A Snippet from "But Jesus Went to the Mount of Olives"

I was sure that if I stayed in Galilee for just a few more days, God would have been able to speak to me through sunflower fields and grazing sheep. It was devastating to leave the peace of our lakeside kibbutz for the stone, congested city of Jerusalem. Although on the Mount of Olives, another hill, the garden was taken well care of, rather than the beautiful, organic mess of nature in Galilee. With the perfect timing I learned from living on my University’s quad, I dodged the methodical sprinklers to find my own place to sit and sigh, away from the rest of my group who didn’t stray far from the entrance gate. I began to stroll up the garden, following the weaving path, one hand outstretched, allowing it to feel the shrubbery it passed. Watch out for the thistles. I didn’t want the deceptive purple plant to leave me with a sore palm as it had in the wilderness of Banias a few days earlier. I was at least relieved to see that the rocks lining the path resembled those in Galilee: cream colored and porous, like a rock rabbit with iron jaws burrowed through the mass, transforming it into a piece of dense coral. I hopped over a root that had protruded through the tiled jigsaw path where the blocks had turned orange with oxidization. I tugged at an olive branch and let it escape from my grasp as I carried on up the hill. It sprang back, shaking the whole tree. The sounds of nature were drowning out the sounds of civilization as I climbed higher. From this height, the wall protecting the garden was no longer obstructing the view of the city. The golden Dome of the Rock obscenely protruded itself through the simplistic panorama of Jerusalem. It was the perfect time to sit down and sketch, but my mind would not let me rest.

What do You want me to do? Where do You want me? I could… Australia. I need to stop planning. But, ugh, I spent all that time in Durban… wasted? No, no, never education. Never wasted. Stay in Connecticut? I’m so antsy! I want to be in Durbs. Where are you? If I make $12 an hour and I’m only working fifteen hours… How flexible would this be anyways? Back to college? Teaching. Ugh, I’m done with school. Really? Work in the mall when the sun is… miserable! What if I’m missing out on… no, You wouldn’t let me do that…

“Just let me love you.”

I was interrupted.

It wasn’t as if someone stood outside, speaking into my ear. Someone stood inside me, speaking out. I had only heard a voice this audibly once before. Last summer. In a bar.

The only sound now was my breathing, slightly heavy from the incline, the noonday sun, and the shock from the words that permeated my thoughts. I stood in my place, and moved nothing but my eyes. A rock. The path. The city. My hand. Then a cooling breeze blew through the olive trees. The tiny leaves on the skewed branches showed their playful silvery undersides as they tinkered against each other. The cicadas lifted their voices in a crescendo ushering in the coming summer and a bird hidden in a nearby tree repeated his melody.

My own voice added to the symphony. “Is it that simple?”

No response.

The porous rock under the leaning olive tree beckoned me to rest. I tucked my flowing skirt out of the way and joined the rock in the shade. Just let You love me, huh? I dug in my backpack and yanked my thin brown paper journal from between my Bible and water bottle. The front of my journal framed a messy drawing from the day I spent hours on the pebbled beach where Jesus cooked breakfast. I turned it over to the blank back. Through the olive leaves that hung over my face, I sketched Jerusalem.