I traveled and explored the Holy Land with my husband's bosses, two locals. I was able to see sights that might not have been an option for those on a tour bus. I listened to their stories of life in Israel and how, being Jewish, shaped those experiences. I hung on every word and soaked in each bit of rich detail, theory, and memory. I was amazed by how little I actually knew about the place where my faith started. I recall saying, "I wish I could think of a better word than 'wow'. I know I've said it about a zillion times!" My two hosts just chuckled and continued to graciously show me their world.
On our second day in Israel, we were returning from the Northern portion of the country with one of our hosts. I saw mine fields and rubble where Israeli troops had fought off Syrian attackers in the 1970's, Our host shared his memory of this particularly bloody time. He was only five years old and watched his father leave home in a hurry to fight with the army. I asked him if his own children had experienced similar horrors in their lifetime. He said that they had and he was sure that at least one child had some sort of anxiety as a result. I prodded further, asking if he would ever consider moving his family to another country more stable and predictable. "There is an old Israeli song about a man that lives near a volcano. His father lived by the volcano. His father's father lived near the volcano. He knows what could happen, but he will not leave. The volcano is his home." No further explanation was needed. I understood. The powder-keg, known as Israel, that the world so closely watched was this man's home.
The next evening, my husband and I found ourselves returning from the Dead Sea with the other host. As we drove along the sparkling blue water, he told us of the hardships his family had endured. Both parents were dead, his grandparents were Holocaust victims. His wife had seen such unspeakable sights that she does not claim the God of her land. I broached the same subject as I had the day before. Would he consider packing up and leaving his home for something more safe? As if on repeat, I heard the words echoed from the day before. "There is an old song about a volcano. A man lives by it because it is his home. He knows nothing else." These words rung loudly of a strong, resilient people who I was, quite frankly, falling for. This was a group that knew the risks that lurked at every turn in their lives. They had lived in ugly, soul-crushing times. And, yet, here were two of their own, boldly announcing that they would not be driven out by fear. Oh how I yearned, in that moment, to be more like the Israeli people.
The next morning, I woke up with a start in our hotel room. My heart was pounding and there was a pit in my stomach. I could hear my husband whispering into the phone from the bathroom. I hurried to kick off the covers and get to him as quickly as possible. As I approached, I could hear him saying, "Why did this happen to her? Do they know what caused it? Do you think we need to come home?" His tone told me all I needed to know. Tragedy had occurred on one side of the world while we were on the other. After fifteen agonizing minutes of waiting, I learned that his mother had been taken to the hospital, gone through emergency surgery, and was now in the ICU. My husband's parents had been watching our children, who were now under the care of family friends. My husband choked up as he relayed our four and two year old asking about their grammy. Our daughter, especially, had taken the separation difficultly and cried herself to sleep on the bedroom floor.
After discussing different options for getting back to our children, my husband left for work. He promised to notify me as soon as he had a plan in place. This was the day that I had originally set aside to explore Tel Aviv on my own. I'd been thrilled at the possible sights and sounds that lay before me. Now, however, a thunderstorm kicked up from the Mediterranean Sea and brought howling winds and buckets of rain down on the city. I was held hostage in my small hotel room as I waited out the storm for hours. Images of my children, confused and desperate for their parents, surfaced again and again. I pictured my mother-in-law, surrounded by doctors and nurses. Fear enveloped me like an ever-tightening straight-jacket. These things taking place were some of my greatest fears. Someone I dearly loved was hooked up to beeping machines, blinking alarms, and a cocktail of IV's. Additionally, my children and I were separated by thousands of miles in the midst of this crisis. Panic was crouching nearby, waiting to feed off of my isolation and heartbreak.
As I neared the breaking point that raw fear brings, the words of our Israeli hosts drifted gently back to mind. "He knows what could happen, but he will not leave. The volcano is his home." A peace passed over my heart and a calm settled in. Clearly, God's saints were praying. As I stilled myself on the hotel bed and listened to the rain, a thought began to form. The Israeli people were not the only ones living by a volcano. In a broken world full of sin and uncertainty, we all live by some form of volcano. Some volcanoes do, in fact, take the form of violence and a country on the brink of disaster. Yet other volcanoes look smaller, but, nonetheless, have the potential to erupt. Watching a loved one fight for their life, seeing a child suffer, enduring years of marital strife...these are very real struggles. This world is full of volcanoes...powder-kegs waiting to go off in our faces...which is why the grace and gift of Jesus' love is all the more powerful.
"You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them because the one who is in you is greater than he who is in the world." (1 John 4:4 NIV) We do not need to seek a place free of volcanoes. Such a place does not exist on this earth. Rather we seek the One who gave His life for us, that we would know a life without fear and isolation. Believers, live confidently by the volcano with the Son near your side. Such a life is bound to bring glory to our Father.
Blessings to you....
Ashley Qualley
The next morning, I woke up with a start in our hotel room. My heart was pounding and there was a pit in my stomach. I could hear my husband whispering into the phone from the bathroom. I hurried to kick off the covers and get to him as quickly as possible. As I approached, I could hear him saying, "Why did this happen to her? Do they know what caused it? Do you think we need to come home?" His tone told me all I needed to know. Tragedy had occurred on one side of the world while we were on the other. After fifteen agonizing minutes of waiting, I learned that his mother had been taken to the hospital, gone through emergency surgery, and was now in the ICU. My husband's parents had been watching our children, who were now under the care of family friends. My husband choked up as he relayed our four and two year old asking about their grammy. Our daughter, especially, had taken the separation difficultly and cried herself to sleep on the bedroom floor.
After discussing different options for getting back to our children, my husband left for work. He promised to notify me as soon as he had a plan in place. This was the day that I had originally set aside to explore Tel Aviv on my own. I'd been thrilled at the possible sights and sounds that lay before me. Now, however, a thunderstorm kicked up from the Mediterranean Sea and brought howling winds and buckets of rain down on the city. I was held hostage in my small hotel room as I waited out the storm for hours. Images of my children, confused and desperate for their parents, surfaced again and again. I pictured my mother-in-law, surrounded by doctors and nurses. Fear enveloped me like an ever-tightening straight-jacket. These things taking place were some of my greatest fears. Someone I dearly loved was hooked up to beeping machines, blinking alarms, and a cocktail of IV's. Additionally, my children and I were separated by thousands of miles in the midst of this crisis. Panic was crouching nearby, waiting to feed off of my isolation and heartbreak.
As I neared the breaking point that raw fear brings, the words of our Israeli hosts drifted gently back to mind. "He knows what could happen, but he will not leave. The volcano is his home." A peace passed over my heart and a calm settled in. Clearly, God's saints were praying. As I stilled myself on the hotel bed and listened to the rain, a thought began to form. The Israeli people were not the only ones living by a volcano. In a broken world full of sin and uncertainty, we all live by some form of volcano. Some volcanoes do, in fact, take the form of violence and a country on the brink of disaster. Yet other volcanoes look smaller, but, nonetheless, have the potential to erupt. Watching a loved one fight for their life, seeing a child suffer, enduring years of marital strife...these are very real struggles. This world is full of volcanoes...powder-kegs waiting to go off in our faces...which is why the grace and gift of Jesus' love is all the more powerful.
"You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them because the one who is in you is greater than he who is in the world." (1 John 4:4 NIV) We do not need to seek a place free of volcanoes. Such a place does not exist on this earth. Rather we seek the One who gave His life for us, that we would know a life without fear and isolation. Believers, live confidently by the volcano with the Son near your side. Such a life is bound to bring glory to our Father.
Blessings to you....
Ashley Qualley
