In 1960 my family found itself in Jerusalem, as my father was known for his negotiating skills and had been called to help with ‘something.’ All five of us were sleeping on cots in a room in an old hotel. My father had left pre-dawn for a meeting. Suddenly there was a BOOM BOOM BOOM and my mother rushed over to the balcony, telling us to stay where we were. She stood there, frozen for a moment and then ran back into our room, grabbed her camera, and said ‘Stay there!” and ran out to the balcony again.
All we could see was smoke in the sky beyond.
Several days later my parents told us that now we were going to go to Jordan. They were ‘light’ in saying that my father wanted to scoop some water from the Jordan River to use in special baptisms, but this did not feel light.
We arrived at the border between Israel and Jordan, climbed out of the vehicle, each carrying our own little suitcase. There we stood, on what was called ‘No Man’s Land’, rifles pointed at us. We were to walk one at a time from Israel, across this stretch of no country, to Jordan, with guns zeroed in on us. I will never forget my parents. My father masking his feelings with twinkling encouragement, and my mother, shoulders back, was glistening with sweat.
And yes, we did find a row boat in Jordan, and my daughters were baptised with Jordan River water decades later.