going through old letters with new eyes

while packing up my dorm room, going through my sacred junk and deciding what to toss forever, what to take home to India with me for the next month, and what to leave behind in Upland for the summer, i found this poem written by somebody, God knows who.

Likrat Shabbat

We cannot merely pray to you, O God, to end war;
For we know that You have made the world in a way
That man must find his own path for peace
Within himself and his neighbor.

We cannot merely pray to you, O God, to end starvation;
For you have already given us the resources
With which to feed the entire world
If only we would use them wisely.

We cannot merely pray to you, O God, to root out prejudice;
For you have already given us eyes
With which to see the good in all men
If only we would use them rightly.

We cannot merely pray to you, O God, to end despair;
For you have already given us the power
To clear away slums and to give hope
If we would only use our power justly.

We cannot merely pray to you, O God, to end disease;
For you have already given us great minds
With which to search out cures and healing
If we would only use them constructively.

Therefore, we pray to you instead, O God,
For strength, determination, and will power,
To do instead of just to pray,
To become instead of merely to wish.

and these reflections written by my great-aunt Miggie while she was traveling in Israel and Palestine as a member of a Christian Peacemaker Team there last December:

Walls - many kinds of walls in Jerusalem,
Beautiful walls around the Old City,
Beautiful gates - when they are open
So all God's children may come and go.

Ugly walls desecrating the views of these sacred hills,
Great, high walls that divide and imprison,
Walls of fear and hate.

These apartheid walls are being built
While other walls are smashed to the ground,
Piles of rubble
Where once a family found warmth and shelter
In a home that they could call their own.
Broken promises, broken dreams. Broken dignity,
Piled up injustices
Like the rubble of broken houses.

At the Wailing Wall
I think of the stories of suffering I have heard;
I think of the many obstacles to peace.
The pain I see and hear lies so heavy on my heart.
I hear Jesus weeping over Jerusalem,
"Would that even today
You knew the things that make for peace."

God made from one all people
To dwell on this earth,
But we have not learned
To dwell together in peace.

However, we catch glimpses of bridges as well as walls:
Courageous souls, compassionate people,
Reaching out across the dividing walls of hostility,
Reaching out across the valleys of despair:
Hearing the cries of injustice
And not turning away;
Rebuilding homes, rebuilding dignity;
Planting trees, safeguarding a child;
Working for legal justice, creating jobs;
Breaking the silence about military abuses;
Teaching and doing nonviolent resistance;
Giving medical care to the soldier who attacked him in his home;
Transforming grief into reconciliation;
Offering the gift of presence and understanding;
Risking lives, sometimes imprisoned;
In the midst of suffering, steadfast in the pursuit of peace.

These have been telling us their stories,
Giving us inspiration,
Offering us hope.
I pray for the wisdom and grace and holy boldness
To stand with them and behind them,
To share their stories.
I pray that I will learn and follow and teach and model
The things that make for peace,
While I wait for the fulfillment of God's promise,
"They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain."

and I pray, too, that when I go home to a land that also longs for peace...that I will listen, learn, stand and sit and spin and sway and sappadu with them,
anyone who will stay with me for a while
or a minute
whether they've just walked up the covered court to receive their diploma
or they've just emerged diplomatically from the orphanage to receive a piggy-back ride
or they've just carried around a bundle of sticks all day to provide for their children
or they've just lit an incense stick in their shawl shop to hope for the good business
or they've just hiked across a few hills to see the sights and get their highs
or they've just thrown their baggage into the train compartment to travel to their destination
or they've just boiled some tea-coffee to offer passersby for a few rupees
or they've just wrapped me in a hug to tell me they forgive me for not writing to them
i hope so.
all of it.
i want to know each one, so much, to see behind the faces, behind the tired eyes and world-worn hands, behind the careful makeup and fancy earrings, behind the stained teeth and deformed feet, behind the crooked smile and slim figure, behind the --hey,
am i even ready to know, ready to feel that much, ready to pour out my life to do something about the pain they feel every day? ready to share their joy, sure. ready to observe absolutely anybody--from a safe distance, of course?
no. i can't keep that distance, that numbness. have to put my whole self in, have to be ready to receive love as well as give it at any moment. the call is not only to rejoice when they rejoice. it is to mourn when they mourn; to suffer when they suffer; to lay down my life for their sake, because they are beautiful, no matter what they look like.

oh my Lord. they look like you.

and what will i look like?

i'll be wearing my tagua nut thumb ring from ecuador with the treble-clef-shaped swirls
the ONE bracelet of simple white soft stretchy rubber that comfortably curls
dos slipknot neclaces, one with an orange mango-shape pendant and one with a mini deep-brown wooden cross
and a hairtie the color of moss

i'm so superstitious, it seems.
i laugh.
no, i just have these dreams,
dreams of the past and the beauty i drank in before
dreams of the present and the beauty i can swim in now
dreams of the future and the beauty i may pour out then
and these things help me remember to clothe myself with my stories, my passion, my purpose,
with patience and grace and gentleness and compassion and right action and peace and LOVE

they are not themselves the clothing.
but they serve as visible reminders of how i want to weave those experiences and characteristics deep into my being.

they are not the point.
but they point to who i want to be;
they point to the one
who was
who Is
who is to come.

they point to the dance
to the music
to the silence
to the stillness
to the colors
to the light
to the shade
to the sorrow
to the weeping willow, weeping
to the wisdom
to the water
to life
to life
l'chaim