“Now We See Through a Glass Darkly”


We have two side windows in our living room, and in the evening as I sit on our couch looking out these windows, I learn a bit more what it means to “see through a glass darkly”. 

I can make out shapes, I can see pockets of light shining through windows – but I can’t see comings and goings, I can’t see detail, I can’t see the colors.

And so it is with spiritual truths. I can see shapes and pockets of light, I can meditate on those. But I don’t see the detail. I don’t see the comings and goings. I don’t see the colors.

And this is my life of faith. I know there’s a house out there across the street, because I see the pockets of light. I know there’s a garden with flowers and buds – pink, white, coral colors. I know there are people and porches and cars. And I know in the Morning I will have full vision. I will see clearly what was missing in the dark – the detail and the color that I missed.

So I wait in faith of the Morning, when I shall see Face to Face.

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”  – 1Corinthians 13: 12


Colors of Istanbul

This post was written on my recent trip to Turkey. In a world of bleak – sometimes all we need is color! Enjoy! 

Put me in a mall in America and I grow discontent and paralyzed. Put me in the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul and I come alive.

I am drinking up the colors like I am dying of thirst. Vibrant reds, oranges, blues, and purples. All shades of the color wheel are present. It is an artist’s delight. The colors engage all my senses, bring my eyes, and mind into a world of possibility.

As much as I want to wander and just take it in, I know in a short time my world will no longer have these colors.

I will be longing for their life-giving vibrancy. So I begin using my crude version of a camera called an iPhone 4 and snap away. And in all the imperfection that is my photography – I still capture the colors; the colors of Istanbul.

Sometimes all you need to move forward is to know that life holds color. 

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Like Colors in a Crayon Box

I love crayons. I loved them when I was small, I loved them when my children were small, and I will love them when my ‘yet to be born’ grandchildren are small. I have always felt that a new box of crayons is symbolic of all that is right with life and the world.

The vibrancy and variety of colors along with pointed tips delight me every time. They’re so pretty, so full of life, so full of potential. As if the crayons know that paper is waiting for each one to come out and fill in the white space with a kaleidoscope of color.

My life is like colors in a crayon box.

Pakistan was the box of primary colors that you get when you’re a child; it’s not a large box but it is magical and full.  With colorful mirror work and embroidery, bold patterns and Sindhi rillis, my life began in these primary colors. My childhood filled with light and affirmation, a joyous splash of reds, yellows, oranges and greens.

My entry to the United States was a box of business greys and blacks with occasional patriotic splashes of red, white and blue. I was in Chicago and it was a time of my life where the oranges, yellows, and fuchsias weren’t common. They  came only in pairs of two or three when my past life would show up, bringing with it a vibrancy that contrasted with the hard and unyielding crayon colors of black and grey.

When I moved to the Middle East, it was like getting a giant box of 96 crayons with a built-in sharpener. The initial colors were muted; the black of an abaya, the grey of a hijab. But just past the surface were more colors than you could count. While my Pakistani crayon box was my childhood love, my adult love became the crayon box of the Middle East and all its people, sites, smells and sounds.

The Phoenix crayons came in neutrals and desert hues, warm and brown, inviting me to rest awhile in the sun. And rest I did, each day waking up to the beauty of the desert.

I now find my crayon box filled with Central Square in Cambridge. I pass through  daily and find that Central Square has no pastels. Rather it is a box of wild and crazy colors with interesting names. There is nothing muted about this crayon box. It is dizzying in its hues and shades.

It’s difficult to imagine my life with any of these crayon boxes missing. Each place has provided a new box and a different picture is colored; each picture unique and specific to the crayons it represents.

What does your life crayon box look like? Is it filled with pastels or primary colors, neutrals or shades of grey? Would love to hear through the comments. 


The Art of Dyeing Easter Eggs

Every year we dye Easter eggs. No matter how many or few kids we have at home, we always do this. In a word, it’s “Tradition!”. In many ways it’s like making Christmas cookies, it never gets old. So caught up are we in the creative process that time stands still. So on Good Friday after a time of contemplation and wonder we came home to home-made soup and fresh bread followed by the art of dyeing Easter eggs.

It is an amazing process of watching something beautiful emerge from a plain, white, hard-boiled egg. Enjoy this trip through our process!