The van jolted as we left the sealed road and started our journey down an ancient dirt highway. Adept at dodging the holes along the road to Faizabad in the northeastern corner of Afghanistan, our driver maneuvered our vehicle past mountains and alongside rivers.

Reflecting on it now, it all seems so romantic sitting here in Gordonton. I have long forgotten the discomfort of the ride, the dry heat, and the dust, oh the dust, kicked up by passing trucks.

Last summer, I had the privilege of visiting Egypt and Israel, with the intention of retracing the Exodus route where the Israelites walked 3000 years ago.

Finishing the journey I stood on top of the Mount of Olives, looking down on the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus taught His disciples, prophesied the destruction of Jerusalem and wept over its fate.  Unfortunately, many parts of the modern Mount of Olives were turned into a graveyard; and these looked like the scattered dry bones shown to Ezekiel in a vision.