Legacy

It's finally turned winter in the city. I'm learning to appreciate the cold, as it makes me that much more grateful for things of warmth: a home, blankets, socks, a hot drink, friends to snuggle with. When I was little, my mom wanted so badly for me to be a "snuggler." She'd make me crawl up on her bed with her for nap-time so she could hug me or make me scratch her arms. I wanted to be an independent brat then so I rarely obliged her and when I did it was out of "have to" circumstances. "SNUGGLE OR YOU CAN'T GO PLAY!" ;) I've always had a great mom...but she certainly has gotten cooler over the years.

Do you ever smell something that brings back memories from years ago? Camp fires, musty books, cedar and pine trees...these remind me of my dad. Our family didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up so instead of flying, we road-tripped for most of our family vacations. We drove to Redlands, California to see my grandparents several times a year. I remember, the final part of the drive was climbing through a forest on one of the mountains. Pine cones would sometimes hit the top of the car and squires would dodge across the road. It always smelled of Christmas with the pine and cedar decorating the slopes. If it was near winter, there would be patches of snow on the tops of trees or in the rock crevices. My dad would get this smile across his face as he rolled down the windows and put his head into the wind. This was home for him.

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College students are an interesting bunch. Young adults all about to begin their "real lives," some single, some starting families. Each one returns to their past for a glance at what has gone before them. Their parents play such a vital role, be that bad or good. Sadly, a great majority look back at broken marriages and families...failed relationships and hurting family members. It's so easy to see the hurt and not beyond.

I have come to grips with the fact that there will be hurt and brokenness in my family's past that will just remain, like a picture framed in someone's house...it just hangs there as something you may see everyday that acts as a reminder for you. But as I look at it and wonder why it's still around, I've realized that healing doesn't come until we can look at those people and situations and see the redeemable elements of them. It's easy for me to pick out flaws in my family, but how little I have sat to think of the good they have taught me...the qualities they have passed on to me.

As we interact with people, I think it's important that we don't judge them for where or what family they've come from, but we should be encouraging them to seek the redeemable things from their past. What is the good of the past if we do not learn from it?

Into a different place...

This semester, I took a class called Contemporary Islam. It's taught by a Pakistani man whose father was a converted Muslim. He and a staff of devoted Christians run a ministry called SouthAsian Friendship Center on Devon Street in Chicago. He took us on a field trip to Devon a few weeks ago and I can't tell you how interesting it was.

• We walked into a small building on one of the side roads. They ushered us into a small, windowless room that smelled of fresh paint. We carried in folding chairs and they pulled a table cloth over the plastic fold up table. One of the staff, Sam was his name, sat behind the table. He prayed, while looking at the floor, that he would be worthy of carrying the name of Jesus Christ in his speech and that he would bring glory to the Lord. For 15 minutes, this man did nothing but explain the importance of understanding TRUE Islam when preaching a message of Christ Jesus. His work is primarily research and debate of Islam and Christian religions. The venue for this is mostly on the internet at www.answering-islam.org.
  
• We walked the street for a while. Every other shop was a clothing and jewelry boutique. Our professor talked about how gold and the quantity worn is very much a status symbol. A husband dotes on his wife by covering her in gold.
  
• My eyes were drawn to the sidewalks...every few steps, you could see dried blood stains left from the meat being dragged in and out of the shops as well as human blood from the fights.
• The most interesting part of our trip:
• After walking down the main street, we turned onto another side road and headed for what looked like a parking garage with a cast iron gate and a bright green wall. We walked through the propped open gate and the light/Light dimmed. There were heavy metal doors with a prayer schedule on the front:
• Fajr Dawn (5:15)
  
• Shurooq Sunrise (?)
  
• Zhuhr Noon (1:30)
  
• Asr Afternoon (6:00)
  
• Maghrib Sunset (?)
  
• Eshaa Evening (?)
  

We walked through the doors and up into the Mosque. We removed our shoes and placed the on the shelf, stepping softly onto the carpeted floor. The carpet was diagonal to the building--facing East, toward Mecca. There were Arabic phrases written on the walls, posters telling people how much money to give, and verses from the Qur'an. In the back was a small door leading to a room where women were to congregate in prayer. To our left was a man reclining, posterior to the floor. His eyes were shut and he was quiet. In the far corner of the several hundred foot long building was a man reclining on his side. He chanted/mono-tone sang prayers to Allah in Arabic. We were silent as we stood taking in the simplicity, yet the presence of such a place. Prof turned and mouthed, "We'll spend a few moments in prayer and then leave." Without speaking, we took a few steps apart from one another and tried our best to pray. The chanting stopped. Prof quickly turned around and ushered us out, grabbing our shoes as we made our way out the door.

Once outside, the students were fairly quiet, but our prof asked us our thoughts. Most everyone agreed that it was difficult to pray. Apart from the distraction of such a place, there was a heavy spiritual presence that left little to no room for Christ. The only prayer I could bring was asking, "Christ, please penetrate this place."

We walked through two Islamic book stores and read through some of the literature. Much of it was in Arabic so we looked at pictures :) I had a hard time understanding their books discussing converting Christians to Muslims so I walked over to the children's section. I read through the Muslim version of the story about Noah's Ark. How different it was! Enough similarity to make the connection in the story, but drastically different to attribute that miracle to someone other than Yahweh.

No agenda with this post. Observations about a different culture(s) and about my own ignorance to the world.