Falling Towers , 2001

Guest Vignette by: Sheyenne Brown 

A warm breeze blew as the boy I had been crushing on all summer was hanging out of his window, shirtless, with no muscle definition to speak of, but a beautiful sun-kissed complexion and curly hair.  He had his weight on his arms so that he could be erect while he shouted: “You don’t want to die a VIRGIN, do you?”  It was a sunny fall day.

It was also the day the towers fell.  While everyone was worrying about finding loved ones and terrorist attacks reaching the Bronx, he saw an opportunity to capitalize on fear.  I often wonder if that trait took him far in life. We had been flirting all summer the way recently turned teenagers flirt; awkwardly and with insults.  That day, I wore a jean jacket, a black dress and some fresh white and blue uptown Nikes (school had just started so naturally I was looking fresh to death).  As I passed his house with my girls, I giggled and tried to sound sassy in response to his question, but he was right.  I actually did not want to die a virgin.  At that point, death was palpable and imminent.  Images of bodies flailing to their deaths on television, my mother in bed sleeping the day away because she couldn’t cope with reality; a condition I had never seen her in.  Not dying a virgin seemed to be the one thing I had some control over.

It didn’t happen until December 27^th, and it was void of any feelings, technique or kissing.  In truth, I didn’t have my first kiss until two years later. The reasons changed by that time; no longer afraid I would die but more afraid I would suck when I finally was ready to have sex with a guy I loved.  I wonder though, if he hadn’t thrown that gauntlet when he did, would I be the awesome lover I am now?

I kid. A little. 

The Source of the River Nile

I kept my fathers ashes in two ziplock bags on my bedroom dresser in Uganda for three long years. It was difficult to explain to visiting friends and lovers. “Just some special dirt from home,” I mostly lied. How could I explain that I had no idea what to do with all I had left of a loving, mysterious father? Finally, the ceremony idea came to me as I searched the sky for the double-round, fluffy clouds I always find on December 10^th, his birthday. I would scatter his ashes at the source of the great Nile River.

The boat guide and I sat silent on the half-sunken party boat until we reached the backside of a strange island covered in plants with all white leaves. “Doves eat a lot of fish,” he explained pointing up to a group of birds so thick they blacked out the sun as they passed overhead. “Bird Shit Island.” When I didn’t join his soft laughter, he looked at the ziplock bag squeezed nervously in my lap.  “You got to put him right in the bubbles—that’s the source—the spring. This spring gives the great river power to flow north for 4,000 miles. I put you in the exact spot.”

I unzipped the first bag just as a small audience of four sizable dragon lizards poked their heads out from the island. “Thank you father for inspiring me to see the world by sharing your stories. Thank you for that last summer playing in the waterfalls of North Carolina. Thank you for letting me bench press with you in the garage and build a turtle pond with you in the backyard even though I was a girl”. 

I emptied the second bag and watched until the grey dust disappeared completely into the cool, hungry torrent.  A massive double-round fluffy cloud floated above. I cupped the clear water with my hands and smiled.

“May you rest in peace. May you forever be the source and I be the Nile. Goodbye father.”  

The Honeymoon Problem

Guest Vignette: Anonymous

My husband sees his buddy from high school. “Hey, I heard you just got married! Congrats!" As we wait in the Emergency Room, they strike up a conversation and have a jolly old chat.  "What brings you two in tonight?” A trip to the bathroom at midnight had left me with teeth-chattering pain and fever chills running up and down my spine. Within one minute he knows what I have. The mood in the room stays upbeat with the exception of me, who is scowling from pain and horrified by the context of my introduction as a new wife. This story will be retold by my sweet mother-in-law as an epic tale under the pretense of a prayer request.  Listeners will compassionately agree to pray--all the while snickering inside at the newly weds. After a couple hours of peeing glass, I get my cocktail of drugs and it’s not long before I start to feel a bit better. 24 hours later we get an e-mail from my husband’s Aunt asking about my UTI.  

Uganda , When the Bush Has Taken its Toll

Guest Vignette by Stephanie Nitshcke Riddell 

She looked so different I didn’t recognize her at first. She no longer had a new weave; bags had developed under her eyes; her clothes were worn and lacking style. Her spark was gone. She had been living in northern Uganda since we met half a year ago. She probably thought I had forgotten her when my eyes did not display immediate recognition. What could have possibly happened to her up there? Maybe it was living in a house full of men? She was a twin, so the separation from her sibling was taxing. Or the distance from her boyfriend? Perhaps it was the harsh realities she faced helping people who had no water? Long work hours? Living without simple luxuries? A little combo? I wouldn’t dare ask because I knew it would be hard to conceal my garish curiosity. My tone would have exposed the honest thought in my mind, “The bush has taken its toll.” 

Holy Division , Jerusalem

Guest Vignette by Dani Lynn Walker Kreutter

I meander the old streets in the City of Peace and I find myself at a viewpoint for the Wailing Wall. I look down at the wailers and at the wall and I see the military checkpoints and the 20-somethings with huge guns, their presence calming some fears and heightening others. The wailers have divided themselves on this wall – there is a larger portion for men and the women wail on the remaining piece. The Dome of the Rock lies behind, so close in distance, yet so far in unity for the devotees of such places. This city of peace and this land that is holy has been splintered in every imaginable way. The church marking the birth of the Prince of Peace also marks a power struggle between 3 different denominations. Abraham, the father of 3 warring traditions, is buried in Hebron, a city most divided. One side of his tomb is for the controllers and tourists; the other side for the controlled. A wall snakes through this holy land, splitting this place from that and splintering hearts in the process. All is divided, cut apart, separated. All is split. The holiness of it all fails to find me. I again observe the wailers and I feel their sorrow working in me. Something wells up in my heart, chokes me as it comes through my throat, and it seeps out from my eyes. My mind tells it to stop, but my body doesn’t listen. Even I am divided within myself. I’m interrupted by 2 lovers. They want me to take their photo in front of this historical landscape. And for that snapshot moment, the scene in front of me is not one of division.

Liberia , Ebola Implosion 2014

Guest Vignette by Stephanie Nitschke

The new Ebola treatment center in West Point, Liberia has been attacked. My stomach drops as the faces of my youth program girls flash through my mind. Less than six months ago, I visited them in that very same slum. The community pulled apart the medical center shouting, “Ebola does not exist, you only have malaria!” Infected patients were taken out of the clinic and into the slum. On a normal day, West Point surges with tension so thick you could drop a match and the whole place would light on fire. All those people, all that energy, and ebola pent up for an indefinite period of time is asking for an implosion. 

Hebron, Palestine. Last November

Guest Vignette by Dani Lynn Walker Kreutter http://www.fortheloveofwonder.com/daily-inspiration/

My hostess just bought me a scarf to cover myself before we pass through the checkpoint and into the holy site. She was overcharged by an opportunistic vendor, strategically posted between the stone walls of the old city. She goes through the checkpoint first, cowering and avoiding eye contact with them, wanting to pass through as quickly as possible, fearing delay may increase the risk for disturbance. I follow, head held high and eyes pointed straight at them, as if challenging their confused gazes. It is only my race and nationality that make me different from her.