|
|
THE FLAG OF MY FATHERS December 2006 by Sally Klein O'Connor
Early this morning I sat in my living room, across from a worn, somewhat tattered Israeli flag I was allowed to take from an army base on the Golan Heights. I tacked it up on a wall near the front door, in one of those late-night-still-trying-to-get-over-some-serious-jet-lag moments. It is huge. It dwarfs everything else in the room. It is so purely blue and white, and its only adornment is the star of David. It is a banner, a declaration of faith, a determination that the people represented by this flag will not cease—in Israel or beyond its borders. Oddly enough, those people are my people.
You have to believe me when I tell you I hadn't planned on going to Israel this year. I heard about this trip a year and a half ago when Pastor Lynn, decided he would lead a second team back to Israel. I had felt the Lord close that door, reminding me that I had some serious issues at home which needed to be addressed.
About a year ago the other three members of the board for Improbable People Ministries lovingly, but firmly confronted Michael and me, regarding the welfare of our family and status of the ministry. At that time the ministry was in serious debt and our family was struggling with some very difficult issues. Just trying to work through Bonnie and Shannon's problems behaviorally were putting all of us over the top.
During our meeting I was admonished to stay home for a time because the touring was taking a tremendous toll on our family. I argued that I could find balance between touring and being at home. At the same time, I had not taken a good hard look at how much damage had already occurred. In fact, it was easier and much more rewarding, personally, to do the concerts and be on the road than deal with what was happening at home.
It took several months for Michael—and especially me--to come to terms with the Board's strong directive. Our board meeting was in November 2005 and full surrender came the following April, during our church's women's retreat. So, when the ministry trip to Israel was finally scheduled for November this year, I released it, along with other dreams—to God. I planned nothing, but tended my garden at home. It was an uneasy surrender at best. But as time went by I realized it was more necessary than I had anticipated at the onset.
Because I stayed home, because Michael and I reached out to many of you for prayer and support—and you responded—and ultimately, because the God we love, loves each of us so much more profoundly and intimately than we can imagine, I began to see some real healing take place in our lives. Some of the insights that came from this last year at home, I chronicled in the newsletters this year.
I have been reminded as I skimmed through those pieces again that it is always easier to write about change than actually live it out. Our healing was—and continues to be—a slow journey. But, at least with Michael and me, the damage done occurred over a period of many years.
It is never easy to lay down our dreams, especially when we are convinced God is the One who gave them to us. I know now that I was clutching mine pretty tight—and had been for a long time—when the Lord called me to let go. Those dreams were my solace in a season of struggle. They had become a kind of savior to me while everything at home seemed so hard and looked like it would only get harder. But when God called me to lay them on the altar—I did—very ungraciously I might add. And suddenly, there was a ram in the thicket, a voice staying my hand from slaying them entirely.
About a month before the date of departure for the Israel trip, a friend offered to pay my way if I would lead worship for the group that was going. My immediate response was "no." God had said no to me about this trip. I didn't need to ask Him again--or so I thought. But Michael responded quite differently. He insisted I take a week to pray about it.
It's a funny thing, I wasn't even thinking about the trip for myself, certainly not praying about it since I already knew the answer. Watching other people make their preparations to go I didnt feel a thing, right up until Pastor Lynn invited me to go and told me about the ticket. A moment after he brought it up, it was as if he had stirred up a hornet's nest inside me. Even though I said "no" my heart did not calm down. Instead my mind took off in a thousand directions, like a chorus of Chinese rockets careening through the sky. When the dust finally settled, a week or so later, my answer was yes—and I knew God was in it.
* * * *
On an army base in the Golan Heights, fourteen of us sifted through rock and stone, trying to find a pocket of soil that might nourish the tender young trees we brought with us to plant. We had spent most of the morning in army shirts, some of us sorting through clothes, packs, blankets, etc, others passed most of their time painting.
And in a similar way as we worked with the trees, we were all looking for pockets of soil in the hearts of the men and women around us, where even a seed of kindness—the love of God—might be received from our hearts to theirs. At this base alone four young men lost their lives in Lebanon. As one of the guys shared, they left Lebanon thinking they had won the war. But when they returned home, they were met with disillusionment.
The trees required much more effort than we had anticipated. The ground was sticky and clay-like, the stones unrelenting in quantity and hardness. I couldn't get over how difficult it was to find a friendly place for my little tree to run its roots down into the earth and find nurture.
Often the people seemed a lot like their land. Hardened, tough, resistant to rain--resistant to kindness. While rain might fall on the surface of the soil much of it could easily run off. It would take some soaking for it to get down into the earth, and so it was with many of the people we met. They received our acts of kindness, but the ground in their hearts was still caked and hard, unyielding to the soft rain. Just as it will take a lot of water and TLC for each of those little trees to stretch out in the soil and up to the sky, so it will take more than an occasional act of kindness to soften the heart of Israel.
To be circumcised is to be unprotected. It is to cut away the natural layers of covering from what is very vulnerable. When people are emotionally wounded they often build up layers of protection around their hearts, just so they can survive. But when God comes into our lives He begins to cut away those layers and speak to the raw, unhealed places in our hearts and souls. He Himself, calls us to cut away all our protective walls and coverings--before Him—so that we might enter into His presence naked, without pretense.
Early one morning at the enlistment center. We watched as family and friends curled around each of the seventy young girls who would soon board a bus that would drive them to a base where they are tested and trained for the army. We brought donuts and passed out pins and cards, telling them we are praying for the peace of Israel. There was no ceremony, no prayer or song, just those closest, waiting with each young woman for that moment when their bus would arrive and it would be their turn to say goodbye.
While many girls seemed excited and nervous, there was no avoiding the concern, especially in the faces of their parents. For some there was fear and pain as well, even when it was mixed with pride. But there were no tears. Service in the Israeli army is mandatory--for men and women. "Kol Ha Kavod!" is what one father said when I gave him a pin and told him we were praying for the Shalom of Israel. It means "All the honor!" That phrase seemed odd to me, unfinished. All the honor—to whom? I wondered, was it simply understood that all the honor goes to God, or was it just the way people acknowledged the honor inherent in serving?
On our first Sabbath, we were in the northern part of Israel, near Haifa and spent the morning at a Messianic congregation called Ohalei Rachamim (Tents of Mercy). It is a Hebrew/Russian/English congregation, but the services are all in Hebrew. Our team was invited to listen in on headphones to the English translation—a common practice at many of the congregations in Israel. Much like the first time, many of us were deeply touched by the moving of God's Spirit in the service. There was a real sense of celebration in the worship—as well as a profound sense of awe for God's holiness.
I was invited to share a couple of my songs during the service, which they translated into Hebrew and Russian. After the service there was a luncheon for the women of the congregation and two other women from our team stayed with me to minister in worship and prayer to the women who stayed afterwards. It was a really beautiful time in the presence of God. Many women came up for prayer, their wounds ran very deep. The Lord poured out oil and wine, and even through tears God was present to bind up their broken hearts.
On the second Sabbath—our last day in the land—we were in Tel Aviv. Most of the shops were closed but many restaurants stayed open. I watched from the sunroof of our hotel as a father and daughter, garbed in traditional white, walked through an empty marketplace, to the Kabbalah Center for the morning Shabbat service. I asked Ezer the hotel clerk, to explain how the Orthodox define "rest." He said a person is not supposed to engage in any activities that speed up their heart rate or cause them to breathe harder than normal. That is what it means to rest on the Sabbath. Seeing there was absolutely no possibility of me ever satisfying that particular definition of rest, I decided to walk down to the beach and go for a swim.
Earlier that morning our team participated in an extended time of devotion. Worship, prayer, teaching, and lastly, reflection. A few people had commented on the extreme cynicism they saw reflected in the Israelis and their culture. They felt there was a real sense of despair pervading the attitude of many of the people. I felt a heaviness—a sober sense among many we encountered, on the army bases and elsewhere.
One person on our team felt that God had passed this generation by and He was going to reach out to the next generation. Their hearts were softer and hope was not such a stranger to them. As I wandered down to the beach with a couple of other teammates I pondered the idea of the Israelis being without hope. That was not my experience, but it was a least part of the experience for some on our team.
A few days before, we had spent a couple hours at Yad VaShem--the Holocaust museum, just outside Jerusalem. A couple hours was all we had—a couple days is more of what we needed to begin to digest what is contained in those buildings, what is being said by the people who put those displays together.
The last time I visited Yad VaShem there were soldiers standing outside. I learned that it is part of their service to learn about the Holocaust and spend some time at Yad VaShem. In pictures, words, videos, and displays a silenced generation speaks—and some of their words give voice to unquenchable despair in the face of such calculated evil. But others were given the courage and grace to see through the temporary victories of evil and realize hope.
Wading through the cool clear waters of the Mediterranean I had my pick of shells. The sand was soft and fine. As I wandered down the beach I heard music. I followed the sound out of the water, into the sand in search of the source. There was an outdoor dance going on. A floor of sorts, was set out at the edge of the sand, with Israelis folk-dancing to the music playing.
With grace and spirit, couples moved across the floor as spectators on the fringes ebbed and flowed. Young and old, enjoying the music and freedom to move. The songs were passionate, tender, and strong.
As I watched and listened I could not help thinking that this was not the music of a people in despair. This was the song of a people who will not surrender to the absolute impossibility of their situation, but will fight for as long as there is breath in their bodies. The promises God gave their forefathers are in their blood and bone, even if they have not fully realized them yet. It is God who is faithful--not us! And when He fulfills His word, it will be for His glory.
Engraved in stone on the entrance to Yad VaShem is a quote from Ezekiel 37:14:
Out of the graves in Europe, a remnant arose and made their way to a land of thistles, rock and stone--a land once promised as milk and honey. Since then, many of the family of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob have found their way back to this once forgotten land. And God is bringing life--through their hands and hearts--to the land. And He will surely bring life to them as well—His life—His breath.
It has been a strange journey this year. Much of it has taken place in the still waters of my life. Early mornings, beach days, and in the divine ripples and stirrings in my own heart. Realizations and revelations of my need to connect—as a human being, as a woman—a wife and a mom—and even as a Jew.
It is a strange thing to look at this torn blue and white flag with its Star of David in the middle. It is oddly familiar and totally alien at the same time. All I know is it is a sign of some of the healing God is working in my heart and I know He is more than able to complete what He has begun.
© Copyright 2006 Improbable People Ministries
|
|
Copyright
Improbable People Ministries 2002. All rights reserved. Legal
Info
WEB DESIGN BY WWW.LANETCLINIC.COM