The Judean Foothills

I’m sitting in a park on Route 383, in what I think is the Judean foothills. It’s 8 a.m., and I’ve just left the airport in Tel Aviv. It’s pouring rain in this place that seems so natural, and I’m sitting in the car with the doors locked.

The one-way road my car jolted up is old, cracked and full of potholes, the edges dodging in inches there, dodging out a bit there. Baby rivulets of water stream through pebbles rich in a scattering of colors, and blackstone chipped away by wind and rain. These rocks lining the road are the rocks Christ sat on, these the trees that shaded him, this the grass that muddied him. The disciples scattered their tired bodies among this light and shade, swatting bugs away from faces tanned by the sun.

The Judean foothills.

Tree branches are waving in the air, cutting a cool nip through my jeans. It smells clean here, fresh, like a Nebraska park when the hard rain stops, and sunlight given by the first shades of sapphire conquers the clouds spreading across the sky. Yet the wind still blows, branches reaching for the sky, striving for the ground, in a constant pattern of glory given by God above.

Ah! Here is the sun. Pouring warmth onto these chilly jeans, a million tiny raindrops glinting off dead grass, diamonds bathed in sunlight, sparks of beauty in a patch that has none of its own.


Note: I wrote out of my imagination, out of sheer astonishment the first day I was truly in the Holy Land, and it came alive to me. While Christ certainly toured around a lot, I find it doubtful that he ever truly sat on 'these' rocks. Since I liked the writing, I thought I'd keep it posted.