How if Flew from Her

From her mouth. It gathered its small, soft body and leapt

froward, up and out. And then it was gone. She knew
because of the dark hollow in her chest, like the place a woodpecker makes,
keeps making, until it’s emptied the wood of food
and moved on. She didn’t try to stop it, because she didn’t know
what it was; what came from her mouth
looked like a white moth, the kind that eats wool, so she clapped her hands,
chased it to the window, pulled the shade down
and pretended that was that. It’s surprising it stayed
as long as it did, because most of all, she made it wait. She made it wait
while she beat a dead horse, hit the nail on the head, drove her point home,
split hairs, threw fat on the fire, killed birds with a stone.
Naturally, it grew tired of waiting,
tried to tell her, made a few practice runs, beat its wings;
she could feel it, don’t tell me she couldn’t, she could hear
the wings beat. She still feels it, like when you lose an arm or leg
and it aches but there’s nothing there
to ache. That’s how hollow she feels. She talks a lot, laughs
with her mouth open wide. Not everyone knows why,
but I do: she’s making a place for it to come back to.

–Amy Dryansky

Thanks, Mighty Girl

shattering

Thoughts from this year's Baha'i Fast, March 2-20...


Fasting.
Fasting.

Fasting.

This morning I was looking for a quote to along with the pictures I've been taking every morning... the pictures I've been taking to set some kind of stage, to have some kind of baseline from which to address this time... to speak to a small corner of the world and to myself what is happening on my insides.  This leaped off the page:

"It is essentially a period of meditation and prayer, of spiritual recuperation, during which the believer must strive to make the necessary readjustments in his inner life, and to refresh and reinvigorate the spiritual forces latent in his soul. Its significance and purpose are, therefore, fundamentally spiritual in character."
-- Shoghi Effendi 

Every year I struggle... every year.  

Every year I never make it through the whole thing, end up breaking somewhere in the middle into shards the shape of myself that are then blown to the winds while I stand, grasping, gasping, looking for some kind of net... harrowed... dropping whatever was in my hands (or what was left of my hands) to try and pluck the shards from the air, assemble them into a neat pile, and systematically put myself back together... back together... back together...


Inevitably with pieces missing.


... and I realize then that this is just what was supposed to happen.  It's always what's supposed to happen.  This shattering, this scattering, the blowing of the wind all to remind me of what matters... what is salient... what is heavy and substantial and real and true and at the core and will keep me grounded... what will resist the blowing, the eventual shattering...


... and there is something that I love about articulating, even inarticulately, what this feels like.  What it feels like in the settling of the water after this yearly wave crashes over my life... 

somewhere I'll find You

My "nephew" is a little more than 8 months old now, but...

*

For some reason, the last 48 hours make me think of a poem with the same title as a movie that a boy and a girl in Minnesota sneak off to see.  They hold hands in the theatre.  The poem ends with a line, "... and that's the way it's been ever since," ending with the only period in the whole poem.  "... ever since."

For a couple of weeks, and maybe longer than that, I'd been waiting for my phone to ring and my Soul Sister to tell me that it's time to run to the hospital and cheer as she delivers her son.  I knew that the experience was likely going to blow my mind wide open, but I am not sure that I was prepared for what the experience of living so intensely in the Palm of the Hand of the Most High.  Writing about it is a bit daunting, to say the least, but it feels like some of the phrases need to come out to cement them into my memory...

At 12:55pm on July 1, 2011, my phone rang.  Sister and I usually talk more than once every day, so although this was the phone call I had been waiting for, it took a moment for my ears to connect with my brain and send the message to my feet that this was not one of those regular calls but the one where I run to grab my bag, get in the car, make 6 phone calls while navigating around the parade downtown (Seriously?  Today?  A parade?), and arrive, panting, in the hospital room where I would spend approximately the next 19 hours.

Things started slowly.  Once her Husband arrived, Sister explained that she had gone to her midwife for a check-up... that the baby looked like he was big, about 9.5 pounds... that she was worried that Sister, whose first birth had because of complications been a c-section, would find much difficulty in delivering a baby that large vaginally... that she thought that the right thing to do was to strip Sister's membranes in hopes of hurrying the process up somewhat... that she had slipped and accidentally broken the water... that things were now set in motion.  Sister was worried about her body's reaction to the antibiotics which would be pushed if things kept going for too long.  She was worried about the effects the pitocin would have on her labor process.  She was worried that she might be forced into another c-section, surgery which made the experience of having her first child so hellish.

The pitocin was started very, very slowly.  Labor started very, very slowly.  She was having some mild contractions, and we were talking, joking, laughing, and playing cards until around 11:30pm when Sister began to shiver, and it became clear that she had transitioned into the next phase.  Her body began to amp things up.

This next phase was very different.  Thankfully, Sister's Mother and Father arrived just in time.  Sister was in the middle of what had become very difficult contractions.  Mother hesitated for a moment, wanting to be respectful of Sister's process... her space... but soon Father went to the hotel to sleep and recover from the long, rushed drive, and Mother went to Sister's side.  

Labor felt somehow like a group process.  Sister moved as she felt the need... sometimes laying on her side, sometimes sitting at the end of the bed in lotus... sometimes standing, her arms around Husband's or my neck, squeezing like her life depended upon it... swaying, always swaying with the rhythm of the movement clearly happening inside of her.  We breathed together... moved together... spoke together... prayed together... sung together...

... and I had the strongest feeling that there was an invisible force in the room... that when I looked around, someone else was there and should be counted... someone else was present and palpable, although I couldn't tell you who... or Who... ?

Sister labored... and labored... and labored.  And we thought that it would happen at 3am.  Then we thought it would happen at 6am.  She kept going.  Something was wrong.  She had dilated all but 1cm on one side, that one side that wasn't letting her son's head pass into the birthing canal... that one side that was making it look increasingly like there was going to be another surgery... that one side that was going to make the next 6 weeks so very, very difficult for the mother of 2...

And the midwife was forced to call the doctor.  The doctor, who said to give her an hour.  Stop pushing.  Rest.  Except the pitocin made that impossible.  Contractions never paused.  The epidural that was supposed to help did nothing at all to touch the process... the pressure... the intensity.  This was past intensity.  This was pain.  

Sister kept laboring... and laboring... and laboring.

The nurse and the doula came in and explained that they were going to put her into a position that was going to make this more uncomfortable, but it was the last trick in their bag... the last thing to try before surgery... before spinal block... before general anesthesia... and Sister labored... and labored... and labored.

And 45 excruciating minutes later, the midwife said that she was going to do a quick check before calling the doctor to recommend surgery.

And surprise, awe, and relief was audible in the room as she announced that Sister was ready... more than ready.  To push.

Strength came from somewhere... I'll never know how Sister got the strength to do what came next.  Mother holding 1 leg, me holding the other, Husband manning the oxygen, all of us crying.  Except Sister.  Except Sister who, of singular purpose, was pushing with her heart and soul like her life depended upon it (it did)... like the life of her child was in the balance (it was)... breathing... was it 6 rounds?  Was it 7?  

Closer... closer this time... closer... closer... closer... closer... and there was hair!  And there it was again!  

And Husband, put your gloves on, and come and catch this person... Catch This Person.

Head.  

Face.

Body.

Baby.  

Person.

And there was a knot in the cord.  A knot.  A knot which would have tightened as Baby grew, cutting off air. Cutting off life.  Saved by a slip of the hand and an accidental bag breaking.

Saved by Sister, whose only thought was for her baby... who was apologizing to him for putting him through so much when her body wouldn't get out of the way... 

Saved.

Alive.

Precious and Perfect.

... and I am left with a few thoughts.

That process is a holy process.  I was in the presence of Something Bigger Than Myself... Bigger Than All Of Us... when I saw that little person come into the room.

And do you know what else is miraculous about that?  We all came into the world in some way that is a lot like that. 

"somewhere I'll find You..."

You're not only in the Big Things.
You make miracles... earth-shattering, life-altering, head-spinning miracles every single day, and, cliche as it sounds, each and every one of us is a living, breathing miracle.

And my breath is taken away by how living and breathing and miraculous that can be all at the same time.

I'm trying to let that thought sink in and color the way I talk and think and walk and feel and move... to let that color seep into my pores and make me move...

"somewhere I'll find You..."

... and whatever else happens to that little life... that life, little as the entire outdoors, tiny as he makes me feel... let me be of use to that life.  That one right there.  It's a special one.  I can feel it.

The Fast or Here We Are Again

Every year from March 2nd through March 20th, Baha'is around the world ages 15-70 fast from sunrise to sunset.  There are some exceptions (pregnant and nursing mothers, women who are menstruating, those who are not in good health, travelers, people doing hard physical work, etc.), but most Baha'is are not eating or drinking anything from sunrise to sunset during these 19 days.

Sounds crazy, right? 

Feels pretty crazy most days.  I will admit freely that this is one of my least favorite times to be a Baha'i all year long.  All.  Year.  Long.  Keep in mind that this coming from a 29-year-old virgin. 

I love food.  I love the way that it looks, the way that it tastes, the way that it smells, I love making it, and I loveloveLOVE eating it.  LOVE.  This before I mention my love affair with coffee and how I cheat on coffee frequently with tea (Did you know that there is such a thing as a dirty soy chai latte at Starbucks?  Where they make a soy chai latte and put espresso in it?  Talk about light upon light...)  Yeah, I'm just not one of those "I could eat or maybe oops I forgot let's go running" types.  I could mostly eat.

Getting warmed up to fast this year hast taken some doing.

At this time last year, I was finally seeing a doctor to treat something that's needed treating for a long time, and she was adamant that I not fast while she tried some things to see what worked.  Although Baha'u'llah is clear about fasting during illness ("In time of ill-health it is not permissible to observe these obligations [obligatory prayer and fasting]; such hath been the bidding of the Lord, exalted be His glory, at all times." Kitab-i-Aqdas, p. 134), I struggled with accepting this, mostly because I hate the Fast.

There. 

I said it.

I hate the Fast.  I spend a significant portion of it dreaming up ways in which unforeseen circumstances could prevent me from being able to fast... a cold... the flu... being hit by a car... a sudden 19-day-long coma... and you can imagine that being told that you are ill in a way that isn't obvious to the naked eye that requires that you not do this thing you're so used to using as a tool to punish yourself and judge yourself and make yourself to suffer, this thing that you loathe and that the fragments of your self fight against each other over every year in this annual 19-day long EPIC battle, this thing... that all of these people talk about as refreshing and soul-stirring and beautiful and... did I mention the NOT EATING.  We're NOT EATING.  Not having to NOT EAT... might make you feel... a little... edgy... a little edgy while you figure out why we do this... you know, why we do this without the NOT EATING...?

A couple of days into the Fast, I had a dream.  Baha'u'llah appeared on the scene... on the most mundane of scenes dressed in simple clothes and not speaking.  Upon seeing Him, it because suddenly clear to me that I was loved... that the over-arching thing that He was communicating... that He was embodying was LOVE. 

So much that I couldn't breathe. 

He accepted me fully, flaws seen and dismissed.  He saw straight into my heart--straight into the core of my being--and I could see by the smile on His face that I was asking the wrong question.  My Lord loves me.  He loves each and every one of us so much that LOVE just isn't a big enough word.  We can't lose it; it can't be contained or quantified.  We can fall flat on our faces and lie there for years.  We can eat or not eat.  It doesn't matter.  His love encompasses all.  Babies fall all the time, and it would never occur to us to do anything but cheer them on or to criticize that time they took too wide a stance and fell before moving forward.  In the moment when my eyes met His, words would have gotten in the way of my being completely transparent before Him... would have gotten in the way of my feeling how much I was loved in that way that babies are loved... how we want nothing more than for them to feel safe and to smile and to engage...

I focused on that last year during the fast.  I focused on loving Baha'u'llah from my center through every layer of my self.  I focused on finding joy and sharing it as much as I could.  It was not perfect, but this was the gift I presented my Lord last year... wrapped in wrapping paper I made my self, colored with a crayon, paper smudged-by-accident and folded, but not quite perfectly...


I got angry with Baha'u'llah in the car yesterday.

"Every year?  EVERY year???  Really?!?!!  Can't we just NOT do this?!  My nose was running yesterday, and my head kinda hurts.  And I haven't been drinking enough water.  I bet in the future we won't even do this.  Maybe I won't. 
MAYBE I JUST WON'T!!   
DO YOU HEAR THAT?!??!!!!"

I could feel Him laugh... one of those deep, rumbling laughs that comes from somewhere inside and reverberates... that laugh that might be the reason the word "reverberate" exists... and I started to laugh. 

I started to laugh, and I couldn't stop.

He wrote, "Verily, I say, fasting is the supreme remedy and the most great healing for the disease of self and passion."

I couldn't stop laughing.

He asks so so SO little of me.  He asks only that I say my prayers (because all souls need the nourishment that comes from acknowledging the Great Spirit), obey His laws (that protect me from one billion other things), and not eat or drink anything once a year from sunrise to sunset for 19 days (you know, if my body's up for it and not otherwise occupied). 

He asks only that I do things that are actually good for me.


I am a Baha'i.  I believe that Baha'u'llah is Who He says He is.  I believe it in my core.  I love Baha'u'llah with all of my soul and all of my self and all of my being.  For Baha'u'llah, I will spend the next 19 days wrapping my self up.  I will do what I can to allow fasting to heal my own "disease of self and passion." 

It's the least I can do.  I will do this for Him, and I will do this for me.

This year, He has allowed me food and shelter and safety and freedom from the fear that not having those things reliably causes too many...
He has allowed me life in a country in which I unquestionably have access to education and the freedom to pursue it, 1/2 Iranian Baha'i woman that I am...
He has allowed me to live, work, and play with people I love dearly who see me and encourage me and have my back...
He has put a man in my life who chooses his words and actions carefully, who loves me in a way that I am only now beginning to understand...
He has allowed me a working body, one that can do things like not eat or drink from sunrise to sunset for 19 days...

Baha'u'llah has held my hand through all this... all this and more...
He continues to hold my hand...

I have nothing to give my Lord.  There is nothing I can offer.  Fasting is a tiny, insignificant token... In the face of all of these blessings, all I have is this tiny, insignificant token... offered with trembling hands...

(I will try to remember this for 19 days.)
(I will try to remember this for longer than 19 days.)
(I will try to remember this.)

Things I Learned from My Father

(Some Taught On Purpose, Some Accidentally, and There’s No Knowing Which is Which)

(I meant to finish this by Father's Day this summer, but it sat half-done for a long time.  Sorry, Dad.  I love you.)

Coffee is awesome.  It tastes good, and you can have it first thing in the morning.  That makes coffee awesome.  This is an excellent reason to get out of bed in the morning.

When someone asks you how your children are doing when they're not around, you won't know how much it touches your children's hearts when they hear of this later and are told, “When he was talking about each of you, it was as if he had only one child.”  This is important, although you may not know how much.  Your children will know that you see them—really see them—and this simple knowledge of how your eyes danced when you talked about each of them will make them a little teary and remind them of who they are and where they came from. 

Work.  Work hard.  Don't work for titles and accolades.  Work because God has given you the gift of life, and you repay that gift by being a contributing member of the human race.  This requirement of productivity is not restricted to the activities you get paid for.  Human beings were not created to sit around.

When you walk into a room, speak to everyone.  It does not matter if these people are white, black, brown, purple, or metallic.  Speak to everyone.  Don't just speak respectfully.  Speak with love.  All of those people were created by the same God.  He’s your God, too.

Speak to children.  They’re important.  Engage them.  Smile big.  Don’t rush them.  Sometimes people warm up slow.  It’s ok.  Speak to them.  Listen to them.  Look at them when they ask you to.  Meet them where they are.  When they ask you to look at them, do everything you can to look.  It’s how they learn that they are of consequence in the world.  They’re asking for you to validate their worth.  You must, must, must do this.

Eradicating racism happens through meeting eyes, shaking hands, working together, claiming each other, speaking, listening, and eating supper in each other’s homes.  We can’t kill it with arguments and rants, and we can’t kill it simply by telling it to die.  We have to learn how to see through skin to souls.  Truthfully, this isn’t as hard as everyone says that it is.

Your family is not only the people you were born to.

Girls may like dresses, but that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t know how to pull a bow, process a deer, kick a ball, tie up tomatoes, and find shelter in the woods to stay warm in case they get lost.  If you don’t treat them like they might break, there’s a good chance that they’ll get damn close to bullet-proof. 

Expect your daughters to open their own doors.  Teach them to change their own tires and defend themselves and others.  When people ask you if you’re disappointed that you had 5 daughters, look at them like it’s the stupidest question in the world.  Don’t do it because someone’s watching.  Do it because you really believe that it IS the stupidest question in the world.

Don’t do anything because someone’s watching.  Be yourself.  Don’t hide.

Money is not everything, but it is important.  On both ends of the wealth spectrum exists the danger of forgetting that money isn’t everything.  Also remember that money isn’t nothing.  There is no virtue in being poor.  It’s not what God meant when He told us to “renounce the world.”  Beware of people who tell you otherwise.

Respect your resources.  An old Coca-Cola sign may be the roof of a rabbit hutch.  Never go out and buy a shed when you can build one with a tarp, some spare lumber, and a good post-hole digger.  Don’t spend more money than you have to.

Be teachable.  You do not know everything.  Do not walk into situations thinking that you do.  Offer suggestion only when you are asked.  Do so respectfully, and avoid emotional attachment to what you suggest.  You are in this world to learn—not teach—as much as you possibly can.  When you go into a new situation, be teachable.

There are better decisions and worse decisions, but whatever path you choose will have consequences and will teach you something.  It makes absolutely no sense to sit around praying and waiting for a sign.  Pray, make a decision, and do something.  Certainly there are bad choices, but God doesn’t speak to most of us in neon, blinking signs when we are stopped politely.  He may speak to you, but it’s not going to happen while you’re paralyzed with fear of screwing up.  Move.  God’s there—like the air.  Just keep breathing.

At the same time, if you’re not sure, it’s either not the right person or not the right time.  Wait until you’re sure.

The fact that everyone accepts a certain thing does not make it true.  Nor does this make it right.  Human beings have accepted numerous incorrect assumptions throughout history.  Investigate everything for yourself, and accept that the investigation may have to happen through non-conventional means if you are to reach the full truth. When you find truth that contradicts what you thought previously, be flexible.  Also remember that the fact that everyone around you says that something is true does not make it true.  It makes it what everyone around you says.

Spirituality does not have to look any certain way.  The expression of reverence is as diverse as the human family.  Do not judge yourself for not expressing your spirituality in conventional ways.  Some of us just hear God more clearly while we're walking around in the woods.

God lives everywhere from the sound of the leaves in the trees to the river to people around you to the corners of your own soul.  God lives everywhere.

spinster poetry

One day, I will write you a poem. 

One day, I will write you a poem for every day we were apart,

a poem for every moment we spent not knowing each other’s faces,

not knowing the scent of each other’s hair,

not knowing

not hearing

not being

Like it or not, I will read these poems to you one after the other, in long succession, my head resting on my pillow, your head resting on my stomach,

my voice speaking into the top of your head and not into your eyes

because if I speak those words into your eyes my voice will be lost and something will surely catch on fire

and, Love, we don’t keep a fire extinguisher in the bedroom.

And there’s not enough water in the world.

I will write you a poem for every decision you had to make alone,

for every time you wanted to plan for our future, and I wasn’t there,

for every dream you wanted to talk about when I couldn’t hear you,

for every time you found yourself somewhere dark, reached out for my hand, and felt only a faint breeze,

for every time you worked late, and no one noticed,

for every time you were really hungry, and no one cared.

Honey, dinner is in the oven.

I will write you a poem.

I will write you a poem for the children we should have started having when we were younger,

for the career changes which might have been easier earlier,

for the college graduations we will be attending with more grey in our hair than the other parents,

for the great-grandfathers the kids will only hear stories of.

Baby, I will sing you that song you love,

we will dance in the kitchen all night long,

and I will write you a poem.

I will write you a poem for every time we didn't get to do the dishes together,

for every time you did the laundry and didn’t have to pull my bras out before starting the dryer,

for every time someone else made a mess and you were the only one there to clean it up,

for all of that time spent in the car without having someone to read all of the signs to,
for the stupid puns that you never got to tell me,

for the time you spent sleeping on basic-colored sheets wrapped in that college student comforter.  
Sugar daddy, it’s called a duvet, and cotton sheets feel just like this.

You can read about them in my poem.

I will write you a poem for every flower you never got to give me,

for every card you never got to leave for me on the kitchen counter,
for every time there was no one to scratch your back until you feel asleep,

for every time you had to sit through the guys complaining about their girls without being able to tell them how you have never felt like more of a man,

how your woman writes a poem with her every curve,

how you never knew how good it could be.

I will write you a poem again… and again… and again… and again.

I will write you a poem for every prayer you ever said alone,

for every time you had to patiently make peace,

for every time you lost patience,

for every time you almost gave up.

I will thank Him for you in letters, but for you, I will write a poem.

And when the time comes for the air to leave your lips for the last time,

One way or another,

I will write you a poem.

I will place it into your out-stretched hands.

It will glow with the fire of a thousand moments when we breathed deep,

exhaled slowly,

and felt our hearts beat in unison.

I will swirl around you in all of the colors of the world,

In colors beyond colors,

melting through you, into you, within you,

until there is no space between us

until there is no space.

And no between.

I will hold your hand in the grocery store.

I will kiss you by the river until you need more Chapstick.

I will tell your children bedtime stories.

I will let you grab what’s left of my ass when we’re old.

You can read all about it.

I will write you a poem.

brother

Familiar music blares from my always-too-loud phone.  I know what answering will mean.  The shield I made this morning during the walk from bed to speaking and have been using all day to protect others from the Death Star I can feel being quietly built inside will be knocked right out of my hands and smashed on the ground.  For better or for worse, he is good at destroying.  He is also good at other things.  I press "ignore."  He will wait.  Not patiently, but he will wait.  I'm not ready yet.  I may be when he tries again.  He never waits for very long.  Even states away, he can feel it when I'm hiding.

I realized early on the path to adulthood that, beyond my beloved father, I knew nothing of the more angular gender.  I knew nothing of what it is to think in straight lines... to be trapped in pants... to compete in ways which I never seemed to be able to keep track of... to have responsibility before God that is different from my own... to live on the other side of the coin.  I was smart enough to know that I needed to learn.  I asked God in simple words, and He answered simply.

Had said answer consented to occupy less space, I might not have noticed him.  He might have gotten away simply with internet communication and occasional meetings, but somewhere in there I turned my head, and he was suddenly part of what "family" feels like.  Together, we came to better understand other words.  He taught me about "protect" and "respect"... taught me in ways you can only learn from a brother...
taught me in ways you can only learn from someone who is willing to tell you when you have become the enemy...
taught me in ways you can only learn when someone turns up when there are lions to fight, bares his teeth, and jumps into the pit with you...
someone who never needs a list of reasons why he should hasten when he hears, "Help," and knows how to never make you feel small for asking...
or feel small at all...

... and it's not because he walked out of a comic book.  I have flown at his demons.  I know them by name.  He and I have also come nearly to blows, as is often the case when fire meets fire and there's just about anything in the vicinity.  We are not known for our long fuses, but then again, although we may look nothing alike, bits of our souls seem to be cut from the same cloth.  There are times when he smacks the cup out of my hands when I'm trying to hydrate just to see the look on my face, and there are times when I have to push him away because he is standing on the hem of my dress with his big foot while I'm trying to leave the room.
Not on purpose.
But sometimes on purpose.
And sometimes it's really caught on something else, but then I'm one who blames those in her heart first.

Don't make that face.  You are, too.

Somewhere in my mind, the thought of the brother God sent me from another family is stitched to the word "community."  We like to think of community as something out there, not something in here.  We say that we "work in the community," like it's a place and not the corners of our hearts stapled together... or "with the community," like we can work with ourselves.  Like you and me are not made of the same elements.  Like we could separate, even if we tried.  Like turning my back on you isn't turning my back on me which, as it turns out, looks a lot like circles.

Yes, I realize my rambling, but there is something to say about what has happened that has something to do with the way the world smells right now... something about the interchange between woman and man... something about what that has done to so many... something which needs to be laid plain:

There is that which obedience to God protects.  There is that which boundaries protect.

Somewhere in my heart there is a love letter to him, one in which I will explain what it feels like to know down deep that I am heard... that my voice is one which speaks... that what is spoken is heard through the filter of respect, a filter created because the voice is mine.  Through the mirror of his eyes, I saw parts of myself which were before invisible, parts which he still defends tirelessly, just as tirelessly as I defend his.  I will explain in that letter how it feels for the mirror to appear and call for my attention when I think that I may be invisible again... although I suspect that he may already know.  I hope that he does...

Somewhere in that letter will come this lesson:  Respect makes for love like this, love which doesn't need to go away and hide... all-inclusive love for life and for humanity which rejoices with the chance to read this letter to his wife, to her children, to their children... love which turns into service and fosters the development of others, of groups of others, of a family which comes in a billion different shades of love, love which stands in the sunlight and announces, "This is what community feels like.  This is what it feels like to be the human family."

It's what I mean when I ask, "Unite the hearts of Thy servants..."  
It's what I mean when I sing, "All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding."
It's what pumps in my heart when it beats, "We all come from God, and unto Him do we return."


I smiled when the phone rang.  She saw the picture of his brown face and the face of his daughter on the screen.  "Who's that?"
"My brother."