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.
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.
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