Written by Gail Radley Illustrated by Taurus Burns
Bellwood Press Evanston, Illinois
Bellwood Press, 1233 Central St., Evanston, IL 60204-0605 Copyright © 2010 by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States All rights reserved. Published 2010 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper ∞ 13 12 11 10 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Radley, Gail. Kyle Jeffries, pilgrim / written by Gail Radley ; illustrated by Taurus Burns. p. cm. Summary: Kyle, happy to have been chosen for the All-Stars baseball team, finds himself in a dilemma when he must choose between an important game and a long-planned pilgrimage to the Holy Land with his Baha’i family. ISBN 978-0-87743-712-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) [1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Bahai Faith—Fiction.] I. Burns, Taurus, ill. II. Title. PZ7.R1223Ky 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2010009594
Design by Patrick J. Falso
With love to my daughter and next pilgrimage partner, Jana, and to my husband Joe, now on the ultimate pilgrimage in the holiest of lands: may we each draw nearer to our everlasting God.
1 “Unbelievable!” shouted Kyle, as he dropped the telephone receiver back onto its hook and it clattered into place. “Sounds like good news,” Mom said. “Who was it?” Kyle burst into the living room. “The coach. I made All-Stars!” Coach Taylor had told him he was getting to be a better baseball player—“a crackerjack shortstop and a solid hitter,” the coach had said. But to play on the All-Stars team meant he was one of the best in Howell. If Kyle’s All-Stars team won, they’d move on to the regional tournament. Maybe someday he would even make the pros! Mom smiled, closing the book she had been reading. A clipboard was balanced on her right leg. “All that practice really paid off.” “Yeah!” Kyle snatched up his glove from the closet hook. “Lonnie made it, too. I’m going to see if coach has called him yet. We need to practice.” “When’s the big game?” “In just two weeks.” “Two weeks from today?” Mom asked. 1
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“Yeah.” Kyle paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other tightening around the worn leather of his glove. A feeling of alarm jiggled through his stomach as he noticed her fading smile. “Why?” “We’re leaving for pilgrimage this Saturday, sweetie. We’ll still be in Israel.” Suddenly Kyle noticed the book she was reading. Door of Hope. A picture of the prison city, ‘Akká, was on the front. The pilgrimage to Israel! They’d been planning the trip forever, it seemed, but he hadn’t even thought of it when the coach gave him the news. “But, Mom, I can’t miss the All-Stars game. They picked me. It’s the biggest thing that ever happened to me!” Mom’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “This is a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, Kyle. It’s the most important trip we’ll take in our lives.” Kyle dug his sneaker toe into the rug. He’d been looking forward to the trip to Israel, too, but he didn’t want to miss the All-Stars game. “I wish we’d known about your game when we chose our date to go,” Mom added. “So let’s pick another date.” “I wish we could. Only a certain number of people can go at a time, and the other times are filled up now. If we cancel, we’ll go to the bottom of the waiting list, and it might be several years before we could go again. Our airline tickets are already paid for, and they were very expensive.” Kyle remembered that they’d had to cancel their trip last year because he’d gotten the flu. Mom had said it was OK to postpone the trip one time because they would still stay at the top of the list. Dumb flu! Why had he used up their one chance to postpone 2
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the trip? Why hadn’t he convinced them he felt well enough to go? “I guess I shouldn’t have played so well,” muttered Kyle, feeling the maddening sting of tears. “Then I wouldn’t have made All-Stars, and everything would be fine. Now I’m letting down the coach and Lonnie and everybody!” He felt like kicking the wall in frustration. “Oh, sweetie—” Mom rose, setting the book and clipboard down on the coffee table. She started walking toward him. But Kyle didn’t want to be comforted. He flung open the door and stepped out into the blazing sunshine, smacking his glove against his leg as he ran toward Lonnie’s. It wasn’t fair! Just before Kyle reached his friend’s house, Lonnie burst out of the front door. “Hey, buddy, did you hear?” “Yeah, I heard,” Kyle said glumly. Lonnie cocked his head. “From the coach, I mean—about AllStars.” “I said I heard,” Kyle snapped. He looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed of how he sounded. It wasn’t Lonnie’s fault everything was all messed up, he reminded himself. He felt like kicking and crying like a little kid. Stupid plans! Why does everything good have to smack into something else? “I can’t play in the All-Stars game.” He sank cross-legged on the ground and yanked loose a handful of grass. “What? What are you talking about?” asked Lonnie, flopping down beside him. “That trip to Israel I told you about. We won’t be back in time.” “No way! You can’t go then. Tell your parents to change it to sometime after the game. Or don’t stay so long.” Lonnie thought everything was so easy. 3
5 By the time they caught the taxi from the airport in Tel Aviv to Haifa, Kyle’s eyes felt gritty and heavy. They had been traveling for almost two days now, and today was Sunday. It seemed as if they would never get there. Leaning back against the seat, Kyle turned his head to watch the rugged, dry hillsides. Israel looked as thirsty as he felt. The color of the country seemed to be muted with a hazy yellow dust. At least the air conditioning in the cab felt good. He had a sudden memory of Dad punching and kneading a soft mound of dough to make bread. That’s how Kyle felt now—like a mushy, beaten lump. Beside him, Dad slumped against the locked door, eyes closed, his face pale. “You’re missing everything, Dad,” Kyle said. Dad’s eyes fluttered open. “My stomach’s still mad at me. You can tell me about it later.” Kyle squinted at the strange lettering on the road signs and billboards. “What is that, Arabic?” “Some,” Mom said. “And some is Hebrew. Look, there’s one in English.”
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How would they find their way around when most of the signs weren’t in English? And what was this new kind of money they had exchanged for American dollars at the airport? Dad had said that Israeli money was measured in something called shekels. It made Kyle’s head spin; arithmetic was hard enough without a new kind of currency to figure out. He thought of the granola bars Mom had tucked in the pocket of his suitcase. Maybe they’d live on granola bars while they were here, instead of buying meals in restaurants. Back home, Lonnie was probably zinging the ball down the baseline in a practice game. Kyle could almost see the rich, bright green grass and the trees swaying in an easy breeze at the field’s edge. A cooler full of iced juice boxes would be waiting in the dugout. After a game, the team sometimes went out for burgers. Kyle let out a noisy sigh. Maybe he should have fought harder to stay at home. “This is Mt. Carmel ahead,” said the driver. Kyle shifted his gaze past the driver’s damp, tan neck toward the long brownish ridge in front of them. The mountains he’d seen at home had peaks and loads of green pines. This one looked like someone had pelted it with rocks and buildings. “I thought it would be a mountain with a point, and the Shrine of the Báb would be on top,” Kyle said, puzzled. He couldn’t see the Shrine anywhere. “Shrine of Báb,” said the driver, passing a hand over his balding head. “You see from other side.” But they didn’t see the Shrine on the way to their hotel, and then it was almost time for dinner. When they arrived at the hotel, Kyle stretched out on the one spot of his bed that didn’t have luggage, and almost drifted off to sleep. The bed was soft, but 24
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he couldn’t imagine why it had two thick, fuzzy blankets. The air conditioner had clicked off, and the room was getting stuffy. They might as well leave, he thought, suddenly irritated. There wasn’t even a TV in the room. His stomach grumbled. “Can we afford dinner?” Kyle asked, sitting up. “Sure,” said Mom. “Remember, Dad and I changed our dollars to shekels and agorat. One dollar is worth about three and a half shekels.” “Shekels and agorat?” Mom laughed. “Like dollars and cents. It’s going to take some getting used to. One day, Bahá’u’lláh says, we’ll use the same money all over the world.” “Just like we’ll have one language,” Kyle said. “Yes, just like that,” Mom agreed. “Let’s get some dinner now, before the jet lag gets us.” They locked their room and headed out onto the busy street to search for a restaurant. The sun was setting behind the tall hotels on the other side of the street, and the sky was growing gray. The cool breeze made Kyle glad they’d left their crowded little room to walk around. He was surprised to see the store windows full of sneakers and bright clothing. The street was crowded with shoppers and people out for an evening walk. Finally, they found a pizza stand for dinner. Pizza! Kyle was glad to find some familiar food. He’d had plenty of practice trying strange foods at Bahá’í potlucks back home. But now, the smell of a steaming hot pizza, covered with sauce and cheese, was a familiar comfort in this strange country. They sat at one of the Formica-topped tables outside and watched the people on the street milling past. 26
9 “Friends,” said Ajani, standing at the head of the bus, “this is Bahjí, ‘the Place of Delight.’ We will go together to the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh. The Tablet of Visitation will be read, and then you are free to stay and say prayers and enjoy the gardens. We will return next week to visit the mansion where Bahá’u’lláh last lived. And, of course, you can return on your own on your free day.” The bus doors creaked open. Mrs. Lopez appeared and led Carlos down the steps. Good, thought Kyle, falling in step with his parents, a safe distance behind Carlos. I don’t want to be stuck with a little kid for eight days. The group started down the white gravel path through the gardens. A hush fell as they moved toward the sand-colored stone building ahead. Kyle gazed across the trim gardens. They looked as if they had been laid out with a ruler—unlike the haphazard garden he and Mom had created at home. Practically everything looked dry and thirsty in Israel except the gardens around the Shrines. A teenage boy was pulling weeds around a flower bed shaped like a nine-pointed star. How did they do that? Kyle won43
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dered. He couldn’t even draw a straight nine-pointed star. The teenager paused to wipe his forehead with his sleeve and adjust his baseball cap. Then he set to work again. “That’s a terrible job,” Kyle whispered to Mom. Sweat rolled down his own face, and he wasn’t even working. She nodded. “Hard, but wonderful, too.” Kyle squinted back at the teen. Wonderful? Sure looked worse than mowing the lawn at home, and that was his most hated job. Kyle saw Carlos straining to break free, but his mother had a firm grip on his hand. That kid doesn’t have a clue what this is about, Kyle thought. A low hedge lined the carpeted entrance that led to the building’s carved oak doors. This must be where Bahá’u’lláh is buried, Kyle realized. He pulled off his sneakers and followed his parents inside. There was that rose smell again. Sunlight poured in from the small windows just below the high ceiling. Tapestries covered the walls. In the center of the room was a rectangular garden with tiny orange trees and ferns. Kyle thought it was pretty neat to have a garden in the middle of a building. What if they dug a hole in their living room at home and planted fruit trees? He could go to the living room and pick a snack! Quietly, everyone crowded into the little room, standing three deep on two sides of the garden. No one spoke. The air was still. The only sound was of their soft breathing and some machine rumbling in the distance. Even the plants seemed to wait for a signal to begin growing again. Ajani began reciting the Tablet of Visitation. When the prayer was over, Kyle realized they were in line, waiting to approach the threshold of Bahá’u’lláh’s burial
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place. He glanced toward the open door behind him. Tahirih gave him a slight smile and opened her prayer book. Ajani had moved back toward the entryway, allowing the pilgrims to have this prayer time to themselves. Ahead, Kyle’s father bowed, face to the floor. Everyone seemed lost in private thoughts and prayers. Kyle’s hand went to his pocket. This time he had remembered his prayer book. Were they supposed to pray now and at the threshold? What were they praying about? He heard whispering from behind. Kyle turned. Carlos! Mrs. Lopez whispered in the boy’s ear. Carlos stood soldier straight, his face solemn. Kyle opened his prayer book. O God! Educate these children. These children are the plants of Thine orchard . . . Behind him Carlos began to squirm and whine. Kyle glanced back to see Mrs. Lopez taking him out of the Shrine. Carlos sure wasn’t educated, making his mother leave when she wanted to say prayers. At least Kyle knew enough not to bother his parents when they were trying to pray. But then Carlos was only a little kid. Suddenly Kyle thought of the soldier they’d seen in the road and how Tahirih had said a lot of places had wars and fighting. His Uncle Doug died in the Vietnam War before Kyle was even born. Mom kept a picture of Uncle Doug on her dresser at home. In the photo, he wore a high school football uniform, and he was grinning, the breeze ruffling his hair across his forehead. Kyle always wished he’d had a chance to toss a football with Uncle Doug. Mom said he got his talent for sports from Uncle Doug. Mom was right. War wasn’t a game. War had taken his only uncle. People needed to be taught about peace, just like in Bahá’í
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school, just like his parents taught him. “That’s why we need Bahá’u’lláh,” Tahirih had said. But Bahá’u’lláh was gone, buried there in the room beyond the flowers. Kyle found himself at the head of the line. Two people were just standing up, backing away from the threshold. Kyle knew he should move forward, but he didn’t move. How could he approach Bahá’u’lláh’s burial place? Did he even belong in this holy spot? He was just a goofy kid from Connecticut who had trouble paying attention for a whole prayer. His shirt was damp with sweat, but he was frozen to the spot. Maybe he would turn to stone, like what he’d heard happened to someone in the Bible. He’d be a pillar in the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh. Pilgrims would pass by him on the way to the threshold. They would tell stories about Kyle-Who-Turned-to-Stone-When-HeTried-to-Approach-Bahá’u’lláh. His mother touched his shoulder, motioning for him to step forward with her. Kyle’s legs walked him forward. He dropped to his knees beside his mother, resting his forehead on the threshold. The perfume of the roses swirled around him. The words of a prayer he’d heard floated through his mind: Make Thy beauty to be my food, and Thy presence my drink.
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