The bridge of Jisr el Mejamia was at the time of my visit the only available one for travel between the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea. It is a stone bridge and was built by the Romans nearly, or quite, two thousand years ago. It could scarcely be crossed by carriages at present as the ascent to the highest point is by a kind of step arrangement. It even seemed a wise precaution for us not to attempt to ride over on horse-back—the stones were very smooth and slippery. The present name of the structure means "bridge of the messengers," and it was so named because here messengers from various points in the land used to meet to exchange messages.
I am glad to reach this place, for again I am very tired. The distance traveled to-day is said to be fifty miles. But when we arrive here the road and bridge are crowded with sheep and goats being brought in from the valley for safety in the night. My first sight of the Jordan, which at this place is clear and sparkling, does not particularly impress me. I long for rest, and so we do not tarry, but pass directly into the village lying just at the west end of the bridge.
Oh, the wretchedness of this place! I wonder what kind of entertainment I can find here. There is little choice as to a place of lodging. The best and only accommodation that the miserable village affords is what was formerly used by robbers as a prison-house for their victims, but which is now used as a kind of store-room. There is but one room, and its earthen floor is littered over with filth of almost every description, while dust and cob-webs everywhere abound. This is the RECEPTION-ROOM for our party of four.
While my dragoman busied himself in getting supper, I sat on a box making notes of what I had seen and experienced that day. Just then the place served as KITCHEN and WRITING-ROOM. I wrote rapidly, and as I wrote the thought that somewhere that day I had crossed the path of the Master in his Perean ministry thrilled me. I said, "Mr. Barakat, I am going down to the Jordan for a while after supper." He replied, "All right, and I'll go with you'." "No," said I, "I want to be alone down at the bridge." He simply said, "I'll go with you."
Our supper was a light affair, but our host brought a platter of something that looked like dark beeswax, but which proved to be a palatable food called "halawa." We ate from the floor of this room, which then became our DINING-ROOM.
After supper I was ready to go down to the river, not more than a hundred yards from our lodging-place. When we started, our host stepped to a corner of the room, picked up a gun, and prepared to go with us. I told my dragoman to tell him not to go with us. The reply was, "He will go with us." "Well," I said, "if he must go make him put down that gun; it will spoil my evening of quiet thought at the sacred river." The answer was: "Make no further objection. Have you not noticed that everybody here carries a gun? He knows what he is doing. This is the most disreputable place along the river. Those Bedouins of the black tents that we passed over yonder would want no better opportunity than to find you, who are expected to have money, alone at the bridge." I accepted the situation, and said, "All right, but I shall expect you both to be obedient to the extent of giving me a period of quiet as long as I wish to remain."
But, before we go to the bridge, let me tell of that night in that miserable place of filth. At the time of retiring my host said to me through my interpreter that I could have choice of beds—that I could either sleep on the counter, which consisted of a couple of boards laid carelessly across boxes, or that I could sleep behind the counter on the floor! After looking at the boards, and thinking what would likely be the result should I attempt to sleep there, I made choice of the floor. The room then became my BEDROOM.
Oh, that night! I did not sleep a half-hour. The place seemed alive with vermin. My host slept on the counter. He did not seem to be annoyed in the least. True, he scratched, but he snored an accompaniment to his scratching throughout the night. I could only scratch and listen to him; there was no snoring for me. After that night it required frequent bathing and much searching for a week or ten days before I felt free from the awful pests of that filthy den. Thus it was that my first crossing of the Jordan did not bring me to a "land of rest," but to an experience akin to distraction.
But now to the bridge. We pass quietly among the curious gazers down to the river. Just south of the bridge I go down to the river's edge and bathe my hands, face, and feet in water that only a few hours ago was in the lake where the waves were once stilled by His quiet command of power—"Peace, be still," and where He at another time walked amidst the billows to meet his own; in water that will hurry on down the valley to the place where He was baptized; and then it will pass on into oblivion in the Salt Sea of Death. Then I try, with surprising success, to drink of the water like our Arab guide drank to-day. Then we walk to the bridge, at the approach of which I ask my men to tarry while I go out on it alone to meditate.
I have reached this place by the expenditure of much physical energy. I am very weary over my hard day in the saddle. But when I seat myself on the highest point of the bridge, and give myself up to reverie, I feel the flood of sentiment and rejoice. The moon is about one-half hour above the mountains of Gilead; a halo seems to gild the heights to the east and to the west. I am just above the Jordan; its rippling waters tell me of Abraham, of Jacob, of Joshua, of Saul, of David, of Elijah, of Elisha, of Naaman, of John the Baptist, and of Jesus of Nazareth. How sweet and musical is the story! How impressive its truths as I hear it to-night? Then I watch the play of the moon-light on the water,—the glittering sheen on the smooth surface above the bridge, and the flashes of light on the rapids below. It is all so beautiful!
And this is the Jordan! For many years I have heard of it; I have read of it; I have sung of it. It has been to me for many years a type of death. Again I look upon the calm blue depths on the north, and then again on the rapids below—I see the peace here, and hear the rush there. Then I turn my eyes again to the mountains, and upward to the moon, and past the moon to the stars—and by faith beyond the stars to search for Him of this land, because of whose earth-life I am here, and upon whom I rely for support in the hour of my approach to the shore of that river of which this is the type.
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