‍DAY 0: Snow, Suitcases, And The Dream Becoming Real

Snow today. Sahara tomorrow. That sentence alone felt like God pulling us into a story He had been writing for years before we ever boarded a plane. We led a full group of 50 travelers on this journey, many of them close friends and familiar faces we already loved. My husband Jason was with me. My daughter Emily and her husband were with us too, and that alone made this trip sacred before it even began. We prayed, we packed, we shuttled up to the airport that evening, with butterflies that felt like Christmas morning. Except with a little more trepidation. 

Local Motive shuttled us to DIA and it immediately felt like vacation. Music, wine, laughter, the good kind of anticipation you feel in your bones. Then came the snow. Heavy enough that planes were delayed across the board. We taxied for two hours while the wings were repeatedly de-iced. I stared out the window thinking, if we do not get off this ground, 50 people are going to have me in a group revolt by midnight. God must have laughed because eventually that plane lifted. Slow, icy, heavy, determined. We were on our way.

We flew eleven hours to Istanbul. Somewhere between Canada and Greenland, a woman fainted mid cabin, and for a moment I thought we were turning back. They treated her in the galley, she slowly recovered, and the plane continued forward. Predictable travel would have been easier, but this story was never meant to be predictable.

Istanbul was sprawling and stunning from the air. Green hills, towers, bridges, the kind of arrival that grabs your chest and says pay attention. We had to sprint through the airport to catch our connection and I swear half our group still has PTSD from that terminal. But we made it. Breathless. Sweaty. Victorious.

Next stop, Cairo.

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DAY 1: Cairo Arrival, The Nile, A Palace For A Hotel

As we flew into Cairo, Emily snapped the first preview of the pyramids from the plane window. Grainy, quick, but enough to make everyone gasp. Cairo is massive. Chaotic. Alive. A pulse under the desert.

We checked into the Cairo Marriott which once stood as a royal palace built for guests attending the opening of the Suez Canal. Gold trim, high ceilings, carved banisters, true old world luxury. Also hundreds of lily bouquets which I am violently allergic to. A glamorous death by histamine was not the aesthetic I was planning, but we laughed through watery eyes and carried on.

We were placed on the 15th floor overlooking the Nile. That view alone was worth crossing continents for. Our group gathered for dinner buffet style. Spices, meats, fresh breads, rich stews, plates as full as the moment. Jet lag hit early. Sleep came in intervals. Adrenaline filled the gaps.

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DAY 2: The Pyramids, The Museum, First Touch With Eternity

We woke up at 4 am and could not fall back asleep. Cairo was already humming outside our window. The air was already warm, around 82 degrees. The sky was hazy with dust and the early morning sun.

We began our day at the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, one of the most overwhelming collections of history I have ever walked through. More than 120,000 artifacts. Sarcophagi, intricately painted. Royal mummies. The treasures that were buried with King Tut. His gold mask. His layered coffins. Jewelry that was handmade thousands of years ago. A boy crowned pharaoh at nine. A life that burned fast and bright. Time contained in glass.

We then journeyed over to St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church. Quiet. Reverent. A pause in the noise. A reminder that faith lives here, in present tense, not just carved into ancient stone.

Lunch was a local barbeque many swore was the best in Cairo. We respectfully disagree. Two out of ten. Edible, not memorable. But food is part of any story and this story is honest, not curated.

After lunch, we made our trek across the city to the pyramids.

The first sight of them made my whole body go still. We were still on the highway, surrounded by skyscrapers when we got our first preview of them. Giants in the desert, as they stood for millenia, but now with a city skyline that expands in all directions. You know they are big, but you cannot really know until you are there. The Great Pyramid alone holds around two million three hundred thousand stone blocks (with five zeros!!) Most of the blocks are larger than a car. Built with no cranes, no modern machinery, only hands, ropes, faith and force. Some stones weigh more than fifteen tons. That kind of power humbles you instantly.

We rode camels in front of the pyramid complex, shouted with laughter, posed for pictures like kids at Disney, except this backdrop was centuries deeper. From Panoramic Point we saw all three pyramids, each built by a different pharaoh. We stood before the Sphinx carved from one piece of earth. Lion strength married to human rule. Eyes still watching a world that changed, yet stayed the same.

After our afternoon in the desert, we stopped at a papyrus gallery, where they showed us how the first paper was made. Cut. Soaked. Pressed. Dried. Painted. We bought scrolls. Carried history home, like rolled up memory. Today we felt small but never unseen.

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DAY 3: Saqqara, Coptic Cairo, Beauty and Burden, Side By Side

Our daughter Emily woke up sick today. She tried to fight through yesterday like a soldier and succeeded, but her body paid for it. She stayed in the room, started antibiotics, and slept fourteen hours straight. I thought of her constantly as we explored, prayed she healed, and trusted that God does not waste rest.

Saqqara was windy and cool in the morning, but hot like fire by noon. The Step Pyramid of Djoser is the oldest pyramid in Egypt. Built for an afterlife the builders believed more real than breath. You could feel the longing woven into stone.

At a rug school we watched tiny hands weave tapestries adults would struggle to master. Five-year olds. Seven-year olds. Brilliant and heartbreaking. Talent preserved through generations, but their childhoods traded for craft. Absolutely mesmerizing to watch them work.

An Egyptian cotton store was next. Clothing soft like butter. A reminder that this place was once the wealth center of trade and textiles.

We then traveled to the Coptic Quarter of Cairo. Guarded in a way that I never expected. Armored trucks. Bullet-proof glass. Heavily armed guards. 

We walked down a long alleyway and finally stood inside the Church of St. Sergius, built above the cave where Mary and Joseph are believed to have sheltered with Jesus. I could picture her holding him, young and tired and afraid, trusting God through every unknown. It moved me deeply. A reminder that Egypt lived inside the story of Christ, not outside it. 

As we walked deeper into the church, we saw the well where tradition says the Holy Family drank during their stay in Egypt. The room around it was quiet in a way you could feel, not just hear. I pictured Mary drawing water for Jesus in that very place, dusty from travel, exhausted but faithful, doing the everyday work of a mother. There was something grounding and holy about seeing water that might have sustained the life of the One who would later call Himself Living Water. History and faith touching inside a circle of stone.

The water they drank still rests beneath stone. Faith survives in hidden places. God provides even when the world feels uncertain.

The Hanging Church felt different from every other place we stepped in Cairo. It does not sit on the ground like most churches. It rests above history itself, built over the Roman gatehouse of old Babylon like faith refusing to touch the dirt below. They call it the Hanging Church because it is suspended, lifted, held up the way God so often carries us even when we do not realize it.

Inside, the ceiling curves like the hull of a ship turned upside down, reminding visitors that faith is a vessel meant to move people through storms. Thirteen marble pillars line the nave. One for each apostle. Light and shadow exist side by side here, beauty and betrayal, devotion and humanity. Icons are painted with wide open eyes and halos like sunflares. The saints look like they are watching, witnessing, remembering.

It is old, yes. But it is also alive. You can feel the prayers layered like paint on the walls, whispered across centuries. Not just a monument, but a heartbeat.

The Hanging Church felt like defiance carved into architecture. Suspended above the Roman gate, faith elevated, while the empire crumbled below.

From the Hanging Church we made our way to the Citadel of Saladin, a fortress high above Cairo that has watched over the city for nearly eight hundred years. At the top sits the Mosque of Muhammad Ali, gleaming with Ottoman grandeur and visible from almost anywhere in Cairo. Even from a distance you can see its silver domes rising above the haze like a crown.

Stepping inside was like walking into a different world. The marble floors were cool beneath our feet. The light filtered through stained glass in colors that felt like sunset trapped in glass. The walls were wrapped in alabaster, smooth and cold to the touch. Every surface felt intentional. Every echo sounded like it belonged to centuries of footsteps before ours. The ceilings reached higher than seemed possible and the vast chandelier in the center shimmered like a constellation.

The call to prayer rolled across the courtyard while we stood there, not as tourists but as witnesses. We did not share the same doctrine with the worshippers here, but the reverence was undeniable. You could feel devotion in the air like heat from the desert. Muslims bowed in prayer, heads to the ground, whispering surrender to the god they know. And in that moment I felt no division. Just a city of people reaching for the divine in the way they understand it.

The view from outside the mosque stretched over Cairo like a story unfolding in every direction. Crowded streets below. Sand beyond the horizon. Minarets rising like needles stitched into the sky. A faith so alive, yet people still struggling in the weight of life beneath it. But that is Cairo. Beauty and burden. Prayer and poverty. History and heartbreak side by side. Faith survives what everything else decays under.

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DAY 4: Luxor, Valley Light, Holy Exhaustion, Nighttime Temples

Today we took a five am flight to Luxor to start our cruise portion of the trip. In true Egyptian fashion, we had a several hour delay with no reason given. But the view from above made impatient hearts softer. The Nile looked like a green ribbon cutting the desert open. The contrast was stunning. Every square inch of farmland was clinging to water. Houses built right against sand as if civilization was holding on by its fingernails.

Luxor is quieter than Cairo. Cleaner. Slower. Fewer people, more sky. The average income is only around $250 a month which shook me. Such grandeur beside such poverty.

We boarded our cruise ship, the Mövenpick Hamees. Beautiful. Clean. Friendly staff. Food that redeemed every subpar plate in Cairo. We got checked into our rooms, had some time to explore and feast before our next destination.

Karnak was not just another stop. It was a kingdom carved in stone. A city of columns. A place that demanded silence the way mountains do. The scale of it almost didn’t make sense. We walked through the Hypostyle Hall, surrounded by one hundred and thirty four sandstone pillars so massive that twenty people holding hands could barely circle one. Sunlight slipped through the top like gold rain. Every inch was carved with stories of gods, kings, victories, offerings, devotion.

Some of the hieroglyphs are still painted in their original pigments. Reds that refused to fade. Blues that outlived empires. Yellows that looked like fire trapped in limestone. You feel small there in the best way. Not insignificant but aware. Aware that thousands of years passed and this place still stands. Aware that humans once built with their hands what we can barely comprehend with modern technology.

We saw fallen obelisks, toppled statues, and half buried fragments scattered like bones across the sand. Pieces of history waiting for someone to kneel and pay attention. Karnak was not built in one lifetime. It grew for nearly two thousand years under the reign of almost thirty pharaohs. One ruler building on top of another. Legacy layered like sediment. Every generation, trying to reach the divine a little more. Time bends in places like this. The past does not feel like the past. It feels present.

As the last bit of daylight faded, we traveled over to another temple. But this was not just another temple. This was Luxor Temple…at night! It was one of the most breathtaking things we saw in Egypt. The entire complex glowed amber under the lights, and the statues of Ramses stood at the entrance like ancient sentinels. Their size alone made us stop and stare. Timeless. Immovable. Proud.

Inside, the columns stretched into the sky like a stone forest. The carvings were so detailed you could run your finger through the grooves and feel history beneath your hand. Scenes of offerings, ceremonies, priests, gods. Nothing rushed. Everything intentional.

Luxor felt different from Karnak. Karnak was power and scale. Luxor was ceremony and spirit. This is where pharaohs renewed their divine authority and where ancient processions once passed by torchlight. It felt calm and solemn. Not loud or overwhelming. Just ancient and alive.

We walked slowly, not wanting to miss a single detail. It was easy to imagine the temple as it once was. Torches flickering. Priests chanting. Sand shifting under bare feet. In the quiet night, time felt thin, like we were standing between two worlds.

By the time we arrived back to the ship, we were worn out, but the day wasn’t over just yet. We met with a Folkloric performance. Traditional Egyptian dance. Music that vibrated in my chest and bone. I danced and joy returned like the sunrise.

A sixteen hour day. Exhaustion wrapped around us. And tomorrow came too quickly.

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DAY 5: Valley of Kings, Queens, Hatshepsut, Mortality Supreme

Our day began before sunrise again, the desert air still cool enough to breathe before the heat pressed down. We crossed the Nile by boat to Luxor’s West Bank, and it felt like stepping behind a curtain into another Egypt. On one side of the river was life and green and sound, and on the other was silence carved into stone. The Valley of the Kings waited like a secret.

The tombs were cut deep into cliffs that looked almost bruised by time. We walked through passageways painted floor to ceiling with scenes of the afterlife. Walls bright with gold, cobalt blue, rust red. Gods and pharaohs standing shoulder to shoulder in color that have survived more than three thousand years. The deeper we walked, the quieter everyone became. It felt wrong to talk in a place like that. You do not speak loudly in the presence of eternity.

We visited tombs of men whose names we have read in history books like characters in stories. Tutankhamun. Ramses. Seti. Except they were not abstract here. They were real. The air was still. Cool. Heavy. Like you could almost hear the echo of workers chiseling walls long before Jesus was born. It is strange to stand inside someone’s grave and realize they built it believing they would wake up inside it one day.

After the tombs, we drove to the Temple of Hatshepsut. She was not just a queen. She ruled Egypt as a pharaoh, powerful and controversial, carving her legacy into stone when most women in history were erased. Her temple rose from the mountain in clean horizontal lines, tier after tier like a staircase to heaven. The symmetry was perfection. No chaos. No clutter. Just architecture rooted in confidence.

Heat rose over one hundred degrees before noon. It shimmered over the stone like water, bending the horizon in waves. We moved from shade to sun like lizards searching for survival. Even breathing felt slow. Jason was fighting a stomach bug and dehydration which made me watch him more than I watched the ruins. Travel is not always pretty, but it is real, and real things shape you. He pushed through with quiet strength and a stubbornness that made me proud.

The Colossi of Memnon stood alone on the plain, two giants staring over a world that changed and fell and rose again. Weathered faces still watching. It is impossible to stand before them without feeling the weight of time settle on your shoulders.

By late morning we finally returned to the ship. We changed into swimsuits, found the pool, ordered drinks, laughed with people who started as strangers and felt like family. For the first time on this trip, we rested in the sun instead of running toward the next thing. It felt like a gift God tucked into the middle of history to balance our hearts. Awe needs space to settle, otherwise it rushes past you. 

And then came one of the funniest moments of the entire trip.

We were cruising the Nile when tiny wooden boats started pulling up alongside the ship at full speed. At first we could not figure out where the shouting was coming from. Then we saw them. Men in little skiff boats latching ropes onto the cruise ship like cheerful pirates, shouting “Hello! Hello! Hello!” in escalating volume until it was impossible not to look.

This was the floating market, and there was no escaping it. They held up scarves, galabias, tablecloths, blankets, all waving in the air like a live infomercial. We could not stop laughing. If you made eye contact for even one second, that was it. You were marked.

Emily looked over the railing once. Just once. And suddenly the entire Nile seemed to know her name.

“Blonde girl! I see you, blonde girl!!”

For twenty minutes the shouting echoed off the water while we laughed until our ribs hurt. Someone threw a scarf in a plastic bag up four decks like an Olympic event. We panicked and tossed it back like it was cursed, which only encouraged them. It was chaos. Hilarious, loud, unforgettable chaos. From that moment forward Emily was no longer Emily. She was “Blonde Girl”.  It was ridiculous and perfect and one of the memories we will retell forever.

That evening we ate dinner with friends, watched the river slip by like dark silk, and let the day sink in. We were tired in a good way. The kind of tiredness that means you lived. Walking through tombs carved for kings reminded me that every breath matters. Even stone cannot promise forever, but God can.

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DAY 6: Edfu, Kom Ombo, Crocodiles, Storms, Nefertiti’s Revenge

We woke early again as the Nile pulled us toward Edfu, and even before we reached shore I could feel the heat gathering like a warning. We had grown used to the desert sun by now, but nothing prepared us for how intense this day would be. When we arrived, the streets were empty of cars and instead filled with horse drawn buggies lined up like a scene from the past. The horses were thin and tired, ribs visible, heads hanging low. Many with open harness sores. It was heartbreaking to see. Travel is full of beauty but it is also full of truth, and sometimes truth is hard to look at.

The Temple of Horus rose out of the dust, massive and carved with precision that felt impossible for human hands alone. It is one of the best preserved temples in Egypt, but between the heat, the flies, and the exhaustion, I think all of us hit a wall. The air shimmered in front of us like water and the sun felt like it was sitting on our skin. We took in what we could, grateful for the history, but honest enough to admit that the experience was heavy and hard.

By the time we returned to the ship, most of the group was drained and chose rest over ruins. But a smaller group of us pushed on to Kom Ombo, and I will forever be glad we did. The temple there surprised me. It is a double temple, mirrored side by side, dedicated to Sobek the crocodile god on one half and Horus the falcon god on the other. One side symbolizing danger and the untamed. The other symbolizing protection and power. Two forces carved into stone as if Egyptians understood that life is never just one thing.

As a nurse, this temple was extra intriguing! On the walls we saw ancient medical carvings. Women giving birth. Mothers nursing. Surgical tools that looked almost identical to the instruments we use today. Scalpels. Forceps. Hooks. The realization that medicine existed here so long ago sent chills through me. Knowledge carved in stone while the rest of the world was still learning how to survive. It reminded me that humanity has always been trying to heal itself.

The Crocodile Museum was unexpected and fascinating. Rows of preserved Nile crocodiles, some over fifteen feet long, some over twenty. Eggs. Baby reptiles. Creatures mummified like royalty. The smells, the echoes, the stillness of that room are stamped in my memory.

We returned to the ship ready for a rooftop barbeque under an open sky, but Egypt had other plans. A sandstorm rolled in fast, covering the horizon in a wall of darkness. The wind whipped so violently that the sky turned black as night. Ship horns blared warnings. Sand hit like needles. Dinner moved indoors, cooks ran tables, and instead of the quiet evening we expected, we got a storm that felt straight out of Exodus.

But that is when the night turned magic.

Our Galabia Egyptian Night started. We wore traditional clothing, music filled the ship, and we danced until sweat dripped down our backs. Jason danced too which means the night was blessed by God Himself. The laughter was loud and real. The joy was contagious. It felt like we were celebrating survival, culture, friendship, and the fact that life can still be beautiful even after sand blinds the sky.

Ships could not leave the dock that night. Every cruise vessel on the Nile stayed pinned in place like chess pieces under God’s hand. Sometime after midnight we finally drifted onward in the dark, engines humming steady, sand settled, wind quiet. We fell asleep to the soft rocking of the river.

Nefertiti’s Revenge was still moving through our group and nearly everyone was battling some form of stomach disaster which we politely referred to as “The Whispers”. Antibiotics were circulating like water. Travel is often glamorous online but that isn’t always the case in reality, especially when traveling to an ancient desert. Yet even in the mess, there was gratitude. We were in Egypt. We were here. We were alive and laughing.

Even surrounded by temples to forgotten gods, I remembered the One who still breathes, heals, reigns, and walks with us through heat, sickness, sandstorms, and joy. God remained healer while ancient gods sat silent in stone.

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DAY 7: Aswan, Nubian Rhythm, Feet in the Nile, God in Stillness

We woke up in Aswan to a different Egypt. Softer. Cooler. Calmer. After the sandstorm the night before, the air felt washed clean. The sky was pale and clear, the breeze gentle like something God sent to say “breathe again”. The Nile here was wide and deep green instead of sandy brown, and it shimmered like silk in the morning light.

We boarded a small boat and drifted along the river toward a Nubian village, and this was one of those days that did not feel like tourism. It felt like presence, like witnessing a culture without filters or glass displays. Tombs carved into cliffs watched us from high above like ancient eyes. Birds skimmed the surface of the water. We passed black buffalo grazing, slow and calm in the reeds. You could hear the water lapping against the hull. No rush. No noise. Just life moving the way water moves, steady and surrendered.

At one point the captain turned off the motor and let the river carry us. The silence was holy, the kind you feel more than hear. The boat rocked gently, and the only sound was the ripple of water and the quiet breath of everyone on board. It felt like God Himself sat beside us. No cathedral. No temple. Just sun, river, and peace. I closed my eyes and let it settle into me. We sat still, hearts quiet, the river rocking us like breath. And then everything shifted into joy. Nubian boys paddled up to our boat on what can only be described as floating boards with little wooden hand-paddles. They sang recognizable songs to us for tips. I know that it’s just part of the hustle down there but it made our day. But then it got even better! 

Then we docked along a sandy bank and stepped out barefoot. The water was cool against our ankles. Clear. Peaceful. Ancient. To stand in the Nile with sunlight on our backs felt like stepping into Scripture. This was the river where baby Moses once floated in a woven basket. The same river that shaped kingdoms. The same river that carved history. I never expected something as simple as water to move me, but it did. While we were stopped along shore, Nubian men boarded our boats, smiling with drums and tambourines, and within seconds we were wrapped in rhythm. They played, clapped, and sang with joy that reached straight into the bones. We danced. We laughed. Hands up, feet tapping on the deck, music bouncing off the Nile like pure celebration. It was spontaneous and warm and full of life, and I think every one of us knew that moment would stick to memory like wet paint.

We then stopped at a Nubian home where we were welcomed inside with smiles, tea, and a tour that felt personal instead of staged. They raised crocodiles there, which surprised us at first, but this is part of Nubian tradition and symbolism. We held a young crocodile, smooth and cool in our hands, nothing frightening, just curious eyes and ancient instinct. We were offered hibiscus tea, sweet and deep red like garnet. We sat on cushions and talked with locals who were proud to share their world. It reminded me that language may differ but kindness does not.

We made our way on foot through the village and visited a small school. A single classroom. Painted walls. A teacher who met us with joy like we were expected guests rather than strangers. He taught us to count in both Arabic and Nubian, smiling at every attempt. My daughter Emily, learning beside me, and the thought that she was seeing the world expand bigger than America made my heart ache with gratitude. She was outside everything she had known, and Egypt was changing her, stretching her, planting something new.

We returned to the ship for lunch and spent the afternoon on the sundeck with friends. Faces warm from sunlight. Hearts light. Conversations that wandered from deep to ridiculous in the way only travel friendships do. It was one of the first days we were not racing a schedule. We simply existed. Rested. Received.

That night we watched a Nubian belly dance performance and ended up on our feet again, dancing, laughing, spinning with the music like joy had become a language everyone suddenly spoke fluently. I do not think we have danced so much in years.

Aswan was unexpected. Gentle. Healing. Joyful. God whispered here, not through history carved in stone, but through water, rhythm, laughter, and community. Through resting instead of rushing.

On this river, where Moses once drifted in the reeds, we touched the water with our own feet. God protected then. God protects now. His story flows farther than we ever imagine.

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DAY 8: Philae, Oils, The High Dam, Power and Presence

Our day began with soft morning light and the kind of quiet that follows days of intensity. Breakfast and water bottles packed, sunscreen layered like armor. We boarded another small boat, the Nile stretching wide and open around us, and made our way toward Philae Temple. I did not know it yet, but this would become one of my favorite sacred spaces in Egypt.

Philae sits on an island, palms swaying around it, temples standing like poetry carved in stone. What makes it remarkable is not only its beauty but the fact that it almost disappeared under water forever. When the Aswan High Dam was built, this entire island was flooded. Rather than let history drown, Egypt moved the temple block by block to higher ground. Every stone numbered. Every carving preserved. It was resurrection work. A second chance for ancient worship to stand in the land of the living.

The temple is dedicated to Isis, the goddess of motherhood and healing, and you can feel the tenderness in its architecture. Archways smooth like grace. Columns carved with flowers. Walls etched with stories of love and magic and grief. I stood there thinking how many mother prayers have been whispered across time. Mary’s over Jesus. Egyptian women over sons who would one day rule. Mine over Emily as she walked beside me in a world far from home. Different ages. Same prayer. Protect. Lead. Grow.

After Philae we visited a traditional oil house, and this was a sensory sanctuary all its own. The room was warm with the scent of frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, lotus, blue nile. We sat while a man explained how these oils were once used in healing, in preparation for burial, in anointing of kings, in worship of God. These were the same oils carried to baby Jesus, the same fragrances used in Tabernacle rituals. History did not just live in stone here. It lived in scent. I bought oils that I knew I would open at home just to breathe Egypt back into me.

In the afternoon we drove to the Aswan High Dam, a structure so enormous it almost did not look real. Forty three million cubic meters of rock and earth stacked with human hands. It holds the Nile like a spine holds the body. Before it existed, the river flooded unpredictably. After construction, Egypt could breathe. Water could be contained, directed, harnessed to bring power to millions. Standing on the dam, I felt small all over again, not insignificant, but in awe. Sometimes God strengthens humans to build things that change nations. Creation and engineering working together instead of against each other.

Egypt is never in a rush and this was evident in yet another flight delay, but eventually we made it back to Cairo for one final night. The Marriott felt familiar now, almost comforting. We had walked through history and heat and culture and were returning with hearts full and bodies tired in that holy kind of way. Most of our group would return home in the morning but for our intimate group, we would stay another day in Cairo, just us.

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DAY 9: Rest, Ballroom Magic, Final Goodbyes

Our final day in Cairo did not begin with an alarm. It began with silence and sunlight through curtains we did not rush to open. For the first time since landing in Egypt, we slept until 10:30am. Not by choice. By necessity. Our bodies finally claimed what they were owed. When I opened my eyes I felt something I had not felt yet on this trip. Stillness. And it felt like God saying “you can stop running now”.

We wandered down to breakfast slowly, no schedule pulling at us, no tour guide waiting with a flag, no timeline to beat the heat. Just us, our group of fifteen, familiar faces who had become family in a way only shared adventure can do. We spent the day by the pool, feet in cool water, sun warming us without urgency. There was laughter. There were stories. There was gratitude. After the weight of temples and tombs and history carved into stone, rest felt holy.

Later in the afternoon Jason and I explored the hotel, wandering halls we had not taken time to notice before. That is the beauty of unstructured time. You see things you could not see while moving fast. Behind one doorway we found a ballroom that stopped us in our tracks. Gold trim. High ceilings. Light bouncing off chandeliers like stars. It looked like “Beauty and the Beast” had been filmed there and the room was simply waiting for music to return.

So we made our own music.

Jason took my hand and we danced in the center of that empty ballroom. Just the two of us. No audience. No soundtrack except his voice singing “Beauty and the Beast” softly in my ear. I will remember that moment longer than I remember any hieroglyph. Some memories are carved in stone. Some are carved in heart. That one was both.

While most of our larger group had already flown home, our smaller Colorado circle planned one last dinner together. Instead of the buffet, we chose something meaningful. A farewell meal in one of the palace dining rooms. Steak served under high ceilings. Drinks raised to memory and friendship. Someone handed us a welcome drink that tasted like an Arnold Palmer mixed gently with camel milk and rosemary. Strange. Beautiful. Unforgettable.

This final meal felt like a beautiful moment to honor the land we had walked on and the friends we shared it with. Egypt changes everyone who enters it and hearing that out loud settled into me in a powerful way. There is something sacred about standing inside a moment and knowing it will live in your memory for the rest of your life.

One of the best parts of this trip for me was having Emily there. My daughter. Her first time out of the United States. She pushed through sickness, heat, discomfort, and culture shock. She missed moments she wished she could have experienced fully, but she saw the world and it marked her. Egypt stretched her. Grew her. Showed her how blessed life in America really is. To watch her understand that, is something I will never forget.

Tonight we packed our suitcases one last time and laid out clothes for a 4:30am departure. The trip was ending. Our bodies were tired. Our hearts felt full. There was grief and relief mixed together, the way endings often feel. We came to Egypt curious. We left humbled. Changed. A little cracked open in the best way.

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Final thoughts: Egypt Changed Me

Egypt broke me open and stitched me back together in the same breath. It was loud and ancient and wild. It was sacred and gritty and overwhelming in ways I did not expect. I saw beauty that stole my breath and poverty that returned it sharp and sobering. I watched history stand taller than skyscrapers and faith buried in crypts still alive enough to feel. I walked through tombs painted with eternity and then stepped outside to children selling trinkets, instead of holding pencils. Egypt is contrast. Egypt is collision. Egypt is truth.

I went expecting wonder. I left with perspective.

I stood at the foot of the Great Pyramid and felt like a grain of sand. I touched the Nile where Moses once floated. I stood in a church built over the well where the Holy Family may have drawn water. I placed my hand on stone carved thousands of years before Christ breathed air on this earth. There were moments I could not speak and moments I laughed until my ribs hurt. Moments I prayed. Moments I questioned. Moments I sat still and just let the world happen around me.

I watched my daughter, Emily, experience the world for the first time outside America. She was sick, exhausted, out of rhythm, and yet she bloomed. I watched my husband Jason dance through a Galabia night in the middle of a sandstorm. I watched strangers become family on deck chairs beside desert winds. I watched God show up everywhere. In temples. In silence. In laughter. In illness. In water. In rest.

Egypt is not an easy place to travel to. It is raw and heavy. It asks something of you. It reveals more than it hides. And if you let it, it will show you who you are when comfort is stripped away.

Egypt felt like God was saying, “look at the world I made. The beautiful. The broken. The ancient. The eternal. Look closely. Learn something. Carry it with you.”

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