“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take,

 but by the number of moments that take your breath away.”

“I think G-d wants us to go to Israel,” my husband Wim said one evening in 1987.

“Israel? Why on earth should we go there?” I exclaimed, while thinking, that irksome country?

Through a miracle, G-d changed my heart. As we were preparing to leave for Israel, the words of Maria’s song from the “The Sound of Music” kept ringing in my ears: “Climb every mountain, ford every stream… till you find your dream. A dream that will need all the love you can give, for as long as you live…”

I had the feeling that in Israel, we would find our ‘life’s calling’.

By the time we left Holland in 1989, we had become true Christian Zionists, and on arrival in Israel immediately felt at home. The motto of the international Christian organization in Jerusalem where we worked as volunteers was:  “Comfort, Comfort ye my people.” Here, we had the opportunity to bless G-d’s people in a practical way.

Learning Hebrew was a problem, because at work we spoke mainly English and because we had gone straight to work there had been no time for Ulpan.

In 1991, with the Gulf War looming, our Dutch family and friends began to pressure us to leave Israel and return home.

“Sorry,” we replied, “but this is our home. We’re not leaving when the going gets rough. We’re here to stay!”

While the air-raid sirens wailed we fearfully shivered in our sealed room, wondering, like the rest of the country, where the next scud missile would fall.

During that intense time, Wim and I were also occupied with the ‘stirring in my heart’ - the desire to adopt a child. From the beginning of our marriage we knew we couldn’t have children, but this had never been an issue, until now. In the weeks that followed, the yearning and desire became stronger: we knew in our hearts it would be a child that nobody else wanted. A precious soul to whom we could be ambassadors of love.

Two days after sending a letter to Alyn children’s hospital in Jerusalem, a social worker called with the news that they had a special needs child for us.

We were stunned.

It took a very long, exhausting year of getting to know four-year-old David: first at the children’s ward, then gradually taking him home for an hour, then a few hours, a day and finally, a weekend.  Slowly, our Hebrew began to improve.

Because David was Jewish, we couldn’t adopt him but, yes, we could be his foster parents. Nine months after our first visit, the social worker called to let us know it was official: David could be our foster son and come home with us.

Not only our lives changed, but David’s did as well. The medical staff couldn’t get over how the boy developed and blossomed more each day.

Around Chanukah 1992, Salima, a four-year-old Bedouin girl with special needs joined our family. I had to stop working because caring for these children was a full-time job.

As a registered nurse, I felt at home in hospitals, which we had to visit often. I got to know the inner sanctum of Israeli bureaucracy, and often found myself staring at the health fund’s brick walls. Through many ups and downs I began to learn the ropes, and stand my ground.

My Hebrew improved through osmosis, and no longer did I have to ask my neighbor what the special education teacher had written in the communication notebook.

The social worker sounded desperate. “Can you please take Mazal as well?”

Mazal, Salima’s cousin, had been sent home from the children’s hospital.  Special needs children don’t fit in the Bedouin society and multiple handicapped Mazal had become a child at risk. Since David, Salima and Mazal had all been in the same children’s ward, the social worker came to the conclusion that our family was the best place to send her. 

At first I was very apprehensive. I knew the deaf girl often behaved like a wild horse and could only yell and shout to indicate her needs. Reluctantly we consented, knowing that the seven-year-old child would be difficult to deal with, especially as there was no time for the usual ‘getting-to-know-each-other’ visits.

It was a baptism of fire for all concerned. At that time we didn’t know sign language and, therefore, couldn’t communicate with her at all. Mazal was frustrated, confused and sad, and didn’t understand what had happened to her.

In time, the Deaf School became a haven for the abused girl. They taught her to speak instead of shout, and with hearing aids and lip reading, she eventually managed to understand and speak simple Hebrew sentences.

Life was full and hectic and wonderful despite the many medical crises we had to deal with. We often had to revert to “hospital mode”, meaning that I stayed with the sick child in hospital while Wim took care of the home front. I began to frequent Hadassah hospital so often that the lady in the coffee shop asked if I worked there.

“No, I have season tickets,” I usually joked, but felt embarrassed when people called us ‘angels’, knowing we weren’t ‘saints’ either.

The children grew, blossomed and thrived and we loved our ‘foster’ family. In order not to confuse the children, who all went to Israeli schools, we celebrated only the Jewish holidays, and loved it.

Our status was somewhat problematic. In order to get our visa renewed (for ten years we lived on a tourist visa), we had to leave Israel every two years.  Having no one else to look after the children, we had to take them with us. The logistics of those ‘holidays’ very much resembled a military operation. On the bright side, the children loved going to Holland and being spoiled by our family and friends.

Our G-d given ministry had become a 24/7/365-days a year job. It was never easy, and we had to make small and big sacrifices, but it was fulfilling. We were content, so what more could we want. 

Another boy, perhaps?

One day, a social worker called to ask if we happened to know another Christian couple like us, willing to foster a very handicapped three-year-old Arab boy.

“Yes,” I told her, impulsively. “We would love to have him!”

The dear woman couldn’t believe her ears. I phoned Wim immediately, who told me that the day before he had seen a man wearing a t-shirt with the slogan “Just do it”, and had been strangely touched.

“Just do it, Petra,” he said.

A few hours later, we found ourselves in the social worker’s office, listening to Na’il’s story. “You’ll be shocked the first time you see him,” the social worker warned us.

She was right, but after the first short-lived jolt, we looked past the empty blue eyes, the strange facial features, the very thin arms with their tiny, claw-like hands, and compassion filled our hearts and eyes to overflowing.

Two weeks later, Na’il was allowed to spend the weekend with us. He immediately felt at home, even after having been enthusiastically welcomed by our two dogs. The little boy fit into our family like a glove: it was as if he’d always been with us.

That first day Wim took Na’il for a walk in the stroller. Later we heard that, out of shame, his 16 year-old mother always covered his face when taking him outside. Now, for the first time in his life, Na’il saw trees and clouds and the sun, and felt the wind on his face. It was pure bliss!

Because Na’il was deaf and dumb, we used basic sign and body language to communicate with him.

After that first wonderful weekend, the house felt empty when he had to return to his biological parents.

School holidays arrived and we got permission to take Na’il with us to Netanya, where he learned to sit for 20 minutes at a time (until then he could only lie on the floor). He fell in love with the big umbrellas near the swimming pool, the constant breeze and the grass. A week later, as we went further north to Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi, he roamed around in the booster seat on wheels we made for him. One day he wedged himself between the water sprinklers on the grass. Squealing with laughter and completely soaked, he enjoyed his new life to the fullest.

I worried about the cruelty of having to send Na’il back to his biological parents after the holiday. It turned out that on July 24^th, the beginning of the summer holiday, Na’il had come to stay with us for good.

The multiple handicapped child astounded the medical world, and we were amazed to discover that Na’il was an ‘auto-didact’ – able to choose from tools that were handed to him.

He just did it! On the swimming pool ramp he taught himself to walk. The orthopedist found it hard to believe that Na’il could ride a tricycle. Even though he lacked shoulders, the spindly boy managed to balance himself and walk independently.

He was a curious child and full of mischief; umbrellas were his favorite toys, and he broke them in record time. Then, he would open the cupboard with his foot (he couldn’t use his contractured arms) and by handing me the duck tape, asked me to repair the wreckage.

He couldn’t talk, but found ways to tell us what he wanted. Sometimes it took a while before we understood what he meant but then, when the penny dropped, a glorious smile lit up his face.

For twelve precious years we were privileged to care for Na’il, whose name means “Acquirer”. His sudden death in February this year left a gaping hole in our hearts.

Here we were: a Christian couple sitting Shiva according to Jewish tradition for an Arab boy. The outpouring of love and comfort we received from our Israeli neighbors and friends was very moving and precious. We continue to be amazed at the impact this very unusual child had on the people who knew him and were involved in his life,

There has been lots of joy during our eighteen years as foster parents of children with very special needs. But it wasn’t all happiness.

There was a great deal of pain as well. David had to be placed out of the house because everyone suffered from his Borderline Personality disorder.

We struggled through many crises – physically, emotionally and financially and, in addition, terrorist attacks. But Israel has become our home - we love the country and its people and, after finally being granted permanent citizenship, we dug our roots even deeper into the soil of Eretz Yisrael.

Thanks to the children we met many wonderful people - from doctors to teachers to social workers.

We have come a long way since we arrived in Israel - young and naïve, polite and full of dreams. We have integrated and have become Israelis in every sense of the word, including behavior and driving style.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that took your breath away.”

Wim and I came to the Promised Land to bless. Instead, Israel – the land, its people –have blessed us. That, and the fact that we, as gentiles grafted into the Jewish olive tree, are able to live in Eretz Yisrael, continues to take our breath away.

Petra van der Zanda

by Barbara Abraham

The special nature of Petra and Wim Van der Zande emerges from the pages of their story, and as a person with a special affinity for the olive tree (see title of story) I sensed a deep urge to interview and to know them on a more personal basis.

Because of distance the interview with Petra was by phone. I could sense in her voice  the warmth and strength that has carried them through their years here in Israel. Their story 'Grafted into the Jewish Olive Tree' is one of those special stories that contribute to the true essence of our country: its people. As another Dutch Christian friend of ours who visited Israel wrote on also reading the story: "Thank you – I can feel what this is about; I met so many wonderful, amazing and friendly people when we traveled through the country. I too have a deep connection with your country and the people who make it special."

The Van der Zandes were introduced to ESRA and the magazine by Zipporah Porath, and with her encouragement decided to tell their moving story. Some years have passed by since the happenings that Petra has described and today only the two girls – now young women in their early twenties - remain in their care. Although born to Bedouin families, they feel themselves fully integrated into Israeli society, having been educated with Jewish children and speaking only Hebrew with their friends and carers since coming to live with their foster family, Petra and Wim.

Petra explains: "With the exception of David, who was abandoned at birth, the other children kept in regular contact with their biological parents. Presently, only Mazal regularly pays her family a visit; they live in the Negev on the way to Arad. Father has two wives and more than fifteen children. His second wife now lives in a villa next to Mazal's mother's humble stone house. Salima doesn't feel 'at home' in her Bedouin society anymore, she never visits them, and only has irregular contact by phone. We are Mazal's legal guardians, and were in the process of obtaining this for Na'il (his real name) too, but never attained it because he died so suddenly."

She made a special page in memory of Na'il on a website that she created called ‘Essence of Rock’ and through which trees may be donated to be planted in his memory by the JNF. Of the two girls, Mazal, the elder one, now spends her days at the sheltered workshop in Ma'on Gilo, although she is under ongoing psychiatric treatment. This is one of the excellent project runs by ILAN, and there she is occupied in the making of beaded jewelry.

Salima is taking part in "Wings" (Knafayim), the two-year course that prepares young people with various physical disabilities to achieve an independent way of life. They acquire skills and qualifications and are also helped to prepare for doing national service on a voluntary basis. National service is her goal and she is undergoing the specially designated coaching for service that will suit her capabilities.

When I asked Petra how they have managed to deal with the difficulties of life and the heartbreak often faced, she replied in a voice tinged with happiness and pride, saying, "G-d's hand has guided us and we always look ahead." Then she added in Hebrew ""השם שלח אותנו. I could still sense the smile in her voice as she continued and told me that they had been called 'angels', although they certainly do not see that in themselves.

I replaced my telephone receiver feeling truly humbled and look forward to further contact.