Isn’t it strange, but also vividly true, that sunk in the deepest agony, some people lose their faith in God, the absolute sustainer? And yet others do exactly the same at the height of utmost pleasure. They forget that God is the sole provider. Either way, this entrenches the “in medio stat virtus” universal rule, which means virtue stands in the middle. This is what constitutes the dividing line between man’s meaningful living module (modus vivendi) for the Hereafter and the mistaken lifestyle “causing people to claim absolute independence and ownership of their self … leading one to imagine a realm of personal dominion,” as observed by Said Nursi in The Fourth Treatise in The Seedbed of the Light (pg 87).

Linking the initial paradox and Said Nursi’s soul searching words, brings to light one of the most interesting and captivating stories to appear in both the Bible and the Quran. This is none other than the story of Joseph – blessings and peace be upon him—and his brothers. Their riveting story cuts across humanity as it paints an almost unimaginable life of someone who never parted ways with His Creator – come rain when he was a slave and come shine when he was leading a palace life.

While the Quran devotes a whole chapter (Surah 12 Joseph) and 111 verses to Joseph’s story with his brothers, the Bible tells it in 13 Chapters (37-50) and a total of 395 verses in Section Four of the Book of Genesis.

The story begins with Joseph, as the last child in the family of Jacob, born of Isaac, the son of Abraham, living in Moses’ promised land of Canaan (blessings and peace be upon them). Joseph draws envy from his brothers because of the special treatment he receives from his father, exemplified by a special dress.

His brothers also disprove of his chain of dreams, which they believe is Joseph assuming leadership; one particular dream sends chills even down his father’s spine. He talks of seeing, “the sun, moon and eleven stars bowing before him.” His brothers’ envy rages, but his father keeps this to his heart.

Lesson One: Did Jacob discriminate against his children? Very unlikely. As a prophet, he must have noticed something special in Joseph’s destiny and thus exercised extra caution to ensure the delivery of a sound and wise judgment. In the world of journalism, it is said “when in doubt, leave out.” In matters of faith in God, we ought to do what is expected of us while exercising enduring patience. No complaints. We must have pure sincerity and clean intentions.   

Lesson Two: What is in a dream? In dreams, all our five senses are virtually non-functioning. The dream drive – borrowing from the IT language – is external. That is why we travel distances above the speed of light from our bed pillows, as a friend told me.

At the same time, we cannot rule out cases of Divine warning about what is coming or ought to be done. Examples abound in the scriptures. In parts of Africa, dreams were originally taken for communication between gods and human beings, whereby the former made their wishes known. But an interpreter had to be there.

Lesson Three: Joseph’s brothers’ envy derives from prejudice, which is a vice to be fought against; it led them to treat their young brother unfairly. First they plot to kill him. Then they settle for dipping him into a waterless well and finally sell him to a caravan of Egyptian merchants, who resell him to Pharaoh’s Chief Steward Potiphar. He starts a slave’s life.

The brothers take his garment and soak it in goat blood. They send it to their father claiming to have bumped into it. Jacob laments. He goes into mourning. His children come to express their empathy. He takes no heed and keeps on mourning.

Through God’s providence, Joseph wins the trust of his “master” and is made steward of his household. He resists the temptation of his master’s wife. He chooses jail to breaking God’s and his master’s trust.

Again, he builds trust: the warden places him in charge of prisoners. There, he meets Pharaoh’s chief baker and cup-bearer. He interprets their dreams: the baker was going to hanged and the latter would be reinstated to his job as the Pharaoh’s cup-bearer.

Pharaoh himself is troubled by dreams. Egyptian interpreters fail to deliver. The cup-bearer remembers Joseph, who is called and manages to decipher Pharaoh’s dreams into seven years of good harvest and seven of famine on its heels. Joseph is made Pharaoh’s Chancellor. He helps the country store its food. When famine strikes, many people, including his brothers, come to Egypt for food supplies. He notices them. He sells food to them and orders their money stuffed back into their bags. He asks them to come back with their young brother as a condition for getting further supplies and orders one of them to remain behind as a surety.

Lesson Four: The Roman’s “natura humana ad mala inclinatur” observation – meaning human nature is inclined to do bad things, becomes evident. The Chief Steward’s wife shows lust and anger. The chief-baker and cup-bearer display the fact that power corrupts. Man is forgetful. Men were busy looking for power and riches while women indulged in gossip, banquets, arranging amusements, and competing for worldly things.

Lesson Five: God never guides unbecoming behavior (Quran 12:52). For every holder of knowledge, there is (always) One more knowledgeable: the All-Knowing (Quran 12:76).

From all that has taken place in the fate of Joseph, it becomes evident that Destiny wills good for the believer. Although he was a slave at the palace, Joseph (blessings and peace be upon him) rejects the invitation of the noble, rich, and beautiful woman. He willingly prefers prison to committing sin.

Lesson Six: After introducing himself to them, his brothers start to feel guilty, which is the start of the process of reconciliation.

Lesson Seven: When hunger strikes again, Jacob releases Benjamin and orders the collection of an assortment of gifts and the return of the money which was stuffed back into their bags. He prays for God’s protection. Upon arrival in Egypt, they are received but have to undergo another session of questioning.

After Joseph ascertains the presence of Benjamin, he is overwhelmed and takes a short leave. He sheds tears, washes his face, and returns. A grand reception is held.

Joseph orders bags stuffed to everybody’s carrying capacity. He orders to secretly place his special cup in the bag of the youngest, Benjamin. After they left, Joseph summons the supervisor and orders him: “Stop those people and ask them why they have returned bad for good?”

They deny any knowledge, let alone involvement in such unbecoming behavior. They pledge their innocence and that whoever would be found with the cup should face death, while they are ready to remain slaves forever. The supervisor differs with them. The one on whom the cup is be found will remain behind while the rest will be allowed to leave.

Benjamin turns out to be the culprit. In disbelief they tear their clothes and mount their donkeys back to town. Down on their knees, the entire entourage goes to Joseph’s residence.

He asks them: “What is this you have done? Don’t you think a person like me can prophesy?

“The one to whom the cup was traced becomes my slave. The rest can return to your father in peace.”

“My Lord”, says Yuda, “may your anger not befall on your servant because indeed you are like the Pharaoh!” He goes on to narrate conditions under which Jacob may release Benjamin, listing the fatal family consequences of detaining him in Egypt.

Joseph is touched by the plea of Yuda. He loses control of himself. He orders the removal of all people. He tells his brothers: “I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?” They fail to answer. They are astonished.

He goes on to tell them: “Come near me.” They move closer. He adds: “I am Joseph, your brother whom you sold to be taken to Egypt. But don’t grieve now. Nor feel bad because you sold me to be brought here, because God placed me ahead of you to save your lives. Quickly go up to my father and tell him. Your son Joseph says: ‘God has made me the Lord of the entirety of Egypt. Come down without delay. You will settle in the land of Goshen near me; you and your children, grandchildren, sheep, cows and whatever you possess.’”

Lesson Eight: The entire story is one of affection and portrays the qualities of being keen, pure, and having sincere feeling with no ulterior motives and without seeking any return. Said Nursi puts it better in the 23^rd Letter (2:86-87), where he points out that the story encourages us to strive for the other side of the grave where we will find real happiness and pleasure. It also shows Joseph’s exalted truthfulness and announces that even the most joyful and brightest conditions of the worldly life could not captivate him; rather it led him to ask for death and the other life.

Lesson Nine: Via Jacob’s life, we learn that for believers who follow God’s ways without deviation and with pure intention, when things start to worsen, this means the happy end is approaching. The dawn of light is the end of darkness.

Note: The story of Prophet Joseph, peace be upon him, is narrated with some differences in both the Bible and the Qur’an. The author quotes from both sources in this essay.

The Hebrew Bible makes general demands that we should treat our parents with respect and reverence. “Honor” is a word used frequently in the Bible to describe how we are to show respect to God. Respect of parents is a primary and sacred obligation. If we fail to respect our parents, we have disobeyed God Almighty. In some deep and mysterious way, the family is bound up with faith in God: the two are interdependent.

From the very moment of conception, the child, as it grows and develops, is a care and responsibility for its parents. It is not possible to estimate the depth of attachment and compassion parents feel for their children and to calculate the troubles and hardships they go through as parents. For this reason, respecting them is a debt of human gratitude as well as a religious obligation.

Those who can judge the value of their parents rightly and regard them as a means to obtain the mercy of God are the most prosperous in both worlds. Those who, by contrast, regard their parents’ existence as a burden to themselves or who become wearied of them are the unfortunate ones.

The more respectful you are to your parents, the greater the respect and awe you feel before your Creator. Yet, it is a curious thing today that not only those who are disrespectful to God but also those who claim that they love God do not defend themselves from disobedience to their parents. As Martin Luther said, “we must respect and love God, so that we will neither look down on our parents or superiors, nor irritate them, but will honor them, serve them, obey them, love them, and value them.”¹

Under the Old Testament law the son, who was rebellious against his parents was stoned for this rebellion (Deuteronomy 21:18-21). It is important to stress the fact that God is opposed to rebellion and disobedience toward one’s parents. God also promises a long life to the individual who is obedient to his father and mother (Exodus 20:12). No doubt this is because the kind of life which is a life of obedience will involve self-discipline and restraint that would enable one to have a long life and good health. This not only refers to the chronological extension of time, but indicates the rich blessing which comes to a society that keeps God’s ways.

The importance of this commandment, however, extends beyond social welfare to the very welfare of society itself, because the family is the basic unit of society. Just as a body’s health is dependent on the health of its cells, so the vigor of a nation, the body politic, is directly related to the health of the families that make it up. Families form the foundation of a society. Where there is reciprocal respect of rights and obligations within a family, the society is healthy and strong. It is vain to look for compassion and respect in a society once these have been lost from the relationships within the family.²

The fifth commandment also shows that the way we treat our parents is how our children learn to treat us. Obviously, we too will become old. If we do not honor our parents, in accordance with the meaning of, “the punishment is similar to the act that required it,” our children will not be dutiful towards us. If we love our life in the hereafter, this is an important treasury for us: let us be dutiful towards them and gain their pleasure. While if it is this world that we love, let us try to please them, so that through them our life will be easy and our sustenance plentiful. If we want the mercy of the Most Merciful One, we should be merciful towards those in our house whom He has entrusted to us.

Likewise in Christianity, in Islam, parents’ rights are the most venerable rights after those of God. The Qur’an has many verses urging Muslims to treat their parents with utmost kindness, to be grateful for the care they have given them, to obey them, and to care for them when they grow old. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, once said: “Paradise lies under the feet of the mother. The contentment of the father is the door to paradise.” There are many days set aside in societies to honor and appreciate parents; Father’s Day, Mother’s Day… In Islam, however, respecting, honoring and appreciating parents is not just for a single day of the year, but rather for each and every day.

O Ishmael! Honor Your Father Abraham

There are different types of parents but regardless of how they treat their kids, they are still a parent. Parents make mistakes too, but that does not decrease their value as parents. When we are still under parental guidance, then we will have to follow what they want us to do, even if it is against our heart. When we are on our own feet, then we are free, but we still have the responsibility to respect them. We have to look at the situation, rather than concentrating on our own satisfaction. We have to be kind to them because most of the things they do are all for us.

A child should show respect for his parents by preferring their preferences. For instance, even though some sources say that when Ishmael reached the age of puberty, his tribe made him marry a woman from among them, his mother got a wife for him from Egypt. We do not know whether Ishmael liked her or not. He probably might have preferred to keep silent in order to please his mother. What we know is that he respected his mother’s wishes.

We can give another example. Esau saw that the Canaanite women did not please his father, and his mother, Rebekah complained about these women. In order to please his parents, Esau went to Ishmael and took Mahalath, the daughter of Ishmael.

As mentioned above, Hagar got a wife for Ishmael from the land of Egypt (Genesis 21:21). His wife’s name is not mentioned in the Hebrew Bible, but in the book of Jasher, a Hebrew midrash.³ Ishmael’s first wife, Ribah, was rude to Abraham when he came to visit Ishmael. She did not even ask him who he was. But all the while, she was beating her children in the tent, and she was cursing them, and she also cursed her husband, Ishmael, and spoke evil of him, and Abraham heard the words she spoke to her children, and it was an evil thing in his eyes. Abraham left a message, “When your husband returns, convey my salutation to him and tell him to change the threshold of the gate (of his house).”⁴ Ishmael understood his father’s words, complied with his father’s wish, and divorced his wife. Ishmael did not even come to Abraham and ask what happened because he thought that as a prophet, his father would know better than he, and all Abraham had done was for his son.

Proper respect for parents includes their being addressed and greeted properly. The modern idea of calling fathers and mothers by their first names certainly is promoting a familiarity that will not lead to respect, obedience, or honor. Abraham stayed away from Ishmael and his family for a period as long as God wished, and called on them afterwards. He saw Ishmael under a tree, sharpening his arrows. When he saw Abraham, he immediately rose up to welcome him and they greeted each other. Abraham said, “O Ishmael! God has given me an order.” Ishmael said, “Do what your Lord has ordered you to do.” Abraham asked, “Will you help me?” Ishmael said, “I will help you.” Abraham said, “God has ordered me to build a house here,” pointing to a hillock higher than the land surrounding it. Then they raised the foundations of the Ka’ba.

Respect for parents should remain in force even in relation to parents who may have lost faith. If a faithful person has unfaithful parents, he should treat them respectfully in his dealings and advice, while remaining aloof from their polytheistic lives. He should neither be harsh nor vulgar. Islam instructs Muslims to pray to God for the forgiveness of their parent’s sins, if any, and present their good deeds for the benefit of their parents’ souls. In Islamic and Jewish tradition, Abraham’s treatment of his father, Terah, is a certain testimony to this.

As the Book of Joshua reports, the father of Abraham, Terah, worshipped other gods (Josh. 24:2). Terah was a well-known idolater; he not only worshipped idols but sculpted and sold them as well. Abraham was engaged in debate with his father to convey the truth to him; “O my father! Why do you worship that which does not hear, see, nor can it profit you anything? Do not worship idols and therefore follow me. I will guide you to the straight path. Otherwise, I fear that a punishment from God may afflict you so that you will become a friend of Satan. Nevertheless, I will seek forgiveness for you from God.”

The New Testament is very plain concerning obedience to parents. “Children, obey your parents in all things: for this is well pleasing unto the Lord” (Colossians 3:20); “Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right” (Ephesians 6:1). Obedience is the foundation for all character. Parents do not have to convince children of the logic behind their orders because parents are experts on their children, and possess a great deal of information that even teachers do not have, so a child must maintain the parent’s dignity and respect at all times, even when disagreeing. Obedience to parents should always be immediate, instant, without question or argument. What the father says do, the son does. He does it well, he does it immediately, and he does it without argument.

Abraham was commanded by God to sacrifice his only son Isaac (or Ishmael). This indeed was a clear test. Therefore Abraham carefully prepared to carry out the order of God. In the Quran, Abraham has a dream, mentions the dream to his son, and asks Ishmael his opinion: “‘O my son! I have seen in my dream that I should offer you in sacrifice so think about that and tell me your view.’ He unhesitatingly said: ‘O my dear father! Do as you are commanded, by the will of God, you will find me of the patient ones,’ and Abraham laid him down on the side of his forehead.” ⁵ As you have seen, Isaac (or Ishmael) does not resist his father, obeys his wishes, and lies down like a ram. In addition, in the Bible, the sole dialogue between the two (Abraham and his son) repeats the words father and my son (twice each), expressing their emotional bond.

The parents continue to have rights over their children after death. People are expected to visit their parents’ graves, to maintain contact with their friends, and to conduct themselves well so as to show that their parents have provided them with a good education. One can honor his parents after their death through the following methods: Praying for them, giving charity on their behalf, instituting a perpetual charity on their behalf, such as a library, hospital, or orphanage.

Coming back to Ishmael and Isaac, destiny had separated the two brothers from each other. After years, Isaac and Ishmael were rejoined at their father’s burial (Gen 25:9). They showed proper filial piety, despite earlier disagreements, in joining together to bury their father.⁶ The burial is supervised by both sons. While Isaac placed the headstone, Ishmael placed the footstone of the grave. Although Ishmael had long ago been dismissed, he was not utterly alienated from his father because he performed the office of a son in celebrating the obsequies of his deceased parent. Ishmael, rather than the other sons, did this, as being nearer.⁷ As a child, Ishmael had a last duty due to his father, and he carried out this duty, attending Abraham’s funeral and burying him.

The obligation to honor one’s parents is an obligation that one owes to God and fulfills this obligation through one’s actions towards one’s parents. In the Hebrew Bible, our relationship with God is continually compared with a parent-child relationship. God tells us in the Ten Commandments to obey and have respect for parents. This does not mean that we only obey our parents when we agree with them or fully understand why they are telling us to do something. We must obey them at all times. We must also honor and have respect for parents. God does not want us to put our parents above Him, but he does desire for us to treat them as He desires for us to treat Him.

Notes

1 Martin Luther, Martin Luther’s Large and Small Catechism, Translated by F. Bente and W.H.T. Dan, (Sioux Falls, SD: Nuvision Publications, 2007), 67.

2 Niyi Taiwo, Respect: Gaining It and Sustaining It. (Philadelphia, PA: Xlibris Corporation, 2007), 25.

3 J. H. Parry, The Book of Jasher, (New York: Cosimo, Inc, 2005), 68.

4 Muhammad Muhsin Khan, The English Translation of Sahih Al Bukhari with the Arabic Text, (Al Saadawi Publications, 1996), Volume 4, Book 55, Number 583.

5 Ali Unal trans, The Qur’an with Annotated Interpretation in Modern English, (New Jersey: The Light, 2006), Saffat 37:102.

6 Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 16-50: Word Biblical Commentary, ed. David A. Hubbard and Glenn W. Barker, (Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 165.

7 John Calvin, Calvin’s Commentaries on Genesis. trans. John King, (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 1963), 2:38.

References

• Calvin, John. Calvin’s Commentaries on Genesis. trans. John King. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 1963.
• Khan, Muhammad Muhsin. The English Translation of Sahih Al Bukhari with the Arabic Text, Al Saadawi Publications, 1996.
• Luther, Martin. Martin Luther’s Large and Small Catechism. Translated by F. Bente and W.H.T. Dan. Sioux Falls, SD: Nuvision Publications, 2007.
• Parry, J. H. The Book of Jasher. New York: Cosimo, Inc, 2005.
• Taiwo, Niyi. Respect: Gaining It and Sustaining It. Philadelphia, PA: Xlibris Corporation, 2007.
• Unal, Ali, trans. The Qur’an with Annotated Interpretation in Modern English. New Jersey: The Light, 2006.
• Wenham, Gordon J. Genesis 16-50: Word Biblical Commentary. ed. David A. Hubbard and Glenn W. Barker. Dallas: Word Books, 1994.

O heart! You and your suffering for Him exist; ah, how nice it is always to be concerned with Him and suffering for Him! That suffering is, in fact, your cure.
O you who are seeking the world; you are like a day laborer in this world;
and you, lover of Paradise, are also far distant from truth.
O you, who are unaware of the truth and pleased with the two worlds,
You are excused, for you have not felt
the pleasure of suffering for the Beloved’s sake. (Rumi)

How does suffering become a cure or a pleasure? Just like hot peppers do. Why do we consume hot peppers, even though they are painful to eat? In his article, Ali Fethi Toprak explains that experts think hot peppers “are good for our health by lowering blood pressure, having antimicrobial effects, and increasing salivation thus making a boring diet fun.” Kocabas also suggests that, according to some studies, the capsaicin present in hot peppers could be used as a pain suppressor.

Also in this issue, Katharine Branning explains that researchers have discovered a link between the heavy consumption of isot pepper and the very low cancer rates in southeast Turkey. The “research has provided conclusive evidence that isot pepper does indeed possess substantial anti-cancer properties.” In Branning’s piece, the very hot isot pepper does not only help cure cancer, but is also an emblem of dialogue, friendship, and mercy, stretching across cultures and religions.

In her heartbreaking memoir, Magdalena Rusanova tells us about her father, who she lost when she was a child. As we read along, we trace each and every threshold she needed to surpass in her life as she grew into adolescence, developed relationships with others, and faced important choices. Even though her father’s memory faded as the years passed, and despite her pain, there was one significant piece of advice he had given her, which happened to guide her all her life. Choosing the right guide is necessary for an unwavering walk in our lives, as Niyazi-i Misri says,

Let not any guide lead you, for he may make it
too difficult to proceed;
It is very easy for one whose guide is perfect
to advance along this path.
The right guide can even help us discover the pleasure in pain.

How could this piece of information solve my problems? This little sentence cannot really answer all of life’s possible dilemmas, can it?

I am walking home on the unusually dark street. I am only used to seeing it in the brightness of day, when the flowers are in stark contrast to the shortly trimmed grass and the voices of other kids fill the air with their sweet, bell-like melody. It has been a long, long day at my best friend’s house. We have played hide and seek for hours, we have painted suns with her new water colors. But it is late now and my big brown eyes are almost closing. As always, I do not want to admit that I am tired. It seems shameful and boring. Only old people get tired! To the bouncy, curious 6 year-old that I am, sleep is the ultimate waste of time, especially when constant adventure is waiting around every corner.

It would have probably seemed frightening to see the neighborhood so empty, so suspiciously silent if I had to walk home by myself. My excessively wild imagination would have made me shudder at the thought of all the horrific monsters, dragons, witches and ghosts whispering and quietly planning their evil moves in the darkness. But I am not alone. A strong, tall man is walking next to me, holding my little hand. Dad. He is there to guide me through the summer evening. His presence makes the place seem warm and inviting. The dim lights coming out of the windows of the houses around me appear to soften the atmosphere, making the moment almost dream-like.

I suddenly remember a very important question I wanted to ask him. I have been wondering about it all afternoon but the logic of it seemed to be beyond me. It is undoubtedly an adult matter. I turn up to gaze at his friendly round face and ask with urgency:

“Dad, which side is better, the left or the right? I can’t decide which one is my favorite.”
He smiles from under his black moustache and wisely answers, his green eyes sparkling:
“The left of course. It’s where your heart is.”

Adults have it so easy. They simply have all the answers. Of course the left side is the best one! I nod, completely agreeing and feeling overwhelmed with my father’s undeniable expertise at life. I am also a bit disappointed that I did not reach the conclusion myself. I wish I was like him.
…

From that day on, I had no doubts. Every time I had to choose between turning left or right at an unfamiliar cross roads, I chose left. Every time my best friend wanted me to choose in which of her two clenched fists she had hidden a candy, I chose the left one. I never doubted my dad’s conclusion for a second. Choices, choices… who said they were so difficult?

My father died shortly after that walk. Nobody warned me that my source of endless adult wisdom would abandon me and my beautiful mother so abruptly. I did not manage to ask him even one hundredth of my questions. I could not ask him why boys were so annoying at kindergarten or why my first grade teacher had such an enormous belly. I knew he would have had the explanation. He would have dispersed the fog of my confusion in an instant.

Later, my questions changed but I still wished my dad were there to help me with the riddles. Why were boys even more annoying as I got older? How could I heal my broken heart? The more I grew, the harder the questions became. Why did he have to leave so early? Would he be proud of me? Was I making the right choices? Did I choose the right university? What would he think of my boyfriend? I had the feeling he might not have had all the answers. I was starting to realize that nobody does. But I wanted to ask him all the same.

I had so many questions but so few memories. The more time passed, the less I remembered. I remembered he was so fun, that he would play with me and a balloon in the living room until it was time to go to bed (and even a little longer when my mom wasn’t watching). He liked to fish; it was his passion. He had many friends, and our apartment was always full of smiling, warm people.

With time, however, I started forgetting these memories. I forgot the important details – I no longer remembered his smell, his voice. The most difficult was that I did not have any recollection of his words to me. I craved to know his opinion, to have his advice, to feel him guiding me once again. But the only real memory I had of his wisdom was the short little answer to my silly childish question. The left side was better because my heart was there.

How could this piece of information solve my problems? This little sentence couldn’t really answer all of life’s possible dilemmas, could it? It couldn’t tell me how my father first knew he was in love with my mom. I will never know that. It could’t tell me if he would approve of me studying abroad. Had I wasted my time with my dad on a meaningless, pathetic little discussion …

Forgetful creatures we humans are. If we live abroad long enough we could forget our own language, they say. I’ve also heard that, once vested with too much power, some people forget where they came from. This is a dangerous kind of amnesia. It can, of course, be a good thing – they say forgetting helps you heal faster, helps you deal with loss and pain. This, they say, is the good kind of forgetfulness. In my case, loss and pain did not disappear with time. Only memories.

This stupid human nature tricked me – I suffered the worst kind of amnesia – I was forgetting my father. It felt like I was being unfairly robbed of the little I had left from him. As a teenager, I tried to rebel against this stupid memory loss. I wanted to simply turn off all my thoughts about him, I excluded him from all conversations; I would not say the word ‘dad’ – I just skipped it. But it didn’t help. Late at night, I kept looking at pictures of him from our summer vacations together, hoping a memory would jump at me and help me get to know him better. But it never did.

The only real memory I had left was the silly conversation in the evening street. It was perhaps quite illogical of me but with time, I grew to believe that my precious recollection could, in fact, guide me through life. I chose to make the best of what I had left. My only memory of my father’s words became my life motto. ‘Follow your heart.’ It might sound cliche but I sure did not take it from the movies. It’s true that he never really said that to me. But I believe he meant it. I believe that if he could sit with the already grown-up me tonight for a cup of hot chocolate by the fire, he would tell me exactly that: to follow my heart. His moustache would be gray or even white, but his sparkly green eyes would be the same. He would tell me to follow my heart. After all, he was a wise man, how could he not agree?

This motto helped me finally answer my endless questions. It wasn’t my father doing all the work for me. I had to solve the puzzle myself. I simply followed my heart. I followed my heart when I chose to study law – I wanted to fight for justice. I followed my heart when I chose to go abroad – I wanted to help my inspiring mother have a better life. My heart took me places that were not easy. I had to learn to survive on my own among strangers and build my life from scratch. It was scary and it made me doubt my heart. My human nature had a tendency to betray, and this made me fear, and fear made me weak. But my heart never disappointed me. I stuck with it and it brought me to magical kingdoms filled with love, compassion and friendship. I will follow it again and again, and I will not hesitate. I have learned to trust it, because it knows best. And I know my father would approve. After all, he is also in my heart. He is still holding my hand, guiding me through the darkness with a smile under his moustache. And he would be proud of me.

I don’t really need to know all the answers. Nobody ever does. Some people know too much and yet they are not happy. Plus, where is the thrill of knowing everything? Where is the adventure? I am blessed to have what I have: my family, my friends, my love and my precious memory to show me the way. Supposing I have inherited my father’s wisdom (and I like to think that I did), I should be alright. Don’t worry about me.

When a father’s inquisitive daughter asks him, “Why he is God invisible?” he thinks he’s getting off with an easy question. But the answer is far more complex, and wise, than he could have imagined.

Having an adolescent at home is a challenge, but answering their questions without triggering other question is a totally different one. And I should know this, because what else can you expect from the curious daughter of a researcher-father? Almost every day, she unloads a question on me, and the rest of my day is buried into deep thoughts over the answer.

Well, this time, I thought her question was an easy one. She asked, “Dad, why is God invisible?” Wow, that was easy. I felt like a child who knows the answer to the question the teacher asked:

“Our eyes are not capable of seeing Him. There are other things, too, that are invisible for us; like love or intelligence.” That was it. I was smiling in celebration of my effortless success. But my daughter, she wasn’t smiling:

“I didn’t ask why we can’t see Him. I said why is He invisible; that is why did He choose to be invisible to us?”

Good grief! How in the world should I know? I just tried to save the moment by giving the most straight forward answer: “Well, this life is an examination for humans. God invites us to find Him, and choose to submit to Him without seeing. That’s the rule of the game, or the challenge of the exam.”

She didn’t look satisfied with what I said. After a few seconds of silence, she blurted out: “Ok, it is part of what I am looking for, but not exactly.”

“If you can define what you are after, we can search for it, you know.”

“Dad! I remember you telling me that you can ask the perfect question only if, and when, you know the answer. If I don’t know the answer, how can I perfectly ask about it?”

Right there, I was shot with my own gun. I had used those words a few times to escape a mental fight or to avoid getting caught with an insufficient explanation. But, being daddy’s girl, she picked it up too quickly and she was expecting me to figure out what in her mind without her telling me. So this was something I was used to. All I needed was to focus: “Why is God invisible? Why did He choose to be invisible?”

Being invisible while being there… Things are better understood when juxtaposed with their opposites. So, I started thinking about being visible but not being there. This sounded like the people who shake hands with you while talking to somebody else, or those who can’t help looking at a computer or cell phone screen while talking with you. Then I remembered the cliche father depiction in the movies: a person who exists but no more – and the rest of the movie is focused on filling that void from lack of a father’s love! I realized that my brainstorm was taking me far far away… But the concept of parenthood? Maybe there was help in it.

Being good parents… I recalled the examples in the books and seminars about parenting. “Helicopter” parents would help their child in everything to the point that they would not let the child enjoy the feeling of success. Such kids would have difficulty in developing self confidence and entrepreneurship. “Absentee parents,” on the other hand, would not bother themselves, even if their kids were crushed under incessant failure. Such kids would have difficulty in developing trust and establishing long-term commitment. But what about these musings? Were they of help to probe into my daughter’s curious mind?

I remembered that parents were extremely important because the relationship between them and the child was the framework for the relationship between the individual and God. And conversely, God’s lordship was a model for parenting. So, if God chose to be invisible, was it a lesson for me as a parent?

For example, He was invisible, but He was not absent. People discovered God best when they were in their most desperate situations. And in normal times, He was enabling us to enjoy success and self-confidence by helping and guiding us in our actions without overriding our egos. Had this help and guidance been substituted by His infinite Will and Power always, we could not have controlled our actions, and so, we could not have developed even the notion of self.

I felt like I found a great gift for my daughter. But was this enough? Was this what she was looking for? Or part of it? Who knows? Perhaps, I should keep thinking. After all, I was her hero; I should not ruin her dreams.

I remembered how I was disappointed by some of my superheroes. In my childhood, superheroes were depicted as people who were there only in times of danger and emergencies. So, they were never put into contexts that would reveal a lack of character or a need to be cared for. But in recent times, superheroes were likely to be depicted with defects in their personalities. Even sometimes, they were shown trying to cover up those defects with their powers, making the picture even worse.

I did not want to disappoint my daughter. But as much as I was her hero, I was a human: a regular human with insufficiencies and mistakes. And, so was she. In any case, I didn’t want to be remembered through my negatives. Wasn’t I educated not to hit people in the face with their mistakes – but on the contrary, to cover them, if possible? Right at that moment, I saw that being invisible was the perfect way God did this for us. If He revealed His presence every time we did something wrong, how shameful would that be?

But, whether covering a flaw or doing a favor, what crowned those good deeds was when the person who committed them didn’t expect anything back. The best help was described as “done by the right hand without the left hand being aware of it.” Doing favors while being invisible like angels was the ideal. So, the other person only knows that they have been covered, and that’s it. They can’t see anyone who is going to ask for a return by reminding them of the favor; they can’t remember a face whose appearance would rekindle the regrets of the past mistakes. Their pride is not wounded, and their dignity is intact. They are left with a gratitude that can only be paid forward by doing the same for others. I thought, in this context, being invisible was another way by which God taught us benevolence and magnanimity by example.

Having gone through all these thoughts, I was guessing that I had found enough answers for my daughter. But since I had not figured out a way to deliver those answers without being visible, I was expecting her to have enough of me after a minute, and without much listening, to produce another question. I was wrong, and I was correct. She listened to me completely and attentively. Then she added:

“Today, during the exam, the teacher stood beside me for a minute. You cannot imagine what a stressful minute it was. Not that I was doing anything wrong, but seeing her made me so nervous. I remembered that you had told me that we were in an exam in this life. Then it dawned upon me that God being invisible was not only a part of the exam, but also a part of the help to success.”

This time, we both smiled… until she reloaded me with:

“Then why did God give the need for self-confidence and success, if they potentially lead to arrogance?”

“It’s very hard to grow a tree,” he said. “Just like it’s very hard to grow a person.”

“Well” my brother said, “if you and mom could grow me, I can grow a tree.” He was eleven at the time.

By the end of the summer, only one of his sprouts was still alive. He’d forgotten what kind of tree it was – in his enthusiasm, he hadn’t time for labels. On a Sunday in early September, after church, my family went out to our backyard with hand shovels and a rake. On our hands and knees, we took turns digging in the soft, wet earth. It was a warm day, and the late-season sun spilled like gold filigree through the leaves of our large oak tree. My brother and father, rich earth worked into the fissures of their hands, tenderly planted the sapling. I could tell, by my father’s face, that he didn’t give the tree a chance. But my brother believed completely, and when the planting was finished to his satisfaction, he stood and said a prayer, a brief benediction and blessing for our house.

He spent that autumn tending to the sapling. He would water it daily, and measure its progress with a ruler. Against all odds, it continued to grow.

So, too, did my brother. As the years passed, and the tree grew thicker, my brother grew taller. He fell in love, had his heart broken, lost his way. By the time he left home, seven years later, the tree had grown into a healthy, albeit small, tree. It had claimed its unceremonious space in our backyard. But it hadn’t borne fruit, and we had mostly forgotten to notice that the tree was there. We still had no idea what kind of tree it was.

“A defective tree,” my father said one night, bitterly. “A tree incapable of growing fruit.” My brother had been gone a year then, and we heard word of him sparingly – a postcard from Louisiana, or a phone call from a hotel in Oklahoma. I left home the next year. I took my first trip to Paris, where I fell in love with the city, and a woman, my future wife. Another year passed, and my brother and I did not speak.

When I received word that my brother had died in a car crash in Texas, I was living in the south of Spain with my wife. She was pregnant by then, a small sapling growing inside her, and when I hung up the phone on my father, the first thing I thought of was what my brother had said all those years before: There’s a whole tree in this little seed. I looked at her and thought: There’s a whole person in this little seed. Then, naturally, I cried.

It was late June. We arrived in Philadelphia just in time for the funeral. It was a small affair at a church outside the city, on a small plot of land overlooking a creek. The grave had already been dug, the fresh earth piled high beside it. I remembered my brother’s small hands, their crevices grooved with dirt. Afterwards we returned to our house. It had grown quiet in the years since my brother and I had left, and my parents would soon sell it.

That night at dusk, my father took me out to the backyard. “I have something to show you,” he said. We walked barefoot through the grass, the cicadas murmuring in the dense, sultry summer air. When we got to my brother’s tree, I noticed something moist and wet beneath my foot. I knelt down. It was a plum. There were plums all over the ground, and more on the tree.

“It’s the first year it blossomed,” my father said. “I couldn’t believe it.”

We roamed through the gloaming, prospecting the luscious, purple globes from the low branches, biting into the soft flesh, the juices spilling down our chins. They tasted good. As I ate, I picked out the seeds, put a few of them in my pocket. They came with me on the plane back to Spain. I planted them in cups all over our house, much to my wife’s amusement. I watered them diligently, checked them daily for growth. When we planted one of the seedlings at the end of the summer, my wife’s stomach was already large, and while I worked in the earth, she sat on our porch and watched. “It will never grow,” she called out to me. “Seedlings never grow.”

As I write this, our son is playing in our backyard, his small, growing body shaded by the small, growing branches of a plum sapling.

However, it is not my husband, but rather my son, whom I want to talk about now. The anniversary of my son’s death was yesterday. It is probably in vain to talk about the last days of his life, because people already know that part of the story. He was part of an incredible story, but unfortunately he was on the wrong side.

My son learned at an early age how to become a man like his father, one who was devoted to his work and driven by success. His father did not spend much of his time with his family, but on those occasions that he did, he spent most of the time talking about his successes and the growing influence of his business. It was easy to tell that my son was captivated by his father’s success. To him, his father was an angel who had descended from heaven to tell him stories of miracles and wonders.

Unlike his father’s business obsession, my son developed an interest in machines. He dissembled and re-assembled all sorts of machines from a very young age and was able to combine different objects to come up with his own primitive inventions. Before he went to elementary school, he invented an automated knife that would spread butter on his bread and a machine that would bring him the remote control when triggered by pulling down on a string. Often, I found myself worrying about my son’s future education and wondering what this kid could possibly learn at school.

Unfortunately, within the first week of school, my worries about his education came true when my son was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) and quickly became an outcast at school due to his hyperactivity. My divorce from his father during the same year only made things worse. I didn’t know what to do. Although it was not the best solution, I still thought it was best for my son to continue to study at a normal, public school.

In his second year, a fan club was formed to celebrate the superheroes that made this planet a better place to live. Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Frozone, Gazerbeam, Superman, etc., were all invitees of this club during their biweekly activities. My son, having grown up with the example of his successful father, soon developed an interest in this club. There, my son had found an excellent replacement for his father, whom he deeply missed since our divorce.

One day he returned from the club’s activities and was not the same person that usually returned from school. I hardly recognized him. The angry-looking, hyperactive outcast was gone, and in his place was a child who was destined to follow his dreams. During dinner, I asked how his day had been. He talked about a man that I “better marry,” because he wanted him as his father. Guess who it was: Mr. Incredible.

“I asked and he said he was single and he loved children,” my son insisted.

“But I’ve never met him!” I replied, smiling.

“I’m sure you’ll love him,” he said.

I was so happy that, after two years of misery and distress, we could have a dinner like mother and son.

The dream went on for a few months, until one night when he came home from a friend’s house, looking very distraught. I thought perhaps he had a fight with his friend, but it wasn’t that. He had tried to tag along with Mr. Incredible as his sidekick but had been kicked out of his car, because Mr. Incredible found him too young and didn’t want a sidekick. After all, Mr. Incredible always worked alone. Eventually, my son was able to accept the situation and he realized that what Mr. Incredible said was true, that he actually was too young. However, his awe of Mr. Incredible never faded. He always sought ways to get Mr. Incredible to accept and appreciate him.

By the time my son was in middle school, companies began to purchase his inventions. He was already well on his way to becoming as successful as his father had been. I frequently asked myself what this boy would accomplish in the future. He already had achieved what most people never would in an entire lifetime. Flying boots were his latest invention. He thought this would catch Mr. Incredible’s attention because flying would greatly improve Mr. Incredible’s ability to fight crime.

One night, he was brought home by the police. I literally freaked out. I thought he had done something horrible with one of his crazy inventions. Apparently, he had tried to help Mr. Incredible at the scene of a robbery, but everything had gone wrong and Mr. Incredible rejected him as a sidekick once more. Being an adolescent undergoing puberty he had difficulty in facing this latest rejection from his hero. He not only craved acceptance and appreciation but he needed them. From that day on, all the Mr. Incredible posters, stickers, and T-shirts were gone from our house. Instead, my son started putting up posters of villains and he started to idolize them.

I couldn’t tell anyone, but I was terrified when I found a paper in his room that said, “Revenge of the Bad Guys.” I hoped this was a sort of adolescent fury that would go away in time. And it did – at least I thought it did.

After he completed his university degree, my son started a company that focused on the research and development of defense systems. Because of his genius, he easily achieved immediate success and purchased two islands in the Pacific: one as his home to live with his fiancée and the other as his base of operations. I was a happy mother because after so many years of hard work and worries, I thought my son had finally overcome his difficulties and was moving on with his life.

My dream did not last long. After the government grounded all the superhero activities due to public unrest towards the superheroes, my son started popularizing his inventions that mimicked the abilities of these superheroes: flying boots, a machine that made any shape by freezing the humidity in the air, a never-ending rope that never broke, etc. I never thought that what he was doing was simply a disguise to hide his true goal: discovering Mr. Incredible’s secret identity and getting revenge for himself and for all those whose parents or spouses were hurt or killed by the superheroes. I found out about this from one of his journals that was later given to the police by his fiancée.

You know the rest of the story. My son was struck by a car that Mr. Incredible threw at him and was finally killed by the very jet engine he had invented and built. Mr. Incredible had once been my son’s hero and was now his murderer. What can I say? Congratulations, Mr. Incredible on another job well-done! I hope you can enjoy dinner with your family tonight as I’m writing these lines in sorrow …

Christians

In Acts 10:38 we read the following: “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power. He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him.” And in Matthew 9:36 we read: “At the sight of the crowds [who seemed lost], his heart was moved with pity [with compassion] for them.” In brief, this explains what was responsible for the life and actions of Jesus of Nazareth and how it is that he did no harm, but rather only good: He was moved with pity, with compassion for others. And what is compassion?

The Greek word for compassion is “splanchnizomai” or “spankhnomai.” It means to be moved as to one’s bowels moved with love and pity or sorrow. It means to suffer with someone, to feel and identify with someone’s pain. To have compassion is to have mercy, to recognize and have sorrow for someone’s suffering. It is to have love, care, kindness and tenderness for someone, especially for those in need.

Clearly, those who are planting bombs or blowing themselves up or who are plotting similar schemes in Nigeria (and people of similar minds who are perpetuating violence in other parts of the world) no longer have compassion for others and for themselves. And yet, they claim, for the most part, that they are doing this in God’s name. The real question is: In the name of whose God? Is there a God without compassion? It is certainly not in the name of the God of Jesus of Nazareth, nor is it really in the name of Allah of Islam. And it is definitely not in the name of YHWH (God) of the Jews either.

In John 14:9-11, Jesus said to Philip who asked him to show them the Father, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. … I am in the Father and the Father is in me. … The Father … dwells in me.” Unequivocally, one can say that what we see and love in Jesus of Nazareth, namely, his compassion for the poor and for everyone in need, his gentleness, his unconditional and faithful love, to name only a few, is equally true of the God that he has revealed to us. And Saint Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 11:1, saying, “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ.”

Muslims

What do we know about the God of Islam? Asghar Ali Engineer remarks that the very first chapter of the Qur’an has the second verse as follows: Al-Rahman al-Rahim (i.e., The Compassionate, the Merciful). In fact, every chapter of the Qur’an (there are one hundred and fourteen of them), from surat al-fatiha to surat al-nas, begins with Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim (i.e., “in the name of Allah the Compassionate and the Merciful”) (with the exception of the chapter Tawbah in which this phrase is not in the beginning but comes later). Thus, among Allah’s own 99 names are al-Rahman and al-Rahim (i.e., The Compassionate and The Merciful), and Allah has sent his Prophet Muhammad into the world as the Mercy of the world, as rahmatu lil’alamin (i.e., as “mercy of the worlds”) and as al-risalat al-alamiyyah (i.e., as one who represents universal mercy). And a Muslim, according to Asghar Ali Engineer, begins everything by reciting, “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim” (that is, “begin [every step] in the name of Allah Who is Compassionate and Merciful”). One can infer from this that the predominance of mercy and compassion in the life of Muslims is indisputable. Thus, even when one may engage in a “rescue mission” – that is, plot or participate in a war against the oppressor in order to liberate the oppressed, who cries for justice – even then the Qur’an (in chapter 4, verse 75) does not expect the violence to be reckless. In other words, Muslims may never fight a war “without compassion”; they may never fight a war except on compassionate grounds (and only with compassion). Not even in the name of the most oppressed of peoples may they fight a godless war, an unholy war. A war that is considered holy is that which is fought fi sabili Allah (i.e., in the way of Allah). The way of Allah is of justice and of protecting the rights of the poor and exploited. For more on this matter, one may consult the commentary of Maulana Muhammad Ali’s The Holy Qur’an (Lahore, 1973). Meanwhile, it is most certainly unjust and ungodly to kill the innocent. Is it not?

Now we have seen that like the God of Jesus of Nazareth, Allah of Islam is compassionate and merciful. Among Allah’s 99 names none is used as frequently as al-Rahman al-Rahmin. And Allah demands that Muslims be compassionate and merciful to others even in circumstances where they are morally compelled to liberate the poor and exploited from the callousness, godlessness and decadence of the oppressor. Otherwise, those that they seek to help may in fact end up being worst off, and even destroyed by their actions.

Additionally, in the ninth century the servant of God Umar, the second successor of the holy and most venerable Prophet Muhammad, decrees as follows in respect of Christians: “Their churches shall neither be used as dwellings nor destroyed. They shall not suffer any impairment nor shall their dependencies, their crosses, nor any of their property. No constraint shall be exercised against their religion (Q. 2:256) nor shall any harm be done to any among them” (cited in J. M. Gaudeul’s Encounters & Clashes: Islam and Christianity in History, Rome, 2000, p. 47). All in all, the soul of Islam is mercy and compassion.

The Jews

Finally, what do we know of the God of the Jews? According to Richard H. Schwartz, YHWH (God) is referred to in synagogue services as Ha-rachman, that is, as “The Compassionate One” and as Av harachamin, that is, as “Father of Compassion.” And the Talmud (i.e., a collection of books, which is considered as one of the holiest of Judaism’s books and taken to be very authoritative in Judaism) also teaches that Jews are to be rachmanim b’nei rachmanim, that is, “compassionate children of compassionate ancestors.” Thus, one who fails to be compassionate cannot be a true descendant of Abraham (Bezah 32b). And the Talmud says categorically that heaven will grant compassion exclusively to those who have shown compassion to others (Shabbat 151b). This insistence on and importance of compassion in Judaism is taken further by the Baruch Sheh’amar prayer which is recited daily in the morning (Shacharit) services. Here is the prayer: “Blessed is the One (God) Who has compassion on the earth; blessed is the One Who has compassion on the creatures [animals and people].”

In Judaism, compassion is not only an attribute of God, it is imperative for all Jews to show compassion. Rabbi Dovid Sears states, “Compassion for all creatures, including animals, is not only God’s business; it is a virtue that we too must emulate. Moreover, compassion must not be viewed as an isolated phenomenon, one of a number of religious duties in the Judaic conception of the Divine service. It is central to our entire approach to life.” Why is compassion at the core of Judaism? As Richard H. Schwartz reminds us affirmatively of Isaiah 11:9, the answer is: so that “no one shall hurt nor destroy in all of God’s holy mountain”; so that no one may hurt or be hurt; so that no one may destroy or be destroyed in all of God’s creation.

We may now conclude by saying that if and when all men and women of Nigeria realize that those who have shown no mercy and compassion on earth to their fellow men and women and children will not be shown mercy and compassion in heaven by God, then they will most certainly, consciously and actively cultivate compassion, and the current reckless violence and killings in Nigeria will begin to die a natural death.

Rev. Dr. Pachomius Okogie
University of Saint Anselm,
Rome, Italy

In the mountains, people use mason jars for everything: canning, flower vases, gifts, moonshine, drinking glasses, treasure jars – the list goes on and on. There’s not much a good old mason jar can’t do for us country folk. Believe me, a person has never had a good glass of tea until they have drank it from a mason jar full of ice, with a slice of lemon shoved down in it. It is m…..m….good!

The treasure jar is the one I want to write about. The name treasure jar explains itself. It’s very simple. People decorate the jars and then put items in them that they treasure themselves. The treasure can be a simple recipe passed down generations through the family, or it can contain rare old coins worth a fortune. It all depends on what the person holds dear to them in their own hearts. Once the jars are filled, they are given as gifts.

When I was a child, I would catch lightning bugs and put them in an old mason jar and set them on a table beside my bed. I would watch them light up until I fell asleep. It was a “simple” but “great” treasure in my young eyes. But no matter how hard I would pray for them to live forever beside my bed, they would always die.

I have thought about it a lot, and if I only had seventy-two hours to live, this is what I would do: First, I would buy five-hundred mason jars in different sizes, then I would put my “prized” possessions in them. Next, I would distribute them in unique ways so that the people getting them would surely smile. Remember that where I’m from, “prized” possessions do not have to have monetary value. They only have to mean something special to the one giving the jars.

The people that I would give my jars to would be chosen very carefully because, after all, I’m giving away “my” prized treasures. The first jars made would be for my four grandchildren. I have three boys and one girl, ages running from newborn to age seven. In my granddaughter’s jar I would put some pictures of us together, as well as a recording of my voice with a special message just for her. I would also add my pearls and ask her to wear them on her wedding day. That way a part of me will be with her on her special day. I would arrange for the jar to be given to her on her wedding day. The boys’ jars would also contain a recording of my voice and some pictures as well , but one would contain a watch given to me by my father. Another, a case knife I’ve had for years. The last one would contain an old engagement ring of mine, so that whoever receives it can give it to his true love someday. I would want their jars given on special days as well, such as their senior graduation or eighteenth birthday.

The next jars would go to my son and daughter. My daughters jar would contain the rest of my jewelry, and then I would share with her my whole life story. I would tell her things about myself that I have never told anyone. I think she would be very surprised about some of the things she would learn. I believe some things are better left unsaid until the time is right to share them.

My sons jar would contain some old coins that belonged to his father and all of my old love letters written by his father when I was only fifteen years old. I would also include the poetry and songs I’ve written over the years that no one else has ever seen or heard.

The next thing I would do is take twenty of the jars and write down all of the hopes and dreams and goals that I had, but never got to accomplish. I would release them into the river along with a note to those who found them that would say,” live everyday like it’s your last, because it may well be.”

The rest of my jars would travel across the seas, to other states, and hopefully to the White House. Some jars would be painted red, white and blue and sent over seas for the men and women serving our country. Their jars would contain thank-you notes for their brave gestures, and also a lucky penny in each one. Next, I would love for one of my jars to make it to the president and his family. In their jar I would place inspirational notes for them to read to lift them up when times seem really hard. I would also explain how happy I was to have lived long enough to see a historical moment in time. I would also include two handkerchiefs that were embroidered. one would say, “MR. PRESIDENT’ and the other one would say, “FIRST LADY”. The only way I can think of to get it to the president is to go to the media, so that’s exactly what I would do.

Finally, the rest of my jars would be divided in half and shipped to The Shriners Hospital and to The ST. Judes Hospital, because they treat very sick children for free. The jars would be decorated and filled with small toys and trinkets along with an inspirational note to encourage them to keep on fighting until they find a cure for their diseases. I would want the jars to be given to the children as soon as possible, because these children are fighting for their lives, and some may not make it.

I believe my jars would bring peace to others as well as myself because they would know they were on my mind in my final moments of life. It would also bring me peace to know that I left a part of myself all over the world. And that’s something special, considering I’ve always lived in the mountains and have lived a very simple life.

Once my goal was achieved, I would spend time in prayer. I would pray for my loved ones as well as myself because I would not tell them I was going to die, because I want to remember them with a happy, joyful spirit, not with a sad broken one. But if, for some reason, I was given more time to live, I would do the things I’ve always wanted to do, like write a book, record the songs I’ve written, and I would love to be able to travel to places I’ve never been to.

Life is short, and time passes quickly, but I want to live. But just like the lightning bugs I caught as a child, I will eventually die. Life and Death walk together hand in hand. Life screams, “LIVE!” and Death screams, “YOU BETTER LIVE BECAUSE I AM COMING AFTER YOU SOONER THAN YOU THINK!”

Belinda Sturgill is a freelance writer. She lives in McRoberts, KY, and she can be reached at belindasturgill12@yahoo.com. With this essay, she won an honorable mention in The Fountain Essay Contest 2010.

You see, Auntie Kristina (that’s what a girl with manners should call her) was a friend of my family. She had visited us more times than I could count, but I had never been allowed to visit her, because her husband was unwell (and, I thought, probably couldn’t stand noise). They had no relatives in town. Their only daughter had married and moved to a distant city. So they lived alone in our small town, where everyone else had been there since Adam. It seemed to me that as outsiders they really appreciated the friendship of my parents. Also my father would fix any electrical appliance that broke in their house, free of charge. I guess Auntie Kristina and her husband loved my father like the son they had never had.

Auntie Kristina had the strangest ability to mend clothing like no one else could. She could patch a hole or sew a tear so that it was no longer there, as long as you had extra fabric. You couldn’t detect where a patch had been, even with my grandpa’s glasses on. Ask my mom if you don’t believe me.

So, I was ready to sprint toward her house when my teacher delivered her final instruction. “Be careful. Don’t drop the trousers anywhere. They are very expensive. And,”-that’s when my heart froze-“tell her these are your father’s trousers.”

You might have asked why, but I didn’t. I knew the reason. Auntie Kristina had stopped doing this kind of work for quite some time now. She had turned down such requests lately because the job put a strain on her aging eyes. But there was only one person she wouldn’t turn down: a dear friend asking a favor. And that was my father. If you wonder how my teacher knew that, then I suppose you’ve never lived in a small town full of gossip.

Yes. I knew it was a lie, but after having had this same neurotic teacher for 3 years, a teacher who had pulled my hair in first grade for writing crooked letters, I knew better than to say no.

I lowered my head and dragged myself out of the school. As I watched my shadow slide over the stones on the dusty road, I tried to think of a way out. The first scenario that played in my head was telling Auntie Kristina the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Auntie, my teacher sent me with a pair of trousers which have two holes, one big and one small on the left leg. These trousers belong to my teacher’s brother-in-law, who is our ambassador in some far away country and who burned them accidentally during a reception. (No, I am not making anything up. I overheard my teacher talking to her assistant during recess.) Since these trousers are far too expensive to throw away and since it is very, very important that the representative of our glorious country doesn’t go around with holes in his trousers, would you kindly repair them, please?”

She would politely decline and I wouldn’t blame her. Why strain one’s eyes to save the fancy pants of a careless diplomat?! However, this kind of answer would spell disaster for me. I abandoned this scenario and switched to the next.

I would go to her house; pretend I had knocked till my knuckles hurt, then turn back to tell my teacher that the seamstress wasn’t home. My teacher would believe me because: number one, I hadn’t lied before, and number two, she believed that the child who could lie to her had not yet been born. (She told us this herself, but if you can keep a secret, I will tell you-she is wrong. Two of my friends lied to her once, and they didn’t even flinch when faced with her lie-detecting stare.)

Anyhow, I would try, if it would end my misery. Yet, I knew like two plus two equals four that she would send me again the next day and then the next until I found the seamstress home. Chances are she would send another envoy with me after the second attempt. Then, I would have to convert that classmate into an accomplice, which was about as easy as swallowing a bull.

As I swallowed my saliva and wiped my sweaty forehead I realized that I had arrived at Auntie’s house. Standing in front of her door with my fist raised to knock, I couldn’t think of a way out of this dilemma: Shall I lie to my teacher or to Auntie Kristina? To tell the truth, the first seemed a lesser wrong but with greater consequences. I would have the same teacher for another two whole years.

I knocked twice, wishing hard that Auntie Kristina had moved to another city without letting anyone know, or had gone to see her daughter long enough for his Corpus Diplomaticus to go back to that far-away country. Have I told you that I am not that lucky? Well it’s time you knew.

Auntie Kristina opened the door with a big smile that made me blush to the tip of my ears.

“Hello Auntie! My parents send their regards to you. My father’s trousers need some repairs.” My voice trembled like I was begging for food. “Some extra fabric is in the bag.” I handed the bag to her with shaky hands. As soon as Auntie saw the shiny, high quality pants she looked at me over her spectacles, perplexed. She inspected the holes and fell silent. The longer the silence lasted, the hotter my face got. Auntie Kristina, who probably knew how many fillings my father had in his mouth, could quite easily guess that my father, a modest electrician, would more likely land on the moon than own those fancy trousers. I lowered my head and waited for a shame-on-you slap but instead I got:

“O.K. Come and pick them up tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I was worried. I will have to go through all this again my mind protested.

“Yes, “she said. “I don’t have time today.”

“Tell your parents I said hi,” she reminded me. I nodded. You would expect me to take a deep breath once she closed the door, right? Instead I felt like I was choking and there was only one way for my lungs to get air: let the tears that were knotted in my throat flow. And I did. I didn’t care who might be watching. I hated my teacher. I detested her mindless brother-in-law. I loathed pant-burning cigars. I hated myself. I was a bad girl. I was a liar. I continued to cry to my heart’s content, until my eyes were dry and I could breathe again.

The next day my teacher’s face brightened up when she examined the repaired trousers.

“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “One thousand witnesses are needed to prove that there was a hole in these pants.” She turned to me with a smile and said, “Well done.” Her praise, rare as rain in the desert, didn’t make me at all happy this time. In fact, it inflamed my guilt which was burning holes inside me. All I could do was to wait for the flame to die out.

Three weeks later, when the fire of my guilt had somewhat subdued, something happened that blew the ashes away and exposed the embers. It was the day of my older sister’s wedding. As I was busying myself, getting into everybody’s way, I heard Auntie Kristina’s voice greet my father. I jumped out of my skin and hid behind my bedroom door. Peaking through the keyhole, I saw her hand Mom a wrapped gift for my sister. Only for a split of a second did she scrutinize the outfit my father had on. Although it was his best gray suit, it stood a hundred light-years away from those fancy trousers.

She smiled at him and proceeded to the sitting room. She sat on the sofa exchanging pleasantries with both my parents while her coffee was being made. I glued my ear to the wall so that I could hear and started to reconstruct the puzzle of their conversation from what I could hear. When she asked where I was, suddenly finding a hiding place was more urgent than hearing what she had to say next. If I knew one thing about my mother, who stuck to the rules of manners like no other, it was that she would be looking for me in no time. It is considered rude for children to not greet guests, especially when the guests deigned to ask about them. I wasn’t mistaken. Mom rushed into my bedroom calling my name. I was sweating in my closet, hiding among racks of clothes. Did Auntie tell? Is Mom angry? Am I in trouble? I wondered. I could sense she was annoyed and impatient. Somebody called Mom from the kitchen with urgency so she stopped looking for me. I stayed inside until I heard Mom thank Auntie for coming and say goodbye.

I couldn’t spend my whole life inside a closet, so finally I decided I had to come out. On my way to the front yard, Mom called: “There you are! Here, take this. It’s from Auntie Kristina. She said you are a good girl,” Mom related with satisfaction. I don’t know why, but parents are really happy when their children are praised. “Isn’t she a nice lady?” Mom asked. Without waiting for my answer she hurried to greet another guest standing at the door. My mom had placed a bag of candies in my hand. My eyes welled up, but I pushed the tears to the corners. Something that felt good was happening inside me. The holes of emptiness were being patched. My soul was being mended.

“Yes,” I whispered to myself. “She is a nice lady, and the best seamstress of all.”

Mirkena Ozer is pursuing MA in women studies at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.