If you close your eyes and imagine yourself on a dance floor, how would grief affect your movement and rhythm in the dance called your life?  

In the Middle East where the traffic halts more than it weaves, where the markets remind me of O’ Hare’s peak hours, and where men have no qualms about cutting in front of me, I often react, but not like Jesus:  

Just leave her. She’s just a peasant. We don’t have time

What? An interfaith meeting at a Mosque?