Aaahhhh, quiet Mondays. Catch up with folks back home and begin preparations for worship in the evening. I spend the weekdays learning the songs that have already been chosen for the upcoming Sunday service. This gives me bite-sized amounts of Hebrew to learn, and by the time Sunday rolls around I can act like I know what I’m doing! It doesn’t matter how many people come to join us in the evenings, Father Roman is always so attentively focused on the service. He has led this thousands (tens of thousands?) of times. I’ve witnessed his last few dozen, and I’ve never seen him fall into auto-pilot or cruise-control mode.
After Mass we went over to Raful and Marianna’s home to have supper with them and two of their children. This core parish family are Arabs from the north of Israel originally, having settled for years in Beersheva while conflict rages in their home cities. This was perhaps one of my few experiences where I had to really stay sharp to play the role of “guest” in an Arabic home. Needless to say I was very well fed and given every possible welcome.
Tuesday was my final day trip out into the wilds of the land. Father Roman had two more places to take me before I left Israel. One was to meet his friend Stella in Haifa. The other was to complete my tour of the trifecta of communities that make up the Sisters of Bethlehem by visiting their northern outpost near the Sea of Galilee. “I love that group, and visited them often when I worked in Haifa,” Father Roman tells me. “What’s to like about them?” I asked. With an expression of subtle incredulity, he responds, “Their chapel is carved into a mountain. What’s not to like?”
But first a stop in the port city of Haifa to see Sister Stella, a religious since she was young. Stella and her mother escaped the Shoah in Poland during the second world war. She converted to Christianity after seeing the love and bravery of local Christians who risked their lives to hide Jews. One wartime Catholic priest there instructed his congregation, “When the Nazis come and ask for your cow, give them your cow. And when they ask for your horse, give them your horse. But when they come and ask for the Jews, DO NOT GIVE THEM THE JEWS.”
I regret that I will not be in Israel this November when Stella celebrates her 99th birthday. We found her resting out on the patio of her apartment while her caregiver inside prepared lunch for us. A very generous meal of potatoes (with fresh dill), beets and freshly-ground chicken cutlets fried schnitzel-style was served. Stella’s physical frame may have become a little on the thin side, but her appetite was robust. Through a bit of scattered English she inquired about me, and we got to know each other a little. I imagine there are things that a 99-year-old can observe about me that require no questions or discussion. I was impressed.
It seems Stella is also up for adventure whenever it comes calling, and she agreed to join Father Roman and me for our afternoon visit to the monastery near Galilee. The four of us packed into the car and headed inland. I was told there’s a way to get to this place: go to the end of the world, then turn left. We travelled east along the main freeway, and turned off onto a smaller provincial highway. Then we left the highway and ventured along the narrow and winding mountain road that weaved and bobbed its way through the hills and tiny villages just north of the Sea. Every crest of each hill revealed new and breathtaking vistas of the undulating landscape, with beautiful blue Galilee so bright and vivid down below us.
We arrived at the monastery gate with one of the Sisters already there waiting. Normally you can’t drive down towards their dwelling, but they knew we had Stella with us, and I came to understand that she gets VIP treatment and a joyous welcome wherever she goes. These days there are fewer priests who are available to wander this far afield to say the Mass with them, so the sisters were very happy to see Father Roman again and get an opportunity to worship together with him.
We arrived at the compound and passed through a doorway which immediately leads one downward into the mountain. It’s true, the chapel at the bottom of the stone stairs is a cavern carved out of the mountain’s interior. When the Sisters were charged with the care of this place, they added some outbuildings and, thankfully, electricity. The chapel was lit with a combination of lamps and original ceiling ports that reached all the way back up to the open air above, their white rock surfaces effectively reflecting and channeling light downwards.
The singing of the sisters was predictably good. Out of the three, I probably have to give the prize to the Deir Rafat community, but I may be biased. I observed Sister Stella carefully during the worship. Now she is (with all due respect) hella-old, and could be excused for not standing/sitting/kneeling for all the bits. But when it was time to stand, there was nothing her caregiver or anyone else could do to stop her. They shuffled her over to a tall chair that she grabbed onto for stability. It seemed to me that she had found her centre, and would stand there as long as necessary. When Father Roman lifted the bread to her mouth, I was afraid she was going to bite his fingers in her zeal! I was impressed.
We chatted with the Sisters over juice and fruit afterwards—yes, it was hot there, too—then made our way back to Haifa. Stella’s apartment building is built onto the side of a hill, and there was quite the steep alley leading up to it from the street below. Initially, Father Roman and I took the car up the driveway, but now Stella requested that we drop her and her caregiver at the bottom so they could walk up. All this was discussed in Polish, and being largely unawares I was aghast to see Father Roman stop the car early and let the ladies out. “No, it’s their request,” he assured me. I then looked behind as we drove away and saw the two of them head up the hill at not a slow pace. I was impressed.
It sometimes happens that small tasks balloon into full-on projects. The next day I needed to replace a couple of electrical sockets located near water sources with sockets that had protection against liquids and splashing and such. So the million-dollar question: which breaker to turn off for this socket? The parish house had many, many breakers, but no list of what controlled what. So Father Roman and I took on the task of creating a thorough electrical map of every receptacle and light fixture and exterior appliance. In the course of discovery it is always a little head-scratching why one socket suddenly shared a circuit with sockets on the other side of the house, on another floor. I suppose any old port in the storm will do, electrically speaking. At least we know.
Thursday was, unbelievably, my last day in town. My few belongings were packed. Father Roman had recently discovered a nearby restaurant that made a dish called “ful mudammas”, which I learned was fava beans with spices. He had loved this dish during his time studying in Egypt, but had rarely enjoyed it here in Israel. He was keen to try this establishment and celebrate my time in the land with a meal there. I’m always up for culinary adventure, especially if I’m not the one cooking!
My lazy version of ful would have been uncooked of course, but this place had the not-lazy version which was lovingly stewed and served on a bed of fresh hummus. I was super impressed at the electric “schwarma shears” that one employee used to shave the meat stack. These guys were serious about getting it done. Loaded with heaping plates, plus side plates of pita, delicate falafel and tempura-fried potato slices, we were treated with a giant and delicious meal that left us entirely satisfied and willing to return to and recommend their fare without hesitation.
In order to catch my 4:30am flight, I took the last airport bus from Beersheva just past midnight. Flying out of several unfamiliar airports internationally was going to be a project. Father Roman dropped me at the bus stop and helped me get on my way. Our parting was not dramatic—we both felt like it was only temporary. And anyway I don’t have enough hugs, kisses, thank-yous or tears to pay back to him what he and the community contributed to my life these last three months. Sometimes unpayable heaping debts of this kind should just be left that way as a memorial.
My direct flight back to Toronto had been cancelled and rescheduled just weeks after I had arrived in Israel. So I bounced from Tel Aviv to Frankfurt, then Calgary, then Edmonton. I always drink my coffee black, but when I arrived in Calgary I had to walk over to the Tim’s and speak the uniquely Canadianese “double-double” as a passphrase back into my homeland. With the crossing of countless timezones I had no idea how long I had been awake since the morning prior, but sure as sure can be, I was pretty tired when I finally arrived at my host’s home in Edmonton.
The next day my one missing suitcase was delivered to the house, and I was whole. The cold water tap now gave cold water, and the strangeness of home began to make its way back into my consciousness.
Highlight: my final worship Mass on Thursday tasted extra special. Extra rich.
Pray for: not me. I am generally insulated against the most deeply distressing of life circumstances. There are people I leave behind and people I travel towards that are not similarly insulated.
Honourable mention: Sister Serafina at the Sisters of Bethlehem monastery in Deir Rafat. Without my asking she knowingly directed me to the place I didn’t even know I needed to be at. My eternal gratitude to you, my Sister.
Photos: 1) I took “visual recipes” to help Father Roman recreate my best kitchen works. Don’t forget to take the beans out of the can! 2) The worship space carved into the mountain at the Sisters of Bethlehem northern monastery , 3) Panorama of Beersheva taken from the Monument to the Negev Brigade outside the city. A rare day with clouds.
