one lunch hour, shocked. The full, creamy, comforting flavor seemed like a miracle. And while part of me wondered how it was I had never truly tasted milk before, another part of me had already concluded that these experiences had their source in my new contact with our holy Quran.
That October, during a game of touch football one afternoon recess, I ran downfield, looking back over my shoulder and up at the sky, where I expected to find the ball Andy—our quarterback—had told me in the huddle was coming my way. Instead, I saw something round and perfect, a brilliant white circle appearing behind a veil of clouds. And in the few seconds it took for Andy’s uneasy spiral to leave his hands and come floating toward me—and during which I realized it was the sun I was seeing—I found myself already lost in sudden contemplation. The ball fell through my grip. My teammates jeered. I smiled, sheepish, apologizing. But my remorse was mostly an act. My thoughts were focused on the recollection of verses I’d memorized for Mina earlier that week:
Consider the sun and its splendor….
And the day, that reveals it…
And the night, in which it hides…
Consider the sky and the One who made it…
And the earth, spread out before you…
As I made my way back to scrimmage, I gazed over at the school building, its single story of beige bricks fanning out beneath the rows of tall trees behind it; beyond those trees was Worth Park, and beyond that, the shopping center and movie theater and local pharmacy; and beyond that, forests and fields and who knew what else. I turned to the road lined with split-level homes. Beyond those homes were other homes, then a highway, and further homes upon homes. I looked up at the sky, its thin cloud cover against a blue ceiling hiding the way to the dark space I knew lay beyond, a vastness inhabited with glowing stars and turning globes, and—according to our science book—an ever-expanding universe.
I was suddenly awestruck by the thought of infinity. And not just of the universe I couldn’t see beyond the clouds, but of the world around me as well: the countless schools and trees and homes and people in them, and the countless kids on playgrounds, how many of them wondering—just like me at that very moment—about all the endless schools and homes and trees and all the infinite stars above unfolding forever…
It was probably not the first time I’d ever been moved to awe by such musing, but it was the first time I had a word to put to my feelings, a word I’d learned from the Quran:
Majesty.
It’s all God’s majesty, I thought as I jogged back and took my place in the huddle.
“I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. But tea is my one vice!”
I heard Mina say it so many times, but always with a sly half grin that made it hard to believe she really had any remorse. The fact was, her tea was exceptional: bold but discreet, with a sharp, clean bite that made one sit up a little straighter, abounding with complex and subtle aftertastes that drew one—as the flavors faded—to sip again. It was the result of a preparation that bore no resemblance at all to the steeping of bags in cups of hot water that my parents called tea. Mina’s was more like a stew: the loose leaves (Darjeeling or Assam, with a pinch of Earl Grey or Lady Grey thrown in depending on her mood), a crushed cardamom pod, a clove or two, a dash each of cinnamon and ginger powder, and a teaspoon and a half of sugar, all dropped into one part whole milk and one part water brought to a simmer over low heat. She stood over the concoction, attentive, turning it with a wooden spoon, moving the pot off the fire each time it approached a boil. She was waiting for the tea to turn a particular hue—a creamy, deep tan—before cutting the heat and straining the brew directly into cups she had lined along the stove. The aroma of milk and tea and sugar and spices was ample and sweet, and it always made my mouth
That October, during a game of touch football one afternoon recess, I ran downfield, looking back over my shoulder and up at the sky, where I expected to find the ball Andy—our quarterback—had told me in the huddle was coming my way. Instead, I saw something round and perfect, a brilliant white circle appearing behind a veil of clouds. And in the few seconds it took for Andy’s uneasy spiral to leave his hands and come floating toward me—and during which I realized it was the sun I was seeing—I found myself already lost in sudden contemplation. The ball fell through my grip. My teammates jeered. I smiled, sheepish, apologizing. But my remorse was mostly an act. My thoughts were focused on the recollection of verses I’d memorized for Mina earlier that week:
Consider the sun and its splendor….
And the day, that reveals it…
And the night, in which it hides…
Consider the sky and the One who made it…
And the earth, spread out before you…
As I made my way back to scrimmage, I gazed over at the school building, its single story of beige bricks fanning out beneath the rows of tall trees behind it; beyond those trees was Worth Park, and beyond that, the shopping center and movie theater and local pharmacy; and beyond that, forests and fields and who knew what else. I turned to the road lined with split-level homes. Beyond those homes were other homes, then a highway, and further homes upon homes. I looked up at the sky, its thin cloud cover against a blue ceiling hiding the way to the dark space I knew lay beyond, a vastness inhabited with glowing stars and turning globes, and—according to our science book—an ever-expanding universe.
I was suddenly awestruck by the thought of infinity. And not just of the universe I couldn’t see beyond the clouds, but of the world around me as well: the countless schools and trees and homes and people in them, and the countless kids on playgrounds, how many of them wondering—just like me at that very moment—about all the endless schools and homes and trees and all the infinite stars above unfolding forever…
It was probably not the first time I’d ever been moved to awe by such musing, but it was the first time I had a word to put to my feelings, a word I’d learned from the Quran:
Majesty.
It’s all God’s majesty, I thought as I jogged back and took my place in the huddle.
“I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. But tea is my one vice!”
I heard Mina say it so many times, but always with a sly half grin that made it hard to believe she really had any remorse. The fact was, her tea was exceptional: bold but discreet, with a sharp, clean bite that made one sit up a little straighter, abounding with complex and subtle aftertastes that drew one—as the flavors faded—to sip again. It was the result of a preparation that bore no resemblance at all to the steeping of bags in cups of hot water that my parents called tea. Mina’s was more like a stew: the loose leaves (Darjeeling or Assam, with a pinch of Earl Grey or Lady Grey thrown in depending on her mood), a crushed cardamom pod, a clove or two, a dash each of cinnamon and ginger powder, and a teaspoon and a half of sugar, all dropped into one part whole milk and one part water brought to a simmer over low heat. She stood over the concoction, attentive, turning it with a wooden spoon, moving the pot off the fire each time it approached a boil. She was waiting for the tea to turn a particular hue—a creamy, deep tan—before cutting the heat and straining the brew directly into cups she had lined along the stove. The aroma of milk and tea and sugar and spices was ample and sweet, and it always made my mouth
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