Life in the Big City

I knew there would be culture shock and yet again, I wasn't really planning to give it much more than a passing glance. I figured, I wasn't really changing cultures, at least I was going from one country in the Middle East to another country in the same region; barely two hours away by plane. So how hard could it be, anyway?

I was about to find out.

I grew up my whole life, more than 40 years, on campuses. I lived, worked, and worshipped on a space of land you could easily walk in 20 minutes. My world was small—too small—as I felt it at times, but this was all I knew. I didn't realize the ease with which I was living as housing was a given, my work commute was often 10 minutes or less, and utilities and maintenance were part of the benefits. 

Suddenly I found myself standing in an empty and rather disheveled looking apartment with lumpy linoleum floors listening to a real estate agent bemusedly answer our question about the missing light bulbs in the house. 

It's your first apartment rental, right? It's common for apartments not to have light fixtures. You install them yourselves and then, when you leave, you take them with you.

What an odd thought. Why anyone would want to clamber up to the ceiling and take down the light fixtures made no sense to me. Unless, of course, their light fixtures were one of the many status symbols I had noticed dominated society here. Thankfully I had a very tall husband whose penchant for fixing things made my life much easier and saved a bit of money too. 

The first apartment we'd seen was referred to us by someone who knew a real estate agent. The apartment was so small, you could sneeze and you would have seen all the rooms. It felt too claustrophobic and, even though it was new and within our budget, I said no. Where would we store our 11 suitcases, let alone all the stuff that we had packed in them? 

The next time we ventured out, we saw two different apartments. The first one was nice but there was mold in the bathroom. The second one we really liked and asked the real estate agent to contact the owner. It was furnished, within our budget, and in a nice area of town. There was no mold and the living room and bedroom were bright and filled with light. A week later, the real estate agent still hadn't gotten back to us and we realized we probably had lost that one. 

Then came the big Seven-Apartments-Day. Armed with Google Maps and a spare battery pack that we traded between our phones to keep them going through the day, we trekked all over several different areas, riding the metro, bus, and walking up to 20 minutes each time to see the different places. At the last stop of the day, the sixth apartment, the real estate agent suggested we look at a slightly bigger place he also had available. 

The building was old, but there was no mold smell in the stairway or in the apartment itself. Three of the four rooms were oddly shaped in the form of trapezoids or quadrilaterals at an acute angle. The bathroom was black, which I hated, and the whole apartment felt like a train compartment. But my husband loved it and there was no mold, which by now seemed to be my only requirement. 

We went back to see it the next day in the daylight and decided it would do. I eyed the crumbling upper balcony dubiously, questioning if was a foreboding of whether the building would hold up in an earthquake. My husband reassured me it would. After walking around the surrounding area one more time, we chorused to each other that we loved it. 

After all, we won't be in the apartment much, anyhow, I reasoned. I was starting to figure out this big city routine and realizing it was going to take up much of my day. Even if we would end up living 45 minutes closer to the school than we were now, if I took a teaching job, that would eat into my time too. We would be out most of the day and only come back to sleep, do laundry, and eat something quick. 

A delicious falafel meal and a metro change later, we were sitting on prized seats on the M4 line heading back to our temporary apartment. We hurried home through the drizzling rain, thankful it wasn't raining harder as I hadn't brought a rain jacket. There was laundry waiting to be done, the room looked like a tornado had exploded, and I needed to catch up on vacuuming, homework, and cooking. If we heard back from the real estate agent, we would need to set up the utilities, sign the rental contract, clean the apartment, and start looking for appliances and furniture. 

Life in the big city. Just one of the many life-shocks I would be encountering. 

How Long?

I sat on the hard gray bench in 207A, tears slowly rolling down my cheeks. My anxious husband asked, What happened?

I don't know! I sniffled. 

Was it something in the security? You were fine before we went through security. 

I knew it had been triggered by the screening agent's demand to take off my belt and put it through the x-ray machine, making me feel super embarrassed. Men were forever taking off belts but it felt humiliating to stand there, struggling to take off my belt in public while people hurried past me. 

Then my husband's backpack got flagged; he had an RFID pocket that often showed up on the x-ray and warranted a secondary search. The lady scrabbled through his backpack, pulling out storage bags, pencil cases, and hard drive cases, opening and poking through each one. She finally decided the x-ray machine had flagged the prongs of his phone charger plug, pushed the bags towards his laptop, and shrugged Everything is okay as she went off to do something else. Most screening agents returned the items to the bag and zipped it up, but no, this one wasn't about to be bothered to do so. So he was left alone, trying to gather all his various sundry items and put them back where they belonged. 

It must have been the straw that broke the camel's back, or the drop in the bucket that overflowed. After 10 days of packing up our lives and then unpacking them, I had finally reached my emotional breaking point. I'd been struggling with severe allergies that refused to abate even with medication. They were just starting to settle down but the wheezing still kept me up nights. My plantar fasciitis was flaring up, even with daily stretches, from the thousands of steps we were walking every day. My hands and ankles were swollen and I looked like a beached whale with the 50+ extra pounds I was carrying. I was tired and I needed a break. 

And so I cried. Thankful for the anonymity of the airport waiting areas, I let the tears fall, knowing eventually they would stop and when they did, I would be okay again. Or maybe not. Maybe some of the tears came from a place of pain and frustration at the injustices we'd been suffering through, and would continue to. Things that would never be righted in this world; and it felt like neither in the one to come. 

I'm Moving On

And just like that, I transplanted my life from one country to another without a tear of regret. Well, there was one time I did cry, when I was saying goodbye to Mona. We were not the closest of friends but every Sabbath when we saw each other, she would smile real big and ask how I was doing. She was sweet and kind and I knew I would miss her. As she hugged me goodbye, she whispered in my ear, You are good for him. You are the best person to support him and be there for him. Tears welled up as I knew she understood. She had seen my romantic drama, years before, and she was one of the few who had supported me when I'd decided to say yes to the man who truly valued me and wanted to share his life with me. 

25 years ago, I took to the skies sobbing my way through the 20-minute flight to Larnaca International Airport in Cyprus. This time, as the plane lifted off, I barely gave a cursory glance to the crowded mountains in the distance. I'd already said goodbye years ago. When Covid and the crisis hit simultaneously, as I lost the community I'd so deeply craved, the connection was severed and never fully restored. I'd gone through depression so dark, I'd questioned my purpose in living over and over again. I'd experienced panic attacks in the grocery aisle; frozen and unable to make simple decisions such as whether to buy the cheese or wait until the next week when prices would likely sky-rocket again. So this time, I was ready to go. 

Then I landed in my new country. 

I tried to place it in some kind of context—the first day that we went exploring our new city. I marveled at the clean streets, easily accessible garbage cans, cars driving within painted lines on the highway, and variety of clean fresh fruit. I choked my way through the clouds of smoke and laughed along with the sea gulls that woke me in the morning. Was it like California, Cyprus, Holland, Lebanon, England? Which one was it more like? 

Then I realized—it was both and neither. 

And I decided that instead of trying to figure out which country it most resembled, I was going to let my new host country just be itself. Like me. 

Someone told me yesterday, Your American accent is really good. I couldn't tell you're not American. I laughed and thanked them. I knew I blended in, no matter which part of the world I was in, until I opened my mouth and couldn't speak the language or contextualize within the idioms of the day. It was okay though. I didn't have to be South Korean, Lebanese, Dutch, Mauritian, British, Kurdish, or American. I could simply be me. Identifying with all while not claiming patriotism to one. 

I sat at the kitchen table and reached for a sugar cube. Expertly popping it in my mouth and swirling it to the corner of my cheek, I sipped the dark tea. For tonight, this was me. 

The Week of Lasts

Yesterday I sat in the elegant white chapel as the priest chanted a funeral dirge and the thought struck me, This is my last Thursday in Lebanon. 

Today was my last Friday. In 3 hours, I will start my last Sabbath. I'm not too pessimistic about it; if life as a TCK has taught me anything, it is that we complete our lives full circle and end up where we began. Sometimes for a day or two; sometimes for a lifetime. But we always return. 

And yet, this time I'm leaving having completed the full circle. Just a few short days after I take to the skies marks 25 years since I left Lebanon the first time. Back then, my parents were separating, my heart was breaking, and I could barely see the coastline for the tears. Today I leave with my own husband, embarking on a life where I plan to go from difficulty into strength; from hardship into anticipation; from challenges into adventures. 

People ask me, Are you ready to go? I smile and reply, Yes, I was ready to leave two years ago. 

Now that it's finally here, really here, I find myself somewhat reluctant to let go. 

The ticket has been booked. The suitcases have been packed. The floors have been mopped and the cupboards have been cleaned. The made-for-us bomb-shelter-turned-apartment that was our home for the last four years is slowly turning back into a sterile building. 

Keeper of my memories; shaper of my heart. 

Shatter My Heart

What happened? 

I dropped a bowl.

Are you okay?

Yes.

Okay, then don't worry about it, it's okay.

No, you don't understand. I dropped a bowl. On purpose.

Why?

Because my mind is not normal.

I continued sweeping little ceramic shards into a pile in the middle of the kitchen floor, calmly answering my husband's worried, then confused questions. He hurried for the dustpan; I took it from him, insisting he would miss some of the littlest pieces and finished scooping the pile into the dustpan, then dumped it in the bin. 

Several hours earlier, I'd been driving around the corner, alert as always for an oncoming car. This time it came, and I quickly stepped on the breaks. I tried to backup, but, not having a lot of drive time as my husband usually maneuvered the manic press of cars outside our serene campus gate, I ended up halfway between their side of the road and mine. I shifted forward but thought they didn't have enough room to pass so was about to try to reverse again, all flustered, when the other driver beckoned me to pass. You have enough room! he cheerily encouraged, so I carefully inched forward, flashbacks of a previous pass-and-scrape accident we'd had on that very same corner with an identically-sized SUV a couple years prior. His estimation of space was much better than the teenage driver's was, so I gingerly made it past and drove on up the hill. 

You did it, I kept telling myself though I was on the verge of tears. When you get home, you can lock yourself in the bathroom and cry a bit, I thought. Thankfully, by the time I'd pulled into the driveway the need to cry was gone. The memory, however was not. 

Neither was the memory from earlier that day, when I'd stood in line in the tiny corner shop, sandwiched in an narrow aisle between shelves of tins and jars of homemade tahini on the one side and gunny sacks of red lentils, basmati rice, dried fava beans, and other bulk items on the other. Several people had rushed to the cashier from the outside door, perhaps popping in just to buy a couple bags of bread that were situated under his makeshift countertop. I stood patiently waiting my turn, when I noticed an older man who had come in after me walk past me and plonk his items on the counter, completely ignoring any sense of order. I sighed inwardly, reminding myself that this was the norm and I should push and shove my way forward otherwise I would be standing there all day. 

Two hours and 45 minutes after we had started our evening potato campfire with dorm students, most of whom had already eaten off campus or in the cafeteria despite having received the invitation the day before, the last straggler arrived. He'd been busy playing football and he was hungry. All the food was packed away and most of the students had gone home; only 2 or 3 lingered by the fire, eating roasted sunflower seeds, drinking black tea, and chatting to wind down from their day. I had no energy to deal with his irresponsibility and entitlement so I directed him to the campfire and disappeared into the bedroom. Later, when I heard the clinking of spoon in bowl, I came out to find my husband patiently preparing a bowl of leftover baked potatoes for the young man. 

He was playing football. He came 2 hours and 45 minutes late because he was playing football! I frustratedly told my husband. And then he expects us to serve him food, after everything has been put away and everyone has left? I don't understand. 

My husband looked at me, unsure as to why something so trite was making me so upset. I know, he did the wrong thing, but he is hungry. I can't not give him food. If I do, then I'm just like him. If I know something good to do, and I don't do it, then it is sin. So I have to give him food. 

I turned away and went back to the bedroom. I'd run out of words to express the anger that coiled around my insides, never fully subsiding, no matter how much I tried to redirect my thoughts, start a new day, pray, or read my Bible. Nobody would understand, anyhow. It wasn't as if I had any legitimate reasons to feel this way. I had a roof over my head, money in the bank, food in the cupboards, a working car, and a good husband. 

After my husband went back out to the campfire, I returned to the kitchen. I walked up to the black plastic crate that held the dirty dishes from the evening. I looked inside at the cream ceramic bowls—the ones we'd bought the first year we were married, knowing we would use them every time we hosted people at our house. I remembered how we'd searched through Fahed Mall's 3rd floor, looking for the perfect dish that was durable yet simple in its design. My husband had found them, they were just a dollar each, and, on our limited budget, they were perfect. We carefully picked out 12, placed them in our shopping cart along with the other items we'd chosen for our very first apartment, and smiled at each other in anticipation of all the meals friends would share at our house using those bowls. 

And now, three and a half years later, I picked out the bowl, the bowl that had held baked potatoes, lentil soup, surprise proposal cake, fried eggplant with tomato and garlic with Iraqi bread. The bowl with a chip on its side when someone clumsily banged it against another bowl when attempting to wash up. The bowl that I knew we could not sell because it was no longer perfect like the other 11 bowls. 

And I dropped it. 

Deliberately. Carefully. Purposefully. 

I made sure all the windows were closed so nobody would hear me, held the bowl up and let it go, listening for the crash, watching the pieces scatter into large chunks and melt into thin shards on my kitchen floor. 

For a moment, there was release. 

You are My Tomorrow

Will you miss me?

Yes, of course I will miss you. 

Will you come back?

I don't think so. It hurts me to say so, but I think when I leave, it will be forever. 

I feel sad. 

I know, me too. I feel a bit panicky, too. It's different this time. I know anytime I need to, anywhere in the world I happen to be, I can buy a ticket, step on a plane, and return for a visit. But those old feelings are still there, buried deep deep down. Those feelings from the first time I left you. 

That was the hardest, wasn't it?

I think so. I'd left so many times before, other countries, other homes, other family. But this time, it really hit hard. I thought it was because I was leaving a boy behind, but I realized later, it was because I was leaving you. 

How did you know?

I knew when I sat on the cement rectangle on the roof of North Hall, night sky, pinprick stars, blinking landing lights on incoming international flights, and the city lights leading to a vast darkness with the occasional fishing boat tracing a constellation of its own in the sea. I knew when I listened to Carrie Underwood's See You Again and the words fit exactly how I felt. I knew when I sat on the public bus, wind brushing my hair, sun warming my face, the plastic torn seat beneath me, cigarette smoke filling the aisle, as a deep joy welled up within me. I knew when I escaped to the mountains for a breath of fresh green air, as I wandered through orchards ripe with fruit and ate my fill, overlooking red roofed houses and heavily laden grape arbors. I just knew. 

We had a good time together, didn't we?

Yes, we did. I didn't know it was possible to fall in love with you, I never tried, but you had a hold of my heart 25 years ago and you never let go. Not even when I took to the skies in '98, never imagining I would return. 

Can you forgive me?

Forgive you? For what?

For the pain I put you through.

You didn't hurt me. I realize only now, after spending 3 years hating the system, wishing with every cell in my being that I could leave, that it wasn't your fault. It was theirs. All theirs. You never had anything to do with the searing emotional and mental pain I had to endure. You did your best to care for me, cradle me in your arms when life got too tough. I know. I felt it. Sometimes I would stare out my window and see the branches of the tree, the leaves, a single bird, and in that moment I felt security in the midst of a world that was spinning faster than a top and more crazily than a clown. 

Remember your trip to Sidon? 

I'll never forget! I wanted to explore, be brave, try out new adventures. You encouraged me, helped me find my way, and protected me. I never felt afraid when I was out and about. Remember the boat trip to the little island only big enough for a mini lighthouse? I was deathly scared of going in small boats but you encouraged me and off I went, to create a memory of a lifetime. 

Can I ask one more question?

Of course, what is it?

Well, I'm a bit shy, but. . .I always wanted to know. What made you fall in love with me?

You were a part of me. When I was with you, I felt like I had come home. I never had to explain myself or try to meet halfway because we never had any arguments. There were rough times, yes, but those were due to circumstances out of our control. 

But you withdrew for a while. I didn't see you for nearly 3 years and it hurt. 

I know. I wish with all my heart I could have done something different, but it was impossible. Covid-19 changed everyone's lives and for me, it was devastating. We couldn't eat together, go to concerts together, visit little art gallery exhibitions together, live life together. 

You had your life and mine stopped.

I didn't have a life. I was imprisoned in my own home; gloves and masks my armor, as I frantically scrubbed and stayed 6 meters (not feet!) away from anyone who had a hint of a cough. Slowly, my zest for life disappeared until the flicker of hope for a brighter future had all but disappeared. 

But you came back. I'm so happy you did. 

I did. Concerts, restaurants, day trips all became a reality again and my heart was happy. 

We had a good run, didn't we?

We did. 10 years, a quarter of my life, was spent with you. I just wish it could have been longer in better circumstances. 

Don't forget me, please. 

I never could. You introduced me to the love of my life. You didn't know it, but you gave me my tomorrow. Thank you, thank you, for loving me enough to give him to me so I would never be alone again. I can leave now knowing I will be okay. You will too, you know. 

Yes, I hope so. 

I know so. You healed the broken heart of a teenager, giving her hope and changing her life in the very place her world shattered. If you can do that, then you can rebuild your own bright future. Don't give up; keep going. And know I will always keep you in my heart, wherever I go. 

Case Study #1 -- Lowell E. Nelson

I sat, sobbing, in the academic dean's office. Just moments earlier I'd been telling her about my Anatomy & Physiology teacher and how he made me feel uncomfortable in class with his sexually oriented jokes. He told us a joke about how a girl was on a school bus for a field trip and a boy said to her, "Your epidermis is showing," and she was worried because she thought a shirt button was undone but he really meant her skin. There was another joke he'd also told, but I cannot remember it now, more than 23 years later.   

The academic dean sat next to me somewhat awkwardly, not knowing how to handle my tears. She deemed it an overreaction, patted my shoulder, and sent me on my way. It was not until 5 years later that I would hear the truth. 

A&P was an easy class. Robin, my best friend, and I would study for the quizzes during choir time, which was right before lunch. A&P was right after lunch and, vocab terms with definitions in hand, we would memorize and quiz each other while the tenors and basses were practicing their parts. We usually aced the quizzes and grinned at each other as the teacher would hand out the next study guide. 

Lowell E. Nelson was a retired science teacher who'd come to Weimar College from Monterey Bay Academy. He was a jolly old man, with a smile and white hair and a bit of a round belly. Robin, an Education major, and I, an English major, took the class because we needed a science credit. We were breezing through the course, but as time went on, I started to become more and more uncomfortable in class. 

It was little things. Jokes, innuendoes. He would laugh, the whole class would laugh, and I would sit there, trying to process the undertones that didn't seem quite right to me. After several of these jokes, I went to the academic dean. Nothing happened. He finished out the school year but did not return the next year. Dr. John Haines started to teach A&P and taught it consistently after that. 

Did you know? Dr. Lowell Nelson was accused of molesting young boys at Monterey Bay Academy, someone said one day. I stood there in shock. A quick search of news reports today confirm that allegations were brought against him and another teacher at the same academy. The articles can be found here and here and here. 

In researching this article today, Good Times, a local weekly from Santa Cruz, stated that, "According to plaintiffs and witnesses, Nelson in particular was notorious for frequently talking about sex and genitalia in the classroom," I was not surprised. 

Weimar College administration at the time, specifically the academic dean Dr. Marilyn Wilcox, failed to do a thorough background check into an adjunct faculty member. Regardless of whether they had taught at another Seventh-day Adventist institution, they should still have been subjected to the same rigorous scrutiny as any other incoming professor. If nothing had come to light at that time, as the court cases came later, when a student went to administration with their concerns, those should have been taken seriously. As with many cases of misconduct, the Seventh-day Adventist institution "swept it under the rug" and failed to address this in a transparent manner. 

No one will see, if you stop believing

~Oh My Soul, by Casting Crowns 

Look Away

I don't believe in the Seventh-day Adventist organizational system anymore; I have no respect for it, I told my mother and brother, then later my sister, on our weekly call. It's too cumbersome, too weighty; it is nothing like the primitive church in the beginning when everyone cared for each other's needs and the gospel was the main priority. 

My mom and brother were silent. My sister, on the other hand, agreed with me. It was a conversation we'd had many times before. She understood. She knew what I meant. 

We grew up in the SDA church. We grew up going to Sabbath School, singing Who made the beautiful rainbow? as we waved wooden dowels with multicolored strips of felt glued to one end, swaying back and forth with our little Burkinabe friends. One year we dressed up in Pathfinder outfits—bright blue shirts, dark blue skirts for the girls and shorts for the boys, with the requisite scarf closed with the Pathfinder ring—and posed with our class for a group photo. My sister and I stood out from the rest with our white faces. I still remember the song, Un tison de la flame. . .

Potlucks, Revelation seminars, Communion services, camp meeting, and endless sermons where we tried to sink down and hide in our seats when my dad used us as sermon illustrations. From England to Burkina Faso to Egypt to Lebanon, the country might have changed but the church stayed the same. As predictable as the Johnson's baby perfume my mom patted on my baby brother's waistcoat as she dressed him in his midnight blue corduroy pants, matching waistcoat, white shirt, and mini bow tie to go to church. 

As a teenager, I became heavily involved in Sabbath School programming, Friday night vespers, and preparing skits for Sabbath sundown worship. Being a Seventh-day Adventist was more than being part of the Christian community for me; it was my identity. 

Then I grew up. And after 40+ years of idealizing the remnant church, the one true church, I realized that there were flaws in this church. In particular, the tendency for church officials to covether up any type of misconduct, appeal to the "forgive and forget" motto, and fail to deal with things through the court system. 

But I'm not going to be quiet anymore. I have a place to speak up, document, and, even if only for myself, denounce all the wrongs that have happened under the guise of Christianity. Because if I don't, I will walk away from organized religion and I cannot do that just yet.

Nowrouz

It was a little red ball, not bigger than the tip of my pinky finger, with a metal hook in the top so it could attach to my green wooden Christmas tree from Austria. I’d bought it on a trip I’d made to visit my cousin in 2017—a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. He and his family graciously welcomed me into their home and we enjoyed a few days together. His wife took me in to see Vienna for the day, with the unexpected pleasure of getting to visit Sissi’s real life castle that had now been converted into a museum. On another day, I took public transportation by myself, missing the train connection and calling an Uber with just enough time to check my coat and be ushered to my seat in the Vienna Golden Hall for an exquisite concert by the Philharmonic Orchestra.

The second half of my trip was spent in Salzburg where I’d booked a small room in a quaint guesthouse with long corridors, bright windows, and a delicious continental breakfast each morning. I wandered about the town and did the requisite Sound of Music tour with a guide who couldn’t carry a note and fellow travelers who were equally as shy as I to sing out loud. I took the trolley to the top of Fortress Hohensalzburg where I ordered a pumpkin strudel and sniffled through a miserable cold as I marveled at the splendid view below.

Then there was the day tour. After having done one in Ireland with my best friend several years earlier, I was now a huge fan of doing day tours as, while they were pricey, it was worth it to see gems I would never have explored otherwise. Halfway through the tour, they dropped us off in a tiny town for some shopping. The little shops lining cobbled streets beckoned me inside. I spent most of my time perusing the handcrafted wooden and lace gifts, trying to decide which to get for family and how much money I wanted to spend. I found a wooden man hunched over, wearing a black top hat and holding a carved Christmas decoration. He was intended to be an incense holder and was out of my budget but I couldn’t leave him behind. I left the store without him, but returned moments later to hand over €12.99 for him in his carton box. In the last shop, I found a shelf full of painted cowbells. When I’d asked my mom what I should buy as a memento, she’d said “buy a cowbell!” so I dutifully picked out a red and white one to add to my purchases.

Then there was the Christmas tree. To be honest, I don’t remember now in which shop I bought it, or even how much I paid for it. I don’t know what prompted me to pick up the flat box it lay in, two pieces that interlocked to create an X shape and on whose tree branch corners little ornaments hung. There were cutouts inside each lower branch for more ornaments to decorate the tree, a spinning tree holder, and a yellow star with tiny red ribbon for the top of the tree. Colored balls, miniature snowmen, toy soldiers and angels were tucked into little pockets in the plastic casing surrounding the tree.

That tree became a staple of my mismatched Christmas decorations that included a red bicycle with plastic holly spilling out of the red metal bucket on its seat and the bronze Christmas tree I’d bought on a road trip somewhere on the way to Montana. Each Christmas I set it up, carefully arranging the ornaments to hang just right. The last two years my sister-in-law had delightedly put it together, oohing and aahing over how cute it looked. This year, she was lying motionless in a hospital bed in her mother’s living room, a sheet covering her skeletal body, tracheotomy tube coming out of her neck, and I was setting up the tree alone.

Which perhaps was why I was so upset when, after our Iranian Nowrouz celebration, I checked the tree to find 2 ornaments missing. I’d been in a hurry to clear the coffee table that afternoon so we could pile it with desserts, seeds, and tea and the tree was in the way. I’d taken it and carefully put it on the shelf under the coffee table, tipping it slightly sideways so I could make it fit under the table’s edge, then straightening it again. Later, I’d grabbed wet wipes from under the coffee table to swipe some of the dirty spots on the kitchen floor, and had shoved the packet back under, not realizing that by doing so, I’d tipped the tree on its side. Midway through the evening’s festivities, I’d realized the tree was down so I’d picked it up and carefully put it on my bedroom dresser, something I should probably have done earlier. I found an ornament on the floor behind one of the chairs and put it on the tree.

After everyone left, I checked the tree. When I noticed the two empty hooks, I hurried back to the lounge to check for them. I soon found a small snowman under the radiator, but the last ornament proved hard to find. I laid flat down on the cold tile floor and peered under the large brown sofa chair, coffee table, and blue sofa sections. Other than dust bunnies, nothing else peered back at me. I went back to check the tree to see what was missing and immediately knew—it was the red ball.

I looked on the shelf, carefully taking each item out and inspecting it closely. I did a second floor search, but still nothing. By now I was starting to panic somewhat. I didn’t want to vacuum it up accidentally. I'd had a feeling it wasn’t lost forever, that it would turn up somehow, but now that feeling was fast fading. I’d searched everywhere and no little red ball was to be found.

Eventually, I gave up. Just another thing I’ve lost in life, I muttered to myself. I shouldn’t be surprised by now. I tried to accept my tree would never be whole but each time I passed it on my dresser, the empty hook stood out. It wasn’t a simple thing to replace; I couldn’t drive to my corner store and pick up another part like one could do for a broken light bulb or drinking glass. I would never return to that tiny town in Salzburg; one whose name I couldn’t even remember. If, by some miracle I did, it was very likely they were not selling those trees anymore.

I’d broken things before: the green ceramic turtle whose leg was glued back on after I dropped him, the Korean couple sitting on a log who had lost an ear, and the stumpy brown giraffe who was chipped on its side. I’d lost things too: the fox and egg game on the flight from Mauritius when I was 9, my only winter jacket, a purple compact umbrella. Loss was not new but this time, I didn’t want to resign myself to moving on, knowing I would never find what I’d lost. It wasn’t as if the red ball cost a lot or even made a huge difference in the aesthetic of the tree, yet it symbolized a memory I’d created and now that memory was shattered. Just like the rest of my life. 

Excuse me, you seem to be missing a kid

I hate flowers. Now don't get me wrong. I love fluffy dandelions, fragrant roses, happy daises, and bright bougainvillea. But it's the occasion-flowers that I hate. Specifically, flowers for Mother's Day.

My husband came home today carrying a purple potted plant. Nestled in the tips of its green spears were three perfectly shaped magenta tulip flowers. Happy Woman's Day! he proudly declared as he dumped the pot down in my reluctant hands. But it's not Women's Day today, Women's Day was 10 days ago, I replied, somewhat confused and annoyed. 

They were giving them out in church, he clarified as he went off to find a plastic plate to put underneath the pot. I sat on the sofa, the pot growing heavier by the second, as he rummaged about in the kitchen cabinets. No plastic plate was to be found so he checked the window sill in the living room where a couple of empty potting pots were sitting on discarded plates. He grabbed the better looking one and set it on the coffee table, then plunked the tulip plant on top. 

After lunch, I opened up the family chat to look at the pictures he had shared with my mom, brother and sister. The whole church lobby had been decorated with flower pots, picture frames of children with their mothers, a huge banner announcing Global Children's Day, and an elaborate photo booth resplendent with oversized paper flowers, more potted plants, a low gray stool to sit on, and Happy Mother's Day spelled out in purple and blue cursive letters. 

It wasn't Women's Day, it was Mother's Day! I exclaimed to my husband. Yes, I know, but they were celebrating mothers, grandmothers, every woman. They said take a flower for every woman; there were plenty of extra left over.

He meant well, thinking of me, but he didn't know how it would make me feel. How could he, when the emotions that welled up inside were only understood by another woman? When I messaged my sister to express my frustration, she replied immediately. I would feel the same way. 

Sympathy flowers. When someone dies, we descend upon their family in hordes, carrying awkwardly a pot of varying sizes, and shove aforesaid pot into their hands along with some mumbled words of condolences. If we cannot make it to the memorial or funeral, we ring up a franchise flower shop and place an order for some huge appropriate bouquet, usually with white flowers sprinkled in, include a few words of remembrance for the card or banner, and shortly thereafter the flowers are delivered. Whether in person or by proxy, the flowers are meant to communicate acknowledgement of a significant loss in that person's life. A trite way to attempt to assuage the plumbs of grief that are only known by someone who has experienced such emotion themselves. 

When I opened up the photo and realized it was Mother's Day, I immediately knew they were sympathy flowers. And sympathy flowers I did not want. I preferred to forget that I would never be a mother than to have it be rubbed in my face with a purple potted plant, albeit of my favourite flowers. 

As a married woman without children, I sit in the church pew on Mother's Day with mixed emotions. I am happy the church is recognizing the mothers for the thankless work they do, day in and day out, with little times for themselves. I smile as I see them with their little ones or teenagers sitting next to them, and I take a moment to remember my own mother who is now thousands of miles away. There is a bittersweet moment as I remember one of my good friend whose twin baby boys I helped look after until they were 2 and the close bond we shared, almost as if I was a second mother to them. A small tear forms in my eye as a pang of sadness sneaks into my heart, knowing I will never proudly hold my own little one in my arms and feel like our little family is now complete. All these emotions go through me but I don't speak up or say anything. I sit with my feelings as I know they will soon pass. 

Until the elder, or women's ministries' leader, or pastor up front starts to speak. After their speech thanking all the mothers in the congregation, they continue. We would also like to acknowledge all the other women in our congregation today. Even if you may not be a mother yourself, you are still a mother to our children and we want to thank you for your kind and loving influence in their lives. At the close of the service, we would like to invite every woman to take a flower pot home with her to remember how beautiful the love of a mother is.

A moment meant to recognize a group of people in the church for a specific role they have to play has now turned into a very uncomfortable, painful experience as everyone in the church turns around to search for the women they know are not mothers and give them what they think are understanding smiles. I pray for the service to finish so I can slip out with the crowd but as I finish shaking the pastor's hand and head for the door, a loud woman's voice calls out my name. Oh Maria, don't forget your flower! They shove a pot into my hand, then push me in the direction of the dreaded photo booth. I perch gingerly on the bench, fake smile stretching the corners of my mouth just wide enough to look pleasant, and pray for the moment to pass. The photographer happily informs me that my photo will be on the church's Facebook page sometime in the coming week. 

Then I walk out the door, pot in hand, as the sensitive grief starts to well up like a dormant volcano coming back to life. How can I grieve something that never happened? Who would understand the sadness I cannot put into words when I see a mother with toddler clutching her skirts or with a newborn in her arms? How can I celebrate a day specifically set aside for a role I will never fulfil, through no choice of my own?

Unfortunately, in a well-meaning yet ignorant attempt to make all women feel included, those of us who are not mothers end up being hurt rather than honored when the church fails to be sensitive to our experience. I'm not saying don't buy extra flower pots for the Mother's Day celebration. There may be a woman who is a mother to her niece, a woman who lost her only child through miscarriage, or a woman who is about to adopt for the first time who would like to take a pot home. But don't highlight or focus on those of us who are not able to be the traditional mother. Let us grieve in our own way. Without sympathy flowers. 

Walking Off a Collapsed Bridge

I don't go to church anymore. Kinda ironic, since I married a guy who is about to enter the pastoral ministry. 

I stopped going several weeks ago. I woke up one day and told my husband, I won't be going to church for a while. I'm not sure how long. I just wanted to let you know. I think, after years of pretending and being a cliche, I had decided enough was enough. I refused to be my mother: sitting in the pew, tight smile across her weary face as her lying pastor of a husband preached to the congregation. I had to be genuine to myself and my feelings and right now, I wasn't feeling church. 

I was fed up with the liturgy; fed up with the fake shallow greetings from people who didn't give two hoots about you; fed up with the canned sermons, show off special musics, and endless announcements from people who loved to hear the sound of their own voice. I was fed up of living in a strait-jacket spiritual world where we were called Beloved of God (the very title made me cringe) while at the same time treated as if we were below them. I could no longer go to church because when I went there, I couldn't find God. His soft whisper was drowned out by the hubbub of the moneychangers. 

I had a vision in my mind of what church really was. A large room, places to sit, a reverent feeling, singing, a prayer or two, a Scripture reading, then testimonies or a reflection on the reading. No piano, no parade onto the platform, no announcements, no special musics, no bobbing up and down multiple times for songs and prayers, and no extra activities (health ministries, colporteur ministries, Pathfinders, personal ministries). Just a simple opening of the heart to God's Word, sharing the power of His Spirit in our lives, and to close, a meal together. 

Now, my husband went to church alone. I knew how lonely that felt; I'd done it for two and a half years before we started dating. I knew people were talking, wondering where I was, gossiping about whether we were having marital problems, or, most likely, not even noticing. I didn't care. I had reached my limit of what I could handle and church provided no outlet for my feelings of being overwhelmed in life—it only added to it. 

I'm not sure I can go to heaven without attending church. Apparently we are saved by faith but judged by works so I guess believing in Jesus is not enough. And maybe what little belief I have in Jesus is not enough either since I struggle to trust in a God Who stands by while the innocent suffer. My mom said God in His mercy does not let the wicked go to heaven because they wouldn't be happy there; maybe she was right. Maybe if I cannot get my answers here on earth; I would be equally as unhappy living in a heaven where I cannot understand why. Supposedly the millennium is intended to answer those questions but I don't think a thousand years will be enough. Because the tears of a million children are drowning me and their cries are echoing in my ears. 

Maybe I don't believe in God anymore. Or maybe I don't believe in the Seventh-day Adventist Church. I'm not sure if it's possible to separate the two; though I still have enough of a fight in me to want to do so. I've grown up with so much screwed up theology as a result of people in that church that I fight daily against what I perceive as wrong. And then I wonder if I am the one who is wrong and I won't be in heaven because I didn't go to church every Sabbath, pay offerings, wear a long skirt, or only eat a vegan diet. But I don't want to be in that kind of heaven anyhow. The heaven my father told me I would not be able to go to because I was taking communion with a rebellious heart that refused to reunite him and my mother. 

Maybe all I can manage today is a prayer. God, help me. I can't breathe. 

Help, I can't breathe

Earthquake! my husband suddenly shouted as he jumped up from the sofa and headed to the nearest doorway. Minutes earlier, I'd finished folding the day's laundry and was busily storing everything in the bedroom. It was a bit chilly so I grabbed my pink fleece blanket from the bed along with a couple of pillows and headed back to the living room. I'd just thrown the blanket onto the sofa when my husband startled me with his announcement.

No, it's not an earthquake, I quickly replied. I can't feel anything. Then I turned and looked to my right. Our standing fan was shaking vigorously. I hurried to the other doorway and stood there, looking at 3 liter narrow-necked olive oil bottles that held our water. The water inside was swaying from side to side like a drunken sailor. 

My husband crouched in the doorway next to me and held his laptop in one hand as he continued his Bible study with the person on the other end of the line. I watched the water's pendulous sway until finally, it stopped. 

For the next couple of hours, my eyes kept straying to the water bottles, wondering if my tense muscles were another aftershock, wondering if the fan was moving again or it was just my imagination. That morning my left hand had been shaking with a quick Google search attributing it to stress and anxiety. I couldn't handle another disaster on top of the multitudinous life challenges I was already facing on a daily basis. 

Then there was the guilt factor. People in adjacent countries were experiencing much, much worse. There was a call for assistance on the campus WhatsApp group but as I'd gone through our house, I'd only managed to come up with a small bag of essentials such as toothbrushes and sanitary pads. We didn't have a lot and what we did have, we were planning to take with us when we relocated in a few months. Most things were well used and not fit to be given away. 

It was a very unsettling sleep that night and, once again, I dreamt about water. This time my friends and I were going to their new house up in some gorgeous natural part of the earth. We'd hiked up some road among breathtaking mountains but it had been raining and had flooded the last part of what looked like a barn area that we had to cross before we reached their home. We stepped into the thigh-high water and that was when I woke up. I don't know if we reached the other side. 

Several nights earlier, I'd dreamt about putting a newborn into an airtight container so they could be safe when a tsunami wave hit. Weeks before that I'd dreamt about a tsunami wave hitting the building I was in but I was watching it from up high. In another dream, I was on rocks watching the tsunami wave come in. In both of those dreams, a large killer whale was inside the wave. In yet another dream I was running from the wave and then I went inside a beach house and the wave swept through but I was safe. There have been others but I don't remember those as vividly.

My sister told me these dreams are my subconscious telling me I feel overwhelmed. She's probably right. After more than three years of crisis, I'm not able to manage anything anymore. Banks are closed again, grocery stores doubled the price of bread if I go early enough in the morning and are lucky enough to find it, gas stations periodically open and close and the price of gas doubled in a month even though the exchange rate did not. Shops no longer put prices on their items as the price is obsolete within hours so every time I go shopping I have to constantly bring my items to a self-scanner. Inflation has gone so high, the largest bill is valued at $1.20 so I have to carry wads of cash with me everywhere I go. My weekly grocery bill has soared from around 50,000 LBP to 4,000,000 signifying the 99% devaluation of the local currency. Calculating everything in the millions, then converting it to dollars to see whether it's worth buying, is a tiring task. 

Today, they told us only essential staff need to go to work. I'm not sure if that means we have the day off or we should work from home. I hate vague things like that. I hate worrying every single day about how long we should turn on the hot water heater so we have enough hot water for a shower and to wash a few dishes but don't get a bill for hundreds of dollars for utilities. I hate getting our salaries late every month and, when we do get it, getting an email from administration admonishing us to "be thankful we met payroll this month." I hate having to cook everything from scratch because pre-made items are either not available or expensive as hell and I can't justify buying them. I hate standing in the grocery store every freaking Friday, calculating and recalculating which brand is the cheapest, while also being the healthiest. I hate knowing every time I step outside my door someone will be trying to grab as much cash from me as they can, greedy in the knowledge that I am a foreigner and even if they make more money than I do, they are certain I should be supporting them financially in any means possible. I hate the dog that terrorizes me every time I go in and out of my house as it growls menacingly. I hate trying to do the budget every month and it never balancing in the dual currencies I must work with. I hate living in crisis mode, uncertain day by day what will hit next. Will it be a problem with the car? Will banks close again, causing protests on the streets with random shooting? Is it safe to go buy groceries this week or should we try to make do with 1 carrot, 3 tomatoes, and 4 potatoes? Should I buy half a pound of almonds for $3 or try to find a better price? 

I listen a lot to podcasts these days. I struggle with insomnia because I leave on a freaking campus where everyone expects me to be available 24/7 to answer emails and reply to messages in WhatsApp. I don't get paid to work outside office hours but nobody cares because they are all workaholics without a life "serving the Lord" while equally neglecting their family. So when I can't go to sleep because I've seen notifications on my phone, or I wake up at 5 am with allergies and I have to take my medication so the incessant sneezing and infuriating itching will calm down, or I wake up wheezing or whistling or rattling so I have to sleep upright on the sofa for the rest of the night, I listen to a podcast. And for a moment, in the comfort of my wireless headset, I can escape this lousy life I live and hopefully fall asleep once again. 

To dream of tsunamis and earthquakes. 

Help Me to Breathe. Just a Little Longer.

6:05 am. The electricity has just turned off and back on again. My laptop connected to the internet before my phone, funnily enough. I sit on the sofa, bleary-eyed and sleepy, as the anxiety tenses behind me, waiting to overwhelm. I'm uncertain if I will let it take over or try to fight it this time. 

I woke up a few minutes earlier to a fresh dot of a mosquito bite, small and not too itchy at first. After straining to hear its whine, through the tinnitus I got after a Boyz II Men concert 15+ years ago, I give up and head for the bathroom where 2 giant mosquitoes greet me. I smash one on the wall with my palm, then shut the other one in as I hurry back to the bedroom for the mosquito bat. In a moment, the second one has been zapped and a pleasant burn smell fills the air. I study my left forearm again. The mosquito prick has expanded to a convex reddish blotch but thankfully the level of itchiness hasn't matched its expansion. 

I head back to the bedroom and gather up my quilt, eye mask, and stuffed dog. After dropping them on the couch, I realize I forgot my pillow. And your fuzzy blanket, don't forget your fuzzy blanket, my mind insists. I sigh. I know I have to get the blanket or I won't be able to sleep. It's one of the ways I've found to self-soothe to manage the life I've been left in. 

I keep replaying a text message a colleague sent me the day before. His young son, just barely a toddler, is developing asthma. It's normal for this age, he tells me. My heart aches that such a small child has to endure this horrible disease. And then I think about how I woke up, after the mosquito's bite, to a rattling in my chest each time I breathed in deep. Now it's a wheeze. I will sleep the last couple of hours before my alarm goes off, sitting upright on the sofa. At least I don't feel panicky today, like I cannot get enough air into my lungs, and I don't have to do steaming to open them up. I've put off going to the doctor for two or three years. I know what they will tell me. And I cannot add yet another disease to my growing list of things I struggle with. 

9 months left.