It made me sad to know that I had to dampen his enthusiasm, but I couldn’t do otherwise—I had to follow through. I shared my reasons regarding why such a grand greeting would be impossible. Think. This would not befit a Christian pilgrim whose inner nature is humble and modest. Likewise, consider her reaction to hearing Islamic poems and the bellowing whoops of your triumphant reception.
He understood enough to see my point of view: “Good, Effendi. So, let’s omit those things, but do this instead. Do you know “The Song of Bethany,” telling how Jesus came to visit his siblings?”
“No.”
“Alright, you’ll soon hear that song. Are you now planning to take the road towards the Hinnom Valley and the Pool of Siloam?”
“Yes, my wife will likely take a photograph there.”
“Good, that works. Please travel slowly. As for me, I’ll rush on ahead of you.”
I wanted to admonish him not to do anything inappropriate, but he waved me off as he hurriedly left in a cloud of dust. We followed him; and just as I thought, my wife reminded me to bring along the camera. She wanted to take a few pictures at the Pool of Siloam and a couple of photos in Bethany.
The purpose of this story is not to describe Jerusalem and its surroundings. For that, I’ll let the path of our journey speak for itself. My wife’s photographs clearly show the location and the appearance of the Pool of Siloam. In that photo, I’m not dressed like an Arab; instead, I’m wearing European clothes and a safari hat on my head. This partially explains the picture. According to The Book of John, Chapter 9: 7, it was here that Christ healed the man who was born blind.
When we arrived, we saw that no one else was there. I was glad about that. The solitude and stillness matched the moods that we found ourselves in. As we rode along, we limited ourselves to earnest conversations. Little Schamah acted like a lovely inner beam of sunshine that cast its light on our serious-minded subjects. The widow focused on the goal of her journey. One ceaseless, important question quaked inside of her: “Would her pilgrimage be favorably fulfilled, or not?” As for us and what we already knew, we eagerly held onto our high expectations that the moment of decision would soon come.
My wife wanted to have her picture taken with Schamah, but today the child did not trust the dark, dangling three-dimensional camera—so, she declined. I alone would have my picture taken beside the Pool. After the camera clicked and before we left the site, she took one last, close look, as if to memorize this part of our trip. Suddenly, the boys surprised us from the right and to the left, both from above and below, practically from all sides and from all heights where they had hidden themselves behind the rocks. They were singing a peculiar, two-part song in the Arabic language. It was “The Song of Bethany,” when Jesus was on his way to visit brothers and sisters, stopping along the way to heal the sick at the Pool of Siloam. Picture our inner moods and the outer backdrop of the scenery; all of this seemed to be waiting for us. Here too, we were completely amazed when we heard the profoundly deep and strangely stirring “Song of Christ.” That song left a lasting impression on us, one that almost brought us to our knees as we intently listened. Neither breath nor foot moved. The singers remained concealed in their hiding-places—they had a good stage director. From this moment on, I never doubted that our lad had been born with a natural talent for art.