Long Ago and Oh So Far Away

I remember that card. I remember the stiff black foam as I pushed it up and down the green surface, studiously erasing the carefully printed letter. I remember.

I don't have a lot of memories from my childhood. Not ones that are organic and tactile, at least. In my family, I was always the one to spend hours perusing the black and red photo albums my mom had numbered over the years, bought on sale at Boots and filled with still moments. Somehow these had to translate into sensory memories for me since they didn't come naturally. 

I didn't dream at night. I couldn't recall by day. All I had were photos—and the unpredictable flashes of emotion and hazy stills. Until this memory. This memory was real and it was one I could feel. There was no photo attached to it; only a photo that ignited it. And at last, I remembered. 

I'd been scrolling mindlessly through Facebook, on day 36 of the mandatory coronavirus quarantine. I stopped at a friend's post where they'd shared photos of toddlers doing fun learning games at home using recycled materials. The small children were putting colored balls inside matching colored paper tubes, matching finger cutouts with the appropriate cardboard hand, and counting out the correct number of acorns into small dishes with numbers inside them. Then I saw the photo.

The little girl sat on a light brown wooden chair pulled up to a white and wood-bordered matching table just at her height. She was wearing a gray All-Star tshirt with green letters and her brown curls were tousled on top of her head with a metallic silver butterfly clip. In her hands she clasped a magnetic colored letter of the alphabet. She was smiling down at the wooden board in front of her, most of its spaces empty, only a green J, a purple N, and a red R filling their respective cutouts. To the left of the board were tinfoil wrapped surprises, more letters for the waiting slots. 

In that moment, a picture came to mind. I know those letters! Those are magnetic. They stick on the fridge. But there should be a plastic board to hold them all. And there's something more. 

Seconds later, Google had pulled up the photo for me. A vintage Fisher-Price Play Desk. Ages 3-8. Came with a plastic board holding the entire alphabet, extra letters, numbers 0-9, a small box of white chalk, a stiff foam eraser attached to a yellow plastic backing stamped with the logo, a hidden drawer at the top of the desk where you could store all the letters, and cardboard panels with pictures illustrating a cutout word. You were supposed to slide the panel into the bottom of the chalk-topped desk, fill in the cutout with magnetic letters, and then practice writing the word in the empty space above the panel. 

Tears came into my eyes as I remembered sliding the chunky plastic letters into the slots until they fit. I must have been younger than reading age because I was playing by instinct, not by knowledge. I remember being extra careful with the chalk so it wouldn't break, perhaps because I knew we couldn't get more chalk so easily. But then we must have been in Africa and I would have been at least 4 1/2 by then. The eraser wasn't the best, it would smudge the chalk more than clear it, but I felt like a proper teacher and loved pushing it up and down to wipe the green slate as clean as I could. When playtime was over, I slid open the drawer at the top, it gave with little hesitation, and put all the letters, eraser, and chalk back into their secret hiding place. I carefully gathered the cardboard panels and shuffled them together, then pushed them into the mailbox opening at the bottom of the play desk. 

I don't have a memory of place and I cannot be sure of the time, but the memory of that play desk is as real as the blue-gray sofa I am sitting on today as I write this in my quiet living room in Lebanon, the hum of dehumidifier in the corner, last year's miniature Christmas tree still upright behind it, and 5 honeymoon flags adorning our heater in diagonality behind that. 

The memories I am making today, most times I wish I wouldn't, as I feel they cannot ever compare with the emotional tug of memories put together in a childhood of nostalgia. A green bedsheet hanging on a metal clothesrack, a stone-washed blue plastic picture frame filled with miniatures set on a shell-themed background, and fake pink and white cherry blossom branches spilling out of a turquoise ceramic rippled vase are easy enough to describe but hold no emotional attachment. I could walk out of here leaving them behind and never remember. 

But there are memories in this house. There's the two-foot tall white electric heater, with its four-sided coil reflectors and bonus top heating pad where my husband cooked rice and lentils in his dorm room for me when we were still dating. The 250 mL local fresh Balki's orange juice plastic bottle, somewhat distorted from its original shape by getting too close to the fire at times, that holds salt and traveled with us throughout 5 European countries, and I couldn't leave it behind so I risked paying hefty overweight fees to bring back an empty plastic juice bottle with matching orange lid. There's the statue of a father, mother, and child holding hands, carved out of a single piece of dark African wood, that my husband brought back from his maiden trip to Africa, not knowing I'd had to leave behind too many African mementos when the family splintered. 

Today I'm still creating memories. I do not know which memories will be ones I want to tuck into a cedar box for safekeeping and which memories I will discard in time. All I know is that I don't want to lose myself like I did 30+ years ago. 

Back then, I had to reinvent myself so many times I could not bear to hold the memories in my mind, so they sank into a grayness of oblivion. It hurt too much to try to bring along each Maria into my new life, so I would set her in the corner and close the door, locking it tightly so she couldn't get out. Then I would march into my new life, set my face resolutely to learning the new rules and expectations and innuendos of this life, and start all over again creating memories. Except this time, I want to start opening those doors, one by one, and inviting each child, each teenager, each persona, into the life I live today. I need to know who I was before and it is only in rubbing those magnetic letters between my adult fingers again that I can know I existed. And I was loved. And I was real. Because I remember. 

Crying Peace and Safety

What do you do when no one listens? When you're told, God is in control, or Just be calm and relax, God's got this? What do you do when you check the news and see daily counts of hundreds of people dying, and you log in to social media and are bombarded with people expressing their frustration at how they are tired of hearing gloom and doom news, so why don't you just play this game of "when did you first meet me" and "if I were a fun chocolate, what kind would I be?" so we can all forget the world? 

What do you do when your family lives in 5 different countries other than yours and you spend hours online every day, hitting refresh on the daily update website, watching the number of deaths and diagnosed cases rocket up? What do you do when borders close and airports shut down and you start to calculate who could get to whom faster, or even at all, if necessary? Then someone comes along and tells you, God is control, what do you do then?

I think we make God into a sissy, really. I never really thought about God's power other than when I sat in Yosemite once and marveled at how He had to be quite powerful in order to put rock formations that huge into place. Then my husband showed me a passage in Daniel 10 a few days ago and it got me thinking again.

"Since the first day you began to pray for understanding and to humble yourself before your God, your request has been heard in heaven. I have come in answer to your prayer. But for twenty-one days the spirit prince of the kingdom of Persia blocked my way. Then Michael, one of the archangels,came to help me, and I left him there with the spirit prince of the kingdom of Persia. Now I am here. . ." (Daniel 10:12-14, NLT)

Daniel was praying to God but the angel could not come to him for 21 days. Imagine that. An angel is a powerful being yet he was not able to win over the powers of darkness. Only when Jesus came to help and take over the battle, was Gabriel able to fly to Daniel to communicate with him. 

When I picture the coronavirus, I don't picture God sitting back and pondering all these deaths. I see His angels fighting with Satan's angels to keep the disease from spreading. I see God tenderly bowing by the side of those who are struggling to breathe, placing a gentle hand of comfort on their forehead, with tears of sadness in His eyes. I know God cannot stop all sin and suffering simply because we live in a terrible terrible world. Yet He is more than a trite reply. He is a powerful God. 

If it were up to Satan, I imagine all of those who believe in God would have died by now. Yet God exercises His power to protect us, not because of our stupidity (as this post was written out of sheer rage at the stupidity of so many people right now), but because of His wisdom. He knows people are incapable of protecting themselves or do not want to protect others to the cost of their bottom line. He knows people assume they are infallible and don't understand the subtle yet deadly affect of COVID-19. 

Just like sin. We think we are immune to it, we can figuratively wash our hands and we will be safe. We do not see it lurking on surfaces, hanging in the air, or passing from person to person, invisible yet more powerful than a person's strength. Only because of Jesus' battle on the cross, a hand-to-hand battle with the powers of darkness, was He able to win and guarantee our eternal life. 

Just as we exhort others not to waste this precious gift of life with God in the hereafter, let us not take lightly the gift of life God has given us in this life. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and see a message on Facebook or in my family chat that somebody has the coronavirus. I don't want to feel trapped in the small country I am in, all borders locked down, unable to get to those who need me. 

Until we can breathe deeply again, I stay in my small apartment, only venturing out for internet and fresh groceries, fully clad in gloves and mask with hand sanitizer aplenty. I send emails questioning and querying to administrators who refuse to listen. I try, and fail, not to get angry at each new directive that fails to take seriously the government appeals to stay home. I pray God protects each of my dear family members scattered around the world. I pray my husband and I don't get sick, knowing full well the devil mocks those of God's people he can and tries his hardest to make their lives as miserable as possible.

And I remember that God is a God of power and He does fight for me. Often I don't see it, perhaps I don't understand it, but His power is real. God is a warrior (Exodus 15:3) and I need Him to fight for me now. Against the coronavirus. Against sin. And win. 

"And the beast was captured, and with him the false prophet who did mighty miracles on behalf of the beast—miracles that deceived all who had accepted the mark of the beast and who worshiped his statue. Both the beast and his false prophet were thrown alive into the fiery lake of burning sulfur. . .Then the devil, who had deceived them, was thrown into the fiery lake of burning sulfur, joining the beast and the false prophet." (Revelation 19:20; 20:10)

Value Enough

Because who I am is value enough.

It had been one of those days. A day when something small and unrelated triggered a tsunami of emotions inside me and three hours after I'd woken up, I'd crawled back underneath the queen-sized quilt and tucked myself into a comfort-cocoon where I hoped the world wouldn't come knocking. My unsuspecting husband came to say goodbye before he left for class and found me there, tears in the corners of my eyes, unable to explain why I was emotional. I don't know was my response to every question he asked. I just feel sad, was all I could say.

I'm a thinker. I analyze, I process, I make lists, and I think. I'm pretty sure I think too much, though, which tends to land me in trouble as I find myself navigating an emotional mine-field in my own mind. When I think, everything magnifies to the point that I no longer have rational perspective on simple things. Today was one of those days.

I never had a bridal shower, kept going around in my head. It was a thought I'd had for 6 months now. My coworkers had talked about it for weeks, promising a nice one, but the wedding came and went without even a simple tea party in sight. I attributed it to the uncertainty of visas and wedding licenses until the very last minute, but simultaneously I knew, a bridal shower could have been had. After all, in the last 3+ years I had attended countless bridal showers. One young lady even had one thrown after the fact, as her wedding was held overseas. That, and no bachelorette party, made me feel like I was forgotten.

Then there was work. I tried, at times, to speak up and share my opinion about specific matters, but when they kept getting shot down as irrelevant or illogical, I felt inferior and eventually stopped speaking. The thoughts didn't go away, though. I kept thinking, involuntarily most of the time, about how things could be done better, how colleagues could be treated with more respect, how students could understand their value through providing basic needs, but I knew the thoughts had to stay within the invisible bubble that floated above my head.

And finally, there was life. Life in your own country, where you can speak the language and understand the systems of education, politics, or even something as simple as grocery shopping, is far simpler than life in a foreign country. I function from the somewhat naive perception that I am a cultural ninja/chameleon and can both adapt to and maneuver any new situation with ease and instant understanding. I assume that when I must go to a medical appointment at a new hospital that I will find the place—and parking—without the slightest hassle and when I find myself facing unknowns, I become overwhelmed.

This feeling of being overwhelmed seems to come accompanied by a strong sense of loss. It's somewhat new to me as I've only sensed the loss before when processing feelings of sadness. Now, though, I am understanding more clearly that when I feel like everything is just too much for me, it is tied to a feeling that if I were in a familiar place where I could manage, then I wouldn't feel so helpless. So now I am grieving the loss of something I never knew—a home in a country where I belonged.

The reality is that I will never be able to regain this loss. Yes, the Bible talks about God restoring the years the locusts have eaten, but it is physically impossible to recoup 35 years of non-elective nomadism. So I must face this reality and find a way to accept it so I can focus on other things such as the many wonderful parts of my life that are with me today.

In all of this, I want to be sure that the feelings are affirmed. It is not wrong to feel sad. It is a natural response to something in my environment that needs to be changed, understood, or accepted. When I feel overwhelmed, I may need to cry, eat a piece of chocolate, watch Yes, Prime Minister, go to the mall, or phone a friend. In my life situation right now, I may need to remind myself that this is only temporary and to look for the joy in the simple things in life. It's all about perspective after all. I can choose to stay in my thoughts of despair or I can choose to focus on the blessings.

I am thankful for a God Who understands me, has great compassion, and directs my life so clearly that I know He has a plan for me. I am thankful for a husband who is patient, diligent, encouraging, and loves me with all his heart. I am thankful for a Christian work environment and kind cheerful coworkers. I am thankful for close friends who care and reach out and for family who connect across the miles in meaningful ways. I am thankful for a clean, safe, and comfortable home and a car that works.

Above all, today I am thankful that who I am is value enough. I can get easily overwhelmed thinking about the many things I need to accomplish, from making doctor appointments to legally changing my maiden name to cooking delicious meals from scratch daily. I can feel like I need to put in more effort to stay connected to others, need to write a better paper for my graduate class, or need to spend more serious time in devotions to please God.

Yet God reminds me that the do-ing is not as valuable as the be-ing. If I check everything off my to-do-list but I neglect the weightier matters of the law, I become a mere Pharisee, eager to demonstrate my capabilities but forgetting the reason why or for Who I am doing these things. Jesus summed up the law in four words: Love God. Love others.

When I do things because they need to get done, and not to build value in others' eyes, I am showing love. I am taking the focus off my need for affirmation and getting the task done, which leaves my mind clear of overreacting thoughts that take away my ability to love God and love others. When I understand that my value is found in be-ing, being myself, being loving, being kind, then I am able to do with meaning and purpose. In doing so, I not only find my value, I also communicate value to everyone around me.

Because who we are is value enough. 

Rocky shore

By nature, I am a skittish person. I don't stand close to high edges, I don't try to leap from one side of a 2-foot chasm to the other side, and I don't stand on glass floors in tall buildings. Yesterday was no exception.

That morning, whilst sitting in church and trying to be patient during a particularly tedious sermon, I decided we would head to the sea for the afternoon. It was going to be sunny and after a week of dreary rain, I was ready to be outside. The sermon ended and we hurried home to fry up some falafel to stuff into sandwiches so we could head out quickly. A friend joined us and off we went to Anfeh.

It was the most wonderful of afternoons. The sky was crisp, the air was clear, and I could finally breathe without whistling. We wandered into an old monastery, where my husband explored behind the low swinging engraved doors to find several sets of cassocks, we maneuvered between rectangular cement salt collecting stations empty for the winter, and finally found a way down to the garbage, seashell, and rock-covered seashore.

My husband and sister-in-law busied themselves collecting large seashells while my friend and I digitally caught the essence of peace as best we could—to daydream on when the next week returned to collect on drear and dark. As I began to head back up to the parking lot, stepping from one loose stone to the next, I contemplated the wobbly rocks my feet landed on and thought,

The rock is always a solid foundation.

A true rock is solid. It may be unstable but it never disintegrates when weight is put upon it. Of course if enough force is put on it, a piece may come off, but that piece is still solid. It's still a rock.

Later in the day, I found myself facing a rather unstable metal bridge. To reach the miniature peninsula of rock that jutted out into the setting Mediterranean Sea meant I had to either backtrack and go out of my way, or go forward across the rickety bridge. My adventurous husband volunteered to test it out, as he stepped over the link chain meant to keep curious tourists out. He sauntered across, stopping mid-bridge to jump a few times to ensure it held.

It did.

The bridge wasn't very high, maybe a meter and a half at most, and below was a mixture of rock and beach sand, so any fall would likely be more dangerous from getting caught on a sharp edge of the bridge than the landing. My sister-in-law was next to make the crossing and also did so uneventfully. My friend happily tried to explain that if the bridge were indeed to fall, it would list to the right, therefore I should walk on the right to ensure maximum safety. None of which made sense to either of us.

I knew if I didn't start walking, I would freeze and not be able to make it across. Before my mind had a chance to really process the stupidity of walking across a bridge clearly marked keep out, whose detaching side metal seams caused it to sway slightly in an unnerving way, I stepped onto the bridge.

I made it across. However, I vowed not to repeat the experience and we found a different way back. The bridge held, but there was no guarantee it would again. Its solidity was questionable and its stability unsure. Unlike the rocks that shifted but held, this bridge could collapse at any moment.

In life, there are many things that seem secure but in reality, they cannot provide us the stability we need. At any moment, they could collapse and we could find ourselves falling to a painful place. Some are easy to spot—money, drugs, addictions—while others are more opaque—friends, knowledge, or a career.

I want to learn how to trust more in the God Who always is a solid foundation. For me and for my life.

Look! I am placing a foundation stone in Jerusalem,
    a firm and tested stone.
It is a precious cornerstone that is safe to build on.
    Whoever believes need never be shaken.

   ~Isaiah 28:16 NLT

The LORD your God

A month or so ago, I decided I should read the Bible all the way through. Starting at the very beginning. I found a chronological reading plan and dutifully read the first couple of chapters on day one. Everything seemed very familiar. I had, after all, grown up hearing the Old Testament stories since cradle roll. What could I possibly learn this time through? 

While the year-plan had me reading three or so chapters a day, I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to finish in a year. The Bible translation I was reading made everything come alive and small details I'd never noticed before made each story much more vivid than I remembered. Suddenly the Bible was no longer a dry retelling of well-known events; now it had become a drama that had me eager to turn the page, curious to see what would happen next in the intrigue of romance, murder, lies, wars won, and animals marching into a gigantic ship on dry land. 

Questions flew into my mind. How did the fish survive the flood if Noah wasn't commanded to take them into the ark and the underground water sources were gushing forth mightily? Did Sarai get her servant Hagar in the land of Egypt or did she have her before? Was Lot's wife from Sodom and why was she turned specifically into a pillar of salt? Why did God make all the women in Abimelech's household barren when it was Abraham who had deceived the king? 

I began to underline, write comments in the margin, and cross-reference verses on my own. I looked at maps to connect geographical locations with places I was reading about. I read other commentaries to learn more about the background of traditions. I noticed repetitions of promises or confirmations that God made to people and how long it took them to believe Him.

Yesterday I read Genesis 27 and when I came to verse 20, I stopped. Why, when Isaac asked Jacob—whom he thought was Esau—how he was able to find the wild game so quickly to prepare his favourite dish, did Jacob reply, "Because the LORD your God put it in my path!" I wondered if there was a mistake in the Bible. Why did Jacob say your God? Did he not believe in God? 

Fast forward 24 hours and a chapter in the Bible. Jacob was on his way to Paddan-aram, running from a murderous brother and obedient to his mother's request to find a believing wife. Tired after a long day of traveling, he set up camp for the night with a stone pillow to rest on. That night he had a dream. God appeared to him at the top of a stairway connecting earth to heaven, identifying Himself as the God of Jacob's grandfather and father. Interestingly, He did not impose Himself as Jacob's God but He clearly outlined the patrilineal heritage that would validate His rightful claim should Jacob choose to accept Him. 

God began to outline the many blessings He would give to Jacob. He promised the ground Jacob was lying on, numerous descendants, blessings for all the families on the earth, to be with him, to protect him everywhere he went, and to bring him safely back to his father's land. After Jacob woke up and anointed his stone pillow as a memorial, he made a vow. Jacob vowed that if God kept His promises to be with him, protect him, give him food and clothing, and bring him safely back to his father, he would give God a tithe of everything. And here's the clincher. 

then I will make the LORD my God.

So I didn't read Genesis 27:20 wrong. Jacob had not yet accepted God as his God, even though he had grown up in a believing household. His grandfather and father were both strong believers in God. They had both been blessed tremendously with wealthy possessions and are mentioned in Hebrews 11 as having great faith. Jacob, however, was not convinced. He had received his brother's birthright, he had tricked his father to give him the blessing, but he did not yet have a personal connection with God. He didn't have his own promises. 

I wondered, What promises do I need to make God my God? Is it a one-time deal? Do I ask God for specific blessings and when He answers, I then know I can trust Him? What promises has God given me that He has or is fulfilling?

God promised Jacob that He would be with him until He had finished giving him everything He had promised. This implies an ongoing blessing rather than a one-time event which makes more sense when considered within the context of the Christian journey. If God were to give a blessing and then retreat from my life, I would find it difficult to believe He was anything more than a sanctimonious spiritual being who bestowed a blessing and then carried on with His other duties. Continual blessings, however, imply a God Who is intimately interested in my life and wants to bless throughout my life so I know He wants to connect with me in a meaningful way.

I'm not saying the Christian life is only one of blessings. If this were so, we would not long for heaven. However, when I think about a God Who blesses me continually, I understand more the concept of a loving Father. Jacob would eventually see God fulfill all the promises in his life. After wrestling with God and having his name changed to Israel, Jacob would return to his father's land, build an altar, and call it El-Elohe-Israel, meaning God, the God of Israel (Genesis 33:20). 

then I will make the LORD my God. 

El-Elohe-Maria

Too Far

I did it. After a year, I finally buckled down and bought a laptop. I left it in the box for more than a week before opening it up and turning it on, but once I did, and my fingers touched the keyboard, I breathed a deep sigh and smiled. I was back.

A year ago, minus 3 days, I made my last post on this blog. A year is a long time to go without writing. During that year a lot has happened. Life changes. Work changes. But those weren't the reason why I finally reached for the brown acer box and turned on my new laptop for the first time. Today was the day I realized, once again, how very unfair this world is.

I'd been hearing it from my friends and colleagues for ages. So long, in fact, that I inwardly rolled my eyes and paid little attention to the details of their stories, it was all just drama, after all, and I'd heard it so many many times. Why couldn't they just move on and why did they insist on blaming it on specific people--the foreigners, to be precise--when they had their own ways of doing life that didn't make sense to me?

Then it happened to me and I understood why it hurt so much. Why the need to lash out in anger that stemmed from unspoken pain. Why it was easy to blame God since He, after all, should be taking care of us and not allowing us to be treated this way. Why the retreat from mandatory and optional service because why should we offer when our basic needs weren't being met? Why should we give more when it was not recognized, not affirmed, and sure as heck not recompensed?

I guess this is part of the curse of growing up in the church. You grow to expect more from those who, really, are humans just like yourself. Except you try to be fair and just, while they, the headless/heartless they appear to not be. So in the end you just give up. Why try? It only leads to you doing two jobs for an extra $13 a month or living in a bedroom for 3 years, cooking on a two-burner and trying to ignore the piles of laundry and dirty dishes that seem impossible to hide or keep up with.

I saw someone waiting for two months for something to be resolved. When it was, it was done so at the bare minimum. We accepted it, though, because at least it was somewhat better than the situation had been before. Then I saw something else get resolved in less than a week. This scenario involved much more resources than the former. I asked for housing for a year and a half. Someone else had an entirely new apartment made for them to live in for 2 months. Then the apartment sat, empty, while my request went unanswered.

Solomon talks about how God allows people to continue in their sinful ways so He can test them. Ecclesiastes 3:18

But who is to judge who is sinful? Aren't we all sinful? How about the wicked? Isn't it wrong to call somebody else wicked? After all, I wouldn't want anyone to end up in hellfire simply because I am not given the common courtesy that I am asking for.

The last time I asked for housing, they tried to make a joke about it. They said I could move into the broken down, unlivable, cement structure that had been sitting abandoned on the property for a number of years. I asked if they would provide a tent, my half-hearted attempt to go along with their stupid stupid comment. Had they washed their dishes in their bathroom sink for three years? Had they tried to keep fried eggs from splattering on the wall and wiped up food spills from their bedroom counter?

I know when something is unfair. I don't know, though, how to use my voice to speak up about it. Solomon reminds us that there is A time to be quiet and a time to speak up. But he also says there is A time to love and a time to hate. (Ecclesiastes 3:7,8). Is it okay to hate? As a Christian, is it okay to be angry about injustice and unfairness in this world? If so, how do we hate the action but not the person who initiates the action? How do we say, That's not right and then see things change? Will they ever change?

Right now, around the world, things much more horrific than what I've seen are happening. Children and women are being abused; men are being killed, whether for religious or cultural or simply evil motives. Do I have the right to be upset about what I know when it is a pebble in comparison to the Everest of injustices that abound outside my little sphere?

Perhaps, perhaps not. I made a promise to myself today. I promised myself that from this moment forward, my mission would be outside of the prescribed bubble I had heretofore lived in. I promised myself that I no longer had to please or befriend anybody. I would be professional but treat my job as strictly that--a job. I would no longer share personal information or go out of my way to be helpful.

Sometimes we have to go through pain for the glass to shatter in front of us and to see that what we thought was a beautiful oasis was a mirage all along. Sometimes we have to endure disappointment and loss to understand that this world is unfair, people make wrong decisions, and we cannot depend on the church nor leaders to have our best interests at heart. Sometimes we have to fight for our rights because if we don't, the world will continue on silently taking them away without thought.

Again, I observed all the oppression that takes place in our world. I saw the tears of the oppressed, with no one to comfort them. The oppressors have great power, and the victims are helpless. . .but Two people can accomplish more than twice as much as one; they get a better return for their labor. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. . .two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken. Ecclesiastes 4:1, 9, 10, 12

Weinik

I'm very much an emotional person and I tend to live life on the compass of my feelings. Which is not a good idea, I'm realizing. While emotions are valuable in helping us to understand or express what we may not have words for, they can also be tricky little triggers.

For example, if I'm walking home late at night and it's a quiet street and I feel afraid, that emotion will prompt me to walk quickly, be alert to my surroundings, and probably not repeat my action again in the near future. On the other hand, if I see my best friend laughing with a mutual friend just minutes after I told them something confidential and I assume they passed it on and are now enjoying some gossip at my expense, the anger and betrayal I feel may not necessarily be based in reality. They could simply be laughing at a joke or something completely unrelated to me.

I think as women, we tend to be very much aware of our emotions. This hypersensitivity, when not tempered with logic, can lead to difficult scenarios. A woman who's being bullied at work may start to cry, her feelings of despair and fear of being fired and low self-worth expressed in tears. The men who see those tears, though, label her as being too emotional without taking the time to find out why she is crying.

Perhaps a woman is enjoying the attention of a guy when she sees him paying similar attention, though of a lesser amount, to another woman. This leads to distrust and jealousy which may or may not be based in reality. Her interpretation of an amiable interaction could turn it into something more meaningful or it could be that the man is interested in the other woman and is trying to see how much he can get away with.

On the other hand, I've read too many books and seen too many real-life stories where women didn't listen to their emotions and they suffered for it. They saw their significant other online, chatting up other women, indulging in evil habits, and they excused those behaviours as trivial. It is not trivial, however, when a woman's self-worth is disrespected. As men deserve to be treated with honour and dignity and respect, so too do women.