The olive trees were old- their trunks knobby and wide. I could imagine Peter, asleep under its limbs as Jesus wept. The rock where Jesus is said to have cried out to God is nestled in a glorious church, across from the sealed Golden Gate, where the Muslims have buried their dead. They’ve memorialized him there, with colors and stone, but Jerusalem is just as he said.
“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses. And he walks with me and he talks with me; And he tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.”
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Aunt Karen