Echoes. I read the words Vista Point on the highway sign in Exit. It wasn't my destination, merely a viewing stop along the way. Since turning 40 I've discovered that life's little moments can be quite breathtaking. I paused in front of the panorama and considered the sequence of events that brought me here, graphing the phases of my life from childhood to marriage and fatherhood against the expansion and contraction of my heart. I have renewed gratitude for this muscle, for the blood it draws into itself and ejects, for the deep, low recitation of my heartstrings. After replaying my memories over and over again, the result is the same. There is an indelible harmony between my Muslim identity and my heart. I sang filled with notes of sin, pain, devotion, love and salvation. The five pillars of my personal cardiac cycle. Sin. The first phase of the heartbeat is known as early diastole. It is when the semilunar valves close and the atrioventricular valves open and the whole heart is relaxed. I was five when I first learned that I was Muslim. It was after I'd spent a relaxing preschool day as the proud master of my domain, the sandlot. I created paved roads with small plastic shovels, molded houses without interiors, constructed schools and churches without students or followers. As I toiled away at my miniature representation of the world, my shovel exposed a shiny object in the sand. It was a gold cross pendant on a necklace. Immediately I cleaned it off and placed it around my neck. The crucifix swung low, beho, below my heart. Moments later I saw my father's olive green, plummet's valiant pull up in the school driveway. I ran to greet him. Daddy, daddy, look what I found today. He knelt down and caught me in his arms. What is it? Show me hubby, he said in the English accent, the result of British schooling in Egypt. Look, it's a necklace just like all the other kids wear, I said with wide innocent eyes. Oh wow, that is a big necklace. May I see it? I took it off and handed it to him. He suddenly turned and gave it to my preschool teacher. Hey, that's mine! A yellow she took it and walked away. Hubby, it's not yours. Someone lost it and she will help them find it. Now yellow. I followed him to the car and got into the front passenger seat. We drove off, he pulled in the left turn lane and stopped at a red light. Do you know what we are? He said looking down at me. What? I asked as I scratched my chest, feeling for the cross. We are Muslims. We are not Christians. He seemed to be struggling for the right words to say. Words that a five year old might understand. I listened but gave him no response. Only Christians wear that necklace pointing his finger at me. You are not a Christian. You are Muslim. Your name is Muhammad. He shook his finger at me. You cannot wear this. I accepted my faith but cried silently. I loved that necklace. I adored the feeling of shiny gold on my skin. I felt guilty inside as if I misbehaved at birth. I didn't want to be different. The next day my mother picked me up from school. I ran to her as I always did after a long day of play. Mommy, mommy, mommy. Oh my heavens, look how dirty you are. She said in that native text in accent of hers, come on now. Let's go home and clean you up. I hopped into the passenger seat and waited for her to sit at the wheel. Mommy, yes, Maddie. Her pet named for me. What is it? Are you a Christian or a Muslim? I'm a Christian, she said, with a slight hesitation. Do you have to pray? Of course I pray. I pray in church on Sundays. You don't pray all day like Muslims? She laughed, well no. But I pray in my heart all the time. Mommy, I said watching another church pass by the car window. Why can't I be Christian?