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BY LINDA WERMAN BRAWNER
KNEEL
IN A CROWDED hotel lobby and rest against a pile of luggage. Whatever madness
had driven me to
"Are you all right?" A bellhop kneels beside me.
"I don't feel well," I admit. A moment later he returns with a chair,
and I gratefully slump into it. At least I look more respectable.
"How do you feel?" asks another staff member. Translation: Please
don't die here. It would be horrible for business. A little later another asks,
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm just so very tired." Tired of life and
its wild ride.
One Tough Year
Where had things gone wrong? In the spring my husband,
daughter, and I dressed up for a family portrait. It was easy to select the
proof--the one in which we all smiled like rogues impersonating a respectable
family. By Mother's Day we didn't smile so brightly. My father had been
diagnosed with terminal cancer. Six weeks later my best friend, also named
Linda, died from respiratory failure. Despite the doctor's promises my father
died that August. Two weeks later my husband told me his father had died that
morning. The day of his funeral I received my father-in-law's card of
condolence concerning my own father's death. Now, three months later, I was
coping worse than ever.
Day by Day
"How are you doing?" asked my friend Ruby as our pastor wheeled her
into our room.
"Well, supper's staying down. Oops!" I nimbly bolted for the
bathroom. When I emerged, I assured her, "If I can just get some rest in a
horizontal position, I'll be fine." Cheer up, I commanded myself. At
least Ruby shares your love of an open window. The
Day one of our pilgrimage was a blur. I
clearly remember 46 offers of Dramamine and unseasonably pleasant temperatures.
Our guide, Gadi, devoted himself to shielding us from
what he called "technicalities," and valiantly crammed our heads full
of history and archaeology. To my relief he deliberately avoided revealing his
religious beliefs. The day ended in Tiberias, where
the
Day two started wonderfully. How could you not love a land where you get to eat
cheesecake for breakfast? By consensus our group installed Ruby and me in the
front seat of the bus. Ruby needed crutches to get in and out of the bus, and a
wheelchair to keep up with the group. We rapidly learned that ancient churches
and archaeological ruins are not wheelchair accessible. We traveled with
several men from our church, and Ruby saw almost everything. It comforted me to
see others help, some of whom we had just met in Tel Aviv. Maybe I was not as
alone as I felt.
Day three dawned with promise. I stood in a shallow pool fed by the
On the bus I sat relaxed. Pastor Tom looked me in the eyes and said, "I
see before me a rejuvenated Christian."
That afternoon we left
Day four ended in
Next we entered the Church of the Nativity, a regular wheelchair obstacle
course. Men carried Ruby to the manger, where a Roman Catholic nun abruptly ended
her song. Ruby and I laughed halfway back to the bus. The sight must have been
similar to that of the paralytic being lowered through the roof,
unceremoniously dropped at the feet of Jesus.
Day five began at the church of the Holy Sepulchre. I
yearned to see the
"I would like to go to the garden next door," I said, "the one
for private meditation." As we walked I offered, "My father died this
summer; ever since then I like to be outside. Perhaps I feel closer to God
without a roof over my head."
I furtively searched the garden. Another busload of tourists, er, pilgrims, threatened to deny me the privacy I sought.
Wait. The front half of the garden was deserted. There was a bench. As I sat I
noticed a gate in the middle of the garden. On a hill behind it was a life-size
sculpture of Christ kneeling in prayer. I wept freely. I didn't care who else
heard me, for I knew that Christ did. He knew how alone and afraid I felt
without my father. En route to
The day ended at the
"And give them to Gadi," I quipped in his
accent.
"And give them to Gadi," he repeated into
the microphone. Then he said to me, "I like you. You stay. We make a good
team."
The shore was treacherous, and I fell
into the water often. A woman called out, "Linda, you'll ruin your
glasses. Give them to me." Reluctantly I surrendered my eyesight. I have
always dog-paddled in water because I hate getting my face wet.
"Swim on your back, Linda," my pastor said. Why not? I can't
dog-paddle while I bob like a cork in rough waters. For the first time in
my life I floated on my back. It was pleasant to see the sky. I left the beach
refreshed.
On the bus I noticed something. "Gadi, my skin
is softer than when I went in."
He nodded and asked my seatmate, "Ruby, what happened to the woman next to
you? Yes, the older woman who was next to you? Now there is a girl of 18."
Day six began later than normal. Although we officially had free time without Gadi, I bumped into him in the hotel lobby. "Aren't
you off today?"
"Some of the ladies do not feel comfortable going to Old Jerusalem
alone," he said. "I will escort them."
"I was talking to one of the waiters last night," I confided.
"He asked if I was single. I think I could have a date today."
Gadi took my hand and led me to a dozen people from
our bus. "May I have your attention please? From every group that comes
here we select one person that we will keep. This is the one from your group.
Does she not look lovely since she went floating yesterday? Oh, she was lovely
before, but now more so." I felt like a china doll displayed by a fond
collector.
Our little flock walked to Old Jerusalem. I wanted to find a dress and finish
my Christmas shopping. By midafternoon I returned to
the hotel, exhausted but triumphant. After a long nap I wore my new dress to
supper.
"Linda," a woman called. "Is that your new dress?"
"Yes."
"It's lovely." The shower of compliments were
brightly wrapped gifts.
Day seven began with rain that the parched land desperately needed. Gadi had requested our prayers for rain, and I had hoped we
would see them answered.
Our evening meal was a banquet in Tel Aviv. As we drove there Gadi asked us to speak of our experiences. I took the
microphone and spoke slowly. "I told many of you at different times that I
lost my father this summer. We don't always cry at the proper times. Here I
cried, and now I can laugh again."
During our meal Gadi spoke. Often through our stay he
had apologized for being long-winded, although he never stopped talking. When
he promised to say more on the bus, I couldn't resist. "Gadi, are you ever quiet?"
We laughed a moment, and Gadi remarked to the couple
next to me, "She laughs easily, does she not?"
I had been telling them of my last conversation with my father. Now my eyes
glistened with tears as I said, "There's so much pain and sorrow in this
world. We must laugh every chance we get." Laughter was my praise to God,
my joyous declaration that we shall overcome.
On the bus Gadi asked, "You are all right?"
My slowly nodded yes counterbalanced my tear-filled eyes.
Gadi spoke slowly, as if he wanted to chisel his
words in granite. "I was glad for your good words," he said.
"May you have strength all of your life."
"Yes, Father," I prayed. "Give me the strength to weep as well
as laugh."
_________________________
Linda Werman Brawner
lives in
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