Marks & Sparks

And this is for you, he said, opening a bag and pulling out a pale yellow short-sleeved cardigan. It's from our aunt. She took it carefully and left the room with the excuse that she was going to try it on. After closing the door, she buried her nose in its softness and breathed in deep. Ahhhhh, there it was. Faint, after having traveled thousands of miles to get to her, but still there. The familiar scent of home. One of many homes.

It fit perfectly, of course. Somehow, over her 35 years, most of them spent away from those who were tied to her biologically, they had known exactly what sizes of clothing to send. Her aunt and Granny were adept at picking out stylish yet fashionably durable items she would wear for years after and then hand down to her sister.

Even though yellow was her least favourite colour, she knew the cardigan was not going to the charity shop. This would become her favourite cardigan because it was more than just a cardigan. It was a symbol of someone's love and care for her.

She breathed in deep one more time. She wished she could vacuum seal the familiar scent for days when she missed the familiar. There were all too many of those.

92 To Go

I've been doing a joy challenge. A friend posted it on Facebook, www.100happydays.com, and curious, I went to see what it was all about. The challenge piqued my competitive nature, particularly since they claimed very few people were able to last the full 100 days. So challenge taken and I set off determined to post a picture every day for 100 days of what made me happy.

I thought it would be easy. It was at first, but today was particularly difficult. I laughed when friends made funny comments, but it was more of an instinctive reaction than a deep feeling of joy. I talked to God on the drive to and from a community mental health program I coordinate, but the emotion associated with our heart-to-heart time was expressed in tears. I came home, made a chocolate souffle in the microwave, and submitted it for day 8 of my 100 happy day challenge. 92 days to go. . .

I chose this challenge for a very specific reason. I've noticed that the past few months have been getting progressively darker and less joy-filled. I remember a time when I would anticipate life with excitement, when little things brought great joy, but now I tend to focus on the negative. This isn't how I want to live my life. I don't want to be known as the grumpy melancholy woman who can never think of a nice thing to say about anyone. I want that joy. I want joy which comes from the deepest part of my heart and is seen easily by others.

Interestingly, the challenge bases joy in circumstances or finds it in friends or tangible evidence. Yet at the same time, science has shown that joy is not found in possessions, per se, as much as it is experienced in the intangible such as spending time with people who love us. As a Christian, I am admonished to find my joy in God and to be joyful regardless of circumstances. I'm still figuring out the balance. I'm very curious, though, to see whether a deliberate attempt to see and seek the joy in my life will bring an awakened understanding of what it means to be joyful.

Henri Nouwen said, Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day. Today, and for the next 92 days, I shall determine to choose joy.

Go and Tell All. . .or Just Some?

I've started reading The Great Controversy for myself, not because I feel guilty if I don't, not because it's required reading for class, but because I want to understand whether the hype in the conservative Seventh-day Adventist world is based in fact. Are we really in the end of time or is it the period where Jesus said we will see things happening but it still isn't the end. Are we in the pause before the storm?

Why is it important to me? If this is the end, then I need to be seriously preparing for it. If this is the pause, I need to be preparing others for the end. I believe that once we reach the end, everyone will have had the chance to make their own choice either for or against God. Until then, however, there are people who haven't heard from another Christian that there is a God. Which brings me to my next point. Do we evangelize the Christians or do we share the gospel with the unreached? I think my previous statement answered that question. Which may be leading me to my calling, not one just for me though, but for everyone.

The Great Commission in Matthew 28 tells us to go and make disciples of all nations. Does that mean convert everyone to be a Seventh-day Adventist or does it mean give everyone an opportunity to know who Jesus is and then leave it up to them to figure out how that looks in relation to the Bible? Ellen White says that the great sin of the Christian world would be their rejection of the law of God, the foundation of His government in heaven and earth. The precepts of Jehovah would be despised and set at nought (p. 24 in miniature Great Controversy). She goes on to describe how that looks, describing two classes of Christians, one who studies Jesus' example and looks to be more like Him and another who shuns truth exposing their error (p. 53).

As I consider what I should be doing next in life, I am struggling with reconciling life on this earth with life after it. Do I work hard so I can provide for my family or do I dedicate my life to mission work and trust that God will provide for them? Do I have savings in case of emergency so I can pay my bills or do I trust God to provide money from nowhere? The balance between Christian stewardship and faith is a tricky one. God does remind us not to build a tower without making sure we have the funds beforehand. How this translates to my life is a simple parallel yet it asks difficult questions. If my core value is responsibility, I will be a fiscally responsible giving Christian. If my core value is salvation, I will abandon retirement plans, savings, and a house to live in a hut in Africa and share the gospel with those who've never heard. Or maybe there is a place between?

This promise is one I shall carry with me when the excited crowds roar about running to the hills. Not one Christian perished in the destruction of Jerusalem. Christ had given His disciples warning, and all who believed His words watched for the promised sign (p. 35). I don't know if I will have to flee to the mountains. I wouldn't survive very well if I had to, as I don't know how to garden or forage or build a shelter out of leaves. In this I have to trust that God will take care of me, watch for the promised sign, and then follow His clear guiding.

A Protector

I asked for a guy to walk me out to my car the other night. Ordinarily I'm a strong woman, an independent woman. I carry heavy boxes, I drive home late at night, I carry a pepper spray, and I always park under the street light in the Walmart parking lot. But then times come when I'm tired of being strong and I just want to step into the role God created for me before liberation swung too far the other way. I want to be protected.

At first I felt embarrassed at my request. Ordinarily I wouldn't ask, I was used to managing. I would casually ask someone to help me lock up after the evening program so at least I wasn't alone. But the stranger had appeared yet again and I felt uncomfortable. I swallowed hard and asked if someone could stay with me til the end of the program.

As we walked out to my car, just a little after 9 pm, a truck drove by, young men hooting and hollering nonsense from the cab, and I was grateful for the person beside me. I started my car and headed home. A thought came unbidden to mind. Never be ashamed to ask for protection.

It's a difficult world to live in when you're a single woman. I know. Men are afraid to open doors, walk you to your car, carry heavy packages, or compliment you because they don't know if you'll assert your independence and make them feel small. In the same way, I hesitate to reach out and ask for someone to make sure I'm safe because I'll be interrogated and asked why I feel unsafe if I have nothing tangible to base it on.

It is not right, though. A woman should be able to expect careful courtesy from any man. And similarly, any man should be able to expect that a woman will graciously accept his courteous assistance. The next time I find myself waving away help, I must remember to be thankful and accept it. And I hope when next I am in need of protection, I will be able to ask for it without fear of humiliation.

Was it Worth it?

Does the achievement of a goal signify it is no longer necessary for validation? I have a synthesis paper and a portfolio presentation standing between me and a graduate degree but in all honesty, I've lost the excitement, the feeling of achievement. For one terrifying moment I wonder if it was worth it. I'm not sure I know the answer.

Perhaps I should have traveled the world with the more than $20,000 I spent on tuition, fees, books, and travel. Would I have changed? But regret cannot be on the plate this time. I made a promise to myself that I would see something through, that I would complete my program without debt, and I achieved that goal.

So tonight I wrestle once more with words that refuse to express the change, remember the dull theory, or open up to the wonderment of learning. And yet I cannot say it was without point because while I now know I can complete doctoral studies, I realize it is no longer my desire to do so. I am weary of study. I want to experience life, not be tied down to its dictates.

To Sing, To Remember

It's one of those bittersweet moments. After midnight but I'm so pleased to be finished with my competencies. To me, it was worth it to stay up this late so I could be done. This brings a close to the monotonous slog of the studies. Now I wait for edits and for approval of competencies. I slowly write my synthesis paper and then put it to PowerPoint for my final presentation summing the last two years of my life.

I cannot believe it is nearly over. I am glad. No more early Sunday mornings and no more late study nights. I'm also somewhat nostalgic as I remember the three life-changing times I went to my university. The first I was scared, nervous, and worried. I balanced the emotions with joy at spending time with dear friends, some of whom I had not seen for 15 years. I sped down the bumpy highway, humid summer breeze blowing and Blake Shelton singing. The second I was at ease but it was the summer Karen died and I still remember hearing the news, crying, as I sat down on the steps by a garbage disposal. I withdrew to process and it was a quieter time. Then November and I'd returned for a job interview in winter's exhilarating cold. Days were filled with precious moments that I quickly had to leave behind. Soon I shall return for the fourth and final time. To march in the black gown I vowed I'd one day wear. My name printed in bold with the words Summa Cum Laude beneath. Hard-earned words.

This I can say with certainty. . .it was worth it.

Please Shut Up, I'm Speaking

There are a few things that get my blood boiling. Injustice. Discrimination. Unfairness. Tonight it was a FB post discussing religious freedom and Caucasian monocultural Americans making inaccurate statements about Islam.

I was born and raised in the Middle East but unlike the brash Americans who speak their mind without thought, I learned to speak softly and in truth. I learned to respect my elders and call them Auntie or Uncle, rather than brazenly address them by their first name even if they were in their 40s and I was a teenager. But this is not about cultural expectations, though I could wax eloquently on that. This post is about the TCK's (third culture kid) need to defend cultures not their own because they understand the common bond of humanity.

I defend cultures I have never lived in, religions I do not practice, and people I've never met. I become pricklier than a bear in a blackberry patch when I perceive ill-founded assumptions are being flung about as if absolute truth. My heart starts racing as I formulate and reformulate my words before carefully writing them out in reply. If I must speak, I will often say No, that is not true, and then attempt to speak truth.

The problem is. . .they never listen.

We grew up learning to listen, to absorb, to integrate multiple worldviews into a single kaleidoscope of a myriad of rainbow colours. I still spell in British, I crave Middle Eastern food, and I book airline tickets to Asia. Even as I slip between cultures, I take pieces of them with me, hoping they will change me.

Then there are those who resist. They have not lived in someone's home, eaten their food, wiped their tears, or held their hands. Their experiences are limited to a single solid colour of varying shades that can never expand beyond clearly defined boundaries. In the same way, they expect to place their endpoints on other worldviews, certain those will fit neatly into a predefined box. It is not so.

It is possible to live in the United States of America and be a bigot even if having Middle Eastern neighbours, shopping at the Asian supermarket, and eating pasta for dinner. Moving across state lines or even traversing from one coast to the other does not guarantee the ability to open one's mind to a broader perspective. Of necessity, cultural understanding is best found when lost outside familiar borders.

The TCK knows this. They purchase visas like American teenagers pick up a pair of jeans at Gap. They navigate public transportation systems easier than riding the Greyhound. They eat unpronounceable and unrecognizable foods when children refuse to eat their vegetables. They carry passports like state IDs, ready to exchange currency, purchase an airline ticket, and step into alternative universes where monoculturals see extremists in every foreign face. They are fluent in culture while others cannot pronounce "Iran" correctly.

Ours is a lifelong battle. Even as we learn to accept our gift to live in liminality, or between places, we know it comes with a price. Our understanding means we are now called to be guardians of truth. We must defend; we must protest. Ours is a lonely battle, familiar only to those who fight it with us.

The borders are rapidly shrinking. Our world is becoming less compartmentalized and more open to the diversity we have always carried within us. It is to this tune we march on, ever hoping, never flagging. We will defend; we will protest. Until everyone knows little girls dream of puppies and little boys dream of trucks the world over.