To Be In Destiny

It had been more than a year now since she’d first walked down the cobbled sidewalk to the cafeteria that first morning. Hesitant, she’d been unsure what she would find when she stepped into this world that seemed so foreign and so familiar at the same time. The memories had faded with time; would they suddenly burst into 3D colour? The tired streets were so much more crowded now than before—cars elbowing their way to get into that tiny inch of space they’d seen between a taxi and a camouflage green military tank. This was the life she would soon become accustomed to.

Taxis everywhere, though you wouldn’t know if you just looked at the top of the car because taxis in Lebanon weren’t painted in the customary yellow and white or black pattern found in New York, for example. They weren’t a certain model of car, like the old Beetle style found in London. Sometimes they had a yellow or white rectangular sign on their roof, if they belonged to a company. More often, though, they were only recognizable by their dull red license plate. The military trucks were comforting yet unsettling at the same time. She was never quite sure whether to be thankful they were there to protect her or worried that someone would suddenly start shooting one of those heavy duty machine guns mounted on the top of the tank.

This was just one aspect of life in a war-torn country that was struggling to rebuild itself in glass. She was amazed every time she managed to slip off the campus and take a drive downtown where the multitude of crystal skyscrapers seemed to mushroom overnight. It was a sure sign the builders were confident there would be no more wars. If not, they would have built in sturdy brick and gray cement. Instead, the city sparkled in the noonday sun with a promise of hope and a twinkle of return to the Switzerland of the Middle East it had once been known as. She decided that if the country, who had been through 7 wars and rebuilt itself each time, could be certain of its destiny then she could also be sure.

It was here that she returned to in search of that elusive word. Destiny. Was it really as formidable as it sounded? Was it something already decided or could she decide? She had spent 17 years stuck in a feeling that she couldn’t walk another path. Then, in a few short months, she found herself where she had once thought her happiness had ended. When she’d left as a teenager, the joy had sunk deep down into a darkness that seemed to cloud every memory she’d had. She couldn’t put herself back into the photos—they had already cut her father out of each one. Just as he was deleted from memory, her memories hid behind the merciful curtain of time.

Now she sat on one of the benches lining that cobbled sidewalk, her students scattered on the grass, diligently working on their creative writing project. The luxurious winter sun warming her face, the cold cement bench, and spring bird song mixing with city buzz made her smile. The memories once buried were now surrounded by explosive sensory moments wrapping her in new dreams for a destiny still to be seen. It was enough to be here. That was all she knew.

FlashBack

She was sitting on the black leather chair, laptop at the ready as her fingers flew, transcribing the boss's dictation She breathed in and suddenly she wanted to be walking red brick streets in winter, fingers pushed deep into her warmest black suede trench coat, as her breath caught in the crisp chill. She wasn't exactly sure why she was sitting in an air-conditioned office set in the milieu of humid Lebanon when she should be getting acquainted with the musty smell of cigarettes by the underground entrance, diving into a paper tunnel of frites buried under thick mayonnaise, hearing the sound of still silence in a dark night, or getting properly lost in the architectural wonders of castles ancient with time. Europe was playing tug-of-war and it seemed it would soon win.

Drop Drop Drop, Drop in the Bucket

I think it's time to make a new Bucket List. I made one more than 7 years ago. That's a really long time when you think about it. So below I shall review my list and then update it accordingly.

June 2010 Bucket List

1. Lose 30 pounds. I didn't write down my original weight so it's hard to know how much I've lost but I'm going to be on the safe side and say I lost 10 pounds. On the positive side, I'm learning how to eat healthier and exercise more.
2. Write a book. Hmmmm, does a blog count? 
3. Be involved with some type of ministry for at least a year. I worked with an organization against human trafficking for several months and led out in depression recovery programs in the community for 3 years where one woman shared how she felt empowered at the end of the 8-week program.
4. Keep my place tidy for more than a week! Don't quote me but I think I've managed this.
5. Visit the Seychelles, Switzerland, Austria, and New York. Austria--check.
6. Become a certified Marriage & Family Therapist. Got my graduate degree, albeit in Leadership instead of counseling.
7. Earn my PhD in Psychology, Higher Education, or English. Not sure this is my final goal.
8. Work at a mainstream SDA college (as an assistant registrar or registrar or executive assistant). Check! Executive assistant.
9. Be published in Adventist World. Check! Article on pain published.
10. Get my green card. Check!

August 2017 Bucket List (For the next 5 years)

1. Lose those other 20 pounds.
2. Buy a house.
3. Travel to at least 5 new countries (preferably one in South America).
4. Settle down permanently.
5. Be published in Huffington Post.
6. Be conversant in Arabic.
7. Resolve conflicts openly.
8. Coordinate a women's retreat on embracing who we are as daughters of God.
9. Do at least one public speaking engagement--sermon, conference, in-service training.
10. Go to a museum by myself.

Sweet Delights

I cut through the grapes, every single one, even the tiny half-inch ones, peering closely at the halves. I will probably do this for the next few months or so until I forget. But the shiver of little white wriggling bodies that seemed to seamlessly slide between the deep purple of the grape's skin and its inner sweetness is still imprinted in my mind. So I cut the grapes in half in almost OCD fashion, popping the tiniest ones right into my mouth and tasting the sultry summer on my tongue. I think I'm thirsty but if I satiate my thirst with cool water, I won't want to eat a grape and I really want to eat this bowl of grapes. Then I think I'll have a cup of tea. It's finally cool enough at night now to enjoy the steam of sweetened rosehip peach Lipton herbal tea.

Heavenly Tears

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted. . .~Psalm 34:18

I was working through the grieving process--one that seemed to come without a reservation and at the most inconvenient of times. My mother had told me to set aside time to grieve the loss but after a couple of blog posts and processing it with my family and a couple of close friends, I was ready to move on. Or so I thought.

I'm very good at pushing away feelings of loss when it comes to relationships. I go into autopilot mode where the person who was close to me is no longer an important part of my life. I am able to disconnect because I've had a lifetime of learning to disconnect. Ironically, the part of life that should have rooted me the most to who I was, shaping my understanding of how it worked and what was really important, this part was the one I lost far too often. Each time I had to pack up my cloth bunny, often the only constant from country to continent, along with mementos acquired along the way, I dismissively let go of the ones who meant the most. Just as I didn't shed a tear when the church ladies bought a spray painted gold chain that was once a handbag's strap but I'd removed and connected into a single loop, so I shed few tears when we left. After all, we were headed to a new adventure and there were many exciting things ahead.

My mother tells me that when we left West Africa, I cried for days. Somehow I was not convinced that life could be any better than the one I lived, in a simple house with blue tile bathrooms and mosquito nets over our beds. I loved my bicycle that featured prominently in many photographs, our next door neighbor who played GI Joes with me and occasionally invited us over to play on monkey bars that we envied through the dividing wire fence, and driving out to our agricultural school on a dusty road with a crossroads I just barely remember. But we had to go. Which meant I pushed the memories so deep down that I no longer existed before age 9, at least in the tangible for the sensory memories still come with a flash. Summer rains hard on earth with that deep salty smell is the strongest of them.

When I left Lebanon, it hurt all over again. Only this time I was leaving two very close friends behind and it was almost too much to handle. I cried on the way to the airport; I cried in the plane; I cried when I saw one friend drive off on the back of a motorbike after he'd skipped school just to come say goodbye. Even today, when I take the time to grieve a deep relational loss, my emotions instantly return to that day and the pain compounds in intensity. I'm grieving all the losses previously unrecognized in each loss I encounter today.

That time was dark. I had to be strong for my mother as we both figured out life in the New World and she learned how to be the sole provider for me and my two younger siblings. Slowly we began to trudge out of the shadows into a reality that held hope and light but it took many years. During that time, I could not let the losses overwhelm me. I could not let them dictate who I was. I had to evolve once again into the perfect immigrant who spoke the slang in the correct twang whilst blending in so well that even my close friends forgot I wasn't American.

I buried so much so deep down that I began to fear I was becoming someone I didn't know. There was my life before the US and my life after with all the longing in my heart to return to the life before. I knew it wasn't realistic. I had to get a college education, get a job, and start living the adult life. Yet that yearning never failed to disappear even as I felt the biggest loss of all--the loss of who I was. I had not brought together who I was before with who I was now. I constantly fought with the system where I lived and worked, refusing to let it dictate what I had to become to be acceptable. Yet I sadly saw myself changing in order to be part of the community because belonging seemed to be more important than becoming.

Somehow, my mother instinctively understood all of this and worked hard to create a safe haven in the midst of the emotional turmoil that I couldn't express let alone relinquish. She made sure I knew that at home I was accepted for who I was and not what I did. She pointed out that the community's attempt to control was not acceptable and constantly directed me and my siblings to the Bible and its practical balance to help us navigate the intricacies of solidifying our value systems.

Then I returned. The past 18 months have been soul-healing for me. After years of battling what I knew to be wrong even as I tried to figure out what was, of struggling with the paradox that I wanted to fit in even as I didn't want to be identified as American, of pretending my childhood was perfect even as I pushed its memory beyond recall, I can finally rest my weary heart. I can begin to slowly put together the jigsaw puzzle that has been tumbled into a million pieces and see who I really am. I can take joy in knowing that each piece has mattered and, whether good or bad, has been a valuable part of my identity up to today.

I can mourn the losses, yes, but I can also embrace the joys. It's a paradox we live in as TCKs. I am afraid to fully live in the joy because I know from experience that its end will be sharp with pain. More than a child crying at the end of an afternoon spent in the nearby playground, this pain is tempered with finality. Yes, we may see you again, but we may not. And even if we do, the seeing will never be as deep as the knowing. This knowing is what I miss the most and try the hardest to keep as an adult, even through my self-sentenced moves.

Today a dear friend stopped by to see me. It had been too long and distance, unwanted by me but dictated by circumstances, was wide between us. As they left, they reached out for me once more in gesture and the sting was once again strong. I returned to my room in the dorm and poured out my pain to my Heavenly Father.

As I did so, I began to feel the sorrow lift. A time of mourning turned into a time of empathy as I realized these emotions were not new to God. When I mourn a loss it is because I love that person. Yet my love for them is negligible compared to God's love for humankind. God is love. He is defined by this characteristic.

Each human on this earth was created by God. Me, you, every person. God doesn't make mistakes. He created us to be relational beings because He loves to be in relationship with us and wants us to experience this joy both with each other and with Him. Yet He also had to make us with a free moral will and the ability to choose whether or not to love Him back. This breaks my heart. I cannot imagine, if the pain I feel seems overwhelming when I must say goodbye to someone who is so dear to me, how God must feel when the person He so lovingly created rejects Him. God's heart must be strong to carry the pain of millions of people who have chosen to turn away from His love.

When God says He is close to the brokenhearted, it is not just a careless statement. God has empathy for me in my pain because He has lost too. Beginning with Satan and a third of the angels, then down through the centuries as humans have chosen to believe the deceiver and his lies rather than their Creator of love, He has lost far too many who He has dearly loved. John said God will wipe away our tears. But who will wipe away His?

The Mailbox Isn't There Anymore

My mom forwarded me an email this week. The place where she both worked and lived was changing their PO Box number and as a result, everyone was going to get their own street-side mailbox. Gone would be the communal number that all mail was sent to, collected daily from the little post office 4 minutes away, then carefully (or haphazardly, depending on the person) sorted into individual metal-plated slots in the admin building.

She reminded me that I would need to start compiling a list of addresses to send the new PO Box number to. I heaved a huge sigh at the thought. I was thousands of miles away and for the matter, how did one notify of an address change? Did the US postal service provide a free address card? Did you have to send out little postcards and pay for every one? Now I would have to go through the tedious task of updating all my legal addresses, such as bank statements and driver's license. It was tiring.

Frustrated, I shot an email back asking all my questions. I wondered why I was so upset about something so small. After all, people moved all the time and somehow their mail got forwarded to them. Or was it really that simple? It was then that it hit me. I was mourning yet another loss.

I lived with the same PO Box number for 18 years. That was nearly half my lifetime. Granted, I wanted to leave the place associated with the number for about 16 of those years, and though even today, when I return, I don't do so with a happy heart to be in that physical location, it still represents something more than a number; it represents stability.

For 18 years, my mail came to the same address. When a PO Box number disappears, what happens to the mail? It's impossible to remember every single business that has sent mail to that address. Does the mail get lost? Does it disappear forever, dropped into one huge bin in the middle of Kansas labeled "unknown?"

I felt somewhat shaken, as if losing a PO Box number meant losing a solid marker that affirmed I was there, I existed, I was. When I returned to Egypt, I found my picture up on the Wall of Fame, along with pictures of other missionary families. I looked carefully at a smiling face, innocent still of the many collisions in the road of life ahead. In that moment, I stood still, dressed in a frilly blue dress, and I knew who I was and where I was. I never knew more than 25 years later I would return to the photo to reassure myself that I was indeed there.

This is the difficult part about life that TCKs must learn to accept. The reality that the things and places and people which defined our identity are not grounded in our present time. The years pass and things grow old, like my see-through thin bunny my mother made for me when I was a year and a half old, its filling replaced thrice over, its sides clumsily re-stitched with red and white and black thread. Places go through political turmoil, or a PO Box number changes, or the lawn where we caught lightning bugs and kept them in a jar has disappeared beneath a clunky health spa dusty from disuse. People let us fade out of the pictures of their lives, like a 50-year old sheet of yellowing onion skin paper, and when we pass again they introduce us to their kids who are the age we were when we climbed trees together.

I heard an earth-shattering song today. In the middle of the words about accepting a call and following where God wants us to go, the author wrote, I will go and let this journey be my home. I cried. This is it. This is our life. Our homes must, of necessity, be mourned as losses simply because our identity was never one that could hold to a single existence. The PO Box was always going to be transient even as we were. Yet in the midst of the ethereal was this knowing. We are not searching for, holding on to, or waiting in anticipation of finally finding a home.

Our journey is our home.

The Mourning Comes Again. And Again.

Set aside some time each day to mourn this new loss, my mother texted me. I was processing a change in friendship, navigating a new reality where we weren't as connected as we had been before, and there were some consequences that came with it which I was having a hard time dealing with. As with any friendship that goes through stages, this one was going through the stretching-and-moving-apart phase. It remained to be seen whether, like a new rubber band, it would snap back into place, just as before, or like a rubber band that had sat in a filing cabinet for two decades, it would break with brittleness of age.

Giving space and distance meant that I no longer got to spend time with my friend or with their family, who had become very dear to my heart. It hurt. I knew I needed to respect their wishes and not push myself into their lives, but it still hurt. The past year seemed to have disintegrated into nothing. There had been late night meals with lots of laughs. Spontaneous trips to town navigating the insane afternoon traffic. Chats about life and love and the all-consuming winter chill or summer heat. Now it was gone.

I've always been the pusher; never the pushee. I've always been the one who, knowing a time of change was approaching, stoically built my wall, brick by gray brick, until it was high enough to block out the calls of dear ones who were reaching out to stay connected. It hurt too much to say goodbye.

Sometimes they just gently drifted away. They came and went because life called them and I was never enough reason for them to stay. I still thought about them, though, and every now and then would try to reach out and reconnect.

Even in today's age, with technology that allows us to call or text someone instantly for very little cost or free, we still struggle to stay genuinely connected. Texts are random exchanges of memes we found on BoredPanda; a phone call is rare. Facebook is now a bulletin board of everyone's political opinions, gym habits, and meals for the day. Instagram, with its endless strings of disjointed phrases, has replaced proper conversation. Now, if you want to know what happened in someone's life, they refer you to their insta. Even Instagram is disjointed in its name.

So when I try to reconnect, it lasts for a week or two and then they return to their world and I to mine. I miss them but I can't change the reality that they have their own life and I am no longer a part of it because I'm not physically there.

Now I am the one who's being asked to leave. It's not a simple thing--dissolving a friendship. You can't pack a suitcase, hug them goodbye, and drive away. There are no tangible mementos, physical touch is now pushed away, and often you continue to see them on a regular basis. The leaving must take place in your mind, even as you wish not to do so.

Tomorrow perhaps I'll mourn the loss of the little ones who made me smile and brought such joy to my heart, never asking for anything in return other than to know they were loved. The ones who laughed at me as they stayed just out of reach, asserting their independence, but then rushed back when they needed help getting a favourite object from a high place. The ones who reached out for me unhesitatingly when the room got a little too loud and many people were crowding around, the lost look on their face disappearing as they held on to me tightly knowing they were safe.

But for tonight, the mourning will be one that recognizes I'm on a different side now. A side where I do not regulate the pain; it comes without my acquiescence. In this learning, I hope I can see with a tender heart so the next time change approaches, I will gratefully hold each one who is dearest to me and instead of pushing, bring them close.

Give Me My Pigs

the crowd began pleading with Jesus to go away and leave them alone (Mark 5:17).

If you've read the first 18 verses of Mark chapter 5, then you're already familiar with the story. Jesus and His disciples cross the lake and when they reach the shore, a man who's been demon possessed for years comes screaming to meet them. I imagine it was a terrifying sight, the unkempt man frothing at the mouth, rusty broken chains dangling from his wrists and ankles, clothed in a ratty dingy loincloth, his body bearing fresh scars from hurling himself on pointed stones in the cemetery.

Perhaps the disciples stayed a few yards behind Jesus when they saw him and I can just hear Peter whispering loudly to Jesus, Don't get too close, that man is dangerous! Maybe we should get back in the boat. . .

The Bible says the man ran right up to Jesus and fell down in front of Him. The demons within the man knew they were facing the Lord of the universe and they bowed in obeisance to Him even as they shrieked at Him. The demons begged Jesus not to send them far away, preferring to go into the nearby herd of pigs. Jesus allowed their request, perhaps not so much because they asked but because He knew what would happen next.

The demons went into the pigs. The pigs plunged into the lake and drowned. The pig herders rushed to the city to tell everyone what happened. The story could end here. But it doesn't.

As the inhabitants hurried to see what had happened, their curiosity was overcome by fear when they saw the demon possessed man sitting by Jesus. They had no need to be afraid. He was no longer shouting gibberish. The wild look in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a calm inner peace. One of the disciples had found an extra robe for him. He looked like a normal human being. The man they once chained was now free.

The crowd begged Jesus to leave.

Jesus honoured their request. Just as He always has, He never forces Himself into our lives. He comes, He waits, and then it is up to us to decide whether or not we want to invite Him to change us.

This story is not about the demon possessed man. I mean, yes, it is, but in reality it is about the inhabitants of that city. It's about you and me.

You see, I think we are both the demon possessed man and the frightened city dwellers. There are times in our lives when we recognize clearly that we are trapped by some evil force that is far stronger than we are and we cry for help. In that instant, Jesus is there, freeing us, cleaning us up, and then giving us a mission--to go and share our story with others just like the demon possessed man did.

The sad part is when we are the frightened city dwellers. These people had Jesus right there, ready to bless them in ways they couldn't even imagine, and they were more concerned about their pigs. Their pigs were their livelihood and they now were worried that if Jesus stayed any longer, they would lose more than they already had. They didn't trust Him to provide for their needs. They didn't trust Him to replace what was lost with something even better.

They just wanted their pigs. Sadly, the pigs were more important to them than a human life. Jesus was ready to give them not only physical healing, as He had done in many villages before them, but also spiritual and emotional healing. Yet they refused to welcome His presence.

As a city dweller, there are times when all I can think of is how I'm going to provide for myself. I am an independent woman. I've had to learn to be as I come from a single-parent home and in my teens was already paying for all essentials other than food. It was not ideal but I learned how to do it well.

There are times, though, when this independence can distract me from my focus. Am I, like the city dwellers, spending my free time worrying about money? Am I asking Jesus to leave, because I'm convinced that He's taken away the good things and left me with very little or nothing at all? Am I blind to His power? Do I push Jesus away and in so doing, miss out on being able to share His miracles in my life with another person? Do I see my needs as more important than a human life?

I've been pondering a thought for some time now. It's one that irritates me with its simplicity; one that my close friends and family insist on putting in front of me over and over again. God will meet your needs in His perfect timing and in His way--which may not be the way you had imagined. It's Biblical, you know. God's ways are higher than ours and He has said that His promises will always be fulfilled (Isaiah 58).

Am I able to step out of my city dweller persona and instead, sit at Jesus' feet like the now-whole man, living in the reality of God's mercy and joyful in the blessing of healing? Can I be brave and vulnerable and share my experience of healing with others so they too will want to know Who this Jesus is?

Or do I want my pigs?