I looked out the window of the bus in Jerusalem this morning to see children walking to school. Some were rushing while others clearly were taking their own sweet time in no hurry to start their day. The older girls wore uniforms while the younger ones dressed in mostly dark colors; the only colorful part being their sneakers. Little boys wore ya makes on their heads with crisp white shirts and black pants.The streets of Jerusalem were narrow, noisy, bustling, and thriving. Our bus moved about the city slowly inching its hulking frame up and down the winding streets toward our destination of the old city. When we disembarked we were approached by vendors hawking their wares. They tried to entice us with postcards, scarves, decorative pouches, and other items to remember our stay in their city. I wasn’t buying. I was far too interested in the view before me.
Jerusalem is breathtaking. The multitude of white buildings with red roofs sprawl across the hilltops were broken up with occasional dark domed roofs and steeples. There was so much to see here. The Dome on the Rock drew my eye to the center glowing golden in the sunlight. The air was warm but a gentle breeze eased the heat making it a pleasant morning.
Our guide, Tzippy, pointed out the many places we would visit over the next few days. We began at once winding our way down steep alleys that were full of people like us who came from all over the world to see these special sites. We heard tour guides speaking in other languages and saw women in long flowing white saris with their heads covered. Cars inched up (and down) the narrow alley where we were walking and we squeezed to the side to make room for them. It made it difficult to stick together. Our line spread out and we intermingled with other groups.
The interactions with other pilgrims were mostly courteous, warm, and friendly. Despite the crowds and the noise in this foreign city, we were all bonded in this unique experience of seeing where Christ lived and died. We followed the route on foot that he took into the city on Palm Sunday stopping to visit the church Bertucci built in the Mt. Of Olives which remembers that Jesus wept for the city. It has giant vases on the four corners of the domed roof to catch his tears for the four corners of the world.
Moving on we pass a Russian church in honor of Mary Magdalene and arrive at the Garden of Gesthemane. Inside the Garden are olive trees of various sizes. Their gnarled trunks bear witness to the hundreds of years they have been on this earth. Tzippy explains that olive trees don’t ever die completely. As the center withers away it eventually becomes hollow but the outside keeps growing. If one section is injured the tree puts up a new shoot and grows from there. Tzippy reminded us how life is often like that. When something ends in our lives it can be painful and leave us longing for what was. Like the olive tree, though, we can choose to put up a new shoot and focus on growing something in a new area. The image is encouraging and gives me hope to look for new beginnings in each ending I experience.
I encourage you to be like the olive tree and consider where you are putting up new growth these days.
