Friday, March 27, 2009

Expertly Trained Elephants

Here it is Friday again, and I don't have any short story ready for you. I have been doing a ton of writing, but none on my book this week. I had an assignment for my "Teaching Writing" course I am doing, so I thought I would post that. No one will probably be interested in reading it, but as hardly anyone comments anyway, I wouldn't know if my posts even get read.:) (hint, hint) Seeing that the assignment was to be about elephants, I didn't have much choice when I wrote. However, I did manage to get all six dress-ups in as well as all six sentence openers and even managed to get at least two triples.:) If the paragraph seems a little over done, it is because I used everything instead on only some.:) And now with no more delay, here it is.

Expertly Trained Elephants
by Rebekah

Domesticated elephants can learn anything they are taught. Before an elephant can learn however, he must first be caught and domesticated. Humans might dig pits to catch them, or use fire, guns or loud frightening noises to drive the wild elephants into an enclosure. Training them to fight in human wars can be traced back to olden times when Hannibal overwhelmed and terrified the Europeans with his superbly trained elephant cavalry. Although elephants were taught to help batter forts in war, they also helped build them in peace. Asiatic elephants were used for transportation because of their great strength. Their great Herculean strength equals fifty horses. They are used in logging as well. Skillful men cut. Mighty elephants haul. Faithfully all contribute. Over the years, domesticated elephants who were wisely, expertly and cleverly trained for many different tasks have clearly leaned them well.

Now, you have either read the above short paragraph and thought "Surely she could do better than that," or you just skipped it thinking, "I don't what to read about elephants." But then, probably no one is even reading this. I feel as though I am rambling on to myself. I do like talking to myself, but not as well as I like talking to others.:) But be that as it may, I do have a question for you, just in case you do decide to read this.
How many "new" books do you think I have read since April 1994? By "new" books I mean books that I had never read before, be they old or new. Believe it or not, I have kept a list of each "new" book I have read since April 1994. Of course this list does not include all the books I read and re-read once, twice, five or ten times, nor does it include all the books I have skimmed but not read all the way though. Take a guess. I'll tell you the answer some other time.:)

Friday, March 20, 2009

"Home Fires of the Great War" . . .

As you can see, I decided to change the look of my blog. I just wanted to play with it. I really wasn't sure what I was doing, so I hope it looks okay.:)
I thought it was time I posted another bit from my book for you. This is from one of the "letters" I have just written. This was written by Emma in October 1917.

. . .Daddy’s visit was wonderful but much too short. He had to go back on Tuesday. He doesn’t have any idea when they will be shipped out. In some ways I think it is harder now to have Daddy gone after he was home, than it was when he left the first time. Why is that? Perhaps it is because at first we were stirred by all the news of patriotism, and now the reality of it all has sunk in. Whatever the reason, it was harder to say good by. Perhaps it is also the fact that we know Daddy could be shipped over to France any time now, while before, he was just going to a training camp.
I was so shocked to hear of Kent’s death! Poor Mary Jane! This war is really becoming more and more real. How many blue stars now hanging in windows will be gold before the war is over? Will ours be gold? Maybe that is really the reason it was harder when Daddy left this time. Deep down inside I wonder if... But I won’t even think it. . . .

. . . “Would you four older ones please sing “Keep the Home Fires Burning” for me?” Mama asked looking into the dying flames.
David hummed a note and then at his nod, we began:

“They were summoned from the hillside;
They were called in from the glen,
And the Country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the Soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song. . . .

Keep the Home fires burning...”

That last word “home” seemed to linger in the air around us as we ended. Someday this war will be over. And if we aren’t to meet here in our earthly home, we will meet in our heavenly one. The fire was not more than glowing embers with an occasional flame here or there. The cold could be felt, and though I had my coat on, I shivered.
Edmund glanced over at me before he spoke, “I hate to mention it, but it is getting late, and the wind is rather chilly to keep the younger ones out in it much longer. Besides, I don’t think I could sing another note.” . . .

Well, what did you think? Would you like me to keep putting bits of my book up?

Friday, March 13, 2009

"Whom Should She Trust?"

All right, now that "Ben-Gurion" is finished, I can post something else. This is another short story. I have been doing so much writing for different things lately that I don't think this story turned out really well. I know when I first started it, I got stuck. I couldn't think of a thing to write next. Then it dawned on me. I had started at the end of the story instead of the beginning. :) That certainly made a difference, but I had forgotten how many characters I was supposed to have. :{ Oops. I took out one guy, but no one else would leave. I think I now have one too many characters. I should also mention that I had never written anything using the special instructions I had for this story. I hope I did it right. It was difficult, but a good challenge. What do you think of it?

Oh, and by the way, if any of you would like to suggest things for another short story, just copy the "directions," put your answers in and e-mail it to me. I will then put it (or them) with the next pictures. I have over 40 pictures to write stories about, and I don't think Anna wants to write all the "directions.":) I'd be happy for any someone wants to send. Okay, now for the story.

Picture #2
Characters: 2 main, up to 3 minor
Word count: 2000-3000 2877
Tense: 3rd
Special Instructions: Bring out emotions through dialogue, do not describe them.
Time Given to Complete Story: 3 weeks. 9 days

Whom Should She Trust?

The room was dim and hushed. A young girl was kneeling beside the bed, deaf to any sound save the slow breathing coming from the form lying there. A sigh brought the girl’s head up, and her eyes gazed intently at the pallid face on the pillow.
“Papa,” she whispered, “speak to me once more. Tell me what to do, whom to trust. Oh, Papa--” she broke off abruptly as her father’s eyes opened slowly.
“Hannah?” The name was scarcely audible even in that still room.
“I am here, Papa. I am holding your hand.”
“Hannah,” he said again, “be careful whom you trust. Oh, be careful . . . They want the money . . . most of them. . . . There is a right one. You must not trust the others.” His eyes closed.
“How do I know whom to trust, Papa? How can I be sure he too doesn’t want just the money? Papa!”
The weary eyes fluttered once more. The girl bent tenderly over him.
“I . . . am . . . going . . . home now. Hannah, . . . come home . . . too . . .. Pray, Hannah.”
Hannah bowed her head, but no words could she utter though she tried.
“Father . . . keep . . . my little girl . . . safe.” A tired sigh followed the low whispered prayer, and all was still.
The doctor laid quiet fingers on the limp wrist and then glanced at the still form of the girl beside the bed.
“He is gone.” The words were spoken softly yet they reached the ears of the girl.
Hannah raised her head, looked long at the face on the pillow, then rose and left the room.
Yes, her father was dead. She was alone in the world. Alone. The word brought a shiver. Her whole life had changed so quickly. She had been sheltered and cared for; now so suddenly she must do for herself. Could she manage the large estate left her as well as the immense fortune which now belonged solely to her? What had her father meant when he told her they wanted the money? Who wanted the money? And who didn’t?
Hannah never fully remembered the days and even weeks that immediately followed her much loved father’s death. She was conscious of only one thing; she was alone.

One night, several months later, Hannah lay in her bed,staring out the nearby window at a brilliantly full moon.
“Oh, Papa, if you were only here to advise me! I think my heart will break without you! Oh, why am I so alone? Who is it that truly wants me and not my money? Is it Mr. Everson or Mr. Adkins? Or someone else? Mr. Everson asked me to be his wife this evening, and Mr. Adkins asked the same thing only two days before? If only I knew whom to trust!” Hannah turned restlessly on her pillow. “And Mr. Sawyer wants to buy that piece of land. How do I know the price he offered is fair?” For some time her thoughts were in turmoil. Unable to decide what to do and whom to trust, Miss Hannah made a decision to trust no one. She would live her life out alone if she had to. She had no real friends and no relatives near. Surely she could just stay quietly in her own home with her servants. “Perhaps someday,” she thought just before falling asleep, “I will find out who I can trust. Surely someone is trustworthy.”

And so, the days and weeks passed, turning into months and then into years. Hannah quietly dropped out of all social life, which wasn’t difficult for she had felt no interest in it since her father had died. The invitations for dinners gradually grew fewer and fewer and at last ceased all together. Former acquaintances now acknowledged her rare appearances in public places with a bow or a nod.

It had been three years since her father’s death. They had been three of the loneliest years of Hannah’s life. There had been times when her resolve to trust no one had nearly failed, only to be strengthened by stories of dishonor and treachery. She vowed she would remain the sole mistress of The Glen. “Unless,” she always added to herself, “I can find someone that I know I can trust.” The southern mansion was as beautiful as ever it was in the days gone by, yet the the former gaiety was gone. No longer were large parties held on the grounds in the warmer months nor in the large parlor and dining room in the winter. There was no one to enjoy the extensive grounds and spacious rooms except Miss Hannah and the servants.
“Miss Hannah, I’s sorry to bother you, but dere’s a gintleman dat insists on seein’ you.”
Miss Hannah looked up, “Oh, Candace, why do people persist in intruding where they aren’t wanted? Do tell him I am busy, otherwise engaged, anything.”
“So I did Miss, but he jest walked in an’ took a seat. Said he’d wait a spell. I ain’t sure what to do.”
The sunlight streamed in the large open windows upon the beautifully decorated library, the rows and rows of beautifully bound books and the lovely form seated at a desk. A gentle spring breeze wafted the delicate fragrance of the garden flowers into the room and stirred the dress and hair of Miss Hannah.
“Do, Candace, try once more to show him out, for I do not wish to see him.”
“I’ll try, Miss Hannah,” and Candace departed with a shake of her head.
A brief time elapsed ere the servant reappeared. “Tain’t no use, Miss Hannah. De gintleman say he won’t leave da place till he sees you if he has ta wait till tomorrow or de day after dat or de day after dat. An’ he didn’t give me no card an’ won’t tell me no name. I does like his looks though. I tink he is an honest man.”
“He is a very rude man if you ask me. No name, no card, and insists on seeing me when I have declined to see him. And yet, oh Candace, how can I refuse? My father would be ashamed if I were to act as my feelings now tell me to.”
Candace waited in respectful silence. She knew it was best to let her mistress speak her mind in peace.
“Very well, . . . I will see him. Show him in here, Candace.”
Miss Hannah once again turned wearily to her desk and picked up her pen, but she did not write. In spite of herself she felt a slight curiosity towards this strange gentleman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Who was he, and what did he want? She had no desire to see him, she told herself, and yet at the sound of approaching footsteps she rose in dignified silence and turned towards the door, her father’s words repeating in her mind,
“Be careful whom you trust. Be careful whom you trust. . . .”
As the door was opened, the stranger paused on the threshold; a look of admiration plainly visible on his face at sight of the fair lady before him. After a low bow he entered. Miss Hannah gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and turned to Candace.
“Thank you, Candace. You may leave. I will ring for you when I want you again.”
Candace nodded and withdrew, leaving her mistress alone with the strange gentleman.
For a full minute they both stood in complete silence. Miss Hannah waiting for the gentleman to make his errand known and leave her once more in peace. The stranger, tall and broad shouldered, with an easy air about him, gazed in unconcealed admiration at his hostess.
Miss Hannah started.
“Oh, Hannah, it has been so long, and yet you haven’t changed. You are as beautiful as ever.” The gallant words were uttered as the stranger came forward with both hands outstretched and a smile on his face.
Miss Hannah took a step backward and reached for the bell while keeping an eye on her unwanted visitor.
The stranger saw his mistake and paused. “Hannah, don’t ring! You don’t recognize me. I should have known you wouldn’t. Here,” and he pulled off his waistcoat and pushed his left sleeve up revealing a jagged scar. “Does that tell you the truth?”
Miss Hannah stared at the scar and then into the blue eyes which looked so steadily and honestly back at her. It had to be . . . but how could she be sure?
The stranger seeing her distrust and hesitation, forever dispelled it by pulling out a curiously shaped watch guard and repeating as though from memory,
“This is a present from me to you. Whenever you see it, remember, be true.”
“John! It can’t be... But it has been five years! Why didn’t... How came you to... Where... when? Oh, John! Let me cry, it’s been so long!” Her head rested on his shirt front while the tears fell.
“My dear little Hannah. It is a long time, but the story is soon told.” John tightened his arms around her. “Can’t you even greet me with a smile? I promise I won’t run away this time.”
The merry words of long ago brought Hannah’s head up with a smile “as bright as the sun,” John thought as he kissed the fair girl in his arms.
“Oh, John! Come, tell me everything. I am longing to know.”
“Can’t we walk out in the garden? I feel so confined here.”
Hannah’s rippling laughter rang out as it had not done for so long. “You always felt that way here in this room while I loved it. Yes, of course we can go out. Let me just ring for Candace to bring me my shawl.”
“Stay,” John’s hand caught hers back from the bell. “Never mind the shawl. If you must have something, use this,” and with a quick move his waistcoat was around her shoulders. “I hate wearing one of those now as much as I ever did.”
“John, you are impossible!” and slipping her arm through his, she led the way out into the sunshine.

Candace turned from the doorway. “I jest knowd it. Dat’s her lubber sure ‘nough. I saw dat gintleman, an’ I says to my self, “Candace dat man has gotta be Miss Hannah’s lubber.” An’ now I knows I’m right.”
“Lubber? Miss Hannah’s? Candace, I thought yo had more sense den dat!”
Candace turned, hands on her hips, “Now Zeke Andrews, don’t you go an’ try ta tell me dat de man walkin’ right now in de garden with Miss Hannah ain’t her lubber. I knows better.”
Zeke looked out the door a moment. “Maybe its a cousin. I heard her say there’s a heap of dem, dough dey don’t come ‘round here no more.”
“An’ her wearin’ his coat! Now yo talkin’ like a man wit no sense in his head. Sure Miss Hannah got a heap o’ cousins, an’ I knowd dat. I’s seen dem all at de burin’ o’ Massa, an’ I’s sayin’ dat aint one.”

“Now tell me everything, John, please.” Miss Hannah looked as eager as a child as she gazed up into the face which was watching hers with such interest.
“It won’t take long. I only received your letter about Uncle’s death two months ago and have been trying to reach here ever since.”
“Two months ago! It has been three years since he--”
John drew her into a sunny walkway. “I know. It may seem hard to believe, but out west it is harder to receive mail. I do know that the letter had been sitting in a post office for eight months before I came by and claimed it. I had been traveling quite a bit. Even if I had left a forwarding address as they do here in the east, the letter would no sooner have started on its way, than I would have been on the move elsewhere.”
He was expecting the next question.
“Why didn’t you write and explain your long silence?”
“I did, many times, but no answer came back.”
Silence was the only reply. Miss Hannah was thinking of the order she had given to her servants after her father’s death and her decision to trust no one. “I want to see no mail or anything of the sort from strangers. I am alone and very wealthy. I may perchance fall prey to some scheming, dishonest man because he pretends to have love and sympathy for me while in reality he wishes for nothing but my money.” Could John’s letters be mixed in with those? Could Candace have inadvertently placed those letters with the others? It was possible. After all, she had never met John. He had already gone west when she came to The Glen. “I ... I ... I didn’t know you had written. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. I’m here now, and I’m staying for a while. By the way, I heard in town that Miss Hannah is very close and doesn’t like company. I hope she can reconcile herself to the fact that I will stay here and no where else.” John looked down at the blushing cheeks of his cousin.
“As if I’d really let you stay anywhere else,” was the reply which entirely satisfied him.
“Say, I remember that tree!” A turn in the walk brought them again in sight of the house. The large old tree stood near by; its gnarled branches stretching toward the sun and out in an arching canopy of shade when the leaves grew full.
“You ought to remember it. You nearly killed yourself falling out of it one day,” and Hannah shook her head at the remembrance.
“You mustn’t be too hard on a fellow, Hannah. I was laid up for weeks after that fall.”
“Don’t I know.”

The lamps were lighted, not in the library where Miss Hannah was want to spend her evenings, but in the parlor. John was with her and quite dignified and proper. For nearly three long years Miss Hannah had not enjoyed such an evening. She listened with interest as John told of his adventures out west in California. When the old clock chimed twelve o’clock, she started.
“John! Where has the time gone? I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired, and here I have kept you awake and talking until this late hour. Zeke,” she ordered, as that individual entered in answer to her summons, “show Mr. John to his rooms, please.”
John kissed her hand and bade her good night with a low and graceful bow.
“He may have spent the last five years out west, but he hasn’t lost all the charm of his early training,” Hannah thought as she issued orders for the morning before retiring herself.

Several days following the arrival of John, passed before Hannah gathered enough courage to tell him her troubles. Several times John had asked questions about her seclusion, but each time she had skillfully turned the conversation, leaving the questions unanswered.
The air was warm and pleasant. John and Hannah were outside together in the garden. The white pillars of the house shone in the sunshine, and the air was heavy with the perfume of hundreds of flowers, vibrant with life and beauty. “John,” Hannah interrupted his tale of life out west. “John, . . . I . . . I need help.”
“I’ll do all I can.”
“I don’t know if they want my money because I don’t know whom to trust. Can’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know if I can or not. Suppose you start at the beginning. Why can’t you trust someone, and who is that someone?”
Beginning with her father’s death, Hannah poured out the whole story. “And so I just stayed at home and wouldn’t trust anyone because I was so afraid.”
John remained silent for some minutes after his cousin had ceased talking. “Hannah,” he said at last, “there is Someone who will never be dishonest with you if you will only trust Him.”
“Any one, John, if I can only know he is trustworthy.”
“The Lord Jesus Christ is the one I am talking about, Hannah. He is always faithful and will be a constant companion, friend and guide if you will let Him. I could never have survived some of the hardships out west if He hadn’t been with me.”
Hannah searched her cousin’s face. Was it possible to have the same peace that she saw on his face and had seen there since he had first made his appearance? She had seen that look also on her beloved father’s face just before he died. Could Jesus Christ help her? Would He? She could almost hear her father’s last words, “Father, keep my little girl safe.”
The silence grew so long that John turned to look at her.
“I do want to know Him, John. Will you show me how?”
The quietly spoken words sent a thrill through John’s very being. He would be delighted.
Thus it was that Miss Hannah Ward, the beautiful, young, and much admired heiress, at last found the only One whom she could perfectly trust, knowing that He would never be false to her.

Friday, March 6, 2009

The End of "David Ben-Gurion"

At last, here is the last parts of "David Ben-Gurion." Did anyone read it? What did you think of it? I enjoyed writing it because when I started, I knew nothing about him. I don't think I had even heard of him before Mom mentioned she thought he would be good to write about. I am working on another short story. The only problem is that I haven't come up with a good climax and ending for it yet. :) I guess I'll have to ask the characters what happens next.:) Believe it or not, that will sometimes work. Now you think I have really lost it. Oh, well. I don't have time to explain it all now.
And with that, I'll stop rambling and let you finish the story of "David Ben-Gurion Leader of Israel."

Fighting for Survival
The explosions of dropping bombs filled the air in Tel Aviv, Israel, with their sound. Ben Gurion paused a moment in his talk over the radio to U. S. citizens. “The noise you are hearing now,” his voice was calm as he spoke, “is the noise of bombs being dropped by enemy aircraft on this city.”
The war for Israel’s survival had begun. As Minister of Defense and Prime Minister, Ben Gurion was immersed with work, disbanding the many resistance groups and forming the Israel Defense Forces, directing the war, and raising support from abroad. The war was grim and the fighting fierce. The Arabs attacked city after city only to be driven back and repulsed by the small groups of Jews that were defending their homes. The fighting was furious as Jews throughout Israel strove to defend the land they loved. In Jerusalem, the Arabs had cut off the supply roads, and only through Ben Gurion’s quick decision to use a small rocky goat trail to bring supplies in, were the inhabitants saved from starvation and slaughter. As Ben Gurion said, “In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles.” And it was so. The Arabs thought they would quickly and easily achieve the victory because, after all, they had more men, more supplies and were better trained. They did not realize, however, that the Jews were fighting not only for their nation, but for their lives and homes, their families and land, their religious and cultural herittage. And, as the Lord was with the Israelites when they drove the Cananites out of that very land so many years ago, so He was with the people of Israel in their struggle for a homeland.

After four strenuous weeks of heavy fighting, a truce was called to try to come to terms of peace, but to no avail. At the end of the truce the Arab nations tried once again with all their might to annihilate Israel out of existence. Ten more bloody days of war passed, but in the end Israel was still there and even stronger than it was before. For Ben Gurion had not been idle during the four weeks of the truce. More arms had been gathered, more supplies brought in, the Haganah reorganized, and encouragement given. Finally, in early 1949, peace agreements were signed with Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria. Israel, with Ben Gurion as Prime Minister, was a recognized nation. Though but a tiny strip of land surrounded by enemies, it was yet a haven and fortress for the beleagured Jewish people of the world.

The End Years
It was late evening in November 1953 as Ben Gurion and his wife sat cosily together in their home in Tel Aviv. “Do you know?” Ben Gurion said, “I believe I want to resign from being Prime Minister and Minister of Defense.”
Paula smiled. “I don’t see why you shouldn't. After all, you have been a leader in one way or another for over 52 years.”
Ben Gurion looked confused. “But Paula, we’ve only been a nation for not quite six years.”
“Ah, but you forget,” she smiled. “You were a leader before we even became a nation. You were a leader here in Palestine when the Ottoman Empire ruled, and before that, you were a leader in your own home town in Russia.”
“You are right, dear. And I’ll do it! Let’s move out to a frontier town.”
“Which one?” Paula asked with another smile. She knew it would be difficult for her hard working husband to relax and take things easy, even if he was in his 60’s. Therefore, a move to a frontier town didn’t surprise her.
After thinking a minute, he replied, “Perhaps down south in Sedeh Boker in the Negev.”
“All right,” Paula agreed readily. “How soon shall we go?”
Sedeh Boker was indeed on the frontier. Not many would have called it even a town. A small cluster of wooden shacks with a wire fence around them sat in the middle of an empty landscape. Dry barren wilderness surrounded it on all sides. The earth was hard and cracked by the sun’s fierce rays and eroded by the hot winds that swept over the desert, leaving only sparse vegetation on which to feed sheep. It was certainly not a place where most people would think of moving when they retired.

As Paula could have predicted, Ben Gurion’s retirement lasted only two years. When he was asked to help in the government as Defense Minister under Prime Minister Moshe Sharret, he couldn’t refuse. Once in office again, it wasn’t long before he was re-elected Prime Minister. And for eight more years, he continued to serve as Israel’s leader. Then once again he retired from political office, although he continued to be active in politics and leadership from his home in Sedeh Boker. And from that now flourishing town, where lush vineyards grew and orchards of apple, peach, plum and almond trees thrived, Ben Gurion began promoting a college to be located on a nearby plateau.
In 1968, Paula, Ben Gurion’s beloved wife and helpmeet of 53 years died. Two years later Ben Gurion really did retire. Much of his time was spent reading from his personal library of 20,000 books, and working on a third volume of his collected letters. Then, on December 1, 1973, in the midst of the Yom Kippur War, at the age of 87 years, he died and was buried by the side of his wife. Upon his death, not only the nation of Israel mourned its fallen leader, but others around the world grieved as well. America’s President Richard Nixon said, “It was with the deepest sorrow that I learned of the death of David Ben-Gurion. . . The people of America join with the people of Israel in mourning the passing of a gallant man. As we shared his ideals and hopes, not only for Israel but for all mankind, so we share in their loss.” Ben Gurion was a leader, beloved of his countrymen, hated by his foes, and honored by millions who came after him.

Today the land of Israel is no longer an uninhabitable land of dry, arid deserts and swampy, malaria infested grounds with Jews longing to someday dwell in the land of their fathers, but being denied the right to live there. Now thousands of Jews from all parts of the world have reclaimed the land of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They have drained swamps and established thriving cities, causing the desert to bloom and bear abundant fruit as Isaiah, the prophet of old had foretold. “The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice , and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly. . . They shall see the glory of the LORD, and the excellency of our God. . . For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.” Everywhere, Jews have purchased land in Israel and with hard work have made a place fit for habitation. The college that Ben Gurion started in the Negev is prospering, and after his death was renamed Ben-Gurion University of the Negev in honor of Israel's great leader, who sought to pass on to the younger generations opportunities for learning and knowledge.
The land of Israel is not a land only of Jews. Arabs live peacefully with them, sharing in the labor and also in the government of the people. But, despite the early peace agreements signed with their neighbors, and almost 60 years of prosperous existence, the Israelis still face a constant struggle for survival. Yet they will survive, for the prophet Isaiah has also declared, “Seek ye out of the book of the LORD, and read: no one of these shall fail . . . they shall possess it for ever, from generation to generation shall they dwell therein.” Ben Gurion’s life of vision, courage, and determination still challenges us today to be leaders who never give up.

The End