The call to prayer fills Amman like a liquid every morning. No matter where you go, indoors or out, it doesn’t seem to get any louder or softer. It’s not oppressive; just inescapable.
At any given point in Amman, there are four or five minarets within earshot, and although the melodies and rhythms are completely different, they always seem to harmonize.
I’ve struggled my whole life to get up in the morning, but waking up to that sound–even at 4:30 in the morning–is what I imagine resurrection will feel like, gently quickening the whole body.
I have this notion that there are little pieces of Zion that God has set, like lights in the firmament, to illuminate and beautify every culture; and when I listen to the call to prayer, I feel certain that God is in it.
Not everything is perfect here. I’ve been wearing the same jeans for a week, and I haven’t showered in three days; the toilets are an experience, and there’s been more drama than I’d like. But what is perfect is a mango/apple soft-serve cone, and a falafel sandwich for 30 cents.