Thrive In Gratitude: To My Younger Self

Thrive In Gratitude: To My Younger Self: Dear You, Sometimes things hurt so bad that you lose your breath when you cry. In your teenage years, this will rear it's ugly head...

To My Younger Self

Dear You,

Sometimes things hurt so bad that you lose your breath when you cry. In your teenage years, this will rear it's ugly head because of boys. It will definitely spring up after the breakup with your first real boyfriend. Funny thing about that is you will continue to have sweet, caring dreams about him, possibly for the rest of your life. Of all the relationships in your life, this is true only for him. Your first, 7th grade, love. This pain of course is temporary and not the worst you will feel when it comes to all the dating and relationships you have in front of you. But for you, around this event, it will feel catastrophic. It feels that way because you haven't had any kind of pain like it before.

You will play some pretty heartbreaking basketball and volleyball games but the pain involving lost sporting events feels different. It's an agony of "if only" and there is no way to know if that only would have actually made a difference, which is why I think it's a more fleeting pain.  

All in all, things will be good for you. Growing into the mid to late teens, a very serious relationship comes along. He's a great guy and you will love him more than you thought was possible. In your age difference, him being 9 years older, it will be very easy to get intimate with him. There will be pressure, in your mind, to be mature and grown up, to want nothing more than to please him in all things. I want to warn you. Making the decision to have sex for the first time should be a much longer talk in high school or even at home. It's not like the movies. It is more like crashing your first car. There's adrenaline and from my experience it was over pretty quickly. You will regret the decision, but not for many, many, many years. You'll regret it when you come to the realization that your self-worth is far above the feeling that you have to have sex with someone so they love you. When you have the ah-ha moment that your role on a date should be about getting to know the guy and if he has qualities that you admire. Unfortunately you will spend many years being yourself- fun and easy going, interesting, and more often than not wearing more makeup than required. These things aren't bad- it's the fact that you only worry if you are good enough for him. Not if he is good enough for you. 

You will get the wanderlust for travel the summer before your 3rd year of college. Your tour of France lays the groundwork for your confidence to live your life doing things you want regardless if there is anyone around to join. This may be one of your most underrated characteristics. Growing up you would spend more time at home then with your 2 sisters staying and Grandma and Grandpa's. There will come a time though when this becomes a curse. 

It's in your mid twenties, after your first divorce that doesn't have any real lasting impact on your life per se, that something shifts inside of your mind. Your inner voice becomes an enemy. This is where I want to bring up your beliefs about God. You will have become Catholic your first year of college so that you would be a part of your older boyfriend's family, and could get married in a Catholic Church. Your concept of God is less than the Clif's notes version. He's the good guy and his 10 commandments are meant to be followed, the end. You begin to form opinions around religion that probably stem from the science of evolution. The general hypocrisy seen in the Christians that you interact with as you grow more into adult hood. In turn, it continues to reinforce negative opinions you develop because of events like the genocide in Rwanda, the wars in the Middle East. And of course, sex abuse cases against Priests put the final nail in that coffin. One book, written by Gary Zukav- The Seat of the Soul, will be the most positive influence on your spiritual beliefs. It will be based on karma and will give you a more balanced view of life. But this spiritual awakening isn't really significant. It will be a small point of reference when various topics come up, such as medical ethics, federal laws, etc. It will have a purely passive effect on your life. 

Two big things happen towards the end of your twenties. You will become the proud owner of a Bernese Mountain Dog named Beetle and over 10 years later, having her euthanized will be one of the hardest and most painful experiences you will have had. The second thing is the feeling of rejection that you will get when the man that you have been with for 3 years and with whom you lived with for one, shows very clear signs that he doesn't really have marriage on the mind. You will become very insecure and the anxiety around being that vulnerable will lead you to dissect the relationship into unrecognizable pieces, which then influences your decisions to break up with him. This pain and heartbreak is unlike any others at this point. It is a pain of not being good enough. This belief is in your mind. It was built on and reinforced by your enemy's voice in your thoughts. There isn't anything that you have in your mental arsenal to answer that enemy. When the enemy speaks, you believe it without question. 

This starts you on anti-depressants for the first time. In your 30's, you will struggle with depression. There will be 4 major episodes of depression, with two requiring hospitalization. These episodes will be triggered by ideas of being inadequate, unlovable, unattractive, and the grip that you allow them to have on you would break your skin if it were a literal object. You marry a man, that you deeply love. He will have two children that will bring about some minor stress. He will slowly, almost imperceptibly, shred your entire self-esteem. He will manipulate you on a cellular level. You will have your first hospitalization for wanting to commit suicide and this event will be the tidal wave of realization that leads you two to divorce. He will not let you say goodbye to his children and you feel a sense of immense sadness because of that. During all this you and he will be living in Las Vegas. You stay in Vegas and he goes back to Phoenix. You start a warm up of self-destruction for the first year and then it accelerates to a major depressive episode that influences your decision to move back home and living in Indianapolis. The self-destruction will start again. You push down the feelings of failure, loneliness, apathy, and shame. Sleeping, working, and drinking will be your life for another 2 years. Ultimately leading to your second hospitalization. More failure, more pain. The pain of depression is like a full body cast weighing 500 pounds. The idea of getting up and moving sincerely feels like an absolutely impossible task. Some will describe depression as an emptiness, which is partly true. As you get closer to suicidal, the pain has an added emotion. It fills your entire being with hatred for your very own soul and everything about it.  "Death would be kinder" is all you will think of at this time in your life. You will hit the lowest of all lows. You will not have one speck of hope in your mind that things will get better. A month and a few days after getting discharged from the psych ward, you will create your master plan for the perfect suicide. There is no one that will be able to help you and there will be no one to bring you back from the ledge of your master plan.

You make your plan, get off the ground and yell "What fucking good are you? If not now, when?" This is directed toward God. You will have attended 4 Sundays of church and will have attempted to read in the bible. At this moment- your thought is that God doesn't care about you. Which is wonderful for the reason that it means that you still believe he exists, even if it is on a very thin thread of belief. You fall asleep 30 minutes later. 

At precisely 1:00 am, you will sit bolt upright in bed, as if someone blew a bullhorn in the apartment. It will only take half of a breath for you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God took it all from you. You will even dance and jump up and down. Then you will get on your knees, bow your head, and say "God, I love you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I am yours."

You will study the bible, pray diligently, and attend church. On August 16, 2015, you will be baptized at the Redemption Christian Church in Jasper (formerly Christian Church of Jasper) and you will be born again. 

It won't be easy at first to believe fully in God and all that goes along with that belief. You will read books for skeptics, watch documentaries, and pray for wisdom. He then calls you to go to Greece in January to aid the Syrian Refugees.You actually heard a voice in your head to "Just go." He delivers all that you need and you will be changed forever from that experience. You will grow in your Christian life, quite beautifully actually. Prayer for close friends and family, God's work in your own life, and a 4 day weekend attending the Walk to Emmaus, gives God his permanent resting place in your heart. You have a vision of him visiting you in the middle of the night. You see your Grandparents clearly in your mind while listening to the room sing How Great Thou Art. They will be laughing and smiling, even waving at you. 

You will want to tell everyone you know the story. You will want to plead with them to believe you because all you want is for them to experience a world filled with God's blessings for them. Like being given an envelope with $9 zillion dollars in it and not opening the envelope because they don't believe it's in there. Not even their curiosity will get them to open the envelope (their mind to the contemplation of God being real and that there is a chance that their lives will be so wonderfully moved if they would seek in earnest honesty the truth of God.)

Your faith and wondrous gratitude will be continually fueled by your choices that uphold God's standards for living righteously. You will be shocked everyday that this "God" thing is really, real. You will pray to have your heart broken for what breaks his. You will ask for the strength, love and wisdom to be his hands and feet. You will hear that evil enemy's voice begin to speak, but it will never get two words in edge wise. I promise you dear Brooke that your journey through the first 40 years of your life will be a testimony of just how much grace there is when you give your heart to God. 

Talk to you soon,

You as me.

This is truth whether you choose to believe it or not.

I never wanted to believe in God. All those rules and restrictions on my life, I would be a constant sinner and would most likely burn in hell. Surely there had to be something a little more "believable" then the Mr. Know it all, See it all. I grew up with very little religious influence, so I'm not sure where I came to think that there were all these "rules and restrictions." I mean at most there were 10.

When I was in high school, I knew the rules I was expected to live by and they went something like this: no bubble gum in class, no lying, no dating until I was 16, no drinking, smoking, drugs, or sex. My curfew was 11:00 pm. Trust me when I tell you that I was keenly aware of every rule I broke and ended up being anxious about being found out. Yes, there were a few times I didn't find a way to "break the rules" to my advantage. I would pout a little, maybe a lot. Do you know what happened?  I got good grades and was voted most athletic in my class. I had friends and after I graduated, I attended college with three of them. 

I did not cause "trouble" in school. I wasn't rebellious, angry, flippant or brooding. My mother worked from home and I had breakfast made for me and my sisters every morning. I had so many reasons to be set up for success and I feel blessed that I had it easy. So, so many children do not.

When God answered my yells of anger, rage even, interrupting my self-absorbed, self-centered endless talk in my head about my worthlessness and agony of depression, from the bottom of that pit I grabbed onto His hand without even thinking that there were "rules and restrictions" attached. I didn't even take a full breath before I realized I had new life in me. And isn't that just the cheesiest thing you've ever heard? We've heard the stories, met the eyes of others in unified exasperation for the 'holy roller' that found the guts to speak about God or Jesus or even just commenting on something that had happened in church. Freaking gullible nerd. I'm guessing you've been there right? I know now that the joke is on me. I don't ask you to not roll your eyes at this or ignore the voice in your head saying "here she goes again." All I ask is that you follow me through this analogy.

That half breath made me a believer in God. So I read, a lot. I prayed for understanding and forgiveness. Shoot, I prayed to be taught how to pray! I just couldn't think of any other way to say thank you for saving my life. How does one do that? I attended church and read the bible. I bought books and I felt the accepting and loving energy during service. Guess what- those rules and restrictions? Whether you believe in God or not, you know in your gut when you are doing something that probably isn't right. Maybe to you it isn't a sin, but whatever you call it, you carry with you a speck of knowledge that there was probably a better choice. So we respond to the rights and wrongs of our hearts whether we believe in God or not. The difference between me believing in God and you not believing in God, is that I sin, but still get God's blessings in my life. I have a loving person who knows that I will sin and knows that I am not perfect. A person who's words are written down for all to see that tell of a Father's love of a Son and of His creation. His blueprint for living the happiest, most loving life are right there. My Father has set me up for success. He has fed me, helped me grow, protected me,steered me when I have been lost, and loved me through my weakness to temptation. To not know this love, to not feel the holy spirit inside of you, is like growing up with absolutely no rules and possibly no one to care if you broke them. For some that may look like dropping out of school, partying and getting started into drugs that you just couldn't get yourself out of, or maybe a pregnancy that definitely wasn't part of the plan. It could be that your home life left you hurt, angry and confused. You might never have had breakfast made for you. You may never have really known what it felt like to be truly loved.

Maybe all is well. You go about your life, doing what you want- good, bad or indifferent. You have no wants, needs, or desires that you can't fulfill for yourself. Maybe you are restless to get going in life- to start adulting like grown folks. You find a good job, good friends, but yet, you just know you aren't where you are supposed to be. You meditate and do yoga- you may think to yourself that you are not good at meditation because surely if you were then the effects would be like you read about or saw on TV. Maybe you even had the thought cross your mind that if you did like Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love- devoting a month in an ashram to find your inner peace, then you'd have it. You reach for that something out there, even berating yourself because you aren't thin enough, good looking enough, tall enough, or make enough money. You actually strive for those things because you believe that's what is missing.  Maybe your marriage has left you both feeling lost not knowing how to possibly reconcile all that has come to stand between you. Maybe you have a revolving door of temporary relationships and can't figure out what is going on with you and why you can't find the one. Finances that flop, big dreams that come and go with the tide and apathy and frustration are your sidekicks. 

(I'm speaking from experience with a lot of these, so hear me out.)

I need to tell you that the answer is there. That something that is missing and you are sure it isn't God- is God. It is the bond to the world you search for and it is the peace you have been practicing but never find. It is the one who knows your heart and has been waiting to comfort you when it breaks. It is the near miss of a car accident or the saving breath that kept you alive when no person should have ever lived through it. You can bring up the wars, the terror, the killing done for this God I speak of and you can be bitter about how organized religion has only been a hiding ground for hypocrites. You smirk that there could be no God with the senseless deaths of children, or the ravages of cancer. Say it, believe it, accept it as it has been laid out to you. Be angry about it. Tell me to fuck off this very instant. Tell me no thank you I'm not drinking the Kool-aid. All I can ask you is to consider that all of that exists because there is a God. The word of God has been used for evil, misconstrued for personal, political, monetary gain. There is no end to God's goodness that can be used by anyone for, or against, something to their benefit. How else does one elevate their dark and twisted soul but to use the best of the best, the Holiest of Holies? Do you think that there could be such evil in this world without a God? You say "ah-ha" you just worked yourself into a corner. Without God then the world would be a better place. Maybe your line of thinking wanders further on and you say that you live a good life, don't hurt others, and help the needy, the sick, the orphaned. You've never killed anyone or profited from the murder of someone, and maybe if everyone was like you the world would be rainbows and unicorns. I say, great- if you are living your life like that then is your life rainbows and unicorns? Probably not. Why? Because the population of the world isn't one. It's over 7 billion. But giving yourself the permission to believe in the possibility of God is one step closer.

One of my arguments was always that I was spiritual but not religious. I look back now and see a vision of that in my mind- spiritual but not religious looks like the walking dead. For you can not know the great magnificence of life if you don't believe in the one who created it. It can only be revealed to the believing mind. Until you come to your demise or to the end of the very last thread of your being, or hopefully in that moment when you feel the spirit stir in your soul and you seek to give it room to grow, it is then that you get it. 

Ask the universe to give you wisdom for truth. Ask the universe to show you the way. Ask the universe for anything. Just know in your heart that the answer is coming and believe it when it does. 

Or pray. Pray "God if you are real, I'm willing to let you show me." 

April 1, 2016- Assumptions

I'm taking an online course through edX. It's put on by the Harvard Divinity School and provides an overview of various religions, what the interpretations of the scriptures say and who has the power to interpret them.
The course is only a month long and so far, I've found an intolerance by some for religion being expressed in public. Going past the "Happy Holidays" theme and jumping into the idea that there should be no religious affiliation with National Holidays. I can't fathom Christmas being without it's core Christian beliefs as it's base. I digress.
There was a Ted Talk in the material called "The Danger of a Single Story" and I found it to be so relevant to so many things. It touches on the overall portrait that is portrayed about a place, a person, or even a historical event. That the single story becomes the only story. It's where stereotypes come from and although there is some truth in stereotypes it is not a complete truth, says the speaker. There's the other side of the coin. She gives the example of the British arriving in America, and how different that story would have been told from the Native Americans' point of view. The single story of Africa- a continent portrayed as poverty stricken, with senseless wars, starving children and AIDS. How media has perpetuated these one-sided views does a disservice to all involved in the story.
I always wanted to write my life story- to leave a landscape of all the stories of my lifetime. I imagine my life story to be as rich as Monet's Waterlilies.But it is the effort to look past perception that ultimately gives the richest story of all.
I've written before about assumptions, stereotypes, and the like. Being a woman, a nurse, a christian, and on and on- these identifiers are not false, but they are not the whole story. Looking no further than my two sisters it is obvious that, sure there are plenty of commonalities, but the life within each of us deserves to be identified as separate.
The same goes for every single person on this planet.
Why are single stories dangerous?
Well, it makes Mexicans illegal, hunters hillbillies, and beautiful blondes clueless.
It makes Catholics alcoholics and Atheists devil worshipers.
It makes celebrities gods and holy men freaks.
And yes, it makes Muslims terrorists.
I had the belief that all tall men could play basketball, that all women who went hiking had arm pit hair, and that pot smokers had long hair and no job prospects.
I've found that my previous 6 foot 7 inch boyfriend was pretty terrible at basketball, that my friend who hiked the Appalachian Trail has way normal grooming habits, and that some of the smartest people I've met were "pot heads".
The single story of an American in a foreign country is that everyone hates Americans. The belief that every homeless person is addicted and that all people with a disability are depressed only put barriers between what someone could do and what someone would do.
How does this change? How do we stop seeing things in one dimension? How do we start appreciating other people's whole stories? Most importantly, how can we help kids believe that they are not a single story? That the boy who doesn't read well could be a math whiz, or the clumsy girl in dance class could be an amazing athlete... do you know someone who needs to start living a bigger story? Do you need to start living your whole story?

5'8" 171 pounds, size 14-16

I used to believe that I was ugly and unlovable. I remember being less than 10 years old and thinking this. My older sister and my younger sister had the love and attention of the only other women in our small family besides our mother..my aunt and my grandmother.I was the ubiquitous third wheel of the world. Looking back I remember taking a small tape deck outside to the Strawberry Shortcake swing set we had and listening and singing along to Neil Diamond, alone. I remember playing with my sisters, but I also remember being at my Grandma's with them and not feeling like I belonged. When our aunt would drive us around in the golf cart and play "school bus" or Charlie's Angels, I remember feeling like the last person picked...

I saw a young girl today maybe 8 or 9 years old at a bridal shop. She was a chunky girl, and when she came out of the dressing room wearing a too small dress, our eyes met and I smiled at her. I saw her embarrassment. I saw her but I also saw me. Being told I just had baby fat at the age of 10. Wearing the basketball jersey with the number 0 on it, the biggest size they had, and it fitting so tight I could barely get it off. Feeling like I must have been much fatter than I thought I was because they wouldn't even tell me the truth. Trying not to hurt my feelings, it made my self-esteem crumble. It wasn't much later when I came out of the dressing room, in a dress that wouldn't zip, I wished she was still there, because I knew she would understand. Standing in front of that mirror, asking my mom to zip me and feeling it wasn't going to, I shrank into a 10 year old little girl. I felt the pit of shame rising up. All I wanted to do was get it off.. quickly. No I didn't want to hear about why they couldn't alter it, it had to come off then and there. My mother, meaning well, had brought a dress to me that she thought I would like. I knew it wouldn't fit. I had looked at the tag and so did she, she then said "A 12, really?" This comment was made in surprise that I was bigger than a size 12. Which is a compliment.

I won't say that I wasn't embarrassed. I was. Once again, I was too big, but, again, I never felt so small, and so undeserving. The 4 other dresses that fit just fine did not even stand out, it was the one's that were too small. It was a wound that really hadn't been opened in the last few years. I had stopped living life worried about being the right size, weight, or hair length. I have gone years, living just out of reach of people. I've talked before about vulnerability and my strong aversion to it. I see now, where this aversion has been rooted. It was in the numbers. The size of my clothing. The weight on the scale. The number of calories I had eaten. The ideal weight that I would see when I followed my age and my height to the middle of the graph. The decade of logged measurements, trending my abdomen, hips, thighs, and pounds. The self hatred in those numbers. I stopped that sabotage. I stopped thinking that I was just the total of these numbers and nothing else.

But on days like today, the young girl I was reaches out and asks to be accepted. And I'm proud of her for being so vulnerable. So I closed my eyes, and said to her "I'm sorry. I love you. Please forgive me. Thank You."

Turning 40

I will be 40 years old in 6 months.
I still remember my mother's 40th birthday party. Well, the small portion that us girls were allowed to stay for before they sent us off with our aunt. Although, not before a very short man, with a Magnum PI mustache came out in a blue thong. Ah the memories.
What makes 40 such a milestone?
My life has been anything but usual. I remember my milestones by memories. I have life changing events that help to divide up the decades. Divorced at 23, I found strength. September 11, at 25, I became patriotic. Beetle dog at 28 made me the closest thing to a mother I may ever get. My first prescription for anti-depressants also at 28, because I just couldn't snap out of it. Ran a marathon at 30 which gave me confidence to tackle all sorts of things. Bought a house and got married again at 32, after I had experienced my first major depressive episode- and this was the first time I had my own family. At 34, I lived through my first bout of suicidal thoughts and divorced just months later- this had made me cynical. My nephew was born while I was closing in on 35 and this is when I began my soul searching about my own options of being a mother. If it was to be, it would be. 2012- at 36- I moved back to Indiana, I felt like a failure because debilitating depression had struck again. 2013 brought 37 and my niece that has brought my heart down to rest on her and her brother's souls- I became a protector. At 38- I had effectively drank my way through a few years of numbness, straight into the grips of suicide again- I could not have gotten any lower. At 38, on the floor of my walk-in closet, I cursed at God. 3 hours later- He had saved me. Dengue Fever got a hold of me, after I had let go of some of the demons I had been carrying around. I gave a piece of my heart to Beetle as she made her way over the rainbow bridge and on my 39th birthday, I was born again. 39 has been hard. I've lost a few people very close to me and I'm unable to say if they will ever return. I've gained a brother, he's a Syrian refugee, and 2 children (I sponsor them- Rejan from Bali and Christine from Africa).
It isn't about the car I leased, the degree I finished, or the death of a beloved celebrity. In every instance, it was about how I grew or crumbled in the wake of great emotion. Who I am at this moment is no less than all of my experiences leaving their prints on my soul. Experiences that we have shared together, and tomorrow, I will be different still. Age is a number marked only by the flipping of calendar pages, and emotion is the sculptor of our souls. 

To the children of Syria

An open letter to the children of Syria-

                I see you. I see you in my memories of the time we spent together on that Greek island. I see your fear. I see your exhaustion. I see your bravery. In the quiet of the night, as you came off the boat, I saw your resilience. You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain about being hungry, cold, tired, or scared. I saw your worry. I saw the mistrust in your eyes.

                I wanted to come to you. To throw warm blankets around you and put cups of soup in your hands. I wanted to tell you that you were safe now. If only I could tell you that you were safe. Wouldn’t that have been the most beautiful of phrases? You are safe dear one. There are no bombs here. There will be no gunfire waking you up in the middle of the night or startling you on your walk home from school. You will not hear of loss here, like you did at home. You will feel protected, secure and loved.

                If only I could tell you those things. But you know, don’t you?

                The faces are not always smiling are they? They do not always look welcoming and their voices do not always sound friendly, no matter what language they might be speaking. You see the empty escalators as you, your Grandmother, and the rest of your family are made to climb the stairs. Four flights up with all that your family has left of their lives in Syria, you stay strong. You pray that it will be warm inside.

                I see you tell your Mom you just aren’t hungry, when she asks why you didn’t eat much. Your stomach aches from the last meal of barely cooked rice and beans. You can’t imagine having one more spoonful. You don’t tell her you are sick. You don’t worry her with the fact that you started vomiting earlier in the day. You drink water slowly and hope she doesn’t notice. But I see you.

                I see you washing off the black X that was scribbled on your hand. To get in line for more food, you have to scrub off the X. They must not know that you already had some. You know the man handing out the food in the line closest to the fence. He gave you more food when your X wasn’t completely washed off two days ago. You hope today he will be just as kind. The day is cold and so is the water from the tap. Today your stomach growls more furiously than your hands can stand to be in that freezing cold water, so the X is barely even faded. At the front of the line, your stomach knots and you hold your breath wondering what his face will say to you after he sees your faded guilt. You meet his eyes as you peer up at him from your down cast face. Your jaw clenches. He smiles at you and says “Your brothers making you get theirs too?” as he hands you two extra meals. You don’t know what he said because you don’t know what language he is speaking, but you know in his eyes there is a light.  It’s a light that feels like sunshine and hope. It’s a light that makes you feel guilty for cheating to get extra food. Please, please dear one, don’t feel guilty.

                I see you.

                I see you and hold you in my heart. I want to wrap you up in my arms and tell you everything is going to be ok. I want so badly to tell you that everyone is doing everything they can to get you out of harm’s way. I want to tell you that there are people fighting to save you and your family. I want to tell you that you’ll go back home soon.

                But I can’t.

                The truth of the matter, dear one, is that you are a nameless face that most people find easy to turn away from. Your struggle to live has become an inconvenience for most. You are the tug at their heart that they have to bury behind celebrity gossip and the latest sports score; or worse- you are the next generation of terrorist that they are so constantly being warned about from the media. Your life, I fear, will never be normal. The path to freedom and safety is lined with name calling, discrimination, bullying and harassment. If you’re lucky. I pray there isn’t violence on your path. I pray that the eyes that you meet along the way are light and feed your sense of hope and happiness. I say to you now, that if the eyes that you meet have darkness, stay steady and keep moving forward. You will meet them in far too many places. They may even be the only eyes you see for many days. Pray little one. Pray to God, to Allah that He gives you strength and that He opens your heart and the hearts of those that you meet. Pray dear one, for forgiveness, for those who refused to see you, feed you, and warm you. Pray.

                For as you pray for a bit of food, some warm shelter, and a blanket to sleep with, please know that I pray for you. I pray that you will be able to love those that did not love you. I pray that you will give of yourself to those who did not give to you, and I pray from the depths of my soul that your light will not fade, or die in vain.

                I see you and please know that I care.

Thrive In Gratitude: Please share so that others may hear- and by heari...

Thrive In Gratitude: Please share so that others may hear- and by heari...: There are many times, too many to count, in my life that I have heard and told no one, that I have seen and said nothing, and that I have ...

Please share so that others may hear- and by hearing- do.

There are many times, too many to count, in my life that I have heard and told no one, that I have seen and said nothing, and that I have watched and done nothing. In every heart breaking instant there was a choice. Still, on the Island of Leros in the South Aegean Sea, these heart breaking moments certainly continue. The moments are different than the moments we see on an average day on an average street that we frequent in the comfort of our neighborhood, our town, our state, our country. Certainly racism, sexism, ageism exist universally. In a half square block of space, called “Camp”, occupied by various nationalities- Syrian, Afghani, Iranian, Algerian, Moroccan, British, American, Dutch, Swedish, Greek, and more – peace existed in the hope of having enough. Enough time, enough money, enough sleep, enough food, enough shelter, enough hope. The haves and the have nots become somewhat blurred. Volunteers working to find enough warm jackets, water, food, and shelter for these refugees. The refugees hoping to just keep moving forward with enough momentum to see them to their new homeland.  Needing enough warm clothes for the entire family, needing enough people with open minds, hearts, and lives to continue to make the long journey even possible. 

These women and children, families and young men want what we want. More accurately, want what we have; an average day, on an average street, in a safe neighborhood, in a safe town, in a country they can call home. Their home country, that they love and that every one of them hopes to return to someday, is imploding. I heard of a young man who was going about his usual morning routine on his way to work, you know- stop at a sidewalk kiosk and get coffee and smokes… but one particular day he just turned and went into the café instead. Stepping into the café by about 2 steps, his familiar sidewalk kiosk blew up. He tells of remembering himself laying on the floor covered in broken glass, blood, and rubbish. He didn’t know if he had any “holes” in him. After he and a few other survivors helped the wounded get out from around the dead, or more accurately pieces of the dead, he went to work. He sat down in his chair and thanked God for saving him.

The best analogy that I came up with to describe what is going on in Syria is actually inspired by the ‘The Walking Dead’.  If you haven’t watched the show, don’t worry, I will explain it without the need to have.     There comes a point in time where even the good guys have to become bad guys, if they want to survive. This survival mechanism is adapted in various, uncountable ways (which is why the show will continue almost endlessly). There are the main characters of the show and then there are other living folks that they always come upon on their journey (to who knows where for who knows what). One such group had an interesting philosophy- you are either the butcher or the cow. The people, let’s call them group 1, had been previously rounded up and used for whatever whim the other living folks, group 2 had. All whims perpetrated were generally crimes against humanity, up to and including death.  Thus, group 1 took to overtaking group 2, vowing to never be taken to “slaughter” again. So when new people arrived to their compound, such as the main characters of the show, group 1 was sure to be the butchers and not the cows. Kill or be killed. Sound familiar? In Syria, there are various butchers attached to various “meat markets” for lack of a better description. It seems the whole country exists of butchers. Kill or be killed. At least, that is what is portrayed. The cows don’t want any part of any of the meat markets because number one they are vegetarian and number two none of the meat markets run a reputable, honest, humane business that the cows believe in. Most herds of cows tried going unnoticed, laying low in the shade, just doing everyday cow stuff. Living under the radar didn’t work really. Groups of cows ended up getting together to fight against the butchers, in effect becoming butchers themselves. The various meat markets believed that only THEIRS should exist. So, butchers went about killing off other butchers as well as any cows that were in the path.  There are even butchers coming from other areas of the world, because they want to support the meat market of their liking. Many of the cows have been killed, as have many of the butchers. Cows that could be of use to the government meat market will be forced to be butchers. The supply seemed unlimited; until the cows decided to jump over the moon, by becoming refugees seeking asylum anywhere that offers them safety for themselves and their families (not a theme in the Walking Dead of course). Cows are of all ages, economic status, education, gender, and religion. They are students, doctors, firemen, mothers, fathers, and criminals. None are perfect and they do not claim to be. They had only a few things in common: wanting to leave and wanting to live. Butchers force the military aged males to the frontline. Unless they can pay the fee (which changes at the whim of the government or even the fee collector, sorry I mean butchers). Even if the fee is paid, it is paid only to buy a window of time to leave Syria. If that window closes, then the cows become butchers or worse.

In a ridiculously over-simplified and under imaginative way- this is how I understand the climate in Syria, and some other parts of the Middle East, to be at this time.

I am not writing this as an exact fact of every detail. I am writing from what I have seen and heard, from the people who have lived it. None of this worried me when I felt pulled to go to Greece to help. I was as certain as the sky is blue that just going would be my protection. Probably sounds weird but let me explain. Refugees from various Middle Eastern countries are seeking asylum in countries that will open their borders- Germany, England, Sudan, Lebanon, Jordan, etc. The people have so little with them. Only what they can carry in bags and unfortunately what their minds continue to carry for them. Being with these people in need, even if they are terrorists taking the long way around, they gain nothing by harming those along their path. What is the use of terrorizing, on an island, with no escape but the sea? I wasn’t worried. Sometimes my mind works down the simplest path possible.  

I got a call from the organizers on the day I was going to take the ferry to Leros, saying that Doctors without Borders and Greece’s emergency medical group, Praxis, had gotten to Leros and took over all the medical care. Long story short- I wasn’t really going to be needed as a nurse for the entire length of my stay. In reality, only one night of my stay on the island was spent in some resemblance of a medical fashion. I was offered the opportunity to be connected with the organizers on Lesbos but I declined and headed to Leros anyway.

I arrived at 0430 which was a bit disorienting to me. The coordinator, Anna, as well as two other women met me at the boat. This was Saturday morning and after a short nap they showed me around the small area in the city of Lakki that was processing and caring for the refugees. It wasn’t much, maybe a half a block. The Camp was sandwiched between 2 rectangular shaped buildings. The front building held the donations and was called “Storage”- the back building had the 2 boutiques that the refugees would “shop” in to get proper clothes, shoes, and jackets. The front building looked as if it was last used in World War II. The back building looked like the skeleton twin of the front building: windows broken or just plain missing, without doors, mold of green, black and other colors- in the US it would probably meet criteria for being condemned. There was a fenced area that the refugees had to go into to be processed properly by the border police and then they would eventually get out into Camp. All rock covered ground, with rows of “tents” (maybe 10 x 14 hard plastic huts) that would be allocated to the refugees on arrival. All in all the Camp was able to accommodate 300 refugees comfortably, 350 pretty snuggly, and 400 in a pinch. Within 24 hours of my arrival there were over 900 refugees in Camp.  

The arrival on Leros is different than the arrivals frequently seen on the news with the rafts of refugees landing on the island of Lesbos. Either way, refugees went through Turkey to get to one or the other. I imagine the trip through Turkey to be akin to the Underground Railroad that slaves used here in the US. In the dark of night a guy tells you to quickly go stand across the road and get in the bus/truck/car that stops to pick you up. Then you hide out waiting with others that you know are there, many you see and many that go unseen. Until you hear “run, run, run” and your group gets into the raft. A raft meant for 35 bombarded by 60 or more. Taking off into the dark night surrounded by dark water, and being left by the captain of your raft to fend for yourself whenever he gets picked up by another boat. Human trafficking, otherwise known as the “journey of death” by some refugees, at its best. Some refugees are prepared for this experience- knowing to watch the weather and the tide, having the GPS on their phones up and running, and learning how to remain calm over all. Knowing to go with the current and not against the waves- saves those who knew. Refusing to go in overloaded boats and being patient for the right circumstances. The kiss of death for these rafts is the taking on of water. Too many people weighing down the raft with too many waves from rough seas and running into rocks that punctured holes in the rafts- these caused the rafts to sink. Lifejackets cannot save a person from crashing waves repeatedly holding them down, at least they cannot save the life, but maybe the body.

We all know about the 4000+ refugees drowning in those dark waters. I had the honor of talking to a group of men from the British Royal Navy who were aboard the Vos Grace- a large boat that has some other specific duty that does not consist of the search and rescue of these “shipwrecks”, but was put into service for that very purpose. The morgue on the Vos Grace had reached capacity more than once from what I gathered from hearing the various stories. The problem wasn’t in finding the dead, it was in identifying them. One gentleman talked of having to bring in the mothers to identify their deceased infants. Infants that had been in the water for many hours. More than life was missing from some.  I’m not sure Stephen King could even describe such a horrific scene. I asked myself what would be worse- being able to identify my baby- or not being able to. This same gentleman told me that on one particular night as he was trying to sleep, he just couldn’t get the image of a deceased infant in an adult body bag out of his mind. It clawed at him until he went to the morgue, took the infant out of the adult bag and wrapped the child in a blanket and placed them on top “because babies are not supposed to be in body bags.”

If the rafts of refugees made it to the island of Farmakinisii (I have no idea how to spell it- and not sure if that’s the island’s name or the Greek military base’s name) they were greeted with a biscuit, water and any piece of ground they could find suitable to lay their bodies on. No blankets. No shelter. Refugees would burn lifejackets to get warm. The fumes of which made them sick and whose damage, I fear, will be long lasting. Weather permitting the refugees would be ferried over to Leros, once the boat or boats were available. There was a 16 day old, an elderly man that required a wheelchair, women in all stages of pregnancy and every age in between. All in some form of shock or possibly complete and utter denial. Once they were allowed to disembark the boat they got to stand in a line. Not unlike cattle now that I think about it. Eventually they would be escorted to Camp. Blankets were handed out, small snacks, a mat to put between their already beaten bodies and the ground, waiting to be let out of this tragic nightmare that was just another day on their journey.

I felt useless in a way. I couldn’t speak anyone’s language, including the Brits if they really got to going. So I did the next best thing. I started using Google Translate on my phone. I could talk into it and pick which language I wanted it to translate to- it felt a little Star Trek-ish and was time consuming, but it was better than nothing. When they talked back in Arabic or French or whatever- it would translate it to me in English. It was a huge win in my book, but Abdullah was a God send. A Syrian, 25 years old, Abdullah could connect me to those I was trying to communicate with. He did not just translate the words we spoke, he reflected our worries and concerns. They trusted me, because they trusted him, and that trust built a bridge between all of us involved.

I remember meeting Abdullah on that second night of chaos. He appeared to be translating for his family, what Charlotte (who spoke what I considered to be great Arabic- as if I have any authority to say that) was trying to tell them. Charlotte, a 21 year old French-British Cameron Diaz looking girl, was the volunteer heading up the logistics of putting people in huts, tents, etc. or in this case finding anyplace even remotely useful as a place to lay their heads. I always seemed to be interrupting her with the most ridiculous of questions that I just couldn’t get answers for- like, where do we get more blankets? Everyone would patiently and gracefully pardon my interruption while I got an answer and another task to take care of.  It might have been the second interruption or the 22^nd, I can’t remember but I realized Abdullah was translating for everyone. He followed me after being given an errand and said “Let me help you.”  Which of course my first response was “Oh no that’s ok. Have you eaten? Do you have everything you need?” Which may or may not have been answered when a young family stopped me and were in obvious need of an important answer. Google Translate would be like dial up whereas Abdullah was high speed and guess which was more preferred? I thanked him after the questions were answered and he said “It is no problem. I want to help.” It only took me 2 days and a bazillion attempts to get his name right. After the 2^nd night, or was it the 3^rd, I took a day off.

The average day of a volunteer doesn’t exist. The days usually start with a volunteer meeting at 0900 to see who is available to do what and with that number of people, what exactly could get done? The feeding of bottled fed children was its own warhorse. Sterilizing bottles, getting the right amount of the right formula to the right child, 4 times throughout the day. The prep was done by volunteers and the families did the feeding. There was the general operations of the boutique- getting the donated clothing items on tables in some sort of type and size that could be looked through quickly, as well as the replacement of those items, as they got lower and lower over the course of the day. Trying to stay ahead of the needs of the next refugee family coming through the boutique doors, the “runner” would shuttle bags from storage to the boutique on a pretty continuous basis. There were volunteers that helped hand out meals and volunteers that helped with sorting in storage. And on it went. And then, on some more.

There were other jobs to be done as well. The Villa, a building off of the block, was an area reserved for the most vulnerable women and children, and Pik-pa was an area off the block for the most vulnerable families. I never got to any of these places- there seemed to be jobs better suited for the more short- term volunteers and those didn’t really include these other areas.

Around 3:00 pm, another meeting of the volunteers got together with those doing the “late shift”- 5pm to 11 pm. A general idea of a plan would be made and life in the Camp moved on in a constant state of adaptation to the current needs required at the time.

Children began to laugh, run, play and chase. Smiles crossed faces and spaces and devastation segued into breathing a bit easier. The refugees walked the harbor when the sun was up and the winds were warm and calm. The small island town of Lakki got a much needed boost to their economy by those eating and shopping in their establishments, volunteers and refugees alike. Clowns without Borders visited and boosted the spirits of the Camp. The only thing left to do was wait for the ferry and the papers that gave the refugees the right to get on it.

Abdullah traveled with his brother. They had become a small circle of people that would gravitate towards each other during meals, announcements, and the like. Abdullah himself was constantly being asked to help out with translating and by the end of his stay on Leros, he was probably known by everyone. On my day off, I took my laundry to get done and wandered into a bakery where I bought a bottle of water and what looked like an éclair. At the last minute, I got 2 eclairs. When I stepped out of the bakery, I saw Abdullah walking down the sidewalk, earbuds in, relaxed.

I gave my extra éclair to him and we walked around, up and down, the many little streets in Lakki and even further toward the center of the island. We talked a lot about God, blessings, faith, and hope. He described what living in Damascus had been like and what it had turned into. He talked about missing his parents and his nieces and nephews.  He reminded me of myself when I was 25, and perhaps even myself now, since the years in between have been said and done. I guess the best word would be hopeful.

As I woke up to continue this blog post this morning, I’ve read gut-wrenching news about refugees and volunteers being treated like – I can’t even find the words. I can’t seem to hear my thoughts through my tears. I can’t convey to you the madness that is happening. I sit here in absolute fear and anguish seeing that the nightmare is real- volunteers and refugees are now being treated like criminals. By assisting sinking boats, Spanish lifeguards are arrested for human trafficking. How is saving lives a crime? Someone please tell me. They opened the borders and now those borders are becoming walls. Walls that I fear will make the Berlin wall, and all that it stood for, look like playground equipment. Those inside Syria in areas under siege are being starved. Refugees caught in the purgatory of no longer being in Greece but not yet in Germany are facing imprisonment/detainment/ abandonment- the options seem bleak and none are what was being offered to the refugees when the borders were opened.

I say this here and now- terrorism did not cause this- the media gorging on society’s fears of terrorism did. Ask yourself who is controlling the media and in 100 years the next generations will tell you what they gained from it.

Abdullah was last with the Red Cross at the Macedonian border. That was Saturday. There is only silence now where his updates used to come through. Every time I look at my phone I say a prayer that he will be there.

In between the anxious thoughts and useless worry, I feel a force that steadies me. I want to kick, yell and scream at all the injustice I see, real and imagined- the needs of the people are hard to tear my eyes, my heart and my soul away from but yet I surrender to the stillness. There, in quiet sorrow, He comforts me and He hears my prayers in every tear drop.

For my fellow people of faith, I offer up these verses to you:

Book of Daniel: verses from chapters 11 and 12    “The king will do as he pleases. He will exalt and magnify himself above every god and will say unheard of things against the God of gods. He will be successful until the time of wrath is completed, for what has been determined must take place. He will show no regard for the gods of his ancestors or for the one desired by women, nor will he regard any god, but exalt himself above them all.

“At the time of the end the king of the South will engage him in battle, and the king of the North will storm out against him with chariots and cavalry and a great fleet of ships. He will invade many countries and sweep through them like a flood. He will also invade the Beautiful Land. Many countries will fall, but Edom, Moab and the leaders of Ammon will be delivered from his hand. He will extend his power over many countries: Egypt will not escape. He will gain control of the treasures of gold and silver and all the riches of Egypt, with the Libyans and Cushites (people from the upper Nile region) in submission. But reports from the east and the north will alarm him, and he will set out in a great rage to destroy and annihilate many. He will pitch his royal tents between the seas at the beautiful holy mountain. Yet he will come to his end and no one will help him. At the end time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people- everyone whose name is found written in the book- will be delivered. Multitudes of people who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame an everlasting contempt. Those who are wise will shine like the brightness of the heavens, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever. But you, Daniel, roll up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end. Many will go here and there to increase knowledge.”

We will not know the day- but we should live as if it is today.