It’s holiday time again and I’m thinking about the best holiday I ever had. The sun was slipping low in the sky, casting shadows long and golden across the desert plains of Dahab, Egypt.. There’s something about that light—how it turns everything it touches into gold. The rocks, the sand, even the silence. It’s a light that speaks. Not loudly, but with a whisper that says, the old day is ending… and a new one is about to begin.
Kerry and I were out there in the Sinai, walking with a Bedouin whose name now escapes me, though his friendship hasn’t. We had ridden camels earlier—those elegant, plodding creatures that move almost silently, now chewing at dry green stubble. They’d taken us out to his place. Not a house, not really a tent either. Just something ancient and rooted, stitched together with generations of hospitality, and lots of date trees
We sat cross-legged on the ground, no knives or forks, only hands and flatbread. Always the right hand, of course. The food was simple, delicious, generous, Egyptian, and served with a generosity that shames the Western notion of wealth. In that moment, nothing else was needed. No phones. No plans. No clocks. Just the company of a man who knew the land, and the value of shared silence. When it was time to go, it was time to go, not until.
After eating, he invited us to walk back through the desert, to where a vehicle would take us on toward home. We asked how far. “Not far,” he smiled.
So we walked. And walked.
And walked.
The sun began to fall lower. The camels faded far behind us. The pebbles crunched beneath our sandals and flip-flops. We watched for snakes and creatures. We talked with our Muslim friend openly of God. Of life. Mindful of how rare these moments are, enjoying the moment. The light turned a deeper gold, almost like the land itself was holding its breath. An hour passed. Still walking. For us, the journey was becoming an inconvenience. For him, it was fellowship. Time. Presence. A gift.
He invited us to cancel our flights home and stay for his family’s wedding. Just like that. No coercion. Just the offer. Friendship, you see, still matters in that world.
I think about that holiday often. How we move on so quickly—always needing to be somewhere, always pressing toward the next deadline, the next obligation. But Jesus never rushed. Never treated people like interruptions. When they brought everyone to Him—all who were sick, hurting, lost—He healed them all. Every last one. No triage, no prioritising. Just healing, poured out like the sun spilling across a desert sky (Matthew 8:16, ESV). Noone who came to Him was ever… an inconvenience.
And yet, He also withdrew. Often. Into the quiet. Into solitude. Not because He lacked power, but because He treasured intimacy with the Father. We need that too. Not just the noise of ministry or the demands of the day, but moments of shared bread, holy stillness, and the kind of conversations that happen when you walk for miles in the desert and realise the world isn’t ending—it’s just beginning again.
The sun sets. It always has. It always will. But each sunset whispers a promise: that a new day is on its way. And the gospel—that unshakable truth that Christ came, bled, died, and rose again—isn’t just the story of yesterday’s sunset. It’s the herald of dawn. A new day for every heart. A new light for every soul still stumbling through the desert.
So yes, the old day is finishing. Let it go. We’ve sat on the rocks and boulders at the foot of the Sinai mountain in the scorching heat, drinking cans of cola… and as the sun goes down the scenary changes. Life looks different as the shadows lengthen, but don’t miss the call of the new as it emerges. Walk slowly. Eat with your hands. Talk of God as the light turns golden. These are the treasures. These are the gold of Dahab.
And Jesus—He waits for us there. Not just at the end of the road, but in the walking. In the bread. In the silence.
Let the day begin.
It’s a new day for you …