tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88646809335797207582024-02-02T13:34:02.364-08:00My Random RamblinzI love to journal, to write about life, and to record moments in time through word-snapshots. Disclaimer: As a creative writer, I thrill in capturing emotions through words, albeit weak vessels though they may be. At times my words may sound stronger than they are meant to be, merely because I'm attempting to express the depth and power of the emotion behind it. (All material on this page is the sole property of the author and cannot be copied without written permission.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger481125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-84652027018793064032023-11-22T12:24:00.000-08:002023-11-22T12:28:29.953-08:00Life in the Big City<p>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?</p><p>I was about to find out.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>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.</i></p><p>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. </p><p>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? </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>After all, we won't be in the apartment much, anyhow, </i>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Life in the big city. Just one of the many life-shocks I would be encountering. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-47817866636644832482023-11-05T11:44:00.004-08:002023-11-05T11:46:44.590-08:00How Long?<p>I sat on the hard gray bench in 207A, tears slowly rolling down my cheeks. My anxious husband asked, <i>What happened?</i></p><p><i>I don't know! </i>I sniffled. </p><p><i>Was it something in the security? You were fine before we went through security. </i></p><p>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. </p><p>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 <i>Everything is okay</i> 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-35322073256017361362023-11-05T11:23:00.005-08:002023-11-05T11:26:11.417-08:00I'm Moving On<p>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, <i>You are good for him. You are the best person to support him and be there for him. </i>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Then I landed in my new country. </p><p>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? </p><p>Then I realized—it was both and neither. </p><p>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. </p><p>Someone told me yesterday, <i>Your American accent is really good. I couldn't tell you're not American.</i> 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. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-61795337155632677082023-10-27T11:38:00.004-07:002023-10-27T11:40:10.401-07:00The Week of Lasts<p>Yesterday I sat in the elegant white chapel as the priest chanted a funeral dirge and the thought struck me, <i>This is my last Thursday in Lebanon</i>. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>People ask me, <i>Are you ready to go? </i>I smile and reply, <i>Yes, I was ready to leave two years ago</i>. </p><p>Now that it's finally here, really here, I find myself somewhat reluctant to let go. </p><p>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. </p><p>Keeper of my memories; shaper of my heart. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-40821427955663367452023-05-21T23:47:00.014-07:002023-05-22T00:17:08.385-07:00Shatter My Heart<p><i>What happened? </i></p><p>I dropped a bowl.</p><p><i>Are you okay?</i></p><p>Yes.</p><p><i>Okay, then don't worry about it, it's okay.</i></p><p>No, you don't understand. I dropped a bowl. On purpose.</p><p><i>Why?</i></p><p>Because my mind is not normal.</p><p><br /></p><p>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. </p><p>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. <i>You have enough room!</i> 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. </p><p><i>You did it,</i> I kept telling myself though I was on the verge of tears. <i>When you get home, you can lock yourself in the bathroom and cry a bit</i>, I thought. Thankfully, by the time I'd pulled into the driveway the need to cry was gone. The memory, however was not. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>He was playing football. He came 2 hours and 45 minutes late because he was playing football! </i>I frustratedly told my husband. <i>And then he expects us to serve him food, after everything has been put away and everyone has left? I don't understand. </i></p><p>My husband looked at me, unsure as to why something so trite was making me so upset. <i>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></p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>And I dropped it. </p><p>Deliberately. Carefully. Purposefully. </p><p>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. </p><p>For a moment, there was release. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-90702249165169865892023-05-08T13:42:00.005-07:002023-05-08T13:51:35.134-07:00You are My Tomorrow<p><i>Will you miss me?</i></p><p>Yes, of course I will miss you. </p><p><i>Will you come back?</i></p><p>I don't think so. It hurts me to say so, but I think when I leave, it will be forever. </p><p><i>I feel sad. </i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>That was the hardest, wasn't it?</i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>How did you know?</i></p><p>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 <i>See You Again</i> 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. </p><p><i>We had a good time together, didn't we?</i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>Can you forgive me?</i></p><p>Forgive you? For what?</p><p><i>For the pain I put you through</i>.</p><p>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. </p><p><i>Remember your trip to Sidon? </i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>Can I ask one more question?</i></p><p>Of course, what is it?</p><p><i>Well, I'm a bit shy, but. . .I always wanted to know. What made you fall in love with me?</i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>But you withdrew for a while. I didn't see you for nearly 3 years and it hurt. </i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>You had your life and mine stopped.</i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>But you came back. I'm so happy you did. </i></p><p>I did. Concerts, restaurants, day trips all became a reality again and my heart was happy. </p><p><i>We had a good run, didn't we?</i></p><p>We did. 10 years, a quarter of my life, was spent with you. I just wish it could have been longer in better circumstances. </p><p><i>Don't forget me, please. </i></p><p>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. </p><p><i>Yes, I hope so. </i></p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-47875329599790645102023-04-17T08:44:00.007-07:002023-04-17T09:55:17.228-07:00Case Study #1 -- Lowell E. Nelson<p>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. <i>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. </i>There was another joke he'd also told, but I cannot remember it now, more than 23 years later. <i> </i> </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>Did you know? Dr. Lowell Nelson was accused of molesting young boys at Monterey Bay Academy</i>, 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 <a href="https://www.santacruzsentinel.com/2021/06/11/sexual-abuse-lawsuit-filed-against-private-la-selva-beach-boarding-school/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://www.recordnet.com/story/news/2005/06/05/church-will-pay-3-5m/50680036007/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2004-jan-14-me-teacher14-story.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p>In researching this article today, Good Times, a local weekly from Santa Cruz, <a href="https://www.goodtimes.sc/10-things-that-stood-out-locally-in-the-last-decade/" target="_blank">stated that</a>, "According to plaintiffs and witnesses, Nelson in particular was notorious for frequently talking about sex and genitalia in the classroom," I was not surprised. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-62207792843483873002023-04-17T06:49:00.002-07:002023-04-17T06:49:14.520-07:00<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><i>No one will see, if you stop believing</i></span></p><p>~Oh My Soul, by Casting Crowns </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-15397074042039309142023-04-17T06:48:00.003-07:002023-04-17T06:48:37.224-07:00Look Away<p><i>I don't believe in the Seventh-day Adventist organizational system anymore; I have no respect for it</i>, I told my mother and brother, then later my sister, on our weekly call. <i>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. </i></p><p>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. </p><p>We grew up in the SDA church. We grew up going to Sabbath School, singing <i>Who made the beautiful rainbow?</i> 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, <i>Un tison de la flame. . .</i></p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-69367467017318651052023-03-22T14:39:00.011-07:002023-03-22T14:45:08.190-07:00Nowrouz<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, I gave up. <i>Just
another thing I’ve lost in life</i>, I muttered to myself. <i>I shouldn’t be surprised by now.</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-67691881531903006852023-03-18T05:48:00.011-07:002023-03-26T07:51:34.354-07:00Excuse me, you seem to be missing a kid<p>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.</p><p>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. <i>Happy Woman's Day!</i> he proudly declared as he dumped the pot down in my reluctant hands. <i>But it's not Women's Day today, Women's Day was 10 days ago</i>, I replied, somewhat confused and annoyed. </p><p><i>They were giving them out in church</i>, 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. </p><p>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 <i>Happy Mother's Day</i> spelled out in purple and blue cursive letters. </p><p><i>It wasn't Women's Day, it was Mother's Day!</i> I exclaimed to my husband. <i>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.</i></p><p>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>I would feel the same way.</i> </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. <i>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.</i></p><p>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. <i>Oh Maria, don't forget your flower!</i> 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. </p><p>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?</p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-7993791682202764322023-03-18T02:15:00.006-07:002023-03-18T02:19:46.985-07:00Walking Off a Collapsed Bridge<p>I don't go to church anymore. Kinda ironic, since I married a guy who is about to enter the pastoral ministry. </p><p>I stopped going several weeks ago. I woke up one day and told my husband, <i>I won't be going to church for a while. I'm not sure how long. I just wanted to let you know.</i> 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. </p><p>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 <i>Beloved of God</i> (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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Maybe all I can manage today is a prayer. <i>God, help me. I can't breathe. </i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-55079826882896188222023-02-20T21:24:00.007-08:002023-02-20T21:29:31.448-08:00Help, I can't breathe<i>Earthquake!</i> 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.<div><br /></div><div><i>No, it's not an earthquake</i>, I quickly replied. <i>I can't feel anything</i>. 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>To dream of tsunamis and earthquakes. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-11500137505656066982023-01-06T20:22:00.003-08:002023-01-06T20:23:26.039-08:00Help Me to Breathe. Just a Little Longer.<p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. <i>And your fuzzy blanket, don't forget your fuzzy blanket</i>, 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. </p><p>I keep replaying a text message a colleague sent me the day before. His young son, just barely a toddler, is developing asthma. <i>It's normal for this age</i>, 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. </p><p>9 months left. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-49759896284603613142022-08-29T23:36:00.008-07:002022-08-29T23:38:11.169-07:00Breaking Me Down—Slowmmation Version<p><i>The consultation fee varies depending on the doctor, but it ranges from $20 to $100, $150. In local currency that starts at 700,000</i>, 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. </p><p><i>I have an appointment with Dr. B tomorrow. How much is the initial visit? </i></p><p><i>One moment please</i>, 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. <i>We give a receipt</i>, she was quick to assure me. </p><p><i>Thank you, I would like to cancel my appointment at this time.</i> The receptionist sounded somewhat surprised that I would cancel, but accepted my cancellation. I couldn't get off the phone fast enough. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>If I can't walk, then I will make an appointment</i>, I reasoned, even as I worried that if I didn't see a doctor, I would end up with a crippling problem for life. </p><p>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, <i>God, this isn't a good day. </i>But then again, there hadn't been many of those lately. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-89188074173667444292022-08-23T09:33:00.004-07:002022-08-23T09:37:40.805-07:00Meltdown on Aisle 23<p><i>It's 44,000 </i>I insisted, pointing at the receipt. </p><p>She shook her head firmly and repeated <i>45,000</i> as she pointed at the different prices on the thin plastic bags. </p><p>I tried to reason with her, that 47 minus 3 was 44, but she adamantly refused to budge. </p><p><i>Can you please add it up again? </i>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. </p><p>When she saw the total, she shook her head in disbelief. </p><p><i>Are you going shopping anytime soon? I asked my flatmate but she isn't going til Friday, </i>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>Let's go to the fruits and vegetables first? </i>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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, <i>Something is wrong</i>. <i>Can you please show me the receipt?</i></p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>I looked at her incredulously. <i>No, I have to pay 44,000. 47 minus 3 is 44, </i>I said, even though I knew she didn't understand much English. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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, <i>It's enough for now</i>. 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. </p><p>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, <i>God, please help me, I can't do this anymore. </i></p><p>Somehow, that helped. In that moment, God's strength lifted me up and the thought came to mind, <i>Find something nice to enjoy</i>. 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. </p><p>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>I've had it</i>, and that would be it. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-26366671974134004372022-08-21T09:57:00.002-07:002022-08-21T09:57:25.320-07:00Flashback<p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Because anxiety. . .it never leaves you. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-35967510489313964752022-06-14T01:15:00.004-07:002022-06-14T04:18:53.536-07:00Breathe in Deep<p><i>It's June 14! </i>my student exclaimed. <i>It doesn't rain in winter; how does it rain now?</i></p><p>He stood by the narrow French window that opened sideways, peering out at the midsummer downpour. </p><p><i>Can you smell the ground when it rains, Miss?</i></p><p>I smiled. <i>Yes, it smells good</i>.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>It was only then that I realized. The Netherlands was my home. </p><p><i>Will I end up resenting it when I go there? </i>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? </p><p>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. </p><p>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?</p><p>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. </p><p> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-75548204142502536942022-06-13T12:52:00.003-07:002022-06-13T12:52:54.128-07:00Green Eggs and Spam<p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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? </p><p>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. </p><p><i>I don't have to put up with this</i>, I realize. </p><p>So I don't. </p><p>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. </p><p>But it's not over yet. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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, <i>Excuse me, but I was here first. </i>They step back, surprised someone would interrupt their forward momentum. </p><p>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 <i>It must be a computer problem, the only thing we can do is refund you</i> 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 <i>25% Cash back on Vegan Deli</i>. 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. </p><p>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. <i>Excuse me</i>, I say as I glare at him and maneuver my cart away from him and closer to me. I mumble to myself, <i>This is not your cart</i>. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-89918411806971594852022-06-10T04:14:00.008-07:002022-06-13T12:54:02.192-07:001, 2 Buckle My Shoe<i>What he said</i>, 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, <i>What's your answer? </i>or look at his counterpart giggler B, who was always first to answer, and say, <i>What B said</i>. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then the rope snapped. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>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. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But Miss, Miss</i>, F said, interrupting me as he tried to reason why they were giggling so much. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>I am speaking now, you do not need to speak at the time as I am speaking. Y</i><i>ou need to be quiet and you need to listen. </i>I spoke firmly and clearly. <i>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></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I looked at them and solemnly declared, <i>I've reached my limit. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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>I wasn't really focusing</i>. I gave up. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. <i>Where is Seder? </i>he blurted out, referring to the toddler who often accompanied his father who worked in maintaining the campus lawns. B started to whine. <i>Why can't we watch a video?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Because we watched a video at the beginning of class and now it's time to do the worksheet. </i>After a couple of minutes, they finally settled down and started to work on writing in their answers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over lunch that day, I told my husband, <i>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. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-14839857667201303902022-06-06T11:11:00.005-07:002022-06-06T13:52:11.634-07:00In Only a Moment<p><i>Crash, crunch</i> echoed through our small living room as I watched the ornate burgundy saucer shatter into 4 large pieces and a thousand splinters more. </p><p><i>What is wrong with me? </i>I sat down helplessly on the gray blue sofa, tears immediately appearing. <i>Two days ago I broke the glass charcoal bottle and now this. </i>I wasn't usually this clumsy. Was it because I was under a lot of stress lately? <i>I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry. </i></p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Just like she never had a chance. </p><p>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?</p><p>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. <i>It won't work</i>, he said. <i>Let's throw it away and buy another one</i>. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. <i>If You are willing. . .</i>he had pleaded with the only Healer he had hope in. </p><p>Jesus' response? </p><p>He reached out with His hand, touched the man, and said <i>I am willing. </i>And in that moment, instantly, the man was healed. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-24617476999744006462022-06-05T13:30:00.000-07:002022-06-05T13:30:56.127-07:00I close my eyes and I can see, the numbers march incessantly<p>1 avocado, 35,000<br />1 carton of milk, 37,500<br />1 package of cheese slices 39,900<br />1 bag of tomatoes, 62,500</p><p>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. <i>We can eat the apples we still have in the fridge, </i>my husband said sadly. </p><p><i>But what happens when we finish eating the stores of food we have? </i>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. </p><p><i>How much is this suitcase in dollars? </i>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>I don't know, I don't know how much the dollar is right now and I really don't care</i> I said, as I closed my phone and headed to the personal hygiene section. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>On the way home, we spotted a bakery. <i>Let's try there and see if they have bread</i>, 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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>We made it</i>, I sighed inwardly as we pulled into the driveway, the neighbors' dog barking incessantly at our arrival. <i>We made it for another week. </i>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. </p><p><i>But how much longer can this go on for? </i>I wondered. <i>How much longer can I manage this? </i></p><p>I'm tired. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-8705911906017857882022-06-04T05:10:00.001-07:002022-06-04T05:10:10.873-07:00How are you doing, really?<p><i>I’m angry</i>, 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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>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.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My patient husband came over and looked at the wet floor. <i>When
the food finishes cooking, I can mop it</i>, 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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>It looks much better now, doesn’t it? </i>my husband
proclaimed. <i>I love you. Don’t be upset; I can help you and we can clean it
up fast. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m learning how to help others in similar situations</i>,
I told my husband as we lay on our adjoining sofas, relaxing at the end of a
long uncertain week. <i>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</i>. He nodded in agreement. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <i>How is she? Any updates?</i> The <i>any
updates?</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>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.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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, <i>Nothing
new. Please continue to pray for her. Thank you for asking.</i> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When they asked, <i>How are you doing?</i> I replied, <i>Fine,
thank you, </i>or alternated with, <i>I’m doing good, thanks</i>. 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 <i>Fine, thank you</i> and hoped those who asked didn’t
think I was heartless and cold. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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, <i>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?</i> It felt like they
wanted to know simply to satisfy their morbid curiosity. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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, <i>Why did you leave
before I answered the question?</i> And she apologized, mumbling something
about how busy she was, said <i>I can listen now</i> as she looked down, eyes
glued to her phone, thumbs texting furiously. He finished his business and
left, asking me later, <i>Why do people even ask if they don’t want to know?</i>
He was right. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>She’s still in the hospital in the same condition. We’re
just waiting to see what happens. </i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-84498818834679090162022-06-04T05:07:00.002-07:002022-06-04T05:11:04.766-07:00How to be present<i>We would like to come and pray with you. Let us know when is a good time to stop by</i>, 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. <div><br /></div><div><i>I will let you know when it's a good time, thanks so much for reaching out,</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>What not to do when someone is going through a difficult time</b></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>Don't tell them, <i>This is a test from God</i> 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. </li><li>Don't message them one or multiple times a day asking, <i>Is there any update?</i> 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. </li><li>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. </li><li>Don't say, <i>Oh, I cannot imagine how you are feeling right now. This must be so difficult for you. </i>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, <i>You are being very strong but if you need a listening ear, I am here for you. </i>Or, <i>You are doing an amazing job supporting your spouse during this difficult time. </i></li><li>Don't say, <i>Oh, I wanted to stop by but I was busy doing x,y,z. </i>This sounds like everything else is a priority over supporting the family who is going through a difficult time. Simply say, <i>I'm thinking of you and praying for you. Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to stop by?</i></li><li>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. </li></ul><div><b>Do try to do these things</b></div></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Give them a hug and say, <i>I am here for you. </i>If it's appropriate, remind them how much you love them. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>Send a message saying, <i>We would love to come and visit and pray with you. When is good for you?</i> 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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li></ul></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8864680933579720758.post-42375317739389068292022-05-29T01:18:00.005-07:002022-05-29T01:40:25.325-07:00Keep Fighting, Sweet One, Keep Fighting<p><i>That may be a test from God! Keep on believing His will</i> 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>My reply was swift and curt. </p><p><i>I don't believe God gives us bad things to test us. That is wrong Theology and not encouraging.</i></p><p>The other person fell silent. I continued to send updates to everyone except for them. </p><p>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, <i>moustache! </i>and Seder tentatively reached out with both hands to touch the ends of my husband's moustache. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. <i>He's not happy with me</i>, 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. </p><p>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, <i>be careful, don't leave your purse alone like that, someone could take it</i><u>,</u> but didn't. </p><p><i>I'll miss you</i>, 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>I'll miss you too!</i> I replied. </p><p><i>You're sure you have your passport?</i> I repeated for the second time. She laughed, patted her beige purse, and replied, <i>Yes, I do</i>. </p><p><i>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</i>. <i>Send a message when you arrive safely, okay?</i></p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><i>She's in the hospital. She was in a bad car accident. The car flipped over and burst into flames and the driver died</i>, tumbled out as I could hear a slight panic in his voice. </p><p><i>I am coming home</i>, <i>I'll be there soon</i>. 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>As I sat for a quiet moment amidst the maelstrom of it all, a verse came to mind. </p><p><i>I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.</i> ~Psalm 27:13</p><p>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. </p><p>But this I did know. God did not close all doors, put us in darkness, and then say <i>This is a test from Me</i>. 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. </p><p>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. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0