This morning we said “Shalom” to the Galilee and
began our journey south. We reached Masada mid-morning. By then it was too hot
to climb either up or down, so we joined the many visitors on top of the
mountain via the cable car. Intense heat aside, Masada is a great place to
reflect on the importance of freedom and human dignity, the centrality of
identity, and the incredible sacrifices that people make in service of their
ideals. To this day, Israel lives by the phrase, “Masada shall never fall
again.”
If
Masada was hot, the Dead Sea conditions were even more extreme. In spite of
that, our kids enthusiastically embraced their opportunity to lather up with
mud, pose for pictures, and float in one of nature’s most unique bodies of
water. For some of the kids it was an absolute highlight, others decided that the various forms of discomfort might make the Dead Sea a “one
and done” sort of experience. Whether they loved it or found it a bit itchy,
they can all now speak from experience about what it feels like to swim in the
lowest place on earth. That's pretty cool.
On
the way from Masada to Mitzpe Ramon we stopped for a bit of AC and hanging out
at a local mall. Israeli malls are typically full of colorful characters, from
the various vendors to the teenagers who hang out there. Most of the kids relaxed in the food court or cruised from store to store. We didn’t hear any
complaints.
Arriving
at Mitzpe Ramon, the kids intuitively transitioned into a desert state of mind. Watches
become less important, there’s no rush, you pause to feel the breeze or focus
your gaze on one of the distant rock formations. You notice the birds, the
sounds of the occasional car on the nearest highway and so on. The rustling of
a date palm, a barking dog. You notice things about yourself and about one another. The desert brings these ever present subtleties to the fore.
It’s
hard to describe the special place where we are spending the night and the salty Israeli visionaries who created and run it, so I won’t
even try. As the sun set after dinner we gathered close to one another and sang
for a while. We recaptured some of the spirit that tends to go underground
during those middle school years. We put our arms around one another, we passed
the guitar around, we looked up at the stars, we sang the Shema, whose words we’ve
known since we were too young to write our own names. We hung out. We lingered.
We tapped into some of what makes the Jewish people a desert people.
It
takes the kids a few minutes to wind down once we turn off the lights. On the
one hand we want them to get to sleep. On the other hand, we know that this
night of stars and sleeping bags is one that they’ve anticipated. We know that
days and nights like these are gifts. We know that they can nourish us long
after we’ve flipped the page or the tassel and moved on to the next adventure. We know that
we might plan to return here soon, but that it might be years, even decades
before we do. We know that there will be other nights and other deserts and
other stars, but that this night, these kids, and this community, is singular.
So maybe they’ll greet the sun with bleary eyes. But I know they'll see the sunrise clearly and I’m certain that they’ll
appreciate the gift of today and the gift of tomorrow in ways that will bring
us all great joy and delight.
Beautiful. I can definitely picture it all.
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