Sometimes You Float and Sometimes You Actually Float

The mornings are coming faster and faster as the Pilgrimage days go by and while sleep is as precious as salt once was we are grateful for every hour. Did you know salt was the way Roman soldiers were paid and eventually that became known as Salary? The experiences in the Holy Land are as plentiful as the date palms dotting the Jerusalem landscape. Each morning we are greeted by the brilliant sun cutting its rays through the “black out” curtains that, try as you might, you just can’t get quite tight enough together. Our morning starts off like all of the others, an early rise, rally the lads, and get to breakfast. These last 15 hours, the boys experienced their first Jewish Sabbath. Yesterday they learned that you can’t take pictures after 4:30PM. Eamon, Seamus and Dad wore their first Yarmulke’s at the Wailing Wall at the start of the Sabbath. We finished our “official tour” last night and hooked onto some folks in our group that ran the “Jerusalem Wall”, an historic 4 mile fortress wall separating Old City. We passed each of the famous gates including the Jaffa Gate, Damascus Gate, Golden Gate, Herod’s Gate etc. You couldn’t help but feel that kings and rebels, religious and secular walked, galloped and ran these paths for 1000’s of years. The detour into the area of the Western Wall, aka the Wailing Wall was a special moment. You hear so much about it but seeing the Jewish people pouring through the security gates, sad in its own way, to make it for prayer was a significant experience and I felt fortunate to have the 2 oldest boys by my side. We returned sweaty, tired and grateful for the clear thinking of the founders of America who built the cornerstone “Freedom to practice your religion.” We also learned what a Sabbath elevator is and how it works. As Eamon said “Don’t take the Sabbath elevator if you are in a hurry!” You see, it stops at every floor going up and every floor going down. Feel free to google if you’d like to know more about it.
The journey has been remarkable. It is hard to pin just one highlight. Every day we sit at the dinner table grateful to be back to the hotel, always a bit tired, and yet busting at the seams waiting to chronicle our favorite experiences as we share our meal. The solemn entry in to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher will be one of those stories passed from this generation to the next as will the Via Dolorosa, the Way of the Cross. I can see myself with Eamon or Seamus or Pearse’s son/daughter on my knee, God willing, telling them the story of the Passion and explaining the narrow crowded streets, the uneven pavements, the cramped Upper Room of the Last Supper and the institution of the 3 sacraments in one night, the hill to the house of Caiaphas and a cistern where Jesus was surely held after arrest before the start to Good Friday. Their dad will look over and we will both know “we walked those steps in the hills and on the streets together in October 2009” and we’ll each recall how fortunate we were to do it together. They will tell their grandchildren and so the allegory will begin and for that I am most grateful.
As we made our way down from Masada towards the Dead Sea, the kids, all in the back of the bus, were revving up like high performance race car engines. The only thing between them and the Dead Sea swim was lunch and the look on Seamus’ face said it all, “we won’t like most of the food so let’s just skip it.” Much to his and all of team Glavin’s surprise, one of the lunch choices was chicken fingers and fries. Is it possible that Pearse prayed for that a few days ago? What God would turn down an 8 year old praying for French fries? After all, you can only eat so many pita bread peanut butter sandwiches. After a quick stop in the gift shop where mom bought Dead Sea mineral stuff to make her look 10 years younger, we headed to see the cave that housed the first discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Just old paper stuff” was Pearse’s observation followed by the simple request “Can we go swimming now?”
Down the hill we go, to the lowest place on the face of the earth. There were road signs marking the “Depth below sea level” like a gauge on a scuba tank. Cars pulled over next to the signs and wherever a car pulls over a salesman appears with any of 100 different products to sell to you. Shepherds flute anyone there only 5 for 10 dollar? Please don’t buy them for my kids, please please please
As we arrive at the Dead Sea we get our instructions and then it’s off to the changing rooms. A Glavin Boys first, changing in a room smaller than a bedroom with men from all 4 corners of the globe: young old, handicapped and “ripped” and at the end of the day we’re all the same when in our birthday suits. Down to the sea we go. It’s not Cape May. You don’t run and then dive into the water. The Dead Sea has almost 10x the salt of the Mediterranean. You sit down in the water lay on your back, hope you don’t have any cuts, and paddle your way out into the sea. All of the salt makes you buoyant. The kids were giggling like newborns and almost every sentence punctuated with “this is sooo cool” The mineral rich mud on the sea floor, the same stuff that makes you 10 years younger is “free” here. The kids got their first “Spa treatment” and didn’t even know it. It is only 15 minutes or so but a memory for a lifetime.
This week has been marked by many firsts for me and for the family and while we prayed at Mass in Jericho I felt like I was still floating, actually I was!