Ramparts and Romantic Letters

My wife has a cabinet in our bedroom—white and suspended on our wall—and in it, she saves her most precious memories. There are jewels stored in bitsy boxes beset with glistening stones. There are teeny keepsakes from childhood friends and long-deceased ancestors. But the one thing that outvalues all has no shine of its own; it’s the one possession my wife would reenter our burning house to save.

A while ago, I took the brown-papered packet from its place and weighed it in my hands. It was heavier than I remembered—about two inches thick, decorated with postcards, and girded by a straw ribbon and an exquisite bow.

Sitting down on the bed, I opened the packet, exposing many pages of longhand—scribbled helter-skelter along the margins and into the dog-eared corners. And the memories of my journey to Jerusalem in the summer of 2013—the year our story started—began to reemerge.

In the preceding years, I had been farewelled from my house, gone through a divorce, and seen my music business go belly-up. I felt deserted and lost among the ruins of life. If there was one thing I desired, it was love and a home. It may sound strange to some, but amid my despondency, I began to hear a whisper in my heart. It was faint, but it assured me God had heard my prayers. It was a promise deep within that I was soon to meet my soulmate—the woman with whom I’d be blessed to share my days and start a family.

But it was only after other people had heard the same whisper—and found the courage to tell me about it—that I dared believe it. And then a mysterious kind of knowing took root, a presage that it would happen on my coming journey to the Holy Land.

So, on the first day of my trip, filled with frenzied anticipation, I exited the light rail near the Old City of Jerusalem.

Nothing happened that day, nor on the third, tenth, or thirtieth day—but the buzz persisted for many weeks. I went about my business, praying on the walls and writing travel blogs. I visited many places and interviewed a host of interesting men and women. And before I knew it, my three-month sojourn in the Holy Land was drawing to a close. In those last days, every new sunset chipped away at my hope, and ever-larger chunks flaked off. Had the whisper in my heart been nothing more than the voice of my own desire?

Probably it had.

One day, I got frowned upon by a good friend. Scratching her blond head, she said, “What truck hit you this morning?”

We were having a coffee in the Jewish Quarter, but my tar-esque delight had been growing cold. Head in my hands, I rested my elbows on the metal table and told her what was bothering me.

“I believe God just wants to be asked.” She crossed her arms and smiled at me. “I think you should go to the Western Wall and just ask.”

I nodded. But to tell you the truth, I was afraid of what the answer might be—I feared I had misunderstood God’s voice (I mean, it wasn’t that I got a letter from heaven written in ink of lightning). I feared I was making a fool of myself; I feared God would judge me for making such a request on my own behalf.

But I took her advice. And I’ll be ever thankful I did.

The following day started as any other. It was the ninth of August, a Friday. I had gotten up, eaten some bread with hummus, and taken the light rail to the Old City. The prayer walk on the ancient city walls had been delightful, as it had been every other day. But from there, things went differently. Normally, my group and I would dash to the coffee house after closing prayers. But that day, we got into an hour-long discussion with an elderly passerby about a recently discovered coin from the time of King David, while the blazing sun turned the stone square atop Zion Gate into a frying pan that sautéed us alive. Sweat was pouring down my spine, and my writer’s notebook curled with moist in my chest pocket. And frankly, I was getting bored. All I wanted was to go to the Jewish Quarter and order my favorite coffee—pitch black and so strong that it had become a local phenomenon known as “Americano Niels”—but little did I know, it was this hour of delay that would usher in the paramount refashioning of my life.

While I was torturing my brain for a friendly conversation closer, a traditional-looking family descended from the upper rampart onto the square. At first, I hardly took note of them—a bearded man and a graying woman, a few young children, some older siblings.

But then, there she was—the last arrival. Pinned me to the ground, I watched a gorgeous young woman make her way down the steps, and a drilling scream echoed from one corner of my soul to the other, “That’s her!”

Unobtrusively—at least, that’s what I hoped—I made acquaintance with her parents, who warmly greeted me with a thick German accent. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the young woman circle about the square, looking out through the arrowslits in the walls and eventually halting beside her parents. As she pushed her sunglasses up her head, our eyes locked for a second. A long second. A gush of tingling warmth spurted through my stomach, down my intestines, and back up into my head. I forced my neck to kaput the eye contact, praying that I wasn’t blushing.

Then, suddenly, while battling my tongue for a sensible output, I felt doubt overpower me again. There was something off about the situation.

And then it hit me. It was her tichel, her headscarf. In Jewish tradition—and this lady clearly was Jewish—women who wear tichels are married.

But she couldn’t be! The pounding recognition in my heart was too strong.

I had to be sure.

Forcing my tongue into workable forms and twists, I persuaded her parents to come along to the coffee house. The young woman would come along, too, right?

.?.?.?right?

In the corner of Zion Gate, opposite from where the family had entered the square, there’s a cool, mural staircase leading down to the end of the Armenian Patriarchate street. When my group entered the cave-like structure with its slippery steps, the family followed.

Yes!

Before sticking my head into the medieval fridge and closing the procession, I looked over my shoulder. Everybody there? Oh, blast! The gorgeous lady wasn’t coming with us—she and her sister were headed back up the higher ramparts.

Where was she going?

Her father stood with his back toward me, ready to descend the stairs. I tapped his shoulder and pointed up. “Isn’t your daughter coming?”

He wiped some sweat off his forehead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She wants to finish the tour along the city walls. She’ll be out later.”

As the man stepped down onto the staircase, all strength seeped from my body. What if he was wrong? What if the lady decided to take her sister someplace for ice cream instead? I might not meet her again. And in a few days, I was going back to Holland, to my pitiful excuse of a life—to that cold garret where I had breakfast alone, dinner alone, and my evenings reading alone.

How sick I was of that life.

I went after the man into the chilly darkness and walked out through the turnstile. I left Zion Gate and entered the heat of the busy Armenian shopping street.

My Armenian friend Joseph stood at the entrance of his shop and extended his colossal hand, but I hardly noticed him. My gaze was captured by the young woman far above me, striding the ramparts. And I prayed she would indeed find her way to me.

To be continued?.?.?.

(NOTE: Other engagements forced me to put this series on hold. I have decided to turn this chapter of my life into a mini-book. I'll post an update when it is finished.)