You are My Tomorrow

Will you miss me?

Yes, of course I will miss you. 

Will you come back?

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

I feel sad. 

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

That was the hardest, wasn't it?

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

How did you know?

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

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

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

Can you forgive me?

Forgive you? For what?

For the pain I put you through.

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

Remember your trip to Sidon? 

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

Can I ask one more question?

Of course, what is it?

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

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

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

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

You had your life and mine stopped.

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

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

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

We had a good run, didn't we?

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

Don't forget me, please. 

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

Yes, I hope so. 

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

Case Study #1 -- Lowell E. Nelson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one will see, if you stop believing

~Oh My Soul, by Casting Crowns 

Look Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nowrouz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excuse me, you seem to be missing a kid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking Off a Collapsed Bridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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