The dramatic life story of an Israeli woman who falls and raises again because of one word: “YES”!
Warning: This book can change your life
Copyright © 2008 by Dominiquae Bierman
“Yes!”
The dramatic life story of an Israeli woman who falls
and raises again because of one word: “YES”!
by Dominiquae Bierman
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-60647-987-2
All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of the publisher.
Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from The New American Standard version. Copyright © 2002 buy the Zondervan Corporation, used by permission. First Printing June 1996. www.biblegateway.com.
Contact details
www.dominiquaebierman.com
karenmap@netvision.net.il
Warning: This book can change your life
www.xulonpress.com
This book is dedicated to my beloved children Adi and Yuval who have been a blessing, a challenge and an inspiration in my life.
“All your sons will be taught of the LORD; and the well-being of your sons will be great.” Isaiah 54:13
Introduction
Chapter 1 Forbidden Waters
Chapter 2 Hidden Tears
Chapter 3 The Operation
Chapter 4 Land Of Our Ancestors
Chapter 5 The Big Escape
Chapter 6 Snapshots Of Adulthood
Chapter 7 Forever Mine
Chapter 8 Health, Health, Health!
Chapter 9 Yuval
Chapter 11 Adultery
Chapter 12 Demonic Freedom
Chapter 13 Light, Where Are You Lost?
Chapter 14 The Light Of The World
Chapter 15 Yes!
Chapter 16 Born Again, Baby Steps
Chapter 17 Empowered By The Spirit
Chapter 18 Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done
Chapter 19 Life Is Good
Chapter 20 The Still, Small Voice
Chapter 21 Dance For Joy
Chapter 22 A Mother’s Heart
Chapter 23 The Lord Is My Shepherd
Chapter 24 Spiritual Warfare!
Chapter 25 Baruch
Chapter 26 A New Congregation In Israel!
Chapter 27 The Letter Of The Law
Chapter 28 Meeting My Destiny
Chapter 29 The Ugly Green Truck
Chapter 30 Dancing Down The Aisle
Epilogue
Contact Details
Other Books And Music Produced
Dear Reader:
This book is a true story. Except for some occasions where I have changed names in order to protect the identity of some people, all other details are authentic. The reason for writing my life story to you is only one: LOVE. Not any kind of love, but a love that comes from heaven. That is, the love of God. I believe that many of you will identify with some of the things that happened to me, and if so, my prayer is that through the pages of this book you may find the One that rescued me, to whom I owe every breath and every second of my life.
The way I wrote this book is a bit unconventional. It is designed to give you ‘glimpses’ and a open ‘windows’ into the story of my life. Or using another analogy, it is as if I have invited you into my home for a Shabbat evening, your free evening, and I host you to a ‘finger food’ buffet. Please relax, as we sit together in my comfortable living room and enjoy what could be a life changing story.
I was born to serve the God of my fathers. But at the time of my birth no one knew it. My mother had gone through a terrible pregnancy and very long hours of labor. Now, at last when my head was appearing the doctor turned pale.
“Quick! Bring me the scissors!” he shouted frantically at the nurse. My mother was barely conscious due to the pain, exhaustion and heavy medication.
I was blue and purple. I had swallowed a tremendous amount of meconium, (infant fecal matter in the birthing fluid). Even worse, the umbilical cord was wrapped so tightly around my neck that it was impossible to unwrap it.
With swift hands and an unction from God Almighty, the doctor made a precise cut of the cord around my neck, freeing me from deadly captivity. He proceeded to resuscitate me. I was more dead than alive and my chances of recovery were slight.
But God wanted me to live, so I lived! I was named Andrea Ronit (Ronit being my Hebrew name).
******
“Are you Jewish?” the teacher of catechism at the Catholic school asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied in a whisper, blushing from the tips of my ears. A holy hush fell on the classroom, as all the children knew I was Jewish and proud to be so.
“Well,” the teacher said, with a dismissing wave of her hand, “You can stay as long as you sit quietly and behave yourself.”
So I stayed.
I was six years old. We lived in Santiago, Chile where I heard only Spanish. My mother had enrolled me at the Breamer Catholic School as she wanted me to get the best English education available. My being Jewish hadn’t seemed to pose a problem, for my parents’ main purpose for me was not religious instruction but education. They knew that whenever it was time for classes on catechism, (Catholic religious studies), the teacher would ask all the Jewish girls to leave the room and play in the yard for that hour. This they did with explosive joy!
When the bells had rung for catechism time, Lillian Barros had shouted excitedly, “Come on, Andrea, we’re free to play and jump rope. Come. Hurry! Why are you daydreaming?”
“No, Lillian,” I had answered with determination. “I want to stay in my class and find out what this is all about.”
Lillian sighed with frustration. “Do you always have to be so serious? Besides, what will your mom say? You know we are Jewish!” Shrugging her shoulders, she ran off. I had stayed in my chair, shy and a little frightened. The teacher of catechism was taking roll and did not recognize me. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you a new student?” Not waiting for an answer she had asked the dreaded question, “Are you Jewish?”
I sat quietly, drinking in everything I could of this strange religion. It spoke of a Savior, of heaven, and of hell. It told about a man named Jesus Christ who was all man and all God. It was fascinating to dip into strictly forbidden waters!
As a Jew I was already in trouble. Even though my family was not religiously Jewish, we still bore deep wounds in our hearts from all the slaughters and pogroms done in one way or another in the name of Christ. The Nazi Holocaust was vivid in my parents’ memory, in which six million Jews had been slaughtered in a supposedly Christian nation.
Little did I then know that the name “Christ” means “Messiah,” and that he is mentioned countless times in my Jewish Bible!
It had been a good day at school. Once again I had spent another hour dipping into the forbidden waters of catechism. This God-man Jesus was beginning to be a personal friend to me. God the Father had become my Father too. I was excited. God was my friend, and He loved me! As I meditated on these strange things in my room at home, I was enveloped by a sweet, warmth and a tingling sensation of the reality of a Higher Nature.
“Andrea Ronit!” The distinctive voice of my mother brought me back to the mundane level.
“Yes, mom. I’m coming.”
I ran from my bedroom to the living room where my mother, two smaller sisters and my brother, Ariel, were gathered. How I longed to communicate these things that were happening to me! But I concealed them in my heart, knowing they would not be understood.
“Andrea,” said my mother in her no-nonsense voice, “Bring me all of your notebooks. I want to see how you are doing and what you are studying.”
My heart froze! “Yes, mom,” I said, trying to conceal the trembling in my voice.
My father was a university professor and spent long hours at work. When he came home that night my mom said, “Hiram, look!” She was indignant!
We were all in the room and with a distressed voice and shaking hands, she displayed before him what she had found — my catechism notebook! She flung the notebook open and there before us was a most vivid drawing of a bonfire. I had drawn it according to the teacher’s requirement of a picture representing the fire of hell, showing how Jews and blacks and everyone who were not Catholics were going to be burnt in hell forever.
This clear hint of anti-Semitism, (hatred and discrimination of Jews,) caused my mom and dad to be in complete agreement.
“Tomorrow we will let the school know of our indignation,” my mom said angrily.
“More than that,” my dad said. “Register Andrea immediately at the Hebrew School, “Galvarino Gallardo”. Let her start her Jewish education there at once!”
That night I sobbed under my covers. From tomorrow I would have to leave all my friends and that “special one,” Jesus, who seemed to be the cause of all the problems. I was to be abruptly uprooted in order to be planted in completely new soil.
A new school, new friends, new subjects to learn. As I thought of all these things I grew quieter in my spirit. It was as if someone inside me had bathed me with peace and said, “It’s okay, my baby. This is for my purposes. I will never leave you. Trust me!”
“Get her!” Armando shouted.
“No. She’s too quick. You get her, Alejandro! She’s closer to you.”
I was running for my life in the yard of the Hebrew school, “Galvarino Gallardo”. Although the smallest in age and size in my class, I could outrun them all!
There were twelve students in the class. We studied, played and quarreled together for many hours a day. Ever since I had come to the school the year before, I had been almost the center of attention for both the students and teachers.
My poems depicting the magnificence of Chilean geography were hanging on the walls of the school. One of the girls, Miriam, became jealous of me because I also had a flair for drawing. She wanted to be “the queen of the class.” Without my being aware of it, she thought that I held that “title.” She would say little mean things from time to time that gradually made me aware of her jealousy.
I loved to sing, and in special functions would be asked to sing before the whole school. I delighted in physical education and gymnastics and was also one of the best students in the class, excelling in the Hebrew language and in study of the Bible, (the Tanach).
I felt very different from the other children, for I was serious and didn’t take to the foolish games. Something inside me felt different although I didn’t know what that something was.
******
We were four children in our home. My brother, Ariel, was the second child, a year and half younger than I. Vivi was three years younger than I, and Carolina six years younger.
Ariel was a very sensitive child. He was quiet most of the time, and had a pleasant nature. But from the time he was small, he had some emotional problems that developed later in life into a major problem.
My mother, though very warm and caring, had an abusive streak to her. She was a controversial woman.
On one hand she was caring, loving and compassionate. She eventually became a beautician, and ministered comfort and love to many who came for her services. She had a heart for people and loved to help. Many people would stream to her.
On the other hand she was cold, manipulative and controlling. Sometimes she was sweet and sometimes cruel, verbally and physically. She was deeply involved in the occult and witchcraft through meditation, Yoga and things of this nature.
Today I know that when people are involved in witchcraft and occult through different practices like yoga, meditation, Kabbala, spiritualism and even Freemasonry, etc. They caused them to be manipulative and controlling because of evil spirits that are involved in these practices. In one degree or another in our home we all had these tendencies, as our family had been some of these practices for generations.
My father was a brilliant man but he was not always at home. His career as a professor at the university caused him to work and study long hours. In many, many crucial times during our growing up, my dad was not there. He didn’t know how to cope with many situations. The one who managed the household and our education was my mother. She carried most of the load, including the discipline.
We could sense some peace and love coming from him, but in many ways he was like a little boy. He tended to become angry very quickly, and then just as quickly appeased. He had the kind of personality that would flare up and then quiet down.
My mom and dad loved one another very much but had endless arguments about petty little things. I grew up with that constant bickering between them. It was normal for this strife and quarreling to be going on between them, and then again there would be love and embraces and hugs and kisses in front of us.
It was two extremes — tremendous passion and love for each other, yet tremendous strife and quarreling on the other hand. It was not violence with the use of hands, but verbal abuse, verbal put-downs, complaints, and manipulation to control situations. As I was growing up, I never felt that my dad was someone in whom I could find comfort or in whom I could confide.
On the other hand my father was a man of integrity. He was a man of his word, and whatever he said, he meant. He would research carefully before giving his opinion on things.
I learned from him that one’s word is one’s word, and we should not lie. My dad was not a man who lied. You could believe everything he said. Even though he was not an adequate father because he was absent in so many ways. At least as I was growing up as the firstborn in the family, he imparted to me a desire for truthfulness, trustworthiness and a willingness to research for established facts.
In spite of all their weaknesses my parents loved us and wanted the best for us and their lives were not always easy.
I heard the sound of commotion and a muffled cry of pain. “Hiram,” said my mother, “We will have to search for better help than what we are getting here in Chile.” My dad was in too much pain to answer. His kidneys had been failing for a while and the doctors in Chile had reached their capacity to help him. They had suggested for him to travel to the USA for a kidney operation. “But, the children...” said my dad in a strained voice. “My brother, Alfonso, will surely take care of them.”
******
“Do you have to go, momma?” Ariel was asking. I was thinking to myself: “Will they ever come back?” Vivi was awfully quiet and had a frown on her little forehead. And Carolina, the baby, was not even there as she had been gravely ill with whooping cough and my maternal grandmother was taking care of her. I was six and a half when my parents drove away in an ambulance to board the plane that would take them to the USA for my father’s kidney operation.
“How long will you be gone?” I had asked my mom. She looked intently into my eyes and said,” I don’t know.”
Now we were in my uncle’s home for an indefinite time. My aunt was trying to do her best but there was a chill in my heart. Many questions were going through my six-year-old mind. “Would dad live? Would they ever come back? Had my parents abandoned us?” A deep sense of abandonment started settling within my heart and as a little girl I decided that being self-reliant was very important for survival.
Six months later my parents came back knowing that father had been granted a miracle. He would live! He had not much left of his kidneys but he was alive and though still weak, he looked like a man who had been given a second chance. “He is a survivor. He refuses to leave me or the children alone”, said my mother.
******
“Hi granny! Hi granddaddy! Here I am again!”
“Hello my darling,” said grandma, “We were waiting for you for lunch”.
Across the road from where we lived, in the apartment complex in Santiago, on a street called Carlos Antunez, were many buildings and apartments inhabited by Jewish people. Almost right opposite our home was an apartment complex where my maternal grandparents lived, my grandmother Susana and my grandfather Moises.
They had had a most successful business of making and selling woolen blankets. Their factory was burned down by someone trying to harm them but, undaunted, they collected the insurance and built another one. They were hard-working people with their own factory and business and always had enough for themselves and to help others financially.
My grandmother and grandfather did not get along very well. Their marriage had been arranged by a family member against the will of my grandmother, and she never got over that. But they seemed to manage to stay together.
For me it was very important that they were there, because, being the firstborn grandchild, I was the most pampered. They accepted me, loved me, and believed in me. It didn’t matter what I did, they knew that I was intelligent, that I was going to make it, and that I was worthy of their attention.
There were many instances when I would spend weekends with them rather than my family. If I wanted any kind of comfort at all during my growing years, it would have to come from my grandmother. She became my special friend, and fed me special meals. One thing I really liked was avocado pears, and my grandmother fed me so many that I developed a reaction to them, and I cannot eat them anymore.
My grandmother was a very special lady. She always had a dedication to the poor people of this world. Many times she found children lost on the streets, or who had no food to eat. They would knock on her door and she would bring food out to them. Other times she would let them in to watch television in her house, or she would have them bathe and shower and then give them some good clothing.
That’s the example I saw in my grandma’s house.
I remember one conversation I had with her. She was feeding some children as I came into the house. She said, “Andrea, you can see that I’m doing what Jesus did.”
“Oh,” I said. “What did Jesus do?”
“Jesus fed the poor,” she told me.
“Jesus was a very special man,” she explained to me. “He was a man of compassion. He was a man of power, but he also was a man who loved the poor people, and he loved the ones who were downtrodden. I love Jesus because of that! He was a man of miracles, and he healed people.”
On and on she told me about this Jesus, that I knew that he was all right. I knew that I had heard of him before, and had vague recollections about him from my Christian school and the religious classes I attended.
Though my grandmother was a Jew she accepted Christianity as a religion and she accepted Jesus as a man that came from God to help and to give. She was an example of someone who is open-minded.
“Havenu shalom aleichem, havenu shalom aleichem...” We children were all singing together on board the ship as we approached the coast of Israel. The ship had already passed through the Mediterranean Sea and was nearing our beloved Promised Land, Israel.
Although I was only 11 years old I had gathered the children together. We were sitting at the front of the ship. This was an event of great importance to us all, and we sang heartily in celebration of our memorable arrival in Haifa, Israel.
I was proud to be a Jew! I was proud that my father had finally fulfilled his promise that we would one day emigrate to Israel as citizens. Israel had proclaimed “the Law of Return” that automatically accepts every Jew into the land with full citizenship. My father was the leader of part of this group, leading them into their biblical inheritance. What a joy!
During the month-long boat travel to our first stop in Italy, my relationship with my family was strained. There we boarded another ship which took us directly to Israel.
My younger brother Ariel had been seriously ill throughout the trip with a raging fever, and we were aware of the horrible possibility that he might not be alive by the end of the trip. He spent the whole month in the ship hospital, but I had become so disassociated from the family that I didn’t visit him except once. This was strange, as I loved my brother dearly. My brother was totally helpless, and, we who were close to him couldn’t help him much either. Yet my mother tended and cared for him day and night.
My family was really disappointed with me. It was as if for some unknown reason I didn’t really belong, and I felt more and more distant, with little communication or understanding between us.
Twenty-five years later I visited Chile with my husband, Baruch. As I was lying on the beach of Reniaca on the coast of the Pacific, where we used to spend the most beautiful summers with the paternal side of my family, including cousins, aunts and uncles, I understood why I became so alienated from the family.
It was a defense mechanism against the pain of separation, as we had just “cut off” our ties with our family in Chile, especially my maternal grandparents. In order to cope with it, I grew estranged from my parents who were the cause of the separation as they took us to Israel. Though I was in total agreement with their decision, my heart had suffered and had found a way to deny the pain. A denial that went on for 25 years!... until that day on the beach.
Yet at the time of arrival at Haifa port we were all utterly excited. Finally, we had arrived at the land of our ancestors!
******
Settling in a new country was very stressful for us. For the first five months we were assigned to stay at the Jewish absorption center in Netanya, which is between Haifa and Tel Aviv. Its purpose was to absorb the new immigrants, help them find jobs and to learn the Hebrew language in a day school called the ulpan.
Our family was quite different from many of the others at the center. Most of the families were complaining about the hardships, as they had become accustomed to a comfortable life in Chile. But my parents had a good pioneer spirit, so our family adjusted well to the new culture, and loved it.
“I won’t touch her!”
“I won’t touch her either!”
“Get away from her!”
I was as rejected and despised as a leper! Some of the boys at the absorption center had begun forming a circle in order to learn some steps of Israeli folk dancing, but they wouldn’t let me into the circle.
The reason for their rejection was this stupid game in which everyone had to reveal his or her romantic inclinations. In that game all the boys had discovered that they were in love with me, but since I wasn’t “in love” with any of them, they began a cruel warfare of rejection against me.
Even though I had gone through much rejection at the Hebrew school in Chile for being different and talented, this new bout of rejection caught me by surprise. Although I was only 11 years old, my budding femininity seemed to attract the boys like flies. By not responding to their feelings I was in trouble.
The experience of being rejected for being different or being more gifted in certain areas, followed me constantly as a painful shadow all through my childhood and teenage years.
I am thankful that at school I was loved and cherished, where again I was the smallest in age and in size. I was better accepted by the Israelis of Mizrachi origin than by the Ashkenazi. These Mizrachi Jews were warm and hospitable from the outset. Mizrachi Jews in Israel were of eastern or oriental origin — from Arabic countries like Morocco, Iran, Iraq, etc. The Ashkenazi Jews were mostly of European origin.
******
By the age of twelve, I realized that I could not count on my father as a good provider. Financially speaking, there would be provision for food and there would be basic clothing, but if I needed anything more than that — any type of need, such as a little more clothing, or something different or special, he wasn’t the person I could go to. That made a big impression on me. I grew further away from my family, and this situation carried on into my teenage years. There would be no real communication or understanding between us.
At age twelve I started working, baby-sitting, and doing every kind of seasonal work possible to have my own money. Actually, I became the one in the family who had pocket money when others didn’t. I became a provider, and could provide in many ways. That pattern has accompanied me through life.
******
His big imposing figure appeared at the entrance to the classroom. A solemn hush fell over us as we all quickly gave our full attention to Dr. Shefy. He was the high-school principal in Miterani High School in Holon, a town south of Tel Aviv.
“Christianity,” he said, with no introduction, “is an exciting religion. It is a collection of many sects and denominations that fight yet complement one another. The roots of Christianity are Jewish roots. This religion came out of Judaism nearly 2000 years ago. If it hadn’t been for Judaism, Christianity would be non-existent today.”
“A Jewish man by the name of Saul of Tarsus who eventually changed his name to Paul the Apostle, applied himself to the spread of Christianity throughout most of the civilized world, including Greece, Macedonia and eventually Rome. Therefore the Christians owe their roots to the Jews.”
******
The noise of moving chairs was quite deafening as we all endeavored to form a circle with them. There was excitement in the air! Yosi was coming to address us concerning his role in the 1973 Yom Kippur War.
He was a courageous soldier who had received medals because of his courage, as he was terribly wounded while fighting on the Syrian border.
This was the end of 1976, and my last year in high school. I was sixteen and a half, the youngest of all my graduating class.
Yosi came in, dressed in his military attire and sat down among us. I looked at him with admiration. My heart throbbed because of the love I had for my country, and for the men who defended it. Soon I would be a soldier too. I would do my patriotic share in its defense.
“You are all very important to Israel,” he said. “You are the new generation we can count on to defend and build this country.”
We all sat straight on our chairs, listening soberly and intently.
“There are many things to do. We need to settle the West Bank of the Jordan River with Jewish settlers, so that the world understands finally that God, in the Bible, gave us all of the Promised Land. And that includes what anti-Israeli sources call ‘the occupied territories.’ These are not ‘the occupied territories,’ children. These are the liberated territories. In the 1973 war, after we were stealthily attacked on our holiest day of the year, the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur, we conquered these territories and brought them back to Israel. These territories are part of our biblical inheritance. There is much opposition politically, but I am calling the youths of Israel to rise up and demonstrate that they have a voice! This country has strong, vibrant, patriotic future soldiers — that will not give up!”