There is Only One Sin

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that? When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see?”

This is one of many lessons learned by the protagonist in Khaled Hosseini’s novel, The Kite Runner. My mind often wonders back to that book, and to this quote in particular. I question the validity of this assertion, of boiling the entire world’s injustice down to one fundamental wrong. And, most days, I find reason to agree.

Sister Martha came to my door today and told me that a lady would come by the monastery looking for Layla, one of the girls who lives here. She carefully explained that I should tell the woman that Layla was in the church in Jerusalem and wouldn’t be back for days. In essence, a nun asked me to lie. My surprise must have been transparent, because she told me that I would understand her request when I understood the girl’s life outside the monastery walls. Layla, a pretty little girl who makes good grades and loves to draw, seems like most other eight year olds. Now that I know what her life has been like, I marvel at her normalcy. She is smiling every time I see her. I would never have guessed that her childhood has been stolen from her.

Since she was an infant, Layla has endured physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her father. She has suffered burns from being put into a hot oven, a broken nose courtesy of her father’s angry fist, and routine beatings that left her small body covered with bruises. Relief should have come when the man abandoned his family for another woman, who bore him the son he wanted Layla to be. But things just got worse. Her mother is a prostitute, but her graver fault is cowardice. Her cowardice and blind familial loyalty have stolen her daughter’s innocence. The woman’s brother first sexually abused Layla when she was six. The mother refused to believe the child’s accusations, even though medical exams and her behavior were clear indicators of abuse. After essentially paying the father to sign over his custodial rights, Sister Martha took Layla away for treatment for several months and the girl finally achieved a sense of security and normalcy.

Unfortunately, she is still legally bound to the mother, who often sends her to her uncle’s house while she ‘works.’ Of course, these visits launch the girl into psychological and physical seclusion yet again. Thus, I have joined the nuns in a game of hiding and lying. As far as the child’s family is concerned, school never ends. And when it does, Layla miraculously ends up in Russia for the summer before anyone has time to object (this is actually legal, thanks to the father’s avarice and/or lack of concern). The mother’s protests are usually silenced with a negligible amount of money. I suppose lying and paying people off are sins, things one would least expect from nuns. Yet, it is as Sister Martha says, every lie she tells she does so with a clear conscious, knowing that she is giving a young girl back a portion of what has been taken from her.

Sister Natasha and Me

I feel as if I have a sign on my forehead that reads, “Kick me, Sister Natasha.” I’m not special; she dislikes everyone equally, a lesson I learned on my first day when she drove me down the road to retrieve my luggage from a friend’s house. The entire ride, I regretted accepting her offer. We flew over speed bumps while she expressed her displeasure at the neighborhood and its inhabitants, explaining in stilted English that, “Arabs not interesting. Not at all.” Then, as we drove for a mile along Israel’s massive wall (officially built for security, unofficially expanding territory) she turned her ire toward the Jews: “What this? In God’s land! This thing ugly. Hurt my eyes. “

Finally, it was my turn. “You Americans tear down wall in Germany and make wall here. Why? Why you do this? I no understand America.” Her rant would likely have continued if it weren’t for a vegetable delivery truck that was stopped in the road so its driver could unload tomatoes. Rather than stop momentarily, she swerved around the truck and climbed onto the sidewalk where we came perilously close to hitting two Palestinian pedestrians. Sister Natasha was not apologetic about the near fatality nor was she ashamed to use her horn to let the delivery man know how illogical it was to be working in the middle of the day. According to her, the incident was due to a genetic deficiency: “They stupid, the Arabs. Don’t make sense.”

I’ve been living here for a week and apparently it’s still my turn. I am confounded by this woman. One minute she’s rolling around on the ground playing with the children, the next she’s yelling and slapping bottoms. My bottom has yet to be slapped, but my pride sure has taken a beating. The first scolding came shortly after my arrival. Sister Martha told me that I was free to do my own laundry, but Sister Natasha stormed into my room wanting to know why I didn’t ask her before I began washing clothes. And who did I think I was using the dryer? We never, ever use the dryer. My clothes can hang on the line just like hers. And Sister Maria does the laundry anyway, so why was I trying to mess up the system?

I was wounded. A lifelong teacher’s pet and favorite grandchild, I usually do a good job of pleasing my elders. I decided to counter the laundry incident by being Super Girl. I washed everyone’s dishes—she complained that I used too much hot water. I tried to clean up the table—she told me I put things in the wrong place. I spent hours helping one girl study for an English exam—she yelled at me for having the light on and said the little girl and I were costing the church money. I made her tea—she flatly declined, “I no want.”

Exasperated, but still determined, I decided to win her over via the children. The next day, I rushed home from my internship and spent the afternoon helping the girls with their homework. Then I kept them all busy with puzzles and coloring books. When dinner time came, the girls saved me a seat at the head of their table, a clear sign of acceptance. Sister Natasha’s deadly look forced me to decline their invitation and my place of honor in order to join her in the kitchen. It was then that she informed that I was not to speak to the children. Ever. They have a ‘regime’ and are easily distracted. And, because of me, they were late to dinner. The whole night was ruined and it was my fault. Then, in a conciliatory whisper, she let me in on a little secret, “They Arab children. Not normal.”

I think this unwarranted snipe at the girls was meant to be an olive branch to me, but I wasn’t about to encourage her racism. I also wasn’t about to incur her wrath by telling her what I thought (she probably wouldn't have understood anyway). So I just avoid her. I peek out my window to see if she’s downstairs before I leave my room to go to the kitchen. If she is, I just wait it out. This sometimes means going to bed hungry, but that's better than going to bed defeated.

Home Sweet Home?

Four cynical Russian nuns sit around a dinner table, laughing at the expense of the young American girl before them. The girl’s mind is elsewhere. She is trying in vain to hold her nose without using her hands, so as to resist the temptation to regurgitate the cold, slimy concoction of mushrooms and other, unidentifiable, objects that Sister Cruel has offered her. This dish must be left over from the hellacious rule of Stalin, she muses silently. Her thoughts are interrupted with a question from Sister Cruel. “Why are you here?” the nun demands. The girl emerges from her reverie stumped. It’s a good question.

As you’ve already guessed, I’m the girl. My new roommates are the nuns. I’m not sure how this happened, but it did. A week ago, a friend put me in touch with the administrator of an all girls’ school in the Palestinian village, al-Azarea. She knew that I was looking for a room with an Arabic-speaking family and thought the boarding school might be the answer to my prayers. The price was right, the location was good, and the deal seemed too good to be true. The only requirement was that I interview with the head nun. I should be honest—I blew that interview. When questioned about my faith, my answer was evidently Protestant enough to compel one of the observing nuns to interject, “we’re all God’s children, Sister Martha.” I suppose benevolence won over, because a few days later I was entrusted with keys to a Russian Orthodox Monastery.

My first night was rough. I didn’t exaggerate the wretchedness of the soup. What’s worse is that they knew that I would hate it but couldn’t decline it. By the way they were making fun of me in Russian, I guessed that I had just been fed something akin to Mountain Oysters. My palate was later salvaged with strawberries, but the evening didn’t get much better. After being questioned about my education and career goals, I was soon defending the very nature of ambition. The head nun looked at me with a mixture of pity and condescension as she informed me that I shouldn’t have such lofty aims because I’d be 60 years old before I realized that I hadn’t made a real difference in the world and by then I’d have no time left for self-improvement—the only kind of improvement in which one can truly succeed. It sounded to me like she’d had a few hard knocks—perhaps she had failed in some Mother Teresa-esq aspirations. Whatever the case, I didn’t think it necessary to bring me down with her. Yet, still trying to be loved, I made chatty conversation that doesn’t merit re-telling.

I’m not quite sure what the terms of my stay here are. I’m not the nanny, which I had to emphasize when the actual nanny quit the day I arrived. As far as I understand, I have no real duties here but to act as an ‘older sister’ to 12 Palestinian and Israeli girls, ranging from ages 5-14, who all come from broken homes and attend the boarding school. I’m also somewhat of a personal assistant to Sister Martha, who has frequent correspondence in English and will now be signing the letters that I write.

The girls are all very curious about me, but most of them are too shy to actually speak. I’ve managed to develop a rapport with two of the older girls, and a few of the younger ones find reasons to walk in my path or lurk in shadows and giggle when I’m in the same room, yet they laugh and run away when I speak to them. So much for learning Arabic here. The biggest breakthrough of the weekend came yesterday when Sheraan, a nine-year old, told me that she wanted to buy my hair. That was the first thing she had ever said to me and I had been here for two days. Her exclamation prompted an imaginary auction, where another girl walked away with my eyes and a third with my teeth. Poor little Natalie got stuck with my nose.

I’m not sure if I’ve made the smartest move when I dragged my bags to the monastery, but of my options it was definitely the most economical and non-orthodox (excuse the lame pun). I asked for a month’s trial to make sure the arrangement is suitable to everyone. Even if I end up elsewhere, this is one stop that is sure to add a little spice to my life.

Homeless in Jerusalem

It took ten days for Jon David to break down, but he finally did. After our third night in The New Swedish Hostel (an ancient establishment that is owned and operated by Palestinians), Jon David asked me how long it had been since I had showered.

This morning, why?

Oh. (Slightly let down and changing the subject.)

I pursue: Why did you ask me that? When was the last time you showered?

Um, it's been longer than that.

When? (Voice rising.)

I haven't showered since we arrived. (He ducks in an effort to avoid the verbal onslaught.)


What?! I've been walking around and introducing you to people as my friend (read: direct reflection on my character and tastes) and you smell like garbage! I've done my part...finagled my way into a new pair of socks for you, so you could retire the week-old ones, supplied you with toiletries, offered to wash your clothes, and you can't even bathe yourself?

Well, it was too cold in there. I can't take my clothes off here.

Granted, the temperature isn't ideal but that's no excuse for poor hygiene. You have to shower. Immediately.

Our compromise, and perhaps the salvation of our friendship, came via JD's credit card. JD decided that he had "money in the bank...I mean thousands of dollars," which translated as, "We don't have to live like this." So, we packed our bags and boarded a bus to Tel Aviv where he intended to book a room in the Sheraton or some comparably nice hotel, and then collect our luggage (which we had entrusted to a swindler named Hageet). All went well, and we were soon showered and sitting down for dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant. The combination of his fresh attire and my glass of wine allowed me to begin to love him again.

It was a happy ending to our first travel experience together. Now my dear friend is somewhere in South Africa, presumably safe and sound and I find myself once again in Jerusalem at the New Swedish Hostel. The pieces of my life here haven't quite fallen together yet. I don't have a home, a cell phone, a class schedule or a job though I'm pursuing leads in all the aforementioned areas. The one thing I did have—privacy—is quickly being taken from me. The man who runs this hostel has become exceptionally friendly toward me, perhaps too friendly. He now knocks on my door and brings me tea, telling me stories of his ex-wife and offering to help me hone my Palestinian dialect. He invited me to dinner tonight, but I skillfully declined in an effort to make sure he understands that our relationship is purely business. Somebody send me some good housing karma so I can get on with life.

The following pictures have nothing to do with this story, but were taken in Jerusalem. Top to bottom:
1. Me in front of the Mt. of Olives, Church of Nations and the golden Russian Orthodox Church
2. JD and me trying to take a picture of ourselves and salvage the background. The Old City, Al-Aqsa mosque, and Western (or wailing) Wall are behind us.

A Tale of Two Stories

The air is pungent. Felines and canines have lived in, and on, what we are currently wearing; I’m in a pink jumpsuit, Jon David dons a royal blue one adorned with a collar that has seen many a dog’s backside. There is no anger here, however, only love. The apparel is just one of many gifts from our generous hosts—this, fortunately, is the only one pulled from a far corner in the basement. In the room where we work, heart-shaped plush toys and teddy bears keep us company while we chronicle our historical passage through the land of Milk and Honey. These things are only peripheral inspiration; it is the glitter butterflies and cotton leopard carcass upon which we sit that truly moves the soul and the artist’s pen(s). This chapter in our journey will be a joint effort, for Jon David—the only person in Cana who doesn’t speak Arabic—has lost all ability to communicate his thoughts without his mentor and muse, Ava.

From the notebook of “Helen Keller”

As we end our time in Cana, I cannot help but reflect on how wonderful this entire experience has been for me. Never have I met a kinder or more hospitable family. The friends that were strangers only days ago on the Sea of Galilee have been planning our going away party since the moment we arrived. This departure was sure to be the time of our lives, and I could hardly wait to see what festivities were prepared. True to form, the Muslim families came out in droves, and there was food enough for the Israeli army (I mean, we never would have let them have it…but food enough, still). With every urine-scented breath I take, I look back on this occasion as the defining moment in my Arabic speaking life. As is the Arab custom, men and women partied together for a while until the matriarch of the room decided to separate us, the women departing to the other living room. This separation anxiety from my one form of communication, Ava, had to be handled delicately as this party was intended for my future success and happiness. I decided to play the part of the chameleon, using 4 “looks” throughout the gathering to suggest my attentiveness and social engagement. The looks are as follows:

Pensive: Self-explanatory, this look was used when trying (and miserably failing) to determine the present topic of conversation. I tossed around a few ideas based off of two hours of conversation and the discernable words, Coca-Cola, bush, Mahmoud, as well as one gesture which was surely a reference to either David and Goliath or Braveheart.

Gluttonous: This look was an ‘emergency only’ move. When I was referred or gestured to, my shame and inability to speak Arabic was best hidden by an avoidance of the others’ eyes through the consumption of food.

Conciliatory: The best defense is a good offense. As a Southern gentleman, this smile and nod can come fully equipped with a “gun shoot and wink”, although the latter were probably inappropriate given the company. The smile and nod seemed sufficient.

Pensive AND engaged: This look completely threw my Muslim friends off guard. It even merited an across the room wave from someone of great importance within the hierarchical ladder.

From the notebook of Ava the Beloved

My evening began in the kitchen, where my assistance was requested as desserts for the party were prepared. “You should know how to do this,” advised my new sister Lama. I was an eager student and a subdued feminist as we stirred and baked. My reward for being so amenable was a pretty red sweater that Lama chose for me from the store where she works. Though it resembles the Christmas frock that served as a conversation starter for Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones’ Diary, it was a kind gesture and I was very flattered.

Once preparations were finished, the party began. In the ladies’ room, my experience was slightly different than my male counterpart’s. People addressed me when they spoke, and I responded. I didn’t actually get to engage in the conversation as much as I would have liked because the little ladies in the room were all vying for my attention. Most of the conversation topics weren’t exactly in my realm of expertise, with topics ranging from the which hijab style could best camouflage Lama’s nascent second chin to advice for Amani, the soon to be newlywed.

My opinion was specifically requested, however, in regards to Amani’s choice of attire for her upcoming engagement party. The ensemble was a blue asymmetrical dress with extensive beadwork, which was to be accented with azure earrings, a necklace, bracelet and ring. To complete the look, Amani had purchased black knee high boots adorned with sparkling diamonds and silver three inch heels. Oscillating between my love for my new friend and my deep desire to revolutionize fashion in the Arab world, I took the low road and added some new brownie points for praise.

Jon David’s room – a turn for the better

Sliding back and forth into the appropriate “look” can be quite taxing, but my break was soon to come. Just as I was about to make my move from “pensive and engaged” to “gluttonous”, the clear patriarch of the group turned to me as if to speak…in Arabic. As I prepared myself for a “Thank you” in Arabic (basically the only word I know), he paused dramatically and in a mouse’s voice, turned the conversation on its head.

“Big” he whispered, wide-eyed, as if unlocking the door to the conversation.

Simpering and in shock, I bellowed “The movie????” The affirming nod of the head and devious sneer were all I needed. Finally! There was no longer a need for pensive look #1. In a chameleonic display of body language swordplay, erudition, or commiseration, I had finally been granted the key. The hour and a half conversation had been right in front of my eyes: Big starring Tom Hanks. At this point, there was no doubt that the journal would have to come out.

Ava’s Commission

My fun didn’t actually begin until Jon David strolled through the room, journal in hand muttering something about ‘Gotta remember this.’ Curiously, I followed him and asked what he was going to write in the notebook (the women all wanted to know, and I was to report back.) When I told them that he had not understood anything in the past two hours, there were several cries of ‘Ya Maskeen!’ (in Southern dialect—‘Bless his poor little heart’). Compassion and the hens compelled me to re-enter the men’s room where I could be of assistance to my dear friend. As he spoke of his trials and tribulations, my eyes scanned the room and caught the gaze of several young men who looked eager to speak to this tall, white man from America. Jon David pointed to three and told me that they had been especially amicable to him. One had even raised his hand in a sympathetic salute to the poor deaf mute.

Worried that they would mistake him for anything less than the gregarious young Southerner that he is, JD asked me to make an announcement to the group. Hesitant to give my first public speech in Palestinian Arabic, I did the nervous fake-cough that I believed to be a thing of my past. The chatter of the room did not die down. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, I loudly proclaimed my need to say something. Loosely translated, the text of that first speech is as follows:

“Um, hi. Peace be upon you all. I need to say something for my friend Jon David. He can’t talk and he’s sorry about that. He is sure you are all really great people and wants to be friends with you, but it is hard. Your language is very hard. He would like to try to learn, though.”

Immediately, the men turned into professors. “Jon, look here. This is a banana. Can you say ‘mooz’? Good, good.” Just when I thought my job was finished, Jon David realized that he had some things to get off his chest. My speech resumed: “And you Masoob, congratulations on your engagement. Jon David believes in you. He can tell you have a good personality from your eyes. He really likes you. I mean, not in a bad way. Honestly, he’s happy about the betrothal. But man, is your bride-to-be lucky!”

Cut to Jon David, everyone’s favorite Hellen Keller – Amani’s favorite author

“Ava, what did you just say to him? Why is he looking at me like I’m a freak? Well anyway, just tell them that they seem really cool, and I’d like to hang out with them one day when I learn Arabic.” In a fleeting flash of insecurity, I begged Ava to make note of how effortlessly I’d mastered the alphabet only that same morning. And with that, I turned from the conversation and retired to my journal, incredibly relieved that the mere ‘thumbs up’ to every kind gesture from the crowd had not been misconstrued for snobbery. Just then, the architect (a word which took Ava 45 minutes to transcribe) asked to write something for me. The note captured my most endearing qualities…maybe because I actually had to help him construct it in English. It was short, but the brevity was all but overshadowed by the loosely sketched cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse which kindly read “Bye!” As I slipped on my borrowed pajamas for the evening, I only briefly contemplated whether the noxious odor emanated from my feet or my collar. My mind soon returned to the evening, knowing full well that with every passing hour I was assimilating. Diplomacy, you see, is a gift.

And now it’s time to say goodbye to all our company. Ava and I will conclude with the revelation brought on by our time in Cana. One does not seek celebrity status; it only befalls him…or her. We now know that iPods can break down seemingly insuperable barriers one song at a time (Celine Dion and 50 Cent wield a particularly powerful persuasion). Furthermore, we understand that Palestinians will spend their life savings on our prepared meals, all the while bringing us to our dietary deaths. And lastly, we recognize the connecting Force that our generation knows by one word: Facebook. Therefore, let us hereby take full credit and responsibility for the dissemination of Facebook accounts throughout the Palestinian territories, particularly in the event that such accounts contribute to a solution in the hitherto intractable conflict between Palestine and Israel. The revolution, ladies and gentlemen, has begun. 4:30 comes mighty early in the morning, so we bid you all farewell. Salaam alayi kuhm, and good night.

Idealism Affirmed

The last few days were of the kind that fuel my unbridled idealism and make no problem in the world seem insurmountable. If you wish to speak to me about social or political realities, now is probably not the time. Perhaps a few more weeks in less idyll areas will dampen my mood, but for now I’ll just revel in the affirmation of my heart’s desires.

Much can be said about Cana, site of Jesus’ first miracle and modern day thriving Palestinian town where we met our new friends from the beach. It wasn’t until the girls led us to the first church, which was built on the site where Christ turned water into wedding wine, that we realized the historical and Biblical significance of the town. The church itself was rather unremarkable; as, in my opinion, many churches are. Too big, too gaudy, too new and—in many a Deep South case—too much like Wal-Mart for the soul.

What was remarkable, however, was the way our two Muslim friends were greeted by the church’s caretakers. Each was absolutely at ease with the other, a pattern we would notice throughout our stay in Cana. Lama, our Palestinian guide, pointed out countless homes in mixed neighborhoods of Christians and Muslims and talked about how many considered their immediate neighbors family, whether faith was shared or not.

Jon David and I arrived in Cana expecting to spend an afternoon with our new friends and then depart for Nazareth, but I had an idea that they might invite us to spend the night. I was only slightly wrong; there was no invitation, only an expectation. “Why would you pay for a hotel room when you can stay here with us?” was the slightly offended response to our suggestion it was time to leave.

It’s a good thing we were flexible because a party had been planned in our honor and it would have been a shame to miss. Throughout the night, somewhere around twenty or so neighbors and family members drifted in and out to say hello. Jon David was quite the favorite with the children, for whom he had brought tons of candy in an effort to “speak their language.” His breakthrough didn’t come, however, until he brought out the Ipod. Immediately Ale and Yazid, the two teenage boys in the room, overcame their shyness and within hours had proclaimed JD their brother.

It was gratifying for me to watch Jon David fall in love with these people. Though he was constantly surprised by their generosity, I’ve been on this side of the world long enough to know that’s just the Arab way. It isn’t exactly that attribute that makes this family so special to me; it was that they were my first affirmation of why I am here. As part of the one million Arabs who make up 20% of Israel’s population, their quality of life is substantially higher than their counterparts in Gaza and the West Bank. Like most Palestinians, they are passionate about their cause. Yet, they are also some of the most intelligent and discerning people that I’ve ever spoken to on the subject. They readily criticized both sides for their failures and never made the kind of sweeping generalizations that people are prone to when discussing the other side in this issue. They, Palestinian citizens of Israel, are actually proud of their Israeli IDs. A few of the kids told me that Hebrew was their favorite subject in school.

In short, these are the kind of people I want to know and whose respect I want to earn. I can only hope that my path crosses many more like them, but I suppose if there were a surplus we wouldn’t be in the bind we’re in. The realist in me is warning that I may have just found a diamond in the rough in both the town of Cana and the family that welcomed me as their own. For now, I’m going to keep my rose colored lenses on though. I’m an optimist at heart; you have to be in my line of work. (I know you saw that coming, PC.)

Walking on Water & Keeping Peace in Galilee

I had a taste of Déjà vu as JD and I checked into the same hostel, Hostel Aviv, where Clint and I stayed two summers ago. After receiving our key, I realized that I would also be staying in exactly the same room. Thus, it seemed appropriate to choose the same bed. Also like the previous visit, I wanted to rent bicycles and bike around the Sea of Galilee to the Mt. of the Beatitudes. Unlike last time, we didn’t make it very far.

Jon David’s fatigue and the frequent rest stops it necessitated turned out to be for the better; one in particular was fortuitous. We stopped at a quaint little area on the shore of the Sea (which is actually a lake) and were soon hard at work taking photographs that were meant to invoke Jesus’ walk on water. There were several follies, but we eventually hit our stride.

Meanwhile, a team of UN workers had pulled up alongside us in a plain white bus simply marked ‘UN’ in huge black letters. They spent a good deal of time imitating the pictures we had just taken and then packed up to leave. Curious to know what they were doing (and if they could perhaps secure us jobs), Jon David decided to make their acquaintance. According to JD, they “freakin loved” him. By the time I strolled up, all thirty of them had their cameras out and were posed to take pictures with us. We had a nice chat and learned that they were all peacekeepers on mission in the Golan and were just traveling for the day. We politely declined the invitation to join them on their way back to the Golan, and immediately wondered if we had made the right decision. The next acquaintance we made affirmed that we had.

After the UN left, we stayed on the shore a little while longer to allow my pants time to dry. A half hour earlier during the walking on water episode, I had fallen in after an apparent loss of faith. While we were waiting and soaking in the sun, a big family that appeared to be Palestinian arrived and set up shop a few meters down the beach. Eager to speak Arabic to someone (my recent Hebrew attempts had left me feeling inept) and because I’m currently searching for an Arabic-speaking family to live with in Jerusalem, I decided to approach them.

Like Jon David’s success with the Indians, I was an instant celebrity. They were a group of ten women and several children and one leathered old lady who was obviously the grandmother. She, in true Arab form, only waited about three minutes before inquiring about my marital status and pondered aloud why I didn’t marry “that boy you were sitting with before.” At this point in the conversation, all of them turned their attention down shore to Jon David, who had captured the intrigue of the only little boy in the group. I'm not sure that my explanation was sufficient, but it assuaged their curiosity and we eventually began to talk about other things. After only 20 minutes or so, I had their address, emails and cell phone numbers, along with an invitation to visit them at their home in Cana the following day. In an effort to entice me to follow through with my promise to stop by the town, they mentioned that there was a church all Christians loved to visit. Assuring them that we'd be there, we waved goodbye and I went to tell Jon David about our change of plans for the following day.

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.