Going Deeper

Recently I had the opportunity to take my Sudanese friend and seven of her children to the beach. She and the three oldest girls jumped in and swam like dolphins. The three little girls, following their lead, ran headlong into the surf – and immediately wiped out. Salty and distressed, they retreated to a very nice tidal pool, eased their way in, and played for hours. It was safe there with no pesky waves, just calm, serene water. Still, there was this pull to the ocean, to frolic in that wild surf.

Eventually the little girls could resist no longer; they decided to brave the waves once more. Carefully, very carefully, they dipped their toes into the surf, breath shallow and hearts pounding. As soon as the water hit them, they ran screaming onto the dry sand, then immediately went back again. The oldest younger daughter, Sahiba, is eight. She is all dark chocolate arms and legs and dimples. Sahiba was determined to learn to swim, but she was scared. She grabbed my hand and took a couple of steps past the shore and into the water.

Sahiba was too afraid to go any farther than knee-deep. The only thing was, that’s where the waves were breaking and she (and I) was being tossed about badly from the full impact. I kept telling her, “Go a step deeper, Sahiba. Hold onto me and take one more step.” Though they have only been in the U.S. for a couple of years, my friend and her older children are reasonably proficient in English; however, once she got excited, Sahiba reverted to her native language. She pointed at the waves and began telling me all about it in Maasalit. Even though I know very few Maasalit words, I definitely understood her meaning: “Can’t you see these big waves? They are knocking me down? I can’t go any further.” But I also understood what she did not – that if she would just go a little farther out, the water would be smoother.

Later on, I was trying to teach Sahiba to float on her back. She would stretch her arms out, stick her toes up, but as soon as I made any move to release her, she immediately stood up. I told her, “If you fight me, you are going to sink.” In that instant, God spoke to my heart: “What about you?” The sun still shone, the waves still pounded, little girls still giggled between waves, but for me, it was a moment frozen in time. I simply could not get away from that question.

Little by little, small successes sprinkled with failures, Sahiba worked her way into deeper water. She still held onto me for dear life, but she conquered her fear – driven both by her desire to move beyond the tidal pool and her trust in me.

On the ride home, the girls chatted quietly about their day at the shore, then one-by-one, they fell asleep. I, however, smiled as I fought back tears. This simple day at the beach was absolutely rich with meaning as God impressed His truth upon my heart.

  • Sometimes when we rush headlong into something, we will wipe out.

We see other people doing things that we wish we could do, so we hurl ourselves into them with great gusto. Only we have no idea what we’re doing, and we might fail. Our enthusiasm can propel us forward, but it may not completely prepare us for the task at hand.

  • But that doesn’t mean we should give up.

Failing the first time, or even the 53rdtime, does not make us a failure. We may not be great at something right away. It often takes time to hone a skill like swimming or playing an instrument or developing the discernment that comes from reading Scripture. We have to practice again and again and again, learning from our mistakes and building on our successes.

  • Playing in the tidal pool builds confidence.

While it lacks the intensity of the ocean, a tidal pool still has its benefits. Sahiba found a small section about knee deep and began practicing putting her head in the water. With a few attempts she became more comfortable being under the water and holding her breath.

  • That doesn’t mean we should stay there forever.

The tidal pool is calm and serene. The baby (age 18 months) wanted nothing to do with the ocean. He was perfectly content to sit and splash in the warm, ankle-deep pool. The noise and the waves terrified him and he wanted no part of that. Sahiba, however, began to long for something more. The tidal pool may be safe, but the excitement level was quite low. More and more often Sahiba began to fix her gaze on the ocean, so close, yet just beyond her reach.

  • We want to go deeper, but we are afraid.

Sahiba saw her mom and sisters swimming and she wanted to join them. But the waves! They were big, so very big! They’d already knocked her down once. That’s a scary, out-of-control experience. But still, her family members were obviously having a great time and she wanted to join them. Sometimes following Jesus is a lot like this. We want to grow deeper in our relationship with Him, but it’s so frightening, so beyond what we are used to, so very…unknown. We long for it, but we can be afraid of what it might require of us. Our inadequacies might be revealed. People might think we are weird. Shoot, we may even have to (GULP…) change certain habits or become a missionary or something crazy like that. Scare-ree!

  • When we stop short, the waves will crash all around us.

Sahiba took a couple of bold steps that brought her into water about knee-deep. She was brave to even try. It took an act of courage to get her to that point. But she stopped at exactly the point where the waves were breaking. She was tossed about, clearly out of control. This made her nervous and she retreated to the safety of the shore. Time and time again she would wade out, get knocked around by the waves, then dash back to safety. She kept trying the same thing and ended up with the same results. Sahiba could see what she wanted, but she was too afraid to go past where she had already been. I think I have done the same thing hundreds of times in my walk with Jesus. I see the faith of other people and long for that kind of intimacy with my Father. There have been times, for example, when I’ve started a Bible study with great enthusiasm. Then things start getting personal. Holy Spirit starts revealing things to me. I don’t like what He’s bringing up. It will hurt if I have to deal with that stronghold. It will cost my comfort level if I actually deal with the issue at hand.  I then dash back to the safety of my status quo, gazing at the freedom Christ offers, but unwilling to take the step past the waves of guilt and remorse and pain crashing all around me.

  • A step beyond our comfort zone things are often surprisingly smoother.

As we step beyond what we have always known and into who we could be, we discover that the surf here is not as fierce as we expected. The waves are still coming in as they always have, but from this vantage point we are able to see them coming and position ourselves to gently roll over the top of them as they crash further on, well past us. Maneuvering through the waves is not nearly as difficult as we expected. It took a dedicated effort to get here, and while our vigilance is still required, the effort is not so great as it once was. Spiritually, we are able to recall our trust in our Father. Recalling the promises He has kept and the ways He has rescued us in the past gives us courage to face the future. This remembering is what I call Practicing the Goodness of God. Problems will surely come so we have to remain aware, but He gently lifts us above them, secure in His love.

  • If we fight Him, we will sink.

It took several tries for me to relay the concept of floating on her back to Sahiba. She was tense, ignored my instructions, and quickly went under. I knew what she needed to do. I needed her to listen to me. I needed her to trust what I was telling her, even if it seemed a little crazy: “WHAT? Point my toes? Let water get in my ears? Stretch my arms straight out??? I don’t think so!”  Unlikely as it may have sounded to her at the time, I knew that if she would trust me, she would float on top of the waves. If she fought even one part of the process, she would sink. As we grow in our trust, Jesus begins to develop our character. Sometimes the things He asks of us are uncomfortable and even a little scary: “Spend time with Me each day. Deal with this deep pain from your childhood. Tell that lady over there how much I love her. Quit pretending with Me; I want you to be gut-level honest in your prayers.” It’s hard sometimes. Yet Jesus knows us inside out. We need to listen to Him and to trust that not only does He know best, He also has the best in mind for our good and His glory.

  • When we are in deep water, we can cling to our Father.

Sometimes Sahiba clung tightly, eyes wide with fear, chattering away at me in Maasalit. Other times she let go for a minute and tried out her own abilities, laughing as she practiced navigating the surf. Several times Sahiba’s head went under, but she always popped back up, and I was there to catch her while she caught her breath. I never left her side. She knew I was right there with her and I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Similarly, as we begin to grow deeper in our faith, Jesus is right there beside us. It is His hand we cling to. His Word promises that He will never leave us or forsake us. No matter what our fears may try to tell us, no matter what the circumstances look like, this is a truth that is steady and unchanging. When we go through deep water, He is there. Always.

Who’s The Genius?

Tonight the Haywood’s played a little game called “Who’s the Genius?”

When our paths finally converged this afternoon, Jeff and I met at a building where he needed to do an electrical job after the business closed. When he was finished, we planned to do some Christmas shopping for three little girls who have wrapped themselves firmly around our hearts. 

As we walked out to leave, Jeff said, “Follow me.” Sure. That sounded simple enough. The parking area behind the building was like a dirt bowling alley – long and very skinny. We had to drive all the way to the far end, turn around, then head back out the way that we had come in. I didn’t quite understand the logic of that, but Jeff said to follow. So I followed. When he reached the back of the lot and made his turn, it occurred to me that my car needs considerably less space to corner than his truck. I went ahead and made my left turn – right into a giant mud pit. I never saw the gaping expanse until the moment I sank into it. I quickly noticed that I was indeed not the first to slide into its soggy depths. This was no consolation. The hole was about a foot deep, black mud was up to my bumper, and I just so happened to be wearing the single most expensive pair of shoes I own. Face palm. Actually several face palms. 

I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. 

Completely unfazed, Jeff went straight to work. He removed a tiny circle from my front bumper (which I never even knew was there), attached a short bar from the jack, then stretched out the chain that he ever so conveniently had in his truck. With a brilliant rooster tail of black mud, he pulled me right out. Christmas (shopping) was saved!

Some observations:

1. My husband is an amazing man in both attitude and abilities. 

2. The car extraction plan my brain feverishly conjured up would surely have ripped the bumper right off the car. And I’d probably still be stuck. 

3. I am convinced that southern men with pickup trucks secretly long for the day when they can pull out a big ole chain or a set of jumper cables and rescue people like me who accidentally do stupid things at inopportune times. 

4. Sometimes when you are given directions it is sufficient to follow the general spirit of the instructions. Other times it is imperative to observe the full letter of the law.

Finding a New Normal

I ran today. Well, perhaps that is an overly ambitious use of the verb. I completed three miles today, perhaps a third of which might be considered running. After bringing home a doozy of an upper respiratory infection from Poland, this was my first exercise in almost a month. I honestly did not Want to go running today, but I felt like I Ought to.There was a raging debate when I first woke up. The smart thing to do would have been to put on my shoes and go, but I paused for a split second. This was ample time for the voice of laziness and complacency inside my head to make a fairly solid case for the extreme comfort of my cozy covers. Still, somehow sound reasoning determined not only that I Should get up and go, but that I Would. 

The last couple years have brought a great many changes in my life, some of which I intentionally chose, others, not so much. Some heartbreaking and some truly amazing things have occurred. Through it all though, I’ve felt myself struggling, flailing through life. My two essential foundations – Jesus and Jeff – remained rock solid, but nothing else seemed to quite make any sense. And, I’ve gotta tell ya, Type A people don’t like it when things don’t make sense.  

My new boss is a genuinely fantastic woman with an uncanny ability to “read” people. She suggested I check out the book “Who Moved My Cheese.” If you have not already done so, invest about an hour of your life with this tiny, incredible book. It’s an analogy for business, and for life, told as a modern parable about four mice in a maze searching for cheese. It is neither fancy nor complicated, but it helped so many things suddenly make sense. 

I’ve known all along that I needed to find my new Normal. But try as I might, I simply have not been able to. This has been the source of MUCH frustration, which my family has endured like champs because they love me and know that sometimes I just have to wrestle my way through things. Reading this little story helped me t see that I’ve been trying to make completely new circumstances fit into my old way of doing things, to make the new Normal fit into the same mold as the older one. This is a sure-fire recipe for failure and frustration, and man alive, that’s where I’ve been. 

I used to run almost every single day, raced at least once a month, and consistently placed at the top of my age group. I used to be a pretty doggone good teacher, confident and poised, and ready to bring out the best in my students. Those were great times, enjoyable seasons of life. Today things are different, therefore my approach must also be different. New circumstances require a new ways of thinking.  

So today I went rambling around the pond. It was later in the day, and quite warm, but what a beautiful backdrop! The sun was shining, the squirrels and ducks were each amusing in their own way, and there were other families out enjoying the day. My mind contemplated these things while Daughtery and Def Leppard fueled my feet. I ran and walked and breathed. Then, without warning, I felt my stride shift from awkward shuffle to the smoother glide of former days. Was I as fast as I used to be? Not even close. But, who cares? I don’t need a finisher’s medal to prove that I gave my best. I walked away slimy, completely spent, but absolutely satisfied. 

Seasons of life come and they go. Things change, and that’s more than okay; it’s actually quite exciting. My Should will eventually catch up with my Want To. It’s counterproductive – and impossible – to try to squeeze today into yesterday’s mold. There are too many wonderful things ahead to dwell in the past. Sure. It may still take some time for all the elements of my new Normal to ease into place. But they will. 

A Tale of Two Tables

Friday was hard for me. Actually, it all began much earlier than that. I have been away from home for almost a month now. The homesick that had been nipping at my heels for weeks finally caught up. A friend in Israel I had been so looking forward to connecting with was unable to meet with me. It was the first time in 27 years I missed my daughter’s birthday. It was a trifecta of circumstances, the perfect storm for a pity party. Thursday night I cried myself to sleep, silent sobs of deep despair.

This trip has been so good, yet nothing – absolutely NOTHING – has gone as expected. I have seen some absolutely amazing places and God has opened my eyes to things in Scripture that I never noticed before. Yet the things I most wanted to happen, the conversations and stories I most wanted to hear, didn’t. I began to question why I was even here. What was the purpose? I only know that God said, “GO!” The how and why of what He will do with these experiences remains to be seen. In all fairness, I did pray for God to wreck my plans with His. On the one hand, it is exciting that He most certainly has, but perhaps I will be a little more selective with my choice of verbs the next time I pray something that bold. 😛

Friday morning as my friend and I joined our hosts at the breakfast table, I was a basket case. At first I tried to hide my feelings, but I simply could not stop crying. Five good minutes would pass then the tears would start up. Again. The three people sharing this incredibly awkward meal did all they could to point me in a positive direction. They acknowledged my sadness but did not allow me to wallow. Sometimes the best thing to do is just keep moving. We went to Nazareth Village that day. The more the day progressed, the more my focus shifted. I learned so much in this humble place, and my emotional energy was transferred from myself to the wonder of all that Christ has done. Seeing this site, perhaps more than any other during this trip, made me hungry to revisit Scripture now that I have walked where they took place: the vineyard, the olive press, among the almond blossoms, the grazing sheep, the flowers of the field, the dust of the paths. What an honor that is!

Friday evening, just after sundown, we sat again at that very same kitchen table. What a stark contrast this meal was from the one mere hours before. I celebrated my first Israeli Shabbat. Our hosts invited us to join them and a couple friends for this weekly feast. We lit the candles and sang songs of praise and worship. We spoke traditional prayers and blessings over each other. We toasted the fruit of the vine. We ate challah and roasted chicken and apple pie. It was a time to reflect on the goodness of God, to be still, to rest in His Presence.

My bent heart is mending. Although the book I envisioned writing simply is not going to happen right now, I choose to trust. I believe there are still stories for me to tell. I have mourned the perceived loss of a dream, but in my quiet times, God has been taking me beyond that kind of thinking. In some crazy way this time in Israel feels more like an introduction than a conclusion.

Galilee Birds

I’ve been thinking today about birds. Birds and rocks. We’ll get around to that subject later. I’m staying in this apartment for the next week or so and the balcony faces the Sea of Galilee. With the exception of a couple apartment buildings, it’s a pretty wide open vista. Ravines in the mountains of the Jordan Valley just across the lake are clearly visible, as are clusters of homes along those mountains. This may a real stretch here, but I have all ideas that people live in those houses, people who are, at their core, not all that different from you and me.

At any given time, no matter where you might look, there are birds. Birds, birds, and more birds. Sea gulls flocking around tour boats, black birds flying in a straight line, one orange-faced Syrian woodpecker who seemed rather distraught. Birds eating and flying and resting on the water, or on top of a boat, or on top of any structure that their feet find to light upon. Pigeons of every imaginable size and color variation. Tiny, iridescent Palestinian sunbirds. Sparrows and ravens and cranes. Everywhere. Always on the move.

Luke 12:22-25 (NIV) says, “Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable are you than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” Jesus reminds us that His Father, who provides for the tiniest…or even most annoying…birds will provide for us as well. We don’t have to fight and demand our rights. We don’t have to “better ourselves” at the expense of someone else. We need not worry. Yet we do. All the time.

Somewhere near the Jericho area, we passed through a military checkpoint. I had to show my passport. The guard asked our driver a few questions in Hebrew. I sat there wide-eyed as the officer slowly went through my passport, one page at a time. I feared she would quiz me on where I’d been and where I was going. Even though I’m just a tourist, seeing the sights and stimulating the Israeli economy, it’s hard to be completely relaxed when facing someone toting a machine gun. There is a great deal of tension in this area. There has been for thousands of years. Security is not a thing anyone can become totally lax about. I understood the reasons for her inspection of my documents, but it still made my internal butterflies start doing a few acrobatics.

But today, I considered the birds. They recognize no such borders. They are unencumbered by political boundaries or affiliations. Syrian fish taste just as good to them as those from Israel, or USA, or China. What do birds care who is in the White House, or the Bedouin settlement, or the apartment in Tiberius? They have fish to eat, naps to take, nests to build, babies to raise. They come and go as they please, doing what they need to do and not bothering themselves that a flock of geese has moved into the neighborhood. There’s food enough for everyone if everyone takes only what they need. Seasons pass; storms come and they go. Political borders and environments change, and the birds adapt without a lot of fanfare. The birds keep being birds. It’s what they do.

I wonder what lessons we might learn from them.

Via Dolorosa

One of the must-sees for any pilgrimage to Jerusalem is the Via Dolorosa. Before arriving here, I had a vague idea of what that would mean, what it would be like, how it would impact me. Like most everything else in Israel, my preconceived notions and reality have very seldom lined up. Not that that’s a bad thing.

Just getting there is slightly intimidating. A short walk from where we are staying, there is a free shuttle that will drop you off at the Dung Gate. (((See below))) To enter the Old City here, you must pass through security – a metal detector and bag check. This puts you in the plaza just left of the Western Wall. The Jewish, Muslim, Armenian, and Christian sections of the Old City converge near this point, so there is all manner of people, attire, and languages to be observed. A tunnel leads to the Muslim section, where a beautiful cacophony of sights, sounds, and aromas mingle. Even during the off-season, the streets and alleyways are full of people: shop owners eager to show you their exotic wares, families with small children, the occasional beggar, religious people, tourists on holiday, large tour groups wearing matching t-shirts and headphones to hear a guide in their own language, couples strolling hand-in-hand; demeanors are relaxed and frantic and all points in between. It is both an assault and a feast for the senses.

One of the things I noticed right away is that the British, who laid out my beloved home city of Savannah in perfect squares, left no such mark on the ancient streets of Jerusalem. For each major thoroughfare in the Old City, there are a number of crooked alleys leading from it. Every path seems to lead to another. I seriously wonder if anyone could know all of the possible passageways branching off from just one of the main streets. Traveling along El-Wad, the primary road in this section, will eventually land you at the Damascus Gate; about halfway, however, a right turn on the street Via Dolorosa carries you at the Lion’s Gate.

My travel buddy, Karen, and I joined a couple hundred of our closest friends from many nations to walk the Via Dolorosa. Since the 13th century, Franciscan monks have been the Custodians of the Holy Places. Each Friday at 3:00 pm they lead a procession beginning near the Lion’s Gate and ending at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, tracing the route of important events as Jesus was condemned then crucified. These are also called the Stations of the Cross.

As we reached each point, the Franciscans would give a brief description of the station (in three languages), often accompanied by a liturgical recitation or song. Since I am not Catholic, much of this was lost on me. Still, I found it a hauntingly beautiful backdrop for our journey through the city.  The crowd was large and the streets were narrow. After being nudged out several times by incredibly devout Chinese Catholics (honestly, still trying to wrap my head around that), I found a more comfortable spot farther back in the crowd. Here, I heard less of what was being said, but was still able to actively participate in the processional.

Walking the Via Dolorosa was certainly a powerful experience, but not in the way I expected. This was not a calm, reflective stroll where I could quietly ponder the implications of each stop along the way as Jesus carried a heavy, shameful instrument of death out of His great love for me and His total obedience to the Father. Instead, it was a semi-chaotic up then down then up again, winding path through a bustling market area crowded with people who had no time or interest in this processional. They had wares to sell or buy, places to be, things yet to be done.

I can’t help but wonder if things were remarkably similar on another Friday 2000 years ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Please be aware that this is personal reflection, not an academic presentation. However, since some might be interested in a bit of historical backdrop, I have included below an appendix of sorts, with a short description of the Gates mentioned above.

Information taken from The Jerusalem Post, “Sites And Insights: Gates Of Jerusalem,” by Wayne Stiles at jpost.com.

The Dung Gate

The unusual name stems from a gate that stood along the city’s south wall in the time of Nehemiah (Nehemiah 2:13). The Targum identifies the Dung Gate as the “Potsherd Gate” of Jeremiah 19:2. In antiquity, the city dump lay in the nearby Hinnom Valley, and the Potsherd Gate served as the exit by which the citizens took out the garbage.

The Damascus Gate

A fine example of Ottoman architecture, this is the most beautiful of the gates of Jerusalem. Excavations below the gate reveal a triple-arched gateway that Hadrian built—the northern extent of the Cardo street from the second century. Outside the gate, an Arab market offers fresh fruit and vegetables.  The Jews call it the “Shechem Gate,” and the Arabs refer to it as the “Gate of the Column.”

The Lion’s Gate

Christians have identified this gate with Stephen’s name in honor of his martyrdom outside the city (Acts 7:58-60). However, Byzantines placed his death outside a northern gate.  Another name, “Lion’s Gate,” comes from the stone reliefs of two lions (or panthers or jaguars) that flank the gate.

Map of the Old City:

tipsgatesmap

http://www.itsglia.com/images/tipsgatesmap.gif

Driving in Israel – Part Two

A week before I left home, it was decided that I would get an international driver’s license to save a significant amount of money on excursions. This offered us great flexibility and really did save a ton of money. After paying $150 to take an hour-long drive by taxi, $200 to rent a car for four full days was a very logical choice.

Only, that meant I had to do all the driving. When it comes to long road trips, I’m a great passenger. I love to press my nose to the window and see all the amazing sights, or curl up and fall asleep. Now I was going to have to pay attention to the road. Having never driven in Israel, there were some unfamiliar signs, and the traffic signals operate slightly differently than the ones in the US. I accidentally ran a red light or two before I clued in to the difference, but at least we were on the same side of the road as at home. There was some comfort in that.

The friends we were staying with wanted to show us the city of Be’er Sheva. I appreciate their thoughtfulness, but I am a country girl and would have been nervous driving in a large American city. I saw nothing but the asphalt. My eyes were glued to the road, the traffic signs and signals, and other drivers (who, are considerably more aggressive than American drivers but not as much as those in Europe.) My only aim was to neither kill nor be killed. I am sure that Be’er Sheva is a lovely city, but all I can say with any degree of certainty is that they do seem to have a nice system of roads. There are few standard crossroads, but the plethora of roundabouts keep things moving and people are generally considerate of other drivers – unless you pause long enough to inspire honking.

Though he no longer drives, Sasha is far better than any GPS. When he says turn, you need not question him. Sasha knows. The one time we got really turned around, Sasha hesitated, I missed the turn-off from the highway, three people all started talking at once in two languages. An hour-long quest to get back on track began. As it turns out, Sasha was right all along, the GPS was wrong (it was a brand new road), and we ended up seeing a different part of the countryside, which would have been quite pleasant had I not been so anxious about having led us so far astray.

The most treacherous driving experience was reaching the Dead Sea. Periodically the side of the mountain was marked with your elevation in regard to sea level, +1000m, +500m, etc. The distance may have been 25 km as the crow flies, but it was, I assure you, considerably longer when you are the one behind the wheel making the hairpin turns on the side of a mountain, descending further and further down to the lowest elevation on planet earth. Leaving the highway and reaching the Dead Sea took over an hour. By the time we arrived, I was one stressed Georgia girl, longing for the flat lands of home. I think the other three passengers all expected me to blow a gasket at any moment, but some cappuccino and exploration of the Dead Sea smoothed out my wrinkled nerves.

One of the coolest things we saw along the descent was a group of young Bedouin shepherds. They had a flock of sheep – perhaps 20-30 – and camels – around 10 – mothers and babies, grazing on the side of the mountain. We passed by far too quickly for anyone to snap a photo, but I am sure that this is a rustic imagine that will live in my mind for many years.

On the way back to Ofaqim, we decided to fill up the car with gas. Sounds simple enough, right? Not even. Since they live in a metropolitan area, neither Fira nor Sasha drive. They counted on me to make this happen. I was not a bit concerned as we pulled into the dark station after regular hours since I do know how to pump gas and do self-pay at the pump.  The only problem here is that the directions are in Hebrew. Sasha reads and speaks Hebrew but he doesn’t know the procedure for using the card scanner at the pump. We developed a chain of translation. Sasha read the Hebrew directions, then translated them into Russian to Fira, who then translated them into English. I could not help but recall the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy is arrested in Paris for using counterfeit money and it takes a five-language chain to plead her case and set things straight. Meanwhile in Ofaqim, much confusion ensued. There was vigorous reasoning together in Russian, my head snapping back and forth like I was watching the championship match at Wimbledon, trying to catch a recognizable phrase so I’d know how to proceed. After some time, Fira called her grandson to talk us through the proper procedure, her eyes wide with concern as she explained our predicament to him. I had to bite my lip and turn away as I heard him laughing on the other end so I wouldn’t do the same. After more emphatic discussion, it was decided that we would wait until the next day and go to a different station so an attendant could help us. Storm over, we all climbed back into the car and headed home.

 

Photo credit: http://reachingutopia.com/save-money-at-the-gas-pump/