Good Friday Spiritual Practice: Endurance

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

Book:

The Singer by Calvin Miller: The strongest in a trilogy of poems (fear not, they’re readable poems), Miller sings anew an old, old story, and we feel its violence and pathos afresh.

Film:

The Passion of the Christ directed by Mel Gibson: It begins in agony and does not let up until literally the film’s last seconds. Excruciating—almost impossible—to watch, The Passion is also beautiful and epic-sized. Flowing through its murderous madness run two clear streams of sanity: Jesus’ commitment to His call and Mary’s love for her suffering son.

Endurance Exercises:

Psalm & Response: Rewrite Psalm 22 in your own words. How does your experience connect with the pain expressed by the psalmist?

Questioning Prayer: Over the course of a few weeks, jot down the hard questions you have of God. Seek a time and place for solitude, and offer your questions aloud as a prayer. Sit in openness to whatever God might bring you.

Music:

“When I Survey” by Isaac Watts and Lowell Mason: I’m nuts about hymns—poetry, living theology, compelling music; let’s not lose such majesty. “When I Survey” weeps with the madness of divine love.

“Question” by the Moody Blues: Why can we never get answers to our hardest questions? The Blues ask theirs right out loud.

“Counting Blue Cars” by Dishwalla: God questions asked in the language of the child: endearing, perplexing, resonating.

Visual Arts:

Guernica by Pablo Picasso*: Depicting the bombing slaughter of a small Basque village in northern Spain, Picasso’s riveting work screams against the insanity of all violence.

The Magdalen in Penitence by Donatello*: Donatello, near the end of his life, depicts Mary near the close of hers. She bears the scars of hard living, but she wears the face of faith.

* Find these artworks in your neighborhood or Internet library.

Advertisements

Maunday Thursday Spiritual Practice: Brokenness

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

Books:

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee: Okay, this is not on my list of favorite light-reads. But George and Martha, in their bizarre, destructive relationship, are the ultimate marriage cautionary tale.

Two-Part Invention by Madeleine L’Engle: Marriage is seen as melody—not a falsely sweet tune, but one that plumbs disturbing depths while remaining true to the original composition. L’Engle ignores cultural marriage taboos and opens a window into her forty-year marriage from beginning to end.

Film:

A Beautiful Mind directed by Ron Howard: Promoted as the story of Nobel prizewinner John Naish, the film celebrates love’s power. Amazing as Naish’s determination and discipline is, his wife is the film’s hero. Can love do the impossible? A Beautiful Mind says YES!

The Emperor’s Club directed by Michael Hoffman: A quietly promoted and played film, I still think on Emperor’s Club years after viewing it. As a teacher and minister, it blew me apart: have I set my sights on a select few, blind to the needs and gifts of others?

Endurance Exercises:

Discernment Practice: Label a sheet of paper: “To What Am I Called?” List all the ministries in which you presently serve—within your church and without. (Anything we do can be ministry if, in the doing of it, we serve others and honor God.) Set aside your list for two or three days while you ponder the question. Cull from the list activities that take your energy from what God is calling you to do.

Dark Night Generosity: For your congregation, take on a simple project or create an artwork that shares what you are learning on your Dark-Night journey. You may choose to write a Bible study, create a banner, or plant a garden.

Music:

“Blackbird” by The Beatles: “Flying on broken wings”—who can live long in this world and not feel her heart rise at such words? Brokenness is its own beauty; less self-absorbed, more dependent on the grace of the wind, we fly freer.

Visual Art:

The Glass of Absinthe by Edgar Degas*: Ever felt more isolated in someone’s company than if you’d truly been alone? In this moment, Degas’s couple sits side by side in utter isolation.

The Dance by Henri Matisse*: Painted in vibrant colors, this canvas celebrates both individual—male and female, the stumbling and the graceful, the energetic and the lithe—and community. All clasp hands in a living, dancing circle.

* Find these artworks in your neighborhood or Internet library.

 

Holy Week Spiritual Practice: Letting Go

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

Books:

Time Quartet by Madeleine L’Engle (anthology of A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, and Many Waters): Though marketed as “family values” reading, there’s more—much more—here. The heroes, including the supernatural ones, nestle into our souls; we grow to love them because somehow these people, these stories, are our people, our story.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis: Volumes One and Two of the Narnia Chronicles, these books attest to God’s love for, trust in, and dependence on children. Who would not trust their beloved son or daughter to Aslan’s care?

Film:

A River Runs Through It directed by Robert Redford: This simply beautiful movie closes with a sermon for all who love someone.

Fiddler on the Roof directed by Norman Jewison: A jovial Job figure, Tevye is losing his children and his home. He takes it all in stride until one event rocks his faith. Fiddler is proof that musicals need not be fluff.

Endurance Exercises:

Letters of Hope: Compose a letter expressing your best hopes for someone who walks with you through the Night. Either deliver the letter or offer it as an intercessory prayer.

Gethsemane Ponderings: After reading the gospel accounts of Jesus’ Gethsemane prayer, create a poem or artwork that expresses its message for your Dark-Night journey.

Into God’s Hands: Visualize a loved one for whom you have concern: holding a photo of the person may help. Then speak each concern aloud, followed by the words, “Into Your Hands.”

Music:

“Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon: “Life is just what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans”—wise advice from father John Lennon to his son and good for us to remember in the Night.

“Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables by Alain Boublil and Claude‑Michael Schönberg: When Colm Wilkinson sings “Bring Him Home” (the Broadway album), it’s almost unbearable. His anguished prayer pleads with a desperation parents know well. In the 2013 film version of Les Mis, Hugh Jackman brings his own sense of beauty and pathos to the song.

Visual Art:

The Lost Sheep by Alfred Soord*: Most Good Shepherd depictions look like someone who wouldn’t last a day out of doors. But here is a determined, muscular shepherd with whom I can trust my lambs.

Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange*: Feel hopeless to protect your children? Lange’s photo mirrors our anguish even as it tears out our hearts.

* Find these artworks in your neighborhood or Internet library.

Holy Week Spiritual Practice: Releasing Idols

WGWA Cover

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

Books:

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: Who in this book did not have cause to rethink themselves? Austen, in her lighthearted but sharply satirical style, invites us to think again about what—and whom—we idolize. (The BBC miniseries starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth is an excellent adaptation of Austen’s book.)

Sabbath by Wayne Muller: A needful read for anyone (like me!) who equates work for God with love of God. Its short chapters and hands-on spiritual practices make a pragmatic as well as a thoughtful read.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens: Hmmmm…what would you say Scrooge idolized? And if he were sent, Marley-style, to my chambers, what word would he have for me?

Film:

Footloose directed by Herbert Ross, Chocolat directed by Lasse Hallström, and Babette’s Feast directed by Gabriel Axel: Each film begins with the expected—a status-quo churchology embodied in Footloose’s grieving pastor and father, in Chocolat’s repressive mayor, and, in Babette’s Feast’s sisters who divinized their stern father. Ironically, the “pagans” in the films (Ren, Vianne and Babette) free the “professional Christians” to enjoy the Christ adventure.

Endurance Exercises:

Basket List: Turn a journal (a spiral notebook will serve) into your wonderings basket. Write down your theological questions and ask Jesus’ guidance about them. In a year’s time, look back on your “Basket List” and see where your wonderings led.

Life Mission Statement: After a season of discernment (see the “Ignatian Discernment Exercise” in Appendix K), craft a statement for your life that defines your highest value and how you wish to live daily in the world. Let the statement be less about doing and more about being.

Music:

“Things We Leave Behind” by Michael Card: What the mystics call detachment, Card describes through gospel stories. Card’s real-world theology calls it straight: it costs to let go, and freedom is worth any cost.

“Hi-De-Ho That Old Sweet Roll” by Blood, Sweat & Tears: Who can resist heaven described as “an old sweet roll”? The song explores the cost of living too much for the adoration of others and a freeing confrontation with the devil.

“Desperado” by the Eagles: Here’s some old West, card playin’ spirituality set to a tune that weeps. Is it a coincidence that desperado sounds so much like desperate?

Visual Art:

Milo of Crotona by Pierre Puget*: A mesmerizing, disturbing statue about a troubling, terrifying myth. Milo was so taken with his own strength that he tried to uproot a tree bare-handed, got his arm stuck, and was eaten alive by a lion. Let us hope our idols do not lead us to such desperate ends (bad pun intended!).

* Find this artwork in your neighborhood or Internet library.

Holy Week Spiritual Practice: A Night of Surrender

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

 

Books:

Strong Poison, Have His Carcase, Gaudy Night, and Busman’s Honeymoon by Dorothy L. Sayers: Sayers took the mystery genre deeper when she introduced Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey; the fop finds his soul and with it, true suffering and a deeper life.

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin: Raskin’s Newberry Award winner is as intelligent and rascally a mystery as I’ve ever read—great stuff! Don’t let the Newberry fool you—it’s a great read at any age.

Film:

Mystery! Cadfael by PBS: Derek Jacobi is brilliant as the seasoned, centered monk of Shrewsbury Abbey (his tender care for the sick reminds me of John of the Cross!). Based on Ellis Peters’s wonderful books, Cadfael looks on life’s hardships with a sharply theological and keenly compassionate eye.

Gosford Park directed by Robert Altman: An English manor house, a party of the rich and famous, and an inexplicable murder—but this time it’s those “below stairs” whom we need to watch. Polished, smart, and surprising, Gosford Park makes for a rollicking evening of viewing.

 Endurance Exercises:

Silent Language Listening: If your home or workplace is sterile of mystery, bring in a plant, a bowl of shells, or a basket of pine cones. With your eyes, fingers, and nose, examine these samples of God’s creative love.  They speak a silent, mysterious language we can miss in our harried lives.

Hard Sayings Search: Search the Gospels for sayings of Jesus’ that leave you bewildered. List or picture questions and concerns each passage raises for you. Offer your questions to Jesus as a prayer.

Music:

“Gethsemane” by Andrew Lloyd Webber: In Jesus’ gut-wrenching solo from Jesus Christ, Superstar resounds a rage, confusion, and weariness I know well. What Jesus felt in those moments is a mystery, but it is a mystery that calls my name.

“Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin: Bustles in hedgerows? No need to figure out the lyrics, just feel the yearning, invite the haunting melody in, and sing along.

Visual Art:

Mona Lisa by da Vinci*: Not only is this painting’s conception and history mysterious, the piece itself whispers questions it refuses to answer. What is this woman feeling, thinking? Who is she, really? We look closely at her eyes, mouth, hands, and for an instant, seem to know. But then she changes somehow…

* Find this artwork in your neighborhood or Internet library.

Holy Week Spiritual Practice: A Brilliant Darkness

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

Each day of Holy Week, I will post spiritual practices from my book, When God Walks Away. The book (pictured) likens the dark-night journey to the events of Holy Week. Since engaging with art can be a spiritual practice, you will notice references to music, films, and visual artworks in addition to more traditional forms of spiritual discipline.

I hope these practices provide nourishing soul food as you make your way toward Easter.

 

Books:

The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkein: It’s Tolkein—what can I say! I confess that I found the books wordy until I read them aloud to my daughter. Speaking the words, hearing them in the air—that’s what they deserve. I recommend reading Tolkein’s trilogy aloud at least once (though not in one sitting!). In both story and language, Tolkein’s epic washes our souls in majestic beauty.

Film:

The Lord of the Rings directed by Peter Jackson: Can anyone watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy and doubt that film is art? Can we view these movies without wondering to what impossible but vital quest God might commission us—and who would be our faithful Sam? And could we, Gandalf-like, find ourselves one day transformed?

Endurance Exercises:

Silent Night Walk: While walking, open your soul and all your senses to the majesty and mystery of darkness.

Negative Space: In the spirit of Dionysius’s “ray of darkness,” create a drawing using negative space. Negative space simply means drawing the empty spaces around an object, rather than the object itself. Don’t worry about “being an artist.” Simply view the world in a new way.

Music:

“Not by Sight” by Petra: It has enough rock drive to push me along my daily walks and enough confident faith to challenge me to endure, for one more minute, this darkness. The beat grounds me, and the words stick around for the day.

“Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues: Is this great stuff, or what? Lush with imagery of darkness and light, the smooth and the rough, this music feels like the mysterious night.

~excerpted from When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

From the Margins: Mary Magdalene

Soul Thirst

They hammered in my head day and night, year upon year, until I did not know waking from nightmare. They screamed at me to destroy myself and gnawed me until I tore at my hair to rid myself of their teeth.

Then, in a flash of rational thought, I’d know the demons had me, that they played sordid games with my mind, and that I could not stop them. Those rare moments of sanity were nearly as bad as the demon times, so enraged did I become at my powerlessness against my attackers. A fit was on me when I first heard his voice; like soothing balm, it bathed my ravaged mind.

He laid calm hands upon my matted, sweaty hair. Again I heard his voice and looked up into his eyes. I read in them sorrow; I’d seen that look and knew what would follow, what always followed—first the shock of horror and then the embarrassed dismissal.

Not so this time. His eyes sharpened and focused, a piercing power. I was now the fearful one, the one who wanted to turn away.

“If I let him, he may heal me; but if I yield, I could die.”

“Then die,” I told myself. “For what life is this.

I relaxed my will against his ministrations. A screaming began—one voice, then another, another, another…

Was I screaming? I never knew.

I woke to a reasoning mind. For the first time, my eyes looked on a world both sharp and clear. For the first time, I knew who I was, free of the voices that ate at my mind. So I followed the one who gave me life; I listened to his wisdom, watched him heal others, served as I could. Though Peter first named him the Christ, I had known from the beginning the kingly potency of his eyes and voice. He had come for some great purpose, that I knew. I could not wait to see his power unleashed against the Romans as it had been against the demons of my mind.

But now he is arrested. Tried. Sentenced. Crucified. He is gone, forever gone. Tomorrow is beyond bearing; I live for today alone. I remain with him in this hour though my heart aches with grief. My presence is a small gift, for I can change nothing. I cannot rescue him from his tormenters as he delivered me from mine.

I lift my eyes to the cross, its bulk creaking wildly in the wind. I can barely see his face, disfigured by blood, sweat, and pain. Life pours down the naked wood, pooling red at its base. I bear the horror of it only out of a love that takes me past myself.

The sky goes black; he screams against the darkness. Terror sends my heart racing. What now? Will the world—will my world—return to madness? Yes, for we are surely mad already. We are killing my Lord.

In the darkness, his voice rings with wild power: “It is finished!”

He is dead.

I stand there, forgotten, as they disentangle his limbs from the nails, as they wrap his body and bear it away. Far behind the sorrowing procession, I follow, lost in solitary grief. At Sabbath’s end I will come to his tomb—a final tribute—and do what I can. It will not be enough. But in a world gone mad, it will be, at least, something.

~excerpted from my book, When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

From the Margins: Rahab

Soul Thirst

They call me whore. When we pass on the street, heads down, eyes averted lest I contaminate them, they utter the word beneath their breath and hurry by, spewing judgment. They have seen their husbands and fathers and sons look long at me; bitterness must find a scapegoat somewhere. That is my role: scapegoat and whore. So be it.

I ceased long ago to live in their world. My life has been cruel, but life has given me a family—father, mother, brothers and sisters—all who depend on me for bread. I did not ask to be caregiver for so many, but I will do what I can. What I must. We are debt slaves, required to pay our obligations. I have some enterprise, for I am a woman of drive and intellect. I weave wool and I mill flax. But these tasks alone cannot provide for so many. I whore to feed my family. One day I will not be attractive enough or well enough even for that, but by then my parents will be dead and perhaps I can get by on my other work. That is the only hope I afford myself. For what could possibly change a life such as mine?

And then the rumors. I hear them from other prostitutes who hear them from their clients: they whisper of a wild transient tribe that dried up the waters of the Jordan and then slaughtered King Og and King Bashan. A thrill in my gut—is it fear or hope?—tells me the God these people follow has power. Power carries meaning for me, for powerlessness has been my life-long companion.

We are a walled city, I tell myself. Why fear a rag-tag tribe and their traveling God? And yet I do fear, for walls are built by human hands upon an earth built by hands I cannot see. What if those hands grasped our walls and toppled them?

Then two of them came—straight into our town, straight into my house. It looked to my condemners like business as usual. But for once I had the power. The spies visited my house; I could do with them as I willed: turn them over to the king, if I chose. Perhaps be rewarded. But I knew by now not to trust the power brokers of Jericho. These two men, spying out my city, felt more like kin than my own king. And their God seemed worthy of my loyalty. This day I could choose to be the woman I knew, rather than the woman others chose to see.

I hid the men under a flax pile on my roof. When the king’s men came looking, I lied. Told them my clients left before the city gates closed. If the seekers hurried, they might just catch them.

The spies emerged then, covered in flax and reeking of the fear sweat. I pressed them to spare my family when their God took our city. I had no doubt this God could do whatever He chose, for here was power beyond imagining. The spies promised, on condition that I hang a crimson weaving cord from my window and secret my family inside our house. I agreed, and lowered the two by rope over the wall and into the waiting dark. I cut a crimson cord, fastened it to the window and felt, for the first time in my memory, the hope of freedom.

Then came the strange daily marches: seven of their holy men carrying trumpets and four bearing on poles a golden box that flashed fire in the sun. The holy men blew their horns into the silence for, though the entire tribe, thousands and thousands of them, paraded behind their priests, not one made a sound other than the slap, slap, slap of sandals against dirt: nothing but the padding of countless feet, and the eerie sounding of the trumpets day after day, circling our city and then departing. I watched, mesmerized, and a thrill of something between wonder and horror settled in my belly. Six days all. Six days of trumpets and silent parading. People in the streets joked about it, making it small and silly, but I could feel their fear. It hung in the air, cloying and cold, and we could not escape it.

The seventh day began as the others: trumpets sounding in silence, a soundless circuit of the city walls. But when the wanderers completed one circuit of the city, they began again. A second circuit…and a third…and a fourth, fifth, sixth. The tribe began to circle Jericho a seventh time. Watching from my window, I saw their leader give a signal. Shouts erupted from the mass, shouts so loud, so fierce, and so wild, that I cupped my hands over my ears. My heart raced—it was happening—and I propelled my family to the center of our home. “No one leaves,” I commanded. “No matter what.”

The earth writhed beneath us and the walls above us rocked. Then the sounds and smells of falling rock and rising dust. Screams from the injured and the terrified. On and on it went until the only world I could imagine was the small space in my home and the people who occupied it. We could barely see for all the pulverized stone and dust in the air. We breathed it in and coughed it up. But we stayed, though our terror compelled us to run.

I bullied my family into submission. I had cared for them all along, had I not? They must trust me now. We must wait in place as our city collapses around us.

Two familiar faces emerged from the dust-laden air: the spies I had sheltered days ago. They led us out of the city and into the Israelite camp. I stood, watching war fires eat away what was left of Jericho; I watched my home and my business descend in ashes. Even from our distance, the smell of burning reached and engulfed us, stealing into our hair and our clothes. But I also watched the fire consume my debts. I was a free woman: my family safe and free. True, we were outsiders among these people, but had I not been an outsider all my life?

From the Margins: Jochebed’s Daughter

Soul Thirst

I am a slave child: my life poured out in service to others. Yet, since birth I have heard tales of a God Who promised our forefather Abraham a nation and a land. I was suckled on stories of Isaac and Rebekah, of Jacob and Esau, of Leah and Rachel. Stories of a protector God. A deliverer God.

Where was God when Hebrew babies floated dead in the Nile?

Then came my mother’s third labor. Mother shoved rags into her mouth to stifle the screams of child bearing. This baby would be born in the dark, alone, with me as the only attendant. I had never seen my mother so: sweating and writhing in pain, eyes fierce. Wildly determined to make no sound. The child came with the dawn: a male child sentenced on birth to death.

“Miriam,” said Mother after I had laid the cleaned child in her arms: “We must secret your brother. God’s blessing and hope rests upon him.” I nodded, feeling our smallness against the awesomeness of Pharaoh’s will.

So we hid him, muffled his cries with our own bodies, anticipated his needs so that he would not scream his distress. Our eyes grew hollow with wakefulness, our hearts more determined as our task grew more incredible.

And then came the night he screamed and could not be muffled. The risks we had taken until that moment were nothing to what Mother resolved to begin with the next dawn. She fled our hut as the sun rose, and she came late to Pharaoh’s field.

That night, Mother removed the blanket covering a bed of reeds she must have gathered during the day. I watched her skillful fingers plait a lidded basket. Father brought home a bucket of tar. Its acrid aroma invaded our hut as she smeared the stuff inside the basket, into its belly and lid. She covered, and recovered, every inch. I asked no questions, but my eyes missed nothing. As for Mother, she labored in silence. Her task moved her beyond words; I would honor her with my silence.

When, with the dawn, she bundled my brother in a blanket and laid him in the basket, I watched from my pallet. When she set out on a solitary journey, her steps weighted with dread, I followed, silent and wary, behind. Peering between the reeds, I watched her set the basket on the gentle waves of the Nile. I read in her face the same fierce determination I saw on the birthing stool. Her eyes flashed fire and tears as she turned and walked the path to Pharaoh’s fields.

I would not go to the fields this day. I would stay here, a familial spy, for my mother and brother. The Nile shallows rocked my brother and my heart pounded out a lullaby.

In time, the reckless wisdom of Mother’s plan came clear. The Egyptian princess, adorned in her finery, came to the river to bathe. Her attendants followed discretely behind, carrying her bathing things. Was I more terrified that the princess’ eyes would fall on my brother’s small craft or that they would not? I had no time to decide, for her sharp eyes spied something amiss in the reeded waters. I shrank back as a slave girl waded to the basket and glided it along the waters to her mistress.

The princess lifted the lid; an all-too familiar wail filled the morning air. No more hiding. No more waiting. My brother had been seen by Egyptian eyes. From my hiding place, I watched the princess peer into the basket. Her hand, tender, crept inside. Her face softened. I had seen that look on our women when they beheld a suffering child. An Egyptian feeling compassion for a Hebrew? How could Mother have known such a thing?

“It is one of the Hebrew babies,” the princess said. She lifted my brother from his basket into her arms. He nestled against her, still wailing, seeking her breast. My feet launched me forward before my mind could form thought. As I stood before the princess, God seared my imagination with a wild possibility. Princesses did not attend to the care of infants, this I knew, not even their own.

“Do you need a nurse for the child?” I asked, speaking as no slave should speak to royalty.

Her kohl-rimmed eyes studied me. Measured me. Measured my purpose.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Do you know someone?” I felt sure wet nurses lived in the Egyptian palace, but she and I had come to an understanding.

“I do,” I answered, keeping my smile of triumph as secret as we had kept my brother.

“Get her.”

I ran to Pharaoh’s field. “Mother! Mother!” I shouted. “The princess needs you!”

 

I stand today, an aged woman on the far side of the Red Sea, but I do not feel my age for, at last, we are a free people. My brother, wearing his Egyptian name Moses, is the leader of a new nation: Abraham’s nation and Sarah’s nation; Isaac’s nation and Rebekah’s nation; Jacob’s nation and the nation of Leah and Rachel; Moses’ nation; my nation. With my Hebrew sisters, I take up my tambourine, fix my eyes on my brother, and lift my voice in praise…