We made it to the Mountain!

It’s seven a.m. on Wednesday morning, and we are on the Mount of Blessing. The children are all sleeping peacefully in our snug caravan, while the early morning mists swirl around the mountaintop, caressing the vines. Quiet and peaceful, the busyness of the last two weeks fades from memory…

We had resigned ourselves to the fact that Israel might not be a reality this year, and we decided that if that was God’s will for us, then that would be okay. We were really enjoying caravan life—spending more time with friends and making new ones. The farmer who so kindly let us stay on the field has nine children, and we were loving the opportunity to spend time with them and get to know them better.

On Tuesday, the fourth of August, we spent the day with Pete’s parents when an email came through from HaYovel. They said they had been working on getting some volunteers out there and asked whether we were still interested in going, and what the news was regarding my passport. It had now been a year since I made my application, and the South African Embassy’s Home Affairs department was still closed due to COVID.

I had briefly considered Pete going ahead with the three eldest children, but being so far away from the rest of us in such uncertain times didn’t feel right. So I emailed someone who had contacted me about my passport some time ago and started phoning every number I could find. A little while later, I received a phone call saying that my passport was ready for collection. That was exciting! The next step was working out how to get to London to pick it up.

Our friends were willing to stay overnight to babysit, but there were a couple of complications with that. Driving up to London and back in one day with Havah also wasn’t going to work very well. Then, on Wednesday morning, a thought struck me: Let’s take all the children and show them some of London.

Pete was out doing some electrical work for the farmer that morning, so I packed a change of clothes, pyjamas, and some snacks. When he returned, he managed to book two family rooms in a Premier Inn on the Thames, along with overnight parking close by for the van. Amazing—especially considering it was August, normally the busiest time of the year. COVID definitely has some advantages. And so, at half past two in the afternoon, we set off with a van full of very excited children.

After a long drive, we ended up having dinner at a restaurant across from the Premier Inn. The government had just started a new scheme to help get the restaurant sector up and running again, and they covered forty percent of our food bill, which was very nice.

The girls would have loved to spend more time enjoying the luxury of a hotel room, but time didn’t really allow for that. They managed a quick late-night bath, but it was nearing midnight, and we didn’t want to lose too much of the next day by sleeping in.

After a cooked breakfast at the Inn, we went for a meandering walk, with our destination being 15 Whitehall at Trafalgar Square, where I could collect my passport. We walked through a quiet Covent Garden, where only a few stallholders had set up, passed along a street in Chinatown decorated with bright lanterns, and ended up at a rather lovely fountain with water spraying up all around it.

By then everyone was getting hungry, so we found a little Italian restaurant and shared some pizza.

At Trafalgar Square, I queued for about thirty minutes, and then I had my passport in my hand. What a relief after so many months of it weighing on my mind. God is good.

After that, we walked to St James’s Park and celebrated with an ice cream. Pete decided it would be wise to start heading home to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic. We got back to the van and set off at half past three, finally arriving home at half past eleven that night after stopping for dinner.

It was a lovely adventure to have with the children, and they were all brilliant.

Friday the seventh of August was preparation day for Shabbat, and it was going to be a busy weekend. We were hosting a gathering on Saturday, and because the field lends itself so well to welcoming many people, we were excited to invite some extra friends who normally wouldn’t be able to join us.

The five families we usually meet with already more than fill a house on their own. This time, one of our regular families’ siblings were joining us, and their parents were camping with us for two days. We also invited the farmer and his lovely family. It was shaping up to be a truly wonderful time.

On Sunday the ninth, we headed to Pete’s parents’ place for the afternoon to say hello and to pick up all our clothes and bags for Israel—just to be prepared.

On Monday, we got the news… we had been approved to go to Israel. Permission had been granted by the Israeli government for fifty volunteers to enter, at a time when even Jewish businessmen were unable to do so. We were completely overwhelmed that we had been chosen, especially as some of our children wouldn’t be a great deal of help with harvesting. But after HaYovel sent out the email explaining that fifty people had been granted access and that they were looking for volunteers who could stay for the full three months, the number of people who replied came to exactly fifty—and we were among them!

On Monday afternoon, we visited the farmer and his family and arranged for their six eldest children to come and camp with us the following day.

Tuesday and Wednesday were taken up looking after thirteen children… They built a campfire, picked blackberries, and made a pie. They were also very helpful ferrying water. We hadn’t fully appreciated just how much water we used until we had to collect it every single day.

On Thursday, Pete’s dad came over to see our camp before we moved on and brought us some pasties. Unfortunately, his mum wasn’t feeling well, so she had to stay at home. I also had my last appointment with the chiropractor and did some shopping on the way back for essentials like colouring books and activity books, to help keep the children occupied on the plane and during our two-week quarantine. Later that evening, I took the girls to Tesco, where we filled two trolleys with all kinds of snacks—anything to help keep seven children happy in a static caravan for two whole weeks.

Friday was a very busy day. Our friends were celebrating a Bar Mitzvah for their son and asked if they could mark the occasion with us in the field. It was originally planned as a large celebration, but for various reasons it became a smaller ceremony on Friday night. They stayed over, and on Saturday we invited our group of friends to gather with us to celebrate and say lehitra’ot—see you later.

The miracle in all of this was that rain had been forecast for the entire weekend. Pete was concerned that we wouldn’t be able to pack up in the dry, and he even took the bell tent down on Thursday while the weather was still good. But God is good—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were all dry. That meant we could fully enjoy our final weekend in the UK, fellowshipping with our friends.

Sunday was the only day we needed to break camp. Our friends very kindly came and collected all the children except Havah and Anya, which gave us the entire day to focus on packing up. Up until the middle of the week, we still didn’t know what we were going to do with the caravans. Then Pete spoke to the farmer, who turned out to have a self-storage yard where he kept caravans. God is so good—another mighty blessing.

We joined our friends for fish and chips at their house after dropping the caravans off at the yard. They also let us all have a proper shower, so that we could be fresh for our long drive to London.

Monday morning started with a bang. We packed the last few things, got the children dressed, drove into Bodmin to pick up a few bits and pieces, and eventually headed for London. The drive up was good, but we had a surprise when we arrived at the long-stay car park. They didn’t accept vans—even though the company we booked through knew exactly what type of vehicle we needed parking for. Thankfully, they were willing to accept more money, and we were able to park up and head for the terminal.

We grabbed something to eat at a restaurant in the terminal. After finishing, we checked which gate we needed—and realised it was closing. You should have seen us run. I haven’t moved that fast in a very long time. We were the last to board and very grateful to finally sit down.

We were required to wear our masks for the entire flight, except when eating our rather meagre meal: a bread roll with one piece of tomato and one slice of cheese. COVID has certainly affected the quality of airline food. That’s an observation, not a complaint. We were simply so thankful to finally be on our way that none of it mattered in the slightest.

Our stopover was in Turkey at two in the morning. We made our way to the boarding gate in good time—keen not to repeat our previous mistake—and sat in a waiting room full of Israelis. They were very thorough, carefully checking that we had all the correct documentation to enter Israel. This final leg of the journey was only one hour and forty minutes long, and some of us managed to get a little sleep as we entered the Holy Land. But our journey wasn’t over yet.

We were the last to leave the plane, partly because we were seated at the back and partly to make sure we had all our belongings. We then made our way to passport control, where I think we waited for around two hours. A very unofficial-looking Israeli took our stack of passports and disappeared into the unknown. After multiple bathroom trips and many attempts to keep the little ones occupied, a long-haired lady finally returned with our passports, and we were allowed to enter Israel.

Thankfully, the two HaYovel staff who had come to pick us up hadn’t given up hope and were waiting for us in the car park. We left just as the sun was rising, looking forward to putting our feet on the mountain and breathing in the air.

And so begins the most exciting adventure of our lives, here on the Mount of Blessing, in the region where—along with Judea—around eighty percent of the Bible was written or where its events took place. The mountains of Samaria, where God promised through the prophets that He would re-establish His chosen people, that they would once again plant vines, and that foreigners would be their herdsmen and vinedressers.

This is the land God told Abraham He would give to his descendants forever. The land where the Anointed One—the Messiah—will reign forever from the throne of David in Jerusalem, the place He has chosen to put His Name forever.

May His Kingdom come—soon—on earth…