People keep asking me, “What was the best thing you saw or did in Israel?” And I have no answer. I wish I did, but the power of my week in Israel wasn’t in anything I did there. Rather, it’s in the entirety of what the Lord did for me on the trip.
Just the fact that I went is a miracle in itself. I’ve never been remotely interested in traveling to Israel; if I can’t drive to it in my RV, I’ll stay home, thanks. So when a church elder said, on Christmas day, “You should go to Israel with us, Elsi,” I was astounded to hear myself answer, “I wish I could!”
He and his wife convinced me that my emotional and physical disabilities could be accommodated without interfering with others’ enjoyment, but the sign-up deadline was long past. To my surprise, there was still room to fit me in. And, later, to include a friend I invited to accompany me. Not only that, my grandmother paid for the whole thing, because I’m finally old enough to inherit her estate. And that meant I could fly business class, allowing me to have wiggle room for my arthritic hip and use of my CPAP machine so I could sleep at night. Miraculous, right? You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.
Our guide, Sheila, talked with me each morning, advising me to “skip this walk because of all the steps” or “stay back from that one so you’ll be strong enough for the afternoon trip.” When I couldn’t manage part of the tour, I sat happily with my journal and camera and enjoyed the sights and sounds of Israel till my group came back for me.
I knew I’d have to miss the Palm Sunday procession down the Mount of Olives and up to Jerusalem. No way I could walk that far, of course. And the crowds are so thick the bus driver couldn’t even get me to a place I could see. Oh, well. But the day before, we were at the Church of All Nations. As we left, a group of Indonesian tourists came down the road from the Mount of Olives, singing at the top of their lungs and waving palm branches. Hosanna!
The last day everyone on the tour was out in Jerusalem, enjoying Palm Sunday, wading through Hezekiah’s tunnels, or hiking and shopping in the city and museums. I stayed at the hotel, telling concerned friends, “I’ll be fine!” but feeling lonely and useless. Sheila suggested I walk across the street to the American Colony Hotel, where Anna and Horatio Spafford had lived (he wrote “It Is Well with My Soul”).
The bookseller at the hotel showed me a biography of Anna Spafford, then said, “You know, the author stays here. Let me see … yes, he’s having tea in the courtyard. Would you like to meet him?” And the author even autographed my book. Just one more example of God’s personal care for me.
What was the best thing on my trip to Israel? God!
