And spend the rest of my life in bed.”
We climbed out of the boat and up the bank. A man in the early thirties stood there with a sapling, root and all, in his hand. He was an American working with the British under a commission for reforestation. He was most enthusiastic over his work and painted for us a wonderful picture of the hills, now bare and desolate, and the banks of the river, with the low scrubby growth, transformed some future day into valuable fruit and olive orchards, irrigated pastures, great stretches of light timberland. Jamil shook his head. “There is much talk these days about the changes that are coming to this land, but we shall see—we shall see and then we shall believe,” he said. Our friend went into the little house for food and rest and we stood in silence watching the stream which artists for centuries have painted, the river which has always stood for separation, under whose spell poets have written their sad hymns—watched it rushing on pouring more and more water into the Sea that is Dead.
The dunes, yellow and gray, between which we rode on to Jericho were round as though a giant hand had played with them, smoothed them over, and left them there. Twice we passed low stone houses with cisterns of water cut in deep rock hidden below the surface, and there were oranges and green things in the garden in the midst of the desert. It was cooler and the air was soft and balmy. The walls of Jericho—City of Palms—though now there are none, had indeed fallen, but there was no fear upon the faces of the people. The once mighty city is now but an ordinary village of lower class Arabs, with a supply station, a few shops, and the hotel where British officers live. Traces of recent battle over the very ground where the men of Joshua had routed the ancient enemy were all about us. The story of the taking of Jericho from the Turks by British troops when the river at its flood had to be bridged by boats and the temperature ran to 120° and more, is as thrilling, as fascinating, and as triumphant as that of Joshua himself.
Passing through the center of the town, we came to the orange groves. The air was fragrant with the perfume of thousands of jonquils growing wild along the edges of the irrigated section. The children offered two huge bunches for sale and we rejoiced in them. Our driver took twenty bunches for a friend to sell in Jerusalem. He tucked them away neatly in the folded top of the car. We bought delicious oranges and our machine became a chariot of delight. We went out to Elijah’s Spring, whose waters, made sweet and wholesome by the prophet, were responsible for the luxuriant flowers and delicious fruit, past the home of Rahab who had saved the spies in Joshua’s day, stopping for a moment at the spot where the sycamore tree had sheltered the rich publican Zacchæus when he determined to see Jesus. It was easy to imagine the consternation that filled the city when it became known that Jesus had commanded him to come down because He would be a guest in his house that day—the house of a publican. It was on this road, too, that Bartimæus met Jesus and, despite the demand of the multitude that he be quiet, continued to cry aloud until the Healer saw him, opened his eyes and set his soul on fire with gratitude. How close the multitude must have pressed in those narrow streets, as driven by curiosity and longing for help, they followed Him! How often the body and soul of the Master must have cried out for the shelter of the mountain, the stillness of that waiting desert where in the night God could come very near with a new message and new strength for the coming day! It was at times like these, when half carelessly they pointed out to us the spots where on common days Jesus passed by, changing forever the lives that He touched, that we loved Him.
The sun was creeping on toward the horizon. We must turn back toward Jerusalem. Every foot of the road the driver assured us he knew. He would leave us in the Inn with the guide if we wished and send for us early in the morning, but he would get back to Jerusalem. So would we and he was content. He got all possible speed out of the car. It must climb back over those thirty-five hundred feet we had come down such a short time since.
We stopped a moment to peer at the lonely monastery where monks still live on the Mount of Temptation and pray daily for all who are tempted. The road which had been so lonely in the morning was stirring with life. Groups of Arabs on horses and little swift-footed donkeys moved aside to let us pass. Twice at a signal from a man riding ahead on horseback we stopped to let a great caravan pass us. The leading camels wore gorgeous trappings and tinkling bells. Once a camel without cargo, following in dignified fashion behind two others, stood perfectly still, trembled, then turned and ran ahead of us. We were amazed to see how swiftly he ran. In vain the rider of the other camel shouted and called. Had it not been for a friendly companion, who, coming down the hill, drove his own camel straight across the path, spoke soothingly to the great beast while a man on a donkey grasped his chain, he might have led us a chase all the way to Jerusalem. They did not attempt to take their prisoner past us in the road but turned off into a deep defile. When we looked back from the hilltop they were again on the road moving on toward Jericho. But most of the camels bearing their burdens merely sniffed and passed us by in scorn.
It grew very cold as we reached the heights and the discarded robes and coats were welcome. We could see shepherds and sheep seeking places of shelter. Sometimes we caught glimpses of herds of goats reluctantly following or plunging ahead silhouetted against a soft violet sky. The sun set calmly and we missed the blazing glory. Suddenly it was night. We were glad to be well past the scene of our morning’s mishap and nearing Jerusalem. When we stopped at the door of the hotel, Jamil gave a sigh of relief. “We have had a wonderful day,” we said. “We have had a day of miracles,” was his answer in a solemn, devout tone. Both he and the driver were most happy a moment later when they received their extra fee.
Dinner was over for most of the guests, but we were given a warm corner and more food than it would be possible to eat in many meals. We found that the entire hotel had joined in Jamil’s sigh of relief when we returned. There was a snapping wood fire in the little stove and hot water bottles that made the great curtained beds seem more inviting. The maid wished us “sleep without dreaming.”
But for a long time, lying there in the darkness, I dreamed with my eyes wide open. Dreamed of the forty years wandering in the wilderness while one generation passed and a new one was born. Dreamed of the kings and the prophets, of David hunted like a wild thing through the desolate hills and caves, of captives marching across the sands to Babylon. Dreamed of the Man who, with weary feet, in the heat and the dust walked about the Jordan Valley, through Jericho, walked up the long, long hills even to Jerusalem with men and women following, always seeking, only a few sharing. Dreamed of the demand that He made upon all who did have the courage to share—that they love God—and the challenge that they love their fellow men as He loved them, ... dreamed of the day when the challenge would be answered and the other man’s welfare would become each man’s passion.