Ramadan gone, Pesach come

Today was Eid al-Fitr, the "Day of Fast-Breaking," that officially marks the end of the month of Ramadan. For Muslims around the world, this meant that they could resume morning and mid-day meals that were forbidden during the month of fasting. For Danny, it meant a day off of work. For the rest of us in the Espinosa orchestra, it meant the prohibitions placed on us to avoid the Old City (and thus the music school) on days of Islamic congregational prayer had been lifted. 

With less than two months to go before our summer vacation, we are jumping back into orchestra, theory classes, and choir. The organ teacher Noemie so loved decided to move back to Italy and Noemie has had to exchange her pipe-organ dreams for the "pipes" that God put in her throat. But we are back to normalcy, under various threats from Iran and its proxies, yet taking trips to the Dead Sea on the Jordanian side, taking the girls out for churros and icecream for their birthdays, taking the light rail to parks and music classes, homeschool co-op, and to the movie theater to catch Dune Part 2 on its last day in theaters. 

Every time I walk out my door I am impressed with the fullness of gratitude I feel to have the opportunity to live here. I am strongly affirmed in my conviction that this is truly a marvelous place. That affirmation comes from admiring the birds and observing the plants that I pass on my walk to the park- lavender, lantana, impenetrable hedges of viburnum, lemon trees, geraniums glowing red in the brilliant Middle Eastern sun, the Formosa Acacia tree clothed in little fuzzy yellow pom poms, wheat stalks growing wild along the sidewalks, maples, and many plants I can’t identify.  Some, like the yellow primrose jasmine, I go out of my way to look up on my plant ID app. I don’t expect I can grow them in North Carolina but I want to know the names of the flowers that keep me company.

The birds seem so happy to be here, the plants seem so happy to be here…Happy to make their home among the uniform facades of limestone walls, and the clean, white and blue flags that hang from light posts and balconies. Even the fruit trees are happy! Pomegranates the size of melons! Get a load of these pomelos!

 

 

...So happy to live among these sidewalks overrun with children. Imagine living in a place that so celebrated life, that everywhere you looked you saw entire families smiling, talking, walking the streets, defying the terror of the war around them. Families with older kids and elementary kids, and babies and grandmothers and grandfathers in tow. Arab families. Jewish families. There are children everywhere. On the buses alone… The city buses are simultaneously employed as school buses in a culture so respectful of human dignity, that neither parents nor children fear strangers. Babies everywhere. When the guard at the gate of the Jordanian resort peered into our car, he saw my four kids in the back and asks me if I was their mother. When I confirmed, he congratulated me. Great job, Mama! Well done! The effect of this love of life is unspeakably validating to the soul. And most of these mamas with natural, unpainted faces-- they know their worth. Their children remind them daily. Their husbands pray over them at every Shabbat meal.

I love to people-watch on the train. It's so interesting to me. Invariably I will see an orthodox woman with her little prayer book, praying with silent lips moving as they traverse the city. I wish I knew what they were saying. Are they reciting scripted prayers from the siddur? Do their prayers wind around like mine do as they think about the people in their lives? They remind me that I have been neglectful. I can be praying too. And I begin. When I see the young soldiers, just a year or two older than Dominic, squished in between other passengers, trying to find a comfortable angle for their automatic rifles, I pray for them. They are so young-- are they afraid? I pray that a brother or sister in Christ would share God's love with them- the love that drives out fear. When I see the old woman gripping the pole by the train door, I get lost in thought staring at her plain, faded gold ring, and I wonder if her husband is still alive. I wonder if she is deeply loved and carefully doted on by a gaggle of admiring grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I wonder if her body hurts from being alive for such a long time. And I pray that God would make sure someone tells her how to get to a new home to Him before she leaves this home on earth. As more people get on the train, more prayers go up as I try to imagine what God sees when he sees each person. 

 

Something new that has demanded some prayer has been the aforementioned homeschool cooperative. Homeschooling for Israelis, while legal, is strictly monitored. Permission must be granted by the government (which is typically not granted after age 16), and any educational providers must be registered and subject to regulation. So we don't actually call our co-op a "co-op," but rather a chuggim ("hoo-GEEM") which is the Hebrew word for an extra-curricular elective. At the beginning of the year, an expat American artist started an art class for homeschooled kids. Seven families would gather from week to week with the art teacher in an abandoned house to draw, paint, and learn the essential elements of visual art. These families realized that they needed more opportunities to learn and grow and fellowship together. One of those moms was a friend of mine from church, and she knew that I had come from extensive co-op experience in the States. She asked if I would become the administrative director of a new program that would extend beyond the art class to include science time, public speaking practice, and sports... things that are less enjoyable when your only classmates are your brothers and sisters. These classes would be for elementary aged students with older siblings serving as volunteers until we could develop the teen program that would include debate, Shakespeare, and Socratic seminars. We set our start date for the program April 2. I met with the two other directors to plan how to use the 3 bedroom house we were being offered, to discuss safety concerns, to plan for furniture and cleaning supplies, and to coordinate volunteers. 

 

Word got out that there was a Christian homeschool co-op. The week before the start of the class, 40 kids were expected to come-- double what we had planned. Dominic, Noemie, and Tovi went to the house to build benches from donated shipping pallets so the students could have seats without us having to furnish the house from our own funds. On the day of our first meeting, 47 children ages 0-16 and their moms filled the house. The group of moms that were leading, observing, shepherding, and teaching were made up of Messianic Jews, expats from Holland and America, and wives of Christian missionaries-- all of them serving proactively, thoughtfully, humbly, with sweet, peaceful temperaments. It was remarkably... functional! Everyone had only positive things to say, even though the teens didn't seem to have much to do. So we found a mom trained in foraging, and we planned to have her teach a foraging class the next week. This mom showed up for the second chuggim day with a pot of homemade stinging nettle fettucine alfredo. Oh. My. Goodness. It was delicious. Seven more children showed up as well. In what may very well be a miracle like that of the loaves and the fishes, there was even more order in spite of the fact that 54 children (and their moms) were in this 1800 sq ft house with one functioning bathroom, making matzo from scratch. We have received requests for thirteen more children to join. My co-directors have said yes... who am I to argue? This is the Israeli way. 

Earlier this year I know I kind of burst a bubble for those who thought Christmas in the Holy Land was going to be something extra sparkly and magical. I am sure you thought, well Easter is a holier holiday... that one for sure will be extra dramatic and glorious! So what was it like celebrating Easter in the place where it all happened? Ha! A funny thing about Easter is that the date of the holiday is based on the lunar calendar… isn’t that strange? The more traditional celebrations in Israeli churches of Christ as the atoning sacrifice and of His resurrection will occur over Passover (Pesach) in a couple of weeks. As you remember, Christ and His disciples were celebrating the Passover Feast the night before He was crucified. In fact, historians are able to tell the year that He was crucified based on the year that Pesach occurred on a Tuesday…  it falls on a different day every year on our calendar since the Jewish calendar and the Gregorian calendar are not aligned. The Bible records that he had to be taken off the cross quickly because it was the Preparation day for the special Shabbat that drew near - not a Shabbat in the traditional sense of Saturday but rather a holy day for the beginning of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. (I expect this is the reason that no one has ever been able to satisfactorily explain to me how He could be crucified on a Friday, be dead for three days, and be raised on Sunday. Now it all makes sense!) I'm not sure how our family will celebrate our own Easter/Pesach time as we remember the blood of the Lamb that was shed so that we could live. The older two will be at a Pesach Camp for a week before the holiday. I'm so thankful for our church and the ways that they make the most of every opportunity to speak truth into the lives of our teens. 

   

 

With renewed threats from Iran, our Pastor reminded us how to perform a mid-service evacuation in the event of rocket sirens. "Those in the back of the auditorium file out towards the rear stairwell; the bunker is at the bottom of the [5 flights of] stairs. Those in the front will use the stairway towards the front of the building. There's no bunker but the shaft is solid block concrete and will be safe. And praise God." Yes, that's the spirit. No matter what, praise God.