This is Kidron Valley, something you never knew back then. What is it like to stand on old ground, and not know its history, the gravity of everything that has happened on the land, under the same sky?
 
You know where it begins, from where you now stand. You've walked around the Armenian Quarter, and reached the Christian Quarter. And here, from the Old City of Jerusalem, there it is—just right of the far north—one beginning amidst so many of these scriptural beginnings.
 
[Where should I begin reading today?]
 
[Which psalm, which parable, which wisdom line?]
 
The old man in the shop is saddened. He is speaking of better days. His lament—that many who live by love have long gone, no matter how hard it is to leave home, this Holy Land.
 
["The Christian desires the way of love," the old man said, with tears in his eyes.]
 
"The way of peace," the old man said, as he looks at you like a long-lost son. He is gazing upon foreignness, but never acknowledges it.
 
    He only sees sameness.
 
            In our lifelong searching.
            In our thirst for faithfulness.
 
[I remember the Armenian seminarian in Pasadena—was he a sub-Diaconate or full Deacon? What was his discernment process like? Of the handful callings, which was the most forceful, almost deafening?]
 
His son is shuffling behind the counter, placing crosses in trays and boxes. These are sterling silver, beautifully made by hand. He points to the ones with the Christ figure, and says to take one of those. The crucifixes are the most striking—elaborate detailing, precise.
 
    "Eyes on Christ always," he insists. Eyes on Christ always.
 
Beyond these heavyset walls and watchtowers, how far more to the Dead Sea?
 
Which gate will you start and end your journey on, now that you've touched the stone at Damascus Gate and Herod's Gate, then Zion Gate?
 
You take that right-angled turn, and out into the sun. This is Jaffa Gate, leading out into Jaffa Road, following so many pilgrims' footsteps to the port.
 
    The port of Jaffa—
    who sees Jonah pushing off from the pier?
 
                      Into the belly of the whale,
    who is set to the test, only to return to shore?
 
There is the history of a postern gate at another doorway.
 
    Now,
    the penitent have found their way here,
    how they have made their passage home—
                      how many have come and gone.
 
             Soft bidding, these openings
             of egress and entrance.
 
At New Gate, you stand beneath its distinct arch of uneven stone. At this high point, the air is fresher, like a cool mint.
 
And you head back from where you came, into the Christian Quarter.