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War In Israel

My flight had just landed at Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv, Israel. We were deplaning when I overheard another passenger saying something about an attack. I dismissed it and got off the plane. I was following my taxi driver to his car, and he was noticeably agitated. He kept saying “wah, wah”. I couldn’t understand his accented English. Finally in exasperation he spelled it out in google translate: “War!” He then explained that Israel had been attacked just a few hours before and that thousands of rockets had been launched into Israel and the borders were overrun. 

I got to my hotel and settled in. I read the news reports of just how serious this really was. It started to come home when a huge military helicopter thundered over and landed right outside my hotel room. They quickly wheeled two wounded men into the hospital next door and took off again. 

Then came another and another. At one point they were coming steadily. Then the air raid sirens began going off. I had never heard such a sound. Shortly after came the explosions from the rockets striking Tel Aviv. As the darkness fell, I could see the flashes of the explosions in the city, but the facing direction of my room did not allow me to see the contrails.

And the explosions…

I have never felt anything like that. They were close enough that each explosion shook the walls of my room as if a giant fist had slammed into it. And that went on periodically throughout the evening. I stood out on the second story veranda, alternately filming the choppers coming in and recording the sirens and explosions. Even the rockets far to the south echoed across the horizon like violent thunder. 

I went down to the lobby of the hotel. It was full of anxious tourists coming and going from the bomb shelters. One lady, more than a bit tipsy, with a drink in her hand commented that she hadn’t drank in years but tonight was a good time to start. People were on the phone talking earnestly. Others were at the desk arranging rooms, flights, shuttles, etc. Altogether, it was a boiling cauldron of human emotion just on the verge of its own explosion. 

I walked over to the young woman in her twenties that was working reception. I said: “You must be stressed.”

Pleasantly, she replied. “No, it’s okay. We’ve been here before.”

She was so calm and sweet. Her calm calmed me. It would be okay. 

As the darkness deepened into night, it grew silent and the explosions stopped. When morning came, it was bright, beautiful, and cheery. If it were not for the fact that I knew people were fighting and dying just a few miles south of me, it would have been a great morning. 

A last-minute flight had been booked for me to Amman to escape Israel, but that flight was canceled. Another flight was then booked to Istanbul, but when I got to the airport that flight was also canceled. Ben Gurion airport was shut down. No flights in. No flights out. In fact, I learned it had closed right behind me the day before. 

I called Mahmoud, a dear and beloved Muslim brother from the Galilee. He drove 90 minutes and picked me up. The highways were virtually empty. We talked about the war–the airports closed–all land borders closed. Where was I going to go and how would I get out? 

My immediate world had turned upside down in the space of a few hours. Maybe I could get out the northern border. There were rumors that it was open, but even if I did, where would I go?

Mahmoud was clearly worried. Two of his adult sons were in the thick of the fighting and he had not heard of their well-being. Already, he knew two members of his Bedouin tribe had been killed. His wife had not slept a moment, and yet here he was rescuing a stranded brother. He kept saying to me, “You are my family. My home your home.” And he meant it. 

“Why,” he said as we were driving, “why can’t they get along and just love each other like family?” He kept saying it. 

I could only give one answer, “Hate!”

Mahmoud helped me get a hotel room to the north, far from the fighting, in beautiful Galilee. I walked out onto the fifth-floor balcony of my room and looked out over the bustling city. And that’s when it hit me: I was in Nazareth, the hometown of the Savior, the Prince of Peace! People were fighting and dying all around me and it doesn’t have to be. Christ is peace within and without. If only we could all lay aside the desire to hurt others and repent. 

The next morning, I awoke to jet fights flying north over my hotel, headed into Lebanon. At 10:00 am, Mahmoud dropped me at the border and I walked across to safety on the Jordanian side. I found my way to Amman and caught a flight into Istanbul where my group already was. 

I don’t know why I was there. I learned some things about myself that I never knew. My trauma was nothing compared to the Israelis and Palestinians. I see both sides and I see no immediate solution. I am constrained to say as have others: Come Lord Jesus Come!