God Says it With Flowers

Abuna (my Coptic Priest, literally "our father") tells me not to make too much of dreams, the kind that happen when you're sleeping, because you never really know their source. Could be your subconscious just sifting through raw material for something to chew on or eject, could be random noise, or yes, it could be the omnipotent one...or His nemesis, he says. You never know. "Don't over analyze," he instructs me.

I'm very skilled at over analysis. He pretty much gives me the same instructions no matter what quandary or confession I babble on about in his presence. However, this time, this dream, I think a bit of analysis is in order. I think the magnificent one may indeed be trying to tell me something, and as was His habit with the parables of His Son, He has made a bit of a game of it. Let's play dream analysis with God, shall we?

First, the setting. In my waking life, I am entering a state of transition. I am getting ready to leave the place that I have called home for the past four years, and lived in for more than eight years. It's just time to go. I'm not quite sure where I'm going and what I will do when I get there, but I'm trying not to get too caught up in that. "He has a plan for you," Abuna reminds me. "Don't let your plans get in the way of His plans. " He tells me to make myself strong, yet flexible, like a marsh reed, so the breath of God can bend me to His will, but not break me.

I keep praying for this plan to be revealed to me, for a sign, or for my steps to be easy if I am on the right path. Don't get me wrong. I know God's path is rarely the easy one, but sometimes he gives us a little push that allows us to keep momentum enough to plow through the obstacles, and sometimes our surety that we are indeed heading the right direction is enough to make the process of overcoming even mighty obstacles invigorating rather than draining. When we are in alignment with His will, our resolve is strengthened at the right moments. That's all I am asking for, really.

But so far all I've encountered along the few bold new paths I've started to trod down in search of my path is a growing sense of irritation. I was looking forward to the Great Fast, Orthodox Lent, as a time when I could really settle down and just sit still with God. This time, I resolved, I was going to "make it," at least on the vegan diet part, the full 55 days. Then I overanalyzed and skipped the first week, reasoning that it really wasn't part of the original, as it is rumored to be something that the Coptic Church added on so that we can get ready for the "real" fast. "Hmmph. I'll be ready all by myself." So there I was, one week later, fast-less, making a half-hearted pledge as I went to bed to start my fast the next day.

Enter the dream:
I was walking on the wild hillside beneath the pine trees behind my father's church in the neighborhood of my childhood home. I was with childhood friends, and we were all grown ups, the same as we are now. We were checking out the construction that was taking place, as some of the land had been sold. I noticed a patch of wild blue columbine amongst the grasses and pine needles. It was directly in the path of the construction. "Hey, look at this!" I said to my friends. "We can't leave it there. Let's dig it out and find a new home for it." They agreed and stood by as I scooped out the earth around the plant.

After I gingerly pulled it up, we discovered we could see right through to the "other side" of the ground, as if we were standing on a bridge of land just one foot deep. I was stupefied. My friend merely commented, "I guess the ground isn't very deep here."

No time for pondering, we had to get this little columbine, her roots hanging in the wind, tucked into her new home. But where? We began walking through the neighborhood, searching for the perfect spot. Across the street, we saw a beautiful hillside garden, tomatoes and beans and corn weighing down the plants that sustained them. A man sat in a wooden garden shed with a counter at the bottom of the hill. We hurried over to the man and showed him the columbine. "Would you be able to help save this beautiful plant? She needs a new home," I explained. Without saying anything, he took down a little pot, patted down the plant in premium potting soils, and handed it back to me, saying, "that will be $6.00."

"No, you don't understand. I don't want to buy the plant back, I was asking if you would take care of it, and plant it in your garden," I asserted, wary of being hustled. By a gardener, at that! The man shrugged and made as if to tear the plant out of the pot and toss it. I wasn't about to sacrifice the columbine for a measly six dollars, so I paid him and picked up the plant again. I carried the little potted columbine down the street with me again, in search of a garden.
End of dream.

What does it all mean? I confess that I am pretty sweet on columbine, because it was introduced to me by my little gardening buddy, the 80+ year old grandmother of my ex-husband, God rest her soul (Grandma's, that is). We used to take weekly walks together in an estate garden open to the public and she would stop and point at every flower she recognized. Columbine, she recalled, was her own mother's favorite flower. So I get a little gushy when it comes to columbine.

After this dream, I discovered that columbine has been imbued with meaning by many before me, and is pretty much the penultimate symbolic flower. Here's a few choice representations:

• A symbol of foolishness, since it resembles a jester's cap and bells.

• The name columbine is derived from the Latin word for dove, columba, as its circle of petals is thought to resemble doves. As doves apparently mate for life, the blue columbine is a symbol of fidelity.

• In the seventeenth century, Columbine became a symbol of cuckoldry and bouquets were presented to women who were thought "loose". The Victorians associated Columbine with folly and thanklessness. Columbine has also been used to treat measles, smallpox and liver problems, and jaundice if taken with Saffron. It is one of eight herbs cited in 1373 for the treatment of plague. (http://www.englishplants.co.uk/columbine.html)

• The flower of the Virgin Mary. "As columbine flowers age, the petals fall from the plant and each individual petal with spur attached resembles a slipper. The legend says columbine plants arose wherever Mary stepped on her way to visit her cousin Elizabeth, so sometimes columbine goes by the common name Our Lady's Shoes or the Virgin Mary's Shoes." (http://web.extension.uiuc.edu/macon/palette/060521.html)

But here's where it really gets interesting. Columbine’s association with doves made it an easy favorite with the church. “…Because of the Dove's religious symbolism, it was popularly grown in convents & monasteries. The Dove in religious context most often was emblematic of the Holy Spirit; the seven petals of a wild columbine indicated the Day of Pentecost, & the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, as enumerated in First Corinthians 12. ...(Monastic) legends maintained that it was a columbine made of fire that appeared to the apostles on Pentecost. A pure white columbine together with 'Ruby Port' is nature's portrait of the Holy Spirit arising, like a Phoenix, out of the divine fire."" (http://www.paghat.com/columbine4.html)

So, we have an array of heady symbols to choose from. Clearly, the possibility that the Pantocrator was trying to "say it with flowers" exists.

So, what exactly is the Creator trying to say? Am I being called out on being a loose woman? Or perhaps a faithful one, full of fidelity? Do I have liver problems and should seek treatment? Is Mother Mary coming to visit?

Or was He reminding me that the Holy Spirit is in me, and entrusted to my care? That the places I had chosen for my spirit were shallow at best, that it was wise to get out of danger's way, but not to just dump myself in the nearest (most convenient) fertile ground? And how about that symbolism in having to buy back my own spirit? Yes, there is a price to pay when we let it get away from us. But now, my little dove, my columbine, my holy spirit, has been given just a little patch of fertile soil to sustain her as we wander together in search of a place to put down roots.

Or, perhaps more likely, I am just being foolish.

My first sermon

My father, the minister of the Unitarian Church in Horsham (that’s in the UK), asked me for an inspiration for the theme of a service some months back. I offered him a dilemma I was facing at the time, that of spiritual pursuits versus spiritual practices. Before I knew it, I was in the order of service for the Sunday that I was to be in Horsham, giving a homily. Here is what I said:

I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I am an addict of spiritual pursuits. (I can’t imagine where I got this from!) In my brief time upon this earth, I have stood under waterfalls with hands pressed together in inarticulate prayer, sat cross-legged while chanting “namyo horen gye-tu,” done yogic sun salutations until my back spasmed, fasted many holy months of Ramadan both with a Jewish friend and with my Muslim compatriots in Egypt, attended a pagan goddess worship dance circle, and been baptized a Coptic Orthodox Christian, with all its attendant fasting and genuflecting and communion-ing. I also, on occasion, have been known to haunt Unitarian sanctuaries.

Mostly, I read a lot. I devour books on how to pray. How to meditate. Essays on the meaning of it all. Articles on our inherent divinity. Analyses of new physics. Studies of psychology. (Did you know that a recent study showed that more “positive” neurotransmitters are released when people think about helping others—altruism—then when they think of getting what they desire?) Journals of saints pouring out their hearts to God in prayer. Oh, how they move me. And make me think. If only I could achieve their state of devotion, submission, unity, with God! I must get another book that shows me how to do that!

Today will most likely be like most other days. I will think about what is important in life, and even talk about it. My soul will long for solitude and a moment, minutes, hours, to listen to what the universe has to say. I will keep thinking. Keep talking. Tour the shops, open doors with a broad smile for elderly people and teenagers with bare midriffs and babies, give a pound to a busker or drunkard, pick up litter on the way home through the park, write a meaningful letter to a friend, make an organic, vegetarian meal. Tuck myself in bed with the writings of someone who has touched more than once what I want to immerse myself in. And try to tell myself that today was a good day. A "meaningful day."

Of course, I wouldn’t have “felt like” meditating. Or praying. How boring! The spiritual pursuit du jour is unappetizing! Or worse, how terrifying: What if, if I really try, I still don’t reach enlightenment? Then what hope will this world hold for me?

I shared all this with my spiritual advisor in Egypt, a Coptic priest. About half way through my outpouring, he held his hands up and shook his head.

“Stop,” he smiled and chuckled. “You are very clever. I see this. So what? Intellectual growth is fine. So is emotional growth. Both are useful. But if you want to grow spiritually, pray. Pray even when, and especially when, you don’t feel like it. Don’t be deceived by your feelings. Praying is a spiritual practice. So you have to practice. That’s all.”

My orthodox Christian priest was beginning to sound very Zen. Or like a personal fitness trainer.

Anthony de Mello, whose writings are my favorite diversion these days, writes:

A Hindu priest once had a dispute with a philosopher who claimed that the final barrier to God was the word "God," the concept of God. The priest was quite shocked by this, but the philosopher said, "The horse you use to travel to a house is not the means by which you enter the house. You use the concept to get there; then you dismount, you go beyond it."

Ah. I have a name for my addiction! I am a concept jockey! I have been riding many horses, breathtakingly jumping from horse to horse, mistaking my agility and exhilaration as spiritual depth.

A few years ago, a friend of mine heard the Dali Lama speak. The thing the great teacher said that struck him the most was this: “Whatever religion you are, whatever spiritual path you follow, do it seriously.”

Yesterday, I spent the better part of 2 hours just sitting in a church in Brighton, waiting for a moment of the priest’s time while he patiently attended to the flurry of questions posed by a pending bride and her entourage. I have come to treasure these moments of waiting, of bureaucratic inefficiency at the bank, of delayed buses and planes and metros, of friends without concepts of time, because it gives me a chance to be silent, surrendering, doing nothing, and then, maybe then, just for a moment, my mind will empty itself. Yesterday, finally having nothing “better” to do, I talked to God for over an hour in the stiff pew and then with the soft priest for a half an hour more.

After he held his hands to my head and blessed me in Arabic and we said our goodbye, of course I went shopping. But something, somehow, saved me from buying anything. I think it was my soul. And I think it thanked me for dismounting that day, to give it a chance to catch up. To give it a chance to lead my horse.

Tricky Birds, Loving God

Strange things are happening in the world where birds and I intersect.

Following the lesson on repentance, I was elated that Mama dove did indeed return to the nest and to sitting dutifully upon her young. When she was away, I climbed up on my window to take a peek, and saw two little dovelings nestling away. The natural order restored! Happy happy was I to have received such a blessing, a family of teachers perched on my thatched gazebo!

Last week, as I tap-tapped away at my computer writing a story, I heard a "thwack" on the window behind me, the one next to the nest. Sounded like a bird, so I dutifully--and rather giddily--rose to check it out. What lessons were in store for me today? Sure enough, a little bird lay peep peeping on the ground below the nest. I couldn't quite make out how it had managed to jump and hit the window, but stranger things have happened.

When I got a closer look at the bird on the ground, it appeared to be having trouble righting itself. It also had a completely different appearance than the bird I had rescued the week before. It was tiny. And feathered in silvery grey. The dove that fell last week was rubbery, black, with just a sprouting of feathers. But what do I know about birds? I figured it was just some dove developmental stage where they resemble starlings or something, so I gently scooped up the bird--this time with my bare hands, after all, we had clearly established mutual trust already, right?--and eased it back in its nest with its brothers and sisters. I wished them all well, and returned to my desk, happy that my little bird family was safe again.

Except something in my gut told me to check it out again. So I climbed on the window ledge and got a clearer view of what was going on. There were now THREE baby birds in the nest, where last week there had been two. And one of these things was most definitely not like the other! Mayhem! What had I done? Seems in my overeagerness to demonstrate loving kindness, I had acted rashly and delivered the injured bird to the nearest family, bewildering the lot of them, most likely!

I raced outside and plucked the sparrow or starling or whatever it was out of its unwitting foster home and tucked it at the base of my pomegranate tree for safekeeping, apologizing profusely to all involved.

I assumed all would return to normal. But when I looked outside again a couple of hours later, there were NO BIRDS at all! I went outside to investigate, and there was no sign of foul play from any wild ferrets or the like, but no birds. And even papa and mama bird, who had been exploring the soil of my bathtub planter, flew off as soon as they caught wind of me and went to perch on the sattelite dish on the roof next to me. The pair of them faced me, staring. Accusingly, I think. As in, "There she is. That crazy girl who put the neighbor's kid in our nest. And she had seemed so normal!"

I was pretty rattled at all of this, and somehow sure it was my fault. If only I had used a cloth? If only I had acted in less haste! The meaning was not lost on me. The visiting chickadee or whatever it was sent as a test. Would I act from my loving heart or from my ego which never ceases to hunger for affirmation and puffs up in pride at accomplished good deeds. See God? I rescued the bird again!

Did I stop to consider whether the bird needed help? Or had I merely seized an opportunity to "do something good" in a vain attempt to prove my worthiness?

Yet another lesson from the birds: We must act with wisdom when we set out to help, and make sure that our version of help is what is needed. Just because something worked out once, doesn't mean we should do it again and again. Each situation requires its own fresh analysis, and a thorough checking in with our own motivations as well.

The nest sits empty outside my window. A constant reminder of our abilities to alter the course of lives with the best or worst of intentions, and the awesome responsibility that presents.

Yesterday, when I looked out the window, I saw the doves mating.

God is Dove

A few weeks ago, I decided to take action on my desire to start a meditation practice. I set myself up on a little cushion in the sunshine outside on my rooftop terrace, my back against the wall for support so I wouldn't get distracted by discomfort. I was positioned pretty much directly below the dove nest, which is frequently populated by mama dove. Whether she was sitting on her brood or not, I couldn't tell. Usually, she doesn't seem disturbed by my presence when I putter around tending to my plants or sit on a chair reading quite close by, so I didn't think she'd mind me sitting on the ground beneath her.

So I started my meditation with a little prayer and talk with God. My theme was asking for help in opening my heart to His presence in my life, and to help me have a repentant heart, something I have a hard time finding sometimes when I go astray.

Well, as I was asking this and going deeper into asking this, suddenly there was a great fluttering of wings and a little thump. Mama dove had flown off suddenly and her little baby had dropped out of the nest in her wake, and was lying on the ground in front of me, struggling. I gulped in alarm and ran inside to get a cloth to gently lift her (I remember reading somewhere that the human scent on a baby bird can put the mother off it) and place her back in her nest, talking to her soothingly the whole time. Having done what I could do, I returned to my meditation, but moved to my normal reading place.

And no sooner had I closed my eyes and taken a deep breath, then the lesson came in a flurry of images and comprehension: "Repentance is but an expression of love...love and repentance on a spectrum, a continuum.' My compassion for the baby bird and the mama was born of the universal love in my heart, and made me jump to action to restore the bird to safety and make things right, without thinking. And because of my love and respect for these lovely creatures, I was sorry for what I had done to disturb the peace of this family of birds and corrected my position. This is repentance.

As Mary Oliver says, "you do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves...."

To cultivate a penitent heart, cultivate love. For with love, we instinctively act compassionately and righteously. Self-correction is the natural outcome of a loving spirit that has conquered ego.

Thank you, Dove!

Mr. Big Update

As delightfully cathartic and entertaining as the Mr. Big story was to write, I decided it really wasn't meant for public consumption, and certainly I don't intend for any reputations to be harmed by my ramblings here, so the post has been removed. Maalish. Friends, if you want to read all about it, send me an email.

Napkin of Nineveh

The Coptic Christians no doubt face special challenges being a minority in this country. Well, try being a minority within the minority. That's me. A California convert to Egyptian Orthodox Christianity. There are a few of us tow-headed folk running around in smoke-and-icon-filled places of worship around town, trying our best to pick up on expressions of praise and reverence in Coptic and Arabic and sit down and stand up and genuflect at the right times. From what I can tell, many of them it did it for love. Of a potential spouse who would only marry another of the branded faith. I guess that's how it started for me, but one thing led to another and I ended up falling in love with Jesus and my all-too-mortal earthly love interest gracefully bowed out. And there I was, walking a path into the heart of the original church. Alone.

Except for my beloved and blessed and delightfully light-hearted and all-knowing priest, Abuna (our father) Beniameen. In his enthusiasm to shepherd a lost sheep like me, he had a tendency to skip over the hard parts in my studies of Orthodoxy and get straight to the juicy bits, like how much God loved and accepted me and how the water in the baptismal font in his church was heated in the winter time. He made everything about it sound cozy. Orthodoxy as a feel-good love-fest. Which at its deepest levels, of course, it is. I loved discovering the zen-like wisdom and yogic immersion parallels in the writings of the desert fathers. I was not so keen, however, on reading the texts of the actual liturgies. While dear Abuna was ready to answer any and all questions, I simply didn't know what to ask until it was too late.

Which is how I ended up spilling the blood of our savior on my first communion following my baptism, a crimson drop for a scarlet letter on my white sweater (not quite a christening gown, but the best I could do at the moment. The search "white dress" still comes up every time I type "w" in google.) The attending priest, who unfortunately or fortunately was not "my" Abuna, turned into the embodiment of wrath, his eyes popping out of their sockets and chin pulling down to distort his terrifying expression even more. The nun usher, who must be at least 100 years old and is a no-nonsense kind of gal when it comes to headscarves, pulling offenders aside to tie knots tightly under chins before allowing them to rejoin the communion crush to the front of the church, gasped audibly and crossed herself.

Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? Yes, Abuna had offered up this date for my dunking, supposing it would be extra special to share my re-birth day with the King of kings. I had emerged from the warm waters that very morning. So the church was packed for the midnight mass before the great feast. I'm guessing about 600+ people. Generally, the most pious among the congregation get there early and occupy the first few rows of pews. They also tend to be aged, slightly stooped, stern featured and dressed all in black. These are not women you want to encounter in a dark alley after a night of sin. Or, believe me, in church after a botching a sacrament. I darted away from the nun's tsk-tsking and the priest's glaring only to be confronted by a sea of women in black who looked like they wanted to spit on me. Still completely oblivious to my grievous offense, I'm thinking, "are they afraid because I might have stained the church's scarf which was draping my head and shoulders, or my sweater or what?" So I smile reassuredly and whisper "Maalish" (as in no biggie, nevermind) as I pass them, mopping up the tiny droplet with MY OWN scarf to demonstrate that the church scarf had not been damaged, nor had my nice sweater! See, all clean!

Glad no one had any very small rocks on them.

You see, apparently, the whole point of Mass is to transform the wine into the literal blood of Christ*. (Who knew?) I had been operating on a much more symbolic level up until then. At my parents' church, we did things like salt communion, in remembrance of Gandhi's commitment, and shell communions, which I think has something to do with revering nature. It was lovely and personal and symbolic. Did I mention symbolic? One of those pesky questions I had failed to ask Abuna would have been along the lines of, "so when you say literal blood of Christ, are there any special rules that go along with the act of receiving it?" To which he kindly and patiently would have explained, "Yes, every drop of Christ's blood, which has been painstakingly transformed from ordinary wine by our fervent prayers with the extra fervent attention to ritualistic detail of a crew of immaculately dressed ordained priests and attending deacons, must enter only the holy body of the church. You become part of that holy body following your baptism." Then, in a rare moment of foresight, knowing the state of my clothes–stained–after most meals, I would thoughtfully ask, "So what happens if someone spills a bit?" Of course, he would have been too horrified at the thought to answer and would have become visibly upset, and I would have cleverly gleaned that spilling was not an option.

I learned the hard way what happens. The offending item–scarf only, I managed to hide the speck on the sweater–was whisked away to be desanctified in a similar painstaking ritual-in-reverse or the like before it could thrown in the laundry. And I was filled with humility. As in humiliated. Small children were managing to tip the tiny spoon into their mouths without incident. Perhaps I should have watched them a little more closely and followed their example. A little child shall lead them and all that. Perhaps I should have practiced with unholy liquids first. Like cough syrup.

Abuna Beniameen had missed the whole ordeal, but soon found out about it from his gracious wife, who had tried to be reassuring with me when I filled her in on the debacle which she, too, had graciously been oblivious to until my confession. He paused, his brows furrowed, then he simply shrugged and said, "Maalish. You didn't know. You are like a child now. You have many things to learn." And I piled into the sedan with his wife and kids and went back to their place to dig into the traditional fast-breaking meal which consists primarily of meat with a side of meat. Busy as I was reliving the evening's incident and hoping I hadn't stained my and Abuna's reputations too badly, it was all humble pie to me.

The next morning, filled with excitement of my new life, and bursting with the promise of a good story, I banged out an email to my parents, the Unitarian ministers, sure they would appreciate the nuances of my experience. Dad was still in his cave most likely wondering what he did to deserve a born-again daughter, but mom, in her matter-of-fact tone, just told me not to worry about it, that she was sure Jesus would have laughed.

That was about a year ago, and I've come a long way and attended more than a few masses without incident since then. Actually, I was starting to feel pretty good about my slow integration into Orthodox society, demonstrating my belongingness upon entering churches by lighting candles before pictures of saints, wadding up scribbled prayers and shoving them into nooks and crannies near pictures of saints, and very occasionally, when the spirit or the longing not to be viewed as "other" moved me, touching a picture of a saint and kissing my hand for a blessing. When I'm not in proximity to my church, I even venture solo into other churches where I am not known when there is a special service that I want to attend. Such was the case last Wednesday, the third and final day of the Fast of Jonah of Nineveh. Jonah of whale belly fame.

While I had not exactly followed the fasting rules properly those three days, I had, in preparation for attending mass, not taken any food or beverage since before midnight the prior day. My growing low-blood sugar induced light-headedness was allowing me to really feel the spirit. I was feeling pretty proud of my independent, spiritual self, sitting in a crowded pew in the back, with a brand new headscarf emblazoned with St. Mary and Son purchased from the Orthodox convent in a village in Upper Egypt I had just visited. Just so there could be no doubt about my affiliation, I boldly sang out the congregational responses. In Coptic. I was definitely ready to commune with God by 4pm, when the stocking-footed faithful flowed into the aisles and pushed their way to the front.

Headscarf tied securely under chin: Check. Native-like obliviousness to being continuously shoved and people cutting ahead in the semblance of a line: Check. Cloth napkin retrieved from basket at front to reverently hold in front of mouth while chewing His body to protect any errant morsel from exiting the holy church body: Wait, where did they keep the napkins in this church? Wait, there's the basket. But it's empty. Okay, um, maybe we were supposed to bring our own? Quick scan of women around me. Nope, no one is clutching a napkin. Wait, that women just got passed one. Where did she get that? Oh no, I'm next in line! Wait, there's a piece of cloth in that basket. I'll take that. Wait, this is a table runner. Okay, stay calm. I'll keep it folded and no one will notice. Okay, open mouth, take bread from nice priest. Cross self. Phew, thank God I got through that! Then: Shucks! I am supposed to be meditating in a state of praise and grace while receiving this most glorious gift and I got distracted! Okay, composure. Breathe. Oh, whoa! That was quick, there's communion part II, The Blood, right in front of me! But I'm still chewing. I still have my napkin! Dang, I don't want to hold up the line. Keep moving. But where do I put the napkin? Okay, here comes the blood. Remember: Chin tilted back, and mouth the spoon and whatever you do, DON'T SPILL. Okay, Phew. Nicely done. All gone! No dribbles!

Hand, still clutching table runner, automatically begins to rise up towards my mouth, as is the custom when one is holding a napkin and is on best behavior in front of royalty and has just taken a little sip of something and wishes not to expose the contents of her mouth when it does that automatic post-swallow opening response. Tsk tsk, utters the priest. I glance up and see that face, the face of wrath again. No, no! I didn't spill, it's fine! my eyes plead with the priest as the deacon steps in front of me, blocking my path, and pushes my hand with the table runner away from my face. "We don't kiss the napkin after the blood," the deacon says, in perfect English. I nod, and begin the walk of shame back up the center aisle.

Back in my pew, I try my best to get back in the spirit of praise and worship that I come for. I am fighting back the tears of embarrassment, of loneliness, of feeling set apart, the outsider again. The tears come. No matter how deeply I venture into the bowels of this culture, in the end, it spits me out. I may have willingly swam into my whale, seeking transformation, but it is God, not me, who decides how to accomplish it and it seems that God has an infinite number of innovative lessons in humility stored up for me. And I am an eager pupil.

Jonah? Thanks for befriending me in these moments. And Abuna and all the members of the holy body? #1. Anything else I need to know about? #2. Sorry about the sweater. If it's any consolation, I said a prayer before I donated it to the poor. I'm pretty sure Jesus is okay with that, since he cares more about what's in our hearts than what’s on our clothes. It's us humans that have strong feelings about napkins.

*Note added March 24, 2007:

I showed Abuna my story and he had two comments:
1. "We don't believe it's the 'literal' blood of Christ, no. It's not like we think if you looked at it under a microscope you would find blood. It is the spiritual blood." Well, I'm glad I got that cleared up!
2. "You are very sensitive. There is no need. There are many many who make the same mistakes as you and they have been raised in the church. They are small things. Don't give it so much attention. These ceremonial aspects are not the main point. Keep your attention on God, not the people around you." Wise man, my abuna....