One Chair Left

Don't go, come back! she said, as she passed me, dressed in her Sunday best, clutch under her arm, perfectly coiffed hair, and a bright smile painted on. 

I gave a polite laugh as I headed up the stairs in the opposite direction, YouTube open blasting Need You Now by Plumb on my phone. The requisite mask dangled from my other hand, taken off as soon as I had reached the 174 steps that led up the hill to my underground bomb shelter basement. 

How could I explain to her that as I had headed towards the crowd of people, two cupcakes in my hand from a birthday celebration, that I was leaving because of a chair? It all sounded rather silly, anyhow. 

I'd decided to stay for church even though my husband wouldn't be coming as he had been up early to share with another church over Zoom. Yet again, I would be sitting alone but I was used to it. I went to the lawn where everyone was gathering for outside church and scanned the audience for an empty chair. There were a few, scattered here and there, mostly next to someone, but then I spotted it. 

A solitary plastic beige chair in the sunshine by the tree that towered above everyone, providing shade from the midmorning sun. I made up my mind and started to walk towards it, planning to take the chair and move it to a shadier spot. In my horror, as I walked the 20 or so steps in its direction, I realized that another woman was also heading in the same direction. I could not stop my trajectory, or I would have looked awkward, but I was just a little too slow. She reached the chair before me, and, not realizing I also wanted it, tucked it under her arm and marched away. I stopped and looked around, pretending to look for someone. I scanned the empty chairs again. I didn't want to do the awkward, Is this chair reserved? dance and end up looking stupid because it was, so in a split second I made my decision. 

I turned and headed towards the stairs. I was going home. 

Thank you, God, for today

And thank you, God, for today. 

I'd woken up after another interrupted night due to allergies and was spending a moment in prayer before I opened up my laptop to face the barrage of inane questions and vague requests that had been hovering in cyberspace since I'd shut it firmly at 5 pm the day before. I looked out my barred window into a perfectly blue fall sky and breathed out in gratitude. Without a thought, the words of thankfulness came to my mind. I spoke them into the atmosphere. . .then stopped in shock. It was the first time I'd woken up thankful to be alive in a long, long time. 

These past few months, maybe even a couple of years, have been very dark for me. Some would attribute it to situational depression, and they would probably be right. I'd taken the online quizzes from psychcentral. I'd noticed my energy levels slipping, my motivation disappearing, my only interest to stay home and lose myself in a virtual world of Facebook and Homescapes. I withdrew from all my social circles, making excuses when someone wanted to meet up. I began to go through a series of existential crises with no simple answers in sight and I wondered if I would ever come up for air. 

From struggling to trust God as good in the midst of all the evil I was seeing, to constantly fighting for my simple basic rights in the system I functioned in, from seeing how little value was really attributed to me as a person to reaching my breaking point with the political Christianese, I was holding on to a thin rope that was fraying rapidly. 

I began to lose what little patience I had left. I froze in the grocery aisle. I cried as I sat in a melee of cars pressed tighter than sardines. I tried to peer past the next day or week and I could only see blackness. My patient husband cleaned, cooked, listened to me process, and did all he could to support me but I still woke up every day feeling empty and went to bed most nights with tears slipping down my cheeks. 

I had passed an invisible road marker and was heading for a steep drop-off with brakes that no longer worked. As much as I pumped those brakes, people crowded into my vision, trying to persuade me to give this, to do that, to donate here, to help out there and each request was like a thin slip of paper under those brakes. If there had been only one or two slips, or even five, under those brakes, I could have pushed down hard and managed to come to a complete stop. But those papers were piled so high, they had jammed the brakes dead up so there was no stopping power at all. I was headed to a fatal end with no U-turn in sight. 

In the span of 30 hours, I was asked to attend a 10-hour training on how to do small groups, to assist in a 4-6 grade branch Sabbath School class, and to go to a meeting for students in my husband's department. And of course, these events were all scheduled on the weekend. 

I knew something had to change. So I started to talk. I stopped pretending everything was okay and I asked for help. I posted on my social media site the realities of the region where I was living. The economic crisis had resulted in a very unstable situation—one that made it impossible to create a monthly budget as the exchange rate fluctuated widely, let alone plan the week's grocery shopping when the local currency was tied to that exchange rate. 

I started talking to people again. An older woman who had seen much of life, my mom, my sister, several best friends, and my husband. I was honest about my struggles, about my fears, about how I cried in the grocery store because I didn't know how to manage anymore. I asked them to share how they had managed expectations from small church communities or worked with the politics in the system we all knew far too well. I listened and as I listened, I began to realize that things were different than the faulty tapes I had been listening to for far too long. 

And I stopped saying yes and I stopped feeling guilty about it. 

Slowly, I began to remove those slips of paper. I tore them up into tiny shreds and threw them out my window. As I did so, one by one, I started to feel the power returning to the brakes. The cliff's edge began to recede and my car started to slowly turn to face a meadow of luscious green grass, dotted with pink and purple morning glories and yellow-white daisies. 

I still get irritated at times. This evening there is some kind of celebration outside in the valley, banging on a drum, music playing loudly, and people making lots of noise. Earlier, a loudspeaker broadcasted some announcements or religious ritual so loudly, I had to close my windows so my students could hear my teaching. I'm worried about whether we will be able to buy gas tomorrow because the long lines have returned, even though gas is now 10x the price it was 3 months ago. I'm so so tired of fighting every day just to manage the little things that in another country wouldn't take another thought. 

But I'm finding me again. I'm learning to be grateful and I don't feel the heavy cloud of darkness settle on me quite so often or quite as heavy as before. I'm taking time to really be present and I'm finding I very much enjoy it. Whether it is sitting on our veranda overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and sharing a meal with a friend, deep-cleaning and organizing kitchen shelves, trying my hand at making a felt puppet from scratch, or baking snickerdoodles and apple pie for an appreciative husband, I'm finding meaning again in life. 

I was so caught up in what I thought I had to do for everyone to approve of me that I forgot to ask myself what brought me joy. I forgot to slow down and savour breathing. I forgot to appreciate the smell of clean sheets and the sight of a tidy kitchen counter. I didn't understand that in trying to please others; I had lost myself. Until it was too late and I nearly lost the ability to live life. 

Depression is real. But realer than that is life. Today. The day I'm living and the day I will forever be grateful for. Thank you, God, for today. 

I Don't Believe in the Church Anymore

I never imagined myself a pastor's wife. I grew up in a pastor's family and had vowed never to marry a pastor since I saw what the church expected of one. Family was much more important to me than committees and visitations and hosting out-of-town church leaders who expected the royal treatment. Then I went and married a pastor-in-training. And for the first time, I felt confident about being a pastor's wife. Not in an arrogant sort of way, but a quiet confidence that this would be where I would thrive. I was naturally nurturing, a good listener, an excellent organizer, and very capable of undertaking the many tasks that would be expected of a pastor's wife. 

Then I grew up. And even before we got our first church, I gave up. 

I never want to be a pastor's wife. I do not have the calling. I cannot handle the politics, the hypocrisy, and the dysfunction of the church systems and processes. I have no problem putting myself aside to serve people; I have every problem with erasing myself to be walked over and treated like a speck of dirt by those in leadership. 

I see my husband, earphones in, laptop open, Bible on the desk, 11:30 at night, translating for a Bible seminar. I hear him speaking to his teachers, his mentors, anyone who will take a few minutes to listen, asking them, pleading with them, to explain a Bible text to him. I see him poring over his Bible then listen as he asks me to explain concepts I grew up with since I was a little tot but to him are novel ideas. He did not grow up in this faith but his faith is much, much greater than mine. He is humble, he is dedicated, he is committed, and he is working oh so very hard. He never turns anyone away who asks for help. Even when he is tired or not feeling well or has a lot of homework to do, he answers the phone, he counsels the couples, and he gives that Bible study at 9 pm. 

My husband labours diligently night after night with few tools in his native tongue. He has spoken to leader after leader, begging for the doctrines to be translated so he can share something with his contacts. After 2 years, he still has nothing. Only a series of basic Bible studies and 5 of the EGW books. 

Jesus said that if we did not become like little children, we would never enter the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps it was because He knew that when we grow up, we lose that innocence, that simplicity, of childhood. Pride, comfort, ego, being right, are a few of the characteristics that are valued now. So no, I don't want any part of that. If those who are working hard to share the gospel with others are not supported, how can I support the system? In all honesty, I cannot. 

In the words of John Pavlovitz, "You wanna reach the people you’re missing? Leave the building."

Wearyness

I come here to write when nothing makes sense. When my world is swirling like a chocolate-vanilla cone, except deliciousness is not waiting for me at the end—just confusion. A sour taste in my belly. 

Yesterday, I left church early. Ants had found me and were swarming over my feet, in my shoes, up my beige plastic chair legs, and on the seat where I sat. I scurried faster than they to the sidewalk, vigorously thumped each shoe on the cement, then flicked off the persistent ones. I decided I couldn't manage it anymore, so my longsuffering husband took our chairs and we went home. It was not a good day. 

Some parts of days are good. Like our spontaneous falafel-and-sea adventure Friday afternoon where we sat on giant rocks and savoured perfectly moist-crunchy sandwiches as we watched fishermen throw out for a bite. But to reach the perfect rock, I had a mini meltdown because I was wearing flipflops, not gymshoes, and the cracks between the rocks scared me. I couldn't manage it. Just like most days when I cannot manage life. 

I slept most of Saturday afternoon. I cried most of today. The tears are always there. Uncertainty. Fear. Worry. Anxiety. Nervousness. Stress. Anger. Pain. Inadequacy. 

I don't like most parts of my life. Work. The community. The geographic location and all its pieces that don't make sense to my German mind. 

So I write. I eat. Most days I play Sudoku, scroll through Telegram and Twitter and Facebook, read the news headlines, or sit and stare at the wall. When I'm at work, I cry, I try to focus my mind to manage the full-time job in part-time hours, I prioritize, and I lock my door so I can teach in peace and quiet. And I eat. 

The child I will never have symbolically sits forever under my chin—a full stomach. An ugly stomach. A reminder of everything I am not and will never be. I will never be a mother. I will never be beautiful. I will never be slim. I will never be enough. 

So how do I feel? Unlike the children's song that repeats, I feel all right, I do not. I feel lost. I feel alone. I feel sad. And most of all I feel hopeless. I've lost my song and I don't know if I can ever find it again. So I struggle on. Because in the end, that is all one can do, really. Struggle on and hope that one day, somehow, there will be light. Or the end. Whichever comes first. 

Where It All Ended; It Began

Our plane lifted to the skies but I could not see the ground below for the tears in my eyes. My heart was breaking. I was leaving behind the world I knew. Our family had just shattered and now we were starting anew without a father. My world had just ended. 

For the next 17 years I lived a disconnected life. Everything that defined me—lay on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. It was set behind a wall so high, Jack the Beanstalk could not see over it. I mourned the loss but never truly got over it. 

Until one day, I returned. Though much older, my heart had stopped time on that fateful November day and now it started ticking again. Like fresh batteries giving new vigor, I explored the country and fell in love, not with a person but with a place. 

Then someone came along. 

And 3 years later, the life I thought was shattered was beautifully pieced together in a turquoise setting of white lace. 

I listen to Carrie Underwood's See You Again and the lyrics have shifted now. I still love Lebanon, in all her messiness of politics, garbage, crumbling buildings, and exorbitantly-priced potato sandwiches. Like a first love, I cannot forget dancing along her rocky sea's edge, the delightful taste of street food, the rush of air on my face as we speed along in the rickety bus. Art galleries, classical concerts, gourmet buffets, and hike after endless hike through cedar forests and vintage vineyards are forever pressed in my mind like delicate wildflowers in a scrapbook of time. 

Yet now, the stars are not the ones that barely blink in her night sky, competing with fireworks, machine guns' red blast, or nightclub strobe lights. They are the stars I see in my husband's eyes when he looks at me across the breakfast table. Now the light I follow is not the light of the Jounieh harbor or downtown's elegant commercial arena lit up to entice the buyer. It is the light of my husband's smile when I make him his favourite Martha Washington cake. Now my tomorrow is not defined by the crickets' incessant song as the sun comes up or by the planes coming in for a landing into the sunset, one by one. It is my husband's hand holding mine, reassuring me he will be there tomorrow, and the tomorrow after. 

Lebanon will always have a special place in my heart. It was where I grew up, where I learned what heartbreak was, where I stepped over the threshold into adulthood. Yet most of all, Lebanon is special because she taught me how to love. I learned to open my heart and here, in the land where I thought my life had ended, 20 years later, it began. With a man who saw me and knew—he loved me. 

I will carry you with me. Forever. 

True Religion is This. . .

I slip an extra pound note into his hand and watch as Radjo, the gas station attendant, adds it to the stack of paper bills he holds to make change for customers. I hope he gets the tip. I hope it helps him in some small way even though with inflation now, it will be just enough for a bag of bread. I hope he understands that I am not trying to buy his loyalty to get a full gas tank when others are just getting a quarter or so because of fuel rationing. 

I give freely because I want to give, not because I am a millionaire but because my heart is broken by the sadness I encounter every day. Young men digging through putrid garbage trying to find a bite to bring home to their families. Mothers with little ones on their knee as they sit sweltering in the summer sun by the side of the road and wait for a handout from a passerby. I carry food bags in my car to hand out where I can, not because I expect anything in return, but because I am loyal to helping others. 

And therein is the catch. Sometimes loyalty can be bought. If you have enough money, if you have enough pull to give privileges in your sphere of influence, you can give it away “like it’s extra change,” always knowing there will be something coming back your way in return. 

The paradigm that I grew up with, while I understand it, goes against everything I believe in. It’s almost as if I can feel the atoms in my body linking hands, resolutely refusing in solidarity to approve of it. I hesitate to take. But I never stop giving. It is what God asked me to do, to share my bread with the hungry and give clothes to those who need them (Isaiah 58:7). Perhaps this is why God describes this type of giving as true Christianity. Because He knew that if I gave to those who could not give in return, I would understand what true loyalty is.

Shrouded Paths

I don't trust God. I'm honest about it.

Please help me to trust You more.

If God was taking care of my worries, I wouldn't be here.

It seems God does answer prayers. 

The see-saw goes up. And down. And up. And down. Each time it swings one way, my fragile trust seems to swing with it. Like the simple folk in Jesus' time, when I see a miracle, I believe. When life gets too difficult; I lose all hope. 

The day started out rough. I'd been up for more than 2 hours in the middle of the night worrying. Worrying about fuel, worrying about groceries, worrying about health, worrying about the economic situation, worrying about family, worrying about our future. Off I went to work, in my usual foul mood as Monday mornings and first official day back to the office were not a good mix. I unlocked the front door to the building, wondering how I had managed to be the first to arrive. After logging into my email and quickly scrolling through headers, I realized why. Today was a holiday. It had been announced late Sunday evening. So, everyone else, who dutifully checked work email over the weekends and late at night, had slept in while I had dutifully come in to work. Alone. 

I had a lot to catch up on after a month away so I started working through emails. Soon enough, there was chatter in the hallways as those without a life started to trickle in, dealing with emergencies or simply feeling important. I kept my door closed and ignored the small hubbub outside. 

Later that afternoon, as campus residents exchanged commiserations in a WhatsApp group about the heat and lack of a/c because we were on generator power again, my husband sent a picture of three loose wires sticking out of our living room wall. Here is our air conditioner he joked after remarking that we knew for the past 2 years how hot it could get. Moments later he received a private message from the powers-that-be informing him that this was not the channel to complain in. He was not complaining. He was simply stating a fact. But the higher-ups, seemingly embarrassed, chose to make him feel bad when we had been silently suffering for the last two years through the insufferable summer heat. 

I sent an email. The powers-that-be, after I had sent countless emails, suddenly said there would be an a/c installed that week. Whether it was my friend who had been telling everyone he met that we were the only apartment on campus without a/c or whether it was my husband's innocent joke, somehow the a/c was magically materializing. Too little, too late, however. 

I sent a list of things that I was thankful for, in our group family chat. I had resolved to stop burdening my mother with my worries, none of which she could do anything about and would end up just being internalized which was not healthy for her. Even as I typed, I thought, Am I trusting God more because the a/c is suddenly being installed? Or do I trust God less because it wasn't here when the heat was beating down and my husband was recovering from surgery, alone, in a room with just a fan? 

I didn't have an answer. 

As I bumped along on my transatlantic flight the week before, I had felt particularly close to God. I had seen Him working it out so I could board my flights, albeit without the requisite QR code on my negative PCR test, and I was trusting He would get me home safely as I prayed each time I undertook the long journey from coast to coast. Then I landed in the hellhole I had left just a month prior, only now it seemed 10x worse, and fear and anxiety overwhelmed me. I cried, I journaled, I read my Bible, I vented to my mom and sister, I got upset with my husband, and through it all, I questioned my faith. I lay in bed that night thinking, I don't even have that mustard seed of faith. 

It was true. I'd told my husband at suppertime, as I cried into my cucumber sandwich, I don't see any hope! Trapped by circumstances, there seemed to be precious little left to hang one's hopes on. Fun activities, intriguing ethnic restaurants, jovial outings, jaunty international trips, even simple things like a carton of soymilk had all vanished overnight to be replaced with heat, isolation, uncertainty, and crisis after crisis. I had depleted my emotional resources long ago, as I stood frozen in the pasta aisle in the grocery store, unable to make a simple decision as to which pasta to buy because THERE WAS NO CHEAP PASTA ANYMORE. 

I compared my month in sunny, though smoky, California with my dreary life in Lebanon and my soul shriveled up inside. Two more years of this seemed impossible. Even counting down the days seemed endless. Then after this, there were 6 more years of enslavement to the system as indentured servants. 8 more years. 8 more years struggling to find a speck of hope; an eyelash of purpose; a spot of joy. 

This life is taking all my energy just to survive. So don't be surprised if I retreat from all responsibilities and from most of life. I'm just trying to manage. Trying to find a reason for trust. Because this faith? It's brittle and fragile as century-old parchment from Pharaoh's tomb. 

He tears me down on every side till I am gone; He uproots my hope like a tree. ~Job 19:10