I have known that I wanted to write something about my trip to the Holy Land ever since my feet left Jerusalem soil, but the experience was so complex that I have found myself putting it off over and over again... And now I see that 3 months have passed with me still sifting through my memories. Enough! I will undoubtedly fail to do justice to what I experienced, but I think that is the nature when encountering Christ. Words seem like straw.
Here, He preached, performed miracles, called a handful of His disciples, and walked upon the water. The scenery punched me with every turn and I kept lingering upon one major thought:
This was where Jesus walked.
Because of time and the way Jerusalem was built, destroyed, and rebuilt, many of the pilgrimage sites are practically on top of each other. Such is the case within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In one church, you can see the tomb where Christ was buried, the stone slab where they anointed Him, and many of the stations of the cross. The most moving piece for me, and really all of my trip, was the rock of Calgary. You wait in line, crawl under the altar, and can reach your hand down into the hole where the cross was raised.
I think about this moment nearly every day. My hand, my very hand, graced the place where Christ died. The words have rolled over in my mind, repeatedly attempting to glean the mystery and depth I feel but cannot express.
My hand touched the place on earth where Christ saved humanity.
Even still, I am dumbfounded. My 6 year old peered at me, puzzled as to why I was weeping. I hardly had words for her.
My hand touched the site of salvation. Her little one did too.
Perhaps there are no words for that.
And that in itself is worthy of a lifetime of contemplation.