Fair warning: this is going to start out a bit preachy. I promise you it gets better!

When I was younger, there was an oft-told mashal (parable) about a family that lived in desperate poverty. 

The family heard tell of a faraway land where the streets were littered with diamonds. They decided that the husband would undertake the arduous trek to save their family, though it would mean that he would be away for years. 

After months and months of navigating his way, he arrived to find that the stories, if anything, had undersold this magical destination. The land glistened with diamonds everywhere. The roads were paved with them. The buildings were constructed from them. The whole city shimmered like a royal palace. 

His eyes wide and mouth agape at his good fortune, the eager man wasted no time in dumping the ragged contents of his suitcases so that he could use every nook and cranny to bring the jewels back home and share his newfound riches with family and friends. 

As he began scooping the treasures into his bags, passersby began looking at him as if he were crazy. “Sir,” one of them asked. “May I ask what in the world you are doing?”

“I’m collecting diamonds to take home to my poor family! These will allow me to fill the hungry stomachs of my children and provide for my family for the rest of our lives,” he explained. 

The onlookers began to laugh. “Those won’t be anything but trouble,” they replied. “They’re worthless! As you can see, they are everywhere, so they have no value. If you’re looking for something truly precious, you should search for stones. Those are the truly rare and valuable commodities!”

The man thought them crazy and continued gathering diamonds, only to have similar conversations repeatedly with other locals. 

Finally, the man began to second-guess himself: “Perhaps during my long journey I forgot my true mission. Maybe I was supposed to gather rocks rather than diamonds! I had better dump these shiny, worthless baubles and search for stones.”

That search took time. Precious objects are not so easily found. But after many months of searching through mountains and caves, the man managed to fill a suitcase. He bade the townspeople farewell, and set off for home, anxious to see the faces of his wife and children when he revealed the bounty he had brought.

At long last, he reached his little town. Dragging his bag to the door with his last ounce of strength, he knocked and entered. The enthusiastic crowd greeted him with warm embraces, smiling from ear to ear when he told them he had returned with unimaginable treasure. 

In great haste, he opened the suitcase, and rocks began to fall to the floor. He began dancing with glee at his good fortune, only to be met with the cold, confused stares of his family. “Where are the diamonds?” they asked?

“Diamonds?! Who needs worthless diamonds? I found rocks!” he explained.

Despondently, the family responded: “We have rocks everywhere here. These will do nothing for us. You were supposed to bring home diamonds. They have true value.”

The nimshal (interpretation of the parable) is that our souls are sent to this world to do mitzvot and make the world a better place. Opportunities abound—moments to be seized, people to be helped.

Yet once we get here and see the jewels glistening all around us, that spectacle becomes commonplace. Instead of seeking out the diamonds, we start chasing the misplaced values of this world. We can easily lose our priorities and end our mission here with a suitcase filled with rocks.

I warned you it would be preachy, but I will get back to the diamonds in our story after a rather significant tangent. Or maybe two. 

Let’s call it one and a half. 

When I was a wee lad of 13, just days after my Bar Mitzvah, I went on my first trip to Israel, headed for Camp Yaron, in the picturesque Carmel Mountains. I didn’t know much about the program or about Israel, but I knew about camp, because I had been going away for the past four summers. 

What I knew most was that I got really, really homesick. 

True to form, I suffered from that malady on my Israel trip. Most of the other kids were not my speed, so overall it was a rather unpleasant experience. I may have held it against the camp at the time, but looking back with 50+ years of hindsight, the camp was probably fine. My older brother had enjoyed the program a number of years prior, and my younger brother did so equally two years later. So I guess we know where to really place the blame. 

With that confession off my chest, let me tell you more about the setting. Camp Yaron was situated in the Yemin Orde Youth Village, nestled in the pastoral woods of the Carmel Forest, south of Haifa. The year was 1974, and the aftermath of the Yom Kippur War (which had transpired the previous fall) was still keenly felt. With many young men and women still on active military duty, Yemin Orde suffered a staffing shortage, and the pool on the grounds was closed all summer.

You can’t have a summer camp without swimming, so the organizers arranged to have us bused to a lovely nearby pool several times a week. We would board a ‘tender,’ which was, as I recall, a rickety shuttle bus with side benches, no seatbelts and an open back. It was the kind of vehicle that must long ago have been forcibly retired due to its patently unsafe nature.  

Unfortunately for us, the tender was the safest part of the journey. 

In our quest for a plunge in the water, up we traveled toward the top of Mount Carmel. Up and up along the thick forest on a narrow, winding, unpaved, single-lane, two-way road. A tender is not a slim vehicle, so when a car (or heaven forbid a truck!) approached from the other direction, each vehicle had to scooch to its respective side, proceed slowly, utter a prayer, and hope that there was enough room for both to proceed. 

Did I forget to mention the drop-off at the side of the road? 

No guard rail. No white or yellow lines. Just a jagged, pitted dirt road which abruptly vanished on the side where a steep precipice began. The bottom was down hundreds of feet. We could actually see the remains of cars down below that hadn’t made it!

Thirteen-year-olds generally think they will live forever. Not so true for those of us on the tender. 

Spoiler alert: we all lived to tell the tale of the serpentine, death-defying trek to the pool on the mount. 

It would be more than half a century before I saw that road again.

Fast forward to this week. These times have been challenging for everyone in Israel, each in his or her own manner. As parents of miluiminikim (reservists) who have pulled many days of service, we have tried to be there for our kids’ families with whatever they ask. Both of our boys were serving for significant portions of the holiday, and my wife, Chana, went all out, cooking up an amazing take-out menu packed with their favorites. One of the two families moved in with us for five days, which made for a fun time (you can read ‘fun’ in any tone of voice you’d like, and it would probably be true!), we hosted a lone soldier for the last day, invited tons of company, and there were eleven loads of laundry (lots and lots of sheets) awaiting us after the chag. 

Chana deserved a break. She had scheduled a girls’ trip the following week to the Carmel Forest Hotel Spa for some well-earned R&R, but the other “girl” involved didn’t make it to Israel due to the war. I’ve not identified as a sister before, never even served as an understudy, but I was forced to bite the bullet, assume the role, play the part, and become the other sister. Call me selfless, but off we went together to the spa for a few days!

Though I may never have identified as a sister, I do identify as a religious Jew. So the thought of a spa, with its emphasis on the more hedonistic side of things, was a bit discomfiting. I was concerned about what I might find there. 

In the exceptional company of my wife/sister, the trip up was quick, scenic, and enjoyable. We stopped in Caesarea, visited its national park, including the ancient racetrack, amphitheater, and beachside ruins. We thoroughly enjoyed a delicious lunch of whole fish and steak at a seaside restaurant, sitting outside and basking in the sun as we dined.

Following lunch, we continued on our way to the hotel. It was then that the terrain began to assume a familiar look, tickling awake long-hibernant images from my youth. As our car ascended into the hills of the Carmel, the recognition dawned. This road was either the same one our tender had battled all those years ago, or one very similar. 

There were improvements, to be sure. It was now paved, two lanes, and a short protective wall guarded the side. The old, wrecked cars had been removed from the hollow between the mountains. Oncoming traffic sailed effortlessly past us without a care. While I rarely trust my memory (and certainly not from 52 years ago), it felt like the same journey, minus the fear of losing my life. 

From the moment we walked through the sliding doors of the hotel, it was clear that we had entered another universe. The service was unlike anything we had ever experienced, and the atmosphere was warm and soothing. The air was fresh and mountainous, sweetened by subtle infusions of scented oils. 

This piece is not meant to be about the hotel, but we’re not quite finished with our one and a half tangents (it’s probably more, but I’ve lost count). Rather, it’s about unexpected discoveries at the hotel. 

Let’s start with the outdoor pool. When I saw it, my earlier sense of déjà vu was confirmed. Not only was the road up the mountain the same one we took to the pool as we traveled from Camp Yaron, this was our very destination. This was our pool! It had been updated and upgraded, and the grounds were different than I remembered, as the building was not an upscale hotel back then. In those days, I learned later, this was a recovery home where Holocaust survivors came to find rest and help bring some peace to their shattered bodies and souls. As campers we knew nothing of this, but I’m honored to know now that I was once in their company. 

The hotel was far from what I feared in terms of its environment. Even the dress standard was better than expected. Spa culture has people walking around in robes and slippers, and that was certainly the case. But the robes were long, and far more modest than the scene of shorts and bathing suits at most hotels. 

The vibe was one of tranquility. Perhaps we would actually be able to relax, a sharp departure from the daily routine to which we had become accustomed — jumping at the sounds of sirens, and running for shelter at all hours.

It was here in the hotel that I started noticing the diamonds. 

Stay Tuned for Part Two…

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)