Ten Reasons You Know You Aren't in Kansas Anymore.
If I don't pay attention, sometimes days go by like usual, and I forget I am living in Israel. Then something strange strikes my fancy and I remember. Since everybody loves a countdown list, here are a few crazy things you don't usually see in the States...
10. December is a time of lights and festivity
and Jerusalem decorates the street lamps with holiday posts like any other. Except instead of lit up angels and candy canes, my streets are lined with lit up street lamp menorahs.
(See picture: http://realjerusalemstreets.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/img_3589.jpg)
9. IP address strikes
Certain beloved websites, such as Hulu.com are not available outside the U.S. The internet is not the free-for-all I always thought it was.
8. Americans take customer service for granted
One day you have a system set up with the bank for deposits, and the next day a new girl sits behind the counter. Her English is heavy and hard to understand, and all of sudden she's having you sign for a huge fee. You ask why you have to pay a fee today but never before. A guy next to her leans over and whispers an explanation to her. She looks at you, having already submitted the fee and says, "Ok, you don't have to pay next time."
7. Currency and measurements
Labeling has become extremely important. "I have to go deposit 10,000" "Dollars?!?" "No, Shekels." (equal to only 2,500 dollars) "Every time I weigh myself, the scale says 75" "Um, pounds?" "No, kilos." "What temp should I cook this chicken at?" "I'd say about 190" "What?" "The oven is set to Celsius."
6. IP address strikes again
No matter how many times I set my preferences to English, Google insists I can read Hebrew. Even for this blog, I've simply memorized certain buttons to push to create a new post.
5. Howdjoo know I's Amurikin?
To half of the locals, I have a flashing "AMERICAN" sign on my forehead. They don't ask me where I'm from, they ask me what state I'm from. To the other half, they not only think I'm local (a Russian Jew? I don't know) but they think I know where everything is, too. I constantly get stopped on the road and asked in Hebrew for directions.
4. Guns? Eh.
Back home, society is one-third rifle-loving hunters, one-third pacifist protesters, and one-third somewhere in the middle. In Israel, it doesn't matter what you think. IDF soldiers are everywhere, with giant automatic weapons I can't name slung over their shoulders, laughing as they stroll the street for a coffee.
3. A difference in priorites
Large street cleaners can be heard every morning down the streets of Jerusalem. They obsess over getting every single leaf on the street, and can even be seen backing up to retrieve a leaf or two left behind. Meanwhile, dogs freely squat on the sidewalks with their apathetic owners waiting and no one cleaning it up except the rain. Oh, and apparently its normal for cars to park on sidewalks too.
2. Deck the hars with bars of horry. Fra ra ra ra...
Unlike the classic movie, "A Christmas Story" in Israel, if you want to go out on Christmas day, it's not just the Asian restaurants that are open. Everything is--unless Christmas falls on the Sabbath.
1. English, bivakisha?
You're at the hospital, and you have to call a translator in English, to talk to a doctor in Hebrew, to explain the prognosis to a translator in Arabic, so they can explain to the mother in Kurdish. So much for the days when translations went from "you guys" to "y'all."
-Madelyn Miles
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Heard.
I work for an organization that brings children to Israel for heart surgeries. We've seen beautiful and miraculous healing take place in these kids. But sometimes we see death. Yesterday one of our Shevet babies died.
Yesterday was a day of light and joy and darkness and sorrow. It began with a planned trip to the Mediterranean Sea for the kids and their moms, of which I was one of the chaperones. Our hearts had all been heavy recently, knowing that baby Baneen had long since been in seriously critical condition. But that morning, knowing Baneen had twice over defied the doctors warnings that she wouldn't make it through the night, I had felt a deep sense of hope swelling in me. And several of the mothers going on the trip had been wrestling with the anxiety of still being on the waiting list for surgery. All of us longed for a reprieve, and so we began to load into the vans--eager for a chance to shake off the feeling of heaviness and find some joy.
It was right then, so sudden and abrupt, that our world of reprieve collided with a world of pain. Four-month-old Baneen, beautiful and precious, was gone. You fight, and hope, and try for so long, only to have the wind knocked out of you.
No Kurdish translation was necessary. The other mothers had known of Baneen's condition. And now, hearing her name, and seeing our reactions, they knew.
A few of our group that had planned to come, backed away and decided to go to the hospital where Baneen's parents were grieving. The rest of us looked at the mothers and children in the vans and knew they needed a reprieve now more than ever. For their sake, a few of us decided to follow through with our planned trip. I looked to the two children in my van, and said the only thing I could to offer a consolation: "Spas bo Hxua bo tow. Spas bo Hxua bo tow." Thank God for you. and Thank God for you.
As the day unfolded, those of us who chaperoned to the beach were holding in our emotions. I looked out at the vast and beautiful sea and looked down at 3-year-old Laveen holding my hand. I felt the sea breeze and was overwhelmed by the sovereignty of God. I expressed my love and care for the children with us that day, and rejoiced with those who were rejoicing. But inwardly I was torn up.
When we finished, we sent most of the mothers back in one van with one chaperone, and whoever couldn't fit had to go to the hospital for Baneen's parents. We had room for all but one of the Kurdish families. One-year-old Aryan and his mother unfortunately had to come with us for lack of space.
After experiencing so much joy from the other children, I felt as though ice water had been dumped on my head when we arrived at the hospital--all of our people waiting outside. Nurses clung to Baneen's mother, and I could see nothing but pale faces and teary eyes.
I honestly didn't get a chance to know Baneen and her parents that much. They spent nearly all of their time in the hospital, and I mostly stay behind at the center. But even without the deep connection, I had put so much trust in her recovery. And nothing could have prepared me to see a baby-sized coffin. My emotions could no longer be held in at such a sight. I stood next to Aryan's mother. She, too, cried, and I saw her grip tighten around her own baby.
So now what? Did God ignore our prayers and turn a blind eye to our suffering? May it never be said! I felt the heartbreak of God yesterday when I looked upon the face of Baneen's mother.
Before his brutal death, Jesus sat in a garden. Shaking and sweating, he poured out his heart and bared his soul--confessing he did not want to go through with his fate. But he yielded to the will of his father. And when he died, the whole area felt the heartbreak of God as the earth shook and the temple curtain was ripped in two. Did God ignore the plea of his son? May it never be said!
God always hears. And his heart breaks too. And he sees an infinitely bigger picture that none of us can ever humanly attain.
"For He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; nor has He hidden his face from [us]. But when [we] cried to Him for help, He heard."
"Be strong and let your heart take courage, all you who hope in the Lord."
-Madelyn Miles
Yesterday was a day of light and joy and darkness and sorrow. It began with a planned trip to the Mediterranean Sea for the kids and their moms, of which I was one of the chaperones. Our hearts had all been heavy recently, knowing that baby Baneen had long since been in seriously critical condition. But that morning, knowing Baneen had twice over defied the doctors warnings that she wouldn't make it through the night, I had felt a deep sense of hope swelling in me. And several of the mothers going on the trip had been wrestling with the anxiety of still being on the waiting list for surgery. All of us longed for a reprieve, and so we began to load into the vans--eager for a chance to shake off the feeling of heaviness and find some joy.
It was right then, so sudden and abrupt, that our world of reprieve collided with a world of pain. Four-month-old Baneen, beautiful and precious, was gone. You fight, and hope, and try for so long, only to have the wind knocked out of you.
No Kurdish translation was necessary. The other mothers had known of Baneen's condition. And now, hearing her name, and seeing our reactions, they knew.
A few of our group that had planned to come, backed away and decided to go to the hospital where Baneen's parents were grieving. The rest of us looked at the mothers and children in the vans and knew they needed a reprieve now more than ever. For their sake, a few of us decided to follow through with our planned trip. I looked to the two children in my van, and said the only thing I could to offer a consolation: "Spas bo Hxua bo tow. Spas bo Hxua bo tow." Thank God for you. and Thank God for you.
As the day unfolded, those of us who chaperoned to the beach were holding in our emotions. I looked out at the vast and beautiful sea and looked down at 3-year-old Laveen holding my hand. I felt the sea breeze and was overwhelmed by the sovereignty of God. I expressed my love and care for the children with us that day, and rejoiced with those who were rejoicing. But inwardly I was torn up.
When we finished, we sent most of the mothers back in one van with one chaperone, and whoever couldn't fit had to go to the hospital for Baneen's parents. We had room for all but one of the Kurdish families. One-year-old Aryan and his mother unfortunately had to come with us for lack of space.
After experiencing so much joy from the other children, I felt as though ice water had been dumped on my head when we arrived at the hospital--all of our people waiting outside. Nurses clung to Baneen's mother, and I could see nothing but pale faces and teary eyes.
I honestly didn't get a chance to know Baneen and her parents that much. They spent nearly all of their time in the hospital, and I mostly stay behind at the center. But even without the deep connection, I had put so much trust in her recovery. And nothing could have prepared me to see a baby-sized coffin. My emotions could no longer be held in at such a sight. I stood next to Aryan's mother. She, too, cried, and I saw her grip tighten around her own baby.
So now what? Did God ignore our prayers and turn a blind eye to our suffering? May it never be said! I felt the heartbreak of God yesterday when I looked upon the face of Baneen's mother.
Before his brutal death, Jesus sat in a garden. Shaking and sweating, he poured out his heart and bared his soul--confessing he did not want to go through with his fate. But he yielded to the will of his father. And when he died, the whole area felt the heartbreak of God as the earth shook and the temple curtain was ripped in two. Did God ignore the plea of his son? May it never be said!
God always hears. And his heart breaks too. And he sees an infinitely bigger picture that none of us can ever humanly attain.
"For He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; nor has He hidden his face from [us]. But when [we] cried to Him for help, He heard."
"Be strong and let your heart take courage, all you who hope in the Lord."
-Madelyn Miles
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