Fleeting Life and Ash Wednesday

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” from the imposition of ashes in the Ash Wednesday service, Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, pg. 265

Song of Myself: 52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

- final section of “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

Forgive me for seeming obvious or cliche, but Ash Wednesday bears a message worth repeating every year, if not more frequently.

Lent begins with the fury of harsh reality and the deafening silence of mourning on Ash Wednesday. This year, it falls on March 6, quite late in the regular rhythm of things. We kneel before one another and before God once again to confess our sins in the face of the hard truth that we all will die one day. Ash is mixed with oil for anointing the dying and smeared on our foreheads so that when we look in the mirror and each other, the black soot of death demands our deference.

We’ve heard it all before, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” (Robert Herrick); “Carpe Diem” (Horace and coffee mugs everywhere); and the like. Understood: life is short so we best be taking stock in order to make amends and live a life worth living, fully and with great contribution to society.

Now, what’s for lunch?

Sorry for the cynicism, but we all too easily dismiss the call to face death. We would rather not discuss our death nor anyone else’s, preferring to live as though we will be the first not to fall victim to the reaper’s honed scythe.

Younger people tell me of visits with grandparents, now in their late 80s and early 90s, and being disturbed by the alacrity with which their elders speak of death and dying. “It’s unnerving,” one friend in his late forties recently said to me about his grandmother’s chattering on about her death and funeral arrangements as easily as she did about her favorite show on television and what she had for lunch that day.

The question begs to be answered ad infinitum: Death will come for you, so how are you making the most of your living?

Are the hours spent scrolling through social media, news, and political sites improving your life? Are you glad for using that time in such a way as opposed to curled up with a new book or your tablet in your favorite chair? Was it better than spending an afternoon in your favorite restaurant or coffee shop with friends and family?

How about arguing and anger? The crackle and blaze of the fires of your ire: is this a sound and song that has added to your life? Are you the better for time you have spent furious at someone else’s opinion or behavior? Jesus asks us in Luke’s gospel “And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?” (6:27)

Reach up onto the top shelf of your memories where you keep the good stuff. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Pay attention to the sensations memory plays on your skin. Where have you traveled in your mind?

As I type this, I imagine myself glorying in the full cast of the sun, the sweet scent of fresh daffodils in my nose, my head resting on my husband’s chest to feel the regular and dependable rhythm of his breath, and the sound of my children’s laughter in my ears.

Yes. We need to have our attention called back again and again to the fleeting nature of this life. We need to be forcibly removed from the wasteful and unhealthy distractions and denials we have decided are merely part of our daily routine. Death must sound its own great “YAWP” to shake us from complacency and apathy. There should be no “daily routine” but daily self-assessment, daily self-reform, daily mourning and celebration for God, for one another, for ourselves.

Do we wait and die with regret or do we make our goal the final great section of Whitman’s opus:

“I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

There is joy in Whitman’s final liberation. He sees his worth in this world as not ended by death but merely changed and he does not mourn for it.

This Ash Wednesday and Lent, do not assume you have heard it all before nor assume that you have adequately addressed the demands of the season. Commit yourself to pluck out the behaviors and habits that waste or even diminish your life. Do the hard work of refilling and restocking your top shelf moments, the ones that not only embellish your life but make it.

Surrendering to God's Push and Pull

A local massage therapist offered a special to our faculty and I jumped at the chance for a discounted session. There’s something about laying on the massage table that not only loosens my muscles, but my mind as well. I do some of my best thinking on those heated beds.

At the start of the session, the therapist said that she “uses a lot of movement” in her work and asked if that was okay. This wasn’t my first massage rodeo (wouldn’t that be a hilarious sight?) and I told her I tend to trust the therapists because they know their strengths. Besides, I’ve had therapists move my legs and arms before to stretch them or shake them out a bit.

This therapist, however, employs a range of motion I had yet to see, or feel, before. In turn, she took my legs and arms and gave them a good shake down, letting every wiggly bit rattle and roll with the swaying of each appendage. Vanity left me years ago when nursing babies in public became a regular part of my life, so I wasn’t embarrassed by the jiggling, merely amused. Thankfully, she was much too focused on the task at hand to find amusement at my wobbly bits.

As I lay there, prone and vulnerable to a stranger’s prodding and shaking, God beckoned me to pay attention.

“Ain’t that just like God?” I thought, “Just like her to teach me a lesson even in this.”

So much of my faith journey has been exactly like my experience on that massage table. At its core, discipleship is about submission to God. As I tried to stay completely relaxed so my limbs would move according to the therapist’s desires, I thought of the times when I have relaxed fully into God’s arms and others when I tensed up and refused to budge. When I trusted God’s movements, I might have been uncomfortable at moments but the rewards were great as the events seems to tumble naturally into place. When I tightened up and dug in my heels, God kept working but with great frustration and I found myself in worse shape than when I started.

Relaxing into the will of the Holy Spirit guarantees the stressed places of my life will be poked and prodded until they loosen up. Similarly, parts of me will be stretched that I long thought had grown too rigid, even for the most nimble of hands. Discomfort is a natural but passing part of the process and leads to deeper release and fuller ease with myself.

But it takes trust, often in someone who feels like a stranger. God is an enigma at best. She is wily and too grand for any one set of eyes or even one world to fully comprehend. She reminds me of times I’ve trusted her in the past and I remind her how I may still have the scars to prove it. And, yet, she persists in beckoning, never giving up on me. She asks me to relax again and trust her pushing and pulling, promising that the results of the experience will be worth the risk. I tell her I don’t like transitions or uncertainty. Even though I’m becoming more practiced at it, that doesn’t mean I like vulnerability and submission any more than I did on day one.

She tells me she knows; she made me, after all. And she encourages me, asks me to have patience, and lays me down. I start to wonder where this is going and why God is asking my body and soul to move in certain ways. But I take Job as my inspiration, committing myself not to patience but to being steadfast and faithful. Discomfort and pain may be part of the process, but at its end, it will bring deeper understanding. It’s guaranteed not to bring all the answers and maybe not even half. It will, however, bring a fuller faith and closeness of God I had not hoped to relax into before.

Sleep, baby, lsleep

Winter always finds me wanting to hibernate. A part of my brain follows the skunks, bees, and chipmunks underground to join them, sleepily, in their places of refuge. I chalk it up to being born on Groundhog’s Day. Every year on February 2 I tried in vain to convince my parents that I had seen my shadow first thing on my birthday and needed to crawl back under my sheets.

I’m not sad in the winter months; no melancholy takes hold to darken my soul. It’s more that a portion of my brain and personality power down for a bit. The words don’t come as quickly and there is less hop to my walk. My mind cannot override the siren’s call of the setting sun as it, too, seems to prefer more sleep in these months, choosing to give the moon its fair time to shine.

I’m trying to decide whether to chastise or congratulate myself for falling victim to this predictable rhythm. When, exactly, does self-compassion turn to self-indulgence? Where is the line between self-care and selfishness, or even laziness? Am I being self-aware? Or excusing what may be a lack of fortitude?

For certain we could call it “mild seasonal affective disorder.” But is that necessarily bad? Were it more severe, antidepressants or uv lamps may be prescribed. I could quickly call it a “defect” and either give into it or fight it valiantly with a regiment that doubtlessly would include a strict diet and plenty of exercise. Either path easily leads to a sense of shame for being defective or lacking strength. The all-American way is to see fragility as a weakness and strength as...well...that one is self-explanatory.

But moments of fragility are fundamental to human nature. We congratulate a widow for being “strong” when she doesn’t display her grief and say “she isn’t doing well” when she cries openly. We deem the fragility of grief as a weakness that must be combated as surely as should be a failure to say “no” to that second donut in the office break room.

Perhaps my fragility in winter is essential to my hyper-productivity the rest of the year? March to November, I am a workhorse, able to knock out a double-share of work in a day. But December to February, I find the legs of my brain mired in mud. There is never enough sleep or rest. My productivity drops, not failing, only slowing. I always push through the sluggishness in December because Christmas is my favorite holiday season and, with three children, there is more fun to be had than jingles in a bell.

This year, my dear husband recommended we go to the mall on December 26. The poor man had no way of knowing what wrath would befall him for such a suggestion. Admittedly, I’m very good at masking my exhaustion and exasperation. I informed him that never again is he allowed to mention plans for December 26 as that is the day in the holiday season that keeps my feet moving. It is my day to crash and burn. The wrapping paper may lay where it falls and the remnants of Santa’s cookies may stay on the coffee table, crumbs and all, with his half-empty can of Coke. (Y’all, we take Coca-Cola seriously in this Georgia household and Santa will be most disappointed if he finds milk instead of “the real thing” on Christmas Eve. How else can he find the strength to push through his fatigue to put 4,000 stickers on that Hot Wheels garage?)

Animals hibernate to conserve energy during the winter months so that, come spring, life can take hold of them and run them ragged for the next eight months. I like being run ragged by life. I like being over-scheduled in the sunny months, running headlong into adventure and joy. I like the feeling of being tackled by the sun in the middle of a field, demanding that I glory in its rays before jumping up again to take on the next big thing.

But not right now, not in these short, last days of January, when it may be 50 degrees today but tomorrow won’t see much above freezing, promising to turn the rain to ice, laying a solid foundation for the snow to follow. Today I think I’ll glory in the sleepiness of my cells, tuning in to the microscopic lullaby my body seems to sing, making my mind drift in and out of attention.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
Our cottage vale is deep:
The little lamb is on the green,
With woolly fleece so soft and clean--
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
Down where the woodbines creep;
Be always like the lamb so mild,
A kind, and sweet, and gentle child.
Sleep, baby, sleep.

“Sleep, baby, sleep.” The lambs have not yet arrived around these parts but I feel the sway of the cradle, all the same, and lulling of a momma’s praise. Sleep, baby, sleep, for yesterday demanded much and tomorrow is wide open. Sleep, baby, sleep.

May you grant yourselves freedom in your own moments of fragility. May you lay down to rest when your body beckons, free of shame and guilt. There is, indeed, strength in fragility, for it is in those moments when we find our souls both purged and restored.

The Inadequacy of Gratitude

Some gifts defy any expression of gratitude. There is the collection of psalms that belonged to a friend’s grandfather, a family heirloom that she chose to give to me instead of passing on because I spoke to her once about the beauty of the Psalter. Then there was the presentation of my grandmother’s cookbook to me, taped together by my grandmother herself, a gift from my aunts and cousins after she died. They entrusted this sacred family text to me because of my equal love for the kitchen. When our first daughter was born, a little girl in our church handed me her beloved and worn copy of the children’s book “Hug!” Her mother explained that it was her favorite and she wanted my baby to have something she knew she would love and cherish.

After the first of the year, a friend popped his head in my office to ask if I had a second. I welcomed him with a hug and it was then that I noticed a strangely shaped, natural cotton sack in his hand. He said he had something for me, if I wanted it. He said it had been resting in its sack for years and he was a firm believer that if you didn’t use something after a time, you should give it up. He said he wanted me to have it; “My favorite Mary for my favorite Mary,” were his words.

I slipped the item out of its protective case and we unrolled it together. Stitch by stitch, button by button, we opened a hand-stitched quilted hanging of the Mother Mary with Baby Jesus in her lap. Actually, he isn’t sitting on her so much as sitting in her, as though, somehow, he is still a part of her womb, still comforted and nurtured by her in a fundamental way.

Words failed me. I looked at him in disbelief and told him he could not give this to me. It is a magnificent piece of art and I argued with him that surely he wanted to keep it. He gave me his most patient and characteristically generous smile, insisting that he could, indeed, give it to me and that he was. He felt called to pass it on to me and my husband, knowing it would find a good home with us, however we chose to use it. All I could do was hug him and utter the horrifically insufficient words, “Thank you.”

As soon as my husband got home, I eagerly handed him the tapestry back in its sack so we could unwind it together. He was equally overcome by the beauty and generosity of the gift, leaving immediately to buy the hardware necessary to hang it in our living room. Upon his return, he pulled the Christmas tree away from the wall and went to work. He would not be satisfied until Mary and Child took their proper place, a place that seemed destined for them on our wall.

Today, I can see it in the weak afternoon light, illumined by the little bit of sun that has filtered its way through the cloudy sky. The Christmas tree is back in its place of hibernation in our basement and my view of Mary and Child is entirely unencumbered.

She is love. She is the love Mary had for Jesus. She is the love of hands that carefully stitched every slip of fabric, every button, every embellishment in place. And she is the love of the friendship and kinship that brought her to be a part of our family. I look at her and warmth rises from my belly, up into my throat. If I stare at her too long, I risk feeling the wetness of warm tears on my cheeks, each one a small offering of thanksgiving for the breadth, depth, and ineffability of love.

In the weakest of words but with the warmest of hearts, may we lift our “thank yous” to God for one another, for the gifts of relationships, and for the beauty of art that can render us immobile with gratitude.

Coming Out of the Christmas Haze: Favorite Recipes from the Season

Hey, Friends!
My apologies for being out of touch for so long. Cooking, dinners, parties, family, friends, more food, more cooking, and a few church services here and there, all filled my past month to overflowing in the best of ways. I have several essays in the works  but, for now, want to share with you our favorite recipes from the Christmas season. Below are links to the ones we loved with my notes.
I hope you're either enjoying your kitchen or spending plenty of time with someone who does. The winter months have me craving comfort food and wishing I could hibernate with the bears. This fall I made two large batches of Brunswick stew with leftover barbequed pork and roasted chicken. The containers in the freezer will soon call my name, demanding to be warmed in the crock pot and eaten with fresh cornbread.
Speaking of cornbread, at one of our holiday dinner parties, a guest brought cornbread Madeleines. She used a recipe for slightly sweet cornbread and baked it in a Madeleine pan instead of a round cast iron pan. They were wonderful! It reminded me of cornbread baked in pans with hollows shaped like little corn cobs. But the Madeleines had the perfect depth and light crunch to them, unlike the little corn shaped pieces. I haven't tried this trick yet myself, but you better believe it's on my list.
Now to the recipes!

Alton Brown's City Ham: We have made this one several times over the years and seem to come back to it again and again. The mustard and ginger snaps give it the most wonderful flavor and the pan drippings are delicious! Even though I'm a fan of whiskey and bourbon, I don't find that it adds much to this recipe, so leave it off if you like or don't have any around.  https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/city-ham-recipe-2013153
A note about kitchen hardware: A couple of Christmases ago, I asked Derek for a counter top roaster. It was when we were living in a smaller house and I still was working in my "two butt" kitchen (see the old post on my blog). I have used the heck out of the thing! It cooks this ham perfectly and roasted chickens and turkeys come out beautifully. It's more efficient than my regular oven and keeps my oven free for side dishes and bread. Sometimes new hardware gets used once and then is forgotten, but this one has been a great addition to our kitchen. Here's the one we own: https://www.amazon.com/Oster-CKSTRS23-SB-Roaster-22-Qt-Stainless/dp/B00CQLJESK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1547604425&sr=8-1&keywords=oster+roaster+oven+22+quart
Spritz Cookies: There are two recipes that I have to make or it doesn't feel like Christmas: Spritz cookies and crock pot candy (recipe below). You have to have a cookie press to make these. I have the one my lovely mother-in-law handed down to me as well as a newer one that uses a trigger rather than the traditional screw mechanism to press the dough through the plates and onto the cookie sheet. The great thing is that these cookies last for weeks in the cookie jar. The kids can sprinkle the colored sugar or Christmas jimmies on top. https://www.a-kitchen-addiction.com/classic-spritz-cookies/?cn-reloaded=1
Crock Pot Candy: My family would revolt if I didn't make at least two batches of this candy over the holidays. I received the recipe from our former neighbor after she gave us some and I then begged her for it. It is very easy and very tasty.
1 jar salted dry roasted peanuts (I buy the store brand. No need to be too fancy)
1 bag chocolate chips (I do get the Nestle's here because they melt well)
1 block white almond bark
1 block German chocolate in the green wrapper
Dump all ingredients in your crock pot in the above order. Turn crock pot on low and let cook for about two hours, until the chocolate is melted but not burned. Remove the lid from the crock pot, turn it off, and stir everything very well. Cover your counters with wax paper (you may want to put kitchen towels under the wax paper to make a barrier between the paper and your counter; the chocolate will be hot). Drop the mix by the spoonful on the paper and allow to cool and harden before peeling  from the paper and storing. Some people like to drop clumps into little papers. It looks nice this way but we tend to like the dropped pieces better. You'll end up with some larger and some smaller pieces. I tend to go for the thinner pieces with fewer peanuts. Somehow the salt from the peanuts collects in the chocolate of this small shards

Mashed Turnips with Crispy Shallots: I wasn't sure about this recipe when I chose it but I was looking for a comforting yet different side for a dinner. The hardest part of this recipe was getting the shallots crispy. The rest of it was a piece of cake and I was surprised how much people loved it! Another bonus was that it kept well. I made it several hours ahead of time and then warmed it before dinner. I like an easy side that is tasty and convenient. I'm keeping this one for future meals. https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mashed-yellow-turnips-with-crispy-shallots-recipe-1944741
Chocolate Pavlova: If you have stayed with me to this point, you will not be disappointed! I made this for Christmas Eve and it was out of this world, a nice counter part to the walnut cake I had bought from my cake lady (And if you don't have a cake lady, get you one! Tory at Victoria's Sweet Treats in Toccoa GA is my go-to.). I traded out the raspberries for fresh pomegranate seeds because I like pomegranate better and it felt more festive. Another slight change I made was using dark chocolate balsamic vinegar from Leaning Ladder in Woodstock GA. They have fantastic infused oils and vinegars and you can order from them online (https://www.leaningladderoliveoil.com/). My friend Nicole introduce the store to me and I don't know whether to love or hate her for it. I'm hooked on their flavors and the quality of their products.
And can we pause for a moment to wonder at Nigella Lawson's writing? The recipe is worth reading simply for the pleasure of her words, like, "you should feel the promise of squidginess beneath your fingers," which she uses to describe the feel when you know the pavlova is done.
When you bite into this dish, first you feel the fluffy creaminess of the whipped cream, then your teeth sink into the crispy crunch followed by the chewy center of the pavlova, before you finally bite down on an exploding pomegranate seed. This dessert is about as festive as you can get.
https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/nigella-lawson/chocolate-raspberry-pavlova-recipe-1973184
Feel free to send me your favorite holiday recipes! I'd love to add to my "play list," as it were.

I hope you're all having a marvelous start to your new year.

Love,
Mary+

The Steadfastness and Faithfulness of Joseph

While my husband is at work and the kids are at school, I find some time to pull out the boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations. Preparing the house for the season is a Herculean task, but one I adore and anticipate with joy every year. I love see each room transform as shades of red and green begin to litter the shelves, walls, and counters. I love some decorations simply for their beauty but many I love more for their memories.

I leave a few things for the family to do together. The tree is a two-person job and decorating it becomes a family affair, though, truthfully, my husband and I still end up doing the bulk of it as our children’s attention tends to wax and wane. They kids will find “their” ornaments, the ones with their names on them, and my husband and I will reflect on friends and family that gifted some ornament or another to us or on the time we purchased it together to mark a special occasion.

Special attention is reserved, however, for all of our nativity sets. We have the Snoopy set, the wooden set made especially for children to play with, one made of clay, and another of porcelain. We make an inventory of each one: Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, the shepherds, the wise men, the angel, maybe a star, and certainly some animals. Usually there is a debate about which one is Joseph and which are the shepherds, they all look so much alike.

Poor Joseph.

It’s interesting how we say, “Mary and Joseph;” Joseph always being Mary’s “plus one” to the party.

I walk over and pick up Joseph from one of our sets and turn him over in my hands. Too often he is treated as an accessory, even in scripture. He disappears entirely after the story of the boy Jesus in the temple in Luke’s gospel. Mark never mentions him; neither does Paul in any of his letters.

I look at the small Joseph in my hands and wonder, anew, at his faithfulness. To marry a tainted woman, especially in Joseph’s time, was scandalous and Mary was tainted, carrying another man’s child. At least, that is how the world would see it. In a dream, an angel commands him to accept Mary, despite her condition, and trust that the child to be born is holy.

Against all odds, Joseph does as the angel commands. He could have written off the angel’s appearing as a dream. He could have bowed to social pressure and cast Mary out, as would have been expected. He could have walked away or cast out the son he knew wasn’t his own. But, instead, he stayed. He raised the child and loved the mother. He chose to bear down, deep into his faith, and remain steadfast and true to God and to Mary.

What would you do if every instinct, every societal norm, even every religious expectation told you to take one path but you knew God had called you to another? Would you be strong enough not to bow to pressure? What if it meant being abandoned by your friends and family? What if everyone called you a “fool” and shook their heads at your poor judgement?

This Christmas season, may we commit ourselves anew, not to the beautiful baby who smiles beatifically from his manger, but to the radical man who defies the world by dying on a cross, an ultimate sign of foolishness. May we find in our hearts the steadfastness and faithfulness of Joseph who dared to stay, dared to hope, dared to say “yes” to God.

I leave you with a poem I wrote many years ago during one of the first Christmases when I stopped seeing Joseph, the accessory, and started appreciating Joseph, the man.

A very blessed Advent and Christmas to you all.

Against the Screams

A young woman lies,

resting between the screams of pain.

A loyal husband waits.

Does he feel angry against the screams?

Does he question his decision?

Does he trust the angel in this moment?

Against her screams, can he believe?

Is he scared that the angel wasn’t real?

That it is all a lie?

Do those screams bring forth a savior

or a bastard son?

In this moment, does he have faith?

Can he?

Does he stay beside her?

Hold her hand?

Or does he go outside to wonder, wait?

He screams cut through the quiet dark of night.

And against the screams, he waits.

Dosas, Diwali, and Finding Home

V. starts the evening unsure and tidy, wearing a pressed button-up shirt under an approved uniform sweater bearing the school logo. This is a religious holiday, after all, and he has come as a guest to celebrate and honor the importance of the day. He comes into the kitchen to thank me for having him and hosting the dinner. Delhi is 10.5 hours ahead of Rabun Gap, a tremendous distance for a teenager feeling homesick as he watches videos and sees pictures of friends and family celebrations back home.

I give him a hug to welcome him, then turn to the stove, firing up the flame under a flat iron pan specifically made for cooking dosas, a south Indian specialty.

“Wait until it gets very hot,” V. hesitantly offers.

“Not too much oil,” he says next, as I begin to brush the pan to prepare it for the batter.

“Do you have the right batter?” he asks.

I smile and ask him if he would like to cook the first dosa. I am not offended, but genuinely want him to participate in whatever way will feed his soul and soothe his heart.

“May I?” he answers.

“Of course!” I say as I step aside and show him where to find everything he needs to start cooking.
Our house fills with more than thirty students and faculty members, but V. stays at the stove. K., another student from Delhi, arrives after basketball practice and sets up shop beside V. in the kitchen. I gather supplies for her to cook poha, one of her favorite dishes, and V. and K. enter a beautiful and joyful dance of cooking, smiling, and talking.

Soon, both of them are on Facetime with their mothers in India. I’m not sure how grateful the moms are for the calls since it is not quite 7 a.m. their time the day after a major festival with parties. But our cooks want to ask their mothers’ advice and show them the fruits of their labors.

“It’s almost time to eat. I’ll keep things going in here so the two of you can go to the living room and tell everyone something about Diwali,” I tell our cooks.

“No! You go and do it. We want to stay here,” they tell me with wide eyes as their hands continue to stir and flip.

K. finishes her dish then works the room as her friends load their plates with food from her homeland.

V. sheds his sweater after my husband encourages him to get more comfortable. It is hot in the kitchen, especially over the screaming pan. I offer to take over so he can eat but he will not leave his post. His friends line up, plates in hand, waiting for him to deliver a hot and fresh dosa. He laughs and chats with each of them, talking about the dosas and other foods from home. He stays at the stove until every last bit of batter has been slathered on the pan’s surface, flipped, then stuffed with potatoes and spices.

This last dosa is his. He takes a picture to send to his mother, proud of his progress in perfecting the dosas over the course of the evening. He loads a second plate with rice, daal, sambar, paneer, salad, and chutneys. He sits at the table, welcomed by the others like an athlete returned from a successful competition.

Most everyone else has finished eating and moved to the piano. An American student sits at the keys and begins to play. The students around her are from the Caribbean, Afghanistan, Chile, India, Germany, and other countries. They find song lyrics on their phones and soon all are singing their favorite pop songs.

Candles burn around the room and a Bollywood movie plays, muted, on the television. I tidy the kitchen then plop into my favorite chair. V. sits with friends at the table behind me, talking about the food and his favorite Diwali traditions. In front of me, K. sings with her friends and dormmates.
Everyone is full and happy. No one is missing home because they have brought home here, into this room, with one another.