Waiting in the Dark

A couple of days ago, I preached my first full-fledged sermon!  It was, to an extent, inspired by reflections on discomfort and fear, though my affirming classmates and professor made sure those 13 minutes induced as little anxiety as possible.  Watching the tape afterwards (yes, they filmed me)...now that was an uncomfortable experience!  Still, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the process of careful analysis, writing, and delivery.  I could maybe get used to doing this thing more often, but I don't think I'll commit to any solo pastor positions just yet.

Luke 23: 50-56

Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their plan and action.  He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God.  This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.  Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid.  It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning.  The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid.  Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments.  On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

I wonder what it would have been like to be standing in Pilate’s court when Joseph of Arimathea walked in.  We hear that Joseph goes directly to Pilate and asks for the body of Jesus, but I imagine that his head is also spinning as he processes the events, which have culminated in his friend’s brutal death.  It all happened so quickly.  Judas betrays Jesus; Peter denies him; Pilate persecutes him; the crowd condemns him; and Jesus hangs on the cross.  Joseph must be shocked, but he goes to Pilate all the same.  He reveals himself as a disciple of Jesus, despite his respected position on the very same priestly council that had spat on Jesus only days earlier.  The process is quick.  All has turned to darkness.  Jesus is dead.  His body needs attention.  His disciples are grieving.

Wouldn’t it be easier to just bury their pain along with his body and move on? 

            Several weeks ago, I sat with dozens of others in a room filled with deep darkness.  We had come—parents and children, students and retirees, believers and seekers—all of us curious about science, hoping to learn something about the stars from a planetarium open house at our neighboring Agnes Scott College.  As we sank into our seats, a professor’s voice issued gentle reminders from the back of the room.  “I’m about to simulate today’s sunset,” he said, “In a moment, it will be very dark.  Please don’t spoil it.  Leave your cell phones in your pockets.  Prepare to see the stars.”  All around me, I could hear the excited whispers of those who reclined in chairs facing upwards.  Then, a young mother issued an insistent “Shhhhh!!!” from a seat on my left, and all fell silent as the sun’s bright glow descended behind the horizon.  I squeezed my eyes tightly, but I could not see my hands, even inches from my face.  And it got darker and darker.  And I waited...and waited…and waited some more…Where was the show?  Where were the stars?  Hadn’t I come there to be enlightened?!  Finally, nearly four simulated hours after our sunset, a few tiny lights emerged.  First, the brightest ones: Venus and Jupiter.  Moments later, the intricate swoop of Orion’s belt and the wide-stretching net of the Milky Way.  Free from the light pollution of the towering Atlanta skyline and our dozens of half-lit iPhone screens, every star beamed as if it were a solo performer.  Against the silky backdrop of a pitch-black sky, the stars, which had in fact been there all along, seemed even more brilliant than the bright-shining sun.

            If we could forget about the darkness, wouldn’t there be light?  Or was it only through those prolonged twilight hours that we could admire the ever-present stars? 

In the darkness that followed Jesus’ death, Joseph of Arimathea may have been asking the same questions.  He was, after all, “waiting expectantly” for the kingdom of God, not for the slow process of grief that preceded it.  He is ready for a miracle, for a sign, for some glimpse of hope.  Though he doesn’t yet realize it, he is eager for the resurrection.  But as he receives Jesus’ body from Pilate, Joseph finds himself in the “not-yet” period of difficult, uncertain waiting.  “It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning.”  The sun has set, and the stars aren’t yet visible.  The world is submerged in darkness.  In between the action of a somber Good Friday and a joyful Easter Sunday comes a time of careful labor and mandatory rest.  Joseph and the other followers must wait, and the waiting is uncomfortable, even gruesome.  For the time being, they can’t hasten the bright morning light, but must dwell in the pitch-black backdrop of Christ crucified and the dim reality of his lifeless human form. 

If we could just forget about this difficult, uncertain darkness, wouldn’t there be light?  Why wait on the body of a man who is already dead?

It was the day of Preparation, and Joseph takes the body down with tender care.  He wraps it in a linen cloth, and lays it in the very tomb that he had prepared to use himself.  In his grief, he is not left to do all of this alone, but is accompanied by the women, Mary of Magdalene and Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Haven’t they all suffered enough for one day?  Didn’t they shed enough tears at the foot of the cross?  Wouldn’t it be easier for them to just forget about the darkness and move on towards the light?  Still, they follow Joseph to see the tomb and how Jesus’ body is laid there.  They witness the death alongside him.  They see the body in broad daylight, but they do not run from death’s shadowy night.  They neither deny its presence nor attempt to offer a simple remedy for the pain it has caused.  They return to it, sit with it, and anoint it with spices and ointments.  They anoint it with spices not as a quick-fix medicinal remedy, but as a way of recognizing the death in their midst, of honoring a life that has set with the sun on the eve of the Sabbath.  They wait, and they prepare.  Christ is dead, but not yet risen.  The sun has set, but the stars are not yet visible.  Their hope is vaguely present, but not yet realized. 

Sometimes, we find ourselves in these “not yet” spaces, where we must attend to the darkness before we can receive the new life that follows.  We call such spaces liminal, likening them to thresholds, doorways through which we pass between one way of being and another.  Liminal spaces are often uncomfortable.  They are vulnerable and uncertain.  Things are not as we knew them, nor do we know what they will become.  The sun has set.  The room is dark.  The stars have yet to appear.  As seminarians, perhaps we especially dwell in these spaces, as we prepare to position ourselves between the sacred and the common, the just and the merciful, the broken and the whole.  We dwell in these “not yet” spaces. 

Ash Wednesday Community Day at CTS.  We gathered to reflect on our call to live together as Christ’s Beloved Community.  We unpacked the pain and privilege that have built walls where we’ve hoped for bridges and plunged us into darkness where we have longed for the sun’s easy warmth.  In the middle of an action-packed semester, when our eyes were already fixed on the potential to ace our midterms, find the perfect summer opportunity, and get to work sharing the Good News, we paused for a time of careful labor and mandatory rest.  It wasn’t easy.  Though we have grown in envisioning a future for this beloved community, we are not yet there.  But we wait, and we hope because we are called to dwell in these “not yet spaces.”

We are called to see how the body is laid in the tomb, to return to it, and to anoint it with spices and ointments because this is the day of Preparation.  This is the time when we wait expectantly for the kingdom of God because we may have known death, and we may feel as though we dwell in darkness, but even the darkness is not dark to you, O God; the night is as bright as the day!  The stars are still present!  The sun will soon rise!  In faith, we rejoice, for we hold the assurance that just barely eluded Joseph on the eve of the Sabbath—the stone has been rolled away!  Easter morning is here!  Jesus is on the loose—in the wide-stretching world, on the streets of Atlanta, in our homes and our hearts, and indeed, on this very seminary campus, where we are becoming his Beloved Community! 

Why should we forget about the darkness, when it is as light to you, O God?  Do you not dwell with us, even in our dimmest nights?

As we stand in the doorway of our seminary education, we may not sense where we are going, but we hope, and we wait, and with Jesus on the loose, we will surely never be the same.  Let us continue to lean into our uncertainties, to walk with one another through the twilight, and to trust in the light and life of the one who died, and was buried, and rose, and will come again.  Amen.

Days 11-24: Whoops...

I'll be honest and say that I haven't intentionally made myself uncomfortable every day over the past couple of weeks.  Maybe 80% though?  Or 75?  I don't know for certain, and I haven't done a great job of recording my tasks day by day.  Here are a few of the things I recall in no particular order:

• Participated in 4 days of a phonathon to raise money for Columbia's annual fund.  At Davidson, I called alumni to request volunteer hours, but asking for money was so much more difficult!  Mostly, people didn't answer me, so I was just mildly bored.  A few hung up.  A couple of others told me to call back later.  In 8 hours of calling, I raised $150, had a few lengthy conversations with men who graduated in the 50's, and received one kind note from a man in Alabama.

• Made an attempt to strike up conversation with every person who sat at my table in a very crowded coffee shop.  This task was made more interesting by the fact that I was writing a sermon with multiple bibles and a giant sketchpad spread before me.

• Rewatched The Ring.  Alone.  With all of my lights on.  I don't watch many scary movies, but this one's occasionally creeped back to me ever since I saw it at a middle school sleepover.  The ones that scare me most involve things that I know could never happen.  Eek!

• Held yoga pigeon pose for 15 minutes on each side while listening to sad, sad music because a wise and wacky friend once told me that we store negative emotions in our hips.  Don't worry--I had friend solidarity in completing this task.  No one cried, but we did a lot of deep breathing.  This was the first uncomfortable physical task I completed, mostly because the physical ones seem somehow easier than the more nebulous emotional/mental/spiritual ones.  It was painful, but finite, and easier because it was shared.

• Signed up to play in an ultimate frisbee tournament, perhaps against my better judgment.  There's a seminary league, and pastors-in-training are surprisingly competitive.  I've thought about backing out a few times, but hey--discomfort, right?  Right?

• Visited a detainee at the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, GA, where the U.S. government holds immigrants while deciding whether to deport them.  Stewart is run by a private prison system, which profits from those it detains.  I was there with a group of Columbia students through an inspiring volunteer-run organization called El Refugio, which provides hospitality to families who are visiting their loved ones in detention and arranges visits for those whose families can/will not visit.  I spoke for an hour through a plexiglass window with a man I'd never met before.  

• Scheduled office hours with two professors I admire.  Especially in grad school, I've discovered that the potential for relationships with faculty is a tremendous resource, but I find myself at a loss for where to begin.  Outside of class, what am I supposed to talk about?  Well, evidently, there's more to say than I thought, as I spent around an hour with each one.  This uncomfortable task is one that I envision paying off for the next three years.

• And I preached a sermon!!!  As a part of my preaching class, we're to deliver two sermons to our peers and professor during the semester based on any scripture passage of our choosing.  With love and 40+ hours of labor and some help from friends, I'm including my first in a post soon.

16 more days to go, which means I'll need to get a little more creative, especially as life on campus becomes busier.  I wonder whether any pet stores around here would let me hold a tarantula...

Days 5-10: Discomfort on the Road

A week of midterms and travels to North Carolina got me behind on these updates, but here are some quick summaries of what I did and how it felt...

Day 5: Attended a political action day organized through Presbyterians for a Better Georgia as well as Atlanta's Central Outreach and Advocacy Center.  Around 70 people, mostly members of the Greater Atlanta Presbytery, spent the morning learning about four issues before the state legislature (gun violence, sex trafficking, homelessness, and religious freedom) and best practices for lobbying our representatives.  Then, we divided into groups, discussed the issues that mattered most to us, and went to discuss them with our senators and representatives.  The church I recently joined is directly across the street from the state capitol, making it difficult to ignore the socio-political systems that affect people in the state of Georgia.  I tend to feel overwhelmed by the details of political issues to the point that I don't know where to begin.  It's easy for me to make excuses for inaction, and even this morning, I found myself saying, "It's too early," "I'll be the youngest one," and "I probably shouldn't drive there in the sleet." After all, remember that time it snowed in Atlanta?  But I'm finding that the things that make me most anxious are the ones that I most need to pursue.  Sometimes, taking the first steps is the hardest part.  I'm not naïve enough to believe that I affected large-scale, immediate change, but I practiced using my voice and learned something new about a complicated system.

Day 6: Read aloud in Arabic.  I've done this more than a few times, but it still scares me.  We don't always completely overcome our fears, but we may at least chip away at them.  Practice helps.  It helps not only with foreign languages, but also with big presentations and weighty conversations and most anything that induces anxiety.  If anything, I spend too much time rehearsing for these things when I ought to just go for it, but diving in is often the scariest part.  The line between preparation and spontaneity is a tricky one for me.

Day 7: Started an important conversation with a friend, which I'd been anticipating and feeling ever so slightly antsy about for a while.  Vague, but there you go.  True to above ^^^ notes on preparation vs. spontaneity, over-thinking is rarely helpful, and expectations are only beneficial to a point.  In making space for discomfort, I may also be preparing a way for the inherent uncertainty of surprises.

Day 8: Turned off my GPS and drove aimlessly around a city where I haven't lived in over a year.  I could draw out some extended metaphors here about life's journeys and about how "not all who wander are lost etc, etc, etc," but instead I'll just offer that getting truly lost was more difficult than I expected.  There were a lot of dead ends.  I could see the skyline the whole time.  My car has a compass, which I forgot about until halfway through my trip.  I ended my trip at a Trader Joe's just as I was mentally recording a grocery list.  Convenient, I know.

Day 9: Drove 3.5 hours in silence.  This, in contrast to the stream of podcasts and full-volume country music that usually keeps me company on my trips between Atlanta and North Carolina.  The trip is around 4 hours, but I caved and phoned a friend as I crossed the final state line.  I'd like to believe I'm comfortable with extended silence, but Day 2 suggested otherwise.  That silence made me especially uncomfortable, so I did it again for the sake of practice.  Sitting with my thoughts across miles of Bible Belt highway was alternately pleasant and peaceful, unsettling and boring.

Day 10: Stood vigil with hundreds of other Georgians against the death penalty.  The state of Georgia has executed 57 men since the reinstatement of the death penalty in 1976.  Two executions have already taken place in 2015, and another is poised to happen soon, as Kelly Gissendaner awaits a final verdict (more here).  I'm afraid when political protocol takes precedent over restorative justice and mercy.  I'm afraid that my presence alone might not make a difference, but I hope in the community that raises its voice again and again.  As a follower of God, who was himself crucified by the state, I hope in Easter morning.

Psalm 146, which was read at Kelly's vigil:

1 Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord, O my soul!
2 I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
    I will sing praises to my God all my life long.

3 Do not put your trust in princes,
    in mortals, in whom there is no help.
4 When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
    on that very day their plans perish.

5 Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob,
    whose hope is in the Lord their God,
6 who made heaven and earth,
    the sea, and all that is in them;
who keeps faith forever;
7     who executes justice for the oppressed;
    who gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets the prisoners free;
8     the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
    the Lord loves the righteous.
9 The Lord watches over the strangers;
    he upholds the orphan and the widow,
    but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

10 The Lord will reign forever,
    your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the Lord!

Day 4: The Emergency Room

But first, a few more thoughts on fasting...

What's the point?  I mean, I believe there's some point, but I have mixed feelings about what that point might be.  Is it an attempt to empathize?  An act of solidarity?  With whom?  Where do we draw the line between self-imposed discomfort for the sake of "growth" and self-indulgent delusions that we might understand another's suffering?

What about the line between choosing challenges and tending to our needs?  Like a flight attendant, my pastoral care professor often reminds us that we must apply our own oxygen masks before attending to others.  But how much oxygen is enough?  At what point do we stop sucking down our filtered air and reach across the aisle?  Is it senseless to choose challenges that lack concrete outcomes when we will face plenty without our consent?

And finally, Lent (and the Christian tradition, really) offers so much space for reflection on Jesus' pain and suffering, but what about Jesus' joy?  Jesus delights when the lost are found and the blind can see, both of which are beautiful images of God's kingdom come.  The bible is ripe with examples of Jesus' love of justice and mercy, but what about Jesus' delight in being incarnate?  Sure, our bodies are fragile and our relationships imperfect, but what did Jesus love about his physical being?  Did he enjoy his favorite foods?  Dance all night?  Make love?  Maybe I just need to take a New Testament class, but I wonder...

Ok, so maybe more unanswered questions than thoughts, but I'll keep chewing on them.
_________________________________________________________________________________

This morning, I drove 20 minutes towards downtown to Grady Memorial Hospital.   Grady has one of the nation's top stroke and trauma treatment centers, and it's also the go-to place for those without medical insurance. I didn't go for treatment, but for a preaching class assignment.  Each week, I've been instructed to visit a different site in search of hopeful glimpses of God at work.  Based on each visit, I've written a parable: a brief, unexpected, ambiguous descriptor of the ways in which heaven is manifest on earth.  Without any disclaimers, here's what I saw today:

The kingdom of God is like the emergency room nurse who nudges a sleeping man in a heavy, faded coat.  "Sir, the doctor will see you now," she says, and his eyes tug reluctantly open.  He's awake.  She helps him up, sends him down the hallway, and turns towards the curious seminary students, who are seated in the corner, trying to blend in.  Her face wears an expression of protective frustration.  "Did you get permission to be here?" she asks, "What gives you the right to observe my patients?"  Suddenly, I was awake too.


Plus a few parables from earlier in the semester:

The kingdom of God is like a woman sampling freshly baked breads.  Raising a toothpick over the abundant platters of challah, focaccia, and Jamaican hard dough, her mouth waters.  She is ready to eat, but before she does, she looks first to the other customers, then to the employee offering samples, and asks, “Which one of these is good?”  At first, it doesn’t seem as though the employee has understood, but then she smiles and responds in an accent that lilts like her native Amharic, “Taste them all.”

The kingdom of God is like the choral exhibit on the top floor of the art museum.  Its sound echoes vaguely across three floors, where visitors discuss cold marble statues and antebellum bureaus in hushed tones.  Then, those visitors ascend once more, and the elevator doors open onto a clean, white space saturated with 40 resonant voices.  Each visitor’s face sings for joy and astonishment.  At last, they discern the lyrics.

The kingdom of God is like a room filled with towers of boxes, each one marked with the big green letters T-E-A.  Just when you think you know what to expect, your gaze shifts to the wall, where someone has written a single word in careful script on an otherwise unremarkable sign: coffee.

The kingdom of God is like a man who comes to the shallow water’s edge with a bucket that he hopes to fill with fish.  Three times, he casts his line, waits patiently, senses a tug, reels it in, and finds his hook empty.  On the fourth attempt, he draws his line with unabated eagerness, squints in momentary confusion, and then chuckles to himself as he frees an awe-struck guppy from the metallic grip.

The kingdom of God is like trying to put a 3-year-old down for his afternoon nap.  As you carry him up the stairs, he tearfully insists that he isn’t tired.  Not quite believing him, you lay him on his bed, choose a book, and begin reading.  Slowly, the tears dissolve, leaving only a faint trail of salt on his cheeks, and his eyes curiously scan the illustrated words before you.  He curls closer.  His breathing deepens.  And as you turn the last page, he left foot twitches in slumbering gratitude for an hour of deep rest.

Days 2-3: Fasting

Two days, two fasts.  On Wednesday night, I turned my cell phone and laptop off and put them in my desk drawer, where they stayed for 24 hours.  Already, I'm finding that the tasks I most adamantly avoid are the ones I most ought to complete.  The past weeks have been filled with phone calls and e-mails, as I've submitted applications and negotiated job opportunities for the coming year.  Aware that I might receive a time-sensitive response, I was anxious about abandoning my technology.  It felt irresponsible, even counter-cultural, given the immediacy with which people expect replies, but my professional prospects weren't going to collapse in a day.  I took a deep breath.  The influx of communication could and did wait.

I expected to feel anxious about the severed contact, but some other outcomes surprised me.  I got a little lost without my GPS.  I couldn't check the temperature before going outside.  I didn't know how many minutes remained in class.  Mostly, though, it was quiet.  Really quiet.  And I was surprised by how uncomfortable the quiet made me!  After all, you don't spend your 22nd birthday in silence unless you really, really love it.  But this year, as I've adjusted to living alone, technology has often kept me company.  From my Beyoncé-blasting alarm clock to Judy Woodruff's news reporting to a running stream of 7+ podcasts to the music that fuels my workouts, it's rare that I'm immersed in total silence.  How often do I create space to listen to that still, small, sometimes disconcerting voice of God?  Maybe I ought to make room for more uncomfortable silence in the days to come.

Today's fast was technically physical--I consumed only water and tea--but my hunger rumbled from places far deeper than my stomach.  At 9 AM, I hungered for justice, as I passed those who had slept on empty stomachs and frigid concrete in downtown Atlanta, where I volunteer each week.  During midday chapel, I hungered for the bread and wine, which represent Christ's sacrifice and enduring presence, and for a table big enough to welcome all people.  By dinner, I was just plain hungry (or maybe I mean hangry?).  I was literally hungry and running on the fumes of low blood sugar, but I also hungered for the community that forms around shared meals.  I broke bread and my fast with dozens of prospective students who are discerning whether Columbia is a good fit for them.  As I listened to various community members share their stories from this place, I felt fortunate to feed on its depth of care and opportunity.

For many, Lent is a season of continuous fasting.  "What are you giving up for Lent?" has become a common refrain as people place their bad habits on the seasonal chopping block.  It seems like the perfect follow-up to last month's New Year's resolutions.  It's a 40-day plan to cut the sugar and up the exercise, and if we're disciplined enough, maybe we'll rock that swimsuit by Easter break.  To be fair, resisting our temptations is tough and often necessary, but what if it's not so much about clearing one thing as it is about making room for another?  What feast awaits us after the famine?  In freeing ourselves from our obsession with the finite and our indifference toward the hungry, might we find space for deeply filling love?  In losing something of ourselves, might we be made whole?

"Let all who are thirsty come.  Let all who wish receive the water of life freely.  Amen.  Come, Lord Jesus."  --Taizé Community, France

Day 1: Bringing Back the Blog

Nearly two years after my last post, I'm resurrecting a blog that I originally only intended for sharing my experiences in Jordan and Morocco.  Since then, a few things have happened.  I spent a life-changing summer in Charlotte, wrapped up one last year at Davidson College, gardened in France, and began classes at Columbia Theological Seminary in Decatur, Georgia.

Anyway, I'm not writing to detail the events of the last 22 months, but to share experiences and reflections on the upcoming season of Lent.  Last year, I made a resolution to give up fear.  Why fear?  Why not dessert or Facebook?  Well, for one, middle school Julia did that a few times.  I'm sure it's a fruitful spiritual discipline for some, but it mostly just made me hungry for cake.

Lent is a season of preparation, when we're invited to reflect on what keeps us from loving God and our neighbors with our whole selves.  What keeps us from loving?  Is it possible that the opposite of love is not hatred, but fear?  After all, I haven't met many genuinely hateful individuals--though, tragically, recent news seems to be filled with them--but we're all afraid.  We fear heights and snakes, those who are different from us and those who can break our hearts.  We are afraid, and our fear keeps us from being vulnerable.  But in order to love ourselves, others, and God, vulnerability is essential.  Scary and uncomfortable, probably, but capable of creating the deep connection God desires for and with us.

So I tried giving up fear.  How nice.  What a perfect resolution for an idealist.  My effort may have sparked some emotional awareness, but it was a challenge to sustain and measure, an outcome most anyone could have predicted.

This year, in an effort to anchor that lofty dream in concrete practice, I've resolved to do something every day that scares me or makes me uncomfortable.  I'll only intentionally attempt one practice per day, but I hope that doing so will make me aware of other opportunities to choose fear, discomfort, vulnerability, and love.  I'm making a list of practices that will stretch me spiritually, emotionally, physically, and mentally, and I welcome your suggestions!  I expect that the conversations I have with others about fear will be at least as valuable as anything I personally do.

So here goes my first practice: I'm sharing my blog.  Lent begins today, and publishing reflections on my fears makes me anxious, especially when they pertain to my faith.  I'm both understanding of the assumptions people make about Christians and sensitive to way they might apply such assumptions to me.  Since sharing my decision to attend seminary, I've received a range of reactions.  Thankfully, most have been supportive, but others have wondered whether I fear the church's judgment (not really), whether I still drink beer (absolutely yes), and whether I've memorized the bible yet (ha!).  For fear of these assumptions, I've tended to be selectively vocal about my faith.  As I grow, I hope I can more boldly share my vision of God's just and loving world...a world that belongs to all people...a world in which the prisoners are released, the blind recover their sight, and the oppressed are liberated.  Maybe this blog is practice to share that good news.  Maybe it's a forum for 40 days of storytelling.  Maybe I'll update it daily, or maybe less frequently.  At this point, I can't say for certain how it will unfold, but I invite you to follow and reflect with me.

Prayer candles at the Rouen Cathedral in France, June 2014

4 Days of Funeral

After several busy weeks of school following our return from the village, I’ve been a somewhat lax blogger.  Honestly, there hasn’t been much new to report.  I had my final Arabic exam this morning, so my month of independent research will soon begin.  Otherwise, life in Morocco has continued to be filled with Turkish soap operas, cups of mint tea, and quite a few April showers.

For some time, I have been debating my next blog topic.  Then, a couple of days ago, I found bittersweet inspiration in some unusual circumstances.  Throughout my time living with my host family, I have been aware that one of our upstairs neighbors has been very ill.  Although I never met the woman, it sounded as if she had some form of dementia, along with a combination of various physical afflictions.  From the descriptions I gathered of her, I might have guessed that she was an old woman, but I found out that she was only around 65 at the time of her death on Wednesday afternoon.

Of course, our neighbor’s death is an occasion that has brought her family and many others into a state of mourning.  I have felt a pall over our household the past several days as loved ones pass in and out, and I grieve for those who have lost a dear friend.  Still, I cannot help but notice and marvel at the Moroccan treatment of death and celebrations of life.  People’s abundant hospitality has extended beyond all boundaries to reach out to this family, offering yet another example of the generosity of life here.

Although my host family has no familial relations with the woman upstairs, they immediately began making preparations for the events to remember her.  Only hours after her passing, my family and the neighbors were working together to roll tables and seating for at least 60 people into our main courtyard.  Given our home’s limited storage space, I was at first perplexed by the number of tablecloths, dishes, and silverware pieces that appeared outside my bedroom floor.  Apparently, though, local catering companies frequently prepare such occasions on short notice, so no one need worry about preparing last-minute casseroles.

Shortly after the table setup, the men had stretched a tarp over our normally open roofline to prevent rain from falling on the anticipated guests, while the woman began work on any number of traditional dishes.  I offered what help I could and tried to learn about the customs surrounding death in Islamic society.  In Morocco, at least, the family receives guests for around four days, during which time there are prayers and memories shared.  At the end of this time, the men will go to the mosque and then to the cemetery together for the burial.  Unlike most Christians, Muslims are simply wrapped in a white cloth before being placed in their casket.  Thus, they return to the earth as they came, naked.  After the burial, the official mourning period continues for around 36 more days.  Rather than donning black, wives of the deceased wear all white, and everyone else is free to choose their mourning outfits.

On the evening of the first day of mourning, men prayed together upstairs late into the night, echoed by the sounds of the Qu’ran television channel.  I fell asleep to their mournful tunes.

The next day, I intentionally returned home late, hoping to give the family space.  However, upon walking in the door, I could tell that the night was just beginning.  Men were assembled at the tables in our courtyard, in our kitchen, and in the section of our living that had formerly been my bedroom.  Again, prayers resounded from the walls as my host mother and sisters led me into my brothers’ room, where all of my things awaited me.  I was not irritated by the change, but rather impressed that my family had gone to the trouble to transport every last thing to another space.  It’s not difficult for things to accumulate over the course of three months!

At this point, it was already after 9 PM, but I climbed the stairs to the neighbor’s apartment, where at least 50 women had gathered together in various sitting rooms.  Some were crying, others laughing and sharing stories, but what struck me was the unfiltered expression of emotion.  My family has told me that Moroccans’ (sometimes dramatic) expressiveness is what keeps them out of psychology offices.  While I’m not entirely convinced that this is the case, I did admire the way that these women embraced each of the other’s range of feelings.  Squished between several older ladies on the couch, I should have felt strange, having known neither the woman nor anything of appropriate behavior in such a situation.  Nevertheless, I was just as welcomed as ever, receiving my cups of tea with many sincere shukran’s (thank you’s).

By 11:15 PM, all of the women had settled around tables and were sharing some of the largest bowls of couscous I’ve seen so far.  Babies sat in mothers’ laps despite the late hour, and ladies kept talking over the continued sounds of the men’s prayers from below.  Sitting next to my host sister, I asked whether she knew most of the people present.  In fact, she knew hardly any of them; still, she and her family had opened their home as an expression of neighborly hospitality.

Most of the guests have gone from our home by now, the third day, but our doors remain open (literally, as I haven’t had to use my key at all recently).  Seeing the flow of people through our home the past few days, I marvel at the idea that these people and many others have all been present in the life of the woman who died, just as she was to them.  It is amazing to think that when we go, we have touched and been touched by this many hearts.