Catch a Perennial Miracle

Key words:  perspective, miracle

800 words (about 2 pages)

The Middle East is perennially in the news, and most of that news is not so good. At least that's what is reported to us; if it were normal and peaceful, we probably wouldn't hear about it. I'm reminded of a tour of the Gaza Strip I once took while working in the region:   one side of the street was a scene of burning tires, teenage protesters screaming, Israeli soldiers pushing, and CNN cameramen hurriedly filming. A block away sat our little group of local workers casually sipping Turkish coffee in a sidewalk café with our UN host. We occasionally peered over to see about the commotion. The cameras never panned to our end of the street - the non-event piece of the action. Scenes of peace in the middle of the storm frequently go unnoticed. Perhaps that's what makes those moments of tranquility so special. There is one I'll never forget. After several months in Jerusalem, setting up personnel policies for a department with a staff of about 30 (10 Arab Christians, 10 Arab Muslims and 10 Jews), I needed a break from the yelling and the tension. The YMCA in the region had a retreat cottage on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, and I planned a weekend to chill out and relax.

It was about a three-hour drive to the Sea of Galilee if one took the safe highways through Israel proper. I was young, single and willing to take risks, so I decided to drive through the West Bank area (basically biblical Samaria)   to cut the trip time in half. I passed through the checkpoints where slovenly soldiers waved me through. I rode along the Jordanian border, the razor wire glimmering in the sunshine. I passed by minefields, roadside bomb shelters, fish farms and monasteries, and drove right up to the retreat center, Peniel ("face of God"), a rustic home set in a quiet cove of small and picturesque Lake Kinnaret, known to westerners as the Sea of Galilee.

The facilities were pleasant and simple, and quiet. The typical breakfast of olives, tomatoes, cucumbers and pita bread had been prepared the night before, and all I had to do that morning was retrieve it from the refrigerator and enjoy my breakfast on the veranda, which jutted out from the building over the water's edge. The bougainvillea and palm trees shaded the table from the early sun, just rising over the hills. The sunlight shimmered on the water and stretched to touch under the poinsettias growing wild on the bank, This was a peaceful place.

A loud voice pierced the air. It seemed it was coming from somewhere below the patio on the surface of the water. I got up to view the disturbance. Two scruffy men were in a rowboat near the shore. One was standing up and yelling toward me, and the other was busy with a green nylon fishing net.

"Adoni," he screamed up, using one hand to form a megaphone, "aifo ha dagim?" Translation: "yo, sir, where are the fish?" Is there no escape from the loud and pushy even here? I thought. I just wanted to be on the quiet side of things for a while. I reluctantly peered over the railing and looked at these guys, their boat and the water. I pointed to the fish. They were gathered quite orderly in a school not far from one side of the boat. The scruffy guy who was standing nodded, and they tossed their net deftly to where I had pointed.

The chill of goose bumps swept over me as I realized I had heard the elements of this scene before. It suddenly came back to me, a Sunday school story fuzzily remembered. I didn't recall the chapter and verse but remembered the tale as The Miracle of the Catch.With lots of hauling and the barking of commands to each other the two men in the rowboat caught a bunch of fish in their net. They dumped them in the boat and rowed away. I stood there, watching them disappear around the bend of palm trees; I hadn't uttered a word all morning.

Because of where I stood I could see the fish, and because of where the men in the rowboat were they couldn't; the perspective high on the patio was better than that on the water's surface. It seems sometimes all you need to do is find someone with a better perspective and be bold enough to ask.  That’s miracle enough.

A couple of loud, ill-shaven guys in a beat up rowboat had disturbed my quiet and civilized meal. They noisily enacted for me a great parable. I remember it well even though it was only a moment over two decades ago.  Or maybe it was two millennia—something perennial like that.

©Copyright 2017   John P. Harrison.  All rights reserved.