Travel Scribblings: The Mundane and the Beautiful

For the aid of the reader, here's a list of the new names that appear in this post:

• Hal and Ben, two of the brothers, an influencer and a life-injector
• Bobby Moss and Dr. Rosalie De Rosset, our professors for Session Three
• Jules, another sweet sister
• Yisrael and Hannah, our host family for Shabbat of a Lifetime

...

Week six began with a dance party.

In Jewish culture, one day ends and another begins at sundown. As darkness fell and Jerusalem woke up from Shabbat, we celebrated Hal’s birthday on the top floor of the hostel. Our student life agreement only permitted “spontaneous” dancing, so without consulting one another, we turned on music and jumped onto the dance floor.

The group had grown exponentially in our comfort with each other over tour. We were really friends now, and that meant we brought a little more chaos with us wherever we went. By the time we started our third session of classes on Monday, we were downright rowdy. I was remembering that love was a funny, messy thing.

Class number three for me was Hermeneutics, and I got the privilege of taking it with Bobby Moss. I had been more excited for his arrival than any other professor for this one reason: He had been my dad’s roommate in college.

Several of the parents had come on tour with us and reminded us all what it was to have a family. I ached for home, wishing for all the world that I could get even one of my dad’s hugs. I watched my friends show their moms around Jerusalem and felt the sting of not being able to do the same. I was lucky—I had a good family and I had never before been away from them for longer than a month. Six weeks out of the nest was uncharted territory and every FaceTime call was a painful reminder of how hard it was for me and for them.

But Bobby Moss was a connection. Though I hadn’t known him long, we ran into each other every once in a while back in Chicago and we had established a sweet little bond. If I couldn’t have my dad, at least I could have someone who knew him.

I couldn’t help but smile, then, as he took role on Monday morning. “When I call your name,” he told us, “tell me where you’re from and one interesting thing about you that people maybe don’t know.”

I groaned. I told everybody everything; there were no interesting facts left. And to make things worse, I was always first on the attendance sheet. No time to think.

“Jessi Bee?” He looked right at me, not needing to search for my face, and I sighed.

“Ummm...I’m from the northwest suburbs of Chicago, and....ugh, why are you making us do this?” Already my comfort level was higher with him than any of our other professors, and it showed.

He chuckled. “Here I’ll help you out: There aren’t many people who can make me feel old.” A little half-smile turned up one corner of his mouth as he surveyed the class. “Jessi makes me feel old. Because her dad was my roommate at Moody. So when she showed up on campus, I was like...” —he looked back at me, his smile deepening— “‘Get out.’”

Everyone laughed and I was sure I turned red, but it didn’t matter. In some ways, Bobby Moss understood me better than anybody else in the room, and I was very content to let everybody know it.

...

On Wednesday afternoon, I sat in a coffee shop in the Old City, sipping pomegranate juice and reading Grasping God’s Word, one of my books for hermeneutics. The reading was on figures of speech in Scripture, and it included Psalm 18:2, “The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer.”

I lingered over the image, as the book instructed, and imagined the solidness of a rock beneath my feet. As I moved on to picture a fortress, suddenly the image of Masada came to my mind, and I was struck. For the first time in my life, I knew from experience what it was to stand within a fortress, to be hemmed in by its solid walls and held away from danger by its heights.

My professors had said this would happen. “It will change the way you read the Bible for the rest of your life,” they told me. And it was true. Coming to Israel was making its mark, and I was excited.

...

By the middle of the week, I was lamenting to Alex that there was nothing to write about. We were swamped with reading and worksheets and everyone was tired. Even in Jerusalem, the novelty wore off.

Nevertheless, life is full of surprises and something always threw a wild card into the mix. This week, our wild card was Valentine’s Day.

Since we had arrived, Dylan had been talking about planning a night of dancing. bet him that he couldn’t make it happen once, and he bet me that he could do it three times. Valentine’s Day was time number two.

Everybody waffled over whether or not to go—our homework and bedtimes called loudly. But come eight o’clock, almost everyone turned up in their Sunday best, ready for a good time. I’d never been much of a dancer, but I found myself kicking my two left feet onto the dance floor.

Kai was my first partner, and we stepped stiffly in time to the music next to Ben and Jules, who were joyfully flailing around the room. Chris and Emilene twirled together with surprising expertise, and Dylan and Danielle passed around partners looking like they had done this all their lives. The song changed and Kai and Ben agreed to switch partners. I took Ben’s hands and realized Jules had been making him look good this whole time.

Dr. De Rosset, the other professor on the trip, renowned for her poise and refine, came to watch us have fun, and all the boys clustered around her, pleading with her to give them one dance. She refused, but after much coaxing, Chris got her out on the floor for ten seconds before she retreated. The other men shouted and clapped him on the back, declaring that no one would believe him when we returned to Chicago.

We spent the night spinning and laughing breathlessly, remembering what it was to be young and have fun and live in the moment. I could get used to nights like this.

...

I would never get tired of Shabbat. Around 4 o’clock on Friday afternoon, everyone would close their shops, park their cars, and go home to their families. It felt almost stolen, the pleasure I derived from just being present when it happened. I was not a practicing Jew and yet I partook of their peace.

This Shabbat was particularly special. Around 2:30, we caught the last bus to the Old City and went to the Western Wall. Most of us had seen it but not touched it, so this was a sweet opportunity. The other girls and I approached it slowly, mingling with the many religious women from around the world. Some went straight against the old stones to pray; others held back and settled into the chairs that were scattered throughout the plaza. I sat down myself and pondered what to pray.

The place felt heavy. I wasn’t superstitious, but I could see the heaving emotions around me. Many of these people were desperate, pleading with God to send His Messiah at last. I watched an elderly woman beside me shed quiet tears, whispering her prayers in Hebrew, and I felt a little of her pain. I wished I could convince them that the Messiah had already been here.

Eventually, I tiptoed toward the wall, finding a place beside one of my friends, and placing my hand and then my head against the stone. I was surprised by the sudden privacy the position afforded. This was a good place to pray.

I stayed like that for a few minutes, then returned to where a few of the girls were still sitting. Kelsey put out her hand and I held it. There beside these weeping Jews, everything heavy in us was coming to the surface, too.

After the Wall, we split into two groups, one with Bobby Moss and one with Dr. De Rosset, and followed them to different parts of the city. Tonight, we would celebrate Shabbat the traditional way, with Jewish families in their homes.

Bobby led our group to a rather random street corner, where we waited for several minutes in the glow of a streetlamp, until we heard, "Are these our guests?" All of us turned to see a Jewish man, dressed in full orthodox garb and smiling widely, inquiring in a British accent if we were the ones he was looking for.

"Yisrael?" Bobby asked him.

"Yes, yes, c'mon!" Yisrael motioned with his hand, still smiling, and we followed him to his home, where we were welcomed in by his wife, Hannah, and five of their six children.

The house was warm and comforting. We squeezed into the dining room with barely enough room to breathe and were almost instantly at ease. Why don't we do this more often? I thought later. Food is a glorious avenue to relationship.

Yisrael and Hannah were good hosts. They were Jews from London and Liverpool, respectively, but had made aliyah several years before and all of their children were born in Israel. They knew what it was to have to adapt to a new place, and, because of this, they knew all the right things to set us at ease. Yisrael stood at the front of the room and explained to us that there would be three courses and then dessert, and that before the meal started, we would have several blessings and songs. "But I promise--" he told us, "--we will eat!"

He led us through several chanting songs in Hebrew, which we sang with gusto despite the fact that none of us spoke the language. We blessed Hannah, as the woman of the house, and then the wine and the bread, and Yisrael also blessed each of the children. This part was the most poignant to me. I thought we would join in the blessing of the children, as we had in Hannah's blessing, but instead, we passed the bread around as Yisrael drew each child into his arms, from the oldest to the youngest. With each, he shared a different connection, holding their heads in his hands or putting his arms around them. He whispered the words of the blessings and kissed each child when he was finished. I had never seen such an open expression of intimacy and it delighted me.

Finally, the time came to eat, and we devoured the most delectable challah bread that I have ever tasted, along with salmon, hummus, peppers and onions, eggplant doused in tahini, and even more. We filled up on this course alone, and then Yisrael's girls brought out enormous bowls of soup. Soup was easy to squeeze into our stomachs, so we didn't have much trouble with the second course. The third, though, with chicken and I don't even remember what else, was a stretch. By the time dessert came out, we hardly had any room. We ate it anyway.

During dessert, Yisrael and Hannah opened up the floor for any and all questions we had about Israel, Judaism, or their family. We spent an hour and a half just asking and listening to their answers, covering everything from how Israel's recycling works to how they named their children. They spoke kindly and openly about everything, treating us with sincere generosity. By the time we left, we had only scratched the surface of knowing them, but it was precious nonetheless.

We returned to the hostel and stayed up for hours, just talking and laughing. The mundane moments carried as much joy and beauty as the wild ones, and I was remembering how to count them as they came.