(Unraveling) Franciscan Spirituality and an All-Loving God
Mohammad Seidu
Liturati
Unraveling the Distance Between Who I Was and Who I Am
The Unravel
Helia Osareh
Logan DeSouza
Midweek
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Editors
Advisor Designer
Contributors
Rev. Dr. Preston Davis
Gena Ghandour
Bowden Spring
Trinity Stigler
Violet Tetel
Haley Gorman
Mariam Aburayya
Serene Alshalabi
Cassidy Brake
Preston Davis
Logan DeSouza
Gena Ghandour
Helia Osareh
Madison Pasko
Jeri Rowe
Dynasty Rui
Mohammad Seidu
Mia Spies
Ali Sulaf
Trinity Stigler
Violet Tetel
Maggie Underwood
Benita VanWinkle
Pastoral INTRODUCTION
“How do I pray to God when God is unraveling in front of my eyes?”
This is the question many students want to ask but rarely do. Here’s why.
It is not uncommon that students go through a crisis of faith during college. Many mask it, though. It’s too uncomfortable to admit, too difficult to find the right words to explain it, and so they slowly back away from church, from God, from faith. It’s more convenient to ghost on faith than to wrestle with it.
This unraveling often begins with not wanting to be seen as suspect. “I don’t want my inner group of the faithful to judge me for asking questions that may appear as heretical or unfaithful,” students think to themselves—maybe not in those exact words, but something close to it. “Better that I not mention that I’m rethinking my faith, lest others back away from me.” The fear of cancel culture creeps into personal relationships too. Sadly, one backs away from a thoughtful faith for fear others will back away from them.
Here’s the heart of the matter: students often think they are losing their faith, and what I
know as their Chaplain (and what tons of data backs up) is that they are going through a necessary unraveling of their faith in pursuit of a better one—one centered on a better God, the eternal God, one worthy of their soul.
There’s a natural progression of faith: formation, exploration/ deformation, reformation. You get formed by a community, your family, your church. But late adolescence and early adulthood comes with proximity to difference, new ideas, thoughts of one’s future—in short, a slew of new questions. Faith is not absent from this questioning. It’s central to it. What/Who can I trust when there is so much uncertainty in my life? This questioning leads to exploration of faith. We need to give permission for the questions, not latent shame. This is not license for all kinds of behaviors that we know can deform our soul, selfish pursuits that harm us as much as others. But it is license to say, “all questions are on the table; God can handle our questions.” In fact, it’s the pursuit of a better God that helps you ask better questions for your life.
This is where the incredible staff of HPU Chapel come in.
We tell students, “You need mentors to walk alongside you, to not only hear your questions and help you ask better ones, but also to ask ‘Where is that question coming from; what’s behind it?’” In short, a mentor gives students permission to ask questions that bring them into deeper discovery of who they are and what questions are pushing them forward. The unraveling becomes opportunity for knitting together something stronger, more beautiful— sometimes looking very similar to what existed before but with more thread, more stretch, more strength.
Here’s what I want to say. The unraveling is necessary. If who God is for you does not change from when you were a teenager, I have a sneaking suspicion you are serving not God, but a god of your own choosing. In the Christian tradition we serve a crucified God, a God who gets killed and is resurrected. This understanding of who God is pushes us to do the same with our ideas of who God is. Sometimes we need to let our childish understandings of God die, too. The real God, the living God, will not leave us abandoned in those questions.
This is what I love about interfaith discussion, too. It brings people of different beliefs together not only to foster empathy across religious difference, but to encourage the believer to ask deeper questions about who they serve and why. This is crucial in the cultivation of a robust faith. The students who put together this edition of Infinite Space have become comfortable with the uncomfortable. They probe, they question, they get curious, they unravel problems, and best of all, they don’t just find common agreement, they learn to disagree better. While the inevitable unraveling is happening, they are also knitting something beautiful together.
In this edition of Infinite Space, you’re going to experience some amazing people’s unraveling of pain, sorrow, joy, and yes, faith. In so doing, I pray you give yourself room to ask better, deeper questions.
Enjoy!
Rev. Dr. Preston Davis
Vice President and Minister to the University
What does even mean?
Being a Hijabi or not one, well I’ve been both.
And if I’m honest, it seems like both are just trying to connect closer to God with their own journey.
I don’t think either really has it figured out. You know, I think religion is a lifestyle, no doubt. Not a label, not a costume, not a phase, But a compass I have the honor of holding, from start to end.
I’ve started being told: “Gena now you’re suddenly becoming more religious, more extreme,”
But that word “religious” feels a little suspicious to me. Growing up, it was a backhanded term. A lesson dressed in guilt that lingered deep, people would say things like:
“My parents are kind of religious, so they don’t believe in therapy,” or “My parents are kind of religious, so they won’t accept me because I’m gay,” or “She got abused, but you know, they were religious,”
So tell me—what kind of cruelty makes people feel comfortable?
Is it the one who prays, but only in moderation? Or the one who believes in religion but will continuously doubt its revelations?
The one who’s soft-spoken, culturally blended, Whose faith, somehow, is never offensive?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the last one to judge, I’m only stating my observations. But when I read the Qur’an, I don’t see wrath.
I see The Most Kind, The Most Merciful, again and again, God multiplies our good deeds several times a day while seeing our bad ones as just one.
So, who’s to blame? Is it God? Is it religion? or is it people? How can you expect others to see what you call “the truth” when you don’t live by it yourself?
Because in my experience people use culture to bend the scripture to its mold, While faith asks us to be humble and bold. It’s not religion that wounds, that shames, that divides. It’s people, with their egos softly dressed up in pride.
Truthfully?
It’s people within my own religion that hurt me the most and that I’m upset with, And maybe that’s because my love for them is so deep. I see the beauty they ignore, The peace in the pages, the open door.
The Qur’an says: “If you doubt what We’ve sent, Then write just one verse—match this event.” But centuries passed, and no one could dare. Still, they take it for granted. Still, they dare it.
This isn’t just a religious book. It’s a science book. A healing guide. A mirror of self. It speaks of the womb, the cosmos, the stars. Of hearts that tremble, of souls that are scarred.
Recite it, and your nervous system aligns. Timeless. Preserved. Divine by design. Yet people of the religion scoff, stubborn and blind— But you know, it’s okay, we’re human, that’s just fine.
One of the names of God is Ar-Rahman, The Most Merciful, still holding our hand, even when we stumble, misunderstand. But even with all this truth in front of us, we still struggle to land but with Ar-Rahman holding our hand, we’ll slowly begin to stand.
But what can I say?
Every truth I speak, there’s an opposite script. Every light I shine, someone calls it “unrealistic” in this society. But when people say I’m getting more religiously extreme... Who knows, maybe I am? But to me, that’s not a bad thing. See, some people wear “religious extremism,” Like armor to harm. They unknowingly shame, control, And hurt in God’s name. But that’s not religious on any scale. That’s simply... extremism. At least, that’s how I see it.
And honestly, no one knows how lost or broken those people must feel. But I’ve known that kind of pain too.
I just showed it in a different way. When I was constantly hurting myself, That was somehow more accepted. Society just told me, “Go heal.”
“Get help.” And I did, Just not in the way you imagined.
You know… even a therapist didn’t truly see me. But that’s not on them.
I wasn’t fully open.
I didn’t even know how to explain myself. Don’t get me wrong, it was needed just not sufficient. But guess what? For me, practicing Islam is.
I never have to explain my story to God. He already knows it; he gave me the platform and resources to create it. He already knows my heart.
I just must figure out how to let him lead, which will be a constant struggle by design.
Like every story untold, No one saw the cycle—how I kept drowning, and still, somehow, kept coming to shore. But each time with more weight on me.
Islam showed me who I could truly be. Not under, not in fear, but in Purpose, in Peace, in me. So, if that’s what “religious” means, then yes, I am proudly as so.
by Gena Ghandour
I wait patiently, for the lord
He turns to me and hears my cry
I long to sit with him at the holiest of tables because I do not seal my lips, oh Lord I do not conceal your love from those who need it
And may I fulfill the covenant that you have set before me
Because blessed is the one who trusts in the lord And Holy is the name of the one that saved me
The sacrifice you did, lord I can see, it amazes me how None compare to you, you speak the truth, my ears are open So when you call for somebody that’s been set free and has not forgotten
THREADS CLARITY of
by Trinity Stigler
I saw a man of short stature hobbling along cobblestone streets, his shoulders stooped, and his eyes forced to the ground. He carried a simple white mug and a torn backpack, the threads unraveling from years of usage. As my eyes traveled down, I stopped in horror as I looked at his feet, black and calloused from his lack of sneakers. I attempted to distract myself from the sight before me as I readied myself to see the Sistine Chapel.
I saw a woman huddling with a scarf, shaking from the dropping temperatures. The scarf’s threads had unraveled from years of usage. I tore my eyes and attempted to distract myself as I prepared to enter Duomo di Firenze.
I saw a girl hiking up a trail in Assisi, her eyes unfocused on the trail, as if her mind was elsewhere. She absentmindedly picked and pulled at a thread that was hanging from her blue shirt—the shirt was as blue as she felt—as she prayed to her savior, asking Him to speak to her and provide clarity.
As the girl wandered the streets later that night, she saw a man, dressed in a worn tunic, knitting a blanket with His hands alone. He took a thread from a worn backpack, a worn scarf, and a bright blue shirt. Large and steady hands knitted a blanket with Psalm 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.” The man beckoned the girl forward and although no sound came from the man, His voice was loud and clear as He asked the girl one question: “How can I provide clarity to you when you constantly try to distract yourself?”
Blowing in the Wind
B E N I T A B E N I T A V A N W I N K L E V A N W I N K L E
The water ripples here remind me of being shaken. When I feel unraveled, I feel shaken from the inside out. When the calmness comes, it feels soothing, like the scent of lavender, the breath of being held close.
There are many moments when I am emotionally unraveling, just blowing in the wind one way or another without any particular direction. I know during those times I have to pray and focus inward, not outward.
Darkness into Light
Shaken
Heading towards the light feels like there is hope in the midst of darkness.
Impending Storm
Even when the storm is coming, about to unravel my life, I still can see the hope of the blue sky afterwards.
NYC Sidewalk
There is nothing like a big city at night for visual overload. This walk for me was a heightened awareness of how others had become unraveled.
P H O T O P H O T O G A L L E R Y G A L L E R Y
The bottom two steps have this message, which is how anxiety feels to me. But there is light at the top of that stack of worries. I think of the gift of faith, and the comfort of being held in the arms of love when this is how life feels.
Things Keep
UN RAVELING THE UNKNOWN
1 2 3 4 5 { {
“A door unopened, a path untread, A whisper of questions inside my head.
Stars that shimmer, oceans deep, Secrets the universe longs to keep.
I reach, I wonder, I take a step, Through tangled thoughts and dreams unslept.
Not all answers wait in sight, Some are hidden in the night.
Yet still, I search, yet still, I roam,
For in the unknown, I find my home.”
— A poem by
Ali Sulaf
This poem, Unraveling the Unknown , explores the theme of curiosity and the endless pursuit of knowledge. Let’s break it down:
1. The Call to Discovery:
This introduces the idea of mysterious things that remain undiscovered, paths yet to be walked.
The “whisper of questions” represents human curiosity, that internal drive to seek answers.
2. The Mysteries of the Universe:
The imagery of the cosmos and the deep sea symbolizes the vast unknown.
Both space and the ocean are frontiers of exploration, holding secrets beyond our current understanding.
3. The Journey of Thought and Exploration:
This conveys an active pursuit of knowledge, taking steps toward discovery.
“Tangled thoughts” suggests complexity and struggle in understanding.
“Dreams unslept” could hint at sleepless curiosity or the realm of dreams as a source of inspiration.
4. Hidden Truths and Endless Searching:
Knowledge is not always obvious. Some truths require deeper searching, patience, and persistence.
“The night” symbolizes the unknown, the unseen, or even subconscious mysteries.
5. Finding Purpose in the Unknown:
The speaker embraces the journey rather than the destination.
The unknown is not something to fear but something that gives life meaning.
PAINTING PAINTING LIGHT LIGHT with
by Madison Pasko
As I sat pondering what picture spoke the word “unravel” to me, I felt a part of me leave my body. It was like I was in two places at once. I kept looking at the door expecting to see another version of me walking away with the intent of walking downstairs to work on my life drawing project. My heart was beating, I would not stop thinking about the next task. I was unraveling, I was feeling like I was in two places at once. Being able to watch myself from different perspectives.
UNROLLING THE SCROLLS
by Violet Tetel
I am going to start from the beginning and tell you what happens at the end, sorry for the spoiler alerts. To start with the basics, the regular calendar starts in January and ends the next December. The New Year starts in the middle of the school year and then ends toward the middle of the year too. Something that is different in the Jewish calendar is that it starts in September and ends in August. This way, the New Year is a complete recharge and renewal, as most Jews all over the world get to wipe their slates clean and start over. This allows Jewish people to unravel their lives, which starts off simple and gets chaotic as time goes on. A specific holiday on the Jewish calendar that allows us to organize and unravel our busy lives is called “Simchat Torah.” This is the celebration of starting to read the whole Torah again, from start to finish. The Rabbis physically unroll the scrolls of the Torah until it gets to the beginning again. It is a very powerful holiday for us!
Something that I came across while I was at temple back home in Massachusetts was a term that a Rabbi used in the Torah. This phrase was called, “binding and loosing,” which means binding is defined as forbidding and loosing is defined as permitting. During the Jewish calendar, there are certain holidays and ceremonies that forbid and permit different rituals and traditions. For example, there is a ritual in the religion of Judaism called “Kriah,” which is a physical form of expression to mourn those no longer with us. It is an unveiling ceremony which marks a formal setting of the gravestone at the cemetery. Jewish people have a
tradition of marking the mourning period with something meaningful and emotional.
In my lifetime, I have experienced one significant death within the family. My father’s mother, my grandmother, passed away ten years ago this May. My father’s side of the family was born Jewish, which allows my brother and I to be raised into a Jewish family. When I was becoming a Bat Mitzvah at the age of thirteen years old, my grandmother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. This was very difficult for my family because it was during an important milestone of my Jewish life. She was not able to share this memory with me unfortunately.
“But I could feel her looking down on me and feeling proud of her only granddaughter’s accomplishments.”
Something that made me understand and fully comprehend the concept of wwlosing someone so important in my life was my religion and faith. I would try to go to synagogue every Friday I could attend to until I went away to college. I got involved with many different Jewish youth groups at my temple. These groups of peers and young adults allowed me to express myself and learn about my Jewish identity. I was opened to many new concepts, positive and and negative. For example, I was
introduced to the horrible societal hatred towards the ethnic group of Jews, which is described as Anti-Semitism. These terrible acts of pure and unnecessary hatred sparked such inspiration and activism within me.
Recently, over the past two years, there have never been such horrific atrocities in Israel and North America targeted towards Jews and Israelis. There was a mass genocide of Jews and Israeli citizens on October 7th, 2023. There were two terrorist groups called Hamas & Hezbollah that crossed into the boarder of Gaza and into Israel to murder 1,200 people. These killings were done in the most disturbing ways imaginable, rape, murder, brutality, etc. There were also people that were abducted and taken to dark and deep tunnels underneath the grounds of Gaza and kept as hostages since the day of October 7th, 2023. Since that day, people all over the world have been both fighting for these lives and peacefully protesting to bring these people home now. On the other hand, there have been uneducated people that have been spreading more and more hate towards Jews and Israelis because the Israel vs. Palestine conflict has been brought back into the conversation. And people are being Anti-Zionists and saying that Israel has no right to be a country. They violently fight for their preference in this war, which is Palestine.
“These past two years have taught me the importance of having hope and resilience within my faith and my religion.”
During the summertime, I have been attending temple services every Friday night to honor those who cannot attend, and I make my presence known. At temple, this space and its clergy allow me to be myself and unravel my Jewish identity with them in many ways. For example, I sang with my cantor one evening at Shabbat Services on Friday. Singing with the cantor, Shanna Zell, has given me the courage and hope that keeps me motivated.
Jews all around the world right now, especially in North America and Israel are feeling so exhausted emotionally, mentally, and even physically. We have been through so much trauma and PTSD these past two years.
“These tragic events have unfortunately given us the space to unravel our creative thoughts and ideas to help these hostages’ families get their loved ones back and be able to catch their breath again.”
To an extent, Jews are feeling very broken and frayed right now just be identifying as a Jew in any part of the world. The community of Jews are imagined as a piece of string that has been frayed and falling apart because we are losing our population.
Artwork by Maggie Underwood
(Uraveling) FRANCISCA (Uraveling) FRANCISCA
Have you ever heard the phrase: “You are like a worm to God”? The idea is that because of our sin, God looks at us and is repulsed, and must turn away because of the ugliness of our mistakes. It might come as a surprise to some of us that even St. Francis uttered such words as “through our fault, we are wretched, broken, like worms.”
But here’s the deal: St. Francis loved the worms.
For this year’s spring pilgrimage, my fellow pilgrims and I learned about a few Christian saints that exemplified what it means to live like Christ. We followed their stories. We experienced what it is to know God by knowing those who have come before us. Prior to the trip, we prepared with listening to lectures about their lives. One of these saints particularly struck me. St. Francis pushed me to discover the form of humble spirituality practiced by him and his followers. His care for creation, the poor, and the marginalized was a reality check. I wanted to know more. Francis began a deep theological tradition that influenced the history of the church, and yet, I had never studied it in detail. What I found was something incredibly exciting. Something life changing. It
unraveled things I thought I knew about God, the tightly wound version replaced with one of life-giving freedom.
I once believed that as a Christian, I was called to hate the things of this world. So why then, does Scripture say that “God so loved” it? Franciscan theology says that not only is all of creation deeply loved by God, but there is not a single fiber of our being or our earth that God does not dwell in. That’s why St. Francis, filled with love for a world that bears the image of God, called every person and creature his sibling in Christ. He preached to the birds! God’s love extends to all creation, and yes, all of humanity. There’s nothing we can do to make God hate us, and that’s Good News. (I believe the Good News of the Bible isn’t just one headline, but many. And this is one of them.)
In reading Francis’ works, I found beauty in this perspective. It doesn’t deny the existence of sin. Rather, it emphasizes the power of God’s incredible love that triumphs over death. Christ has the final word. Our value and worth comes not from ourselves, but from Christ within us. When I look at others through this lens of infinite worth, I can let go of the judgement I hold. St. Francis taught that
AN S P IRI T AU IL T Y and a n ALL-LOVING GOD AN S P IRI T AU IL T Y and a n ALL-LOVING GOD
when we look at who some might cast aside as “the lowest of the low,” there we find God. Francis humbled himself to model after the One who displayed ultimate humility on the cross.
One of the most beautiful ideas in the Franciscan view tells us there is no such thing as a God that sits up in heaven, looking down at us common folk on earth. If we think that, we are looking for God in too high of places. In our efforts to find this distant deity we look past what’s right in front of us: the face of the living God in that of our brothers and sisters. My heart was convicted. If God is an outpouring of love to all, and lives inside us, why am I still treating others as if that isn’t true?
Exploring who I know God to be isn’t easy. We were never promised it would be. But with an open heart ready to explore the vastness of faith, I let myself be transformed by the beauty of grace. I found that if I unravel these ideas a little bit at a time, I can follow the string back to
the heart of God. In return, I want to live in the light of this love. I want to reflect it. The Franciscans emphasize the importance of faith in action. What I have learned from this experience is that my faith cannot stay a stagnant set of beliefs experienced in isolation. It must be living, breathing, going into all the world, magnifying Christ Jesus. At the end of our worship service at church, we make a call to action: “Go in peace; live out God’s love!” God’s love is so incredible that I could never keep it to myself.
In the end, I believe that if God sees us as worms, that’s actually a very good thing. God doesn’t view us with disgust or disdain. Even in our brokenness, God views you and me with such an inexplicable, unfathomable form of love. The stories say that Francis helped the little worms get out of the road. Just as he lovingly scooped them up to keep them safe, God reaches down to us and carries us gently to everlasting life.
MOHAMMAD SEIDU
This picture shows more than a soccer game. I was just a kid chasing a dream I couldn’t fully name. It was just a feeling that I was meant for more. I was running toward a future where I could prove I belonged, and running from the fear of being stuck or forgotten. The ball was my dream always moving, always just ahead. That field was where I learned to fight, to focus, and to keep going, even when the path wasn’t clear. I look back now and see someone who never gave up. And I still carry that same drive until today.
L “ ” I T T I URA
Lyrics by Dynasty Rui
See where the moonlight leans on the jade-glazed leaves
Listen where the water flows with a crisp-bell sound
Smell where the cup of tea spills on the undried ink
Meditate where the petals fall toward the creek, but water flows away
Go pick flowers with Yuanming in leisure
Go find the best tavern under the April rain
Go enjoy peace in a Chan (Zen) garden
Go search the sound of nature in fragrance of flower
Go fly with the wing of Peng (a mystical bird)
Go talk with a soul mate as music resonates between mountains and clouds
Although the separation and reunion of us is as complex as our sorrows and joy
Like how we cannot tell what drives us through the reincarnation of destiny
Have you heard the flute and pipa as the battle cries clamor on like tide
Have you seen the battlefield and those who were laid there as if they were drunk in sleep
Did you know from miles away someone’s collar was soaked with tears
Wanting to travel the entire magnificent world
Wanting to read all the classics
Wanting to watch the sunset delineate the watchtower and pull its shadow longer and darker
Wanting to smile when seeing two butterflies chasing each other in a cluster of flowers
Even if the cloud will dissipate away from the mountain peak and the ocean will swallow its tears
Let these loves and sacrifices be always remembered by generations
Walking in the winding corridor after the rain fades
Trying to count all the petals that fell in the rain
But it is harder to count the stories of those literati
Watching the sparse shadow of leaves from far above
Watching the curtain wrap cold wind as the sky frowns with dark clouds
Knowing that this would be our last farewell
Thus, I drink my last toast to you and snap a willow stick for good wishes
May your dreams be understood by heaven and earth anywhere you go
May you find peace in this colossal and noisy world
Scan the QR Code to listen to Dynasty’s song!
Distance Between Unraveling the
WHO I WAS WHO I AM and
by Serene Alshalabi
The land my family comes from doesn’t appear on most maps anymore. Danna, a small village north of Baysan, was once filled with stone homes, olive trees, and stories passed from rooftop to rooftop like prayer. In 1948, during the Nakba, what Palestinians call “the catastrophe,” Danna was among the first of 531 towns and villages to be destroyed. My grandparents were among the 85% of Palestinians, more than 750,000 people, who were displaced. They were teenagers when they fled to Jordan with nothing but the memory of a home that no longer existed. Their house was leveled and their neighbors disappeared, and from that point on, my family lived as survivors.
I was born decades later, far from that land, in a country where few people had even heard the word “Nakba.” My history felt too heavy, too inconvenient, and too political to bring into classrooms. I never learned about my people in school. When I said I was Palestinian,
the response was usually hesitation, confusion, or discomfort. Teachers skipped over the word or avoided it entirely. We studied every civilization except my own. Still, I grew up with Palestine threaded through me, not through textbooks or timelines, but through the stories my father told me about his parents. I learned history through his memories of their silence, their resilience, and their strength. I learned belonging through the foods we cooked, the prayers we recited, and the names we carried, even when no one else could pronounce them.
While Palestine was always part of me, it was never the only identity I carried. My mother is Indian. She converted to Islam before I was born. I didn’t grow up practicing Hinduism or celebrating their holidays, but I was raised surrounded by my maternal grandparents’ faith. They remained Hindu, and their daily rituals and prayers were a quiet and consistent part of my childhood.
“Their presence reminded me that identity doesn’t have to be singular or fully aligned with expectation.”
It can be composed of things that don’t always match, but still belong together.
Even though my background has always made sense to me, the world outside my home often treated it as a contradiction. In Arab spaces, I was perceived as too Indian. I didn’t speak Arabic fluently, and my mother’s influence was visible in my accent, in the music I liked, and in the way I expressed myself. In Indian spaces, I was perceived as too Arab. I didn’t celebrate Diwali or go to temple, and I wore hijab in settings where that often made me feel like an outsider. In predominantly white spaces, I was simply different. I was visibly Muslim, and that visibility came with assumptions I had no control over. People often
placed me into whatever category they could understand most quickly, without recognizing how much more I was carrying.
I adjusted. I prepared answers to the questions I knew would come. I softened the pronunciation of my name. I offered explanations before anyone could ask for them. I didn’t realize how much energy I was spending just trying to make my identity less uncomfortable for other people. I thought that if I could present myself clearly, if I could be articulate, polished, and impossible to stereotype, then maybe I could make myself easier to accept. The unraveling began when I realized that none of that ever made me feel like I truly belonged.
I began to understand that the pressure I carried didn’t start with me. It came from other people’s confusion, discomfort, and their need to make something complicated
feel simple. I had inherited more than just my name, my culture, and my faith. I had also inherited the expectation to explain them. Unraveling, for me, meant loosening those expectations. It meant acknowledging that I had never been uncertain about who I was, only uncertain about how others would respond to it. It meant releasing the need to be easily understood in order to be fully seen.
On October 7, 2023, Palestine made Western headlines. For the first time, I heard the word spoken openly in classrooms, but not in the way I had always imagined. It was not to recognize a history erased or a people displaced. It was to argue that we did not exist at all, or that we deserved to die. It was not only Hamas, the group who attacked on October 7th, that was condemned. It was every Palestinian. I sat in classes hearing my existence debated, while watching news footage of children who
looked exactly like my siblings and cousins pulled from the rubble. I heard mothers crying out names that sounded like ours, names I grew up hearing at family gatherings and scribbling on birthday cards. The survivor’s guilt I had always carried shifted into something heavier, not a guilt for being alive, but a guilt for living safely while people who looked like me, spoke like me, and prayed like me were trapped under collapsed buildings with no one coming to save them. It was the aching knowledge that in another life, under different circumstances, it could just as easily have been me. Since then, that feeling has only deepened. I have continued to hear my existence questioned, my people reduced to headlines, and my grief met with silence. The ache hasn’t disappeared, it has simply become a part of the way I move through the world.
I no longer feel the need to translate myself for the comfort of others. I no longer believe that clarity requires simplicity or that belonging requires approval. What once felt like fragmentation was never a problem with my identity, it was the distance between who I was and what the world allowed me to be. That distance has unraveled, not all at once, but slowly, through every moment I stopped explaining and started existing without apology. I haven’t changed who I am, I’ve returned to it.
Aerial view of Baysan in 1937.
THE UNRAVEL
by Mariam Aburayya
What comes after survival?
In movies, survival usually marks the end of the story, a sign that everything will be okay now. That the worst has passed, and it’s time for healing, peace, or maybe even joy. But for us, for Gazans, survival is not the ending. It’s where a different kind of struggle begins. It’s not peaceful, it’s not celebratory. It’s complicated, confusing, and exhausting. It’s filled with grief, guilt, and a constant ache. It’s the unraveling of everything we once were and everything we thought life would be.
Life is supposed to follow
a rhythm: problems arise, we endure, we solve them, we move on, and eventually things go back to normal, or they even improve. But what if that rhythm never resets? What if the problems never stop? What if the only constant is the fight to keep breathing?
That’s what it feels like. That’s how we grow up in Gaza. Bombs fall like rain, but without the relief that rain is supposed to bring. Peace is a fantasy that no one really believes in anymore. We pretend for the sake of the younger ones. We smile while holding in our terror, but inside we know at any moment, it could all disappear.
And still, we tried. We stayed patient. We
resisted. We hoped. But then came the genocide, after six attacks that have already taken place throughout the years. A full-blown horror that swallowed our futures and left us with only fragments. We became numbers. News headlines. A world watching us bleed and somehow still asking us to be the calm ones. Even after all the patience, even after all the waiting for justice or at least acknowledgment… we got silence.
I’ve watched families reach a breaking point after holding on for so long. Leaving Gaza is not a decision anyone makes lightly. You don’t just pack a bag and go. You leave knowing you might never come back. You leave everything, your home, your memories, your people, and step into a future that is uncertain at best, and cruel at worst.
Some people flee not because they want to, but because they have no other choice. Because they’ve stared death in the face so many times that it begins to feel safer than staying.
“The
fear
isn’t just about dying anymore. It’s about living through something worse.”
And even when they make it out, when we make it out, it’s not relief that washes over us. It’s guilt.
I still remember the border crossing. “Welcome to Egypt.” A sign meant to greet tourists, to promise excitement and good times. But when I saw it, I cried. I broke. That wasn’t welcome. That was exile. That was the moment I knew I might never be able to go back to the place I still call home. That was the moment I realized I was one of the socalled survivors.
But surviving doesn’t feel like living. Not when everything you love is still trapped. Not when the people you care about most are still at risk. Not when
every phone call could bring news that your world has changed, again.
There’s me. Writing this with my chest tight, and my thoughts racing. I lived in Gaza for 18 years. I left with my mother and siblings. My father stayed behind; he’s still there. My entire family is still there. So how can I say I left? I didn’t. A part of me is still there. The child I was. The student I was. The version of me that used to feel whole. She’s still in Gaza.
This isn’t just something I know. It’s something I feel every single day. Every breath I take outside of Gaza feels like both a privilege and a betrayal. I didn’t survive because I was stronger or smarter or luckier. I just… happened to get out. That’s all. And now I live with that truth, that ache.
People talk about healing as if it’s a destination. But how do you heal when the wound keeps reopening? How do you build a future when the past won’t stop screaming? How do you exist in a world that tells you, over and over, that your pain is too complicated, too political, too inconvenient? There’s
a phrase that has been haunting me: “Who survived died, and who died survived.” I finally understand it. Sometimes it feels like the ones who didn’t make it got the easier end of the bargain.
The rest of us? We wake up every day trying to piece ourselves back together, but the pieces don’t fit the way they used to.
This is what comes after survival. Not peace. Not relief. Just the slow undoing of everything. The unravel.
“And somehow, despite all of that, we still find ways to keep going. To love. To dream. To remember. To speak.”
Because even in the unraveling, we are still
here.
And that matters.
I opened my eyes, blackness surrounding me, a darkness stretching from one pole to another.
I tried to escape, but the void pulled me deeper. Was this it? Had my time been called? But there was still so much left to see, to hear, to feel.
So I waited. And waited. Wrinkles formed, bones stiffened Time had passed, yet I remained, waiting, waiting, waiting.
I blamed myself for this wrath. With nowhere to go, I spiraled. I found a ribbon which I wound around myself, becoming a cocoon with a soft hiding place. The void could not reach me here. It was comfortable, until one day it was not.
I felt a pecking at my enclosure a robin had come for its dinner. Unraveling, I begged it not to eat me. I had grown comfortable in my hiding, but turbulence was aching to disturb me! And what did the bird know of my words?
In the darkness, I looked up. Having no other choice, I did this. God, please save me. Let me live. I begged with all the will left of me.
At the first glimmer of tears on my cheek, the void split open.
I saw the sky, rich in blues, streaked in white. I could sense again, feel again. I was reborn by His mercy.
We often walk through life blind to our actions, confident, immovable as we are. We live as the center of our world, our minds glutted with earthly things.
But while the mind feasts, the heart withers, Neglecting and starving. It darkens and rots, while the mind consumes without thought.
To break free, we must look up and remember the One who let us be, to see, to hear, to feel all joy, all grief. God—who unraveled the cocoons we mistakenly made.
A
poem by Helia Osareh
LOGAN LOGAN DESOUZA DESOUZA
Photo by
M I D W E E K M I D W E E K
10/16/24
Gracious God, who is the light of the world, why do we live scared and scattered like stars drifting apart: content to glow dimly, live coldly, and die slowly?
If only we might see your face and face our fears.
If only we might come close to you and to one another and know what it feels like to shine like the sun. Amen.
12/04/24
God, We know you when we know Hope. We know you when we hold the promise more than the pressure of the future. But we are well acquainted with the latter when we so desperately need the former. Crowd out anxiety – that menace of distorted futures –With your hope, with the promise that you are ahead of us,
Around the corners which we cannot see. Amen.
10/23/24
God, who illumines all,
The founders of HPU prayed; Nil sine numine
Nothing without divine guidance. It was a prayer for those who came after them –That they would do nothing apart from your will.
When we are tempted to be utterly independent
Even if it means our ruin, May those who went before us
Teach us how to more deeply depend on you, Thus becoming more deeply human. In the light of the love that illumines all. Amen.
12/18/24
Gracious God, When you called Mary to her purpose, She replied first: How can this be?
Then: Here am I, your servant. May we make a similar pilgrimage of the heart. From incredulousness to increasing acceptance.
From the critical gaze to cruciform love. When we push back, pull us forward. God, may we bear you into this cracked world. Amen.
11/20/24
God, who supplies what I need, Give me your heart of courage because failing too quickly shrinks mine. Force me to practice generosity because selfishness comes too easily. Help me to practice joy because sorrow lurks at my door. Grant me faith because it often slips through my fingers. And may I know real gratitude which embraces not just part of the journey
But all of it.
Amen.
01/08/25
We ask:
How do we begin when the road seems so long? You say:
With a heart for your neighbor, With a mind free of pride, With a memory that you’ve seen this road before.
You’re not lost
With a spirit drenched in prayer, With a mantra from Frozen:
Just do the next right thing. Take a first step, and then another.
How do you start on this road? With me.
Amen.
BLESSINGS BLESSINGS
01/22/25
BUT God…
Grant us the faith that trusts you’re at work: I am not where I should be, BUT, Thank God, I’m not where I used to be.
Grant us faith that sees the light when darkness crowds in:
“The moral arc of the universe is long BUT it bends toward justice.”
And get us to the other side where we can say: “I was lost BUT now I’m found.” Amen.
01/29/25
Lord, high and holy, meek and lowly, Thou hast brought me to the valley of vision, where I live in the depths but see Thee in the heights.
Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up, that to be low it to be high, that the broken heart is the healed heart, that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit, that the repenting soul is the victorious soul, that to have nothing is to possess all, that to bear the cross is to wear the crown, that to give is to receive, that the valley is the place of vision. Amen.
Abbreviated from The Valley of Vision by Arthur Bennett (19151994)
02/05/25
Gracious sower of grace, When we are tempted toward hard heartedness, remind us that we can only grow to the extent we are open. When we live in the shallows, surprise us with the depth of your love. When the distractions of this world crowd you out, clear the brush of our life. Till up the ground of our soul, that your grace might grow in us and your world. Amen.
BLESSINGS BLESSINGS
03/19/25
God whose grace is bigger than our sin, Where we fail, we ask you to give us: Repentant hearts when they become crooked; Curiosity for those we critique; Goodwill toward those who get on our last nerve.
Great God, save us from our smallness. Amen.
04/02/25
Gracious God,
We are as used to taking, As you are to giving.
Take our will and make it yours. Take our hands and let them move At the impulse of your love.
Take our desire for taking As you lead us in the path of generosity.
Amen.
Inspired Frances Ridley Havergal (1836-79)
04/09/25
God who loves us to no end and in whom we find our beginning, guard us in our heights and depths, may there be no success that goes to our heads. And no failure that goes to the heart of us. For in all things, from beginning to end, we are yours. Amen.
by Preston Davis
SHARE THE LIGHT
by Jeri Rowe
Every fall, we’d gather in Preston’s office and spitball ideas for the next theme for Infinite Space. Me? I was just the conductor, the collector, the guy who picked up Post-it Notes full of words and phrases from Preston and the other students huddled around a table. I’d stick the Post-its to a whiteboard, and I’d stand back and see this paper collage of yellow and blue, and wonder how we would winnow ideas to 10, to five, to three and finally to one.
I always enjoyed that creative exercise. Sure, I contributed. But I never expected my ideas to be picked. Really didn’t want to. I simply loved to see where students would go with their ideas about exploring their own faith, their own questions, their own path toward understanding what they believed and— what they didn’t.
This year’s theme? Unravel. Where would students go with that? Well, just dive into the latest Infinite Space and see for yourself.
It’s a window into the minds of our next generation, students who soon will see their dreams of tomorrow become the passion of their today. They will turn their curiosity into a profession and work to make their corner of the world a better place to be. And that often begins in HPU’s Chapel and Religious Life Office.
Over the past decade, I’ve always been so impressed with how students have grappled with tough questions about their faith and have come away with creating lasting friendships and finding a community that felt as supportive as their own family.
Chalk up that open-armed environment to the talents of the two Revs. –– the Rev. Dr. Preston Davis and the Rev. Andria Williamson. They have helped create an office where empathy and understanding reign, where students aren’t afraid to lean into their vulnerability. When they do, they realize they are not alone in the questions they have. Students find their moral compass—or in many instances strengthen their moral compass—in a place where they feel heard.
In every talk he gives, HPU President Dr. Nido Qubein emphasizes that the university is a God, Family, Country School where faith and the values of generosity, civility, gratitude, patriotism, and inclusiveness play a central role in campus life.
HPU is a university affiliated with the United Methodist Church, and the Hayworth Chapel is a spiritual anchor of that affiliation, which dates to 1924, the year High Point College began.
Though HPU is Christian-centered, the university lives out that foundation by providing radical hospitality to people of many faith traditions.
Whether Muslim or Jewish, Buddhist or Hindu, Catholic or Protestant, students say they find HPU to be a welcoming place. They learn the importance of creating community, of helping others, of finding what Preston calls the “sense of deep within us … to hear or see the deep beyond us.”
During my decade at HPU, I’ve seen that time and again. HPU grad Violet Tetel, Class of 2025, has seen it, too.
She saw it first during the spring semester of her sophomore year. Her friends invited her to the Wednesday afternoon service at Hayworth Chapel. At first, she felt way out of place. Violet is Jewish. She attended a Jewish day school in her hometown of Wellesley, Massachusetts, considered her synagogue her second home and saw going to church as foreign as going to the moon.
So, when she came with her friends to Hayworth Chapel, she sat in the very last pew. She watched people sway, hold hands, close their eyes, and sing the hymns broadcast on a large screen behind the pulpit.
Then, she heard HPU student Reyna Alston sing “How Great Thou Art.” Violet just bawled. But she saw it as a good cry, prompted by the beautiful music she heard and the emotions she felt. Even during a service that is explicitly Christian, Violet felt God’s presence, a presence that meets all who come past the chapel’s big double doors.
Since then, Violet came to Hayworth Chapel for every Wednesday afternoon service she could. She came not for religious reasons. She came for the music, the feeling of community and the weekly message of hope.
“It never mattered how many people showed up,” says Violet, who graduated in May with degrees in sociology and anthropology. “It could even be a few, but everyone who came supported one another. They’d have their arms around each other, holding hands, and they’re just giving in a positive way. We need that in the 21st century. There’s a lot of people who are very negative. But here, we share good news, any good news. We share light.”
That is something to unravel, isn’t it? Share the light.
Jeri Rowe, the former senior writer at HPU, spent eight years as staff advisor for Infinite Space. In December, he left HPU to become editor at large at Our State, an award-winning magazine that celebrates the tradition, history and people of North Carolina.
