Breaking Me Down—Slowmmation Version

The consultation fee varies depending on the doctor, but it ranges from $20 to $100, $150. In local currency that starts at 700,000, the professional voice of the billing department informed me over the phone. In shock, I thanked her, then hung up and redialled the main number, asking for the doctor's office. 

I have an appointment with Dr. B tomorrow. How much is the initial visit? 

One moment please, another kind voice said, then put me on hold. A moment later, she was back on the line quoting the same information the first woman had given me. We give a receipt, she was quick to assure me. 

Thank you, I would like to cancel my appointment at this time. The receptionist sounded somewhat surprised that I would cancel, but accepted my cancellation. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough. 

I pulled up a calculator on my laptop, typing in the minimum fee and figuring out what my 25% would be after submitting the reimbursement to the business office. I would be paying anywhere from 175,000 to over 1,300,000. In dollars, it didn't seem like much, around $5 - $40 but when exchanged to the local currency it represented a possible third of my take-home local salary for the month. And I just couldn't justify spending that much on a doctor's visit. 

If I can't walk, then I will make an appointment, I reasoned, even as I worried that if I didn't see a doctor, I would end up with a crippling problem for life.  

The confusion at the insane hike in prices mingled with my worries to bring on the ever-present tears that hid behind a very fragile curtain. I gave up fighting to keep them in and let the fear settle on me as I whispered, God, this isn't a good day. But then again, there hadn't been many of those lately. 

I thought about the checkup I had planned with my OB to check the ache I had on my right side. About the dental cleaning and fillings I was sure I needed. There was a crown that had been bothering me the last couple of days. I remembered how the business manager had emphasized the stringent times we were living in and felt that submitting huge medical bills wouldn't be looked on too kindly. 

Keys rattled in the hallway. I pressed the tissue to my eyes and wiped away the last drops. Nobody else needed to know what was worrying me; everyone else had their own worries to deal with. I fastened a smile on my face and prepared to face the day. After all, days would pass and one day we would leave this hellhole so for now, I just had to do my best to hold it together until that day came. 

Meltdown on Aisle 23

It's 44,000 I insisted, pointing at the receipt. 

She shook her head firmly and repeated 45,000 as she pointed at the different prices on the thin plastic bags. 

I tried to reason with her, that 47 minus 3 was 44, but she adamantly refused to budge. 

Can you please add it up again? I asked, but she didn't understand. So I opened up my phone calculator, even though she had a huge handheld calculator right in front of her, and started to put the prices of each bag of produce in. She held up bag by bag and I patiently typed in the numbers, ensuring she saw each one and approved. 

When she saw the total, she shook her head in disbelief. 

Are you going shopping anytime soon? I asked my flatmate but she isn't going til Friday, M had messaged me earlier that day. I'd gone a couple days ago, but it had been a rush trip and I was up for a quick jaunt to the Aoun at the bottom of the hill. We set a time, I hurried home to eat reheated leftovers for dinner, and then I messaged her that I was ready to go. 

About 10 minutes later, I had maneuvered my car around 2 unyielding drivers, found a parking spot, and we had grabbed our bright orange handcarts with long slide-in black handles in preparation for the evening's shop. 

Let's go to the fruits and vegetables first? M suggested and I agreed. I needed to get some fruit. We pulled our little carts behind us and once we reached the other section of the store, I headed for the outside to check on any good deals. I found apples, mostly bruised but a few still in fairly good condition, for 7,500 a kilo. After carefully picking through, putting miniature rosy-cheeked apples into my plastic bag, I decided I had enough to make dehydrated apples and possibly a bit of applesauce too. 

Inside, I put 3 clusters of tan grapes, 5 nectarines, 8 plums, and 6 carrots into separate bags. Then I went to weigh everything. The man rang up the apples wrong, insisting they were correct. I sighed heavily, deciding to wait until he had finished ringing everything else up so I wouldn't lose my place in line and could go check the price on the little cardboard sign again. He noticed my frustration and called out to someone, asking what price the apples were. They confirmed the apples were 7,500 so he printed out a new sticker. 

After verifying all the prices, I took my bags over to the cashier. The lady scanned the first bag, scanned the second bag, put the third bag through, and scanned the second bag again. I stood there, a little confused by her system. After she finished scanning all the bags, I did a quick mental count of the total showing on the screen and said, Something is wrong. Can you please show me the receipt?

She printed out the receipt and I immediately saw the same item showing up twice. I pointed it out to her, but she didn't understand. After checking the receipt a couple of times, she went through line by line and understood that she had rung up one item twice and another had been missed. 

The difference was 3,000 or the equivalent of 10 cents. She agreed she would refund me the difference, then, looking at the original receipt she had printed out which displayed a total of 47,000 she informed me that I had to pay 45,000.

I looked at her incredulously. No, I have to pay 44,000. 47 minus 3 is 44, I said, even though I knew she didn't understand much English. 

She shook her head. For some reason, 45,000 made sense to her and was stuck in her mind. Here we were, debating the total of 3 cents but I couldn't just pay the difference and let it go. I was sick and tired of the system cheating me and I was not going to leave until I paid the correct amount. 

After much going back and forth, with my calculations only confirming what I had originally said, she shook her head again in amazement, as if it was my fault, and begrudgingly gave me my change. I thanked her, swept up my bags, and hurried around the corner. A little old man clad in a security jacket and beige pants sat on a chair in the hallway. To my left was a booth of sorts, next to the door that led shoppers back into the main store, and between the booth and the security guard was a corner of employee lockers. 

In a moment, I felt panic overtake me. I hurried to the corner, faced the beige metal doors, and began to cry. My whole body started shaking as the sobs overtook me, silent but strong. I instinctively knew to let the panic come and pass through, rather than try to repress it. For about 30 seconds, my body shook with convulsive tears, until I told myself, It's enough for now. I checked my purse; no tissues. I wiped my eyes with a quick back swipe of my hand, straightened up, and turned to the door. 

For several minutes, I wandered around the store, past the coffee and teas aisle, past the cereals, into the olive oil aisle, stopping to look at the price of pesto. Tears still rolled down my cheeks and I wiped them away, passing people who didn't give me a second look. As if it was normal to be crying in the pasta aisle. As I put bags of white and brown bread into my cart, I whispered beneath my mask, God, please help me, I can't do this anymore. 

Somehow, that helped. In that moment, God's strength lifted me up and the thought came to mind, Find something nice to enjoy. I spotted my favourite bubbly non-alcoholic drink and decided to buy one for M to celebrate her first year of full-time teaching. I got one for myself also and headed to the checkout to ring up my final purchases. There, the cashier was quick and professional, her long manicured nails tapping out the bar code prices of the bread bags. My favourite bagger appeared when he saw me and cheerily carried my bags out to the car, asking where Mr. (my husband) was. I turned on the a/c, a luxury in these times, and M and I sat in the car enjoying a toast with the bubbly as we chatted about life and its challenges. 

By the time I'd reached home, I was okay. At the same time, I knew I was not really okay. Life was abnormal and things were reaching a critical mass. It was more than culture shock mixed with a dash of jetlag. It was me telling myself that I'd reached the limit of my endurance. A limit no amount of prayer or encouragement could move. The feeling of being out of control of something as small as a simple grocery shop would only compound and one day, I knew, I would finally say, I've had it, and that would be it. 

Flashback

To the man who tailgated me for more than 20 miles on the highway as I drove in the center lane, slowing down when I slowed down and speeding up when I sped up, refusing to pass me though lanes were empty for miles on either side, with high beams blaring so bright I had to flip the rearview mirror, and when I finally got over into the fast lane, sped past me like a speeding bullet. Why, oh why, was it that hard for you to overtake me by passing? Oh. Wait. Because you could not be bothered to overtake in the fast lane; your right of way was more important and therefore I should move. Even if I was already doing 70 in a 65-mph zone. 

To the man who flew up behind me and flashed me with your high beams indicating I should get over when a huge semi was in the lane to my right. Did you really expect me to move over when I was parallel with the semi's cab? Why could you not have waited 3 seconds for me to pass the cab, see if I was getting over politely, and then carried on your merry way? Oh. Wait. Because you own the road and everyone must get out of your way immediately, as you have no time to wait. 

To both of you uncaring oafs, I have a word or two to say. I was in the car in front of you. The car you tailgated; the car you flashed your high beams at. I was gripping onto that steering wheel for dear life—anxiety levels through the roof—as I talked myself through the road trip, knowing I had to complete it successfully so that the anxiety monster would not take over my life. I had been reminding myself to "look at the road" and "focus" and "you have no choice, you have to keep going, keep driving, merge when you have to" for the past hour and a half. And then you came along. As if driving, at night, with severe anxiety wasn't enough, you sat on my bumper, insisting on your rights even though they were not yours to begin with. Typical.

I thought of giving you the finger. I wished I could honk and startle you into sense. I wondered how in the world, God could punish you for your insensitive deeds when the wicked only thrived and, anyhow, they didn't want to go to heaven. So you would each speed off into the inky black night, never to be seen again, with nary a concern, while I, I would be left gripping that steering wheel, willing myself to "keep driving, just a few more miles," until I stumbled into the driveway. Free at last from the threat of another idiot on the roads but never free from the voices inside my head.

Because anxiety. . .it never leaves you. 

Breathe in Deep

It's June 14! my student exclaimed. It doesn't rain in winter; how does it rain now?

He stood by the narrow French window that opened sideways, peering out at the midsummer downpour. 

Can you smell the ground when it rains, Miss?

I smiled. Yes, it smells good.

He was worried the rain would last through lunchtime and they wouldn't be able to walk home after class. I reassured him that it would soon pass; I could see patches of blue off in the distance over the city's skyline. After a couple more moments of gazing at the rain, he returned to his seat to finish typing his cause-effect essay. 

I leaned against the wooden desk and breathed in deeply. This time, the falling rain didn't hint at African summer. Instead, I was transported to a misty Netherlands, looking out the bay window in my uncle's rijtjeshuis, as the crisp air filled my lungs. It smelled clean. 

I missed the Netherlands. I really really missed the Netherlands. Going back and forth for so many years, there for summers, holidays, I didn't understand the strong bond we were building until I went there with a boy. We signed civil papers in front of my two sets of aunts and uncles, danced a Kurdish dance with my 95-year old Oma, ate Dutch apple pie with whipped cream, and whisked through 5 countries in 10 days on our Airbnb honeymoon. 

It was only then that I realized. The Netherlands was my home. 

Will I end up resenting it when I go there? I wondered. I'd returned to Lebanon after so many years, only to find that I could not live here. Would I feel the same if I went to the Netherlands? 

I couldn't know for sure. I just knew that I ached to be there, walking the cobbled stone uneven sidewalks, pedalling with the week's groceries in saddlebags on each side, boiling potatoes and green beans to serve with gravy and applesauce for supper, and breathing in the crisp cold fall air. 

But we still had 7 years to go. Seven long long years. I'd made it through 6 here but the last 18 months had felt impossible. Could I manage another 7?

A glimpse of a life I had not yet lived flashed by. It had been a long time since I'd updated my bucket list. Maybe now it was time. Maybe this time, it would only include a few simple things. A small girl, a miniature bicycle leaning against potted plants in the window display, a smiling content husband. And lots of clean fresh air. 

 

Green Eggs and Spam

Grocery stores are out of bread again. On the way to do the weekly shopping, I pause at a bakery we'd stopped at the week before. They bake bread fresh every hour so I grab a couple of bags, add a few more new items to try, and head to the checkout. 

A little more than 120,000 lighter, I am about to head out when I remember they sell manaeesh here. I turned around and head to the back of the bakery where, behind a counter, little rows of savoury pastries beckon. An older man with a cane hobbles ahead of me to the cashier, there to pick up the order he'd called in before. I wait patiently. 

The cashier goes behind the counter to retrieve the paper bags of treats, stapled shut to keep the warmth inside. He starts to ring up the older man's order when I notice a man with his young daughter off to the side. They've just arrived and, before the older man's order is finished, the father starts giving his order to the cashier. I stare at him, surprised that he would so easily step around me and start ordering. Does he not see me standing there? 

I continue to stare at the man. He looks back, meeting my gaze, with a blank look. I know he knows he's done wrong but he refuses to acknowledge it. I stand there for 10 seconds more, then something inside me snaps. 

I don't have to put up with this, I realize. 

So I don't. 

I turn on my heel instantly and march out of the store. I've been out of the house for less than an hour and already I've reached my limit for the day. 

But it's not over yet. 

At the grocery store, I scan my receipt after checking out and realize the 25% cash back is not showing up. I hand the bagger a 5,000 tip and wheel my unwieldy cart over to the customer service center. There aren't many people there so I move into line behind a young man and wait patiently for my turn. 

Then suddenly, things are happening very quickly. The small area fills up with a rush of customers, there to buy a pack of cigarettes, a couple of Cadbury creme eggs, to redeem points for a yellow Lipton mug. And they are all pushing past me, each one eager to be next as soon as a customer service rep is available. 

Amidst the maelstrom of pushing, shoving people, I realize I must collect myself and move forward. Or I will stay there all day. I reposition myself, this time behind a lady who is nearly done with her request. I take a step forward but a young man with his mother are half a step ahead of me. I turn and firmly say, Excuse me, but I was here first. They step back, surprised someone would interrupt their forward momentum. 

After waiting for what seems like an eternity, a representative arrives from the frozen foods section. He takes one look at my receipt, spits out It must be a computer problem, the only thing we can do is refund you and hurries off again. I stand there, wondering why it must be so difficult to deliver on the promise they had plastered all over their vegan products section, in bold black letters, proclaiming 25% Cash back on Vegan Deli. I decide it must be because either 1) they didn't specify clearly which vegan deli items qualified and it must have been only the more expensive ones, or 2) they are lazy and can't be bothered. Most likely it's the second. 

Now I must wait again for the customer service rep who first helped me as she has decided to multi task and help the next person in life. Finally, she rings up the refund as I turn to see a couple of teenagers standing next to my cart, one of them leaning casually on the handle as if it belongs to him. Excuse me, I say as I glare at him and maneuver my cart away from him and closer to me. I mumble to myself, This is not your cart. 

Finally, I have my refund and I can go to my car and head for home. It's been just another day of madness in this Dr. Seuss world that I cannot find my way out of. 

1, 2 Buckle My Shoe

What he said, my student grinned as I waited for him to give an example of an effect of people quitting their job. It was summertime and my students and I were stuck inside a classroom for 2 hours a day 5 days a week doing our best to get through the Advanced Writing curriculum. I was at my wits end to figure out how to challenge and focus 3 teenage boys, two of whom insisted on giggling or trading barbs a good part of the time. Every time I asked F a question, he would grin lazily, appear to be thinking for a moment, then reply, What's your answer? or look at his counterpart giggler B, who was always first to answer, and say, What B said. 

I always started a semester with a more lenient attitude as I got to know my students and figured out how best to teach to their learning and personality styles. This time, however, it was not the best of ideas. Once they realized I would let them chatter away, they started to take advantage of it. By the second week, my patience was thinner than a tightrope walker's lifeline. 

Then the rope snapped. 

F was turning on the a/c and somehow it struck him as funny so the two started giggling again. S was trying to give his answer and I couldn't even hear him over their laughing. Suddenly, I got very serious and my tone of voice changed. 

Guys, this is enough. I need you to focus. S is speaking and I cannot hear him. I feel like I am in kindergarten. You are giggling all the time. 

But Miss, Miss, F said, interrupting me as he tried to reason why they were giggling so much. 

I am speaking now, you do not need to speak at the time as I am speaking. You need to be quiet and you need to listen. I spoke firmly and clearly. We just have 2 hours every day. You can get up and walk around; go to the bathroom, get a drink of water. I know life is difficult outside but for just these two hours you need to be in the classroom and you need to be present and focus. Even if you don't want to be here, you have to sit in the classroom for these next 5 weeks, I'm trying to give you as much information as I can to prepare you for your academic classes. 

I looked at them and solemnly declared, I've reached my limit. 

S sat quietly in the front, an embarrassed smile playing in the corners of his mouth. He knew he wasn't to blame. F and B were shocked into silence; surprised that their easygoing teacher had suddenly switched into a strict one. 

Luckily, it was breaktime, so I informed them that they had a 10 minute break, not 13 minutes like they had dragged out the day before, I grabbed a granola bar, and I left the classroom. Usually I would stay inside as it was cooler and I would check my phone or catch up on some emails. This time, though, I headed through the parking lot to the volleyball court. There I marched about the court, munching furiously on my granola bar as I sent a long voice message to my supervisor. Just the day before, she'd been telling me my students loved my class but I was frustrated and I needed to know if it was only me.

My supervisor was quick to answer and by the end of the break I understood that it wasn't only me who had faced this challenge with F and B and that being firm was the only way to go. I headed back to the classroom where three quiet subdued boys worked studiously on finishing up their reaction-response essay for the rest of the class period. 

The next day, though, while the giggling had disappeared and the taunts had been reduced to a manageable minimum, the decided effort not to participate became even clearer. I prided myself on being the type of teacher that went the extra mile but in this case, the extra mile was being scoffed at. I showed them a 5-minute video of a flash flood in Papua to illustrate cause and effect, the next type of essay we were going to learn. When it came time to discuss, F, who was sitting in the back of the classroom, yawned and said, I wasn't really focusing. I gave up. 

At the end of class, I handed out a worksheet with small illustrations under which they had to circle "cause" or "effect" and then list 3 of them that corresponded to the photo. F started laughing. Where is Seder? he blurted out, referring to the toddler who often accompanied his father who worked in maintaining the campus lawns. B started to whine. Why can't we watch a video?

Because we watched a video at the beginning of class and now it's time to do the worksheet. After a couple of minutes, they finally settled down and started to work on writing in their answers. 

Over lunch that day, I told my husband, That's it. I'm done. I'm done trying to make the class interesting. From now on, I'm just going to teach the book. No more videos; no more worksheets; no more Jeopardy vocab games. If they feel bored or want to make fun of what I'm giving them, let them see. I will challenge them; let's see how they really do. 

They were intelligent; I knew that. The problem was that they thought they knew more than they really did, they didn't want to be in class, and they had a pretty good idea of how they would teach the class which they were constantly telling me. It was wearying. Tiring to put in effort to make the class interesting, tiring to keep bringing them back into focus, and tiring to keep asserting my place as teacher and authority both in the classroom and on the subject of writing. 

Until now, as a teacher, I'd been learning curriculum instruction, integration of spiritual with the academic, content, and organization. Now, I was learning the very valuable yet perhaps most difficult lesson of all—classroom management. I was having to shift very quickly from being the likeable teacher to the firm one and it was not a fun feeling to have. But I knew that if we were going to make it to the end of the summer session, it was essential that some form of order was established, so I accepted the challenge. It was time to learn. 

In Only a Moment

Crash, crunch echoed through our small living room as I watched the ornate burgundy saucer shatter into 4 large pieces and a thousand splinters more. 

What is wrong with me? I sat down helplessly on the gray blue sofa, tears immediately appearing. Two days ago I broke the glass charcoal bottle and now this. I wasn't usually this clumsy. Was it because I was under a lot of stress lately? I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry. 

My husband reassured me that he could fix the saucer and not to worry about it. His mother had sent us a set of 6 the year before when his sister had gone home for the summer. I'd carefully placed them in a place of honour in the cupboard and brought them out each time we had a cup of tea or hot chocolate. They had survived tea around the bonfire and countless trips from the kitchen to the living room, and now this. 

I was reaching for the bag of nuts to refill my bowl when it happened. It was movie time and we were having our usual snack of the evening, this time it was mixed nuts a friend had so kindly given us when they dropped by to visit and pray for my sister-in-law who was still in the hospital. After our first round, I wanted a few more nuts but the bag was on the other side of the coffee table. As I grabbed it, the bag swung out, pushing the small saucer right off the table and onto the cream tile floor. It never had a chance. 

Just like she never had a chance.  

Two days later, my husband sat down at the kitchen table, heavy duty glue in one hand and the broken saucer in the other. We'd retrieved the large pieces and found a couple more fragments and he set about to try to patch them together. I remembered the story of the mended teapot my friend who'd lived in Pakistan wrote about. The teapot that was purposely broken, then fit back together with metal staples that was then sold as a thing of beauty. Would the glue do the trick?

Ten minutes later, after rearranging and holding the pieces together, my husband stared at his attempt to fix it. There was a nicked edge whose piece we could not find though we had searched under the sofa, coffee table, and bookshelf. The saucer was so delicate that the glue ended up pushing the pieces apart instead of holding them tightly together. Finally, he admitted defeat. It won't work, he said. Let's throw it away and buy another one. 

I sat with that saucer in my mind. Like the saucer, my sister-in-law had shattered in large pieces with fragments scattered about. She was missing a piece of her that, like the sauce, wasn't essential to holding her together but now marred her internal appearance. Here was where the resemblance ended, however. 

Though the saucer could not be repaired, she could. I held on to the promise of Matthew 8:2 when a man with a serious disease came to Jesus and asked to be healed. If You are willing. . .he had pleaded with the only Healer he had hope in. 

Jesus' response? 

He reached out with His hand, touched the man, and said I am willing. And in that moment, instantly, the man was healed. 

My husband could not wave a magic wand and instantly restore the broken saucer to its original perfection. Similarly, doctors could not perform a few surgeries, administer some medications, and my sister-in-law would be walking and talking and breathing like before. 

But there is a promise. And there is hope. Whether this promise will be realized in this life, we as yet do not know. But we can hold on to the knowledge that Jesus is willing for her to be healed. And one day, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye, He will reach forth and then, then she will be restored. To perfection. Forever.  

I close my eyes and I can see, the numbers march incessantly

1 avocado, 35,000
1 carton of milk, 37,500
1 package of cheese slices 39,900
1 bag of tomatoes, 62,500

I scanned the receipt, checking and rechecking the prices to make sure we were not paying more than we should for the paltry items sitting in the grocery cart. The cheapest fruit, other than oranges, was 52,000 for a kilo so we'd put 4 round-top peaches and 4 hard nectarines into a plastic bag and headed to the scales to weigh and price them. We can eat the apples we still have in the fridge, my husband said sadly. 

But what happens when we finish eating the stores of food we have? I wondered. Two years ago, we'd started the dance of stocking up. We'd bought up enough rice, pasta, and oil to last us several months. Last summer we'd calculated how much we'd need of all the dry staples and bought what we would need for 6 months. We were still using the oil but once we'd run out of the other staples, we had started to buy only what we needed for the next week or two. Now, everything was so expensive it made no sense to stock up anymore. Our local currency was just enough, if we were careful, to get us through the month with the basics. There were few luxuries. I calculated and recalculated item prices constantly, my longsuffering husband knowing by now that if I had to buy tissues, I would check whether the 200 pieces or the 300 pieces were cheaper and we were not going anywhere until I had satisfied myself that we were buying the most economical packet of tissues. 

How much is this suitcase in dollars? my husband asked, as he pulled one off the shelf to examine its make and quality. I pulled out my every ready smartphone and opened up the calculator app, only to stare at it without understanding. I don't know, I don't know how much the dollar is right now and I really don't care I said, as I closed my phone and headed to the personal hygiene section. 

A few minutes later, I was calculating tins of chickpeas to see which ones were cheaper when checking the drained weight. My husband spotted a good deal, but I remembered throwing out several of those tins when we'd last bought them because they were not preserved well. I reached for the next cheapest option. 

By the time we'd reached the bread section, my patience had run out. I'd been irritated from the moment I'd walked into the mall, as my husband, trying to cheer me up, had suggested we walk around the mall. There were too many people, most of them not wearing masks and breathing everywhere, and they were making too much noise. I stared straight ahead as we walked, wishing the time to pass quickly so we could get to the store and make our purchases. I hated the mask; it was too tight and in the summer heat it made it harder to breathe on top of making my face all sweaty. 

The cashier rang up our purchases agonizingly slowly, one by one. I'd never seen a slower cashier but I understood why the young man was not moving any faster. He, like me, had given up on life. He'd lost hope and was now simply existing. Why bother to be quick? It wouldn't change anything and it was probably taking all his energy just to do the basics. I wanted to say something encouraging but even I had run out of the will to perform. 

We went to the next grocery store. This one was quieter and cooler but the sticker shock still ran deep. I found my favourite granola bars on sale and put 10 of them in the basket. Some small consolation for the impossible task we were having to face. Again, no bread. 

On the way home, we spotted a bakery. Let's try there and see if they have bread, I suggested. My husband parked in front of a little business that was closed and we crossed the not-so-busy two-way street. Inside, we found bags of bread so fresh, the steam had just escaped the pillowy white loaves. The bakery had their own ovens and was still pumping out loaves in preparation for the next morning. We picked up 2 bags and headed to the counter where I noticed another man buying 3 bags. At least there was no limit on bread today. 

Our last stop was at a minimart where I'd picked out two ice cream sandwiches from the ice chest. Half vanilla and half chocolate sandwiched between the perfect chocolate crust, the sweet treat cheered us up as we drove the last few minutes home. 

We made it, I sighed inwardly as we pulled into the driveway, the neighbors' dog barking incessantly at our arrival. We made it for another week. I dreaded the thought of repeating it all over again a week later but knew that for now, at least, we had what we needed and wouldn't have to brave traffic again for any missing items. We would have boiled fava beans for a treat and I would make freshly squeezed orange juice from the leftover oranges in the fridge. 

But how much longer can this go on for? I wondered. How much longer can I manage this? 

I'm tired. 

How are you doing, really?

I’m angry, grumped out of my mouth as I’d stomped about the kitchen. We were cooking up a huge pot of dolmas but the water level was a bit too high so it was constantly bubbling over and splattering all around on the stove and floor. In a few hours guests would come over that I’d been putting off for nearly a week already. They wanted to come and pray with us. I understood why but it didn’t make me any happier.

Other people have perfectly clean houses but they also have someone staying home all the time who can cook and clean. They don’t think about these things. They don’t think about how when you’re not feeling well, you don’t have time to clean and tidy. I haven’t had time to myself this week to just sit and relax. Now I have to clean my house so people can come over and visit. So I’m angry.

My patient husband came over and looked at the wet floor. When the food finishes cooking, I can mop it, he said. He started organizing the bits and bobs on the kitchen table, then moved to the lounge. Realizing my grumpy mood wouldn’t change the fact that we would still have to tidy up, I started to help, picking up stray items and ferrying them to a pile on my bedroom dresser.

It looks much better now, doesn’t it? my husband proclaimed. I love you. Don’t be upset; I can help you and we can clean it up fast.

He was right. Together, we managed to make the house somewhat presentable. The day before, I had finally pushed myself to dust the living room and clean the bathroom after work. My husband had vacuumed, washed the steps, and done the dishes. Then we’d made up a batch of dolmas to take over to our friends.

I was wavering between emotions these days. The resident counselor whose small children attended the Cradle Roll Sabbath School class I taught had given me a huge hug afterward class. She’d reminded me that she was there for me professionally if I needed to talk and encouraged me to take care of my physical health to prepare for whatever lay ahead mentally and emotionally. I thanked her, knowing I didn’t need to talk yet but grateful she was there in case the worst happened. I was thankful for people who cared but at the same time I quickly got angry when it felt like they were being too intrusive.

I’m learning how to help others in similar situations, I told my husband as we lay on our adjoining sofas, relaxing at the end of a long uncertain week. Send them a message to tell them you’re praying for them, drop off an easy to eat dish and maybe give them a bit of money to help, give them a hug, let them know you’re there in case they need anything, and then Leave Them Alone. He nodded in agreement.

We came from vastly different backgrounds when it came to grief and loss in our cultures. His culture embraced the community, people coming together, sitting with you, driving hours to visit with you even if they were not immediate family or close family friends. In times of crisis, he knew he could count on so many people rallying together to help with food, money, a place to stay or any other number of things as the network expanded around the world.

I, on the other hand, while growing up in the same region as his, had not assimilated that part of the culture to the same extent as it came naturally to him. I swayed European for sure, valuing the spaces, politeness and reserve, calling ahead to make sure it was convenient to drop by. Support yes, but in a dignified demure manner, offered as needed but never pushed on the person.

So now, as we waited for news of my sister-in-law who still lay in critical condition in the hospital, we welcomed the community’s support but processed it in different ways. At first, I was thankful for the messages as each one signified another prayer to God to spare my sister-in-law’s life. They distracted me from dealing with the reality that it was a very serious situation and helped me feel a little less helpless. As I shared the oh-so-heavy burden with others, it didn’t seem so terrible to carry anymore.

As soon as I heard anything, I would send out updates via WhatsApp to the 110 or more people in my contact list. After the first few days, though, there were no more immediate updates. Now it was a matter of assessment and waiting. They didn’t understand that, however. Messages started to bombard me now at all hours of the day. How is she? Any updates? The any updates? part really got to me. I felt like I was their live social media feed, constantly being refreshed with the swipe of a thumb, for the latest news. And.I.Didn’t.Have.Any.News. I started to regret having informed so many people, though I knew it was important to activate prayer chains around the world to come together and intercede for my sister-in-law. But I didn’t know how to handle the barrage. So finally I told them.

I don’t have anything new for today. Of course I will send updates when we have updates available. But I am getting messages constantly asking me for updates and it becomes overwhelming to try to answer everyone. It makes me feel like I am people’s live Instagram feed and I cannot give information I don’t have. I understand everything wants to help and I really appreciate it. When we know anything significant, we will share. The best we can all help right now is to continue to pray for her. Thank you so much for your prayers.

I read and re-read my message, then pressed Send. To each of the people I’d been sending updates to. Some answered affirming my message and saying they would continue praying. Others respectfully read the message and didn’t respond. And finally the questions stopped coming. On WhatsApp.

They didn’t stop in-person though. Each day in the office, people would pass me, stop and ask how my sister-in-law was doing. Most of them were people in the WhatsApp group where I had sent the message, so it baffled me that it did not register that asking in-person was akin to asking via a message. I sighed inwardly, put on an appropriately somber face, and replied, Nothing new. Please continue to pray for her. Thank you for asking.

When they asked, How are you doing? I replied, Fine, thank you, or alternated with, I’m doing good, thanks. What else was I supposed to say? I was never going to say exactly how I felt, primarily angry that they were trying to invade into my world by asking questions as if they cared when they hadn’t cared before. I couldn’t cry on demand; I’d done my crying in private but was still operating somewhat in autopilot when it came to being emotional. I was trying to hold on to hope for now, hope that everything would be okay in the end, hope that her lungs would re-inflate, the bleeding in the brain would stop, and she would start breathing on her own again. Everything else could be fixed somehow, ribs mended on their own, a broken hand could be cast, she could live without a spleen. But if I would allow myself to truly feel the panic of the unknown, then I would not be able to function and I had to teach a class, work, clean a house, and feed a husband every day so I didn’t have time to think about how I really felt. So I retreated to the socially acceptable reply of Fine, thank you and hoped those who asked didn’t think I was heartless and cold.

I wondered if I would be angry if nobody asked. If nobody came to visit. If nobody dropped off food. I knew people genuinely wanted to help and realized that, like me many a time before when someone else was going through a difficult time, most probably they didn’t know how best to help. So I tried to be gracious and attribute the best of intentions to them but there were days where I felt like I had run out of patience. Days where the inquiries felt disingenuous at best; where I thought, You barely knew her name and said hello when you passed her on the sidewalk, why are you suddenly so interested in knowing all the details about her now? It felt like they wanted to know simply to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

One woman had asked my husband a question about my sister-in-law’s condition and then walked away before he had even had the chance to formulate an answer. When she returned, he said, Why did you leave before I answered the question? And she apologized, mumbling something about how busy she was, said I can listen now as she looked down, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs texting furiously. He finished his business and left, asking me later, Why do people even ask if they don’t want to know? He was right.

I realized I would have to decide on a standard answer and use that every time somebody asked how my sister-in-law was doing. An answer that would not invite new questions but would communicate enough so that people felt satisfied and would not insist more.

She’s still in the hospital in the same condition. We’re just waiting to see what happens.

It worked. I accepted that every day I would see one, or 6, or 8 people who would ask me how she was doing. I would have to answer them. But I would not have to do more than give a simple answer. It was all I could handle and it was enough for now. We would deal with the next hurdle when it came.

How to be present

We would like to come and pray with you. Let us know when is a good time to stop by, a friend texted. I smiled at their thoughtfulness. They knew we were caught up in the middle of a difficult time and, while wanting to support us, were understanding of our need for space to do what needed to be done. 

I will let you know when it's a good time, thanks so much for reaching out, I replied. As my sister-in-law continued to lie unconscious in the hospital, and the prayers, messages, and food poured in, I started to see a pattern and understand more about how to support others in their time of difficulty. So, for everyone's convenience, I decided to blog about it. 

What not to do when someone is going through a difficult time

• Don't show up unannounced unless you are a pastor. The family is most likely trying to coordinate a million and one details, depending on the situation, and having a steady flow of visitors coming through will tire them out and take their focus off helping the one who is in critical condition. 
• Don't stay long when you visit. 30 minutes is a good length of time. Any longer and again, you distract them as they are trying to answer calls and decide what is best for their loved one. 
• Don't share stories of other people you know who were in similar situations and died. That is super discouraging. If you haven't dealt with your own issues of loss, go talk to a counselor; don't burden a family already upset with your personal problems. 
• Don't tell them, This is a test from God as if that is supposed to make them feel better. They will more likely end up resenting God for the bad situation or you for trying to make God out to be a bad Being when all blame for evil rests rightly on the devil. 
• Don't message them one or multiple times a day asking, Is there any update? You may think you are showing your concern but the family are not your personal Instagram feed, providing updates in real-time each time you refresh the page. Just because we live in an instant world does not mean that life happens instantly. Especially in critical medical cases, some decisions have to be thought through carefully with all their implications and constant hounding of messages asking to be updated just frustrate those who are providing the updates. They will update you when and if they are able. 
• At the same time, don't ask them in-person the same question, as if every time you see them there will be something new to report. Say hello, give them an appropriate hug or handshake, remind them you are praying for them, pause appropriately for them to share if they want to, and if they are silent, take your leave. 
• Don't say, Oh, I cannot imagine how you are feeling right now. This must be so difficult for you. If you cannot imagine it, telling them that won't make them feel better. On the contrary, it will seem as if you are trying to put the focus on yourself and they will end up resenting you. Remember, they are operating with limited emotional supplies right now as they have to be strong for other family members. Instead, try saying something like, You are being very strong but if you need a listening ear, I am here for you. Or, You are doing an amazing job supporting your spouse during this difficult time. 
• Don't say, Oh, I wanted to stop by but I was busy doing x,y,z. This sounds like everything else is a priority over supporting the family who is going through a difficult time. Simply say, I'm thinking of you and praying for you. Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to stop by?
• Don't tell them about your personal drama that you are going through right now. You probably have more than 1 friend other than the family, so talk to someone else if you need to talk. This is not the time to focus on your petty insecurities. Also, don't share random gossip or talk about topics that seem trite unless the person introduces the topic to distract themselves. If you initiate it, you will sound insensitive and uncaring, even if you mean well. You are not Dory; you can keep your attention on the one who is going through a difficult time for more than 15 seconds. 

Do try to do these things

• Give them a hug and say, I am here for you. If it's appropriate, remind them how much you love them. 
• Drop off a bowl of re-heatable food or salad. Healthy options are welcome as the family may not feel like cooking or have time to go grocery shopping. Don't worry about cooking something fancy; a simple plate of beans and rice is just fine. 
• Ask if there are any errands you can run for them. Maybe they didn't get a chance to pick up their dry cleaners or they are out of bread. 
• Send a message saying, We would love to come and visit and pray with you. When is good for you? This lets the family know you are there for them and, when they have some free time, they will be happy to invite you over. Don't worry if it takes them some time to reply; they know you are there and will let you know when it is good to visit. 
• Share some good memories about the person who is in critical condition. A funny story, a special moment, a deep spiritual interaction, all serve to either lighten the mood or encourage the family that the person is being remembered and they mattered to you. 
• Speak about the person in the present tense. Unless someone has passed away, it is insensitive to speak about them as if they have already died. Using the present tense helps the family to keep hope alive, rather than feeling like they should start grieving a death prematurely. 
• Share photos of the person with the family or post them on social media if appropriate. Seeing the photos will cheer them up immensely and they will probably save those photos to look at over and over during the difficult time. 
• Talk about random things here and there that are interesting or funny. These serve to break up the somberness of it all and help the family to shift their mood for a time away from the adrenaline of caring for the sick person. 

Keep Fighting, Sweet One, Keep Fighting

That may be a test from God! Keep on believing His will read the text message in my messaging app. I stared at the phone. My sister-in-law was lying in a hospital bed in the ICU, fighting for her life after a serious car accident that totaled the car, left the driver dead, and seriously injured another passenger in the car. She was unconscious, had lost her spleen, had broken ribs and collapsed lungs, fluid around the heart and lungs, a broken shoulder and arm, and bleeding on the brain. On the second day, the doctor had said he couldn't guarantee she would make it past the next hour and, after a specialist came to examine her in the small town hospital she was in, the attending suggested they sign the papers to take her off the ventilator. 

It was then, after I'd sent out the umpteenth update to family and friends, keeping them informed in real time of the battle my sister-in-law was going through for her life, that I'd received this message from one of her friends. 

My reply was swift and curt. 

I don't believe God gives us bad things to test us. That is wrong Theology and not encouraging.

The other person fell silent. I continued to send updates to everyone except for them. 

It all seemed very unreal. Just two days before she had brought her little babysitting charge over to the house in the morning, on my day off, and we had enjoyed spending time with Seder. I taught him in Sabbath School so he already knew me, and when my husband brought out the puppet with the moustache that matched his own, the toddler laughed in glee. My husband leaned down to his level and said, moustache! and Seder tentatively reached out with both hands to touch the ends of my husband's moustache. 

That afternoon, she went down to babysit Seder during his nap and I headed to town to pick up her PCR test result so she could have a printed copy when she traveled. Restless, I decided to stop by the grocery store to pick up a couple of items and ended up buying groceries for a week, even though I knew we would be going to town on Friday for the regular shop. 

After she'd packed, we'd lugged her duffel suitcase up the back steps to the car. My husband, frustrated that she was going home against his advice, didn't come with us to the airport. He's not happy with me, she said sadly as I dodged minivans on the road. I didn't know what to say. They were both right. He for not wanting her to spend money she didn't have on a ticket home and she for wanting to see her mom after a difficult and depressing school year. Her friend was getting engaged and she wanted to be at the party. 3 months was a very long summer to while away, even if Seder was really cute and an easy child to babysit. 

We pulled up next to a luggage cart by the curb. She put her backpack and purse on the cart while she hurried to help me lift the duffel suitcase out of the trunk. I briefly noticed her purse left unattended and wanted to say, be careful, don't leave your purse alone like that, someone could take it, but didn't. 

I'll miss you, she said unexpectedly, as I gave her a hug goodbye. It was uncharacteristic of her to be so expressive emotionally. She was a quiet reserved person around me most of the time but we had been growing closer this past year. I'd started giving her a hug every time I saw her, between classes or if she came over to our house, and she had gotten accustomed to it and now moved forward expectantly when she saw me. I'll miss you too! I replied. 

You're sure you have your passport? I repeated for the second time. She laughed, patted her beige purse, and replied, Yes, I do. 

Okay, then. Go to the second door because usually the first door is closed. When you go in, turn right and go straight and you can see through the window, see? There is the place when you get in line. There's nobody there now so it will be easy for you. Send a message when you arrive safely, okay?

She nodded, then turned her luggage cart around and started pushing. I got into the car, fiddling with the entertainment system til I found a good radio station and then started pulling out. I peered inside as I passed the doors but didn't see her. 

22 hours later, I was sitting in the conference room at work, rechecking details on the graduation bulletin we were working on for the weekend. The last graduate had picked up their regalia and I was tired from a long day. I checked my phone and noticed several missed calls from my husband. I pressed redial. 

She's in the hospital. She was in a bad car accident. The car flipped over and burst into flames and the driver died, tumbled out as I could hear a slight panic in his voice. 

I am coming home, I'll be there soon. I said as reassuringly as I could. I stopped by my boss's office to let him know what had happened. He prayed with me, then, as I left the building, I saw the chaplain talking to another pastor. They also prayed with me. I hurried up the 174 steps and walked home as fast as I could. 

The next few days were a blur. That first night we didn't sleep properly. A thoughtful friend dropped by with watermelon; I'd prepared some for us to eat and at the last minute I'd switched bowls to give him the one with the nicest pieces. He'd enjoyed the snack—his second meal for the day—and I'd ended up with a bout of food poisoning. In between using the bathroom and answering calls from concerned family and friends, neither of us had gotten good sleep. The second night was better, though, and we could rest for an interrupted period of time. 

People came and went. Messages bombarded my phone. By Sunday, I'd turned off my notifications on one app. I communicated with my family and best friend through two other apps so I didn't need to be on that one. I was weary. Weary of it all. I couldn't even imagine how my husband felt as he coordinated everything from afar and gave the best advice he could. The tears came and went as we pictured her broken body lying in the hospital bed. 

As I sat for a quiet moment amidst the maelstrom of it all, a verse came to mind. 

I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. ~Psalm 27:13

I held on to that promise tightly. I didn't know what would happen in the next hours, days or even weeks. I didn't know if my sister-in-law would be able to get the emergency care she needed in time or if the injuries to her brain would be life-altering. I didn't know if God would work miracles and heal her completely for His glory. 

But this I did know. God did not close all doors, put us in darkness, and then say This is a test from Me. God was good. Satan was evil. God gave life. Satan came to destroy. Blame had to be rightly attributed to the source of where it came from and when it came to horrible things like this, the devil was to be blamed, not God. 

I did not know what God would do but this I was confident of—God would show His goodness, and only His goodness. And it would not be in the hereafter, it would be now. In the land of the living. So I would keep that close in my heart as we waited, prayed, and trusted in His care. It was all we could do now. 

Let Freedom Ring

I just saw the tomatoes. They're 125,000 for a kilo, my husband informed me as we met mid-veggie aisle, him off to weigh the lemons as I handed him a bag with 4 cucumbers and another with 6 carrots. I saw some tomatoes for 30,000 in another area, I replied. My eyes cut over to the fruit section. Yellow apples piled high under a sign that read 75,000. I groaned inwardly. There would be no apples in our cart today. 

As we got to the checkout, I carefully checked each item as it went through. Two cartons of juice for a work event rang up at 26,500 instead of the 14,500 I'd thought they were. Another two also rang up wrong, this time the mango flavour was registering as Thyme Z 360. It made no sense. I paid the cashier and told my husband to wait while I ran back into the store to check the prices. They'd been wrong before, so I wanted to double-check. 

When I neared the shelves, my eyes scanned the lines and instantly I knew my mistake. I had read the price correctly but not the brand. 8 rows of shelves were fully stocked with Maccaw juices of different flavours while each sticker underneath displayed an Uno brand with corresponding price. I'd failed to double-check the cartons with the price checker and now I would either have to return the cartons or have less cash to buy other items for the work event. 

I turned and saw two young men in store shirts. They had been there earlier stocking the shelves when I'd grabbed the cartons of juice. You need to change all these stickers, I informed them. They all say Uno but this is Maccaw juice. They looked at me as if I had grown a third head. Sighing inwardly at the inability of the store employees to do anything useful, I grabbed 4 cartons of the cheaper juice and headed back to the checkout. 

After my purchase, I dug out the expensive cartons and hurried to the customer service. You need to change the prices on your shelves. I just wasted a lot of money because the prices were wrong, words spilled out, as the two ladies stared at me. I want to return these juices. They rang up the return, handed me my cash, and then stared at me again until finally a bell registered. Do you want your receipt back? I nodded and they circled something on the receipt, then handed it back to me. I looked at the receipt. They had circled the 4 juice cartons I had kept; not the ones I had returned. 

Infuriated at the ineptitude of everyone overall, I marched back over to my patiently waiting husband. Let's get out of here, I said. We went to the car, unloaded our purchases, and drove home. 

Two days later, I woke up to a perfect spring day. I pulled on my exercise tennies, downloaded the latest podcast of BBC Global News, grabbed my house key, and off I went. After an hour of vigorous walking, I washed my hair and prepared a tasty shanklish breakfast replete with fresh veggie tray and briny olives for a delightful meal on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a most marvelous start to the day.

Until a couple of hours later, I found myself in my room, door closed, recording an audio as tears emptied themselves into my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I can't do this anymore, I said, as I recounted the events of the past couple of days. I'd reached my breaking point and I. Just. Couldn't. Manage. Any. More. 

Except I had to. Because I didn't have a choice. 

It was more than apples, tomatoes or cartons of juice. It was the constant wearing down that had been going for the past 31 months with no end in sight. The anxiety that made me jump each time the power switched between city and generator, plunging us into darkness for a minute or more. The stench of burning garbage that mingled with raw sewage and factory waste so freely littering the air. Trying to make a budget that could keep up with the racing prices, only to throw it all to the wind the next month as gas, bread, and seeds jumped, yet again. Gas had passed 500,000 for 20 liters. It had been 23,000 before this whole fiasco had started.  

I lived by charts, calculating over and over how much we could spend on groceries this week, how much we could save for the next car repairs that would undoubtedly come along, and worrying whether we would have to shell out some of our hard-earned dollars because the exchange rate would have soared past hyperinflation into ultrahyperinflation, if there even was such a thing. The Telegram group I'd joined to keep informed on which latest catastrophe loomed predicted the rate would increase 100fold. I was caught in a tug-of-war between the reality of maddening insanity where nothing made sense and a group of calmly chanting Christians whose mantra Just trust God did nothing to calm my churning insides. 

A favourite saying of the conservatives goes, "God never leads His children otherwise than they would choose to be led, if they could see the end from the beginning and discern the glory of the purpose which they are fulfilling as co-workers with Him." (The Saving Providences of God, March 5) It's not true. I never chose the path my feet were set on before I could learn to walk. Packed up like one of the many suitcases our family trailed around the world, I moved hither and yon without a voice. Without a choice. 

I wanted to go to a mainstream university but we didn't have the money. I wanted to get married and settle down with a family when I was in my 20s. Have the whole white-picket fence, one car, a golden retriever, husband with a 9-to-5 job, two kids, and some semblance of security. Instead, here I was, in my 40s, still living someone else's life and following someone else's path. Not mine. 

Some days my eyes trace the contrails in the sky of a Boeing 787 Dreamliner, wistfully longing to be sitting inside it as it leaves this country far, far behind. Other days, I don't even look to the skies as I try to hold my mind together just long enough to get through another day. Accusing voices tell me to be thankful for what I have, after all, I'm not suffering like those who have to dig through garbage. The louder the voices, the deeper I retreat into myself. 

Until one day, I say out loud, I can't do this anymore. And in that moment I know. 

I don't have to. 

Don't Take Your Foot Off the Gas Pedal

I bowed my head in prayer, pleading earnestly with God to send away the devil's bacteria and fill the house with good angels. My husband had been coughing for the past 2 hours, an unfortunate hanging on of a Covid cough that had appeared more than a month after he'd gotten over Covid. Nothing seemed to help, not steaming, lozenges, little black licorices, honey, hot tea, cough syrup, antihistamine, or salt water gargles. We had tried them all. Nothing made a difference; the only thing that worked was when he slept. He could put himself to sleep in about 10 minutes and once his body had relaxed in sleep, the cough disappeared. By morning, he was right as rain only to repeat the process again the next evening. 

We couldn't figure out what triggered it. The first time, he had wheezed and rattled away in his sleep for nearly 2 hours before his breathing finally smoothed out. After that, though, the wheezing disappeared. He had a hard time breathing deeply but he could get enough oxygen to his lungs. Yet why the cough started, we couldn't understand. Sometimes, eating crackers and hummus set it off. Another time, it seemed to be the salted sunflower seeds. This evening we had gone for a walk and he'd been coughing as we walked but not every couple of minutes. 

Being on an extremely short leash with my anxiety levels soaring, I hadn't managed it very well when he'd started the cough. I would go to another room because I couldn't bear to hear him struggling to take a deep breath and having difficulty doing so. I waited to go to sleep until he was sleeping, because I couldn't relax until I knew he was okay again. I measured his oxygen levels with an oximeter, relieved that they stayed above the danger level, and quizzed him as to whether he had trouble getting enough oxygen into his lungs. 

I can breathe all right, he said, it's just my throat that feels tickly. 

As he started his evening seminar in the study, I began to pray in the living room. I thought of myself as the prayer warrior wife—ready to do battle with the devil for the next two hours. Suddenly, tears formed in the corner of my eyes. I wasn't a prayer warrior type of person. I was just barely holding myself together during these challenging times, let alone able to intercede in that way for another. Anxious that my inability to mentally focus on "storming the gates of heaven" for the next two hours meant my husband would not be able to teach, I was startled when a gentle thought came into my mind. 

I can take care of him. 

He can take care of him, I thought almost wistfully. I'd prayed that God would heal my husband, even if only for 2 hours, telling Him, If You want to, I know You can. Reminiscent of the parables where others had asked Jesus to heal them, I repeated the age old words. But then I realized, I was not the one who determined the final outcome. 

I was not the one with the foot on the gas pedal. 

So many times in life, particularly as Christians, we experience the pressure of feeling like we are the ones in control. If we don't pray hard enough, don't do enough outreach, or don't give enough of our monetary resources, then people will perish and the burden will be on us for failing to tell God what to do. As my husband had started speaking, I had felt like I was responsible to pray for two hours straight, repeating the same phrases over and over, almost like a mantra, in order to appease a God Who had the power to control my husband's impossible cough. 

Yet that wasn't it at all. If God was a loving God, compassionate and caring, then surely He cared not only about the people my husband was talking to but also my husband. He would make it possible for my husband to speak, either with a cough or despite the cough. What mattered was not that my husband was cured because of my Fireproof prayers, but that he had the ability to speak through the challenges. 

Several weeks ago, my husband had gone to apply for a visa. We'd prayed together before he left and, after going 5 times to the same office, his papers were finally accepted. Two days later, he was called to the consulate's office to meet with them. Again, we'd prayed together before he left. This time, however, the consulate informed him that, while his papers were in order, he was not able to grant a visa due to extenuating circumstances. 

Why did God answer the first prayer and not the second? Had I not prayed hard enough or long enough to change His mind? 

When we look in the Bible, there are many examples of prayer. Some are specific to time, such as Moses holding up his arms so the Israelites would win the battle. Or Jesus praying all night to connect with His Father. These were long for a reason. Yet Jesus Himself did not condone long prayers as He pointed out the long prayers of the religious leaders as an example of what not to do. The prayer Jesus taught His disciples was short but meaningful so length obviously was not a requisite to be heard by God. 

The purpose of prayer is to connect with God. Prayer changes us; not God. God is ultimately in control and His decisions are always what is best for us and for the universe, even when those who choose to go against Him seem to be winning. We think God is distant, absent even, and that we have to shout loudly so He will wake up and hear us when this is not Who God is at all. Isaiah prophesied long ago, saying, But have you not heard? It was I, the LORD, Who decided this long ago. Long ago I planned what I am now causing to happen," (Isaiah 37:26)

God loves us. God loves you. God loves me. God is love. If His very essence is love, then will He not take care of us in the midst of the stormy darts that the devil insists on hurling at us? 

Just as God decided long ago what would happen today, God also foresaw the challenges we would face. He knew my husband would be struggling with Covid-cough. He knew people would be waiting to listen to him share the good news. He knew that those who were listening would one day make life-changing decisions for Him. And in the midst of all of that, He cared for my husband so he could speak without obstacle, in God's power and strength moving forward. 

So I said my prayer and in doing so, I knew God heard and would answer. I took my foot off the gas pedal and realized the car was still whizzing down the highway of life. And in that moment, I realized. The car was never powered by gas, anyhow. It was powered by Love. 

Riding the Clown Car to Nowhere

I'm plunged in blackness, in the other room the UPS beeps once, twice, then goes silent as it kicks in. I stand still with the large red pot in one hand, the other sliding around inside checking to see if there are any bumps indicating food still stuck. Nothing gives itself away, so I make a half turn to the left where I know the stove is. In the shadows, I see enough to put the pot on the back burner so it can drip dry til morning. 

Minutes later, after I've carefully brushed my teeth with the electric toothbrush that has been blinking yellow on the charge indicator for the last week, I head to the bedroom. My husband is sound asleep, remarkably after napping most of the early evening. I rearrange my pillows, slip my sleep mask under the bottom one, kill a couple of obnoxious little flies so they won't distract me later into thinking they are mosquitoes, and turn on the bedside table light. Then the room goes blank. 

I stand, waiting, not so patiently as I did 7 times ago when the electricity blinked off and back on after its requisite 20+ second interval. I used to count the seconds. It gave me reassurance, somehow, knowing that the generator was set to kick in after 20 seconds. If it didn't, and if after a minute or so we were still waiting for the fridge to hum again, then we knew there was something wrong and H, the maintenance guy, would be on his way to check what had happened. 

Lucky you are to live in this wonderful environment at ______. Far from everything. An unsolicited WhatsApp message had come through the day before, when one of the adjuncts had messaged me asking for the course evaluation link. If he had taken the time to read the email I had sent out, he would have noticed that I had specifically said I was sending it on behalf of the research director and that any questions were to be directed to him. But of course he hadn't, and when I opened up his profile picture I nodded mentally. He's the stupid one, I said to myself, remembering a previous function he had been at, strutting about importantly whilst only showing how ridiculous he really was. 

Why did he feel the need to tell me this? I wondered. And anyhow, he and all his fellow citizens were the ones who had created the problems I now had to live with everyday. Even if I had more reliable electricity, I still didn't have all the privileges I was sure they had, with all their connections. 

After the light returned, I change my mind and turn off the bedside lamp. My husband is safely in dreamland while I have a lot on my mind and it is time to write. The mental itch needs to be scratched just about as bad as the incessantly itchy small red bumps that line my feet and arms. Spring has brought its inevitable hatching of miniature monsters that feed on my flesh, leaving spots of itch behind that refuse to be calmed with aloe. If hell is not a place lined with fire, it will most definitely be a place where mosquitoes, fleas, mites and all the insects in their finest glory will bite and bite you in a room filled with smooth edges. There will be no place to alleviate even the slightest of itches, your teeth will be filed soft, and your hands will be wrapped in soft gloves. 

But I digress. The whole purpose of this blog is to stick in time today's moment of cretinous behavior. It started when we hurried in to Aoun to do our weekly fruit and veg shop. Picking up an orange shopping trolley, we browsed the mayonnaise section. I was overjoyed to find a somewhat affordable squeeze bottle branded "vegan mayo" and looking quite promising. I grabbed a regular one also, in case the vegan one turned out to be more like salad dressing, and put both in the trolley. We pushed it towards the escalator.

I just need mosquito spray, I told my husband, so he dutifully parked the cart around the corner. We rode up to the 2nd floor, found the mosquito spray, he tested it out, checked the price, and then down we went. To where our shopping trolley was, or so we thought. In the 3 minutes it had taken us to go up, get what we needed, and return, the trolley had mysteriously disappeared. My husband hurried around, checking other people's trolleys to see if they had accidentally taken ours. But it was to no avail. I resigned myself to picking up the items again, he went to get another trolley, and we re-parked it by the door to the fruit and veg section. 

When we came back to where our trolley was patiently waiting for us, dropping in our weekly allotment that we had just paid far too much for, I looked at the fish ice chest that was just beside us. There, on top, was a vegan mayo and a regular mayo. Our original mayo that we had chosen. 

So someone came along, decided they needed our cart, took our things out, and off they went, I mused out loud. I can't believe how stupid they are! We finished our shop and as we exited, I thought, I'm going to blog about this later. 

They tell you, when you go as a missionary, that you should never criticize the host culture as it will come across as if you are superior to them. Well, they are wrong. When it comes to common decency and acting like a human, then there are no cultural norms. There is a clear right or wrong and taking someone else's trolley because you are too freakin' lazy to go and pick up your own trolley is wrong. One of the challenges I faced in that store, and face on a regular basis, is the attitude that most people have of entitlement. They feel they are owed everything. 

I see it every day. From people who push past you in line so they can be first, to drivers who cut you off when you are trying to make a turn, to beggars demanding you give them something when you pass them on the street. I hear it in the unspoken words that pass above us, hovering thick in the air, as glances shout that I should give up my meagre pittance of a salary to fund their lavish lifestyles. 

It's past midnight and it's quiet now. I guess the blinking on and off, switching between generator and city power, has ended for now. I'm not sure if I will be able to sleep as insomnia has been laughing at my weary attempts to escape into nothingness for some time now. My arms and feet are still itching with no relief in sight. My mind goes over and over how much we spent on food today—with just a few small plastic bags to show for it. We don't buy ahead anymore but our weekly shop has soared, matching the country's mad hyperinflation. I will need to adjust the budget once more, but then again, why bother when next month it will go up yet again? 

Usually I can wrap up a blogpost neatly with a circular reference to the beginning of the post, or with some meaningful reflection. Tonight, I cannot. I simply have to say, this madness has got to stop, and soon, or it shall take me with it. For good. 

Of Strings and Other Things

It's 6:08 pm. I'm sitting on the sofa, under my pink fleece blanket with the hearts on it, looking out the window. I just spent the last 4 hours preparing one of my classes, I made baked potato wedges and hummus for breakfast, I soaked the dishrack and cutting board in bleach to clean them, and I did 3 loads of laundry, but I feel like I did nothing today. I'm thankful tomorrow is a day off. I don't think I would have the energy to face the world yet. I'm trying to get up my courage to go grocery shopping; there are lines for bread again and I don't know if gas stations have started selling gas or are still closed. 

Some days I switch my brain off and pretend all this chaos doesn't exist. I go to the grocery store and put down a third of my monthly salary, in cash, for a few bags of fruits and veggies, some bread and cheese, and a tray of eggs. Grocery stores started requiring 50% cash if you wanted to pay your bill with a bank debit card, so there's another nail in the coffin of hell. 

Other days, I barely make it through the day without crying; the tears leak out when nobody is around. I sit in the toilet stall in the public restroom, door closed, praying nobody comes in so they won't notice my abnormally long time in the stall as I simply sit there and cry. I calculate and recalculate how much it will take to fill the gas tank; go around the house turning off lights; wash dishes in cold water so we don't use the water heater; and count the days until the next paycheck for wont of something to do. 

My husband and I try to hunt down bargains—going to the bulk store in the poorer part of town—and the cashier doesn't even make eye contact with us as he barks out that he doesn't have sacks of rice to sell. My husband tries to tell him we saw the sacks in the back, but the man refuses to listen. My husband leans in, forcing the man to look at him, as he asks, "How much would it be if you had the sack of rice?" and the man looks away again, in a rude tone of voice reiterating his previous statement and throwing in a, "Go across the street to the Indian store and see if they have any." We leave, vowing never to return. 

As we walk back to the car, we dodge 5 people begging for money in a span of a few meters. An old woman, her head wrapped in bandages, clutching a thin plastic bag with a couple of boxes of medications, holds out her hand. A young mother with a grubby sleeping baby on her lap (is the baby drugged?) pleads with us to give something, anything. A young thin teenager goes from store to store and accosts us as we pass, a single pack of gum in his hand as he tries to sell it for a couple of thousand lira. Not enough to buy a small bag of bread. There are more. Everywhere we turn they are there, desperation in their voice, hardened faces, pleas in a language we don't understand, though one woman, when my husband tells her we do not understand, immediately switches to "money, money" so apparently she knows at least one word in English. 

I berate myself for wearing a long dress as I step over piles of garbage discarded on the sidewalk. No, I am not walking through a dumpster area; I am walking on the public sidewalk but I must dodge discarded used tissues, diapers, rotting food, and animal fecal matter all over the place as I try to reach my destination. I cannot look up; I must keep my gaze fixed on where I place my feet next as I hold my dress high enough to avoid skimming over the refuse. 

People will tell me I have much to be grateful for, which I do, and that I am one of the lucky privileged ones, which I am, and therefore I should not be feeling this way or experiencing these emotions. We do our part to help those in worse situations than ourselves. We keep food bags in our car to hand out to anyone who asks; chocolate bars to give to little beggar children; and cash to tip the baggers at the grocery store even if we only buy enough to fill one bag or two. The difference is, I didn't ask for this and I didn't grow up in this. Perhaps they have lived in crisis mode for so long that they function this way, but I haven't. Right now, in this stage of my life, it is the hardest I have ever lived. Even harder than those first years in California when my parents separated and my mom was figuring out how to provide for her 3 kids as a single-parent. At least then if we went to the grocery store we could buy bread, when we went to the gas station there was gas, and ATMs never ran out of cash.  

My husband comes home and eagerly shows me what he learned at his kermanche lesson. He can play the first line of Amazing Grace and his face lights up with excitement as his fingers move up and down, the horsehair bow teasing out the melody from hesitant strings. "Live in the moment," he always tells me and maybe today, in this moment, he is right. Maybe, in the midst of all we cannot control, this we can. We can decide to have a little joy, share a little laughter, eat some seeds, and shut the world out for a little while longer until we must brave it once again.