The Church of the Annunciation

In spite of the fact that it towers over the city of Nazareth, I went to Israel twice before seeing the Church of the Annunciation. After being in the quiet holiness (even with the cranky overseer) of St. Gabriel's, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to go. But go I went ... and I found it to be an absolute "must see" when traveling to the Holy Land.

While the Church of the Nativity is the oldest church in Israel, the Church of the Annunciation is the largest. The outside is arranged with walkways -- both covered and not -- filled with paintings, statues, and other pieces of artwork, all created to honor Mary, the mother of the Christ. Inside, on the lower level, the Grotto of the Annunciation is the focal point below. This is the place where, tradition holds, Mary lived with her parents and where she received the words of her future from Gabriel. The upper level's focus is not only the dark wooden pews shining high with years of polish and patina, but also the continued memorials to Mary. The floors are marble, within them depictions of angels.

I looked forward to my friends coming to see what I'd seen years earlier. Together we walked among the pilgrims outside. Below the church, in the grotto, we sat quietly at thought of what it must have been like to have been the young girl -- her whole world ahead of her, a natural world, a world of marriage and children -- to be called to such a task. Above, as we walked under the lily dome and as we listened to visitors below singing "Hallelujah," we marveled at the gifts in honor of this woman/child.

When there was nothing left to do, we returned to the real world, where beneath the church is found remnants of 1st century Nazareth. A reminder, I suppose, that life truly existed here once upon a time, and that Mary's life -- and Joseph's and the little boy Jesus -- was not a fairytale in a book we call the Bible.

Inside the Grotto (video)

Going Back to Israel

It's official ... and in more ways than one. I'm returning "home" to Israel in 2011.

And, in 2010 ... as I am going to return to my journaling about the Land of the Bible, God's Holy Land. When last we spoke of Israel -- before my mother's untimely death -- I wrote to you of my adventure in St. Gabriel's in Nazareth. Now, I want to tell you about something completely (sort of) unrelated to the Bible but sooooo much fun for me.

In 2007, after Miriam and I had gone to St. Gabriel's, we stepped out into the open courtyard and I purchased some gift items from a kiosk vendor nearby. I then declared to Miriam that I was a little fatigued and wished we had time for a cup of coffee. It was now mid-afternoon, the winter air was pleasant, and we'd walked a good ways just to get to the church. Miriam pointed to a restaurant called Bayat (The House) and said, "How about over there?"

We were seated at a table outside, just beyond the front door. Miriam suggested cappuccino and I nodded in agreement. Minutes later, two cups of divine with adorable hearts swished into the foam along with little bisciottis were placed before us. I declared the coffee to be the best anywhere that I'd ever had in my whole life.

In 2009, with my fellow journalists along for the journey, I said to the group that after St. Gabriel's we had to go to the cafe for afternoon coffee. Everyone agreed. YES!

Bayat's was exactly as wonderful as I remembered it. This time we sat indoors, the eight of us around a long wooden table in a sunken dining room with old stone floors and walls, giving the aura of old world Israel. We ordered different things off the dessert menu -- our intent to share -- and individual desires for drinks such as cappuccino, hot tea, and Coke.

We laughed and told jokes, Ellie Kay entertaining us with more impersonations of her mother, who is from Spain. And then the food came ... and we nearly died right there on the floor! We ate. Oh, did we eat! We shared! Oh, did we share!

Too soon it was time to leave. To be full and happy, this is the way of travel in Israel. One taste and pilgrims know why so many of the Bible's stories happened around a table.

Mensa Christi

In 2002, on my first trip to Israel and during one of our first days in Galilee, we went on a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee.

We were not allowed to lean over and touch the water.

Oh, how I wanted to! I wanted to so badly. But there were safety issues.

Later on, as we neared our last day in Galilee, I said to Miriam, "If only I could dip my hands and feet into the water of the Sea of Galilee." Miriam said something in Hebrew to our driver and the next thing I knew, we were pulling off on the side of the road next to an arched gate which read: Mensa Christi.

Mensa Christi: the table of Christ. The church standing boldly against the water of the Sea of Galilee, is built over what some say is the rock where the resurrected Jesus served the disciples a meal of fish. The shoreline, that day in 2002, was lined with small seashells, many of which I brought home as a memento.

In 2007, it was a different site awaiting me at the shoreline upon arrival. This time, fish -- like those Peter caught after Jesus told him to throw the net to the right side of the boat -- were in a feeding frenzy. It was an amazing thing to watch.

In 2009, I was bringing my friends here. To the peace of Mensa Christi. Inside the church was humming with tourists. Outside, several people stood along the shoreline in silence as the water lapped at their feet.

While my comrades listened to the Holy Spirit speaking to their heart, I took a walk away from the rock-strewn shore, to the little prayer garden where a statue depicting the restoration of Peter to Jesus. Jesus, arm stretched out. Peter, broken. Down on one knee.

Closer than I've ever been to the statue -- I don't know why -- I snapped a photo. Then I zoomed in a little closer. Closer and closer until I was focused only on Peter's face. "I know how he feels," I thought. "I know exactly how he feels."

Sometimes, we just doubt. We deny the work of God in our lives. We think we can get along without him and we make silly statements like, "I'm going fishing." In other words, "Forget this. I'm going back to what I knew three-and-a-half-years ago."

For the first time, standing in the shade of the stone garden, I thought more on the words of John 21. Jesus called out the disciples in the boat. "Brothers, have you any fish?"

Of course they didn't.

"Then throw the net to the right side of the boat..."

That worked. Now they know who he is.

Then Jesus suggests that they bring their fish and add them to the flame of the coals where he was preparing other fish. And bread. For Peter, this moment must have been both exciting and terrifying. The Jesus he had denied is offering him something to eat. A warm fire to shake the night's work off. And now, I'm totally recognizing the moment for what it is to Peter. Without Jesus, Peter cannot catch any fish. It was his life, for crying out loud, and he can no longer do it successfully without Jesus! He drags the net to the shore -- this very shore I am looking upon -- and Jesus says, "Add some of yours to some of mine, why don't you?"

Peter sees now. Jesus can do it without him, but not the other way around. And, Peter realizes, he doesn't have to do it alone. It's not about his strength or even his know-how. It's just about trusting Jesus.

"Come and have breakfast," Jesus says. Almost like an afterthought. "Wanna have some breakfast?" And so they eat. I wonder how much Peter ate. Did he just nibble? Did he gobble it down nervously? And then, breakfast consumed and the fish bones tossed in the fire, Jesus casually (it seems) turns to Peter and says, "Peter, do you love me?"

Not "Simon." Not his given Hebrew name. Not to start this dialogue. No.

"Cephas." The name Jesus had given to him. "Rock. Petra. Peter."

What must the worn out fisherman have thought? Did it bring him relief? Or make him wonder all the more ... what matter of love is this? And who am I that he loves me so?

The camera zooms in one more time and I snap the shot. "Yes, Peter," I think. "I know exactly how you feel."

The Town of Jesus

I went to Israel in 2002, there was hardly anyone there. Oh, sure ... the people who live there were there. But no visitors. We kept bumping into another group of six journalists -- these being male -- but other than that ... no one.

When I returned in 2007, there were significantly more visitors. Tourism had returned to Israel, praise God!

But 2009 showed a completely different level of tourism altogether! People people everywhere! Not just one tour group, but many at most sites.

Capernaum -- the town of Jesus -- was no different.

Wait, I hear you say. Wasn't Nazareth the town of Jesus? Yes, it was ... until he began his ministry. Then, to fulfill Scripture's prophesy, he moved (See Matthew 4).

Capernaum of today is beautiful to behold. Tour groups have the option of sitting in shady gardens while hearing of Jesus' ministry and the miracles performed here. Or, they can stand along the border walls and stare out to the Sea of Galilee dancing in the day's sunlight. They can enter the church (I call it the giant spaceship that came to earth and managed to land on top of Peter's house) and worship quietly or partake of a service. Or, for a taste of what it would have been like to worship in a synagogue in Jesus' day, they can walk through the ancient White Synagogue, a fourth century structure built over the 1st century place of worship where Jesus drove out the demons plaguing a demoniac.

Okay, let me just tell it like it is. You could spend ALL DAY here. Few do, but you could. It is a worshiper's holiday. An archeologist's dream. A photographer's delight. A historian's mecca. Capernaum draws the person as a whole -- spiritually, emotionally, aesthetically. Flowers that grow in Capernaum are vivid in color, full of bloom.

If you read that line one more time, you'll get a sermon.

In 2002, after visiting Capernaum for the first time, I read in the Bible that here, when the demoniac approached him, the evil spirit cried out, "What do you want from us, Jesus of Nazareth?" (see Mark 1). I wrote in my journal, "Yes, Jesus. What do you want from me?"

The answer to the demonic was "Be quiet." (Although, according to Scripture, Jesus didn't say it very kindly ... to me, he whispered, "I want you to hush now ...")

I can be quiet in Capernaum.

But there's another story about Capernaum that ministered to me in 2007. Jesus and the disciples were in his town and he was asked, "What must we do to do this work of God?"

Jesus replied, "...believe ..."

I wrote in my journal. "I am asking you to believe."

In 2007, my husband and I were in a legal battle for the rights to raise a little girl. She is not a blood relative, but she'd been "ours" for a long time. We fought and fought hard -- against all odds, against what the legal eagles said was possible -- to make her "ours" legally and not just ours in our hearts. My battle in the States was near the forefront of my mind every moment of my time in Israel and so, in Capernaum, I asked, "What must we do to do the work we believe you have given us, Lord?"

Jesus whispered, "Believe."

In Capernaum, believing is easy.

In 2009 I was overwhelmed by the groups who'd made their way there. To worship. To hush. To believe.

So, Capernaum was his town. I keep trying to picture him visiting the local real estate office, shopping for just the right house ... and I wonder why we've identified the place under the Great Spaceship as Peter's house but no one has ever pointed to a cluster of stones and said, "Jesus' house." Then I remember. Jesus said if I should invite him into my heart, he would dwell there.

In Capernaum, finding Jesus' house is easy.

It stands right inside of me.

The Dan Reserve

The Dan Reserve is one of the most beautiful places in the world ... at least as far as I am concerned. Walking along paths that meander through lush foliage and crossing bridges arching over wildly rushing water is about as close to heaven as I can possibly imagine. There's a spot just off from the welcome center -- a bridge -- that I declare is one of my favorites in all the land. There, water which was at one time snow fallen on Mount Hermon, barrels its way toward the Jordan River. It sounds to me like the sound of 10,000 armies. It is cold. Invigorating.

But then there is this other spot. Just a ways up a path where sunlight and shadow dance as if they are old lovers and birds whistle the sweetest of tunes for them, we come up on a place called The Garden of Eden.

Ironically, we saw a man and a woman sitting on a bench there. Miriam turned to me and said, "Hey, Eva. It's Adam and Eve."

We gathered there in the coolness of the location. Sharon got a wild idea to take off her shoes, sit on a bench perched on the water, and stick her tootsies in. Ellie and I decided to follow suit.

The water was cooooooold; we shared a laugh together. Not to mention a few photos.

Miriam explained to us why this area is called The Hill of the Judge. We listened intently ... and the story was so wonderfully put. I couldn't help but notice the sound of water trickling over pebbles. It was like music. God's symphony.

We kept going, though I could have sat there for hours. But there was more to see. The High Place of Dan, where man worshiped against the expressed wishes of God. The altar is no longer there, of course, but the steps to its highest point are. We sat upon them and listened to Miriam teach us. Then a couple with two small children arrived. We asked the husband to take our picture and he did. Finally we climbed the steps and stood on what once was the "storage unit" for the priests. I pointed northward and said, "That's Lebanon."

"Where?" Larry asked.

"Throw a rock," I answered with a smile. "We're that close."

Everyone was amazed. We took some more pictures and then we climbed down. We continued on the path until we came to the ruins of what was once the city of Dan. It's high fortress walls. It's gates. It amazes me each time I come here. People lived here. They fought here. They raised their children here and they died here. And now, here we are, just passing through.

I guess, in a way, they were too.

Just outside the gates I turned and looked up the road. My eyes climbed high and higher until they rested on an old Crusader fort called Nimrod's Fortress. I'd gone there in 2007. Impressive, indeed. But now ... now we had somewhere else to go. First lunch. Then ... my return to the place where I once fell ... and my life changed forever.

Mr. Bear Goes to Israel

My traveling buddy is a stuffed pillow in the shape of a bear that I call "Mr. Bear." I bought Mr. Bear in Canada during a trip there to speak at a women's conference. There -- for the umpteenth time -- I lost my neck pillow. You know, those expensive pillows designed to wrap around you neck and to keep you from getting cramps when you sleep while traveling.

Anyway, another $12.99 down the drain.

I was traveling a lot during that period but just didn't want to buy another pillow. Still, it is a long way from Canada to Florida. My hostess and new friend Catherine Ryan said we'd go to the mall to see if we could find them for less. (I was also looking for a little souvenir or two for my baby girl.) Just after we walked into the mall, I saw a bin of bear-shaped pillows at a store akin to a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. They were $3.99 (US Dollars).

Mr. Bear was not chosen willy-nilly. I looked at quite a few of those bears before I picked the one worthy of the name (not to mention good enough to be my traveling buddy). When I took Mr. Bear in my arms, I looked at him, then tossed him. I can't explain it really. There was something in his eyes that followed mine. Something that said, "Now what did I ever do to you? Don't I deserve to be loved? Aren't I just the cutest thing you've ever seen?"

So, I bought Mr. Bear. (I couldn't lose him if I tried!) I have found that he fits perfectly between me and the window of a plane. He's worked wonders for my back when it starts to ache. And he's fun to cuddle with at night when I'm missing my real snuggly bear, Dennis (the huggy hubby).

So here's the thing. Mr. Bear has become a little famous. When I am traveling through the airport, he rides along in my carry-on, typically peeking out and waving at all the little children who exclaim, "Look, Mommy! It's a lady with a bear!"

But also he's become that little man who can be found resting on my hotel room pillows during the day. When others happen in (you know, those gals I work with -- no men in my hotel room!!!) they say, "Oh, who is this little guy?" Last year at the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference -- the one where I was assigned one room but had to sleep in another (long story) -- Mr. Bear was often seen trekking down the hallways and in the elevators until I reached my "sleeping room," which was actually the room of Ramona Richards (who took the photo of Mr. Bear in the BRCWC backpack!). (Another long story!)

At my website, Mr. Bear has his own section. Why wouldn't he? It's called Travels with Mr. Bear (I show my latest trips through photography.)

Of course, Mr. Bear accompanied me to Israel. He got up early one morning to see the Sea of Galilee, which he thought was quite pretty.

He thought the rooms at Ein Gedi Kibbutz were quite comfy. In fact, he and I enjoyed watching Israel's version of Dancing with the Stars together the night we were there.

There was one night that Mr. Bear managed to make me laugh, though. and it was a much needed laugh. It had been a physically grueling day. We'd climbed to the top of Herodian and then back down again to see the recently discovered tomb. After that we climbed right back up and then back down again to see "home sweet home" of Herodian. After an ice cream, which we all needed desperately by that point, we drove back to Jerusalem stopping long enough to see the the ruins of a church built around what is traditionally the rock where Mary rested before reaching Bethlehem. Then into Jerusalem to visit the Jerusalem Archeological Park (Southern Wall Excavations), the Davidson Center, the Kotel, or Western Wall, the Arab Market, the Jewish Quarter and Cardo and finally the heart-breaking Yad Vashem (the National Memorial and Museum of the Holocaust). When we left the building of Yad Vashem it was to discover that our driver was not there and would not be back for 20 minutes. But honestly, none of us were upset at the news. We needed the time to reflect and to collect our emotions.

Finally back at the hotel (where we had to get ready for a dinner out), we rode the elevator up to the sixth floor, fell out without saying a word, then walked to our rooms. My room was first in the hallway. I opened the door ... and the site before me caused me to burst into peels of laughter! Soon my comrades in distress were coming into my room (okay, this time there WERE men in my room ... but the door was open and we were ALL in there) to see what had me so hysterical.

It was Mr. Bear, tucked in by housekeeping for the night.

The folks at Ramat Rachel Kibbutz had no idea that day as they carried about their duties and as I carried about mine that this one little act -- adorable as it was -- would be the balm I needed on my weary soul and body. It carried me to the next moments.

And that night, when I cried for all I had seen and heard that day, it was Mr. Bear who accepted those tears.

Goodnight, Mr. Bear.

To the Sea

(Day 2 continues)

After our trip to Masada, but before we dipped our feet into the Jordan in the wilderness, we stopped at what is known as Cave #4 in Qumran. The most significant find of all the Dead Sea Scrolls was done here. And, if you are watching videos or looking at photographs about the Dead Sea Scrolls, this cave is the one most photographed.

After Qumran and our Jordan River experience, we headed up to the Galilee region. We rambled along for some time ... a few of us chattered ... a few of us slept. Cheri was sleeping so hard, she actually missed the excitement of coming out of the West Bank via checkpoint.

One of the places Miriam has always wanted to take a group of writers was to the grave of Israel's beloved "Rachel the poetess." So loved are her works, her headstone has a special place to sit, retrieve some of her works, and read them by her final resting place -- which is next to the Sea of Galilee.

Miriam was getting her wish. We were heading toward the Sea and the grave.

As soon as I saw the blue water sparkling in the late afternoon sun, I reached over the back of the front seat, placed my hand on Larry's shoulder and said, "Hey, Larry! You're at the Sea of Galilee." (This would end up being something I did a lot to Larry ... "Hey, Larry ... you're at the Dead Sea ... Hey Larry, you're in Jerusalem ... Hey, Larry ... you're in Israel."

Before walking into the cemetery in Kinneret, we jaunted across the street to watch Christian pilgrims decked out in flowing white robes as they were baptized in at Yardenit (the part of the Jordan at the mouth of the Sea of Galilee).

I'm not sure what everyone else was thinking, but I couldn't help but compare our very private moments at the water in southern Israel to what seemed almost commercialized. Then again, not everyone -- I thought -- gets a private IDF escort through mine fields to the water's edge and not everyone can understand the spiritual implications of what I just wrote.

We left our places at the bridge overlooking the baptisms and into the cemetery. It had been raining before we'd arrived. The ground was spongy. The air cool. The sky darkening. The Sea of Galilee lapped at the shoreline nearby as we, canopied under thick trees, made our way to the grave, walking behind Miriam -- our mother (Ema) duck. A breeze rustled the palm fronds as Miriam sat by the grave honored with small stones. We, her students (ducklings), sat across from the grave and watched as she opened the small compartment holding texts, then listened intently as she read to us.

I watched Miriam's face intently. This was a moment for her. Miriam, as gifted a writer as anyone I know, reading words that stirred not only her heart, but the heart of a nation ... not only a nation's heart, but our hearts as well.

Earlier in the day -- having left Ein Gedi -- we each penned our own thoughts, moved as David must have been moved to write some of his great psalms of praise to God. When Miriam had finished reading, I said, "Now it is time to take out what you wrote today and read."

Each of us read ... words so beautiful! Mine went thusly:

I look back at where I've been.

The heights. The valleys.

And I think that you knew all along.

You see where I am. And you see where I am going;

it is no mystery to you.

So why then do I fear?

Do the conies shudder?

Do the ibex stand on unsteady feet?

Do they run along well-worn paths with care?

No.

They seek the safety of the rock with confidence and there they find God.

When everyone had read (Ellie had written a special song to Robi, which nearly ripped my heart out), and had cried enough to fill the sea beside us to overflowing, we stood. We took a few photographs as best we could in the near-darkness. Then we returned to the van where Tzvika awaited to take us to our next destination.

Reporting from Israel

Internet reception at some of the kibbutz's being what it was, we were unable to post the words of our journey as we wished. Jerusalem was better, but by the time we got there, I was too tired to post. But I kept regular notes so that once I was settled in at home again, I could share with you the magnificence that is The Land of the Bible.

Day One



It was the result of years of praying -- Miriam and me. Months of planning -- Miriam, Joe Diaz, and me. Now the time had come. The Florida team -- Larry Leech, Cheri Cowell, Robi Lipscomb and I -- boarded Delta's 12:17 flight for JFK. Robi and Larry were seated together and Cheri and I sat directly behind them. Cheri spoke to our other seatmate. While she got the scoop on the fact that he and his wife were on their honeymoon and that she was seated near the back and the others on that aisle would not change with them, I was zeroing in on his accent. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Israel," he answered.

It was like a gift we were given. Already God was telling us this would be a special trip. Cheri agreed to change seats with the wife so that they would be together and for the rest of the trip I was treated to photos of their wedding and the first leg of their honeymoon.

Mazel Tov!

We arrived at JFK on time. As the four of us left the jetway, I saw a man standing near the gate holding up a piece of paper with our names on it.

Wow.

He gave his name -- Shim W. Lew -- and told us he was Chief of Protocol for Delta at JFK. By him we were escorted to the Sky Club near our departing gate for Tel Aviv. We settled in then left for some lunch at a nearby restaurant. As we nibbled on food and talked about our hopes for the trip, Sharon Decker from North Carolina joined us. After lunch, we returned to the Sky Club where each of us did our own thing until our flight was called.

At Gate 14, Ellie Kay met us, making our group nearly complete. Upon arriving in Tel Aviv, we would be met by Joe Diaz (Israel Ministry of Tourism, Atlanta office), my coauthor Miriam Feinberg Vamosh (who would serve as our guide) and Tzvika, our driver. I could hardly wait.

But wait we would. The flight from JFK to Tel Aviv is a long one. We were fed an okay dinner (for airline food) then catnapped the rest of the flight. At some point I stood up to walk around. From the shadows of sleeping figures I saw a hand wave at me. It was Larry, about six rows back. Next to him, Cheri slept. Across the aisle, Robi did too. I walked to Larry and received the news that we were landing a good deal ahead of time, thanks to a tail wind.

The Ben Gurion International Airport is absolutely spectacular to behold. Ellie and I seemed to walk faster than the others but still took in the sense of being "home." At the end of a long hallway called the connector I spotted a pretty woman holding a sign that read: Eva Marie Everson's Party.

That was us!

I greeted the woman with a smile and a handshake. We gathered everyone together. She escorted us through border patrol, then to get our luggage, then through customs. Because we were early, there was no one to meet us in the Arrivals Hall, a disappointment for sure. But it gave us a while to turn our dollars into shekels and grab a much-needed cup of coffee.

Of course all I could think was "Where is Joe" and "Where is Miriam?" A few minutes later, Joe arrived. We hugged, said, "We did it! We made it!" then waited a while longer.

Someone from IMOT reported that our driver and Miriam were waiting outside for us. My heart flipped. MIRIAM! I grabbed my luggage, slung my camera bag and purse over my shoulder, and headed for the outside doors.

I spotted Miriam across the way. She was on the phone. Next to her was the man I assumed was Tzvika. We made our way across. Miriam ended her call and looked up. Our eyes met -- having not seen each other for nearly three years -- and we both smiled. I ran the remainder of the gap between us. We hugged -- it had been TOO long -- and Miriam said, "It feels like just yesterday ..."

Crazy. She was right.

Tel Aviv greeted us with gray skies and rain. Miriam declared that this was supposed to be the last day of such weather -- although they were grateful for it -- and we all lifted a verbal prayer that the weather would be kind to us.

Our first night was spent in Ma'ale Hachamisha Hotel outside of Jerusalem. We were led to our rooms where a plate of fruit and a large bottle of water waited for us. I pulled back the heavy drapes and flung open the window.

The rain had stopped. The sun broke through the clouds. God was speaking. We were about to spend seven unprecedented days.

At dinner we were treated to a visit with Miriam's husband Arik. Arik and Miriam are Israel. Arik's father and mother were Holocaust survivors -- while other family members were not. Arik fought in the Yom Kippur War in which he was hit with shrapnel, which left him paralyzed from the waist down -- not that it has stopped him from living a full life. Miriam grew up in New Jersey but came to Israel at age 17 to see her brother, a Rabbi in Jerusalem. She fell in love with the country and decided to call it home. Shortly thereafter, she made aliyah.

This couple is like family to me. I love them, their family members, and their children as though I were born into their fold. I know they love me in this way, too.

Have you ever been to the Garden of Eden?

I have.

Okay, not the actual Garden of Eden; no one knows for sure where it's located. But I have been to a place so tranquil, so lovely, the natives there call it The Garden of Eden. Even in the hottest time of the year and at that time of day when the temperature reaches its peak, it's a cool spot of respite and relaxation. It seems to me that even the water dares not to move. It stands in contemplation of the One who might come walk in the "coolness of the day."

It's in Israel, specifically in the northern portion, in the region known as the Wilderness of Dan. I fell in love with it the very first time I saw it and couldn't wait to return. What I wanted to know above all else was whether or not it was truly as I had remembered it or if my romantic notions had taken hold and rewritten my memory.

It was the former, not the latter. It was as tranquil and as lovely as I'd remembered it to be.

As I stood and beheld its beauty, I wondered if my "mother," (Eve) had ever thought back to the real Garden of Eden. If she and Adam had -- in the cool of the day when work had ceased and family had gathered -- spoke of the way it had been. Before. When there was no sin. Nothing to separate them from God. When listening for His footsteps had brought about great anticipation, hearts fluttering, minds anxious and filled with questions thought of during the day.

Or ideas.

"I meant to ask you about this," Adam might have said to his Father. "This right here. I thought I'd call it a rose. What do you think?"

"Rose," God would have mused. "Rose ... rose ... rose ..." and then He might have smiled and said, "By any other name would it smell as sweet?"

Adam and Eve would have been confused and God would have said, "That's for another day ... another time ... oh, well ... another millennium!" And together they would have laughed.

There would have been so much to say. To share. To go over.

I wish I could go to the Garden of Eden in the Northern part of Israel every day. I wish I could skip along the paths leading to it, listening to the rustling of the leaves in the trees and the water rushing from the heads of the Jordan toward the river that snakes down the country. I wish I could sit on its cools banks and speak to God ... share with Him ... go over things. Things which are important to me.

To Him.

But I cannot.

I can, however, find my own Garden. My own place of respite and relaxation. My own place of prayer and conversation. Of laughter with God.