Welcome

I stood outside the tiny chapel watching the priest with a grey streaked beard in gold-embroidered robes lead the faithful, dark, serious women in prayers to God and words of adoration of Mary, Theotokos, God-bearer. Lent is an especially important time in the Greek Orthodox church. Not only is the lenten fast real and great, there are numerous additional services and devotions during the 46 days. Candles were the only light in the little space; they created small orbs of light on the frayed and dirty prayer books and the faces of the worshippers.

Young men of 8, 10, 15 years old gathered outside wearing their jackets, peering through the windows smudged with smoke from the years of lit incense in side the chapel. The youth were only partly distracted by me, careful to keep their attention on the prayers. Beautiful devotion. No one has to come to this service, but even though they don’t fit inside on this chilly night, they listen and watch from the other side of the windows propped open with sticks.

Who is this random young woman arriving in our little church courtyard at dusk?

I thought I recognized Maria Khoury's dark hair and her thin frame standing in the open doorway to the chapel. She had a scarf wrapped around her shoulders over her coat.

“Hiyye Maria Khoury?” I whispered to the boys nearest the door, pointing to my host, Maria. The young man I thought I might recognize from my last visit nodded his head.

I touched her back, causing her to turn. The moment she saw me she scrunched her eyebrows together, raising them in the middle with a look of sincere, deeply felt welcome and sympathy: “Rebecca. You made it all the way here. Did you just arrive? Where are your things?" The smile on her face, tired but peaceful, quickly reminded me of her life’s work of advocating for the possibility of Palestinian entrepreneurship and leadership in the context of her little Christian village, Taybeh.

“Is that all you brought?” She asked.

"Oh, it is easier to bring less. Is it okay to leave it there for now?” I indicated my bag sitting on the stone bench connected to the outside construction of the old church.

“It’ll be safe. Come inside, come inside. You must be freezing.”

I was a little cold, but the excitement of fumbling through Arabic vocabulary and driving through the town that, to me, barely existed outside of my memory warmed my heart. As I stepped into the dark room the melodies (and unintentional, off-key harmonies) of the chanted prayers and sung blessings soaked the space around me. The fog of deep, mystic and sweet incense lay in the air as if the very atmospheric composition of a church included the scent. The candles lit the faces of the older women with shadows in their wrinkles and they the smooth faces of the young with the radiance of devotion.

“Welcome to Palestine!” Maria whispered to me from behind, her prayer book in hand. I looked up and met the darks eyes of a Palestinian woman standing across the chapel from me. Welcome.