With Open Doors

I found out today why Georgie is Georgie. His grandfather is George. His mom invited me for lunch to meet his dad and his grandparents and his aunts, all of whom come to “family lunch” at grandparent’s house at 2:00 p.m. (until 4:00p.m., that is a good family lunch) every day. You don’t need to wonder how they knew it was my birthday. You might wonder how they came up with two cakes and the decorated candle. To my every expression of thanks, Georgie’s mom kept responding, “It is my/our pleasure.” On leaving, there was a promise and a standing invitation, “You have our number. If you need anything, anything, a ride somewhere, a drive to the airport, if you get bored tomorrow, you just call one of us. And whenever you come back to Jordan, know that you have a family in Jordan.” Their home and this lunch was a wonderful expression of the way “family is family” among the Arab Christians of the Holy Land. My 64th birthday was a good one.

The guesthouse where I am staying was originally built by the Rosary Sisters as a residence for “old lay women,” as one of the sisters explained to me. But no one came. So much for “built it and they will come.” The Jordanians did not want to send their mothers and sisters to this place, but preferred to keep them at home to care for them on their own. The sisters decided then to turn it into a residence for their own older and informed sisters, and into a retreat center and guesthouse to raise money to take care f their sisters. They call their place, “Visitation Home.” I was ordained on May 31, the feast of the Visitation. I am here for an ordination of a young man who was born in this town, and whose whole family is still here. Being at their “Visitation” is a nice connection with my own “Ordination” 38 years ago.

Now that yesterday is yesterday, it is does not seem so bad. Yesterday looks quite doable the day after. True of many days, right? The most tense moment yesterday was when the taxi driver, who did not speak English and got frustrated because I was not able to speak Arabic to tell him where I wanted to go, dumped me in town center of Fuheis, after laughing with a police officer who also could not speak English – and started to pull away with my luggage still in his trunk, until I beat on the back of the car. In my journal on the day before I had written: “Little nervous about crossing the bridge. Never crossed northern bridge. Doing it alone and by myself. Everything else has gone splashingly well, this should as well. Help has always come at the moment needed.” I was really nervous now! The crossing was over, but now I stood alone, not even knowing I was in the right town. I tried everything I could think of: “Abuna, church, convent, sisters, nuns, ordination, visitation home, holy rosary sisters.” Nothing worked. But as before, step by step, getting enough for the next step, four connections later I was told the young man with whom I was speaking was the “brother of Sleiman,” the deacon whose ordination I will attend today, my reason for coming here to the Holy Land for these dates. “Brother of Sleiman” said,”Welcome.” Without much emotion or expression on his face, he said something in Arabic to my taxi driver and walked away from the car. Twenty minutes later I saw this sign and said, in one of the few Arabic expressions I know, “Thanks be to God.” Finally the driver understood something I said – and I was home.

Stupid me! I knew better. When I crossed the border from Israel to Jordan, I did not have this information with me: my place of residence in Jordan, and the directions and phone number of the place where I would be staying. I caused two problems for myself. At the Jordanian passport control, the authorities delayed me and questioned me, because I could not provide for them the information that they needed. And worse, I could not give to the taxi drivers (note: plural – one for the required hour and half drive from the border to the city center of Fuheis itself, one for the not necessary, one hour drive round around, up and down Fuheis). I assumed, one, that everyone would speak English, and two, that everyone would know where the sisters had their guesthouse. I will never make that mistake again. I will just make new mistakes the next time.

At the last morning’s breakfast, Ali, the restaurant manager, slid past my table, as the two groups of pilgrims were eating the usual hard boiled eggs from the buffet, “Abuna, would you like scrambled eggs?” I did not want to offend his kindness and gesture of hospitality. A cup of hot coffee, a few pieces of warm and slightly toasted bread, strawberry and apricot jams, chocolate and halva (a sweet and smooth sesame seed spread), and freshly scrambled eggs – a break the fast worthy of a pilgrim.

The breakfast buffet at the Pilgerhaus (pilgrim house) was always delicious to look at. A very artistic and appetizing way of using vegetables!

On the first Sunday, it was real parish Arabic. On the second Sunday, monastery German. Talk about different styles of worshipping and being at worship. There is room in our church for much diversity, thanks God. I felt quite comfortable at both, thanks God.

On my last full day at the Sea of Galilee I treated myself to a ham, cheese and onion omelette at the pilgrim house restaurant, with some salad and bread, as always – and a draft Taybeh beer, for a real treat. The omelette cost 28 NIS (new Israeli shekels), and the beer cost 25 NIS, the bill coming to 53 NIS, about $15 US. Taybeh is the only Palestinian-produced beer, made in a brewery in the town of, you guessed it, Taybeh, in the West Bank. Taybeh is one of the few totally Christian villages left in the Holy Land. The brewery is operated by, you guessed it, a Christian family, remember: the only kind in Taybeh. Maybe in my retirement I will open up a Taybeh beer market in the United States. With Guinness from Ireland and Taybeh from Palestinian, my Irish heart and my Palestinian soul will be internationally satisfied.

I thought that, if I told the Filipino nun that I was a priest, that I was pastor of St. Andrew parish back home, that the loaves and fishes are vey important to us because, in the Gospel of John, it was Andrew who came to Jesus with the lad with the five and two, and that I would like for her to take a photo of the 5th century mosaic for me, she would raise the rope that keeps pilgrim from entering the sanctuary of the Church of the Multiplication of the Loaves and Fish and let me take the picture. No way. She took my iPad and went under the rope herself. This is her photo, cropped by me.