Babies Wedged In Border Walls

(Children playing on seesaws along border wall, police standing by)
AP Image from Daily Sabah

Children play on seesaws at the border wall. Words, like a seesaws, from ancient Midrash to modern day, take us back and forth, up and down, so that what was then is now, and what is now was also then:

“The more they were oppressed, the more they increased and spread out, so that the citizens were sickened by the foreigners” (Exodus 1:12).

The text describes this foreign people who lived in the land as “swarming hoards,” a fertile and fruitful people that increased greatly, even under harsh oppression, so that the land was filled with them. We, the readers of the text, have to ask, who are these people today? Who are the hard working people from distant lands who have increased and spread out? Who are the citizens that were sickened by them?

Perhaps, they are the people being rounded up at workplaces by the hundreds, their lives wedged into the bricks of our American walls and store cities. Perhaps, they are the strangers among us whose blood police have spilled into the dirt with impunity. Perhaps, they are the gay members at a church who reveal fruits of the spirit in their relationships and their lives, only to be expelled from the pews with a slanderous word.

He, the powerful ruler, was described as slanderous and hard hearted. Did he have an orange hue? Did he grimace and scowl? The scripture says he, this ancient ruler, built profitable store cities. His buildings were made through harsh and exploitative labor. His walls were made with brick and clay. His police would strangle and suffocate the working people in the walls, between the bricks.

The Midrash, like a stone in the water, sends ripples to the shoreline of this very moment in time:

Said Rabbi Akiva: Pharaoh’s police would strangle the Israelites in the walls of the buildings, between the bricks. And they would cry out from within the walls and God would hear their moaning, as it is said, “And God heard their moaning and God remembered...” (2:24)                                                  [Perke d’Rabbi Eliezer, 48]. 

This great wall suffocates and strangles God’s people. It seems America is like a child who loves to hear the same story over and over—because this same story is happening today. 

God says to those crying out from within the walls that they will know Him by His name: “I shall be with you.” God told the great redeemer of God’s people God’s name: “I will be what I will be” or “I am who I am.” The prophet knew this meant God would be with them now and with them in the future—and, unbearably, this meant it was going to get worse. So, he told the people only the first part, “I AM sent me to you” (Exodus 3:14).

It got worse.

The ruler advocated for the children to be separated from their parents. He ordered the “border guards”—midwives who stand on the border of the womb and the world—to separate the babies from their parents when they arrived! But, the midwife-border guards in the sacred text feared God and did not do what their ruler commanded.

Says the Midrash Yalkut Shimeoni Shemoth: God brought the matter before all the guardian angels of the nations, and He explained the case to the guardian angels of the nations. He explained the matter of enslavement and buildings, of drowning babies in rivers. And the guardian angel of the enslavers stepped forward. This angel proclaimed God’s justice and God’s truth, but begged: “If you please, save the foreigners, but don’t destroy [this] nation.” Which nation?! Our nation? Do we send our angels to beg God not to destroy this great nation and our profitable store cities?

It got even worse. The midrash continues almost unbearably, describing a baby wedged in brick…

Said Rabbi Joshua Ben Levi: When the Angel, Michael saw that the angels of the nations were supporting the Egyptian case, he made a sign to the angel Gabriel, who flew to Egypt in one swoop, and extracted from a building one brick with its clay and with one baby that they had wedged into the building. He said, “Master of the universe, this is the story of how they enslaved your children.”

It says: 

Immediately, Egypt drowned in the Red Sea; [that is…] the clay that Gabriel brought caused Egypt to drown.                                                [Yalkut Shimeoni Shemoth 247]

What is the way through this horror story which mirrors our own? Where is the hope and redemption of our tale? We are in the middle of it, and we cannot say the end. But, the text has a hopeful ending…

The book of Exodus tells a story of one foreign baby wedged in a box lined with clay, placed on the river among the reeds. The English translations say it was a basket. It was not a basket. It was a box (tebah: a box/ark). A box lined with clay. There was a baby wedged in this brick. In his brick-box-ark lined with pitch and clay, his mother—the mother of a three month old—placed her beloved infant in a box in the river among the reeds, praying for redemption.

I suppose time will tell the rest.

Today, my three month old rocks in a swing and I know that the children will play. They will play with the stories we tell, and they will play on seesaws along our monstrous walls. The child in me also plays; I play with words. I read these stories and their midrash with a childlike wonder: How did they know to tell our story so many centuries ago? And how did we know to hear their story as our own? Like a seesaw from the past to the present to the past. These stories are the stories of our times. 

Three Parables: "Who Is My Neighbor?"

1996, Keshia Thomas protects man at KKK rally.
Photo by Mark Brunner.

Just then a lawyer stood up to test him. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” But wanting to justify himself, the lawyer asked, “And who is my neighbor?” The teacher replied…(Luke 10:25–28 NRSV)

A child was coming from Venezuela to the U.S.-Mexico border, and fell into the hands of robbers who stripped her from her mother, beat her, and went away leaving her half dead. Now, by chance a Catholic Priest was going along the road; and when he saw her, he passed by on the other side. So likewise an Evangelical Pastor, when he came to the place and saw her, passed by on the other side. But, a Muslim while traveling came near her; and when he saw her, he was moved with pity. He went to her and bandaged her wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put her in his own car, brought her safely to a nearby Bed and Breakfast, and took care of her. The next day, he exchanged his money — Syrian Pounds for U.S. Dollars — and gave it to the owner of the B&B, and said, “Take care of her; and when I come back, I will repay whatever you spend.”

Which of these three was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of robbers?

 It happened again…

A Black trans woman was coming down from Pacific Heights to the Castro District in San Francisco, and fell into the hands of robbers who stripped her naked, beat her, and went away leaving her half dead. Now, by chance a Black preacher was going down that road; and when he saw her, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a feminist, when she came to the place and saw her, passed by on the other side. But, a poor man — an atheist, while traveling came near her; and when he saw her, he was moved with pity. He went to her and bandaged her wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put the woman on his own bike, brought her safely to a motel, and took care of her. The next day, he took out his wages and gave to the owner of the motel, and said, “Take care of her; and when I come back, I will repay whatever you spend.”

Which of these three was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of robbers?

And, in 1996…

A middle aged white man wearing a t-shirt with a confederate flag and an SS tattoo was coming along the path from Detroit to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to rally with the KKK. He fell into the hands of protesters who wanted to beat him (to teach him). Now, by chance, a white liberal from the city was going down that road; and when she saw them, she passed by on the other side. So likewise a white conservative from the suburbs, when she came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But, an 18-year old Black woman who was there came near him; and when she saw him, she was moved with pity. She went to him, put herself in front of him to stop the beating, and covered his wounds. She brought him to safety saying to the crowd: “You can’t beat goodness into a person!”

The next day, she returned to him, to his children, and his children's children.

The story ends in the Gospel of Luke 10:36–37:

“Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of the robbers?” 

The expert in the law replied, “The one who showed mercy.”  

“Go and do likewise.”

The Power of Desire*

I look at an image of your face. 

You have eyes that cannot see (me) 

And ears that cannot hear (me). 

I have worshiped idols. 

But…your verboten voice, to me, 

Was like the morning dew, 

A sign of blessing to the world. 

Awakening inner vitality, only to disappear. 

The tenor of your voice, like a hint, 

Suggestive of love and beauty, 

Having done that work, 

Vanished from recognition. 

Say the Rabbis: 

“‘Yours is the dew of your youth’: 

Your youthful sins acted like dew-- 

They roused you to search for God.” 1

Your voice (& eyes & ears) awakened in me 

The power of desire. 

Through promise and frustration, 

They roused me to search for God. 

“I will be as dew to Israel,” says the Lord 2 

A hint, like perfume;

A word or two is enough; 

A whiff of perfume that lingers. 

I ask in mourning, dew on my cheeks: 

“Would you say I bear guilt all these years 

For having worshipped idols?” 3

God reassured Abraham: 

“Yours is the dew of your youth” (Ps. 110:3). 

Even as dew evaporates, 

So our sins may evaporate, 

As was for Abraham and his many sons, 

(O daughters!) 

Do not rejoice over me. 

Do not rejoice, my enemy! 4

Though I’ve fallen in darkness, 

I will rise again. 

Say the Rabbis: “If I had not fallen 

I should not have risen up; 

If I had not sat in darkness, 

God would not be my light.” 5

______________________________

1. 165, The Murmuring Deep
2. Hosea 14:6
3. Bereshit Rabbah 39:9
4. Micah 7:8
5. Yalkut Tehillim 628


* Title: The Power of Desire "The only thing to be done with sinful behavior is to stop it, to repent for it, and never to return to it. As for the power of desire that leads to the sin, it has significantly more positive possibilities" (Chabad.org).

Bull in a China Shop

photo by matthais jordache on unsplash

"Delicious"

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up.

I burn.
I overpour.
I leave out something essential.

I don’t always cook for myself. Sometimes, I create meals for others. My ambition for perfection and over-correcting for mistakes inevitably leaves me asking for forgiveness before we even sit down to eat. But, I can’t leave it at one apology. After each bite, I look for signs and feedback. Anxiously, I interpret every response:

Slow chewing.
A napkin to the lips.
A cough.

Would I overdo it if I asked what they really think? It’s a disaster!...Did I say that out loud? No, no, it’s fine, they say. Really, it’s delicious.

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up. But, we have to eat. And, sometimes, I create meals for others for the soul purpose...excuse me, I mean, the sole purpose of hearing that precious word, “Delicious.”

***

photo from richard gatley on upsplash

"Beautiful"

Sometimes, when there is a very special or important event, I wear makeup. Wearing makeup is like painting the image in your mind onto a canvas. It’s an art form. To perfectly apply the various powders, pencils, and paints should result in an effortless looking beauty. You don’t want people to notice the makeup, but, rather, you want them to see the elegant you more clearly. You want your natural beauty to shine through. It is an art form of tenderness and care.

When I have a very important event I get nervous and I’m usually running late. First, I scrub my face clean. I sit down in front of the mirror. I tell myself, looking straight in the eye, perfection is the goal.

Inevitably, I overdo the powder. So, I put lotion over it and my face looks shiny, almost oily. I add more powder and it creates a thick skin-colored layered goo on my face. I wipe it hard. My skin becomes blotchy and raw. Next, the blush, intended to give me a youthful glow and ruddy cheeked vibrance, sticks to the caked powder and ends up as a dark smear of rose too high on my cheekbones. Often, my eyeshadow turns into a bruised look, and the eyeliner, so flawlessly drawn on one eye, is smeared and uneven on the other. I don’t even try the lipliner. I assume you can’t go wrong with lipgloss. You can.

I’m usually running late, so I give up and go. Would it be socially awkward to ask people to forgive the state of your face at a special event? I make up for my failures in the art form of beauty application by being as kind and agreeable as I can. I’m always hoping people will look past my failures with cover-up and concealer. I try to hide, afraid they will see my nakedness. At these special events, I find myself listening, straining my ears in hopes of hearing someone, anyone, say, “Beautiful.”

***

photo by stephane yaich on unsplash

Broken Glass Everywhere

I broke my friend’s mother’s inherited vase. It was a beautiful blue porcelain painted with yellow flowers. Daffodils, my favorite. At the time, I was a little out of my mind. Yes, I had had a few glasses of wine. But, I was also feeling restless, needy, and wanting so badly to create a good impression.

We were dancing in the living room. It was late. His mother was out of town. He asked if he could kiss me. This startled me because we were good friends. I stumbled backwards and crashed into his mother’s curio cabinet. A precious vase, given to her by his late grandmother, suddenly crashed to the floor.

Frantically, I knelt down to clean it up. I used my hands and cut myself. The blood stained the cream colored carpet. I grabbed the first thing I could find to wash the stain and ended up rubbing the blood with beer. He told me that he would take care of it.

"You should go home," he said.

I left in a daze. I couldn’t get the vase out of my mind. Surely, there was some way I could fix it. Years went by. He never called. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t stop thinking about that broken vase and those shattered pieces of porcelain--yellow narcissus flowers painted over a wash of baby blue.

One day, I drove past his mother’s house again. I remembered his bedroom window. I thought maybe if I used these small pebbles I could throw them at his window to get his attention. If he would only turn back those heavy curtains and open his window, I could tell him I was sorry.

I stood there in the middle of the day, with the sun shining down. I wondered what he would think if he knew I was here, at his mother’s house again,

...and I just broke the second story bedroom window.

Black Trans Woman is GOD

Your feminine presence in the room (Shekhinah)
Hovers over the mind of each soul
Accompanied by our fears,
Also by my reverence and awe.

For the many, you are a mythical creature
Who, in the contradiction of
Your living, breathing presence,
The mob seeks to kill.

You wear a garment of great earthly beauty.
We claim to have your hidden places,
Your covered parts, Your Mystery,
Within our callused hands.

Like a verse of holy scripture used as a knife,
We cut your wholeness into pieces.

We consume the male and female broken like bread,
Along with your blood in this cup.

Blood is poured out for the many
For the forgiveness of sins. 
--ENOUGH!--
[El Shaddai] is our G-d.
[El Shaddai] is one.

A Holy Name: “G-d Almighty,”
“Big Breasted One.” “All Sufficient One.”
Assigned male at birth
In the beginning with the word.

You dwell in thick darkness, in your skin
Arafel, dark cloud, of the Hebrew sort, 1 Kings 8.
Your name, to me, means “innocent” or “lamb”
And when I touched your hand, it was soft.

Lamb, You are Sufficient.
You are God-With-Us.
The Incarnation.
The Black Trans Woman is God

***

[Note: This poem was inspired by an activist I met some years ago. I’m also taking a Hebrew class learning letters, the root meaning of words, and their gendered forms. The Shekhinah (the presence of God in the world) and El Shaddai are Hebrew words for God in the feminine form.]

God Experiences: Can we trust our own minds?

24 Feb 2019—Blue Ocean Faith Ann Arbor Sermon from Blue Ocean Faith Ann Arbor on Vimeo.

Divine Being and Mythical Creatures

Part 1

I once read a short story about a content fisherman. One day, he saw a mermaid and she disappeared. He became obsessed with finding her again and deteriorated in the process--his longing for her destroying him. Then I wrote a short story. This story is also about a seeker, much like one searching for a mermaid or the mythical city Atlantis. But this story is of one who lives far from the sea...

Our seeker began in the desert village where she had grown up. It was a dry and barren land where people drank whiskey while dancing in the light of campfires to the music of stringed instruments and goatskin drums. Smoke could often be seen rising up along with a word or two of spoken wisdom.

She heard a legend of a utopian place hidden far inland. This place was often talked about among her older friends, and exists in the cloud covered climax of an unknown mountain. There, legend tells, a waterfall pours into a pristine lake guarded by two trees and is surrounded by a grassy field.

“The map is written on the body,” her friend alluded as she gave the map which had passed this way by friend to friend as long as anyone could remember.

She brought a book for reading and the map to be her guide. It would be too hot to start in the middle of the day. She began at dusk. Just as she came to the fence, the meeting place, she looked out across the desert in the direction her map would take her. Past the prickly pairs and the saguaro cacti, she saw a starling image on the horizon. A black stallion. Its galloping silhouette dark against the expanse of the setting sun.

In front of her, there at the fence, stood a young donkey tied with a rope. She introduced herself by showing her hands. Its nose was soft. It was alert to her every move, but seemed trusting. From her hyper-religious background, she remembered a biblical moment when He came into Jerusalem on a young donkey and all the people shouted “Hosanna.” What a different story she had to tell.

She secured her burden on it’s back. They began their journey.

They moved through the desert under the stars for a long time that first night. She eventually found a place to sleep. She had always day-dreamed of riding a horse through the open desert, wind in her hair, barebacked, and galloping at full speed. She thought it would feel like flying. That night, she dreamt fitfully.

The first day, the map brought her to the long flowing grasses of the nearest plains. The grass moved in the wind looking like waves in the ocean.

Eventually, she came to the place of two crystal clear ponds, side by side. They reflected a dark gray sky above surrounded by brighter, white clouds. She rested there for a while. She prayed. It was as if she could dive into the very soul of humanity as she gazed into these strange ponds. They mirrored back a certain truth from her downcast eyes. She felt strangely alive in them.

They continued on their journey over a small hill where the wind blew like the breath of God and smelled of recent rain and creosote bush.

The ground lifted and gave way into a canyon surrounded by rocky terrain. The white rocks bleached from the sun were piled almost on top of each other. There was a reddish brown swamp at the bottom of the canyon. It was hard to see how deep it went. The wind seemed to sing or whistle as it rushed through the depths of the hollows.

On they journeyed, down a long, narrow ravine and the vastness of the landscape began to change and shift.

In the distance, two sloping mountains, smooth and round, rose up. From the peak, she could see a herd of horses galloping through the grassy flatlands. She searched them hopefully as the herd flowed and danced together in a seemingly choreographed chase.

The smooth stretch of land ahead had been grazed over, perhaps by the horses, or sheep that had also come this way. She and the donkey travelled along. During the day she used her map and looked for landmarks. They walked through the night with the stars to guide them. She often found herself scanning the horizon for another glimpse of that compelling creature, ready at a moment’s notice to throw the map aside and run with the mares.

Eventually, she came to a small signpost in the middle of the flat plains. It was a human touch in the untouched wilderness. The post looked like a cross stuck into the ground, but there was a flat wooden circle nailed to the top of the criss-crossed wood. It made her think of the circle of life, or the cycles of life, or the cyclical nature of time. She realized this was the trailhead marker. She could see it on her map, and here it was in person. When she came close to it, she wiped away the dust on the circular sign and realized it was covered with aluminum. She could see her reflection, and in that reflection, she could see her mother, her grandmother, and on and on into the ancient past of all the mothers who lived in her, before her, and of all the generations yet to come through her. 

Just beyond the sign, in the low grasses, she could make out the trail—and it was a straight and narrow path.

She followed the trail in the darkest part of the night, which is just before dawn. She came up over a slope and looking down she could see two tall trees as looming shadows in the distance. The trail disappeared between them.

Part 2

Just before she entered the woods, she glanced back along the horizon. Bright orange and red hues were growing increasingly vibrant in the night sky. With great surprise, she saw the stallion again galloping in the distance. Other horses, mares perhaps, could be made out chasing him as he flew past. She thought she saw a glint of light reflected near his forehead before he disappeared again. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the stallion’s graceful movements.

The ball of a fiery sun came up slowly like a chariot with red and orange splashes of color racing out in front of it. The purple, gray and midnight blues of the dome above her were being transformed into morning. She looked at the map to orient herself. The map, like the donkey, was reliable and steady. Her heart beat wild and reckless, like the stomping thunder of racing horses.

The donkey continued confidently on its feet marching through the morning dew. Surefooted. Humble. Trustworthy. It carried all that was ever needed--the tent, a sleeping bag, and clothes for modesty and warmth. It also carried water, bread and fruit, bittersweet chocolate, lilac wine and stringed instruments to make a mournful song when she felt lonely or sad. She decided not to look back. Carrying her burden, the donkey moved with her into the woods and she used her hand to guide it along the trail. She glanced at the length of the wood as she passed by the two cedars standing tall like two long legs of a sentinel.

The sun continued to rise, but she could not see what was ahead through the thickness of the trees. Her heart began to beat faster as she moved through the thicket. The trail seemed to be rising up, growing steeper as she climbed. She climbed. And climbed. Suddenly, the thick trees and overgrown bushes gave way to a vast open area. The sun shone brightly and the birds were singing like a chorus of angels.

The colors were vibrant. Birds of Paradise and other enormous flowers surrounded the lake. Within the flowers, she could see the yellow pollen dusting the tips of the stamens which gracefully arched down into the center of the flower where all parts connected together as one. And from the center of the flowers, she could see the stems and the stigma surrounded by colorful petals and all of it reaching toward the sky. Water poured out of a crevice in the rock high above, crashing down in a crescendo as she moved in closer. The waterfall poured into the lake creating foamy white bubbles in the deep and still waters. Ripples formed along the water’s surface spreading out in concentric circles. She waded in. There was a remarkable peacefulness in this place. Hope. Completeness. Love.

The donkey’s eyes were round dark pools, and surrounded by thick lashes. It’s nose was soft and reassuring. She took her burden off it’s back. She laid the items on the grass next to the gentle waters.

“We’ll stay,” she said decisively.

Then, and she thought it was only in her imagination, beyond the soothing sounds of the falling water, the chirping crickets and songbirds, beyond the wind moving through the trees, she thought she heard a faint and distant neigh of the stallion. For some reason, in this mystical place, she felt convinced she had seen a unicorn. She shook her head. Unicorns are mythical creatures. But, remarkably, the map proved true and this place was real.

Overcome with gratitude, she put the map in her book for safe keeping. When she returned at last, she would discover it’s metaphor. She kept it hidden within the pages, with the hope that one day a friend might learn of this utopian place. They’d need a map to get there.

A Caterpillar's Bible

“Is this depression?” Eva wondered as her body inched forward. She had to drag every ounce across the wooden walkway that felt rough under her feet and seemed to go on forever. Dark shadows above her seemed to swoop and sway menacingly. She wanted to disappear, but she was also starving. Hunger was the only thing that willed her to go on. This hunger guided her like an invisible sign pointing the way or a silent urging call. She turned slowly down a more narrow path, still on scratchy wood, still rough on her feet.

She saw something thin and flat waving in the wind, like paper. It was green. When she strained her neck, she could see hundreds of these pages floating around and above her. The words of life seemed to be written on them and she could see the words reflecting and glittering in the sun. She took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time, trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. Her body began to feel heavier than ever before, but her mind felt different. For the first time, she experienced a glimmer of hope. So accustomed to downward spiraling thoughts that seemed to form a rope around her body, she suddenly knew that her useless hands and stubborn, slow, heavy body could never stop her from eating these green pages with the words of life glittering on them. Almost unable, she kept moving ahead.

She ate. She ate the words. She ate more and more and more. Her body grew bigger and slower, but her mind felt lighter and almost free. She consumed these pages without a thought anymore to the swooping shadows and darkness that threatened above her. It was as if the pages provided shelter — from enemies and from the storm. She chewed and swallowed. Again. And again. She grew, bigger, slower, and heavier.

One morning, when she woke up, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t go another inch. The leafy pages around her and above her still danced in the wind. She wanted more, but her body had finally won. She couldn’t move. She began to cry. Her tears poured out like the rain that pitter-pattered on the leafy papers, now a thousand umbrellas to shelter her. She cried hard, pouring out all of her depression and all of her newly awakened mind. She cried all the weight of her heavy body into those tears. Written in those tears were the words of life. She lay her life down, and it felt like death. She closed her eyes and still the tears poured out of her like silken words and she began to weave them around herself. She spun the weight of her helplessness. She spun the heaviness of her depression. She spun all the thickness of her body and being around and around her — like a cocoon.

It was dark and silent. She could see nothing anymore, as if the words of life were wrapped tightly around her very soul. Somehow, she knew that to the world (and those dancing green pages, and those swooping shadows), she no longer existed. And yet, she began to think that all the colors of light were somehow wrapped inside the great absence of color that surrounded her. Although her eyes were closed and her body paralyzed, she started to feel all the color of the rainbow write itself into her skin.

A day passed. Maybe a week. Could have been years. She was suddenly filled with an insatiable thirst. This thirst, like an invisible sign or a silent urging call, willed her to go on. “Be brave,” her thirst seemed to say. “Don’t be afraid,” it said. And then, “The burden I give you is light.” Remembering, she took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. But, there was nothing in this bite. The words of life that had wrapped around her were no longer outside her in this empty, dry casing, but rather had found their way somewhere else. So, she broke the casing. She pushed and pulled her way through. She felt vulnerable but brave. Hopeful and unafraid.

She opened her eyes, but all was dark in the world. No clouds, or moon, or stars. She stretched her arms and prepared as if to dance. For the first time her body did not feel so heavy. Her depression did not feel so eternal. She could feel the rough scratchy wood under her feet again. She took a deep breath and she felt joy surge in her heart. Now, she could feel the wind. Wind in her hair. Wind under her feet.

Purple and pink began to spread out before her. Then, orange and red. Then a fiery burning, unquenchable light broke through the darkness. The light was with her and the light of the words of life could be seen by all the universe, written on her humble and eternal wings.

Be Still and Know That I Am (That I Am)

Stillness sounds like birds chirping. 

Stillness feels like easy breathing,

And warm feet covered in soft blankets. 

Stillness looks like a blank page that asks nothing, 

Except for me to be to me. 

In the stillness, have I drifted in and out of sleep? In this stillness, I’ve allowed my mind to wander as thoughts come up. I remember seeing small children dancing with dust on their bare feet while the church band played. My feet feel clammy and cold, but they are covered in warm, soft blankets. The birds are chirping, but the small child next door is crying. I can hear her through my open windows.

When my mind wanders like this, my breathing is easy until I think of the children separated from their parents. I’ve heard those babies crying, too. I made sense of those separations and abandonments within a system called, Child Welfare. But, there are also abandonments that I can’t make sense of, thinking of the pre-teen wearing hijab, speaking to the world from a dark room with no windows, saying, “Only God alone has not abandoned us!” Her cries ring in my ears: “Where are you, world?” My breathing becomes difficult. My stomach, lungs and chest feel as if they are all in my throat at once.

Let me drift away from these troubling thoughts; the sky is fading from blue to grey to black. The night divides the day: the separation of the rich & the poor, the mother & the child, and the body & the soul...

Stillness sounds like deaf ears

Stillness feels like no breath in the lungs,

And warm earth tossed over cold feet.

Stillness looks like a blank life that asks nothing

Except for you to be...no more.

 

From this stillness, may We rise with breath deep in our lungs and blood pounding in our chests. Come! Rise up with open eyes, with open hands, and with open hearts. In the stillness, may we listen with ears to hear both the chirping of the birds and the cries coming from our neighbor’s open windows. May we feel the rhythm of human breath in our lungs--which, from dust to dust, is never ever still.

Hurricane Donald

It was bedtime for the children, and we were listening to the radio. There was a great hurricane coming, they said. A raging, devastating, and powerful storm.

The storm moved slowly and deliberately toward the shore of our country. No one really believed it would land. All the technology and measurements had predicted that it would pass by and die out at sea.

The storm landed. The storm moved inland. The storm raged. 

The city politicians had given fair warning and an easy exit for the upper-middle class and wealthy voters to leave quickly. Most of these people found a place for themselves -- in their comfortable summer homes, in well furnished guest bedrooms of family or friends, and in fancy hotels. Each had a safe place to watch the storm unfold on their screens. 

The poor and the homeless were hit first. They were hit hard. The disabled and those living on the margins of cities were abandoned. In the high winds, children were ripped from the arms of their parents. 

Here in the midwest, a safe distance away, there were two news stations covering the events, and one radio station which broadcast the impact of the storm in 20-second sound bites. These news sources had an unearthly power to numb hearts and minds into an impenetrable indifference. People were hypnotized by news of the storm as they stared at their screens with eyes that could not see. They listened with ears that could not hear. They sat in front of these glowing screens, in comfortable armchairs, like theater chairs with cup holders. They were strangely paralyzed by the real-time images and could not move. 

The first of the two news stations had access to the devastation from just outside of the hurricane. Looking from the outside in, one could see images of looming, dark rain clouds and an ominous spiral of wind and water. Debris as big as cars and boats floated up like autumn leaves in a violent swirl of wind. The news anchors interviewed those who had just narrowly escaped from the storm. As their hair whipped wildly, one could see desperation and pleading. They cried out helplessly to the world. Help the ones left behind. Help the ones we love. The news anchors nodded at these words with pity stretched across their faces.

The second of the two news stations recorded the events from within the eye of the hurricane. There, in the eye of the storm, were blue skies and calm air--eerily calm air. These news anchors shared their perspectives of the raging storm around them, articulating only one message clearly: the law of nature reigns supreme. Blame, defensiveness, and hoarding were only side effects of this immutable law. In this eerily calm center of such a powerful storm, one could virtually watch them gather as much wealth and resources from the debris as they could. They did not fear the storm, but tried to move along with it, according to the laws of nature. They had only one great fear, that “those people out there” might bring their devastation from the outside in. 

It seemed so safe and prosperous in the eye of the storm. We wondered why there was no compassion there. We wondered why there was no generosity. Yet, we started to realize, in a strange inversion of place---that a great storm raged within the very hearts of those standing under the calm blue skies and eerie air. On the screen, you could barely see it. But, if you looked closely enough, you could see under perfectly placed hair and pearly white teeth, there existed a dark and self-serving rage. 

Likewise, through this strange inversion of time and place, in the hearts of those being battered by the storm, there was a light. It was a powerful light flickering like a candle in the dark. This flickering light existed in the very souls of those who had lost and were losing everything. They alone knew what it meant to love someone other than themselves. In their battered hearts came a new thing on earth. It was the most ancient of things. It was the beginning and the end of all things. It was love. 

Meanwhile, the radio waves brought their voices--all the voices--to the farthest corners of the earth. These radio waves did not bring hypnotizing images on screens, but rather just words and stories. 

It’s bedtime. We shouldn’t go to sleep. But, only the children know how to discern the good from the evil, and only we can protect them from the storm. The storm is raging out there; the storm is raging in here. Let’s tell them a bedtime story, and hope the children sleep.