I'm Moving On

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

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

Then I landed in my new country. 

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

Then I realized—it was both and neither. 

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

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

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

The Week of Lasts

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeper of my memories; shaper of my heart. 

Shatter My Heart

What happened? 

I dropped a bowl.

Are you okay?

Yes.

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

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

Why?

Because my mind is not normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I dropped it. 

Deliberately. Carefully. Purposefully. 

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

For a moment, there was release. 

You are My Tomorrow

Will you miss me?

Yes, of course I will miss you. 

Will you come back?

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

I feel sad. 

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

That was the hardest, wasn't it?

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

How did you know?

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

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

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

Can you forgive me?

Forgive you? For what?

For the pain I put you through.

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

Remember your trip to Sidon? 

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

Can I ask one more question?

Of course, what is it?

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

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

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

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

You had your life and mine stopped.

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

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

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

We had a good run, didn't we?

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

Don't forget me, please. 

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

Yes, I hope so. 

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

Case Study #1 -- Lowell E. Nelson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one will see, if you stop believing

~Oh My Soul, by Casting Crowns 

Look Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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