Hoping for Something Better

My child and I are both dealing with overwhelming emotions these days: grief, anger, anxiety, to name a few. When I learned of a nearby health center that offers counseling on a sliding scale, I thought we'd found an outlet and possible source of help. But by the time our registration process was complete, and I was trying to make appointments today, I was told that the soonest opening was over 6 weeks from now. I asked if there were any alternative providers, and when told 'yes,' immediately went to register there in addition. Child and I went through the intake process this afternoon, and again, I was hopeful that now, at least soon, we'll be getting the help we need. Ha ha. By the end of our registration, we were told that 'it might take weeks' to be seen for therapy.

We very well might not have weeks. We're hoping to be moving as soon as we're accepted into a rental near DC. But this is the state of mental health here -- that even when I say my child is crying everyday, and even when I feel like I just can't keep going, we're not offered help for weeks. What are we supposed to do in the meantime?

We keep plugging along, day after miserable day.

Some days are slightly better than others. Some days I manage to get by without being glared at hatefully. Some days it feels like I almost have my child back, the way they used to be before Jerusalem. But I know it's just a temporary reprieve; that the hurt and longing are deep inside this child. I yearn for them to receive the gentle help and advice they need, and for our relationship to begin mending.

Some days I have enough breathing space, and my younger kiddos bring me more joy than frustration. I might even look at them and the world around me in wonder and think, "Yes! This is what it means to be alive." But more often than not, I feel a rising panic, a longing to cover my ears to block out the demands and the whining and the crying, a deep desire to run away perhaps never to return. I wonder on a daily basis why I thought I could do this. Why did I think I could parent five children? Why did I imagine I could meet the needs of the 'bigs' while enjoying the 'littles' and vice versa. It was clearly all an illusion. It feels like all I can possibly hope for now is survival.

And underneath all the current angst is an ever-present river of residual anger from my time in Jerusalem. My 8 months there were some of the very loneliest and most depressing of my life, and instead of just being sad about that, I'm actually quite angry. I don't know what to do with that anger. I feel like I need to vent it somehow, but I don't know where or to whom.

So these are my summer days, trying to balance joy and despair, wondering from hour to hour how much my child hates me and if there will be a time of forgiveness and understanding, wishing we could both get help, wishing I could move past anger and reach something better than survival.

Sounds

Today marks 4 weeks since we walked through the archway of Tantur for the last time. Not a day goes by when I don't think of Jerusalem and miss something about our life there. My most recent longing has been for sounds. We took hundreds of pictures, and are fortunate that photos could capture much of what we saw. We also have video footage that captured some of what we heard. But many sounds were so mundane, so expected, that we failed to record them and now they're lost forever.

Sounds like the voice of Diana at reception greeting Miriam every morning as we walked up the steps to breakfast. Leaning over to be at eye level with our two-year-old, she'd say with the sweetest voice, "Good morning Miriam! How are you habibti?"

Sounds like an Arabic Maronite church service being played on the radio, coming through the dining room's patio window as we breakfasted on Sunday mornings. Since those on kitchen duty on Sunday mornings couldn't get to their Catholic church, a service on the radio was the next best thing.

Sounds like the wind in the tall pine and palm trees, the songs of local birds, the chirping of insects.

Sounds like the taxi drivers calling to us as we passed the checkpoint into Bethlehem. Desperate for business, they'd hopefully cry out, "Taxi? You going to the church?" Before they got to know us and recognize us as locals who almost always walked, if we hesitated, they'd continue, "I can take you to Shepherd's Fields and the Church and wait for you. I give you a good price."

Sounds like honking horns on Hebron Road, the busy street right outside Tantur. Cars honk more in Jerusalem than in the US, just as a way of communicating with other cars, not always in anger. When trucks honked, their horns played a little tune. And sometimes many cars would honk at the same time, in an actual rhythm. I never did figure out what that was about but I wondered if it had to do with a celebration of some kind.

Sounds like the babbling of many foreign languages as groups of tourists made their way through the Old City. I wish I had a list of all the languages Selah was greeted in during her first 8 months of life. Her young ears got to hear German, French, Arabic, Hebrew, Chinese, Amharic, English in Australian, Kiwi, Irish, and British accents, and at least one language of India (likely more).

Sounds like the cheerful voices of Nouha and Manal who would clean Tantur on a daily basis and our apartment's bathroom on a weekly basis. They didn't speak much English, but they loved our babies and always tried to be encouraging and sympathetic to me through their limited words as well as their kind gestures.

Sounds like Juliet in the kitchen asking us if we wanted anything more from the buffet before she started clearing away the food from breakfast. (We were always the last ones to breakfast!!) She loved Miriam's smile and singing, and would greet Miriam especially when she saw us eating in the morning.

Sounds like the traffic light's pedestrian crossing button speaking to us in Hebrew. (I still don't know what it was saying exactly, but I'm guessing something along the lines of, "The light is red. Please wait.") And then making one sound when it wasn't safe to cross and another sound when it was our turn to enter the intersection.

Sounds like the happy voices of our neighbor children playing in the communal courtyard in between all our apartments. One-year-old Duffy saying "tractor" and "Mummy" and sometimes crying. Three-year-olds Carmel and Agnes, with two-year-olds Amanda and Miriam and five-year-old Lucy, squealing or singing or bossing, and yes often someone crying. Six-year-old Bertie asking if Ethan could come play with him. Eight-year-old Sebastian and eleven-year-old Joseph bouncing their basketballs as they came to see if my kids would play "knockout" with them.

Sounds like the country western music floating down from the second-story apartment windows of the Notre Dame undergrad guys. Or even better, the beautiful guitar-playing and harmonizing voices around the bonfire or on the library rooftop as we sang worship songs with our favorite Notre Dame students (despite the fact that we were double their age).

Sounds like the voice of Pastor Carrie as she preached at Redeemer Lutheran, often bringing me to tears because she not only spoke words of love and justice for the downtrodden, but she also seemed to speak directly to me. The funny stories she'd share and the way she'd make everyone laugh each week as she'd segue into offering time by saying that the church could accept money from any country but just couldn't cash checks. The blessing she'd give my babies during Communion and the encouraging words she'd give me after church, "I'm so amazed that you've made it to today even with all your kids and your new baby."

Sounds like the Muslim call to prayer five times a day. And the weekly Friday afternoon Hebrew song marking the coming of Shabbat.  Like the baaaing of sheep as their shepherd let them graze on the grass of Hebron Road between Mar Elias Monastery and Kathisma, a 5th Century church. And the sound of their bells as they hurried back across Hebron Road during a brief red light that stopped the busy traffic. Like the greeting of a young shopkeeper on David Road in the Old City, who dearly loved seeing Selah every time we walked by. And the kind voice of Majdi, my favorite shopkeeper in Bethlehem who always asked about Steve and how his studies were coming along. And that of the owner of Blessings Souvenir Shop near Manger Square, who always offered me a spot to nurse or change Selah (as he watched her grow from newborn to 8 months old) and also would spend his own money to get us a taxi back to the checkpoint.

The days are slipping by and the memories hover but fade. I grasp what I can and linger with them in my mind, hoping that they will not completely disappear.

What Do You Say With Only Five Minutes?

My family was traveling across Jerusalem by light rail last week. The train was crowded and we were tired from a long day out. I was separated from the rest of the family and held Selah in my arms, trying to keep her from fussing. Selah was interested in the animated conversation of a young woman who was speaking to a friend by cell phone near us. I'm pretty sure Selah thought this teen was speaking to her!

When the girl hung up, she finally noticed Selah smiling at her and cheerfully mentioned what a cute baby I had. This broke the ice and we started chatting a little. She asked why I was in Israel and if I "liked living here."

"Yes and no," I replied. "Some things are really hard about living here."

"Yeah, I get you. What's been hard?"

Hmm. I didn't know this person at all. I only had a few minutes before we'd reach my stop. But I'd already made up my mind to stop tailoring my answers to this common question -- "Do you like living here?" -- based on who was asking. Why should I say something completely different to a Palestinian in East Jerusalem than to a Westerner on the Israeli light rail? I decided to be honest but slightly nebulous.

"The different people groups here and how some of them feel treated."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for example I know some Palestinians here and it's hard hearing their side of the story," I answered.

Still smiling and engaged, and seemingly genuinely interested, this young woman responded, "Oh? What is their side of the story? I've never heard it."

I've never heard it. Did she mean she'd never spoken with a Palestinian? Or never heard them share how the Occupation affects them? Has she really only heard rhetoric from the other side? Has she only interacted with Jews? Has she never crossed a checkpoint? Never seen the Wall? I had no idea what the answer was to any of these questions, but I did know that I had her attention and I only had a couple minutes.

Without any forethought, I said the first thing that came to mind. "The checkpoints -- they're really difficult for Palestinians to get through. Some people wait for three hours every morning to get from Bethlehem to their jobs in Jerusalem. The lack of freedom of movement is a big deal to them."

"Wow! Really?" she responded. This teenager hadn't had a clue that checkpoints were hard on her Palestinian neighbors. Now she does.

We briefly talked about what I do like about living in Israel, and I also made sure I asked her what she's doing here. Before I knew it, the train was pulling up at Yaffo Center stop, and we both were pushing through throngs to get off and go on our separate ways. I relayed the conversation to my kids, and we wondered together what I might have said differently if I'd had more time to think.

But I also was struck with a new thought: it's possible that there are hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of people living in Israel who don't have a clue. If they live and study in circles of secular or religious Jews, if they only read certain news sites, if they have Israeli passports and thus aren't allowed across the Wall, if they don't have Palestinian friends or neighbors, if they read Israeli history textbooks and listen to Israeli politicians ... maybe, just maybe, they really don't know. If so, I'm even more thankful than I already was for organizations whose goal is to reach out and inform, Ir Amim, Zochrot, Breaking the Silence, and The Parents Circle being a few examples.

I only have two weeks left in this country, but maybe I should think ahead of time as to how to better answer the next time someone asks, "How have you liked living in Israel?" May my words and her new understanding linger in the mind of the girl I met on the train...

Running Away

We're nearing the end of our 8 1/2 months here, and that means running away once again. I will fly out on May 29 leaving annoyances unaddressed, conflicts unresolved, relationships abandoned. I'm getting really good at this, seeing as my life since 2005 has just been one blip after another. Moving every year or two, either house or church ... or continent.

And every time, dying a little more inside.

I don't like feeling so rootless. I don't want to be so unknown and unaccountable to -- and unloved by -- church leaders and Christian friends. I don't enjoy stuffing my feelings deep down yet once again, knowing that as the years go by, I'm actually getting less mature instead of more.

But here we go. Moving to yet another home, searching for yet another church, struggling again to make friends and find community, knowing that the truth of who I am and how my family functions is so much uglier than anyone can imagine. And what will I leave behind at Tantur? Nothing. My baggage will come with me. My tears and frustrations, loneliness and despair, will be packed away like my books, and carted off to my next "home."

Maybe someday I'll live somewhere long enough to be deeply known and counseled through my struggles. Maybe one day I'll be able to mature in my relationships, so I can be honest and real, and learn to do more than just running away.

Taste Test

Yesterday Chef Issa made a side dish of squash for lunch. Amazing, delicious squash. As in, I'd never tasted such good squash before!! And you didn't want to try it.

You, sweet two-year-old Miriam, were more than happy with your pasta. Your plain bow-tie pasta. With no sauce. And no flavor. You asked for seconds of it, and we gave you some. Then you asked for thirds, and I drew the line. I said, "Yes, you may have more pasta but you need to try the squash first. It's SO yummy!!" You shook your head, determined that you would not like a new dish.

I tried everything. I said that after you took a bite -- just one small bite -- of squash you could also have the bread you wanted. You could eat the fruit salad that interested you. Just one bite!! How hard could it be? But you kept shaking your head, saying, "No squash." I tried calling it "veggie" instead of "squash." I tried asking you to close your eyes so you wouldn't see what it looked like. Nothing worked.

And then I struck gold!

I decided to try turning this into a fun game of "taste testing." I demonstrated this new game by closing my eyes and letting Ethan stick bite after bite into my mouth, calling out a food name after each one. You were intrigued! After my turn, Ethan demonstrated, too, and then you were ready to give it a go!

You squeezed your eyes shut and opened your mouth wide. Ethan gave you a bite of fruit salad, and you excitedly said, "Apple!" He followed up with a bite of cucumber and you said, "Cupepper!" After a taste of tomato, you finally got to a bite of the much-dreaded (but very delicious) squash. And you liked it!! You identified it as "Squash!" easily but when I asked if you wanted another bite of it, you said, "Yes!" We'd gotten you past your mental block. Success!

And then the cutest part of the whole meal was that you continued the Taste Test for the rest of your food. We stopped feeding you and were even ready to give you the pasta and bread you'd originally asked for. But you liked the Taste Test and so kept giving yourself bites of fruit and veggies, each time closing your eyes after you'd taken your bite, pausing to chew and then happily proclaiming what it was you'd just eaten. You were truly taken with this idea of eating as a game.

I get a lot wrong these days. Our whole family struggles on a daily basis to help you with this tricky transition to independence. But we also LOVE you to pieces, and so I'm always happy when we get something right. For the most part, you enjoy eating and you've even taken to listing all the foods you like by saying, "I LIKE cupepper. I LIKE apple." Now we have a way to help you when you have a chance encounter with a food you think you don't like. I hope it works again!

What Will You Remember?

Dear "Big Kids,"

These 8 months in Israel/Palestine have been quite full, haven't they? You probably feel like we've never done more sightseeing in our lives -- and you're right! I know you sometimes (frequently?) wish you could move back to a "boring" place so that we have fewer sites to visit, but I wonder if you'll miss this when we return Stateside.

Yesterday I took you 5 kids to Ramallah for the first time and after leaving the house at 9:15 AM and getting home at 5:45 PM, it felt like a very full day. Granted, we'd only accomplished two things and we'd spent just as much time commuting to and from Ramallah as we did in Ramallah. There were definitely positive aspects to our 'day out,' and yet I wonder what you will remember...

Will you remember my willingness to ask a dozen people for directions since our map apps weren't working? My efforts to understand their Arabic and hand motions? My attempt at copying the Arabic you taught me for "where is the bus station"? Will the day have left you with a confidence at getting around? Or will you remember feeling frustrated and worried about how to get home?

Will you remember Miriam's joy at seeing an unexpected flock of grazing sheep as we made our way to the Arafat Museum? The way I turned around to give her a few extra minutes when she wasn't satisfied with a passing view? Or will you remember the poop on the sidewalk, and waiting in the sun, unsure of how long I'd be?

Watching old footage at Arafat Museum

Will you remember the video footage we saw of 100-years-ago Jerusalem? The Palestinian Declaration of Independence written in beautiful calligraphy? The siege bunker where Arafat lived and worked for 34 months before his death? Or will you remember the way Miriam ran up and down the ramps pushing her stroller and my frustrated efforts to keep Selah from crying?

Palestine's Declaration of Independence

By Arafat's kitchen during 34-month siege

Will you remember the yummy stretchy ice cream we ate at Rukab's? The fun variety of flavors? Going for round TWO? Will you remember the way a server made Selah laugh? And the way Selah tasted her first cone? Or will you think of the way crowds pressed against us as you struggled to decide what you wanted to try?

Will you remember the way a family of Palestinian kids made Miriam laugh and Selah smile on our bus ride back to Jerusalem? The exuberant giggles as Miriam joked around with the 8-year-old boy, saying "Ouch" and laughing even though they didn't speak the same language? The relief when we finally made it onto our final bus headed to Tantur? Or will you think of the complete standstill we were stuck in, as we waited our turn at the Qalandiya checkpoint? And the confusion when we had to disembark one bus only to get on another after the checkpoint? Will you think of your thirst, your need to go to the bathroom, your tiredness?

Boy selling cotton candy to waiting vehicles

Every outing we've taken seems to have been a similar mix of difficult and fun, educational and challenging. I'm so thankful for the places we've visited, the things we've seen, the observations we've made, the lessons we've learned. I'm grateful for your help in carrying heavy backpacks, taking Miriam potty, wearing Selah in the frontpack, schlepping stuff on and off buses. You guys have given up hours of your own time to sightsee with your full-of-wanderlust parents, and for my own part, despite the challenges, this year is one of precious memories. I wonder, years from now, what will you remember?

Forty Days

Forty days left.

People have been asking me lately how I feel about "going back home." When someone phrased it that way yesterday, I just laughed. "I don't have a home," I replied. And I don't. We sold our townhouse to come here, and we're not returning to the same suburb of DC. The area we'd lived in for the 7 years before this move is not where I'd grown up and not where I had roots of any kind. I long ago realized that "home" was wherever I was at the moment. This is often the reality for a TCK (third culture kid). 

But back to the original question -- how do I feel about returning Stateside?

The truth is, I'm quite conflicted. There have been some REALLY difficult things about my time at Tantur. I have the feeling that my overarching memory of this specific place will be one of loneliness and disappointment. There are also, of course, difficult things about living in Jerusalem, especially as close as we are to Bethlehem and the checkpoint into the West Bank. My answer to the question, "Have you liked it here?" is "Yes -- and no." It's complicated. 

And family life this year has been more challenging than in many previous years. The combination of a two-year-old and a newborn and multiple tweens/teens has just about done me in. Even on the days when I feel like I'm maybe "getting it right" with one or more of them, someone is bound to throw me for a loop. We've had hours of tears, countless raised voices, and a growing sense that our family is coming apart at the seams. Marriage has been interesting and I've struggled with months of depression. 

Despite all the heartache and frustrations, I'm also deeply sad about returning to the US. Ever since I was little, I was friends with people different from me, whether by color of skin or nationality. I lived in University of California family student housing for the majority of my childhood, where there were students from around the world, and then at age 14 moved to Nigeria. As an adult, I've lived in a few other countries, as well as suburbs with international populations. I love the beauty of diversity, I love learning about other people and cultures, I love 
hearing their music and eating their food. So every time I have to return to the US after some time abroad, a large part of me is quite melancholy.

Besides my broader appreciation for the world, I also have grown to love this place. As mixed up as it is, as much pain and suffering as there are here, Palestine/Israel has been a special place to live for 9 months. I've gotten to see buildings and/or ruins from all kinds of eras and I've gained understanding about distances between places mentioned in the Bible and what those places looked like. I've greatly enjoyed the diversity of the land's topography and botany, as well as the beauty of different people groups who live here. I love hearing Arabic and Hebrew, Muslim calls to prayer and Jewish songs that begin Shabbat. I love experiencing the sights and smells within Greek Orthodox and Catholic churches, and hearing Jesus' name praised in traditions and languages not my own.

Most of all, by living so close to Bethlehem, I've seen the Separation Wall with my own eyes, experienced the checkpoint dozens of times, and heard firsthand accounts from many Palestinians about how the conflict affects them. What used to be just "head knowledge" now feels more real. Of course it is still just knowledge for me, as I don't personally suffer the violence and fear and discrimination that my neighbors do. But at least I have faces and names in my mind's eye. And I have my handful of representative experiences, like soldiers boarding my bus to check IDs, and delays at the checkpoint, and Palestinians being forced off the bus at the border while the non-Palestinians remain on. Why is this what I appreciate most of all? Because it is real. It is now. I would rather know what people are facing here, than think that everything's great or just another news story of terrorists and bombings. 

Forty days left. Not long at all. May I make the most of it...

Confusion

My tablemate, a young woman I'd just met at Sunday dinner, was glowingly happy and described how her move to Jerusalem had encouraged her so much that her family back 'home' was also  increasingly happy as a ripple effect. Of course I rejoiced with her, but I also probed a bit, asking why she was so content here. She mentioned her proximity to various neighborhoods, from the Old City to East Jerusalem to West Jerusalem, and even more, her nearness to key religious sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (another tablemate calling it 'the belly button' of the Church). She feels like she's living in the center of the world.

When I asked her and her friend about how much they rub shoulders with folks from East Jerusalem, and what they're learning from them about life as second-class residents, they responded with blank faces. They admitted that they avoid asking questions about 'stuff like that' and don't really have any 'political' experiences or conversations here.

I was stunned.

Just a few hours earlier, I'd been visiting with an American friend who's lived in Bethlehem for the past 2 months. He'd been telling me about his two new Palestinian friends who struggle to support their families despite owning souvenir shops. A brand-new baby girl -- a firstborn -- had in fact just been born that very day to one of the friends, and yet David told me that this fellow doesn't have the money to pay the hospital bill, required to get the mother and child home. His other friend is suffering from unexpected doctor bills from his daughter being hospitalized last month.

David had also said, "You probably don't get to hear about the violence on the other side [of the Separation Wall] but in the last few days, there have been a number of incidents." He went on to describe a 17-year-old medic (wearing visible clothing showing his 'medic' status) being shot and killed by an Israeli soldier for no apparent reason. He also told us of a couple in a car in the refugee camp who needed help, and of the thirty-something-year-old man who was walking away from having helped them when he was shot by a soldier in a tower at the Wall. For no apparent reason. And of groups of Israeli settlers who have been attacking a couple Palestinian schools. And these are all just a week after another few senseless shootings of Palestinians by Israeli soldiers in Bethlehem.

I am heartbroken.

And confused.

How can someone live here and not have these conversations? How can we joyfully live 'in the center of the world,' happy to be only minutes from the location of Jesus' death and resurrection, and not just as equally be gut-wrenched about the suffering around us? How can we not be 'political'?

Without a Car -- part 1 "The Clinic"

I glanced out the window, checking on the weather as I sat visiting with a friend in my living room. To my dismay, the rain was back. The sky looked windy and wet, but I knew that I'd need to venture out regardless since Selah was scheduled to get her shots in an hour.

What does it mean to not have a car while living in Jerusalem?

I bundled Selah up in her slick pink snowsuit and strapped her into my baby carrier, hoping she'd fall asleep against my chest and benefit from my warmth. I put on my own jacket over the carrier, donned my backpack (including diapers, spare clothes, bus card, purse, and passports), and set off hoping my umbrella would withstand the wind. For the next 10-15 minutes, I walked as fast as I could, down the paved hill to Tantur's front gate, across the street and through a major intersection, waiting at 5 lights for pedestrian crossings. Just as I started down a set of stairs, through water gushing across the sidewalk, only a few more minutes from the bus stop, I saw the number 32 pulling around the corner and heading away from me up the hill. I had barely missed it.

With the wind blowing relentlessly and making the rain come sideways, my legs got increasingly wet and my hands increasingly chilled. I couldn't believe I had just missed the bus. Now I'd need to wait another 10 minutes for the next one, though thankfully there was a small shelter available. Two buses passed me before the right one arrived and I flagged it down. After inserting my bus card into the machine, deducting a trip from my total, I sat down on a seat facing others, grateful that there was space for me. Ten minutes later, I buzzed to get off the bus and walked the final 6 minutes to get to the clinic.

Since Selah just needed to be weighed and measured, and receive two shots, the appointment didn't take long. (Though they couldn't figure out her name or find her in their system until I handed over her passport for them to see it written.) We walked back to the bus stop less than an hour later, grateful that the rain had stopped. This time I had Selah facing outward in my baby carrier, despite the wind, for when she's not asleep, she always prefers seeing the world around her. I warmed myself up, walking back up Tantur's steep long hill, and Selah fell asleep, with the weight of her head supported by my hand against her face. In just under two hours, we'd made it to the clinic without a car and were back in time for dinner. 

Privilege Meets Oppression

Construction dust filled my nose and made my eyes sting as I walked down the ramp just meters from Checkpoint 300. Dozens of people walked or stood in front of me, all trying to leave Bethlehem (the West Bank) and enter Jerusalem (Israel). My parents had just visited Bethlehem for the first time and we were late for lunch. I'd made this crossing many times before and didn't think twice about the extra five or ten minutes it would add to our journey home. This time would prove different.

Tall turnstiles usually spin continuously, letting travelers into the security space where belongings go through an x-ray machine and people go through a metal detector. Despite the gargantuan size of the facility, I'd only ever seen one turnstile and security space being used at a time. This day was no different -- except that now the single turnstile was locking after every 2 or 3 people went through, trapping the next person between bars for an indefinite amount of time. I have no idea what was making the soldiers slow down our line as much as they did, but what normally would take me 5 minutes to go through, this time took over half an hour.

I am a person of privilege. I don't feel like it when I'm living in America, but there have been key times and circumstances in which my privilege smacks me square in the face. And the comparison of my ease in crossing back and forth from the West Bank, with the struggle of the Palestinians to do the same, is one glaring example of my position. I do not have to have a special permit to exit Bethlehem. I do not have to pay thousands of shekels to acquire such a permit. I have never faced the humility of my belongings or my person being scrutinized in a more in-depth way than the x-ray machine and metal detector. I do not stand for hours every morning, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to leave the checkpoint for my daily commute to work. I usually breeze through the process at non-rush-hour times and flash my American passport for an easy way past the gun-toting guards.

On this day, however, being American didn't make any difference. My blue-eyed baby snug in my baby carrier and my blonde toddler hungry for lunch had to wait just like their black-haired peers in the arms of hijab-covered mothers. My parents and I were smack dab in the middle of a crowd, all trying to wait patiently at the mercy of Israeli soldiers, but all growing impatient at the meaninglessness of delay after delay. We heard voices rise from frustrated bystanders as they questioned why it was taking so long for one mother to go through security. Another mother, one who had been sweet enough to offer me the chance to cut in front of her with my babies, found herself suddenly stuck in the turnstile after her two children were already through. I watched her face cloud over and saw her rest her head against the metal as she felt the 'trapped' sensation of being locked between bars. She was unable to move, and couldn't comfort or guide her children, who were left to fend for themselves in the security space. I saw her angst and mentally planned how to walk our party through so that Miriam wouldn't be stuck on one side or the other, away from someone she knew.

Anger rose within me -- not just at my own circumstances of being hungry and feeling like my time with my parents was being whittled away, but more at the idea that this is what Palestinians face in every aspect of their lives. They are fellow human beings who live according to the whims of the Israeli government, having their water highly limited and their olive groves cut off from their homes, among countless other inhumanities. My 35 minutes in line was barely a sip of struggle compared to what Arabs drink routinely, but my eyes were opened more widely to the oppression my neighbors face on a regular basis.

As tears began to fill my eyes, my dad turned to me and said, "I guess most tourists don't see this, do they?" And I had to agree. Not only do many Americans on typical tours never see the Separation Wall, as their tour buses enter the West Bank through a tunnel, thus sparing them a view of the barbed wire topped concrete monolith; they also don't walk on foot to leave the West Bank, so they miss seeing the lines and scrutiny.

I don't know what hope there is for the conflict here in Israel/Palestine. I don't have answers or even suggestions. But I do know that the feeling of being herded through barriers, locked at will, is not a good one. And it's hard to not despair...

What I Miss -- a guest post from Ethan

We're just days away from the halfway point of our time in Israel/Palestine. I asked Ethan what he misses (since he's the one who mentions missing home the most) and he wrote a long list. I'm grouping his items a bit more than he did....

In general, Ethan misses (in his own words):

• Being nearer to family
• Libraries
• Unlimited free refills of soda
• Having a car
• Friends
• Going to the creek
• Recognizing places as we drive about
• Lazy mornings where I can wake up at 10:00 and eat breakfast then
• Our church Truro
• D.C.
• Snow
• Being with family during the holidays
• Food: smoothies, Krispy Kreme donuts, pizza, caramel frappuccinos, Costco samples, hamburgers
• Cereal, waffles, pancakes, and coffeecake for breakfast
• Our homeschool organization IBCHE
• Cherry blossoms
• Having a larger variety of clothes to wear
• Eating in our dining room as a family
• More toys
• Being more naive about the conflicts of this world. (Though people need to be more aware about the injustice and suffering happening in Israel and everywhere.)
• Doing more stuff as a family
• Camping
• Having people visit our house

About our home in particular:

• Having a 2-story house
• Having 2 bathrooms
• A larger kitchen
• Our trampoline
• Large carpeted areas
• More windows
• Our sunny kitchen with butterflies fluttering outside the window
• More sitting space
• Much more counter space
• Vents in our rooms which let in warm air
• Our Wii machine
• Our TV

There are a few things I didn't include (he listed 60!!), but I think you get the gist. A theme I noticed, especially when I probed a bit by asking him questions, was he misses familiarity and he misses a sense of home. I wonder if he'll still say the same things when we leave 4 1/2 months from now.

Glimmers

This has been an extremely difficult season of homeschooling for the kids and me. It's been difficult to be away from our fellow homeschooling friends and the support we found at co-op and support group. It's been challenging to balance caring for two little ones with a high school work load, not to mention finding a balance between traditional school work and 'study abroad' elements. I've been frustrated with wanting to learn as much as we can about this region during this precious period of time, but feeling like I have to come up with all the plans from scratch. I'm not doing a very good job by any means. Even just today, I was at my wits' end, strongly considering putting the kids in public school when we return to the States.

Despite all our frustrations and challenges, almost every day, I catch a glimmer of excitement or joy that helps motivate me to keep on -- or at least not despair that this whole venture's been a complete mistake. Sometimes the glimmer is of something the kids are learning. Sometimes it's a relationship. Other times, a discovery. In the past week, it's been all of the above.

Ethan came to me one morning this week, thrilled with a pattern he'd begun noticing while trying to go to sleep the previous night. He'd been thinking about the number 7 and how to write multiples of 7 in base 3. He'd noticed that every time he wrote a 7 multiple in base 3, the resulting number (when viewed in base 10) was also a multiple of 7. For example, 7 itself is written "21" in base 3 and 21 is a multiple of 7. The number 14 is written as "112" and 112 is a multiple of 7. He spent hours that morning continuing to compute and show that the pattern didn't stop. Needless to say, I let that be his 'math time' for homeschooling that day. Later, Josiah also came to me, having noticed that this pattern worked with multiples of any number n as long as the base you changed it to was 10-n.

This was a huge bright spot for me -- much more than a glimmer! I love that my kids not only can work with numbers and understand math, but that they have time and freedom to think creatively about numbers and explore patterns.

Another more-than-glimmer is seeing Naomi's increasing passion for learning Arabic. At various points of time in the past, I've had the kids dabble in Arabic, first with Rosetta Stone and then with c.d.'s from the library. But it wasn't until moving here 4 months ago that I said, "Keep up with Spanish, yes, but please also pick either Hebrew or Arabic to work on in addition." They all picked Arabic and began using Mango online to work on oral Levantine Arabic. About two months ago, Naomi's interest in written Arabic was piqued. She found a book on how to write the letters in their various positions, and has been working on her own on it for hours and hours. When we went on a recent road trip, she delighted in interpreting the Arabic writing she'd see -- and I would delight in her delight!

She's also inspired Josiah to take up written Arabic and he's finding a similar excitement in spotting letters he knows. The other day he and I were in Bethlehem together, where the cars have Palestinian license plates (instead of Israeli). He pointed out to me that under the English letter "P" (for Palestine) on each plate, there was the Arabic letter that makes the /f/ sound. He knew this was because the Arabic word for Palestine is Filastin.

Maybe my kids would have learned more Arabic had they been put in a private school this year. But I'm not sure they would have had the same joy in learning. And if they'd been in school, we'd have missed out on my third glimmer -- relationship.

All three big kids have gained tremendous ability in relating to little kids, given the time they spend with Selah and Miriam. They now have babysitting skills they never had before, and can face tough situations that used to make them gag. But the sweetest aspect of their spending time with their younger sisters is the relationships they have and the joy they bring each other. When Ethan plays with Miriam by tossing balls into a laundry basket, doing "ring around the rosie" or "duck, duck, goose," or playing hide-and-seek, and I hear Miriam's exuberant giggles, my heart overflows. When Josiah holds Selah for only a couple minutes and she completely relaxes and falls asleep against his chest, I treasure the sight. When Naomi ramps up the music and dances around with Miriam and Selah, bringing smiles to all their faces, I smile too.

These are the moments that make homeschooling worthwhile. The minutes of laughter and delight, the sweet hugs and energetic play, the knowledge that even though there's a huge gap in the ages of my kids, they know each other and will have memories of the time they spent together.

I don't know if I'll continue to teach next year. I don't know if I'll homeschool Miriam and Selah when they get to be school age. But for now, even on the days like today, when tears were shed and harsh words were spoken and I completely felt like giving up, it's good to remember the beautiful precious glimmers of joy. They give us light for the journey.

4 Months in Israel/Palestine

Four months ago, almost to the hour, we were arriving at Tantur's grounds in a shared airport shuttle. It was the first time my older three had lived overseas in 7 years, and Miriam's first time ever. It's hard to believe we're just days shy of being halfway through our time in the Jerusalem area. I've struggled a lot in these four months. There have been times of tears and despair and more than one family fight. But there have also been times of such beauty, growth and connection. I'd like to try to remember some of the highlights...

Beauty:

• Tantur's grounds  -- The sound of wind blowing in the tall pine trees, the tinkle of the garden's fountain, citrus trees and olive trees, roses and hibiscus, olive trees, sunsets
• Worship with others -- praying and singing in a Taize service, prayers and songs in both English and Arabic in various churches
• The wonder of seeing Selah Marie for the first time, such a gorgeous and precious baby, my last.
• Invigorating views of the Mediterranean Sea at Caesarea, the Dead Sea from Herodium, green hills near Megiddo and the Carmel range, and craggy hills in the Jerusalem area.
• Amazing ancient architecture and ruins, from the walls of Jerusalem to the Crusader city of Akko

Growth:

• Miriam continuing to speak better, including 'reading' us stories and copying adult phrases like "Here you go" and "Oh, okay!"
• Miriam learning how to use the potty
• Josiah and Naomi embracing the prospect of learning Arabic
• Ethan's continuing fascination with math
• Selah crying less and smiling more
• The kids and I learning about modern Palestinian history and reading many books that help us begin to understand the Nakba and the conflict.

Connection:

• Beginning of friendships, especially with some neighbor families who also have kids, and with Steve's office mate.
• Numerous visitors and short-term residents here, including Catholic priests and neighbors' relatives, who have been encouraging and interesting to talk with.
• Good friends for the kids -- Miriam has 5 neighbor children close to her age who she loves to play with, and the big kids have a few friends too!
• Many encounters with folks who care deeply about the plight of Palestinians, from a pastor/doctor couple who visit Gaza to a Notre Dame grad student interning at an NGO to a pastor who regularly preaches about justice.

Sweet Visitors

This morning was rough. "I don't know how I can go on homeschooling" kind of rough. "I'm never eating breakfast or lunch in the dining hall again" kind of rough. And then God breathed fresh air into me.

It's a Monday, and instead of Selah sleeping til 5, she woke me up to nurse her at 4. Then Miriam, instead of sleeping til 8, awoke closer to 7. And before I'd even gotten my coffee at breakfast, the potty-training 2-year-old had wet her pants.

We'd been having great success with potty-training these past 2 weeks, so when my sweet 2-year-old went through 6 pairs of panties just this one morning, I was taken aback and not quite prepared for the level of attention she needed. It's not so much that I can't handle wet pants after wet pants, or puddles of pee, or stinky soiled panties. It's more that my newborn is also very needy, not sleeping unless I'm nursing her or a sibling has walked her and continues to hold her. So every time my toddler needed me, I had to hand off the baby before I could address the potty issues. This meant Selah's "naps" were constantly interrupted and she wasn't terribly happy about that.

Meanwhile my big kids were trying to get back to full school days after our Christmas break, and they needed attention. They had questions to ask and discoveries to share, and I hadn't even figured out everything I expect of them this week. I was feeling like I just can't handle all that's on my plate. And then my husband got home from an important errand with a result that was very frustrating. We'd somehow (for the millionth time) seemed to misunderstand each other as to what was supposed to happen on that errand, and his news upon coming home pushed me right to the edge.

Getting the baby and the toddler out of the house to go to the dining hall for lunch was the final straw. The bare-legged toddler didn't want to put her pants back on to leave the house, and I had my hands full of baby so couldn't attend to her like I wanted. The big kids were struggling with her. We managed to eventually convince her, but as I angrily stomped out of our apartment, into the bracing cold, I thought, "I am never doing this again! Why should I have to go somewhere else for breakfast and lunch when it's so hard to get everyone out of the house and meals take so much longer?" Walking into the dining hall and seeing big tables filling up quickly and my big kids standing around with plates full of food anxiously awaiting my cue as to where we were going to sit just pushed me over the edge.

I saw one person I knew I'd enjoy eating with, a visitor I just met last week, and reserved 2 seats next to her, one for Miriam and one for me. The rest of my kids had to go sit somewhere else because the table quickly filled, mostly with people visiting Tantur for a 2-week course. Thankfully another visitor I enjoy sat next to me as well, this one the mother of one of our staff and the traveling buddy of the other. Because both ladies are sweet and sensitive, I felt I could be honest when they asked how I was doing and I even started crying. One of them had also homeschooled and been married to a PhD student while parenting four kids (and she's named Miriam!) so seemed especially empathetic. I appreciated her concern and willingness to pray for me. The other visitor is particularly good at conversation and had me laughing before the end of lunch, a much-needed relief. Also, both of these ladies -- not today, but almost every other day they've been here -- have held Selah at meals, which has both helped me and encouraged me.

It's still a tough day, but now I feel strengthened for the tasks. I've been heard. I've been touched, if ever so briefly on the shoulder. I've been looked in the eye by others who have walked this road too. I've heard them cheer on my toddler, even as she eats messily, and sweetly say goodbye to her when lunch is over. I wish these two could stay. I'm thankful for their time here.

Blessing in Disguise

Knock knock. We heard a gentle tap on our door at 10 PM yesterday and opened the door to see our neighbor. She was hoping we could maybe watch her 2-year-old all day today so that she could go on a day trip with her friends visiting from the US. We said, "Sure!" Despite the extra work it would mean, and despite having prior plans, I knew we'd also enjoy having Miriam's buddy join in our Friday fun.

My goal was to use the Israeli buses to find a recommended park 30 minutes away called Gazelle Valley. I'd looked up information about it and had mapped it out on Google Maps. I'd noted how many hard right turns the bus would make and at what bus stop we should exit (by counting after the turns). The big kids and I packed a backpack that included spare clothes for the two potty-training 2-year-olds and Selah, loaded up my neighbor's deluxe double stroller we were borrowing, and the seven of us set out.

It was a beautiful sunny winter day and I was thrilled to get out of the house. I looked forward to seeing a new place and exploring a haven of nature in the middle of the city. Alas, I made mistakes and we did not make it to our intended destination. BUT! We did find an amazing playground. It was tall and expansive. It had multiple tunnel slides that provided extra challenges for my boys who love climbing, and smaller slides and ladders that were just right for the 2-year-olds. I've had lots of experience with playgrounds and have never found one quite as good as this one for entertaining such an age spectrum. The big kids walked up the outsides of slides, hung on the outsides of barred platforms, and sat "chilling" on tunnels. Miriam and her pal ran, climbed, squealed, and slid. They experimented with swinging and teeter-tottering, and Miriam conquered her fear of tunnels, crawling through them with ease by the end.

We played for close to an hour and made it back to the bus stop just in time to catch a return bus within the 90 minute time frame that allowed us to not pay again. It was a different bus number than we'd used to get there, and we only had 2 minutes to spare, but we made it home successfully and with each toddler only having cried once -- and no potty accidents! My big kids asked if I was frustrated that we hadn't made it to Gazelle Valley. "Nope!" I could truthfully answer. I know we'll make it there someday. But today, our mistake ended up being a blessing in disguise.

Hands are Full

Ethan's recently re-discovered this blog of mine, and has gone back to the beginning days to start reading. It just so happens that my first blog posts were written during the first months of Ethan's life. I've only glanced through a few, but it's fun to see what I recorded about life with 2 preschoolers and an infant. There were many sweet moments, though difficult ones as well, and they'd be lost if I hadn't written them down.

Twelve years later, here I am again, with a preschooler and a baby, and there are so many things I want to record to remember later about our current ups and downs, and these fleeting precious days. But I find it hard to even have two hands to type on a computer, for Selah requires nursing and being held almost constantly. And when I have time without her in my arms, I'm almost always either helping Miriam in some way or trying to keep up with the house and homeschooling. Or I'm in bed -- reading!!

I'd like to make more of a habit, though, of chronicling these days. I was inspired by an article (that I skim-read quite briefly) that encouraged people to create 'rituals' in order to begin and keep new habits -- setting aside a concrete amount of time that will be held as a priority, whether one likes it or not, for a prescribed purpose. I thought of writing as something I'd like to begin to do daily, even just for a 10-minute time period, and exercise is another ritual I need to get back to.

For today's memory that I'd love to treasure always: there is a priest here on sabbatical named David and he's eaten quite a few breakfasts in the dining hall with us recently. He's always sweet to Miriam and enjoys talking to Selah as well. He admitted a few days ago that, while he likes children, he doesn't feel capable of caring for them or holding them. This morning, however, when I asked who could hold Selah while I got my coffee, he volunteered! And then he held her for about 10 minutes, during which time, she was content and cuddly. Seeing him enjoy her sweet baby self brought joy to my heart, and I want to treasure that memory. Hopefully it won't be his last time holding her...