His Cherry Blossom

Hiding behind The veil of black Keeping me unseen I enter through The women’s door Hoping I am clean. Going to the spickets I join the line Of black-robed women Washing face and hands In ceremony Hoping to be clean. Facing towards  The holy city I hope my prayers Are heard by God Then the pain within Reminds me I’m unclean. Now I kneel down Face to the ground Uttering words I’ve always known Since I was a girl Yet still I am unclean. Slowly I rise Hopeless that I would ever Be good enough For God to be near Someone so unclean. But I’ve heard of  a man in white, A man who’s kind Compassionate Who doesn’t push me Away as unclean. All of my life I’ve been taught that He’s just a prophet But what if He’s More than that and He can make me clean? What if He is  Who they say He is? What if He is The Son of God And He did die To make us all clean? Could it be that This One in white Is walking on  These dusty roads Beckoning me Though I am unclean? Could it be that  He d...

 With the holy month comes an increase of "holy" activities one of which is abstaining from any kind of music. Now not everyone adheres to that especially in the major cities, but I notice it in subtle ways. Where the ladies only gym usually has music at all times, now silence echoes. All major music festivals and performances are put on hold for the entire month - even the world class performance that had started just two weeks prior! Why is that music is deemed so powerful that it must be stopped? I've always been fascinated by the affect of music on humanity - body, soul and spirit. In fact the first topic  that came to mind when my language teacher told me to talk about any topic that I desired was the impact of music in my life. From a young age, I always had a love for singing. I would dance around the house, singing as I did my chores or finished homework. What better way to finish a math assignment than put on classical music or focus on my writing assignment with...

  Out on a lonely desert road lit up by street lights, stood the imposing concrete walls of the outside courtyard of my new friend's "istaraha" (a word used for a cabin or vacation home that can be rented out for holidays). I had met this sweet lady at a local festival. Of course like many other women here, when I had met her she was completely covered in black with only her eyes showing. We had exchanged numbers and just last week she reached out inviting me to come meet her and her daughters about an hour outside of the city at their "istaraha". I approached the massive gates rather hesitantly. I knew I wouldn't recognize her and I had never met her daughters before, so I felt practically like a stranger walking up to someone's family reunion expecting to be let in.  The minute I walked in my fears subsided. I knew who she was immediately because she came rushing over to meet me and welcome me with open arms. Inside the courtyard, I was free to talk of...

  Imagine with me an ornate Middle Eastern courtroom - on one side stands the accused, a young man maybe 19yrs old and on the other side stands a sinister older man glaring at the accused. He claims that the young man has stolen his sheep and is calling for justice which under Sharia law means only one thing - off with the hand! In the center sits an ancient man draped in a thick black robe with gold embroidery. He waves his hand and beckons for the witnesses to step forward. First comes a neighbor of the young man dressed in the traditional white robes. Then up steps an old shepherd who has been out in the fields for as long as anyone can remember. Both of them declare that the accusation is false but in order for the young man to be cleared, by law there must be one more person. All eyes turn as a black shrouded figure starts to approach the front. This is Fatima, the accused man’s cousin and she is coming to attest to his innocence. As she approaches, the judge asks: “Is there s...

       As my friend and I were strolling through the quiet palms on the warm pavement, the scent of moistened dust and freshly irrigated grass teased my nose. I breathed in the smell and listened to the sound of kids playing “football” (aka. soccer) under the park lights. Figures cloaked in black sat in clusters on picnic mats or park benches across the open area. They blended into the night and spoke in low voices. My friend was talking but my mind had drifted off thinking about these women veiled in black.       I knew that behind the blackness, sat vibrant women full of potential, beauty, and color. Yet, the culture dictated that for their safety and the sanctity of the men, the women must hide themselves from the eyes of men. I longed to go over to each of those women and lift up the veils that covered their faces and tell them how their Heavenly Father sees them.       In Arabic there is a specific word referring to the sc...

     Imagine clouds of smoke billowing up from the hostile slopes of Mount Sinai. The brilliant light of the glory of God pierces through the clouds like lightning and the sound of His voice echoes like thunder. Imagine the fear gripping the hearts of millions of Israelites as they stood quaking at the base of this holy mountain. In Hebrews the writer describes the experience as “a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken to them.” Even Moses who later asked to see the glory of God, said “I am trembling with fear.”       Standing on this mountain not too many months ago, I imagined the darkness, the gloom and the storm described so clearly, and I shivered inside. Yet, in Hebrews, the author says, “You have come to Mount Zion… to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly… to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant…” What a glorious picture of hope and joy! We have come “to God, the Judge of all, to the ...

  Sitting in the spacious living room on plush, pink cushions with end tables covered in delicious sweets on golden platters, one would not have guessed my mom and I sat in the house of a desert dweller. Lydia sat elegantly on the edge of the couch ready to serve coffee or insist we eat more sweets. As guests of her house, we wouldn’t dream of shaming her by refusing her offers. I had experienced this ritual hospitality for ten plus years growing up in that part of the world but tonight was different. In between sips of cardamom-infused coffee and auburn-colored tea, we read the Word of life from a small book in her language. She began reading it aloud and then asking questions - genuine questions as though she really wanted to know. In all my 25-yrs of life, 12 of those in her part of the world, I had never met someone who knew the Truth from her country, and yet here she was seeking the Truth and desperate for an answer. Years of doubt in my heart began to melt as I sat in awe of...