Sacred Connections and Other Miracles
The water was turquoise, cold and calm. Like an energetic 8-year old, I dropped my gear and raced into the ocean, tears of joy mixing into the salty brine. The gentle waves held me buoyant; I was not my age, my weight, my compromised knees and hips.
After 10 minutes of mindlessness, I staggered back to the blanket, collapsed onto my side and contemplated how little I needed to acquire a state of bliss. This was, for me, bliss.
Israelis know how to party; they know how to barbecue and picnic and they really know how to “beach.” Throughout the grainy expanse in this Nature Society site, entire families and friend groups had set up aluminum tables filled with fruits, sandwiches, and all kinds of drinks and snacks. Ronney and I attempted to appear content with our hard-boiled eggs and cut vegetables, hastily tossed in used restaurant containers, but it was useless. Our refreshments were pathetic and we ate rapidly.
Only a few feet from where I lay, a little boy of 6, intently buttressed a hole in the sand, tirelessly running back and forth with pails of water that he summarily used to enlarge his lake. Despite the futility of the effort, his enthusiasm was boundless and in addition to proudly (and loudly) urging his parents to Look-Ima-Look-Abba while dragging a writhing toddler brother to enjoy the fruits of his labors, he was met with disinterest.
But I was interested. And said so, complimenting his industriousness. Certainly I had enough Hebrew to tell him that he could be an architect. He put down his pail and shovel and sauntered over to me, thin-limbed, bare-chested and filled with bravado.
“Eich korim lach? What’s your name?” he asked.
‘Ani Andrea. I am Andrea.’ My husband sat reading, oblivious to another man making moves on his wife.
“Ani Ido. You speak English? I know English. Blue. Orange. Red.”
His mother called him to lunch and, finally, sof sof, I dozed. Strange dreams filled my head, transporting me back to first jobs, first apartments, early boyfriends who were today old men. Sweat pooled in the creases of my neck and I became aware of someone blocking the sun. Ido sat next to me, a cucumber clasped in one fist, a chorizo sausage in the other.
“Where you from?” he queried.
‘I live in Jerusalem. But many years ago, I lived in America.’
Clearly Ido did not understand the secrecy of his assignment because, void of furtiveness, he shouted over his shoulder to his parents, “He m’Amerika. Hem Amerikanim!!!” “She’s from America. They are Americans.” I did not mention that Ronney was South African by birth. The point was moot.
Ido and I sat together for a while, considering the vista. He identified a military ship in the distance and used some jargon which I could not understand. For a while we fell silent. The companionship felt right.
“At mifchadet mimdoozot? At rotza lir’ot achat? Are you afraid of jellyfish? Do you want to see one?”
“Uh, no, think again,” said my inner voice. “Of course!” is what came out.
He led me to a small sand dune, a translucent, gelatinous grey mound quivering beneath the surface. Children poked at it, screaming in terror and glee. Ido held onto my fingers.
His family was packed when we returned and he did not say goodbye. They merely left. Ronney looked up.
“Where’d you go? he asked. “Who’s the kid?”
My heart answered, “He’s a student, a father, a grandson and a precious baby to his parents. He’s a holy Israeli soldier, bravely protecting this land and her inhabitants. He is a child of G-d. He is my friend.”
I said, “His name is Ido.”
New York native Andrea Simantov has lived in Jerusalem since 1995. She writes for several publications, appears regularly on Israel National Radio and owns an image consulting firm for women.
