Rock of ages.

The rock face seems impenetrable, but tufts of green still manage to extend their tendrils between the ancient bricks. It’s an impossibility, but then so is this wall. Birds grow here, too. They duck into spaces too small for my fist, into nests formed from the text of prayers.
The entire wall is alive with people in Sabbath dress, the men in sharp black suits and dark fedora hats and the women in black dresses and head coverings. Finally, it is my turn to touch, and I place my hand on the Herodian stone in front of me and look up. The wall seems endless against the evening sky, and through its cracks small pieces of paper protrude like fine hair. These stones hold the prayers of millions and the tears of twice that. Their power overtakes me, and I stand in awe of the Jewish religion, of their devotion to their faith and the long-suffering of their people. I rest my forehead against the wall, as so many around me are doing, and tuck my own prayer safely into a rare unoccupied fissure. I pray to become articulate, to find my voice in a world full of voices.
The Jews believe that prayers placed in the Western Wall are answered first. I can only hope that’s true. Either way, touching these stones is an electric link to the ancient cries of millions, and I feel the weight of their religion in my fingertips. You know, no prayer written here is ever thrown away. The wall is cleaned every so often, so others can find space to place their hopes and dreams inside, but every single scrap of paper they recover is kept, collected, and buried on site. The Jewish people can’t destroy anything that contains the name of God; ergo, my prayer will be buried in Jerusalem until time erodes the lines of Sharpie marker that shape my name.