I am colored
Colored the dark skin of my ancestors continent
Colored the lighter skin of this country’s natives
Colored the white skin of my greats rapist

And still I am colored 
Colored the pain of a struggle everlasting
Colored the hurts of a cry eternal
Colored the sting of a scream that rings infinite

And yet still, I am colored
Colored the hues of blue and red, purple running through my vein
Of royalty I am colored
Colored in the image of Yahweh, Allah, and God everlasting

Yes, indeed, I am colored
Colored of perfection in all that it may be 
Colored of imperfection and all it encompasses
Colored joyfully and ecstatically me!

As I sit there
Listening to the Imam go back and forth
Between eloquent English and poetic Arabic,
I am centered.
And just as my heart begins to beat to the rhythm of his voice,
Drums in the background begin to harmoniously invade the space.

Some, feeling irritated or upset by the drums, start to look around.

The Imam
However
Continues on with his speech,
His words now becoming like a sweet melody to my ears.
The drums are soon accompanied by a piano,
The sweet sounds of gospel music that fills many black churches on Sunday mornings
Have now entered into our Friday afternoon service of Islamic tradition.
The beauty of the unity
Of these two forces combining is
One of ecstatic joy.

How one cannot learn to appreciate the tender moments as they are given to us by God,
Is beyond my understanding.

All I know is that God,
If He was ever present in a gathering,
Was there that day,
With us,
In that room,
And with us,
Those of us who were in the other room with the music.
Only a gift so beautiful could come from the Lord,
And that is an experience I will always be grateful for!