After church, our Jerusalem Mama, Eva, invited us to the Cafe next door. It felt odd to go to a restaurant after church! I kept reminding myself it was Sunday.
Her good friend, Judy joined us for lunch.
I sat at that table enjoying this moment of fellowship. Time went by, but I reminded myself that I was prioritizing people over places. For some reason I was at this table at this time with these people. Maybe it wasn't just coincidence.
These women, who were strangers to us a few hours ago, were instantly our sisters. Arab, Jewish and American ethnically. Yet all Christians. We sat at one table, eating and laughing. None of us were in a hurry to leave. A little taste of the Kingdom of God.
I had 2 more things to check off my list before the day was over: souvenir shopping and visiting the cemetery. So, we had to end this moment of beautiful fellowship.
Judy offered to be our tour guide and show us where the cemetery was. Her face glowed with the love of God. -full of life, this Jewish lady in her eighties guided us through the narrow streets of the Old City - her home and the home of her ancestors.
She took us to the Armenian section of the city. She explained that the Armenian Christians were often misunderstood and treated unfairly. I don't remember hearing about them before. I wonder if my ancestors had friends who were Armenian.
Then we came to a souvenir shop owned by Judy's Armenian friends. We were treated warmly by our brothers whom we had never met. They spoke our language. I spent all of my souvenir money in their shop. They hadn't had much business because of the war.
I sat outside the shop while I waited for Aunt Anita and Judy. A tour group from Nigeria walked past and we greeted each other joyfully. I'm from the USA, I said proudly! Nigeria! -they announced proudly! I thought I would be embarrassed, but everyone seemed so happy that we had come, all the way from the Americas, during this time of war. I thought about Zechariah chapter 14, I think it is. This is how it should be - Jerusalem. This little city. Yet all nations come here. And, somehow, we all belong. These were my brothers and sisters, my cousins, my friends. This place was my home. "Walk with your head high." I remembered Aunt Deb's advice. "I'm a Christian! I'm an American!" I confessed. Why do I feel like I have to apologize for who I am? I'm sorry that Christians have hurt you in the name of Jesus. I'm sorry America is so arrogant... -that was in my heart. But suddenly it didn't need to be said. Maybe it was because I was here: -sitting on the streets of Jerusalem during war, yards away from a group of IDF soldiers. I was welcomed. -even though I didn't deserve it. I didn't have to be perfect. I didn't have to speak Hebrew. I took my head scarf off and tucked it in my pocket. I'm not sure why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Why was I trying to hide my identity? Often we misunderstand each other.
What if we could be more like Judy? The dear Jewish lady who ate with her good friend - an Arab? -who embraced her good friends who were Armenian? -who offered to spend all afternoon guiding American strangers all over her city? Maybe I caught a glimpse of Jesus on those streets of Jerusalem that day.
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