Pandemic Ponderings - Gaza

This was day 10 of our family's self-isolation and day 1 of hearing the virus is in Gaza. My heart and mind are so full and churning that I've decided to try to write as often as I can. Not to be read, but just to process, and to provide a record I may someday find valuable.

Gaza is one of the most densely populated spots on earth, and one of the poorest with the least access to healthcare. They're also cut off from the world and the rest of their country by the Israeli government, so I'd hoped beyond hope that perhaps the novel coronavirus wouldn't reach there. My heart broke today to learn it has.

It's hard to explain how horrible a situation Gazans are already in. They effectively live in an open-air prison. Their water supply is unclean. Their people are bombed and shot at, and if they don't immediately die, they lose limbs or die later because of a lack of care for these wounds. Their medical system is already overwhelmed.

And now this.

The Israeli government is a cruel one. When children with cancer or other severe health issues need specialized medical care and are "granted permission" to leave Gaza for a city in their own country with better hospitals, often their parents aren't allowed to accompany them. This has sometimes meant a child dying without mom or dad at their side, or an infant being taken for care by a grandma since the breastfeeding mother isn't permitted to go.

I would like to hope that Israel will ease restrictions in order to let Gazans in respiratory distress from COVID-19 get the help they can. But I don't think it's likely. I feel like the Gaza Strip has just been given a death sentence. I see you, Gaza. I'm sorry.

Struggling with Prayer

Prayer and faith are tricky issues for me these days. Admittedly prayer has been tricky for a very long time, maybe even since my dad got cancer when I was 17. But it's proving especially troublesome these days.

The people I'm around at church and in extended family pray so assuredly, so confidently, that many would say they're showing great faith. But how do they know the mind of God? And what happens when things don't turn out the way they've prayed? Even Jesus prayed, "Remove this cup from me if it's possible, but your will be done." And as we all know, the cup of suffering -- at least in terms of physical pain and death -- was not removed from him. He still was crucified.

So how come more of our prayers aren't worded likewise? Why don't folks admit that what they're asking for is what they want, and add that in their finite understanding, they think it's what God might want too but His will be done. And for that matter, I feel like Ike what I (and many others) should be praying perhaps more than anything is for grace to accept whatever God answers and discernment to know the difference between a roadblock and a "no."

The prayers of my church are so forceful as they pray especially for physical healing, and sometimes I can hardly stand to listen. It's not that I disbelieve in miraculous or medicinal healing. But what of all the ailments that remain? What of the deaths due to cancer?

Additionally the prayers of family are often just as forceful but regarding things like direction and next steps. Again, what of the "closed doors"? Or even the open doors that end up causing so much pain and dysfunction? Must we step through a door simply because it's open and we prayed that it be so?

When I see someone crying out, weeping real tears, because things didn't go the way they trusted they would, prayed in great confidence they would, I have to question how we're going about this business of prayer. And in the meantime, I admit it: it's hard for me to pray with others.

Smeagol

In the Lord of the Rings books, Smeagol (aka Gollum) is a character who used to be a normal hobbit but after finding the Ring, retreated to the depths of a mountain and lived a shadow of his former life hidden in a cave.

I feel like I am Gollum.

I hear talk of continual growth and increasing wisdom (especially early on in a new year), hear song lyrics like "It's day one of the rest of your life, day one of the best of your life" and cringe, knowing these don't apply to me. I look at where I was 20 years ago, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago, and do not share any of the optimistic sentiments that my life is improving or that my heart and mind are growing.

Au contraire, I feel like I am continually dimming. My life today is a shadow of what it once was. My light has dimmed and is close to being snuffed completely out. I am not in a physical cave in a literal mountain. I do not possess a Ring of great power that is corrupting and obsessing me, as Gollum did. But I am not who I once was, and I'm far from who I want to be. I am tired and angry, hurt and lonely, distrustful and sad, busy and overwhelmed. I still take joy in many of the activities that always brought joy before, but I struggle to make time for those, and crud seems to often overwhelm any hint of contentment.

I'm trying to get help -- seeing a therapist and taking meds -- but don't have great hopes. I would so very much like to reverse this trend, to blossom instead of shriveling. Maybe it will happen yet...

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.