Chosen

by Lisa T. Bergren

  He nodded at her. “And I’m glad I had the chance to apologize to you for not calling.”

  “Well, um … I’ll see you.”

  “I hope so,” he said with feeling.

  As she turned and left, Ridge again found himself watching her as she disappeared into the crowded suk.

  MARCH 31

  Ridge stood at the top of the Mount of Olives, between Bethany and Jerusalem, where he and Steve were covering the Christian processional that celebrated Palm Sunday. Group after group passed behind him, singing in French, Greek, Italian, and countless other languages as he made his report.

  “From Jerusalem, this is Ridge McIntyre, CNN,” he finished.

  Steve shut off the camera and swung it away from his eye, flinching at the pain in his side. “Great story, man,” he managed. “Especially poignant with the pilgrims behind you.”

  “Yeah,” Ridge said absently, searching the crowds behind Steve. “I see that you’re still hurting. Better get some rest before they call us out on another assignment.”

  “Yeah? What about you?” Steve returned.

  “Stitches came out yesterday. I’m fine,” Ridge said with forced bravado.

  His eyes quickly left his friend’s as he spotted Sam and Alexana coming toward him. They were a part of an English-speaking group, singing hymns as they passed. When Alexana’s eyes met his, they smiled into his soul. Ridge’s heart skipped a beat.

  “May I join you?” he asked, as they walked by without stopping.

  “Certainly,” Alexana said, throwing a smile over her shoulder.

  Ridge turned to Steve.

  “Should I follow you and get some more footage?” his friend asked.

  “Nah. I think I want to do this on my own, not for the world to see. Want to come?”

  “No, thanks. Think I’ll go grab a sandwich and some R and R as my colleague suggested.”

  “Okay,” Ridge said hurriedly. He watched as Alexana walked farther away down the winding road that led to the Garden of Gethsemane. “Catch you later!” he called over his shoulder, hurrying to catch up with her.

  As they walked, Sam and Alexana taught Ridge the tunes to some Easter hymns, smiling encouragement as he joined in. Several were vaguely familiar to him; most were completely new. Between songs, the pilgrims chatted quietly or said nothing, and Ridge was caught up in their contemplative mood. Gradually, among the untrained but fervent voices, he grew more at ease and concentrated on the photocopied words before him.

  Most of the songs were somber, a few celebratory. As he reflected on Alexana’s explanation about Palm Sunday, he decided the mixture of tunes was fitting. Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem on a donkey, down a path much like this, with hundreds of people laying palm branches and their cloaks before him as if he were king. Yet he had ridden knowing he was to give the supreme sacrifice: his life.

  Long after the group had gone on to another song, a verse from an African-American spiritual echoed through Ridge’s head. “Were you there when they nailed him to the tree? Were you there when they nailed him to the tree? Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?”

  His mind whirled with the thought of it. Feelings of anger rose in his heart at the injustice of it; feelings of unworthiness swept through him as he contemplated Alexana’s explanation: that it was for him, as much as any other, that God had sent Jesus to die.

  Alexana’s sweet, earnest voice brought him back to the hymn that the group was now singing. When it ended, she looked up at him curiously. “Ridge,” she said quietly, “remember when you were about six years old and you wanted a bike with a banana seat or a racecar model or whatever?” Ridge nodded, feeling a little guarded in the face of her odd question.

  She stopped and held him by the forearm, an urgency present in her expression and actions. People filed around them like a stream around a rock. “Remember when Santa Claus came and you got that bike and you said, ‘I believe in him. I believe in him!’?”

  Ridge gave her a funny little smile. “I think I knew the truth about Santa by the time I was six.”

  Alexana sighed. “Okay then. How about when you read Peter Pan—I mean really read it—so that you were so deep into the story, you could see yourself flying with Wendy. Or maybe you were even Peter himself. All you needed was a little magic fairy dust, and you’d be flying. Flying!”

  Ridge nodded warily.

  “You believed. You believed.” The words left her lips in hushed awe. She stared into his eyes, and Ridge knew it was a moment he would never forget. He saw what she was after. There, on the hillside of Bethany, across from the City of David, Ridge understood.

  “You’re speaking of a leap of faith,” he said in a hushed, sure voice. “Believe it, and you’ll fly.”

  “I know it’s just a children’s story. But it’s a perfect illustration of what it means to choose faith.” She took his hand. “Come.”

  Ridge walked with her, lost in thought. They joined Sam, who waited for them at the bottom of the hill, and together the three made their way to the Church of All Nations, where people had begun to gather.

  “All glory, laud and honor to Thee, Redeemer, King, to whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas ring: Thou art the King of Israel, Thou David’s royal Son, Who in the Lord’s name comest, The King and Blessed One!” Alexana’s face shone as she lost herself in the words of the hymn. To Ridge, she seemed more beautiful than anyone he’d ever known—both inside and out.

  He joined her on the last verse, his deep voice blending sweetly with her own soprano. “To Thee, before Thy Passion, they sang their hymns of praise; to Thee, now high exalted, our melody we raise.”

  They fell silent as they entered the gorgeous cathedral, officially named the Basilica of the Agony, but built with funds from sixteen countries and therefore dubbed the Church of All Nations. Above them towered a magnificent ceiling made of twelve domes and arches on top of marble columns. Each dome displayed a royal blue background adorned with delicate paintings of olive trees and marked with Latin phrases. Far beneath the arches, the pilgrims gathered, silent, praying.

  Alexana pulled at Ridge’s sleeve, and he bent over to hear her whisper. “Jesus told his disciples to sit here while he went away to pray. We stand here to remember that moment and what is to come.” Ridge watched as many knelt or found a wall to lean against, their hands over their faces. Some wept. Some smiled, raising their hands in silent worship.

  He closed his eyes, feeling awkward at first. But in the midst of all those people, somehow silent in a building that would resound with the echo of a falling pin, Ridge felt peace. He prayed, imagining himself at the feet of an enthroned Christ in heaven. That was one of the few emotions he could identify. Peace. Then: Understanding. Security. His heart leaped with excitement and appreciation.

  “I am unworthy, Father,” he prayed silently. Suddenly he could visualize Jesus’ face looking down at him with nothing but love. “I am unworthy,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “I have made you worthy,” came the words, spoken, not verbally, but straight to his heart. Tears sprang to his eyes as Ridge thought of all his past sins, the way he had lived his life, how he had virtually ignored God until this point.

  “I am sorry, God … my Lord. I am so sorry.” Slowly, he sank to his knees as a flood of emotions ran through him like an ocean tide. His mind called him to stop and rise, but his heart told him to stay.

  “Is this how you speak to me, Father? Through my heart?” No answer came as clearly as those first words deep within him, but Ridge understood. Silently he concentrated on feeling God’s presence, praying for the first time with pure pleasure.

  A woman’s voice rang out through the grand cathedral, beginning quietly in Italian and building to a crescendo at the end of the verse. The group she had come with joined in the second verse. Most people in the room recognized the famous hymn “Beautiful Savior,” and as the Italians finished, the Greek
group beside them continued the song in their own native tongue. The French, German, and English groups followed suit as the crowd listened, contemplating their faith that was shared around the world. Ridge rose to stand beside Alexana and Sam, and tears streamed down all three faces.

  “Beautiful Savior, King of Creation, Son of God, and Son of Man! Truly I’d love thee, truly I’d serve thee, Light of my soul, my Joy, my Crown. Beautiful Savior, Lord of the nations, Son of God and Son of Man! Glory and honor, praise, adoration, now and forevermore be thine!”

  As the chorus ended, the crowd filed out of the church silently, each person lost in his or her own thoughts. Outside in the bright spring sunshine, Ridge turned to Alexana, his eyes and face shining.

  “I felt him, Alexana. I saw him. I spoke to him.” He grinned widely, and Alexana reached up to hug him, smiling in return.

  Ridge held her fast. He felt alive. Free. Excited beyond measure.

  Alexana gently pulled away. “I’m so glad, Ridge. I’m so happy for you,” she said.

  Sam clapped him on the back. “Congratulations, my friend. It’s the best thing that will ever happen to you.”

  “I know,” he said to both of them. “I know!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  APRIL 5

  Lydia reached across the restaurant table and squeezed her friend’s hand. “So, he accepted the Christ!”

  “I believe he did,” Alexana smiled. “But my heart tells me to be careful still. I don’t want to find out it was just a passing fancy or that he was caught up in some kind of an emotional high.” She tried to keep her voice light, but her face revealed her depth of feeling. “Oh, Lydia, I hope it’s real! Because I think he’s terrific.”

  “And he is obviously interested in you.”

  “I think so,” Alexana hedged. “But I’ve put him off several times. Maybe he’s given up.”

  “No, I do not believe that is possible,” Lydia said in her very proper English. “Once one comes to know my friend Alexana, one cannot get her out of one’s mind. I have seen many men fall by the wayside. But I have seldom seen you in such a state. You are in love.”

  Alexana’s eyes grew wide. “Love?”

  Lydia smiled smugly, her dark eyes crinkling in the corners. “Love.”

  “Oh, I don’t know …”

  “Yes, you do,” Lydia insisted. “Your heart pounds when he is near … you look for him in the suk … you wonder if it is him when the telephone rings …” She studied her friend. “I am right?”

  Alexana blushed. “Perhaps,” she admitted shyly. “But I’m too old to have feelings like that!”

  Lydia laughed and said mockingly, “Yes, thirty-one is quite old. But your heart is young.” She grew serious. “God has been preparing you for a long time.” Her smile faded as she looked away, lost in thought.

  Alexana sobered too as she studied her friend’s beautiful features: olive skin; delicate, long limbs; dark eyes the color of melted chocolate; and thick, lush eyelashes. When they had attended school together in Ramallah, Alexana had wished she could trade in her stock American looks for more exotic features, like those of her friend.

  “You are thinking of your own love now, aren’t you?” Alexana asked gently. Lydia and Samuel had been apart two years. Lydia obviously hadn’t fared any better than her brother.

  Khalil, Sam, Lydia, and Alexana had grown up together at the Ramallah school. The four had been inseparable, venturing into Hezekiah’s tunnel at night or the catacombs that only locals knew about. They had remained unaware that politics caused many to view their friendship as distasteful.

  As they grew up, understanding more about the real world with each year that passed, Khalil had pursued both Lydia and Alexana. Although the dangerous element to their relationship made for potential Romeo-and-Juliet encounters, both girls saw the flirtations as idle explorations. After leaving school, each knew that Khalil would never be anything more than a friend. And he had gradually struggled to accept it.

  When Sam returned to Israel after spending eight years at college and grad school, he rediscovered his friendship with Lydia and, several years later, something more. The two dated secretly, aware that her father would not approve, but certain that they could convince him when the time came.

  That time came soon, yet neither could persuade the elderly patriarch that their union was right. Despite his long-term friendship with Samuel Roarke Sr., his commitment to educating his daughter among other bright scholars, and his solid devotion to the peace process and international relations, Lydia’s father wanted his daughter to marry a Palestinian. The episode tore the two families apart.

  “I was so sure that Father would come around,” Lydia said to Alexana, her eyes welling up with tears. “I thought that he would relent if I respected his decision but showed him I was miserable.”

  Alexana reached across the table. “Oh, Lydia, I’m sorry. All this talk about Ridge has brought up sad memories for you.”

  “No! Don’t be sorry. I am happy for you,” she said, smiling through her tears. “But I am sad for myself. And for Samuel. Oh, how I miss him!”

  Alexana smiled ruefully across the table. “He misses you too,” she said in a low voice.

  Lydia swallowed hard. “Is he seeing anyone?”

  “No. The only one he ‘sees’ is a certain tall, beautiful Palestinian named Lydia. There hasn’t been anyone else. He’s still mourning your relationship.”

  Lydia looked away and shook her head. “Am I being foolish? Should I simply defy my father and follow my heart?”

  Alexana thought carefully before speaking. “Only you can decide that, my friend. Jacob is a wonderful, loving, terribly stubborn man. If you defy him, you must be ready to walk away from your whole family. He might accept your decision later. But he might not. You’d really have to be ready to say good-bye.”

  Lydia sighed. “I have a lot to think about again. As you said, we are not schoolgirls anymore, but grown women. And seeing you in love—yes, in love—awakens in me those feelings for Samuel I have tried to bury. Do not let me pour water on your parade—”

  “Rain on my parade.”

  “Rain on your parade,” Lydia smiled. “I am so happy for you. You watch. Your love will prove himself to you. I know it.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Lydia. I hope—with all my heart, I hope—that you and Sam can find each other again someday,” Alexana said earnestly. “You’ll know where God is leading you when the time comes.”

  Ridge called that morning after five days on assignment in Jordan.

  “Good! You’re home,” he said when she answered.

  Alexana smiled at the sound of his voice, thinking of Lydia’s words. “Yes, I am,” she said, trying to keep her voice cool. “I’m trying to pull some things together for my presentation. I have to show Abdallah and Abba Eban that my plan of action is in order. We’re already a month behind schedule. They’re close to giving me the go-ahead after stalling for a while; I just need to take care of some lastminute details.”

  “If you really wanted to wow them, I should take you to headquarters in Tel Aviv,” Ridge offered. “They have a computer system that could help you create a three-dimensional presentation.”

  “Oh, thank you, but no,” Alexana said smiling. “They’ve agreed to let me lead this dig because of personal and professional reasons. I don’t need to wow them with computer-generated programs.”

  “Listen, I have to cover the Via Dolorosa processional at nine, but what are you doing this afternoon?”

  “My presentation, mostly. I don’t think I’ll go to Good Friday services. After I get some work done, I’d like to walk through Jerusalem alone, away from the crowds, and think about Christ’s last walk.”

  Ridge ventured hopefully, “You want to be all alone?”

  She smiled again. “I could welcome the company of a certain CNN correspondent, if he’d like to join me.”

  “He would,” Ridge said quickly.

&n
bsp; “Then meet me at the Jaffa Gate at two.”

  As he walked toward Alexana, Ridge tried to discern what he found so appealing about her. It was more than a physical attraction; seeing her stirred his heart. He wanted to know her, inside and out. And he wanted their relationship to be something God smiled upon: a surprising, new concept for him.

  He wanted to take her in his arms, lift her up, and swing her around in celebration of being together. But there was no legitimate reason to touch her, and she might shy away if he were to be so bold. He would have to keep his emotions in check or perhaps lose her forever. Ridge approached her, smiling a soft hello.

  Alexana greeted him in the same manner.

  “Many walk the Via Dolorosa on this day,” she said, motioning for Ridge to walk beside her. He quickly matched her step. “But that’s only the traditional route that the Crusaders popularized. To me, this route seems like a more logical choice: It runs from the palace of Herod, or David’s Tower, rather than from the Antonia Fortress. Scholars believe that Pilate probably stayed at the palace, and not the fortress as the Crusaders thought.”

  Ridge nodded and looked at her curiously. “What do you think about when you walk this path?”

  Alexana was thoughtful. “To be honest, on most days, I don’t think about Christ’s last walk. Usually, I’m thinking about how I’m running late, or a certain aspect of my dig. Occasionally, the wonder of it hits me. But only on Good Friday do I set out to simply walk his walk.”

  Ridge nodded.

  “Jesus was tried by the people and sent out to be crucified,” Alexana went on. “His clothes were taken, his body whipped and bludgeoned by jeering passersby. All the while, he dragged his cross down the street. It probably weighed close to a hundred pounds. He went from king to criminal in the eyes of the people. Still, he went forward: innocent, but willing.”

  Ridge walked beside her in silence. Their pace was slow, contemplative. He did not intrude on her thoughts; indeed, he was lost in his own. All along the street, vendors sold olive-wood trinkets that were spread across the ground on brightly colored, woven scarves or on small, portable tables. Tiny crucifixes. Manger scene ornaments. Miniature camels. There were fewer vendors on the street than usual, for many had gone to the more lucrative Via Dolorosa to capture the attention of pilgrims from places like Moscow, Cairo, Bombay, and New York.