Day 11
June 4, Tuesday {the beginning}
We are here in Yad Vashem, Israel’s official memorial to the Holocaust;
the last will and testament of Six million lives…we are on holy ground once
again. The gate, as we drive in, bears
the inscription…
“I will put my breath into you and you shall live again and
I will set you upon your own soil”
Ezekial 37:14
Inside we witness the stories of some of those affected by the atrocities
that took place during the unbelievable leadership of Adolph Hitler. We see remnants of the people whose lives
were lost, children, women and men, young and old, weak and strong; but not strong
for long, they were worn down, hoping for an end to these horrific events. It seemed
to these souls that all was lost, no help, no safety, and no comfort from the
governments of the day.
The people in the midst of the anguish thought, surely, it can’t get worse than this, but things did get worse and
then again and again until the six million were broken, lost…gone.
Exhibit after exhibit is filled with stories; personal items, clothing,
toys, books; evidence of leaving homes; suit cases, shoes, diaries…each
item crying out with someone’s name; the emotion of their cries felt in every
turn, every look, every touch. Listen,
you can hear the cacophony of the cries of the people, all of those who belong
to the remnants of the possessions and papers and stories; the cries ringing in
your ears, rising up, up…echoes telling the pain, the loss and death; crying
out to God…God, God, look down, voices
crying out, Here I am…remember my name.
The memorial to one and a half million children who were
killed; pictures, Names recorded, and being called out; in my heart I hear the names of my own grandchildren; Riley, Gracie, Kenzie, Hadley, Presley, Brynlee,
Ivan, Ben, Anna, Sara…and I think my heart is breaking.
I am looking up and around and up again, at images rising up on a cone sphere; large and round and white narrowing to a point that opens to the sky…reaching to the heavens…to God; photos of those lost; their names, their age… their number. And there, on shelf after shelf, lining the walls behind, are the books;
book upon book, one after the other, more and more; books filled with names…and I
cried.
Yet, even here, in the midst, are the memorials to people who stepped
up to help and save, to be hiding places, protectors. The Pillar of Heroism, for those that fought
back; the trees planted along the promenade, for those that fought to save; the
sculptures for those that gave up their own lives for others.
And I agree with
the words of Anne Frank, “In spite of
everything, I still believe that people are good at heart.” I do.
Silently, we head back to the bus, passing by soldiers, who are on their way to pass through Yad Vashem...and we, on our way to 'Remat Rachel', a modern Kibbutz, it means 'the heights of Rachel' and it is nearby that Rachel lies buried at Hebron, on the way to Bethlehem. As we sit here for lunch, with Bethlehem laid out to the back, we chat about what we have witnessed this day; a sweet place to rest and reflect.
We travel on to the Garden Tomb, an alternate site thought to be the
site of Jesus’ burial, not unanimous but possible and it is beautiful, a garden
of peace and tranquility, a place that surely would seem true. We see the place of the skull, the water cistern, the wine press, the tomb... bearing the cross like an anchor, engraved in the stone. Here we share in communion; bread and wine
and worship; Michael preaching, sharing hope...hope, an anchor for the soul, firm and secure…beauty.
I love that.
