It must have been hot and muggy that afternoon, walking down to the river Jordan. Dirt scratching between their toes and thirst cracking their sunburnt lips. The tour guide raised his toasted arm again over the heads of the crowd, to direct the exhausted stragglers on the right path. A few older women sat down on a rock, complaining about how long this was taking, and what else they should have done this morning.
There are too many things that a mother must worry about when raising her children. Food, clothing education, self-esteem, friends, physical activity, bad influences, good grades. But there is one thing that outweighs all of the little things that may keep her up at night. And strangely enough, many parents don’t give it a second thought.
Cobblestone over cobblestone. Pacing steadily over the settled dirt of a thousand, maybe a million other sandals. Cracks filled up by particles of beach, mountain and desert, pressed deep into wrinkles the of this ancient street. My own black shoe powdered with the remnants of another world, stirred for a moment by every step I take. Smoky ashy remnants of a sudden volcanic eruption, withering olive leaves rotting in a quiet garden, pulverized rubble of a temple where God once dwelt. Dull, chalky, dirty history walking along the path with me, on me, part of me during my short morning walk.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear though […]
Unsure and afraid, nothing had been constant in her life. It was just a matter of getting through the day without having any great expectations. Long ago, during her pigtail years, her father promised to come and take her to the zoo. After hours of watching for his scratched and beaten blue Honda out of the front window, her young hopes were bruised.
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