Slowly the clouds are illuminated
Their edges tinged with gold
Growing brighter and brighter, streaks of pinky orange
Fingers reach out, straining upwards into the fog blanketing the mountains until suddenly
There it is-
Pure, unadulterated fire
Liquid sun burns through, appearing to waiver as hot blue to the naked eye.
And then, in the blink of an eye, it bursts out in a fiery ball of liquid light as pure as on the day it was created, filling the clear blue sky, bathing the island in glory.
That morning is as clear in my memory as yesterday (perhaps clearer than yesterday). We had stayed for Shabbat in Los Angeles with friends, Rabbi Michael and Dr. Elissa Beals. We arrived in Honolulu late at night to a crowd of greeters from the Aloha Jewish Chapel, and our driver to our hotel. I was right about needing that Jewish Center, and Sean and I were the ones to create it. The trade winds were blowing, and it was cool when we arrived. We checked into our hotel and collapsed. Sean and I awoke before sunrise, jet-lagged. Not wanting to wake Jesse, we sat together on the balcony wrapped in a blanket. When the sun had risen, Sean said to me, "Now I know where God lives." It was a feeling we had many times on the Islands. Hawaii gets under your skin and becomes part of you. Hawaiian for a white person is haole. It means foreigner. The native Hawaiians are kama'aina, people of the land. As residents, according to the state of Hawaii, we also got to be kama'aina, and it stays with us until today.
