I’ve been in the Holy Land the last two weeks, in Israel and in Palestine, co-leading a women’s pilgrimage with my friend Mercy Aiken. On Monday we walked the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem, retracing the steps of Jesus as he approached his crucifixion, culminating in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Just that morning I thanked God that no one had fallen as we had traversed uneven steps and paths everywhere. So it was a surprise when I did, missing a step right in front of the tomb of Jesus, landing with a thud on the hard stones, first with my knees and then with my hand. It is amazing how many thoughts can fly through your head as something like that happens, seeming to take forever.
I heard a collective gasp from those around me, cringing with embarrassment even as I fell through the air in slow motion. Immediately two men, one on either side of me, tried to pull me up. I was grateful for their help, but it hurt so badly I really needed to sit there a minute, and pleaded with them to give me time. I then took a breath and with their help was lifted to my feet. I heard voices asking me what I needed and I said I just needed to sit for another minute. A space was made for me on a nearby bench, and I was led there by my helpers as I fought a feeling of fainting, my vision fading to black in and out.
Next to me was a nun sitting as straight as could be, clothed from head to toe in black, with only a pretty profile exposed. There was something very regal about her. She very quietly began to speak kind words, offering to go find ice as I supported my left hand with the other, exhorting me that I needed to see a doctor. Her voice and words were calming, and I sensed the peace of God emanating from her.
I had a strong hunch that my wrist was broken. A huge bump had appeared on the outside, and a weird little one on the inside. My knees still hurt plenty but the pain in my wrist quickly began to emerge as the most serious issue. The man on my left also uttered a few quiet kind words in the semi-dark church. Those words felt like prayers.
Our group had taken a half hour to explore the church individually and were nowhere around. I knew I needed someone and decided to use my right hand to pull my phone out and send a text. Almost immediately Dawna, a retired Navy medic, appeared—exactly the help I needed. She took charge, using her own scarf as a compression bandage, and then fashioning my backpack purse into a sling. She got me to my feet, and I flashed a look of gratitude to my angel nun as we made our way out of the church. Dawna defended me from the surging crowd as we made our way out the door. In the courtyard, we immediately ran into Sandy, our Palestinian Christian guide, who is also a dear friend. She was horrified when I told her what had happened, and she wanted to end the tour of the Old City and take me to the hospital herself. I told her no, that Dawna could help me get there just fine. The group should continue without me. What I wanted from her was a prayer. She began to pray in Arabic as a few others there gathered around me, laying their hands on me. The prayer was comforting and when we were finished I asked Sandy where and how to go. She thought for a moment and said St. Joseph’s Hospital in Sheik Jarrah. I knew the neighborhood, right outside the Old City. We would need to wind our way to the Damascus Gate and find a taxi at the top of the stairs. Another friend, Terri, said, “Please, can I go with you?” I didn’t hesitate. I sensed she would be a help, and I knew she had already seen the Old City on a previous trip.
The three of us started out with Dawna in front trying to carve a path through the crowds, Terri next acting as a shield to prevent my arm from being bumped. I was last, holding onto Terri’s shoulder with my right hand, my left cradled in the improvised sling, shouting out navigational directions to Dawna. We moved quickly and efficiently, climbed the steps, and a man immediately approached, asking if we needed a taxi, and led us to his car. The hospital was about a mile into the city.
Inside, we went to an admissions window and were told I needed to pay 550 shekels to be seen in Emergency—roughly $150. I pulled out a credit card and quickly received the paperwork. In the ER my vitals were taken, and I was scheduled for an X-ray. I was so grateful no one ever touched my hand. I had imagined how painful that was going to be. I was wheeled to X-ray and told to place my hand on the machine, being instructed I would need to flatten it out, but given time to do that on my own. A second side shot was taken, and again, no one touched my poor hand.
The x-rays were quickly read, and a diagnosis and plan were quickly formulated and communicated. Luckily everyone that cared for me in this Arab Christian hospital spoke English. I had a displaced fracture that would need to be reduced under general anesthesia, and I would need to spend the night in the hospital. My friends were sent back to the admissions office to make arrangements. They came back and told me the surgery and hospital stay would cost 7000 shekels, and that I could upgrade to a private room for 500 more. I told them yes, for sure, and they went back with my credit card in hand. The total bill came to $2000 and some odd cents.
My American insurance company covers me wherever I am in the world, but only reimburses and doesn’t pay outside the country directly. If this has happened in the US, I would have been out of pocket three and a half times that, my deductible. The bill would have been much higher, well into five figures.
My friends kept me company while we waited for the surgery, but by 7 pm I was being wheeled in, and an hour later I was in recovery. My friends came in and said goodbye. They had been such a help, and I was so grateful for their kindness. They had a lengthy taxi ride and needed to cross the Israeli security checkpoint. The first taxi that came to the hospital didn’t have the right license plate to do so but he took them to meet another taxi that did and didn’t charge them. It was 10 pm by the time they returned to the Bethlehem Bible College Guesthouse where we were staying.
I had a relatively comfortable and pleasant night due to kind nurses and some narcotics.The peace of God was all around me. I was awakened right after I had finally gotten to sleep by the night shift taking vitals, but they didn’t disturb me again until I got a breakfast tray the next morning. I had already found the kettle and supplies for tea. I was happy my pain wasn’t too bad. I felt surprisingly joyful and realized a psalm was asking to be spoken—these words bubbled up in me—
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High,
Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge,
And my fortress, my God in whom I will trust.”
It was Psalm 91, and I hurriedly opened my phone app to read the rest, feeling grateful that Terri had left me her battery pack to charge my phone. I prayed aloud the rest of the psalm, so moved by these promises of God’s care and protection. When I got to verses 11 and 12, tears sprang to my eyes.
“He will give his angels charge over you, to guard you in all your ways.
In their hands they will bear you up, lest you cast your foot against a stone.”
I had been surrounded by angels in the church the day before; two were there immediately, literally bearing me up with their hands, pulling me off the hard floor. I had not stopped thinking about the angel nun whose presence emanated peace and warmth and healing as well as my angel sisters who gave me first aid, got me to the hospital, and stayed with me till I was out of surgery. And the friendliness and warmth and care of the entire hospital staff did feel like a whole company of angels.
I had been opening each day of our pilgrimage with a psalm, and I texted them Psalm 91 that morning to read without me. Someone later said they were surprised I chose that one, since God hadn’t sent angels to keep me from stumbling. But he had!
I do believe in miracles, with all my heart. At the same time, we live in a world subject to the laws of creation. Miracles do occur, but by definition, a miracle is out of the ordinary. In this world, when I trip and fall, I most often end up on the ground. I would be reckless and haphazard if I knew that my body was not subject to gravity. I wouldn't be human, I’d be superhuman–just a cartoon caricature.
His mercies are, however, not out of the ordinary and we experience them every day. Sadly, we don’t naturally perceive them. Part of our task in this world is to develop the spiritual perception that is an attribute of the fully mature human. To once again walk and talk with God in the garden of his beautiful creation, to learn to remain in constant communion with God, in continual awareness of his goodness and mercies.
I read and prayed the beloved Psalm 91 that morning with new eyes and new understanding. Familiarity with Scripture does not “breed contempt”; it does not grow old and tired; on the contrary, it continues to open up and grow within your heart. I felt the love and protection of God anew. I felt so much gratitude. How often does he rescue and deliver us and we never know it?
I surprised myself by feeling strong enough to join my group for lunch that day, and the next day I was again walking through Jerusalem’s crowded lanes. What a serendipitous surprise it was to see once again my angel nun. We simultaneously recognized each other from several yards away and met with a holy hug. She told me how she’d prayed for me, and I told her how I’d known and was comforted by that.
Her name was Sister Mena, an Orthodox nun from Romania, on her own short pilgrimage here. She apologized for her English, which was actually quite good–I understood everything she said. I told her I’d been very influenced by Orthodox theology and found some healthy correctives from a Western tendency to see God as harsh and punishing. She wanted to share a special Orthodox prayer with me but was frustrated coming up with the right words. “Is it ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner?’” I asked.
“Yes, yes, that is it!” she cried. It was the Jesus Prayer, something I pray all the time. She exhorted me to pray it over and over–I could only smile and assure her I already did.
I’m home now, realizing all the limitations of having only one arm. I have a strong belief that God works in a very special way when we are on pilgrimage and gives us exactly what we need. Life is going to be slower for a while. I hope to live this season with patience, acceptance and gratitude.
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