reality sets in.
the story unravels, pieces disintegrate.
franticly i reach out to retrieve.
to salvage.
but this will take rebuilding.
this will take reconstruction.
one look, one turned back.
a beginning and an end.
as far as it depends on me.
restoration is what i seek.
i know who i am.
the disparity causes stress.
i know who i am.
but the world can't see it.
for the exhaustion.
for the defeat.
offense is weak.
defense is my mechanism.
reclaim.
restore.
redeem.
redeem.
in your eyes i see truth.
truth and pain i cannot shake.
but i am not the answer.
and you are not mine.
push through.
the mess pulls at my feet.
bogged down.
by my own volition, destroyed at my own hand.
words remind me of His expression towards me.
knowing eyes I have to fight to meet.
what did they say,
"just because I'm losing, doesn't mean I'm lost"
just because I'm tired doesn't mean I'm gone
rest. rest in Me.
like a film, drawing you to the edge of your seat
here is the climax, the inciting incident
here is where it changes.
here is where I demand it stops.
whatever "it" is
cannot stand against who I am.
Whose I am.
And the plans He has for me.
The way He will redeem this story
the paths He will gently lead me on.
The mountains He will pull me up.
The rushing waters He will carry me through.
Defeated?
Broken?
Lost?
Fatigued?
we call this the development of character
the way muscles grow
He hands me a hammer.
We will rebuild.
And where a wall was once, destroyed
up will rise a fortress
"You didn’t think joy could change a person, did you? Joy is what you feel when the conflict is over. But it’s conflict that changes a person... You put your characters through hell. You put them through hell. That’s the only way we change." (DM)
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
held
The house was dark. We knock on the door and no one answers. Turn our backs, walk back to the car, as my eyes catch a sliver of light as the same door opens and she sticks her head out. Looking for us. Inviting us in.
I hear their voices. Upstairs in the darkness. I see the tiredness in her face, sharpened by shadows. I turn and literally crawl up the stairs, finding his old, dark face halfway up. I open my arms and he throws himself into them, prying himself away only to go get the other two.
There is nothing in this world, which can compare to a sleepy boy. Eight or twenty-five years old, no matter. He appears at the top of the steps, eyes half closed, warm from napping. He mutters something in a voice still choked with sleep and collapses into my lap. Arms around my neck, face on my shoulder, he keeps murmuring as I rub his back.
There we were. The five of us. More family than I've known in quite some time. Sinking after a long, cold day. After so many days in a row, which have felt like defeat. There we were, clinging to one another, because love has found a permanent home in our hearts. We belong to each other.
I sit there, in a brief moment which feels like eternity, holding my small one. Wishing two things, simultaneously.
First, that one day I would have my own. My own child, son. Who I would not have to put down, but could rock to sleep at night. Who would share my name.
Second, that someone would hold me this way.
I hear their voices. Upstairs in the darkness. I see the tiredness in her face, sharpened by shadows. I turn and literally crawl up the stairs, finding his old, dark face halfway up. I open my arms and he throws himself into them, prying himself away only to go get the other two.
There is nothing in this world, which can compare to a sleepy boy. Eight or twenty-five years old, no matter. He appears at the top of the steps, eyes half closed, warm from napping. He mutters something in a voice still choked with sleep and collapses into my lap. Arms around my neck, face on my shoulder, he keeps murmuring as I rub his back.
There we were. The five of us. More family than I've known in quite some time. Sinking after a long, cold day. After so many days in a row, which have felt like defeat. There we were, clinging to one another, because love has found a permanent home in our hearts. We belong to each other.
I sit there, in a brief moment which feels like eternity, holding my small one. Wishing two things, simultaneously.
First, that one day I would have my own. My own child, son. Who I would not have to put down, but could rock to sleep at night. Who would share my name.
Second, that someone would hold me this way.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
microevolution
In my house growing up, we talked a lot about the microevolution of the human psyche.
Fancy way of saying, people don't change.
I remember always disagreeing with Larry. Fighting hard against this seemingly fatalistic mentality. I so resented it, I chose a profession, which banks on the opposite.
I will spend my life requiring people to change. My profession will require me to believe people even can. Believe the work I have done, do, and will do is not futile or in vain.
As I get older, I understand this statement more and more. I see its truth more in the faces of the grown men in my life than anyone. It helps me make my decisions. It has helped me walk away.
One day it may even help me stay.
Today it has helped me recover my hope.
Because this theory, this theory applies to me too.
This somewhat pessimistic, but realistic theory, explains my resilience. When applied to my life, it explains my ability to bounce back. It explains my hope.
I have changed. The shape of my body. The capacity of my lungs. The length of my hair.
My very outlook on life has changed dramatically.
My level of education, my wisdom, my story. Everything. Everything has changed.
Yet when I look in the mirror, when I sit down here to put words to paper, when I kneel down to talk to a child, I am the same woman. Dare I say, just better?
At my deepest, I am the same little girl in the hospital bed. The same young woman in Africa. The same older woman in Haiti. The same as I was the first day of college. The same as the day he first said I love you.
I just know more. I am wiser. More mature. More experienced.
I kicked my horrible social anxiety. But in lonely moments, driving to get an oil change can incite a minor panic attack.
I learned to be extroverted. How to interact with people. How to survive a party or a bar. But on bad days, I still never open my mouth in a crowded room.
There are days when I don't talk to Him. When I don't open His word. And until recently, I hadn't stepped foot in His so-called "house" in half a year.
And yet, because I am His child, I can walk down the side walk and find myself communing with Him.
Being literally knocked off my feet by His breath -- come as wind.
As quickly as it left, however, hope is here. The courage and strength to face tomorrow have risen up and bolstered me. Because that is who I am.
I have evolved on a micro level. Significant, important, life-altering changes. The kind of change I want to see in my clients, in my children. Changes, which can be the difference between dying of an overdose and landing the job.
Not fatalistic.
Realistic.
And ironic. Because, we're really not in the business of changing people at all anyway.
That's not our job.
No. My job, my life's calling, is to look at a man. A woman. A child. And see who it is they are at their core.
And fight for it.
Fancy way of saying, people don't change.
I remember always disagreeing with Larry. Fighting hard against this seemingly fatalistic mentality. I so resented it, I chose a profession, which banks on the opposite.
I will spend my life requiring people to change. My profession will require me to believe people even can. Believe the work I have done, do, and will do is not futile or in vain.
As I get older, I understand this statement more and more. I see its truth more in the faces of the grown men in my life than anyone. It helps me make my decisions. It has helped me walk away.
One day it may even help me stay.
Today it has helped me recover my hope.
Because this theory, this theory applies to me too.
This somewhat pessimistic, but realistic theory, explains my resilience. When applied to my life, it explains my ability to bounce back. It explains my hope.
I have changed. The shape of my body. The capacity of my lungs. The length of my hair.
My very outlook on life has changed dramatically.
My level of education, my wisdom, my story. Everything. Everything has changed.
Yet when I look in the mirror, when I sit down here to put words to paper, when I kneel down to talk to a child, I am the same woman. Dare I say, just better?
At my deepest, I am the same little girl in the hospital bed. The same young woman in Africa. The same older woman in Haiti. The same as I was the first day of college. The same as the day he first said I love you.
I just know more. I am wiser. More mature. More experienced.
I kicked my horrible social anxiety. But in lonely moments, driving to get an oil change can incite a minor panic attack.
I learned to be extroverted. How to interact with people. How to survive a party or a bar. But on bad days, I still never open my mouth in a crowded room.
There are days when I don't talk to Him. When I don't open His word. And until recently, I hadn't stepped foot in His so-called "house" in half a year.
And yet, because I am His child, I can walk down the side walk and find myself communing with Him.
Being literally knocked off my feet by His breath -- come as wind.
As quickly as it left, however, hope is here. The courage and strength to face tomorrow have risen up and bolstered me. Because that is who I am.
I have evolved on a micro level. Significant, important, life-altering changes. The kind of change I want to see in my clients, in my children. Changes, which can be the difference between dying of an overdose and landing the job.
Not fatalistic.
Realistic.
And ironic. Because, we're really not in the business of changing people at all anyway.
That's not our job.
No. My job, my life's calling, is to look at a man. A woman. A child. And see who it is they are at their core.
And fight for it.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
pinky promise
Rocked. Swayed.
Stirred.
Tired, leaden feet, approaching a crossroads.
Symmetry. An end, mirroring the beginning.
Gracious tying of loose ends.
There is a hunger. An ache behind my eyes and pulling at the corners of my mouth.
Empty arms, bare finger.
Not the waiting. But the hoping. Wearing heavy on my shoulders.
Yearn to trade yokes.
For a dramatic, deep change in plot.
Like my small one, I lean forward, extending my pinky.
Promise?
Imploring eyes. Just promise.
Beauty sought, protection found.
My weary self aches to lean back into You.
Afraid of regression.
Afraid of lonely steps forward.
Breath is hard for my lungs to find.
Tears, five months of them still unshed.
Our bodies mourn for us when our hearts are too weak to grieve.
Crave safety. Shadow, in it I cower.
Hide. I'm tempted. To kneel and cover my head against the onslaught.
Out of sight. Withdrawn.
Or to once again be in the security of a fortress. To see the army with my own eyes. Ward off flaming arrows and sly words.
Wind tousles.
Move me.
Get me to that place. Deliver me there.
To where Your Glory dwells.
The begging of my spirit. The unveiling.
I see the scales at my feet, fallen.
New eyes avoid direct contact. The wounds are fresh. I do not recognize myself.
Wind rocks me. I sway.
And then there it is. The paradox of growth. A foundation, strong and solid. Truth is this: I am not lost. In the reflection I see the green. Vibrant. Striking.
Familiar.
But stronger. In those many broken places. Weathered. Conditioned. Arms out, chin back, eyes closed.
I am enveloped.
Apprehensive. Unsure. Bold.
Upon the foundation, despite all the rubble, a fighter has been built. Out of the very ashes.
Over strengthened shoulders I take one more look at from where it was I came.
Breathe.
Desire propels.
I pause. Implore. Extend my pinky finger.
Promise?
Stirred.
Tired, leaden feet, approaching a crossroads.
Symmetry. An end, mirroring the beginning.
Gracious tying of loose ends.
There is a hunger. An ache behind my eyes and pulling at the corners of my mouth.
Empty arms, bare finger.
Not the waiting. But the hoping. Wearing heavy on my shoulders.
Yearn to trade yokes.
For a dramatic, deep change in plot.
Like my small one, I lean forward, extending my pinky.
Promise?
Imploring eyes. Just promise.
Beauty sought, protection found.
My weary self aches to lean back into You.
Afraid of regression.
Afraid of lonely steps forward.
Breath is hard for my lungs to find.
Tears, five months of them still unshed.
Our bodies mourn for us when our hearts are too weak to grieve.
Crave safety. Shadow, in it I cower.
Hide. I'm tempted. To kneel and cover my head against the onslaught.
Out of sight. Withdrawn.
Or to once again be in the security of a fortress. To see the army with my own eyes. Ward off flaming arrows and sly words.
Wind tousles.
Move me.
Get me to that place. Deliver me there.
To where Your Glory dwells.
The begging of my spirit. The unveiling.
I see the scales at my feet, fallen.
New eyes avoid direct contact. The wounds are fresh. I do not recognize myself.
Wind rocks me. I sway.
And then there it is. The paradox of growth. A foundation, strong and solid. Truth is this: I am not lost. In the reflection I see the green. Vibrant. Striking.
Familiar.
But stronger. In those many broken places. Weathered. Conditioned. Arms out, chin back, eyes closed.
I am enveloped.
Apprehensive. Unsure. Bold.
Upon the foundation, despite all the rubble, a fighter has been built. Out of the very ashes.
Over strengthened shoulders I take one more look at from where it was I came.
Breathe.
Desire propels.
I pause. Implore. Extend my pinky finger.
Promise?
Saturday, November 12, 2011
beholder
I felt it begin last night. Rising to the surface, a deep unsettling.
An acute awareness of a desperate lacking.
This morning I woke up, bound and determined. There was an ache in the deepest part of me. To find beauty.
I haven't created in quite some time. Haven't held a camera in my hands, looked through different eyes, attempted to capture the beauty of the world with a quick blink of a shutter, an adjusted aperture. Today would be different. I would find this beauty my heart was longing for.
I got in my car and started driving. I stopped a few times, but the camera felt heavy and awkward in my hands. Beautiful colors everywhere. Trees, fences, barns, leaves. Fall is in full force in Kentucky. Surely I could find this coveted beauty on the back country roads.
I turned onto Russell Cave and drove. A red sports car cut me off in traffic. The driver was wearing sunglasses, and I heard in my heart Someone say, follow me.
I just drove and drove. Following the red car. The scenery was beautiful, breathtaking, pure, and unadulterated. But eyes were not satisfied. There was an ache in my heart, and each mile made it worse. Throbbing.
And then the red car disappeared. Over a hill. I crested the same hill and could no longer see the red car anywhere.
So I pulled into a driveway and sat for a minute. This was not where I was supposed to be.
Like every epiphany I have ever had, it bubbled up within me until I was smiling like a fool.
I knew where I needed to be. I knew where this quest for beauty was calling me.
I drove. Turned left then right then left again.
Even as I pulled up to the curb I could hear their voices. Screaming my name, running out from their yards and driveways, waving their arms. Little girls jumped into my arms as I got out of my car. Bigger boys swaggered over and pretended not to care. I hugged them anyway.
I began to take pictures. Of their sweet faces. In between hugs and kisses and the constant bickering and running around.
The joy in my heart bubbled up into my eyes.
But I didn't stay there long. The call for beauty was intertwined intimately with a demand to be brave. To seek it out where others fail to acknowledge it. To go deeper, to get closer.
So I drove some more. Through the familiar ghettos and four way stops.
I tried to cheat. I knocked on a few doors, looking for children to take with me. I couldn't do this alone.
Could I?
I heard them before I saw them. The thump of the basketball. The yells of boys older than I am used to.
I saw their shadows and their piles of clothes on the sidelines.
I meandered around. To a dilapidated playground. Covered with too much dirt and too many chains.
And then, with one deep breath, I approached them. Knowing full well this was where I was supposed to be.
That in the pounding of the basketball, the soles of the Converse and Nikes, the sweatiness of high school boys, I would find what I was looking for.
They saw me. After a few minutes they stopped playing. I waved at them and told them to keep going. They laughed and I shouted after them to impress me.
Soon they were hovered over my shoulders, looking at images of themselves, which I'd captured.
Beauty, my friends, is in the eye of the beholder.
In sweet hugs and kisses. In dark, dirty faces. In unsullied moments of pride and youthfulness.
Anna, quit looking for beauty elsewhere. Quit looking in all the wrong places. You are wired to find beauty in people. In children. To dig out art from what is broken and forgotten. Go get it. And remind the world.
An acute awareness of a desperate lacking.
This morning I woke up, bound and determined. There was an ache in the deepest part of me. To find beauty.
I haven't created in quite some time. Haven't held a camera in my hands, looked through different eyes, attempted to capture the beauty of the world with a quick blink of a shutter, an adjusted aperture. Today would be different. I would find this beauty my heart was longing for.
I got in my car and started driving. I stopped a few times, but the camera felt heavy and awkward in my hands. Beautiful colors everywhere. Trees, fences, barns, leaves. Fall is in full force in Kentucky. Surely I could find this coveted beauty on the back country roads.
I turned onto Russell Cave and drove. A red sports car cut me off in traffic. The driver was wearing sunglasses, and I heard in my heart Someone say, follow me.
I just drove and drove. Following the red car. The scenery was beautiful, breathtaking, pure, and unadulterated. But eyes were not satisfied. There was an ache in my heart, and each mile made it worse. Throbbing.
And then the red car disappeared. Over a hill. I crested the same hill and could no longer see the red car anywhere.
So I pulled into a driveway and sat for a minute. This was not where I was supposed to be.
Like every epiphany I have ever had, it bubbled up within me until I was smiling like a fool.
I knew where I needed to be. I knew where this quest for beauty was calling me.
I drove. Turned left then right then left again.
Even as I pulled up to the curb I could hear their voices. Screaming my name, running out from their yards and driveways, waving their arms. Little girls jumped into my arms as I got out of my car. Bigger boys swaggered over and pretended not to care. I hugged them anyway.
I began to take pictures. Of their sweet faces. In between hugs and kisses and the constant bickering and running around.
The joy in my heart bubbled up into my eyes.
But I didn't stay there long. The call for beauty was intertwined intimately with a demand to be brave. To seek it out where others fail to acknowledge it. To go deeper, to get closer.
So I drove some more. Through the familiar ghettos and four way stops.
I tried to cheat. I knocked on a few doors, looking for children to take with me. I couldn't do this alone.
Could I?
I heard them before I saw them. The thump of the basketball. The yells of boys older than I am used to.
I saw their shadows and their piles of clothes on the sidelines.
I meandered around. To a dilapidated playground. Covered with too much dirt and too many chains.
And then, with one deep breath, I approached them. Knowing full well this was where I was supposed to be.
That in the pounding of the basketball, the soles of the Converse and Nikes, the sweatiness of high school boys, I would find what I was looking for.
They saw me. After a few minutes they stopped playing. I waved at them and told them to keep going. They laughed and I shouted after them to impress me.
Soon they were hovered over my shoulders, looking at images of themselves, which I'd captured.
Beauty, my friends, is in the eye of the beholder.
In sweet hugs and kisses. In dark, dirty faces. In unsullied moments of pride and youthfulness.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
in the morning
Enveloped.
Heart beating. Match the rhythm. Rise and fall of chest, I find cadence.
Quiet. Words are futile. Self deception blinds. This feels new.
But it is not.
Remind me this isn't new.
Breathe.
Rest. Heavy. Pressure. Still.
Very, very still.
All the world.
Except my mind... fighting.
Scarred, tired.
Inhale.
Laughter bubbles beneath it.
Sun rises. Shadows cast.
Sweat dries in the heat.
Fatigue rocks to sleep.
Heart beating. Match the rhythm. Rise and fall of chest, I find cadence.
Quiet. Words are futile. Self deception blinds. This feels new.
But it is not.
Remind me this isn't new.
Breathe.
Rest. Heavy. Pressure. Still.
Very, very still.
All the world.
Except my mind... fighting.
Scarred, tired.
Inhale.
Laughter bubbles beneath it.
Sun rises. Shadows cast.
Sweat dries in the heat.
Fatigue rocks to sleep.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
fear & coping mechanisms
Last night I went to a haunted house for the first time since I was about seventeen years old. Walking up to the big warehouse, I remembered why.
It's stupid to pay people to scare the shit out of you.
Anticipation almost did the three of us in while we waited in line to get into the actual haunted house. Standing in the cold were "monsters" roaming around everywhere. Clowns and zombies and men on stilts and wearing black capes.
Every one of your senses is involved in fear. Sounds, textures, temperature, colors (or lack of), smells.
I almost backed out. As the monsters roamed the parking lot, I second guessed this decision to willingly subject myself to a certain level of terror. The first evil clown approached us, green hair and squeaking toys. He picked Mary to harass and I was left alone. We were in a constant state of awareness -- frantically looking around, trying to keep an eye on the monsters so we weren't taken by surprise.
Mary and I are true social workers at heart and it didn't take long for our coping mechanisms to kick in full force. Change perspective. Gain your bearings. Face the problem. Face the monster. Face the fear.
Standing in line I was approached by the stupid clown on stilts. He came up from behind me, and I could hear the squeaking of him, feel him towering over me. Dipped my chin. Closed my eyes. And he started squeaking in my ear. First the left. I turned my face slightly, eyes still closed. Then the left. He moved, I moved. Breathe. Finally he left and I exhaled.
A clown approached me and I tried a new tactic. Looked him right in the face. He leaned forward and touched his nose to mine. Fear melted away. He was chewing fruity gum.
My mind started spinning. Drawing parallels and comparisons. And finally I turned to Mary and Carlee and said, "my every day life is a lot scarier than this. And it is real. This is not real. But here, I get to scream. I get to scream and run for my life."
What we were afraid of was not real. The fear we were facing was not only self-induced, but it was fake. Even in the moments of pumping adrenaline and in between screams, we could look at each other and say "this is not real."
There was one zombie who liked us quite a bit. He seemed to scare everyone, but when he walked up to the three of us we all just smiled and told him how cute he was. A young black guy with a painted on smile, our comment took him by surprise. And he found us everywhere we went. At one point he got kicked in the face, while sliding around on the ground, and he walked up to us holding his jaw. "I just got kicked in the face," he pouted.
In the middle of the first haunted house, we held hands like little girls and verbally denounced every single monster we came across. Before screaming and hurrying on. One monster looked just like a friend of ours, the other had pretty teeth. We joked about one monster's insecurity and commented on another's flexibility.
Once a social worker, always a social worker.
And no one is exempt from the fear.
At one point in the maze, I found myself keeping my head down and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
It's the startling that gets me. The jumping out of corners, the slithering out from under tables, the crouching in the shadows. If I can endure the startle, I am able to look the monster in the eye. And he loses his power.
I cannot tell you how many times I stood very still, and told the monster to get out of my face.
The things I face in my daily life are real. The dangerous people, the addictive substances, the hungry bellies, the empty bank accounts. The disorders, the syndromes, the prison sentences. The dark alleys and the late night phone calls. The empty refrigerators. The insecurities. The cold beds.
Those things are real. And you cannot scream in response to them. Real life requires composure. Real life requires wisdom. Real life requires a bravery beyond what you probably have.
Real life requires courage. Demands that you keep your head down, put one foot in front of the other.
Then sometimes, life demands you look the monster in the eye. That you suppress the leaping your heart does on its approach, and then you slowly lift your face. Because what is really scary is the unknown. The unexposed. The uncertainty.
Go watch M. Night. Shyamalan's Lady in the Water. You won't like it, probably. I don't care. Watch it anyway. Watch it knowing he wrote it as a bedtime story for his children. Watch it and think about what M. Night is trying to teach you. About strength. About healing. About monsters and the way to defeat them.
Actually. Go watch Signs. And The Village. And The Sixth Sense.
They all teach the same lesson. Face your fear. Strip it of its power. Look it dead in the eye and call it for what it is. Give it a name. And regain control.
Out of the last haunted house, we marched right past all the monsters who had scared us before. Disfigured butcher came after us and I threw up my arms and said, "actually we're done, leave us alone now!" (Surprisingly, he walked away.)
Standing in the parking lot, while Mary used the port-a-pottie (which may have been the scariest part of the whole night for her) all the monsters no longer seemed as scary. As if we'd faced the worst of it. As if we'd familiarized ourselves with the fear and it had dissipated.
Our favorite zombie followed us out of the parking lot. Creepily throwing up his hands and saying, "I'm too cute to be scary!". I looked at him, looked at the end of the parking lot, and said, "The thing I worry about the most are those scary people who pretend to be your friend. And then before you get out of their reach, they scare the living hell out of you." He looked at me, painted smile turning up into a real, sneaky, toothy one.
We reached the end of that parking lot and he walked up behind me, leaned close, and growled in my ear. "Babe," I grimaced and shrugged away. "You sound like you're snoring." He jeered, "You think I have a limit -- you think there's a rule that says I have to stop right here?"
I took a step away and looked him in the eye. "No. But I just gave you my limit."
Then we ran across the street and got in the car.
Leaving all the fear behind. Leaving all the monsters in their domain. Leaving the zombie standing in the glow of the street light.
It's stupid to pay people to scare the shit out of you.
Anticipation almost did the three of us in while we waited in line to get into the actual haunted house. Standing in the cold were "monsters" roaming around everywhere. Clowns and zombies and men on stilts and wearing black capes.
Every one of your senses is involved in fear. Sounds, textures, temperature, colors (or lack of), smells.
I almost backed out. As the monsters roamed the parking lot, I second guessed this decision to willingly subject myself to a certain level of terror. The first evil clown approached us, green hair and squeaking toys. He picked Mary to harass and I was left alone. We were in a constant state of awareness -- frantically looking around, trying to keep an eye on the monsters so we weren't taken by surprise.
Mary and I are true social workers at heart and it didn't take long for our coping mechanisms to kick in full force. Change perspective. Gain your bearings. Face the problem. Face the monster. Face the fear.
Standing in line I was approached by the stupid clown on stilts. He came up from behind me, and I could hear the squeaking of him, feel him towering over me. Dipped my chin. Closed my eyes. And he started squeaking in my ear. First the left. I turned my face slightly, eyes still closed. Then the left. He moved, I moved. Breathe. Finally he left and I exhaled.
A clown approached me and I tried a new tactic. Looked him right in the face. He leaned forward and touched his nose to mine. Fear melted away. He was chewing fruity gum.
My mind started spinning. Drawing parallels and comparisons. And finally I turned to Mary and Carlee and said, "my every day life is a lot scarier than this. And it is real. This is not real. But here, I get to scream. I get to scream and run for my life."
What we were afraid of was not real. The fear we were facing was not only self-induced, but it was fake. Even in the moments of pumping adrenaline and in between screams, we could look at each other and say "this is not real."
There was one zombie who liked us quite a bit. He seemed to scare everyone, but when he walked up to the three of us we all just smiled and told him how cute he was. A young black guy with a painted on smile, our comment took him by surprise. And he found us everywhere we went. At one point he got kicked in the face, while sliding around on the ground, and he walked up to us holding his jaw. "I just got kicked in the face," he pouted.
In the middle of the first haunted house, we held hands like little girls and verbally denounced every single monster we came across. Before screaming and hurrying on. One monster looked just like a friend of ours, the other had pretty teeth. We joked about one monster's insecurity and commented on another's flexibility.
Once a social worker, always a social worker.
And no one is exempt from the fear.
At one point in the maze, I found myself keeping my head down and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
It's the startling that gets me. The jumping out of corners, the slithering out from under tables, the crouching in the shadows. If I can endure the startle, I am able to look the monster in the eye. And he loses his power.
I cannot tell you how many times I stood very still, and told the monster to get out of my face.
The things I face in my daily life are real. The dangerous people, the addictive substances, the hungry bellies, the empty bank accounts. The disorders, the syndromes, the prison sentences. The dark alleys and the late night phone calls. The empty refrigerators. The insecurities. The cold beds.
Those things are real. And you cannot scream in response to them. Real life requires composure. Real life requires wisdom. Real life requires a bravery beyond what you probably have.
Real life requires courage. Demands that you keep your head down, put one foot in front of the other.
Then sometimes, life demands you look the monster in the eye. That you suppress the leaping your heart does on its approach, and then you slowly lift your face. Because what is really scary is the unknown. The unexposed. The uncertainty.
Go watch M. Night. Shyamalan's Lady in the Water. You won't like it, probably. I don't care. Watch it anyway. Watch it knowing he wrote it as a bedtime story for his children. Watch it and think about what M. Night is trying to teach you. About strength. About healing. About monsters and the way to defeat them.
Actually. Go watch Signs. And The Village. And The Sixth Sense.
They all teach the same lesson. Face your fear. Strip it of its power. Look it dead in the eye and call it for what it is. Give it a name. And regain control.
Out of the last haunted house, we marched right past all the monsters who had scared us before. Disfigured butcher came after us and I threw up my arms and said, "actually we're done, leave us alone now!" (Surprisingly, he walked away.)
Standing in the parking lot, while Mary used the port-a-pottie (which may have been the scariest part of the whole night for her) all the monsters no longer seemed as scary. As if we'd faced the worst of it. As if we'd familiarized ourselves with the fear and it had dissipated.
Our favorite zombie followed us out of the parking lot. Creepily throwing up his hands and saying, "I'm too cute to be scary!". I looked at him, looked at the end of the parking lot, and said, "The thing I worry about the most are those scary people who pretend to be your friend. And then before you get out of their reach, they scare the living hell out of you." He looked at me, painted smile turning up into a real, sneaky, toothy one.
We reached the end of that parking lot and he walked up behind me, leaned close, and growled in my ear. "Babe," I grimaced and shrugged away. "You sound like you're snoring." He jeered, "You think I have a limit -- you think there's a rule that says I have to stop right here?"
I took a step away and looked him in the eye. "No. But I just gave you my limit."
Then we ran across the street and got in the car.
Leaving all the fear behind. Leaving all the monsters in their domain. Leaving the zombie standing in the glow of the street light.
Friday, October 28, 2011
stars & three squeezes
This morning I went on my first public school field trip. I was a volunteer for the fourth grade class at the elementary school I work at every single week. This fourth grade class is full of some of my favorite people in the world. I woke up this rainy, Friday morning and couldn't wait to spend the day with them.
And to ride a school bus for the first time.
The two fourth grade teachers are wonderful women who respect me and my relationship with these special kids. They treat me like an adult and authority figure, and we all seem to share a passion for seeing these kids succeed. Seeing these kids survive. We see beyond temper tantrums and behavioral disorders. We see who they will become. We want to give them a chance.
The kids fought for space beside me on the bus today. My heart was swollen with pride and love. As is the norm, it only took me a little while before I became comfortable. And started bossing people around. I learned names and teased and hugged.
T fell in line beside me on the way to the bus and slipped his little hand into mine. I squeezed it three times. Something my own mama used to do. He looked at me from under his hood and said, "Miss Anna, why'd you squeeze my hand?"
Before I was able to explain, we had to get on the bus. He forgot. And so did I.
We went to the Living Arts and Science Center in the east end of Lexington. We toured different exhibits about natural habitats and then we went to another room to learn about the stars. On our hands and knees we crawled into an inflatable planetarium and sat in a circle. Faintly against the gray tarp we could make out constellations.
I was sitting, legs crossed, with J leaning against my side. It smelled like dirty socks and my eyes just couldn't adjust to the darkness. Couldn't seen what was right in front of me.
"Close your eyes for ten seconds," the tour guide told us. "Close your eyes for ten seconds, and when you open them again, you'll be able to see better."
My heart swelled again. In those moments, I hear with different ears. I see with different eyes. Every small word, every quick phrase, can quickly transform into wisdom and truth.
I covered J's eyes and he covered mine. We counted to ten. And when we opened our eyes again, the stars and outlined constellations were bright and evident to both of us.
Just close your eyes... she'd said. Just close your eyes, just for a few seconds. And when you open them again, you'll be able to see better.
The eyes of my heart are closed. Counting to the proverbial "ten".
I want to see better.
-
Back on the bus, I reached over the back of my seat and grabbed T's hand again.
"Remember the squeezes?" I asked him and he began to rub his face with my hand. "Yes, Miss Anna. Three squeezes." I nodded and squeezed his hand three times, while saying "It means, I (squeeze) love (squeeze) you (squeeze)."
"Like this?" He squeezed three times.
"Just like that."
He smiled and curled up in his seat and we started driving home.
Right before we got off the bus, I had my arm resting over the back of the seat. Quietly, T reached up and slipped his hand into mine.
And squeezed three times.
And to ride a school bus for the first time.
The two fourth grade teachers are wonderful women who respect me and my relationship with these special kids. They treat me like an adult and authority figure, and we all seem to share a passion for seeing these kids succeed. Seeing these kids survive. We see beyond temper tantrums and behavioral disorders. We see who they will become. We want to give them a chance.
The kids fought for space beside me on the bus today. My heart was swollen with pride and love. As is the norm, it only took me a little while before I became comfortable. And started bossing people around. I learned names and teased and hugged.
T fell in line beside me on the way to the bus and slipped his little hand into mine. I squeezed it three times. Something my own mama used to do. He looked at me from under his hood and said, "Miss Anna, why'd you squeeze my hand?"
Before I was able to explain, we had to get on the bus. He forgot. And so did I.
We went to the Living Arts and Science Center in the east end of Lexington. We toured different exhibits about natural habitats and then we went to another room to learn about the stars. On our hands and knees we crawled into an inflatable planetarium and sat in a circle. Faintly against the gray tarp we could make out constellations.
I was sitting, legs crossed, with J leaning against my side. It smelled like dirty socks and my eyes just couldn't adjust to the darkness. Couldn't seen what was right in front of me.
"Close your eyes for ten seconds," the tour guide told us. "Close your eyes for ten seconds, and when you open them again, you'll be able to see better."
My heart swelled again. In those moments, I hear with different ears. I see with different eyes. Every small word, every quick phrase, can quickly transform into wisdom and truth.
I covered J's eyes and he covered mine. We counted to ten. And when we opened our eyes again, the stars and outlined constellations were bright and evident to both of us.
Just close your eyes... she'd said. Just close your eyes, just for a few seconds. And when you open them again, you'll be able to see better.
The eyes of my heart are closed. Counting to the proverbial "ten".
I want to see better.
-
Back on the bus, I reached over the back of my seat and grabbed T's hand again.
"Remember the squeezes?" I asked him and he began to rub his face with my hand. "Yes, Miss Anna. Three squeezes." I nodded and squeezed his hand three times, while saying "It means, I (squeeze) love (squeeze) you (squeeze)."
"Like this?" He squeezed three times.
"Just like that."
He smiled and curled up in his seat and we started driving home.
Right before we got off the bus, I had my arm resting over the back of the seat. Quietly, T reached up and slipped his hand into mine.
And squeezed three times.
unplanned
Dark, halos of light.
Uncomfortable in my space.
Questions float around in my head and I am amazed I even ask them.
I am between here and there.
Transitioning between yesterday and today.
As if I am straddling an invisible boundary, not wholly present anywhere.
Questions. They drive my conscious...
Propelling me into depths to explore and hide.
Who could have known?
I am heavy, under a barrage of it all.
This was not how it was meant to be.
Head down, one foot in front of the other.
Uncomfortable in my space.
Questions float around in my head and I am amazed I even ask them.
I am between here and there.
Transitioning between yesterday and today.
As if I am straddling an invisible boundary, not wholly present anywhere.
Questions. They drive my conscious...
Propelling me into depths to explore and hide.
Who could have known?
I am heavy, under a barrage of it all.
This was not how it was meant to be.
Head down, one foot in front of the other.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
progress & body image
Last night I stepped on a scale.
For the first time in months and months. Now I know how much my body weighs.
This number used to bother me. My body used to bother me. Insecurity has always been one of my greatest weaknesses. My physical appearance, the greatest source of woe. (I remember being in elementary school and a girl telling me I had an ugly nose -- girls are the worst.) My body is, after all, somewhat deformed. I'm divided in half by a huge scar and have this really unfortunate protruding rib... well. Anyway. There's lots of things I could mourn about my physical appearance.
And I used to mourn them.
I used to hide in baggy clothes. Shy away from mirrors. Fail to make eye contact. Argue with anyone who gave me a compliment. I'd dread getting on those scales. And HATED having my picture taken.
It's been a long, hard battle. I've been fighting for self worth. Fighting for beauty. Fighting for my identity. Fighting for the very space I take up in this world.
But almost three years ago now, something changed. In January of 2009, I stepped into a gym.
It wasn't the first time. But it was the first time, which did not lead to failure. Which did not lead to quitting.
After five months, I'd lost almost 60 inches and 25 pounds.
I had begun an outward transformation.
Three years later, I keep dropping inches and have gained almost all the weight back in muscle.
The outward transformation continues. Steadily, healthily.
It's the inner transformation that has taken me by surprise.
At some point this year, something changed.
Something that had been in process for years... suddenly emerged.
If you know me, you can see it too.
-
I have embraced my physical body. The shape God gave me. The narrow, sloping shoulders. The small waist. The massive hips and butt. The short legs.
The scoliosis.
The high cheekbones. The green eyes. The crooked teeth.
-
Exercise has become my therapy. Strength has become my goal.
I know who I am.
And my appearance has fallen into step.
-
I was in the middle of a circuit the other night, and realized I had plateaued. My workout was boring and was no longer doing anything but maintaining. I was ready for some sore muscles and some more flexibility and a stronger heart.
So I did my research. Utilized some resources. And the next time I hit the gym, I walked out with legs like jelly, drenched in sweat.
I pushed myself. Tried something that was hard for me. Attempted something my body didn't know how to do yet. And I didn't do it well the first time. One-legged straight dead lifts proved to be a wobbly challenge. Resulting in an extremely sore hamstring.
I was in love with progress.
With whatever growth just happened.
-
So when I stepped on the scale last night, and the number was higher than expected, it didn't even phase me.
I am not 157.
That is not who I am.
And for the first time I believe that.
For the first time, since perhaps I was 15 years old, I can walk into a room without apologizing. Without cowering, for fear of falling short.
I know who I am.
On the inside and the outside.
And I like who I'm becoming.
As I progress, you'll hear about it. As the numbers change and the workouts change, I'll report. This victory should not go unacknowledged.
For the first time in months and months. Now I know how much my body weighs.
This number used to bother me. My body used to bother me. Insecurity has always been one of my greatest weaknesses. My physical appearance, the greatest source of woe. (I remember being in elementary school and a girl telling me I had an ugly nose -- girls are the worst.) My body is, after all, somewhat deformed. I'm divided in half by a huge scar and have this really unfortunate protruding rib... well. Anyway. There's lots of things I could mourn about my physical appearance.
And I used to mourn them.
I used to hide in baggy clothes. Shy away from mirrors. Fail to make eye contact. Argue with anyone who gave me a compliment. I'd dread getting on those scales. And HATED having my picture taken.
It's been a long, hard battle. I've been fighting for self worth. Fighting for beauty. Fighting for my identity. Fighting for the very space I take up in this world.
But almost three years ago now, something changed. In January of 2009, I stepped into a gym.
It wasn't the first time. But it was the first time, which did not lead to failure. Which did not lead to quitting.
After five months, I'd lost almost 60 inches and 25 pounds.
I had begun an outward transformation.
Three years later, I keep dropping inches and have gained almost all the weight back in muscle.
The outward transformation continues. Steadily, healthily.
It's the inner transformation that has taken me by surprise.
At some point this year, something changed.
Something that had been in process for years... suddenly emerged.
If you know me, you can see it too.
-
I have embraced my physical body. The shape God gave me. The narrow, sloping shoulders. The small waist. The massive hips and butt. The short legs.
The scoliosis.
The high cheekbones. The green eyes. The crooked teeth.
-
Exercise has become my therapy. Strength has become my goal.
I know who I am.
And my appearance has fallen into step.
-
I was in the middle of a circuit the other night, and realized I had plateaued. My workout was boring and was no longer doing anything but maintaining. I was ready for some sore muscles and some more flexibility and a stronger heart.
So I did my research. Utilized some resources. And the next time I hit the gym, I walked out with legs like jelly, drenched in sweat.
I pushed myself. Tried something that was hard for me. Attempted something my body didn't know how to do yet. And I didn't do it well the first time. One-legged straight dead lifts proved to be a wobbly challenge. Resulting in an extremely sore hamstring.
I was in love with progress.
With whatever growth just happened.
-
So when I stepped on the scale last night, and the number was higher than expected, it didn't even phase me.
I am not 157.
That is not who I am.
And for the first time I believe that.
For the first time, since perhaps I was 15 years old, I can walk into a room without apologizing. Without cowering, for fear of falling short.
I know who I am.
On the inside and the outside.
And I like who I'm becoming.
As I progress, you'll hear about it. As the numbers change and the workouts change, I'll report. This victory should not go unacknowledged.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
breaking a cycle
This semester I am taking a sociology class called "Control and Prevention of Crime and Delinquency".
Confession? I haven't even cracked the textbook. But I get this stuff. I understand it. I spend the majority of my time talking about the very things that the professor is trying to teach about. And I have a motive for learning how to control and prevent the two very things perpetuating a cycle of violence and poverty amongst my children.
They are mine, in the very sense my heart loves them as much as it is humanly possible to love a child who is not your own. And I have devoted my life, in many literal senses, to inciting change and bringing hope. I want to get in the way. Their way.
In my purse is a folded-up post-it note. I remember writing it in my office, years ago. "Break the cycle of poverty and violence by investing in the lives of children." A three year old post-it note has survived. Because on it, is written my life's mission.
For my sociology class today I had to do a homework assignment. Read a book, trace a family lineage, and create two discussion questions. Did I read the book? No. Did I go to the library late last night, find the book in the massive William T. Young library and then find a summary of the book online? Absolutely.
All God's Children, by Butterfield. Written about the life and lineage of Willie Bosket. New York's most dangerous criminal.
A story about a boy.
With a familiar diagnosis. Brilliant. Funny. Descending from generations of hardened criminals, brilliant men. Who were all searching for one thing.
Respect.
My professor is a young guy. Really intelligent and awkwardly funny. Great at making you feel smart too. He's interested in what your opinion is, but he's opinionated to a fault. I bet his best friends want to punch him.
He came to talk to my discussion group (none of whom had finished reading the book). And a classmate told him I was on to something (meaning, "Anna, make something up. Quick!") Hmph.
"I'm in social work," I explained. I saw the light bulb go off in his eyes. Now he knew why I was in this class. "I work with urban, at-risk youth." He nodded. And that's when my light bulb went off. There are always those moments when something finally makes sense, when dots finally connect, when what happens in class connects with what's happening in the real world. Welcome to my moment.
The cycle of violence in Willie Bosket's family was initiated and perpetuated by an inherent desire to be respected. For generations, this respect has been earned on the streets. How strong a man is, is determined by how hard he fights. How he responds to threats and how he fights back. Intimidation, dominance are all used to assert yourself. It's what's learned. It's the example set. It's the lesson taught.
Honor. Pride.
Once again, it boils down to misdefining "humility" and "strength".
To believing that you are less of a man if you walk away. If you turn the other cheek.
Sitting in the Chem/Phys building today, that's when it clicked.
In order for the cycle of violence and poverty to be broken, we have to find a young boy who is willing to never earn (or lose) the respect of his father. Or the respect of his uncle. Or the respect of his peers. The respect of the brothers in the gang.
To incite change, to transform a neighborhood, to impact generations, we are looking for one little boy.
Who will live out the Gospel to its fullest. Who will walk away from his family. His neighborhood. And not even in a geographical sense. Who will choose a stature of humility and develop a character of integrity. Without emasculating himself. Without separating himself from true community. Without discarding his personality.
Who will find strength and freedom outside the honor and street cred he was raised to covet.
One little boy who will love one little girl. A little girl who must be willing to disregard the societal pressures about her physical appearance and her sexuality. Who has set her standards so high no abusive, neglectful, disrespectful man will ever steal her heart.
My prayer is that there will be more than just one.
That revolution will roll through the streets of the ghetto.
Which is why I do what I do.
I am seeking. The little boys and the little girls.
Because it's nothing I can do. It's nothing I can cause. It's not within my power to change anything or anyone.
It's in them.
And every day, we fight for them.
Confession? I haven't even cracked the textbook. But I get this stuff. I understand it. I spend the majority of my time talking about the very things that the professor is trying to teach about. And I have a motive for learning how to control and prevent the two very things perpetuating a cycle of violence and poverty amongst my children.
They are mine, in the very sense my heart loves them as much as it is humanly possible to love a child who is not your own. And I have devoted my life, in many literal senses, to inciting change and bringing hope. I want to get in the way. Their way.
In my purse is a folded-up post-it note. I remember writing it in my office, years ago. "Break the cycle of poverty and violence by investing in the lives of children." A three year old post-it note has survived. Because on it, is written my life's mission.
For my sociology class today I had to do a homework assignment. Read a book, trace a family lineage, and create two discussion questions. Did I read the book? No. Did I go to the library late last night, find the book in the massive William T. Young library and then find a summary of the book online? Absolutely.
All God's Children, by Butterfield. Written about the life and lineage of Willie Bosket. New York's most dangerous criminal.
A story about a boy.
With a familiar diagnosis. Brilliant. Funny. Descending from generations of hardened criminals, brilliant men. Who were all searching for one thing.
Respect.
My professor is a young guy. Really intelligent and awkwardly funny. Great at making you feel smart too. He's interested in what your opinion is, but he's opinionated to a fault. I bet his best friends want to punch him.
He came to talk to my discussion group (none of whom had finished reading the book). And a classmate told him I was on to something (meaning, "Anna, make something up. Quick!") Hmph.
"I'm in social work," I explained. I saw the light bulb go off in his eyes. Now he knew why I was in this class. "I work with urban, at-risk youth." He nodded. And that's when my light bulb went off. There are always those moments when something finally makes sense, when dots finally connect, when what happens in class connects with what's happening in the real world. Welcome to my moment.
The cycle of violence in Willie Bosket's family was initiated and perpetuated by an inherent desire to be respected. For generations, this respect has been earned on the streets. How strong a man is, is determined by how hard he fights. How he responds to threats and how he fights back. Intimidation, dominance are all used to assert yourself. It's what's learned. It's the example set. It's the lesson taught.
Honor. Pride.
Once again, it boils down to misdefining "humility" and "strength".
To believing that you are less of a man if you walk away. If you turn the other cheek.
Sitting in the Chem/Phys building today, that's when it clicked.
In order for the cycle of violence and poverty to be broken, we have to find a young boy who is willing to never earn (or lose) the respect of his father. Or the respect of his uncle. Or the respect of his peers. The respect of the brothers in the gang.
To incite change, to transform a neighborhood, to impact generations, we are looking for one little boy.
Who will live out the Gospel to its fullest. Who will walk away from his family. His neighborhood. And not even in a geographical sense. Who will choose a stature of humility and develop a character of integrity. Without emasculating himself. Without separating himself from true community. Without discarding his personality.
Who will find strength and freedom outside the honor and street cred he was raised to covet.
One little boy who will love one little girl. A little girl who must be willing to disregard the societal pressures about her physical appearance and her sexuality. Who has set her standards so high no abusive, neglectful, disrespectful man will ever steal her heart.
My prayer is that there will be more than just one.
That revolution will roll through the streets of the ghetto.
Which is why I do what I do.
I am seeking. The little boys and the little girls.
Because it's nothing I can do. It's nothing I can cause. It's not within my power to change anything or anyone.
It's in them.
And every day, we fight for them.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
not wasted
And so then I come to Him asking, "why are You being so quiet?"
When I've been asking for answers and help and relief. Reprieve from the battle. He withholds His voice. And in frustration, because I know Him well enough, I cry out.
"I know You have something to say," the air catches my words and I feel silly.
Growing up, Larry used to talk about cheap lessons. As in, the price we pay for something learned. Four hundred dollars for a college elective we hated -- a low price to learn something valuable about ourselves and our aptitudes.
Recently, I just paid a relatively petty price for a big life lesson. My first instinct was to mourn wasted time. Wasted energy. Wasted hope. I was embarrassed that I was wrong. Embarrassed that, actually, I'd been right and not heeded.
A conversation with Larry ended with these reassuring words, the words of a father: "No. Never wasted."
And so I drive the narrow roads. Missing Him and just barely keeping my head above water.
Life is hard.
My heart is callused and my hope is sparse. My muscles are tired and I'm craving deep sleep. My joints ache as if I were decades older than I am. Reprieve is found in sweat. But I can't help but feeling like I'm closing my eyes and barreling through -- risk. Just hoping I make it to the other side. It is so hard to achieve excellence here. I have settled for survival. Assuming the other side of this season will be different.
For the past few months, He has been showing up as a yard worker. Pruning trees. Cutting grass. Trimming shrubs. Shoveling mulch. Clearing debris. Those sunglasses. Those dirty hands. I see Him and I know what He's trying to say.
I know He's preparing.
I think we just had a harvest I didn't even acknowledge. And now it's time to let the field rest before planting begins again. So we're digging up roots. And clearing leaves.
And He's sending lots of rain.
So while driving down the narrow roads, missing Him, I asked "why are You being so quiet?"
No answer.
"I'm going to need You to show up today." I looked around. If words weren't working, if listening wasn't helping, perhaps I would revert to an old tactic. Perhaps, then, our love language, mine and His, is nonverbal.
Maybe He's a visual kind of guy.
"Red." I said, hands on the steering wheel. "That's how I want You to show up to me today. Simply. In the color red."
I laughed at myself, even saying it. Deeply knowing Him well enough...
At the stop light a red truck pulling a trailer with a lawn mower turned in front of me.
I laughed again. Sometimes He moves so quickly. In a secret way only He and I understand.
It is because of this, because of doves and the wind and rainless storms, I believe. What a doubter I am. A Gideon. A Thomas.
Almost home, I stopped at a stop sign and looked up. My eyes were drawn to him, walking down the street to my right.
In his red shirt.
With the words written across his chest, white block letters.
"not wasted"
I waited at the stop sign longer than I needed. Watching the voice of God walk by, personified.
This quiet season of hard work and striving and failing and fighting has not been wasted. The season when my field has not produced a harvest.
He's still at work.
All this has not been wasted.
And so I take a deep breath and fight a little harder. Fighting for what will be, what is. Deliberately stopping long enough to refocus. To celebrate small victories. And pursue healing.
Open your eyes, He whispered. I'm still here.
When I've been asking for answers and help and relief. Reprieve from the battle. He withholds His voice. And in frustration, because I know Him well enough, I cry out.
"I know You have something to say," the air catches my words and I feel silly.
Growing up, Larry used to talk about cheap lessons. As in, the price we pay for something learned. Four hundred dollars for a college elective we hated -- a low price to learn something valuable about ourselves and our aptitudes.
Recently, I just paid a relatively petty price for a big life lesson. My first instinct was to mourn wasted time. Wasted energy. Wasted hope. I was embarrassed that I was wrong. Embarrassed that, actually, I'd been right and not heeded.
A conversation with Larry ended with these reassuring words, the words of a father: "No. Never wasted."
And so I drive the narrow roads. Missing Him and just barely keeping my head above water.
Life is hard.
My heart is callused and my hope is sparse. My muscles are tired and I'm craving deep sleep. My joints ache as if I were decades older than I am. Reprieve is found in sweat. But I can't help but feeling like I'm closing my eyes and barreling through -- risk. Just hoping I make it to the other side. It is so hard to achieve excellence here. I have settled for survival. Assuming the other side of this season will be different.
For the past few months, He has been showing up as a yard worker. Pruning trees. Cutting grass. Trimming shrubs. Shoveling mulch. Clearing debris. Those sunglasses. Those dirty hands. I see Him and I know what He's trying to say.
I know He's preparing.
I think we just had a harvest I didn't even acknowledge. And now it's time to let the field rest before planting begins again. So we're digging up roots. And clearing leaves.
And He's sending lots of rain.
So while driving down the narrow roads, missing Him, I asked "why are You being so quiet?"
No answer.
"I'm going to need You to show up today." I looked around. If words weren't working, if listening wasn't helping, perhaps I would revert to an old tactic. Perhaps, then, our love language, mine and His, is nonverbal.
Maybe He's a visual kind of guy.
"Red." I said, hands on the steering wheel. "That's how I want You to show up to me today. Simply. In the color red."
I laughed at myself, even saying it. Deeply knowing Him well enough...
At the stop light a red truck pulling a trailer with a lawn mower turned in front of me.
I laughed again. Sometimes He moves so quickly. In a secret way only He and I understand.
It is because of this, because of doves and the wind and rainless storms, I believe. What a doubter I am. A Gideon. A Thomas.
Almost home, I stopped at a stop sign and looked up. My eyes were drawn to him, walking down the street to my right.
In his red shirt.
With the words written across his chest, white block letters.
"not wasted"
I waited at the stop sign longer than I needed. Watching the voice of God walk by, personified.
This quiet season of hard work and striving and failing and fighting has not been wasted. The season when my field has not produced a harvest.
He's still at work.
All this has not been wasted.
And so I take a deep breath and fight a little harder. Fighting for what will be, what is. Deliberately stopping long enough to refocus. To celebrate small victories. And pursue healing.
Open your eyes, He whispered. I'm still here.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
reclaimed
I've been running from it all summer. Effectively dodging and weaving, turning down my chin and looking the other way. It was pursuing me, in the shadows and on the lips of others.
I would run into it in the grocery store and on the streets and briefly acknowledge with my eyes, turn into the wind, walk the opposite direction. I knew it had no place, had no weight. But it's existence threatened.
Summer heat waves, cool dark nights. Bright lights of traffic and the revealing early morning light.
I took what was handed to me and put it on, perhaps in attempt to disguise. So in the mirror was reflected something not so painfully familiar.
Justification surfaced like an angry bruise and as I crossed enemy lines, I was grazed by the bullets of my own army. Caught in the traffic, precariously standing on the double yellow lines.
Despite the distorted reflection, beneath the guise, still I bear a name. Tattooed deep. Branded. Regardless of the filth, accumulated on hands, cheeks, the heart within still pulsed. I find myself crouched, cowering, hiding from the ensuing battle. Covering my own head, paralyzed in enemy territory.
And my name is called. That name. Loudly. Written in the stars and buried in sand and wiped clean by an empty tomb.
I respond, as instinct. He called my name and I know Him. He called my name and I love Him. He called me to Him and I belonged there, with. Stood, turned, then faced them both. The avoided and the Holy.
I anticipated condemnation, to be overshadowed by shame, guilt. But there in the path of my eyes, stood He with arms reached. He had stepped in front of that which I'd been evading, blocking out the accusatory glow and the spiteful heat. On His lips was my name.
With gentleness He removed the ill fitting coat from my shoulders, wiped the dirt from my cheek with His thumb. The chaos persisted, all around colors blurred and noises folded into one another, and He pulled me close. Remember how I do this. Remember how to do this with Me.
He is one of grace. Grace, which overcomes the shame.
And as the air clears and I find His breath in my lungs again, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in His eyes.
There you are... I whisper. Familiar. Tired, worse for wear. Fully whole and strong in the brokenness. I did not go as far as I thought. I was not as lost as I feared. And over the dissonance I heard Him, you are mine, my child, with whom I'm pleased, whose heart belongs to Me. I know you.
I would run into it in the grocery store and on the streets and briefly acknowledge with my eyes, turn into the wind, walk the opposite direction. I knew it had no place, had no weight. But it's existence threatened.
Summer heat waves, cool dark nights. Bright lights of traffic and the revealing early morning light.
I took what was handed to me and put it on, perhaps in attempt to disguise. So in the mirror was reflected something not so painfully familiar.
Justification surfaced like an angry bruise and as I crossed enemy lines, I was grazed by the bullets of my own army. Caught in the traffic, precariously standing on the double yellow lines.
Despite the distorted reflection, beneath the guise, still I bear a name. Tattooed deep. Branded. Regardless of the filth, accumulated on hands, cheeks, the heart within still pulsed. I find myself crouched, cowering, hiding from the ensuing battle. Covering my own head, paralyzed in enemy territory.
And my name is called. That name. Loudly. Written in the stars and buried in sand and wiped clean by an empty tomb.
I respond, as instinct. He called my name and I know Him. He called my name and I love Him. He called me to Him and I belonged there, with. Stood, turned, then faced them both. The avoided and the Holy.
I anticipated condemnation, to be overshadowed by shame, guilt. But there in the path of my eyes, stood He with arms reached. He had stepped in front of that which I'd been evading, blocking out the accusatory glow and the spiteful heat. On His lips was my name.
With gentleness He removed the ill fitting coat from my shoulders, wiped the dirt from my cheek with His thumb. The chaos persisted, all around colors blurred and noises folded into one another, and He pulled me close. Remember how I do this. Remember how to do this with Me.
He is one of grace. Grace, which overcomes the shame.
And as the air clears and I find His breath in my lungs again, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in His eyes.
There you are... I whisper. Familiar. Tired, worse for wear. Fully whole and strong in the brokenness. I did not go as far as I thought. I was not as lost as I feared. And over the dissonance I heard Him, you are mine, my child, with whom I'm pleased, whose heart belongs to Me. I know you.
celebration
I had to give him a practice spelling test. Ten words. Wide-ruled paper. #2 pencil. Head bent low, he huffed and puffed and wrote down each word after I said it out loud. When he finished spelling each one, he would look up and nod real quick, "ready, Miss Anna."
After the first test, he got more than a few words wrong. So I sent him back to study for a few minutes and then we did a second test. "I'm not grading this one, little boy," I told him. "Do it as many times with me as you can so when your teacher gives you the actual test, you'll know it!"
Second time around, only one word was spelled incorrectly.
Celebration.
For the life of us, we couldn't get that word spelled right.
So after a few minutes of tickling out all the frustration, shaking out all the defeat, we marched into the other room.
I wrote CELEBRATION as big as I could, as high as I could on the white board.
"Copy it five times," I instructed and handed him the marker. Then I went to a volunteer and explained the situation. "When he's done, erase it all. And have him write it five more times on his own. He will complain. But tell him I said so." Volunteer just smiled, understanding in a way only a father could.
Ten minutes later I walked back into the room. Volunteer was wiping down the white board and my little boy was standing beside him, marker in hand.
"Miss Anna!" He exclaimed. "He made me write it all by myself. Did you tell him to make me do that? Shooo..." All he wanted to do was go play basketball. But I was determined.
"Spell celebration for me," I pointed at the board. With only a little protesting then, he walked up to the board and in the messy way of a fourth-grader, he wrote celebration.
He handed me the marker and stepped back from the board. I almost started crying. "Little boy," I squatted down next to him and took his face in my hands. "Do you know what you just did?"
His little brow furrowed and he looked at me and then back at the board. Then back at me again.
"You spelled celebration right. All on your own," I whispered in his ear and turned his face to take a look at the big word. The big word he'd spelled correctly. My heart was too big for my chest.
-
This afternoon I walked up into our tutoring area. Everyone was settled with homework and snacks and tutoring partners. He came running then out of his study room, wide-ruled paper in his hand.
"Miss Anna! LOOK!"
He handed me the piece of paper. Numbered one through eleven. At the top his teacher had written 110%.
Every single word spelled right. Plus a bonus word.
"Miss Anna," he put his forehead against mine, "look. I spelled celebration right."
I think I almost squeezed him in half.
We jumped up and down and gave high-fives and fist bumps and then I squeezed the breath out of him again. I stopped and got down on his level and held his face in my hands and said, "I am so proud of you, little boy. So proud."
How often is this the story of my life?
I must learn a lesson over and over and over again. I must stand at the white board and rewrite the word until my hand hurts. Then He erases what I've been copying and asks me to keep writing. I remember thinking, why must I keep doing this?
Then one day, I will be called on to write the word on my own. For a grade. For a purpose. No longer just for practice. And I will know how.
After all that time, then, we will truly celebrate. What it means to overcome. To learn. To repeat the same lesson over and again. Until we finally get it. Finally.
After the first test, he got more than a few words wrong. So I sent him back to study for a few minutes and then we did a second test. "I'm not grading this one, little boy," I told him. "Do it as many times with me as you can so when your teacher gives you the actual test, you'll know it!"
Second time around, only one word was spelled incorrectly.
Celebration.
For the life of us, we couldn't get that word spelled right.
So after a few minutes of tickling out all the frustration, shaking out all the defeat, we marched into the other room.
I wrote CELEBRATION as big as I could, as high as I could on the white board.
"Copy it five times," I instructed and handed him the marker. Then I went to a volunteer and explained the situation. "When he's done, erase it all. And have him write it five more times on his own. He will complain. But tell him I said so." Volunteer just smiled, understanding in a way only a father could.
Ten minutes later I walked back into the room. Volunteer was wiping down the white board and my little boy was standing beside him, marker in hand.
"Miss Anna!" He exclaimed. "He made me write it all by myself. Did you tell him to make me do that? Shooo..." All he wanted to do was go play basketball. But I was determined.
"Spell celebration for me," I pointed at the board. With only a little protesting then, he walked up to the board and in the messy way of a fourth-grader, he wrote celebration.
He handed me the marker and stepped back from the board. I almost started crying. "Little boy," I squatted down next to him and took his face in my hands. "Do you know what you just did?"
His little brow furrowed and he looked at me and then back at the board. Then back at me again.
"You spelled celebration right. All on your own," I whispered in his ear and turned his face to take a look at the big word. The big word he'd spelled correctly. My heart was too big for my chest.
-
This afternoon I walked up into our tutoring area. Everyone was settled with homework and snacks and tutoring partners. He came running then out of his study room, wide-ruled paper in his hand.
"Miss Anna! LOOK!"
He handed me the piece of paper. Numbered one through eleven. At the top his teacher had written 110%.
Every single word spelled right. Plus a bonus word.
"Miss Anna," he put his forehead against mine, "look. I spelled celebration right."
I think I almost squeezed him in half.
We jumped up and down and gave high-fives and fist bumps and then I squeezed the breath out of him again. I stopped and got down on his level and held his face in my hands and said, "I am so proud of you, little boy. So proud."
How often is this the story of my life?
I must learn a lesson over and over and over again. I must stand at the white board and rewrite the word until my hand hurts. Then He erases what I've been copying and asks me to keep writing. I remember thinking, why must I keep doing this?
Then one day, I will be called on to write the word on my own. For a grade. For a purpose. No longer just for practice. And I will know how.
After all that time, then, we will truly celebrate. What it means to overcome. To learn. To repeat the same lesson over and again. Until we finally get it. Finally.
Friday, October 7, 2011
settle
September 30th:
My younger sister is getting married tomorrow.
Of course, this is making my mind spin a little bit.
I keep wondering what this time will look like for me. A wedding. A new name. A life with a man.
I simply cannot even imagine it anymore. I cannot fathom the sort of man it will take to match up with me. The sort of man who would voluntarily (or not so voluntarily) pick me. And not just pick me. To be honest, I get picked all the time. I am no longer invisible as I once feared.
But I want to be chosen.
I want to be the one and only.
This, my friends, is much harder than you remember it being. And much harder than you might imagine it to be. Only you who are standing right here with me know.
I am inventing myself. Building myself. As I always have. Fighting for the future. I am a scrappy girl. Who loves black culture and wildflowers. Who wears scarves and doesn't brush her hair and wants a son with an afro. I am comfortable where most people walk in fear. And my ability to sink, to plant myself -- to just sit and watch the world -- is inexhaustible.
I have survived. And crashed. With open eyes and strong arms, I'm learning slowly how to put one foot in front of the other.
But over time, through heartbreak, through the development of calluses and the thickening of my skin, I've begun to believe a lie.
But the reassurance I live with is that I know how to do this. I am independent. And brave. I get stronger every day.
The only thing is... I really want to wake up in the morning with him next to me. And I don't want to raise children without a father.
But what I know, what I grew up with, what I've experienced the last few years, just isn't going to cut it. It's just not enough. It's just not worth it.
So I'm alone. Just me. Independent and self-sufficient. Busy as hell and feisty.
The lie creeps in late at night. It's in his eyes and in his hands and it's on her left hand and it's all wrapped up in the phone call I didn't get. I fight against it like I fight against cycles of poverty and violence. Like I fight against apathy and hunger. An invisible enemy with visible effects.
But I know one moment will change it all. Whether I am aware of it as it passes over me, or I recognize it in retrospect. When I am chosen. Seen. Above the rest. When I am the only one he sees. Then the spinning tires will finally find traction. And a journey will begin.
We'll see what happens. But I'm resting now, knowing I know who I am. I am stronger than before. And when it happens one day, I will have a whole woman to bring into the equation.
My younger sister is getting married tomorrow.
Of course, this is making my mind spin a little bit.
I keep wondering what this time will look like for me. A wedding. A new name. A life with a man.
I simply cannot even imagine it anymore. I cannot fathom the sort of man it will take to match up with me. The sort of man who would voluntarily (or not so voluntarily) pick me. And not just pick me. To be honest, I get picked all the time. I am no longer invisible as I once feared.
But I want to be chosen.
I want to be the one and only.
This, my friends, is much harder than you remember it being. And much harder than you might imagine it to be. Only you who are standing right here with me know.
I am inventing myself. Building myself. As I always have. Fighting for the future. I am a scrappy girl. Who loves black culture and wildflowers. Who wears scarves and doesn't brush her hair and wants a son with an afro. I am comfortable where most people walk in fear. And my ability to sink, to plant myself -- to just sit and watch the world -- is inexhaustible.
I have survived. And crashed. With open eyes and strong arms, I'm learning slowly how to put one foot in front of the other.
But over time, through heartbreak, through the development of calluses and the thickening of my skin, I've begun to believe a lie.
But the reassurance I live with is that I know how to do this. I am independent. And brave. I get stronger every day.
The only thing is... I really want to wake up in the morning with him next to me. And I don't want to raise children without a father.
But what I know, what I grew up with, what I've experienced the last few years, just isn't going to cut it. It's just not enough. It's just not worth it.
So I'm alone. Just me. Independent and self-sufficient. Busy as hell and feisty.
The lie creeps in late at night. It's in his eyes and in his hands and it's on her left hand and it's all wrapped up in the phone call I didn't get. I fight against it like I fight against cycles of poverty and violence. Like I fight against apathy and hunger. An invisible enemy with visible effects.
But I know one moment will change it all. Whether I am aware of it as it passes over me, or I recognize it in retrospect. When I am chosen. Seen. Above the rest. When I am the only one he sees. Then the spinning tires will finally find traction. And a journey will begin.
We'll see what happens. But I'm resting now, knowing I know who I am. I am stronger than before. And when it happens one day, I will have a whole woman to bring into the equation.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
confess
If I didn't think I needed the grace of God before, I most certainly do now. Years of preaching His goodness, His faithfulness, His love for me. Years of swearing by the gift of forgiveness, prepared me for this moment. And then I do stupid shit. When the enemy tries to take hold, His great good arm comes around, and with authority and love says, "No. She is mine."
Sitting in the quiet of my own space, guilt hits. And I know exactly where to go with it. Past justification, past reasoning, straight to Him.
Sitting in the quiet of my own space, guilt hits. And I know exactly where to go with it. Past justification, past reasoning, straight to Him.
Friday, September 30, 2011
healing agents
It's pretty simple. There are just some things in life with the natural ability to heal your soul.
In a spontaneous moment, my best friend and I compiled a list. My ideas spawned out of desire -- in this not-so-comforting season, I'm craving some comfort. All these battle wounds need some healing and well... not all healing is within our control.
But some of it is.
Happy Meditation
Whip my Hair
Mexican food (esp. black beans)
Coffee
Holding hands
Ice cream
Sunshine
Bear hugs
Naps
Blueberries
Sweat
Eskimo kisses
Sand
Hot chocolate
Movie night
Wind
Having your hair played with
Compliments from kids
Sleeping in
New earrings
Home cooked meal
Spontaneous dancing
Second kisses
90's music
Babies falling asleep in your arms
Forehead kisses
Sushi
Breakfast for dinner
First day of spring
First day of summer
Putting on clothes right out of the dryer
Feel free to add to the list. We need all the healing we can get.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
"A"
I think he's an angel.
Something in his eyes. I've seen it before. On an elevator last year. In a man in a blue Chevy at the park.
I caught him. Radiating.
Reading over spelling words, writing and erasing and rewriting words.
I leaned in. He looked up. Said something I don't remember because I was paralyzed by the light I saw there.
As if, in their depths, he was telling me a secret: "I am here for you," his eyes twinkled, "just in case you got confused and thought you were here for me."
He went back to homework, head bent low, eraser shavings everywhere. But I just stared at him suspiciously. Knowing in my heart, the only way sometimes we know truths, how often we entertain angels. The ones who are strategically placed in our lives, who require more, who wear us out. The ones we are better for knowing.
We are better for him being in our lives. Every thrown chair, every punched wall, every blank stare. Stretching us. Wearing out our hearts and our arms and draining us, so we are empty of ourselves. So the One who sent him can move in.
Don't you dare smile, we tease. Thinking we are drawing something out of him he would otherwise reserve.
Don't you dare love me, he responds by shuffling his feet and dipping his chin to hide the truth flirting with the corners of his mouth.
I dare you.
Something in his eyes. I've seen it before. On an elevator last year. In a man in a blue Chevy at the park.
I caught him. Radiating.
Reading over spelling words, writing and erasing and rewriting words.
I leaned in. He looked up. Said something I don't remember because I was paralyzed by the light I saw there.
As if, in their depths, he was telling me a secret: "I am here for you," his eyes twinkled, "just in case you got confused and thought you were here for me."
He went back to homework, head bent low, eraser shavings everywhere. But I just stared at him suspiciously. Knowing in my heart, the only way sometimes we know truths, how often we entertain angels. The ones who are strategically placed in our lives, who require more, who wear us out. The ones we are better for knowing.
We are better for him being in our lives. Every thrown chair, every punched wall, every blank stare. Stretching us. Wearing out our hearts and our arms and draining us, so we are empty of ourselves. So the One who sent him can move in.
Don't you dare smile, we tease. Thinking we are drawing something out of him he would otherwise reserve.
Don't you dare love me, he responds by shuffling his feet and dipping his chin to hide the truth flirting with the corners of his mouth.
I dare you.
to tell the truth
Honesty is pulled out of me like the nail I just pulled out of my tire.
Punctured.
Let out all the old air. Hit the ground. Useless. Unbalanced. Dangerous, even.
To tell the truth, to expose. Perhaps, like a splinter, only removal will heal.
I still feel sick over it. Maybe use my words to guide, to heal, to remedy.
Guilty. Refusing to hold on to shame. Or accept it from another.
But really. Nail's gone now.
Plug it up with appropriate material.
Refill with clean air.
Keep going.
Punctured.
Let out all the old air. Hit the ground. Useless. Unbalanced. Dangerous, even.
To tell the truth, to expose. Perhaps, like a splinter, only removal will heal.
I still feel sick over it. Maybe use my words to guide, to heal, to remedy.
Guilty. Refusing to hold on to shame. Or accept it from another.
But really. Nail's gone now.
Plug it up with appropriate material.
Refill with clean air.
Keep going.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
the village
Recently I was hit with an overwhelming sense of incapability. After barreling into the new semester somewhat self-assured and utterly excited. After almost a month of being horribly physically sick. I hit a wall. Physical sickness put me to bed for eight hours in the middle of the day. And kept me far from par for the rest of the week.
But the next wall I hit was an emotional one. Of insecurity. Of self-doubt. Of fear. Damn that wall.
I am not a go-getter. I like instructions. I don't want you to watch me while I do what I'm supposed to be doing. And the only thing that makes me squirm more than criticism are compliments. I am messed up.
I don't get ideas like I used to. But I can argue and advocate and intervene like my life depends on it. I give great hugs. And I listen well.
But sometimes those things don't seem like enough. I wonder, in the back of my mind, if I will ever do what I do well. If I will ever make a difference. Or if anyone will ever want me on their team.
I've been overwhelmed by another realization lately. A more powerful one. One with weight and truth.
The organization I work with right now has set up this eco-map for each child involved in our program. We call it "the Village". A six-part system constructed to surround the child (the sixth aspect) with the community, support, direction, discipleship, and counseling he or she needs to succeed. Standing in the office of the elementary school yesterday, I listened to a conversation about one of our favorite boys.
And I got this mental image. Not of a village. But of an army.
I am part of an army. An army who has assembled in order to defend the lives and hearts of children. One child at a time. We have surrounded them, shields raised against the world and so much of the bad.
We are advocating for these children in a way unprecedented.
Think about it. What if five specific, consistent people intentionally loved on, invested in, and spent time with you? What if you had an army? An army of soldiers who fought for you behind the scenes. Who spent hours at night, unable to sleep, because they knew you were on the brink of transformation. What if you had even one person praying for you? Two or three of those five who noticed the littlest bit of progress and commended you for it. What if your achievements, however small, were celebrated? What if you got bombarded with hugs, and at the end of every argument, or every punishment, you were told you were loved? That you were special.
I wish I had that.
That wall I hit knocked me out for a while. Made me want to curl up in bed and hug a pillow and ignore the alarm. I don't like not being good at things. I don't like being uncertain. But whether or not I move, whether or not I continue "doing" directly effects the lives and hearts of the ones I love most.
They don't have time for me to be insecure.
I sat down with "T" on Tuesday. I had noticed something different in him, something which drew me to him and demanded my slowness and intentionality. Quickly I explained to the teacher I am certified as a para educator and she smiled, sending me over to sit with T and help him with his free writing assignment. Today I went back to the lunch room and found T, who carried on a perfectly random conversation about farmers and spoons and pudding. It was, perhaps, the best lunch hour I'd had in weeks. Before I left I carefully touched his shoulder and fixed the hood on his jacket. Quietly he turned over his shoulder and mouthed "thank you" and smiled. Well. His eyes smiled. And I noticed because he was making eye contact. My heart swelled.
This afternoon I sat across from another one of my favorites. The consistent theme of our conversation was "choices". I watched him get rattled. Brow furrow. Lips purse. Jaw set. I leaned over and whispered, quiet enough so he'd have to lean in to listen, "You have two choices."
In a matter of minutes he had straightened up in his chair. For the remainder of the day, whenever anger and frustration tempted, all I had to say was "make a choice". And he would. Good choices too.
They need me to be teachable. And brave. They need me to have open eyes and a healthy mind. My capacity to hear and understand directly impacts them.
They need me to be humble. Humble enough to know this story is not about me. That I may not know the best way to do this. Humble enough to know that I am not really needed -- the story goes on without me. I am not important in the grand scheme -- but I must be humble enough to know how to play my part well.
They need me to teach them what humble means. Maybe only by living that way.
And today, Marcus and I were hit with that realization at the same time.
"Humble -- yeah I know what humble means. Humble means poor."
I stopped with my hand on his head and looked up at Marcus. No, no, no.
"What does it mean then? Sad?"
In a quiet moment at the end of the day, in the middle of the routine of lining up for the bus, truth was revealed to Marcus and me. A seed, unearthed. The root of a dirty weed, which has been growing in the ghettos and in the suburbs and up the walls of the high rises and on the concrete steps of the shot gun houses. We saw it, then. And I swear we both almost feverishly attacked it with a spade.
They don't know what it means to be humble.
And so we find ourselves here. A village. An army. Fighting a battle, which makes our fatigue make sense. It's a wonder we don't walk around with bruises and scrapes, from the forces we're up against.
It is in this, we find these children make us better. In our attempt to rescue them from the hell they were born into, they have propelled us into growth and strength and purpose unmatched. They require authenticity from me. Self-examination. Honesty. It is because of them I am getting better.
It is because of them I will pull myself away from the shadow of that wall. I will wash my hands of the self-pity and the insecurity, which threatens to taint everything I touch. And I will either scale that wall and leave it behind, or hack through it -- damaging it, weakening it, so that one day it will collapse entirely.
Maybe one day I'll be wise enough to be like "A". Who knows himself well enough that on Monday he said quietly, "I'm not mad. I just don't want to talk right now."
Hello. My name is Anna. I am tired and a little lonely. Pretty sore from fighting a fight I'm not strong enough to fight yet. What I wouldn't give tonight for a village of my own. For the five who suit up in their armor just to fight for me. But then I smile. Because my kids don't know that's what we're doing for them. They just think I'm some bossy white girl who can't play basketball and likes to give them hugs.
I could have an army and never know it either.
But the next wall I hit was an emotional one. Of insecurity. Of self-doubt. Of fear. Damn that wall.
I am not a go-getter. I like instructions. I don't want you to watch me while I do what I'm supposed to be doing. And the only thing that makes me squirm more than criticism are compliments. I am messed up.
I don't get ideas like I used to. But I can argue and advocate and intervene like my life depends on it. I give great hugs. And I listen well.
But sometimes those things don't seem like enough. I wonder, in the back of my mind, if I will ever do what I do well. If I will ever make a difference. Or if anyone will ever want me on their team.
I've been overwhelmed by another realization lately. A more powerful one. One with weight and truth.
The organization I work with right now has set up this eco-map for each child involved in our program. We call it "the Village". A six-part system constructed to surround the child (the sixth aspect) with the community, support, direction, discipleship, and counseling he or she needs to succeed. Standing in the office of the elementary school yesterday, I listened to a conversation about one of our favorite boys.
And I got this mental image. Not of a village. But of an army.
I am part of an army. An army who has assembled in order to defend the lives and hearts of children. One child at a time. We have surrounded them, shields raised against the world and so much of the bad.
We are advocating for these children in a way unprecedented.
Think about it. What if five specific, consistent people intentionally loved on, invested in, and spent time with you? What if you had an army? An army of soldiers who fought for you behind the scenes. Who spent hours at night, unable to sleep, because they knew you were on the brink of transformation. What if you had even one person praying for you? Two or three of those five who noticed the littlest bit of progress and commended you for it. What if your achievements, however small, were celebrated? What if you got bombarded with hugs, and at the end of every argument, or every punishment, you were told you were loved? That you were special.
I wish I had that.
That wall I hit knocked me out for a while. Made me want to curl up in bed and hug a pillow and ignore the alarm. I don't like not being good at things. I don't like being uncertain. But whether or not I move, whether or not I continue "doing" directly effects the lives and hearts of the ones I love most.
They don't have time for me to be insecure.
I sat down with "T" on Tuesday. I had noticed something different in him, something which drew me to him and demanded my slowness and intentionality. Quickly I explained to the teacher I am certified as a para educator and she smiled, sending me over to sit with T and help him with his free writing assignment. Today I went back to the lunch room and found T, who carried on a perfectly random conversation about farmers and spoons and pudding. It was, perhaps, the best lunch hour I'd had in weeks. Before I left I carefully touched his shoulder and fixed the hood on his jacket. Quietly he turned over his shoulder and mouthed "thank you" and smiled. Well. His eyes smiled. And I noticed because he was making eye contact. My heart swelled.
This afternoon I sat across from another one of my favorites. The consistent theme of our conversation was "choices". I watched him get rattled. Brow furrow. Lips purse. Jaw set. I leaned over and whispered, quiet enough so he'd have to lean in to listen, "You have two choices."
In a matter of minutes he had straightened up in his chair. For the remainder of the day, whenever anger and frustration tempted, all I had to say was "make a choice". And he would. Good choices too.
They need me to be teachable. And brave. They need me to have open eyes and a healthy mind. My capacity to hear and understand directly impacts them.
They need me to be humble. Humble enough to know this story is not about me. That I may not know the best way to do this. Humble enough to know that I am not really needed -- the story goes on without me. I am not important in the grand scheme -- but I must be humble enough to know how to play my part well.
They need me to teach them what humble means. Maybe only by living that way.
And today, Marcus and I were hit with that realization at the same time.
"Humble -- yeah I know what humble means. Humble means poor."
I stopped with my hand on his head and looked up at Marcus. No, no, no.
"What does it mean then? Sad?"
In a quiet moment at the end of the day, in the middle of the routine of lining up for the bus, truth was revealed to Marcus and me. A seed, unearthed. The root of a dirty weed, which has been growing in the ghettos and in the suburbs and up the walls of the high rises and on the concrete steps of the shot gun houses. We saw it, then. And I swear we both almost feverishly attacked it with a spade.
They don't know what it means to be humble.
And so we find ourselves here. A village. An army. Fighting a battle, which makes our fatigue make sense. It's a wonder we don't walk around with bruises and scrapes, from the forces we're up against.
It is in this, we find these children make us better. In our attempt to rescue them from the hell they were born into, they have propelled us into growth and strength and purpose unmatched. They require authenticity from me. Self-examination. Honesty. It is because of them I am getting better.
It is because of them I will pull myself away from the shadow of that wall. I will wash my hands of the self-pity and the insecurity, which threatens to taint everything I touch. And I will either scale that wall and leave it behind, or hack through it -- damaging it, weakening it, so that one day it will collapse entirely.
Maybe one day I'll be wise enough to be like "A". Who knows himself well enough that on Monday he said quietly, "I'm not mad. I just don't want to talk right now."
Hello. My name is Anna. I am tired and a little lonely. Pretty sore from fighting a fight I'm not strong enough to fight yet. What I wouldn't give tonight for a village of my own. For the five who suit up in their armor just to fight for me. But then I smile. Because my kids don't know that's what we're doing for them. They just think I'm some bossy white girl who can't play basketball and likes to give them hugs.
I could have an army and never know it either.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
real quick
emotions are ridiculous.
one minute, a piece of news has me thinking I'm Jonah and God's sent a storm and I'm fixin to be lunch for a whale.
the next, another piece of news later, and there's a goofy smile plastered on my face.
get it together, anna. get it together.
one minute, a piece of news has me thinking I'm Jonah and God's sent a storm and I'm fixin to be lunch for a whale.
the next, another piece of news later, and there's a goofy smile plastered on my face.
get it together, anna. get it together.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Re:
The fear of it is worse than the falling. The catch in your chest, the adrenaline pulsing in your armpits. Or the dread, heavy in your belly. You know.
I know where my decisions lead.
And so I sit, swinging my battered, bruised legs over the edge. I know. And I want. A word whispers around my ears, tickling the back of my neck. A word I crave. A word whose echo sounds like more.
The world, to me, will never look the same. Once you've taken a glance over the edge, once you've felt the air here at the end of all you know, and learn how you can't reach the end of Him. The words string together. A language their own. One I know, salty on the back of my tongue.
I've been thrown off balance. Thrown by high speed and lack of oxygen. It's not too heavy, but I've been handed more than I know how to hold. Rearrange. Recalibrate. Repack.
Some should be discarded. Thrown over that edge, disregarded. But some newness must stay, must integrate and become part of me. Settle into the stretched out, hollowed, reinforced places. You will see this and reject. What, who, how I am and became at the edges may not fit into the spaces you have.
Identity restored. I find myself distracted and drawn back towards. A steady, deep rhythm in sync with the beating of my own heart. If held still, only for a moment, I will find it again. Truth beats here. The truth within. The truth without. They match.
I know where my decisions lead.
And the power within the words I speak.
One step. One muscle contracts. In the right direction. In the name, for the sake, of the words tickling my ears.
I am right. In tune. Intuitive.
I know people. And I know this edge. I know the emptiness hanging below my feet and I know how I could sit forever and watch the shame fall. But with new scars and stronger muscles and more limber tendons, armed with words the world will try and deflate, I stand up.
The world I will reencounter is not the one I left behind. I dropped so much. And the path's leading elsewhere.
On the edge I collided with truth. In the whirlwind of discovery I lost my breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Find me here. At the edge. Reclaiming breath. Restoring dignity. Redeeming love.
Monday, September 12, 2011
realistic expectations
I'm getting overwhelmed. I am over-stimulated. Experiencing sensory overload. Too many plates are spinning. I'm losing track and am watching, almost helplessly, as one by one plates begin to spin and teeter out of my control.
As desperate as the sentence even sounded. This is how I feel.
It's late Sunday and I'm facing another week. A full schedule. A hard work load. High demand and low funds.
How in the world am I supposed to make this work?
Here's to taking it one step at a time. To setting measurable goals and objectives. To developing action items. Completing tasks.
Here's to setting attainable goals (this doesn't always translate to: easy. But it might.), which I can achieve and then somehow measure the achievement.
So this week my goals are:
1) cook two full meals
2) go to the gym three times
3) get caught up on homework
4) get 6 hours of sleep at night
Simple things. Important things. Possible things.
Because the goals I want to set, look more like:
1) Buy a community center
2) Adopt a baby
3) Speak French
4) Restore the ghetto
Sometimes, easier isn't bad. Sometimes, easier is wiser. Short term goals versus long term goals. Because deep in my belly, I know that the big things are dependent on the little things. And it's faithfulness in the mundane, which prepares you for what's next.
It's just that my "what's next" keeps turning out to be more hardship. More testing. More challenges.
Today there's only so much I can do. I will do so much.
“Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” - St. Francis of Assisi.
As desperate as the sentence even sounded. This is how I feel.
It's late Sunday and I'm facing another week. A full schedule. A hard work load. High demand and low funds.
How in the world am I supposed to make this work?
Here's to taking it one step at a time. To setting measurable goals and objectives. To developing action items. Completing tasks.
Here's to setting attainable goals (this doesn't always translate to: easy. But it might.), which I can achieve and then somehow measure the achievement.
So this week my goals are:
1) cook two full meals
2) go to the gym three times
3) get caught up on homework
4) get 6 hours of sleep at night
Simple things. Important things. Possible things.
Because the goals I want to set, look more like:
1) Buy a community center
2) Adopt a baby
3) Speak French
4) Restore the ghetto
Sometimes, easier isn't bad. Sometimes, easier is wiser. Short term goals versus long term goals. Because deep in my belly, I know that the big things are dependent on the little things. And it's faithfulness in the mundane, which prepares you for what's next.
It's just that my "what's next" keeps turning out to be more hardship. More testing. More challenges.
Today there's only so much I can do. I will do so much.
“Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” - St. Francis of Assisi.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
not by myself
My intuition almost never fails me. Whether or not I listen to it is another issue entirely. But there is a space in my heart reserved for the warnings, the encouragement, the quiet whispers. Therein lies the truth and the voice of the Spirit.
Within just a few minutes last night, while washing dishes, I experienced intervention. In a way long unfamiliar to my heart. I sat back, forearms deep in dish water, and watched. Familiarity soothed and unexpectedness startled. Well, hello.
How dare you? Come now, after all this time. Why choose now, tonight?
But I knew the answer. And I knew the difference. Between the times before and this one. I know, even as light rises this morning, why He stepped in. With words, "I adore you. You are my daughter. You are so special to me."
No condemnation. Just a quick reminding in my forgetting. Draw the line, write in the sand.
Love wins.
In all my lost hope, I repeatedly lose my vision. Like a camera, in and out of focus. My depth of vision is blurred and shallow. Yesterday, floundering in my own mess, I reached out. In defeat, I found joy.
"If I can't find anyone to marry me, Dad, will you help me raise little African boys?"
"Sure".
Perhaps I needed to hear that more than anything. More than from a twenty-something, big, dark skinned boy. Just tell me, again and again if you must, that I will not have to do this alone. This life. This mission.
Just not by myself.
Within just a few minutes last night, while washing dishes, I experienced intervention. In a way long unfamiliar to my heart. I sat back, forearms deep in dish water, and watched. Familiarity soothed and unexpectedness startled. Well, hello.
How dare you? Come now, after all this time. Why choose now, tonight?
But I knew the answer. And I knew the difference. Between the times before and this one. I know, even as light rises this morning, why He stepped in. With words, "I adore you. You are my daughter. You are so special to me."
No condemnation. Just a quick reminding in my forgetting. Draw the line, write in the sand.
Love wins.
In all my lost hope, I repeatedly lose my vision. Like a camera, in and out of focus. My depth of vision is blurred and shallow. Yesterday, floundering in my own mess, I reached out. In defeat, I found joy.
"If I can't find anyone to marry me, Dad, will you help me raise little African boys?"
"Sure".
Perhaps I needed to hear that more than anything. More than from a twenty-something, big, dark skinned boy. Just tell me, again and again if you must, that I will not have to do this alone. This life. This mission.
Just not by myself.
Friday, September 2, 2011
not the end
"I'm kind of hard to handle," I admitted. "I know that. And I'm just really not sure any man would ever pick me."
The words came out of my mouth and I immediately wanted to swallow them. Grab them before they reached anyone's ears. I had been thinking this thought. But saying it aloud, forming the audible words, made it real. What a confession.
Just in the past few weeks, I've let such a confession slip more than once. The last time I may have even whispered I'm not sure I even believe in love anymore.
These words scare me. The truth behind them, rocking me and my ever-expanding world. I was born into a mess. And now I've made my own mess. And it's only a matter of time before my heart starts seeping through the forming cracks, drawing attention to my brokenness. To the way I've changed. I smile as I say that. Knowing you already know.
I am independent. Partially because of my introverted tendencies. Partially as a survival instinct. People are not trustworthy. People will fail you. The hope and truth I cling to is, people will also surprise you.
I have based my life's work on what I believe to be truths: 1) that people will rise to meet expectations (and usually no higher), 2) that you must teach people how to treat you, 3) that if provided them, a minority will seize opportunities, and 4) that people are wholly unpredictable.
And I wonder if I will surprise myself. By overcoming this cynicism. By reaching beyond and discovering myself in a way, which changes everything. Honestly, I thought this had already happened. (In my immaturity and lack of wisdom, I forgot it would undoubtedly happen again.) My word, I've changed so much in the past two years alone. My level of self-awareness, my confidence, my locus of control.
I was in one place, so sure it'd be different elsewhere. And in elsewhere, it is different. It is so very different here. I have to move differently. I see the world differently. I stand differently. Not unlike myself in this place, but much like a different facet of myself.
But there's another elsewhere. A place other than the one before and where I am now. But does it exist? Can my heart have what it needs? Can I let my heart even contemplate this place? Or am I going to have to settle down, dig heels deep, and steady myself in this place.
I don't feel a thing. I started crying over this the other night -- this unwantedness. This desirability without this need. This new level of invisibleness. Oh, to be watched but not seen. To sit back and watch a dream unfold, within arms reach, without need for you. Tears over the way busyness wipes me off the map. What I thought would be a deluge of tears trickled down dimples and the corners of mouth and dried up on chin. Stopped. Dam. Damn.
Almost cried again over something I can't remember. Almost.
But I don't necessarily want to cry. Come, make me laugh. Terrify me. Send the heat, the cold, the salty.
Electricity shot down my spine for a split second. To end in silence and abandonment; the very, which caused the numbness.
To not hurt, in fact may mean to not feel.
And to not feel means I'm hurt deeper. Far deeper than nerves go. It means I lose muscle and limb. And I can only imagine it means I lose my sight. Lose my ability to reach out to others, who are afraid of feeling too. Lose my gift to hold a child in such a way that they are protected from the world.
Here I go. Pressing forward. Reclaiming a certain power in the name of them. For their sake. So that when they come running into my arms, they will both know love and joy. So they can learn. The world, after all, doesn't teach those things.
That may be the only reason I am here.
And then I smile. I am home alone and still I smile -- though no one sees. Because I know the world does not teach love and joy. But children do. Love and joy are children.
So this may be the only reason I am here.
To have dirty feet. And arms heavy with hearts and ribs and toes.
The words came out of my mouth and I immediately wanted to swallow them. Grab them before they reached anyone's ears. I had been thinking this thought. But saying it aloud, forming the audible words, made it real. What a confession.
Just in the past few weeks, I've let such a confession slip more than once. The last time I may have even whispered I'm not sure I even believe in love anymore.
These words scare me. The truth behind them, rocking me and my ever-expanding world. I was born into a mess. And now I've made my own mess. And it's only a matter of time before my heart starts seeping through the forming cracks, drawing attention to my brokenness. To the way I've changed. I smile as I say that. Knowing you already know.
I am independent. Partially because of my introverted tendencies. Partially as a survival instinct. People are not trustworthy. People will fail you. The hope and truth I cling to is, people will also surprise you.
I have based my life's work on what I believe to be truths: 1) that people will rise to meet expectations (and usually no higher), 2) that you must teach people how to treat you, 3) that if provided them, a minority will seize opportunities, and 4) that people are wholly unpredictable.
And I wonder if I will surprise myself. By overcoming this cynicism. By reaching beyond and discovering myself in a way, which changes everything. Honestly, I thought this had already happened. (In my immaturity and lack of wisdom, I forgot it would undoubtedly happen again.) My word, I've changed so much in the past two years alone. My level of self-awareness, my confidence, my locus of control.
I was in one place, so sure it'd be different elsewhere. And in elsewhere, it is different. It is so very different here. I have to move differently. I see the world differently. I stand differently. Not unlike myself in this place, but much like a different facet of myself.
But there's another elsewhere. A place other than the one before and where I am now. But does it exist? Can my heart have what it needs? Can I let my heart even contemplate this place? Or am I going to have to settle down, dig heels deep, and steady myself in this place.
I don't feel a thing. I started crying over this the other night -- this unwantedness. This desirability without this need. This new level of invisibleness. Oh, to be watched but not seen. To sit back and watch a dream unfold, within arms reach, without need for you. Tears over the way busyness wipes me off the map. What I thought would be a deluge of tears trickled down dimples and the corners of mouth and dried up on chin. Stopped. Dam. Damn.
Almost cried again over something I can't remember. Almost.
But I don't necessarily want to cry. Come, make me laugh. Terrify me. Send the heat, the cold, the salty.
Electricity shot down my spine for a split second. To end in silence and abandonment; the very, which caused the numbness.
To not hurt, in fact may mean to not feel.
And to not feel means I'm hurt deeper. Far deeper than nerves go. It means I lose muscle and limb. And I can only imagine it means I lose my sight. Lose my ability to reach out to others, who are afraid of feeling too. Lose my gift to hold a child in such a way that they are protected from the world.
Here I go. Pressing forward. Reclaiming a certain power in the name of them. For their sake. So that when they come running into my arms, they will both know love and joy. So they can learn. The world, after all, doesn't teach those things.
That may be the only reason I am here.
And then I smile. I am home alone and still I smile -- though no one sees. Because I know the world does not teach love and joy. But children do. Love and joy are children.
So this may be the only reason I am here.
To have dirty feet. And arms heavy with hearts and ribs and toes.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
honest prayer
Larry tells a story. About a time on his island a few years ago. When he was a guardian, a security guard, a body guard, a comforter, a teacher, a caretaker. In a place where children come and bring more world with them than they ever should have had to carry.
One night, at bedtime, one of the boys asked my dad to teach him how to pray. On his knees beside his bed, he folded his hands and waited for instructions.
My dad told him to tell God how he felt.
And the little boy prayed, "Dear God, I feel like shit."
These are the prayers, which reach the ears of God.
These are the prayers I've been praying. And I can't help but feel a little bit like Esther. Currently living out a story where God is not blatantly making Himself known. And yet His presence in my story is unmistakable.
For such a time as this. I'm not on my knees, but I'm walking down the streets. Praying simply. "This is too much. Today, I don't have what it takes to make it. Today, I feel like shit."
And of course, then, the wind blows.
One night, at bedtime, one of the boys asked my dad to teach him how to pray. On his knees beside his bed, he folded his hands and waited for instructions.
My dad told him to tell God how he felt.
And the little boy prayed, "Dear God, I feel like shit."
These are the prayers, which reach the ears of God.
These are the prayers I've been praying. And I can't help but feel a little bit like Esther. Currently living out a story where God is not blatantly making Himself known. And yet His presence in my story is unmistakable.
For such a time as this. I'm not on my knees, but I'm walking down the streets. Praying simply. "This is too much. Today, I don't have what it takes to make it. Today, I feel like shit."
And of course, then, the wind blows.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
get on your way
Summer is over.
And I don't know what I feel. Still, I don't know if I feel anything at all.
It's almost as if I just took a deep breath and pushed my shoulder into the future and just... moved forward. Despite the resistance. Besides the fact that I am not strong enough yet. I am not smart enough yet. I don't have what it takes to make it.
I have been saying that I hope I make it through this semester alive. I'm only half joking. Today in a sheer moment of honesty I told my sister, in not so many words, I could feel the loneliness coming. That's the risk I'm taking. Not physically dying. But that my heart might fail.
Today, without stress, without any level of social anxiety, with an uncommon level of self-assuredness, I walked to class today. Ten minutes from my new little safe haven, my class was in a familiar building. And before ever reaching the classroom I ran into multiple people I know. Familiar faces. I've done this before.
Every semester I begin thinking I won't make it.
Every semester I do. I make it. I survive. I succeed.
Summer's over. And I walked into class with my cohort today as a very different woman than when I left them.
So here I am. At the beginning of another journey. I thought I'd come here rested. I thought I'd come back refreshed.
But I stumbled in the door a tired, worse-for-wear older woman.
We'll see what happens. There's potential here. For great... something. It looks too hard now. But I'll get stronger.
In the words of Dr. Seuss:
There's my mountain. It's waiting.
I'm gettin on my way.
And I don't know what I feel. Still, I don't know if I feel anything at all.
It's almost as if I just took a deep breath and pushed my shoulder into the future and just... moved forward. Despite the resistance. Besides the fact that I am not strong enough yet. I am not smart enough yet. I don't have what it takes to make it.
I have been saying that I hope I make it through this semester alive. I'm only half joking. Today in a sheer moment of honesty I told my sister, in not so many words, I could feel the loneliness coming. That's the risk I'm taking. Not physically dying. But that my heart might fail.
Today, without stress, without any level of social anxiety, with an uncommon level of self-assuredness, I walked to class today. Ten minutes from my new little safe haven, my class was in a familiar building. And before ever reaching the classroom I ran into multiple people I know. Familiar faces. I've done this before.
Every semester I begin thinking I won't make it.
Every semester I do. I make it. I survive. I succeed.
Summer's over. And I walked into class with my cohort today as a very different woman than when I left them.
So here I am. At the beginning of another journey. I thought I'd come here rested. I thought I'd come back refreshed.
But I stumbled in the door a tired, worse-for-wear older woman.
We'll see what happens. There's potential here. For great... something. It looks too hard now. But I'll get stronger.
In the words of Dr. Seuss:
There's my mountain. It's waiting.
I'm gettin on my way.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
broken places
I said, "less words".
Laying on a rooftop in St Louis, watching a lightening storm illuminate the mountains on the horizon, the stars above my head too numerous to count... He chose less words too.
I'm still here.
When I was in Africa last year, and in the months prior and following, I was completely wrecked. Broken. Shattered. God used Ethiopia to begin to put me back together. To catapult me into the ghetto. Into purpose and boldness. But from the beginning, I never expected the same experience out of Haiti.
I didn't expect anything out of Haiti.
I was just going. Because I wasn't going somewhere else. Because it didn't take as long to get there as it does Africa. Because it was supposed to be cheaper. Because I needed to get the hell out of America.
So the time to leave came. And I just woke up, put my bags in the car, and left. Like it was no big deal. Like I wasn't leaving for a third world country. Without malaria meds, without the pre-travel anxiety, without expectations.
When I walked into my bakery that morning, however, I saw the foreshadowings of a divine plan unfold. I saw a hint of a sweet serendipity that I hadn't seen in months. And I had a fleeting thought. An elusive moment of consideration. Maybe this would be more. Maybe...
Ethiopia was about understanding what I could do, through Christ. Overcoming worthlessness and fear, operating in weakness, in strength. I was broken. But not useless.
And then here was Haiti. Cradled on the broken place.
I heard, repeatedly throughout the week, Him say very simply "I am not trying to break you in the same place twice". Like a broken bone, healed and stronger for the breaking. I was repaired in that place where Haiti was resting on me.
And so riding through the unpaved streets of St Louis on the back of a rickety old Toyota pick up, dirty feet and sweaty brow and skirt wrapped around my legs, I tested the strength of the scar tissue.
And found capability.
A part of myself I had set aside. Had bound up. Pushed down.
Africa was an experience. A display of the very nature of God, His bigness and His voice.
But I did not touch Africa. I experienced Africa, the way one might watch a movie. Or listen to a song. Effected. Impacted. But I did not bend low and scoop Africa up in my arms. Africa did not fall asleep on my chest. Africa's voice did not whisper in my ear, words strangely familiar but not understood.
Then there I was. Dark from dirt. Body tired, smile big.
I didn't even pray while I was there. Not in the way the others did. Not in my normal way. I didn't write words down. I didn't stop, intentionally, and say a word to Him. Partially out of spite. If You're going to be quiet, I'm going to be quiet too. Partially because I know that sometimes we talk so much He can't get a word in edgewise.
I was sent with the words, "remember, you were made for this". I asked for a reminder, because frankly, I keep forgetting. I forget that my heart belongs in the ghetto. I forget that my heart belongs in simplicity. I forget that the deep ache in my arms is from being empty too long. That there's a sweet place between my shoulders where a child's head rests when he sleeps.
Go where I send you. He said, simply, with a white dove flying outside the Port au Prince airport.
People are the same everywhere. They need the same things... the things I've taught you. He began to show me why I have endured the things I have. What skills I've acquired, which are finally proving useful.
But while He was doing this, I was completely unaware. Ignoring Him, almost. For crying out loud, I was tired of trying to figure it out. I am tired of trying to figure it out.
Less words.
New eyes.
Stronger for the breaking.
Laying on a rooftop in St Louis, watching a lightening storm illuminate the mountains on the horizon, the stars above my head too numerous to count... He chose less words too.
I'm still here.
When I was in Africa last year, and in the months prior and following, I was completely wrecked. Broken. Shattered. God used Ethiopia to begin to put me back together. To catapult me into the ghetto. Into purpose and boldness. But from the beginning, I never expected the same experience out of Haiti.
I didn't expect anything out of Haiti.
I was just going. Because I wasn't going somewhere else. Because it didn't take as long to get there as it does Africa. Because it was supposed to be cheaper. Because I needed to get the hell out of America.
So the time to leave came. And I just woke up, put my bags in the car, and left. Like it was no big deal. Like I wasn't leaving for a third world country. Without malaria meds, without the pre-travel anxiety, without expectations.
When I walked into my bakery that morning, however, I saw the foreshadowings of a divine plan unfold. I saw a hint of a sweet serendipity that I hadn't seen in months. And I had a fleeting thought. An elusive moment of consideration. Maybe this would be more. Maybe...
Ethiopia was about understanding what I could do, through Christ. Overcoming worthlessness and fear, operating in weakness, in strength. I was broken. But not useless.
And then here was Haiti. Cradled on the broken place.
I heard, repeatedly throughout the week, Him say very simply "I am not trying to break you in the same place twice". Like a broken bone, healed and stronger for the breaking. I was repaired in that place where Haiti was resting on me.
And so riding through the unpaved streets of St Louis on the back of a rickety old Toyota pick up, dirty feet and sweaty brow and skirt wrapped around my legs, I tested the strength of the scar tissue.And found capability.
A part of myself I had set aside. Had bound up. Pushed down.
Africa was an experience. A display of the very nature of God, His bigness and His voice.
But I did not touch Africa. I experienced Africa, the way one might watch a movie. Or listen to a song. Effected. Impacted. But I did not bend low and scoop Africa up in my arms. Africa did not fall asleep on my chest. Africa's voice did not whisper in my ear, words strangely familiar but not understood.
Then there I was. Dark from dirt. Body tired, smile big.
I didn't even pray while I was there. Not in the way the others did. Not in my normal way. I didn't write words down. I didn't stop, intentionally, and say a word to Him. Partially out of spite. If You're going to be quiet, I'm going to be quiet too. Partially because I know that sometimes we talk so much He can't get a word in edgewise.
Go where I send you. He said, simply, with a white dove flying outside the Port au Prince airport.
People are the same everywhere. They need the same things... the things I've taught you. He began to show me why I have endured the things I have. What skills I've acquired, which are finally proving useful.
But while He was doing this, I was completely unaware. Ignoring Him, almost. For crying out loud, I was tired of trying to figure it out. I am tired of trying to figure it out.
Less words.
New eyes.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Mine
Today is August 1st.
Today I was supposed to leave the country. For a whole year. I was supposed to abandon and empty and set forth and join a race. A race which would take me to eleven countries in eleven months with a group of at least 60 young radicals who had done and were doing the very same thing.
But instead, today I woke up in a tiny little apartment. Tucked far back off the road. With four white walls and space only for me. Boxes piled high, I am reminded of a strange night in Richmond when I was just a tiny girl:
After moving into a duplex, before Olivia was even born, I remember waking up to the shadows of unpacked boxes stacked high in my bedroom. From the top bunk of the red bunk bed, I thought my mom was sitting at a desk in my room. I remember calling her name. But she never answered. (I still feel like that sometimes. Just not about my mom.)
This morning I woke up and sunlight poured into my apartment. Early, I got a text message from my sister, reminding me of what day today was. Reminding me of the decision I'd made, intuitively confirming that I'd made the right one.
Breath. Skin. Dark against light. I laid in bed for longer than I should have. Wondering how we get here -- to these places. Thinking about the plans I'd made back in May. Plans for sabbatical, plans for rest.
Today I do not feel rested. Today I do not feel like I've accomplished a thing.
And yet I know better. I know better. I know that this summer was not about rest. It was about removal. I know that the things I chose to spend my time on, to pour myself into, were worth my time. For the most part. The lessons I've learned were lessons I never anticipated learning. The decisions I've made were decision I never intended to make. The experiences I've had have been less grand than I had imagined, and made more of an impact than I ever could have anticipated.
Hm. I suppose we call that life. The best laid plans ...
So instead of packing my life into an internal frame pack, I packed it into boxes. I moved across town, by myself this time. Deep into the neighborhood I've longed to call home for four years. Into a small little space that is all my own. Mine.
Life will happen here. In Apartment 6. My own journey. My own new adventure.
I am pushing back. Learning about myself and questioning the world. Finding truth and lies in the tension.
In two days I will leave the country. Board a plane with a small pack and a camera and I will fly as fast as I can to a tiny little place that most of the world has forgotten. And I will sit. Sink. Melt.
Breath. Skin. Dark against light. My arms are aching to hold. To feel the heavy trust of a child resting in between my shoulders. The sweet devotion of his hand in mine. Tiny fingers. Big smiles. Watery eyes.
It's been a long time since I've felt anything.
But today I was supposed to leave.
And I didn't.
Instead, I woke up. In the 6th apartment. And in my own way, today, I launched.
On my own race. On my own adventure. In my own way I will travel the world. In my own way I will seek God and love people; in my own time I will discard the things of this world, and at my own pace I will make mistakes. And learn from them.
August 1st.
After all that's happened, how could I even pretend to know what's coming next?
Today I was supposed to leave the country. For a whole year. I was supposed to abandon and empty and set forth and join a race. A race which would take me to eleven countries in eleven months with a group of at least 60 young radicals who had done and were doing the very same thing.But instead, today I woke up in a tiny little apartment. Tucked far back off the road. With four white walls and space only for me. Boxes piled high, I am reminded of a strange night in Richmond when I was just a tiny girl:
After moving into a duplex, before Olivia was even born, I remember waking up to the shadows of unpacked boxes stacked high in my bedroom. From the top bunk of the red bunk bed, I thought my mom was sitting at a desk in my room. I remember calling her name. But she never answered. (I still feel like that sometimes. Just not about my mom.)
This morning I woke up and sunlight poured into my apartment. Early, I got a text message from my sister, reminding me of what day today was. Reminding me of the decision I'd made, intuitively confirming that I'd made the right one.
Breath. Skin. Dark against light. I laid in bed for longer than I should have. Wondering how we get here -- to these places. Thinking about the plans I'd made back in May. Plans for sabbatical, plans for rest.
Today I do not feel rested. Today I do not feel like I've accomplished a thing.
Hm. I suppose we call that life. The best laid plans ...
So instead of packing my life into an internal frame pack, I packed it into boxes. I moved across town, by myself this time. Deep into the neighborhood I've longed to call home for four years. Into a small little space that is all my own. Mine.
Life will happen here. In Apartment 6. My own journey. My own new adventure.
I am pushing back. Learning about myself and questioning the world. Finding truth and lies in the tension.
In two days I will leave the country. Board a plane with a small pack and a camera and I will fly as fast as I can to a tiny little place that most of the world has forgotten. And I will sit. Sink. Melt.
Breath. Skin. Dark against light. My arms are aching to hold. To feel the heavy trust of a child resting in between my shoulders. The sweet devotion of his hand in mine. Tiny fingers. Big smiles. Watery eyes.
It's been a long time since I've felt anything.
But today I was supposed to leave.
And I didn't.
Instead, I woke up. In the 6th apartment. And in my own way, today, I launched.
On my own race. On my own adventure. In my own way I will travel the world. In my own way I will seek God and love people; in my own time I will discard the things of this world, and at my own pace I will make mistakes. And learn from them.
August 1st.
After all that's happened, how could I even pretend to know what's coming next?
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