It was not always sure that the Skechers would make it to Israel. You see, as a healthy number of my friends and family know, I despise flying. I have done it. People might not even believe I do have a near overwhelming fear as I have been back and forth to the East Coast many times since I first moved to Los Angeles. Before this last scheduled trip, to be from November 23rd to December 3rd, I had also been to Europe, twice, some 12 years between each sojourn. But I have testimony. There are people who have flown with me, who know how I feel about it, and the agitation I can manifest to a seat mate. It is just one of my many life's anxieties, and I have always been aware of how much it limits me. Still, it has always been a hard psychological nut to crack.
Yes, I know. It is safer than driving. My mind agrees. My imagination however goes on crazy time.
It isn't about dying per se. It's about the how, should there be some catastrophe while I am a paying prisoner in a tin can 9 to 10 miles in the atmosphere, travelling at 500 or more miles per hour, the end would surely come. I won't delineate the particular scenarios that graphically play out in my head. And my concomitant fear is that what I will say during whatever the scenario will not be a holy prayer, which, I have to tell you, is of great concern to me, as much as the horrible manner of death part.
Anyway, a year ago or so, some of my St. Victor friends and I were talking about going together on a trip to the Holy Land. And then around the early summer of this year, I started getting e-mail from the Abbey of St. Andrew in the Mojave Desert to which I have some occasional connection about a Pilgrimage to the key sites of Christianity (and Judaism) in Israel with one of the Priests from that Monastery. The Abbey sent it fairly frequently. I looked at the Itinery and thought, "Maybe". And then I thought, "how far is it to Israel by plane?" If from Los Angeles directly it is 7,605 miles. If you do the Los Angeles to Newark and then Newark to Tel Aviv, which this would be, it is, a whopping 8,167 miles. "Maybe" became "not a chance" and I deleted the e-mails.
When I was at Mass, though, and lectored, and heard the Gospel, I sensed a kind of beckoning. It wasn't anything dramatic. No voices--you will be happy to know. I was back to "maybe". As it came time to sign up for the trip, which was in about August, I told myself, "If I get another e-mail from St. Andrew's Abbey, I will sign up".
And so it went. An e-mail arrived and I paid to take a trip to someplace I really wanted to go with all my heart. As long as November was two to three months off, I could dismiss, sort of, the thought. I bought the shoes. I wore them around, calling them, to myself at this point, my "Israel shoes". They were well fitting, and bouncy. And secure on all surfaces, even water sprayed. These shoes would walk where the ancient Israelites did. They would walk on the streets of Old Jerusalem, where Jesus walked and through which He was marched on His way to Calvary.
As the time drew near, I foundered. I very nearly simply cancelled, and would readily forfeit the substantial sum I had already paid. And then I would be at Mass, helping the priest, looking at the San Damiano Cross above the Tabernacle, and the fear, though never eradicated, was muted. I can't say there were words, but there was a "You must go" certainty.
One friend had suggested hypnosis, and I looked at several websites. I have tried medication on one or two occasions, but they don't do the trick so I didn't seek anything. I was entered onto a prayer list or two, by those who know my fear. Perhaps that was the dispositive factor. I don't know. But I didn't cancel. Even when, a week or so before the trip, there was a lobbing of rockets from the Gaza strip. I had the perfect excuse, but after talking with the head of the travel agency that arranged the whole thing--who had been there before, I didn't use THAT excuse--even if now I added rockets to my airplane fear scenario. At least that would be quick.
I put on my "Israel shoes", gritted my teeth, and flew. It's 14 hours going, those two flights. It's 17 hours coming back, the two flights (a different flight path). The blessing was that while there was some turbulence in both directions, it was fairly rare and of short duration. As to me, while people slept around me, I was exhausted but steadfastly awake. It always seems to happen that whenever I think I am about to doze, that little sign with the fastened seat belts goes on. On one or two of the flights, a couple of tour companions were next to me. We introduced ourselves. We chatted a little. One suggested we do the rosary together. I can't concentrate on anything when I am flying; alas, not even prayer (well truth be told eve when I am on the ground I am an antsy pray-er). I mindlessly watched movies or documentaries I had already seen. I thought that there was a little bit of Purgatory here. What I mean is that Purgatory is a place you go for purification, but you know that you will be in heaven afterwards. I knew that if I got through this I would be in this magical place of History, Archeology and Theology. It was worth the pain I said to myself. I did't eat anything, though they provide meals twice on these transatlantic flights. I sipped water or soda. No worries there as I could afford to lose a pound or 50.
And then I was landing at Ben Gurion airport in Israel, and driven with strangers who would become companions in mere days,perhaps, now, some friends, to our hotel in Jerusalem, where we would, the next day, meet our tour guide Doron and be safe in the hands of our driver Badi. Me, and my "Israel shoes" were off! I will write about the many places I walked with my fellow pilgrims in upcoming entries, of ancient streets and mountains filled with stories of lives long gone but now part of my own. There is much dust on my shoes from Mounts like Carmel, and Tabor, Olives, and of the Beatitudes. And the almost impregnable Masada which had fascinated me for many years. And, even now, I can still see a shadow of some mud from the shores of the Sea of Galilee.
If I had not walked with these shoes where He walked and where saints, known and unknown, because of my fear; if I had not gathered the delightful dust of salvation history on my shoes, it would have been a kind of tragedy. I have received a spiritual, and emotional fueling, the significance of which remains to be fully experienced. I have heard people say that the experience of going to the Holy Land transforms the traveler. I believe it, but I didn't want that possibility to be a source of anxiety, in other words, that I was expecting transformation, or acting as if I had control over what I would feel or not feel about the experience. If this experience has "changed" me, I am not sure how, yet. Will it make me a better Catholic? Or a better person? I don't know. But I feel something, good happened to me when I put on the shoes and this time, this time, did not allow my ever present fear to inhibit me. I am just going to let it be. I suppose that itself is a small miracle.
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