If you can measure maturity in fasts I am a million years older than I was when I was fifteen waking up on Sunday, March 2, 2008 to drink twelve hours worth of water with a groggy mother eating basically all the fruit in our house and a father who kept happily pronouncing "misery loves company!" in jest-but-also-not on the subject of my first fast.
And yet, if you're measuring maturity in fasts I am basically five years old. Especially here in Amman where I am learning to read and taking the school bus and getting lost and asking basic questions that have simple-but-not-simple answers.
I say my prayers on the roof, and I pass my daylight hours counting the calls-to-prayer until the one that means I can eat again. I write down concepts that interest me in my classes that touch on Islam and look them up later in The Writings. This part of the world sheds tears that taste like God, and I have done my fair share of crying for things too large for me to understand lately.
Today was a hard day fasting.
And yet, if you're measuring maturity in fasts I am basically five years old. Especially here in Amman where I am learning to read and taking the school bus and getting lost and asking basic questions that have simple-but-not-simple answers.
I say my prayers on the roof, and I pass my daylight hours counting the calls-to-prayer until the one that means I can eat again. I write down concepts that interest me in my classes that touch on Islam and look them up later in The Writings. This part of the world sheds tears that taste like God, and I have done my fair share of crying for things too large for me to understand lately.
Today was a hard day fasting.
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