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.