вторник, 13 декабря 2011 г.

Finding the Right House

By Ruth Zimberg

Everything is in the hands of heaven, except the fear of heaven.
~The Talmud

"Got your cellphone? Glasses? Wallet? ID?" I asked.

"What are you doing, a pre-flight check?" my husband Avraham smiled. "Can we please get going? You've got to get to your interview before I go to see my patient at one o'clock."

"Right. Got your medical bag?"

"Check."

Even years after moving from North America, we still loved the half-hour drive to Jerusalem. The blue sky above the rocky mountains, the trees, and the ascent to the Holy City always filled us with gratitude for the privilege of living in Israel. My eyes drank in the greenery like an invigorating tonic.

As we sped along, Avraham commented, "Every day is an adventure here. I really do appreciate that everything is meant to be. Before coming to Israel, I knew that, but here I experience it every day."

We approached our favorite part of the journey, just past Mevasseret Tzion, where a panoramic view of Jerusalem suddenly appears above the roadway. Before we knew it, we were at the entrance to the city. We had made good time and arrived at my meeting with time to spare.

After my interview, I met Avraham at our favorite Angel's Bakery Café. Avraham ordered his daily dose of iced coffee and a bag of fresh, whole wheat bagels. Glancing at the clock, I suggested we get going to see his patient.

Avraham had received a request to make a house call at the home of an elderly woman in Jerusalem. Her daughter had called the day before to arrange the appointment. As there are very few podiatrists in Israel, Avraham would travel all over the country to see patients requiring specialized foot care. He searched his pockets for the slip of paper on which he had written the address. He checked his medical bag, his notebook, and even the bag of fresh bagels. The note was nowhere to be found.

"I don't believe it! I must have left the address and phone number at home."

I sighed to myself in frustration as I realized our "pre-flight check" had been incomplete.

"Do you remember any part of the address?" I asked.

"I remember that there was a 17 in it, because it was part of my birth date."

"Do you know the street name?"

"No. Just that it's in this neighborhood."

I had heard the family name mentioned briefly the day before and recalled that it sounded European. "Let's try looking at building number 17 on this street and see if the mailboxes list any familiar sounding names," I offered.

Avraham agreed. "I guess it's worth a try. We are already here."

We scanned the listings at number 17, but all of the names were Israeli. We tried two more nearby buildings without success.

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," I complained.

"Well, since we are already in the city, let's try one last building," Avraham suggested, as he whispered a prayer for God's help in finding the right house.

We wearily approached the entrance to an apartment house down another street and noticed all of the European occupant names. Taking this as a good sign, we entered the lobby and climbed the stairs. We encountered a young boy who informed us that indeed an elderly couple lived next door to their married daughter in the building.

We quickly went up to the first landing and knocked on a door covered with children's art. I recognized the woman as a teacher from an educational workshop I had taught.

"What a small world," I remarked. "We know one another from teaching, and now my husband is here to see your mother. Where does she live?"

"My parents live right next door," she replied, pointing the way down the hallway.

We proceeded to the neighboring apartment where an elderly gentleman answered the door. Avraham announced that he was the foot specialist whom their daughter had called. The delighted man warmly welcomed us. The couple had recently arrived from South Africa and were so pleased to find an English-speaking doctor who made house calls. The wife suffered from a variety of ailments which made it difficult for her to travel to a clinic. She sat in a reclining chair, her bare feet ready to be examined.

Avraham took a detailed medical history and conducted a thorough examination. After treating her and suggesting appropriate follow-up care, he packed his bag and we departed.


Moments later, as we buckled our seatbelts, we laughed about actually finding the house despite the incredible odds. "We certainly had some help from 'upstairs' on this one!" Avraham exclaimed.

As we were about to pull out of the parking lot, the daughter came rushing up to our car. She could hardly contain herself. "Thank you for coming to help my mother." Then she added, "But I have to ask. How did you know to come to see her? After you left, my father came over to thank me for calling you. I told him that I hadn't called. I thought he had called."

Avraham and I stared at each other. It was the wrong house!

Or was it?

http://www.chickensoup.com

Комментариев нет:

Отправить комментарий