Wadi walk in the desert

Forty days and forty nights Thou wast fasting in the wild,

Forty days and forty nights tempted and yet undefiled.

Let us thine endurance share and awhile from joys abstain,

With thee watching unto prayer, strong with thee to suffer pain.

And if Satan, vexing sore, flesh or spirit should assail,

Thou, his vanquisher before, grant we may not faint nor fail.

Keep, O keep us, Saviour dear, ever constant by thy side,

That with thee we may appear at the eternal Eastertide.

 G.H. Smyttan, 1822-70 (sung in church this 1st Sunday of Lent)

River in the rocky desert

It's Lent. What better way to enter the season than to walk in the desert? On a gloriously sunny day, hot enough to feel it, breezy enough to enjoy it, we walked in the Judean desert near Jericho: the same desert where Jesus spent 40 days and was tempted by the devil. Our path wound down into a gorge, the Wadi Qelt, deep and dry; at the bottom of which ran a rushing river. Most of the year the river is a mere trickle; now after the rainy season it leaps and dances to its own music!

People like ants among rocks & caves

The desert is so dry. Palestine's desert is not a Lawrence of Arabia kind of dry, with sand dunes and mirages. It is like the Rocky Mountains would be without any trees, with barren brown landscapes, with soft soil that produces no shrubbery, with scorching sun and nowhere to hide. Well, almost nowhere. Throughout this desert are caves, carved out in the cliffs by monks following their Lord's desert path, desiring hermitages, solitudes, undistracting destinations to pray. It's hard to find those in common life, though they seem essential to it.

Young ones lead the way

We walked single file along the desert path. That's the only way to go. Sometimes we clustered in our line, most of the time we were alone. The younger ones strode ahead, finding it easy, enjoying the challenges, sights set on the destination and how fast arrival could be. The middle-aged meandered a bit, taking in the hollows of the rock, imagining the practicalities of living out here - who would bring them food or water, how long would it take to get to Jericho, did they make beds in the caves, and where were those youngsters anyway? Those still older took it slower, pacing themselves, knowing that their future experiences in this land depended on their wisdom now. Some limped, some rested as needed, many offered a helping hand of support to each other. It was an interesting day of pilgrimage.

Jericho in the distance

Our final destination, Jericho, where the walls tumbled so the people could enter the promised land, could only be reached by fording the river. To top off the desert, no-one escaped getting wet! One man cut his foot - there was blood on the rocks. Some waded across in their shoes, sparing the pain of sharp stones but enduring sogginess for the rest of the day. We all made it, washed the mud off, and continued.

If we had charged headlong into the desert and been confronted with only bleak holes in the rocks and the winding path, we may have been discouraged. But our courage was raised at the start with a view and experience of refuge in the wilderness that carried us through. 

Monastery in the Rock

When we crested the first hill before descending into the wadi gorge, we saw a lovely sight below us: a monastery, carved into the dry mountainside, with trees and lush greenery below it.

Monastery Garden Oasis

It was a wonder to see how much could grow there in the dust, through care and love. Monks living here had spent years planting, watering, tending and growing their souls and their surroundings.

I gazed down at the patch of green and said to my boys, "That's a little picture of our lives. We can't change the whole desert around us - we'll be discouraged if we expect the world to be transformed - but we can make a big difference to our little patch of life!"

Bones & portrait of the Martyr

So we entered the monastery before entering the desert. It was cool, inviting, home-like. (Well, apart from the actual skulls and crossbones of ancient holy men, kept under glass!) Tiny cups of coffee awaited us. There were places to play, or to pray, or just to sit and reflect. There were views and colours marvelous to behold in this cleft of the rock. Experiencing courage in this way, our spirits were invigorated for the unknown path before us.
People much stronger than any one of us had gone before and created a world of healing and hope, a place as blessed as a happy childhood of grace and truth is to a lifetime of toil and journey. And so we went forth, cushioned and beloved.

The waters of Jordan

After Jericho, our day ended with a visit to the Jordan river, and we walked into its water, high and muddy in this season of rain. Father Tim (Tantur's Director) reminded us that this was a place of beginnings: it's where Joshua and the priests stepped in and the water parted so the people could cross and enter the promised land. Where Jesus stepped in to be baptized, like others, as heaven opened to begin His ministry with words of love, acceptance and identity.

Standing in the Jordan

Oliver collected a bottle of the murky water to take to a friend who would treasure it. It looked like an unappealing gift, but there was care in the thought. Now, as I write, the mud has settled and the water is clear and beautiful, with just a fine skimming of sandy soil at the bottom. Another good lesson, for when life is messed up: with time and stillness, most of it turns out to be pure and perfect!

Just before we left that sacred spot, off into the blue sky over our heads flew a white dove. Truly, a day of beginnings, of hope in the desert, as we walk this loving Lenten path.

Singing in the Synagogue

Not once, not twice ... seven times or more, a little blonde girl pulled aside the sheer curtain that separated men from women, to blow a kiss at her father! I was sure she would be stopped, sure her mother would change seats so the little girl couldn't touch the curtain. I thought maybe her father would ignore her, or shush her as she called "Hi Papa!". None of that happened. In fact, when she skedaddled through the curtain to the men's side, they moved sideways so she could get by. Her dad gave her a hug. Then she returned, smiling, to her mother, blowing one last kiss. Wow! There went my synagogue preconceptions!

It was Friday night. A rainy, hailing, freezing night. Snow was forecast. Our host, Debbie Weissman (prof at the Hebrew University and a synagogue leader) had said it might be empty, but this orthodox, modern synagogue was nearly full - especially on the men's side. Maybe some women had stayed home with smaller children. They had lit sabbath candles at home. That starts Shabbat, and you don't even think about work after they're lit. You certainly don't take pictures! ... So most of these photos are gleaned from elsewhere! Shabbat begins Friday at sundown, and lasts for a day plus an hour - 25 hours. (Start time changes according to the sun; they post it weekly in the synagogue's online newsletter!)

Torah Ark - in a Hebron synagogue

 we visited. A soldier prays.

Our guys put on their kippahs and sat with the men. The thin curtain between us went two-thirds of the way up the room, to the low "Reader's platform" with its large table facing forwards. At the front of the room, in pride of place, was a tall wooden cupboard - like the Wardrobe that led to Narnia! It is the "Torah Ark" and every synagogue has one. Inside the Ark is the holy scroll, containing what we'd call the Old Testament - the Torah. Every synagogue has a copy, and every copy is hand-written on a parchment scroll by specially-appointed scribes. It can take up to a year to complete.
 The more formal "Torah reading" service would happen on Saturday morning. This (Friday) was a family service to welcome the Sabbath and God's restful presence.

The service began when a man got up from where he sat among the others, and stepped onto the Reader's Platform, throwing a ceremonial prayer shawl over his shoulders. This was the prayer leader. We'd call him "worship leader". Standing by the table, he began singing a lively tune. Debbie had told us that the service starts with sung prayers and I suppose all true worship songs are prayers. He faced away from us and toward the Ark, where the Word of God symbolized the Person of God. The worship leader wasn't performing but praying, and was leading us toward God. 

As soon as he started, everyone joined in, following in their prayer books, reading from right to left. The prayer leader's hand joyfully thumped the table, keeping the rhythm going. No instruments guided him or the congregation, but men and women's voices rose with gusto. Synagogue services are conducted in the language of Torah so I didn't understand a word - it was all Hebrew to me! But it didn't matter. The tunes were bright, easy to follow. I found myself harmonizing, playing with notes, tapping my foot, joining in. 

As we sang, a little girl, about four years old, ran onto the platform. She was lovely, wearing bright shiny beads, the kind you get from a birthday party treasure chest. Clearly, this man leading the prayers was her dad. Her arms reached up; his went down, and he swung her high onto his shoulder, smiling. The prayer song kept going. Her head rested there, big eyes gazing at the congregation around them. She was quite at home, and welcome!

Mothers guided daughters through the service order. Boys, sitting with their Dads, joined in the good work of praying. People came and went as they pleased. Movement was no bother when it happened. We'd been warned about the movement by our host. "I know that in church you are a lot more respectful, you have to stay still," she said. "Not here! Sometimes I think people walk in and out too much, but it's how we do it. This is our home. In your home you can move."

The service called for movement. At three points we turned and faced another way. The first was to the door, "welcoming in the sabbath," with God's beauty and rest among us. Then we stood in solidarity with those we know who mourn. And we stood, facing each other for the singing of the Shema - "Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one ...".

There was a period where the prayer leader went silent, where people could lift their own petitions to God, from their hearts. This they did by rocking, humming quietly or murmuring. I shut my eyes and joined in. It was prayer being raised like incense - undefined, almost imperceptible, yet permeating every part of the room. It was as fruitful as bees buzzing among flowers. It became strong like pillars of God's throne. Then it was over and the leader led out in one last sung prayer, before the sermon.

Debbie had told us that the sermon should not be long. She said, "Once it went on for a really long time - maybe 20 minutes! But usually, no more than 5 minutes. That's enough. If it goes longer, you'll see people pointing at their watches and back at the preacher, to say it's too long!" ... I could hardly wait! "And," said Debbie, "if you doze off to sleep, that's okay. You won't be alone. Just try not to snore!" We all chuckled.

When the preacher got up, I looked at my watch. It was 5:56 pm. He stood in a simple white shirt, by the Torah Ark, facing the people. Smiling and relaxed, looking at both men and women, he preached. I couldn't understand a word, so I observed what was going on. I kid you not, three minutes into his sermon, a woman two rows in front of me fell asleep! Her head lolled and nodded to one side. She'd been awake till then, but the sermon was her cue. (She did not snore!)

I glanced through the curtain. There was a young man, head leaning heavily on his hand, the way students do when they're asleep in class but trying not to be obvious about it. (Turned out this was the preacher's son!!) Could it be possible? A 5 minute sermon was too long??? Not for most, thankfully. Most people stayed with the preacher, who communicated with enthusiasm till he finished with a joke, and sat down, satisfied.  6:04 pm. The sermon had been 8 minutes long. The dozing woman woke up. The preacher's son jumped a bit and smiled at his Dad as he rejoined him. All was well. 

There were announcements, but no offering - everyone who makes this synagogue their home has to pay membership dues. Our group from Tantur was welcomed in English, and invited, "If you would like to share a Shabbat meal, please talk to me after the service!"  What an offer! Shabbat rest includes the time for warm hospitality. Sadly, we couldn't take him up on it.

A beaming young boy, front teeth missing, came bouncing up to the Reader's Platform and, facing the Ark, began to sing. This was the closing prayer, sung antiphonally: the boy led a line of song and the congregation responded. Back and forth we sang - his small voice, then all the congregation. It was wonderful! A child always closes the service like this. (We'd had a similar thing happen in a Lutheran church we visited, where kids returned from Sunday School just before church ended, showed their craft and told us what they'd learned!) When the song/prayer was over our little leader bopped back to his seat, and the service was closed. I saw him later, very happily organizing the prayer book shelves with his friends.

This is a place that loves children, I thought. Kids know exactly what the synagogue service is about; they take part in it, they help to lead it. They are visible, can move around, are modelled and taught by their parents, are welcomed by other adults, and are growing up within the community, as a sacred, special part of it. 

The thin divide

I thought about the flimsy curtain that separated the men from the women. We've made the gender divide almost invisible in our churches and culture, but perhaps we've built another wall, much more solid, of sound-proof concrete dividing the ages. Will our kids learn to love and become part of the service?

Warmed by the rousing prayers and the spirit of fellowship and community, we went out into the rain. I felt in some ways like I'd been transported back to my childhood church, where love and blessing filled the air. I was so happy to have met this community, and hoped that one day they'd go through the Wardrobe to what lay beyond, as easily as the little blonde girl had run through the curtain to kiss her father.

Cresting 90!

According to our boys, Paul is now "cresting 90" because, at age 46, he's more than half-way there!  So when the birthday happened, it called for a special celebration! You don't hit that particular milestone every year!

Best pizza in Jerusalem!

Where could we have a birthday meal? Somewhere not too stiff, nor too greasy. (There's "the best pizza in Jerusalem" but the first two times I walked past it I swore under my breath I'd never go in! Greasy starts on the sign outside the door! But now ... I have to say ... if you ever come here, don't miss it! The pizza, though well-oiled, is amazing!! And if you sit outside, the spectacle of life passing is wonderful!) However, that wouldn't do for this event!  I kept looking.

Hunting through guide-books, I found it! The American Colony Hotel! Gracious, inviting, cozy, with trees lining a sunlit lobby and low tables set among the arches. What's more - and what made it perfect - was that the hotel also had "the best English bookstore in Jerusalem!" 

Then it started to rain. Bus-riders that we are, we can't escape the elements, and the days, though not monsoon-like, were fairly wet! I thought it would be a shame to go to a nice place all bedraggled. But Sunday, Paul's birthday, lived up to its name! Morning light danced on almond trees, lacy with white blossoms.  Sunshine gleamed through dark olive groves, their branches just pruned for spring. It sparkled on golden lemons, over-ripe and glistening as we passed the orchards of Tantur on our way to church. What a beautiful morning! A great day to celebrate this oldster! On the bus we went, and off to church for the 11 o'clock service.

From St. George's to the American Colony Hotel was only a few minutes' walk, and we whisked along, arriving dry and happy  in the sun-dappled gardens just in time for lunch. When we approached the front door, however, mini-tsunamis greeted us, as water, six inches high, flooded across wide stone floors and out into the covered porch. Turned out the lobby was getting its weekly wash! This is how they do it here - and why not?! We decided to wander the grounds, and found the antiques and collectibles shop where Oliver was nearly kidnapped by brigands but resisted them by brandishing a large sword he found there! The bookstore, sadly, was closed. This is, after all, low season. - And it gives us an excuse to return!

No-one stopped or helped us when we re-entered the hotel, crossing residual puddles. Here you must learn to fend for yourself, and fend we did, looking for the restaurant. Winding passages were lined with rich wall rugs and mosaic tiles, curling arches, clay pots and the occasional treasure chest. We were glad to explore!

At last we found it, and were soon seated at a cozy corner table in a room lit by sunshine and firelight. Within minutes hot rolls and almond-flower butter were placed before us. (Unlimited rolls, mind you! Did we have all day? ... Um, yes!) But course followed course - falafel shrimp, tabbouleh salad, shish kebabs, delicious vegetables, giant burgers for those not cresting 90, strawberries and chantilly cream - and of course, sadly, we became full!

Between food and dessert, the boys went exploring. When Elliot returned he quietly said, "I just made a shocking discovery. This restaurant is named after ... a bra-ssiere!" What??? We burst out laughing! "No, really!" he protested. "It's called 'Val's brassiere'!" How we laughed! Waiters hovered, wondering what was going on! The wonders of being 14 and not 40! How delighted "Val" would have been to know that her lingerie had been so charming as to have this eating place named in its honour! Not "Brassiere; Brasserie!" we told Elliot! (whatever that means!)

We had to have a cup of coffee to toast Val, and really to linger a little longer, and then Paul said, "Come, I have something to show you!" With warm thanks to our many, friendly servers, we went past luscious orange and palm trees growing in the central courtyard, to a corner of the front verandah. "Read that," said Paul.  I did. It was a hand-written hymn, framed on the wall. A hymn that has meant a lot to me, and to many people around the world.

"When peace, like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
'It is well, it is well with my soul'."

All four verses were there, with a word scratched out and replaced, and the last line different to our familiar version. It was the original, handwritten script, penned in now-faded black ink, by Horatio Spafford as he crossed the Atlantic in 1871. The story behind the hymn and its place in this hotel was framed there too. Parts of it I knew, but there was more to be told.

Horatio Spafford was a successful 1860's lawyer and businessman as well as a great supporter and friend of D.L. Moody, the famous evangelist. He and his wife Anna held a prominent place in Chicago's social scene. Knowing this we might not wonder that he could say "It is well with my soul"!

Then we learn of the tragedies that the next decade held.  In 1870 the Spaffords' only son, age 4, died of scarlet fever. Then the great Chicago Fire of 1871 destroyed their extensive real estate investments along the shores of Lake Michigan. In 1873 Horatio decided to take his family for a break in the tranquillity of England, planning at the same time to help Moody, who was preaching there. He arranged for a family ocean crossing with his wife and four daughters but at the last minute he was delayed by business transactions. Not wanting them to miss out, he sent his family ahead on a French ship, as arranged. Nine days later he received a telegram from Anna with just two words on it: "Saved alone."

Newspaper clippings

Reading the story

The French ship had collided with an English vessel and sank in 12 minutes, taking 226 lives, including the Spaffords' four daughters. His wife had survived because a floating log held up her unconscious body.   On receiving the terrible news, Horatio boarded the next ship to join Anna in this time of heartbreak. When his ship reached a certain point in the ocean crossing, the captain called Horatio to the bridge and told him that this was where the French ship had gone down. The water was three miles deep.

Loss upon loss crashed over him. Horatio Spafford returned to his cabin. In the depths of his pain he remembered the Bible story of the Shunamite woman whose "soul was vexed" but still said, "It is well with me; it is well with the boy" when her son died (2 Kings 4:26). That day, in Horatio's cabin, deep faith plumbed the depths of incredible loss, and, on that very piece of paper that we saw in the hotel, he wrote his hymn. No wonder it speaks so profoundly to others in times of greatest sorrow.

The history of the American Colony Hotel is linked with this story.  In 1881, calling themselves "The Overcomers", Horatio and Anna Spafford, with 16 fellow church members, left America for Jerusalem. Their intention was to prepare for Christ's return by living a simple life with everything in common. They became known for benevolence and help to the community, with an open door  to their Arab, Jewish and Bedouin neighbours. Locals simply called them, "the Americans". Before long, large groups of  Swedish Christians joined them, and their numbers grew, but the name stuck. Growth meant, though, that "The Americans" needed a larger home.

They found the perfect place: a palace formerly owned by a pasha and his four wives! The colony of believers moved in and continued their generous lifestyle. Then in 1902, Baron Ustinov (grandfather of Sir Peter Ustinov) needed better-than-local lodging for his guests, and asked if they could stay in the beautiful community house. This was the beginning of the "American Colony Hotel." Before long it became a haven for numerous visitors and pilgrims, remaining unusually neutral through wars and ongoing upheaval. Today it is a five-star hotel with rooms starting at well over $400 / night! (Lunch was a lot cheaper than that!!)

Horatio Spafford

Anna Spafford

But the hotel has never forgotten its roots. Framed photographs of Horatio and Anna are in the front verandah, along with the handwritten hymn, and though it's now under Swiss hotel management, its board of governors is made up of descendents from the original American Colony.  (I was glad also to learn that their first, smaller home, was used to provide care to needy children. Today it houses the Spafford Children's Center, which runs medical, infant welfare and social work departments for local kids.) 

On that sunny Sunday we had the perfect birthday celebration, mingling food and laughter with poignant memories and rich history. No greasy joint nor stiff dining, but an appropriate place for a wonderful man of faith and courage who is now "cresting 90!"

Herod's Fortress

Arja the taxi driver was in fine form as he drove us away from Beit Lechem (Bethlehem!). Zipping through sunny streets in his old Mercedes, honking at anyone who needed to get out of the way, or perhaps just to say hello, we bundled along at a clipping rate. We soon outpaced the traffic, left the narrow roads, and found ourselves in open countryside. Bumps gave way to black-top, when suddenly Arja swerved, yanking his seatbelt out from where it had been calmly resting in peace, unused. Both hands off the wheel, he broadly demonstrated clipping it into place. Paul, in the passenger seat, gazed at him. With a smile and a wave, Arja shrugged: "Israel" he said!

Desert country 15 minutes outside of Jerusalem

Of course! We were crossing the invisible line from Palestinian precincts to soldier-maintained Israeli territory, where the laws of the road had the potential to be strictly enforced. I hunted in vain for my seatbelt in the back, and decided, when I couldn't find it, not to bother Arja with that tiny little detail in case he chose to turn around from the front and whip it out from under my seat while still zipping merrily along! It was entirely possible. I hung on, and prayed!

Off in the distance, beyond the desert hills, was the Dead Sea. But we weren't going there. We had a royal destination in mind, closer to hand: Herodion, fortress of King Herod the Great, the one who sat in power just before BC became AD.  (Fact: Jesus was born in about 6 BC!  The western calendar-maker Dionysius was just a little off in his calculations!)

Herod wanted a high citadel overlooking Jerusalem and the areas beyond, but there was no mountain or hill near enough to use as a base. Did that technicality stop him? LOL NO! as my boys would say! - Though there wasn't much laughter in Herod's time. You remember, this is the Herod who whipped out his sword - or his army - and slaughtered every baby boy in Bethlehem when he heard that a potential infant king had been born there. (A wail rises from my heart when I visit Bethlehem and imagine that kind of destruction in the town I now know, among people I care for. The cry of "Rachel, weeping for her children", continues).

Herodion Mountain

So when Herod wanted a "mountain" base for his fortress in that particular spot (place of a great victory), he built it! Well, someone built it for him. In arduous, blistering heat, workers supplied the despot with what he designed and desired. And there on the horizon we could see it: Herodion. The hill is oddly flat, clearly not a natural occurrence. But if you're planning a fortress, what could be better? Great to build on, visible from miles around, it could strike terror into enemies - while at the same time providing a perfect 360^o lookout for watchmen whose duty it was to report oncoming attacks.

Herod's "Bullets"!

In his lofty repose, Herod feasted, plotted, enjoyed a summer palace life of ease, controlled his territory with political ruthlessness, and decimated anyone who attempted to approach unauthorised, with the simple tactic of giant "bullets" launched from catapults above.

Steps leading into a cistern

But what do you do when, having built a high desert fortress, you discover that of course you'll need water way up there? Well, you dig a well down below, where water can be found, and have servants lug it all the way up, daily. You also dig cisterns (large water tanks), deep under the palace, to collect  rainwater.

Heading down Herod's tunnels

(Let me tell you, cisterns and connected secret passages provide amazing adventures for two boys and their parents exploring on a warm January day!)  Herod had used these passages as hideaways and surprise attack tunnels when needed. We roamed widely, underground, right where the tyrannical king had lurked! Thank goodness he wasn't still there! It would have been unutterably terrifying to round a corner and find Herod glaring at you! Probably the last thing you'd ever see!

Intricate walls

Herod's fortress palace had been beautiful and unusual - a round building surrounded by round towers. It was set down into the mountain so that the lavish architecture wasn't visible from outside, and was protected there from wind and weather. Now all that remains are fragmented pillars, the outline of walls, and the cisterns.  I am so grateful to archaeologists who have done the long, painstaking work of unearthing and restoring this ancient place, making it available to us. Through their achievement we get a vivid sense of the king's opulence, cunning, imagination and total control.

Behind: Judean desert, Dead Sea

I am also grateful to Flavius Josephus, the prolific historian, on whose work my husband Paul is an expert.  Josephus lived in the 1st century AD and almost everything we know about that era comes from his writing.  He researched and wrote histories from far before that too....  So of course I'm equally grateful to Paul and others who preserve and present Josephus' writing to the world! Paul is one of a small team of international scholars translating and writing commentaries on all Josephus' many works. That's his sabbatical project while here. What a fitting place for it!

It was Josephus who described Herod's grandiose life, including the luxurious fortress Herodion, which prompted ongoing exploration here. Josephus also gives us the details of Herod's death, because yes, Herod died as surely as those infants he had slaughtered. His death, by illness, was truly unpleasant. The date will suffice! Josephus writes that just after an eclipse of the moon, and just before Passover (between March 29 and April 4 in 4 B.C), Herod, king of the Jews, expired.

"Lower Herodian"

Herod's tomb - partially excavated

We visited his tomb on the way out. It's on the pathway down the mountainside, and was only discovered recently.  Down at the bottom of the mountain, near the place where his large swimming/boating pool and gardens had flourished, is a 350 meter path: built for his funeral procession.

Leaving the Fortress

Herod the Great, a creative genius, had been known as the "builder king". In addition to constructing other fortresses (like the famous Masada), and wondrous aqueducts, he was the one who renovated the Temple in the heart of Jerusalem, where King Solomon's smaller, glorious temple had stood centuries earlier. Herod did such a brilliant job of renovating that it came to be known as "Herod's Temple".

And then Herod died and was buried. Almost all that is left are faded memories and ghastly stories. His magnificent Temple was destroyed within 74 years of his death (AD 70); hardly one stone was left upon another.  Two thousand years later, believers and mourners still stand at the Wailing Wall, beside the few Temple stones that remain, praying for restoration.

Herodion, his beautiful citadel - the only place he officially named after himself - passed to his son, Archelaus, who lost it to the Romans, who lost it to the Zealots, who lost it again.  And so the wind blows over the desert soil, across the flat top of the mountain and into the dry cisterns below. And we say, with Solomon, builder of the first temple, "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity ... under the sun."

Walking through remembered glory

Soft white limestone