knee first

Thighist is praying in Amharic and tongues, Margret's little two year old is kneeling next to me, hand's on Fatima's knee, copying me. Margret and I wink at each other. Next Hulya prays in Moroccan Arabic. The boards beneath my knees are rough hewn and bare, but my heart is bursting. My knees are down, and my spirit is up, soaring. A month ago, Fatima would not have known to ask for prayer. Two months ago Margret wouldn't have wanted to teach her son to pray. A week ago I didn't know Hulya. A year ago Thighist was a refugee fleeing persecution by night. Now we're gathered, knee first, united before the Throne in a simple hovel in the redlight district. God is present. I'm enthralled.