Things seem to be getting simpler, or the game is slowing down a little, or I’m just getting over the hump of culture shock.
Monday Father Roman left for a couple of days in Jerusalem. I had my list of parish to-dos, and one of my first stops was to head to the nearby mall to see if I could find a couple of cables for my laptop. Specifically, grounded power cables, as the electrostatic buzz from my computer chassis was driving me crazy. Well, not much luck there, though I did enjoy my cafe stop. I usually get a sentence and a half across to the Hebrew staff before having to switch back to English. Baby steps. Head home and do some prep around the house. Some tidying. Some cooking. Some graphics work for folks back home.
Wednesday worship was a bit of an adventure. I pitched to Father Roman the idea that I could lead some music for the Hebrew Mass that evening. He was totally into it, and thought it pure bonus as there is usually no music during the weekday services. I spent literally every spare minute in between house tasks working on pronunciation and as much memorization (and new vocabulary!) as I could cram in.
There’s one selection from the Hebrew songbook which had a marvellous bit of flexibility. You could play it fast or slow, with intensity or just chill. By 6:30pm I was kinda ready. I kept it simple, and all went off without undue weirdness. I was super excited, but like a driver on a mountain road, had to focus on what was right in front of me. After the service I knew that this was just the beginning of what was possible, and I’m keen to continue this part of my journey.
The next day I saw something else new: I had never before had an exit wound from a cactus needle. Those bad boys in the garden were calling for the next round, and naively I obliged. I managed to trim a few substantial stubs without too much fuss. Snip and run. Snip and run. That’s the strategy. So I trim my very last stub and leap back, but not before being impaled by one of its gargantuan (at least that’s my story) needles. How did that thing even get to me? I was a mile away!
The needle had cleverly managed to penetrate my big toe, stay just under the dermis, bury itself through the entry, then exit its stinger out the other side. Kind of like a nifty bit of metal-through-skin work. But this one could not stay to impress onlookers or enjoin me to broader pierce-culture. So which direction to take it out? Maybe it would go out the direction it came in, like a giant splinter, and I just push it back in reverse? No. The micro-barb structures on the surface of a cactus needle means it only travels in one direction—forward. A quick pull indicated that it was going to need some serious commitment to get it to go. This thing had quite the taper on it, thin end out the other side, thick end still in the toe!
Luckily, parishioner Annette and her daughter arrived right just then, and through her very adequate English understood my polite request to yank this thing out while I looked the other way. She brought me inside and asked for as much medical stuff as we could find. Well, both Father Roman and I are not the kind of people to think of these situations ahead of time, though in the end we did manage to find enough hydrogen peroxide and iodine to do the job. I knew where the pliers was, which I quickly reminded them about after a few failed attempts to do it free-hand.
Eyes closed, in a second it was all over. “If it gets red or feels hot, you should go to the clinic,” Annette said. Right, I’m not in Canada. Did I know where all my medical info was? No matter, there would be time to gather that later. I thanked them again for their help and sat for a few minutes to come down from my massive adrenaline dump. After a few globs out of my Polysporin tube (mandatory travel gear!), some tissue and tape I was back on my feet. We had Mass in 15 minutes! Annette did a good job spraying and slathering my toe with disinfectant, as there were no further complications and all healed quickly and cleanly.
After Mass Father Roman and I went over to meet up with some Christians from the Messianic Church nearby. They meet every other Thursday to sing and pray together. A handful of us made our way through a lovely and loosely-organized evening. Hillary was the hostess, and knew Father Roman well from events they had organized together before covid.
Saturday morning Father Roman and I returned to their main meeting space to worship with them. The Hebrew songs from this community (of Messianics in Israel) were one of my first touch-points to the country and the language just over two years ago. I thought it would be neat if I knew or could recognize at least one song during the meeting. Shockingly, I knew them all, and Father Roman looked wide-eyed at me and asked, “You know this?” as I sang the Hebrew lyrics, a few of them from memory. It’s hard to put into words the feeling you get when years of (at times obscure) training become a moment of realization and clarity.
Back home to prepare for English Mass. Many of the other musicians were going to be away that day, so a bit more fell to me. Thankfully Sarah, an Italian student, was going to be there and help anchor things. I bit off maybe more than I could chew, but made it through without too much difficulty.
On Sunday Father Roman left for a week’s conference in Italy, and Father Johannes (French Franciscan) from Emmaus (yes, that Emmaus) was coming to lead the Hebrew worship. I had spent time during the week learning the songs to be sung that day while Pau (94 years old) played the organ.
Also earlier that day Sister Shoshana arrived to stay at the house for a few days. She’s 79 years old and had just recently retired from her nearly 40 years of service in Beersheva. She was in town to see a few people and tie up some loose ends. I was to play host now, after receiving such great hospitality from other Sisters in the country. I tried to make sure Sister Shoshana had everything she needed. We shared a few meals together, and I soaked in as much of her wisdom as I could—she knew so much about the country and its people. I could have easily spent weeks listening and questioning her on every topic that came to mind.
Thankful for: space and time here in Beersheva to continue my inner and outer explorations. It seems like a good place to come and learn how to be simple, faithful, and patient.
Pray for: the return of a kind of immediacy—what is going on in my house? In the house beside mine? How can I get out of the habit of not paying attention real things within reach of my hand, sight of my eye and hearing of my ear?
I have no new photos from this week, as everything I saw I simply absorbed with my own eyes. But here’s one I took previously from Saint Stephen’s church at the Salesian monastery in the Bet Shemesh valley. Every square inch of the interior is painted with moments of scriptural narrative. This is the third of four murals that chronicle Stephen’s (Acts 6) ordination, the religious trial, his execution, and burial here at this site.
