We arrived at the airport hours ahead of the flight, ‘just in case’. The floors were clean. People moved casually through the lines and all that remained was a quick security check and then we could get in line.

We stepped forward and they quickly pulled Matt aside for “questioning.” Not far, but far enough. Then a student. Then another.

People kept moving past us. A family. Then a couple. Someone with a dog. Bags lifted, scanned, sent through. No hesitation.

I shifted my weight. Then again.

Another student was pulled aside.

I adjusted the strap on my bag. Took a step forward. Then back.

Matt stood where he was.
“We’re a discipleship program. These are my students,” he said, pointing over to our group behind the line, bags at their feet, phones in their hands.

One of them laughed at something on the screen and turned it to the girl next to her. Another leaned against his bag, scrolling, waiting, while others talked excitedly about the plans for Cyprus.

They didn’t look up.

“These are your students?”

A pause.

“How am I supposed to believe you?”

Something in me clenched, and I squeezed the handle of my bag a little harder.

I looked toward the gate, checked the time again. Already an hour of questioning had passed and they were no less convinced. Boarding would start soon and I could feel the exit tightening.

For a moment, my hand went to my phone. I didn’t have anyone to call.

But they didn’t know that.

I pictured stepping slightly to the side, just enough to be overheard. Borrowing authority I didn’t have.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador, we’re at the gate now.”

Pause.

“No, they won’t let us through.”

Another pause.

“Looks like her name is Abigail. Yes, the one in the black shirt.”

Matt continued on calmly, his hands lightly resting at his side.
“Because we are Christian.” he said. “Because of Jesus. Because we want them to see the biblical sites. Because we are teaching them to see for themselves.”

The screen above the gate changed. One student came back from security. Then another. Then another. No one had anything new to say.

Eventually management was called and several security agents stood in a circle talking and looking at us. Then as if nothing at all, as if in slow motion, one called Matt over and said “Go”.

We moved quickly. Bags lifted. Passports out. Back packs half closed as we hustled toward the gate.

Matt and I kept looking back, counting students without stopping until we all made it on to the plane.

I sat down, fastened my seatbelt, and exhaled.

Matt reached over and took my hand.

It was just a 45 minute flight to Cyprus. The doors opened and the air was immediately different. Someone pointed toward the water. Another asked about pizza. It took me a second to understand the question.

Pizza.

They moved ahead, talking over each other, pulling out phones, making plans. No one waiting. No one checking for instructions or needing help.

We didn’t follow.

They waved.
“See you tomorrow,” and kept moving, already deciding where to go, what to do next.

We stood there for a moment, watching them go.

Then we turned the other way.

We found a taxi. Checked into our Airbnb that overlooked the Mediterranean sea.

From the window, the water moved slowly under the moonlight, the foam carried in on each wave, then drawn back into the ocean again.

Finally we slept.
Deeply.
Not listening for anything.

Prayer Requests

• Matt’s Sunday teaching at Christ Church Jerusalem – clarity, peace, and that the Word would be ministering

• Direction for next steps – wisdom and restraint and provision

• Meetings – the right conversations and favor

• Upcoming event at the Knesset – protection, clarity, and open doors

• Family – peace, unity, and protection

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We drove toward the Old City just before sunset, entering near Jaffa Gate. There were soldiers there in numbers I had never seen before, standing in groups along the entrance, watching each car as it approached. No worshipers were being allowed in. When we pulled up, they looked at us, looked inside the car, and waived us through.

Inside the walls, metal shutters covered the shop fronts, their metal panels running down the alleys like a long row of closed eyes.

I took one of the girls for a walk so we could talk. We moved through the alleys saying ordinary things, and without thinking much about it I found my eyes checking now and then on the shelter places cut into the walls, noting their nearness.

Then it began to rain.

Ahead of us, through the dimness, I saw a familiar face. He waved us over. We stepped inside, and he pressed two small cups of Arabic coffee into our hands, the warmth of them cutting through the chill of the rain, and asked how we were holding up.

Somewhere in the conversation he mentioned that Cyprus was no longer being considered as a major exit point right now.

The conversation moved on, but my mind stayed on Cyprus. Plans here have a way of surviving only until the next conversation.

When we stepped back outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, but the quiet was still there. We made our way to where the others were waiting.

Inside, the tables were already laid for Passover, plates of matza and cups of grape juice at each place, olive branches running down the center.

Around the tables, our students had gathered. They had dressed in their best clothes for the meal, and there was a joy among them that felt almost defiant against the heaviness outside the walls. Matt whispered something to me, and we stood there for a moment like proud parents watching them.

The meal began. Matza ball soup passed from hand to hand. Bitter herbs. The old story opened again. Cloud by day, pillar of fire by night.

Then in the middle of the exodus. A phone interrupted with an alert
Then another.

Then another.

Soon alerts sounded off throughout the room. We all looked at each other and couldnt help but feel the amusement of hearing it like a dramatic chorus to the story.

Then the worship began.

“We exalt You…”

As I looked around the room at the students, the few who remained in Jerusalem, my thoughts wandered outside our gate. I thought about the centuries that have passed through these streets and the countless Passover meals that have been celebrated here.

That is when the verse came to mind.

“That David my servant may always have a lamp before me in Jerusalem, the city where I have chosen to put my name.” 1 Kings 11:36

And it came to me then that maybe this is how the lamp remains in Jerusalem even in times when the gates are shut. Too small to be noticed.

By this morning I woke to the quiet fact that our Cyprus plan had disappeared overnight.

Matt and I sat down outside before he left for the city and started adding up what remained. Jordan. Egypt. Another route. Another expense. He read the total out loud.

Almost ten thousand dollars.

I called the U.S. Embassy. They said they were not providing any assistance out of Israel.

A friend of mine spoke directly to the U.S. Ambassador about it. There was nothing he could do either.

For a while there was only the sound of us working the numbers.

Then a cloud moved over and the chill pulled at my sleeve. Matt looked up. “Better get inside before the rain starts.”

And somewhere in me was the alley from the night of the passover, the first drops of rain coming down, and that hand waving us in.

We would be grateful for your prayers as we work out a way to bring everyone home safely. If you would like to help make that possible, we would be deeply grateful.

Help Us Get Everyone Home

The woman in the painting is kneeling because love has brought her lower than her dignity would ever choose. Her hand rests lightly at the edge of the table. By now she has already cried out for mercy and been met with silence. Still she waits.

I was mixing the color for her hands when the alert started. Loud and dramatic audio alert from Home Front Command, the screen flashing : Extreme Alert: Enter your protected space.

As I started to put my brushes down the siren began and the doorbell rang. A neighbor was standing there holding a baby. “So sorry” she said as she stepped inside. During sirens those who have a shelter open their doors to anyone passing by. ”Of course” I said showing her to the shelter which is also my bedroom.

My eyes locked on to a dirty sock on the floor, the sweater wildly flung on a chair turned half inside out. Half finished paintings stacked on the dresser that I hadnt intended on being seen. Laundry piled over the bed that I obviously was ignoring. I slid the heavy metal plate over the window and began a bit of small talk to pass the time. ”Have you been getting any sleep?” I asked. She shifted the baby higher on her hip “A bit, fortunately she sleeps through most of it”.

A few low booms rolled between the hills and we waited for the logical amount of time that something might be falling from the sky. After a few minutes she thanked me and slipped back out the door. On my way back to the canvas I caught my reflection on the mirror by the door. Bright red paint was streaked across my cheek and the tip of my nose. I must have pushed my hair back with my hand while still holding my brush. For a moment I stood looking at how ridiculous I looked as I realized I had just opened the door to a neighbor with my life spread across the house and red paint on my face. I wiped it off and went back to the painting.

The woman was still kneeling where I had left her, waiting for mercy. The story comes from the gospel of Matthew.

A woman comes to Jesus and asks Him to heal her daughter. But Jesus seems not to care. He doesn’t even answer her. And when He finally does she is met with what very much sounds like an insult. And yet she does not turn away in humiliation. The longer I looked at her the less distant the story felt. I reached for my coffee and sipped it when the message from the church in Cyprus came in.

If things change quickly, they are ready to receive the students. Just say the word.

I thanked them and sent an email to the parents that our evacuation plans have been finalized.

I sat the phone down and reached for my brushes. Outside the sound of jets boomed across the sky. Inside I took a sip of cold coffee. I couldnt decide if the woman was crying or if she was just determined or…what does humilty look like?

I took a step back and thats when I saw the blue footprints on the tile that traced a path back and forth between the shelter and the coffee and the painting. I must have stepped in it earlier without noticing.

I filled a small bucket with water and knelt down to wipe away the paint. I stayed there longer than the mess required. Some things can only be reached from the floor. “Lord”, I said quietly, “have mercy”.

Just then the front door opened and Matt stepped inside the house and gestured to me that he was on the phone. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder. “Yes” he was saying “I understand.” He listened for a moment. “Of course, another time.” When the call ended he leaned against the doorway, doing what looked like math in his head. I continued to wipe the blue streaks while I waited for him to speak. ”The group canceled” he said. “We will have to figure out rent another way.” He looked down at the blue footprints across the floor. ”You know, most people like to put paint on the canvas” he said with a tired smile.

Later that afternoon I went out to pick up a few things for dinner. On the way back I ran into a neighbor who has a boy the same age as mine. ”where’s yours?” I asked. ”He just got back from Gaza” she said. “Now they are sending him up to the north.” Where’s yours? She asked. ”Also north.” I said.

Neither of us said much after that. I couldn’t help but picture them just a few years ago riding bikes up and down the street and war was what happened with nerf guns and a broken walkie talkie.

I carried the groceries inside and then went back to get my paintbrushes before they began to harden. I looked again at the way the light had began to change. She could have left by now, she’s been ignored, insulted and even the disciples think she she should go. But still she stays close enough to where mercy could still fall.

Not from heat.

It was as if I had fallen asleep under a blanket sewn out of rocks. Some were real, others more imagination.

I pulled out an airpod and turned on the sound of low voices talking somewhere beyond me.

After a while, I fell back asleep.

Morning came with a strange kind of peace.

Soft light lay over the Jerusalem hills. Birds moved through the olive trees. I opened my camera to catch the morning light for a painting I’m working on.

Then the siren sounded. Matt grabbed his bag and headed out the gate not wanting to be late for the students. In his hand was the rental contract that would get him into the heavily guarded Old City.

I followed behind him.

The siren called us to shelter. Still I stood there studying the sky the way I might study a canvas. Above us, pale streaks of smoke crossed the morning sky, so soft they might have been brushstrokes.

Then a boom.

After coffee and bible reading another siren sounded while I was in the shower.

I stood there under the running water, alone in the house, trying to decide whether to rush out or finish.

A news alert flashed across the screen - drone.

…but am I really the target? I thought, my hands still in my hair.

Later, when I went into the Old City, the gate opened for me and my car rolled over the familiar bumps of stone beneath my tires. This time there were no taxis or the usual insanity at the gate.

Then I felt the loneliness of it. Inside, the streets were nearly empty, the shops shuttered. The rolling of my tires over the stones brought back the memory of October 7th and the sad sound of suitcases bumping behind Dean Stott as he evacuated the students.

As I approached Christ Church, I could hear the students singing. Matt was already there. I joined the group and they seemed to look at us with a kind of trust that always made me uneasy.

It had been many dreary days of weather so the joy of the sun finally coming out inspired me to take the girls out for a short walk.

A few restaurants had opened without seating. So we bought tacos and found a place to sit in the grass along the wall.

One of the girls stretched out in the grass and said what we were all feeling.

“It feels so peaceful today.”

I knew what she meant.

We sat talking about the normal things and finding things to be grateful seemed to spill out without effort.

Then my watch vibrated.

A news alert.

Suspicious people had been caught inside my daughter’s base, filming.

I might not be the target of a drone, but her base was another matter.

The students kept on with their girl talk in the sun. I heard one of them laugh and for a moment imagined my daughter there among them, smiling, laughing, stretched out in the grass with her face turned to the sun, not carrying the burden of war.

I kept my face still and held the fear where they could not see it and asked the Lord to guard her.

By evening both Matt and I were tired.

A deep, used-up kind of tired.

Matt had been carrying the students, their safety, and the steady pull of everyone around us. Somewhere inside all that, carrying me too.

We talked for a bit and ate a little something. Then a text came from the landlord asking for the final payment. Matt looked at the screen and neither of us said much.

A little while later another message came in.

It was from Dean.

He and his wife are still with us, working behind the scenes, assessing our exact situation, tracking security information, and helping us discern what was wise. For now, with the airport not open, the wisest thing was to stay near shelter.

I thanked him for his daily check in and waited for a call from my son on the border of Lebanon, and then began to scroll social media.

The first thing I saw was my other son standing at the edge of a bomb site with a group of volunteers, clearing debris.

I hearted it and kept scrolling.

Videos of explosions.

AI images of cities burning.

People speaking urgently into cameras as if the world would soon be ending.

For a moment I could feel their fear trying to become mine.

I set the phone down. I didn’t need another stone in the blanket.

Thank you for reading. There is so much grace over us and we thank you so much for covering us in your prayers.

Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life? Luke 12:25

‘The American embassy is evacuating personnel’

I registered it the way you register a change in the air. Like a dark cloud in the distance.

The students were already gathering around the piano for a time of worship singing:

“Jesus, Son of God, Messiah, the Lamb the Roaring Lion…Be still and behold Him.”

My phone vibrated and I quickly looked down and see a text.

“Praying!!”

It felt like the first heavy drop of rain landing on your cheek that startles you. That large wet drop out of no where. You pause. You look up. Scrutinize the sky.

Another buzz.

“Are you safe?”

Another.

“We’re seeing the news.”

Each message was spaced enough apart to come in like large drops of rain. Not a downpour… not yet.

Around the piano, they kept singing and I took in the moment like I have done before. Thanked God for all that He has given and committed whatever storm was coming to Him.

By morning I woke up early. poured the coffee and opened my phone.

More messages came in overnight. Now the drops had multiplied and were turning into a steady rain of concern.

Before I had even taken the first sip of coffee, a loud forceful sound came in that does not just interrupt your morning. It replaces it.

A siren for war.

The students were in the Old City.

We had reviewed instructions the night before.

I messaged the group.

“Follow the plan. Head to the stairwell into the shelter room. Confirm when you’re there.”

The responses came quickly.

“All accounted for.”

As the sirens continued rolling through the hills.

The Old City gates closed.

The students were nested inside stone walls that have held centuries of conflict and prayer and other groups who have weathered the storm.

Matt and I were outside in the Jerusalem hills.

My mind came back closer to home. One child’s base is in Tel Aviv. Another will be heading north toward the border of Lebanon. Those places do not sit behind ancient stone. I scanned the map in my head. Distances. Range. Likely targets. This is how I mother now as i swallow hard a drink of coffee.

Then another buzz.

but this time not from a friend or family.

But the Bible app.

Psalm 91:11.

I stared at it.

All.

The students behind thick stone walls.

My children in uniform.

The city gates closing.

The bases opening.

The locations I cannot name or even know about.

All.

Guard you in all your ways.

The coffee was cold when I finally took another sip.

All your ways.

Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for all the love and messages that we have received. Thank you for just reading along and keeping me with you. Please share with anyone else who would like to read or pray. Love, Elizabeth

But no one cared and cars manuevered around me or honked until I pulled forward. That’s how it works in Jerusalem. I maintained that position for an hour while I waited for him. I browsed my phone or stared out the window. On the bus stop was spray painted “Our King is Messiah” and I didnt think much about it.

You can’t turn a corner in this city without seeing something like that. Stickers pasted onto the back of traffic signs. Posters taped to stone walls. Declarations about the Messiah are scribbled in paint everywhere, and become as common as advertisements and as permanent as dust.

Eventually my eyes fell back on the spray paint and my mind wondered over the longing of Jerusalem and her desire for a leader, a king, a political someone to come and fix all that is broken…especially now.

It reminded me of a story that I had heard about like a whisper in the wind that even the leaves pretended not to hear.
I took to google to see if it could be true and realized the story had validity.

Back in 2006, there was a rabbi in Jerusalem who was deeply loved and respected. He was the kind of teacher whose words, and whose silence, carried weight. People looked to him for spiritual guidance, and nearly a quarter of a million people attended his funeral.

Before he died, he said that he had discovered who the Messiah was, but that he would not reveal the name until after his death. So the city leaned in, anxious, waiting for the time of mourning to pass, waiting for the moment the handwritten note could finally be opened, as if it might settle the argument once and for all.

The day finally came and they opened the small folded note and it said (in hebrew)

“Regarding the initials of the Messiah,
he will lift the people and prove
that his word and his Torah stand.” signed and dated.

that was it.

The people didnt understand why he would lead them on and fail to deliver on such an important and long awaited announcement. So it was largely dismissed and disregarded as an old man not following through, maybe he had exaggerated, or age had softened him.

But not his disciples, they knew that he had taught not just to look but to see. He had taught them the secrets of hebrew and that every letter held information. Every first letter held a word or a name and the code would lead them to the name. Even his opening statement said regarding the initials of the Messiah. So they looked harder.

Here is the hebrew:

ירים העם ויוכיח
שדברו ותורתו עומדים

And they begin to mark the first letter of every word.
י , ה , ו , ש , ו , ע

In english:
Yehoshua

I wonder what the room did when the letters formed the name that left them speechless.

The Rabbi apparently had taken that into an account, and spoke as he always had leaving the interpretation not in the words, but in the reader.

For those who wanted to walk away convinced that no name had been given, he left a way of escape. And for those who had eyes to see, he left the knowledge that seeing comes with a cost.

(Pictured above is the original note)

Matthew 1:21

“She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Yehoshua, for he will save his people from their sins.”

This gate is for the select few who belong on the inside of the walls: residents, workers with special clearance, taxi drivers, and the religious. Rabbis in black coats, some with furry hats that proclaim allegiance to a sect. Priests in brown or black robes and beads that dangle at their side. And then there is me and Matt in our flip flops and hoodies. We have clearance too.

To tell you the truth, I am kind of proud of it. Not in a way that is overtly concerning. It is more like an inner gratitude, as we roll forward and others are turned away, and I remember the verse: I will give you an open door that no one can shut.

But even with permission, you still have to actually make it through.

The road to the gate narrows and cars press their way toward it like water through a small crack. Taxi drivers honk and cut and intimidate at the slightest hesitation, like a pack of wolves that can smell fear.

Every inch feels like a negotiation, and every negotiation feels like a contest, a duel of supremacy.

And on that particular day, I was running late for my discipleship class, and I had enough.

So when the taxi driver started turning in like he owned the line, the front of his car pressing toward me like I would evaporate to make room for him, I signed up for the battle.

Most days you just swallow it. You back up, make room and just let the shark have his bite, and you tell yourself it is not worth it.

That day I decided it was worth it.

I kept my eyes forward and my hands steady on the wheel. I did not look at him. I did not give him the courtesy of a response. I gave him nothing to work with except the fact that I was not going to be moved.

He kept coming.

I held my place like it was moral ground.

My car got in first, and I kept my north while the scraping of metal had its own battle outside. It appeared, by the cracking of his side mirror, that my car had won.

Good.

The gate lifted, and I proceeded toward Christ Church with the victory.

He followed behind me.

At the entry of the church, we had our second duel. He came towards me with his cracked mirror and a demand that I pay for it.

It is embarrassing to admit how quickly I met him at his level. I did not pause. I did not soften. I did not offer anything like, “I am sorry” or “Jesus loves you” I went straight to the courtroom. My words came sharp and fast.

“That’s what you deserve,” I said. “You are always bullying people, and I’ve had enough!” No one even looked up as I stood with the church behind me and my discipleship meeting ahead, raising my voice and demanding justice for myself and every person wronged for as long as the gate could remember.

He threatened to call the police, and I reminded him that there are cameras. Eventually, he wearied of me and drove off.

Victory. Sweet and Satisfying.

I quickly headed down the winding path to the girls’ discipleship meeting, and somewhere between the spices and the wooden crosses, the victory started to sour.

Not because I felt bad for the taxi driver, but because I was on my way to teach a passage that did not congratulate me on my trophy.

It was Jesus, actually: “Give to the one who asks. Do not resist an evil person. Turn the other cheek. And what reward do you have if you love those who love you… do not the taxi drivers… er, tax collectors do that?”

My mind tried to rescue me quickly. You were defending yourself. He was aggressive. If you do not stand your ground, you will get eaten alive out here. This place is not for the weak. You were late. You had responsibility. You cannot let people bully you.

And then, underneath all of that, I could see the real thing.

I wanted a certain kind of reward.

I wanted respect. I wanted to be treated fairly. I wanted to be seen as someone you cannot push. I wanted the taxi driver to look at me and know I was not to be messed with. I wanted the line to acknowledge my place. I wanted the Old City, for once, to yield to me.

It was not justice I wanted. It was repayment for so many wrongs I endured.

By the time I arrived, I felt the weight of my own contradiction. And it didnt easily fall off by promising to do better next time. The wasnt a do better and act like a christian but rather a little light that warns you not to teach about the way of Jesus without turning it into a theory that applies everywhere except in the places that actually cost me.

I drag my suitcase into the garage when one wheel catches on the lip, stops abruptly, as if to protest that we have traveled far enough. I lift it, shove it toward a corner where I will not have to see it for a while, and that is when I notice the old wooden trunk wedged between paint cans and a box of kitty litter, one hinge slightly bent.

I pause with my hand on the lid. Then I open it.

A musty aroma of damp paper rises out of the trunk to meet me and I feel a small stab of guilt that I have neglected something that never learned how to ask for better.

Inside are my children’s keepsakes. A onesie. A baby blanket. Things I saved on purpose and then forgot why. I push past them with my hand, careful not to pick anything up, not trusting myself to hold them.

Underneath my wedding album is an old yellow folder with worn down edges. The label is typed on a machine that hit too hard and never felt bad about it. It has a county seal on it that makes a home feel like a cold case. I see it and look away.

Then the journal.

The cursive handwriting is nearly perfect, straight and confident, but written in pencil. Something I used to do so I could erase it later if I needed to. Back then I liked the comfort of a bold statement that had the commitment of an eraser.

Now the pencil has faded, making the lines hard to read, as if the words themselves are retreating.

I sit down on the cold concrete with my back against the wall and open it near the middle. My eyes fall on a line that is barely legible.

I know who I am, and I’m not afraid of where this will lead.

The handwriting is mine and not mine. I can see the person who wrote it as if she is standing nearby. I do not correct her.

I turn a few more pages without really reading them, then close it and slide it back into the trunk. It settles against the baby blanket, and my hand touches the softness for a second before I pull it away.

When I pull the lid down, it refuses to close all the way. I try again and then decide not to force it. Step back, and hear the kitty litter crunch underneath my shoe.

I wipe the dust from my hands on my jeans and pick up the suitcase and nudge it until it disappears behind the paint cans.

Later that day I see the inflatable Santa again, still cheerfully swaying as he repeatedly dips and rises, as if collapse is always nearby, but not being chosen.

I feel my earlier criticism dissolve. He is doing his best to stay up.

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I don’t.

At the border, the officer spoke to me in Hebrew. I met his eyes, smiled, and let the silence hit one beat longer until he shifted to English. Then I answered.

We drove through the winding streets, past walls where spray painted faces watched the road. Journalists, mothers, young men all etched into the concrete wall. The newswoman’s eyes followed us as we turned the corner to in the direction of the church.

We arrived and pulled the car half up onto the sidewalk, and I slipped out and made, my way to the kitchen to ask if I could have a glass of water. The hostess waved it away with a gentle firmness. “Please don’t ask for anything,” she said. “This is your house” pressing a glass of mint tea was set into my hand before I could speak while steam drifted from a pot fragrant with cumin and lemon.

They asked about my kids, and I offered the easy version. Ages. Coffee places. The way laundry piles when they are home.

Soon the missions team arrived.
Curious faces appearing in the doorway, their voices bright with anticipation, grateful to have come so far to sit in this room.
“Do you have a bomb shelter?” one asked.

The matriarch shook her head. “No. When the noise comes, we stand in the hallway, away from the glass, and wait for it to pass.” She traced a line in the air. Over their roof toward my neighborhood.

I thought of our concrete shelter at home, the metal door, the water stacked on the floor. The missiles that had flown over her house and were aimed for mine. I kept my thoughts to myself and reached for the plates.

At the table, dishes landed, food was prayed for and we began to eat. The American women had left a seat open for me, and I slid in beside them.

“How old are your kids?” one asked.

“One turned twenty on Saturday.”

“College?”

“No.”

“They’re not home,” I said lowering my voice. “They’re in the army.”

“That must be hard because of the war.”

The Arab women had drifted back toward the stove, and I lowered my voice to tell the story Aaron told me about walking through the fresh graves. When I reached the part about what someone had left there, the sentence thinned out and stopped. My mouth closed as my throat tightened, the tea cooling in my hand and the clock ticked behind me. The women’s movements slowing as they leaned in to hold the moment with me.

At last one of them finished it for me.

“A Lego set?”

“Yes.” I said, relieved that she had set the word down where I could not.

“Let us pray for her,” someone said, already rising.

Before I could redirect, the women gathered. Quick nods. Chairs skimming the floor. Their hands found my shoulders. Matthew crossed the room and sat beside me, as a cameraman slipped into the doorway. The shutter began to click. A small groan escaped from me before I could bring it back. I tucked my free hand under my thigh to keep it from floating up in protest.

Matt came closer and I shifted slightly toward the door, more instinct than choice.

“Father,” the first voice began.

I listened for the room more than the Savior. The shutter’s clicking. The women’s Arabic threading by the stove. The wall clock offering me its seconds. None of this was a place to speak openly about what was rising up to heaven. In the next room, the men sat together easing through a careful “so you are saying,” and a softer “go on.”

I looked toward our hostess with a quiet apology ready if she met my eyes.

“Amen,” someone said. It was not the last. Another voice continued, then another. The petitions rose, and my children’s names moved through the air like dust rising in a sunbeam.

Later, the hostess leaned in again, almost scolding and almost smiling. “Please do not ask for anything. I said to you this is your house. You must not ask for anything.”

When our time ended, we gathered our things and thanked them, and promised to visit them sooner rather than later.

I walked toward the car and glanced back at the skyline, the hills pressed in close around the neighborhood so lifted my phone to take a picture.

An arab voice behind me spoke gently. “Better not take photos here.” Not sharp. Just a soft guardrail set in place.

I lowered my phone, nodded, and slipped it into my pocket. I felt the small miss of it, how easily I could get something wrong even after so long.

As we drove away, the painted path came into view again. The wall held nothing that matched: old paint rubbing against new, slogans dissolving into portraits, portraits softening into silence. Every spray can had carried its own truth, its own grief, its own accusation, its own longing.

I thought about how many lives press against these walls, and how few of their stories are ever mine to tell.

So I gave everything away.I began carrying our life to the curb one armful at a time.

Books first: devotionals marked with grocery lists, workbooks with half-finished math.

Then the skillet that always leaned to one side, the stack of green plates I had kept long after the set was gone.

Each trip felt righteous, like shedding the world.

I think I half expected a dove to descend on the driveway and tell me, well done, good and faithful servant.

I had prayed for “more of Jesus” until the words lost their flavor, like gum I couldn’t spit out.

But what I really wanted was less of me.

From the next room I heard my husband lifting boxes, carrying more on his shoulders than the weight of what we owned.

When I woke up that morning, he was already at the table, sorting bills and running numbers like a man keeping watch over the loaves and fishes.

His Bible was already packed, marked, worn, obedient.

His running shoes by the door.

His coffee cup rinsed and waiting.

His guitar wrapped in a towel.

My Bible was under a pile of unopened mail.

It had fewer miles on it than my husband, but excellent penmanship.

That morning I underlined surrender twice, as if that would settle it.

I carried on emptying the rooms as the curb turned into a kind of altar.

By the third load I found my wedding dress, creased and yellowing at the hem.

I didn’t linger.

I folded it once, then slid it into a black trash bag along with a chipped mug that said Be Still.

I told myself I was past needing that kind of sentiment.

The children came behind me, small and steady, hauling what they could manage: the tin of Legos, an old shoe, a basket of laundry I hadn’t folded yet.

They worked without complaint, like small ushers in a ceremony they didn’t understand.

“Where are you off to?” the neighbor asked.

“To where Jesus lives,” one of them answered, dragging a pillow twice their size.

“Good luck,” he said.

I smiled. “God will be with us.”

And the children nodded along as if He were waiting at the end of the driveway.

Finally I came to the Christmas box marked giveaway that smelled of garage and cinnamon dust.

Inside were winter things gone to sleep: silvered bulbs, a string of stubborn lights, an angel with one wing glued back together.

I carried it outside and set it beside the others.

The sun caught the angel’s porcelain face, and for a moment it almost looked like blessing.

I lingered a heartbeat longer and then set it down and whispered, “Emmanuel.”

I wanted it to sound like faith.

It sounded like goodbye.

I assumed faith would take us south, but it turned east instead, to the exact same place where its story began.

And when December twenty-fifth came.

The entire place went on as if it hadn’t.

Logically, I hadn’t expected Christmas to come, but still the quiet of it surprised me.

Morning buses zoomed through streets of limestone.

Shopkeepers arranged oranges in tidy rows.

The air smelled of coriander, shawarma smoke, and damp stone.

Everything carried on as usual.

Across the way, Bethlehem hovered nearby in the winter light, like a mirage, close enough to touch, but the city around me refused even to look that way.

It wasn’t indifference.

It was more of an intentional silence.

Now and then you would see some plastic garlands in the Christian quarter for the tourists, or maybe a painted tree in a hotel lobby.

From a distance you could almost believe.

But the moment the cameras turned away, the light went out of it.

It was Christmas for sale, not Christmas kept.

Even the believers seemed to draw back from it, as if celebration itself might mark them, as if the silence of the city had entered their throats too.

It wasn’t long before we also began to understand that kind of silence.

We learned what not to say, how not to offend, which songs to leave unsung.

One time in the Christian market, I wished a vendor “Merry Christmas.”

He lowered his eyes kindly, the way you do when someone mentions a name you’d rather not discuss.

“Good day,” he said, sliding the pita across the counter.

I quickly learned the difference between forgetting and refusal.

This place, the cradle of the story, had chosen silence.

The churches stood tall and still, but their bells sounded inward, as if to keep the memory from leaking out.

And so December came and went with just the hum of daily life pressing on, like a city that had decided to turn its face away from its own beginning.

At first, I liked it. Faith stripped of sentiment.

But after a while, it felt like exile: not from leaving, but from being surrounded by people who have learned how not to see.

A few years later, we flew home for Christmas.

That year had been lean.

My husband, gentle but disciplined, kept the budget close.

We had what we needed, but not more.

Even small gifts felt like luxuries we couldn’t justify.

When we left, the children were small.

Now they were mid-teens, quieter, more self-aware,

My sister met us at the door, and Christmas met us behind her.

Candles breathed light into every corner.

Ribbons looped the banister.

The smell of sugar and nutmeg lifted from the kitchen.

Her joy in it was unmistakable.

Every light, every bow, every wrapped box was her way of saying, You are loved. You are not forgotten.

Her children, still younger than mine, darted between the tree and the hallway, their laughter trailing ribbons behind them.

I saw her kneel to help them place gifts under the branches and heard her whispering about generosity and others.

As I stood and watched her I thought, This too, is faith.

And immediately I hoped God hadn’t noticed how much I wanted her life in that moment.

My children stood a little apart, trying to match their cousins’ excitement, caught between wanting and pretending not to.

They smiled at the right times, and when no one was looking, one caught the other’s eye.

They exchanged a small, knowing glance, the kind that holds more than it says.

Then my sister pulled out from under the Christmas tree five beautiful gifts, one for each of us, and set them on the counter.

My husband met my eyes across the room, offering a quiet smile that said, We’ve done what we could.

I stood there smiling and happy, but inside I felt like I was performing gratitude like a Christmas play.

I had no choice but to reach into my bag and give her what I had carried across the world: a small snow globe from Jerusalem, bought half in haste, half in price.

Inside it, a tiny city turned under white that never melts.

It looked more impressive once I peeled the price tag off in the airport bathroom.

My husband’s hand rested lightly at my back, a quiet assurance that steadied me as I held it out.

Still I knew that if I had asked, he would have run out the back door and swiped a credit card to shield me from the shame of a cheap gift.

But my sister touched the globe tenderly with both hands.

“It’s perfect,” she said, calling the children over to see it.

Still, when the room fell quiet for a breath, I felt the small, sharp truth settle in me, that I had nothing.

And worse, that my children, standing nearby, were already past the age of easily believing that what you have in your heart is enough.

I smiled, helped pour cider, and admired how her house glowed with the spirit of giving.

Her faith and mine circled around each other like candles in the same flame, each burning differently, each trying in its own way to say Emmanuel…God with us.

Later, while she rinsed dishes, a light glimmered on a gold necklace on the counter.

I asked about it.

“That one’s a mess,” she said, frowning.

“It’s been tangled forever. No one’s been able to fix it, but it’s too precious to throw away.”

The chain lay in a dish in a knotted-up ball, the kind that happens when a thing has been carried too long in a coat pocket, shifted from place to place, seemingly forgotten but not forsaken.

“Let me try,” I said.

So while she rinsed dishes, I stood at the edge of the sink, working each loop with my fingers, pulling, then giving, turning it over, then gently warming it in my hands again.

It wasn’t just a necklace anymore.

It was the only way I could say thank you, and I’m sorry I have nothing to give you.

I worked at the knots like they were moral failings.

If I could just free one loop, maybe I’d finally be called faithful with little.

When the last knot slipped free, a strange relief came over me, the joy of having something to give.

She turned, and I fastened the clasp around her neck.

That, to me, looked like redemption.

The next morning was Christmas.

Matt was already reading his Bible like it was any other day.

My teenagers were performing their favorite kind of tradition: sleeping in.

The house was still.

Frost covered the windows, but the chill inside had already settled in me.

I stepped beneath the shower.

Warmth gathered on my shoulders and ran down my arms.

Water filled the room with its own kind of silence, steady, unjudging, endless.

For once, I didn’t try to make meaning of it.

I just let it fall, the way mercy does when you stop trying to deserve it.

Steam blurred the mirror; the world disappeared.

The night before drifted through me: my sister’s laughter, the gold chain resting against her skin, the look my children shared by the tree.

And the memories of when they were little and we still had Christmas but left it by the trash.

Back then, I thought their obedience was faith.

But I was starting to see that maybe something greater than faith…maybe it was love holding its breath, so that I could breathe…

For a long time I stood there, and the ache of all those years loosened in the heat: the hard decisions to keep holding on, the miles we carried faith like luggage, the quiet cost of believing it would all mean something in the end.

And then, not in words, but in a stillness deep and low, something like invitation:

Lay it down.

So I did.

I gathered what I still held, the little bit of trust, the ache of what hadn’t come true, the silence where answers used to be, and I offered it.

Not upward.

Not outward.

Just open-handed, like frankincense laid at the manger.

Not because it was worthy.

Because it was all that I had left to give.

When I returned, January had already settled in.

The days were short, the cold air pressed against skin and stone alike.

I walked the old route toward the market.

Buses still zoomed through narrow streets.

Vendors still called over piles of citrus and herbs.

It felt both holy and weary, as if the land itself were an old gold chain, knotted by centuries of reaching, links rubbed thin from all the pulling and trying, still catching light in the smallest places.

I understood that He still keeps what others might discard, because He does not throw away what’s knotted.

He keeps it close, until love can loosen it again.

Still precious.

Still waiting to be made new.

I arrived at Christ Church and pushed open the heavy oak door and heard the hinge give a soft cry.

I stood there for a moment and watched the dust flutter around the stained glass windows.

I no longer needed to be there as one who came to insert faith into the silence, only to stand inside it as one who still believes.

There on the communion table was the braided bread and a small silver cup.

Across the mantle, in Hebrew letters:

Emmanuel.

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I stay in bed, in the bomb shelter we also call our bedroom. The walls are double concrete, the air holds the faint smell of laundry that never quite dries. The heavy metal door slams each time it shuts, a stubborn banging that usually wakes Matt. By now he’s already in the city. I glance at the nightstand and see the coffee he’s left for me. Still wrapped in my blanket, I take the first sip. The siren continues to whine through the morning air. I let it pass like the weather.

Later, I drive into the Old City to meet him. The car engine has been groaning all week, and now theres a new sound I can no longer ignore. Our friend Omar, who’s never short on solutions, says his mechanic can take a look. “Just up the hill,” he promises, waving vaguely toward heaven. But by Lion’s Gate, the temperature gauge begins to climb as I reach the incline toward the Mount of Olives. I pull awkwardly into the wedge of the bus stop. Omar says he will send a tow. So I wait.

The heat begins to press in and sweat gathers behind my knees. Buses pull alongside me and blare their horns loudly while drivers wave their arms in frustration. One driver gets out and pounds on my window. I crack it open. “Shalom”.

I don’t understand a word he says, but it sounds like a detailed case for my immediate removal from the planet. I nod as if we agree, roll the window back up, and accept my new title for the day: idiot blocking traffic.

From the car window, I spot a cement bench with a leftover bag of pita hanging off its side. And like a good arab neighbor pressing a chair into your hands or mint tea or rolled grape leaves, the bench seemed to call out to me sit, rest, have a snack. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I mumble to myself.

I reach into my bag and pull out the last of the coffee, that now tastes more like metal thermos, slightly bitter, like the flavor of things left waiting. I begin the ritual of scrolling on my phone for a while, and then finally look up.

There it is, the Mount of Olives.

It stood steady against the heat, and traffic, and to the fact that I am clearly the problem.

It seems to catch my glance but only in passing, like its gaze was set on the horizon where a trumpet will one day sound.

Looking at the Mount, I think of Him, Jesus, climbing the hill with His disciples. The dirt road filled with their voices, laughter, minor arguments, and stories from the last village. John seems to keeps looking at Him, carrying a question he hasn’t yet found the words to ask.

Jesus speaks of suffering, of a kingdom not made with hands, of a love that will be misunderstood.

I close my eyes. For a moment, I am walking beside Him too. The crunch of dried olives breaks softly under my steps.

I have a question too…the words coming out of my mouth before I know I am speaking: Why am I here?

He doesn’t answer me, not directly. Instead, He calls ahead to the others, speaking of being His witnesses, words that pass through them

and land quietly inside me.

A sharp blast from a tow truck snaps me back. I look up at the driver, unsure, and gesture. ‘Me?’ He honks again, which I take as a yes. He makes a U-turn into the curve of the bus stop like it has nowhere better to be.

We never speak. It is obvious we don’t share a language, unless you count “yalla,” which would only make it worse. We trade keys and a few hundred shekels.

I don’t have proof he’s Omar’s guy, or even a tow truck driver, but in Jerusalem you sometimes hand your car to a stranger and call it a problem solved. I watch him pull away, wondering if I have just donated my car to charity.

Matt calls and needs something urgent. “How quickly can you get here?”

I start to run, which is generous, past tourists, soldiers, and a nun eating ice cream. The narrow alleys twist and turn and I try to hold form and breathe from my belly while watching the stones so that they dont jump out and trip me.The city is alive with voices, smells, judgmental cats, and bargaining vendors. I even make an unplanned cameo in a TikToker’s live stream.

Finally I see Matt. We continue running toward the bus. My bag thumps against my side. One shoe threatens to come off. The door is already folding shut when we reach it. The driver leans out and shouts, “Yalla! Let’s go!” We climb aboard, breathless. As the bus pulls away, the Mount of Olives slips from view, still waiting for the One who will come.

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