathered at shrines and holy places praying. For me, and a lot of other people, Jerusalem seems like being at home, being in the presence of God and feeling a peace unlike anywhere else in this world. I think a taste of the feeling we will have in the world to come. "Jerusalem, My Happy Home" the Gospel song says.
As we left Jerusalem, there were some disappointments. I wrote in my first article about wanting to see my friend Muhammed. I did not. The people at the hotel would say only that he is very sick. There were also places I had hoped to visit that we did not see. And I left wanting more. More of being home in Jerusalem.
But home in Alabama called, so we left. And tonight most of the rest of my family will be here to help us celebrate the graduation. Being with them will be home, too.
I will miss many people we met. The four men who were grilling on small charcoal pits by the Dead Sea. As I waited for the rest of our group to come back from the shower house, I talked with them some. One spoke a little English. They gave me a plate with kebobs and another grilled meat, humus, tomatoes, charcoaled onions, pita bread. Wonderful. Maybe the best meal of the trip. They were from Nazareth, and I will probably never see them again, but I will never forget the smell of the charcoal, the sun glinting off the Dead Sea, the taste of the food, and their generosity. They gave me two more plates of food to share with the other six in our group.
Sister Anne, from Ireland. I met her while on my daily run, just outside the walls of the Old City. Running in the grass of Mount Zion. She and a friend had gotten lost. We talked just a few moments and realized we were brother and sister in Christ. Enough. I gave them directions and watched them walk up the path to Zion Gate.
Mr. Dejani, the hotel proprieter, who is trying desperately to keep the Imperial Hotel open. Gloria and I sat in his office Thursday and listened to him talk about Palestine, America and the world. He and his hotel are caught in the middle of a land fight between Israelis and Palestinians. We hope that he will be there next time, but we do not know. My wife and I both hugged him good by in Arabic fashion, once on each side, my wife with kisses on each cheek, then hand over heart to show peace and love.
The two girls in Nazareth. They were in their school uniforms on the way home from school. Probably about thirteen years old. They held hands and led us to the place that we were hunting. Beautiful smiles, very little English, just wanting to help us.
And especially Mauchmud, the baker. His family has owned a bakery in the Old City for two hundred years. Gloria and I stopped to get some pastries about half way through the trip. It was near nine at night, past closing time. He invited us to come in and sit down. We found ourselves sitting on small plastic stools as he made us fresh mint tea on the small burner in the second room. He warmed our breads in the oven.
His English is very poor (of course, much better than our Arabic). He has two wives, though we do not know if that means one died and he remarried, or he just has two wives. Several children and grandchildren. His movements in the two small rooms of the bakery were very economical. He sat our tea on a tray on a plastic crate and sat with us. We talked a while. How different. Christian, Jew. American, Palestinian. And yet how similar. He told us to come back the next night.
We arrived, and he invited us in. We showed him our family pictures. "Very nice, very nice", he said. He called me into the side room. He showed me the five trays of cinnamon rolls he had saved to make when we arrived. He fired up the 120-year-old oven. Wonderful. The aroma. Some of the rest of our group came by and stopped.
Gloria, Debra and I went back Thursday night. We had tea, sat on the plastic chairs and tried to talk. We said good by until the next time. "In'shallah", I said (about my only Arabic). In God's will, in God's time. Arabic for the good Lord willing. He smiled and we hugged. He stopped us and gave us a bag of sesame treats, a bread/cookie. "Gift, gift for you", he said, waving his hand to indicate all of us. And we walked out of his bakery, down the market and back to the hotel.
And so here I am in New Haven. In America, but not home in Alabama or home in Jerusalem. An eleven-and-a-half hour plane ride, waiting in customs in two countries,then driving through New York to here. A thirty something hour day.
Gloria and I sat in our car waiting to cross the George Washington Bridge in New York City. "Twenty Minute Wait" the sign said above us. This is, evidently, about average. We were near exhaustion. I glanced at my watch. Exactly twenty four hours earlier we had been walking to the Western Wall.
I reached into the back seat and unzipped my small carry on bag, pulling out a plastic bag. My wife and I shared some of Mauchmod's gift pastries as we waited in the traffic. Sweet. A taste of Jerusalem. Waiting for home with memories and with hopes.
posted by John Morgan | 10:48 PM
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