Shalom שלןם! Welcome to Joan in Jerusalem יונה בירןשךים
I’m Joan; I was given my Hebrew name, Yona יונה, in high school. Why didn’t I receive my Hebrew name at birth? Why do I have a man’s name? What am I doing in Jerusalem? What’s the story? Thanks for asking…
My mom, Shirley z”l (of blessed memory) was Jewish; her family came from Krakow Poland at the turn of the 20th century. I believe they came because of the pogroms (anti-Jewish riots) then. That of course was a terrible thing, but we have a promise that all things work out for the good…in short, my immediate and extended family was not in Poland later on to be victims of the Holocaust, although from my research on the Yad Vashem website I’m sure there were other relatives who did not escape alive.
Mom’s brothers and sisters were observant Jews, belonging to synagogues and observing the moedim (holidays) and inviting us along to worship and eat with them. However, my dad wasn’t Jewish, so we didn’t have our own family Jewish practices except for Hanukkah, a blessing for my two brothers and me. So that explains my lack of a Jewish name at birth.
I grew up in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, one of the few on the east side that at one time had been predominantly Jewish, so I had the advantage of being able to take Hebrew as a foreign language offered by our public school (after 7 years of French). I was also in a group called Habonim (the Builders) which still exists since its merger with Dror (Freedom) which originated in Poland (are you seeing the pattern?) to form Habonim Dror. This is a Zionist youth movement, hence my love of and desire to be in Israel for the many decades since. And in Hebrew class, I chose my name, Yona. My teacher told me it meant butterfly (appropriately “hippie” in the 70s.) She was kind of close, it really means Pigeon, which I prefer to associate with Dove, not the messy birds that are all over the streets of cities, although the ones here in Jerusalem are very pretty. And, of course, now that I’m familiar with the Tanach (Hebrew Bible) I know that the (male) prophet that was swallowed by the big fish was named, you guessed it, Yona. Still, it’s my name and I’m sticking to it.
Which brings me to the Promised Land. Sounds so simple, doesn’t it? OK, so it isn’t. I was always taught a simple faith in God, mostly as beshert, the Yiddish word for destiny, but to us it meant that God was involved in our lives. While in Habonim, we visited Jewish campus groups Hilel and Chabad, where I learned more about Him and came to love Him more and more. As I sought my part of our relationship, I was drawn to know about Jesus. I didn’t know His name was Yeshua back then, but as I’ve been taught, that’s what His mother called him. After I graduated high school, we moved and I met a man in college who told me all about Jesus. We married and had four children. Then I became the single mom of four children. Just as the youngest one was finishing high school I moved in with my mom again and took care of her until her death seven years ago at the age of 92. So, my dreams moved to the background, but never faded. But my relationship with God blossomed as I learned His word and fellowshipped with other believers.
One dear sister believed in my vision, and recently offered me a plane ticket to Israel. I jumped at the chance, and after some negotiations with man and God and very generous gifts from my new group of supporters, I took the trip of my dreams. Except things are never exactly the way one imagines them, so here I am in reality, but one that is delightful and complicated all at one time. I timed my trip to get me to Jerusalem for the March of Nations, an annual event when the world tells Israel that “We are with you!” This is a very important message a year and a half after October 7th, one of the darkest days in Jewish and Israeli history. I arrived early, a week before the March, so I could decompress a little and enjoy the early part of my three-week stay. I arrived May 1st, which turned out to be 6 days before the Tel Aviv airport was narrowly missed by an enemy missile. Consequently, Israel’s airport closed and most of the world’s airlines wouldn’t land here even after it reopened, and the rest of my group from home could not get here. The airline that was going to fly me home still wasn’t flying in and out of here on my return date, so my trip was extended for another 3 weeks. However, the day before I was to leave most recently was the beginning of the current war with Iran, so now the airport is closed again, with countries struggling to get their citizens home. That leaves me waiting for the United States Department of State to decide how to repatriate Americans. So, I’m happily stuck in Israel, with my heart divided between two countries, two families, two lives.
What have I been doing all this time? Well…
