Between Sirens and Trumpets

The morning yawns and opens its mouth with a loud, long cry, with no regard for the time. Like a baby, or a feral cat, or a country at war.

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.