I walked over to the Tzion to find only several dozen people praying at the grave. I entered this small crowd, Psalms in hand looking forward to saying something really significant to God. Over the next hour I took small steps forward into the increasingly dense crowd. I finally got to within one row of the large four-foot high, ten-foot long, five-foot deep marble grave.
A row of men in front of me leaned, heads on arms on the grave crying and whispering intimate prayers. A sociable Israeli man next to me played traffic cop and called out every few minutes, “Ok, brother, your time is up, let someone else get in,” grabbing the shoulder of one of the petitioners and helping him make way for the next person.
At last it was my turn. I squeezed forward and there I was – at the grave...
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