It was a day of so much white and so much water. We arrived at Qasr al-Yahud, the baptism site on the banks of the Jordan River, near Jericho, on the western side of the river, facing Al-Maghtas on the Jordanian side, on Epiphany itself.

Girl in a white dress standing alone on the plaza at Qasr al-Yahud, wearing black sneakers

Two children in wet white robes clinging to an adult beside the river during the baptism day crowd

Close-up of a girl in a white robe looking upward, sunlight on her face, people in white behind her

This is a pilgrimage site identified in Christian tradition with the baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist, reopened to the public in 2011 after decades of closure.

On this day, thousands of pilgrims come here and different baptism rituals take place. On the wooden deck, everyone watched everyone. The same river, slightly different rituals.

People in wet white robes gathered near the Jordan Riverbank after immersion

Man and woman facing each other near the riverbank, one in white, one in red, with the baptism crowd behind them

And inside all that wet white and the crowding on the deck, I kept seeing something else: mothers and children.

Child resting on an adult’s shoulder, looking toward the camera, a towel draped over their head

Smiling woman in a white shawl carrying a toddler on her back, with onlookers in the background

Crying child in a wet white robe being held close by an adult in the crowd near the river

Children are the measure. They don’t carry holiness, even if someone explained to them, again and again, how important this day is. They simply react. They measure the cold, the noise, the moment a foot slips on wet wood. They decide whether it’s fascinating or frightening. And they make adults, even in the middle of a ritual, do the most basic thing in the world: hold on.

Children in wet white clothes gathered on the wooden deck by the river, two children held close by an adult

Children playing barefoot on the wooden deck near the water, with people watching from behind

A girl leans on the railing and peers into the water as if into a story she’s not sure she wants to enter. A boy presses into his mother’s shoulder, his face shutting down, only his hands still outside. Some children try to look brave, and some cry with a clean, wordless anger.

Boy holding the white railing, watching the activity by the river during the baptism ceremonies

Two girls from behind, heads close together, wearing white shawls as they look toward the river

Children lifting and steadying a large drum on the plaza, surrounded by families in white

And there is also a girl with an ice cream, because even here, in the middle of a day like this, life keeps being life.

Child eating ice cream, her mother watching over her

The mothers are different from one another, but the movement is similar: a hand that adjusts, a glance that checks where everyone is, a body that positions itself between a child and the crowd. Sometimes it’s a hug that says “it’s okay.” Sometimes it’s a hug that says “one more second and it’s over.” Sometimes it’s a hand that guides a child half a step back so they can breathe.

And the water itself, heavy and brown, doesn’t try to be beautiful. It does what it does. It sharpens the line between before and after.

Wet young man in a white shirt smiling near the Jordan River, with the river and crowd behind him

Small child hugging an adult’s shoulder, seen from behind, with the muddy river and pilgrims in white

In the end, when white is no longer white and the deck is wet, what stays sharpest for me is not the explanation and not the order of things.

What remains is the sentence that wasn’t said out loud, but traveled shoulder to shoulder: Mom, hold me.

Mom, Hold Me

The Bite Test: Friday at Carmel Market

Too Small to Notice