Jerusalem Journal # 206
Part 1 of “A Story of Forgiveness”
The dense dust and sand-mixed scrim hanging from ethereal curtain rods over Jerusalem and all of Israel has lifted, whispering on the western winds hints of hope that triple-digit temperatures may have subsided for a new season. In my region of the Middle East, a desiccating east wind conjures up Biblical imagery of Moses stretching out his hand over the Red Sea for what seemed like a dead end but became a pathway to fulfilling promise and destiny. For millennia, in this late summer season, the land and her people have cried out for the rain to clear diffused sunlight, wash the heavens and rooftops, and fill empty cisterns. That cry for clarity, cleansing, and overflowing cisterns is apropos as the Biblical date of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, marks our calendar for another year.
The dusty skies over Jerusalem await the fall rains.
Recently, I arrived unexpectedly at my own Red Sea moment, which has created a pathway through decades-old remorse for past actions and vows made but seemingly impossible for me to keep. However, I live in the land where the impossible becomes possible, with a track record called The Bible to back up that assertion. Stepping into that dried-up rocky road to my freedom was a step of faith that led me to a story of forgiveness, debts paid, release from fear and shame, and filling an abandoned soul-cistern with living water from heaven. At age seventy, it is a story of how I made peace, or shalom, with the past.
The words attributed to the wisdom of Solomon say, “When you make a vow to God, do not delay in keeping your vow. What you have vowed pay (Hebrew for “pay” is shalem, the root word of shalom) (Ecclesiastes 5:4).” On May 25, 1974, I exchanged vows with my high school sweetheart (we had gone to kindergarten together) as we said, “Until death do us part.” It had been a trend among my SMU college friends at the time to also include in our wedding vows the words from Ruth 1:16-17, “…where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay…where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.” Never would I have imagined at the time how those vows would impact me. After twenty-five years of marriage and amid my husband’s adultery, he chose to divorce. I have carried around those vows for almost fifty years. A Jewish friend once explained that you seal a Jewish wedding by contract, the Ketubah, not with vows, lest the danger of being unable to pay the vow.
My wedding day in 1974.
In 1998, I resorted to a Domestic Violence Injunction due to threats, physical violence, and fear that my husband would act on his words about taking my life. It set a 500-foot imaginary boundary around me and required no contact between us, including by mail, phone, or email. It had given me a sense of safety from the “war zone” of my marriage. In 2002, as the Palestinian Intifada was roiling with suicide bombers, my parents and friends questioned why I would consider moving to “a war zone like Israel.” My response was, “I am not afraid. In Israel, I am not the target!”
With my older daughter married, my younger daughter was beginning college. I was approaching age fifty and started a Master’s Degree, renting the same apartment on the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem’s Old City where Bill had twice fled to escape adultery, for a few months in 1996 and again in 1997. Ironic. That place he thought would be his healing and refuge place paved the way for it to become MY place of healing and refuge. He never returned to Jerusalem, but for over twenty years, his specter occasionally haunted me in silhouette as I walked alone in Old City alleyways that he knew all too well. Fears gripped me with thoughts of what I would say if that were Bill. Is he back here in the city to find me? Where is my exit?
Jerusalem’s Old City is a labyrinth of dimly lit stone alleyways.
In 2004, as graduation final exams were commencing for my Master’s Degree, I met an actor from Hollywood, Gary Bayer, through mutual friends, and a year later, despite my having said, “I am never getting remarried,” in the courtyard of Jerusalem University College on Mt. Zion, I married the guy who said he would be a good friend. It was a Jerusalem love story. Gary was a protector. He always looked out for my best and chased away my fears with bold faith. After years of being torn down, mentally and emotionally, a champion had arrived to fight my battles. We were two finally pulling in the same direction, equally yoked.
Our marriage was a healing balm for wounded souls. Together, we dreamed dreams, began The Writers’ Gathering project, renovated the house that became The Place of Stories, and built multiple relationships with Jews, Muslims, Christians, and those not interested in “religion.” My older daughter described us as “two peas in a pod.” A mutual faith-walk allowed us to give comfort and encouragement throughout each other’s cancer journeys; however, I am the survivor. Gary died in Jerusalem in 2017 after four years of treatment. Thanks to our strong relationship with the Armenian Catholic community where we lived for many years, I purchased a cemetery lot for Gary and one for me next to his. The graves on Mt. Zion are down the line from the Holocaust-era rescuer, Oscar Schindler. Our marriage had begun on Mt. Zion and closed on Mt. Zion, bookends of a romance. Twelve years together blended our five grown children and yielded the joy of twelve grandchildren.
Every actor seeks a defining role. Gary’s gravestone is a testimony to his.
In January 2021, I was awakened in Jerusalem by a 1:00 a.m. phone call from my older daughter, Lauren, telling me she was at her father’s bedside in Tampa General Hospital. My first husband, Bill, had experienced cardiac arrest and remained sedated after eight hours of surgery. The prognosis was grim. “Do you want to say anything to Dad?” she asked.
Don’t miss “the rest of the story,” continued in Jerusalem Journal # 207 coming in the next week. Part 2 will surprise and challenge you as I share my difficult decision to seek peace and pay my vows.
Enjoying the walk home,
Cindy
Facebook: Cindy Bayer
Instagram: cindybayerstories
