The Western Wall

It is the second time I have been to the Western Wall and the sun is about to set. The Jewish Sabbath is just beginning and it’s strange to me how everything in the city and the center revolve around it. We attend church on Saturdays. The shops close Friday night. But it is beautiful, too, like the people here are unified in the belief that there is a time to remember and love God.

Our class walks through the security, men on the left side, women on the right. The guard hardly gives me a second glance, and soon we are past the drinking fountains and approaching a walkway where the men and women divide for worship. The girls who are with me are afraid to approach the wall. They say they want to give the locals a chance to say their prayers. But I want to go up and touch the Herodian stones, to see if I can feel the Spirit while I am up there.

My eyes are drawn to the other side of the wall. I see the head of the tallest boy in our class. He must be 6'7" or so, the height a little like home to me since it reminds me of my brothers. His gelled and statement-driven hair is at odds with the kipah on his head and makes me smile.

There is so much life over there on the men’s side. Clumps of them stand together in circles within circles, their hands in the air, lifting each other on one another's shoulders and singing together in unison. They are brothers, these men, and I wonder why some wear fur hats and others have wide brimmed black ones. Some just have a kipah. A few teenage boys peek their heads over the fence and talk with the young women on the other side, proving that even religion can't ban boys from flirting. I smile at that because over here, half a world away, the people aren't so very different as one would think.

The women are sparse in numbers in comparison, their prayers hummed murmurs between their lips. The more devout ones sit on plastic chairs as though prepared to sit out the night. I wonder if any of them wish they could go to the other side of the wall, if they wish they could sing and dance and rejoice with the skies like the men do. Instead, they hold prayer books between their hands, a personal worn copy with a brown, leather-soft cover. As I approach the wall, I see that they press the pages to their faces as though the words printed there could soak into their skin and transform them into something ... more.

A woman directly in front of me is completely clothed in black, her body pressed against the wall, her hands clinging to the stone. She sobs and prays unintelligibly. I am wary of coming closer, but the other women around me do so without hesitation, some of them even smiling as if they doubt the woman's despair. When there is space for me I reach out my hand and touch the white brick, my hand just above her head. I don't stay long. There are others waiting to come up behind me, but I put out my hand once more just to feel the texture of the wall again, hoping my fingers might memorize this night and what it has been like.

There is a reverence here. I don't feel drawn to the wall like I did to the Garden of Gethsemane or the Church of All Nations, but the love the people have for this place bleeds into the air and washes over me.

We talk to a couple of the women here. I am surprised to learn that the woman I'm speaking to is from Germany. She came to Jerusalem all by herself, deciding she wanted to work here. I ask her about the meaning of the kipah and learn that it serves as a reminder that God is above them.

The women are not dressed as uniformly as the men are. Several have long skirts, while others wear short ones. Some have their heads covered, and others don't. One woman's midnight blue dress is cut too low, and I can tell she is a tourist.

There are also soldiers, beautiful young Israelis with olive skin, sharply defined jawbones, and eyes that the girls in my class covet. One even looks like she hails from Africa. The prayer books in their hands and the guns at their hips make me pause. They are fulfilling their one required year in the military and it is the soldiers who encourage the women to gather together and form a circle. They shout out songs in Hebrew and the women wrap their hands around one another's shoulders, swaying or holding hands, sometimes coming together in the middle of the circle. I join them and love the fact that these women will hold my hand and love me for this moment.

I end up standing next to a woman in her sixties. She wears pointed cheetah print patterned shoes with a gold buckle. Her auburn hair sweeps over her cream colored shawl, and a pair of glasses rests over her nose. She sings in Hebrew and all of us are together now, at peace with ourselves and with God. And I’m sure that if God is looking down at this moment, He is pleased with us. 

We head for the busses soon after, blue lights on over our heads, and I sit next to a boy and tell him that we should be friends. The kids around me laugh because I have earned the reputation of being the overly optimistic one who secretly likes being the center of attention. And even though I am a little worried about what I will end up doing tonight with the rest of my free time, I feel like there is a place for all of us. That we all fit here in our own right, the Mormons, the Jews, and the Muslims, and that we can and we should be friends.