My parents moved here from Turkey for higher education and met during their master’s program at Lehigh University. But their story — and mine — truly begins with how they encountered Hocaefendi, whose leadership inspired them to pursue their studies in the U.S.

During her college years in Eskisehir, Turkey my mom attended lecture circles discussing Hocaefendi’s writings and sermons and became captivated by his teachings. My grandmother still recalls having to pull her away from those books to help around the house. Meanwhile, an old uncle in my dad’s village had introduced him to the “Risale-i Nur” by Said Nursi, one of Gulen’s teachers, which led him to people who helped him find housing for college. He was introduced to Hocaefendi’s teachings when asked to become a tutor there. At first, he didn’t understand why — he just wanted to focus on his studies. Neither of them had met Hocaefendi in person. Yet, somehow, his influence was powerful enough to guide them to seek education across the globe in a country they had never been to — long before the age of widespread internet or video calls.

My parents came to the U.S., met, and had me — all thanks to the sermons of a man they had never met. By God’s grace, they met him in the unlikeliest place: Saylorsburg. I’m sure you can guess how many Turks lived here before 1999, so when news broke that he was moving permanently, my parents were honored to help him find his new home. I remember the sweet rush of preparing his room with my mom before Hocaefendi’s arrival.

I was 4 or 5 years old, so my memories are mostly snippets. Still, one is clear: I felt completely comfortable around Hocaefendi, free to be myself, even when the adults always told me to act differently —“Be quiet, stop running around, be respectful.” I was being respectful; I loved my Hocaefendi.

I remember running wild around Chestnut Retreat Center when it was a couple of weathered cabins along a dirt road, but as with everything Hizmet and Hocaefendi, there was a vision.

One day, while he was busy writing in his room, my friends and I were next door, jumping on couches and having the time of our lives — just being kids in full chaos mode. He came out and asked us to settle down, and we did … for as long as a group of unsupervised kids could. Then he came out a second time and a third, this time wearing a stern expression. He lined us up and said he would give us a “ceza” in Turkish. To us, that word only meant one thing: punishment. To our surprise, he handed each of us a $20 bill. We raced down the stairs, nearly giving our parents heart attacks as we exclaimed, “We got a ceza from Hocaefendi!” The candy we bought from the vending machine that day may have been the tastiest we’d ever had.

As an adult, I learned that in Ottoman Turkish, ceza refers to any kind of equivalent returned for something given or done, whether punishment or reward. Throughout my life, I’ve never witnessed Hocaefendi tell a lie, even for the sake of a joke.

I have countless priceless childhood memories, yet the truth is that my connection with Hocaefendi mirrors that of my parents — rooted in his writings and sermons. Throughout my adolescence, college years and moments of crisis, Hocaefendi’s words guided me back home.

Often, I found myself as the only visibly Muslim woman in a room or even in an entire school. Despite this potentially isolating experience, I discovered a sense of community wherever I went. Inspired by his example, I aspired to make everyone I encountered feel as he made me feel — free to be themselves. His teachings allowed me to connect through faith, service and shared purpose, emphasizing the importance of accepting people for who they are, walking with humility, caring with compassion and serving with intention. He gave me a profound purpose: to be the best version of myself that God wishes to witness in His creation.

Now, as I live in Hawaii, completing my pediatrics residency and building a new home community, I reflect on the lessons Hocaefendi imparted. Though I wasn’t able to attend his funeral, I find comfort in knowing that he would encourage me to continue my journey with the same dedication I embrace every day.

In Turkey, it is customary to identify oneself by stating the birthplace of one’s father when asked where they are from. However, for me, I proudly and confidently say I am from Pennsylvania, knowing that it’s a place deeply intertwined with my identity and the invaluable lessons I’ve learned from Hocaefendi.

First published in The Morning Call, November 2, 2024

Think of yourself as a desert ant. You leave your nest to search for food early in the morning in the deserts of Tunisia, except you do not know where to find food. You, therefore, walk randomly in the desert in a circuitous outward path from your nest until you find food. If you would find food, how do you get it back to your home? How do you go back without having left for yourself any traces or signs in the wasteland, without knowing where you located, and most importantly, without ending up stranded in the scorching heat of the desert? Could you accomplish coming back each day with food? Well, desert ants can.

To find out how ants can do this, scientists observed their behavior, and surprisingly they have found that ants did not follow back on the same trail they randomly took after they left their nests. Instead, ants took a direct route as if they already knew where the nest exactly located. How do these ants find the closest way and shortest distance to their nest from their current locations? Former studies had found that red and forest ants secrete a chemical substance to mark their paths. They leave a trail of chemical scents or visual traces behind them—like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to help you find your way home. However, the structure of desert sands and conditions are not consonant with containing chemicals that will carry an odor or leave visual cues. Even if such markings have made, it is hard to guarantee that they will remain intact long enough considering the harsh conditions of the desert. As in Hansel and Gretel fairy tale kids who could not return home for the breadcrumbs they had left on the trail eaten by birds. Therefore, these desert ants must be equipped with another cognitive mechanism so that they can return to their nests before succumbing to the midday heat.  

Black desert ants (Cataglyphis fortis) emerge from their nests in the heat of desert sand, which rises to 70 degrees with the rise of the morning sun, to search for the remains of other insects that were not as heat resistant as they are. They can only survive for one hour on the hot sand and under the blazing sun, which means that within an hour, they must find their food and bring it back home without getting lost. The journey is quite arduous and dangerous each day. If the slightest confusion occurs and they are not able to return to their nest in time, then it could cost them their lives.

Scientists conducted a series of research in the scorching deserts of Tunisia to find out how desert ants take their food to their nests in the shortest route possible. Researchers first determined an anthill and plotted the terrain around it to set up a coordinate plane. They observed that the ants left their nests very early in the morning to begin their daily search for food, and many of them eventually found grubs that had been planted by the scientists. However, researchers moved the ants to locations that they had not previously been to after the ant began carrying the food back to their nests. The attempt was to understand whether there was a “sign placement system” within the ants. This system would encourage the ant to find its last known location, in this instance where it had picked up, then find its way back home. However, the ant instead began heading directly to its nest. It was as if the ant determined its position concerning its nest and set off for it immediately. This experiment was repeated on many ants numerous times and with the same consistent results. The ants, as soon as they had placed on the ground, moved to the nest relative to there. With a wondrous intrinsic coding of some neurons in their nervous systems, they traveled the distance between their new location and the nest in the shortest way possible. In addition to this, the margin of error was very nominal; they found their nests with a ten percent error in the average distance of 500-meters and with an error of only two degrees in angle. Additionally, a fascinating discovery revealed that the ants could calculate errors in their navigation systems. As they approach their destination, they would make adjustments if they need to by moving back and forth in parallel lines to reach the nest with minimum error.

Scientists determined that desert ants have about a thousand lenses in their compound eyes (remember that a human eye has only one lens) and 80 lenses in each of their eyes that can detect polarized light that comes from different points in the sky. Polarized light occurs when sunlight enters the atmosphere of Earth, hits air molecules and other particles, and then scatters in all directions. This dispersion leads to polarization, and the light that starts to vibrate in many planes begins to vibrate in only one plane. Therefore, the strongest of them is a distinct polarization that always makes a 90-degree angle towards the sun. The lens system in the eyes of desert ants uses this polarization to form a kind of Sky Map. These ants will occasionally stop and robotically move their heads while returning to their nest. This brief period allows the ants to make this sky map by surveying the sky and making a mental note of its layout. Researchers believe that ants can then calculate the direction that they need to travel to return to their nest. They repeat this movement along the way to continually update their sky maps. If they cannot find their home, then they utilize a patterned search method with a set of circular motions. It means that each ant knows how far it is from their nest at every point of their journey.

Then, how do ants find their direction to the nest? Perhaps they were guided by the position of the sun in the sky is. To test this hypothesis, researchers placed a set of mirrors to make ants perceive the sun in a different state than where it ordinarily would be. It observed that the ants changed their directions according to the new state of the sun. However, this finding raised another question; researchers wondered how the time of day would affect the ants since the sun moves across the sky during the day. However, this finding raised another question; researchers wondered how the time of day would affect the ants since the sun moves across the sky during the day.

In another part of the experiment, the researchers caught the ants after they found the bait, closed a box over them, and kept them inside the box for several hours so that they could not see the sun and its movements. It expected that the ants would have trouble finding their way back after they were released since a long time had passed, and the sun was in a drastically different position in the sky. However, they once again returned home by using the shortest distance possible. It understood that the desert ants were aware that time was passing even though they could not see the sun.

We now understand that ants determine their direction home by using the sun, but we still do not know how they figure out the distance they must travel to return to their nest. Researchers have developed three hypotheses to explore this phenomenon. The first hypothesis was the energy hypothesis. According to this hypothesis, the ants were able to know how much energy they needed on the way back by calculating it they had spent until they reached their food. The depletion of their energy meant the end of their journey. An ant loaded with extra weights to test this hypothesis as soon as it reached its food. The scientists thought that if their body weight increased, then they would not be able to strike reach the nest since they would spend more energy on the return trip. However, in this case, it did not affect the ants, and they returned home in the shortest way possible regardless of their weight.

The second hypothesis was the optical-flow hypothesis. In this hypothesis, it believed that the ants had visual memory, and this was how they remembered the way back. To prove this, scientists prevented the ants from seeing their surroundings by blindfolding the ants when they found their food source. However, the blindfold did not prevent the ants from obtaining the shortest distance back home. As a follow-up to this experiment, the researchers placed an extensive television screen in front of the ants showing an endless desert on the television screen to make the ants feel as if they had crossed the entire desert in this simulation. They used various types of simulations, but the result did not change; the ants found their way.

The last test involved the pedometer hypothesis. It surmised that ants could be counting their steps to determine how far they had traveled. To test whether they were doing so, researchers attached stilts made of hair strands to the legs of one group of ants after they found the food. As their legs now extended, they could move with longer scale steps. Another group of ants had their legs cut below the knee, thus shortened to increase the number of steps needed to walk the required distance back. They then observed the return journey of both groups of ants. The results were astounding; the ants with shorter legs had concluded their course before reaching the nest, while the ants with longer legs ended up passing the nest. Thus, it understood that the ants counted their steps according to the distance they traveled.

The findings reveal that the ants are created with an internal system that keeps track of the steps they take and re-calibrates itself on the way back. People make these complex calculations with measuring instruments and by knowing the laws of trigonometry. However, these small creatures find their way directly back without using any tools or computer applications. They do not use their perception to find direction, and they do not use any other directional methods because they all remember direction and distance as they move forward. If you look at this situation, what would be your simplest explanation? You can only have one definition: These little creatures can measure distances and angles precisely by applying mathematical calculations and trigonometry within their conditions. Since the first day of their existence, these creatures show only a few of the shreds of evidence of the divine power created them out of nothing with wondrous systems and superior abilities in their bodies.

I have put my trust in God, my Lord, and your Lord. No living creature is there, but He holds it by its forelock and keeps it under His complete control. Undoubtedly, my Lord is on a straight path (He governs all that exists and carries out His decrees rightly and with absolute justice). (Surah Hud, 56)

Literally meaning to separate, abstract, peel away, or to isolate oneself from every occupation and engagement, tajrid (isolation) denotes the state where one isolates oneself from worldly things and abandons all carnal or bodily desires. It also denotes turning away from all else save God and being freed from any attachment to wealth, status or position or any worldly expectations, and setting one’s heart totally on Him without expecting anything in return.

The scholars relate isolation to the Qur’anic statement, Take off your shoes (20:12), and interpret this as the purifying of the heart, which they call the home of God, of all worldly and otherworldly considerations, and preparing it for the visit of the All-Holy Sovereign. Some go a step further and regard this as turning to the Light of Lights with all one’s heart and setting one’s heart totally on Him without leaving any room for anything else in one’s feelings, according to one’s capacity. From another perspective, isolation has been approached as resistance against all carnal or bodily appetites and impulses and against the attractions of the world with whatever is in it. Initiates who have not been able to isolate themselves from carnal appetites, the attractions of the world, the attachment of the heart to anything else save Him, or from any worldly or otherworldly consideration, cannot attain His private company and the spiritual pleasure inherent in this.

Concerning this significant point, the author of al-Minhaj

says:

So long as you do not isolate yourself
from considerations about everything save Him,
You will not be able to reach privacy
with the Beloved in His private room.

Ibrahim Haqqi expresses the same point, as follows:

The heart is the home of God;
purify it of whatever is there other than Him,
So that the All-Merciful may descend into His palace at nights.

Isolation, which, in the words of Sayyid Sharif [1], is cleaning the heart and other innermost faculties from the dirt and dust of attachment to anything save Him, requires that the people favored with a vision of Him should isolate themselves from whatever they see or hear, and that they live immersed in the lights of the Existence of the Eternal Witness. Every initiate feels this and is favored with its gifts according to the individual’s capacity.

When those who are in the initial stages of the spiritual journey find themselves growing in the knowledge of God that is developing in the heart, the information acquired concerning Him gradually fades, and they begin to receive glimpses from beyond things. Then all of their material or bodily necessities, and even the entire world with whatever is in it, gradually lose their importance and value for them and they become polished mirrors to the truth, or function as some misty medium to reflect Him. One who feels this favor sometimes says, like Fuduli,

The way of isolation is a home
requiring full renunciation and sacrifice to settle in,
so abandon whatever worldly things you have,
and do not have a house.

or sometimes cries, like Yunus Emre:

I have found the unique, matchless honey;
Let everybody come and plunder my existence.

One who has reached the final point of the spiritual journey is freed from all considerations concerning other existent beings save God, and is left with no trace that belongs to anything else except Him. If those favored with this degree of isolation do not follow the principles of the Prophetic way or the rules of Shari‘a in their considerations, they may lapse into negating the “reality of things”— the established originals or essences of things in God’s Knowledge. This is a rank where many initiates live in a daze. Whereas, those who strictly follow the signposts and lights of the Prophetic way during their entire journey, though admitting the reality of things, see in everything only He Who is the One, only know the One, only mention the One, only call the One, and only turn to the One in thousands of signs of “dawn,” turning their eyes from all others.

Ahmedi [2] describes this rank according to his feeling as follows:

I have submitted all my being to that Friend, having no home any longer;
And purified my hands of any worldly things I had, being left without both of the two worlds.
For God’s love has come and drawn me to itself: opening the eyes of my heart, awakening me from an intoxicated sleep.
His Unity has become manifest to me, so that I have seen Him with all certainty.
I have driven away polytheism, having no doubt any longer.

As for the state of those who have completed their journey toward God, it is such a deep, indescribable state of pleasure, where efforts toward isolation have ended in perfect isolation and they have all but lost their own being, that those who do not experience it cannot know or describe it. Anybody who attempts to describe it cannot be saved from confusion. Such a relation between the Almighty, Ultimate Truth and an initiate whom He has favored with such a degree of spiritual attainment must be a mysterious gift of secrecy of His to His distinguished servants. What we should do is to feel respect for this gift of secrecy.

O God! Show us the truth as being true and enable us to follow it, and show us falsehood as being false and enable us to refrain from it. And bestow blessings and peace on our master Muhammad, the guide to the truth, and on his Family and Companions, godly, noble and honorable.

Notes

1. Sayyid Sharif al-Jurjani (1339–1413), was one of the leading theologians of 15^th century. He lived in Iran and taught in Shiraz. He visited Istanbul in 1374. Sharhu’l-Mawaqif is his most famous work.
2. Emir Muhammed ibn Emir Ahmedi lived in the same age as Jalalu’d-Din Rumi. He lived in Bayburt, in the Eastern Turkey. He was also the leader of the Ahis (The Brotherhood of Craftsmen and Tradesmen) in the region. (Tr.)

About 3500 years ago in Egypt, Moses began to preach the religion that calls for submission to God, which he inherited from his forefather Abraham. According to the belief in that era, the ruler was considered a son of God, even a god on earth.

The Pharaoh said (to his chiefs): “Let me kill Moses, and let him call upon his Lord! I fear lest he alter your religion (replacing it with his), or lest he provoke disorder in the land” (Mu’min 40:26). What is meant by “religion” as mentioned in the verse refers to the civilization, i.e. the overall social order, of that society. The pharaoh was rather concerned about his own reign, like many other tyrants, but he professed as if he was concerned about his people and that he wanted to get rid of Moses for their good.

The following verse expresses this fact: “They said: ‘These two men are surely sorcerers intent on driving you out of your land with their sorcery, and doing away with your exemplary way of life’” (Taha 20:63).

Then the Pharaoh increased his torment to the believers and closed up their temple. In that case, God commanded Moses and his brother to take their houses as places of worship (a center of learning) (10:87). The essential judgment on worship was to be observed in the temple, but the command to pray at home was a special judgment to be implemented during this period of torment.

We are currently facing another crisis, though entirely different from the persecution that Moses and his followers endured, that is requiring us to temporarily close our houses of worship and instead pray at home. In these days of Coronavirus, all faith communities, including Muslims, Jews, and Christians, abide by this special judgment. For Muslims even the congregational Friday Prayer, which all males without valid excuse must strictly attend, is suspended. Everybody prays at home instead for the same reason of protection from harm. Whether they observe prayers or not, most people are at an obligatory retreat.

From a believer’s perspective, these days are offering us some serious food for thought. Is Coronavirus on a mission sent by God to warn people who exceed in wrongdoing? Are we being told to come to our senses, to make up our minds, step back from wrong, act in accordance with our purpose of creation, not neglect our families for the sake of greedy pursuits, and live in a way to be eligible for eternal happiness?

Two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ, peace be upon him, taught his people about belief in God. He was able to preach for only a very short amount of time, only to be accepted by a limited number of people around him all of whom suffered and were exterminated under the cruel Roman Empire. Yet, his message was not silenced; by the third century after he was gone, a great majority of people ruled by Roman Empire accepted his invitation. Muslims believe Jesus Christ was ascended to the heavens to be sent back to complete his mission as a renovator of faith in God in the Latter Times in the way of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, who, according to some Muslim scholars, is the “advocate” (Paraclete – or Parakletos, the Praised One) mentioned in John 14:16. It is believed that Jesus Christ will lead his followers – now dispersed in many denominations more so than any other tradition has [1] – and will unite them back in worship. Coronavirus has struck at a time that is most special to the Christian community, and thus giving them an opportunity to reflect on faith. It was the time of Lent, a six-week period which ended on April 11. Observing Christians have sought closeness to God by observing different forms of worship such as fasting, praying, and supporting the needy while hoping to be more receptive to the call of revival by COVID-19. Taking this opportunity, it is my hope that Christians, who are adorned with these lofty qualities, had a happy Easter holiday, which was on April 12 this year. I also celebrate the Passover holiday of the Jewish community, which was on April 8.

As a matter of fact, even the timing of this global retreat is worthy of attention; similar to Christian Lent and Easter, Muslims are in the midst of the holy three months of Rajab, Shaban, and Ramadan, while the Jewish community have been celebrating Passover within these days of retreat. Surely the followers of other traditions such as Buddhism and Hinduism will evaluate this period in meaningful retrospect. The indigenous people of Canada pray as follows:

 “O our exalted Creator! We wish you to be with us. We wish you to help our diseased ones and our friends who are far away. When we lose hope, please remind us to be thankful for the blessings of water which gives life and the earth which bears us. O God, please help us know that all people are our relatives!”

Muslims have not undergone as huge a diversification as has been the case in Christianity in terms of the essentials of faith. However, many Muslim nations have failed to duly understand the true message of the religion, could not interpret its commandments, nor could they practice it properly. As those in power did not govern them well for a very long time, many countries of the Muslim world have lagged behind with regards to civilization, ethics, culture, and public administration. In a way, they have alienated themselves to the essence of their own values. Interestingly, social studies indices that conduct research on which countries perform better on establishing institutions that reflect Islamic values and principles, there is not a single Muslim country among the first thirty [2]. There are countries like Ireland, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, New Zealand, and Canada among the first ten. The brilliant face of Islam entered a period of eclipse in the Muslim world, and then the eclipse got to be constant. Accordingly, Corona is virtually making the following call to Muslims: “You did not thoroughly understand and practice religion God revealed to you by means of His Messenger. Come back home, you need a revival. Make up your mind to make wise use of this opportunity. Evaluate the oncoming opportunity of Ramadan well in your home. Try to make up for things you neglected for years. Make self-criticism, come to grips with yourself! Become repentant and ask forgiveness!”

May this holy Ramadan, the month of the Holy Qur’an, be a means of God’s good pleasure and happiness for all Muslims.

With Coronavirus, and for that matter with all such tribulations, perhaps God Almighty makes us realize that He has not ceased to care for the humanity He created: “Shall We take away this Reminder from you (and leave you to your own devices), because you are a people wasteful (of your God-given faculties and committing excesses)?” (Zukhruf 43:5). Thus, He gives an opportunity to people before the Day of Judgment to repent and experience a “revival” now, so that we can be absolved “there.”

Notes

1. De Glasenapp. 1954. Les cinq grandes religions, Paris, Payot, 1954, p. 415.
2. http://islamicity-index.org/wp

It never occurred to me that I was prejudiced. In fact, I was inspired to leave the life I knew as a young white man to be a Christian missionary in Africa. Yet, until that time at age 22 in my little town in Colorado, I don’t remember ever meeting a black person or knowing anything about black history. I just knew I wanted to know and serve God. As I prepared to depart my country for that foreign land, I felt an inward restraint so strong that I canceled my plans with Africa Inland Mission. In the coming years, several events and relationships impacted my decision and changed my life. My desire had been admirable, but difficult circumstances revealed that I was not like I had hoped that I was. It would take 49 years before I went on my first visit to Kenya.

Watts

Amid a complicated set of circumstances, I found myself in Los Angeles—alone, far from home, and having made decisions that canceled everything that I had accomplished in college and learned from my numerous, hopeful mentors. Suddenly I needed a job. Not knowing why, I was impressed to apply for a teaching position in Watts. This was soon after the riots and fires of the mid-sixties.

When I applied to L.A. City Schools, Superintendent Baer said that in all of Los Angeles only one teaching position was open. It was in Watts! I went to Charles Drew Jr. High for an interview with the principal, Mr. Henrikson. He told me I could have the job if I wanted it, but he wanted to assure me I would be a failure. I was white, and I would be a teacher. I would face nothing but rebellion among the 1800 black students and represent authority. Having a strong conviction, I surprised him. I said “Fine, I will take the job.”

Suddenly, I was a white teacher in a black school. I was to teach plastics and other industrial subjects, of which I knew absolutely nothing. I would have as many as 44 students in my shop classes. On my second day, a riot broke out. It was chaos. My students threw my two desks into the walls and tore down some of the plaster. They were all screaming “Get outta here Whitey and don’t ever come back!” I ran out of my shop door, across the teachers’ parking lot and across the campus to hide in the Counselor’s Office under Mr. Kerr’s desk. He was a black man, the former teacher of my shop classes. He knew if I were a failure he would have to return to that impossible job.

I cried on the way to school and quit every day for three months. In the agony of my situation, I learned things about myself. I discovered that my love for God was mostly doctrinal, and my love for people mostly theoretical. In the next four years, 700 students passed through my classes. I had as many as four death threats on my life in a single week. My students sometimes started fights in class, chased others with a hack saw and chisel, threw a hammer at others, threw orange juice at me during recess, and more. In my constant distress, one day I went into my supply room during class, slammed the door and just stood there, cursing them all. I was frustrated and angry that many saw my white skin and cursed me for the same reason. I didn’t see people. I didn’t see faces. I just saw black bodies in motion. And I suddenly saw the prejudice and hatred in my own heart.

Where had that little missionary in me gone? A light dawned inside of me—something was wrong in my own heart. The situation had not made me prejudiced. It only exposed what was deep inside of me already. Perhaps my students had the same problem. I cried out to the living God and realizations began.  My hatred began to turn to a genuine love that I previously only thought I had.

Soon, I was elected Department Chairman, and my students had responded to my changing view and feelings. I brought many of them home with me on weekends. I had no “teacher’s pet.” Rather, it was a rivalry, a great honor to be invited to Mr. and Mrs. Nelson’s apartment for the weekend. In my third year, students prepared a project display for the Los Angeles Industrial Crafts Fair. Of 34 Junior High Schools, my students took First Place, a phenomenal accomplishment.

By that time, I had begun to see them as people, individuals, creations of a loving God whom everyone can relate to. I wasn’t “color blind.” I saw color as a beautiful gift, the more diverse the better. To this day, Ricky, Michael, Louis and the others remain in my heart. If there were ever a need, I knew they and the others would defend me to the death, as I also would have for them. I failed a lot, but a lot was gained—in them and in me. Watts had become my Africa.

Transition

Between my entrance into the black community and the present time, I have had countless experiences of peoples with complexions, languages, and cultures different from mine. When I discovered the depths of my own prejudice and depravity while teaching in Watts, I opened my heart deeper than I could have ever known possible. Since that time, I have grown, filled with love of God and love of all people.

Expansion

Half-way through my doctoral program 42 years after teaching at Watts, I was required to present a Forum Essay to students, faculty, and the public. My essay was on Poetry. The essay’s impact was significant. The critiquing professors were all known to be incredibly sophisticated, daunting, and tough. No critiques being offered, the chairman concluded by saying that during his 14 years at Oxford Graduate School (OGS) there had never been a student’s presentation that was so outstanding that no one thought it could be improved. The discussion was then opened up to the audience for responses. One impactful, positive comment came from a highly esteemed, black professor. Another wonderful comment in the audience came from a successful black woman, my esteemed colleague. The President of OGS later asked if I would extend my Forum Essay to a doctoral dissertation. Eventually, she also arranged for me to meet the esteemed Dr. Maya Angelou.

Dr. Maya Angelou

Through amazing circumstances, among a luncheon of 500 black women and I in Charlotte, NC, I heard Dr. Angelou speak. Weeks later, my wife and other guests were sitting at her lunch table, an exquisite affair! I had read much of her stunning life story but physically being with her vastly enlarged my views of the black community, of their suffering, struggles, and successes. On one occasion in her home, we sat with Dr. Angelou and Oprah Winfrey for a casual discussion of more than one hour. The night she invited us to stay overnight in her home, she asked me to autograph one of my books for her and then ordered eight more copies for her friends. She included us in her Annual Five-Day-Celebration of Thanksgiving in Winston-Salem among her closest biological and social friends.

From my friend Dr. Maya Angelou, I learned of her great involvement with Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. Because of her, I became acquainted with the daughter of Malcolm X as we were seated in the VIP section at the U.S. Post Office inauguration of the “Maya Angelou Stamp.” Because of her, I have great friends among the black community in America and with Africans of many countries. I even got to go on a fantastic visit to see Mama Sarah, President Obama’s grandmother in Kenya. Five weeks before she passed away in 2014, Dr. Angelou designated me to help design, build, and launch a traveling, educational museum of her life and work. Her personal assistant of more than 15 years continues to call me and stay overnight with us in Nashville occasionally as he is crisscrossing our great nation. And so much more…

Summary

The experiences and perspectives that I have shared in this discussion were pivotal adventures of my life, but there are countless other stories of impact to my own life—of concept, of sub-culture, and appreciation of the black community. The relevant enlightenment and spiritual renewal of my heart has included people of every culture, religion, and complexion whom I know from all around the world. It is through experiencing persons in their context with mine, serving and participating in mutual events in my home and theirs, that my appreciation has grown, expanded, and been shared. It may be that others have found the need to discover their own inward condition and realize a journey such as mine. The joyful overflow of my life’s adventure thus far has led me to publish more than 25 books on family, spiritual guidance, and work, relevant to all. My contribution to celebrating Black History Month here may be small, but it is personal, it is real, and it is mine.

Humans take up residence in all kinds of environments ranging from sprawling metropolises to some of the most remote corners of the globe that are largely devoid of our modern luxuries. Oftentimes though, we emigrate to other societies for a variety of reasons; curiosity, financial profit, for the sake of adventure, service, to spread one’s beliefs, or to learn about others. Richard Nelson, a white man that taught in one of Los Angeles’ toughest African American schools, is one of those people that left his home behind to learn more about himself and overcome his subconscious prejudices. His article “My White Experience in the Black Community” is an emotional and gripping memoir that can help all of us open our hearts to others.

In worst case scenarios, people flee from their homes to avoid persecution, enmity, exclusion, or even ethnic cleansing. Many Turks have had to flee their home country of Turkey, often via illegal and unsafe practices, with the hope of escaping a brutal dictatorship that no one wanted them to call Turkey their home. Zain Hussain recounts his emotional and life changing encounter with Turkish refugees on his volunteer trip to Greece.

Some of Earth’s most beautiful islands and oceans are home for other creatures, such as Pacific Golden Plovers and Loggerhead Sea Turtles. Despite lacking free will or methodology, they utilize a variety of complex systems to consistently find their way home even if it means travelling hundreds of miles across giant swaths of lands or water. These natural phenomena are astounding and still perplex scientists to this day.

Even the most microscopic creatures find homes for themselves, whether in our bodies or in the bodies of other animals. One such creature, though we would definitely consider it not welcome in our systems, is the trypanosome, a lethal parasite that is a scourge across much of Africa. Such parasites travel through a variety of hosts including worms, eggs, snails, birds, and flies to eventually end up within our bloodstreams.

The worst thing about cancer they don’t tell you?

The aftermath. The shock waves.

It’s surviving the quick earthquake, only to find yourself dodging falling objects and electrical lines for the next few days.

What they failed to mention was that fighting cancer was the easy part.

The real battle was learning to live again.

I got the news of my cancer diagnosis as a young mother, and after we had moved to a new city with no close friends or family. The kids were 3, 6, 11, and 13. Summer break had just begun, and to make things worse, I could not drive. We were in the wilderness and were fighting for our lives.

We went into “survival mode,” literally and figuratively, and assigned each older child to a smaller child with the plan and knowledge that we could survive if each of the “bigs” both did a load of laundry and dishes a day. At one point, I had a goal to drop off the kids at school, so I could get three uninterrupted hours of sleep after my chemo treatment. I had finally dropped off the children at their three different schools, and my head had barely hit the pillow, when I received a phone call from the school.

“Mrs. Estes? You need to come pick up your children. They all have lice!”

Trials, temptations, disease, and now pestilence were hitting our household simultaneously. I remember thinking, “At least I can’t get it since my hair is gone,” and then laughed at the absurdity that we were so low that my “silver lining statement” included the phrase “Praise the Lord I’m bald.”

But that was not the hardest part. Not by a long shot.

The hardest part was after the storm, when the casseroles stopped coming and prayers had grown weary. The hardest part of fighting a deadly battle comes afterwards when the dust has settled and the gunsmoke has cleared and you find yourself standing in total rubble and destruction.

I shouldn’t say total. We had our health and were still married. Most do not escape with that, I learned. But we both were battered and bloodied. I had a visual representation come to mind of an old battleship slowly pulling into port – disfigured and worn, riddled with bullet holes and laden with shrapnel. We were afloat, but barely.

I awoke from my six-month drunken chemo state to find my life in ruins. While the “bigs” had done a wonderful job helping with the “littles,” there were still unmet needs and unspoken questions that the youngest mind’s lips couldn’t form, which resulted in one regressing into wetting his pants again in first grade and the other becoming a hair’s breath away from becoming non-verbal, screaming “Aaaaaa!” fifty times a day. All of this in addition to the “regular” stresses of having four children about to enter high school, middle school, kindergarten and first grade – and not to mention the emotional withdrawal that naturally comes in a marriage during crisis times and having a son with extreme learning disabilities.

At one point, I was finally able to lift my leg again, and I was able to climb the stairs to our second story – after a year. When I entered the playroom, the scene rivaled the ruins of a never-ending frat party, with beer bottles exchanged for sippy cups and ankle-deep trash covering the floor. It was a sign of what the kids had silently felt during our ordeal, and it served as a visual symbol of my life: ruined and messy.

In World War II, my grandfather was part of the company that liberated prisoner of war camps. At one point, he asked one of the prisoners what the difference was between those that made it out and those that did not.

“The ones that made it found something to look forward to – they had a goal,” he replied.

I took that advice and decided that when all the chemo and radiation was over, I would celebrate with the other cancer fighters I’d met while walking through the fire.

None of them made it. It was heartbreaking.

I “made do” by celebrating with all the friends and family who had prayed and supported us through the journey, but the weight was still felt. In addition to feeling thankful, I also shouldered the burden of false guilt from having survived when my other comrades had fought just as hard, sometimes harder. Soldier syndrome had come home to roost.

So, what do you do when you get through the war only to (symbolically) return to your home to find the farm overrun with thorns and that your wife has run off?

You start from scratch. And you begin with baby steps.

God was gracious, providing me with advice from an “older brother” in the church just when I needed it. He himself had come out of a near death, eight-day coma experience. He emerged paralyzed on one side, but no one would ever guess it today. The first thing he advised when I called him in tears was, “small goals, baby steps, little sister!”

When coming through tragedy, we want our life to be like it was “before,” but the “after” contains components the “before” never had. It is an “apples to oranges” comparison and is unfair to expect them to be the same. Life “after cancer” contains side effects such as “less energy” and “Chemo Brain” that affect what and how much can be done for a while. Just as I couldn’t expect to instantly run three miles again, nor should I have expected to jump instantly back into life, either. The girl who used to pay all the bills, pop dinner into the oven, and get all four kids ready for school before breakfast was now merely able to pay the bills by the end of the day. But that was okay, because that was enough.

Second piece of advice: good enough is good enough. Lower your expectations. Gone were the days of thinking “everything has a place, and everything should be in its place.” Life was still, even now, about survival. Gone were the days of a pristine home ready for entertainment at a moment’s notice; the day of “push aside the mess and have a seat” had come. And that is okay. Because, again, you are now living in a different reality. The good news? There is no fairy that is going to come grade you on how tidy or organized your home is. Your home is there to serve you, not the other way around. Feel free to live as such.

In addition, it is imperative to “accept the new reality” and “don’t look back.” At one point in the recovery process, I placed blinder goggles and a bottle of salt beside my bed to remind myself, “Don’t look back, lest you turn to a pillar of salt!” (like Lot’s wife). I was amazed at how many Bible verses there actually were with the theme of “pressing on” and “not looking back.” The message was clear: the past is the past, and the present is the present. Make sure to live in the right one. Thinking back to how things used to be and trying to make your world look now like it did back then is a guaranteed, instant trip to Insanity Land. Accept that now will not look like then, nor is it supposed to. Celebrate every “new” baby step and make recovery a big ol’ party!

One of the hardest pieces of advice to follow is: try to humble yourself. As a natural giver, this concept was the most difficult for me until a friend helped me realize that life is not all about me, and if I do not ask for help, then I am literally robbing givers of the chance to use their spiritual gift to give. Ecclesiastes makes it clear that life is divided into seasons, and this is perhaps your season to be a receiver. Accept it as you would a blessing for it will bless others as they minister to you.

A final word of advice on the journey of learning to live again: have a creative outlet and take time to feed your soul. Anything from songwriting, to painting, to simply coloring will help balm your weary mind as you learn to do things anew again. For me, I finally completed my novel, began songwriting, and never missed a sunset at our local park for three months straight. Learning to live again is like learning to walk again – hard and tiring. You must make the time to restore and renew your mind, spirit, and soul.

Of course, this all goes with the understanding that we are constantly praying and praising God for every single blessing He brings our way. It can be big things, like climbing stairs again – or small things, like hearing the song of a robin or seeing a butterfly. Whatever the size of the blessing that comes your way that day, praise God for it! And remember: like the butterfly in the cocoon, this season, too, is temporary and will pass.

It was 3:45 pm. I was sitting crossed-legged with twenty other seven-year olds under a wall of flat glass windows. An eerie calm had settled outside, where a short time before there had been whipping winds and a sky as green as Kermit the Frog. My mom whisked into the building, her sensible yet fashionable heels clicking on the worn linoleum, and the petals of her flowered dress rippling with her gait. Shocked that I was not huddled in an enclosed room, she took one look at my position under the windows and told me it was time to go. That was the last time I ever saw my after-school program. Everyone knows not to take cover under glass during a tornado.

On the way home, my mom angled the car around downed branches the width of tree trunks and garbage cans lolling down the curb. The world was spent: siding dangled from the edge of condos, and telephone poles were precariously tilted, if they stood at all. People ambled about, assessing the damage as the neighborhood settled into a collective sigh. A policeman at the end of the lane directed traffic to make only a right turn onto the main street because of downed power lines to the left, the direction of our house. My mom said, exasperated, “Now we’ll never get home!” My mom, always tough and calm, was worried. It wasn’t until that moment that I got scared too.

We did, eventually, make our way to our still-intact home. Thinking back on that moment, one of a few post-tornado moments during my Indiana childhood, I note most how my fear was derived from my parents’ fear. I always felt safe and happy when at their side, but in the rare moments when they were fearful, I became beside myself with terror.

When I was growing up my mom and I would sometimes watch horror movies while sitting on our worn, brown suede couch. When the background music began its inevitable, this-is-the-scariest-part crescendo, I would turn my head 90 degrees to the right and look straight into my mom’s eyes. For the entire duration, my mom would calmly report that the masked man was bludgeoning the babysitter or wryly observe, “Oh, looks like the psycho wasn’t dead after all.” Sometimes she’d insert an, “Ew, gross!” exclamation when something bloody took her by surprise. I got all the emotion I could handle by looking into her eyes during those parts; she became a sort of “closed captioning” for me—recapping what my senses wouldn’t let me experience first-hand.

When I was a child and swam competitively for years with the local swim club, my parents attended every swim meet I participated in. They would sweat it out on the hot bleachers of the indoor pool deck, fanning themselves as they sat for hours in the backless bleachers waiting for my race to begin. If I became nervous before my event, as I always did, I’d scan the population of faces in ordered rows until I found my parents. My dad, always looking for me, would catch my eye and give me a thumbs up with a double eyebrow raise and a big smile for support. I would immediately feel relief and was instantly braver because he believed in me.

When I graduated from my small-town college and decided to move to New York City without a job, a friend, or a long-term place to stay, my parents took care not to discourage me. Instead, they threw an early birthday party for me and did the tough thing—they bought me luggage, in acceptance that I had to live my dreams, even if they took me far away from family. Upon unpacking that luggage, I found a tiny yellow post-it that my parents and older sister signed that said, “Love ya!!!” with each of their familiar signatures surrounding it. Beneath it was a card that said, “You Must Take Your Chance.” Never once did they remind me of my shy demeanor or annoying tendency to throw up repeatedly when travelling on my own. Never once did they ask me to stay with them forever, even though their eyes might have mentioned it.

 As an adult, I still gauge fear by my parents’ eyes. A few years ago, during a phone call that bridged the 1000-mile gap between our homes, my mom told me my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She spoke flatly, like a tiny person standing in the mouth of a huge cave, every syllable clear and solitary. There were no reverberations, no hints of emotion. I tried to be the echo of her stillness. But when I arrived at my parent’s house and looked into my mom’s eyes, I knew we were in trouble.

The night before my dad’s brain surgery, he and I sat in cushioned deck chairs on the shaded back porch of the house. He looked intently into my face and asked if I thought he was doing the right thing by having surgery and if I thought he was going to be okay. His doctor had given him 6-12 months to live and flatly stated that this condition had a high mortality rate. Surgery could buy him time, but most likely he would not survive. My dad’s tumor gave him short term memory loss, so he forgot all of that. What he remembered was that he trusted me. What I knew was that every moment we’re given here on earth, we are living. If there was even a one percent chance that my dad would live, what’s to say he wouldn’t be in that one percent? Sitting on the porch that night, I breathed in, collecting all the calm I could from the cheerful summer day, erased fear from my face, and answered, “You’ve improved so much in this past week on medicine alone. I think you’re going to be fine.”

After his surgery, my mom, sister, and I walked down the hallway to see my dad in the intensive care unit. I have a nauseous fear of hospitals, one I inherited from my dad: a feeling that the hallway is too long, that the patients behind the floor-to-ceiling windows are unprotected so near to the thin glass walls, their bodies storming inside. We shakily entered Dad’s room, and he smiled at us and groggily said, “I feel fine,” then crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue to prove his normalcy. I relaxed, seeing his face, seeing he was okay. I think he did it for that reason.

I guess that is what love is—reassuring each other in the eye of a storm, being the wall of calm and protective peace within the whirl of a tornado.

Combining sports and education, and motivated by faith, Hassan Fofana is helping dreams come true for students in West Africa.

I first met Hassan Fofana in 2006, at a friend’s house in Baltimore, Maryland. Hassan was studying at Loyola College and I was at Temple University. The two of us were an unusual pair. Hassan, who was born in Guinea and grew up in Togo, is nearly seven feet tall; he was a center on Loyola’s basketball team. On my good days, I’m five feet, eight inches tall.

Despite the humor that ensued when the two of us stood side by side, we became fast friends, united by a shared passion for social justice. At the time, my experiences with the larger world were minimal, but at only 21, Hassan was already a worldly man. At the age of 14, when Hassan was still living in Togo, he’d been one of 55 kids to try out for an American basketball coach. The coach was offering one scholarship to a prep school in Massachusetts. It was, Hassan once told me, a hopelessly long shot. And yet, at the end of the try out, Hassan was chosen. Barely a teenager, he left his family and home to enroll at Hargrave Military Academy in Boston. He didn’t speak a word of English.

Despite being so far from home, and in a strange country, Hassan embraced the opportunity. He won a scholarship to play basketball at the University of Maryland, under hall of fame coach Gary Williams, and after that he transferred to Loyola College, where he earned a degree in International Relations and Philosophy.

Throughout his journey, Hassan was shocked by the kindness of people he met along the way – especially the Gibbons family and his mentor, Mike Zona. Generosity wasn’t unusual for Hassan, of course. He grew up with devout Muslim parents, who taught him both the value of an education and the generosity that their faith preached.

“For as long as I can remember, my parents ha(d) always ha(d) 1 to 3 guests in our home. They w(ould) stay there for as long as they like(d) for free housing and food,” Hassan told me.

These lessons, and the continual generosity he encountered, left a deep mark on Hassan. While he was at Loyola, he began to have an inkling that he wanted to spend his life serving others.

Shortly before Hassan and I met in 2006, he returned to Togo for only the second time since leaving for the U.S. The trip, which would change his life, had been made possible by a dear friend and businessman who had asked Hassan what he missed most about his home. Hassan said he missed the sense of community – the way that everyone knew everyone else’s name, and how neighbors watched out for each other – and he missed his family. Hassan has many siblings, and he missed their large, sprawling family meals and the easy camaraderie that brothers and sisters have together.

While back in Togo, Hassan and a friend were watching a group of kids – most of them around twelve years old – play soccer. Hassan still knew most of the kids in his town, and was curious why some children weren’t out there with their friends. His friend told Hassan that many of the children had been taken out of school. Because their families were struggling for money, the boys’ fathers had decided that school was a waste of time. They weren’t playing soccer because they were working – many of them for less than five dollars a day.

Hassan was troubled by this. Sports and education had always been linked in his mind. After all, it was a sport that had allowed him to pursue a higher education in America. Watching that soccer game, Hassan began to get a sense of what he wanted to do with his life. When I met him that fall, he told me that, inspired by his trip back home, he wanted to open schools for athletes in Africa. He wanted to help young kids, just like himself, to get a real education.

“I was convinced that this was my mission on this earth,” he says.

Now, eight years later, Hassan is beginning to make his dream a reality. In 2012, after a few false starts, Hassan formed Time2Ball Foundation, which aims to connect student-athletes in West Africa with prep coaches in the United States and Europe. The hope is that these kids will use their athletics to get the kind of world class education they can’t get in Africa – and through education, open up all kinds of opportunities for themselves and their communities. With the help of donors, educators, coaches, and local community leaders, since 2012, Hassan has brought eleven teenagers from Africa to study at high schools in the United States and Europe.

Though Hassan lives and works in the U.S – and though all his student-athletes are coming to study in the U.S. and Europe – Hassan still has his gaze focused on Africa. He firmly believes that the continent can fix its problems through its young leaders getting better educations. Inspired by his own devout faith, Hassan stresses the need to give back to others. He encourages the student-athletes that he works with not just to pursue their own goals, but to be generous and to help others achieve their dreams, too. Through this intense focus on community and generosity, Hassan hopes that many of Time2Ball’s student-athletes will ultimately return to Africa to help open up more avenues of opportunity in local communities.

I recently spoke with Hassan and asked him what has been the best part of his work. He told me a story about a young man who had dropped out of school in Togo and had found work cleaning roads. Time2Ball was able to connect him with a basketball coach in the U.S., where he’s now a junior in high school, with a B+ grade average and possible college scholarships on the table. As Hassan told me, being able to help someone like this boy achieve his dream of a better life is “a true blessing.”

Despite its early success, Time2Ball still faces plenty of challenges going forward, such as funding and housing for its student-athletes. Because it’s still small, unfortunately, there are many student-athletes Time2Ball hasn’t been able to help. Hassan says that he’s constantly looking for new solutions to these problems. He’s hoping that, in the future, a stable network of donors and schools will allow him to focus more on finding student-athletes. But he’s not there yet, and is looking for all the help he can get.

Even with these challenges, Hassan has big dreams for Time2Ball. Within the next five years, he’d like to expand Time2Ball’s influence by helping athletes in many sports connect with coaches (for now, Time2Ball only works with basketball and soccer players). He’d also like to help aspiring artists in Africa find better opportunities to develop their talents.

The long term dream, though, is still the same as it was when Hassan and I met over eight years ago: he wants to open a series of schools in Togo and West Africa that will utilize kids’ love of sports to improve their access to a quality education. Driven by faith and the generosity of many people he has met along the way, Hassan Fofana is helping dreams come true, one education at a time.

Please feel free to contact Hassan if you have any questions or you would like to contribute to our effort in helping young men and women improve their lives through education and sport. Contact via email: Time2Ballinc@gmail.com or via skype: fhassan16.

I grew up with a bias towards my own culture and judged cultures and religions that were different from my own based upon this perspective. Since no one challenged my Catholic beliefs, I left home for college somewhat sheltered and mostly uninformed about other religions and cultures. While at college, I made new and diverse friends and I would bring these friends home with me. My father said to me when I left for college, whoever I bring home is always welcome at our table. My mother has eight years of formal education in a one room rural school house and has lived her entire life in the same community where she was born and raised Catholic. Several years ago, my mother spoke with profound eloquence and simple affection about my classmates and friends that she cooked for and fed around her kitchen table. She said she grew up prejudiced because she never met anyone who was Jewish or Muslim. But after providing a place for these guests at her table, she grew to respect and love them as much as her eight children did. She is grateful for having reached out to people of diverse backgrounds and religions. She taught us that it is around a table that friends are made and prejudices disappear.

My recent trip to Turkey refreshed these good memories around my mother’s kitchen table. It was an educational and cultural exchange program to meet with university professors and community leaders in Turkey to promote international and interfaith dialogue. The program was organized by a non-profit organization in St. Louis, MO named the Niagara Foundation, and I had the honor to be selected to join. My experiences in Turkey of sharing meals in the homes of university professors and their families opened my eyes to our common bond even though an ocean and religion separates us. It was around their family tables that I again was reminded what my mother taught us: that much of the prejudice that exists among different cultures and religions is because we do not invite others into our homes and cook a meal for them. Warm food and kind conversation have the capacity to create bonds that can erase prejudices.

I was expecting family homes in Turkey to be quite different from mine, but instead, amidst the slight differences in cuisine and not wearing shoes, I knew I was at home. The bountiful bean salads, stuffed peppers, seasoned couscous, lemon chicken, lamb, lentil soup, cucumber salad, baklava, and more all adorned my hosts’ tables. How I wanted my mother to experience this! So, upon my return home, I invited Muslim friends to her home for a meal around her table. It was a simple but significant meal that bridged two cultures and two religions as one.

Having this opportunity to interact intimately with Turkish families reminds me of the story of the prophet Abraham, the father of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim followers. He welcomed three strangers into his home. And because of his hospitality, he was blessed a hundredfold with a son, Isaac, who was promised to him and Sarah in their old age by the visitors who were angels disguised as men (Genesis 18: 1-15). As Abraham and Sarah’s son Isaac is a symbol of God’s generosity, so too the Muslim families are a symbol to me of the blessings that hospitality brings to peoples’ lives.

Traveling through Turkey, my appreciation for the people grew. From the sprawling city of Istanbul to the rural cities touching the Black Sea, I could see the similarities in lifestyle, just like in the U.S. The rural countryside appeared similar to my rural home, and as our bus traveled through the rolling hills dotted with wheat fields and small towns, it reminded me of home. Stopping at a gas station and communicating with local rural people who do not speak English, it was comforting how well we could understand each other without speaking the same language. A smile, a handshake, and a meal go a long way.

While in Istanbul, I enjoyed seeing the ripe watermelons and other fruits and vegetables being loaded into wooden carts and carried into the market. The urban markets in the U.S. are similar to the markets in Turkey, not in scale but in essence. Both possess an energy that tantalizes the senses, where a local harvest awaits to be tasted and savored at home. It’s as if time stands still among vendors and shoppers, bartering and engaging in rituals that have persevered and evolved over the centuries for generations. Whether in Turkey or the U.S., shopping in an open air market unites humanity in a common ritual that is at the heart of every culture: how we produce, purchase, and prepare our food.

The occasional neighborhood mosque blends in with Turkish urban life, and upon entering a mosque courtyard, I found luscious green space with colorful flowers bordering red tomatoes and green peppers, a quiet respite from gray urban life. Catholic churches often provide the same reprieve for busy urban residents and tired tourists who grow weary of the harshness of industrial life and the demands that city life places on them. Churches, synagogues, and mosques provide sacred places to pause and be refreshed, knowing that God is present in the most obscure and discreet corners of life. Perhaps this is one essential role that religion procured through the centuries: to provide shelter from the utilitarian survival rituals being play out around us. Whether church steeples, synagogue towers, or mosque minarets, all remind us to pause and remember that when our day’s work is complete, there is more to be aware of and more to count than the coins in our pocket.

During our time in Turkey, we visited several universities, which was a highlight for me. As a university professor and social worker, I was eager to meet professors and students to discuss their curriculum and scholarship. Our interactions were informative and engaging. While on campus, I was invited to attend the Friday (Jumu’ah) prayer services, the name of which is derived from the Arabic word that means “gathering.” Muslims believe to gather in one place as one soul is a pillar of their faith. I was deeply moved by the prayer, and felt united with the people in the room. It was an honor for me to be shown by a faculty member the ritual washing of the hands, forearms, head, and feet with a threefold movement of the hand. This Middle Eastern ritual is retained in the Catholic liturgy with the priest washing his hands prior to the Eucharistic prayer. The rinsing out the mouth, blowing out of the nose, and scrubbing out the ears reminded me of the Catholic ritual of cleansing the mind, mouth, and heart with a threefold movement of the thumb before the Gospel is read on the Sabbath. The sermon (Khutbah) was impossible for me to follow, but my host was gracious in whispering to me a translation. During the Catholic prayer service, we too stand and kneel throughout our prayer, being reminded that God is great (Allahu akbar). Although I did not understand the words spoken, my soul was refreshed and nourished by the ritual prayers.

When I was a young man living in a homogeneous culture, I did not seek to understand and appreciate what other cultures believed and practiced, nor did I challenge the beliefs of my ancestors. Today I embrace the faith of my ancestors from a different advantage point, having traveled and tasted other religions and cultures. This new vision is both a gift and a responsibility, which calls me to recognize the sacredness of the faith that has been handed down to me. Returning to the U.S., I brought with me the Abrahamic thread that unites all Muslims, Jews, and Christians in our quest to know and serve God. Each day I wrap my waist and my heart with this thread so that I might seek the intersections, both within and across each faith community. This is my responsibility, which I am learning from the Vatican II teachings of the Catholic community and the Hizmet (Gulen) movement in Turkey.

Riding in a boat on the sea that bisects Istanbul, I envisioned the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, and Ottomans who sailed these same seas. This city is at the crossroads of human civilization, where war and peace have shaped people’s lives for centuries. I imagined Romans conquering this city and the Crusades trampling through it; I imagined the Ottomans achieving domination ach le an indelible cultural and religious mark on the fabric of this region and creating the culture we know today as Turkish.

The Niagara Foundation is bridging the vast expanses that separate the two continents, the two religions, the two cultures. I am confident that this effort will have immense consequences. In the memorialized words of Robert F. Kennedy, who in June, 1966, delivered the Day of Affirmation Speech at the University of Cape Town to the National Union of South African Students: “Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy, these ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

And so I, too, have newfound responsibilities since I have toured Turkey through the generosity of the Niagara Foundation. I pray for the courage to stand up for the ideals embodied in my Catholic faith, and to stand against injustices by embracing Niagara’s mission “to serve societal peace, love, and friendship wisely and compassionately in support of human dignity and the common good by striving to bring forth the common values of humanity; values such as understanding, tolerance, respect, and compassion.”

Gary Behrman is Adjunct Professor at Washington University in St. Louis