The View From the Top of the Pyramid
After a week in Israel, I ended up in Cairo with a small team of adults and students. The introvert in me began to stir. I love leadership - but I also crave solitude. Sometimes to heal, sometimes to dream, but more often to simply explore. And on certain days, curiosity wins. This was one of those days.
From my hotel window, the pyramids and the Sphinx loomed through the morning haze. I had told the group, You’re on your own tomorrow, which brought relief to some and mild panic to others. For me, it meant one thing: freedom. I wandered down to the lobby in search of a taxi driver willing to trade predictability for adventure. The desk clerk suggested a twenty-five dollar tour. But I didn’t want a tour—I wanted an experience. Eventually, I found a driver with kind eyes and excellent English. Three hours? I said. No script. I will pay you well. You lead. He smiled. Deal. I pick you up at 6:00 a.m.
Morning arrived, backpack in hand, I climbed into the front seat of his tiny cab, and we launched into the streets of Cairo. Carts, vendors, early morning chaos - it was a scene from an unmade movie. Our first stop was unexpected: a crumbling barn. Horse or camel? he asked.
Clueless, I chose camel—seemed safer. Moments later, I was lurching across the desert, the pyramids rising before me. We arrived at the base of the Great Pyramid just before dawn. The silence was thick, ancient and possibly sacred. And then, out of the shadows, an elderly man in white robes began descending the pyramid. He looked like a vision—seventies at least, eyes calm, clothes billowing like some guardian of the past. He reached out his hand. Ten U.S. dollars, he said smiling. Without hesitation, I accepted.
Hand in hand, we climbed the pyramid. No ropes, no railings. Just stone and silence. At the top, he gestured for me to sit and face the Sphinx. The sun began to rise, illuminating the desert in slow gold. It was breathtaking, sacred—less a view, more a revelation. That moment - the stillness, the ancient stones, the whisper of history in the wind - felt like a holy interruption. A sacred pause where time bowed out and awe stepped in.
As we descended, the man paused and said again smiling, Ten U.S. dollars. This time, he pointed to a hidden entrance beneath the pyramid. Without a word, he pulled two candles from a crevice, lit them, and motioned me inside.
This wasn’t a tourist route. It was a passage lost to time. We ducked through narrow tunnels, past tombs, our only light flickering shadows across stone walls older than empires. My heart raced - part fear, part wonder. I couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt like being invited into a secret.
Back at the car, the driver laughed when I returned. You climbed it, didn’t you? I nodded. What’s next? he asked. I hesitated, then asked, Can I meet your family? He raised an eyebrow, then smiled. Yes.
We climbed the stairs to his apartment. His wife welcomed me with warm tea, biscuits, and deep conversation. Their three teenage daughters joined us for over an hour. We shared stories, laughed, and connected across language and culture. No itinerary could’ve planned this moment. It was simple, real, sacred.
Before we left, I asked about the camel market. My 10-year-old son has always wanted to see it, he said. Can he come? So off we went - mom packed lunch, the boy rode up front, and three unlikely companions ventured into another layer of Cairo life. Dust, noise, bargaining, camels - all of it alive and pulsing with energy.
That day reminded me: sacred spaces aren’t always found in temples or churches. Sometimes they appear on camelback, in quiet apartment kitchens, or deep beneath ancient stones, lit only by candlelight. The sacred isn’t always labeled - it’s lived.
Real immersion doesn’t begin with an itinerary - it begins with presence. What started as a quiet ride through Cairo became a sacred unfolding: from ancient wonders to intimate family moments. Alongside a father and son, across languages and laughter with three daughters, and around a table filled with home-cooked pride, I glimpsed the true heart of Egypt. These weren’t tourist highlights—they were moments of shared humanity, offered without performance, received with humility. Sacred immersion lives here: in the willingness to say yes, show up fully, and be transformed by the beauty of ordinary life.
The Amazon: The Big Splash
Iquitos, Peru, is the largest city in the world that can’t be reached by road—even though it’s not an island. You either fly in or boat in, which made it the perfect launch point for our nine-day journey into the Amazon rainforest. With luggage in hand, Sherri and I boarded a rustic riverboat with eight other travelers, ready to explore the heart of the jungle - crossing into Colombia and beyond.
Now, Sherri is a nature lover to her core. Wildflowers, birds, bugs that don’t believe in personal space—she was in paradise. I, on the other hand, am not that person. But when you love your wife, you say yes to sacred immersion—even when it includes snakes, bats, caimans, piranhas, and all sorts of jungle creatures. All not on my best friends list!
Each day brought something unforgettable: shared meals with new friends, fresh fruit and fish delivered right to our boat by locals paddling alongside us, deep jungle hikes, and native dancers performing ancient traditions under the stars. It wasn’t just tourism - it was participation. Life was raw, rich, and unfiltered.
And then, the wildest coincidence. One of our fellow travelers turned out to be a professor from Eastern Kentucky University - my alma mater. Out of all the places, and with only eight other travelers, (what were the odds in that happening?) we found ourselves in the Amazon with William, who was on a summer project to teach pottery kiln construction to indigenous communities. Unlike most tourists, he wasn’t there to observe culture; he came to support it. William, an art professor, had studied their history, legacy, and pottery-making skills, and brought with him the hope of helping create a sustainable cottage industry. Midway down the river, the boat docked, and William disembarked with crates full of supplies.
At the time, I was running leadership conferences in schools back home, sponsored through a McDonald’s partnership. That meant suitcases filled with Happy Meal toys - and a stash of collector’s edition plastic plates - came with us. Originally packed as gifts for children, I didn’t expect how meaningful those plates would become.
In remote Amazon villages, where furniture was sparse and possessions few, those colorful plastic plates weren’t novelties—they were treasured. Word spread quickly. We’d walk into a village, and children would run to meet us, faces lit up. Parents smiled, hands extended. Some even tried to barter. These simple plates became sacred tokens of connection - bridges between our world and theirs.
And then - from sacred plate delivery… to sacred plunge.
Because in the Amazon, sacred immersion isn’t always metaphorical. Sometimes, it’s literal.
Each day, our boat would anchor just offshore - no docks, no infrastructure. Children would paddle up in canoes, offering rides in exchange for toys. It sounded simple enough. And for a few Happy Meal trinkets, I found myself the proud new captain of a child-sized dugout canoe.
Here’s the thing: that canoe was not built for someone of my size - or skillset. But ignorance is powerful. With children cheering and offering a send-off chant, I climbed into the canoe with the confidence of a jungle king.
For about thirty seconds. Then—Splash!
One moment I was conquering the Amazon. The next, I was flailing upside-down in brown water, tangled in vines, leaves, and probably creatures better left unidentified. I had visions of piranhas, parasites, and biblical consequences.
Then I stood up. Turns out, the water was only about three feet deep by the shore.
And then came the laughter. It started onshore, echoed from the boat deck, and erupted from my fellow travelers. But no one laughed harder - or louder - than Sherri. From her perfect vantage point, she still calls it one of the highlights of our marriage.
I emerged muddy, humbled, and somehow... holier. Not in a religious sense - though maybe that too - but in the sense that something inside me cracked open. That kind of laughter, that kind of surrender, that kind of raw joy... it changes you.
Most modern river cruises promise comfort and curated views. This was not that. This was sacred chaos. It was a full-bodied baptism into the real Amazon: unpredictable, unscripted, unforgettable. Sacred moments unfolded all around us - in unfiltered community, untouched wildlife, and unlikely encounters that stitched themselves into our souls.
I have heard that the Amazon isn’t for everyone. But for those willing to trade predictability for presence, it offers something no brochure can capture: the chance to see the world - not as a tourist, but as a participant. A witness. Someone willing to get a little wet. God is good—even from the view at the bottom of the Amazon.
Ancient Rome with the Grandkids
One bright summer morning in Rome, mid-way through our European vacation, I gave the grandkids an idea that immediately raised eyebrows: Take the sheets off your beds and stuff them in your backpacks.
They stared at me like I’d lost it. Honestly, I might have. But they’ve learned over the years: when Grandpa poses a weird idea, something unforgettable might happen. As we walked through the cobbled streets toward the Roman Colosseum, I added one more strange twist—pausing to yank long leafy vines off a stone wall and shove them into my backpack. Still, not a single complaint. Just wide eyes and quiet curiosity.
We joined an official Colosseum tour, which turned out to be surprisingly kid-friendly. Gladiators, emperors, ancient architecture—it was all there, and the guide made it come alive. But as we walked those legendary ruins, I wasn’t just listening - I was planning. Because this wasn’t just going to be a tour...
This was going to be a time machine.
After the tour, I led Hayden, Tyler, and Savannah to a quiet alcove tucked away from the main crowds. We opened the backpacks, pulled out the bedsheets and vines, and with a grin I said: Alright, Roman citizens—let’s get dressed.
Confusion turned to laughter as they wrapped themselves in makeshift togas, vines transformed into laurel wreaths, and suddenly, three modern kids became Roman nobility. There we stood - beneath the arches of the Colosseum - looking like a scene straight out of a middle school history project on steroids. Back in the pre-selfie days, I had my trusty camera ready. But first, we needed co-stars.
Enter: two costumed gladiators. You’ve seen them - the people who hang around for tourist photos, plastic swords, faux armor, and bunches of fake grapes. I asked if they’d join our little production. They laughed and said, Absolutely. And just like that, we had a full cast.
We struck poses among the ruins, the kids strutting and flexing like young emperors and empresses, the gladiators hamming it up like pros. It was ridiculous. It was magical. It was joy, frozen in time. But then… other tourists noticed.
Cameras turned. People gathered. Strangers from around the world began lining up - not to see the ruins, but to take photos with our Roman crew. The kids basked in the spotlight, beaming with confidence, completely swept up in the moment.
And here’s the thing: in those few hours, we weren’t just playing dress-up. We were immersed. We weren’t watching history—we entered eit. Through sheets, vines, laughter, and a little ridiculous bravery, we crossed time and culture. That’s sacred immersion.
Not the solemn kind, but the kind where wonder and wildness collide. Where you say yes to a crazy idea, and end up with a memory burned so deeply into your family’s story that it becomes legend. In a world of packaged tours and polished itineraries, we had created something alive. Messy, spontaneous, and wildly human. Not bad for a morning in Rome.
And all it took… was trusting Grandpa.