I was six and a half years old.
I was two thousand, six hundred and forty meters above the sea.
On the peak of Mount Sinai is a small chapel.
Monks have carved three thousand steps into the side of the mountain, so pilgrims would not fall to their holy deaths, and so, though they did not know it at the time, their monastery could become a thriving tourist destination.
Mount Sinai is where Moses received the ten commandments, where Saint Stephen* kept his vigil, and where his body sat, uncorrupted, for years, continuing his life's work.
Very little of this meant anything to me, as I reached the top with my parents, and ran across the courtyard, and climbed a small stone wall.
I looked out, and down, I could see Saint Catharine's Monastery, I could see all of the Sinai Peninsula. Mount Catharine was behind me, looming, higher, but I was still on top of the world.
As I looked, and as I thought about what I could see, about where I was, what had happened here, the wind came, rushing up the side of the mountain, catching me, my jacket, and lifting...
For a few seconds, I was higher than anyone had ever been, on Mount Sinai.
For a few seconds the hand of God held me up.
For a few seconds, I was flying.
Then I landed, and my parents made me keep away from the small stone wall, the wind, and the incredible feeling of being supported by the air itself.
They didn't seem to understand.
*Not the Saint Stephen written up here, a circa 580AD Saint Stephen.