We had spent a lovely day at Avnei Elan, a community in the
Golan. The children had learned about all the steps involved
in making bread: sowing, planting, harvesting, threshing,
grinding — before they could even begin to consider
mixing the flour into a dough, to knead and rise and bake.
They had attempted to milk a feisty goat, watched as cheese
was made and rode donkeys along the cliff's edge path. They
baked pitas and had the pleasure of eating them with the
homemade cheese, sprinkled with olive oil and zaatar,
a distinctly Middle Eastern spice. It was all very
interesting, exciting and tasty, and now it was time to
decide if we had energy for more adventures.
The entrance to Nachal El Ad was there at Avnei Elan. It was
a scenic excursion to the Shachor Falls in the wadi below. We
had done this trek in previous years. We were familiar with
the difficulty involved in the climb and some children were
anxious to begin, while others claimed they were too tired,
their feet hurt and they wanted to go back.
After much hesitation and indecision, we opted to head
towards the trail. We were busy looking for a place to hide
our stroller full of supplies, when we saw a rescue team
emerge from the wadi carrying a stretcher on which an older
woman was strapped. As the head of the crew passed by us, he
stopped to take the opportunity to shout at my husband, who
was carrying our toddler in a backpack, that it was
irresponsbile to bring our baby into the wadi.
"It's like leaving a kid in a locked car in the blazing heat!
What are you doing? Child abuse?" he warned ominously.
It wasn't a particularly hot day. It was late afternoon and a
blessed breeze was already blowing. Perhaps the woman they
were helping had become dehydrated. We knew our baby,
ourselves, and our children were all wearing hats and
sunscreen. Plus we were carryng at least six liters of water.
We were thus taken aback by the forcefulness of the man's
outburst, especially since he, himself, was not wearing a
hat! We were, however, made quite nervous and one child
insisted we turn around immediately. But the other kids
whined that we were so close to the wadi, we just had to
go!
Tremulously, we decided to stick with our plan and make our
way towards the falls. Off we went to begin climbing down the
rocky, steep descent into the wadi. I was in front with the
five-year-old twins, trying to walk carefully, while
clutching their hands tightly, which wasn't working. With our
fingers clasped, it was too hard to keep balance and they
were better off jumping lightly from stone to stone. My
husband was in the rear, watching that no one went too close
to the cliff's edge of the path.
We descended lower and lower until we were about to enter an
area of overhanging grape vines and olive trees. As we got
closer, I heard in front of us the distinct sound of a person
having difficulty speaking and the loud, excited ruckus of a
large group of people surrounding him.
I turned to my husband who has Hatzola (EMT) training and
shouted, "It sounds like someone is in trouble!"
We all moved aside so he could rush ahead of us to see what
was happening. Then we followed close behind.
We arrived and saw in front of us a stunning scene. There
was, indeed, a heavy young man exerting much effort to
pronounce a blessing before drinking from a cup of cold
water. He was sitting in a wheelchair, surrounded by at least
twenty yeshiva boys who were happily waiting for their friend
to finish enunciating his blessing before they all
enthusiastically shouted: AMEN!
The boys, who were about nineteen years old, explained that
everything was okay, that they'd simply been carrying their
friend along the wadi trail and now they were just stopping
to rest before their final ascent back to Avnei Elan.
We were speechless.
Their faces were radiant with the immense joy they felt at
their accomplishment. They had succeeded in sharing an
experience with their wheelchair-bound friend (who may have
had cerebral palsy) who could never in his life have gone
hiking in the hills of Israel, or anywhere else, for that
matter. Their skin was glistening with the sweat of the self-
sacrifice of the monumental effort they had exerted on behalf
of their fellow student, their brother, their friend.
The awesome love, the Ahavas Yisroel, apparent under that
modest canopy of foliage was palpable, and I felt my eyes
moisten. We were so overcome, in fact, that we didn't think
to ask them the name of their yeshiva. But if this is how the
students behaved during the semester break, imagine their
middos, their perseverence, their character traits all
year round!
As we parted ways and continued along the trail, we
periodically looked up to watch with amazement as the boys
triumphantly continued their ascent.
A true ascent of awesome proportion.
