Skip to main content

On our knees

It doesn't take much to bring us to our knees;
the tiny does as well as the torrential.

Floods and fires do it,
but so do splinters, stubbed toes,
and unseen pathogens that ravage the world.

So many meanings have changed,
the unremarkable cough or sneeze inspiring suspicion,
the comforting handshake, shared meal, or conversation
tinged with anxiety,
the peace of solitude within four walls
broken.

We are all of us tyrants in our own way,
thinking we are clever and strong
and don’t need Him,
but it doesn't take much to bring us to our knees.

Must we be brought to our knees
to see our own frailty?
Must we be broken
to return to humbleness and gratitude?

Or can we seek His help, guidance, and forgiveness
on our knees?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

To school on a winter morning

I love the walks to school on winter mornings. The crisp weather, the leisurely stride, the friendly banter between my daughters and their cousin. Sometimes they link arms with her—not with each other, to be sure—and sometimes they take quick steps, trying to outpace each other. The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.) We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave. I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways. My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Som...

When I flew away

I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...

Giddo

We'd walk down those nondescript Egyptian streets, my siblings and I, faces glistening with sweat in the humid summer weather. The Mediterranean was just around the corner; it brought the breeze, but it also brought that heavy moisture that hung in the air. Mom's eager steps led us to her childhood home, past listless men sitting in cafe chairs in the street, watching passersby. All those old buildings looked the same to us – until we reached the entrance to your building. They were double doors, wooden and painted blue once-upon-a-time, and one of them was always open. I guess you'd hear our clambering footsteps approaching, because you'd let out your signature whistle. It was a simple melody: two long notes, gentle like the wind against our sweaty faces. We'd look at each other in excited recognition, grab the metal banister, and dash up the wide stone staircase leading up to your apartment. You'd always be waiting in the doorway with a big smile. Your kisses ...