Fleece Blanket

 I feel sad.

Why?

I don't know. I just feel sad.

Okay, try to think of happy things and put on some nice music. We can go for a drive this afternoon.

Okay, I will try. Thank you. 

I sat in my office, wrapped in a purple fluffy blanket to keep warm, Christmas piano music playing softly in the background. My boss had just come in a couple of minutes earlier and asked me to look up the hiring information for an employee. Perhaps my role did consist entirely of searching for an action in the last two years of minutes, minutes that were taken by a person who was presently sitting in his office and could just as quickly look up the information. After the door closed behind him, tears instantly sprang to my eyes. 

I swallowed hard, even as I let a few tears trickle out so as not to overflow the pool that seemed to never run dry. Reaching for a tissue, I dabbed my eyes quickly, worried someone would come in and ask why I was crying. Thankfully I could blame my seasonal allergies and mercifully, nobody knocked, neither did my boss barge through the adjoining door as he was wont to do. After a brief chat exchange with my patient husband who was in an online class, I settled down. I had things to do, after all, and couldn't dissolve into a puddle of tears for the rest of the morning. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I didn't have to accomplish much today other than showing up and being present, and turned my attention to a small task I knew I could manage. 

The tears have been coming a lot lately. Twice at work last week. Unbidden. Unwanted. Unstoppable. I tell myself I shouldn't feel this way; after all, many others have a much more difficult life than me right now. I have more than enough food to eat and savings while others are struggling just to afford the essentials for their families. I have my health when many with COVID-19 are fighting for breath. 

But it's been a hard year. Lockdowns, economic crises, the pandemic, and on top of the every day life, the unexpected challenges. 

I told my students this morning that God is there with them in the midst of the storm--He is found in the gentle whisper. I am learning that these times are not for hurrying to memorize tomes of Scripture and dehydrate barrels of apples in preparation for the end times. These are times to hold on tightly to God and sit with Him, listening for His quiet gentle voice of comfort. As I reset my pace of life to what I can manage, maybe just waking up one morning with a smile instead of fear, or maybe just sorting files for a morning instead of tackling another difficult project, I am learning to be gentle with myself. To wrap myself in a purple fleece blanket at work so I can feel like I'm being held in comfort. 

It's okay to be sad.  

Some Days I Feel Lost

I remembered that quick turn into a side alley so I was happy to not miss it as the GPS directed me to turn left. Several speed bumps later I was squeezing past a huge white Mercedes as I pulled up and onto the main road. Except the GPS was telling me to go left and I was faced with 3 roads, none of which went left. I froze for a moment, waiting for traffic to pass, until an angry lady stopped in the converging lane and gestured out of her windscreen to move. I made a quick decision and took the immediate right. The GPS automatically redirected me. Into a square. Back to the same place. This time I didn't go into the small alley but instead continued straight. I thought I would be able to turn left but once again I was turning right. I instinctively knew where I had to go but I could not get there. I found myself starting to panic. Traffic was coming at me from all sides. Where should I go? Left? Right? Straight ahead? 

In that moment I had to do what I've had to do several times in the past weeks, or maybe it's months by now. I had to mentally grab ahold of myself, like a parent does with a hysterical toddler, and tell myself firmly, You have to make a decision. I could not freeze in the middle of an extremely busy street. I had to choose a direction and go. So I did. 

Somehow my internal GPS redirected me to the general direction I needed to go and my phone GPS caught up, taking me the final kilometer to where I needed to go. After doing one more turn around the block to find a parking spot, I pulled in to double-park behind another customer at the business. I had reached my destination. 30 minutes to travel 3 kilometers. 

Some days I come to work and my mind shuts down. My husband asked me at lunch today if I had a lot of work to do in the afternoon. I told him I did. I had reports to follow up on, emails, HR-related items, and of course the never-ending inane tasks that seemed to fill my day. I would probably find time to read the daily headlines so I could know which towns were on lockdown and whether I could have 3 or 4 people in my car. I would search desperately for a meme or three to save to my thousand+ collection. I would look out my gigantic picture window at the calm sea and cityscape over which a collection of birds constantly hovered. Then I would shift uncomfortably on my squeaky office chair and resume typing. Typing, typing, typing. Until the next kalapook came to ask me a question and my mind shut down once again. 

The speaker for the week of spiritual emphasis today hacked out the usual Christian cliche--God brings difficult times into your life. He was trying to illustrate the familiar story of Jonah, the runaway prophet. I cringed inwardly, while simultaneously wondering if I was the runaway prophet. I'd been reading Lies Women Believe and battling its concepts that women should be submissive and obedient to show their true commitment to God. Submission = following God. Not following God = difficult times in your life. So apparently I wasn't a good enough Christian because everything was difficult now. 

Not only was I incessantly fighting to manage in a crippled economy, along with the COVID-19 pandemic, I was trying to get answers for personal and work-related issues. From medical to rental to educational issues, I felt like I had been fighting for months with no answers. Difficult times were my norm now. I didn't know what it felt like to just live life and manage the every day things like laundry, changing the oil, or baking a cake. There seemed to be no end in sight. 

Some days I feel lost. I freeze in the middle of the aisle in the fruit and vegetable market because I cannot accept that I should pay $9 for a kilo of persimmons. The only affordable fruit, pears for $4 a kilo, look like they expired a week ago. I start to mentally panic, worried how our bodies will get the nutrition they need. I load up on potato chips, clearly aware they are junk food, but they are the only affordable emotional snack I can find to cope with it all. Then I head to the checkout and breathe a sigh of relief when the bill is below 200,000 LBP. 

This is my reality now. Life consists of mustering enough energy to battle for the simple things. My meager earnings. Food. Medical needs. Timely decisions. Clear communication. I'm no longer striving for perfection. I'm just trying to exist.

I believe in hell. . .on earth, that is

Hell is preferable to this. At least there you know it's over and done with. You burn once and it's not everlasting, like people would have you believe. Not like this life. It just keeps going and going. Without end. Miserable. Without hope. Hell on earth is not such a misnomer after all.

Life is getting difficult. I told someone not too long ago, "Life just gets harder the older you get, so enjoy it now while you can." At the ripe old age of 40, I know what I'm talking about. Of course, living in a third-world pretentious country adds to my resume of expertise.

I landed in the outskirts of Beirut nearly four and a half years ago with Great Expectations. I was coming to relive my teenage dream, to put the broken pieces back together into the Perfect Picture of what my past had not been. I was coming to recapture joy, happiness, and hope. Or so I thought.

Fast forward 2 years and I had acclimatized and adapted along with the best of them. With my limited broken Arabic, I was jetting around the country on public dirty-white buses or taxis driven by chain smokers who wanted to marry me for papers and the price of a Happy Meal. I went to diminutive art galleries, soaked up classical concerts from the balconies or unyielding wooden pews of stone cathedrals, hiked goat paths through orchards bursting with ripe carob and apples, and devoured falafel sandwiches with florescent pink pickled turnips and spicy pickled chili peppers. My local friends were astounded at my comfort and knowledge and I became the unofficial tour guide for out-of-countriers. I was happy. Or so I thought.

Fast forward another year and a half and I was walking down a very short church aisle on my uncle's arm, then two weeks later down a grassy aisle on my brother's arm as my now-husband and I enjoyed the last of three international weddings (the first being the court one). Now came the new adjustments, to life, liberty, and happiness, as I learned to maneuver compromise and the ever-capable tears in dire situations. We set up our first home and discovered we both loved Poirot movies and adventure. I was lost in the happiness of newly-wedded bliss. Or so I thought.

Then the economic crisis blew up, quickly followed by the coronavirus pandemic. I watched my monthly salary lose its value until it was worth less than $200 on the black market, before taxes. I watched prices skyrocket in the supermarket, as we hunted each week for staple items that would keep, and watched our list of favourite food items grow smaller and smaller. Sunflower seeds, a treat to eat while watching a movie, doubled in price and my husband insisted we didn't need to buy them anymore. I'd stocked up a month ago but the bags were quickly disappearing and when they were gone, well, we wouldn't have those to enjoy. A bag of potato chips, half full of air, tripled in price and I learned how to make potato chips from scratch using a frying pan. The only problem was, it took an hour to make.

The fear reflected in everyone's faces started to sink into my psyche and the happiness I'd felt before was gone. There were no more art galleries, concerts, or restaurants to visit. It wasn't safe, health-wise, or affordable. Our entertainment was reduced to movies; our treats to whichever fruit was on sale that week. We were experiencing what it felt to live like in a third-world country and I was not having it. I'd spent my childhood living in primitive conditions and I didn't work hard to find myself back in the same place I'd left so many years before. I was not happy.

I didn't need luxury. I didn't need two cars and a white picket fence. All I asked for was to be able to save a few dollars every month, to take a trip once a year, to be able to buy food and clothes without worrying about the cost, and to have a fun outing every now and then. Simple things. And yet, now impossible.

It's kind of ironic, when you think about it. The Christian is called to live through hell on earth so he won't end up dying in hell at the end of his life on earth. While he has hope of a life afterwards, the reality is that it requires at least 70 years of enduring misery to reach the end. Yes, if the Christian has hope, this can help them to endure. But if they don't. Well, then. It just becomes a never-ending nightmare of struggling to exist, waiting for it to all end. Because the good Christian always accepts life as coming from God's hand, so therefore any and all misery is dictated to us for our own good. Or so they say.

I used to wonder why people didn't believe in God. I didn't realize there is also the opposite side of that. There are those who don't believe in hell. They think this life is all there is to it and when they die, they float away into oblivion. I guess they are the lucky ones, then. They haven't experienced hell on earth. I have. . .

Beyond the Mask

I look out my gigantic picture window down to the ground floor. They are all there, laughing and talking. One is sitting on the steps with a snack, another is doing jumping jacks, while the others sit or stand around congenially beginning the work week with some light conversation and coffee. While I am up behind glass, alone.

There was no invitation. No WhatsApp message. Nobody stopping by or picking up the phone to call and see if I wanted to join.

I sit down at my desk again, pulling my terrycloth gray mask away from my nose for a few seconds so I can calm my breathing. After going up and down the stairs to retrieve a key for an emergency door exit, I'm breathing a little heavier. It's not only the exertion, though. It's the anxiety.

I'm a TCK. I'm used to adapting without much thought to the process. Even now, when I puddle hop to meet my goal of "5 new countries this year" I instinctively ride public transportation, visit historic places, and search for hole-in-the-wall authentic restaurants, finding myself surprised if I encounter any glitch at trying something new. I assume I should be able to maneuver like a local, even if I've never been there before.

This COVID-19 thing, though, is not as easy to navigate. The first time to the grocery store was extremely difficult as my husband and I tried to figure out when to use alcohol hand sanitizer (before or after you take off your gloves? turns out both), when to put on the mask (before leaving the car, not necessary to wear it the entire time you are driving), and how to properly sanitize our shopping (throw away any outer shells if possible, wash all produce in vinegar water, wash all groceries that are not cardboard or porous in soapy water, then rinse). A normally-looked-forward-to trip had become a nightmare and I found myself snapping unnecessarily at my patient husband as we sorted out the process.

Now, three months into it, we have a routine and while I still don't relish going grocery shopping, I don't dread it as I did before. I adapted. I managed. But the anxiety is still there.

The other side of the TCK is that their chameleon super-power allows them to blend so well into their environment that they can easily be mistaken for the wallpaper. In other words, they don't exist. I've also experienced this many times both as a TCK, a minority, and a woman. I may look Caucasian and speak like an American, but if I don't open my mouth to make my presence known, I disappear.

When the COVID-19 broke here, there was initial panic. Everyone stayed home if they could. Hand sanitizer was everywhere and we were washing our hands like we all had OCD and googling Early Symptoms of Coronavirus anytime we sneezed like the hypochondriacs we were. We watched the numbers going up every night, speculated about why some countries had more deaths than others, criticized world leaders for how they did or didn't impose lockdowns in their countries, and wondered if the world would ever go back to normal.

Then things got comfortable. People started going back to work, eating out in restaurants, and gathering in groups. COVID-19 hadn't gone away, though its initial rapid attack was slowing down, but it didn't seem as dangerous anymore. Even though the medical literature was announcing in stentorian tones the treacherous side effects of the disease, even as thousands of people breathed their last every day, because it hadn't affected anyone we knew personally, it didn't worry us as much.

Except it worried me. When I first returned to work, I kept distance from others, hurrying in just to work and leave, not stopping to chat or say hello to anyone. I had been working from home for about 2 months but they had stayed home for a few days and then, bored with nothing to do, or needing to come in to the office to take care of some matters, had decided to come in on a regular basis. They gathered for coffee in someone's office, chairs pushed close together so more could join the social event.

Uncomfortable with the lack of social distancing, as the news began to announce that COVID-19 could be transmitted by breathing, I became even more apprehensive. So I started wearing a mask.

It's funny how something as simple as a piece of cloth can both save and kill you at the same time. Ironically, I wear the mask more to protect others around me, though I am hoping it will help somewhat reduce any effects on me if an asymptomatic person were to breathe nearby. Yet the symbol of protection became a neon flag, signalling to all that I was not somebody to be around. The parties continued, but without me. I watched from my window as birthdays were celebrated. I heard the excited vibrations of chatter down the hallway as people returned from an international-trip-quarantine. I passed colleagues standing in an office door, coffee cup in one hand and tasty treat in the other, as they shared conversation on their way back to their office.

I couldn't sleep last night. Maybe it was the portent of summer, as the night air warmed and the breeze paused for a breath. I don't usually have insomnia. I hadn't eaten late. I hadn't watched a scary movie. I hadn't taken a nap that afternoon. As I lay there in the semi-dark, calculating how many hours I had left before my early morning exercise alarm, I realized that there was more than an antsy-feeling in my legs. There was anxiety.

This time around, my TCK superpowers are failing me. I can adapt to the situation, but I cannot adapt to the anxiety levels. I don't know how to not be anxious. I didn't learn this growing up, other than stuffing my feelings. And I'm tired of assuming I will figure it out because this is not figure-outabble. Nobody has lived through this before so there are no roadmaps, no guidebooks, no manuals for this sort of thing. What do you do when you cannot breathe or you have to sneeze when you're wearing a face mask? What do you do when your nearly-retired mother lives a continent and a half away and you don't know how to protect her from getting sick? What do you do when the airport shuts down for over 3 months and you are worried about being able to get out of the country to maintain your residency? What do you do when the economy has tanked so low that a simple car maintenance costs more than half your month's salary?

What do you do when the people you thought saw you, really don't?

This, perhaps, is the hardest question of all. My mom told me, "This is when you know who your true friends are." The problem is, I always believed they were all my true friends. I lived life in a perpetually happy bubble, assuming everyone who smiled at me was my best friend for life. Now I'm having to accept a very different reality and I cannot do it.

I could take the mask off and blend back in again. Without the mask, they wouldn't worry about offending me and would easily invite me to the morning coffee klatch. I cannot do it, though. I have to protect my health above all else, even if it makes others uncomfortable. I am protecting myself and I am protecting them. Even if they don't realize it.

So, for today, I pull up my gray mask once more. And I disappear.

Long Ago and Oh So Far Away

I remember that card. I remember the stiff black foam as I pushed it up and down the green surface, studiously erasing the carefully printed letter. I remember.

I don't have a lot of memories from my childhood. Not ones that are organic and tactile, at least. In my family, I was always the one to spend hours perusing the black and red photo albums my mom had numbered over the years, bought on sale at Boots and filled with still moments. Somehow these had to translate into sensory memories for me since they didn't come naturally. 

I didn't dream at night. I couldn't recall by day. All I had were photos—and the unpredictable flashes of emotion and hazy stills. Until this memory. This memory was real and it was one I could feel. There was no photo attached to it; only a photo that ignited it. And at last, I remembered. 

I'd been scrolling mindlessly through Facebook, on day 36 of the mandatory coronavirus quarantine. I stopped at a friend's post where they'd shared photos of toddlers doing fun learning games at home using recycled materials. The small children were putting colored balls inside matching colored paper tubes, matching finger cutouts with the appropriate cardboard hand, and counting out the correct number of acorns into small dishes with numbers inside them. Then I saw the photo.

The little girl sat on a light brown wooden chair pulled up to a white and wood-bordered matching table just at her height. She was wearing a gray All-Star tshirt with green letters and her brown curls were tousled on top of her head with a metallic silver butterfly clip. In her hands she clasped a magnetic colored letter of the alphabet. She was smiling down at the wooden board in front of her, most of its spaces empty, only a green J, a purple N, and a red R filling their respective cutouts. To the left of the board were tinfoil wrapped surprises, more letters for the waiting slots. 

In that moment, a picture came to mind. I know those letters! Those are magnetic. They stick on the fridge. But there should be a plastic board to hold them all. And there's something more. 

Seconds later, Google had pulled up the photo for me. A vintage Fisher-Price Play Desk. Ages 3-8. Came with a plastic board holding the entire alphabet, extra letters, numbers 0-9, a small box of white chalk, a stiff foam eraser attached to a yellow plastic backing stamped with the logo, a hidden drawer at the top of the desk where you could store all the letters, and cardboard panels with pictures illustrating a cutout word. You were supposed to slide the panel into the bottom of the chalk-topped desk, fill in the cutout with magnetic letters, and then practice writing the word in the empty space above the panel. 

Tears came into my eyes as I remembered sliding the chunky plastic letters into the slots until they fit. I must have been younger than reading age because I was playing by instinct, not by knowledge. I remember being extra careful with the chalk so it wouldn't break, perhaps because I knew we couldn't get more chalk so easily. But then we must have been in Africa and I would have been at least 4 1/2 by then. The eraser wasn't the best, it would smudge the chalk more than clear it, but I felt like a proper teacher and loved pushing it up and down to wipe the green slate as clean as I could. When playtime was over, I slid open the drawer at the top, it gave with little hesitation, and put all the letters, eraser, and chalk back into their secret hiding place. I carefully gathered the cardboard panels and shuffled them together, then pushed them into the mailbox opening at the bottom of the play desk. 

I don't have a memory of place and I cannot be sure of the time, but the memory of that play desk is as real as the blue-gray sofa I am sitting on today as I write this in my quiet living room in Lebanon, the hum of dehumidifier in the corner, last year's miniature Christmas tree still upright behind it, and 5 honeymoon flags adorning our heater in diagonality behind that. 

The memories I am making today, most times I wish I wouldn't, as I feel they cannot ever compare with the emotional tug of memories put together in a childhood of nostalgia. A green bedsheet hanging on a metal clothesrack, a stone-washed blue plastic picture frame filled with miniatures set on a shell-themed background, and fake pink and white cherry blossom branches spilling out of a turquoise ceramic rippled vase are easy enough to describe but hold no emotional attachment. I could walk out of here leaving them behind and never remember. 

But there are memories in this house. There's the two-foot tall white electric heater, with its four-sided coil reflectors and bonus top heating pad where my husband cooked rice and lentils in his dorm room for me when we were still dating. The 250 mL local fresh Balki's orange juice plastic bottle, somewhat distorted from its original shape by getting too close to the fire at times, that holds salt and traveled with us throughout 5 European countries, and I couldn't leave it behind so I risked paying hefty overweight fees to bring back an empty plastic juice bottle with matching orange lid. There's the statue of a father, mother, and child holding hands, carved out of a single piece of dark African wood, that my husband brought back from his maiden trip to Africa, not knowing I'd had to leave behind too many African mementos when the family splintered. 

Today I'm still creating memories. I do not know which memories will be ones I want to tuck into a cedar box for safekeeping and which memories I will discard in time. All I know is that I don't want to lose myself like I did 30+ years ago. 

Back then, I had to reinvent myself so many times I could not bear to hold the memories in my mind, so they sank into a grayness of oblivion. It hurt too much to try to bring along each Maria into my new life, so I would set her in the corner and close the door, locking it tightly so she couldn't get out. Then I would march into my new life, set my face resolutely to learning the new rules and expectations and innuendos of this life, and start all over again creating memories. Except this time, I want to start opening those doors, one by one, and inviting each child, each teenager, each persona, into the life I live today. I need to know who I was before and it is only in rubbing those magnetic letters between my adult fingers again that I can know I existed. And I was loved. And I was real. Because I remember. 

Crying Peace and Safety

What do you do when no one listens? When you're told, God is in control, or Just be calm and relax, God's got this? What do you do when you check the news and see daily counts of hundreds of people dying, and you log in to social media and are bombarded with people expressing their frustration at how they are tired of hearing gloom and doom news, so why don't you just play this game of "when did you first meet me" and "if I were a fun chocolate, what kind would I be?" so we can all forget the world? 

What do you do when your family lives in 5 different countries other than yours and you spend hours online every day, hitting refresh on the daily update website, watching the number of deaths and diagnosed cases rocket up? What do you do when borders close and airports shut down and you start to calculate who could get to whom faster, or even at all, if necessary? Then someone comes along and tells you, God is control, what do you do then?

I think we make God into a sissy, really. I never really thought about God's power other than when I sat in Yosemite once and marveled at how He had to be quite powerful in order to put rock formations that huge into place. Then my husband showed me a passage in Daniel 10 a few days ago and it got me thinking again.

"Since the first day you began to pray for understanding and to humble yourself before your God, your request has been heard in heaven. I have come in answer to your prayer. But for twenty-one days the spirit prince of the kingdom of Persia blocked my way. Then Michael, one of the archangels,came to help me, and I left him there with the spirit prince of the kingdom of Persia. Now I am here. . ." (Daniel 10:12-14, NLT)

Daniel was praying to God but the angel could not come to him for 21 days. Imagine that. An angel is a powerful being yet he was not able to win over the powers of darkness. Only when Jesus came to help and take over the battle, was Gabriel able to fly to Daniel to communicate with him. 

When I picture the coronavirus, I don't picture God sitting back and pondering all these deaths. I see His angels fighting with Satan's angels to keep the disease from spreading. I see God tenderly bowing by the side of those who are struggling to breathe, placing a gentle hand of comfort on their forehead, with tears of sadness in His eyes. I know God cannot stop all sin and suffering simply because we live in a terrible terrible world. Yet He is more than a trite reply. He is a powerful God. 

If it were up to Satan, I imagine all of those who believe in God would have died by now. Yet God exercises His power to protect us, not because of our stupidity (as this post was written out of sheer rage at the stupidity of so many people right now), but because of His wisdom. He knows people are incapable of protecting themselves or do not want to protect others to the cost of their bottom line. He knows people assume they are infallible and don't understand the subtle yet deadly affect of COVID-19. 

Just like sin. We think we are immune to it, we can figuratively wash our hands and we will be safe. We do not see it lurking on surfaces, hanging in the air, or passing from person to person, invisible yet more powerful than a person's strength. Only because of Jesus' battle on the cross, a hand-to-hand battle with the powers of darkness, was He able to win and guarantee our eternal life. 

Just as we exhort others not to waste this precious gift of life with God in the hereafter, let us not take lightly the gift of life God has given us in this life. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and see a message on Facebook or in my family chat that somebody has the coronavirus. I don't want to feel trapped in the small country I am in, all borders locked down, unable to get to those who need me. 

Until we can breathe deeply again, I stay in my small apartment, only venturing out for internet and fresh groceries, fully clad in gloves and mask with hand sanitizer aplenty. I send emails questioning and querying to administrators who refuse to listen. I try, and fail, not to get angry at each new directive that fails to take seriously the government appeals to stay home. I pray God protects each of my dear family members scattered around the world. I pray my husband and I don't get sick, knowing full well the devil mocks those of God's people he can and tries his hardest to make their lives as miserable as possible.

And I remember that God is a God of power and He does fight for me. Often I don't see it, perhaps I don't understand it, but His power is real. God is a warrior (Exodus 15:3) and I need Him to fight for me now. Against the coronavirus. Against sin. And win. 

"And the beast was captured, and with him the false prophet who did mighty miracles on behalf of the beast—miracles that deceived all who had accepted the mark of the beast and who worshiped his statue. Both the beast and his false prophet were thrown alive into the fiery lake of burning sulfur. . .Then the devil, who had deceived them, was thrown into the fiery lake of burning sulfur, joining the beast and the false prophet." (Revelation 19:20; 20:10)

Value Enough

Because who I am is value enough.

It had been one of those days. A day when something small and unrelated triggered a tsunami of emotions inside me and three hours after I'd woken up, I'd crawled back underneath the queen-sized quilt and tucked myself into a comfort-cocoon where I hoped the world wouldn't come knocking. My unsuspecting husband came to say goodbye before he left for class and found me there, tears in the corners of my eyes, unable to explain why I was emotional. I don't know was my response to every question he asked. I just feel sad, was all I could say.

I'm a thinker. I analyze, I process, I make lists, and I think. I'm pretty sure I think too much, though, which tends to land me in trouble as I find myself navigating an emotional mine-field in my own mind. When I think, everything magnifies to the point that I no longer have rational perspective on simple things. Today was one of those days.

I never had a bridal shower, kept going around in my head. It was a thought I'd had for 6 months now. My coworkers had talked about it for weeks, promising a nice one, but the wedding came and went without even a simple tea party in sight. I attributed it to the uncertainty of visas and wedding licenses until the very last minute, but simultaneously I knew, a bridal shower could have been had. After all, in the last 3+ years I had attended countless bridal showers. One young lady even had one thrown after the fact, as her wedding was held overseas. That, and no bachelorette party, made me feel like I was forgotten.

Then there was work. I tried, at times, to speak up and share my opinion about specific matters, but when they kept getting shot down as irrelevant or illogical, I felt inferior and eventually stopped speaking. The thoughts didn't go away, though. I kept thinking, involuntarily most of the time, about how things could be done better, how colleagues could be treated with more respect, how students could understand their value through providing basic needs, but I knew the thoughts had to stay within the invisible bubble that floated above my head.

And finally, there was life. Life in your own country, where you can speak the language and understand the systems of education, politics, or even something as simple as grocery shopping, is far simpler than life in a foreign country. I function from the somewhat naive perception that I am a cultural ninja/chameleon and can both adapt to and maneuver any new situation with ease and instant understanding. I assume that when I must go to a medical appointment at a new hospital that I will find the place—and parking—without the slightest hassle and when I find myself facing unknowns, I become overwhelmed.

This feeling of being overwhelmed seems to come accompanied by a strong sense of loss. It's somewhat new to me as I've only sensed the loss before when processing feelings of sadness. Now, though, I am understanding more clearly that when I feel like everything is just too much for me, it is tied to a feeling that if I were in a familiar place where I could manage, then I wouldn't feel so helpless. So now I am grieving the loss of something I never knew—a home in a country where I belonged.

The reality is that I will never be able to regain this loss. Yes, the Bible talks about God restoring the years the locusts have eaten, but it is physically impossible to recoup 35 years of non-elective nomadism. So I must face this reality and find a way to accept it so I can focus on other things such as the many wonderful parts of my life that are with me today.

In all of this, I want to be sure that the feelings are affirmed. It is not wrong to feel sad. It is a natural response to something in my environment that needs to be changed, understood, or accepted. When I feel overwhelmed, I may need to cry, eat a piece of chocolate, watch Yes, Prime Minister, go to the mall, or phone a friend. In my life situation right now, I may need to remind myself that this is only temporary and to look for the joy in the simple things in life. It's all about perspective after all. I can choose to stay in my thoughts of despair or I can choose to focus on the blessings.

I am thankful for a God Who understands me, has great compassion, and directs my life so clearly that I know He has a plan for me. I am thankful for a husband who is patient, diligent, encouraging, and loves me with all his heart. I am thankful for a Christian work environment and kind cheerful coworkers. I am thankful for close friends who care and reach out and for family who connect across the miles in meaningful ways. I am thankful for a clean, safe, and comfortable home and a car that works.

Above all, today I am thankful that who I am is value enough. I can get easily overwhelmed thinking about the many things I need to accomplish, from making doctor appointments to legally changing my maiden name to cooking delicious meals from scratch daily. I can feel like I need to put in more effort to stay connected to others, need to write a better paper for my graduate class, or need to spend more serious time in devotions to please God.

Yet God reminds me that the do-ing is not as valuable as the be-ing. If I check everything off my to-do-list but I neglect the weightier matters of the law, I become a mere Pharisee, eager to demonstrate my capabilities but forgetting the reason why or for Who I am doing these things. Jesus summed up the law in four words: Love God. Love others.

When I do things because they need to get done, and not to build value in others' eyes, I am showing love. I am taking the focus off my need for affirmation and getting the task done, which leaves my mind clear of overreacting thoughts that take away my ability to love God and love others. When I understand that my value is found in be-ing, being myself, being loving, being kind, then I am able to do with meaning and purpose. In doing so, I not only find my value, I also communicate value to everyone around me.

Because who we are is value enough. 

Rocky shore

By nature, I am a skittish person. I don't stand close to high edges, I don't try to leap from one side of a 2-foot chasm to the other side, and I don't stand on glass floors in tall buildings. Yesterday was no exception.

That morning, whilst sitting in church and trying to be patient during a particularly tedious sermon, I decided we would head to the sea for the afternoon. It was going to be sunny and after a week of dreary rain, I was ready to be outside. The sermon ended and we hurried home to fry up some falafel to stuff into sandwiches so we could head out quickly. A friend joined us and off we went to Anfeh.

It was the most wonderful of afternoons. The sky was crisp, the air was clear, and I could finally breathe without whistling. We wandered into an old monastery, where my husband explored behind the low swinging engraved doors to find several sets of cassocks, we maneuvered between rectangular cement salt collecting stations empty for the winter, and finally found a way down to the garbage, seashell, and rock-covered seashore.

My husband and sister-in-law busied themselves collecting large seashells while my friend and I digitally caught the essence of peace as best we could—to daydream on when the next week returned to collect on drear and dark. As I began to head back up to the parking lot, stepping from one loose stone to the next, I contemplated the wobbly rocks my feet landed on and thought,

The rock is always a solid foundation.

A true rock is solid. It may be unstable but it never disintegrates when weight is put upon it. Of course if enough force is put on it, a piece may come off, but that piece is still solid. It's still a rock.

Later in the day, I found myself facing a rather unstable metal bridge. To reach the miniature peninsula of rock that jutted out into the setting Mediterranean Sea meant I had to either backtrack and go out of my way, or go forward across the rickety bridge. My adventurous husband volunteered to test it out, as he stepped over the link chain meant to keep curious tourists out. He sauntered across, stopping mid-bridge to jump a few times to ensure it held.

It did.

The bridge wasn't very high, maybe a meter and a half at most, and below was a mixture of rock and beach sand, so any fall would likely be more dangerous from getting caught on a sharp edge of the bridge than the landing. My sister-in-law was next to make the crossing and also did so uneventfully. My friend happily tried to explain that if the bridge were indeed to fall, it would list to the right, therefore I should walk on the right to ensure maximum safety. None of which made sense to either of us.

I knew if I didn't start walking, I would freeze and not be able to make it across. Before my mind had a chance to really process the stupidity of walking across a bridge clearly marked keep out, whose detaching side metal seams caused it to sway slightly in an unnerving way, I stepped onto the bridge.

I made it across. However, I vowed not to repeat the experience and we found a different way back. The bridge held, but there was no guarantee it would again. Its solidity was questionable and its stability unsure. Unlike the rocks that shifted but held, this bridge could collapse at any moment.

In life, there are many things that seem secure but in reality, they cannot provide us the stability we need. At any moment, they could collapse and we could find ourselves falling to a painful place. Some are easy to spot—money, drugs, addictions—while others are more opaque—friends, knowledge, or a career.

I want to learn how to trust more in the God Who always is a solid foundation. For me and for my life.

Look! I am placing a foundation stone in Jerusalem,
    a firm and tested stone.
It is a precious cornerstone that is safe to build on.
    Whoever believes need never be shaken.

   ~Isaiah 28:16 NLT

The LORD your God

A month or so ago, I decided I should read the Bible all the way through. Starting at the very beginning. I found a chronological reading plan and dutifully read the first couple of chapters on day one. Everything seemed very familiar. I had, after all, grown up hearing the Old Testament stories since cradle roll. What could I possibly learn this time through? 

While the year-plan had me reading three or so chapters a day, I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to finish in a year. The Bible translation I was reading made everything come alive and small details I'd never noticed before made each story much more vivid than I remembered. Suddenly the Bible was no longer a dry retelling of well-known events; now it had become a drama that had me eager to turn the page, curious to see what would happen next in the intrigue of romance, murder, lies, wars won, and animals marching into a gigantic ship on dry land. 

Questions flew into my mind. How did the fish survive the flood if Noah wasn't commanded to take them into the ark and the underground water sources were gushing forth mightily? Did Sarai get her servant Hagar in the land of Egypt or did she have her before? Was Lot's wife from Sodom and why was she turned specifically into a pillar of salt? Why did God make all the women in Abimelech's household barren when it was Abraham who had deceived the king? 

I began to underline, write comments in the margin, and cross-reference verses on my own. I looked at maps to connect geographical locations with places I was reading about. I read other commentaries to learn more about the background of traditions. I noticed repetitions of promises or confirmations that God made to people and how long it took them to believe Him.

Yesterday I read Genesis 27 and when I came to verse 20, I stopped. Why, when Isaac asked Jacob—whom he thought was Esau—how he was able to find the wild game so quickly to prepare his favourite dish, did Jacob reply, "Because the LORD your God put it in my path!" I wondered if there was a mistake in the Bible. Why did Jacob say your God? Did he not believe in God? 

Fast forward 24 hours and a chapter in the Bible. Jacob was on his way to Paddan-aram, running from a murderous brother and obedient to his mother's request to find a believing wife. Tired after a long day of traveling, he set up camp for the night with a stone pillow to rest on. That night he had a dream. God appeared to him at the top of a stairway connecting earth to heaven, identifying Himself as the God of Jacob's grandfather and father. Interestingly, He did not impose Himself as Jacob's God but He clearly outlined the patrilineal heritage that would validate His rightful claim should Jacob choose to accept Him. 

God began to outline the many blessings He would give to Jacob. He promised the ground Jacob was lying on, numerous descendants, blessings for all the families on the earth, to be with him, to protect him everywhere he went, and to bring him safely back to his father's land. After Jacob woke up and anointed his stone pillow as a memorial, he made a vow. Jacob vowed that if God kept His promises to be with him, protect him, give him food and clothing, and bring him safely back to his father, he would give God a tithe of everything. And here's the clincher. 

then I will make the LORD my God.

So I didn't read Genesis 27:20 wrong. Jacob had not yet accepted God as his God, even though he had grown up in a believing household. His grandfather and father were both strong believers in God. They had both been blessed tremendously with wealthy possessions and are mentioned in Hebrews 11 as having great faith. Jacob, however, was not convinced. He had received his brother's birthright, he had tricked his father to give him the blessing, but he did not yet have a personal connection with God. He didn't have his own promises. 

I wondered, What promises do I need to make God my God? Is it a one-time deal? Do I ask God for specific blessings and when He answers, I then know I can trust Him? What promises has God given me that He has or is fulfilling?

God promised Jacob that He would be with him until He had finished giving him everything He had promised. This implies an ongoing blessing rather than a one-time event which makes more sense when considered within the context of the Christian journey. If God were to give a blessing and then retreat from my life, I would find it difficult to believe He was anything more than a sanctimonious spiritual being who bestowed a blessing and then carried on with His other duties. Continual blessings, however, imply a God Who is intimately interested in my life and wants to bless throughout my life so I know He wants to connect with me in a meaningful way.

I'm not saying the Christian life is only one of blessings. If this were so, we would not long for heaven. However, when I think about a God Who blesses me continually, I understand more the concept of a loving Father. Jacob would eventually see God fulfill all the promises in his life. After wrestling with God and having his name changed to Israel, Jacob would return to his father's land, build an altar, and call it El-Elohe-Israel, meaning God, the God of Israel (Genesis 33:20). 

then I will make the LORD my God. 

El-Elohe-Maria