How do I love my neighbor? I have been turning the Rubik’s Cube of my mind in all directions for a solution, and I am still wrestling to progress after almost six weeks back in Israel. When you read this, I will probably be back in the USA with my family to continue waiting for the miracle of a one-year visa approved by the Israeli immigration gatekeepers. In addition to their required six-month “exile,” I have been waiting a total of fourteen months to hear “Approved.” Being ripped away from your home and hurriedly leaving it vulnerable for who knows how long, plus feeling disjointed from those you have invested in and nurtured, takes you down to bedrock, foundations, those things which give stability. Look out if you don’t already have those foundations in place when the jolt comes!

Haron, the Bedouin neighbor behind my Galilee house, enjoys seeing
the “big picture” from his ultralight parachute as he flies over
my terrace. Notice the tall green cedars on the left of the photo.

On March 27th, the anniversary morning of my wedding to Gary Bayer, my heart had put down the convertible top and windows to drive across the marriage memories. I was continuing my visa wait in Florida when I received a call from a dear friend who had been caring for my Galilee house while I was away. Perhaps she was calling to reminisce about when she played guitar as her husband sang an original song under the grape arbor marriage canopy at Jerusalem University College on Easter Sunday, 2005.

Sue asked if I was sitting down, then promptly told me to brace myself. During the night, in a stunningly brash roar of gnawing chainsaws, my backyard Bedouin neighbor sent his henchmen to take my privacy hedge of thirty-six towering ficus trees down to three feet. The shady cool of the fruit trees behind my house suddenly became the target of direct sunlight, complete with a panorama of Haron’s trailered ultralight, golf cart, ATV, motorcycle, Ranger, and a BMW. I grieved that Gary wasn’t here to help deal with the loss and feelings of injustice.

The leaves are now beginning to grow back on the line of ficus trees.

Beyond that, the surveillance which Haron had done while navigating his magnificent flying machine allowed him to calculate precisely which of my twenty-five-year-old cedar trees (utterly detached from his property) should be taken down to provide him the lusted-after view of the Sea of Galilee from his terrace and bedroom window across my terrace. Other neighbors, who heard the grinding away of my sanctuary’s green privacy robe, thought that perhaps I had contracted with someone to remove the trees, and they didn’t venture out in the darkness to check out the situation. By the morning of the discovery, the culprits had cleared all the fatalities and debris into a vacant lot adjacent to mine, where tree trimmings and garden clippings are collected.

The photo on the left shows the large cedar trees of the past,
the situation on the right leaves me wholly exposed to neighbors.

My architect’s site plans clearly show that I own the low stone wall at the base of the ficus. We had discussed it with Haron over a year ago when he voiced plans to build a wall. Just a few days after the tree destruction and in my extended absence, that low stone wall of mine became my neighbor’s building base for a new four-foot wall he had constructed on top of mine. Visualizing how I will ever be able to recapture a sense of privacy in the newly-barren areas has added to the Rubik’s Cube puzzle. I can’t grow 25-foot trees overnight!

News of the attack only raised my stress about how and when I could return to that place I call home. The April flight, which I had postponed another month to May, became my BREAKPOINT which overrode my fear of returning to Israel while the long-term visa request was still “in committee.” The threat still exists today that my entry to deal with the property damage could have sent, or in the future, will send my application to the trash heap.

Police were unwilling to make a report since they said I had no video footage of the Galilee Chainsaw Massacre identifying my neighbor. Neither the village leadership nor the regional council wants to get involved in “property disputes.” All roads lead to a lawyer’s office; however, I don’t have any stability here; I’m alone as a widow, hate confrontation, struggle with language issues, and it would be a money pit. And for what? How would that build a bridge between me, Haron, and his wife? Somehow, I see them at my table one day in the future. I don’t know how to get there, but I am listening to the words, “Love your enemies and pray for them.”

These past six weeks flew by with clearing a year of dust from both the house and Jerusalem apartment, painting, cleaning, dealing with plumbing/electrical/irrigation issues, as well as rejoicing in the long overdue visits with friends, attending cultural events, soaking up the romance of this sacred space, and just “being at home.”

My bedrock remains promises like God’s words saying, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will also help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10),” and “For I know the plans that I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for prosperity and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope (Jeremiah 29:11).”

An evening concert in a friend’s Galilee garden brought cultures together
with music as the catalyst. Music soothes the soul.

I call this Land of the Bible my “hope place,” as it has inspired me with vistas rich in faith history and culturally diverse people who find creative ways to build bridges over their differences. I want to follow in those footsteps and be a part of those stories. I can’t wait to see where this “love your neighbor” story will lead me. Are you having a hard time loving a friend, neighbor, or even an enemy? What is your foundation when life inevitably rocks you?

 

 

Enjoying the walk home,
Cindy

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