Writing a memoir is shameless act of self-indulgence – an admission that, yes, ladies and gentlemen, we do think the entire world revolves around us. It's an even trickier task when we're working on a "spiritual memoir," which, judging by the best-seller lists in recent years, has become a popular and occasionally profitable means of self-expression.

"Spirituality" in its fullest form involves the realization that – this just in – we are more than our little skin-encapsulated egotistical selves. That's why the best spiritual memoirs rise above navel gazing and self-obsession and are as much about the other as they are about the self. They are social as well as spiritual, and they explore the all the territory in between.

Some of the best religion writing, dare I say religion "reporting," these days comes to us in the form of spiritual memoir. In recent reviews in the San Francisco Chronicle, I have praised Jacob Needleman's What is God and Sarah Miles' Jesus Freak. But the work that completely blew me away is The Bread of Angels by Stephanie Saldaña. It's the story of one woman's interior (and exterior) adventures during a year in Damascus. She's there on a Fulbright, supposedly to polish her Arabic and study the role of Jesus in Islam, but, of course, the real work takes place in her own heart and soul.

This book is about so much more than Stephanie Saldaña. It explores the real personal and political stories of interfaith relations in the Middle East, along with the fine line between madness and mysticism. Most of all, Saldana is a great writer and a soulful thinker.

Maybe I was set up to love this book. After all, I did read it in Damascus while visiting a step-daughter who's spending a year there polishing her Arabic. The subtitle, "A Journey to Love and Faith," combined with the word "angels" in the title, would normally cause me to turn away from "a book like this." Yes, there is a breathless love story included in these pages, but I am so glad that the folks at Doubleday did not fall into the trap of promoting this book as "in the tradition of Eat, Pray, Love." Stephanie Saldaña can write circles around Elizabeth Gilbert, and she has much more to say. I am also so glad that I didn't mindlessly write this off as "a woman's book," but decided to open the cover and started reading.

Once I did, I couldn't put it down.

Bread of Angels is full of memorable characters Saldaña encounters during her year in Damascus:

Today at the mosque it is raining, and still the light remains. Children are sliding on the wet stones, with their pants rolled up to their knees. I take their pictures.

A group of four young boys run up to me. "Take our photos!" they call out. "Here! Here!" I do, over and over, capturing the ridiculous beauty of them, wet and messy and laughing at the rain, playing hide-and-seek among the red marble pillars of the mosque.

One of them approaches me. He must be nine years old, and he is absolutely arresting, with blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a look of innocence in his eyes I have rarely seen in anything, human or animal. He sits down beside me, like I have known him all his life.

"Are you a Muslim?" he asks.

"No. I'm a Christian."

"Then why are you here?"