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.
End of My Three Days In Gilead, by Elmer U. Hoenshel
