zippori national park

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A Frankish Fort

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Gwuf . . . gwuf . . . gwuf . . .

My walking shoes exhale as they press against the stairs. The pitch is steep, the steel rail, helpful. The passage is constructed of creamy limestone, glossy from the rub of countless hands and feet. I reach out to touch the wall. The surface is cool under my fingertips.

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And then I Stopped Breathing

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But only for a moment.

We were driving up the road to Sepphoris when George, my favorite driver, began stammering:  “Dr. Mark! Dr. Mark!” (George insists on such formalities, even in the midst of crisis.)