The Tailor's Wife

Olive wood crosses scattered themselves across the walls. Pictures of family members--probably dead and gone--stood in cheap frames on the shelf. It was busy with figurines depicting biblical stories. The smell was something I cannot place but which immediately catapulted me back into my Israel days. Walking in to the alterations shop was exactly like walking into a business in the Holy Land. The sign says, Tailor Ibrahim from Bethlehem. He wears his homeland like a badge of honor.

Israel is somehow a swirl of foreign and comfortable, different and right. There are moments of longing to be home while simultaneously knowing that you already are. I do not know if it is this way for an unbeliever who finds herself there on holiday. But for me, it was as if my soul understood its connection to this place. As though the Spirit inside me was somehow pleased to be home, standing on hallowed ground. Truly, and inexplicably, I find myself longing to be there for always. Oh, to plant my feet in the Galilee, to wander the city streets of Old Jerusalem, to explore its beauty both assaulted by Antiquity and, seemingly, somehow, touched by nothing but the glorious hand of God. You cannot know until you have been there. You cannot understand the way it instantly pumps wonder and joy into your very life blood. I did not know I would love the Holy Land. And yet, I have never met a person who has been there who did not return home feeling as though they would always sense a magnetic pull back to land of our Savior.

It is why I can watch a video of Jewish women making challah bread and believe that, though I cannot understand a word they're saying, they are somehow speaking my native tongue. It is why I can walk into a tailor on State Street in Midvale, Utah and, somehow, want to stand inside forever. It looked like Bethlehem. It smelled like Bethlehem. Its people were Bethlehem.

Troy had dropped his pants off there a few days before and he told me about talking to the wife about the church in Shepherd's Field, his tours to Israel, and his love for the country. I wanted to go with him to pick them up. As he tried his pants on in a small, makeshift, dressing room, I stood staring at the pieces on the walls. I was taken back to the olive wood shop we have given our business to in Bethlehem. Aside from the sewing machines and row of pants hanging on a garment rack waiting to be altered, everything felt so very similar to those souvenir shops.

"Do you have children?" the tailor's wife asked me. I told her we had three. "How old are they?"

"Twelve, nine, and our youngest, he's two.

"A boy?" she clarified, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Yes. They're all boys," I answered.

When I tell people that I have three boys, I am generally met with a look of deep pity. Often I am asked if we're going to try for that girl. Occasionally, I've even gotten an I'm sorry. Several times I have had people say, I'm so glad I got girls. I don't even know what I would have done with boys. Or, I never could have handled boys--as though they are a wild creature in need of immediate taming. This is the western world's response.

But this Palestinian Christian from Bethlehem widened her eyes, "Oooohhhh," she somehow whispered as she inhaled, a quiet breath of excitement. A smile of awe tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Three boys! The Lord has truly blessed you." This is a Middle Eastern response--the reply of a land where boys have, traditionally, meant everything. It stood in stark contrast to the sad sighs of people who see my family and shake their heads, sorry that one of them is not a girl. It was beautiful to my heart.

In 2005, on my first trip to Israel, I crumpled a small piece of paper into a tiny ball and stuck it deep inside a hole in the Western Wall. It was a prayer, the deepest cry of my heart. Oh, that the Lord would give me a child. Standing in that land, with its foreign sights and smells, its unfamiliar culture, its ancient customs, I somehow believed that if I could just get that prayer into the depths of that wall, it would be answered. I was Hannah. I was Rachel. I was Elizabeth.

The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. Not one time. Not two times. Three beautiful times. It was not easy. Not a single one of them came to me without tears--enough to fill many bottles. Still, out of that adversity came these men. I believe that all children are a magnificent blessing from the Lord. I would have liked to have had a daughter. I miss her so. But I do not need or want pitied glances. The Lord has truly blessed me. He has given me boys.

I could have stood in that shop forever, maybe, listening to the lilt of their accents, smelling the flavors of Bethlehem, feeling that connection to a land that is somehow Home, my heart dancing in the blessing of a woman who looked upon me with joy.

Psalm 127:3 Sons are indeed a heritage from the LORD, children, a reward. (HCSB)