I froze, listening. The sound was hauntingly familiar—a persistent drone, a warbled howl—echoed across the dusty sky from the direction of the temple. The unsettling hum remained prominent in the background, every rising and falling octave mirroring the sinking desert sun and climbing desert moon. Our group had just arrived at the day’s last attraction, the Western Wall of Old City Jerusalem. Our typically boisterous guide Berdi was quiet this day, his flippant personality contracted into that of a mournful watchman. There was an unfamiliar quiver in voice as he ordered instructions: “Feel free to approach the wall to pray,” Berdi strained, “Put away your phones and cameras. Remember this is a holy site. Please be respectful.” My shoulders tensed at his invitation, stiff and heavy. It had been years since my last prayer. I, an agnostic, was an outsider to this world of deities—I felt unworthy to pray alongside the devoted believers worshiping at this sacred mound. My spine prickled. The group began its descent to the entrance, the mysterious hum growing louder across the barren landscape. We were greeted by a stout wire gate, short enough to feel like a courtesy, reinforced enough to feel like a warning. My eyes roved the dusty plaza, maybe an acre wide, settling finally upon the temple’s outer wall. Massive slabs of corroding limestone met my gaze, piled together in uneven, jagged rows. It appeared the plaza was separated by gender. On the left roamed hundreds of men, some praying vigorously with their hands outstretched upon the wall, others rocking forward and back upon their knees, reciting the Torah. The women on the right were doing much the same—except they, arms linked, danced together, swaying and twirling in circular patterns as their shoes drummed beats on the dusty floor. All in the plaza wept. The mysterious hum from only a few minutes before had now materialized into the soulful wails of these desert worshipers, a collective cry of lament at their many hardships. I walked over to a wicker basket proffering coverings of kippahs and skirts, grabbing hold of an azure shawl and draping it loosely around my hips. The airy cotton was oddly comforting in this arid landscape. It beckoned me onward into the plaza, urging I join the other women. My feet dragged across the loose gravel, kicking up billows of dust. I arrived at the foot of the wall. Around me the women pressed upon the stones, brows furrowed and eyes shut tight. They sobbed into the open air. I lifted my gaze to the towering barrier. I knew it was time to unite with these worshipers, overlooking my own agnostic skepticism for the sake of our communal humanity. I traced the outline of the mounded bricks, my roving fingers meeting the time-wearied limestone. The sound of the people’s wailing unsettled my senses. I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid to turn my back on the howling people of the plaza. I waited, frowning. Minutes passed. Inhale, exhale. “Now! Now!” the women’s voices rang. Swiftly, I placed my palm onto the surface of the rock. My eyelids fluttered shut. A sage green light burst into the forefront of my mind’s eye. It was pulsing, as if moving with the beat of the people’s shrill howls. My body erupted from the wall; wild-eyed, I whipped around to assess the other women. They remained as before, lost in fervent prayer. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. My breath quickened. What had I seen? I turned back toward the sacred stone. Chest heaving, I slowly returned my palms to the hewn brick. Once again the pulsing light entered my senses, an inexplicable energy illuminating my deepest being. "What are you?" I breathed out through clenched teeth. The sage-green light answered by way of its rhythmic pulse, clouding my mind with it teeming, smoky haze. The presence was tangible, palpable. I lingered upon the light, minutes and hours the same. "Are you the one the people pray to?" Silence. The sage light pulsed brighter. I shifted my knees upon the ground, bowing my forehead to the stone. I began to pray.