My Name in Arabic

An eloquent gesture of friendship was extended to me a couple months ago when I finished up my last shift at my old place of work. One of my co-workers, a very devout Muslim woman, painted a beautiful canvas with my name written in Arabic. Large white letters written in the flowing cursive script from right to left, painted boldly on a forest green and midnight blue backdrop of leaves and floral curleques. Since a picture is worth more than a thousand words, I enclose a snapshot of this painting.

I was moved by this gift.

A few weeks before the event took place, this girl and I were chatting and I asked her to write down my name in Arabic on a slip of paper, because I liked the look of it. I was curious and acted on an impulse. She responded likewise and wrote it down on the back of a receipt paper. But, although I was completely satisfied with my little scrap of paper (and pinned it to my bulletin board at home), she took my simple and genuine interest to heart, painting a real picture for me as a going-away present.

Let me tell you a little about this beautiful person. She is a small, shy slip of a girl; plain and beautiful in the same sentence. She is strictly religious (at least from my ignorant perspective), acting the way I believe a true Muslim would act. She follows her religious obligations regarding dress as much as feasibly possible while restricted to a uniform at work, and her hijab is always perfectly neat. She looks modest and elegant, even in a simple work uniform.

Another observance I made, and perhaps respect her most for: her commitment to daily prayer. Muslims have a certain number of times during the day when they pray. Not only do they observe these times, but they use their whole bodies as they pray. My young friend is not afraid to ask upper management if she can have her breaks at certain times in order to pray, and it is not uncommon to walk into the girls locker room and see her fully absorbed, mind and body, in prayer: her mat out, shoes off, body facing Mecca in the East.

Being a Christian, this simple commitment on her part convicts me. We live in a world where tolerance has come to mean keeping quiet about our faith and beliefs, afraid to look different or stand out. I don't sit back and let others walk over me, but I have only ever spoken when I needed to or when opportunities arise. I admit that I have not always actively sought out situations where my faith stands out in the open. A lot of my prayer is interior, which is fine and sometimes necessary, but my friend showed me that real courage comes in speaking up when I am feeling shy or outnumbered; looking for oportunities rather than waiting for them to come to me. Now I thank God for our common belief in Himself, even though our conception of this same God is radically different. It is because of these differences and her witness that I have been provoked to go deeper in my relationship with God.

In Scott Hahn's talk "Abraham: Father or Master", he talks about how our conception of God, and that of the Muslims, can be attributed to Abraham and the experience that his sons had regarding him as a father. Arabs and, by definition, Muslims, are descendants of Ishmael, Abraham's son by his concubine and Egyptian slave. Hahn explains that when Ishmael was about thirteen years old, Isaac was born to Abraham through his wife, Sarah. As a result of this birth (the rightful heir and firstborn son), Ishmael was no longer considered by Abraham to be his son. Isaac took Ishmael's place in his father's esteem and affection. Ishmael's relationship with Abraham became that of a slave, and Muslims relate to God through this relationship. Isaac, however, was beloved of Abraham, experiencing the true love of a father, rather than that of a master. This is how Christians relate to God.

I am deeply awed by the fact that my friend and I worship the same God. I was reminded of this when I saw her praying, and I united my prayers to hers. At the same time, I am deeply saddened by the fact that she and all Muslims believe themselves (and all of creation) to be slaves of God; they see God as a master who must be feared, and not as a father who loves us and desires our love in return.

My young friend taught me that there are similar fruits in people that pray. Even though our conception of God is radically different. Prayer and union with God can bring about joy, peace, sensitivity, gentleness, and selflessness; all of which I saw in my friend and was made aware of each time I saw her pray. I am sure she is unaware of how her beliefs have solidified mine; however, I will remember this each time I glance at her beautiful painting. And I will pray for her.

Something in the Wind

There is something in the wind
That stirs my soul and fills it
With deepest wonder.

On a bright spring day, the new
Green leaves burst forth from
The buds. The wind rocks them
To sleep with its gentle
Breath, warm,
With a hint of the south.

On a stormy summer night,
These leaves rustle and sway
With tempestuous winds,
That shriek hollow curses in the darkness,
Lashing tears of violence from great
Black thunder clouds
On panes of glass.

Then the still calm heat,
Relieved by a breath of fresh air
That stirs the trees
And the long blades of fresh green grass,
Sending ripples over still waters.

The waters that He walked upon,
Sun shadows dancing among the leaves
That He sat under,
His face uplifted and eyes closed,
Dancing light on His face.
The breeze plays with His dark hair,
Riffling it over His broad shoulders.

Now I sit on my stairs along,
With great maple trees
Before me at eye-level. The wind
Changes the shape of those trees -
The shape, the colour, the movement, the sound -
From day to day.

Like that moment
In an upper room,
When a great sound as of rushing wind was heard -
Like the voice in the still, small sound
Of the wind -
I listen.

It takes shape in the wind -
For my soul to hear. Wonder
Comes first, in the stillness -
In the beauty.
Then comes understanding.

There is a thin veil that separates us -
I cannot see Him for it.
The wind stirs my soul, not one corner
Is left untouched. The veil flutters and sways.
Once or twice,
It is blown nearly away. I wish to
Possess the beauty that lies behind it,
But, as when a bright light is flicked on,
I can't help but shut my eyes.
The stirring of the breeze or the wind
In my soul does not have the power
To tie back -
Or rip down -
That veil.

So I bide my time,
Filled with wonder by the wind.
It never fails to ignite
Hope, to fire up
Desire, to fill me
With awe and surrender.

One day I will walk past the veil -
With my eyes wide open. Until then,
I wonder at the something in the wind
That fills my soul with such deep longing.
And I wait -
For that something will never disappear.

Poverty

There is no shame in being poor.

When we empty ourselves of everything, we can then be filled by and with Him. I decided to move to London only two months ago. Things happened faster than I had ever thought possible. I was wanted for the job; it conveniently worked alongside my new-found plans of a Masters at Western University and my family moving to London. Decision made, papers signed, good-byes said. Then I was off.

London. I now find myself living with many luxuries that I have always lived without. Coming from a large family, a personal washroom is a big deal! In spite of having lived away from my childhood home for five years in a residence, I always shared a bathroom with other girls. This is the first luxury. I have never needed more than a single bed to sleep in. If I have ever slept in a double bed it was as a child, and then I shared it with one of my sisters. The room I am in now has two double beds. A second luxury. Which one to sleep in? I suddenly find myself making decisions that are necessary and practical, but a luxury in and of themselves. My own sitting area, fridge, flat-screen television, closet, mirrors, etc. Perhaps these things are every-day pleasures for most of mankind. I consider them luxuries. The hotel is paid for, and so is my food. Nice!

Am I enjoying this lifestyle? Why not. Yes, I'm working 44 hour weeks in a warehouse training centre preparing for store opening in a month. What time I have "to myself" is not always so or is few-and-far-between, but precious nonetheless. Am I thankful for all these details which are practically handed to me on a silver platter? Absolutely. And yet, it would be very easy to take much (if not all) of this for granted. Especially by the end of the two months.

My question: How does one live poverty when life is such as this? How do I get through the eye of the needle when life is made this easy?

I am not an authority on these things, but I think that I am not alone in asking these questions. One does not have to "believe" in order to come to the same conclusions as I have. But it is possible to live poverty when you have so much. With a little thought and effort on one's part, a plan can be developed.

1. Is it necessary to sleep in both beds? Choose one and use it the whole stay. That way linens do not need to be washed multiple times and pillows do not need to be plumped daily. 
2. Make the bed each morning. Yes, there is a housekeeping staff who are paid to do it for you, but one can always leave laziness at the door and foster responsibility and cleanliness with initiative.
3. Don't put suitcases or book bags on the beds. This damages the coverlets/comforters and makes more work for the housekeeping staff. Looking after our things (and those that don't belong to us) can also help the environment in the long run  - saving on soap and water in the process. 
4. Hang up clothing and fold laundry. Use a laundry bag rather than the four corners of the room. Put shoes in the closet when finished using them. Perhaps it takes the extra effort, but it promotes selflessness. A small mortification, no doubt, which has greater merit in the long run. Besides, your clothes last longer when treated properly. And the closets were not made merely for decoration.
5. Spend half the monetary food allowance. The company has offered to cover all food costs up to a certain sum. A very reasonable sum too, I might add. As a university student, I survived on a little more than half the amount I have been given. I suppose I could go to fancy restaurants every day for breakfast, lunch, and supper, while sipping on extra large coffees each morning. But I could also do groceries and buy food that is just as good, while using plastic forks and paper plates in my hotel room. I discovered that there is a sense of adventure in doing so as well. I don't deny buying my Starbucks coffee each morning - where would I be without it while working 12 hour shifts - but I certainly don't need an extra large. I've discovered that a small or medium will do just fine.  
6. Spend time with friends. I don't really know people in London, but I have discovered friends among the team I am working with. Wonderful people! I love my alone time, but poverty consists (at times) in sacrificing that most precious time and discovering new horizons with friends. So yes, I went to Cora's for breakfast this morning with one of them. I learned something about myself and my friend in doing so. 
7. Spend time with your Best Friend. That book on the desk may look very enticing and tempting; however, it will be just as wonderful and enticing (if not more so) after you have spent fifteen or twenty minutes with Him. Besides, that way you have invited Him to read it with you and enjoy the best parts together, discussing them within your soul. 

It is not necessary to take advantage of a situation just because you can. Nobody really cares how much or how often I use these things, but I can learn to be grateful and appreciate every gift if I use them well and for His glory. Perhaps this is how the rich and poor alike can be happy with whatever they have been given. Of course, plans look great when written in black ink on white paper. The real poverty comes from doing them. I have so many people to thank for giving me the words to be able to write this plan. And I will have more to thank when I work my way to the end of this journey - where one ends and the next begins. 

Postcard Collection - Who is Mr. William G Jeffrey?

There is something absolutely fascinating about discovering a postcard collection from 1907-1910. Something that thrills me to the tips of my fingers and toes - from top to bottom! I discovered them buried in my Mom's basement a few years ago and did the unthinkable - I took them out of the ancient "falling-apart" scrapbook they were in (the kind with black pages and cut out spaces for the corners to fit into). Now for my confession.

I threw the book out!!!

Horror of horrors!! A curator's nightmare!! I know this now, although I didn't then. My Mom was so upset when she found out. I thought I was doing her a favour, keeping the postcards compact, since they were falling out and everything. But I threw out what could have been an incredible clue, a part of history. Gone!

Although this appears nothing more than dramatic, it really is extremely dramatic and serious!! I threw out something very valuable to a historian. But that was before I was one. I recently studied Museum Provenance Research and learned the importance of the least important details. I can tell you, that the book I threw out was far from a "least important detail."

Anyway, this course and my budding passion for becoming a curator led me to pull out the little tin of postcards. A little tin, yes. A silver chocolate tin, to be exact. And it is jam packed with postcards! Over 100 lie hidden in its depths, all from the above-mentioned dates (1907-1910, for those who have already forgotten).

Each card has a story. The entire collection has a story. Each piece has a name and a date and a message and an address. A mine of information just waiting to be discovered!!! (And, yes, I think that sentence deserved numerous exclamation points because I am so very excited to be the one to look through them and at least attempt to unlock some of the secrets.)

So, to provide a snapshot of the wonders inside this chocolate tin, here are a few details and examples. 

Every card is addressed to a "Mr W G Jeffrey", who happens to be my maternal great-grandfather. Every date is between 1907-1910 (with the exception of a single hand-full of cards). There are different addresses on the backs of the cards, suggesting that this Mr W G Jeffrey moved around over these four years. The cards are penned by different people (almost all women), many as love letters by or in reference to his girlfriend/fiancée of the time (my maternal great-grandmother). 

With that snapshot in mind, I have so many questions. Why did my great-grandfather keep these postcards and stop after 1910? Is it possible there is another collection somewhere, or did these years have a certain significance in his life? The cards are not all unique - there are some duplicates. The backs are not all covered in messages, either. Some are blank - simply for collection purposes. A couple of the cards have a stamp on them, but no address or message. Could these have been cards he intended on sending, but decided to keep them in his collection? 

An interesting thing to note - one of the cards is very unique to this collection. It is dated 1955. Although it is addressed to Mr. William G Jeffrey, the message is addressed to a "Mama and Dad". It is signed by my grandfather, Joe. And it was one of the few sent from outside Ontario.

Why was this card kept in this collection? Perhaps it is a clue regarding my question about other collections. And why this card from my grandfather? I'm sure he sent many postcards, since I know he travelled quite a bit before getting married in the 1960s. 

In the meantime, I will begin deciphering the writing at the back and put them in order. I will try to recreate the stories during this time and learn about the man "Mr W G Jeffrey". Perhaps this will be a link to my great-grandfather, whom I never knew. He died when my Mom was less than five years old. She barely knew him either. This might connect a string to the past - an era that still breathed of peace and the Old World, all of which would change a mere five years later. And it is mine to discover!

Faith, Hope, and Love

"Within the darkness of Faith

Runs a current of Love,

Revealed to the eye by that bright ray of Hope."

Darkness of Faith. Isn't it true that at times we are required to be still and listen. To be still and wait. When there are no sounds, no whispers, no feelings. It is interesting how dependant we are on feelings, and yet Faith is so much more than that. I've learned that over the years. Times that require the most Faith can be the darkest times. And yet, the results are the most fruitful, I would think, because perseverance and patience show just how faithful a friend we really are. These dark times can prove our character, making us stronger at the same time. Faith requires us to act in the dark. Faith acts in the night, with the belief that the sun will break the darkness in the morning. It always rises again, even when the night is darkest. Faith is the belief that the rain will end and the flood will recede. Even if the entire earth is covered. Faith acts when the soul is empty and the dryness is at its worst - a drought that forces us to forget the gentle winds and beating rains, the quenching of thirst or the soothing of the cool air. Imagine what joy when the sun rises, the flood recedes, the drought ends - and all along we have had faith!

Current of Love. There are places on this earth where a river runs deep beneath the ground. A strong current that feeds the lakes and streams that mark blue lines across the map. There is a current that sustains the deep lakes that have no visible source. There is a current that feeds the ocean with fresh water turned to salt, or that changes the salt back into fresh water. Science can explain this better than me. There is a current of love that allows women to wait for their loved ones in battle. I watched "The Lost Valentine" last night - a woman waited at a train station for 66 years on each Valentine's Day, hoping that her husband (who went missing in action during WWII) would one day come back to her as he promised. She continued with her life, but always with the hope that maybe he was still alive somewhere. He wasn't, as the movie will tell (spoiler alert!), but her heart was not bled dry. A current of love kept her on her feet, helped her heal as she waited, helped her move forward when she knew, helped her continue living and waiting. For death is not the end. There is also a current of Love that spurs us forward during the Darkness of Faith. It is the reason why we continue moving forward. It keeps us on our feet, helps us heal as we wait, helps us move forward because we know that it does not end there. Love is not dead. Darkness is not the end. Love will remain in the end.

Bright Ray of Hope. We hope for the sun to shine. We hope for the floods to recede. We hope for the drought to end. And it always does. We hope for the same in our soul. We hope to hear His voice. And if we listen in the darkness, if we bathe our heart in the current of Love, if we are patient and do not expect bright lights and fireworks, we will find what our heart desires most. His voice. His plans. His warmth. Our faith will be rewarded - both in this life and the next. We will find what we are looking for (even if we are not sure what that "something" is in the moment). Hope moves us forward. Without hope, what do we have in this life? Hope is the "anchor of the soul".

"We remember your work produced by faith, your labour prompted by love, and your endurance inspired by hope." For these we live; and the greatest of these is Love.

Silence

There is a silence in His heart unlike that of any other.

It is deeper than the great blue depths of the ocean;

Wider than the great expanses of the prairies,

Where the winds bend the dried grasses to the sun-baked earth;

Heavier than the humid summer air of a vast wetland forest,

With the gentle hum of a million insects and tree frogs

Shimmering in that deep darkness.

There is a silence that few can find

Unless they rest in the heart of God,

Far from the jungles of chaos

Caused by people, electric gadgets,

Flamboyant lights, and noise.

A silence that you can experience

Within the stone walls of a church,

Next to a flickering red candle.

A silence that you can experience

Deep in the woods,

Surrounded by pine and moss and ferns.

A silence that a young couple experienced

Next to a newborn Baby,

Wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

A silence that twelve men experienced

After He calmed the wind and the waves,

From within the small fisherman’s boat.

A silence so deep and so full

That there is just room for two:

Him and you.

The silence of God.

Why do I feel the need to cover God's eyes?

I’ve often wondered what God must think about the terrible suffering and indescribable loneliness that is everywhere on the earth. When I was about sixteen, I went to visit my grandparents in Toronto. While I was there, I visited the downtown core for the first time. Being a country girl, this was extraordinary! So many buildings close together and practically touching the sky. The number of people walking around was astounding! I had never seen so many people in one place before, except for that time when I visited New York City on a class trip the year before. All I remember from the streets of NYC was the necessity of watching the classmate in front of you, desperately trying to avoid getting jostled and carried away by the surging tide of humanity. In Toronto, there was just enough space between the living and moving bodies to take in your surroundings. I did that and was amazed.

On the streets of Toronto, I saw, for the first time, men sitting on street corners. They were literally surrounded by thousands upon thousands of indifferent faces every day. All those moving faces were blank and completely focused on where they had to go, the next deadline that was due, how long their lunch break was, or how much longer before heading home to who-knows-what. But those men sitting on the street corners were begging for change, playing guitars or saxophones in order to attract loose coins from a busy person’s pocket, or carrying placards that explained their need for food, money, or something to help them survive. No matter who they were or what they were doing to get their money, there was always something I noticed. A deeper plea emanated from their eyes, which held a piece of the person’s soul. Their plea was for someone to take notice. Yeah, they wanted money for something. But deep down, perhaps deeper than they realized, was a cry for one person out of the thousands to look them straight in the eyes, to nod their head, maybe to smile. Something to show that poor person (literally poor) that they were a somebody. Anything to make braving the elements for the purpose of survival worthwhile.

I read Mother Theresa’s book Loving Jesus once. It was sitting on my Mom’s side table and I picked it up. Couldn’t put it down after that! When reading it, I felt that same tug in my heart that I felt when I saw those men on the street corners of Toronto. Mother Theresa wrote of people sick with AIDS on the streets of Calcutta. Everyone knows the story of AIDS victims. This disease destroys a person. Utter pain from every possible spot on their body. A complete and total physical suffering. In India, these people are left to die on the streets as outcasts. First, they die from the loneliness of abandonment; then, the physical disease consumes their bodies.

One of the stories she recounts is of when she found such a man on the streets and brought him into her house. He was more dead than alive, completely covered in sores. Mother Theresa looked into this man’s eyes and told him: “I see Christ in you.” She then proceeded to bathe him with love, anoint his sores and bandage him with tenderness, lay him down in a corner of a room filled with other "Christs", and tuck him into bed like a mother’s child. Before she could leave, the man reached weakly for her arm and smiled a real smile back at her. He whispered to her: “Because you found Christ in me, I can find meaning in my suffering. Now I can find Christ in me!” He died that night, but with the knowledge that one small woman cared enough to take care of the least wanted person in society.

A couple years ago, I was walking downtown on my way to Mass. I passed a homeless man sitting beside the entrance to the church begging for spare change. I didn’t have any money to give, but I didn’t want to walk straight by him without acknowledging him. Besides, somehow I felt that it would be hypocritical of me to walk into a church without showing such a person that I do care. I simply looked into his eyes and nodded my head, smiling at him as I would any person trying to get my attention. I walked by him and into the church. After Mass, the same man was sitting by the entrance begging for money. But when he saw me, he called out to me. I admit this made me slightly apprehensive; however, I acknowledged that I heard him. Before I could assure him I didn’t have any money to give, he held out a paper for me.

“Here, miss” he said. “I wrote this. I thought you might like it.” The homeless stranger had written a poem, and he gave it to the person who noticed him.

Perhaps I flatter myself. Maybe he had gone to a printing office, photocopying two hundred pages of his poem. Perhaps he had handed them out to 199 people and I just happened to be the last person who passed him that day. Maybe every person walking into the church had smiled at him, maybe even shook his hand and told him to have a good day. I’ll never know. But I did smile.

Funny how those smiles can easily make someone’s day. Walking to the shopping mall on another busy afternoon, I passed the usual group of homeless smokers sitting on the sidewalk and begging for change. Grubby, some scrawny and unhealthy-looking, they all huddle in a group until people walk by. Then they all hold out their cups or one person will boldly walk up and ask for bus fare. I mentally prepared for this, walking by them without really paying attention. Besides, I was one of a crowd and nobody was making eye-contact. If I looked ahead, at the people driving by on the opposite side, at the business around me, anywhere but at this group of beggars, I would not be noticed by them.

Suddenly, an older man called out from the crowd. “We just want a smile from you, miss!” He said it with a grandfather-like expression on his face, as if knowing perfectly well what had gone through my head. I looked up, caught off guard, and gave him a genuine smile before continuing on my way. He nodded his head and smiled back, then reached his cup out to the next person. Funny how these things happen. Just a smile!

But what about God’s eyes? In the beginning there was light and darkness, land and water, birds and fish, animals of all kinds with the same number of tiny colourful insects covering the space of the earth, and man. God rested on the seventh day, acknowledging that the world was good. If I were to sit back and rest on the seventh day of my week, what would I see? I walk down the street by my house and see homelessness, alcoholism and drug abuse, crowded buses full of people with their noses either in their cell phones or buried deep within their inner thoughts and problems. All very important, of course! I see emptiness and frustration. People are running late, others are running away. People are going to work long hours in an office, others are rushing home from those long hours to take care of ungrateful spouses and children with running noses, maybe even sitting in front of a television screen.

One day I was waiting for a bus in a station crowded with people. One girl and her boyfriend caught my attention. This girl was perhaps no more than seventeen. Both she and her boyfriend had their hair done up in a strange style that looked more like a mess than anything. But it is a style, and I won`t judge them. For some reason, I was drawn to the girl. Her boyfriend was speaking sharply; then ignored her completely. The girl was glancing skittishly around her, standing close to the young man. The girl’s arms were bare, but covered in scars and fresh scratches. I knew what that meant. I had a friend who cut her arms up. It would stop the pain that her soul caused her. When the girl sat down in the bus, I happened to look into her eyes. They were empty.

What if I walked down the halls of my university? I see posters that degrade human dignity at all stages of life; I hear stories of people who do not understand what life holds for them and cannot understand living any of it much longer; I watch as lonely soul after lonely soul walks past hundreds of people who do not see them. They say God is always with us. So that means He walks beside me down those halls. He sees them. He hears them. Does He cry?

Did Superman have a lot of friends? Maybe if he had a facebook page, he would have had millions of viewers “like” his page. Maybe he would even have over 1000 friends on that page. But a facebook friend is not really a friend. Not someone who will stand by you when you laugh and when you cry, who will study silently with you and help you get a good grade, then go out and laugh until both your sides hurt. I know people who are extremely excited to get 667 friends simply because it prevents them from having an unlucky number sitting on their page. But in reality, that is, once out of a virtual world, how many of those friends are close? How many of those people do you really get to invest time in and learn their stories? Friendship is about sharing, giving something of yourself to the other. It isn’t about numbers. I think we have forgotten that. 

But back to Superman, if he were to exist, what makes him super? Saving people from physical calamities only to return them to a lonely world is not very heroic, at least in my understanding. Although it may be important. I see heroism in men and women who invest their time in making friendships that last. Friendships that teach others how to love and be loved. Friendships that erode the loneliness of our culture. These people are supermen and superwomen.

I heard a story of a woman who was struggling with the embarrassment of having her young child fuss, and sometimes cry, throughout Mass. You know those buildings with high, arched stone ceilings that collect the echoes of the voices below and bounce them around against everyone’s ear drums? For some reason, babies love these buildings. They can shout and make funny sounds and listen to the magnificence of their voice. Their voices are suddenly powerful and interesting, which is fascinating to a child but traumatizing to a poor mother who suffers from the annoyed glances of people who do not understand children. It was just such a situation, where the child fussed more during Mass because he was sure everyone could hear him. An older lady saw this mother struggling. After Mass she handed the mother a note, smiled gently, then left the building. The mother didn’t get a chance to read the note until her child was strapped safely in the back car seat of her van.

Thank you for bringing your child with you today. He is the future.

I don’t know if these women ever met each other again. But that mother was proud of her child and no longer worried about what people thought. After all, her kid was just being a kid. At least one woman had understood.

The world needs more little deeds to be shown that bring love, joy and peace to everyone. Let the ripple effect take place. Touch all your friends with love, then they can touch all their friends, and so on. It will spread. One person at a time. In order for this to happen, despite feeling the need to cover God’s eyes from the lack of goodness in His creation, I think He has to be able to see in order to guide our world back to the good that it started out with (and which still exists).