My heart, my mind-------------------------------overflowing.
Like the cup of wine at our Havdallah service.
Like many hold onto the Sabbath -- I hold onto this journey.

Not letting go, not drawing, not writing, not even barely uttering its secrets,
fearing the mere mention will bring it crashing to an end.

Now finally, I stand in confrontation with my thoughts as if they were the thoughts of others.

How does one do justice, with this inadequate voice, to the memory of our encounter with each other ...

And that place -- that worked its magic on the meaning and the challenge of so much:

Yad Vashem -- the children that will never be forgotten.

Masada -- vast, spare, brown, silent place.

The ascent to Jerusalem -- where all I've loved have stood before me.

The Western Wall which pushes back on the hand that touches.

The Mount of Beatitudes -- school of spirit growing in a garden.

David Hartman's tunnels of reason and passion, cutting through the complex, elusive, troubling, and intoxicating condition of being Jewish, of being Christian, of being human, of being present.

Meah She'arim at dusk -- walking into the night, into the past, into the memory of ancestors vanished -- into the other.

A bus sailing on modern ancient roads, a crew of kindred souls dipping oars of Bible into love and experience ...

Israel and this pilgrimage--
Not a hailstorm, a gentle breeze--
Never ceasing,
Slowly transforming our hearts.

--Steven Hoffman Shapiro