Since it's the most common question I'm asked, I wanted to give readers a better idea of where I'm at writing Tennis Shoes Volume 13 (14?): Thorns of Glory. It won't answer when I'll be finished to anyone's satisfaction, because I'm unsure myself, but it might provide perspective. This is from the point of view of Joshua:
We worked our way through the wealthiest parts of the city. Walls and hedges were high. Windows were higher. The smell of cut flowers was thick. It seemed too early in the season for flower gardens, yet flower-sellers had been plentiful at the gates and throughout the city. Imported, I presumed, from a warmer place. It wasn’t the pungency of flowers that most revealed the upper-class status of the neighborhood. It was the absence of tents. Considering the density of pilgrims in every other part of Jerusalem, city authorities must have labored overtime to keep this quarter uncontaminated by squatters. We avoided a smattering of Roman sentries and Jewish policemen. Otherwise, we saw very few pedestrians. Voices wafted from windows and doorways, but the streets themselves were eerily empty.
“Why is everyone inside?” Melody wondered. She’d directed the question at no one in particular. Presumably, since the four of us knew little about Jewish customs, particularly events on the evening prior to the actual Passover, an answer wouldn’t have been expected.
Hamira whispered, "It’s pre-Seder. Not every year is Passover a day before shabbat. Shabbat and high shabbat. Two shabbats together. Or . . . so it was explained."
I confronted her. “How in the name of Kisin do you know so much about how things are done in Jerusalem?”
She replied petulantly, “Keep your voice low! Someone told my brother and my brother told me. What’s wrong with you? We’re very close!” As she faced back up the street, she repeated, “We’re very close.”
Our journey continued. Did I say we followed her like sheep following a shepherd? I was starting to think it was more like sheep to the slaughter when, all at once, she drew to a halt. Slowly, almost like an apparition, she lifted a single finger and pointed toward a building about two-dozen yards ahead.
It appeared to be a residential home, typical of other residences in the neighborhood. The front of the building was cast in thick shadow, but I perceived a low containment wall and an inner hedge, somewhat higher than the wall. Despite these impediments, I also perceived, beyond the iron gate, a split entryway with one door that led into a ground floor room, and a stone or plaster stairway to its left that climbed to an upper chamber. Like many residences in this quarter, there were no windows on the first floor, but a faint light flickered from a window of the upper room.
Upper room. Was that the actual phrase that entered my mind? I couldn’t claim to have ever read or studied the New Testament, but what LDS kid didn’t know the term “upper room” or what it meant? Or what was said to have taken place inside it?
I felt a chill—no, a warmth—enter my heart and then sweep outward across my body, seeming to exit my fingers and toes in little waves.