I found all the people being baptized in the Jordan River to be moving. On arrival, I saw a group of Africans being baptized. I decided this was a place to leave a prayer. I always seem to know when I come to a place where to leave a particular prayer.
We had chatted with an African-American woman in the Newark airport. When she told me about her 32-year-old son being killed by his own, I offered to carry a prayer for him to the Holy Land. She wrote his name on a scrap of paper. Today I folded it into a tiny square and put it in the fast-moving Jordon.
Curiously, I do not do people a favor by remembering their intentions in prayer, rather each person I pray for in a holy place makes my experience there special.