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Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Broken Yet Beautiful

He stood at the glass door, his hand on the wooden half-moon handle, dressed in a navy blue tracksuit and his bulky winter jacket, as he looked wistfully in. The room was filled with people, women in black leggings and tank tops sporting motivational quotes as they ran on treadmills, men in shorts and tight tees as they concentrated on lifting weights. Even after the remodel, there were still many good memories from this place. Now he was leaving. Not out of choice; out of necessity. They seemed to think they would manage fine without him. 

He stepped in for a moment and was quickly surrounded by a small cluster of people. One young woman stepped forward, shyly handing him a bag, mumbling her thanks for his help. Several asked for his help with a workout routine and one picked up their final supply of supplements. Carla gave him his final white envelope, he went to the heavy wooden front doors, opened them, and walked through. This was goodbye.

After handing him the bag, I returned to the treadmill where I turned my Mandisa mix up higher and carried on my brisk 5K pace. I would miss seeing the coach every time I went to the gym, yes, but this was life. People came and went and really, why should I mourn this loss any more than not seeing the cleaning lady in the cafeteria who would smile when I said thank you as I pushed my empty plate through the slot to be washed. 

Except it wasn't just one more loss. Every loss I grieve is all the losses previous wrapped up into one.

I don't know why I must compound loss in this way. I think it would be easier if I could somehow mourn a loss individually. Then it would be hard, yes, but manageable. This way, though, it makes it hard to breathe sometimes as a simple moving on of a gym coach becomes a boss, little tots, the dearest of friends, a close mentor, family, even places and time gets mixed up in there somehow.

In Marilyn Gardner's book, Between Worlds, she ends with the beautiful story of a broken teapot, mended with thick staples to become what would ordinarily be seen as something worthless now transformed into a piece of art. She says, Despite the original break, despite the cracks it continues to be useable and stronger than if it had never been broken. . .life can crack and mar us but it doesn't have to destroy. 

I'm going through one of those breaking times right now. I wake up crying. I wake up feeling sad. I know it's because the losses have become too much and the community around me doesn't understand or if they would, I am afraid to be vulnerable enough so they can see the tears and offer empathy.

As a Christian, I also struggle with the misguided belief that I should be strong enough to handle this on my own. I should be able to go to God and He will give all the comfort I need because He is more than enough. I shouldn't expect family or friends to have to carry this burden because they have enough of their own, so I should focus on giving because it is in giving that we are blessed. 

Except sometimes I need someone to just sit and cry with me

I am the one who sits with the grieving, the frustrated, the lonely, the lost. I put my arms around them, pray with them, write them a little note of encouragement, send a text to tell them I'm thinking of them. But I'm not brave enough to put my hand up and say, Can someone sit with me for a while? I'm feeling sad and I don't want to be alone.

I worry, though, that this struggle to reconcile losses means I'm too much. That those closest to me will keep their distance so I keep mine first. I step back and I don't let them see the longing for companionship because I'm afraid they will think that I need them too much and I should be a strong woman whose life is only enhanced by life. 

Are they the staples that hold me together? 

The Christian mentality says that God should be our all in all. I'm sure there's a praise song that says that somewhere. So the staples holding me together should each be imprinted with God's image. I'm not saying God isn't enough. I know He is. He has proven Himself to be in my darkest times. I know that He is my Sustainer and gives me breath each day. Yet somehow there seems to be a flaw in the logic somewhere. 

God created us to be in community. 

Right now, my community is going through a lot. It's not just me who is working through loss. So I'm hesitant to reach out because I feel like my needs are not as significant as theirs. There are times, though, like today when I need to see God with skin on. When I need to hear His voice and feel His touch through those closest to me. 

The other misguided belief is that I should learn to rely on God alone.

It seems every time I get close to someone, they leave. I went through several years in my 20s when I lost the close knit group of friends I'd had as they moved on for jobs and marriage. Those were very lonely times and often during that time, I struggled with the expectation that I should be able to find all my emotional needs met in God. I think ideally we can go to God first, pouring out our hearts to Him, but then we need to talk to someone. To sit with someone. To reach out and know someone's hand will hold ours.

Today, I'm thankful for my mother who patiently turned on her iPad, plugged in her earphones, and listened through a crackling broken internet voice call to her adult daughter work through some of the emotions that threaten to overwhelm at times with their intensity. Though it was after 10 pm and she had worked a full day, she was there when I said I needed someone to listen.

I can't guarantee tomorrow will be better. It may take time to walk through this dark valley and it may be that there will be more days like today. Yet there is one thing I know with certainty.

I am sure that God, Who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished ~Philippians 1:6 NLT

Til one day that small teapot is covered with staples and stands proudly on display for all to see. Broken yet beautiful beyond belief. 

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Where I Belong

And then suddenly, just like that, home becomes here. 

It's happening more frequently now, this sense of being home. Every time it settles my soul, I find myself sinking into the familiarity of a feeling that seems to have been a part of my reality before and yet I know this is a new sense of feeling I belong. This is no longer sensory, a whiff of freshly-cut fall grass, a taste of deep-fried bhaja with its spicy chilies making my mouth burn, the wooden packing box on the roof that the boys used as a clubhouse, or the automated train stops being announced in a foreign language that I understand just enough of to keep me from getting off at the wrong one.

This sense of belonging is grounded in my being.

I belong because I am. My search for belonging used to be tied to a desperate longing to find the pieces of myself in my past and place them in the puzzle of who I was today. I had pushed those memories down further than time because I didn't know how to be more than two people at once. Only in my 30's did I begin to try to understand why I'd never felt fully at home in a place I'd lived for half my life. And it was only when I returned to the place of belonging before that I began to understand why I'd never felt fully at home anywhere else.

If I'm completely honest with myself, this country was not the place I completely embraced as home as a teenager. Each country I'd grown up in had its pull and push and this was no different. Yet perhaps after one becomes an adult, one realizes that belonging no longer comes with a culture, a language, a race, a clique, or the way you cook your couscous. Belonging is now found in a person you grow close to, in a place that captures your heart, in yourself when you are still long enough to accept it.

The flashbacks used to come sudden-like and when they did, I snatched a moment from the past and tried to define myself in the present as such. In that moment, brief though it was, I felt satisfied that I had belonged at one point, somewhere. Then the moment would vanish and I would disconsolately return to a world where the mundane replaced wonderment.

Until I realized I had found home.

Home for now is where I am. I would like to think that if I leave one day, I will take that feeling of home with me, much like the turtle carries its home on its back, secure in knowing it always has a safe place to tuck away its vulnerable head. It is enhanced by the setting, as I dive into sensory experiences as often as I can escape to delectable seaside restaurants or exquisite choral concerts. It is held in the heart of the one dearest to me, as they offer a haven of understanding and commitment. Yet home in its deepest sense is found in knowing that I am who I was created to be. A joyful, vibrant, searching, faithful, adventurous, loving woman eager to discover the purpose God has given me.

Home is here because I am. 

Friday, January 5, 2018

Round Like the Circle

Growing up, we weren't really encouraged to wear a lot of jewelry. My mom didn't mind the friendship bracelets we wove ourselves from embroidery yarn, I remember making matching black ones for me and my on-again-off-again boyfriend when I was a teenager, and later I wore a small silver ring my Muslim friend from the building across from us threw down to me in a paper packet. It said Love on the front. My sister desperately wanted earrings but we were raised in a conservative church setting in the mission field so her wish wasn't granted.

We bought matching silver chains with another friend once and we all dressed in blue jeans and black t-shirts to best show off our necklaces as we posed for pictures by the tall pine tree in the middle of the campus. I was 17 and my sister and friend were 14. That was the year one of the guys I had a crush on wanted to buy me something when we went on a school trip together and I chose a silver chain with my initial on it. I'm not sure which one I was wearing under an oversized t-shirt, ready to head down to the basketball court to play a game with the guys, when my dad saw me and proceeded to read to me from the Bible about how slaves wore chains.

After I entered my late teens, I lived for more than 15 years in yet another conservative closed system where any kind of jewelry was heavily frowned upon as it denoted lack of spirituality and commitment to standards. Then I finally left and found myself completely free to wear what I liked when I liked. I could pierce my ears if I wanted, I could wear a ring on each finger, I could load up on the bangles, and while I might get a look or two, eventually people would get used to it as my look. Yet I had too many years of conditioning to feel completely comfortable with figuring out who I was.

Today I wear a silver twisted ring with a familiar phrase on it. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. It's a constant reminder that in the midst of uncertainty and a cloudy future, taking those single steps forward are what eventually add up to the thousand miles.

My biggest journey that I have been walking on in the past year and continue to walk is learning to trust God. Our heavenly Father does not close the avenues of joy to any of His creatures. . .He will. . .satisfy the heart-longing of all who consent to wear His yoke, to bear His burden. It is His purpose to impart peace and rest to all who come to Him for the bread of life. Steps to Christ Chapter 5

I'm very good at planning out my life. I budget my money for big expenditures, I book international trips to see the world, and I prioritize my free time with friends. Being single means I have more control over circumstances as there is nobody to throw me off course with their unpredictable humanness. However, I'm finding that the closer I get to others, the less I can control my life. This lesson of trust is one I'm having to learn not only with God, but also in my relationships with others, and it's not an easy one for me. I'm a Type-A personality, I need to know reasons behind decisions being made, and I expect others to act from a similar framework of reference to mine.

Then I find out that is not the case. The reality is that I would be just as frustrated if someone else assumed I should operate from their viewpoint on life. So I'm learning that this journey of a thousand miles begins with one step--acceptance. I used to think I was good at accepting others, after all I'd lived my life across continents and cultures, learning how to adapt and adjust so I could fit in with the least amount of turbulence in the community around me. Yet the more introspective I grow, the more I see that my tolerance for accepting others who are different than me needs to be put into a cocktail shaker and turned upside down.

A lack of trust is closely connected to struggling to accept others. All this time I'd been frustrated with those who failed to see my opinions as valid and valuable while I was failing to accept others as valuable regardless of how they deal with life, biases, prejudices, and all. I cannot dictate to another how they should approach life. I can only learn to adjust my pace so together we can walk towards a common goal--perhaps their stride is longer than mine at times or I may forget and rush ahead occasionally--but if we can take that first step of acceptance the trust will be close behind. Then the thousand miles will soon seamlessly weave itself into our lives as a single step of a journey worth living.