“To My Dear and Loving Husband”

As I write a test on poetry for my high school students, I find this poem for my husband, who cleaned the kitchen for me last night when I went to bed early with a sinus infection. He then woke me up at 4am, so I could finish my prep-work for school.

Here’s a poem (that even rhymes!) for you, my love.

“To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold.
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor aught but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live, no more we may live ever.

Daniel and me at West Side Story… which he lovingly endured with enthusiasm, eventhough it was my kind of musical–sad ending and lots of dancing!

Ah! It’s a Muslim!

The sound was more than a little daunting. A nondescript voice called to the intersection of 4th Avenue and Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, NY, asking that those within hearing range come to pray toward Mecca. I walked with my husband toward the world’s busiest Target, while somewhere down Atlantic, knees were being bowed in prayer toward a foreign deity.

At least, that’s what my thought was.  Later in the evening I visited with two locals who each offered separate perspectives on the same event–or at least, the same sound at perhaps a different time.  Over the course of dinner and a resounding game of Taboo, I’d enjoyed the company of these women who shared my basic religious beliefs and a European heritage, and over peppered popcorn, one of the two (I’ll call her M) asked the other (S) if she’d heard the sounds from the nearby mosque.  S shared that she had and found the noise disconcerting; I had as well, being unfamiliar with the language and unnerved that one religion could exercise this freedom while others would be the objects of political and media outrage if they flooded the streets with bullhorns of theology. S later commented on her pride in knowing that America allowed for such diversities as religious freedom, though our own was often excluded.  Then M said something that has stayed with me for the past few days–”Still, I try to not walk that way.  Their theology is so anti-American; I don’t want to get shot.” (my best attempt at a direct quotation).

As one single verse kept ringing in my ears, I quieted my tongue, hoping to simply end the conversation and get back to Taboo.  Other thoughts arose–thoughts of The Crusades, 9/11, movies I’d seen about Muslims (Traitor, Not Without My Daughter, etc…), and the fully covered women walking the streets of New York.  I know that many religions have their passive and aggressive members.  I know that for residents of America and New York, especially, the hostility exhibited in the 9/11 attacks will be forever etched in our minds.  I know that calm Muslims can be violent.  I know that Muslims recruited for violence can save lives.  I know that I have my freedom of religion only if they also have their freedom.  I know that I could get shot.

Still, the knowledge of physical danger struck me as unique to hear from a Christian.  I’m in as much danger to be shot by a Muslim as I am to be shot by a white/black/hispanic/Asian/Christian/Buddhist/any-living-person, but physical danger is hardly what scares me most.

“Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.  Rather, be afraid of the one who can destroy both soul and body in hell”  (Matthew 10:28).  In the life of a Christian, fear of Muslims should only happen in the case that we fear who they serve.  Yes, in serving that deity, some may decide to be physically violent, but a Christian’s soul will remain safe in the event that she gets shot or blown up or ridiculed.

I am hardly the example of someone who is quick to see the soul in people rather than their appearance or actions, but as I meditate on the above verse, I know what would be the greater tragedy.  If walking past the Mosque daily, talking, singing, and shining light in that dark place means getting shot, my soul would remain secure and I might just have the chance to rescue the soul of another.  If, however, I take the long way to the store, hiding from the remote possibility that I will endure physical pain, wouldn’t that be like the Rabbi walking past the bleeding Jew?  I’d rather be a dead light than the villain in the Good Samaritan story.

Will they never end?

June/July/August 2009

Dear uninvited guest around whom my dad once mentioned my wedding,

Thank you for the pricey gift that, though thoughtful, we returned for new curtains.  I know you’re an acquaintance of my parents, but I’m quite sure that I’ve never met you, so finding filler to make this note longer is quite difficult.  We use the gift we swapped for the gift you bought us every day, and we love them.  It’s pretty much just like we’re using your gift daily.

Sincerely,
The Staff of Professional Thank You Note Writers
(ie. Mrs. Newlywed)

My Heart

It tics and echoes
It rises, makes the bed, showers, goes to work
It calls, writes, texts,
It drinks black coffee and beer
It loves lasagna and cream cheese brownies
It sings along to “The Big Five” 90’s rock
It shakes its head to the beat of rap
It has a name and drives a car
It makes me cry
It makes me cry “pause!” in a giggling match
It brushes my hair
It wraps around me
It tics and echoes
And breathes,
“I love you”

What Shall We Grow Today?

“Alright, my little ballerinas, arms en haut!”

10 leather soles press their share of 4-year-old weight into the wooden floor.  Each dancer holds her arms en haut–arms up and rounded, some more than technique allows. Then, as soon as those 5 sets of feet reach their favorite color dots on the floor, little bottoms jump down to replace their feet.  A quick prayer time begins class.  I pray, “Dear Jesus, thank you for the cold weather outside and the leaves falling.  We pray that you would keep us warm so we can dance for you.  I thank you so much for Megan and Emily and Kaitlyn and Abi and Sophia, Jesus.  I know you love them very much. Amen.”

In my head, I add, “please let Emily talk, let Abi not cry, let Sophia skip well, let Megan listen, let Kaitlyn get 3rd position, and let me find gas on the way home.”

The pink leotards sit quietly, feet pressed together, knees out while I start the music. Lisa Harris’ rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” floats through the classroom, while my girls describe their butterflies to me.  Our knees beat the air–up and down–as we list all the colors and stickers that decorate our leg-butterflies.  Everyone’s butterfly is pink.  Sophia’s has sparkles.  Kaitlyn’s has glitter.  Megan’s has hearts.  Abi’s has purple along with the pink, and Emily’s has sparkles, glitter, hearts, Christmas trees, flowers, a rainbow, and bows.  One prayer answered, maybe a little too well.

We tell our butterflies, “hello.”  The butterflies love the cold weather and at least our bug creations are ready for ballet class today.  Now, no one can have butterflies without also planting a garden.  So we stretch our hamstrings while planting a lovely garden of…

This is the most controversial part of class.  Will we plant carrots and apples or roses and daisies?  Pale pink tights stretch toward the mirror, peachy-leather toes and pink nails point at me.  We will dig between our ankles and make a hole, plant a pretend seed, let our fingers sprinkle rain as they reach from heaven to our pretend dirt ankles.  The wind will blow as our backs twist from side to side.  Then, we’ll find our arms in that perfect en haut position as the sun shines so our plants will grow.  But first, we have the most important question of class.  Butterfly colors are important, for sure, but we always know that our butterflies will be some variation of pink.  This decision requires team-work and careful thought.  For this moment, my empty gas tank, my sister’s new boyfriend, my mad-dash to get home in time for trivia night, those don’t matter.  For now, the only decision that has to be made isn’t even mine to make.  For now I just offer, “what shall we grow today?”