I was fortunate to go on a pilgrimage to Turkey in 2008. It was part of my seminary education—and a group of 21 or so seminary students traveled to Istanbul and Konya in December to study the intersections of Judaism, Islam and Christianity.

We toured ancient churches, caves, temples and mosques. We arrived in Konya, the resting place of the 13th-century poet Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, commonly referred to as Rumi, just in time to gather with Sufi practitioners from all over the globe in celebration of Shab-i Arus—the anniversary of Rumi's death on December 17.

It was a wonderful experience and one during which I fell numerous times. 

It started on the first day with missing the step down in the bus aisle and conking my hip on the first row of seats.  I whacked my head in a low-ceilinged stone tomb as I hurried because we were called back to the bus. The thud was so loud that many people in that small space sucked in air and grimaced for me.

I fell over my roommate's backpack that was left in the middle of the floor one night, as I returned in the dark from the bathroom. (Actually, it was from the toilet that was in the shower in our Konya guest house room.)

And finally, I fell down a steep set of stairs while we were rushing to get to Rumi's tomb, bouncing on several steps on the way down. (We knew that if we received a call that we had permission to enter the actual tomb, we had to move fast.)

Later, when the class reconvened for our shared learning session hastily abandoned earlier, I came to the realization that it isn't how many times we fall down. The measure of our character and our strength is how many times we get up.

In our busy world, often spinning beyond our control, it seems like a good thing to be reminded of.