Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

Fighting Over the Check

Our friend and co-worker is taking us to her home town, Ramallah.  You’re going to hear a lot about this town in the future, but this writing is not primarily about Ramallah.  But you’ll remember Ramallah as the place where Yassar Arafat had his headquarters.  Later I’ll tell you about the “Terminal” between Ramallah and the world outside, but I’m still processing that experience, and that place.  I almost said, evil place, the “Terminal,” but maybe that’s too strong.  Let me think on it, and I’ll get back to you.

This story is about our taxi driver in Ramallah.  He is young, maybe 18 or 19.  He is handsome, and has an angry look, or so it seems to me as we ride through the streets of his town.  Our friend sits with Sally in the back seat, I ride shotgun, a phrase that has real meaning in this town.  He drives well, and fast.  His expression never changes.  No matter how I try to engage him in dialogue, his face never loses that hard edge.  He has a goatee that is pencil thin and trimmed to perfection.  He is a proud young man.

We get to the hair salon, Sally and our friend have an appointment with an Armenian hair dresser.  I try to pay the fare, but our friend would not hear of it.  I hand the young man a 50-shekel note, she hands him the same.  He will not take mine.   They are speaking in Arabic, and nodding in agreement.

Sally and our co-worker get out of the cab and head for the door of the salon.  They are chatting and laughing in preparation for their haircuts.  I stay in the cab for a minute longer.  I reach in my pocket and pull out some change.  In a very hard, tough voice, he says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you a tip.  You know about tips, right?”

“Yes,” he says, “I know about tips, but you are a guest in my country and you do not have to give me a tip.  You are a guest.”

I get a little emotional at this.  It’s not just what he says, but the sincere way he says it, and my realization that my first impression of him was far off the mark.  Like so many Palestinians I have met, he is so hospitable – not all, mind you, but many.  I lay a 10-shekel coin on the dash of his cab – 10 shekels, a little over 2 bucks.

“For me?”  He asked. 

“If it’s okay,” I say.  “I know it’s not much.”

He tears up and says, “It’s a lot too me.”

“It’s okay then?” I ask.

“It’s okay,” he says.

God, I love these people.

Solemn Assembly

It’s Sunday again.  Sally and I love Sundays.  First church, then a casual walk up Jaffa Street to a great coffee shop called “The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.”  We order ha-coffee ha-yom – The Coffee of the Day.  We add fresh whipped cream on the side – two shekels more, but worth it’s calorie weight in gold.  It’s a small touch of home, and we look forward to it every week.  We love Sundays.

The two-mile hike to church goes well enough.  We only get a little lost and the truth is we’re so used to getting lost it doesn’t affect us much.  We just stop, look at our map, and backtrack.  We rarely ask directions – Sally is so stubborn that way.  For the first time since we’ve been here, we get to church before the first hymn is almost over – a small victory.  We notice immediately, even before we sit down in the back row, that something’s not quite right.  You know how that feels, right?  It’s more quiet than normal.  People are talking in hushed tones.  Smiles are hard to come by, and when you get one, it seems forced.  The pastor, normally an upbeat fella, is anything but this morning.  His welcome is stiff.  He’s down.  I know, because I’m a pastor and I’ve been down like he is today.  Maybe it has to do with the small crowd.  The last two weeks the church has been packed, two large groups of visitors made it so -- Lutherans from St Paul, Minnesota, who did the best Lutherans can do to enliven a worship service.  This week it was mostly the regulars, a motley crew of internationals.  I know that pastors get fired up by a big crowd, and lose a little stream with the pews aren’t all being warmed. 

Maybe his dole drums stem from the congregational meeting to follow the service.  I never liked congregational meetings – fact is I hated them.  Maybe he feels the same way, many pastors do.  I doubt it though given the fact that this church’s congregational meetings are held over a potluck lunch in the pastor’s apartment (flat).  Not much to congregate over with a church that has no committees or ministry teams because everybody is too busy doing ministry to serve on one.   

Even the hymns are more melancholy than normal Lutheran fare, which is normally pretty melancholy – just ask Garrison Keillor.  We plowed through though – prayer of confession, OT Lesson, Psalm, Epistle, and Gospel.  Sermon was okay at best, but he was down I tell you and you could tell.  I was rooting for him, as he was rooting around for a thread to hold things together.  Never did find one that I could connect with at least.  Then came the congregational prayer, and reason for the overcast sky became clear.  He was down, they were all of them down, this small band of believers who huddle together every Sunday there in the cold stone sanctuary located in the middle of the Old City, Jerusalem.  The little preacher’s voice broke as he listed the prayer concerns of the day.  You see, there are these four peace keepers, he read their names for the gathered congregation.  They are being held captive in Iraq and the insurgents threaten to execute them if demands aren’t met.  He knows these men – these reckless do-gooders.  Heck, most of the congregation knows them and knows their families as well.  They are friends, colleagues in the small community of activists who operate in this part of the world.  These peace keepers and accompaniers (I’ll explain terms in another blog) were sad, and they were scared too.  Sad for the four and their families, scared for themselves and their families.  It’s the kind of life they’ve chosen.

Just before our pastor led us in prayer he said: “You know, in this place everything changes all the time.  This week we were reminded again of this fact, weren’t we?”  (He was talking about the victory of the Hamas Party and the increased danger this brings to the folks in this sanctuary.)  “But,” declared the preacher, “God is on God’s heavenly throne and God has his ear turned our way.”  Then he prayed.  Pretty powerful prayer, I’ll tell you.  Saved the whole service, it did.  Brought the Son out just in time for Communion.  Swept you away on the strength of it, the pure, fierce hope it held forth for all to experience.

After the service, Sally and I stopped to shake his hand and tell him how much we appreciated his messages.  Then we quickly slipped out to Jaffa Street for a good cup of coffee with whipped cream on the side, and the reminder of home that comes with it.  Once or twice a week, we need to be reminded of home.

Sally and I love Sundays.

Buzzzzzzzz

You can hear it everywhere you go … buzzzzzzzz.  It started on Wednesday, Election Day, and it hasn’t stopped, nor will it stop for some time to come.  Buzzzzzzzz.

Sally and I sit in the backseat of a friend’s van.  He and his wife sit in the front.  She is an engineer, he a salesman of fine candies.  The van is covered with decals of the candies he sales.  It is a very colorful van. 

Our friends don’t agree – vehemently.  They are arguing, discussing, fighting over the election results. They represent the whole region.  But it’s refreshing, this excitement, this open debate.  I am envious of their freedom to disagree with one another so strenuously without being labeled.

“Finally,” he says, “we have a choice.  We have another party challenging Fatah (the party of Arafat).  Hamas will be good for the country,” he declares.  “They will bring discipline.  They will stand up to Israel.  They are not corrupt.  This is good.”

She throws up her hands at this, and makes this wonderful “Ayyyyyy” sound.  He doesn’t even flinch.  “No one will deal with us,” she counters.  “The Americans, Europe, they will not help us.  They will use Hamas as an excuse to punish us.  Then how will we build up our roads and schools and hospitals?  How?” She demands.  She’s a mom, can you tell?

This morning in the office, our mates are arguing, discussing, fighting over the election results as well.  Buzzzzzzz.  Back and forth, point, counterpoint, and with such expression and passion.  Sally and I stand and listen and watch and wish we could understand one word of what is being said.  But we marvel at the sight as well, the health of it, the hope in it.  This is what democracy looks like, we think. 

Hamas won.  Actually, that’s not entirely accurate.  Fatah lost is more the case.  Fatah has been inept and corrupt for the last ten years or so, and the people of Palestine did what we Americans do when we are fed up with ineptitude and corruption.  They threw the bums out.  And you can’t blame them, even if the alternative is Hamas.  You can’t blame them.

Now it’s up to Hamas, isn’t it?  They are no longer outside the system, throwing stones.  They are the government now, and they will have to produce results.  Fatah has been spanked, but not sent away.  They are in the system too.  Now, for the first time in the history of this place, there is true accountability – a two-party system, checks and balances.  There is democracy.  Is anyone in the States at least acknowledging that the system worked even though we don’t like the results?  In a true democracy you can’t dictate the results.  To do so is to contradict the term – right?  Hamas won – the right-wing, fundamentalist, ultra-conservative party in Palestine won the election.  And they won by promising less government, a return to conservative values like family and religion (Islam).  And they promised a strong military, one that would stand up to Israel aggression.  They are promising to work with all the factions and to negotiate with Israel.  Will they?  Will Israel?  We’ll see.  Let’s hope and pray for the transformation of Hamas.  Let’s pray as well that Israel, and the United States too, will be fair and balanced, and open to the possibility that good might come out of this surprising development.

Oh, by the way, HE WON too!  Remember?  My Christian friend?  That’s right, he won.  So why not pray?  Prayer might not do any good at all.  But still … buzzzzzzz.

Waiting for the Results

Yesterday was Election Day in the West Bank and Gaza.  There was a very good turn out, of so it seemed to us.  This morning our landlord proudly showed us the index finger of his right hand, blackened with ink.  "I voted," he said, a look of both satisfaction and pride on his wrinkled face.  "I voted."

He went on to declare that he voted against Hamas, the violent faction, something he felt strongly about.  "I voted for the Fatah Party," emphasizing that he had voted against Hamas.  "Hamas must not win.  Must not win," he repeated with passion.  Now we wait to see if they will.  They could.

In some ways it felt here like it felt in the last American election for many people -- like there was no good choice.  I don't mean to suggest it felt that way for all, so maybe it didn't feel that way for you at all.  But for many, our last election felt like you were choosing the "lesser of two evils" -- using the word evil here loosely and more lightly than the word intends.  That's how many feel here in this part of the world, and I suspect that feeling is shared in many other countries as well -- countries where elections are a part of life.  I don't mean to wax to political here, but so many politicians in so many places are walking around with wet fingers held in the air, testing the wind, and then moving with it (Jim Wallis' image out of his book).  Senator Hilary Clinton's visit here is a case in point.  Maybe that's just cynical.   You might not feel that way at all.

On the way back from the ballot box yesterday, Sally and I were introduced to one of the candidates for City Representative.  He is a Christian man, as is the man who introduced us to him.  Here, politicians are allowed to be right there at the voting place -- mingling with the people, making speeches, being interviewed.  It was quite a scene.  This man said something very profound, or at least it sounded so to us, you may judge differently, of course.  This older man, 70 plus if you are going to make me guess, with a heavy face, deeply set and sad eyes, raspy voice from too many cigarettes, quietly explained to us the importance of this election no matter who wins.  This is what he said, "Today fear has lost, and therefore, we win no matter what the outcome.  Palestinians win today."  He was referring to the turnout, I think, and the fact that people were openly showing support for candidates not in favor with the occupational power, Israel.  "Today fear has lost...”

It's a beginning -- revitalization, if I may use that term in this context, and I guess I may -- just did!  And maybe, no matter who wins, it will be the beginning of something better.  We wait to see.  But lets remember to be patient as we wait.  Sometimes change comes slowly, imperceptivity, and then suddenly as if overnight, there it is, something new.  We wait, and so as to be very clear, no matter what, we wait on God, who moves slowly, and then all of a sudden … revitalization, rebirth, RESURRECTION.  That’s worth the wait.

A Perfect Gentleman

Bus 36 to Jerusalem, our bus.  We’re beginning to recognize the drivers, and they us.  Two tickets, 7 shekels – about a buck-fifty.  I smile and nod.  Today he nods back – smiles are hard to come by around here.  But the smiles will come.

It’s a Monday.  It’s a workday.  It’s early.  It’s rush hour.  There is one seat open halfway back, two seats vacant all the way back.  We move all the way back.  Bus 36 is full this morning. A full bus is a bus with every seat taken.  It is a bus that is not too full.  A too full bus is a bus with people standing in the aisle.  If people are standing in the aisle, then the Israeli police have cause to stop the bus and check IDs.  So, therefore, Bus 36 to the Damascus Gate cannot be too full.  The bus leaves with one empty seat, halfway back and on the right.  One seat … full … not too full.

We’re halfway to Nablus Road and the end of the line, and two young Muslim girls wave the bus to a stop.  Bus 36 stops and the Muslim girls climb on a full bus, but not too full.  There is one seat halfway back.  There are two young Muslim girls.  There is a problem.  One girl sits while the other stands, and now we have a too full bus.  The bus driver looks back, hesitates, and makes up his mind.  We head for Nablus Road and the end of the line with a bus that is too full.

Two boys sit in the very first seat in the front of the bus – brothers, we think.  They are young -- 8 or 9 -- headed for school.  They are handsome young men, carrying beat-up backpacks.  The oldest sizes up the situation, quickly gets up, motions his little brother to the window seat, and offers his seat to the young lady standing in the middle of the aisle.  What a guy!  He is so cool about it that he doesn’t even look at the girl, just climbs down into the door pit of the bus and stands there hidden from outside view.  I was so impressed I wanted to clap and cheer, but I didn’t. I just nudge Sally and say, “What a guy!  What a guy!”  Sal says, “Ah, a gentleman.”

He could have been my son, or grandson – or yours, maybe.  You’d have been proud.  What a guy!  A perfect gentleman, and smart too.

It didn’t help though, Bus 36 got stopped anyway!

The Universal Mother

This poem was introduced to us by a good friend, and universal mother, Eileen Boss.  She was a 1st grade teacher for most of her life, and a 1st rate teacher all of her life.  As you read it and let the pictures included engage what you read, be reminded of the spiritual hunger and poverty in the world as well. 

The Universal Mother

I saw the little children of the earth
Pass by me one by one---
I watched them idly, holding close the while
The hand `of my small son.

My son was safe—he could not be a part
Of this strange throng that came
From everywhere; they were so hungry, cold,
So pitifully lame.

And some were crying, some had lost
Their way,
These children of the land;
I drew my skirts aside to let them pass
And held my own child’s hand.

I saw the little children of the earth
Pass by me in a line –
They blurred before my eyes –
Became one child.
And that child was mine.

Then eagerly I ran to comfort him,
To feed and clothe him there;
To give him what his hungry heart
Had missed –
A mother’s love and care.

And falling on my knees I prayed,
“Dear God forgive –and let me be
Henceforth a mother to each needy child—
They all belong to me.”

From:  The Golden Summit
By Grace Noll Crowell

We Saw Emma Today

Okay, here is the hardest truth for Sally and me: Our hearts ache for Emma – our 3 ½-year-old granddaughter.  We miss her terribly and the thought of not seeing her for six months to a year is a thought we cannot think very often.  Therefore, I write this blog through tears.

We saw Emma today.  We really did.  Well not really as you might think of as reality, but really as you might think about what’s real in our hearts and minds –- the kind of deep real where faith and hope and love reside.  We saw Emma today.

She sat next to me on the bus, or rather I sat next to her as she was there first – Bus 36, our bus.  (Oh by the way, I bring the garbage away every morning before we board the bus – it includes the toilet paper garbage because you can’t flush paper down the toilet.  The dumpster is a neighborhood dumpster down the street from the bus stop.  As I walked up toward the buses to meet Sally, a bus stopped to pick me up – a Bus 36 stopped to pick me up, our bus.  I recognized the driver as one of our drivers, and glory be to God, he recognized me and was stopping to pick me up.  It was the small, wonderful gift of a belonging feeling.  Of course I had to explain to him that I was going to meet my “wife” – no understanding – my “woman” – oh, that he understood.)

Back to Emma.  Sally paid our fare and we moved on to our familiar place on the back of the bus.  We didn’t see her at first, sitting there in the back seat, she was so tiny.  Then we got to our seat, and there she was, sitting there almost by herself – a beautiful, dark-eyed, dark-haired Palestinian girl.  She was sitting with a little boy, her brother, we think.  When she saw me, gray-haired, obviously strange-looking-to-her me coming to sit by her, she startled a little, fear entered her eyes, or maybe just anxiety.  I saw it though, clearly.  I smiled at her, my very best smile, my Papa smile, my I-like-you-and-you-can-trust-me smile.  I know, I know, not everyone who smiles that smile can really be trusted, but I can.  I’m a Papa.

She looked, turned her head away a little, and then looked back, her eyes searching into my eyes.  She saw enough of something there for her to offer a little, shy smile in return.  And I saw her there in those little dark eyes.  I saw our blue-eyed Emma looking back at me.  I saw her there in that little turn of the mouth upward, so slight, head bowing a little to the right -- uncertain, shy.  I saw our Emma.  Sally saw her too, and we sat on that stupid bus, Bus 36, fighting back tears, and losing the battle.  But it was a gift.  And right there we thanked God for it.

Here’s the deeper thought and I think it is a thought worth all our thinking today: This little girl wasn’t our Emma, but she could have been.  She was the same as our Emma.  The people here are like us.  They go to work every day to earn a living for their children and in many cases grandchildren and aging parents as well.  This little girl was on her way to school, she had to be about 5 at the most.  She has little dreams, little friends, little ways of looking at things, just like our Emma.  And on the other side of the Jerusalem tracks is another little girl on a bus on her way to school too.  Different bus, different school, different religion, same little girl  -- like Emma.

We’re the same.  We really are.  And each of those three little girls, the Muslim, the Jew, and the Christian – our Emma – is loved and valued in the same fierce way by the same fierce God.  I know this, because I know God in Jesus, and therefore, I know God is love.  I don’t know if you have to be a Papa (or a Nana) to know this, but I know it helps.

Flying Checkpoints

I say, “Roadblock,” you think, “Detour.” Not here in East Jerusalem, the Palestinian side of the tracks. I say, “Roadblock,” a Palestinian thinks, “Checkpoint. Barrier. Detention. Humiliation” -- checkpoint is "Hajiz" in Arabic. (Say it a few times out loud -- Hajiz, Hajiz.) A new friend of mine was born and raised in Jerusalem. He is over 70-years-old and yet when he travels from Jerusalem, his home, to Jericho, a 20 minute drive, to visit his brother and family, he has to go through at least two checkpoints, waiting as much as one hour each time.
The Israeli police, most of them young men and women, take his ID and run his name through a computer. Then either he is allowed through, detained longer, arrested, or turned back.

Now, let’s get some perspective here. And let’s begin by agreeing that Israel has security issues to deal with – not even my friend argues with that. But let’s just imagine, if we can, and of course, we can’t, that you want to drive from your home in Orange City, Iowa, to Sioux Center, a 15 minute drive, to visit your sister’s daughter, your niece, and see her new baby just born. (You Southwest Michiganders can image driving from Hudsonville to Allendale. The rest of you can do the math for yourselves – Iowans and Michiganders are a little slow.) And let’s not forget that you were born in the hospital in Orange City, married at the First Reformed Church of OC, and that you have only been out of Iowa three times in your life and that was to go to Sioux Falls to see your brother who moved there 25 years ago and is not allowed to move back because he is an Iowan.

You leave at 9 o’clock in the morning and run into your first “roadblock” before you are out of town. The policeman, age 18, asks to see your drivers license. You say nothing because you dare not get him angry with you. You just hand over your driver’s license. He orders you out of the car and tells you to wait, pointing to the side of the road. It’s raining. It’s cold. You get out of your car and you wait. You wait 15 minutes, ½ hour, 1 hour. Remember you are 73-years-old! Finally you are allowed to continue. And here’s how that happens. This 18-year-old kid, with a locked and loaded M16 assault rifle slung over his shoulder, tosses your drivers license on the ground in front of you, motions for you to get back in your car, and then tells you that you may go. How does that make you feel? And you’re not done. You’ve got to do this at least twice more before you get to Sioux Center. It will take you over 3 hours to make that 20 minute drive, and you will be humiliated three times on the way.

A checkpoint can be setup wherever and whenever the Israeli government wants to set one up. Some are permanent, and Palestinians know how to deal with those. Most are “flying,” you got it, right? On the street, on the sidewalk, by one of the gates into the Old City, in front of your home, your business, your school, the place where you work – anytime, anywhere – fly in, fly out.

They say it is necessary. They say it is precautionary. They say it is preemptive, preventative, and for protection. I say -- it’s not right.

She Kissed My Hand

It’s mid-morning, 9 am. It’s wet, from an early morning shower, but warm, with a light wind out of the east, from the Old City. We are with our landlord’s daughter-in-law, a Greek Orthodox Christian, and also an office mate. She and her husband, a salesman of fine candies, are driving us to the office where we work when she decided we should see the Tomb of the Virgin. No hurry to get to work. Or maybe from her point of view showing us Mary’s Tomb is her work for the morning. Whatever – sounded good to us.

The tradition-determined burial place of Mother Mary is dug deeply into the ground right next to the entrance into the Garden of Gethsemane. You descend into this underground church. Down the worn steps, into the dimly, but beautifully lit subterranean memorial to the Mother of God. The entire sunken room is encased in gold stone – rubbed smooth by centuries of wear. It’s a shrine – okay? Our colleague-guide explains that her tradition does not believe that Mother is buried here, but rather that she was laid out here, and then lifted body and soul into heaven. There is an icon here – an image, a portrait, a picture, a representation, a statue – you pick. This sacred image of Mary is a painting, and pilgrims stand in line to tenderly place a kiss on her hand, or lips, if you are particularly devout. No, Sally and I could not bring ourselves to deliver this kiss – we’re Reformed, Dutch -- we don’t kiss paintings or statues or crosses. We hardly kiss each other for crying out loud.

Our guide tells us her story of this place that is holy to her. She and her husband were trying to have a baby. You know the story – no luck until she came to the tomb and prayed to the Virgin. The Virgin delivered and the child was born – a boy!

Time to leave. The priests are chanting as we climb the steps out of the tomb – an old veteran and two young apprentices. One of the young men is wearing Nikes under his robes – go figure. Sally and our new friend climb the steps together, talking, and I trail behind, thinking. As I set my foot on the top step, she pops out of the shadows to my right, by the door – like a mouse quickening out of her hole. I startle, then see that it is a tiny, old women – a beggar dressed all in black, like a nun, but not a nun, a beggar. She offers her hand, palm up, I shake my head and say “La” – no in Arabic. She retreats back into the shadows.

I walk on 5, 6, 7, 8, maybe nine strides, and then stop, reach into my pocket and pull out one shekel and two ½ shekels – less than 50 cents. I go back, peek my head around the entrance, and gaze into the shadows. I see her as she sees me. My hand reaches around and hers reaches out – no, she moves quickly and quietly, yes, like a mouse, and takes the coins, and my hand in her two hands. Then – then, she kisses my hand – just above the knuckles of my index and ring finger, a light, butterfly settling on my hand. She murmurs something in Arabic that I don’t understand, and then she retreats back into the shadows.

She kissed my hand, and the kiss went into my heart. Who is she, this wizen, old woman all in black? Is she someone’s mother? Grandmother? Will she be there the next time I visit? (No, she wasn’t’ there Saturday when Sally and I went back alone.) Will I ever forget her little kiss? I wash my hands now and the spot above the knuckles between my index and middle finger tingles – or maybe it’s just my imagination – my icon.

I Think on the Lamb of God

Tuesday, January 9, was the beginning of the Muslim feast of Eid el-Abha.  As far as we can figure this is a feast connected to the “Akedah,” Hebrew term which means “binding”  the binding of Isaac.  Eid el-Adha commemorates the binding of Ishmael – the Koran version of the same story.  Abraham, father to both Judaism and Islam, is told to take his son, his only son, the one he loves, Ishmael (Muslim version), and sacrifice him on the terrible mountain.  The mountain, no less, that ends up being the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.  In fact, the actual binding of Isaac/Ishmael (it depends on your father’s faith), is believed to have taken place on the very spot where the Temple was built, precisely where the Ark of the Covenant was placed – now the location of the Dome of the Rock, one of Islam’s holiest shines.  This is Mount Moriah, the mountain that Abraham raised his eyes to see,  the place of the binding of Isaac/Ishmael.  (Is this rich, or what?  Like they say, you can’t make this stuff up – can you?) 

The feast of Eid el-Adha remembers that God gave father Abraham a ram to sacrifice in place of his son Ishmael (remember this is from a Muslim perspective).  A part of the feast therefore is the slaughter of lambs.   The lamb is slaughtered -- throat cut, skin peeled off -- and the meat is given to the poor.

Now comes our story.  Outside our apartment is a pen.  Inside the pen are sheep.  They were delivered in the trunks of cars – kidnapped, I thought as I watched young men lift them out.  Sally and I stood outside our door, early in the morning, waiting for Bus 36 to take us into the heart of East Jerusalem, Nablus Street, where we work.  Sheep are being dragged out of the pen and pulled into a small, cement block closet-like addition on the side of the building.  The sheep dig in with all four hooves.  They pull back with all their strength.  They scream, a quiet shrill cry.  The blood flows out of that corner building and runs into the street, right past our feet as we stand on the steps.  Our landlord has positioned himself in the street in front of our building.  He is armed with a water hose, and he directs the blood down into a street drain.

Around the pen is a small crowd of men and boys, watching, pointing, laughing, loudly talking.  The sheep were strangely quiet, not bleating as you might think – waiting to be selected, then the struggle.

Sally and I watch.  We listen.  We breathe in all the smells.  And we think on the Lamb of God.