Morning Coffee

My daily ritual in Jerusalem was to sit on the patio of the Three Arches. Quiet conversations, rustling newspapers and soft oldies music were the only real noise. The air crisp. The heat not yet in play. The smell of the chef's morning creations (made to order) wafting through the air. A wild cat (as in feline, not a dude) hung around, looking for scrapes, stalking birds, bugs and the fish in the small tank.

Breakfast was varied but always fresh. Salads, cheese, fruits, breads, juices and coffee. Ahhh, thanks be for the coffee. Strong.

Each day, I delighted in the ritual of breakfast and observation. I so rarely take time for morning pause and breakfast at home. Mental note to self: why not?

The remarkable thing about these morning moments was always their simplicity; their rhythm; their calming and centering effect.

One day I delighted in seeing the faces of families as they approached the first day of school at the JIY's Peace Preschool. Down the arched outside corridor...across the patio, in came parents with a child in hand. Although each quite diverse, they all stopped to smell the flowers; nod to the cafe crowd; the kids peering into the fish pool or scurrying after the cat.

And then the kids saw "him." Hands dropped from mom or dad... and excited waves and hugs were exchanged with a security guard posted at the door.

He had caught my attention and admiration earlier as I watched him greet by name every adult as they entered. But now his face lit up, his eyes almost twinkled and his smile broadened as he acknowledged and celebrated the youngest members marching on to a new school year.

I pondered whether the JIY CEO would forgive me if I were to offer "the guard" the opportunity to come to Lexington and be in my Y lobbies. He was the embodiment of the Y's caring connection to those who grace our facilities. Heck, he did not even work for me and I was proud of his actions and attitude.

I figured I better not betray my friend and recruit the guard. Instead I was grateful for the universal nature of the Y in action. The mission alive in a security guy obviously in love with his job, his calling. How cool was that?

I was inspired... so back to my laptop I went to tackle my day's tasks. Just another work day in Jerusalem.

A Walk to Remember

I got brave in Jerusalem. Maybe stubborn is a better word.

I was being so well cared for - fed, sheltered, toured, educated - that I felt a bit of a need to remind myself that I was, after all, an independent woman for goodness sake!

So one morning I decided to expand my walk into Old Jerusalem. I got my bearings and off I went as the sun came up. Destination: find the Western Wall.

Now if you have been to Old Jerusalem you know that inside the walls are narrow streets and alley ways that cut every which way through different quarters. Each with a personality (sites, sounds, smells) of their own. The roads are worn stone, bumpy, slick, often inclined/declined and uneven. Other mornings I had come into the city to explore and go to mass but this day I craved something a bit different, unknown.

On other trips, I had noticed a walkway outside the old exterior wall and decided to set out on it. The spirit of exploration giving me some sense of bravado.

The coolness of the morning was a treat. It was not reflective of the heat that surely would come in just a few hours. The sky already blue, clear. So off I walked anticipating a gate would at some point allow me to cross back into the old city.

I walked parallel to the wall through a small park with bushes, olive trees, native plants and flowers. Simple beauty surrounding me. Cars whisked by below on their way to work or trips to destinations unknown.

There was indeed an opening, and in I went through a stone corridor back into the Jewish quarter. The quietness was immediately welcoming. Small groups of children were hurrying off to school. Backpacks and giggles are universal, aren't they? Orthodox Jewish men carrying prayer shawls and with little ones in tow hurried through the walkways. Bakers were carting out wagons of bread. The aroma was wonderful. Shopkeepers were beginning to open their areas. Sleepy eyes and yawns escaping as they undid shutters and rolled out wares.

I had no idea where I was. No map. I did not care. Delight filled my soul.

A believer in following the obvious, I wandered, keeping a distance, from a group of men carrying packaged shawls. My guess... destination morning prayers.

We descinded in the city. Right alley, left, down. And then I saw the security. I had guessed right. The wall was ahead.

Dutifully I laid my camera and key on the shelf and walked through the metal detector. I followed a small group through. The area dumped me on a covered walkway. Up I walked. The wall to my left. Hundreds of Jews already there in prayer.

Men had a large side, chairs, tables, fans... there was a hum of noise as individual prayers rose up. As heads leaned against the wall in petition.

Women had their own side. Smaller, less chairs, less tables but equal in devotion to prayer.

Wait, I can see it all, but this walkway was leading me out again. Phooey.

At the top, I realized I was exiting to the "other side" of the wall. The girl in front of me received a scolding from an armed guard to cover up her tank top clad shoulders. Quickly I covered my head and shoulders with my scarf out of respect. And I surveyed where I was.

Ahead the Dome on the Rock glistened. Men washed their hands and feet at long sinks... readying themselves for or post morning prayers.

The calling of the Adhan completed. Groups of men were rolling up and folding Islamic prayer rugs. I guessed that one of their five formal prayer times was completing. I thought about how the ritual was a constant reminder to seek God's guidance and forgiveness. I said a prayer in my head as I tried to be invisible, quiet, respectful. A group of old women, eyed me a bit. No universal smiles but no look of hatred either. I was immediately relieved.

I made my way along the wall. Again, convinced there would be an opening eventually to cross back in to the otherside. I found it. And began the weaving across to where I knew the remnants of David's temple had Jews and early pilgrams gathered.

I turned left and poured out into the large plaza. I noticed the concealed section of the wall that ran the length of the Temple Mount. The large limestones rising 100 feet looked much like the side I had just came from but they were indeed a world apart.

For Jews the place held significance as the wall to the Holiest of Holies...a place for the mourning of the destruction of the temple. A place for prayers and readings.

For Arabs the place is significant for it being where the prophet Muhammad tethered his horse, Buraq, and ascended into the sky. The Dome on the Rock covering that spot.

It is the area where Abraham was to sacrifice Issac. A place that holds sacred meaning for Muslims, Christians and Jews alike.

Neither culture valuing the other's beliefs, acknowledging the other's claim to the spot.

I quietly covered my head and walked to the wall to offer my own morning prayers. Satisfied in the moment, I walked backward from the wall.

I'd come back again with my friend and guide to place a note in the crevices of the wall. My own little petition for my husband's family and our own. The knowledge that the note would sometime in the year be collected and buried on the Mount of Olives meant a part of me would remain in Jerusalem. Silly, I know. But I smiled nonetheless. Content.

Sound of Angels

While I might say it a thousand times more about several different Jerusalem experiences, one of the most memorable moments for me was at the Garden of Gethsemane. Talk about being able to see something as it might have been thousands of years ago, wow. There are not enough adjectives, enough words to convey the collision of spirit, mind and body that still fills me.

The Garden at the foot of the Mount of Olives, is of course where Jesus and the disciples prayed the night before His crucifixion. It was a place that Jesus and his team frequently went. This gives perspective as to why it was not difficult for Judas to orchestrate a betrayal there.

I went to the Garden as my final moment before I headed to Tel Aviv to catch my plane home. It was a fitting goodbye to Jerusalem. It was perhaps though the actual beginning of my deeper reflection on the overall experience. A little esoteric comment but that's what blogs are for. So there.

As I entered the Garden, I recalled that Jesus and His disciples had celebrated the Passover and then went to the Garden. Jesus asked Peter, James and John to pray with Him, but they fell asleep. Boy that resonates. How often does my mind wander, my eyes slowly close, my attention get distracted...

While I might have been a wee bit judgmental regarding the sleeping disciplines, being there in a place so lovely, so quiet...well I think I could relate on how that might have happened.

Twice Jesus woke them up to remind them to keep praying so they'd not fall into temptation. I don't know about others but I feel the swirl of temptation around me all the time. I could use reminders every two minutes, much less twice.

And further my experience went. I knew that Jesus moved away from his disciples; He was filled with agony about what was to come. He asked His own Father to consider removing the cup from which he was about to drink.

Standing in the knarled Garden, I knew I frequently called out to my Father for help for the trivial and the profound. I wondered what that moment was like for Jesus. He wasn't calling out for help with bills, health, relationships... what was it like to know the absolute horror that was ahead for Him that coming day. I shuddered. A different, deeper appreciation for grace washed over me.

I wondered what Jesus thought when God sent an angel from heaven to strengthen Him. If the angel felt like a prop, a strong arm, a shared tear. I imagined the soon coming soldiers and Judas' betrayal. The dust that must have rose from the dry soil as the soldiers, high priests and others crowded in to arrest Jesus. I could almost hear the din that must have come over the peace of the Garden, the rush of people and the panic.

Would I have been like Peter freaked out and sword waving in the moment... too late, too radical, to little. Would I have understood the power in the moment when Jesus, even in the midst of all that craziness, healed the cut off ear of the priest's servant. Would I have caught the humanity, the utter love? Or would I have missed it like the others did standing right there?

Overlooking the Garden, there is now the third church to occupy the spot - the Church of All Nations. This location was in and of itself a wonder with amazing tile work, crafted olive tree doors, stain glass and breath-taking art. The pews were filled with people from all walks of life, many nations and languages.

We walked into the church as a mass was in process. We took communion next to the rock where it is believed that Jesus prayed and wept. And then the service was coming to conclusion. When something so cool happened that as I think of it and type, my eyes are tearing up.

There was a moment when a choir of teens simply sang tones. I cannot do it justice, several harmonic sounds layered upon layer... the chord filling the church with such beauty and serenity. I thought this... this is what the choir of angels must sound like each day in praise to God. No words needed; just a reverant chord of awe.


The events that occurred in the Garden of Gethsemane reverberated through me... and still do. The willingness of the Christ to knowingly go forward. For me. There are no words.

I Got Schooled

When a friend of mine shared his personal narrative about a year ago, I think it was the first time I tried to fully comprehend the Israeli and Palestinian conflicts. Even now, I am ashamed of that fact.

Yes, I read the paper each day. I watch the news. I have a passion for peace and reconciliation and justice. But what did I know of the issues dividing Israelis and Palestinians? Not much, if that much.

Maybe on a stretch I got that Palestinians, and particularly Palestinian refugees and their descendants, wanted to get back or be compensated for their taken homes/land - those now being located in what is the state of Israel.

When I did my "post-meeting research," I found that the U.N. Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees said that in 1950 there were 3 quarters of a million Palestinian refugees who had "lost homes and livelihoods in the war that followed Israel's 1948 declaration of statehood." That number today is something like 5 million. About 1- 2 million of them now located in refugee camps in Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, the Gaza Strip, the West Bank and east Jerusalem. Even if they could accept citizenship in Arab countries, most think that is settling on Israeli terms; therefore, not acceptable.

So a year later from hearing my new friend's story, here I was smack dab in the middle of the Middle East. Observing. And let me tell you, I got schooled. And I was in the remedial course.

I had the deep, deep honor of breaking fast on a Ramadan evening with my friend's family. You know you get to learn a lot about someone when you hang out with their mom and dad (brothers, neices, nephews)...when you see what's hanging on the family walls, when you witness the interaction of flesh and blood, when you stand in the kitchen, look out from the deck. It adds up to volumes.

On the way to the dinner, we drove through deserts, valleys, mountains, villages. It was beautiful. In a small village up North, Sha'ab, we stopped to walk among the olive trees - trees that date back to Roman times. Trees nearby where my friend would have played and gathered olives as a child...

I recalled that my friend's family had once owned quite a bit of land and "lost it" in 1948. This was the area from which much of his family had to flee for Lebanon. Many of which have not ever returned. An Israeli-Palestinian conflict lesson in action. Real. Raw. Personal. Early prejudices ingrained, revisited, revised, removed.

The trees had character. Weathered faces, knarled branches, variations in color. Scrappy trees, imposing trees. Rows and rows and rows. The ground was reddish, dry, cracked, stone filled. The sound quiet.

We drove up into the village's neighborhoods. Up to his home.

Here was a simple, yet amazing family. Opening their home to me. A feast laid before us. No allowance for me to help (urgh!). No common language except hospitality and respect.

We hung out. We ate. We talked. We ate. We laughed. We ate. Coffee came... the universal "the food is ending" sign. A silent, "thank goodness!" Breathe. Oh nope, more food. We ate some more.

I felt so moved, so priviledged to share the moments. A time with family is sacred. I thought of my own family so far away dealing with so much in my absence. It wrecked me.

Time for the ride home came, and I jockeyed for the back seat. I wanted time to process the reality of what I had just experienced. I pondered the juxtoposition of the pressing problems that face Israel and Palestine today, the love and care I had just witnessed and the crisis going on at my own house. The long commute back to Jerusalem seemed the opportunity to reflect some more and pull into my own thoughts.

How can rational, ethical leaders not lead people out of the prejudices? The frustration of the politics of it all made my head spin. My heart cried out for vision and inspiration to win out.

I did not live this reality each day. I had not grown up in the hatred and bigotry and prejudice. I did not have a family history that still rings true of loss and separation and discrimination.

How can people not see and indeed cherish the very humanity that we all share. The desire for families to work hard, be together, love and provide for each other?

Our differences are real. But so too are our commonalities. I believe that magical blend is where the strength and hope is. Transformation is the only way out. And as small as it may seem in the hugeness of what is the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I felt comfort and belief that the Jerusalem International YMCA had a very real role in inspiring and someday shepherding that vision for and reality of peace.

The schooling of Gail continues. I think I may have got a C+ this time around. I'll take it.

Sans Blackberry: Overlooking a Bus Station

I made a conscious choice to go to Jerusalem sans Blackberry. My usual commitment is to Facebook "blog" as I go on a trip. This time I decided to live in the moment without sharing in the moment. And that made all the difference.

I also thought I'd capture elements of the trip on my blog site without any real sense of order, at least outwardly logical order... and without a sense that I had to limit my thoughts or emotions since so few see this page anyway!

I have to disclose that I am in no way a Biblical scholar. But this trip brought back every Sunday school lesson, every Bible-in-a-year reading, every verse memorized, every sermon heard and then some.

So there I stood in a dusty bus station parking lot and looked up.

A rough cliff to my right bore a clear skull face. The spot is the place of an ancient quarry. Not far away, are the walls of Old Jerusalem. The road to Damascus and Jericho would have come this way.

It is now and would have been in Jesus' day a busy, busy place. The type a place a crucifixion would have happened to deter potential criminals. The Bible tells us that "they" took Jesus out of the city to "the place of the skull." Golgotha or Calvary depending on if you read Aramaic or Latin.

When I go up and into the "Garden Tomb" and through its gate, my heart beat slows. The place is a beautiful oasis in the midst of a crazy busy Arab market. Glorious olive trees, flowers, lush green plants. The air's clean quality is palpable compared to the dusty street I just exited. The place literally and immediately fills me with emotion.

The guides note that many believe this place to be the garden of Joseph of Arimathea - the place where Jesus was buried after his crucifixion. While no one can be exactly sure where the crucifixion took place, there was a very real essence about this place, something special and spiritual unlike other places I I visited (including the traditional site located inside the walls of Old Jerusalem -in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre).

If you proceed on with basic Bible 101, you know that Joseph of Arimathea was a rich man and secret follower of Jesus. He got permission to bury the body of Jesus in a new, unused tomb that Joseph himself owned. The Garden Tomb area holds many items that would have been evidence in Jesus' day of a wealthy owner's site - someone like Joseph of Arimathea. There was a wine press, very large water cistern and a working garden. Then there's the matter of the tomb itself.

The tomb was unearthed in 1867 and was noted to be a typical tomb of the 1st century AD. What made it such a spiritually significant moment, both logically and emotionally for me, was that the tomb met all the features mentioned in the Bible's account of the tomb of Jesus. It bore things like it was cut out of solid rock not a natural cave; it was sealed with a large rolling stone that ran in a track outside the door; and there was space inside for several mourners to pray. But the thing that made me pause was that the burial place was unfinished and on the right side of the tomb, visible from the outside. All things very unique to this site and Biblically accurate.

I had to go back and re-read Mark and John to catch the right side and visible from the outside elements as unique. How many times did I read the Easter story and not put that in place?

I do not know if this site was the actual burial place of the cucifixion, burial and resurrection of Jesus. It sure seemed to fit the details described in the Gospel. But like the guide reminded us, that is not the remarkable part.

The rest of the story lies in that the tomb was empty; He was not there; He had risen.

And, well that was in the moment and is still today enough for me.