The Western Wall of Santa Cruz

It was close to sunset when he pulled into the parking lot near Steamer’s Lane. Friday night, dusty and little sore form 8 to 9 hours on his feet as a framing contractor, he breathed in the salty air with pleasure. Bill was unusual in that he loved physical work. He considered himself blessed to spend most of the day outdoors. He also loved surfing, and like many locals, made a regular habit of visiting Lighthouse Point.

A California boy through and through, Bill grew up in Sunnyvale (a humble inland suburb back then). On weekends he and his buddies crammed into a vehicle and switchbacked up Route 17, a mountainous pass linking the future Silicone Valley to the central coast. Their destination was Santa Cruz, home to some of the best and most consistent surf in the world.

Tonight, as Bill approached the sturdy steel railing along the cliff edge, he marveled at how people from all across the city seemed to converge here at sundown. Some to watch the surfers. Some to plan for their own wave-riding session the next day. Others, simply to look across the Monterey Bay, teeming with sea life below, speckled with shorebirds above.

People lined the railing like a hushed chorus of viewers, waiting as the sun dipped below the horizon. It’s almost like a temple, or a cathedral, Bill mused. You don’t know the longing of everyone’s heart but you feel it. A prayer. An anthem of gratitude. A loneliness. A sorrow. It struck him in that moment that this was possibly the closest thing he could relate to as “The Western Wall.”

In Jerusalem, people cover their heads and show their particular forms of reverence, some placing prayers in the cracks between stones of the ancient site. Here, at this Western Boundary of the Santa Cruz harbor, people silenced their talk to gaze out at the expanse. Listening. Breathing. Perhaps praying.

Suddenly Bill’s ears were perked by the sound of a softly-spoken foreign language. He turned to see an older gentleman and his wife, smartly dressed. “I couldn’t help but notice you two seem to be visitors to Santa Cruz” he said. “Why yes” the man replied. “We are here on vacation. From Germany.” Bill reached out his hand. The man and his wife introduced themselves as Eddie and Waultraud. A conversation ensued. At the back of his mind, Bill remembered a detail he once heard about the Western Wall. Some Jewish families, as part of the mitzvah of showing kindness to strangers, will seek out visitors at the Western Wall to invite home for a Shabbat dinner. It’s Friday night, Bill considered. Why not?

“If the two of you don’t have any other plans for dinner, why don’t you come join my family tonight?” Eddie and Waltraud agreed. Returning to their parked rental car, they followed Bill to a house off Western Drive.

Bill had built every aspect of the house himself, with help from his teenage son Jesse and two hired carpenters. It was white with seven gables. The garden had been grown from seed and sapling from the time the foundation was poured. Over the years, he’d added a gazebo in the back, and a garden gate notched with a heart for his wife Bobbi. His sons dug out a sizable fish pond but it stood empty for now as they still hadn’t decided on the right lining. Backing the property was a deep ravine lush with giant eucalyptus. If there was any sort of breeze, the mighty trees became a chorus, a rustling of ten thousand slender, fibrous leaves. In contrast, barn owls soared overhead in silence, white against a night sky.

How had this home, on this elegant cul-de-sac on the Western edge of town, become his? Bill mused. It was a wealthy-looking home but he was not a wealthy man. Still, his energy and strength and his wife Bobbi’s chutzpah, plus more than a little Divine assistance, had wrapped around a miracle. Bobbi, growing up as a military kid from the midwest, always longed to live near the sea. And Bill dreamed of raising his family in Santa Cruz, the happy place of his youth. They designed a house roomy enough to shelter wayfarers and guests — Lord knows, they always had plenty no matter the size of their home! A house with a big, welcoming front porch and gardens on every side. And, with Bobbi’s clever wits, it was affordable. The plans included a rental apartment over the garage and an extra bedroom to lodge foreign language students from the nearby University.

This was the backdrop of my childhood.

My father arrived home and with a sing-song voice introduced our special dinner guests. This was not unusual. Both of my parents had never buried their hippie-day mentality of openness and hospitality. To them, the sharing of bread was instinctive. Totally genuine. This was my mom and dad at their best.

My mother, Bobbi, is short, ample and crowned with an abundance of dark brown hair. Full of vitality in those days, she could whip up a memorable, from-scratch meal in no time. If she was ruffled by having two extra people to feed that night, she never showed it. She simply added a bit more pasta to the boiling water.

In Bobbi’s kitchen the walls were creamy yellow and lined with decorative pottery. Orange, black and yellow dishes where from Czechoslovakia. Espresso cups and matching plates, from Italy. Dark blue pitchers from central Germany. On the dining table and in the kitchen, hand-painted vases held freshly cut flowers from the garden. It was like walking into a painting by Matisse.

“Sit down and have a glass of wine” she said to Eddie and Waultraud, indicating the bar stools that lined the counter. She set down a glass for each of them and resumed her place at the stove which (by design) was opposite the bar stools and allowed her to carry on conversation as she cooked.

Bill, having shod his dusty work boots outside, excused himself for a quick shower. In his absence, Bobbi asked questions and told stories. I sat close by, listening. Despite having limited formal education, Bobbi was razor sharp. She was an avid reader. Fearless in debate. Her stories were bold, humorous, and bursting with poetic imagery.

Our guests were polite and refined in a typical European manner. They were also warm and jovial. As we ate with relish and lively conversation, Waltraud’s pearls glowed in the candlelight.

There must have been obvious rapport because my parents invited them to stay the night. In the morning, Bobbi made strong coffee and Swedish pancakes (unleavened and egg-rich). Over breakfast, Eddie and Waltraud described some of their itinerary: the Great Redwoods of Boulder Creek, then onto San Fransisco, and ending with Napa Valley. As they drove away, we stood on the porch and waved.

Weeks later, a small package arrived in the mail from Germany. Inside was a beautifully scripted letter of thanks and a gift. The gift was a small silver wall hanging, very intricate, of a man and a woman planting a tree. The man bent down to the earth with shovel in hand, the woman holding the tree in readiness. It was an apt symbol of my parents. Of their joined calling and potential. That year in particular, when the fruit trees of our garden had begun to mature and bear good tasting fruit, it seemed a symbol of our home itself.

* * *

Recently I was at my mom’s house and discovered she still has the silver wall hanging. It’s not much bigger than my hand, and so delicate you can bend the silver leaves on the tree. I’m surprised. So many mementos got lost or damaged over the years. Yet this one survived.

Like Adam and Eve, planting a fruit-bearing tree after the Fall, I think to myself. At the archetypal expulsion from Eden, humanity lost our divine rapport with the earth and with each other. Yet there was always promise of restoration. Elohim never renounced His love for them. Instead, He made new paths of blessing even in the wilderness.

Mom’s house holds the silver tree, I muse, and Dad’s house smells of the sea. Though they long since parted ways, though the magnificent house they built with joined hands is no longer their home, I am struck with the sense of something recovered. A remnant.

There is a Western Wall of Santa Cruz, vivid in my memory. Maybe this is my touchstone to a deep, generational past. Generations of broken promises, bad choices, and loss; slippery riches and poverty; war and famine and trauma. Brave acts too. And honor. Service. Sacrifice. Love. Human genetic lines are always a mixture.

Standing at the Wall, I can feel my hands resting on the heavy steel of the boundary, the railing that protects both cliff and visitors from damaging one another. From the moisture of ocean spray and frequent fog, the railing is damp. Does the sea shed tears too, for all the failures and foolishness of people? Do the oceans mourn all our devastation and despair?

The waves below are loud. They have a right to be angry. We humans have so dearly lost our rapport with each other and with the earth. Yet strangely I feel Elohim’s love in the waves. Like a language, powerful and mysterious, echoing across and beneath, above and beside me.

You don’t know who you are, but I do.

Who is saying that? I hear it in my dreams but I don’t understand. So often I feel like a failure. You’re a nobody. A descendant of nobodies. Nothing good will come of you. Despite many achievements in my life, I’ve never fully shaken these voices. Like Eve outside of Eden, I find it hard to believe I am worthy of a blessing. But aren’t I cursed? Nothing ever works out for my family, for my people. In the long run, we botch it. I too will botch it.

But the waves are speaking to me now. They roar and spew foam into the air. There is a voice in this wind and in these waters, getting louder than the mantras of failure. I feel a surge of hope. An inhalation of wholeness.

You, even you, bear the image of the Divine. Who me? No. Impossible! Let Love into your heart. Let Wisdom into your soul. I thought I had. I think I do. But of course! There is so much more. Meditate on Elohim’s nature. Marinate in His Love. Love heals. Love re-writes. A better story is possible. Be restored. This is a love that never divorces. A love that makes things whole.

I lift my hand off the damp, salt-stained railing of the Western Wall of my hometown. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a prayer, written on a tiny piece of paper. Tiny enough to biodegrade quickly. Bending down, I place the tiny prayer in a crevice among the rocks. It reads:

G-d rewrote the text of my life

When I opened the book of my heart to His eyes. -Psalm 18:24 (MSG)

(Image: photo by Simon Shim on Unsplash)